#mentally i will not move from here for a while | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ay0nha · 3 days ago

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When the Music’s Over | Dr. Jack Abbot

SUMMARY: Jack’s mouth opened like he might say something else—something honest, something heavy, but the words caught in his throat and never came. Instead, he gave a short, quiet nod, like he was tucking whatever that was into his chest for later.

Creative Event: A Doctor A Day 27, Prompt: "Even though the road to get here was long, at last I am home." (I reworded it to fit a little better sorry x) Color: Green

PAIRING: Dr. Jack Abbot x f!reader (physician assistant)

WORD COUNT: 7.6K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled confessions, veteran affairs (I have OPINIONS on the care of veterans and today's political climate/military industrial complex BUT held back from making this political but fuck the government), group meeting/therapy, allusions to PTSD and what comes with being a combat veteran, prothesis/amuptation conversations, religious jokes-ish, smoking, mainly just all angst to fluff, NOT proofread so be kind, movie magic plot, etc.

A/N: This was so much fun to be a part of! This was really cathartic to write as it hits home some, so I hope you all enjoy. Thank you to @fuckoffbard for listening and helping. Thank you for creating this @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs!

COMMENTS ENCOURAGED! THEY FUEL ME!

The clinic lights always tried to mimic the morning light, but it was always too sterile, too awake. There was no natural gradient to welcome you into a new day. Instead, it was the kind of light that made you feel like you hadn’t slept enough, and never would, even if you had.

You were the first to arrive. It was hard to lose the habit, but it gave you time to review the backlog of missed calls. The quiet preparation was the only time you had to decompress before the day, but the rusted bell rang, knowing you never truly got reprieve.

Not many came in this early. Certainly not without appointments. Most regulars were punctual, others late, flustered, avoiding eye contact like the entire hallway and staff were some kind of moral jury.

Yet, this man was already looking at you. You turned, and there he was.

You were met with an already long day’s worth of stubble, a jacket zipped halfway, and a UPMC badge dangling low like a relic from a night shift not long ended. His shoulders filled the doorway like he hadn’t quite committed to being inside yet.

However, you recognized him immediately. Abbot, Jack. Early 50s. Transtibial amputation of rthe ight leg. Two canceled appointments in March. One in April. No follow-up scheduled.

His chart was one of those you flagged mentally; he was the kind of patient who only walked through the door once a year, just long enough to keep his services active before disappearing for another twelve-month stretch.

Jack cleared his throat, low. “You take walk-ins?”

You blinked. Technically…no. Not this early. Not without calling ahead. Not when it was a physical rather than an urgent medical concern. Yet, your mouth moved before policy could catch up.

“Give me a moment to get you checked in.” You nodded, words automatic and practiced. “First and last name?”

He looked like he might leave right there. But then he exhaled—just enough air to say: Okay. I’ll stay.

“Jack. Abbot. Had an appointment a while back…” He spoke like his confession would make up for wasted time and resources. “...couldn’t make it.”

You hummed, tapping the keyboard, pretending to scroll through the records you already knew by heart.

“Well,” You stared, standing. “Third time’s a charm.”

Guiding him through the narrow hallway, your shoes hit softly on the tile, linoleum too thin to hide the grout lines from the floor beneath. The overhead lights buzzed in that tired, mechanical way fluorescent bulbs always do after too many years and too few replacements. You moved past mismatched wall sconces and half-peeling placards that still bore the faint imprint of a previous tenant’s brass plates.

This place used to be a law office.

You could see it in the layout; the corner turns that led to nowhere, the heavy wooden doors that didn’t quite fit the newer hinges. Even the break room still had a long strip of polished wood where the receptionist’s counter once stood. Someone had slapped a rack of patient forms on it. A forced transformation.

Rented-out facility. Government-issued furniture. Nothing quite fit. Everything was too small, too sterile, or too hollow. And somehow, that made it perfect for a VA satellite clinic. A place repurposed by necessity. Like most things touched by war.

Jack didn’t make small talk, and you didn’t push. Glancing back, you could see the way he moved, shoulders slightly hunched, but still alert. He walked like someone used to being in charge of emergencies, but bone-tired from them, too. Like the ground might shake, but if it did, he’d know what to do. He just didn’t want to anymore.

Exam Room One.

You gestured him in, and he stepped through without hesitation. The room was small, cold in the way all clinics are. Pale blue walls, a single high window smudged with old tape residue, and an exam table that creaked when he sat on it, the paper crackling beneath him.

You picked up the prepared clipboard.

“Before we get started, any changes in your health since your last visit?”

Jack’s mouth twitched like he might say something sardonic, but it passed. He shook his head.

“Still breathing.” He gave a slight nod. No argument. No complaint. Just a quiet readiness, like someone used to being told what to do in a language he didn’t bother translating anymore.

“Good place to start.”

You ran through the intake questions like you always did, but you kept your tone light, measured. You knew better than to fill silence with something unworthy. Especially not with veterans like Jack; men who’d learned how to hear the things people didn’t say.

You moved slowly, on purpose. You’d learned, over time, that fast hands spooked the ones who carried invisible wounds. As you stepped closer to take his vitals, you noted the small details: the subtle shift of his leg as he adjusted, the way he sat still, like movement required permission now, but his gaze tracked you steadily. Quiet. Present.

Different than most.

Most avoided eye contact when you got close. Looked at their shoes. Or the ceiling. Or the floor that looked like it had been washed a thousand times but never once looked clean. Jack didn’t. His eyes followed your hands, your shoulders, your breath. Not intrusively. Just like someone trained to read a room for danger. Or maybe reassurance.

You wrapped the cuff around his arm, checking the alignment. The Velcro hissed softly. He didn’t flinch.

“BP’s holding steady. Good.” You murmured more to yourself to note. Then, you glanced up at him with a touch of dry levity, “I’ll let you keep your driver’s license.”

That got a small exhale of amusement.

Encouraged by the break in tension, however slight, you reached for the stethoscope slung around your neck. The room was cool, and the metal already had that unforgiving chill to it. Out of habit, you rubbed your hands together briskly, trying to warm your fingers before touching him. The stethoscope, however, was another story.

You curled the diaphragm in your palm to try and bring it to room temperature, but you knew from experience it would still be cold against skin. Jack didn’t comment, just pulled the thin cotton of his shirt up without being asked.

You stepped closer, moving to his left side, and placed the warmed back of your hand against his ribs first as a courtesy, a warning.

“This’ll be cold.” You commented apologetically as you pressed the stethoscope against him.

Jack gave a small grunt in acknowledgment, but didn’t pull away.

The chill made his skin prick instantly. You saw its trail along the slope of his side, pale against old scars and the faded outline of a long-healed abrasion near his flank.

“Deep breath in.” You instructed gently. He inhaled. You listened. “Again.”

The sound of his lungs filled the bell, steady, hollow, the faint pull of old tension sitting low in his chest. You knew what clear lungs were supposed to sound like, and Jack’s weren’t far from it, but there was something shallow in the way he exhaled. Something practiced. Measured, like he was holding back.

“Again.”

He breathed in deeper this time, like he wanted to prove something. You moved the stethoscope slightly, trailing it across the muscle between his ribs.

You were close enough to feel the shift in his posture, how still he went once your hand touched him. Not rigid. Just very aware. Another breath. Another exhale.

“Any shortness?” You asked, moving to his back, your hand brushing the curve of his shoulder blade.

“No.” He breathed out. “Just tired.”

You let out a small hum in acknowledgment, pressing the stethoscope to the space between his spine and scapula. The hush of his breathing filled your ears again.

He inhaled. You listened. Something shallow in the left lobe, but not worrying. Just tension. The kind that never really leaves the body once it learned the shape of impact. You noted the way his shoulders resisted it, like his ribs had forgotten how to fully trust their own expansion.

You placed the stethoscope lightly to the left of his sternum first, where the apex beat lived beneath the ribs and years. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath under your palm as you steadied yourself. The silence narrowed around you.

His heartbeat thudded into your ears: slow, firm, echoing.

“Heart sounds good.”

Normal S1 and S2 heart sounds. No murmurs, gallops, or rubs auscultated. You knew he knew this.

You pulled the stethoscope away gently, but your hand lingered, resting for just a second longer over the center of his chest. You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe you just wanted to feel it. Really feel it.

That was the thing about hearts. You could listen all day, but you never really knew what they were holding until they trembled under your palm.

You scanned his chart again, thumb grazing the line that made you pause the first time. Chronic low back pain. No follow-up. Recommend monitoring posture w/ prosthetic use.

Still unresolved. You moved behind him, palm resting lightly between his shoulders.

“Your last visit flagged some lower back strain.” Your tone was neutral, leaving space for more. “Flares up when you’re on your feet too long?”

Jack gave a faint grunt. “Sounds like something they’d put in just to make me come back.”

“Well—” You applied gentle pressure down his spine. “—if that was the plan, it worked.”

He didn’t respond, just sat steady as your fingers pressed lower, feeling through the tension under his shirt. When you neared the curve, you slowed, palpating carefully on either side of the spine. You knew where to look, especially with someone bearing the uneven weight.

“It’s important to check for overcompensation.” You continued quietly. “If the alignment’s off, you’ll feel it in the back long before the leg.”

“I’m fine.” Jack huffed, low.

You looked up at him. “Do you ever rest the site? Or let it breathe?”

He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

Which meant rarely. You marked that silently.

“The hospital isn’t exactly known for scheduled rest periods.” He spoke, and you could hear the smirk in his voice even if he didn’t turn. “If I sit, it’s to chart. If I stand, it’s to fix something.”

You pressed your thumb a little deeper, just left of his spine, right above the sacrum. He flinched, just a little. The smallest involuntary grunt, like a breath caught the wrong way. You let your hand settle there for a moment. Not scolding. Just noting.

“Right.”

He didn’t reply, but you felt the faint shift in his posture. Not defensive. Not defeated.

You made the mental note and stepped to the cabinet without a word, retrieving the otoscope. The instrument clicked softly in your hand as you turned on the light. It cast a warm glow between you in the still room, humming faintly as if to fill the space your fingers had just left behind.

“Ears, then eyes.” You spoke gently.

Jack turned slightly, letting you tip his head the way you needed. Your fingers were light under his chin, at the hinge of his jaw. The otoscope glinted softly as you angled it toward his ear.

But while you worked, Jack watched you. You could feel it, his gaze not just drifting but reading. Like he was still deciding what kind of person you were. Still trying to place you.

“You new here?” Jack finally asked. “You don’t seem like the city type.”

“Bold assumption to make so early in the morning.” You teased, pulling the light back and moving to the other side.

“Just an observation.”

“I was born here, actually…” You answered the question you always got casually. “...left for a long time. Transferred back this year.”

“VA brought you back?” Jack tilted his head slightly. You checked his pupils next, flicking the light across his eyes as they adjusted, one at a time. He didn’t squint or shy away. Just let you look.

“God, no—” You cursed. And then, to cover what threatened to leak out around the edges: “—I just sleep better here. Can’t fall asleep without the noise.”

That made the corner of his mouth twitch. “Most people say the city keeps them up.”

“I like knowing something’s still moving out there,” You laughed lightly through a huff. “Ambulances, garbage trucks, people yelling outside bars. Need to fall asleep to a world still spinning…”

Jack adjusted his scrub top absentmindedly, the material wrinkled from a long shift and a longer week. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, clinical, unforgiving, same as the ones he worked under most nights. But here, in this quiet exam room with your back against the counter and your arms folded, something about the hum felt less surgical.

“Silence gets loud, y’know?” He’d said it like a joke, but you could tell it wasn’t one.

You tilted your head, watching him—not with pity, but with that quiet, observational calm some people wore like armor. He recognized it. Carried the same kind of thing into trauma bays.

You nodded, but said nothing. You knew better than to fill the pause.

He gave a faint, humorless huff. “Anyway, that’s why I stopped in. Better here than my apartment, staring at the ceiling with my ears ringing.”

“So this is a drive-by enrollment renewal?” You smiled softly.

“Don’t act like that’s the worst thing you’ve seen in here.”

“It’s definitely in the top ten.” You replied dryly. “Right between the guy who thought 'disability claim' meant show-and-tell, and the Marine who cried when I told him to hydrate.”

Jack didn’t laugh, not really, but something in his posture eased, like he was letting himself rest against the moment for the first time all day. Maybe all week. His hand brushed over his knee, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm, restless in that way only people wired for emergency ever were.

He watched you write like he wasn’t used to being on the other side of the clipboard. The subject instead of the observer. It wasn’t shameful. It was something quieter than that…displacement, maybe.

“You okay over there?” You asked, teasing just a little.

“Yeah. Just...weird.” He blinked like you’d pulled him out of a thought.

“What is?”

“Being the one getting charted.” He nodded toward your pen.

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. I get that.”

He raised a brow. “Do you?”

“Honestly?” You thought for a moment, tapping the pen against your thigh. “I can’t remember the last time I went to the doctor.”

That got a real look out of him. Not disbelief, just confirmation. That quiet, private awareness: Of course. You too.

“It’s hard…” You admitted. “When you’re used to being the one who knows the systems. Knows what they’ll say before they say it. Harder when you can’t picture someone on the other side knowing what to do with you.”

You watched him for another beat, then let your gaze drift to the clock. Not rushed, just reminded. You were still working.

The rhythm of the clinic moved on, woke up, even when the air between you had stilled. Somewhere down the hall, a printer coughed. A phone rang and went unanswered. Staff clocked in.

You cleared your throat. “Regardless, everything looks good— I’ll send the go-ahead so your enrollment stays active.”

Jack gave a short nod, business-like again. Like a door had been pulled mostly shut, though not all the way.

You stepped away from the counter, your hand brushing the edge of the sink as you crossed the room. He rose at the same time, out of courtesy and instinct.

“I’ll walk you out.” You held the door open for him.

The hallway outside was waking up, the liminal space between morning chaos and whatever came next. Jack walked beside you, not hurried, not tense. You both moved like people who’d learned how to conserve energy in sterile places.

You waited until you reached the corner near the exit, the spot where patients usually asked about paperwork or turned around to remember they’d forgotten something.

Instead, you spoke up, “We run a group. Off the books.”

Jack glanced sideways at you.

“Thursday nights—” You went on, like you were reciting a neutral fact. “—across the street, at the church. It’s in the community room. It's unofficial. No sign-in, no rank, no talking if you don’t want to. Just people who prefer the noise.”

Jack said nothing, but you didn’t mistake silence for disinterest. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to figure out the angle. But there wasn’t one.

You didn’t fill in the rest. Didn’t say for people like you. Didn’t have to.

He nodded slowly. Like he didn’t know what to do with the information, but he understood it wasn’t being handed out lightly.

“I know you work nights. It probably doesn’t fit your schedule.” You couldn’t help but encourage, continue. “But in case it ever, you’re always welcome.”

Then, you pushed the front door open, holding it just long enough for him to pass through. The morning was bright out there, harsher than the lighting inside. He squinted against it.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He answered finally, voice quiet but deliberate.

As he stepped out, you said, without ceremony, “You already did the hard part.”

He turned halfway, brow raised. “Which part was that?”

“Walking in.” You made it sound so simple. Maybe it was. “Letting someone see you before you’re bleeding.”

Jack stood there for a breath longer, the door propped open between you. You were close enough to see the small shift of his jaw, the ghost of tension at the corners of his eyes, like something flickered through him and caught behind his teeth.

He nodded, then he left.

—

The room smelled like burnt coffee and whatever detergent the janitorial staff bought in bulk. One of the folding chairs was broken, so you’d leaned it in the corner, hoping no one would try to use it. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, indifferent. Outside the windows, dusk hovered like it wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave.

You were halfway through introductions when the door opened.

Late. Not by much—seven minutes, maybe—but still, you glanced up instinctively, ready to gently redirect whoever came in. And then you saw him.

Jack Abbot.

He was still in scrubs, jacket thrown over the top, collar slightly wrinkled like he’d wrestled with whether or not to come and only won five minutes ago. His hair was a little longer than the last time you saw him, older somehow, even if it had only been a few weeks.

He hovered in the doorway, one boot inside, the other not. Caught between the hall and the possibility of something uncomfortable.

You felt the shift in the room. The group noticed him how he carried himself. It wasn’t just his build. It was the posture. That straight-backed, high-alert bearing you only ever saw in two kinds of people: soldiers and people trying very hard not to fall apart.

You stood slowly. Smiled like you weren’t surprised to see him, even if a small part of you was.

“Hey.” You were warm. “Come on in.”

Something in Jack’s shoulders eased, just slightly. You turned to the rest of the group, your voice calm, unforced.

“This is Jack. He’s joining us tonight.” No last name. No backstory. Just the gesture of arrival. That was enough.

A few nods, murmured hellos. One guy said, “Welcome,” like it was a rule. Jack gave a chin-dip in return.

A man, Martin, shared first, talking about how his daughter stopped calling in March. Two others chimed in with variations of the same wound. The room did what it always did: it stretched itself to hold whatever pain it was given, without fixing it.

Jack didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget either. He sat still, eyes forward, but not glassy. Listening. Taking inventory. And you watched him. Subtly, out of the corner of your eye, like you weren’t waiting for the moment he’d stand and say he didn’t belong here because you could feel it.

He looked like he was scanning every word, every crack in the ceiling tile, trying to make it make sense. His eyes occasionally drifted to the door. His hands stayed in his lap, steady, but his foot tapped once—twice—before stilling again.

He wasn’t unsettled because it was a group. He was unsettled because, for the first time in a long time, no one needed him. No one was coding. No alarms were beeping. No one called Doctor Abbot.

He was just Jack. And that didn’t feel like enough.

So, he didn’t speak for the first thirty minutes. Instead, Jack sat like he was made of poured concrete: solid, unswayed, unmoved. But the stillness wasn’t ease. It was maintenance. A posture that said: Don’t look too long or you’ll see the cracks.

The others took turns with practiced vulnerability. Another veteran, Lisa, talked about the baby next door who cried at night and how it sometimes made her want to knock on the wall and scream.

Someone else recited their weekly mantra about how small talk at the gas station kept them tethered to the world. Every voice added weight and oxygen to the room in that strange way group therapy worked: no one fixing, no one solved, but everyone surviving, together.

You didn’t push Jack, but when the lull came, when the air went quiet in that half-second of unclaimed silence, you turned to him. Not a spotlight, not pressure, just an open door.

He shifted, as if preparing to run, though he didn’t. His fingers rubbed the side of his leg, slowly. You saw the muscle clench in his jaw before he spoke. “I traded my shift to make it here.”

It came out simple, but the effort behind the words was unmistakable. He paused after that, long enough for it to seem like he might leave it there.

Yet, he exhaled, glanced toward the window, and you could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, searching for a safer way to say what he meant. Something polite. Digestible.

And then he gave up on that, letting his tone drop into something flatter. Colder. Not harsh—just clinical, like he was delivering bad news to a patient’s family through a closed curtain.

“This isn’t a waste of time.” He started defensively, scared to offend your effort. “But sitting… idle like this for something I can’t even name… feels wrong.”

A few people looked up. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes now. He kept speaking, as if he didn’t let the silence in, he wouldn’t be so measured.

“I don’t talk about things unless they have names. Symptoms. Patterns. Diagnoses. That’s the trade. You name it, we treat it. That’s how I work. That’s how I stay upright. But this…”

Jack trailed off again. Then shrugged, a short, tired motion.

“...this doesn’t bleed the same way.” He finished.

The words didn’t land like a dramatic revelation. There was no gasp, no cinematic hush—just the steady hum of a room that knew the texture of what he meant.

Jack’s fingers stilled against the side of his leg. He looked down at his hands like he half-expected them to be covered in something—blood, maybe. Or purpose. But they were clean. Still. Useless.

“I spent my whole career knowing what to reach for,” he said. “Chest compressions. Epi. Clamp and cut. Even when it was bad, even when it was too late, at least I could do something.”

He leaned back slightly in the folding chair, the metal legs creaking faintly beneath him. The gesture made his prosthesis shift under his pant leg, and he winced, not in pain, but in awareness.

“But this?” His voice dropped, vulnerable now. “This is like watching a code slow down in real time and realizing you’re not the one running it. You’re just watching the monitor. And the line’s not flat yet, but it’s close.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking, but you could feel it hanging in the air: I traded a shift. I changed my whole night. I said yes to something I barely believe in. And this—this silence, this seat, this half-truth I just spoke—is all I have to show for it.

So, the quiet held.

Not heavy. Not awkward. Just present. The way it got in that room—when someone finally said something so honest it didn’t need embellishment.

No one jumped in to reassure him. No one offered clichés. That wasn’t what this space was for.

You didn’t speak yet, either. You just sat with it. With him. The same way he’d done for the last thirty minutes. Like the room itself was trained to carry the weight for a while. He stayed, and that was what mattered.

Finally, Martin, the same man who had spoken first, shifted forward in his seat.

“I get it.” He agreed. “Post service, I became a firefighter…After I retired, I couldn’t go to the grocery store without looking for exits, looking for a problem. Couldn’t sit in my living room without wondering what the hell I was doing just sitting there.”

Jack didn’t nod, but he didn’t flinch either. He just stayed where he was, breathing evenly, like the effort of being in the room was more taxing than a double shift.

Lisa spoke next.

“It took me a year to figure out I wasn’t broken. Just… not useful in the way I was trained to be. No one ever tells you how to exist when there’s no task in front of you.”

Jack swallowed, his throat working hard against nothing. He blinked slowly, then glanced your way, but only for a beat.

The group kept moving, circling. No one tried to fix him. They just laid their pieces down beside his. You waited until the conversation had stretched on, shifted. Until someone made a dry joke about how the snacks were always good, and the weight in the air lightened just enough to carry again.

Only then did you speak—quietly, but clearly to everyone in the room.

“Remember, it’s now always about coming here to feel better.” You didn’t pose the sentiment to be questioned. “You can always come to not feel alone while it’s bad.”

The rest of the session moved on. The others began to speak again, and Jack stayed silent for the rest of it. Not because he didn’t want to be part of it, but because that was his part. The kind of sharing that left your bones hollowed out afterward. Like saying anything else would cheapen the breath it took to get that out.

Even after the session, when the folding chairs had scraped back across the linoleum and the regulars had filtered out with their usual half-smiles and murmured thanks, Jack lingered. Not awkwardly. Just unhurried, like his body hadn’t yet caught up to the fact that the talking was over.

Lisa was the first to approach him. Extended her hand, firm and sure, and told him where she served. Jack didn’t flinch, just nodded and returned the shake.

Someone else, Curtis, Navy, chimed in with a timeline, a base. The names passed like currency. The kind of shared vocabulary that didn’t need to be explained.

You were still inside, tossing coffee cups into the trash, wiping down tabletops that had already been clean.

By the time you stepped out into the night, the group was gone. The lot was nearly empty except for your car and one old truck idling at the far end.

The sharp chill of early spring hit your neck, and you hunched your shoulders as you reached into your coat pocket. Keys. Lighter. Cigarettes. A ritual, half-forgotten.

You moved toward the concrete steps at the front of the church, letting yourself exhale for the first time all night. You sat, letting the cold seep through your pants.

It was a habit, really—staying much longer than needed. No one around to clock you. No rules left to follow.

You tapped a cigarette out of the pack and slid it between your lips. Lit it with a tired flick of the thumb.

“Now that’s one hell of a sight.”

You startled. Jack’s voice came from the shadows, dry as whiskey left out overnight.

You turned to see him leaning against the stone railing, just out of reach of the yellow glow from the overhead bulb.

Then, you let out a soft huff. “It’s medicinal.”

“Oh yeah?” He nodded toward the cigarette. “What’s that treat?”

“Empathy fatigue.” You deadpanned. “And low-grade moral despair.”

Jack laughed, really laughed. Not loud. Not long. Real.

You glanced at him, surprised to see he was still here. Even more surprised by what his presence was doing to your posture, you weren’t standing straight anymore. You weren’t leading anything. You were just here.

You gestured to the space beside you on the steps.

“Come on then. You’ve already seen me sin. Might as well sit through the confession.”

Jack hesitated, then climbed the two steps and lowered himself beside you. He sat with the same precision you’d seen in the exam room, like even resting was something to be executed properly.

You flicked ash to the concrete. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“Didn’t want to go back yet.” He admitted.

You both looked out across the street, quiet for a moment. He didn’t seem rushed now. He was just untethered.

“You know, this is the first time in five years I haven’t done a night shift.”

You turned to him. He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were still on the street, jaw set like he’d said too much.

“It’s killing me—” Jack added. “—sitting still. Watching the hours pass without something bleeding or burning or breaking.”

You didn’t interrupt. You let the weight of the admission settle.

“You could’ve gone home.” You said eventually.

“I wouldn’t have stayed.” He looked at you then. And you saw it, clear in the way his green-hazel eyes softened; this wasn’t just a delay tactic, it was survival. “Don’t know what to do with the quiet.”

You offered the cigarette pack, not pushing, just holding it out in case. He didn’t take one, but he didn’t recoil, either.

Jack scratched his head in thought, looking sideways at you. “I don’t mean to unload on you, I know you already—I’m just—

“Don’t worry, I stayed for the same reason.” You cut him off, unwilling to entertain something so wrong. “Company makes it better.”

You looked at him in the glow of the streetlight, noticing how different he seemed outside the exam room, outside the group. How strange it was, seeing someone become real right in front of you.

His eyes flicked to yours, then, briefly, but steadily. A flicker of something like recognition passed between you.

“You’re different out here, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow, lips quirking around the filter. “Different how?”

“No clipboard. No script.”

You huffed a little, dragged the cigarette again before flicking ash to the side. “You say that like I’ve been reading off cue cards.”

“I don’t mean it as a bad thing. Just—” Jack leaned back slightly on his elbows, letting the stone of the step press cold against his back. “You’re quieter. Less… contained—wasn’t expecting it.”

“What were you expecting?” You gave him a sidelong glance.

“Not someone who needs to stay behind.”

That, more than anything, made something ache behind your chest. You looked away. Let the ember of your cigarette burn a little too long.

“Well…” You were gentle with the thought. “Not all of us know how to leave.”

You don’t continue right away. Just let the silence sit between you, a low hum of nothing but the wind moving along the street, the overhead lamp buzzing faintly like a broken thought. Yet, Jack knew the thought wasn’t through.

“...out here, I don’t have to keep anyone upright” You’d never said it aloud, afraid the guilt it would bring, but it was so relieving to admit. “...I don’t have to hold my own spine so straight either.”

Jack nodded slowly, gazing forward again. “That sounds nice.”

“It’s not.” Your tone wasn’t bitter, but sometimes honesty read that way. “It’s just true.”

Another car rolled past, headlights stalking across the sidewalk and over Jack’s boots. The beam caught the tired set of his jaw, the way his eyes had sunk slightly into their sockets from too many nights that didn’t end the way they should have.

Still, Jack looked better in this light. He looked less sharp, less made of stone.

“You ever try to quit?” He turned his head slightly, demeanor ticking in quiet acknowledgment of your cigarette.

“Ever the doctor.” You gave a dry laugh, slow and low. “Every other week I think about quitting, and then someone tells me they still remember the weight of the body they had to leave behind, and suddenly I’m outside again with a lighter.”

“Guess I should thank you for staying out here long enough for me to loiter.”

“Loiter?” You echoed, glancing sideways. “You’re giving yourself a lot of credit.”

He huffed a laugh. “Fair.”

The lull between you had settled into something companionable. A mutual endurance, like you were both learning how to be still in the same moment.

Jack shifted, like he had something else on the tip of his tongue but wasn’t sure how to give it shape. His gaze dipped to the cigarette now crushed out beside your shoe. Then, to your hands, your sleeves pulled down over your wrists like instinct.

“Gimme your wrist.” He cleared his throat.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He held out a hand, patient and palm-up. “Your wrist. I’m being serious.”

A smile pulled at your mouth before you could stop it. “Jack, you trying to hold my hand outside a church?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’m offering you a free exam. Since you admitted it’s been years.”

You laughed, not quite believing him, even as your heart gave the smallest thud of something unexpected. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do.” There was a new wave of confidence as he spoke. “A licensed PA, going around telling people to take care of themselves, but too stubborn to schedule a check-up? That stuck with me.”

He flexed his fingers slightly, still holding them out. You let out a long, amused sigh—but gave him your wrist.

Jack took it carefully, cradling it like it was something breakable. His fingers were warm, steady. He glanced at his watch, brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

“You’re stalling.” You teased.

“I’m being thorough—

He kept counting. His mouth twitched like he was holding back a smirk, but when he finally looked up, his eyes caught yours and something shifted in the air between you. It was heavy and new.

—If I’m doing your first physical in however many years.” He clicked his teeth. “No way, I’m cutting corners.”

The line landed harder than he meant it to. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second too long. Neither did he. Then, without fanfare, Jack released your wrist, like he was afraid of making it mean more than it already did.

Jack’s eyes skimmed your face, thoughtful, quiet. Not searching for a reaction, just weighing something. Whatever hesitation had held him off earlier was gone now, replaced by a kind of gentle stubbornness that to you felt more him.

Jack lifted his hand again, slower this time, and brought his fingers to your jaw. He said nothing, just let the touch land carefully, fingertips warm beneath the edge of your cheekbone.

His thumb shifted slightly, pressing beneath the hinge of your jaw, then slid up toward the curve beneath your ear.

You didn’t move, not because you couldn’t, but because you didn’t want to. There was nothing performative in the gesture, nothing flirtatious. It wasn’t about romance or pretense or asking for more.

It was just Jack, still trying to be useful.

You tilted your head without thinking, letting him trace the side of your neck. His thumb swept slowly beneath your jawline, feeling for your lymph nodes.

His movements were sure, practiced. Not clinical in the cold sense, but precise. Tactile. Like each step in the exam was tethered to something older than routine.

“You had to do all this in the field?”

Jack nodded, his touch moving to the base of your neck. “Every day. No machines. Just hands and instincts.”

You heard something shift in his voice with a quiet flick of gravity. That subtle weight people carried when they weren’t talking about the past so much as living in it again.

“Vitals were all manual. Pulse checks. Respiratory counts by ear. Skin temp by touch. No monitors, no steady beeping to tell you who was slipping.”

Jack’s thumb passed gently along the tendon at the side of your neck, and for a moment, you forgot what the street sounded like. You were suddenly aware of the shape of your body in space, of the parts of you he could feel ticking beneath his fingers.

“At night we worked in blackout conditions.” He murmured, continuing a ritual he’d never forget. “No headlamps. No lanterns. Just stars, if we were lucky. Used the North Star to orient when GPS failed. Checked pupils by moonlight. You’d learn to tell cyanosis from normal by feel, not sight.”

You swallowed, but didn’t pull away. His hand was still there, anchored lightly against your throat. Not gripping, not holding. Just witnessing.

“And you trusted yourself to get it right?” You asked, not doubting him, but wondering what it had cost.

“You didn’t have a choice.” Jack’s gaze met yours again. And this time, something flickered in it, something bigger than both of you. “When someone’s slipping under your hands, you either learn the difference or you lose them.”

You swallowed again—and he felt that, too.

Jack moved to your collarbone, pressing lightly, checking along the line where lymph nodes would swell. Your eyes flicked up to him at that, but his gaze was steady on your shoulder, his hand still carefully mapping the shape of your body like it was a page he needed to memorize.

“You’re tense.” His fingers paused at the base of your neck.

You let out a breath. “Occupational hazard.”

Jack pulled back slightly, eyes finally meeting yours.

“Could say the same.” He said.

There was a stillness between you then full of something else. A thread tied between memory and presence. Between what he’d once done to save lives, and what he was doing now to feel human again.

You shifted, giving him a small, crooked smile. “This what you pictured for a night off?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on yours, thoughtful, like he was weighing how honest to be.

“Not exactly.” He confessed. His hand dropped from your collarbone then, the air between you still carrying the weight of his touch. “But it’s the best one I’ve had in a long time.”

“My health that riveting?”

Then, with a faint smirk, Jack returned to himself. “You’ve got a hell of a resting heart rate.”

You pealed with laughter. The grin tugging at the corner of Jack’s mouth softened everything in him.

“That’s your fault.”

He shrugged.

You sat back a little, feeling your own body again; your neck still tingling faintly where his fingers had been. He hadn’t lingered to touch you, not really. He’d touched you because that’s how he knew people. That’s how he made sense of the living.

And tonight, for once, he wasn’t too late.

The streetlight above flickered once, then steadied. The night still buzzed faintly with the sound of spring creeping in, but the world, for a moment, had gone small; just the church steps, the two of you, and the unspoken admission that this, whatever it was, had been needed.

And maybe, you thought, that was what healing sometimes looked like. Not talking. Not explaining. Just letting someone check for signs of life and finding them.

There was a kind of reverence in that. And you hadn’t expected reverence tonight.

You rubbed your fingers slowly along the fabric of your pants, grounding yourself with the texture. The quiet stretched again, but softer this time. Less like the end of a conversation and more like the lull before the next thing.

Eventually, you straightened, reluctantly peeling yourself away from the cold stone steps. Jack’s movement followed yours like a reflex;he stood, not with purpose, but with you, shadowing your motion, the way people do when they’ve been through long shifts together. When the silence between them means something understood.

Neither of you said Let’s go. But you both started walking.

Down the worn church steps, your shoes thudding softly on old cement. Gravel cracked beneath your weight as you crossed the narrow lot. It had gone almost fully quiet, just the low hum of the power lines, the wind slipping through the trees like a passing thought.

Your car sat waiting beneath a crooked lamp, light flickering as if undecided. Jack’s truck was parked a few spaces down, dust settling on the hood like it always did when someone stopped moving long enough.

You stopped at your door, keys already out but untouched in your hand. You didn’t unlock it. Jack didn’t walk past. He hovered there instead, just close enough to share the moment, just far enough to leave you room if you wanted to step away.

He rocked once on his heels, then cleared his throat. It wasn’t a nervous sound—just a nudge. Something that bridged the quiet without breaking it.

“You think that group’s got space next week?” He asked, his voice shier now, like he didn’t want to spook the stillness you’d both earned.

“We don’t do headcounts.” You smiled. “Just chairs. If one’s open, it’s yours.”

Jack considered that. Nodded once, brows drawing slightly inward with the thought. Then, a faint smile, tired around the edges, but real in the center.

“Alright.” He murmured, agreeable. “Might do that.”

You leaned your weight gently against the side of your car, letting yourself rest into the shape of the night for a breath longer.

“You know, Jack—” You started confidently. “—you don’t have to wait for Thursdays to talk to me.”

His brows twitched in the faintest flicker of surprise and confusion. The kind he tried to swallow but couldn’t quite manage, the suspense too enticing.

“I mean, if something comes up.” You smiled subtly. “Or if you need anything. Or just… if it’s late, and things are too quiet again….”

You trailed off and held out your hand, palm open. He blinked once, the weight of your words landing slowly.

“Your phone. So I can give you my number.” You kept your tone light. Gentle. “I’ll type it in for you. Easier than calling the front desk and pretending it’s about a referral.”

Jack hesitated, just for a second, but reached for it. His phone was warm from his pocket. The screen was still open. You clicked into his contacts, typed in your name, and entered your number without comment. No title, no clinic.

Just you.

Before handing it back, you paused with your thumb hovering over the message field, but you didn’t text yourself. Didn’t give him that easy opening. You locked the screen and gave it back.

“There.” You said, brushing your fingers against his as the phone changed hands. “If you want to reach out, you can. If not… no pressure.”

Jack looked down at the phone in his hand like it might bite back. The contact glowed softly on the screen—your name, simple and unadorned.

“You’re giving me an out.”

“Or an invitation.” You shrugged. “Depends on what you do with it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just thumbed the edge of the screen, eyes distant for a moment. Processing. Weighing.

“You don’t give this to just anybody.” He realized quietly. It wasn’t a question.

You tilted your head. “Neither do you.”

Something flickered across his face and spread through his body. The road to something like this was never clean, and it sure as hell wasn’t straight, but this? This felt like rest. Or more like something unfolding, slow and tentative, in the center of his chest. A warmth he didn’t expect to feel tonight.

Jack’s mouth opened like he might say something else—something honest, something bold, but the words caught in his throat and never came.

Instead, he just held your gaze for a beat too long to be casual. Like he was still cataloging something he hadn’t named yet.

Not attraction exactly—but something adjacent. Something measured. Careful. Like he hadn’t let himself think about hope in a long time, and didn’t want to touch it too directly now in case it vanished.

You didn’t break the moment either.

Eventually, he stepped back, nodding once—not goodbye, just a shift in posture. A soft signal that he’d give you your space.

You watched him walk back to his truck. His gait was slower now, less formal than before. Shoulders slightly hunched, but looser. Like he’d left something behind on those steps and wasn’t sure yet if that was a loss or a relief.

You stood still until he opened his door.

He didn’t look back. But he didn’t rush, either.

And when the engine turned over and the headlights swept across the lot, you didn’t flinch from the brightness. You let it pass through you.

There wasn’t anything to say. Not tonight.

But the air had shifted.

Like something in the dark had turned to face the light again. And maybe next Thursday, you thought, when the chairs were pulled out again and the coffee burned a little on the bottom, maybe there’d be two people left sitting under the sky.

Still not talking. Still not explaining. But quietly, unmistakably—staying.

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afroslacks · 1 day ago

Note

Hiii idk if you’re still taking requests but I was wondering if you could do something where Micheal during an interview for Sinners he accidentally lets it out that when building smokes character that he had to draw from his own experiences in fatherhood. Which shocks the public because no one knew he was married let alone had a kid.

So he decided to put out at one of the premieres with his wife (reader) and nearly one year old baby (baby was born during filming in 2024)

Sorry if that doesn’t make sense🥹

Sinner’s press tour is up and running. The cast has been everywhere for the last couple of days. Michael, Wunmi, and Hailee are seated across from a female journalist who just entered the building. The journalist sits down with a warm smile on her face and white flashcards in her hands.

“Hello everyone, you all look so good today!” she says warmly, hoping to make everyone feel comfortable.

Michael is seated in the middle between both actresses, nodding his head while adjusting his chain and the special watch that has a message engraved from you. He always wears the watch because it brings him comfort on days like this—days when he’s extremely busy and wishes he could be with you and your baby girl, who was born recently.

“Thank you, we’re happy to be here,” he replies with a beautiful smile, gesturing toward the journalist.

“Truly,” Wunmi adds softly, nudging Michael’s shoulder as a subtle signal of gratitude for actively engaging—even though she knows his mind is at home.

Hailee sits there smiling as she rocks back and forth with her legs crossed in her chair. The journalist clears her throat.

“Now that we’ve got pleasantries out of the way, let’s get started, shall we?”

All three actors agree silently.

The journalist asks, “So Michael, since you’re playing two different characters in this film, how were you able to differentiate the twins, specifically in their relationships with Annie and Mary? Because the relationships are completely separate from one another.”

Michael nods as he takes in her question, preparing his response.

“That’s a good question. Stack is the more impulsive, hot-headed twin, so you can imagine his relationships with women being the same. He’s seen as a womanizer—breaking women’s hearts and moving on. But it’s also seen as a front, because Mary is the woman he wants. He has to act a certain way to deny himself his desire for her. When they do get together, you can definitely feel the tension and passion between them.”

After the first half of his answer, he clears his throat before continuing.

“Smoke, on the other hand, is the calmer twin. He typically keeps to himself. The trauma they experienced impacted him a lot more, so he retreats emotionally. I wouldn’t consider him much of a womanizer, because the only woman who stole his heart is Annie. Their relationship is deeper—they have history, and he’s the father of her child. He welcomed fatherhood. I’m the same way—”

His eyes go wide, and he shuts his mouth the moment he realizes his mistake.

The journalist furrows her brows. “I’m sorry? What do you mean you feel the same?” she asks.

Michael mentally rolls his eyes, realizing he now has to talk his way out of the mess he just created.

Wunmi quickly steps in. “What he means is, since he eventually wants to become a dad, he’s ready for the idea of fatherhood. Right, Michael?” She turns to him, giving him a flawless save.

He perks up, smiling at the interviewers. “Of course! My bad, I’m just really tired right now, so the words are coming out a mess,” he explains.

The journalist glances between the cast members, unsure if they’re being honest. After a moment, she lets it go, understanding that people make mistakes.

“Oh, okay. For a second, I thought you were a father.”

Wunmi, Michael, and Hailee nervously laugh, trying to steer attention away from Michael’s slip-up.

One hour later, after the interview is posted, Michael’s words start circulating online.

You’re sitting at your mansion on the couch, watching television while fiddling with the large diamond on your finger. The baby sleeps quietly in the crib next to you. Your best friend sends you a link to the clip with a message that says: "Check it out."

Pressing the link, you watch the clip. You scoff, shaking your head.

“I know this nigga didn’t just open his mouth,” you mutter, typing a message to your husband telling him to call you as soon as he’s free.

You and Michael have been together for five years total—dating for two and married for three. You recently had your baby after waiting a while to enjoy each other’s company. You met at a work event and immediately hit it off, but decided to keep your romance out of the public eye so you could enjoy your relationship in peace. You both agreed to hold off on telling the public for as long as possible.

But… that might not be an option anymore.

As you sit on the couch, you scroll through the comments—and people are not letting that slip slide at all:

I knew he had a family. That’s why we don’t see him much.

Michael, let me find out you’re married. I’m gonna find your wife.

Oh no, I’m not sharing my man.

Hello, I’m the wife he has a secret family with. So y’all can back off—thank ya!

It don’t matter if you’re married—we can still make it work, baby.

Whoever he’s with is lucky. They get Smoke AND Stack.

Where is the wife? I’m trying to find her.

That’s just a few of the comments. You take a deep breath to calm your beating heart.

Your phone lights up with “Hubby” flashing on the screen. Swiping green, his face appears.

“Hey, baby,” he greets nervously, noticing your scowl.

“Don’t ‘hey baby’ me. Michael, what the hell was that?” you ask, stepping into a quiet area of the house so the baby can keep sleeping.

“I’m sorry—I slipped up. I stopped myself as soon as I said it,” he apologizes, hating to see anything other than happiness and pleasure on your beautiful face.

You roll your eyes so hard they might fall out and hit the floor.

“You better do damage control. We agreed to keep this private.” The threat is crystal clear in your tone.

After a few moments of silence, he mutters, “Or… you could come with me to one of the premieres?”

You pause. Silence fills the air.

“Michael, are you serious right now?” you ask, brows furrowed.

He scoffs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We agreed to be private to protect ourselves from the public. And now you want to throw that out?” You clarify to process what he’s saying.

“I know, baby. But I don’t wanna hide forever. I want to let the world know I’m taken and happy—so they’ll back off. We don’t have to be super public. Just let them know one good time, then keep it moving,” Michael confesses, hoping you’ll agree.

You sigh deeply. “Fine. But the baby can’t come—it’s too loud, and I don’t feel comfortable showing her.”

“Thank you, baby. I love you,” he says, smiling.

“I love you too, punk.”

#michael b jordan x reader #sinners x reader #smoke x reader #stack x reader #x black reader #elijah moore x reader #elijah moore #elijah smoke moore #micheal b jordan sinners #black reader

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trippinsorrows · 3 days ago

Text

grief

authors note: if you not tryna cry or be mad at me, just go on and skip this.

no tags at all, cause i ain't tryna traumatize anyone.

words: 800

warnings: angst

Their arrival is something felt more than anything.

The way the guards who keep a good but safe distance suddenly stand at attention, shoulders straight, chin jutted in the air, mouths set into perfect lines.

Acknowledgement.

Solana uses the pencil in hand as a makeshift bookmark, closing the the sketchbook. Usually, she has no qualms about her children seeing her artwork. Never has. She’s always welcomed the sharing, but this….this is different.

Personal.

Hers.

Using her hand to shield from the sun, she makes out the three bodies that walk towards her. Each wear white, Leya’s long dress floating and waving with the wind. Lina’s is short and more form-fitting. It’s Tama’s matching white shirt and shorts, however, that make her take pause. From the moment she held Tamasa after giving birth, she saw him. Something that’s continued over the years. When he was just a toddler, then a boy, but now as a man, it’s all she sees.

Roman.

She sees Roman.

She has to ignore that weight in her chest that’s been present for now exactly a year to the day but even heavier this day.

She focuses on the items in hand of her children. Flowers for Leya and Tama, the ula fala for Lina. Hers.

Roman’s.

“Mama.” Her eldest son calling for her pulls Solana from yet another memory. Tama moves to one knee, hand gently resting on her shoulder. “You alright?” She can see it, the way he closes his eyes and looks down.

The way he mentally answers his own question.

Of course you’re not.

Solana offers a warm smile, offering reassurance, even when today, of all her grief riddled days, she's struggled the most. “As long as I have you all, I’ll always be okay.”

The same thing she’s repeated to herself every day that’s passed where she wakes up to the other side of the bed being cold, untouched, and empty.

That she’s woken up without her best friend.

Kisses to her temple from her three eldest children who then redirect their focus to the reason all of the children, grandchildren, and in-laws have gathered here at various points in the day.

Leya is the first to speak, stepping forward and carefully laying down the flowers. “Hi, daddy...”

Tama follows, clearing his throat. “Hope this wasn’t too much socialization for you today, old man.” He also lays down his flowers, stuffing his hands in his shorts afterwards. “Though something tells me you wouldn’t have mind.”

“No,” Lina speaks up, voice soft as she moves towards the headstone, hesitating slightly before gingerly laying the ula fala across, fingers glossing over his name. “He wouldn’t have.”

Solana says nothing, and neither do her children. Together, they sit in this shared grief, a first of many, an anniversary no one ever wanted to think about but a time that’s finally come.

The first anniversary of Roman’s passing.

“What do you think he’s doing up there today?”

Leya’s question is quiet, hesitant almost.

Tama scoffs, reaching over and taking his sister’s hand. “What he does everyday probably.”

“Acting a damn fool.”

A smile breaks across Solana’s face at Lina’s answer. Same with Leya.

“Him, Uncle Dwayne, Uncle Matteo. I can only imagine the trouble they cause.”

Tama shakes his head, also smiling, running his hand over his bearded face. “Man, if there was ever a case of people getting kicked out of heaven, it would be those three.”

“Especially daddy,” Leya joins in, the small smile previously on her face settling into something unspoken but also felt by everyone. “I—I miss him.”

At that, Solana looks over at her daughter, sees the way her irises expand and minimize, the slight tremble of her bottom lip, the way she turns her head, lifting her hand to her mouth. While Lina and Tama move to comfort her, Solana moves to stand, Tama, naturally, senses her movement and offers his arm, helping her to her feet.

Tama keeps his arm around her, Lina turning and angling her body as well as Leya’s, who cries quietly.

She shakes her head, offering unnecessary apologies for showing what everyone else is feeling. “I’m sorry, mommy….”

Solana eases towards her, lifting her hands to her daughter’s face, never once missing the way Tama and Lina, so alike, so much like him, work to hide the unshed tears in both of their eyes.

Unlike their sister.

Unlike Solana.

The mother of nine shakes her head, pulling her little girl into a hug, holding her the same way she did so many years ago.

“I know, baby.” Her voice breaks, eyes shutting, emotions cascading. “I miss him, too.”

#roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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the-cosmic-cauldron · 1 day ago

Text

We’re already more than halfway through 2025—have you checked in on your New Year’s resolutions lately? Today, we’re diving into your next blessings, because I can feel the collective craving something to look forward to—something to spark excitement again.

It’s hot, it’s sweaty, the days are longer, and we want to enjoy every ounce of them. So, take a deep breath, choose a pile, and discover the next blessing coming into your life.

You’re just one step away from a beautiful new chapter.

🌫 Pile 1: Clarity After the Storm

For many of you, your blessings are arriving in a very sacred and special way. You’re coming out of a fog—an internal conflict that’s kept you confused and uncertain. It’s been hard. You’ve been hanging on by a thin thread, just hoping that something would shift. You’ve been pushing forward, trying to persevere through heavy times that felt never-ending.

But here’s the good news: perseverance is paying off. The mist is lifting.

There has been a veil over your life for a while—a mental and emotional haze, perhaps even spiritual confusion. You’ve been in survival mode, not thriving, just getting by. But that cycle is coming to a close. What’s next is true, divine clarity.

Not the kind of clarity that leaves room for doubt—but decisive, empowered, embodied clarity. Confidence. Alignment. A return to your vitality.

Your blessing is this: You are coming into your own. No more tiptoeing. No more confusion. You will know who you are, what you’re here for, and exactly where you’re headed.

🔥 Pile 2: The Power Move

For you, the blessing is freedom at last. This summer, something shifts—and you are finally released from what has been holding you back.

You’ve been struggling to maintain balance in your life. Whether that means neglecting your body, abandoning routines that once grounded you, experiencing financial instability, losing a job, or grieving a relationship—you’ve been in a cycle of depletion.

That cycle ends now.

You’ve been watching your passion dim under the weight of life’s burdens. You wanted to soar, to laugh, to create, to live—but you’ve been stuck in survival mode, constantly trying to grasp stability, only for it to slip through your fingers again and again.

But here’s the turning point:

You’re about to make a power move—one that shifts your entire reality. This choice will align you with abundance, direction, and joy.

You are your own blessing.

The next decision you make will lead to a path that is clearer, brighter, more aligned. A path where you can finally feel creative, courageous, and grounded again.

Your blessing is liberation through empowered action.

🤍 Pile 3: Relationship Harmony

For this group, the blessing that’s coming your way is relational—whether in love, friendship, or family.

You’ve been in a season of miscommunication and emotional distance. There’s been tension, withdrawal, silence, and misunderstandings. Perhaps you’ve felt ghosted. Perhaps you’ve felt confused about where you stand with someone you care about deeply.

It’s been exhausting. The emotional back-and-forth. The overthinking. The moments of connection followed by uncertainty. Life may have been overwhelmingly busy too, pulling your energy in multiple directions. And all that inner and outer chaos left you paralyzed, unsure of how to move forward—or even how you feel.

You may have gone inward, convinced things just wouldn’t work out. You surrendered. But in truth, your heart never gave up. You wanted so much more with this person—or people—and you felt shattered when it didn’t unfold the way you hoped.

But now?

Reunion. Reconciliation. Relational harmony.

Your blessing is coming in the form of emotional connection—moments of real understanding, affection, compassion, and warmth. The tension will ease. The connection will feel soft again, genuine again, possible again.

You’re coming back together. Not in chaos—but in love.

🪷 Pile 4: Autonomy & Stability

Your upcoming blessing is independence and stability.

You’re moving out of a place where you were once disillusioned—holding on tightly to high hopes, dreams, and idealized visions of what could have been. You genuinely believed something was meant for you, so you clung to it, even as it began to collapse.

But it didn’t bring ease.

It didn’t bring comfort.

It demanded too much of you—your energy, your peace, your spirit.

And now, it’s falling away. Not to punish you, but to free you.

Your blessing is the ability to finally let go. You no longer need to beg something broken to stay. You’re stepping into your sovereignty, reclaiming your autonomy, and getting back to yourself—back to self-love, self-care, and self-devotion.

You’re rebuilding.

You’re rising.

You’re remembering who the hell you are.

This time, you’re not dependent—you’re interdependent. You’re no longer searching outside yourself for worth or clarity. You’re choosing the path that serves your highest self.

Your blessing is becoming whole, stable, and self-led again.

🔥 Pile 5: Creative Spark & Inspired Action

Your blessing is a renewed zest for life and a passionate return to your creative projects.

You’ve spent a long time in a fog of stagnation—buzzing with ideas, yes, but unsure how to act on them. You found yourself stuck in cycles of overthinking, second-guessing, procrastinating. You wanted to build something great, but discipline kept slipping through your fingers. Routines fell apart. Structure felt too rigid.

You were at a crossroads, uncertain about what to do next.

But here’s where your blessing begins:

Your inspiration is returning.

Your spark is reigniting.

You’re entering a powerful phase of motivation, clarity, and action.

No more sitting on your gifts. No more doubting your potential. No more playing small. You’re gathering momentum. You’re seeing signs. You’re inspired by the world around you. You’re creating, moving, and saying yes to life again.

This is your time to seize the moment. Your next chapter is rooted in doing—not just dreaming. And everything you need is already within you.

Your blessing is your own readiness. You are the fire now.

🌊 Pile 6: Release & Reclamation

You’ve been stuck in the past—emotionally tethered to someone or something that no longer serves you. You couldn’t let go, no matter how hard you tried. You replayed the memories. You held onto hope. You clung to what was already slipping away.

And in doing so, you missed other blessings.

You turned down opportunities.

You held yourself in emotional limbo.

You didn’t grow, not because you couldn’t—but because all your energy was spent on holding on. You lost time, financial chances, and maybe even yourself in the process.

But now, your blessing is here:

You’re letting go.

You’re coming back home to yourself.

No more enmeshment. No more identity wrapped around someone else’s love, approval, or absence. You are becoming your own anchor now.

You’re learning discipline. You’re rebuilding slowly, with care. You’re protecting your energy with boundaries that hold. You’re regaining your stamina. You’re no longer people-pleasing or playing small.

You’re reclaiming your power—and you’re doing it fiercely.

The blessing is you.

The freedom is yours.

And the path forward is finally yours to define.

🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀

#pick a reading #pick a pile #pick a picture #pick a photo #pick a card #pick an image #tarotcommunity #tarot witch #free tarot #tarot #tarotblr #tarot reading

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absolutebl · 2 days ago

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My Favorite BL from each country VERSUS the BL I think actually best reflects that country's style in 2025

Japanese BL

My top pick for JBL (live action yaoi)?

Seven Days

Honestly? I did dither over whether to hand this title over to I Cannot Reach You, but I had to go with my heart and the earlier offering. I like that this show is not only the best the Japan can do, but also the best they once did, too. Seven Days is the greatest heritage BL anywhere on earth. Fight me, I dare you.

Best current rep of JBL?

Miseinen: Mijukuna Oretachi wa Bukiyo ni Shinkochu aka Our Youth

Lots to pick from here, Japan has been doing great work over the last few years. Although, as one expects from them it has been about 50/50 soft BLs versus harsh ones, with lots of spice and some challenging concepts thrown in to keep us on our toes. While I prefer my BL gentle, I think that these days Japan is actually strongest in the BL sphere when they go sharp and edgy. They seem to handle difficult concepts with the most honesty and consideration, so.... Our Youth wins.

Thai BL

My top pick for ThBL?

Until We Meet Again

UWMA will always be my favorite Thai BL. I can't imagine it ever getting unseated. But it's incredibly atypical for ThBL because the story is so very strong. And story is generally not Thailand's strong suit.

Best current rep of ThBL?

Your Sky

Yes we are getting more prestige and chaos BLs like Pit Babe these days, but those are still less common than the classic uni-set fluff. Thailand's strength remains vested in its consummate chemistry and gentleness with its characters. It's not that soft BLs are the best Thai BLs, it's that soft is Thailand's most successful BL bailiwick. I was very tempted by both Wandee Goodday and ThamePo for this category, since one major trend in Thai BL lately is that it's moving into the workplace, but GMMTV's filming quality is too high to accurately represent for Thailand.

I felt the need to go a little pulp with this pick, since pulp is still what Thailand primarily produces. Thus Your Sky is a clear winner as it reps for both the now (green flags, yay!) and the enormous back catalogue of Thai BL.

Korean BL

My top pick for KBL?

Semantic Error

Korea occupies more 10/10 spots in my heart than anyone else, but this was still an easy pick. Out my many KBL favorites (Color Rush, Light On Me, Our Dating Sim, Semantic Error, To My Star) there is only one 10/10 that I have called, frequently, Korea's pitch perfect BL. The pinnacle of smoothly executed pristine romance, I'm handing Semantic Error the crown with confidence.

Best current rep of KBL?

Love For Love's Sake

Another easy pull, Love For Love's Sake showcases the way Korea is pushing to explore interesting (slightly darker) concepts while staying true to their signature style and aesthetic. This was the only KBL in 2024 to get a high mark from me. So as more recent KBLs go, this is it.

2024 was not a great year for them, IMHO. But it would have been hard to beat the bumper crop that was 2023.

Taiwanese BL

My top pick for TaBL?

We Best Love

Always and forever. Like Thailand, Taiwan has only managed a 10/10 rank once, for this series. Despite the fact that, if pressed, I would call Taiwanese BL my favorite. WBL is just everything I love about Taiwan's messy, slightly unhinged, high drama, high domesticity, high chemistry, style of BL. Someday, we all hope, they will be able to repeat this magic. (Which I, frankly, can't say about Thailand and UWMA.)

Best current rep of TaBL?

See Your Love

I might call Kiseki: Dear to Me closer to Taiwan's typical style these days, but that aired too long ago now. So I am going to pick SYL partly on the basis of its recency. But also this is an ABSOLUTELY darling show. The cheekiness, the chemistry, the charm, the fashion, the classy way it handles content other countries simply can't or won't tackle (like queerness, mental health, or in this case, disability), the slightly bonkers plot (kidnapping, really?), and the utter squee that is gay domesticity in spades? Quintessential Taiwanese BL.

Vietnamese BL

My top pick for VBL?

You Are Ma Boy

I dithered for between this and My Lascivious Boss, both from 2021 which I think can now be considered the heyday of VBL. I like them both about the same, but the seme in this one is less red flag so I went with YAMB.

It's pretty classic VBL in that is is very messy with its story and characters, great on chemistry and domesticity, and while often fun there will always be elements that make us wince, whether it's a trigger or not. VBL is, in a word, clumsy but there is a raw chaotic good to it that I enjoy. I miss that a lot.

Best current rep for VBL?

Mr Cinderella

This was a real challenge since I have DNF'd most VBL over the last few years. The most recent one I actually enjoyed was 2022's Mr Cinderella. Higher production values and experienced BL actors plus two charismatic leads with good kissing and comfortable body language made this Vietnam’s objectively best BL to date. Frankly, it should occupy both slots.

Pinoy BL

My top pick for PBL?

My Day

My Day is my favorite PBL. Although Gameboys and Like In The Movies are rated just as high, My Day is the only VBL I ever rewatch. It's just so much FUN. All are from 2020, which it I guess means that was the heyday for PBL. Sigh. I miss it, too.

Best current rep for PBL?

Tie The Not

As many BLs as I have DNF'd from Vietnam I have dropped twice as many from the Philippines over the last few years. Tie The Not is a 2023 offering that came as close as anything over the last 5 years to winning back my heart. It missed the mark a bit, earning only a 7/10 but there was a small part of me that hoped it represented a resurgence. It did not. Still, it is the best we have had from them in a long time.

Chinese BL

My top pick for CBL?

Addicted

This remains one of my favorite BLs, and one of the best made and most truly heart wrenching out of China. It is great... if you ignore the ending. And that too is a very CBL thing. There is something about the cold atmosphere and rural setting plus the honest uncensored living conditions that really get to me (and probably got to the CCP as much as the boys kissing.)

Best current rep for CBL?

Meet You At The Blossom

This is hard because I don't know exactly where we are, but we are displaced out of time at the moment it feels like 2015 in CBLandia, not 2025. Either time period there is no way this can last. Appreciate Revenged Love while we got it because... yeah, it is representative of CBL - but CB as it might have been in 2020, and probubly won't be in the future. That's if it is allowed to finish it's run.

Look, we have had so little real CBL for so long, smattered with some censored bromance and sneaky only-international stuff, it's been a mad unpredictable ten years. As often happens when art is interfered with by waring factions of censorship and commerce.

All of this to say, I chose Meet You At The Blossom not because it's representative of modern CBL (there is no true modern CBL since it was never allowed to evolve), but because it's such a strange fabulous flaming creature. Like an IRL phoenix, we must appreciate it for this moment in time, before it combusts once again.

That said the best thing we have seen out of China in a very long time is actually Secrets Happened on the Litchi Island, which everyone should go watch immediately. And I do mean everyone.

But it isn't really BL, it's something more like an art installation meets fever dream with BL trappings that some of us are lucky enough to catch on YouTube. You should catch it.

Others worth mentioning

Stay Still

2023 BL from Hong Kong

What to say about this offering? It’s different, a mix of early CBL, Taiwanese shorts, and Pinoy visuals. It felt like the story was 2 independent shorts that had been lengthened and then smooshed together, and I wish they'd been approached as separate and tighter entities.

Nevertheless, this was a complex little piece, interesting in a sweaty grungy way, with a certain aura of queer authenticity that made it simultaneously tense, unpredictable, and refreshing. I’m not sure I would necessarily call it BL, but any county’s early foray into the genre usually starts out this way, so perhaps nascent BL? Worth watching, especially if you enjoy stuff from the Philippines and Taiwan.

Began Beginning

Burmese BL from 2024

Childhood best friends must come to terms with their own identities and true feelings for each other when a new boy comes to town, putting them into conflict with their families and ultimately, each other. For the first half of this show there’s a lot of sitting across from each other and talking about life choices over yummy food and then going to tourist spots (mildly boring and not particularly important to the plot). It changed tone about 2/3 in to be way more of a coming out family drama about forced marriages and homophobia. And then at the very end it changed again, becoming a full on soap opera with kidnapping, crazy characterization shifts, and rescue missions.

All in all? It was a wild raw creature to consume. No kisses since this is Myanmar, but a very romantic end, so I think maybe actually worth your time? I'm certainly glad I watched it.

Pure Vanilla

Singapore's 2023 microfilm

This is a short sweet offering from Singapore. It's a bit awkward acting but the tats are real and the feel is genuinely soft and queer. At the time it aired I said that I wished Singapore would give us a full proper BL.

Well, I got my wish as Sparkle in You Eye is airing right now - but I'm very much NOT sure about it. I prefer the Summerdaze style of BL from Singapore, not that they have enough BL to have a signature style yet.

Still it's nice to have them serving up... something.

Anygay, that's if for now.

This post dated June 2025, not responsible for BLs unfinished as of the time of this post. Favorites, both old and new, can always be unseated.

(source)

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nextinline-if · 19 hours ago

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A Message from Vi (Next in Line IF)

Hi everyone,

I know that I've been away a while and haven't updated the game. Long story short? A while ago, I was laid off from my job, lost my health insurance (and access to therapy and other services), and have been focused heavily on finding a new job while also battling severe mental health struggles. After starting therapy, getting diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and starting medication, I was finally finding a good balance. But losing my job reverted a lot for me and I lost my income and health access.

So, I am really, truly sorry for not being around for a while. I am still trying to find a job though I have a final interview tomorrow and I'm really hoping I get an offer.

But I have been on hiatus because of these personal issues. This time has also given me some time to think about Next in Line and how to move forward with it. Because I think about the game and this community all the time. I miss it. I miss working on it. I miss engaging with all of you.

So, you can expect a new message here in the coming week. I think it's important to be transparent and honest with you. The game will be continuing but every time I work on it, I feel incredibly overwhelmed by the scope. As many of you know, Next in Line, was my first interactive fiction. And because of the excitement, I put a ton of pressure on myself to offer all kinds of things like pets, a ton of scenes with all these combinations, places to visit, etc. Essentially, I created a massive, overwhelming amount of scene combinations and character configurations. Because of this, I have struggled to create updates these last couple years, because it physically overwhelms me to the point where I mentally short wire and just can't do it. My anxiety when it comes to the game sends me spiraling because I'm terrified of never living up to the expectations I set.

So, next week, I will be providing you with a scaled back plan for the game. I'll include details on what's staying and what's not. I know it's going to suck for me to say 'hey, this won't be a part of the game anymore' but I have to do this if I want to actually deliver the content. Once that game is actually finished, there's always possibility things could get added back.

Anyway, talk soon. Feel free to submit your thoughts and questions related to this. I'll review and answer the best I can.

-Vi

#blog update #next in line

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myjjongie · 2 days ago

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THREE .ᐟ ── my little tsundere

SYNOPSIS: another casual grueling day at your job lands you to reunite with jake sim—your hallway crush who moved away in high school. not wanting to hope for more from the chance encounter, you end up being paired with jake for a semester-long project. knowing deep down things will never happen, your only goal is to be friends with jake. while on the other hand, you haven't left jake's mind since he moved away.

word count; 611

“hi welcome in!” you chimed hearing the opening of the cafe door.

too busy dealing with something at the register, you didn’t look up to correctly greet the customer. you could faintly hear low mumbling from the customer—sounding as if they didn’t know what to get. finishing up the minor task at hand, you raised your head to truly greet the customer.

yet not the usual “did you need some help” or anything of the sort came out. in truth you were shocked. the person standing at the counter was familiar, like you had seen his face somewhere before.

then it hit you, you know this face. you’ve come to find yourself staring at him in the hallways, across the cafeteria hall, and even in your classroom.

it was jake sim.

but what was he doing here? you haven’t seen or heard of him since your second year of high school. before you could even think, you were already speaking.

“jake?!” your voice came off surprised.

“yeah?” he let out that soft laugh you always adored hearing.

“what are you doing here? haven’t seen you since high school.” you could feel yourself stiffen from awkwardness. unsure of how to go about the convo.

“i just moved back from australia for the new term.”

“oh! so you went to australia! that’s so cool!” as you kept speaking you felt your voice get higher.

jake let out a small laugh, finding your reaction cute as well as amusing. yet too you, you felt like you wanted to die right then and there.

“so what did you wanna get?” letting out a awkward laugh, trembling hands finding its way to the register screen.

“i was trying to see what drink is sweetest. but honestly i might just get my friend whatever, he didn’t specify. you know?”

you awkwardly laughed once more. “no yeah! totally get that! if anything i recommend the strawberry and banana float!” at this point you felt like you were saying whatever. hoping it would end the interaction sooner than later.

“yeah that sounds pretty good. i’ll get that then! and can you add on three iced americanos?” once jake confirmed his order he pulled out his card to pay.

“of course! okay so your total is twenty seventy-five.” retrieving his card to help finish off the payment.

“wait the americanos were four bucks?” jake was surprised by the insane price difference.

“yeah. one of the reasons i like working here. the coffee is so much more affordable.” you let off a quiet laugh turning around to get started on his drinks.

once facing the espresso bar did you truly want to just smack your head against it. through out the whole conversation you felt like one big idiot. did jake even remember you? you never gave him your name, and you sure as hell weren’t going to give it to him now.

you soon finished the four drinks in the span of 3 minutes when it would’ve taken you twice as long, or if not even more. in truth you really wanted jake out of the cafe, feeling far too embarrassed to try and keep up the casual conversation.

“okay here you go!” forcing out a customer service smile.

“wow that was really quick!” jake felt truly impressed by your quick work.

“haha. yeah. well see you around.” you faintly smiled toward jake, hoping he’d let this be it—allowing you to wallow in embarrassment.

“thank you again! i’ll see you around!” jake beamed a smile you oddly seemed to miss.

as jake turned away to leave, you immediately ducked behind the espresso bar. mentally cursing at yourself in the process.

prev | m.list | next

evie's note: okay some people know. but this shit actually happened to me. like obviously it’s changed A LOT. but a guy i did like in HS pulled up to my job at random. like shout out to him cause we wouldn’t have this smau tbh

out of my league taglist ... ( if interested leave a reply ! )

perm tag: @ikeulove @leehsngs @ijustwannareadstuff20 @enhanextdoor @zaycie @dylanobr1ens @miraeluv @ancnymcnzjy @lvvrikss @treasureteez @delirioastral @izzyy-stuff

@rairaiblog @izzyy-stuff @thing89 @cinnamqnki @viagumi @zyvlxqht @wonzzziezzzz @manuosorioh @hizhu @soobundle1009 @right-person-wrong-time @vvenusoncasual @letwiiparkjay @jayhoonvroom @djikeu @aineest4r @wenomakiluvr @jaysguitarstring @heejamas @haechology @kukkurookkoo @ilovhoonie @trsrworld @ilovewonyo @luhvletters @wonuziex @p1hbrook @qtke @remgeolli @hunnyuwu @starniras @lovenha7 @stayar1 @miszes @ilovejakealot @hoonieyun @jakeznii @ikeuheartz @jakesbabymomma @starfallia @kiribirien

©myjjongie 2025

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heartnearu · 22 hours ago

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truth beneath your quiet | k.hj

guitarist!kim hongjoong x artist!reader

synopsis: hongjoong felt like freedom in a life that only ever caged you—an escape from the place you were told to call home. with him, the noise quieted, the weight eased, and for once, you weren’t drowning in expectations you could never reach. he was everything your heart longed for—everything you wanted, everything it quietly begged for, everything they said was too much to ask. and maybe that’s why your family hated him, because he gave you a glimpse of a freedom they never thought you were worthy of.

genre: romance / slowburn / angst

tropes: forbidden love

songs: what more can i say - the notations

WC: 15,940 [not really proofread]

NOTE: college au/band au | female reader, uses she/her pronouns. reader has mommy/daddy issues, maybe just family issues in general lol.

WARNING!! maybe some self harm(?), i’m unsure if it counts..

PART I

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

you sighed as you and your family entered the building, mentally preparing yourself for what’s to come.

you were instantly surrounded by hollow chatter and practiced smiles, each exchange dripping with forced interest.

it didn’t make sense to you—how your parents insisted on attending these events, only to exchange polite words with people they barely tolerated, while bringing you and your siblings along to either watch the performance unfold or play a part in it yourselves.

you’ve always hated it.

it was all noise and nothing real. people just talk to hear themselves—pretending to care, pretending to listen.

not once did any of it feel genuine—it’s just a parade of perfect outfits, backhanded compliments, and people who only looked down to judge.

it’s a room full of polished lies and overpriced perfume, where everyone smiled like they hadn’t spent the car ride over complaining about each other.

everything about it is suffocating, and you want nothing more than to get out of there.

but all you can do is play your part, and smile at anyone who comes along to ask about your parent’s company.

once you and your family found your reserved table, each of you moved with quiet purpose—to win over investors and uphold the polished reputation of the family and its business.

you lose track of time by the tenth conversation. it hasn’t even been that long, but the way people are talking at you rather than to you makes it feel like the night will never end.

boredom seems to sink in fast when every interaction turns into a monologue about their own accomplishments.

once you were able to escape from the endless small talk, you found a quiet corner and let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

you can feel the migraine setting in, and of course it would—tonight of all nights. like being here wasn’t already unbearable enough.

you let out another huff before closing your eyes and rubbing your temple in a frustrated manner.

“having a rough night?” a sudden voice chimed in.

the second you realized you’d been caught, your body snapped upright and your smile reappeared like reflex. it wasn’t until you met their eyes that you realized who you were looking at.

your smile softened into something more genuine, “good evening, mr. and mrs. kim.” you bow to show respect before continuing,“i apologize that you both seem to have caught me at a bad time. i didn’t expect to be seen by anyone.”

mrs. kim laughed under her breath, then waved her hand dismissively. “you have nothing to worry about, dear.” she reached over to adjust your dress, smoothing out a part that had shifted.

you felt a warmth bloom across your chest at the tenderness of her touch—gentle, like she truly cared.

she continued,“mr. kim was just concerned for you.”

being around them made the weight on your shoulders disappear. they were the only ones who were always genuine—every word, every action. you could see it in the way they spoke, in the way they moved.

they truly made it easier to be at these events, these gatherings were the only times your paths crossed anymore, ever since things changed.

“how have you been, my dear?” mr. kim questioned with a playful grin,“what have you been up to?”

you gave a small hum before speaking. “not much, mr. kim. with the semester finished, i had to move out of the dorms for the summer. i’ve been home with my family since.”

“i see,” mr. kim responded with a gentle nod, “it sounds like a well-earned break. i trust your family is keeping you on your toes.”

you nodded, but the words sat heavy.

yeah, they were keeping you on your toes—because resting never seemed to be an option.

you were constantly walking on eggshells, afraid that one wrong step might set everything on fire. but no matter how careful you are, it’s like they’re always searching for something to pin on you.

sometimes it feels like existing is enough to be at fault.

you forced a laugh,“they always do.”

“i hope the transition back home has been smooth. are you finding the time restful?” mrs. kim chimed in, “the process of moving in and out must be quite exhausting. for hongjoong, we only assisted him when he first settled into his apartment.”

the sound of his name made you pause.

hongjoong…

you both go to the same university, but you’re not sure if you’ve ever crossed paths—or if you simply never noticed.

you don’t pay much attention to the people around you anyway. you go where you need to go, do what needs to be done.

nothing more, nothing less.

you haven’t seen him in years. maybe not since high school. now, you’re both entering your final year of college.

you never really spoke to him—you never had a chance to, not with everything that happened between your families.

not with your parents always watching, always hovering.

honestly, you’re surprised you’ve even held a conversation with mr. and mrs. kim for this long.

before you could say a word, a cold voice interrupted, chilling the air that had just begun to feel safe.

“ah, mr. and mrs. kim, such a pleasure,” your father said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. his hand landed on your shoulder like a reminder. “i trust that my daughter has not been too much of a handful.”

“not at all. she’s been lovely company,” mr. kim said with a faint smile. “she’s been a pleasure to speak with, very mature. you should be proud.”

“as she should be, we expect nothing less.” your father replied, his hand still resting on your shoulder. “now if you excuse us, i believe that there are a few more people we need to speak with before the night ends.”

your father offered a final nod before turning sharply, his hand wrapping around your wrist as he led you back to the table—his grip was tight, almost like a silent warning not to resist.

once you reached the table, you were met with silence. no words, no glances—not even from your siblings. it was as if you weren’t there at all.

you sat quietly, watching as your siblings spoke to each other with ease, laughter slipping between them naturally.

your parents chimed in every now and then, switching between adding comments to their conversation and exchanging pleasantries with the adults at the surrounding tables.

it’s always been like this, even at home.

you’ve always felt out of place, like you weren’t meant to be there at all, like you were intruding on a life that was never really yours.

but this is the life you were born into.

you’re the extra in a show they don’t know you’re watching. they forget you exist—it’s like being a shadow at your own dinner table.

they move around you, talk over you, forget you. but the moment they need someone to disappoint them, they remember your name. like you’re invisible, until you’re not.

you let the thoughts drift.

replaying how they treated you only reopened wounds that never healed right.

unseen, unheard, forgotten.

it became a pattern you stopped trying to untangle.

you scanned the room, more out of boredom than curiosity, searching for anything that might distract you for the rest of the night.

your parents clearly had no intention of letting you wander far, it’s like you were on an invisible leash, only allowed to exist within their reach.

your gaze wandered, slipping through the haze of lights and movement—until it landed on him, and everything else seemed to pause.

across the room, someone held your gaze.

your head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing, trying to place the face that felt just familiar enough to haunt you.

he didn’t flinch—he only smirked, quirking a brow clearly amused by the fact that you were finally looking back.

your heart stuttered, and warmth bloomed across your cheeks.

you didn’t put the pieces together until your eyes shifted to the people beside him. that’s when the pieces seemed to fall into place.

seated beside him were none other than mr. and mrs. kim, making it painfully clear who it was that had been staring at you from across the room.

kim hongjoong.

you couldn’t help but wonder why he was even here.

he had every excuse not to be—living on his own now, far removed from nights like this.

you would’ve given anything to trade places with him, anything to not be here right now.

he looked different.

not in a bad way—just older, sharper, more self-assured.

there was something about him that seemed settled, like he’d figured out who he was.

it showed in the way he dressed, standing out effortlessly in a sea of suits and polished gowns. his bleached hair was a bold contrast to the blacks and browns around him, and somehow, it suited him.

everything about him was different.

and maybe that’s exactly why you couldn’t look away.

you couldn’t stop the jealousy that crept in.

all you ever wanted was to find yourself—to truly know who you are. but deep down, you don’t know if you ever will.

you weren’t raised, you were crafted.

built to their design, shaped to fit a role that was never truly yours. molded into the daughter they dreamed of, not the person you were meant to become.

but even that wasn’t enough to earn their love—they still looked past you. you gave pieces of yourself away, one by one, until there was nothing left to recognize.

now all that remains is the ache of not knowing who you really are.

you were never their child, just a creation.

and in the end, all you became was a stranger to yourself.

your mother’s voice cut through the fog of your thoughts, pulling you back just before you fell too far in.

a small mercy, maybe.

you blinked, grounding yourself, only to realize your eyes had been fixed on him the entire time—though it wasn’t him anymore. only the absence he left behind.

your brows furrowed, confused.

it wasn’t until the sound of your name echoed through your thoughts that you finally turned your attention to your mother.

your mother looked at you with that familiar expression, disappointment laced with barely contained anger.

her expression tight—barely concealing the frustration simmering beneath. “didn’t you hear me calling your name?”

you cleared your throat before speaking, steadying your voice to make sure it wouldn’t waver—wouldn’t betray anything she might notice. “i apologize, i was lost in my own thoughts. what is it you needed, mother?”

your mother tsked, turning her eyes away from you. “i’ve told you time and time again—pay attention to your surroundings. you’re always somewhere else, lost in thoughts that don’t matter.”

you stared blankly, her words melting into one another—just a stream of noise you couldn’t bring yourself to decipher.

as soon as she fell silent, you lowered your gaze. “i apologize, mother.” the words felt automatic. “it won’t happen again.”

your mothers eyes snapped back at you again, cold and unwavering. her tone even, but laced with judgment. “that kind of mistake shouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

your eyes flicked toward her, the silence between you heavy with the words you knew were coming.

“be better.” the words were said under her breath, barely audible. but the threatening tone paired with the look in her eyes and the scowl on her face struck harder than a shout. “we expect more from you. clearly, everything we taught you went to waste.”

it felt like a judgment you could never escape.

you only nodded, turning to look forward. “i understand.”

you’re not sure how much time has passed, though it couldn’t have been long. without much thought, you asked quietly, “may i go to the ladies room?”

your mother gave a reluctant nod, her expression unreadable.

before you stood, your gaze swept over your family. they each seemed lost in their own world, unaware of the conversation that had just taken place.

you got up carefully, pushing in your chair with deliberate slowness. each step toward the restroom was steady, practiced—measured enough to hide the urgency crawling beneath your skin.

you didn’t dare glance back, unwilling to see which expression your parents might’ve worn: disappointment, disapproval, or worse—nothing at all.

as the distance grew, your pace quickened.

the further you got from the table, the more the noise dissolved into a distant hum. by the time you reached the restroom, you shut the door fast and locked it even faster.

a shaky breath escaped your lips. you didn’t need to use the restroom, you just needed an out—away from the heaviness your mother’s presence draped over the already stuffy evening.

thankfully, the venue had single-use restrooms. not rows of stalls and mirrors filled with other people. it was just you and silence.

you wanted to stay in there for the rest of the night, to disappear into the dim hum of the exhaust fan—but you knew you couldn’t.

you stared at yourself in the mirror, studying the reflection that didn’t feel like yours.

your eyes traced every detail, searching, hoping for some small part of yourself you could claim. something you chose.

but there was nothing.

the dress clung to you like expectation—picked out by your mother specifically for tonight.

your hair hung long down your back, untouched by scissors your father never let you near no matter how much you begged and pleaded.

“long hair is beautiful,” he always said, as if your own desires didn’t matter.

even your makeup wasn’t yours. soft, delicate. like porcelain. the way your parents liked it.

and as your gaze lingered, you felt a sharp ache under your skin—an urge to peel it all away.

your hands trembled with the urge to claw at your skin, to dig until it was raw and unrecognizable—just so you could start over.

none of it felt like you.

because none of it was.

you reached for the faucet in a daze, twisting it on with trembling fingers.

soap lathered quickly in your palms, and you scrubbed until your skin stung—until the burning in your hands almost distracted you from the one in your chest.

you rinsed them under the cold stream, a faint relief washing over you as the cool water soothed the rawness.

you let your hands linger there, watching the water spill and swirl.

for a moment, you were still—not deep in thought, just… gone. eyes glazed, mind blank. lost in the sound of running water and the rare stillness surrounding you.

you eventually reached for a paper towel, gently drying your hands and using the edge to turn off the faucet, careful not to undo the brief cleanliness you’d earned.

another towel in hand, you opened the door and stepped out, the faintest sense of calm trailing behind you.

you paused just outside, tossing the damp towel into the nearby bin.

your eyes flicked toward the direction you came from—toward the murmur of voices and clinking silverware that barely reached your ears now.

even from here, you could already feel the weight settling back on your shoulders.

your feet hesitated. your eyes wandered.

and that’s when you saw it.

a small balcony tucked away at the end of the hallway, just out of view when you first walked by.

maybe you missed it because you were too focused on escaping.

you stared at it now—then back toward the banquet room where your parents waited. the decision hung in the air like a held breath.

fresh air or forced smiles.

freedom or obedience.

you lingered, torn between the place that confined you and the one that might finally offer you a moment of your own.

on impulse, you turned on your heel and made your way toward the balcony, quiet but certain. you decided it was time—time to finally do something for yourself.

as you reached the entrance, you paused, just for a moment, eyes scanning the space ahead.

empty.

you stepped forward with a breath of cautious relief, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

your expression softened as the invisible weight you’d been carrying began to ease.

the air felt cooler here. freer.

the shackles didn’t fall off completely, but they loosened—and for now, that was enough.

your arms hung loosely over the edge as you looked up, the moon and stars scattered like quiet promises across the darkness.

you wished you had your phone, not to post, not to prove—just to capture this. the moon suspended in the sky, stars scattered like thoughts you hadn’t yet spoken.

but since you didn’t, you tried to memorize it.

every glint, every clouded edge, every quiet hue. you wanted to paint it later—not to replicate the sky, but to preserve how it made you feel.

to others, it was nothing special. just the moon. just stars. something they saw every night and never really looked at.

but to you, it was everything.

it was untouched by rules, by expectations, by voices telling you what to be.

it didn’t ask to be softened. it didn’t beg to be molded.

it just existed—bold, unashamed, beautiful in its own way.

and standing there, arms draped over the railing, you wished, just for a moment, that you could be like that too.

maybe someday.

you heard the floor creak faintly behind you.

your shoulders tensed, breath catching slightly. for a second, you considered pretending you hadn’t noticed. maybe they’d go away.

but they didn’t.

the footsteps that followed weren’t rushed. they didn’t carry the weight of authority.

not your mother.

not your father.

their footsteps echoed softly across the floor, slow and hesitant.

you kept your eyes forward, keeping your gaze on the sky, clinging to it like a lifeline.

from behind, a low voice threaded through the air—casual, but careful not to startle you,“didn’t think anyone else knew this was here.”

you shifted, eyes flicking over your shoulder to catch a glimpse.

hongjoong leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, head tilted with a lazy kind of smirk—like he knew he caught you off guard and was enjoying every second of it.

you hummed softly, eyes back on the sky as he moved beside you—close enough for his presence to brush against your own, but not enough to crowd it.

close enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it felt natural, even comforting.

still, your mind wandered, playing out different ways you could break it, searching for something, anything to say.

“you always this quiet, or am i just that boring?” he said with raised brows and a faint smile. his expression wasn’t judgmental, just curious and playful. “mind if i ask what’s got you looking like that?”

your gaze found his—and he was already watching, like he’d been hoping you’d turn around.

your mind blanked. you opened your mouth, then closed it. you didn’t know what to say, not with him looking at you like that.

he let the silence stretch a second longer before speaking, eyes never leaving yours.

he leaned in just slightly, voice low, the corners of his mouth tugging up in amusement. “don’t worry, i’ll do all the talking if it means you’ll keep looking at me like that.”

you looked away instantly, heat creeping up your neck. “i-i wasn’t… looking at you like anything.” you swallowed, voice quieter than you intended. “i didn’t mean to stare.”

“no?” he tilted his head, that smile still tugging at his lips. “could’ve fooled me.”

he chuckled as the heat from your neck spread to your face. “guess i’ll have to try harder then—get you to really stare.”

your face only burned hotter. “can you not say things like that?”

he grinned, clearly not sorry. “i could… but where’s the fun in that?”

you didn’t smile, not fully—but something flickered in your expression. a warning, or maybe an invitation,“you’re playing a dangerous game.”

his smile deepened, slow and deliberate.

“good,” he said, voice low. “i like a little risk.”

he didn’t move closer, but his presence felt heavier somehow, like the space between you was shrinking without either of you stepping forward.

his eyes lingered, watching your reaction, as if waiting to see if you’d pull away or say something else.

your heart thudded louder than it should’ve. you held his gaze, refusing to look away first.

he’s bringing out a part of you you don’t quite recognize—something unknown, bolder, more exposed.

it sits somewhere between curiosity and fear, and you’re not sure if it’s thrilling or dangerous.

you don’t know how to feel about it.

you just know that when he looks at you like that, it’s hard to think straight. harder to pretend you’re unaffected.

the scariest part is, some quiet part of you likes it—being seen like this. and worse, you’re not sure you’d stop him if he came any closer.

you barely know him, but somehow, this feels like exactly where you’re supposed to be.

something about this moment feels written into your bones. like you’ve been here before in some other life, waiting for him to turn and notice.

and somehow, you find yourself leaning into that feeling, welcoming it with open arms, hoping—maybe foolishly, that it’s real.

your lips parted, a comeback already forming—something to keep up the game.

then you heard the call of your name from afar.

and just like that, the moment cracked.

your features shifted, the spark fading. you didn’t move. part of you didn’t want to look back.

you avoided hongjoong’s gaze, your mind racing with what you’d say when they found you here—anywhere but where you were supposed to be.

as the footsteps drew closer, heavy with authority, your eyes darted around the space—searching, desperate for an out.

then you spotted it.

a narrow corner of the balcony, partially concealed by the wall. it wasn’t much, but it was just enough.

no one would notice it in passing; only someone actually stepping out into the balcony and looking for something would see it.

you moved without thinking.

your hand closed around hongjoong’s wrist, pulling him with you. you pushed him gently into the space first, tucking him deeper into the shadows before slipping in beside him.

instinctively, you angled your body so that if someone were to walk in and spot you, hongjoong would stay hidden. you could step out—say something, take the fall without giving him away.

you could already imagine the hell you’ll go through if you get caught with hongjoong, even if you guys were just talking.

you held your breath, eyes locked on the entrance.

your chest was pressed close against his, your face turned away from hongjoong, focused solely on the spot where the footsteps would appear.

watching, waiting.

you needed to see the moment they arrived—and the moment they left.

the two of you stood still, pressed tightly into the corner as your father came into view. he called your name again, his voice echoing slightly as he peered into the balcony from the hallway.

your brows pinched together, silently praying for him to turn back, to return to the table, to go anywhere else.

anywhere but here.

just when it seemed like he was about to leave, turning slightly on his heel, you saw hongjoong part his lips in the corner of your eye, ready to speak.

your hand moved before he could speak, quickly reaching up and gently covering his mouth.

he froze, eyes locked on yours in surprise.

you quickly brought a finger to your own lips with your free hand, mouthing a desperate shh before glancing back to where your father was.

your father halted for a moment, as if he’d heard something—waiting, listening, on edge.

your chest tightened.

just as he took a step toward the balcony, ready to investigate, a voice called his name from a distance. he turned sharply, the tension in his shoulders easing as he recognized it.

with a practiced smile, he stepped away, heading off to engage in conversation.

you exhaled quietly, relieved someone had caught his attention before he could see you.

“that was close,” you whispered, barely turning to hongjoong.

it was only then that you realized—your hand was still pressed over his mouth.

his eyes met yours, confused but undeniably amused.

flustered, you pulled your hand away in a rush.

“sorry—sorry,” you muttered, words tumbling out as your fingers anxiously smoothed out the front of his clothes, straightening wrinkles you’d caused.

“i didn’t mean to–i just panicked. you were about to talk and i—” you stopped yourself, breath catching again. not from fear this time, but from the way he was looking at you.

his head fell back as he burst into laughter.

you only watched, caught between embarrassment and disbelief, until his laughter gradually softened—until his eyes landed on you again, warm and lingering.

“you know, most people buy dinner before pinning someone to a wall.” his eyes sparkled with mischief, lips curved into cocky smile.

only then did you register how close you were to him. heat bloomed across your face, and you stumbled back in a flustered rush—nearly tripping over yourself in your attempt to put space between you.

you cleared your throat, refusing to meet his eyes. “i wasn’t pinning you—i was hiding. big difference.” your voice came out a touch too defensive, only making the heat on your cheeks worse.

hongjoong let out a low chuckle.

“sure,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “but if that’s what hiding looks like with you, remind me to get caught more often.”

you pouted at his teasing and at how flustered he made you feel, your eyes flicking toward the hallway before drifting back to him, the weight of the moment tugging gently at your heart.

“as much as i want to stay,” you murmured, “they’re expecting me… and i should get back.”

he held your gaze for a beat too long, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes.

then he tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“guess i’ll just wait here, in case you change your mind.” his tone was light, almost teasing—but his eyes lingered on yours, steady and quiet, like he meant more than he let on.

you felt the words settle deep in your chest, heavier than they sounded.

your lips parted, as if to say something—anything. but nothing came.

so instead, you offered a small smile, one that didn’t quite hide the way your heart tugged at the thought of staying.

and then, without another word, you turned and walked away—you could feel his gaze lingering on you, burning at your back.

you wanted to turn around, to say screw it and stay there with him, to let yourself have the moment—consequences be damned.

but you didn’t.

you couldn’t.

because deep down, you weren’t sure what would happen… and that uncertainty held you still.

“wait—” his voice stopped you mid-step. not loud, but urgent enough to reach you.

you turned, just slightly, eyes meeting his once more.

“your number,” he said, softer now. “can i have it?”

his expression had lost the teasing edge—it was honest now, maybe even a little unsure.

like he was afraid this moment might slip away entirely.

you hummed softly, pretending to think—wanting to give him a taste of the same teasing he’d given you, before letting a wistful smile bloom across your face.

“i don’t have my phone,” you said, almost apologetically, “and i doubt you’re the type to carry pen and paper.”

you stepped back, your fingers grazing the edge of the doorway. “if the universe wants it, i’m sure we’ll bump into each other again.”

you shot him a playful look over your shoulder. “besides, summer’s just getting started anyways.”

without waiting for a reply, you turned and walked off—his silence settling like dust in your wake.

as you got closer to the table, the voices grew louder. but this time, the weight didn’t follow.

there was no pressure, no guilt, no knot of worry tightening in your chest—not even the hard stares from your parents could break through the calm as you took your seat.

you were so used to the fear, the pressure, the constant worry of messing up. it had been with you for as long as you could remember.

but something about the short time you spent with hongjoong had shifted that. it left you feeling lighter, almost weightless. instead of you worrying about what others thought about you, your thoughts drifted toward him.

whatever your parents were upset about, you honestly didn’t care. at least not at the moment.

“where were you?” her voice wasn’t loud, but the way she looked at you said enough.

you straightened your dress, ignoring the tension in the air. “i went exactly where i said i would.”

you could feel how much it bothered her—that you wouldn’t look at her. “no one spends that much time in the ladies room,” she said, each word precise.

“that would be correct,” you said, glancing at her from the corner of your eye as you folded your hands in your lap. “i got caught in a conversation with a potential investor. i assumed you’d rather i not walk away from that just to come sit here, right?”

a little white lie never hurt anybody.

a flicker of something passed through her eyes—irritation, maybe embarrassment, but she simply folded her hands and said nothing.

you bit back a small smile, careful not to let it show. she didn’t respond, and that silence alone told you—she knew you were right.

your father was caught up in a conversation with someone beside him, which you figured was the only reason he hadn’t said anything to you yet.

you stayed quiet, your gaze casually sweeping the room until it landed on the kim’s table.

you tried to pretend you only did so to see who was currently speaking on the stage, but you knew that wasn’t why.

you weren’t looking for the speaker talking about their company—you were looking for him.

because even in a room full of voices, he was the only one you wanted to hear.

you noted that he wasn’t at the table yet, it was only his father.

your eyes scanned the room, searching for the only person who stood out in this sea of tailored suits and practiced smiles.

and then you saw him.

he was by the bar with his mother, carefully helping her with her bag while she reached for a drink from the refreshment table.

you shifted your gaze the moment you saw him, careful not to linger too long.

the last thing you needed was your family noticing, or worse—him catching you in the act.

you distracted yourself with the hem of your dress, fiddling with the fabric as if it held answers.

you were waiting for the perfect moment to look up again—and when you did, he was no longer there.

without thinking, your eyes instantly began searching for him.

it didn’t take long.

he was already back at the table with his mother, pulling out her chair softly before sitting down beside her.

he exchanged a few words with both his parents—and then his eyes found yours.

you looked away almost immediately, doing your best to seem unbothered, as if you hadn’t just been watching him like he was the only thing that mattered in the room.

your sister looked at you, confused. “why are you so red?” she asked, brows pinched slightly as she leaned in from across the table.

you could only avoid her stare as you shrugged,“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

she hummed, unconvinced, but leaned back in her seat, still watching you with an amused glint in her eyes.

you met her gaze briefly before turning away, making it clear the conversation was over.

you decided it was best not to glance back toward hongjoong—not after he most likely caught you staring.

just the thought of it made the tips of your ears burn.

how embarrassing.

you’ve only had a small interaction and yet, you’re searching the crowd like you’ve known him in another life—like the crush you swore you didn’t have has already claimed you anyway.

for the rest of the night, you stayed quiet, surrounded by hollow laughter and dull conversation that barely touched you.

your mind drifted somewhere far from the table, to all the places you’d rather be, to all the versions of this night that didn’t include feeling so out of place.

when your father finally leaned in to mention that you’d be leaving soon, you nodded, grateful.

you were more than ready to disappear back into your own space, where no one was watching, and you didn’t need to pretend to be someone you weren’t.

so when your father stood and motioned for you to follow, you didn’t hesitate.

you rose quietly, smoothing your dress as you stepped away from the table, barely listening to the goodbyes being exchanged around you.

something tugged at you, like a thread you hadn’t noticed was still tied to him.

you allowed your eyes to wander, for one last time.

he hadn’t moved, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips—like he knew exactly what effect he had on you.

you tilted your head ever so slightly, letting a slow, knowing smile rise to your lips—then turned, walking away like your heart hadn’t almost launched itself into orbit the moment you caught him already looking.

like you hadn’t let one stupid interaction and a series of stolen glances take up more space in your mind than they had any right to.

once you were all in the car and settled into your seats, you reached for the headphones you’d stashed in your bag, ready to tune out the night entirely—when your father suddenly called your name before you can put your earbuds in.

“what did you think you were doing talking to them?” your father’s voice cut through the silence, eyes meeting yours in the rearview mirror.

your mother didn’t turn, but the glare she shot you from the passenger seat was enough.

the rest of the car went still, the weight of what could follow pressing down on everyone like a held breath.

your father didn’t have to say any names for you to know who he was talking about.

“they approached me. i didn’t go looking for them.” your jaw clenched slightly, eyes fixed on a point just past the front seats. “they caught me off guard, and there was no easy way to walk away.”

“no easy way to walk away?” his knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. “there’s always a way if you actually wanted one.”

he flicked his eyes back to the mirror. “being caught off guard isn’t an excuse. next time, you keep it short, you excuse yourself, and you leave. understood?”

you stayed quiet, offering only a stiff nod. words would’ve only made things worse.

“we didn’t think we had to remind you who you are. but maybe we were wrong to believe you understood what’s expected of you.” your mom kept her tone level, but the sting of her words settled in deep, heavier than if she’d screamed.

you didn’t understand why they were so angry—why they looked at you like you’d done something unforgivable.

part of you wanted to say it out loud, to ask if it wasn’t their precious reputation they were always so obsessed with.

if you’d ignored one of the most powerful names in the room, the rumors would’ve caught fire before the night even ended.

but if it had been your brothers or your sister—or maybe even anyone else but you, they would’ve been applauded.

they would’ve been praised for their composure, their charm, for maintaining the illusion that everything was fine.

they would’ve been called smart for keeping the peace.

but you?

no.

when it’s you, it’s always different.

when it’s you, it’s always wrong.

everything between your parents and the kim’s happened years ago.

you were just a child then, your sister barely out of infancy, your brothers caught somewhere between boyhood and adolescence.

the families used to be close—inseparable, even.

best friends since high school, through college, weddings—they’d stood beside each other at every major milestone, so close it was hard to tell where one family ended and the other began.

after college, they started a company together. and for a while, things were good.

successful, stable.

until it wasn’t.

your parents found papers in the office—documents they believed proved the kim’s were planning a takeover, a betrayal cloaked in business strategy.

they were furious.

when they confronted the kim’s, the response was immediate denial.

“we’d never do that to you,” they said. “you’re family.”

but your parents didn’t believe them. they didn’t even hesitate.

the split was swift, bitter, final. and you’ve heard that version of the story your whole life.

something in you doesn’t want to believe your parents.

a part of you holds on to the quiet hope that there’s more to the story—something they’ve chosen not to tell you, or maybe something they’ve chosen to forget.

you never knew the kim’s the way your parents did. you were just a child when it all fell apart.

but what you do know is that you’ve witnessed the way the kim’s speak to you with gentle voices, with kindness in their eyes, the way they’ve never once returned the bitterness thrown at them—none of it matches the version your parents have painted.

still, their words echo in your head,“wolves always hide in sheep’s clothing.”

you want to believe them. you really do.

but how can you, when the people you were raised to resent are the only ones who’ve ever made you feel safe?

the silence in the car was loud—thick, uncomfortable as you all made your way back home.

you thought about putting your headphones in like you had planned, desperate to tune it all out, but you knew better.

doing that now would only stir more trouble.

“did you see how hongjoong presented himself?” your mother finally broke the silence, her voice sharp with disapproval. “not only did he bleach his hair, but he showed up in completely inappropriate attire. how could they allow him to go out like that?”

her tone dripped with judgment, not even trying to hide the satisfaction of tearing someone down under the guise of concern.

you felt your eye twitch slightly, the irritation bubbling just beneath the surface.

you bit down on your tongue, trying to distract yourself to stay quiet—to not say something that’d only make your situation worse.

your mother went on, relentless.

“and beomjoong didn’t even show up. how does that look?” she scoffed softly, as if the answer disgusted her. “how could his parents not see how disgraceful it is to let hongjoong show up like that? he looked like—”

she paused, searching for the right insult, “like a delinquent. like he didn’t belong there at all.”

your lips moved before your mind could stop them. “he looked perfectly fine. in fact, he carried himself better than most people there.”

your mother stiffened, but you continued.

“you speak about his appearance as if that’s the real issue—but it isn’t. it’s simply the excuse you’ve chosen. let’s not pretend this is about hair or clothing. we both know it’s not.” your voice was calm, but every word landed with precision.

“you speak about others as though they’re beneath you, simply because they don’t align with your curated standards. it’s cruel.” you looked at her, expression unreadable. “and frankly, it’s exhausting to listen to.”

“you preach values like kindness, acceptance, compassion—but your actions reflect the complete opposite. you carry yourself as if you’re above everyone else, as if judgment is your right.”

your gaze sharpened. “you’re a hypocrite. and that is what’s truly disgraceful, not someone’s hair or outfit.”

you let the silence stretch between you. “perhaps reflect on that before passing judgment on people you’ve never even tried to understand.”

your sister stared at you, mouth slightly agape, while your brothers wore matching expressions of stunned disbelief.

you’ve never been one to speak up.

your mother’s eyes began to well with tears—but you knew better than to fall for it.

she had tears on cue, paired with carefully timed silence—an act you’d seen far too many times.

every sniffle, every trembling breath was designed to shift the blame, to recast herself as the one who’d been wronged.

the victim.

and, like always, she knew someone, who was likely your father—would come rushing to her side, ready to defend her without hesitation or question.

“that’s enough.” your father’s gaze locked with yours in the mirror. “you will apologize. now.”

“how could you say such things about me and your father?” she finally whispered, voice trembling just enough to sound fragile.

“i don’t know when you stopped respecting us.” his voice wasn’t loud, but the words were sharp. “maybe we were wrong to believe you understood what family meant.”

your eyes hardened.

there was so much more you wanted to say—so much you could’ve thrown back at them, called out, forced them to finally see themselves for what they really were—hypocrites hiding behind titles like mother and father.

but you held it in.

you’d said enough for one day.

right now, all you wanted was to get to your room.

to close the door, and breathe without feeling like you were being pulled apart from the inside out.

you’ve always known what family should be—what it could be.

and that’s what makes this unbearable.

it’s only now that you’ve stopped pretending it isn’t.

・୨ ✦ ୧・

the slight hums from your speaker filled the room with soft music, barely loud enough to distract from your thoughts.

it was already 2 a.m., yet you were still wide awake—covered in smudges of oil paint, with tubes and brushes scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers to your restlessness.

you sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, hunched over, painting from memory—the stars, the moon, the way they had hung so gently in the sky with beautiful imperfection.

none of it was perfect. but it didn’t need to be. it was never about precision—it was about feeling.

art had always been that for you.

an escape.

a language you learned young, when words weren’t safe.

you were never allowed to speak freely about how you felt. vulnerability was seen as weakness, and your parents made sure you understood that.

so, you learned to keep quiet. learned to keep everything in.

and in the silence, you found art.

it gave everything weight. it let you express emotions you didn’t know how to name.

it gave things meaning, even if that meaning looked different to everyone else.

and maybe that’s what you liked most about it—how a single painting could be a thousand things at once, depending on who was looking.

but no one looked.

no one ever saw them.

your works were hidden. all of them.

canvases shoved beneath your bed, drawings stuffed into old folders, sketchbooks stacked with years of secrets.

every piece was a part of you, and that was the terrifying part.

because even now, as much as you ached to be understood, the idea of someone seeing all that rawness was something you couldn’t bear.

you were told to never be vulnerable.

so you kept everything tucked away.

even the most honest parts of you.

you sat back up again, staring at the painting in front of you.

the stars were too smudged, the moon too bright, but somehow… it still felt right. like your hands had remembered something your mind wasn’t ready to admit.

you let the brush fall from your fingers. it landed with a soft clink against the jar of turpentine beside you.

then you just sat there, staring—not at the painting, not at the mess, but past it all.

past the scattered thoughts and quiet music and the ache in your chest that you didn’t want to name.

your mind drifted again. back to him.

back to the moment he looked at you.

really looked.

he looked at you like he saw something no one else ever took the time to notice.

and maybe he hadn’t meant anything by it. maybe it was just a glance.

maybe it was nothing.

but it didn’t feel like nothing.

it felt like something.

something you couldn’t name, something you couldn’t explain, something you couldn’t shake.

and it was frustrating.

because why did you care so much?

you barely knew him.

you hadn’t even shared more than a few words, and yet he was the only person your mind kept circling back to—like some unspoken gravity kept pulling you toward him.

you hated how repeatedly you have caught yourself thinking about that evening.

about him.

you sat there. surrounded by paint, by silence, by everything unsaid.

it didn’t make sense.

but maybe it didn’t have to.

because for some reason—when it came to him, everything just felt right.

you sighed, bringing your hands to your lap. they were stained—mostly black and blue, with hints of white, yellow, and everything in between.

you smiled softly at the display.

art, for you, had always been messy. and that’s exactly what you loved about it. there’s no specific rules you need to follow when it comes to art—everything is under your terms.

the smudges on your skin, the splatters on the floor, the uneven brush strokes—they were all part of it. all part of the process.

it was a quiet kind of proof that feeling had been there—that you had poured something real into the canvas, even if no one else would ever see it.

it wasn’t just paint on a canvas.

it was you.

you huffed softly as you stood, careful not to touch anything else—mindful of the paint still clinging to your skin.

your hands reached for the canvas on the floor, as you held it up and tilted your head slightly, studying it.

even though you love art, you rarely love the outcome of your own.

that’s another reason why you always hide them.

you don’t throw them away—you just tuck them out of sight. you let time pass, let yourself forget. because when you find them again, months later, something always shifts.

you’ll look at a piece you once thought was awful, and suddenly it’ll feel different.

softer, better—maybe even beautiful.

you smiled faintly at the thought. maybe this one would be like that too.

walking across the room, you made your way to the small nail near your door.

you’d placed it there specifically for the pieces that needed to dry before disappearing beneath your bed.

it was hidden by the door when it opened, it was a little secret spot.

no one would see the painting unless they closed the door all the way.

you hung it up gently, stepping back to look one last time.

it still didn’t feel finished.

some things speak loudest when they’re incomplete.

you walked back to where you were before, reaching for your scattered supplies. one by one, you began putting them back in their rightful place—brushes in jars, paint tubes capped and tucked away, canvases stacked neatly beneath your bed like secrets only you were allowed to know.

once everything was back in order, you stepped out into the hallway and made your way to the bathroom. under the soft hum of fluorescent lights, you began scrubbing the paint from your skin—blues, blacks, yellows clinging to your hands like memories that didn’t want to let go.

when you returned, the room was still. quiet. the kind of quiet that usually invited sleep.

you laid back down, pulling the blanket over you, letting your body sink into the mattress. you closed your eyes. waited.

but it didn’t come.

after several minutes of twisting, turning, sighing heavily into the darkness, you reached for the lamp and turned it back on.

the light felt harsh at first, unwelcome, but somehow necessary.

you got up and walked over to your desk, grabbing a sketchbook from the top drawer.

your fingers brushed over the cover, familiar and worn.

the edges were bent, creased from how often you flipped through it.

in the beginning, you always tried to keep your sketchbooks looking neat, looking perfect. but by the time you reached the last page, they always looked a little worn.

you’ve grown to like that.

it meant you’ve filled them with something real. it meant you used them fully.

you sat in your chair and opened it, flipping through pages filled with old thoughts, half-finished ideas, images captured in pencil, charcoal, ink, oil pastels.

each one different. each one saying something you didn’t know how to say out loud.

once you landed on an empty page, your pencil met the paper.

your hand moved without asking for permission, gliding in strokes that felt erratic but calm, unplanned but certain.

you didn’t know what you were drawing—not at first.

it felt like your hand had a mind of its own, like your heart knew something your thoughts hadn’t caught up to yet.

and still, you drew.

you didn’t think much as you continued.

your hand just… moved.

lines began to form—soft at first, then sharper.

you tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly as you tried to make sense of the shapes forming beneath your pencil.

still, you didn’t stop.

you shaded beneath the eyes—eyes you hadn’t meant to draw.

they weren’t exact, but there was something familiar about them.

the angle of the brow, the softness around the lashes, the quiet intensity. it felt accidental but intentional at the same time.

you paused, blinking.

the line of the nose. the curve of the lips. that faint smirk you didn’t even know you’d memorized.

you stared at the page, realization sinking in slowly.

it was him.

you hadn’t meant to draw him—you didn’t even know you remembered his face that well.

but there he was.

quiet, undefined in some places, but undeniably him.

you leaned back in your chair, pencil resting lightly in your fingers.

you didn’t know what it meant. or why your thoughts kept coming back to him no matter how far you tried to pull away.

it seemed that no matter how much you tried to stop thinking of him, he found his way into everything.

even here.

even in the one place that had always been just yours.

your escape.

and yet—he had slipped into it, effortlessly.

not by force, not loudly, but gently. quietly.

so quietly, you hadn’t even realized he was there until it was too late.

you looked down at the sketch again, heart tight in a way you didn’t know how to explain.

you didn’t mean for this.

but somewhere deep down, you knew you did.

your heart had already chosen before your mind caught up. he lived there now—in the parts of you you didn’t speak of.

your sketchbook remained open as you sat there, staring at the rough sketch of hongjoong.

you didn’t tear the page out, not this time.

you let it stay—unfinished, imperfect, honest. like the way he’d taken up space in your mind.

quietly, without permission.

as if he was meant to be there all along.

you tilted your head back with a groan as you ran your fingers through your hair.

how did he get here?

not physically—no, he was somewhere far from this room, probably asleep, probably unaware that he’d managed to invade the one part of your life that had always been just yours.

how did he make his way into your mind so effortlessly?

into your thoughts, your sketchbook, your mind?

you hated it.

you hated how easily it happened.

how you didn’t even realize you were letting him in until he was already everywhere.

you leaned forward again, elbows resting on the edge of the desk, your eyes falling once more on the sketch.

his face stared back at you—soft around the edges, incomplete, but still him.

you didn’t know what he wanted from you.

you didn’t even know what you wanted.

but you couldn’t deny it anymore.

he was here. and some part of you had let him in.

what made it worse—what made it infuriating was the thought that he was probably left completely unaffected.

unscathed.

meanwhile, you here you were—spiraling.

your eyes narrowed, glaring down at the face that stared back at you from the page.

your brows drew in, tight with frustration.

without thinking, you snapped the sketchbook shut.

“fuck,” you muttered, dragging your hands down your face, as if you could scrape the feeling off your skin.

you sighed, for what felt like the millionth time tonight—and let your elbows fall onto the desk, resting your head in your hands.

“just how pathetic am i?” you whispered into the silence.

and the silence, as always, said nothing back.

・୨ ✦ ୧・

the next morning, you woke up late.

luckily, it was the weekend, so it didn’t really mean much.

with a quiet groan, you stretched, rubbing your eyes one last time before reaching for your phone on the bedside table.

you squinted against the light as the screen lit up—almost one in the afternoon.

you were confused.

by now, your parents usually would’ve barged in, barking about how late it was and why you weren’t up yet.

but the house stayed quiet. maybe they were still bothered by what you said yesterday. or maybe they hadn’t even noticed you were still in your room.

either way, you were grateful.

no yelling, no orders—no being told what to do while your siblings sat right there, untouched by the same expectations.

you set your phone back down and finally got up.

the air still held that faint smell of turpentine. it used to bother you, but by now it was familiar—just another part of your space.

you made your way to the window and cracked it open, letting the summer breeze slip in.

you stood there for a moment, staring out, letting the light wash over you.

it felt… different.

everything looked brighter. the kind of bright you hadn’t noticed in years.

like how summer used to look when you were a child—before things got heavier. before the world turned gray.

the grass looked greener, the trees seemed to glow, the sky shimmered, soft clouds moving lazily like they had all the time in the world.

you took a deep breath. the air felt light, clean—almost like it used to.

a small smile tugged at your lips.

you turned to head to the restroom, but your eyes paused on your desk. your sketchbook sat there, untouched since last night.

still. waiting.

you didn’t open it. just stared at it for a moment.

your fingers brushed lightly against the cover before you slid it back into your drawer.

you stood there, unmoving.

thinking about the face you’d drawn—the person who hadn’t left your thoughts since you first saw him.

you told yourself it was just a drawing, lines on paper.

a coincidence, a passing moment.

just a face.

just a sketch.

just someone who somehow kept finding his way into your mind.

but you knew better.

you continued your way to the restroom, deciding it was finally time to start your day—unknowing of how difficult that would be, when your mind had already chosen to orbit one person and one person only.

no matter what you did, he was there—in the quiet.

in the corners of your thoughts where no one else had ever stayed this long.

and the day hadn’t even begun.

・୨ ✦ ୧・

a couple of days had passed since the banquet.

each day blurred into the next—the same routine, the same attempts to focus, the same silent battle against the thoughts that refused to leave you alone.

him.

you tried to shake it.

tried to move forward, to do what needed to be done, to forget.

but every task was shadowed by him. every silence filled with the memory of a glance, a voice, a presence.

it was starting to wear on you—how persistent it all felt. how he clung to your thoughts like something you couldn’t wash off.

you were annoyed.

frustrated even—yet you were still thinking of him.

as if your own mind had betrayed you, as if some part of you had quietly decided he was worth remembering, even when you swore he wasn’t.

your sketchbook had become the quiet evidence of it all.

it was no longer just one rough sketch.

page after page—each one different, yet all the same.

they were filled with different versions of him.

the way he looked at the banquet, the slight curve of his mouth, the way the light caught in his eyes—things you didn’t know you had memorized until they were already marked on the page.

you were embarrassed.

no matter how hard you tried, it always led back to him.

you could start a drawing with every intention of creating something else, anything else—but somewhere along the way, the lines would shift, the shapes would change, and suddenly…

it was him again.

his eyes.

his mouth.

the quiet tilt of his head.

details you never meant to remember, but did anyway.

it wasn’t on purpose.

at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

but the evidence said otherwise—page after page of it.

you hated how easily your hand betrayed you. how your thoughts wandered, uninvited, back to him the moment your pencil touched the paper.

you used to draw to escape.

now it felt like you were only chasing him across every page.

you stared at the latest sketch, jaw tense, breath shallow.

you hadn’t even realized it was him again until it was too late.

the eyes gave it away. they always did.

you dropped the pencil like it burned.

your hands hovered for a moment—uncertain, caught between wanting to tear the page out and not being able to touch it at all.

you didn’t move.

you just sat there, staring.

and then, with a frustrated breath, you slammed the sketchbook shut.

the sound echoed, louder than it should’ve in the quiet of your room.

you leaned back in your chair, eyes stinging.

you didn’t cry.

you didn’t scream.

you just sat there—still, silent, and tired.

you felt stupid.

all of this for someone you barely even know.

and yet, he was still everywhere.

you heard your brother call your name from the hallway, pulling you from your thoughts.

you turned your head toward the doorway as he stepped in. “mom said if you could go out for groceries. she needs a couple things for dinner.”

you looked away, glancing at the time. it was around 10 am, seemed like the perfect time to get out of the house.

you nodded slowly. “tell her i’ll be right down.”

he gave a quick nod and left without another word.

you sat there for a moment longer, letting the silence settle again before finally getting up.

you felt grateful for the errand—it gave you an excuse to leave the house. to move and be distracted.

to breathe something that wasn’t thick with thoughts of him.

you changed into something simple, made yourself look presentable enough, and headed downstairs to talk to your mother.

after getting a list of what she needed, you made your way out.

as you stepped out the door, your eyes flicked to the driveway—three cars, each one parked neatly, unused. their owners still inside, doing whatever they pleased.

you scoffed under your breath.

of course they sent the only one without a car to run the errand—your mother could’ve even went herself but decided to send you instead.

you shook your head with a dry laugh, reaching into your bag to grab your headphones.

you untangled the wire, fingers moving on instinct, and plugged them into your phone. music poured through them the second they connected—loud, familiar, numbing in all the ways you needed.

you made your way toward the bus station, each step pulling you further from the house, from the stillness of your room.

and yet, even with music blasting in your ears and the distance between you, you still felt him there—just beneath the surface.

once you made it to the shopping center, you felt more at ease.

even with the sun beating down on you as you walked, there was something calming about being away from the house.

away from the walls that remembered too much.

just the act of being somewhere else—surrounded by people who didn’t know you, who didn’t expect anything.

it brought you a strange kind of peace.

you walked into the grocery store with your phone in hand, the grocery list glowing softly on the screen.

the mundane task felt lighter than usual.

you grabbed a cart, dropped your bag into it, and started humming quietly to the music still playing in your ears.

your fingers trailed along boxes and shelves as you moved through the aisles, checking off items one by one.

but as you reached for the last item, you caught sight of someone passing by in the corner of your eye.

you turned slightly, expecting a stranger, but your breath caught when your eyes landed on a familiar figure a few aisles over.

it wasn’t him.

but for a second, your heart genuinely believed it could’ve been.

you quickly looked away, irritated with yourself—your chest ached in a way you didn’t want to name.

you focused on the list again, as if the words could ground you.

as if bread you were holding could erase the memory of his face, the sound of his voice, the way he looked at you like he knew something you didn’t.

you clenched your jaw and pushed the cart forward.

this wasn’t supposed to happen here.

not in the grocery store.

not in the middle of a list, of a normal day, of a moment that had felt so peaceful just minutes before.

but he had a way of finding you—even when he wasn’t there at all.

you went to the cashier, slightly annoyed.

could you really be that delusional?

to imagine him in the store, to trick yourself into thinking a stranger was him—when it wasn’t even close?

you sighed, placing your items on the conveyor belt with a little more force than necessary.

the thought lingered in your chest like embarrassment, warm and heavy.

he wasn’t here. he never was.

just your mind playing tricks on you again. pulling him into places he didn’t belong.

you avoided eye contact with the cashier, mumbling a polite greeting as you pulled out your wallet.

you were tired of this.

tired of carrying him everywhere.

tired of missing something you never even had.

as the cashier scanned the last item and gave you the total, you nodded quietly, paid, and gathered your things.

you needed to get home.

or maybe you just needed a distraction—anything to pull your thoughts away from the spiral they were so eager to fall into.

as you stepped outside, your eyes landed on the cafe across the street.

a small place tucked between a laundromat and the thrift store you usually go to when you’re back home, with soft-colored umbrellas and a chalkboard sign you couldn’t quite read from where you stood.

it had to had recently opened at least this year because you hadn’t seen it last time you came home. either way you’re happy you found out about it now.

what’s better than getting a sweet treat after days of suffering with unwanted thoughts?

you sighed through a soft smile and waited for the light to change.

the walk over was short, but it gave you just enough time to convince yourself you deserved this—something soft. something warm.

something that didn’t remind you of him.

you pushed the door open, the soft chime of the bell above greeting you like an old friend.

the scent of coffee and sugar immediately wrapped around you.

you pulled your headphones down to rest around your neck as you approached the counter. the music still played faintly, a soft hum against the quiet murmur of the café.

you greeted the cashier with a polite smile, then ordered a drink and one of the pastries displayed behind the glass—something sweet, something warm. comfort disguised as dessert.

after paying, you thanked them and glanced around until your eyes landed on a small table by the window.

it was tucked away just enough to feel hidden, like a quiet corner made for people who didn’t want to be seen.

you placed the grocery bags on the bench, then sat down beside them.

the window beside you let in soft light, casting a faint glow across the wooden table.

outside, people passed by without urgency. and for a moment, you let yourself exist in the quiet.

being out in public alone wasn’t new.

it was something you did all the time, so it wasn’t awkward for you to sit by yourself. in fact, you preferred it.

you weren’t one to go to parties or to even go out much. you don’t really have close friends so no one was really there to push you to go out either.

but it’s not something that makes you sad, going out alone is sometimes fun.

you liked to watch the world around you move, to see people living their lives in real time.

couples holding hands, kids tugging at their parents, strangers laughing over coffee, others rushing past with purpose.

it fascinated you—how your life could be going one way while someone else’s was moving in a completely different direction.

different stories, different pain, different joy.

all unfolding at the same time.

it made you feel small in a comforting way.

like whatever you were feeling, whatever you were carrying, it wasn’t the only thing that existed.

and for a moment, that made it easier to breathe.

as you waited for your name to be called, you reached into your bag and pulled out the sketchbook that had been haunting you for the past few days.

you had shoved it in last minute before leaving the house, telling yourself it was just in case—just in case something caught your eye, just in case you wanted to draw.

like it wasn’t already a habit you couldn’t break.

you always brought it. whether or not you used it.

the only times it didn’t were when you forgot it completely or were dragged to one of your parents’ fancy banquets—where everything was too polished, too formal, and too suffocating for something as vulnerable as that.

you held it for a moment, thumb brushing over the worn cover. it felt heavier than it should have.

still, you opened it.

you flipped through the pages with practiced ease, your fingers moving faster the closer you got to the ones of him.

you didn’t stop.

you didn’t let your eyes linger.

you skipped past them like they meant nothing—even though they did.

once you reached a blank page, you laid the sketchbook flat on the table, smoothing it open.

you reached into your bag again, pulling out the small pouch that held your pencils, erasers, sharpener, and blending tools.

your eyes shifted between the blank page and the view just beyond the window.

people walked by—some alone, some in pairs, some speaking with their hands while others kept their heads down.

you wanted to capture it.

not their faces, not exact likenesses, but the feeling.

the essence of movement��of separate lives unfolding at the same time.

you wanted to draw what it meant for everyone to be living so differently, all while passing through the same sunlight.

your pencil hovered above the paper.

you weren’t sure where to start.

but still, you wanted to try.

you worked in silence, the world outside the window moving around you while your own world narrowed to the page in front of you.

a clean start.

or at least, that’s what you were hoping for.

even without your headphones on, you didn’t hear your name being called.

you were too absorbed—lost in the lines, in the way your pencil moved without needing to think.

it wasn’t until a sudden voice beside you broke through the quiet that your attention snapped.

your head lifted slightly, startled, fingers still resting against the page.

“didn’t think i’d find you here.”

you froze.

your heart stuttered in your chest before you even turned to face them properly.

but you already knew.

you didn’t need to hear his name, didn’t need to see his face to recognize the voice that had been living rent-free in your head for days.

slowly, you turned to the person fully.

and there he was.

hongjoong.

he was standing by your table, holding what seemed to be the drink and pastry you had ordered earlier.

his eyes were amused, his smirk lazy—calm in a way that made everything inside you feel the exact opposite.

there was just enough familiarity in his gaze to knock the air right out of your lungs.

he glanced down at your sketchbook with a tilt of his head, brow raised in quiet amusement.

“is that me?” he asked, teasing.

your heart dropped.

you could feel the heat rush to your face, your entire body going stiff in a flash of panic.

“huh?”

you snapped your gaze down to the page in front of you, bracing for the worst.

but when your eyes finally focused, all you saw was what you had actually meant to draw—the street outside the café, figures in motion, the quiet chaos of daily life.

no eyes like his. no familiar curve of a smile.

just lines.

you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

when you looked back at him, he was chuckling softly.

“i’m only joking,” he said, the smirk on his face still lingering, but his tone gentler now.

he placed the drink and pastry on the table in front of you. “hope you don’t mind that i brought you your stuff. i was ordering when they called your name, and when i saw you distracted… i figured you didn’t hear them the second time. so i grabbed them and brought them over.”

he spoke casually, like it was nothing. like it wasn’t unraveling you a little more with every word.

you blinked, trying to ground yourself in the moment.

“do you mind if i sit with you?” he asked it gently, fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table, like he wasn’t sure if you’d say yes.

you responded with a quiet noise and a simple nod, letting the silence carry what you couldn’t say.

he seemed to take that as enough, sliding into the bench in front of you and sitting down across from you, his movements unhurried, calm in a way that only made your pulse quicken more.

you still felt the warmth on your face from your embarrassment. still, your eyes drifted to the drink and pastry in front of you.

once you were sure you wouldn’t fumble your words, you cleared your throat again. “thank you for bringing me my stuff. i didn’t hear them call my name. i really appreciate it.”

he waved it off with a smile. “it’s nothing. honestly, i’m kind of glad you didn’t—if you had, i wouldn’t have gotten the chance to play the hero. or even notice you hiding in the corner like some mysterious café stranger.”

you let out a quiet but nervous laugh, the tension easing just slightly. “i wouldn’t say mysterious café stranger. i’m more like… a random person keeping to themselves in a corner.”

his smile widened, and he leaned back a little in his seat. “well, i noticed. you seem to keep to yourself a lot.”

you tilted your head slightly, brows raising—not defensive, just curious.

he sat back upright, somewhat panicked. “not that it’s bad, you know? i’m just saying… i always seem to find you alone. keeping to yourself. it’s like—”

he paused, letting out a breathy laugh, “—like you exist just slightly out of reach. not in a weird way or anything, just… you’re there, but not really trying to be noticed. which, i guess, makes it kind of hard not to notice.”

his words trailed off, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t meant to say all of that out loud.

when he finally made eye contact with you again, you paused for a moment, watching the way his confidence flickered just slightly at the edges.

then you laughed—soft, genuine, a little amused. “i didn’t know you could get this nervous, hongjoong.”

his lips parted, caught somewhere between pretending to be offended and not knowing how to respond.

“i’m not nervous,” he said, too quickly. then, with a grin, “okay—maybe just a little. you’re not exactly the easiest person to read, you know.”

you leaned back slightly, still smiling. “i didn’t think i was that hard to read.”

he raised an eyebrow. “you kind of are. quiet, observant, always sketching something… it’s like you’ve got a whole world in your head no one’s allowed into.”

that made you still for a second—not because he was wrong, but because he wasn’t.

you looked down at your drink, fingers tracing the rim.

you hummed, eyes flicking up to meet his.

then, with a teasing lilt in your voice, you asked, “how many times have you seen me for you to know such things about me?”

you watched him carefully, amusement dancing in your eyes, already knowing the answer would probably surprise you.

he shrugged, but there was a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“enough,” he said simply. “more than you’d think.”

and the way he said it—calm, unbothered, just a little smug, made your chest tighten in a way you weren’t ready to admit.

the sound of his name being called from the counter broke the moment.

he turned toward the voice, then looked back at you.

“i’ll be right back,” he said, voice softer now—like he didn’t want to leave the space the two of you had just created.

you nodded, and as soon as you did, he stood and walked off to grab his order.

your eyes followed him for a second longer than you meant to before dropping back down to your sketchbook—his seat still warm across from you.

you looked back out the window, then let your gaze drop to your sketch again. your eyes narrowed slightly.

it could be better. some of the details were still missing, a few lines too light, others not quite right.

but it was enough—for now.

if you couldn’t focus with just the thought of him, it would only get worse with him sitting right in front of you.

you closed the sketchbook softly, slipping it off the table before gathering your utensils and tucking them back into your pouch.

a moment later, hongjoong sat down again with a quiet huff, placing his drink and pastry in front of him.

his eyes flicked to your now-closed sketchbook on your lap, then back to you.

“what were you drawing?” he asked, casually—though his tone held just enough curiosity to make you wonder how long he’d been thinking about it.

“oh—um, i was drawing the people i saw walking by outside,” you said, your fingers lightly brushing over the zipper of your pouch. “i was waiting for my name to be called, and when i looked out the window, it just… felt like the perfect time.”

you glanced at him, trying to gauge his reaction.

“it’s not finished or anything,” you added quickly. “just rough sketches. nothing special.”

hongjoong raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly forward as he unwrapped his pastry.

his gaze lingered, and it made you nervous—like he was seeing more than you meant to show.

you looked down at your drink, fingers tracing the rim once again. “it’s just that… i saw people just living in the moment, and i find it fascinating that we’re all under the same sky, but we’re all going through different moments.”

you kept talking, rambling without meaning to—caught up in the thought. “like… we’re all walking past each other, carrying things no one else sees. and sometimes it’s nice to just… capture that.”

you trailed off when you noticed the way he was looking at you—quiet, focused, unreadable in a way that made your breath catch.

“ah—sorry,” you said quickly. “was i going on for too long?”

hongjoong shook his head, a gentle smile forming. “no. not at all.”

he paused, then added, “i doubt anything you draw is just ‘nothing special,’ especially if you’re the one seeing it that way.”

he took a sip from his drink, his eyes still on you. “i mean, you zone out so hard when you’re drawing, it’s kind of intense. makes me wonder what you’re actually seeing.”

his words weren’t mocking. if anything, they felt… genuine, curious.

like he meant every word of it.

you blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

he wasn’t teasing.

he wasn’t joking.

he meant it.

you felt the warmth creeping back up your neck, your instinct kicking in to soften the moment before it became too real.

“you make it sound like i’m seeing some deep, hidden truth,” you said with a quiet laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “it’s not that serious. i just… get carried away sometimes.”

“exactly,” he said, leaning forward again, his voice softer now. “that’s what makes it interesting.”

you didn’t know what to say to that.

so you looked down at your drink, smiling to yourself, a little stunned, a little shy.

you weren’t used to someone paying attention like that.

he pushed the plate with your pastry closer to you, his expression somewhere between amused and gently insistent.

“eat,” he said. “you’ve hardly touched what you ordered. don’t be shy—i’m almost finished with mine and you were here before me.”

you giggled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

his words, his tone—it was all so casual, but it warmed you more than you expected.

you nodded, still smiling, and began tucking your pouch and sketchbook away, setting them gently into your bag before reaching for the pastry.

it felt… safe.

as you brought your drink to your lips, hongjoong leaned back in his seat again, that familiar glint of amusement returning to his eyes.

“so,” he said casually, “now that i’ve caught you once again… does this mean i can have your number?”

the words were smooth, but there was something genuine tucked beneath the playfulness—like he meant it, even if he said it with a grin.

you raised an eyebrow over the rim of your cup, taking a slow sip before setting it down. “so that’s your plan? catch me off guard and ask for my number while i’m mid-sip?”

hongjoong chuckled, unbothered. “worked, didn’t it?”

you leaned forward slightly, resting your elbow on the table, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “depends. how often do you ask mysterious strangers for their number at cafés?”

he held a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “ouch. you wound me.”

you shrugged,“not really… but it was fun to say.”

he laughed, shaking his head. “so.. is that a maybe?”

you let the silence hang for a beat, drawing it out just enough to make him wait. “ask me again when you finish your pastry.”

hongjoong raised an eyebrow, clearly accepting the challenge.

“finish my pastry, huh?” he said, eyes locked with yours, a smug little smile tugging at his lips.

before you could say anything else, he picked up what was left of it and took a dramatic bite—then another, and another.

until there was nothing left but crumbs and a smug sense of triumph.

he dusted his hands off exaggeratedly and leaned back, eyes gleaming.

“done,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“so,” he continued, tapping the table lightly, “do i get your number now, or are you gonna switch up again?”

you stared at him, half-amused, half-stunned.

“…that was kind of impressive,” you admitted, laughing under your breath.

“i’m kind of determined,” he replied, voice softer this time. “especially when it comes to you.”

you pretended to think, eyes narrowing playfully as you peeled the wrapper from your pastry—unaware of what he last said.

“hmm… i don’t know,” you said, dragging the words out. “what if i wanted to try your pastry? now i can’t, because you finished it before i could even ask.”

hongjoong pouted dramatically, then shrugged like he’d already prepared for this exact scenario.

“easy solution,” he said. “i’ll buy a dozen. maybe more. all for you—if it means i get your number and get to spend the rest of today with you.”

you quirked a brow, feigning suspicion. “oh really?”

he nodded, completely serious now. ��really.”

there was no teasing in his voice anymore—just that soft certainty that made your heart skip a beat.

you took a slow bite of your pastry, pretending to weigh your options.

“hmm… that is a pretty tempting offer,” you said, voice light. “but what if you’re just saying that to get my number and then vanish?”

hongjoong placed a hand over his heart, eyes wide with mock betrayal. “you really think i’d disappear after offering you a dozen pastries? that’s… cold.”

you laughed softly, shaking your head. “fine. you win.”

you reached into your bag, pulled out your phone, and slid it across the table toward him. “put your number in. if i don’t get at least one pastry out of this, i’m blocking you.”

his grin returned instantly as he picked up your phone. “deal. but i’m aiming for at least three.”

you rolled your eyes playfully as you took another sip of your drink, then nudged your plate toward him. “do you want some?”

he pointed to himself with exaggerated shock. “are you talking to little ole’ me?”

you stifled a laugh, biting down a smile. “who else would i be talking to?”

he leaned in just a little, resting his chin in his hand as he grinned. “i don’t know, you just seemed so mysterious earlier. i wasn’t sure if i’d earned the right to share pastries with you yet.”

“well,” you said, nudging the plate again, “consider this your reward for being persistent.”

he reached for a piece, still grinning. “best reward i’ve ever gotten.”

he excused himself for a moment to go back to the counter, saying something about needing to grab more pastries to go.

you watched him from your seat, amused at how serious he seemed about it.

when he returned, small paper bag in hand, the two of you picked up where you left off—talking easily, the conversation flowing as if it had always been there waiting.

you both took turns asking questions, getting to know each other.

simple things at first—favorite movies, worst childhood haircut, the kind of music you played when no one was listening.

and then, somewhere in the middle of it, he mentioned it. casually, like it wasn’t anything important.

“i’m actually part of a band,” he said, sipping from his drink.

your head tilted slightly, eyes lighting up with curiosity.“wait, seriously?”

he nodded, lips curling into a small, amused smile.“yeah. we’ve been playing together for a while now. it’s kind of a big part of my life.”

“what do you do in the band?” you asked, leaning in a little without realizing.

he glanced at you, clearly holding back a grin. “i write most of our stuff. i rap. sometimes i produce. play guitar when we perform live—depends on the song, really.”

you blinked, visibly impressed. “so… you’re kind of a big deal on campus.”

he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “depends who you ask. i guess people know us, yeah. we play at a lot of the events, campus fests, open mic nights—stuff like that.”

your mouth opened slightly, eyes wide. “wow. that’s actually really cool.”

you bit your cheek, hesitating for just a second before blurting it out. “how have i never heard of you guys? or even known you were in a band? we’re literally on the same campus. in the same year.”

hongjoong grinned, resting his chin in his hand. “guess you’ve been too busy hiding in your sketchbook to notice.”

you narrowed your eyes at him, fighting back a smile.“maybe i just wasn’t looking in the right places. i don’t really pay attention to the people around me.”

“well,” he said, voice warm and smug all at once, “lucky for me, you’re looking now.”

you scoffed lightly, looking away in an attempt to seem unfazed.

“don’t get too confident,” you muttered, taking a sip from your drink to hide the way your lips were twitching into a smile.

he chuckled, clearly catching it anyway.

“too late,” he said. “confidence is kind of my thing.”

you shook your head, setting your cup down. “so is being annoyingly smug, apparently.”

hongjoong leaned in just slightly, elbow on the table, eyes locked on yours. “only when it works.”

you tried to hold his gaze, tried to look unimpressed.

but your smile betrayed you.

just a faint curve of your lips—barely there, but enough.

he noticed. of course he did.

you sighed, shaking your head with mock defeat. “fine. maybe just a little.”

his grin widened, pleased.

“i’ll take it,” he said, sitting back like he’d won something.

and maybe he had.

you looked down at your hands, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of your cup once again.

“you’re not that bad to talk to,” you added softly, almost like an afterthought.

he glanced at you, something gentler settling in his expression. “you’re not either.”

you checked your phone for the time, seeing that it’s barely the early afternoon.

you looked back at him with a playful grin, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“well then,” you said, nudging your cup aside, “we should probably get going, shouldn’t we? we’ve got a whole day ahead of us.”

hongjoong raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. “is that your way of saying you’re spending the rest of the day with me?”

you stood, grabbing your bag along with the groceries you had bought earlier and tossing him a look over your shoulder. “you did promise me pastries, didn’t you?”

he laughed, standing up to follow. “right. pastries. totally not just an excuse to keep you around.”

he reached out to take the grocery bags from your hands, glancing toward the parking lot.

“want to leave these in my car for now?” he offered.

you hesitated, shaking your head lightly. “oh, i don’t want to bother you with anything like that. i can just carry them.”

he frowned, already taking the bags. “there’s no need when my car’s parked right around the corner. we can just drop them off and grab them again before you head home.”

he paused, then added, softer, “and… you’d never be a bother.”

you scrunched your nose at him playfully. “let me find out you’re just doing this to trap me into spending more time with you.”

he smirked, eyes gleaming. “don’t act like you don’t enjoy my company, princess.”

you stuck your tongue out at him in response, and he chuckled, shaking his head.

you walked beside him as he led the way to his car, your steps light, the atmosphere warmer than the sun beaming overhead.

“so,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, “do you make it a habit to charm girls with pastries and trunk space?”

he laughed under his breath. “only the ones who sketch strangers in cafés and pretend they don’t know what effect they have.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

“that was oddly specific,”you muttered.

“maybe,”he said, unlocking his car,“but not untrue.”

he opened the trunk and gently set your bags inside like they were something fragile.

you watched quietly for a second, something soft settling in your chest.

he wasn’t just charming—he was attentive. and that scared you a little more than you wanted to admit.

“there,”he said, turning back to you, brushing his hands off with a grin. “safe and sound. now you’re free to roam the world with me.”

“wow,” you said, crossing your arms. “you’re dramatic and efficient.”

“away can i say?” he agreed proudly. “i’m multitalented.”

“oh, whatever,” you said, brushing him off with mock exasperation.

but the smile on your face betrayed you—soft, unshakable, and real.

your cheeks were starting to ache from how much you’d smiled around him, and it hadn’t even been that long.

he noticed.

of course he did.

his eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, warm and amused, like he was committing the expression to memory.

and for a second, neither of you said anything.

just silence.

comfortable.

curious.

close.

“well then,” he said, closing the trunk with a soft thud, “where to now?”

you pursed your lips, eyes drifting upward like you were consulting the sky for answers.

then something flickered behind your gaze.

“there’s a thrift store nearby—right next to the café we were just at. there’s also an antique shop,” you added, pointing back toward the direction you came from. “tucked behind that little bookstore with the crooked sign.”

hongjoong raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “you thrift?”

you shrugged, smiling. “i like finding things with a little history. books, trinkets… they always feel like they belonged to someone else’s story first.”

you hesitated, then added,“plus, i think i need a change of style. the one i have doesn’t feel like me anymore.”

his smile softened, something thoughtful in the way he looked at you. “so you’re sentimental and mysterious. noted.”

you bumped your shoulder against his lightly as you turned to walk. “are you coming or what?”

“wouldn’t miss it,” he said, already falling in step beside you.

you both talked as you walked toward the store, your steps light, laughter slipping out more often than you expected. everything felt easy with him—oddly enough. but you didn’t question it. at least not now.

inside, the two of you drifted from aisle to aisle, exchanging jokes and teasing remarks as you browsed.

hongjoong would stop in front of the most absurd little trinkets, pointing dramatically.

“what the heck? what are you doing here?” he’d say to a tiny ceramic deer or a glittery gnome.

at one point, he held up a figure of two frogs dancing, looking at you with a deadpan expression. “this could literally be us.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “shut up,” you muttered, grinning so hard your cheeks ached.

while digging through a rack of clothes, you found a shirt with an atrocious graphic and immediately held it up.

“hongjoong,” you called, voice laced with fake seriousness. “this is so you. you’d look amazing.”

he gasped in amazement and replied without missing a beat,“oh, i could totally rock that.”

the store echoed with your shared laughter as you each picked through clothes, sometimes seriously, sometimes not.

he helped you find a few genuinely cute pieces, giving you his full opinion with surprising thoughtfulness.

and you did the same, holding things up to his frame, joking but also quietly noting what actually suited him.

at one point, you spotted a necklace tucked away between two display trays—silver, understated, something about it just… reminded you of him.

it seemed to have another piece to it that completes it, but even after searching between the shelves you had no luck of finding the other half.

without a word, you slipped it into your cart, hidden beneath a jacket.

you weren’t sure when or how you’d give it to him—you just knew you wanted to.

after paying for your things, the two of you wandered down the street toward the antique shop. the energy between you hadn’t faded—it lingered, easy and familiar, like a song stuck on loop but one you didn’t mind hearing.

“so,” hongjoong started, glancing over at you with a curious tilt of his head, “how’d you even find all these places?”

you pursed your lips slightly, thinking. “well i was running an errand. went to the grocery store i always go to when i’m back home. but after i got what i needed, i didn’t really feel like going back yet. so i wandered a bit and noticed they added a café next to the thrift shop i always go to—which is just across the street from the grocery store.”

you shrugged. “as for the antique shop, it’s always been there. i honestly don’t even remember how i found it. it just sort of appeared one day and i never stopped going. it’s been my holy grail ever since. i always find the best stuff there.”

you turned to him, giving him a mock serious look as you pointed a finger at his chest. “so don’t go around telling people or else.”

you narrowed your eyes playfully. “i’m dead serious. if i show up one day and it’s suddenly packed, i’m blaming you.”

he laughed, holding up his hands in surrender before looking around confused. “antique shop? what antique shop?”

you grinned, satisfied. “good. that’s what i like to hear.”

you reached for his hand without a second thought, instinct guiding you as you tugged him toward the shop. “c’mon then.”

you turned to him, a spark of mischief dancing in your eyes and a smile playing on your lips. “we don’t have all day.”

you caught him off guard with the sudden pull, but when you glanced back at him, his hesitation melted into a smile, and he followed without missing another beat.

the bell chimed when you both walked into the door. the smell of the store surrounded you both quickly.

the air was thick with the scent of aged wood, worn leather, and old paper—like time trapped in dust and sunlight. there was something faintly sweet beneath it all, maybe dried flowers or old perfume lingering on forgotten fabrics.

hongjoong looked around, eyes wide with quiet wonder. you smiled. “cool, huh?”

he turned to you with a gleam in his eye—like he was seeing something even better than the store. your smile deepened, and without a word, you tugged him across the shop.

once you made it to the other end, you let go of his hand and turned to face him fully.

“i like to start at the back and make my way up,” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice. “it’s better that way. it’s only fair that i show you the proper way to shop around here.” you finished with a wink, already half-turning like you expected him to follow.

you moved through the shelves and displays, casually browsing, but your eyes kept drifting back to check if hongjoong was still behind you. he was.

you didn’t really need to look—you could feel him there, his presence steady and close but something in you liked the reassurance.

when you’d grabbed his hand earlier, you didn’t mean to and it hadn’t been a full hold—your fingers weren’t interlaced, just touching.

but now, with that small contact gone, it left a strange sort of absence.

PART II

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ MIV— this was going to be one part but.. it said i have a 1000 text block limit. i promise there’s more, i just was forced to have it in more than one part.. sorry guys. i’ve had this in drafts for a while, i started this on may 14... part two has been started already but im far away from finished. also, i’m sorry for being gone for longer than i promised, there has been a lot going on right now. i also have some ideas for the other members in this same au, just different tropes.

please DO NOT steal, plagiarize, copy, repost, alter, or translate ANY of my works in any way.

#ateez #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez imagines #ateez hongjoong #hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong x you #hongjoong x y/n #ateez angst #hongjoong angst #kim hongjoong #kim hongjoong x reader #kim hongjoong fanfic #kim hongjoong angst #hongjoong fanfic #mivsheart

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twistedheartsclub · 1 day ago

Text

A Cage Built From Vows Male X Female Reader

⚠️ Domestic abuse • Psychological manipulation • Non-consensual sex • Kidnapping • Gaslighting • Obsession • Forced captivity • Pregnancy under coercion • Emotional trauma • Power imbalance • Grooming • Court corruption • Threats to child safety

⚠️ Trigger Warning & Disclaimer:

This story is a work of fiction. It contains dark and disturbing themes, including emotional and physical abuse, coercion, forced captivity, non-consensual sex, and psychological manipulation. These elements are intentionally exaggerated to explore power, control, and trauma through a fictional fantasy lens and are not meant to romanticize or excuse real-world abuse.

This story is not suitable for all readers and may be triggering—please prioritize your mental and emotional health while reading. If you need to step away, you should. Your safety and peace of mind come first.

If you or someone you love is experiencing abuse, there is help available. You are not alone, and you are not to blame. There are people who will believe you, support you, and help you find a way out.

U.S. National Domestic Violence Hotline:

📞 1-800-799-7233

💬 Or text “START” to 88788

🌐 Visit www.thehotline.org for live chat and resources

You are worthy of love that does not hurt. You deserve safety, healing, and hope.

Please reach out

“Don’t touch me—no, let go!” Y/N screamed, shoving her husband’s hands off her with trembling fury. Her vision was blurred with tears as she clawed more clothes from the drawers, stuffing them into the open suitcase sprawled across the bed. Her sobs were ragged, her breath sharp and desperate. She was shaking, but she moved fast, methodically—grabbing socks, her nightgown, her daughter’s stuffed animals.

She could barely breathe.

In the other room, their two-year-old slept peacefully, still napping from the warm afternoon lull that had once held the promise of a quiet evening. Y/N had been slicing vegetables when the text came in. A random number. Unknown. The photos had loaded slowly—first, one of him and his secretary in the elevator. Another in the office parking garage. And the final one… in bed, limbs tangled, sheets barely covering them. The timestamp from just days ago.

And then the message:

“Just thought you should know.”

Everything in her shattered. And now, here she was, desperate to flee before her baby woke up, before she broke down even more.

Her husband loomed near the doorway—tall, broad, the very image of strength and stability. But now, with panic spreading across his face, that image cracked. His voice trembled with disbelief and rising anger.

“Y/N, what the hell are you doing? What’s wrong?” He stepped forward, his hand reaching for her again.

“Where are you going? You’re not leaving me.”

His tone was sharp, desperate—and dangerous.

She turned on him like a flame.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned through clenched teeth.

“Don’t you fucking dare act like you don’t know why.”

He grabbed her by the upper arm, hard enough to make her wince, yanking her toward him until their faces were inches apart. His jaw clenched, stormy blue eyes blazing.

“Why are you like this?” he growled.

That question broke her.

Y/N laughed, bitter and shaking, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

“Why am I like this?” she spat. “You cheated on me. You touched her. You kissed her. You fucked her—and I saw the photos. Don’t pretend you’re confused!” Her voice cracked as she slammed a small pair of toddler shoes into the suitcase.

“I gave up everything for you. I gave you a home. A daughter. I loved you. I was going to tell you tonight—I’m pregnant again.” Her voice dropped to a whisper on the last part, and for a moment, the air went still.

He froze.

Her shoulders trembled as she gripped the zipper of the suitcase.

“But you don’t deserve to know anything more.” She stepped back from him, yanking her arm free.

“I’m taking our daughter and I’m leaving. You will not put your hands on me again. And if you try to stop me…”She looked up, eyes bloodshot, “…I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

He followed her down the hallway like a shadow, heavy footsteps trailing behind her as she entered their daughter’s room. The soft hum of a lullaby toy buzzed faintly in the background. Her hands were shaking as she reached for the small suitcase at the foot of the crib, hurriedly packing pajamas, her daughter’s favorite toy bunny, a bottle.

But then—

“Where would you even go?! Fuck, just stop—” his voice thundered behind her as he lunged, grabbing the suitcase from her grip and flinging it aside. Toys scattered across the floor. Y/N gasped, spinning around—only for his arms to clamp around her, pulling her back against his chest with a jarring force.

“You’re not leaving me, god damn it.”

She struggled in his grip, kicking at his legs, trying to push him off, but he was too strong—too tall, too solid. With brute force, he began shuffling her backward, out of the nursery and back into the bedroom, his hands still locked around her waist.

“Let me go!” she screamed, nails digging into his arms.

“You don’t get to control me anymore, I’m done—”

SMACK.

The sound rang out like a gunshot. Her head jerked to the side, her cheek searing in pain. She staggered slightly in his grip, stunned, one hand flying to her face.

The tears came harder now—hot, bitter, and full of disbelief. She looked up at him, stunned, breath caught in her throat. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, but his eyes… they had shifted. The fury was gone, replaced by a twisted calmness. A terrifying kind of softness.

“She meant nothing to me, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and eerily gentle now. “You’re the one I love. The love of my fucking life. I would never leave you. Never.” His hand reached out, fingers brushing against her stinging cheek as he cupped her face like a man soothing a frightened animal.

“She tricked me. That bitch—she’s going to pay for what she’s done.”

She flinched, her heart pounding.

“You hit me,” she whispered, barely able to speak the words.

But he just leaned in, pressing a kiss to her red, swollen cheek.

“You needed to calm down,” he murmured, voice low and sickeningly sweet. “This kind of stress? It’s not good for you. Not good for our baby.” He let his hand drift lower, spreading across her stomach, possessive and warm.

“Let’s talk calmly now, okay?” His smile was soft. Deceptive. Dangerous.

Y/N, frozen in fear, barely nodded. Her sniffle was barely audible.

Because now she knew.

She wasn’t just fighting a man who had betrayed her.

She was trapped with someone who would never let her leave.

Y/N flinched again when his fingers brushed her skin—soft now, almost reverent—as if the man who had just struck her could erase the bruise with a touch. He gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and she didn’t dare move. Her breath hitched as he wiped away the tears streaming silently down her face, the pad of his thumb lingering too long, too intimately.

She said nothing—only nodded at his request to “talk calmly.” Her voice had vanished somewhere inside her chest, locked behind panic and disbelief. Her arms hung limp at her sides as he watched her, searching her face for compliance, for surrender. And when he found it, even if it was only fear masquerading as submission, he smiled.

That soft, crooked smile he used to give her when she’d wake in the morning beside him.

Then—he kissed her.

Hard.

Desperate.

His mouth crashed into hers, hungry and demanding, tasting like guilt and power and something darker. His hand held the back of her head, angling her just how he wanted, while the other slid down her back, pressing her flush against him. She whimpered, her body going rigid, but he groaned like he missed her, like this was love.

She didn’t kiss him back—but he didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he didn’t care.

When he pulled back, breath ragged, lips red, he whispered against her mouth:

“That’s my girl.”

Y/N blinked slowly, trying to ground herself. Her lips trembled. Her skin burned where he touched her. Somewhere in the other room, the faint sound of their daughter stirring broke through the tension.

She swallowed hard.

She would play along—for now.

But inside, something had broken.

Her hands trembled as she stirred the sauce, the wooden spoon clinking softly against the pot. The scent of garlic and herbs filled the kitchen, but to Y/N it smelled like nothing—tasted like ash in her mouth. Her stomach was a knot of dread.

He hovered behind her. Too close. Always too close.

“Smells good, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and warm like everything was normal—as if he hadn’t just slapped her hours ago, as if she hadn’t tried to flee with their child, as if he hadn’t destroyed the very core of her.

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

His arms snaked around her from behind, looping around her waist like iron. He pressed a kiss to her neck, then another—his breath hot against her skin. His hips moved forward, slow and deliberate, until she felt the firm shape of his arousal grind softly against her lower back, still separated by fabric but unmistakably there.

Her entire body went still.

The spoon faltered in her hand, nearly slipping from her grip.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered. “Back in your place. Making dinner for our family.” He inhaled her scent, sighing like he was content—like this was love, not the aftermath of a prison.

Y/N stared down at the bubbling pot, jaw tight, stomach twisting.

She knew what he wanted.

The way his hands started to drift lower. The way his cock throbbed through his slacks against her spine. The way he called her baby again, like nothing had changed, like she was still his obedient, docile wife.

And maybe… maybe she was.

Maybe she had to be.

Because what would happen if she pushed him away again?

Would he raise his hand? Would he grip her arm too tightly? Would he turn violent with something worse than a slap?

Her cheek still throbbed from earlier. And she wasn’t just protecting herself now.

She placed the spoon down carefully, forcing her voice steady.

“Can you check on her?” she whispered, barely able to meet his eyes over her shoulder.

He blinked, surprised by her soft tone. Then he smiled—slow and satisfied.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing a final kiss behind her ear. “Of course.”

As he stepped away, Y/N’s hands gripped the counter, knuckles white.

She didn’t know how much longer she could do this.

But one thing was clear.

She had to get out.

And next time… she couldn't get caught.

He entered the kitchen with their sleepy daughter nestled in his arms, her small hands rubbing at her eyes as she blinked up at the bright lights. He whispered sweet nothings to her, brushing kisses to her forehead, her nose, her tiny cheeks—soft, patient, loving. The picture of a devoted father.

Y/N stood at the stove, watching with a hollow ache in her chest. He could be so gentle. So warm. So perfect.

Why did he have to be like this?

Why did his love always come wrapped in violence and control?

Dinner passed in relative silence. He talked in a calm, pleasant tone, occasionally brushing her hand as if trying to pretend the slap never happened. Y/N nodded, answered when needed, smiled faintly when their daughter made a mess with her fork.

Afterward, she cleaned the kitchen, then took her daughter upstairs for a bath. The child giggled and splashed, tugging at Y/N’s sleeves, asking her questions she couldn’t answer—like why her eyes were red or why she was “so quiet tonight.”

Y/N read her a short story—something about a cloud and a butterfly—but her daughter grew distracted quickly, drifting off halfway through. Once she was tucked in, Y/N showered alone. She wore a soft nightgown, rubbing lotion into her arms as the mirror fogged behind her. Her belly, still flat but warm with life, ached faintly.

She emerged from the bathroom to find him in bed, glasses on, typing something on his laptop. He looked over at her with a smile—like the world was perfect—and she smiled faintly back, heart pounding.

When he leaned in for a kiss, she gave it to him.

Then she crawled under the covers, turning away and curling up, blanket pulled tight around her body. Eyes closed. Breath held.

Around midnight, she awoke to the press of him inside her.

No warning. No words.

Just grunts of “I love you,” his lips on her neck, his hands cupping her hips. Her body limp with exhaustion, eyes staring at the wall.

She didn’t fight. She didn’t cry. She let it happen.

Because fighting only delayed the inevitable.

And the next morning, as if nothing happened, she woke before him. Made his breakfast. Poured his coffee. Laid out his clothes.

She dressed her daughter in a pretty dress, even added a matching bow to her hair. Her heart pounded in her chest when she stepped down the final stair to find him at the door, patting his pockets for his wallet and keys.

When he saw her, holding their daughter’s hand, his entire face lit up.

“Look at my girls,” he said proudly. He scooped the child into his arms and leaned in, giving Y/N a deep, passionate kiss. She forced herself to kiss him back, swallowing hard, bile rising in her throat.

“We’re going to the library today,” she said gently. “Story time. I thought I might look for some books for myself too.”

He nodded, brushing her hair behind her ear, kissing her forehead.

“Text me when you get there and when you leave, alright, darling?”

“Of course,” she whispered.

He left, keys jingling, her daughter waving from the window. As soon as his car disappeared down the road, Y/N turned away—her chest heaving.

Today had to be the day.

She couldn’t survive another night.

Not for herself.

And not for her daughter.

The library was quiet, peaceful. Soft murmurs between pages, the hum of fluorescent lights, the occasional delighted squeal from the children’s room behind glass. Y/N sat near the window, pretending to scroll through her phone, but her eyes never left her daughter, who sat on a colorful carpet inside the children’s reading room, her tiny hands flipping through board books.

She was safe. For now.

A soft voice broke through her thoughts.

“Y/N?”

She turned, startled, eyes meeting a familiar face—Iris Vale, her husband’s younger sister. She was dressed sharply in a fitted blazer and heels, her dark curls pinned back from her face. A sleek laptop bag hung from her shoulder, and the lanyard around her neck still bore the name of a corporate consulting firm.

“Oh my God—you’re glowing,” Iris said warmly, pulling her into a brief hug. But when she pulled back, her expression shifted, catching the look in Y/N’s eyes.

That look. Hollow. Tired. Sad.

Iris glanced past her, to the children’s room.

“Is everything okay?”

Y/N hesitated. Her lips trembled.

And then it poured out, like floodgates breaking.

“He’s cheating on me.”

Iris blinked, shocked still for a moment.

“Wait… Grayson?”

Y/N nodded quickly, wiping her eyes.

“I saw the photos. Someone sent them to me. It was his secretary. And I—” she cut herself off, lowering her voice. “I don’t know what to do. I want to leave, but… I’m scared.”

Iris exhaled slowly, the pieces clicking into place behind her eyes. She didn’t touch Y/N—didn’t crowd her—but her voice was firm. Gentle.

“I just came from a meeting,” she said softly, motioning to the rooms nearby. “Come on. Let’s go get lunch. Talk. Bring the baby. We’ll go somewhere quiet.”

Y/N hesitated, but her feet moved anyway.

Lunch, in a small family-run café just down the street, felt unreal. Y/N sat across from Iris, her daughter in a highchair coloring with a kids’ menu and crayons. The warmth of soup in front of her didn’t quite reach her chest.

“I’m pregnant again,” Y/N confessed quietly, stirring her spoon. “I was going to tell him that night. But then I got the photos. I can’t trust him—I don’t feel safe around him anymore.”

Iris leaned back, crossing her arms, eyes narrowed.

“I always hated that snide blonde bitch.” She rolled her eyes. “She’s had her claws in him since the holiday party. I told him she was trouble, and of course he acted like I was jealous.”

Y/N looked up, startled.

“You knew?”

“I suspected,” Iris admitted. “But he always played the perfect husband card so well, and you never said a word. I didn’t want to overstep. But Y/N—if he hit you, even once—”

Y/N lowered her head.

Iris’s voice dropped, sharper now.

“You need to get out. Don’t wait. Not for him. Not for the illusion.”

Y/N nodded slowly, tears threatening again.

Iris reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“You’re not alone. I’ll help you.”

Grayson Vale sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his tailored navy suit crisp, a silver watch glinting under the office lights. He was 38, commanding in stature—6’3, broad-shouldered, impeccably groomed. His chiseled features were only sharpened by the cold edge in his eyes, the kind of gaze that silenced boardrooms and bent the wills of weaker men.

His corner office overlooked the city skyline—floor-to-ceiling windows behind him painting him in golden light, like some false idol. But inside, Grayson seethed.

He slammed the laptop shut, veins in his temple pulsing. His jaw locked as he stood and turned toward the trembling woman near the door—his secretary, Madeline, blonde, early 30s, with bruised lipstick and a tear-streaked face.

“She was bound to find out,” Madeline said coldly, one arm cradling her ribs as she wiped the blood from her split lip. “You smack your wife like that too? Like a bitch?”

Grayson’s glare darkened.

“You told her?” His voice was deathly quiet, but his rage buzzed beneath every word.

Madeline sneered.

“She deserves better than you. And I’m not sorry. I was tired of hiding. I thought…” her voice cracked. “I thought you loved me.”

Grayson stepped forward—swift, brutal. The back of his hand cracked across her cheek again with enough force to stagger her. She let out a small cry, hand flying to her face as she hit the wall behind her.

“I told you,” he hissed, towering over her now. “I would never leave my wife. Never. You were a distraction. A convenience.”

His lip curled.

“I gave you what women claw each other apart for—a condo, a car, fucking diamonds. And this is how you repay me?”

Madeline’s mascara ran down her cheeks as she trembled, her voice reduced to a whisper.

“I want you. Can’t you see how much I love you?”

She reached out, desperate fingers clutching for his chest, for his arms—anything.

Grayson stepped back, disgusted.

“Don’t touch me.”

He brushed her off with a sharp shove that sent her stumbling.

Then he turned his back, straightening his cuffs, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket like she was nothing.

“You’re dismissed,” he said flatly. “Don’t bother coming back.”

Madeline stood frozen, eyes wide and red, as the door slammed shut behind her. Alone again.

Grayson exhaled slowly and moved to the window, watching the traffic snake through the city below. His jaw clenched.

She was slipping away.

His wife was slipping away.

And now—he had a decision to make.

Dinner was nearly ready. The house was warm from the oven, the smell of rosemary and lamb clinging to the air like perfume. Everything was spotless. Intentional. The cushions were fluffed, the toys tucked away. The candles were lit—not for romance, but for appearance. Y/N had spent the afternoon in a haze of performance, desperate to keep the peace.

Her hands were trembling, but she kept chopping. She had to look normal.

Her daughter sat in the highchair, sticky fingers curled around apple slices, babbling nonsense. Y/N offered her a shaky smile, brushing sweat from her brow. Her sundress clung lightly to her body, thin straps slipping from her shoulders—chosen carefully. Everything tonight had to feel safe.

Then—

The door opened.

She didn’t have to look. She felt it. Felt him.

Grayson’s presence was something physical—thick and oppressive, like gravity had shifted.

The door clicked shut.

She stood completely still, heart pounding in her throat.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Confident.

“Mmm… smells good.”

Before she could react, arms snaked around her from behind—wrapping around her waist, dragging her against his chest. She flinched involuntarily, the knife in her hand clinking against the counter as her body stiffened.

“You always do this for me,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. He kissed her cheek—slow, claiming. “You always know just how to make me feel at home.”

His hand slid down, over her stomach, resting there. The motion wasn’t affectionate—it was possessive. She could feel the weight of his cock, hard through his slacks, pressing against the curve of her backside. He rocked slightly against her, groaning like it was love.

But it wasn’t.

It was ownership.

“My girls,” he said again. “My good little wife… my perfect little family.”

Y/N forced a smile. Her fingers clenched the counter until her knuckles turned white.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know I saw Iris.

He doesn’t know what we talked about.

He can’t know.

He turned her around then, so fast her breath caught.

“Hi,” she whispered, barely able to keep her voice steady.

And then—he kissed her.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. He shoved his mouth over hers, lips bruising, his tongue pushing past her teeth like a man marking his territory. One hand slid up her spine, gripping the back of her neck to hold her in place. His other hand trailed lower—possessive, firm, resting right above the swell of her ass.

Y/N kissed him back.

Because she had to.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes glittered with something dark. Something dangerous.

“How was lunch?” he asked casually, but there was a sharp edge beneath the words.

Her blood ran cold.

He knows.

He doesn’t know—but he suspects.

She felt herself shrinking under his stare, heat prickling her skin. She shifted her weight nervously, glancing toward their daughter, who had paused in her snack to hum at her toy.

“Fine,” Y/N replied quickly, too quickly.

Grayson’s eyes narrowed.

He reached out and took her wrist. Not hard—not like before—but firm. Controlling.

“Next time, let me know where you’re going. Okay?”

Y/N nodded instantly.

“Okay. I will.”

His expression softened. He leaned in and kissed her lips again, this time slower, almost tender—but laced with unspoken threat.

“Good girl.”

As he stepped away, going to the table to pour himself a drink, Y/N stood frozen at the counter, chest tight.

He’s watching me.

He knows something is wrong.

And still—Iris’s words clung to her like a lifeline.

“Don’t wait. Not for him. Not for the illusion.”

Y/N exhaled shakily and turned back to the stove.

The bedroom was dimly lit, a single lamp casting golden shadows across the walls. The sheets twisted around her legs, damp with sweat. Her sundress had been torn aside long ago, pushed up to her waist as her husband moved over her—strong, relentless, claiming every inch of her like she was nothing but his possession.

Grayson’s hips rocked into her steadily, his breath hot against her neck. Y/N lay beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms loosely draped over his shoulders. Her body responded from muscle memory, the way it always did—soft, pliant, accommodating.

But her mind was elsewhere.

He groaned, kissing along her collarbone before dipping lower, taking her breast into his mouth. His tongue circled her nipple, sucking greedily as if it already belonged to him.

“Mmm,” he murmured, voice thick with lust. “Not long now. Milk will come soon… I can feel it. Can’t wait to taste it.”

Y/N shuddered.

His words made her stomach curl.

He came inside her with a low grunt, pressing deep, hips stuttering as he clung to her body, his fingers digging into her hips as if trying to root himself there forever. He always came inside. Always. He said it was natural. That it was what husbands did.

She turned her face away.

A tear slid down her cheek.

As he collapsed beside her with a satisfied sigh, Grayson wrapped his arms around her from behind—spooning her tightly, his chest pressed to her back. One hand slid over her stomach, warm and firm, rubbing small circles just below her navel.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck. “So full, so soft. My wife. My girl.”

Y/N blinked up at the ceiling, eyes glassy.

And just like that—

She was pulled back into a memory. A life she once dreamed of.

She had been twenty, wide-eyed, idealistic, and full of plans. Studying to become a teacher, devoting herself to early childhood education. She adored children. She’d spent her summers volunteering at local programs, babysitting, helping cousins learn to read. She dreamed of a life surrounded by laughter and learning.

She wanted to finish school.

She wanted to travel.

She wanted to stand in front of a classroom, chalk in hand, shaping minds and lives.

Then she met him.

Grayson Vale. Thirty at the time, charming in a tailored coat, his eyes locked on her like she was the center of the universe. He spoke like a man who knew the world. Who could give her the world.

He wooed her fast. Flowers. Dinners. Promises of forever. Of safety. Of a life without struggle. And she fell. Hard.

When he proposed after just a few months, her parents were surprised—but happy. He flew her whole family out for a destination wedding on the coast of Spain. It was breathtaking.

And then… she became a wife. A full-time wife.

He convinced her to take a break from school. Just until the baby.

He insisted she didn’t need to work. He could provide.

He said she could finish her degree later. She had plenty of time.

And slowly, her dreams folded away like clothes no longer worn.

Now, lying in that bed with his seed still warm inside her, her daughter sleeping just across the hall, her swollen cheek still faintly tender from the day before—Y/N realized:

She didn’t even recognize herself anymore.

She wasn’t just grieving her safety.

She was grieving who she used to be.

Grayson kissed the back of her shoulder. His voice was thick with sleep.

“We should look at houses by the lake, huh? Raise our kids somewhere quiet.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

She just closed her eyes.

And let another tear fall.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind them, rattling in its frame.

Grayson’s grip on her collar didn’t loosen—he threw her forward, and she stumbled, catching herself on the edge of the bed.

“You think you’re leaving me?” he snarled behind her, yanking at the back of her dress. “You fucking whore, after everything I’ve done for you—”

The fabric tore violently, seams splitting with a sharp rip. She gasped, tried to turn around, but he grabbed her again—fingers like vices around her upper arm.

She kicked him.

Hard.

Her foot landed square against his shin, and he howled in pain—but it only made him angrier.

SMACK.

The slap rang through the room, snapping her head to the side. White-hot pain exploded across her cheekbone. She barely had time to react before another blow came—a backhand this time, splitting her lip.

“You think you’re strong now?” he spat, shoving her to the floor. “You think you can fight me? After all I’ve given you?”

Her eye throbbed. The room blurred. She tried to crawl away, but he grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her back toward him.

Her heart pounded like a war drum. Her daughter. Her daughter was downstairs. What if she woke up?

No. No. No.

His hands were on her again, tearing her bra down, growling something vile as he fumbled with his belt.

But through the chaos—through the blood and fear—Y/N saw the nightstand.

The lamp.

She reached with all the adrenaline-fueled rage and panic she had left, her fingers closing around the base.

And with a cry—she swung it.

The ceramic shattered on impact.

Grayson staggered back, eyes rolling, a groan caught in his throat as blood dripped from his temple.

Then—

He collapsed.

Right there on the bedroom floor.

Still.

Unmoving.

Y/N panted, chest heaving, her body trembling so violently she could barely stand. She stared at him, sprawled out across the floor, and for a terrifying second, she thought he might be dead.

But he groaned.

Alive.

And she knew—

She didn’t have much time.

She pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, not even bothering with a bra. Her hands shook as she snatched a duffel bag from the closet and shoved her daughter’s clothes into it—barefoot pajamas, her bunny, a small blanket. She didn’t stop to fold. She didn’t care. She threw in diapers, a bottle, whatever she could grab.

Down the stairs.

Her daughter stirred as she lifted her from the sofa.

“Mama?”

“It’s okay, baby. We’re going for a drive.”

Her voice cracked as she kissed her temple, strapping her into the car seat. Her hands were bloody. She didn’t even notice.

The keys jingled in her hand as she unlocked the door.

She looked back once—at the house she had been a prisoner in.

And then she drove.

The police station was cold. Too bright. Too sterile.

She burst through the doors in sweats and slippers, her daughter clinging to her neck.

The officer at the front desk stood immediately.

“Ma’am? Are you hurt?”

Y/N’s voice shook as she spoke.

“Please. I need help. He hit me. He tried—he wouldn’t stop—my husband. He’s unconscious, but he’ll wake up—he’ll come for us.”

The words broke in her throat.

She was crying, full-body sobs. Her daughter whimpered quietly, curling into her mother’s chest.

The officer escorted her back. She was offered water. A chair. An advocate.

She gave her statement with trembling lips. She showed the bruises—her eye swollen, her cheek raw, her lip cracked. She filed the report. She gave his full name: Grayson Vale.

And then—she gave Iris’s number.

Twenty minutes later, Iris burst through the doors, hair wild, blazer askew, face pale.

“Y/N,” she whispered, rushing forward to pull her into a hug. She froze when she saw her sister-in-law’s bruises. Her eyes welled up. “Jesus Christ… what did he do to you?”

Y/N sobbed harder.

“Everything.”

They held each other for a long time.

Then Iris kissed the top of Y/N’s head and took her hand.

“We’re going to fight. We’re going to burn him to the ground.”

That night, Iris drove her home—to her own place. A guest room was made up. Her daughter was given a warm bath, pajamas, and a soft bed.

Y/N couldn’t sleep. She sat on the edge of the bed in Iris’s house, knees hugged to her chest, the bruises aching—but for the first time, she breathed.

She got out.

The news reached Grayson Vale in his hospital bed, just hours after the police had come. The bruising on his skull had left a hairline fracture, but the real damage—the kind he cared about—was to his image.

His wife had filed a report.

Assault. Domestic battery. Fear for her child’s safety. An order of protection.

The words rang in his ears like a joke. A lie. And still—

The headlines never made it to print.

Because by the next day, Grayson had paid off the police chief, the intake officer, the clerk, and the internal file trail. Nothing stuck. His lawyer shredded the official copy of the statement. His PR team hushed up what little had leaked.

To the public?

There was no scandal.

To Grayson?

There was only rage.

He had given Y/N everything. A perfect life. A home. A child. A future. And this—this—was how she repaid him?

For weeks, she vanished.

No appearances. No outings. No updates. Not even a trip to the store.

His private men confirmed she was holed up at Iris’s townhouse, hiding like a pathetic, wounded animal. His daughter locked away from him. His unborn child being raised in betrayal.

He clenched his fist around the whiskey glass, jaw tight.

"She thinks this is over," he said aloud, pacing his office weeks later. “She thinks I’ll let her go?”

Iris refused to speak to him. She had taken a formal leave from their company, citing “family matters.” He knew what that meant.

She’s protecting her.

But she wouldn’t be able to for long.

Grayson was a man of power. Of wealth. Of patience. And the longer Y/N played this game, the more he planned. Carefully. Strategically.

Then—he made a decision.

He would play along.

The calls from her lawyer started coming in. Requests to settle. To mediate. She wanted full custody. She wanted freedom.

So Grayson did the unthinkable.

He agreed.

“I’ll sign the divorce papers,” he told the judge. “She’s clearly afraid. If this is what she wants, I’ll give it to her.”

The court hearing was scheduled for the following week.

Y/N and Iris would relax. They’d believe he’d given up.

They would walk into that courtroom believing they’d won.

And then?

He would take what was his.

The plan was precise.

Security rerouted.

Transport staged.

A private jet prepared.

The house—his second estate, tucked away in a rural region of Vermont—was stocked and waiting. Staff loyal to him alone. Surveillance installed in every room. The nursery restored.

Y/N would be escorted directly from the courthouse.

No one would stop it.

No one could.

She would learn obedience again. Slowly. Properly. He would recondition her—mind, body, soul—until she remembered who she was:

His wife.

His woman.

His property.

And by the time the world asked questions?

They would be long gone.

THE COURTHOUSE – THAT MORNING

Y/N sat stiffly at the plaintiff’s table, her hands clenched around the edge of the table, her body trembling in quiet anticipation. The courtroom was still. Polished. Impersonal. Iris sat beside her, offering the occasional touch to her hand, whispering reassurance. Y/N's lawyer, a sharp, fierce woman named Alma Reyes, stood ready beside them.

Grayson sat across the aisle, calm. Too calm.

He wore a crisp suit and a disarming half-smile, as if this entire process amused him.

But Y/N refused to look at him.

Her heart beat only for her daughter—safe in Iris’s care, waiting in the hallway with a book and her stuffed bunny. For her unborn child, who didn’t deserve to grow up in terror.

She wanted freedom. Nothing else.

Not the house. Not the money. Not his name.

Just peace.

When the judge entered, Y/N straightened. An older man—Judge Matthew Brecker—with a deep voice and a kind, fatherly face.

Too kind, Alma thought with a hint of unease.

“After reviewing the agreement,” Judge Brecker began, flipping through pages slowly, “and considering Mr. Vale’s voluntary cooperation, this court will—”

Y/N held her breath.

“—grant dissolution of marriage, full custody awarded to the mother. Assets remain with Mr. Vale as per petitioner’s request. The matter is hereby settled.”

The gavel came down.

It was done.

Y/N burst into tears.

Not from grief—but from relief.

Iris immediately stood, pulling her into a fierce embrace. Y/N clung to her like a lifeline, whispering over and over, “It’s over—it’s finally over.”

Iris kissed her cheek. “You did it, sweetheart. You’re free.”

They didn’t even glance at Grayson on the way out.

THE COURTHOUSE – BATHROOM

“I just need to take her to the bathroom,” Y/N whispered to Iris, holding her daughter’s tiny hand. “She’s been so patient. I’ll meet you at the car.”

Iris nodded without suspicion. “I’ll warm up the backseat for her nap.”

The bathroom was quiet. Y/N guided her daughter to the stall, helped her wash her hands, brushing her little curls out of her face as they giggled softly at the hand dryer’s noise.

The moment felt normal.

The first normal she had felt in months.

Until—

The door opened.

Heavy.

Purposeful.

Two men entered—dark suits, blank eyes. No uniforms. No hesitation.

Before Y/N could move, one grabbed her arm.

“Hey—!” she yelped, heart spiking, but the other had already scooped her daughter into his arms, muffling her cries with a hand over her mouth.

“Keep quiet,” one of them hissed, flashing a handgun tucked discreetly in his jacket. “You scream, your kid bleeds. Understand?”

Terror exploded in her chest.

She nodded—numbly. Frantically. Anything to keep her baby safe.

She was dragged out the back exit of the courthouse—through a restricted corridor, to a waiting black car. Iris would still be waiting at the curb, smiling. Unknowing.

Y/N’s phone was taken. Her bag too.

They shoved her into the back of the car. Her daughter sobbed against her chest. Y/N clutched her tight, whispering, “Mommy’s here, it’s okay,” even as her heart shattered.

20 MINUTES LATER

The car doors opened beside a sleek private jet parked on a rooftop airstrip, hidden from view. The sun was setting now, casting orange and pink hues across the city skyline.

And there—standing at the top of the jet’s stairs—was Grayson Vale.

Whiskey in hand.

A smirk carved into his face.

Y/N was pulled roughly from the car, her feet dragging, daughter clinging to her shoulder.

“Dadda!” the little girl squealed, arms stretching.

“I know, baby,” Grayson cooed, walking down the stairs to take her from the guard. “I missed you too.” He kissed her forehead, holding her like a prize.

Y/N sobbed, stumbling toward him.

“Please—Grayson, don’t do this. Don’t do this—”

“Shut up,” one of the guards snapped, shoving her forward.

“Careful,” Grayson barked, his smile curling into a sneer. “She’s pregnant.”

Y/N’s knees buckled.

He caught her arm and dragged her up the steps himself.

“You ran,” he whispered, almost lovingly. “You made a fool of me. In court. With my sister. But you forgot something, sweetheart.”

She shook her head, trembling, tears streaming down her face.

“You belong to me.”

He shoved her into one of the jet’s plush leather seats. A seatbelt clicked over her hips before she could move. Her daughter curled beside her, too young to understand, reaching for her bunny.

Grayson took the seat across from her, his glass of whiskey glinting in the cabin light.

And without another word, the jet engines roared to life.

The wheels lifted off the rooftop.

And the city she had nearly escaped fell away below them.

Gone.

Skip

The house was silent.

A wide, sprawling estate tucked deep into the hills—no neighbors for miles, no signal, no exit.

The windows were tall but barred.

The doors locked from the outside.

Inside, the walls were soft colors, warm wood floors. A perfect home. A picture of peace. But peace had never looked so much like prison.

Y/N sat on the porch in a white dress that wasn’t hers, hair brushed back the way he liked. Her daughter played quietly in the grass, drawing with chalk. The sun was golden, dipping low behind the hills. A breeze moved through the trees like a whisper.

From inside, Grayson watched them.

Glass of whiskey in hand.

Satisfied.

She didn’t try to run anymore.

He had erased her name from the world. Deleted her accounts. Severed her ties. No one knew where she was. No one dared to ask.

And she had learned.

Obedience.

Silence.

She smiled when he touched her now. Kissed him when he asked. Laid still when he climbed into bed. She was tired of fighting. Or maybe just too broken to remember how.

Sometimes she cried when he left the room.

But never when he was near.

Because she knew better.

And he?

He had everything.

His wife.

His daughter.

His heir on the way.

He stepped out onto the porch and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, kissing her temple like the loving husband he pretended to be.

“See?” he whispered, as their daughter giggled softly in the grass. “This is how it was always meant to be.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

Her eyes stayed on the horizon.

But she nodded.

Because in the end—he won.

And no one came to save her.

Because the villain always wins.

Not in stories.

In real life.

Where monsters wear wedding rings…

and call it love.

@cutelittlesugarfairy @lilyalone @alebrasil0101 @amanduhh1998 @bananaasfordewin @rachfart @hopingtoclearmedschool

#yandere #fantasy #x reader #dark fantasy #tw noncon #sfw noncom #dark romance #power dynamics #age g4p #breeding k1nk

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hanjicakes · 2 days ago

Text

꒰ 𝜗𝜚 ꒱ beware

synopsis .ᐟ - you and chris were never meant to work out, but when he shows up again, can you actually resist?

content info .ᐟ - nonidol!chan x gender neutral!reader, but the word 'girl' is used for reader once but in a slang way yk?, they both ain't shit, lots of mentions of alcohol, reader has canonically been to jail and has an alcohol problem, chris is an alleged cheater, chan referred to as chris

word count .ᐟ - 4.1k words

author ' s note .ᐟ - hey... it's been a while... my phone broke so lowkey wasn't focused but i'm here now!! this was in the drafts for a while and also can we tell i CANNOT write toxicity?? go easy on me guys

my mastrlist ૮₍›ᆺ ‹ ₎ა

You should’ve listened to your friends.

Your subconscious replays those words over and over again. You weren’t made for each other. You were terrible for each other. What made you think this could possibly work? Jealousy seeped into your bones, ran through your veins, and ruined every relationship you ever had. This time wasn’t any different— it never was.

You lean against the cool bar as you down the most recent drink you ordered. You had lost track of the number of glasses you sent back to the bartender. It didn’t matter much, anyways. They weren’t going to stop a paying customer, no matter how intoxicated they already were. The loud music doesn’t help the pangs in your head. The bass rattles through your core. It feels like you’ve been chucked into a giant blender with all the hateful words, the sour tears, and the glass bottles you finished alone and the only thing you can do is continue to drown yourself.

Slowly, you move away from the bar and towards the dance floor. Drunk, sweaty bodies crowd together to thrust and grind against each other in a practice that is nowhere near elegant or appropriate. You know you came with your friends and you glance around in hopes of spotting one of them. You spot one of them squished in a leather booth with a man you certainly didn’t know. Their mouths are connected in an almost animalistic way and they don’t seem to be letting go anytime soon. You look away and shudder slightly. Turning around to return back to your sanctuary at the bar, you recklessly run into a man standing off with his friends.

You barely recognize that you spilled your drink until the coldness seeps through your outfit. You mentally curse yourself for wearing something that stains easily. Your mind whirls with a possible response for this accident and the one you choose is to get defensive. You immediately stand up to your full height and grip your glass.

“Why the hell are you standing in the middle—” You begin, only for the words to die on the tip of your tongue. Bile bubbles inside your gut as you look eyes with the man who wasn’t much of a stranger at all. He stares down at you with a furrowed brow, his plush lips curled downwards into a disappointed scowl.

“You drink too damn much, you know that?” Chris says. His voice is low and you’re sure you are the only person who heard him. Despite all the music blasting, his words rattle through your core and shake your mind into a jumbled mess. You try to speak up again but nothing escapes your mouth except a weak whine. He looks at you as if you were nothing more than a waste of time— a disappointment who drained the life out of him. On one hand, you did. You sucked out everything he had to offer and then more. On the other hand, he made your life a living hell.

Maybe you were meant for each other. In some sick, disgusting way.

The crinkle of fast food wrappers is almost like music to your ears. You and your friends had just spent the last few hours walking around the new shopping mall in your city and were, quite frankly, worn out. You sat on the hard, plastic food court chair, slurping on your slushy while two of your friends bickered over which movie you all would see later. One argued that a thriller was getting better reviews online. You didn’t care too much about what you guys would go see. You reach across the table and break off a piece of the soft pretzel you purchased.

A warm feeling of comfort settles over you as you watch your friends chatter away with each other. Life had gotten so busy for all of you that you rarely spent time together anymore. As the argument over movies gets more heated, you decide it’s time to intervene before they claw at each other’s throats. Parting your lips to speak, a deep masculine voice speaks up and causes your friends to go silent.

“You guys are trying to go see Scream?” He asks. His lips raise into a smile and he shows off a pair of teeth that are white enough to make even a dentist envious. His cheeks dip slightly and two dimples make their appearance. He was undeniably handsome with slightly ruffled hair and loose curls. He had an accent when he spoke, too. You weren’t sure where it was from— it wasn’t British but it didn’t seem American, either.

“Yeah… What about it?” Your friend, Sana, speaks up. There’s a slight smile forming on her face as she looks over him. You almost chuckle at how she isn’t able to hide her attraction. Part of you can’t blame her. He looks like he could’ve been sculpted out of marble. His smile widens a bit at her sharp response. Your head tilts slightly as you watch him formulate a response.

“Me and a few of my mates,” He says, gesturing to two other men sitting in another booth. One wears a black tank top while the other is basically drowning in his hoodie. “We were plannin’ on seeing that movie too, y’know? Thought you guys might want to see it with us.”

You glance over to your friends and raise your eyebrows. You weren’t completely opposed to going out with them… This man— who you still didn’t know the name of, oddly enough— seemed nice enough. You lean in closer to your friends to whisper between each other.

“He’s cute.” You mutter, letting your eyes flicker over his sturdy frame for a second too long. He spots your gaze easily and gives you a small wave.

“Please, don’t start right now…” Soyeon says. Out of the quirky characters that made up your friend group, Soyeon seemed to be the most level headed on. She was headstrong and made the better decisions of the group. Still, most people didn’t take her advice.

“We should go.” Sana blurts out, “Him and his friends are cute. And, the movie theater is a public place. They can’t axe murder us there, right? We could use some fun…”

After a few moments of hesitation, Soyeon nods her head. The three of you pull back and look back at the man in front of your table.

“What’s your name?” Soyeon asks. Her tone doesn’t allow him any chance to avoid the question.

“Just call me Chris, yeah?”

︶︶︶︶

The movie theater is almost dead silent as the audience waits for the unexpected twist. Unfortunately, the movie wasn’t as good as the reviews made it seem. While it did have a few comedic moments, the plot was rather predictable and the same as any other slasher movie. Your fingers drum on the side of your leather recliner and your eyes are glued to the screen. You know if you look away, you’ll make a fool of yourself. After a minor argument with Sana, you managed to claim the seat next to Chris. She and Soyeon sat next to his friends, who were decent guys in their own right.

You can’t help but steal a glance at him. He seems to be focused on the movie. Your nails dig into the seat before turning back to the large screen in front of you. Just as you were about to forget about the ungodly handsome man beside you, he leans in to whisper to you.

“Are you nervous?” He mutters. His warm breath fans over your ear and you swear you feel goosebumps form over your skin. You take a moment to mentally prepare yourself to look at him.

“No,” You lie. You were nervous, just not because of the film. You were nervous because you were already ridiculously obsessed with a guy you know damn near nothing about. Your mind ridicules you for being so careless with these things but Lord knows you could never stop wearing your heart on your sleeve. “Just… Bored, I guess. This movie is kinda shitty.”

He snickers at your statement and that simple sound sends butterflies whirling around inside your stomach. A small grin forms without your control.

“Shitty, yeah? Well, I’d have to agree with that.”

“Mh…” You hum. “Uh, hey… Where are you from?”

He lets out a faint hum in acknowledgement of your question before actually responding. “Australia. Why?”

“You just have an accent. I couldn’t figure out where it was from.”

“Yeah, I mean, I get that a lot. Have you ever been to Australia?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I could take you, y’know.”

You look over to him and meet his eyes. Something in you tells you he is being dead serious and you furrow your brows.

“Why would you do that? We just met, you don’t know me.”

“Yeah, well…” He murmurs, glancing back towards the screen. The main character is trying to find a hiding place but clumsily trips over a loose extension cord. There’s a few quiet groans emitted from the audience. Chris turns back to you.

“Maybe I want to get to know you.”

The bitter taste of cheap alcohol lingers in your mouth and forces you to lick your lips. Your mouth felt so damn dry, it was insane. You pull your knees up to your chest while shifting slightly over the leather seats of Chris’s car. You weren’t sure when you left the party. Part of you could still hear the music ringing in your ears so mauve you were just parked outside? All you really remember was your friends telling you not to leave.

“Girl, we just got here!” Sana protested. Soyeon stood beside her with crossed arms and a grimace.

“Are you seriously leaving us for a man…?” Soyeon muttered. She sounded like a mother. One who was most certainly disappointed in the choices her too drunk daughter was making. You rolled your eyes.

“We’ll only be gone for, like, five minutes… We’ll come back before the party ends, alright?”

The words were pretty disingenuous. You weren’t sure when you and Chris would come back and, frankly, you didn’t care. He could keep you all night if he really wanted to. You are pulled back to your reality when you feel soft tugging on a strand of your hair. Chris is sitting beside you in the backseat, mindlessly fidgeting with the locks of hair. You brush his hand away and stare at him slightly. The corners of his eyes were tinged with red, but he held a big gummy smile on his face.

You poke your finger inside his dimple and chuckle slightly. “What are you smiling for? We’re just sitting here…”

“Well,” He murmurs, “You’re pretty and I’ve got you in my car. I think that’s a reason to smile.”

“And, why exactly are we in the car…?” You question. Your hand moves down to caress the curve between his neck and shoulder. He leans faintly into the touch and you feel his hand begin to roam over your back. His palms were soft and warm despite the air being on in the car.

“Why don’t you tell me why?”

The both of you are quiet for a second. The alcohol flowing through you has you feeling a bit bold— more bold than you probably should. You snake your hand into his dark brown locks and tug on the curls. He lets out a faint grunt, one that you probably wouldn’t have noticed if it were anyone but him. It’s like all of your senses are on high alert around him. You don’t want to miss a single detail about him. You pull his head down a bit so you can meet his lips in a drunken kiss. It’s rough at first, trying to guide his head, but you both manage. His lips are soft and the faint taste of bubblegum and beer linger on his tongue. His fingers dig into the soft skin of your hip as he leans in closer, absorbing the heat you emit.

“Damn,” Chris mutters. His words only add fuel to the fire inside your gut and don’t let him go— not until you both are breathless and weak.

You pant lightly while pushing back some of your hair. Looking up at Chris sends a slight shock through your body. How could one kiss leave you feeling electrified?

“Do you wanna head back now…?” You ask quietly. The whirl of the air conditioning in his car fills the quiet between your words.

“Nah, I think we can stay here…”

︶︶︶︶

Six months was a hell of a long time. You weren’t sure the last time you committed to something for that long, but you managed to commit to Chris. Unsurprisingly, many people doubted that you would last. Well, basically everyone did. Your friends always told you to take things slow and now to rush things because that’s how you get your heartbroken. It’s safe to say you didn’t listen because after two months of dating, you had already met his parents. Now, on the six month anniversary, you were about to make the biggest commitment of your life.

“A tattoo!?” Your friends say so loud, it makes a few people standing nearby uncomfortable.

“It’s not like it’s going to be his face or anything…” You murmur, stirring around your coffee with a wooden stirrer. “It’s a cute thing, stop acting like I’m fucking crazy.”

Soyeon scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You sure as hell are if you are getting a tattoo with this guy. It hasn’t even been a year! You always rush these things and—”

“You’re going to be looking for tattoo removal places in three months, y'know. Your relationships never last…” Sana says.

You groan heavily. “You guys always do this. I’m happy with Chris, alright? Stop meddling, we are fine… Maybe for once, you guys could be supportive?”

Sana and Soyeon share a concerned glance before Soyeon speaks up. “You know, the last time we did that, we had to bail you out of jail.”

“That guy was an asshole! Chris is different…”

“Maybe,” Sana says. “But, you are also… Reckless, when it comes to break ups.”

You bite your bottom lip slightly. They were being ridiculous, they always were. You never did anything that was unjustified— at least, in your eyes they weren’t unjustified. Maybe you did have a problem. Everyone else did. You raise your coffee mug to your mouth and continue your outing in uncomfortable silence.

Maybe you were too reckless.

The bright light from your phone screen illuminates your face as you scroll on Instagram. Okay, scrolling is a slight understatement. You were stalking. A bad habit, you know, but it was necessary.

You shift under your blanket as you scroll through your boyfriend’s following list. Your eye twitches whenever you see him following another girl, but you try to ward off that feeling. Eventually, you decide it’s time to give up. You didn’t have any reason to be worried, after all. You power down your phone and begin to focus back on the movie you had turned on. It was a Scream sequel, and it was just as bad as the original. While you reach for your bowl of chips, your phone vibrates with a message from an unfamiliar account. You stare at your phone for a while before picking up the device and reading over the message.

"hey, ik u dont know me, but ik chris and like hes been flirting with this girl all night and ik u two r dating, so i thought u should know"

You chuckle slightly at the message, not completely believing it at first. This was just some random person trying to ruin your day. You begin to type out a response to give them a piece of your mind when another message pops up. A series of photos, all of them depicting Chris being comfortable with a pretty girl in a green dress. Too comfortable, you think.

Your eyes scan over the photos again and again. It looks like Chris, but maybe it’s photoshop. Maybe it’s AI. Maybe you are just being paranoid. But, you remember seeing him leave in that jacket earlier. And he’s wearing the same watch he always does. Your lungs hitch when you see the final detail— a dark butterfly tattoo on his wrist. One that matches the butterfly on your ankle. It seems like the world around you quiets and disappears, leaving only you and the images. After that, all hell breaks loose.

You barely have time to think when you open your contacts and press the dial. You call his phone again and again to no response. That’s when you open your messages.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

R u joking me rn? Ur fucking CHEATING on me??

U have to be insane

This is crazy

UR CRAZY

Do u want me to die?? Is this how u treat me??

Answer ur damn phone Chris

Miserable fucking bastard

Chris <3: What the hell are you talking about?

Answer my damn calls

Where are u right now??

Ill find u rn

Im going to kill u

In the middle of your next spew of texts and violent threats, your phone rings. You hardly think before pressing the answer button and immediately yelling into the speaker.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you? After everything I’ve done for you—”

“First of all, you haven’t done shit. Why are you blowing up my phone?”

His voice is quick to cut you off and his tone is sharper than you’ve ever heard. He’s pissed off, probably just as much as you are. Your grip on the phone tightens.

“Why am I blowing up your phone…? Are you serious? You’re out all damn night, feeling up other girls, and I should just stay quiet? What, did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“I’m not with other girls? I told you I was going to Changbin’s party. Stop acting fucking crazy.” He retorts.

“Crazy?” You repeat. Something about the word sends waves of heat running through your body. You push back the blankets and sit up. “You think I’m crazy? I’ll show you fucking crazy. Don’t call me again.”

There’s a faint scoff on the other line. The sound of house music can be heard muffled in the background. “Yeah, wasn’t planning on it.”

︶︶︶︶

You weren’t ready to accept that your friends were right. You fell in love too fast and ended up getting burned. The last few days have been spent hiding away in your apartment, trying not to rip your own hair out. Part of your heart yearned to crawl back to him, like a dog looking for water in Arizona heat. Another part of your heart wanted to watch him suffer the same way you were. You still watched his stories on a burner account. Seeing him still go to parties, still visiting friends made you outraged. You were supposed to be the best thing that happened to him— He got a tattoo for you, after all. You were supposed to mean something to him.

The familiar taste of hard liquor helps you manage the stress, though. As unhealthy of a habit it was, it worked surprisingly well to help you forget. Well, you could never forget. You could never forget the lingering kisses and longing touches that set your skin on fire, but you could numb the pain of missing it.

You fidget with the empty, your mind blurred with heavy thoughts. You couldn’t understand the strange feeling of grief in your heart. How could you miss someone so badly when they only lived a few blocks away? At the thought, an idea pops into your head.

You slowly move from the couch and towards the storage closet in the hall. It was just as messy as your life was, but that wasn’t the point. You search deep into the back until you find exactly what you were looking for. Your old softball bat.

The walk to his house felt enthralling. Your entire body buzzed from head to toe with adrenaline and it seemed like for once, you were able to forget all about how upset you were. You could hardly care about the time of day, or night for this matter. Your feet drag along the concrete as you turn the block and spot the house he shared with a few buddies. Parked just outside the garage was Chris’s car. The same one that you shared your first kiss in. That was where you bawled your eyes out or indulged yourself in all his sweetness. The sight of it brought back a disgusting amount of memories. Memories you were ready to destroy.

Approaching the vehicle, you glance up towards the house. All the lights were off, so you assume everyone must be asleep. You let out a shaky breath and wind your arm back before swinging full force. The way the steel warps from the hit is almost mesmerizing. You wind up again and take another hit. This one sets off the blaring car alarm. You could care less if someone wakes up from it. You move to the side and take another hit, knocking out the passenger window.

“What the fuck are you doing!?”

You are pulled from your stupor at the sound of someone yelling at you. Not someone, Chris. You could tell before turning around and even then, the sight of him looking at you from his open window brought a drunken smile to your face. His brows were so furrowed that they basically became one. He still manages to ignite such a fuzzy feeling inside of you no matter how much you convince yourself you hate his guts.

“Get the hell away from my car!” He shouts out, his hands gripping the windowsill. A few of the neighbors have begun to peer their heads out their doors or look through the blinds. You could care less about their eyes watching you. All you could focus on was Chris.

“I told you I would show you crazy, didn’t I!” You reply to him, holding out the bat for him to see. “This is your last time calling me crazy!”

Chris stares at you for a moment, completely bewildered. He grunts before slamming the window shut. You can only assume he’s coming down to stop you so you get your arm ready for one last hit. You raise your bat before slamming it down on the windshield. The glass cracks around the spot of impact and just as the front door opens, you take off running.

In a split second, you are returned back to that club. And he’s in front of you again, staring at you like you are nothing but garbage from his past. Your mouth is suddenly dry and it feels like no amount of alcohol will help it. You finally break eye contact and look down at the ground. In your peripheral, you noticed his bare wrist. He must have rolled his sleeves up. Despite that, something sticks out to you.

“You kept the tattoo…?” You murmur, looking back up at him. His face relaxes slightly and it was obvious he wasn’t expecting that question from you.

“Reminds me not to make mistakes. Like you.” He says, his tone flat.

“Geez, you’re still a dick…”

“You broke my fucking car windows.”

“I wouldn’t have to do that if you didn’t cheat on me.” You say. His lips twitch slightly like he wants to say something. He doesn’t. The air settling around the two of you is heavy.

“Something tells me you aren’t ready to let go.” He says as if it were fact.

“Really?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, really.”

You bite down on your bottom lip. Something in you didn’t completely trust him. You know you shouldn’t. But, you know he’s right. Even months later, you weren’t ready to let go. You weren’t ready to let go of the memories and the dreams. You weren’t ready to let go of the man who gave you the best few months of your life.

“You ruined my life.” You say.

“You ruined mines, too. Let’s call it even.”

“... So I can call you again?”

Chris tilts his head at your question. After a moment, though, a sly smirk forms and you catch a glimpse of those beautiful dimples.

“Yeah, you can call. Only if you lay off the alcohol.”

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