#me: groggy and barely functional

[quins-makeshift-menagerie]

Ah yes, the ritual of waking up and changing your age wherever it’s listed because you’ve completed another rotation around the sun

[gooobraghhh]

1,000 follower kink vote post: 1st place, Somno

Sleeping pups make the best toys. It’s so fun to tease a cute things body while they’re unconscious. You get to hear their honest, unfiltered noises, usually little breathy moans that react to your every move once you start gently rubbing and playing with them while you feel them get hard and messy on your fingers.

I just love the perverse intimacy of it. There’s no lying, no altering your reactions, just the honest results of my touch and you don’t even know you’re functioning as entertainment for me. You don’t know that I’m studying every little thing you do in response to my fingers and mouth. Learning what feels the best based on your reactions.

It’s so rewarding to feel the mess you’re making, to feel you needily throbbing as I play with you. If I can get you to cum even better. It’s so cute to hear you cum when you aren’t awake enough to control your voice. To make you twitch and clench and squirm infront of me while you’re none the wiser.

Maybe I’ll leave it at that. Let you wake up in the morning either oblivious to my actions or I’ll have done something to let you know I used you in your sleep. You might wake up without your underwear, or maybe you notice dirty words written on your skin in some very intimate areas, if I’m feeling cruel there could be a toy left in you that teased you all night.

But I think it might be more fun for you to wake up. To watch you try to process what’s happening. Seeing your little useless groggy brain try to catch up with the pleasure your body has been experiencing. And while you’re pathetically trying to understand why you feel so horny and sensitive I’ll make sure to start fully fucking you now that waking you up isn’t a concern. God it’s so attractive to see you beneath me, getting overwhelmed by the intensity of what you’re feeling while you’re barely even awake.

Hearing the little words you try to say that just get lost in between moans. I’ll make sure to use you until I’m satisfied, as is your purpose. With how primed and sensitive I made you I’m sure it wouldn’t take long for you to cum again, but I’ll keep going for as long as I want, without a care for how intense it is for you. And of course I just can’t stop myself from getting in your ear and telling you how cute you were in your sleep, how loud you got from my touch, what specific things made you react the most. I’ll watch your little face get all flustered and embarrassed before your eyes roll back and you just can’t keep your voice down.

Once I’m finally done with you I’ll make sure to hold my little plaything and let you know how good of a toy you were for me, how amazing your body felt. I’ll keep you nice and tight while softly praising you to sleep in my arms, at least until I feel the need to play with you again <3

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

party on you, part of you knew (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 8k

Summary: Mattheo had been losing his belongings, forgetting things, and feeling uneasy about that random girl who was always staring at him. His solution? Blame Theodore. It's always that damn astronomy tower.

A/N: I'm so ass at summaries 😭 lowkey i kinda hate this

When Mattheo woke up, he was unbearably groggy—dragging himself around the dorm with zero fucks to give while his friends hooted and hollered with far too much morning energy.

He sighed, heavy with the weight of a dream he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that it started happy—blissfully, achingly so—but by the time he opened his eyes, he felt hollow. The fog in his head made it impossible to grasp.

He barely managed to throw on his shirt, only half-buttoned, his tie dangling uselessly around his neck as he stumbled around looking for his belt. He ruffled through his drawer, groaning when he pulled something unexpected from the back.

With a frustrated grunt, he hurled a cheap bottle of perfume across the room.

It smacked Theo in the back of the head.

“For fuck’s sake, Nott,” Mattheo growled, “Tell your useless fucks to stop leaving their shit in my drawer. My boxers smell like Victoria’s Secret now. What are they, perverts?”

Theo only laughed, ducking Mattheo’s middle finger with the practiced ease of someone far too used to this scenario. It wasn’t the first time, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

To be fair, it really was on Theo for being a shameless pervert who’d flirt his way into any skirt with a pulse. Mattheo wasn’t a stranger to finding souvenirs left behind after Theo’s conquests—underwear, school ties, even flowers that Theo had given them. Gifts Theo handed out to play the nice guy before inevitably ruining their lives.

Asshole.

But Theo was completely unbothered.

He ruffled Mattheo’s already-messy hair before yanking him into a headlock and dragging him out of the dorm toward the Great Hall for breakfast. Maybe, just maybe, after some tea and food, Mattheo would start feeling like a functional human being again.

Mattheo doubted it.

Still, he knew better than to show up to McGonagall’s first thing in the morning on an empty stomach—unless he wanted to snap and earn himself a detention for cussing someone out. Which, on mornings like this, was always a strong possibility.

He walked into the Great Hall like a stormcloud, shoulders tense, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Without saying a word to anyone, he dropped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table.

Your eyes followed him the moment he entered.

He looked... wrecked. Moving sluggishly, like he hadn’t slept a wink. His mood practically radiated off him. Still, you watched as he poured himself a cup of tea—black, no milk, no sugar—and sipped it with his whole hand clutched around the rim, like the warmth might anchor him. A stark contrast to his polished friends, who had all been raised to drink tea like little lords—fingers lifted, saucers in hand, painfully dainty.

But Mattheo drank tea like a man dragged out of war.

You weren’t one to fall for toxic masculinity tropes, but Merlin help you—there was something a little charming about his ruggedness.

“(Y/N)? Hello?” Your friend whispered, snapping her fingers near your face. You blinked, startled, not realizing how long you’d been staring. She arched a brow, her expression tilting toward concern, “You good?”

Your gaze flicked back to Mattheo instinctively, just as he brought the mug to his lips again, the shadows beneath his eyes catching in the candlelight.

Your friend leaned in and hissed, “Don’t tell me you have a crush on Mattheo Riddle.”

Thank Merlin she had the sense to whisper. If Lavender—just two seats down—had heard, the entire castle would’ve known by lunch.

You gave a quiet huff and a crooked smile, “Me? Like Mattheo Riddle?”

But even as you said it, your eyes drifted back to him—just in time to see a Ravenclaw girl saunter up to his side. Her tone was too soft, her smile too wide, and Mattheo... smirked.

You couldn’t hear what she said, but whatever it was, it worked. She returned to her table tittering like a first-year after her first Butterbeer, and Mattheo’s friends clapped him on the back like frat boys cheering over a win.

Your stomach twisted.

“Fat chance.” You muttered under your breath.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

***

Mattheo slumped into his usual seat at the back of Transfiguration, his head pounding like someone had hexed a war drum into his skull. The classroom was too bright. Too loud. The voices around him felt like nails against his already frayed nerves.

All he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and sleep through the day. But McGonagall had already given him a formal warning for skipping too many classes, and he had no desire to sit through another one of her lectures about wasted potential and “throwing your life away, Mr. Riddle.”

So here he was. Half-awake. Half-dressed. Fully over it.

He sprawled in his chair like he hadn’t been raised to sit like a human being. The boys were already talking shit around him. Something about some girl. Someone’s sister. Or cousin. Or ex. Mattheo couldn’t be arsed to care.

And then—

Eyes.

He felt it before he saw it.

A stare. Steady. Intent. Not curious like the usual ones. Not flirty or appraising. This was something else.

He tilted his head lazily, scanning the classroom, and there you were.

Sitting with your friends at the front of the room, quill dangling from your fingers, your books open in front of you but untouched. You weren’t focused on your parchment or your notes or even your friends.

You were watching him.

And not like most girls did. Not like he was a prize or a challenge.

There was something in your eyes. Something he couldn't put his finger on.

For a second, Mattheo just stared back, caught in the intensity of your gaze.

Then:

“Oi, Riddle,” Theo leaned over with a grin far too smug for this early in the morning and jabbed him in the arm with his wand, “You’ve got a fan.”

Mattheo blinked, the moment snapping. His friends were all looking now, following Theo’s nod toward the front row.

“Who is she?” Blaise asked, already smirking.

Mattheo shrugged, leaning back in his chair with practiced indifference, “No clue.”

“You sure?” Draco drawled, giving him a pointed look, “She’s staring at you like you broke her heart.”

“Probably did,” Theo snorted, “Another one of Riddle’s charm-and-ditch girls. What’s this—lucky number fifty?”

Mattheo let a crooked grin spread across his face, “I don’t count past three. After that, it’s just a blur of names and disappointment.”

Lorenzo chuckled, “You’re sick.”

“Don’t blame me,” Mattheo said, “If they confuse good dick with love, that’s on them.”

The boys howled, loud enough to earn a sharp look from a Ravenclaw at the next table over.

Mattheo smirked, brushing his fingers back through his mess of curls. He let his gaze drift back to you again—just for a second.

But this time, your attention had turned. You were laughing at something your friend whispered to you, cheeks flushed, head bowed. The look from earlier was gone. And whatever he thought he saw? It probably never existed to begin with.

Good.

***

It wasn’t rare for Mattheo Riddle to wake up in the middle of the night—heart racing, skin clammy, breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls like he was drowning in his own lungs.

What was rare was not being able to go back to sleep after.

His chest burned. His head was spinning. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, squeezing the air from his lungs like a vice. He needed a cigarette. Now.

He reached for the pack tucked in his blazer, fingers trembling as he searched the pockets for his lighter—his lighter, the scratched metal Zippo with the chipped corner and the warm, familiar clink that grounded him.

Nothing.

“God-fucking-dammit, Theo.” He hissed, dragging his drawer open with a harsh scrape. No lighter. Of course. His roommate probably nicked it—again—for one of his stress-smoking episodes. Mattheo could’ve used his wand, sure, but that lighter was his. That sharp click when it flipped open was the only thing that made his fidgeting tolerable.

He scratched roughly at his wrist, fingers twitching for something to hold as he climbed the stairs to his usual spot. The cigarette was already between his lips before he’d even reached the top, wand-lighting it with a muttered “Incendio.” He took the first drag, feeling the smoke scrape down his throat and spread like static in his chest.

The cold air helped. A little.

Until he realized he wasn’t alone.

His eyes narrowed when they landed on you, sitting at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling over the stone ledge like it was nothing. You were leaning lazily against the railing, illuminated by moonlight—and you looked just as surprised to see him.

“What are you doing here?” He snapped, accusatory.

You blinked at him, “I could ask you the same thing.”

Mattheo scoffed, taking another long drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke out through his nose like a warning sign.

Great.

“Night terrors, huh?” You asked quietly.

He froze mid-drag, lips parting, “…How did you know that?”

“I get them too.”

That shut him up.

It went quiet. For a while, neither of you spoke. He leaned against the opposite railing, cigarette burning slowly to the filter, eyes fixed on the moonlit sky while the silence thickened.

Then he noticed your hands.

You were holding something—clutching it, almost. A stem of small, blue flowers. Mattheo stared, trying to place them. He knew he’d seen them somewhere before, probably in Herbology, but the name wouldn’t come to him.

He shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like being watched, not when he was like this. Raw. Frayed. Sleepless. Unmasked.

“…Can you stop fucking staring at me?” He muttered, side-eyeing you.

Your cheeks flushed. You dropped your gaze quickly, fingers curling protectively around the petals.

Mattheo exhaled sharply, hating the stab of guilt that followed.

He felt bad. For you.

How Hufflepuff of him.

Mattheo threw the cigarette down with more force than necessary, the end flaring before he crushed it beneath his shoe, muttering another curse under his breath.

He didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t look back.

Just turned, hands once again scratching at his wrist for something to play with, jaw clenched like he was holding something back—words, or maybe the scream in his chest—and disappeared down the stairs.

Leaving you alone again.

The cold crept in as soon as he left, biting at your skin and wrapping around your ribs like a hollow ache.

You stared at the spot where he'd been, at the faint trail of smoke still curling from the squashed cigarette. Then, slowly, your gaze dropped back to the Forget-Me-Not's in your lap.

You sighed.

***

Mattheo was pissed off again.

Theo swore up and down that he hadn’t taken the lighter, which only made Mattheo tear through the dorm in a fury—rummaging through drawers, knocking over books, slamming open cabinets like the thing he was looking for might vanish if he didn’t get to it fast enough.

His wrist was already red and irritated, covered in faint scratches from how often he scratched at it now. Some nervous habit that had crept in without him noticing. It didn’t help. It never helped. Every time his fingers twitched toward that spot on his skin, it felt like he was supposed to find something there. Like something used to be there. Something that mattered.

But it was always nothing.

He yanked open his nightstand drawer again, rifling through clutter and broken quills and the chaos of his own impatience—and paused.

There, wedged between a tattered book and a scrap of parchment, was a small, flattened flower.

A faded blue. Edges browned and curled. Limp, like it had been forgotten for ages.

Mattheo blinked at it, confusion flickering briefly across his features—before his expression twisted into irritation.

“Bloody hell, Theo,” He muttered, snatching it up, “Tell your latest girl to keep her sappy crap out of my things.”

He didn’t know why it made him so angry. Maybe it was the idea of someone else’s sentimental leftovers tucked between his stuff. Maybe it was how… familiar it looked. But that only annoyed him more.

He crushed the flower in his fist and stormed over to the trash, dropping it in without ceremony. Wiped his hand on his trousers like it’d left something behind.

And that should’ve been it.

But it wasn’t.

Hours later, he was still restless. Still scratching at his wrist. Still glancing, without meaning to, toward the drawer where it had come from. Toward the bin where it lay now.

The feeling wouldn’t go away. The unease stayed curled around his ribs like a secret. That damn flower—it was nothing. So why did it feel like everything?

He stood up.

Crossed the room.

And dug through the bin.

There it was—crumpled, soft, and broken now. He lifted it carefully, petals cracking under his fingers.

Something inside him shifted. Just slightly. Like a door creaking open somewhere in the distance.

But nothing came through.

No memory. No explanation.

Only that feeling.

He shoved the flower back into the drawer, slammed it shut like it could bury whatever was clawing at the edge of his mind.

But it lingered.

Gnawing. Heavy. A strange, aching knowing:

He was missing something.

Something important.

***

The dorm was loud when they got back from Hogsmeade—Theo and Draco bickering over whether Honeydukes or Zonko’s was the superior stop, Blaise tossing his coat onto Mattheo’s bed without a care, and Lorenzo humming some obnoxious tune he must’ve picked up at the Three Broomsticks.

Mattheo didn’t say much.

He was still on edge—still fidgeting, still scratching at the inside of his wrist like his skin could give him answers. The chill in his bones hadn’t faded, and neither had the strange weight that had settled in his chest days ago.

Ever since that flower.

Ever since he lost his lighter.

He dropped his bag onto the bed and started to unpack: Chocolate Frogs. Licorice Wands. Cockroach Clusters—Theo’s, obviously. A new pack of cigarettes.

And then—

“Oi, Riddle,” Theo called from across the room, “Since when do you eat Sugar Quills?”

Mattheo frowned, “I don’t.”

Theo held up the pink-and-blue striped box like he was unveiling a crime scene, “Then what’s this doing in your bag?”

The moment Mattheo laid eyes on it, something echoed in his head. You’ll like it eventually.

He blinked.

Crossing the room, he took the box, turning it over in his hands like maybe it would offer some kind of explanation.

“I didn’t buy this.” He said, voice firm.

“You sure?” Blaise asked, brows raised, “You didn’t go into Honeydukes and black out in a sugar trance, you big back? You’ve got, like, twelve of these. Mate, what the hell—you’re gonna get diabetes.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, “I’d never buy these. I hate them. Too sweet. They make my teeth feel like they’re rotting out of my skull.”

Draco smirked, “Aww, are the cigarettes finally rotting your brain too?”

Mattheo didn’t laugh.

He just stared at the box.

He didn’t remember buying it.

But his hands did.

The same way they reached for his wrist like something used to be there.

Like someone used to be there.

He sat down heavily on his bed, still holding the sweets.

His jaw clenched.

“I didn’t buy this.” He repeated, quieter this time. Almost like he was trying to convince himself.

But deep down, he wasn’t sure anymore.

***

He hadn’t meant to go up to the Astronomy Tower.

Not really.

His legs just carried him there, like they always fucking did lately. Like instinct. Like muscle memory. Like his body was trying to remember something his mind couldn’t.

He kept doing things he didn’t mean to do—walking into places without knowing why, reaching for things he didn’t remember losing. It felt like his own body was betraying him. His mind was slipping, fading at the edges, and it was starting to scare him.

He couldn’t remember things.

He scratched at his wrist until it burned—red, raw, relentless. He felt wrong every night when he lay down to sleep, like he was somewhere he didn’t belong. And every morning he woke up with a hollow in his chest, like he’d just lost something—someone—in a dream he could never quite remember.

And this tower.

This fucking tower.

It made his skin itch. Made his hands shake. Made him want to scream and break things and disappear into its stone walls, all at once. It offered a kind of comfort he didn’t understand—a familiarity he couldn’t explain—which angered him more.

But tonight—it was different.

Because when he stepped onto the final stair, he saw you.

And the air was punched from his lungs.

You were sitting cross-legged in your usual spot, the stars painting silver on your skin, your hair spilling down your back like ink across parchment. You didn’t see him. You were too focused on something resting in your hands.

Then it clicked.

Flick. Clink.

That sound.

He stopped cold.

The lighter.

His lighter.

You were flipping it open and closed, spinning it through your fingers with a rhythm that was too natural—like it was yours. Like it had always been yours.

Mattheo’s stomach twisted hard.

He couldn’t breathe.

He knew that lighter. He’d turned the entire dorm upside down searching for it. Tore open every drawer, snapped at Theo, cursed until his throat was raw. He scratched at his wrist for weeks—like something had been ripped from it.

And there it was.

Right there.

In your hands.

And then—everything hit him.

.

“You’ll like it eventually.” You giggled, chewing on the Sugar Quill Mattheo had reluctantly picked up for you at Honeydukes earlier that day.

He grimaced, visibly cringing as you crunched through the overly sweet treat. The sound alone made his teeth hurt. He could practically feel the sugar coating his molars just by watching you. It was going to get stuck between your teeth—he knew it—and while he wasn’t exactly a stickler for dental hygiene like Granger (he smoked, for Merlin’s sake), Sugar Quills were where he drew the line.

Still, you tore into the next package with such delight, he couldn’t find it in himself to berate you. He simply gagged—dramatically, of course—when you offered him a bite.

“I’m gonna Pavlov you into liking these.” You teased, that mischievous glint sparking in your eyes.

Mattheo’s brows furrowed, “What’s tha—?”

He didn’t get to finish.

You grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him—open-mouthed, unrelenting, sweet as sin. He froze for half a second before melting into it, letting your sugar-coated tongue slip past his defenses and press the sickeningly sweet taste right onto his own.

When you pulled away, his lips were sticky, glistening with syrup.

He swallowed, stunned.

“So?” You asked, clearly too pleased with yourself.

Mattheo blinked, then licked his lips, “They’re... not that bad.”

You laughed—bright, triumphant, and a little breathless.

.

It was another late night at the Astronomy Tower.

The stars were out, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled glitter over velvet, and the air had that sharp, biting chill that clung to your skin no matter how many layers you wore.

Mattheo leaned against the metal railing, eyes half-lidded, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“You want one?” He asked, offering it to you with a lazy smirk, smoke curling from his lips.

You wrinkled your nose, “I'm not kissing you if you smoke that.”

He chuckled, teeth flashing, “Is that a challenge?”

You shot him a look and snatched the lighter from his hand instead—silver, scratched, familiar. It was always warm, always had just the right amount of heft to it.

“Oi,” He said, eyebrows lifting, “That’s mine.”

“Not anymore,” You replied, holding it up like a trophy, “Finders, keepers.”

Mattheo pushed off the rail, slow and predatory, “You think stealing my lighter’s gonna get me to stop?”

“No,” You said innocently, slipping it into your robes, the metal cool against your chest, “Just… now I have something that reminds me of you.”

He was close now. Close enough that you could see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head, “You really need a souvenir to remember me by?”

You tried to sound casual, breezy, unaffected—even though your heart was thudding like mad, “Maybe I just like collecting little pieces of you.”

His smirk softened into something quieter. Gentler.

His fingers brushed your jaw, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing just under your eye. “You already have me,” He said, voice low. “Completely.”

You swallowed hard.

“I know,” You whispered.

And you did.

But you still kept the lighter.

Just in case.

.

One evening, he pulled a fast one on you.

You were sitting alone in the library, curled into the corner of your favorite window seat with a book in your lap, half-lost in the pages. Your hair was pulled back loosely, strands a bit wild from the wind that afternoon, but held together by your trusty hair tie.

Mattheo had been there a moment ago—pretending to study, but mostly just watching you with that unreadable expression he wore when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

And then suddenly— Fingers. Gentle and quick.

He slipped behind you like a shadow, and before you could even register his presence, he plucked the hair tie from your ponytail in one smooth, practiced motion.

Your hair tumbled down around your shoulders, soft waves cascading freely as you gasped and whipped around.

But he was already gone.

All that remained was the faint sound of his laughter disappearing down the corridor.

You found him two floors down, strolling like he hadn’t just committed a crime of war against your scalp.

“Mattheo!” You called, breathless and irritated—more flustered than anything else.

He spun around with that devilish grin that made you want to slap and kiss him all at once. “What?” He said, all faux innocence, “I’m sentimental.”

You shot him a look—equal parts annoyance and barely hidden affection—that made his heart stutter. It was the kind of look that made him want to drop to his knees just to hear you laugh.

“You’re a kleptomaniac.” You said, marching up to him.

Mattheo held up the hair tie, lazily looping it around his fingers before slipping it around his wrist like a bracelet. “It’s not stealing if it’s love,” He quipped, “Now I’ve got something of yours, too.”

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossed, “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” He murmured, stepping close enough for his breath to tickle your skin, “You still love me.”

You rolled your eyes but let him steal a quick kiss anyway. Just a brush of his lips against yours. Then you turned on your heel and walked away before he could get even more smug.

But later, at breakfast, you noticed.

He sat with his chin resting in his hand, pretending to listen to Theo ramble about god-knows-what, while the fingers of his other hand fidgeted absently with your black hair tie. Twisting it. Letting it snap against his wrist like a grounding tether.

You saw how he kept it during exams. How he twisted it when he was anxious. How his shoulders always relaxed a little more with it there.

You never asked for it back.

.

It was early spring, the air fresh with promise and the world just beginning to wake. You and Mattheo had slipped away from the noisy halls of Hogwarts, finding a quiet spot near the edge of the Forbidden Forest where wildflowers grew in soft clusters.

You spotted the tiny blue blossoms first—forget-me-nots, fragile and delicate, like little pieces of the sky nestled in the grass. Their soft petals seemed to glow faintly in the dappled sunlight.

Without a word, you bent down and carefully picked one, holding it between your fingers like a secret—its slender stem cool against your skin.

Mattheo watched you with that rare softness in his eyes, his usual guarded expression melting away just enough to let you see the boy beneath the bravado.

You stepped closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the dark curls at his temple as you tucked the forget-me-not behind his ear. The vivid blue popped beautifully against the deep shade of his hair.

“You look pretty good in blue, Matty,” You teased, voice warm and a little breathless, “Pity you weren’t smart enough to get into Ravenclaw.”

He smirked, one brow arching, “Smart enough to land you, thank you very much. Besides, I prefer being underestimated.”

You laughed softly, the sound bubbling up like a melody he wanted to bottle and carry with him forever, “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

And then, to your surprise, he didn’t brush the flower away. He just stood there, letting you lean in again—tucking more blossoms into his hair, weaving them gently between his curls. Blue and lavender and a soft yellow bloom, until he looked like something half-wild, half-divine. He only rolled his eyes once, but never told you to stop.

“They’ll think I’ve gone soft.” He muttered, not bothering to hide the fond smile twitching at his lips.

You tilted your head, mock-serious, “They’ll think you’ve finally gotten taste.”

He didn’t take the flowers down. Not when you walked back together. Not when you kissed him goodbye just outside the castle, fingers brushing over his hand like you didn’t want to let go.

But as the stone walls of Hogwarts came back into view, and the sounds of students filtered into the air again, reality sank in.

Your relationship was still a secret — something held in the quiet, in shadows and stolen spaces. Not because you were ashamed, but because the world wouldn’t understand. Because in the daylight, things were louder, crueler, more complicated.

So Mattheo paused, just before you stepped into view of the courtyard. His fingers reached up slowly, brushing through his curls, dislodging the little blooms one by one.

He didn’t look at you as he did it — maybe because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

By the time you reached the castle steps, his hair was bare again. No trace of the wildflowers you’d threaded there with so much affection. Just the same dark, unruly curls — and the carefully unreadable expression he wore so well.

But the forget-me-not? That one he kept. The first one you tucked behind his ear — soft, sky-blue, and still warm from your touch.

He palmed it quietly, slipping it into his jacket pocket like something far more precious than it looked.

Later that night, once the castle had gone quiet and his dorm was dark, he pulled it out again. Held it in the moonlight. Turned it gently between his fingers like it might crumble if he breathed too hard.

Then, like a secret he meant to keep safe forever, he slid it between the pages of a book and tucked it into the drawer beside his bed.

.

The first time you knew something was wrong, Mattheo flinched when you touched his arm.

It was late — one of your usual hidden meetups by the Black Lake. The sky was an ink spill overhead, stars scattered and silent. He’d been jittery the entire night. Pacing. Checking behind trees. Lighting a cigarette only to toss it into the water before even taking a drag.

You reached for him, “Mattheo, what’s going on?”

He looked at you like he wasn’t really seeing you — his eyes wide and distant, jaw clenched like he was holding something in his mouth that tasted like blood.

“My father’s coming to Hogwarts,” He said quietly, “Not officially. But… he’s been asking questions.”

You felt the cold seep into your chest like water through fabric.

“About you?” You asked, voice hollow, “About us?”

Mattheo hesitated — just long enough to make the answer obvious.

“He can’t know anything,” He said, “But he’s… suspicious. He doesn’t like when I get distracted. When I get soft.”

Your breath hitched, “You’re not soft, Mattheo. You’re—”

“I am with you,” He said, voice breaking, “And that’s the problem.”

After that, things changed.

He didn’t say he was pulling away — he just did. His touches grew shorter, his presence tighter, like he was wound up and couldn’t afford to unravel. He still showed up, but his eyes darted constantly — over your shoulder, into the shadows, like he was always expecting someone else to be there.

Then one night, he didn’t come at all.

You waited at your usual place for over two hours, fingers frozen and heart pacing.

When he finally appeared, it was nearly morning. You were curled on the stone steps of the Owlery, eyes red from cold and fear and something worse.

“You can’t just vanish on me.” You hissed, standing up the moment you saw him.

“I was in detention—”

“You’re lying.”

And his silence confirmed it.

Then, suddenly — he did something he hadn’t done in weeks.

He stepped forward, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you like it was the last time. Like the world was ending and you were the only thing left worth saving. It was desperate, deep, a confession poured through parted lips.

When he pulled away, his shoulders were shaking.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“No,” You said immediately, because your heart already knew where this was going, “No. Don’t you dare.”

“Please,” He whispered, “You’re the only person I trust. The only one I—”

He stopped himself. Swallowed. Opened his eyes again — and this time, you saw it. Pure terror.

You backed away, “So your solution is to make me forget?”

“Not you,” He said quickly, desperate, “Me.”

You stared at him, stunned, “Mattheo—”

“If my father reads my mind—if he sees you—he’ll come for you. He won’t ask questions. He won’t give you time. He’ll just… take you.”

Your voice cracked, “You know how to protect your mind—Occlumency, you’ve been practicing—”

“It’s not enough,” He said, quietly, “Not against him. Not forever.”

“You know how to do it,” He added, “You’re brilliant. You always have been.”

“That’s not the point!” You cried, “You won’t remember me. Us. Anything.”

“I’d rather forget you than bury you.” He said.

And that was when the tears came.

“I don’t want to,” He choked, “But it’s the only way. You know it is.”

And deep down… you did.

You waited. Waited for him to change his mind. To reach for you and say never mind, say run away with me, say I’ll figure it out.

But he didn’t.

He just closed his eyes.

And nodded.

Your wand trembled in your hand.

He reached forward, gently brushing your hair back behind your ear — his touch unbearably tender.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, “If things were different—”

“Don’t,” You said, stepping back, your voice a broken whisper, “Please don’t.”

And with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, with your throat tight and your chest split open, you raised your wand.

You didn’t even need to say it loud.

“Obliviate.”

The moment the light faded, you knew you’d made the wrong choice.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

And then… his eyes didn’t settle on you. They moved right past you, like you weren’t even there. Like you were just another shadow in the morning fog, barely even looking at you as he walked away, not saying another word to you.

Stranger. Stranger. Stranger.

You dropped your wand and cupped a hand over your mouth, falling to your knees before your legs could even register it. The sob tore out of you like a wound — raw and keening and endless.

Why had you listened to him?

Why hadn’t you fought harder?

Why hadn’t you told him you loved him one last time?

Why hadn’t you heard him out — really heard him — when he tried to tell you about his dreams of a different life?

Now you were all alone, doubled over on the stone floor, sobbing into the fabric of your robes, fingers clutching the last thing you had left of him—

His lighter.

Still warm from his pocket.

Still heavy with everything he forgot.

.

Mattheo staggered back a step, like he’d been hit.

You looked up at him, panic flaring in your eyes as you noticed the way he stared — wide-eyed, horrified, stunned. You immediately closed the lighter in your palm, like the damage hadn’t already been done.

"Mattheo..." You whispered, voice barely audible.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it might stop entirely.

"You," He said, voice cracking, trembling with something raw, "You—"

You stood quickly, as if trying to close the space between you might somehow take it all back, “It’s not what you think—”

"Don’t," He cut you off sharply, eyes bright with something too painful to name, “Don’t lie to me right now. Please.”

You glanced down at the lighter still clutched in your hand — tarnished silver, the initials worn smooth, familiar in a way you could never explain away. Your throat burned. Your heart twisted. The thought of letting it go felt like tearing your soul from your body.

But your fingers moved anyway.

You held it out to him, your hand shaking slightly, silently begging — don’t take it. Don’t make me give this up.

"I found it in one of the classrooms," You said softly, voice paper-thin, not meeting his eyes, "If it’s yours... you can have it back."

Mattheo’s expression crumpled. His gaze flicked from the lighter to your face — and stayed there.

Something cracked inside him.

Because now that he really looked at you—he saw everything. The faint glassiness in your eyes. The twitch of your mouth as you tried to keep it from trembling. The hollowness in your expression that matched the ache inside his chest.

Salazar. How had he not seen you?

He'd looked right past you in that classroom. Days ago. Sat barely feet away and missed the way you blinked too fast. Missed the way your shoulders curled inward like you were trying not to fall apart. Missed every detail of the face he used to know better than his own.

How the fuck could he have forgotten you?

The realization hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Had he really let you go without a fight?

Now you were standing here, holding his lighter out like it weighed more than it should, like giving it up might tear you in half. And he could see the way your other hand was clenched behind your back, knuckles white, like you were physically holding yourself back from something—from reaching for him, maybe, or from falling to pieces.

He didn’t take the lighter.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

“I want it back.” He said quietly, voice cracking.

Your hand flinched.

But he wasn’t looking at the lighter anymore.

His eyes dropped to his wrist. Empty.

He remembered now. The hair tie. Black and fraying from how often he used to play with it.

“I want the hair tie back.” He whispered.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Mattheo took a step forward. Slowly, carefully, like you might disappear again.

And your hand began to shake.

Your eyes flickered all over his face—his brows, his lips, the curve of his jaw—as if searching for proof, for something to hold onto. And when you finally found it, that flicker of recognition in his eyes, your breath hitched. Your heart began to thump wildly against your ribcage, like it knew what was coming before your mind could catch up.

“Y-You… do you remember—?” Your voice cracked, brittle with hope and fear.

Mattheo's eyes didn’t waver.

“Remember that I’m in love with you?” He said softly, “I could never forget that.”

Your lips parted in a soundless gasp as the words landed. Your eyes filled with tears so fast they spilled over before you could stop them, hot and stinging as they traced down your cheeks. A sob escaped your throat as you closed the distance and threw your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder like the world might fall away if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

And then your fist hit his back. Not hard—but enough to make him feel it. Again. And again.

“You horrible man,” You choked out between sobs, “You awful man. You left me alone for so long. You left me alone with all the memories of you. You let me watch as you moved past me without even acknowledging me—while I waited and prayed and begged for you to look at me just once.”

Mattheo clutched you tighter, his own throat thick with emotion, his arms trembling around your waist.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, voice wrecked, “I’m so sorry.”

And he meant it—meant it with everything he was. Because now he could feel what he’d been missing all this time. Not just the memories. Not just the pain. But you—your arms, your scent, the way your voice broke when you cried, the weight of everything you’d carried alone.

Mattheo clutched you tighter like he was scared you’d disappear if he loosened his grip. His voice trembled as the dam inside him cracked open, everything he’d locked away pouring out with it.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I’m so—so sorry,” He murmured against your hair, the words shaky and breathless, “I’m sorry for leaving you alone. For making you carry it all by yourself.”

You hiccuped through another sob, your hands bunching the fabric of his shirt, your face still buried in his shoulder as if you were terrified this moment might end.

“I never could forget you,” He continued, voice raw, “Even when I didn’t remember… it was like the essence of you had been interwoven with the very fabric of my soul.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, jaw tight like he was barely holding himself together.

“I was looking for you, even when I didn’t know who I was looking for,” He said, “I saw you in my dreams, I heard your voice in the empty echoes of a room—I felt you there with me. Like my heart remembered you even when my mind couldn’t.”

Your tears came harder at that—relief, grief, love, and anger colliding inside your chest so violently it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

“I thought I was losing my mind,” He whispered, cupping your face like you were the most delicate, precious thing in the world, “Because everything felt wrong without you. Everything.”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear.

You were trembling, sobbing quietly as you leaned into his touch, hands clutching his wrists now like you needed to anchor yourself to him.

"Tell me." You whispered, voice trembling, raw. Vulnerable.

Mattheo paused, his breath catching in his throat.

"Tell me what you would do if things were different," You continued, "I asked you to stop that day... but I’ve regretted nothing more."

His features softened—pain flickering across his expression like a ghost. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering there, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“If things were different,” He said, voice hoarse, “I’d announce to the entire world that I’m hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.”

Your breath hitched as his thumb grazed your skin again, so gently it made you ache.

“I’d tie myself to you with an unbreakable vow without a second thought,” He added, his throat tightening painfully around the words, “I wouldn’t hesitate—not for a single second.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely. Hot streaks down your cheeks. But Mattheo was already there, wiping them away as fast as they came, like he could undo the hurt if he just tried hard enough.

“We’d graduate together,” He murmured, “and move into some tiny flat close to your work—something small, maybe a little messy, but cozy. Ours.”

You laughed softly through the tears, already imagining it. He smiled faintly too, the kind of smile that was equal parts love and heartbreak.

“And we’d argue about furniture,” He added, eyes glinting, “Because obviously I’d want dark wood—rich and elegant, fits the whole brooding Slytherin vibe—”

“—and I’d want something light,” You interrupted, a wobbly grin forming, “Warm and soft. Welcoming.”

“Exactly,” He said, voice thick but fond, “We’d compromise. Or maybe I’d just let you win, because seeing you happy would be worth more than being right.”

You let out a shaky breath, and he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’d support you completely as you started your career,” He whispered, “being the househusband of your dreams—your very own doting malewife.”

You laughed again, really laughed this time, and his heart nearly cracked open at the sound. He cupped your face, eyes shining with unshed tears, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I’d keep the place spotless, cook you dinner, be there every night when you got home—just to hug you and tell you how proud I am.”

You were crying again. He didn’t try to stop you this time.

“Then once you were settled, really settled... I’d ask you to marry me,” He whispered, “And you’d say yes.”

Your breath caught, and he leaned in closer.

“We’d move far away from here. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere by the sea. And we’d build a life��peaceful, messy, ours.”

He paused, his voice faltering with emotion.

“Maybe we’d have a kid. Or two,” He said, his hand moving to rest gently over your heart, “And we’d raise them right. With kindness. With patience. With love.”

He swallowed thickly, blinking fast.

“We’d give them everything we never had,” He whispered, “We’d give them a home. A real one. One where they never have to question if they’re wanted. Or loved.”

Silence stretched between you—thick with longing and mourning and love that had never really gone away.

And in that quiet, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his once more, tears mixing with his.

“I love you, Mattheo.”

The silence that followed was soft, reverent—like the universe had paused just long enough to let the words sink into the spaces they belonged. Mattheo’s chest rose and fell, his jaw trembling as he took your face in both hands.

“I love you, (Y/N).” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was raw, certain, “More than I can express. More than even I understand.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, your eyes searching his. “What now?” You whispered.

He looked at you for a long moment—his gaze steady, intense, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of your face all over again. Then he shook his head with a small, breathless laugh that sounded half broken, half amazed.

“I don’t know,” He admitted honestly, his eyes searching yours, “I really don’t. I thought this plan of mine was foolproof. Now I realize that no magic on Earth could keep me from you.”

His thumb brushed softly along your cheekbone, grounding you in the moment, like he needed you to feel every word.

“But we’ll figure it out,” He murmured, “Together.”

His voice dropped, fierce and tender all at once, “There’s no way I’m ever leaving you alone again.”

And you believed him.

The silence between you was thick with everything unsaid, everything still fragile and aching and hopeful.

You sniffled, tears drying on your cheeks as your lips curled into the ghost of a smile, “You really didn’t get sorted into Ravenclaw, huh?”

He blinked, “What?”

“If you had just thought of all this months ago, we could’ve avoided… well, all of this.”

Mattheo let out a breath of laughter, warm and hoarse. His eyes shone—not just with relief, but with something softer, something that looked a lot like joy. “Brilliant timing’s never been my strong suit,” He said, cupping the back of your head and pulling you gently toward him.

“And yet,” He added, brushing his forehead to yours, “You still love me.”

Then he kissed you—slow and reverent, like a promise being made without words. And you kissed him back, like a vow being answered.

Not perfect. Not finished.

But finally, finally starting again.

***

Bonus (3 years later):

It had taken them months.

Theo had stormed through libraries and pubs, interrogated shopkeepers and old Hogwarts portraits. Draco had used every Ministry connection he had, even bribed a goblin or two. Enzo swore up and down he’d seen Mattheo in Paris (he hadn’t). Blaise exhausted every last connection in his effort to find him.

They were chasing a ghost.

Mattheo had vanished the moment he turned seventeen. No note. No warning. Just gone.

You stayed behind. Finished the year. Graduated. And then disappeared too, vanishing without a trace.

Now, with the war finally over—Voldemort gone, the dust settled—they were left sorting through the wreckage. And only now had the truth surfaced. Mattheo Riddle, the Dark Lord’s son, had been funneling secrets to Dumbledore the entire time. A double agent. A traitor to his bloodline. A hero, some dared to say.

But no one had seen him since.

Until now.

After following a trail of half-clues and rumors, here they were—standing in front of a sun-washed cottage perched on a cliffside in Greece, the Aegean sparkling behind them like a dream.

Theo knocked.

Draco crossed his arms.

“This is ridiculous,” Enzo muttered, “We should still be checking those shady pubs in Transylvania. That prat always wanted to go drag racing there.”

The door creaked open—and there you were.

Their jaws collectively dropped.

“Hi,” You said, startled but steady. A little older, a little different—but still unmistakably you, “Can I help you?”

“I know you,” Draco said, snapping his fingers, “You’re that Gryffindor girl—the one who used to creepily stare at Riddle.”

Your mouth fell open. Creepily? Really?

Then, from deeper inside the house:

“Love? Who’s at the door?”

Mattheo’s voice.

Their hearts stopped.

Before anyone could react, he stepped into view—shirtless, barefoot, hair messy and eyes half-lidded from sleep. He froze when he saw them.

Theo blinked like his brain wasn’t catching up. Blaise muttered something about hallucinations. Draco looked ready to demand blood. Enzo just pointed, wide-eyed.

“Mate,” He said slowly, “what the actual fuck.”

Mattheo ran a hand through his hair and exhaled like he’d just been hit by a Bludger, “Wow. Okay. This is... unexpected.”

“Well, don’t just stand there!” You whispered, nudging him, “Invite them in!”

“…Right. Uh—come in. I guess.”

The four of them stepped inside cautiously, like crossing the threshold of something sacred. The living room was cozy and sunlit, scattered with books, candles, and—

“Hold up,” Enzo blurted, pointing at a pastel blue baby onesie draped over the arm of the couch, “What the hell is that?!”

Mattheo’s mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again.

Before he could say anything—

A soft, high-pitched wail echoed down the hallway.

And it hit them all like a Bludger to the head.

Theo staggered back. Blaise grabbed the bookshelf for support. Enzo looked like he was about to pass out. Draco let out a strangled “No fucking way.”

You sighed, unfazed, and brushed past them all toward the hallway, “I’ve got him, don’t worry.”

Mattheo watched you go, rubbing the back of his neck, caught somewhere between pride and panic.

The room was silent for a beat before Theo finally broke it, voice rough:

“Mattheo. Riddle.”

He turned slowly, lips twitching with a smirk.

“You have a baby?!”

“HOW?!” Enzo yelled.

Mattheo deadpanned, “Well, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Draco and Blaise snapped in perfect unison.

Before anyone could add another word, you reappeared—cradling a sleepy, blinking infant in your arms.

His dark curls were mussed from sleep, one tiny fist clutched near his face, eyes fluttering as he took in the unfamiliar faces. He had Mattheo’s wild hair, the same furrowed brow, and—when his lashes finally lifted—the same stormy, soul-piercing eyes as his father.

“This is Leo.” You said gently.

Draco went rigid, color draining from his face. He pointed an unsteady finger between you and Mattheo.

“I think—I’m—oh Merlin—I think I’m having a heart attack. I need to sit down.”

Blaise put his head in his hands and groaned, “I can’t believe I crossed international borders for this.”

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

[sturnioz]

─────── ꒰ THE FRAT WEDDING SERIES ꒱ SPECIAL.

the fake frat wedding event between shy!reader and fratboy!chris, written in fratboy!chris' perspective─a peek inside his mind.

tw. mentions of cocaine.

shy!reader's perspective. ╰› ꒰ part one ꒱ ꒰ part two ꒱ ꒰ part three ꒱ ꒰ part four ꒱

chris doesn't want to wake up, but the loud voices echoing through the frat house left him no choice, pulling him out of sleep and into a sour mood. he can hear some of his frat brothers leaving their rooms, slamming doors behind them and running down the stairs, their footsteps pounding against the floorboards.

it's enough to give chris a headache and make his jaw clench.

for a moment, he considers burying his head under his pillow, hoping to smother the noise. but now that he's awake—and extremely pissed off—there's no going back.

sleep isn't an option for him anymore.

grumbling under his breath, he forces himself out of bed, his muscles aching with stiffness from a restless night, and his body feels heavy as he shuffles toward his bathroom. he runs a hand through his tangled, messy hair, and he stares at his reflection in the mirror.

dark circles hang under his empty eyes, and his grouchy expression somehow looks even worse this morning. nightmares, he thinks. fucking nightmares.

he goes through his morning routine quickly, brushing his teeth and splashing cold water on his face in a half-hearted attempt to get rid of the grogginess. he opens the cabinet above the sink and grabs an orange pill bottle from the shelf, and with ease, he pops open the lid and shakes it until a single pill falls into his palm.

the sight of the nearly empty bottle makes him scowl, and he makes a mental note to ask matt to take him to the drugstore to stock up. but for now, he tosses the pill into his mouth and leans over the sink, drinking straight from the tap to wash it down.

chris leaves the bathroom and trudges out of his room, letting out a tired yawn as he heads downstairs. he threads his fingers lazily through his hair, rubbing at his face with a groggy sigh as the sound of frat brothers snickering in the living room irks his nerves.

he ignores them, making a beeline for the kitchen, but as he steps in, he stops abruptly. his gaze lands on you, and his tired eyes narrow slightly.

"didn't know you were comin' over," he grumbles tiredly, his attention shifting to the tupperware container in front of you, filled with veggies and cubes of chicken. "what? don't have food at your place? gotta be all greedy 'n eat ours?"

you glance up at him and respond softly, "nate made it for me," there's a pause in the conversation before you ask, "what event are you hosting this weekend?"

chris furrows his brows, your sudden question catching him off guard. "nothin'—we don't have one," he replies flatly, unbothered.

without hesitation, he reaches over you to steal a piece of chicken from the tupperware, popping it into his mouth and chewing lazily. he doesn't bother to say anything else as he turns away and heads for the fridge.

opening the door, he rummages through the shelves until he spots the juice bottle he shoved in the back the night before. he unscrews the cap and takes a few gulps, the cold drink refreshing him just enough to keep him functioning for now.

as he drinks, he hears you mutter something under your breath.

"but they're planning something in there..."

chris slowly turns to look at you over the juice bottle he's currently holding near his mouth, his brows knitting together like you've just said something utterly ridiculous. which, to him, you have.

planning something? the frat isn't hosting any big event this weekend, it's just a regular party—he's positive.

"the fuck you talkin' about?" he asks, his tone flat, his eyes hard as he stares at you. before you can answer, nate bursts into the kitchen, interrupting you both as he slings an arm around chris' bare shoulder.

chris stiffens at the unwanted contact, his irritation spiking as his glare sharpens, hardly biting back a harsh remark when nate grins and starts talking, wanting him to follow.

chris doesn't move at first, his jaw tightening as he shoots nate a withering look before he reluctantly trails behind, keeping a few steps behind you. but he stops in his tracks when the three of you step into the living room, his eyes sweeping over the room.

the frat brothers are all huddled together, grinning like idiots. he notices kitty and bee are here too, but he stays quiet, his tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek as he leans against the doorframe, watching everything unfold.

nate grabs a hate from the coffee table and shakes it in front of you, ordering you to pull out a folded piece of paper. chris' brows furrow, his annoyance growing even more when nate grabs a second hat and strides toward him, shaking it in front of his face to prompt him to pick next.

chris stares blankly before refusing, "no."

nate clicks his tongue against his teeth, clearly unimpressed with him, but chris doesn't care. he doesn't move, doesn't even say another word as nate turns to bee to ask her to pick from the hat instead.

his patience is wearing thin.

what the fuck is going on?

chris stays quiet as nate starts counting down, and his eyes flick to you as you begin to unfold your slip of paper, the confused look that spreads across your face making his brows furrow in suspicion.

he tilts his head slightly, trying to read your expression, and then he sees it—your name, scrawled across the paper messily as you hold it up for everyone to see.

his confusion deepens when bee unfolds her slip next, revealing his own name written across it. chris' gaze hardens, slowly shifting between the two slips of paper.

something feels off.

"congrats, bun 'n chris..." he hears nate say, his voice dripping with amusement. "you're gettin' married."

chris tenses up as the room erupts into laughter and hollers. his jaw locks, his eyes widen, and a strange, unbearable ringing fills his ears, drowning out the noise. his chest tightens as his head snaps toward matt, who's already looking at him. matt's expression is calm, almost reassuring, subtly telling him that it's okay and to calm down.

but chris isn't okay.

he's far from calm.

his eyes dart back to nate, and his glare sharpens into something deadly, his nostrils flaring. his clammy palms ball into tight fists at his side, his body rigid. he notices your lips are moving too, but he can't hear a fucking word you say.

it's like the world around him has muted itself, leaving only the thoughts racing in his mind at a hundred miles per second.

finally, something snaps into place, and he finds his voice.

“m’not gettin’ married.” he growls, his tone low but firm as his body coils in tight, ready to snap. “you’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”

“you’re actin’ as if this is real, bro,” a frat brother pipes up, his tone light and amused, which only makes chris’ anger simmer hotter. “s’all fun ‘n games. it's a chance to get fucked up. and it’s part of the rules... if you get picked to do somethin’…. you gotta do it.”

“especially when your name got picked out of a hat,” nate chimes in next, his grin widening across his face.

chris' heart thumps wildly in his chest, his pulse pounding as his head slowly swivels to look back at nate. his nostrils flare again, and he takes a step forward, his hand outstretched and tone demanding.

"let me see the hat."

nate’s grin doesn’t falter as he quickly pulls the hat away, holding it just out of chris’ reach, and chris' scowl deepens, his frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface as he tries to grab it again.

the sound of the frat brothers’ laughter keeps ringing in his ears, making his face grow hot with anger. chris lunges for the hat again, but nate is too fast, keeping it just out of reach, and chris can feel the overwhelming heat of embarrassment and rage crawling up his neck.

something is up, chris thinks. something is wrong.

"let me see the hat," he snaps again, his voice harsh and commanding. but nate only laughs, shaking his head, his grin never faltering.

but before chris can snap completely, another frat brother calls out his name, reminding him that he needs to prep the stash for the party. that makes chris stop, and he pulls his focus away from everything around him as he exhales through his nose.

money is important, he reminds himself, his thoughts shifting abruptly. just focus on your money. forget this bullshit.

without another word, he turns on his heel, leaving the others behind as he heads toward his room. his hands still tremble faintly, his chest still tight, but he forces himself to push it all down.

one thing at a time.

the party’s coming, and he has work to do.

whether nate is playing some stupid game or not, chris doesn’t care—at least, that’s what he tells himself.

as he climbs the stairs, the ringing in his ears fades, replaced by the single thought that keeps him moving:

forget it.

just get through the weekend.

the weekend comes faster than chris expects, and now he's just a few hours away from fake marrying you for the sake of some stupid frat tradition. he doesn't understand why you and him were picked for this, and it pisses him off even more that no one considered matt and kitty—or nate and bee—actual couples who could've done this instead.

but no. it had to be him.

it always had to be him.

standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom, chris exhales sharply, his stress and annoyance already gnawing at him as his fingers fumble with his tie and the stiff collar of his suit, the fabric feeling foreign and suffocating against his neck.

the suit is an old one—something he bought for prom back in high school but never actually wore. he thought he'd trashed it years ago as he vividly remembers the moment he shoved it into the garbage back home.

apparently his mom had other plans.

she must've fished it out, washed it thoroughly, and stashed it away in case he 'needed it someday'. he didn't think he would fucking need it for some fake, stupid wedding.

yet, here he is.

chris exhales again, this time more forcefully, as he tries—and fails—to tie the damn fucking tie. every time he loops it, pulls it, or adjusts it, it comes undone—mocking him like everything else today.

he glares at his reflection, considering to just ditch the suit altogether. a sweatshirt and jeans would do just fine, even some of the other frat brothers aren't even bothering to dress up properly... so why should he?

a few of them are in hoodies, ripped jeans, denim shorts and even crop tops, while others are wearing suits with goofy props purely for some dramatic effect.

the only reason he hasn't ripped the tie off and thrown it across the room is because of the screen on his phone, propped up against a few cologne bottles on the sink, showcasing a series of texts from justin who gives him step-by-step instructions on how to tie the tie properly

chris' eyes flick down to the latest message, and he grits his teeth, following the instructions as best as he can. his fingers are trembling too much, his patience wearing thin, and his irritation only grows stronger with every failed attempt.

justin had to do this too, chris remembers that. he remembers him talking about it years ago—the same frat, the same stupid tradition. justin had to fake marry some sorority chick he was best friends with.

chris remembers seeing the photos. he remembers laughing back then at how silly it all looked. he remembers smiling back then at how justin managed to make it fun.

but chris isn't laughing now.

he isn't even smiling now.

chris glances back at his reflection, and the tie still isn't right—the knot slightly crooked—but fuck, he doesn't even care anymore. he's done. he grabs his phone, typing a quick reply to justin as he walks into his room, tossing the phone onto his bed as he runs his fingers through his hair.

he looks ridiculous. he feels ridiculous. and the worst part is, it's not even about the suit, or the tie. it's about him. it's about the whirlwind of emotions crashing through him right now: uncomfortable, stupid, humiliated, mocked.

it's emotions he hasn't felt in a long time—emotions he doesn't know how to handle anymore, not without cutting up a line or two, letting the burn numb his throat, and sinking into that blissful silence where his mind finally shuts the fuck up.

but now? there's no escape. the tie feels like it's suffocating him, the stiff fabric digging into his neck and he tugs at it, his fingers curling around the knot as if loosening it will somehow loosen the tightness in his chest.

why is this happening? why the fuck is this happening?

chris' mind spins as he glares at his reflection in the mirror that's in his room, his jaw tightening. did someone put his name in the hat more than once? nah. surely not. they wouldn't do that to him. they couldn't do that to him.

he bites down on the inside of his cheek, his thoughts racing. maybe it's just his shitty luck. he always has shitty luck—it's nothing new. that's not a surprise. but still, this feels different.

chris exhales sharply though his nose, a low growl of frustration rumbling in his throat as his reflection stares back at him, mocking him again.

he feels like a joke.

chris yanks at his tie again, loosening it even more so it hangs around his neck. he doesn't care anymore. he doesn't even know why he's still wearing the fucking thing.

he stares at himself for another moment, his teeth gritted, his hands twitching at his sides. maybe it is the tie, he tries telling himself. maybe it is the suit... maybe it's the fact that no matter how much he tries to act like he doesn't give a fuck, he does.

too much.

and that sets him off.

his movements are sharp—almost frantic—as he pulls open his drawers and grabs a worn metal tin box covered in peeling stickers, his fingers fumbling as he thumbs it open, revealing his stash inside.

he rifles through it quickly, pocketing a few baggies for later, but his focus is locked on one thing—the white powder-filled baggie sitting at the bottom.

he pours some of the powder onto the surface of his dresser before he grabs his wallet and pulls out a credit card, the edge of the card scraping against the wood as he works quickly, cutting the powder into one precise, clean line.

without thinking, without even hesitating, he plugs one nostril and leans down, inhaling sharply.

the burn hits immediately, sharp and familiar as it shoots up his nose. chris tilts his head back with a quiet groan as the grainy sensation settles in the back of his throat. it's not pleasant—not really—but that doesn't matter. what matters it the lump that forms, sliding down his throat.

that's it. that's the deal sealed.

he stays like that for a second, his head tilted back, his chest rising and falling as the feeling starts working its way through him slowly. his pulse picks up, his mind clouds over, and the tension in his shoulders begins to release.

he's fine now.

he runs a hand down his face, exhaling a long, shaky breath. his reflection stares back at him, but this time, it feels more distant—less suffocating. the suit still looks ridiculous, the tie still hangs crooked around his neck, but it doesn’t matter because he's fine.

he keeps telling himself that as he grabs the tin box, shoving it back into the drawer and slamming it shut.

it’s fine.

everything is fine.

he’s fine.

chris doesn't know how long it's been since the event started. he's spent most of his time surrounded by familiar faces, collecting money as he sells his stash into hands of other frat brothers and partygoers.

he's joined in a few conversations here and there, humouring people with idle smirks and half-hearted chuckles. most of the time though, he's rolling his eyes at the outfits people are wearing at the party: fancy suits and dresses are mixed in with mishap clothing, and some are even wearing costumes.

at one point, he spots a frat brother waddling around the decorated garden in a hot dog costume.

and then he saw nick.

for a moment, chris thinks the coke has finally fried his brain when he sees his brother standing near in a snazzy suit and a camera draped around his neck.

nick—who practically refuses to set foot in the frat house, who's turned down every invite to events—is here. chris almost does a double take, blinking hard like nick might vanish if he looks away.

but no, it was really him.

he's spoken with both nick and matt now. they had found him earlier, hanging around the edge of the crowd and stayed long enough to exchange a few words. nick had seemed ecstatic, tossing out a couple of jokes while matt stood nearby, arms crossed, taking it all in with that quiet, observant look on his face as he watches chris.

they both pretty much told him the same thing: just enjoy the night. relax for once.

relax.

chris scoffed at the advice, and matt even tried fixing his crooked tie, but chris flicked his hand away with a sharp; "fuck off, man. m'fine." nick didn't even bother trying—just gave him one of those knowing looks before walking off to do whatever.

now they're both gone.

matt's probably off somewhere with kitty, and nick? nick's likely tracking you down. he's always had a soft spot for you, chris knows that much. but nick and matt being gone means chris is back to being surrounded by other people—people who don't really matter to him, people whose faces blur together as the night drags on.

chris hasn't spoken to you yet, though he's seen you around. he catches glimpses of you standing on the sidelines, keeping to yourself in that white babydoll dress. you look small, fragile, watching everything around you like a deer caught in headlights.

his gaze lingers on you longer than he means to, but tears it away once nate and nick have accompanied you. part of chris wonders what you're thinking, if you hate this as much as he does, if you want to leave as much as he does.

he will never ask though, he doesn't even know if he wants to.

but for now, he'll keep his distance—until the time comes.

and fuck, that time comes fast as the night drags on.

he doesn't bother excusing himself from the people he's been in conversation with for the past hour. he just pushes through the crowd, shoving his way toward you—who, of course, is now surrounded by all your shared friends and brothers.

"can we get this shit over with?" he snaps immediately asks as he stands next to you, his fingers tugging at his tie again, feeling like it's constricting his throat despite it already hanging loose.

no one responds, which doesn't surprise him. then he hears you hum something—soft and unsure—and it makes something in him snap again.

"m'serious. lets get this shit over with before i fuckin' lose it."

that seems to work, because you're nodding your head to agree with him, and the group finally starts moving. nate, of course, can't resist making a joking remark, but chris shoots him a glare so sharp it shuts him up.

the group walks toward the makeshift ceremony setup, and the others scatter to find their seats—and odd collections of mismatched chairs, bar stools, bean bags, whatever.

chris makes his way to the altar and scoffs, his lip pulling into a grimace as he sees the empty beer cans, red solo cups, and... is that toilet paper? draped across in a half-assed attempt.

he stands stiffly at the altar, refusing to look at you when two frat brothers walk you down the makeshift aisle. he doesn't look up when he catches glimpses of phones aimed at you both either, recording everything.

the sound of drunken giggling, laughter, and hushed whispers fills his ears, and it makes his skin crawl.

chris barely pays attention to the frat brother playing the role of the officiant, slurring his way through a speech filled with jokes that make the crowd howl with laughter. but chris isn't laughing. neither are you.

this is uncomfortable.

when it's time for the 'vows', chris feels his stomach twist, and his grits his teeth, already dreading what's coming as the frat brother coaxes you into speaking first.

you take it seriously. too seriously for him to handle.

you talk about being there for him, about being his friend when he needs one. you even try to sprinkle in little jokes of your own—soft, harmless ones that are meant to make the crowd laugh. and they do. they laugh again and again and again.

chris feels mocked.

his jaw tightens, his shoulders stiffening up as he stares at nick and matt in the crowd. they're giving him small smiles, subtly nods, reassuring glances, but the laughter from everyone else feels sharp, cutting through him like needles.

he hates it. he feels stupid. he feels humiliated. he feels awful.

why are you doing this? why are you talking about him like that? are you trying to make them laugh at him?

his blood boils, coke pulsing through his veins, making his thoughts race in angry erratic loops: this is on purpose, this is on purpose, this is on—

"bun," he speaks when it's his turn, his tone dripping with sarcasm as his jaw clenches tight. he has to fix this. he has to take everyone's attention away from the humiliation clawing at him. he can feel the heat rising in his chest, the anger bubbling under his skin.

relax. make it funny. disract them.

"i vow to keep uh... keep fuckin' you. keep makin' you scream my name."

the reaction is immediate.

the crowd erupts into cheers, hollering and howling with laughter so loud it drowns out every other thought in his head. the weight on his chest feels lighter now, the suffocating embarrassment replaced by a familiar rush of control.

chris doesn't stop there.

he rolls his shoulders back, loosening up as he keeps going, each word filthier and more explicit than the last. he talks about everything—every little thing that's obvious about your situationship, every detail that will make the crowd laugh harder and louder.

and it works.

it works because now they're laughing with him instead of at him.

chris finally finishes his speech, and he exhales slowly, finally able to relax—or at least pretend to—as the noise washes over him.

the frat brother officiant stumbles through some more slurred words, something chris doesn't even bother trying to comprehend. he feels the cold glass of a vodka bottle shoved into his clammy hands, nearly fumbling it, and the movement of a plastic tiara being placed on your head catches his eye.

he glances at you briefly. just for a second—and then you're moving.

you're pushing through the crowd as they stagger up to the altar. you're moving fast—too fast—you don't stop, and you don't look back. you're gone so quick that you're nothing but a blur in chris' vision.

chris doesn't focus on it too much. he doesn't let himself focus on it as he's too overwhelmed by the crowd swarming him now, their laughter and slurred congratulations for this fake bullshit.

hands reach out to pat his back, to clap him on the shoulder, to ruffle his hair... chris hates it.

the noise, the touches, the smiles—all of it. it's suffocating. he decides to shove his way through the crowd, muttering for everyone to 'get the fuck off him' as they try to stumble into his way.

he doesn't want them right now.

what he wants are his brothers.

chris' eyes scan around, searching for matt and nick. they've always been his anchor, the only ones who can ground him when he feels like this—overwhelmed, irritated, and on the verge of losing his shit.

but they're not here.

he spots them moving away, slipping through the garden in a hurry and heading toward the frat house. they don't even glance in his direction, and that makes chris falter, his steps slowing as his eyebrows knit together.

why aren't they coming to him?

it's close to the end of the event when matt and nick finally bother to show up, but chris doesn't even look at them: not when matt pulls out one of the garden chairs to sit beside him, not when nick plants himself directly in front of him, tapping his foot against the ground.

chris sits slouched in his own chair, a joint dangling between his fingers, the other hand flipping through a wad of cash from the stash he sold tonight.

they money keeps him focus, gives him something to do—or at least something to stop that feeling that's been sitting in his chest all night.

"are you serious, chris?" nick's voice cuts through the silence, unable to control himself. "like, are you fucking dumb?"

"what?" chris murmurs disinterestedly, still counting the rest of the money before rolling it up neatly and pocketing it. only then does he glance up at nick through the haze of smoke, taking a slow drag from his joint, exhaling a cloud in his brother's direction.

"think you took it too far, man," matt speaks up, his tone quieter, a sigh slipping through his words as he rolls his tongue across his teeth. "bun's really—"

"think?" nick cuts him off, his voice rising slightly. "you think he took it too far? he did take it too far. why would you even say something like that during the vows, chris? all that shit about bun—"

"dude, keep your voice down," matt hisses, nudging nick's calf with his shoe. his eyes flick toward the last partygoers that stumble across the lawn, planning to call ubers or to walk in groups back to wherever they're staying. "nick's got a point, though. that shit you said about bun—"

"what about me?"

chris' voice cuts through the air, sharp and loud enough to silence the both of them as he looks between his brothers, his shoulders stiff and squared as those familiar but disgusting wave of emotions slowly start returning.

"what.. what about me?" he repeats, his tone faltering just a little which makes him grimace, and he takes another hit of his joint, hoping to calm himself down.

matt and nick exchange glances, but neither of them say anything, and that makes chris shift uncomfortably in his seat. he hunches forward, pressing his elbows into his knees to keep him grounded.

"you don't..." he starts, but the words catch in his throat. he scowls and looks away from both of them, exhaling another cloud of smoke. "didn't even fuckin' bother earlier. just left me—didn't even fuckin' look at me."

his voice cracks slightly at the end, and it pisses him off more than anything. he clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth as he stares at the ground, refusing to meet their eyes.

matt lets out a deep sigh as he leans back in his chair, rubbing at his jaw. "it wasn't like that, kid. we weren't—"

"don't wanna wear it," chris mutters bitterly, cutting matt off mid-sentence. his leg bounces restlessly now, unable to hold it down with his elbow, but it only makes the movement more erratic, jostling up and down as if it has a mind of its own. "do... do you even know how..."

his voice falters, trailing off as he struggles to get his words out once again. his jaw tightens, and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. his free hand twitches, fingers curling and uncurling like he's fighting to keep control.

"i... i'm uncomfortable."

that seems to grab nick and matt's attention instantly, and they both exchange a glance, their eyes wide with surprise. neither of them expected those to be the next words coming out of his mouth—especially not out here in the open.

"okay..." matt hums softly, his tone measured and careful now, like he's trying not to spook a wild animal. "what made you feel uncomfortable?"

chris can't help but scoff, his walls slowly starting to rise again, brick by brick. he prods his tongue against the inside of his cheek, "this stupid fuckin' event. i don't... don't—fuck."

abruptly, chris shoves himself out of the chair, standing tall. he drags his fingers through his tousled hair before rubbing his face with both hands, his shoulders tense and hunched.

he doesn't even notice—or care—that his joint has slipped from his fingers, now lying forgotten in the grass beneath his shoes.

matt stays seated, his worried gaze fixed on chris like he's trying to figure out how to help like he always does. nick, on the other hand, hesitates for a moment before reaching out a hand, intending to place it on chris' shoulder.

chris steps away before nick can touch him, his movements quick, creating space between them both.

he doesn't want to be touched.

not now.

"i... i understand frat traditions, 'kay? i get it. m'not stupid," chris starts again, his voice rough, his words tumbling out as his mouth feels dry and his tongue heavy. "if you get picked, you gotta do whatever bullshit is goin' on. i know how it works. but—but this...? s'fucked up. i should've been allowed to say no—you should've said somethin'..."

his eyes dart between nick and matt, but the silence they give him only makes the air feeling heavier. chris takes a shaky breath, trying not to focus too hard on the way they're staring at him—like they're waiting for him to crack.

"but nah," he continues, his voice bitter. "i had to get picked. my—my luck had to fuck me over, right? only pull my name out of a stupid fuckin' hat."

chris doesn't notice the guilty looks that nick and matt wear, their eyes flicking toward each other like they're silently deciding who should speak first. his mind is too loud, too chaotic to really paying attention to anything as he fumbles for his pockets, his hands desperate for something to ground him again.

but when his fingers come up empty, the realisation hits him like a punch to the gut.

he's out.

he sold the last bag.

fuck.

"hey," nick finally speaks up, his voice soft but strained, like he's bracing himself for some sort of impact. he scratches the back of his neck, his discomfort clear as he shifts awkwardly on his feet. "we... we need to tell you something about the hat—"

"i don't wanna hear it," chris interrupts, cutting him off with the same words he'd thrown at them earlier. he doesn't want to talk anymore. he's done. he's already too angry, too annoyed, his emotions are haywire.

he needs to go.

without another word, chris turns on his heel and stalks off, not bothering to tell nick goodbye or to tell matt he'll see him back at the frat. he doesn't owe them that—not right now.

his hands twitch at his sides as he pushes through the cluster of frat bothers still lingering around the entrance, his eyes staying locked on the ground with his jaw clenched so tight that it physically hurts him.

some of the guys call out his name—trying to talk or whatever else—but chris doesn't care. he doesn't even look back. he just keeps walking, keeps shoving past everyone until he's inside and climbing the stairs step by step.

all he wants is to lock himself in his room, strip off his suffocating clothing and crash. he doesn't want to deal with anyone's bullshit—not tonight.

but when he opens the door to his room, he stops.

you're standing at his dresser, your back to him, pulling out a shirt like it's the most normal thing in the world. (it is, but he's too far gone from the cocaine and his emotions). you're quiet, focused, not even sparing him a glance—just like matt and nick.

and chris can't help it.

he snaps.

"what is it?" chris barks, his eyebrows furrowing as he yanks the tie around his neck as you glance at him over your shoulder. but you still don't say anything, still so quiet. "huh? what is it?"

"what are you—"

"you've been weird with me all night, kid," he cuts you off sharply, managing to get that fucking tie off his neck before he hurls it onto the unmade bed. "think i didn't notice you pullin' some runaway bride bullshit?"

"you're not funny," you mutter under your breath, voice barely audible, but he hears it, and he scoffs.

"m'not tryin' to be," he shoots back, fingers moving to unbutton his shirt, feeling his heart thud heavily in his chest beneath his fingertips. chris is still on edge, his emotions running wild from everything that's happened. "you gonna tell me what the fuck is goin' on? or you just gonna keep sulkin' all night?"

chris watches as you turn slowly to face him, and for a moment, he actually tries to read your expression, to figure out why you've been acting so off—why you ran away earlier. but all he sees is that kicked puppy look on your face when you're upset.

it makes him want to scowl.

"you really don't know?"

chris pushes back immediately. "know what?"

"forget it."

he watches in disbelief as you turn your back to him, and his heartbeat grows louder, drumming in his ears as his frustration threatens to boil over completely.

maybe it's the coke he did earlier still swimming around in his system—or maybe it's something else entirely—but chris doesn't have it in him to just let it go. not right now.

he wants to fucking know.

"nah, don't pull that shit," he says as he shakes his head, his tone a lot sharper than it was before. "if you've got a problem, just fuckin' say it."

"okay," you snap at him, and chris deadpans at you, not expecting you to sound like that. "you... you humiliated me, chris. in front of everyone, you made me look like—like some joke... i—i get it, okay? this whole thing was supposed to be stupid and fun, and i know you hated doing it, but you didn't have to say all that stuff... you didn't have to make it so public and so embarrassing for me. it wasn't funny. it just... it made me feel awful."

chris blinks, catching one word quick.

humiliated.

he hears it loud and clear at first, but the other words start to sink in too, one by one, drawing his attention instead. the things he said about the two of you hooking up... that's why you're being weird? because of something so blatantly obvious to everyone around them both?

chris wants to laugh. he genuinely wants to laugh at how ridiculous this all sounds to him, but he doesn't. he exhales through his nose instead, keeping himself steady.

"you're takin' this way too personally, kid. everyone knows the fuckin' shit we do, yeah? everyone knows we're hooking up so i dunno why you're makin' it such a big deal," he ends up saying instead, unapologetic. because it's true. "it's not that deep."

"you don't get it. i.. i know that people know. i'm not stupid. but it doesn't mean—you can't just—we—" he hears you take a big breathe in between your rambling speech. "you can't just talk about me like that in front of everyone... even if they already know, even if they assume stuff.. it's still humiliating to hear you say it in front of them."

there's that word again.

humiliating.

chris doesn't know why, but this time the word definitely sticks. it claws its way into his chest, pressing down on his ribs until it gets harder to breathe.

humiliated.

you were humiliated.

just like him.

the realisation hits him harder than he expects, and he doesn't know what the fuck to say. it's not like chris to feel guilty or hurt anymore—but the weight of that ten-letter word doesn't loosen its grip. it stays with him, pushing and pulling at his chest, making him feel so raw and exposed in a way he doesn't know how to handle.

he doesn't say anything. he just looks at you, his hands still at the half-unbuttoned shirt on his chest, the silence stretching between you both.

and for once, chris doesn't know what to do.

he takes a long moment to collect himself, his thoughts racing too fast for him to catch. he tilts his head back slightly, as if the angle might somehow help oxygen flow back into his lungs a little easier.

he doesn't want to do this.

but he has to.

he has to.

he knows how it feels.

he has to.

"i.." he starts, but the words stick in his throat, foreign and heavy. he feels nauseous, his stomach twisting into tight knots, but he forces himself to continue. "i'm... i'm sorry, 'kay?"

the apology feels clumsy and awkward on his tongue—like it doesn't belong there. he notices the silence that follows, and it makes his skin crawl as he slowly glances at you, his eyes meeting yours for just a second before flicking away again.

he feels awkward. he feels exposed.

he feels humiliated.

that fucking word—that feeling—he hates it.

"i didn't mean..." he trails off, shoulders tensing up as the words catch again. he swallows hard, the lump in his throat almost choking him. "didn't mean t'make you embarrassed, s'all."

he can't bring himself to say that other word. he can't even think it without his chest feeling tight.

and he can't even look at you either, his gaze staying locked on the wall. he feels so fucking uncomfortable, like he's crawling out of his own skin. this isn't him—this hasn't been him in a long time.

"thank you for apologising..."

your voice is soft, but he doesn't response. he can't. the idea of answering—of dragging on this moment any further, makes his chest ache and stomach twist even more. instead, a strangled noise escapes his throat, low and guttural, and he turns away from you.

his back is to you now, his trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. he finally gets it off, tossing the fabric carelessly onto the chair in his room. he moves to his belt next, desperate to free himself from the stuffy clothing that clings to him like second skin.

when he's stripped down to just his boxers, he slumps into his bed without another word. his body feels heavy and drained, but his mind is still plainfully active: thoughts swirling and crashing into each other.

he bures his face into the pillow, trying to block it all out and to stop that fucking nauseating feeling—he wants to forget.

humiliation.

that word claws at him, refusing to let go.

he wish it never existed.

divider credits. @issysh3ll

© STURNIOZ

[mandalhoerian]

SYZYGY PART I: PERIASTRON / PERIHELION ❥ caleb x reader x xavier | 24K | AO3

SUMMARY:

The summer of your life had a name — Caleb. He was August itself, a world of honey-drenched, cloudless afternoons and laughter of gold-saturated old days echoing through the years, clear as sunlight on water. Gravity, pulling you two together. You orbiting around each other, closer, brighter, almost, almost. Until, just like the dandelion puff of childhood dreams or the sudden drop of a swing going too high — he was gone. Then came Xavier. The quiet glow of the moon, silver constellations scattered against the abyss, not demanding your orbit. He was light without heat, steady and luminous, guiding you through the night Caleb had left behind, illuminating all the spaces where once there had been warmth and wonder instead of emptiness. But what happens when the sun rises again to chase away the moon and stars that endured without it? Can the sky hold them both? Can you? Or must one always eclipse the other?

WARNINGS: pseudocest im embarrassed do NOT look at me, this features an underage caleb getting a hard-on because of an underage reader for the first time. it's not sexualized or detailed, and there is no scene of masturbation. i tried to handle it with care and describe it as vaguely as possible and work around it, grieving/mourning, blood and injury, angst, fluff, the everpresent bittersweet undertones, backshots from xavier at the end. this is (going to be) a threesome fic, not a love triangle in which you choose one, so, proceed with caution.

A/N: yeah, uh. remember this post? i'm writing it now. before i knew it though it grew so much, so i had to separate it into two parts. this one is what i call "parallel lines", in which xavier's presence is heavily present in your life with caleb before they meet through you, and vice versa. this concept is like the gift that keeps giving, and i hope you like it as well. what do you want to happen in the next chapter? please don't be shy to interact and tell me what you think, and help me out by reblogging for the second part to come out faster! thank you so much! <33

For as long as Caleb had known himself, he had been jovially tethered to you, less a brother and more an ever-present guardian, a self-appointed fairy godmother who built his purpose around keeping watch over your life.

When school was in session, his days began before the sun even thought about rising — dragging himself out of bed at an ungodly hour to help Gran with breakfast, shaking off sleep with the clatter of dishes and the smell of butter hitting a hot pan. The kitchen was always dimly lit, humming with the indistinct sounds of the world waking up. He'd scrub down counters while eggs sizzled, sweep the floors before the coffee had finished brewing, steal bites of toast in between flipping pancakes.

And then — your lunch. If you wanted peanut butter, he spread it thick. If you swore off carrots for the week, he’d swap them out with a sly substitution, sneaking in a treat when Gran wasn’t looking.

Breakfast was always a battlefield. You, groggy and barely functional, glaring at the sight of anything green on your plate; and him, sighing, coaxing, bribing, bending over backwards to get you to take a single bite of food that didn’t sparkle with sugar.

And then, of course, the walk to school.

You always complained, swearing you didn’t need him to take you, that you could find your way just fine. And yet, without fail, you were right there beside him every morning, rubbing sleep from your eyes, shuffling along in whatever oversized hoodie you’d thrown on that day, your shoelaces untied, the imprint of your pillow still faint against your cheek.

The moment you arrived at the school gates, the dynamic shifted. Caleb wasn’t your gege anymore — he was Caleb Xia, the local celebrity.

Kids greeted him with the awe reserved for a hometown hero, flocking together in the distance to get a glimpse at him, either scattering when he noticed them or waving at him if they were brave enough. Teachers nodded at him in approval, a dependable, responsible older brother. And you? You rolled your eyes, huffing, gave his sleeve a tug that wordlessly said you’re embarrassing me, can you leave already? as he lingered in conversation, half-smirking at your impatience.

The highlights of his school day weren’t the classes or the fleeting moments of downtime between them — it was lunch breaks spent calling you, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he unwrapped whatever quick meal he’d grabbed from the cafeteria. "Did you eat yet?" was always his first question, followed immediately by, "Did you like it?" as if your opinion on the food he packed for you was the most crucial piece of intel of his day. He could practically hear you rolling your eyes through the speaker, muttering around a mouthful of rice or torn bread crust. It didn’t matter — he needed to hear it, to know.

After that, his mind switched gears. Physical training, drills fine-tuned for DAA hopefuls, routines meant to push his endurance to the next level. His uniform stuck to his back, sweat beading along his brow, but he relished the burn, the ache in his muscles a steady reminder of why he was doing this. When training ended, he sprawled out on the bleachers, water bottle pressed against his overheated neck, scrolling through footage of aerospace battleships on his phone. Each sleek design, each launch, every maneuver—it reminded him why he worked so hard. Why he wanted this so badly.

But none of that mattered when late afternoon rolled around.

His friends ribbed him for it, tossing casual jabs his way as they packed up their things. "Ditching us again for babysitting duty?" someone teased. Caleb only smiled from ear to ear and didn't pay any mind to it, pretending the subtle condescension thrown your way didn’t needle under his skin. They didn’t get it. They never did.

Because for him, the best part of the day wasn’t the grind, wasn’t the push toward his future. It was the moment the last bell rang at your school, and he was already there, stationed by the gate, feet bouncing slightly on the pavement, waiting to see you emerge from the crowd.

Nothing compared to that anticipation. The way his breath would hitch for half a second as he spotted you — bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, uniform slightly wrinkled, the sleeves of your cardigan pushed up because you always ran too hot. The moment your eyes met his, and that immediate, effortless way you gravitated toward him, your first words were never hi, always a strange little remark, offbeat and inconsequential.

Like it was a given. Like, of course, he’d be here. Of course, you’d find him first.

And as he fell into step beside you, listening to whatever was on your mind that day, the earlier teasing, the bone-deep fatigue, the sting of training—all of it slipped into the background, tamed into silence.

Some days, your hand in his felt wrong—too loose, on the verge of slipping free if he wasn’t careful, or too tight, clutching at the unsaid hanging between you both. Those were the days when your usual chatter dwindled, when your feet dragged instead of skipping along the sidewalk, when your eyes darted past him instead of meeting his.

Caleb never asked outright — he knew what to do, adjusting, seamlessly redirecting your path before you could even notice, with slight nudge at your shoulder, an easy pivot at the next turn, suddenly you weren’t heading straight home anymore.

The little grocery store on the corner, the one with the faded awning and the chime at the door, became your unspoken secret place. The scent of paper and ink mingled with a faint sweetness the moment you stepped inside — an inviting coziness that dwelled between the shelves lined with pastel notebooks, glittering pens, and delicate origami sets among a handful of aisles, lined with neatly stacked boxes of biscuits, rows of colorful trinkets in plastic bins, glass jars of fruit jellies that caught the light just right.

But it wasn’t the stationery that did it.

It was the back garden, where clusters of hydrangeas bloomed in careful bursts of lavender and blue, their petals shifting with the breeze. It was the way the sun liquidized through the narrow windows, turning the space golden in the late afternoon, a place stitched into memory as a guarantee: no matter how heavy your day had been, you would leave here lighter.

It was the colorful bins of imported candies, the tiny glass jars filled with trinkets shaped into animals and miniature constellations, the usual sequence of browsing through things neither of you needed but always wanted. And most of all, it was you, little by little, softening again, your fingers grazing the spines of journals, your lips quirking upward when he held up a ridiculous cat-shaped eraser wearing sunglasses.

Someone else might’ve called it a routine. Caleb knew better.

It wasn’t a habit. Habits were formed. Not a conscious decision, either. That meant he was aware of what he was doing. No, it was instinct, coded into his DNA, a part of him he never questioned. Taking care of you didn’t feel like a duty he had to go out of his way to perform — it felt like identity.

Caleb dropping to one knee, his uniform pants already scuffed and dirt-streaked from basketball practice, to wordlessly tie your undone shoelaces, his fingers moving with muscle memory before you could even notice they were loose. The sting of fresh scrapes and bruises on his skin ignored in favor of making sure you wouldn’t trip.

Caleb at the kitchen table, the sharp scent of freshly peeled apples mixing with the smell of open textbooks, carving them into little bunny shapes while you scrawled through your homework, utterly absorbed. You never asked him to, but when he placed them next to your notebook, you’d pick them up one by one without looking, popping each into your mouth with the ease of a habit long formed.

Caleb picking out the tomatoes from your sandwiches, his hands moving with an unthinking efficiency, discarding them onto his own plate before sliding your food back to you. Gran had insisted he leave them in, but he never listened. You never ate them, anyway.

Caleb slinging both your backpacks over his shoulder at the end of a long day, even when you huffed about being a big girl now. Even when you swatted at him in protest. He carried them anyway, hitching the straps with a shrug, the weight pressing against his shoulder never once showing in his stride.

Caleb pressing the cool mouth of his water bottle against your arm, nudging it toward you because some noiseless alarm in his brain had gone off, warning him that you hadn’t had a sip of water all day. No words exchanged. If you didn't count the expectant arch of his brow and the silent order in his gaze.

Caleb swiping a thumb across your cheek, brushing away the stray crumbs from whatever snack you had been stuffing into your mouth mid-conversation. His touch was brief, casual, a passing thought given shape — but it lingered for a second before he pulled away, already shifting his focus elsewhere.

It was nothing, all of it. Small, everyday things. Thoughtless, maybe, in his mind. But to everyone else—adults with indulgent smiles, boys his age groaning in exaggerated disbelief — it carried a burden he didn’t seem to know the meaning of. "God, Caleb, you’re setting the bar too high. You know most guys would trade their little sisters for a corn chip, right?"

Caleb’s instinct to look after you didn’t end at the school gates. Even with the separation of campuses forcing distance between you, his presence lingered in ways you never noticed — woven into the small, seemingly inconsequential moments of your day.

It wasn’t about dictation. You hated being told what to do, slipping through the grip of authority as water escapes cupped hands. So instead, Caleb nudged. Steered.

A casual mention of someone’s cool Lumiere pencil case turned into you borrowing their markers, which turned into sitting beside them in art class. A passing remark about a classmate’s awesome Lumiere trading card collection suddenly had you talking to them at recess. The kids who shared their snacks without hesitation, who pulled out chairs without asking, who held their ground when pettiness soured the lunch table — those were the ones Caleb passively nudged you toward.

It never felt unnatural. That was the key. He didn’t force anything, never shoved you in any particular direction. He made it easy.

A suggestion to invite someone over, tossed out so casually it barely was a suggestion at all. A last-minute reminder that some kid — one he had already vetted in the background of his mind — enjoyed the same ridiculous show as you, a convenient spark to get a conversation going.

And if certain kids seemed off, if their teasing had an edge to it, if they tested boundaries in a way that felt a little too familiar to Caleb’s instincts, he never said a word. He didn’t have to. He didn’t fan the flame. He watched them flicker out, one by one, while loyalty of a different kind grew from their ashes.

You never noticed the discreet maneuvering and how he even knew the information about those classmates despite being an upperclassman. You never realized how your world had been subtly, deliberately arranged in a way that kept you surrounded by good people. People Caleb knew would look out for you when he wasn't there.

And that was the point.

No one had questioned it thus far. Neither had he. There was nothing to be questioned.

Until today.

It was hot. The kind of thick, sweltering summer heat that was observable with that wavy, distorting illusion effect. The wooden porch steps beneath him radiated with it, baked through by the afternoon sun, carrying the scent of dry wood and dust. Cicadas droned in the distance, their unrelenting hum pressing in from every direction, blending with the tinny sound of the (probably-not-appropriate) streamer’s voice coming from his phone.

You were sprawled beside him, popsiclle stick half-forgotten in your fingers, red syrup trailing down your wrist in slow, sticky rivulets. Caleb’s eyes flicked to it absently, knowing you wouldn’t notice until it reached your elbow. Your bare feet were pressed against his leg, stealing his shade with the smug contentment of a barnacle that had found the perfect spot to cling. He groaned, giving your ankle a lazy shove, but it was more for show than any real effort to get you to move.

Every so often, you’d lean against him, cheek brushing his shoulder, the heat from your skin seeping through the fabric of his t-shirt. The scent of artificial cherry clung to your breath, mixing with the toasty cotton and the faintest trace of his own shampoo. It was too hot for this. Too hot for you to be all over him, only to wiggle restlessly a second later, squirming back into place and ignoring the stifling effect you were having on him.

He could’ve moved. Should’ve, probably. But he stayed put. Let out a huff, feigning annoyance, all while a stupid grin tugged at his mouth and he waited for you to lean back into him again.

And then the screen door creaked open, and the heavy scent of heat-crisped fabric softener drifted out as Gran stepped onto the porch, hands settling firmly on her hips, and said it.

"You're getting too big to be stuck to Caleb all the time, dear. You're not a baby anymore."

It wasn’t meant to be sharp, wasn’t meant to sting,  but the comment buried itself in Caleb’s chest — sudden and weighty, plunging straight to some unreachable depth, cold settling through him in its wake.

Not a baby anymore.

Obvious. So obvious it should’ve bounced right off him. He was nearly a grown-up, already edging taller than some of the older boys, his limbs stretching out of last year’s clothes. His tank top, once loose, clung to him now, damp with sweat at the collar. His shorts were scuffed at the knees from a summer spent biking too fast, landing too hard. He was supposed to be out on the blacktop, running plays with the high schoolers, scraping his elbows on asphalt, staying out past the first flicker of streetlights without a second thought, anything but orbiting a tagalong presence that turned him into a punchline the moment older boys caught sight of it. And you…

What were you supposed to be doing? Not hanging off of him, apparently. Not pressing your perspiring skin against his in the heat of the day, not reaching for his hand out of instinct, not tilting your head toward him when you laughed, as if his reactions still mattered most.

The stick of his finished popsicle rested on his tongue, sticky-sweet, a lingering taste of artificial apple that felt almost mocking now. His fingers flexed, restless, drumming once against his knee before stilling.

His eyes flicked toward you — kicking your legs lazily against the porch steps.

"Then what is he?" You wrinkled your nose, squinting up at Gran as if the answer should have been obvious. "Just big?"

Gran chuckled, shifting her weight as she leaned against the doorframe, a subdued amusement ushering her voice. "Big enough to start weaning you off a little."

And just that quickly, the pressure behind Caleb’s ribs dragged lower, anchored by unseen hands, coiling everything inside him until it felt strained and scraped hollow.

Weaning you off.

The thought kept tugging at a place he couldn’t name, an ache flowering with sharp clarity, the slow rupture fragility held too long. The thought of you — apart from him, orbiting somewhere beyond his reach — felt foreign, wrong. Not turning to him first? Not following his lead? Where would you even go? And worse — who would you go to?

"That’s dumb," you declared, licking the last of the syrup from your fingers with a casual finality that almost soothed the raw edges of his nerves. "Why would he do that?"

You sounded so sure. So utterly certain, a truth spoken from the bones of the universe. Caleb clung to that certainty, let the bird take perch in his palms, tried to hold faith in it as you did. But then Gran hummed, low, knowing, her tone threaded through with the weariness of someone who’d witnessed this unfold more than once, her eyes fixed on the horizon of a sun bound to set.

She turned to Caleb, fixing him with a look that sat too heavy on his shoulders. "Caleb won’t want you tagging along forever."

His heart, steady a moment ago, suddenly pounded too hard against his ribs. The space between his shoulders burned. He parted his lips to argue, but no words came, his throat tight, thoughts tangled.

"No," you huffed, scrunching your face, clear unhappiness bleeding into your voice. "He’s my gege."

Yes. Exactly.

Then why did Gran sound like that? Why did she act as though this were some carved-in-stone truth, some outcome she’d already filed away — that he’d grow tired of you trailing behind, that he’d ever want to loosen his hold? He didn’t mind it — of course he didn’t.

A flash of heat rolled down his spine, unsettling and sudden, a strange pressure creeping under his skin. His body tensed against it, a shudder running straight through his core before he could stop it.

No. He liked when you followed him. He wanted you there, always half a step behind, always reaching for his sleeve, always seeking him first. That wasn’t weird, was it?

Gran knew exactly what she was doing. The amused curve of her lips, the way she adjusted her stance, arms folded loosely, her gaze genial but knowing—it was the look of someone who had already seen the ending of a story before anyone else even knew it had begun. But she was kind enough not to say it aloud.

"All right," she conceded, her voice easy, lilting, teasing but patient. "If you really think you're okay with being tied to him for life—"

"I am," you declared, not even letting her finish. Not missing a single beat.

It hit Caleb in a flash — everything catching fire all at once from a single spark. His pulse faltered, then surged, white-hot and golden blooming in his chest. A triumphant yes, a relief that tore through him so sharply it left his head reeling, his body thrumming with a force too wild to name, all from the way you said it, so absolute and undisputable. 

But Gran wasn’t done.

"But what if he isn't?" she pressed. "What about when he finds his special someone?"

The concept was an anathema lodged into the gears of his mind. Special someone.

A vague, faceless figure materialized in the space next to him, spectral and wrong. Another girl, maybe. Someone else at his side, standing too close, reaching for his sleeve the way you did now, calling his name with too much familiarity. Someone who would take up space that should be yours — laughing with him over dumb inside jokes, stealing food from his plate, tugging on his hand in crowded spaces without thinking.

Taking care of her. Looking out for her. Ruffling her hair when she did well on a test, cooking for her, walking her home, bringing her gifts without needing a reason—

His stomach twisted, insides a dishcloth wrung tight, and suddenly, the popsicle stick in his grip felt foreign. Slowly, he became aware of the way his fingers had clamped around it, tight enough that splinters had bitten into his palm. Too tight.

The porch creaked as you shifted closer, knees bumping against his, your oversized t-shirt — his, actually, stolen ages ago — hanging off one shoulder, damp with summer sweat. You tilted your head, strands of sticky hair clinging to your forehead, blinking up at him with that wide, guileless stare. Your eyes, bright and searching, caught the light, reflecting flecks of gold.

"Caleb…"

There was concern there, nestled between the syllables of his name. An innocent plea, a tug at a place deep inside him he wasn’t ready to face.

His skin prickled.

"Gran’s being silly, pip-squeak," shot out too fast, too forced, but he grinned through it anyway, stretching his face into an easygoing mirror of comfort. With every fiber of his being, he shoved everything back down — buried it under the feverishness of the day, under the scent of melting sugar in the air, under the sound of your breathing, steady and trusting beside him. His fingers flexed, then relaxed to let him flick the splintered popsicle stick onto the porch steps. "There’s no way I’m ditching you! Come on, are we finishing the episode or what? We’ve got a lot to catch up on."

He slung an arm around you, dragged you close against his side, so offhand in the motion, yet every inch of him rooted in the touch, steadied by it without letting it show. You were sun-drenched and cuddly, the scent of your shampoo still clinging to the damp strands of your hair. You leaned into him without hesitation, fitting against him the way you always had.

And yet.

An unobtrusive force stirred inside him, threading through the bars around his lungs and tightening with merciless intent.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

The sky shifted, brilliant blue bleeding into orange, then purple, the day becoming more breathable as the heat slowly receded. Gran’s voice filtered out from the kitchen window, going on about dinner, but Caleb wasn’t listening. He wasn’t here anymore. His thoughts drifted somewhere further, somewhere he didn’t want to go — somewhere you couldn’t follow.

His thumb rubbed absently at the crook of your elbow, tracing slow circles over the smoothest part of your skin, a mindless habit meant to soothe — himself, that is.

The thought clung to him, a persistent dog at his heels, refusing to be shaken loose. It trailed him through the evening, barking at him nonstop as he moved through the small rituals of routine.

It was there when he set the table, watching you from the corner of his eye as you padded barefoot across the linoleum, the oversized sleeves of your pajama top slipping past your wrists. It was there when you tugged at his sleeve, your voice springy, grabbing his attention as he pulled the dish from the oven. Feed me, your eyes seemed to say, mouth already open, waiting. And of course, he gave in — pressing the edge of a still-hot bite against your lips after he blew on it, pretending not to notice the way your breath hitched as you chewed.

It was there when you nuzzled up beside him later, your body slack with sleep, limbs tangled in the throw blanket you’d stolen from his lap. Your breath tickled his arm, brushing against a presence hiding in Caleb's shadow that had no name yet. The scent of your shampoo — faint now, laced with the salt of dried sweat from a long summer day — lingered between you. He told himself he wasn’t listening to the cadenced exhales, wasn’t matching his breathing to yours.

And then, it appeared as he tucked you into bed. As it always did.

You blinked up at him sleepily, covers pulled high, cheek squished against your pillow. Your room smelled of you, steeped in a nostalgia he couldn’t put into words but had always known. His fingers brushed the edge of your blanket as he lingered by your side.

It was normal.

It was always normal.

And yet, the thought, the one he had spent the entire day trying to drown out, was an ever-present uninvited guest whispering in his ear. 

He couldn’t imagine not wanting you by his side for the rest of his life.

Years later, Caleb would pinpoint this summer, the summer of his fourteenth year, as the point of no return. The death of whatever childhood innocence had once dressed itself as sibling love.

An apple blossom plucked before its time, its petals discarded in favor of a fruit too heavy, too low-hanging, too wrong to belong among the delicate branches of the family tree.

Xavier never saw you cry at the funeral.

You had stood still, wrapped in black, hands flat at your sides, nails pressing half-moon indentations into your palms. The scent of freshly turned earth and incense was more present than any meaningful conversation, the whispers of condolences processed with you nodding along when spoken to, shaking hands, murmuring words that were rehearsed and expected. Your face was unreadable, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the two caskets, one of which was empty, beyond the faces of mourners, beyond here.

He didn’t see you cry when you returned to what was left of home, either. Not when you stood at the threshold of devastation, the scent of charred wood and melted plastic still thick, mingling with the metallic tang of exposed steel. Not when you traced the edge of a broken picture frame with trembling fingers, or when the wind rattled through the skeletal remains of walls that had once held your precious family safe. If grief had a home in you then, it stayed silent, lurking at your back — a ghost suspended in the quiet, waiting to be seen.

No, the first time you let him see you cry was months later.

It didn’t announce itself with thunder and lightning. One moment, the world was steady. The next, the floodgates had opened.

His kitchen was mellow, steeped in the golden hues of a sun too lazy to set just yet, its light stretching long across the counter where you sat. One leg was tucked beneath you, the other swinging idly, the heel of your sock skimming against the cabinet with uniform taps. The room smelled of burnt sauce — nose-stinging, acrid, clinging to the air, a mistake neither of you dared mention, and the pan sat abandoned on the stove, its contents an unappetizing mess of charred edges and failed ambition, but for once, you hadn’t laughed at him yet. That was the first sign.

Xavier leaned against the counter across from you, arms folded, waiting for the inevitable teasing. But it never came.

Instead — your breath caught.

A small thing. Easy to miss. An inhale halted halfway, snagged on a knot buried deep not quite ready to unfold yet.

His eyes flickered toward you as your thumb hovered over your phone screen, frozen in place. The glow of it bathed your face in cold white light, so at odds with the luminescence spilling in through the window. You weren’t looking at him. Weren’t looking at anything, really — dissociating at the screen, your face blank.

And then, without sound, without warning, you folded into yourself. A band snapping into place after being too streched too thin for too long. 

He knew this kind of breaking. Intimately.

It never arrived in a flash, never split a person open in one violent instant. Instead, it crept inward, burrowed deep into the marrow, slowly reshaping the bones from within. He had felt it before, held it before — in another life, in another ending. When your body had gone too still against his. When your breath had slipped against his neck without fear or struggle. A shaky exhale. A barely-there smile. A release so docile and serene, it had broken him more than any scream ever could.

He knew how grief hollowed a person out.

How it made ghosts out of the living, how it made you ache for someone even when they were right there, breathing the same air, sitting an arm’s reach away.

And still — watching you now — it hurt.

You swiped at your face, impatient, determined to wipe away the tears before they could fully form. But your hands betrayed you, trembling in spite of your resolve.

Xavier turned off the burner, the flame vanishing with a muted click.

Gently, he pried the device from your grip. You let him. Didn't resist, no glance upward. With the smallest movement, turning into him, you pressed your forehead into his shoulder, and he wanted nothing more than to fold you into the fabric of his shirt and make your pain disappear into the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

The screen dimmed in his palm, but the voice still filtered through the speaker, sunny and youthful, threaded with a teasing affection that made Xavier’s throat tighten.

"I’ll be back soon. Be good, okay? Or you’ll be doin’ the cooking this time and I won’t lift a finger to help you."

A promise. A joke. A lie, but not an intentional one.

Then — a sound.

Small. Fractured. Hardly more than an exhale, yet enough to leave the raw sting of a wound torn fresh.

Xavier didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he shifted, lowering his chin against the crown of your head, his arms gathering you up in a hold that wasn’t tight, but anchoring, and stayed that way until the light from the window cooled into that dusky shade of evening. Until the edges of both your shadows melted into one.

The same summer that had been the genesis of Caleb’s anxieties about growing apart, you wouldn’t shut up about the summer camp he was sure Gran had sent you to put space between the two of you. Much to his chagrin, you had returned beaming, spirits fiery, enveloped in the incense of lake water and pine sap, and carrying an entire new world in your hands.

He didn’t mind — honestly, he’d always enjoyed listening to you. Every story poured through your whole body: hands carving shapes in the air, feet kicking up at nothing, your voice rising and dropping, transforming canoe races and bonfire songs into tales far grander than they had any right to be.

But this time, the stories weren’t about him.

They weren’t about things you had done together.

Instead, they were about them.

Lian. Cass. Milo. Names that meant nothing to him but tumbled so effortlessly from your lips, light and familiar, were paper planes flung at him, each one carrying a piece of you away. Lian said this, Cass did that, Milo was so funny when—

Your laughter filled the space between you, unguarded and bright, the kind that made your whole body move with it — shoulders shaking, hands bracing against your knees as if you needed to physically steady yourself from the force of the memory. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, your oversized academy hoodie bunching at your elbows, the hem riding up to reveal a sliver of bare skin above your pajama shorts.

Caleb watched, his own smile flickering to life, rehearsed—a performance shaped by all the unspoken rules of moments such as this. He leaned back against the armrest, stretching his legs out beneath the coffee table, socked feet grazing against yours without thought. Yeah? What’d he say? The words left his mouth before he could register them, autopilot kicking in where his thoughts strayed.

You inhaled sharply, hands flailing slightly as you tried to contain your excitement. "Okay, so we were in the mess hall, and Cass dared Milo to chug this absolutely vile shake we made by spinning this random online wheel, right? Like, I’m talking — smelled like feet and regret. Anyway, Milo, being the overachiever that he is, actually considers it, and then — Lian, oh my god — looks at him and goes, ‘I hope your digestive system is strong enough for this betrayal because in spirit, you aren’t.’"

You barely got the last words out before dissolving into another fit of laughter, head tilting back, eyes squeezed shut in delight, hands clapping together — a little cymbal monkey, bright and electric. The sound pacified him, more soothing than memory, homelier than any childhood dream.

Caleb nodded, fingers forming a loose fist on his knee. "Yeah. That’s — uh, that’s funny."

It wasn’t.

The words rang hollow in his mouth, a bite into a fruit that looked ripe but tasted wrong.

This Lian guy — what was his deal? A little too self-aware, wasn’t he? Try-hard humor, the kind that made people laugh at things instead of with them. The type of jokes even Zayne would roll his eyes at.

“You have to hear about this too! One night during campfire stories, Lian started messing with the group by making up these ridiculous prophecies. You had to be there, but trust me, it was so good. He told Milo that he was doomed to trip over a tree root before the week was out and Milo actually did trip! It was insane. So obviously, we decided that Lian was our new oracle and now he gives everyone fake fortunes, like ‘beware the wrath of the cafeteria lady,’ or ‘your socks will mysteriously disappear in the night.’ And honestly? They’ve all come true. It’s freaky. So, everyone thought with his powers, we should overthrow the entire camp and take over as co-rulers, and honestly, I think we could do it."

At one point, Caleb had turned around, elbow braced against the couch arm, temple resting on his knuckles in a half-thoughtful pose, and giving you that look, the one that said he was listening, that you had his full attention — but if you peered in closer, you’d see the way the glimmer behind his pupils had been snuffed out.

"Oh yeah?" His voice came out smooth, too smooth, an autopilot response. "Where’d this revolution come from, exactly?”

"Okay, okay!" You beamed, sitting up straighter, knees bouncing with the effort of holding in your excitement. "So it all started when we got caught sneaking extra marshmallows from the mess hall. Lian was like, ‘This is tyranny, and we must rise up!’ So obviously, we started plotting this whole elaborate scheme to recruit our bunkmates and take control of the schedule board. If we changed the wake-up calls and sneaked into the admin office, we could make it so we got an extra hour of free time every day—”

Your hands waved wildly as you talked, nearly smacking him in the face at one point. Caleb barely blinked, smile thinning out a bit as you continued, oblivious.

"—and then Lian said that if we were in charge, we’d have unlimited access to the snack stash and, Caleb—imagine—unlimited s’mores!"

You looked at him then, eyes wide and expectant, your lips still parted from your last sentence, a pause charged with hope, waiting for him to catch the spark you carried, to match your excitement, to leap in and call it brilliant.

Instead, Caleb nodded slowly, lips pressing together in that familiar, measured way, the one that meant he was choosing his words carefully. "Sounds… revolutionary."

"Right?!" You beamed. "Lian even made a fake list of camp rules with ridiculous demands, like mandatory nap time and designated hammock hours. And you know what? I think he'd make a great leader.”

"Well, I mean, I thought you were supposed to be co-rulers?"

"Oh, we are," you said quickly, leaning back against the couch with a dreamy sigh. "But sometimes I feel like Lian just naturally takes charge, you know? He always has these ideas, and everyone just listens to him. It’s kinda amazing."

“Yeah. Amazing.”

"And Cass invited me to a sleepover this weekend," you announced, letting the words fall — an unassuming meteor disguised as a pebble, trying to slip soundlessly into still water. "Her parents are hosting, please, please, please! Can I go?"

Caleb barely had time to process before his stomach knotted, a visceral, immediate reaction.

No.

The word was right there, balanced on the tip of his tongue, begging to spill out before he could even think. Just no. He wanted to force his authority on you and demand no questions be asked. It was an ugly thing, that instinct. 

His nails dug into the front and back covers of the book in his lap, the spine pressing into his palm, though he hadn't turned a page in over ten minutes.

He didn’t know this Cass. Had never met her, had never had a say in whether or not she was someone you should be spending time with. Hadn’t chosen her for you.

You were watching him, chin propped on your hands, your knees tucked to your chest where you sat at the other end of the couch. Expectant. Certain he would agree, asking only out of habit.

Dark clouds gathered behind his eyes.

He wanted to be selfish. Wanted to refuse, unsettled by how quickly everything around him was tectonic plates breaking and lurching away from one another. Wanted to tell you to stay home, to keep things exactly the way they had always been. That sleepovers weren’t necessary, that you didn’t need to be anywhere else.

But he wasn’t your parent.

He wasn’t your guardian.

But he was your gege. Wasn’t he?

His breath came a little too tight, but he forced himself to smile anyway, reaching out to ruffle your hair the way he always did. The way he should. The way that meant nothing had changed.

"Yeah," he said, swallowing down the frog in his throat. "Have fun."

Your whole face lit up, legs kicking excitedly against the cushions. "I will!"

He forced out a chuckle, the sound barely reaching his ears. "Don't forget to give Gran her parents' contact numbers, okay? I'll drop you off."

That night, long after you had gone to bed, Caleb found himself standing outside your room, barefoot on the floor, staring at the thin ribbon of light seeping out from beneath your door, pale and flickering as your shadow moved beyond it, listening to the rustle of fabric, the muffled shuffling as you rearranged the contents of your overnight bag, followed by the careful scrape of a zipper. 

He had done this before. Stood in this exact spot, staring at the door separating him from you, listening to the mild sounds of you existing on the other side. When you were younger, it had been different — he used to do it just to check, To make sure you were still breathing. A habit formed in childhood, lingering into habit, into routine.

But this time?

The space between him and the door stretched wide, a canyon yawning open where solid ground once lay. He wasn’t checking in. He was stuck watching what they had begin to slip through his fingers, scattering before he could catch and mend it back. 

His fingers twitched at his sides.

He could knock. He could find an excuse — ask if you needed an extra charger even though it was you who usually came asking for one, joke about how you were probably overpacking for one night, tease you about stuffing half your closet into your bag.

He could say something.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, letting the seconds stretch long and thin between you.

And then, with a worn exhale, he turned away, and turned in for the night.

Caleb lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he wasn’t really seeing it. The shadows cast by the faint glow of his bedside clock stretched long and distorted as the numbers ticked forward, marking the slow crawl of time. Sleep never came. He didn’t expect it to.

He wasn't simply daydreaming or overthinking — his mind was being pulled in by an unearthing he hadn’t allowed himself to think about in years. A memory, worn at the edges but still sharp where it mattered.

The stories you used to tell.

Before camp. Before Gran. Before normalcy wrapped itself around your lives, an ill-fitting skin stretched too tight, chafing at every movement. Before you both learned how to live outside the sterile, white-washed walls where childhood had been a sentence, not a season.

Back then, in the cold fluorescence of a place that stank of antiseptic and the inescapable tang of copper, you had been the light.

The dreamer.

The one who could take four walls and write a new reality on them.

"I don’t belong here, my home is up here in the stars," you had whispered to him once, folded and huddled up on the too-thin mattress beside him, your voice hushed to keep secrets from the listening walls. "But it’s okay. He’s coming any day now."

"Who?" he had asked, because he knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

"My knight."

You had said it with absolute certainty, with a conviction so fierce that it almost made Caleb believe it too. "He promised he’d come back for me. But I won’t leave you here. He can take us far away, somewhere safe. Somewhere we don’t have to be afraid anymore."

Somewhere beyond the reach of men in white coats.

Back then, your world had been built on make-believe. On whispered prophecies and stories woven in the dark, each one an attempt to carve hope from the letters making up despair. And Caleb —

Caleb had never put stock in fairy tales, never believed in heroes riding in on white horses, or in distant kingdoms built on wishes and fate. But he had believed in you.

He had believed in the way your voice could dull the sharp edges of the world they lived in that was designed to poke and prod into them, the way you could take what was cold and sterile and fill it with hope, make it bearable. He had listened — really listened — memorized every inflection of your whispered stories in the dark, every frantic hope you clung to with tiny, desperate hands. He let you weave the illusion, let you pull him into that world where escape was possible, where you weren’t stuck waiting for whatever came next, helpless.

Then Gran took you in.

The men in white coats disappeared — gone, dead, buried beneath layers of the Chronorift Catastrophe and things nobody in this household ever talked about again. Life rearranged itself into a curated normal, into the bland routine of home-cooked meals and school bells and summer nights spent sprawled on the porch. And the stories?

They vanished.

The experiments had left fractures in your memory, gaps where entire years had been pried apart and left disassembled. Somewhere along the way, the knight from the stars had slipped through those cracks. Swallowed by time, forgotten, unspoken, lost to the void.

But Caleb never forgot.

The words still lived in the back of his mind, tucked away in the places he never let himself visit. He could still hear your voice, younger, frailer, whispering of a promise made long before you ever met him. He promised he’d come back for me.

For years, that story — your story — had been his greatest nightmare. The experiments and the ghosts in white coats, he could grit his teeth and bear. But the idea that the princely knight you had once spoken of so fervently would come after all?

Caleb had spent endless nights staring at the ceiling, waiting, listening, dreading. He had imagined it too vividly — some older, stronger man arriving in the dead of night, welcoming himself back into your world, with a voice manlier than his to turn your head and hands steady enough to pull you away from him. He had pictured the way you might look at someone the way you looked at him — wide-eyed, breathless, smitten — but this time so enamored that you wouldn’t even glance back.

But in the end, a celestial rescuer didn't arrive.

The nightmares of dramatic abductions he woke up drenched from that involved a grand, sweeping moment where someone took you from his grasp?

They were nothing compared to this.

Time. Life. The idle, inevitable turning point of you growing, changing, stepping further and further outside the world the two of you had built. Not running, not even intentionally leaving him behind — though, moving forward in a way that felt naturally inevitable, while he remained standing in place, watching your back drift further away.

He swallowed hard and turned onto his side, the sheets cool against his skin, but the heat in his chest refused to dissolve.

The knight from the stars was never real.

But the fear of losing you had always been.

Xavier’s apartment smelled like burnt toast.

Which was impressive, considering toast wasn’t even part of the meal.

Xavier’s second attempt at breakfast was going about as well as the first, which was to say: disastrous. The air purifier was whirring uselessly, struggling to clear out the acrid smoke infused into the walls, your clothes, your hair. The sink had already claimed several casualties — half-peeled vegetables, a cracked egg that never made it to the pan, and a bowl of rice that had turned a color rice should never be.

The only thing that had survived unscathed was the jar of honey.

And even that, apparently, was proving to be a challenge.

You sat at the counter, chin propped up on your hand, watching as Xavier wrestled with the lid and not even lifting a finger to help to see how long he could hold on until he wanted to recruit your help with that rare pleading face of his.

His long fingers, pale and deft, snaked around the glass, his knuckles pressing white with effort. The lamplight pooled over the sharp angles of his wrists, catching on the fine bones of his hands, the faint veins trailing up the smooth expanse of his forearms. His skin, impossibly fair, seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. He was all silken precision, all effortless control — except for the slight crinkle kissed between his brows, the faint crease of concentration on his otherwise perfectly composed face.

He twisted the lid one way, then the other, then braced it against his hip with the bearing of someone prepared for battle. The muscles in his forearm tensed beneath the pale stretch of skin, lean and corded, a whisper of restrained strength. His silver lashes lowered, his lips pressed into a flat, determined line.

It was an absurdly regal effort.

And then—

POP.

The lid exploded off like a gunshot.

Honey burst from the jar in a gilded arc, catching the light as it splattered across the counter, his hands, and, most notably, his face.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

A dollop of honey traced a viscous, lazy path down his cheek, catching at the delicate edge of his jaw, slipping past the curve of his mouth. His finely-shaped lips parted slightly in what could have been a sigh, or maybe exasperation. The strands of silver hair that framed his face were damp with syrup, sticking to the flawless cut of his cheekbones, glinting like strands of moonlight caught in amber.

And still, his expression remained blank. Like he didn’t quite register what had happened yet.

You were the first to break.

It started as a tremor at the back of your throat. A choked, strangled sound that barely registered as your own.

Xavier turned to you, silver lake blue eyes impassive.

“Is something funny?” he asked with a pout he was trying to hold back.

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t.

Except—

It was.

The laugh broke free before you could stop it, shaking loose from your chest, raw and unfamiliar. Your shoulders shook. Your head tipped back. It wasn’t a chuckle in the form of a small exhale through your nose that had become your usual lately — it was real laughter, the kind that knocked the breath from your lungs, the kind that you hadn’t felt in so long it almost startled you.

Xavier did not react.

Did not wipe the honey from his cheek.

Did not reach for a towel.

He simply stood there, deep pink dusting his ears, regarding you with an expression that was entirely too resentful. As if you were the strange one. As if he hadn’t just declared war on a honey jar and lost spectacularly.

You doubled over, forehead pressing to the counter as your fists banged soundlessly against the cool surface, struggling to breathe, to ground yourself. And yet, the laughter only came harder.

And then—

Then it hit you.

There were tears in your eyes.

Your breath stuttered, laughter splintering into hush, smaller now, unguarded, tremulous at the edges. The sound wavered, teetering between joy and grief at laughing in the kitchen with someone else at another time, until it fell on its knees somewhere in between.

Xavier didn’t say anything.

He reached for a napkin and, with surgical precision, wiped the substance from his face, and only managed to smear it around more.

You hiccupped, breath still uneven, as he casually put the jar down on the counter, closing a palm on top of it.

“Well, we’ve got honey at least,” he said, leaning in and turning his soiled cheek closer to you. “Do you want it?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you raised a finger and brushed along his cheekbone, collecting honey in a sticky trail as he kept his quiet-twinkled stare on you. As you pulled back your hand, he turned and licked his tongue over it, taking a taste as he contemplated the flavor thoughtfully.

"Good quality," he noted approvingly, his tone matter-of-fact.

His skin was soft. Soft enough that despite the sugar clinging to him, the endearment and tenderness beneath made you lean forward and kiss him where you touched. Lightly. Bare lips pressed against his cheek, feathery and fleeting before pulling away. You tasted honey and sunshine when you licked your lips — golden brightness pooling on your tongue, a sugary daze seeping into your veins.

You looked up in time to catch his double blink of surprise, eyebrows rising delicately to his hairline as his cheeks flushed deeper rose under all the sticky mess. A moment passed between you in silence — a private eternity.

Avoiding you when he was the one who made the move, Xavier immediately went on to clean — like nothing had happened, like he hadn't spilled the heart you had under lock and key all over the cavity of your ribcage. And you sat there, fingers trembling as you wiped your eyes, pretending you weren’t still smiling.

Falling in love had never felt like this before.

It had never crept in through the cracks, never been this tranquil, this steady.

But now, as you watched him move through the kitchen in search of edible food to put in front of you to eat, all awkward grace and clandestine embarrassment, you realized—

Maybe it had been happening all along.

The first time you saw Lumiere, you were too young to understand much of anything beyond the debilitating terror.

The world had cracked apart from the seams, horrors flooding the streets, a wound ripped open, impossible to mend. Sirens screamed through the chaos, their wailing voices swallowed by the greater, more inhuman sounds of the city tearing itself apart. The sky was wrong, a gaping, swirling hole yawning at its center, unnatural and seething, pulsing with a restless, uncanny life.

Buildings folded and twisted in on themselves, steel beams bending, dying fingers straining for help out of reach. The ground trembled beneath your feet, a violent, groaning thing, the earth itself recoiling from the carnage. Wanderers moved through the ruins, bending and warping the space around them, and the air turned dense, distorted, collapsing impossibly inward. 

People ran. A panicked, mindless stampede of scattering birds in the wake of a predator as smoke rolled thick through the streets, pressing its fingers against your lungs, squeezing. The streets had become graveyards. Cars sat abandoned, doors flung open in frozen panic, some crushed beneath fallen debris, others twisted into shapes that no longer resembled vehicles at all, and glass littered the asphalt, catching the firelight in fractured glints only to trip some people up as they were trying to escape.

Within hours, the city had come undone, an ending ripping apart ground and sky alike, undeniable in its finality.

And in the middle of it all—

A spectral shimmer against the bruised expanse of the sky, carving through the ruins in a streak of molten silver, a shooting star torn from the heavens and hurled toward the ground. He moved with the force of a video game character come to life, graceful, otherworldly, his blade carving arcs of light through beasts too vast, too nightmarish to fall to mere guns made by men.

You remembered the moment gloved hands — gentle, strong — had pulled you from the wreckage, lifting you out of the chaos as if you weighed nothing at all. The world around you was still crumbling, still breaking apart in ways too enormous for your small mind to comprehend, but in that instant, none of it reached you. His arms scooped you up protectively, familiar in a way, shielding you from the twisted bodies of cars, from the distant screams, from the flickering, impossible reality of the Wanderers.

Your tiny hands had latched onto his sleeve, frantic for any shape or form of safety, and even now, you could remember the way it felt beneath your fingertips — impossibly luxurious, a sensation that didn’t belong in this world at all. His white coat, unblemished despite the wreckage, didn’t seem to absorb the destruction the way everything else had, it should have been ruined, torn by shrapnel, dirtied by smoke and fire, but it wasn’t. It was perfect. As if nothing — not the crumbling city and certainly not the monsters — could touch him.

He had only looked down at you once, but that was all it took.

Those eyes — deep blue, so calm it felt unreal, still as a lake undisturbed — had met yours, devoid of pity. His hair, the lightest shade of white gold, caught the glow of the firelight, making it near impossible to tell where the light ended and he began. It was almost holy, a glow that stripped away the edges of personhood, leaving behind a figure summoned from the hushed wonder of a fairy tale. A savior carved from light and distance.

And then, without a word, he had pulled you closer and lifted off the ground.

The city fell away beneath you, the fires and spiraling smoke blurring into streaks as the wind roared past your ears, the world that had mere moments ago tried to swallow you whole becoming nothing but a smear of color beneath your feet. Up here, cradled in the cocoon of safety, you were untouchable. Weightless as light itself.

You had never stood this high above it all. Never seen the world stretched out in such vastness. Never felt your chest fill quite the same way.

For a moment, in the middle of catastrophe, it was a dream.

And just as suddenly, it was over.

He descended with effortless precision, the wind dying around you as your feet met the ground, his arms the last thing you let go of. Gran’s trembling hands were there in the next breath, pulling you into a desperate embrace outside the shelter, voice cracking with relief.

You turned to look for him.

But he was already gone.

As if he had never been there at all.

And that was all it took. You were obsessed.

As you got older, fascination twisted into obsession. The internet sleuth in you wasn’t held back by being fourteen, hunting for everything, books, articles, classified reports that had leaked onto obscure message boards, desperate for any scrap of information on Lumiere. Your search history became a shrine to him, spiraling down a rabbit hole of half-truths and speculation that even explaining porn to Gran would be easier.

You scoured forums where people spoke about him in fanatic reverence in endless threads filled with theories and fragmented testimonies. Some claimed to have seen him in the flesh, accounts breathless and disjointed, warped by awe and that phenomenon where one couldn’t exactly convey what they had gone through in perfect storytelling. Others swore he was nothing but a myth conjured by higher-ups to give birth to hope in the chaos of Linkon’s Catastrophe, possibly a constructed hero for the screens, the latter of which you knew better to entertain at all.

You watched every second of available footage, even the grainy, unstable clips filmed on trembling phones, taken from rooftops, from shattered streets, from whatever vantage point people could find before fleeing for their lives. You rewound, paused, analyzed, frames gone over with meticulous care one by one for anything you could find to get closer to his identity.

How he moved, fluid and precise, inhuman even with evol-user standards, the world around him bent in subtle ways as if the reality itself wasn't sure how to hold him, light distorting at the edges of his body.

You traced backtracked his path through the city, cross-referencing footage with satellite images, tracking where he had been, where he had vanished, where the destruction had ended in his wake, taking scraps of information jotted in the margins of notebooks, highlighted documents saved on your drive, timelines reconstructed in frantic detail.

You tried to reconstruct your own memories, too, for anything related to his face, but they slid past your grip, sand slipping loose no matter how tightly you held on — there for a moment, vivid and raw, before scattering into obscurity. Time and trauma had eroded the edges, distorting the details, leaving you with fragments instead of a whole.

You remembered the feeling more than anything.

The glow of his energy swimming around him, a halo of sentient light, illuminating the space between you. It held no bite of fire and no chill of electricity, brushing your skin, a cat bumping its forehead into your hand, then threaded through your bones, a current that knew your shape.

You knew, deep in your bones, that you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. And that fact shaped you in ways you couldn’t explain.

Caleb thought it was hilarious.

“You could’ve picked literally anything else,” he teased, arms crossed as he watched you rearrange your Lumiere fanart posters for what had to be the third time that week, but there was an undeniable awe in the way his eyes swept over the sheer dedication on display. You would roll on the floor and kick your limbs if it meant not doing your assigned chores, but the organization skills invested in Lumiere was nothing short of neat.

You barely glanced at him, too focused on making sure the edges of the posters were perfectly aligned. “And you still would be making fun of me.”

He snorted. “Listen, I support you, but you’ve turned this into a lifestyle.”

His gaze flicked around your room, taking in the full extent of your devotion. The shelves were packed — action figures still pristine in their boxes, rare collector’s items standing proudly on display, books and magazines arranged as meticulously as artifacts in a museum. A limited-edition Lumiere print, framed in glass, hung on the wall, belonging more to a gallery than a bedroom.

He reached over and flicked the head of a small Lumiere figurine on your desk, watching as it wobbled slightly before settling. Then he gestured toward the obscenely priced framed poster you had nearly cried over when it arrived in the mail.

“How much of your allowance have you blown on this guy?”

You turned to him, entirely unrepentant, eyes gleaming with conviction. “Every cent has been worth it.”

Caleb let out a long, dramatic sigh before collapsing onto your bed, bouncing slightly against the mattress as he folded his hands behind his head. His eyes flicked between you and the sheer shrine of Lumiere memorabilia covering your walls, his under-eye puffs creasing somewhere between amusement and mild exasperation.

"You know," he mused, stretching out in a long, languid motion, "if you ever put this much dedication into something productive, you'd probably rule the world by now."

So much dad-talk with this guy.

"You’re just mad I’m putting my energy into Lumiere and not boosting your ego twenty-four-seven," you shot back, rolling your eyes as you took a step back to assess your latest Tetris-like rearrangement of posters. No visible surface of the wall underneath. Perfect.

Caleb hummed thoughtfully, still watching you with the kind of lazy, calculated interest that always meant trouble. Then, after a beat of silence, his lips twisted into a slow, knowing grin.

"Actually," he drawled, tilting his head slightly, "I bet you have some secret Lumiere fanfic account somewhere, don’t you?"

Your heart nearly stopped. "What—"

“Oh, you totally do.” Caleb was grinning now, wide and victorious, a cat circling cornered prey, dragging out the moment for his own satisfaction.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him with everything you had. He dodged effortlessly, laughing as it thudded uselessly against the floor.

“Shut up, Caleb!”

“I’m right, though. I knew it.” He sat up, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought, the way he talked dipping into that slow, calculating tone that made your stomach drop. “Now the question is — what exactly do you write? Reader-insert? OCs? Ooh, or is it those tragic longing glances across the battlefield type deals?”

You peeked through your fingers, glaring from behind your hands. “How do you even know all of this?! You’re — You’re not supposed to know things like this! You’re a guy!”

“Wow. Gender stereotyping? In this day and age? For your information, I listen when people talk. Unlike someone.”

“I never talked about writing!” you shriek cracked in sheer betrayal.

“Please. You definitely have a secret account. Probably one of those edgy usernames, like ‘EclipsedSoul94’ or something.” He snapped his fingers. “Or wait — maybe something romantic. Like… ‘Lightbearer’s Muse.’”

Your entire body locked up.

Caleb’s eyes went wide, and in the split second of silence that followed, you knew you were doomed.

“No. Way.” His voice practically beamed with glee as he shot forward, bracing himself on his hands and knees, body coiled in a posture that needed no explanation — ready to absolutely pounce on the weakness he'd found. “Did I actually get close?!"

You scrambled back, heart hammering. "Shut up!"

He was laughing now, leaning into every bit of your suffering. "Wow, this is even better than I imagined. Really though, what do you write? Self-insert where you get rescued by him again? Maybe a little strangers-to-lovers? C’mon pip-squeak, you can share it with me… Oh, wait — do you make him suffer? Tragic backstory rewrite? I’m thinking angst. Big, dramatic, heart-wrenching—”

"Get out of my room!"

This time, you launched the pillow with actual intent to maim. He caught it effortlessly, barely even flinching, his grin unaffected.

“Oh, I’m going to find it,” he declared, tossing the pillow back onto your bed as he stood. “It’s only a matter of time.” He pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then turned them toward you. “Just remember — you can’t hide from me forever.”

And with that, he was gone.

The second the door clicked shut, you collapsed onto your bed, burying your face into the nearest pillow and screamed.

You were so screwed.

Despite the relentless teasing, the smug grins, the knowing looks whenever you so much as mentioned Lumiere’s name, Caleb never actually tried to talk you out of your obsession. Never scoffed and told you to get over it, never dismissed the endless streams of theories and analysis spilling from your mouth. If anything, he made it worse.

Because instead of shutting you down, he fed into it.

Where everyone else might have tuned you out, offering half-hearted nods and vague hums of acknowledgment, Caleb locked in. Matched your energy in a way that no one else ever would. 

Somewhere along the way, he had started picking things up. Anyone who spent enough time around you would eventually know Lumiere’s name, his signature abilities, his role in the Catastrophe. But Caleb went further. He started stockpiling trivia, hoarding that ammunition, waiting for the right moment to use it against you.

And he did. Mercilessly.

"You know, technically, Lumiere’s first recorded appearance after the Catastrophe is actually three years later, he’s not entirely gone," he had dropped casually over breakfast one morning, flipping through his phone and pretending he wasn’t watching your reaction out of the corner of his eye. "A witness in South End reported seeing a guy with light-based powers interfering in a protocore smuggling ring. No solid proof, but some people think—"

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Or the time you were mid-rant about power scaling inconsistencies in an old debate, only for Caleb to lazily stretch his arms and yawn, "Yeah, but Lumiere’s light refraction abilities could inherently be tied to gravitational fields, so if you think about it, it actually makes sense that his speed varies depending on—"

You had thrown a book at him.

He acted so effortlessly the information seemed intrinsic in his mind, but you knew. He had researched this. Had studied. Absorbed every ridiculous tidbit for the sole purpose of catching you off guard, slipping it into conversation so seamlessly it almost passed for expert knowledge.

And whenever you found out about a rare Lumiere event — an exhibit, a convention panel, a last-minute pop-up experience — Caleb always somehow made time for it. No matter how busy he seemed, no matter how often he claimed there were more pressing obligations, he never let you go alone.

He was the one dragging you out the door before you could overthink it, nudging you along when your nerves made you hesitate, handing over your ticket alongside a long-suffering sigh that turned the gesture into a silent, affectionate duty. And yet, despite all his grumbling, he never actually looked reluctant.

He took you to Lumiere-themed pop-up cafés, sitting across from you in a booth that was entirely too colorful for his tastes, making some sarcastic remark about how even the food was branded. And yet, when the latte art arrived, he took the picture before you could even reach for your phone, angling it perfectly right to catch the aesthetic lighting.

He cringed at the massive life-sized Lumiere cardboard cutouts at events but still held your bag whenever you ran up to one, your grin wide and shameless as you posed beside it. And then, when you weren’t paying attention, he took actual good pictures, ones where you didn’t look stiff or awkward, capturing the moment exactly as it was — your excitement, your enthusiasm, the way your entire face lit up.

He even tagged along to convention panels, sitting patiently through heated debates over Lumiere’s greatest heroic moments, invested enough to seem genuinely involved. You expected him to zone out, maybe nap through the more obscure discussions, but he never did, if anything, he leaned into the arguments with the investment of a man lingering before a soap opera he told his partner he wasn’t interested in, standing up with hands on hips.

And when you shot him a look, silently accusing him of enjoying this way more than he let on, he shrugged.

"Hey, I’ve been forced into this fandom. Might as well commit."

You wanted to argue, call him out on the fact that he was the one feeding into your obsession, not the other way around. But the moment you turned and opened your mouth, he was already flipping through the event schedule.

"Alright," he would lock in. "Where’s the merch booth?"

Caleb had made your love for Lumiere feel valid, important — even if he never let you live it down.

One year, on your birthday, Caleb somehow managed to track down the holy grail of Lumiere merchandise—an original, limited-edition plushie from an exclusive release, the kind of thing that had vanished off the market almost as soon as it had dropped. You had spent so much searching for it, scouring secondhand listings, watching auctions climb into absurd price ranges before vanishing altogether and appearing right back in someone else's hands to be auctioned once more, hands in your hair agonizing over the relic of the fandom hardcore collectors would have sold their souls for.

And Caleb, of all people, had found it.

You still remembered the moment you unwrapped it — the weight of the box in your lap, the crinkle of carefully folded tissue paper giving way beneath your fingertips, the instant recognition as soon as you caught a glimpse of familiar fabric. Your breath had hitched, hands going still, heart a dice jostled loose as it skittered sharply in the hollow of your throat through the realization.

This wasn’t some replica. Not a well-kept version of the later reprints, either. This was the original.

You lifted it gently, almost reverently, fingers ghosting over embroidered details, tracing the edges of the slightly worn tag still attached to its side. It appeared untouched, preserved as a fragment of history—but you knew better. You understood its age, understood the improbability of finding a piece this old, this rare, preserved so perfectly.

You had screamed and made him jump, nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug, your hands shaking as you clutched it close to your chest, running your fingers over the embroidered insignia and the carefully-stitched details. "No. No way. NO WAY! Where—how—? Caleb!"

He ruffled your hair in that annoyingly familiar way, his touch light but lingering a second longer than usual. “It wasn’t even that hard to get.”

You pulled back, still clutching the plushie to your chest, blinking at him in disbelief. “What do you mean it wasn’t hard? Caleb, this thing has been sold out for years. People would kill for it. I would’ve killed for it.”

He shrugged, all nonchalance, feigning indifference to having gifted you nigh-impossibility. “Luckily, you don’t need to, because I know people.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You do not know Lumiere merch scalpers.”

“I might.”

You gawked at him. “Wait. Wait. Did you actually—”

Caleb waved you off, leaning back in his chair, already deciding the conversation was over. The birthday cake remnants still sat on the table nearby, plates half-empty. “Just be grateful, gremlin.”

You stared at him, still overwhelmed, your heart all over the place from equal parts excitement and the dawning realization that he had to have gone above and beyond to get this. And he wasn’t even rubbing it in your face this time, either. Just looking smugly content.

The stove lights flickered against his face, highlighting the grin playing at his lips, but beneath all the teasing, there was the unbearable smother of honeyed fondness that made your breath catch for a heartbeat.

You hugged the plushie tighter, still clutching it like it was the most precious thing in the world. “Caleb.”

He cracked an eye open, raising a brow. “Hmm?”

You didn’t even know what to say. Thank you didn’t seem enough. But you also knew he’d never let you dwell on it too long. He'd always been this — giving, caring, yours, in a way that was so deeply ingrained in your life you sometimes forgot to acknowledge it.

Choked up, you nudged his leg beneath the table with your foot. Caleb, ever the instigator, nudged back, his grin widening as your little game escalated into a full-blown under-the-table foot war. The plates and empty glasses clinked slightly as your shins bumped, his movements slow and infuriatingly confident, while you tried to gain the upper hand.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered instead, trying to mask the sudden hot wave creeping up your neck.

Caleb, predictably, took the bait, his grin widening as he leaned back, stretching his legs out to trap yours in place. “You love me,” he shot back, effortlessly smug, not expecting anything more from you.

And maybe that was what made it so easy to say what you did next, words slipping out before you could think twice. “I’d probably be miserable without you.”

His foot froze against yours.

You didn’t notice, too focused on reclaiming your space in the ongoing foot war, pushing against his shin again with renewed determination. But across the table, Caleb had gone completely still, his smile faltering imperceptively before he recovered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, shaking his head, but his ears were red, his voice lower than before.

Another time, he had stayed up with you all night, camping out in a virtual queue to secure tickets to a Lumiere-themed convention. You had woken up that morning to a confirmation email and Caleb sprawled on your couch, half-asleep with his phone still in his hand.

You had launched yourself at him, tackling him in joy, and even though he had groaned about being used as a human pillow, he had never once pushed you away.

Looking back, you wondered if you had ever truly understood that these memories weren’t just tied to Lumiere. They were wrapped by the safety and happiness of Caleb always making space for your hyperfixations, in the laughter over quirks only he would ever care to indulge.

The things you treasured most had never belonged to Lumiere. They had always belonged to Caleb.

The old town, infested with Wanderers and long abandoned by warmth, was colder than expected — it wasn't the kind of cold that froze people in place. It moved with the wind, restless and alive, biting and electric, static before a lightning strike, unseen teeth grazing exposed skin.

You had felt it before Xavier did.

Even before the wind cut sharper, before the first true gust sent loose debris skittering across the road, you had known, drawn in on yourself instinctively, chin tucked, shoulders hunched, fighting the chill that threaded through your coat as if the layers meant nothing, arms locked tight around your body, gloved fingers bunching up your sleeves, as if bracing for what awaited beyond the horizon.

And then, you had stopped talking somewhere along the walk back, words trailing off until there was nothing but the sound of your footsteps, picking up pace, pressing forward.

Xavier hadn't noticed — not at first.

Not in the way he should have.

He had assumed you were cold—that you, much the same as him, simply didn’t want to be caught outside when the storm hit. Had brushed it off as normal — the logical reaction to impending bad weather.

The place they had taken for the night barely deserved to be called a shelter. It was a husk of a room, abandoned to time, walls bruised by damp stains crawling upward in slow, creeping ivy-shaped tendrils, smelling of old concrete and rusted metal. The single window rattled in protest against the wind, its warped frame allowing the night to slip through in cold, sharp breaths, laced with the damp tang of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

The heater struggled against the chill, wheezing out uneven bursts that never reached past the center of the room. Its hum was a frail thing, swallowed by the rising howl of wind that zipped through the alleyways outside, hissing and whistling through unseen cracks in the foundation.

They had a plan — keep watch in shifts, take turns standing guard. But plans meant nothing when he felt safe enough and wooziness had already sunk its fangs deep, wrapping around his limbs, pulling him down, heavy and relentless, deeper beneath a silent current.

Sleep took him fast the way it usually did. 

At some undefined hour of the night, he surfaced from sleep — not to cold, but to warmth.

His mind waded through the haze of exhaustion, sluggish and unwilling, thoughts tangled in the remnants of whatever half-formed dreams had been unraveling in his head. Instinct kept his body still, his muscles coiled, tight, waiting. The room was silent except for the distant hush of wind through the cracks, the faint coughing of the heater struggling against the damp chill.

And then, awareness seeped in.

Something soft. Comfy. Pressed against him.

It wasn’t from the heater.

It was you.

The realization was a breath held too long, burning his lungs. You had crumpled into him in sleep, your body drawn close as if seeking comfort, heat, him.

Even without seeing your face, he felt it in the way you clung to his shirt in a death-grip. Your knuckles pressed into his ribs, your breath ghosting across his skin in shallow, uneven pulls, whisper-vague, as if shaped from the same dream that carried his secrets.

And you were trembling.

It wasn't violent enough to wake you up, but his senses were sensitive enough that he picked it up anyway, wilted at the thought of whatever had driven you to this.

Outside, the storm had come in full.

Lightning split the sky in flashing white veins, illuminating the window for a fractured instant before plunging them back into darkness, wind howled through the streets, carrying the sharp, sudden crack of thunder. You flinched in your sleep, whining intermittently.

And suddenly, Xavier understood.

His body moved before his thoughts could catch up, an instinctual response written into muscle memory taking the reins. He shifted with a frictionless glide in a motion akin to settling deeper into water without disturbing the surface.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, adjusting to the subtle pull of your body against his. He could feel the way you fit against him, the way you doubled inward, seeking heat, seeking him. The fabric of his shirt tightened under your grip, your fingers still balling the material as if you weren’t ready to let go, even in sleep.

He could have woken you. Should have.

A gentle shake of your shoulder, a reassuring murmur — It’s just a storm. It will pass.

But inexplicably, he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed.

Let you burrow closer, let your breath even out against his collarbone, let the beckon of sleep attempt to reclaim you, no matter how restless it was. The scent of you — faint traces of perfume and the lingering damp chill from the outside — mixed with the slow burn of body heat between you, wrapping the moment in what neither of you would acknowledge in the morning.

He told himself he was only waiting. Just for a little while. Just until you settled.

What came next was barely a sound that he almost mistook it for the wind rattling through the walls.

“Caleb.”

Xavier froze.

A slow, twisting sickness thrashed in his stomach, bitter and ugly, which he had no right to feel.

Outside, the city howled. Wind rushed through the skeletal remains of forgotten buildings, rain lashing against the rattling windowpane in fits of fury, thunder cracking, deep and rolling. 

But inside?

Inside, there was only this.

The press of your body against his. The shape of you molded against his side as if you meant to hold onto him. As if you were reaching for him beyond the instincts to keep snug and the thick haze of exhaustion — but truly, blindly, instinctively.

And yet—

It wasn’t his name you whispered.

Xavier’s jaw locked, his breath shallow. He could have let you go. Could have moved away, broken the moment, shaken you gently awake and told you to take the bed. Could have reminded you, in some unofficial, necessary way, that he was not the one you were calling for.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He let you stay there, let himself absorb the reality of you. Let himself pretend, for a moment, that this meant nothing. That it was only an exhaustion-born slip of the tongue, a dream clawing through the grave that wouldn't survive the morning light.

The storm prowled in late, a hulking beast dragging its belly across the sky, smothering the moon beneath a thick, churning mass, its swollen clouds restless beasts rolling in. Lightning flickered in their depths, a pulse beneath thick, churning skin, illuminating the world in fractured glimpses — a flash of the windowpane, rain-streaked and rattling, a brief glint of an airplane model on the nightstand, the sharp angles of shadows clawing across the ceiling. Then darkness again. The first distant growls of thunder were rolling in low, stretching their echoes across the night.

Caleb barely noticed.

The flickering blue light of the TV played over his face, his body sprawled across the bed in an easy sprawl, one arm slung over his eyes. The hum of voices from the screen blended into the static haze of his thoughts, their weightless chatter filling the space without asking anything of him. A small comfort.

A bolt of lightning ripped the sky in half, flooding the room with a bone-white flash.

CRACK!

A thunderclap split the air, slamming into the apartment with a force that rattled the windowpanes, making the lights flicker, and Caleb flinched, breath caught mid-inhale. 

You were afraid of storms.

It had been years since you’d last crawled into his bed on a night this stormy, but fear didn’t vanish — it just took new forms, wore new masks.

Just as life did.

Once, fear had been the thunder outside your window. Now, it was subtler, more intangible, abstract. Time itself pulling you both in opposite directions was a tide too strong to fight.

His world had grown far beyond the childhood walls that once felt endless. The cracked pavement of your old street had given way to stadium lights, the sharp echo of a basketball on concrete replaced with the chaotic squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood. Grueling practices stole his evenings, high-stakes games consumed his weekends, and the weight of expectation that had begun bearing down on his shoulders was a physical thing. Coaches, teammates, strangers — each of them had carved their own demands into him, shaping him into someone more than the boy you used to know.

And yet, all of it — every late-night practice, every exhausting sprint, every sacrifice — had been a decision made in the seclusion of his own mind.

For your sake.

Because while his world had stretched wide and far, you had remained at the center of it. Home was still in your shadow.

Had it been too much to expect for it to be the same for you?

You were no longer the kid who used to chase after him, feet barely keeping up, breathless and laughing, wide-eyed and weightless and trusting in the way only children could be.

Your hands had once been so small, always grasping, always finding his wrist, his sleeve, the hem of his shirt — any part of him that anchored you. In crowded hallways, you used to be glued to his side as if the press of bodies and the rush of voices would swallow you whole if he wasn’t there to hold you tight.

It was in the way you spoke now. Gone were the sidelong glances in his direction and pausing to gauge his reaction before deciding whether to commit to a thought. Confidence that wasn’t borrowed from him but built on your own ground.

It was in the spaces you carved out, the ones where his presence had become optional instead of assumed. The text chains he wasn’t part of, filled with names and inside jokes he didn’t recognize. The weekend plans you no longer ran by him first, the group outings where he wasn’t automatically included. People who had their own memories with you — memories he wasn’t in. Once, your world had overlapped so completely with his that he never questioned whether he had a place in it. Now, it was expanding, growing branches he hadn’t been there to water.

The signs were everywhere, in details so small they almost felt petty to notice — almost. The way you’d tilt your phone away when typing, in the existence of private social media accounts he didn’t have access to. The way you ordered for yourself at restaurants without giving him that familiar look, the unspoken “you know what I like” that used to pass between you. The way your late-night talks had dwindled, from every time something went wrong to only when it was serious.

Once, you would have knocked on his door in a heartbeat — over a bad test grade, a ruined outfit, a stubbed toe, whatever, anything and everything, whatever excuse let you be near. Now, days passed before he even realized anything had happened at all, and by the time he asked, you had already handled it and moved on. 

And he told himself it was good. Healthy. A natural part of growing up.

But needing him less was one thing.

Needing him not at all — that was something else entirely.

And then there were the looks — the ones he hadn’t noticed at first, maybe even refused to.

The first time he really saw it, open paranthesis — couldn't ignore anymore — close paranthesis, was on the court at seventeen, the burn of the game still fresh in his muscles, sweat rolling down his spine in slow, sticky beads. His heart was hammering from the last play, his breath still unsteady, but none of that mattered the second his gaze flicked toward the sidelines.

You were there, exactly where you always were, standing beyond the edge of the gym floor, your voice still ringing from whatever cheer you’d thrown his way. But he was there too — some near-graduate with too much ego and too little sense, stretching lazily near the bench with a pretense that he wasn’t watching you, when he very much was.

Caleb saw it in the slow drag of his gaze, the way it traced over you like a hand, the up-and-down appraisal that made his stomach fold in on itself hot and tight.

This fossil wasn’t some kid on the playground getting red-faced and tongue-tied, some middle school idiot stammering through a crush while Caleb loomed over him, effortlessly making himself an immovable wall between you and them.

Back then, it had been easy. He never had to try. A single glance, a well-placed hand on your shoulder, a casual, dismissive she’s busy or oh, she’s not dating yet or she’s got a curfew or we’ve got family plans tonight was all it took to send whatever unfortunate boy packing. Those little guys were no real threat — not to him, not to you. They were children. Awkward, unsure, easily intimidated. Easily gotten rid of. 

But this?

This was a whole different game.

Fourteen. His baby pip-squeak was fourteen. And that guy was nearly eighteen. A senior. Already filling out college applications. Already halfway out the door with a look that said I know exactly what I want, and I think I can take it.

Caleb felt the arrival of the crunch time before he fully processed it. The way his body tensed. The slowburn that started in his chest caught its way up the back of his neck and set his entire head on fire. His pulse had just begun to calm, but now it was climbing again for a different reason.

Of course, he didn’t throw a punch and let the instinct detonate into a mistake he couldn’t take back.

Instead, he did what he always did — smiled.

That same easy, sunlit grin that made people relax. That made them believe he was nothing but summer, laughter and good-natured charm. He slung an arm over his teammate’s shoulder, casual as ever, fingers pressing a little too firmly into the guy’s back — friendly, but firm. A little too much weight in the gesture. A little too much control.

A predator playing with its food.

“Oh, man,” he laughed, loud enough to carry, his voice bright and effortless, even as ice sank its teeth into it “You think you can handle her? I live with her. Believe me, you do not want that smoke. She still holds a grudge over a game of Kitty Cards from, like, five years ago.”

His teammate chuckled, but it wavered with the subtle knowledge thrown his way about Caleb’s relation to you. A half-second too slow, a fraction too stiff. Caleb felt it — the subtle crack in his posture, the moment of hesitation.

Good.

Caleb clapped him on the back, kept his grip the right amount of strong, let the force of it push the guy a step forward, off balance. His grin never slipped, easy and golden, smooth as ever.

“Nah,” he added, shaking his head with a laugh. “You don’t want to stoop to her level and be a child with her. Trust me.”

And that was it.

That was the cut. You’re too grown for her, don’t even think about it.

It wasn’t the thunder that rolled overhead yanked him away from the memories but the knock. Barely more than a dull tap compared to the pelting rain.

A flicker of intent, and his evol pulsed through the air, slipping unseen into the metal of the lock. It gave without resistance, the faintest click swallowed by the storm’.

The door eased open, and there you were.

You stood at the threshold, wrapped in the dim glow spilling from the hallway, shadows pooling at your feet. Your sweater, probably stolen from his closet if he had to guess, enveloped you entirely in a hug threaded into fabric, hands swallowed by sleeves too long, the hem skimming the tops of your bare thighs, and for a moment, he didn’t know if it was the storm making the room feel colder or the sight of you standing there, small and uncertain, almost carried in by the wind. Your hair clung to your cheeks, still damp from the shower, no matter how many times he’d told you to dry it properly. The Lumiere plushie — faded from years of love, seams slightly frayed — was clutched tight to your chest, its little embroidered eyes peeking out between your fingers.

For a second, you didn’t move and hovered there, framed by the doorway, uncertain. The flickering light from the hallway cast uneven shapes across your face, catching on the tension in your brow, the way your lips pressed together gave away you were still debating this. Still deciding whether to step forward or turn back.

The storm cracked overhead, a sudden burst of white against the night.

You flinched.

That was all it took.

Before he could say anything, you moved.

A blur of of fear and haste as you darted forward, slipping beneath the blankets in a single, fluid motion, collided with his. You were a mole that wanted to burrow deep to escape the storm itself.

The scent of shower clung to you, damp and cooled, mixing with the lingering sweetness of whatever tea you must have abandoned in the kitchen. Your skin, still chilled from the hallway, met the steady heat of his side, and the contrast sent a shiver through you — a tremor he felt before he heard you talk.

“I hate this.”

The words came muffled, half-buried in the plush fabric of Lumière, your cheek pressed into the space between his shoulder and chest. Your fingers tightened around the stuffed toy, nails pressing into worn seams, but your body had already melted against his. 

“It’s too loud.”

He exhaled, measured and steady, adjusting the blankets in a practiced motion. Tucking you in. Smoothing the covers over your shoulder, pulling them snug around you both, layering a shield against the chaos outside.

But his hands lingered.

Half a second too long. Fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve, feeling the shape of your wrist beneath.

Then he let go.

Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, in the dim hush of the room, you had already begun to relax — breath evening out, shoulders losing their tension. Your weight, solid and real, grounding him in ways you probably didn’t realize.

He swallowed, tilting his head slightly, watching the way your lashes fluttered.

“Didn’t you say you’d be fine since Lumiere would protect you?” he teased with the kind of question meant to earn an indignant huff, a half-hearted rebuttal.

You sighed instead, pressing closer, slotting yourself neatly into the space between his chest and his arm, fitting there naturally, perfectly. Maybe that was exactly where you belonged.

“Lumiere can protect me in here, as well.”

Caleb let out a short, breathy snort, shaking his head, but didn’t push the moment further. The teasing remark on the tip of his tongue faded before it could form, swallowed by the distraction of your breathing against him. Instead, he let his focus drift back to the television, the glow of the screen flickering in shades of blue and white, the sound barely more than a murmur beneath the rain. His eyes tracked the movement, but nothing quite registered. Colors, maybe. Light. A meaningless blur against the weight of you snugly close beside him.

He could feel your heartbeat, a tad bit too fast and off-kilter, beneath the layers of fabric between you. The rise and fall of your breath matched his own, an unconscious sync that had existed for as long as he could remember. The plush weight of Lumière was still crushed between you, your fingers lax around its worn edges. The storm continued, but none of the chaos reached you here. You were safe. You had always been safe with him.

That was the way it had always been.

Since you were small, since the first time a storm had driven you to his room, since the night you’d climbed into his bed without a word and dived beneath his blankets. Caleb had gotten used to it — used to the way you always found your way back to him when you were afraid, as if his presence alone was enough to ward off the things that scared you.

But something was different this time.

It wasn’t the first time he'd become the branch to your koala. Wasn’t the first time his bed had become your refuge against thunder and lightning. But it was the first time he was aware of it—so painfully, keenly aware.

Of the way your body aligned with his.

Of the way your temparature seeped through his clothes, into his skin.

Of the way his own breath felt suddenly too shallow, on the verge of shaking.

The first time in forever that he wasn’t just letting you exist beside him, wasn’t just offering comfort out of habit.

It blindsided him.  A missed step off a curb he hadn’t noticed was there. His pulse stuttered — missed a couple beats, even — before picking up again, faster this time, uneven and unsteady. His breath caught, a fraction too shallow, barely making it past his throat.

Heat bloomed low in his stomach, spiraling, spreading, wrong. A hot and electric rush rising in its intensity, unwelcome in its timing. The front of his shorts grew uncomfortably tight, and panic — raw, visceral, boiling — shot through him before his brain could even fully register why.

His arm, draped around your shoulders in what had always been an easy, thoughtless gesture, suddenly felt rigid. His fingers twitched where they rested against the knit of your top, a tremor he hoped you wouldn’t notice. You were pressed so close, body comfortable and trusting, the scent of your shampoo overtaking all his senses, and would surely linger in his pillow for a while after you left. The steady rise-and-fall of your breathing ghosted against his collarbone, peaceful, unaware, safe.

Safe with him.

(You’re too grown for her, don’t even think about it.)

His stomach twisted, shame lashing through him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw locking tight, willing it away. Not now. Not here, not like this.

But it didn’t go away.

If anything, it sank deeper, worse.

An itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t scratch. A wire pulled too tight. A recalibration inside him in a way he wasn’t sure he knew how to stop.

One of your arms had somehow found its way under his shirt in the process of shifting closer, palms resting on his ribs, barely brushing. The touch was a simple point of contact, yet it may as well have been a live wire pressed against him.

The stuffed Lumiere had been shoved between you at some point, an afterthought, its worn fabric smushed and doing absolutely nothing to create any real distance. Your bare leg had tangled with his under the blanket, knee slotted against his in a way that should have been familiar, routine, but wasn’t — not anymore.

You had melted against him the moment safety sank in, your body losing tension, a breath exhaled into his side. He felt every shift — the twitch of your fingers, once, twice, before stillness sat back down; your breathing turning deep, slow, and even. The small unconscious nuzzle as you nestled even closer, an instinctive surrender, rooted deeply in trust.

It was the kind of thing he would have laughed at, should have laughed at — how absurdly fast you had knocked out, how easily you had given yourself up to sleep as if the storm outside had never existed.

But he couldn’t laugh.

Because while you were perfectly at ease, he was staring at the ceiling, pulse jackhammering, dick rigid with a concept too messy and incomprehensible and unacceptable — and had him going completely, utterly insane.

This can't be happening.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you this way. 

Shouldn’t be feeling this.

Every rational part of him screamed a warning sign and pounded it into his skull. This was you — the same person who he had been sheltering even from his own eyes, the same person who had never thought twice before crawling into his space, his bed, his arms, whenever you needed comfort. And right now — right now — you were trusting him to be nothing but safe.

But safe was the last thing he felt.

His skin was too tight, heat licking up his spine, an uncomfortable, cloying pressure settling in the pit of his stomach that refused to ease no matter how many slow breaths he forced past his lips. The sheets were broiling him, the press of your body against his too much.

Then came the thought — the one he didn’t mean to have, the one he tried to shove down the moment it clawed its way into his brain.

It would be so easy to press your hand down firmer.

He crushed it before it could fully form, but the damage was already done.

Not because of what he was feeling, but because of what he wasn’t feeling. There wasn't the immediate, sharp-edged denial cutting through the fog about being your older brother — having to be your older brother figure. Disgust wasn't there when he reached for it. What he found instead was the slow, creeping horror of homecoming that a shift had happened long before this moment, that it had been shifting for years, and that he had been pretending not to notice.

The worst part wasn’t that it was happening.

The worst part was that he had spent so long convincing himself it never could.

That he had been so certain he had outgrown it. That he had locked it away, buried it, desensitized himself into something safe, into something good, into the person you needed and wanted him to be.

And yet—

And yet.

Here he was with a simmer coming to a boil, every nerve in his body betraying him, his own self-control slipping like it was covered in oil. 

Like he had never locked those feelings away at all.

Like they had only been waiting.

Touch had always been natural between you, woven so seamlessly into the fabric of his life that he never stopped to think about it. It had been there since childhood, an unconscious language of familiarity, of belonging. You’d always looped your arm through his without a second thought, fingers hooking around his sleeve as you walked beside him, grounding yourself in his presence. Slipped your hands into his jacket pockets when the wind bit too sharply at your fingertips. Draped yourself over his back with a huff when you were too lazy to move, trusting him to hold your weight.

He could still feel the way you used to pull at the hem of his shirt when you wanted his attention, a silent, wordless request that he never needed to question. The way your forehead would press against his shoulder when exhaustion hit, your body sinking against his. The absentminded way you toyed with the ends of his hair when he was distracted, your fingers twisting through the strands in loops. He had been used to it. To the gentle, fleeting pressure of your foot nudging his under the dinner table. To the way you never seemed to notice how close you sat, legs pressing together without hesitation. To the weight of your head against his chest when the world felt too loud and you needed silence wrapped in the steadiness of him.

It had always been that way. It had always been fine.

But lately — lately, things weren't quite right.

You were the same. Still wrapping your arms around him after games, still slipping beneath his arm when you needed comfort. Still pressing into his side without hesitation, never second-guessing the space you took up in his life.

But he felt it differently now.

It crept up on him in moments that should have been nothing — the slow drag of your fingertips on the flushed skin of his ribs, the faint pressure of your breath against his skin when you leaned in close. An inarticulate, unbearable awareness.

You weren’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t your gege anymore.

Too much. Too much. Too much that he could collapse into a black hole right here, right now.

Caleb needed to put some distance between him and you before he did something stupid.

But when he stirred slightly, you only sighed in your sleep, nuzzling further into him. The plushie that was basically a barrier between you slipped, letting him feel the press of the plush of your chest against him, your leg sliding firmly between his. He froze, every muscle in his body locking up, sweat beading along his hairline and face absolutely on fire.

No.

He pried your hand from underneath his shirt, the drag lingering on a loop inside his head even after he let go. His hands trembled, barely able to nudge the stupid plushie out of the way, and indirectly taking it out on the thing. 

Slowly, he lifted himself from the mattress, moving inch by inch, muscles taut with the effort of keeping his movements smooth, controlled. Every cell in his body felt raw, hyper-aware of every rustle of fabric, every shuffle of weight. The mattress dipped as he pulled away, but you didn’t stir beyond a faint murmur, too deeply gone into blissed dreamland to notice his absence.

His pulse hammered in his throat as he hovered there, hesitating — watching the way you unconsciously moved into the space he left behind for warmth, unconsciously reaching for something that was no longer there.

He let out a slow, shaky breath before carefully sliding his pillow into your arms instead. It was a well-looked after old thing, worn at the edges, still faintly carrying his scent. The moment it passed the test as his replacement, you hummed — a barely-there sound, sleepy and content — as you pulled it close, nuzzling into the fluff, tucking your face into it the way you had done to him only moments ago.

You didn’t wake. Because as far as you were concerned, nothing had changed.

But Caleb sat there for a moment longer, watching you, fingers coiling into noncommittal fists uselessly at his sides, his breathing uneven in his own chest. The covers rose and fell with each peaceful breath you took, oblivious to the way his world had tilted on its axis.

He swallowed hard, throat dry, and reached to pull the blanket higher over your shoulder. Smoothed it down, lingering where it shouldn’t.

Then, without another sound, he slipped out of the room and spent the next hour standing beneath the icy spray of the shower.

The protofield and the Wanderer had vanished. Help was en route.

Xavier’s leg wound that he’d gotten while protecting you, while not fatal, was severe enough that crimson seeped through his dark pants and pulled between your quivering fingers as you applied pressure.

And the insufferable bastard huffed through his nose, as if this were just another routine mission, another insignificant injury in a never-ending string of perilous nights with barely a flinch crossing his features, the sight of his own blood seemingly less concerning to him than it was to you.

“It’s not as bad it looks,” he repeated, for the tenth time.

The words only worked to ignite an infuriated coil inside, molten and barbed.

Your hands tightened, pushing down harder than you needed to. He barely reacted. Kept watching you, lovable and doe-eyed, his body slack in a comfortable way against the broken wall behind him. The dimness of the failing streetlamps trying to reach into the alley you two were in cast his silver hair in eerie light, making him look even more ghostly than usual.

“Stop saying that,” you said, shakier than a house of cards in a storm, accusing.

His breathing was deep. Slower than it should be. Your brain was running too fast, trying to calculate blood loss, survival rates, anything to make sense of what was in front of you. But all you could see was him, pale under the glow, blurred because of the saltwater pooling in your eyes. Fading smoke. If you blinked, he might vanish completely with the teardrops.

You started digging through your pack, yanking out the field kit with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. You needed to stop the bleeding. You needed to make sure he stayed. Stayed with you.

Not again.

The med kit slipped through your fingers, scattering across the pavement. Your ears rung with the loud noise the metal case made, subconscious plunging you back in that day. 

Not again.

You re-experienced the force of the explosion that had thrown you to the ground, had ripped the breath from your body. The world burned. Heat was a vulture picking at your skin, suffocating, searing your lungs.

Fire, ash, the splintered ruins of what had once been home. And you, crawling through the rubble, hands searching blindly for whatever was left. Your fingers had closed around metal — small, cool despite the heat — the necklace you'd gifted Caleb, half-buried in dust and debris. What remained of him, worn but still legible, pressed into your palm. It was all that was left.

Not again.

Nausea gripped your stomach as your blood-stained hands hovered in the air, fingers twitching with clumsiness of desperation. But this time was different. You weren't grasping for ghosts, sifting through the ashes of an irreparable past. Could still do something. had to do something.

Reaching for the scattered supplies, your wrist was suddenly caught in Xavier's gentle grip, stapling you to the present moment.

“You’re panicking,” he commented.

Yanking your hand away, you retorted sharply, "Of course I'm panicking. You're bleeding out, Xavier."

He studied you intently, head tilted in that familiar, contemplative manner, searching for the traces of what that had pulled this state out of you. Then, with a hint of misplaced levity, he remarked, "This is nothing. A quick nap will fix me."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Your throat tightened. The world swayed for half a second, the ill-timed attempt at reassurance in his words reduced to a cup of water tossed onto a wildfire.

You thought of all the times before, of wounds that hadn’t healed, of a love confession whispered too late. Too late, after the funeral, when you stood before the empty grave, the one filled with dirt and a marker with his name. There had been no body to bury, you got no hand to touch one last time and were granted no real goodbye in the end. You were all that was left, alone, the cold night bleeding your life force, the whisper of your own voice breaking as you knelt, fingers digging into the soil, telling him the words you should have said when he was still there to hear them.

"Please, stop being like that, I can't—" Your voice cracked as you ducked your head, hiding your face from him, palm pressing against your mouth to stifle the words threatening to spill out. I can't do this again.

Xavier let out a fast breath, his posture stiffening in the kind of regret that made people avert their eyes. The joke had fallen flat, misplaced at this time, and he knew it. Another inhale, slower this time, he flexed his fingers against his thigh, then stilled, hovering on the edge of movement, caught between reaching for you and holding himself back.

His gloved hand moved, brushing lightly against your cheek.

He was warm. He was still warm.

Your breath caught. The fear squeezed you dry.

You had waited too long with Caleb, naively believing he'd always be there for you just as he promised, naively believing he was invincible just as he was in your childhood self's adoring eyes.

And now, here, with Xavier bleeding in front of you, you refused to wait again.

You didn’t think. You just kissed him.

It was sudden, too quick, too desperate. He stiffened under your touch, startled — but he didn’t pull away, didn’t break the contact, let you take and take and take because you were drowning and he was the only thing keeping you above the surface.

Your fingers twisted into the front of his coat, pulling him closer, an attempt to hold him together, to anchor him here forever. Your hands were still slick with his blood, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything except the way his breath hitched, the way he stayed perfectly still for a fraction of a second before his hands moved.

One to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. The other against your waist, grounding. He kissed you back cautiously at first, hesitant, uncertain, then increasingly decisive, carefully learning the edges of you, mapping each unsteady breath, every fractured soundfrom your lips.

When your kiss began to tremble, he seamlessly took control, molding his mouth to yours as if this dance were one he had practiced countless times before.

Gentle and soothing, he chased the taste of salt on your lips, breathing the shuddering sound you made down like it was sustenance. He tasted of earth and ozone, clean notes reminiscent of starlight, open skies, and safe, peaceful nights; crisp air after a storm, sharp enough to leave you dizzy, anchoring you in place, in his arms, and beneath his touch. This moment felt safely contained, a shelter where you could fall apart and still be held together.

Everything ached. It hurt too much, it wasn't enough. You wanted him closer. Always closer. Until all you could breathe, until all you could taste was the shape of his name on the roof of your mouth.

You pulled away, gasping against his parted lips, head spinning.

Before you could apologize — for losing control, for being selfish, for needing someone so desperately you didn't stop to consider whether or not that was what they wanted too, or the shape they were in — he tugged you into the curve of his shoulder, resting his cheek against the top of your head. Fingertips grazed along your arm, braille-tracing your scar tissue. His heart thrummed against your ear, strong, steady. Loud.

"It'll be okay," he said. "I'll be okay. I promise."

The words were hushed. Reassuring. Absolute.

Somehow, you believed him.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the panic drained away. Your muscles uncoiled, nerves steadying. The ringing in your ears faded. Slowly, slowly, everything sharpened back into focus.

In the distance, a siren wailed.

"You better be," you said, shaky as a leaf in winter, brittle, thin, the syllables weak against the night. "You can't make me fall for you only to just die like this."

These words had never left your heart before. Swelled there for years, growing too big, but never leaving, never finding their way out into the cold. They had belonged to Caleb once. Caleb, who smiled wide as a sky at sunset and ran faster than a starship and wore kindness for armor. But now the words meant something new. Now you didn't have to keep them locked up inside of you, guarded and afraid of what would happen if you let them loose. The shape of them still fit. Differently, maybe, but they weren't lost, weren't strangled or broken. It was letting a bird free from its cage after years of watching its wings grow frail in confinement.

The wind sighed through the trees. A stray cat hissed. Little glowing spots began floating around in dust particles.

Xavier pulled back abruptly. Stared at you, unblinking, the ink blue of his eyes shining. Evenly. Silent. Still holding you.

For a moment, nothing happened. For a moment, everything stopped. Time slowed around you, caught between one breath and the next. And then—

Light.

Xavier began to glow. A silvery-white miniature star, so brilliant that he illuminated the entire alley. The color bled outward, pouring down his shoulders in rivulets, streaming over his arms, dripping off his fingertips. He seemed to fold in on himself, bowing his head in embarrassment — but all you could do was watch, transfixed, mesmerized.

A nameless sentiment flared within your chest, unfamiliar. You swear you could feel Xavier through your heart, humming right beneath yours, some part of him pressed close against your pulse point. He wasn't bright enough to blind you, bathing your surroundings in starlit brilliance, seeping into the cracks in the crumbling pavement, the shadows cast by overgrown hedges, the empty shell of a playground down the street.

"Xavier..."

"Sorry," he mumbled, covering his face with the back of his hand to hide somehow, shield himself from his own radiance. His ears were red. "This is... not what I meant to do."

You reached out toward him without thinking, fingertips brushing against the fabric of his glove. He froze. Noticing yourself, you hesitated, realizing exactly what you were about to do — touch a star, an impossible thing, a dream — but then his hand twitched, settling firmly into yours in a way that you were almost convinced it was always meant to belong there. His fingers lacing through yours were so secure and confident one would think he'd done this a thousand times. His grip loosened. Tightened. Loosened. Reassuring both you and himself that this was real. This was happening. Neither of you would drift apart and dissolve as morning fog under the light of the sun. You wouldn't blink, and he wouldn't be gone.

Compassion held your hand through it. Comfort. Steadfast support. Starlight in the darkness, chasing away the shadows.

"I love you, Xavier," you told him, echoing the words again, wanting him to hear, wanting him to understand. You placed the shape of them into his upturned palms you pulled down to his lap to see his face clearer, and his grip tightened. "I'm in love with you."

The light emanating from him intensified — a shimmering aura shining around him, radiant, haloed. It pulsed once, twice, before bursting outward in an explosive surge of brightness, scattering sparks in every direction. White orbs of light poured from nowhere, dancing through the empty space between your bodies, suspended in mid-fall. A few fluttered down to land against the backs of your hands covering his.

"Would you be mad if I said that... I must be on the brink of death to imagine hearing these words?" Xavier's confession tumbled from his lips hesitantly. In the starlight, his face looked youthful, vulnerable, younger than you had ever seen before. "Even if this is my brain playing tricks on me before it fails, I'm happy."

Emergency lights flashed against the houses lining the street, likely drawn by Xavier’s radiance burning brightly enough to be a midnight sun, red and blue strobes slicing sharply into your vision. Xavier heard it too, pulling you tighter against him, burying his face against your shoulder, one hand leaving yours only to cradle your head. His embrace didn't diminish the glow, instead, Xavier enclosed you in the shelter of his body — in a protective cocoon, shielding you as though you were the one wounded, vulnerable, needing comfort more desperately than he did.

The ambulance doors opened with a hydraulic whirring sound. Footsteps approached quickly. At least two pairs, judging by the sound. Voiceless words spilled into the alley from the paramedics' radios. The static intermittently cracked between the garbled syllables, distorting some of them into incomprehensibility.

All at once the starlight winked out, plunging the street back into the dark.

"Tell me again once we are home." The words brushed past your ear, carrying an intimacy that made you swallow against the dryness of your throat, made you bury your face more deeply against his shoulder. Home. "Please. So I know I haven't dreamed this up."

Linkon had that early autumn crispness that rose from real soil Skyhaven didn’t have — cool to sharpen the senses, not to bite. The first traces of fallen leaves clung to the pavement, the scent of rain in the cracks of the sidewalks. Caleb adjusted the strap of his duffel bag as he stepped off the tram, stretching his shoulders as he took in the city around him. It was familiar, the building-rich skyline cutting pointy shapes against the evening sky, the low hum of traffic filling the streets, but...

He had been away too long.

Skyhaven had pulled him into its orbit the moment he arrived, swallowing whole whatever life had come before. Days blurred together in cycles of training, flight simulations, and coursework that left little room for anything beyond forward motion. Every morning began the same: drills before sunrise, sweat stinging his eyes, muscles burning as he pushed himself further, faster. Afternoons were a relentless stream of lectures, technical briefings, theory stacked upon theory until the numbers and flight paths blurred in his mind. Even the nights were accounted for — hours spent in the simulator pods, perfecting maneuvers until the glowing interface was burned into the backs of his eyelids.

Skyhaven game him no room to be spontaneous. No empty spaces to fill with last-minute plans or lazy afternoons. His world had been compressed into systems — routine, structure, efficiency. He knew exactly when to eat, when to train, when to sleep. Knew the weight of his rations down to the last calorie, the time it took to shave a fraction of a second off a flight sequence, the precise moment his body would demand rest before pushing past it anyway.

It was such a whiplash to be home, all things considered.

His room at Gran’s place wasn’t really his anymore. It had the same walls, the same furniture, but it was more a museum exhibit than a lived-in space — a carefully preserved snapshot of someone he used to be.

The bookshelves were still lined with old textbooks, pages stiff from time, filled with equations and flight theories he once pored over. The model airplanes he built by hand sat untouched on his desk, their delicate structures gathering dust, frozen mid-flight. Posters, faded from years of sunlight creeping through the blinds, hung at odd angles where the adhesive had begun to peel. It was all still there, exactly as he had left it.

And yet, it no longer felt truly his.

It was more of a storage closet for the past, a collection of objects tied to a version of himself that no longer fit, as if waiting for a version of him that no longer existed to return. But it had a way of creeping in when he least expected it.

Your favorite song playing in the campus coffee shop, cutting through the rigid structure of his day — a gentle intrusion, a knock of your presence on the closed door of his routine, the waft of familiarity drifting through the halls, pulling him back to late nights in Gran’s kitchen; you sitting cross-legged on the counter as he tried to study, chattering about whatever new fixation had taken over your brain that week.

Now, the closest thing he had to those endless summers with you were the five-minute breaks between classes, when he’d glance at his phone and see your name lighting up the screen. A meme, a quick update, a half-formed thought sent without context — small things, fleeting things, but still enough to remind him that you were there.

Sometimes, it was a single reaction picture in response to a text he'd sent hours ago. Other times, it was a wall of text, a full-fledged rant about whatever it was that had clearly gotten under your skin — another debate with some idiot online, a disastrous group project that made you question about how those people had gotten into college at all, an overanalysis of the show you’d decided to watch together. And every so often, an uncharacteristic shyness broke through. A late-night message, typed out but never sent until morning that meant, “I miss you,” in your language.

You ever think about how weird it is that we don’t live in the same city anymore? Like, I can’t just show up at your room and annoy you :(

He always answered, even if it took him hours to find the time.

Because no matter how much distance stretched between you now, the messages kept him tethered to you as a string to a kite.

He pulled out his phone, glancing at the last message and location you had sent him: Meet me at the plaza. We’re hunting.

A small, fond smile tugged at his lips.

The “Find Lumiere” campaign had taken the city by storm. A massive scavenger hunt dedicated to the legend himself, the hero who had saved mankind during the Chronorift Catastrophe ten years ago. Clues were scattered across major landmarks, leading participants on a chase to uncover fragments of his legacy, with tickets to the first screening of the new movie they were making about Lumiere promised to the winners.

Of course you were obsessed with it.

Caleb had never said it out loud, but for the longest time, he had been jealous of Lumiere. Or, rather, what Lumiere meant to you.

It was irrational, of course. Lumiere wasn’t real — not in the way that mattered. And yet, Caleb had spent years competing with the idea of him, feeling that strange, sour feeling whenever he saw you fawning over an image of a man who had saved you in more ways than one when Caleb wasn't there to do so. 

Because, at every age, he wanted to be the one you looked at with the same adoration. He wanted to be the one you admired, the one who made your eyes sparkle the way they did whenever you spoke about Lumiere. He had been your person for so long, the one you relied on, the one you trusted — but even as kids, there had always been that distance, that unreachable part of you that belonged to a random dude you wrote RPF about.

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way to the plaza.

You were already at your rendezvous point, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet as you checked your phone, your expression focused. Your jacket was too thin for the weather, but you never cared about such things when you were excited. Caleb took a moment to take in the way you had changed — taller, more sure of yourself, your hair styled differently than he remembered.

“Didn’t even let me settle in before dragging me around the city?” he teased, stepping up beside you.

Your head snapped up, and the moment your eyes met his, a wide grin split across your face. “Obviously. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event, Caleb. You should be honored I’m making you my partner for it.”

He scoffed but couldn’t help the flush that he coughed away. “Yeah, yeah. So what’s the plan?”

You immediately launched into an explanation, showing him the map on your phone, outlining all the locations where the next clue could be. Caleb listened, but mostly, he got lost in watching you, letting the drum of your excitement take him along the ride.

Maybe you had grown apart. Maybe life had taken you in different directions. But right now, in this moment, it didn’t feel that way. The clock might as well have stopped years ago.

He would never get tired of watching your face light up when you were truly invested. The way it always seemed to catch people off guard, how utterly genuine and open you were whenever you felt strongly about a subject matter. It was honest; it was you.

So it wasn't entirely out of character for him to notice how lovely you looked today that he could lean down and capture your lips with his own. The imagination alone got his mouth dry, throat working hard to swallow as he averted his eyes.

The first clue was hidden near the old Chronorift Memorial, a massive glass sculpture in the heart of the city that stood as a tribute to the devastation. Caleb watched as you practically bounced in place, your breath fogging in the chilly air as you scanned the area for anything that looked out of place.

“Oh! Over there!” You grabbed his arm before he could react, tugging him toward the base of the monument.

Caleb let himself be dragged along, ignoring the way his skin heated at the contact. The crowd gathered around the sculpture was thick, blocking whatever sign you were pointing at. All Caleb could see was you, the shine staining your eyes, your sparkling excitement.

God, he'd missed this. Missed you.

Without thinking, his fingers curled around your wrist, brushing the skin beneath. Your pulse fluttered under his fingertips, beating fast with energy and excitement, and he let himself savor the feeling. He missed seeing you this happy.

"Look!" you cried, reaching up on your tiptoes for balance. "I think I spotted something there."

Caleb followed your line of sight up toward the top of the monument — and sure enough, just below the highest peak of glass sat a tiny object, glinting in the sun.

"Think I can climb up?" you asked aloud, frowning at the structure as you examined the potential footholds. The memorial's glass surface was polished smooth, with no apparent way of scaling the towering mass, though that didn't stop you from trying.

Caleb reached out a hand though to pluck it easily out of the sky, and the object flew towards him. He waved it back and forth over your head. "How 'bout you just ask for it like normal people?"

Your mouth dropped into a dramatic frown. "Rude. If this was a proper game, you would've given me the illusion of a fighting chance before stealing my loot from under my nose."

"I'll make it up to you," he laughed, spinning the prize between his fingers. “You know, I think I’m a little offended. I saved your life, like, a million times growin' up, and you never obsessed over me like this.”

You snorted, rolling your shoulders back in a casual shrug. "Never crossed my mind. Besides, Lumiere wasn’t an asshat."

It was Caleb's turn to scoff. You motioned with your palm held upright. Were you a customer waving down service or what?

"Please. Sire. Kind sire." He shook his head at your antics but gave you the small golden thing anyway. Your face lit up as you took it carefully between your fingers. "Thank you, kind sire. May good fortune bless you upon our next meeting."

It was actually a puzzle, which he guessed would contain a clue leading to the next location.

After solving the puzzle, you gleefully tapped at the digital interface attached to your wrist, navigating the device expertly until the next coordinates appeared onscreen. "Found it. Not far from here actually... should only take us a few minutes to walk there."

And so you continued your treasure hunt together.

Time drifted soft as clouds across the sky, lazy and aimless, broken by quick bursts of purpose. A stroll turned to weaving through foot traffic, hustling in fits and starts as you hunted down your destination and discovered the next hint in line. The setting changed — crowds grew thicker, colors bolder, lights brighter — and yet the pace stayed the same: slow, steady, unhurried. Caleb thought you would have wanted to hurry, but instead, you lingered. Stopping to buy two cups of warming tea along the way. To exchange an old bill for shiny coins. To listen to the music pouring from the doors of a small cafe as passersby filtered in and out.

It was nice.

Really nice, actually.

For a while, Caleb forgot everything beyond the edges of the bubble surrounding you, letting the sounds fade into nothing but white noise.

At one point, when you reached the endpoint, a question suddenly rose to his tongue, breaking the comfortable silence between you.

"Why me?" he asked without meaning to. "I'm not exactly an obvious choice to play tag with."

You lifted an eyebrow at him, glancing over at your map again. "You kidding? Who else would I invite?"

Caleb shrugged, the cold breeze grazing his shoulders, making him fold them in a little bit closer.

"A friend?" He shot you a playful grin that came easier than he thought possible, earning himself a shove. "I don't think we've done this in ages. What makes today special?"

His stomach did a somersault when you hooked your arm around his elbow, holding onto his sleeve tightly.

"What about spending time with Caleb is so horrible to you? We haven't seen each other much these days. I'd love some quality time before you leave again." You nudged his side gently. Sincerity disguised as banter. He caught your tone of affection rather well, so well he couldn't help but feel giddy from your proximity. How small your hand was wrapped around his elbow.

Even with the light atmosphere, how much he had been craving such small intimacy with you was a lightning strike to his head.

And right there, right then, the urge to tell you how he felt nearly burned through him, flames climbing fast and wild, closing in on the boundaries he’d drawn to stay beside you, searing the edges of what he was supposed to be. His body surely would crumble inward and ashes would go everywhere if he kept pretending to be your brother figure for a minute longer. Yet, as much as he was dying to let it all out — because that is how bad he had it for you — there was also the more likely scenario of you finding him repulsive.

Just the idea of a life without you by his side made him sick and dizzy.

No, not today. Not anytime soon. He'd rather be by your side until the end of his days and wear the mask of gege than be hated by you.

So he swallowed down those three words, locking them securely in a chest bound by iron chains, hidden deep in the recesses of his heart. Ignoring the lingering ache that followed, he forced himself to brush off the truth and treat it as nothing more than the joke he desperately wished it could be.

"You could write me letters if you miss me that much, pip-squeak," he teased, nudging your shoulder with his.

You leaned against him easily, swaying with the motion as you bumped into his side. "Pssh."

Then your hand slid up his forearm to stop at the crook of his elbow as you rested your chin on his shoulder. From here, you looked up at him through lashes streaked in amber sunlight, a happy, contented smile touching the corner of your lips.

Caleb's heart expanded — hot and painful and aching. Walking down the sidewalk through the throng of people going about their day as the wind ruffled through your hair, the heat of your palm seeping through the sleeve of his jacket, he felt a sudden, sharp pressure behind his eyes. 

If he closed his mind to everything else, if he ignored the way you smelled like home, if he could make himself pretend that the place your body occupied next to his was sister-shaped, just maybe — maybe — he could convince himself that this was enough. It had to be enough. Because even if Caleb wasn't quite certain when his feelings toward you began, or when they evolved beyond the bounds of familial ties — even if he knew you would never see him that way and loved him when he was your gege, that you would never know this small sliver of reality — he still had you. Right now, in this moment, the person most precious in the world to him stood next to him with your head resting on his shoulder. Smiling, trusting, safe.

And that was more important than any label he could slap on it.

Xavier hadn’t meant to stay the night.

He wasn’t even sure when he had fallen asleep.

One minute, they had been sitting on your couch, drinking tea from mismatched mugs, the only sound between you the low hum of the TV and the lazy crackling of rain against the window. It had been late — too late — and you'd been snuggled up beside him, half-draped in a blanket, the fabric of your sweater slipping past your fingertips as you scrolled idly through your phone.

Xavier had been reading, an old paperback you had lying around for his enjoyment, the spine creased from years of use. He never asked where you got them — books with pages instead of screens — but he liked the way they smelled, the inconspicuous permanence of ink pressed to paper.

The next thing he knew, the morning light was slipping in through the curtains, cool and blue, and you were gone.

He blinked, exhaling slowly as he sat up. The couch creaked under his weight.

He wasn’t alarmed — he never was — but his first instinct was to check for you anyway, a grave, habitual concern that never quite left him. His ears picked up the faint noise of water running. The shower.

He leaned back against the couch, rubbing his fingers over his eyes, then glanced at the time.

6:42 AM.

Too early. But he should go.

He pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders, then went to grab his jacket from where he had tossed it over the chair. He reached for it — then paused.

The bookshelf beside the chair caught his attention.

Not because he had never seen it before — he had been in your place countless times by now, had run his fingers over the neat stacks of old holotapes and datapads, the figurines and the framed pictures —but because one of a drawer, beneath the shelf, slightly open. A few inches, maybe less.

It hadn’t been that way last night. He was sure of it.

Xavier never pried. He had spent too many years keeping his own secrets to go looking for anyone else’s. But he was drawn to that place inexplicably, to the way the papers inside were barely visible, to the way they had been tucked away yet left ajar, and it made his fingers pause against the zipper of his jacket.

Paper.

Actual handwritten pages instead of anything digital. 

Xavier frowned slightly, spine going ramrod straight. His fingers twitched once against his sides, tingling at the tips.

He should walk away.

Instead, he reached down and pulled the drawer open.

The pages inside were stacked haphazardly, some folded, others crinkled at the edges, showing they had been handled too many times, written, held, then discarded — kept, but never sent. The ink had bled into the fibers of the pages in places where the pressure had been too much.

He pulled out the topmost one, smoothing it with his fingers. Your handwriting. He knew it instantly. A little rushed, pressed into the paper as though you had been writing quickly, too quickly.

Then he saw the name.

Caleb.

His grip on the paper tightened.

The words on the page blurred for a moment, but he forced himself to focus. He forced himself to read.

Caleb, I don’t know how to start this, or even why I’m writing it. Maybe because I don’t know how else to reach you. Maybe because if I put it down on paper, it might cleanse me like one of those full body detox things that I would no longer feel so bloated anymore with this poison I’m trying my hardest to hide from him. I still wake up expecting you to be one call away. I still reach for my phone thinking I can send you a voice message while I wait for my takeout to arrive, tell you something ridiculous that happened, or send you a picture of something stupid just because I know you’d call me to laugh about it. But you’re not here, and I’m talking to an empty space where you used to be. You were always the one I counted on. The one who knew me better than anyone. I could say a single word, and you would know exactly what I meant, what I was feeling, what I needed even when I didn't want to say it out loud. And now, months later, without you, I still feel like I’m missing a part of myself. Like something vital has been cut away, and I am expected to keep going like I don’t notice the absence. But I do. Every second, I do. I should have told you. I should have told you a long time ago.

Xavier’s shallow breaths were loud in his ears.

If I had, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I wouldn’t be here, writing this, trying to hold onto something that has already slipped through my fingers. Maybe if I had been braver, if I hadn’t been so afraid of gran and ruining what we had, you would have known just how much you meant to me. To this day, I don’t know how to move on. Everyone thinks I have. That time is the best medicine there is, after all. But how can I, when so much of me is still tangled in you? When every step I take feels like I’m walking further and further away from you, and I’m terrified that one day I’ll look back and realize you’ve faded from my memory, that I won’t remember the sound of your voice, or the way you laughed, or the exact shade of your eyes in the sunlight. But it’s more than that now. It’s not just the fear of forgetting, it’s the guilt of moving on. Of letting someone else hold me, kiss me, love me in the ways I never got to lov I wonder if you would even care. If it would matter to you at all knowing there’s someone in my life now. Would you look at me the way you always did, like a little sister, someone to protect, to guide, and still feel responsible for even in your big age? Would it even cross your mind that I waited and it’s my biggest regret? But I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I love him. I didn’t wait to tell him until after I was forced to lose him. Confessing before it was too late was the best decision I’ve ever made. And I don’t know what to do with that. Because when I’m with him, there are moments, just flickers, tiny fractures in time, where I forget. And then, all at once, it comes back. The missing piece. You. If you were here, if you could read this, I don’t even know what I’d want you to say. I just know that I’d give anything to hear you call me pip-squeak one more time. I need you to tell me it’s okay. That I’m not leaving you behind. That I can love him and still carry you with me. But you’re not. And I have to live with that.

The ink trailed off there.

There was a crease in the page, the imprint of the pen too hard until you changed your mind.

Xavier stared at it.

The paper was fragile between his fingers, and he would have torn it apart if he kept holding it in his state.

Slowly, he put it back, and pressed the drawer shut.

He turned. His feet carried him soundlessly across the floor, toward the hallway, to where he could hear the steady drumming of water against the bathroom tiles, to where you stood facing the shower wall, head bent, your hair falling in thick wet clumps around your shoulders.

You heard his footsteps — of course you did — and lifted your head as he entered. Water cascaded down your back, collecting briefly at the base of your spine before disappearing. Your skin shone, faintly, the steam wisping off the glass, settling in a cloud around your body, clinging to the planes and curves of it. You seemed to glow in that tiny space, a radiant centerpiece amongst white tile. You gave him a tired smile as he approached — inviting, questioning.

"Sorry! Did I wake you?" you asked instead, your face flushed pink from the heat, strands of wet hair stuck against your damp neck and collarbones. Your tongue darted over your lips as you moved beneath the spray of water again, turning away from him to put away the shampoo bottle on the built-in soap tray.

Xavier's hand landed against the frosted glass door. The hinges groaned in protest when he swung it fully open. Your eyebrows rose high onto your forehead when he stepped inside without asking, closing the space between you in three strides, boxing you in against the marble wall. The shock of hot water bearing down on him didn't quite register through the dead focus he had on you.

Your lips parted, breath catching. In surprise? In interest? He wasn’t sure, and right now he didn't care. Something childish tugged at him. Something that didn't care he was fully clothed, the black turtleneck sticking uncomfortably to his skin, jeans tightening with water. All he could think about was how soft you looked despite everything. How good you smelled, flowery and clean, how your wet skin practically sparkled beneath the fluorescent light of the bathroom.

How badly he wanted to etch himself into you, to have his name spill from your lips like fresh ink, blotting out the ghost of a dead man already written in your past.

Water droplets clung to your eyelashes. On impulse, he reached up to brush them away gently, and they fluttered against his knuckles.

"Xavier, what—"

"I had a nightmare," Xavier cut in smoothly, feeling more back in his body, sounding far calmer than he really was. "Will you comfort me?"

"Oh..." The word came out somewhere between surprise and concern, tinted with sympathy. Xavier had to be looking half out of his mind, or too pathetic, standing here as soaked as a drowned rat in front of you while you were naked. He was worrying you. The idea snapped him back to reality, searing through his thoughts, hot oil snapping against bare skin. He immediately wanted to turn tail and leave before you demanded he elaborate. He couldn’t. Couldn't admit this was his version of needing affection. You frowned, reaching out to rest your hand over the side of his neck to draw him closer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Xavier replied without missing a beat, leaning down to bump his nose against yours. Gingerly, unsure if this would be welcomed, he rested his hands lightly on either side of your waist, the water sluicing down his back, comfortably boiling despite the situation. His throat bobbed once, twice, and he dipped his head down, unable to keep himself from admitting what he wanted most from you.

Your touch relaxed. It slid behind the back of his neck, fingers curling inward. He felt grounded again with your palms tracing a path down to his back, one palm pressed flat and firm between his shoulder blades while the other ghosted along his nape. It made goosebumps rise on his flesh, a pleasant sensation only you could provide. And when he bowed forward, your frame folded to accommodate, molding against his broader shoulders perfectly, bringing him into a sweet embrace. One that burned into his memory, thawing him to the bone in more ways than physical.

"Okay... Okay. Let's get you out of these wet clothes first," you cooed sympathetically and kissed him right below his ear. That tender, understanding gesture made Xavier's heart squeeze in his chest painfully. He thought about the letters hidden away in the drawer, if you had done this at all with Caleb, but he quickly banished it from his thoughts and focused on the solid feeling of your body slotting so easily into his and reminded himself you were always meant to be there. Where no one else was allowed. "Then tell me how I can help, okay? Whatever you need."

Fifteen minutes later, Xavier had your front pressed into the condensation-dripping wall of the shower after he'd stripped off all his clothes and joined you.

You were flattened against the chilly surface as your nails clawed helplessly against the slick tiles, eyes were glazed over, lips swollen. One arm looped securely around your midsection, cupping one breast possessively, while the other braced a forearm beside your head and against the wall, trapping you effectively between Xavier and the marble barrier, each thrust pushing you upward on your tiptoes as he grinded insistently against you from behind. His grunts tickling the shell of your ear amidst his deep, staccato breaths as he buried himself up to the hilt, bottoming out deep within your pulsating core, piercing the misty veil surrounding them in an intimate halo.

Everything felt too intense. Too intimate. It shouldn't have been so overwhelming — this wasn't even a new position or angle. But going through that letter of yours had the world was collapsing around him, and the only thing he could hold onto was your body, writhing beautifully between him and the smooth stonework. And maybe that was exactly what it was, he mused vaguely between driving into you from behind while relishing how hot and wet and tight you were around his cock — a sort of catharsis, releasing emotions he never voiced aloud, a purge of anxieties he normally swallowed down through hearing you chant his name incessantly, each moan spoonfuls of honey trickling down his throat and pooling dreamy in his belly.

You were practically keening underneath him now, rocking backwards as best you could to meet every roll of his hips with matching fervor. Your face angled toward him, seeking a kiss which he eagerly acquiesced, both of you moaning brokenly into one another's mouths at the perfect slide of his tongue against yours, tangling almost lazily in comparison to the frantic metronome beat building between you two. Xavier reveled in the sweetness of your taste, licking deeper past your lips with unashamed greediness while enjoying your muffled gasp and subsequent whimpers vibrating on his palate.

There wasn't anywhere else in the universe Xavier would rather be than inside this shower cubicle fucking you senseless until the only thing remaining on your tongue were prayers begging for release and praise echoing throughout the enclosed space, resonating clearly through his ears and straight into his pounding chest.

"Call out my name more," Xavier uttered hoarsely, punctuating each word with a hard slam of his hips that made you choke on your cries of ecstasy. You complied beautifully without question, moans spilling unrestrained from those perfect, kiss-swollen lips alongside declarations of love that had the tempo of his hips speeding up, becoming faster, harder, rougher. "Who's here with you right now?"

"Y—Xavier!"

At this rate, Xavier might end up blowing his load first before being able to feel you tighten around him one last time. The sound of his name in that husky, breathless tone made his balls tingle warningly, pleasure threatening to spill over at any moment. "Again," He growled darkly as his pelvis connected audibly with the supple flesh of your ass. "Who's making you feel good? Who is making you forget your own name right now, hm?"

Your reply came out in between pants. "You, Xavier! Oh god, Xavier! Only you!"

"Yes... Me," he crooned triumphantly, sinking his teeth firmly enough into the meat of your shoulder so you would remember the shape of his mark, leaving red marks that resembled brands branded into your flesh. "Only I can give you what you need, isn't that right? No one else. Nobody else will ever do... I'm the one here... Now..."

[shimmerandink]

3 AM Shenanigans

Jinx x Gn! Reader

Fluff

Tags: Jinx x gn reader, one-shot, mention of exposives, sfw

Summary: Jinx wakes you up at 3 AM with a wild idea, zero regard for sleep, and a handful of homemade explosives. Saying no was never an option.

Masterlist

The soft hum of Zaun’s neon lights filters through your window, casting streaks of electric blue and violet across the ceiling. The city never truly sleeps, but you do, or at least, you try to. Wrapped in a warm blanket, the weight of exhaustion drapes over you like a second skin, lulling you into the kind of half-sleep where the world feels distant, blurry, unreal.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The entire door shudders under the force of frantic knocking.

"Hey, hey, wake up! Wakey, wakey, eggs ‘n’ BAKIE!"

Your body jolts at the sudden noise, heart skipping a beat before frustration catches up. You don’t even have to open your eyes to know who it is.

"C’mon, open up! I got somethin’ reeeeally important to tell ya!"

You groan, burying your face deeper into the pillow. "Jinx… it's—" You peel one eye open, squinting at the dim red numbers on the clock. 3:17 AM.

Before you can process another thought, the door swings open, of course, she picked the lock, and in bursts Jinx, barefoot and buzzing with energy. Her wild blue braids are slightly disheveled, sticking out in odd places, and she’s still wearing her usual mismatched layers, a telltale sign that she hasn't even considered sleeping.

"Okay, okay, I know what you're thinking-‘"Jinx, why are you breaking into my room in the middle of the night? I need sleep like a normal human being!’—but hear me out!" She claps her hands together, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

You roll over with a groggy sigh. “Jinx… what could possibly be so important right now?”

Her grin widens. That manic, mischievous sparkle in her eyes tells you you’re about to regret asking.

"BoomBugs!" she exclaims, yanking a handful of tiny, blinking devices from her pockets. They look like little mechanical fireflies, small, round, and covered in intricate gears and glowing filaments.

You blink. “BoomBugs?”

"Homemade firecrackers, but like, way cooler. Way more explode-y! They go zap, pow, boom, like, real chaotic stuff." She wiggles her fingers excitedly. "Buuuut I need someone to help me test ‘em. Y'know, in case I, uh, accidentally make them too powerful. Or not powerful enough. Or set something on fire. You in?"

You stare at her for a long moment, letting the weight of the situation sink in. Here you are, barely functioning, while Jinx is in full-blown manic scientist mode, asking you to play assistant in one of her late-night chaos experiments.

“…Jinx,” you say slowly. “Are you seriously asking me to get up, in the middle of the night, to go blow stuff up?”

She tilts her head, considering for a second. Then she beams. “Yup!”

You groan, flopping back onto the mattress. “No. Absolutely not. I like having all my limbs.”

Jinx gasps, dramatically clutching her chest like you just stabbed her. "Wow, okay, betrayal much? You’d really leave me out here, all alone, to test potentially volatile explosives by myself? What if something bad happens, huh? What if I blow off a finger? Or two?"

You squint at her. “…You’d love that, and you know it.”

"Yeah, but that’s beside the point!" She throws herself onto your bed, practically on top of you, her cold fingers poking your cheek. "C’moooon, pleeeaaase? It'll be funnnn. Just one little test! Or five. Or like, a dozen. I promise you’ll be back before sunrise!"

You groan again, but you know it’s useless. The second she decided you were part of this scheme, your fate was sealed. If you don’t go willingly, she’ll just annoy you until you cave anyway.

With a long, suffering sigh, you shove the blanket off and sit up. "Fine. But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

"Deal!" Jinx chirps, immediately grabbing your hand and yanking you toward the door.

And just like that, sleep is no longer an option.

[arthurmorganswh0re]

Ghosts

Arthur calls you by Mary's name

high honor Arthur x fem reader angst

an: back in my RDR2 phase and I can't get this plot out of my head. Enjoy!! :D

This is a complete series :)

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Wattpad

He'd been drinking far too much tonight. His speech was slurred, his eyes hazy with intoxication, liquor still in his hand. The saloon was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and the scent of alcohol hindered in the air. Arthur had been drinking for hours by now, slouched over one of the tables, his hat tipped forward like he was trying to block out the commotion in the saloon. You knew this would happen -- whenever something weighed heavy on his mind, he drowned it in liquor. And tonight, it seemed, he was drowning in it deep.

You sighed as you sat beside him. "Arthur, you've had enough." Despite his rough exterior, over the years you found that he needs taking care of especially in the sorry state he's currently in. You feel bad for him, wondering what could be eating at his mind to get him to such a state.

He lifted his head, blearily blinking at you. A sloppy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Now that ain't true," he slurred, holding up his nearly empty glass like it was proof, "s-still got some left."

You rolled your eyes, "C'mon, let's get you back to camp." He didn't argue, but as you pulled him up to his feet he swayed and nearly took you down with him. "Damn it Arthur, hold your weight" you grumbled, steadying him.

Arthur chuckled, looking down at your shoes as you wrapped your arms around him. He leaned into you, "Mary... always takin' care of me, huh?"

You froze.

It took a second for the name to register, for the sting to hit, but when it did, it knocked the breath right out of you. He wasn't looking directly at you -- his half-lidded eyes were somewhere far away, lost in a memory you had no part in.

"Arthur," you say, voice tight.

He hummed in response, oblivious to his slip of tongue.

You could've shoved him off, left him to stumble back to camp on his own, but you didn't. You cared too much for the drunk bastard to leave him in the state he's in, even if he called you by her name. You swallow the lump in your throat and kept walking, guiding him through the quiet streets until you reached the horses. You managed to help him onto his mare, she whinnied as you grabbed the reigns. Slowly, guiding his horse carefully behind you, you made it back to camp.

He was half asleep by then, mumbling nonsense as you dragged him into his tent. You pulled off his boots, tossed a blanket over him, and stood there for a long moment... just watching him.

"Mary," you thought. It shouldn't have hurt but it did. The lump in your throat returns and you exit his tent before you let your walls falter.

The next morning, the sun was barely up when Arthur stumbled out of his tent, rubbing his temples. He looked miserable -- hungover and groggy, barely functional. You sat by the dying fire, embers glowing orange and yellow. You watched the dying heat for what felt like the entire night.

You didn't say anything, not a word. Arthur groaned, running a hand down his face. "Reckon I drank too much."

"You reckon?" your voice was flat.

He turned to you then, blinking. "You alright?" he asked.

You scoffed, shaking your head. "You don't even remember, do you?"

Arthur frowned. "Remember what?"

You exhale sharply, standing up. "You called me Mary last night, Arthur. While I was haulin' your drunk ass back here."

His expression shifted--confusion first, then realization, then something almost like regret. He looked away, jaw tightening. "Shit."

"Yeah. Shit."

Silence stretched between the both of you, thick and uneasy. Arthur wasn't a man of many words, and you didn't expect an apology -- hell, you didn't even know if you wanted one. But you wanted something.

Finally, he sighed. "I ain't got an excuse."

"No, you don't." You swallowed, forcing your voice to remain steady. "I ain't her Arthur. And I ain't gonna sit around playin' second to a ghost."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for once, you couldn't tell what he was thinking. But you didn't wait for an answer. Instead, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, alone with his hangover and his ghosts.

Arthur didn't follow you immediately.

Good

You didn't want to hear some half-assed apology, and you sure as hell didn't want to hear that it hadn't meant anything--because you knew it did. You don't say a name like that unless it's carved deep into you.

You made your way down to the creek, needing space, needing air. The water was calm, reflecting the early light, but you weren't feeling calm at all. You crouched down, running your fingers through the cold stream, trying to let it ground you. You should've let it go, should've told yourself it was just a drunken mistake. But you weren't sure you could.

The sound of boots crunching on dirt behind you made you tense, you didn't have to turn around to know it was Arthur. For a long moment, neither of you speak. Then in a voice rough with regret, he said,

"I'm sorry."

You let out a slow breath, staring at the rippling water. "For what?"

Arthur hesitated. "For... last night. For callin' you--" he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "For bein' a damn fool."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Ain't the first time you've been one."

He huffed out something that might've been a laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. "No. Ain't the first, won't be the last, either."

You finally turn to look at him. He was standing there, hands on his hips, looking like he'd rather be in a gunfight than having this conversation. His face was lined with exhaustion, and maybe something else--something heavier.

"Do you still love her?" you ask before you could stop yourself.

Arthur blinked, startled by the bluntness of it. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then let out a breath like he was letting go of something. "I don't know," he admitted, and you could tell it was the truth. "Maybe I love what we had. Maybe I love what I wanted it to be."

That was the thing about Arthur--he didn't lie to spare feelings. He told the truth, even when it hurt.

You nodded slowly, looking back at the water. "Well, I ain't her, Arthur. And I ain't gonna be."

"I know," he said, stepping closer. "I wouldn't want you to be."

That caught you off guard. You glanced up at him, searching his face for any sign of pity or sweet-talking, but all you saw was honesty.

"You matter to me," he said quietly. "More than I probably know how to say. But I been livin' with ghosts for a long time, and I ain't good at tellin 'em to leave me be."

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, your anger cooling, but the hurt still lingering. "Then you best figure out what you want, Arthur. 'Cause I ain't just some shadow in your past."

His eyes softened, and he nodded, just once. "I know."

For the first time since last night, you let yourself believe he meant it. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

For now.

Links:

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Wattpad

[puranami]

✿ Omelette ✿

A/N: A little fic based on one of the prompts I have~

Summary: Sanji finds you cooking an omelette in your underwear at an ungodly hour.

Content: Warning - my really bad attempt at writing anything outside of lil paragraph points (blz help, I have no idea what I'm doing)

Despite the scenario - it's all SFW and fluffy like dem eggs! A light dusting of pining, G/N reader. ✿

(Part 2) - (Part 3)

You had tried to sleep and ignore the rumbling in your stomach, but the harder you tried, the more you felt it, and you had finally reached your limit. If you were to be at all functional tomorrow, you needed to eat something. Only then could you try to sleep again.

Exhausted, you drag yourself from the safety and warmth of your blankets, slowly ambling towards the ship's kitchen, single-minded in your endeavour. All that mattered was appeasing your stomach, leaving you completely unaware of the sudden cold that embraced you once you had left the confines of your quarters.

Flicking on the kitchen light, you quickly gathered everything you needed, deciding that the best thing to make would be an omelette. It's an easy dish, filling, and doesn't take long to make. In other words; it was perfect!

You make quick work of prepping the eggs, seasoning to taste, even considering throwing a little cheese in there before deciding against it. It's not like you believed the myth of cheese giving people nightmares if eaten before bed, but you were so desperate to be able to sleep afterwards that you didn't want to risk it. Stranger things have happened on this ship.

The pan hisses as you pour in the eggs, sounding much louder in the empty kitchen, only amplified by the late hour.

"Don't you sass me," you grumble, "The middle of the night is a perfectly acceptable time for an omelette!"

Unbeknownst to you, you weren't the only one awake on the ship, and your late night excursion had attracted attention, clearly not having noticed any of the noise you were making.

"I thought Luffy had snuck in on a midnight raid with all the clattering," a groggy voice behind you laughs, but you are too tired and focused on cooking to even register that you had been joined by anyone. Sanji leans against the table opposite the kitchen island, fidgeting with the hem of his nightshirt, waiting for an answer that never came.

Surely you heard him, right?

"Is everything alright, darling?"

Nothing.

Terms of endearment usually prompted some kind of response, be it a dismissive laugh or an equally fond term of your own, clearly thinking they meant nothing in particular. He'd accepted pretty quickly that they wouldn't be the way to win you over, but it certainly didn't stop him using them, at least on you. The same couldn't be said about everyone else, as he was no longer vying for the affection of anyone but yourself. Sanji wondered if you'd ever noticed that.

A clumsy flip of the omelette brought him back into the moment, honestly surprised that you hadn't dropped it on the floor.

He moved his way to your side of the kitchen, round the central island toward the stovetop.

"Why are you cooking at this hhhh-" he wheezed at the end, only now seeing that you weren't in the pyjama bottoms he'd assumed you'd be wearing, but in your underwear.

He clasped one of his hands over his mouth, the other grabbing the island for support as he felt his legs begin to fail him. Keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, he blurts out, "W-WHERE ARE YOUR PANTS?" as his face went fully crimson.

That finally gets your attention, but you are slow on the uptake, mind completely glazing over the fact that you had at some point gained an observer. Finally, furrowing your brows a little, you murmured a soft "What?" You knew a question was asked, but nothing else beyond that.

"Your pants, darling!" he gestures wildly, continuing to look down, knowing if that he caught sight of your bare legs again, he would lose his mind.

You stand there, pan hovering in the air away from the stove in one hand, a plate in the other, looking absolutely lost; you had completed your mission of acquiring omelette, and so your brain had decided it was no longer needed. Looking down, you see your legs and feet, wiggling your toes a little, then you look back up at the mess of a man in front of you, things finally starting to fall into place in your overtired mind.

"Oh, Sanji, what are you doing here," you ask, sweet as anything, completely ignorant to the battle he was waging internally. Once you plate your omelette, you place it on the island before putting the pan back on the stove to cool and grabbing a fork to tuck in, oblivious to Sanji frantically unbuttoning his night shirt beside you. He refuses to look directly at you until he has covered you with it, cheeks noticeably burning with how flustered he is.

"Darling, you can't do that to me," he says, almost breathless, "I am a weak, weak man; I can't handle seeing you so bare!" He manipulates your arms into the sleeves of his nightshirt, ignoring your protests when he briefly pulls the fork out of your hand in the process, before buttoning you up, doing his best to preserve your dignity.

As you feel the warm sustenance finally begin to settle in your empty stomach, you feel your brain booting back up, at least a little bit.

"Ah, shit I forgot to put on pants..." You giggle, wondering why everything was always funnier when you were tired. Taking another bite of food, you look down at your legs once again, starting to fully comprehend the situation you found yourself in. "I guess I was just too hungry." He can't help but sigh at how nonchalant you are.

Looking back up, your brain once again decides to abandon you, not from how tired you are this time, but from your eyes being met with his bare chest and abs, causing your own face to turn a charming shade of red. Sanji was always so neatly dressed, so he most you ever saw was his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves to work. It made sense that he was in good shape given his fighting ability, but it never really hit you until you saw his body tonight. There wasn't really any way to get accustomed to it, not like there was with someone like Zoro, who had his shirt off at least half the times you saw him, flashing his man tits whenever and wherever he damn well pleased.

Sanji's eyes never left you during this quiet minute, one that felt like hours, and he couldn't help but feel a hint of pride when he watched your eyes dance over his shirtless body, clearly flustered, bringing a confident smile to his face.

"Everything alright down there, sweetheart," he laughed softly.

You were clearly lost in your thoughts, it finally clicking why he was shirtless; he'd put his shirt on you. You brought a long sleeve up to your face as you dragged your eyes away, looking awkwardly to the side to your recently emptied plate. The shirt smelt like him, only without the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. It was sweet and musky. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but you felt a wave of feelings crash into you. Feelings you knew were there but had simply brushed aside, assuming they were just a result of his natural charm more than anything. But, you couldn't so easily disregard them now.

Sanji followed your gaze. "Ah, don't you worry about that, my dear," he says, grabbing the plate and bringing it to the sink, leaving you standing in a bit of a daze. "I'll take care of things here, so you go and get yourself back to bed, alright?"

"Oh, no!" You couldn't help how loud that ended up being, surprising the both of you. "You shouldn't have to clean up my mess," you say with a more regulated volume. If there's one way to get you back in the present, it's offering to do something you feel solely responsible for.

"In all fairness, darling, you shouldn't have been cooking in my kitchen in a state of undress," his cheeks started to go pink at the recent memory. He clears his throat before continuing, "Do you know how dangerous that is?" Ah, the professional chef just can't help himself when it comes to kitchen rules.

You pout slightly as you lean back against the centre island.

"Sorry, Sanji. I wasn't really with it. Too tired, too hungry..."

He makes quick work of the dirty items you had used, all while prattling on about safety and other things you probably should have listened to. Drying his hands, he makes his way back to you. It is evident you hadn't really been paying attention.

"At least promise me this," you look up at his warm, smiling face, "if you ever find yourself in this predicament again, please come and get me."

He brushes back some loose strands of hair, tucking them neatly behind your ear.

"You know that I'm always happy to cook for you, right? Whatever you want, whenever you want it."

Returning a gentle smile of your own, you nod.

"I promise."

With that, Sanji leads you out of the kitchen, plunging it back into darkness as he flicks the light off.

You reach his quarters first since he's closest to the kitchen. He pauses outside his door, hesitating for a moment. There are so many things he wanted to say to you, yet he couldn't bring himself to utter a single word.

Oblivious, you carry on toward your own room, turning back to him to wish him a good night, nearly falling over your own feet in the process, to which he smiles, letting out a soft chuckle.

"Bonne nuit, ma chère."

Guys, gals, and non-binary pals; I tried my best! This is my very first full fic ever, so if the grammar, wording, presentation, literally anything is bad; it's bc I am completely winging it! ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

[snail-day]

Thinking about mornings with yan! Shoko x reader x yan! Utahime

TW: Yandere Behaviors, emotional manipulation from utahime.

You’re not sure who’s holding you until your cheek registers the warmth beneath it, smooth skin and the soft beat of a steady heart. Then there’s the smell of antiseptic on clean sheets, the faint press of a cigarette-scented kiss against your forehead.

Shoko.

Most of the time, she sleeps on her back, an arm wrapped firmly around your waist like a weight, keeping you close. Her skin is cool, the kind that drinks in your warmth. You shift slightly, and her hold tightens. Barely awake, she hums, voice raspy and full of sleep.

“Mm-mm. Where do you think you’re going?”

Your lips part to answer, but you don’t get the chance. She tugs you back in until your face is buried against the soft curve of her chest, one hand stroking lazily through your hair. Her other palm spreads across your back. Possessive. Loving in a way as her fingertips glide across your skin.

“I’m on call this morning,” she murmurs into your hair, a soft peck. “Didn’t want to wake you, but I hate going in without you.”

You blink blearily against her skin. “I thought you said I could sleep in today…”

A low chuckle. “You can. In my office. On the cot. Where I can check on you between patients.” Her thumb rubs a slow, dizzying circle against your spine. “Can’t concentrate without you close, Dove. Stresses me out. Makes me smoke more, you understand right?”

When you try to protest, she kisses your hair again, soft and final.

“No baby, you can’t leave my side. You know that.”

On the mornings Utahime has you in her clutches, it’s different, but just as smothering. With her in bed, it's much warmer, messier, ruffled floral sheets and tangled limbs. You wake to her breath on your neck, slender arms wrapped tight around your middle, her body pressed flush against your back. You try to shift and feel the grip tighten.

“No,” she whines softly, voice thick with sleep. “Stay.”

You’re groggy and barely able to function, but she’s already coaxing you back into the crook of her body, cupping your chest with one hand and pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder. Her voice, though sweet, holds an edge of warning - don’t even try to leave me yet.

“You’re so warm,” she whispers, nuzzling close. “I can feel your heartbeat. Don’t you want me to know you’re safe?”

A pause.

“…Don’t you want to make sure I’m okay?”

You give in. You have to pick your battles with this one.

Eventually, she coaxes you out of bed and into a warm bath. She sits behind you, running sudsy, soft hands across your chest and up your arms, pressing gentle kisses to the back of your shoulder. “We have to match today,” she murmurs as she helps you dry off, already laying out coordinated outfits. Something traditional, as always. “You’re my precious girl. Everyone needs to know that.”

And when you ask what you’ll be doing with her that day, she smiles.

“Oh, nothing much,” she says lightly. “Just sitting with me in class, looking cute. That’s your whole job, baby.”

She cups your face in both hands, chestnut eyes soft, voice quieter - deadly sweet.

“And you won’t talk to anyone, right? You won’t even look at them unless I say it’s okay?”

You nod. Slowly. Sleepily.

Her lips press against yours. Lingering. Savoring. As if she could drink you whole.

“Good girl.”

[zeroseuniverse]

Morning Tradition

Word Count 674 Summary: You leaned in, kissed him softly just a brush. Just enough to count. “…Better?” Changbin let out a pleased little noise. “Much.” Pairing: Changbin X Reader

Taglist: @zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120 @0-ryolei-0 @torkorpse @stayvillecitizen

Navigation

The first night you spent at Changbin’s apartment felt like falling into a dream.

Not a whirlwind, hearts-pounding, movie-style kind of dream—but something gentler. Slower. The kind where you fall asleep laughing at a movie neither of you finished, your legs tangled under the blanket, popcorn bowl abandoned on the coffee table. Where your last conscious thought is the weight of his arm draped around your waist, and how natural it feels for his chest to rise and fall against your back.

It was late. You were tired. And despite it being your first night together, there was nothing rushed or hesitant about it. It felt right. Familiar, even. Like you’d been doing this for years.

So when the sun rose, painting golden warmth across the soft gray of his sheets, you stirred slowly; peaceful, half-asleep, head nestled into the crook of his shoulder.

Changbin was still asleep, lips parted just slightly, hair sticking out in five different directions. Your eyes traced the curve of his cheek, his relaxed jaw, the way his lashes brushed his skin. And before you could talk yourself out of it, you shifted closer, your lips brushing just near his ear.

"Good morning," you whispered, voice still husky with sleep.

Except he moved at the exact same time.

You leaned in. He turned his head.

Your lips met.

Soft. Accidental. Startling.

You froze—eyes wide, nose brushing his. And so did he.

Then came the blink. Then the tiny inhale.

“…Hi,” Changbin murmured, voice rough and confused and warm enough to melt the sun.

Your cheeks burned. “I didn’t uh, I meant to say good morning. With words.”

“I noticed,” he replied, and you half-expected a smirk, some teasing comment, but instead? He just smiled. Bare, boyish, and breathtaking. “I like the way you say good morning.”

You buried your face in his chest, partly to hide, partly because his skin was warm and you suddenly had no idea what to do with your hands.

"You're never letting me live this down, are you?"

"Absolutely not."

The next morning, you woke up alone.

Which was weird, considering you knew Changbin had the day off. And he hated waking up before noon if he didn’t have to.

You rolled over, groggy, only to find a very lump-shaped figure hiding completely under the blanket.

"Changbin?"

No response.

"Are you- are you sulking under there?"

A muffled voice emerged. “Didn’t get my good morning yet.”

You blinked. “Are you serious.”

The blanket rustled. A dramatic sigh followed. “Rules are rules.”

You huffed a laugh, crawling closer until you found the edge of the blanket and peeled it back. His hair was a mess. He was pouting—full-on, exaggerated bottom lip and all.

“You started this,” he mumbled. “Now I can’t function properly unless I get it.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too hard. “Fine.”

You leaned in, kissed him softly just a brush. Just enough to count.

“…Better?”

Changbin let out a pleased little noise. “Much.”

It became routine. Ritual.

Every single morning, without fail, Changbin would hold your hand hostage under the covers, refuse to open his eyes, and whine about his missing “good morning” until you leaned in and kissed him awake.

Sometimes it was playful. Sometimes it was slow and lazy, your arms curled around each other as the kiss lingered a little longer than necessary. Sometimes he would pretend to fall back asleep just to get a second one. Or third.

“You’re spoiled,” you told him one morning as he nuzzled into your neck, grinning like a child who got away with something.

“You made me this way,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Now suffer the consequences.”

And suffer you did if “suffer” meant being held like a teddy bear for twenty minutes every morning, your hair rumpled and face kissed into oblivion.

Not that you’d ever complain.

Because you used to dread mornings.

Now? You woke up excited. Warm. Loved.

And every single day, without fail, Changbin smiled the moment he felt your lips press to his and whispered

“Good morning.”

[multi-fandom-imagine]

➤ 𝖠 𝖵𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖨𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖰𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 || 𝖲𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗂 𝖪𝗒𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗄𝗎 ||

(Or: Shunsui’s 2AM Crisis Over Baby Accessories)

A/n: He is so fucking fine.

The room was cloaked in the quiet stillness of late night.

Outside, crickets chirped softly and the wind nudged gently at the curtains, letting moonlight spill in over the tatami floors.

In the center of the warmth and hush, you laid curled up on your side, nestled under a thick quilt. Your hair was a mess of soft waves across the pillow, one hand resting protectively on your stomach, where the gentle swell of new life stirred every so often in sleep.

You were almost asleep...almost entered that blissful state.

Almost.

Until—

A weight shifted onto the futon beside you.

A familiar arm slipped around your waist.

And a deep, velvet voice, slightly unsure but still full of mischief, whispered near your ear:

“…Hey, petal?”

You groaned into your pillow, your voice muffled and adorably raspy.

“Mmmwhatnow?”

A pause. Then a beat.

“Is it weird if I get the baby… a tiny hat?”

You cracked one eye open, your brain trying to boot back up.

“…What?”

“A hat,” Shunsui whispered again, clearly taking this very seriously. “Like… a little one. With maybe a sakura pattern. Something classy, you know?”

You blinked slowly, trying to decide if you were dreaming.

“You woke me up…” you mumbled sleep laced in your throat, “to ask… about a hat?”

Shunsui, entirely unapologetic, tucked his face into your hair and whispered,

“It’s important. I’ve seen them. They’re adorable. Very respectable. It could match mine.”

You let out the faintest groan. “Shunsui…” you were actively fighting the urge to slap your husband across his face.

“I mean, it’s never too early for style, right?” he added, clearly spiraling. “What if we’re invited to an official function and the baby shows up without a hat? What if people judge us? What if Ukitake gets the baby something cooler and we look like amateurs?”

You, still half-asleep and barely clinging to reality, reached up, patted his face, and mumbled into the quilt: “If you buy the baby a hat, you have to promise you place it on the child until they are at least a few months old”

Shunsui grinned like a man who had just received divine permission.

“So… that’s a yes?”

Another groggy sigh. “Fine. One tiny hat.”

Shunsui pulled you gently closer, resting his hand over your belly, and whispered with infinite satisfaction:

“I’m gonna get one with little fox ears.”

You didn’t respond to him though, You were already asleep again.

But the soft, sleep-slurred smile on your face said it all.

The next morning, a custom order was already placed at the Soul Society’s finest seamstress shop:

One infant-sized hat.

Black silk.

Sakura embroidery.

Optional fox ears.

Matching adult version available upon request.

Because Shunsui Kyōraku may be the Captain-Commander—

but more importantly,

He was going to be a very stylish dad.

[nanabrainrot]

Nyquil [18+]

You have trouble sleeping without your boyfriend’s help.

Warning! NSFW content in an established relationship. Reader likes to get eaten out as she goes to sleep - consensual somnophilia adjacent behavior occurs. Hobie Brown/F!Reader.

••●────── 🕸️⋅🕷⋅🕸️ ────────●••

“Can’t sleep huh, doll?”

He’s such a sweet boyfriend, sweet enough you thank your lucky stars every night that you found a boy like him to accompany you through life. Insomnia had been a long prevailing problem in your night routine, evident in your behavior at HQ where you were noted for being the Spiderwoman who often looked groggy and shuffled about. Your “nonchalant” nature initially enticed him - you really stuck it to the man by making it clear you didn’t care.

It took two months for him to realize you weren’t nonchalant. You were tired.

He’d made it a point to be the best help he could about it: it’s why he was over almost every night he could be now. Hobie does a great job to soothe you. The rough pads of his fingers tracing circles on your bare back. His lips pressing soft kisses to your head, your face buried in the pillow breathing the linen smell in with even breaths. “Hnng…” you mumbled in the pillow, feeling your consciousness slowly tettering but never falling to rest. It was exhausting, the endless sleepless nights before Hobie.

Only he could put you to sleep.

“Almost there? Does my doll need me to put her to bed?” he breathes, hot breath fanning your hairline. Aahh, that offer fans the heat in your core and the excitement of being close to him and being lulled to sleep keep your eyes twitching behind your closed lids - you might as well simulate REM sleep if you couldn’t get there.

“Yeah…” you huff, words soft as air and fanning over the fabric of your pillow’s cotton casing. His hot hand dipping lower under the thin jersey sheet to the small of your back.

His voice hot and raspy, a whisper on the shell of your ear, “Yeah?”

Nodding into the pillow, hands taut under it and your head, his body next to you and curving onto your body like a crescent moon with the way he was propped on one arm and the other starting to palm the fat of your ass.

“Wanna stay like that or you wanna turn a little so I can lap you up ‘fore I put you to bed, dolly?” You mumble something before rolling onto your back, tits coming to meet the air from the movement of the jersey blanket and spreading your legs in a lazy movement that gets him chuckling. He’s too giving, too concerned with getting you to sleep all cozy.

“Thank you,” he laughs lowly, pressing a kiss on your temple before wandering lower under the sheet, “I’ll put you to sleep, don’t you worry…”

He always presses soft pecks to your thighs first, hands around your thighs with his thumb grazing the skin.

He kisses the mound next, pecking the lips with sickeningly sweet gentleness; like pecking your cheek. He does it so gently, careful to not make you cum because it keeps you up longer, and instead sufficing with making out with the area. Suckling at the nub, lazily licking at it with slow big licks with a flat tongue.

You buck a little, sighing, your breaths slow as he hears your heartbeat settle. Both heartbeats. Your hips buck once more, before settling on the sheets - a small snore fills the air. The rumble of cars coming and going in the late night, some honks and some reving engines. Your fan in the corner purring as it washed your naked bodies in cool air. Window only slightly ajar. The dark room illuminated only by the lights of the billboards and advertisements in your universe’s big city.

Hobie comes up, ignoring the ache in his cock to settle on staring. No bodily function or lust could surpass the warmth in his mind. Even if the nonchalance was mistaken at first, the way your face glows a little brighter at HQ when your well-rested is more rewarding. Especially knowing how well you sleep because of him.

Your eyes twitch behind your lids and he can’t help but grin, hoping you’re dreaming of him. The cars rumble twenty stories below.

Hobie knows you’ll never need melatonin, chamomile tea, or nyquil ever again - not so long as he can soothe you.

🕸️𓆩♡𓆪🕸️

thanks for reading! smthng short n sweet - its only smutty for a second but idk I j thought it was a lil silly dynamic/habit for them to have :) feel free to request or chat abt hobie and miguel in my inbox <33

[duvetchico]

eepyhead

summary every morning, karina and y/n brush their teeth together. only, karina’s groggy as hell, way too clingy, and somehow makes it the most romantic part of your day.

genre domestic fluff / humor / soft soft love

pairing yu jimin x fem!reader

masterlist.

you wake up to the sound of karina groaning into your pillow like she’s been personally victimized by the concept of morning. her arm is already thrown across your waist, her leg hooked over yours like you’re her human teddy bear and she’s not letting go without a fight.

“babe,” you mumble, trying to sit up. “we have to brush our teeth.”

she groans louder, buries her face into the crook of your neck like she’s trying to teleport into your soul. “nooooo. why. we literally just went to sleep.”

“karina it’s been eight hours.”

“then why does it feel like i got hit by a bus,” she mutters, her voice all raspy and low and honestly way too sexy for someone who probably has morning breath. “lemme sleep on you for five more minutes.”

“you said that twenty minutes ago.”

“okay but this time i mean it.”

you laugh, trying to wiggle out of her death grip, but she only tightens her hold like some sleepy snake. “if you don’t let me up i’m brushing my teeth without you.”

that gets her. barely. she groans again, dramatic as ever, but finally peels herself off of you like it’s the hardest thing she’s ever done. “fine. but if i fall asleep standing up it’s your fault.”

cut to two minutes later—you’re both in the bathroom, hair messy, eyes squinty, standing side by side at the sink like two zombies pretending to be functional human beings.

you’re already brushing your teeth like a normal person when karina shuffles over to you, still half-asleep, and just. wraps her arms around you from behind.

you nearly choke on your toothpaste.

“karina—what are you doing—”

“shhhh,” she whispers into your neck, voice all low and croaky and holy shit. “this is the only thing keeping me alive right now.”

“you’re literally hugging me while i’m brushing my teeth. you can’t even reach the sink.”

“don’t need to. i’m absorbing your toothpaste energy. you brush, i vibe.”

you snort so hard you nearly spit into the mirror. “you’re insane.”

“i’m in love,” she corrects, and nuzzles her nose into your neck like it’s her favorite pillow. “there’s a difference.”

you roll your eyes, cheeks burning. “karina we do this every morning. why are you acting like i’m gonna disappear."

and then she pulls the fucking move. rests her chin right on your shoulder, her lips like a whisper against your skin, and murmurs, “i think i’m already missing you.”

you freeze. toothbrush in your mouth. foam everywhere. just frozen like a statue.

“karina.”

“mm?”

“you’re literally right here with me.”

“not emotionally,” she says, voice still all gravely and dramatic like she’s starring in a sad indie film. “your soul’s drifting into the toothpaste realm and leaving me behind.”

“you’re a disease.”

she gasps. “excuse you. i am a blessing. a sleepy, affectionate, clingy blessing.”

“you’re heavy,” you mumble, trying to squirm as she sags against your back like dead weight.

“love is heavy,” she sighs, like she’s dropping the quote of the century. “deal with it.”

you somehow finish brushing your teeth with her still clinging onto you like a damn backpack, and when you turn around, she gives you this sleepy grin like she just accomplished something huge.

“look at us. conquering mornings together. being healthy. brushing teeth. we’re so domestic.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you literally did none of that. i brushed my teeth. you just latched onto me like a sleepy barnacle.”

“a barnacle who loves you very much,” she says proudly, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

you pause, blushing like crazy. “you’re so annoying.”

“you love it.”

unfortunately, you do.

[saebyeokbliss]

ONCE MORE TO SEE YOU— PART VII.

synopsis: on a cold january day, you were worrying about the reason your girlfriend wasn’t texting back. when she finally does and asks to meet at your apartment, you’re met with heartbreak as she ends your relationship. no explanation. two years later, you run into her at a cafe with someone new. what are you to do? warnings: angst, threats, deok-su, stress (??)

pairing: sae-byeok x fem!reader

Sae-byeok woke before the sun.

Her alarm clock didn’t wake her—she never needed it. Her body operated on a routine, conditioned by years of necessity. The small apartment was still dark, the faint hum of traffic outside the only sound. For a moment, she lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of the day settle over her like a familiar blanket. There was no time to linger in bed—there never was.

She pushed the covers off and swung her legs to the floor, the cold linoleum sending a shock up her spine. Her room was tiny, barely more than a closet, with a bed pressed against one wall and a small dresser crammed into the corner. There were no decorations, no personal touches. Just the bare essentials.

After a quick shower, she dressed in her usual attire—jeans, a plain t-shirt, and a hoodie. Functional, comfortable, forgettable. She pulled her hair back into a low ponytail, tugged on her sneakers, and grabbed her bag from the chair by the door. Before leaving her room, she reached under her pillow and slipped her pocket knife into her hoodie’s front pocket. She never left home without it.

The scent of instant coffee greeted her as she stepped into the main living area. Ji-yeong was leaning against the counter, sipping from a chipped mug, her hair still damp from her own shower.

“Morning,” Ji-yeong said, her voice groggy.

“Morning,” Sae-byeok replied, grabbing a slice of bread and popping it into the toaster. “Cheol awake?”

“Yeah. He’s getting dressed.” Ji-yeong smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Took him three tries to tie his shoes yesterday. You might want to give him a refresher.”

Sae-byeok huffed a quiet laugh. “He’ll get there.”

Her toast popped up, and she grabbed it, eating it plain as she moved around the kitchen, packing Cheol’s lunch. A peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and a juice box—simple but enough to get him through the day. She tucked it into his worn backpack just as he shuffled into the room, rubbing his eyes.

“Morning,” she said, crouching down to his level. “Ready for school?”

Cheol nodded sleepily, his small face lighting up as he spotted his sister. “Yeah. I have a spelling test today. I practiced like you said.”

“Good,” she said, ruffling his hair. “You’ll do great.”

He grinned, the gap where his front tooth used to be making him look even younger than his eight years. He was the only part of her life that felt pure, untouched by the weight of the world.

Ji-yeong finished her coffee and grabbed her jacket. “You’re dropping me off first, right?”

“Yeah,” Sae-byeok replied. “Let’s go.”

The drive to Cheol’s school was quiet, the streets just starting to come alive with the hum of early commuters. Their car wasn’t much to look at—an old, beat-up compact sedan that rattled every time it hit a pothole—but it got them where they needed to go.

Cheol sat in the back, his backpack clutched to his chest as he stared out the window. Ji-yeong rode shotgun, fiddling with the radio until she found a station playing soft pop music.

When they reached Cheol’s school, Sae-byeok parked and walked him to the gate. She crouched down in front of him, her hands resting on his small shoulders.

“Be good,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “And don’t forget your lunch.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his eyes wide and earnest.

She pulled him into a quick hug, her chest tightening as she let him go. Watching him walk into the schoolyard was always the hardest part of her day. He looked so small compared to the other kids, his backpack almost too big for his frame. But he was strong. He had to be.

Next was Ji-yeong’s stop—a factory on the edge of the city where she worked long hours on an assembly line. The pay was terrible, and the conditions weren’t much better, but it was steady work, and Ji-yeong needed the money as much as Sae-byeok did.

“Don’t forget to eat,” Sae-byeok said as Ji-yeong climbed out of the car.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Ji-yeong shot back, giving her a teasing smile.

Sae-byeok rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at her lips. Ji-yeong was one of the few people who could still make her smile.

By the time Sae-byeok arrived at the diner, the sun was fully up, casting long shadows across the pavement. She parked in the small lot behind the building, grabbing her bag and stepping out into the crisp morning air.

But as she rounded the corner, her stomach twisted. Standing near the back entrance, leaning casually against the wall, was Deok-su.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She’d been avoiding him for weeks, dodging his calls and taking alternate routes home to keep from running into him. But she knew it was only a matter of time before he caught up with her.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Kang Sae-byeok,” he drawled, pushing off the wall and blocking her path. His lips curled into a smug grin, but his eyes were cold, calculating. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said coolly, keeping her voice steady.

“Too busy to pay what you owe?” he asked, his tone mockingly sweet.

Sae-byeok’s jaw tightened. “I told you, I just need more time.”

“Time doesn’t pay my bills, sweetheart,” he said, stepping closer. “You think I’m running a charity here?”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. “You’ll get your money. Just not today.”

Deok-su chuckled, the sound low and menacing. “You’ve been saying that for weeks. I’m starting to think you’re not taking me seriously.”

His hand darted out, grabbing her wrist. She froze, her pulse spiking, but her expression remained steady. Slowly, she reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out her knife, flicking it open with practiced ease.

“Let go,” she said, her voice calm but laced with steel.

Deok-su’s eyes flicked to the blade, and for a moment, his grin faltered. But then he laughed, releasing her wrist and holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Relax, Kang. No need to get all stabby. I’m just reminding you who you’re dealing with.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, slipping the knife back into her pocket. “Now get out of my way.”

He stepped aside, but as she walked past him, his voice followed her. “You can’t keep running, you know. Sooner or later, you’ll have to pay up.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t look back. But as she pushed through the diner’s back door, a familiar knot of dread settled in her chest. She knew he was right. The knife might have scared him off this time, but it wouldn’t keep him away forever.

Inside the diner, the familiar sounds of clinking dishes and murmured conversations greeted her. She took a deep breath, shaking off the encounter with Deok-su as best she could. There was no room for weakness here, no room for fear.

Sae-byeok tied on her apron, stuffed her bag into her locker, and stepped out onto the floor. The weight of the morning lingered in the back of her mind, but she pushed it aside. There was work to be done, and she couldn’t afford to let anything—or anyone—get in the way.

The days bled together in a haze of exhaustion.

Every morning, you woke up to the same suffocating reality: there was too much to do and not enough time, money, or energy to do it all. You were stretched thin, pulled in every direction by responsibilities that didn’t seem to care whether you could handle them or not. Tuition loomed over you like an immovable boulder, your rent was due in less than two weeks, and whatever was left of your paycheck after expenses went straight to your parents for your sister’s medical bills.

You had given them half of your last paycheck—a decision that made you feel like you were drowning. With your father out of work, your family depended on you in a way that felt crushing, and though your mom’s guilt-tripping still stung, it wasn’t her words that kept you up at night. It was the thought of your sister in that hospital bed, hooked up to machines, her future uncertain. You couldn’t let her down.

But at what cost?

Your world narrowed to a relentless cycle of classes, work, and stress. Each day started earlier, ended later, and left you with less energy than the one before. You stopped counting the hours of sleep you were getting because the answer was always the same: not enough.

It wasn’t just physical exhaustion that weighed on you—it was the mental toll of constantly doing the math in your head. If you worked extra shifts this week, would you have enough time to study for your exams? If you skipped buying groceries for yourself, could you stretch your paycheck far enough to cover both your rent and the next payment to your parents? Every decision felt like a gamble, and no matter how carefully you planned, you were always one step away from losing control.

You started skipping meals, too distracted to eat or too busy to cook. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, but your body disagreed. Your hands shook more often, your vision blurred when you stood up too quickly, and the headaches came like clockwork—dull throbs that settled behind your eyes and refused to leave.

At work, you began to notice the whispers. Minji, Hyejin, and Yuna tried to be discreet, but you weren’t oblivious. Their glances lingered a little too long, their hushed conversations stopped just a little too abruptly when you walked into the room. You weren’t angry at them—they were probably just worried—but you didn’t have the energy to reassure them. Besides, what could you say? That everything was fine? That you had it under control? It would’ve been a lie.

It was a Thursday when it all came crashing down.

You had barely slept the night before, staying up until the early hours of the morning to finish an essay that was due later that day. By the time you dragged yourself out of bed and stumbled into class, you felt like a zombie. Your professor’s words barely registered, your notes were a mess of half-finished sentences, and your hands ached from gripping your pen too tightly.

Work was no better. The diner was busier than usual, and every table felt like a marathon. By the time your lunch break rolled around, you were running on fumes. You grabbed your food and headed to the break room, collapsing into a chair with a sigh. The room was quiet, a refuge from the chaos outside, and for the first time all day, you allowed yourself to close your eyes—just for a moment.

That moment stretched longer than you intended.

When you opened your eyes, the break room was empty, the remains of your untouched lunch sitting cold on the table in front of you. You blinked in confusion, your mind sluggish as you tried to piece together what had happened. How long had you been asleep?

Before you could check the time, the door to the break room creaked open, and Minji poked her head inside. Her eyes widened when she saw you. “Oh my God, you’re still here?”

“What?” you asked groggily, sitting up. Your heart began to race as the realization hit you. “What time is it?”

“It’s been, like, thirty minutes since lunch ended,” Minji said, stepping into the room. “We thought you just left early or something. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though the heaviness in your limbs betrayed you. “I just—must’ve dozed off.”

Before Minji could respond, Hyejin and Yuna appeared behind her, their expressions mirroring her concern.

“She’s still in here?” Hyejin asked, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. “What happened? You never take breaks this long.”

“She fell asleep,” Minji said, her voice soft with concern. “I think she’s exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, standing up too quickly. A wave of dizziness washed over you, forcing you to grip the edge of the table for support. “I just lost track of time.”

“You’re not fine,” Yuna said, her tone unusually firm. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground for weeks. This isn’t normal.”

“Look, I don’t need a lecture,” you snapped, your frustration bubbling over. “I’m fine. Just drop it.”

The three of them exchanged a look, their concern only deepening. It made your chest tighten. You didn’t want their pity. You didn’t want their sympathy. You just wanted to get through the day without falling apart.

But then Minji bit her lip, hesitating before blurting out, “We should tell Sae-byeok.”

Your stomach dropped. “What? No. Don’t do that.”

“She’s the manager,” Minji said, her voice uncertain but resolute. “She should know.”

“She’s already been watching me like a hawk,” you said, panic creeping into your voice. “I don’t need her breathing down my neck any more than she already is.”

“Maybe she can help,” Yuna said quietly. “She’s not as cold as she seems, you know.”

“I don’t need her help,” you said sharply, your voice rising. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

But it was too late. Hyejin had already slipped out of the room, and you could hear her calling for Sae-byeok. Your heart pounded in your chest as you sank back into the chair, burying your face in your hands. This was the last thing you needed.

Sae-byeok entered the break room moments later, her expression unreadable. She glanced at Minji and Yuna, who quickly muttered excuses and left, leaving the two of you alone.

Her sharp eyes flicked to you, taking in your disheveled appearance and the untouched lunch on the table. She didn’t say anything right away, but her silence was heavy, pressing down on you like a weight.

“What’s going on with you?” she asked finally, her voice low but firm.

You didn’t look at her. Your throat felt tight, and the words you wanted to say—I’m fine, I can handle it, just leave me alone—stuck in your throat.

Sae-byeok stepped closer, her gaze steady and unrelenting. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. It’s obvious to everyone.”

“I’m fine,” you said weakly, though the crack in your voice betrayed you.

“No, you’re not,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “And if you keep this up, you’re going to collapse.”

Her words hit too close to home, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, her presence too overwhelming. You stood up abruptly, avoiding her gaze as you grabbed your bag.

“I need to get back to work,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re not going anywhere until we talk,” she said, blocking your path.

taglist: @monroesturnns@everly-summers-solace@holyshtimgay@knfthxv@delfinadolphin@madebysae@jetaimeeeee@m0rtifiedg0th@katieschry1@erika-mon2-blog@tcvazq

[sanders1665]

It’s the goddamn wee small hours, that sacred stretch of night when time melts into introspection and shadows become philosophers. The air is thick with silence, save for the occasional squelch of my gut, protesting the late-night slice of existential pizza I shouldn’t have eaten. No breeze, no barking dogs, no traffic. Just me, a mind wired on questions, and the ghost of a million ancestors staring back through my DNA like some cosmic jury.

I was thinking—no, spiraling—into the meat grinder of human origin. Twenty different species of humans? More or less. That’s not science fiction, that’s real. The Earth, this wild, bipolar rock hurtling through space, was busy being a chaotic chef: stirring up ice ages, flipping tectonic pancakes, belching fire from volcanoes like it had IBS. And in the middle of all that, it birthed and buried species after species of humans. Not chimps, not dolphins with dreams—humans.

And yet, we are the ones left. Alone. The sole survivors.

We who are hairless and helpless at birth, who need ten years to become barely functional, who sunburn and break bones and cry at reality shows. We who are, by all metrics, the weakest model on the showroom floor of evolution. Yet here we are. Shopping on Amazon. Building particle colliders. Taking selfies next to pyramids built by hands we don’t understand.

I don’t buy the official bedtime story they hand out in schools. You know the one—upright apes + time + bananas = smartphones. Something smells fishy, and it ain’t just the tuna sandwich from last week’s lunchbox. We didn’t just evolve like the rest. We appeared. With language, fire, and a suspicious amount of self-awareness. Right out of the blue. Like a magician’s trick—ta-da!—Homo sapiens, baby.

Were we an accident? A cosmic prank? Or a goddamn upgrade?

Or were we realigned and designed this way by “gods” from another neighborhood?

Not divine, not omnipotent, but advanced. Outsiders. Visitors. Tinkerers with an eye for biogenetics and a flair for myth-making. Creators not of galaxies, but of species. Maybe they didn’t paint the sky, but they sure as hell messed with the clay.

Sometimes I think we’re nature’s rebellious child, and sometimes... I think we’re adopted.

Maybe the old stories are half-true, twisted into myth because our ancestors didn’t have Wi-Fi or a printing press. Maybe the Watchers, the gods, the sky people—whatever name floats your boat—left fingerprints on our soul. Maybe we’re version 2.0 of something much older. Something that didn't survive. Something we erased, like jealous children.

And deep down—real deep, below the cholesterol and the hang-ups and the Amazon Prime history—I think we know. We feel it. That something’s off. That this isn’t quite home. That we were made for something else. Not this rat race. Not this tedium. Not this constant nagging anxiety about the future and the past like we’re stuck in a loop we didn’t write.

Maybe that’s why we build religions, and sci-fi stories, and monuments that stare at the stars.

We're trying to remember who we were... before we forgot what we are.

And so here I sit, in the dark belly of the night, brain buzzing, belly gurgling, wondering:

Were we born of Earth…

engineered on Earth…

or just parked here for a while, until someone comes back for the keys?

Either way, I’ll probably still wake up groggy tomorrow and forget the whole damn thing.

But for now, I’m wide awake. Watching. Listening.

Waiting for the stars to whisper back.

[deezbutz28]

Serendipity

a/n: heyyyy i’m in my comeback era lol. i know this isn’t my normal story but i hope you all like it!

FLUFF!!!

college harry and college y/n :)

a lil over 3k words

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Y/N had always loved the little things—those small comforts in life that made everything just a bit easier to handle. A warm cup of coffee on a cold morning, a good book, a quiet café—these were the things that kept her grounded during the hustle and bustle of college life. So, when she found The Java Joint on her new college campus, it quickly became her go-to spot. The cozy little café was tucked away in a corner of campus, offering a peaceful escape from the chaos of lectures and assignments.

Every morning, she would grab her backpack, shuffle to the café, and order her usual: a caramel latte with an extra shot. It became part of her routine, something she could rely on. But it wasn’t just the coffee that kept her coming back—it was him.

Harry Styles, the barista with the wild curls, kind eyes, and easy smile that made her heart do a little flip every time he greeted her.

The first time she noticed him was a few weeks into her first semester. He had smiled at her from behind the counter, his voice warm and inviting as he asked for her order. He had an easy confidence about him, effortlessly charming but not overbearing. It was the way he remembered her name the second time she came in, the way he made her feel like she was the only person in the room. Every time Y/N walked into the café, Harry’s bright smile greeted her like they were old friends, even though they barely knew each other.

It wasn’t like Y/N hadn’t tried to make conversation—she had. She would chat with him about her day, about her classes, about the weather—but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to their interactions. Something she didn’t quite understand yet.

One chilly October morning, Y/N shuffled into The Java Joint, still feeling groggy from an all-nighter spent studying for an exam. Her body craved coffee more than sleep, and she couldn’t resist the temptation. As usual, the place was busy, with students hunched over their laptops and exchanging quiet conversations. But Y/N’s attention immediately went to the counter, where Harry was working, his hands deftly moving as he made drink after drink.

“Morning, Y/N!” Harry greeted with a grin as she walked up to the counter.

“Morning,” she replied, leaning against the counter with a sigh. “I’m so tired today. I don’t even know how I managed to get out of bed.”

Harry chuckled, his brown eyes sparkling. “You and me both. Finals are coming up, huh?”

Y/N nodded, her eyes flickering to the row of pastries behind the counter. “Yeah, and I have a ton of projects. I’m pretty sure I’ve lost all concept of time at this point.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice slightly. “Don’t worry, you’ll make it through. Coffee is the secret to survival.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “If I didn’t have coffee, I don’t know how I’d function. Actually, scratch that—without you, I don’t think I’d make it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Me, huh? What did I do to earn that kind of praise?”

“You remember my usual order,” Y/N said with a smile. “That’s impressive. Most people forget what I order after a few weeks, but you... you’ve got it down.”

He grinned, making her a cup of coffee with ease. “You’re one of my best regulars. You’re hard to forget.”

Y/N couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips as he slid her drink across the counter. She took the cup, savoring the warmth of it in her hands. “Thanks, Harry. You’ve just saved my day.”

“No problem,” he said, his voice light and playful. “Enjoy that latte. You’ve earned it.”

As Y/N turned to head toward her usual spot in the corner, she felt her heart race unexpectedly. The way Harry had looked at her just now—like she mattered—made her feel warm in a way that wasn’t just the coffee. But she shook off the thought, focusing on the relief that came with finally getting her caffeine fix.

The days that followed felt like a blur of exams, deadlines, and last-minute assignments. But every morning, Y/N made it a point to visit The Java Joint. She didn’t even have to order—Harry knew exactly what she wanted by the time she reached the counter.

One particular morning, she arrived later than usual. The café was crowded with students, all of them hunched over their laptops or chatting with friends. She stood in line, trying to catch her breath after rushing across campus, when Harry caught her eye from behind the counter. His lips curved into a smile the moment their eyes met.

“Y/N! The usual?” he called over the noise of the café.

She nodded, feeling a little embarrassed by the fact that he knew her order by heart. “Yeah, I’m running late today. Can you make it a large?”

“You got it.” Harry’s smile widened, and he made her coffee without missing a beat. But this time, something felt different. There was a certain warmth in his gaze as he handed her the cup.

“Thanks, Harry,” Y/N said, offering him a small smile as she took her drink.

“Anytime,” he replied, his tone sincere. “You’ve got a big day ahead of you?”

“Yeah, a presentation and a paper due,” she explained, feeling a little guilty for not being more enthusiastic. “I’ll probably be at the library for the rest of the day.”

“Ugh, that sounds exhausting,” Harry said sympathetically. “But hey, you’ve got coffee, so you’re halfway there.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s true. Coffee always wins.”

As she walked toward the table by the window, her heart fluttered again. The way Harry had looked at her—there was something behind those brown eyes that made her feel like she was the only one in the room. She tried to shake the thought away, telling herself she was probably reading too much into it. After all, he was just being friendly, right?

But as the day went on, the thought lingered. There was something about the way Harry smiled at her, the way he took the time to remember her order, the way his eyes softened whenever she walked into the café. It was more than just a friendly gesture—it felt... personal.

The following week, after yet another hectic day, Y/N decided to stop by The Java Joint again. This time, there was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere. The café was quieter than usual, with only a handful of students scattered around. Harry was behind the counter, casually wiping down the counter when he saw her walk in.

“Hey, Y/N. You want your usual?” Harry asked, his eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief.

Y/N smiled, but something was different this time. There was a feeling in the air—something electric. Maybe it was just the exhaustion settling in, or maybe it was the way Harry had looked at her just now. But Y/N felt her heart race in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

“Actually,” she said, hesitating for a moment. “Do you think you could make it... extra sweet today? I’m feeling a little adventurous.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Extra sweet, huh? You sure?”

She nodded, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “Yeah, let’s see if you can handle it.”

“Challenge accepted,” Harry said with a playful grin. He set to work, making the drink with a little more care than usual. Y/N watched him, her heart skipping a beat. There was something magnetic about him, something that made it impossible to look away. The way he moved behind the counter—so effortlessly, so naturally—made it seem like he was in his element.

As he handed her the cup, he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. “Extra sweet, just like you asked.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat at the unexpected compliment, but she quickly recovered. “Thanks, Harry.”

He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Y/N nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. “Definitely.”

The next few days felt like they passed in a blur of exams and assignments, but Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about Harry. Every time she walked into The Java Joint, it felt like there was this unspoken connection between them, something that made her heart race and her palms sweat.

Finally, on a quiet Friday morning, Y/N decided to take a chance. She had finished her last exam for the week and had a little free time before her next class. She walked into The Java Joint, hoping to catch Harry before he got too busy. As usual, he was behind the counter, and his face lit up when he saw her walk in.

“Y/N! What can I get for you today?” Harry asked with his signature grin.

“Actually,” Y/N said, taking a deep breath. “I was wondering... would you want to grab coffee outside of here sometime? Just the two of us?”

Harry’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked taken aback. But then, his face broke into a grin, and he stepped closer to the counter. "I’ve been waiting for you to ask," he said, his voice soft but playful.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected him to answer so quickly, and the way he looked at her made her heart skip a beat. "Really?" she asked, trying to sound casual, even though her pulse was racing.

"Yeah," Harry replied, his eyes meeting hers with a warmth that made her feel like she was the only person in the room. "I’ve been thinking about asking you for a while, actually. Just... didn’t know if you were into the idea."

Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. For a second, she had been worried she might’ve misread the signs. But now that Harry was admitting he’d been thinking the same thing, she felt her nervousness melt away.

"So..." Harry began, his voice teasing, "coffee outside the café. When works for you?"

Y/N smiled, a playful gleam in her eye. "How about right now? I’ve got an hour free before my next class."

Harry raised his eyebrows, looking pleased. "Right now, huh? Bold move, I like it."

"Well," Y/N shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, "I figured if we’re gonna do this, we might as well do it now. No time like the present, right?"

"You’re absolutely right," Harry said, pushing himself away from the counter. He grabbed his jacket, which had been hanging on a nearby hook. "Let’s go, then."

Y/N followed him out of the café, feeling an excited flutter in her chest. As they stepped outside into the crisp autumn air, Harry turned to her with a grin.

“So, where are we going? You pick," he said, looking genuinely curious. "I’m happy to let you choose the place.”

Y/N paused for a moment, thinking. “There’s a little park just off campus. It’s not too far. I like it there, especially when it’s quiet.”

Harry smiled. “Sounds perfect. Lead the way.”

They walked side by side through campus, exchanging small talk and laughing over silly stories about their college experiences. Y/N found herself relaxing in a way she hadn’t expected. There was no awkward tension, no nerves. It felt natural, like they were simply two people who had known each other for much longer than they actually had.

As they reached the park, they found a bench by a small pond. The trees surrounding them were beginning to change colors, their leaves a vibrant mix of orange, yellow, and red. The air was crisp, and the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm glow across the park. It was the perfect setting, and Y/N felt like she was in a dream.

They sat down, their legs almost touching. Harry turned to her, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “So, Y/N... What’s something about you that I don’t know yet?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the question. “Hmm... that’s a good one. I guess... I’ve always wanted to travel more. Like, really travel. Europe, Asia, South America... I want to see the world. I think it’s the one thing I’ve always been sure about.”

Harry nodded, his eyes soft as he listened. “I think that’s amazing. You’ve got that sense of adventure, huh?”

Y/N smiled shyly, feeling a little embarrassed by the vulnerability in her voice. “I guess I do. What about you? What’s something I don’t know about you?”

Harry hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering toward the pond before meeting her gaze again. “I think... I’ve always wanted to write songs. I’ve got this notebook full of lyrics and ideas, but I’ve never really shared them with anyone.”

Y/N was surprised. She had always known Harry was into music—she’d heard him talk about it a few times—but the idea of him being a songwriter felt... personal. “Wow, that’s incredible,” she said softly. “I didn’t know that.”

Harry smiled, a little shy now. “Yeah, it’s something I’m still working on. Maybe one day, I’ll show someone my stuff. But I guess it’s kind of a private thing for me.”

“You should definitely share it one day,” Y/N said, her voice sincere. “I’m sure it’s amazing.”

They sat in silence for a moment, simply enjoying the peaceful surroundings. The pond rippled gently in front of them, and a few ducks glided across the water. It was the kind of moment Y/N wished could last forever—simple, but perfect in its own way.

Eventually, Harry turned to her, his expression more serious now. “Y/N,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I’m really glad you asked me out. I’ve wanted to do this for a while, but I didn’t know if you felt the same. I really like you.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at his words. The way he was looking at her—so genuine, so open—made her feel like she was floating. “I like you too, Harry,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “More than I expected.”

Harry smiled, a mixture of relief and happiness in his expression. He reached for her hand, gently taking it in his. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot, honestly. I didn’t want to make things weird by asking you out while I’m just the barista at The Java Joint, but... I’m glad I did.”

Y/N laughed, squeezing his hand. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve been thinking about you a lot, too. I was honestly starting to wonder if I was reading too much into things.”

Harry chuckled, the sound light and easy. “I guess we’re both a little shy when it comes to this kind of stuff.”

“Yeah,” Y/N agreed with a smile. “But I’m glad we took the leap.”

As they sat there, talking and laughing under the golden afternoon sun, Y/N realized that this—whatever it was between them—felt like something real. The connection she had with Harry was undeniable, and it wasn’t just about the coffee. It was the way he made her feel, the way they fit together in a way that seemed effortless, even though they hadn’t known each other for long.

After a while, Harry stood up and stretched, looking down at Y/N. “I don’t want to keep you from your next class, but I’d like to do this again sometime. You know, the coffee-and-chat thing.”

Y/N smiled, standing up beside him. “I’d love that. Same time next week?”

Harry grinned. “It’s a date.”

As they walked back toward campus, hand in hand, Y/N couldn’t stop smiling. The whole day felt like a dream, and as she looked at Harry beside her, she knew this was just the beginning of something amazing.

In the weeks that followed, their relationship blossomed. They spent more time together, grabbing coffee before class, talking late into the night, and sharing their dreams and fears. And every time Y/N stepped into The Java Joint, it felt like the universe had conspired to bring them together. What had started with a simple coffee order had turned into something real—a bond neither of them had expected but both cherished.

And every time Harry made her a latte, with just the right amount of sweetness, Y/N couldn’t help but smile. After all, it was the little things—like a cup of coffee—that had brought them to this moment. And it was the little things that made her realize just how lucky she was to have found him.