#second chances

[shetheabsolute]

— Fruit for Thought

(Sinners, 2000s au)

Stack × Original character (Imaan Irie Miller)

Episode 3

The tires crunched over gravel as I eased my truck to a stop in front of Annie’s spot. Her restaurant never felt like a simple restaurant. It felt like home more than anything.

The parking lot was packed, cars angled into every possible space, some half on the curb, others nosed up against flower beds. On the makeshift porch, old people were seated like it was a Sunday afternoon and they had all the time in the world. Annie liked to say if somebody needed a place to sit, she’d find a way to make room. So she did just that—rocking chairs, old foldouts, even had a loveseat for one of the ladies who came down to eat almost everyday.

I hopped out the truck, the warm smell of fried catfish already drifting my way. A couple of the regular porch sitters spotted me before I even closed the door.

“Uh oh, look who blessing us today,” Miss Bernice called out, waving a paper fan in one hand and holding a glass cup in the other. It was filled with something brown over ice, I couldn't tell whether it was sweet tea or liquor.

Knowing Miss Bernice, it was probably both.

“Hey, Miss Bernice,” I said, smiling wide.

“You know you been hiding,” she teased, squinting up at me from under her floppy sunhat. “Don’t make me come to that farm and drag you back down here. We missin' your sweet face.”

“I just been busy, is all. I'll come around more just for you,” I chuckled, walking over to kiss her on the cheek. “Still got yuh tea from last time. You want me to bring you more next week?”

“You know I do,” she said, patting my arm. “And bring yourself too. You don’t even gotta bring me no fruit. Just you.”

My chest warmed and I nodded, still cheesing.

When I stepped inside, the smell of good eating hit me like a childhood memory. A little barefoot girl ran by me with a paper plate, chasing a cousin, I assumed. I could hear somebody auntie butchering Before I Let Go too loud and way too proud.

The lights were dim and golden, with wood-paneled walls and mismatched chairs. A big old emerald couch sat near the front, the kind you sink into and can't get back up from. It definitely saw more generations than necessary. Behind it was a single wide window with the words Annie’s Home painted in cream colored cursive.

Waiters in black aprons moved table to table like family checking on people, making sure everyone was well fed and that drinks were full.

“Miss Imaan! Hiii,” I turned to see a young hostess with micro braids and silver hoops wave me down with a smile.

“Hi, love,” I said warmly.

“You want a table? Got a little spot by the jukebox.”

“Not yet,” I shook my head, “I’m looking for Annie. You seen her?”

She nodded, pointing toward the hallway past the kitchen. “Last I saw she was headin' toward the back talkin' mess about Cornbread n' Slim.”

“Of course she was,” I said, laughing.

I made my way through the crowd, ducking past elbows and plates, until I met the bar and heard the sound of a hand slapping on the wooden counter.

“You know what? You one cheatin' ass nigga,” Cornbread's voice barked.

“Man, how I’m cheatin' when you the one holdin' four damn jokers in your hand? Sum ole bullshiet!”

“You know you slipped a card in your shirt. I seen you scratch your titty and pull a five of clubs out!”

I stepped around the corner and into view, laughing. “Y'all stay hollering over cards?”

They both looked up at the sound of my voice.

“Imaan that you?” Cornbread grinned, sitting back. “Almost forgot how you looked, miss lady.”

“Mm mm mm, lemme tell you sumn.. you know you sweeter than any mango I ever had, right?” Slim added, licking barbecue sauce off his thumb. No doubt in my mind that he was tipsy. “I still got a seat saved for you on my porch.”

I laughed again, just enough to feed into it. “Ain’t nobody tryna sit on that crusty porch of yours, Slim.”

He clutched his chest. “Ouch. You hurtin' me woman, you know my heart old.”

I waved them off with a smile and pushed through the swinging doors into the back.

Ah, there she was. Annie was behind the stove taking out a few sweet potato pies and eyeing them each, more than likely making sure they had cooked properly. She looked up to see me, and her smile bloomed wide.

“Well, look who it is.”

“Hey, pretty woman,” I said, pulling her into a hug that smelled sugary from her perfume.

“I missed your fine self,” she groaned, pulling back just enough to scan me up and down. “You look good. Eating good, I hope?”

“Always,” I grinned. “I brought your half of the shipment. It's in the truck.”

“You always come through.” She brushed a crumb off her shirt then gestured her head to the side. “C'mon.. catch up with me.”

We went and settled near the back of on two stools, just out the way of the other cooks.

“I just came down from Grace an' dem, talked with her for a minute. And, uh, I heard sum bout you.” I started, smirking like a cat.

Annie raised a suspicious brow. “What she say?”

“Well, she said the twins was back in town,” I lingered, crossing my arms. “Then she told me Smoke had came to see you.”

Annie pursed her lips like she’d just bit into a lemon, but her eyes sparkled. “Ooo, she know how to run her damn mouth. I guess I gotta spill it, huh?”

I snorted and held up my hand to stop her from going any further. “Nuh-uh, I already know. Must've been a good night for you.”

She cracked up for a second and I just shook my head in amusement. As many times as she talked bad about that man I knew deep down she missed him, and I'm sure he missed her just as much.

“...You know he had the nerve to ask if I could cook for that joint they finna open?”

I buffered, sitting up straighter. “Woah woah—what? And what chu say?”

She grinned slow. “You know good and well I said yeah. But I cussed him out while I did it, got some money out of him too.”

“Of course your did,” I chuckled and shook my head. Letting out a slow huff of air as reality sunk in. “Damn. So it really is true. They really back.”

“Mhmm, back like ghosts,” Annie murmured, her eyes drifting.

For some reason the air between us got still, not just because of the oven, either. It was thick. Thick with memories neither of us wanted to dwell on.

I sighed, my mind running on thoughts of Stack. Memories I wanted to forget plagued my mind like a virus. We had so many good, sweet times between us and as much as I hated to admit it—he was good company. When he left without saying anything… it hurt me.

Annie was the only person who actually knew me and Stack had tension. Grace obviously suspected it, but she never asked because she knew how to mind hers—which I was always thankful for. She never pried, just offered me a hug when she saw I needed it. Even if she didn’t know why I was hurting.

But Annie? Annie was the only one I actually let myself hurt with.

She was the only person I cried to, talked to about my anger towards Stack. She used to do the same to me about Smoke. They left us both, and it stung like hell. Annie’s pain had more depth than mine, though. Everything that happened with the miscarriage and Smoke skipping town—she carried her weight heavy. And when she needed a shoulder to cry on, I was there.

We sat there, in the back, quiet and in our own heads until I spoke up.

“You took him back that quick, huh?” I asked, partly joking and cautiously prying.

Annie glanced at me and sighed. “Look, it was the moment. I missed him. He missed me. It just happened. Don't mean I'm not still hurt at what he did. I'm healing though, and the past is the past. All I can do is move forward.”

I stayed silent, letting her words sink in. My gaze centered on the floor like it was going to help me feel any better.

Obviously, it didn’t.

I’m sure Annie could see the conflict in me. I could feel her watching over me as if I was glass about to break. She gave me a moment before reaching out to take my hand, lulling me back to the present.

“You wanna talk about it?” she asked me tenderly.

I glanced to her and gently squeezed her hand for support.

“I...” I sighed soft, “I don't even know what I wanna talk about, to be honest. Feel like I shouldn't even be hurt about how he left, but I am. I mean... why do I feel like this, Annie? We wasn't even a thing. Never were.”

Everything silenced.

Annie placed her other hand on top of mine. “You got a right to feel like that. It's normal. Nothing wrong with it. Y’all didn't have to be together for you to feel hurt about him leaving. He was still your friend at the end of the day, and he left without actually giving you a goodbye. It's okay to hurt, girl. You human just like the rest of us.”

I could feel this weight on my chest as her words soaked into my heartstrings. That ache I felt years ago swooning in fast and heavy. My eyes stung, but tears didn’t leave, just pain.

I remembered the way he laughed when I couldn’t stay mad at him. How he always managed to call me when I wasn't having the best day. He used to make a dull day feel like gold just by sitting on my porch with me.

But he only gave me pieces of him like he was generous, like I should have been grateful—and I was. That was the sad part.

“I will tell you this, though,” she spoke up, ending the throbbing silence in the kitchen. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this. Ever. That man... he... he ain’t shit, I’mma say it just like that. Stack. Ain’t. Shit. And he know it. Ain’t nothing worse than a man who aware of what he is, ’cause he uses it to his advantage. You your own woman so I won’t tell you how to deal with him if he do come 'round you... ”

I let out a little laugh through her short speech and she smiled along, too.

“...but... I will advise you to gain a stronger mentality. Okay? Don’t let him get in your head, under your skin, and most importantly... don’t let him between your legs.”

“Annie—” I groaned, shaking my head with a playful eye roll. “I'm not weak minded. You know that. And, ain’t chu a lil hypocritical?”

She squeezed my hand tighter, grinning. “I know, I know. But it’s different. Smoke not like Stack. They might be twins but they ain't the same at all. My man is mines. Through and through. Now can you say the same for Stack?”

My smile fell slowly. She had a point. And though I knew she didn’t have any malicious intent behind her words, they still stung—not just because of the question itself, but because we both knew the unfortunate answer.

“Exactly,” she sighed like she was just as tired as me.

Then, she took her hand off mine and lifted it to my face. It was unexpected, but I didn’t mind. I just leaned into it solemnly. I didn't realize how much I craved affection until it came to times like this.

“If seeing two of my own friends experience hell from that man taught me anything, it’s that strong women get lost when it come to Stack. I’m just looking out for my homegirl,” she murmured, her grin weak. “And if you feel angry? Give him hell. Please do. I mean that. I wanna see that man taste his own medicine for once.”

I laughed and playfully swatted her hand away. “You stupid.”

“No. I’m serious. I can't do nothing, but you? You got the opportunity of a lifetime to hurt him too. Use it.” Annie stood up and popped my thigh hard. I hissed and glared at her jokingly.

She pushed through the double doors and I followed behind her, still mulling over her words. The idea danced in the back of my mind.

A taste of his own medicine?

masterlist

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[wordvomit555]

I think that the most special thing about David Wymack is the fact that he not only gives people another chance, but also doesn't force them to do anything with it. There are so many characters out there who give a second chance and are disappointed if the person doesn't then raise to their full potential, but not Wymack. He will give you a chance and what you do with it is entirely up to you. And if you fuck up he will give you another one, and another one and not once will he make you feel guilty for fucking up again.

[saffusthings]

second chances — masterlist.

mob boss! lando norris x reader

summary: Lando Norris runs his empire with precision. As the head of The Reaper's Circle —the most influential mob in Monaco— he must be ruthless, untouchable, and always ten steps ahead.

But when a chance encounter at a quiet coffee shop leads to an unexpected connection, he finds himself treading dangerous ground. She’s ordinary and completely unaware of the world he operates in. Yet, he keeps going back. It starts as an indulgence, a curiosity—until suddenly, it’s not.

Because while Lando may be watching her, he’s not the only one.

status: ongoing

one: wrong place, wrong time ↘ trivia

two: hush, hush baby

three: clean up ↘ fun fact

four: a familiar stranger

five: devil's in the details

six: don't blink ↘ characters & cameos

seven: invisible string ↘ characters & cameos

eight: midnight meets ↘ trivia

nine: friendship is magic

ten: three's a crowd ↘ characters & cameos ↘ characters & cameos

eleven: somebody's watching me

twelve: the watcher ↘ fun fact

thirteen: passenger princess

fourteen: mask on, mask off ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

fifteen: creature of habit

sixteen: what could've been, and what will be ↘ fun fact

seventeen: dream a little dream of me ↘ trivia

eighteen: the things we don’t say ↘ fun fact

nineteen: the talk ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty: you've been made ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty one: hypothetically ↘ trivia ↘ trivia

twenty two: balancing act ↘ trivia ↘ characters & cameos

twenty three: all the stars ↘ trivia

twenty four: dinner, but like, in a friend way ↘ fun fact ↘ fun fact

twenty five: here in spirit ↘ characters & cameos ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty six: distance

twenty seven: margot ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty eight: that funny feeling

twenty nine: blind spot ↘ characters and cameos new! ↘ trivia new! ↘ fun fact new! ↘ trivia new! ! foreshadowing new!

thirty: daniel ↘ fun fact

thirty-one: what we (don't) say

thirty-two: getting familiar

thirty-three: in another life

thirty-four: so close, yet so far

thirty five: normal people

thirty-six: peek-a-boo

thirty-seven: this ends now

thirty-eight: trouble’s calling

thirty-nine: you’ve been made

forty: fallout

forty-one: lost

forty-two: hello? are you there?

forty-three: y/n

forty-four: a life for a life new!

forty-five: pain and penance coming soon…

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

The other woman

Tags: Satoru x fem!Reader, smau, fluff, comfort, second chance

An: The end :) I hope you all enjoyed! (click on the images to see them in their entirety)

Part one. | Part two. | Part three. | Part four. | Part five.

tags: @tqd4455 @coffeeisbehindyou @moonchild701 @moony-looni @sokkasfavgroupie @elitesanjisimp @mrsjoequinn @shokosbunny @channnee @yuuuumii

@miscellaneous-misty @thirtykiwis @ghostswhoretbh @mostly-sunshine @pandabiene5115 @crocodilethesir @thejujvtsupost @starlightanyaaa @babyblue0t7 @chckn-pi @jenniferdixon05207 @v1x3n @ghost-buddies @ind1col1te @luvsymai @idiotgojo @san-it-is-i-guess

sorry if i missed anyone! i tried to get everyone who commented and requested!!

[aleksatia]

🖤 Sylus – Five Years Later

The first in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

CW/TW: emotional whiplash, estranged parent dynamics, mentions of past abandonment, grief & regret, yelling / intense arguments, emotional manipulation (mild-to-moderate), parental guilt, references to alcoholism (brief), weapon mention (non-violent context, antique firearm), implied past trauma While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.

Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

(He never lets go. Not really. So when the world bends just enough for their paths to cross again—he grabs the thread like a man who’s been drowning for five goddamn years.)

The scent shouldn’t have hit him like that.

Bergamot and peach — too specific to be coincidence, too cruel to be real. It lanced through the mall’s artificial air, slicing straight into the part of him that had learned to rot in silence.

He stopped mid-step, black gift bag swinging at his side like dead weight. He hadn’t meant to be here. Just killing time before a meeting, maybe grabbing some pointless toy for Kieran’s son.

But that scent.

He followed it — not fast, not frantic. Just... pulled. Like gravity had shifted without asking his permission.

He rounded a corner. Walked past the blinding colors of a candy kiosk. Ignored the buzzing arcades. Stepped into the glow of the children’s department, bathed in too much light.

And then he saw him.

White hair, soft and unbrushed. Crimson eyes.

Staring down at a plastic capsule, tiny fingers struggling to pry it open, cheeks puffed in sheer, adorable defiance. The boy looked up and grinned at someone just out of view.

And then—there you were.

Crouched beside him, arms around your knees. That necklace still at your throat. Your hair longer. Your posture calmer. But it was you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

You looked up. Met his eyes.

The world didn’t fall apart. It just... recoiled.

Your lips parted. He couldn’t tell if it was shock or guilt. Maybe both.

He took a step forward. Controlled. Precise. Like walking through fire and pretending it didn’t burn.

“Well,” he said, voice rough, cool, razor-sharp. “Isn’t this adorable.”

You didn’t answer.

He tilted his head, gaze dragging from the boy to you.

“You got taller,” he added, tone almost conversational. “I always said you needed better posture.”

Still, silence.

He smiled — the wrong kind of smile.

“And here I thought you were dead. Would’ve sent flowers. Or a bottle of wine. Maybe danced on your grave. Depends on the day.”

You stood slowly, one hand resting lightly against the child’s back. Protective. Subtle.

“I wasn’t hiding from you,” you said.

“No?” he murmured. “Just... the rest of reality?”

You didn’t answer that.

His eyes dropped again. To the boy. Then back up. He didn’t ask. Not out loud. Didn’t have to.

Your expression answered for you.

He exhaled once, slow, through his nose. Then laughed. Just a little.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Why not. Five years of silence, and now I get the full soap opera.”

He took another step, voice dipping low.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Was it worth it? The running? The silence? Did it help you sleep?”

You stared at him, steady.

“I did what I had to do.”

“Sure,” he said, nodding, the sarcasm now soft, silky. “And now you’re back in broad daylight, in my city, with my blood standing in front of capsule machines. Very covert.”

His fingers twitched slightly at his side. Not from rage — from restraint.

The boy turned.

“Mom?”

Your breath hitched.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

Small feet padded over. A tiny hand found yours without hesitation. Sylus watched it like a punch to the ribs.

The boy blinked up at him.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Your voice was quiet. Even.

“Someone I used to know.”

Something in Sylus’s jaw clicked. He crouched down, not too close. Not yet.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” the boy replied.

“What’d you get?”

A capsule was held up proudly. “Tiny raven with red eyes!”

Of course. Sylus stared at it, almost amused.

“Good taste,” he said. “I used to have one just like that.”

The boy beamed.

Sylus rose to his full height again, gaze flicking to you — sharp now, cooled over, dangerous.

“This conversation’s not over.”

Your grip on the boy tightened, imperceptibly.

“I know.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned. Walked away like it cost him nothing.

But you saw it — the slight tremble in his fingers. And for the first time in five years — you knew: he wouldn't sleep tonight. And neither would you.

***

He doesn’t sleep. Not because of nightmares — those he’s made peace with years ago — but because of you. Because you were real again. Present. Breathing the same air. And now the silence he once ruled feels like a cage made of your absence.

He paces his study like an animal too big for its den, the whiskey glass untouched on the desk, sweating against the dark wood. The documents in front of him blur, ignored. His body is wired, restless, his mind clawing at thoughts it doesn’t know what to do with. He used to find solace in this room. Now it’s just another echo chamber.

You came back. Just like that. No warning. No apologies. As if you hadn’t torn him apart and scattered the pieces across five fucking years. And you didn’t come alone. You brought his son.

His son.

The words twist inside him like a blade. Rage flares hot and sharp — not just at you, but at himself. At the way he still aches for you. At the way his hands trembled the moment your eyes met his. You don’t get to come back like this. Not after he worshipped you. Not after he handed over every part of himself — the power, the silence, the vulnerability — and let you keep it like it was nothing.

You, who once ruled him with a smile and a whisper. You, who made the most dangerous man in the city gentle. You, who he let in so deeply that even now, after everything, his instincts still tilt toward you.

He should hate you. He wants to.

But all he can think about is the boy’s eyes — his eyes — and the fact that he didn’t know. You hid it from him. You stole that from him. And yet, the second he saw your face, all he wanted was to feel the warmth of your body again.

No. This can’t be impulsive. He tells himself that. Over and over. He has to be careful now. Strategic. This isn’t just about you anymore. There’s too much at stake. A child. Blood of his blood. If he moves wrong, if he rushes this, he could lose everything before he’s even had the chance to hold it.

You came back so openly, so carelessly — as if you knew. As if you were daring him to act.

But this isn’t a reunion. It’s a chess game. And he intends to win.

Still, all the logic in the world can’t stop the pull. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He throws on his jacket, crosses the hall in long, deliberate strides. He ignores the way his pulse hammers, the way his breath shortens. He tells himself this is reconnaissance. Observation. That he won’t knock on your door, won’t say your name, won’t touch you.

But he’s already walking to the car, and he knows — he’s lying.

Because it’s already too late. You’re a gravity he never escaped. And he’s hurtling back toward you like a star on its last, burning descent.

***

You hadn’t heard the door. You were sure you’d locked it — triple-checked, in fact. But when you stepped barefoot into the living room, the shadows shifted. And he was there.

Sylus.

Sitting in the armchair by the window, so still he might’ve been carved from shadow. His face half-hidden in darkness, but his eyes — those eyes — watched you with the slow, dangerous heat of banked coals. As if he were waiting for something. As if he’d already decided what it was.

You clutched your son’s sweatshirt to your chest, still warm from sleep, still soft with safety. Your fingers curled into the fabric like it might shield you from the inevitable.

Your throat closed around a breath you forgot to take.

“I should’ve known you’d find a way in,” you said. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just… tired. But not the kind of tired sleep could fix.

The silence stretched. And then—

“Why.” His voice was low. Steady. But there was nothing calm about it.

“Why come back?”

You hesitated. Sat down at the edge of the couch, careful to keep distance between you. Close enough to feel the tension, far enough to pretend it couldn’t touch you. Your grip tightened on the tiny sleeve in your lap.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you said quietly.

A lie. And you both knew it.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

The air between you hung thick with everything unspoken — all the years, all the damage, all the silence that had grown teeth.

You tried again, voice thinner now. “Money was running out. And I didn’t want him to grow up in places that... don’t let kids be kids.”

Still no answer.

You looked down, as if the floor could save you.

“But that’s not really why I came back.”

There was a shift in the dark — barely perceptible, but enough. A muscle in his jaw, maybe. Or the faintest tilt of his head.

“I kept dreaming,” you said. “That he’d start asking questions. About who he is. Where he came from. Why he can hear footsteps down the hall before they happen. Why his teachers can’t meet his eyes. Why he knows when I’m lying, even when I don’t.”

You paused. Swallowed.

“I didn’t know what I’d say.”

For a long, breathless moment, there was nothing. And then:

“Thought maybe I was dead?”

You laughed — bitter, small, nothing like real humor.

“No. That would’ve been easier.”

He still didn’t move, but something in the room recoiled anyway. Maybe it was you.

You turned toward him, carefully, like stepping toward a storm you once loved.

“I thought if I stayed gone long enough, you’d forget. Or hate me enough not to care.”

He leaned forward slowly, like something waking up. The light from the hallway carved across his face, catching the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the faint scar at his jaw. He looked older. Not in his body — in his bones. In the way ruin settles behind the eyes and builds a kingdom there.

“Do I look like a man who forgets?” he said.

God, the way he said it. Like the last bell before a burial.

You didn’t answer.

“You ran,” he said. “Took my son. Hid him from me. For five years.”

“I had to,” you said, a little too fast. “You know I had to.”

“Say it.”

You met his eyes, barely.

“I didn’t want to raise him in your world.”

There was a pause. Then:

“He is my world.”

That broke something in you. The sweatshirt slipped from your lap, forgotten.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

You stood before you meant to, took two small steps forward before you could stop yourself. A mistake. A betrayal of your own walls. Still, your hand lifted — hesitated — and reached out. Just barely. Fingertips grazing the side of his.

He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t hold you back either.

Not yet.

His breath caught, brushing your wrist like memory.

“I could’ve loved you softer,” he said. “But you were never meant for soft things.”

Your eyes burned. You couldn’t speak for a moment. And when you did, your voice was almost gone.

“Maybe I’m not. But he is.”

And still, beneath all of it — the guilt, the weariness, the regret that howled behind your ribs — you waited for the part that scared you most. The part where he would turn cold. Where he would say the thing you feared since the moment you left.

The part where he would take your son from your arms and never look back.

You knew he wouldn’t hurt you. Not you. Not the boy.

And still, that fear clawed at you like a curse.

So you did what fear makes people do — you attacked. With silence, with half-truths, with distance you didn’t want. You kept the mask on as long as you could, clung to it like armor, because if it slipped — if he saw how badly you still wanted to crawl into his arms and sleep like you used to, when he would whisper in that deep, velvet voice and stroke your hair until the nightmares went quiet — he might use it against you.

He might leave.

And you… you had no idea how to survive that again.

***

The night he left, you didn’t sleep.

You just lay beside your son, one hand curled protectively around his small, warm frame, the other pressed to your chest like it might keep your ribs from collapsing inward. Every breath felt like it came with splinters. He slept soundly, unaware. Safe in a world that you had built with trembling hands and stubborn silence.

By morning, Sylus hadn’t returned.

But Luke and Kieran had.

They didn’t knock. Didn’t speak. Just entered with the quiet precision of men who used to be part of your life — before you made them ghosts.

Their arms were full. Boxes, bags, toys, medicine, books. Clothes in every size. Food you hadn’t even realized you needed. And a black card, placed on the kitchen table like a detonator.

“From him,” Luke said, voice clipped, eyes avoiding yours.

You opened your mouth. To say thank you, maybe. Or I’m sorry. Or how have you been.

But Kieran was already turning away.

“Don’t,” he muttered. Not cruel. Not cold. Just done.

And it hit you, like it hadn’t hit you until that moment — not just guilt, not just regret.

You didn’t just run from him.

You ran from them too. The only people who had ever stayed. The only ones who’d held space for you when you were nothing but sharp edges and unfinished grief.

Now they wouldn't even look at you.

You stood there, frozen, surrounded by things you didn’t ask for — abundance you hadn’t earned — while your son laughed on the floor, tangled in a new toy, as if the world wasn’t cracked beneath your feet.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream.

But something broke. Quietly. Deeply.

Your pride was already bleeding. Your shame had nowhere left to hide. And still, it wasn’t the card that pushed you over the edge. It wasn’t the gifts or the silence or even the anger simmering in Luke’s shoulders.

It was the absence.

It was the fact that he didn’t come himself.

That he sent others. That he kept his distance — like you were already something to be managed, not faced.

And it shouldn’t have hurt. You’d told yourself a thousand times you didn’t want to see him. That this wasn’t about him. That you didn’t need his money or his empire or the echo of what you used to be.

But the truth — the ugly, humiliating truth — was this: you didn’t want his wealth.

You wanted him.

His voice. His arms. The way he used to pull you close and whisper things that made the dark quiet. The way he used to tuck you in like a secret, like something too rare to risk losing. You wanted him. And you hated yourself for it.

So you moved before you could think. Before the fear, the shame, the rational voice could stop you.

You grabbed your coat. Your keys.

Tara, bless her, had shown up just minutes before, arms full of groceries and soft reassurances, promising to stay the night if you needed to rest. You told her you’d be gone for a few hours. That everything was fine.

You kissed your son’s head — maybe a little too long, maybe a little too tight — and walked out the door without another word.

And then you drove.

Not because you knew what you were going to say.

But because if you didn’t see him now, if you didn’t make him look at you — you might shatter into pieces too small to ever come back together.

***

His estate was still the same.

Too grand. Too silent. Still heavy with ghosts you left behind.

The guards moved aside the moment they saw your face. No hesitation. No questions. Just doors opening like jaws — welcoming you back into the mouth of a beast you once dared to call home.

You didn’t knock.

You didn’t hesitate.

You stormed into the room mid-meeting — a rupture in the polished calm — slicing through tailored suits, cigar smoke, and the tight, brutal quiet of dangerous men interrupted. Every head turned.

Including his.

Sylus sat at the head like a monarch grown colder with time. Glass in hand. Eyes unreadable. And that stillness — the kind that wasn’t calm, just leashed violence.

He saw you. Took you in.

And didn’t blink.

“Out,” he said.

Just one word. Soft. Absolute.

And the bosses of N109 — men who’d burned cities, bled kings, slaughtered empires — obeyed without a sound.

The door clicked shut behind the last of them.

You stood there. Just the two of you now. Five years of silence between your ribs. His name lodged somewhere behind your teeth.

You stepped forward, fists clenched.

“So this is how it’s going to be?” you snapped. “You send your men with toys and blank checks and think that counts? You think that makes you a father?”

He arched a brow. Slowly. And then — God help you — he laughed.

It was low. Mocking. Bone-deep with disbelief.

“You’re angry?” he said, with a cruel sort of wonder. “That’s rich.”

“I’m serious—”

“Oh, I can see that. Look at you,” he gestured to you with his glass, casual, vicious. “Marching in here like I haven’t been erased from his life. Like you didn’t take a scalpel to the past and cut me out clean. And now what — two days after a chance encounter, suddenly I’m not doing enough?”

His smile was the kind that used to make people flinch.

“What exactly were you expecting? Balloons? A welcome-home banner? Me groveling for the right to meet the child you kept hidden like some dirty secret?”

You flushed. Heat crawled up your throat.

“That’s not what I—”

“No?” he cut in, voice quieter now, colder. “Because from where I’m standing, you vanish for five years, show up with a son that wears my face, and get pissed when I don’t instantly fall into step like nothing happened.”

You stared at him, stunned. But he wasn’t done.

“You don’t get to paint me as the absentee,” he said, each word deliberate, venomous. “You built that absence. You enforced it. You chose it.”

You swallowed, but your voice cracked anyway.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. Just razor-sharp ache.

“Oh, come on, kitten. You always had choices. You were the clever one, remember? The strategist. The girl who read people like maps and always knew the way out. So tell me—what part of your master plan involved disappearing with my son and calling it love?”

“I was protecting him.”

“From me?” His voice dropped, dangerously soft. “Because you thought I’d do what, exactly? Teach him how to hold a knife? Make him my little monster?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

He stepped forward, eyes burning now.

“You don’t get to disappear, reappear, and accuse me of being a bad father in the same breath. You don’t get to bury me in silence and then demand I dance the role you left me.”

And then, softer, darker:

“You think I wanted this? To send strangers to the doorstep of the boy I didn’t even know existed?”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He stared at you — not with hate, but with something worse. Hurt twisted so deep it no longer bled. It just settled.

“You think I wouldn’t have taught him to live?”

Your lips part. No sound.

“I would’ve taught him how to breathe in a world that eats soft things alive,” he says. “I would’ve taught him how to survive it. How to carry your laugh like a shield. How to fight for it. How to protect it.”

He’s not shouting. But each word cuts deeper than a scream.

“I would’ve laid down my empire for him,” he says. “I would’ve bled for every step he took.”

He pauses — just long enough for the weight of it to hit — and then:

“But you didn’t just take him from me.”

His voice lowers, rough and hollow.

“You took me from him. You took you from us. You didn’t just rewrite the story — you burned the whole fucking book before we even had a chance to open it.”

He steps closer, and you don’t move.

“You didn’t trust me with him. Fine. But you didn’t trust me with you either. And you—” his voice catches, jaw tightening, “you didn’t even give yourself the chance to know what it could’ve been like.”

His eyes are glass now. And every word is a knife he’s too tired to stop from falling.

“You robbed all three of us.”

You try to speak, but the words catch somewhere in your throat. A hard knot of guilt and grief you can’t seem to swallow. You want to say his name. Just his name.

But before you can, his voice changes.

It’s no longer cold. No longer composed.

It’s blistering.

“Do you know what I did the day I realized you were gone?” he says — and now it’s breathless, like the memory itself is suffocating him. “Do you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

So he does it for you.

“I drank,” he bites. “I tore the city apart. I hunted ghosts. I played the organ until the walls bled. Until the sound felt like your scream in my skull.”

You sway. He sees it. Doesn’t care.

“I sat in your chair,” he hisses, “and begged it to creak. Just once. Just once, like you were still in it.”

Your knees buckle.

Still, he doesn’t move to catch you.

“I watched videos of you sleeping,” he says, hoarse now. “Kept that ugly little mug you always hated — because your lipstick was still on the rim.”

You cover your mouth with both hands as your breath shatters open.

“I slept in our bed fully clothed,” he whispers, “because I couldn’t let the sheets forget your shape.”

He finally takes one step forward — and then stops. Something in him splinters.

With a growl pulled straight from his chest, he turns and hurls the whiskey glass into the fireplace.

It explodes in flame and glass, the sound like a gunshot, like a scream. Fire licks up the wall as the liquor catches, dancing high and fast.

You flinch. Cover your face.

But not from fear. From shame.

You drop to your knees, hands shaking uncontrollably, sobs raking through your ribs. You can’t see through the tears anymore, and your voice is barely there when you whisper—

“I didn’t know how to love you without losing myself.”

There’s silence for a beat. The kind that hurts worse than screaming.

Then his voice — softer now. Almost gentle. Still raw.

“Kitten,” he says. “Was I really such a monster that you had to vanish with a newborn? Cage yourself in pain and loneliness for five years?”

You can’t look up.

“Did it help?” he asks. “Did it ever help?”

Your voice comes out choked.

“No... no,” you cry. “It felt like I was dying every second. I called for you every night. I prayed you’d come.”

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Maybe your pride didn’t let you call loud enough.”

His words hit like lashes — and they’re meant to. You hear the fury under them. The wound he’s trying to cauterize with cruelty.

“And now what?” he snaps. “You think I’ll just let you use me again? Let you touch me again? And then vanish with my son all over again? Is that the plan?”

“Sylus, please...”

Your voice cracks as the sobs take over. The panic. The helplessness. You’re unraveling at the seams.

“Please don’t do this. Please—” You clutch at your chest, as if trying to physically hold your heart together. “You’re cutting me open— You’re cutting me alive— I made a mistake— so many mistakes— I didn’t know how to come back— I was scared— I was so scared— I didn’t know how to fix it, I didn’t— I never— I never—”

You can’t breathe. The words collapse.

But one thing pushes through.

“I never stopped loving you.”

Everything halts.

His expression breaks. Not shatters — breaks, quietly, like a fault line slipping beneath the surface.

And then he’s moving.

Down to the floor. To you.

His knees hit the marble hard. He doesn’t feel it.

His arms are around you in the next second, pulling you in, wrapping you up like a shield against everything — even himself. Even your shared grief.

You sob into his chest, into his collar, into the hollow beneath his jaw that still smells like night and memory and danger and home. Your body convulses with it, trembling like the child you once were in his arms.

And he holds you. Tight.

Because there’s nothing else left to do.

And now, with you in his arms again — trembling, broken, real — something in him gives way.

Not all at once. Slowly. Inevitably.

You feel it before he even realizes it’s happening: the way his muscles start to loosen, the way the sharp lines of rage soften, his breath slowing against your temple as his hands begin to move. Hesitant at first. Then helpless.

He’s touching your hair — slowly, gently — like he forgot what softness felt like. His fingers slip through the strands, curl at the nape of your neck, anchor there. One hand presses against your spine, the other strokes up your back, down again, grounding you with each motion like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your grief against his skin.

Your sobs soak through his shirt, seep down to his chest, dampen his collar and slide down his neck. And he lets it happen. Welcomes the burn. Because after five years of silence, your tears feel like the only thing real.

You cling to him like the world’s collapsing again — but this time you’re dragging him into the rubble with you. Your arms around his shoulders. Your knees curled against his sides. Your legs wrapping around him like instinct. Like survival.

He doesn’t flinch.

He welcomes the ache of it. Every breathless grab. Every tremor in your limbs. Every desperate mark your body makes against his.

Because it means you’re here.

Because it means he still feels something.

And then your voice — a wrecked, shaking thing — finds its way through the ruin:

“I came back… because… because I couldn’t give him what he deserves. I tried. I tried so hard to be everything. But how can I show him joy, or love, or hope — when I live in the ashes of something beautiful I destroyed?”

Your voice cracks.

“How can I teach him love, when the only thing left in me is the bitter taste of everything I ruined?”

His arms tighten around you.

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. Not now. Maybe not ever. I don’t even know how to fix myself. Let alone… heal you.”

You press your face into his chest, as if that could protect you from what you’re about to say.

“But please,” you whisper. “Please help me find the path back. What do I do? What do I say to make you stop hating me?”

There’s a pause.

A long, dangerous pause.

Then he exhales slowly — like the weight of your question cracked something inside his chest.

His lips find your temple.

Tentative. Testing.

He lingers there, breathing in the scent of you, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to want this.

Then he moves. A little bolder now.

Your hairline. The crown of your head. Your forehead. The slope of your cheek. His lips brush over each point like it’s a litany. Like he’s not kissing you, but praying through you.

He kisses your nose. Your brow. Your eyelids.

And then—your lips.

Or almost. Just close enough for his breath to mix with yours.

Each kiss a scar he’s trying to erase with his lips. Each touch a memory he’s begging not to lose again.

He doesn’t say your name.

He devours it.

“I hate that I still love you like this,” he breathes between kisses. “I hate that even now, after everything, all I want is you.”

You gasp. Half-sob.

“I hate that just being here… makes me want to forgive you.”

And then he’s kissing you, not like before. Not like memory. Not like longing.

Like a man drowning. Like someone trying to inhale every second he lost, burn it into his lungs before it’s torn away again.

You kiss him back — shattering into him, against him, with him. Arms tight. Mouth hungry. Breath wrecked.

Because this isn’t peace. This is survival.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only just enough to breathe.

His forehead presses against yours. His voice shakes.

“I’m not ready to forgive,” he says. “But I can’t go another day without trying.”

Your eyes stay closed. Your lips tremble.

“That’s all I want.”

He exhales — broken. Guttural. Human in a way he never lets himself be.

“I missed you so much it ruined me.”

And you say it — softly, clearly, the last shard of your heart finally offered:

“I came back to help you rebuild.”

***

A month later.

The dining room is too big for three people.

The chandelier still glitters like a threat. The long table could seat fifteen warlords. The silverware looks like it costs more than most apartments.

But tonight, with one small boy seated on a velvet cushion, feet not even reaching the chair rung, and a half-eaten pile of mashed potatoes in front of him — it somehow feels… livable.

You watch him with a kind of cautious awe.

He’s trying so hard to be proper. Sitting straight. Using both hands to hold the fork. Stealing glances at the towering ceilings and flickering wall sconces like they might come alive. Every now and then he glances at you — checking if he’s doing this right.

And then there’s the raven.

Mephisto — jet-black, silent, elegant — perched on the edge of a nearby armchair, watching your son like a curious god. Your boy is enchanted. He keeps whispering questions at him, occasionally offering a green bean as tribute.

Mephisto doesn’t flinch. Just cocks his head like he’s listening.

You’re barely touching your food. Too busy memorizing.

The way your son laughs softly at the bird. The way the candlelight flickers against the long mahogany floors. The quiet.

God, the quiet.

You don’t realize you’ve zoned out until footsteps echo down the hall.

Sylus appears in the doorway — sleeves rolled, collar undone, a worn copy of Somewhere in the Sky in one hand.

“He’s out,” he says, voice low, warm. “Fought it like a gladiator. I barely survived.”

You smile.

He crosses the room, setting the book on the sideboard. Loosens his shoulders like someone still unused to relaxing.

“Apparently,” he adds, deadpan, “the only thing he truly cares about in this mansion is the antique rifle mounted over the fireplace.”

Your blood runs cold.

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” he replies, reaching for the wine. “I told him if he managed to fall asleep on his own tonight, he could hold it — under supervision.”

You stare.

“Are you insane?”

He pours. Slowly. Deliberately. A touch of amusement in his eyes.

“He fell asleep in two minutes.”

He passes you a glass. You take it like it might explode. He clinks his own against yours and sits beside you.

There’s a pause. The kind that tastes like something new, but gentle.

And then, without looking at you:

“I like being a father.”

You glance over.

He’s staring into his glass. But the corner of his mouth twitches, like he almost doesn’t believe he said it out loud.

“It’s because it’s still new,” you say softly. “Still shiny.”

He shakes his head.

“No. It’s because he’s mine.”

 A beat.

“And because when he runs into a room, he doesn’t hesitate. Like he belongs there.”

Your throat catches. You take a sip of wine just to avoid answering.

He leans back, drapes one arm across the back of the chair, and looks at you like he’s about to say something dangerous.

And he does.

“So.”

You blink.

“How do you feel about making a daughter?”

You choke on the wine.

He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles — that smile. The slow, calculated one that used to mean someone was about to lose a war.

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m entirely serious, kitten” he says. “We could use someone to balance out the chaos. She’d keep him in line.”

“She’d own you in three weeks.”

“I’d let her,” he says, completely unbothered.

You shake your head, laughing into your glass.

“You realize we’re barely functional as it is?”

“And yet, here we are,” he murmurs, “functioning.”

The silence that follows is soft. Safe. Domestic in a way neither of you knows what to do with.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

And for the first time in years — no one is running. No one is bleeding. No one is apologizing.

Just this: Candlelight. A boy upstairs dreaming of ravens and rifles. And the possibility — for once — of something beautiful not ending in fire.

[gdinthehouseee]

A Moment in Marble: CHOI SEUNG-HYUN x READER

summary: after he disappeared from your life, you run into Seung-hyun at an art gallery where he asks for once more chance.

word count: 3201

tags: angst with a happy ending; reminiscing, second chances, reader is a little passive aggressive

ao3 link

The soft hum of ambient music filled the air as you wandered through the art gallery, your fingers grazing the edges of the exhibits. You’d always loved visiting galleries like this, the quiet and the beauty of it all, but today, there was something different in the air. A stillness that felt more like tension than tranquility.

You passed by abstract paintings, sleek sculptures, and vivid photographs, but your mind kept drifting. It wasn't the art that had your attention, but the memory of another time, another place—another person.

You and Seung-hyun had done this so many times together: strolling through galleries, talking about the pieces, teasing each other about which ones were “overrated” or “too deep to understand.” You could almost hear his voice in your head, lighthearted and teasing, pulling you closer to look at something you wouldn’t have noticed on your own. Unfortunately, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about what he would be doing if he was here with you right now, which exhibits would pique his interests the most, which pieces he thinks you would like the most, which significant artist he’d like to teach you about next. He’s probably too busy for this now. He’s always busy. For years, he’s been too busy.

But even with that thought, there was a lingering ache in your chest, a longing for the simple moments. The togetherness you once had; the seemingly unbreakable bond, like that red string of fate you used to read so much about.

You paused in front of a minimalist sculpture—a man and woman, locked in an eternal dance. The curves of their forms swirled together, capturing a fluid, timeless connection. The sight of it pulled you in, and you found yourself lost in thought, memories stirring quietly at the back of your mind.

“Are you serious?” You had asked, laughing as Seung-hyun pulled you into the middle of the empty street.

He flashed you a grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Come on,” he said, his voice teasing. “We don’t need a crowd to dance. Just trust me.”

You had rolled your eyes but let him guide you, your hands settling naturally against his chest. “We must look ridiculous, you know,” you teased, the laugh escaping before you could stop it.

His grin widened, his hand sliding down to rest lightly on your back. “I don’t care if we do. I’m with you.”

You smiled, a warmth blooming in your chest, and then, as if on cue, the two of you began to move together. The rhythm wasn’t anything complicated—no perfect steps or rehearsed moves—just the natural sway of the moment.

“Just like that,” he said softly, his voice gentle, guiding you effortlessly. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

The two of you moved slowly, the world around you completely silent except for the sound of your feet against the pavement. You spun, and he caught you in his arms, both of you laughing under the streetlight.

“You sure you don’t want music?” you had asked, a playful tone in your voice.

Seung-hyun chuckled, the sound deep and full of warmth. “We don’t need music. We’ve got everything we need right here.”

And for that one moment, he was right. There was no one else, no distractions, no pressures. Just you and him, the simplest of moments that felt so perfect.

It was only when he pulled you close, his smile softening as he looked down at you, that you realized how much you’d cherished that dance, how it had felt like a moment suspended in time.

“Don’t ever forget this,” he had whispered, his forehead resting against yours.

Oh how you wished you could forget. Among many other now bittersweet memories, they replayed in the back of your head every single night, reminding you of the deafening silence that engulfed you every time you were alone. It reminded you of how cold your bed was, it even made you feel like this vibrant gallery was simply dull and colourless. You weren’t even sure why you came here in the first place. 

Still stood by the sculpture of the couple, deep in thought, you let your eyes wander around the room. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Something’s different. Your eyes continued to drift, but then you suddenly stopped. Across from you, stood at the same statue, was a figure you knew a little too well for your liking. Seung-hyun. You didn’t even need a second glance to recognise him: the taller frame, hands shoved in his pockets as he never knew what to do with them, his dark eyes that you knew you could get lost in forever—

He was already staring at you. For how long, you didn’t know. But there was no debating it. It was definitely him. He remained on the other side of the statue, staying just as still as the work of art in front of you.

The gallery around you had grown quieter, the weight of the moment hanging between you and him. You both remained on opposite sides of the sculpture, each lost in thought. The simple, intertwined figures of the man and woman still seemed to reflect everything you once shared—something that felt so natural, yet so distant now.

Seung-hyun’s voice broke the silence first, soft but filled with the same easy tone you remembered.

“You know,” he began, glancing briefly at the statue, “it’s funny. I always thought we were like that.” His words hung in the air, light but filled with meaning. “Just… floating through everything, like we had no real care in the world.”

You found yourself nodding, your gaze lingering on the sculpture. “Yeah,” you replied, your voice quiet, almost to yourself. “It felt like that sometimes, didn’t it? Like we were in our own little world.”

There was a pause, and you could feel his eyes back on you now, though you couldn’t bring yourself to lock eyes again with him just yet. Instead, you focused on the smooth curves of the intertwined figures. Despite the way you tried to desperately ignore the reminder of how he would hold you so delicately, as if you were a fragile flower with petals made of glass, you couldn’t stop yourself from commenting on the gentle shape. “I think it’s the way they’re holding each other,” you said, your voice softer. “It reminds me of how you used to pull me close like that. Always made me feel like nothing could touch us.”

His smile, though small, was visible in his tone. “Yeah, well, you never did like being too far away. You were always right there.”

“I still don’t, actually. Some things never change.”

The quiet settled back in again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was something oddly comforting in the shared understanding, even if you didn’t say much. Even if your heart pounded against your ribs, threatening to bleed out right there and then. Even if you had to keep taking deep breaths to make sure your shaking legs didn’t give out from underneath you.

Finally, Seung-hyun spoke again, his words lingering in the air like a soft confession. “I don’t think I ever really stopped thinking about that. About... us.”

You let the weight of his words sink in for a moment, still unable to meet his gaze, but feeling the sincerity behind them.

“Us?” You repeated, your voice barely a whisper.

He gave a small, thoughtful hum in response. “I don’t know if I’ve ever really let it go. Even now, seeing this… it brings back everything.”

He exhaled softly, shifting his gaze slightly but never fully looking away from the sculpture. “I used to think time would make it fade. That I’d get too busy, too distracted… but some things don’t fade, do they?” His voice was lower now, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to you.

You didn’t answer right away, letting his words settle.

“I keep wondering,” he continued, “if things had been different, if I had made more time, if I had…” He stopped, as if catching himself before he could say something irreversible. Instead, he let out a quiet chuckle, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

You finally turned your head, just slightly, enough to glance at him. “Doesn’t it?”

Seung-hyun’s lips pressed together in thought, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. Then, finally, he met your gaze—really met it, his eyes holding the same depth they always had. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe it does.”

You scoffed softly, looking away as you shook your head. “You say that like you weren’t the one who disappeared,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He inhaled sharply, as if your words had struck him in a place he wasn’t prepared for. He didn’t look away, though. “It wasn’t—” He hesitated, then exhaled. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah… you just got busy, right? Just kept moving forward until one day, I wasn’t there anymore?” The bitterness in your tone wasn’t sharp, but it was there, woven into the quiet hurt you hadn’t realized still lingered.

He didn’t rush to defend himself. Instead, he let the weight of your words settle between you, like an unavoidable truth. “…I should have tried harder,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I should have—” He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I should’ve done. But I know I should have done more.”

You swallowed. The honesty in his words made it harder to hold onto your irritation. It wasn’t an excuse, but it was an admission—one that came too late, yet still settled deep within you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sculpture remained between you, silent and unmoving, yet holding so much of what had been left unsaid. The weight of it pressed into the space between you, heavy but not unbearable. Your eyes traced the smooth lines of the entwined figures, the way they leaned into each other, effortlessly close. It reminded you of how easy it had been back then—how laughter had come without hesitation, how he had always been within reach. Now, that closeness was just a memory, and standing here, with him on the other side of the sculpture, only made the distance feel wider.

You had waited for him to reach out. At first, with patience. Then, with frustration. And finally, with quiet acceptance. You told yourself you had moved on, that you had stopped expecting anything from him, but the dull ache beneath the surface told a different story. It wasn’t anger you felt anymore—it was something softer, something more fragile. A lingering question of what could have been, if only things had been different. Would he have told the world—his fans—about your existence? Would he have proposed by now? Or would you already be married? Perhaps, just starting your own little family?

On the other side of the sculpture, Seung-hyun studied the way your gaze lingered on the intertwined figures. He could see the thoughts in your expression, the emotions you didn’t say out loud. It struck him then, the depth of what had been lost—not just time, but moments that should have been shared, words that should have been spoken before silence took their place.

He had told himself it was for the best. That life moved forward, and so had you. He had convinced himself that if he reached out too late, it would only be selfish. But standing here now, with the weight of the past pressing between you, he realized that distance hadn’t erased anything. It had only left things unfinished.

And maybe, despite all of it, a part of him had always known he would see you again. Or maybe that had always been wishful thinking. Up until now, at least.

You exhaled softly, glancing around the room as if the paintings and sculptures could somehow ground you, but your gaze kept drifting back. To the sculpture. To him.

Seung-hyun’s hands were tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as if bracing against something unseen. His expression was unreadable, but you knew him well enough to recognize the tension in his stance—the quiet war within him, between the need to say something and the fear that it wouldn’t be enough.

The weight of the moment settled deep in your chest. Maybe there was nothing left to say. Maybe the years apart had turned the past into something untouchable, something best left as a memory.

And yet, when he finally shifted, his voice broke the silence—not hesitant, not forceful, just... there.

“You still like coming to these places.”

It wasn’t a question, just an observation. A simple acknowledgment of who you were, of what had remained unchanged.

“Yeah…”

Seung-hyun hummed in response, glancing at the intertwined figures once more. “I remember the last gallery we went to,” he said, almost absently. “You got lost in front of that massive abstract piece, and I—” He stopped, exhaling a small laugh at the memory. “I ended up waiting an hour before you even realized I was still there.”

“You always had a habit of wandering off first.” You couldn’t help but mutter quietly. 

His gaze flickered to you then, something unreadable in his expression. “Not always.”

The words lingered, heavier than they should have been.

You swallowed, looking away. “I should probably keep going,” you murmured, shifting slightly as if to move, unsure of how you truly feel in this awkward situation. You weren’t sure whether to say goodbye or—

“Wait.”

His voice was firm this time, with none of the quiet hesitance from before. You turned back, startled by the urgency in it. He took a step closer, his hands still in his coat pockets as if he was afraid of what they’d do otherwise. His next words tumbled out, unpolished, almost desperate.

“Have dinner with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“A real date,” he clarified, his voice steadier now but no less intense. “Not running into each other like this. Not pretending we don’t care.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I let you slip away once. I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

For a moment, you could only stare at him. Seung-hyun was many things, but reckless with his words was never one of them. He always measured what he said, held back when things felt too vulnerable. But now, there was no careful restraint—just the raw honesty of a man who wasn’t willing to leave things unfinished again.

You should say no. You should walk away: abandon him, just as he did to you all those years ago. But as you looked at him, standing there with an openness you hadn’t seen in years and the kicked puppy look in his eyes you unfortunately still find adorable, you found yourself hesitating.

“You sound desperate,” you murmured, more out of instinct than anything else.

A small, self-deprecating chuckle left him. “I am.”

And somehow, that was what made you believe him the most.

You stared at him, the words lingering in the space between you, heavy and unshakable. A real date. It shouldn’t have been this complicated. It shouldn’t have made your chest tighten the way it did. But after everything—after years of silence, after watching him slip further and further into a world you were never meant to belong to—it felt like standing at the edge of something dangerous. Something you weren’t sure you were ready to fall into again.

He had never begged for anything. He didn’t have to. But now, standing here, eyes searching yours with something close to desperation, he might as well have been.

You swallowed, looking away. “Seung-hyun…”

“I know,” he interrupted, his voice softer now, but no less resolute. “I know I don’t deserve to ask this of you. I know I don’t get to just show up and expect things to be the same.” He let out a slow breath, his fingers curling at his sides. “But I meant what I said. I don’t want to let you slip away again.”

Your gaze drifted to the sculpture once more—the figures frozen in their dance, bound together in a moment that neither time nor distance could erase.

A bitter smile ghosted over your lips. “Funny,” you murmured. “That’s what I wanted back then, too.”

His breath hitched, just barely.

You turned to face him fully now, finally meeting his gaze. “I waited, Seung-hyun. I tried to hold on to something that always felt just out of reach. And when you finally let go, I had to learn how to do the same.”

The truth hung between you, undeniable. You had spent so long convincing yourself that he had moved on without a second thought—that it had been easy for him to let you go. But the way he was looking at you now, like he was terrified this was the last time he’d ever get the chance to, told a different story.

“Then let me hold on now.”

The words sent something sharp through you. A plea wrapped in quiet certainty. For the first time, you didn’t know what to say. You thought that whenever you’d run into him you would lay into him, for all the heartbreak and sleepless nights that his disappearance from your life had caused. You thought you would get the chance to publicly shame him for the way he toyed with your feelings. Yet, deep down, you knew you couldn’t do that to the man you’ve always loved. Whether or not you even realised you still love him.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, the weight of a decision pressing into you from all angles. You could walk away. You could tell him it was too late, that the past was better left untouched. But the thing about Seung-hyun was that he had always been impossible to forget. No matter how much time had passed, no matter how much you had tried to convince yourself otherwise—he had always been there, just beneath the surface. And maybe… maybe you weren’t ready to let go just yet.

Your lips parted, and this time, when you spoke, your voice was quieter. “One dinner.”

He stilled, as if he hadn’t let himself believe you’d actually say yes. But then his expression softened, something unreadable flickering through his eyes.

“One dinner,” he echoed, almost like a promise.

Neither of you moved, the weight of the moment stretching between you.

And then, finally—finally—he smiled. A real one. Small, tentative, but real. Even after all this time, his smile was still contagious. It crept up slowly, hesitant at first, but once it settled, it was the same one you remembered—the kind that softened the sharp edges of his face, that made you forget, just for a moment, how much had changed. You hated how easily it pulled at something deep inside you, how effortlessly it threatened to undo the walls you had spent so long building. Because no matter how much you wanted to convince yourself otherwise, Seung-hyun’s smile had always been your weakness.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself return it.

taglist: @thanosscrossmain @maskedcrawford @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t @onyxmango

[hairmetal666]

Steve has this bar he loves in Chicago. It's a little bit dive-y, a little bit dirty, but it's quiet. A good place for when he needs to clear his head.

Only, tonight, the place is packed. Music pounding from the jukebox, no space at the bar, patrons at the dartboard and pool table. In three years he's never seen it like this.

He has a second to wonder what's going on before he sees exactly who is going on, and for him to catch Steve looking.

"Stevie!" Eddie Munson cries. He leaps from the bar top, the people below scrambling away from the stomp of his big black boots.

He hasn't seen Eddie in years. Can't actually remember the last time. Max and Lucas's wedding? Robin and Nancy's baby shower?

Steve considers booking it out of there, escaping in the crush of the crowd. By the time he has the thought, though, Eddie's already pulling him into a hug.

He's excited to see his friend. He is! Really. He loves Eddie. But that's kind of the problem.

Steve fell in love and Eddie left town.

Well, maybe it wasn't so dramatic as all that. It wasn't until six months after they packed the last box in the back of Eddie's van that Steve could name his feelings for what they were. And by then, Corroded Coffin were building buzz and Eddie had a huge whole life outside of the people he saved the world with.

Over the years, as Eddie's fame grew, he came around less and now they hardly see each other. They still talk from time to time, Steve still buys all the band's records, and Eddie's still close with all the kids, Nancy and Robin too.

Eddie releases him, those big eyes bright, a pure and genuine smile stretching his face. Steve's stomach twists, heart skipping a beat.

"Gotta be honest with you, man. Never expected to see Steve Harrington in a place like this."

Steve snorts. "There's lots of place I go you wouldn't expect."

Eddie's smile wobbles, Steve thinks. It's gone in a blink, though, and Eddie laughs. "I'm sure you do, sweetheart. Have time for a drink with me?"

Eddie navigates to the bar, returns with two beers in hand. He presses his palm to the small of Steve's back, directing him to the single empty table in the corner as far from the jukebox as possible.

"How's life treating you, Stevie?" Eddie asks after a sip. "Nance told me the store is doing really well."

"It's good, yeah. Finally turning a profit. Wasn't sure about Dustin having us add a game section, but he was right. It's really taken off."

"Oh, he told me," Eddie smirks.

Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm sure that he did. He hasn't let me hear the end of it."

"That tone," Eddie says, voice soft.

"What brings you to Chicago?" He asks to hide the way all the fucking love he feels for this man is bleeding out of him.

"Not really supposed to be," he laughs. "Flight got diverted to O'Hare, can't get another one until tomorrow. Have to make it to LA in time to play a show."

They both know Eddie loves it; the rush, the adrenaline, that comes with performing, to making it to shows at the very last minute. It's how they got here in the first place.

"Working on new music?"

Eddie leans back, dimples popping with the pleased lift of his lips. "Oh, Harrington, you don't even know what we have in store." He leans over the table and launches into tales of rehearsals and writing. Steve drinks his beer and can't take his eyes off his friend, Eddie the sun Steve orbits around, helpless to his gravitational pull.

"So, Stevie," Eddie says, once there's no more to tell about music. "You seeing anyone?"

Steve hides his cringe with a chuckle. Picks up his beer to buy time and finds it empty. "Not anyone of note."

"C'mon, how is that possible? You're easily the hottest guy in this place."

He grimaces. "That's a low bar."

"Oooh, still bitchy after all these years." Eddie snickers, takes a swig from his bottle.

"Shut-up."

"Seems like it's been a while since you dated."

"You interrogating my love life now, Munson?"

"No, not at all. Just curious."

"Okay, who are you dating? Still that guy from People?"

"Gossip," Eddie frowns.

"Anyone else you got your eye on?"

"No one new," Eddie says. He stares at Steve hard for a second, like he wants to dig into his brain, like it holds the answer to all life's question.

"There is someone, then." Steve tries to ignore the jealousy licking down his spine. Eddie isn't his and never will be.

Eddie picks at the label on his now empty beer. "Not--not really." He licks his lips, leaning over the table again. "Is there a reason you don't seem to date anymore, man? It's just--you wouldn't hurt for options, right?"

Steve freezes, trying to figure out a way to answer that won't end up breaking his own heart. "Ah, it's--you know, things got busy with opening the store and everything. Stopped being a priority."

"Are you lonely?"

"Are you?" He snaps before he can stop himself. "Sorry, I'm--sorry."

"Yeah, man. I'm lonely as hell." Eddie answers as though Steve didn't give him an out.

"I--you ever have someone where the timing is always wrong?"

"Think it's a hazard of my profession. Who's yours?"

"What?" Steve clunks his bottle too hard against the table.

"The one that got away?"

"It's--it--I--it doesn't matter."

Eddie's smile is all jagged edges. "Nancy?"

"God, no. Nance and I are good with being friends. No lingering feelings there. Who's yours?"

"Ahh," Eddie sits back a little, eyes glittering with an emotion Steve can't place. "The best boy I ever met. Can't get over him, can't forget him. I think they guys are going to start banning my 'pathetic gay yearning songs'. Gareth's words."

Something in Steve's chest crumbles to dust. There's someone. Has always been someone. Of course. Eddie is beautiful and hot and charismatic and fucking famous. And Steve is--just a guy who runs a struggling bookstore with a couple of his best friends.

"That's--I'm sorry it didn't work out." He's trying to stop his voice from breaking, from giving Eddie any hint of what he's feeling, just knows he has to get out. "Listen, man, thanks for the beer. Great to catch up. You should hit up Robin and Nancy the next time you're in town. I gotta get going."

"Wait, Steve--"

"See you around."

He doesn't wait. He pushes through the people, and races out the door, into the crisp Chicago fall air. He squeezes his eyes closed, practices his breathing exercises, tries to relax the clench of his teeth, ease the screaming in his lungs.

Three steps away from the building is as far as he gets before he hears, "Steve, please wait." A hand catches his hip, holding him in place.

"Eddie, I don't--"

"It's you," Eddie says. His face is pale, stricken. "You're the one who got away, Steve."

"What?"

"I've never been able to work up the nerve to confess. I've been trying for years, but. Too afraid of losing you to tell the truth."

"Years?" Steve's brain is trying to wrap around what's happening. That Eddie has feelings for him? That he's the source of the pathetic gay yearning?

"God, since 1986, at least."

Steve doesn't know what to say; what to do. He's been waiting for this moment so long, and his brain goes on pause.

"It's okay if you don't feel the same," Eddie rambles. "Hell, I'd be surprised if you did, but--"

"You're mine too," the words tumble out.

"What?"

"You're the one who got away. For me. You're mine."

"Steve," Eddie breathes. "Is this--are you serious?"

"Pathetic gay yearning and all."

Eddie's laugh is a bright spot in the darkness, relief and happiness mixed with the hope of what's next.

Steve can't help but giggle. "We're so dumb," he says.

Eddie looks at him with a raised eyebrow before bursting into giggles of his own. "So dumb, Steve, oh my god."

"It's been a decade!"

"Fuck," Eddie cackles.

They collapse against each other, chests heaving with their mirth. As they catch their breath, Steve nuzzles against Eddie's neck, relishing the closeness. It's easy for him to change the angle so their lips meet in a kiss frantic with ten years of longing.

"Your place or mine?" Eddie asks once they part.

Steve laughs. "You think I'm that easy, Munson?"

"Oh, Steve," Eddie smirks. "I know it."

"Asshole." Steve presses a kiss to his jaw. "How many songs did you write about me?"

Eddie smiles so hard his dimples pop. "All of them, baby. Every single one."

Steve rests their foreheads together, body fizzing like freshly uncorked champagne, "Take me home, Ed."

[zephyra-in-the-house]

Chapter 1 Summary for Second Chances

(Art Credit: @elirastudio )

Several months after LBD's defeat, Macaque remains in Megapolis despite his better judgment. One afternoon while lounging in his submarine, he gets a visit from the Monkey King who has brought him food.

While unexpected, Macaque finds himself reminded of a time a hundred years ago when Wukong and him got into a fight only for Wukong to take him back to Flower Fruit Mountain to nurse him back to health.

In the present, Wukong makes an irresistible offer. A chance to train MK again. Macaque initially thinks it's a joke. When he realizes it isn't, he outright refuses the offer. Wukong chases after him and asks him to reconsider but Macaque still says no.

(End Summary)

My duuuudes look at the fuckin artwork!! Holy shit man I am so excited to share this project with you guys! As some of you may know, I have been working on chapter summaries for Second Chances for a little while now and, just a few weeks ago, Elira came and suggested we do a collab and I said absolutely!! And I am so glad I did because Elira's artwork is absolutely stunning~ I mean just look at that!

So, give all of your love and support to Elira and we shall have more for you guys in the future!

[zrvllya]

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

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is it over now, taylor swift

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james potter x reader ! one shot ⏾

how to haunt someone politely

ᵎ!ᵎ angst, emotional hurt, grief/mourning, parental death (mentioned), alcohol use, reconciliation, angst with hope, female rage somehow, trust issues, pining, pensieve, past betrayal, lowercase intended, miscommunication, second chance perhaps?

word count [ 6,800 ]

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the great hall buzzed with morning chatter, but it all faded to white noise as you stared blankly at your untouched porridge. three hundred takeout coffees later—that's how the song went, right? except in your case, it was three hundred breakfasts later, three hundred classes later, three hundred nights of staring at the ceiling while your roommates slept peacefully.

"you need to eat something," remus murmured beside you, his voice gentle but firm. "you've lost weight."

"not hungry," you replied, pushing the bowl away. your eyes unconsciously drifted across the table, landing on him—james potter, laughing at something sirius had said, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners the way they used to when you'd whisper stupid jokes against his neck at three in the morning.

he caught you looking. you didn't look away fast enough.

something flashed across his face—pain, maybe? good. let him hurt. let him fucking hurt like you did.

"he asks about you," remus said quietly, following your gaze. "all the time."

"fascinating," you replied, voice dripping with venom. "tell him to keep asking. i'll keep not giving a shit."

remus sighed. "you know why he—"

"don't," you cut him off. "i don't care if his dad was dying, rem. i would have been there for him. instead, he chose to push me away, to be cruel, to make me hate him. and then he fucked jessica hall at that party two days later."

you stood up abruptly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "i have ancient runes."

"it's thursday," remus pointed out. "you don't have ancient runes until—"

"then i'll be early."

"i'm not leaving," you whispered against his chest, two summers ago at potter manor. outside, rain lashed against the windows, but inside james' bedroom, everything was warm. his parents were downstairs, preparing dinner, and you'd snuck up to his room simply to hold each other.

"ever?" he asked, his fingers tracing patterns on your spine.

"ever," you confirmed, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "they'll have to drag me out."

"good," he murmured, tipping your chin up to kiss you properly. "because i love you more than anything in this world."

"more than quidditch?" you teased.

"infinitely more than quidditch," he said solemnly.

"then i guess you're stuck with me," you whispered.

"promise?" he asked.

"promise."

in ancient runes, you could barely focus. professor babbling's voice washed over you as you stared out the window at the quidditch pitch. james would be there later for practice. you used to watch him practice, bundled in his oversized jumper, cheering him on. now you avoided the pitch entirely.

"miss y/l/n," professor babbling called. "perhaps you'd like to translate this passage for us?"

you dragged your eyes from the window, scanning the runes on the board. your mind was blank.

"i—i'm sorry, professor. i wasn't—"

"paying attention, clearly," she finished for you. "see me after class."

the rest of the lecture dragged on. when the bell finally rang, you approached babbling's desk with reluctance.

"this is the third time this month, miss y/l/n," she said, looking at you over her spectacles. "your marks are slipping."

"i know, professor. i'm sorry."

her expression softened. "is everything alright? you've always been one of my best students."

"just tired," you lied. "i'll do better."

she nodded, unconvinced. "i expect your translation essay on my desk by monday morning."

the library was quiet that evening. you'd claimed your usual corner table, surrounded by ancient runes texts and parchment, trying to focus on anything but memories of him.

footsteps approached. you didn't look up.

"can i sit here?"

your quill froze mid-word. his voice still affected you, still sent electricity down your spine despite everything. you refused to look up.

"everywhere else is taken," james added softly.

"library's big, potter," you replied coldly. "find another spot."

"please," he said, and something in his voice made you finally look up.

he looked awful. well, awful for james potter, which meant he was still unfairly beautiful but clearly suffering. dark circles beneath his eyes, hair more chaotic than usual, tie loose around his neck. he'd lost weight too, you noticed with unwanted concern.

"what do you want?" you asked.

"to study," he replied, holding up his transfiguration textbook. "nothing else."

against your better judgment, you nodded once. he slid into the chair across from you, careful to keep distance between you.

for thirty minutes, you worked in tense silence. you could feel his eyes on you occasionally, but every time you looked up, he was focused on his book.

until—

"your hair's different," he said suddenly.

you touched the ends of your hair self-consciously. you'd cut it after the breakup, a desperate attempt to feel different, to be someone new.

"observant," you muttered.

"i like it," he offered.

"i didn't do it for you."

"i know," he said quietly. "you never did anything for me. that's what i loved about you."

loved. past tense. the word stung more than it should have.

"is there a point to this conversation?" you asked sharply.

james looked down at his hands. "i just... miss talking to you."

"you should have thought about that before you made me hate you."

his eyes flashed with hurt. "is that what you think i did?"

"it's what you did, james," you said, your voice finally betraying emotion. "you were cruel. deliberate. you pushed and pushed until i broke. and then you fucked jessica hall two days later."

"it wasn't like that," he said, so quietly you almost didn't hear him.

"enlighten me, then," you challenged. "tell me how it was."

he opened his mouth, then closed it again. his eyes—those stupid hazel eyes you used to get lost in—filled with something like regret.

"i can't," he finally said.

you laughed bitterly. "that's what i thought."

you gathered your books and stood. "stay at the table. i'll go."

"wait," he said, reaching for your wrist but stopping just short of touching you. "your essay. is it for babbling?"

"what's it to you?"

"you translated this wrong," he said, pointing to a line on your parchment. "it's not 'eternal darkness' here—it's 'temporary shadow.'"

you stared at him. "since when do you know ancient runes?"

a flush crept up his neck. "i've been studying it. i know how much you love it."

the implication hung between you. he'd been learning your favorite subject, even after everything.

"well, thanks," you said stiffly, correcting the translation. then, against your better judgment: "how's your dad?"

pain flickered across his face. "he, uh... he died. last month."

your heart dropped. "james, i'm—"

"don't," he cut you off. "don't say you're sorry. i know you are. it's who you are."

silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words.

"i should go," you finally said.

"for what it's worth, i never slept with jessica."

you froze, back still to him.

"she passed out on the couch," he continued quietly. "i put a blanket over her and slept on the floor. everyone just assumed..."

"why are you telling me this now?" you asked, still not turning around.

"because i'm tired of you thinking i'm someone i'm not," he said simply. "i'm many things, but i'm not a liar. and i never stopped loving you."

"you're an asshole!" you screamed, tears streaming down your face. three months ago, in an empty classroom, the beginning of the end.

"if that's what you think, then leave," james said coldly, his face a mask of indifference that didn't reach his eyes.

"what happened to you?" you asked, voice breaking. "where is the james i fell in love with?"

"maybe he was never real," he replied, turning away. "maybe this is who i really am."

"look at me," you demanded. when he didn't, you grabbed his arm. "look at me and tell me you don't love me anymore."

he finally turned, his eyes suspiciously bright. for a moment, his mask slipped, and you saw such pain that it stole your breath.

then it was gone, replaced by that cruel indifference. "i don't love you anymore."

the world stopped turning.

"liar," you whispered.

but you walked away anyway, because even if he was lying, he'd made his choice. and it wasn't you.

you didn't turn around in the library. you couldn't look at him, couldn't let him see how his words affected you.

"good night, james," you said, and walked away.

that night, you lay awake in your dormitory, staring at the ceiling. the anger that had sustained you for months was crumbling, leaving behind confusion and an ache that wouldn't subside.

"he never slept with her," you whispered to yourself. "he never slept with her."

but he'd still pushed you away. he'd still chosen to hurt you rather than let you support him through his father's illness. that betrayal couldn't be undone with one truth.

could it?

the next morning at breakfast, you felt his eyes on you the moment you entered the great hall. this time, you didn't look away. this time, you met his gaze across the crowded room.

he looked surprised, then hopeful. cautiously, he raised his hand in a small wave.

you didn't wave back. but you didn't look away either.

it wasn't forgiveness. it wasn't even the beginning of forgiveness. but it was something.

a crack in the ice.

maybe, three hundred more breakfasts from now, you'd be ready to hear him out. maybe you'd be ready to understand why he pushed you away when his father was dying, why he thought hurting you was better than letting you in.

or maybe not.

you picked up your spoon and began to eat your porridge, aware of him still watching you, aware of the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

it wasn't over. not yet.

but whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.

three days passed. you'd caught him watching you in every shared class, during meals, in the corridors between lessons. his eyes followed you like a ghost, haunting your periphery.

you still hadn't spoken since that night in the library.

"he's miserable," lily evans said, sliding into the seat next to you in the common room on friday night. your friendship with lily had always been complicated—her history with james, the way she'd become a tentative ally after your breakup.

"that's not my problem," you replied, not looking up from your charms essay.

lily sighed. "i know what he did was awful. but—"

"but what?" you snapped, finally meeting her eyes. "you're going to defend him now? after all the shit you've said about him over the years?"

"people change," she said quietly. "he's changed."

you laughed bitterly. "into what? someone who destroys the people who love him? who pushes away anyone who tries to help him?"

lily studied you for a long moment. "he didn't want you to watch his father die," she finally said. "he didn't want you to see him fall apart."

your quill snapped between your fingers, ink splattering across your parchment. "he told you that?"

"no," lily admitted. "remus did. but only because he's worried about you both."

you closed your eyes, fighting back the wave of emotions threatening to drown you. "i would have been there for him," you whispered. "through anything."

"i know," lily said gently. "that's exactly what scared him."

"i think i want to be an auror," you told james, sprawled across his bed that summer before fifth year, his parents downstairs making dinner. "or maybe a curse-breaker."

james traced his fingers along your arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. "you'd be brilliant at either."

"what about you?" you asked, turning to face him.

he shrugged. "dad wants me to join the ministry."

"but what do you want?"

james was quiet for a long moment. "i want to do something that matters," he finally said. "something brave."

you reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "you're the bravest person i know, james potter."

he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "only when i'm with you," he whispered. "you make me better than i am."

"no," you said, shaking your head. "i just see who you really are."

he pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. "swear you'll never leave me," he whispered, vulnerability raw in his voice.

"i swear," you promised. "not even if you beg me to."

how terribly ironic those words would become.

you skipped dinner that night, taking refuge in the astronomy tower. the stars always calmed you, reminded you how small your problems really were in the grand scheme of things.

except this pain didn't feel small. it felt all-consuming.

"i thought i might find you here."

you didn't need to turn to know it was him. james' footsteps were as familiar to you as your own heartbeat.

"are you following me now?" you asked, keeping your eyes on the stars.

"no," he said, stopping several feet away. "but i know you come here when you're upset."

"i'm not upset."

"liar," he said softly.

the accusation—so gentle, so knowing—broke something inside you. you spun around, fury rising like a tidal wave.

"don't you dare," you hissed. "don't you fucking dare call me a liar. not after what you did."

james flinched but held his ground. "i deserve that."

"you deserve worse," you spat. "you want to know what upsets me, james? the fact that you decided, all on your own, that i wasn't strong enough to handle your pain. that you'd rather destroy us than let me see you vulnerable."

"it wasn't about you not being strong enough," he said quietly.

"then what?" you demanded, stepping closer. "what possible reason could justify how you treated me?"

something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "you want to know how my father died?" he asked, voice cracking. "he wasted away. inch by inch. day by day. until he wasn't my father anymore—just a shell. i watched my mother break apart trying to save him, trying to be strong for him. i watched her lose herself in his suffering."

tears streamed down his face now, but he made no move to wipe them away. "i couldn't do that to you," he whispered. "i couldn't watch you destroy yourself trying to save me."

"that wasn't your choice to make," you said, your own voice breaking. "i loved you. i would have—"

"exactly," he interrupted. "you would have given everything. sacrificed everything. and i would have let you, because i was selfish and scared and falling apart."

you shook your head, anger warring with grief. "so instead you decided to be cruel?"

"i thought if you hated me, it would be easier," he admitted. "for both of us."

"don't touch me," james snapped, jerking away from your hand. two weeks before the breakup, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

"james, please," you begged. "talk to me. whatever's happening, we can face it together."

"there is no 'we,'" he said coldly. "there's me, and there's you, and right now i need you to leave me the fuck alone."

you stepped back as if slapped. "what's happened to you?"

he laughed, a hollow sound that chilled your blood. "maybe i'm finally showing you who i really am. maybe this is who i've always been."

"i don't believe that," you whispered.

"then you're a fool," he replied, walking away without looking back.

later that night, you found him on the quidditch pitch, flying recklessly in the pouring rain. when he finally landed, soaked and shivering, you were waiting with a towel and dry clothes.

he stared at you, something like desperation in his eyes. "why are you still here?" he asked, voice raw.

"because i love you," you said simply. "even when you're like this."

for a moment—just a moment—his mask cracked. he reached for you, pulling you against his wet clothes, burying his face in your neck. "i don't deserve you," he whispered.

"maybe not," you agreed, holding him tightly. "but you have me anyway."

the next day, he acted like it never happened. the walls were back up, higher than before.

"you broke my heart," you whispered in the astronomy tower, stars witnessing your confession. "not when we broke up—i could have survived that. you broke it when you made me believe i never really knew you at all."

james looked stricken. "i'm sorry," he said, and the words seemed torn from somewhere deep inside him. "god, i'm so fucking sorry."

"sorry doesn't fix anything."

"i know," he agreed. "nothing can fix what i did. but i need you to know that everything before—every moment, every word, every promise—that was real. that was the truest thing in my life."

silence stretched between you, heavy with history and pain and love that refused to die, no matter how badly you both had wounded it.

"i saw you," you finally said. "with that ravenclaw girl last week. she looks like me."

james paled. "it's not—"

"i don't care who you fuck, potter," you cut him off. "but at least have the decency not to replace me with my clone."

"she asked me for help with transfiguration," he said quietly. "nothing happened."

"do i look like i care?" you asked, but your voice betrayed you, cracking on the last word.

"yes," he said simply. "you do."

you turned away, unable to bear the honesty in his eyes. "leave me alone, james."

"i can't," he whispered. "i've tried. for months, i've tried. but i can't stop loving you. i can't stop missing you. i can't stop hating myself for what i did to us."

you closed your eyes, fighting back tears. "that's your problem, not mine."

"look at me," he pleaded. "just look at me and tell me you don't love me anymore."

the echo of your own words from months ago hit you like a physical blow. slowly, you turned to face him.

"i don't love you anymore," you said, but your voice shook, betraying the lie.

james stepped closer, closing the distance between you. "liar," he whispered, his breath warm against your face.

"i think i want to marry you someday," james murmured against your hair, both of you hidden beneath his invisibility cloak in the astronomy tower, breaking curfew to watch a meteor shower the winter of sixth year.

you laughed softly. "we're sixteen, james."

"i know," he said, tightening his arms around you. "but i also know what i want. who i want."

you turned in his arms to face him. "you might change your mind."

"never," he said with such conviction that your heart stuttered. "you're it for me. the rest of my life, you're it."

you kissed him then, slow and deep and full of promises neither of you were old enough to make but made anyway.

his proximity was intoxicating, dangerous. you could smell his cologne—the same one you'd given him last christmas. you stepped back, needing distance.

"we can't do this," you said. "you can't just decide you want me back and expect me to fall into your arms."

"i know," he said, not following when you retreated. "i know i have no right to ask anything of you."

"then what do you want from me?" you demanded.

james ran a hand through his hair—that familiar, infuriating gesture that had always made your heart skip. "a chance," he said simply. "not forgiveness, not yet. just... a chance to show you who i really am. who we were."

"i know who we were," you said bitterly. "we were everything. and then we were nothing."

"we were never nothing," he whispered.

you turned away, unable to look at him anymore. "i have to go."

"please," he said, desperation edging into his voice. "just tell me if there's any hope. even the smallest chance."

you paused at the door, not turning around. "i don't know, james," you admitted. "i honestly don't know."

three days later, you found a small package outside your dormitory door. inside was a vial of swirling silver memories and a note in james' handwriting: these are my truths. if you want to see them, pensieve in dumbledore's office. password is 'acid pops.' he knows you're coming.

you stared at the vial for hours, turning it over in your hands, watching the memories shimmer and dance.

did you want to see inside his head? see the truth he couldn't speak aloud?

did you want to risk understanding him?

because understanding might lead to forgiveness. and forgiveness might lead back to him.

and you weren't sure if you were ready to fall again, knowing how badly it would hurt if he let you break a second time.

but that night, as you lay in bed staring at the vial on your nightstand, you made your decision.

tomorrow, you would see his truths.

tomorrow, you would decide if what you had was truly over.

morning arrived with a sense of inevitability. you'd barely slept, the vial of memories a constant presence in your consciousness. by dawn, you were already dressed and waiting for an appropriate hour to visit the headmaster's office.

at precisely eight o'clock, you found yourself standing before the stone gargoyle.

"acid pops," you murmured, and the statue leapt aside, revealing the spiral staircase.

dumbledore was waiting, as if he'd been expecting you at this exact moment. his blue eyes twinkled knowingly over his half-moon spectacles.

"miss y/l/n," he greeted. "mr. potter informed me you might be visiting. the pensieve is ready for your use."

you clutched the vial tightly. "thank you, professor."

"memories are curious things," dumbledore mused as he led you to the cabinet where the pensieve sat. "they show us truth, but always through the lens of the one who experienced it. remember that as you view them."

with those cryptic words, he excused himself, leaving you alone with the shallow stone basin.

hands trembling slightly, you uncorked the vial and poured the silvery contents into the pensieve. the memories swirled, hypnotic and terrifying. taking a deep breath, you leaned forward until your face touched the surface, and then you were falling, falling...

────────────

james sat beside a hospital bed in st. mungo's, holding the frail hand of a man who barely resembled the strong, vibrant fleamont potter you remembered from previous summers. his father's skin was pallid, stretched thin over protruding bones, his breathing labored.

"how is school, son?" fleamont asked, his voice a ghost of its former self.

"good," james lied, forcing a smile. "we're top of the house cup standings."

"and your girl?" fleamont's eyes brightened slightly. "when will you bring her to visit again?"

james swallowed hard. "soon, dad. she's... she's busy with exams."

another lie. you watched james' face carefully, saw the pain etched into every line.

euphemia potter entered then, carrying tea. her normally impeccable appearance was disheveled, dark circles prominent beneath her eyes. she looked like she'd aged years in months.

"james," she said, her voice brittle. "your father needs rest. perhaps you should return to school now."

james nodded, pressing a kiss to his father's forehead. "i'll be back next weekend."

in the corridor outside, euphemia collapsed against her son, silent tears streaming down her face. "the healers say there's nothing more they can do," she whispered. "it's just a matter of time now."

james held her, his own face a mask of controlled anguish. "how much time?"

"weeks. maybe a month."

you watched as something hardened in james' eyes—a decision forming.

"don't tell anyone," he said. "not yet."

the scene shifted. james in dumbledore's office, receiving the news of his father's deteriorating condition. "you'll need to prepare yourself, mr. potter," the headmaster said gently. "and perhaps consider who you wish to have support you through this difficult time."

"no one," james said firmly. "i don't want anyone to know."

dumbledore studied him over his spectacles. "isolation rarely eases grief, mr. potter."

"i'm not isolating myself," james argued. "i have my friends. sirius, remus, peter."

"and miss y/l/n?" dumbledore inquired. "surely she would want to support you."

the memory showed james turning away, his voice tight. "especially not her."

another shift. james in the boys' dormitory, sirius confronting him.

"you're destroying her," sirius said bluntly. "and yourself in the process."

"it's better this way," james insisted, pacing like a caged animal. "you've seen what this is doing to my mother. she's fading away right alongside him, sirius. i can't... i can't watch that happen to y/n too."

"so your solution is to make her hate you?" sirius demanded. "that's fucked up, prongs."

"she'll move on," james said, but his voice broke on the words. "she'll find someone better. someone whole."

"you're a fucking idiot," sirius said, but there was no heat in it—only sadness.

the scene changed again. james standing outside the charms classroom, watching you laugh with your friends. the naked longing on his face was devastating. remus appeared beside him.

"it's not too late," remus said quietly. "tell her the truth."

"it is too late," james replied, turning away as you emerged from the classroom. "i made sure of it."

memories began to blur together now—fragments of james receiving owls from st. mungo's, sleepless nights, moments where he nearly broke and ran to find you, only to stop himself. and underlying it all, a sense of desperate, suffocating love for you that he was systematically trying to destroy.

then the party after your breakup. james, drunk and miserable, while everyone around him celebrated. jessica hall approaching him, flirting openly.

"want to go somewhere quieter?" she suggested, trailing her fingers down his arm.

james looked at her through glazed eyes. for a moment, it seemed he might agree—might try to lose himself in someone else.

instead, he shook his head. "i can't," he said simply.

later, jessica passed out on the couch, james covering her with a blanket before collapsing on the floor nearby, tears streaming silently down his face as he clutched something in his hand—a small velvet box containing a ring you'd never seen.

the final memory was the most painful. james at his father's funeral, standing stoic beside his mother as they lowered the coffin into the ground. you weren't there—couldn't be there—because you didn't know.

afterward, in the empty potter house, james finally broke. he destroyed his room in a fit of grief and rage, shattering photo frames of the two of you, ripping down the quidditch posters you'd always teased him about, smashing the mirror where you'd once stood behind him, arms wrapped around his waist as you both got ready for the day.

when the destruction was complete, he sank to his knees among the debris, clutching a salvaged photograph of you to his chest, whispering your name like a prayer.

────────────

you emerged from the pensieve gasping, tears streaming down your face. the room spun around you as you gripped the edge of dumbledore's desk for support.

it was too much—too raw, too real. the james in those memories was both familiar and foreign. the boy you loved, twisted by grief and misguided protection.

you needed air. needed space to process what you'd seen.

dumbledore was nowhere in sight as you fled his office, running blindly through the corridors until you found yourself outside, the cool spring air hitting your tear-streaked face.

without conscious thought, your feet carried you toward the lake—your spot, where you and james had spent countless hours hidden from the world.

he was there. somehow, you knew he would be.

james sat beneath the beech tree, staring out at the water, looking more vulnerable than you'd seen him in months. he turned at the sound of your approach, hope and fear warring in his eyes.

"you saw," he said. not a question.

"i saw," you confirmed, your voice raw from crying.

silence stretched between you, filled with everything you couldn't say.

"why didn't you just tell me?" you finally asked, the question that had haunted you for months.

james looked down at his hands. "because you would have stayed," he said simply. "you would have sacrificed everything to be there for me, and i couldn't bear it."

"that wasn't your choice to make," you said, anger flaring again despite what you'd witnessed.

"i know," he admitted. "i know that now. i was... i was trying to protect you from my pain."

"by causing me pain instead?" you demanded, stepping closer. "by making me believe everything we had was a lie?"

james flinched. "i thought it would be easier if you hated me."

"easier for whom?" you spat. "certainly not for me. do you have any idea what it did to me, watching you become someone i didn't recognize? hearing you say you didn't love me anymore with that mouth that used to beg for mine?"

you were trembling now, months of suppressed rage finally breaking free. "that mouth that used to whisper how much you loved me, how you'd never hurt me—and then you turned into a lying traitor right before my eyes."

james looked stricken, each word landing like a physical blow.

"i deserved that," he whispered. "all of it and worse."

"yes, you did," you agreed. "you took everything from me, james. not just our relationship—you took my trust, my belief that i could recognize truth from lies, my ability to let anyone close again."

you sank down onto the grass, suddenly exhausted. "i understand why you did it now," you admitted. "but understanding doesn't erase what happened."

james remained standing, keeping his distance. "i don't expect it to," he said softly. "i just... i needed you to know the truth. even if it changes nothing between us."

you looked up at him, really looked at him for the first time in months. behind the grief and regret, you could still see traces of your james—the boy who had loved you completely, who had promised you forever and meant it.

"it changes things," you finally said, voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of the lake. "but i don't know how much."

hope flickered in his eyes—fragile, tentative. "what does that mean?"

you stood, brushing grass from your robes. "it means i need time, james. time to decide if what you did is something i can forgive. time to figure out if there's anything left worth salvaging."

"i'll give you all the time you need," he said immediately. "i'll wait—however long it takes."

you nodded, turning to leave, then paused. "your father... i wish i could have been there. for both of you."

james' eyes filled with tears. "he asked about you," he said, voice breaking. "right until the end."

the admission cracked something inside you. without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him—the first time you'd touched in months. he stiffened in surprise, then melted against you, his body shaking with silent sobs.

"i'm so sorry," he whispered against your hair. "i'm so fucking sorry."

you held him, letting him break apart in your arms the way he'd been so afraid to do. this wasn't forgiveness—not yet—but it was something. a beginning, perhaps. or at least not an ending.

when you finally pulled away, his face was wet with tears, but there was something lighter in his expression—as if sharing the burden had lifted some of his grief.

"i should go," you said softly.

he nodded, not trying to stop you. "thank you," he said. "for seeing. for understanding, even if you can't forgive."

you turned to leave, then looked back one last time. "i don't know if we can ever be what we were," you said honestly. "too much has happened. but maybe... maybe we can find out who we are now."

it wasn't a promise. it wasn't even hope, really. but it was possibility.

and for now, that would have to be enough.

a week passed. you avoided each other by unspoken agreement, both needing space to process what had happened by the lake.

you caught glimpses of him—in the great hall, during classes, across the common room. each time, your eyes would meet briefly before one of you looked away. the air between you was charged, electric with possibility and uncertainty.

your friends noticed the shift. "something's different," lily observed one evening as you both studied in the library. "between you and james."

"nothing's different," you lied, not looking up from your potions text.

lily arched an eyebrow. "you looked at him yesterday. actually looked at him, without that hatred in your eyes."

you sighed, closing your book. "i saw his memories," you admitted. "in dumbledore's pensieve."

"oh," lily said softly. "his father?"

you nodded. "and everything else."

"does that change things?"

you traced a finger along a scratch in the wooden table. "it explains things. i'm not sure it changes them."

but that wasn't entirely true. something had changed—you could feel it every time james entered a room, the awareness that prickled across your skin, the way your body still responded to his presence despite everything.

understanding had eroded some of your anger, but not all of it. in its place was something more complicated—a tangle of hurt, longing, and unresolved desire that made it difficult to breathe when he was near.

"i want you," james whispered against your neck, his hands sliding beneath your shirt. seventh year had just begun, before everything fell apart. you were hidden in the room of requirement, celebrating your anniversary.

"show me," you challenged, arching into his touch.

his eyes darkened as he looked at you, hunger and adoration mingling in his gaze. "tell me what you want," he said, voice rough with desire.

"everything," you replied, pulling him closer. "i want everything."

later, curled against him in the tangled sheets, you traced the contours of his face with gentle fingers. "promise me something," you whispered.

"anything," he said immediately.

"promise you'll always tell me the truth. no matter how difficult it is."

james caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "i promise," he said solemnly.

another promise broken.

the astronomy tower had become your refuge again, a place to escape when thoughts of james threatened to overwhelm you. past midnight on a friday, you leaned against the stone parapet, staring at the stars and trying to quiet your mind.

the door creaked open behind you.

you didn't need to turn to know who it was. weeks of avoiding each other, and now here he was, drawn to the same place as you.

"i'll go," james said quietly.

"stay," you replied, surprising yourself. "if you want."

he approached cautiously, keeping a careful distance between you as he leaned against the parapet. for a long while, neither of you spoke, the silence filled with stars and shared history and things unsaid.

"i miss you," he finally said, the words startlingly honest in the darkness. "every fucking day, i miss you."

you closed your eyes, his voice washing over you like a physical touch. "i'm still angry," you admitted. "i understand why you did it, but i'm still so fucking angry, james."

"you have every right to be," he said. "i wouldn't expect anything else."

you turned to look at him then, really look at him. moonlight sculpted his features, throwing shadows beneath his cheekbones, glinting off his glasses. he looked beautiful and devastated and so familiar it hurt.

"i miss you too," you whispered, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside you. "and i hate that i miss you."

something shifted in his expression—hope warring with restraint. "where does that leave us?"

"i don't know," you said honestly. "i don't trust you anymore. but i can't stop wanting you either."

james inhaled sharply at your words. "y/n—"

"don't," you cut him off. "don't say anything. not yet."

you stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. close enough to see his pupils dilate, to hear his breath catch.

"i'm still so fucking mad at you," you whispered, your voice shaking. "i'm mad at you for lying. i'm mad at you for pushing me away. i'm mad at you for making me love you so much that even after everything, i still can't stop."

james remained perfectly still, as if afraid any movement might shatter this fragile moment between you.

"i need you to understand something," you continued, your voice low and intense. "if—and that's a big if—if we ever try again, it can't be like before. you don't get to decide what i can handle. you don't get to 'protect' me by lying. you talk to me, even when it's hard. especially when it's hard."

"i understand," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

"do you?" you challenged, stepping even closer. "because i need to know that you get it, james. i need to know that you understand what you did to us."

"i do," he whispered. "i destroyed the best thing in my life because i was scared and stupid and thought i knew what was best for you."

"and you'll never do that again?" you demanded.

"never," he swore, his eyes never leaving yours. "i swear on my life, on everything i am."

you reached up, your hand hovering near his face without touching. "i want to believe you."

"then believe me," he said simply.

something broke inside you then—the last of your resistance crumbling beneath the weight of need and anger and love that had never truly died. you closed the distance between you, your mouth crashing against his with bruising force.

james froze for a heartbeat, then responded with equal desperation, his hands tangling in your hair as he backed you against the stone wall. the kiss was nothing like the tender exchanges you once shared—this was raw, hungry, almost violent in its intensity.

you bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, tasting copper on your tongue. "i'm still angry," you gasped against his mouth.

"i know," he groaned, lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist. "be angry. i deserve it."

your nails dug into his shoulders through his shirt, marking him, claiming him even as you punished him. his hands gripped your thighs with bruising pressure, his body pressed against yours with a need that matched your own.

"this doesn't fix anything," you warned between kisses, your breath coming in harsh pants.

"i know," he repeated, his lips trailing fire down your neck. "nothing fixes it. nothing except time and truth and proving myself to you every day for as long as you'll let me."

you pulled back, forcing him to meet your eyes. "no more lies," you demanded. "ever."

"no more lies," he agreed, his gaze steady on yours. "i'm an open book to you. always."

for a long moment, you searched his face, looking for any hint of deception. finding none, you pulled him back to you, your kiss softer now but no less desperate.

"i still love you," you confessed against his mouth, the words both surrender and challenge. "god help me, i still fucking love you."

james pressed his forehead to yours, his breathing ragged. "i never stopped," he whispered. "not for a single moment."

you disentangled yourself from him, feet finding the floor again. standing face to face, both of you disheveled and breathing hard, reality began to seep back in.

"we can't just pick up where we left off," you said, straightening your clothes with trembling hands. "too much has happened."

"i know," james said, not reaching for you again though his eyes betrayed how much he wanted to. "i don't expect that."

"so what now?" you asked.

james ran a hand through his hair—that achingly familiar gesture that had once made you roll your eyes fondly. "now we take it one day at a time," he said. "we start over. slowly. on your terms."

you nodded, stepping back to create distance between you. your body still hummed with desire, your lips still tingling from his kiss. "i need to think," you said. "i need to be sure this is what i want."

disappointment flickered across his face, but he nodded. "whatever you need."

you moved toward the door, pausing with your hand on the handle. "james?"

"yes?"

"i'm not promising anything," you said. "but i'm not saying no either."

a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "that's more than i deserve."

"probably," you agreed, a reluctant smile of your own emerging. "i'll see you tomorrow."

as you descended the stairs from the astronomy tower, your body still ached with unresolved tension, your mind racing with conflicting emotions. nothing was resolved. nothing was fixed. but something had shifted—hope rising from the ashes of what you'd lost.

you were still angry. you still didn't fully trust him. but beneath it all was the undeniable truth that had never changed, even when you wished it would:

you loved james potter. despite everything, in spite of everything, because of everything—you loved him.

and maybe, just maybe, that was somewhere to start.

[shetheabsolute]

— Fruit for thought

(Sinners, 2000s era au)

Stack × Original character (Imaan Irie Miller)

Pilot, "Flashback to us" (next)

Seven Years Ago

Imaan’s living room glowed warm like late afternoon honey. A floor lamp draped in orange scarf fabric cast little swirls of color onto the walls. The whole place smelled like patchouli and something sweet simmering from the kitchen. The stereo in the corner hummed low with a scratched-up Lauryn Hill CD, track five: "I Used to Love Him."

Stack was posted up on her couch, one arm lazily draped across the back, legs stretched out like he paid rent there. He didn’t. But he looked too at home. That was his thing—always lookin’ like he belonged even where he didn’t.

Imaan sat near him, cross-legged on the floor, braiding her hair in the mirror propped on the coffee table and laughing at something he said—real soft, one of those breathy, mmm-you-a-fool laughs. She was only one braid in, an oversized tee with the collar slipping off her shoulder, and her shorts had hiked up way past her thighs, not that she cared. Her house, her heat, her rules. Stack? He was watching her with everything she did it.

“Mani,” he lingered, voice just above the music, “if I knew you had all this peace out here, I woulda stopped messin’ with them city girls a long time ago.”

She paused to glance over at him. “I don't like my peace being followed by chaos, Stack.”

"Oh, word? Okay then. Be liked that," He smiled, eyes lazy with that flirtation he always carried like a second skin. “You ever think ‘bout movin’ back to Jamaica?”

“Mm, I dunno,” she mused, fingers twisting. “Only when Mississippi start feeling like it don’ want me here.”

“..I want you here,” he almost cooed the words out. Made Imaan’s insides churn just the way she loved.

She turned away to hide her grin. “You want everything that got a heartbeat.”

“Damn that was cold,” he said, pressing his hand to chest dramatically. “And, that ain’t true.”

“Oh it ain't?” she teased, standing now, walking over slow with the braid half-done, end flying out wild. “You mean tell me you don’ still got Mary tucked way in your back pocket?”

Stack leaned forward, grinning. “Why you steady bringin’ up old stuff?”

“Boy, you know damn well that ain’t old,” she said, slipping between his legs to stand over him, “especially if it’s still in rotation.”

He looked up at her, that dimple pressing deep into his cheek. “You jealous?”

“No,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I’m territorial with my peace, not my options.”

He laughed, his head shaking. “Why you always gotta have a mouth?”

“Cause you always come through my house playing.”

The song switched to “Ex-Factor.” Her hips circle a little with the intro. Slow and teasing without her meaning to do it. That bass always did something to her. Maybe he noticed. Probably did becasue before she knew it his hands ghosted up to her waist, fingers curling against her skin. And she didn’t stop him.

“Imaan,” he called, voice dipped in something sticky. Like he didn’t already have her attention.

She looked down at him, face unreadable. He slowly moved to pull her in closer—like he didn’t want to scare the feeling away if it was real this time. His breath brushed against her mouth and her lips parted, just slightly. One more inch and he woulda tasted h—

A hand raises, single finger pressed to his lips, stopping him right there in his tracks.

“You still messin’ with that white girl?”

Stack blinked, caught off guard. “You know, she not really whi—”

“Whatever she is,” Imaan interrupted, tilting her head down, eyes locked onto his, “if she still on your hip...”

She leaned in, lips so close he could taste the candy on her breath.

“…then you ain’t gettin’ none…”

Her finger slid from his lips down to the underside of his chin, shifting his head up. Then she paused, mouth resting over his, breath warm against him.

“…of this.”

And just like that, she pulled away, smooth and sure, shifting to sit back down on the floor like she didn’t just leave him breathless.

“You messed up for that,” Stack groaned and fell back onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

She smirked over her shoulder. “Told you ion do second.”

【Present Day】

Folks call her Bag Lady.

Not outta spite or mockery—no. It was just how things worked round here. If you lived far off the gravel roads and came to town dressed like Erykah Badu meets thrifted Dior, carrying a red fishnet bag stuffed with poem books, personal grown fruit, and a single carved wooden pipe? You got a name. Became a story.

But Imaan never minded.

The south had a lot brewing in it. It had home written in its air, soul, people–new and old, it had culture. It is the culture. It might not have looked like much to outsiders, especially in the new millennium. Just a stretch of open sky, faded paint on wood porches, and dust that clung to shoes like secrets. But to Imaan, Mississippi had become her quiet place. Her new beginning. Even if it never stopped whispering about her.

She moved to the States from Mandeville, Jamaica when she was eighteen—alone, carrying little but a suitcase, her mother’s anklet, and a purse slung low over her shoulder. That was when people around town started calling her bag lady, half-joking, half-afraid. She didn’t bother correcting them either. She liked to let people talk.

Imaan lived by herself on the countryside. A pretty but worn two-story, off-white house with metal gates surrounding the border and a funny sign on the entrance that let people know she wasn’t someone to be scare of. Wild grass wrapped around the porch, and wind chimes she made from colored glass bottles and metal spoons danced on her window ledge. Imaan kept to herself. Smoked her weed in the morning with tea, read romance paperbacks with dog-eared pages, and grew fruit to sale. Her eyes were soft brown, framed by lashes too perfect to fake, and her skin glowed with the kind of care that comes from loving yourself in private.

Back in the day, there use to be Stack.

They talked sometimes. Not often, but enough to linger in each other’s memory. She liked that he didn't always try to impress her. Sometimes he’d catch her outside while she was watering her herbs or walking back from Bo Chow’s store with her fishnet bag heavy with meat or soap.

He’d lean up on her porch rail, shirt clinging to his sweat, and say something like, "You always smell like sumn sweet, Mani." Or "let me buy you a drink tonight." He was slick that way.

She never let him touch her for too long, though. They may have had their silences, their glances, but she wouldn’t cross that line—not when she knew he had Mary, even if no one else knew for sure. Imaan wasn’t about to play second fiddle to nobody.

So when the twins dipped for Chicago, she knew he wasn’t gonna say goodbye. No letter. No call. Just gone. But still Imaan stood on her porch for a while the next morning, watching the empty road like it owed her something.

Then seven years passed.

People forgot how close Imaan and Stack might’ve been. Or maybe they just didn’t care. Imaan stayed quiet, laid back, kept to her routines like clockwork. But some day's, when she was alone, she still thought about him. Wondered if he was okay. If he still thought about her the way she did him.

She hated that she cared so much. Cared about everything with her heart, not her head. It was cruel when she felt that way about the man who had left her high and dry. Life was fucking cruel.

But that was just how things went. Win some, lose some.

masterlist

[steddieas-shegoes]

i knew we'd be fine

for @steddiesongfics using 18 by one direction as inspiration

rated e | 3104 words | cw: temporary breakup | tags: modern au, high school sweethearts, break-up, second chances, getting back together, chance meetings, time skip, semi-public sex (the door is open they don't get caught), hand jobs, love confessions

also on ao3

💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

May 21st, 2018

“Eddie!” Steve crashes into his bedroom, dropping his backpack on the floor.

Eddie looks up from the exam in his hand. He failed. Again.

Steve’s excited, clearly passed all his exams. He never had any doubts. Steve works hard, studies for the tests he knows will be difficult. Does extra credit when he doesn’t do as well as he hoped to.

Eddie gets by in most classes, but pre-calculus was sent from hell specifically to torture him. This is his second year failing it, and it’s his second year being kept behind because of it.

The worst part is that he did try this time. He actually studied with Steve, and maintained a C average for most of the year. This last quarter was tough though, and he needed a B on the exam to pass the class. He stares at the 68 in big red marker on the front.

It’s not enough. He’s not enough.

“Eddie?” Steve’s voice is quieter now, and he sits next to Eddie on the bed, taking the paper out of his hand. “You didn’t pass.”

He sounds shocked, a little disappointed, maybe even a bit mad.

“Nope. Looks like another senior year for me,” Eddie says, voice shaking. He’s managed to keep from crying for the last hour, but he’s not sure how much longer he can hold off. “Third time’s the charm, right?”

Steve sets the paper down next to him and turns to Eddie, tears in his eyes.

“I got into UIC.”

Eddie’s heart drops to his stomach and his stomach drops out of his body.

They both knew Eddie wasn’t going to college. Everyone knew that. Steve was, though. He wanted to be a teacher, and he’d be a damn good one. Eddie was gonna follow him to college, find a job at a record store in Chicago, play his music when he could.

He was gonna fall asleep holding Steve every night, and one day, they’d get married, even though Steve deserves better than Eddie and always will. Maybe Eddie’d make it just big enough that he could make good money but still be around to start a family, adopt a couple kids to keep them busy and keep their house full of love.

That was their plan.

Eddie ruined their plan.

“Congrats, baby. That’s amazing. I knew you’d do it,” Eddie says, and he does mean it, even if his voice doesn’t quite show it. “You’re gonna do so great.”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m not going.”

“What do you mean? Of course you are.”

Eddie knows what Steve’s doing. He’s sacrificing because he thinks it will help, but it’ll just make Eddie feel worse, and Steve’s parents would never allow him to not go to college because of his loser boyfriend.

“I’m not going without you,” Steve’s voice breaks.

Eddie’s heart does, too, especially when he realizes what he’ll have to do.

He loves Steve so much. He has to remind himself of that as he ruins everything even more. It’s for the best.

As he breaks Steve’s heart, and ruins their future, and hurts himself in the process, he has to keep reminding himself that letting Steve go is the best thing to do. He’d never forgive himself for holding him back.

Steve leaves, tears still running down his face.

Eddie cries until he passes out and hopes he makes it through another fucking year at Hawkins High.

****

May 10th, 2024

Eddie throws his keys on the counter, wipes his forehead. The AC unit in the window is useless, and the summer heat hasn’t even really started yet. The record store’s AC is broken and the owner is trying to find a cheap fix to get through this summer while he saves up, but hasn’t had much luck. Wayne’s supposed to come take a look next week because he’s sick of hearing Eddie complain over the phone.

He pulls a beer from the fridge and pulls his phone from his pocket.

Robin texted him a selfie from last night, her birthday outing in Boston that looks like it was pretty fun. He lets her know her present is on the way, which it decidedly is not, but it will be when his paycheck hits his account on Friday.

Wayne sent him a text with his bus info so he can be there to pick him up from the station. The old man still refuses to fly, even though it would be so much faster and easier to do it. He gives a thumbs up and says he’ll call him tomorrow, just like he does every Wednesday night.

Gareth sent him a link to an open mic night not too far from his apartment with a question mark. It might be nice to get on stage. He’s only done a few open mic nights this year, and the stage is calling him. He tells him he’s in, but only if Jeff makes the trip, too. Frankie’s too far, or he’d insist on him coming.

They all still get together once a year, usually here in Chicago, but sometimes at Frankie’s place in New York if they can swing it.

A loud bang from the hall makes him jump, nearly dropping his beer and his phone on the floor. He’s used to apartment living, random loud noises are common above and below him. But he’s home early today, and most of the people in his building work regular 9-5 jobs.

He sets his drink and phone on the counter and goes to check through the peephole in the door.

A man is struggling to shove a couch through the door across the hall. It looks just a little too wide to fit, but the man is still trying to push it through.

Eddie should ignore it, finish his beer, shower, and maybe heat up the frozen pizza he’s been thinking about all day. He closed the shop last night and opened it this morning. He’s running on barely four hours of sleep and a Mountain Dew that gave him heartburn instead of energy.

He opens his door and steps into the hall.

“Not sure that’s gonna fit, dude,” he says to the man half-buried in a too-large couch.

The man freezes. Eddie can’t help but stare at the man’s ass. He’s having a hell of a dry spell, close to a year. Even before that he can’t remember the last time he was this intrigued by a dude’s ass.

The man stands up and turns and Eddie’s heart drops much like it did the last time he saw this man.

“Eddie?” Steve’s eyes are huge as he steps closer, seemingly forgetting that he was in the process of moving a couch into an apartment.

“Steve?” Eddie asks, scared to move at all.

He’s seen Steve in some pictures, of course. It’s hard not to when they share Robin like divorced parents share their only child. He’s always in the background, though, a little blurry or turned away just enough that Eddie can’t see his features.

“Do you live here?” Steve asks, which is probably a dumb question considering he just walked out of an apartment in this building, but he’s too busy staring at him to care.

“Yeah. Uh…do you?” Eddie asks, equally dumb.

“As of yesterday, yeah,” Steve hasn’t blinked since he turned and Eddie’s pretty sure he hasn’t either. That can’t be good for anyone, especially not people with glasses. Steve’s wearing glasses. Eddie’s brain stops working immediately at the realization. “I didn’t know you lived in Chicago.”

Which has to be a lie. There’s no way Robin hasn’t mentioned it at some point, especially because she’s visited him a handful of times over the last couple of years. Gareth’s even sort-of friends with him, and he’s terrible at keeping secrets. Not that it’s a secret, but. Well, he just assumed that Steve wouldn’t care what he’s up to.

“Moved here in 2022. Wayne wanted to buy his ma’s old house in Kentucky before it went to some ungrateful flippers or whatever and I didn’t find any reason to stay without him there.” Eddie shrugs. “Gareth’s in school here so he put the good word in at a record shop for a job and found this place for me.”

“Does he live with you?” Steve’s so close, Eddie could touch him. He won’t. But he could.

“No, no. This is just a studio. Can’t afford a two bedroom, even with rent sharing. He lives on campus until he graduates next May, so maybe then we can find a place. I dunno, he’s pretty serious with a girl so maybe not,” Eddie shrugs again. Why can’t he control his fucking shoulders? “Anyways! I figured you’d be in Boston!”

Steve frowns. “Why would I be in Boston?”

“Robin’s birthday?” Eddie didn’t imagine the text she sent, right? She went out last night to celebrate.

“Oh!” Steve laughs. “Yeah, I had to move, so I’m heading out there in a couple weeks to celebrate. My old landlord was a cunt and wouldn’t let me push it by three days.”

“Was it Darla?” Darla has a hell of a reputation in this area of Chicago. She owns four buildings, refuses to be bought out by corporations, and doesn’t let anyone get away with anything. Her buildings are nice, but she’s not. Eddie couldn’t afford them even if he wanted to, and he’s a little glad he can’t.

“Yep,” Steve gives an awkward half-smile. “If I’d known about her before signing the lease, I probably wouldn’t have.”

“Ah well, you’re out of it now. Daryl’s pretty cool here. He’s a bit slow to fix stuff, but he’s doing his best. Helped me out a few months ago when I was a few days late on rent,” Eddie shrugs again. Jesus, his back’s gonna be sore soon. “I’m surprised she didn’t convince you to move to Boston.”

Steve laughs. “She tried. Even sent me a few listings in her building. But I couldn’t turn down the job offer here.”

Eddie nods like he understands, like he knows what the hell Steve is even talking about. He doesn’t. He knows Steve graduated because Wayne went to his graduation, but that’s really all he knows. It’s all he’s allowed himself to know.

“Well!” Eddie claps his hands together. He’s suddenly even more exhausted and barely holding it together. “Best of luck. I don’t think that couch is gonna fit, though.”

“Oh,” Steve looks back over his shoulder at the couch as if he just remembered he was doing something before Eddie interrupted. “Right. Well, who needs a couch anyway, right?”

Eddie snorts. He feels his heart twinge in his chest. Steve was always so good at making him laugh, even when he was feeling like absolute shit. Apparently, it’s a gift he’s kept all these years.

“You could tilt it at an angle?” Eddie suggests. He’s not sure it’ll work, but he doesn’t wanna leave with nothing to offer. Not like last time.

“I tried. Couldn’t get a good enough grip to push it through.”

“I can try to help.”

Surprisingly, it does work. It’s not easy, and still takes them nearly ten minutes, but it gets through.

“Guess you live here permanently now,” Eddie huffs as he tries to catch his breath.

“At least my couch does,” Steve agrees with a small smile.

Eddie used to do everything to see Steve smile, anything at all. He finds he’d still do anything.

“Thanks for your help,” Steve continues. He’s so close. How’d he even get this close? “Probably would’ve just sent it back downstairs and let someone take it from the curb if you didn’t help.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. “Yeah, no problem. I guess I’ll be seeing you around?”

Steve nods once. He’s still so close.

Eddie wants to touch him, wants to reach out and see if he feels the same. If his hair is still soft, if his hips are still hard but he still has a pudge at his belly, if his nipples are still more sensitive than his dick.

He’s not brave, never has been. Not when it matters most.

But Steve is, Steve was always brave. He came out to his parents even though they were likely to disown him, insisted on it because he didn’t want to keep Eddie a secret. He came out at school even though the basketball team made homophobic jokes constantly because he knew he didn’t want to hide who he was. He applied for a college his parents didn’t think was good enough because they had the best education program that wasn’t completely across the country. He visited Wayne still, even after Eddie broke his heart.

Steve touches his cheek, leans in.

When their lips meet, it’s hesitant. Not even their first kiss was this delicate.

Eddie shivers as Steve pulls away. He doesn’t go far, but Eddie tugs him in by his waist so he can’t go any further.

They’re both smiling, practically glowing.

“Yeah?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.”

He pushes Steve down on the couch, kissing hard enough to taste blood. They’re both hungry, starved, and desperate to touch every inch of each other. He’s straddling Steve’s thighs, trying not to think about how much thicker they feel under him. He’s already hard, going 0-100 faster than he ever has before. Steve’s clearly not far behind, moaning into his mouth as his hips push up for friction.

Eddie bites his bottom lip and pulls away, but Steve forces his mouth to his neck. Eddie is willing to go wherever Steve wants him to.

“Need to close the door,” Steve pants.

“Just be quick,” Eddie says against his neck.

“But, neighbors.”

“No one’s here.”

Steve laughs, bunches his neck up. Eddie’s hit with something that feels a lot like the love he used to feel for this man. Back when they were both barely teenagers, back when they didn’t know how to explain to others that they were in love and it wasn’t just some stupid high school fling. Back when they first kissed, and their first kiss led to their first hand jobs, and then they had their first time together on Steve’s 17th birthday.

He knew what made Steve tick then, he knew exactly how to make Steve smile and laugh and moan. They were barely adults when he broke both their hearts, and he still isn’t sure he’s recovered from it.

“Hey,” Steve says, and it makes Eddie pull his face back to look at him. He’s smiling, soft and gentle, and his hands have gone light against his skin, no longer digging into his muscles and bones and very being. “We’re here, right?”

Eddie answers with a kiss, a gentle press of his lips against Steve’s, a silent agreement that somehow, some way, they are here. The universe threw them back at each other because it couldn’t accept a world where they weren’t together.

“Are you getting psychological?” Steve asks.

Eddie beams, kisses him again because he knows Steve knows the right word. He went to college, learned a lot of big words. Eddie’s pretty sure he always knew them anyway.

“I suppose I am,” Eddie replies.

His hand drops to his jeans and unbuttons them, wraps a hand around himself. Steve knocks his hand away and takes over and it’s far better than when they were teenagers, so much better than when they were still learning how to stop being embarrassed about what they liked and wanted.

He’s been with a few guys since, nothing more than casual hookups, but it was enough to learn that he’s good at this. He knows what he’s doing, he’s confident. He likes making people feel good, he learned that with Steve first.

But Steve has always been a giver, generous in bed and out of it. He’s glad that hasn’t changed.

Steve remembers him, somehow gets the rhythm and pressure just right to have him on the edge in less than a minute. He’s whimpering, bucking up into his touch.

“You too,” he gets out before he comes. “Let me touch you. Been so long.”

Steve’s somehow thicker than he remembers, though maybe he’s just lost in the moment or his memory isn’t as good as he thought it was. Hard to lose the memory when Steve’s been the one he always goes back to in his mind when he’s alone at night, trying to take the edge off with spit and his right hand.

They work each other up, edge each other so it doesn’t have to end. They’re kissing lazily while their hands work faster, then slower, occasionally squeezing drops of precum from the tip of their cocks. They’re sweating and making small noises that echo in the emptiness of Steve’s still mostly empty apartment. The door naturally closed most of the way, a small gap still visible, but neither of them care.

“Come with me.” Steve doesn’t wait for him to respond, just twists his grip so that Eddie has no choice but to come all over them both. Steve follows within seconds.

They’re breathing heavy, both of them shaking as they come down.

Steve brings his fingers to his lips, licks the cum off of them, leans his head back like he’s savoring the taste and the adrenaline high. Eddie watches him, can’t believe he gets to see Steve like this again.

He doesn’t want it to end.

“Did you really not know I was here?” Eddie asks quietly, not wanting to completely ruin the moment.

“I really didn’t,” Steve says without opening his eyes or lifting his head up. “Think it’s a sign?”

Eddie kisses his jaw, curling his head against his neck when Steve wraps his arms around him to hold him close.

“Pretty sure the universe knew we’d get here,” Eddie answers.

He’s not really one for believing in miracles or higher powers of any kind, but it’s hard to ignore this.

“I knew I’d find you again,” Steve admits.

“Could’ve asked Robin and saved us a lot of time,” Eddie teases.

Steve pokes his cheek, but he laughs. As long as he laughs, as long as Eddie can make him laugh, he thinks they’ll be fine.

“Still love you, you know?” Steve asks after another minute of silence. “Don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you just as much as I did when we were teenagers.”

“Good.”

“Good?” Steve’s smirking, he can tell.

“Yeah. Loving you alone was a little pathetic.”

Steve kisses the top of his head. “At least we can be pathetic together.”

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part forty-three: y/n

word count: 5.5k

warnings: this chapter contains descriptions of violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

forty-two | forty-three | forty-four

“Y/N—”

His knees hit the tile hard.

There was no time to think. There was no protocol or logic. There was just instinct — vicious, blinding instinct — as Lando dropped to his knees beside Y/N, already reaching for her, already trying to stop the bleeding with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

She was on her side, curled in on herself like her body was trying to hold in what it couldn’t. There was blood — not a lot at first, but more now. It soaked through her shirt in thick, wet patches and smeared across the floor from where she’d moved, or at least tried to. Her fingers were clumsy where they pressed against her own side, slipping and twitching with every shaky breath she tried to take.

This isn’t happening.

There was also the sound. It wasn’t a scream or a cry. Instead, it was just a wet, desperate wheeze. Her body jerked with each gasp — shallow, wet, choking sounds that made him feel like he was suffocating too.

“Hey. Hey, look a’ me.” His voice shook. He grabbed her face too quickly, too rough, trying to tilt her towards him, but he didn’t know what else to do. “Stay with me. Please.”

It hurt worse because she was trying. 

He could see it in the way her mouth moved, like she was trying to say something. His name, maybe. Or help. Or hurts. But all that came out was more blood — red against her lips, down her chin, too bright.

His stomach turned.

“Fuck—what happened?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. “Who– Who did this? What the fuck happened—”

He was interrupted when her body jolted slightly and her hand clutched at his wrist and she was coughing again, harder now, the blood bubbling from her mouth and dripping down her cheek.

He froze.

Then panic ripped through him like lightning.

Somewhere in the back, the phone kept ringing.

“Help!” he screamed, his throat raw. “Somebody fucking help me! Please— please, she’s— someone call an ambulance!”

He could barely breathe. His whole body felt wired and numb all at once, like he was floating above himself watching it happen.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed how her hands were still pressed against her stomach, but they were losing strength — fingers twitching, slipping, losing grip. He pressed his palms over hers, harder than he should have, trying to add pressure, to stop the leak, to fix it somehow, but the blood kept coming, dark and too much and too fast.

“You’re okay,” he said, his voice thin, breaking. “You’re alright, yeah? I’ve got you. You– You’re okay. You’re— fuck, what happened?”

In response, she could only look at him. Everything seemed to blur around the edges, including the outline of the man now holding her. Her eyes were wide and wet, dark pupils blown and drifting. 

This isn’t happening.

Her lips moved but no sound came out. There was only more blood.

“No, no, no, no—fuck!”, he muttered under his breath, clearly frustrated. He grabbed her more tightly now, easing her onto her back as gently as he could. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Just—just breathe, alright? I know it hurts, I know, but you have to stay awake, okay?”

Instinctively, he still looked to her for a response. Maybe it was some desperate hope that she’d do something, make a gesture of some sort – that she’d do anything that she was aware, that she was here with him now.

It was only then he noticed the way she was shivering, the tny tremors wracking her weakening form. He didn’t know if it was fear, or shock, or from the blood loss — probably all of it. Her whole body was trembling against him and her eyes were unfocused now, lashes fluttering, her gaze slipping somewhere just past his shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck–,” Lando swore loudly. His eyes darted to her side, where her hands were trembling against her stomach, barely pressing now, too weak to hold their grip. Immediately, he moved to take over, desperate to do anything to help as he pulled up her shirt just enough to see the wound.

The moment he saw it, all the oxygen escaped his lungs at once.

This isn’t happening.

Just where the cartilage met the bone of some of her ribs was a single, deep puncture wound. The incision was clean, even beneath the mess of fresh and dried blood that decorated its entrance, more blood spritzing weakly each time she attempted another shaky inhale.

Lower right lung.

Clean.

If it nicked somethin’ in there–

Lando couldn’t afford to think like that. So instead of thinking, he pressed down hard against the open flesh wound. Y/N let out a strangled cry, but at least it was sound. 

She can’t do that if she’s dead, he had to remind himself. That means she’s still alive.

She’s still alive.

Keep her alive.

Soon enough, even his hands alone weren't enough to stop the never ending flow of blood. Desperately, he spun his head around, looking for anything he could use, anything that could help. Anything even remotely useful was too far for him to reach without letting go of her, to far to reach without getting up. 

Wild eyes flitted in every direction, hoping to find a miracle. Eventually, when all else seemed to fail, Lando remembered the sweatshirt he’d been wearing.

I can use that. I can use it like a bandage and it’ll buy her time. It’ll buy her time so that she can–

So she could what?

Physically shaking the thought from his mind, Lando quickly pulled his sweatshirt over his head, before wadding it up and pushing it into the wound. As the fabric soaked up the fresh blood, rubbing up against the injury, Y/N cried out in pain again, the fabric’s brush causing her wound to burn. Her brown eyes widened with pain, her breath hitching and rattling.

“Y/N,” he called out, this time louder, hands shaking as he tried to steady her. Scrambling to find new patches of the fabric that hadn’t already been soaked in her blood, he explained, “I think– I think you’re bleedin’ into your chest. Shit—shit, I think ‘s your lung or somethin’, fuck, fuck—”

Her eyes were unfocused, her skin pale.

There was no way for him to know what was making it worse and what wasn’t, certainly not when his mind was blank and filled with static the way it was then. All he could do was hold her tighter, his palms pressed to her side as he tried to keep the warmth in. He pressed harder with little regard for her discomfort, because he would happily apologize for the rest of his life if he could just manage to keep her alive, if he could just manage to keep the cold tinge of death from creeping further up her fingertips.

“You’re okay,” he lied, smiling up at her. It was a warped, terrified quirk of his lips more than anything, but he put everything he had into making it as convincing as possible. Y/N deserved at least that much.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re okay, Y/N, you’re fine. ‘M right here.”

Below him, in his arms, the girl blinked slowly, like even that small action took too much effort. Her fingers twitched beneath his as blood leaked between them. Her legs twitched weakly once before going still again.

What? No, that can’t—

“Hey, hey, hey, stay with me,” Lando begged, his voice breaking completely. He’d begun to rock ever so slightly without realizing it, as if trying to soothe her to rest. “Don’t close your eyes. I swear to God, don’t fucking do that to me—”

Her eyelids fluttered anyway, as the colors only began to fade more feom view. Y/N tried desperately to focus on anything — the beaming overhead lights, the color of Lando’s eyes — but to no avail.

Oh, she realized distantly, trying to force herself to sort out her muddled thoughts. Lando’s here.

It was hard to know if she had managed to smile, since everything was so hard and Y/N was so very tired. But what she did know was that if Lando was here, he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

As if triggered by that very thought, the singing pain in her side began to lessen, an odd coolness beginning to spread in its place. It was now significantly less uncomfortable, enough that she could finally allow herself just a moment of rest—

“No, no, don’t— shit, HELP!” Lando screamed, the sound so raw it scraped up his throat. The cry seemed to reverberate in the empty of the store. “SOMEONE HELP ME— SOMEONE FUCKING HELP ME, SHE’S DYING!”

No one answered.

With shaking hands and blood-slicked fingers, Lando managed to pull out his phone and dial the emergency number, snapping at the dispatcher so fast they had to tell him to repeat himself. How could barely recall anything he’d actually said — their location, that she was stabbed.

He’d told them she was dying.

That he remembered.

By the time he ended the call, she was barely conscious.

“Hey. Hey, don’t fucking do this t’ me.”

He cupped her cheek with one hand, the other still pressing hard against her wound. His hands, his forearms, his clothes – everything was covered in her blood. His jeans were soaked through. Her breath was uneven, sharp and hitching.

It felt like hours passed before her eyes fluttered. Her lips parted in another attempt to speak, but all that came out was another choke. Blood bubbled at the base of her throat.

He nearly lost it then.

Hazel eyes met hers as he searched her face once more, looking for any sign she was in pain. But where there was once a grimace, now there was nothing. Nothing except familiar brown eyes, now wide with terror.

With his hoodie still pressed to her side in a futile attempt to put pressure on the bleeding, Lando was finally at a loss of what to do. There was no trick, no plan, no scheme that would whisk them away from this nightmare. There was only them, waiting on the faith that help would eventually arrive. 

As they waited, there was nothing he could do to take that look off her face. So he did the only thing he could still do for her.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he lied, his forehead pressed to hers. He had to force himself not to flinch in response to how cold her skin was against his. 

She’s not supposed to be cold. She hates being cold, always wants socks or a blanket or to lay next to me so she isn’t cold.

She’s not supposed to be cold.

“You hear me? You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you, promise.”

It might have just been his own wishful thinking, but Lando almost could’ve sworn he heard her try to mumble his name. But when he looked at her eyes, they began to flutter shut.

“No. No. Stop it, stop it. Don’t– Please, sweetheart—”

The phone clattered to the ground beside him, forgotten. If the dispatcher said anything else, Lando certainly didn’t hear it. Even as he gently tried to shake her awake, her eyes continued to slip closed. 

“No, baby, hey—hey.” 

He leaned in, voice cracking under the weight of panic and heartbreak. “Stay with me, okay? I know you hate me. I know. But don’t—please don’t leave me like this.”

She didn’t answer him. 

Her lips barely parted with each dwindling breath, but that was the only sign she’d ever been breathing at all. Her lips moved, but there was no sound now. Where there once was muffled coughing or gurgling or even just weak wheezing, now there was no sound at all.

“Somebody help!” he shouted once more, one final hail mary attempt from a boy who was watching the one thing he loved fade before his very eyes. “Please— SOMEONE HELP ME!”

Nothing happened. 

No one came.

There was just the sound of her ragged breathing. Just the music still playing softly in the background, some lazy instrumental track that suddenly felt cruel. There was just the blood on the floor, warm against his knees.

As he sat there, swathed in artificial lighting and surrounded by a puddle of darkening red, Lando Norris finally broke. He cried like his chest had split open, because for him, it had. He cried until his shoulders shook and his tears fell to the tiles like a sorry attempt at washing away the damage that had already been done.

Lando Norris cried like a little boy. 

Even in his despair, his fingers curled tighter around her, holding her closer the way he used to as they laid on her couch not long ago. This time, however, his hands shook as he pressed harder. Her blood had now soaked through every layer of his clothing. He could feel it stain the skin of his knees, the fabric of his sleeves, could feel it dry into the crevices under his fingernails.

“You’re okay,” he continued to ramble quietly, his free hand searching frantically for some place where he wouldn’t somehow make it worse, where he wouldn’t somehow reap the soul from her body any faster than he already was. “You’re gonna be okay, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine.”

As her body held on to the last tendrils of consciousness, Lando finally heard a faint sound in the distance.

Sirens.

He could hear them approaching closer, growing louder as they neared. But even then, they still sounded too far away.

Brushing the hair out of her face, Lando tried to give her a watery smile. His free hand reached for one of hers, squeezing it in an attempt at reassurance as tears streamed silently down his face. The sirens continued to grow louder as he curled himself around her further, like he was putting himself between her and the rest of the world, as if he was afraid someone would take her away from him.

He leaned his forehead against hers and whispered shakily, “Don’t go where I can’t follow, okay?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Even when the ambulance finally arrived, his hand never left hers.

Not once.

While the EMTs rushed to prepare the ambulance to take her, Lando appeared to be lost in his own world. The rest of the world faded into the background as he kept all his attention on her, nothing more important to him when every second she was in her arms could be her last.

He cupped her cheek with one hand, the other still pressing down on the gash in her side, and gently brushed his fingers against her cheek in soft strokes.

But she was so still now.

So quiet.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered. “You hear me? You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna get through this, and I’m gonna tell you m’sorry a thousand fucking times, and you’re gonna roll your eyes and make fun of me for crying. You’re gonna tell me I’m being dramatic and tell me to shut up and maybe— maybe even let me kiss you again someday.”

Y/N’s eyes finally slipped closed.

Panic consumed Lando like a tidal wave inside his chest. “No. No. Y/N—open your eyes. Please.”

The ambulance lights hit the windows as they finally drove away: red, then blue, then red again.

Lando didn’t remember walking through the doors of Princess Grace Hospital.

He could only vaguely recall being in the ambulance, muttering things under his breath, his words only soft enough for Y/N to hear. He remembered being upset about something…

But about what?

It took effort to recall the details with any level of clarity. As he strained himself to remember, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the chaos of the emergency department as the main doors swung open before him.

One medic was already haunched over her, checking vitals and shouting numbers. Another was holding pressure on the wound — not his hands anymore, someone else’s hands. That shook him more than he’d expected. She was bleeding out under someone else’s hands now.

Forcing himself out of whatever haze threatened to cloud over his mind, Lando rushed to keep pace with the rest of the medical personnel as they transferred her from one stretcher to another. 

He followed them as far as they let him.

“Sir, you can’t come past this point—”

His brows furrowed, immediately upset. “She’s my— I’m with her!”

Still, Lando wasn’t allowed past the double doors. He barely got a glimpse of her being wheeled away — her face slack, lips blue, oxygen mask pressed too hard against her skin. He tried to follow, tried to push his way after her, but someone — a nurse or a security guard, maybe both — held him back by the shoulders.

“Sir, you need to let them work.”

He nearly decked the guy, but he couldn't conjure the strength to. It was as if when she had left through those doors where he couldn’t follow, his strength had left him too. Instead, he just stood there shaking, covered in blood that wasn’t his.

Lando stood there for a moment. Just stood.

Someone said his name — maybe one of the nurses.

But the hallway started to stretch. His ears rang. His vision blurred around the edges, the sterile overhead lights casting everything in too much white.

As a nurse ushered him into a seat, his leg bounced. His fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. The front of his shirt grew stiff with her blood — and no one had asked him to change yet, probably because no one could even look him in the eyes.

Once he was seated, that was when they proceeded to ask him her full name. He gave it without hesitation. They asked her date of birth — he knew that too. 

But medical history? Allergies?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t fucking know.

He’d memorized the sound of her laugh. The rhythm of her breathing when she slept. The exact way she liked her coffee down to the swirl. But he didn’t know what kind of blood ran through her veins, or whether she could take O-negative, or if she’d ever had surgery before.

Something like anger burned in his throat at the mere suggestion that Lando didn't know her. Who the hell were they to even think that? They were’nt the ones who had to know what it felt like when your heart lives outside of your chest. They weren’t the ones that had their hands stained red with her blood. They weren’t the ones who had to listen for the faintest sound of her breathing after knowing what her heartbeat sounded like when she slept. They weren’t the ones who had to watch her go still before their very eyes.

They took her into the OR, and he was left in the waiting room.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

He hadn’t taken a sip of the vending machine coffee someone handed him. He hadn’t gone to the bathroom. Hell, he hadn’t even breathed right since the EMTs took her from his hands.

Now he just sat and waited. When he got too restless, he forced himself up onto his feet and paced. Back and forth, back and forth — near the entrance, then the vending machine, then the desk. Then he sat. Then he stood again. Then he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes like that would stop the image of her from flashing over and over in his mind — her on the floor, her blood in his hands, her fingers slipping from his grasp like the whole world was tilting.

She’d been in surgery for three and a half hours.

The nurse at the desk had said they’d update him.

They hadn’t.

When it felt like time had slowed to a glacial pace, he’d gone to the front desk and asked if they could tell him anything — how deep the wound had gone, what organ had been hit — but they just kept saying they were doing everything they could. That she was in “good hands.”

Lando didn’t give a shit about good hands.

He just wanted her.

He wanted her yelling at him, telling him to go home. He wanted her brushing him off, rolling her eyes, pretending she hadn’t missed him even though he could always tell when she had. He wanted her awake. Breathing. There.

Yet as the clock ticking menacingly on the wall of the waiting room never let him forget, she was somewhere behind a wall of double doors, split open on a table, while strangers stitched her back together and tried to keep her from bleeding out entirely.

Lando pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

He wasn’t crying.

He refused to cry.

He’d cried enough already.

Instead, the endless hours left him with ample time to play it all over and over again in his mind, like horror film he never wanted to see. Scrunching his eyes shut, his ears echoed with the memory of when the paramedics tried to pull him away from her. He’d screamed at them. 

Don’t touch her. Don’t move her. Don’t take her away from me.

They hadn’t listened.

In the ambulance, he just kept whispering to no one: “She has to be okay. She has to.”

Somewhere around hour five, his breath started catching in his chest again. His hands felt like ice. He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, trying to steady himself.

One of the nurses nearby seemed to notice the way Lando was hyperventilating as if the walls were closing in on him. She tried to get him to eat, to get some rest. 

Lando wordlessly waved her away without answering.

The truth was that he was stuck. He was stuck in the moment he saw her eyes start to close, in the way she’d tried to say his name but couldn’t, in the way her hands slipped away from his and her body went so, so still.

He remembered thinking, This is what it looks like when someone dies in your arms.

And he hadn’t realized until just now that he was still holding her weight, even when she wasn’t there.

Physically, Lando Norris was sat in the emergency room of one of the best hospitals in the world, armed with a soft paper cup of lukewarm coffee that he wasn’t drinking, squinting every time the doors swung open just in case it was someone with news. However, in his mind, Lando was still on that café floor, still whispering to her through the blood, still begging her to hold on.

“Are you here for Y/N Y/L/N?”

Lando instantly bolted upright. “Yes. Is she—?”

“She is still in surgery,” a nurse said calmly. “We just wanted to inform you. It is… taking a while.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, voice too rough to sound like himself.

The nurse hesitated. “It means she lost quite a lot of blood. And her body isn’t responding well to the transfusions.”

That news marked the beginning of hours of pacing and stopping and pacing again, of every clock tick feeling like a needle to the back of his spine. He’d already asked the nurse’s station a second time too — no update. She was still in surgery. The damage had been extensive. The blood loss alone would’ve been enough to kill her if they’d gotten there even five minutes later.

What do you even say to that?

It was hour six when a surgeon finally emerged, just after 4 a.m. He looked middle-aged, and weary-eyed, rubbing at his face like the surgery had aged him in real time as he approached where Lando sat in the waiting room.

“She made it through surgery,” he stated first. “But it was close.”

That word didn’t leave Lando’s head.

Close.

“She lost a significant amount of blood,” the doctor went on, voice calm but firm, like this was just another case. “The stab wound punctured her lower lung, missed a major artery by about a centimeter. We had to do an emergency thoracotomy and abdominal exploration to control the internal bleeding.”

“She’s had two transfusions already,” the doctor added. “Her body’s reacting slowly. It could be the stress, could be the shock. Maybe also she was on the floor for longer than anyone realized.”

Then hee paused, as if trying to decide how much to say.

Lando only stared.

“They’ve had to go very slow with the replacement as she is rejecting some of it. It’s not uncommon. But it is dangerous. And the wound was… close. It missed her major artery by about two centimeters. We had to transfuse more than we expected — her body’s not accepting the new volume as quickly as we’d like. We’re monitoring for signs of organ stress.”

Lando’s mouth was dry. “But she’s alive?”

A beat.

“She made it through surgery,” the doctor said. “The blade missed several critical nerves by millimeters. But she’s still in critical condition. We need to see how she responds.”

Lando nodded once. Truthfully, it was about all he could manage. All the exhaustion of the day caught up with him at once, every muscle and joint aching as if he had spent the whole day sparring or running. Everything felt weaker, more fragile somehow.

“She’s being moved to ICU,” a woman came to inform him afterward. “She’ll be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. Those will be critical. If she stabilizes by tomorrow morning, her chances go up. If not…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

They didn’t let him see her right away. “ICU protocol,” they’d explained.

But through the small window of the door, he could see the outline of her body beneath the thin white blanket. Tubes in her arms. Wires on her chest. The hiss of a ventilator helping her lungs do what they should’ve been able to on their own.

She looked nothing like herself.

She looked… small.

He pressed a hand to the window, even as it smeared blood across the glass. He didn’t wipe it off, content with finally being able to see the steady rise and fall of her chest, if even from afar.

They let him in around 3 a.m.

The nurse didn’t say much — just nodded toward the hallway and told him to keep it quiet, and please don’t touch any of the monitors. He didn’t answer, just followed the linoleum path past doors that weren’t hers until he reached the right one.

When they finally did let him see her, he wasn’t ready.

He’d thought he was. He’d spent hours pacing that waiting room, rehearsing what he might say, bracing for the worst, calculating how many apologies he’d need to string together just to deserve breathing the same air as her again.

But when he stepped into that sterile, humming room and saw her lying there, he was startled by how pale she was. It confused him to see her, to see the girl he loved hooked up to more machines than he could count. Her skin appeared faintly clammy under the pulse monitor’s clip.

Looking at her, the words left him entirely.

He hadn’t spoken since they let him in. Instead, he just watched her, just let his eyes move over every inch of her like he was memorizing her face all over again. Her lips were chapped. Her knuckles scraped. Someone had cleaned the blood off her hairline, but he could still see the faint trace of it, like something haunting the edge of her skin.

It was too quiet inside.

Machines hummed softly. One beeped — slow, steady. The fluorescent lighting had been dimmed to a low twilight glow, casting shadows on the walls like ghosts that refused to leave. It only made her look more pale, highlighting the way her lips parted just enough to see the breathing tube. Her arms were tucked with wires and tape and bruises blooming beneath the skin.

Lando sat in the stiff plastic chair at her bedside, elbows on knees, head bowed like he was in prayer. He wanted to reach for her hand, but he flinched when he found that her arm was hooked to an IV line, fingers limp against the starched sheets. A compression cuff hissed softly every few minutes. The bruises on her ribs were starting to surface now — angry, blue and blooming like ink stains.

At least she’s alive.

His elbows braced against his knees. His hands folded in front of him. His eyes didn’t leave her.

“Hey,” he said quietly, because anything louder would’ve felt wrong. “You look terrible.”

He waited for a beat, but there was no laugh or eye roll or snarky comeback about his own disheveled mess. In the silence of the room, there was just the soft hiss of the ventilator, the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Something about the sounds irked him. Slowly, he rubbed a hand down his face, cleary tired beyond just what anyone from the outside could see.

Y/N would’ve been able to see.

He missed her.

“I never meant for this t’ happen,” he muttered. His voice sounded too loud, even though it was barely more than a whisper.

“I was going to let go,” he added, quieter. “I wasn’t going to bother you anymore. I just… I just wanted to see that you were okay. That you moved on. That you—”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. 

“But I ruined everything,” he finished, his voice wavering.

He looked down at his hands, still tinged red no matter how hard he scrubbed them raw. He looked down at the hands that had done everything they could to try to keep her alive, only for her to end up like this.

Of course you couldn’t keep her alive. 

He was The Reaper, after all. And everyone knew that Reapers could only take lives, not save them. And Lando Norris had never known how to hold anything without killing it.

He stared at her. The only part of her that moved was the slow rise and fall of her chest — mechanical, borrowed, a rhythm not her own.

“I don’t know how to make this right,” he said after a long moment, almost to himself. “I thought I could keep you separate. Like maybe if I loved you hard enough, it would cancel everything else out.”

He let out something like a laugh, but it didn’t sound quite right.

“But it doesn’t work like that. You can’t love someone enough to undo what you are.”

His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry. He never cried when it mattered most. He just sat there, with hands that didn’t know how to be empty and a silence that felt like penance.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispered. “I’d take it if I could. Every drop of it. Every minute.”

He reached for her hand, then hesitated, then folded his fingers around hers gently – like if he was any less careful, he might truly break her beyond repair.

Her fingers didn’t move. The machines went on ticking, reminding him that time was still passing — still moving forward, even if he didn’t know how to follow it anymore.

He didn’t let go. The thread bracelet was still around his wrist. It was half-soaked with blood, but still there. He looked at it now, turning it over between his fingers. It was proof that she would always be a part of him, long before she’d even known the truth.

“I don’t even know if you’d want me here,” he murmured, voice rough from too many hours without speaking. “If you knew I was sitting here like this.”

Out of habit, his thumb traced mindless patterns over the back of her hand. It reminded him of warmer times, of simpler ones. Lando would give anything he had to go back to then.

“I used to think the worst thing I could do was lose you. But now I’m starting to think it was letting you know who I really was. Like if I’d just stayed Liam a little longer… you might’ve never looked at me like that.”

He swallowed, hard.

“I don’t want to be the reason you stop loving anything. Not this place. Not your work. Not people.” He shook his head. “But I ruined it. I fucking ruined it. And I would trade everything I’ve ever built just to go back and not—”

He let his eyes fall shut for just a second.

That single second was just long enough to miss the sound of the door creaking open. It was just long enough not to hear the footsteps behind him.

The sound of a safety being turned off was unmistakable, the quiet click of it echoing in the silent room.

Lando didn’t even need to turn around to know what it was. The cold metal pressed to the back of his skull was confirmation enough.

He froze. 

A beat passed. 

Lando didn’t breathe.

“I knew I’d see you here, Norris,” the man behind him whispered. Alex Albon leaned in slightly — just enough for Lando to feel the weight behind the gun now.

“You’re so fucking predictable when it comes to the people you love.”

a/n: ...

[rdmasevi]

Slipstream

Title: "Slipstream": Formula 1 fanfiction

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Male Reader ( Ex Driver )

Genre: Sports romance | slow-burn | angst | second-chance love |

Summary: After two years away from the sport, a former F1 driver (the reader) returns to the Monaco Grand Prix, unexpectedly crossing paths with Max Verstappen—his former rival, confidant, and something more.

The paddock still smelled the same.

Fuel. Rubber. The faint metallic tang of adrenaline, and the expensive polish of carbon-fiber machines tuned to perfection. It all hit you the moment you stepped through the gates. You hadn’t set foot in this world for nearly two years. After you walked away from racing, you promised yourself you wouldn’t look back. But here you were. Back in Monaco of all places.

“You’re really here,” came a voice from behind, one you knew too well.

You turned. “Hey, Max.”

Max Verstappen stood there in his Red Bull gear, arms crossed, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t changed much—still sharp-eyed, still unreadable unless you knew where to look.

“Didn’t think I’d see you in the paddock again,” he said, stepping closer. “You always said once you were out, you were out.”

“I guess I lied,” you said with a dry smile. “Old habits.”

Max’s gaze lingered, thoughtful. “Or maybe you missed it.”

You didn’t answer that. Because maybe you did miss it—more than just the cars, the speed, the noise. Maybe you missed him.

Back when you were still racing, you and Max had something. Not public. Not even fully defined. Just moments—stolen glances on the grid, post-race silences filled with electricity, hotel rooms where you didn’t talk about the next race because talking would make it too real. You didn’t know what to call it, so you didn’t.

“I heard you were working with young drivers now,” he said, voice low as you both walked past the garages.

“Trying to keep them from crashing in every damn corner, yeah,” you replied. “Less death-defying, more… mentoring.”

Max laughed, the sound soft but genuine. “You always were better at reading the race than most. Shame you left.”

“You know why I left.”

His jaw tightened, the mood shifting. You had told him, once, in a rare moment of honesty—how you were burning out, how the politics behind the scenes suffocated you more than the g-forces ever did. He didn’t argue then. He just let you go.

But now, he stopped walking. “You should’ve told me it wasn’t just about the sport.”

Your heart kicked in your chest. “What do you mean?”

Max didn’t look away. “I would’ve asked you to stay.”

Silence stretched between you, longer than a straight at Baku.

You swallowed. “Would you have?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

There it was. Everything you never said, everything you left behind—not just a career, but a chance. With him.

“You’re still racing like it’s life or death,” you murmured, trying to shift the focus.

“And you’re still running from things that scare you,” he countered, his voice softer now. “I’m not seventeen anymore, you know. I know what I want.”

You looked at him, really looked at him. The way his eyes softened when he looked at you. The tension in his jaw like he was holding back more than just words. He wasn’t a kid chasing podiums anymore. He was a man who knew what mattered.

“You want me to stay this time?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, enough that his breath hit your skin. “No. I want you to stop leaving.”

And just like that, something inside you gave way. Maybe it was the years of regret. Maybe it was the way your heart never stopped racing when he was near. Maybe it was just time.

So you leaned in. And Max met you

halfway.

My main masterlist

[aleksatia]

💗 Rafayel – Five Years Later 

The second in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: Trauma & PTSD themes, Implied past abduction, Betrayal / emotional manipulation, Poisoning & near-death experience, Violence (including one execution-style kill), Self-sacrifice, Intense emotional conflict, References to grief, guilt, and long-term separation, Complex relationship dynamics, Themes of forgiveness and healing While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.

(He taught himself silence. Learned to paint with absence, to breathe through longing. But when your shadow crossed his path again — living, breaking, real — the stillness inside him remembered how to shatter.)

The thing about disappearing is — if you do it right — no one comes looking.

Not because they don’t care. But because you made it easier to pretend you were never real in the first place.

You left the sea behind. The salt. The songs. The man with sunlight in his laugh and grief in his hands. You traded it all for concrete, steel, smoke. Somewhere between New Madrid and the Eleventh Sector, you stopped being a person and became a profile: Level 3, Tactical Division, Close Range Neutralization. Specializing in high-value body retention.

A shadow with a badge.  A ghost on retainer.

It suited you.

You didn’t drink anymore. You didn’t play games. You didn’t say his name.

“Client arrival is in twenty minutes,” crackles the comm in your ear. "Full week assignment. High confidentiality. Zero contact protocol unless engaged."

You glance at your reflection in the elevator’s gold trim.

Eyes colder. Shoulders straighter. Gun holstered under a matte jacket that still smells faintly of last week’s adrenaline. You're not the girl who once cried into coral bedsheets. You're her replacement.

The hotel smells like money. That antiseptic richness meant to distract from the emptiness.

You position yourself in the lobby near the marble fountain — half concealed, half obvious. Just enough to look like part of the architecture. Just enough to see everything.

The concierge nods. The manager paces. The staff adjust flowers no one will notice.

Then: the cars. Black, sleek, ghost-silent.

Doors open.

Two assistants spill out first. Press, probably. One on a tablet, one on comms. Then a manager — with a face oddly familiar, like a half-forgotten memory trying to surface. Then—

Your heart forgets how to be a muscle.

He steps out like the city belongs to him. Like time bent itself around his absence.

Still tall. Still too elegant for the world he’s forced to live in. Purple waves of hair tied back. Sunglasses sliding down a nose built for poetry. He’s wearing that long beige coat he used to throw over your shoulders when nights got too cold, and his cologne hits you like déjà vu dipped in seawater and regret.

Your mouth is dry. Your hands are ice.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

You do what you were trained to do: you check for threats. Scan exits. Ignore your pulse.

He walks through the lobby as if unaware. As if untouched. But when he passes, just before the elevator closes — he turns his head.

And smiles.

Like sin. Like summer. Like he knew it would be you.

Then—

“Hello again, Ms. Bodyguard.”

***

The suite was silent. Too silent for something this expensive.

No music. No hum of ventilation. Just the hush of carpet under your boots, and the faint, distant rhythm of city breath outside the window.

You stood near the corner, hands behind your back, spine too straight. Default position. Default you.

He was across the room, jacket already off, sleeves rolled. Moving like someone who was used to being observed. Not by the public — by ghosts.

The wine had already been poured. He handed you a glass like it was part of the ritual. You didn’t take it.

He arched an eyebrow.

“I’m working,” you said.

He didn’t insist. Just smiled, faintly.

Of course.

He used to fill every room — all noise and color and heat. But now, somehow, he'd grown quiet. Not in absence — in weight. Like a masterpiece in a gallery. Like the only rose in a field of thorns. You could look away, but you’d still feel him. Like a crosshair you couldn’t shake.

The window beside you looked out over the city — not that you were looking. Your eyes were trained on his reflection in the glass. Even blurred by distance and light, you could tell: he hadn’t broken. But he’d bent.

Harder than most things could survive.

His voice came low, like something remembered instead of spoken.

“You weren’t always stone.”

You didn’t answer.

He crossed the room without hurry. You didn’t move.

His eyes found yours — not searching, just… waiting. Like the question wasn’t whether you’d speak. It was whether you still could.

“And yet here you are,” he murmured, “standing in my suite like you were carved to fit the corner.”

You felt the words land somewhere deep in the ribs. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

He took a slow sip from his glass. The color of the wine caught in the light — the same shade he used to mix on his palette when painting you in shadow.

“I saw the new series,” you said, voice even.

He glanced at you over the rim.

“Did you?”

“Less gold. More... grief.”

A pause. Then a smile — dry, almost kind.

“I ran out of yellow.”

That made your throat tighten. You looked away before it showed.

He studied you. Not your face — your posture. Your silences. You weren’t hiding emotion. You were holding it.

Like a soldier holding a wound closed with one hand.

“And you,” he said, softly. “Still chasing bullets?”

“I don’t chase. I shield.”

“Of course you do.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. But enough that you could feel him again. That impossible warmth, wrapped in restraint.

He looked at you like an old painting. The kind you see once, remember forever, and never find again.

“You followed me,” he said, almost offhand. “Even after you left.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I had to know you were… functioning.”

He laughed — quiet, empty.

“Functioning,” he repeated. “Right.”

You searched his face for anger. You didn’t find it. Only something slower. Older.

Like ash.

“How have you been?” you asked.

It was a mistake. The question hung in the air like smoke from a match — small, stupid, but dangerous.

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then the glass in his hand cracked. A clean, bright sound. Like winter splitting.

The wine didn’t spill. He didn’t move.

“You left,” he said.

Not bitter. Not accusing.

Just: you left.

“And now you want to ask if I’ve been well?”

You shifted. Just enough to register discomfort. Nothing more.

He looked at the flame creeping along his knuckles — Evol, awake and restless. He closed his fist, and the fire vanished like breath from a mirror.

“What did I do?” he asked, quieter now. “What sin did I commit to earn a silent goodbye?”

You drew breath through your nose. Measured.

 “I was tired.”

“Of what?”

You looked at him.

“Of being a story you told instead of a person you knew.”

That did it.

Not an explosion. Not a slam. Just a shift. Like something in his chest cracked, and he had no hands free to hold it in place.

He turned. Slowly. Set the broken glass down. No sound. No shatter.

Then he walked to the adjoining door, pressed it open.

“You’ll stay here,” he said.

A simple guest room. Clean, unpersonalized. Quiet.

He didn’t look at you when he added:

“You’re my shadow for the week. No leaving. No exceptions.”

“And if I object?”

He paused at the threshold. Then turned. Finally met your eyes again.

“You won’t,” he said.

Not a command. Just a prophecy.

***

The days blurred.

They stretched long — drawn out by tension and silence — and yet they flew past with the quiet cruelty of something you couldn’t stop. You caught yourself counting minutes. Not until the assignment ended — but until he left again.

You told yourself it was duty. But no. You knew. The closer it got, the more it scared you.

You’d thought you’d buried the past. That five years had been enough to cauterize what you felt. Enough to flatten grief into dull, predictable weight. You’d taught yourself not to cry. Not to ache. Not to wake up reaching for a voice that wasn’t there.

But now—

Now the thought of losing him again bled through you like poison Slow. Sharp. Relentless.

For the first time, you truly wondered — had you made the worst mistake of your life?

You’d always known leaving was cowardice. A reaction. A wound reacting to pressure. You’d told yourself it was necessary — that you couldn’t survive another secret, another lie, another impossible moment in his orbit.

But now, as you stood in his shadow again, you returned to the one truth you kept avoiding. It wasn’t just the secrets. It wasn’t just his careful, curated nonchalance. It wasn’t even the things he didn’t say.

It was that moment — the one you could never forget.

The Nest. The kidnapping. The deal he’d made behind your back.

The betrayal.

The man who once made you feel like a myth had handed you over like a pawn. And you’d left. Because you couldn’t find a version of yourself that could love him and survive it.

But now…

Now you knew. The price you both paid for your fear had been too high.

***

He treated you like a shadow. Professional. Polite. Silent.

He didn’t try to speak. Didn’t joke. Didn’t prod. Whatever playful gleam had once lived in him now belonged to the stage.

You watched him wear charm like a costume — perfectly tailored, easily removed.

The real man?

He wore quieter things now. No more garish brands. No flash. Just silk-lined precision. Weight without noise. Like he’d stopped needing to be seen in order to feel powerful.

And yet — you felt it. The way his gaze burned across rooms. The way silence wrapped around you both like a loaded pause.

Something was coming. You didn’t know what.

Only that it would not be small.

***

Then came the reception.

A charity event. Wealth, power, and politics pretending to like each other in the same room. He handed you your role the night before — not as a request.

You weren’t the bodyguard tonight. You were his date.

No one must suspect otherwise. His reputation demanded it.

And so here you were:

Draped in sea-glass velvet, cut to glide and cling. Your hair swept into soft, impossible waves. Sapphires at your ears, your throat. Everything felt too heavy. Too expensive. Even your heels were a weapon you didn’t know how to use. You hated how they made you move — slow, deliberate. Exposed.

The car slid to a stop. He stepped out first — a vision in black and steel. Then he turned, offered you a hand.

You took it. His skin was cold.

But the touch — the touch burned. Like nothing had ever healed.

Cameras. Screams. Flashing lights.

Your instincts screamed — scan the crowd. Find the threat. Always the threat. But his fingers tightened around yours. Hard.

He leaned in, breath against your ear — warm, familiar, furious.

“Smile, for fuck’s sake.”

You did.

Not for the cameras. Not for the cause.

But because you knew — the storm wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

***

You played the part well.

Neutral. Polished. Cold enough to earn whispers you never heard, but felt just behind your back. 

No one dared speak them aloud, of course. They looked at you and said the compliments to him.

“She’s stunning.”

“Such a refined presence.”

“As if she was made to be on your arm.”

As if your face belonged to him. As if your silence was his design.

In some twisted way, maybe it was.

You didn’t remember how you got here. One minute you were cataloguing exits with your eyes, tracking the crowd with practiced ease —

 The next —

You were dancing.

His hand on your waist, the other guiding yours. Everything too close, too warm, too practiced.

The chandelier above cast a slow rain of light. The room turned gently, spinning around its own silence.

His touch wasn’t tender. It was intentional.

“Your expression,” he murmured, “is slowly assassinating my reputation.”

You didn’t look at him. “Your reputation as what, exactly?”

He paused. Just a second.Then:

“A man of appetites.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How poetic.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Though the press prefers playboy.”

A beat.

“So you’ve read it,” you said.

“I have someone who clips the good parts.”

“Must be a short list.”

He smiled — not kindly. “Normally, I’m seen with far more… expressive company.”

“Then why break tradition?”

His fingers flexed slightly at your waist.

“I suppose I wanted something quieter.” A beat. “Something that might bite back.”

Your gaze flicked to him. Just once. A sharpened glance.

“And how does this help your image?”

“It doesn’t.” He leaned in, voice a thread. “But it’s not always about image, is it?”

You could feel it — the heat building between syllables.  Not passion. Not yet.

Just tension. Waiting.

You moved together like two creatures pretending not to hunt each other. Each step precise. Each breath withheld.

“You used to enjoy this sort of thing,” he said, voice soft now, too close. “Crowds. Light. Being seen.”

“I used to believe in things,” you replied.

He said nothing. But his hand curled tighter against your spine.

For a second, you let the silence say everything.

Then—

You noticed it.

The way his eyes had started slipping away from you. Again and again — to a single shape on the edge of the room. A man. Grey suit. Clean line. Controlled posture.

You knew that look.

The dance ended, but you weren’t let go. He took your arm, like a gentleman.

But you knew better.

***

The garden was colder than it had any right to be. The kind of cold that wasn’t about temperature — it was about distance. About the way stone walls and sculpted hedges swallowed sound and left only the weight of footsteps behind.

You followed him without a word. Because you already knew.

You’d seen his eyes stray to the man in the grey suit half a dozen times during the reception. Not nervous glances — calculated ones. Not curiosity — confirmation.

And now here you were, walking straight into the web.

The man waited by the marble fountain, one hand resting casually in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something expensive and unnecessary. His smile was pleasant. His suit was quiet money. His name was carved into memory from the briefings you used to skim with more detachment.

Elias Varrick. Publicly: philanthropist, investor, art collector, father of four. Privately: suspected ties to high-level biotech experimentation, classified marine acquisitions, and several quiet disappearances.

 All rumors, of course. Nothing on paper. Nothing proven.

Still — you knew. Your gut always knew.

But you didn’t know what Rafayel knew. Not yet.

They greeted each other like old acquaintances. A handshake that looked effortless. Painless.

“I thought it best to deliver the piece myself,” Rafayel said. His voice had its old rhythm — slow, warm, dipped in charm.

You watched him as he spoke. Not the words — the tone.

Polite. Polished. Performing.

“That kind of personal art,” he added, “deserves a personal hand.”

Varrick smiled wider. “Very kind of you. My family will love it. We’re planning to hang it in the main lounge — the one where we gather in the evenings. My wife, the children, my mother. It’s where we live.”

And that’s when it happened.

You didn’t freeze. Not outwardly. But something inside you did.

That phrase. The way he said it — we live here.

You didn’t hear a lie. That was the problem. You heard sincerity.

You saw the portrait — Rafayel’s portrait — hanging above a mantel. You saw children playing on a rug beneath it. An old woman sipping tea in a chair nearby. You saw innocence. Unaware. Wrapped around a weapon.

And suddenly, all the scattered images connected. The rumors. The names. The “environmental” fund. The experimental projects tied to Lemurians. The disappearances.

He wasn’t here for charity.

Rafayel was hunting. And you were holding his arm like a lover while he did it.

It wasn’t the lie that made you pull away. It was the memory of all the ones that came before.

You stepped back. A breath lodged in your throat.

“I need a moment,” you murmured.

He turned. “Wait—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t.”

You turned away.

You needed air. Space. Time. You needed to stop hearing the echo of his voice in your chest, the one that said it’s different now, even when you knew it wasn’t.

But he followed. Of course he followed.

“Let me explain—”

“No,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. “No more explaining. That’s always the beginning of the lie.”

He reached for your arm. You stopped him with a look.

“I want to know one thing,” you said. Your voice was low, barely steady. “That painting… it’s a weapon, isn’t it?”

He hesitated. Just a breath. But it was enough.

“Not here,” he said softly. “Please.”

“There are children in that house, Rafayel. Children. How can you guarantee there won’t be innocent blood?”

His jaw tensed. The silence between you vibrated with unsaid things. Then:

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll explain everything. But not in public.”

“Answer me.”

“I said not here,” he whispered. Not angry. Not cold. Just—desperate. Controlled. And that — more than anything — told you what you needed to know.

And that’s when it happened. The movement was too fast.

You heard it before you saw it — a hiss of compressed air.

Then the glint of metal. Then the needle, already buried in the side of Rafayel’s neck.

Everything shattered.

Rafayel stumbled, hand flying to the injection point. His eyes widened — not with pain. With realization.

Varrick stepped back with chilling calm, adjusting his cuff.

“I knew it was you,” he said simply. “The moment I saw your face, lemurian. I knew you were the one behind Raymond’s death.”

You didn’t wait for orders. Didn’t need permission.

You drew and fired — one shot. Silent. Precise. Varrick collapsed with a grunt of pain, clutching his leg.

You were on him in three strides. Knee in his chest. Barrel to his throat.

“What was in it?” you growled.

His breath rattled, half from the pain, half from the thrill of it all. He was enjoying this — the game, the brink.

“I’m not—”

You slammed the muzzle harder against his neck.

“Tell me. Or I swear, I’ll have your lungs painting that lovely family room of yours by morning.”

He laughed, blood in his teeth.

“Requiem Coral,” he gasped. “Gen-modified. Synthetic compound. It bonds to Lemurian blood — slow neural degeneration. Burns out the body one nerve at a time. Quite poetic, really.”

You stared at him. Then you fired again.

Between the eyes.

No poetry. Just silence.

***

You found Rafayel still upright. Barely. His pupils were uneven. Sweat glistened on his temple. His balance was shot.

You got under his arm, bore half his weight.

“No hospital,” he muttered.

“I’m not a moron,” you snapped. “We’re going home.”

You drove with one hand clenched around the wheel, the other wrapped tightly around his — clammy now, fingers twitching less and less.

The city blurred past like water through glass, useless. Silent.

He was slumped in the seat beside you, head tilted back, jaw clenched.

“Is this your version of a confession?” he muttered, voice paper-thin. “Waiting ‘til I’m half-dead to finally hold my hand?”

“Shut up,” you hissed.

He smiled — barely. “So harsh. Romance really is dead.”

You tightened your grip on his hand. His skin was cold.

“Don’t do that,” you said. “Don’t talk like you’re not about to die.”

“I mean, statistically—”

“I said shut up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. 

The rest of the ride was agony. You didn’t feel the road. You didn’t feel the turns. You felt him — fading beside you. His breath going shallow. His body heavy.

And all you could do was drive faster.

***

Your home wasn’t built for tenderness. It wasn’t a place to recover. It was a place to survive.

The door slammed behind you, and you half-dragged, half-carried him to the medical bench. He tried to help. He couldn’t.

He collapsed like a broken marionette, breathing hard, sweat cold on his brow.

You moved by instinct.

Antitoxin. Anti-inflammatories. Burn stabilizer. Anything. Everything.

Tubes. IV. Scanners.

Your hands didn’t shake — until you realized that nothing was working. His vitals dipped. Once. Again.

No improvement. And you weren’t a doctor. You weren’t a biotech. You were a weapon.

You could take a man apart in thirty seconds, but this — this—

You couldn’t fix this.

You hovered over him, swallowing panic, shoving down the scream forming in your throat.

He opened his eyes — only halfway. Saw the mess you were making. He lifted one trembling hand, and caught your wrist.

“Stop,” he whispered. “You’ll do more harm than good.”

You shook your head violently. “No. No, I can— I just need time—”

“There is no time.”

His voice was barely there.

“I don’t— I don’t know how to stop it,” you said, broken. “I don’t know how to fight it—how to save you—”

“Then listen.”

His eyes found yours.

“If this is it…” His breath caught. “If I’m not waking up from this—”

“Raf, no—”

“Then I want the truth.”

He looked at you like a man watching his own shadow disappear. Like someone who knew there was no second chance this time.

“No secrets. No lies. Nothing between us.”

You froze. And something inside you cracked.

The words came out on a sob.

“I know.”

He blinked slowly. “Know what?”

“I know you sold me out. N109 Zone. Five years ago.”

The air stopped moving. His lips parted, but no sound came.

You looked down, ashamed and shaking.

“I found the records. I connected the drops, the timing. You handed me over.”

There was a long pause. Then, suddenly — he laughed. A ragged, broken sound that became a cough.

“Oh, you—God.”

His smile was pained. Too pained.

“You wanted to reach Onichynus, remember?”

 You looked up.

“There’s no easy road there. No clean path.”

 He coughed again, winced, and gripped your hand tighter.

“I was watching. If things had gone wrong, I would’ve stepped in. I wouldn’t have let them break you.”

Your lips trembled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t trust myself not to stop you. I didn’t want you to look at me like you are right now.”

He coughed again — something wet in the sound now.

“I never betrayed you.”

His hand drifted to your chest, barely touching.

“You were always my heart.” He smiled faintly. “And when you left… you took it with you.”

You crumpled. Your hands went to his face, cold and pale, and your voice shattered into pieces.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I thought— I thought you used me. Manipulated me. Like everyone else.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“I would’ve died for you.”

“I know. I know now.”

Tears streamed down your face.

“I took your heart, Raf, but mine—” You pressed a hand to his chest. “Mine never left you. I… still love you.”

Your voice broke like a body under fire.

 “God, I never stopped loving you.”

You leaned down, kissed his lips — dry, cold, still his. Your tears landed on his skin.

“Please,” you whispered. “Fight. Just… fight. Tell me what to do. Anything. Because if you die— if you leave me now— I swear—”

“I’m already leaving,” he said.

A beat. A breath.

“I don’t think anything can stop it.”

You shook your head. “No—”

“But there’s something you can do.”

You stilled.

“Take me to the sea,” he whispered.

His eyes were almost closed.

“If I die… I want the ocean to take my last breath.”

***

You helped him into the water, one arm steady around his waist, the other gripping his wrist as if holding on could somehow hold him here.

The sea was cold, even for nightfall. Each wave climbed higher, tasting skin and memory as it came. Rafayel leaned into you, too light, too quiet. His steps were uncertain, but not from fear. He wasn’t afraid. He was done.

By the time the water reached his chest, he stopped.

His breath caught. Not sharply — softly, like a curtain falling.

For a moment, under the pale gleam of moonlight, he closed his eyes. His features relaxed. And it struck you — how little color remained in his face. How glass-like his skin looked. Almost translucent. Almost not there.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words never found shape.

Because he let go.

He stepped back. And before you could stop him, before you could tighten your grip — he slipped beneath the surface and vanished.

No sound. No splash. Just absence.

“Rafayel.”

Your voice wavered, swallowed instantly by the dark. Then louder—

“RAFAYEL!”

But there was only the sea.

You surged forward, boots stumbling, breath catching in your throat as you threw yourself into the waves.

Cold bit into your spine. Your jacket dragged you down. Salt stung your eyes. None of it mattered.

You dove.

Once, five years ago, it had been the same. Different ocean. Same cold. Same fear.

You remembered that too well — sinking below the surface on a job gone wrong, your lungs seizing, your vision narrowing. And just before the dark closed in, it had been him who pulled you out. His arms, his breath, his voice.

Breathe, cutie. Come on. Breathe.

And now—

Now it was your turn to find him.

You kicked downward, deeper, into the black.

You couldn’t see. The moonlight didn’t reach this far. But you didn’t need to see. You needed to find.

The water grew colder the further you went. Each stroke slower, weaker. The pressure in your chest building, blooming like fire. Your hands swept forward, wide, desperate — fingers searching for fabric, for skin, for anything.

You found nothing.

The panic came slowly. Not like a scream, but like a slow tightening, a noose drawn carefully across your ribs. Your lungs began to burn. Your mind whispered it was too far. Too late. But your body refused to listen.

You kept going.

Until your arms stopped obeying. Until your legs stopped kicking.

Until your last exhale slipped from between your lips, and with it, the only word that still meant anything.

“Rafayel,” you mouthed.

And sank.

Everything stilled.

Time, sensation, thought.

And just as the darkness began to take you—

Something changed.

A pulse. Not from the sea. From inside.

Evol. Dormant until now — roared awake. But not with power. With purpose.

It didn’t surge to protect you. It didn’t scream in defense. It answered something quieter. Deeper.

A wish.

You weren’t trying to save yourself. You weren’t trying to rise.

You were trying to give him your heart back. To pour your strength into his veins. To reignite the spark inside him — even if it meant extinguishing your own.

Let me give it back. Let him live. Let me take the weight.

That was the prayer beneath your ribs, and Evol obeyed.

It moved through you like liquid fire, searing down to your bones, pulling from every corner of your being. It hurt. God, it hurt — not like dying, but like unraveling. You were emptying yourself willingly. Not out of fear. Out of love.

And then — resonance.

Not just from you. From him.  Like something in the darkness roared back.

No. Not her. Not this way.

You felt it — a pull in the opposite direction. Not rejection. Not resistance. Reciprocity.

His Evol flared back — instinctive, involuntary, desperate. Refusing the gift. Refusing the cost.

He wouldn’t let you die for him.  And you — you couldn’t let him die for you.

And so you were pulled. Not rising. Not flying.

Drawn back. Both of you. Together.

Because even now, even here — at the edge of everything — neither of you could bear to leave the other behind.

***

You came back coughing.

The world hit in pieces — salt on your lips, sand beneath your palms, the weight of your own chest struggling to rise.

And then—

Arms.

Not the ocean’s. His.

He was holding you. Soaked. Shaking. Alive.

His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, ragged but real. His breath skimmed your temple. His fingers gripped your shoulders like he wasn’t sure whether to anchor you — or himself.

You opened your eyes. The sky swam above you, vast and starless.

And Rafayel’s face was there. Pale with exhaustion, hair clinging wet to his skin, eyes too bright in the dark.

You reached up, touched his cheek with trembling fingers. He leaned into it.

No words passed between you. There was nothing to explain.

“This,” you whispered, voice torn to ribbons, “is exactly where I want to be when I die.”

His mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile breaking through.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, “next time we die.”

Your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Raf…”

He hushed you with his thumb against your cheek, his gaze steady and quiet.

“It’s over.”

You shook your head. “But how—”

He didn’t answer right away.

Only looked at you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you saw it— light. Faint, buried, but alive in him.

“Cutie,” he said softly, “how could I keep dying when you needed me this much?”

The sound you made was broken, wild — grief and love tangled into one. You folded into him, arms tight around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck.

“Then you’ll have to live,” you whispered, choked, “for a long, long time. Because I need you. Every day. Every second. Every stupid heartbeat.”

He laughed — quiet and hoarse, and it felt like sunlight after rain.

“Another eternity, then. Sounds like a curse. Or a blessing. Maybe both.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. Moonlight caught the water on his skin, and you felt like crying again.

“I was such a fool,” you said. “You shouldn’t have brought me back. I ruined everything. I wasted so much—”

“I’m not arguing,” he cut in gently. “But I figured… maybe you’d want to fix your behavior.”

A huff escaped you. Wet, shaky. Almost a smile.

“Will you let me try?” you asked. “Will you—can you forgive me?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Sweetheart,” he said, cupping your face in both hands, “this was never about forgiveness. Not really. Not about second chances or fresh starts.”

His thumbs brushed away the tears you didn’t realize were falling.

“We’re us. Flawed. Messy. Brilliant and brutal in equal measure. We hurt each other. And we heal each other.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I forgave you a long time ago. I was only angry because I didn’t understand. I thought maybe—if I’d been softer. Or warmer. Or better—maybe you would’ve stayed.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free.

“I never left you,” you said. “Not really.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward. And kissed you.

Once — soft and slow, like breathing. Then again — deeper, like memory.

And when you kissed him back, there was no anger left. No questions. Just the weight of five years falling away between your mouths.

You broke away just long enough to murmur, “We almost died.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth.

“We’re always almost dying.”

You laughed, breathless.

“This is a terrible time—”

“There’s no better one,” he said. “You never know which kiss is the last. Which night is the edge.”

He pulled you to him again.

And beneath the moon, on wet sand and shaking limbs, you gave yourselves back — completely. No hesitation. No conditions.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

You loved him like you remembered how. And he held you like he never forgot.

And this time, it didn’t feel like the end.

It felt like the beginning.

***

You woke to the sound of brush against canvas.

Soft, rhythmic. A whisper of motion. It tugged at something in your memory, something half-forgotten.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t even open your eyes.

There was warmth on your skin — sun, blankets, and something else. You inhaled. Salt. Linens. Paint.

And him.

When you finally blinked into the light, it took a moment to understand where you were.

The room was high-ceilinged, the windows cracked open to the hush of waves. The bed was too big, sheets still tangled, your body aching pleasantly in ways that reminded you — yes, it was real.

Last night was real.

And then—

“Don’t move.”

His voice. Low. Focused. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Rafayel. Sitting on a low stool near the foot of the bed, bare feet braced against the floor, shirt half-unbuttoned, canvas before him. A brush in one hand, a palette balanced on his thigh.

You blinked at him. “What… are you doing?”

“I said don’t move.” He didn’t look up. “You’ll ruin the pose.”

“I wasn’t posing,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. “I was sleeping. Possibly drooling.”

He finally glanced at you. A glint in his eyes — amusement.

 “You were beautiful. Are. I wanted to keep this one.”

“Raf,” you said, stretching with a grimace, “I probably look like a tangled sea urchin. There’s still sand in places sand should never be. I need a shower.”

“If you let me finish, we’ll shower together.”

Your brows lifted. “Tempting bribe.”

“I know.” He smirked. “Also—note to self: never again sex on sand.”

“The ocean was too cold,” you teased.

“Not in my arms.”

That stopped you for a breath.

You smiled. A small, stunned thing.

And somewhere in the middle of smiling and remembering and wanting to kiss him again, you noticed something on the canvas. You squinted.

“Wait... is that yellow?”

He flinched. The brush stuttered.

And then—he groaned, deep and dramatic. “Dammit. Now I have to start over.”

You sat up on your elbows, eyes wide. “Was that my fault?”

He stood slowly, brush still in hand. “You moved. You talked. You ruined my masterwork.”

You grinned. “Your nude beach goddess masterwork?”

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “It was going to hang in the Met.”

“Well, in that case—” you started.

But before you could escape, he lunged — grabbed your ankle, yanked you toward the edge of the bed with a playfully feral grin.

You shrieked.

“Raf!”

“You destroyed art!”

“I was the art!”

You kicked. He caught your other foot.

Laughter spilled from your throat — loud, full, aching in your ribs. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed like this.

He climbed over you, breathless with mock outrage, and you tangled together in the blankets, in limbs, in joy.

You were still gasping when you murmured, “I’m sorry I can’t erase the past. Those five years... they’re etched into us. But I swear, I’ll spend every day trying to heal what I broke.”

His expression softened — all teasing gone.

“Cutie,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone, “you still don’t see it, do you?”

You stilled.

“Last night,” he said, “you were ready to give everything. Your Evol, your life, your soul — for me. Even when you thought I wouldn’t survive.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“In that moment, I think even the gods cried.”

You closed your eyes.

“My wounds healed the second you chose to stay,” he whispered. “There’s barely even a scar left.”

Then his voice dropped lower.

“Just promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Never disappear again. Not without giving me the chance to fight for you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any other.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You looked him in the eyes — and felt the weight of every mistake, every mile, every ache that had brought you back here.

And then you said, quietly:

“Even if all the oceans rise, even if this world burns and time eats itself whole — I’ll find you. In every life. I’ll find you, and I’ll stay.”

His lips parted. He didn’t speak.

He just kissed you.

And this time, it wasn’t for survival.

It was for everything else.