#only to be met with a blinking cursor and no words

[niffala]

So many fics, so little free time, and even less motivation.

I keep trying, but my wips have declared war on my brain and it is holding up all productions.

[theorist-fox]

Compass

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

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Word count: 5.2k

Summary: where Simon finally gets it.

18+

CW: angst, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, fluff

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

Staring straight at the screen won’t make that form fill in, yet it’s all you’ve been doing. 

The office is cold. Freezing. Your fingers are stiff when you punch the keys, rough skin tight at each knuckle. 

Price has asked you to do it. He’s tired and needs to lean on you for a moment. You know how hard it must’ve been for such a proud man to ask for help, so you don’t have the heart to refuse him. Even if you’re just as exhausted, just as worried, because the op went tits up so quickly and suddenly that you’re still recovering from it.

Faulty intel. Ambush. Tactically placed C4 blew the place up into smithereens. Mayhem ensued—you all lost sight of each other and then met again. 

The ringing in your ear still sounds fresh. A new cut on your brow your new shiny scar, the crescent of speckled mauves under your eye yet another reason for the brass to come and shower you with meaningless praise so you’d keep up with this unforgiving job without rest.

Chest candy as a prize. As if you care.

Your eyes burn. They squint at the unforgivingly bright screen; bloodshot sclera and a healing bruise, cheekbone swollen and tender.

Casualties And Damage Assessment. 

The cursor on the document blinks right next to it. 

Write above the dotted line. Do it. It’s there. It’s not hard, it’s just a name—a name among thousands. You could be typing John Doe, and it should feel the same.

So do it, love.

Type it in.

Type “Simon Riley”.

You feel your eyes sting wet. 

Johnny is still out there, searching for his whereabouts. Kyle’s with him, probably trying to be the voice of reason—the only one with a head still on his shoulders. The one who grabbed you and handed you to Price so he could slam you in the helo for takeoff. It left without Gaz and Soap in it.

Without Simon.

Crystal clear is the memory of Price’s finger pointed at your face as you huddled your knees to your chest—glossy, bloodshot eyes seemingly lost as they looked back at him, trying to find a compass to guide you through this dreadful darkness, through ice cold fear.

Instead, you found a scowl that struggled to mask a quiet threat beneath it, something you knew he’d been almost impatient to tell you.

Something you knew he knew.

You should’ve known better than to bring feelings into the job. I trusted you and your judgment and you failed me. You failed us.

But now all that feels so unimportant. Price’s disappointment is only another notch to your belt of failures, and you know it’s gonna get even thicker and tangled if you don’t type that name into that form.

If you don't prove to him and everyone else, yourself included, that you’re still somewhat sane. That you didn't lose your marbles on that day, only a chunk of your heart.

Nails tap nervously on your desk. The clock ticks out of beat. Your eye twitches restlessly, but you punch the keys. 

Simon Riley — MIA

A weary breath escapes you. 

Good girl. 

And the leftovers of your heart crack something vicious, a perpetual hairline fracture that will not go away. Your molars grind until your head hurts. Your eyes water, because it’s all happened so rapidly, that you don’t think you’ve had the time to metabolize it.

S’alright. S’alright. You did right.

You sniffle. Wet your lips. Your face screws up to keep it all inside because you can’t have him see you like this—he’s not here, and yet he might as well be, with how clear his voice is echoing in your head. 

Why shouldn’t it be? Your last talk was barely a week ago. Your last kiss not even ten days prior. 

Softer than the ones he’d given you before. Wet lips stealing your breath, big hands holding you tight by the waist.

The slow, purposeful drag of his cock inside of you as he flattened his chest to yours. The wordless whispers tumbling out of his mouth—uncontrolled, reverent of you. 

His lips on your skin, both selfish and selfless: descending to your throat, where the taste of you intoxicated him—and where you shivered, moaned, sunk your fingernails into his back, painting it red.

Your brows pull tight, but you can’t stand it a moment more, as that name typed black on white looks at you expectantly, like you could pull it out of there and bring it in your arms.

Don’t, sergeant. Need you sharp.

You cry, because logic is knocked back into you, and there is no Simon Riley if not the memories rushing in your head.

If not the weariness with which he’d invited to his flat for the first time. Burnt the eggs he cooked for you the next morning, as you slept soundly in his bed. Asked you to stay, even if you were as cautious as can be—a gazelle in the lion’s den. 

“Not fuckin’ it up, this time,” he’d told you. 

And even in your caution, you could recognize that silent pleading—that almost a year without you has taught him the pains he would endure to not go through it again.

It didn’t soothe your worries, but it did smooth down the line carved between your brows. 

You slump back on the chair and think of the times he’s told you there were no strings attached between you two, and how those strings inevitably formed.

How he’s annealed them, as time passed, going against everything he’s ever vouched for.

How he watched you snoop around his bedroom, allowing you to study his home and his habits—voluntarily and without an ounce of reluctance in him.

Sobs wreck you as you recall that night: you hadn’t even bothered wearing something, just tiptoed around naked the way you left the bed. 

You tinkered with the few framed photos he had on the shelves, recognizing the people in them: the team, your face squinting at the sun while wearing khakis, and the family he told you about as the muscles of his jaw jumped with tension.

How you scoured through his books, giddy when you double-tapped those you’d read too. 

Or how you smiled when you found the wrinkly receipt of the drive-through he brought you to that night—an empty stomach and a bad date now something of the past—being used as a bookmark in the novel you’d recommended him ages ago. 

You glanced his way every once in a while, just to make sure he was still asleep. Instead, you found a man bathed in moonlight and lazily wrapped in wrinkled sheets—a knowing smirk on his lips, one that made warmth bloom on your chest, all the way to your cheeks. 

He’d patted the spot next to him on the bed, inviting you back beside him. 

That was the first night you held each other for no other reason than the pleasure of being close.

In the days that came after, there were countless nights just like it.

And now, drowning in your own tears and snot, you don’t know if there will be more.

If you’d feel his thumb run along your jaw again, his fingers brushing down your spine—or pinching your cheeks to make you take a breath when you rambled on. 

If you’d feel his lips on yours, tasting you and your voice, with the veiled excuse to make you quiet. 

Wondering if he’ll ever smear greasepaint on your brow, if he’ll ever fix the straps of your vest.

Each tear that falls now is chock full of memories, old and lost. The ones you could’ve had but you’re not sure they’ll ever be. You cry, as you hold yourself together—arms around your chest, nails digging into your biceps, painful enough to anchor you back to earth.

You cry until your throat burns, until your eyes yield, and you fall asleep; the document blank on the screen, only his name as the blatant proof of your failures.

A hand rests on your shoulder. 

It’s soft at first, a thumb brushing against your collarbone. When you only shift, the grip gently tightens in a brief shake.

“Sergeant,” you hear.

Your eyes blink open, then, struggle against the crust formed between your lashes. They focus on an equally as tired pair of blues, a mouth that breathes some relief in your weary bones.

“John,” you croak, stretching your limbs behind your head until you hear a sequence of pops in your spine. 

You look around to assess where you are. The sunlight, dimming behind the windowpane, tells you that you’ve slept on your chair for half of the day.

Your neck tingles as it wakes, aching from the awkward position in which you fell asleep.

Blinking away the drowsiness, your eyes land on the document plastered on the screen. 

Your stomach turns into a boulder once again.

“What is it?” You say, returning your focus to Price standing next to your chair. You press your thumb between your brows to dispel a migraine sure to fall upon you. “Almost done with the report, gimme a few more ho—”

“He’s back, darling.” 

Your body deflates pitifully. Dread clogs your throat with ice, because Simon being back doesn’t necessarily mean he’s back alive. 

Your hands tremble as they land limp on your thighs, and you don’t care if you’re giving too much away; John already knows, after all, doesn’t he?

And he senses it: the gnawing fear, the supplication in your eyes.

“He’s in the med bay, overall lookin’ fine.”

You stand up so quickly that the chair is knocked back. 

Your vision gets spotty, and suddenly the poor nutrition of the past days rears its ugly head in the form of low blood sugar.

John notices and places a hand on your bicep when you wobble on your feet.

“Bit dehydrated, few scraps here and there, but eh—" A tired smile stretches his lips as he squeezes your shoulder. “We both know it takes a lot more to bring down tha’ bastard.”

John can’t even finish his sentence that you’re curled on your laptop, typing something he can’t see. You stand upright, and with a rush of thank yous that barely make sense, you bolt out of the door.

The captain huffs and rubs his face in exhaustion, before his eyes swivel to the screen.

Casualties And Damage Assessment. 

Simon Riley — MIA & found

He sits there, hunched on the gurney like he’s too big to fit on it. His uniform has taken a lighter hue because of sunlight and dust from the unforgiving desert. A nurse is fumbling with a tube on his arm, a needle already inserted in the crook of his elbow for rapid hydration. There are two crumpled bottles of water on the shelf right next to the gurney, and even though Simon's still hiding under the mask, you're sure he's just finished chugging on both.

Johnny stands by his side, arms crossed and a lazy smile on his face. Sunburnt cheeks and a dusting of freckles on his nose. 

Kyle talks to a doctor, fiddling with his cap in hand—you catch words like “bruised ribs” and “sunstroke” and something about his ankle but you’re not sure. They get lost in the chatter surrounding you when Simon lifts his head and clocks you at the door.

You stare at each other for what feels like centuries, his eyes always sharp as those of a hawk—yet a little more tired, this time. A little more rough.

When the nurse moves away to tinker with the IV bag, Simon’s hand on his thigh twitches, and he subtly beckons two fingers at you. 

It’s all you need.

You beeline your way through passing doctors and nurses alike, until you come to stand in front of him, long legs dangling off the gurney. He’s subtly parted them for you, but Johnny has noticed it and he’s sporting a smarmy grin because of it.

You decide he can have it for today. 

Jaw clenched, you swallow before you speak. “Gave us a scare, yeah?” 

He doesn’t answer, because his eyes are locked to the thin white bandages taped to your brow. His focus shifts to your cheekbone, then, and the mauve shade it’s taken after the bombs went off out of the blue.

“Quite the shiner you got.” He drawls.

His voice is raspier from disuse, almost a croak. It makes your heart soar and your spine shiver, because it feels like years since he’s gone radio silent. 

You gesture vaguely at it, a slight shrug of your shoulder as you try to hide how tight your throat has gone at the realization that he’s alive and kicking, and not an unnamed corpse under some rubble.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Shrapnels—uh, something hit me when those things went off. Just a bruise.”

A sentence he’s heard more times than he cares to count, but he seems unfazed by it this time around. Maybe the relief of being safe has finally set his priorities straight.

You smile wearily, uncharacteristically quiet even as you try to make light of it. “Reckon purple’s my colour, eh?”

He nudges an admonishing foot to your knee. You lose your balance for a moment and blink back at him with a frown.

“Reckon it ain’t.” He grunts with a pointed look, as if you said something unbelievably stupid. But then his voice softens. “But it’s hard for things to look bad on ya, eh?” 

His eyes are crinkled at the corners. Simon smiles through them at you. “Still, tha’ bruise ain't it, if ya ask me.”

You huff.

“Flatterer.”

“Thought we’d established flattery worked jus’ fine with ya, mh?” 

You choke on a laugh, running the back of your fingers to your lips.

“Yeah, yeah.” You clear your throat, trying to dissipate the warmth in your cheeks. "Got it."

If you two weren’t so lost in this conversation, you wouldn’t have missed the baffled look Johnny was giving you both, talking like he wasn’t there to witness it all. 

But now Simon looks at you with such an intensity that Johnny’s behavior falls into the background.

There is no discovering Simon Riley, today; he’s taken the toll of discovering you, because while you’ve always cared and he’s always known, your eyes are telling him that there’s something he’s yet to find.

Or perhaps he’s found it already, ages back, when you called his name in his sheets, when you bit a promise on his fingers, when he coloured your skin with his own—kisses and sweat and grease.

When you left, and he inevitably drifted—a demagnetized compass that couldn’t find its north again, and you were just as lost.

Good luck, you’d said. And fucking hell he’s needed plenty of it—found it too, it seems, since he’s back where he’s safe. Where he’s home.

“You alrigh’, yeah?” You ask, causing his mind to flounder back to earth.

His throat bobs.

Simon nods stiffly but doesn’t speak. 

Johnny sighs heavily and takes the burden from his shoulder instead. 

“Aye, he’s a big lad, hen.” He rumbles from your side, and you turn your body to him to give him your attention—wide-eyed like you’d forgotten he was there at all. 

Johnny snorts.

He starts to ramble on, and you listen intently to how they found Simon crawling blindly towards them, as he and Kyle ran in his direction.

Simon’s eyes, however, are on you. 

And so are his fingers. 

Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and starts tracing subtle patterns on the back of your thigh. Featherlight stroke that would normally make your knees jerk, but you push through and stay still—because what if he stops, then. What if he believes you don’t want him to touch you, after almost a week with no clue about his well-being.

God forbid he pulls away. 

God forbid he thinks you don’t want his hands all over once again, and from this day on.

As Johnny tries to fit some light in the gloom in your eyes, Simon discretely hooks one of his fingers in the pocket of your fatigues and doesn’t let go—holding onto you as much as you are to him. In fact, one of your hands lands on his knuckles, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the inside of his wrist.

“Doc said you can go rest in your room for tonight,” Kyle’s voice pitches in. “Just come back tomorrow for a checkup.”

Johnny beams at that. The world weighing on your shoulders suddenly lifts an inch, and you manage to take a breath. 

“No injuries, then?” You ask, turning between Simon’s parted legs. 

His forefinger stays hooked at the hem of your pocket even when you do.

“Nope.” Kyle smiles. “A concussion, maybe, since he’s not being chatty—oh, wait.”

Simon grunts. “Piss off.”

It’s only when he's done with the IV bag that you’re finally helping him carry his things to his quarters. 

Johnny and Kyle don’t bat an eye when you offer to take the lead, and you stop wondering whether they’re aware of your and Simon’s thing the moment Johnny gives you a glaringly obvious wink.

Simon tries to hide a limp as you walk through the hallways, and you’d love to keep his stupid pride intact for his sake, but yours has gone and drowned in the shitter the moment you broke down into sobs in front of Price. 

So, you don’t see why his can’t be a little bruised too, tonight.

You hook your arm around his waist, mindful of those eventual bruised ribs you heard the doctor talk about with Kyle. Simon only looks down to where your bodies touch but doesn’t put up a fight—instead, he leans into you and unexpectedly accepts your help.

When he hands you his key, you try to fit it in the keyhole and fail a few times. Eventually, you force your hand to stop shaking and the lock clicks. You two stumble inside. The heavy door closes behind you with a loud thud. 

His backpack is dropped carelessly, key on the floor next to it.

“Easy, there.” You whisper, noticing how he almost tumbles onto the mattress. 

A deep, drawn-out sigh escapes him as his whole body deflates now that he’s sitting somewhere comfortable.

You crouch in front of him. 

No words are exchanged as your fingers work with the straps of his vest on each side. Simon carefully lifts his arms to help you help him, and it’s the first time in years of camaraderie in which he’s actually cooperating. 

Vest on the floor. Gloves off. His tac belt is carelessly tossed behind you, as you unlace his boots with his eyes burning holes down at you.

“You need a shower,” you mumble as you slide one boot off his foot. “And then I’ll check those bruises myself, see if I can help somehow.”

Simon is deadly silent. Or maybe it’s you who can’t quite catch any sound, as the blood rushes in your ears, your heart a violent drum.

“Gonna take a look at your leg too.” You go on, relentless, as your voice cracks unbidden. “It’s probably just a sprained ankle, but it’s better to ma—”

His hand cups your jaw, then, stopping your endless ramble. 

You stain the cracked skin of his palm with tears you didn’t know were falling. Simon holds your face until you find it in yourself to look up at him. 

He peers down at you through the eyehole of the balaclava, ripped and singed in various spots as a testament to his survival.

He presses a thumb against the corner of your mouth, forcing it into a plastic smile. But those teardrops are still regrettably streaking your cheeks, your lips still trembling in a fruitless attempt to keep quiet.

His other hand comes to grab your bicep to help you up. 

You’re on shaky legs, probably worse than the stagger he had when walking down the hallways. You come to a stand right between his thighs nonetheless, pressing your palms on his shoulders for balance.

Simon doesn’t speak as he looks up at you—doesn’t have the strength to do it, nor does he know what to say when you look so vulnerably lost. 

He uses actions, instead. 

Languidly, he slides the balaclava off his head, showing the cuts on his skin that match the rips on his mask. His forehead is ruddy and chapped, flaky skin peels off the bridge of his nose right where it gets redder and inflamed. His lips look thinner and pale, like he hasn’t had a good gulp of water in a while.

Your brows pinch and you instinctively lean forward until your noses brush. 

Simon takes a generous look at you, taking note of all the things left unsaid that are so clearly carved into the fine lines of your face. 

He nods softly, like he knows you need him to give you the green light.

And so, you kiss him right then, not wasting a moment longer. You both don’t bother to pretend to build up the tension when the rubber band has obviously already snapped. He parts his mouth for you and tilts his head until you can do nothing but breathe him in.

You taste the salt of your own tears, and his acetone breath of days spent without having a bite. You reckon yours isn’t much different—fear and hunger your only companions in his absence. Similar desperation rankles his hands running up your spine, the panting of his breath, clogging your lungs already filled with a cocktail of dread and relief—poisonous, yet so comforting.

His arms are sore, muscles taut, but he wraps them around your thighs anyway, bringing you in. 

It’s then that you stop: when your knees dig into the mattress on each side of his hips. You softly press your hands to his chest to push him away. 

Longing eyes land on your lips, already swollen and glossy after he’s kissed them to bits. He watches them move when you speak, entranced, as tears trail into the corners of your mouth. You think he’s a bit lost in that moment, possibly not entirely listening to what you’re saying, yet that doesn’t stop you from rambling like time is running out.

“You have to shower and rest; we can’t be doing this now.” You’re stumbling over your words. “What if you got a broken rib that might puncture your lung, I gotta be careful.”

He blinks, snapping out of his head. Brows tight in a frown, he lifts his arm and grabs the nape of your neck, pulling you in.

“No, you gotta come 'ere.”

Your lips crash onto his. 

The salt of your tears stings your tongues, dancing together just because your mouth is already open, busy mumbling something under your breath.

“Simon,” you’re saying, but not in the way he likes. “Listen—”

He stops. Sighs like the world has been dropped on his shoulders, breath heavy in your mouth.

His eyes shut close, lips touching lips ready to ravage yet both stand still and anticipating. His fingers flex at the back of your neck, others dimple the fat of your thigh through your trousers. 

Anxiety has your stomach in a clutch, and you fear he knows because he can read you like a book, easy as anything, like he’s taken notes through your pages firsthand.

When Simon gazes back at you, his eyes are close enough for you to discern each red tendril in his bloodshot whites, the enlarged pupils eating at chestnut irises. You don’t look at his lips, but you feel with yours how he tentatively opens his mouth a few times, as if he wants to say something but thinks back on it every time.

Until he speaks.

“Please.” 

You want to give in. Have him show you he’s still alive in the only way he knows: with the touch of his hands, the flawless glide of his body with yours.

But you’re relentless, and you mimic him—if not even more desperately. “Please.”

He sighs, completely disarmed.

Both his hands come to cradle your jaw, then. He starts tracing a path with his lips—kisses so tender you can barely feel them, landing blindly on your cheeks.

“Just a few days out there, just—” he murmurs, voice low and breathy. “Fuckin’ sweltered all day, then soon as the sun fucked off—cold as a witch’s tit.”

He breathes a hoarse chuckle that brushes your ear. It's such a weak one that instead of stealing a smile from you, it pulls and knots at your heartstrings.

You gulp. It’s fruitless, there’s something lodged in your throat so thick you abandon any effort to identify it. Fear peaks, however. Arctic claws drawing blood.

You stay silent. You listen. No questions asked, no interjections of any kind. A dance you’ve learned over time, from past mistakes you promised to never make again.

“Been through worse, y’know?” he mutters to your skin, words interrupted only by his own kisses on your cheeks. “Much bloody worse—an' this? This was nothin’. Part an' parcel of the job, love, bound to happen sooner or later.”

He pulls back, his gaze meeting yours as though he could show you what he’s endured, like snapshots unfolding in a reel of film.

Your fingers lace through his hair, and specks of sand and grime settle under your nails as you scratch his scalp. Slowly, you lean in, and press a kiss to his forehead.

Simon imperceptibly softens against you, like his body wants to but his head won’t allow him. The muscles in his shoulder are taut and steeled, but the ones in his neck are loose and flaccid.

He bows his head to your lips.

“But fuck—” he breathes. “Never been so bloody scared.”

When he takes his hands away from your face to wrap his arms around your waist, you know better than to move—as if the ghost of his fingers still lingers at your jaw. 

He holds you closer. Fists your shirt between his fingers until it’s pulled tight around your middle. 

Seconds pass, in which you do nothing but wait with bated breath for him to elaborate further.

“But not f’ me.” He sighs. “Don’t care if I live or die, yeah?”

It’s not a surprising statement. It doesn’t leave you as floored as it should’ve. 

It’s one you’ve internalized so long ago, even before you two engaged with this nonsense of a thing that only ended up hurting you both.

When you first got to know him, it fell upon you not slowly like a setting sun, but more so like a comet crossing the sky—quick and sharp. Burnt itself into your bones, in the crevices of your heart: that in front of you was a man who didn’t care for his life. A ticking time bomb bound to blow up.

And this knowledge properly slapped you when he went MIA. 

A handful of days of nausea and shaking limbs.

Days in which you bit your nails until they bled, refusing to mourn a dead body you couldn’t see.  

“You listenin’?” He asks hoarsely.

Gingerly, you nod. Your lips brush his forehead. They’re wet. Tears are falling again, salt as needles puncturing the cracks of your lips. 

“You get it, yeah?” He murmurs, and this time it’s him who guides your eyes back to his. They’re dark and heavy with sorrow and, for once, not chained shut.

Days in which you didn’t know where he was—if he was at all. 

His eyes search for yours. Palms to your cheeks like you’re made of glass and might shatter if he holds you too tight.

“You get it?” He asks again, low and breathless.

Days in which he didn’t know where you were—if you were at all, too.

“I do,” you croak.

There's a sense of grounding, then; tectonic plaques settling back after the earthquake. The needle of your compass locks back into place, finally pointing North—no longer caught in an erratic, nauseating spin.

And it’s so quiet after that. 

Two words hang in the air and cut the tension in half, until it finally dissipates when he brushes the hair off your forehead.

Simon holds your eyes for a moment before he brings your lips to his own. 

He kisses you slowly like he doesn’t know the way you like it, like he’s doing it for the first time. 

And maybe, he is.

That night, Simon doesn’t fuck you. 

He’s naked, just out of the shower you helped him take. He sits at the edge of the bed, fists curled around the blanket haphazardly thrown over it, towel crumpled at his feet. 

His skin is damp, glistening under the low lights. Gently contoured are the scars you’ve traced and those you have yet to touch. The older knotted lines and the newer inflamed cuts. The pale stretches of skin interrupted by speckled purples, greens, yellows—entire galaxies blooming on his shoulder, on his ribs, on his abdomen and on his thighs. Freckles like stars, aimlessly sprinkled on the rugged canvas that's Simon.

If that isn’t enough to make your knees buckle, enough to make your heart crack, it’s his request that does it.

“Stay,” he croaks.

That’s just how he says it, blunt as ever—gritted through his teeth, still coarse in the attempt at tenderness. Trying to fit in a role he’s never thought he’d get the chance to play; where he's not a killer, only a man.

That night, Simon doesn’t fuck you, no.

Simon holds you to his side, deaf to your protests when he guides you to lean your cheek to his heart—all the be careful’s stumbling out of your lips tossed out the window by the very man they were meant for.

Still, he brushes your hair, fingers gently lacing through it. His hand faintly trembles—discomfort in the unfamiliar, you think. Or perhaps the realization of something bigger, something that digs deeper than he's ever reached.

However, even in their uncertainty, the gesture’s enough to make you fall asleep, lulled by the warmth of his body tucked under the duvet with you. Pine needles of the body wash, vestiges of tobacco, antiseptic you smeared on his cuts—the strange intimacy of it, the comfort you hope he's found too.

And maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s the delirium—the adrenaline crash, the hunger, the sleepless nights. Or maybe it’s just the overwhelming relief of having him here, real and warm, alive with blood that still runs.

You feel it rumble in his chest first, before it properly travels to your ears.

A curse. Drawn out, rouged with tender resignation, with honeyed surrender. A beautifully dreadful feeling, conveniently compacted into a single, wretched word. 

Wet lips touch your forehead. They brush left and right but never press in a proper kiss.

“You get it, uh?”

A sigh, then. Or a hoarse chuckle, maybe—you’re not sure. Warm breath grazes your forehead, tickles your scalp until shivers tiptoe down your spine and you unconsciously huddle closer.

Simon only holds you more thoroughly.

“Can't fuckin' believe it,” he whispers. 

There's something featherlight in his voice that betrays a hint of careful awe—jarring, misplaced, especially after he's spent days scraping by on the very edge of life.

Something akin to hope. A lot from a man who insists he doesn't care whether he lives or dies.

Still, Simon doesn’t bother to conceal it—perhaps because he thinks you're long asleep, perhaps because he doesn't care about hiding at all, not anymore. It curls into his vowels, bleeds golden into his tongue clicking at each t.

“Yeah,” he breathes. Kisses your forehead. “Now I get it too.”

[rosemariiaa]

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 02, 𝘽𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨

“Some things are better left unsaid.”

𐙚— pairing: Paige x Azzi

𐙚— synopsis: the feeling of regret

𐙚— rosie’s note: hi :), sooo don’t yell at me y’all know i’m sensitive, but yes apologies this was supposed to come out wayyy sooner but i’ve had a lot going on with my personal life i barely had time to write but luckily i finished this up! ik almost people were confused on the cliffhanger so i hope i explained it well in this chapter :) happy reading lovelies 💌

𐙚— themes: hurt/comfort, guilt, angst

enjoy!!!

march 21, 2014

The cursor blinked at me, expectant. Judging.

Her name sat on the tip of my tongue. Not the one she introduced herself with, not the nickname she had tossed at me under the swing set like it was armor. Her real name. The one she’d trusted me with just days before everything shattered.

I hovered over the keyboard. How many times had I visited this account in the past two months? More than I could count. The anonymity she clung to should have been enough to keep me from connecting the dots. But the username—UnicornPuppy35—was a clue I couldn’t ignore, not after that rainy night, not after the slippers and the shirt that practically screamed it.

Azzi.

The realization should have made me stop, made me put down my phone and walk away. She didn’t know it was me. She didn’t know I was the one lurking, soaking up every word she wrote, piecing together her sadness, her anger, her loneliness. And she couldn’t find out—not like this.

If she did… God, if she ever found out, I wasn’t sure what would happen. She’d hate me more than she already did, and I couldn’t stand to see that look on her face again.

I leaned back in my chair, running a hand over my face. The memory of her tears still burned, sharp as glass.

flashback ⤑ february 13, 2013

The rain came down hard that night, the kind of downpour that soaked through your skin and left you raw.

I didn’t know why I left the house. Maybe it was the yelling, or maybe it was the silence that followed. Either way, I ended up at the park. The swings creaked under the weight of the wind, and the only other person there was huddled on one, head bowed as rain dripped from her curls and onto her bright pink unicorn shirt.

I almost walked away. She looked like she wanted to be alone, and honestly, so did I. But something stopped me—a tilt of her head, maybe, or the way her shoulders shuddered even as she sat still.

“Hey,” I said, stepping closer. The ground squelched under my shoes.

She looked up, startled. Her eyes, wide and brown, met my baby blues for half a second before darting away. “What do you want?”

I hesitated, shrugging. “Nothing. Just… didn’t think anyone else would be out here.”

Her laugh was bitter, like she didn’t believe me. She didn’t say anything else, just looked back down at her feet, the tips of her sneakers brushing the muddy ground.

I should’ve walked away. Instead, I sat on the swing next to her.

Over the next two weeks, those nights at the park became a ritual. When the lights in our houses went out, we met under the cover of darkness, sharing pieces of ourselves with kind of fully unraveling almost everything.

She told me about the girl at school—the one who dunked her head in the toilet and called her the f-slur. Her voice cracked when she said it, and my chest ached with something I didn’t quite understand.

“She’s just a bitch,” I said, reaching out without thinking. My hand landed on her shoulder, the fabric of her hoodie rough and wet under my palm. “You didn’t deserve that.”

She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t look at me either. “It’s not just her,” she muttered. “It’s… everyone.”

The night Azzi told me about the girl at school, something in her broke. Her voice cracked, a sharp edge slicing through the usual monotone she used when talking about her day.

“I didn’t even do anything,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest. Her breath came out in shivers, her curls dripping rainwater down her back. “She just—she said I was looking at her skirt, and the next thing I know, I’m—”

Her voice wavered, and she stopped. She didn’t have to finish. I could picture it: the cold porcelain, the laughter, the humiliation.

“She has to be insecure or something,” I said quickly, fumbling for the right words. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Azzi. She’s just taking her misery out on you.”

Azzi didn’t look convinced. Her lip trembled, and she pressed her face into her knees, hiding the tears I knew were falling.

I sat there, helpless. I wasn’t good at this—comforting people, saying the right thing. But I didn’t want her to feel alone.

“You wanna egg her house?” I joked, my voice soft. “Or, I don’t know, slash her parents tires?”

She huffed a wet laugh, the sound muffled by her hoodie. “She’d probably call the cops.”

“She’s a snitch, too?” I gasped dramatically, hoping to coax another laugh out of her. “That’s it. We’re definitely egging her house.”

Azzi peeked up at me, her eyes red and puffy but lighter somehow. “You’re stupid,” she said, but there was a ghost of a smile on her face.

——-

A few nights later, that’s when things fell apart.

I was at the park first, waiting for Azzi, when a group of girls from my neighborhood showed up. I didn’t know them well, but they were loud and funny in that kind of way that made you want to laugh along just to fit in.

We were sitting on the picnic table, their chatter filling the silence, when one of them asked, “Hey, Paige, why do you always hang out with that girl?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Who?”

“You know, that Azzi girl,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Nobody hangs out with her.”

My stomach twisted. “Why not?”

The girl snorted. “Her mom’s, like, weird. Always with a new boyfriend or whatever. It’s embarrassing. She’s just a weirdo and looks weird.”

My jaw tightened. Before I could respond, another girl chimed in, laughing. “And her hair! It’s like, doesn’t she know what a brush is?”

The table erupted in laughter, but I couldn’t bring myself to join in. I glanced at the path leading to the swings, my heart sinking.

“Paige,” a voice said behind me.

I froze.

Azzi stood there, her face pale and her eyes glassy with unshed tears. Her mouth opened, then closed, and she shook her head, stepping back as if I’d physically struck her.

“Azzi, wait—” I started, scrambling off the table, but she was already turning away.

“Don’t,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “Just… don’t.”

I ran after her, catching her arm as she reached the edge of the park. “Azzi, I wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” she snapped, whirling around. Her eyes were brimming with tears, her voice rising in anger. “Wasn’t laughing at me? Wasn’t sitting there while they trashed me?”

“I didn’t say anything!” I protested, my chest tight.

“That’s the problem!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “You just sat there, Paige. You didn’t even try to stop them, you let them say those things.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words stuck in my throat.

“Forget it,” she muttered, yanking her arm free. She wiped at her face angrily, her curls sticking to her cheeks. “I should’ve known better.”

“Azzi, come on,” I pleaded, my voice softer now. “It’s not like that—”

“What’s it like, then?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Because from where I’m standing, it’s pretty clear. I just don’t understand after all those nights I cried to you P.. how could you?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. By the time I found the words, she was already gone.

present day 2014

It’s been weeks since Azzi and I started talking online, just the two of us, anonymously. We’ve gotten comfortable—well, as comfortable as we can with the fake names and hidden identities. I try not to think about the lies I’m keeping from her, but I know deep down it’s the only way I can stay connected to her. She has to trust me, or she’ll leave. And I can’t handle that. Not again.

It’s the last day of school, and I’m practically buzzing with excitement as I head to the bus. I can’t wait to get home, and send Azzi a message—anything really. I don’t care if it’s about her puppy or the weather or something ridiculous. I just want to talk to her.

I find a seat on the bus and pull out my phone. As the bus rumbles on, I open up Blogspot. I scroll through the messages Azzi and I exchanged earlier, just before school started. I can’t help but laugh at the part where she told me her dog, Stewie, peed in her shoe. That image—her tiny, brown wiener dog peeing in her brand new sneakers—was so perfectly her. Her humor, her frustration, her charm.

I giggle, but then it hits me. The guilt. It crashes over me, sudden and sharp, like a wave I didn’t see coming. My thumb freezes over the screen, hovering over the keyboard. I look at the conversation, at the funny banter we shared this morning, and my chest tightens. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve her.

If she knew who I really was, if she knew the truth about why I was pretending to be someone else… she would never look at me the same way again. She’d leave me. She would never trust me again.

I feel the tightness in my chest grow, and I look out the window, trying to distract myself. But it’s no use. The guilt is like a weight on my shoulders, pressing down harder the longer I sit with it. Every word I’ve typed to Azzi, every moment I’ve shared with her—it’s all a lie. And I hate myself for it.

But I can’t stop. I can’t let her go again. It pained me the first time…it won’t happen again.

I stare at the phone in my hand, biting my lip. What if she finds out? What if she figures it out before I can come clean?

What if? What if? What if?

The thought is too much. I set the phone down on my lap, staring out the window, hoping the weight in my chest will ease.

A few minutes later, my phone vibrates in my lap. A new message.

unicornpuppy35: p, i just got home and stewie’s tryna eat my shoelace again. i swear this dog’s scheming.

I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. My thumb hovers over the screen again. I want to reply, want to send something funny, something comforting, but all I can think about is how this isn’t real. None of it is real.

boogers_p: obviously. stewie’s prolly like, “shoelaces are phase one. world domination’s next.”

unicornpuppy35: no fr, this little dude really thinks he runs the place.

boogers_p: i mean… does he not? u literally pay rent in shoelaces and snacks.

unicornpuppy35: and socks. don’t forget the socks. he got one of mine this morning smh.

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh too loud as I typed back.

boogers_p: rip to the sock. gone but not forgotten.

The typing bubble popped up and disappeared a few times before finally settling on:

unicornpuppy35: ur so ridiculous, p. u know that?

boogers_p: i’ve heard rumors.

I paused, smirking at the screen. Then, a thought hit me, and her fingers flew over the keyboard.

boogers_p: ok, real question. what’s stewie short for? or did u just look at him and go, “yup, that’s a stewie”?

There was a pause before Azzi’s response came through.

unicornpuppy35: named him after breanna stewart.

I blinked at the screen, my smile softening. Of course she did.

boogers_p: oh damn, respect. stewie’s a legend fr but no surprise you chose her.

unicornpuppy35: p, language. and duhh, hence the name.

boogers_p: my bad my bad, but u really said, “lemme name my dog after greatness.” iconic move, puppy.

I knew the nickname would get to her. It always did. The reply came fast.

unicornpuppy35: stop calling me that!!!

boogers_p: nah. it fits too good. also, it’s cute. like u.

Shit. There was a long pause before I saw the typing bubble flicker again.

unicornpuppy35: u really know how to get on my nerves, huh?

boogers_p: talent, tbh.

Azzi’s response came slower this time:

unicornpuppy35: sometimes i wonder why i even talk to u.

Paige snorted, her thumbs moving fast.

boogers_p: cuz i’m funny. and charming. and u lowkey love me. just admit it.

The reply took a moment.

unicornpuppy35: …maybe stewie loves u. that’s as close as ur getting.

I barked out a laugh, the sound drawing a curious glance from the kid across the aisle.

boogers_p: i’ll take it. tell stewie i’m his #1 fan.

unicornpuppy35: he’ll probably steal another shoelace to celebrate.

boogers_p: a king. truly.

I stared at the screen for a second longer, my chest feeling warm and tight in a way I couldn’t even describe.

unicornpuppy35: u good, peanut? u seem kinda off lately.

My fingers hesitated over the keyboard, my mouth forming into a small smile at my nickname. Azzi always asked. I didn’t know how she managed to carry so much and still notice the little things about me. God.

boogers_p: yeah, i’m straight. just tired, you know?

unicornpuppy35: don’t let it get to u p. me and stewie got ur back.

Paige swallowed the lump in her throat, her reply coming slower this time.

boogers_p: thanks, puppy. u and stewie the real mvps fr.

Pup- I mean Azzi’s reply was just a string of eye-roll emojis, but I could picture the grin on her face. I wish I could just see it for myself.

boogers_p: love u too.

So much.

I send the message, knowing I can’t keep lying forever. But for now, I’ll hold on.

——-

Paige walked into her room, shutting the door with a quiet click, as if any louder might let her thoughts escape into the world. Tossing her bag into the corner, she kicked off her shoes and peeled off her clothes, leaving a trail toward the bathroom. The hot water scalded her pale skin, but she barely noticed, the familiar ache in her chest louder than the pounding spray.

When she came out, dressed in an oversized T-shirt, her damp hair sticking to her neck, she flopped onto her bed. She should sleep. She needed sleep. But instead, her hand reached for the scrapbook tucked under her nightstand.

Opening it, her heart clenched as she stared at the first photo—Azzi on the swing set, caught mid-laugh, her curls bouncing wildly as she leaned over, her dimple deepening with every giggle. Paige could still hear the sound of it, bright and free, almost as if Azzi were right there in the room with her.

The second photo wasn’t much better. Her and Azzi at the diner for her 15th birthday, Azzi’s arm slung around hers like it belonged there. Paige could almost feel the ghost of Azzi’s touch, the warmth of her hand on her arm, the way Azzi’s voice would soften when she scolded her for cussing too much.

She flipped the page closed before she started crying again. It didn’t help.

Her fingers brush over the closed scrapbook, tracing its edges. She knows it’s pathetic to feel this way, to let herself get so tangled up in someone who probably doesn’t even think about her anymore. It’s dumb, she knows that. But it doesn’t change the way her heart clenches at the thought of Azzi laughing somewhere else, with someone else, as if Paige never mattered.

Because the truth is, she’s never felt this way about anyone before. Not like this. Not about their friendship, or whatever it used to be. Friendship doesn’t even seem like the right word anymore. It feels too small, too simple for something that made her feel whole in a way nothing else ever has.

Will you miss me, Azzi? Paige swallows hard, her jaw tightening as tears blur her vision again. Will you miss what we had? Because I do. I miss you so much it hurts. It fucking hurts.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes closing as the words spilled from her heart. God I think I’d miss you even if we never met.

Paige dragged a hand over her face, trying to will the tears back, but they came anyway, hot and relentless. She clutched the scrapbook tighter to her chest. I miss you. Every day. Every second of every day. I miss you so much it’s pathetic.

She let out a shaky laugh that turned into a sob halfway through. “It’s so dumb,” she muttered, shaking her head. But no matter how many times she said it, it didn’t make it any less true. It’s the realest thing she’s ever felt.

Because no one had ever made her feel like Azzi did. Not before, not since. She wasn’t sure anyone ever would.

She wipes at her face, but the tears won’t stop. Because no matter how much she misses Azzi, Paige knows it’s her fault she’s gone. She clings to the scrapbook, the pictures inside the only pieces of Azzi she has left. And as much as it hurts, she knows she deserves this. Every ache, every tear, every lonely second.

Because she let her go. And that’s something she can never take back.

——-

Azzi sat quietly in the backseat, her hands clammy as she rubbed them over her shorts, trying to calm the nerves that had been with her all morning. Her brothers had hyped her up about making the team, calling her the coach’s “princess,” but it didn’t help. She was still terrified. What if she didn’t make it? What if she wasn’t good enough?

She whispered to Stewie, who was in her lap, his small body a source of comfort. “What if I don’t make the team, huh? I know it’s stupid, but it keeps running through my mind… what if I mess up?”

Her mom glanced back at her from the front seat, a soft smile on her face. “You’ll do fine, Azzi. You always do.”

But Azzi couldn’t shake the unease, the thoughts spinning in her head as the car pulled into the gym parking lot. Her stomach twisted into knots, and her heart raced in anticipation. They arrived early, her mom wanting to meet the coaches first, so Azzi was the first one there.

She stepped out of the car, still trying to calm her breathing. As her mom led her inside, Azzi forced herself to smile and greet the coaches, though her mind was a hundred miles away. She excused herself once the introductions were made, eager to find the locker room and settle in before tryouts started.

The gym was empty when she walked in, the silence amplifying her every step. She meandered down the hall, her fingers grazing the walls as she took in the pictures of past players, their smiles frozen in time. She felt her nerves rise again, the pressure of what was to come weighing on her.

But as she rounded a corner, her body collided with something—or rather, someone.

“Sorry!” Azzi blurted, quickly stepping back. But when she looked up, her breath caught. There, standing in front of her, was Paige. She froze, heart pounding in her chest. Her mind screamed for her to move, to say something, anything, but her body just wouldn’t cooperate.

Paige stood there too, her mouth slightly open in disbelief, her eyes wide. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Then, almost as if the world had shifted, Paige finally spoke her name.

“Azzi?” she whispered.

Azzi’s stomach churned, but she couldn’t stop staring at her. How? How could she be here? How had she found her, of all places? This wasn’t supposed to happen, not here, not now. Not ever.

But Paige was looking at her like she hadn’t missed a beat, like the time apart hadn’t meant anything. Azzi could see the recognition in her eyes, the same as she felt in her chest.

It was instant. Her face was older now, sharper, but it was still her. Those blue eyes. The way she stood. Even the slight tilt of her head when she was unsure of herself. Azzi hadn’t expected it to hit her this hard.

A year ago, she swore she’d move on. Swore that she’d forget what Paige meant to her. But now, standing here, all she felt was the sharp twist of memory and the burn of anger.

How could she not recognize her? Paige had been the first person to make her feel seen, to make her feel like she mattered. But she had also been the first person to hurt her more than anyone else had. Azzi couldn’t forget that. Not the way she laughed with her, not the way she’d come after her with apologies she could never quite believe.

Azzi had convinced herself she was past it. Past Paige. But now, here she was, staring at her as if nothing had changed. It was too much, too fast. Does she really think I’ve forgotten?

Paige stepped forward, her movements tentative, unsure. Azzi almost wanted to take a step back, to run, but she couldn’t move. She stood there, feeling the weight of everything that had happened between them pressing in on her.

“Azzi,” Paige said softly, her voice almost hesitant.

Azzi blinked, her heart racing. She forced herself to act like she didn’t know her, even though everything inside her screamed that she did. “Sorry,” Azzi said, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest. “Do I know you?”

——-

rosie’s note: well..yeah!

taglist ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

@thaatdigitaldiary @sierrale8ne @ohbueckers @imaginespazzi @pazzilover101 @makethemhoesmad @pboogerswbb @kmoneymartini @mrsarnold @absolutelydreadful @authentic-girl03 @melpthatsme @ashortyluvsports

[maeism]

⤿ KENMA KOZUME ౨ glhf<3 ৎ

synopsis : kenma doesn’t believe in attachments, but maybe he’s been playing this one all wrong. after all, in a game where the rules keep changing, it’s hard to tell if he’s winning or just getting left behind.

cw : k.kenma x f!reader, inspired by "glhf<3" by MICO, very bad try at "gamer talk," angst(?).

word count : 1.01k

" oh, my god thought it was love // but then you broke my fall // fought for forever, got a couple months // want someone better? // baby, good luck, have fun "

kenma kozume has always been antisocial. he was always on his phone or using his nintendo. never seen hanging out with anyone other than kuroo. 

the boy spoke a few words and only did it when it was truly necessary. his gaze was always down. his eyes were tired and droopy. but that didn't stop him from being somewhat popular. the bleached haired boy was a starting setter on nekoma’s volleyball team, so his name was fairly known. 

at school he was a quiet, lonely boy. people tried to talk to him but his answers were always vague, empty, and not interested. so no one really knew him. 

the real him that was hidden behind the screen. 

late at night, the computer shined a bright light on kenma’s face in his dark room. as if it were a reflex, he opened riot games and launched valorant. his eyes traveled to his second monitor where discord was already opened. 

scanning through his friends list he saw the multiple notifications from people he did not want to reply to and the zoomed in, smiski profile picture of his favorite mutual. next to the unconventional icon was her name in white font, ‘y/n.’

kenma quickly clicked on the chat and typed out a message.

‘hop on valorant?’

no greeting, no small talk. he was always direct with his texts, especially those to her. he saw something in her, maybe it was the fact he had never met anyone as fun or that she was different from everyone else he had met before. but that's how it always was with her, simple.

except it wasn't, really. 

his eyes hovered over the message after sending it, the cursor blinking on the text bar as if awaiting for something more. something he would never actually type out. 

because there was something about her. something that gave him a slight impulse, a little rush in his dull life. maybe because she was fun without even trying, or how she did not force a conversation and try to fill in the silence with meaningless words like everyone else. or maybe, it's because she wasn't like the other girls he met online. no fake voices, no pretending to “need” him. she just was.

and he liked that. way more than he should.

“bloop.” the notification echoed through his headset. 

‘give me 5,’ she replied, quick and easy, just how he liked it.

slanting down on his chair, kenma’s mind went to her. the girl lived in hyogo, which was pretty far away, but he’s seen her face before, and follows her on instagram so he knows she's not a catfish. 

five minutes later, kenma was still staring mindlessly into his computer, lost in the thought of his online friend until the incoming call sound filled his ears. making him quickly answer it. 

“yo,” she said, casual like always, as if she hadn't just made him stare blankly at his screen for five whole minutes.

“hey,” he mumbled, inviting her to the party without missing a beat.

they queued up, the familiar click of the matchmaking sound filling the silence. it was comfortable. their kind of comfortable. 

the game loaded in. she picked a dualist. classic.

the whole match felt intense. she was doing reckless moves, some that always worked for her. kenma hung back, watching the kill feed light up with her name over and over. 

“you're playing like you've got something to prove,” he muttered, focusing on the game in front of him.

“i do,” she shot back, “proving i’m better than you.”

a smirk tugged on the corner of kenma’s mouth. he didn't say anything. just waited.

a round later, she died early, caught off guard in mid. kenma clutched the round, barely, his last shot shaky but landing anyways.

“lucky,” she said, voice dripping with mock disdain.

“skill issue,” he replied flatly, though he knew what she was capable of.

the next round, she carried again, top fragging like it was second nature.

“see? not luck,” she teased. “just talent.”

kenma’s lip twitched. he didn't let her win. he never had to. she was just that good. but sometimes, he wondered if he played worse on purpose. if only because her victory felt better than his own.

“yeah,” he let out a breathy reply while he bought his loadout for the next round. “guess i'm lucky to have you.”

it slipped out before he could stop it.

silence. just for a second. 

then she laughed. light, unbothered, easy.

“damn right you are.”

and kenma didn't reply. because if he did, he'd have to admit that wasn't exactly what he meant. 

they kept playing. rounds one after another, easy banter filling in the spaces between kills and callouts. it all just felt natural, like a habit. 

then, as the last round ended, a call sound went off from her end.

“oh,” she said, distracted. “i should go.”

kenma’s fingers went stiff on his keyboard. the room suddenly felt quieter, even though she hadn't left yet.

“already?” 

she hummed. “mhm. he's waiting for me.”

he.

kenma wasn't stupid. he knew what she felt. the way her voice was just a little softer. the way her focus had already drifted somewhere else.

he stared at her name in the game, wishing she wouldn't leave. 

“i'll catch you later though,” she added. “don't miss me too much.” and the discord ping echoed through his headphones. reminding him of her departure. 

kenma exhaled sharply through his nose. ‘don't miss me too much.’ there she was, teasing again. and somehow it helped the pit in his stomach. 

he went to the chat with her and typed out ‘glhf.’

a few seconds passed. maybe she wouldn't answer at all. maybe she already moved her whole focus towards that other guy. 

then, ‘thanks<3’

kenma blinked at the screen.

he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling into his palm. the little heart sat there, taunting him. a habit. a joke. a hook. 

he shut his computer quickly and leaned back on his chair, eyes closing. 

god, he hated this game.

[bubblyi3]

Between Us, Before Us PART 9 | KTH

“he wasn’t a bad person. just the wrong person too many times.”

pairing: taehung x female reader

genre: slice of life, angst, fluff

word count: 13.6k

content warning: angst, mild smut, trauma, cheating themes, unplanned pregnancy, heartbreak, toxic relationship

summary: between the past and future lies the aching space of now. with taehyung, you've journeyed through love, heartbreak, and growth. once strangers, then lovers, now something more complicated, your connection is shaped by time, mistakes, and second chances. this is the story of who you were when you first fell for him, who you became through the pain, and who you might still become if you dare to hope again. in the space between healing and longing, one thing remains: him.

author's note: hii!! finally the next part lol. i honestly went back and forth a lot trying to figure out how i wanted to go with this, but here it is 🫣 hope you like it!! anywayyy let me know what you think <3

© disclaimer: please do not copy, translate or reproduce any part of this work without my permission. thank you!

taglist: 🌸 @nikkiordonez12

*fiction rooted in real emotions and experiences.

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7 || PART 8

The studio was cloaked in shadows, the dim light barely cutting through the thick haze of creative tension. A deep, pulsing bass throbbed through the walls, vibrating against the worn leather of the couch where Taehyung slumped, headphones resting loosely around his neck. His laptop sat open before him, a half-finished verse blinking mockingly on the screen, the cursor waiting for the spark that refused to come.

In the booth, Jungkook adjusted the mic levels, humming softly. His voice a steady rhythm that usually grounded Taehyung. But tonight, it only made the silence in his own head louder.

Taehyung didn’t hear the music anymore. His thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Nora’s laughter echoed through the morning air as he gently lifted her into the light, her tiny hands reaching for the sky with delight. The way you moved in your oversized hoodie, half-asleep but smiling at him.

He thought back to the quiet evenings you spent curled up together on the couch, sharing stories and dreams, your fingers laced between his as if holding on to a promise. You had become his peace. His purpose.

A soft buzz broke through his daze. His phone lit up on the table.

He glanced at it.

[Y/N]: Did you ever sleep with Jisoo?

The words hit him like a blow to the ribs. He sat up straighter, heart pounding.

His fingers trembled, hovering over the screen. So many answers pressed to the tip of his tongue, none of them right.

Yes. No. I didn’t mean to. It didn’t matter. It was a mistake. You weren’t supposed to find out like this. You weren’t supposed to ever know.

But none of those words formed.

Another buzz.

[Y/N]: Don’t lie to me. Just answer me. Did you sleep with her?

His mouth went dry. The room shrank around him.

Then a third message followed. The one that made his breath stop altogether.

[Y/N]: She called me and told me everything. Is it true?

He didn’t remember tapping the screen. Didn’t remember reading it again and again. But the words carved themselves into his chest. He rubbed his hands over his face, sinking deep into his palms like he could hide there forever.

I’m so fucked.

The door to the booth opened. Jungkook stepped out, pulling off his headphones, sweat gleaming on his brow from the session.

“I think we got it,” he grinned. “You wanna run it back or—”

His smile faltered when his eyes met Taehyung’s pale, broken expression.

“…Hyung?”

Taehyung didn’t look up. His voice was hollow. “Let’s call it.”

Jungkook stepped closer, an old, tight ache settling in his chest. He’d known this moment was coming. Jungkook had feared it for a while now, ever since Taehyung admitted what happened with Jisoo.

Jungkook nodded slowly. “Alright. You good though?” he asked, slinging his hoodie on. “Wanna grab a drink before heading home?”

Taehyung hesitated. Home meant you. Home meant that silence, that storm he wasn’t ready to walk into. That’s only if you were still even there. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I could use one.”

They stepped out into the cool night air, neon signs blinking like tired stars. Taehyung shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture sunken and silent. Jungkook watched him from the corner of his eye.

By the time they reached the bar, one drink turned into two.

Jungkook didn’t push, just sat beside him as Taehyung spun the rim of his glass, gaze far away.

Taehyung stared at his glass, spinning it slowly like it held the answers. But eventually, he couldn't hold it in anymore.

“She knows,” he finally said.

Jungkook didn’t have to ask who. The name hung heavy in the space between them. “Y/N?”

“She found out about Jisoo,” Taehyung whispered, voice raw. “Jisoo called her. Told her everything. She asked me… directly. She knows.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “Shit…”

“I told myself it didn’t matter,” Taehyung went on, eyes shining with regret. “Back then I was just spiralling. Scared. Stupid. I should’ve known Jisoo was going to open her mouth.”

Jungkook’s hands folded on the table, quiet. Listening.

“I never set boundaries,” Taehyung admitted. “I let people in. I let her in, when all I should’ve done was protect what I had. What we had.” His jaw clenched. “I ruined everything.”

“Hyung…” Jungkook said gently, “You were young. You were hurting. You didn’t know how to—”

“Don’t,” Taehyung snapped, the words sharp with self-loathing.

“Don’t excuse me. I made that choice. I chose to be selfish. And I never told Y/N. I let her build her trust on top of a lie. Every time she smiled at me like I was her safe place... I was just holding onto a secret I didn’t have the guts to say out loud.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly. “You’re not that guy anymore.”

“But what if I am?” Taehyung murmured, finally looking up, eyes dark and rimmed with guilt. “What if I never stopped being him?”

Jungkook didn’t have an answer.

Taehyung pulled out his phone again. No new messages. Just silence.

And the fact that Taehyung hadn’t just failed you or your trust. He had failed as a father, before Nora ever took her first breath.

Jungkook looked at him. The cracked shell of someone who knew he’d ruined the one good thing he had.

“You’re going to have to fight for her,” Jungkook said softly. “Not with flowers. Not with words. With change. With truth. And if it’s too late…”

Taehyung looked up, eyes pleading.

“…then at least you owe her your honesty,” Jungkook finished.

It was just after 8pm. Nora was asleep, tucked in bed with her stuffed bunny and the soft hum of her night light glowing against the wall. You stood in the hallway for a moment, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, trying not to cry.

Your suitcase and her overnight bag sat by the door, already packed. Just with enough changes of clothes, essentials for Nora, the bare minimum to get by. You’d come back for the rest when you had the strength. But tonight?

You couldn’t stay.

Not in this house.

Taehyung still hadn’t replied. No call. No text. No explanation. Just space where his voice should’ve been.

Everything that had been building. Months of trying to trust again, of believing he’d been honest and changed. Cracked apart in one long, suffocating moment. The disbelief, the disappointment, and finally, the numb acceptance. You’d seen enough. Felt enough. This time, you weren't going to wait around for a lie to be wrapped in an apology.

You sent the message without thinking.

[You]: Dad, I need you. Please come pick me up. Right now.

And as always, your dad didn’t need context.

The porch light flickered on a few minutes later. You glanced out the window and saw his car pull up. The same steady rhythm, same quiet presence that had always made you feel safe as a little girl.

When you opened the door, your dad didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside and took the suitcase from your hands.

You nodded toward the bedroom. “She’s asleep. I’ll carry her.”

He followed as you carefully picked up Nora, still half-asleep and clinging to you in a warm, sleepy daze. Her head rested against your shoulder, and you breathed her in, grounding yourself in her scent. A mix of baby shampoo and the soft baby detergent you used for her clothes.

You walked her out to the car. Your dad opened the back door and waited while you gently lowered her into the car seat. He helped you buckle her in, hands moving instinctively like muscle memory from years of fatherhood.

“She okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, voice tight. “Yeah.”

He looked at you for a second longer than necessary, like he could see everything you weren’t saying. Then he opened the passenger side door and waited.

You slid in.

He didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t need to. The look in your eyes told him everything. And in the quiet hum of the engine starting, you felt that first breath. The one where you realised you were finally leaving.

Not just the house.

But the version of love that made you feel so small.

And as the car pulled away, taillights fading into the night, you didn’t look back.

You’d come back for the rest another day.

Tonight, you were choosing peace. Even if it hurt.

The drive was quiet. The kind where the silence holds you gently, because there’s nothing left to say. Your dad kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh, the way he always did when he was deep in thought. Every now and then, he glanced at you, but never pried. You were grateful for that.

Nora had fallen back asleep in the backseat. Her soft breathing filled the car like a lullaby, a reminder that even in the middle of heartbreak, something innocent and whole still existed.

When the car turned onto your childhood street, your chest tightened. The porch light was already on.

She knew.

Before your dad could even shift the car into park, the front door swung open and there she was. Your mum, in her slippers and dressing gown, eyes wide with worry as she rushed down the steps.

You opened the car door, feet hitting the driveway like they didn’t belong to you. You barely made it a few steps before she was in front of you, arms pulling you in, holding you so tightly you couldn’t breathe.

And that’s when it happened.

Everything that had been bottled up. The numbness, the quiet strength, the effort to hold it all together, just crumbled in one breath. You didn’t mean to cry. But the moment her hand cradled the back of your head and she whispered, “It’s okay, baby. You’re home,” your knees buckled.

You sobbed.

Right there in your mum’s arms, in the middle of the driveway with the cool night air brushing your face, you let it all go. The betrayal. The fear. The months of pretending things were fine. The guilt for bringing Nora into it. The shame for not leaving sooner. The hope that somehow, maybe he’d prove you wrong.

Your mum just held you tighter, rocking you gently like she did when you were little. “You did the right thing,” she whispered over and over again, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You’re safe now.”

Your dad walked around to the other side of the car and gently lifted Nora out of her carseat, carrying her inside. She didn’t wake. Just curled into his shoulder.

You followed, hand still gripping your mum’s sleeve like a lifeline.

The house smelled like home. Faintly of chamomile tea and laundry powder, and something cooking in the slow cooker she must’ve forgotten to turn off. You stood in the entryway, blinking hard, unsure of what to do now.

“Come on,” your mum said softly, brushing the hair from your face.

“We put clean sheets on your old bed.”

You gave a weak nod and kicked off your shoes.

You didn’t have answers yet. You didn’t know how to explain everything. But for now, you were here. In a house that never made you question your worth.

And somehow, that was enough for tonight.

It was nearly 1am, when Taehyung turned the key and pushed open the front door. The night air clung to his skin, heavy and still. For a moment, he just stood there in the doorway, staring into the darkened shell of the home he once knew. The silence inside greeted him like a stranger.

He stepped in, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoed down the empty hallway. His footsteps sounded loud against the hardwood floors, and yet, everything else was quiet.

The hallway stretched longer than usual as he walked deeper into the house. The framed photos on the walls looked back at him. Snapshots of smiles, tiny hands wrapped around his fingers, a life once whole. He swallowed hard.

In the living room, everything was in its place. The scatter of toys that usually littered the floor was gone, neatly tucked into bins and baskets. The throw pillows on the couch were fluffed, the blanket folded. It was tidy, in a way that felt like goodbye.

Taehyung’s pulse picked up. He moved quickly to the kitchen, his eyes already scanning. That’s when he saw it.

A single sheet of paper, resting like a quiet truth on the countertop. His name written at the top in looping, familiar handwriting.

He froze.

Then, with fingers that trembled despite his best effort, he reached for it and unfolded it.

Taehyung,

The way his name sat there. There wasn’t any hearts, no nickname, no softness.

I don’t even know where to start. I thought I knew you. Trusted you. But I was wrong. I found out you weren’t being honest with me, and it cuts deeper than I can explain. We were supposed to be building something. But now, I see something was always missing. Your actions speak louder than your words and they always will.

Each line was a blow. Sharp, deliberate, and painful.

I don’t know if you realise how much this hurts. I don’t even know if you care. But I can’t pretend anymore for Nora, I won’t. I’m taking a step back. I need space. She deserves more than this. When you’re ready to talk, call me. We need to figure out arrangements for her. I’ll come back for the rest of my things soon.

He didn’t make it to the end.

His vision blurred, the page crumpling slightly in his fist. The air in the room thinned, pressing into his chest until he had to sit down. The stool by the counter felt too far. His knees felt too weak.

You were gone, and this time it felt different. Not like a fight. Not like a break. But the end.

He looked around again.

The house was the same, but it wasn’t home anymore.

It had only been a few days. Not long by the world’s standards. But to Taehyung, it felt like a lifetime.

He hadn’t seen Nora. Hadn’t texted you. Hadn’t called you.

The guys were scattered around Yoongi’s living room. Beanbags, blankets, and half-opened snack bags left like relics of a night spent trying to distract themselves. A muted movie flickered on the TV, casting soft, uneven light across their faces.

Namjoon tossed popcorn into the air, catching maybe two pieces successfully. “I’m telling you guys. Haejin’s obsessed with this ridiculous competition show where people build entire cities out of LEGO. Last night, some guy’s tower collapsed right before judging and she cried. Like, actual tears.”

Yoongi blinked. “That’s… impressively tragic.”

Namjoon shrugged, grinning. “Hey, it was intense."

Laughter bubbled up, low and scattered.

Except for Taehyung.

He sat sunken into the corner of the couch, a beer sweating in his hand, his eyes somewhere far beyond the TV screen. He hadn’t laughed in days. Not the kind that reached his chest, let alone his eyes.

A pillow flew through the air and hit him squarely.

“Yo. Earth to Tae,” Hoseok said. “You good?”

Taehyung blinked, like coming up through thick fog. “Just tired.”

Yoongi glanced over. Sharp. Observant. He didn’t press, but his gaze lingered.

“Long shift?” Namjoon asked, cracking open a soda.

“Nah,” Taehyung replied, voice flat. “Newbie at work today. Keeps butting heads.”

A lie. Smooth. Practiced.

Jungkook, who knew better, who knew everything. Just nodded and played along.

“Yeah, but man’s got range,” he said casually, though his voice had an edge to it.

Taehyung let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Yeah.”

Silence returned. Heavy this time. Loaded.

Yoongi took a slow sip of his drink, eyes still on him. “How’s Nora? Y/N?”

Taehyung’s fingers tightened around the bottle. “They’re fine.” It sounded too fast and too clipped.

The others didn’t need to speak. The tension said enough.

Namjoon leaned forward, brows knitting. “Tae. What’s going on?”

For a moment, Taehyung said nothing. The bottle now sat between his knees, his thumb anxiously rubbing over the crinkled label.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

“No, it’s not,” Hoseok said quietly. “You’ve been off for days. Talk to us.”

His jaw clenched. His leg bounced once. Then, finally he broke.

“Y/N knows,” he whispered. “She found out I… I cheated.”

The room went still.

Jimin sat upright, eyes wide. “You’re joking.”

Taehyung shook his head once.

Namjoon’s voice was low. Measured. “When? With who?”

Taehyung didn’t answer.

“Taehyung.” Yoongi’s voice cut through, cold and direct. “Say it.”

He swallowed hard. The words felt like glass in his throat. “Jisoo.”

The silence that followed felt like a punch to the chest.

“Are you fucking serious?” Namjoon snapped, sitting up, crushing the soda can in his grip.

Jimin’s expression twisted. Somewhere between betrayal and disbelief. “Tae… come on, man. Jisoo? You knew Y/N couldn’t stand her.”

Hoseok stared at the floor, jaw set. “Did you tell her?”

Taehyung shook his head. His voice cracked. “No. I kept it buried for a long time. It happened before Nora was born… and then I messed up again after.”

He didn’t dare meet their eyes.

“Shit,” Yoongi muttered. “What now?”

Taehyung exhaled shakily. “She left. Took Nora. I don’t know where... maybe to her parents’ place, or Nari’s. She told me when I’m ready to talk, and to figure out arrangements for Nora, to let her know.”

“And how long ago was that?”

The voice came from Jin, who was quiet until now.

Taehyung swallowed, barely holding it together. “Since Sunday.”

Silence again. Thicker this time. No one knew what to say.

Until Namjoon stood and walked over, placing a hand firmly on Taehyung’s back.

“You need to fix this,” he said, not unkind, but firm. “You’ve been doing so well. With Nora, with Y/N. And the second Jisoo came back, you ran scared. Don’t be a coward again, Tae. Own up to it.”

Taehyung blinked fast, swallowing hard.

In his silence, the boys didn’t push any further.

But Jungkook knew.

He saw it. The ache, the regret, the weight of what Taehyung had lost. And the terrifying, growing fear...

That maybe he deserved to.

Later that night, long after the guys had gone quiet and Yoongi’s apartment was cloaked in shadows and leftover tension, Taehyung sat alone.

The movie credits had rolled. The laughter was gone. And still he hadn’t moved.

His beer had long gone warm, untouched on the table beside him. In his hand now was his phone, screen glowing in the dimness.

For a moment, he just stared at it. The urge to call you. God, it almost broke him. To hear your voice, even if it was cold. To tell you he missed you so bad it physically hurt. To say he was sorry.

But he didn’t.

Instead, with a shaky breath, he opened his settings and scrolled to his blocked list. And there it was.

Jisoo.

His thumb hovered. Hesitation thick in his chest. He hated himself for what he was about to do.

But he needed answers. Closure. Something.

With a deep breath and a pit forming in his stomach, he unblocked the number. Then, slowly, typed a message.

He stared at the message for a long time. Then hit send.

The screen hadn’t even dimmed before his phone lit up. Her name flashing across it like some cruel joke.

She had been waiting.

Taehyung sat slouched in the corner booth of the café, the hood of his sweater pulled low like it could shield him from the weight of everything pressing on his chest. The late afternoon light spilled through the windows, soft and indifferent. No one noticed him, but he still sat like he was hiding.

Jisoo arrived ten minutes late, breezing in like this wasn’t the moment everything broke. Like this wasn’t the aftermath.

She slid into the seat across from him, offering a tight smile that didn’t dare reach her eyes. “You look like shit.”

“Feel worse,” he muttered. “Thanks for coming.”

“I almost didn’t.”

He looked at her, surprised. “Then why did you?”

“Because you sounded pathetic,” she said. “And because I figured you’d finally grown the balls to say something real.”

A beat passed. Then he went straight into it.

“She knows.”

Jisoo raised her brows but didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I figured.”

“She found out because of you,” he said, jaw tight. “It wasn’t your place, Jisoo.”

She let out a short, bitter laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“You knew it wasn’t your story to tell—”

“Oh, shut up, Taehyung,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare try to pin this on me.”

His mouth opened, ready to argue, but she cut him off.

"Newsflash—it was your story to tell. But you didn’t. You kept lying. Hiding. Stringing both of us along like a goddamn coward.”

“I don't even think you had the guts to say my name around her,” she continued. “You had this whole perfect picture going for you. Your little family. And I get it. I do. I saw it, Tae. I saw how happy you are with her. With Nora. But you were never going to tell her what happened between us. Not when it risked all that.”

“I was trying to protect her—”

“No,” she bit out. “You were trying to protect yourself.”

He looked away, jaw clenched, but she wasn’t done.

“You think I forced any of this? You were the one who kept answering my calls. You were the one who showed up every time I asked. You kept me close because you liked the attention. Because you wanted someone who knew all your mess and didn’t judge you for it. But don’t act like you were innocent. You ran back to me. Every. Single. Time.”

Taehyung’s fists curled in his lap.

“You said you loved her,” she continued, voice low and bitter, “but you kept crawling back to the one person she never trusted. And for what? Because you were bored? Because you needed someone to make you feel wanted when she wasn’t looking?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not just a bad boyfriend, Taehyung,” she said, voice trembling now. “You made her feel crazy for what she knew deep down. You made me feel like I was the problem, like I was imagining things... when the whole time, you were the one crossing lines.”

His throat felt dry. Like all the air had been pulled from the room.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“No,” she snapped. “You came here to ease your guilt. To make me say it wasn’t all your fault. But it was. You lit the match. I just stopped pretending we weren’t already burning.”

That shut him up completely.

He leaned back slowly, staring down at the scratched table between them. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

"I was getting better. I swear I was..."

Jisoo didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk. She just looked tired.

“You don’t deserve her,” she said. “But I guess you figured that out too late.”

He nodded once, feeling empty.

“She’s just Nora’s mom now,” he whispered. “That’s all I get to say. That’s all I earned.”

Jisoo stood, grabbing her bag. “You don’t get to say anything. Not yet. Not until you stop trying to rewrite what happened.”

She paused, looking down at him one last time.

“You loved her? Prove it. Own it. Every piece of it.”

Then she turned and walked out, leaving Taehyung alone in the booth. Still slouched, still drowning, but now finally unable to blame anyone else but himself.

Long after Jisoo had left, the weight of her words sinking deeper with every passing second. His heart pounded in his chest, guilt twisting into something sharper. Regret, desperation, maybe even a flicker of hope.

He pulled out his phone, fingers trembling. For so long, the thought of calling you had been a mix of fear and shame. He was afraid of hearing the silence, the anger, the disappointment. He wasn’t ready to fix everything. Maybe he never would be. But he was ready to try. Ready to face the mess he’d made and be honest with you, no more lies, no more running away.

He hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over your name on the screen. Then, with a deep breath, he pressed call.

The phone rang once... twice...

Until finally, your voice came through. Cautious, surprised, but not entirely cold.

“Taehyung?”

He swallowed hard, voice breaking but steady. “Yeah. It’s me. I... I’m ready to talk.”

The next morning, your phone buzzed with a message from Taehyung.

[Taehyung]: Hey. I know you’re at your parents. If you want, I can come pick you up. Maybe we can go somewhere quiet and talk?

You stared at the screen for a long moment before typing back.

[You]: Okay. I’ll be ready in 30.

True to his word, Taehyung pulled up outside your parents’ house shortly after. When you stepped outside, the sunlight caught the tired lines on his face.

He offered a small, uncertain smile. You climbed into the passenger seat, heart hammering with a mix of nerves.

As he drove away, the weight of unspoken things hung between you both. But for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t heavy with silence or resentment. It was waiting. Waiting for a chance to start healing.

“Where do you want to go?” Taehyung finally asked, eyes on the road but voice gentle.

You looked out the window for a moment before answering, “Somewhere we can just talk. No distractions.”

He nodded slowly.

You chose Namson Park for the conversation. Not because it held any particular meaning, but because it was neutral ground. Quiet. Removed. Somewhere that didn’t echo with old memories.

Taehyung’s eyes were heavy with regret as he finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice thick with guilt. “For everything. For taking so long to reach out, for not answering your messages when you found out. I don’t have a good excuse.”

You shook your head, cutting him off before he could say more. “Sorry isn’t enough anymore, Taehyung."

He flinched but met your gaze.

“I need to know why you thought it was okay to keep something like that from me. Why it was so hard for you to set boundaries. With her, with anyone. Why you stayed in a relationship if you couldn’t be honest.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened, the truth hanging heavily between you. “It’s like you wanted to have a girlfriend but didn’t want to be a boyfriend,” you said quietly, voice breaking. “Like you wanted all the good parts of us. But none of the responsibility. And I was just... there, like a placeholder.”

His jaw clenched, pain flickering across his face. “I never meant to hurt you,” he whispered. “I was scared... scared of facing what I’d done, scared of losing you, scared of who I was becoming.”

You looked away, fighting back tears but keeping your voice firm. “Being scared doesn’t excuse lying. You chose to hide it from me. You chose to betray the person who trusted you most.”

He nodded slowly, voice barely audible. “I know. Sorry won’t fix this. But I want to try — for you, for Nora, for us.”

Your voice trembled slightly, but you kept your chin up. “I gave you so many chances, Taehyung. So much grace. So much of myself. And you took it. Every time and treated it like it was optional.”

He swallowed hard, face falling. “I never wanted to lose you.”

You gave a sad smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “But you did.”

There was a beat of silence.

“All you need to be now is Nora’s dad,” you said. “That’s it. Be consistent. Be present. Show up for her the way you couldn’t for me.”

He blinked back the sting in his eyes, throat tight. “And if I want to show up for you too—”

“You don’t get to,” you said gently, but firmly. “Not anymore.”

The conversation had drained the last of the tension between you. It didn’t fix anything, but it made things final. You had drawn your line, and this time, Taehyung knew there was no space to push past it.

On the quiet ride back to your parents’ house, the silence sat heavy between you. No begging. No bargaining. Just the weight of a goodbye that had already happened.

As he pulled into the driveway, you finally broke it.

“I’ll message you later with a schedule,” you said, voice calm but distant. “I’m thinking maybe alternating weeks. We’ll try it and adjust if we need to.”

Taehyung nodded, staring ahead. “Okay. Yeah, whatever works best for her.”

You added, without meeting his gaze, “I’ll come by later in the week to get the rest of my stuff. I’ll let you know ahead of time. I don’t want it to be awkward.”

He hesitated, then offered gently, “You don’t have to rush—”

“I’m not rushing,” you cut in. “I’m just done.”

That stopped him. He nodded again, slower this time. Like he finally understood what you meant by final.

He cleared his throat. “Can I… see her? Before I go?”

You hesitated for a moment, then stepped out of the car. “I’ll get her.”

When you returned a minute later, Nora was in your arms, freshly changed, her sleepy head nestled against your shoulder. She lifted her head slightly at the sound of the car door opening, blinking through her long lashes with the kind of dazed curiosity only toddlers had.

Taehyung stepped forward gently. “Hey, baby girl…”

At first, she just stared at him, clutching onto your shirt. But as he opened his arms, her little body instinctively leaned toward him.

You passed her over carefully, and the moment she was in his arms, Taehyung melted.

His lips pressed to her soft hair as he held her against his chest. She smelled like baby powder and warm milk, and she let out a small sigh as she adjusted in his arms, settling in like she remembered. Like she missed this too.

His throat tightened.

God, he didn’t realise how much he missed her. Not until now.

Her tiny hand reached up, patting at his cheek, and he gave a breathy laugh that cracked halfway out.

“You’re so big already,” he whispered, brushing a hand down her back. “Did I miss this much?”

You stood back quietly, arms folded across your chest, watching the two of them. He looked at you then, eyes glassy but not pleading. Just full with regret and love.

“She’s doing really well,” you said softly. “My mum’s been helping. She’s got a new routine. She sleeps through most nights.”

Taehyung nodded, gently swaying with Nora still curled in his arms. “She’s perfect.”

You nodded once, then reached out. “Time to go back inside now.”

He pressed one last kiss to her forehead before passing her back carefully. Nora whimpered just a little, reaching for his hoodie string as you carried her back toward the porch.

“Next week,” you reminded him over your shoulder. “I’ll text you the details.”

He stood in the driveway a moment longer, hands in his pockets, watching you disappear inside with his daughter.

The door clicked shut.

And with it, the last piece of what used to be.

The arrangement was clear now. Taehyung would have Nora every weekend. Friday to Sunday. It wasn’t about convenience anymore. It was what had to be done.

After everything. The broken trust, the arguments, the sleepless nights spent crying, you couldn’t let yourself go through it again. There were no more chances left to give. Now, he was just Nora’s dad. That was all he needed to be.

So you focused on what you could control.

Your new work from home HR job became a steady routine. With your communications degree finally being put to use, your days filled up with Zoom calls, planning team check-ins, and writing internal updates. It kept your mind busy and that was the point.

Nora was with you from Monday to Thursday. Those days were full, it's messy, tiring, and sometimes overwhelming but they felt safe. Familiar. She kept you grounded.

Some days it felt different. You could feel the shift before the day even started. Your parents, as always, helped where they could. If you were tied up with a training session or stuck in a long call, they stepped in. Dropping Nora off, picking her up, playing with her while you wrapped things up. They never once complained. If anything, they were just happy to be around her.

And Nora loved them, her tiny smile lighting up the room whenever they were near. In their arms, she felt calm. Protected. Just like you did when you were little.

And so, the new routine began. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t without its aches but it was consistent. And for now, that was enough.

As the days blurred into weeks, you’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to go out. Not for groceries or daycare runs, but to really go out. To be seen. To feel like more than just a mother navigating through survival mode.

Which is exactly why Nari, in all her persistent glory, dragged you into this.

“It’s just a rooftop thing,” she said breezily, stretched across your childhood bed, legs kicking behind her like she had all the time in the world. “You need a break. Like, a real one. Just come.”

You shot her a look from the mirror as you tried on your third outfit.

“I don’t even know whose party it is,” you said, adjusting the neckline of your black satin top.

“Does it matter?” Nari countered. “It’s not about them. It’s about you. Releasing. Unwinding. Remembering you’re not just a mother or a walking to-do list. You’re you.”

Her words stung a little, but not in a bad way. You glanced toward the closed bedroom door where you could hear your parents laughing softly with Nora in the living room.

You turned back to the mirror.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “But I’m not staying late.”

“Famous last words,” Nari teased, rolling onto her back and staring at your ceiling like she was seventeen again.

Your room still looked like it did back then. Same posters clinging to the walls, same bookshelf crowded with old journals and worn paperbacks. But now, scattered between the memories, were signs of your new life. A folded play mat in the corner. A pack of baby wipes on the dresser. Nora’s extra onesies tucked into your drawers, right beside your old concert tees. And the closet was now a mix of your old clothes and the emergency stash of workwear for when you had to jump on video calls unplanned.

You rifled through hangers again. Jeans, dresses, jackets. Nothing felt right. You wanted something that said I still know who I am, but nothing screamed louder than I’m trying too hard.

Eventually, you settled on a navy plaid pleated skirt paired with sheer tights and your favorite knee-high burgundy boots. The ones that always made you feel a little bolder than you were. You layered a soft grey sweater under a dark denim jacket, its silver buttons catching the light as you moved. You left your hair down, slightly tousled.

With just enough makeup. Soft coverage, a sweep of blush, a touch of mascara, and a tinted lip balm. Nothing too heavy, nothing too bare. Just enough to feel like you were showing up for yourself.

“Okay, cutie,” Nari said from your bed, sitting up with a grin. “That’s the one.”

You caught your reflection again, trying not to smile. Trying not to think about Taehyung. Tonight wasn’t about him. Tonight was yours.

You exhaled, slow and steady, then grabbed your bag.

Nora’s laughter echoed down the hallway as you opened the door, and for a second, you hesitated. Before Nari stood up and looped her arm through yours.

“Let’s go remind the world who you are,” she whispered.

You stepped out of your room, the soft click of your boots echoing lightly on the wooden floor as you made your way down the hallway. The living room was wrapped in a familiar warmth. Your dad’s easy laughter, your mum’s gentle hum, and in the center of it all, Nora. She was sitting on the floor, chubby fingers fumbling with puzzle pieces, most of them nowhere near where they belonged.

She looked up the moment she heard your steps. Squealed and grinning.

Your heart ached in the best way.

You crouched down and scooped her into your arms. She giggled as she clung to you, her little arms tight around your neck, her hair soft and sweet, still smelling faintly of baby shampoo and strawberries.

“Be good for grandma and granddad, okay?” you whispered into her hair. “Mummy will be back soon.”

She nodded like she understood, even if time was still a blur at her age. You kissed her cheeks. Once, twice, three times until she squealed and squirmed with laughter.

You stood and gave your mum a quick hug, your dad a thankful smile. “Thanks for watching her tonight,” you said, smoothing down your sleeve, more out of habit than need.

Your mum waved you off. “Go on, love. You need this.”

Your dad grinned. “Just don’t let Nari talk you into dancing on any tables.”

“She’s the dangerous one,” you joked, tilting your head toward Nari, already by the door texting the cab driver like she was coordinating a military op.

You blew Nora one last kiss, gave your parents a grateful wave, and stepped out into the night. The sky had turned that soft indigo blue, the kind that lingered just after sunset, with city lights flickering on like they were in no rush at all.

The cab ride was short, the music low, the window cracked just enough for the breeze to lift strands of your hair. You and Nari didn’t speak much. Just the kind of quiet comfort that comes from being known, even when you’re not saying anything.

When you arrived, the city buzzed around you. The rooftop was already alive. Strings of lights overhead, people clustered in corners with drinks in hand, music pulsing like a heartbeat through the concrete.

As you stepped out of the elevator, Nari grinned and tugged at your wrist. “Come on,” she said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

You gave her a look. Half warning and half curiosity.

“One of my many closest friends,” she continued. “He’s just got back from Europe. You’ll love him. Super chill, tall, easy on the eyes, and genuinely nice. Plus, he dances like a maniac when he’s had a few drinks.”

“Sounds dangerous,” you said dryly.

“His name’s Yugyeom,” she added with a playful lilt.

You followed her through the crowd, the scent of perfume, spiked punch, and city air mixing all around you. The music was louder here. Some upbeat track you didn’t recognise but could feel thrumming in your chest.

Nari wasted no time. As soon as you reached the edge of the rooftop, where the music was a little less deafening and the breeze ran cooler, she threw her arms around the tall guy by the railing. He was striking. She wasn't kidding. Soft eyes, warm smile, and an energy that felt calm even in the middle of a buzzing crowd.

“Yugyeom!” she laughed, pulling him into a fierce, joyful hug.

He looked surprised for a moment, then grinned and hugged her back just as easily, clearly happy to see her. His gaze then shifted to you.

“Yugyeom, this is her,” Nari said with playful exaggeration, turning to you like she was unveiling a masterpiece. “My best friend. My partner in crime. The one I’ve been telling you about forever.”

You smiled politely, reaching out to shake his hand. Until she cut in, louder than necessary.

“And she recently broke up with her piece-of-shit boyfriend. Baby daddy, actually.”

Your smile froze. Your eyes darted to her, wide in disbelief. “Nari,” you hissed under your breath, heat rising in your cheeks.

She waved you off, snagging a drink from a passing server as if she hadn’t just blown up your entire dating history in front of everyone. “What? He was a piece of shit. Anyway,” she said, turning back to Yugyeom, “she’s glowing now. working in HR, killing it as a boss mum, and living her best life.”

Yugyeom blinked, clearly caught between amusement and surprise. “Wait… you’re a mum?”

You hesitated for a beat before nodding, a bit shy under his gaze. “Yeah. I have a daughter. Nora. She’s only one.”

Something shifted in his expression. A genuine curiosity, not judgment. “That’s… actually really cool,” he said. “I love kids.”

You tilted your head slightly, unsure if he was just trying to be polite.

“No, seriously,” he went on, smiling now. “I work with them. I teach beginner dance and music classes. Mostly kids between four and seven. They’re chaotic, but honestly, the best part of my week.”

Nari, now smug and sipping her drink like she’d just orchestrated fate itself, elbowed you playfully. “See? I told you the universe has a sense of humour.”

You rolled your eyes at her but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. Yugyeom chuckled too, leaning against the railing as he took a sip from his drink.

“So, Nora, huh?” he asked. “What’s she like?”

And just like that, something softened in you. Walls relaxing slightly, the party noise fading just a bit, as you found yourself telling a stranger about the little girl who changed everything.

Nari wasn’t subtle. Never had been. But she had a sixth sense for when energy shifted, especially when it involved you.

From across the rooftop, she spotted the change in your expression. The way your shoulders relaxed, the slight lean forward, eyes softening as Yugyeom spoke about his work with kids. She didn’t need to hear a word to know something was clicking.

With a raised brow and a knowing smirk, she sashayed over, empty glass in hand.

“Well, well, well,” she teased, sliding in beside you. “You two look cozy.”

You shot her a mild glare, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

Yugyeom chuckled quietly, not falling for it. “We were just talking about her daughter. Nora sounds like a lovely little girl.”

“She is,” Nari declared proudly, ruffling your hair like a smug older sister. “Cutest kid ever.”

“But I’m sensing some good vibes here, so I’m gonna take my nosy self away and leave you two to it.”

She winked, then leaned in close, lowering her voice just enough for only you to hear. “I’ll grab us more drinks. Maybe hit the dance floor too. You good?”

You nodded, about to respond, but she was already melting back into the crowd, hips swaying effortlessly to the beat like she owned the night. You watched her go, amused and a little grateful.

Yugyeom smiled beside you, his tone light. “She’s got a lot of energy.”

“You have no idea,” you said, exhaling a quiet laugh.

Turning back to him, the noise around you faded once more, the city lights sparkling below. For the first time in ages, you felt like yourself. No labels, no expectations. Just you. On a rooftop, with someone new. And yet, whether you liked it or not, someone else lingered quietly in the broken corners of your heart and mind.

The lights strung above danced gently in the wind, casting a warm glow between the two of you. Yugyeom took another sip from his drink and grinned. “Honestly, the reason I like kids so much? I’ve got a whole army of nieces and nephews.”

You raised a brow. “Yeah? How many are we talking?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Seven. And counting. My older siblings were busy, apparently.”

“Seven? That’s not a small army, that’s a kingdom.”

“Exactly,” he said, laughing with you. “And I’m known. Unofficially but unanimously... as the best uncle ever.”

You crossed your arms with a playful smirk. “Big claim.”

“It’s earned,” he said confidently. “I show up with snacks. I remember all their birthdays. I’ve sat through every school play and birthday party, even the ones with terrifying clowns and melted cake. And my specialty... I let them paint my face with glitter and call it ‘spa day’ without flinching.”

You tried to hold in your laughter, picturing him surrounded by a group of tiny humans, his face smeared with sparkles and lip gloss.

“Okay,” you said, shaking your head. “That’s actually really sweet.”

He smiled gently at the mention of her. “What’s she like, more you or her dad?”

The question caught you off guard but not in a bad way. It just wasn’t one people usually asked with genuine curiosity.

You shrugged, eyes drifting to the skyline for a moment. “She’s got his eyes. But she’s definitely more like me. Stubborn and curious. She babbles nonstop, even if most of it doesn’t make any sense yet."

He nodded slowly. “That sounds like a good mix.”

You tilted your head. “You really don’t mind that I have a kid?”

Yugyeom met your gaze directly, no hesitation. “Why would I? I think it’s kind of amazing, actually. You’re doing it all. Working, raising a whole person, and still showing up to rooftop parties looking like this.” His tone was warm, teasing, but sincere.

Heat crept into your cheeks again. You looked down, a soft smile forming despite yourself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice a little quieter now. “Sometimes I forget that I’m allowed to be… more than just her mum.”

He leaned his elbow on the railing, turning slightly toward you. “You don’t have to be just anything. You’re allowed to be everything. And whoever you are tonight… I’m glad I get to meet her.”

For a second, the city noise seemed to hush beneath the weight of his words.

And maybe it was the lights, or the way his smile didn’t feel rehearsed, or the fact that someone was finally seeing you beyond what you carried. But something about it made you stay just a little closer, let your guard drop just a little more.

“So,” you began, your voice light, “Nari mentioned you just got back from abroad?”

He nodded, brushing a hand through his hair, his features illuminated by the golden string lights above. “Yeah. I was in Berlin for about a year. Before that, Thailand for a while.”

“Wow,” you said, eyebrows raising. “What were you doing out there?”

“Teaching mostly. Music and dance. Preschool stuff. Mostly movement-based learning. A lot of tapping drums and waving scarves around,” he laughed, eyes crinkling. “But honestly, it taught me more than any class I ever took.”

Your interest piqued. “So you studied education or something?”

Yugyeom tilted his head at your question, that warm smile still playing on his lips. “Actually, I graduated. Finished my degree in music performance. Same year as a few friends who studied acting and visual arts. We were kind of an odd little crew.”

You blinked, surprised. “So you didn’t drop out?”

He shook his head, laughing lightly. “Nope. Made it to the end, cap and gown and all. I think I shocked my professors. I was always late to class and constantly turning in compositions two days past the deadline. But I loved it, in my own chaotic way.”

You smiled, the ease in his voice like sunlight through a window. “That’s kind of impressive. And after that you just… left?”

“Pretty much.” He leaned against the railing again, looking out at the skyline. “I always said I’d take a break, travel for a bit before committing to anything serious. Didn’t mean to ghost everyone, though.”

You tilted your head. “Ghost?”

He winced playfully. “Yeah. I kind of pulled an Irish goodbye after our grad exhibition night. Didn’t say much, just packed up and left for Thailand two weeks later. I still keep in touch with a few people though. Group chats, random check-ins, voice notes that never get replied to until a month later. Those kinds of friendships.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressed into a thoughtful smile. “That sounds… familiar.”

He looked at you curiously. “Yeah?”

You gave a noncommittal shrug, not quite ready to unlock that part of your past. Taehyung. He’d studied music too. You’d sat through his recitals, listened to late-night voice memos filled with unfinished melodies. His dream had once been big, bold, and beautiful and you believed in it almost as much as he did. Now, he’s got his own studio, calling the shots for himself.

But tonight wasn’t about him. It was about now.

“You still make music?” you asked, gently shifting the focus.

“Sometimes,” Yugyeom said with a soft smile. “Mostly for the kids now. I turn ‘Let It Go’ into a jazz ballad just to see them lose their minds. They think I’m a wizard.”

You laughed, picturing it. “I bet you are to them.”

“I like it better that way,” he said, looking at you. “Less pressure. More joy.”

The wind picked up slightly, brushing against your arms. You hugged yourself, not because of the cold, but because something about his words landed softly. Something about him. The way he moved through the world, the way he spoke of people. And maybe, this was the start of something new. Something gentler. Something that asked nothing of you but to be present.

The once-buzzing space now held only the gentle hum of the last songs bleeding from the speakers, a few bodies still swaying lazily, unwilling to let the night go just yet. Empty cups littered the tables, laughter had simmered down to soft murmurs, and the city below felt calmer somehow.

You sat beside Yugyeom again, your feet comfortably tucked beneath you. Nari reappeared, a subtle flush on her cheeks and a bright glimmer in her eyes.

“Okay,” she exhaled, flopping dramatically beside you. “I’ve danced enough to cover my cardio for the next three weeks.”

You laughed, glancing at the time on your phone. It was nearly 1am. The thought of your bed had never been more tempting.

“Should we call a cab?” you asked, already gathering your jacket from the back of the chair.

Yugyeom stood, stretching slightly, then turned to you both. “Actually… if you’re okay with it, I can drive you home. My car’s parked just down the street.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “Are you sure?”

He nodded with a gentle smile. “Yeah. I didn’t drink much. I do sober up pretty fast. And I was mostly here for the people. Plus, I’d rather you get home safe and not stuck waiting around for some overpriced ride share.”

Nari nudged you with a smirk. “Isn't he just the best?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Alright. Thanks, Yugyeom. That’s really kind of you.”

The three of you made your way down the stairwell, the air cooler now and refreshing against your skin. The streets were mostly empty, the occasional car passing by, headlights casting brief shadows on the pavement. Yugyeom’s car was tucked neatly along a quiet side street.

He opened the doors for you both without a word, like it was second nature. You slid into the passenger seat while Nari took the back, already pulling out her phone, probably posting photos or videos from the night.

As the engine started and soft music filled the space between you, you found yourself relaxing more than you expected. The city lights blurred past the window, your body sinking into the seat. You glanced over at him, watching the way his hands rested confidently on the wheel, the way his jaw flexed slightly as he hummed to the song playing under his breath.

“Thanks again, really,” you murmured.

He looked over, eyes warm. “Anytime. You were good company."

Nari snorted from the backseat. “Aww, look at you two. Getting all friendly and cozy already.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.

Your fingers absently fidgeting with the hem of your skirt. Nari was maybe half asleep already. Or maybe letting you have this little moment uninterrupted.

As he drove on, something in your chest softened, and for the first time in what felt like a long while, the night didn’t feel heavy or tinged with something missing.

It just felt… easy.

As the car moved through the quiet streets, you found yourself leaning your head slightly against the cold, glass window. A grounding contrast to the warmth swirling in your chest. The hum of the road beneath the tires mixed with the soft lo-fi track playing through the speakers, and for a moment, you felt at peace.

Your thoughts, inevitably, drifted to Nora.

It was automatic. Whenever things slowed down, she filled your mind. You pictured her nestled in her crib, clutching her soft unicorn blanket, maybe babbling softly or drifting off to sleep. She always wanted a few gentle kisses goodnight. Tonight, you’d given her extra, just to hold onto the moment a little longer.

Out of habit, you reached for your phone. Halfway through typing a quick message to your dad, just like you used to. On my way home. Even though you knew he was probably already asleep. That’s when you saw it.

A missed message.

From Jungkook.

[JK]: hey. sorry to drop this on you but i figured you should know. tae’s not doing great. he’s really drunk rn. like… really gone. keeps calling your name. not sure who else to tell.

Your heart dropped a little. Not with panic, but with that aching mix of confusion and old pain. A tight inhale caught in your throat. You didn’t reply immediately. Just stared at the screen, your thumb hovering above the keyboard.

You hadn’t spoken to Taehyung in weeks, not really. Just polite handovers when Nora was involved. Civil, distant. You wanted it to be progress.

But here he was again, clawing his way back into your head, even when you were trying to breathe in something new.

“Everything okay?” Yugyeom’s voice came, low but genuine.

You blinked, quickly locking your screen and tucking the phone in your lap. “Yeah,” you lied softly. “Just… checking in.”

He didn’t press. Just gave you a small nod and kept driving, his hand resting comfortably on the wheel, his other adjusting the volume down a little.

And you were grateful for it. For his quiet understanding. For the fact that he didn’t try to pull the thread you weren’t ready to unravel.

Behind you, Nari had gone fully silent, her breathing steady. Definitely asleep.

You stared out the window again, the lights washing over your face, your reflection barely visible in the glass. You were stuck somewhere between two worlds. One where your past still haunted you in unread messages and drunken confessions, and another where kindness was offered without conditions.

You weren’t sure which one would win.

But tonight, you let yourself rest in the in-between.

The car turned down a familiar road lined with sleeping houses, porch lights glowing like quiet guardians. Home was just a few minutes away now, but your thoughts were miles elsewhere.

You stared blankly ahead, Jungkook’s message sitting in your phone like a weight.

Taehyung’s clearly not okay.

You hadn’t replied. You didn’t know how to. What was he expecting from you, exactly?

That you’d drop everything and go to him? Be the one to comfort him through another drunken spiral? Hold him through the night like none of it ever happened?

He was the one who broke you. Who let her come between your relationship. And now, after all of it, he still called for you like you were supposed to come running. You keep reminding yourself that, you and Taehyung weren’t together anymore. You were just co-parents now. Just two people trying to do what was best for Nora.

That’s it.

But the part that hurt the most was how true that had become.

There was a time when he was everything.

Now, he was just Nora’s dad. And you didn’t even feel guilty for saying that in your head.

Yugyeom must’ve sensed the shift in your energy. He glanced over before gently slowing the car and pulling up to your driveway. The engine went quiet except for the low hum of the radio, something soft and piano-based trailing faintly in the background.

“We’re here,” he said quietly.

You nodded, shaking off the fog. “Right. Yeah. Thanks again for the ride. And tonight. It was…”

“Nice,” he finished for you with a small smile. “I’m glad you came.”

You were about to open the door when Nari stirred in the back, stretching with a dramatic groan. “Ugh, are we home? Did I snore?”

“Yes and yes,” you muttered, teasing gently.

Yugyeom chuckled and quickly stepped out of the car to help you both. Nari, still a little wobbly and mumbling about crashing on your bed, stumbled ahead. Yugyeom moved closer, gently slipping an arm around Nari’s waist to steady her as she swayed. You fell into step on the other side, sliding your hand under Nari’s arm to support her as well.

Together, the three of you made your way slowly toward your parents’ house, the quiet night wrapping around you like a soft blanket. When you reached the porch, the warm glow of the light spilled over the steps. Yugyeom’s hand brushed against yours again. Softer this time, but still enough to send a flicker through you. You caught a quick, knowing smile from him before quickly looking away.

“Nari’s good for the night,” you said softly, unlocking the door.

Yugyeom gave a nod, still holding steady on Nari. “Let me know if you need anything.”

You stepped inside, pulling Nari in with a gentle laugh as she mumbled about needing “all the naps.”

Yugyeom lingered on the porch. You turned back toward him, pausing in the doorway. His hands were tucked into his jacket pockets, the breeze shifting his hair just enough to make him look boyish, thoughtful.

“I… hope we see each other again,” you said, your voice low and honest.

He tilted his head, a slow, kind smile pulling at his lips. “I’d really like that. And if you ever want to talk about stuff… you know, life, being a parent, or just jazzified Disney songs. I’m around.”

That made you laugh a little. A real one.

“Thanks, Yugyeom. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed.

With that Nari flopped onto the couch with exaggerated exhaustion, mumbling something you couldn't understand. The house was cozy and quiet, the soft glow of the hallway nightlight casting gentle shadows. The TV was off, leaving the space peaceful. You draped a blanket over Nari and quietly made your way down the hall to your parents’ room. Peeking inside, you saw Nora peacefully nestled in her portable crib, while your parents slept soundly, completely unaware of the world outside.

You leaned against the hallway wall, heart still restless, thumb brushing over your phone. And then, finally. You unlocked it.

Jungkook’s message was still there, waiting.

You hesitated. Then typed slowly.

[You]: Thanks for letting me know. Is he safe?

The reply came fast.

[JK]: yeah, i took him home. he passed out. but he was a mess. i thought maybe hearing your voice would help. sorry if that's out of line.

You exhaled. Closed your eyes.

You knew what Jungkook meant. There had been nights like this before, back when things were still good. When your voice could calm Taehyung, ground him. Back when he still reached for you before things fell apart.

But not now.

Not anymore.

You typed back.

[You]: You did the right thing by being there. But I can’t be the person he calls anymore.

And you meant it. With your whole heart.

Friday came up quicker than you’d anticipated, the days slipping by in a blur until suddenly it was time to hand Nora over to Taehyung for the weekend. You were on your way to meet him at the park. A familiar spot where you’d often crossed paths before.

Your hands gripped the baby bag firmly, loaded with everything Nora might need. Fresh clothes, diapers, wipes, her favorite little blanket, snacks, and a couple of toys. You’d made sure it was all packed perfectly. Taehyung had gotten so used to Nora’s routine by now, even stocking up on a fair share of her essentials at his place. That part eased your mind a little. You didn’t need to worry about anything going wrong while she was with him.

When you arrived, the early evening light was soft, the park quiet except for the faint laughter of kids playing nearby. Taehyung was already there, leaning against a bench with a relaxed but expectant air. His eyes lifted when he saw you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey,” you greeted, stepping closer with Nora swaddled gently in your arms.

“Hey,” he replied softly, reaching out to take her from you. His arms settled around her protectively, and you couldn’t help but watch the easy way he cradled her.

As you handed over the baby bag, you caught yourself glancing at him, searching for something beneath the calm surface. “Are you okay?” you asked carefully, voice low. There was something different about him, a subtle tension you couldn’t quite place.

Taehyung met your eyes and gave a small nod, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his expression. “I’m fine. Actually… there’s something I should clear up.” He paused, as if weighing his words.

“Jungkook told me he texted you last week. Said I was drunk and apparently making a mess.”

You smiled gently, appreciating his honesty. “It’s okay. I get it. Just… maybe next time, save the confessions for when you’re sober.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Nora’s forehead. “Deal.”

The moment stretched softly between you. You knew things were far from simple, but for now. With Nora in his arms and the park settling into evening calm around you, it felt like a small peace had settled between you both.

The soft hum of your laptop fan filled the room, mingling with the quiet tapping of your fingers against the keyboard. The late morning light spilled in through the sheer curtains, casting faint shadows on your desk. Your coffee had long gone cold, sitting untouched beside a half-scribbled notepad of reminders you didn’t have the energy to cross off.

Work from home sounded nice on paper, but today your thoughts felt heavy, distracted. You had reports to read, a Zoom call in less than an hour.

Then your phone buzzed quietly beside your elbow, breaking through the haze. You glanced down to see a string of photos from Taehyung lighting up the screen. Nora laughing as bubbles floated around her, her tiny hand clutching a colourful toy. There she was, safe and joyful with her dad for the weekend.

A soft smile touched your lips. Taehyung was savouring these moments just as much as you treasured them from afar. Despite everything, the quiet connection was a comfort.

You set the phone down, ready to slip back into work mode.

This time, the screen lit up with something unexpected

You paused, fingertips hovering above the screen before curiosity got the better of you.

[Unknown]: Hey. I hope this isn’t weird. I got your number from Nari. It’s Yugyeom. The guy from the rooftop party with the clumsy dance moves and Disney opinions. We forgot to swap numbers, didn't we?

You blinked, rereading it once, then twice.

Yugyeom.

You hadn’t thought about him since that night. Not in any deep way, at least. But now that his name was there in plain text, it stirred something light in your chest. That night had felt like a breath of air after being underwater for too long. Easy conversation. Laughter you didn’t have to force. Someone who didn’t look at you with pity or history.

Your lips tugged into a small smile before your fingers began to type.

[You]: Not weird. And yes, I remember you. Hard to forget the kids' dance teacher with surprisingly deep Disney takes and questionable rhythm.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

[Yugyeom]: Guilty as charged. I promise I’m usually smoother, but I had a feeling I might not get another chance to say hi if I didn’t shoot my shot.

You leaned back in your chair, letting out a quiet laugh. It had been a while since anyone made an effort. Not because you weren’t worth the effort. You knew your value. But because your guard had been up. For good reason.

Still, this didn’t feel heavy. It didn’t come with a suitcase full of baggage. It was a guy being bold enough to reach out. No pressure.

It was just human connection.

[You]: Well, you have my attention now. What’s up?

He responded.

[Yugyeom]: Honestly? Nothing fancy. Just thought I’d check in, see how you’re doing. And maybe, if you’re up for it sometime, grab a coffee? Daylight, public space, zero expectations kind of thing.

You stared at the message, something warm settling in your stomach. There was no charm overload, no forced flirtation. Just an invitation. Gentle. Considerate.

You glanced over at your to-do list and the tabs on your screen, still blinking, still demanding. But suddenly, the weight didn’t feel as suffocating.

You looked back at your phone.

[You]: I think I’d like that.

You didn’t know where this would go.

But it felt nice. To be seen, not just as someone’s ex or someone’s mom. But just… you.

Back then, everything smelled like cold brew coffee, dog-eared notebooks, and late-night ramen. The university’s music building buzzed quietly. Muffled beats drifting through the walls, vocal warm-ups echoing off stairwells, fingers tapping rhythms on worn tabletops during lectures.

It was mid-semester, a Thursday evening just as the air outside began to sharpen with the first hint of autumn chill. Taehyung and Yugyeom had claimed one of the old soundproof practice rooms. Not to rehearse this time, but just to hang out. Taehyung strummed lazy chords on his guitar, eyes half-lidded, while Yugyeom balanced a carton of strawberry milk on his knee, the lid slightly dented.

“You ever gonna tell that girl in your harmony class how you feel?” Taehyung asked, glancing sideways.

Yugyeom rolled his eyes. “Dude, not this again. She doesn’t even know my name.”

“She borrowed a pencil from you last week.”

“That’s not love, man.”

Before Taehyung could retort, his phone buzzed on the floor. He glanced down, a soft smile spreading across his face.

He picked up, leaning back against the soundproof wall, the guitar slipping a bit from his lap.

“Hey,” he said, voice instantly softer. “What’s up?”

Your voice came through, playful and warm. “Did I catch you in the middle of your Grammy-worthy performance?”

“Not quite,” he chuckled. “Just killing time. What’s going on?”

You told him about your day. How you nearly slipped on the stairs juggling books and coffee, how one professor had accidentally used the wrong slideshow all lecture. Your voice was lively, filled with little detours and laughs, and Taehyung just listened, grinning like a fool.

Yugyeom watched with a smirk, then leaned close to the phone, shouting dramatically, “Tell her she deserves someone with better coordination!”

You paused, surprised. “Who’s that?”

Taehyung laughed, holding the phone slightly away. “That’s Yugyeom. Ignore him.”

You giggled, and even through the speaker, that laugh warmed Taehyung’s chest. “Hi, Yugyeom. I’ll take my clumsy self elsewhere, then.”

Yugyeom gave Taehyung a thumbs up and mouthed she’s funny, before sipping his strawberry milk.

You stayed on the line a little longer, trading casual goodbyes and half-serious promises to call again. When the call ended, Taehyung still held the phone, a soft smile lingering.

“Is that her?” Yugyeom asked, tossing the empty carton in the bin.

“Yeah,” Taehyung said quietly. “That’s Y/N.”

Taehyung’s lips curved into a soft smile, eyes still on his phone screen. “We’ve been together since senior year of high school. She’s studying communications now, but still figuring out what she wants to do with it. But honestly, she’s a champ. I don’t know how she puts up with me being such a pain in the ass.”

Yugyeom looked over thoughtfully and nodded. “You’re a lucky guy, man.”

Taehyung didn’t respond right away. He just let the silence settle, that small smile lingering. Unaware of how much weight those words would carry in the time to come.

You’d just come back from taking Nora to her very first baby swimming class, spending the rest of the morning shopping and strolling around town. Somewhere between it all, you’d met up with Nari, who was eager to see Nora and catch up.

Weeks had passed since that rooftop party. Somehow Yugyeom had slipped easily into your life. Not as a whirlwind romance but as a steady presence. You still kept your guard up, tightly wound from the past, wary of letting anyone in again. Trust didn’t come easily, especially not after what happened with Taehyung.

But with Yugyeom, it was different. He was patient, kind, the kind of friend who listened without judgment. You caught yourself smiling at his texts, looking forward to conversations that felt light but genuine. Feelings started creeping in but you pushed them aside. You told yourself you couldn’t trust a man anymore.

Then, one Friday afternoon, your phone buzzed.

[Yugyeom]: Get dressed comfy. I’m taking you on a date.

You blinked, rereading the message. A date? You weren’t sure whether to be amused, nervous, or both.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard before texting back.

[You]: Comfy ok. But what kind of date?

Almost instantly, his reply popped up.

[Yugyeom]: Just trust me. Be ready by 6.

Curiosity won out. After a brief pause, you stood and began your evening routine, making sure Nora was fed and bathed before handing her off to your parents, who were more than happy to watch her for the night. When 6 came, Yugyeom arrived right on time. A grin spreading across his face like he was about to reveal a secret.

The car ride was filled with teasing smiles and easy conversation until you saw the glowing lights in the distance—an amusement park.

“You brought me here?” you laughed, surprised.

“Yep,” he said, eyes sparkling. “No pressure. Just fun. No expectations.”

You felt your heart lighten a little. Maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let the guard down. Even if just for tonight.

The crisp evening air was filled with laughter, music, and the scent of popcorn and cotton candy. The amusement park lights blinked like stars come down to earth, casting a warm glow over everything.

Yugyeom held the door open for you with a gentle smile, and you stepped into that bubbly, electric world, feeling a flutter of nerves mixed with excitement.

“Alright,” he said, his voice soft but playful, “first mission is to get us some of those ridiculously oversized stuffed animals.” He pointed to a game booth where people were trying their luck at the claw machine.

You rolled your eyes but laughed. “You’re setting me up to lose, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” he teased. “But win or lose, I’m just happy you’re here.”

You felt your cheeks warm and looked down, fiddling with your jacket zipper.

As you wandered through the park, the two of you slipped into an easy rhythm. You tried the bumper cars. Bumping into each other more than anyone else, and Yugyeom’s laugh was infectious. You let yourself laugh more than you had in weeks, the sound bright and unguarded.

Later, you found yourselves waiting in line for the Ferris wheel, the air cool against your skin. The night stretched out in soft hums of joy around you. When it was your turn, Yugyeom held your hand a little tighter as you stepped into the car.

The city lights shimmered below, but your gaze stayed on him.

“You know,” you said quietly, “I wasn’t sure about this at first.”

He looked at you with those warm, steady eyes. “Me neither. But I’m glad you came.”

The Ferris wheel creaked softly as it lifted you higher, and for a moment, the world felt like it was just the two of you. Suspended in a bubble of something new and tender.

When you reached the top, you both looked out over the glowing park below, your fingers still intertwined.

“I’m not ready to call this a date,” you admitted with a small smile, “but it’s definitely something.”

Yugyeom grinned. “We’ll take it slow. No rush.”

As the wheel turned and you descended back to the ground, you realised maybe, trusting again wasn’t so impossible after all.

And with a soft squeeze of your hand, Yugyeom whispered, “Thank you for trusting me tonight.”

You smiled back, your heart a little lighter, the night full of quiet possibility.

The laughter still lingered in your chest as the car rolled to a stop in front of your house. The amusement park glow felt like it was still clinging to your skin. Your arms were full of plush toys, prizes from a night of playful competition.

Well, mostly Yugyeom’s wins.

“You’re seriously a claw machine wizard,” you said, glancing at the stuffed bunny and oversized banana plush taking up half the backseat.

He grinned, eyes crinkling. “Years of training. I was destined for greatness.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You spoil Nora more than I do.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “She deserves it. Put some of them in her room. She can wake up thinking she’s in a plushie kingdom.”

Before you could respond, he was already out of the car, jogging around to open your door like it was second nature. You stepped out, arms still full of soft, fluffy trophies, and looked at him with a fond shake of your head.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in gently, reaching to help you carry a few of the toys. His fingers brushed yours, warm and steady.

You were halfway up the path, laughing about the ridiculous banana plush being taller than you, when you spotted someone near the porch.

Your steps slowed.

There he was.

Taehyung.

Standing in a pool of porch light, holding a paper bag that looked like it held snacks or maybe something Nora loved. And small bouquet of wildflowers that looked hand-picked. His head lifted at the sound of your voices. His eyes landed on you first, softening. Then froze as they moved to Yugyeom beside you.

Yugyeom, who still held your hand.

For a beat, no one moved. No one spoke.

You blinked, confused for a moment by the way Taehyung was staring. His expression wasn’t one of simple surprise. It was layered with something heavier. Like the pieces were falling into place in slow motion.

Yugyeom turned his head slightly, sensing the change in energy. And then, recognition sparked.

“…Taehyung?”

Your eyes widened, shifting between them. “Wait—you two know each other?”

The air shifted between them. Between all of you. You felt Yugyeom’s hand fall away from yours entirely as he straightened, his expression unsure. Like he was still trying to process.

He turned toward you, voice quieter now. “This is… the Taehyung?”

You gave a faint nod, not trusting yourself to say anything.

“The ex,” he murmured to himself, then added, “Nora’s dad.”

Yugyeom stepped back slightly, clearly caught off guard. Not angry, but reeling. Like everything you’d ever mentioned about your past had just taken physical form on your doorstep.

Taehyung looked between the two of you, his voice low. “Didn’t know you two were…”

“Yeah,” Yugyeom answered, though it came out uncertain, still laced with disbelief. “Neither did I. Until right now.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with past and present colliding in real time.

Taehyung cleared his throat and held out the paper bag. “Just came to drop off baby snacks for Nora. And… she left one of her plushies in my car.”

You stepped forward to take it from him. “Thanks,” you said softly.

You didn’t say anything about the flowers. But you saw the way his hand tightened around the stems.

Like he wasn’t sure what to do with them anymore.

Yugyeom didn’t move. He was still looking at Taehyung, not with hostility. But with the quiet shock of someone trying to understand how the story he’d been told fit the face in front of him.

And maybe, you thought, Taehyung was doing the same.

You held the bag close to your chest, fingers gripping the top just a little too tightly. The quiet between the three of you was unbearable. Taehyung was the first to break it.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” His eyes flicked toward Yugyeom again, the corner of his jaw tightening like he was biting down on something unspoken. “Didn’t know you’d be back this late.”

You tried to keep your voice even. “We were out.”

“I can see that.”

The way he said it made your chest tighten. Not accusatory, but not casual either. Like he wasn’t sure which emotion he had the right to feel. Taehyung never liked showing jealousy but his silence often said more than his words.

Yugyeom shifted beside you, arms still full of plush toys meant for your daughter. He cleared his throat. “I should probably… head home. Let you guys talk.”

“Yugyeom, you don’t—” you started, turning to him.

But he was already handing you the rest of the toys, his smile strained, like he didn’t quite know how to wear it anymore. “It’s okay Y/N. I get it.”

You reached out impulsively, grabbing his wrist, fingers curling around his jacket. “Wait. Please don’t—”

“I’m not mad,” he said softly, and that almost made it worse. “Just… surprised.”

You nodded slowly, hating the way the air suddenly felt cold. Yugyeom’s kindness had become something you depended on. His presence a quiet comfort. You didn’t realise just how much until this moment, how fragile all of it could be.

He looked between you and Taehyung again, and this time when he spoke, it was more to himself than to anyone else. “You said he broke your heart. I just didn’t know it was him.”

The way he said him carried history. Old memories. You weren’t sure of what. But you could see it on his face now. That old familiarity being rewritten in real time.

Taehyung looked at Yugyeom then, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “We were friends,” he said, quietly.

“Were,” Yugyeom echoed, nodding once. “Guess that makes things easier.”

You flinched at that. At the quiet finality in his tone.

Yugyeom gave you one last look, softer this time. “I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?”

You wanted to say something. To reach out. But nothing would come. So you just nodded again, feeling something in your throat that wouldn’t let you breathe.

He turned and walked back to his car, driving off moments later.

And then it was just you and Taehyung.

The porch light buzzed softly overhead. You turned to him slowly, the paper bag still in your arms, your heart split between two names. Two timelines. Two different versions of who you used to be and who you were trying to become.

Taehyung’s voice was low. “So… you and Yugyeom?”

You nodded once. “We’ve been… spending time together.”

He stared at the ground for a moment, then up at you. “Is it serious?”

You looked away. “It wasn’t supposed to be.”

His shoulders tensed. “But it is now?”

You exhaled, words stuck in your throat. “I don’t know.”

But you did. The way your heart fluttered when Yugyeom laughed. The safety you felt around him. The way he never asked for more than you were ready to give, but somehow still made you want to.

And yet…

Taehyung was standing here, holding flowers and looking at you like you still mattered. Like he still felt something, even if he didn’t know how to say it. It brought everything rushing back. The memories and the heartbreak,

You swallowed hard. “What are you doing here, Taehyung?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Like I said, I just… Nora left her plushie in my car. I brought her snacks. And… I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see you.”

It landed like a bruise.

“Taehyung,” you said softly, your voice fraying, “remember what we talked about. What we are now.”

Just Nora’s parents.

That was the line. You both drew it. You both knew it.

His silence cracked something open.

Your voice wavered, but the words came sharp anyway. “You don’t get to show up and look hurt. You were the one who lied. You were the one who ruined us.”

Taehyung stepped forward, his expression tightening, lips parting as if to deny it. But he didn’t.

He didn’t say a word.

He just looked at you.

Haunted.

Like the weight of it had finally settled in his chest. Like he was just now realising what he’d lost.

And that this time, there was someone else. Someone who knew how to hold you carefully. Without breaking anything.

Especially your heart.

He didn’t even notice when the bouquet slipped from his fingers. The wildflowers he’d hand-picked for you lay forgotten on the concrete, petals crushed beneath his silence.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

I'm So Proud of You

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, support thanks to Simon, mild angst, military deployment, angst with a happy ending

Author's Note: Enjoy the story! College is hard af rn but for those of us who are going through it, don’t worry. You got this! I believe in you and so does our Simon!

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The soft glow of your desk lamp illuminated the scattered textbooks, handwritten notes, and half-empty coffee cups that marked another long night of studying. You rubbed your temples, exhaustion seeping into your bones as you glared at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen. The looming deadline for your final essay felt like an insurmountable wall, and the weight of going back to college after years away only added to the pressure.

You sighed deeply, your mind swirling with self-doubt. "Why did I think I could do this?" you muttered to yourself.

A quiet knock at the door pulled you from your spiraling thoughts. You looked up to see Simon leaning casually in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. In the sanctuary of your home, he never wore his skull mask—his face was visible, raw and real. His warm brown eyes softened as they met yours, filled with a tenderness that only you were privy to.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” Simon said, his deep voice tinged with concern as he stepped into the room.

“I can’t stop now,” you replied, frustration evident in your tone. “Finals are next week, and I’m drowning. I don’t even know if I can do this anymore.”

Simon’s brows furrowed, his heart aching at your distress. He walked over, crouching beside your chair and gently taking your hand in his. “You can do this. You’ve made it this far, haven’t you?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away. “I’m just… tired, Si. I feel like I’m failing.”

He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “You’re not failing. You’re fighting. And I’m so damn proud of you.”

The sincerity in his voice broke through your walls. A tear slipped down your cheek, and Simon was quick to wipe it away with his thumb. “Come on, love. Let me help,” he offered, standing and guiding you to the couch.

You hesitated but allowed him to pull you away from the desk. “What do you know about psychology?” you teased lightly.

He chuckled, the sound deep and comforting. “Not much, but I’m a fast learner.”

Simon spread out your flashcards on the coffee table, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he picked one up. “Alright, Professor Riley at your service. First question—what’s Maslow’s hierarchy of needs?”

You giggled through your tears, the sound lifting some of the heaviness in the room. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you’re smiling now,” he pointed out with a grin.

The next hour passed with laughter and light teasing as Simon quizzed you, his encouraging words softening the sharp edges of your stress. He marveled at your determination, how you pushed through even when you felt like crumbling. And in those quiet moments, with just the two of you, you saw the man beneath the mask—the one who loved you fiercely, even if he wasn’t always good at saying it.

When you finally closed your notebook, feeling a little lighter, Simon wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “You’re doing something amazing, love. I hope you know that.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “I don’t think I could do it without you.”

His hand rubbed soothing circles on your back. “You could. But I’m glad I get to be here for you.”

——

A Week Before Graduation

The morning was heavy with unspoken words as Simon laced up his boots. The deployment call had come earlier than expected. You sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his dog tags between your fingers, trying to keep your emotions at bay.

“You’re leaving before graduation,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

Simon stood, his tall frame towering over you, but his eyes were filled with nothing but tenderness. In his civilian clothes, he looked like your Simon—the man who helped you study, who made you laugh, who held you when you cried. But the skull mask resting on the table nearby was a harsh reminder of the world he belonged to.

“I know,” he said softly, crouching down in front of you. “I tried to push it back, but—”

You shook your head, tears welling up. “I get it. It’s your job. I just… I wanted you there.”

He reached out, cupping your face in his hands. “I want to be there more than anything. You’ve worked so hard, love. I hate that I’m missing it.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Simon brushed it away. “Promise me you’ll come back safe?”

His jaw tightened beneath the short stubble, but he nodded. “I promise. I’ll be thinking of you the entire time.”

You leaned into his touch, memorizing the feel of his rough hands against your skin. “I’ll wear your tags at graduation. Like you’re there with me.”

Simon smiled softly. “And I’ll come back, so I can tell you in person how proud I am.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before slipping on his gear. When the skull mask covered his face, it felt like a wall had gone up between you, but his eyes—those warm, expressive eyes—remained the same.

“Stay safe,” you whispered.

He gave a small nod before turning and walking out the door, leaving a piece of your heart with him.

——

Graduation Day

The cheers and applause echoed through the auditorium as graduates crossed the stage. You clutched your diploma tightly, a bittersweet smile on your face. You’d made it—you’d finally done it. But the ache in your chest was impossible to ignore.

You found a quiet spot under a large oak tree outside the venue, away from the bustling crowd. You traced your fingers over Simon’s dog tags around your neck, wishing he was there.

“Beautiful sight,” a familiar voice drawled.

You froze, heart racing. Slowly turning, you saw him—Simon. No mask. No gear. Just him, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

“Simon?” you breathed, tears welling up.

He smiled, stepping closer. “Surprise.”

You ran into his arms, the diploma forgotten as you wrapped yourself around him. His arms encircled you tightly, lifting you off the ground as you buried your face in his neck.

“You said you couldn’t make it,” you whispered through your tears.

“I pulled some strings,” he replied, voice soft. “I wasn’t gonna miss this.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, noticing the bouquet in his hand. “You got me flowers?”

He chuckled, slightly sheepish. “Of course. You deserve the world, love.”

He handed them to you, and you took them with trembling hands, overwhelmed with emotion. “I missed you so much.”

He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away your tears. “I missed you too. And I’m so damn proud of you.”

You smiled through your tears. “I did it, Si.”

“I never doubted you,” he said, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

In that moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of celebration and the warmth of his embrace, everything felt complete. He was here, unmasked and real, with flowers in hand, and you knew no matter what challenges came next, you’d face them together.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[salmonballsss]

The Violet Hour

(Chapter 4)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word count: 4.8k

Warnings: None yet.

So… it’s been a couple hours.  

Or days?  

Oh, who am I kidding.

Yeah.

Days. 

You just couldn’t do it.

Come running back to Agatha’s house the very next day after finally meeting her? Please.

Then she’d just think you were clingy. Desperate. Some needy little grad student flinging herself back to her feet after one morsel of attention. One crumb of eye contact.

She was right.   

You were like a lost puppy.

The past few days have been filled with aimless wandering around Hollow Wood — mostly the central part of town, which you’ve now memorized down to the cracks in the sidewalks and the smell of the bakery. You haven’t ventured out into the woods or the rural trails just yet.

Well… not until today. 

You’d just finished getting a painfully late sandwich — 3 PM, because apparently time doesn’t exist anymore — and had slinked back into your hotel room. The place creeped you out at first, but it’s starting to grow on you.  

Like mold.  

Charming, quirky, historic mold.

The townsfolk are nice enough. A little nosy, a little bored. It’s got that classic small town energy — where everyone knows each other’s birthdays, breakups, and bowel movements. During your walks, you’ve strained your ears shamelessly eavesdropping on conversations,  hoping— 

No.  

Begging. 

To hear anything Agatha related.

But no dice. Not even a whisper. No mysterious woman in purple. No town legend. No nothing. 

Maybe Billy was right. Maybe she is a dead ghost lady.  

Maybe you wandered onto haunted land and Agatha’s just a projection.  

A cursed mirage.

Maybe she died in a witch trial hundreds of years ago and now only appears to lonely sapphics with trust issues.

Pft. Yeah. Right. 

You shake your head and pull your pants on, followed by your ever reliable Converse.

Today, you were going to one of the Salem Witch Trials sites Agatha mentioned during your “not an interview” interview.

It’s for research.  

Academic integrity.  

Totally.

You tried writing your thesis to kill time, but without your notebook, it’s like your brain has eaten itself and declared a strike. No notes, no quotes, no structure. Just you staring at a blinking cursor like it personally betrayed you.

You even flipped through every cursed channel on the ancient hotel TV — hoping for a history special, a documentary, anything related to Hollow Wood…

Nothing.

Of course.

You grab your bag and the replacement notebook you bought in town just two days ago. Though… you don’t think you’ll be using it much longer. Not once you get your hands back on your real notebook — the one in Agatha’s possession.

You sigh and head out of the hotel room, using the old brass key to lock it up. You'd scream if you lost anything else — or if something got stolen because you didn’t double-check the lock.

As you leave the hotel lobby, you pull your rain cover on. You’d made it a habit to check the weather every morning since meeting Agatha. You’ve learned Hollow Wood, much like back home in Washington, is the definition of weather-induced whiplash.

One minute it’s torrential rain and borderline hail. The next? Blue skies and a goddamn rainbow.

You make your way into town, passing by the shops you’ve already tourist-trapped and explored while procrastinating — instead of, you know, being a big girl and going to get your notebook back like an actual adult.

A few of the shops had actually been cute. You even bought a sweatshirt from one. Adorable. You’ve been bonding with retail therapy.

Eventually, you reach the edge of town. It’s sunny today, which you take as a personal gift from the gods — at least you won’t have to lug around a stupid umbrella while hiking through the woods like a history-obsessed Bigfoot.

Yes that was a Washington joke. 

Once you reach the small ranger park just outside of town, you pass a few teens and adults lounging around, laughing and talking like normal people.

Maybe if you got Agatha to like you—

No!

No. Not going there.

You reach a rocky trail — the one you know leads to the rural land that houses one of the old Salem Witch Trial sites. Specifically, the cemetery.

Locals have mentioned it. A few of the braver teens trek up there to “prove something,” only to come back pale and tight lipped, refusing to talk about what they saw.

---

The trail is longer than you remember from Google Maps.  

It winds through thick trees, moss draped branches, and enough uneven rocks to personally ntarget your ankles. You almost roll one twice, but you just mutter something about “historic suffering” and keep going.

Because this is research.  

Real academic field work.  

You’re out here touching grass — haunted grass — for the sake of your thesis. Your future PhD committee better give you a damn sticker for this.

It’s beautiful, though. The kind of eerie, untouched beauty that makes you forget you’re technically trespassing on possibly-cursed land. The forest is quiet. Not silent — there's the occasional bird, the crunch of your steps, the wind whispering like it knows things — but quiet in a way that feels intentional. Like the woods are watching.

And you're flattered, honestly.

You keep walking. Your bag bumps against your hip with each step, your replacement notebook tucked safely inside along with a bottle of water and a sad excuse for a granola bar you shoved in there earlier.

About twenty minutes in, you pause for a second to catch your breath. The trail’s gotten steeper — of course it has — and the canopy overhead is starting to thicken, casting everything in a soft green twilight.

Still no rain, though.  

So far, so good.

You check your phone: 4:17 PM. You’ve got time. You’re making good pace. You take a quick swig of water, adjust your bag, and keep moving.

By the time you see the crooked wooden sign half-buried in ivy, your heart skips a beat — okay, two. One from exertion, and one from excitement.

Historic Salem Burial Site — 1 Mile Ahead 

You grin. Like, full on nerdy grin.  

This is it.

You can practically taste the dusty archives and ghost stories. You’re already imagining how you’ll word the next section of your thesis: A firsthand walk through early colonial terrain revealed the emotional residue embedded in the land itself… 

Ugh. Beautiful.

You press on with renewed energy, practically skipping like some kind of Disney princess. If birds landed on your shoulders right now,you wouldn't even question it.

It’s almost 4:45 by the time the trees thin out and the forest floor begins to dip downward, the ground softening under your steps. There's a break in the brush, and just ahead — barely visible through the trees — you can see it.

The cemetery.

Or at least what's left of it.

Sunlight filters through the branches in dusty gold beams, and beyond them are the lopsided silhouettes of headstones. Cracked. Weathered. Old enough to make your chest flutter.

You stop just at the edge of the clearing, standing still. You’re panting a little, cheeks flushed from the hike, shoes muddy, hair probably sticking out in all the wrong directions. But none of that matters.

Because this is it.

This is history.  

This is your thesis.  

You slow your steps and take it in.

There are maybe twenty headstones in total, scattered unevenly across the clearing like bones half buried in the earth. Each one is slightly different — some tall and grim, others squat and mossy, leaning into the ground like they’ve been whispering secrets to it for centuries. A few are better maintained. One even has a stone offering bowl placed at the base, half filled with rainwater and a decaying daisy. Others are so eroded you can’t even make out the names, just the crumbling shapes of letters long swallowed by time.

You walk carefully, mindful of where your feet land. This is rural land. Old land. Sacred in a way no church could ever replicate.

And your mind — oh, your mind is doing somersaults.

You’d done it. You made it. All it took was a dozen archival rabbit holes, and a woman named Agatha who you’re still not entirely sure exists on the same plane of reality as you. All because you read her book…

God, you’re a weak woman.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at yourself, breath visible in the chilled air. You really flew across the country for this. And now you’re standing in a forgotten graveyard that probably hasn’t seen a visitor in years.

Your eyes land on one stone — off to the side, built into the edge of a low cobblestone wall like it was slotted in after the fact. It juts awkwardly from the ground, more brick than headstone, but you recognize it immediately.

You drop your bag, pull out your notebook and pen, and crouch down in front of it.

You squint through the moss, brush it gently away with your sleeve.

The name reads:  

Bridget Bishop 

Hanged — June 10, 1692

Your breath catches, just a little.

Bridget Bishop. You’d written about her. Extensively. She was the first to be executed during the trials — sixty years old when they dragged her to the gallows.

Accused of "sundry acts of witchcraft.” Classic.

Five girls had claimed she bewitched them — Abigail Williams, Ann Putnam Jr., Mercy Lewis, Mary Walcott, Elizabeth Hubbard — the usual suspects. Said her shape would pinch and choke them. Said she tore a coat by apparition. One girl even claimed her specter threatened to drown her if she didn’t sign the Devil’s book.

You remember the Cotton Mather quotes. You’d scrawled angry margin notes all over Wonders of the Invisible World like it was a horror novel written by an unreliable narrator — which it kind of was.

The accusations hadstacked high: A third nipple which of course vanished mysteriously between examinations, bewitched lace, poisoned cats, dolls hidden in the floorboards, even her own husband’s claims.

And still — still — it was her attitude they hated most. The way she stood her ground. The way she didn’t apologize for existing.  

“She lies too much,” they said. “There’s little occasion to prove the witchcraft. It is evident and notorious.”

You swallow.

A slow sadness moves through you — a weight in your ribs that balances out the excitement. These were not just stories. These were women. And this one — this woman — was the first to hang.

You press your fingers gently to the cold stone.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

Then, quietly, you smile.

Because she mattered. And you’re here. And she will not be forgotten.

You stay there for a long time, scribbling observations, sketches, and personal thoughts. You move from stone to stone — cataloging, mapping, transcribing what you can. Most are unreadable, but you note their placement, their condition, any symbol or scratch that might help you identify them later.

Hours pass.

You barely notice.

Until you pause to stretch your back — and realize it’s darker than it should be.

The sky’s gone pale gray-blue, and the light filtering through the trees feels… muted. The wind has quieted. You glance up.

Fog.   

Thin at first, like a breath across the field. But it’s thickening — curling low around the headstones, inching in from the woods like it’s alive.

And suddenly you’re aware of just how quiet it’s gotten. Not silent, but heavy.

The kind of quiet that makes your skin hum.

You zip up your jacket, turn a slow circle, notebook clutched against your chest. You hadn’t meant to stay this long.

The sun’s setting.

You’d gotten lost in history.

And now it feels like history might be ready to stare back.

You take a deep breath and tuck your new notebook back into your bag — now stuffed with a half drunk water bottle and the crumpled wrapper of the granola bar you'd had for a snack.

You pull out your phone just to check the time, expecting maybe… six?

7:48 PM.

"Fuck."

You hadn't meant to stay this long. It was supposed to be a quick visit. A little peek at the cemetery, maybe a few notes, a sketch or two, and then back before sunset.

But this?

Three hours? 

You blink in disbelief at the glowing screen, your thumb still hovering over it when a cold droplet hits the glass.

Then another.

Then many — sudden, insistent — pattering lightly across your shoulders and hair.

You glance up sharply.

Fog is curling in around the graveyard like smoke. Dense and low to the ground, creeping fast through the trees, swallowing headstones whole.

The sun — what’s left of it — is dipping fast below the horizon, leaving behind deep, long shadows that stretch like claws.

You hadn't meant to overstay your welcome.

You would've brought a flashlight. Or your umbrella. Hell, even a coat with a hood.

"Shit. Shit, shit."

You scramble to your feet, brushing dirt from your knees, heart racing now.

"Maybe I can—"

The words die in your throat.

Because you see it.

Perched on a moss covered headstone, half-shrouded in fog — still, and watching — is a crow.

Same dark glint in its eyes.

Same unshakable stare.

Same unbearable stillness.

Your breath catches. Heart thudding loud in your ears. The hairs on the back of your neck rise with the slow, deliberate spread of fear through your chest.

The rain picks up — sharp, insistent — and above you, dark clouds roll in to swallow what little remains of the sky.

You're alone.

In the woods.

At a cemetery.

No flashlight.

No umbrella.

And that crow — that same crow, you're sure of it — caws once. Loud and harsh.

Your whole body flinches.

Fear floods your veins like ice. You're frozen.

Because you remember.

You remember the day at Agatha’s estate. That same sound. That same crow — sweeping over your head like it was marking you.

Watching.

Following.

Stalking.

Finally, your instincts kick in — not telling, but yelling at you to move. To run.

You take a shaky step back, still half frozen in place.

Then another — before you spin around, breaking into a sprint.

You run through the cemetery, not so mindful of your feet now.

You had to go.  

Now.

Branches slap your arms. Your lungs burn. The rain is coming down harder now, and every squelching step threatens to knock you off your feet. You don’t stop — can’t stop — not when every instinct is screaming that something is behind you.

You don’t see it.  

But you feel it.

Every gust of wind becomes a breath on your neck. Every creak of a tree becomes a footstep. The fog coils tighter, swallowing the forest inch by inch — until all you can hear is your own frantic breathing and the slap of your feet against the forest floor.

God, you shouldn’t have stayed so long.  

You shouldn’t have come here alone.  

You should’ve known better.

You dart around a gnarled oak, feet sliding in the mud — and then you trip. You catch yourself against a root, scrambling back upright, heart pounding, soaked from head to toe. Your fingers are trembling as you wipe water from your eyes.

And that’s when you hear it.

A low caw from somewhere deep in the fog.

You spin, chest heaving. The sound echoes through the trees — familiar in a way that makes your skin crawl. You glance up into the branches, searching for it — then all around you, like some wild animal might pounce at any moment.

Just like before.  

The crow from the house.  

Watching you. Following you.

And still, there’s nothing.

No shape. No person. Just fog and trees and the hiss of rain on leaves.

You’re panting now. Whimpering, maybe — though you don’t even realize it. You push yourself forward again, breaking into another run, vision blurring, every ounce of panic spiraling out of control—

Until you hit something.

No — someone. 

Hard.

You yelp, completely losing your footing, arms flailing as you fall straight into the mud with a heavy splat. Cold, thick earth coats your hands, knees, and sides. You’re soaked and filthy, your chest heaving with exertion and terror.

“…Charming.” 

A voice.

Cool. Clipped. Annoyed.

You freeze.

Wiping your eyes with a mud-streaked sleeve, you look up — and there she is.

Agatha Harkness. 

Unmoving. Calm. Spectral. 

She wears deep plum trousers with black boots, a long indigo blue coat swirling at her calves — buttons gleaming faintly like polished onyx. Her white shirt is open at the collar, collarbones peeking beneath delicate chains. A familiar brooch gleams at her chest — that unmistakable knot of silver.

Her hair is down this time — long, loose waves curling perfectly over her shoulders, the ends damp at most .

Somehow, the rain hasn’t touched her. Not really. Not like it has you.

Agatha glances down at her coat, brushes the fabric once with her hand — and the flecks of mud slide off like dust, leaving no trace.

She looks back at you. Dry. Unimpressed.

“I suppose next time,” she says, arching a brow, “the little historian might consider using a map.”

You stare at her, breathless, blinking against the downpour.

Agatha sighs, as though this entire situation is a personal inconvenience she’s begrudgingly choosing to witness. “Though I do admire the dramatic flair,” she adds, cocking her head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were being chased by werewolves.”  

A beat.  

“Or vampires. Or perhaps a particularly menacing squirrel.”

You manage to push yourself upright, slipping once in the mud. You look like hell. She looks like she commands hell.

“I—I thought someone was following me,” you manage, clutching your bag.

Agatha gestures vaguely to your state. “And how’s that working out for you?”

You blink. A breathless, half-sobbing laugh escapes before you can help it.

She quirks a brow but says nothing.

“Why are you even out here?” you ask hoarsely, arms crossed over your shivering frame. “It’s getting dark, and cold, and you could’ve gotten—”

“Lost?” she cuts in, arching one brow. “Like you are now?”

Before you can even begin to come up with a retort, a low caw cuts through the fog.

Your spine stiffens. You flinch.

Agatha’s eyes flick past you toward the forest — where the crow was. Where you ran from. Her voice drops, muttering mostly to herself:

“Dramatic little shit.”

You blink. “Sorry — what?”

“Nothing.”

She takes a step forward, scanning the trees like they’ve personally offended her. 

You shiver. And not from the rain. 

“I wasn’t lost,” you grumble finally, finishing what you were going to say. “I knew where the trail back was.”

Then her eyes drop to your bag. And suddenly, her whole expression shifts — from mild amusement to something far too knowing.

“Right, and that’s why you ran in the opposite direction of it?” Agatha says with her annoyingly knowing tone.

Despite everything — your soaked clothes, your aching feet, your rising suspicion that you were going to die in these woods — you couldn’t stop the tiny curl of warmth in your chest at the sight of her again.

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.

Not since that day at her house. Not since she’d let you in — then promptly made you feel like you were on trial yourself.

And yet, here you were again.

Drawn to her like a moth to a blue eyed flame.

You freeze.

Mouth slightly open.

The fear is still buzzing through your veins, not yet caught up with the new reality. You’re not being chased. You’re not alone. But maybe — you realize — that’s not a comfort.

Agatha studies you for another long, quiet moment. Then, her gaze softens just slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

“You chose an interesting spot to spend your afternoon,” she says, voice low.

You tense. You’d only gone because Agatha mentioned it when you went to her house a few days ago. Or… also for your thesis.

But she’s the one who brought it up. Told you it was on the outskirts of town.

And then, like an afterthought, like the inevitable drop of a guillotine:

“Bridget always did like company.”

You go still.

Goosebumps race down your arms, and not from the cold.

You hadn’t said Bridget’s name aloud. Not once. Not when you were there. Not in the notebook. Not anywhere Agatha should’ve known.

You clutch your bag closer without realizing it. “How did you—?”

She cuts you off with a look. “You’re soaked.”

Which is true. You’re rain drenched, mud caked, teeth beginning to chatter. You look like you’ve been spit out of the earth and left to die.

Agatha sighs again — the sigh of a woman clearly cursed with patience she didn’t ask for.

“You should be more careful,” she mutters. “This place doesn’t like strangers stomping around after dark.”

You blink up at her, still catching your breath. The forest crackles quietly around you — like it's listening.

“This trail doesn’t lose people,” she adds, with the offhanded sharpness of someone quoting an old rule she might’ve written herself. “People lose themselves.”

You scoff, but it comes out wetter and shakier than you’d like. “Well, thanks for that cryptic horror movie wisdom.”

Agatha’s head tilts. Slowly. A glint of teeth, a narrowing of eyes.

“Careful,” she says, and it’s almost a purr — soft and smooth and terrifying.

You swallow. Loudly.

The blush that hits your ears is immediate and mortifying. You fumble to recover, grumbling as you clutch your bag tighter. 

Agatha gives you a once over before, breezing past you.

You stare at her, dumbfounded, then realize the rain has picked up again — colder now, like punishment. Meanwhile, Agatha looks… untouched. Her clothes aren’t even wet. Not really.

It’s almost insulting.

Agatha eyes the woods with a sneer, like it’s an unruly pet that refuses to heel.

You drag your hand down your face, slick with rain, and try to pretend you’re not shivering.

“So, I’m guessing the inn is about…” You glance down the barely visible path behind you. “An hour and a half that way?”

Agatha doesn’t answer at first. She just watches you with that look — the one that makes you feel like she’s already figured out your next ten thoughts and is unimpressed with all of them.

Finally, she sighs. “My house is closer.”

You blink. “Okay.”

“I’ll show you a shortcut.”

Your eyebrows go up. “Really?”

She turns, already walking. “Come, pet.”

Your soul leaves your body.

You trip over your own feet scrambling to follow, lips pressed together so tightly they might fuse.

“Pet?” you echo, horrified.

She doesn’t turn around. “Would you prefer ‘lost child in need of a leash’?”

“…Pet is fine.”

You follow her into the trees, the fog curling low and wet around your ankles, swallowing everything behind you. You're not sure what direction you're going anymore — or if the direction even matters. The woods feel older here. Sharper. The trees lean closer like they’re eavesdropping.

You’re still trying to orient yourself when Agatha stops without warning.

You nearly run into her again, skidding to a halt.

She turns slowly, her face unreadable — and then, without warning, steps behind you.

You stiffen.

Her hands — warm and uncomfortably grounding — settle on your shoulders.

“Relax,” she murmurs, voice low against your ear. “You’ll only make the forest twitchier.”

You don’t even know what that means. You don’t want to know what that means.

Her thumbs press lightly against your upper back, guiding you a step to the left. “There. Path’s clearer this way.”

You nod, absolutely not breathing. Not even a little.

Your heart is Racing and your mind reeling. You’re pretty sure you blacked out for a second.

Then her hands fall away, and she brushes past you again, the tails of her coat fluttering behind her like a shadow that forgot it needed to be tethered.

You follow. Because you don’t trust the woods.

And — more unsettlingly — you don’t trust the feeling crawling down your spine when you aren’t near her.

Not quite safety.

But something close enough to it.

---

Once you make it back to Agatha’s — through some weird ass winding path in the woods that made you internally ask,  how the fuck does she know her way around out here?  

You’re freezing. Drenched. Exhausted. And still reeling from the whole graveyard experience… You were having a blast at first sure… then- well you know what happened.

Not to mention you have no idea why you’re being brought to Agatha Harkness’s house.

Or, for that matter, why she was even at the cemetery in the first place.

But your brain’s too scrambled to work that out right now. You’re soaked to the bone. Tired, scared, confused — all in that ordr — and at this point, honestly just trying not to pass out face first into a patch of moss.

You follow her up the creaking steps of her hidden away woodland estate. You’re not even sure if this house exists on a map. It probably doesn’t. It doesn’t feel like it should.

You stop beside her — slightly behind — as she pulls a key from the pocket of her plum colored trousers. The same ones that somehow managed not to get muddy despite the hell walk through the woods.

Your eyes wander.

To her profile, lit soft and golden by the porch light overhead. It makes her features look… different. Softer. Sharper. All at once.

Your gaze travels from her brow bone to the slope of her nose — just the slightest bump in the bridge then to the tip that juts out deliciously—  and down to her lips, which are slightly parted.

And for a second—just a second—you wonder what it’d be like to—

“You have a staring problem, you know that?” Agatha says, completely deadpan.

She doesn’t even look at you.

Just unlocks the purple door, pushing it open like it’s muscle memory, and steps inside.

You freeze.

Your face burns. 

Then, without a word, you follow her in. Of course you do. Because apparently that’s what you do now.

Just how much could you embarrass yourself in one night?

Answer? to be determined.

You’ve noticed a pattern with her. From the first time you met to now — you just… follow.

Wherever she goes. Like gravity’s got a new favorite plaything.

And it’s not like you want to resist.

Not really.

Once inside, you immediately take your wet and mud caked Converse. To be polite, of course. Even though your clothes are clinging to you like a second skin and you’re currently dripping all over her floor.

Gods.

You are an idiot. 

You sigh and shut the door behind you. And just like the first time, that strange warmth hits you right away — radiating from the walls, from the scent of lavender and cedarwood curling in the air.

You exhale.

For the first time since stepping into those cursed woods, your body actually starts to relax.

You glance over at Agatha, who flicks on a few lights with the causal grace of someone who’s never once had to fumble with a switch. Not to mention that you were Still trying to catch up with everything that just happened.

While you were stood there — dripping in the entryway — Agatha cast you a slightly amused glance. Not annoyed. Not biting. Just… amused. Maybe even a little curious .

Her eyes wandered down the length of your soaked form

You swore you saw the ghost of a smirk.

With a soft sigh and a small tsk , she stepped closer.

You froze.

Her perfume hit you like a truck — deep and dark and expensive-smelling, liYou fought the unholy urge to just… breathe it in. 

She reached up and plucked a stray leaf out of your hair with the kind of casual care that made your brain short circuit.

“Honestly,” she said, her mouth twitching like she might actually smile, “is this your idea of playing the damsel? Because you’re almost pulling it off.”

You blinked up at her. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Agatha huffed out a low laugh — just a breath through her nose, but it still counted. “Mm. Suits you, actually.”

Then she turned and walked off like she hadn’t just set your heart on fire with a stray compliment.

You stared after her, stunned. Still very wet. Maybe in more ways than one.

“Come on little historian, let's get you a towel. I wouldn't want you to ruin my floors.”

Next Chapter

[resi4skz]

O8 IMAGINE SERIES

HYUNJIN

Synopsis: Instructor Hyunjin wants to paint one of his students, but in a way only the way he wants.

Pairings: Hwang Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: teacher/student relationship, smut, pene*ration, p in v, MDNI

Words: 30k+

A/N: these series will be connected to each other and as the stories progress, couples from the previous part will be making an appearance in each part, even if cameo.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

You had been sitting in front of your laptop, waiting as you sip on ice cold water. The humming of the AC and the chatter ofd the TV is in the background. You had been staring at the screen for the past 30 minutes. You were waiting to enroll in a class as it was the only class you had to take before graduating in the fall. You were nervous but you had the confidence that you'll get a spot just in time as it was a very popular and famous class, taught by Professor Hwang Hyunjin. Although he preferred students calling him Hyunjin.

Now, Professor Hyunjin was young and pretty attractive for a painting instructor. At the age of 25, he had pursued his passion for painting and even had a few pieces displayed in the university hallways. Apparently he had won a few prizes too. You had seen him once. At the cafeteria in between your classes. He was sitting, eating his lunch looking very.....handsome in the blue flannel with a white shirt underneath. That wasn't what made everyone drawn to him. No.

It was the glasses.

Thin framed with round shape, casting a soft glow around him. A strand of hair covering his forehead making him look irresistible yet sophisticated. And you swore time stopped when he made eye contact with you. The brown eyes blinked at you before looking down at the food and took a bite of a burger. Even eating, he looked attractive. Even a couple of students passing by couldn't help but stare, some even greeting him.

He looked like a model. With his sharp jawline and height, he could be mistaken as a model. That was the day you took an interest in his class. It was also the day you found out that he was the only instructor that taught pottery as well.

You bring your focus back to your laptop and move the cursor and click on his class. Scrolling down, you see a spot available and immediately click on it. It takes you to the next page. "I did it!" You say once you see your name on the class name list. "Yes!" You shoot your arms out in victory.

Graduation day seemed a lot closer to you now.

------------------------------------------------------------

Scratch that. Because you're sitting in the third row, in awe of the person standing in the middle of the room wearing a black, long sleeve sweater. His hair was tied back, a few strands sticking out as he spoke. "The trick with sketching is, you can erase as you go. But with painting," he says raising a paintbrush and drawing a red line on a canvas. "This is permanent. It will be permanent and erasing isn't as easy as you would think as many of may already know."

You couldn't help but pick up your stencil and your hand moves on your sketchbook as you look up and down making the right curves and lines. Yes, you wanted to draw him ever since you saw him in the university's cafeteria. You tuned everything out as you sketch in the book.

When you finally look up, you're met with paint splattered on an apron. You crane your neck up and you forget how to breathe. Up close, he was more beautiful. And those glasses-

"Y/N, is it?"

You visibly gulp and nod. Holy shit, he's tall. Taller than you. But how the hell did he know your name?

"May I?" He gestures to your sketch pad and you hand it to him. Your cheeks were red from embarrassment. "Wow. This is good. And you just did this just now?"

"Yes." It was a sketch of him, specifically his face on the entire page.

"Hmm, I don't like it when students don't pay attention but," he looks down at you and smirks but you swore you saw something in his eyes, "I'll let it go since you drew me and," his eyes travel down, as if to see your outfit. But it felt like.....like.....you don't know what it felt it. "And since you're a beautiful woman, I'll let it to go this once."

"Thank you," you managed to say. He called you beautiful and you don't know how to process such a compliment.

"Good girl." He gave the book back to you as he went back to his previous position.

Once again, you're taken aback with him calling you a 'good girl.' Is this why everyone was obsessed with him? Sure, he was a pretty guy and everyone in the class was in awe of him. As he continued to teach, you actually listened this time. He even demonstrated a painting in front of us.

The precision with each stroke of the paintbrush and the determined look on his face made everyone in awe once again. "Alright," he turns around. "I did the base. Who wants to finish the rest?"

A few hands go up and you feel eyes on you. That's when you realize he's actually looking at you. "How about you, pretty girl?"

"Me?"

"Yes, care to entertain us with your imagination?"

You gulp and stand up. Every eye is on you now. You mentally hype yourself up before walking over. You grab the paintbrush Hyunjin offers you and give him a small smile before standing in front of the black colored canvas. Taking a deep breath, you lift your hand.

------------------------------------------------------------

Hyunjin watches you paint and smiles as he sits on a stool nearby. He can't help but think how much you remind him of his college days. He was also picked to paint in front of his class. Intrigued, he watches your techniques as you take a different brush before dipping in a different color. He watches your hand and your eyes scrunch in concentration, which he found cute for some reason. "Rest of you are free to sketch, draw and paint for the rest of the class."

As the students got busy, he finds himself looking at you again. This time he watches your expressions. The small button nose, the full cheeks and the lips. Fuck, those plump lips would look so good around his co-

He blinks and shakes the thought away. What was he doing, thinking of a student like that?

He straightens himself again. His eye catches your butt as you bend to pick a fallen paintbrush on the floor. Lord, give him strength. He re-adjusted his jeans because he thought your ass was the perfect size for multiple of his hand prints.

Stop it, he told himself. She's your student and you're her teacher. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he lets out a sigh when a pair of feet shuffle towards him. He looks up to find you standing.

"I'm... uhm done," you say shyly.

"Oh?" He cocks an eyebrow at her. "That was," he goes around her and his words gets caught in his throat, "....fast."

Holy shit.

There is no way she drew the whole thing in such a short amount of time. "This is...."

"Bad, I know."

"Are you kidding? This is good. In fact, so good that I want to hang it up in class." The vivid brush strokes of green, blue and white blended into the red and black, fhe red being the rose petals and the black being the rose turning into a black rose. Wow, just wow.

Your eyes widen in surprised. "You're pulling my leg."

Oh, he'd be pulling something alright if there wasn't an audience.

"I can assure you I'm not," he tells her.

"Oh."

"If you're not comfortable with it, I will just keep it in the back with the others or take it home." He didn't want to make you uncomfortable with the idea of your work hanging on a wall.

"No, it's okay," you smile. "You can put it up on a wall."

"Alright."

For some odd reason, you were happy that your work made him happy. You go back to your seat and just as you sit down, your phone buzzes in your jeans pocket. There was only one person who would text you in class.

Your roommate/friend, Felix.

F: bestie, when does your class finish?

Y/n: in an hour, why?

F: oh shit

Y/n: ??? Whats going on?

F: shes in the cafe again and I'm panicking

Y/n: ask her out already? You're such a simp

F: sigh, channie hyung is here, i'll talk to you later

Rolling your eyes, you pull out your sktechbook again. After a while, you felt something, like a pair of eyes watching you so you look up and almost choke of air. His head was resting on his hand, his elbows propped on the table. His bottom lip in between his teeth....

You cross your legs and pulled your hoodie up to hide the blush on your cheeks. Why was he looking at you like that? You shake off the feeling and go back to sketching for the rest of the class.

When you get back to your shared apartment, it smelled like cookies. "Felix? Did you bake again?" You say, walking into the kitchen. "Oh." You stop mid-step when you see Felix and some other guy standing in the kitchen.

"Oh, hey, Y/N," Felix smiles turning around. "Say hello to my other Australian brother, Chan."

"Hi. I'm Y/N. I've heard about you from Felix," you said.

"Good things I hope," Chan says and turns around. Your breath leaves your body as you look at him. Where does Felix finds these godly like men? "Felix tells me you're a painter?"

"Ah, yes. Last semester till I graduate," you replied.

"Are you, by any chance, in Hwang Hyunjin's class?"

You gape at him. "How did you know?!"

He chuckles, dimples forming on the left corner of his lips. "He's our friend."

"What?"

"Oh, Hyunjin is a very good friend of ours. We've known him since high school," Felix tells you.

"Ah," you nod your head. Again, where does Felix finds these men?!

"I hope he's not giving your any trouble?" Chan asked.

"Oh no no. He's a great teacher. He said he might teach us pottery too," you say, taking your phone out from your pocket.

"Well, if he bothers you, just tell us, yeah?"

You nod at him before you hear Felix shut the oven door, freshly baked cookies in his hand. "Alright, who wants some?"

"You know," you begin as you grab a cookie, "if you spent as much time as you do baking as you do on girls, maybe you'd have a girlfriend.by now."

Chan snorts and you bite into the cookie while Felix narrows his eyes at you. "Hey, I thought my cookies were delicious."

"I didn't say they weren't," you tell him, going for a second cookie. "I just said it wouldn't hurt to ask."

"Y/N," Felix pouts. "You know I can't go up to her and-"

Your phone ringing interrupts the conversation. "Sorry, I have to take this," you excuse yourself to your room and hold the phone to your ear. "Yes?"

"Open your email."

"Well, hello to you too, Maya," you grab your laptop and open the screen. You click on the email icon and click on the latest one. "Is this..."

"Yup. He's going to be giving 1 on 1 pottery lessons if we show him a painting or sktech after every class and he'll choose a student that he will teach. And...."

"And? What?" You ask, curious.

"He's already picked a permanent student for the lessons."

You scroll down and let out a gasp.

------------------------------------------------------------

"Alright, that's it for today," Hyunjin dismisses his class. "The students who are staying for pottery class can stay."

Every student exits the class except you. You get nervous as each student stepped out. You try your best to calm yourself but he comes out wearing a white shirt and worn out jeans. What a sight.

"Y/N?"

Now if only those hands would slide down your-

"Y/N?"

"Huh?" You snap back into reality and look at the man in front of you, sitting on a chair.

"Shall we?" He gestures to clay on pottery wheel.

"Oh. Right. Yes," you sit on a chair beside him. "I have to tell you that I have worked with clay before, maybe a few years ago so I'm out of touch."

"That's fine. I can help you," he gives you a smile and you swore you saw a hint of mischievous in it but that could be just you. You were in a trance, once again. "Bring back that touch of yours."

After a beat, he says, "Show me what you can do."

You raise your eyebrow.

"Just so I can know what I'm working with."

"Right." You press the pedal and the pottery wheel starts moving. You wet your hands and work on the glob of clay, making it wet with your fingers. You move your middle and ring finger in the middle and press firmly as the clay starts making its shape.

"Ah, no. Not like that. You'll make it out of shape," he tells you as his wet hand mends with your hand, pressing firmly. You realize the sudden close proximity and you don't dare look to your right. "There. If you make the base more studier, whatever you'll make won't break when you take it off for baking."

His hand was still on top of yours, his middle and ring finger mending with yours on the wet clay. "That's it," he says. His fingers press more firmly and in this moment all he wanted to do was put you on the table behind him. Have his way with you. Both of your fingers move in an up and down motion, mimicking a very certain move -- you couldn't put your finger on it. "Y/N? Are you alright?"

You finally look to the right, never realizing your breathing has gotten more frantic. He stares down at you, his eyes land on your parted lips then back to your gaze. He leans down, tilting his head along the way and all you could do was blink. "Y/N."

Fuck. Your name in that almost whisper, husky voice did things to your lady bits. "Hyunjin..."

That broke the damn wall. You heard him growl before smashing his lips down on yours. A whimper escapes your mouth as your body betrays you by moving your lips. His hand goes around the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your body.

You stand and fist his shirt, pulling him more into you. "Y/N, slow down, flower. You're going to-"

You push him off, coming to your senses.

"Y/N?"

"This was.....I'm sorry," you grab your things and run out before he could get a word out.

------------------------------------------------------------

For the next few weeks, you avoid him at all costs. As soon as the class was dismissed, you were the first one to exit. You needed to avoid him. You could feel him watching you, your every move in class. So you did your best and put all your focus on the paintings. Somewhere around second week, he started painting during class as well.

Flowers. All he drew was flowers. Pink, blue, yellow and red flowers. In all your 22 years, you have never found such an attractive man painting on a canvas, with sleeves rolled up. You had to force yourself to concentrate on your work.

He wasn't in any better position either. Whenever he saw you in his class, he was reminded of the kiss. He didn't want to kiss you, heck he wanted to do more than that. When you looked up, with your parted lips, he simply couldn't resist. You tasted like peaches. He wanted to peel off the layers and suck on the flesh but the look on your face when you pushed him off was enough for him to put the brakes on.

It was friday night and he was hanging out with his buddies. As he swirled the liquid in his hand, he was quiet more than usual. And it was obvious to others. "Hyunjin-ah, what's the problem? Why are you so quiet?" Chan asked, the oldest of them all.

"It's nothing," Hyunjin lied but a part of him wanted to tell Chan.

"If it's nothing, then come play with us!" Han, the caramel haired boy said.

Hyunjin opens his mouth but get interrupted with Changbin, the loudest of them all, and Seungmin, the puppy looking one came and sat down with Hyunjin. "Let's all just watch a movie, have some popcorn and snacks?"

Everyone turned to the maknae, Jeongin. His hand stopped mid air, a bag of chips in his hand. "What?"

"Yah! That's my bag of chips!" Leeknow exclaims, popping out of nowhere.

"I kissed a student," Hyunjin finally confesses.

But no one has seemed to hear him. He watched Leeknow trying to grab the bag of chips from Jeongin, Han and Felix in between them while the other 3 watched the show. "Hyung! We have more snacks! Stop!" Felix shouts, wedging himself between Leeknow and Han.

Hyunjin sighs and slams the glass down on the table in front of him. It makes everyone stop what they're doing. "I kissed a student!"

Eyes, 7 pair of eyes were now on him. Judegment, curiousity and shock all at once. "You kissed a st-- yah, are you insane?!" Changbin said.

"What do you mean you kissed a student?" Chan asks, surprised.

"How was it?"

Everyone, including Hyunjin, turn to look at Han. "What?" Han asks and Leeknow playfully slaps Han on the back of his neck. "Hey! What?"

"I...I wanted to stop her. But something about her makes me want to just..."

"Just what?" Changbin asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Bin, now is not the time," Chan warns before turning to Hyunjin. "What were you going to say?"

"I don't know," Hyunjin shrugs his shoulders. "Ever since I saw her in my class, she's been on my mind every day, sometimes at night. It's like whenever she's near, I can breathe. I don't feel suffocated. It's like she's the light at the end of the tunnel."

Felix pats his shoulder, smiling widely. "Bro, you know what that is, right?"

"Uh, no?"

"He won't know till you tell him, Felix," Leeknow points out.

"Tell me what?" Hyunjin asked.

Felix grins. "Do you know how much I love baking?"

"Yeah..."

"I love mixing the ingredients together in a bowl and spreading the cookies on a baking sheet."

"Just what are you getting at?" Hyunjin asked.

"What he's trying to tell you that maybe you like her," Chan chimes in. "Maybe more than you want to admit."

Hyunjin blinks. There's no way.........does he though?

"Oh man, he does!" Changbin says excitedly. "What's her name? What's her name?!"

"Yeah, we want to know who's got our dear friend in a whirlpool of infatuation," Han adds.

"Y/N. Her name is Y/N," Hyunjin answered.

Felix's smile falters as does everybody's. "This is....." Jeongin begins.

"Bro," Chan chimes in again, "that's Felix's roommate."

"And best friend," Felix adds, narrowing his eyes.

Oh shit. Hyunjin swallows the bile threatening to come out. "I... didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Look, her last relationship didn't end well and this might be the first time she's been interested," Felix says. "Just....go easy on her. She's not the best at expressing herself. Don't push her."

"Just like you're doing with that girl who comes in your cafe?" Chan teases, poking Felix on the arm making the younger one blush.

"Ah, Chan hyung," Felix rubs his ears.

"She doesn't make it easy for you though, Felix. You gotta ask her out for coffee or a drink," Chan pokes Felix again. "That way she knows you're interested in her."

Felix rolls his eyes. "Hyunjin, just..... don't make her sad, yeah? She's precious to me, so you better not break her heart."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Hyunjin smiled and watched his friends start teasing Felix more, poking fun at him for a having a crush on a girl who's a regular in his Bbokkari cafe. But unlike Felix, Hyunjin wasn't as shy unless it was Y/N.

------------------------------------------------------------

The weather was getting warmer each day and you were thankful for the AC in your shared apartment. But you were in the studio today, which also had an AC, working on a canvas and experimenting with oil based colors. Since it was a nice slow day with not a lot of students and staff in the university, you were surprised to find rhe studio empty. So you got all your supplies, wore your apron, tied your hair back and got to work. You also had put on your headphones as it tends to help you get in the zone.

It wasn't until few hours later that you noticed you had run out of the color pink. You knew there were more colors stored in the cabinet behind the teacher's desk. Pulling off your headphones, you open the cabinet and reach for the paint when a hand reaches it before you. You gasp and turn around and almost scream but his hand covers your mouth.

"Shhhh!" He says, his finger on his lips.

You pry off his hand and glare at him as you snatch the paint bottle off his hand. "What do you want?" You snap, walking back to your previous spot.

"I want to...talk."

You scoff, pouring the pink onto the paint pallete. "And I don't." But you did want to talk. For the past few weeks, ever since that kiss, he had invaded your thoughts despite avoiding him. You had sat in his class just to stare at him, his hands, his eyes as they twinkled when he talked about a certain art piece or the color of his lips when the bottom of his lip would be between his teeth as he painted.

But all it did was made you crave more. You admit that the kiss you shared with him was mind blowing. If you hadn't stopped when you did, only god knows where it would've ended.

But one thing had stuck with you ever since. He had called you 'flower.' The moment he said it, it had made your heart flutter. But you had to stop it because he's an instructor and you're a student. It was forbidden and frowned upon and you didn't want to be known as the girl who graduated just because you fooled around with the teacher.

"Y/N, I'm sorry for the other day. I know I shouldn't have kissed you."

"Yeah, you shouldn't have," you say.

"But-" you hear him sigh and turn around to see him walking away.

"I thought you wanted to talk?"

He stops, turns around. "You clearly don't want to talk so I'm just going to leave."

"So," you put the pallette down on the stool beside you and take your apron off. "We're just going to avoid each other then?"

"It was you who was avoiding me."

"Yeah, that's because..."

He takes a step closer to you. "Because?"

You felt heat rush to your cheeks. "Why do you draw flowers?"

"What?"

"I always see you draw flowers. Why is that?"

"I can't draw what I want? I like flowers," he says, gazing in your eyes.

"I see." You had hoped he would be more elaborate but....you sigh. You're finding this whole conversation hopeless. "Maybe it is best we don't see each other again." You grab your things and the unfinished canvas, under your arm.

Something screamed in his mind to stop you. So he grabbed your arm, stopping you from leaving. "Let go."

"No," he says. "Not until you tell me why you've been avoiding me."

"Because I don't want to and just want to get through this class so I can graduate!"

That answer alone wasn't enough for him. He could see your red cheeks and your breathing becoming quicker. His eyes flick between your eyes and lips. You struggle out of his grip but he's determined to make you stay. He pushes you backwards till your back hits a wall, the canvas dropping on the floor with a thud along with your bag. He pins your arms on your sides preventing you from moving.

"I said let-mmpf," your eyes widen in surprise as a pair of warm lips land on yours. You thrash your whole body, and somehow manage to free your arms and push him away, just enough for you to breathe.

"Flower. My beautiful flower," he whispers, lightly caressing your lip and cheek with his thumb.

You could only look up at him, the soft and tender touches he's giving you made your heart flutter once again. You had asked yourself why you had been avoiding him. The only answer you got was that he was the teacher and you were the student. "Hyunjin," you whispered, parting your lips.

His eyes harden, filled with lust. But it was you this time. You fisted his shirt and pulled him towards you. He lets out whimper and instantly relaxes against you as he melts into the kiss. "Tell me you feel it. Tell me you feel what I feel," he whispers, placing your hand on his chest.

You feel it. You feel his heart thumping against his chest. And pretty fast too. You look up to see him gazing down at you. His eyes filled with warmth. Maybe even love. But that wasn't going to happen, not to you. "Tell me."

"I want you," you say.

“You want me?”

You nod, a smile displaying on your face. “I want you.” He leans back in, cupping your cheek and kisses you hard as his body pushes against yours. You move with him as he walks backwards towards the only empty desk, the teacher's desk, and lifts you onto it. 

His hands explore every inch of you that he can reach while your fingers tangle in his long luscious locks and scratch over his shoulders and up his arms. His hands slide around your waist, going under your black tanktop.

He breaks the kiss only to run his lips over the rosy flesh of your neck. He then whispers into your skin between each kiss. “Tell me to stop.” He pulls one shoulder strap of your tanktop off your shoulder. "I've wanted you since the day you came into my class. Tell me to stop."

Something about the way he asks you to tell him to stop, spurred you on even more. Pushing his head further into the crook of your neck, you tilt your head to give him more and better access to explore. You had also wanted him, more so than him. “No one is telling you to stop.”

Upon hearing that, his grip tightens around you, sucks a mark into the skin right below your jaw and you pull at his shirt with an elated moan, giving him the hint to take it off.

His clumsy fingers struggle to pull off your tanktop as you attempt to unbutton his jeans. He reaches his goal before you do but then he stops all movement when he feels your hand go inside his jeans, just enough to catch his attention, you find his growing erection and wrap your hand lightly stroking it causing him to buck his hips.

Hyunjin moans at the feel of your hands, the same hands that made him fall in love with your paintings. He leans his forehead against yours, squeezing his eyes shut as you stroke him slowly. “Fuck, please don’t, I - fuck, baby, flower I won't last."

"Hyune," you whisper as you gently place your palm on his cheek, making him look at you. His expression changes, his eyes raging with lust as you lean up giving him a small peck on his lips.

"Fuck," he shoves his briefs down as you slide off your shorts. You yelp when he tugs at your legs. "Tell me you're mine," he says as his hand moves on its own as he gazes into your eyes, looking for an answer. You watch his hand travel down in between your legs and swipes over your clothed clit. "Fuck me, is that all for me?"

"Hyunjin, please," you plead but it comes out as a moan.

“Please tell me I can feel you," he says, his finger slighlty swiping over your panties. "Can I?” 

You nod as he hooks a finger into the dampness of your panties and pulls it to the side. You hold your breath as you feel a finger slip into your waiting cunt. "Breathe." You do as he says and breathe in his ear, soft moans escape your lips as his free hand cradles the side of your neck. “Please look at me, baby.”

He runs his thumb over your cheek, relishing in your beautiful auburn eyes. “So pretty. It feels like a dream.”

You shake your head and muttering between moans. “Not a dream."

He slips in another finger and he lets out the most amorous maon. “Please tell me I can.” He leans his forehead against yours, bottom lip between his teeth, his desperate eyes reflecting the look in your own.

“Yes," you nod. "I want you too."

“Have you ever.....thought about it?” He asked but you’re shaking your head before he can even finish his sentence. “You’re all I ever think about,” He whispers as he hooks his thumbs into the thin straps of your panties. “You’re all I’ve wanted for the past 3 weeks.” 

“The kiss that we shared-" you begin but his puts his finger on your lips.

“I was the one that kissed you.” He’s quiet, staring back at you with a smile. “But then you kissed me too...” He laughs at the glare you give him. But you moan when his fingers are filling you again and you gasp while staring into his eyes.

You couldn't contain the noises that come out of your lips. "Hyunjin, please," your fucked out gaze stares into his, the moment feeling like you're hypnotized. He then moves, scissors his fingers into you, stretching you out and you whine when suddenly you feel the loss of his fingers. "Why'd you stop - oh fuck," you gasp from the stretch of him replacing his fingers with his length. 

“Fuck, shit, you feel...oh my god.” Hyunjin stills with a groan, his forehead resting on your shoulder while he silently wills himself not to come undone. Not yet, when he just got you. He sucks in a breath before he pulls back. "Tell me you're mine," he whispers, thrusting into you slowly. "Tell me."

You cup his cheek. "I'm yours."

He lifts his head to look at you as he sinks back into you. “Again.”

Cupping his face with both of your hands as you kiss him, hard before letting go. "I'm yours, Hyune."

"My flower." He picks up the pace, falls into a sloppy rhythm that’s accompanied by a fit of moans and grunts. 

"The door," you pant, suddenly remembering.

"I locked it after I came inside," he pants, struggling to keep his eyes on you, which flutter shut with each thrust as he feels himself closer and closer to his climax. “Baby, I won’t, fuck I won't last.”

Wrapping your arms around his neck, one of his wraps around your waist, tightly, while the other rests on your thigh before slithering over to softly pinch and rub your clit. 

“Hyune, you’re gonna make me - I'm gonna -” You get cut off with a sloppy kiss, his tongue brushes over your parted lips to request access. You gladly grant it by opening yours.

“If you're going to tell me that you’re gonna cum I won’t last," he whispers against your lips and you moan against his.

“Please," you're breathing hard at this point, pleading him to let you cum. "Make me cum."

“Flower, baby, you’re gonna -” Now you're the one to kiss him. It’s a messy combination of teeth and tongue but you love it. Even he welcomes it.

You both pull away, moans ripping through your chests as you grip his arm tighter.

“I’m cumming, fuck, I'm going to come.” Hyunjin goes to pull out but you stip him by wrapping your legs around his waist. "Y/N, what-"

"Inside."

"Baby, are you sure?"

You nod in response. "I'm on the pill." He groans and thrusts harder into you as you almost scream his name when his fingers toy with your clit. It’s loud and messy and beautiful. "Oh my god, Hyunjin!" You shout as your orgasm hits you the hardest one yet. He slam his hips one, two, three times before coming to a stop with a groan. You could feel it, his seed painting your walls white.

Once you’ve both come down from your high, Hyunjin pulls out and you groan at the feeling. Both of you don't speak as he grabs a handful of tissues to clean you up before you two put your clothes back on. You break the comfortable silence. "So what now?" You ask, looking at him.

"Now," he smiles, raking his finger through his hair. "I ask you a question."

You blink one, two times. "Which is?"

He grabs your hand, twining his fingers with yours. "Be my girlfriend?"

"I thought we went over this a minute ago?"

"Doesn't hurt to be sure of it."

This man. He just fucked your brains out and wants to sure if you're his? You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Mr. Hwang Hyunjin, I was yours the day I saw you in the cafeteria," you finish your answer with a kiss on his lips.

------------------------------------------------------------

"Ugh, you're nauseating," Felix rolls his eyes at his friend, who was smiling at her phone.

Y/N sticks her tongue out at him. Before he could say anything, his phone buzzes in his pocket. His eyes widen at the screen.

LK: bro, one of our ovens just stopped working completely and we're behind orders!

F: okay, i'll come by later

LK: also.....

F: ???

LK: Mia may have gotten in a quarrel with a customer

F: WHAT

LK: and the customer is creating havoc. SOS

Fuck, why does this have to happen to him?

F: on my way

A/N: phew! One member down! Can you guess which one is next? :)

[warpdrive-witch]

It Worked (19/23)

Words: 24.5 k. MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT.

Then Let Me Show You

The glow of the laptop screen cast a pale rectangle across the kitchen table, the only illumination in the early-morning hush. Outside the windows, the world was still a blur of navy and indigo, the sun not yet risen, the house still cloaked in the intimate stillness that came just before dawn. Rio moved like someone underwater, each motion deliberate, each step echoing in the stillness of early morning. The lights were off. A tapestry of deep gray and steel-blue started making its way up the walls, the kind of morning that hadn't decided whether it would bloom into gold or collapse into rain.

She wore one of your sweatshirts—hood up, sleeves pushed up to her forearms—and sat barefoot at the kitchen table, elbows braced on the worn oak, her legs folded under her. The wood was cool against her skin, grounding her, but her chest felt tight, too full—like every breath had to push through layers of smoke to get out. Her hand rested lightly over her sternum, as if she could calm the pounding beneath it. The photo was still open on the screen, stark and undeniable.

Chase’s obituary. Eulogy by Pastor Dr. Marcus.

She hadn’t slept. Not really. After the discovery, she’d lain awake between your sleeping form and Agatha’s quiet, rhythmic breaths, staring at the ceiling, memorizing the sound of both your heartbeats, whispering prayers in languages she no longer practiced aloud. She had held one hand on your belly for hours—felt the roll of your daughter stretching against her palm like a tide—like a promise—and she’d whispered to her too. You’re safe, baby girl. That had been her reality over the last few nights.

Her jaw flexed, muscles ticking just beneath the skin as she pressed her thumb against her phone screen. The green call button hovered, waiting. Dr. Caldwell would be awake. She always was at this hour—an old habit from decades of academic training and maternal instinct that never quite let her sleep past five. The phone rang once. Twice. “Hello?” Rio closed her eyes for a moment. The voice was alert but wrapped in velvet—Caldwell’s signature tone. Steady. Measured. It wound around Rio like a weighted blanket pulled up over her chest.

“Hi, Ally. It’s me.” Rio said softly, her voice edged with something careful. “Sorry to call this early.”

“Rio?” The tone shifted. Sharpened. “Are you alright?”

“I… yeah,” she managed, but it cracked. A raw edge laced the sound, frayed like thread left in the wind. She laid her palm flat against her sternum, as if that could settle the thud beneath. She cleared her throat, pressed her palm more firmly to her chest.

“What’s going on?” “Caldwell said, softer now.

Rio’s eyes dropped to the screen. The documents were still open. The obituary. The screenshots. The side-by-side comparisons. Marcus’s name beneath Chase’s. The church registry. The last link in a chain she and Agatha had spent two sleepless nights wrapping around themselves.

“It’s Marcus,” she said, and even the sound of his name made her stomach lurch.

There was no response at first. Just that hum of someone listening. Not surprised. Not yet. Rio continued. “Agatha and I found something. We… we confirmed it. He’s Chase’s cousin.” Her voice caught, just slightly.

Silence met her for a beat. Then a sharp inhale on the other end. “You’re sure?”

Rio reached for the trackpad, her fingers trembling so badly it took her two tries to click open the email window. “I’m sending it to your personal inbox right now. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

Her breath fogged faintly in the chill as she clicked “send.” The cursor blinked once. Twice. Then—click. There was the quiet sound of a computer mouse clicking on the other end. A pause. Then Dr. Caldwell exhaled slowly. “Got it.” Caldwell’s voice dipped lower, reading.

Rio pressed her fingertips to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut. “He knew everything.” Rio’s voice was thin now, stretched to its edge. “He knew Chase. Knew about the attack. He knew her mother. He’s known who she was since the beginning.” She drew in a sharp breath, grounding herself. “He joined the committee knowing. He walked into our home department, shook our hands, and smiled in her face, knowing.”

Silence bloomed on the line. A kind of silence that wasn’t empty—but listening. Heavy. Knowing. It wasn’t absence. It was pressure. Like the air before lightning. “Jesus Christ.”

Rio closed her eyes. The laptop light painted her skin in sickly blue. “We haven’t told her yet,” she added, voice almost a whisper. “She’s thirty-eight weeks. The defense is in four days. She’s… she’s glowing, Ally. She’s sleeping and napping through the day. She’s eating without forcing herself to. She smiles at me, and she's so happy. Just…” Her voice broke, and she didn’t bother to hide it. “I want her to have this week where she gets to think about the baby. About finishing her doctorate. About what comes next for our family”

Another pause. Then Caldwell breathed out slowly. “You’re right.” Caldwell’s voice, when it returned, was hushed and reverent. “She deserves that. All of you do. You’ve done the right thing. Agatha and you are protecting her peace.”

“We’re going to tell her soon. As soon as it’s a good time. We won’t bring our daughter into the world or have her go into labor carrying this.”

“You won’t have to handle it alone,” Caldwell said. “I’ll call Erin. We’ll tell Marcus he’s been excused from the committee by this afternoon. No warning. No explanation. Just that we’re restructuring due to timing conflicts.”

“She won’t question it?”

“No,” Caldwell said. “She trusts me,” Caldwell said without hesitation. “And she’s already seen him circling like a hawk and his actions as a committee member. This gives us a clean exit. No suspicions. And more importantly, no chance for him to retaliate.”

Rio let her body fold forward until her forehead rested against the curve of her knuckles. Her breath came shallow, ribs barely expanding. Upstairs, she could feel you stir through the floor—some phantom twitch, a flutter. The baby inside you shifted then, just upstairs, and Rio felt the phantom of it—like her soul was tethered to you by a string of breath and pulse and prayer. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t thank me. Just be careful.” Caldwell’s voice hardened like iron cooling. “If he managed to get that close—on campus, in her home department—under a different name, pretending not to know anything—then he is not just unethical. He is calculated.  He inserted himself into your family’s orbit through lies. That’s not a coincidence. That’s a strategy. If he’s cornered, he won’t go down cleanly. ”

“I know,” Rio said. Her voice was steel now.

“This goes beyond academic misconduct,” Caldwell continued, voice sharp and clipped. “This is psychological warfare. A calculated infiltration. He positioned himself like a predator.  But this… this is beyond academic misconduct. This is a targeted manipulation. A goddamn psychological operation.”

Rio nodded again, heart thudding so hard she could feel it in her wrists. “He knew exactly who she was.”

“And now we know who he is,” Caldwell replied. “I’ll speak with the department head myself this morning. Marcus won’t be in any position to retaliate. Erin and I will keep it tight. Nobody outside the three of us needs to know. Let her have her week. Let her walk in there and shine.” And you three—” Her voice softened. “Let us handle it. Enjoy the last few weeks of her pregnancy before the baby comes and changes everything.”

The silence that followed held the weight of so many unsaid things. Then Rio exhaled and said, “If anything happens, please keep me in the loop.”

“Of course. But like I said, don’t worry. Let her advisors handle this. He won’t step into the conference room.”

Rio took another breath, blowing out the tension she had been holding. “Okay. Is everything set for her defense? Small crowd?”

“Yes. We have two other students who are defending, but it will be back-to-back. I hope she knows she’s already passed. This last little moment is for her to shine. I’ll let her know before so we can take all take a picture together. If you all want to stay through each defense, you can; if not, Erin and I can call her at the end of the day.”

“I’ll leave that up to her.”

The silence that followed held the weight of so many unsaid things. Then Rio exhaled and said, “Thank you. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“You will,” Caldwell said. “And Rio? You keep her close. All of your girls. Don’t let them out of your sight.”

The words didn’t hit like advice. They landed like a vow. Simple, but something in them cracked her wide open. Her eyes stung, her heart echoing the rhythm of the daughter’s name that had yet to be spoken aloud.

Rio’s hand drifted instinctively to her chest again. Not to ease her breath—but to protect what lived inside her, tethered invisibly to the three hearts asleep upstairs. She closed the laptop with a click that echoed through the room like the sound of a sealed door. “Always,” she said, and meant it with everything she was.

------

The garage door was rolled halfway up, letting the late morning light spill across the concrete like liquid gold. Outside, the wind swept through the trees with a sighing hush, carrying the scent of magnolia and earth, the sweetness of spring heavy in the air. It wasn’t hot, not yet, but the sun had begun its steady work—warming the siding, the hood of the car, the back of Rio’s neck where her curls were tied up in a loose knot.

You sat in a collapsible camping chair they’d set out just for you, wrapped in a soft hoodie with the zipper barely reaching over your belly. The fabric stretched lovingly over your body, the baby shifting beneath it like she was listening to the trees dance.

Rio was crouched on the passenger side of the car, her dark jeans dusty at the knees, eyes narrowed like she was preparing to disarm a bomb. The car seat was halfway in, tilted at an awkward angle that didn’t inspire confidence. Agatha, standing on the opposite side with the manual in her hands, frowned down at the page like it had just personally insulted her. “I swear this diagram was drawn by a demon.”

Rio blew a lock of hair out of her face. “If we don’t die from sleep deprivation, it’s gonna be the car seat that takes us out.”

You laughed, the sound light and startled, arms wrapped around your belly as if your daughter might laugh with you. “You two have, like… five degrees between you. And the car seat is winning?”

“Don’t tempt her,” Agatha muttered, stabbing a finger at the latch with mild fury. “She feeds off smugness.”

Rio leaned over to squint at the base, fingers pressing against something unlabeled. “There’s a click somewhere. There’s always a click. But I don’t know if it’s the right click or the death click.”

“I beg you,” Agatha said gravely, “please do not install our daughter’s car seat based on vibes and blind optimism.”

You grinned into your hoodie sleeve. “Too late. That’s how we’re raising her.” A beat of silence followed. Then—click. A distinct, definitive sound. So sharp and satisfying it echoed in the garage like a tiny firework. Agatha looked up slowly. Rio looked back.

“YES!” they both shouted in unison, triumphant, and slapped their palms together in a victorious high-five that echoed like applause. “I knew it!” Rio crowed, standing and dusting her hands on her thighs. “All it needed was my intimidation glare.”

Agatha rolled her eyes and shook the instruction manual at her. “You literally threatened it under your breath.” “And she listened.”

“She?”

“Do you see any men in this house, Rio? Last time I looked, the only cock in this house was upstairs in the…. ”

Rio stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes frozen as Agatha giggled at her and cocked an eyebrow. “Dios mío. ¿En serio? Ya casi nos vamos y ella quiere provocarme...” You were still chuckling when they turned to you in tandem, softening. Rio reached for your hands while Agatha moved to your side, brushing the sleeve of your hoodie back from your wrist.

“Alright, hermosa. Time to test it out. We want Dr. Ezra to give it her blessing after the appointment.”

You raised both hands slowly, theatrically, as if you were presenting yourself on a velvet-draped stage rather than from the humble seat of a camping chair in the garage. Your fingers twitched with a lazy flourish, a smirk playing on your lips. “I am a delicate, ripe peach,” you declared, eyes twinkling beneath the curve of your lashes. “Handle with care.”

Agatha snorted—a soft, unfiltered sound that cracked like sun through cloud. Her head tilted as she appraised you with the kind of expression usually reserved for priceless art behind museum glass. “You’re not just a peach,” she murmured, stepping closer, her voice honey-warm and reverent. “You’re a sacred monument. We’ll carry you to the passenger seat like you’re made of light and divine decree.”

“And sarcasm,” Rio added dryly, though the fondness in her voice curled around the moment like ribbon. She moved first, crouching down so smoothly you barely noticed the shift until her lips brushed against your temple—just a whisper of contact, warm and grounding. She stayed low, knees creaking just faintly, and reached for your hand, lacing your fingers together.

Agatha bent beside her, one hand steadying the armrest of the chair, the other slipping beneath your elbow. She gave you the softest nod—almost imperceptible—and shifted her weight with you. Your body, at nearly full term, had taken on the rhythm of tides—slow to rise, heavy with purpose. Your hips protested with a dull throb, and every motion now came with a kind of orchestral awareness: the creak of your joints, the swell of your belly, the way your balance lived not in your feet anymore, but somewhere higher—centered inside the growing life who moved with you.

You leaned forward, breath catching slightly as the weight of your daughter pulled downward with gravity’s familiar ache. “Got you,” Agatha whispered near your ear, the words not loud enough to be heard by anyone else, but spoken as if they were ancient and binding. Rio adjusted, hands firm but gentle at your side, her strength always quiet—never boasting, never loud. Together, they lifted you with the kind of reverence that made your throat tighten. They weren’t just helping you stand. They were offering you up.

Your breath shook as you found your feet. The world tilted a moment—your center of gravity now more hers than yours—but they didn’t waver. Their touch steadied you instantly. Two hands. Two wives. Two roots at your spine. The baby stirred then, just beneath your ribs—an elbow, maybe, or a foot. A slow press from the inside that made your eyes flick downward. Like she had felt it too. Like she knew.

The three of you moved in a practiced waddle toward the car, your feet slow over the concrete. The passenger door was already open, sunlight warming the seat, the new car seat gleaming in the back like a throne waiting to be filled. Rio stepped ahead and turned, her arms sweeping out dramatically like a game show host on finale night. “Your chariot awaits, mi amor.”

You laughed softly, a breath escaping on the edge of wonder, and let yourself sink into the seat with the grace of someone who had earned every slow exhale. The fabric gave beneath you. The sun painted lazy stripes across your thighs through the windshield. Agatha lingered by your door a moment longer, her fingers brushing a final sweep of hair from your cheek, then pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You felt it more than heard it—the way her breath held there for a beat before she exhaled.

“Love you,” she murmured. Then she was gone, moving fluidly toward the back door, the hinge creaking faintly as it opened. You turned just enough to watch her slip inside the back seat, her body folding into the space beside the newly installed car seat. Her hand came to rest on the base instinctively, like she was already practicing how to check the buckle. How to comfort. How to protect.

Rio circled the car and climbed into the driver’s seat with a soft grunt, adjusting it instinctively for her legs, not hers. She glanced into the rearview mirror and then stilled, her eyes catching. You turned to follow her gaze.

Agatha sat perfectly framed in the mirror, her knees drawn slightly inward, hand resting lightly on the fabric of the seat where your daughter would soon rest. The sunlight streaming in from the garage door bathed her in gold. Her expression had softened, something sacred unfurling in her features. A future blooming quietly behind her eyes.

There it was. The car seat. Installed. Real. A soft purple trim outlined the edges of the black safety fabric—just enough color to mark it as hers. A small mirror was already fixed to the backrest, angled perfectly so you could see her when the time came. So she would always be in your view. So you’d never have to wonder what she was doing back there. The weight of the moment settled in your chest, not heavy, but full. Like a cup overflowing. Like air after the rain.

“It’s really happening,” you whispered, not sure if you meant it for them or yourself.

From the mirror, Agatha caught your eye. Her lips curved into a slow smile. “She’s going to ride home with us,” she said quietly, hand still on the seat. “Right here. In this exact spot.”

Rio reached over, her fingers brushing yours gently across the console. “And we’ll be right here. Always.”

-------

The room was warm, bathed in soft light that diffused from overhead sconces like the inside of a seashell—gentle, ambient, designed for calm. A gentle floral scent lingered faintly in the air, grounded by something antiseptic but not unpleasant. Everything about Dr. Ezra’s office had that quiet, intentional peace to it—clean lines, soft colors, nothing jarring.

You lay reclined on the padded ultrasound table, the paper beneath you whispering with every small shift of your weight. Your belly rose like a hill beneath the drape of your shirt, round and firm and steady beneath your hand. It moved once—your daughter rolling lazily as if to remind you that she, not gravity, ruled your center of balance now.

Dr. Ezra stood to your left, smiling softly as she adjusted the machine beside you. Her dark curls were swept back today, reading glasses perched on her nose, her white coat open over a soft gray blouse. Calm radiated off her like heat from stone.

“Ready? she said, her voice low, steady

You nodded, heart thudding softly beneath your ribs. Agatha sat at your right, her hand already holding yours, thumb sweeping soft arcs across your knuckles. Rio stood on the other side, one hip leaning into the table, one hand in her pocket, the other hand placed on your shoulder, eyes watching you like she was memorizing every second of this.

Ezra reached for the gel, and you braced a little at the touch—it was always cooler than expected, a sudden glisten across your belly. Then the wand followed. The familiar pressure bloomed as it glided over your skin, soft at first, then deeper as Ezra searched for the right angle.

The screen flickered. Then lit up. There she was. Your daughter. The room went still. Even the monitor seemed to hum quieter for a moment, like it understood what was unfolding.

Right on cue, just as Dr. Ezra shifted the wand with the gentlest pressure along the curve of your belly, something stirred beneath your skin.

A ripple. Not just a twitch or a flutter—but a full-bodied stretch, slow and determined. A visible rise just beneath your navel, like a tiny hill blooming into being under the surface of your body. You gasped—a startled, laughing sound that cracked open something in your chest—as the shape of a hand or foot pushed outward with quiet insistence. You didn’t know which it was. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that your daughter had opinions.

Rio let out a delighted laugh, warm and unfiltered, and leaned slightly closer from the foot of the bed, eyes dancing. “She’s fighting back,” she said, grinning so wide her dimples caught the overhead light. “She’s like—‘What is this nonsense? Who dares disturb my kingdom?’”

Agatha chuckled softly at your side, but didn’t take her eyes off the screen. Ezra’s voice was calm and amused, layered with the practiced wonder of someone who had seen this a hundred times and still found it beautiful. “She’s reacting beautifully,” she murmured, smiling as she angled the probe again. “Responsive, active, playful… and still has a little room to stretch. Though probably not for much longer. She’s running out of real estate.”

Another slow drag of the wand. Another shift beneath your skin. You could feel her now, not just the thump or kick of motion, but the chase like she was following it. As if she knew someone was watching, she decided to perform. Her limbs traced the pressure with a strange, intimate intelligence, rolling under the warmth of the gel and Ezra’s sure hand. You could feel her heels slide low, toward your pelvis. Then an elbow—or a knee—arced up along your left side with a faint, dragging stretch that made your breath hitch.

The screen bloomed to life again, washed in familiar shades of storm gray and soft white.  There. There she was. Her spine, long and elegant, curled like a comma against the border of the womb. Her ribcage expanding in tiny, rhythmic movements. And then—her face. Her profile. Tiny nose. A barely-there chin. Lips parted just enough that you could see the slight gape of her mouth. And her hand… drifting upward, slow and wavelike. A little motion that could’ve been anything—a stretch, a reach, or maybe, just maybe, a hello.

“She looks so…” The words caught in your throat. Your hand tightened around Agatha’s without realizing. “So sure of herself,” you whispered.

Ezra nodded, eyes never leaving the screen. “She is,” she murmured. “She knows where she is. She knows what she’s doing. Babies this far along are aware in a way we don’t always expect. They know your voice. Your rhythm. She’s practicing for you.”

Your throat closed. You didn’t realize Agatha had started to cry until her thumb paused mid-stroke across your knuckles. You turned your head slightly, just enough to see her face. Her lashes were damp. Her lips were parted, eyes locked on the screen like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “She’s so much bigger than last time,” Agatha whispered, reverent. “Look at her hands… her ribs… her little cheeks—” Her voice cracked on that last word.

Ezra clicked a few buttons on the console, capturing still images like sacred icons. Then she began her measurements. The room fell into quiet awe, broken only by the soft tapping of keys and the hum of the machine. The cursor swept from crown to rump, outlining her body. Then again, from temple to temple, measuring head circumference. Then a sweep of the femur.

Each number appeared in the corner like something holy, something impossible turned factual. Ezra finally leaned back slightly, her voice calm and bright. “She’s weighing in at just about six pounds,” she said with a smile. “Give or take a few ounces. That’s a healthy weight. Her growth is right on track. All her organs look fantastic. Her heart rate’s steady and strong.”

You hadn’t realized how tightly you were holding your breath until you let it go. It wasn’t just a sigh—it was a release. A full-bodied surrender. The air left your lungs in a slow tremble, your chest easing like the unfurling of a fist that had been clenched for weeks. Your body relaxed into the chair, your shoulders softening. The worry—the quiet, ever-lurking hum that something might go wrong, that something might shift—eased its grip. You hadn’t even known it was still there, not fully. But now, with Ezra’s voice ringing gently in your ears and your daughter glowing on the screen like some lunar map of life, it cracked and melted away.

Agatha lifted your hand to her mouth, kissed it once, soft and sure. “She’s perfect,” she said again, her voice wet and unwavering.

Rio stepped forward now, one hand resting gently on your ankle as she stared at the screen with something near disbelief. “Six pounds,” she said, quiet wonder slipping beneath her words. “She’s already got biceps like her Mamí.”

Ezra chuckled softly. “She’s got presence, that’s for sure.” The wand stilled. Your daughter moved one more time—an elbow grazing just beneath your ribs, a stretch that bloomed upward like she was pressing her whole body toward the sound of your voice. You whispered without thinking, without needing to make it loud. “Hi, baby girl.”

The monitor flickered again. Her hand rose. And for a moment, the room felt like a church. Until another kick hit the wand dead-on. Ezra laughed, shoulders shaking as she adjusted. “My niece apparently doesn’t have much interest in the medical field.”

You exhaled on a soft laugh of your own, your belly shifting as your daughter rolled again—one strong, deliberate stretch that made the wand jolt slightly to the left. “She’s got opinions,” Rio murmured, pride thick in her voice. Her fingers, still resting on your ankle, gave a gentle squeeze. “Just like her mama.”

Ezra shook her head, still grinning, and steadied the probe again. “Alright, alright, little one, let’s behave just long enough for me to finish these measurements.” The gel glistened under the overhead lights as she moved the wand carefully across the taut curve of your belly. The screen flickered again, refocusing. She took her time—measuring fluid levels, scanning the length of the umbilical cord, pausing once to let the image of your daughter’s ribcage catch up to her own heartbeat. Another click. Then another. Still images snapped and tucked away like sacred keepsakes. “She’s head down now,” Ezra said softly, confirming what you’d felt building for days. “Right on target. She hasn’t dropped into the pelvis just yet, but she’s close.” You blinked, watching the screen. Agatha’s hand was still holding yours, but her other hand moved up to your forearm, steady, grounding.

Ezra continued, her voice calm and certain. “You’re thirty-eight weeks, so it could be anytime now. Her due date’s still two weeks away, but we’re in the window. Nothing alarming, no need to rush. But the signs are lining up.”

You swallowed slowly. Not out of fear, but awe. Something in your body, your bones, already knew it. She was coming. Ezra did one last gentle sweep with the wand, angling to catch a few more stills. “I’ll print you a few photos before you head out.”

The wand lifted from your belly with a soft pop, leaving behind a trail of cool gel that quickly began to chill against your skin. You reached down to touch it, but Ezra was already moving into action, setting the probe aside and reaching for a warm towel. “Rio,” she said over her shoulder, “mind flicking that light back on?”

“On it.” The room filled slowly with soft overhead light, chasing out the shadows. It felt like surfacing after a dream. Ezra cleaned your belly gently, the warmth of the towel a welcome contrast to the chilled air and slick residue. Then she helped guide your body upright, one hand bracing your shoulder, the other at your elbow as you shifted to sit up on the table. Your back ached from lying flat too long. Your hips protested, but the movement helped. You exhaled slowly.

“How are you feeling?” Ezra asked gently, folding the towel and tossing it into the bin with practiced grace. Her tone softened—clinician to caretaker, to friend. “Anything new? Discomfort? Fatigue?”

You hesitated, then winced faintly as your arm shifted across your chest. “My left breast’s been sore the past couple nights. Like… not just tenderness. Pressure. It feels full.”

Ezra nodded immediately, no concern in her expression as she reached for gloves. “Let’s take a look.” You opened the front of your gown as she gently palpated the area, her fingers warm and professional as she moved carefully along the curve of your breast. After a moment, she leaned back and gave a small, pleased nod. “You’re developing a supply,” she said warmly. “You’re already producing. It’s perfectly normal—especially for your first. The glands are starting to wake up. And if she’s dropped in the next week or two, your body’s going to start prepping in earnest.”

“So I’m really close,” you said, more to yourself than anyone.

Ezra smiled, “You’re right at 38 weeks. My money is on another two or three weeks. For the record, Jen thinks it’s going to be closer to two. But from what we’ve all learned throughout your pregnancy, she makes her own decisions.”

Agatha’s hand moved to your thigh, her fingers sliding gently over the fabric of your gown, her voice soft behind you. “We’re almost there.”

Rio stepped forward now, hovering near your knees, crouching slightly so her face met yours. “You’re doing amazing,” she whispered. “You’ve carried her all this way. You’re nearly at the gate.” Ezra stripped off her gloves and crossed to the counter, retrieving a folder, a small paper packet, and a pen. When she turned back, her expression was focused—gentle, but clear.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s walk through your delivery plan again, just to be sure we’re all on the same page.” You nodded, suddenly hyper-aware of every shift in your body, the way your palms pressed into your thighs. Ezra pulled a stool closer and sat, her tone steady. “The plan is to labor here, at the clinic,” she said. “The birthing suite is prepped. All supplies are in place. We’ve got everything stocked, clean, and ready. You’ll have your own room, a water option for pain management, and the emergency kit is on standby—though I have no intention of using it.”

You exhaled slowly, your heart thudding louder now—not with fear, but anticipation. “So whenever she decides it’s time?” you asked, breath catching slightly.

Ezra gave you a look that landed like a blessing. “We’re ready. Whenever she is.” Then she tilted her head. “Have you made a decision about pain management? You don’t have to commit right now, but if you’ve already decided, I can make sure it’s noted.”

You laughed—half a breath, half a bark of truth—and pressed a hand to your back. “Yes. The epidural. Give me the epidural.”

Rio broke first, laughing loud and warm. “She means it with her whole chest.”

“I mean it with my pelvis,” you groaned, reaching instinctively for the small of your back.

Agatha leaned in, brushing your hair back from your temple. “She’s been asking for it since thirty weeks,” she said with a grin. “She was moaning in her sleep the other night and whispered 'epidural' like it was a prayer.”

Ezra laughed gently, writing something down on the clipboard. “Got it. We’ll have it prepped and ready. No heroics. Just care.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting her words settle. The air was warm. The faint scent of lavender drifted in from a reed diffuser tucked near the windowsill—subtle, calming, the kind of softness that made you feel safe in your own skin.

Ezra’s chair rolled a little closer. You heard the slight squeak of the wheels and the click of her pen before she spoke again. “And just so you know,” she said, her tone brightening, “we’ve also got nitrous oxide on hand—for the earlier stages. Some light gas, just to take the edge off before we do the epidural. You’d hold the mask yourself, breathe as needed. It doesn’t interfere with baby or delay the epidural, and for some people it’s just enough to stay steady while early labor ramps up.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “So… I could be a little high while dilating?”

Ezra smiled. “A controlled float. Just a gentle cushion between contractions. It won’t knock you out. It just reminds your body not to panic.”

“That actually sounds like a gift,” you murmured, adjusting slightly on the table, shifting your weight to ease the throb in your hips. You felt Agatha’s hand still on your thigh, steady and grounding, like an anchor tucked beneath the weight of it all.

She leaned in a little, brushing her thumb along your knee. “Will she be able to eat during labor?”

Ezra looked thoughtful for a beat. “Technically, we advise against large meals once active labor begins. But that’s mostly because digestion slows down, and some people end up nauseous. In my experience, most laboring mothers aren’t very hungry, but drinking is fine.”

“And food like watermelon?” Agatha pressed, eyes flicking briefly to you. “Grapes?”

Ezra nodded, understanding. “Yes, especially fruits that are mostly water. Watermelon, grapes, sliced cucumbers, popsicles. Think hydration more than calories. As long as there’s no medical emergency, you’re free to nibble. It’s not a prison sentence.”

You smiled at that. “Good, because if she comes in the afternoon and someone tries to keep me from fruit, there will be a second labor.” Rio laughed softly beside you. You could feel her presence without even turning—knew exactly where she was by the heat radiating from her body and the way her fingers stayed twined with yours.

“And walking?” Rio asked next, her voice quieter now, but no less certain. “She’s been so sore. The rocking’s helped. Her hips respond really well when she’s upright. Will she be able to walk while laboring?”

Ezra’s eyes softened. “Yes. Definitely. As long as you’re not actively being monitored or having the epidural placed, I encourage it.  Walking, rocking, squatting—all of that helps gravity and movement do the work. We’ve got a support bar, birthing ball, anything you need. And if her hips like to move, we let them move. After the epidural, though, we keep you closer to the bed. We can stand; we can use the bar, but not walk the halls. Just in case the meds hit a little harder and you get dizzy.”

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Something loosened behind your ribs. Not just muscle, but readiness. The room stilled as you looked between your wives—Agatha with her hand still gently pressed to your knee, Rio with her thumb brushing lazy circles into the back of your hand—and you let your breath fill the quiet.

“Just… tell me again she’s okay.” The words escaped you before you could filter them, soft, but full. Not desperation. Not fear. Just the raw, aching truth of what it meant to carry her. To wait. To wonder, always, if you’d done enough. If she was safe.

Ezra’s eyes didn’t leave yours. She didn’t blink. She didn’t smile to soothe. She saw you. “She’s perfect,” she said again, her voice quiet, rooted. “Truly. Strong heartbeat. Steady movements. Growth right where it should be. Responsive, curious, stubborn as hell—which is always a good sign at this stage.”

You felt the breath return to your chest, a slow release that made your shoulders drop, your spine curve ever so slightly inward as if your body could finally admit how tightly it had been holding itself together. Ezra reached forward—not rushing—just a small, steady touch, her hand resting at the edge of your knee. “And you,” she added, letting her voice warm, “you’re doing great too.”

She looked to her left, then her right. Her gaze found Rio first—whose brows had knit together in quiet concern even as her mouth held a small, proud smile. Then Agatha, who looked like she was halfway between bursting into tears and arguing with fate that nothing could ever go wrong, not now. Ezra’s voice deepened, low and sure. “Both of your girls are healthy. Everything is fine. And it’s going to stay fine.” The stillness that followed wasn’t silence. It was safety. A current passed between the four of you. Not spoken. Not even fully felt all at once. But known. Like a blessing passed from one hand to another, from womb to air, from heart to heart.

Then Ezra leaned back slightly, folding her hands over her knee. Her eyes softened again—still clinical, still precise—but holding something older now. Wiser. “What else is going on with you?” she asked gently. “Tell me all the things.”

Rio shifted beside you, her arm brushing lightly against your shoulder as she leaned in, voice curling with amused affection. “Well, nesting mode has officially activated.” She nodded solemnly, gesturing with both hands. “Every edge of the house is clean. I mean, edges I didn’t know existed. Light switches. Baseboards. The top of the damn fridge.”

You let out a soft laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep. And everything suddenly felt… like it had to be perfect.”

Ezra grinned and patted your knee with practiced affection. “That’s a good sign. You’re getting close. People always talk about contractions and dilation, but sometimes it’s the scrubbed grout that’s the true harbinger.”

“I swear I caught her trying to organize the garage tools by pH balance,” Rio added.

“You did not!” you gasped, smacking her arm playfully.

Ezra chuckled, then looked at you more directly. “What else? How’s your week looking?”

You hesitated for a beat—then let out a breath. “I’m defending my dissertation Friday.”

Ezra’s brows lifted, impressed. “Oh! Wow, this is a huge week.” Then her voice softened. “How are you feeling about it?”

“Ready to get it over with,” you admitted, rubbing your palm lightly over the slope of your belly. “I’ve been working on this thing for so long. I just want to finish strong and move on. Be present.”

Ezra nodded, her expression shifting into something calmer, more maternal. “You deserve that. But make sure you're building in time to relax before the defense. Not just for the work—for you.”

“We tried,” Agatha murmured, from your other side, her thumb now drawing slow, unconscious circles into your forearm. “She’s determined. Bribery didn’t work. Offers of foot rubs didn’t work.”

“To be fair,” Rio interjected, “you did threaten her with foot rubs at 7 a.m.”

“And she liked it,” Agatha replied without blinking.

Ezra laughed, then tilted her head. “So what’s the plan between now and Friday? Feet up? Soft music? Herbal tea?”

You hesitated just long enough that Rio jumped in, shaking her head with mock exasperation. “Nope. We haven’t been able to talk her out of going to the Mariners game with The Boys tomorrow.”

‘The Boys’? Oh, you mean..” Ezra echoed.

You smiled, knowing they had all gotten to know one another when planning the baby shower and gifts. “Billy, Eddie, and Asher,” Agatha supplied, the corners of her mouth twitching. “She says it’s tradition. It’s Asher’s first game and says she wants one last game before she has to become respectable.”

You rolled your eyes. “I said no such thing.”

Ezra turned to you, eyebrow arching in full doctor mode. But then she smiled, that glint in her eye returning. “Listen. If she thinks she can handle it, I’m okay with it if she is. Baby is healthy. So is she. But—” she pointed at you gently, “plenty of water. Plenty of sitting. No climbing bleachers. And I want your phone charged and with you.”

You nodded quickly, half-grateful, half-exhilarated. “Promise. Agatha and Rio will be with me anyway. I doubt I’ll be able to cheer without monitoring.”

Ezra’s smile softened again. “And after Friday? I want you taking a few full days to rest. No more house projects. No more organizing closets at 3 a.m. Let your body slow down. Let your mind breathe.” She looked between the three of you, her voice quieter now with a glint of gentle curiosity. She leaned back slightly on her stool and asked, “Have you all picked a name yet?”

You smiled, the expression blooming across your face like sunlight through branches. “We’ve got some top contenders,” you said softly, eyes flicking between Rio and Agatha. “But… we’ll know when we see her. It doesn’t feel right to decide without her being in the room with us.”

Rio’s gaze softened immediately, her thumb still tracing the edge of your hand. “She’ll tell us who she is,” Agatha murmured. “One look, and we’ll know.”

You hesitated just a second longer, then grinned. “Though…” You shifted your weight slightly on the table, the smile curving deeper at the corners of your mouth. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

Rio’s brow arched instantly, sharp and playful. Her eyes flicked toward yours with mock suspicion. “Oh, do you?” she asked, drawing the words out, her grin just beginning to tug at the edge of her lips.

You tried to hold your expression steady, but it cracked, a laugh escaping as you leaned back against the slight incline of the table. “But like Agatha said—” your voice softened again, your fingers spreading over your belly like a shield and a prayer all at once, “she’ll let us know. When we see her. We’ll know.”

Rio’s expression melted again, her teasing giving way to something softer, almost reverent. She nodded once, and her hand found yours again, thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles like she was trying to ground the moment into memory.  Ezra smiled wide, a dimple flashing in one cheek as she stood and crossed to the machine. “Well, in the meantime, let me give you something to tide you over.”

You watched as she tapped a few buttons on the monitor. A soft whir followed as the printer warmed up, then began to feed out the ultrasound images, crisp and clear. No longer a blur of indistinct shadows or the bean-shaped blob from early visits. This was her—a fully formed little person. You could see the curve of her spine, the swell of her cheek, the delicate slope of her nose. Ezra gathered them with practiced fingers and handed them over. Rio reached out, taking them like she was receiving an artifact. Her thumb brushed the edge of the top image, her smile going faint and soft. She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly, “This one’s mine.”

She peeled off the top image and slid it gently into her wallet, the movement slow and reverent—like a ritual. Her fingers lingered at the fold of leather, her eyes still on the tiny grayscale shape of the girl growing inside you. Then she turned, slipped the remaining prints into Agatha’s open purse. “For the house,” she teased, her voice catching just slightly with emotion.

Ezra stepped back toward the counter, giving you room to breathe again and moved to the sink to wash her hands, and the gentle splash of water was the only sound in the room for a few beats. The air was thick with that quiet tension made not of worry, but of awe.The room had that distinct post-appointment hush to it now, like the tail end of a ritual, where the candles are still burning, but the prayer has been spoken.

Rio was already offering her hands. One to steady your elbow, the other slipping instinctively beneath your arm as you shifted forward. Agatha moved in at your side, her palm bracing your back with familiar grace, her fingers spreading just wide enough to support the weight where your muscles were beginning to ache. Between them, you stood with a soft groan and a grateful laugh. “Slow, slow,” Rio murmured near your ear. “I got you.”

“Always,” Agatha added.

The hallway outside the exam room was quiet, the faint scent of lavender still trailing behind you. The sunlight had shifted since you’d come in—now stretching through the clinic windows in long, golden bands that caught the dust in the air like glitter. You moved carefully through it, the three of you walking in step, your shoes barely making a sound against the polished floor. When you stepped outside, the breeze met you first. Brisk but sweet, brushing through your clothes, cooling the warmth left behind from the room. The parking lot glinted under the sun, and the air held that early spring tension—charged, like everything was about to bloom.

Ezra followed behind, keys jingling softly as she stepped out with you. She walked ahead just slightly as Rio opened the passenger side door. Then Ezra crouched beside the car, her trained fingers already moving with muscle memory. “Let me take a look at this seat,” she said, voice humming with approval. “If I don’t check it now, I’ll just lose sleep tonight thinking about it.”

She tugged gently at the straps, checked the tension at the base, and gave the buckle a testing click. Her brows rose, impressed. “This is a solid install,” she said, standing and brushing her hands on her coat. “Well done, both of you.”

“We nearly fought the entire time,” Rio admitted. “But we high-fived through the pain.” Ezra grinned and turned to Agatha, pulling her in for a firm, quick hug. Then Rio. Then finally, she turned to you. Her arms opened without hesitation, and you stepped into them. The hug wasn’t rushed. It was warm. Familiar. Deep enough to hold weight, gentle enough not to press against the baby between you.

“If you have any questions or worries—anything—you call or text me, okay?” she said softly against your ear. “If you don’t go into labor before, I’ll see you in just under two weeks.” You nodded; the back of your throat tight. You felt her hand rub your back once, then pull away.

Then Ezra tilted her head and gave you a knowing look. “So… did the birthing tub ever show up?”

Agatha didn’t miss a beat. “Not only did it show up,” she said, arching an elegant eyebrow, “but she dusted it. At three a.m. While it was still in the box.”

Ezra blinked, then barked out a laugh. “Oh, you’re ready, ready.”

“She was humming show tunes,” Rio added, climbing into the driver’s seat. “While labeling towel drawers.”

You raised both hands in mock protest. “I plead the nesting defense.” Ezra backed up, still laughing, as Agatha helped you into the car, your belly settling into place with a slow exhale. The door shut gently. The moment hung for a beat, full of light and love and lavender still clinging faintly to your shirt.

And then you drove away, the baby’s newest photo tucked safely in Rio’s wallet, two more nestled inside Agatha’s purse, and your hands resting on the place where she pressed back—always reminding you: Soon.

---------------

(Next Day)

The morning light hadn’t fully settled yet, but the world was already stirring. Pale silver leaked through the living room curtains, the soft kind of brightness that whispered more than it shouted—gentle, like it didn’t want to wake the house too soon. Sleep had come and gone all night, your body in a rhythm not unlike the tide: in, out, doze, wake, repeat. But this time, when your eyes blinked open, something felt different. Not pain. Not even discomfort. Just… awareness.

Your hands drifted down instinctively, pressing lightly over the swell of your belly. She was still there—solid and sure—but her weight had shifted. Lower. Anchored now into your pelvis in a way she hadn’t been the night before. You exhaled slowly and found yourself taking a deeper breath than usual—your lungs no longer pushed upward by her feet. That ache under your ribs had eased, but in its place, your hips throbbed with something heavier. Denser. Getting up from bed had been almost comical. Walking your way to the living room, you curled sideways beneath one of Rio’s hoodies, the fabric still faintly holding her scent. Sleep didn’t find you again as you adjusted your body to watch the sunrise. April was settling in, and it took your breath away the way it did every year.

Three trips to the bathroom in two hours, you no longer cared how beautiful the light was as it shifted against the wood grain. Every time, the walk back had felt more like a waddle. And now, as you pushed yourself slowly upright again, one hand on the armrest, the other curled instinctively under your belly. It wasn’t labor. But it was coming.

You padded quietly toward the kitchen; the wood floors cool beneath your feet. A soft creak echoed under your heel as you reached for a water bottle on the counter, stretching just slightly—and then freezing at the sound of footsteps behind you. The subtle rhythm of bare feet over floorboards. A door creaked open at the end of the hallway.

“Hey.” You turned. Rio was already moving toward you, her body still sleep-warmed in a soft gray tank and dark pajama pants that sat low on her hips. Her curls were wild from sleep, haloed around her face in every direction, her mouth still creased from the pillow. But her eyes—God, her eyes—were awake the second they landed on you. That grin. Lopsided. Crooked with affection. But it flickered as she looked at your face. Then dropped—low and certain—straight to your belly. She tilted her head slightly. Then, slowly, she smiled. “Good morning, baby.”

The words slipped out like a song. Then, softly, her hand reached for yours and pulled you closer with the ease of muscle memory. She kissed you—slow, warm, lingering. The kind of kiss that wrapped around your spine and said I see you even before good morning. She pulled back just far enough to whisper again, lips still brushing yours. “Good morning, Beansprout.”

You laughed softly under your breath as her palms came to rest on either side of your belly. She rubbed gentle, wide circles, her touch both reverent and playful, thumbs brushing up and over the center where your daughter had settled lower. “What do you think you’re doing?” she murmured, leaning down until her mouth was just above your belly button, her voice going low, almost conspiratorial, “scooting lower like this the morning after you saw Aunt Ezra?”

Her thumbs moved again. The pressure was comforting. You leaned into her slightly, letting your head rest against her shoulder. “She dropped,” you said, voice still sleep-rough. “I can feel it. She’s down in my hips now.”

Rio nodded slowly, her lips grazing the stretch of skin just beneath your hoodie. “She’s getting ready. Wants to keep us on our toes.”

You nodded once, breath catching. Your body didn’t just feel different. It knew. The shift had happened. The countdown had begun. You weren’t in labor, but something inside you had turned toward it. And Rio—warm, grinning, grounding Rio—was here to witness it with her whole heart.

From the bedroom, you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps, the low groan of the closet door gliding open. Agatha, too, was awake now. The whole house was waking with you.

Rio’s hands lingered on your belly a moment longer. Then she pulled back slightly, just enough to really look at you. Her gaze dropped to the way your body swayed—subtle, involuntary, a slow left-to-right rocking that had become second nature these past few days. Not for balance. For relief. Anything to ease the growing weight pressing low into your hips.

“You’re exhausted,” she said softly. You didn’t argue. Your smile came slow, crooked, tired. “I’ll be right back.” She nodded, her thumb brushing once more over your hand before you turned away. You waddled toward the bathroom, one hand braced against the hallway wall, the other cupping low beneath your belly where your daughter now sat like a stone bowl of potential. The door clicked shut behind you.

Moments later, the padding of bare feet whispered down the hall. Agatha emerged, her hair unbrushed and cascading down her shoulders in soft waves, her face still crumpled with sleep. She wore one of your old t-shirts—faded cotton stretched loose over her frame—and a pair of Rio’s boxers slung low on her hips. Rio turned as she heard her, smile blooming instinctively. Agatha blinked once at the light, then muttered as she stepped into Rio’s open arms, “Is there coffee yet, or is this the apocalypse?”

Rio laughed and kissed her forehead as Agatha leaned heavily into her chest. “Not yet. But I’ll make it in a minute.”

Agatha hummed in reply, her words muffled against Rio’s collarbone. “Where’s our girl?”

Before Rio could answer, the bathroom door creaked open. She looked up, smirking. “See if you notice anything different.”

Agatha turned, her brow furrowing in that half-awake way she always had when transitioning between sleep and thought. But the moment her eyes landed on you, she froze mid-step. You were waddling back toward them slowly, each motion deliberate, less out of caution, more because it had to be. One hand cradled the underside of your belly, low and protective, while the other guided your balance along the wall. You were only half-dressed, the hem of your top tugged taut over the curve of your stomach. Your breaths came deeper now, but they weren’t easier. Your strength was different; spent not from lack of sleep, but from the sheer effort it took to carry forward.

Agatha’s eyes softened instantly. She saw it all. The way your steps were heavier than they had been just hours ago. The way your body leaned forward slightly, as if the weight of your daughter wasn’t just lower, but pulling the world with her. And the fatigue etched beneath your eyes. Her lips parted in a quiet exhale. “Well, well…” she murmured, voice low and full of wonder. Her gaze traced your hips, the round arc of your belly, the tilt of your balance. “Look at you.”

You met her eyes for only a second before lowering your gaze. The emotion there—unspoken, trembling just beneath your ribs—was too much to hold in your throat just yet. You gave a long, dramatic sigh as you took the last few steps toward her, your hips swaying with more effort than grace now. Your belly bumped gently against her torso, drawing a soft sound from her chest. “Oof,” she breathed, catching you automatically with both arms, her laugh curling against your ear. She wrapped herself around you with instinct—palms splaying across your back like the promise of a spell. “Morning, my love,” she whispered against your temple. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer right away. You weren’t sure what to say. The words hadn’t formed yet—not the ones that could describe the weight in your body, or the way your daughter had rearranged your center of gravity overnight. Not the ache or the awe. Not the exhaustion tucked behind your eyes like fog across a field. So instead, you pressed your face deeper into Agatha’s chest. Not hiding. Not retreating. Just… needing. Rio stepped in behind you, her hands brushing lightly along the length of your back, grounding, slow. Her palms moved in soft arcs—up to your shoulder blades, down to the small of your back—careful not to crowd but never letting go.

Your daughter stirred again beneath your skin, a full-bodied stretch pressing against the walls of you, testing the boundaries of a space that no longer quite fit. Her feet pushed up near your ribs, her head low. Your whole body responded—opening, swaying, readjusting to make room where there was none left.

Still held between them, you took a breath that felt heavier than air. Then you stepped back just slightly, one hand instinctively pressing low beneath your belly as if to lift some of the weight from your hips. Your thighs ached. Your spine whispered protests in places that hadn’t hurt yesterday.

Agatha’s hand came up gently, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, her fingertips lingering for just a second against your temple. You lifted your eyes to hers. The love there undid something in your chest. So you leaned forward and kissed her. Soft. Full. The kind of kiss that said thank you without words. That carried fatigue, and gratitude, and every moment she’d caught you before you fell.

Then you turned toward Rio, who already had her arms open wide, grinning like she’d been waiting all morning just to wrap you in her chest again. You didn’t hesitate. You melted into her, your cheek resting against the strength of her collarbone, your arms wrapping low around her waist. She exhaled a breath that rumbled with amusement, kissed the top of your head, and said brightly, “Alright, then. It’s official. Mandatory cuddle day.” You nodded up and down against her without even lifting your head. Yes. There would be no negotiating.

Behind you, Agatha had already moved into the kitchen, her bare feet making the faintest sounds against the tile. The click of the kettle switch and the warm gurgle of the coffee maker followed like familiar background music—your household's quiet morning symphony.

She turned just slightly over her shoulder, voice floating back to you. “What do you feel like eating, sweetheart?” You didn’t answer right away. Your head was still tucked beneath Rio’s chin, your hands warm against her back, and honestly—deciding something felt like too much.

You shrugged lightly. Agatha turned back to the counter, unfazed. “Toast and tea okay?” You nodded without lifting your head. Another soft yes. Agatha padded across the floor, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head as she passed. “Coming right up.”

Your fingers found Rio’s hand and tugged gently, eyes fluttering open now. “Couch,” you muttered, already turning your body in that direction. “I need the couch before your daughter makes me go to the bathroom again.” Rio laughed and followed without hesitation; her hand curled safely around yours. Behind you, Agatha hummed as she prepared the mugs—morning unfolding around you in warm, sacred pieces.

The smell came before the sound—fresh toast and fruit and something soft and citrusy wafting through the air as Agatha stepped back into the living room. She carried the tray with practiced ease, a mug of tea for you balanced carefully beside a small plate of sliced strawberries, grapes, and lightly buttered toast. Her own coffee cup steamed beside Rio’s, which bore a hand-painted design you vaguely remembered Billy giving her—a flaming baseball and the words Hot Mom Energy.

She placed the tray on the coffee table with a soft thunk of ceramic and wood. “There we go,” she said, brushing her hands on the edge of her shorts. “Eat what you can.” You reached for the tea first. It was just the right temperature. Honeyed and floral. The warmth curled around your throat like a scarf as you sipped, slowly, gratefully. Every swallow soothed you deeper into the couch cushions. The toast crunched softly in your hands. Strawberries melted sweet against your tongue. You didn’t eat fast—but it felt good to chew, to nourish, to let them care for you.

It didn’t take long for everyone to eat.  The tray returned to the kitchen, and the movie you’d turned on was barely a whisper in the background. Some dreamy animation with soft piano music and very little plot. You sat nestled against Rio’s side, your legs stretched across her lap, her strong hands working in slow circles along the arch of your swollen feet. Your head rested against a pillow; eyes half-lidded with comfort. You weren’t watching the screen. Neither was she. The baby shifted once under your ribs, just a nudge, and you responded with a soft palm across the curve of your belly.

Then came the sound of movement—soft padding steps and the rhythmic creak of a laundry basket being carried across the hallway. Agatha appeared in the doorway with her sleeves rolled to the elbow, a basket of baby clothes perched on one hip, a tiny sock already dangling loose from the edge. You blinked up at her, smiling as she stepped into view. Then without warning, you spoke. “I want to go into the nursery.”

Agatha paused, surprised for only a breath. Then her smile bloomed full. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly, your voice soft. “I want to finish placing everything. Just… make sure it’s all ready.”

Rio kissed the side of your leg and shifted gently, helping ease your feet off her lap. “Let’s go,” she said, already standing. The walk down the hall was slow but certain. Familiar. Your hand stayed low on your belly the whole time, like a tether, while Agatha moved just ahead of you with the laundry, and Rio trailed behind like a sentry.

The nursery was quiet when you stepped in. Soft light spilled through the curtains, catching the painted stars across the wall and the mural that Rio had finished weeks ago—the one with vines and golden constellations, the circle still blank where her name would someday go. You eased into the rocking chair with a sigh, your feet landing on the ottoman Rio had carefully angled just for you. Your hands swept once across your belly as you rocked—back and forth, slow, thoughtful.

---------

A few hours later, and the baskets of clothes were being folded by Agatha with a kind of slow, reverent grace.

She sat on the floor, her long legs crossed beneath her, surrounded by a sea of cotton and softness. Tiny outfits hung from impossible hangers on the curtain rod nearby—each one pressed and carefully laid out like offerings. Onesies were folded into neat, symmetrical stacks. Small socks, each no bigger than two of her fingers pressed together, had all been rolled into pairs and placed in the top drawer of the dresser. A small stack of burp cloths sat on the table next to the rocker—folded, fluffed, and waiting. Everything was waiting.

You sat near the window, your body sinking low into the cushions of the glider chair, the ottoman still supporting your legs. Your hands rested on your belly, fingers laced beneath its fullness, as you rocked. Slowly. Thoughtfully. One arc forward. One arc back. Again. And again.

You’d woken that morning with the pull in your chest. A knowing. Not urgency—not yet. But a low, rising tide. You remembered it clearly, the thought that had struck you around six a.m., half-lucid and tender, when you stirred on the couch with your hands instinctively searching for Agatha’s warmth, for Rio’s steadiness: I just want to be close. And now, here you were. Close. Tethered to both of them by the hush of this room and the weight of what you were carrying.

Downstairs, the kitchen counter bore a quiet offering of its own: bottles lined and sanitized, stacked beside a box of formula—just in case. Just in case breastfeeding didn’t work out. Just in case your body needed help. Just in case she needed more than you could give. It wasn’t failure. It was preparation. Love came in all forms, and readiness was one of them.

The whole house had shifted. It no longer moved with the rhythm of grown women and their routines. It breathed now with expectation. With waiting. It had become a space made not just for living, but for welcoming.

The bassinet in your bedroom had fresh sheets tucked over the mattress, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the edges. Diapers had been sorted by size. A swaddle blanket rested like a promise across the back of the nursery chair.

Everything now had a heartbeat. Every object, every soft drawer, every folded outfit—it was all humming. Waiting for her to join you. Agatha folded another onesie slowly, her eyes flicking up every few moments to check on you—not hovering, just…watching. Knowing. Her hair was pulled back, a pencil holding it in place, her sleeves pushed up above her elbows. Her mouth moved with something between a hum and a quiet breath, as if she were mouthing a lullaby only your daughter could hear.

Just a few feet away, Rio was crouched by the changing table, her shoulders hunched slightly in playful concentration. She had one of the drawers open, wipes in neat packages stacked beside her on the rug, and a row of diapers lined up like little white ducklings across the shelf. Her brow was furrowed—unserious but focused—as she organized the stacks by size.

“These are so damn small,” she muttered, wonder softening the usual edge of her voice. She held one up between her fingers, the diaper no bigger than her palm. “How is a whole person supposed to fit in this?”

Agatha didn’t look up but smiled. “I keep thinking the same thing.”

Rio chuckled and set the diaper down carefully with the others, stacking them in little clusters of three, then rearranging the wipes so no one would need to search during those first bleary-eyed, sleep-starved changes. “Okay, so newborn diapers here. Second size here. Wipes up front. Easy access. I don’t want to be fumbling around while she is mid poop.”

You laughed softly, the sound catching in your throat as you leaned further into the rocker. The weight of your belly pulled forward with the motion, but the laughter shook loose something in your chest—like sunlight through curtains. “God, I love you,” you muttered through a smile.

Agatha looked up from her folding, one tiny sleeve still dangling between her fingers, and tilted her head as she asked, “Have you thought about what you want her to wear home?”

You blinked, a little caught off guard by the question, but only for a moment. The answer was already blooming in your chest like muscle memory. You rested both palms gently over your belly, your thumbs moving in soft, absent strokes along the tight curve. She kicked lightly beneath them, as if listening. “Yeah,” you said, your voice dipping a little, warmed by the memory. “The onesie. The one I ordered for both of you to open.”

Agatha’s face lifted in recognition—eyes softening, mouth parting with a slow smile that was half-remembered joy, half reverence. “The green one?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost ceremonial.

You nodded, a flush creeping into your cheeks just thinking about it. “Light green,” you said, your voice more certain now. “With those tiny purple flowers blooming across the vines. And the orange blossoms, remember? Curled along the hem like little suns.”

Agatha let out a breath, dreamy and low, like her heart had just unclenched. “God, that one was beautiful. I’ll grab it.”

She stood, brushing her hands off on her thighs, and turned toward the nursery closet. The motion was fluid, practiced—but just before her fingers touched the handle, another voice cut in: “No need.”

Agatha paused mid-step, glancing back over her shoulder. “Why not?” Rio looked up from the floor where she sat cross-legged, wipes stacked to one side, diapers still neatly arranged in size order on the changing table like pieces of a sacred puzzle. Her grin was slow, smug, and radiant as the sunrise outside the nursery window. “Because I already put it in the go bag.”

You froze in your rocker, blinking once—then twice. Then you burst out laughing, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, cracking through your ribs like champagne fizz. It filled the nursery instantly, echoing between the walls, curling around the mural and the still-empty bassinet. “You didn’t—!” you wheezed, leaning forward as you tried to breathe through the laughter, one hand flying to your belly to catch the sudden ripple of motion from your daughter, who was apparently just as startled by your joy.

Agatha just turned, hand on her hip, and let her gaze slide to Rio with that unmistakable mixture of exasperation and adoration. “She did,” she confirmed, already smiling. “Of course she did.”

Rio leaned back on her hands, basking in her small, brilliant victory. “What? I know her. And I know that onesie.” Her voice went mock-serious as she pointed at you. “I know you cried when you ordered it. We cried when you gave it to us. Like, hand-over-the-mouth, stunned-silence kind of crying. There was no way that wasn’t going to be her coming-home outfit.”

“I was pregnant and hormonal!” you protested, giggling now as you rocked forward slightly, breath hitching with each wave of laughter. “It had flowers and the stitching was so tiny!”

“Exactly,” Rio said, smug and smugger still. “She’s going to come into the world wrapped in something chosen with intention. That onesie? That’s the three of us in one outfit for her to wear home.”

Agatha stepped closer, her fingers brushing your shoulder, then trailing to your cheek. Her thumb lingered at your temple, brushing hair behind your ear. Her smile, when it came, was pure magic—silent, sacred. “It was always the one.”

You nodded, breath catching as you leaned back into the glider. Your fingers dropped low, pressing gently beneath your belly. Your daughter shifted again, stretching inside you as if she were trying to join in the conversation. The whole room slowed. Rio sat back on her heels, her fingers curling over her knees, the edges of her smile still blooming—slow and steady, like she was absorbing every second of this moment and filing it away in her bones. Her eyes flicked over the nursery with something soft in them. Something reverent. Like she was already seeing her daughter here. Alive. Laughing. Real. You watched her for a long moment. The quiet strength in the lines of her body. The gentleness in her calloused hands. How at peace she looked in the midst of diapers and wipes and chaos she couldn’t control.

Then your gaze drifted to Agatha. She was still sitting cross-legged on the floor, folding a tiny pair of ribbed lavender pants, smoothing the cuffs like they might wrinkle if she breathed too hard. The motion was slow, almost ceremonial. Her brows furrowed in concentration, not from worry, but from care. It struck you suddenly that she wasn’t just folding fabric. She was folding time. Preparing the days to come, creating the quiet ritual of arrival before the storm.

And your heart ached with how much you loved them. How much they were already doing. How much they hadn’t thought to do for themselves. You shifted forward in the rocker, your hand going low under your belly as your daughter gave a slow, steady roll that made your entire core tighten. She pressed downward, curling into your pelvis again. Another kick, stronger this time, right against the stretch of your ribs. You breathed through it.

Then, with a small huff of breath and a lopsided smile, you asked, “Did either of you pack a bag for yourselves?”

Their heads snapped toward you in perfect unison. The moment was priceless. Agatha blinked at you like you’d just asked her if she’d learned to fly overnight. Rio’s brow furrowed, not in concern, but in sheer confusion—like the words hadn’t made it all the way through processing. “For us?” Agatha echoed, the words slow, cautious.

Rio’s lips quirked as she tilted her head. “We have a go bag. For you. For Beansprout.” You let out a breathless laugh, your free hand curling over your belly as your daughter shifted again, pressing outward like she was trying to stretch inside a room that was suddenly too small.

“Right,” you said, trying not to laugh again as you rocked forward slightly. “But what if we’re at the hospital for hours? Or… days? What if she decides to take her time?”

They both stared. Then, slowly, realization dawned across their faces—like a sunrise easing over mountaintops. You watched it hit them. Not panic, just a wide-eyed oh. Agatha’s mouth dropped open. Rio blinked, then ran a hand through her curls. There it was.You smiled and softened your voice, leaning into the quiet gravity of the moment. “Chargers. A change of clothes. Snacks. Toothbrushes. Anything you’d want if you couldn’t leave for a while.”

Your voice lowered, laced with something that almost felt like prayer. “I don’t want either of you running home for socks. Or leaving to grab a hoodie. I want you here. With me. I want to know, when I look up… that you’re not going anywhere.”

Your daughter kicked again. This time, it wasn’t subtle. She pressed low—down into your pelvis with purpose—and your breath caught as your hands flew to cradle the weight of her. You froze, body curling slightly inward as your muscles tried to adjust, rocking through the motion. It wasn’t labor, not yet. But it was her. Making herself known. Claiming more space.

The room stilled with you. Your breath came uneven now, mouth parting slightly as the emotion rose—thick and sudden, like a wave breaking before you could brace for it. Your eyes burned. Not just from the pressure or the ache in your hips, but from something deeper, more vulnerable. “I need you,” you whispered, the words soft and sharp all at once. “Both of you.”

They were already moving. Agatha stepped off the floor like gravity had pulled her. Rio rose from the rug in a single fluid motion. They came to you without hesitation, no words spoken as they knelt in front of the rocking chair, one on each side, eyes locked on yours with matching intensity. You swallowed hard. Your vision blurred. “I need you both with me—” your voice cracked on the last word, “through all of it.”

You tried to breathe, but something caught in your chest. “I know it might seem small—just a bag, or a charger, or a stupid hoodie—but I kept thinking…”

“I just… I keep thinking what if something starts, or I get scared, or I’m in pain and I look around and one of you had to go back to the house for a charger or a hoodie or something dumb we forgot—”

You broke off, your breath trembling, the words dissolving as your daughter kicked hard beneath your ribs, a sudden stretch that sent pressure into your pelvis and up your spine. You clutched your belly, your eyes closing against the flood of sensation—and fear. Your voice trembled. Your hands slid to the sides of your belly, grounding yourself with the weight of your daughter.

“What if I need you and you’re not there and I’m in a room full of strangers—scared, or in pain, or…” You shook your head, tears finally spilling as you blinked hard. “I don’t want to go through any part of this without you. Not a second.”

“Hey,” Rio murmured, one large hand coming up to cradle your calf, then rising to cup your cheek. Her thumb brushed the tear that escaped. Agatha reached for your hand, threading her fingers between yours as she leaned forward, her forehead almost touching your knee. “You won’t have to look around,” Rio said, her voice low and certain. “Because we’ll be there. We’re not going anywhere.”

“Not for the world,” Agatha echoed. “Not for a toothbrush or a phone cord or anything else. When it starts, we’re with you. All the way through.”

“We’ll be right by your side,” Rio added. “Holding your hands. Holding you. Whatever you need. For as long as it takes.”

You let out a wet, unsteady breath. Half-laugh. Half-sob. “I know,” you whispered. “I do. It’s just… everything feels so important to have done, like it all has to be in place before she gets here. Every little thing.”

Agatha leaned up and kissed your knuckles. “That’s called nesting, sweetheart.”

Rio’s hand was already moving, reaching for yours—warm and sure—and she brought it to her chest as she knelt a little closer. Her other hand lifted to cup your cheek again, her fingers tracing just beneath your ear. And then her eyes locked on yours.

Unwavering. Unblinking. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice low but firm, full of something fierce. “I want you to really hear me—because I know everything feels like it’s speeding up. Like it’s coming all at once.”

You nodded slowly, breath catching as she leaned in just slightly, the warmth of her body grounding you, tethering you to now. “You—my beautiful wife, the mother of my daughter—are not alone.”

Your heart cracked open again. She held your gaze tighter, like the words themselves were a promise being sealed between your bones. “We have been with you through every step of this. Every appointment. Every scare. Every midnight craving and every swollen ache. And we will be with you through every second of labor. Through every cry. Every breath. Every push. And every moment of her life.”

You felt her hands tighten, just enough to feel it in your ribs. “Right. Next. To. You.” Tears spilled freely now, your breath uneven as your chest rose and fell beneath the weight of her vow. “I don’t care if it gets scary. Or if it gets hard. Or if you think you can’t do it. You are my wife. And we do this together.”

Before you could speak, another warmth moved beside you. Agatha’s hand covered yours where it rested over your belly, and she leaned closer to you, still beside Rio, shoulder to shoulder, steady as a wall. “And listen to me,” Agatha said, voice silk over steel. Her hand trembled just slightly where it touched you, but her eyes were absolute. “As much as we are yours… you are ours.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead gently to your arm. She leaned in, pressing her forehead gently to your arm, her breath warm against your skin as her hand moved from your belly to cradle your wrist with both palms. Her voice, when it came again, was low and reverent. “I swore, long before we even knew she existed, that I would protect what we made together. This family. This marriage.”

She lifted her head now, her eyes locking onto yours—bright and raw and absolutely unflinching. “You are the heart of this home. She is the new breath this family will take. And no matter what—no matter who—no matter when—my girls will always know they are safe.”

She slid one hand to your stomach, the other to your cheek. “You will always know that you are loved—not because you’re strong, or brave, or carrying the weight of two worlds—but because you’re you. Because you chose us. Because you let Rio and I hold you.”

Your breath caught, shoulders trembling. “And she will always know love. From her first breath to our last. I don’t care what storms come. I don’t care how loud the world tries to be. We will be louder.” She shifted closer now, her knees brushing yours, her voice barely more than a whisper, laced with iron. “If anyone, anything, dares to try and harm you, Rio, our daughter, our family…” Her jaw tightened, but her gaze remained soft. “I need you to know you’re protected, all three of you. I will destroy anyone who tries to test that theory. Quietly. Thoroughly.” The silence that followed was heavy, not with fear, but with power. With promise. Then she softened, voice melting like honey over a flame. “But more than that—we will raise her in love. In laughter. In the truth of who she comes from. And every night, no matter how tired I am, no matter what the day brings, she will sleep knowing she is wanted. Cherished. Loved beyond measure.” She cupped your face in both hands now, brushing your tears away with the pads of her thumbs. “You will never—never—walk this path alone.”

In that moment, it didn’t matter how close labor was, or how terrified you still might be of the hours ahead. You knew—bone-deep, breath-deep—that she would guard your softness like a sacred text. That you were safe. That your daughter was too. That final promise from Agatha hung in the air like incense—smoke curling around your ribs, thick and holy. Her hands still cradled your face, and Rio’s arm had wrapped around your back, anchoring you with warmth and steady breath.

And then, slowly, you let go of the tears. You drew in a long, trembling inhale, the kind that gathered your body from the inside out. Your chest rose, expanding against the pressure of your daughter who had curled low and tight against your skin, her presence constant now—firm, stretching, waiting. You exhaled through your nose, soft and full, and felt the tears begin to dry on your cheeks.

Still cradled between them, you reached for Agatha’s wrist with one hand and Rio’s fingers with the other, and you leaned forward, pressing a kiss first to Agatha’s cheek, then to Rio’s lips, slow and sure. “I love you,” you whispered, voice soft but anchored with everything you had. “I love you both so much.”

Rio smiled, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. Agatha kissed the top of your head again and whispered, “We love you more.”

You all stayed like that for one breath more. And then—like a ripple cutting through the stillness—you laughed softly and muttered, “Even I still need to pack.”

Rio was on her feet in seconds, stretching her arms overhead like she’d just been called into action by divine command. “Say no more,” she declared, already heading toward the hall. “We’re packing. This is a packing day.”

“She’s nesting again,” Agatha whispered to your shoulder, her breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“We’re all nesting,” you murmured, voice muffled by the curve of her body.

Agatha smiled and moved slowly, easing back just enough to slide her hands beneath your arms and help lift you up from the rocker. You groaned softly at the motion, your hips stiff from sitting too long, your belly now lower, heavier, more insistent. She steadied you carefully, one hand at your elbow, the other braced gently at the small of your back. “Easy,” she murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Rio was already waiting in the doorway, her grin broadening as she saw you rise. “Field trip,” she said cheerfully. “Destination: soft clothes and overpacking.”

You shook your head but smiled, letting Agatha lead you out of the nursery with a hand curled into hers. The three of you moved together through the house, your steps slow but steady, the sound of your feet against the hardwood floor like the low, sacred drum of something ancient and beginning.

The bedroom felt warmer than the rest of the house—sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting the quilt in shades of amber and rose. The bed had been freshly made, the pillows fluffed. Everything felt calm here. Expectant. Agatha guided you toward the upholstered chair in the corner, the one with the extra cushions Rio had added weeks ago when your back had started to ache. You sank into it gratefully, your hands instinctively going to your belly as your daughter pressed outward again, shifting her weight deeper into your hips.

Rio stepped in from the hallway, little suitcase already in her hand, and set it beside the edge of the bed with a dramatic flourish. Agatha stood in front of you, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with the backs of her fingers. Her eyes were so soft—like silk over iron. “Alright, mi amor,” she said gently. “What do you want to bring?”

Then Rio jumped in, voice bright but wrapped in love. “Even if you don’t think you’ll use it. If it gives you comfort, it goes in the bag.”

You opened your mouth, then paused. You didn’t move from the chair. You just sat there, your belly heavy in your lap, your arms curled gently around it like the weight of her was both crown and anchor. You looked at them—your girls—bustling around you like clockwork. Like magic. This was your temple. This was your altar. “A few pairs of Rio’s boxers,” you said finally, your voice a little breathless, a little shy, but laced with the smallest grin. “And socks. A pair of sweatpants… the loose ones. The ones I always steal.”

Agatha crouched near the dresser now, drawer already open, hands brushing over the folds of your clothes like she was selecting a treasured book. Her voice dropped low again, quieter now, like it belonged to you and you alone. “What else?”

You hesitated—just long enough to feel the rise of your breath, the way your daughter shifted beneath your skin like she, too, was listening. “Your shirt,” you said, voice soft, a bit sheepish. “Your old college shirt. The faded one. It’s stretched out, but I love it. It smells like you. And it’s always soft. Always warm.”

Agatha didn’t respond with words at first. She just nodded once, slowly, that soft half-smile pulling at her mouth. Then, still crouched low, she looked up at you again. “Anything else?” she asked gently, watching your face like she was reading wind patterns on a map.

You bit your lip, then exhaled. “The hoodie.” That single word held weight. Familiar. Anchored to memory. Wrapped in more mornings than you could count. Agatha stilled for a breath. Then her smile deepened—slow, secret, and beautiful. “I’ve been keeping it by the couch every morning,” she said quietly, pride laced through affection. “Just in case you reached for it. It’s folded on the side table now. I’ll lay it over the bag. That way, you’ll have it either way.” You felt your eyes sting again—hot, unbidden. But the tears didn’t fall. Instead, your chest swelled around the ache of being known this completely. The room moved around you like a lullaby.

Rio returned, arms full—boxers draped over one arm, socks cradled in a fist, the familiar gray sweatpants already folded and laid across the edge of the bed. She set everything down without a word, then turned to kiss the top of your head with a kind of casual intimacy that never stopped undoing you.

Agatha followed soon after, laying the college shirt—soft and worn like sea glass—into the suitcase. Then the hoodie, folded with reverence, like she was tucking in an heirloom. Then she paused. And smiled. “Hang on,” she said, voice suddenly dipped in something different. She moved to the corner, opening the top drawer of the dresser with the ease of someone who had already planned every step. From inside, she pulled a small gift bag. It was pale lavender with twisted ribbon handles and soft tissue paper curling over the edge.

She walked it over to you, her eyes sparkling just faintly, and held it out. “One more thing.” You blinked, lips parting as you reached for it. Your hands trembled just a little from the weight of the day, the hormones, the moment itself. You tugged back the tissue paper and gasped, the breath catching in your throat as your fingers brushed impossibly soft fabric.

It was a robe. A birthing robe. Not hospital cotton. Not scratchy or clinical. This was something made for you. Plum-colored. Light. Silky-soft. The fabric fell through your fingers like water. It tied at the waist, opened fully in the front. There were discreet shoulder snaps for skin-to-skin, deep pockets, wide sleeves.

Freedom. Dignity. Ease. Love. Agatha crouched again beside you, one hand resting lightly on your knee. “So you wouldn’t have to wear a gown,” she said, voice low. “So you’d feel like you. Comfortable. Capable. Beautiful.” Your thumb brushed the edge of the robe again. You looked up at her, then at Rio—both of them watching you with the same look like you were the center of a constellation. You sat with the robe across your lap, your fingers still grazing its fabric like it might disappear if you let go. The lavender tissue crinkled beside you on the chair, half-forgotten, while Agatha and Rio stood close, watching, waiting, loving you with their silence.

Then Rio broke the stillness, gently rubbing the back of her neck. “Okay,” she said, her voice lower now, more focused. “Time for our stuff too.” She crossed to the other side of the room, pulling open a drawer near the dresser and fishing out a pair of black joggers, soft and worn, with the knees slightly faded from years of weekend wear. She folded them once, then grabbed a couple of her tank tops—the ribbed ones you always stole when it was too warm for sleeves. They smelled like laundry and her skin.

She paused a second, then added a sports bra to the pile, tossing it gently into the suitcase as if she were building a survival kit. Agatha followed suit without needing to be asked. She moved to her side of the closet, her fingers grazing a few hangers before settling on one of her old rec league softball shirts—the navy one with the cracked white lettering and tiny faded logo over the heart. It was stretched a little at the collar, the sleeves soft from a thousand washes. She smiled to herself, folding it neatly and adding it to the growing bundle in the suitcase. Then she tucked in a pair of leggings and a zip-up hoodie, her hand pressing down briefly over the fabric once it was in place.

You watched them, your heart rising in your chest like tidewater. They weren’t just packing clothes. They were packing presence. They were packing love. Rio slipped into the bathroom for a moment, emerging with an extra toothbrush still in its packaging, a charger already rolled tight and bound with a rubber band. She dropped both in with care, like she knew these small things—these everyday things—were what made the waiting livable. Agatha added a comb, a small bottle of moisturizer, lip balm, and two granola bars from the kitchen drawer without a word. No one needed to say anything. The air was full of understanding. The bag was filling now—not just with essentials, but with the pieces of a life they had built with you. The things they’d need so they wouldn’t have to leave. So they could stay by your side, hour after hour, heartbeat after heartbeat, until your daughter came into the world.

You shifted in the chair, your body heavy and familiar beneath your skin. As you moved to rise, a long, involuntary yawn caught you off guard—slow and wide, blooming through your chest like a sigh. Your hand rose automatically to cover your mouth, your other one braced low on your belly as you stretched, joints crackling slightly, your spine protesting the shift in weight. “Excuse me,” you mumbled, blinking through it. “I just need to run to the bathroom.”

Rio and Agatha both nodded, watching you move with quiet attentiveness. You waddled gently from the room, your daughter pressing even lower as if she were trying to guide your steps from the inside. The hallway light was soft and golden, and the quiet gave you a strange peace—a moment to breathe, to be alone with your body, to listen.

When you returned a few minutes later, the bedroom had changed. The bed was turned down, sheets drawn back neatly. A few pillows fluffed. The lights dimmed just slightly. The suitcase had been zipped and moved beside the bedroom door—ready, waiting, calm. Agatha was straightening something on the nightstand. Rio stood at the foot of the bed, her hands resting lightly on the comforter as she turned to meet your eyes.

She saw the way your shoulders rolled. The lingering yawn that ghosted across your face. The slight droop in your eyelids. “You wanna take a nap?” she asked, her voice soft as moss. “You yawned like it took something out of you.”

Her smile curved gently, and she stepped closer, opening her arms. You nodded, the motion slow, your body already agreeing before your mind had caught up. Every part of you felt heavy now, not just from the baby, but from the emotions, the readiness, the knowing that everything was in its place. You could finally rest.You crossed the room without words. Agatha slipped past you quietly, adjusting the pillows at the head of the bed with a mother’s precision, tucking the edge of the sheet back just slightly. She didn’t need to ask if you needed help—her hands moved like she’d already read the answer in your breath.

Rio held the blanket open as you climbed in, moving slowly, carefully. The mattress dipped beneath you, familiar and warm. You had to shift a few times, hips rolling, back arching just enough to ease the weight—until you could finally settle. And then you reached for her. Rio was already there, easing in beside you, her arms wrapping gently around your body, drawing you close. Her palm slipped low over your belly, fingers curling instinctively along the edge of your bump like she was holding both of you at once. You shifted again, half-draped across her chest now, your cheek pressed just beneath her collarbone, your legs tangled together. It took a moment—a few long, quiet breaths. And then your body sighed into hers. You inhaled. The scent of her skin, the softness of her breath against your hair. You exhaled. And without meaning to—without even realizing when the line blurred—your eyes closed.

----------

You hadn’t slept long. Not really. Sleep these days came in chapters—short ones. The kind that never quite resolved, always ending on a cliffhanger. And now, your body stirred with the same persistent rhythm it had learned over the past weeks. Not urgent, exactly. But insistent. Demanding your attention like a quiet tap on the shoulder that would not be ignored.

A dull ache pulsed low in your back. Your bladder throbbed with a kind of quiet betrayal. You groaned softly as you shifted, pressing your forehead into Rio’s shoulder. Her body was warm, her breath even, still lost in the nap. You held still for a moment, listening to her heartbeat under your cheek like it might lull you back under.

It didn’t. Carefully, you peeled yourself away, fingers splayed against the mattress to brace the lift. You rocked once, twice, then pushed up. Your belly pulled forward with the motion, the weight of her rounding your center like gravity had grown heavier overnight. Behind you, Agatha stirred faintly. Her arm was draped across the space where your hip had been, the rise and fall of her breath as quiet as the wind beyond the window. Her hair fanned out across the pillow, half-wrapped in the shirt you’d been wearing earlier. Neither woman moved further.

You padded down the hall in bare feet, one hand under your belly, the other catching the doorframe as you turned. The bathroom tile was cool underfoot. Familiar. You moved with a kind of resigned grace, doing what your body now required of you every ninety minutes like some sacred, sleepless rite.

But when you came out this time… you didn’t feel tired. You felt buzzed. On edge. Like your mind had started moving while your body was still in bed. There was a low thrum beneath your skin, the kind that always came before a deadline or a decision. So instead of curling back under the warmth of your wives and their stitched-together breaths, you turned the other way.

The office welcomed you like an old friend. Familiar shadows stretched across the hardwood floor. Your MacBook sat on the desk, lid slightly ajar, its power light blinking in the dark like it had missed you. You sat down slowly, carefully, with the precision of someone balancing a universe inside their belly. One hand braced the base of your spine, the other dragged your flashcards toward you. The air in the room was cool, almost crisp. Your knees parted to make space for her. For the life that was pressing low and hard into your pelvis, reminding you that time was no longer your own. The screen flared to life. Soft, steady light flooded your face. The title slide stared back at you in perfect, composed font: Reclaiming Voice: Intersectional Memory, Spiritual Power, and the Battle for Belonging.

You exhaled slowly. Everything was nearly finished. Fonts polished. Citations embedded. Footnotes scrubbed and reorganized. It was clean. Clear. Sharp. But it had to be more than that. This wasn’t just your work. This was your voice. Your name. Your proof. This was your body—your life—defying every professor, every pastor, every man who told you that you were too much or not enough. It was a claim. A prayer. A reckoning.

You flipped to the first flashcard. Your thumb rubbed along the edge, worn now from nights like this. “Here,” you murmured under your breath, “I position suffrage as not just legal recognition, but spiritual validation. A declaration that Black and Brown women belong in the body politic not by permission, but by birthright.”

After your bathroom trip and slow return to the office, it didn’t take long for Agatha and Rio to wake. You’d heard the soft rustle of blankets behind you as you left the room. The muted click of the bedroom door. A yawn. Water running. Agatha’s low voice, asking Rio if she thought you were already working again. You were. You had been. And they knew better than to stop you. You paused. Took a sip of water. The bottle had already started to sweat, condensation trailing lazy arcs down the side. You swallowed, throat dry. Then turned the card.

And that’s when she kicked. Sharp. Right beneath your rib cage. You hissed through your teeth and pressed your hand over your belly, rubbing small, slow circles into your shirt. “Okay… okay,” you whispered. “Mama’s gotta finish this, little one.” You blinked again, pressing your fingers to your temples.

The flashcards fanned out like feathers in front of you, your notes scribbled in the margins in handwriting that had gotten more erratic as your belly grew. You were somewhere near the middle now—past the methodology, almost through your case studies. The slides pulsed on the screen, one after the other, glowing with the soft blue light of a long night settling in.

She hadn’t stopped moving. Your daughter stretched again beneath your ribs, her foot gliding against your side like she was trying to make more space for herself in a room that was no longer big enough. Your palm cupped the curve of your belly, grounding yourself. Breathing through it. “Still not done, huh?” you murmured, smiling tiredly as she pressed hard against your palm, like she was answering in the only language she knew. “Mama’s working. Almost there.”

Time passed in a strange, honey-thick blur. “you okay?” Rio’s voice, warm and amused. She stepped in with a glass of juice and a little bowl of mixed fruit—mango slices and watermelon, crisp and bright, just how you liked it. She didn’t say much, just set it beside your water bottle, kissed the crown of your head, and whispered, “Let us know if you want to stretch your legs.”

Agatha came an hour later with toast. Then again, around noon, with crackers and hummus and that little smirk she always wore when she was trying not to nag. Then Rio with a fresh water bottle, her eyes scanning your face, making sure you’d blinked more than twice in the last five minutes. You offered them quiet smiles, murmured thank-yous, kept typing.

You were deep into your slides now, fine-tuning your transitions, rereading quotes, tightening the language. The office smelled faintly of lemon balm from the tea Agatha had left cooling on the windowsill. Your flashcards were arrayed in neat rows before you, scribbled in ink that had begun to fade from repetition.

The momentum had taken hold. Your slides were almost perfect now. Your note cards stacked in a clean, purposeful line. You’d reviewed your thesis statement so many times it was echoing in your ears: “Oral history is more than preservation—it’s resistance. And in queer community archives, it becomes resurrection.” You spoke aloud to no one, your voice rough with disuse, eyes skimming the screen. “We are not remembered unless we fight to be. Memory is political. Survival is archival.”

And all the while—through every point about the ethics of citation, the sacredness of queer literature, the violence of erasure—your daughter hadn’t stopped moving. Not for a second. She kicked. Stretched. Rolled. Over and over. You adjusted your seat again, winced, rubbed the side of your belly in soothing circles as your skin rippled beneath your palm. “Come on, little love,” you whispered. “I need to finish this. Just a little longer.”

But she didn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop. When dinner rolled around, you barely noticed the time, only the shift in the air. The quiet scent of roasted garlic and cumin wafted through the hallway, followed by the deeper heat of chili powder, coriander, and smoked paprika.

Then, a soft knock on the doorframe. Agatha. She didn’t say anything at first. Just held out the plate, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. Nothing fancy. Just roasted vegetables. But they were exactly the ones you’d been craving for months—crispy sweet potatoes, cauliflower, zucchini, and strips of bell pepper, all caramelized around the edges, kissed with olive oil and your favorite spice blend. “Thought you could use a real meal,” she said softly, her gaze flicking down to where your hand was still resting on your belly. “She’s still at it?”

You nodded, exhaling through your nose. “Nonstop. She loves the spicy stuff. Makes her do somersaults.” Agatha grinned, setting the plate down beside your laptop and leaning over to kiss your temple. “She’s your daughter.” You took the first bite without speaking. The flavors exploded across your tongue—smoky, sweet, a little sharp with heat. It grounded you immediately. You closed your eyes for just a second. Breathed it in.

Then you kept working. The hours blurred again. Slide by slide, you rehearsed aloud—the tone, the cadence, the transitions. You made sure the historical framework sat cleanly alongside the lived experiences. You pulled out key quotes from the oral histories, emphasizing survival, memory, the need for belonging. You underlined the importance of archival survival—of saving not just stories, but the breath and blood of queer community itself. You reviewed your section on literary impact—how queer storytelling had shaped identity across generations. You highlighted how archival silence had cost lives, and how you’d used this dissertation to answer back, to name, to preserve.

You talked about literature. Legacy. Resilience. And all the while, your daughter moved beneath your skin like a storm gathering strength offshore. You were tired. But you weren’t stopping. You pushed the laptop away with more force than you meant to. The plastic edge scraped softly across the desk, a sharp little sound in an otherwise quiet room. You stared at it for a breath—your half-finished slide glowing faintly on the screen, words blurring into soft white light. Your flashcards were fanned in perfect, fragile order. The water bottle sat half-empty beside your hand. And you couldn’t do it anymore. You stood. And that was when the tears came.

They didn’t announce themselves with drama. No gasping sob. No shuddering breath. Just a blink that didn’t clear your vision. Just wetness trailing hot and slow down your cheeks before your body even registered it. You were already in the hallway before you realized your shoulders were shaking. The house had shifted. The glow had softened. Evening had laid its hand gently over everything—the kind of hush that came after dinner and before night fully arrived. Lamps lit small circles across the walls. The hum of the refrigerator. A faint rustle from the nursery where the bassinet caught the light in silence. Everything felt still.

Everything but you. You moved slowly toward the bedroom, dragging your hand along the wall for no real reason other than to feel something. The door was open just enough to let the light spill out. It was golden. Warm. A sanctuary. Agatha was at the foot of the bed, bare-legged and half-undressed, her jeans halfway down her thighs. She was in one of Rio’s oversized shirts, the hem nearly grazing her knees, sleeves rolled to her forearms. Her hair was still damp from the shower, curling a little at the ends, her skin flushed pink from steam. She looked like home.

Rio was stretched across the bed, one arm behind her head, a book resting on her chest. She was relaxed, the soft kind of tired that only comes from trust and a full belly. She was just turning the page when she caught sight of you. And then—both of them froze. Because they saw your face.

You didn’t make it two more steps. Your body moved on instinct, like a storm rolling toward shelter, like a child reaching for warmth in the dark. You walked straight into Agatha. Your arms wrapped around her clumsily, one catching the back of her shirt, the other pressing low against her ribs as your head dropped to her chest. Your belly pressed firm against her thighs as your whole body sagged with it, your body folding forward under the strange, beautiful weight of everything. You trembled against her without trying to hide it, your breath catching between syllables and salt.

And she caught you. Instantly. Absolutely. Her arms wrapped around you with the kind of certainty that didn’t require understanding—only presence. One hand cradled the back of your head, her palm wide and warm as her other hand skimmed down to your back, steady as stone. Tight, unhesitating, her hand splaying wide across your spine. You felt the kiss before you heard it—soft against your hairline. Her breath was slow. Measured. Calming even as your own cracked and stumbled. She kissed the crown of your head again, her lips lingering there as if anchoring you to the earth itself. She didn’t speak. She didn’t ask what was wrong.

She already knew. And then you spoke, breath catching at the edges. “She just won’t stop,” you said, your voice cracking under the pressure of it all. “She’s just… she’s throwing a party in there, and it’s been all day.”

There was no complaint in your voice. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even frustrated. It was full. Of love. Of nerves. Of awe.  The sweetness of it mixed with something tender and unnamed—something threaded through with the weight of anticipation, the gravity of what's coming, and the ache of hormones pulling every nerve taut.

You loved feeling her. You loved her—your daughter. You loved every ripple, every flutter. Every moment You loved this body that held her. But tonight—tonight it was all so loud. The closeness of your defense. The game tomorrow. The way she’d dropped lower. The way your belly moved like it was dancing of its own accord. The hormones. The hunger. The fact that you couldn’t cry and breathe at the same time anymore.

Agatha didn’t tell you that you were tired. She didn’t rush to reassure or fix. Instead, her hand slid down and joined yours on your stomach, warm and gentle. Not trying to still her. Just joining her. She moved in slow circles just over the place where your daughter was stretching now, pushing her heel up and outward with stubborn grace.

You could feel the pressure under your navel. Sharp. Beautiful. Alive. Agatha's palm stayed, her thumb moving just slightly to keep pace with your daughter. She moved again—hard, determined, undeniable. Her heel, maybe. Or her elbow. The motion made your shirt lift slightly, your skin straining beneath the force of it.

“She’s strong,” Agatha whispered, her voice sinking into your skin like warm rain, like truth spoken to steady trembling ground. Her hand moved in slow, reverent circles where your daughter pressed hard beneath the fabric of your shirt, your belly taut and aching from the effort of growing something so very alive. And still, she kicked—your girl, your BeanSprout, your relentless little storm.

You exhaled, but the breath caught halfway, lodged behind your sternum, thick and tight. And then behind you—heat. Gravity. A presence you knew without turning. Rio. She didn’t speak at first. She didn’t have to. You felt her before you saw her—like the world calming down the second her hands found you. They slipped in gently on either side of your belly. One settled opposite Agatha’s, warm and certain. The other curled around your hip, protective and grounding, thumb stroking the space just above the waistband of your leggings.

Her chest pressed against your spine, solid and anchoring, as if her body remembered every curve of yours before pregnancy had ever redefined you. Her arms encircled you slowly, like a shield being drawn. Like a vow being made. You breathed again, shakier this time. But still breathing. “So are you,” Rio murmured, and her voice was honey and moonlight, everything you’d ever needed to hear when the world got too loud.

And still, they didn’t let go. They didn’t flinch from the tremble in your limbs, or the tension in your shoulders, or the tears gathering just beneath your lashes. They only held you. Agatha’s hand continued its quiet path across your belly, mirroring the movements of the baby within—those sharp kicks and twisting rolls that hadn’t let up for hours. Your daughter pressed again, a heel or elbow dragging across your side like a comet under your skin.

Agatha leaned in closer until her forehead rested gently against yours, her breath brushing across your cheek as she whispered, “She’s already got your stubborn streak, you know that?” You gave a weak laugh—half breath, half sob. Agatha’s voice dropped lower, wrapping around you. “The way she rolls around in there like she owns the place? That’s you. That’s yours.”

Behind you, Rio’s arms tightened slightly. Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice quiet and awed. “You’re carrying a little fireball,” she murmured. “And she’s stretching out like she’s claiming her space in the world before she even takes a breath.”

You tried to smile, but your lip trembled too hard to hold it. Their hands didn’t stop. Nor did their rhythm—palms tracing, thumbs circling, breath syncing like lullaby. One heart. Two bodies. Three lives. All in motion. “You’ve done everything right,” Agatha said softly, her voice laced with quiet conviction. “She’s healthy. She’s strong. She’s getting ready.”

“And she knows you’re safe,” Rio added, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “That’s why she moves so much when you talk. She’s listening. She knows her mama’s voice.” Your throat closed. The tears that had been threatening spilled free—not with drama, but with weight. Silent and hot. Grief and gratitude. Fear and joy.

Their words wrapped around your chest like silk-wrapped bandages, pressing into every crack you hadn’t known had formed beneath the weight of everything. And then Agatha said it—words quiet, but firm. A sacred promise. “She’s already ours. And she’s already so loved.”

Your breath broke then. Shallow. Wet. Fractured. The ache in your chest cracked open, and the fear spilled forward in words that felt small, even as they carried everything:  “I look like a whale—” you whispered, and this time your voice broke on the word. “I feel awful. And I don’t know how you can even stand to look at me right now.” It came out jagged. Raw. Like the very center of you had splintered. Because deep down, you knew the truth. You knew they loved you. Every version of you. The you from the first date, flushed and curious. The you wrapped in papers and stress and soft pajamas. The you with the test in your hand, shaking. The you now, belly swollen and stretched, eyes glassy with love and grief and anticipation all tangled together. They cherished every inch of your changing body, that they’d worshiped the curve of your hips and the new softness in your belly. That they’d kissed every stretch mark like a love letter. That they told you, over and over, you were radiant. A miracle. Home.

But none of that could soften the weight of now. Not when your skin didn’t feel like yours. Not when your breath came short and your back ached and your daughter hadn’t stopped moving for hours. Knowing didn’t quiet the voices. And tonight, it was just too loud. Your shoulders hunched in shame before you could stop them, your eyes falling away from both of theirs.

Agatha made a sound low in her throat. Small, but sharp. It landed like a stone on glass—half pain, half protest.  Her hand lifted immediately, cradling your jaw with a tenderness that belied the fire in her eyes. Her fingers tilting your face up with the gentlest defiance, not hard, but unyielding. Her palm was warm, her fingers gentle beneath your chin. “Don’t you ever say that again.” Her voice wasn’t loud. But it was steel. It rang with the kind of truth that didn’t ask permission. Unshakable. Ancient. As if she were summoning every star in the galaxy to bear witness to the truth of you.

You blinked, eyes wet, searching hers. Agatha’s expression was fierce. Not angry. Not pitying. Fierce. “There is nothing about you that isn’t beautiful,” she said, her voice trembling now with something softer, something breaking open. “You are everything I’ve ever wanted to see. This—this moment, this body, you carrying our daughter—this is sacred.”

Rio stepped closer, folding her body fully against your back now, arms around your waist, her breath steady near your temple. Her hand slid into yours, her fingers lacing between yours as if reminding you of every moment they’d carried you here. Her thumb brushed the back of your knuckles in a rhythm you knew by heart. “You are beautiful,” Rio said softly, her lips near your ear, her voice filled with quiet conviction. “You are powerful. And you are growing our girl.”

She kissed the side of your face, slow and sure. “You think we don’t see you?” she added, her voice a little rough now. “We see everything. Every ache. Every breath. Every brave inch of you. And we love it. We love you.”

Your shoulders crumpled, the words cracking something deep in your chest. Agatha leaned in then, pressing her forehead to yours again. “We look at you,” she said, “because we can’t look away.”

You gave a watery breath, your voice small. “I know,” you whispered. “I know you love me. I know you mean it.” Agatha’s hand stayed on your jaw, warm and anchoring. You swallowed once. Twice. “I just don’t… feel sexy anymore,” you admitted. “Not the way I used to. I feel… swollen. Heavy. Like I’m wearing someone else’s body.”

The words hung in the air, soft and devastating. Rio kissed the side of your neck. Not rushed. Not coaxing. Just there. “Your body’s doing the most beautiful thing it’s ever done,” she said. “It’s making our daughter. That’s not less. That’s more.”

“It’s not different in a bad way,” Agatha added, brushing her knuckles along your cheek. “It’s evolved. You didn’t lose anything. You just… expanded. In power. In grace. In you.”

Rio pressed another kiss just beneath your jaw. “We love every version of you. The you from before. The you from now. See you tomorrow. None of that changes how wanting feels.”

You laughed—small, cracked. “I can’t even see you when we do anything,” you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “I haven’t seen anything south of my belly button in weeks.”

Agatha smiled through a choked breath; her eyes still wet with love. Rio turned you in her arms with a tenderness that made your heart stutter.

Her hands guided you like she was afraid you'd vanish—one cradling the back of your waist, the other lifting to your cheek with a gentleness that made your breath catch. She cupped your face like something precious, her thumb grazing beneath your eye, brushing away the last of your tears with a reverence that made your knees weaken. She didn’t rush. She didn’t assume. She offered. Her eyes searched yours, steady and open, and when she spoke, her voice had dropped to something soft and sacred.

“Then let me show you.” The words hit like a prayer. Not lustful. Not coaxing. Sacred. You blinked, lips parting—but no sound came out. Your body was still humming from the ache of before, your chest still cracked open, but now there was something else blooming in the space between you. Something warmer. Something anchoring.

Rio’s palm stayed on your cheek, her touch impossibly light. “If you’ll let me,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving yours, “I want to show you what we see. Every inch. Every curve. Every breath. I want to remind you how beautiful you are… not because I want something from you. Not because you need to give anything. But because I want you to remember what’s already yours.”

She paused. Let the silence settle around her words like velvet. “Your body is home,” she added. “To her. To us. To you. That doesn’t change just because it’s changed.” Your breath trembled, caught between release and surrender.

And still—neither of them moved. Agatha’s hands stayed on your waist, her fingers spreading wider, grounding you through the center of your belly like she was holding you and your daughter at once. She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t need to. Her presence alone, the way she stayed right there, quiet and solid and unwavering—it was everything.

They led you across the living room like you were something holy. The house was quiet, the lights low—just enough glow from the kitchen to bathe the edges of the space in warmth. You felt the shift in your pulse as you moved, barefoot, guided between them. Your feet padded softly over the hardwood, your breath uneven. The ache in your chest had not fully lifted, but it had changed. Melted into something softer. Something open. They brought you to the chair. The chair—the one Rio had found at that secondhand shop with the deep seat and wide arms, the one you’d fallen into so many nights when your back ached and your belly felt too heavy to bear. It welcomed you like it always did. Familiar. Forgiving.

Agatha crouched to one side of it, her hand still braced gently at your hip. Then she stood, glanced toward the hallway, and disappeared around the corner without a word. You looked toward Rio, brows drawn in question. She only smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your temple. “Trust her.”

A moment later, Agatha returned, arms wrapped around the tall frame of the full-length mirror from the bathroom. She carried it carefully, reverently, as though it were not just glass and metal but something sacred. She positioned it at an angle just in front of you, turning it slightly, then stepped back. You looked up. And then you saw. Your reflection glowed in the low amber light. Your belly curved outward, full and breathtaking. Your hands rested low, cradling it like you always did now without thinking. Your face was flushed from crying, your lips parted, your chest rising and falling. You looked—glorious.

You gasped. The sound broke the silence like wind breaking through trees. You reached for the arms of the chair, fingers trembling. Your own image caught you off guard. Because for the first time in what felt like weeks, you could see yourself. Really see. All of you. Rio stepped behind the chair, her body lowering slowly until her mouth hovered beside your ear. “That’s you,” she whispered. “Look how beautiful you are.” Then she kissed your neck. Soft. Slow. You shivered. Her mouth found the corner of yours, then your lips—unchanging, unrelenting, not rushed. She kissed you like she had all the time in the world. Like nothing else mattered but this one breath.

Her hands moved to your shirt, fingertips brushing at the hem. She didn’t rush. She didn’t claim. She waited. You nodded—just once—and lifted your arms. She pulled the shirt over your head slowly, revealing the softness beneath. Your chest, swollen and tender. She touched you with care, with reverence, brushing only the backs of her fingers along the sides—never taking, only seeing. Your breath hitched. Then her palms came down, warm on your thighs. You were already panting. Not from urgency. But from the way they were looking at you.

Like you were fire. Like you were a sunrise they’d been waiting their whole lives to watch. Agatha knelt beside the mirror now, her eyes tracing your body in full view—reflection and real. Her hand found yours again. Rio leaned forward, her lips brushing your collarbone. “You see it now?” she asked softly. And her hands went to your waistband. Your breath faltered. And you nodded.

Your thighs had opened for her instinctively, your hips rocking just slightly as if your body already knew what to ask for. Her palms swept slow and deliberate up the inside of your legs, cradling you, anchoring you—never rushing. Your chest rose and fell in staccato breaths. You glanced at her—and then looked beyond her. The mirror caught everything. It caught you—spread open and shining, body bare and heavy with life. And it caught her—kneeling between your legs, her jaw slack with reverence, her eyes dark with hunger and awe. It caught the way your belly arched up and over her hands. The way her palms framed the softness of your thighs. The way you leaned into her.You swallowed, gaze flicking to her reflection. And something inside you broke free.

“Please,” you said, the word nothing but breath and pulse and ache, “don’t tease.” Rio’s eyes snapped up to yours in the glass. And that did it. The flicker of restraint burned out. She surged forward, mouth claiming you with a hunger that was not rushed, but reverent. Intentional. Her lips moved with memory and muscle, with the ache of long months watching your body change, and the awe of watching you hold it all together. She kissed you like someone who knew you. Every edge. Every fold. Every sigh you’d ever made.

And now, she returned to you. With her mouth, and her breath, and the sacred rhythm of again, and again, and again.Your back arched with the first stroke of her tongue, a sharp cry ripping from your throat before you could catch it. Your thighs trembled around her head, and Rio didn’t pause—her hands gripped your hips, anchoring you there like she was terrified you’d float away. You felt yourself splintering at the edges, molten and fragile, your chest heaving with the kind of breathing that didn’t feel like control, but surrender.

And then Agatha was there. You hadn’t even heard her move. She circled the chair like she felt it in her blood—that moment, that electricity spiking through your muscles, that shift in your breath as the tension snapped and you opened. Her hands slipped over your shoulders, steady and warm, thumbs trailing reverent arcs against your skin. One tilted your jaw just enough to guide you into her space—her breath hot against your temple. “That’s it, love,” she whispered, her voice thick with devotion. “Let her show you how beautiful you are.”

Then her lips found the soft place beneath your ear. A kiss. Slow. Dragged. Then another, lower along your throat. Her nose nuzzled the line of your jaw as her hand stroked down your chest, not possessive, not greedy—just worshipful. She kissed the breath from your lungs as your mouth met hers, your moan stolen between lips that knew exactly how to kiss you undone. Your fingers tangled in her shirt, clutching it tight as your other hand moved down, reaching for Rio, threading through her hair like a lifeline, like a prayer.

You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t even beg. There was nothing to beg for. They were already giving you everything. You glanced toward the mirror. And it hit you like a tidal wave. Your body—full, glowing, open. Rio between your legs, her shoulders flexing with every movement of her mouth. Agatha behind you, eyes wild and wide, kissing you like you were breath itself. You watched your own legs tremble. You watched the way your belly shifted with every rock of your hips, the way your hand fisted in Rio’s hair, the way her tongue moved like she’d memorized you. The way Agatha held you from behind—protective, possessive, hers. It was raw. It was blinding. It was you, seen. And the tears came again—not from sorrow, but from truth. From being held. From being worshipped. From knowing, finally, fully, that you were loved in every form, at every size, in every ache and curve and tremble. You saw yourself. And you saw them. The women who loved you like you were more than flesh and breath. They loved you like you were the center of the world.

Your gaze flicked back to the mirror and there she was. Rio. Her face tucked between your legs, hair tousled and damp with sweat, lips glistening with you. But it wasn’t just the motion of her mouth, or the way her shoulders moved as she ground herself deeper against your hips. It was her eyes. Locked on yours. Burning. Desperate. Wild with hunger. It shattered something in you. Because that—that was what you’d missed in the fog of hormones and swelling and survival. That eye contact. That wordless, bottomless tether that always told you exactly how wanted you were.

Her eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t break. Just bored into you like she was trying to memorize the way you looked falling apart. And it broke you. Your whole body spasmed. A sob cracked out of your throat as your back arched up off the chair. Your belly trembled, taut and high, and Rio didn’t stop. Her mouth kept moving, hungrier now, like your unraveling had given her permission to consume. You bucked against her—hips rolling forward with rhythmless desperation, legs trembling uncontrollably as you choked out, “I—I’m close—” And then Agatha’s mouth was on your throat. Not a kiss. Not gentle. A bite—sharp enough to make your hips jerk, your breath catch, your walls clench around the pressure Rio had built into a fever pitch. Her teeth held you still.

And you broke. Loud. Violent. Holy. You came with a sound that split the room, your whole body arching, hands clawing for something—anything. One dug into Agatha’s shoulder, the other twisted in Rio’s hair as your legs trembled and your stomach tightened around the life inside you. Your cry wasn’t soft. It was wild. You shattered in their hands—shaking, breathless, body rocking with aftershocks you couldn't contain. Your vision blurred. Your ears rang. You didn’t even know if you were breathing until Agatha whispered your name like a prayer.

And Rio— She didn’t let go. She kissed you through it. Every pulse. Every quake. Every breathless whimper you had left to give. You were still shaking when Rio began to kiss her way back up your body. Slow, reverent kisses against your inner thighs—soft enough to soothe, wet enough to remind you she’d been there, worshipping you just seconds ago. Her mouth moved in slow arcs, tasting you, grounding you.

Then up—over your hips, your belly, your ribs. She was breathing hard now, face flushed with heat and joy and something wild. When her mouth met yours, it wasn’t greedy—it was grateful. Her tongue swept gently past your lips, and you moaned into her, tasting yourself on her skin. It made your eyes flutter closed, your body pulse again, not in climax, but in need. Rio cupped your cheek as she kissed you, her other hand brushing hair from your face. “There you are,” she whispered against your lips. You barely had the breath to answer. And then Agatha leaned in, mouth catching the other side of your jaw, her lips soft at first, then firmer as she kissed a slow line toward your mouth.

“Do you want more?” she asked, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Or are you spent, sweetheart? What do you need?” You didn’t answer with words at first. Just a smile. The slow curl of it as you opened your eyes and turned to meet her gaze. She knew. You saw it hit her before you even nodded. Agatha’s lips curved into something feral, fond. She kissed you once—deep and deliberate—and then stood, stepping back into the dimness of the hallway. You breathed hard, body open in the chair, catching your breath in the quiet. Your pulse was still wild. Your belly rose and fell, trembling just slightly with each inhale.

She returned. Strap riding low and deliberate across her hips, sleek and sure like it belonged there, like it was forged to fit her. The base of it rose from the cradle of her body in a bold, deliberate arc, catching the low amber light like the edge of a spell. It didn’t shimmer. It commanded. Her legs moved with that quiet, devastating grace—every step a promise. The muscles in her thighs flexed beneath the shadow of her boxer briefs, and the hem of her tank top clung to the curve of her waist, soft and rumpled from your grip earlier. But it was her eyes that caught you. Lit. Alive. The glint behind her lashes was dangerous—but not for you. It was danger for anyone who ever made you feel less than divine.

Her mouth curved slowly into a smile, dark and warm and infinitely patient. “There she is,” she murmured, voice low and reverent. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your breath caught somewhere deep in your chest. You just watched her. The way she moved. The way she looked at you. The weight of her presence. It stole the ache from your back and replaced it with heat. Your pulse thrummed in your wrists, your thighs, your chest. Your hands gripped the arms of the chair without meaning to. Agatha stepped between your knees, the strap tilting forward slightly with her motion, and her hand slid along the inside of your thigh, slow, possessive, knowing. She guided you forward, your hips shifting, spine bowing slightly as she pulled you to the very edge of the seat.

The leather squeaked faintly beneath your weight. Your legs opened for her like instinct, like worship, your body pliant with permission. Her hand never left your thigh, fingers pressing gently into the soft place just above your knee. The other reached behind you, palm bracing on the chairback for balance, though she looked perfectly in control. She adjusted slightly. Knelt just enough. And then she aligned herself with you—her chest, her mouth, the hard line of the strap—all level with your eyes now. It made your throat tighten. You were open. Seated. Bare. Vulnerable. And she looked like she’d drop to her knees or split the world open—whichever one you asked for first.

Her voice dropped lower, velvet over flint. “Look at you.” Her hand tightened gently on your thigh. “Look how ready you are.” You shivered. And then she stilled. Not to tease. Not to draw it out. But to revere. She waited one breath more, just long enough to let you feel her waiting. Let you feel what it was to be wanted.

Agatha leaned in. Her lips met yours with aching patience, with reverence, like she needed the kiss to memorize your breath before anything else could begin. There was no hunger in it. Not yet. Only promise. A slow, sun-warm kiss that tasted like you already belonged to her, and always had.

Her hand held your face as her mouth moved against yours, and you could feel it in her touch—that steadiness, that command, that way she always knew exactly when to move and when to wait. And then— She slid inside.

Your breath broke.

It wasn’t a cry. It wasn’t a gasp. It was a sound, low and wrecked and holy, something that spilled from the center of your chest and fell apart in the space between you. The stretch made your spine bow, your knees shake. She filled you in one long, deliberate thrust—slow and sure, letting you feel every moment of it. Every inch. Every bit of space inside you that had felt empty or too tight or too full of grief was suddenly full of her instead. And your eyes flew open.

She was already looking at you. Those eyes—blue and bright and so alive they didn’t feel like they belonged to anyone human—locked with yours, unflinching. She didn’t blink. Didn’t glance away. Just held your gaze like it was a lifeline. Like it was her altar. Her palm braced against the back of the chair for balance, fingers curled tight with restraint, but her hips, Her hips never rushed.

She moved slow. Deep. Every roll of her body was rooted in muscle, in breath, in the quiet poetry of knowing exactly how to hold you. The angle was perfect—too perfect—and every time she pushed in, it was like your body forgot what it had once felt like to not be full of her. Your hands clenched the arms of the chair again, anchoring to anything as her hips pulled back—then slid forward again, deeper this time, smooth and devastating. Your breath caught on a moan, her name, one hand gripping the armrest, the other finding Rio’s forearm beside you. “F—fuck, Agatha—”

She didn’t falter. If anything, her hips rocked a little deeper, the sound of her name feeding something wild behind her eyes. “I’ve got you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “I’ve got you, baby. Just feel me. Let me give this to you.”

You didn’t know how badly you needed it. Not just the stretch. Not just the rhythm. But the quiet worship of being touched without rush. Without expectation. Just the intention to love you open, to remind you—inch by inch—that this body of yours, this moment, was worthy.

And then Rio was there. Her breath on your jaw, her lips dragging soft and slow along your neck. She kissed down the slope of your throat until her nose pressed into the hollow behind your ear. Her voice was velvet and wind. “So beautiful,” she breathed, her hands moving up to cup your belly, your breasts, every part of you that had changed and bloomed. “You should see yourself.” And you did. You looked past them through the mirror. And you saw everything

Your legs open, body pulsing with breath. Agatha’s hips moving in slow, devastating waves, her strap slick and gleaming as it disappeared into you. The swell of your belly catching the warm light. Rio’s hands curving over the life inside you. Agatha’s arm braced, her body commanding and anchored, and yours. And the way your own body moved—reaching for her. Undone. Open. Worshipped.

Agatha rocked into you again—deep, slow, and devastating. The kind of rhythm that didn’t chase climax. It earned it. Cultivated it. Breathed it into being. Your thighs trembled where they rested against the wide arms of the chair, your hands fisted in the leather now as her hips rolled again, deeper, dragging you open with every smooth, full stroke. You could barely hold her gaze. But you didn’t have to—she held you.

And then her lips were back on yours. Not shy. Not apologetic. Claiming. Each kiss tasted like a promise, like a vow. Like you’re mine and you always will be. She moaned into your mouth as your hips rose to meet hers, her thrusts meeting you with aching precision, her fingers sliding down to trace your ribs, your belly, the tight bow of your breast. She cupped you like your body held every star she’d ever wanted to name. “You are so beautiful,” she whispered into your mouth, her voice breaking over the words like a wave.

You whimpered, trembling harder beneath her. “You are the strongest thing I’ve ever touched,” she said again, more breath than voice. “And every inch of you-every curve, every scar, every stretch and swell—is mine.”

You choked on a sob, the words branding you. Agatha kept moving, slow and powerful, hips angling just right to press deep inside you. Your body clung to her. Every movement of her strap carved something sacred through your core. “You will never question it,” she said, her voice steel wrapped in silk. “Not now. Not after the baby. Not ever.”

And you believed her. Because she was saying it not just to your skin, but to your soul. You glanced toward the mirror and moaned. Your body was flushed from the base of your throat to the top of your breasts, glowing in pinks and reds and golds. Your neck bore the evidence of Rio and Agatha's mouth—soft marks, tender bruises, holy things. Your stomach arched upward, rounded and high, your skin shimmering with sweat. And Agatha—God, Agatha. Her eyes locked on yours even now, her lips parted as she moved in you, her body flexing, strap thrusting slow and deep like she was writing scripture with her hips.

“Right there,” you breathed, the words dragging through a moan. “Baby—don’t stop—keep moving just like that—” And she did. Agatha shifted just slightly—an angle change, nothing more. A subtle tilt.  And it hit. Your whole body jerked, head snapping back as your moan broke loud and sudden, hips jerking as the head of the strap caught that spot inside you, perfectly. Louder than you meant. Louder than the room.

Rio snickered from beside the chair, where she was still kissing your shoulder, her hand now resting low over your belly, steadying you. “There’s our girl,” she murmured with a grin.

Agatha rocked forward again—deep and devastating, hips tilting just enough to make you gasp. The strap pressed inward at the perfect angle, the thick crown gliding against that hidden, aching part of you with slow, inevitable gravity. It felt less like thrusting and more like being moved through, shaped by something larger than you

The sound you made wasn’t a cry. It was a stuttering wail, half-caught in your throat, your lips parting with helpless abandon. “Baby—” you gasped, voice pitched high, eyes blown wide and glassy. “I’m— I’m so close—”

Her groan—raw, low, instinctual—shattered the quiet between your thighs. She didn’t speed up. She didn’t need to. Her control was precise, devastating, every long, deep stroke carving through the tension wound inside your body. Her blue eyes burned through you, never breaking contact, even as she watched you lose composure. She saw it all. The way your belly trembled, high and swollen and radiant. The way your thighs jerked, struggling not to close. The way your lips formed her name like it was the only word you’d ever learned to say. “Yes, baby,” Agatha moaned, her breath catching on the edge of a curse. “Just like that. You’re right there. I’ve got you.”

And she did. She rocked forward again—deeper, slower—her hips grinding in a perfect, devastating roll, dragging the strap through your soaked center. You could feel yourself around her, gripping her, pulsing, your body slick and molten. Her thighs flexed with every movement, bracing you, guiding you. “So good,” she breathed, lips brushing your ear, her voice thick with heat. “You’re doing so good, baby. You’re taking me so well. Let go. Let go.” You did. You let go. Your hand flew from the armrest and caught the back of her neck, dragging her down, foreheads pressed tight, breath to breath. You could taste her exhale. Taste the sweat that had bloomed across your own lip. Her mouth brushed yours just as—

You broke. It hit like a wave tearing loose from the shore—no warning, no build-up. Just everything. Your thighs trembled violently. Your cry punched through the room, deep and guttural, pulled from somewhere ancient and instinctual. You came so hard you forgot your own name. You shook through it, muscles locking then releasing in waves. Agatha did not stop.

She stayed in you, stayed with you, hips rolling just enough to let you ride the full crest of your climax. Every stroke dragged the edge of it out, made it echo, made it bloom. You pulsed around her in rhythmic waves, your breath stuttering in sobs that weren’t sad—they were relief.Surrender.“That’s it,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Let me feel you fall apart, baby. You’re so—fucking—beautiful.” Rio moaned softly into your shoulder, her own breath hitching as her arms wrapped tighter around your belly. Her mouth found the slope of your shoulder, then your collarbone, lips open and hot against your skin. She kissed you as you came, as you shook, as you gave.

“That’s it, hermosa,” she murmured, reverent and wrecked. “Let go.” Every kiss she laid against you felt like a seal. A new love. A vow. Agatha held your waist with both hands, the strap buried deep, her body still and strong, holding you open—holding you safe. You moaned into her mouth once more, softer now. Spent. Your breath hitched. And then it slowed. And in the echo of it—in the tremble that lingered in your thighs, in the ache low in your belly—you finally breathed. Not just air. Not just oxygen. But ease. You took your first breath of the day. Agatha slipped out of you with care, her hand braced against your hip for steadiness as she leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek—soft, breath-warm, filled with reverence. You didn’t have to speak. The look in her eyes was enough: thank you, I love you, rest now.

And then Rio was already moving, one arm under your shoulders, helping you sit up slowly. Your body ached—not from pain, but from openness. From release. From the way you had been held in more ways than one. You let out a soft, dreamy sound, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and whispered, “I’ll shower tomorrow… before the game.” Your voice was thick with sleep, heavy with joy, floating somewhere in that in-between space where your body was loose and your heart was still fluttering.

Rio chuckled, warm and low, as she kissed your forehead. “You’re not going anywhere tonight except to bed.” She helped you stand just enough to slide off what remained of your clothes, moving with the instinct of someone who had dressed and undressed you a hundred times in love. She reached for a pair of underwear from the drawer, then paused. “No,” she said to herself, already switching them out. “You’ll want boxers.” You hummed something that might’ve been agreement. Or adoration. You didn’t even have the energy to tease her. You lay back on the bed with a long exhale, your limbs already melting into the cool sheets. The weight of your body felt good now, earned. You shifted once to make room, and just as your eyes fluttered closed—

Agatha walked back into the room, barefoot, wearing only Rio’s shirt. A book was in her hand. The baby book. Worn edges, soft cloth cover. Her expression was one of quiet determination—focused, affectionate, amused. She arched a brow at you, then glanced at your belly. Your daughter had apparently not fallen asleep during the earlier activities—or maybe she had and was now making up for lost time. Her kicks returned with newfound enthusiasm, thumping high beneath your ribs, then low toward your pelvis. You groaned softly.

Rio slid in beside you, her thigh pressed against yours as she leaned over and kissed your cheek. Then her palm spread wide over your belly. “You okay in there, little one?” she asked, grinning as she traced a slow circle. “Did someone sneak you a coffee when we weren’t looking?”

The baby answered. A firm press, then a sweep. Like a slow tumble. Like she was stretching her limbs to show she was still here. Agatha perched at the edge of the bed, the book resting in her lap as she leaned over and pressed a kiss to your stomach. Her voice came next, soft and low, spoken in a register you’d come to recognize over the last few weeks. She didn’t use that voice for anyone else. Only her daughter. “Okay, Sprout,” she said gently, her lips brushing the top curve of your belly. “Mommy and Mamí are going to read to you now. But let’s try to stop running drills, okay? This isn’t batting practice.”

Her hand followed Rio’s, rubbing slow circles. “Mama needs a break. And you, baby girl… you need to rest.” The room fell quiet, but not silent.

Rio’s hands kept moving—gentle, rhythmic, steady—offering comfort in the language of touch. You felt her breath against your shoulder, her heartbeat pressed into your side. Agatha opened the book with care and began to read, her voice smooth and warm, each word flowing like a lullaby. And slowly, your daughter began to settle. The kicks softened. The punches became stretches. Small rolls. Gentle turns. Like she, too, was listening. Like she knew—knew—she was safe.

--------

Who's ready? Something big is coming.

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[moonlitconfessions]

EPISODE 2: THE MOMENT I CAME BACK

Your eyes fluttered open to the harsh, sterile glow of fluorescent lights. The white ceiling above spun faintly, your head pounding as if you’d been caught in a storm. For a moment, your body felt like it wasn’t yours—heavy, foreign, fragile. The soft hum of computers and muffled voices echoed faintly, grounding you in reality.

You blinked several times, forcing your vision to clear. Your gaze fell on the familiar desk, the scattered papers, the blinking cursor on your monitor. And then your eyes locked on the date — June 4, 2015.

A cold shiver ran down your spine.

You were back.

Back in time.

Back before the night that had stolen everything from you.

A thousand memories crashed through your mind, overwhelming your senses. Caleb Xia’s piercing gaze — once filled with promises — now only haunted by betrayal. Miya Qin’s smile, sweet and poisonous, a mask hiding the dagger she’d plunged into your back.

You remembered the moment you found them — together — the way your heart shattered in slow, painful pieces. The shove that sent you falling, the cold ground rushing up to meet you, the world turning black.

And now… you were alive.

Alive and breathing.

But nothing was the same.

You tried to steady your breath, the air feeling thick in your lungs. The pounding in your chest echoed the chaos inside your head. You wanted to scream, to run, to hide from the ghosts of your past — but you couldn’t.

Because the ghosts were here.

They were real.

Caleb and Miya.

They stepped into view, their presence like a dark storm descending. You felt your body freeze — the fear wrapping around you like chains. Your pulse raced uncontrollably.

Caleb’s eyes met yours, and in them you saw a flicker of something you couldn’t read. Regret? Guilt? Or just cold calculation? His voice was calm, deceptively gentle as he said, “Hey.”

Miya’s smile was the same smile you remembered — sharp, dangerous, a reminder of every lie she’d ever told.

Your hands trembled at your sides, but you forced yourself to stay still. You couldn’t let them see the crack in your armor, not now. Not when you were the one who held all the cards this time.

The memories screamed in your mind — betrayal, pain, the moment your world fell apart — but you shoved them down, turning them into fuel. Fuel to burn away the weakness you’d once felt.

You had been given a second chance.

A chance to watch, to learn, to fight.

You would not be broken again.

Caleb took a step closer, his expression softening for a moment. “You okay? You look… off.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m fine,” you said quietly, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

Miya tilted her head, eyes sparkling with something unreadable. “You look tired. Maybe you should take the day off.”

You swallowed hard, fighting the wave of nausea rising in your throat. The kindness in their words was poison — a mask hiding their true intentions.

Your mind raced, weighing every possible move. You had to be careful. You had to stay strong.

Because this time, you weren’t the helpless girl they’d fooled before.

You glanced at the clock. Hours until the dinner that would seal your fate — the night that had led to your death.

But now, you had a plan forming in the depths of your mind. Step by step, you would unravel their lies. You would watch their every move. You would make sure they never hurt you again.

Your fingers clenched into fists on the edge of the desk. The past was behind you now, but the future was unwritten.

And you were ready to write your own story.

Taglist: @nezuswritingdesk @lunia-likes-pomegranet @sapphic-daze @sylusgirlie7 @lavunyan

[koyagifs]

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤

pairing:: jongho x reader au: non idol | thriller | genre:: angst no comfort word count: 3.5k synopsis: i feel pretty, pretty, pret̲̂̓ͩ̑t̲̂̓ͩ̑y҉̃̀̋̑, p̞̈͑̚͞r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑t̲̂̓ͩ̑y҉̃̀̋̑ warning(s): implications of sexual acts (mdni),, mention of character death,

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You smiled, doing your best to hide how giddy you felt as you adjusted Jongho’s tie. He looked at you with such love and adoration, his hands slipping to your waist as he pulled you closer. You let out a soft squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck just as he leaned down to kiss your lips.

His hands slid lower, gripping your ass with a confidence that sent heat rushing through you. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he lifted you with ease. Your back met the wall with a soft thud, but neither of you noticed—too consumed by the way his mouth moved against yours. You smiled into the kiss, breath hitching when his lips parted yours with a low, satisfied hum. Somewhere between your eager hands tugging at his shirt and his fingers digging into your thighs, his once perfectly knotted tie slipped from his collar and fell to the floor, forgotten—just like everything else that wasn’t him.

Jongho sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around his waist as he leaned over to grab the forgotten tie lying on the floor. He turned just in time to catch a glimpse of you walking toward the bathroom, your silhouette bathed in the soft morning light. A smile tugged at his lips—fond, content—until a sharp pain suddenly stabbed through his head. He winced, the smile fading as he brought a hand to his temple, fingers pressing into his skin like it might ease the pressure building behind his eyes.

Flashes of memories surged through his mind—too quick, too fragmented to make sense of. Colors, voices, feelings—gone before he could grasp them. He flinched, breath catching in his throat, only to find you standing there, watching him with a confused expression. Something about the way you looked at him made his chest tighten, a strange sense of dread curling low in his stomach. But he shook it off, blaming the unease on the pounding headache still echoing in his skull.

" are you okay Jjongie?" you asked.

Something about your tone was too sweet—almost rehearsed. Too perfect. But he shook it off. Forcing a soft smile, he reached for your hand, gently pulling you toward him until you stood between his legs. His head rested against your stomach, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers found their way into his hair. The comfort should’ve been grounding, but a part of him still felt adrift.

"I'm fine..." he murmured, though even he didn’t quite believe it.

You walked him to the door, slipping the briefcase into his hand before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. He smiled, warm and effortless, and gave you a small wave as he stepped outside. The morning air greeted him, cool and crisp, but it was the weight of your gaze he felt most. As he slid into the car and started the engine, his eyes flicked up to the window—there you were, watching him. Still. Unmoving. You didn’t look away until he turned the corner and disappeared from view.

Jongho sat at his desk, eyes fixed on the glowing screen in front of him. The cursor blinked steadily, waiting—but something about it felt... wrong. Off. The colors were too saturated, the words too sharp, the whole thing almost too perfect. Like a replica of what it was supposed to be.

Fake.

"Hey man, you arrived late."

Jongho jolted in his seat, a breath of relief escaping his lips as he turned to see Mingi standing there, brow furrowed in concern.

"You good?" Mingi asked, stepping closer. "Did Yn give you a hard time about the baby again?"

Jongho blinked. His heart skipped.

"...Baby?"

Mingi laughed, the sound light—but to Jongho’s ears, it rang hollow. Almost too perfectly timed. Too rehearsed.

“Yeah? You told us just last weekend how you and Yn have been arguing about trying for a baby.”

Jongho stared at him, his mouth slightly open, but no words came. His pulse quickened, a quiet buzzing starting in the back of his skull. Last weekend? He couldn’t remember it. He couldn’t even remember talking about a baby—let alone arguing about one.

“I…” he started, his voice low and unsure. “I don’t remember that.”

Mingi’s smile faltered, just for a second—but it was enough. That flicker of something behind his eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came.

“Long night, huh?” Mingi said casually, clapping a hand on Jongho’s shoulder. “Maybe lay off the late wine dates with wifey.”

But Jongho didn’t laugh. He just sat there, the weight of something unexplainable pressing down on him, while the computer screen kept blinking like it knew something he didn’t.

Why can’t he remember last weekend?

Fuck.

Why can’t he remember last night? He blinked rapidly, trying to conjure even a scrap of a memory—but it was like reaching into fog. There was nothing solid to hold onto. Not the scent of dinner, not the warmth of Yn’s voice, not even the moment he fell asleep.

And then it hit him.

He doesn’t even remember how he got this job.

His breath caught in his throat, the blood draining from his face. His skin turned cold.

What the hell is happening to me?

Without a word, Jongho shot up from his desk, the chair screeching against the floor. He stumbled into the hallway, nearly knocking into someone on his way, but he didn’t stop. His feet moved on autopilot, eyes focused ahead. He didn’t even notice the two pairs of eyes following him, wide and terrified. They shared a brief, silent glance before both rushed toward the CEO’s office, clearly anxious.

Jongho splashed cold water onto his face, the shock of it barely cutting through the fog clouding his mind. He leaned heavily on the sink, his hands gripping the edge as his breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. The pounding in his head returned with a vengeance, a sharp, insistent throb that felt like it was trying to split his skull open. He hissed in pain, his nails digging into his scalp as he clutched his head, trying desperately to ground himself.

What is happening to me? he thought, his body trembling as the world seemed to tilt around him. The mirror in front of him distorted, his reflection flickering as if it wasn’t quite... right.

His heart raced, chest tightening, as his thoughts spiraled—things didn’t add up. He couldn’t remember. The feeling that something was wrong, something huge, gnawed at him. But what?

A harsh memory flashed like a lightning strike, so sudden and jarring that Jongho’s knees buckled beneath him. His body crashed to the floor, the cold tiles beneath him grounding him in reality—if only for a moment.

“God fucking damn it, Jongho!” the voice echoed in his mind, sharp and full of pain. “For once, can you just man the fuck up and admit you fucked up?!”

The words hit him like a physical blow. His breath caught in his throat, and the vision of you, standing there—tears streaming down your face, your expression torn between anger and hurt—brought a sharp sting to his chest. He could feel the weight of that moment, like it had just happened yesterday, yet he couldn’t place why it felt so fresh, so raw.

Jongho scoffed, his mind trying to distance itself from the emotion rising within him, but it was useless. The memory gripped him, suffocating him as he sat on the floor, hands trembling.

What the hell did I do? he thought desperately, trying to piece the fragments together. Why can’t I remember anything?

When Jongho finally arrived home, the familiar sight of you setting up the dinner table hit him like a punch to the gut. The soft clink of plates and silverware echoed in the quiet room, and for a moment, he stood frozen by the door. His heart thumped against his chest, each beat louder than the last, like it was trying to break free. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, as if he could will himself to stay grounded in reality.

But everything felt off. The scene before him—the warm, cozy setting—should’ve been comforting, but instead, it made his stomach churn. The way you moved, the soft sway of your figure as you placed the final touches on the table, felt distant, like it belonged to a version of reality he wasn’t sure he could trust.

He swallowed hard, trying to push down the anxiety clawing at his throat. The last thing he wanted was to bring the weight of his confusion into this moment, into this space that had always felt like home.

You didn’t notice him at first, your back to him, focused on your task. But the second you turned to face him, the smile that tugged at your lips seemed to falter, just for a split second.

"You're late," you said softly, but there was something in your eyes, something he couldn’t quite read.

"Sorry, Hongjoong kept us a little longer for this project," Jongho said, the lie slipping off his tongue effortlessly, almost too easily.

You hummed in response, your hands moving to take his coat off as he stood there, rooted to the spot. The soft rustle of fabric sounded deafening in the silence, but it was the pictures on the wall that really caught his attention. Each frame seemed to hold a different version of him—a version of them. He stared at them, the images blurring at the edges, but something felt... wrong. They didn’t feel like his memories. Not anymore. They looked too polished, too perfect, like they were taken from someone else’s life.

He shifted his gaze quickly, unwilling to meet the eyes in the photographs for too long, but the feeling lingered. The weight of the air around him grew heavier, the walls feeling more like a cage than a home.

You finished hanging up his coat and looked up, your smile warm but slightly... off. "Dinner’s almost ready," you said, voice soft, but the edges of it felt like they were scraping against him.

Jongho swallowed hard. "Yeah, I... I’m starving."

Your leg bounced nervously under the table, each subtle movement a sign of the anxiety creeping up your spine. You tried to focus on your own food, but every time you glanced at Jongho, he was picking at his plate, moving his food around absentmindedly. His usual enthusiasm for a meal was completely absent, and the way he kept avoiding eye contact made your stomach twist.

Something’s wrong.

It wasn’t just the silence or the way he seemed lost in his thoughts—it was his eyes. There was an emptiness there, something that made your heart race with a wave of fear you couldn’t ignore. He was being too obvious now, and the longer the silence stretched between you, the more your worry gnawed at you.

"Jongho..." you started, your voice trembling despite your attempt to keep it steady. "Are you okay?"

He didn’t respond right away, his fingers fiddling with his fork, eyes darting toward you but not quite meeting your gaze. His hesitation sent a rush of fear coursing through your body, an unfamiliar coldness settling in the pit of your stomach.

"Yeah," he finally murmured, but the words felt hollow, as if they didn’t belong to him.

"Why don’t we go shower?" you suggested softly, trying your best to keep your voice steady, though the underlying fear was still there. "I’m sure a nice hot shower would help you relax."

You tried to make it sound casual, a gentle hint, but your heart was pounding in your chest. Something about his behavior, the way he seemed so distant, so... unaware, made it harder to maintain your calm facade. It felt like you were speaking to someone who wasn’t quite Jongho—but who was this stranger in front of you, eating your dinner, wearing his familiar face?

Jongho looked up at you, his eyes unfocused for a moment before he nodded, a small, almost robotic gesture. "Yeah... a shower sounds good," he mumbled, his voice far quieter than usual.

The lack of enthusiasm, the absence of his usual spark, only deepened the pit of fear in your stomach. You knew him better than this, and whatever was going on, it wasn’t right.

You stood up slowly, trying to read his expression as he followed suit, but the moment felt off. Like he was there, but wasn’t really present.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, you turned to face Jongho, your eyes wide with panic. Fear gripped your chest like a vice, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t sure if you could breathe. The terror in your gaze hit Jongho hard—something about the way you looked at him, like he was a stranger, sent a shock through his veins.

Before he could react, you rushed to turn on the shower, the water hissing as steam began to fill the air. You shoved him, hard, your hands trembling.

"What the fuck are you doing, Jongho?!" you hissed, your voice barely a whisper, laced with desperation. "You're going to get us killed!"

Jongho stumbled back, eyes wide with confusion, his face contorting as if he couldn’t process what was happening. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he hissed back, his voice sharp, defensive, but it wasn’t the Jongho you knew. His words felt distant, wrong—like they were coming from a version of him that didn’t belong here.

He took a step toward you, but you took a step back, your breath ragged and your heart hammering in your chest, so loud it drowned out the sound of the rushing water. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to run, to get away, but you couldn’t. You were trapped, both of you, in this twisted version of reality.

"You can't remember, Jongho. You're not supposed to," you hissed, the words slipping out like venom. Your voice shook with a mix of fear and anger, but underneath it all, there was a deep, bone-chilling terror.

Jongho stopped in his tracks, the confusion on his face morphing into something darker. “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was low, dangerous, and it sent a cold shiver up your spine. "What did you do to me?"

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing heart. Every word felt like a weight pressing down on your chest, and yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from speaking. You knew he wouldn’t understand, not yet, not until it was too late. But the truth... the truth was something you couldn't—wouldn't—say aloud. It would break everything. Break him.

"It's not what I did, Jongho... it's what you did."

His brows furrowed in confusion, and for a moment, you could see the struggle on his face as he tried to piece together what you were saying. And then, without warning, it hit him. Another wave of memory crashed over him—too fast, too raw to fully comprehend.

He was no longer standing in the bathroom. The familiar tile and shower steam faded, replaced by a stark, cold, sterile environment. His feet were planted on cold concrete, and the sharp scent of antiseptic filled his nostrils.

He was in a lab.

Mingi and San were beside him, their faces serious, their bodies tense. He could hear their voices, but they felt muffled, distant. They were looking at something—or someone.

You.

Your body lay in a tub, wires and tubes tangled around you, hooked up to machines that beeped and hummed with cold precision. The pale, lifeless form that should have been you, but something about it felt wrong. Like a shell. The flickering lights above cast strange shadows over the scene, and a chill crawled down his spine.

His hand, steady but trembling, held a clipboard, the paper rustling as he jotted down notes.

"Vitals seem to be regulating," he heard himself say, his voice flat, clinical, detached. "We should be ready to move on to phase 4 here soon."

He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. His hand shook slightly as he looked at the clipboard in his grip—what the hell was this? What was this phase? And why couldn’t he remember any of it?

His heart raced, the world around him spinning as his mind struggled to make sense of the fragments. He wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real. It felt like a dream—no, more like a nightmare.

"What the hell... is this...?" he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking as he looked at you—the you in the lab, the one lying there, unresponsive, like a puppet with no strings. His vision blurred, the memory tugging at him like a cruel joke, yet everything felt too real.

"Seonghwa should be able to hook you up to the stimulation by next week then," Mingi cheered, his voice brimming with a false, almost gleeful excitement. "Hongjoong would be so pleased to see this finally working. We're going to be huge, Jongho!"

Mingi’s words hung in the air, and as they echoed in Jongho’s ears, they sent a wave of nausea through him. He couldn’t grasp what any of this meant. Why were they so... cold? Detached? Why were they so excited about something so horrifying?

"This is just normal, let's be honest," San muttered angrily, his arms crossed, his expression tight with frustration. "What Jongho had discovered was because of Yn."

Jongho’s heart stuttered. Yn. His mind recoiled, but he couldn’t let go of the truth. Something wasn’t adding up. What had he discovered? Why was everything so… clinical? So controlled?

"Yeah well... she’s dead, so I'll take the credit," Jongho muttered back, his voice lacking the warmth, the humanity, it should have carried. It was harsh, cold, and entirely too comfortable in the context of this nightmare. She’s dead.

The words hit him harder than he expected, like a punch to the gut. He wanted to flinch, wanted to reject it, but there was no escaping the truth that was slowly unraveling around him. The fear, the guilt, the weight of everything he had done hung over him like a suffocating cloud.

The image of your lifeless body in the tub, surrounded by wires and tubes, became sharper in his mind. Dead. Was it really you? Or was it some twisted mockery of you, the real you buried beneath all of this?

The room seemed to close in on him as his vision blurred once more, and he found himself gasping for air, the weight of his own conscience pressing down on his chest. What had he done to you?

Jongho let out another hiss of pain, his hand clutching the edge of the sink as his knees threatened to give out. His vision swam, the bathroom light above flickering like it was trying to match the strobe of chaos in his mind. Every breath was sharp, shallow—like his body was warning him to run, even if he didn’t know where to go.

His ears rang, but beneath the static, he could hear them.

Voices.

Mingi?

San?

"He’s waking up! Quick—get Seonghwa and Yeosang!"

The voice crackled like a broken speaker, muffled and sharp all at once. Jongho gripped the sides of his head, as if that would somehow block it out. But the voices pushed through, pressing against his skull like needles.

"Holy fuck—did she just… she basically exposed us?! She’s not programmed to—Mingi, she’s not supposed to know!"

That voice—San—panicked, furious. And Mingi, his tone a mix of disbelief and fear: "She shouldn’t be capable of that. I don't—I don’t know how she bypassed it!"

Jongho’s breathing turned ragged, his eyes wide, pupils dilated. The fluorescent lights buzzed violently above him. The mirror flickered. For a moment, he saw the bathroom glitch—walls warping like pixels, the room rippling like a bad signal. Then it was normal again. Almost.

His stomach turned.

Programmed.

Bypassed.

Not supposed to know.

You. Yn.

His throat dried out. A metallic taste filled his mouth. Something in him screamed to run, to escape—but from what? The voices? The lie? Or the truth?

The door behind him creaked.

He spun around, ready to defend himself—only to find an empty hallway stretching on too long, the lights humming, the shadows darker than they should be.

"Jongho?" Your voice.

Too sweet.

Just like this morning.

His heart stuttered.

You stood at the edge of the hallway, wrapped in the same robe from earlier—but your face was different. Not visibly, not physically—no, it was something in your eyes. Something knowing. Something… watching.

“You weren’t supposed to remember,” you whispered.

And then, just as suddenly—

Everything froze.

You. The hallway lights. Even the flickering mirror.

The only thing that moved was Jongho, gasping like a man trapped underwater.

And a voice—calm, mechanical, unfamiliar—echoed inside his mind:

“Cognitive breach detected. Resetting subject memory.”

He opened his mouth to scream—

And everything went black.

[killersfool]

FORCE OF NATURE ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ Syril Karn

pairing: syril karn x fem oc

word count: 6.2k

synopsis: syril karn is alone.

with a new job and a new identity, six months pass in silence. but when footage of a familiar face resurfaces, he can't resist reaching out — unsure of where it will lead him.

notes: my star wars knowledge is not amazing so im sorry if anything is inaccurate. the plot will probably be really different to andor and im thinking of posting this on ao3 to make a full length fic. posting on here first to see what people think!

The apartment was clean. Too clean.

Syril liked it that way — or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Everything in its place. Shirt cuffs starched. Rations aligned with mechanical precision. The only disruption was the low hum of the kettle and the distant, ceaseless murmur of air traffic beyond the window. A Coruscant evening: colourless, endless.

He sat at the kitchen table, a datapad before him. Blank, save for the blinking cursor of a resignation letter he’d never sent.

It had been six months since the chaos at Ferrix. Since Dedra had stopped speaking to him. There had been no formal goodbye. Just silence – clinical, efficient.

He had read back his final message to her so many times, trying to find what had pushed her away. Too much admiration? Not enough control?

She had been the last thread. The final justification that his loyalty meant something — that he meant something. But even her clinical poise couldn’t disguise what he was to all of them.

Replaceable.

He sipped lukewarm caf, eyes fixed on the cityscape. He still wore the old Pre-Mor Authority uniform sometimes — out of habit more than pride — though it hung looser than it used to. These days, he kept it shoved into the leftmost corner of the wardrobe, out of sight. Seeing it stirred a dread he didn’t have the words for.

Had he made a mistake?

Now, he worked in private security — a civilian post, under a new name. Monitoring petty thefts, industrial sabotage, internal disputes between faceless corporate clients. The pay was better. The meaning had evaporated.

Sometimes, in the early hours, he’d wake in a sweat, Ferrix still clinging to his skin. Blaster smoke in his throat. That rebel girl’s voice—loud, defiant—ringing in his ears.

He should've killed her. He knew it now.

And maybe that was where it all began to fall apart.

Because Syril Karn had always wanted to be certain. About the rules. About order. About his place in the galaxy.

But once certainty cracked, once he saw the fracture in the design—what remained?

Just noise.

He watched the feeds now, cataloguing anomalies that weren’t his concern. Names flagged by the Empire. Patterns that didn’t quite fit. Faces that flickered for a moment, then vanished. And sometimes, without understanding why, he saved them.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That he was just curious.

But there was a quiet ache in him — something like sympathy, something like guilt — and he thought, foolishly, that the world might notice. That it might offer him something back. A gesture. A sign. A small kindness, arriving unannounced.

Instead, he was met with silence and static. Day after day. In his own little corner of the world.

His mother never called. When he’d left the job — the one she'd once bragged about — she’d cut the line clean. Called him a disgrace. A disappointment. Now, her messages were clipped, brittle things. He’d stopped opening them.

He liked to pretend he enjoyed the solitude. The hush of Coruscant at two in the morning, when city light leaked through the blinds in pale gold lines, striping the floor. When he wandered into the old bookshop across the street and leafed through volumes no one read anymore. Revolutionary theory. Political ethics. Words he’d once dismissed. Now he read them with quiet, guilty interest.

The new job paid well enough. He filed reports, sorted logs, watched lives play out on grainy screens. Then he went home.

To silence.

A silence so dense, it pressed against his ribs like a hand.

That morning, he looked in the mirror. A scruff of a beard he hadn’t shaved. Dark circles like bruises under his eyes. His brows grown wild. He didn’t recognise the man staring back.

Six months. That’s all it had taken.

-

Two weeks later, it was raining.

Not the kind of rain that washed the city clean. No, this rain clung to everything — oily and relentless — turning the streets into mirrors and the sky into a smudged bruise above the towers. From his window, Syril watched the droplets trace jagged paths down the glass, threading between the red glow of traffic lines and the cold silver of aerial vehicles weaving through the airways.

Coruscant never truly slept, but at this hour, it almost pretended to. A low, mechanical hum bled into the silence of his apartment, barely louder than his own breath.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

The lights inside stayed off, allowing the city’s glare to do the painting — casting long, solemn stripes across his floor and walls, slicing his face into shadow. He sat curled in the corner of the room, knees pulled to his chest, the stale taste of caf still on his tongue and the afterburn of insomnia clinging to his skull like a fever.

The alert came at 04:13.

A soft chirp, barely louder than the storm beyond the glass. It blinked once on his screen — an anomaly — and his eyes dragged toward it, as if his body had been waiting for something to break the stillness.

It wasn’t his jurisdiction.

His name wasn’t attached. No permissions granted. No reason it should’ve arrived at all.

But then... the image loaded.

Blurry. Grainy. Caught in the corner of a surveillance lens from a docking terminal on the outskirts of the mid-rim. Mist curled like smoke around the frame, lights refracted against damp metal. She was running — her head ducked low, hair caught in the wind, a bag slung across her body. The camera only caught her for three seconds before she vanished behind a crate.

Still — it was her.

He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

There was something in her movement, the cut of her silhouette, that same precise urgency he remembered from Ferrix — like the city had been on fire and she was the only one who knew where to go.

He froze.

Not with fear. Not with awe. With... something harder to name. Like all the hollow spaces inside him had been lit, briefly, by a flickering match.

Her file said nothing useful. No name. No affiliation. No face match strong enough to generate a confirmed ID. Just one line in red at the bottom:

“Possible insurgent. Known to evade detention.”

He let the words sit there, echoing.

He should’ve dismissed the alert.

Instead, he saved the file.

Then he stood, knees stiff from hours in the same position, and crossed the room to his desk. The dim glow of the screen lit his face in a pale wash, sharpening the hollows beneath his eyes.

He opened a new document.

And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — his hands moved without hesitating. On a map. A thread spun between systems, connecting places she might’ve touched. He sifted through archived patrol logs from Ferrix, maintenance records from departing ships, faces that matched fragments of hers even if they weren’t quite right.

It wasn’t duty. It wasn’t redemption.

It was her.

Or the ghost of her.

Because Syril Karn, despite everything, still believed that people left trails behind. That no one truly vanished — not if you were paying attention. Not if you wanted to see them.

And gods, he wanted to see her again.

He didn’t know what he would do if he did.

Only that he couldn’t stop now.

-

The next day, Syril woke before the sun — if such a thing could even be said on Coruscant, where the skyline swallowed light whole and replaced it with something artificial and cold.

His dreams had been strange again. Flickers of faces blurred by smoke. The echo of boots on ferrocrete. And her voice — not words, just the sound of breath caught between fear and defiance. When he sat up, the sheets were tangled around his legs and his shirt clung to his back with sweat.

He didn’t bother with breakfast. The kettle stayed silent.

Instead, he moved straight to the desk, fingers already twitching to reopen the surveillance file. Her image blinked up at him, that same three-second clip, looping silently in the top corner of his screen. He’d watched it over and over, memorised the exact second she turned her head, how the lights caught her cheekbones, how the hem of her coat lifted as she ran.

There was something alive in her. Untamed. Dangerous. Beautiful.

And maybe that was why he couldn’t stop.

His fingers flew across the console, pulling up transport logs from nearby districts, maintenance rosters, dockworker shift reports. He had no clearance — but old habits were hard to break, and backdoors into Imperial systems had been a quiet hobby of his even before he walked away. He found patterns. Irregularities. A handful of similar sightings, two weeks apart, spaced across mid-level ports.

She was moving in spirals. Not fleeing — circling. Waiting for something.

Or someone.

By midday, Syril hadn’t spoken a word aloud. His jaw ached from the tight clench of his thoughts. He barely noticed the ache in his lower back or the way his eyes watered from the glare of the screen. Only when a loud, aggressive ping rang out did he blink out of the haze.

A message.

From his mother.

"I hope you’ve finally come to your senses. They’re hiring at the ministry. Your uncle could still get your record wiped if you stopped being so proud. Call me."

He deleted it without opening the thread.

That afternoon, he walked to the bookshop. The air was damp and sour from yesterday’s rain, puddles gleaming like scars along the pavement. The bookseller — a thin, kind-eyed woman with ink stains on her fingers — nodded to him silently. She knew he didn’t like to be disturbed.

He wandered past the political theory section again. Hesitated. Then, for reasons he didn’t yet understand, picked up a worn copy of Revolution and Memory: The Human Cost of Imperial Order. Something he would’ve scoffed at months ago.

He paid in credits and left.

That night, back in the quiet of his room, Syril sat with the book unopened in his lap. His eyes were on the window — not the skyline, but his own reflection in the glass.

He looked like a man adrift.

But in his chest, there was a flicker of something else. Not certainty — that was long gone.

Conviction, maybe.

-

It began with a face.

Not hers — not yet — but someone else from that same Ferrix clip. A man, barely in frame, helping someone vault over a barricade. Syril had dismissed him the first dozen times he’d reviewed the footage. But now, with every corner of the image magnified and scrubbed clean by his private software, he saw the jawline. The coat. The expression.

Too calm for chaos.

He wasn’t just a bystander.

Syril isolated the frame, ran it through outdated facial recognition tools he shouldn’t have had access to anymore. The result took five minutes to process, and when the match blinked onto his screen, his breath caught in his throat.

C. Andor. Alias: Clem. Known rebel associate. Status: Fugitive.

His chest tightened.

Of course.

The girl — the one he couldn’t stop thinking about — wasn’t just some byproduct of resistance. She was in it. With him.

That should’ve ignited rage. It didn’t. It was something worse — something tangled. Disappointment twisted with fascination. A burning ache he couldn’t name.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers pressed to his lips, staring at the report like it could change if he looked long enough.

She was with Andor.

The same man who had derailed everything. Who had made Dedra unravel. Who had slipped through Syril’s fingers again and again — an absence that haunted him almost as much as her presence.

He opened a secure, anonymous channel. Its name was buried under layers of encryption, but the signal worked.

He hesitated for a long time before typing.

"Meet me at the Transit Platform on District 9. I need to speak to you. You’ll know me.”

He didn’t know if she’d ever read it. But somewhere inside of him, he knew this was a beginning and that wherever this was going, it would be far from good.

He sucked a breath and sent it anyway.

The rest of the day passed like a blur — the seconds swallowing him whole. He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Just paced, reread old case files, stared at the grainy footage, replayed her laugh in his head — no, not a laugh. Something sharper. A shout. A command.

She’d been fearless.

And what had he been?

Alone. Always alone.

That night, he stood on his balcony — a tiny slab of steel and gloom overlooking nothing but a back alley full of steam pipes and humming generators. Still, he stared into the dark like it might stare back. Like her eyes might be waiting there, in the shadows, defiant and unblinking.

-

The next day he found himself stood before the mirror, shaver between his fingers. He tidied his beard, brushed the long curls of hair away from his face and clipped his eyebrows. He then pulled on a loose white shirt and dark trousers, and slung over a coat with a hood which he threw over his head. It was late and the city hummed with a gentle ambience.

He walked through the streets, a strange paranoia wafting through him. He didnt know who would be there - if anyone would be there. But he definitely didnt want to be seen. He definitely didnt want to risk the kind of trouble he could get himself into.

The Transit Platform was empty. No one there but him.

He glanced down at his watch. The seconds ticked by in sharp, heavy intervals. Syril’s breath misted in the cool night air as he checked his watch again, his pulse quickening with each passing moment. The platform stretched out in front of him, silent and unmoving. He could feel the weight of the empty space around him — the expanse of the city looming like a quiet, indifferent beast.

He exhaled slowly, leaning against a nearby support pole, trying to relax. The tension in his shoulders was unbearable. What if she wasn’t coming? What if this was just another failed attempt, another misstep into something even darker than before?

But no. He couldn’t afford to think like that.

The low hum of an incoming shuttle overhead broke the stillness, and for a split second, Syril thought he heard the distinct, sharp sound of footsteps. His heart skipped. He straightened up, eyes locking on the shadows, but the movement was too subtle, too quick. Had he imagined it? Or was it her?

Then, just as the doubt began to twist at the edges of his mind, he saw it. The silhouette. Small at first, then clearer as it emerged from the darkness.

It was her.

Her coat was dark, its edges catching the faintest light as she moved with purpose, but this time she didn’t hesitate. She walked straight towards him, no pause, no second-guessing. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way she held herself — the confidence, the precision of her movements — that sent a chill down his spine.

She stopped a few feet from him, silent. Waiting.

Syril cleared his throat, feeling the tremor in his voice before he could steady it. “You came." His words came out weaker than he expected. He was surprised he'd ever see her face again.

He remembered the orders he had been given on Ferrix. He had been told to follow her through the back alleys and 'get rid of her'. But they got cornered in an old, collapsing factory. Debris came down. Alarms howled. Reinforcements never came. They had both been stood in this silence, blasters pressed to each others chests, waiting for the other to press down on the trigger. Tension. Quietness. The steady rise and fall of chests and bright eyes in the darkness.

Syril had known that it was his duty to kill her. Or at least to render her unconscious but his finger wouldn't press down on the trigger because there was something in her eyes — not fear, not defiance — but recognition. Like she had seen straight through the uniform, through the polished exterior and years of indoctrination, and had found the small, flickering part of him that hesitated.

That was what scared him most. Not her blaster. Not the ceiling threatening to collapse. But her gaze. The way she looked at him like she knew.

He remembered the words she’d said in the stillness — words barely audible over the creaking metal and distant sirens.

“You don’t believe in it, do you?” she had whispered. “The cause. The orders. Not really.”

He hadn’t answered. He couldn’t. Because she was right. And that truth, unspoken and fragile, had hung between them like a thread that neither of them dared to sever.

Now, on the platform, with the silence humming around them once more, she tilted her head, watching him. Measuring something. Maybe the same hesitation. Maybe the same question.

“I thought you might’ve turned me in,” she said. Her voice was low, even, but it carried something under the surface. Not quite relief. Not quite trust. Something in between.

“I thought about it,” Syril admitted. “More than once.”

“And yet…” She gestured at the space between them with a faint shrug. “Here we are.”

He nodded, unsure what else to say. His throat was dry. The cold bit through his coat but he barely felt it.

“You saved me,” she said, her voice softening. “Back in that factory. You could’ve killed me. But you didn’t.”

“You’re not supposed to remember that.”

She smirked, something almost playful in the curve of her lips. “I remember everything.”

Silence again. The shuttle had passed now. The lights dimmed. The night stretched.

Finally, he asked, “Why did you come?”

"I think you could help us."

Syril raised an eyebrow. "Who's us?"

"We've been keeping an eye on you since you left your job. I saw you the other day buying some interesting books." Her dark eyes glowed with excitement.

Syril’s stomach twisted at the mention of his recent purchase. He hadn’t thought anyone had noticed, let alone someone who might be watching him. He fought the urge to shift uneasily under her gaze.

"You’ve been watching me?" he asked, his voice guarded. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that—about someone tracking his every move. But there was something in her tone, something purposeful, that made him hesitate before dismissing it.

Her eyes remained steady, intense. "You don’t think you’ve been living in a vacuum, do you? Not after everything that happened. We’ve been keeping an eye on the people who might be useful." She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was sharp, calculated. "And you, Syril, are more useful than you think."

The sound of his name from her lips felt unfamiliar. He had grown accustomed to answering to his new name, but hearing those two syllables again sent a jolt through him, his heart racing.

Syril couldn’t decide if that sent a thrill down his spine or if it made him feel sick. Useful to who, exactly? To them? To whoever they were? The questions piled up in his mind faster than he could process them.

"And these books?" he asked, though the answer was already clear in his head. "What are you getting at?"

She took a step closer, lowering her voice as if sharing some forbidden secret. "History books. Books about revolutions. About the fall of empires. About the people who thought they were untouchable until they weren’t." She paused, her eyes flicking toward his watch before meeting his gaze again. "You’re reading between the lines now. I saw the way you looked at them. You’re starting to see the cracks."

He swallowed, his throat dry. There was no denying it. Since leaving his position, the world had started to look different. The uniform, the orders, the Empire—he had once believed in all of it. But now? The edges were fraying, the whole system was… corrupt. And he knew it.

"I don’t know what you think I can do," he muttered, stepping back slightly, trying to regain some of the distance he desperately needed. "I’m not one of you."

Her lips twitched, but the smirk didn’t reach her eyes. "You don’t need to be. But you’re in a unique position. You know things. You’ve seen things. And I’m sure you’re realising more each day just how much power you have over your own future."

"I’m not interested in power," he snapped, a little too quickly, his breath catching. "I just want to survive."

Her eyes softened ever so slightly, but there was a knowing glint to them. "I think you're already past that point. Surviving isn’t enough anymore. Not when the world is changing around you."

The words stung, but Syril didn’t argue. He knew she was right. The world was changing, and he had no idea where he stood in it anymore.

She took another step forward, her presence unwavering. "I’m asking you to make a choice, Syril. You’ve been sitting on the sidelines, but that’s no longer an option. The Empire won’t let you stay neutral. You’ll either be crushed by it or you’ll stand up and fight."

Syril’s mind spun, the weight of her words sinking in. He had always been the one who followed orders, who stayed within the lines. But now… now, it felt like the lines were disappearing, and all that was left was a choice he wasn’t sure he was ready to make.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than he intended.

“I want you to decide,” she said simply. “Decide who you’re going to be. The man who fades into the background, or the one who finally chooses a side.”

Syril didn’t speak for a long time, the silence between them growing heavier. His gaze drifted to the city beyond them—the lights flickering like stars in a sky that seemed too vast for him to understand. Was there even a side worth choosing? Could he live with the consequences of any decision he made?

And for the first time in a long while, Syril didn’t have an answer.

"First you have to tell me your name and who you're with. I need to know what I'm getting myself into," he said, his voice steadying, though the tremor of uncertainty still lingered in his chest. It was a weak attempt at regaining some control over the situation, but it was all he had. He couldn’t move forward without knowing who she was or what kind of danger he was stepping into.

Her smile didn’t fade, but there was a flicker of approval in her eyes. "Fair enough," she replied, her tone deliberate, as if she’d been expecting this question all along. "You deserve to know who you're dealing with."

She took a deep breath, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she seemed to weigh how much to reveal. "My name is Aria. And as for who I’m with…" She paused, glancing around them briefly, as if to make sure no one else was listening, then leaned in just a little closer. "I’m with the Resistance. We’re not a formal organisation yet. But we’re building something. Something that will change the course of everything. The Empire won’t be able to ignore us forever."

Syril’s mind raced. The Resistance. The very idea felt foreign to him, a world away from the cold, calculated structure of the Imperial forces he had once been a part of. A world where things weren’t dictated by rules, where loyalty and duty weren’t enough to make decisions for you. And yet, there was something compelling about it.

"How do I even begin?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the decision settling on him like a stone in his chest.

Aria smile returned, this time with a hint of something almost approving. "You’ve already begun. You’re here, aren’t you? You’ve made the first step."

He glanced at her, unsure if it was that simple, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised she was right. This was the moment. The choice had already been made, whether he liked it or not.

"Where do we start?" he asked, finally allowing himself to hope—just a little.

Aria's gaze softened, but there was still that spark of determination in her eyes. "We start by taking down the Empire, piece by piece. And it begins with people like you, Syril. The ones who have seen it all. The ones who understand it." She turned, her hand brushing past his as she began to walk away, her pace steady and sure.

"Are you coming?" she called back, without turning around.

For a moment, Syril hesitated, but then he followed her, the decision made. No more running. No more hiding. He was ready to step into the fight, even if he didn’t yet know what it would cost him.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself, more determined than he had felt in a long time. "I’m coming."

-

Aria asked him as they approached her ship if he needed anything from his apartment. If there was anything he truly valued. She also added that they had plenty of clothes and food and he told her that he was alright in the credits department, due to how well-paid his previous job had been.

There was something comforting about her presence. He sat down beside her in the ship, peeled off his coat, and he began to ask her a question, "So, where are you from?"

Aria glanced at him as the ship glided smoothly through hyperspace, her fingers brushing over the controls almost instinctively. The low hum of the engines seemed to match the quiet tension between them, a calm before whatever adventures awaited.

"I'm from Corellia," she said, her voice tinged with both pride and a subtle sadness. "It’s... a bustling world, a place where ships are built and legends are made. The Corellians have always been known for their speed and ingenuity. But it’s a hard place to grow up, always under the pressure to live up to the reputation."

She glanced sideways, catching his eye for a moment. "I left when I was younger. The galaxy seemed like a bigger place than that steel city. I wanted more than just the scent of engine oil and the sound of ships taking off every other minute."

Her fingers tightened on the controls for a brief second, before her grip relaxed, a soft sigh escaping her. "And you? Born in Coruscant, right?"

"Yes."

A silence dragged on.

"You've been alone for quite a while, haven't you?" she said, the question soft but probing.

Syril raised a brow.

"Sorry you just seem so quiet. You were so different the last time I saw you."

Syril looked at her, his voice steady and his hand gripping his glass a little tighter. "I guess I've just gotten used to being on my own. But yeah, it’s been a while since I... had anyone to talk to."

Her mouth seemed to twist to the side a little. "Me too."

"So what have you been doing since you left Ferrix?" Syril asked.

"Watching you."

Syril shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his grip tightening on his glass, but he couldn't help the faint warmth that rose to his ears. He could tell she was teasing, but there was something oddly... intimate about her knowing gaze. Something about the way she said it, as if she had been watching him in a way that went beyond mere curiosity. "The last six months? That's what you've been put up to?"

"Well that and other things. Although, I was told not to approach you or speak to you until you made contact yourself. "

Syril’s brow furrowed at her words. Made contact? He could feel his pulse quicken, confusion mixing with a hint of something else—was it dread? He hadn’t realised there was more to her being here than the mere coincidence of their paths crossing.

"And who put you up to this?" Syril looked away, still trying to regain his composure.

"You will find out in due course –"

Aria started, but Syril cut her off, his voice tight. “It wasn’t Andor, was it? You’re not taking me to him to be questioned, are you? He’s dangerous... he’s—” Syril’s hands tremble as he says it, betraying his anxiety.

Her eyes widened with surprise. "What?"

"Andor. Cassian Andor. Was he the one who wanted me here? Are you taking me to him to get questioned? Are you going to kill me?" Now he was frightened. His mind diverting to the worst possible outcomes. “I’ve heard the stories,” Syril muttered, eyes flickering nervously to the window. “Of what he can do. What happens to people who cross him. If you’re working for him... if he’s the one behind this...” Syril’s voice trailed off, caught in the weight of the unspoken fear.

Her eyes widened with surprise, but there was no mockery in her expression. She studied him for a moment, and for the first time, Syril noticed the softness in her gaze. It wasn’t pity, but something more—concern, maybe. She reached over to put a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "No one is going to hurt you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I know these people. They don't want to make you suffer. They want to help you. They want to hear you. We aren't like the Empire."

Syril looked at her hand now upon his shoulder, her thumb pressing gently into his shoulder blade. Her skin dark and warm. It brought him comfort. He hadn't felt human touch in a long time, there was something so odd about the feeling rising inside of him.

Syril stayed still for a moment, his mind racing with confusion, suspicion, and an unspoken yearning that he didn’t quite understand. The warmth of her hand on his shoulder was both grounding and unsettling. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d been missing human connection until this very moment. Her touch felt genuine, comforting even, and yet, part of him wanted to pull away, unsure of the intentions behind it.

He swallowed hard, trying to shake off the sudden vulnerability that crept into his chest. "I don’t know who to trust anymore," he murmured, his voice quieter now, less defensive. "Not after everything with the Empire. I’ve been led down too many false paths."

Aria didn’t pull her hand away. Her fingers remained light on his shoulder, a steady reassurance. "I get it," she said softly, her voice calm and steady. "You’ve been through a lot. But I assure you, not everyone is out to use you. Not everyone wants to control you."

Syril's eyes flickered back to her face, searching for something real, something that would tell him that maybe, just maybe, he could believe her. Her gaze met his without hesitation, unflinching, as though she could see the turmoil swirling inside him. She wasn’t pushing him, just waiting, allowing him space to breathe, to decide what he wanted—what he needed.

"I don’t know how to stop being afraid," he confessed, his words almost a whisper. "I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the betrayal to come."

Aria’s hand stayed firm but gentle, her thumb brushing across his skin in a slow, soothing motion. "You don’t have to do it alone anymore," she said, the weight of her words settling in his chest like a promise. "You don’t have to live in fear."

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was... safe. The kind of silence that felt like an unspoken understanding, the kind that suggested something had shifted, something had broken through the walls Syril had built around himself for so long.

She then pulled her hand away and he could still feel the touch linger. He watched her as she controlled the ship as if it was routine. It was late, he found himself yawning under his breath.

"You can go into the sleeping pod if you're tired," she said. "There's some clothes in there you could change into. A shower also."

"Are you saying I smell bad?" He laughed.

Aria glanced over at him with a playful smirk, her eyes twinkling under the dim lights of the cockpit. "Not at all," she teased, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice. "But you've been awake for hours. And you’ve been through a lot. I’m just offering a little rest, Syril. You could use it."

Syril chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly light in contrast to the weight that had been lingering in his chest all this time. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes flicking to the sleeping pod she’d mentioned. "I suppose you’re right. Been a long day... or night, or whatever it is in hyperspace."

Aria’s gaze softened, her fingers still moving over the ship’s controls with ease, her focus unwavering. "The time doesn’t really matter out here. Just... sleep when you can."

He hesitated for a moment, feeling the awkwardness of the situation settle back into his bones. He had grown so used to isolation that even simple things—like being offered a bed—felt foreign to him. But the kindness in her voice was undeniable. There was no judgment, no expectation, just... care.

Syril nodded, pushing himself up from his seat. "Alright. I’ll take you up on that."

As he moved toward the sleeping pod, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder at Aria, still focused on the ship. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who expected anything in return, just offering comfort and space when it was needed. It made him feel a little less alone, a little less like the world was waiting for him to fail.

The pod was smaller than he expected, but it was functional and clean, and there were fresh clothes neatly folded on a shelf nearby. He changed quickly, the soft fabric of the shirt feeling like a welcome relief after the rough, ill-fitting garments he’d been wearing for far too long. The shower was equally as refreshing, the warm water melting away some of the tension from his muscles.

When he returned to the main cabin, wet hair and a slightly more relaxed demeanour, he found Aria still at the controls, her eyes focused on the blinking lights and the smooth hum of the ship around them. She glanced up when he entered, her expression momentarily softening as she took in his changed appearance.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah," Syril said, running a towel through his damp hair. "Surprisingly so."

He stepped closer to the cockpit, leaning against the wall, unsure of what to do next. The ship was quiet, the stars outside flickering in their distant glow.

"You don’t sleep much, do you?" he asked, observing how her hands moved with practiced ease over the controls. It was as if she didn’t need rest, as if the ship itself was an extension of her.

Aria gave a soft laugh, though it was tinged with something he couldn’t quite place. "I’ve learned to survive on less sleep than most people. It’s part of the job." She didn’t seem to want to elaborate, but the words hinted at something else, something far deeper than the routine of space travel.

Syril nodded, feeling the weight of the silence between them settle once more, but it didn’t feel as heavy this time. There was a subtle comfort in it, an unspoken connection that made the distance between them seem smaller.

"You should try to get some sleep anyway," Aria said after a moment, her voice gentle but firm. "We have a few hours before we hit the next waypoint, and it’ll be better for you in the long run."

"What about you? Aren't you tired?"

"I'm okay," she murmured. "I've gotten used to running on fumes. It’s not ideal, but it’s something I’ve had to learn."

Syril nodded and began to step away.

"You know, Aria," he said after a beat, his voice softer than usual, "If you ever need someone to take over, or if you just need to rest... I’m here."

She looked at him then, her gaze steady and perhaps a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice. For a second, it seemed like she might say something else, but she just nodded instead, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Thanks, Syril," she replied quietly, and for the first time since they had met, he saw something in her—something human. "I’ll keep that in mind."

He met her gaze, surprised by the warmth and care that she seemed to effortlessly give. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable even, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t mind. He simply nodded, not trusting his voice to convey how much her words meant.

With a final glance toward her, he made his way back to the sleeping pod, settling into the small space. The bed was comfortable enough, and the quiet hum of the ship seemed to calm his racing thoughts. His body, now relaxed from the shower, sank into the softness of the bed, and his eyes slowly closed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Syril allowed himself to drift into sleep, the tension in his body slowly melting away, replaced with the strange but comforting sensation of trust.

[hwashua-luv]

A Moment of Clarity

The city lights twinkled below, and you just finished typing up the final report for the day. Most everyone had already left the office, with the exception of the dull murmurs of certain voices that sometimes lurched out from some far corner of the building. Past 8 PM, you were now resolved to the quiet rhythm of your keyboard and the occasional sip from the now-cold cup of coffee.

Just as you had begun to hit "send" on the final email, the door to your office creaked open. You jerked your head up somewhat startled, to see Joshua Hong, the CEO of the company, standing in the doorway. His suit was tailored, plain, and crisp, his tie still tightly knotted. Despite the formality in his appearance, his eyes were warm as they met yours.

"Working late again?" Joshua's voice was smooth, carrying a thread of amusement. He stepped further into the room, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click.

You sat up a little straighter in your chair, suddenly feeling very aware of how disheveled you must look. "Mr. Hong, I didn't realize you'd still be here."

Joshua laughed softly and crossed the room with such grace it seemed hardly an effort. "Joshua, please. It's just me. Besides, I had some papers to review and thought I'd check on my favourite secretary."

Your cheeks flushed slightly at his compliment. "I'm just finishing up some reports. I didn't mean to keep you."

He waved off your concern with a casual gesture. "Nonsense. I enjoy the company."

As he sat in the chair across from your desk, you could feel the energy shifting. It was the look in his eyes that was somehow not professional; it was very personal. Those late hours spent at the office had been close to many times ending in personal conversations rather than work-related. That was when you'd started to appreciate Joshua's kindness and insight.

"So, how was your day?" you asked, trying to lighten things up despite the undeniable tension in the room.

Joshua's eyes softened as he regarded you. "Busy but not without its moments of clarity. How about yours?"

You hesitated, looking back at the stacks of paperwork and the blinking cursor on your screen. "It's been ... intense. But I'm almost done."

Joshua leaned forward slightly, his face in thought. "Listen, I really do appreciate how hard you work. That doesn't go unobserved, okay?"

His words held further meaning tonight, but you had the feeling you'd heard this before. You raised your head to meet his gaze, looking for the truth behind the words. "Thank you, Joshua. I really appreciate that."

It was held in that silence—a moment filled with unstated understanding. Joshua's eyes settled onto yours, and your heart picked up pace. It was weird, as if time had thunked to standstill, and the professional distance that had always been there was suddenly getting blurred.

Joshua got to his feet and went to the window, looking out over the city. "Sometimes, I wonder if all this—" he gestured broadly at the skyline "—is worth it."

You went to stand beside him at the window. The city lights danced in your eyes, illuminating soft reflections on your faces. "It is. But only if you have people who believe in what you're doing."

Joshua turned his head just a little to the side, but he still watched the horizon. "And I do. People like you."

The weight of his words settled into your silence. You had always looked up to Joshua's commitment and drive, but tonight, it felt like you saw a different side of his vulnerability.

"Do you ever feel like, um, needing to stop for a bit?" you asked softly, your voice barely audible.

Joshua finally turned to face you; his expression was earnest. "I think about it often. But it's hard to step back when you are so invested."

You nodded in comprehension. It was a struggle you knew well, juggling the call of duty with the need for personal time. Shared sense of sacrifice.

Without thinking, you put a hand on his arm. The reassurance in the gesture was unmistakable. His eyes moved down to your hand briefly before looking back up into your eyes. The connection between you two was electric, almost as though the air around you was charged with an unsaid tension.

Joshua's hand slowly covered yours, and there you were, standing, both of you equally silent, acknowledging the sudden shift in your relationship. The professional distance that had always kept you apart was a faint memory now.

He inclined a little, his breath warm against your cheek. "Is it wrong to want something more... personal?"

Your breath caught in your throat, and only a soft "No, not at all" managed to come out.

He bridged the space between you with a gentle, deliberate motion. His lips met yours in a tender, yet intense, kiss—a kiss saturated with all of the unspoken words and emotions that had grown over time. It was this clear to both of you: whatever it was that you shared went beyond the confines of professional roles.

The kiss deepened, and you felt yourself melt into the embrace; your heart pounded with excitement and uncertainty. This was a kiss pregnant with promise, possibility—the promise of a different kind of future than what one had envisioned.When the kiss finally broke, you both pulled back some and pressed your foreheads together.

Joshua's eyes held yours before he finally spoke again. "I've wanted to tell you this for a long time."

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you. "I'm glad you did."

Joshua's fingers just barely touched your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn't known had fallen. "I'm so glad. It's been so much through these past years, and I wouldn't want it any other way.

The office settled into silence, but this time it was a comfortable silence, the feeling of something just having restarted. You kind of felt at peace just standing there wrapped in his arms, Joshua's arms.

The future was uncertain, but for now, you were content to just be in this moment—the place of clarity and connection that was so long overdue. Joshua's presence reassured you that, among the chaos, in the middle, right amidst the chaos, it is always possible for something beautiful to exist.

And as both of you stared at those city lights again, you knew that whatever was bound to happen, you would confront it together.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿

Word count: 1055

Author's note: The same one-shot has been posted on Wattpad (hwashua-luv). Requests are also open <3

All rights reserved. © 2024 hwashua-luv

All works written by me do not copy, translate or repost my works without my given consent.

[reverieblondie]

OMG YOUR MIGUEL FIC ARE SO GOOD even for YOUR first time! so I wanted to ask you if your doing request or your request are open if you could do a Miguel x shy/nerd-wife!reader (fm) you don’t have to if you don’t want to or if your request box aren’t available

But like imagine reader who’s a blogger and is writing a story about something and reader stay up all day and plaining to spending all night on the blog, and reader was working in coffee table, while working on it, and that when Miguel just came back after dealing with HQ and come home just to see his sweet wife that he love to teased/bother her when she working🤭 . Like imagine reader is so focused typing her way and didn’t even notice Miguel came home.and so Miguel had a great i idea to tease her by touching her waist, kissing her earlobe, teasing her breast as reader was just blushing and telling him to stop as she pouting and trying to remove Miguel hands, as the other hands (of Miguel) is turning off the laptop, and then he carry her to there room as reader is just hitting his back and telling him I got to finish that blog till like(let say on Tuesday it was a Saturday for them) and Miguel just wanted to tease her and touch her.. and have $ex..,

Like imagine Miguel has shy/nerd-wife!reader underneath, as Miguel harsh thrust into her as reader tear/crying came from her face as reader is trying to cover her face with her hands and is moaning toward Miguel to stop, or saying it to big, or to good, and asking Miguel if he could come closer to hug him 😩. Praise kink for this one? or any kink is fine honestly.

Also to say again you don’t have to do this if you don’t want too or if your request isn’t open yet I’m sorry 😞 just wanted to ask this if you could do this.

BYE! And have a great day!

HI! Thank you so much for the request! This was so fun to write! I hope you like it! I have never done a request before so I hope I get to do more in the future!

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Inspiration

Miguel x shy/nerd-wife!femreader

Summary: Miguel just wants to give you a break and help you with your writings...What's so wrong about that?

Word count: 3,180

Warnings: 18+ only, SMUT, Sexually Explicit, P in V, Oral (F receiving), Praise kink, Teasing, slight breeding kink. Hardly edited-Hardly proofread.

Biting your nails you stare at your blank computer screen, the blinking cursor almost seems like it's mocking you. Meeting your three-day deadline seemed like an impossible task. Two new writing assignments needed to get done, and what were these writings supposed to be about? Spider-Man of course! A subject you knew all too well about from being a fan and also the hero's wife.

You and Miguel had gotten married six months ago, funnily enough, you two met through your writings on your blogs. Blog one was your business blog where you worked for a news outlet writing about the hero and his good deeds across Nueva York. The second blog however was for your means, a dedicated fan blog filled with fanfiction you wrote about Spider-man in various ‘situations’. Let's just say Miguel still teases you to this day about your nerdy little side blog, But he loves it, especially when you need some proper ‘inspiration’. 

Sitting on the floor of your shared living room you are tapping your fingers on the coffee table trying to find any spark of inspiration. You had been sitting and pondering all morning, trying to write your stories. Three cups of coffee in and still nothing was hitting you. Standing to stretch you hear your joints crack and then suddenly the rush hits you. Chasing the idea you quickly start typing, flowing with your newfound inspiration that seemed to bloom from thin air. Sometimes it just hits you when you least expect it. 

Enthralled with your writing you don't even notice your giant of a husband walking through the door of your shared apartment. 

Miguel, Having had a particularly hectic day, wanted nothing more than to come home and curl up in bed with his bashful little wife. Six months of marriage and you were still as shy as you were when you first got together and he loved it. Your sweet touches and soft voice are all he craved after such a long day, but as soon as he saw you typing feverishly away he knew it was going to be hard to get you to stop working for the night. Miguel had learned to recognize the sight and what it meant, sitting on the floor, in his large shirt you had slept in the night before and the cold cup of coffee on the table with you staring at the computer not even acknowledging him. You were in a time crunch. 

Carefully going to sit on the couch behind you, he gently places his large hands on your shoulders and gently starts to rub the built-up tension. 

“How many days?” he asks frankly

Without even looking up at him your soft voice chirps out “Three days” 

With that Miguel sighs in relief, he leans down and begins to kiss your neck gently. “Plenty of time” his smooth voice purrs as his plush lips caress your skin.

Admittedly your skin warms causing you to blush, Miguel knew all the ways to rile you up and kissing your neck was one of them. With a deep breath you refocus not wanting to lose your train of thought, giving in and letting him distract you wasn't going to happen right now. Typing away you ignore his caressing. 

“Oh? We are very focused huh? Come on, take a break mi amor.” Noting your resistance Miguel tries to urge you to give in.  

Carefully he takes his hands from your shoulders to slide slowly down your waist to grab your hips making a tingle shoot down your spine. He then nips at the skin just behind your ear. Biting your lip, trying to repress the feeling of how your skin begins to tingle from his sensual soft bites. Feeling the arousal begin to pool in your panties you try reasoning with your husband.  “Miguel, this is important, I want to finish this.” 

Miguel hums into your neck as he continues to kiss softly, squeezing your hips in his strong hands.  Then his warm breath fans over your ear “Let me help you Hermosa” he kisses your earlobe and bites it slightly pulling. The teasing causes your nipples to start to perk rubbing against your shirt, the sensation of the fabric rubbing makes you wetter. 

“M-Miguel…” you softly mewl, your face is a deep shade of blush as your husband continues to distract you. Sliding his large hands up your shirt your skin feels like it's on fire at his warm touch. Slowly caressing every curve of you taking in your soft hums of protest. Miguel just can't help himself, once he starts with his little wife he can't just stop. Finding your breast he begins rubbing carefully against your sensitive nipples he slightly pinches the soft buds, making your breath hitch and back to slightly arch.

“That's it baby, it feels good don't it?”

Licking a stripe up your neck he squeezes your breast finally making you turn to face him. Face flushed and your lip in that slight pout just makes him want to bite it. 

“Can’t you wait till I'm done?” you say pleading with him. 

Shaking his head no he just smirks at you, watching as you try not to moan as he continues to play with your sensitive breast. Your soft hand grabs onto his strong forearm trying to move him off. He would let you move his arm away only to quickly move it back to either your sensitive nipple or your squeezable hips making you squirm at either touch. 

“Miguel, if this was your work I wouldn’t do this to you…” 

“Cariño, you too shy to tease me like this” 

Staring into your eyes he slides one of his hands down to your cunt. Slipping his finger under your shorts to rub against your panties feeling your sweet arousal seeping through.

“What's that? Are you wet right now?” 

“Stop Miguel” you try to swat away his hand, embarrassed he feels how easy wet you become for him. 

Miguel takes one hand and shuts your computer while pinching and twisting your nipple causing you to moan getting wetter in the process. Not wanting to quit you open your computer again trying to work and ignore him but when you do his hand slips down to rub your clothed clit, making you whine and pout swatting him away again. 

“Come on my sweet girl, we need to deal with your little problem, a break would do you some good” 

He closes your computer again and kisses against your neck rubbing tight rough circles against your clit. Wiggling from the intense pleasure, you try using both hands to push his hand away. It’s now time to get stern with him. 

“No Miguel, I only have three days” 

“But you are so brilliant baby you will only need one to get these knocked out, I find you write better when you are under some pressure” 

You shake your head and open your computer trying to get back to where you left off. Miguel stands from the couch seemingly accepting defeat, but that's not how your husband works, he doesn't give up easily. 

Right as you're about to continue typing you are lifted by his strong arms and slung over his broad shoulder. With a quick squeak and a protest you tell Miguel to put you down and let you work, But your complaints fall on deaf ears. Miguel starts walking you to the master bedroom, You knock your fist against his muscular back trying to get him to put you down. 

“Careful baby you will only hurt your sweet little hands doing that” 

Hating to admit it but he's right, beating against his solid muscles won't do anything to him but it would make your hands sore. Mustering up some courage you do the only thing you can think of to show him your seriousness. 

Taking your hand you quickly swat a slap on his plump butt causing him to stop. Well that was new, his shy little wife has never smacked his ass before, and he was not about to just ignore this little action. 

“M-Miguel O’Hara put me down this instant!” using your best serious voice. 

Suddenly you feel a sharp slap against your ass making you yelp, the stinging sensation where he spanked you causes your face to become hot as your voice becomes caught in your throat. Continuing his pursuit, Miguel reaches the bedroom. Before you know it you're being tossed down onto the plush mattress, your sexy husband crawling on top of you with a sly smile. Miguel then rips his shirt open instantly relieving his well-defined abs and beautiful bronze skin. An action he has found to instantly make you bashful, quickly you move your hands to hide your embarrassed face. Hating how the sudden action always arouses you. Does it cause you to have to buy him replacement shirts? Yes, but it is worth it to watch his shy wife get so desperately turned on.

“Oh, where's that brave girl from a minute ago who was slapping my ass huh? you going to act all shy now?” 

With your hands still covering your face, you nod your head getting a laugh from Miguel. He leans forward kissing the back of your hands. 

“Aww, my shy baby is so cute when she's flustered, and soaking wet.” pushing his long finger under your shorts to rub against your ruined panties. 

You try to close your legs but Miguel's firm hand stops you. 

“Miguel, my deadline…”  speaking through your covered face. 

Miguel hums as he starts to slowly move his hands to your hips, fingers hooking into your waistband to pull them down slowly. Though you are complaining you lift your hips to let him slide them down with ease. 

“Yeah baby, your deadline, I’m just going to help you out, give you some inspiration” he leans his head down and watches as your slick leaves a dark mark on your panties. Miguel licks a strip on the wet spot making your hips jump forward. 

Sensually biting your underwear he starts to pull them off your soft legs away from your dripping hole, revealing your weeping cunt to him. As he does it you open space between your fingers to watch. His red eyes flick up towards you and smiles with your panties in his teeth. Quickly closing your fingers you hide again and Miguel just lifts your legs over his shoulders sliding your panties off you painfully slow. Tossing them quickly to the side he looks at your glistening hole, feeling your thighs shake. 

Kissing down your calves he slides his warm hands down your legs, continuing to leave kisses and soft bites in his wake. Carefully, he watches you as your breath becomes more labored and soft moans leave your mouth. Toying with your bashful body is causing his erection to strain painfully in his pants. 

Reaching your inner thighs kissing them sweetly, staring down at you he speaks to your hidden face. 

“You like it,” he said confidently. 

Peaking through your fingers you see him, lips caressing your skin, crimson eyes blow out with desire. 

“Come on baby, say you like it” he breathes watching your hands slowly slide down as he gets closer and closer to your heat. Sucking and biting, leaving hickeys as he trails down your soft thighs. 

You're a shaking, sweating, whimpering mess. Foreplay is always this strenuous, always teases you this badly, he's relentless. Moving his eyes all around you, drinking you in. Licking his lips at your tight pussy so eager and desperate for any stimulation. Miguel wants to do nothing more than to taste you and hear your sweet moans, but he wants you to want it to tell him you like it. Against your better judgment, you move your hands to reveal your face crying out “I- I like it! I like it!” 

“Good girl” he growls before he quickly rewards you by licking a long strip up your smooth folds tasting your arousal. Cock throbbing in his pants, he takes his hand and swiftly sheds the confining material palming his aching length as he continues to lick you. A whine slips through your lips as your husband's tongue pushes into your slit and his nose nudges against your clit. Your Hips buckle forward and squirm as he eats you out ravenously.  Moving from your tight slit he wraps his lips around your clit and rolls his tongue across it as he hums into you. 

Rolling your hips you are begging for more and he has to pin your hips down as he pushes you to your high. Your juices drip down his chin as he devours you. The coil in your stomach is warped around so tightly as he gets you closer and closer. Sliding your hands down to your soft nipples you pinch and pull at yourself chasing the pleasure. Before you can get to your sweet release however Miguel pulls his face away from your aching cunt. Licking his bottom lip he looks down at you watching as your face contorts to confusion, you almost want to cry as he's leaving you wanting more. 

“Aw don't make such a sad face beautiful, I just want you to cum on cock.” 

Lining up his thick member to your tight pussy he lets you feel the weight of it first, teasing you causing your hole to constrict around nothing, hips buckling desperately.   

“Look at this pretty little pussy, it's just begging for me to fill it. And you said you wanted to work, now look at you.” 

You hiccup at the teasing praise he gives you. In almost an instant you were whining as he pushed his tip against your tight hole. 

“I wanted to finish my-”

Before you can finish your sentence he thrust into you with a harsh slam making your eyes instantly tear up and a moan being ripped from your throat. The sudden force causes you to tense up and walls to clamp down on his hard length as he bullies his way into you praising you as he bottoms out in you. 

“Oh my quiet baby, what was that? I missed what that soft little voice was trying to say. Can you repeat yourself?”

As you try to form coherent sentences Miguel thrust in and out of you faster and harder each time, making you lose your breath as it's promptily fucked out of you. Feeling your eyes starting to cross from your approaching high you look and see Miguel just smirking at you as he starts to break a sweat at his relentless pistoning. If you didn't know better you would think your husband is trying to split you half. 

Miguel shifts and angles himself in your silky walls till he finds that spot that has you clamping down on him and making your mouth hang open. 

“Ooo, there it is, mmm how does that feel baby?” he quickened his pace and you were trying to cover your face as tears streamed down your cheeks, the pleasure being too intense. You start trying to form the words 

“G-g-ooooo-” But Miguel is relentless and fucks into you harder, then he starts to mock you.

“G-g-g-oo? I don't know what that is?” He mockingly teases you, causing you to hide your face in your hands, but he's tired of that and quickly takes your wrist and pins them above your head. 

“Aww no hiding, I want to watch my beautiful wife's face, Now what are you trying to tell me?” 

Pounding into your cervix, his large tip nudging in as he continues his grinding into you. You're just gasping as you start to see stars. The punching then rubbed against your cervix as you creamed, making it easier for him to slip deeper.  

“G-g-Good! S-s-so good!” you finally scream out as he has you clamping hard on his thick cock squirting your sweet release on him. 

“Ooohhh, that's what you were trying to say…fuck…I think your good too baby…so sweet and tight for me aren’t you?” 

You nod as his pace gets sloppy and you feel his cock throbbing in you as his overstimulating you makes tears flood your face. Miguel watches your tits bounce at the relentless pace he's set, he can't help but lap his tongue at your hard nipples sucking and pulling on the tender buds. Miguel continues his pace, breaking away from your tits to coo sweet words to you. 

“You're such a good girl, look at you taking it all so well. Clamping down on me so nicely. So perfect for me, my perfect little wife” 

Miguel starts to moan, thrusting harder and quicker into you. Brain fuzzing as you quickly approach your second orgasm. 

“M-mi-miggy, Ah, can you get closer, pl-ah-please..” you wrap your hands around his neck, your cunt starting to tighten around him again. “I want, I want to, hug you, pl-please miggy” 

Miguel gives you a lazy smirk; How could he ever resist your sweet pleas? Leaning down on his forearms he cages you under his massive body. The heat of your two bodies makes your sweat roll down rapidly. Your sensitive buds rub against his smooth skin. His body tense and shuddering as he chases his high. Rolling his hips deliciously in your spent cunt, the sound of your squelching hole along with Miguel's gruff moans and your incoherent stuttering fills the room. You wrap your legs around his waist and arms around his wide back, clawing onto his back, pulling his tense body closer to you. Now closer you swear he's in your stomach. Miguel kisses feverishly against your skin, sloppy licking and biting at your soft neck. Snaking his hand down to your lower stomach he presses down on you feeling the head of his cock through your thin skin. 

“That's right baby, I'm going to fill you up. Feel how deep I am? Going to fucking breed you. ” 

Before you know it you're cumming again, your second release hitting you harder than your first causing you to leave a milky sheen on him. Seeing white as you moan, shaking from how it rips out of you. Miguel presses his lips to yours, slipping his tongue into you desperate to swallow your pleasure. As he moans into your mouth, you feel him tense as he cums in you, causing your lower body to warm as you are filled up by his thick seed. 

Keeping himself in you he slowly comes down from his high breath ragged as he tries to calm his breaths. Rolling you on top of him he holds your exhausted body close to him, relaxing you in his loving embrace. Pushing the hair stuck to your forehead back and giving you soft kisses, he rubs small circles with his thumb on your hip. Completely spent and your work far from your mind you are almost drifting to sleep when Miguel decides to break the silence.

“So, did I give you some good inspiration?” 

[ange1sang]

downpour.

mickey x ian (gallavich) fic

wc: 2.5k / au where gallavich meet at college but everything else is the same / pining, mentions of past abuse/domestic violence, domestic, fluff, hurt/comfort, bipolar ian

summary: mickey has always known love and care to be tainted with violence. living with ian, he learns how to take care of someone without hurting anyone else.

The TV glows in the dark of the living room, illuminating the walls with fuzzy grey and blue light that flits back and forth as the scenes of an old drama rerun change. Mickey is only half watching, a half-full mug of flat Red Bull in front of him on the coffee table and a half-finished theology paper on his laptop beside it. The cursor in the word document blinks at him rhythmically, an impatient 'what are you waiting for?' repeating itself over and over while he tries to convince himself he isn't procrastinating, just waiting for his brain to clear out the bleary remnants of the morning's hangover.

He wouldn't be so distracted if he wasn't alone in the apartment, but the clock is steadily ticking further away from 'late night' territory and closer to 'early morning' and there's no sign of his redhead roommate to keep him company with the quiet sound of tossing back and forth in his bed or the less quiet sound of putting on the kettle to make instant ramen. Mickey's been at college for a while now, but the year at college has done nothing to dull the ringing a silent home leaves in his ears. He's used to siblings running down corridors, banging every corner with a limb or two on the way, fights breaking out, yelling from next door or across the street while the train tracks rattle overhead, struggling to drown out any voices that don't belong to it.

That's why he'd thought renting an apartment with the kid from his Human Struggles class would be a good idea - he had too short a fuse to make it any more time in the dorms without breaking a dozen more noses than the two he had managed in his first semester, and having a place to himself made him more anxious than he was willing to admit. Just viewing apartments by himself had spooked him, every creak and squeak the house made around him putting him on edge like a horse with cataracts. Ian had seemed like the perfect solution.

As far as Mickey is aware, Ian Gallagher comes from a big family just like his, and while it seems that Mickey won the competition for whose upbringing had been the most troubling, Ian carried more baggage than anybody else he'd met so far at college. In a selfish sort of way, it comforts Mickey that there's somebody around who can understand even half of what he went through back home.

It doesn't bother him that Ian can be spacey or sleepy, or that his mood still swings sometimes despite the complicated combination of pills he takes morning and night. Their schedules fit well with each other's, they proofread each other's assignments (always finding more mistakes than expected, and always quietly correcting them without telling the other), they chase each other around the cramped apartment waving dirty socks in each other's faces and fall asleep on the couch together so they can bicker over who fell asleep first the next morning. It's a healthy balance between the quiet Mickey has been looking for and the chaos he thrives on.

What Mickey does mind is the topsy-turvy schedule Ian has been running on lately, disappearing at odd hours and showing up days later looking deflated, like a grimy happy birthday balloon shoved in the trash next to empty beer cans and drug store receipts. When they'd first moved in together months ago, Mickey wouldn't have paid any mind to gaps in Ian's schedule or the expression he wore when coming in the front door. He wasn't sporting any black eyes or gunshot wounds, so as far as Mickey was concerned he didn't have to ask if he was okay. But now, blinking at his half-assed paper on the necessity of human suffering for God's existence, he realises he isn't waiting for a hangover to clear, nor is he procrastinating. He's waiting for Ian to come home.

"Fuck's sake," he mumbles, pushing himself up off the couch and pacing over to the kitchen window. Careful not to topple the embarrassingly full ashtray on the window sill, he pushes the window open and grabs the pack of L&M blues sitting on top of the microwave (Ian's choice of nicotine, not his) and lights it with a purple lighter painted black with cheap nail polish (his sister's old lighter, not his). As the cigarette smoke clouds the corner of the apartment they've dedicated to their weekly chainsmoking sessions, Mickey looks out of the window to see that it's raining hard, bullet-like raindrops painted orange by the flickering street lamps. He feels a tug in his chest and tries to pretend he isn't picturing Ian's ginger hair soaked through and sticking to his forehead. He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead and sighs. "Fuck."

The clock continues to tick while the rain pours, as reliable as the twinge of anxiety Mickey feels each time he finishes a cigarette and his flatmate still hasn't come home. He's barely resisting the urge to pick up his phone and call Ian's work number, shoving his free hand deeper and deeper into his trouser pocket to remind himself that he isn't his flatmate's boyfriend, let alone his keeper, when the sound of a key struggling to find its way into the front door lock breaks him out of his anxiety.

He curses under his breath and throws his cigarette into the sink, almost tripping over his own feet as he makes his way to the door. He keeps his face straight as he turns the lock, trying to convince himself he wasn't rushing, and breathes a sigh of relief when he's met with the sight of Ian standing in the doorway.

Ian's red hair looks closer to black from how wet it is, rainwater running in little rivulets down his forehead and dripping from the tip of his red nose. His eyes are red-rimmed, his hoodie soaked through and sticking to his skin. He looks more like a block of ice than a person, and even in the warmth of the apartment building he's shaking like a leaf in a storm.

"Shit, man," Mickey mumbles. A landslide of questions are on the tip of his tongue, from where to why to are you okay to what the fuck, but he bites his cheek and swallows them all. He puts a hand on Ian's frigid shoulder and pulls him inside, paying no mind to the trail of water his sneakers track into the house. "Come on."

They trudge through the living room, ignoring the tacky sex scene on the TV and going straight for the bathroom, where Ian perches himself on the edge of the bathtub. He sniffles, and the meek sound echoes in the tiled room like a firework going off the day after New Year's. Mickey reaches out and gingerly pushes a lock of dripping hair away from Ian's forehead. He's reminded of all of the times his siblings wandered through the front door in far worse shape and how he left them to take care of themselves while he blared burned CDs in his room. For a reason he can't name though, the thought of leaving Ian alone to lick his own wounds makes his stomach turn, so he gives his shoulder a squeeze and doesn't complain when it makes his palm wet.

"One second, okay?" he murmurs, and leaves the bathroom to gather a dry change of clothes from Ian's wardrobe. He pauses for a moment to look around his flatmate's room once he has the clothes gathered in his arms. He's only seen the inside of it a handful of times, usually when bringing Ian coffee or meds to help him get through any bumps in his highs and lows, but those times he hadn't paid attention to much other than the redhead himself. Now he takes notice of the posters Ian has put up over the past few months, worn paper that has been folded dozens of times along the same lines, and the stack of CDs that they don't have a player for. Each of them has a title written on it in blue Sharpie, some of them in Ian's handwriting and some of them not. Mickey traces a fingertip over a star drawn onto one of the cases, distracted, before remembering Ian is still sopping wet in the bathroom.

In the bathroom Ian's shivers have turned into full body shudders, teeth chattering even with his jaw clenched, the joint tense beneath his freckled skin. Mickey sighs and sets the pile of clothes aside, fumbling as he picks up Ian's towel.

"Here, take your shirt off," he says, trying his best to sound his usual authoritative self even though he's more than a little unsure of whether it's the right thing to say. Ian shoots him a look like he wants to make a joke, but doesn't open his mouth to say anything. Mickey rolls his eyes. "Come on, before you catch hypothermia or somethin'."

Ian complies, moving his arms like they're made of lead as he shrugs off the hoodie and then peels off the tank top he was wearing underneath. Mickey wraps the towel around his bare shoulders and gingerly pats dry the back of his neck. His false confidence falters when his thumb brushes against Ian's neck, feeling how feverish the other's skin feels against his hand. He stops moving, thumb still against Ian's neck and stomach tying itself in knots not even the best of boy scouts could untie.

"Mickey?" Ian croaks, eyes searching Mickey's expression like they're scared of what they might find. He leans his neck back into Mickey's touch a fraction of a centimeter, their eyes locking on each other's.

"Look, man, I'm not good at this... Taking care of people and all that shit," Mickey mumbles, letting go of Ian and shoving his hands into his pockets again, staving off the embarrassment and confusing concern that's bubbling up his throat. Ian watches him like a hawk, not even the shivers taking his attention off of Mickey. "You want me to call someone? You said your brother and sister can help if you need anything, right?"

"No, it's fine," Ian replies, pulling the towel tighter around himself.

"You sure? They probably know how to do this better than I do," Mickey says. The words come out more self-deprecating than he means for them to, a reminder of how love and care were so often synonymous with violence when he was growing up. If he cared about his sister, he'd beat on any guys who upset her. If his father cared about him, it meant pistol-whipping him in the living room. If anybody cared or loved anybody, violence would always be involved at some point or another. Taking care of someone else had never meant bringing them a change of dry clothes, or patting down their neck with a clean towel. It had never meant the pit of worry that had opened up in his stomach each time Ian was late coming home the past few weeks.

"I'm sure," Ian reassured him. When Mickey remained skeptical, Ian shrugged and finally directed his attention to the tile grout beneath his boots. "If I wanted their help I would've called them. I just wanted to come home."

Mickey takes a moment to process what this means - that Ian chose him over his siblings, their messy apartment over his childhood home - and finally lets out a breath that he's been holding for what feels like hours.

"Alright," he murmurs. He reaches out to keep drying Ian's neck and slowly moves on to his face, wiping away ever little river of rainwater that makes its way down his temples and jaw. He dries Ian's hair as gently as he can, running his fingers through the red locks once he's done to keep them out of Ian's face. Ian lifts his head to look up at him, pressing his head into Mickey's palm like a stray cat, and offers him a small smile. Whether he's thanking Mickey or reassuring him, Mickey isn't sure. "I'll go make some coffee."

"Thanks," Ian replies, chewing on his bottom lip as he watches Mickey leave.

Mickey turns off the TV on the way to the kitchen, steeping in the silence of the apartment as he goes about making enough coffee to last them the rest of the night and tomorrow morning. The air in the kitchen smells stale from all the cigarettes he smoked before Ian showed up, and as the coffee brews the room begins to smell like a cheap diner. Mickey leans against the counter, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like it might shove down the potent cocktail of feelings coursing through his veins. It's no use of course, especially not when Ian pads into the kitchen in dry clothes and wet cheeks that glimmer in the low stove light.

"Hey," Mickey starts, watching as tears pour from Ian's bloodshot eyes and down his freckled cheeks. His instincts takes over then, overriding every lesson he learned at home about keeping his distance and lashing out at anyone who came too close, and he steps forward to pull Ian into an awkward but gentle hug. Ian tucks his face down against his shoulder, tears soaking into his t-shirt and the tip of his nose still icy when it touches his neck. Mickey feels himself relax as he holds Ian. It feels right, he realises, to take care of somebody like this. Or maybe not just somebody, but Ian. He gives the back of his neck a gentle squeeze. "You're home, you're alright."

Ian nods against him, shivering even in the warmth of Mickey's hold. When they finally pull apart it feels like hours have passed, and Mickey is the one who finds himself shivering now that they're apart. Timidly, he wipes the tears from Ian's cheeks with his thumb, then pours him a mug of coffee and lights a cigarette for them to share. They smoke in the living room until the downpour outside has come to a stop, no more rain hammering against the roof and no more raindrops racing each other down their windows.

On any other night Mickey would've left Ian and headed to his room to finish his theology paper or jerk off or just pass out, but the sight of Ian's wet lashes anchors him to his spot on the couch. When Ian moves closer to him, resting his head against Mickey's shoulder and shutting his eyes, Mickey doesn't flinch or move away or make a joke about what a softie Ian really is. Instead he lets his own head rest atop Ian's, cheek pressed against his damp hair, and moves his hand to hold Ian's knee.

The kind of closeness that has terrified him his whole life feels nothing other than comfortable in this moment, warm and tender like Ian's skin was beneath his touch. He shuts his eyes and falls asleep counting Ian's breaths.

[kissagii]

tired

isagi x male!reader – 650 words – warnings: one knife metaphor, not proofread

note: a little comfort fic for these trying times <33 stay safe out there folks

Isagi wasn’t entirely sure what to think when he arrived home after practice to a silent house. After all, you were always there to greet him, it was the greatest blessing of his life. But tonight you were just… gone. 

“Baby? Baby, where are you?” He calls out, stepping into the house. At your lack of reply, his heart sinks in his chest, a chill seeping into his body. Isagi calls out a few more times, following the lights into your study, where you sit staring at a too-bright document marked with too few words.

Silently he wraps his arms around you, inspecting the mostly blank screen of the computer and the cursor that blinks oh so teasingly. Isagi rests his head gently against yours, glad to be near you at last after a long day of practice, though a voice in the back of his mind nags and nags about how strange it was to see you silent, how unusually cold you felt in his arms, how you had yet to type another word. At a loss, he only tightens his grip, a silent reassurance as the cursor blinks and blinks and blinks.

And then he notices the tears – A single glimmering streak tracing down your beautiful cheek. 

“Baby… you alright?” He whispers, heart shattering. Why, after all, should his darling boyfriend have a reason to cry? Why, after all, would some unknown thing feel the need to do harm to the single most beautiful soul Isagi had ever met? Why, after all, did that accursed blinking cursor take the sharpness of a knife to the heart of a tender lover?

Humming a cracked affirmative, you nod. But the tears, no matter how you try to stop them, betray your lie, and even if he were blind, Isagi would have known all the same.

“You’ve done enough work for tonight, sweetheart,” Isagi murmurs, pressing a delicate kiss to your tear-stained cheek, the salt an ache upon his lips. He pulls the chair away from the desk and lifts you tenderly out of it, carrying you the excruciating few steps to your room, where he laid you upon the plush mattress and places himself at your side.

The blankets shuffle underneath as you curl into Isagi, burying your face in shame. “Yoichi… thank you.” The words come out shakily and muffled.

“Work giving you a hard time?” Isagi asks, and your lack of reply tells him everything he needs to know. Would that he could do every piece of it for you, just to ease your mind. He wraps an arm comfortingly around your waist, fingers tracing shapes along your back.

“I know you like to be the big scary boyfriend… but just for tonight, let me do that, ‘kay?” He murmurs, “I’ve got you, baby, it’s gonna be alright.”

For a moment the two of you lay in silence, sweet silence broken only by the soft rising and falling of two souls breathing in sync. For a moment it seems as though every trouble in the world began to fade, insignificantly small beside the greatness of that winged thing called love. For a moment there was only you, Yoichi, and the unspoken beauty of the love between you.

But there was more to life than laying infinitely in a lover’s arms, though it would be so sweet if it were otherwise. Isagi places a final kiss on your forehead, wiping away the remnants of your tears. He smiles at you as if you were the most beautiful being he had ever laid eyes upon. And, in all truth, you are. Tears and all.

“You get some rest, sweet boy,” He says tenderly, prying himself from the comfort of your embrace, “I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready.”

The aromas that float in from the kitchen are unmistakable – scents that carry with them a sweet unspoken phrase. I love you. 

i kinda like isagi. just a little bit.