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flixpii · 14 hours ago

Text

Never Not Yours

part one

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 15.1k

A/N : Okay...the full thing is 30.2k, so I'm splitting it into two parts. Originally, I was going to do three parts, but after rereading it so many times, I couldn't find a good way to cut it. Reading part one before part two is mandatory to understand.

synopsis : set in the south—reader meets a quiet, strange man with a past he doesn’t talk about. there’s tension, something off beneath the surface, but something tender too. it’s emotional, kinda eerie, lots of yearning. just trust where it takes you.

He's had those fuckass clothes for a while (don't ask)

warnings (MDNI 18+ because of eventual smut) : takes place before the events of the movie, fluff remmick is lowkey domestic, intense yearning, blood/blood drinking, vampirism & supernatural themes, sexual content (no actual smut until second part), emotional manipulation, angst, religious themes & questioning of faith, themes of loss & abandonment, mind-link shit

----

The wind moves gently across the porch, stirring the leaves like restless dancers. They skitter across the worn wooden planks, some catching under your bare heels before your broom shoos them off with a dull scrape. Each sweep is slow, thoughtful—like a rhythm only your body knows, passed down through the quiet motions of women before you.

A hum curls in your throat, soft and easy, the kind you don’t notice until it fills the silence around you. It floats into the evening air, joining the sound of crickets and the far-off rustle of the trees, like it belongs there.

You had been gone all day—your hands busy beneath the oil-lantern light of your father’s shop, serving regulars with familiar smiles and strangers with careful ones. Your brother hadn’t stirred from bed since morning, fever-warm and muttering in his sleep. With your father needing help and your brother too weak to stand, everything else had fallen on you.

And while you were gone, the house waited.

Chores collected in corners like dust and shadows. The garden sat thirsty. The porch gathered leaves.

So now, beneath the soft hush of nightfall, you work. The moon has begun to rise—silver and swollen, casting light across the steps in pale slants. Its glow kisses the back of your neck as you move, cool against the heat still lingering on your skin from the day.

It’s quiet. Not heavy. Just still.

As your hum carries on, low and steady like an old lullaby, your eyes fall shut for just a moment. The cool air draws into your lungs—clean and earthy, touched faintly by woodsmoke drifting from some distant hearth. The chill soothes the warmth clinging to your cheeks, to the back of your neck. It’s the kind of night air that settles deep in your chest, makes you feel something like peaceful. Almost.

Your hands don’t still, and neither do your feet. They keep sweeping, shuffling, nudging away the dry leaves and twigs that gathered like whispers on the porch. But your mind—your mind begins to wander. Carried off by your hum, by the quiet rhythm of your body.

Then—

A crack.

Sharp, brittle.

Your hum stops.

It came from the woods.

Dense, shadow-thick woods. The kind that swallowed up the last of the sun and didn’t give it back until morning. The kind your father always warned you not to stare into for too long after dusk.

Your eyes blink open, slow. No real fear yet. Just awareness. Curiosity. You’ve heard worse on this porch before. Possums. Raccoons. The occasional stray dog poking through the garden fence.

Still, you pause—broom held mid-sweep—listening.

Another sound.

Closer this time.

You frown and move toward the edge of the porch, the old rail creaking beneath your hand as you lean slightly over it.

Then, from behind a cluster of bushes, a small armadillo scurries out, its claws clicking softly against the dirt as it barrels forward in a panic.

You exhale through a laugh, voice spilling out light and worn.

“You damn animals.”

It’s not angry. Just tired amusement. The kind of thing you say when your nerves were quicker than your logic.

You almost laugh at yourself—almost—already shaping the words in your mouth, something about being a scaredy cat. But then—

Something shifts.

Not a sound this time. A presence. A weight entering the air to your left.

You feel it before you see it. The way stillness deepens. The way the hairs on your arms lift without reason.

Your body reacts before your mind does—snapping back a step with a sharp inhale. The broom handle is tight in your grip, your knuckles aching white.

Then a voice, smooth and low, cuts through the hush.

“Sorry. Ain’t mean to scare ya.”

Your breath stumbles. That voice—there’s nothing unusual about it. Not really. But something in the way it lands sits wrong. Not cruel. Not threatening. Just… off. Like hearing a familiar song played in the wrong key.

“‘Ain’t mean to scare me’?” you echo, breath catching on a laugh that’s more tension than humor. “You appeared outta goddamn nowhere.”

You’re still staring, still breathing like your lungs forgot how for a moment. He nods, and in that subtle movement, you get a clearer look.

He stands a few feet away in the moonlight, his features finally sharpening in the silver wash of it. Dark pants hang loose over worn boots, held up by thick suspenders. The pale blue of his button-up looks nearly gray beneath the night sky, its collar undone just enough to show the soft white edge of a sleeveless undershirt beneath. Dark coat encases his body.

His hair is brown and cropped short, but loose curls fall just enough to kiss his forehead. And his eyes—dark, almost black in the moonlight—don’t leave your face. They study you the way someone studies a flame: close enough to feel the heat but never quite blinking.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he says again, and this time, your eyes catch on the shape of his mouth.

His teeth flash faintly in the low light—mostly straight, mostly normal. But there’s something… different. A few crooked edges. One or two that seem longer. Sharper. Not enough to be sure. Just enough to make your stomach turn oddly, like you’ve just remembered a name you never learned.

“You need something?” you ask, voice steady but edged with something dry. “Or do you regularly stand outside women’s homes like some creep?”

The words leave you too fast.

Your tone isn’t sharp—more exasperated than anything—but as soon as they’re out, a cold flush rises up your neck. You shouldn’t’ve said it. Not like that. You know better.

You’ve heard too many stories.

Women who spoke with less nerve than you, and still ended up with bruises blooming along their jaws. Girls who went missing after speaking too plainly. You swallow hard, trying to keep your face from shifting, but it’s there—the flicker of regret in your eyes, in the way you grip your broom a little tighter.

But then, he lets out a low chuckle. Quiet. Unbothered.

It rumbles from his chest like he actually found your words funny, not threatening. The sound unwinds some of the tension in your ribs, loosening your shoulders just enough to let breath flow easy again.

He has humor, you think. That’s something.

Still, you don’t look away. You keep your eyes on him, even as he brushes at his coat—though you’re almost certain there’s no real dust there. Just a motion. Something to do with his hands while he thinks.

“I was just passin’ by,” he says, his tone smooth again, a little slower now. “Heard your humming. Sounded nice.”

His voice dips a little at the end, not like a compliment, not quite—but something close. Something softer. Like the words held a memory.

You say nothing, not yet. Just study him.

The way the moonlight shapes him now feels different than a moment ago. He’s not moving toward you. Not threatening. But there’s something deliberate in his stillness. In how his eyes take you in again—slower this time. Not rude. Not leering.

Just… like he’s remembering.

Then he says it, almost like he’s answering your thoughts.

“You kinda remind me of someone.”

\\\\\\\\

“Who?”

The question slips from your lips before you can think twice, quiet but sharp with curiosity. Your fingers freeze mid-stroke, the piece of charcoal in your hand stuttering against the paper and smudging the corner of your sketch. A rough breath pushes from your nose.

‘A man out near the riverbank.’

His voice threads through your mind—low, calm, almost casual in the way he says it. But the words land heavy. You shake your head gently, trying to keep them from sinking too deep, to keep your focus grounded here, now.

“Remmick…” you murmur, a note of warning in your tone, or maybe worry.

‘I know.’

A pause stretches in the space between your thoughts and his voice, like a breath being held.

‘He deserved it, ya know? He couldn’t—wouldn’t keep his hands to himself.’

Your eyes narrow without meaning to. You glance up at the sun dipping low in the sky. Even as it sinks toward the treetops, its light still burns hot and bright, stinging your eyes until you wince and look away. Your gaze falls back to the page in your lap, to the lines your charcoal had drawn.

You don’t say anything for a moment. You don’t have to.

‘Still there?’

The voice comes again—gentler this time. Like he’s leaning closer, brushing the words he spoke through the strands of your mind instead of speaking it aloud any longer.

Your lips tug, just slightly, into a crooked smile.

“You miss my voice already?”

There’s another pause. And then another.

The charcoal dust clings to your fingertips as you drag the side of your hand across the paper, wiping away excess and softening the shadows. A breeze slips past the open window, stirring the loose hairs at your temple.

‘I miss you.’

Those words come softer. Rawer. They settle into you like warm hands sliding around your middle, like something deeper than sound curling low in your chest.

You let out a slow breath—didn’t even know you were holding it.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you whisper.

‘I wish I was there now.’

His voice is a whisper now, like it’s being carried from far off and wrapped in something aching.

You rub the back of your nose with the heel of your charcoal-coated hand, leaving a smudge behind.

“You just gotta wait a little more, yeah?” you murmur, turning the paper slowly, holding it up in the late light.

The sketch is rough, but it holds something of him in it. Something of how he lingers in your mind even when you try to focus on anything else.

“I have a surprise for you when you get here.”

He doesn’t answer this time. But you don’t need words to feel it. It moves through the tether between you—an almost tangible pulse. Warm, steady, full.

Devotion.

The sun has long dipped below the horizon by the time a knock echoes through your small home—sharp, but not rushed. Measured. Expectant.

For nearly an hour now, you haven’t moved much, just shifting from chair to window to doorway and back again. The sketch rests across your lap, its edges curled slightly beneath your fingertips. You’ve wiped your hands on your apron more than once, but faint stains of charcoal still cling beneath your nails and settle into the grooves of your knuckles—proof of time spent trying to capture something delicate. Something he might see and recognize as his.

God, you hope he understands it.

Not just the way the lines curve or how the shadows fall—but what lives in the stillness between them. You drew it slow, with smudged fingertips and patient strokes, not to capture detail but memory. A moment stilled.

You hope he doesn’t look at it for what it is, but for what it offers. For what you can’t give him with your hands or your words.

Another knock sounds, and your head lifts.

You don’t call out. You don’t rush. You rise slowly from your seat, your nightgown whispering against your skin as it sways around your ankles. Bare feet pad across the wooden floor, each step unhurried. He’s already here. You can feel it in your chest before your hand even reaches the door.

Then his voice slides through the wood—warm, easy, touched with teasing.

“Gonna make me wait all night?”

There’s no pressure in it. No impatience. Just the lazy drawl of a man who already knows your answer. A man who feels your presence the same way you feel his—always, even before your fingers meet the doorknob.

Your lips curve. You let your voice rise in reply, light and falsely thoughtful.

“I don’t know… I’m thinkin’ on it.”

A pause follows. Still and comfortable. The kind that stretches sweet between two people whose bond was sealed long before this moment.

Your fingers close around the doorknob and twist it slow.

The door creaks open, and you lean into the frame with a crooked smile, eyes catching his shape in the porch light.

“Well, hello, sir,” you murmur, voice thick like honey over gravel. “Are you sure you’ve got the right house?”

He stands just beyond the threshold, dusk outlining his form in soft shadows. His mouth quirks with a grin as he tilts his head slightly.

“Ma’am, I just came by to warn you—there’s a wild animal prowlin’ around out here.”

You blink, playing along, smile growing wider.

“Oh? Should I be afraid?”

You don’t get the chance to finish the tease.

He moves forward in a fluid, practiced motion, arms sliding around your waist. You yelp through a breathless laugh as he lifts you off the ground like it’s nothing. Your toes skim the floor once, twice, before you’re fully cradled in his arms.

“They say,” he murmurs, lips near your ear, “the animal’s got a thing for women who keep it on its toes.”

His breath is warm. His hold is steady. And you melt into him without thought—like muscle remembers before the mind catches up.

Then his mouth lowers to the tender skin beneath your ear, pressing a deliberate, lingering kiss.

Followed by a faint scrape of teeth.

“It also likes to bite,” he whispers, every word drawn out slow, letting them sink into your skin like heat.

You laugh, breath catching on a sound you didn’t mean to let slip, arms curling tight around his shoulders.

“I think I’ll keep it,” you whisper, grinning against his throat.

And you swear—you feel him smile, too.

The night deepens around you, slow and quiet. The oil lamp flickers low on the side table, casting warm golden light across the room, leaving the edges in shadow. The kind of light that makes everything feel gentler—closer.

You’re curled into him on the couch, your back pressed to his chest, his arms wound around your waist with a familiar weight as his back rests against the arm. His breath brushes the crown of your head. Steady. Calm. His fingers rest lazily against your stomach, and your own hand fidgets with the cuff of his shirt, folding the fabric, then unfolding it again.

“I still remember the first night we met,” he says, his voice low and slow, rumbling deep in his chest.

The sound of it thrums through your back—warm and vibrating through the bones of you like a soft drumbeat.

You let out a playful, exaggerated sigh. “You bring this up every other week.”

He lets his chin settle atop your head. A soft, absent motion that makes you smile despite yourself.

“It’s adorable,” he murmurs.

“You scared me half to death,” you remind him, voice tilting up into something mockingly indignant.

He only shrugs behind you, his laugh rolling low from his throat. No apology. Just amusement.

Silence drapes over you for a moment, long enough for the house to settle around you. The wood creaks softly, and the outside hum of insects builds and fades with the wind. You sink deeper into him, the beat of your heart quieting against the shape of his.

Then his voice slips out again—lower now. Different. Threaded with something distant and fond.

“Do you know what really sticks with me?”

You hum, barely a sound, your hand still tugging gently at the edge of his sleeve.

“The second night.”

You groan, the sound full of heat and laughter, your spine stiffening against his chest. “Not this again…”

“I just had to interrupt your performance with the squirrels,” he chuckles, voice full of the grin you don’t need to see to know is there.

“They were trying to take the bird’s food,” you argue, a hint of pride in your voice.

“You practically chased them off with a broom,” he teases, drawing circles against your collarbone with the tip of his finger. “I swear your father had to come help you.”

Your breath hitches with the motion of his touch, but you still manage a scoff. “You stood there like some creep,” you mutter, turning slightly to glance back at him. “You could’ve at least been a gentleman and helped.”

He laughs again—louder this time, but not harsh. It fades slowly as he looks at you, something quieter blooming behind his eyes. His gaze holds yours, soft and still.

“Do you remember the third night?” he asks, voice lower, more careful now.

You watch him for a beat, the memory flickering behind your eyes like a distant spark.

Then you nod—slow, certain—and turn back into his arms.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I remember.”

An owl calls from the trees above, its song low and long, echoing gently across the yard like a lullaby meant only for the night. The grass beneath your bare feet is cool, still damp from the afternoon rain, and freshly cut—sharp and green-smelling as it brushes against your ankles.

You move with the wind, not to any melody made by man, but to the soft, layered rhythm of the night. The hum of crickets, the rustle of leaves, the breath of the earth beneath you.

Your eyes are closed.

Your hands sweep through the air—out, behind, above—fingertips carving patterns through nothing. The energy of it all coils in your belly and unfurls through your limbs like light, like water. It pulses through you, ancient and steady. You don’t dance to be seen. You dance to be felt.

And still—he sees you.

He stands at the edge of the yard, silent in the shadows.

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. But you feel him. The weight of him. The awareness. The way his presence folds into the air like heat rising off stone. It doesn’t startle you. Doesn’t stop you. You’re too far gone in the rhythm to care. You dance as if he isn’t there—because in truth, everything in that moment belongs to something older than either of you.

But when you do finally stop, breath feathering from your lips, you turn your head slowly—and he’s still watching.

His mouth is parted slightly. His eyes are dark, drawn in, like they’re trying to memorize what they just witnessed. Like they’ve forgotten how to blink.

“That was beautiful,” he says, voice hushed and full—like anything louder might shatter the air between you.

The words curl around your ribs, nest there. A stranger’s compliment shouldn’t warm you like this. Not on the third night of him appearing without warning. Not after the way your father squinted suspiciously at him from the porch light the evening before.

And yet—

“I know,” you reply softly, gaze pulling toward the moon overhead. Its light turns your skin pale silver, glinting off your cheeks and collarbones.

Behind you, he lets out a quiet sound—half-laugh, half-exhale. Barely audible. But it reaches you all the same.

You turn then. Finally look at him. Really look.

And what you see in his eyes stops you.

Not hunger. Not mischief. Not charm.

But something older.

Something searching.

“Beautiful.”

His voice breaks the quiet with a tone that feels almost sacred, and the word lands like a ripple through still water—pulling you gently out of the memory you’d been floating in.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers pause against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, the words slipping out too fast, too sudden.

Behind you, Remmick shifts, his head tilting slightly. He hums, a soft note of confusion, the sound curling into the space between your neck and shoulder.

“What you sorry for?”

You look down, eyes falling to the hand still idly fussing with the cuff of his shirt—folding it, smoothing it, folding it again. Your teeth graze your bottom lip before you catch yourself.

“For not bein’ able to bring them back,” you whisper. The words sting in your throat more than you expected. “Your family.”

You feel it the moment it hits him—his body tenses behind you, the quiet inhale that doesn’t quite reach his lungs. He doesn’t speak right away.

But before he can gather something to say, you’re turning, twisting in his arms to face him. The words tumble out fast, too full, too heavy to hold back.

“Maybe I wasn’t what you were looking for—maybe I—”

“No.”

It cuts through clean. Not sharp. Not scolding.

Just certain.

His hand closes around yours, fingers wrapping tight—not desperate, just firm. Grounding. His eyes search yours, and his head shakes once, like he’s banishing the thought from both of you before it can settle.

“You are what I was looking for.”

He says it like a vow.

And then, softer—softer than anything else he’s said tonight, as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and his brow draws slightly:

“Love, I’m so happy to have found you.”

The silence that follows doesn’t ache.

It holds.

And when you breathe again, it feels like you’re finally letting yourself believe it.

“I have somethin’ for—somethin’ to show you.”

The words stumble out, your breath catching in your chest as you untangle yourself from him. A rush of nerves spikes through you, making your hands shake as they hover for a moment before finding their purpose. Your feet carry you over to the dining room table, where the sketch waits, neatly folded and lying there like something fragile.

You glance back over your shoulder at him, catching the way he watches you, still lounging on the couch but sitting straighter now, his feet brushing the floor.

“What is it?” His voice is low, but his eyes are full of something—something expectant, even intrigued.

“It’s just a little drawing,” you murmur, the paper suddenly feeling much heavier in your hands as you move back towards him.

His brow arches, eyes flicking to the ink stains along your fingertips.

“Is that why your fingers look like you’ve been diggin’ in ink?”

You swat his arm gently, a soft laugh escaping you as you push the nervousness from your throat. “It’s small—honestly—it’s nothing big. But I wanted to give you a clear, or as clear as it can get, image.”

You sit next to him on the couch and extend it toward him, heart thudding in your chest.

He takes it slowly, his brows furrowing slightly as he studies the sketch. His eyes trace the strokes and shadows, lingering on the curves of the lines, as if trying to piece together the story you’ve captured. The silence between you both feels thick, heavy with anticipation, and you brace yourself for a reaction you’re not sure you’re ready for.

But then, his gaze shifts back to you, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes are dark, a quiet storm of emotions swirling in them—confusion, curiosity, but most of all, longing. Desperate longing.

It hits you all at once, like a soft blow to the chest, and for a moment, you almost wish you hadn’t drawn it at all. You almost regret giving him this piece of you, this representation of something he can never have in the same way again.

But then, before you can pull back, before the doubt can settle in, he leans forward. The paper still in his hands, not forgotten for a moment as his lips find yours.

The kiss is urgent, the kind that pulls at your soul as much as it pulls at your body. Your hand rises instinctively to cup his cheek, the cool of his skin grounding you in this moment. You melt into him, the tension in your shoulders unraveling as his touch deepens the kiss.

And then, just as quickly, he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, breath coming fast.

“The sun,” he whispers, the words barely audible but laced with something raw—something that echoes in your own chest.

———————

It’s been twelve full moons since the night you gave him the sun.

Since you handed him something he hadn’t seen in so long and watched it catch in his throat. The sun—captured in your lines, your hands, your memory. A light he could never touch again, offered to him through you.

Now, the nights are quieter, warmer.

And now, even after all these months, he touches you like that moment never left him.

“Remmick…”

Your voice spills out in a breath, soft and undone, as his lips press against your neck again and again—slow, lingering kisses that melt into the hollow of your throat and the curve of your collarbone. He’s kneeling between your parted thighs, the weight of him grounding you, steadying you.

Your hand is tangled in his hair, the dark locks soft against your fingers as they tighten just slightly. He groans at the feeling, low and deep, like it stirs something in him he never meant to let loose.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, light and quick—but it catches, twists, becomes something else entirely when his mouth opens against the spot just beneath your chin and he sucks gently, leaving a mark that makes your toes curl.

One of his hands grips your hip, firm but worshipful. The other guides your leg higher, wrapping your thigh around his waist. You can feel the flex of his muscles through the fabric of your clothes—always clothed, always drawn out like this, as if undressing fully would tip the balance into something neither of you could undo.

He moans against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones as your hand tightens in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath catch.

His tongue drags a slow line up the length of your throat—hot, wet, lingering—until it reaches the corner of your mouth. He kisses you there, not quite on your lips. Just close enough to make you shudder.

Your thighs tighten around him, urging him forward.

“Give it to me,” you whisper, panting softly now, your voice thick with need that’s become almost ritual.

Remmick’s eyes shift—darker now, pupils dilated, hunger swimming through them, but not for flesh. For this. For you.

He brings his wrist up to his mouth and bites. Not gently. His fangs tear into the skin with practiced force, piercing just deep enough to make the blood run freely. Thick, dark, it begins to fall—hot drops staining the front of your dress.

You don’t wait. You never do.

You grasp his wrist and pull it to your mouth, lips parting as you begin to drink.

Slowly.

His blood pours across your tongue like smoke—rich, metallic, ancient. It coils down your throat, and you moan around his wrist, hips pressing down against him in a slow grind that sends heat lacing up your spine.

It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t kill. Not like it should.

His blood was meant to destroy—corrode, rot from the inside out. To anyone else, it would have been poison. But to you?

It settles like firelight in your chest.

No one, not even Remmick, understands it. How your body takes his blood and lives. Hungers for it. How it makes your senses crackle and your thoughts slip sideways into his.

He watches you now, still holding your leg in place, his wrist slack in your grip as you drink. His mouth parts slightly in awe, eyes half-lidded.

It’s not just the pleasure of it—it’s the connection.

A tether forged in something older than touch.

And as the blood pulses through your veins like a slow current, you feel the familiar shift begin.

The world stills at the edges.

Your breath synchronizes with his.

And then—faintly—like a whisper in a dream—

‘Can you hear me?’

The words aren’t spoken.

They’re felt.

From somewhere inside.

From him.

You close your eyes and lean into the warmth of his body, lips still pressed to his skin.

‘Always.’

You don’t stop drinking right away.

You stay there, lips pressed to his wrist, your breath ghosting hot against his skin with each swallow. His blood fills your mouth in steady waves, pulsing with something ancient and strange, tasting of earth and copper and thunderclouds ready to break. It spreads through your limbs like warmth pulled from the deepest part of a hearth.

You can feel the weight of him above you—his chest heaving slowly, his arm trembling just faintly in your grip. He’s watching you, you know he is. You feel it in the way his hand tightens on your thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to anchor himself. His hips shift closer, slow, a near-imperceptible grind that tells you he’s just as drunk on this as you are.

Your body shivers in response, the sensation of him—his scent, his heat, the deep thrum of his power—curling into you, winding itself around your breath like a silk thread being pulled tighter and tighter.

Finally, you release his wrist with one last lick, blood still slicking your lips, glowing faintly in the lamplight. You press your face to the inside of his arm, inhaling the scent of his skin, letting the quiet of your joined bodies settle back in.

He exhales slowly, forehead lowering to rest against yours.

“Every time,” he whispers, voice roughened, breath warm against your cheek. “It never gets easier, needing you like this.”

You smile, lips brushing against his skin.

“I don’t want it to get easier.”

Your hand, still tangled in his hair, slips down to cup the side of his face. His stubble grazes your palm. He leans into the touch like it’s the only thing keeping him together. His free arm slides around your back, holding you fully, folding you into him like he wants to memorize every inch of your shape.

You tilt your head, guiding his mouth back to yours.

The kiss is slow. Saturated. It tastes faintly of blood and something far sweeter—familiar, claiming, home. He groans softly against your lips, his body sinking deeper between your thighs as if he could disappear inside you if he just moved close enough.

Your bodies don’t rush.

You never do.

This has always been about something more than hunger. More than flesh.

It’s about the space between the blood and the breath.

It’s about the way his fingers tremble when they trace the curve of your back through your dress. About the way your mouth parts for him even before he asks. About how his voice breaks just slightly when he murmurs your name like a prayer, spoken only for you.

Your legs curl tighter around his waist.

His hand cups the back of your neck.

And for a long, suspended moment, you just exist like that—pressed together, pulsing with the same rhythm, your minds still softly tangled in that shared tether.

His mouth parts from yours, slow and reluctant, as though breaking the kiss costs him something. But then he’s lowering—pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the bare skin at the top of your chest, where your collar dips just below your throat. Each kiss grows messier, wetter, trailing heat in their wake as his breath thickens against your skin.

You feel his lips move back up, soft and deliberate, until he’s at your throat again. He sucks gently on the flesh there—right where your pulse flutters closest to the surface—and your head tips back instinctively, a moan slipping from your mouth, low and unguarded.

You close your eyes, drowning in the sensation, the way his mouth worships you like you’re sacred. You melt into it, hips rising just slightly, your whole body humming.

Until—

A pressure.

A shift.

A sharpness.

It presses, faint at first, then firmer. Something cold, glancing the curve of your neck.

“Remmick?”

Your voice is a breath at first, confused but not panicked. Not yet.

But then you feel it again—definite now—the unmistakable drag of a fang against your skin. Not playful. Not soft. A warning. A threat.

“Remmick,” you say louder this time, a tremor threading through your voice.

No answer.

Only a low growl—feral and guttural—rising from his chest.

Your heart stutters.

You push at his chest, sudden and firm. “Remmick—!”

His body jerks back as if he’s been doused in cold water, a choked sound tearing from his throat. His eyes, once half-lidded with desire, now burn red—crimson—staring past you, unseeing, his breath ragged and uneven. But as you stare, you see the color begin to fade—slowly, then all at once—retreating like a tide.

You sit up, the moment shattered. The air between you now cracked and sharp.

Your hands tremble as you adjust the sleeve of your dress, fingers fumbling. You don’t look away from him. You can’t. Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths as the last of the heat bleeds from your skin and leaves something colder in its place.

His mouth is parted. He looks dazed—like he’s just woken from something he didn’t want to be in. His gaze finally meets yours, and what you see there is no longer hunger.

It’s guilt.

And fear.

And something else he’s too afraid to name.

The room is quiet—too quiet.

Just the sound of your breath, ragged and quick in your chest. Just the soft ticking of the old wall clock, the distant chirp of crickets outside the window. The warmth from the oil lamp still glows, but it doesn’t reach your skin like it did before.

You stare at him.

And he stares at you.

Neither of you moves. For a long, trembling moment, you’re both frozen in the wreckage of what almost happened.

Then—he shifts.

Only slightly. A small movement forward, the start of reaching out.

But your body responds before your mind can soften it. You tense, your spine pulling back like a thread snapped tight. It’s not dramatic. Not a jolt. But enough. Enough for him to see it.

He freezes mid-reach, then withdraws—slowly, deliberately—his hands falling to his thighs. He nods once to himself, almost like he’s answering a question you didn’t ask.

With a heavy breath, he lowers himself to the floor, sitting back against the foot of the couch. His legs stretch out in front of him, shoulders hunched, head bowed. One hand comes up to rub over his face, dragging from brow to jaw like he’s trying to wipe away the moment.

“Fuck,” he mutters, low and hoarse. His fingers dig into his temples. “Fuck, fuck—”

You watch him. From where you sit. From the place where his touch had just been.

He curses again, quieter this time. Not angry. Not cruel. Just broken. Cursing himself, not the world.

And you feel something shift in your chest—not the fear, not yet. But the knowing. The understanding.

So you move.

Slowly, carefully, you rise to your feet. The hem of your dress brushes your knees as you walk, cautious and bare-footed, toward where he sits in shadow. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t hear you coming until you’re already there.

When he does lift his eyes, it’s quick, almost reflexive.

And still—you flinch.

It’s the smallest thing. A flicker of muscle, a pull at your shoulders. You don’t mean to. But it’s there.

And he sees it. All of it.

The guilt that floods his face is instant, undeniable. Like something in him collapses. He turns his head slightly as if to hide, like he doesn’t want you to see the part of him he’s just shown.

But you kneel anyway.

You sink down in front of him, the floor cold beneath your knees, and you reach out.

Your hands come up slow, hesitant—but sure. You cup his face gently, thumbs brushing the sharp cut of his jaw, coaxing his gaze back to yours.

His eyes flicker up, full of something wild and wounded. He opens his mouth—and the words fall out in a rush, cracked and frantic.

“I’m sorry—”

His breath shakes.

“I didn’t mean—”

He swallows hard.

“I would never—God, I’m so sorry—”

“Shhh…”

Your voice breaks through softly, warm and steady.

You press your forehead to his.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

He doesn’t believe it. Not yet. Not fully. But he closes his eyes, and he lets you hold him anyway.

And for now, that’s enough.

Minutes pass, but they stretch long and aching, like time itself is unsure how to move forward.

You’re both seated on the couch, the air between you thick with what almost happened. Close enough to reach for each other, but neither of you does. Not yet.

You sit still, your knees drawn in slightly, eyes on the floor. Remmick leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his fingers twitching at his knees.

Every few minutes, he swipes at his pant leg—dusting off nothing. Just a nervous habit. You’ve seen him do it a hundred times across three years. He does it when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s scared he’s hurt you, when his guilt starts to choke the words in his throat.

“You didn’t mean it,” you say softly, trying to fill the silence with something true.

But he cuts across your words—not sharp, not cruel. Just quiet. Defeated.

“It still happened.”

His voice settles into the room like a stone dropped in still water.

You don’t respond right away. Because you can’t lie—it did happen. This isn’t the first time. You’ve been here before. These moments where the instinct in him overwhelms the man you know. When something ancient stirs in his blood and almost—almost—makes him forget who you are.

Who he is.

And still… you stay.

Because it is instinct. Because it’s him. Because he’s tried so hard to be gentle, to be careful with you, to never take more than you offer.

But your humanity doesn’t always understand.

There are flashes. Of fear. Of your body screaming to move, to run. Even when your heart knows better.

Your hand rises slowly, brushing off your shoulder—not because anything is there, but because your body needs something to do, a motion to match the quiet storm inside you.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Remmick watching you. Just barely. Just for a second. Like he’s afraid to look too long.

“I’m not scared,” you say quietly, still brushing at nothing.

Your voice trembles—but not with fear.

“I promise.”

That part is steadier. More certain. Like you’re not just telling him, but yourself too.

He turns to look at you, eyes catching yours for a brief, flickering second. Then he leans back into the couch again, sighing as he drags both hands up over his face and into his hair.

His elbows rest wide, shoulders curling in, and for a moment he looks less like the creature who nearly lost control—and more like a man unraveling under the weight of being that creature at all.

There’s another beat of silence.

Heavy.

Full.

But not suffocating.

And then—you move.

You shift slowly, inching closer, careful not to startle him, not to break the fragile calm settling between you. His hands are still tangled in his hair when you press your body flush to his side, your knees drawing up gently to rest near his thigh. You let your head fall onto his shoulder, the weight of it soft but certain.

He tenses.

He always does, after things like this. After the hunger, the loss of control. Like he’s afraid your touch might break him. Or that he doesn’t deserve to be held after what nearly happened.

But when you exhale—a long, steady breath that says I’m still here—he softens.

Slowly, his shoulders lower. His body eases against yours. And then his chin dips to rest on the top of your head, the warmth of him grounding you both.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes.

Then his eyes fall to your chest.

To the thin gold chain and the small cross nestled in the hollow between your collarbones.

His fingers move before his voice does, brushing lightly against your skin. He picks it up with careful hands, like it might burn him.

“Why do you still wear this?” he murmurs, thumb ghosting across the little symbol. The question isn’t mocking. It’s softer than that. Almost confused.

You shrug, barely a motion, your cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt.

“Sometimes,” you say softly, “it’s better to be comforted by the familiarity of it… than to sit in the discomfort of knowing you were raised by people who heel to an if.”

His thumb keeps moving over the metal, slow and thoughtful.

Then—quietly—he asks, “Even after what happened?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer right away.

You feel the memory press up behind your ribs, the way some people spoke for God while hurting you in his name. But you shake your head, voice gentle but certain.

Your voice is quieter now, but not weak.

“I can’t blame God for the actions of men.”

Remmick lets the cross slip from his fingers.

“They’re his creations, though,” he says. Not accusing—just flat. Like stating a flaw in a story he’s never quite believed.

You pause. Your body shifts just slightly to glance at him.

His eyes aren’t sharp. But they aren’t soft, either. They look like someone who’s stood too long in the rain of something he used to want to believe in.

“Where is this coming from, Remmick?” you ask, reaching to touch the necklace again, your fingers now resting where his had been.

He’s quiet. Then his gaze meets yours.

“Because I’m not.”

Your brows draw slightly. “Not what?”

His throat bobs, and he exhales through his nose before answering.

“Holy.”

The word leaves his mouth like something unwanted. Like it tastes wrong.

You shake your head without hesitation, leaning back into him, fingers curling at the side of his shirt.

“I ain’t ask for holy.”

There’s a pause.

Then his arm slides around your waist, drawing you close—not fast, not rough, but sure. His hand rests flat against your back, and he holds you like you’re the only thing left in a world that never offered him much to believe in.

The room settles around you again, the stillness no longer tense, but warm in its hush. The lamplight flickers low, casting soft gold across the floorboards, the corners of the room melting into shadow.

Remmick doesn’t speak, and neither do you.

He just holds you.

One arm wraps around your waist, the other hand resting along your spine, fingers splayed wide, keeping you close like he needs the weight of you to stay grounded. Your cheek presses to his chest—cool and still beneath the fabric of his shirt. There’s no rhythm to lull you, no beat beneath your ear.

But it doesn’t matter.

You’ve long since stopped searching for it.

His stillness is its own kind of comfort.

The way he holds you, the way his body curves instinctively to shelter yours—it tells you more than a pulse ever could.

Your fingers fidget lightly with the hem of his shirt, not out of nerves but instinct. He shifts just enough to pull a blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you in a quiet offering. His movements are careful. As if he thinks too much noise might startle the moment away.

“You always run cold at night,” he murmurs, just above your ear.

“I do not,” you whisper back, half a smile in your voice.

He hums in amusement, dipping his head slightly to press a kiss into your hair. Not rushed. Not wanting anything. Just the kind of kiss someone gives when they think no one else is watching.

Your breath begins to slow.

Your hand, once gently moving across his chest, grows still. He feels the change in you almost immediately—how your weight softens against him, how your fingers twitch once, then relax completely. Your body melts into his side, trusting, safe.

And he stays still.

He couldn’t sleep, even if he wanted. Not anymore.

He just watches.

The way your face tips toward him, lashes brushing the tops of your cheeks. The rise and fall of your chest beneath the blanket. The cross glinting faintly against your skin as the lamplight burns itself out.

His hand strokes once down your back, slow and steady. A silent promise. A grounding.

He doesn’t dare move.

Because this—the weight of you against him, the quiet peace that followed the chaos—is something he doesn’t ever take lightly.

And though the house has fallen silent and your breath is deep with sleep, Remmick remains awake, holding you like you’re still asking to be protected.

———————

“I can’t stay here.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade—sharp, absolute.

You chase after him, feet bare against the old wooden floor as he moves too fast, too frenzied, like if he stops for even a second, he’ll fall apart. Your hand brushes the edge of his shirt, just barely, but he’s already beyond your reach.

“Remmick—wait,” you call, breath catching, the words tumbling over themselves. “Can’t we just talk about it?”

He doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t look at you. His voice rises, tight with frustration and something dangerously close to despair.

“I need to get out. I need to find someone—someone who actually knows what the hell they’re doing. Someone who can help.”

“Help with what?” your voice breaks slightly. “You said it didn’t matter anymore. You said no one could conjure them, that it was impossible—”

“We have talked,” he snaps, spinning to face you. And when he says your name—he says it in a tone you’ve never heard from him. Not even when you were fighting. Not even when you were afraid.

You freeze.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

He sees it—the way you recoil just slightly, how your fingers twitch like they don’t know whether to reach for him or pull back entirely. And still, you try. You step forward, eyes wide, jaw tight.

“You said it didn’t matter anymore,” you plead, anger bubbling up beneath the desperation now. “You said you couldn’t find anyone who could conjure them, and we—we moved on, Remmick! We—”

Your voice shakes. You hate the way it does. You hate the way your chest aches from chasing him, not just through the house, but through the months that led to this.

He turns to you fully now, eyes scanning your face, your posture, your hair—longer now, pinned back in a way that’s already half-fallen from place. There’s something about your appearance that makes him still. Like he’s seeing not just the person in front of him, but all the time you’ve weathered together. All the nights. All the blood. All the silence.

He says your name again.

Softer.

And then he closes his eyes.

“I tried,” he breathes, voice quiet, almost tender in its regret. “I really did.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re empty of hope.

“But being with you…” He pauses. Swallows. “It reminds me of the part of me that still wishes I was human. That part that wishes I could connect with people again.”

You flinch, like you’ve been struck. But you don’t back down.

“You connected with me,” you say sharply, your hand flying up in disbelief, gesturing to your own chest. “You said that. You said I made you feel like—like you were still something.”

He breathes hard through his nose, jaw clenched. And then—

A pause.

A beat that goes on too long.

Too heavy.

His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours.

“That was a mistake.”

The silence that follows is loud. Deafening.

You stare at him. Waiting. Daring him to take it back.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, full of that distant kind of grief that’s been killing him slowly long before this moment.

Another long beat of silence.

The kind that presses into your chest and makes it hard to breathe. The kind that makes the room feel smaller, heavier—like the walls are listening, holding their breath along with you.

Your vision blurs slightly. Tears swell hot at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. You won’t. Not in front of him. Not after this.

You swallow hard, jaw tight, voice trembling as you force the words out.

“How dare you?”

His eyes snap to yours, startled—not by the volume, but by the weight of it.

You take a step forward, fists clenched at your sides to keep from shaking. He glances away, quickly—like looking at you is suddenly too much—but you don’t give him the out.

“How dare you say that,” you repeat, louder this time, voice cracking beneath the fury that rises like a wave behind your ribs, “after everything we’ve been through?”

He turns back, but you’re already staring him down, eyes wet and burning, teeth gritted so tight your whole body aches with it.

“You think you can just throw all this away? Call it a mistake?” Your voice quivers, but it doesn’t falter. “We survived things together. You shared blood. We—” you stop yourself, shoulders trembling as your breath comes fast and shallow. “Don’t you dare rewrite what we had just because you’re scared.”

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

And all you can do is stand there, every part of you pulled tight like a thread about to snap, holding on for dear life just to keep from crumbling at his feet.

You don’t even realize how still you’ve gone until he turns his back on you.

That simple motion—silent, final—makes something inside you break.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just a slow, spreading crack through the center of your chest.

Your throat tightens. Your limbs go cold. You press your lips together hard, trying to stop the trembling in your jaw. But your eyes burn, and your vision sways, and something deep inside starts to unravel like thread being pulled from the hem of something sacred.

He’s facing the door now. Ready to leave you in ruins.

“Look at me,” you say, voice trembling, barely more than a breath.

He doesn’t move.

Your stomach twists. Your fingers curl against your sides, and you take a step toward him, your voice rising—

“Remmick, look at me.”

He turns.

Fast. Too fast. Like he’s been waiting to snap.

You flinch before you can stop yourself, instinct pulling your body backward a half-step.

And that’s when he says it.

“You aren’t special.”

The words are plain. Cold.

His eyes don’t blink, don’t soften. They bore into you like he’s trying to make you believe it—like he needs you to.

“You weren’t special enough to conjure them,” he spits, voice stripped of all the softness it used to hold for you. “All this time, all this blood, all this hope—and it was wasted. On you.”

You feel the breath knock out of you, a rush of silence ringing in your ears. It’s like your body hasn’t caught up yet to what your heart just heard.

And then he says it.

“Meeting you was a mistake.”

Your face crumples—just a flicker. You try to hide it. Try to stand tall. But the ache comes too fast. Too deep.

He stares at you. Daring you to fight it. Daring you to say he’s wrong.

But he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t know he’s already won.

Because he’s broken the one thing that held you both together.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

The words hang between you like smoke, thick and suffocating, refusing to clear. He watches you—still, unreadable—but something shifts.

Just for a second.

A flicker.

It passes through his face too quickly, but you catch it—guilt. The barest crack in the mask. A subtle falter in the set of his jaw. The tiniest twitch of something human behind his eyes. Something that wants to take the words back.

But then he straightens. Withdraws.

His shoulders pull back, chin lifts slightly, and the mask returns. Cold. Detached. It slips back over his face like armor—like he needs it to stand here and not fall apart.

You stare at him, still frozen, your breath caught so tightly in your chest it hurts.

And then, finally—you exhale.

A soft, trembling sound escapes your lips, the breath breaking as it leaves you. It unravels into a quiet cry—small, raw, but cutting straight through the hollow ache inside you.

Your knees don’t give out. Your voice doesn’t rise.

You just… break, quietly.

The tears fall before you can stop them, hot and unrelenting. They spill down your cheeks like something you’ve been holding back for far too long, and your hand comes up—uselessly—to catch them. But they keep coming.

You’re not sobbing.

You’re just grieving.

Grieving what he just said.

Grieving that he meant it.

Grieving the part of him that once held you like you were the only thing keeping him in this world.

You take a step back.

Just one.

But it says everything. The distance grows in more ways than one—and for a breath, you see it in his eyes. The way they flicker. The way his fingers twitch. Like he’s about to follow you.

For a split second, it looks like Remmick might reach out—might step forward.

But he doesn’t.

He stills himself. Draws his hand into a fist at his side. Locks his body in place like it’s the only way he can keep from unraveling.

You stare at him through the blur of tears. Your breath is uneven, your chest tight with every word he’s thrown at you, and still—still—you look at him like you’re trying to see past all of it. Like you’re still trying to find him underneath the cruelty.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice is lower. Less certain.

“I meant what I said,” he tells you.

But it lacks the venom now. The edge has dulled. There’s something buried beneath it—something fragile. And he tries to hide it, tightening his jaw, avoiding your eyes. It’s the kind of lie someone tells when they need it to be true. When the alternative would break them.

You drag the heel of your hand across your cheek, wiping away the tears, though the dampness clings to your skin. Your eyes don’t leave him.

And then, after a long, aching silence, you say it:

“Turn me.”

His eyes widen. His head jerks slightly, like he misheard you. For the first time since he turned away, his composure shatters just a little.

“No,” he says immediately, shaking his head like the word itself might undo something. “No.”

But you’re already stepping forward. Slow. Certain. The pain in your chest rising like a tide.

You close the space between you until you’re right there—nearly brushing against him, close enough to feel the cold tension radiating off his body, close enough to make him hold his breath.

“Turn me,” you repeat, firmer now, eyes locking with his. “Do it—so you won’t leave.”

His face twists. “You don’t know what you’re asking—”

“Yes, I do.”

Your voice doesn’t shake now.

“Because I know you, Remmick. I know what this is. You don’t mean what you said. You’re pushing me away because you’re scared, because you think you’re protecting me—but I see you.”

He doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, stunned, struggling to hide the storm behind his eyes.

“And yes,” your voice softens but doesn’t lose its edge, “your words hurt me. But I’m still here.”

You lift your chin, breath shallow. “So if this is the only way you’ll stay—then do it.”

Remmick shakes his head again, more forcefully this time, jaw clenched, eyes glinting with something wild and frayed.

“No,” he mutters, barely more than breath. “No.”

But you press closer to him anyway.

You’re almost flush against his chest now, breath mingling with his, your hands reaching for the front of his coat—gripping the worn fabric in tight fists, like if you hold hard enough, he won’t disappear.

“Please,” you beg, voice cracked, raw. “Remmick, please—just turn me. Don’t go. Don’t leave me like this—don’t say those things if you don’t mean them.”

His hands twitch at his sides, knuckles pale with restraint. He looks down at you, expression dark, unreadable—but there’s something breaking behind his eyes.

“No,” he says again, louder this time, harsher. “No.”

He moves—tries to back away—but your grip tightens, frantic now, fingers curled tight in his coat like you’re afraid he’ll vanish the second you let go.

And then the sobs come.

They ripple through you like a storm, wracking your body as your knees almost buckle beneath the weight of everything—his words, his distance, the unbearable ache of loving someone who keeps pulling away.

“Please,” you choke again. “Please…”

Your voice crumbles. You’re not begging for the turning anymore—you’re begging for him. For the Remmick who held you at night. Who pressed kisses to your shoulder while you slept. Who whispered that you made him feel alive again.

And that’s what shatters him.

His face crumples—just for a second—and then his hands are on yours, trembling.

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I won’t.”

He grips your wrists gently but firmly, peeling your hands from his coat with heartbreaking care, as though touching you too harshly might undo you completely.

“I won’t do that to you,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, swimming with sorrow. “I won’t damn you.”

His words tremble. His hands linger on your wrists even after he’s pulled them free.

His grip on your wrists lingers, trembling, as if some part of him doesn’t want to let go.

But he does.

He peels away from you slowly, like it hurts to break the contact. Your hands fall limply to your sides, empty now. Cold. His touch still clings to your skin even as he steps back, gaze flickering down before he forces himself to look away entirely.

You stumble a step after him.

“Remmick—” your voice is barely there. A breathless sob tangled in his name.

But he turns his back to you.

One hand rakes through his hair, gripping the strands tightly, like he’s trying to pull something out of himself. His other hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles cracking as he breathes heavy through his nose—too steady for a man this undone.

You stand there, frozen in place, a hollow thing trying to find footing on a crumbling floor.

“Remmick,” you say again, louder, more fractured, the plea cracking down the middle.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look back.

He moves toward the door, each step sharp, deliberate. You want to run to him, to grab him again—but your body won’t move. It’s locked in place by too much—rage, grief, love, disbelief—too much.

He reaches the door, and his hand clamps down on the knob so hard it groans beneath his grip.

Metal warps under his palm, the shape bending slightly from the pressure. He closes his eyes.

He could stay.

He wants to.

But if he does, he won’t leave at all. And that terrifies him more than the sound of your voice breaking behind him.

With a harsh exhale, he yanks the door open.

Outside, the night air spills in—cold and wide and merciless. He stands there for a moment, held still by something invisible. He hesitates.

Just one second.

The ache in his chest blooms again. A bloom with no heartbeat, no blood. Just hollow space where your voice used to echo inside him.

But then—he steps forward.

Down the porch stairs. Into the dark.

And as the distance grows, he tries—tries—to drown out the sound of you crying behind him.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

Your body is still frozen in place, chest heaving with sobs that feel too big for your ribs, too old to cry. Your hands tremble at your sides—empty, aching, reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.

Then, like instinct—like the last spark of hope clinging to a thread—you reach for him the only way you still can.

Through the link.

‘Remmick…’

You don’t speak it aloud. You don’t need to. You close your eyes, press your hand to your chest, and focus everything—everything—on him. The ache. The longing. The sharp panic rising as his presence starts to feel distant.

‘Please… come back.’

No answer.

You try again, harder this time, your mind pushing past the pain, straining through the space between you.

‘Remmick, please. Don’t do this.’

Still—nothing.

Not a whisper.

Not even the faint echo of thought.

You feel him.

You feel him walking away. Each step pulling the tether tighter, drawing it out like a thread unraveling at the seams. He’s walking into the woods now, into the dark, and you can feel the earth swallowing his presence inch by inch.

‘Answer me,’ you plead, the thought barely holding together under the weight of your grief.

He doesn’t.

He keeps walking.

And as he moves deeper into the trees, your link with him—so often warm, so steady it felt like breath—begins to fade.

Fainter.

Fainter still.

Like fog slipping through your fingers.

You press your forehead to the wall beside the door, tears spilling again, lips parted in a silent gasp.

There is nothing now.

Just the dark.

Just the cold.

And the silence where his voice used to be.

———————

Your feet brush against each other beneath the quilt as you tug it higher up your shoulder, chasing warmth that never quite stays. The winter air creeps in through the cracks in the wood, biting at your arms, your neck, anywhere the blanket doesn’t reach.

You nestle deeper into the bed, letting the stillness settle over you. It’s a familiar kind of cold now. Quiet. Lonely, but bearable.

Your eyes grow heavy, breath evening out as sleep pulls at you.

Your hand rises absently to scratch your scalp—fingers dragging through the short strands before you wince, quickly remembering that you’d cut it just the morning before. A change. Something new. Something yours.

But then—

A cry.

Loud. Restless. Piercing.

You bolt upright, rubbing at your eyes as your feet find the floor, already moving.

The old boards groan beneath your steps as you hurry down the hall, the sound of her cries swelling with each stride, high and sharp and full of tiny, desperate frustration.

You push open the door to the guest room.

The soft glow from the lamp you’d left on filters across the bassinet—your sister’s, now yours for the week since she dropped off your niece. Just until she sorted some things out. You’d said yes before you could even think twice.

The baby’s cries fill the room now, bouncing off the walls in wild, wordless protest. You step forward, peering into the bassinet, and there she is—flushed-cheeked and determined, trying to shove her fist into her mouth.

“Girl,” you murmur, exasperation bleeding into affection as you tilt your head and reach in, “you a handful.”

She wriggles as you lift her, her little body warm against yours. The moment she’s in your arms, her cries soften to hiccupped whimpers, mouth still working, cheeks damp. One tiny fist rubs beneath her eye, and she lets out a pitiful little sigh that nearly breaks your heart.

Your feet carry you back down the hall without needing to think, swaying with her as you walk.

You move through the kitchen with practiced ease, one hand on the bottle, the other keeping her tucked close, even as she squirms.

The quiet of the house wraps around you again.

Not the same quiet it used to be.

Not the same ache.

But quieter still.

You bounce her gently against your hip as the bottle warms in the pot of water on the stove, her head tucked under your chin, cheeks flushed with the aftershock of her crying fit. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the glow of a single hanging bulb that hums softly above.

Outside, the wind groans low against the windows.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just… present.

You press a kiss to the baby’s head, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath, the kind of words meant only for soothing, not meaning. Her small fingers clutch at the collar of your nightshirt, still rubbing at her face now and then, whimpering with discomfort, but quieter now. Contained.

You sway with her, barefoot on the chilled wood floor. It creaks beneath you with each step. Familiar. Lived-in.

But something about the quiet feels different tonight. Not wrong exactly, just… off.

The wind shifts again, brushing against the side of the house like fingers trailing across old wood. You glance toward the window, frowning faintly, but don’t stop moving.

“You don’t even like the cold,” you whisper to the baby, rocking side to side. “Don’t know why your mama insisted on that thin little blanket…”

Your voice trails off as your eyes linger on the dark glass of the window.

There’s nothing there.

Just your reflection. You and her. The slow rise and fall of her breath against your chest. The soft flicker of the light swinging just slightly above.

Still—you find yourself listening harder.

To the house.

To the air.

To the quiet between sounds.

The bottle clicks lightly against the side of the pot as you reach for it. You test the heat on your wrist, then bring it to her lips. She latches, her little mouth greedy, like she hadn’t just cried the walls down.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

Steady.

But you don’t stop watching the window.

There’s something in your chest—nothing sharp yet, just a whisper in the gut. Like being watched. Like the moment just before thunder. A pressure that builds but hasn’t broken.

You shake your head.

You haven’t felt that way in a long time. Not since—

You blink. Your fingers brush over the back of the baby’s head. Her eyes flutter closed slowly as she suckles.

You stare into the window a second longer.

Just your reflection.

Just the wind.

But your fingers curl tighter around her.

And you don’t move far from the stove.

Her tiny breaths come slower now.

The bottle hangs at an angle in your hand as her mouth relaxes around the nipple, no longer sucking. Just resting. The tension in her little body has gone limp with sleep, one arm flopped across your chest, the other curled under her chin. Her lashes flutter once, then still.

You watch her.

Your niece.

Small and warm in your arms, her cheek nestled just over your heart. It calms you—being her anchor. Being needed, even in the quiet. Even when your own heart has been patchwork ever since he left.

You sigh and gently ease the bottle from her mouth, slow enough not to wake her. It comes free with a faint pop, and you hold it loosely in your hand, cradling her a little closer with the other. Her lips twitch slightly in her sleep, like she’s still dreaming of something sweet.

You press another kiss to her temple and begin to turn, shifting your weight toward the fridge.

Then—you freeze.

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway.

Remmick.

The air leaves your lungs so quietly you don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

He just stands there, tall and still and real, like he never left. Like he could’ve always been there, just at the edge of a memory, just out of reach.

The low light from the overhead bulb flickers faintly, casting soft shadows across his face, half of him cloaked in darkness. His eyes are locked on you—not the baby. Not the bottle. You.

He looks older somehow. Or maybe not older—just tired. Worn. His clothes are damp at the hem, boots mud-dusted from the woods. The air around him is cold.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

The bottle dangles in your hand.

The baby sighs in her sleep.

And all you can do is stare, heart stuttering in your chest like it’s trying to remember how to feel everything it buried.

He doesn’t speak.

And God, you’re not even sure if he’s here to.

But he’s here.

Your lips part—

But nothing comes out.

The words catch in your throat, stuck behind the tide of disbelief and something deeper, something aching. Your gaze stays locked on him, searching for a reason, for any kind of explanation etched into his face.

But Remmick only stares.

His eyes, once soft only for you, now guarded, flicker downward to the bundle in your arms. His expression doesn’t shift, not fully—just enough to register something unreadable.

“…She yours?”

It takes you a moment to process the question. Not because it’s complicated. But because he asked it. Because he is standing there, like he didn’t disappear without a word—like two years didn’t pass in silence.

A scoff escapes before you can catch it. Sharp, tired, disbelieving.

“You’ve been gone, what—two years,” you say, voice low and tight as you rock the sleeping baby in your arms. “And you show up asking if I got knocked up?”

The bitterness is subtle, tucked beneath a layer of false steadiness, but it’s there. Your fingers tighten slightly on the bottle in your hand.

You try to sound even. Indifferent.

But the truth is, the weight of him being back—just standing there like the past didn’t happen—is pressing on your chest like a hand. And you’re doing everything you can not to fold beneath it.

He doesn’t answer. Not yet.

Just watches you with those dark eyes, unreadable in the low light, like he’s still catching up to the sight of you. Of what he left behind.

And maybe, just maybe, what he’s already regretting.

When he doesn’t answer, something in you shifts.

Breaks.

Not loudly. Not all at once. But in pieces—one word at a time.

“You don’t get to ask questions like that,” you say, still low, still sharp, but your voice thins with every breath. “You don’t get to show up after years—after walking away from me, from everything—and act like you still have any right to know what’s mine.”

He stays still.

Silent.

Watching.

“You left me begging,” you whisper, your arms tightening around the baby now asleep against your chest. “I begged you not to go. I told you I wasn’t scared. That I was still here, and you—you just turned your back like none of it mattered.”

Your words grow quicker, more desperate.

“I tried to call to you—through the link—we shared that. I tried every night for weeks. You didn’t answer. Not once. Not even to say goodbye.”

Still, he doesn’t say a word.

Just watches.

And that’s what finally makes something snap.

“Say something, damn it!” you nearly shout, but the sound trembles with pain more than rage. “Don’t just stand there like a ghost in my kitchen—like you didn’t rip me apart and vanish like I was nothing!”

Your voice breaks completely now. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting again despite all the tears you thought you’d already spent on him.

And still—he says nothing.

But he moves.

Quiet. Intentional.

One step.

Then another.

And another.

Your breath hitches as he closes the space between you. Reflexively, you take a step back, shaking your head.

“No—Remmick, don’t. You shouldn’t be here.”

But he keeps coming.

Until he’s standing right in front of you, the baby nestled safe between your arms and your chest, sleeping through the weight of everything around her. His presence so close, you can feel the cool air that always clings to him pressing against your heat.

Then—slowly, almost as though he’s afraid you’ll shatter beneath it—he lifts a hand.

You don’t stop him. You want to. You think you should.

But you don’t.

And when his palm finally meets your cheek—his thumb brushing softly beneath your eye—your entire body caves inward.

Not physically.

Not visibly.

But everything inside you folds.

You melt into his touch like you were made to. Like nothing’s ever felt more real, more grounding, more right—even now. Even after everything.

Your eyes close. Just for a second.

The quiet between you hums like a wound.

His hand stays at your cheek, steady, thumb grazing the corner where your last tear dried. Your eyes stay closed, not because you trust him—but because the moment you open them, you’ll have to feel everything all over again.

You breathe in, slow and shaky.

He breathes out, slower.

Then—

He speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words.

So small.

So late.

Your eyes snap open.

You pull back—not far, not entirely—but just enough to see him. Really see him. His face is drawn, tired. Not just from time. From regret.

You part your lips. The words rise fast in your throat, fueled by every long night, every unanswered cry, every bitter second he left you alone with all that love and nowhere to put it.

“Your sorry doesn’t mat—”

“I know.”

He says it before you can finish, the words low and plain.

Not defensive.

Not performative.

Just… true.

Your mouth hangs open for a moment, the rest of the sentence dissolving on your tongue. There’s something gutting about the way he says it—how fast it comes, how quietly.

He knows.

He knows he can’t fix it.

He knows it’s not enough.

He knows he left something in you that never stopped aching.

And somehow, that hurts worse than if he’d tried to argue.

You stand there in his grasp, his hand still at your cheek, eyes searching yours with that old ache—the one you used to know so well. The silence lingers again, thick and full of everything unsaid. And then—

Your voice cuts through it, quiet but steady.

“…Why are you back?”

He flinches. Not visibly. But you feel the tension ripple through his fingers, still resting lightly against your skin.

He hesitates. You can see it—the way his jaw works, how his eyes lower to the floor between you. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. That he’ll leave you in the dark all over again.

But then, just barely above a whisper—

“I think I’ve found someone.”

He looks at you again. “Some people. Who might be able to help.”

Your chest tightens. You nod once, slowly, the motion tight and mechanical. And before the silence can grow unbearable again, you let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—bitter and tired.

“That’s good for you,” you murmur.

And then, you move.

You turn your face from his hand and gently pull your head out of his touch. The loss of his presence against your cheek feels colder than it should, but you ignore it. You shift the baby in your arms, her little body warm and boneless against yours, one tiny fist curled near her mouth.

“You should leave,” you say softly, not cruel, not even angry. Just… done.

You take a step toward the hallway.

But his hand finds your wrist.

Not hard. Not forceful. Just enough to stop you. To ask without words.

“Don’t,” you say, voice barely audible.

But before either of you can move again—

Your niece lets out a small, whimpering sound.

A soft whine, pained and restless, as she begins to stir against your shoulder. Her gums, still tender from teething, are clearly giving her grief again. You instinctively bounce her, soothing.

But it’s the sound—that tiny, human ache—that breaks him.

You feel it.

Something changes.

You glance back, eyes narrowing in quiet confusion, only to find Remmick… crumbling.

His expression falls apart all at once—like a dam finally giving in. His eyes close, jaw clenching as he sucks in a breath too shaky to steady. His shoulders drop, and he lets go of your wrist like it burns.

“Remmick—?” you start, brow furrowing.

But he’s already there—standing in the ruins of whatever wall he’d tried to keep between you. His hands tremble as he drags them over his face, voice breaking in the back of his throat.

“I shouldn’t’ve come back,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “I thought—I thought I could just come in, tell you what I found, and walk away again.”

His eyes meet yours, red-rimmed, wet.

“I didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

You don’t move.

You feel the tremble in him, the rawness beginning to leak out of every word, but you don’t step forward. You keep your distance—not out of punishment, but because if you move now, if you let yourself soften, you don’t know if you’ll be able to hold yourself together.

He’s the one breaking this time.

And you’ve broken enough.

“I didn’t think it’d feel like this,” he says again, voice thin and cracking, like he’s choking on the very thing he’s fought so long to suppress.

You say nothing.

Your arms tighten just slightly around your niece, who shifts again with a small whine before nestling back into your shoulder. The quiet hum of her small discomfort is the only sound in the kitchen for a long moment.

Remmick’s hands shake as he pushes them into his hair, like he’s trying to rip the feeling out of his skull.

“I thought I could handle it,” he goes on, his voice a hushed blur. “Thought I could just see you, tell you what I found, and leave. Be… grateful, even. That you moved on. That you looked okay.”

You blink, your stare sharp.

“I’m not okay,” you say simply.

He freezes at that.

“I wake up every night thinking I’m still waiting for your voice in my head. Still hoping you’ll answer. I spent months checking the woods for you like a fool. I tried to forget you, and every time I thought I had—I’d dream of you.”

Your breath hitches, but you keep your tone even. You don’t raise your voice.

“I am not okay,” you repeat, softer now. “But I lived.”

Remmick looks at you like you’ve just slapped him, and maybe, in a way, you have.

He nods slowly, eyes lowered.

“You should go,” you say again. Not unkind. But firm. “You said what you came here to say.”

His mouth opens—but no sound comes.

For once, he doesn’t argue.

He just stands there in the kitchen he once haunted, in the silence he left behind.

And you don’t reach for him.

You don’t fold this time.

Because you’re still bleeding from the last time you did.

He doesn’t follow you.

You don’t even hear him move.

Just the quiet behind you, the kind that settles in when someone’s made the choice to stay still instead of chasing after what’s slipping away.

You walk back to the guest room without a word, her small body pressed close to yours, the way babies always seemed to mold themselves into you like they trusted you with every part of them. She stirs, lips parting in a sleep-heavy pout, but she doesn’t cry. Not this time.

You kneel beside the bassinet and lay her down gently, smoothing your hand over her soft curls, fixing the thin blanket to cover her—tucked just enough to keep her warm, loose enough not to make her squirm. The room is quiet but not empty. It is full of her steady breathing, of your own heartbeat finally slowing, of the warmth that lingers in your chest even through the ache.

Then you leave her.

Walk through the halls that still hold a whisper of his presence, as if the walls remember his shape, his shadow, even when he is gone.

And when you make it back to your bed, you don’t hesitate.

You slump into it—face buried in the pillow, arms limp at your sides—and let a few tears finally slip free. No heaving sobs. No gasps for breath. Just a quiet spill of sorrow that doesn’t ask for permission.

You can’t feel him anymore.

That connection, that strange tether that once ran like a livewire between your ribs—it has gone still. And you know, without needing to check, that he isn’t here anymore.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t come back.

That’s the cruelest part of loving someone like him.

They always return just when you’d started to believe they never would.

And as you drift off to sleep,

you dream.

It begins with the sound of wind—soft and low, brushing through tall grass that doesn’t exist anywhere near your home. The air is warm here, golden. Drenched in late-afternoon sunlight that sways with the trees like it’s dancing. Everything glows. Even the shadows.

You stand barefoot in the middle of a field you don’t recognize. But somehow, it feels familiar. Like something from a childhood you never lived. The sky is streaked with honeyed orange and rose-colored clouds, and the breeze hums low, tugging at your dress like it’s trying to guide you somewhere.

You turn slowly—

And he’s already there.

Remmick stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of a long coat you’ve never seen him wear, his expression unreadable but softer than he’s ever looked. His hair is a little longer. His eyes… not quite the same. Warmer. Human.

You want to speak, but your voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. Because he’s already moving toward you, quiet steps through the grass that doesn’t bend beneath him.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t touch you right away.

He just looks.

Looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he’s trying to memorize you again. Your face. Your mouth. The soft glint of your necklace as it catches the dying sun.

And then—he lifts a hand. Presses the back of it to your cheek.

It’s warm. He’s warm.

His thumb runs beneath your eye, so gently it makes your breath hitch.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice barely above the breeze. “That I could miss something before it ever left me.”

You close your eyes.

It’s a dream. You know it.

But in this moment, it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not a vampire here. Not a shadow. Not a man made of memory and regret.

He’s just him.

And for a moment, just long enough, you let yourself lean forward—

And rest your forehead to his.

Your forehead rests against his, breath mingling. It’s soft. Still. Timeless.

But the warmth of his hand begins to fade.

Not suddenly. Gently—like dusk rolling over daylight.

And before you can stop it, the field dissolves beneath your feet. The grass melts into wooden planks. The orange sky darkens into candlelight flickering against old wallpaper. And your bare feet… they touch floorboards you recognize.

The dream has shifted.

But it hasn’t abandoned you.

You know this place.

Your sitting room.

The one before the wallpaper peeled and before winter made everything too quiet.

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed to the couch. Remmick is across from you, legs sprawled out, his shirt sleeves rolled up and suspenders hanging at his hips. There’s a record spinning low in the background, some jazz tune that always made your foot tap.

He’s smiling. Really smiling.

That rare, crooked grin that used to only appear when he was completely unguarded. When he forgot to be what the world turned him into.

“You gonna play fair this time?” you hear yourself say, younger, teasing.

He narrows his eyes at the worn deck of cards in his hands. “I always play fair.”

“You cheat like you’re allergic to honesty.”

“And yet,” he says, laying a card down with a flourish, “you keep comin’ back to lose.”

You’re laughing now. The sound echoes in your dream like it’s something sacred.

Then—he leans forward. His eyes drop from your eyes to your lips. The moment stretches.

“You wanna know the truth?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

“I don’t care about the cards.”

He reaches over, fingers brushing yours as he plucks a stray card from your lap.

“I just like watchin’ you laugh.”

Your dream self softens. You remember this night. The scent of warm wood. The way his fingers ghosted over yours longer than necessary. The way he kissed you an hour later like it was a confession he didn’t have words for yet.

You blink—and it’s like the moment folds in on itself.

The music distorts. The candle flickers once—

Then dies.

You’re left in silence.

And slowly, your dream-self turns to find the room empty.

No Remmick. No warmth.

Just the echo of what once was.

You don’t try to speak into the quiet.

The room around you stills—dim, waiting. You expect to wake up now, maybe with that ache in your chest again. That emptiness that always followed dreams of him.

But instead, you feel it shift again.

Not the space. Not the light.

You.

It begins in your chest, like a second breath filling your lungs. A memory rising not from your mind, but from your body. A sensation before a thought.

And then you’re there.

Not in a room this time, but in the woods just behind your home. Summer hangs thick in the air—humid and fragrant, cicadas buzzing in the distance. It’s night, but the moon is full. Bright enough to see the glint of his eyes across from you.

He’s standing close. Too close.

Your fingers hover just above the cut on his wrist.

“I told you,” Remmick says, voice quiet, not angry, “it’s not safe.”

You remember this.

Not just the words. The pull.

Your dream-self looks up at him, gaze steady. “You told me everything about you wasn’t safe. But I’m still here, ain’t I?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You reach for his arm before he can stop you, fingers brushing the blood that beads along the open wound. It’s still fresh—dark, and viscous, and wrong in color—but you’re already bringing it to your mouth.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

But it’s too late.

You taste him.

The blood is bitter at first. Cold and alive in a way that makes your tongue go numb. It slides down your throat like fire threaded with frost. And then—it happens.

The world bends.

Not violently. Not with force.

But like silk pulled tight over your ears, like your body isn’t yours anymore. The trees go silent. The wind cuts off. And your breath—

You gasp.

Your hands go out to steady yourself but he’s already there, catching you before your knees buckle.

And in the space of a blink, you’re in him.

Not in his body—but in his mind.

You see flashes.

A house fire. A laugh.

Hands reaching for him and pulling away in the same breath.

A name he hasn’t said aloud in years.

Your own face.

And you feel him—

The grief, ancient and echoing.

The hunger he’s tried to chain.

The fear that you’ll vanish like everyone else before you.

It crashes into you.

He sees your thoughts, too—your quiet wondering, your ache, your stubborn belief that he could still be loved.

He stumbles back, eyes wide, breathing like he’s just surfaced from underwater. You sway, dazed, a smear of his blood still wet on your bottom lip.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“You linked us.”

You blink slowly, heart rattling in your ribs.

“I didn’t mean to.”

And yet—

You both know something sacred just snapped into place.

You remember the way he touched your face afterward—like it was a thing he’d dreamt and didn’t believe could be real.

You remember how you didn’t sleep that night.

You just listened—to the new quiet that settled between your thoughts.

#remmick #remmick x reader #jack o'connell #remmick x fem!reader #angst #sinners #sinners 2025 #watching meet the blacks while formatting part 2

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cosmojjong · 8 months ago

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😟

#it'd been a while since i felt this anxious #i know i have generalised anxiety so i deal with anxiety to begin with #but i usually manage it decently #however i have been getting anxiety attacks as well as panic attacks again recently #they happen out of the blue and end up taking so much of my energy to the point i am unable to function for a couple of days #i can feel one incoming even now #it's also been harder to handle because i have to do things and my body is just not responding to my requests #let's say i need to focus on something and my mind won't let me #i have also been so forgetful and struggling to speak properly #all of this makes me incredibly sad #i also get these weird brain zaps (they're not actual brain zaps but idk if there's a name for them)#like if someone pushed me suddenly #but it's just a feeling in my head #or like the feeling of almost passing out for a split second but not actually falling #it's very weird

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lvrsfilm · 7 months ago

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Lieutenant Simon Riley has a favorite nurse. She's sweet as sugar and polite, stitching up every bloodied soldier with gentle words and touches so light they barely feel the push and pull of the suturing. Appreciative, whether they return the soft conversation or not. He likes the way she floats around the medical wing, the way she smiles softly at everyone, even him. He's sure she knows what he's been doing, but she isn't stopping him, so he assumes she doesn't mind.

Every morning, without fail she gets up and comes into the wing in a different colored pair of scrubs. A new color every day, never the same one twice in a week. She sits at the front desk or at another station somewhere around and sips a can of ginger ale through a straw, pretending she doesn't see Simon's eyes on her while she works.

"Wha's it t'day?" Simon says gruffly as he approaches her, bypassing the other nurses almost completely. "Blackberry," She says softly, looking up at him and displaying the can. He takes a look at her scrubs, and of course, they're a dark purple, matching the can. It suits her, he thinks. Not an obnoxious shade, one that matches her skin tone well. "Good?" He asks her, like he always does. "Not my favorite,' she says as she sets the can back down. He hums lowly in reply as his eyes linger on the fabric of her scrubs, the way the cloth dips over her soft curves.

"You hurt?" She asks him cheekily, "Or just taken an interest in the medical field?" He grunts, pulling his eyes away from her scrubs and meeting her own. "Nae," He says lowly. "Just passing by," he adds, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets to keep from touching her. Or reaching out to smooth out a wrinkle in her clothing, or tucking some of her hair behind her ear.

He doesn't know what else to say, wanting to keep her attention on him. "Suits ya," He ends up saying softly, trying to sound as gruff as possible, but his eyes are trained on hers, his hazel eyes staring into her own irises. "The purple." He grumbles, cursing inwardly because why is he acting like he's never spoken to a pretty bird before?

"Thank you, Lieutenant." She says sweetly, a nice red tinting the apples of her cheeks. Simon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to say next. Small talk hasn't ever been his strong suit, but walking away feels wrong, like cutting a thread that’s barely started to weave.

"You sure you're alright?" she asks again, but this time there's something softer in her voice. A note of genuine curiosity, her hands stilling on her keyboard. "You don’t usually linger this long."

He scowls—not at her, but at himself for being so obvious. "Dinnae know I was bein’ timed," he mutters, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.

She chuckles, the sound low and warm. "You’re not. Just... noticed, is all." Her gaze flicks over him, quick and subtle, like she’s trying to piece him together without openly prying. She's familiar with Simon, knows how private he is. "Busy morning?"

He shrugs. "Same as usual. Training, Paperwork."

Her lips quirk upward in a faint smile, but there’s a shadow of worry behind her eyes. "Sounds like you could use a break."

"Aye," he says gruffly, a hand leaving his pocket to scratch at the base of his balaclava. "Reckon this is it."

Her smile softens at that, and for a moment, neither of them speaks. There’s a weight in the air, something unspoken that presses against his chest, and hers. He wants to say more, to keep her talking, but the words are tangled up in his throat.

"Y’know," she says after a pause, "I think purple might actually suit you too."

His brows furrow softly, squinting at her a bit behind the mask, and for a split second, he wonders if she’s teasing him. But her expression is sincere, her eyes glinting with a quiet kind of amusement.

"Me?" he scoffs, shaking his head. "Don’t reckon that’s in regulation."

She shrugs lightly, leaning against the desk. "Wouldn’t hurt to try. Maybe a mask or something. Just a little color." There’s a playful glint in her eyes now, and he feels the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself.

"Don’t think I’d pull it off," he mutters, though there’s a faint warmth creeping up his neck, hidden by the black fabric.

"I disagree," she says softly, and the weight of her gaze feels heavier than before. He looks at her then, really looks, and finds himself rooted to the spot.

"You always this cheeky with the patients?" he grumbles, trying to mask the fact that she’s gotten under his skin.

"Only the ones who hover around the nurses' station without a good excuse," she quips, her smile widening just a fraction. "But I don’t mind. You’re welcome anytime, Lieutenant."

His heart gives a traitorous thump at her words, but he swallows it down and grunts in reply. "I’ll hold ya to that," he says, his voice rougher than he intends.

As he turns to leave, her voice calls him back again, soft and lilting. "Oh, and Simon?"

He stops dead in his tracks. She’s never used his name before. Slowly, he turns his head to glance at her, his hazel eyes locking onto hers.

"Next time," she says, lifting her can of ginger ale in a mock toast, "you could at least bring one of these to share."

His lips twitch into something dangerously close to a smile. "Aye," he murmurs, his voice low. "I’ll see what I can do."

And as he walks out of the wing, he finds himself already wondering what color she’ll be wearing tomorrow.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #cod #cod ghost #task force 141 #simon riley imagine #cod drabble #simon riley drabble #ghost x reader #cod fanfic #simon x reader #tf141

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jinwoosbabyboo · 6 months ago

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The First Meet Self-Aware!Sylus

Is it still kidnapping if you’re in love with him? Yes. It is. Welcome to the N109 Zone get comfortable baby

↢ previous ... continue ↣

Self-Aware!Sylus who can call anywhere home, but is becoming less and less interested in the N109 zone because you’re not there “Well you can’t come here” “Why not?” “You’re not real Sylus how would you come here?” he turns tapping his chin as if he's actually trying to figure out a way to access your world “You could come here”

Sylus wouldn’t out right say it, but he was desperate to have you in his arms it just never seemed possible. There was nothing either of you could do so you settled for a love that would end tragically because you just couldn’t let him go. You found yourself daydreaming constantly about spending your days with him. What it would be like to hold his hand instead of your phone. To caress his cheek and feel his warmth in the palm of your hand. You gave yourself butterflies just imagining him melting into your touch.

Just him.

“You’re spacing out Princess” You slightly jumped at the sound of his voice. You glanced down at the celery you were mindlessly chopping. “Shit I didn’t mean to dice it” You huffed and scraped it onto the pan anyway; there was no way you were going back to the store right now. You looked back at Sylus who was casually sitting on his couch watching a musical. Sometimes it really made you feel crazy seeing him like this. Not the in-game repeated movements that he was programmed to do, but fluid movement and everyday life activities. It really felt like you were talking to a person and not just code in a game. “What are you watching?”

Sylus hummed off key as he answered “Heathers” You giggled at the fact that the big bad Onychinus leader watches musicals in his living room during his free time. “You should join me” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye and smiled to himself like there was some inside joke you didn’t catch. “Only in our dreams” You smiled at him, but it was somber the reality of your relationship always made you a little sad yet here you were doing nothing to end it. You turned back to stir the vegetables you had sautéing because the last thing you need is for them to overcook.

That's when you heard the clearest voice in your ear “Just dreams?” You spun around rapidly flinging food in the process. Your heart pounded against your chest as you scanned the empty kitchen looking for any other sign of life. You immediately swapped out the spoon for the knife you had just minutes earlier. “Sylus please tell me you heard that”

Silence.

You glanced at your phone and saw that the screen was off. “Is there a fucking demon in my house right now?” You snatched your phone ready to call a friend to come over, but your efforts were thwarted when a band of silky red and black mist wrapped around your wrist wrenching you backwards. “I’ve been called worse”

You breath hitched causing you to choke on your own spit as you came face to face with Sylus. Are you going crazy? You struggled against his evol that felt like what you could only describe as smoke with density. “I must be hallucinating” You’ve imagined having this man in front of you for months, but you had no idea he would be this terrifying in person. It felt like you were standing before a hungry wolf that wouldn’t second guess snapping your neck. Why was his demeanor so damn scary? Before you could even process what was happening Sylus grabbed you buy the waist and pulled you close to him. “I’m sorry Princess but this is probably going to hurt”

“Wha-” Pain seared through you in an instant like lightning and fire at once. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream as it felt like your vocal cords were singed to a crisp. The pain was unbearable it changed from searing to pins and needles almost like little pieces of you were splitting apart. You couldn’t handle it and your vision went dark as you passed out.

You came too slowly, groaning as you stretched your limbs on a stiff mattress. You sat up slowly realizing you were fine. Rolling your shoulders and rubbing your legs you were sure whatever that was must have just been a terrible dream. Maybe? “I knew I was dreaming” you couldn’t explain the amount of pain you felt though. You turned and noticed instead of your usual view of your room you were looking out amongst a vast dark city. “Where-”

“What do you think?” a voice said in your ear causing your fight or flight to kick in. You pulled your legs under yourself and swung your fist as hard as you could in the direction of the voice. The person groaned at the contact and you reached for the nearest object you could find which was a lamp and swung it, but your wrist was caught mid air and you were disarmed with ease. Within seconds you were pinned down on the mattress.

Your eyes widened in shock when you realized who was holding you down “Sylus?” He was just as intimidating as he was in your dream. Or was it a dream? “You’re not dreaming” Sylus squeezed your wrist tightly “Ow stop stop it hurts” he raised an eyebrow as his lip quirked up “See?” You rolled your eyes he was way too amused with your reaction for your liking. “We need to work on that right hook of yours it's a little weak” He can’t be serious right now you just punched him in his jaw and tried to beat him over the head with a lamp and the first thing he thinks of is training your punches to get better? Typical.

Sylus couldn’t help but, chuckle at your expression with your brows furrowed and your lips curled in frustration. “I wish you could see yourself right now” You pushed his face away with your free hand irritated with him for causing you that much pain.

“I wish you would get a new mattress why is this bitch so stiff my fucking back hurts” You squirmed underneath him. He inhaled a sharp breath making you freeze realizing the position you were in; he was nestled perfectly between your legs with one hand pinned above your head. Suddenly there was a knock at the door “Boss we heard some commotion are you okay?” Sylus rolled his eyes “I’m fine. Leave.”

“Yes boss” The sound of footsteps retreated until there was silence again. Sylus looked down at you furrowing his brows, this time is was your turn to smirk. “Don’t say it” He warned. Your lips quivered as you tried to stop your smile from forming “Are those my boys?” Sylus gave you a bored look before rolling his eyes at you as well. “Do you know how hard it was to bring you here Princess? You’re more excited for Luke and Kieran than me” Sylus expression seemed irritated, but the look in his eyes was pouty. You had Sylus jealous of his own men now that was an ego boost. You squirmed in his hold again trying to free yourself. “This is a lot for me Sylus you have some explaining to do" You kicked your legs like a toddler trying to sit up once again "And let me get up your mattress is not comfortable!”

Sylus huffed at your commands, but of course he listened getting up and pulling you with him. He had you straddle his lap with his hands gently placed on your waist. “Is this more comfortable?” He leaned back against the headboard his eyes traveling up and down your body. Based on the look in his eyes it was almost as if even he couldn’t believe you were not only in front of him, but on top of him at the moment.

“No! w-well y-yea but-” You cut yourself off to save face. This man really had you stuttering like porky the pig. You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts as best as you could. “How the actual fuck am I here right now Sylus”

“Energy manipulation is stronger than you think” He shrugged like it was no big deal. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“If you turn something into pure energy it can travel wherever you want it to even into as you call it a game world” His words bounced around in your head as you tried to make sense of them. What does he mean energy can travel anywhere. Then it hit you. The searing pain, pins and needles, the black out. “You turned me into pure energy to bring me here?!” You screamed in his face.

“Something like that” He replied in a bored tone “The shopkeeper said it should only hurt the first time” You rubbed your temples just trying to stay calm, how were you supposed to be okay with the fact that you were seemingly ripped apart and put back together inside of a damn game. You felt Sylus shifting underneath you and his hands running up your sides. “Tell me” he tilted your chin down so he could look you in the eye. “Are you not happy to have me like this?” he wrapped his arms around your waist while he rested his chin on your chest. “I can hear your heart beating fast”

“Of course I'm happy to see you” You cradled his face in your hands and he immediately melted into your touch. It was even better than you imagined it would be. His eyes closed and you could feel the satisfying hum that rumbled in his chest. You stared in awe at the sight before you; he was really melting because of you. He opened his eyes and dropped his gaze to your lips causing them to part “Prove it.”

You didn’t need to be a genius to know he wanted a kiss. You two spend many nights talking about it. He made you promise that if you ever actually met him the first thing you would do is kiss him. That promise was clearly broken since the first thing you did was punch him in the face. His lips looked so soft and full you didn’t hesitate to lean in and Sylus met you half way. It lasted no longer than three seconds before you pulled away. “What's wrong?" You shook your head and looked away “Nothing you’re just making me nervous”

You had no time to prepare yourself as Sylus slammed you back on your back and pressed his lips to yours in a heated kiss. Your eyes bugged out of your head before slightly rolling back as you gave into him. He nipped at your bottom lip and shoved his tongue in when you opened up for him. You thought he would be more rough, but he was actually so gentle. He kissed you like he was trying to perfectly mold your mouth to only fit his. No more like it was already made to fit only him. You wrapped you arms around his neck and snaked one hand up the back of his head tugging the hair at the nape. He smiled against your lips “Do that again” he whispered, hooking your leg over his hip. You tugged even harder this time relishing in the satisfied groan he let out.

You could do this for hours, but you had too many questions. You pulled his head away trying to catch your breath. “We’re not done talking Sylus” He sucked his teeth and sighed heavily as he sat up. This time he didn’t pull you onto his lap he helped you sit up and fixed your shirt that was riding up from him almost removing it. “Ask your questions” He leaned back against the headboard with his arms crossed. You couldn’t help, but giggle at the slight pout he was failing to hide. "For starters where can we buy a softer mattress?"

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#love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #sylus #lads #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus lads #love and deepspace sylus #sylus lnds #lad sylus #sylus qin #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus salads #divider by saradika graphics #nikaaaaimagine

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aleskie · 4 months ago

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EIGHTEEN | Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Oscar Piastri has loved you since he was eighteen. It just takes him a while to get to that point. Or so he thinks. This is Oscar's journey to realizing that maybe the girl he's always hated isn't so bad at all. In fact, she's actually...pretty loveable.

Warnings: None just Enemies to Lovers?? Or is it more Rivals to Lovers?? Also, the timeline is wonky with the irl events, so just pretend it makes sense. And also i had to look up the british school systems SO THEY MAY BE WRONG BUT PLEASE JUST PRETEND

♫ Listen: 18 by One Direction ♫

2016: Year 10 [15 years old]

He didn’t know why, but from the moment you two met at the headmaster’s office, Oscar Piastri knew he hated you.

Maybe it was your posture—back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting politely on your lap—or maybe it was your voice, too polished, too proper, like you were reciting lines off a script. Or maybe it was everything else.

The way you barely acknowledged him as you both waited in the stuffy office, but flashed a smile so perfectly pleasant it had to be fake the second the teachers and headmaster walked in. The way your eyes flickered over him when he introduced himself, assessing, calculating, like he was a pawn to be placed, a connection to be measured. Or maybe—definitely—it was when you called motorsport, his life’s mission and passion, a hobby.

He tried not to let it get to him. He really did. But even he had to admit he could be a little petty.

“At least I have a hobby,” he muttered in your direction as soon as the faculty members were out of earshot.

For a split second, he thought you looked hurt—something in the way your lips parted, the slightest flicker of hesitation in your expression. But then it was gone, replaced by a scoff and a perfectly arched brow.

“At least I know my dreams have a higher chance of succeeding than yours do.”

Low blow.

His grip tightened on the strap of his bag. “You’ve got dreams?” He sneered. “Must be hard for a princess like you to have to be here and work for them then.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was something sharp in the way you did it, like you were daring him to say more. “Don’t act like you know me, Piastri.”

He huffed out a dry laugh. “I could say the same for you.”

You turn your head away from him at the sound of light footsteps—faculty returning, this time accompanied by older students meant to be your guides. And just like that, the stupidly perfect, fake smile was back on your face, as if the last few minutes of exchanged barbs had never happened.

“I see you two have been conversing,” says the headmaster, smiling warmly. If only she knew about the jabs you’d taken at each other. Would she still be smiling?

“He’s been lovely company, Mrs. Berkshire,” you lie with effortless charm, your voice smooth as silk. “It’s been comforting to know I’m not the only transfer student.”

Then, as if to twist the knife a little deeper, you turn to him with a look so deceptively sweet it could almost pass as genuine—almost. “I’m glad Oscar feels the same.”

There’s a glint in your eyes, something smug and self-satisfied, and he wonders if anyone else in the room can see just how full of it you are. Probably not. Mrs. Berkshire certainly doesn’t. She beams, clearly pleased at the thought of her two new students becoming fast friends.

Oscar clenches his jaw. He could call you out, make it clear that you’re full of it—but what’s the point? Instead, he forces himself to nod, his voice tight as he grits out, “Yeah. She’s been great.”

He sees it then—that flicker of amusement, the way your lips almost twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. Almost. Couldn’t let your facade slip, not even for a second.

And it pissed him off.

You spend most of your first year at boarding school in different circles.

Oscar lays low, slipping easily into a group of laid-back boys who are effortlessly easy to be around. They play video games in dorm rooms until lights out, kick a ball around after class, and never demand much from each other beyond good company. They cheer him on when he leaves to compete and catch him up on everything he’s missed when he comes back. They’re great. Better than he could have ever imagined.

You, on the other hand, carve out your place at the top of the food chain. Academically untouchable, always two steps ahead. First in your class, a key member of the Debate Team and MUN Club, and well on your way to securing a prefect badge. Your uniform is always pristine, your headband perfectly in place, not a single strand of hair out of order. You have a small group of friends who he assumes are just as intelligent, uptight, and snooty as you are.

And yet—when he sees you laughing with them, head thrown back, completely unguarded—something about you seems softer. You don’t look like the girl who calculated every move, who smiled just enough to be polite but never enough to be real. In those moments, with that rare, genuine laugh, he thinks—begrudgingly—that you actually look quite…pretty.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

In all honesty, he doesn’t know why he even notices. It’s not like he cares.

But sometimes, in the middle of a dull afternoon or while walking past the library, he catches glimpses of you—not the polished, picture-perfect version of you that you show everyone else, but something different. Unpolished. Real.

Like when you’re sprawled across a bench outside with your friends, books and papers in a chaotic mess around you, groaning about an impossible assignment—right up until someone cracks a joke that sends you into a fit of laughter. The kind of laugh that makes you cover your mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners, completely unguarded.

Or when, on those rare occasions, he catches you slipping up in class, head bobbing forward as you fight off sleep, fingers twitching as you try—and fail—to take notes.

Or when he walks past the debate team’s practice room and sees you in your element, arguing fiercely, hands moving with conviction, voice steady and sure. Confidence radiating off you in a way that has nothing to do with arrogance and everything to do with certainty.

And for a second, just a second, he forgets to be annoyed by you.

But then you glance up, catch him staring, and arch a perfectly shaped brow in challenge—like you know something he doesn’t.

Right. He still hates you. Definitely.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking.

2017: Year 11 [16 years old]

Oscar was back at school regularly after the summer holidays and the season ending. He was pretty pleased with himself—2nd place wasn’t anything to scoff at. Sure, first would’ve been better, but it was fairly won. Besides, it had been a fun season, his best yet. More importantly, he hadn’t thought about you for months. Too busy with his Formula 4 campaign, too focused on climbing the motorsport ladder, too—

Well. That’s what he told himself.

He stepped through the iron gates of the academy, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his phone buzzing with check-up texts from his mom. The familiar scent of freshly cut grass and old stone filled his lungs, a quiet signal that summer was officially over. Students crowded the courtyard, reuniting after the break, voices overlapping in a chorus of excitement. His friends spotted him almost immediately, calling his name, pulling him into easy conversation—asking about his races, his wins, his losses, his plans.

And then—there you were.

Standing by the main building, perfect posture as always, chatting with one of your equally polished friends. Your hair was different, slightly shorter, but the headband remained, a signature piece of armor. Your uniform was just as crisp as it had been last year, not a wrinkle in sight, now complete with a new prefect’s badge that you wore with unmistakable pride. And when you laughed at something your friend said, it was that same light, practiced sound he recognized all too well.

It took exactly eight seconds for you to notice him.

Your gaze flicked toward him, assessing, calculating—just like it had in the headmaster’s office when you first met. Then—because you were you—your lips curled into a polite, almost saccharine smile, the kind reserved for faculty members and people you didn’t actually care about.

He scoffed. Typical.

“Piastri,” you greeted, voice smooth, just a little too pleasant.

“Princess,” he shot back, just to see if he could get a reaction.

And for a split second, he did—your brow twitched, barely noticeable, but he caught it. Then, just as quickly, you smoothed your expression, tilting your head ever so slightly in mock amusement.

“We’re in Year 11 now, and you’re still calling me that?”

“You’re still acting like one.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. But then, after a beat, you said, “I saw that you got second in the championship. Congratulations.”

Oscar blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Compliments from you were rare, practically unheard of. He studied your face, searching for sarcasm, but found none. Just a simple, matter-of-fact acknowledgment.

“…Thanks,” he said, accepting it before you could take it back. “Bet it was a little more interesting than your summer,” he added, smirking.

You raised a brow. “What, don’t tell me you’re…curious about my summer, Piastri.”

His smirk vanished. His brain short-circuited.

And just like that, you had him cornered.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He shut it. His brain scrambled for a way to recover, but all it did was replay the way you’d said his name just now—not in the usual clipped, disapproving way. No, this time it had been lighter, teasing. Maybe even…amused.

Suddenly, the two of you were locked in a silent standoff, neither willing to look away first.

Your friend cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably. Oscar barely noticed. Because in that moment—standing there, the summer heat giving way to the crispness of early autumn, your eyes locked onto his with that same sharp, knowing look—he realized something.

He hadn’t actually stopped thinking about you at all.

The mere thought made his stomach twist, and before he could process it any further, he turned on his heel, raising a hasty hand in goodbye as he strode back to his friends. Fast. Like putting distance between you would somehow fix whatever the hell had just happened in his head.

“Okay, that was a little weird,” he heard your friend murmur behind him. “Is he alright?”

“Maybe the gasoline finally got to his brain,” you quipped. “A pity. He was a little smart, too.”

Oscar nearly tripped.

He wanted to say the comment about his "off attitude" annoyed him. He wanted to say that the gasoline remark made him dislike you more. He wanted to say that he had a cutting comeback ready to fire back at you.

But all he could think about was how you called him smart.

God, what was happening to him?

He knew something was going to go wrong last week when their teacher announced he’d be the one pairing up students for the project, taking matters into his own hands with a kind of cruel indifference that made Oscar’s stomach twist.

He knew something was going to go wrong when, at the start of class, the teacher gave both you and him a pointed look—sharp, knowing—before moving on like nothing had happened. You had shot him a confused glance then, your brow furrowing ever so slightly in a rare moment of shared uncertainty. He had stared back, just as lost. Neither of you had any idea what was coming, but for once, you were both on the same side of the battlefield.

And then the teacher started listing off partners.

It started harmless enough—his friends were getting paired with each other, easy matches. So were yours. Names fell into place like puzzle pieces, creating perfectly balanced, cooperative duos that wouldn’t cause trouble. And then—

“And finally, Oscar and...Y/N.”

Silence.

For a moment, he swore he misheard. But then he turned, and there you were, staring at the teacher like you were considering staging a full-scale academic rebellion. The slight tightening of your jaw, the way your fingers curled subtly against your sleeves—he could practically hear the calculations running through your head, weighing the pros and cons of outright protesting.

A second ticked by. Then another.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you muttered under your breath, but the teacher either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“I expect full collaboration,” they continued, already moving on. “This project is a significant portion of your grade, so I suggest you all put any personal differences aside and focus on the work.”

Oscar barely heard the rest. He was too busy glaring at his desk, resisting the urge to run a hand down his face. Of course, this just had to happen. Most teachers kept the two of you apart, aware of the silent war you had waged since the day you met. But not this one. No, this one was smarter—or crueler—ready and waiting to watch the fire combust.

Great. Just great. Out of everyone in this class, he was stuck with you.

By the time class ended, he had barely processed anything. He was about to make his escape when he felt a presence beside him.

“You.”

He sighed before even turning around.

You had stopped him just outside the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the slight, irritated furrow of your brow. The usual superiority was absent—no smug glint in your eyes, no perfectly poised smirk. Just frustration, quiet but simmering.

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” you said flatly.

Oscar let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Trust me, Princess, I’d rather fail.”

And then—you smiled.

Not the polite, school-perfect kind you used on teachers. Not the barely-there one reserved for acquaintances. No, this one was slow, sharp, and just smug enough to make his blood boil.

“Then I guess we have very different priorities.”

He hated that he had no comeback.

God, this was going to be a disaster.

“We should take a break,” Oscar says, hunching over the library table, rubbing his temples like the weight of academia is physically crushing him. “We’ve been at this for hours.”

You barely spare him a glance. “It’s been two hours and seven minutes.”

“See? It’s been so long,” he complains, dragging a hand down his face. “Let’s take a break. You’re done with your part anyway.”

You turn to him, assessing. “Are you finished with your part?”

He hesitates. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he sighs. “Give me like an hour, and I’ll be finished.”

You straighten, your posture sharpening into something unreadable, something that makes him feel like a student being reprimanded. “Piastri, this is due tomorrow. We need to get it done today.”

“And we will,” he argues, matching your intensity. “Just let me nap for a bit.”

You inhale sharply, clenching your jaw, and he already knows what’s coming. That calm facade. That practiced composure. That same tone you use when talking to teachers, the one that makes him want to throw his pen at the wall.

“The library closes in three hours,” you say evenly. “This is just the first draft, so we still need to revise. And not to mention we have to properly format our sources—thirteen of them, by the way. Do you know how long that’s going to take?”

Oscar groans, letting his head fall dramatically onto the open textbook in front of him. “Princess, we can afford not to revise this. It’s literally a first draft for comments. We can just start formatting the citations.”

You don’t budge. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “What page of the document are you working on?”

He blinks, suspicious. “…Why?”

“I’ll finish it.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“We need to finish on time, and I refuse to let my grade be pulled down because we don’t submit a good output.”

“You’re not doing my work.” His voice comes out sharper than he expects, but the idea of you just taking over, of you thinking you have to—he hates it. “It’s literally my work for a reason.”

“And you aren’t getting it done, so let me do it.” You nearly exclaim, only to catch yourself, voice lowering when you remember where you are. The library is quiet, save for the occasional rustling of pages and distant whispers. You press your lips together like you’re trying to hold the rest of the argument inside.

It’s silent between you for a long moment.

And then—

“…Do you always end up doing the work?”

You freeze. Just for a second. Then your gaze flickers away, shifting toward the window. Anywhere but him.

Oscar watches you carefully, something tightening in his chest. “Y/N, what the hell? People have just been riding on your work?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, voice even. Practiced. “We get it done. And we get it done well.”

His brows furrow. He doesn’t know why he’s so upset. He shouldn’t care. It’s not his problem, right? It was your choice to take on the workload, to let people walk over you.

But still…knowing that people just expect you to pick up the slack, that they let you do it without even thinking—

It pisses him off.

And what pisses him off more is the way you look right now. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just resigned.

Like this is just the way things are. Like you’re used to it. And he hates that more than anything.

“Give me like forty-five minutes,” Oscar says after a beat, exhaling through his nose. “We’ll start revising after, and then we can split the citations.”

You blink, eyes flickering with something unreadable—surprise, maybe. He can’t tell. But then, just for a second, he swears he sees the corners of your lips twitch upward, like you’re trying not to smile.

“Just…” You hesitate, fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of your notebook. “Tell me if you need help. Or…y’know. If you have questions.”

Your voice is quieter this time, less clipped, lacking the usual sharp edge you use when you’re exasperated with him.

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. The library is quieter now, the golden hues of the sunset stretching across the wooden tables and casting long shadows over your open books. The light catches on your face—soft, warm—and for the first time, he gets a proper look at you up close.

You look tired. Not just from today, but in the way that lingers—faint bags under your eyes, a kind of weariness that no amount of perfect posture or crisp uniforms can fully hide. And yet, right now, there’s something peaceful about you. The way you rest your head against your palm, watching him work—not impatient, not irritated. Just…watching.

You must notice, because your brows furrow slightly. “Do I have something on my face?”

“What?” He blinks, snapping out of whatever trance he had fallen into.

“You were staring.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“It was nothing,” he says quickly, looking back at his laptop. “Just zoning out.”

You hum, unconvinced. But instead of arguing, you simply go back to flipping through your notes, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.

“…Okay,” you say.

He exhales, forcing himself to focus. “Okay.”

Somehow, he feels like forty-five minutes is going to take much longer.

Three weeks into the project, Oscar realizes something: you’re actually kind of well-known on campus.

Or, at the very least, you know a lot of people.

It’s not like he was completely unaware of it before. Your perfect reputation precedes you—your name carries weight in every class. Teachers mention you as an example of excellence, throwing your name around as if it alone should inspire the rest of them to do better. But working with you forces him to see it firsthand.

It seems like every five seconds, someone is coming up to greet you.

It doesn’t matter where you are—library, hallways, common areas. Someone always stops by.

Underclassmen ask for help on assignments—apparently, you tutor them sometimes, though Oscar doesn’t know how you find the time. Classmates ask about group projects. A girl from the debate team once yelled and waved from across the quad while you were in the middle of explaining a research point. Even the Year 13s, the ones Oscar barely interacts with, acknowledge you with nods and casual greetings.

And the weirdest part? You handle it all effortlessly.

He expected you to treat them the way you treat him—polite but cold, maybe even dismissive. But you don’t.

Instead, you smile. The fake one. The one he recognizes now, warm but not inviting. Like a wall disguised as a door, keeping people at a carefully measured distance. You don’t brush them off, but you don’t encourage them either. Your reactions are controlled, calculated. Just like everything else about you.

It’s impressive.

It’s annoying.

And it shouldn’t bother him. Not really.

But after three weeks of constantly being in your presence, after working side by side for hours on end, after getting into at least five arguments over formatting and research sources and the exact tone an introduction should have—he feels a little close to you. Not enough to like you, obviously. But enough that his respect for you has grown, just a little.

And with that, he’s started to notice things.

Like how you always twirl your pen when you’re deep in thought, but you never drop it. How you tap your fingers against your notebook in the exact rhythm of whatever song is stuck in your head. How you drink tea instead of coffee and always wince at the first sip, like it’s too hot but you drink it anyway. How you use hair ties instead of your signature headband when you’re frustrated, tying and untying your hair over and over again only to fall back to your tried and tested headband after a while. How you let out a tiny sigh whenever you finish an assignment, as if mentally crossing it off a never-ending list.

He notices these things, and he tells himself it’s just because you’re working together. Because you’re spending time together. Because of course he’s going to pick up on small details when you’re stuck in the same space for hours.

That’s all it is.

Right?

Definitely.

And then, one afternoon, as you sit across from him at the library, books and notes spread between you, someone approaches.

"Y/N, hey."

Oscar looks up. It’s some guy—one of the Year 12s from the student council. He’s polished and confident, wearing the kind of casual smirk Oscar immediately finds irritating.

You blink in mild surprise before offering a smile—thankfully, the fake one. The one that’s polite, effortless, and just distant enough.

"Hello, Eric."

Eric leans against the table, his entire focus on you. He doesn’t even acknowledge Oscar.

"Haven’t seen you at any events lately. You’ve been busy?"

You glance at the open laptop in front of you, gesturing vaguely to your notes. "Yeah, the project’s been taking up a lot of time."

"Oh, right. This is for—" He finally gives Oscar a glance, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s only just realizing he’s there. "This is your partner?"

Oscar doesn’t like the way he says that.

You nod. "Yeah. We’ve been working on it together for a while now."

Eric hums, then—too casually—grins. "Well, don’t work too hard. Wouldn’t want you burning out before the weekend." His voice drops slightly, just enough to sound a little too suggestive for Oscar’s liking. "You should take a break. Come to the council’s seminar on Friday afternoon."

You hesitate, and for some reason, Oscar finds himself gripping his pen just a little tighter.

"It sounds fun," you admit, "But, with my schedule, I’m not sure—"

"You should go," Eric insists, tilting his head. "C’mon. You worked hard to help organize it—Thanks for the great speakers you found, by the way—I’ll even save you a seat next to me."

Something bristles in Oscar’s chest.

He doesn’t know why, but the entire interaction irks him. Maybe it’s the way Eric acts like he already knows you’ll say yes. Maybe it’s the casual confidence, the assumption that you’d drop everything just because he asked. Or maybe it’s the way you’re actually considering it.

Before he can stop himself, Oscar lets out a scoff.

Both you and Eric turn toward him.

"You good, man?" Eric asks, clearly amused.

Oscar leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Didn’t realize we were in the middle of a social hour, Y/N. Thought we were working."

Your eyes narrow slightly, but before you can say anything, Eric just laughs, pushing off the table. "Relax, Piastri. Didn’t mean to interrupt." He turns back to you, giving you an easy grin. "Think about it, yeah? It’d be nice to see you there."

You give a noncommittal nod, and just like that, he walks off.

The moment he’s gone, you exhale, turning to Oscar with a raised brow. "Was that necessary?"

He shrugs. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, muttering, "You’re so weird."

Oscar clenches his jaw, tapping his fingers against the table, suddenly annoyed.

Not at you. Not even at Eric.

Just at the fact that, for some stupid reason, the thought of you actually going to that seminar is really bothering him.

And he has no idea why.

He sneaks out of the dorms on Friday night, hands in his pockets, head low as he moves through the dimly lit pathways of the school. The night air is crisp, the kind that clears his mind if he lets it, but tonight, it does nothing to untangle the thoughts looping through his head.

It’s stupid. The fact that he even cares. That the idea of you and Eric sitting together, side by side, laughing at some dull student council joke, is bothering him.

It doesn’t.

It shouldn’t.

Because he doesn’t like you.

He still thinks you’re stuck-up, overly competitive, and have a way of looking at him like you know exactly how to get under his skin. The faces you make, the way you roll your eyes when he so much as breathes the wrong way—it’s all infuriating.

But you’re smart. Intelligent. And your work ethic is something he respects, even if he won’t admit it.

And, yeah, you’re pretty. Even he has to acknowledge that much. But not the obvious kind of pretty. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that feels like a place you recognize, a feeling that lingers in the quiet spaces between conversations. It’s the kind that makes you feel at home.

The kind that—if he were the type to believe in this kind of thing—you’d find when you’re in love.

Not that he is. Obviously.

He shakes the thought away, sighing as he rounds the corner of the old courtyard. And then—

"It’s lights out, Piastri."

Your voice cuts through the silence, and he stops dead in his tracks.

You’re standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the dim glow of the campus lamps casting soft shadows across your face. You look unimpressed but not surprised, like you already expected to catch someone out of bed tonight.

He exhales, shoulders dropping. Of course.

"Then what are you doing here?" he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. "I’m a prefect, remember? Tonight’s my shift to make rounds before security does."

"Oh."

A beat.

"So," you say, tilting your head slightly. "What made you break curfew? You don’t seem like the type."

"Just needed to walk. Clear my head."

You hum in response, your gaze flicking over him, assessing. Then, after a moment:

"Well, the classrooms in the east wing don't get much attention. You can stay there and then sneak back out when the prefects and security switch shifts."

Oscar blinks. Of all the responses he expected from you, that wasn’t one of them.

He raises a brow, smirking. "And you know this…how?"

Your expression doesn’t change, but he catches the way your lips twitch slightly, like you’re holding back a smile. "I can be a little disobedient too. Sometimes."

That surprises him.

"You?" he says, skeptical.

You shrug. "It doesn’t happen often. Just when I need to clear my head." A pause, then, voice quieter, "Those classrooms are my spot, so don’t go there too often. I don’t need to see you when I’m stressed."

Oscar snorts. "Wow. What an honor."

"Exactly."

For a moment, neither of you move. There’s something odd about standing here, talking like this—like you’re two people who aren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Like, in this sliver of time, there’s something unspoken but mutual between you.

It doesn’t last long.

You straighten your posture, clearing your throat. "Now, get going before I change my mind and actually report you."

"Noted, Princess."

You roll your eyes and turn away, disappearing down the corridor.

And for some stupid reason, as Oscar watches you leave, he wonders if you ever feel as restless as he does.

2018: Year 12 [17 years old]

He’s been using the classrooms in the east wing as a secret place to clear his head since the night you told him about it. So far, he’s never run into you.

Maybe you use a different classroom. Maybe you come on different days. Or maybe—like everything else in your life—you have a system, a strict schedule he’s unknowingly managed to avoid.

Either way, he’s always had the classrooms to himself.

Until tonight.

The air is heavier than usual as he makes his way through the dimly lit hallways, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He’s restless. Frustrated. He tells himself it’s because of the season he’s just had. The Eurocup was brutal and he definitely wasn’t at his best. Every race felt like a battle he couldn’t ever win and every misstep made the weight in his chest grow heavier.

All he wants is to be home. Back in Australia, where everything is familiar—the streets, the skies, the people who don’t expect anything from him except to just be. But instead, he’s here. At fucking boarding school.

He exhales sharply as he pushes the classroom door open, stepping into the quiet. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights—he knows this space well enough now. The desks are still arranged the way they always are, the faint scent of old paper and dry-erase markers lingering in the air. It’s not much, but it’s his for the night.

At least, that’s what he thinks.

Not even five minutes later, the door swings open behind him, and he barely has time to turn his head before—

You.

You freeze in the doorway, hand still on the handle. There’s a flicker of something across your face—surprise, maybe even slight irritation. You definitely thought you were going to be alone.

He should’ve figured this would happen eventually.

Your lips part slightly before you collect yourself. “I’ll use a different—”

“You can stay.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

You hesitate, eyebrows drawing together slightly, like you’re trying to figure out if this is some kind of trap. He doesn’t blame you.

But then, after a beat, you nod, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you, switching on one of the lights and dimly lighting up the room. Neither of you say anything as you move to opposite sides of the room, like unspoken rules are being established in real time.

Oscar exhales, rolling his shoulders back as he leans against one of the desks. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That you being here changes nothing.

So why does the room suddenly feel smaller?

He looks over at you. You’re scrolling through your phone, eyes scanning over messages he can’t see—but whatever’s on the screen has your jaw clenched tight. His gaze flickers down to your hands, the way your fingers tremble slightly over the glass. And then, in the dim light, he sees it. Faint but undeniable—tear stains trailing down your flushed cheeks.

His stomach twists.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice careful.

“Fine.” You don’t even look up.

He doesn’t buy it. Not for a second. “You sure?”

“Why do you care, Piastri?” You finally glance at him, but your expression is unreadable. “You don’t even like me.”

He stills. He wasn’t expecting you to be that blunt about your whole dynamic.

“Any decent person would care about someone who looks like they’ve just bawled their eyes out,” he says, crossing his arms.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, I’m fine.” Your posture shifts, back straightening as your expression smooths out into something eerily familiar. And then it’s there—the mask. The same sweet, practiced smile you wear around everyone else, the one he’s hated since the moment he first saw it in the headmaster’s office years ago. The one that hides everything.

“You don’t have to worry,” you say smoothly. “I have everything under control.” You turn to leave. “I’ll be off now—”

“Cut the bullshit, Y/N.”

The sharpness in his voice makes you freeze, hand hovering over the door handle.

“We both know you’re not fine.” His voice is lower now, steadier, but just as firm. “I know that face. I think I’m the only one who knows that face and how it’s not real. It’s never been real.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “For once in your life, just be fucking honest.”

You don’t turn around immediately. When you do, your face is unreadable. Then—so quietly he almost doesn’t hear it—you whisper,

“I’m not at the top of our class anymore.”

His breath catches.

“My grades are dropping—fast,” you continue, voice shaking despite how hard you try to control it. “My A-levels are harder than I expected. I thought I could handle it, but I—” You swallow. “I’m failing. And I’m letting everyone down.” Your voice cracks on the last word.

His chest tightens.

“My parents are pissed. My siblings are pissed because now my parents are pissed at them too. If I were just smarter, if I were better, none of this would be happening. Everything would be fine. Everyone would be happy.” You suck in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t stop the fresh tears from spilling down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them away. You just stand there, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like you’re bracing for something.

“I’m just tired,” you whisper.

Silence.

It hangs thick between you, pressing against the walls, settling into the space between your feet.

Before he can think twice about it, Oscar moves. Slowly. Carefully. Until he’s standing in front of you. Not too close, but close enough that he can see the way your lashes clump together from the tears, the way your breathing is still uneven, the way you’re still trying to keep yourself from breaking completely.

“I…didn’t think you could cry,” he mutters, before realizing how weird that sounds.

You blink at him, and for once, there’s no condescension in your expression—just something flat, unimpressed.

“You’re weird,” you say, voice hitching slightly from crying, “But you’re pretty good.”

His brows furrow. “Like, as a person?”

“Take it however you want.” You chuckle, a small, tired sound. You wipe your tears away, then, tilting your head, you ask, “So, why’d you come here?”

He hesitates. Looks down at his hands. Then, finally, exhales.

“I got ninth at the Eurocup this season.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” His jaw tightens. “I let everyone down. The team. The sponsors. My family.” His fists clench. “I did everything right. I trained harder than ever, I did my best, I gave everything—and it still wasn’t enough. I failed and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

The room is quiet again. Until—

You move.

Soft footsteps against the tiled floor, slow and deliberate, until you’re standing even closer to him. And then, hesitantly, you lift a hand and rest it on his shoulder. The warmth of your touch is unexpected, but grounding.

“Well,” you say, your voice quieter now, “I guess that makes us both failures.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, half in disbelief at the words that just left your mouth, half at the sheer irony of it all.

The girl he’s spent years hating is somehow the only person who understands exactly how he feels.

And when you laugh along with him—soft and real, no mask in sight—he thinks it might be the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.

But just in an objective way.

Obviously.

Something shifts after that night.

The jabs between you are still there, but they’ve lost their edge—less snark and spite, more playful banter. The kind that lingers just long enough to be amusing but never actually stings.

You smile at him when you pass each other in the hallway now. Not the polite, distant one you give everyone else, but a real one—small, barely-there, but real. You don’t avoid sitting with him anymore when the study hall is packed, and somehow, he swears people have started reserving a seat next to him for you.

He finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

It was weird at first—falling into this easy rhythm with you. He doesn’t quite know when it happened, only that it did.

Now, you help each other out when you can, despite having different A-levels.

You teach him how to organize his notes properly, finally getting him to admit that his system of stuffing everything into his bag “where I can find it later” is inefficient. In return, you steal scratch paper from him when you need to jot things down quickly, muttering a half-hearted “thanks” while he snorts and tells you to bring your own next time.

You ask him to explain things you don’t have the patience to reread, and he—after weeks of resisting—finally accepts your request to have a shared study playlist, since, for some reason, you two find yourselves next to each other so often.

It’s fun. Organic. Comfortable.

And then one day, in the middle of study hall, as he’s flipping through notes and barely paying attention, you look up from your work and—completely unprompted—ask:

“So, tell me about racing.”

He freezes, caught completely off guard.

“…Finally interested in my hobby?” He smirks, leaning back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers just like you’d taught him.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Ugh. Let it go, we were like fifteen.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Yeah, something’s definitely changed.

“So…” He watches you intently, trying to gauge if you actually want to know. “You really wanna hear about it?”

“Well, you won’t shut up about it,” you say, propping your chin on your hand. “Might as well figure out what’s so cool about it.”

He snorts. “Then sure, princess, let’s introduce you to motorsport, yeah?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname, but he catches the way you shift slightly in your seat, just a little closer, just a little more engaged.

“There’s a few types of it,” he starts, leaning back against the desk. “You’ve got the motorcycles and there’s even stuff where there’s two people in one car. But I’m in single-seater racing, so it’s just me.” His voice gains a certain ease as he speaks, his usual sharp edges softening. “I’m aiming for Formula One, which is like… the top of it all.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He always seemed most alive when he was annoyed at something—eyes sharp, jaw tight, voice lined with exasperation. But this? This is different. His posture is looser, his words flowing without the usual bite. There’s no frustration here, just passion.

You nod, and—true to form—pull out your notebook, flipping to a fresh page. The sharp click of your pen echoes in the room.

He stops. Stares.

“…Are you seriously taking notes?”

"Duh,” you reply, completely serious. “I need to keep up.”

For a moment, he just blinks at you. Then he huffs out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. But he doesn’t tell you to stop.

“Alright then,” he says, smirking slightly. “Most of us start in karting as kids. Like, literally kids. I was ten when I started—a little late, actually—but that’s where you learn the basics. Overtaking, defending, racing lines, racecraft—the whole lot.”

You hum thoughtfully, jotting something down. Then you glance up at him, the corner of your lips lifting. “Were you fast?”

“In karting?” His mouth twitches in amusement. “Obviously.”

You snicker. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He shoots you a look, rolling his eyes before continuing. “Well, after that, you move up into junior divisions. It’s harder, more competitive, and way more expensive.” His fingers drum against the desk absently. “Talent alone isn’t enough there. There’s sponsors, funding, getting with a good team—and even with all that, nothing’s guaranteed.”

You watch him carefully, catching the way his jaw clenches at that last part.

It’s subtle, but there. The briefest flicker of frustration—of something deeper—before he forces it back down.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you tap your pen against your notebook, tilting your head. “So, let me get this straight,” you say, holding back a smile, pretending to examine your notes. “You’re telling me that you just drive in circles really fast, and you need rich people to like you?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “It is not just driving in circles.”

"Of course." You grin. “You drive in different squiggles really fast."

“Oh my god—”

You both burst out laughing, your voices filling the mostly quiet study hall, and the tension lifts.

He finds that you've been doing that lately—smoothing out the tightness in his chest until there's nothing but left but peace.

The kind he realizes he only really finds with you.

The annual retreat was supposed to be a break—a chance for students to step away from deadlines and exams, breathe in fresh air, and pretend they weren’t slowly losing their minds under the weight of classes.

Traditionally, it was some wilderness training program, the kind where they’d be forced to build shelters out of sticks and start fires with nothing but sheer willpower. But this year, the school had gone easy on them.

Instead of roughing it in the wild, they were headed to a quiet camping site tucked away in the countryside. Cabins instead of tents, a scenic lake, and just enough planned activities to call it "team-building" without making it actual suffering. Oscar didn't mind. A few days away from campus, where he didn’t have to think about exams or sponsors or whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing with his life? Yeah, he’d take it.

By the time they arrived, the sun was already slipping lower in the sky, casting warm gold over the treetops. The air was crisp, cooler than the city, carrying the distant scent of pine and lake water. As he stepped off the bus, stretching out his limbs, he could hear his friends already making plans—who was bunking with who, what they were sneaking into the cabins, whether or not they could get away with "accidentally" skipping the reflection sessions.

And then, of course, he spotted you.

Standing near the second bus, arms crossed, listening to one of your friends ramble about something—probably the itinerary. Your uniform blazer was gone, replaced by a jacket, and for once, your hair wasn’t held back by your usual headband. Something about it made you seem different. Less put together, less perfect. More like a person, less like the image of one.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have.

Not that it mattered.

Because when you finally noticed him watching, you raised a brow, expression unreadable for all of two seconds before you smirked—just slightly, just enough to mouth: Stop staring, you weirdo.

Oscar exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile as he shouldered his duffel bag.

Just his luck—two days in the outdoors with you.

Or so he thought.

He didn’t see you at all that first night, too caught up in settling into the cabin with his friends, planning out their excursions for the next day. The schedule was packed but perfect: kayaking in the morning, followed by a swim in the lake. Archery in the afternoon, right after lunch. Then they’d spend the evening holed up in their cabin, pretending to nap so they could conveniently "miss" the reflection exercises. After dinner, they'd break out the snacks and board games they’d smuggled in, playing well past curfew.

Between all that, he was sure he’d run into you at some point. The camp wasn’t that big.

And yet, as the new day unfolded, you were nowhere to be found.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did see you. But only in passing—too focused on organizing the next day’s team-building activities, pouring over notes with the other prefects to even notice him.

Which was fine. Totally fine.

You were busy, after all.

Not that it mattered.

Not that it should have mattered.

And yet, for some reason, it did.

If the first day at camp was a relaxed free period with a required meditation session, the second was the complete opposite. Designed as a full-day competition, the campgrounds buzzed with energy as different challenges ran simultaneously—relay races, strategy games, problem-solving tasks. Every student was assigned to a random team and a random event. When they said team-building, they meant it.

Oscar got assigned to the obstacle course.

Which would’ve been fine—great, even—if it weren’t for the immediate complaints from the other teams the second they saw his name on the roster.

“Oh, come on,” someone groaned. “How’s that fair? He’s literally a professional athlete!”

“We’re going against a guy who has an actual training regimen,” another muttered, crossing their arms.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, feeling an unfamiliar prickle of embarrassment as all eyes turned to him. Great. He didn’t even want an unfair advantage, but now he was public enemy number one.

And then, of course, you stepped in.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” you said, somehow managing to corral the complaints into grumbling silence. Then, after a pause, you turned to him, a slow smirk pulling at your lips. “How about we give him a handicap, then?”

Oscar narrowed his eyes immediately. He knew that tone. That was your I’m about to mess with you tone.

“What do you think, Piastri?” you continued, crossing your arms. “Up for the challenge?”

He wasn’t, actually. Not at all. But some part of him—some deeply irrational, definitely stupid part—thought you might be a little impressed if he pulled it off.

“Sure,” he said, tilting his head at you. “What’s the handicap?”

You grinned. Too pleased. “We’re adding some weight on you.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

Another facilitator stepped forward, handing you a backpack that looked harmless enough. That is, until you struggled just a little to lift it, adjusting your stance to keep from stumbling.

Oscar stared. Oh, hell no.

“You…” He sighed heavily, reaching for the bag. The second he strapped it on, he felt the weight drag at his shoulders, and he let out a quiet grunt. Okay. Yeah. That’s ridiculous.

“You,” he muttered, adjusting the straps, “Are so lucky I tolerate you.”

You just flashed him a teasing smile and—because you were the actual worst—blew him a mocking kiss before turning back to the rest of the group.

“Alright!” you clapped your hands together. “Now that we’re all happy with the arrangements, let’s go over the rules!”

Oscar exhaled through his nose, shifting the weight on his back as you explained the mechanics. A team-based obstacle course where every challenge had to be completed by every member. Fastest team wins.

His team shot him a look, somewhere between amusement and pity.

Oscar just rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

Fine. He could do this.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d make sure to throw you in the lake after.

“Are we all ready?” you call out over the crowd.

“Yeah!” they cheer back, voices full of energy.

“On your marks!”

Oscar positions himself at the back of his team, muscles tensed, ready. He could’ve started at the front—probably should have, considering he was technically the athlete—but he stayed behind instead, ready to help if anyone needed it. Team-building and all that.

“Get set!”

You scan the group, making sure everyone is in place. Then, for the briefest moment, your eyes lock with his.

His fingers twitch. Yours drum against your clipboard.

And because he’s him and you’re you, he casually flips you off.

You grin, wide and smug, like you’ve already won.

“Go!”

Oscar takes off.

The weight of the bag is brutal, but he barely registers it. All he knows is that he is not going to let you have the satisfaction of messing with him too much.

He was so going to win this.

Okay, so he was a little disappointed that you weren’t at the awarding ceremony when they handed out medals to his team for winning—even with the practically evil handicap you gave him.

But you were probably just busy cleaning up after the competitions.

No big deal.

And, yes, he did get a little annoyed when he spotted you later—freshened up and back in your usual composed state—smiling and giggling with another prefect.

But you were probably just planning the bonfire for tonight.

Totally valid.

He was fine.

At least, he was.

And then…

“So, you wanna sit with me at the bonfire tonight?”

Oscar stops in his tracks.

He doesn’t see your reaction, but he hears it. That soft hum of consideration, the one he’s learned you make when you’re actually thinking about something.

You were actually considering it.

Before he can hear your answer, he turns and walks away, jaw tight, steps a little heavier than necessary.

He doesn’t know what pisses him off more—the fact that you might say yes, or the fact that he cares if you do.

As suspected, you’re nowhere to be seen the entire bonfire.

Not that it mattered.

Oscar spent the night exactly how he should—hanging out with his friends, caught up in the whirlwind of music, laughter, and an excessive, probably unhealthy amount of s’mores. Someone had smuggled in a speaker, blasting everything from classic rock to obnoxious pop songs that made everyone yell along. They danced, they joked, they reveled in the rare freedom of being away from school.

He had a blast.

Seriously. A fucking great time.

So why the hell couldn’t he shake the thought of you?

The question stuck to the back of his mind, clinging like sap, stubborn and impossible to ignore. It wasn’t like you had to be here. Maybe you weren’t a bonfire person. Maybe you were holed up in your cabin, exhausted from running the competitions all day. Maybe you were off somewhere with that prefect—

Oscar scowled, shaking the thought away as he stretched out on the wooden bench outside his cabin. The night air was cool, the distant crackle of the bonfire still audible from the main clearing.

It was supposed to be two days in the outdoors with you.

With you.

Late into the night, long after most of the camp had settled down, the thought hadn’t left him.

Annoyed—at himself, at you, at whatever this was—he exhaled sharply, pushing off the bench and shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. Without thinking, his feet carried him toward the bonfire.

The flames had burned lower, flickering embers casting soft orange glows across the empty clearing. Most of the students had already turned in for the night, only a few stragglers left chatting quietly at the edges of the fire.

And then—finally—he saw you.

Sitting alone on the other side of the fire, half-hidden by the flickering glow, arms wrapped around your knees as you stared into the flames.

His steps faltered.

Where the hell had you been all night?

More importantly—why did you look so…lost?

Oscar takes a deep breath before stepping forward, his footsteps quiet against the dirt. You don’t notice him at first, too lost in whatever thoughts have anchored you to this spot. He sinks down beside you on the makeshift seat—a sturdy log warmed by the fire—resting his arms on his knees.

The bonfire crackles, embers drifting up into the night, casting flickering light across your face. The voices of other students murmur in the background, distant and indistinct. Crickets chirp in the trees.

You don’t look at him.

Oscar watches you instead, studying the way your shoulders curve inward as you sit cross-legged, the way your fingers fidget absently in your lap. You look…small, in a way he isn’t used to seeing. Like you’re carrying something heavy and don’t know where to set it down.

It’s silent, but strangely enough, he doesn’t feel alone.

Then, after a moment, you break the quiet.

“Why do you hate me?”

It’s a sudden question, one that hits sharper than he expects. A question about feelings he decided he had when he was fifteen, feelings he had held onto tightly—until a few months ago, when you had sat in that quiet classroom and shared your struggles with each other.

Feelings he honestly forgot he had.

“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t hate you.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Not anymore, at least. But you did. Once.”

Finally, you turn to him, firelight reflected in your eyes. “Why did you?”

“I…” He pauses, considering his words. “I thought you were kind of stuck-up when we first met. And fake. And…and you called racing a hobby.”

Your lips twitch, amused. “Well, at least one of those things is actually something I did wrong.” Then, softer, “I’m sorry I said that. About racing.”

You lift a hand, smoothing down his hair in a gesture so natural, so easy, that it catches him completely off guard. “It’s your passion, your life. You worked really hard for it.”

A small chuckle escapes you. “I was a little stuck-up though, wasn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.” Oscar smirks. “Though you were great at returning the attitude I gave you,” he admits, tilting his head.

You roll your eyes. “And yet you think I’m the fake one? I was very honest about how much I didn’t appreciate you disliking me.”

“I just think—”

“Not thought?” you interrupt. “Present tense?”

Oscar hesitates, then nods. “You don’t show what’s in your head…What’s in your heart. You have all these smiles and scripts practiced. And you always look put together—even now that we’re literally out in nature. And you’re never seen with bad posture. Your grades are perfect and so is your conduct, and you’re actually kinda nice to be with. By all accounts, you’re…perfect.” He pauses, voice softer now. “But no one’s perfect, Y/N. Not even you. No matter how much distance you put between yourself and everyone else so they can think that you are.”

At that, you finally look away, gaze dropping to the ground.

“You can say that because you’re all set, Oscar,” you murmur. “You don’t need to be perfect because you already know what you want. You have a path, and you work hard for it. You can take your mistakes and turn them into lessons because you have something you want to be great for. You can try again and again when things don’t work out because you actually have a dream.”

Your breath catches slightly, and you swallow hard before continuing.

“I don’t have that.”

The words are quiet but heavy, settling in the space between you.

“So, I need to be perfect, Oscar.” Your fingers tighten over your knee. “Because I don’t know where I’ll end up if I’m not.”

The fire crackles. The night feels impossibly still.

And for the first time since he met you, Oscar doesn’t know what to say.

He just sits next to you for a while, keeping you company as the fire crackles and burns lower. The murmured conversations of the last few stragglers fade one by one, until eventually, it’s just the two of you left.

The night air is cool, carrying the distant sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, the faint chirping of crickets. The firelight flickers, casting shifting shadows across your face, across the way your shoulders remain tense, like you’re still bracing for something unseen.

Oscar exhales, shifting slightly closer. “I don’t think you need to have everything sorted out yet,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “We still have next year. And there’s the year after that. And the year after.”

You don’t respond. Not immediately.

“Y/N,” he calls, softer this time. “We have a lot left to live. You’ll find your place. You’ll figure everything out.”

You finally turn to him, eyes uncertain, on the verge of overflowing.

“Do you mean it?” Your voice is shaky, fragile in a way he’s not used to hearing.

“I do.”

You look away, but before you can retreat entirely, Oscar moves without thinking—cupping your face gently with one hand, tilting your chin just enough to meet his gaze.

It’s foreign. Surprising.

But not…unwelcome.

Your breath catches, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. The air between you shifts, something unspoken stretching thin and taut, the space closing inch by inch.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

His thumb brushes against your cheek, just barely.

“Everything will be fine.”

And then the dam breaks.

A sharp inhale, then a quiet sob. The first tear slips down your cheek, then another, and before you can stop it, you’re crying—really crying, shoulders shaking as you press your face into his chest.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you in without a second thought, wrapping his arms around you, shielding you from the weight of whatever’s been crushing you for so long. His hand rests at the back of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair as you let yourself fall apart against him.

And all he can do—all he wants to do—is hold you.

It’s strange.

He doesn’t ever see you like this. Just once before. You’re so composed, always controlled, always held together by perfectly measured smiles.

But right now, you’re none of those things.

You’re just you.

You're real.

You're in his arms and you're real.

And it hits him, in the stillness of the moment, in the way the firelight dances across tear-streaked skin—You’re beautiful.

Not in the way he used to think, not just in the way everyone already knew.

But in the way that matters.

The kind of beautiful that settles in the quiet spaces, that lingers, that takes you home. The kind that isn’t just seen but felt—woven into the way you carry yourself, the way you fight so hard to hold everything together, the way you’re allowing yourself to not be perfect, just for a moment.

Even in your worst state, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on.

And suddenly—too fast—he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s something more there. If there’s a chance he likes you. In that way.

If, deep down, he’s been falling this whole time.

2019: Year 13 [18 years old]

When autumn rolls around and he’s back at school again, Oscar Piastri is a Eurocup champion. Testing for Formula 3 is lined up, doors are opening, and for the first time, the dream that once felt impossibly distant is now right in front of him. He’s buzzing, electric with the thrill of it all.

And you’re the person he most wants to tell everything to.

Not much has changed between you two after the bonfire. You still bicker, still trade sharp remarks, but there’s a warmth underneath it now—something softer, something unspoken. Something that makes his stomach twist in a way he’s beginning to understand.

Because, yes, he’s finally realized it.

He likes you. In that way.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance you feel the same.

He runs into you in the hallway, where your hair is still neatly styled, your uniform still crisp, but there’s something new. The prefect’s badge you once wore with careful pride is gone, replaced by a Head Girl badge gleaming against your blazer.

“You’ve come a long way, princess,” he says, stopping in front of you, hands casually shoved in his pockets. “Congrats on being Head Girl.”

Your smile is wide, genuine—the kind he doesn’t see you give to just anyone. “Congratulations to you too, Piastri—Eurocup champion.”

The way you say it, like you mean it, like you’re proud of him, makes something tighten in his chest.

“Wanna walk to class together?” he asks, like it’s easy. Like it’s normal. Like the idea of just existing next to you isn’t becoming something he needs.

You tilt your head, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face. “I have study hall for most of the day, actually.” Then, as if to soften the blow, you brighten. “I’ll send you my schedule, though, so we can coordinate!”

Something about that—coordinating, making time for each other—sits so naturally between you.

“Sure,” he says, nodding. “See you later?”

“See you later, Piastri.”

You turn and walk away, and just the thought of syncing your schedules is enough motivation for him to get through the day.

Except…when he finally gets your message, his stomach drops.

Because there, glaring back at him, is one unavoidable fact:

Nothing aligns.

Oscar had always been good at adjusting. Racing taught him that—how to adapt, how to move forward, how to deal with losing things and making peace with it.

But this? This was different.

He wasn’t used to missing someone. Not like this.

Sure, he missed his mom and dad. He missed his sisters. He missed the Australian heat and slang. He missed his racing friends when he went back to school. He missed the tracks and his car. But never in his life did he think he’d miss you.

And maybe that’s why the switch was so jarring. He’d spent years wishing he was away from you, wishing for different classes, wishing to never see your face.

Now that he has that, he wants nothing more than to bring back the simpler days—when you were always classmates, always orbiting each other, always trying to avoid the other but never quite succeeding at staying away.

Ever since he’d gotten your schedule and realized that nothing aligned, it was like there was an empty space in his day where you were supposed to be.

It wasn’t like you’d disappeared. He still saw you, sometimes—passing glimpses in hallways, quick nods across the library, an occasional “Hey, Piastri” when your paths crossed. But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t like before.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because before, he didn��t think he’d need more.

Now, though? It was all he could think about.

Oscar had wanted a lot of things in his life, but rarely did he ever want something back.

He wants back the way you twirl your pen in between your fingers at a speed he still can’t match, no matter how many times you try to teach him. He wants the ever-changing rearrangement of your hair when you get stressed, never sticking to one style within the hour. He wants your study sessions and your stealing of his scratch papers. He wants your smiles and your quips and your banter.

He wants you back.

So, like in racing, he strategizes.

He figures out which routes you take so he can walk by at just the right moment, just to get a minute of conversation before you scurry off to class. He starts showing up at the library earlier, knowing you’ll pass by on your way to study hall. He “accidentally” bumps into you at the cafeteria, acting surprised even though he knows exactly when you go.

He even texts you more, something he never used to do before. Just small things at first—jokes, complaints about assignments, links to articles about topics he knows will spark an argument. Anything to keep the conversation going.

And yet, it isn’t the same.

No matter what he does, it’s not enough of you.

At some point, it’s wasn't just missing you anymore—it’s something heavier, something that sits in his chest and refuses to leave. Because no matter how many stolen moments he squeezes into his day, no matter how often he “accidentally” finds himself in your orbit, it never lasts long enough.

And the worst part?

You don’t even notice.

Not in the way he wants you to.

You’re busy—busier than ever. Between Head Girl responsibilities, exams, and whatever future you’re silently trying to carve out for yourself, it feels like you’re slipping further and further away. And Oscar, for the first time in his life, hates the idea of being left behind.

He tries not to let it bother him. You’re just focused, that’s all. It’s not like you’re avoiding him.

Except maybe you are.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a mean way.

But in the way that means he’s no longer a priority.

And that realization hits harder than he expects.

Because before, if he wanted to see you, he could. If he wanted to talk to you, he’d find a way, and you’d let him.

But now?

Now, you’re harder to reach. Harder to catch. Harder to keep.

And the closer graduation gets, the more he starts to wonder—If he doesn’t do something soon, will you slip away completely?

It’s right as the holiday break approaches that he finally gets a moment alone with you again—on a random night, past curfew, when you both somehow end up sneaking into the same empty classroom.

It’s similar, but different.

The lights are still dimmed, casting familiar shadows against the walls. The air is still heavy, thick with exhaustion from exams and the looming uncertainty of the future. But this time, you’re standing closer together. This time, the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it’s something known, something safe.

Because this time, no matter how much is changing, you both know one thing for sure—You’ve got each other.

How’s life been for you, Oscar?” you ask, leaning against the wall, a warm smile on your face. “It’s been a while, so tell me everything.”

“I don’t think it’s been any different from yours,” he says, mirroring your smile. “Tests, papers…” He hesitates. “Graduation. The future.”

You exhale, the weight of that word hanging between you. “Well, those are definitely in my head.” A small chuckle escapes your lips. “Is it weird that I miss those early days here at the academy?”

“What, the ones where we hated each other?” He smirks.

You roll your eyes. “Yes and no.” Turning toward the window, you watch the campus lights flicker in the distance, the glow casting soft light across your features. Oscar should look away, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

“I mean, things were simpler then,” you continue. “We had all the time in the world.”

He hums in response, watching the way your fingers trace absent patterns against the windowsill.

“I wish we could go back to then,” you say softly. “I’d be nicer to you. We could have been friends faster.”

You both giggle at this, the sound light and easy, but something in his chest pulls.

“What about you, Oscar? Would you change anything?”

He thinks for a moment. He thinks about the previous year—the late-night study sessions, the bickering that turned into something softer, the night by the bonfire when you let your walls down. He thinks about being paired with you for that stupid project in your second year, about meeting you in this exact room right around this time last year. He thinks about the very first time he saw you, sitting so perfectly poised in the headmaster’s office, completely unaware of the way you’d wedge yourself into his life, piece by stubborn piece.

He thinks.

Then—

“Nothing.”

You blink, turning back to face him. “Nothing?”

“I think…” He exhales, searching for the right words. “I think we’re where we’re at because it took a while to get to know each other. If we had been friends from the start, maybe things would’ve been easier—but I don’t think they would’ve been right.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, shifting his weight slightly. “If we had been friends back then, I think I would’ve liked you the way everyone else does. The way people admire you from a distance.” His voice is quieter now. “But…I got to see you. Not just the perfect grades or the Head Girl badge. I got to see the way you actually think, the way you talk when you’re not putting on a front. The way you try so hard even when you don’t have to.”

You don’t say anything. You just look at him, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

And then, finally, you smile. Not the polite kind. Not the practiced one.

The real one.

“Well,” you say, voice softer than before. “I’m glad you got to know me.”

He’s glad too. More than you’ll ever know.

You just bask in the silence for a while, letting the quiet settle between you like something warm, something known. The window glass is cool beneath your fingertips as you both watch the lights flicker outside, the campus stretched out before you, vast and unchanging.

Your fingers brush against each other.

It’s light—barely even there, just a whisper of a touch. But it burns.

Something inside him ignites, sharp and immediate, like the flick of a match against dry kindling.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

He doesn’t move his hand away. Neither do you.

“You should call me by my name more.”

You tilt your head slightly, raising a brow. “Tired of hearing your last name?” The corner of your lips lilts in amusement.

Well, you might have it one day, he thinks.

But instead, he just shrugs. “I like hearing you say it.”

The teasing look in your eyes falters for just a second—your lips parting slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face before your cheeks flush.

You blink at him, the weight of his words lingering between you.

And then—

“Okay, then,” you say softly, watching him just as intently.

“…Oscar.”

You still don’t see much of each other throughout the rest of the year.

Between exams, responsibilities, and the looming pressure of the future, time slips through your fingers faster than either of you can catch it. Even texting becomes rare—just the occasional Good luck on your exam or a late-night complaint about an assignment. Nothing deep. Nothing real.

But Oscar takes what he can get.

His comfort comes in brief meetings in the hallways—your rushed conversations between classes, cramming a day’s worth of thoughts into a handful of stolen seconds.

“Got a physics test after lunch,” you’d say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “If I fail, I’m blaming you.”

He’d smirk. “What did I do?”

“The playlist you gave me last time distracted me.”

“Hey, I have great taste.”

“You can keep telling yourself that.”

And then the bell would ring, and just like that, you’d be gone—your presence slipping through his fingers before he could even think about holding on.

Hearing you call out his name in the busy hallway became the highlight of his day. A moment of certainty in a year that felt anything but steady.

But the times your knuckles brushed, the moments your shoulders bumped in passing, those felt like something more. Like maybe, if things had been different, there would’ve been time for more.

Except there wasn’t.

And maybe that’s why the thought of you leaving hits harder than it should.

He isn’t expecting to hear it—not like this, not by accident. But as he’s passing the debate room on his way to class, your voice stops him in his tracks.

“The university there offered me a great scholarship,” you tell a friend, your tone measured, practical. “It would be stupid not to take it.”

There’s a beat of silence before your friend speaks, quieter, hesitant. “So, that’s it then? You’re just…leaving?”

Oscar freezes mid-step.

A heartbeat passes.

Then another.

And then—

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s so final. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just a quiet certainty that settles deep in his chest, heavier than it should be. “I’m leaving.”

And suddenly, the ground beneath him doesn’t feel so steady anymore.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” The words slip out before he can stop them, raw and too loud, cutting through the quiet corridor.

You blink, taken aback by the sharpness in his tone, by the urgency in his voice.

“Y/N, what are you even talking about?”

The hurt is there, unmistakable, woven between the syllables. And maybe if he hadn’t spent so long trying to deny it, he’d understand it better.

No. He does understand.

Because there was so much he wanted to tell you.

Because you were supposed to have time.

You were supposed to figure this out together.

“Oscar,” you say cautiously, as if approaching something fragile, something breakable. You glance at your friend, giving them a small nod, a silent request for space. They hesitate before excusing themselves, leaving just the two of you.

You inhale deeply, as if preparing yourself.

“I got an offer from a university outside the country,” you say, voice steady, like you’ve rehearsed this before, like you’ve already convinced yourself that this is good. That this is right. “Full-ride scholarship with room and board and a possible slot in a master’s program after I get my undergraduate.”

It’s a perfect opportunity.

It’s everything you’ve worked for.

You should be thrilled. You are thrilled.

So why does your heart ache at the way he’s looking at you?

Oscar doesn’t speak right away, just stares, his lips parting slightly like he’s still trying to process what you just said.

And then, finally, he breathes, “It’s a great opportunity.”

You nod, stepping closer, reaching for his hand before you can stop yourself. You don’t know why you do it—maybe to reassure him, maybe to reassure yourself. His palm is warm, his fingers rough but familiar, grounding.

“I’m going to take it,” you say. And you mean it.

But when his grip tightens around yours, when his thumb brushes absently against your skin like he’s memorizing the feeling, something inside you wavers.

Oscar swallows, staring at your joined hands like they hold all the answers he’s been looking for. He doesn’t know what he expected—that you’d stay? That you’d change your mind? That he’d still have more time to figure out what you mean to him before you slip away completely?

He thought he had more time.

He thought—

“I love you.”

It comes out before he can second-guess it, before he can tell himself that this isn’t the right time, that this isn’t how he was supposed to say it. But none of that matters now.

His grip on your hand tightens. His voice is softer the second time, but truer, like the words are settling into something real.

“I love you.”

The world tilts slightly.

Your breath catches.

Because of course he does. Of course this is what it’s been building up to—every argument, every stolen glance, every almost-moment that neither of you dared to name.

But now that it’s here, now that he’s standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, you don’t know what to do with it.

Because you’re leaving.

Because you’ve already decided.

And because some part of you wonders if maybe, maybe, you were waiting for him to say it sooner.

You look down, your eyes fixed on the floor because it’s easier than looking at him. Easier than facing the way his voice cracks, the way his words hang heavy between you.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” you whisper, and even that feels like too much.

“Do you feel the same?” he asks, his voice quiet but firm.

You close your eyes. “I’m leaving, Oscar.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice softens, but the urgency stays. “Do you feel the same?”

“It’s not going to work,” you say, your breath hitching. You hate how your voice shakes, hate the way your heart is pounding so fast it hurts. “We’re going in very different directions and—”

“Do you feel the same, Y/N?” he asks again, his voice breaking just slightly.

And that—that’s what makes you falter. Because you can hear it. The way he’s holding on so tight, the way he’s afraid of your answer.

“Just let me go,” you whisper, even though it’s the last thing you want.

“I can’t,” he says after a beat, and his voice is so soft when he says it, but there’s no mistaking the weight of those words. “I can’t because I know you. Because I know I’m not the only one who feels this.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m trying to be practical—”

“I’m trying to tell you I love you!” His voice rises, frustration and desperation bleeding into every word.

And then—

“So do I!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them, loud and broken and everything you’ve been trying to bury.

The silence after is deafening.

You look up at him, your eyes brimming with tears. “I love you too,” you whisper, like it’s a secret you’re only brave enough to say now. And when you step forward and press your forehead to his chest, his arms come around you without hesitation, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “But it’s too late, Oscar. I’m leaving.”

“It’s not too late.”

He pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks—wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling. His touch is so gentle it breaks you a little more.

“We’re right here,” he says, his voice quiet and steady. “So, it’s not too late.”

And then—slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away—he leans in.

Your breath catches.

And when his lips finally meet yours, the world falls away.

It’s soft at first—tentative and slow, like both of you are afraid of pushing too far, afraid of what this means. But then your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and his hand slips into your hair, and the kiss deepens. It becomes something warmer, desperate—like making up for every second you wasted, every word you never said.

And for a while, there’s no leaving. No future pulling you in different directions. No goodbye waiting on the horizon.

It’s just you.

It’s just him.

The warmth of his hands on your skin, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. The way your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re afraid to let go. The quiet, shared ache in every kiss—like you’re both trying to memorize this, to keep this, even when you know you can’t.

And maybe this is all you get—this moment, this kiss, this fragile space where neither of you has to think about what comes next.

But maybe…maybe it’s just the beginning.

Because when you finally pull apart, breathless and trembling, your foreheads still pressed together, his breath still tangled with yours—you both know the truth.

This moment? It’s fleeting.

But his eyes—warm and steady—hold you there.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, and somehow, you believe him.

You nod, your voice barely more than a breath. “Yeah. We will.”

And even if the future is uncertain, even if the next steps take you miles apart—right now, this?

This is yours.

And for the first time, even with your heart breaking in the most beautiful way, it feels like enough.

2022: Epilogue 1

“I can’t believe you just did that!” you exclaim over the phone, your voice half-outraged, half-incredulous. “Oscar, you’re giving me a heart attack from like fifty thousand miles away!”

“Everything’s under control,” he says, grinning as he leans back against the wall of his hotel room, the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. “Trust me. It’s all in motion—you’ll see.”

“Honey,” you huff, and he can hear the dramatic eye roll in your voice, “I’ll believe you when you’re in that fucking Formula One seat, driving around squiggles for two hours.”

He chuckles, the sound low and easy, and God, he misses you. “You worry too much.”

“I have to worry,” you snap, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Because my idiot boyfriend decided to end his partnership with the team that made him their reserve driver by tweeting about it!” You huff. “I mean, listen to this: I understand that without my consent—”

“Okay, yeah, I typed that out,” he groans, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t need to relive it, thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” you tease, your voice softening just enough to make him smile.

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of your keyboard clacking in the background. “Anyway, experts are absolutely shitting on you online,” you inform him. “But don’t worry—I’m your biggest defender.”

“Please don’t fight with analysts on the internet,” he laughs, though the image of you going to battle for him is both hilarious and weirdly endearing. “They’re going to eat you alive.”

“Oscar, I had to deal with your attitude for years before we got together,” you shoot back, your tone sweet as sugar. “Trust me— some slimy little reporters are nothing to me.”

He laughs, the sound full and warm—the kind of laugh only you ever seem to pull out of him.

And as the miles stretch between you, the distance feels just a little smaller.

2023: Epilogue 2

The roar of the crowd was deafening — a steady pulse of noise that vibrated through the air, through the track, through Oscar’s bones. He could feel it, even from the garage, where the final checks were being made on his car. The smell of fuel and rubber mixed with the electric tension of the starting grid, and the weight of what was about to happen settled heavily on his chest.

Bahrain 2023.

His first Formula One race.

Everything he had worked for, fought for—the years of training, the endless sacrifices, the victories and the failures—had led him here. To this moment. To this seat. To this dream.

And still, when his eyes flicked to the edge of the garage, searching through the sea of engineers and team personnel, it wasn’t the car or the track or even the starting lights that grounded him.

It was her.

Y/N stood just beyond the bustle of the team, arms crossed and wearing his team’s colors, her ever-pristine hair now tucked beneath a cap. But the calm, poised version of her he’d fallen for wasn’t here today. Today, her excitement cracked through the surface—eyes bright, smile wide, nerves barely contained.

Three years, and she were still his greatest victory.

As if sensing his gaze, she turned—and when she smiled at him, everything else faded away. The crowd, the noise, the pressure.

It was just her. It was always her.

He lifted his hand in a small wave, and she grinned, mouthing words he didn’t need to hear to understand.

You’ve got this.

And just like that, the weight in his chest eased.

Because no matter what happened on the track today—win or lose, first place or last—she’d still be there.

And that? That was enough to make him feel unstoppable.

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri #op81 #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula one #f1 x reader #✩ allie's writing ✩

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illbegottenfaith · 4 months ago

Text

the one where you make theo cry (an ain’t that love inspired drabble)

Theodore Nott was hardly the kind of man who wore his heart on his sleeve. He had spent years perfecting his signature air of indifference, the one that captivated most others, what compelled them to make an impression on him. Of course, all that fell away when it came to you.

It started subtly. A sigh escaping your lips after a long day would leave him restless, make his bones a little weary. When you rubbed your temples in frustration, he found himself getting agitated with you - whatever was vexing you so undoubtedly deserved his irritation too. And when you laughed - loud, unabashed - it felt like a breath of fresh air.

Not that he'd admit it to anyone. No, he'd promised himself a long time ago, he wouldn't tell a soul - not his friends, not his family, and certainly not you. Little did he know he had yet to see a moment of yours that would truly unravel him at the seams.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday whilst tracking down Mattheo. He had checked their dorm, the Great Hall, the Quidditch pitch, everywhere - which left solely your dorm. Theo vaguely remembered him mentioning something about fixing one of the pipes in the bathroom, which was really just a ploy to impress one of your roommates more than anything.

But as he passed through the Slytherin common room on his way there, your droopy, teary eyes peering up at him for a split second, Theo swore he felt something inside of him crack open. You weren’t crying, not quite, but you were close. And Merlin, he hated it. Hated how his throat constricted, how his chest tightened, how his own stomach twisted with the bitterness of your misery.

He looked almost comically stricken briefly before straightening his face. "What's wrong?" he asked, voice low.

"It’s nothing." You shook your head, brushing it off with a tight, superficial smile as you moved up to make room for him. "Mattheo’s almost done, he’ll be down in a second."

Still taken aback, Theo accepted the seat beside you

"It doesn't look like nothing," he prompted. You laughed weakly, dabbing at your eyes.

"Don't worry. It is, really. I'm just feeling a little…hormonal today." Your gaze fell back to the book and almost immediately, your emotions betrayed you once again.

You sniffled as your face screwed up in your effort to choke back your sobs. Theo felt a lump in his throat and an unfamiliar stinging sensation at the corners of his eyes.

“It’s just - “ you forced out, “he’s so small. Look at him, Theo. He’s tiny. He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know about taxes. He doesn’t even know about taxes.”

Theo finally caught sight of the page of your book. It had a picture of a baby niffler, no bigger than the size of your thumb - tiny, soft, with big, round, trusting (if only slightly mischievous) eyes.

As you dissolved into more stifled sobs, Theo blinked, caught completely off guard. Then, to everyone’s horror - including his own - his eyes misted over too.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake," Blaise muttered from across the room, watching the scene unfold. "Are you actually crying?"

“It’s fucking tiny.”

Theo scowled at him, aggressively wiping his face. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the sound of your quiet, shuddering breaths, or the way your shoulders trembled under his hands as he pulled you close.

You hiccupped between sobs. "I just love it so much."

Theo swallowed thickly, nodding. "Yeah. Me too." He glanced at the book in your lap again. He hugged you closer, deciding you were right - how dare a Niffler be that tiny, baby or otherwise?

Blaise sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right. I’ve seen enough."

Theo’s tears dried as quickly as they came, but the two of you stayed pressed together for a long time after Blaise left, even after your breathing had slowed into something more measured once again. You pressed your cool check against his shoulder, half-dozing.

Unthinkingly, Theo pried your clenched fist open. Surprisingly, you let him thread his fingers through your own. He glanced down at you, at the soft locks of hair curling around your tearstained face. He resisted the urge to press a kiss to the top of your head.

You looked up at him questioning. His grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly.

“Just - just let me, alright?”

A playful smile tugged at your lips. “You’re ridiculous, Teddy.” Your smile turned teasing. “Wait till Mattheo hears you cried over a baby niffler.”

Theo took on a wounded look. “So did you.”

As the two of you curled up again, Theo decided that this emotional telepathy wasn’t the worst thing in the world. When you sighed, he sighed. When you laughed, he laughed. When you hurt, he hurt. When you cried over a baby niffler… apparently, he did, too.

He hardly dared to think it, but he did it all the same.

Wasn’t that love?

#theo nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott fluff #IM SO SORRY I’m so swamped with work I haven’t been able to keep up w my notifs #Will get to them soon!!!!!!!!!! Ilyall mwah #belated Valentine’s Day fic!!!

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satellite-evans · 4 months ago

Text

Panic

a/n : enjoy whatever this is lol

Warnings : fluff, giving birth

Lando had spent years perfecting his ability to handle high-pressure situations. Split-second decisions at 200 miles per hour? No problem. Dodging crashes? Easy. Keeping calm when his entire race strategy was turned upside down? He could manage that.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for this.

“OH MY GOD, THIS IS HAPPENING,” Lando screeched, pacing frantically around the hospital room as you gripped the bedrails, wincing through another contraction.

You turned your head toward him, sweat dripping down your forehead. “Lando, I swear to God—”

“I mean, I knew it was happening, obviously! Because that’s how babies work! But it’s really happening! Like right now!” Lando continued, running a shaky hand through his already-messy curls. “What if I say something stupid? What if I do something wrong? What if I—”

“You already are!” you snapped, gripping his hand with a force that made his knees buckle.

Lando yelped, barely holding himself together. “Okay, okay, you’re doing great, babe! So great! Best labor I’ve ever seen!”

The nurse beside you stifled a laugh. “Dad’s looking a little pale.”

“Oh, he does that,” you muttered through gritted teeth.

Lando gasped. “I do not!”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes wild. “Lando, you gag when you had to change my nieces diaper. You nearly fainted when I had my blood drawn last week.”

He flinched. “That was… different! That needle was huge! Like a sword!”

The nurse snorted. “I’ve seen toddlers handle that better.”

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but your sharp inhale of pain cut him off. Instantly, his expression softened, panic giving way to concern. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, gripping your hand in both of his. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m right here, love.”

You squeezed his hand—this time, just for comfort—and met his eyes. “I know.”

For a brief moment, the room quieted. The contractions were getting stronger, closer together. You knew this meant you were almost there, but exhaustion was beginning to weigh on you.

Lando noticed. “You got this, okay?” His voice was softer now, steadier. “Just think of it like a race. Last few laps. You’re leading. You just need to push to the finish line.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Did you just compare childbirth to a race?”

“I panicked,” he admitted sheepishly. “But… was it a good metaphor?”

You gave him a tired smile. “It wasn’t terrible.”

Before he could respond, the doctor clapped their hands. “Alright, Mom, you’re fully dilated. It’s time to push.”

Your heart pounded. This was it. Months of waiting, of preparing, of wondering what this moment would feel like—

And now, it was here.

Lando felt the shift in your energy, and instantly, he was back to full panic mode. “Okay. Okay! It’s happening! It’s really happening!” He turned to the doctor. “What do I do?! Where do I stand?! Do I—do I hold her leg? Do I—oh my god, do I catch the baby?!”

The doctor didn’t even blink. “Dad, just stand where you are and try not to pass out.”

Lando’s face paled even more. “Pass out? Who said anything about passing out?”

The nurse handed him a paper bag.

Lando stared at it in horror. “Oh my god, do people actually—”

“Lando!” you cut him off, your voice sharp with pain. “Less talking, more hand-holding!”

“Right, right! I got you, babe, I got you.” He quickly took your hand, bracing himself—

Then the nurses adjusted the bed, helping you sit up—

And as you moved into position, your elbow swung back—

—And smacked Lando directly in the forehead.

The entire room went silent.

Lando staggered back, clutching his head. “I’m okay! I’m okay!” he announced, though his eyes were definitely unfocused, and he was swaying like a driver who just took Eau Rouge at full speed with no grip. “You have no idea how much that hurts, though.”

The medical staff just stared at him.

No one spoke.

Lando blinked. “What?”

You, in the middle of active labor, shot him a look so sharp it could have cut through steel. Your voice was dangerously calm. “Lando.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re complaining about a little boo boo while I’m pushing a human out of my body.”

He gulped. “Right. Not about me. Got it. Carry on.”

The nurse patted his arm, barely holding back laughter. “Nice recovery, Dad.”

But before he could respond, the doctor’s voice cut through the moment. “Alright, Mom, one big push.”

Your breath came in short, labored gasps. Your body ached, exhaustion weighing down on you, but you knew this was it. You took a deep breath—

And pushed.

Lando held onto your hand, whispering encouragement—until he made the terrible decision of looking down.

His eyes widened. “Oh. Wow. That’s… um. That’s a lot—”

And then, like a driver who just experienced complete brake failure—

Lando hit the floor.

“Oh, for the love of—”

The doctor barely glanced at his unconscious body. “Nurse, should we wake him up?”

You, panting and literally pushing a human out of your body, groaned. “No. Let him miss it. He deserves it.”

Minutes later, as the baby’s cries filled the room, you felt a rush of relief so overwhelming it nearly brought you to tears. The doctor placed your newborn into your arms, and suddenly, nothing else mattered. The pain, the exhaustion, even your unconscious husband on the floor—it all faded away as you stared at your baby.

Tiny. Perfect. Yours.

A few minutes later, Lando groaned from the floor. “What… happened?”

“You fainted,” you muttered, still in awe as you cradled your baby.

Lando scrambled to his feet, eyes wide as he took in the scene. “Wait—wait, did I miss it?!”

The nurse smirked. “Oh, you definitely missed it.”

Lando looked genuinely devastated. “Nooo! I was supposed to be there!”

“You were there,” you teased. “Just… unconscious.”

Lando let out a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his curls before looking down at the tiny bundle in your arms. His expression softened instantly. He sat beside you, completely transfixed.

“That’s… that’s our kid,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Yeah.”

For the first time since you arrived at the hospital, Lando was completely silent. He reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingers over the baby’s tiny hand. When her little fingers curled around his, he let out a shaky laugh.

“She is so small,” he murmured.

You leaned against him, exhaustion finally catching up to you. “I know.”

Lando swallowed thickly, blinking rapidly. “I love her so much already.”

You nodded. “Me too.”

After a beat of silence, Lando sighed. “Okay, but technically, I didn’t fully faint. I was just… resting my eyes.”

You chuckled. “Lando?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and hold your baby.”

And with a sheepish grin, Lando took your child into his arms, staring at her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

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igorluvr · 5 months ago

Text

‘LOVE AND LATTES | kang dae-ho x reader

PAIRING: kang dae-ho x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: during the games, dae-ho promised to take you on a proper first date. now that you had both successfully made it out, he was going to keep his promise

CONTENT: fluff, literally the tiniest bit of angst, kinda corny, trauma, kissing on the first date smh, reader is implied to be black

AUTHORS NOTE: tryna get a lot of fics out for u guys bcs almost 400 likes on my first ??? omg yall r so sweet i swearrr, tysmm !!! ngl this might be kinda bad bcs im too tired to read over it …

word count: [2.5k]

IT’S been around 3 days since you got out of those hellish games, and you still can’t seem to process it. There was so much death, you felt guilty for taking the money, but it was your only chance at having a way out.

After surviving and splitting the money with a good handful of people, you found yourself dropped off in a dark alleyway. With only a large duffel bag at your side, you felt lost, unsure of where to go.

Eventually, you made your way to a bus station and caught a ride back to your apartment. It took a while to adjust to being in the real world again, a world where a gun wasn’t being held up to your head every hour of the day.

You remembered how you met the sweetest boy there. Kang Dae-ho. He was everything you could’ve asked for. The perfect man, met at a perfectly terrible time. Your mind flashed back to the end of mingle game.

‘I swear, when we get out of here I’m gonna take you on a real date. No guards, no games, just us two and the future ahead of us, okay?’ Dae-ho promised, cupping your face gently in his hands.

‘I love you with all of my heart, and I wanna see you when this is all over. We can move in with eachother and spend everyday in eachothers arms.’ He rambled with tears in his eyes, ‘I can’t lose you.’

Now in the present day, you wished you’d spend more time with him. You thought back to the last day in the games, when you wrote your number on his hand, hoping it wouldn’t be wiped off by the guards before he got home so you could live out the future you planned.

As the days passed, you lost hope in being able to reunite with your lover. Memories of him flashed through your mind. “Fuck, Dae-ho.” you whispered, “If only I had one more day with you..” and as if on cue, you heard your phone ring.

You stared for a couple seconds, confused as to who it could be. ‘It wouldn’t be Dae-ho, would it?’ With an ounce of hope left in your mind, you hurried and clicked the green answer button.

Silence lingered, then you heard a voice that made your heart explode.

“Hello?” Dae-ho’s wavering voice sounded “Is this you?”

You jumped up in joy, feeling a huge smile stretch across your face.

“Oh my God, Dae-ho!! It’s actually you!!” You exclaimed. “I missed you so much I thought we’d never talk again.”

A relieved sigh came from the other line, followed by a slight laugh. “I missed you more. How have you been? Where are you? Do you want me to come over?” he bombarded

“Okay woah, I can tell you missed me. I’m doing good, well better than I was a couple days ago, I’m at my house, and yes, I would love for you to come” You answered

The line went quiet for a moment, making you wonder if you’d lost the connection. Just as concern started to creep in, Dae-ho spoke again “Do you remember that promise I made before we got out?”

Of course you remember, his words have been playing on repeat in your mind like a record. Your heart skipped a beat as you thought of it actually coming true. You muttered a quick ‘mhm’ for him to continue.

“Tomorrow, meet me at the cafe down the street from that big market. I don’t know where you stay, so if it’s too far tell me and I’ll call you an uber.” he planned, “Dress up, even though I know you’ll look amazing in anything” You felt the butterflies in your stomach form as he carried on about what’ll happen the next day.

As the conversation came to a close and you got ready for bed, you found yourself thinking of any possible scenario that could happen tomorrow, good and bad.

‘What if my hair doesn’t cooperate?’

‘What if he doesn’t like how I look anymore?’

‘What if he’s setting me up?’

All these unlikely events start to run through your mind and it caused you to be overwhelmed with everything happening. When drifting off to sleep, you hope that everything turns out right.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

You woke up to a constant ‘ding’ blaring through your room every 10 seconds. Immediately, you pressed the power button on your phone thinking maybe you’d accidentally set an alarm. When it didn’t subside after this, you groggily opened your phone to locate the noise.

There were about 15 notifications from Dae-ho, them all texting you as if you’d died in your sleep or something.

A pool of ‘are you awake?’ and ‘are you okay?’ flooded on your lock screen. Not wanting him to worry any further, you decided to text him back

‘goodmorninggg, i’m up now sorry 😭 im okay, how are you?’ You typed, half asleep.

Immediately, your message was read and the bubbles on the left side of the screen appeared.

‘I’m okay. Why do you sleep so late? You scared me.’ the message read. You hadn’t even realized the time. ‘2:26pm’ the clock read. You always had a bad habit of sleeping in but it had gotten unusually bad after getting back from the games.

You quickly apologized in your message, explaining your situation to which he swiftly understood. As the conversation progressed, you discussed your date. You were the type of person that needed to know every detail before doing something, especially something like this.

The both of you decided to meet there at 7pm, to give you time to get ready, and to dress up—but not too much. To be honest, you weren’t sure if you guys had the same definition of too much but you decided to put it aside for now.

Immediately after you guys finished discussing the details, you rushed to get ready. Even though you had 4 hours, it didn’t seem like nearly enough time to see him.

The closet was your first thought, since you basically lived by the rule of getting dressed first, doing hair, then putting on makeup. You scanned your closet for anything that would impress Dae-ho.

It took about 30 minutes alone to pick out an outfit. You decided on a long black dress you bought for your halloween costume that you never got the chance to wear, due to the pickup for the games occurring the same day. You picked out jewelry and a coat to go with it, since it was the beginning of winter.

After getting dressed, you gathered all your makeup supplies and rushed to the bathroom. Doing your makeup took longer than you wanted it to, but you wanted everything to be perfect since this was the first time you’d see him outside of life-or-death situations.

Every wing of eyeliner had to be just right, your lip gloss needed just the right amount of shine, everything had to reflect how much you cared.

The hair was the part you’d been dreading. You didn’t know if it was the detangling, or getting your part straight, but it gave you a headache just thinking about it.

After stalling for about 20 minutes, you finally built up the strength to start on your hair. Pinterest was your best friend for situations like this. You quickly opened the board labeled “hairstyles” and scrolled through them to find the perfect one.

You’d found this beautiful blown-out hairstyle that would look amazing with your outfit and makeup. Since you knew it would take a long time, you silently braced yourself, this wouldn’t be an easy task. You grabbed the blow dryer, flat iron, heat protectant, and got to work.

In about 2 hours, you had finally finished at 6:50pm. The cafe was about 7 minutes away from you, so you grabbed your stuff and walked out of the door.

The drive there was the worst part. Your stomach was doing somersaults. Even though you’d seen eachother at your literal worsts, it still felt so scary. With all these anxieties flashing through your mind, you managed to push them to the back and keep a confident facade.

As you pulled up, you sent a quick text stating your arrival. You fidgeted with the ends of your dress absentmindedly, spacing out and hoping for the best.

The ding of your phone sent shivers down your spine as a text popped up reading ‘Perfect. Come inside and turn to the left, I’m here.’

You felt like throwing up as you walked up to the entrance of the café. The strong smell of caffeine and pastries hit your nose as you searched for Dae-ho in the warm lights.

Turning left as he instructed, you were met with his beaming face, looking like he’d seen the most beautiful sunrise. His eyes widened in awe, and for a moment, he seemed frozen. The corners of his mouth curled up into an infectious smile, and you felt a rush of warmth, knowing that in this moment, you had completely captivated him.

Almost immediately, he jumped up and gave you an engulfing hug. You didn’t know if it was because you were used to the smell of blood being around him, but he smelled astonishingly good. It was like the best mixture of his natural scent and a very expensive cologne.

As he pulled back slightly, you noticed a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hands—delicate white lilies mixed with soft pink roses. “These are for you,” he said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I thought it was only right for our first date.”

His hair was down to his neck, loose and messy, quite different from the bun you were used to seeing him in during the games. The collar of his shirt was casually unbuttoned, too. He looked effortlessly flawless.

“You look… wow. You’re so beautiful,” Dae-ho complimented, sending electric shocks through your veins. A rush of shyness met your face—he really thought of you like that?

“It’s so good to see you,” you said, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and delight. “You look amazing too. I mean, I always thought you were handsome, but just… wow.” You took the bouquet from him, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the flowers.

His laughter danced through the air, a sound that brought you so much peace and clarity. “I’m just glad I could pull myself together after… well, everything.” His smile faded a bit, and you felt the silent weight of shared trauma hovering between you.

“Let’s not think about that tonight ,” you suggested softly, taking a seat across from him. “We deserve a night where those horrible games are the last of our worries.”

“Agreed,” he said, leaning forward, his gaze intensifying. “Tonight is about us, and starting fresh,together.”

As you scanned the cafe, adorned with twinkling fairy lights and the faint piano covers playing in the background,you felt the tension from earlier gradually melt away. You could see other people laughing, having the time of their lives. It felt surreal to be part of such a normal scene after everything you had both endured.

The waitress came up to your table and you both ordered drinks; he went for a dark roast coffee while you chose for a sweet vanilla latte. “It’s nice to be able to actually enjoy these little things.” you ranted, “After everything, I never even thought we’d get here.”

Dae-ho's eyes sparkled with that familiar warmth. “I’ve thought about this moment every day since I got back,” he admitted. “Dreamt about sitting across from you in a place that feels safe, where we can just be us.”

That sentiment made your heart swell. You immersed yourself in his beautiful sunkissed eyes. “What do you want for us, Dae-ho?” You asked, knowing that his answer could make or break you.

He hesitated for a moment, his expression solemn. “I want to build a life with you, whatever that looks like. It could be road trips everyday and always having new experiences together, or a cozy apartment with a beautiful family and no worries. I want us to share everything, the good, the bad—everything.”

The sincerity behind his words wrapped around your heart like a warm, familiar blanket. “I want that too,” you said softly, placing your hand over his. The connection was electric, sending sweet shivers up your body.

As you sipped your drinks, Dae-ho leaned in closer, a serious look in his eyes. “You know, I’ve thought about you every single day since we got out. I really missed you.”

“Really? I missed you too,” you replied, voice full of veracity. “It’s been hard without you.”

He took a long pause, as if he was searching for the right words. “I never realized how much I wanted someone like you in my life. Just knowing you were out there somewhere gave me hope.”

You felt your heart pang at his words, you spent all your life searching for a love like this, it felt so good to finally have it. “It was the same for me too. Every time I felt like giving up I had to remind myself of us, and our future.”

A soft smile grew on his face. “I knew we’d find our way back to each other. I just didn’t know how much it would mean to finally be here, like this.”

“Me either,” you said softly. “I was nervous about tonight. I worried that maybe everything would feel different.” You thought back to earlier and how stupid you were for thinking he would see you differently. This is genuinely all you could've asked for.

Dae-ho shook his head with his eyebrows fixed in a furrow. “I was nervous too, but being with you feels right. I could really see us living a perfect life someday”

Your heart swelled with warmth. With him, you felt like you can just be yourself without any fear. He was genuinely your safe space.

“I promise we’ll stay connected. No matter how hard things get, we’ll keep fighting for each other.” You swore, knowing how your past relationships ended and wanting to break the cycle.

“Thank you, really. It means the world to me,” Dae-ho said sincerely, his eyes meeting yours. “I just want us to have a future, no matter how hard it'll be.”

“Yeah, me too,” you replied, feeling a sense of calm settle over you. “It’s comforting to have someone you know will be there for you, even on the darker days.”

His smile deepened, and for a moment, everything else faded. Just the two of you were in the room—focused on your shared promise. Nothing else mattered in this moment, you were ready to finally create a new beginning.

Silence in the air was broken as he finally spoke up, “I want to build a life where we support each other through any and everything." he grinned. “Even the small moments matter. Like cooking together and trying not to burn the kitchen down.”

You chuckled softly, picturing you both in the kitchen attempting to cook and leaving something in the oven too long. “I can definitely see that happening.”

“And if we accidentally set the place on fire, at least I’ll have an excuse to scoop you up and look all heroic while I rescue you.” he joked, his expression growing more playful

Laughter erupts from you and your eyes sprinkle with joy, causing Dae-ho to lean in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You know, I really missed your laugh. It makes everything feel so much brighter.”

“Really?” you asked, feeling warmth spread through your chest, “I missed yours too, it’s cute.”

The atmosphere felt light, almost euphoric, as you both relaxed into the comfort of eachother's presence. “Believe it or not, I was really so nervous for tonight,” Dae-ho admitted, his voice softening as he brushes his hair back behind his ear. “I thought I’d forget how to talk to you.”

“Trust me,” you said, voice tender, “I was nervous too. But I realized that after everything, who else could understand us like this?”

“Exactly,” He said before taking a sip of his coffee. “I feel like I can be myself around you, like I’ve never been able to with anyone else. It’s so freeing.”

“Freedom and love. Isn’t that what life’s really all about?” you said, your voice filled with hope and longing. You felt a warmth in your heart as you spoke, realizing that these two things were what you truly cherished.

As the conversation flowed, you exchanged stories, laughter, and memories—you shared dreams and fears, and slowly the nervousness slowly melted away.

“I can’t believe we made it out,” he said, his voice stern. “I can’t stop thinking about the others we lost… what they would’ve did if they made it out too.”

A brief silence enveloped the moment, both of you remembering the friends that didn’t make it, the faces of people who had shared brutal experiences with you.

“I think they’d want us to live, like really live,” you said firmly, squeezing his hand gently. “To make the most of us getting out, we owe it to them.” Dae-ho silently nodded, the thick atmosphere slowly leaving.

As the evening progressed, you lost track of time, so caught up in the warmth of shared smiles and nervous laughter. You could hardly believe this was the same man who stepped up and took initiative at every rough point during the games, willing to sacrifice himself for everyone's safety.

The night ended slowly as Dae-ho walked you outside to your car. The stars twinkled like tiny beacons in the dark sky above. “It feels different tonight, doesn’t it?” you said, glancing up at the stars. “Yeah, it really does,” he replied, his voice soft but full of warmth.

As you strolled along, flowers in hand, you both shared stories from before you met, your voices mixing with the soft hum of the night. Every smile and nervous chuckle made you feel a little lighter. You realized how much you valued this moment, this time together, away from the chaos and pain that had once consumed you both.

You exchanged glances, and you both understood something unspoken between you. “I never thought I could feel this way again,” you said, a hint of vulnerability in your voice. Dae-ho stepped closer, his gaze steady. “Neither did I. But I’m glad we’re here together.”

Finally, you paused beneath a big, ancient tree. Its branches stretched out like arms, swallowing you both in its shadow. Dae-ho turned to you, his eyes beaming in the starlight. His stare locked onto yours, and he took a step closer, face inches from yours.

"I wish this could last forever baby, I love you." he whispered, breath caressing your skin. Then, without another word, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, gentle kiss. You felt a spark of connection, and your heart skipped a beat as you kissed him back, the warmth of his lips sending shivers down your spine. The kiss deepened, and everything else faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the sweetness of the moment.

As the kiss lingered, time itself seemed to stand still, the world around you fading into a beautiful blur. When you finally pulled away, his eyes searched yours, a mix of desperation and love radiating from him. "Whatever happens, I'll always be here" he said softly, his hand still cradling your face. You smiled, knowing that no matter where life took you, this memory would be a cherished part of your story, a promise of what could be.

#kang dae ho x reader #kang dae ho #squid game #dae ho x reader #kang daeho #daeho x reader #squid game x reader #kang dae ho fluff #dae ho fluff #squid game fluff #need that

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