#maybe not as obsessively... but the thought is there... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cosycryptid · 2 days ago

Text

Something Real

One movie, one confrontation, and one shared bucket of popcorn makes Eddie start to realise that maybe he never really knew Steve at all—and maybe, just maybe, he wants to. Also on AO3 [Here]

Eddie Munson has been waiting for weeks for this movie to come out.

It’s a low-budget horror flick with a cult following and a killer soundtrack. None of Eddie’s friends were available or particularly interested in going, but that’s fine, he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He’s got his overpriced popcorn, a drink the size of his head, and a seat smack in the middle of the theatre. Perfect.

Or it is up until Steve Harrington walks in.

Eddie notices him immediately. It’s hard not to. He’s got that hair, that walk, the tiny moles on his face that make him look soft and a great body. The subject of Eddie’s most hopeless, pathetic high school crush. And of course, he’s not alone. There’s a girl on his arm, pretty in a polished, too perfect kind of way.

He watches, curious despite himself. Steve’s always been a bit of an enigma. Eddie’s heard the stories. King Steve. Heartbreaker. Every bit the stereotypical leader of the jocks, treating women like objects and everyone else like loyal subjects for him to look down on.

But what Eddie sees now doesn’t match up with those stories at all.

Steve opens the door for the girl with a soft, “After you,” and she brushes past him without a word. When she stumbles on the stairs, he catches her gently by the elbow, murmurs an apology for touching her without warning, and offers his arm for balance the rest of the way.

Eddie blinks. Huh.

They settle into their seats two rows down and directly in front of Eddie.

Of course they do.

The movie doesn’t start for another thirty minutes, not even trailers yet, but Eddie’s already more interested in the Steve Harrington Show than whatever’s going to be on screen. He feels like he’s getting a sneak peek behind the scenes into Steve’s world and it’s nothing like he imagined.

They sit. She shivers under the AC, and Steve immediately shrugs off his jacket and offers it to her. Then he offers to switch seats so she’s not directly under the vent.

Surprisingly, Steve’s the perfect gentleman. He asks about her day, offers her popcorn, and laughs at a joke that leans more mean than funny—though Eddie catches the subtle flicker of discomfort in his posture when she’s not looking.

He compliments her hair and outfit, asks what kind of music she’s into, and even admits to liking '70s rock. It’s something Eddie never expected to hear from him but can’t help respecting. It’s the kind of detail that makes Eddie pause, realizing with a jolt that they might have a few songs in common. And that’s unexpectedly disarming.

Steve even double-checks if she’s sure she’s okay with horror movies, offering to see something else if she’s not.

“Why? Are you scared?” she teases.

“Terrified,” Steve replies with a grin. “But I figured if I screamed, you’d protect me.”

Eddie nearly chokes on a kernel of popcorn.

That was smooth. Like, actually smooth. It wasn’t cocky or rehearsed. It was playful and self-aware. The line showed Steve didn’t take himself too seriously, a refreshing contrast to the image-obsessed popular kids Eddie had grown up resenting. He leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to solve a tricky riff. That line might’ve even worked on him. He’s always been a sucker for someone who knows how to be a little silly without losing sincerity.

“Huh,” he mutters, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shifts in his seat, suddenly more invested in this pre-show than the actual movie he’s paid to see.

But then the girl leans in, voice low and suggestive. “I didn’t expect you to take me on a date like this. When I said we should watch a movie, I thought we’d grab one from the rental store and watch it at your place. Or, you know… somewhere more private.”

She walks her fingers up his chest in a way that makes Eddie want to gag.

Eddie rolls his eyes. Here we go.

He braces for the shift; the moment Steve drops the nice guy act and becomes the player everyone says he is. The moment he starts acting like the stereotypical meathead jock who only cares about getting girls into bed and out again before they get too attached. God forbid a straight guy have actual emotions or care about someone beyond the surface.

But it doesn’t come.

“Oh,” Steve says, shoulders going stiff. He takes hold of her hand and moves it away from his chest but holds onto it gently. “I thought we could spend some time together. Get to know each other. This is just our first date, after all, right?”

“I guess.” The girl shrugs. “I just thought you were supposed to be into showing girls a good time. I’ve heard the rumors.”

Steve laughs, but it’s nervous. Hollow. His eyes flick toward the fire exit like he’s considering a tactical retreat.

“Yeah, uh… you don’t need to worry about that,” he says. “I was kind of a mess in junior year. I’ve learned a lot since then. Hookups were fun, sure, but they never really felt good after. I’d rather have something real now.”

“Hmm,” she says, unimpressed and takes her hand back, turning back to the screen.

Eddie frowns. Something about her tone grates on him. Dismissive. Like Steve just offered her a piece of himself and she tossed it aside without looking.

He shifts again, but this time it’s not out of amusement. His smirk is gone, replaced by a furrowed brow and a faint scowl. He watches Steve fumble through the conversation, trying to be honest and vulnerable and getting nothing but attitude in return.

And it bugs him. More than it should.

Maybe it’s because he’s seen too many guys like Steve get away with being jerks. But here’s Steve, trying to be better, trying to be real, and this girl’s treating him like he’s a joke.

Eddie knows what that feels like. To be misunderstood. To have people assume the worst of you based on old stories and high school gossip. And it sits right on his last nerve to watch it happen to someone else.

The conversation shifts.

Not in a dramatic way. There are no raised voices, no sudden outbursts, just a slow, steady unraveling. It’s like watching a thread being pulled loose from a sweater.

The girl starts interrupting Steve. Not just once, but over and over. She talks over him, cuts him off mid-sentence, contradicts him just to do it. When he mentions liking a certain band, she scoffs and says they’re overrated. When he shares a memory about a summer job, she calls it boring.

Eddie watches it all unfold like a car crash in slow motion.

Steve doesn’t snap. Doesn’t even push back. He just absorbs the impact of it. Smiles tightly. Tries to steer the conversation back to neutral ground. He’s patient, too patient. Like he’s used to this and he’s trying not to make a scene.

Eddie’s scowl deepens.

He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so much. Maybe it’s because he expected Steve to be the problem. Expected him to be the shallow one. But instead, he’s watching Steve try—really try—to be kind, to connect and make something work. And this girl is steamrolling him like he’s not even there.

It’s uncomfortable. And not in the way Eddie usually enjoys.

The lights dim. A hush falls over the theatre. The trailers are about to start.

And then she speaks again.

“Oh wow, look at that,” she says, pointing down toward one of the lower rows. Her voice is just loud enough to carry. “I bet they think no one can see them because the lights are off.”

Eddie follows her gaze.

Two men. Sitting close. Hands intertwined.

Something drops in his stomach.

“Gross, right?” she laughs, looking at Steve for agreement.

The sound is sharp. Ugly. It cuts through the quiet like a knife.

Eddie freezes.

He doesn’t know those guys. Doesn’t need to. Because he knows that feeling. The one where you let yourself believe, just for a second, that you’re safe. That you can be like the people who are allowed to love their partner openly. That you can feel normal, just for one precious moment.

And then someone like her reminds you of exactly what the world thinks of you.

His jaw clenches. His grip tightens on the armrest. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose and braces himself for the inevitable crushing blow of hearing his straight boy high school crush agree that men who like men are gross.

It doesn’t come.

Eddie cautiously opens his eyes.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first. But Eddie sees the way his shoulders have gone rigid, the way his head has dipped slightly, like he’s trying to disappear into the seat. And that’s when Eddie knows.

This isn’t just secondhand embarrassment. Her comment hit him somewhere deep.

The girl leans in again, not picking up on Steve’s body language silently screaming at her to stop, voice low but still audible. “I mean, it’s just weird, right? Why do they have to do that in public? It’s not like anyone wants to see it.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold.

Steve shifts. His hands curl into fists on his knees. Then, quietly but firmly, he says, “Shut up.”

The girl turns, startled. “Excuse me?”

“I said shut up,” Steve repeats, louder this time. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He watches the girl recoil, stunned, and then scoff like she’s the one who’s been wronged. “What crawled up your ass all of a sudden?”

“They’re just two people who like each other,” Steve says. “They’re trying to enjoy a date. How is that any of your business?”

Eddie’s breath catches.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the back of Steve Harrington’s head like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Steve had said something. Not just something, he had stood up - loud and clear and without hesitation - for two strangers. For people like Eddie. Eddie’s heart is pounding, but not from fear this time. It’s something else. Something warmer. Fiercer.

“Because it’s weird.” The girl doubles down,

“You wouldn’t think it was weird if it was those two people over there who were holding hands.” He gestures toward a man and woman sitting together near the front of the theatre.

“That’s different.”

Steve turns to her fully now, eyes sharp. “How?”

“Because it’s two men. It’s wrong. It’s disgusting,” she says. “I’d say the same if it were two women.”

Steve flinches hard, like he’s been physically hit.

There’s a beat of silence. Heavy. Final.

“I’m very close to someone who’s gay. And they’re smarter, kinder, funnier, and better than you’ll ever be,” Steve says, voice low and steady. “This date is over. Don’t bother calling me.” He goes to stand, but the girl shoves him back down and rises from her seat instead.

“You don’t get to walk out on me, I’m walking out on you,” she snaps. “I only came on this stupid date because I was bored, and I thought you’d wanna fool around like you supposedly do with all the other girls anyway. Turns out you’re a disappointment.”

She grabs her purse, mutters something under her breath, and storms out, heels clicking angrily against the floor.

Steve doesn’t watch her go. He just stares straight ahead, jaw tight, hands still clenched on his knees.

Eddie swallows hard.

He wants to say something. ‘Thank you for saying that,’ maybe. Or ‘that was brave’. Or even just ‘hey’. But all he can do is stare, stunned and a little breathless, because Steve Harrington just shattered every expectation Eddie ever had of him. And now Eddie’s sitting here while a laundry detergent commercial plays loudly in the background, heart in his throat, wondering how the hell he ever thought he had this guy figured out.

Steve puts his face in his hands and exhales deeply, like he’s trying to calm himself down. He seems tired now, defeated. Something about that doesn’t sit right with Eddie after what he just witnessed. It spurs him into action. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He just knows he can’t keep sitting there without saying something.

So, he stands. Walks down the steps. And stops at Steve’s row.

Steve hears the footsteps and looks up, startled. His expression flickers—confusion, then recognition, then something like wariness.

“Hey,” Eddie says, voice low. “Mind if I sit?”

His heart is hammering out a beat that would rival the work of the drummers in his favourite metal bands. He’s still mentally preparing himself for this Steve to disappear and be replaced by the jerk that had existed in his brain for the past few years.

Instead, Steve blinks at him, surprised. “Uh… sure? Eddie, right?”

“That’s what all the legends call me,” Eddie confirms, dropping into the seat beside him. There’s a beat of silence. Then he turns to look at Steve and “You okay?”

Steve lets out a breath, a small smile appearing on his face. “Yeah. I mean, not really. But I will be.”

Eddie nods. He doesn’t push. Just lets the quiet settle for a moment. Then he says, “So that was a lot.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Not exactly how I pictured the night going. I assume you heard everything?”

“Yep. She sucked,” Eddie says bluntly.

Steve snorts. “Yeah. She really did.”

Another pause. Eddie shifts, glancing sideways at him. “You didn’t have to say anything,” he says. “But you did.”

Steve shrugs, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Didn’t feel like a choice.”

“That’s kind of the point, though,” Eddie says. “Most people would’ve just let it slide. Pretended they didn’t hear it. You didn’t.”

Steve’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “I’ve let too much slide before. I’m not doing that anymore.”

Eddie studies him. There’s something in Steve’s voice, something tired, but solid. Like a line’s been drawn and he’s not stepping back from it. And Eddie feels that twist in his chest again. That strange, warm ache.

“I meant every word I said,” Steve adds, softer now. “I have a close friend, more like a platonic soulmate really, who’s gay and the best person I know." He looks wounded. “And hearing someone I put enough trust in to consider dating basically call that person gross and disgusting and wrong... I couldn’t just sit here and listen to that crap.” His fists clench. “It’s one thing if it’s me she’s saying those things about but-”

He turns to face Eddie, his eyes wide and hands shaking as he realises the implications of what he said.

And Eddie knows that feeling.

He’s worn that same expression before. In locker rooms. In hallways. In classrooms where someone said something cruel under their breath and everyone else just laughed. But Steve Harrington? King Steve? He’s not supposed to know what that feels like.

Except he does.

Eddie nods slowly. “It’s okay. I figured.” He admits as casually as possible to try and ease Steve’s panic, although he’s still reeling over the events of the past few minutes. “You’re safe with me,” he promises.

Steve’s tense shoulders deflate, and glances at him curiously. “You?”

Eddie meets his eyes. “Yeah. Me.”

There’s no shock in Steve’s face. No judgment. Just a quiet kind of understanding.

“Cool,” Steve says. And he means it.

Eddie lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Then he grins, crooked and a little shy.

“You know,” he says, “you’re not what I expected.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re kind of a dork from the bits of conversation I overheard before things went bad.”

Steve laughs, and it’s real this time. “Takes one to know one.”

They sit in silence for a moment longer, their eyes lingering on each other, then Steve fully relaxes into his seat and turns to face the screen. “Well, no sense in wasting my ticket,” he says, then he holds his popcorn bucket out to Eddie, who’s only just realised he left his behind. “Wanna share?”

Eddie grins and grabs a handful. “Thought you’d never ask.”

—————————

It’s the most fun Eddie’s had in a while.

Steve leans into his space every now and then, whispering snarky commentary about the characters’ terrible decisions and even worse fashion choices. He especially tears into the asshole jock character, which catches Eddie off guard in the best way.

Eddie starts leaning in too, throwing in his own jabs, and before long, they’re trading quips like they’ve done this a hundred times before. At one point, one of them says something so ridiculous that they both dissolve into laughter. It’s the kind that’s breathless and uncontrollable.

Someone turns around and shushes them, loud and annoyed.

They immediately straighten, whispering apologies like guilty schoolkids. But the second the person turns back around, they catch each other’s eyes and grin, barely holding back another round of hysterics.

Steve nudges Eddie’s shoulder with his own, playful and warm.

Eddie nudges back.

If the small, friendly gesture sends goosebumps up his arms, well—that’s for Eddie to know and nobody else to find out.

Then, near the end of the film, the tension ramps up. The music swells. Eddie’s leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowed, when a sudden jumpscare hits and Steve gasps. Before Eddie can even register what’s happening, a larger, warmer hand grabs his.

Eddie freezes.

Not because he’s scared of the movie—though the jumpscare was decent—but because Steve Harrington is holding his hand.

Tightly.

Warm fingers wrapped around his own, palm pressed flush against his. It’s instinctive, a reflex, but Steve doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it at first.

Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He’s not sure if it’s the shock or the fact that his heart is currently trying to beat its way out of his chest, but he’s rooted to the spot.

Then Steve seems to realize what he’s done. His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he glances sideways, eyes wide, a little sheepish.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

Eddie turns his head slowly, meets his gaze. Steve’s face is flushed, his expression somewhere between embarrassed and apologetic. Eddie could make a joke. He could laugh it off, tease him.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he gives Steve’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You can hold on if you want.”

Steve blinks. His eyes search Eddie’s face for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s serious. Then he smiles, small, grateful and a little shy. It warms Eddie to his very core.

He doesn’t let go.

They sit like that for the rest of the movie. Their shoulders brushing, hands clasped between them and fingers intertwined, the flickering light from the screen casting soft shadows across their faces. Eddie doesn’t even remember how the movie ends, but he remembers the way Steve’s thumb brushed lightly over his when the final girl shared a kiss with her love interest.

And he knows, without a doubt, that something’s changed and shifted between them. It’s something small, but at the same time monumental.

As the lights come up, Steve sighs. He gives Eddie’s hand one last squeeze before letting go and standing to stretch. Eddie’s hand falls to his lap, suddenly cold, and he stares at it for a second like it might still remember the shape of Steve’s fingers.

He already misses the warmth. The weight. The quiet reassurance of it.

“Did you drive here?” Steve asks suddenly.

Eddie blinks, caught off guard. He expected this to be the end. He expected they would just awkwardly part ways in silence after this, try to lose each other in the small crowd exiting the theatre and then avoid each other for the most part. Maybe they would share a nod or a half-smile the next time he wandered into Family Video, but that’s all Eddie had hoped for.

He hadn’t hoped for this, for Steve waiting for Eddie to stand too, still looking at him like he wants to keep talking.

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie says. “My van’s out back.”

Steve nods. “Cool. I parked a few rows over. You wanna walk out together?”

Eddie’s heart stutters. He stands slowly, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

They fall into step as they exit the theatre, the buzz of the credits still echoing faintly behind them. The lobby is mostly empty now, just a few stragglers and the hum of vending machines. Outside, the night air is cool and quiet, the parking lot bathed in soft yellow light.

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Then Steve glances over, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “Thanks for sitting with me. I didn’t expect… well, any of this.”

Eddie shrugs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, me neither. But I’m glad I did.”

Steve smiles back, and it’s that same small, shy one from earlier. It makes Eddie feel like he’s standing too close to a bonfire, especially now with the glow of the streetlights illuminating Steve’s features. They reach the edge of the lot where their cars are parked a few rows apart. Eddie slows, not quite ready to say goodbye.

Steve hesitates too. Then, almost nervously, he says, “Hey, uh… are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, slower this time, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I could eat.”

Steve’s face lights up, just a little. “There’s a diner a few blocks from here. It’s not fancy, but they’ve got decent fries and terrible coffee.”

“Sounds perfect. Lead the way, sweetheart.”

The pet name's out before Eddie can stop it.

His brain short-circuits the second it leaves his mouth. His eyes go wide, and he immediately wants to rewind time, shove the word back down his throat, and pretend it never happened.

Shit.

He curses himself silently. Nicknames have always slipped out like second nature around his friends, bandmates, even the occasional stranger. But this? This is Steve. And this moment feels different. More fragile. More real.

He risks a glance at Steve, fully expecting confusion, maybe discomfort.

But Steve’s just looking at him with that same soft smile. A little surprised, sure, but not upset. If anything, he looks… pleased?

“Sweetheart, huh?” Steve says, raising an eyebrow, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice.

Eddie lets out a breathy, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a reflex. I swear. I’ve called random people on the street ‘darlin’ and the guy working the counter at the gas station ‘babe’ before now.”

Steve hums, clearly amused. “Didn’t say I minded. But now I’m a little jealous of the guy at the gas station.”

Eddie blinks. “You didn’t? …You are?”

“Nope, not at all. And yeah, I am.” Steve starts walking, hands in his pockets, glancing back over his shoulder with an exaggerated pout. “Thought I might’ve been special for a second there.”

Eddie wants to kiss that look right off his face, but he reels that thought in fast. Steve’s probably just joking. Just sharing friendly banter with a guy he knows won’t hurt him for it. Who is Eddie to deny him that experience or make it awkward by assigning a deeper meaning to it?

“What can I say, Steve?” he shrugs. “The man sometimes gives me discounts on my favourite brand of cigarette. How can you compete with that?”

Steve bites his lip, clearly trying to stifle a smile. Eddie’s eyes lock on his mouth.

“I can think of a few ways,” Steve says, voice low, suggestive and just a little nervous as he sways into Eddie’s space. He gets close, so close Eddie’s stomach swoops.

Then a devilish grin curls at the corner of Steve’s lips.

“Last one to the diner pays.”

“Wha—” Eddie starts, dazed.

But Steve’s already taken off running, his laughter echoing behind him.

“Hey! That’s no fucking fair! You’re rich!” Eddie shouts, already breaking into a sprint.

Steve turns, running backward for a second just to flash him a grin. “Better catch up to me then!”

Eddie cackles, wild and breathless, as he chases after him. He sees the moment Steve realizes he’s gaining fast and the flicker of panic that crosses his face. Steve hadn’t counted on the fact that Eddie Munson has years of experience running from trouble.

Trying to push his legs to work faster turns out to be a fruitless effort for Steve because Eddie manages to catch him around the waist and spin him away from the front door of the diner just as he’s about to reach for the handle. They almost end up sprawled on the ground together from the momentum of it, but Steve manages to grasp Eddie’s forearms and fix their footing as the metalhead leans against his back and laughs uncontrollably.

They stand there for a second, tangled up in each other, catching their breath. Eddie leans into him, still chuckling, and Steve can’t help but laugh too, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and giddy.

“You’re fast,” Steve says, glancing over his shoulder.

“You’re slow,” Eddie counters, grinning like he’s won the lottery.

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. “You tackled me.”

“I redirected you,” Eddie says, mock-offended. “With grace.”

Steve turns in his grip, still holding onto Eddie’s arms, and they’re suddenly face to face. Close. Closer than they’ve been all night. The laughter fades into something quieter, softer.

Eddie’s eyes flick to Steve’s mouth for just a second. Steve notices.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves.

Then the diner door swings open behind them with a loud ding, and a couple walks out, chatting loudly and breaking the moment. Eddie steps back, clearing his throat. “Guess we should, uh… go inside before they run out of terrible coffee.”

Steve nods, still smiling. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

————————

“So, what you’re telling me is that you’re basically a single parent to six?”

They’re sat in a booth in the back corner, chatting animatedly and occasionally stealing each other’s fries even though they got exactly the same thing. They’d foregone the crappy coffee for milkshakes though, Steve’s strawberry and Eddie’s chocolate.

“Seven if you count Erica, Lucas’ little sister,” Steve corrects him. “But jury’s still out on whether she’s actually a child or whether Lucas is just living with the consequences of feeding a mogwai after midnight.”

“God you are such a nerd,” Eddie laughs, delighted. “’Mogwai’? You didn’t even use the incorrect term - ‘gremlin’ - like most people would. You just went straight in there with ‘mogwai’.”

Steve grins, clearly pleased with himself. “What can I say? I take my pop culture references seriously.”

Eddie leans back in the booth, shaking his head with a smile. “You’re a walking contradiction, Steve. You look like you should be quarterbacking some all-American football team, but you talk like you’ve got the entire catalogue of Family Video memorised.”

Steve sips his milkshake, eyes twinkling. “Maybe I do.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Steve shrugs, all faux-casual. “You’ll have to hang out with me again to find out.”

Eddie’s caught off guard for a second, not by the words, but by the way Steve says them. Like it’s not a joke. Like he means it. Eddie, who’s spent most of his life waiting for the other shoe to drop, finds himself hoping just a little that maybe this time it won’t.

He smiles, softer now. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, how does King of the jocks and certified lady-killer Steve Harrington become an actually decent and interesting guy with a brood of little lost ducklings?”

Steve leans back in the booth, fingers idly tracing the condensation on his milkshake glass.

“It’s a long story, but I guess I just got tired of pretending I wanted the same things I used to,” he says. “Back in high school, it was all about the image. The parties, the girls, the reputation. I thought that was what I was supposed to want. What everyone expected from me.”

Eddie watches him, the teasing gone from his expression.

“But somewhere along the way, I realized I didn’t want to keep chasing something that never really made me feel good. I started figuring out that what I actually want is something that feels real. Something that lasts.”

He glances up, meets Eddie’s eyes. There’s something open in his expression. It’s unguarded, but cautious. Eddie’s heart does something strange in his chest, tightens and softens all at once. He reminds himself that shouldn’t be reading into things; Steve might just be getting used to having someone he can talk to about all this.

He nods slowly, voice quiet. “Yeah. I get that.”

They share a soft, secret smile.

“So,” Steve says. “You like metal, right? I don’t think I’ve ever listened to that before. What do you like about it?”

It’s a hard pivot in the topic of conversation, but Eddie allows it. Mostly because the fact that Steve seems to realise how important music is to Eddie and makes a point to ask him about it. Eddie’s eyes light up at the question, and he sits up a little straighter.

“Oh man, where do I even start?” he says, grinning. “Okay, so it’s loud, it’s chaotic. But it’s also honest. It doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. It’s raw and messy and emotional, and it doesn’t apologise for any of it.”

Steve watches him, chin propped on one hand, milkshake forgotten for the moment.

Eddie continues, more animated now. “And a lot of the songs are about overcoming adversity. About going through hell and somehow still fighting and persevering. It’s about taking back power when the world is trying to crush you. It makes me feel confident for a change, like I could take on anything. And people complain that it’s just noise but that’s so far from the truth. It takes so much talent and years of dedication and-”

He pauses, his eyes flicking to Steve’s, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “No, I like it. You talk about it like it’s more than just music.”

“It is,” Eddie shrugs, a little sheepish. “It kind of saved my life, y’know? When everything else felt like it was falling apart and I had nowhere I belonged, metal was the one place I could just be and feel accepted. No masks. No pretending.”

Steve’s expression softens. “That makes sense.”

There’s a beat of quiet between them, not awkward, just full. Like the air’s thick with things unsaid but understood. Then Steve leans forward, a playful glint in his eye. “So, if I wanted to dip my toe into the world of metal, where would I start? What’s, like, the gateway drug?”

“Really? You want to give up your metal virginity?”

“Didn’t have to put it like that,” Steve says, his face scrunching up in a way that’s far too cute to do anything good for Eddie’s heart.

“Okay, you’re coming over to my trailer as soon as possible and I’m going to play you some songs. I’m already mentally writing a list. This is gonna be so good.” Eddie laughs ecstatically and rubs his hands together deviously. “We’ll make a metalhead out of you yet, Steve.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Steve replies, his expression so open and honest that it gives Eddie pause.

Eddie’s demeanor turns softer. “You don’t have to like it though, y’know. I won’t be offended.”

“I know,” Steve meets his gaze, steady. “I want to understand the things that matter to you.”

Eddie’s caught off guard again. His heart does that weird fluttery thing, and he has to look away before he says something stupid.

“Cool,” he says, voice a little rough. “Yeah. Cool.”

They go back to their fries, the silence between them now warm and companionable. Outside, the neon sign of the diner flickers softly, casting pink and blue shadows across the table.

——————————

The bell chimes above their heads and a nice, middle-aged lady calls out a, “Thank you for coming, be sure to get home safe,” as Eddie holds the door open for Steve and they step back out into the cold night air.

Steve sidles up next to him. “Thank you for getting the door for me, Sweetheart,” he says, teasing.

Eddie groans loudly. “You are not going to let me forget about that, are you?"

“Never,” Steve beams.

They settle into a comfortable silence as they walk. Their shoulders touch once, then again, and neither of them moves away. Their hands are so close that they constantly brush against each other and it’s driving Eddie mad. All he would have to do is reach out a little and he could be holding Steve’s hand again. He isn’t able to summon the courage for that because he’s still not quite sure if Steve feels anything more than a budding sense of friendship toward him.

They walk in step down the quiet street, the night air crisp and laced with the scent of damp pavement and distant woodsmoke. The town is mostly asleep, windows glowing softly in the distance, the occasional car humming by like a lullaby.

Their hands brush again. This time, Steve doesn’t pull away. In fact, he lets his fingers linger just a second longer than before. Eddie’s heart stutters.

He swallows. “Hey, uh… you don’t have to say yes or anything, but would you ever want to come to a show sometime, like one of the local gigs I play or even just hang out while I practice? Hear some live music.”

Steve looks over at him, eyes warm. “I’d love that.”

Eddie blinks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I want to see you in your element. I bet you look cool as hell on stage.”

Eddie laughs, a little breathless. “I mean, I do, obviously. But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

They stop next to Eddie’s van. Neither of them moves to leave just yet.

Steve rocks on his heels. “Thanks for tonight. I had more fun than I probably had in years if I’m being honest.”

Eddie nods, his voice soft. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s a pause. Neither of them moves.

Then Steve clears his throat and pulls one hand free, fishing around in his back pocket. “Before I forget,” He pulls out a pen and the crumpled diner receipt, scribbles something down, and hands it to Eddie. “My number. For whenever you want to hang out or just talk.”

Eddie takes it, fingers brushing Steve’s. He looks down at the messy scrawl of digits, then back up, heart thudding. “Thank you. I’ll definitely call you to set something up soon, and let you know as soon as I know when the next gig’s going to be.”

“Cool, I can’t wait,” Steve smiles.

He hesitates for a second, then steps a little closer, his gaze drifting to Eddie’s lips. “Also, I’ve been thinking about doing this all night.”

Eddie barely has time to process that before Steve leans in and kisses him.

The kiss is soft and tentative at first, like a question asked in a language neither of them is fluent in yet. Steve’s lips brush against Eddie’s with a kind of reverence, like he’s afraid to push too far, too fast. But Eddie’s breath catches, and instinct takes over. He leans in, closing the distance, answering the question with a quiet certainty.

His hands find their way to Steve’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket like they’ve always belonged there. Steve’s hands hover for a moment before settling gently on Eddie’s shoulders, grounding them both.

The world fades. The cold night air, the hum of a distant streetlamp, the faint creak of the van’s metal frame, all of it disappears. It’s just them. Just this.

Steve tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and Eddie feels it like a spark down his spine. It’s still gentle, still careful, but there’s something more now. It’s something that says ‘I see you’ and ‘I want this’. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

When they finally part, it’s slow, reluctant. Steve’s eyes flutter open, and he looks at Eddie like he’s trying to memorize every detail of his face.

“Was that okay?” Steve asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie blinks, dazed, lips tingling, heart pounding. Then he grins, wide and a little breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, that was more than okay.”

Steve lets out a soft laugh, relief blooming across his face. “Good.”

They linger there, close enough to feel each other’s breath in the space between them. Steve leans in again, slower this time, and kisses him once more. It’s just as soft and just as sure. It’s the kind of kiss that says this isn’t a one-time thing.

“I’ll call you,” Eddie says, still smiling as they hesitantly move away from each other. “God, it might even be as soon as I get home after a kiss like that.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Steve replies, stepping back slowly, like he’s reluctant to go.

Eddie watches him walk away, heart pounding, fingers still curled around the scrap of paper like it’s something precious.

Steve turns back to face him and, he’s smiling, nervous, but genuine. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

Eddie’s frozen for a second, then grins, wide and a little dazed. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

They part ways, both of them feeling a little lighter than before.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #my fics #started writing a minific #got carried away #bon appetit

595 notes · View notes

cameronsbabydoll · 2 days ago

Text

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER THREE

WARNINGS — invasion of privacy, diary-reading without consent, possessive male POV, inner obsession, implied virginity, age gap dynamics, inappropriate fantasies, minor delusion/grooming-adjacent thoughts, manipulation (anything italicized is what’s written in the diary!)

You didn’t even realize you’d dropped it.

That’s the funniest part. Funniest to him, at least.

You were walking too fast across the courtyard. Flustered again. Maybe it was because Rafe had called you sweetheart with that slow drawl, lingering on the “s,” right in front of three privates. You stammered through a hello, eyes darting everywhere but him, clutching your bag like a shield.

He watched you walk off.

And then he saw it — a slim pink notebook, barely thicker than a pamphlet, slipped from your tote and dropped behind you like a breadcrumb.

You didn’t hear it. Didn’t turn around.

Just kept walking.

So now it’s his.

He finds it ten seconds later, thumb brushing the soft cover like it might burn. You’d doodled a little sun in the corner. One of the loops is dotted with a heart. The name you wrote inside?

First name only. Bubbly handwriting. Like a schoolgirl.

He flips to the first page and grins.

“Summer Goals ☀️💕”

— swim more

— read 5 books

— learn how to french braid my hair

— kiss someone (REAL kiss!)

— fall in love

— try wine or beer!

— say no without feeling bad

— be brave

Rafe lets out a low breath. One part humor. One part something else.

God, you’re even softer than he thought.

You want to fall in love. Kiss someone. Try wine or beer.

He wonders if you think all those things will happen in one night. If you still believe in movie endings and fireworks and a guy showing up with flowers.

You’re doomed.

He flips further.

You’ve used it like a diary. You don’t date the pages. Just talk to yourself. Or maybe talk to someone. The kind of someone you wish existed. The kind of man who listens. The kind of man who stays.

“Saw him again today.

He called me sweetheart. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.

He looks at me like he knows things I don’t. It makes me feel dumb. But also kind of… not dumb? Like I want to know what he knows?”

Rafe shifts on the bench.

His grip tightens.

You’re writing about him.

Not a crush. Not a passing observation. You feel something. He’s getting in your head already and you don’t even know it.

You’re still so fucking clueless.

He turns the page.

“My dad would kill me. If he knew what I was thinking…

It’s not even bad! I just. I don’t know.

I want someone to touch me.

Not like that!! I mean. Okay maybe like that. But not gross. Like… soft. Gentle.

I want to know what it feels like to be wanted.”

He leans back against the wall. The notebook drops into his lap.

It takes a full sixty seconds before he even breathes.

You’ve never even been touched. Not really.

You’re writing about your own fantasies like they’re foreign concepts. You don’t even know how it works. You’re scared of it. Confused. Hoping someone will take the guesswork out of it.

And Rafe? He’d do it without a fucking second thought.

But not soft. Not gentle.

He wants you ruined.

Wants you to forget every boy you ever dreamed about because he made you come harder than any of them ever could.

He wants to be your first. And only.

The next page pushes it further.

“I think he’s older. He must be. He looks like he’s seen a lot.

But I like that. I think I want that. Someone who can take care of me. Who already knows what he’s doing.

Someone who knows how to tell me what to do.”

He closes the notebook, fast. Like it’ll melt his palms if he doesn’t.

This isn’t about teasing anymore.

This isn’t even about baiting you.

This is about possession.

You already want the thing he planned to take.

He slides the book into his pocket. He’ll return it. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe after he reads it again.

Maybe after he’s jacked off to the words “tell me what to do” while moaning your name into his fist.

You knock on his office door the next morning.

He’s not surprised. You’re flustered. Lip bitten. Crimson on your cheeks.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, opening the door wider. “You look like you lost a puppy.”

You blink up at him, embarrassed. “I—I think I dropped my notebook yesterday. I was just wondering if…”

“Notebook, huh?”

He moves slowly to the desk. Opens a drawer.

Pulls it out with a casual shrug.

“This one?”

Your eyes light up. You nod, stepping forward to take it—but he doesn’t let go.

He watches you.

Tilts his head. Then slowly, very deliberately, presses it into your hands. His fingers brush your wrists.

“You should be more careful with your private thoughts, sweetheart,” he says low. “Never know who might be reading.”

You freeze.

He smiles.

And then he walks away.

You flip through it later. Nothing’s changed. Nothing missing.

But somehow… something feels different.

You can’t explain it.

The pages feel heavier. The air between your fingers charged. You catch yourself wondering—just for a second—if he meant something else. If he read—

No. No, he wouldn’t.

Would he?

That night, Rafe sits outside on the barrack steps.

His boots are dusty. His knuckles bruised. He smells like gasoline and aftershave and heat.

And he’s smiling.

Because you’re so, so clueless.

And he’s so, so patient.

But not for much longer.

446 notes · View notes

i-like-loserz · 1 day ago

Text

breedable

pairing: husband!san x reader

cw: explicit (18+), raging breeding-kink, unprotected sex (no condom, yes other contraceptives), needy/whiny!san, cuteness/sexiness aggression (^^look AT THOSE ADORABLE PICS), not dub-con because you're not actually forcing san to have a child - its just a fantasy and san respects the responsible day dreaming -- oh, and this is NOT beta-read.

wc: 1.6k

note: reverse breeding kink turns my mind into a slushie

masterlist

---

you have a special type of aggression when it comes to your husband.

while there's the usual cuteness aggression that makes you want to pinch his cheeks and tickle him until he's a giggling mess -- or the alternative "awe-infused-aggression," that makes you want to crawl all over him and worship his body (because he's built like a god) -- but this special aggression is a mix of the two.

you call it the "i-need-to-pass-on-his-genes-with-mine" or the breeding-aggression. you see his perfect, docile face -- the cute way his brows scrunch together whenever he's feeling too much, the way his chiseled abs clench as he holds himself back -- and it sets a fire in your horny soul.

typically, when one describes a breeding kink, it involves someone wanting to impregnate the other person in an act of love and possession. of course, the other person is wholeheartedly egging them on because they, too, want to carry their baby.

in this case, however, you work hard to fuck him to get you pregnant.

you may wonder, "is that not exactly the same thing as a normal breeding kink?," which will be responded with a, "no, because san is a smart boy and he doesn't want a child at the moment -- that is, not until you're both done achieving your dreams and settled into a family-friendly environment."

san is the sensible one in the relationship, while you play the role of a feral cat in heat. he always insists on a condom or some birth control while you immediately embrace your inner horny demon and cannot go a week without begging him to fill you up like a boston cream donut.

you often think he's just playing the role of the timid damsel, begging for mercy before getting thoroughly ravished because he always ends up giving in.

at first, this obsession started with an accidental and harmless mistake.

you forgot to get condoms.

neither of you realized it until you stuck your hand into the bedside drawer, only to come up empty handed.

san, the sweetheart he is, offered to run to the store to get some. but before he could leave, you pulled him back and convinced him that one time without it wouldn't hurt. you can always take the morning after pill. right?

and you thought that was that.

but once you saw the way his cute lashes fluttered as he entered you, eyes shiny from how lost he was in the pleasure -- maybe something clicked for you. maybe.

and maybe, when you felt how his body shivered, finally feeling your warmth without any barriers, and how his cock throbbed within you, you knew this would turn into an addiction.

a dangerous one.

then when he came inside, painting your walls in his warmth before pulling out to reveal his sloppy mess, your brain chemistry became altered in a way that would change the course of desires for the rest of your life.

and then, pushing his love back in so affectionately with his fingers, eyes glazed over in awe and hunger, you knew something changed within him as well -- as much as he'd deny it. he already started to get hard again from seeing how he dripped from your perfect cunt.

and so, after that fateful night, you tried to hold back, knowing that taking the morning-after pill often wasn't healthy (and, of course, you and san weren't ready for kids yet).

this didn't stop you from imagining how his cum would feel if there wasn't a barrier between you every time you fucked. or how pretty he'd be as your baby daddy, claiming you as his own as he gives you the perfect little family.

ok, and fine, maybe you 'forgot' to buy condoms a few more times after that. and maybe you made it a habit to make him cum a few times before fucking him so he'd be a little less attentive to the missing condoms just so you can feel him gushing out of you once more.

but that's neither here nor there.

...

ok, so, maybe it was here.

and there.

here, in the house -- on the couch during movie night, on the bed in the morning, on the kitchen counter when you saw him in that cute little frilly apron he borrowed from you, in the shower when he got back from the gym.

and there, outside the house -- messily in the car(s), in a tight dressing room, spontaneously in a lake, in a utility closet at his work (don't ask) -- so you had to find a sustainable solution quickly.

it finally got to the point where you made a doctor's appointment to get on birth control because you knew you wouldn't be able to hold yourself back anymore. the pull-out method wasn't going to work for long, and you knew san was struggling to deny your whiny begs to be filled.

now, you can say whatever you want and he'll be the obedient husband that he is.

---

"cum in me, sannie..." you whisper in his ear, rolling your hips and perfectly arching your back so you can press your hot body against his. "don't you want to make me a mommy?"

you admire how his cute face scrunches up as you speed up on top of him. he's flushed a pretty scarlet, from his chiseled chest to his cheeks -- a product of your merciless teasing and edging from earlier in the evening.

"b-baby," he meets your motions smoothly, eyes squeezed shut as his body struggles to bear with the sensations of your soft heat wrapped around him. "fuck, i-i'm..."

"...you're...?" you ask, mockingly. you lightly rake your nails against the back of his neck. the action never fails to make him shiver and buck against you. you let out a short gasp as the feeling of him suddenly fully thrusting into you nearly knocks the air out of you. he's hitting that sweet sweet spot inside of you now -- and it's making you almost as delirious as the man under you.

"p-please..."

"c'mon, hubby, i wanna feel it dripping out of me," you sigh dreamily. your lips barely brush over his neck as you speak, "then you can shove it back in and make sure it keeps, right~"

"yes, yes, anything--" he mumbles, head tilted back in ecstasy. his large hands grip around your waist, guiding your body like a glorified cock sleeve, up and down his cock just right. you swear you're starting to see white spots in your vision as he continues to use your body.

you love it when he's like this. tunnel visioned and desperate to reach that explosive feeling of stuffing you full of his cum. your eyes roll back as he continues to nudge against that soft spot inside of you.

"u-uh, san..." a familiar and addictive exhilarating heat blooms from your core and proliferates through every nerve in your body before you even realize it. you bite your lip to keep you from drooling as your body starts to shake in his hold.

the shockwave of pleasure makes you clench around him, making you impossibly tight around him as he continues to thrust into you.

"fuck," he groans at the feeling of you fluttering around him. he struggles to keep up his pace as he gives into his pleasure. you can feel his abs clench against you as his hips begin to stutter to meet yours. "take it, baby. i need you to t-take it all for me."

"give it to me. i need it."

he pulls your body down and gives one last punishing snap of his hips to press himself deep inside of you as he finishes with a broken moan.

as he cums inside of you, his body trembles, overwhelmed by his orgasm, the press of your perfect body against his, the heated air surrounding the two of you, and the panted breath leaving your precious lips.

his arms wrap around you, holding you close, as he nuzzles his face against your neck, pressing soft and sweet kisses to your sticky skin.

as you both start to calm down, san lifts his face from the crook of your neck to look up at you.

"baby?" he gently brushes some hair from your face so he can get a good look at your flushed expression, "i think i'm ready." he has such a cute little smile on his face as he stares up at you with adoring eyes.

"ready?" you ask, still trying to come down from the pleasure infused fog that has settled over your mind.

"i think we should start baby-making, for real."

a silence sits in between you as you stare at him in disbelief. you weren't expecting your sensible and responsible husband to suddenly propose such a life altering idea to you.

you're suddenly pulled out from your warm post-orgasm deliriousness.

"...san. are you sure?"

he looks down at your connected bodies, at your baby-less stomach and the sticky mess that's now dripping onto his thighs. and then you feel him twitch inside of you.

oh.

"i-- yeah."

not convincing.

(at least not in the state you're in)

"yeah, no." you shake your head, fully aware of his wandering thoughts. "let's talk about this when we're fully clothed, okay."

who knew you'd be promoted to be the sensible one?

#san x reader #san x you #san smut #ateez x reader #ateez x you #ateez smut #choi san x reader #san choi x reader #choi san smut #san choi smut #san ateez x reader #san ateez smut

501 notes · View notes

dangerousstrawberryshark · 2 days ago

Text

Mark Grayson x chubby male reader. I know that man loves them plump and chunky (confirmed in the comics 🙏) 100% a soft dom and yeah.

Again, got lost in the sauce. Think this is the last one. Crazy how I went from obsessing over Jason Duval to Mark, wonder who's next, find out in a couple of weeks

I'll see y'all in a month. Enjoy!

Mark loves everything about you: your wonderful personality and your chubby body. So, when your mind starts blabbering about him not loving you, telling you that, why would a man like him be with someone like you, or he's just with you out of pity, Mark shuts that down. He always reassures you that he's in love with you and that nothing is gonna change his mind about it.

Cuddles, sex, and words of affirmation usually work. He'll eliminate those negative thoughts and replace them with positive ones.

You were optimistic in the morning, much better than you were a couple of days ago. It made Mark's body fill with joy as he watched you being you. So, he decided to take you out, let you choose wherever you wanted to go.

...

"This is where you wanted to go?" Mark asked, standing in front of the entrance to the high-end lingerie boutique. It made him wonder what you'll look like wearing sexy pieces of lingerie, or even a thong. The thoughts made his core warm with arousal.

"I'm just curious. Just to browse," you replied, pulling Mark into the boutique.

The boutique itself was lavish; it smelled faintly of rosewater and vanilla, and soft jazz music was playing in the background, with golden lights spilling and shimmering across the satin display. Lacy bras, lingerie sets, and thongs hung delicately on hangers while mannequins were in the center of the store, posing with pieces that were popular to buy.

You began to regret your decision, but decided to push that down and just browse. Mark, on the other hand, was like a kid in a candy store, picking and looking at different pieces of lingerie, especially thongs. Mark thinks you would look stunning in these pieces.

"Come on, babe, you'll look amazing in this!" Mark said as he held out a thong, stretching the piece of fabric with his fingers.

"Mark, my ass will literally fall out, its not made for that," you mumbled, playing the hem of your hoodie as your face was red from the thought of wearing that.

"It is most definitely made for this," Mark said, pulling you closer to his body. His hand rests on your hips, rubbing circles into them as he plays with the thong, his eyes shamelessly roam your body as he already imagines you wearing it. Heat blooms in your body, shifting in Mark's touch as he gives that handsome grin.

"Fine..."

"Yes! We're getting this. And the mesh one. And the red and black set over there." Mark said, pressing a kiss on your forehead before going all over the boutique to find whatever would look good.

Back home, you started to try out the pieces Mark brought. You stood in front of the mirror, examining yourself. Instinctively, you crossed your arms over your stomach. The thong clung to your hips, showing every curve and crevice. Negative thoughts began flooding your head, telling you that this was meant for someone else. Someone better. Someone slimmer.

You couldn't look at yourself anymore. It felt disgusting. You squeezed your love handles, you looked at your pudgy stomach sticking out like a sore thumb, and your man boobs flopping on both sides. How could Mark like this? Wouldn't he want someone better? Maybe Eve? She is slim and beautiful, and they're always together.

"Are you done? I wanna see... hey, hey, why are you crying?" Mark said as he stepped into your room, you jumped as your gaze met his in the mirror. There was concern in Mark's voice as he stood beside, pulling you into his arms. You momentarily forgot about everything. It was nice being in Mark's arms... so warm and comforting, but it came back.

"I look... weird. Too much skin is showing, and this extra... meat," you mumbled, as a tear prickled your eyes, your lips quivering. You gestured towards your love handles, squeezing them.

"You think I don't love that? You don't get it, do you?" Mark mumbled as he leaned down and pressed his lips on your shoulder, his other hand moving down to your waist.

"Get what?"

"You don't get how absolutely obsessed I am with you. This body... Your hips, thighs, and ass... everything about you makes me love you more." Mark groans as he gropes and kneads your flesh. His kisses got more persistent as he intended to worship your body, wipe out any negative thoughts.

"Why would you think I was lying, babe? To me, you don't realize how hot you are, and that's only half of what makes me obsessed with you." Mark said wholeheartedly as he continued his ministrations, turning you around and lifting you, it was easy, you weighed nothing to him. He tossed you on the bed after giving some light kisses.

"And before you say it, there is no one else. There's only you." Mark said as he didn't want to hear you degrade yourself more. He cupped your face, pressing his lips against yours. He needed you to feel every ounce of love and affection.

taglist: @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr

Author's note: I got lost in the sauce. Why must all this quick writing come when I'm writing drabbles, but not when I'm writing my requests? Anyway, there might be a part two with smut.

335 notes · View notes

bloody-noodle · 24 hours ago

Text

You know, the bestiality statistic has me absolutely fascinated because I got involved in an uncomfortable conversation with a seemingly porn obsessed, anime loving, incel misogyny podcast watching former childhood white dude friend. We were harmlessly browsing a toy company's website for toy figurines when we came across a few dog plastic figurines

and out of nowhere he goes "Oh hey look, something for you"

and I thought he meant it was because I was a life long animal lover, but no, this guy goes, completely unprompted "because you're a white woman, your species likes to fuck dogs right?"

How does one say something like that to another human being? How does your mind go there at all? Needless to say that weird and creepy comment was the last straw (he was weird and sexual with me before this too),

But seeing this statistic, that men are more likely to engage in beastiality, and yet this stereotype is used against white women specifically. How interesting.

But it got me thinking about how men actually view women. They don't see them as people, they see them as porn categories. Not individuals, but rather various acts of sex.

I don't think men can really view women in a non sexualized manner unless they really put the effort in.

Its why they treat women they deem unattractive with contempt, or that they like to pretend they do not exist. Because to them, she shouldn't

Its incel rhetoric at its finest, in an attempt to devalue the pussy they want so so badly. To turn the woman into the bitch they've always seen her as. Another one of their degradation fetishes. Maybe a coping mechanism for their own lack of desirability? Anyway.

Women are sexualized for absolutely everything, down to fucking pet ownership (look at the narrative men have pertaining to "horse girls" too, funny how we can only exist as stereotypes and categories, not as complex humans). This is how fucking broken their brains are currently.

Men's notions of women, the reality of women are an illusion informed by the pornography they've gone searching for (made for a male audience, female subject or no.) or fantasies they've had. They look down at any media regarding the actual humanity of women, disrespect it with one primary criticism "That's for women", not just media, anything associated with us really. (and people think pornography doesn't affect worldview, lol, piss off with that noise!)

My question is, where are all the derogatory stereotyping regarding men? In specific white men? Is it even possible for them to be degraded in such a way?

Also yes, being spoken to and sexualized in such a fucked up way by a childhood friend was painful. Like the fact that someone who I saw as a brother, his first thought about me was that...fucking speechless.

putting the information from the FBI, the UN and the Department of Defense into an infographic

More Statistics:

Sources:

2K notes · View notes

rainrot4me · 2 days ago

Note

After reading the pregnant hcs, what type of parent do you think the creeps would be after the baby is born? Seriously LOVE your work and have a wonderful day!

✦ . jeff the killer

Unhinged but trying (badly).

Jeff didn’t want a kid. At first. But the second that tiny baby grabbed his finger with those impossibly small hands?

“Okay what the fuck, why is it… cute?”

Still terrible with crying. He’ll hold the baby at arm’s length like, “Why’s it making this noise again??”

Surprisingly very protective. You’d have to pry that baby from his cold dead hands. Literally.

The baby starts laughing when Jeff pulls faces, and suddenly he’s doing it more than killing. Not soft, but for them? Yeah. A little.

Constantly tells them dramatic stories of how he “killed a guy for looking at mommy funny.”

✦ . ticci toby

Anxiously attentive, very soft dad energy.

He’s twitchy around the baby, scared he’ll hurt them, but he loves holding them to his chest so they can hear his heartbeat.

You catch him humming to them when he thinks you’re asleep.

Stims with baby toys. Chews on the baby’s teething rings more than the baby does.

“No, you don’t get it. This o-one’s high-grade silicone. Look at the bounce.”

You’ll catch them laid out on the couch at all times, the baby laying flat on his chest while they zone out at the television. They’re both equally focused on the kid’s show that is playing.

Insists the baby sleeps in the room with you two and never lets them out of his sight.

✦ . eyeless jack

Gentle giant who’s surprisingly intuitive.

Jack is terrifying to most people, but babies don’t care about eyeless faces. This one just giggles when he sniffs them.

Knows everything about baby nutrition. “Don’t feed them that. Their pancreas isn’t ready.”

Stitches up tiny plushies when they break. You find him sewing by lamplight, brows tense in concentration.

Carries the baby in one arm like they’re made of glass. Absolutely walks them around whenever he’s going like a little daddy-baby mission. Takes mid-day forest walks every time they get fussy.

“They smell like you. It’s… grounding.”

Dead silent killer at night. Baby’s never once woken up from noise. You suspect he paces the halls when they cry just to make sure they’re okay.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Trauma-ridden but loving. Dad mode: activated.

Tim never thought he’d be a father. His first instinct is to panic, to baby proof every inch of the mansion. But once that baby looks at him like he’s their whole world? He melts.

Obsessively schedules feeding, changing, naps. “Consistency keeps them stable.” Maybe he needs that more than the baby.

Paces with them at 3am when they cry, murmuring,

“It’s okay, little one. I’m right here, we’ve got each other now.”

Snaps if anyone gets too close to you two. Territorial in a predatory scary way. Your shared bedroom is off bounds to anyone else.

Holds the baby against his shoulder like it’s the last safe place on Earth. Tucks his arm under their legs and pats their bottom with all the gentleness in the world.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Emotionally constipated but incredibly present.

Doesn’t talk much, but the baby always calms when Brian holds them. They recognize his steady heartbeat and silence.

Knows how to swaddle like a pro. Could put the baby to sleep in two minutes flat.

Doesn’t let them near screens. Is weirdly intense about it.

Not a fan of nicknames, but you catch him calling them “bug” when no one’s around. You’ll usually find him sitting on the swing on the front porch, cradling the baby against his chest and humming them to sleep.

Gives quiet little smiles when the baby grabs his hoodie string or sneezes while asleep.

✦ . kate the chaser

Hot, scary, soccer mom energy.

Wears the baby strapped to her chest while doing combat training. You scream. She rolls her eyes.

“It’s good for their inner ear balance.”

Genuinely loves snuggling them when no one’s around. Will never admit it.

Gives them little plush knives. “Gotta start young.”

Hair always smells like baby shampoo because they nest in it.

Tells them bedtime stories where you and her are always the good guys. You cry. She pretends not to notice.

✦ . ben drowned

The most unserious dad—until it counts.

Teaches the baby how to press buttons on a controller before they can crawl.

“They’re gonna speedrun ‘Ocarina of Time’ by the time they’re three. Watch.”

Surprisingly soft-spoken with them. Talks like they’re a sensitive little thing.

His laptop wallpaper is the baby’s ultrasound. He keeps that thing like it’s a trophy and shows off to anyone willing to look.

Yells at you to come look when the baby does anything even slightly new.

Pranks the baby by glitching his voice through tech. Baby just giggles. It’s adorable and a little cursed. You’ll hear his crackling voice coming from the talking stuffed animal he bought them.

✦ . clockwork

Tough but incredibly maternal.

Picks the baby up one-handed like it’s nothing. Still coos and kisses their nose.

Teaches them to be strong early on. “You crying? That’s okay. Wipe your tears and try again.”

Doesn’t baby them emotionally, but fiercely protects them.

“If anyone lays a hand on you, I’ll make them count their teeth while I pluck them out of their head.”

Lets them paint her nails while she rocks them in her lap.

Reads bedtime stories with the most expressive voice. The baby is obsessed with her. Little hands always messing with the clock face in her eye.

✦ . laughing jack

Unholy blend of terrifying clown and doting parent.

Makes balloon animals that the baby never fails to pop, then remakes them again.

His lullabies are oddly morbid but calming. “This little piggy got revenge~!”

Has a toy chest that makes actual circus music. You’re suspicious when he starts to pull out cotton candy and buckets of popcorn.

The baby laughs way too hard when he does slapstick. LJ gets fake-injured just for that laugh.

Also? Wildly protective. No one lays a finger on them without facing his wrath.

✦ . slenderman

God-tier calm and terrifyingly competent.

You didn’t think an eldritch horror would be a great dad. You were wrong.

Creates the quietest space possible for the baby. No noise, no chaos, just warmth and stillness.

Rocking them in his arms is the only time his tendrils look gentle.

Baby doesn’t cry around him. It’s like they feel his presence and just… stop. It’s infuriating.

You swear he whispers things in a language you don’t understand to help them sleep. Nonetheless, it always works.

꩜ .ᐟ

238 notes · View notes

kitimeq · 11 hours ago

Text

⊹₊⟡⋆ gravity hurts (you made it so sweet) 🤍 caleb 以昼.𖥔 ݁ ˖

⋆˙⟡pairing: caleb x nonmc! reader

⋆˙⟡word count: 17.3k (i wrote a book lol)

⋆˙⟡summary: the three of you have been the best of friends ever since you remembered, and although your love for Caleb wasn’t exactly the friendly kind, you were more than happy to have him close. But who would’ve thought that one night by yourselves would end this way? The warmth of acceptance and the sting of the heartbreak that came after, and among all of it—a lost boy desperate to make it right.

⋆˙⟡tags: 18+, mdni!!! NOT a love triangle!! mc is treated as a caleb’s sis in this one, the reader and mc and caleb are friends!! best of friends!! unrequited love!! but not really, angst, angst with happy ending, misunderstandings, or more like lies, love confessions obsessed caleb, kinda pathetic caleb, insecure caleb, he cries, we cry, everyone literally cries, first times, but the scene is quite short, they love each other so much, my babies, please read it.

⋆˙⟡writer’s note: my first ever commission for my wonderful stella 🥺 i hope you like it baby and i hope all of u will like it too, despite the length. i wanted to stretch it in time so that the reconciliation at the end wouldn’t be forced. i hope you’ll read it and like it, i loved writing for caleb 🤍

!!likes, reblogs and comments, pls comment, would be appreciated ♡ let me know what u think!

* 20+ unread messages from [ my miss hunter!<3 ]*

✉︎ baby what happened, where are you?

✉︎ you don’t pick up and even read my messages, i don’t know what’s happening, are you okay?

✉︎ caleb’s going totally ap(pl)eshit pun intended god i hope if you’re reading this you laughed at least. PLEASE write back or i’ll join him.

✉︎ he’s actually going insane, does he know something? he refuses to tell me anything, what happened between you guys? i was absent for literally one meeting, did you throw hands or something? he seems really unstable, like, much more than usual and he already had issues before, that’s for SURE.

✉︎ i’m so sorry for joking. i’m just really worried. it’s been a week. please respond to me, i don’t know what to do. i need to know you’re safe.

✉︎ what did he do? now i know that he’s at fault here, he’s acting insane.

✉︎ he’s not sleeping. i don’t think he’s eating either? he looks like a walking corpse and he’s still looking for you everywhere. i’m not sure who’s managing the fleet now but for sure not him.

✉︎ he’s not saying a single word. i know now that he must’ve done something, he’s not just worried, he’s fucking terrified and to be honest i am too. it’s been almost two weeks now, please answer me.

✉︎ i swear i won’t tell him anything. just please respond.

It was supposed to be a day like any other.

You, her, him—sitting together, eating your favorite food, maybe watching one of the movies MC somehow always managed to convince you to watch. Such nights always ended in the same way: with you sleeping next to her, right on Caleb’s bed. The gruesome scenes replayed behind your closed eyelids, your body nearly sprawled on top of your friend, your hand gripping hers—too tightly to just be affectionate. Caleb’s laugh echoed through his apartment, jokes and jabs aimed right at you, spoken in soft tones from his usual spot on the couch, where he always slept during your sleepovers.

And while you were pouting and trying to defend yourself from his absolutely false accusations of being a scaredy-cat, it was always his little sister who defended you like a lioness. Her clever comebacks always softened his teasing nature towards you. But it was all just a silly little game—the truth was you didn’t mind being teased, you knew Caleb long enough to realize that it was just the way in which he showed affection. It just so happened that MC showed hers by protecting you and attacking Caleb right back, every time his teasing seemed to be endless.

“Easy, pip, I’m just tryin’ to get her mind off of that spoooky imitation of a movie.” He answered between quiet laughs, and a quiet scoff left your mouth, quickly followed by a small smile. “Besides, if she really was scared, she would sleep here with me. She would be much, much safer, right?” His question followed by your name, and you immediately sprung upwards to sit on your legs.

“As if! You would probably maul me in your sleep before any monster would even get a chance to reach me.” You answered quickly, your body turning toward the salon where he slept, your eyes meeting MC’s, shining with mirth in the darkness. You heard an exaggerated gasp from him, and you imagined how he probably looked right now: gripping his shirt right on top of his chest in a gesture feigning hurt.

“You wound me. I would protect you with all I have, my Evol, my Fleet, my annoying little sister—”

“Jerk!”

“—From any harm the flying sharks would want to cause you.” You laughed quietly, and you felt the tension in your shoulders slowly dissolving. MC’s faux-offended expression, along with his soft voice were doing a great job at melting the irrational fear you felt in your chest after the movie.

A second passed; then two, maybe three, while your eyes were looking through the huge glass walls, following the clouds that were drifting languidly outside. A sigh left your lips, and your hand squeezed that of MC, who was laying beside your sitting body, her eyes already closed. And when their laughs died down entirely, their breaths slowly evening out, preparing for a good night’s sleep, that’s when you decided to add one more thing.

“Laugh at me all you want, but it’s your fault for living so high up in the clouds, where all the flying sharks in the world have us literally handed to them on a silver platter. But fine, I don’t care anymore, eat up you little motherfu—”

“Oh my god—”

His bubbly laugh echoed loudly, bouncing off of the walls, filling the rooms, breaking the tranquil atmosphere that had fallen not so long ago. His sister’s body shook with laughter right next to yours, wide smile now present on your lips. Your silly joke landed exactly how you wanted it to land—concealing the fear still nestled inside you, simmering delicately just beneath the surface of your smile. Which was, despite their assumptions, not only caused by the abominations presented in the movie.

The enormous clouds, surrounding you from everywhere—that was what truly bothered you. The vastness and uncertainty of the sky which stretched out before you, visible through the glass walls, its eerie silence making the little hairs on your nape stand straight.

Sleepovers at Caleb’s place, which had happened occasionally ever since he moved to Skyhaven to study—and continued even after he became a Farspace Colonel—were something you had already got used to and looked forward to. But the location of his apartment, the surroundings and their quietness, the strangely uneasy privacy and stillness, especially at night—that was what made you so scared every time you were here.

You never told them about your little fear; you didn’t want to cause problems, especially when they were both so happy whenever the three of you found enough time for a sleepover, and Caleb’s place was perfect for accommodating all of you. Besides, you had your best friend, a literal Hunter, close to you, and Caleb’s presence right behind you, just a wall away. Your mind knew that you were safe, it was just your body that was having second thoughts in a form of occasional shivers and quickened heartbeat.

That’s why it always striked you whenever he seemed to notice your concealed discomfort, which this time happened an hour after you said your good night’s. Mc’s breath was already calm and steady, yours far from it, unwanted thoughts and the feeling of uncertainty making you lose your precious hours of sleep.

You heard him first: his calm steps, quiet breath. You saw him second: his head peeking through the door frame, eyes wide open, not clouded with sleep, landing straight on yours. His body approached the bed frame, and he crouched slowly by your side, a small smile adorning his lips. And you felt him at last: his huge, warm hand searched for yours under the covers, and proceeded to hold it gently, his thumb caressing the back of your knuckles in a comforting gesture. You were familiar with such touches, both him and his sister were touchy-feely ever since you remember. So you reciprocated his smile, tiredness clutching to your lashes, yet mind still refusing to rest.

“Are you okay? I heard you tossin’ and turnin’.” He whispered, whether to avoid waking his sister up or to not disturb your precious moment, you weren’t sure. You met his beautiful, sparkling eyes, which always made your stomach twist with longing, and you already started to feel better. His gaze was so gentle, so earnest that your heart decided to switch the reason of its rapid beating from fear to a complete adoration.

You were laying on your side, a pillow warm underneath your cheek, and your hand squeezed his in an answer to his worry. You noticed that his hands were dry and rugged, but so pleasantly warm. And so were your cheeks, their color fortunately hidden from his watchful eyes behind the curtain of the darkness.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m just a little uneasy, that’s all.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, but his eyes were giving you skeptical signals as if he knew exactly what you were hiding.

The truth that the sky and space scared you, when he was the one who was constantly covered by the clouds, was always embarrassing to admit out loud. And thankfully, he never pressed you to do it.

Instead, he hummed, his chin resting on the edge of the bed, his eyes landing on your clasped hands, thumb sliding through your fingers back and forth. You knew he had no idea, but that slight touch was enough to make you shiver, your heart filled with unspoken, overwhelming emotions towards the one who was supposed to just be your best friend.

“But you know you can always come to me, right? The couch is really cozy and maybe you would feel safer there, somehow. Aaand, I’m much bigger than her. More comfortable too, I’m sure.” Your lips turned up in a smile, and your eyes closed for a second, trying to focus on calming your heart down. When you finally opened them, he was looking right at you with an unreadable expression. His face seemed to get closer to yours too, most likely unknowingly.

From such proximity you could see the freckles that covered his face like small specks of cosmic dust, that you have always longed to trace with your fingers. His eyes were also a sight to behold, even in the darkness they shined so brightly, violet mixed with a hint of a sunset, always so full of wonder and awe, looking right back at you. He was so handsome, even covered only by the moonlight, when you always thought that a warm sunlight suit him best.

“We’re not kids anymore, Caleb. Sleeping in the same bed would be a little bit weird, don’t you think?” He scoffed under his breath, and you bit your lip, not wanting your true emotions to appear on your face. Desperate to not let him know how much you’d like to join him, to fall asleep resting in his embrace.

“I don’t.” His reply instant, a sure whisper, accompanied by a slight shift of his head. His hair looked so soft, the strands falling into his eyes, making you want to reach out and fix them. His faint freckles seemed to flicker, once again catching your attention, teasing you to give each one of them a small kiss. But you knew that you didn’t have the right to. “Besides, we’re friends. You know I would never touch you or anything. You’re safe with me.”

These exact words echoed through your mind months later, a memory fresh and vivid, the only one you could think of when your heart wanted to beat straight out of your chest.

I would never touch you.

You remembered him saying, on that day that was supposed to be like any other, yet MC cancelled on you at the last moment. You were already drinking boba next to the relaxed Caleb, leaving you two alone for the first time in what felt like forever. An emergency mission, was her excuse, and although you were upset that she couldn’t make it, the happiness of finally being able to spend some time with Caleb, whom you missed just as much, was enough to raise your mood back up.

I would never touch you.

That sentence swirled inside your head, hours after you both went out for a hotpot, sharing a meal filled with laughter, catching up on nothing and everything all at once. You always had fun together, the years of friendship formed thanks to MC made you comfortable with one another, the banter teasing but affectionate, the atmosphere warm and familiar. Later you went for a walk in the park, searching for squirrels, and sending MC pictures of every single one you managed to spot with a short caption ‘You’. After that, you also stopped at the arcade to play with claw machines for some time: you managed to win a small cat plushie for MC, while Caleb gave you a similar one he got for you when you weren’t looking. And then, after the sun had long since set, you went back to his place—in the same way you always did when meeting up in Skyhaven. But this time, you two were completely alone.

I would never touch you.

And yet, by heavens, you thought that after that night there wasn’t any place on your body he left untouched. Not when he was paying such a close attention to you, his hands wandering absolutely everywhere, accompanied by his shaken breaths and whispers full of worship and wonder.

You weren’t sure who kissed whom first, your mouths connecting unexpectedly, meeting right in the middle, the movie you put on a while ago still playing in the background. The flakes of popcorn scattered everywhere around you; the bowl had fallen from your hands, so desperate was he to pull you to himself the moment he dared to push his tongue past your lips—uncertainly at first—only to feel how quickly you accepted him.

You were almost dizzy with happiness of finally having him this close, touching at his hair, neck, shoulders, waist. He was holding you in his arms tightly, squeezing your waist, while you sat comfortably on his crossed legs, lips sealed to his. But suddenly, your head became heavy the moment the gravity of the situation pulled you down. You pushed him away, pressing your hands to his broad shoulders.

You parted with a gasp, your breath uneven, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

He didn’t look any better, if his equally red cheeks and tousled hair were any indicator. His slightly chapped lips chased after yours, eyes lidded and brows furrowed when he felt the loss of your warmth.

“C—Caleb, wait, stop, what on earth are we doing—” You tried to reason, your legs struggling to stand, your heart uncertain what it truly meant to him. A panic overtook you, your true feelings suddenly out in the open, composure lost in a moment of weakness. You remember meeting his eyes in the room lit only by his TV, his head already turned your way, closer than it ever was before. That’s all it took; the sudden closeness, his intense, lingering gaze and hand reaching your way, for you to start making rush decisions.

He didn’t let you escape. In one quick motion you were grabbed by your arms and pushed back into his chest. His hands softly squeezed the flesh, his head fell onto your shoulder listlessly. Dark hair brushed at your neck when you heard his shaky breaths, his body trembling under the touch of your fingers, which now rested on his torso. They were the only barrier keeping you from melting entirely into his embrace.

“No, please—please. Don’t go.” He choked out, his voice pained, his forehead nuzzling up to the juncture between your shoulder and neck. His lips touched your neck, and you gasped. “Don’t go. Don’t run away from me. Please.” A quiet plea, which made you close your eyes in an attempt to finally think; think of the reason it happened, think of the ways in which it would affect your friendship, think of what it truly meant for him.

Afraid that the answer would hurt you.

Your head suddenly felt too heavy for your body, mind spiraling with possible answers, when you heard his voice once again, loud and certain against your heated skin.

“I dreamed of this—Of you—” He nuzzled at your neck, sending a shiver throughout your whole body, your chest squeezing, the implication slowly uncovering into something crystal clear. “Of holding you. Touching you, like this—” His fingers started a gentle trial up your spine and you pressed your body closer to his on impulse. His left hand buried in your hair, softly touching your scalp, and he finally lifted his head to meet your gaze. He looked ruined; eyes glossy and eyebrows scrunched in an image resembling an anguish. His eyes were shifting between yours and your lips, which you were biting in uncertainty. “For so, so long, you have no idea how I—”

“Caleb—”

“Let me. Let me kiss you one more time, just once.” The last word a desperate whisper, his eyes stuck on your lips, his head getting closer and closer with every second, as though he psychically couldn’t help himself. He cupped your cheek and placed his thumb on your bottom lip, pulling it from the confines of your teeth, his touch feather-light. A quiet grunt left him and he met your eyes again, your hands going to grab him by the shoulders to gain more balance. You were getting dizzy, his proximity maddening, his touches and honeyed words overwhelming. “I was always scared to be alone with you like this, and this is the reason. I knew that the moment you let me, I will continue to take, take, take…” He closed his eyes, his forehead falling onto yours, your heavy breaths already mingling. The hand on your cheek started shaking, but a calloused thumb never stopped caressing your skin. “You can say ‘no’ to me. You can say ‘no’ alright? Just—please. Please say somethin’. Anything. You’re so quiet and it’s killin’ me here—”

“I—I want the same thing. Caleb, I—” You finally breathed out, your eyes half opened, lowered to look at his chest, where laid a necklace you and MC gave him quite a while ago, before his first trip to Skyhaven. That memory appeared behind your lashes, along with MC’s face, the image making you halt momentarily. “Oh God, but what about MC? Wouldn’t she be weirded out when we suddenly—” You flinched again, and this time he caught you instantly, his big hands reaching for yours, pressing them into his forehead like a prayer, then huffing out a low laugh.

“She knows. She figured me out ages ago.” You didn’t hide your surprise, your heart beating so quickly you thought it will beat straight out of your chest. “You don’t have to worry about anythin’, alright? If only you feel—You fell the way I do, then I—”

“Ages…?” The word stuck inside your head, the implications making your eyes sparkle. He lowered your hands to rest flat on his chest, and you felt it—the thump of his heart matching yours, a rapid, uneven beat that could only mean one thing.

“Ages.” He answered surely, his violet eyes glued entirely to yours, his hand covering your palms. And when he nudged your nose with his, silently asking for permission, you found that you didn’t have any reason to refuse him anymore.

Not when you wanted him just as passionately.

Your lips met his again in a kiss so intense it was nearly bruising, your hands going over his neck, your mouth swallowing down his sigh of contentment. His hands quickly found their way under your t-shirt; grabbing and holding, caressing and squeezing everywhere he could touch.

I would never touch you.

And yet he did. He did and continued throughout the whole night, his hands never leaving your body, his lips almost permanently sealed to your soft skin, the quiet laughs and whispers of reassurance filling the entire room, your body almost floating even without his Evol, lifted by the feelings of finally being accepted. Of loving and being loved in return.

“You’re perfect. Perfect for me. I have seen countless sunsets above the clouds, and you are far more beautiful than any of them. Absolutely—” He choked out, his slow thrusts making you see stars, his sculpted body covering yours completely, mindful not to crush you in the process. His movements slightly awkward at times, totally inexperienced but you didn’t mind—it was your first time too, after all.

You had boyfriends before, but the relationships never lasted long. He was the first one you managed to open up to. The first one you were able to trust fully, the only man you ever loved. So how could you ever think of doing it with someone else?

“—magnificent. I can’t believe I get to have you like this… I—Ah—I still think that I must be dreamin’, what if I wake up and you’ll disappear? That’s how it always was. A lucid dream, a cry for even a scrap of—of your attention, and now you’re—” Your hands were gripping his biceps, leaving half moons in the glistening skin. Soft sighs were escaping your lips, along with the tears streaming down your cheeks, whether from the intensity of your feelings or the tight way he fit inside you, you weren’t sure. You closed your eyes and let him press more kisses along your shoulder and neck, cheek and lips, the very same ones to which he continued to speak his praises. “And now you are beneath me, f-fuck—Utterly beautiful. The best thing that ever happen’ to me, I knew that I was doomed ever since I met you—” You moaned his name and he smiled, his lips landing on your wet eyelashes, kissing the tears that had yet to come out. His lips were softer now, entirely covered in your chapstick, tasting of sweet apples and something that you already recognized as undeniably him. There was a hand placed under your back, bringing you even closer to his body, his hips moving more steadily, mouth attacking your breasts, making you shiver in pleasure. His hands were going up and down the sides of your body, a gentle touch, meant to bring comfort.

“Caleb—please. Faster, I can’t, I need—” Your hands went to grab his hair, pulling at the strands, making him moan, his body shaking. He looked at you as with so much adoration you thought you were dreaming.

“Okay, okay—Mmm—I got you. I—I got you, darlin’, I always got you. But if it was up to me I would have you like this the whole night long.” He lifted you up in a way that you were now straddling his thighs and sat down, not stopping his thrusts, his hands resting on your waist. Every single indication of inexperience he made up in passion, desperation and enthusiasm, always putting your pleasure above everything else. You opened your mouth in another gasp, his hips rutting into you without stopping, his arms circled around your body, refusing to let you get away even for a second. Not that you ever wanted to leave the safety of his hold. “I got you, my sweet girl. And will never let you go, never. You’re so adorable, so clever, so so kind and precious, you are—”

“—Annoying and too clingy to be honest. When you get to know her better, that is. Sooo, going after her would be a total waste of time, then.”

A quiet gasp, torn out of you suddenly, violently.

Unexpectedly.

You froze, your heart stopping, along with your hand which was already raised to push open the door to Caleb’s room. His voice, even though muffled by the door, was still perfectly distinguishable to you, having heard it even in your dreams by now.

You only came back for your makeup bag, which you had hastily left at his place this morning, the night after your moment of closeness, having overslept for work. You only managed to kiss his adorable sleeping head goodbye, wear the clothes from the day before and run through his door, smile not coming off of your face the whole day long, despite the slight soreness in your limbs.

It was reminiscent of your night together; that’s why it didn’t bother you. The night that was supposed to change everything for the better, the night that your feelings turned out to be reciprocated.

Or so you thought.

You knew that he was having a boys’ night—he told you during your hangout the day before, how excited he was to finally reunite with some of his college friends, after Gideon managed to get a hold of everyone. But you still hoped to quickly collect your things, maybe steal a small kiss or two.

You just hoped to see him again, even for a moment.

A second, nothing more.

You only wanted to—

“And she’s kinda afraid of flying, sooo not exactly a good girlfriend material for a pilot, guys.” His laugh, although a little nervous, made the crack in your heart spread further. “If she weren’t my lil sister’s friend, I wouldn’t wanna pay her any mind—”

Crash.

Loud and echoing, pierced through the living room where you were standing, your hands shaking. One hand went straight to cover your mouth, which opened in utter disbelief.

At first you thought it was the sound of your heart breaking; exploding into millions and millions of pieces, from the way it squeezed painfully in your chest upon hearing the words undoubtedly coming out of his mouth. You nearly screamed in anguish, the scenes from the night before appearing in your mind, the wonderful things he said to you reverberating inside your ears, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin—his rugged hands so soft, so gentle, the touch loving, worshipping so why—

“Who’s there?” His uncharacteristically harsh voice reached your ears but you had no idea what was happening. You felt as if you were underwater, all sounds quieted down, your body moving in slow motion.

You looked at your feet and saw your makeup scattered before you, the actual source of the crashing sound, coming from the small bottles hitting his apartment floor. Your hands apparently too shaky, too numb to hold the makeup bag after hearing his words. A dagger to your heart would hurt less, you thought, your vision getting blurry, your legs taking a few steps backwards, the movement awkward, your body suddenly too heavy for you to move.

Why did you come back? Why were you here? Why did you need to hear such things coming from the same mouth that had whispered sweet nothings to your ear for hours on end, not even a day before?

You raised your head abruptly, tears staining your cheeks now, when you heard rapid footsteps coming from the other side of the door. The ones you would recognize absolutely everywhere.

You choked down a sob and bolted straight for the door, your shaky hands fumbling with the lock for a second—enough to give him time to process the situation at hand, to connect every single dot, to notice your makeup sprawled on the floor and maybe your pathetic little teardrops lying among it.

That’s what you were. That’s who you made yourself to be. A pathetic little fool, for kissing him, opening up to him, giving so much to him in such a short amount of time when in reality all he thought of you was—

“No. No. Oh, no, no, no, no, fuck, fuck, please, wait, no!” You heard him shouting your name the moment you opened the door and bolted for the elevator. You did not bother closing the door, he already knew that you were there just a second before. He already realized what you heard, even though the true meaning of his words still felt like a fever dream, a nightmare that was unfolding right before you, painful and so, so, unbearably cruel you feared you will pass out the moment your eyes met his face.

You needed to get out of there. You needed to go outside, to breathe, to find the air he stolen from you so suddenly.

Fortunately, the elevator was waiting for you, a spec of light in the darkness of the situation, and you jumped right in, your hand frantically pressing the close button over and over again, even faster now that you heard him running down the hallway to reach you.

Ironically, this time, the luck was on your side.

His shadow was the only thing you could see before the door closed, cutting him off completely. The echoing thump of his fists hitting the surface of it made you flinch.

“No! Fuck! No, no, please!”

Your name reached your ears, desperate, panicked.

But you were already on your way down, tears falling freely, your hands squeezing at your collar, at the material covering your chest, at anything you could reach just to lessen the pain of your heart breaking. Your knees shaky, threatened to give out but you were holding onto the knowledge that he was still following you, and you absolutely couldn’t let him catch you. That’s why, you refused to let yourself break before you were sure that you were somewhere safe.

And it paid off. You miraculously managed to ascape from him, that day.

And many, many days after that.

* 50+ messages from [ ur caleb!<3 ] *

✉︎ please, let me explain myself. I can only imagine what youve heard and I need you to listen to me, please.

✉︎ what I said wasn’t true. everything youve heard was a big fucking lie and I need to tell that to your face, you have to believe me.

✉︎ please don’t do this to me, I know that I deserve it but you have to hear me out, please.

✉︎ answer me.

✉︎ I beg you, give me anything. I need to know youre safe. I can’t locate your phone is it turned off? I don’t know if youre safe. please.

✉︎ its torture. its my fault I need to see you and tell you everything just let me see you. let me find you.

✉︎ I need to find you.

✉︎ I miss you.

✉︎ I need you, don’t leave me in this loneliness any longer, I will do anything. anything to earn your forgiveness, even if i have to work my whole life for it I will, even if you say that you don’t ever want to see me anymore I will stay out of your sight, I just need to tell you the truth, I need to see you and tell you what I really feel, not that awful lie youve heard me saying I wish I could turn back time and scrape these disgusting words out of my mouth.

✉︎ I will do anything for you. I will do anything for only a second of seeing you, I will fulfill your every wish, every desire and unspoken craving just for a second of your time, for a chance to say that I’m sorry.

✉︎ It ruins me, the thought that you may still think that what you heard me saying was true, you are not reading my messages and you probably still think that I meant it. I’m going insane, I’m losing my mind, I need you. I need to see you.

✉︎ I searched for you everywhere and I still haven’t found you, but I won’t stop, I will never stop searching for you even if it kills me, even if you will be the last thing I see, I will find you.

✉︎ baby, please. sweetheart. my treasure. please let me explain myself. where are you? where haven’t I searched yet? how did you manage to escape me?

✉︎ you know me too well, that’s how. you knew where I will be looking for you and you took advantage of that, my smart girl.

✉︎ but this one time, I wish you made a mistake. even a small one, a millisecond long. because I’m waiting and I’m ready to find you. and I will find you. you know me and how stubborn I am. I will never stop looking, you have to come back at some point. and i will get to you before that. I promise. wait for me.

Three weeks have passed since you last saw Caleb—the memory of his betrayal still fresh, and the wounds he inflicted on your heart with his cruel words still open and bleeding.

But the tears were no longer staining your cheeks, and a mere thought of him didn’t make you panic anymore. At least, not when you knew that he wouldn’t be able to find you here.

After you left his apartment that day, you knew that he would search for you, taking into account his desperation to catch you when you were running away. Yet you couldn’t bear to look him in the face, not after what happened between you, and how humiliated he made you feel.

You thought that he felt the same, that maybe he loved you, but it seemed that he was just playing with your feelings. That you must’ve been an easy target. And you just couldn’t believe it, no matter how frequently you repeated the things he said in your mind, both to you during the night and the to his friends during the day. You knew him ever since you were children, his presence constant in your life, even if you were not seeing each other that often after he relocated to Skyhaven. He was always there for you, and for MC, no matter what happened, his care and friendship something you got used to long time ago.

If she weren’t my lil sister’s friend, I wouldn’t wanna pay her any mind.

Was your friendship always only a huge lie? Were you unknowingly only a burden, a nuisance that he had to put up with, because of your friendship with his sister?

And that night, when he was holding you so gently, treating you with such kindness and devotion, whispering the things you dreamed about hearing from him for so long, was it also something he did just because you were easy to manipulate? The easiest choice, a familiar body to satisfy his needs with?

And God, did he know about your true feelings before all of it went down?

You shook your head, trying to stop another train of thoughts, fighting with yourself not to break down in tears again. You came here not only to temporarily run away from him, you also wanted to take your time and relax, to calm the storm brewing inside your head, to survive that heartbreak and breakdown on your own terms, without anyone’s nagging or judgmental stares. Without others telling you what you were supposed to feel.

You fixed your sunhat, the slight wind making your hair gently caress your face, and you went down from the ladder, a basket full of fresh cherries hanging from your arm. You sighed, the fresh air and the smell of fruit filling your nose trills, reminding you that you were far, far away from Skyhaven and Linkon, the places that held too many painful memories.

Here, you were safe, because no one knew about your little, peaceful gateway, which was long ago introduced to you by one of your distant cousins. It was a peaceful little plot of land, belonging to one of your family members, a place they visited occasionally, usually in the summertime. And now, that small house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the trees of fruit, fields of flowers and tranquil atmosphere were exactly what you needed to get back on your feet.

You took a sick leave from work for a whole month, and you were planning to use that time to soften your dark thoughts and harden your skin before the gravity of the situation and its consequences met you upon your return to Linkon. Before you would have to inevitably face Caleb—the one you were trying to avoid at all costs.

“Here you are, auntie.” You approached her crouched figure, her hands paused in their strawberry picking, and she looked up at you with gratitude in her eyes.

“Thank you sweetie, you helped me so much.” She answered and stood up, taking off her gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of her baggy jeans, covered in strawberry juice and grass. A huge smile lit up her face, and you couldn’t help but return one just as bright, shaking your head.

“Oh, please, that’s the least I can do. I should be the one thanking you for letting me stay here.” You fixed your hat once again and went up to a bucket filled with rainwater, so that you could wash the cherries from your skin. “I haven’t known such peace in a long time, really. The air is so refreshing, the scenery so beautiful, and I’m visiting the orchard everyday. I probably ate half of your crops by now, like some kind of a pest.”

“Oh, stop it!” She playfully swatted your butt with a rug, and you giggled, snatching it from her to use it to dry your hands. “You’re always welcome here, you know that. Besides, you are a huge help with harvesting fruit each week. I always bring my boy with me, but as you can see, he’s nowhere in sight.” You laughed and picked up the basket with cherries again, as well as the one she was holding before. You peaked inside it and noticed that it was filled with strawberries and raspberries, a perfect amount for a snack. You opened your mouth and let her place one small strawberry inside it, the sweet juice filling your mouth, making you momentarily forget about your worries.

Everything here was just so peaceful and easy.

“It’s that age. He’s more interested in exploring than in sitting around and picking fruit. I was a chaotic kid, too.” You answered and she sighed, your walk to her truck much shorter than you wanted it to be. You placed the baskets inside the vehicle and saw the boy’s hair from where he sat in the passenger seat. You ruffled his hair, and he appeared startled, his hand immediately reaching up to fix it, a blush spreading to the tips of his ears.

“Chaotic and addicted to gaming, that’s what he really is.” She answered as you stepped back from the truck to hug her goodbye. She offered you a ride back to the house but you decided to stay in the orchard. The sun was still far from setting, and you wanted to read under the tress and snack on the fruits for a while longer.

You also remembered to thank her for delivering your letter to MC last week, in which you told her that you were safe, and apologized for not reaching out to her sooner, explaining that you will be back after some time alone. You decided to restrain from mentioning that you had to turn off your phone the moment you escaped from Caleb’s apartment, knowing damn well that if you didn’t, he would be able to track your location without any issue. You knew him and his little tricks like the back of your hand, or at least, that’s what you thought before everything that happened recently.

You were already waving goodbye to them, when it happened.

The boy opened the car door and handed you something, his small hands quick and secretive. Your eyes opened wide, and your smile faltered instantly, recognizing the weight.

“Sorry for taking it, mom never lets me take mine and I get so bored here… But I charged it for you!” He said your name and looked at you apologetically, his round eyes shining excitedly. You gulped, your mouth opening slightly, struggling to find your voice. “You can delete the game now. Oh, and you got a loooot of messages, are you, like, famous?” He asked in a hushed tone, then flinched when the aunt called out to him. He hugged your waist tightly, clearly thankful for your unintentional lending of possession, and went back to the truck, his small hand waving at you through the window until they disappeared from sight, turning onto the main road.

Leaving you by yourself, speechless, your hands full of something you avoided like fire throughout your stay here. The only thing that could betray your location.

A phone.

The one you intentionally turned off and left on the bedside cabinet inside the house.

Your phone.

A device that was Caleb’s only way of tracking you, now lit up after weeks of lying unused, for the purpose of your escape.

“No way, no, no, no, no.” You mumbled, your shaking hands going straight to turn it off, the device turning black again, your panicked gaze staring back at you from its small screen. You closed your eyes and hugged the phone to your chest, praying that it hadn’t been turned long enough for him to track you. For him to notice. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Not now, please. Not yet.”

You weren’t ready to face him yet. You didn’t know if you ever would, but you definitely weren’t ready right this instant, your heartbreak still fresh, your heart too weak to feel this much again.

You looked around slowly, taking in the the sight of the orchard and the endless expanse of the field, calm, steady and sunny, just the way it was during the weeks you’d been here. A gentle wind carried the strands of your hair behind you, the sunhat protecting your head from the light of day. You put the phone slowly inside the pocket of your shorts and began the long path back to the house, your plans of a leisure reading session long forgotten.

It was completely quiet, almost too quiet, but there was no one in sight. You had no idea if he had managed to track your location, or if he was even still looking for you. Maybe he decided to let go, you comforted yourself, even if you knew him well enough to realize how stubborn he could be. You just hoped that maybe if he truly didn’t care for you, he would leave you alone.

The wind intensified, and so did your steps. The house still not yet visible, the long way back made you anxious. You wanted to be inside already, lock yourself up, just in case he really waited for your slip up.

You huffed a small, nervous laugh under your breath the moment you felt the wind biting into the exposed skin of your arms, the temperature dropping, making goosebumps appear on your skin. You bit into your bottom lip and quickened your pace, your heartbeat already pulsing inside your ears, your mind trying to convince you that it was just a coincidence.

But when the wind blew away your hat, you didn’t turn back to fetch it.

Instead, your stride broke into a full-blown run, your legs moving in a panicked frenzy, your hair flying behind you freely. Your lungs and eyes already burned the moment the aircraft appeared in your peripheral vision, its shape and size so unmistakably matching those from the Farspace Fleet that you wanted to laugh at your brain for still hoping is wasn’t.

You heard it now—the deafening roar of it descending onto the field not far from you—and you cursed under your already ragged breath, knowing he must’ve already seen you. There was no one else in sight, after all.

You hadn’t stopped running. The house was twenty minutes away on foot, and if you were fast enough, you could make it before he caught up with you. The plane had already landed, and you didn’t have the courage to look back to see if—

“Hey! Wait!” The shout of your name pierced the wind in your ears, and a weak groan escaped you. He was close, too close if you were able to hear him, his voice bringing back all the memories from that day. Of comforting closeness, then cruel confession said so surely behind your back.

Every single muscle ached, but you didn’t stop running, you couldn’t stop running. The house was already there, peeking from behind the trees, and if only you could reach it in time, you would just lock the doors and regain your false sense of freedom for a while longer.

“Stop runnin’ away from me! Please!”

“Stop—Stop chasing me!” You screamed, the emotions built up inside of you finally having their outlet. “Leave me alone, I don’t—I don’t want to see you, I—I don’t—”

“Just talk to me! Let me explain—” He was getting closer, and your body was growing weaker, your legs moving seemingly only by the sheer force of your will.

“I don’t want to talk to you!” A sob almost escaped your lips, the knowledge and fear that he was this close to you again making panic squeeze at your chest. You were not ready to see him yet, not ready to look at that irritatingly handsome face of his, and hear him lying without batting an eye.

“Baby, please—” Closer. He was so close, just a couple of steps and he wouldn’t have to shout through the wind anymore, but you didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

“Oh, fuck you!” You shouted right back, tears already forming in your eyes, your legs burning with extortion. How dare he call you this way, as if there was something between you, as if he cared about what happened, about the kiss, your first night, you. “Don’t call me that, don’t chase me like some kind of an animal—Ah!”

Your run stopped abruptly, your chest heaving as you desperately tried to catch your breath. Sweat stuck to your forehead and neck, your limbs tensed, grasping for something, anything, to keep your body from floating up in the air.

Naturally, you failed. His Evol too powerful, holding you gently up in the air, your body too weak to fight back against the invisible force, so you did the only thing you could do at that moment.

You took off your shoe and threw it at him, groaning pathetically when you heard it landing in the grass.

“Let—me—go!” You shouted, your breath heavy after the run, body refusing to calm down. You kept your head turned away from him, unable to look even at his shadow. The knowledge he was this close to you was enough to fill your eyes with tears.

You heard his footsteps close now, his breath heavy. You closed your eyes, tears instead of falling down your cheeks, drifted away from you, the temporary lack of gravity around you taking them away.

First your heart, then your sorrow—what else could he steal away?

You didn’t see how he stood below you, only few steps away, still wearing his Fleet uniform, looking up at your struggling frame with awe and relief. His hand reached out to catch your teardrop with his hand, the sign of your pain staining his fingers now. He brought it to his lips slowly, itching for any part of you, his brows furrowing with anguish.

“I can’t. I let you escape from me once and I won’t make the same mistake again.” His breath was already calming down as he crouched to pick up your shoe, not expecting the other one flying his way, catching it with his Evol right before it hit his head. He scoffed, his laugh sad and full of disbelief, as he let it fall right in front of his face.

“You coming here was a mistake.” He grit his teeth as he heard your poisonous words, spoken in a teary tone. He looked up at you again and his breath hitched. Your drifting body was surrounded by your teardrops, swirling around you and reminding him just how much pain he caused you by his own selfishness. “Me believing in your sugary words was a mistake. Me kissing you was a mistake, God, our whole night together was a—”

“Don’t.” His harsh voice cut through the air, silencing you at once. “Finish that sentence. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Why? You said you wanted to talk so let’s talk.” With your back still turned to him, your hands swatting at your flying teardrops, his audacity to use his Evol on you making you see red. “Let’s talk about how you tricked me. How you made me believe that we were friends, that I could count on you—”

“Please—”

“That I maybe, maybe meant something more to you. Because it turned out that you were feeding me lies for years—”

“That’s not…”

“You—You made me believe you liked me, and then you… You took advantage of—”

“Quiet!” He nearly growled, his harsh voice echoing in your ears, the tone unfamiliar, instantly making you flinch. The Evol with which he held you up faltered, shaking your body, making a quiet squeal come out of your mouth. For a second there, you thought that he will let you fall right into the ground, but the impact never came.

You finally looked at him, scared and stunned by his outburst. He stood there, eyes clouded and distant, arms hanging loosely at his sides— one hand gripping his hat—both of them shaking equally.

And just when you thought you had imagined his expression darkening, you noticed the clouds shifting faster, the sky growing darker.

A thunder stroke in the distance, forcing the hair on your nape stand straight.

“T-That’s how you think you’ll solve this? By force? By scaring me?” Your voice wavered, your fear slipping right through your confident facade. “I—I don’t take orders from you, Colonel. You will not intimidate me into anything. I don’t—I don’t—” More tears floated around you, your vision blurred, fear mixing with the feeling of helplessness.

He whipped his head, finally grasping the reality upon hearing how you addressed him. And when your eyes finally met, both equally red-rimmed, tired and pleading, he felt as if something in him broke.

Because while he was pleading for a chance to be redeemed, you, on the other hand, for him to stay out of your sight.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice. Please, don’t be scared, I’m—” Another plea, another apology, another way for him to mess with your mind, you thought. And you were scared, tired and hurt, lacking the energy for that conversation. Not knowing how to go about this, not being sure if there was anything that he could say that would fix this.

You were too shaken to listen—let alone react logically. Too unprepared to see his familiar face again so soon, to hear the voice that once offered you refuge for years, but now hurt you more deeply than you ever thought it could. Even the touch of his Evol—once used to help you, to ease your burdens, to cheer you up with his silly little teasing—was now a weapon. A way to trap you. To make you feel small. Helpless beneath the weight of his power.

It was not going well at all, both of you clearly too emotional, incapable of having a normal conversation. You weren’t prepared, but you noticed that he wasn’t either, his mental state unsteady, mind locked on one thing and one thing only—to catch you and never let you out of his sight again.

It was no way of resolving anything. And you really didn’t want to get hurt even more—not by his words, nor by the things you wanted to scream at him, rage tangled with fear, creating a poisonous mix that placed the most hurtful of things at the tip of your tongue.

You didn’t want to use them. Saying them out loud to him would break your heart in the process too.

“Let me go. Please. I’m not ready yet, I—” You closed your eyes, and the first drops of rain fell onto your warm skin. “I don’t want to talk. I can’t talk. Just—let me be. We will have to have this conversation at some point. And I know that. B—But for now just. Please, Caleb.” Your eyes full of tears met his, and he opened his mouth just to close it again, the sight of them rendering him speechless. The pleading, hurt look in them seemed to get him out of the trace. “Let me go.”

His breath hitched when you didn’t break eye contact. There was pain in your eyes, but also unwavering resolve. You kept looking at him with those radiant, exquisite eyes of yours, and that’s when he knew: he had lost this battle.

He slowly lowered you down, holding back tears when you refused to accept his hand to steady yourself. Then he bit his lip, his hands shaking, clenching into fists while he was forced to watch you run from him again, battling his desire to chase after you.

You said that you will have to talk at some point, and he believed you. He took your words and cling to them like a lifeline, a reason for him not to lose his hope. He would be patient, he could be patient, he had already waited for you for so long, he didn’t mind waiting some more. At least now he knew you were safe. Now he could protect you.

And he knew that the war to win you back had only just begun.

The heavy rain spattered against the windows, its sound echoing through the house, easing your shaken nerves and slowly lulling you to sleep.

A lightning struck in the distance, brightening the whole room. You rose quietly, waiting for the sound of thunder. Eyes closed, breathing evened out after what felt like eternity.

More raindrops hit your window, pushed violently by the wind as you stood, wrapping yourself in your huge, knitted cardigan, sinking your cold, shaking fingers into the thick, soft material.

He came here, for you.

A fact that you couldn’t shake for hours now, the weather outside an embodiment of what was happening inside your head. He came for you, the moment he managed to get your location, desperate, oh so desperate to talk, to explain, to repent, and you were left absolutely torn.

Because in your mind, you had already started seeing him as the bad guy, that thought a constant companion through these long weeks, your main coping mechanism. And now? He came here, looking anguished and miserable, his face thin and eyes red—a picture of a man in despair—and he was ready to drop everything just for a second of your time.

Which you didn’t give him. And that’s what kept you awake.

Your hand reached for the light switch but in vain. The storm that had lasted for hours must’ve cut the power some time ago, and you accepted it quickly. Your eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and you didn’t want to give any sign that you were awake either. You didn’t want to give Caleb false hope, knowing his aircraft still stood on the empty field, exactly where he had landed it hours ago.

You knew he wasn’t asleep either, not if he was as apologetic as he seemed to be. You should’ve listened to him, maybe. And if he hadn’t scared you so much, if he hadn’t used his Evol or raised his voice, maybe you wouldn’t have been so afraid, so defensive. Despite everything he said that fateful night, a large part of you was still curious about what he wanted to say and how he intended to explain himself.

Your deep infatuation with him, your huge soft spot for his expressive puppy eyes, his gentle, playful voice and soft dark hair, were his real weapon. You saw him, looking so devastated and your first thought was to comfort him, despite everything he had done. And you hated yourself for it, hated how much power he held over you unknowingly.

Because was there anything to explain, really? The things he said sounded pretty self-explanatory, and even the simple recollection of them made your heart squeeze painfully.

You knew you’d have to have this conversation sooner or later. He was your best friend’s brother, he used to be your best friend and you had to return to Linkon soon. He would find you then, and the conversation would have to happen either way. So wouldn’t it be easier to just get it over with now and try, slowly, to move on? If moving on from that kind of heartbreak was something you were even capable of.

That was what scared you most about all of this. Caleb had been your friend—the man you loved more fiercely than life itself—and it had taken everything in you just to get out of bed after what you heard from him that day. And now? He had shattered your precious, tranquil solitude so suddenly, and even though you knew that you were supposed to hate him—you should hate him, because that was the easiest way, the only way to survive the heartbreak and reclaim the part of your soul he’d so cruelly taken when he betrayed your trust—You also knew, the moment you saw him running after you like his life depended on it, that what you felt deep inside wasn’t even close to hate.

It was relief.

That he searched for you, after all. A longing, for him to somehow fix this, to tell you that it wasn’t him who said these things despite the fact that it was indisputable, because you would recognize his voice everywhere, even from thousands of miles away you once thought, because of how his timbre made you feel inside. When you saw him, dressed in that stupid, stupid Colonel uniform you felt nothing but love. Love, excruciating love for someone who did not deserve it.

You were stupid, so stupid for being like this, so stupid for still thinking so fondly over the man who lied to you for years, who created a false safe space for you to drown in, who slept with you, even though he thought you were not enough for a wonderful pilot like him.

A sudden crash came from the window downstairs, making you jump in place.

You quickly ran down the stairs, your fingers brushing the wooden railing, your footsteps blending with the sound of falling rain. A cold breeze seeped through the widow, now flung wide open. The wind must have been strong enough to burst it open, and as you rushed to close it, something outside flashed in the corner of your eye.

And your heart almost stopped at the sight.

Your head turned, leaning from the window, the cool droplets hitting your skin harshly, reminding you that you were still awake, and that your eyes didn’t deceive you.

Caleb was sitting right there, on the porch, leaning against the wooden beams, his head hung low, arms crossed on his chest.

And he was soaked to the bone.

Rain dripped from his hat onto his crossed arms, his posture nearly curled in on itself. His body trembled every few seconds from the cold, and the moment you realized he must’ve been standing there ever since you left him—hours ago, just before the storm rolled in—you felt the blood rush into your head.

You left him, but he stayed right there, sitting, waiting patiently for you to come out, not knowing when it will happen. He let you go, but he never left.

“Caleb!” A sudden shout tore from your throat, laced with dread and disbelief, your hands instead of closing the window, reached for one of the blankets lying nearby. “God, Caleb, you—” The front door bursted open and you reached him in no time, falling onto your knees before him, taking off his hat and throwing it to the side in an attempt to wake him.

He wasn’t asleep. Startled, his head shot up the moment he saw you, alarmed by your sudden appearance. His eyes immediately fell to your bare legs, your sleeping shorts far too thin and short to stand against such weather, and he reached for you in a rush of panic.

“What are you—go back inside, you’re goin’ to be sick!” He said alarmed and you scoffed in answer, taking notice of his wet uniform, clinging uncomfortably to his glistening skin. His hair was completely soaked too, streams of rain tracing paths down his temples and nose, the sight making you furious.

“You—absolute—hypocrite!” You barked back, your hands tugging at his wet arms in an attempt to make him stand. You threw the blanket over his head first, his hand grabbing at the material, and then you began pushing him into the house. “I had no idea you—Why did you—?!” He raised quickly, letting you push him past the doorway, and you already felt the cold biting at your skin, the seconds spend outside enough to make you wet.

And he was sitting there for hours.

“I—” He started, but you didn’t let him finish, his posture slightly slumped under the weight of the drenched uniform.

“You—you have a literal plane nearby, why didn’t you hide in there? It’s been raining for hours.” Words escaped you faster than you were able to form them in your head, your hands already working to remove his soaked clothes hastily. He fell completely silent, letting you ease your frustration, his eyes glued to your face. “I thought you were safe in there, I thought you already left, I—I thought—” The heavy material hit the floor with a loud thud, your shaking hands trying to take off the shirt he had underneath, horrified by how cold his skin was underneath your palms.

You bit your lip and sniffed, tears already streaming down your face, whether from the cold piercing at your skin, the thought of him sitting for so long, freezing outside, or from his closeness, which you were deprived of for these weeks, you weren’t able to tell.

You grunted quietly, your fingers slipping from one of the buttons of his shirt, shaking too violently to take it all off. Suddenly, through your blurred vision, you saw his hands reaching for you. You felt their warmth the moment he covered yours, pressing them against his chest. His heart pounded so violently you could feel its rhythm through the wet fabric, sending a shiver down your spine.

A broken sob escaped you, the weight of reality pressing you down hard. His hands stroked your trembling arms, trying to soothe you; but it wasn’t working. The stings or remorse cut through you one by one, haunted by the image of him sitting there, drenched, and cold, and shaking—

“I didn’t want you to—to—I had no idea you were there this whole time, I thought you left t—to sit in your—” Another sob came out stifled, because he brought you in for a hug; his hard, wet chest strangely warm and comforting. You didn’t return the embrace, but stayed there, sobbing quietly, letting him drape the blanket over you both, the material somehow still dry enough to bring comfort.

“Shh… Easy. Don’t cry, okay? It was my decision to stay there.” His soft voice reached you, and another sob came out, this time right into the shirt still clinging to his chest. “I had to stay there. I couldn’t leave you again. I didn’t want to leave you. I’m sorry.” He leaned down and rested his chin hesitantly on top of your head, bringing you even closer to himself. He released a long, heavy sigh, followed by a whisper of your name and another apology.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered right next to your ear, and you trembled in his strong arms.

“I’m sorry.” His hold tightening, and you hated how good it felt to have him this close again.

“I’m sorry.” His words no longer held just one meaning, and you shook your head as best you could, restrained by his tight embrace. Yet you stayed, your eyes closing, heart heavy with the knowledge that you were too weak to run away from him anymore.

The sound of the rain intensified, a thunderstorm still raging outside, and you both stayed close, Caleb cradling you to his chest, swaying gently side to side, almost lulling you to sleep. You took a deep breath, the scent of rain and him washing over you, and realized that you were ready to at least hear him out.

After you both calmed down your breaths and beating hearts, and after your bodies started warming up again, that is.

Because how can someone so warm have bad intentions? The feelings inside you were messing with your head again, and you let them, hoping you won’t regret making that decision.

Wishing, that this love won’t bring you to ruin.

The kettle began to whistle the exact moment he stepped out of the bathroom, candlelight casting his shadow across the room. Every movement danced on the walls, creating the illusion of him surrounding you from all sides. Ironic, because that’s exactly how you felt ever since you let him back in. Your body cautious not to relax in his presence, caged by the unfamiliar weight of broken trust.

You bit your lip and began pouring hot water over the tea, waiting for the pleasant scent to reach you, hoping that it will calm your racing heart—if only for a second. Its rapid beating didn’t slow down since you brought him in here willingly—the very man you’d successfully avoided for a whole month, dreading your next encounter, having no idea how you should act upon seeing him again.

And now there he was—standing behind you nervously, thinking so loudly you were almost able to hear it. Yet you stayed silent, believing that you had every right to. The awkwardness in the air wasn’t your fault, after all.

Letting him inside, not being able to stand the thought of him sitting out there in the storm—that was your doing. And you hated yourself for how easily you let your guard down, and for failing to hide the pathetic trace of love you still carried for him, even after he hurt you so deeply.

Your first encounter several hours ago didn’t exactly end in the way you wanted it to: him using his Evol on you and you breaking down in tears could hardly be considered a peaceful reunion. You were both not ready to talk yet, too shaken by being in each other’s presence after all this time. You, stubborn in your hatred. He, desperate and unraveling at the thought of loosing you again. An explosive combination, a disaster waiting to happen.

So you ran, as fast as you could from him.

And now, because you couldn’t stay indifferent to his discomfort, you had nowhere to hide.

“The clothes fit. They’re even a bit loose.” Caleb’s light tone finally broke the silence, though the slight tremble in his voice betrayed his stress. He was as nervous as you were. “Phew, I’m lucky your uncle isn’t here today, he would totally take me in a fight. To him I would probably look like… a walkin’… A walking stick.” Voice grew quieter with every word he spoke, and once he noticed he was rambling, he clamped his mouth shut, cussing internally.

He had always made a fool of himself when you were near, ever since the day he met you, all those years ago. Even just the sight of your turned back, the knowledge you were listening, made his head heavy with the need to impress you, and now, to make things right. He was terrified that at any moment you might lock yourself away in one of the rooms, somewhere he couldn’t reach you again—and he had no idea how he’d handle it if that happened.

Suddenly, you turned to him, your eyes glued to the mugs of tea you were holding. You placed them carefully on the table in front of you—the only piece of furniture that provided a bit of a distance you so desperately craved to have. From the corner of your eye you noticed he wasn’t exaggerating—the black sweatpants and a white shirt seemed to be a bit loose, and you realized that his homely appearance actually made you feel a bit more at ease. Now, without his Colonel uniform to hide behind, he seemed more approachable, if not more lost.

The air of authority vanished the moment his wet suit hit the floor, leaving only an uncertain man in its wake, one who knew he’d been walking on thin ice the moment you let him into your space again.

And you just couldn’t bring yourself to make him feel more welcome—the words he said still ringing in your ears, despite the time you spend to forget about them entirely.

“Thanks for letting me stay here. And for the clothes.” He was still standing in the same spot and you still refused to meet his eyes. Your hands grabbed one of the mugs and you started blowing air to cool your tea down, thankful for that little distraction, for something warm to hold when your heart was freezing cold. “And I wasn’t sitting there to make you pity me. If you were wondering. I wasn’t tryin’ to manipulate you into anything, I just—”

“I know.” Your voice rusty from the uncontrollable sobbing from before, hands gripping the mug harder. The light from the candles was too low for you to see your reflection on the surface of the drink. Maybe it was for the best, you must’ve looked like a trembling mess, eyes puffy and lips bitten red, still shaken by the storm of emotions that had torn through you during the day. “That, I know.”

You slowly sat on the nearest stool while he processed the meaning behind your words, still standing motionless few steps before you. You took a sip—and the warmth of the drink did nothing to soothe your nerves.

So, you waited. For something. Anything. Feeling his intense gaze on your frame, almost drilling a hole in your head, a silent prayer for you to look back at him.

You couldn’t, and that broke him all over again.

“You run away from me.” His voice trembled and your hands grabbed the mug tighter, the rain outside intensifying—or maybe you just became aware of its sound again. “I’ve searched for you everywhere. Every day. And I was loosing my mind every minute I couldn’t see you.”

“Did you?” You couldn’t help the venom spilling out of you, the tone mocking if it wasn’t so weak. “Why? Because of guilt? Pity? Out of obligation for—”

“Guilt? Pity? Is that what you think?” He took a step forward, and you didn’t move, head held high, still not meeting his eyes. “Everything I did for you, everything I ever said to you was out of—Shit—” His hands ruffled his hair, tugging at the strands. A pause, heavy, followed by a thunder, and then—“Out of love!” The last word nearly a growl, ripped out of him suddenly, as if holding it inside brought him pain.

You froze.

A thunder roared in the distance.

And the tears filled your vision once more.

You stood abruptly, putting down the cup on the table with a loud thud, its contents spilling out, nearly burning your head. His voice calm and sure now, so sure it almost made you choke.

“Out of overwhelming love, that I have felt for you for as long as I can remember—”

“Stop.” You choked out, your head dizzy, hands shaking in fury. What was he saying? What was he even—

“—Out of desperation to make things right, because I couldn’t bear the thought of you sitting somewhere alone, and hurting because of me, the things I said, the things I fuckin’ despise myself for—” He heard you, so he spoke much quicker, words spilling one after the other, hurting you more than you could imagine. He was getting closer to you, and you flinched, one leg already taking a step back.

He wasn’t serious, he couldn’t be. If he were, he wouldn’t have said those things, especially not after he got to have you. It wasn’t what you were prepared to hear, he was surely just messing with—

“Caleb, please.” Not more than a whisper, a calm before the storm, your head shaking, legs feeling weak.

“I lied. I lied that day and you need to believe me. I lied because I was a coward, and I didn’t know what to do, I panicked and I lied, because I love you, and they—”

“No, please, stop, I—I can’t listen to this, it was a bad idea, I—” With tears in your eyes you turned away and passed Caleb quickly, wanting to go back upstairs and hide: hide from his lies, from the hurt of his sudden confession, and from the way his voice sounded, so anguished and outright mad.

He didn’t love you, he couldn’t love you, because if he did he would’ve told you that night, when he held you so close and whispered broken praises into your ear. He would’ve said it then, not now, when you’d already made up your mind to cut him off, to forget the warmth of his body and the cold sting of the words you overheard.

You expected an apology, not a confession, which made and your whole facade crumble with his every word.

“No! Please—” He grabbed your hand, his touch frantic and secure, the contact and the memories it reignited made you gasp. And before you could realize what was happening, he fell down on his knees in front of you, his hands grabbing your arms, the hold strong but gentle, meant to slow you down, rather than cage.

You looked at the bare skin of his back, sticking out of the shirt, speckled with faint freckles, and noticed he looked thinner than you last saw him. Then your eyes landed on his dark hair, falling into his face freely, strands damp after the shower, but still looking so unbelievably soft.

“Please, I’m not lying, I’m—You have to believe me. You have to—Fuck—”

You eyes met and the time seemed to slow down.

Because you saw his beautiful, violet orbs, that always made you feel as if you were looking at the eight wonder of the world, flooded with tears for the very first time in your life.

His lips were trembling and you noticed how chapped they were, his teeth biting into them to stop himself from sobbing. You could hear the humming of your heart in your ears, your whole body shocked to stillness.

He looked absolutely torn.

And you couldn’t look away; your eyes traced the path of the first tear that slipped out of his eye, down to his chin, landing in front of your bare feet.

Like an offering. A statement. The last prayer of a man who lost hope.

“I’m not—I’m not lying to you. You have to believe me, please, please.” Tears. One after the other, tracing paths on his flushed cheeks, eyes burning with sincerity, lashes wet and shiny.

You nodded slowly, a lump forming in your throat, eyes filling with tears upon the sight, but you were trying so hard to keep them at bay.

And after a sniffle, he continued, warm hands stroking your shaking arms, eyes glued to yours like a lifeline.

“I lied that day. Everything I said was a fucking lie, okay? A big, pathetic lie to save my skin, to buy me more time. I said the first things that came into my mind—”

“But I heard you, Caleb.” You cut him off, your brows furrowing, unable to contain your confusion. “I heard you. If you really didn’t mean it how could you sound so sure? You said these things without even a single thought, and you expect me to—”

“I didn’t have to think! I just twisted—I think I just twisted the truth—”

“Wow. T—That’s low Caleb. That’s really, really low—” And when you started to back out from his hold he grabbed you harder, his arms going to circle around your waist, his face pushing into your stomach. You gasped and before you managed to push him away, his next words made you stop.

“No! Wait, shit, that’s not what I meant. Don’t go.” A sob escaped his lips and you took a deep breath, your hand almost reaching to caress his head. You’ve never seen him so broken and the need to comfort him was overwhelming. The sight of his tears excruciating. “I said you were clingy and you are—” Another sharp tug, but he refused to let you go. “You are. You are clingy and that’s okay, that perfectly fine, that’s perfect. And I love that about you. Every time you were holding my sister’s hand, I wished, God—How I wished you would hold mine instead. I wished, I prayed you would cling to me instead. Just as much as I wanted to cling to you.” He raised his head and you saw that he was telling the truth in the way his eyes gleamed, and his cheeks burned red, body trembling against yours.

And you felt your legs nearly bucking under your weight, his words making your head spin, not knowing whether you should stay offended or let him take your breath away once more.

“But—but what about me being annoying? You said—”

“You loved to push my buttons ever since we were kids, you are trying to annoy me all the time, just how I try to annoy you back. But for me, every jab, every joke, it was always to catch your attention. A pitiful attempt for you to just look at me, even for a fleeting second. And it worked—MC always called us annoying because of it, remember? That’s why it came to me so quickly. That’s the only reason I said it so surely.”

He was talking so fast he nearly lost his breath, his chest heaving against you, arms still holding you close to his chest. You took a deep breath and wanted to think, to have a second to process it, the burn in your cheeks intensifying, his words actually starting to make sense, because of your usual dynamic.

But it wasn’t all. It wasn’t what hurt you the most.

“You told them about my fear.” Caleb’s huge, red-rimmed eyes never left yours, and you fought with yourself not to fix the strands of hair that were slightly blocking his vision. His lips formed a straight line and turned slightly downwards, making him look like a kicked puppy. And you felt your anger slowly slipping, hope filling the hole in your heart. “And you listed it as my fault. You took my biggest fear and embarrassed me for it, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. I didn’t even—I didn’t even know you noticed how scared I was when—”

“I did. I notice everything about you. Of course I noticed.” His strong hands hugged you tighter, and a single tear slipped out of your eye. He was still kneeling before you, showing no signs of raising. “Just how I noticed that it didn’t keep you from visiting me at my place, even though the stillness of the clouds terrified you to the point of loosing sleep. But it’s okay. It doesn’t change a single thing for me. I only dreamed of showin’ you the view from the clouds, I hoped that I would take you up there with me one day, to show you that it doesn’t have to be scary. That it’s actually beautiful, and freeing, and calm up there. Cause I would protect you, always. And if you didn’t change your mind it would be fine—It would always be fine. I would just share with you the stories ‘bout the things I saw. And I would be the happiest to do it.” His shaking hands reached to touch your face and wiped the tears from your cheeks, ones that you had no idea you even shed. “I never thought about it as your flaw. Never. For me, you are nothing but a wonder.”

His touch was feather-light and comforting, his hands warm and so painstakingly familiar, bringing you back to the night that changed everything. How he held you back then, as if you were something fragile, something precious.

A wonder.

A sob tore through your body and he shook his head, hushing you quietly, his hands taking a hold of yours, bringing them to his lips, pressing a kiss to every single one of your knuckles.

“Then, why? Why did you list it as one? I just—I just don’t understand why, Caleb.” You cried out, one of your hands leaving his to cover your face from him. The past month of running away flashed before your eyes, making you even more tired. And although you wanted nothing more than to believe him and let yourself be held, he still didn’t give you the reason for saying such things. “Why did you even say that? If you lied, why did you do that? Why, Caleb, why did I have to hear—?”

You were crying again, and Caleb looked at you from his knees in panic, his hands caressing your arms, spine straightening so that his head could rest against your chest. The way he hugged you so tenderly made you want to hug him back, your head fighting with your heart. Yet he still didn’t give you all the answers, no matter how better the situation seemed now. You still had doubts about believing him at all.

There was a beat, or two, and he let out a deep sigh, hands gripping you tighter.

You sniffled, the word around going completely quiet, just to be disturbed by his quiet groan.

“I’m even—I’m even embarrassed to say.” He stood up slowly, and you gulped, his size all-consuming, making him be the only thing you could see. You took a careful step back, and he took one of your hands in his hesitantly. From this position he was too stressed to hug you, opting for less intense contact, especially when your hand was still limp in his, not reciprocating the hold. He scratched at his neck, his eyes meeting yours, an anticipation visible on your features. “And I know that won’t make the situation better.”

“Caleb—”

“Yes. Yes, I know—They—” A squeeze of your hand, the orange spark in his eyes shining beautifully, making your breath hitch. His hand went up to gently touch your face, fingers tracing patterns along your cheek. “They started talkin’ bout girls that day. The boys, my friends from college.” His brows furrowed, eyes looking at your face as if searching for something there. You listened patiently, his earlier words still ringing inside your head, the gravity of them almost crushing you. “Asked me if I knew someone they could go out with. I said ‘no’. They didn’t believe me, though.” His eyes narrowed, chin went down slightly in annoyance while recollecting the conversation. “They started teasing me about MC first. Asking if I would like to have a brother, too. But then one of them mentioned you.” His eyes darkened, the hand on your cheek stopped its caress. “Said he liked you. And that he already had your number. He was pretty confident, said something ‘bout you two having a connection. He said he talked with you that one time you and MC were visitin’ me in my dorm, and I—I started sweating right then and there.”

Your frown deepened but you already knew where this was going. You closed your eyes and swore under your breath, one hand covered your mouth in shock. You couldn’t even remember the guy.

“And—And we just slept together that night, and I finally got to hold you, caress you, kiss you—I was on cloud nine. Wasn’t thinking clearly. And I wanted to tell him about us, that you were mine, but I realized that we haven’t talked about it. And you weren’t there when I woke up—”

“Caleb, I overslept for work, I had to leave quickly—”

“I’m so, so sorry, but I wasn’t sure. I haven’t confessed to you either, I was just too—too overwhelmed, I felt too much, I thought too much and I realized that I couldn’t tell them you’re mine because you weren’t. Not yet.” You bit your lip and looked at him in disbelief, his face getting closer. He put a strand of your hair behind your ear, and his jaw tightened. “And when he asked me what I thought ’bout you I couldn’t tell him the truth. If he knew what I felt he wouldn’t let you go. They wouldn’t let you go, it would only make them want you more.”

You felt your hands shaking, your mouth opening and closing, not knowing what to say. His hands were still holding yours, feeling the tremble, caressing them with his thumbs in an attempt to bring you comfort.

“But you knew that what happened between us wasn’t a one time thing. You knew how I felt about you, and if you felt the same why didn’t you just—”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d pick me, if you had a different choice. And at that moment, I wanted to make sure you would. That they wouldn’t take you away from me. And that they would never want to again.” His hands cupped your cheeks, and you felt how rough and warm they were, your hands immediately going to hold at his wrists. He closed his eyes for a moment and you couldn’t believe what he was saying.

It was all a misunderstanding. And all of this happened because he was jealous? He hurt you so much just because he didn’t want others to reach out to you?

“So you had to say all these things about me? And that was supposed to be a better alternative than lying about us being together? Caleb, it really doesn’t sound—” You pushed his arms away, legs taking you further away from him, craving some space to think things through, but he followed suit, hands already reaching for you again.

“I panicked. I’m so, so, so sorry, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know where we stood, and I had no idea if that would make a difference for them. I had to say something to discourage them. So I did.” His hands went to tug at his hair and now he was the one who took a step back, breathing louder, obviously distressed. “And I hated myself for it. It felt so wrong the moment it came out of my mouth and I wasn’t even sure if they even believed me. And then I heard you. Fuck, when I heard you—”

A loud crash, making every single doubtful look from the boys leave Caleb’s face. Grateful for a distraction, his head heavy, heart burning with the weight of his lies. But when he opened the door and noticed your makeup scattered across the floor, his heart sank to his stomach. A wave of terror froze his body for a short while, until he heard you fumbling with the front door.

He didn’t even think about using his Evol, your beautiful frame running away from him enough to make him panic, the things he said hanging above his head, the knowledge that you had heard them becoming his worst nightmare.

And later, when he returned to his empty apartment after hours spend searching for you, calling you in hope you’d pick up, even by accident—he finally broke down. He screamed, throwing his phone against the wall, making it shatter. His Evol spiraled out of control, shifting the furniture, crashing the plates, the entire place left looking as if it had been broken into.

He lost you on the day he finally got to have you. And ever since that day, he hadn’t known peace, until your phone lit up again, a single red dot glowing on his device, revealing your location.

He left the Fleet right then and there in the middle of the meeting, everything else forgotten. Every duty postponed, every shout of his name ignored.

There wasn’t anything more important than you.

And now you were standing before him, as beautiful as the day he lost you, with tears in your eyes and your heart no longer open for him to take solace in. The eyes which used to look at him with mirth and affection—now uncertain, scared of him hurting you again.

And he felt that he was at his limit—one more second away from you and he thought he’ll burst into flames, the intensity of his feelings will turn him to ashes.

So, he begged.

“I’m so sorry. Please. Believe me. Take me back. Give me one more chance. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I swear I will never to it again, as long as I live.” You flinched when he fell onto his knees again, your arms trying to catch him before his knees hit the floor, but it was useless, his body too heavy for you to hold.

“Caleb! Caleb, stop doing that—” You grabbed his arm in an attempt to pick him up, but he was too strong, his bicep not even tightening. Goosebumps appeared on his skin under your palms and his head fell onto your arm pathetically.

And you just couldn’t look at him when he acted this way, your anger dissipating, the situation although still not ideal—him lying, then saying such things behind your back, whether he meant them or not, wasn’t something you could forgive him after one conversation.

Yet you couldn’t bear to look at him like that—on his knees, begging for forgiveness, crying and shaking, words slipping uncontrollably from his lips. In all the years you’d known him, this was the most vulnerable you had ever seen him—and the sight made your eyes sting. The image of the man you loved—once an unshakable, controlled pillar of strength—reduced to a broken mess before you.

You now knew why he did it. And that he didn’t mean it, not in the way you thought he did.

And you understood the jealousy, the anger, and the selfishness, because you had times you felt such way about him too. The image of him with another making you nauseous, the possibility of him loving someone else like a dagger cutting through your chest.

You took a deep breath, and glanced at him again. His shaking back, hands clinging to your body in an attempt to keep you close.

And you had made your decision.

“Oh, Caleb…”

To believe him.

“Caleb, please stand up!”

To build your relationship back up again, no matter how long i’ll take. And you just hoped you were making the right one.

“N—No, you have to understand. Please. I love you. I’m sorry. And I’ll do anything to earn your forgiveness, no matter how long it takes.” He breathed into your arm, his face snuggling into it, his head slowly rising, eyes meeting yours.

And you gasped at the anguish displayed all over his pretty eyes, two eternal sunsets clouded with misery.

“I love you. So much. I am in love with you, and I’ll do anything to prove it, I’ll spend my whole life trying to make it up to you. You want me to give you more space? I’ll do that. I will try to do that. You want me to leave the Fleet? Just say a word. I will. I will follow you to the end of space and time. You like it here? I can build you the exact same house with my own hands, brick after brick, and it would be the most beautiful, peaceful of places, you own private sanctuary. I will—”

Your knees hit the floor, joining him and you grabbed his wet cheeks in your hands, yanking his head down to meet your lips, effectively shutting him up.

And he melted.

Putty in your hands, leaning into your touch instantly, his chapped lips warm against yours, his soft sigh vibrating between your mouths. And when you broke the kiss and met his sparkling eyes, round with surprise and hope, you send him a small smile, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

You wouldn’t let them. Not anymore. Not when for the first time in weeks you finally believed that you will be okay.

It was all a huge misunderstanding. A big mistake, fueled by insecurities, secrets kept for far too long, his desperation to keep you near, no matter the means. When he spoke so rapidly, afraid you’ll leave him again, you realized that wanting to keep you to himself might have been one of the few times in his life he had ever done something purely for himself—even if his methods were far from right.

You could see now, that behind his thick skin, and the air of countless of responsibilities, he was still just a boy that had to grow up too quickly. For MC. For you. For all of you to live as comfortably as you could, the burden of all your issues and failures always spoken to him, knowing that he will be able to help and find a solution for all of them.

And yet, he never confessed when something bothered him, his feelings and desires always bottled up inside, kept hidden and threatened to spill when it got too much for him to handle.

And that one time, when faced with the threat of someone taking you away from him, the threat of loosing you, the one he loved, he acted on instinct. He chose the option that wasn’t fair, and certainly wasn’t healthy, but he truly believed it could work to keep you beside him for a while longer.

He wasn’t used to being selfish, so he had no idea how to start, and how to do it right.

He looked down at you through half-closed eyes, taking you in and memorizing your small smile—one he felt he hadn’t seen in ages. Then he dove in for another kiss, his arms wrapping around your frame, pulling you tightly to his chest. He couldn’t believe that you kissed him, his brows furrowing, wanting to make this moment last forever.

And you reciprocated every single one of his hasty kisses, your head finally freed from the questions that dragged you down.

You will work this out. You will fix this, together. And you will make sure he’ll know how you feel, so that he could finally realize that he doesn’t have to fight dirty battles just to keep you close. Because you would never want anyone else who wasn’t him.

“Caleb-mmmh. Caleb, oh God, wait.” He reluctantly let your lips go, your lungs filling with a deep breath, and you hugged him around his waist, feeling the fast beating of his heart under your ear. He placed his shaking hand on your head, stroking your hair, placing a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.

“Sorry, can’t stop. Come back here, you kissed me first.” And he took your cheeks in his palms and dived in, wanting to capture your lips in his again, but you blocked his mouth with your hand, making him frown.

You giggled softly, eyes still teary, making his eyes sparkle—mesmerized by the happiness finally breaking through the walls you’d build around yourself over the past month. He kissed your fingers once, twice, his arms resting at your waist as he lost himself in the warmth of your body, and the pleasant fragrance of your skin.

He felt as though he had returned to where he truly belonged. He had finally come home.

You opened your mouth, your cheeks flushed and eyes sincere, and nothing could prepare him for what you said next, your tone soft, slightly unsure, a melody only for him to hear.

“I believe you, Caleb. But you hurt me that day so badly, I thought I would never get over that heartbreak. I thought I lost you, my best friend, the only boy I ever cared so deeply for. I thought you really hated me all this time. And I couldn’t face it, couldn’t even think about it, that’s why I fled.” He nodded quickly, eyes holding so much hurt and regret. You slid one of your hands into his hair, stroking the soft strands gently. And thats when you both sat down on the warm floor, bodies relaxing, hearts slowing down. “But it’s okay. I understand you now. And I’m sorry too, for not letting you explain yourself sooner. I was just so focused on trying to hate you to somehow cope with what I’ve heard—”

“Stop, it’s my fault, don’t—”

“I shouldn’t have run away. I should’ve faced you, even if I was scared of what I’ll learn. But it will take some time for me to forget about it, okay? It really—It really messed me up. The thought you put up with me only because it was convenient.” You bit your lip and he groaned softly, his head lowering, a symphony of apologies falling from his lips once again. You hushed him gently, taking his cheeks in your hands and wiping away the wet trails of his tears. He sniffed quietly, making your heart squeeze. “But it will be okay. Because I believe you. So you don’t have to be scared anymore, I won’t run away again.” His body shook as he kept nodding, biting at his lips, trying so hard not to interrupt you. You leaned over him again, the movement slow, and you looked deep into his eyes, silently asking for permission. Once his eyelashes fluttered, eyes looking at your lips expectantly, you placed a soft kiss on his swollen ones, red from his constant biting, still salty from the tears he shed. “And you have to promise to be honest with me. No more tricks. No more lies.”

“I promise.” Your name escaped his lips like a prayer. “I promise. I will never hurt you again, I swear. I promise. I love you more than you could ever realize.”

He groaned into another kiss, a quiet “mmm” followed by the touch of his hands on your cheeks. He brought you to himself closer, one kiss turning into three, four, five and still counting, yet all of them gentle and reassuring, meant to anchor, not escalate. One of his hands landed on your hip and tugged, touch meaningful—he wanted for you to sit in his lap, and although you were still shaken, you craved the closeness as much as he did.

You climbed onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing at your lower lip.

You let him in, slowly, unhurriedly, your ears catching the sound of the falling rain, the storm coming back with the same intensity as before—but this time, it didn’t feel like a bad omen anymore.

You parted with a quiet pop, Caleb’s head instinctively following yours, unwilling to let the distance linger. His large hands caressed your arms and thighs, his expression love-drunk, looking as if he couldn’t believe you were really here with him again.

His eyes met with yours and you swiped the pads of your fingers below his under eyes, tracing the faint freckles.

A whistle of the wind, a spatter of rain against the window, the sound of your beating hearts, and then—

“I love you too, Caleb.” His breath hitched, hands clenching on the material on your shirt, eyes big and shining with disbelief. “I love you. So much. You’re the only boy I’ve ever loved.” His eyes closed and he rested his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses touching in a gesture so gentle your eyes stung.

“Again. Repeat that for me.” He whispered in awe, and you obeyed, another confession spoken into the night. One of the candles burned out, marking the end of a chapter, and, hopefully, the end of your separation. “Hmm, again.” He probed and you did, watching as a soft smile spread on his lips, his thumbs swiping circles into the exposed skin of your thighs. “Wanna hear it again.” Caleb’s voice unbearably soft, his touches even more so, and you put your hands on both sides of his neck, putting more distance between you. “And again. And again. I never want you to stop saying it.”

He opened his eyes and studied your face, eyes closing when you pressed a lingering kiss on one of his eyelids, his breath shaky, hands warm against your skin.

“I love you. Have been for so long I lost count ages ago.” His lips formed a line, happiness squeezing at his chest, and he nodded once, eyes opening slowly to bore into yours and don’t stray.

“Ages?” He repeated, partly mimicking your words from weeks ago, but still visibly shaken, chest filling with the warm ache of being accepted. Of loving, and being loved in return.

He cursed himself internally, eyes nearly filling with tears, dread rising in his chest at the thought that he had almost lost you, because of his selfishness and insecurities.

You kissed his lips again and he almost sobbed right into yours, his head falling onto your shoulder, kissing the soft skin, feeling the way in which it warmed up under the contact. He hugged you to his chest, kissing your neck, wanting to be even closer, to get under your skin, to merge with you for evermore and never let go.

“Ages.” Your answer sure and final, your arms returning his embrace, hands tracing patterns into the skin of his strong back. His necklace rested right next to your heart, where it should always be.

You began to hum a lullaby,letting your soft voice replace the harsh sounds of the rain and thunder. The melody drifted through the house, seeping into the walls, and into Caleb’s memory.

And when he whispered more confessions, his lips marking your skin with them, you exhaled a long, steady sigh, marking the end of this cruel storm.

And later, as you fell asleep in a tight embrace, listening to each other’s heartbeats and imagining the life ahead of you, neither of you noticed the objects gently floating around the room—silent signs of Caleb’s excitement. The heavy stone of guilt had finally lifted from his chest. He had won you back, and he wasn’t going to let you get hurt again—not by him, not by anyone else. He swore to protect you, and he would keep that promise for as long as he lived.

And if the sound of plant pots shattering, books tumbling, and your things scattering around woke you up from your slumber hours later, his puppy eyes, a kiss to your cheek and a promise of a breakfast in bed was enough to make you melt. You could always clean it up later.

This time, together.

*bonus!*

3 years later

* 15+ unread messages from [ my miss hunter!<3 ]*

✉︎ hii babey, why is caleb being so weird today??? he literally called me earlier, asked me to freaking pray for him and hung up on me that menace.

✉︎ did u like fight or smth? u never fight what did he do this time

✉︎ the last time he acted so weird was when he ate his bday cake day early cause he didn’t realize what it was for, remember that? what do u see in him i cant quite understand we’re like, losers trapped in hot bodies istg

✉︎ wait he just send me a pic

✉︎ OH MY GODDDSSG???? BABY CONGRATULATIONS!!!!! THIS SECRETIVE LITTLE SHInzsn

✉︎ you look so happy in that picture!! im literally bawling, the ring’s so pretty and you both look gorgeous. im so so so happy for you (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)♡ ♡ ♡ i love you guys sm please INVITE ME TO THE WEDDING IN CASE CALEB FORGETS TO TELL HIS SIS SOMETHING THIS IMPORTANT AGAIN

✉︎ im so happy for you, can’t stop looking at ur lil happy faces. U both deserve the world. NEXT UP!! picking a wedding dress!!!!! Im already on it, you’ll look like a PRINCESS!!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ gorgeous little b caleb’s a lucky maaaaan

✉︎ call me when you’re done with kissing!! or u know, other stuff. u guys can be pretty gross.

✉︎ i love you. both. can’t wait for the wedding!!!!!! AHH!!!

thank u for reading!! 🤍 if u managed to that one’s LONG. I hope it was worth ur time 🥺

if u want to support me, u can do it here!!: https://ko-fi.com/kitimeq

every like, comment and reblog would mean the world to me 🤍

295 notes · View notes

svckmyballzfr · 8 hours ago

Text

“I know it’s over”

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Maki Zenin!reader

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 - “Where else I can go” Tw: neglect, Injury, obsession, abandonment, Torture, Abuse, SA, Death, Suicidal thoughts, Suicide, brief description about [name]’s eyes sorry (this is a disclaimer for the whole story + sorry about the bad grammar and typos, I won’t rewrite until I’m bored)

[Somewhere In Tokyo]

The sun was setting as it rained, the streetlight outside of the school buzzed as it flickered.

Heavy breathing was heard in the hallways of said, school “Well Well , if it isn’t Yuta Okkotsu my favorite weakling”

“Don’t you come near me” Yuta said shakily as three boys surrounded him in the empty classroom.

“Oh come on, don’t play hard to get” The bully said with a smirk.

“I said don’t …” Yuta said trying to said tuff but failing miserably as the bully itched closer to him. “Come on I just wanna slug you one more time before i graduate!” The bully laughed and his little minions joined in.

“Stop it..” Yuta muttered as he clenched his other arm looking down.

“Since it’s our last time together, maybe I should just kill you” The bully said as he walked closer.

“D-don’t touch me! RIKA” Yuta said in a panicked tone looking up as the bully had gotten closer with his hands towards him. A large shadow then appeared behind the bully and he froze with a wavering presence behind him.

“hm? Whatcha say?” The bully asked confused as large hands with sharp nail and went to both sides of his face. “Argh!” The bully let out a noise as his face was pulled back behind him.

….

The rain got heavier outside as yuta had crouched by the walls of the classroom muttering “I’m sorry” Blood leaks from the locker next to him slowly and it slowly opens to a mangled body.

Yuta was now sitting in a chair, in a room full of Tailsman with small lamps surrounded in the dark room to give light. He looks up staring at all the Tailsman that reached to the dark never ending ceiling.

….

“A complete cover up and a secret execution? Boy that’s some story” Gojo said unamused “The child in question did consent though.” One of the higher ups replied but Gojo quickly responded “He’s underage, just sixteen years old, and who knows how many he have cursed”

“So you’ll take him?” One of the old hags of the higher ups asked “Yes, Yuta Okkotsu will attend Jujustu high school.”

….

Yuta had his head down with his arms crossed still sitting on the chair “You make this in shop class?” Gojo said infront of him holding up a twisted knife “Yuta Okkotsu..” he finished “I-it used to be a knife..” he said softly

“I tried killing myself” He hugged his knees closer and slowly looked up “But…Rika wouldn’t let me. Gojo just stared at him “Kinda dark.” he tossed the twisted knife away. “guess what? You’re starting at a new school today.”

…

The next day at Yuta got ready for the day where he would Jujustu high! He got to walking in the hallways tiredly with his eye bags shining in the sun.

“Did you hear about the new transferred student coming today? I heard he stuffed 4 of his classmates in a locker” Panda said while he walked with [name] and Inumaki

“You mean he killed them?” [name] asked “Tuna mayo” Inumaki added “Nah, gravely injured”

“If he’s cocky I’ll put him in his place” [name] said holding her bag on her shoulder. “Bento flakes” Inumaki sighed

“Students of all grades!” Gojo said exaggerating with hand motions “We have a new student! Give him a hand!!!!!”

‘God it’s too damn early for his bullshit..’ [name] said with a her head leaning on her hand, with her legs crossed.

“not one hand…” he said sadly

“Heard the kid’s a real wet blanket, the last thing I need is an another moody rookie to look after.” (Whatever that means..)

“Salmon”

Panda hums in agreement with Inumaki, Gojo sighs and puts his hand out “Oh well then! You can come on in now!”

Yuta then opens the sliding door and as soon as his foot stepped in the classroom they sensed his cursed aura and ever stepped he took it got stronger. Panda tensed up and got aggressive and [name] eyes widen, a large menacing curse was sensed behind him and made a strange noise while facing the 3 students, [name] unzipped her bag, Inumaki put a hand on his tall collar getting ready to use his cursed technique.

Bruce Wayne had never truly possessed a reason to resent [name]—not a logical one, at least. He simply did. Or, more accurately, the reason was etched into [name]’s eyes: the exact same eyes as her mother’s.

Every time Bruce looked at her, he saw those eyes staring back—haunted by their shape, their color. He recoiled, not out of hatred, but from something far more : fear. Because he knew precisely why they unnerved him.

Her mother—the woman he loved—had abandoned him. Abandoned the Waynes. She had walked away from the life they had built, forsaking them for her Clan—a group that viewed weakness as expendable and loyalty as conditional. A Clan that had never seen her as a person, only as power.

That memory alone, of her turning her back—festered inside Bruce like a wound that refused to heal. The thought of her always lingered, sharp and unforgiving, and [name] carried that echo with every glance.

So when Bruce received a call from Naobito Zenin, irritation boiled in his chest. He instructed Alfred to sever any lines of communication. He didn’t want to hear from them. But curiosity clawed at him, and eventually, he took the call.

“Maybe M/n is finally ready to crawl back. Fine. I’ll entertain it—but I’ll make her work for it,” he had thought, even allowing a slight smile at the idea of seeing her again. Just like old times… M/n, Satoru, and him—together. A family of sorts, fractured but familiar.

But that smile shattered when Naobito’s voice turned somber. M/n was dead—she had died months ago. And now, there was a child. A daughter. His daughter.

He could barely choke out a response. “What.”

It was too much. Jason’s resurrection. The chaos of the Red Hood. And now, this?

Bruce had Gordon collect the girl from the airport and order a DNA test immediately. He needed proof—needed something solid to stand on.

The results were : the child was his. And… impossibly, she was Satoru Gojo’s as well.

The moment she stepped through the manor doors, Bruce hadn’t yet been briefed. But when his eyes met hers—one luminous blue like Gojo’s, the other the rich hue of M/n’s—he knew.

Even beyond the strange eye color, everything else was him. The cheekbones. The jawline. Even her posture. She stood tall for a six-year-old—too tall. But those eyes... they unraveled him.

He couldn’t be near her.

If he stayed, he feared he might crumble. Or worse… lash out at something so heartbreakingly innocent.

“I’m sorry for your mother’s passing,” he murmured, voice hollow and clipped, before retreating to the Batcave.

There, beneath the weight of grief he’d never prepared for, Bruce collapsed to the floor. Hands gripping the cold ground, lungs burning, air slipping through him like smoke. Pressure mounted on his chest, like unseen hands crushing his ribs. His limbs trembled. His heart thundered like a war drum in his ears.

“No, no, no, no… please stop…” he thought as panic overtook him. His vision tunneled, lips dry, mind spinning into a storm of sorrow and helplessness.

Dick never had anything against [name], he knew her mother was really close to Bruce and had seen the woman before plenty of times as robin and he couldn’t help but grow fond of her. I mean that’s basically his mother! So was nice, caring and also helped him when he had a problem with something between him, and Bruce! He could’ve hate her, never! But that changed when she had left, when he was nightwing. How could she? For that clan.

So, when Dick was in the kitchen he had got surprised by a voice behind him and when he turned he had thought it was M/n but smaller! Those eyes. Blue and e/c eyes…he got scared and kicked the poor child.

‘I mean who is this child?? Why do they have M/n eyes, and Gojo’s eyes…’ he soon snapped out of it when he seen blood dripping from her head.

hey sorry I’m so sorry…” Dick said and helped her up.

“I-It’s o-ok I’m a big girl..” [name] says as she wipes the streak of blood of off her forehead.

“Let me-“ Before he finishes he gets a text from Alfred [Master Bruce has passed out in the batcave. Please hurry here master Dick.]

“You said you were a big girl right?” He said turning his head to her. [name] nods her head eagerly.

“Then you’ll be fine handling it. I have to go. When I come back we can go to the arcade.” Dick offered a smile then left and hurried to the batcave where Alfred stood with a worried expression.

….

The next day Bruce had woke up in his bed when dick sat near with his hands on his face.“Bruce.” Dick stood up when Bruce had sat up on the edge of the bed. “What happ-“

“I can’t be a father for that girl.” Bruce interrupted and Dick froze and looked confused “The girl little that just came to the manor. I can’t be her father. That isn’t my daughter.”

Dick just stared at Bruce with a frown “Bruce-“ Bruce silently began to cry with a hand on his eyes “I can’t..” he said shakily, dick sat next to him with a hand on his back “Ok.”

Of course Dick didn’t approve of this, I mean who would??? But he could obviously see that Bruce isn’t in the right state but It’s ok he’ll be a big brother for her to lean on and see as a father…one day. Right?

Jason hated [name].

Or at least, that’s what he told himself every single time he caught her in the corner of his eye, every time someone so much as brought up her name. He’d scoff, roll his eyes, cross his arms, and say something cruel like-

“She’s a spoiled bratty bitch whose mother was a dumb whore that got herself killed.”

He said it like it was truth. Cold, harsh truth.

But deep down—where the rage throbbed and the loneliness curled into something even colder—Jason knew he was full of it. Every time he dragged her mother’s name through the mud, he was really just trying to bury how much he missed her. M/n was the only person who ever made him feel like more than a burden. She treated him like he mattered—like he was hers.

He cried harder than anyone when he found out she died. No one saw it. He made sure of that. But behind all the noise and anger and bravado, he wept for her. For the mother he never truly had, but almost did. Until she left. Until she abandoned him—right after he was kidnapped. After the Joker. After everything.

And now she was dead?

Jason couldn’t even look at photos of her without feeling like the world was cracking apart at the seams. He hated her for walking away. Hated her for dying. Hated how much he still loved her.

He had ignored Dick’s call two days ago. Didn’t want to hear anything that had to do with the manor. With Bruce. But something in Dick’s voice… something had kept him from deleting the message. So now here he was—back in the same house where everything had started to rot.

Dick looked like a wreck. Pale. Exhausted. Haunted.

Jason didn’t bother hiding his sneer. “What’s wrong with you, dickface?”

Dick barely looked up. “She’s dead.” His voice cracked like glass. He ran a trembling hand through his hair.

Jason blinked, confused. “Who?”

“M/n… I just wanted to tell you. She has a child. And she… she’s here.”

Dick couldn’t even finish. He left the room without another word.

Jason stood there for a long time. Heart pounding. Head spinning.

He wandered into the library, trying to escape the weight of it all. Grabbed a book—anything to pull him out of his own head. Tried to focus. Tried to not feel.

But the pages blurred. Wet. His hands were shaking.

Tears? No. No, stop that. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.

But he did. God, he did.

No mission, no alias, no mask could erase the ache of being loved—and left behind.

She had come into his life. Treated him like a son. Then left. Had a baby. A new child. And then died.

Where was his closure? Where was his chance to protect her? To yell at her? To forgive her?

Jason slammed the book shut and sat frozen, chest heaving.

Then someone bumped into him.

His book hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh, sorry—” a small voice stammered.

He looked down.

It was like someone had punched him in the gut.

Those eyes. One blue. One [e/c].

His hands curled into fists.

So this is who she died for? This… replacement? This child? Is this the one who got her love in the end? Got her last words? Her final breath?

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” he snapped, voice low and venomous.

The girl looked down, ashamed. “...oh.”

He scoffed, bitterness thick in his throat. “Another one of Bruce’s adopted mistakes?”

“I-I’m his kid! I promise… a-and you’re my brother, right?” she said quietly, voice soft and trembling.

Jason didn’t answer. He smirked—sharp and humorless.

She thinks I’m her brother. Like she gets to call me that.

He knelt slightly, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder, watching her flinch beneath his grip. “Look, kid,” he said, voice like ice, “you’re just one of Bruce’s little distractions. And soon enough, he’ll forget about you too—just like everything else you care about. You’re not special. And I’m not your brother.”

He let her go and turned without another glance as she stumbled into the bookshelf behind her. The sound echoed like guilt.

But Jason kept walking.

And as he stormed off down the hallway, jaw clenched so tight it ached, he swore something to himself in silence.

‘You ruined the only good thing I ever had—just by being born. So don’t expect mercy. Not from me.’

Yuta explains that the Cursed Spirit is Rika, a childhood friend whom he had promised to marry when they grew up. Rika died in a freak accident and became an overprotective spirit that harms anyone who threatens him.

During his first mission with [Name], Yuta successfully summons Rika on his own for the first time to save them from a Cursed Spirit. Three months pass in his school training, and he grows close to [Name], Toge, and Panda. One day, on a mission together, Toge and Yuta are attacked by a high-level Curse. The man behind the attack was Suguru Geto, a previous student and old friend of Gojo, who defected from the school and killed over a hundred innocent people on a mission.

Geto attempts to get Yuta on his side so they can make use of Rika, but Yuta refuses when he insults Yuta's friends due to unsettled circumstances. Geto declares war to activate a portal to the under-world: he will release a thousand Curses upon the city to remove non-sorcerer humans, as he believes them to be undeserving and beneath sorcerers. Geto's real reason for the war, however, is to distract Gojo so he can kill Yuta and add Rika to his collection of cursed spirits. Gojo realizes this upon learning of Yuta's background, and sends Inumaki and Panda back to the school to protect Yuta and Maki during the night of Geto's attack. Geto overpowers them all, leaving only Yuta conscious. Enraged at seeing his friends hurt, Yuta promises himself as a sacrifice to Rika in order to strengthen their bond. As a result, Geto is severely wounded. He is found by Gojo, who after reflecting on their past friendship, executes him.

[name] stood quietly at the edge of the room, her gaze resting on Gojo’s sleeping form. The soft rise and fall of his chest was the only proof he was still here—still breathing, still fighting. But earlier… she’d seen his face after the fighting. The way his expression cracked when he thought no one was looking. The way his hands trembled before he shoved them deep into his pockets.

Her eyes drifted to the blindfold resting against his forehead, slightly askew. With a small breath, she stepped closer, fingers twitching nervously as she reached for it. She gently lifted it from his eyes, careful not to wake him, and replaced it with her own glasses, pressing them onto his face with a little huff.

she slipped the blindfold over her own eyes.

“Gosh, how does he see with this thing?” she muttered to herself with a crooked smile. “I’m literally blind right now.”

She took a step—and promptly bumped into the wall with a soft thud.

“Ow…” she mumbled, rubbing her arm.

Laughter—low and breathy—broke the silence behind her.

She whipped around, the blindfold slipping halfway off her face. Gojo was awake. Sitting up. Watching her.

And smiling.

His eyes—those eyes—were soft and bright like sunlight scattered across an endless ocean. Their glow lit something warm and dizzying inside her chest.

“H-HUH?! THIS IS A DREAM!” [name] blurted, panicking, leaping into the weirdest stance she could think of on the spot.

“Oh wow, I’m terrified,” he teased, clapping dramatically. “Is that… the ancient Fighting Crane meets Confused Flamingo technique? Legendary.”

[name] tried to hold the pose, struggling to stay serious. “Silence! I am the blindfolded warrior, guardian of the living room!” she declared, wobbling slightly to the left.

“Well then, oh mighty warrior,” he said with a mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes, “I challenge you to a duel. But only if you can pass… the tickle trial.”

“Huh? Wait no—NO!” she shrieked as Gojo lunged, grabbing her sides with the lightest poke.

She burst into uncontrollable giggles, twisting away and finally pulling off the blindfold in a fit of laughter.

“You blue eye bastard!” she panted, catching her breath.

He sat up, smiling softly now. “Yeah, I tend to break the rules. Especially for a smile like that.”

For a moment, there was silence—the good kind. Then his voice turned gentler.

“Hey, [name]… could you take that bandage off?”

She blinked, confused. “Oh. Sure—but I kinda can’t see too good with that eye,” she murmured, fingertips brushing the edge of the gauze as she slowly peeled it away.

Her partially blind eye met his, and he stared.

“I was right,” he whispered, stepping forward with small, steady steps.

“What?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

She felt it, then. The heat of tears soaking through her shirt. His shoulders trembled against her. The strongest man she knew was quietly falling apart in her arms

“You’re my daughter.”

She froze in his embrace. And then slowly, carefully, wrapped her arms around him, like maybe, just maybe—someone loves her.

A/N || sorry for the wait but here’s the chapter!!! And boom here’s the big plot twist!!! btw name won’t have six eyes or anything, just related to gojo!! SO YES GOJO IS OUR PAPI TOO GUYS 😜 (ALSO ANOTHER AUTHOR I LOVE LIKED MY SERIES AHHHHH!!!!! TYYYYYYY ILYSM (I follow you😝)

<Taglist>: @bat1212, @moon0goddess @holderoflostmemories, @cruzerforce4256, @victoria1676 @gloriousvariant @yhin-gg @celesteelysia @charlenexoxo1 @ailshii @aelxr @sxftiebee @suneaterscape @rainschnael @simpingpandas @shinning-stars @zomgiez @w0mank1sser @luciel1 @shrimp38 @sproutytoad @svnnizes @senhoritaapple @maskedvoyance @lululala06 @hdavjje @24hrsoflanii @nekkohaa @hon3ydewcaram3l @nessielovesfood @sinmp @luv-isolde @hi-there-how-are-you @mylittlediarys-stuff @cupid73 @jjoppees @23xfgg @expressodepressgetoffmyproperty @cantfindmelol @elmichi0 @ashjade19 @nympzy0

#yandere batfam #yandere bruce wayne #yandere dick grayson #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #neglected reader #yandere cassandra cain #yandere damian wayne #yandere duke thomas #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #yuta okkotsu #inumaki toge #panda #yandere stephanie brown

198 notes · View notes

s-4pphics · 2 days ago

Text

we’re not at Wendy’s anymore, toto…

SYNOPSIS: dropping fries or drawls?

WORD COUNT: 2.0K

WARNINGS: THIS IS CRACK AND VERY UNSERIOUS! FT. AGGRESSIVE FLIRTING, oc is a big titty pansexual and the wendy’s robin hood, ellie is a butch-dyking, fry-dropping misandrist who frowns a lot, mentions of mary jay, MDNI: TIT AND SPIT PLAY, MILD DIRTY TALK

A/N: i literally have no plan for this it’s just for shits n gigs. obsessed with their dynamic lowkey first part LOL

TAGLIST: @areyna @dyk3ang3l @grotesquevi @lucidfairies @aphrodyk3 @edenspoem @ssshhh-imreading @sappho-favourite-pupil @spoilmyfun @alpha-whoore @xxmoonyxx12 @wheni013 @elliesluckycharm @kuv1ras @euph0riafilms @rockwizard43 @inf3rn4lia @lillybunns @berlin1994 @weirdero @ferxanda @dulcerbbns @z456 @cheyshaunted @justarandomflowerchildofthenight @jayy2inlove @breathinlove @piercedome @aagutzke @sawaagyapong

This is not how Ellie thought she’d be spending her 15: outside at 11:47PM with her best friend calling her loose.

“This whole time, I thought, ‘wow, maybe Ellie has changed! Maybe she isn’t easy anymore’, but look at you! It took one hotbox and a hot box to—“

She massages her temples, “Riley—“

“I can’t lie and say y'all wouldn’t be hot together—Imma need that tape by the way, but Jesus Christ, get a grip—“

Why’d Ellie think confiding in her best friend about her new friend would be a good idea? Why’d she think befriending you in the first place was a good idea?

You’ve infiltrated her midnight sessions like a demonic witch. 3 days of pure torture: her waking up an hour before work steaming under her blankets, drenched in sweat and brain cursed with the image of you still with a full throat, only now… it follows her to work. Fuckass Wendy’s.

No one’s caught on—except for Riley, fuck her intuition—to the too long gazes shared between you, the playful shoulder bumps when you walk by her station, and the biggest one of all…

As Riley put it, “they’re not leaving a snail trail on the tile anymore. I think you tamed ‘em a little. Good for you, friend.”

But Ellie’s not trying to tame you. You can do, talk to, fuck, who and whatever you please. She doubts she’s made that much of an impact on you in such a short amount of time, but she does notice that you’re a bit more… chill? Chilled out? Still a menace, but slightly more selective with who you enchant.

That fucking shirt is still too tight, though.

And now, she wants to dunk whoever’s accepted your muted salaciousness into her 400 degree oil tank.

Ellie’s not a jealous person… She wasn’t, but there’s a deep sense of rage that overtakes her whenever men men men compliment you. It’s murderous, borderline sadistic what she envisions in her head while she throws their cheese slices on their limp. Dick. Fries. She despises their existence, wants nothing more than for them to die, or at the very least, shut the fuck up—

“I invited them over tonight.”

“… WHAT THE FUCK—“

… Yeah. Ellie felt so guilty about rain-checking you last week, but her cat got sick. Her baby wouldn’t stop vomiting.

A head pokes out from behind the back door, “Uh, y’all break ended 7 minutes ago.”

… Clock watcher. Maybe Ellie doesn’t hate all men. Jesse’s a guardian angel sent to protect her against the incoming force that is her best friend.

“BITCH, IT’S TUESDAY, WE’RE DEAD!” Riley shouts in his direction, “THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE COMING OVER—“

“Who’s coming over? Coming here? Health inspectors?—“

“I needa pee.” Ellie’s already booking it towards the restroom, an excited Riley trucking close behind while Jesse panics about The Pope possibly eating at Wendy’s in the middle of fucking Wyoming.

“WHO’S COMING TONIGHT? HELLOOO—“

“YOU—YOU’RE FAKE AS HELL! YOU WAITED THIS LONG TO TELL ME ABOUT Y’ALL—“

“Shut up, I’m peeing, byeee, love ya, bye I needa pee, bye—“

The door shuts and locks, but she hears them yelling. A couple bangs on the door.

Just when she thought she found sanctuary…

“Hey.”

You stand by the mirror adjusting your tits in your tight ass shirt. All buttons are undone today, just her fucking luck.

“… You didn’t lock the door.”

“I wasn’t pissing.” You hold Pennifer up in your hand like a trophy, and Ellie snickers.

“Started without me?”

“Was fienin’,” With no hesitation, you offer it over, “Wanna pregame?”

She doesn’t mean to snatch it, but she’s a bit jittery. She puffs from, exhales in the opposite direction from you.

“I like when you do that.” Your tongue sounds larger in your mouth. Ellie has to puff again to keep from laughing.

“Do what. Get high on the job?” She whirs around smoke, but you ignore her.

“Tough night?” You nod towards the door that’s still being punched in by Riley.

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

“I HATE YOU, BITCH! NEXT TIME YOU WANNA SNEAK, LEMME KNOW—“

“Damn… what happened?”

“I just… I told her you were coming over tonight.” She hands Pennifer back.

Ellie’s surprised when you laugh. She half expected you to be irritated for snitching you both out to someone at work, was so prepared to ride for how trustworthy Riley is, that she wouldn’t get you both fired for workplace flirting and potential bathroom fondling.

But you don’t seem to care, just asks a simple question,

“Should I be concerned?”

She knows what you’re implying. Her head immediately shakes in denial. “I told you. Just a friend. She’s just nosy.”

“Alrighty,” you purr, and Ellie’s heart skyrockets when you take 2 steps closer. The bathroom suddenly feels like a funnel tube. Tight, closed-off, trapping, but she doesn’t leave. The door’s right there; she can’t bring herself to open it.

The pounding suddenly comes to a pause before irritated footsteps vacate the outside.

Ellie can’t stop the ache that blooms in her core or the watering of her mouth when both your hands rise to rest on your chest, the pudge poking through the gaps between your fingers. Either you're that soft, or you’re not wearing a bra.

“Buttons or no buttons?” Asked with fluttery lashes.

Ellie swallows. “One button.” For my fucking sanity, she wants to add, but you got enough ego to cover a goddamn army.

“Help me? Full hands ‘n allat.” That bottom lip juts out slightly and your lashes flutter, and it takes everything for Ellie to not press your face against this filthy ass door. Never in her life did she think she’d reach this level of depravity, but it’s been days. Days. She’s fucking starving for you.

Unfortunately, she has smidge of dignity, and wants you to keep yours.

So she buttons the last one, knuckles brushing against that small sliver of skin, taking in the way your pupils shake with every maneuver of her fingers. Your gaze alone could light a match. Start a forest fire. Burn this whole building to the fucking ground if you wanted.

“Thanks!” You say in your usual bushy-tailed tone, gently shoving Ellie aside to unlock and open the door. “Hi, favorite coworkers!”

The screaming stops, and Ellie’s head knocks back on the wall.

The last thing she wants to do is see her friends' faces. Riley’s hollering is enough.

“… WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON—“

Ellie’s sigh leaves her breathless.

—

“Welcome to my humble abode.”

Ellie shuts the door behind her, untangles her earplugs from around her neck to drop them, along with her keys, on the dining room table before shrugging her jacket off.

You were pretty quiet on the ride over. Made her a little nervous… A lot nervous.

“Why, thank you.” Ellie can’t hide her smile at your courtesy.

She watches your wandering eyes, moving all over her decorated walls, sloppy paint jobs, shredded up couch from kitten claws. She hopes you don’t notice the coffee stain that she could never remove.

“‘S very you.”

“I would hope so,” her feet carry her to the kitchen, “want a drink? I haaave…” She inspects her fridge. Empty, minus the to-go box, 3 beers, and 2 jugs of berry Minute Maid.

… Awkward. You’re a peckish pothead. Couldn’t even bother to get you a meal on the way home. Dumbass.

“Damn, bitch, no water?” You laugh, and Ellie huffs.

“You’re lucky I drank all my O-negative this morning. You’d be pissing yourself.”

“Sike, I’d buss it wide open for a vampire.”

She flushes before shutting the fridge and guiding you to the couch with a hand on your back.

“We matching? Or are you robbing me again?” You nudge her playfully before rummaging through your purse, and Ellie follows, pulling two jays out of her backpack.

Soon enough, your hands are stocked with Pennifer, a ziplock baggie of your own pre-rolls, and a… fucking butane lighter that your hand can barely close around.

“Goddamn—“

You cackle. “Shut up! Couldn’t find my pink one.”

“So you brought a fucking campfire?”

“If you’re gonna judge, you can spark yourself. Don’t mind m—“

Ellie snatches your lighter with an eye roll that borderline launches them to her brain, flickering the lighter on. It feels like a fucking fireplace. You’re ridiculous.

But you’re quiet. Ellie sparks the end with as much skill as you did last week.

Speaking of.

“Sorry I had to cancel a few days ago—”

“No need to be.”

“My cat got sick and it freaked me out. So. Yeah.”

“Aww, nooo,” you whine sympathetically. Even in your times of softness, that pout makes her lightheaded.

“Where's the baby? Is it okay?”

“He’s fine now. With my… dad.” She passes the jay to you. Watches you puff like a hawk, tinted chapstick smearing the edge. “I pick him up tomorrow.”

“That’s good. What’s the baby’s name?”

“Stewart.” She says stoically.

“… Is he orange?”

“Yes.”

“I can tell. He fucked this couch up.”

Ellie smiles. “You should see my room.”

“Is that an invite?”

Her heart stutters in her chest, but her gaze doesn’t falter from yours. She simply takes the joint from your grip, speaks around her puff.

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

“Well.”

“Well what.” She pins.

“I want your mouth on my tits.”

“… And I want your tits in my mouth.” She speaks through a dry throat and a thrumming core, your tone set deep in her bones.

You nod your head once before unbuttoning the button she buttoned for you earlier, leaving your greasy cloth on the floor.

“Well… Lean.” Your hands gesture backwards.

And Ellie does, back pressed against her couch cushions, joint hanging from her fingers, almost as low as her eyes. Her suspicions were correct: you’re that soft and braless. You throw a leg over her lap, tits jiggling in her face.

She nearly yanks you down onto her lap when your lips curl around the joint, the orange end cresting like the sun in the morning.

“Suck on ‘em.” Smoke wafts in her face and she curses low and broken.

Your nipple beckons her lips and your hand flies to yank at her hair, pleased whines leaving your lips and vibrating down to her toes. She can barely gather the strength to rub on you like she wants; she’s too enraptured by your softness.

And your filth. That fucking mouth...

“You’re eating ‘em up like a fucking slut.” You whisper in astonishment before pressing a kiss atop her head. Ellie moans around you in response, tongue swirling messily around your areola before suctioning your nipple, drinking in your satisfied squeaks.

One of your nipples is more sensitive than the other. It's cute how loud you get when her teeth rub on them. Just an inch. Enough to get you jumping on her lap like a bunny.

They’re so heavy on her tongue, so soft in her mouth. She’s sure her jeans are staining with her slick… and yours. She can practically smell you.

“Ellie, ‘m—oh fuck, I might cum—“

Her muscles act on their own accord, her joint-less hand coming down to whack your ass, mouth popping off to spit sloppy on both your tits, rubbing her mess in with her tongue.

“You’re so hot, you’re so hot, m’cumming, ohhh fuck—“

Your arm closes tight on the back of her neck, shoving her face tight against your breasts and she accepts that she’ll happily die here: under you, trapped by your scent and your skin and your yipped thanks for the nut.

You have to shove Ellie off your tits after your comedown, thighs clamping shut on her lap when her teeth nick your more sensitive nip, her mouth matching your chest in wetness.

“Fuck.” She exhales, head plummeting on the back of the couch. Tokes one last time. Blows it in your face between giving you one.

“I thought you were a fucking prude when I met you. My fault.” You exhaust through heaves and clouds. She shakes her head uncaringly, massages your tit just to watch you twitch.

“You want another one?” She asks plainly despite the throbbing between her thighs.

“… You serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure… After you show me what’s in your nightstand.”

Ellie chuckles. She’s always loved a bargain.

#fry cook!ellie #ellie williams smut #ellie williams angst #ellie williams au #ellie williams x you #ellie williams drabble #ellie williams concept #ellie williams #ellie williams tlou #ellie williams x reader #lesbian #works 𖧧࣪

241 notes · View notes

gldrushh · 3 days ago

Text

MY KINK IS KARMA | | KTH (m)

"Your boyfriend is wimpish, toothsome when he needs to be, self-sacrificing and you would've liked a hero to spend a breezy simple life with but proves to be he's not everything he excuses himself as, proves that he's selling down the river. His boss, whereas, is none of these things but worse, in a compelling-compelling way."

➵ PAIRING Idol!Taehyung x fem!reader

➵ GENRE Idol au, enemies to lovers (?), boy obssesed, smut

➵ W.C 50k (this was supposed to be pure porn sigh..)

➵ WARNINGS kim taehyung or he who shall not be named (yes he's a warning), loser boyfriend, neglecting, oc gets stood up multiple times, consuming alcohol, lots of it, loser boyfriend is taehyung’s manager, oc hates his ass, like unadulterated loathing,murder fantasies,he's chill and smug like that, also obssesed,mature language, chaotic girl group, jk pulls a jackson wang, the whole gang is here, fangirling, yoongi is short :p,mentions of throwing up, mentions of cheating, crying, slow build up, sexual tension, banter, obsessed! taehyung, smoking, sharing a cigarette, buff! tae, flirting, tae speaks french, props to his duolingo membership <3, revenge scheme, oc is out to get, explicit content, dirty talking, brat oc, brat tamer tae ayee, lil spanking here and there, praise kink, size difference, fingering,cum tasting, finger sucking, edging, oral (f! Receiving), face riding, multiple orgasms, dom!tae, mirror sex, he likes to make her watch, big dick! Tae, penetrative sex, protected sex, and that's a wrap I think :D

➵ A/N: SORRY SO SORRY i promise it wasnt in my plans to ghost you!! I was going to release this one shot on the day tae and joon got back AHAHSJAHS but I got a little shy about this fic and I still kinda am. Now about this fic, I didn’t used to a big fan of idol aus, maybe because I thought there wasn't much artistic freedom in that universe but guess what? There's free fucking will and I used it to make this big self indulgent baby 😼😼 probably should have added that as a warning because it's self gratifying as it gets girls 😔🙏 writing some parts of it made me really think twice about posting it or not because it's certainly not the work I could be proud off or something that reaches up to a caliber I have set up in my self loathing mind but it also made me giggle OH did it 🤭😜 like trust me when I say I had to take a minute to myself whenever it came to writing Taehyung’s dialouge or his mannerisms. That's a man OBSSESED and it may not come across in big neon letters because I love me some subtle infatuation and I really really hope I did the trope justice. Speaking of tropes, I know I tagged this as enemies to lovers but it's mostly one sided hatred so don't come at me for that and please don't take it too seriously haha <3 the last section is unedited becuz i'd literally jump of a clif if I have to edit any more 😓💗 love you, have a good time reading and pls tell me what did you think of it?? Should I be making more of this vibe? Feedback is always always appreciated!!

| MASTERLIST | WATTPAD | AO3 |

Wax is made of organic compounds you wouldn't be able to name with a gun to your head but what you would tell was that, it also contained your wearing patience that made a mocking sound with every drip: the candle had burned halfway down, and he still wasn’t there.

You didn’t need to check the shining silver wrapped around your wrist. Your wineglass had already gathered precipitation twice over, the bottom of the flute damp with waiting. The feiriness of the flame casted shadows against the wineglass, all rippled red and wet. It almost looks romantic. If someone were sitting across from you. If he were sitting across from you. The waiter had stopped pretending not to notice and now gave you the kind of pitiful glances reserved for women with romantic delusions or no sense of time.

But you had time. That was the whole point of tonight.

The above-named waiter had smiled like he was in on something private when he lit the match and said, “Celebrating?” And you’d smiled back, a little flustered, and said, Yeah. I guess I am.

You don’t feel like celebrating now.

You swirl the warm wine in your hands that you don't even like anyway, but you make a face that looks like you’re on the verge of tasting something rich, something worth all this waiting, when in truth it’s a defense mechanism of some sort. Something to do with your hands that should have been held and kissed. Too dry. You judge ruefully. You only picked it because he likes it.

Even when it's supposed to be about you. Tonight is about you. A rare, like rare-rare personal triumph that came in the form of an offer letter with your name printed in ink that precieved graver than it should. It will the inception of a title bump. A salary hike that would finally fill the remaining fifteen percent of a jar you had named: trip to greece. A right set of circumstances you had earned after weeks of late nights, caffeine abuse, and grinding until your bones felt hollow. You’d spent the whole morning grinning into your toothbrush, rehearsing the announcement. The breed of joy you can’t help but choreograph when it was about a milestone as big as that after you’d finally closed that deal. Got your name attached to something worth bragging about. He said you’d celebrate. Said he’d be there to toast to your achievement with the same kind of urgency he reserved for phone calls from idols. Even picked the place — God, he picked the place.

But now you’re sitting in it alone, dodging glances and wondering if you should’ve worn something less “I’m someone’s girlfriend” and more “I’m the whole fucking meal.”

Because while you may feel like a whole meal most of the times. It's a very casual number of times you feel like a girlfriend. What isn't a casual number is when you check your phone and it flashes right back at you. 8:37 PM.

He was forty minutes late.

And you could swear you had checked your phone fifty times in that length, even had memorized what you saw in the fifty times, you did: one new email with zero new messages. No calls. Your phone’s screen is a galaxy of just unanswered calls. Four, five, six if you count the one that went straight to voicemail.

You don’t, but you remember the sound. The robotic please try again later feels more honest than he’s been in days.

You try again because someone has to do the trying after all.

Calling: Hajoonie 🩷🩷

Ring. Ring. It drones again and again and again.. You tap on the angry red button with force more than needed because if you'd have to hear to that sound any more, you'd spare yourself of the theatrics and just smash it on the ground of this expensive restaurant.

You focus on what's in front of you, rather than what's not. Check the menu even though you’ve already ordered, the way people do when they’re trying not to look lonely. You fiddle with the edge of your napkin, press the clean one over your phone screen, a random thing, really, but that's what dolorous people do when they are trying not to look dolorous.

Theres a twinkle of panic when you start to run out of them, after counting the petals of the rose flower, situated in a vase, as expensive as the nails you got done. Should you do a re-over? Maybe you will get a different number than thirty two this time. Maybe you didn’t got it right the first time? You're just about to, when your phone buzzes, once.

Finally. You were two minutes away from someone tearing up over how pathetic you look.

You hold it in your hands, gentler this time, with more care, and when you read the caller id, your heart jolts, thought it's not in the way when he first said said the l word to you, or when he got you the purse you've been eyeing with hopeless eyes from his first paycheck. Not in the least, actually, it's

not any kind of relief- recognition, mayhap. Comes after a stable three year love affair. More like the way you feel when your foot misses a step but your brain already knew it would.

You snap it up. “Where the hell are you, Joon?”

"Y/N, I— God, I’m so sorry," he exhaled, the background noise already too loud, a obtuse, chaotic bustle you knew too well. "Something came up with the boys— with Taehyung. I swear I tried to get out of it, but it's really important, I—"

Your perfectly manicured red nails dig into the soft fabric of the napkin. “What?”

"He—uh, it’s kind of urgent. I have to be there.”

Your eyes shut slowly, lashes trembling. “Are you serious right now?” you whispered, voice razor-sharp despite the volume. “You promised. You looked me in the eye this morning and promised you’d be here.”

“I know, I did, and I meant it,” he babbled. “But I—I’m so fucking sorry, babe, they really need me. It’s not a normal night. there’s a situation with the sound tech, and he’s panicking, and— It's a whole thing."

A whole thing.

You want to laugh. You almost do. But it comes out as a sharp exhale instead, as you open your eyes and look around the restaurant. You view as a paranoia mode of a camera would: The couples toasting. The waiter avoiding your table. The candle welling wax made up of your ended endurance, putting up the act of as if it’s weeping for you.

You lean back in the chair, press your fingers to your temple. “Of course. Of fucking course it is.”

“Babe, please don’t be like that. I wanted to be there. You know I did.”

You’re about to bite back, when exactly did you stop being a priority and start being a placeholder, even if you know the answer, the exact date, heavens, when you hear what is the most aggravating sound.

"Joon-sshi."

That voice. That empty headed, unwitting, greatly vexing voice.

Deep as if a hollow well would be when you say something ridiculous for it to echo back. Leveled enough that it could iron a wrinkled shirt, hot and fast. Fucking smug because it has ever right to (or so he thinks). His voice, slicing through the call like a machete that is unapologetic about whatever comes in it's way. The vocal equivalent of an expensive whiskey poured over a fire nobody asked to be set.

It pearls casual bidding, cushioned but sharp, sharp enough that it doesn’t ask for diligence. It assumes it like a ceo expecting standing ovation just because he entered the room. You hear it in variety shows, in fan compilations, in your hallway on rushed mornings when you’re trying to get a goodbye kiss and he’s halfway down the stairs already while you were busy tying your shoes and praying for a civil goodbye.

You knew it so well that you didn’t even need to see his face to imagine the annoyance etched into it. The burnished voice that was built to be beautiful and custom made just to madden you in the same breath belonged to one man and one man only, Kim Stupid Taehyung. A name that boiled your blood. A man that spiked your nerves as if you had swallowed down a live wire.

“Seriously? I told you I need that list now. We’re behind.”

And just like that, your boyfriend’s voice is smaller. Scrambled, submissive in that way he only ever got around him. “Shit—he’s calling. I’ll text you later, okay? I’m so sorry—please don’t be mad.”

Something bitter amplified in your mouth. And it's not the wine anymore. It has never been the wine.

You don’t get the chance to say anything. You couldn’t if you wanted to. If you would have opened your mouth, you would have screamed. Something like "You and your Kim Taehyung can go choke on his tech list!"

Heat crawled up your throat, all the way to your temples. People around you blurred as your thoughts tunneled into a familiar black hole.

Kim Taehyung.

Of course.

It was always Kim Taehyung.

You hate Kim Taehyung.

There’s no real logic to it, not when you’re being honest with yourself. But there it is, this raw little wound that carried a little infection with and turned it into something worse.You don’t hate him because he’s famous.You don’t hate him because he’s talented, or loud or has enough money to make it up for it and more.

You don’t know him enough for that, not really, never seen him person or had his gnawing charisma touch you through a distance even, you only know his voice; that empty headed, unwitting, greatly vexing voice. Prechance his schedule too for godsake. How he needed too many people to straighten his tie, hold his venti iced caramel macchiato, but made with oat milk instead of regular milk, added an extra shot of espresso for that kick and drizzle some extra caramel on top. And not to forget, a pump of vanilla syrup blended in with ice held down to keep it from getting too watered down. He probably needed your boyfriend for that too. He needed him for many things, always at his beck and call because that’s what this job is about, isn't it? Passionate art requires finding the vibe and running after it, at even four in the morning apparently. The endless excuses gone round and round his name like satellites. Passionate art, your ass. You hate him with the kind of bitterness that has layers: resentment stacked on frustration stacked on exhaustion. You hate the way he takes up space in your life without ever having to be in the room.

He had this way of swallowing Hajoon’s time like it belonged to him. Ever since your boyfriend became Kim Taehyung’s manager, you'd been in a three-person relationship, except the third wheel was a global superstar with a schedule more sacred than God’s while you're just another fleeting name in the schedule that gets crossed out in red ink.

This wasn’t the first time that had happened. Not even the tenth (you're keeping count). It was just the latest and every single number that adds up, also adds to your loathing.

You could still remember last spring, standing outside a theatre in the rain, makeup running and heels killing you, only to get a last-minute text: “Taehyung’s rehearsal ran late. So sorry. Tomorrow?”

Or the time he’d invited your boyfriend on a “quick trip” to Jeju for a shoot that turned into a five-day disappearance — radio silent that included no texts, no calls of even informing you whether he's dead or alive. And when they’d finally returned, he said that Taehyung had said that time flies when you're working. You’ve listened to him make excuses in every register of apology, from bashful to exhausted to just plain numb.

And now, here you are. Sitting alone in a restaurant with his favorite wine and cold fries.

You close your eyes. You breathe once, twice. Your phone is still in your hand, thumb ghosting over the last call.You don’t even consider reasoning or finishing the fries, only lift a hand to signal for the check.

Because you’re done.

You’re done letting this job, this man, this life play second fiddle to someone else’s. Especially his. Not tonight. Fuck that.

As the waiter walks off, polite and wordless, you pull your phone back up and open the group chat: Witches Who Wine, a name born in blood pact and bottomless mimosas. You’d earlier declined. The one that’s been buzzing with drunken selfies and glitter emojis since seven.

Earlier, you sent a regretful “Raincheck, girls. Girlfriend duties.”

It had felt responsible at the time. Sweet, even. Embracing that you were choosing stability over chaos, embracing you were the kind of woman who got celebrated over dinner and candlelight by a man who couldn’t stop looking at her.

Now, you typed:

“Hajoon bailed. Plans back on. Where are we drinking, ladies??"

The replies came fast like an avalanche.

[LARA]: WHAT?! HE BAILED?

[JIA]: noooooo. again???

[SAFIYA]: girl drop his ass we have shots lined up and glitter everywhere

[LARA]: WHERE IS HE I JUST WANNA TALK. with my fists.

[JIA]: You told him it was your celebration night, right?? You reminded him??

You blink at that last one, because, yes. Of course you did. You reminded him last night, this morning, this afternoon when he sent you a thumbs-up emoji and a “Can’t wait, babe.”

He could at least have the decency to cancel for himself. But no.

He let the one that wears silk shirts and smirks like he knows he has a leash around your boyfriend while he watches him obey do the honors.

[JIA]: just come over. we’re already tipsy. safiya just tried to kiss the bartender.

[SAFIYA]: he flinched.

[LARA]: so did we.

Your friends, for all their dramatics, mean well. But they’ve got the wrong villain.

Your boyfriend isn’t the real problem. Well he is technically. But he’s also predictable. Spineless. Hiding his light under a bushel and sugar-mouthed and easily tugged in whatever direction the golden boy points.

[LARA]: Don’t think, just get here. We already ordered that ugly sangria you love.

[JIA]: You owe us shots too. Plural. We saved you a booth and a sparkly crown.

[LARA]: Also your tits look amazing in that brown top you were gonna wear tonight. You're wearing it, right?

[JIA]: Wait i thought it was green

[SAFIYA]: No it’s brown she wore it to my birthday and made my cousin stutter

[LARA]: EXACTLY.

You tip the last of the wine into your mouth, it still tastes like disappointment, but the buzz that follows is warm and insistent. Insistent that you go and have the time of your life.

You type:

"Yes. Yes I got the brown top on which made safiya's cousin sutter. Lipstick’s still perfect too. Be there in ten 💋"

You have friends. You have heels. You have a face that looks fantastic under bar lights. You’ll go out. You’ll drink. You’ll laugh too loudly. You’ll just dance until your muscles ache and your chest is lighter.

You are not an afterthought.

The club smells like citrus and hidrosis and possibility.

A little dictatorial perhaps, granted you smell it the moment you step in. Temperature bandaging around your knees, bass thudding in your ribs like someone knocking to be let in. Altaria is packed, bodies glittering under pulsing lights, and your friends are already halfway drunk, half-sticky with sangria and stubborn lip gloss, wedged into a booth that should only seat four.

They scream when they see you.

A harmony of “Girl!” and “Oh my god!” and “Look at you!” rings out across the booth like gospel.

Lara practically climbs over Safiya to hug you, arms flung tight around your shoulders, perfume and tequila catching in your nose. “Oh the audacity of that man-” she gasps, pulling back to stare at you like you've just announced a felony. “You look like that and he bailed?”

“Please let me key his car,” Jia adds, sliding a pink drink across the table toward you. “I’m serious. I’ll even Google how to spell something dramatic.”

Safiya wiggles a tiny plastic crown between her fingers, slipping it onto your head. “To your promotion. Raise your glass.”

You do. You have to. They clink theirs against yours, and the moment presses in, frames you in and the joint giggling, the element, the tiny sting behind your eyes that you refuse to let spill out. You don’t wanna come off as pitiful on the night where you should be anything but, when you're surrounded by glitter and noise and people who love you so loudly.It burns like validation.

And for a while, it works.

It fades and fades and fades until it works.

Pulls you into their chaos, that's just compulsory for sisterhood. And you should be unable to picture the word without mentioning the thousand attempts at blurry phone selfies just to get one aesthetic one, the dancing to decade-old pop hits, the game where you all list your worst kiss and Jia wins when she describes a guy who meowed mid-makeout. You laugh at lara’s drunken flirting with the server (he is flustered and trembling and clearly gay, not catching on the hint that she's for the girls too, which makes it even funnier).

You drink too much too fast. You’re halfway between giddy and feral, clutching a fourth drink and a fifth reason to forget.

Lara’s on your left, knee pressed against yours. She smells like oranges and expensive perfume and she’s too beautiful to be comforting but she tries anyway. Her glitter eyeliner is slightly smudged and it suits her. Jia is across from you, chewing the straw in her sangria like it personally offended her. Safiya is already halfway gone, resuming her story about how she almost hooked up with a bartender but forgot she was still wearing her Invisalign.

You tip your head back and knock back another shot. The ice clinks against your teeth like a tiny applause.

"God," you mutter, licking lime from the side of your hand, "I should’ve just come out with you from the start."

“Should’ve dumped that man two months ago,” lara says, her voice equal parts affectionate and judgmental. “Seriously. He’s like rice cakes, bland and barely functional.”

“You know,” Jia starts, leaning in like she’s revealing state secrets, “you really could just… break up with him.”

The table becomes deathly still. The music doesn't. It's some pounding club remix of a song you once loved but now just feels like a headache with a bassline.

You blink. And then something clicks loose in your jaw. It's not like it has never been suggested or your boyfriend’s name hasn't been paired with a loads of "You should leave him" but it has been a while since you had so much to drink.

“Oh my god,” you say, and it sounds like a laugh, except it’s not. “You guys don’t get it. It’s not just Joon.”

Lara raises a brow. “Please don’t say ‘it’s me.’ We know that's far from the truth and we’re not letting you do this drama tonight or ever."

You slam your shot glass down a little too hard. “It’s him." The way you say him is a snarl adorned in lipstick. "Kim stupid Taehyung."

“Ohhh,” Safiya says like she’s watching a fuse light.

Lara points up a finger like a child asking permission to speak. "I take back what I said about your boyfriend." Your brows shoot up. "That he's boring. I think him working under south Korea's pride and honor is really interesting."

Jia leans back. "Really interesting. His boss is really interesting."

Safiya stirs the ice in her glass with the straw. "Shame Hajoon never lets us meet him. Or the hotter one with dimples."

You throw your napkin at her. "His boss is cockblocking our relationship. Ending it, if anything, actually. He’s in everything. I swear he’s got some kind of sixth sense. Any time I have plans with Joon? Suddenly it’s, ‘Tae needs this, Tae’s freaking out, Tae forgot his fucking sunglasses and now we’re all gonna die.’ And Hajoon just goes like some errand boy."

“You know what it’s like?” you say, gesturing with your hands, already a little wild. “Its embarrasing. So embarrassing. It’s like dating a guy who’s secretly married to someone else. But the other person is tall, hot, famous. And so, so self important. I swear to god, he thinks the sun rises and sets on his profile.”

Jia whistles. “I mean… it is Taehyung.”

You whirl on her. “Don’t.”

She lifts her hands, placating. “Sorry. Go off.”

And oh, you do. Glass clutched like a lifeline, tiara threatening to fall off your head. Grandeur already on the floor so there's nothing left to loose.

“Everyone loves him, right? He’s so talented, he’s so artistic, he has depth, blah blah blah. Well guess what? He also has no fucking respect for boundaries. He doesn't give a shit that he has my boyfriend enslaved or maybe hypnotized. I don't know."

“He is kind of hypnotic,” lara mutters into her drink.

You turn to her sharply. You don't care that he's carved from marble and dipped in Versace. He has ruined everything. “Lara. You're supposed to be on my side."

“I am,” she grins, clinking your glass. “I just also have eyes.”

You groan, slouching down in your seat. “God. I hate him. I hate that he’s in every conversation. I hate that I know his voice better than my boyfriend’s now. I hate his stupid face and how it's everywhere and his stupid, stupid…”

You trail off, realizing your mouth is still open, mid-sentence. The girls are watching you. Smiling like they know something you don’t. Which is insulting, really. You are the wronged party here. You are the woman left alone in a restaurant with a melting candle and cold fries. You are the girlfriend with lipstick wasted on an empty seat. You are-

“…I hate him,” you finish weakly.

“Sure you do,” lara says softly, dragging a finger through the salt on the rim of her margarita. “So much that you’re obsessed.”

Your head snaps toward her. “No—what? No. No, no, no.”

Jia’s already snorting into her glass, Safiya is ducking like she’s dodging a flying object.

You glare at all of them. “It’s not that. I’m not obsessed.”

“Okay,” lara says, suspiciously agreeable, sipping slowly.

Jia leans forward on her elbows. “You said his name like twenty-three times in the last five minutes, though. I counted.”

You sputter. “It’s not—it’s not like that. I don’t want him. I want my boyfriend back. Like he was before he started working for he who I shall not name. We were good. Normal. He remembered birthdays. He texted back. We had sex that didn’t get rescheduled for a backup dancer rehearsal!”

"Your boyfriend who's only interesting because of who he works for. That’s cute,” lara says, deadpan. “But also… lies. There's no way you both are not thinking about Mr cheekbones in the bedroom. Hajoon is not enough to spice it up."

You gape. “Excuse me?"

“Just hypothetically,” Safiya chirps.

"You guys are disgusting."

“And you’re in denial,” lara says, raising her glass.

You huff, cheeks burning. It’s the alcohol, probably. Or the lights. Or the fact that there are times when you think about him. You don't count how many. It doesn't matter if you've hated him the whole time, right?

"Fine. It's more of a murder fantasy." You mutter.

"Where he has you pinned down?" Jia asks innocently. "Beause same."

You gasp, mortified. “NO. Stop it.”

They erupt in laughter, the whole booth shaking with it, and you cover your face with your hands.

This is a mistake. Coming out. Drinking. Talking about him. Because it brings your dignity to an end and to a conclusion that you don't wanna give the benefit of doubt. That Maybe they’re right. Maybe there’s a line between hate and something else, and maybe you’ve been tap dancing across it for months.

But you don’t want to think about that.

So you think about smothering him with one of his own stupid silk scarves.

And since you'd let these sadistic thoughts in, in the first place. You let them go a little wild too. Imaginably, in public too.

Smashing a pie in his face.

Yes. A cream pie. Banana, maybe. A flavor he’d probably have strong opinions about. Somewhat humiliating. A lot whole sticky. Maybe he’s in the middle of giving a Very Serious Interview, saying something about creative control or the burden of artistry or whatever poetic bullshit he spills like he invented suffering, and then BAM! Pie ik his full face.

He would blink slow with his mouth open. Meringue on his perfect lashes.

You’d stand there, triumphant, arms crossed. Maybe you’d say something cool like “This is for every fucking dinner you’ve stolen from me, you time-sucking peacock.” then walk away while never breaking eye contact because you'd want him to see and acknowledge.

Or — okay — maybe it’s more violent sometimes.

Like pushing him into a koi pond.

You don’t even know where the koi pond came from, but it’s there. Lush garden surrounds and the tranquil museum courtyard envelops. And he’s wearing something expensive — linen, probably. Designer as you and everyone else would except yet it would be something that makes everyone turn and stare, and just as he says something snide and smug, you grab him by that overpriced lapel and shove.

Right in.

He flails with a loud splash for special effects.

You feel so good in this vision. Calm. Peaceful. Like a war general watching her final enemy fall.

You desire.

It’s laundry day.

Which is to say, it’s a day off. Your day offs come in a diversity. Last Sunday...fuck you can't remember. This sunday, howbeit, smells of detergent and damp cotton and a little bit like lemon because you spilled your candle while reaching for a sock behind the couch. It's a type of array where the floor is scattered with warm, wrinkled heaps of your own productivity and you’ve convinced yourself that folding things is a spiritual exercise.

Your playlist is somewhere between defiant and nostalgic. Beyoncé yelling about self-respect, then Norah Jones gently reminding you that you are, in fact, lonely. It’s a whiplash thing.

You’re cross-legged on the floor,in your baggy home shorts, knees to chest, tugging a fitted sheet into some approximation of a square. It’s a long weekend. Or a short one. You’re not sure anymore. They all blur together.

So well that you don't even notice when the door creaks open. Or you just pretend you don’t. That you don't see him.

Hajoon. The absentee boyfriend. Today’s featured guest star in: Please Forgive Me, Baby.

He has come to embody the role, he has come prepared with flowers. Of course he has flowers. They’re not even the cheap kind this time. Tulips, you think. Or maybe he googled “I fucked up” and picked the first bouquet suggestion.

You don't get up, neither do you look up. You keep folding. Badly.

“Hey,” he says.

You hum in reply. Not a mean hum. But not a friendly one either. Something between I acknowledge your existence and say another word and I’ll cut the sleeves of your shirts in a criss-cross way.

He hovers. Shifts his weight like a nervous intern. “I’m really, really sorry,” he starts. “I know I messed up. I was an idiot. I should’ve been there.”

“But you weren’t.”

“No.”

You fold a towel like it owes you money.He comes over, kneels across from you, places a careful hand on your ankle. And you think that only if he had thought of this carefulness before, he'd here with flowers just because. But your thoughts and you, sometimes don't align, so you don’t move either.

“I should’ve picked you over—” he catches himself, clears his throat. “Over work. I just… I got caught up again. I didn’t mean to bail. Especially not that night. I know how much it meant.”

"Did you?"

He winces like it physically hurt. “Okay. You're furious. I deserved that.”

You look back at the dryer. The silence stretches like gum. He sighs.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me right now,” Hajoon says. “Just let me make it up to you.”

"And how are you gonna do that? What if it comes between your errands?"

He flinches. That’s new. Usually, he deflects. Laughs a little. This time, he just takes it.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. Please just listen to me."

You raise an eyebrow but don’t reply.

“There’s… there’s an event this weekend.” He shifts, awkward, like he’s not sure if this is the right time to mention it. “It’s a listening party. For the new album. Jungkook’s, you know him? The youngest one? He's hosting it at the studio loft, but it’s like..fully catered, private, some press, but mostly just close circle people. And I was invited.”

You blink at him. “Okay?”

He swallows. “With a plus one.”

You look at him, one brow raised yet again. “And you want me to be your arm candy?”

“I want you to come with me,” he says. “To celebrate something with me for once. I want to show you off. Properly.” He traces circles on your calf. "Will you let me do that, babe? Let me make up?"

Your first instinct is to say no. Out of spite. Out of principle. Because this entire idol-shaped job has eaten half your relationship and still wants dessert.

But…

You’ve never been to one of their parties before. Hell not even to his workplace. So this whole showing off thing feels flat to you. You turn this over in your head like a coin. Glint. Weight. Intent. But the rumors you've heard are tempting. Oh, they are Glamorous. Lavish. Free champagne. Rooftop views. Gold-plated hors d’oeuvres that you pretend to understand. You’re not a fan of the world — but you do like a little spectacle. You do like heels and dresses and glittering places where people look at you like you matter.

And because you’ve spent so long hearing about this world from the sidelines that part of you wants to see if it’s really as ridiculous as it sounds. Maybe sip something from a crystal glass and pretend you don’t know what it cost.

Still, you have to play it cool.

“Can my friends come?”

He blinks. “What?”

“My friends,” you repeat, looking him dead in the eye. “Lara, Jia, Safiya. I’m not going in without my pack. And they like the group. It’d be a big deal for them.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure he has that power to pull that, but then nods. “Uh—yeah. I mean, yeah. If they’re okay with signing NDAs.”

You bite back a grin. He said yes. Of course he said yes. Guilty people, and your boyfriend was one hell of a guilty man, would scrape dirty off a three thousand square feet lawn with a spoon if the desire to purify themselves of that is strong enough.

You'd like to belive that for him, it is too when you finally look up at him, arching a brow.

“I’ll think about it.”

He sags like you just handed him oxygen.

“Still mad,” you say. But your voice is softer now. Less ice, more mossy.

“I know.”

You glance back at him, tilt your head.

“But you’re making up for it.”

His whole face brightens, like a kid who just found out the punishment’s being lifted. He doesn’t move to touch you.

“Don’t fuck it up,” you say, and toss him a clean shirt from the basket.

He catches it with a grin. You let him lean in and kiss your temple. You let it feel a little like forgiveness.

You have habitually, always been on to prefer night time over mornings. Early mornings are nice too because they closely similar to the segregation of the dark sky, where sun and moon blink at each other. Doesn’t beats the former though.

It's a flurry of neon flash, on Saturdays. Colorful star-like-lights taking over the whole of the city, on the rest of weekdays.

Tonight, it's too much. You knew it would be. You just didn’t know how much.

The elevator doors part like a curtain and you step into a room that looks less like an event and more like a fever dream manifested by someone with too much money and too little sense of restraint.

The ceiling’s strung with Edison bulbs shaped like teardrops. They flicker warm, flattering light across every sleek surface and high cheekbone. The floor’s a herringbone wood polished to a shine that threatens to reflect your thoughts if you look down too long. Exposed brick walls, brutalist furniture, and vinyl booths arranged like museum exhibits. You espy that it's a look of modern minimalism that only the rich can afford to make look careless.

It smells like vanilla, white musk, and champagne mist. If the words: luxury and aloofness and contracts had a smell, it would be this. And something underneath it all. Cologne, sweat, the heat of nerves just under the skin.

There’s no red carpet, but there may as well be.

Everyone’s dressed like they knew they’d be photographed, magical silhouettes and glittering details, statement pieces skimmed over delectable nonchalance. Too many people are wearing sunglasses indoors. There’s ambient bass threading through the room, sultry and self-assured, just like the man whose music it celebrates.

You don’t know Jungkook, but you get him from this space. From the custom scent diffusers, the soft glow of film cameras on tripods, the tray-passed hors d’oeuvres so tiny they feel like a joke.

You’re in a black slip dress that hugs just enough and what it doesn’t is draped in the denim jacket you grabbed at the last second. Your friends flank you like bodyguards, looking like different kind of unaware.

Lara’s in a blood-red two-piece with her hair slicked back, a look she went for when she was trying to get laid. Safiya’s practically see-through in a mesh blouse and sequined pants, halfway to an afterparty already. Jia’s in glitter boots and capturing every moment like she’s the official documentarian of your reckoning.

And Hajoon, dressed in a tailored jacket and that rare sheepish smile, keeps glancing at you like he’s waiting to see if this counts as absoulation or just probation.

You haven’t decided yet.

He’s been clinging to your side all night. Part guilt. Part presumption. Like he wants the whole room to see you and know you're with him. And you let him because a small, treacherous part of you likes being a prize sometimes. Especially in rooms where the stakes are stupid high and nothing is real except the flash of a camera and the clink of ice in a glass.

“Come on,” he says, fingers brushing your lower back. “Let me introduce you.”

You nod once, you'd like to meet the people who are a group of what'd you just made up in your head; sold their souls to stand in the shadow of multiple stars, (no harm meant) you can pretend. You can be charming. Just long enough.

He leads you through a maze of press assistants and studio people. A woman in chunky boots talks to a man with purple eyebrows about lighting design. Someone else passes with a tray of glasses shaped like perfume bottles.

You pass a silky curtain you’re pretty sure is hiding a private recording booth, a whole lighting rig hanging above it like a halo.

The first people you meet are benign.

“This is Chul,” he says, gesturing toward a guy in a sweater vest with half a headset tucked under his jaw. “Props coordinator. Always bailing me out when I forget which box the custom mic sleeves are in.”

Chul offers a friendly wave, eyes darting between you and the champagne like he’s calculating the weight of the room.

“And that’s Seojin,” Hajoon continues. “She handles most of the press logistics.”

Seojin is tall, thin, glossy. Her smile is tight but not unfriendly. She appraises your outfit once and seems satisfied. She doesn’t comment on your presence — merely nods at Hajoon’s introduction only becausw it's a formality. As if she already expected someone like you would appear eventually.

She turns away before you can thank her.

Next is a short man with a clipboard and hair dyed a pale green. Hajoon barely gets to say his name, Sangwoo, you think , before he’s muttering something about timing and the rental van arriving without the riser extensions.

It’s strange. The people here don’t talk the way your coworkers talk. There’s no chatter about lunch or traffic or the weekend. Everyone looks at everyone like they owe each other something, everyone talks with everyone; coded. Shorthand for a world you’re not quite part of.

Your boyfriend, though levitates like a local and you'd expect nothing else. He's a man here who knows which hands to shake and which not to, whose shoulder to touch and who to call sunbae. It’s like watching him speak another language. One he never teaches you.

There’s Minae, who runs digital content, and who immediately compliments your dress before asking if you’re single in front of your boyfriend. She’s clearly three drinks in already, her lashes tipping dangerously close to her cheeks every time she blinks. When she says that you're too pretty for this one, lara with her all too overwhelming charm slides in with an: "am I pretty too?" The rest of you resist the urge to facepalm. Minae on the other and very contrary hand, chuckles a breathless chuckle. All her focus on the brunette with stars in her eyes.

Though all of this, you too focus. On how somehow, somewhat, this isn't all too bad.

It’s flashy. Frenetic. A little unhinged in a way you kind of like. There’s too much perfume and everyone talks like they’re mid-episode on a show you haven’t watched, but you’re starting to get the monotony of it.

A little like clockwork, a sound of tick-tick you didn’t have a liking to but tolerated for the sake of peppiness of it all, spoke to you on the first date, alone. Might you add, that you had left a little bit of impression too. He couldn't speak a full coherent sentence when you saw the first time, had him stopped in his tracks and all.

So it's a suprise when hajoon does that thing again. Literally halts. Dead in his tracks.

In front of a woman whos tall- statuesque, really. That low-key brand of Gorgeous, you don't mind admitting to yourself. Sharp collarbones, sharper eyeliner, a pantsuit tailored within an inch of its life, it could've been stitched to her bones. Her lanyard reads “logistics,” but it may as well say “don’t fuck with me.” in big bold letters. Maybe it's your habit of trying to put people in a drawer that squares them in limited or weirdly specific characters (you know it's a bad one) but she has the air of a girl who once stole your charger in college and never gave it back, but made you feel like the asshole for asking. Jesus. You've got stop.

“Y/N, this is Bora." Hajoon says, voice going smooth at the edges, that press-conference tone he saves for moments when he’s trying to impress. "She runs most of our on-site coordination. Couldn’t function without her.”

Bora turns.

She smiles. With full teeth. All of them perfect. Friendly enough to pass inspection, but you’ve seen that smile before. It’s the version that lives on corporate brochures and social media bios. The smile worn by girls who never lose their temper, because they’re too busy winning and taking what they want, when they want. Her eyes catch on yours and hold.

She steps forward. Extends her hand. Her nails are immaculate — almond-shaped and the color of blush wine. You shake it out of reflex.

"Bora, this is Y/N. My girlfriend."

“Oh,” she says with a laugh, low and sugar-sweet. “So this is the girl who finally gets him to show up on time.”

Hajoon chuckles. “That’s her.” Her tone is warm and she doesn't bother laughing at her own joke. Was that a joke? Okay. Okay.

You nod, lips parting into a smile that feels functional. You don’t trust her. You don’t know why, but you don’t.

Her? You? You think it over and over again but heart flicks only once. And it tells you that it’s nothing. Hearts are trusting.

She lingers a second too long. Her eyes slide over you, not , but curiously. Like she’s trying to find the catch. The why. The how.

You know girls like her. They remember everything. And she’s definitely remembering you. Her eyes flick over your shoulder, over your friends, back to Hajoon. The corner of her mouth lifts, just scantily. You can't pinpoint if she’s thinking something you wouldn’t like or break into tears over.

She gives you the time and benefit of dount when she lingers too long. She laughs when she doesn’t need to. She doesn’t touch Hajoon, but she doesn’t need to. It’s in the way she angles her body, the way he doesn’t quite meet your eyes when she jokes again, calling him “sir” sarcastically. The way he chuckles and mutters, “You’re the one who runs the place, not me.”

She waves him off like it’s an old joke. Something only they get.

And then, because maybe she knows you’re watching too closely, she looks at you. Her smile softens. Reveals pity. Some people just arrive with a sense of prelude.

You hate that most of all.

Before you can pin down the nauseating twist in your gut, Hajoon’s already guiding you away. His fingers skim the small of your back again like punctuation.

“She’s just intense,” he whispers. “Work mode. Don’t worry.”

Which is the worst thing to say if you want someone not to worry.

And something about the curve of her mouth does bothers you. You don't know why. Just that you clock it. Quietly. Internally. The way you clock exits and weak wine.

The girls show up just in time to interrupt.

Lara practically materializes at your elbow. “This is what you’ve been hiding?” she whispers. “Christ. It’s like Versailles had a baby with Spotify.”

Jia appears next. “I think I just saw a marble ice sculpture of Jungkook’s face.”

“It’s real,” Safiya confirms. “I licked it.”

You bury a laugh in your glass.

A commotion near the back of the room makes a sound.

Having said that, a commotion is not the right word to describe when it debuts, they don’t enter like a movie cast all at once, no spotlight and chorus as you would have expected.

You spot the man of the hour halfway across the room, posted near a soundboard station with one hand around a glass and the other curled into a pocket. Black shirt, unbuttoned just enough, loose on the shoulders, as if he got dressed by thinking about air. The tattoos swirl out from under his sleeves like ink in water. He’s listening to someone speak but his gaze is darting.

Hoseok's mid-laugh when you see him, sunglasses on top of his head, leaning sideways into someone else’s story. He moves like he’s music itself, like tempo runs under his skin.

Jimin’s close behind, ghosting between clusters of people. He’s silver and silk, all fluidity and elegance, nodding to guests with a smile just shy of wicked. He’s so beautiful that makes your brain short-circuit for a second, he's what you’ve just seen something your nervous system wasn’t designed for.

Namjoon takes the longest to notice. Or maybe he’s just the most subtle. He’s in conversation with someone in a crisp gray blazer, gesturing with one hand, thoughtful and deliberate. He laughs at something, rubs the back of his neck, and then turns. You catch his face fully for the first time.

They’re not together in a pack like you'd have expected. They extent to a limitless, shimmering sky.

And then Hajoon is pulling you forward

“The boys are over here,” he says before you can even turn. “I can bring you guys over.”

Your friends, already half-buzzed and vibrating with filtered excitement, light up because for them, they’ve just been offered a VIP pass to heaven.

“No way,” Jia hisses.

“You’re joking,” lara breathes.

Safiya grabs your wrist like it’s a lifeline while mouthing oh my god oh my god as if prayer might help, and Jia is trying to fix her hair mid-step.

They hover behind you as Hajoon brings you over. The boys are — unfortunately —stupidly attractive in real life. Now when you get a clear look of Namjoon, he looks like he walked out of a cologne ad that rivals the oldest's version. Hoseok’s already grinning like he knows a secret. Yoongi barely nods but it feels like a bow.

They greet you like you’re someone, which is probably part of the charm. Idol magic.

“This is my girlfriend, Y/N,” Hajoon says. “And these are her friends- lara, Jia.." He pauses, glances at you awkwardly for a brief second like he's asking for help or bracing for the impact of some kind of punishment from you because there's no way he forgot your friend's name. Best friend's name. Idiot.

"Safiya." You jump in before her face can fall. "He's terrible with names."

The girls mumble variations of hi and holy shit and we’re fine, thank you, so fine.

Namjoon asks how you’re enjoying the night. Hoseok compliments Mina’s outfit. Jungkook flushes a hint of pink when a collective congratulations for his album is spoken out loud and safiya looks like she might actually combust.

And you smile, gracious and composed. Atleast you try. You can see the faint shimmer of Jungkook’s under-eye highlight. You can smell Jimin’s cologne.

It’s a lot. But you manage.

"Hajoon-sshi, never shuts up about you.”

You smile again, because what else do you do when one of the most famous men in the country is shaking your hand with dimples that could murder with, double- barreled friendliness that makes you want to tell him your secrets. “I’m sure he exaggerates.”

Jimin tilts his head. “Definitely not. You're the one who made him cry when he forgot your anniversary, right?"

“Jimin-sshi.” Hajoon groans, face red.

You blink. “He told you that?”

Hoseok laughs. “We heard it. He was inconsolable.”

You catch Hajoon’s eye. He smiles, sheepish.

And just like that, something inside you thaws. Invaraibly by a degree.

“It’s really nice to meet you all,” you say, because it’s the right thing to say, and you are currently functioning entirely on instinct and adrenaline.

"Really nice." One of the girls add.

Seokjin beams. “You too. Hajoon’s one of our favorites, by the way. He’s a total lifesaver."

“He also has terrible snack taste,” Yoongi says. “But we’ve forgiven him.”

Laughter rises up, light and easy. For a moment, you almost forget your nerves. Because they’re funny. And not the over the board funny, It comes off easy to them, kindness comes off easy.

Jia is flushed. “Congratulations, by the way,” she blurts to Jungkook. “On the album. It’s insane."

He blushes. Blushes. “Thank you. Please enjoy yourself."

Safiya looks ready to melt through the floor.

Eventually, the moment fades. Doesn’t last long. Nothing golden does.The boys wander off in pairs, pulled away by studioheads and stylists and producers. The girls flock back to your side, still breathless.

“Did you see Seokjin's outfit?” Jia hisses. "I saw nothing else but that."

“I didn’t even blink,” Safiya says. “I’m too stunned.”

Lara sips her drink. “Yoongi is shorter than I thought, but it’s working for him. It’s all working for him.”

You’re still processing.

The wine’s working too, and the lights are low, and there’s a strange feeling in your ribs like you’ve walked into someone else’s movie. Feels as if you’re not just in the room, you’re part of the pixels that make up the ambience.

It's overwhelming. You're not sure how one can make a living out of this, of being tbis marshallsd, of being this seen, this on all the time. . How one can breathe, even. You can barely maintain eye contact with the barista when your name’s misspelled on a cup; how do they manage this?

You couldn't have been here for a more than a hour and you already feel floaty. Flaccid, that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but definitely not normal either. As if your limbs are operating on a delay, still trying to recalibrate from being in the blast radius of status, beauty, and whatever volatile charge comes from standing too close to a reality that was never meant to include you. Your brain fumbles, rewinding the scene with all the clumsy finesse of a dropped tape recorder, replaying glances, tones, shifts in posture that must’ve meant more than they let on.

You let out a breath but even that feels too loud so lean your weight against the cocktail table. It's draped in something black and ravishingly silk.

You sip your drink. Smile to yourself when you catch lara around the corner hanging off around the content manager you met just minutes ago. She’s high on proximity, her pupils blown wide with it. Safiya’s comparing the shade of Jungkook’s lip tint to a fruit that doesn’t grow in your hemisphere. Jia looks like she just lost her religion and found it again.

This is good. You're having a pleasant time. Your friends are having a pleasant time.

Until something twitches at the edge of your memory. Was it memory? was it an observation?

That creeping thought finally pierces through the buzz. Wait.

Six.

There were six.

You count again, lips moving. An uncanny whisper of movement. You don’t know how you missed it.

Except... maybe you do.

Maybe you didn’t miss it at all. Maybe you muted it. Maybe you folded it into the background noise the second it reached your ears. Much like static. Very much like self-preservation. Developed selecting hearing for a moment there because there was a name too.

There was a name.

Something one of them said. Something just under the music, a passing remark folded into a compliment meant for Hajoon. You try to scrape it back. Rewind the moment. Seokjin had been speaking, something about Hajoon being essential. Someone else chimed in. You think it was Namjoon, or maybe Jungkook, saying:

“Good pick on Taehyung's part. He's got a good eye.”

That’s it.

And it registers now, belated and prickly. You’d tuned it out. Of course you did. It’s laughable, really. The way your body chose to keep the peace when the moment someone says his name, your brain switches off. You name it muscle memory. But it could also be survival instinct. And the primal knowledge that a name can curdle a whole night if you let it. While your mind filed away the omission.

The face you’ve been dreading. The one you’ve cursed in your sleep. The reason you almost didn’t show up tonight at all.

And he wasn’t here. And all the stars were alligned. And all was right in the universe.

You look around for confirmation.

He wasn’t in the group you met. He wasn’t hovering nearby. You were secure in your belief that a collection gasps of he just walked in would have followed too. You would’ve felt it; that particular flavor of atmospheric change he brings with him, whetted and exact. You’d have known, the shift in barometric pressure, the interference that clings to your neurons and doesn’t let go. The voice you know too well, molten steel with knive sharpened. The name that tastes of vinegar every time you say it, and you say it often. So you'd know.

He really wasn’t here. Which tracks. Of course, he’d skip his own friend’s party. Or maybe he’s late. Maybe he’s allergic to punctuality like he is to personal boundaries. For people like him time bends differently since they clearly don't have respect of it. Or maybe he’s already come and gone, and the universe just spared you the fallout.

You exhale, long. Unpacking a suitcase full of tension you didn’t know you were carrying. Somewhere deep in your chest, a locked muscle unclenches and thanks you for the mercy.

Hajoon slides in beside you again, glass of champagne hovering near his mouth, eyes all sparkle and hope, gets him one inch closer back into your good graces through this whole ordeal that is a grand, glittery olive branch.

You lean into his side, casual. "Didn’t see...your tae yet?" You ask, because you can’t not. It comes out breezy. Offhand.

He glances down, surprised by the question before he looks around, like he half-expected to find him behind a ficus.

“Taehyung?” he echoes.

You nod. Yes, he who shall not be named.

“Off-duty tonight, apparently. Said he wasn’t sure if he’d make it. Probably laying low.” He says. "You know how he is."

You hum. You don’t. Not really. But you’ve spent enough time seething in his shadow to make up your own conclusions.

Off duty. Right. Still, your eyes scan the room one more time, just in case. A surprisingly wise decision on his part. He only spared himself from the embarrasment in his own bandmates party. So you plan to keep your peace and your boyfriend tonight too.

Alas, you can only have it all before someone — some twenty-something in black denim and a lanyard swinging like a pendulum — approaches with a slightly panicked look and Hajoon’s name half-formed on his lips.

“Hyung,” the kid pants, half-doubled over with his hands on his thighs, hair damp and sticking to his temples. “Sorry—sound crew’s losing their shit over the back-lounge mic feed. Something about the press audio not syncing right. They said they tried to ping you—five times, I think."

The words fall out in a rush, tripping over each other, frantic and full of a bad conscience. He says five, but you can tell by the way he won’t meet Hajoon’s eyes that it’s probably more. Potentially ten. Potentially enough to take your boyfriend away.

Hajoon exhales through his nose. The sound is barely audible, but it echoes anyway, through the bones of the moment, through the space you occupy beside him. You don’t need to look up to know he’s already halfway annoyed. Guilty? His irritation blooms in the shift of his weight, in the flex of his knuckles behind your back, as though weighing whether to pull away entirely or hold ground. Feasibly both.

“Right now?” he asks, like there might be another option. Asks it like the rhetorical density of someone already calculating the cost of interruption.

The runner hesitates, eyes darting toward the corridor behind him where shadows of movement flicker and vanish. “They’re melting down.”

Hajoon hesitates. It almost seems like it's for dramatic effect. You can feel it on him, the feigned reluctance. Feel him preparing the apology, not the words themselves, but the posture of them. It hovers at the corners of his mouth, teeth pressing into thought, mouth pulled thin. There’s no remorse in it, nonethless, the apology is curling at the corners of his mouth before it’s fully formed.

“I can come right back,” he says. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.”

You almost roll your eyes. Not because you think he's lying but because fifteen minutes turns into forty. Forty turns into never mind, just go home without me.

And maybe a few days ago, you would’ve folded your arms and dared him to choose. Another moment to keep score. You don’t do that tonight. You don’t call him out. You give him a soft shrug. A little smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s fine. Go.”

He leans in, brushes a kiss against your temple, a flutter thing, gone before you can even decide how you feel about it. “I owe you.”

You hum. “Mhm. Keep the tab open.”

And then he’s gone, flesh peeled from the frame of the moment. Grooved into the mass of bodies, ingested whole by noise and colored light. One blink too slow and his back is already someone else's, indistinct and moving. The crowd does not opposes him, shoulders belonging to glittering bodies and bad decisions open for him without hesitation. His absence walks away before you get the chance to apperceive it properly. Before it earns its configuration.

He moves through crowds with that easy-breath peridiocity that suggests he belongs more to movement than to restfulness. More to them than to you.

And just like that, you’re solo again.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unattached.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unsupervised.

Everything around you surges forward, and you remain perfectly still, there’s nothing in your throat but salt and silence.You edge toward the periphery, toes brushing the spill line of the room. Where the light flickers but doesn’t touch. Where the music swells and bruises the walls but doesn’t crawl into your skin. You imagine what you must look like from above, drifting toward the rim, toward the places where no one dares to notice anything too tenous. While your group of girls (havoc I sequins) are scattered like confetti.

Jia is dancing now — on the actual dance floor, in a sea of glitter and swaying silhouettes. Her boots flash under the lights. She throws her head back laughing, some guy in a turtleneck and too much confidence attempting to keep up with her steps.

Safiya is talking to someone near the catering section — maybe flirting, maybe arguing. It’s hard to tell with her. One hand’s on her hip and the other is spearing a cherry tomato off a toothpick like it insulted her mother.

Lara, as always, is missing. You scan the crowd for a glimpse of red but instead catch her exiting a side hallway, shoulder-to-shoulder with Minae, the digital content manager from earlier. They’re laughing, low and conspiratorial, and Mina’s got that subtle half-smirk she wears when she’s decided to keep something to herself. You let her be.

There’s something freeing about the anonymity here. The lights are low, and the music is louder now, bass thudding like a second heartbeat in your chest. You drift along the perimeter, your heels clicking a slow rhythm over polished tile. You accept another drink from a server. It bumps up fizzy. It turns up pink. Something you don’t have to name. You don’t ask what’s in it. That’s part of the fun. Not knowing. Not caring. (Some of the time, it is. And you say that with all precautions took care of.)

Eventually, your path leads you to the lounge side of the floor. Past the floral arch near the DJ. Past the velvet ropes draped over low-lit staircases. Past a corner where someone famous is pretending not to be famous while arguing about streaming rights. It’s less crowded here. The velvet couches are sunken and soft, little groups curled into them like petals around a flame.

The crowd thins out here. The sound mellows.

It’s cooler, too. A reduced amount of throat-choking cologne, fewer elbows in your side. The air smells feebly of melting ice and broken promises, probably vodka, possibly floor cleaner. You cradle your glass against your lips and take a sip. Sweet, cold, suspicious. The taste clings to the roof of your mouth in that way syrups do when they’ve got pharmaceutical derangement of power lust. You swallow anyway. At this point, hydration is hydration.

You have no plans to dance, you're not feeling it. There’s a part of you that still hasn’t forgiven your shoes for existing, and the beat impressions an accusation rather than an invitation. You're satisfied with it nestling somewhere inside your thorax, warming you the way wine does, gradually, dishonestly.

You stare ahead, trying to look occupied but vaguely important. It's a difficult balance, one most people fumble by the first hour. Your eyebrows lift occasionally, your mouth hovers near a smile. You even nod once at no one. Masterclass. Topper, you could've been, if someone didn't turn up in your sideways and made you want to run in circles until the loss of face wore off.

“You’re not with the label, are you?”

You turn, eyes adjusting to the source. He stands there, taller than expected, with that soft-focus face they breed in casting rooms. Brushed-back hair, that only exists in idol genetics or drama leads undone tie, an earring catching the light like it’s been waiting all night to be noticed. A smile so polite it might actually be genuine. Friendly within reason that isn’t threatening, yet somehow still feels practiced. For all you know, he came with the furniture. For all you know, he’s been here the whole time, waiting for a line.

You're a woman with theories waiting to spill out but you're also a woman with many talents so you oversee them all at once while also managing to utter out. “Sorry?”

He chuckles, mouth tugging upwards. “Sorry. That came out weird. I just meant—I haven’t seen you before.”

“It did,” you agree, but your tone is light. You’re not mad. You’re just surprised. No one’s talked to you tonight that wasn’t paid to or pretending not to know your boyfriend. A bold choice. A choice you're thinking you admire.

“I just meant,” he says, still smiling, “I haven’t seen you before.”

You angle your head, enough to let your earrings swing forward. Small weights on delicate hinges. “Do you make it a habit to keep track of everyone?”

He laughs again. This time, less apologetic. “No. Just the interesting ones.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a line?”

He shrugs with a grin so flashy, it could classify as something you would note aside and overanalyze till you've reached to one reoccurring culmination that you need better hobies than overthinking. A heathly one, most preferably. “Only if it’s working.”

You sip your drink. It’s not. But it’s a valiant effort, and in this economy, effort counts for something.

He pretends to look wounded. One hand on his heart, the other cradling his glass like it’s the only constant in his life. Winces. “Harsh.”

You allow the moment to hang, loose and golden, like fairy lights that haven’t short-circuited yet. “Y/N.”

He sticks out his hand. “Sangmin.”

You shake it, out of politeness, out of boredom, out of habit. His grip is good. Palm is warm and fingers are steady. No limpness, no clamminess. The bar’s low, and he clears it.

He smiles. “Nice to meet you, Y/N-who’s-not-with-the-label.”

You glance sideways, scanning for cameras or people pretending not to eavesdrop. “And you are?”

“Former trainee. Now an occasional singer. Sometimes dancer. Full-time mascot, depending on who you ask.” he says as if narrating a bed-time story.

That draws a laugh out of you before you can stop it. “That’s oddly honest.”

He leans against the railing beside you, drink in hand. “Honesty’s underrated.”

You nod. "True, that."

The conversation drifts into easy banter. He asks how you’re liking the party. You say it’s beautiful. He agrees. You say it’s loud. He says it’s always loud. He tells you a story about tripping on a camera wire during a rehearsal and breaking someone’s ankle. You raise your brows. “Their ankle?” He winces. “Yeah. Not my finest hour.”

And the truth of it is; it’s nice. He’s nice. Funny, even. Bothersomely so. The ease of it, of his voice that has a soft-spoken allure that slips out between sips of whatever he’s drinking, the way his sentences land on the floor between you like coins: unsubstanial, eye-catching and never heavy enought to bruise. A clever theif would take great advantage of that because his smile doesn’t ask anything of you. His eyes don’t crawl. And that should be comforting, but in some twisted, tired corner of your chest, it feels worse. Because this could be something. He could be something and that sounds inviting, when you give regard to the attention he gives you, where you don’t have to earn by vanishing parts of yourself.

It would take almost nothing to tilt this into flirtation. You would work a little on your smile and reshape your unit of speech just right, take a sip longer than imperative. Could sink into the clearance he’s offering without ramification, owing to the fact that men like him never ask, they come with tidy intentions and open palms. They don't come with an entourage or an aftertaste.

But your blood doesn’t reach for him, so you don’t. Because you’re not here for that.

Because your boyfriend, who hasn't looked at you properly in days, is still somewhere inside this building, elbows in cables, lungs full of static, cursing at machinery with the conviction of a prophet. The air around him probably smells like copper and stubbornness. You can picture his shoulders already, hunched and wired, chasing perfection with shaking hands and a deadline no one asked him to meet. He’s the reason you’ve spent the last hour smiling politely at people who might never know your name properly and won’t say it. And even if he deserves to be punished for it, for dozens of things, for all of it, you won’t be the knife. You won’t be the thing that you are inherently not.

So you smile. But you dull it with your eyes. You sip your drink, but only because your hands need something to do. You let Sangmin speak — witty, harmless, charming Sangmin — and you nod at the appropriate beats, but your solidity stays pressed into your heels.

You stay where you are.

You say. “My boyfriend,” without flinching. “He works with the group.” When he leans a little closer, elbows resting on the edge of the lounge railing. “So if you’re not with the label, and you’re not a reporter, and you’re not secretly here to pitch a demo... who are you here with?”

You’re not the type to go looking for trouble.

Even if it’s standing beside you in a perfect shirt, making you laugh like nothing matters.

You crave for a distraction from that and it comes in the fashion of a text message.

Your phone buzzes with a little tremor in your hand, screen lighting up like a jolt against the warm, dim haze of the lounge.

You glance down with the mildest sigh, thumb swiping across the screen with practiced detachment, only to freeze at the message lighting it up. Shit. That wasn't the distraction you meant.

[safiya:] emergency. jia’s throwing up in the bathroom. she drank something w dairy i think. help?

The screen lights up in your hand, and at first, the words don’t register. They stall for a second, indefinite at the corners, stubborn in the glow of your phone screen, smearing into background noise. Blame it on the cocktail fogging your bloodstream, or the hundred moving pieces around you: tinsels catching in fake candlelight, voices climbing on top of each other, the sound of a laugh that isn’t yours clamorously too close to your ear. Ends when, reality seizes, Glitter loses its glint. Music overlays inward. The dalliance hanging between you and Sangmin deflates mid-air. Safiya’s words, your friend’s, aren’t long, but they’re enough to lance through whatever artificial calm the evening had built around your shoulders.

You barely finish reading when you mutter, “Shit.” It escapes before you can pack it down.

Sangmin straightens slightly beside you. “Everything okay?” He’s attentive now. Alert even when there's no need him to be. His voice has edged out of flirty and into rigorous.

You force a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere. “Friend emergency.Like a real one.”

“You want help finding them?” His expression shifts, subtle but immediate. He offers help without posturing.

“No,” you say quickly, already stepping back. “Thanks, though. You’ve been… really sweet.”

“Anytime,” he says. A tilt of his glass like a farewell salute. Jeez. You’d laugh if your pulse wasn’t in your throat.

You murmur something like a goodbye, barely audible over the bass, before ducking through the crowd with narrowed eyes and a racing heart. Body tense and forward-leaning, pace picking up without warning. Your heels slap the floor, too fast for elegance, too slow for panic, caught somewhere in that in-between speed people only use when they’re chasing clarity. You’re dodging limbs and cocktail glasses, highlighter-streaked shoulders and half-spilled secrets, all of it flexuring away from you in waves. It’s a cartoon version of what it was ten minutes ago, voices rubbery, lights too sharp, music melting at the confines.

The hallway feels longer now. Louder. The clicks come faster. The party’s music muffles and distorts as you turn a corner and push through a crowd, moving like someone with a mission,which you are. You pass a stylist laughing too loud, a guy adjusting his bowtie in a mirror, someone accidentally spilling champagne that smells too floral. All of it, noise.

All of you, instinct. Blisters when your phone buzzes again. This is messier. This is what did she say? and how bad is it? and god, how far did she get before she texted?

[safiya:] we’re in the second-floor bathroom. back hallway. jia’s on the floor.

Of course it had to be dairy. Jia’s lactose intolerance is the stuff of group lore. And of course she’d think the mousse was vegan just because it was “foamier.”

You find the stairwell, a close-mouthed back corridor lit by cooler lights. As soon as the party noise dulls behind the wall, your adrenaline kicks in sharper.

The second-floor bathroom isn’t hard to find. The door is cracked, music muffled behind layers of expensive soundproofing. You knock once and slip inside.

“Hey,” you call, already tugging your jacket off.

Safiya’s crouched by the sink, holding Jia’s hair back. Jia herself is hunched over the toilet, looking pale and miserable, makeup streaked and dignity somewhere down the drain.

“Oh, babe,” you say softly, dropping beside them. “You okay?”

Jia mumbles something that might’ve been, “Never eating dessert again.”

“She’s burning up,” Safiya says, brows furrowed. “And I can’t get lara to pick up. Her phone’s on DND.”

“She left with that content manager woman,” you mutter, digging into your bag for a napkin or some tissues. “Minae? The one with the bob and the designer clipboard?”

“God, I knew it,” Safiya huffs. "It's like she gets off being reckless."

You dab gently at Jia’s forehead. She’s sweating now, shaky and miserable but not in danger. Not thus far. Her breath’s steady. Her eyes flutter.

“Think she just needs to get it all out,” Safiya murmurs. “But I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“I’ll kill whoever made that mousse,” you mutter, brushing a hand down Jia’s back. “Or at least file a passive-aggressive complaint.”

You glance around, noting the neatly folded hand towels, the stack of fancy soaps, the porcelain sink that looks like it cost more than your rent. The absurdity of handling real shit in such an unreal place; it grates and comforts at the same time.

“Okay,” you murmur, trying to steady your own voice. “Stay with her a sec. I’ll go get water or ginger ale if they have any.”

"O-okay." She nods, shoulders relaxing.

You slip out of the bathroom like you’re walking through water.

The passage feels dissolvent now, air dense with all the words you didn’t say. You push a palm over your forehead, feel the warmth building under your skin, and wonder if it’s sympathy sickness or just frustration curling low in your gut. The worst part is you can’t blame Jia. Not really. She’s the soft one and you say that with documented proof of that one time when cried at a commercial and she still believes in horoscopes.

Your heels echo through the corridor as you walk towards the hallway spits you into another corner of the venue, this one unfamiliar, all wood-paneled doors and golden sconce lighting, like the architectural equivalent of whispering. Everything feels a little inarticulate here. Like you’ve slipped behind the curtain of the night and crashed in its quiet, unsupervised heart.

The party tucks beneath you now, flattened into a low, quaking throb that doesn’t so much speak as it vibrates, deep in the hollow between bone and breath. The music no longer reaches your ears in any clean, decipherable way. It’s washed-out, guttural, absorbed by walls and fabric and distance, reduced to a genesis that hitches itself to your chest and rides every exhale, as if a secret.

You don’t know where the catering crew disappeared to. Whether they’ve set up shop in a closet-sized prep station behind some satin curtain or if there’s a staff kitchen buried somewhere in the maze of corridors, guarded by stress and stainless steel. You don’t know if there’s a vending machine kinetic in it's opertion, in a forgotten corner, stocked with warm soda and crackers designed to outlive civilization. You don’t know, and at this point, you don’t really care. steady hands, firm jaw, no time for collapse. The crisis manager, the de facto medic, the girl who always knows what to grab when someone’s bleeding metaphorically or otherwise, is here now, and she’s got the wheel in a death grip.The part of you that runs crisis control has surfaced in and refuses to log out.

You spot someone near the elevator, clipboard in hand, wearing the haunted eyes of someone paid too little to care too much, and you slide into their eyeline before they can disappear into usefulness. “Sorry,” you say, swallowing the rest of your breath before it breaks apart. “Do you know where I can find bottled water? Or soda? It’s for someone upstairs.”

They blink at you, startled, as if you’ve spoken a spell in a language reserved for emergencies. They were expecting a headset, maybe. Most definitely from an official. Instead they got a girl in heels and unfinished mascara, looking halfway between guest and ghost. “Uh—check the prep station near the west corner? Just past the photo booth. There’s always extra stuff stored back there.”

You thank them before they can ask who you are. Your heels resume their mindless candace. Though defining it mindless would be a contradiction on it's own.

Because the longer you’re away from the bathroom, the more you start thinking. You don’t want to- this is supposed to be simple but your thoughts mutate away from the simple task of fetching a drink. Keep a friend alive, make sure she’s breathing through whatever hell clawed its way up her throat. Return. The distance from the bathroom grows, and with it, the space for your mind to spiral. Your brain won’t shut up, now. Won’t let you have that peace cause its so inconveniently wired for emotional noise, keeps dragging you somewhere else.

Hajoon still hasn’t followed up. You’d texted him, told him where you were. You told him emergency triage, and if that wasn’t enough to get his feet moving, what is?

You turn the next corner, pass a cluster of interns half-hunched over a light panel, then veer off toward a hallway marked “STAFF ONLY.” The rope is halfway slipped already, forgotten or ignored. You lift it with one hand and step through, no hesitation. There’s a kind of freedom in crossing boundaries that no one’s watching.

The floor changes under your shoes, softer now, something ductile or carpeted, dulled at the edges.

The hallway branches once. Then again. Everything here smells faintly of cleaning supplies and flowers that died too expensive. You keep left. You pass a storage room door half-cracked open.

There’s a linen cart parked haphazardly against the wall, as though someone meant to wheel it somewhere and then simply forgot how to follow through. Its wheels are crooked, one half-swallowed by the seam in the tile. Cloth napkins spill from the top shelf, un creased in places, crumpled in others, some folded with care, others balled up like someone gave up mid-shift. The cart smells unclearly of starch and lemon polish, though the scent is old now, faded. It shouldn’t register as anything important. It’s background, set dressing. But your steps hesitate all the same. Something in your gut makes you pause- it's not dread that mimics one of the many classic horror, not instinct either. It's marginally a pause. What it is, is one of those micro-moments when your brain forgets what the next step is supposed to feel like, and in that blank space, everything else happens.

You wouldn't have noticed, except you hear it. It's suprising that you hear it at all. Not at first obviously. Even-handedly a sound that feels like it shouldn’t be there, the sound being the slightest rustle of movement. You're still taken aback from the fact that you heard it before you even sum up what's in front.

There’s a door ahead of you, it’s half-open. Few and far between to be an invitation, but enough to make you wonder whether it was meant to be closed at all. Light spills through the narrow gap and pools on the floor in a long diagonal, slicing the hallway in half. It has that fluorescent, salubrious tint that makes everything beneath it look more exhausted than it already is. It paints a harsh stripe across the tile, across the napkins that have spilled out and frozen mid-collapse.

It should be nothing.

Keyword: Should be.

But your stomach twists because it not nothing. You hear it before your eyes have caught up to the chassis of it, voice seeping through the thin air, delicate in tone but heavy in intention, that unnervingly lacquered pitch women use when they want to sound wounded while making do with the peaked ends. Too close to a whine to be professional and too retiring to be a whisper held between teeth.You know that voice. From an hour ago and a handshake held too long.

“—don’t know why you brought her.”

You stiffen calcifies, muscles wrapped in an invisible brace of knowing before thought has the chance to intervene. Notwithstanding as it dawns upon you. There is no alarm in your blood, only a slow, curling recoil, a heatless burn under the structure of your bones, only happens when your body recognizes a truth faster than your brain allows. And in that second, divulgence feasts on it, on this limited space which inhabits, too much light and too many truths.

Inside, there’s a shuffle of feet. You assume Hajoon’s feet because his voice is right behind. Tired it sounds.You know the articulation of Hajoon’s steps by heart. You’ve counted them. On staircases. Sidewalks. Your apartment floor. It’s him. It’s absolutely him. And this is definitely a moment you were never meant to witness, unlike those ones.

“Bora, come on.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

The thought spirals like a siren in your head, acute and shrill, but your limbs won’t respond. Your name—well, her edited version of it—still floats between the syllables like a ghost. It hovers in the stale air, waiting to be dissected. Examined. Embalmed. It follows that, Hajoon is right there, sufficiently beyond the narrow slit of the door, sufficiently close enough to see if you lean another inch. The thought loops inside you, blinking red, warning you off like a flashing exit sign in a building that’s about to go under.

You shouldn’t stand on the edge of a threshold holding your breath like a child in a horror film. But your feet carry you the last few steps anyway. You stop at the edge of the door. Your body does what it always does: disobeys in the ways that matter. You drift those last few steps forward, against reason, against self-respect, against your own better judgment, which has never won a single fight with your curiosity. You stop before the door, which is, predictably, ajar. Drawn by a magnetism you hate yourself for responding to, step into the slice of light spilling out, allowing you permission. You lean, carefully, slowly, not with intent to spy, but because gravity is a cruel thing when verity is involved.

But you can’t not hear. Some truths calcify on impact.

“You knew I had to,” Hajoon’s voice replies.There’s strain there, but no outrage. “You knew she was coming.”

“No, I knew you invited her. That’s different.”

Something inside you hollows, it's not a feeling of being stabbed but more like a scoop. It happens when someone’s hand just reaches in and takes a part of your stomach out. The distinct sensation of absence, of a piece of yourself being removed so gently you might’ve missed.

And then she replies, and her tone slips even further into something sugary and rehearsed, a voice performing vulnerability without ever being touched by it. “Is she really worth this whole scene? You don’t even look at me anymore.”

Your breath catches in your throat as Bora’s shadow moves. Her heels click lazily against the tile; catlike, the gait of someone who knows they won’t be interrupted. She enters the sliver of your view, the sleek line of her calf, the shimmering hem of her dress, the glint of earrings swinging arrogantly near her throat. You hear the brush of her hand against fabric and you know exactly what part of him she’s touching. You imagine the press of her palm over his chest, the lean of her body into his. It all happens in your boyfriend’s silence. And in that silence, a occurence too hefty to explain.

Your heartbeat rises in your ears. Hajoon doesn’t say anything. That’s what terrifies you. Guts you. The relevation that this isn’t new. This isn’t some messy misunderstanding begotten in champagne and ambient lighting. This isn’t just some bad timing and worse boundaries.

She knows how close she can stand. He knows not to push her away. Her encroachment and his compliance is perfection.

You don’t realize when your hand finds the doorframe, only that it’s there now, clutching the edge with a grip so tight your knuckles pale, fingers curled in as though the wood might be the only thing keeping you upright the floor. Your weight has shifted forward, barely perceptible, but enough to feel how precarious your body has become. There’s a dizziness curling at the corners of your vision, the faint, reeling you until, the floor doesn’t just spin outright but diagonals the whole hallway, sluggish and silent, until every step forward feels steeped of jeopardy.

Her voice floats closer, closer than it should be, caramel-coated and too aware of itself, dripping with old secrets cladded up as affection. “You never used to hesitate,”Bora says, purring the words confidently. Comes from years of being let terribly close, terribly often. “Remember that night in Jeju?”

Your stomach turns with such violence that your throat tightens to contain it, not quite because of the place but because of the specificity. You hate how specific it is. How casually it falls from her mouth like it was theirs, like it still is. And you’re the stranger here, the interloper. Your mind flinches against the image, desperate to resist its outline, but it sculpts itself out anyway. Sand underfoot, spending nights which rewrote everything you had spent years wasting your ink on.

“I remember, baby.” Hajoon murmurs. Three words form bruises under your skin, one by one, swelling inward, He never called you baby in years of your relationship. In that soft voice, to be exact, immensly soft to belong to anything except regret or concede, and yet there’s no regret in the accentuation.

You want to laugh. Hardly because it’s funny, nothing about this is funny, but because the absurdity of the pain has reached a point of detachment, the way your mind sometimes offers humor when the body is close to collapse. You want to cry, too.And part of you wants to throw the door wide open, break the performance into pieces, shove the truth into the light and force him to look you in the face while it burns. But your body refuses to do any of it. You remain exactly where you are, stuck in a moment too excruciating to interrupt, a bystander in your own devastation. You’re the frame that flickers on screen before the plot pivots.

You press your knuckles against your mouth, the skin there soft from earlier, now dented under pressure. The contact is painful on purpose, in the best interest of you because you need the grounding. You need the reminder that you’re real. That this moment, for all its cruelty, is happening, and you are standing inside it.

Inside, Bora sighs, and the sound is so pleased with itself you almost swerve. “You shouldn’t have brought her if you didn’t want me to do this.”

There’s no reply. And the silence, this time, is deafening. Deeply, fatally familiar.

You hear a shuffle, drag of fabric, potentially a foot dragging closer to another, following the sound of movement you don’t want to identify, a insufflation exhaled that sounds mightly satisfied, getting intimate, too sure of its position and of this delicious game. You don’t want to imagine what’s happening in that pause. You don’t want to wonder how the bated breath you hold hostage anyways, speaks like your brain, atrocious in its survival instincts, paints the picture anyway, and your body responds with a sickened tightness that has nowhere to go.

Your breath catches so sharply in your throat you think it might scratch you from the inside. You feel stupid. You feel stupid.

You told yourself this was just you overthinking, that Hajoon was tired all of the time and started to perpare for the older times when you will be older too and he'll get worse but you'll be there. Distracted, mayhaps. Pulled a hundred directions by this event. You gave him excuses. You always did — so eager, so stupidly loyal — gave him that room.

And the part that stings the most, makes you want to claw his betraying heart out, is that he let you, let you build that little myth Took advanted of the room of uncertainty you gave him. Gods, gave him so much room to disappoint you. Over and over. Until all he had to do to keep you was nothing.

Padded every missed text with understanding. Gulped down every late night, every unexplained absence with that stupid stupid smile. You rationalized his silences, handed them over with thought too. Made up for them in your head. Built a cushion out of benefit-of-the-doubt and laid down in it, eyes closed, telling yourself it wasn’t what it looked like, because you loved him. Because you chose him. Because love, as you were told, is supposed to be work.

From both fucking sides. It didn't function so when you alone did the work and never asked if he was doing it too.

And now you’re here. In this hallway. Listening to the soft undoing of your entire relationship through a half-open door and the giggle of a woman who never saw you as a threat.

The humiliation feels cinematic,doesn’t come all at once, but ponderous; seeping, viscous, with the heft of something that’s been waiting a long time to be acknowledged. It rivulets into you with the same progression as dread, thick and sticky as honey spilled across cold tile, where every inch it spreads becomes harder to scrub clean. Fills your ribs, then slips deeper, into the squishy discomfort of your sternum, and you know without needing to be told that this is a hurt that's gonna stay, will make a home.

Your body already knows what your mouth isn’t brave enough to say. You were so oblivious.

You think back to every red flag you plucked from the air and re-dyed white, into a color you could live with. The nights he came home later than he said he would, the smell on his collar (not yours, never yours) smelling faintly of something exceedingly floral to be your detergent. The half-sentence that rarely ended with an i love you, even when you had made it very clear on the early on stages of your relationship that you liked being told that you were loved, that too often. You think about all the things you chalked up to stress, to work. Every thing everyone around told you to reconsider, tried to warn you in gentle silences and wary glances, their voices cautious with pity, never saying the thing outright but circling it like buzzards. Because they knew probably. They knew.

You were the only one who refused to sit with the pattern of it. You just didn’t want to listen. Because to listen, to truly listen, would’ve meant accepting what you’ve always suspected in the nooks and crooks of your gut. Because if you listened, you’d have to admit it.That maybe it wasn’t just his job or a global popstar keeping Hajoon from you. Maybe Hajoon wanted to be kept.

You feel sick.

And suddenly your body revolts against the thought, stomach tightening as odium coils innermore and flourishes beneath your abdomen. Your mouth goes dry, the taste in it metallic and sour, and you swallow down the spasm, in hopes that it might buy you a few more seconds of composure. Your molars ache, clenched so tightly together that your jaw begins to pulse. You suddenly remember the first night he told you he loved you, how his voice cracked as if the words startled him too, you didn't even dare think about, or how that maybe he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Was that a lie too?

Or did he mean it then?

Does it even matter now?

But those questions come with their own claws. So you don’t answer them. You don’t try, press the heel of your hand to your eye before the tears can fall, as if you could shove the tears back into their ducts through sheer will alone, refusing to let them fall here. You will not cry in this hallway. You will not give this place that power. So you don’t cry. You don’t let your anger catch fire and drive you through the door with fists full of questions.

But you think about it.

Lords, do you think about it.

You think about how it would feel to crack the illusion open, to make them both look at you, really look. You picture it in flashes- your fingers curled in Bora’s silken collar, dragging her back two steps just to see if her voice stays as sweet when it trembles. You imagine staring Hajoon dead in the eye and asking him if this is worth it, if she’s worth it, if it was all just a game to see how far he could bend your bones before they snapped.

You want to interrupt. You want to step inside that room and let the breath you’ve been holding slice through the air like glass.

You want it to be loud. Messy. Unforgettable. But your body won’t let you, again.

You’re still standing in the same spot, though you aren’t entirely sure how. Breath shallow, limbs made of rust, you feel distant from your own being,every joint stiff and unreliable, as though they were never made for movement. Your fingers are locked around the thin strap of your clutch, knuckles aching from the strain, but still, you can’t let go. Your knees buzz with a numbness that teeters too close to collapse, and you know, without testing it, that if you tried to walk away too quickly, you’d falter, legs would fold in on themselves, dragging your self-esteem down with you.

As if it hasn't already fallen so far, in the narrowest depths, probably making it's way to the seventh circle of hell, every time your mind plays it on a loop. The select few parts run on and on, and the implications that came with when Hajoon didn’t refute her. While you were left in the hallway, on the other side of the door, invisible.

And it’s in that invisibility that you forget yourself entirely. Forget why you’re here, what you’re holding, what you promised. The scene overtakes you, pushes you out of your own context. You are not the friend on a mission to fetch water for her shaking best friend anymore. You are not the responsible one, the stable one, the friend who had her life sorted out, the moment she was out of college with a fixtures on her side, all the time and not one who's witnessing the slow infidelity of your relationship in a quiet, candlelit corridor. Except the reminder comes. Sounds like ting. And reads like urgency and concern all at once.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, a single jolt. But it ricochets through you like thunder, breaks away the trance.

You blink hard, pull yourself out of the daze like yanking the string of a broken marionette. Your fingers fumble against the screen.You don’t know how long you’ve been gone, only that it’s been long enough for concern to find you.

[safiya: everything okay? what's taking so long??]

The words feel like someone cracking a window open in a burning house.

And in that small, merciful moment, you remember the things that matter, try not to waste away at people who shouldn't have in the first place. If you would have, it wouldn't have taken you so long to remember who you are.

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat feels alive, not figurative, a snarling beast with claws scraping against your insides, trying to claw its way out through the thinnest part of your chest. The taste of it is sharp, astringent, nauseating and it's as overwhelming as a broken heart.

You shift and move.

It’s a small step- barely a shuffle- but the sound paraphrases in the tight space.

Inside, everything falls placid.

Like prey sensing danger.

You hear the soft scrape of a heel. A breath catching follows up that results in the slow, cautious creak of movement. They heard you. It's the only answer that makes sense in a moment that has your mind in pieces. They heard you, and for the first time, you’re no longer invisible.

Panic rises like heat in your throat, replacing the cluster. Your body kicks into survival mode, muscle memory taking the wheel with foot on the pedal, before they can come out. Before they can see your face. The car kicks into ignition and it turns. So do you. Fast.

You move like a current, wind-slipped and sharp. Your heels barely touch the tile. One foot, then the next, then the next. You duck around the corner just as the storage door creaks open behind you.

You don’t look back.

You can’t afford to.

Because if you see them now- if you see him- you’re not sure what will survive the encounter.Your pride, your restraint, the tight seal you’ve managed to hold around your devastation, all of it would shatter. And you are not ready to fall vulnerable in front of them.

Your pulse races like it’s sprinting ahead of you, trying to outrun the shame.Your heart races, anything but in beats, but in gallops, hurrying and zooming, trying to put as much distance as it can between you and what you heard, what you saw, what you now have to carry.

You press one hand flat to the wall, desperate for contact with something unmoving, presumably cool, the tiles are cool. You lean into them with the full weight of your trembling shoulders and try to slow the shaking in your chest. You don’t know how long you stay like that, listening, waiting, cursing the damn universe, back to the corner, ears straining for footsteps that never come.

But no footsteps follow. No voices chase you.

Maybe they think it was nothing.

Or worse, maybe they know exactly what it was.

You straighten, finally. Shake out your shoulders like you’re resetting them on your frame. Willing the bones to don’t feel foreign inside your skin. You glance down at your phone again. Safiya’s message blinks back at you like a lighthouse in fog.

You type back:

[omw.]

It’s all you can manage.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until the first tear hits the corner of your lip, warm and sharp like betrayal distilled.

You scrub the tear away with the back of your hand, rough and rushed, by its nature friction alone could erase what you saw, as though maybe if you wiped hard enough, the memory would peel with it, lift off the surface of your mind and dissolve somewhere into the air behind you. The sting lingers, anyway, heartbreak nests where it should. And somewhere down the corridor, from a place your feet no longer remember how to reach, laughter drifts upwards. It wafts through cause it has every right to, unaffected and unbothered, the fluky soundtrack of people who haven’t had their insides rearranged by the sound of someone else's name spoken too tenderly. The absurdity of it settles in your chest like lead, that the world is still turning.

You push open a random door at the end of the lobby and exhale like you’ve been holding it for a year. A folding table sits near the back wall, crowded with plastic water bottles and packets of mints, and behind it, a server looks up, startled but not alarmed, the way people do when they’ve seen enough parties to know when to mind their business.

You blink. “Water, please?” you say. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

He hands one over without question. You nod in return, a stiff, graceless gesture meant to approximate gratitude, and clutch the bottle so tightly that the plastic creaks in your grip.

You feel the crispy cold of the bottle in your hand. It sweats against your palm, a sharp contrast to the flush still radiating from your face. You feel the chill of it in your bones, grateful for the shock. Pain, at least, is something you know how to hold.The world around you feels loud again, even though you’re moving through a quieter section of the venue. The dull thud of bass somewhere beneath your feet. The muffled laughter of strangers who proude the sound of the clink of glassware. Every sound scratches.

Your feet start moving before your brain catches up.

First one foot, then the other, and then your body begins to catch on, muscles remembering the purpose even if your mind hasn’t fully returned to it. Left. Then right. Then forward again.

Back to the place where your friends are waiting. Where your absence must be starting to bloom into concern. Back to the bathroom, where Jia is still hunched over porcelain and Safiya is probably pacing, biting her lip, thinking you’ve gotten lost in this maze of flashing lights and secrets.

The steps are small. Practiced. But your body is still off-kilter, like the force field has shifted slightly out of sync. The party’s glow pulses in the walls around you, muffled and amber hues, but you feel none of it. Each step feels disconnected from the last, like your legs are acting on instruction rather than instinct.You are aware, in the strangest way, that you are walking. That you are moving through space. That you are passing through light and shadow. You feel everything and nothing. You could be gliding. You could be drowning. You’re not sure which would be more forbearing.

Nonethles, you try to hold onto the task. Just give them the water. That’s all you have to do. Just get to the bathroom. Just—

But the walk is long. And your mind won’t cooperate. It's franternizing in a way that plays everything that happened back there again and again. That sing-song tone that was viscous, tunes in and out, how it still manages to cut through the unbearable, monstrous silence.

You were good.

You’d always prided yourself on being composed. Reasonable. You weren’t the jealous type. You weren’t the skeptical possessive girlfriend. You’d never demanded keys or passwords or explanations. Love, in your definition, if was true, it needed no surveillance. Needed not to feel like a rope wrapped around a neck, except it did now.

And the person who held the end of it was the one you told yourself to trust. Told yourself it was the job. That the industry was brutal, demanding, parasitic. That he was a victim of it too, just trying to survive in its current. You gave him space, understanding, flexibility. You let him treat you like an supplementary information because you believed it would pay off. That this, tonight, was the beginning of him showing you off.

And he was infact. Just not to the right audience. God knows not to the right audience. The abashment of sits high in your throat, making it feel lodged yet again. The discomfort of it (or so you'd like to belive) manifests itself in a new wave of tears. They’re not falling gracefully now, they sting, angry and sudden, pooling along your lashes before you can wipe them. Still you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand again.

When you do, you become aware of how your eyes are rimmed with betrayal and your hands are shaking and your entire face feels cracked like porcelain that’s been dropped once, twice, too many times.

You round the corner to the hallway where the second-floor restroom is. You can hear feeble voices inside that start to come off as not so softened. Makes you pause just outside the frame. Look at yourself in the polished reflection of the fire extinguisher box in case your own hand failed you but that has been one of the many things that has not. Eyes glassy. Nose red. Lipstick worn off at the corners. You look like someone who’s unraveling. Methodically, even.

You can’t walk in like this.

Jia is in the feels, Safiya is perceptive. One look and they’ll know something’s wrong. And once that happens, the dam will break and you’ll start crying in front of them. And you'll cry ugly.

And right now, you can’t. You just- can’t.

Just as you're about to turn away, a woman in a slate-blue dress steps up beside you. Mid-thirties, elegant. One of the guests, you assumed. She gives you a polite smile, one hand reaching for the door.

You step in front of her before you’ve even decided to speak.

“Sorry—excuse me.”

She stops, brows raised in mild surprise.

You hold the water out, trying to steady your voice. “Could you… would you mind giving this to the two girls in there?One’s in a pink dress. One’s holding her hair back. They’re my friends—I just need to step outside for some air.”

The woman blinks once, then nods, smile softening into understanding.

“Of course.”

You hand her the bottle and add, “Please tell them I’ll be right back. I just—yeah. I’ll be back.”

She gives you a look. The kin of one where women give each other a type of laconic solidarity when they recognize something. Two words starting with the same letter. The thin line in between. Then she disappears inside, and you’re left alone again in the corridor. Alone again, the hallway exhales with you. Shallow, breathy, reluctant to hold what it’s just seen. The silence afterward is dense, thick with ghosts of hands and things not taken back. And you-still holding yourself like glass, too fine for touch-let it all soak in.

Your body wants quiet. Soundlessness is subjective, seclusion is primary. Somewhere you can let your face drop out of its composure, somewhere you can drop the mask of the girl who’s just fine.

You think about going home. But the apartment that basically gives off the odour of a once lasted relationship with a shoe rack that holds heels and loafers despite how it was shaped just for boots, a kitchen that never for once stopped smelling like raspberry jelly will make you all the more disordered. Speaking of ill, you also just can't leave your friends with no explanation at all. Disappearing for an hour or so is one thing, leaving entirely is another.

So you extract the idea from your mind whole. And since intuition has been the reason behind some very important unveiling, you chose to follow it once again. This time you distinguish it as a palace of carved panels and red rope that seems increasingly untethered from the celebration it’s supposed to contain. You follow the curl of tawny sconces as they dim behind you. You don’t have a direction, not by any means. Merely this straight urge to be elsewhere. Away from mirrors and pity and the way your voice will shatter if anyone dares to ask what happened.

The air changes again- the assuage of walkway giving way to the softer allay of space. You blink, slow, and find yourself facing tall double doors cracked just enough to tease a sliver of moonlight. You follow it like a moth and press a hand to the cool wood and ease it open when you've reached.

The balcony is mostly empty (or so you think). It's mostly meant for people who duck into here when their dates say too much, or when the music says too little. You don’t belong here for those reasons. But for a second, you let yourself pretend you do. Pretend is all that you can do, after all. Pretend is all one can do when no place reaches out like it's own.

You step out into the night.

The breeze is soft, carrying the perfume of late-blooming things that represent the late of march and early on days of may. There’s a railing with ornate curls, and a small potted tree beside it. You lean against the edge like a ghost at a masquerade, hidden in plain sight. Far from a invisible ghost, righteously misplaced.

The skyline shimmers in the distance. City lights doing their best impression of stars. Because the sky is unkind tonight. Clear and full of stars. One of those nights that dares you to feel small.

You close your eyes.

It should hurt less than it does. You should be angry, you think. Fury has a vibration, a tempo, that is not entirely senseless, that you could move to. But all you have is this ache. This underdone, expanding bruise of disbelief. That Hajoon, your Hajoon, the one who texted you goodnight from studio floors and once cried during the middle of your anniversary dinner because you surprised him with a scrapbook - that Hajoon had someone else’s lipgloss on his cheek.

And he let you walk into that party wearing your best, heart in hand, eyes wide and bright like you weren’t already being laughed at. The fact alone that he could ever be this savage measures up higher than the mere word spurning. Your fingers tighten around the railing.

You breathe. In. Out. In again.

He cheated on you.

You say it in your head, then again. Try it out. Grant it to parrot.

He. Cheated. On you.

How long? you think. It can’t have started tonight. The intimacy you saw take place takes time. That comfort is and that silence intertwines complexly.The way he let her talk over you like you weren’t even there. It takes a history. You sniff, furious.You want to rip out whatever pages it's sanctioned in. You want to punch someon-

— and the scuff of a footfall to your left startles you mid-thought, cracking clean through the violence of it. You breathe in too sharply and choke on the tail end of it, a hiccup caught mid-throat. The sound escapes before you can swallow it back, a soft, broken thing that snags in the night air.

You flinch, just barely, but it’s enough to pull you upright, palms peeling away from the ornate railing. The sound was soft; softer than it should be for how it lands in your chest. Impalpable, but undeniable. The categorical gospel is not the wind, nor is the sway of branches or the groan of old fixtures. It's plainly in a presence. A presence that exples in a dramatic, public way.

You turn your head.

In the first instance, it’s just a silhouette. Broad shoulders caught in a slant of moonlight, leaned casually against the far railing where the wall curves into the night. You hadn’t seen him when you first stepped out- he’s tucked into the darkness like he belongs there. You blame the sleek sweep of a jacket that gleams ink-black where the light touches and vanishes where it doesn’t. Depthless black, that's the kind of shade it is. He’s fidgetless against the opposite end of the balcony, arms folded, head tilted just enough that you know he’s looking out — not at you, seasonably. The night swallows him in patches, makes him blur into the dark, view as a conundrum, lets him melt into the obscurity. Only the gleam of a metal clasp or maybe the faint shimmer of a watch betrays the shape of him at all.

Your breath halts for a different reason now. This time in mortification. How long has he been there? How much did he hear of your inner voice that would sometimes refuse to stay just inside?

You should have known. Of course someone else would be here. This party is a haven for the overexposed, the adored and overworked — balconies are harbours, and privacy is a drug. You suppose you’re not the only one tonight with a reason to step away from too much attention.

You clear your throat, subtly, and swipe at your cheeks once more with the back of your hand, hoping whatever disaster your makeup has become is at least concealable under the night’s forgiving ink. You press yourself a little more into the corner, make yourself smaller.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, voice cracked and low-pitched but unmistakably sheepish. “I didn’t mean to… disturb you. I didn’t know someone was here.” you gesture vaguely toward the door as if it explains your presence, your unraveling, your trespass.

You’re already turning, embarrassment washing over you, warm and prickly, when you hear that voice. That empty headed, unwitting, greatly-

Oh come on!

Dwindling deep. Familiar in that unmistakable way, because it's the voice that’s been replayed in the background of your vehemence for months. Velour worn sharp.

“It's alright.”

There’s a haitus his mouth decides upon, and so does the surroundings with him like even the night is startled into inaction.

Your breath catches, shallow. Your backbone straightens, sharp.

He turns as if on cue.

It does not take place pointedly. An appropriate response that would be startled. No, not even that. But slow, like the metanoia of a thought that’s been brewing for too long. His face is in shadow, but the movement reveals the slope of his jaw, the lazy fall of dark hair over his brow. You can’t see the details, not in this light. But something about his presence is sharp in your periphery, like recognition trying to claw its way forward but tripping on the haze.

You retreat a step. Not far away, but enough.

"Stay." He adds, a beat slower that turns the night warm around him than it was a second ago.

He says it like it’s not a big deal, offering courtesy. But the sound of his voice reaches somewhere in you that you didn’t know was flammable. It scrapes gruffly, like a match. He hasn’t moved from his spot. Still standing there, half-shrouded. Watching, maybe. Or not. You can’t tell. But the certainty in his tone, unbothered, solid, undoes you in a different way.

You know that voice.

You don’t want to know that voice. But you do.

He who shall not be named. Of all people. Of all fucking anyone.

You don’t turn yet. You stare ahead, blinking hard, gathering yourself. That name has been the thread you tugged every time you felt distance growing between you and Hajoon before the awakening dropped upon you that he was actually not.

And now he’s here. On the balcony. With you.

Your throat bobs awkwardly, unsure what to say. Maybe you misheard. Maybe you’re imagining things because he was not supposed to be here. Your brain is playing cruel little games because tonight’s already stitched together from surreal fabric.

If it was any other time, hell had it been any minute before the past half hour, you'd have applauded the timing. Would have marched over to Kim Taehyung and said everything you wanted to.

Would have looked him square in the eye and asked if it felt good, demanding Hajoon’s time, his energy, his apologies, until there was none left for you. Would have told him, with teeth bared behind a smile, that he was the reason you ate cold fries alone on your own celebratory dinner.

You would have let it out. All of it. The slow rot of resentment you watered like a houseplant. The tantrum you tucked neatly beneath your tongue every time Hajoon said “Taehyung needs me.” You would have unspooled every sentence you rehearsed in the dark, every imagined confrontation sharpened over sleepless nights.

But this isn’t then.

This is now. And now you know the truth.

He didn’t bend Hajoon’s lynchpin until he broke. He didn’t whisper temptation or rearrange the tiles of loyalty under Hajoon’s feet. He didn’t need to because Hajoon walked willingly.

And you were too busy blaming the him to see it.

Now, stripped of that blame, that convenient villainy, you’re left with nothing but the naked awkwardness of this moment. The rage you’d once felt toward him feels foolish now. Juvenile. Like screaming at the moon for letting the tide pull you under. It doesn’t quite hold the shape it used to. You don’t know what to do with it. And so you stand there, stiff in the corner of the balcony, unable to move toward him, but unable to leave.

He hasn’t said another word. Hasn’t even looked at you again. He just exhales again. Smoke blooming from between his lips like it’s part of the night.

That’s when you notice the cigarette. You hadn’t clocked it before, but now you see the faint cherry glow at his side, the way it illuminates the curl of his fingers, the slow draw of breath. It looks romantic on him, of course it does. Doubles some tragic French film character leaning against the edge of ruin, too well-dressed to decipher publicly.

And as much you loved to make joke of comments under candid clips of this man that raved about some aura of his, you found yourself then just barely, just quick enough to pass as you scoot under the luminescence, catch a better glimpse of him.

His jaw is too sharp for comfort. His hair, mussed just enough to seem accidental, shimmers like ink under the silvered light. His lips (you don’t even know why you notice) are plush and parted. And his eyes, when they finally flick toward you, are darker than the night behind him. Flippant. Sleepy. Unfathomable.

He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t look away either.

You want to look away. You do. But it’s magnetic, the stupid made up ambience around him. Easy in a way that demands nothing and everything. He’s not performing. He’s not even curious. Seems diserepctful but at the same time it makes you understand how someone like Hajoon could crumble under it. Why people orbit men like this and call it the law of nature. You’d scoffed at it before. Scoffed every time Hajoon said he just gets so intense sometimes, you know? like Taehyung was weather instead of a man.

Yet, you're not sure how understanding the possibility of it makes any difference to you. Makes any sense.

But how the hell do you share space with someone who’s been mythologized in your mind for so long?

Because now you’re sure. You know it’s him. You could draw the line of his nose from memory. The corner of his lip. You’ve seen this face on billboards, in moving gifs, in phone screens where your ex-boyfriend kept scrolling even during dinner.

Except now he’s real. Not flattened into pixels. Breathing the same air as you. You blink hard. Try to focus. To reroute your brain back into safer waters. But all it gives you is a memory.

Because this isn’t the first time you’ve spoken to him, is it?

It comes uninvited. Like most things do.

Back when Hajoon had just started as his manager. Everything was new then. Boundaries blurry. You still thought the industry was glamorous, not exhausting. You remember being home, hair wrapped in a towel, half a sheet mask on your face when your phone that was running a tutorial video paused on a frame. You'd have turned it back on if it wasn't for the name popping up on your screen at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. You had picked up without hesitation.

Except it wasn’t Hajoon.

"Good evening. This is Taehyung. Can you send a picture of the contract folder on Hajoon-sshi's desk? He forgot it."

You blinked at the screen, furrowed your brow.

"Sure, Taehyung. 😂 Joon your impersonation game is trash and that's tough considering you're trying to speak like the man you work for. At least commit to the bit."

The message pinged back too quick for someone pretending to be a important, busy man.

"It's actually me. Taehyung. Hajoon-sshi's busy with some stuff."

You laughed. Alone in your bathroom. Holding a spoonful of some face oil and scrolling up and down the chat.

"And I'm the CEO of Mars. Let me know if you need a crater named after you."

You had awaited hajoon finally breaking out whatever character's in.

"You're funny. Send the photo."

This wasn’t the tone a boyfriend of sixteen months should be talking in, you had thought. Unaware as ever. If only you had learned how that unawareness will end for you.

"If it’s really you, Kim Taehyung, send a selfie holding a spoon."

You hadn’t expected a reply.

But a few minutes later there it was. There it came.

A dimly lit photo that was non debatable who it captured. Grainy in a way that none of his chronicled, edited ones were. Sleepy-eyed. Hair in disarray. Wearing a black hoodie and holding a spoon between his fingers with the most unimpressed expression you’d ever seen.

You stared at the image longer than you’d admit. Tried not to cringe too much at the cataloged annoyance. And then you sent the damn contract.

"Told you. I commit."

You didn’t respond. You told yourself he was probably just weird. Probably forgot all about you two minutes later. He never brought it up again. Neither did you. But sometimes, the memory flickered. A weird little moment stitched into your timeline, half-unreal.

And maybe he doesn’t remember you. Maybe that moment was just a Tuesday to him. You'd love to take advantage of that before it gets any more lumbering here. You tuck your arms around yourself and inhale the smoke-laced air stretched thin across the span of a few meters and commodity that has you topid. Hovering at a cautious distance, two steps too far to be friendly and one step too close to be indifferent.

You didn't realize acting indifferent was something that Kim Taehyung had a copyright on until he moves again. Abundantly. A loosening of limbs, the slow unfurling of someone at ease in their own myth.

“I don’t bite,” he says, voice low, drowsy. Just on the edge of humor, like he’s saying it more for himself than for you. His head tips toward you, not quite looking. Still, he flicks the ash from his cigarette with a lazy hand, like he’s bored of his own invitation.

You swear it’s the wind at first. The words fold into the air too smoothly.

You know you should just offer a polite smile. A nod. Some kind of noncommittal noise that maintains distance. But your mouth, as always, has other plans.“Mm,” you murmur, under your breath, not even meaning for him to hear, “I doubt that.”

You don’t think he’s listening. But he is.

You catch it - just fairly - in the slight turn of his head, the way one corner of his mouth curves, slow and serpentine. twitch of lip, more ghost than grin. The kind of smile you don’t see so much as sense. Felt more in your knees than your chest.

Great. Now you’re giving him lines.

Then - like it’s a casual thing, like it costs him nothing - he speaks again. Doesn’t even glance at you this time. Tilts his head, exhales another cloud of smoke, and lets it wander up into the sky.

“Come closer.”

Um hello? What did he just say to you? Did he actually demand of you?

Though the words are simple; not barked; not begged, they still alter an insolence capillary of yours. You hesitate, the word itself making a heat rise under your collarbones. A place it had no buisness eliciting a reaction in.

Your body moves before your brain signs off. Not by a great deal, but enough to close the distance between polite and probing. The necessary for the chill in the night to fade from your arms. Proportionality to fall under the scent of his cigarette, sharp and spicy and soaked in something faintly herbal, like bergamot and smoke and warm resin.

But you catch yourself before you go further. Straighten your spine. Scupper your voice.

“I’m not doing what you tell me,” you say, and the words are sharp, snapped like a twig underfoot. “Just so we’re clear.”

That almost-smile on his mouth doesn’t move, but it changes. And to your horror, it even deepens. Grows snobbish in a way that’s unapparent but impossible to miss. It’s pompous. Infuriatingly so. That elusive tilt of his lips that makes you want to shove him and ask what’s so funny and maybe push him off the damn balcony just to see if the smirk stays midair.

He leans a little more into the curve of shadow, gaze flicking sideways. Meticulously near enough to make your pulse skitter. “I didn’t think you would,” he says, and the amusement in his voice is unmistakable now. “You don’t strike me as particularly obedient.”

You stare. You hate that your throat goes dry. Because that's a totally normal thing to say to a stranger when you've got a face like that, isn't it? "Excuse me?"

He takes another drag from the cigarette, watching the embers burn down like a timer. The tip glows in his fingers — elegant fingers, of course they are, long and unhurried in how they cradle the smoke. The ash hovers before fluttering down like snow against the stone.

“What do I strike you as, then?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

It’s too much of a question. It slips past your lips like a dare that has been sent rolling on a slippery path you didn’t mean to voice. But it’s out there now, and you can’t take it back. Idiot.

Taehyung doesn't answer right away. He just exhales smoke and thought at the same time, head tilted still back toward the sky as if the answer might be hidden between the tapestry of the stars. You find he’s giving the question the time it doesn’t deserve. It’s flamboyant. It’s aggravating. And, worse, it’s effective.

Your arms remain crossed, body drawn in like a bow pulled taut. You don't regret handing your denim to Jia but you wish the night was colder so the goosebumps could be blamed on temperature, not tension. But the breeze is tepid now. Brushed in his voice, his perfume, his stupid legendary presence that has no right smelling as expensive and ancient and fucking grounded as it does.

Finally, his gaze shifts.

And this time, he does look at you. Fully. Directly.

A slow turn of his head, the sweep of his eyes over your face with the exasperation of how he would read the fine print of something he’s already decided on. “What do you strike me as?” he repeats, softly. Then clicks his tongue once, like he’s disappointed with you for even asking. "Are you sure you wanna know?"

The words are quiet. But his voice darkens at the question. Your stomach twists, and you don’t know if it’s indignation or intrigue. You’re fairly certain it’s both. And before it permeates into a shabbier feeling that'll have you clutching your torso, you put out your blundering silence as a response that he takes willingly, haughtily so.

His mouth twitches again. Not quite a smile this time. Closer to mischief. He shrugs one shoulder, loose and languid, eyes still trailing somewhere over the skyline, this conversation’s just a side project evidently.

Whatever. If the unnerving diagonal beside you can go back to doing what he painfully seems most interested in, so can you.

The railing is back beneath your palms, familiar now, some dumb metaphor made real — edges cold, aloof chill biting. The edge of your heel nudges against a loose leaf caught in the wind. It flutters once, twice, then gives up and sinks to the floor. You almost envy it. The city is still sprawled in the distance, impersonal to your cognizing. Behind you, the door stays shut. Back there, you envisage, is too bright, too loud, too full of people who might ask what’s wrong and not wait for the right silence before answering for you. Out here, you only share oxygen with a man who has ruined half your calendar and all your curated patience.

Unbothered, broad-shouldered, draped in the kind of serenity that only belongs to cats and men who’ve never been told no. Taehyung’s jacket gleams where it catches the low light- some brand you’ll never afford and he probably didn’t pay for. His posture is too facile.

The rubescent of his cigarette hisses as he draws in again — as if every drag is advised, intented, abrasive. That mouth was made for sin or sermons. Hard to tell which one he’d preach first.

You glance over once. Quickly. Then regret it instantly.

He’s watching you. In a way he did after you threw your sharpest tone at him, just stood there — barefaced and unflinchinb —like he’d seen this particular performance from you before. Maybe in another life. Maybe in a dream.

The silence between you drones with electricity. It's not awkward, exactly. It’s too thick to be awkward. Too charged. Like the aftermath of lightning — you don’t know if the flash already hit or if it’s coming, if this is clement or consequence.

Then, casually, the cigarette hand lifts again. He turns it between his fingers once, then holds it out across the space between you, his gaze flat and unreadable, offered to you with the same ease most people use to pass napkins.

"You smoke?"

The question cuts through the quiet like it’s been waiting there the whole time.

You scoff. "I don't smoke." Neither do you pick up addictions from strange men who talk like their only motive is to distress the already distressed women they corner in alone balconies.

“That’s a shame,” he says, still not retracting the offer. "You look like you need it."

You arch a brow. "I look like I need a way to a slow, tragic death?"

He exhales through his nose — amused. "No. You look like you need a distraction." Takes a pause before adding. "Do you not?"

You glance at the cigarette. Then at his mouth.

Unfortunate, really. That his lips have the audacity to look generous. He holds your gaze too easily for someone who’s done nothing but irritate you with a single smirk and a face blessed by nepotism from the gods. Your jaw ticks and to the degree that you'd like to believe it's from that or the persistence offer, you're sorely knowing of that's its a reaction that is spawned from how tempting it is, the silence that falls after his question. Not the offer itself — smoke never tasted good, no matter how poetic the film girls made it look — but the inaction. His inaction, in particular, that abrades against the raw wall of your morale. You hate that you’re thinking about it. Thinking about it too hard, the same way you think about late-night texts that go unanswered, or how many people have probably touched the door handle before you in a public restroom.

You turn your gaze back to the city. Your hand curls around the railing again. It digs in, sharper this time. Enough that the metal edge presses a whisper of hurt into your palm. Nothing lasts long against the pressure of being watched the way he watches — quietly, without ego, as if he’s already understood what you’re going to do.

Do you need a distraction?

Yes. Obviously.

But admitting is a type of yielding. Humans are never actually normal with such a thing, let alone letting yourself yeild in front of him — this man hewed out of tailored arrogance is a threat to your vanity. You’ve already had one of those tonight, and it ended with you biting down tears in a hallway, handing water bottles to strangers so your friends wouldn’t see your hands shake.

This, withal, would be an indulgence. A petty little rebellion. The kind of thing someone else would do in a story you’d never admit reading. Smoking with Kim Taehyung on a balcony where your relationship ended a quiet death only an hour ago. You want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. You want to laugh so hard your ribs bruise from the inside.

But coversely, you stand there. Wound up. Too mindful.

And the longer you don’t move, the more you feel him waiting.

You steal a glance again. His arm hasn’t wavered, cigarette still extended, ember glowing low. There’s no impatience in him, and you only ever see that kind in people who already know the outcome. Kim Taehyung is a man who waits, who already lives in your answer and is just killing time in the silence before you catch up. Curious. Present. Patient in a way that suggests he’s memorizing the shape of your hesitation just to store it somewhere for later.

You sigh. A long, tight sound dragged up from the soles of your feet.

You take two steps toward him. The space closes, distance evaporating between you like heat on pavement. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t gloat — decently watches, that same unreadable interest rolling low behind his lashes.

You stop just shy of arm’s reach. With a single curl of your fingers, you take the cigarette from his hand.

His fingers brush yours for half a breath. Warm, dry, real and your dorsum locks up at the contact, pitter patter quick behind your teeth. You pretend it didn’t happen. You pretend very hard. The cigarette tastes bitter at the filter when you lift it to your lips. Not that you care. You’re not here for the flavor. You’re here because the world is ending and strikes as being only your world ending.

You inhale. Lightly.

It’s awful. Burnt and earthy. Makes your throat feel like someone wrung it out like a sponge. You cough once, quietly, turn your head away in ignominy, try to act like it was atmospheric and not your body rebelling against poor choices.

You make out the smile before you see it. It bobs up on the side of your face like a shadow. Bastard.

You exhale through your nose, eyes narrowed. "You're so charming. Does it always lets get you away from this habit of yours?"

"Mhm. What habit?"

He’s watching you, still. Closer now. Still tall, still shrouded in that stupid expensive shiny material. But something’s mutated. He looks less carved from figment and more human in the face — detail where there was once only silhouette. The curve of his mouth. The sleep in his eyes. The line of his jaw you could draw with a knife.

"Of having things your way. Is that not a habit? Do you not always get what you want?" You take another drag.

And maybe you’re imagining it — probably you are — but for once there's not a single trace of beguilement on his face or in his poorly lit stare that simmers. Drops to your mouth where your lips are wrapped around the cancer stick. He sees.

"Not always."

The filter burns a little hotter than it should between your fingers, but you don’t drop it. That would make a sound. You keep it pressed neatly against the edge of your breath and lean into the railing again. This time you don’t grip it. You let your arms rest there, loose, voluntary. It’s easier this way, to gather yourself in the flicker of things you cannot control.

“Not always?” you echo, casually, but it punches from your chest more bitter than intended. “Color me shocked.”

His hum lands soft against the back of your neck, something dulled and sun-warmed, but it still finds a grit. Tilts his chin toward the night like he’s listening to something in the silence that you can’t hear. Not a man in thought; no, that would be too benevolent. A man in leisure.

There’s no wasted effort, no shuffle or twitch. You’ve known performers, fidgeters, people who need to fill silences with breath or comment just to feel present. Taehyung is none of those. You swallow once. Your voice is back in your mouth, restless. He doesn’t match the versions of him that live in tabloids, in the pruned PR clips, in the way Hajoon used to talk about him with the slight awe of someone who’d just walked past a lion that winked. There’s nothing lofty about him. Not even in his smile, the rimple of the skin strecting around his eyes when they drift toward the line where the sky dominates over the buildings, The city’s to offer stars, and you can tell he’s still searching for them. He tilts his face up to the night, slow and unhurried, jaw catching a flicker of sallow from the railing light. There’s no revelation in his expression about what exactly he is looking for.

“It’s a lovely night,” he says finally, in that impromptu manner men do when they’re either lying or about to advance into nonsense. "Clear enough to see the Pleiades, if you know where to look.” his voice summoned.

The what?

You can't deny that there's a keeness he awakes in you, when he says that, speaking a language of his own. But you also can't deny that you have no interest enabling that, some things (Some men) require the right headspace and yours is certainly far from right. You're not some child, and you can do just fine without knowing about astronomical facts, so you don’t even nod along, as though you know what he's talking about and you've already found a pattern in the sky.

At the lack of your reaction, he does what wouldn't have predicted, because what even is your attention worth to a star (that he looks up) like him. He could sent a message to a group chat of people living and dying to keep him happy: hey who's up for some solar system facts? And atleast, four people would turn and listen with their head on their folded hands, whilst looking at him at like he had made the excellent geometries of the sky. You really wouldn't have seen him pressing from a long mile.

"Humor me and ask me what is that."

You are left with two options, one being add up another reason of fuming internally over this highfaluating wanna-be, assuming that you actually don't know what this is, while he does. Okay, he's not wrong on that but where's the graciousness when's it's needed? To save yourself for being any more miserable, you go with the second, suction smoke into your lungs and ask. "What is that?"

He lifts up a finger and starts to move it around randomly, until you notice he's not, he's actually following a cluster of stars with the tip of his index finger. “The Seven Sisters. Stars, technically. They don't always show, so we're lucky we are under the brightest star." You look up too and indeed, it shines bright. You're not sure about the lucky part. "Old story says they only appear on nights where something coffined comes to surface.”

You glance at him sidelong, cigarette perched neatly between your lips. You doubt if thats one of his fanclub astrology facts or he read that off a matchbox.

“It’s just superstition,” he says as if had the ability to read your thoughts. All the holy things above and beyond, you hope not. "When you need a direction on those nights. You can always look up."

The delivery is suspiciously straight-faced. You can’t tell if it’s sincerity dressed up as a joke or the other way around, but it sits in the air between you like something well-planned.

You exhale, slow through your nose. The filter tastes a little more bitter than before, or maybe your mouth does. “Are you fucking with me?”

His eyes don’t move from the sky, but the border of his expression ameliorates with amusement. The skin that was wrinkled, now crinkles up, and that's all. You’re puzzled, left in mystery if his motive was to annoy you. Confused over the decision of whether you should elbow in response too, twist the moment until it gives. But you don’t. Because the truth is, whatever it was, whether it was a myth or a dig or a gentle offering, you understood it. Quite possibly, needed it too. Either way, you don’t ask him to explain.

You resort to the secret third option of saying something you don’t mean to say. Your mouth opens before your sense of judgment can lace its shoes and declare your words thinly veiled as cavalier.

“I know an old superstition too,” you start, flicking ash off the edge of your cigarette, “that if two people share a smoke, they have to share a secret too.”

You don’t know where it comes from. Probably not a saying at all.Maybe something you read on a forum in college or saw scrawled on a dirty napkin in a bar bathroom. Probably from a place full of bullshit. God you are full of bullshit. But it slips out with the careless elegance of someone who isn’t bracing for repercussion.

Taehyung turns his body this time. Slow, one shoulder first, the leather of his jacket catching the light in a blink. His brows lift, just barely. He’s interested, but not performatively so. The barest cock of his head that's sharpened with intrigue makes you doubt. Wonder. You’re not sure why your heart climbs two rungs higher in your throat.

“A secret,” he repeats, as if trying the word on his tongue. “Do people actually do that? Are you fucking with me?" The wind presses his jacket against the lines of his ribs. His fingers tap once, twice, against the railing, deliberate. He smells like silk and smoke and the kind of cologne that’s expensive enough not to brag about itself.

You upraise your head, eyes fixed on a point in the city that doesn’t matter. "Apparently."

You puff out your cheeks and let the smoke linger there a second too long before exhaling through your nose. "And I'm not fucking with you." You say the terminal with an discomposing defensiveness.

The architecture of interest wraps around silence. You wait, not because you're impatient, but because you want to see what silence does to him.

He exhales, long and easy. “Alright,” he says, flicking the slag from his nail like he’s dusting off a layer of thought. “Go ahead.”

You glance over. “What?”

“Share yours.”

Your throat tightens around nothing. “That’s not how it works.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” you say, a little firmer. “The person who offers the cigarette doesn’t get to demand first blood.”

He grins. Oh this real bastard. “Mm. You should’ve thought of that before you lied about the saying.”

“I didn’t lie. I… embellished it up a little.”

His tongue presses briefly into his cheek. “Same thing, my darling."

The term lands heavier than it should. Unrehearsed. Wrong accent for condescension. You don’t bother correcting him. If anything, you portray as if you didn’t even hear him.

He tilts his head again, finally turning to look at you in full now. His expression is maddeningly unreadable. Eyebrows slightly lifted, but not mocking. Just open. He waits in a way that says: I have all night. Go on. Impress me. Surprise me. Burn me, if you want.

You scowl, faintly. The smoke makes your next breath hitch as it burns at the edges.A secret, he said. You shouldn’t have offered the opening. You thought you’d like the power in it, holding something sharp and choosing not to use it. But it only leaves your mouth dry and your head stupidly full.

Your mind claws through options.

Your secret would be too easy, yet too big at the same time. It sits on your tongue, hot and twitching. It thrashes to be named; this ugly thing. You could spit it out between your teeth and watch the whole balcony tilt with it. Splinter the mood and makes everyone start looking for an exit, even if their feet don’t move. It’s a secret with teeth and a jawline. It smells like cheap floral perfume and sounds like a whimper through a half-open storage door.

You could say it. You could torch the air between you both with it. My boyfriend cheated on me tonight. In the storage room. With someone I shook hands with. Maybe even while you were living in a delusion, or shaking hands with people who thought they mattered. And you don’t even know if he'll even care. If none of this would matter to him and it’s just your heart doing its pathetic little dance in a one-woman tragedy.

You could lie. God knows you’ve gotten good at that lately. You could say you hate cucumbers or that you still sleep with the bathroom light on.

But standing next to him, lying feels too pedestrian. You glance over at him, hoping his sufferance will start to look smug enough to punch. But no. He’s too relaxed for that. One wrist draped over the edge of the railing, the other hanging low beside his thigh, fingers marked with the last memory of the cigarette you just burned through together. He’s not even close enough to touch, but you swear if you breathed wrong, he’d hear it shift in your ribs.

Unfair. Unrelenting. Utterly exhausting.

You rake your teeth over your bottom lip and break the silence with something that tastes harmless. It isn’t, really, but it plays that way.

“I’m not your fan.”

His eyes flinch. Like a tick behind his lashes he forgot to tame.

You glance sidelong, watching his profile for the reaction, any reaction. The way someone checks the rearview after running a red light. “That’s my secret. Or one of them. I guess.” It’s barely louder than a whisper, but it lands with the weight of a bottle uncorked too fast. Immediate relief followed by a slow fizz of regret.

The pause that follows is the longest one yet.

You regret it. You don’t. You regret it again.

“I know.”

Huh.

The words are smooth. Soft, but pointed. As if you’ve confirmed something he’s always known but was waiting to see if you’d admit. You don’t know if you were excepting a bite to them, a sleek reveal of a bruised ego but what you were not was that slow, coiled calm that has no business feeling sexy in someone’s mouth.

Was it that obvious? Were you that obvious? You wait for elaboration on that but nothing comes.You watch his profile, the ridiculous slope of his nose, the glint of metal at his ear, you bracket for the assured curve of his lips but then again: nothing. He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t call you out, doesn’t accuse.

You can’t tell if he’s messing with you or if he means it — if he remembered your voice from a year-old phone call, if he recognized your silence tonight, if he sighted your stare in the reflection of the goddamn glass doors.

That sounds unreasonable so you don’t entertain the idea any more. "I'm not saying I hate you or anything." You add after a respite, withstanding, out of sheer principle. "In case you start thinking I'm some undercover journalist who's out to get you by making you slip up some horrible secret and ruin your career." You falter and your pupils dilate in some sort of enlightenment.

"Wait.. that does sound legitimate.." You breathe and he chuckles, chasmic. Straight from the core of his chest. Pretty.

You flush, hand tightening around the cigarette. "What I mean to say is that I mean no offense."

"None taken." That's all he gives you.

Another non-answer that sounds just close enough to a hum to pass for approval. It makes your eye twitch. The bluster in it is staggering. Like he’s heard every variation of insult and adoration and now catalogues them by scent.

“So you’re not bothered?” you ask.

“No.” For a second, the look in his eyes could melt paint from a canvas. “Should I be?”

You hesitate. You don’t know why you hesitate.

"No." You nearly choke on how dishonest it isn’t. You don’t want him to be bothered. You don’t want him to care.

And yet — there’s a morbid thrill in seeing if he will.

You angle yourself slightly toward him, careful not to break whatever tension is braided in the space between your bodies. The heat of him remains, even with a whole arm’s length untouched. You need the tilt of something else. So you pivot, words tumbling faster than thought.

“So,” you say, voice stripped bare. “Your turn.”

His brows lift, slow and unsurprised.

“For the secret,” you add, not giving him the chance to weasel out.

He considers. You can see it — the slight furrow at the edge of his brow, the twitch of his jaw, the progression of thought moving unhurried behind his eyes. The line of his mouth doesn’t change, but the solidity of it shifts.

“I need time,” he says at last, tapping the back of his fingers against the railing like it’s a piano.

“No time,” you counter, before he can wax poetic or poeticize wax or whatever the hell he’s about to do. “Actually, I’ll help. I’ll guess.”

“You’ll guess my secret.”

“Exactly. To speed things up.”

He sighs. Appealed, again, in that maddeningly low-key way that reads more indulgence than exasperation.

You straighten slightly, clear your throat. “You’ve got six toes on one foot.”

Taehyung shifts, and you hear the soft rustle of his jacket as he moves. One hand disappears into his pocket.You wonder if anything he does is ever clumsy. You want to see it. But to all appearances, no.

"You talk to plants. You whisper to them, atleast for the sake of dignity. Apologize when you forget to water them. You have at least one fiddle leaf fig in your apartment that’s seen you cry in a silk robe.”

He says nothing, which is infuriating in its own right. So, to punish him, you keep talking.

You tap your chin. “You cry when you're watching a Pixar movie."

As if to egg you on, he remains mum.

"You secretly hate the fame."

Oof.

“Okay..you’re secretly married to an heiress in Monaco but only out of obligation because her father saved your family from a blood feud—wait, is this why you smoke? To cope?”

You chance a glance at him then.

He’s still quiet, one brow slightly lifted, his mouth doing that thing again — where it thinks about smiling but chooses restraint instead. He hasn’t said a word. Just stands there, gaze unwavering, letting you dig your own grave with a shovel he probably forged.

"That's a hell lot of gusses. Are you sure you're not a fan?" He finally says. Dragged through just enough baritone to sound stuffy without needing help.

Not even close. But you lapse anyway, roll your eyes and resist the urge to melt into the railing beside you. You’ve been standing here too long, you think. Under this particular constellation of stars and scrutiny. Talking too much. Giving too much. Your mouth, again, has outpaced your sense.

"I'll pace myself." You mutter under your breath. His laugh is soft and bothersomely warm that sits like a pat on the head you didn’t ask for.

"Well?” you prompt, arms crossed now. Your cigarette’s been flicked away into the night, but the heat of it lingers at your fingertips. “Are you going to give me a real on--"

He cuts you off and offers. “I’ve been learning French.”

You blink.

That’s it? That’s the secret? You nearly threw your soul onto the balcony floor, and he came back with learning a forigen langauge?

You don’t hide your disbelief. You don’t even try. “That’s your big, mysterious secret?”

He shrugs. One-shoulder, elegant, unconcerned. “You wanted one.”

“French?” you repeat, deadpan. “Oh fuck off. That’s what you went with? That’s what you’re hiding from the world?”

His lip twitches and he whispers in a exaggerated manner. "You're the only one who knows."

Your face torsions into a grimace.

"See? That's why I didn't told anyone." The hand from his pocket slips out and he runs it over his jaw. There’s a ardency in his voice now, stretched and prearranged. “Because of that face you’re making.”

“What face?”

“The one that says I’m pretentious.”

“That’s because you are pretentious,” you say, eyes narrowed. “Learning French for fun?”

“Not for fun,” he corrects. "It's work. For Paris. I’ve got a event there next month.”

You groan in the quiet that returns,balmy and teeming.The metropolis hums below, ignorant of your little corner modeled out of smoke and shared breath.

You glance at him, brows pinched. “Say something in French, then.”

His head tilts, just slightly. “Huh?”

You square your stance, chin lifting, voice dipped in faux detachment. “Prove it, I mean.”

He blinks, slow. “Prove what.”

“That you’re not full of shit, Jesus."

His gaze slides across the space between you. Perhaps he was offened that you asked him to believe his nonsense. And you don’t believe that was anything but. A made up lie about how he has a hairless cat named Nietzsche and that would have charmed you more ‘I’ve been Duolingo-ing French in the dark.��

Then again, he had no reason to say something that would have entertained you. Why would he? You're no one. Not even his dedicated enthusiast that he feels bound to in some way. So, you beyond a shadow a doubt, don't expect him to even attempt.

“Je pense à toi plus souvent que je ne le devrais.”

Let alone say that many of words. They sky in ample, partly because of the tone, the tempo. Partly for the way it leaves his mouth already inflamed with meaning. The vowels roll soft in the back of his throat, mutilated just a little and for a brief, stupid moment, you forget you’ve just spent the last two hours being publicly, privately humiliated.

You blink, slow. “Wow. Okay. You're not lying but..?"

“But what?”

“What did that mean?”

The current tightens. Scarcely from the wind, in no manner from cold, but with pause. A single moment suspended by silence, thick and humming. You expect him to laugh, to shrug it off, to hand you back your question with a lopsided grin and a conveniently vague answer. You excepted a big headed translation of what he said, probably praised how beautiful his sternum is in the language of the romancers.

But the expectation that arrives is staining the moment. It thickens between you like honey slow-dripped over the edge of a knife. Definitely not the kind you can breathe through. You count five seconds. Then seven. Then forget to keep counting because definitely not when he eventunally moves. One slow step forward, a flux that cuts the space between your bodies down to a corruption.

Simply folds himself into your periphery. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to. The heat of him arrives before the shadow does. You can feel the slope of his body, the broadness of it, the made to measure frame of someone who was never taught to shrink. It sure does makes you do so.

You stand there with your neck craned, still leaning against the railing, still biting the inside of your cheek, still trying to remember what the fuck he just said. You told him to prove it. You hadn’t told him to make a meal out of it. But here you are, jaw locked and throat dry.

You lock eyes with him, by a nose. He’s taller up close — of course he is.He leans in a touch, eyes cutting toward the stub of a cigarette still between your fingers. Or what’s left of it. The lipstick ring, half-smudged, stares back up at you in a little flash of chagrin.

Before you can toss it — he reaches.

Two fingers, unhurried, brushing yours again as he plucks it from your hand. His skin grazes yours and you swear your breath stutters like a faulty wire. It’s warm. Calloused in the way expensive hands aren’t supposed to be.

He lifts the cigarette and turns it slowly, inspecting the end. The smear of your lipstick, the last traces of you still on it.He twirls it once between thumb and forefinger, then glances at you. “You said I have a habit,” he says. His voice is calm, low, threaded with that warm rust he never bothers polishing.

You say nothing. Your throat has turned treacherous.

He tucks it between his lips. Listlessly. Takes his time. Drags in smoke, hollow and full. Then he exhales through his nose.

“I’m starting to think you have one too.”

You narrow your eyes, jaw tight. “What.”

His next words come darker. A commodity less said than laid down in front of you.

“A habit of asking questions you don’t want answers to.”

Your breath hits you crooked. You press your lips together, try to will sensation back into your legs. The silence stretches between you again, full of heat and that despicable prescience that he hasn’t broken it, because he doesn’t need to.Your mouth stays shut. It's not used to being without an opinion. He’s taken that from you too, somehow. The only sound you make is a shaky exhale, quiet enough to be mistaken for wind.

Your gaze follows his to his wrist, where his watch glints faintly beneath the low light, that watch you’d mocked internally for being too shiny, too sumptuous-looking, too aware of its own importance. You don’t know what he reads in the time, but he makes a soft sound, a breath, maybe a sigh, latterly he shrugs. The shoulders of his jacket shift, roll, and then, before your body can react, he’s pulling his arms free.

That black, unbothered thing of a jacket, the one that smelled like amber and ash and subtle conceit. He holds it for a second in his hands, then swings it gently, stupidly, over your shoulders.

Your first instinct is to shove it off, slap his hand away, say something defensive that hides how everything in you is currently rioting.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice splintered at the ends.

You don’t know what’s more disorienting. The unexpected gesture or the sheer weight of it. The jacket is heavy, still warm from his body, lined with something smooth that smells criminally luxurious, smoke and vetiver and a note you can’t name but feel in your knees. It swallows you instantly, hangs too wide over your frame, sleeves grazing knuckles you didn’t realize were clenched.

You stiffen, hands raised as if the fabric might detonate.

“No—no, I’m fine,” you protest, reaching to return it, but his hand catches your wrist, gently. Not holding you there, just… halting the motion. His fingers barely curve around your skin.

"I'm trying to be a gentleman." he says, eyes soft but voice gravel-edged. "I am a gentleman, actually."

You almost snort, but your throat tightens too fast for it to come out fully. Good thing, you decide. Otherwise, you would’nt have trusted yourself not to speak up on the think pieces, The fan-written fever dreams about how Taehyung held a door open once and that made him the reincarnation of chivalry itself.

Kim Taehyung, the article said, is a gentleman — he's out to get your poor heart because Kim Taehyung is the refined man of our modern times who asks before he touches, and never forgets a name.

You’d rolled your eyes so hard they clicked. You’d said aloud, to no one in particular, yeah, I bet. And yet here you are. Swaddled in the evidence.

Before you can launch into your next indignation, he speaks again — this time with a glint, a grin that blooms crooked at the edges and threatens to bring down whatever composure you’ve reassembled prior to disappearing away back to the glow.

“It was nice finally meeting you, ceo of Mars."

A/N: it does not end here!! tumblrs just shit and got me with its word limit but I will not be stopped and you can keep reading from here <3

218 notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 9 hours ago

Text

Radio Silence | Epilogue

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, time jumps, slice of life.

Notes — There are no words, really. I hope you cherish all of the tiny, specific details I added here. I spent a lot of time on it. Yes, I will possibly write some additional snapshots/oneshots of their future.

2025

Autism, Womanhood, and the Mechanics of Belonging by Amelia Norris

Autism presents itself in females in many ways.

Sometimes invisibly. Often misdiagnosed. Frequently misunderstood.

In me, it’s always looked like this: a difficulty with eye contact. An inability to read the curve of someone’s mouth or the sharp edges hidden beneath their tone. I learned early how to catalogue expressions the way other girls my age collected dolls — not for fun, but for function. A survival skill. A flash of teeth? Friendly. Or hostile. Or forced. Raised eyebrows? Surprise. Maybe judgment. Maybe not.

Memorising made things manageable. Predictable. Less scary.

Sarcasm took longer. I still miss it, sometimes. I can design a suspension system from scratch, but I’ll still turn to my husband after a conversation and ask, “Was that a joke?”

It used to bother me. It doesn’t anymore.

Touch has always been strange, too. I don’t like uninvited contact. Hugs feel like puzzles with warped edges — familiar in theory, but always a little off. It’s not dislike. It’s friction between my nervous system and the world. I used to think that meant something was wrong with me.

I was wrong.

I’m not broken. I’m just calibrated differently.

And then there’s the focus.

When I was a child, it was Formula 1. Not the drivers, not the glamour — the systems. The telemetry. The pit stop choreography. The physics. The math hidden inside motion. While other kids learned to swim, I was memorising tyre degradation patterns. While girls my age planned birthday parties, I was building aerodynamic models from cereal boxes.

I didn’t understand how to be part of the world I’d been born into.

But I always understood how cars moved through it.

That obsession became a career — eventually. But not right away.

My father, Zak Brown, became the CEO of McLaren Racing. I thought that would be an advantage. I was wrong again. He loved me, but he didn’t know how to take me seriously. I brought ideas. He catalogued them without thought. I handed him data. He passed it off to other people without remembering I’d written it.

He didn’t mean to hurt me — but he did. In a hundred careless ways.

Enough to make me leave.

I was already seeing Lando, quietly. It was early. Tentative. I was cautious because I didn’t always understand people. He was cautious because he was getting advice, loud, well-meaning advice, not to date the boss’s daughter.

He disappeared on me for a while. And I didn’t understand why.

I remember thinking: I must have done something wrong and not realised it.

But I hadn’t.

Eventually, he came back. Explained. Apologised. We learned each other slowly, and not always easily — but deeply.

Around the same time, I left McLaren. I took a job at Red Bull. Not for revenge. For recognition.

Max Verstappen didn’t care who my father was. He cared that I understood race pace like a second language. We won two championships together.

And in the meantime — Lando and I kept finding our way back to each other. Every time, more solid than before.

Eventually, I came back to papaya. But on my terms. Not as Zak’s daughter. As a lead engineer. With Oscar by my side and Lando in a car I had helped design, shaped precisely to fit his hands, his shoulders, his driving style.

Then I had my daughter. Ada.

And the hyper-focus I’ve carried my whole life shifted again — narrowed, but deepened.

It’s still data. Still equations and airflow and lap deltas. But it’s also Lando, who stopped having to ask to touch me years ago. Who doesn’t need explanations but still listens when I give them.

It’s Ada — glorious, curious, sticky. Who throws glitter onto my schematics and insists I help her fix the broken boosters on her cardboard spaceship with grunts and wife, pleading eyes.

It’s both of them.

And the quiet, terrifying vastness of being truly understood.

My autism didn’t vanish when I became a wife. It didn’t soften when I became a mother. I am still who I have always been: meticulous, sensitive, blunt. I still script my voicemails. I still shut down when I’m overstimulated. I still have meltdowns. I still need more sleep than most people and can’t fucntion in rooms with flickering lights.

But I’ve grown. I’ve adapted. I’ve made peace not just with structure, but with chaos. With change. With soft interruptions. With a life I never thought I’d be able to build.

I’ve created a life where I don’t have to perform.

I just get to be.

And for the first time, I’m letting people see me. All of me.

Which is why I’m writing this.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

Because somewhere, there’s a teenage girl memorising lap times and scared she doesn’t belong in a world that moves too loud, too fast, too unclearly.

Because I wish I’d known sooner that I wasn’t alone.

Today, I’m proud to announce the launch of NeuroDrive — a foundation dedicated to mentoring, supporting, and funding autistic young women pursuing careers in motorsport.

We’ll be offering scholarships. Internships. Mentorship. Resources. Community.

From engineering to analytics to logistics to aero to comms — every role that makes this sport move.

I want these girls to know that their focus is a gift.

Their precision is power.

Their minds are brilliant.

I want them to know they don’t need to hide.

There’s room for them here. There’s room for all of us.

And they belong — fully, loudly, exactly as they are — in motorsport.

With hope, Amelia Norris

—

Amelia sat back from her laptop screen.

She hadn’t meant to write it all in one frantic breath. It had just… unfurled. A loose thread tugged gently free at the edge of the day, unraveling steadily until it wove itself into something whole.

She stared at the last line. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, then lowered to her lap. She exhaled.

Behind her, the wooden floor creaked softly.

A moment later, familiar arms wrapped gently around her waist — warm, unhurried. Lando pressed a kiss just behind her ear, right in that small, quiet space that always made her flinch less than anywhere else.

“She’s asleep,” Lando murmured, voice low and amused. “Finally. Made me sing the rocket song. Twice. And do the hand movements.”

Amelia huffed a small, warm laugh but didn’t turn. “You hate the hand movements.”

“I hate them passionately,” he said, bending slightly to press a kiss to the space just behind her ear. “But she likes them. And I happen to love her enough to tolerate them.”

She could feel him smiling against her skin.

The sea air had slipped in through the open balcony doors behind them, warm and salt-tinged, carrying the gentle hum of nighttime Monaco.

Lando’s arms slid comfortably around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder and peered at the screen. “Let me read it?” He asked after a pause.

“You already know all of it,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he replied, nudging her temple with his nose. “But I like hearing it in your words.”

She didn’t answer, not with words anyway. She just leaned into him, letting her body relax in increments. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer before dropping quietly to her lap. Her pulse, which had been buzzing all evening, finally slowed. The cursor blinked in the corner of the screen — steady, patient, waiting.

She would post the piece eventually. Maybe not tonight. But soon. She’d promised the women helping her build NeuroDrive that the launch would be personal, rooted in something real — something true. And this essay… it was all of that. Raw and oddly fragile. But hers.

Behind them, the linen curtains shifted in the breeze.

“I think she likes it here,” Lando murmured, after a few minutes had passed in quiet. “Monaco.”

Amelia blinked, surfacing. “Ada?”

“Yeah. I had her out on the balcony earlier. She liked the sun.”

“She gets that from you,” Amelia said, dry as ever.

He laughed softly. “She does like the heat. More than I expected.”

“She likes everything here,” Amelia admitted, watching the night settle over the marina. “The boats. The water. Max’s cats.”

“She said ‘cat’ three times yesterday,” Lando said proudly.

“She’s five months old, Lando. It was probably just gas.”

“No,” he insisted. “She looked right at Jimmy and said it. Loudly.”

“Well, Jimmy did bite her toy rocket.” She said, her lips twitching at the memory of her daughter’s appalled face as the cat attacked her beloved stuffy.

Lando huffed a laugh. “Valid reaction.”

They both fell quiet again, lulled by the rhythm of the moment. Amelia let her gaze drift across the open-plan living space of their Monaco apartment; all soft neutrals and clean angles, intentionally simple.

This was Ada’s first real stretch of time here. The first time Monaco would ever feel like home to their daughter, not just a temporary stop between England and wherever Lando was racing next. Amelia had worried about that — the splitness of things. Of belonging to multiple places but never fully resting in one. But Ada, with all her glittering confidence and stubborn joy, didn’t seem to mind.

“She doesn’t mind the change,” Amelia said quietly. “She just… adapts. Quicker than I do.”

“You’ve been adapting longer,” Lando said simply. “She’s still new. You had to learn the hard way.”

“I’m still learning,” Amelia admitted.

He brushed his lips against her cheek, slow and careful. “I love how your mind works,” he said. “I loved it when I didn’t understand it, and I love it even more now that I do.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight in the familiar, unwieldy way that happened when someone saw her too clearly. “It’s almost done,” she said, nodding toward the document. “Just a few more edits. Then I’ll post it. The site’s ready. The social channels are scheduled. The first mentorship emails go out next week.”

He squeezed her waist gently. “You built a whole new system, baby.”

“I built a team,” she said, glancing at the screen. “It’s not just going to be mine.”

He nodded. “You’re going to change lives, baby.”

“Hopefully not just change them,” she said. “Build them. Design them. Like a car.”

He grinned into her hair. “You and your car metaphors.”

“I don’t use them that often.” She frowned.

“Mm. You’re right. Only four times a day.”

He was teasing her. The lopsided smile, squinty eyes and tiny red splotches on his cheekbones told her so.

She rolled her eyes but leaned back into him anyway. Lando’s arms around her. Ada safe and sleeping. The sea just a five minute drive from their inner-city apartment.

It didn’t matter that the cursor was still blinking on her screen.

She’d found her place in the world; or built it, piece by piece.

And she was going to help other girls do the same.

—

@/NeuroDriveOrg Today, we’re launching NeuroDrive: a charity organisation formed to empower autistic women in motorsport — because brilliance comes in many forms, and it’s time we celebrate every one of them. Find out more and discover how to get involved by clicking the link below. #NeuroDriveLaunch

Replies:

@/f1_galaxy

OMG AMELIA???? This is so crazy but I’m so here for it!! #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/racecarrebel

Autistic and a gearhead? That’s me lol. Signing up right now!

@/sarcasticengineer

wait so I can geek out about torque and not pretend i get social cues? literally a dream

@/cartoonkid420

*gif of a car drifting sideways* When you realize your fave F1 engineer is actually a real-life superhero #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/chillaxbro

Amelia Norris (CEO) IKTR

@/maxverman

Yk honestly big ups to @/AmeliaNorris for making this happen. What a woman.

@/indylewis

This being the first post I see when I open this app after my diagnosis review? CINEMA.

@/f1mobtality

BEAUTIFUL. INCREDIBLE. AMAZING. BREATHTAKING. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/notlewisbutclose LEWIS ON THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS? IKTR MY KING

@/LewisHamilton Proud to see and have a hand in making initiatives like NeuroDrive happen. It’s about time that we start making strides to pave the way for real diversity in motorsport. Change is coming, and it’s about time. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/landostrollfan99 PLS I KNOW LANDO IS CRASHING OUT BC HE’S SO PROUD OF HIS WIFEY RN

@/NeuroDriveOrg Thank you everyone for all the love! Our virtual mentorship program opens next week; sign up to be part of the first cohort! Over 18’s can sign up themselves, but anyone younger must have parental consent. Thanks, Amelia.

@/AnnieAnalyst

My mom has been a hardcore motorsport fan for decades. She’s on the spectrum. She’s found such joy in watching Amelia Norris take the F1 world by storm over the past eight years. I know that she’s going to be so happy about this. Can’t wait to tell her.

@/samliverygoat

This is sick. I’m a guy, but my sister is eight and autistic and wants to be a mechanic. I’m gonna tell my mum about this and get her signed up. Big ups your wife @/LandoNorris

—

Lando woke slowly, the Monaco morning sun spilling in through gauzy curtains and casting pale gold across their bedroom. The room was still, quiet in that delicate way that meant someone had been awake for a while already.

He blinked, then turned toward the warm shape beside him; and stopped, his breath catching slightly at the sight.

Amelia was sitting upright against the headboard, hair pulled into a messy knot, one arm curled around Ada who was nestled into her chest, half-asleep and nursing. Her other hand held her phone, screen dimmed low. She was speaking quietly — not in a cooing baby voice, but in her normal cadence, clipped and slightly analytical.

“…recognises familiar people, understands simple instructions, imitates gestures, like clapping or waving; well, I’ve literally never seen you wave unless it’s to say goodbye to your own socks.” She frowned.

Lando smiled into his pillow, eyes still half-closed.

Amelia glanced down at Ada, who blinked up at her with wide eyes and a dribble of milk on her chin.

“That’s fine. You’re spatially efficient already.”

“Are we reading milestone checklists?” Lando’s voice was thick with sleep, rough-edged and fond.

Amelia didn’t jump, didn’t even look away from her screen. “It’s her birthday. I thought I should make sure she’s not developmentally behind.”

“She’s licking your elbow,” he pointed out.

“Which is not on the list,” she sighed.

Lando scooted closer, propping himself up on one elbow to see them both better. Ada detached with a soft sigh, then yawned, full-bodied and squeaky. Amelia adjusted her shirt without ceremony and let Ada rest against her, one hand gently stroking her hair.

“She’s perfect,” he said, leaning over to kiss the crown of Ada’s head, then Amelia’s shoulder. “Milestones or not.”

Amelia hesitated. “She’s not pointing at things. That’s apparently a big one.”

“She screamed at Max’s cats until they moved out of her way, does that count?”

Amelia hummed in thought. “I suppose we could classify that as assertive communication.”

They sat like that for a minute, wrapped in the warm hush of early light and baby breaths. Monaco in June was hazy and beautiful, a perfect little jewel box of a day already unfolding around them.

“Do you think she knows it’s her birthday?” Lando asked, voice still low.

“No,” Amelia said simply. “Probably not. But we do.” She glanced down at their daughter again, something unreadable, almost too tender, flickering behind her eyes. “I know it’s been a year since I stopped being one version of myself and started being another.”

Lando’s hand found hers where it rested on Ada’s tiny back. “Yeah, baby?”

Amelia tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. I feel… broader. Like I can stretch in more directions now.”

He smiled. “You’re perfect.”

Ada, half-asleep, made a soft gurgling sound and grabbed Amelia’s Lando necklace in one surprisingly strong fist.

Lando leaned in again, voice warmer now. “Happy birthday, sweet little pea,” he whispered to Ada, then kissed Amelia’s jaw. “And happy birth-day to you.”

Amelia made a face. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is,” he insisted. “You did all the work. You should get recognition too.”

“I suppose.” She considered it for a minute. “Does that mean I should congratulate you on the anniversary of her conception?”

She was being serious — which was why he just smiled instead of laughing the way he desperately wanted to. “If you want to, baby.”

She nodded and catalogued that away in the small corner of her brain that contained a long list of dates that mattered most to her.

She think about it like this: dates she will never forget. Not because she wrote them down, but because they’re carved into the soft machinery of who she is.

October 9th — Her mother’s birthday.

November 7th – Her father’s birthday.

December 12th, 2021 – Max’s first championship win.

July 5th, 2022 — Her wedding day.

July 2nd, 2023 – Oscar’s first Grand Prix start.

May 5th, 2024 – The day Lando won his first race.

June 30th, 2024 – The day Ada was born.

She’s always catalogued things.

It made the world digestible.

But those dates don’t need charts or colour codes.

They live in her like heat. Like heartbeat. Like gravity.

Later, there would be cake. Balloons. Chaos. Max will appear with sacks full of wrapped gifts. Ada will probably eat something that she isn’t supposed to.

Lando takes Ada into his arms and lifts her above his head, blowing a bubble at her with his lips.

She drools sleepily, and Amelia winces when milky bile spills from her mouth.

Yeah. Not a good idea to jostle a well-fed baby.

Lando made a face and then used his t-shirt to wipe their little girls’ lip clean.

She stared at him.

And at their small, wondrous girl.

A year old.

—

Seventeen Years Later

The sky was brightening in soft lavender layers over the marina. Monaco looked almost quiet for once — like it was holding its breath.

Ada sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, her back pressed to the base of her mother’s old desk. The drawer had stuck for years, warped with sea air, but today it had slid open easily. Like it had been waiting for her.

Inside: one neatly folded sheet of thick paper. Her name was written in the corner in her mum’s handwriting. Clean, sharp letters.

She unfolded it carefully, even though part of her already knew what kind of letter this would be. Not sentimental. Not flowery. Not emotional in the ways people expected. But honest.

My beautiful Ada,

I’m writing this on your first birthday.

You’re asleep right now — finally — with vanilla frosting in your hair and a purple sock on one foot and not the other. Your daddy’s asleep too, mouth open, curled around the giraffe that Maxie gave you today. I should be sleeping. But I’m here, writing this. That probably says a lot.

I don’t know who you’ll be yet. Not really.

Maybe you’ll love numbers the way I do. Maybe you’ll throw yourself into art, or animals, or flight, or noise. Maybe you’ll carry the softness your father wears so easily. Maybe you’ll burn hot like me and never quite know how to dim it.

Or maybe, hopefully, you’ll be entirely your own: unshaped by us, unafraid of being too much or not enough.

All I know is this: whoever you are, whoever you become, I will love you without condition and without needing to fully understand.

Because understanding is not a prerequisite for love. It never has been.

I want to get everything right. I won’t. I already know that.

But I promise I will try. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

I will learn what you need from me, over and over again, as you change and grow and outpace me. I will listen — even when I don’t know what to say. I will ask you what you need, and believe you the first time.

Love isn’t easy for me in the way it is for your daddy. I don’t always say the right thing, or give affection in the way people expect. But please know: I love you with everything I have. In every way I know how.

It may not always look loud or obvious. But it will be real. And it will never leave you.

I will always be in your corner.

Even if I’m quiet.

Even if I’m late.

Even if I’m gone.

Always.

— Mum

The letter smelled faintly of ink and something older; lavender, maybe, or the ghost of her mum’s favourite perfume. Ada folded it carefully along the worn creases and slid it back into its envelope, fingers tracing the edge before getting up and going back to her bedroom, tucking it inside the drawer of her nightstand.

The light from the marina hadn’t reached this side of the house yet, but the sea breeze had — soft and salt-laced through the open windows. Ada padded barefoot across the wooden floor, familiar as the lines on her own palm, and moved quietly into the hallway.

The balcony door was already ajar.

Her mother was there, as she always was on mornings like this — perched in her usual chair, legs tucked under her body, a latte cradled in both hands. Her hair was scraped back in a low twist, pale in the early morning light, and she hadn’t noticed Ada yet.

Amelia was humming. Softly. Tunelessly. A little stim she’d done for as long as Ada could remember.

Ada hesitated in the doorway, just for a moment.

Then she stepped forward, slow and quiet. Climbed into her mother’s lap without a word, curling against her like she was still small enough to belong there.

Amelia stilled for half a breath. Then she shifted, just slightly — letting her daughter fit against her without comment or tension. One hand settled over Ada’s spine. The other stayed wrapped around the ceramic heat of her cup.

She didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she kept humming. A low, constant thread of sound that vibrated in Ada’s ribs as she pressed her cheek to her mother’s shoulder.

They watched the sun climb over the harbour. The light came in slow and sure, brushing over the rooftops and catching on the water in amber fragments.

Amelia didn’t speak. She just held her daughter. One hand stroking the same pattern — left shoulder to elbow, up and back again.

And Ada breathed. Steady. Whole.

She was older now; too big, probably, to sit in her small statured mum’s lap like this. But not today. Not just yet.

In her mother’s arms, she was still allowed to be small.

Still allowed to be quiet.

Still allowed to simply be.

And Amelia, in the language she had always known best, presence over words, held her through it.

As the light shifted across the sea, the only sound between them was the soft hiss of foam against porcelain. The familiar hum. The heartbeat of love — silent, constant, and entirely understood.

—

2025

It was impossible to sum up the 2025 season in any cohesive way.

There were days she felt like she was balancing on the tip of a needle.

Her car was perfect. That much was undeniable. For the first time since she’d begun clawing her way through every door that had once been locked to her, the machine under her boys wasn’t just competitive — it was untouchable. Fast on every compound. Nimble in the wet. Ferocious in the hands of a driver who knew how to take it to the edge.

And she had two of them. Two.

Oscar and Lando.

Her driver. Her husband.

It would have made a weaker team combust.

But McLaren hadn’t combusted. Not yet, anyway. Not under her watch.

Oscar had grown into himself in ways that still caught her off guard — all lean control and precision, carrying the ice-veined patience of someone who had watched others take what he knew he was capable of. He drove like someone with nothing left to prove and everything still to take.

And Lando... Lando had grown, too.

There were days he was still impossibly frustrating — still too harsh on himself, too reactive on the radio, still hurt in ways she couldn’t always patch. But he was stronger now. Calmer. Faster. And he trusted her. Not blindly, not because he loved her — but because he believed in her. Her mind. Her leadership. Her.

Every race had been a coin toss. Oscar or Lando. Lando or Oscar. Strategy calls had to be clinical. Unbiased. And every week she made them with the knowledge that whatever she chose could cost someone she loved the chance at something immortal.

She wouldn’t let herself flinch.

Not when the margins were this razor-thin.

Not when the car was finally everything she’d spent her life trying to build.

When the upgrades landed and they locked out the front row, she didn’t smile. She just stared at the data until the lines blurred, heart thudding, and told herself she’d allow joy when it was over.

When they took each other out in Silverstone; barely a racing incident, but brutal nonetheless, she didn’t speak to anyone for two hours. Just shut herself in the sim office and breathed through the silence until the tightness left her hands.

When they went 1-2 in Singapore, swapping fastest laps down to the final sector, she didn’t even hear the cheers. She just watched the replay of the overtake again. And again. And again.

Precision. Patience. Courage.

They had everything. And they were hers — in the only ways that mattered in this arena. Oscar, her driver. Lando, her husband. Both brilliant. Both stubborn. Both driving the car she had finally, finally perfected.

In the garage, she never played favourites.

In the dark, she ached with the weight of both of them.

Now, the season was nearly over. One race to go. One title on the line. Between them.

And Amelia?

She felt something not quite like calm. Not quite like pride.

Something vaster.

She didn’t know who would win. She truly didn’t. She wasn’t even sure if she had a preference. Her love for Lando, loud and chaotic, as real as gravity, lived beside her fierce loyalty to Oscar, who had never once asked her to earn his trust, only to maintain it.

She loved them differently. But she loved them both.

And whatever the final points tally read, whatever flag waved first in Abu Dhabi, it would not change what she’d built. What they’d built. A machine so complete, so purely competitive, that the only person who could beat it was someone inside of it.

That, she thought, was the mark of something enduring.

And in the quiet before the finale, Amelia allowed herself a breath of pride so deep it nearly broke her open.

It wasn’t about the trophy anymore.

It was about the fact that the world had doubted her. Them.

And now they couldn’t look away.

—

2026

Amelia had been keeping a spreadsheet. Of course she had.

A private one — just a simple, tucked-away Google Sheet with six columns: Developmental milestone, Average age, Ada’s age, Observed behaviour, Paediatricians’ notes, and Feelings (which she almost always left blank).

She updated it weekly. Sometimes daily. Just in case.

And she knew, clinically, that speech development wasn’t one-size-fits-all. That some children talked at eight months and others waited until twenty. That it was normal, even healthy, for some toddlers to take their time.

But normal never did much to soothe her.

Especially not when the silence had started to feel louder than it should.

Ada babbled — just not much. She gestured, pointed, tugged their hands, grunted with specific frustration when her needs weren’t met. She understood them. That wasn’t in question. But her lips hadn’t shaped a word yet. Not one.

At twenty-two months, Amelia was trying not to spiral. But her spreadsheet had too many empty cells. Too many quiet mornings.

“Maybe she just doesn’t have anything she feels like saying yet,” Lando said one night, rolling onto his side to face her in bed. Ada had gone down late and Amelia had spent the evening researching speech therapy assessments and second-language interference.

“She should have at least one word by now,” Amelia muttered, eyes on her screen.

“She’s got plenty. She just hasn’t said them out loud.” Lando reached out, nudged the laptop closed. “She’s fine. You know she’s fine.”

Amelia sighed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

She wanted to believe him. She really did.

—

The next afternoon, Ada was with them in the garage — tucked into her earmuffs and her tiniest McLaren hoodie, perched in her playpen while Amelia ran final aero checks on a new floor configuration. Lando had stopped by between simulator sessions and was now crouched beside Ada, offering her a padded torque wrench like it was a teddy bear.

Amelia looked up from her laptop, distracted by a little squeal.

Ada had pressed both palms against the concrete floor. And a smudge of oil had made its way across her hand.

She looked at it, then at Lando, wide-eyed.

Then she scrunched up her nose, a perfect mirror of her mother’s expression, and said, clearly and without hesitation, “Yucky.”

Lando blinked. Froze. Then looked up at Amelia, stunned.

“Did you—? Did she just—?”

Amelia’s heart felt like it missed a step. Her head jerked up so fast she hit the underside of the wing she’d been crouched under.

“Ow—shit—”

Lando was already lifting Ada out of the playpen, laughing in disbelief, oil smudge and all.

“Say it again,” he coaxed gently. “Yucky? Yucky, bug?”

Ada just beamed at him and smacked his cheek with her dirty little hand, leaving a streak behind. “Yucky,” she declared again, giggling like she knew exactly what she’d done.

Amelia didn’t know whether to cry or pass out.

She walked over in a daze, eyes locked on her daughter. “She said it. She actually said—”

“Yeah,” Lando said, grinning. “You heard it too, right? I’m not making this up?”

“No,” Amelia said, soft and stunned. “I heard it.”

Then she reached for Ada without hesitation. Let her daughter press her messy little face into her neck and pat her collarbone with smudged fingers.

Yucky.

It wasn’t what she expected.

But it was perfect.

—

2027

Grid kid.

Ada Norris was a grid kid.

Not the official kind, with a lanyard and uniform and carefully timed steps. She wasn’t old enough for any of that. She wasn’t even tall enough to reach the front wing of her father’s car without climbing onto someone’s knee.

But she was there — always. Like a mascot, a comet, a little bit of joy wrapped in neon.

At three years old, Ada had developed a sense of style entirely her own. This week, it was neon pink. Head to toe. From the glittery bucket hat she refused to remove, to her sparkly tulle tutu layered over orange papaya leggings, to the pink Crocs decorated with star-shaped charms.

She stuck out like a sore thumb against the rest of the paddock; all matte branding and fireproof greys. But nobody dared to comment.

She was Ada.

Everyone knew Ada.

She’d grown up within the walls of paddocks. Learned to walk behind the McLaren hospitality motorhome in Hungary. Her first solid food had been a biscuit stolen off Oscar’s pre-race snack plate. Her mini paddock-pass gave her access to every team’s motorhome, just in case she got lost and needed a soft place to land.

By now, she knew the names of every mechanic, every engineer, and every race director on the rotating FIA schedule. She greeted them all by name. Correctly. And she remembered who liked what kind of sweets.

The media barely saw her. That was a conscious boundary. Amelia — razor-sharp, unbothered by PR expectations — had drawn the line early and made it immovable. No up-close photos of Ada’s face. No intrusive questions. If Ada wanted to be public someday, that would be her choice — not something sold for a headline before she could spell her name.

But within the paddock itself, Ada was a fixture. A streak of colour and mischief. Fiercely protected. Fiercely loved.

And she had routines. Rituals, really.

One of them involved storming onto the grid like she owned it (Amelia walked slowly behind), pushing past engineers and camera rigs, and beelining toward two very important people.

The first: her uncle.

“Ducky!”

Oscar turned the moment he heard her voice, already crouching down with open arms. He was in his race suit, grinning like he hadn’t just been pacing with nerves ten seconds earlier.

“Oi,” he said, “that’s not my name, trouble.”

“But it’s what Mummy calls you!” Ada argued, already climbing into his lap like a koala. “I remember!”

“She’s got you there, mate,” Lando called from a few feet away, amusement curling through his voice.

Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned forward for his good luck kiss. Ada planted a dramatic one on his cheek, complete with a mwah sound effect, then hopped off and marched across the grid to Lando.

Her daddy.

He crouched before she even reached him. She barrelled into his arms with the enthusiasm of a girl who had never once doubted she would be caught.

“You ready, Ada Bug?” he asked as he scooped her up.

“Ready!” she chirped.

“Gonna give me a boost?”

She nodded solemnly, then leaned forward to kiss him right on the tip of the nose — her signature move. Soft, sticky-lipped from the fruit pouch she'd insisted on finishing on the way in. Then she whispered, very seriously, “Be fast. And be smart. Love you, Daddy.”

Amelia, standing just behind them, caught Lando’s expression shift; just a fraction. A sudden, raw quiet behind his eyes. He pulled Ada closer, briefly, wordlessly. Pressed his nose into her hair.

Then, carefully, he passed her back to Amelia.

Amelia took her easily — muscle memory now — resting Ada against her hip like a second heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her crossbody bag with her free hand and took a long sip of her iced coffee.

“Drive fast,” she said evenly, meeting Lando’s eyes.

He smirked faintly, already turning back toward his car.

“Be safe,” she added.

He nodded once, familiar rhythm.

And then, casually, almost too casually, she added, “I’m pregnant.”

He froze. One step from the car. “What?”

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, softer this time. No smile, no build-up — just fact, like announcing the weather.

They hadn’t expected it. Not exactly. They’d been trying for a few months, hopeful but guarded. Amelia had been tracking everything — methodical as ever — but refusing to let herself get too wrapped up in the outcomes. Lando had taken a more gentle approach. Faith over control. He’d just kept telling her, It’ll happen when it happens. We’re already a family.

And now it was happening.

For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move.

Then he turned fully — slow, like gravity had stopped working — and blinked at her.

Ada, oblivious, was babbling about how she wanted to wave the checkered flag today and if Max’s cats could come to the garage next time.

But Lando only stared at Amelia.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice cracking wide open. “Holy shit.”

Amelia’s mouth tilted upward. Barely.

He was already in his race suit, just minutes from lights out, about to hurtle into one of the most competitive qualifying sessions of the season — but suddenly, he looked younger. Dazed. Entirely undone.

His hands hovered in the air like he wanted to reach for her — didn’t know where to begin.

And Amelia, ever precise, ever composed, leaned in and kissed him. Quick. Solid. Grounding.

“We’ll be fine,” she murmured against his lips. “We always are.”

“Another baby?” he whispered, reverent.

She nodded.

Lando let out a breath. One hand came up to his chest like he needed to physically hold it all in — the awe, the fear, the quiet wonder of it.

Then his comm crackled: “Two minutes to final call.”

He blinked. Straightened. Looked at his wife. Then at his daughter. Then back again.

“Okay,” he said, drawing in one last steadying breath. “Right. Fast. Clever. Safe.”

“Love you,” Amelia told him.

“Love you,” he echoed, already stepping toward Will, adrenaline and awe carrying him forward.

Ada tugged gently on Amelia’s shirt.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go and tell Maxie you’re gonna have a baby?” she asked, eyes wide and serious.

Amelia bit back a laugh and turned them toward the edge of the grid. Her mum was already waiting near Lando’s garage to take over babysitting duty.

“Not yet. Your daddy drives better with adrenaline,” she said, adjusting Ada’s ponytail with one hand, “but your Uncle Maxie gets distracted. We’ll tell Maxie another time, okay?”

“When?” Ada asked, frowning a little.

“I think… we’ll tell him next week. At the wedding.”

Ada’s face lit up. “I can’t wait to wear my pretty dress, Mummy!”

Amelia kissed her forehead, pulling her a little closer as they weaved between team personnel.

“I know, baby,” she said softly. “You’re going to look beautiful.”

—

202X

He did it.

The air was electric. No — it was charged, like the world itself had paused mid-spin to catch its breath.

Lando stood on the top step of the podium, champagne in one hand, heart in his throat. There were tears in his eyes — real ones, wild and stinging, completely unfiltered. His face was flushed, soaked from the spray, but his grin was a thing of pure, stunned wonder.

He’d done it.

World Champion.

A cheer rolled across the circuit like thunder. The fireworks lit up the sky behind him in great booming waves, streaks of orange and silver and gold — and below, just past the glittering wall of photographers, she was there.

Amelia.

The crowd blurred. The moment blurred. But she didn’t.

She stood at the base of the podium steps, her hair tousled from wind and chaos, arms crossed tightly across her chest like if she didn’t hold herself together she might simply combust. Her eyes were glassy. Her face unreadable — until it wasn’t.

Until he stepped down and reached for her.

Until she moved without hesitation.

He caught her with the kind of ease that didn’t need choreography — years of knowing her weight, her stillness, her everything. His arms wrapped around her middle, and before she could say a word, he spun her. Under the lights. Under the fireworks. Under the full, beating heart of a decade in the making.

Her laugh cracked open the noise. Her legs curled up instinctively. Her hands dug into the back of his fire suit.

She said his name, just once. No title. No superlatives. No team radio.

Just him.

Lando.

He set her down slowly, like she was fragile, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast — but she leaned forward and kissed him, hard, on the corner of his mouth, where the champagne had pooled and the smile wouldn’t quite leave.

The world spun again.

And somewhere, behind it all, Ada was being passed from Oscar to George to Max to Amelia’s mother, hands raised above the crowd as she screamed, “Daddy, daddy, daddy!”

@/f1

Lando Norris is the 202X Formula One World Champion.

What a season. What a finish. What a moment. 🧡👑 #WDC #LandoNorris #F1

@/mclaren

No words. Just joy.

Congratulations, Lando. You’ve earned every second of this.

And yes — that podium was everything. No, we’re not crying, you’re crying. 🧡🧡🧡

@/formulawivesclub

There is NOTHING more powerful than a man who wins the WDC and immediately spins his wife under literal fireworks. Iconic. Romantic. Cinematic. I am unwell. 😭😭😭

#WifeOfTheChampion #AmeliaNorris #PowerCouple

@/uncleducky44

the most magical WDC celebration this sport has seen in decades. maybe forever. PAPAYA ON TOP

@/maxverstappen1

*photo of Ada asleep on his shoulder post-podium, wearing her dad’s cap*

she said she had to stay up to see the champion. i think she made it to the fireworks. ❤️

—

202X

Final lap.

The sun was setting in streaks of copper and violet. Floodlights cast the track in electric brilliance, shadows long and sharp. And the world was holding its breath.

Oscar Piastri led by six seconds.

Not enough to coast. Not when Lando was behind him.

Not when the championship hung in the balance — years of sweat and heartbreak and razor-wire precision culminating in this.

From the pit wall, Amelia’s voice came through steady and clear.

“Final sector. No traffic. You’re clear. Bring it home, Ducky.”

No theatrics. No screaming. Just her voice, the one constant he’d had for the entirety of his F1 career. Focused. Fierce. Full of something rare and warm and undiluted: belief.

“Copy,” Oscar said, breath hitching.

And then, in the most un-Oscar voice imaginable — thick with feeling, stripped raw, “…I don’t think I’m breathing.”

She laughed. A beautiful, cracked little sound. The comms team didn’t mute it. No one could. “Please breathe.”

He crossed the line a moment later. P1.

The fireworks hit the sky immediately; red and gold and brilliant. The pitman and garages erupted. McLaren, orange-clad and screaming, split open with euphoria.

And then Amelia’s voice again; louder this time, breaking apart at the edges: “Oscar Piastri. You are a Formula One World Champion.”

Silence.

Oscar didn’t reply. He just let out one long, disbelieving breath, and you could hear the hitched sound of someone trying not to cry and failing anyway. “We did it, Amelia.”

“You did it,” she corrected.

“No,” he said, firm now. Fierce. “We did. All of it. Every lap. You’re the best engineer and best friend I could’ve ever wished for. God, I love you so much.”

The audio went everywhere. Uploaded by the team, by fans, by rival engineers who had no choice but to respect it.

Two minutes of radio. Intimate. Impossible.

It was the most-streamed F1 clip of the year.

Because there he was — Oscar, still barely in his mid-twenties, helmet resting on the halo of his car, chest heaving as the gravity of it sank in.

And there she was; Amelia, halfway to the pit barrier, shoving her headset at a stunned junior engineer, sprinting.

He met her halfway.

She didn’t usually hug. But she did then. Tight and wordless. Face buried in his chest. Years of partnership and pride wrapped into that single, silent second.

And when they pulled apart, he knocked his forehead against hers, grinning like a boy again. “Told you I’d win it.”

“I never doubted you.”

—

The footage of the podium showed Amelia next to the team, arms crossed, blinking hard. Oscar had to compose himself twice during the anthem. And when he raised the trophy, he pointed straight at her.

No words.

Just… pride.

—

2028

It started with coffee.

Not just any coffee — her coffee. The specific roast she loved from that tiny roastery near Lake Como. Brewed in silence while she slept in. No baby monitor, no toddler noise, no midnight feeding schedules. Just the steady hush of morning, and Lando moving through the kitchen like a man on a mission.

Amelia stirred around 9:00 a.m. — a luxury in itself.

There was a note on the pillow next to her.

Happy anniversary, baby. Today is yours. We’re doing it your way. Uncle Ducky has both of our babies today. Yes, willingly. Yes, I’m sure. No, you don’t need to check in on them.

Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ve got step one waiting for you.

Love you forever,

— Lando

She blinked. Then smiled. Then got up without rushing — another gift.

When she padded downstairs, wrapped in one of his old t-shirts, she found him barefoot in the kitchen with a table set for two, sunlight spilling through the open balcony doors.

"Happy anniversary," he said softly, crossing to her with a hand on her cheek and a kiss that lingered. "Sit. Eat."

There were croissants from her favourite bakery in town. Raspberries and whipped butter. Her coffee, perfect. And Lando — already looking at her like the day was made.

“The kids?” She asked eventually, narrowing her eyes.

“Totally fine. They always are with Oscar. He made me promise not to call unless someone was bleeding. He said that you deserve a proper day off.”

“I don’t need a day off from my children,” she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “But it’ll be nice to be able to kiss you without tripping over one of them.”

“Exactly,” Lando said.

Breakfast faded into a walk — hand-in-hand along the coast, slow and sun-warmed. No schedule. No pushing. Just the faint hush of waves licking the edges of Monaco and the occasional squeeze of Lando’s fingers in hers.

They didn't talk much, and that was deliberate.

Afterward, instead of a spa or anything tactile, he drove her twenty minutes out to their favourite low-key golf course — a hidden gem tucked against the edge of a hill, quiet in the off-season.

It had started a few years ago, this habit of hers. Her golf-ball collection was ever-growing, each one labeled and tucked into a little wooden tray above the fireplace. A more serious, tactile comfort that had slowly morphed into a silly, sentimental thing.

Lando had never once questioned the golf ball. Not in the beginning, not in the middle.

He just brought her to find the next one.

They played nine holes. She beat him on five.

He whined. She smirked. It was perfect.

She picked out a new ball from the pro shop (green) and tucked it into her coat pocket.

“You’ll label that one later?” Lando asked, swinging her hand between them as they walked back to the car.

“Yeah,” she replied. “It's Ada’s favourite colour.”

“This week.” He said.

She smiled fondly. “Yeah. This week.”

—

Lunch came after.

A rooftop place they both loved but hadn’t been to since before Ada was born. White tablecloths, soda on ice. Her favourite risotto, his ridiculous stack of truffle fries, two hours of soft conversation without a single interruption from a baby monitor or a toddler needing to pee.

No baby wipes in her bag. No cutting food into tiny, manageable pieces.

Just them.

—

The sun was setting when they got back to their place.

Amelia kicked off her shoes by the door and reached for her hair tie. Lando caught her hand before she could disappear upstairs.

“One more thing,” he said, almost shy. “Come with me.”

They climbed to the top-floor balcony; her favourite spot in the house. There, waiting: a blanket. Two glasses of wine. A bowl of green olives (Amelia’s vice). And a tiny projector already humming against the far wall.

She raised an eyebrow.

Lando pressed play.

Clips started to roll. Grainy little moments he’d stitched together over months — Ada’s first steps down the hallway at the MTC, the hospital selfie when Amelia had delivered their second baby (Lando’s eyes red from crying, Amelia’s thumb still smudged with blood), lazy footage of her asleep on the couch with both kids curled up on her chest.

Her laugh in the background of a hundred quiet seconds. The clink of teacups. The sound of a little voice calling, “Mummy, look!”

Then his voice — low, warm, recorded late at night from the quiet corner of their bed, “I’m so in love with this life.”

Amelia said nothing. She was biting her lip a little too hard.

Lando didn’t push. He just shifted behind her on the blanket, pulling her gently between his legs and wrapping his arms around her waist — not too tight, just enough to say I’m here.

“You always make things perfect for everyone else,” he said into her shoulder. “So I wanted to make one perfect day for you.”

She swallowed once. Then leaned her weight back into him, just a fraction — a silent thank-you.

The sun dipped lower.

The stars began to nudge through.

And finally, softly, “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Impossible, I think.” She admitted, truthfully.

Lando smiled into her hair and didn’t let go.

—

Later that night, Oscar sent a photo of Ada fast asleep on a pile of couch cushions in the middle of his flat, a cereal box half-open in the background.

Amelia texted back a blurry photo of her and Lando curled up on the balcony under a blanket, the projector still casting shadows across the wall.

Perfect day complete.

—

2030

The meltdown crept in slowly.

It always did.

Amelia had been trying to hold it back for hours — maybe days, if she was honest. The world had gotten too loud again. Too bright. Too many textures and demands and interruptions.

The fridge was humming wrong. Ada had spilled orange juice and then cried when her leggings got wet. The baby had been colicky all night. Lando was out doing media. Someone had moved the coffee mugs and none of them were in the right order.

She was standing in the kitchen, clutching the edge of the countertop so hard her knuckles were white, when it all finally crashed down on her.

Her chest seized. Her eyes blurred. The sound in her ears turned to static.

Everything felt wrong. Too much. All at once.

And she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

She slid to the floor, knees curling up, hands covering her ears. Her breathing shortened. She rocked back and forth. Tears leaked out — not from sadness, but from pure sensory overload.

Across the room, Ada, six years old, in a T-shirt covered in glitter paint and crumbs, froze where she stood.

For one long moment, she just watched.

Not afraid.

Just... thinking.

Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and sprinted down the hallway.

She found her daddy in the bedroom, changing the baby’s nappy. He’d only come home a few minutes ago. Her little hand tugged at the hem of his shirt urgently.

“Daddy,” she whispered, breathless. “Mummy needs you.”

Lando paused. His head whipped up instantly. “What’s wrong, little-pea?”

“She’s on the floor. She’s crying with her hands on her ears. She’s not talking.”

Lando’s jaw jumped, but he kept his cool and handed Ada her baby brother. “Stay here, okay? You hold him and don’t move. I’ll go help Mummy.”

—

Amelia was still in the same spot, crumpled in front of the dishwasher, the noise of the appliance now too sharp, like claws dragging through her skull.

Lando knelt slowly beside her. Not touching. Not speaking yet. Just breathing in sync.

A beat passed.

Then two.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“I knew the dishwasher was making a weird noise,” he added gently, knowing exactly what she was hearing. “I’ll call someone to fix it tomorrow.”

Her shoulders twitched.

Still too much.

He sat down properly beside her, close but not touching, and began counting out loud.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”

The rhythm gave her something to hold on to.

He kept going. Soft. Steady.

“…twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

When he finally reached forty, her hands lowered. Just a little. Her breathing slowed.

Lando waited.

And when her eyes finally fluttered open — puffy, red-rimmed, exhausted — he reached out with one hand, offering it but not insisting.

She took it.

No words, just pressure — fingers threading through his, grounding herself.

“I hate this,” she rasped, barely audible. “I was fine. I should’ve been—”

“Nope,” he said. “No rules. No shoulds. You just were. And now you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Amelia blinked. Let out a breath that stuttered on the way out.

From the doorway, a soft voice, “Mummy?”

They both turned. Ada was peeking in, barefoot and clutching the baby monitor against her chest.

“I put the baby in his chair,” she said proudly. “And I put my light-up shoes away so they won’t hurt your eyes.”

Lando smiled faintly. Amelia just blinked again, overwhelmed by the careful compassion of a six-year-old.

Ada padded over, crouched carefully beside her mum, and offered a tiny, glittery toy dinosaur — the kind she usually kept in her backpack for comfort.

“You can hold this if it helps,” she said seriously. “Sometimes it helps me.”

Amelia took it with shaking fingers.

Then, finally, finally, she opened her arms.

Ada climbed into her lap.

And Lando wrapped them both up in his arms, squeezing tight.

—

Later that night, when things were quiet again and the world had shrunk back to something manageable, Amelia whispered into the crook of Lando’s neck, “She went and got you. She knew.”

Lando kissed her hair. “She always knows,” he said. “She’s yours.”

Amelia smiled, small and raw. “No. She’s ours.”

—

2033

They were sitting under the shade of an umbrella, barefoot and sun-drowsy, watching their children build increasingly complicated sandcastles twenty feet away. Ada had her arms bossily crossed, giving instructions like a forewoman. Her little brother — all curls and slightly sunburnt cheeks despite the copious layers of SPF50 — was digging trenches with his hands.

Lando passed Amelia a cold can of peach iced tea.

She took it, absently, eyes on their kids.

Lando leaned back on his elbows, sighing. “Is it Thursday or Friday?”

Amelia didn’t answer immediately. Her sunglasses were halfway down her nose. Her hair was damp at the ends from her swim. “Friday,” she murmured. “Pretty sure.”

He nodded, squinting toward the sun. “Days have been blurring. If it’s Friday, it’s already the twelfth.”

He was right. The days had all started to melt together. Long mornings. Naps tangled in hotel sheets. Late dinners with sticky fingers and endless laughter.

Amelia sat up a little. Not sharply — but enough to catch her husbands attention. “Oh,” she said, very quietly.

Lando stared at her. “What, baby?”

She furrowed her brow. Like she was doing mental arithmetic. Calendar math. Gut instinct. “I’m… late.”

He blinked.

“…Like, how late?”

“Four days?” She said it more like a question. “Maybe five. I didn’t notice. With travel and the kids and— I don’t know.”

Lando sat up straighter, heartbeat suddenly louder in his ears.

They looked at each other.

Neither of them moved.

Down by the water, Ada shrieked with delight. “Mummy! We made a castle for the sea princess!”

Amelia waved back, mechanically, then turned back to Lando. “I didn’t bring a test.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Should we go find a pharmacy?”

She hesitated. Then shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She reached for his hand, threading her fingers between his, palm warm. “Let’s just sit. Just for a minute. I want to stay here a little longer, before everything changes again.”

His grip tightened on hers. “Is that okay?”

Amelia nodded. “I’m happy. Just… surprised.”

Lando exhaled, gaze flicking back to their children. Ada was crowning her sandcastle with a plastic fork she’d found. Their son was diligently filling a bucket with sea foam.

“I think we’re gonna be outnumbered,” he said softly.

“I think we already are,” Amelia murmured, smiling faintly. “But that’s exactly what we wanted, isn’t it? Three of them. A couple of years apart. It’s perfect.”

And they sat there. Under the umbrella, hand in hand, watching the beginning of their forever shift again.

The ocean kept talking, its waves crashing against the rocks at the other end of the beach.

So did Ada — ever the chatter-box.

Amelia smiled. “Three is a good number.”

“Three of them. Two of us. Five total.” He murmured. “We’re missing four.”

“No we’re not.” She whispered. “You’re right here.”

He blinked, then he leaned in and kissed her.

—

2034

Ada slammed the front door shut with the theatrical force only a ten-year-old could manage.

“Mummy!” She yelled before she was even properly out of her shoes. “Mummy, I have to tell you something very important!”

Amelia looked up from the kitchen table, where she was re-assembling a snapped pencil sharpener and ignoring the half-eaten apple Ada had left on the kitchen bench to rot that morning.

“In here,” she called calmly.

Ada thundered in, socks half-falling off, her backpack barely zipped. Her cheeks were pink. Her plaits were lopsided.

“I’m in love,” she declared.

Amelia blinked once. “You’re what?”

Ada flopped dramatically into the chair opposite her. “I’m in love, Mummy. With a boy in my class. His name is Ethan and he wears Spider-Man socks and he let me use his sparkly blue gel pen for colouring even though he really likes it. He said I was clever.”

Amelia stared at her daughter for a long beat.

Then, she said plainly, “You’re ten.”

Ada sighed. “Yes, mummy. I know that.”

There was a pause.

From the hallway, the sound of keys jingling, the front door opening again.

Lando’s voice: “Where are my girls?”

“In the kitchen!” Ada called sweetly. And then, switching gears with dizzying emotional agility, she leaned in and whispered to her mum: “Don’t tell Daddy. He’ll make it weird.”

Amelia frowned. “I don’t lie to your dad. You know that.”

Ada just sighed because yeah, she did know that.

Lando appeared in the doorway a moment later, freshly back from sim training. “Why do I feel like I just walked in on a crime?”

Ada beamed. “No crime! Just secrets!”

“Oh, cool, that’s comforting,” he deadpanned, kissing the top of her head. Then he gave Amelia a suspicious side-eye. “What’s happening?”

“Well,” Amelia said, “your daughter thinks that she’s in love.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “I leave her at that school for six hours—”

“Daddy!” Ada groaned, flinging her arms dramatically over her face.

“—and now she’s in love?” He leaned over her chair, mock-serious. “Who is he? What does he do? What are his qualifications?”

“He’s ten!” Ada squeaked.

“That’s not a qualification,” Lando said, faux-grave.

Amelia was biting back a smile now, watching them.

“Daddy,” Ada said solemnly, peeking at him through her fingers, “his name is Ethan, and he gave me the good gel pen. The sparkly one. That’s basically marriage.”

Lando clutched his heart. “God help me. Wait until I tell Max about this.”

“I knew you’d make it weird,” Ada whined.

“I am weird, Bug,” he replied, scooping her up despite her protests. “That’s your legacy.”

He spun her around like she weighed nothing.

Amelia smiled as she watched them.

But when Ada caught her eyes mid-giggle, cheeks flushed, safe and loved and full of her first little crush, Amelia just smiled at her.

And Ada smiled right back.

—

Nine Years Later

She doesn’t marry Ethan.

Of course she doesn’t.

He moves to Devon at the end of Year 6, and she forgets the way his name made her stomach flutter by the time she’s twelve.

The next crush is taller. The next one after that plays guitar.

None of them stick. None of them feel right.

But she never says anything. Because… she’s Ada Norris.

And Ada Norris grew up being known. Watched. Treasured.

She keeps the sacred things close to her chest.

Until one day, fourteen years after her dramatic kitchen confession, she finds herself in the back of the paddock in Monaco, barefoot and suntanned, her hair in a braid, with a camera slung over her shoulder and dust on her jeans.

She’s nineteen.

She’s laughing.

And in front of her, sitting on a pile of stacked tyres, grazed knees tucked up under his arms and ice cream dripping down his wrist, is him.

Ayrton Verstappen.

One year younger than her.

A lifetime of familiarity.

She’s known him since before either of them could talk properly.

They played tag between hospitality units. Swapped Pokémon cards in Red Bull’s simulator room.

He once peed in her toy car. She once cut his hair with nail scissors because she thought it would make him less ugly.

She never thought about marrying him.

Not seriously.

Not until she did.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It’s the way he listens. The way he gets it — the legacy, the pressure, the strange ache of being a paddock kid with a famous surname and the expectation to become someone.

It’s the way he defends her when people assume too much.

It’s the way he doesn’t flinch when she stim-rambles or tells him she needs exactly ten minutes of silence.

It’s the way he waits — patient, steady, eyes bluer than any sky she’s ever seen.

She’s Ada Norris.

And someday soon, someday when the dust settles, and the stars line up just right, she’ll be Ada Verstappen.

And damn… it does have a nice ring to it.

—

2035

Amelia sat in the doorway of Sienna’s nursery, back pressed to the frame, coffee cooling in her hands. The house was quiet — unusually so. Ezra was napping. Ada was at school. Lando had taken a rare moment to go for a run.

And Sienna… Sienna was asleep. Peacefully. A soft halo of curls pressed into her muslin blanket, one fist curled beneath her chin like she’d already begun dreaming of something secret and important.

Amelia watched her, and breathed.

Three children.

Ada, her first, her fiercest, had taught her what love felt like when it broke you open.

Ezra had come quieter. A gentle soul with his father’s smile and a knack for slipping into people’s arms like he’d always belonged there.

And now… Sienna.

Her last. Her littlest.

Her loudest silence.

Almost entirely deaf. Diagnosed at three weeks old.

Amelia hadn’t cried — not then. Not when the results came in. Not even when the specialists had spoken gently about cochlear implants and early language support and accessibility.

She’d just… stilled. Absorbed. Pivoted.

It wasn’t grief.

Not exactly.

It was adjustment. Recalibration. Learning a new language — not just in signs, but in patience. In pace. In how to prepare for a life she didn’t know how to predict.

Sienna would be fine.

Better than fine. She had her father’s stubbornness and her mother’s ability to see patterns in chaos.

She had a sister who’d already started practicing fingerspelling at the dinner table, and a brother who kissed her ear every time she blinked up at him. She had grandparents, uncles, a paddock full of honorary aunties and mechanics and engineers ready to build her whatever she needed.

She had love. The whole, complex, unshakable kind.

Still, this baby, this challenge, this gift, it had made Amelia stretch in ways she hadn’t before.

And there, on the floor, in the hush of a warm afternoon, she finally let herself feel it all. The fear. The wonder. The sheer magnitude of how much she loved these children — all three of them. So differently. So fully. So irreversibly.

Sienna shifted in her sleep.

Amelia didn’t move.

Just smiled. Tired. Whole.

“Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And they would.

They always did.

—

2038

The garden behind their Monaco home wasn’t large, but it was theirs.

The sea glittered just beyond the hedges, and the sunlight slanted golden through the lemon trees. There were chairs set out in uneven rows, a makeshift arch wrapped in white linen and fresh lavender. No press. No guest list politics. Just the people who mattered — their parents, their siblings, a few of their closest friends, and the three children who had rewritten their lives in the best possible ways.

Ada was fourteen and refused to wear anything but the pink dress she’d picked herself. Ezra, five, clung to Oscar’s leg until Lando knelt and whispered something that made him laugh. And Sienna — three and a half, curls pinned back with daisy clips, cochlear implant nestled behind one ear — was already signing “cake” to anyone who made eye contact.

Amelia stood barefoot in the grass, holding her bouquet with one hand and Sienna’s palm with the other.

Her dress wasn’t new. She’d pulled it from the back of the closet — the pale ivory one she’d worn to a gala years ago, the one Lando had stared at like he’d forgotten how to speak. Soft and silky against her skin, it still felt like him.

Lando met her halfway up the path, smiling like he always had.

“Hi,” he said, taking Sienna’s hand too. “You look beautiful.”

“You look sunburnt,” Amelia replied, then softened. “But handsome.”

Beneath the lazy sway of the breeze and the quiet murmur of waves, Lando took both her hands and said, “I’d marry you a thousand times in a thousand different lives. But I’m really glad I got this one. With you. With them. With all of it.”

Amelia, ever spare with her words, just said, “You’re the love of my life, Lando Norris.”

Later, while the kids played under the fairy lights, Max and Pietra poured champagne, and Oscar stole cake straight from the platter, Lando found her standing off to the side, heels dangling from one hand.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. Kissed the top of her head.

“That felt special,” he murmured.

“It did,” she said.

Because it only confirmed what they already knew.

They had each other. They had their home.

And their love had only deepened with the quiet weight of time.

The rest — as always — was just radio silence.

370 notes · View notes