#sometimes a longer chapter is necessary

[buckysleftbicep]

bent and bruised (4) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, non-con/dub-con themes under HYDRA conditioning (flashback), heavy angst, bucky's guilt, HYDRA related trauma and abuse, memory suppression, emotional breakdowns, mentions of torture and cryo, unprotected sex, creampie, emotional sex

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 5.4k

author's note: hi my sweethearts! chapter 4 is finally up! gosh, it took me a full day to write this, and genuinely, so much of my heart has went into this series ❤️ and i hope that you guys will love this chapter as much as i do! i am always grateful for the support from you which motivates me to write 🥹💓 i love you guys and please stay safe out there!

series masterlist

It had been nearly a month.

Since the collapse. Since the flames. Since Bucky carried your limp body out of rubble and ruin with blood in his throat and your name breaking over his teeth like a prayer he hadn’t earned the right to say.

Recovery came in fragments. You didn’t wake up whole. You didn’t wake up you. Healing was slow—not just in flesh and bone, but in the quiet, broken machinery of your mind.

Some mornings you opened your eyes and couldn’t remember your own name until someone said it.

Other days, it rolled too easily off your tongue, like muscle memory, while everything else felt like static.

The team didn’t ask questions. Not the important ones.

But Bucky… Bucky never really left.

He didn’t hover. He didn’t talk much. But he stayed.

A fixed point in your periphery, silent and steady like gravity. You’d turn your head and find him there—sitting in the corner of the medbay in the dark, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he could see the shape of your soul etched in the tiles.

Sometimes he brought things.

A cracked paperback you hadn’t asked for. The soft blanket from the common room, worn at the edges, smelling faintly of cedar.

A water bottle he’d already uncapped for you, placed in your palm just before your throat got dry enough to ache.

Quiet gestures. Gentle offerings.

When you could finally stand without the world around you practically spinning, he helped you take the first few steps.

He didn’t guide you like a nurse—there was no forced gentleness. He was a presence at your side, solid and wordless. His hands would hover at your waist, the callused pads of his fingers barely grazing your ribs as you found your balance again.

But he never lingered.

Never touched you for longer than necessary. Never let himself want.

Even then, the tension was unbearable.

It pressed into the air between you like a storm front. Not new, not sudden. Old and starved and still too dangerous to name. It lived in the spaces between glances. In the pauses between words. In the way your breath always caught before his name.

You didn’t call it love.

Not yet. Not when it still felt like something torn from you, stitched back with the wrong thread.

But it was there—burning beneath the skin. Something once soft turned jagged. Something left behind in a room you couldn’t remember, but your body had never left.

And now… they’d cleared you.

Light training. No combat. Just movement. Reorientation. “Reintegration” as Val had called it, as if your mind and body were separate machines that had lost signal.

You weren’t sure if she believed that. You weren’t sure if you did either.

And of course—of course—they’d assigned Bucky to oversee your session.

The training room was as clinical as ever. Still, silent, stripped of distraction. Rows of padded mats laid out in quiet geometry.

The walls gray. The air chilled, no music, no background chatter. Just the high, electric hum of fluorescents and the whisper of your bare feet against rubber.

He stood several paces away. Arms crossed. Eyes tracking your every move.

Not invasive. Just… watchful.

Like he knew what it felt like to move in a body that had once been used against you.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You stretched slowly, deliberately, muscles groaning with each extension. Tight. Resistant. But obedient. Your arms moved through familiar shapes, hips shifting to accommodate old weight distributions. Every breath came like you were borrowing someone else’s lungs.

Still—your body remembered.

Muscle memory. Instinct buried in the blood.

You flowed through the motions like a ghost moving through old ruins, letting your limbs carry you forward while your mind lagged somewhere behind.

Bucky’s gaze stayed with you. Never wandering. Never slipping. Just… there.

And when your posture slipped—when the angle of your elbow faltered—he stepped forward.

“Drop your shoulder,” he murmured, voice soft, low. Controlled. “Elbow higher. Like this.”

And then—his hand touched you.

Not firmly. Not boldly. Just the softest brush of his fingertips against your shoulder blade, correcting your alignment with the same ease he might guide a weapon into place.

No hesitation. No hesitation at all. As though his hand had always known where to find you.

But the second his skin touched yours—everything shattered.

It wasn’t just memory. It wasn’t just a flash.

It was a fucking detonation.

Your lungs seized. Your knees buckled.

Your vision didn’t blur—it replaced itself.

You were naked. Laid bare across cold sheets, back arched against the unforgiving steel of a table that creaked beneath every motion.

The air was damp. Your thighs slick with sweat, lips parted around a breathless cry that barely made a sound.

He was inside you. Not violently. Not with the detachment of routine. With intention—with devotion.

Each stroke of his hips was slow. Deep, measured.

Like he was trying to stretch time around you, like he was writing something into the lining of your body with every thrust, every roll of his pelvis pressed flush against your heat.

His hand gripped your hip—tight, trembling—the pads of his fingers bruising you with possession. The other, the metal one, cupped your cheek like you were something fragile.

Something holy.

His mouth hovered by your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Then, lower. Rougher.

“You’re mine.”

The words were a plea. A punishment. A prayer. Spoken like they tore him open just to say it.

And you—

You weren’t scared. You weren’t broken.

You pulled him deeper.

Your nails raked down his back, drawing thin lines through sweat-slick skin. His breath stuttered. His body bucked. He buried himself to the hilt in you with a groan that bordered on a sob.

He kissed your shoulder. Your jaw, your lips. Messy and shaking, mouth slick with desperation, like he was starving and you were the only thing that had ever fed him.

And you—god, you gave it to him.

Every whimper. Every tremor. Every broken sound.

Because it wasn’t sex. It was a man finding the last piece of himself inside the body of someone he wasn’t supposed to love.

You came back into yourself with a jolt.

Your body recoiled before your brain could catch up. You staggered back a step, a strangled breath catching in your throat like a sob choked off mid-sentence.

“Don’t—” you gasped, voice raw.

Your arm flew up instinctively, shielding your chest like you expected another memory to slam into you with teeth.

Bucky’s hand snapped back instantly, palms raised, eyes wide.

“I didn’t—” he started, voice low, rattled. But he didn’t finish.

He saw your face. The devastation. The betrayal of recognition.

And he knew.

He knew what you’d just seen.

You swallowed. Hard. The taste of him was still in your mouth. The ghost of him still pulsed between your thighs.

Your fingers trembled at your side.

“What…” your voice was barely a whisper. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

But something behind his eyes crumpled like paper soaked in blood.

You turned and fled the room before he could answer. Before he could lie.

Before he could not lie.

Because whatever that memory was—whoever that man had been, inside you, above you, holding you like he’d never get another chance—you knew two things:

You had loved him. And that man could very well be Bucky.

You stormed out without looking back.

The door slammed open, crashing into the wall behind you with a hollow, reverberating crack that rang down the corridor like a warning bell.

But the sound didn’t register—not really.

The only thing you could hear was your own pulse, pounding like war drums in your ears. Your breath tore in and out of your lungs with no rhythm, shallow and sharp, chest heaving as if the air itself was too thick to swallow.

You didn’t have a destination. You didn’t need one. You just needed distance.

Distance from him. From the walls of that training room. From the echo of his voice in your memory—mine, spoken with such unbearable reverence it had sunk into your bones like heat.

It was still clinging to your skin, that memory. Still pressing against the insides of your ribs like smoke trying to escape.

You could feel it in the throb between your thighs, in the ghost of his mouth on your throat, in the way your muscles still ached with the rhythm of a man’s body that had moved above you with trembling restraint.

You hadn’t just remembered it—you’d relived it. And your body had welcomed it like something holy. Something lost.

It was him.

The weight of his chest against yours, the shape of his hips fitting yours like they’d been carved to match. The breathless heat of his mouth whispering against your neck—you’re mine—like he’d meant it, like it had nearly broken him to say it out loud.

That wasn’t just memory. It was truth. And it had shattered you from the inside out.

You felt violated—not by him, but by yourself. By your mind, your body. By the truth of it.

Like something sacred had been pulled from the depths of your soul, laid bare, and forced into the light before you were ready. A dream you hadn’t consented to.

A memory played on loop with your body still trembling from the aftershocks.

And the worst part—the part that hollowed you out completely—was how deeply, how viscerally, you’d wanted it.

You turned a sharp corner, bare feet sliding slightly on the tile, and scanned the hallway for escape.

Your lungs were too tight. Your skin burned. You needed the dark. You needed silence. You needed somewhere you could scream without anyone hearing it.

That’s when you saw it—half-open, forgotten. The storage room.

No lights. No windows. Just shadows and space and shelves of gear collecting dust.

You slipped inside without hesitation, hand reaching back to close the door softly behind you. The latch clicked into place with a finality that felt more like a lock snapping shut around your chest.

But you weren’t alone.

You hadn’t heard him follow you—but you knew. You felt him.

The air shifted just slightly behind you.

A faint current. A gravity.

And then—he was there.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t step forward. Just stood in the doorway, motionless, cast in a wash of gray from the light leaking in through the cracked door.

His shoulders were hunched tight beneath his hoodie, arms loose at his sides, posture strained with restraint. Like he knew if he moved too fast, you might vanish entirely.

It didn’t matter.

You spun on him anyway, heart thudding so violently you could feel it in your palms, in your throat. The rage was already in you—rising fast, sharp as a blade and twice as lethal.

It wasn’t clean anger. It was tangled. Desperate. Grief and confusion and betrayal, all knotted tight behind your teeth.

Your finger jabbed into his chest with more force than you intended. His body didn’t move. But his breath caught.

“I want the truth,” you demanded, voice a raw crackle. “What did they do to us?”

You saw it instantly—the way his eyes flicked away. Like a reflex. Like shame.

His mouth opened. Closed.

“I—” he started, jaw flexing. “We were prisoners. We survived. We—”

You cut him off with a snarl. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

The words detonated. They didn’t echo—they reverberated. Slammed off the walls and bounced back with all the fury you couldn’t hold in. Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging crescent moons into your palms.

His face didn’t move. But his entire body locked down.

Rigid. Silent. Like the weight of the truth was pressing down on every vertebrae, threatening to split him open if he said one more word.

“Don’t do that,” you spat. “Don’t stand there and act like we were just survivors. Like it was torture and nothing else.”

Still, he didn’t speak.

Your voice cracked. You didn’t care.

“Because I see it, James.”

His name fell from your lips like an accusation. Or a confession.

You took a shaky step forward. “Every night. I close my eyes, and I see your body on top of mine. I feel your hands. Holding me like I was something… something you didn’t want to break. Someone you were trying to keep alive.”

And finally—finally—he looked at you.

You almost wished he hadn’t.

Because what you saw in his face wasn’t denial. It wasn’t confusion. It was recognition.

And guilt.

So much guilt it looked like it might drown him. His mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to speak—but no words came. Only the flicker of a memory neither of you had asked for, now burning behind both pairs of eyes.

“I feel it,” you whispered, and your voice was so quiet it almost didn’t sound like your own. “I fucking feel it. But I can’t see your face. It’s like someone carved it out of my god damn memory, and all that’s left is everything else. The hands. The voice. The—” Your voice broke, your chest trembling. “The way it felt. And it’s driving me insane.”

He stepped toward you—just one step. A single shift forward.

And you stepped back like you’d been burned.

Your back hit the shelf behind you, shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of everything coming undone.

Your hands trembled at your sides. Your heart felt like it had torn in two and couldn’t figure out how to beat around the split.

And then—barely audible. Fragile.

“It was you… wasn’t it?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

It pressed in from every direction, thick and suffocating, the weight of unspoken things crashing like waves in the dark.

And then—you saw it.

The moment he broke.

His shoulders collapsed inward, like something inside him had finally given out. His head bowed. His eyes closed. His lips parted around a breath that sounded like a sob he didn’t want you to hear. His hands, once clenched into restrained fists, fell loose and helpless at his sides.

“Yes,” he said, and the word was barely more than breath. “It was me.”

The floor shifted under your feet. Not physically. Emotionally. It was like the world tipped sideways, like the ground beneath your ribs hollowed out and took your balance with it.

Your knees buckled. Your shoulder catching the edge of the shelf for support. Your breath faltered. Your vision blurred.

Because it was him. It had always been him.

And now—you couldn’t un-know it. Couldn’t outrun it. Couldn’t undo the way your soul had always known the shape of his.

There was no going back now.

Only through.

The silence that followed his confession didn’t soothe. It scraped.

The air in the room felt colder, somehow—denser. Like the shadows had multiplied, curling around the racks of supplies, slipping beneath the doorframe to listen.

Your spine pressed to the shelf behind you, heartbeat still ragged, fingers flexing at your sides like you didn’t know whether to run or reach for him.

He didn’t move. Not at first. Just stood there across from you, chest rising and falling like he’d just crawled out of a grave. Like saying those words—yes, it was me—had gutted him open from the inside.

When he did speak, his voice was rough. Wrecked.

“They put you in my cell,” he said, each word careful, as though afraid to drop them too hard. “Said you were mine. That you… that I could have you.”

You didn’t breathe.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours—and the look in them nearly undid you. Not lust. Not possession. Regret. Bone-deep. Aged. Like it had lived in him for years.

“They told me you were built for me,” he continued, slower now. “That you were designed for me. Said you wouldn’t feel pain. That you’d… want it. That it was what you were made for.”

He swallowed hard. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

“I didn’t believe them. Not at first. I—I didn’t even know how to want anything back then. I was still… gone, still on HYDRA's leash. But they told me you were compliant. That your programming would respond to mine."

Your stomach twisted.

“I didn’t know you,” he rasped. “I didn’t even know me. But they gave the order. So I obeyed.”

He stepped forward once, like he couldn’t stand being that far away from the truth anymore. His hand lifted half a breath, then fell again.

“I touched you the first night,” he admitted, and his voice broke around the word. “Not because I wanted to. Because I didn’t know what else I could do. I thought I was following orders that would spare you worse.”

Your breath came shallow, tears starting to pool hot behind your eyes.

You couldn’t blink. Couldn’t look away. Couldn’t not listen.

“But you…” he continued, softer now, as if the memory was something fragile. “You weren’t afraid. You weren’t empty like they said. You—looked at me.”

He swallowed again, chest rising with the effort.

“You touched me.”

His voice cracked around it, that last word, like it still didn’t make sense to him all these years later.

“You said my name. James.” His eyes burned, and he blinked like the memory stung.

The quiet between you pulsed, heavy and electric.

“Even after they’d dragged you back bloody and broken, too many times to count. And when they wiped your memory—when they tried to scrub everything clean—you still remembered me. Every time.”

You covered your mouth with one shaking hand, the sob building at the back of your throat thick and hot and impossible to hold.

“You never looked at me like a monster,” he whispered. “Even after the first time. Even when I didn’t know what it meant to be touched. You looked at me like I was still a man that could be loved.”

He took another step toward you.

“You used to kiss my scars,” he said, and the memory made his mouth tremble. “Talk to me in the dark. Tell me you wanted me. Not because they told you to. Not because it was your programming. Just because it was me.”

The tears spilled from your eyes before you could stop them.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t dare.

“I didn’t believe you,” he confessed. “Not then. Not really. But I held onto it, you were the only real thing I had.”

His gaze dropped to the floor.

“I told myself I was protecting you. That if I made them believe I was following the plan, if I gave them what they wanted, they’d stop hurting you. That if I kept you close, I could keep you safe.”

He paused. And when he looked back up, his voice cracked open entirely.

“They broke you for me,” he said, the words thick, trembling. “And I let them. I fucking let them. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t fight them. I tried, sweetheart. I tried—” He cut himself off, pressing the heel of his palm to his brow like he was trying to press it all back in.

“I watched them put you in the chair,” he whispered. “Heard you scream. And every time they brought you back, you’d forgotten just a little more. And I kept holding you anyway. Like maybe I could hold onto the pieces long enough to keep you whole.”

Your knees gave out.

You sank down slowly, back sliding down the metal shelving until you were seated on the cold tile, knees tucked to your chest, shoulders trembling with silent sobs.

The tears came hot and heavy, streaking your cheeks, your chin, soaking into the collar of your shirt. You didn’t make a sound. But it wrecked you all the same.

Because it made sense. Every part of it.

The pull you felt when he entered a room. The ache in your chest. The way your body remembered something your mind couldn’t touch. It had always been him.

And now you understood why.

“I used to say your name,” you whispered, barely audible over your breath.

His chest hitched. “You did.”

He knelt slowly, as if afraid to shatter whatever was left between you.

“You used to hold me after,” he said, voice shaking. “And when they saw that—when they realised I was…feeling something —they started putting me in the chair again. Every time you made me softer, they shocked it out of me. But it didn’t work, not completely. Because you kept coming back. You kept finding me. Until you started to remember too much.”

He swallowed hard. “That’s when they wiped you clean.”

You stared at him through tear-blurred eyes. “You knew me all this time?”

His answer came without hesitation. “I did.”

His voice was lower now. Almost ashamed.

“You were the first person I asked about when I escaped HYDRA. When the memories started coming back in fragments—I went to Steve. Asked him if you’d ever been found. If anyone had seen you. If you were still…” He stopped himself. His jaw clenched. “When he told me HYDRA had written you off as dead—I thought I’d never see you again.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling it back from his face with a soft, anguished groan.

“But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Couldn’t stop dreaming about you. For years, I saw you in my sleep. Heard your voice. I remembered how it felt to be wanted. I remembered the way you said my name, how you held me in that room".

His eyes lifted again. Shining. Raw.

“I know what I felt in that fucking cell was real.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. You were just… there. Drenched in the truth. Cracked open by it. Heart splintered into pieces too jagged to fit back together.

Something in you shifted. Snapped. Broke free like a tremor ripping through fault lines that had been quietly, patiently waiting for the right pressure to come undone.

Before he could say anything else—before the shame in his eyes could kill you all over again—you crossed the room in two furious, breathless steps and grabbed the collar of his shirt with both hands. You yanked him down and kissed him.

No warning. No pause.

It was not gentle. It was not sweet. It was a goddamn storm.

Your mouth crashed into his like you were trying to consume him, like the ache in your chest needed to be dragged out of you by force. He gasped against your lips, the sound ragged and helpless, before his hands shot to your hips—gripping, anchoring, holding tight like he didn’t believe you were real.

His groan vibrated through his throat and into yours as he kissed you back—hard, hungry, full of restraint that had finally snapped.

It wasn’t soft. It was confession. It was grief and guilt and years of stolen time pressed into teeth and tongue and bruising touch.

You pushed him backward without thinking. Your hands curled into the front of his shirt as you drove him into the wall, breath tearing from your lungs, teeth scraping against his bottom lip as he fumbled for purchase, groaning your name like a prayer he hadn’t dared speak in years.

He grabbed at you like a dying man—hands spreading over your back, dragging down your spine, squeezing your thighs like he needed to feel you to survive.

And then your back hit the door. Hard. You gasped, the sound punched from your lungs, but you didn’t stop—not for a second.

Your hands were already under his shirt, yanking it up, bunching the fabric over his chest as you kissed him again—sloppier now, wetter, more frantic.

He pulled away only long enough to tear the damn thing over his head and toss it blindly behind him. And then his mouth was on your neck.

Not teasing. Not coaxing. Devouring.

His teeth scraped your throat, tongue following in a heated trail that made your thighs clench around his hips. You dragged your nails down his chest, groaning at the feel of his body—familiar, built for you, already yours.

He shoved his hand between your legs, under the hem of your shorts, palm pressing hard against your clothed cunt until you arched against him with a gasp.

Your underwear was soaked. He cursed under his breath—low, guttural.

You hooked a leg around his waist, dragging him tighter, letting him grind against you, both of you still half-dressed, half-mad. You reached between you and shoved at his waistband, fingers fumbling with his belt as he kissed you again, messier this time, mouth open and breath hot.

His hands were everywhere—sliding up your shirt, tugging it over your head, cupping your tits like he remembered them.

When he shoved his pants low, cock springing free, you moaned at the sight of it—thick and flushed and already wet at the tip.

He reached down, pushed your shorts aside, hooked a finger into your panties and dragged them roughly to the side until you were bare beneath him.

He hesitated for only a second. His eyes flicked to yours—burning. Haunted.

“You don’t remember me,” he said, voice cracking. “Not really.”

You reached for his face. Touched his jaw. Brushed your thumb over his cheek like you’d done a hundred times in that cell.

“But I feel you,” you whispered. “I remember this.”

And that was all it took.

He grabbed your thigh and lifted you higher, pinned you to the door with a groan, and thrust into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke.

Your mouth fell open in a gasp—head snapping back, fingers scrambling for balance against the door as his cock filled you, stretched you, split you open in a way that felt too perfect to be new.

Like your body had been built to remember him. Like it did.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t give you time to breathe.

He fucked you like a man possessed—hips snapping into yours, hand gripping the back of your thigh to hold you in place, the other buried in your hair. His forehead dropped to yours as he moved, breath hot and harsh against your lips.

He was everywhere. All of him. The weight of his chest pressing you to the door, the scrape of his stubble against your jaw, the slam of his cock inside you, deep and raw and relentless.

There was no rhythm. Only need.

He fucked you like he was trying to erase time. Like he was punishing himself for every second you’d spent not knowing his name. Like if he could just bury himself deep enough, you’d remember every night you’d spent tangled together in the dark.

You came fast.

It hit like lightning—sharp, electric, sudden—your whole body shaking as your arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding tight, clutching him like an anchor in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.

Your cunt clenched around him, tight and pulsing, and he groaned—a low, broken sound—and spilled into you with a final, stuttering thrust that felt like a confession.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he breathed through it, body shaking.

And for a moment—for a single, breathless second—

It felt like home.

But then— The guilt returned. Like it always did.

He pulled back, still inside you, his face devastated, eyes wide and glassy. His hands trembled on your thighs. His breath came too fast.

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Not like this. You don’t remember me. And we—”

“James.” You reached for him again, desperate.

“We shouldn’t have,” he said, the words shaking. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t choose me. You don’t even know me.”

You swallowed. “But I wanted it.”

He looked at you like that only made it worse.

He didn’t stay.

Didn’t say another word.

He stepped back, hands falling away, head down, and walked out the door like the ghost he’d always been.

And you—

You didn’t stop him.

Because you were too busy sliding down the door, back hitting the floor, your thighs still wet with him, your body still echoing with the memory of his hands—and the empty space he left behind.

You lay on your bed in the dark.

The lights were off. The room was still. The hum of the compound’s night cycle buzzed faintly through the vents, soft and steady, like a mechanical lullaby too hollow to comfort. Even the silence felt like it was watching you—quiet, patient, endless.

You hadn’t moved in hours.

The sheets beneath you were twisted, rumpled from tossing, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to the cotton from your medbay stay.

Your limbs felt foreign—heavy and strange, like they belonged to someone else.

Your body ached—not just from him, not just from the way he’d held you to the door and fucked the breath out of your lungs—but from something deeper. Something that had been hiding in your marrow, buried beneath frost and programming and grief.

Your muscles were sore. Your throat was raw. Like the weight of remembering had torn through every nerve ending, every fragile thread of denial you’d still been clinging to.

You stared at the ceiling.

Blank. Colourless. Still.

The same ceiling you’d stared at the night after the mission. The same one you’d counted cracks in when the dreams started.

It looked the same now—but it felt different. Like something in the air had shifted. Like the truth had saturated the walls.

There were no thoughts left to chase. No fantasies left to run to. No lies left to wrap yourself in. The truth had been stripped down to the bone, and it sat with you now—quiet and heavy, like an old wound reopened. Like a ghost that had been beside you all along.

You had loved him. You had known him.

And now, knowing that—feeling it—was the worst kind of mercy.

And then—

A whisper.

Not out loud. Not in the room. But inside you.

A thread of memory, soft and fraying at the edges. It didn’t come with images. It wasn’t visual. It was sound. Scent. Weight.

The unmistakable presence of his body curled around yours in the dark, arms wrapped tight around your waist, chest pressed to your back, the low hum of his breath against your skin like a vow being made for no one but you.

His voice. That voice.

“I’ll keep them away from you,” he’d said. Barely above a whisper, broken and certain all at once. Like he was making a promise with his whole body. Like he knew he couldn’t keep it—but meant to die trying anyway.

“I swear.”

Your eyes blinked open again. The ceiling blurred.

Your chest stung, your throat tight with unshed ache. Your eyes burned with the sting of something that didn’t quite feel like grief. Not anymore. Not just pain. It was heavier. More complicated. A kind of sorrow that bled at the edges with memory.

With meaning. Because you remembered.

Not all of it. Not clearly. But enough.

Enough to crack the ice that had lived in your chest since the day they pulled you out of cryo, since the first scream you couldn’t place, since the first phantom bruise your body remembered without context. Enough to fill in the negative space of every nightmare with the shape of the man who had been beside you through it all.

Enough to feel the name form in your mouth like it had always lived there. Waiting.

“James.”

It escaped like breath. Like prayer. A whisper shaped from ash and ember and aching remembrance.

The sound didn’t echo. It settled.

Like it belonged here. Like it always had.

And in the silence that followed, your heart beat once—slow and steady and unbearably tender—like it recognised the name too. Like some part of you had been holding its breath for years just waiting for that moment. For him.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t move.

You just lay there—staring into the dark, blinking through the blur, wrapped in memory, in ache, in the unbearable silence of a future that might never come. Wrapped in something too quiet to be called hope, but too warm, too human, to be despair.

You said his name. You remembered. And it was enough.

It had to be.

a/n: i'll see you guys in chapter 5! it's probably one of the most painful things i've written in a while, and gosh, i cant wait to proofread and post it up! ❤️ please leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed this chapter! thank you for your support 🥹

taglist: @poisntree @moth-maam56 @ravenswritingroom @heymydearheart @secretdiaryofzai @whitelaxe @ficmeiguess @its-in-the-woods @chronicallybubbly @stell404 @overwintering-soldier @emilyswortwellen @vampirehimejoshi @chimmysoftpaws @herejustforbuckybarnes @s0urw00lf @cheeseman @onlyforyuto @hibiscy @quinquinquincy @wickedfun9 @bugs-n-roses @alicetesser @hibiscy @onlyforyuto

[bookished]

( a collection of drunken confessions dialogue prompts. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse, but please don’t edit or add on to the original post <3 if you like, please consider supporting me through tips

(mix of silly, emotional, messy, sweet, and chaotic)

"you ever think maybe we were meant to meet... like, cosmically?"

"i shouldn't say this... but i've been in love with you for forever."

"shhh. don’t tell anyone i said this but... you’re my favorite person."

"you’re so pretty. it’s actually unfair. i’m mad at you now."

"i miss you. even when you're here, i miss you."

"if you asked me right now, i’d run away with you."

"i told myself i wouldn’t cry and now look at me—i'm soggy."

"can i tell you a secret? no one knows this. not even me."

"i don't want to go home. it’s not warm there like you are."

"you smell like safety. that’s weird, right?"

"you always leave the party too early. stay longer this time. stay with me."

"i don't like them. i never did. i only said yes to make you jealous."

"you were my first love. not that you needed to know that."

"you always knew me better than anyone. it’s scary sometimes."

"every time you smile at someone else i feel sick. it’s pathetic, i know."

"i think you're the only person who's ever actually seen me."

"you promised me you’d stay. why did you lie?"

"remember when we used to dream together? god, we were so young."

"don’t laugh but... i wrote poems about you. they were bad."

"you’re everything to me. but it’s fine. you don’t have to feel the same."

"your hands are so warm. i could live here, holding you."

"you were my favorite chapter. i keep rereading you."

"i’m not drunk. okay i am. but the feelings? those are real."

"i wish i was braver when it counted."

"it’s you. it’s always been you."

"do you think we missed our chance?"

"they don’t deserve you. but i was too scared to try to be someone who did."

"stop looking at me like that. i’ll fall in love all over again."

"you said you didn’t want anything serious... but i did. i wanted you."

"i’m scared. and it’s not the booze—it’s the idea of losing you."

"i tell everyone i’m over you but then you look at me and i fall apart."

"you were the only one who stayed when everything else fell apart."

"if i tell you i love you, will you leave? please don’t."

"the world feels quieter when you're near. like everything makes sense."

"you taste like trouble and i’d still kiss you again."

"god, i hate you. i hate how much i still love you."

"every version of me has wanted every version of you."

"you were my home. i didn’t realize until i lost the key."

"don’t leave yet. just one more moment like this. please."

"i think i messed up. i picked everyone else before you."

"if i asked you to kiss me, would you?"

"remember when you held my hand like you meant it?"

"you’re my what-if. and it kills me."

"can we just stay like this? pretend it’s still us?"

"i forgive you. even though it still hurts."

"i lied. when i said i didn’t care. i always did."

"you look so good right now. it's annoying. stop it."

"you make the world feel a little less heavy."

"i saved every text. is that weird?"

"i love you. even if i forget this in the morning, i mean it right now."

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 11: "The one with the things we shouldn't talk about" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: You and Frankie get back home, eat cake, watch Notting Hill, and talk about all the things you probably shouldn’t—but do anyway. WC: 15,1k (sorry omg)

TW!!: This chapter touches on sensitive topics including grief, suicide, and substance use. If you are sensitive to any of these topics, please take care while reading <3

A/N: Well, it seems I just can't manage to write short chapters. I'm sorry about that. I write and write, and before I know it, I've gone way overboard. Sometimes, when I go back to edit, I try to cut anything that's not strictly necessary... but everything feels necessary. If I could somehow describe the exact chemical reaction that happens when Frankie looks at Reader, I totally would lol. Anyway, thank you so much for reading and for your lovely comments!!!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

When you opened the door to your apartment, Mr. Darcy appeared almost instantly, trotting toward you with a dramatic, drawn-out meow, like you’d been gone for days instead of just a few hours.

"Come on, don’t be so dramatic," you murmured, bending down to scratch behind his ears. He accepted the attention begrudgingly, rubbing his face against your leg before stalking toward the couch.

The adrenaline had worn off on the drive back, leaving exhaustion in its place, a pleasant kind of heaviness settling into your limbs. After the jump, Eric had stuck around to chat—mostly with Frankie. He’d asked about Santiago, and when he realized you were his sister, his face had lit up in recognition. Then, with a grin, he’d nudged Frankie and made some joke about dating his best friend’s sister.  

You hadn’t stayed much longer after that. The hunger had hit fast, like a delayed reaction to the morning’s excitement. Frankie had suggested stopping somewhere to eat, but you had countered with a better idea—grabbing food to go and eating in the car. So that’s what you’d done.  

So, instead of the warm scent of coffee and sugar from the drive there, the car smelled like fries and chicken nuggets. You’d taken over the music again with a mix of early 2000s nostalgia—Nelly Furtado, Hole, Jonas Brothers, some Britney, and a rotation of pop hits. Quite a variation, to be honest. Frankie didn't hate it.

Before heading home, you had asked him to make a quick stop at Joe’s Bakery. He had parked outside, unbuckling his seatbelt, but you had stopped him before he could get out.  

"It’ll just take a second," you’d said, already pushing the door open.  

When you came back, you were carrying a pink cardboard box.  

Frankie had glanced at it, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "What do you have in there?"  

You had only shrugged, feigning disinterest, and closed the door without answering.  

Now, back in your apartment, he stepped inside with the same pink box in his hands while you locked the door behind him.  

You walked over to Darcy, scooping him up and pressing your fingers gently against the soft fur of his throat as you made your way to the kitchen. Frankie set the box down on the counter, then followed you, reaching out to give the little guy a quick, absentminded scratch on the head.  

"Can I use the bathroom?"  

You clicked your tongue. "You don’t have to ask."

"Excuse me, I’m a gentleman," he said, eyebrows raised as he turned and headed down the hall.

You set Mr. Darcy down gently, his soft fur slipping through your fingers as he trotted off, tail flicking. Padding over to the kitchen sink, you turned on the water, letting it run warm over your hands as the morning played back in your head like a reel of sunlit images. The rush of air, the weightlessness, the sheer exhilaration of it all. You still couldn’t believe it. It had been incredible. 

God, Santi would have loved it.  

You could go again with him, maybe. You wondered what he’d say when you told him—if Frankie hadn’t already beaten you to it. You hadn’t mentioned it to your brother, and he hadn’t said anything to you, so… probably not.  

You’d send him the pictures later, wait for his reaction. He’d definitely find it odd coming from you. But hey, now you were officially the kind of person who went skydiving. Casual. No big deal. Just that cool.  

You laughed softly to yourself.  

And then, like a shift in the wind, your thoughts veered toward Frankie.  

Your hands stilled under the water, fingers pressing against the cool ceramic of the sink. You stared at the tiled wall in front of you, but you weren’t really seeing it.  

Something sat heavy in your chest, dense and unmoving. A feeling you didn’t quite have a name for, but it clung to your ribs like something permanent.  

And the night before—it was still there, between you, thick. Neither of you had mentioned it. Not once.  

And Frankie hadn’t looked uncomfortable, hadn’t acted any differently. As if nothing had happened. As if just hours ago, you hadn’t been in his lap, bare skin against his, his mouth on you in places that still ached with the memory.  

If he wasn’t bringing it up, it was probably because he didn’t want to. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe he saw it as a mistake, something awkward that he was hoping you’d quietly let slip into the past.  

And sure, it had been unexpected for you too. But a mistake? 

No.  

Because no matter how much you tried to shove it down, there were things inside you that were getting harder and harder to ignore. Desires that felt like wildfire, impossible to contain.  

But you were Santi’s sister.  

That’s what he had told you last night. Like it was some kind of rule written in stone, like it was the reason, the boundary, the excuse. And maybe it was. Maybe it was enough to keep you at arm’s length. To reject you.

But the words had sounded weak. And you didn’t know which was worse—the idea that he truly believed it, or the possibility that he was hiding behind it, afraid to say what he really meant.  

Maybe he just didn’t want you. Maybe this was all a mess for him, one he wished he hadn’t gotten into at all. 

“Your bathroom cabinet drawer is broken,” Frankie said, cutting through the thoughts circling in your head.

You blinked, turning off the faucet and glancing at him just as he leaned against the counter beside you, hip pressing into the edge.  

“It doesn’t close all the way,” he added. “Probably just needs the guide replaced.”  

“Oh.” You reached for a towel, only to realize too late there wasn’t one. You wiped your damp hands against your shorts instead.  

“I can fix it if you want,” Frankie offered. “Might just be something stuck in there.”  

You shot him a sideways smile. “Were you snooping through my things, Francisco?”  

His eyebrows lifted, lips parting slightly. “No—no,” he said quickly, straightening just a little, though not enough to actually move away. “I just noticed.”  

“Mm-hm,” you hummed. “Well, if you feel like playing handyman, be my guest.”  

Turning toward the counter, you reached for the pink box you had set down earlier, your fingers running along the ridges of the cardboard before slipping beneath the flaps. Frankie shifted, settling onto one of the stools across from you. His elbows rested against the surface, his gaze fixed on your face.  

But you weren’t looking at him. You were focused on the box, the anticipation of what was inside pulling your attention.  

When you finally lifted the lid, your smile came instantly. You turned the box toward Frankie, giving him a full view of what was inside.  

A small, round cake, covered in smooth white cream. Swirls of frosting curled into delicate peaks around the edges, dotted with soft pink flowers piped with precision. Fresh strawberries were nestled between them, some sliced, others whole, their red brightness standing out against the pale background.  

“To celebrate,” you said, voice quieter than you expected, cheeks growing warm under his gaze.  

Frankie leaned back slightly, his smile widening, eyes creasing at the corners as he took it in.  

“Amazing,” he said. Then, with a teasing tilt of his head, “You sure this isn’t just an excuse to eat cake?”  

You rolled your eyes, nudging the box closer.

“Obviously. It's my favorite," you said, running a fingertip along the edge of the box. "Well, one of my favorites."  

Frankie shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze dropping to his feet.

“I should probably let you rest, then.” His voice was quieter than usual, lower, like he wasn’t quite sure of the words as he said them. 

“You’re not gonna stay?”  

His head lifted. He stilled. His eyebrows raised just slightly. 

“Oh. You... you want me to stay?”  

“Yeah. I mean—” you hesitated, suddenly second-guessing yourself. “I mean, if you can’t, it’s okay—”  

“No, no—”  

“I get it if you’re tired. I dragged you through a lot between yesterday and today—”  

“It’s not that—”  

“No, I totally understand—”  

“I want to stay.” His hand flattened against the counter as he leaned in, his eyes locked on yours now. “I just thought... well, that maybe you were tired and wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to bother you, that’s all.”  

“You don’t bother me,” you said simply, lifting the small cake from the box and setting it on the marble countertop. “I bought this to share with you. We both jumped, didn’t we?”  

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “That’s right.”  

You turned toward the cabinets, reaching for plates, pulling open the drawer for silverware.

“Besides, it’s kind of a habit. When I was a kid, every time I did something big, my dad would take me to Delora’s for strawberry shortcake.”  

Frankie didn’t say anything, but you could feel his attention on you, listening.  

“He always picked the one with the most strawberries. It was my favorite,” you continued, setting the plates down. “Then on my birthday, he’d get me a huge one and give me the strawberries from his slice. Santi too.” You reached for the coffee maker. “Do you want coffee?”  

“I always want coffee.” A brief silence, then, “So strawberries are your favorite fruit.”  

You smiled, but he couldn’t see it, not with your back to him. It was in your voice, though.  

“Yeah. And I was kind of obsessed with Strawberry Shortcake when I was a kid, too. My mom made me this beautiful costume for Halloween once. It was amazing—”  

You stopped speaking, you hesitated, your hands stilling, a puzzled smile forming on your lips. Something about the quiet behind you made you turn.  

“Francisco?”

He lifted his eyebrows, tilting his head slightly. But didn't speak.

“Why do I have a feeling you already knew about this?”  

His expression didn’t change, but there was something amused in the way he furrowed his brows.

“Knew about what?”  

“This.” You gestured vaguely, as if that would explain everything. "Um... Shortcake."

“Oh,” he said, nodding as if considering it. “I dunno. That seems unlikely.”  

“Santi told you?” You turned back to the coffee maker, your hand steady as you poured coffee grounds into the filter.  

“No.”  

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Ha. Funny, then.”  

He exhaled a quiet laugh. “Yeah.” A pause. “Do you want me to help with something?”  

Behind you, you heard the scrape of wood against tile as he pushed the stool back and got to his feet.  

“Yeah, um, grab two mugs.”  

You took the plates and carried them to the breakfast bar, setting them down before leaning against the counter again. The coffee maker hummed to life, the rich scent filling the kitchen. You exhaled, watching him as he moved. He reached for the mugs without hesitation, setting them down beside the cake before glancing at you.  

The look was brief, accompanied by a small, lopsided smile before he settled back onto the stool.  

“So, you used to go to Delora’s,” he said. “That’s pretty sweet. We could’ve gone there if you wanted, bought one of those ridiculous big gorgeous cakes filled with cream and strawberries.”  

You shook your head, peeling yourself off the counter and walking toward him.

“No, the place closed a couple of years ago.” You sank onto the stool across from him, resting your elbows on the counter, chin in your palm. “Not long after my dad died.”  

Frankie’s gaze lifted, the easy amusement in his expression dimming.  

“The last time we went together was a few weeks before that,” you continued, your voice softer now. “When I graduated college.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” he said, his voice careful, though the way he looked at you didn’t shift at all. His dark eyes were fixed on your face like he was trying to memorize something, and maybe a part of him was. He didn’t blink. Didn’t fidget. It was like he’d settled into the discomfort on purpose.

You smiled automatically, but it didn’t quite hold. “It’s fine. There are a lot of good bakeries in Austin. I think I’ve visited almost all of them by now. I could pretend I was on a serious mission, you know? Like some noble quest to find the perfect replacement cake. But really…” You let out a breath, not quite a laugh. “I think I just wanted an excuse to keep eating things that reminded me of something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

You paused. There was a tightness behind your ribs, a pressure that had nothing to do with the conversation and everything to do with who you used to be when the tradition still made sense.

“But honestly,” you added, your voice quieter now, “the cake wasn’t the point. Not really. It was… the moment. Sitting there, sharing it with him. That’s what I keep trying to recreate. Not the flavor or the frosting or whatever. Just that.”

Your eyes dropped to a spot on the counter, something nondescript—like a coffee stain or a scratch—something easier to look at than him. But when you finally glanced up again, he was still watching you, as if the movement of his body had frozen sometime between your first word and now. There was something on his mouth that might have been a smile, but it didn’t reach beyond the corners of his lips. His eyes held none of it.

“Shit,” you said quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for to get all heavy.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, almost immediately. “It’s—” He exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he wasn’t sure what expression to land on.  “Really. It’s a beautiful thing, the way you’ve kept that tradition alive. I’m just… sorry you’re stuck sharing it with me.”

He laughed then, quietly, and lifted his hand to his own face, dragging it across his jaw in a kind of nervous gesture.

“I just... I just know I’m not really a worthy replacement for something that meant so much to you.”

There was something in the way he said it—that quiet, self-deprecating remark—that landed in your chest like a weight. You felt it settle under your collarbone, a low, aching pressure, and you hated that it made you feel anything at all.

Because once again, you’d done too much. Said too much. Given him access to a part of you that wasn’t his responsibility to hold. And it wasn’t fair—he hadn’t asked for this, for any of it. He just kept getting pulled into the orbit of things you didn’t know how to carry alone. Maybe because he still felt guilty. Maybe because he hadn’t figured out how to tell you no.

And the thought that he might only be here because of that—because of some unspoken sense of duty or debt—it made your stomach twist. You didn’t understand him.

“Well,” you said, your voice lighter than you felt, “it’s just cake.”

You shook your head once, not to dismiss the conversation exactly, but to pull yourself out of it. You stood from your stool, picking up both mugs and walking over to the counter, where the coffee machine murmured softly, still working.

With your back to him, you added, “I’m just being sentimental. You don’t have to stay for that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What?” he said eventually.

You turned partway, just enough to catch his expression for a second—something unreadable flashing across his face. You gave him a faint smile. One of those practiced ones. 

“I’m saying you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. It’s okay,” you said, shrugging. “You must be tired.”

He didn’t answer right away, and you didn’t push. You stayed where you were, facing the cupboard, your fingers brushing the edge of the sugar jar without really picking it up.

Then, from behind you, came his voice again. 

“Is something wrong?”

You blinked. Your eyelids felt heavier than they should’ve.

“No. No—why?”

You turned around this time, leaned back against the counter with your hands on your hips like it would make you look more composed than you felt.

Frankie was watching you. Then he stood. Crossed the space between you in a few quiet steps, until he was directly in front of you. For one strange second, you thought he might say something else, but he didn’t. He just stepped past you, the warmth of his body brushing yours briefly, picked up the coffee jar, and poured the dark liquid into one of the mugs. Still without meeting your eyes.

You looked at him. His profile was steady in the muted sunlight bleeding through the kitchen window. Everything about him seemed calm, measured.

He moved the full mug aside, then filled the second one. Both of you stood in the silence like it had been placed carefully between you.

“I can leave,” he said finally. Still looking ahead. “If I wanted to, I would. But I don’t. So I’m staying. You’re not forcing anything on me.”

Your gaze dropped to the mug in his hands. The way his fingers wrapped around it made it seem small. Fragile, even. 

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked then.

You shook your head.

“No. But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable with… all my stuff. It’s personal. Too personal?” You tilted your head, brows pulling together. “Is it too much?”

Frankie let out a low, quiet laugh. Not dismissive, just... surprised. He shook his head.

“You’ve met my whole family,” he said, turning to look at you fully now. “You’ve been in my childhood bedroom. Pretty sure you went through my drawers, remember?” He raised an eyebrow. “If we’re drawing lines around intimacy, I think we passed them miles ago. Don’t you?”

And for a second, you didn’t know what to say. Because he was right.

“I didn’t go through your drawers.”

He looked at you sideways, one eyebrow lifted. “But the rest of it is true, isn’t it?”

You shrugged, the corner of your mouth curling into a half-smile you didn’t bother to hide. There wasn’t much use pretending at this point.

Because yes—of course it was true. All of it. You knew his siblings’ names, the sound of his mother’s voice on speakerphone, the way he liked his coffee, and how he looked when he thought no one was paying attention. He knew how you grieved, who you missed, how your voice cracked when you talked about things you thought you'd long buried.

It was intimate. Too much, maybe. But also too late.

And then, of course, there was the fact that he’d seen you nearly naked, which you weren’t going to bring up now, obviously. That belonged to another moment, another kind of tension neither of you had fully acknowledged.

He carried both mugs back to the counter without saying anything more, setting one down in front of your seat and the other at his own.

You followed, settling onto the stool again. The cake sat between you, small and delicious. You picked up the knife, sliced a clean piece, and gently placed it on Frankie’s plate. Then you did the same for yourself, aware of the quiet ease moving between you, how different it felt from a few minutes ago.

As you reached for your fork, Frankie lifted his coffee and took a sip, his eyes flicking toward Mr. Darcy, who was strutting past on his way to the hallway like he owned the entire block.

“Okay,” you said, watching Frankie’s face as you settled your chin in your palm. “Tell me what you think.”

He glanced at you once before picking up his fork, cutting a generous bite from his slice, and shoveling it into his mouth without ceremony.

You waited, eyes on him, noting the way he chewed, the way his brows pinched slightly as if he were actually concentrating. Then his eyes fluttered shut briefly, and when they opened, you caught the faintest smile breaking through.

“Awesome,” he mumbled, fork pointing toward the filling like it had personally impressed him. “Cream. And whatever that chocolate thing is.”

“Ganache,” you said, amused. “You’re eating cream and chocolate ganache.”

He nodded, entirely unbothered by the details. After a pause, he lifted his coffee again, raising it in your direction.

“Here’s to you. For, you know… jumping out of a plane and doing the whole thing.”

You were mid-bite, but your eyes found his. You swallowed, then raised your own mug in return.

“Here’s to us, for jumping,” you echoed, lips quirking. 

The mugs clinked together with a quiet thunk. 

By the time the clock edged past four-thirty, you'd already gone back for seconds. Your stomach felt full, your heart happy. Or whatever the saying goes.

You’d been talking for a while. That part came easily, almost naturally now, even if it still surprised you when it did. Frankie had ended up telling you how he met Eric, which spiraled—obviously, because stories didn’t stay in neat boxes. One memory tugged on another. Before long, he was telling you about his teenage years, those messy, uneven years that no one ever really talks about unless they’re asked.

You hadn’t asked directly. Not really. But you had wanted to know. What had he been like when he was a teen? What music did he listen to? Did he get nervous around girls? Did he cry when things didn’t go his way?

He told you about his first kiss—how awkward it was, how he’d knocked teeth with the girl. Then his first real girlfriend, a swedish exchange student named Alida, who liked heavy eyeliner and drawing tiny stars on her notebooks. He said her accent made everything sound like poetry. And then the first heartbreak. A girl he’d been seeing for a couple of months, who left him for someone three years older. Frankie rolled his eyes like he’d long made peace with it, but you could still hear something there.

“He had a black sports car,” he said, stabbing his fork into the last bit of cake. “Beautiful thing. I had a bike.”

You laughed into your cup. “Yeah, you didn’t stand a chance, buddy.”

“I mean,” he continued, holding the fork like a pointer, “I would’ve taken her everywhere on that bike. Literally everywhere. Him? Probably didn’t even let her change the radio station.”

There was cream on the corner of his mouth, caught in his mustache, and you thought—without warning—what a soft, ridiculous man.

“A true romantic. I totally believe you.”

You kept picturing him younger—less solid, less tired maybe. What did fifteen, sixteen or seventeen-year-old Frankie look like before the years started layering over him? You’d seen one or two childhood photos before, but those didn’t count. He was a baby there. That was another version of him entirely, before anything really happened.

So you asked.

He didn’t even flinch at the question. Just pulled out his phone, thumbed through the gallery for a bit, then handed it over without ceremony.

The photo lit up the screen.

Frankie at seventeen, shoulder-to-shoulder with another kid you didn’t recognize, both of them squinting into the sun. His face was leaner then, clean-shaven and impossibly young, but the eyes were the same. Dark, serious, a little too knowing for someone who probably hadn’t learned how to file taxes yet. His hair was shorter, neatly combed like he was trying to impress someone’s dad. He wore a black N.W.A t-shirt over a white long sleeve, and his grin was wide enough to make you ache a little.

“Oh, you were handsome,” you said, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips as you zoomed in on the photo, studying the lines of his younger face like you were trying to map something familiar.

Frankie laughed and you noticed the way a faint flush crept over his cheeks.

“You think so? I dunno. I wasn’t doing so great around then.”

“You’re being modest,” you said, glancing up at him. “Your sisters told me otherwise, actually.”

He lifted one shoulder like it didn’t matter.

“I wouldn’t know, wasn’t paying attention, I guess.”

There was a beat of quiet between you—comfortable, maybe even necessary. He took another sip of his coffee, watching the steam curl off the rim like he had something else on his mind.

“Now, show me a picture of you,” he said, eyes flicking to yours.

“Me?”

“No, the other person hiding in the kitchen. Yes, you.”

You clicked your tongue at his teasing but reached for your phone anyway, handing his back as you scrolled. It didn’t take you long. You had a folder set aside for these moments—old photos, scanned birthday cards, old screenshots. Call yourself melancholic.

You picked one and passed it to him, resisting the sudden, fluttering urge to pull it back.

In the photo, you were sixteen. Your hair was different, your baby face present. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch with a small white kitten curled against your chest, your smile wide and unguarded.

“Look at you,” he said quietly, his mouth curling. “Those cheeks. Bright eyes.”

You felt your face warm under the weight of his attention, but he didn’t see it—he was still absorbed in the screen.

“It was my birthday,” you said. “My parents went to pick up Kylo that morning. He meowed so loudly from their room I figured it out before they could even pretend to surprise me.”

Frankie huffed a laugh, still looking at the picture. “So you’ve been a cat lady from the beginning, huh?”

You grinned. “Yeah, I’m destined to become that woman from The Simpsons, the one who screams and throws cats at people on the street.”

He laughed. “Yeah? I’ll be walking down the sidewalk one day and a kitten will hit me in the chest. I’ll know it’s you.”

“Probably.” You shrugged. “Sorry in advance.”

He looked at you then, not the photo. And with a kind of absent-minded softness, he said, “You were cute. If I’d met you in high school, I probably would’ve had a crush on you or something.”

It was so casual, the way he said it. Like he didn’t even think twice. Just followed the thought to its natural end and let it fall into the space between you.

But the effect it had on you wasn’t casual at all. You felt it right away—a quick, dizzy thrum behind your ribs, like your body was catching up to the weight of the words before your mind could.

And he didn’t even notice.

“That would’ve been weird though, don’t you think?” you said, squinting at him. “You’re like—what? Six years older than me? How old would you have been then?”

You did the math in your head, not really waiting for him to answer. “Twenty-two.”

Frankie rolled his eyes like that wasn’t the point at all.

“Hypothetically,” he said, waving his hand through the air like it could clear the timeline. “If we’d gone to school together—same year, same time—then yeah, you would’ve been my crush or whatever. That’s what I meant.”

“Right,” you said, nodding, trying not to smile. “Well, mine probably would’ve been the guy with the black sports car.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Fuck you,” he said, playful but mildly wounded. “You would’ve missed out. I’d have taken you everywhere on my bike.”

You laughed, your fingertips grazing the side of your cheek like that might hide the warmth rising there. You were blushing. You could feel it and knew he probably could too, even if he didn’t mention it.

After a pause, you stood up and walked to the bathroom. The mirror reflected your face in unfamiliar light—warm cheeks, slightly mussed hair, something about your expression that looked both too young and too aware. You adjusted a few strands near your temples, tucked one behind your ear.

From down the hall, you could hear the muffled clink of ceramic, the rush of tap water. The sound of him, still moving through your space like he belonged there, or at least wasn’t trying to rush his way out of it. It startled you how much you liked that.

Back in your room, you slipped off your shoes and put on a pair of worn, fuzzy slippers and padded back toward the kitchen. But he wasn’t there anymore, and the mugs were rinsed and left to dry by the sink, stacked neatly like someone had been careful with them.

You found him on the couch, sitting, hunched slightly over his phone. His brow was furrowed in concentration, thumbs moving across the screen. The glow from the phone lit up his face in soft strokes, catching on the edge of his stubble.

You sat down beside him, not saying anything. Your hip brushed his, barely, just enough to register it. You leaned back against the cushions, your head turned slightly toward him.

Your gaze drifted to the curve of his spine, to the way his shoulders rose and fell with his breath, then to the soft skin of his neck where it met his hairline. That little patch of curls there, the way they clung faintly to his skin—something you had no right to want to touch, but your hand warmed with the urge anyway. To reach out, gently, not to make a point or start anything, but just to feel what was already so close.

You didn’t, obviously. Why would you?

You straightened your spine, subtly shifting the weight of your body as you reached for the remote. The screen lit up with a blue glow that bled softly into the room. Frankie was still absorbed in whatever conversation he was having on his phone while the television filled the quiet with the abrupt noise of whatever channel it had last been on—a sitcom rerun, maybe, or the end of some home renovation show. You weren’t really paying attention.

You heard the gentle click of his phone locking before he set it down on the coffee table. The sound felt small but final. He leaned back into the couch cushion, his shoulder falling so near yours that the space between you felt thinner, like it could be crossed by a thought.

“What are you going to put on?”

“I dunno,” you murmured, your thumb hovering above the remote’s arrow key. “What do you feel like watching?”

“Ah, I'm not sure. Show me one of your movies.”

You glanced at him, frowning just a little, not out of annoyance but curiosity. “One of mine?”

He nodded, barely—a simple lift of his shoulders. “Yeah. Pick anything.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your gaze flicked across the rows of streaming apps, trying to calculate what felt the least embarrassing and the most you at the same time. Not an easy combination.

“Okay,” you said, drawing out the word as you clicked into one of the apps. “Pick a decade. Seventies, eighties, nineties, two-thousands. Or we could go by era—there are some excellent literary adaptations if you’re into that.”

You caught his smile in your peripheral vision—quick, not mocking.

“Jesus, I don’t know. Just show me your favorite one.”

“Well, that’s a hard one. I’ve got, like, categories of favorites. But I’ll go with the first one that popped into my head.”

Your fingers danced across the remote as you typed the title into the search bar. A few seconds later, the soft piano of Notting Hill began to play, the opening credits painting the screen with flashes of glossy magazine covers and Julia Robert's bright eyes.

Frankie said nothing, but he shifted slightly closer, knees brushing for a second before settling apart again. You glanced sideways at him, wondering if he’d like it, if he was already regretting giving up control of the remote. But he looked comfortable. Or maybe just quiet. His eyes were on the screen. You let yourself watch the beginning with him, letting the room fall into the rhythm of a shared silence. 

“It’s so obvious she likes him,” Frankie said after a while, just as Anna Scott agreed to go home and change out of the clothes William had accidentally ruined with orange juice.

“Careful, Sherlock.”

Somewhere along the way—somewhere between Hugh Grant’s nervous rambling and Julia Roberts’s tight-lipped smiles—you had leaned closer to him. You weren’t sure who had moved first. Your arm was pressed flush against his now, and the side of your head hovered near his shoulder, close enough to catch the faint scent of his soap, something clean and warm.

Onscreen, Anna kissed William out of nowhere. Frankie tilted his head slightly, not enough to turn toward you but enough to signal something—confirmation, perhaps, of what he’d just said.

“Told you,” he mumbled.

The movie continued. Will is invited to the Ritz under false pretenses, mistaken for someone else, pulled along into the strange orbit of press events and polished smiles. You watched him stumble through it all, never quite fitting, never quite backing out either. She goes to his sister's birthday, everyone loves her, everything's good. Blah, blah, blah. Later, they kiss again.

After that, when Will stepped into her hotel room and saw the man—her boyfriend, tall and self-assured and inconvenient, a prick—Frankie made a sound like someone had nudged him in the ribs.

“Oh, man,” he muttered, as if it had happened to him.

You laughed under your breath. You turned your head to look at him for a second, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy frowning at the screen.

The film moved on. Will’s friends—well-meaning, exasperated—tried to set him up with someone else, anyone else. But he's heartbroken and he walks home as if he'd forgotten how to want something new.

“I’ve been there,” Frankie said, a slight edge of humor softening the weight of his words. He didn’t look away from the screen.

“Oh, you have to tell me. How bad were the dates? Scale of one to tragic.”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “There was only one. It wasn’t terrible. But it wasn’t anything either. She was... a case.”

“Oh,” you said, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. But he didn’t answer. His attention returned to the film, or at least that’s where he placed it. 

Onscreen, Anna appeared at Will’s door. Unannounced, the kind of entrance that only works in movies. She was forced into hiding, scandalized in headlines, hunted by photographers with telescopic lenses and no boundaries. Her voice was soft as she apologized—about the boyfriend, about the confusion, about choosing to disappear.

She stayed. Of course she did. And that night, they made love. Obviously. They moved toward each other like it was inevitable.

The next morning, Anna said, lightly, “What is it about men and nudity? Particularly breasts? How can you be so interested in them?”

Will hesitated, unsure how to answer. “Well…”

But you didn’t hear the rest of his response.

Because the image on screen, the quiet intimacy of the bed, the question itself—all of it cracked open something in your memory. We're not talking about this. Frankie’s mouth against your collarbone. The way he’d lowered the strap of your dress with such focused tenderness. His lips against your skin, reverent and hungry at once. His hand curving beneath your rib cage, as if he could read something there.

And beside you, you felt it—his body shift slightly, shoulders pulling in, his breath catching just faintly at the top of his chest. The change was small, but unmistakable. Like heat rising under a closed door.

You knew he was remembering, too. Or at least, it felt that way. That same scene, or the feeling of it. The weight of something you both hadn’t said. Not really.

Your fingers twitched in your lap. You adjusted your position, but the movement didn’t help. It only stirred the feeling that had been creeping steadily higher inside your chest.

“Francisco,” you said suddenly, the name leaping from your mouth before your brain could stop it. It felt like a damn confession just to say it.

He turned toward you, face unreadable, like he already knew what was coming. And your eyes searched his profile—his cheekbone, the gentle furrow in his brow, the way his mouth pressed into a faint line like he was bracing for something.

You reached for the remote and pressed pause. The room fell into quiet again, not peaceful. It sat between you like a held breath. Your pulse thudded hard in your ears. The air felt stretched, suspended.

“Why didn’t you say anything about last night?” you asked.

A few seconds passed. He didn’t respond. He didn’t even flinch, as far as you could tell—his body still, his eyes locked somewhere on you like he hadn’t even registered you’d spoken.

You sighed and dropped your gaze to his feet, which were crossed neatly at the ankle.

“I’m not trying to ruin the moment,” you said. “I just—please. Say something.”

His eyes moved then. Across your face. His eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly.

“I wasn’t…” he started, then stopped. He looked at the coffee table, then back at you. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk about it.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I mean, when we woke up, you didn’t bring it up either. I thought maybe… maybe you’d forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

You didn’t respond right away. Something inside you had stiffened, like a thread pulling tight. Frankie shifted his weight slightly, leaned back into the couch again and reached for the back of his neck—something you’d already learned he did when he was nervous, or unsure, or both.

“I didn’t forget. In case you were wondering.” You ran a hand down your thigh, grounding yourself. “In fact, I spent the entire day wondering when you would say something.”

He shook his head, his gaze lowering.

“I didn’t want to risk it,” he admitted. “If I brought it up, maybe you’d regret it. Or feel uncomfortable. And today was—today was nice. I didn’t want to ruin that.”

You nodded, even though the words didn’t settle easily inside you. Your eyes dropped to where your fingers were brushing together on your lap.

“Well, I’d like to talk about it now. If you’re willing.”

He looked at you. And in that look, there was hesitation—not out of malice, not even out of guilt, but out of the discomfort of being emotionally cornered.

“Okay,” he said, his voice low. “I’m… I’m sorry. I should’ve gone home last night.”

You stared at him, stunned for a second. Your eyebrows lifted slightly. That was the conclusion he had come to?

He must have registered your expression, because his lips parted, like he was about to try again. But you didn’t give him the chance.

“I don’t want to talk about what we should’ve done,” you said, and your voice sounded firmer than you expected. “I want to talk about what we actually did. I don’t want to pretend it was just some mistake, or that we were two idiots acting on impulse. It wasn’t like that. You know that.”

“I know what you mean but—”

“You said you wouldn’t regret it in the morning.”

He closed his eyes for a beat, and when he opened them, he stared down at the floor like it could give him an answer he didn’t have. His hand moved through his hair. He exhaled sharply, frustration passing over his face.

“I know what I said, and I know what I did. I’m just… I’m not sure it was the right thing.”

You turned your face away, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to feel the sting.

This was the version of him you hated most. Closed off, unreadable. The version that retreated just when you needed him to be honest. To open up, even a little. You knew there was more. You could feel it humming under his skin like static. So why wasn’t he saying it?

Frustration curled up inside you, hot and messy and full of disappointment.

“Please stop trying to frame this around what’s right or wrong,” you said, your voice steady in a way that surprised you. “Just be honest with me. You said it yourself, we’ve already crossed whatever intimacy boundaries we thought we had. We’re way past that. Something happened last night and I can’t sit here and let you fold the entire conversation back on me again, Frankie. I can’t do it.”

He didn’t interrupt, but his jaw moved, like he was grinding something down behind his teeth.

“Because things don’t just happen,” you went on. “They don’t fall out of the sky without meaning. They happen because someone chooses them. Because something leads to them. And maybe it’s messy or confusing or difficult to name, but there’s always intention. Even if you’re trying to ignore it.”

He was staring at you now, unmoving.

“I don’t want to pretend it could’ve been anyone else in that room,” you said, your voice softer now, but just as sure. “It wasn’t arbitrary. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t just a moment. It was us. You and me.”

Frankie shifted. Shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is, actually.”

He let out a breath and laughed once, bitterly. “Yeah, well. Maybe that’s what makes it so fucking hard.”

You watched the way his hands dragged over his face, the way he tipped his head back like the ceiling might offer relief. He stayed like that for a second, breathing through it, before letting his arms fall back to his sides. His eyes were fixed somewhere above, refusing to meet yours.

“It’s hard,” he said again, more quietly now. “Isn’t that what you’re feeling too?”

“Because I’m Santi’s sister,” you said. Not a question. A fact.

Frankie dropped his gaze, finally looking at you. “Partly.”

“Partly,” you echoed, hollow. “And the rest?”

He hesitated. A long breath left his chest. He stared at the floor like it might organize his thoughts for him.

“The rest is... A lot of things. Things that have nothing to do with you. Just me.”

There it was again—that instinct of his to fold inward, to keep the most important part just out of reach. The door always half-closed.

You wanted to shout. You wanted to shake him or grab his shoulders and pull the words out of his throat. You wanted a pharmaceutical solution to his emotional repression. Something you could slip into his coffee that would force him to talk.

Instead, you sat there. Waiting.

You inhaled deeply, pressing your palm to your cheek in a vague, grounding gesture. Your fingers dragged across your skin like they were trying to wipe away whatever expression you were wearing. Then you looked at him again.

You weren’t going to be able to hold it in. It was there in your chest, heavy and urgent, like a question clawing its way up your throat.

“Do you like me?”

He blinked, visibly startled, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.

“What?”

“Just that. If you like me.” You felt your pulse in your ears. “If you think I’m attractive. If you’re attracted to me. I’m not asking for poetry, Frankie, I’m not even talking about anything complicated, sentimental—just… physically. Simple.”

His eyes moved, quick and uncertain, across your face, like he was trying to locate the safest place to land.

“I... I mean…” he faltered, then let out a breath. “Isn’t it obvious at this point?”

“Don’t do that.” 

He frowned. “Do what?”

“Be vague. Just answer me. Yes or no.”

There was a pause, a beat suspended in the space between you. Then—

“Yeah.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes,” he repeated, and this time his voice sounded a little harsher, like you were tugging something out of him he hadn’t intended to give. “Yeah, I’m attracted—you're atractive. I think you’re beautiful. I don’t know—what do you want me to say?”

You felt a flicker of satisfaction, something warm curling in your stomach, but it was quickly flattened by the weight of everything else. The tension hadn’t broken. Not really.

“Just that.”

He gave a tired nod.

“Okay. Just that.” His gaze settled on you—open now, unflinching. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Yes, it does,” you said, leaning slightly toward him, your arms crossing in front of your chest like a shield. “Because all day I’ve been wondering if this—us, whatever happened—if it was just guilt. If you almost slept with me because you felt sorry for me. Or because you were bored. Or because I happened to be there in a dress that made it easier for you to forget that I’m Santi’s sister. I’ve been sitting with that version of the story in my head and convincing myself not to ask. But I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Frankie’s eyes closed, his face tightening like your words had physically hit him.

“You’ve got it wrong.”

“No,” you said, the frustration slipping into your tone, “I actually haven’t misunderstood anything. That’s why I’m asking you now, to give—”

“We shouldn’t be sleeping together,” he cut in suddenly, like the sentence had been waiting in his mouth all along. “You and I. We shouldn’t. You don’t want that. It’s not what’s good for you. We got carried away, all the teasing and the wine and the lines getting blurry—”

“You have no idea what I want,” your arms tightening around your body. “Or what’s good for me.”

“Not me,” he said.

It landed like a closing door.

You exhaled so deeply it almost sounded theatrical, but it wasn’t. It was exhaustion. You dragged your hands over your face like you were trying to erase yourself entirely.

“God, you’re so incredibly stubborn.”

“Then say everything, tell me what you want to say.”

You dropped your hands from your face, fingers brushing your lap.

“What’s the point? You’re not going to believe me anyway. You’ll twist it around somehow, like you always do—turn it into something I didn’t mean or shouldn’t feel or should apologize for. That’s your whole thing, Frankie.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” you cut him off, your voice sharper now. “It is. If I told you right now that I wanted to do it last night—genuinely wanted to—you’d probably tell me I was drunk or confused or emotionally unstable. Or maybe you’d suggest I was possessed by a demon. Something else was making my decisions for me.”

He stayed exactly where he was, elbows digging into his knees, hands clasped tight like he was trying not to react.

“Try me.”

“Okay,” you said. Your hands folded in your lap. “Something happened last night. And for me, it wasn’t a mistake. I didn’t wake up regretting it. If I had, you’d know. Believe me, you’d know.”

He didn’t move, but something shifted in his expression—barely noticeable, but there.

“I wanted to do it,” you continued, searching his face for some hint that he was listening, really listening. “And you act like you can just erase it. Like it’s possible to touch someone the way you touched me and then pretend it was nothing. That there was no intention behind it, no reason.”

He still hadn’t said anything, but he was watching you. Closely. Too closely.

You swallowed. “I’m a person,” you said, like you needed him to understand it in the most basic, physical sense. “In case you hadn’t noticed.” 

“That much I’ve noticed.”

You furrowed your brow, jaw tightening. “I’m a person. You’re a person. And you can play pretend for so long before the lines blur. Before one kiss starts to feel like something else entirely.”

He nodded once. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Fuck you,” you muttered—not in the playful, flirtatious way he might’ve expected. Your voice was flatter than that. Sharper.

Then you looked away from him, your gaze landing on the frozen frame of the paused television, like maybe the fictional people on screen could offer some kind of clarity you weren’t finding in the room.

You didn’t speak. Not immediately. The silence sat heavy in your throat, thick and stifling like humidity. You could feel Frankie watching you, not just glancing your way but really looking. Like his gaze had weight. Like it was pulling you downward, as if you were stuck beneath the surface of something vast and crushing and liquid. Something you hadn’t meant to step into. Something you didn’t know how to get out of.

“I know what you mean,” he said eventually. “And I get that, I get what you’re saying. But I don’t think that’s how it happened. Not for me.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, to let him see the sharpness there.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean… I don’t think it started because we were playing house. Or because of a wedding, or a dress, or wine, or a bed that happened to be close enough.”

You stared at him, waiting. Daring him to continue.

He sighed. “What I’m saying is—this didn’t start because we were pretending. It didn’t start with the flirting or the teasing or some night where we got too close on the couch. That’s not what this is.”

Your heart beat louder in your ears.

"You say all these things but somehow it still feels like you're not saying anything at all. Like you’re stacking words together just enough to form a sentence, but it never—I don't—I mean, I get it. I do. But—God—”

You stood up too quickly, like your body had decided to abandon the conversation before your mind had caught up. A rush of heat crawled up your chest as you moved away, needing space, air, anything that wasn’t him sitting there looking at you like that. You headed to the kitchen, pressing your palm to your forehead, half to ground yourself, half to stop the thoughts from multiplying.

There was a glass on the counter—a red one, translucent. You filled it with water as the sound of his sigh drifted into the room, followed by the quiet pattern of his footsteps. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was getting closer. Still, when you did, the proximity startled you. He was right there, standing like he'd been pulled in by gravity. One hand rested on his hip. The other hovered, then dropped.

"I'm not—" He paused. Swallowed. "I can't do this the way you want me to. Alright? I know that. Talking about this, about us, whatever it is you want me to say, it’s not easy for me. But I’m trying. I’m trying to answer your questions.”

“So—”

“Just—don’t walk away from me like that.”

“What?”

“Don’t leave me sitting in there by myself like, like you can't stand my incompetence.”

“Now, that’s never come out of my mouth, not even close. I don’t think you’re incompetent. What are you even talking about?”

He didn’t answer right away. His mouth closed, his jaw shifted, and he exhaled a breath through his nose, long and heavy like it had been building for hours. He rubbed his face with the palm of his hand, dragging it across his eyes, his hair already a mess from the way he kept pushing it back. It made him look younger, somehow, but also more exhausted.

“I’m just—” he said, finally. His hand dropped. His eyes met yours. “I’m not good at this. You are. You’re quick, you're smart. You're good with words. You always know what to say, how to say it. I’ve got all these things in my head, but when I try to speak them out loud, they don’t come out right. They never sound the way they do in here.” He tapped lightly at his temple.

You leaned against the counter, arms folded.

“I don’t know what to say most of the time either.”

He gave you a look—tilted his head slightly, a half-smile playing on his lips that didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

You sighed. “I don’t think you’re incompetent. That word doesn’t even belong in the same room as you. You just…” You looked away for a moment. “You make me feel desperate sometimes. And that’s not news. We both know that.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, then crossed his arms, standing there like a reflection of you.

You didn’t move. Neither did he. For a moment, the two of you stood in complete silence, the room so still it felt staged. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space between you, the only sign the world was still ticking on. Frankie was staring at you like he was trying to understand something and the way his eyes caught the faint orange light pouring through the window made your stomach shift.

Then he exhaled, the breath long and quiet, and let his arms drop to his sides. One hand came to rest flat on the counter beside him, and he leaned into it just slightly, the angle of his shoulders more resigned than confrontational.

“Look,” he started, his voice a little rough around the edges. “There are plenty of reasons why last night shouldn’t have happened. Real reasons. Logical ones. I know that’s not the kind of thing you put a lot of weight on.”

“Maybe not. But they’re usually your favorite.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes dropping to the floor. He stayed like that for a few seconds, staring at some invisible point near his feet. Then he breathed out again and lifted his gaze. “Okay. I’m gonna try to say this right. Just… let me talk. Then ask me whatever you want, tear me apart if you need to, I don’t care.”

The softness in his tone took you slightly off guard, but you nodded.

“Alright.”

His eyes moved slowly across your face and then they stopped on your eyes—as if that was the safest place to land.

“Okay. Logical reasons. You’re Santi’s sister. That changes everything. Maybe not for you, maybe it feels separate, but for me… he’s not just some guy. He’s my best friend. Closer than that, even. He’s like family. He’s always been that.”

You didn’t say anything, just watched him. His hand was still on the counter.

“And he cares about you. I know he doesn’t show it in some loud, overprotective way, but it’s there. I see it. And I get it, because I have sisters too. I know what that kind of care feels like. I know what it means to watch someone from a distance and hope no one fucks them up worse than the world already will.” He laughed once, under his breath. “You and I—we’ve had years of bad timing and bad chemistry and bad communication. Years of giving each other a hard time. You think that didn’t wear on him? You think he didn’t tell me to back off more times than I can count?”

“He told me the same,” you said, quietly. “He loves you too, a lot, you know.”

Frankie nodded, the corners of his mouth tugging up slightly in acknowledgment, like it hurt to agree.

“Then maybe you get what I’m saying. I’ve already let him down enough by making things complicated between us. Pushing this further—it feels like crossing a line we never actually talked about but both knew was there.”

He took a step forward, just one, but it made the distance between you feel different. Smaller. More dangerous.

“And the thing with us, you and I,” he continued, “is that nothing ever seems to come easy. It never has.”

You glanced down, suddenly very aware of the floor under your feet, the tension in your arms, your chest. The way it all felt suspended.

“I guess,” he said, voice softer now, “I guess there’s this kind of unspoken rule in our group, you know? Some built-in boundary. You’re his sister. His only sister. I think, at some point, Santi gave some kind of warning to all of us.”

You raised your head slowly, frowning.

“Seriously? Like I’m a teenager he’s trying to keep out of trouble? That’s ridiculous.”

Frankie smiled faintly. “Not like that. He’s not… he’s not possessive. He’s not trying to control your life. I think he just didn’t want things to get messy in a way we couldn’t clean up.”

“Well, it’s not his decision to make. But you’re right. It makes sense.”

“Yeah. It does. It’s a code. One we’ve all followed. And I crossed it.”

You let out a breath, more from habit than necessity, and glanced away—not dramatically, just enough to collect yourself. There was too much in the air, too many things being left unsaid or half-said, which sometimes felt worse. When you looked back, Frankie was scratching at the edge of his jaw, then resting his hand on his hip like he didn’t quite know where to put it.

“Logically speaking,” he said, “that’s one reason. But then what? What comes after that? We’d have to keep seeing each other. It’s not like we’re strangers passing through. So what then? Do we go back to pretending we don’t see each other? Faking that weird politeness again?”

You didn’t answer right away. Mostly because you weren’t sure what the answer was. You wouldn’t ignore him, that much you knew. You couldn’t. But the fact that he’d even asked—had brought it up like a real possibility—meant maybe he would. Maybe he was already preparing for it. And the idea made something cold and familiar stir in your chest, something that reminded you too much of the way he used to look past you like you were just another part of the scenery.

He tilted his head slightly. His voice had gone gentler, like he didn’t want to hurt you but didn’t know how else to say what he was saying.

“You know it took us forever to start getting along. That night—we fought, and then you told me you wanted to hit reset. Just be civil. Start over.”

You’d meant it when you said it.

“And we did,” he continued. “We’ve done that. And then this thing that happened... almost happened last night, it would’ve rewritten everything.” He turned his gaze to the far corner of the kitchen, like he couldn’t quite hold your eyes while he said it. “It wouldn’t have been a good decision.”

There was a pause—short—where neither of you moved or breathed too loud.

“I get what you’re saying,” you said eventually. “I do. But what I don’t understand is why, if something did happen between us, the only outcome you can imagine is pulling away. Like... walking away is some automatic consequence.”

You watched his face as you spoke. He didn’t look away this time.

“I don’t see what’s so wrong with liking someone, with being attracted to them, and choosing not to ignore it. Choosing to... respond to it. That’s not some scandalous thing. We’re adults, Frankie. You’d think we’d have other tools by now—better ways of handling complicated feelings than just pretending they don’t exist.”

He nodded. Not quickly. Like he was still figuring out what to say even as he agreed.

“I know. I get it,” he said. “And yeah, that would apply in any other situation. But this... you’re not just anyone.” He took a step toward you. “I’ve done the casual thing. Hookups, whatever. Friends with benefits. I know how to do that. I know how to let that go. But with you... I'm sorry but It wouldn’t be casual. It couldn’t be. That’s the whole point.”

Your stupid little heart jumped, reckless and uninvited. And you hated how easily it did that—how quickly it read into things, how quickly it believed. Even though you knew better. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at you with this unreadable expression—some mix of regret and restraint, like he was already backing away from what he’d started to say.

“I mean it’s complicated,” he said. “Nothing we’ve done so far has been easy, has it? I mean—we’re pretending to be in a relationship. A whole fake story. What even is that?” His hand moved as he spoke, gesturing vaguely to the side like the road between Dallas and Austin might reappear there, the moment where it all began. “It started with you seeing your ex on some highway, like a joke from the universe. And me... I wasn’t exactly thriving either.”

You did know that. But you said nothing.

“I was broken. You were, too. And we both had our reasons. And on top of that—” he looked directly at you now, and there it was again, the line he always returned to. “You’re Santi’s sister.”

Of course. There it was. You wanted to roll your eyes, but you didn’t. 

“I haven’t been okay,” he said, quieter now. “Not in a general bad day kind of way. Not just tired or burned out. I mean... really not okay. For a long time. There were days where I didn’t think I’d come back from it. I didn’t want to. Silence made me itch, I couldn’t sit in it—I needed noise, distraction, anything to drown out the way things felt. I made choices that didn’t help. Those years…” He trailed off, pressing his thumb along his jaw in a familiar, grounding motion. He didn’t meet your eyes now. “They were dark.”

You didn’t speak. So you waited.

Then he looked at you again, something tentative in his expression.

“You said you wanted me to tell you about the thing with the dates. The setups. My mom, my sisters.”

“I did.”

He nodded, as if gathering the nerve to keep going. “Well, they’ve been pushing it for a while. Because they think I’m ready again. Or maybe because they think I should be ready. But the truth is, my last relationship—” He stopped for a moment, swallowing whatever emotion had climbed into his throat. “It wasn’t good. Not for a long time. There were good days, yeah. But the bad ones were louder. And it ended ugly. She left me. And not long after, I found out she’d been seeing someone else. A guy she worked with.”

You stood there, completely still. You already knew that, at least part of it. But hearing it like this, directly from him, stripped of all defense... it landed differently.

There was something about the way he said it—the way the memory lived in his voice, raw but not self-pitying—that made your chest tighten. Like you were seeing him more clearly than he wanted to be seen.

And still, you couldn’t look away.

“It broke my fucking heart,” he said, his voice scraping a little. “And I think—God—I think it wouldn’t have hurt so much if my dad hadn’t died at the same time.”

You lowered your gaze. The floor suddenly seemed like the safest thing to look at. You could feel the shape of his grief pressing into the space, something dense and old and still sharp around the edges. When you finally looked up again, he hadn’t moved.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know what words would help, if any.

“That was it,” he continued, almost as if your silence gave him permission. “The absolute worst moment of my life. Everything collapsed at once. I stopped talking to people. Just… cut myself off. From my friends, my mom, my sisters. I didn’t want to be part of anything anymore. I didn’t want to explain myself. I couldn’t even explain it to me.”

He paused, eyes distant now. “I’d already been carrying this weight… for years, really. Since Nico died.” He glanced at you, as if expecting that name to mean something. “He was one of my closest friends in the CAG. And he died out of nowhere. And I—I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t process it, I just shoved it down somewhere, kept moving, like we’re trained to do. And then when everything else hit—my dad, the breakup—I didn’t have anywhere else to put it. It just came up. All of it.”

You didn’t move. Your chest had started to ache quietly.

“I couldn’t see anything ahead,” he said. “No light, no reason. Nothing to hold onto. I’d wake up and every breath felt like I was sinking deeper. Like breathing was actually taking something away from me.”

His face stayed composed, calm even—but his eyes betrayed him. They were filled with something you could only describe as haunted. A kind of pain that wasn’t fresh, but hadn’t healed, either. Something that lived with him still.

You felt your throat begin to tighten, and a sting rose in your eyes. You blinked fast, willing it away, but it didn’t quite leave. It clung there, just beneath the surface.

And then, after a silence so fragile it felt like it could break with a breath, he said, “I overdosed.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His eyes dropped to the floor, like he couldn’t bear to see your reaction.

There was something unbearable in that, too. In the shame he carried around what had happened to him. You wanted to cross the space between you, to place your hands on his face, to tell him he didn’t need to be ashamed—that you understood more than he thought. That what he’d survived didn’t make him weak, it made him something else entirely. But you didn’t move. You stayed still. In your space. And he in his.

He looked at you again.

“Opioids,” he said simply. “I got them with a fake prescription. It wasn’t like I was using regularly or anything, it wasn’t some habit I’d built. I just—” he paused, dragging a hand over his face, as if the act of remembering cost him something physical. “One day I called a guy I knew, someone with connections. A few hours later I was home with a bottle of oxycodone in my hand.”

He exhaled through his nose. His voice was almost absentminded, like he was walking through a version of events he’d kept sealed away for years.

“I don’t remember how many I took. I didn’t count. I just wanted to stop thinking. Stop feeling like I was sinking in my own skin. It was enough. Enough that I didn’t think I’d wake up.” His jaw tightened. “Mai found me.” He said her name like a prayer and a curse in one. There was a quiet, palpable ache in the syllables.

“She came over because I hadn’t answered her calls for days. She was pissed off, thought I was being a dick. She got there and I didn’t answer the door, obviously. She looked through my bedroom window and—” he winced. “She broke the glass. Climbed in. She thought I was dead.”

He stopped speaking for a moment, pressing his lips together. His voice, when it returned, was rough around the edges.

“I will never, ever forgive myself for doing that to her. To my family.” His voice cracked—barely, but enough. “Mai had a happy life. Good friends. Good memories. No big traumas. And now she has that. That image of me unconscious on the floor, almost dying.”

You felt a kind of quiet horror fill your chest—not at him, not at his story, but at the pain he carried and the way he clearly believed he deserved to carry it forever.

“She saved your life,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Frankie shook his head. “It wasn’t her job to keep me alive. It wasn’t anyone’s job but mine. I let everyone down. My mom… I shattered her. And the guys—I didn’t even have the guts to talk to them about it. I told them it was an accident. That I just wanted to try it. Begged them not to ask questions.”

There was a long pause. You felt your pulse in your throat.

“Was it?” you asked. You didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.

He looked at you then, really looked, and there was so much in his eyes you almost flinched. 

“No.”

Your breath caught mid-inhale, like your body had finally registered the depth of everything he’d just said. The burn behind your eyes came fast, and this time you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink the tears away or pretend you weren’t unraveling.

Instead, you stepped away from the counter, the distance between you collapsing with your movement. Your arms looped around his neck in a single motion, and you pulled him in so fiercely it almost knocked the air out of you. The embrace felt messy, urgent, like no amount of holding him could be enough.

You wanted to fold yourself around him completely. To shield him. To divert the pain from his chest to yours and tell him he doesn't have to carry it all alone. You wanted to press your palms to his face and erase the years that hurt him.

Frankie didn’t hesitate. His arms came around your waist like they’d been waiting to do so for years. His face pressed into the hollow of your neck, the scratch of his stubble brushing your skin like an apology. He held you like he didn’t want there to be a single inch between you.

Your heartbeat knocked against his chest, two separate rhythms trying to find a shared beat. You could feel him breathing—deep, shaky breaths like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to be here, in your arms, still alive, still wanted. Your tears soaked quietly into his shirt, and neither of you said a word.

But it was all there. In the way he clung to you. In the way he exhaled against your collarbone like it was the first time he’d been allowed to rest.

There was so much guilt in him. It lived in the corners of his eyes, in the way he held himself even now. But you could feel—just barely—that some of it had loosened. Not gone, not yet. But softened, maybe.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, the words barely brushing his skin as you pressed your face into the curve of his neck. His arms tightened around you in response with a kind of quiet insistence.

He didn’t answer. He just held you there, his breath uneven, shallow. There were sounds—faint, fractured—coming from deep in his chest that might’ve been tears. But you didn’t ask. You didn’t shift or pull back to look.

Instead, your hand moved up to his hair, your fingers finding the soft curls at the nape of his neck. You stroked them gently, the way you might soothe a frightened child, or yourself.

And somewhere in the quiet your own sorrow began to stir. It rose in your chest like something old and stubborn. As if his grief had called to yours, and yours had answered. You let a little of it out, not all at once, just enough.

There was comfort in the way his arms wrapped around you, like he’d done this before, held you like this in some parallel world. You weren’t sure how much time passed—it could’ve been seconds, it could’ve been an hour—until you felt something soft brush against your calf. Frankie shifted slightly, loosening his hold just enough to glance downward. Mr. Darcy was weaving between your legs, then his, his tail curling with entitlement.

When you looked back at him, you finally saw his face. His eyes were rimmed red and glassy, and the curve of his cheek was streaked with tears. There was something so bare in the way he looked then, like all the shields he usually kept up had been set aside, if only for a moment. You didn’t look away.

He gave a small, almost disbelieving smile at the cat before his gaze flicked up to meet yours. You lifted your hand and brushed the tears from his cheek with your thumb.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said.

He shook his head slowly. “It was.”

“No. You did everything you could, until you couldn’t anymore. You were hurting, Frankie. You were in pain.”

“But I could’ve done it differently. I should’ve asked for help.” His voice caught. “But I didn’t.” A heavy breath escaped him. “I made everything worse. My family… my mom was already breaking after my dad died. And I—” His lips trembled. He stopped. Collected himself like it was a habit. Like falling apart had a time limit.

“And what about you?” you asked, your thumb brushing over his skin again. “What about your grief? Your heartbreak? You lost a friend. You lost your dad. You lost yourself for a while. None of that is easy.”

“I know.” His voice was almost inaudible now. His eyes dropped, as if ashamed of his own softness.

"You deserve to be cared for too."

After a moment, his eyes lifted to meet yours.

“I’m sure Mai was scared,” you went on, “and I’m sure what she saw stayed with her. But I think—no, I really believe—that saving your life meant more to her than anything else could have.”

He didn’t react right away. His features were still, composed.

“I’m her older brother,” he said finally, voice taut. “It was supposed to be me taking care of her. Not the other way around.”

You exhaled, something like a laugh escaping with it.

“Well, as a younger sister, I have to disagree,” you said. “Santi and I—it's not one-way. We look out for each other. Always. I’d do anything for him, and I know he’d do anything for me. And I know your sisters, your mom—they love you. They’d do anything for you too. It doesn’t have to be you carrying it all.”

He didn’t respond. Just looked at you. His eyes caught the light and held it, and for a second, you saw yourself reflected there.

You hesitated, just for a beat. Then: “It’s okay to need help, you know. It’s okay to fall apart sometimes. I do it all the time. And lately, you’re here. You show up. You help. Every time. So why shouldn’t you deserve the same?”

Your hand moved from his face to his chest—without really thinking, without any reason other than instinct. Your palm settled just above his heart, where you could feel the faint, steady rhythm beneath your skin.

His expression changed. Just slightly, but it did.

You wanted to ask him what he was thinking. You wanted to understand whatever quiet storm was passing behind his gaze.

And—God—you wanted to kiss him. The thought arrived like a spark and immediately, instinctively, you pushed it away. But it lingered. It always lingered.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, I know."

And you eased back just enough to let him breathe, to offer him that space he seemed to need. But the second you did, the warmth between you began to cool.

You looked at him for a moment longer before speaking, your tone shifting slightly, lighter, in an attempt to steer the conversation somewhere safer.

“So that’s what the arranged dates were about,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Let me guess—the candidates were carefully selected and wildly unsuitable.”

He glanced up, the faintest curve tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Oh, yeah. It was a whole operation. Imagine this—my mom, using me as bait. Honestly, I have to admire her optimism.”

You smiled. “Okay, but how bad was it, really? The date you went on—what happened?”

He shifted his weight, leaning back against the counter with a casualness that didn’t quite disguise the fact that he was relieved by the change of subject.

“She was cute. Smart. It started off alright—twenty minutes of solid small talk before she pivoted, without warning, into a monologue about her ex.”

You tilted your head. “Wait, did you go on a date with past me? Sounds familiar.”

He laughed then, a real one. “No, no. This was… a different level. Her ex was married. Had been the whole time they were together.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Right?” he said, eyes wide in mock horror. “Apparently he told her he was going to leave his wife. But he didn’t. And then he went and told her they were having another kid, and—” he paused, raising his eyebrows—“that he wouldn’t be leaving her. For now.”

“For now? That’s cruel.”

“I know. I didn’t even know how to react. Honestly, the whole thing made me want to take her out for a drink and also maybe stage an intervention.”

“So… why’d she go out with you?”

He gave you a look, that boyish half-smile. “I dunno. Why did I go out with her?”

You laughed, eyes narrowing. “So you didn’t see her again.”

That smile tugged deeper, and he looked down for a second.

“Did you?” you asked, already knowing the answer from the look on his face.

He lifted his eyes again, smirk firmly in place. “A couple of times.”

“Oh my god, you slept with her.”

He stood perfectly still, his mouth twitching like he was trying to suppress a grin. Guilty. Caught.

“Unbelievable,” you said, head tilted, trying not to smile but failing a little.

He straightened, putting on a mock-defensive tone.

“In my defense, she was honest. She told me she was still in love with him and didn’t want anything serious. I respected that. We both knew what it was.”

“How many times?”

“Um, I dunno. Three? Three, tops.”

You folded your arms across your chest. “Uh-huh. You don't even remember? You're such a slut.”

He looked at you, something playful and warm behind his eyes. “Don't be like that. It was before you.”

You rolled your eyes, mostly because you needed something to do with your face, and a laugh slipped out. Frankie was still smiling, then he reached out, his fingers curling gently around your arm, tugging you closer with no real force.

“I just—” he began, and then paused, like the words weren’t cooperating with the pace of his thoughts. “I need to say this, even if it comes out wrong.”

You stayed quiet, watching him. You could feel the shift in the air between you again.

“I have… a lot of things still sitting in my head. Some days it feels like I’ve made progress, and others it’s like I haven’t moved at all. But lately, for the first time in a long while, I’ve started feeling okay. Like I can breathe. Like I’m not dragging myself through every minute.” He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. Just tiredness. A kind of resignation. “I'm not sure if I can get involved with someone like this. And that doesn't mean that I don’t want it. Or that I don’t think about it, imagine it. Crave it. I do.” He glanced up at you, eyes briefly searching yours before dropping again. “But I just… can’t. I can't.”

You listened carefully, reading the edges of his words just as much as their core. His tone, the pauses, the way he looked down. And you understood.

You hadn’t before, not fully. You’d been asking something of him without knowing the shape of what he was carrying, and now that he’d offered it to you—just a piece of it—you saw it more clearly. You didn’t blame yourself for not knowing. But you still felt a quiet ache in your chest.

He glanced away, then back. “When I went out with this woman—it wasn’t anything. It was empty, if I’m being honest. I think I was looking for… I don’t know, some kind of release. A break from my own brain. Or maybe just proof that I could still feel something good, even briefly. But it didn’t work. It made everything worse, actually.”

He gave a humorless smile, but there was no cruelty in it. “The most depressing sex of my life. I don’t even think she noticed.”

You felt your mouth curve slightly, but you didn’t speak.

“Please don’t think I’m using it as an excuse,” he said, suddenly earnest.

“I don’t,” you said, and you meant it.

He nodded, exhaling through his nose. Then, almost absently, he added, “I don’t even know when things shifted between us. I didn’t see it coming. One day it just…” He looked sideways, like he wasn’t talking to you but rather trying to say something out loud just to make sense of it himself. “It’s different now. And I don’t know what that means.”

You looked away too, not because you wanted to, but because it felt safer that way. 

“I don’t know either,” you admitted, voice low. “I... I’m sorry.”

His brow furrowed immediately. “Why?”

You lifted your shoulders in a shrug, trying to swallow past the tightness in your throat. You hated how exposed you felt in that second.

“Because I think like you and I don't know what to do with that,” you said, barely above a whisper. 

There was a pause. Then, a single tear slipped quietly down your cheek, and still, you didn’t look away.

You weren’t sure whether saying it had been the right thing to do. Maybe it wasn’t about right or wrong at all—maybe it was just something that needed to be said, like naming a feeling makes it real. Like choosing not to say it would’ve been a kind of denial. Of yourself. Of the truth. Of what Emma had been gently insisting with the stubborn confidence of someone who has known you forever.

And Emma was always right. Annoyingly, unfailingly right.

Frankie didn’t move. It was like your words had frozen him in place, his posture still, his gaze locked on yours as if you’d accidentally pressed pause on him. But there was nothing cold about the way he looked at you. If anything, there was warmth. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I think I might be... inconvenient.”

You tried to smile, but it didn’t land. 

Still, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t blink.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” you went on. “And I don’t want to make this uncomfortable. I’ll keep some distance, if that’s what you need.”

But then Frankie shifted. A sudden, visible movement, like he was shaking something off.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, quickly. Too quickly, maybe. “I mean—unless you want to. But if it’s for my sake... Don’t. You don’t make me uncomfortable.”

He shook his head, once.

Your heart stuttered. “So what... What do we do about this, then?”

His sigh was quiet but heavy. He looked at the floor, then back at you.

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” he said finally. “And I don’t think you do either.” He paused. “But what I said about starting fresh, I meant it. If that’s still something you want. If you’re okay with that... I don’t want you to pull away from me.”

You tilted your head. “No?”

“No.”

You inhaled, staring down at your shoes. You didn’t want to distance yourself either.

Because even beneath the mess of feelings, Frankie had become your friend. Somehow. Unexpectedly. And maybe that surprised everyone, including you, but it didn’t make it less true.

And you weren’t ready to lose that.

“Okay,” you said, looking back at him. Your lips curved into something softer. “But only because you promised me a night out and a New Year’s kiss.”

His expression shifted,eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“Oh, and When Harry Met Sally,” you added, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

“Never,” he said, shaking his head solemnly.

“Good.”

“Good,” he echoed. “Perfect.”

“But a couple of boundaries, buddy,” you said, raising a finger and tapping it gently beneath his chin, like you were drawing a line there with invisible ink. “You don’t get too flirty with me, and I won’t get too flirty with you.”

“Boundaries,” he tilted his head. “I actually know a thing or two about those.”

“Great,” you said. “Then prove it.”

Frankie pretended to consider this very seriously, his eyes glancing upward like he was trying to recall something important. Then he looked back at you.

“Okay. Starting tomorrow, no unnecessary flirting. Only if it’s vital. Absolutely essential. Then it’s permitted.”

You squinted at him. “Why tomorrow?”

“Because today’s saturday,” he said, with a shrug. “Doesn’t feel like a boundary-setting day. Too casual.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “And sunday is... what, sacred?”

“Sunday has structure,” he said, completely serious now, as if he genuinely believed it. “It’s a reset day.”

“Fine. Tomorrow it is.”

“Good,” he said, nodding once, like a contract had just been signed.

“Perfect.”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward.

You cleared your throat. “Okay, can we go back to the movie now? One of the best parts is coming up.”

You pointed toward the living room with a casual flick of your hand, already turning your body in that direction like nothing had just happened. Frankie nodded, a crooked smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.

You both stayed on the couch, watching the last stretch of the film, but you'd instinctively shifted just far enough apart to notice the distance. Not uncomfortable, just different from earlier.

The room had grown darker as the sun sank behind the buildings outside. The only light now came from the soft, flickering glow of the tv. You sat back, your legs tucked under you, arms crossed lightly over your stomach, trying to focus on the screen, though you couldn't say what scene you were watching. It all felt peripheral—dialogue, motion, soundtrack.

Still, the story carried on, as stories do. Anna stood in front of William. "I'm also just a girl standing in front of a boy..."—the line you’d heard a dozen times but still felt something for. And in the end, of course, they ended up together, as people do in movies.

The credits began to roll. Frankie stretched beside you, arms lifting above his head, fingers threading together as he arched his back just slightly. The movement made his t-shirt rise a little, revealing a line of skin at his waist before he relaxed again.

“What did you think?” you asked.

“I liked it,” he said after a beat. “Especially that scene with the seasons changing. When he's walking through the market.”

You lit up a little. “That’s one of my favorite parts. They actually filmed it all in one day. They built this camera rig on a track and timed the light and everything. It was specially designed just for that scene.”

He blinked, impressed. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “Wild, right?”

He squinted slightly, as if trying to picture it in his mind, then let his gaze drift back to the television, now dim with the last names fading off the screen.

“I think I should head home,” he said finally, quiet and careful with his tone. Then, with a glance at you, “Did you have a good time today? Even with... you know. Everything after.”

“I had an amazing time, really. Thank you so much. I mean that.”

He smiled back. “It’s nothing. If you ever want to do it again, just tell me.”

“I will,” you said. And you meant it.

Frankie was gathering his things—wallet, keys, phone—as you followed him to the door. It was quiet in the apartment. You walked a step behind him as he moved down the stairs, watching the shape of him in motion—his shoulders as they rolled forward with each step, the back of his neck where his hair curled slightly at the edge, the way he carried himself.

It struck you how strange it was, in a quiet sort of way, that everything between you felt so oddly comfortable now. Even after everything. Even after you’d said what you said—put it out there like a raw nerve. There was no tightness in your chest, no embarrassment, no urgency to undo it. Just this lightness. He had this calmness about him. You didn’t understand it, especially considering that only a few weeks ago, a single glance from him was enough to set you off, twist your stomach into a knot of irritation or something dangerously close to it.

You opened the door, stepping aside to let him out. He moved through the frame but didn’t walk away immediately. He lingered, standing just beyond the doorway, his body angled toward you but unmoving.

“Text me when you get home,” you said.

“I will,” he replied, though he didn’t move. He was oddly still, as if something in him was caught mid-thought.

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes slightly. He was watching you with this vaguely suspicious expression.

“What?” you asked, smiling without meaning to.

“It’s not even tomorrow yet.”

The words were quiet, almost incidental. And then, in the same breath, he stepped toward you. His hands found your face, fingers curling along your jaw with a kind of practiced gentleness, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t hesitant or testing. It was firm. Certain. There was hunger in it, yes, but it was contained—like he was holding himself back just enough to keep it from tipping into recklessness.

You melted into it. Let him kiss you like that. Let his mouth part yours, let his tongue find yours, let him take whatever he came for. And then, just as suddenly as he’d kissed you, he pulled back—not far, just enough to press a brief kiss to the corner of your mouth, a gesture so tender it almost broke you in half.

You smiled, breathless. “You’re such a bastard.”

He grinned, apologetic. “I'm sorry. You’ve said worse things to me.”

You watched him as he walked off, his hand already fishing in his pocket for the car key, his back retreating into the night.

“See you after tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder.

And then he was gone.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[smoothlikealikeasnake]

Strong Coffee and Sweet Cakes

Chapter One ‘Introduction’

Genre - BTS FF, a/b/o dynamics, a/b/o BTS and MC, Ot7 x fem MC/reader, so fluffy, little angst, eventual smut

Warnings - MC has some appearance description to fit the story, not named however and this is written, a/b/o description and dynamics, slight reference to potential sexual assault, as always let me know if there’s anything to add xx

Summary - A new cafe near the Hybe building will change the 7 members of Bangtan’s lives forever, 7 alphas in a pack? A recipe for disaster. Until a sweet omega starts to stir up their world with a little bit more sugar and slowly their loneliness dissolves

Next Chapter

Author Notes - Hello my lovely readers, this is a new series I’m starting alongside strawberry princess because I’ve hit a serious stump with it right now and the ideas for this fic are just flowing so I really hope you enjoy xx

The last few months had made your dream come true, your cafe/bakery building was finished, staff hired and business had began to bloom like flowers of the spring.

As an omega, it’s instinctual to love to feed, provide, put a smile on others faces and that’s exactly what your baking and the environment you created does and it’s everything you’ve wanted. Sure, it’s less common for Omegas to work let alone own a business but you manage, maintaining a balance of working behind the scenes (baking) and occasionally up front to take orders, serve and make drinks.

Some days your timidness gets the best of you, forcing you to shy away from any sort of attention, that’s why always having other staff on the shift is essential to making your business work. Yuqi, Soyeon and Soojin aren’t only the staff that work with you but have become your best friends.

Yuqi is an alpha, witty personality and always quick to your defensive but she equally gets on with the customers with how easily her (joking) sarcasm and teasing attitude makes them feel comfortable and more relaxed.

Soyeon and Soojin are also alphas, Soyeon taking on a leadership role without you ever having to ask or show it, her just knowing when it’s one of those days by the way you’ll aggressively push your hair back from your face too often to be relaxed and she’ll instantly remind you of small tasks that you should do, in the kitchen or around the building in general, away from the often busy environment of the cafe.

Soojin never fails to tease and push as your limits to coax you out of your shell, gently prying you out of your own head and ruffling your hair when she succeeds. You especially adore Wednesdays where Shuhua (Soojin’s beta girlfriend) comes to spend lunch at the cafe and always asks about your new recipes, requesting to try until it became a routine for you to prepare your newest bake for her to try and rate, thinking about wether to add it to the menu or not.

The days where you aren’t in your own head are the best ones, being able to appreciate and float around the beautiful, peaceful environment you created, the amount of people (large or small) never being able to take away the calmness you put effort into creating with the decor, air quality (so no one is overwhelmed by any scents besides the bakes and coffee) and overall atmosphere you strove to create.

You love to hand out your bakes and make warming or refreshing drinks. Staying a beat longer than necessary sometimes to watch as the often sugary treats sweeten someone’s day even just a little, living for the brightness that builds in their eyes and words of appreciation sent your way that admittedly never fail to make you blush.

Your charm and demeanour is loved by your regulars, on your days in the kitchen your always informed by Soojin that they were wondering where you were, the baker of their favourite treats.

“I heard you were looking for me yesterday Mr. Kim, here’s your mint tea with a little spoon of honey” - You smiled as you approached the older man, his eyes closing with the bright smile he returns, gushing and mildly scolding you for not being there, both of you knowing he was only teasing.

Efforts are made to know your regulars orders and their preferences in terms of time and location, for example you always had a teapot of chamomile tea ready to brew for Mrs. Han who came every evening after work and wanted to avoid coffee to wind down, always staying until closing and finishing the entire teapot. You’d ask her how her work was everyday, she’d give you a tired but relieved smile after her first sip of the hot soothing tea and give you a small brief, always praising you and thanking you for your consideration.

You like the connections you’ve made, the warmth you can bring to the people you serve and it satisfies something deep within you, makes you purr through the evening after the end of your day and go to sleep with your thick duvets, burrowed in your bed in the nest fit for one, often dozing off with a sweet smile.

There’s of course the days where your nest isn’t filled with happy purrs, instead it’s slightly ruffled as you try to comfort yourself after a particularly hard day or a day where you didn’t have the luckiest encounter with a customer. Some times it’s typical, rude customer, just in general or sometimes directing disbelief and degradation at you because you’re an omega. Other times you have gotten unlucky with a beta or alpha who thinks they have a right to suddenly be handsy and make sly comments simply because you are friendly. One of the girls will step in as soon as they catch a shift in your sweet scent, wavering with uncertainty because you never want to make a customer upset or take their intentions the wrong way but that leniancy also means they get a few extra seconds to try and be vulgar before one of the girls swoop in and swiftly replace you with them, pasive aggressive comments thrown towards whoever thought they had any right and in some, very bad cases, the culprit is forced out of the cafe. Those are the days when you need to recharge, often end up behind the scenes the follow day rather than front of hourse and your friends always understand, also ecnourage you to do just a little extra baking.

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Mondays are hard for everyone, you take extra effort to put out all the bakes, finish up any details and ensure everything is prepared for opening in the early morning before the first rush of customers enter, often for their coffees. Thats how this story begins.

its 6am, Namjoon is rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, a bad habit, but one that feels necessary considerig hes been awake all night, his thick glasses barely doing much to hide the tiredness in his eyes. He tried to look more alive before leaving the studio, running his hands through his hair and throwing on a fresh black hoodie to match the black trousers he wore but it didnt do much honestly and he knew that. It was an effort however, and thats what mattered.

His friends have been raving about this new cafe, with also the sweetest bakes and amazing coffee and although he hasnt had an opportunity to visit and try before, he had an opportunity, or rather, a excuse now. Monday morning, up all night, in desperate need of caffeine and the cafe was only a 10 minute walk from the company building. A nice change to the quick machine coffee he settles for in the studio every day. And he needs the fresh air, they all do honestly but now more than ever with a comeback creeping up and everyones tension rising.

Its only expected, it happens just before every comeback, tension is high because stress is put on everyone and in a pack purely of alphas? Its multiplied, try multipled 7 times. It gets worked out easily, always does and everyone knows it will only take one foot out of place at this sort of time for a argument to creep up and its easily resolved. Unavoidable, but easily resolved and thats what comforts everyone, knowing its shortlived and that the joy and success that follows during and after a comeback is always worth the exhaustion and hardships taken to create it.

Namjoon is stuck on one song, one gap in the album with a clock ticking in his head, driving him further and further into turmoil. No motivation, no muse, just exhaustion and stress. Nature has always been something to mentally rejuvinate the alpha, so the walk to the cafe is needed to try out this semi-famous cups of coffee and get physical rejuvination (glorious caffeine).

Hes pleasently surprised as the cafe comes into view, its fairly empty from what he can see on the outside considering the first rush of the day tends to be from 7:15 to 8:45 (noted in your one of your cafe note books). The outside is inviting, with your effort to maximise the comfort from aesthetics, a variety of plants and florals decorate the walls, windows, near the door, the earthy, fresh scent immediately clearing Namjoon's airways in a way he never knew he needed, it was literally a breathe of fresh air. Theres a couple small tables out front aswell, some wooden, some a pretty kind of white pattern, almost looking like you'd just followed your heart on every single set you liked the look of rather thna keeping to one theme (you had) and it worked. So well.

Walking to the door, Namjoon already felt lighter, the handwritten 'Open!' in a pretty but effortless cursive so welcoming. A little bell rang as he pushed open the door, a quiet jazz tune playing that he knew Taehyung would appreciate more than anyone and Namjoon just stood in pure awe taking in the place around him. He'd been hit with the scent of fresh baking and coffee, no too strong though, a common theme of plants all throughout the space and its clear how youd taken to making every second spent in and outside of the cafe enjoyable and comfortable. The lighting is dim and warm, not clinical or overwhelming like it is in the company building, homey and without realising, tension was already releasing from his body in waves, replaced with relaxation before he'd even gotten up to the till to order.

The interior is whimsical, instinctual and similar to the exterior, the walls muted colours, an array of different woods, comfortable, worn leather, patterns that could clash but were so expertly placed that they just didnt, no two pieces the same anywhere and it could be overwhelming but again, it just isnt. The other thing he noticed is the pure attention to detail in furntire placement, theres windows everywhere, natural sunlight on multiple tables and chairs of different sizes for different groups but theres also a few corners outside of the light for those who would prefer, a few extra lamps and dim lights placed in those areas to accomodate. Charging points for those who want to stay and study or work, Jugs of Fresh water on every table (all different jugs) with little pots of fresh citrus fruits to add should you want too and glasses to pour into, whimsical little trinkets placed on each table and around the edges and the walls decorated in carefully picked paintings. Its Namjoons heaven, and theres specific features inside that every single member would simply adore.

The last thing he notices is the pillows and blankets on every seat and area, attention to comfort and each were perfectly fluffed up, the indents on the sides suggesting it was done by hand (it was, part of your morning cafe routine), blankets of all kinds all around and across the room he could spot a few wicker baskets overflowing with even more, another hand written sign on the wall just above it, something he couldnt quite make out. And then he finally moves, approaches the pretty display of baked goods, everything he could imagine fully stocked with the exception of one or two bakes being gone from some of the trays where the first customers had come in.

Theres a fancy coffee machine, fresh fruit and juice station and on the shelves is all of the cups for sitting in and their matching - or mismatched - tea plates, he couldnt spot two of the same mug or cup and really it was meant to feel like home, more home than the studio, than the company, than his own large apartment, its a deep rooted kind of home and Namjoon held his breath for a moment without even noticing what he was doing.

No one behind the counter, he worried you werent open before remembering the sign on the door and then right in front of him, an answer. Another bell, small and with yet another hand written sign next to it 'Ring Me for Service!', the dotted 'i' in service slightly smudged and for some reason it made him smile so with a single finger, Namjoon gently tapped the bell, its gently 'ding!' summoning you, clumsily scurrying through the door to the kitchen with wide eyes and a slightly messy ponytail, your apron still on and Namjoon stopped breathing as your scent invades his nose, sugary sweet pastry, cream, warm cinnamon and a little hint of strawberry, just tart enough to make your mouth water but sweet enough to balance it. Namjoon quickly regained compsure, refusing to inhale deeply like he wanted to in fear it would make you uncomfortable and you, clumsily running out at the bell havent really got your two thoughts together just jumping right into your customer service routine before you glance up and realise this is a new customer, another member of the hybe building and groups but that doesnt phase you at all, its his beauty that does. Hes dragon-like, breathtaking, big, tan, ever so gentle but so clearly an alpha and hes scent is perfectly earthy, laced with some sort of deep exhaustion that upon closer look is evident in his eyebags, mess hair and tired eyes and instantly you feel a need to nurture it, to care for him and nurse him back to health in a stronger way than you feel for other customers, you dont know why its stronger with him but you wont let that sway you from your usual gentle approach to customers, you wont overstep any boundaries and neither would he.

'Good Morning! what can i get you today?' - Your positive, bubbly personality even at 6 in the morning warms Namjoon's heart and he finds a smile gracing his tired features instantly, almost forgetting to answer for a moment until you look up at him expectantly. Things started to make sense, hed heard an omega owns the cafe and this was you, so clearly an omega, small in size, cheeks tinted pink naturally, fingers slightly chubby as they hover the screen infront of you and it all came together, the attention to detail, clearly precise placing of furniture and decoration only achievable by an omega skilled in nesting, the blankets and pillows galore, you have his heart in an instant but he clears his throat, rather clumsily and gets back on his train of thought, looking up at the board of contents as if he would differ from his go to order.

'Ill just have an espresso please' - You nod enthusastically tapping a few buttons on your screen and then looking up again

'Do you have a preffered coffee blend?' - Hand reaching towards another handwritten sign with the list of roasts you offer and Namjoon faulters, some he has heard of, others he hasnt so he goes with a quicker, easier answer he really hopes doesnt bother you

'Whatever you reconmend' - The uncertainty in Namjoon's voice makes you soften even more and you once again nod, choosing what you deem a safe and seemingly fitting option, a mid ground.

'Would you like anything else today?' - Namjoon pauses for a moment, looking at the display of so many treats and sweets and considers them but with so much choice and not having thought it through, he settled for going without, even if a few did catch his eye and had him lingering on them a second too long which you instantly picked up and mentally noted for later.

'That's all thank you'

'And will that be to go or sit in?'

'To g- actually, ill sit in thank you' - A few minutes in this wonderful space wouldnt kill anyone right, hes trying to rejuvinate his mind and motivation and he certainly cant do that at the studio so a break was needed. He saw your eyes light up at his change of heart and he wanted to watch that again and again, something so small but so sweet. You nodded enthusastically

He pays via the card machine, leaving an extra tip you would have definitely deemed unnecessary but you didnt see as you quickly got to work on his espresso. Namjoon took his time choosing where to sit, your words encouraging him to do so 'You can take a seat anywhere youd like, ill bring it right over!' and after some contemplation, he chose a singular seat, leather armchair, comfortable and cushiony infront of the direct sunlight, the small space shared with a large plant on the floor and a small table with a few books he hadnt noticed before, a small cup with some sugar cubes and mini tongs right next to it and the entire set up just had him melting, eyes half closed and breathing slow. Now, his eyes are feeling heavy again but maybe its welcomed, a different kind of break that hes needed for days now, even if it isnt sleep, his eyes are barely open when you teeter over, so light on your feet he doesnt even hear besides the light chime as the cup is settled on the table.

Unbeknowest to him, you watch him fondly as you bring over the espresso, hoping he'd feel even a bit better after some time in the cafe and the drink he'd requested. He's loosely gripping the arms of the chair and his head is tilted back, your careful to very gently place the cup down but he seems to hear and you feel slightly bad for snapping him out of his own mind, he sits up again slightly and watches you step back, listening to your every word, its a simple statement but the way he catches every little tinge of your voice makes you feel giddy and you dont know why.

'Here you go, i hope you enjoy it' - You say not only as a reference to the drink in general but also specifically because you chose the blend he was about to try. You only stay for a moment before slowly walking away so that he can have his privacy.

'Thank you' - Namjoon instantly picks up the hot mug and takes a small sip but he has to hold back a loud groan of satisfaction as the espresso mellows on his tongue, its not bitter at all, smooth and somehow refreshing and lacks acidity which is perfect for him. He fails to hold it all back so in that moment a small humm of satisfaction leaves him and you keep your ears out for his reaction when your walking, smiling and blushing slightly, feeling warm and fulfilled when you hear him mumble about it being 'so good'.

Taking his time, Namjoon slowly sipped at the small drink, savouring every drop hitting his tongue with his eyes closed at every taste. You half watched in the distance, just glancing over every now and then between your tasks and tending to the few customers who came in and when you had a few minutes free, just teetering behind the counter you noticed Namjoon standing up and walking over, instantly setting yourself behind the small screen you use again.

'That was amazing, could i have another by any chance' - The fondness in Namjoons words and how hed blurted it out before you could even get a word in made you falter and your scent sweetened in an instant, a happy smile taking over your lips and head bouncing in a eager nod. Namjoon watched you with the same happiness, glad to be the reason your scent sweetened and mood lit up even more, he gently slides the cup over and pays on the machine, an unnecessarily large tip once again. He made his way back to his seat as he waited, the stress he was holding within just half an hour ago pretty much gone now, temporarily, he doesnt know how but he just feels so much better.

You moved over the machines with practiced ease, finishing up the espresso but with a quick thought, you realised he came in, has ordered two espressos and its 6 in the morning, you doubt hes had anything to eat, he'd denied anything else but you caught his eyes lingering on the apple and cinnamon pretzels with caramel drizzle, its a long shot what you want to do but you cant push away the dismay you have for drinking that much caffeine at this time on an supposedly empty stomach. Its a sugary, filling and sweet treat thatll be perfect with the strong espressos hes ordered so grabbing a small plate, you place one on and grab his espresso, making your way back over to him, his eyes reopening just as before when the ceramics touch the table. His eyes light up in delight, then curiosity as he sees the pretzel and you speak before he can say a word.

"You should'nt have this much caffeine on an empty stomach" - Fast, the words tumble out rather clumsily, now hesitant when you see his slightly parted lips still processing your words. You clarify its on the house and Namjoon stumbles on his own words for a few moments before you can feel the appreciation tumbling out of him in waves, his scent stronger but not in a discomforting way, its pleasant, maybe a little mind numbing but any hesitance you had melts in a single sigh and smile"

“Thats so sweet, thank you" - Namjoon instantly reaches to try to pretzel and the accumulation of flavours make his eyes widen comically, the sugars perfectly balanced, texture just perfect, flavour combination incredible and he looks at you incrediously.

"'Its incredible, i should of ordered it earlier-" - Its fond and in awe for he speaks and with a small sip of espresso it only seems to make it better and quietly Namjoon groans and melts in his seat, the warmth of it all re-energising his body just how he needed.

Your absolutely blushing, giggling before you can think at his reaction and feel proud of yourself, like youve done something right. Practically purring with accomplishment, you have to keep your own instinctual reactions in check but the rest of the day your light in your steps, all smiles and gidiness, you got this reaction so often but for some reason it feels different coming from this stranger.

"Oh im so glad!" - Is all you can manage with the sheer size of your smile, your eyes forced almost closed from it and you saunter away leaving him to enjoy, briefly hearing him mumble something about others having to try, not that you know what others hes talking about.

Leaving is harder than Namjoon originally imagined it would be when he finishes everything, quicker than before because its 6:45 and he should really be back for 7. Reluctantly, Namjoon stands and takes the plate and mug over to the counter, just to thank you again, your whizzing around refilling the trays ready for the morning rush and he patiently waits until you notice him, your nose twitching from his scent and you shoot up, back straightening and give him a big smile

"I just want to thank you for this, it was really amazing, so sweet of you too" - Namjoon got out rather shyly, adjusting his glasses on his nose and sending you his dazzling smile and you listened with wide eyes and a resurfacing blush from the praise/compliment. It makes you stutter over your words as you reply, taking the mug and plate over the counter with slightly shaking hands half because you get jittery right before rush times and half from his presence

"Im so happy you enjoyed, m-make sure you eat when your drinking your espressos" - You got the last bit out fast like it was a gamble and while you tried to say it teasingly it came out surprisingly assertive in your caring manner and Namjoon looked at you surprised for a moment before his smile came right back and he laughed gently

"I will do, take care"

"You too!" - You happily reply before he turns on his heel and makes his way out, visibly less tense and tired than before and that makes the pep in your step even more obvious, you hope he'll come back.

"Whats got you all happy sweets?" - Yuqi asks as she just clocked in, teasing but equally curious and you gently blush again

"Oh, nothingg-" - But the tone you say it in blatantly gives it away ad Yuqi just nudges you with her shoulder and a prying smile before getting to attend the first customers of the morning rush.

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Its been 6 months since BTS has been back together, everyone finishing military service and it was joyous and then it was hard. Friends all around of the same age are getting married, having children and none of BTS have been able to settle down with who hey think is forever. Of course theyve had their flings, relationships both long and short term but in the end, they are where they are now, no one in a relationship and it does take a toll. It can be lonely.

Especially with the stress of they're arguably most important comeback yet, everyones beyond exhausted, drained. Theyve changed in good ways since the military, more confident than ever, comfortable in themselves and everyones put on a lot of muscle but none of that changes that fact that something is missing, a small hole in each of their hearts, collectively a hole in their pack. They dont talk about it- about what would happen if one of them did settle down with someone forever, if their pack would split but collectively no one can see it happening, they go through everything together and any sort of split would feel like heartbreak.

Rejoining Yoongi and Hoseok in the studio, 7am sharp, Namjoon walks with a bounce, eyes no longer trying to close on themselves and hes brought back to life in a way the company's coffee definitely can't bring. The two older members are sitting in pure confusion at the easy energy Namjoon has just gained out of nowhere and they watch silently for a second at the small smile settled on his lips before they decide to actually ask.

"Where did you go to get all happy?" - Because surely he hadnt got laid in the hour that he left- thats not like Namjoon but the blush that graces his face at being called out makes them oh so curious as to what their leaders been up to.

"I just went and got some coffee and breakfast"

"From here?" - Hoseok said with disbelief because he knows it isnt good like that

"No uh- you know that cafe everyones been talking about?"

"Im sure ive heard of it in passing, that good huh?" - Yoongi thinks it must be glorious because wow Namjoon seems as happy as he did the day he got to go home from the military

"Ah yeah its really good- i only went there for a coffee to go but i didnt really want to leave, youve got to go and see what i mean"

"what, like the atmosphere or the coffee?"

"well both and- theres this really sweet omega"

"come on spit it out Joon"

"She made my espressos and they were so good but she bakes- i think shes the one who bakes atleast- and she brought me over a fresh pretzel telling me i shouldnt be drinking caffeine on an empty stomach and hyung she just cared-"

"Joon you sound like- lovestruck." - Yoongi added in a flat tone, really not understanding where he was going with this

"Yeah, it sounds more like she was lecturing you" - Hoseok adds hesitantly

"You just have to see, it was really sweet and it made my morning better alright?" - Namjoon sighed and the two elder members decided to lay off and just appreciate the energy he was bringing

"Come with me, later or tomorrow and we will go get coffee there, its really nice" - Yoongi hummed in agreement because he never said no to caffeine and Hoseok agreed because he wouldnt help but be jealous of the joy Namjoon was experiencing considering how they'd all been recently.

Namjoon couldnt wait to go back and get another apple and cinnamon pretzel.

Hi everyone! I really hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this new fic, please do let me know what you think, as always my asks are open!

Thank you so much for reading!

Mwah 💖

ཐི♡ཋྀ

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[mydearzero]

The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader - Chapter 11 | Distance

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter. 

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, therapy, depression, anxiety

Read it on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 10

WC: 2.4K

A/N: this took a little longer than the rest has, sorry! Very busy at my job currently. Will try to update more regularly!

Another week, another appointment with Dr. Sofen. You were becoming quite familiar with the waiting room by this point. Bob had insisted on going by himself, you had insisted on coming along. You won, of course. Bob proved to be an easy person to win over. 

You picked at the loose threads of the couch, scrolling through your phone for any news on what O.X.E. was up to. Valentina’s surprise visit a while back still hadn’t left your mind. What did she want with Bob? Hadn’t she done enough? 

You came up empty, again. Whatever Valentina was up to, she was doing it under the radar. She was a smart woman, you had to give her that.

The door opened very early into the session, revealing Dr. Sofen when you had expected Bob. She made eye contact and called you inside. Confused, you put your phone in your pocket and got off the couch, following the woman into the room where Bob was still seated in a comfy chair. He gave you an awkward smile as a greeting. You returned the smile, before turning to Dr. Sofen. 

“Please, sit,” she gestured to the empty armchair next to Bob’s. She sat across from you both, crossing her legs and picking up her clipboard to continue writing. 

“So, from what Robert explains, you’ve been tasked with taking care of him and keeping him company, correct?” She tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. She was pretty, you noted. 

“Correct…” You confirmed. What did his therapy sessions have to do with you? 

“I’ve discussed it with Robert and we think it’s best to keep you away, maybe for a little while, just to try it out. It’s not that I don’t think your presence is useful, it definitely has been, but I think we need to see what Robert can achieve on his own now that he has professional help. We thought it best to also discuss it with you, seeing as you’re the one who currently spends the most time with him. What do you think?” 

You were speechless. Sure, Bob was doing better. And she had a point, he was getting professional help now. Were you even necessary anymore?

“It feels a bit soon…” You winced. “It’s not that I think Bob can’t do this himself, he definitely can, I’m just not sure if the timing is exactly right. Maybe further along the process?” 

You turned to Bob, who seemed to be avoiding your gaze. He was biting at the skin of his lips and bouncing his leg. He was nervous. 

“Bob, what do you think?” You asked. His eyes snapped to you, mouth agape at being addressed. 

“Well– Like Dr. Sofen said… It could be good to, y’know, try… It’s not that I don’t want you around!” He sputtered. “It’s just… For my process… The being alone part– I’m gonna have to do it sometime. Why not now?” 

You slumped in your chair. You couldn’t exactly go against Bob’s wishes. Was it selfish of you to say you weren’t sure this was the right thing to do? Was it the money talking? No… It hadn’t been about the money for a while now. 

“Are you sure?” is all you managed to get out after thinking it over for a while. You thought Bob might’ve been unhealthily attached to you, but maybe, just maybe, the attachment was somewhat mutual. 

Bob looked to Dr. Sofen, who nodded, before he turned back to you, also nodding. “Just to try it out. A few days.” 

“Okay,” you sighed, rubbing your hands on your thighs. You were more nervous about this whole ordeal than you’d expected. Whether it was concern for Bob, for yourself or both, you weren’t sure. 

“Thank you,” Dr. Sofen smiled. “You may leave. I will continue the session with Robert and he will make his way back home by himself as a first trial. You can contact Ms. Belova if you have any concerns.” 

You got up off the armchair and walked to the door. You put your hand on the handle and gave Bob one last glance over your shoulder before leaving the room. He looked content, giving you a small, supportive smile. 

Everything in your mind was screaming at you to go back and go get Bob while you were on your way back to the tower. All your stuff was there, you’d have to go get it before being able to go home. It felt wrong to leave the therapist’s office without Bob. Anything to help him in the long run, I guess. 

Bucky looked surprised to see you get off the elevator alone. You gave him a small wave before retreating to your room to pack your bag. You’d leave some of your things. An excuse to come back? Maybe. Definitely. 

A knock came at your door, which you’d left open. You turned around to find the Winter Soldier standing in your doorway with a look of concern. “Everything alright? Where’s Bob?” 

“Everything’s fine,” you smiled tightly. You didn’t convince yourself, but hopefully it fooled him. “He’s still with Dr. Sofen. We’re doing a bit of a trial run to see how he does without me around. Nothing to worry about.” 

“Isn’t it a bit soon?” Bucky wondered. He sat on the chair in the corner of the room as you continued gathering your things. 

“That’s what I said! But it was a mutual decision between them and I’m inclined to trust the opinion of the professional. I’m sure they deal with stuff like this all the time.” You looked under the bed for your charger, but only found Bob’s pyjama pants. You scrunched them and threw them in the laundry hamper to Bucky’s side. 

“Oh I’m sure they deal with people with superhuman abilities and the capability to destroy the entirety of New York in a blink all the time, yes,” Bucky scoffed a laugh. 

“You’re not exactly making me feel any better about this, Barnes,” you sent him a lighthearted glare. 

He shrugged his shoulders. “‘M just saying… I’m not sure how I feel about this arrangement. Did you talk to Yelena about it?” 

“No, I came straight here to come get my stuff. Have you seen my charger?” You opened your bedside drawer for the third time. 

“Bob’s side,” Bucky pointed. “You should at least tell Yelena before you leave. I’m sure she has… opinions.” 

“It’s not Bob’s side! And besides, even– Oh you’re right, thanks.” You found the charger on the other side of YOUR bed, lying on the floor next to… Bob’s sweater. “I’ll talk to her, but I’m still leaving. Doctor’s orders.” 

Bucky got up wordlessly as you zipped your backpack closed, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Even when you’d packed all your essentials, the room was still littered with you. God, when was the last time you’d even been home? A week ago? Two? Maybe some distance would do you some good, as well. 

You walked to the elevator and pressed the button for one floor down, the training floor. Leftovers from the OG Avengers Tower. Thank you, Valentina, for being so damn lazy and stingy with renovations. It worked out in the team’s favour. 

It was on the floor below where you found Yelena, aggressively punching a dummy. The kicks she was performing were impressive, to say the least. You sometimes forgot these people were all trained assassins, killers, super soldiers. 

“Where’s Bob?” She questioned, without turning around. 

“How’d you know it was me?” 

“Footsteps. You start to recognize them after a while,” she finally turned around and spotted the bag flung over your shoulder. “You’re leaving?” 

“Yeah, just for a little bit. Bucky told me to come talk to you about it.” 

She grabbed a bottle of water from the floor and pointed at a towel hung over some other workout equipment by your side. You threw it to her and she wiped her forehead. She started unwrapping her hands and sat down on the bench. You took it as an invitation to join her. 

“Bob’s still at Dr. Sofen’s, by the way,” you mentioned, remembering the question she’d asked. You handed her the discarded protein bar that had been lying on the other side of the bench. She unwrapped it and took a generous bite. 

“Doesn’t explain why you’re here or why you’re leaving. Are we not paying enough? You’re a college student, I’m pretty sure there’s no job in New York that pays more than we pay you.” Always speaking with her mouth full. 

You laughed. “If I wanted more money I’d have to go rob a bank, or something. I’m pretty sure I can retire by the time I’m like… 40, if we continue at this rate.” 

“Not earlier? We pay a lot.” She offered you a bite of her protein bar, but you politely declined. 

“I calculated for inflation,” you joked. Yelena chuckled before turning serious again. 

“But seriously, why are you leaving?” 

“It’s on the advice of Dr. Sofen. I understand, to some extent. He needs to learn to be able to be alone,” you shrugged, kicking your shoes against the matted gym floor. 

“I’m not sure I’m a big fan of this,” Yelena shook her head. 

“You and me, both. But she said to contact you if I had any concerns. I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s been doing okay recently.” You tried to make yourself feel better about it, but it still felt off. Were you a Bob addict? Were these the first signs of withdrawals? 

“I’ll talk to her,” Yelena got up off the bench and walked to the elevator. You joined her, only going up to say goodbye before intending to go back down to the lobby and go home. 

The elevator doors opened to reveal Bob. You must’ve taken longer than you thought if he was already done with his session and back home. 

“What are you still doing here?” He asked when he saw you. The question and his tone when asking it took you aback. It stung. 

“Just grabbing some of my stuff to go back home. Everything go okay with Dr. Sofen?” Yelena and you joined him in the elevator. A short ride, as they only had to go up the one floor. 

“Fine,” Bob dismissed. What had gotten into him? 

“Okay…” You replied. The doors opened and Bob and Yelena got off, leaving you behind. “See you later, guys.” 

“Later!” Yelena yelled as the doors closed. Bob didn’t respond. You grabbed your headphones and turned on some music on the ride down to the lobby, turning it up just a little louder than you usually would. You were feeling too conflicted about all of this and it was giving you a headache. 

You arrived home by dinnertime and for the first time in what felt like weeks, you ate alone. You’d gotten used to always eating with at least some of the members of the team. Usually just Yelena and Alexei, but oftentimes it was more lively. It felt oddly quiet by yourself. 

And not the kind of quiet you had when it was just you and Bob. That silence was comforting, homey. This silence was lonely and empty. 

When even watching your favourite show couldn’t settle the feeling in your stomach, you gave up and allowed yourself to wallow in self pity. He was probably doing just fine without you. It was only for a couple of days. Nothing to worry about. 

You mindlessly scrolled your phone with your show playing in the background when a text from Walker popped up. 

Where are you? 

You quickly typed a response. 

Didn’t Yelena tell you? 

Yeah she did, but it’s stupid. You don’t stop taking pain meds bc it’s working. 

Are you saying I’m Bob’s pain meds? lol

Not important. You don’t stop doing something the second it starts working. That’s dumb. Come back. I’m just following the Dr.’s advice, John.  Well maybe we need to find a different doctor. He’s sulking. That’s not good.  He’ll get over it.  Besides, it’s just a few days. I think we’ll live.  I’m calling a team meeting about this. Will keep you updated.  Whatever, Walker. Goodnight.  Goodnight. 

While you disagreed with him and tried to do your best to stand behind your words, you couldn’t. Yelena said she’d talk to Dr. Sofen. Just call Yelena tomorrow and wait for whatever comes out of the team meeting and everything will be alright. 

You got ready for bed and settled in under the blankets. You tossed and turned and tried to fall asleep but had to damn yourself after a while. You couldn’t sleep. You didn’t want to admit with your head what your heart already knew. You’d gotten used to sleeping with him in your bed. You couldn’t help but wonder whether back at the tower, a certain brown haired man was having the same problem. 

You didn’t sleep a wink that night. 

Neither did Bob.

Chapter 12

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[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 12) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @krystiana @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @fadedintime @theoriginalgirll

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Three days after Hernandez, the nightmares still came. You'd wake gasping, the sound of gunshots echoing in your mind, the feel of the trigger beneath your finger replaying in endless loops. The first kill was supposed to change you—that's what you'd always heard, at least. Your father's men spoke of it in hushed tones, this crossing of a threshold that separated those who could survive in your world from those who couldn't.

What disturbed you wasn't that you felt changed, but how natural it had felt. How right. How justified. Shouldn't there be more guilt? More hesitation when you remembered how easily you'd pulled that trigger three times?

Morning light filtered through the pool house curtains, casting warm patterns across the bed as you blinked away the remnants of another restless night. Lewis was already up—you could hear the quiet sounds of movement from the adjoining bathroom, the precise routine he maintained regardless of circumstances.

You pulled yourself up against the headboard, running fingers through your tangled hair as Lewis appeared in the doorway, already dressed in slacks and a cashmere sweater despite the early hour.

"Nightmares again?" he asked, his perceptive gaze missing nothing.

You nodded, not bothering to hide it. "Same one."

Lewis crossed to the bedside, setting down a steaming mug of tea on your nightstand—the perfect temperature, with the exact amount of honey you preferred. This small domestic ritual had become part of your mornings in the days since Hernandez, Lewis providing wordless comfort in his characteristically practical way.

"It gets easier," he said, perching on the edge of the bed beside you. "Not because you become callous, but because you learn to compartmentalize."

"Is that what you do?" you asked, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. "Compartmentalize?"

Something flickered across his features—a brief glimpse behind the controlled exterior he maintained so effortlessly. "It's the only way to function in our world. To separate the necessary violence from the rest of life."

His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy that still sometimes caught you by surprise. In the seven weeks since your wedding, these small gestures of connection had gradually increased, accelerating since Scotland and even more since the night you'd killed Hernandez. As if that final proof of your capability had removed some last barrier between you.

"Does it bother you?" you asked, the question that had been circling your mind for three days finally finding voice. "What I did?"

Lewis studied you, his dark eyes holding yours with unexpected warmth. "No," he said simply. "Should it?"

"Most husbands probably wouldn't want to see their wives kill someone."

The corner of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile that had become increasingly familiar. "I think we established quite some time ago that this isn't a typical marriage."

You couldn't help but smile in return. "I suppose we did."

A knock at the door interrupted the moment, Miles's voice calling from outside. "Lewis? Naomi's here with those reports you asked for."

Lewis's expression shifted seamlessly back to business mode, though his hand lingered on yours a moment longer. "Tell her I'll be right there."

"You should go," you said, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared tea. "I'm fine, really."

Lewis studied you for a moment longer, as if assessing the truth of your statement, before nodding once. "We'll talk more later. My mother called again yesterday—apparently Roscoe is driving her mad. She says he misses you."

The mention of the bulldog brought a genuine smile to your face. "I miss him too. When do you think it'll be safe to get back to him?"

"Soon," Lewis promised, rising from the bed with that fluid grace that made even simple movements seem deliberate. "Once the Suarez situation is fully resolved."

You nodded, understanding the reality beneath the simple statement. Until Suarez was killed, no one in your orbit was truly safe—not even a wrinkly-faced bulldog who'd claimed your affection during those first uncertain weeks in London.

"Go," you urged, settling back against the pillows. "Don't keep Naomi waiting. I'll meet you at the main house later."

With a final assessing look, Lewis departed, leaving you alone with your tea and the lingering warmth of his presence.

An hour later, showered and dressed, you made your way across the snowy grounds to the main house. Security personnel nodded respectfully as you passed—a subtle but significant shift from the polite dismissal they'd shown before Hernandez. Word had spread quickly, the details likely embellished with each retelling, your status within both your father's organization and Lewis's permanently altered by three bullets and unflinching resolve.

You found Lewis in your father's study with Miles and Naomi, their voices low but tense as you approached the partially open door.

"—make sense given what we know about his movements," Naomi was saying, her pragmatic tone carrying that edge of frustration it always held when her insights were being questioned. "The timing of his communications with Suarez coincided too perfectly with separate information breaches."

"We've been through this," Miles countered, fatigue evident beneath his usual easy manner. "Hernandez had access to all the compromised systems. We've run full security audits on everyone else in the organization."

"And found nothing," Naomi acknowledged. "Which either means we're missing something, or—"

"Or someone is hiding their tracks very well," Lewis finished, his voice carrying that quiet authority that commanded attention without volume.

You pushed the door open fully, drawing all three pairs of eyes to you. Lewis's expression softened fractionally, an almost imperceptible shift that few would notice but which you'd learned to recognize as his version of a welcome.

"Sorry to interrupt," you said, though the apology was mere formality given your position.

"Not an interruption," Lewis replied, gesturing you into the room. "Naomi was just updating us on her continuing investigation into Hernandez's contacts."

Naomi nodded, her professional demeanor never wavering despite the circumstances. "I still think there's more to this than just Hernandez."

"Have you discussed this with my father?" you asked, moving to stand beside Lewis's chair with natural ease.

"Not yet," Lewis replied, his hand finding yours with casual possession that still occasionally surprised you with its openness. "I wanted more concrete evidence before bringing it to him."

"Wise," you acknowledged, understanding the delicate politics involved.

"If I may," Naomi continued, her focus unwavering despite the subtle shift in the room's dynamic with your arrival, "I'd like permission to conduct a more thorough investigation of this."

Lewis glanced at you, a silent exchange passing between you.

"Do it," you said, the easy authority in your voice sending a flicker of surprise across Miles's face though Lewis merely nodded in agreement. "But discretely."

"Understood," Naomi replied, the barest hint of approval crossing her usually impassive features before she gathered her files and departed with professional efficiency.

Miles followed a moment later, leaving you alone with Lewis in the study that had once been the exclusive domain of your father's business. The change wasn't lost on you—how naturally you now occupied this space, how easily you'd stepped into partnership with Lewis.

"Your sisters were looking for you earlier," Lewis mentioned once the door closed behind Miles. "Something about plans for the afternoon."

You smiled, grateful for the change in topic from security breaches to family matters. "Probably another scheme to get Gabriella out of her pre-Milan panic. She's been reorganizing her closet daily since finalizing her study abroad arrangements."

"Nervous about leaving home?" Lewis asked, his perceptiveness extending even to your sisters' emotional states.

"More excited than nervous," you replied, settling into the chair Miles had vacated. "But you know how it is with Italian families—leaving, even temporarily, is treated like some grand tragedy in the making."

The corner of Lewis's mouth lifted. "I've noticed."

"Will you join us?" you asked, the invitation spontaneous but genuine. "The girls were talking about watching movies in the theater room, maybe ordering in from that Italian place down the road."

Something like surprise flickered across Lewis's features—not at the invitation itself, but perhaps at how naturally it had been extended, how easily you'd included him in these casual family moments.

"If you want me there," he said simply.

"I do," you confirmed, meaning it more than you might have expected even a week ago. Since Hernandez, something had shifted between you yet again—the partnership deepening beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully defined but which felt increasingly necessary.

The afternoon unfolded with surprising normalcy, you and your sisters sprawled across the plush couches in the estate's theater room while debating movie choices with the passionate intensity only Ricci women could bring to such trivial matters.

"Not another superhero movie, Sophia," Maria groaned, tossing a handful of popcorn at her youngest sister. "If I have to watch men in spandex punching each other one more time, I might actually lose my mind."

"It's not just men in spandex," Sophia protested, dodging the popcorn with practiced ease. "It's art. Cultural commentary. Right, Lewis?"

All eyes turned to Lewis, who had settled beside you with characteristic composure despite the chaotic energy of three Ricci sisters in full debate mode. He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused despite his neutral expression.

"I'm afraid I haven't kept up with the current superhero cinematic universes," he admitted, earning dramatic groans from Sophia.

"You're useless," she declared with typical teenage dismissiveness. "What about you, Gabby? Back me up here."

Gabriella, curled at the other end of the couch with her phone perpetually in hand, barely glanced up. "Don't care. As long as it's not another one of Maria's depressing European films where everyone dies at the end and we're supposed to feel enlightened by the experience."

"That was ONE TIME," Maria defended, throwing more popcorn that Gabriella dodged without looking up from her screen. "And it won at Cannes!"

"Which should have been your first warning," Gabriella muttered, her thumbs flying over her phone in what appeared to be an intense text conversation.

You leaned against Lewis's shoulder, these familiar sisterly dynamics creating a strange bubble of normalcy in the midst of everything else happening in your world. His arm settled around you with casual intimacy, his body a solid presence beside yours as the debate continued around you.

"They're always like this," you explained in a low voice, watching as Sophia physically wrestled the remote from Maria while Gabriella continued ignoring them both. "Wait until family dinner tonight with the cousins. It's going to be complete chaos."

Lewis's thumb traced small circles against your arm, the gesture absent-minded but comforting. "I'm beginning to understand why your father spent so much time in his study."

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. "Strategic retreat. The only defense against Ricci women in full force."

The afternoon passed in a blur of movies (Sophia won the first selection, Maria the second), take-out containers from your favorite local Italian restaurant ("It's not as good as Nonna's, but it'll do," was Sophia's ringing endorsement), and the kind of easy banter that only siblings could maintain without causing permanent offense.

What surprised you most was how naturally Lewis integrated into these moments—not fully relaxed, perhaps, but present in a way you hadn't witnessed before. Offering dry commentary on plot holes that sent Sophia into fits of laughter. Listening with genuine interest as Gabriella described the business program she'd be studying in Milan. Observing it all with that careful attention he brought to everything, but without the calculating edge that usually accompanied it.

By the time evening approached and preparations for the extended family dinner began, you found yourself watching Lewis with renewed curiosity. The man who had entered your father's study as potential husband less than two months ago continued to reveal unexpected layers beneath his controlled exterior.

"Earth to big sis," Sophia's voice broke through your thoughts, her finger poking your arm incessantly. "You've been staring at Lewis for like, five straight minutes. It's getting weird."

Heat rushed to your face as you swatted her hand away. "I was not staring."

"You absolutely were," Gabriella confirmed without looking up from her phone. "Major heart-eyes situation happening. Very embarrassing for all of us, honestly."

"Shut up," you muttered, throwing a decorative pillow that Gabriella dodged with irritating ease.

Lewis, who had stepped away to take a call from Miles, returned in time to catch the tail end of this exchange. His eyebrow raised in silent question, amusement evident in his eyes despite his composed expression.

"Ignore them," you advised, rising from the couch with as much dignity as you could muster. "We should get ready for dinner. Vinny and the others will be here soon."

"Vinny's bringing his new girlfriend," Sophia announced with gleeful anticipation of drama. "Aunt Claudia is going to hate her."

"Aunt Claudia hates everyone Vinny dates," Maria corrected, gathering empty takeout containers with uncharacteristic tidiness. "It's her default setting."

"Yes, but this one has tattoos," Sophia countered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "And she's a bartender at that club in the city. You know, the one Uncle Paolo pretends he doesn't go to."

"This dinner is going to be a nightmare," Gabriella predicted, finally looking up from her phone with something like anticipation. "I can't wait."

************************************************

Two hours later, the formal dining room buzzed with the controlled chaos that defined Ricci family gatherings. Your father sat at the head of the table, your mother at the opposite end, with extended family filling the spaces between—Uncle Paolo and his wife Claudia, their son Paolo Jr., Uncle Paolo's daughter Gia from his first marriage, and your other cousins Vinny and Carmine.

Lewis had taken his place beside you with the calm assurance that had marked his presence in family gatherings since the De Garza situation solidified his position. If the boisterous energy of your extended family bothered him, he showed no sign, his composed demeanor providing an interesting counterpoint to the theatrical Italian dynamics playing out around him.

"So, Gabriella," Vinny said through a mouthful of pasta, his gesture with his fork sending a flicker of disapproval across your mother's face. "When do you leave us for the sophisticated European life? Uncle Sal's already talking about how we'll need to find you an Italian husband while you're there. Keep it in the motherland, you know?"

Gabriella rolled her eyes with such force it seemed physically painful. "I'm going to study business, not husband-hunting. And if Papa thinks I'm letting him arrange my marriage like it's 1950, he's completely delusional."

"Worked out okay for your sister," Vinny countered, his gaze shifting meaningfully between you and Lewis. "Arranged marriages are making a comeback, cugina."

"I think one strategic alliance is enough for this generation," you replied dryly, feeling Lewis's hand settle on your knee beneath the table.

"Besides," Vinny continued, turning his attention to Maria, "you're probably next in line anyway. Unless you've already got someone picked out, Uncle Sal?"

Your father made a noncommittal sound, too focused on his osso buco to engage with Vinny's needling. "Maria has time yet."

"Shut up, Vinny," Maria muttered, her fork stabbing with unnecessary force into her salad.

"Gabby already has a boyfriend," Paolo Jr. announced with the gleeful obliviousness of a seven-year-old dropping conversational bombs. "I saw them kissing near the playground!"

The table fell silent for one perfect, crystallized moment before erupting into a cacophony of overlapping reactions.

"What do you mean, a boyfriend?" your father demanded, his fork clattering against his plate as his full attention snapped to his middle daughter.

"Paolo doesn't know what he's talking about," Gabriella insisted, her face flushing despite her attempt at casual dismissal.

"Are you calling my son a liar?" Claudia's grainy New Jersey accent cut through the noise, her expression sharpening as she leaned forward. She was only eight years older than Gia, a fact that created perpetual tension between the two women seated across from each other.

Gabriella gave her a look that clearly communicated 'chill, lady' without saying the words aloud. "I'm saying he's seven and probably confused about what he saw."

"I'm not confused!" Paolo Jr. protested indignantly. "You were kissing that boy with the black hair and glasses!"

You squinted at this description, something tugging at your memory. Black hair and glasses sounded remarkably familiar—specifically, like Giovanni Castellano's son, Marco. The same Castellano boy whom you exaggerated was still communicating with Gabriella while you were talking to his father in Geneva. You'd never thought that that little white lie was indeed the truth.

Another perfect silence descended, this one heavier than the first.

Your father's eyebrows had practically disappeared into his hairline. "Gabriella, is there something you want to tell us?"

Gabriella maintained a stubborn silence, pushing food around her plate with studied concentration.

"Come on, Gabby," Vinny pressed, clearly enjoying the drama he hadn't even needed to create. "You can tell us. Who's the mystery man Paolo caught you with?"

After a long moment, Gabriella sighed dramatically, setting down her fork with precise control. "It's no big deal. We've only been seeing each other for a few months."

"A few months?" your father repeated, his tone suggesting this timeline was somehow the most offensive part of the revelation.

"Who is he?" Sophia demanded, practically vibrating with curiosity. "And why didn't you tell me? I thought we told each other everything!"

Gabriella shrugged, maintaining her mysterious air despite being clearly cornered. "You'll see."

"Is he Italian, at least?" Carmine asked, his expression suggesting this was the bare minimum requirement for family approval.

Gabriella nodded slowly as she continued eating, offering the smallest concession to the interrogation.

"That's good then," Vinny declared with obvious relief. "A nice Italian boy. We don't need any more Brits here." He glanced at Lewis with a smirk. "No offense, pal."

Lewis returned the look with a steel-like glare that had Vinny's Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "None taken," Lewis replied, his tone carrying that subtle edge that never failed to remind people exactly who he was beneath the polished exterior.

"How's he going to feel about you going to Milan for a year?" Maria asked, skillfully redirecting the conversation away from Lewis's intimidating stare and back to Gabriella's revelation.

Gabriella's lips curved into a knowing smile. "He'll be fine."

Something about her confident tone suggested there was so much more to the story, but before anyone could press further, Marco appeared at your father's shoulder, bending to whisper something in his ear.

Salvatore's expression darkened immediately. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he muttered, throwing his napkin onto the table. "It's always something happening! Can't even have a nice dinner with family these days." He looked at Marco with barely contained irritation. "Tell him I'll meet with him shortly."

As Marco departed, your father turned to your mother with an apologetic shrug that didn't quite mask his underlying tension. "I have to handle some business with Tommy V and the guys," he explained. Your father's gaze shifted to Lewis, something calculating entering his expression. "Lewis, come join us. We have to handle business in AC."

Atlantic City. The destination alone told you what kind of "business" this would be—the strip clubs there served as neutral meeting grounds for certain negotiations that required distance from New York territories.

Lewis glanced at you, a silent question in his eyes—would you be alright without him, given the nightmares and the lingering aftermath of Hernandez?

You nodded slightly. "I'll see you later."

With that subtle permission granted, Lewis leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek, then turned back to your father. "Of course." Your father nodded approvingly before Lewis addressed Miles, who had been sitting quietly near the door as was his custom during family meals. "Miles, stay with my wife. Make sure Naomi and Jensen maintain security protocols while we're gone."

Miles didn't look pleased with the assignment—clearly preferring to accompany Lewis—but nodded his agreement without protest.

As your father, Uncle Paolo, and Lewis prepared to depart, the remaining family members exchanged knowing looks. Business in Atlantic City meant not just meetings but the inevitable distractions such establishments offered—beautifully appropriate for the men who had just been interrogating Gabriella about her love life to now disappear to a strip club for "business."

"Be safe," your mother called after them, her tone suggesting she was well accustomed to these sudden departures despite the tension that never quite left her eyes when your father headed into potentially volatile negotiations.

The door had barely closed behind them when Sophia turned to Gabriella with renewed determination. "Okay, spill. Who is this Italian boyfriend and why is it such a big secret?"

As Gabriella deflected with practiced ease, you found your thoughts following Lewis. The contrast struck you suddenly—how naturally he had fit into your family dinner, how easily he now moved between your world and his own. The man who had entered your father's study as potential husband less than two months ago had somehow become an integral part of your reality, his presence no longer foreign but necessary.

Miles caught your eye from his position near the door, his professional manner not quite masking his obvious concern about Lewis heading into negotiations without him. You offered a small, reassuring smile—both of you knowing that whatever business awaited in Atlantic City, Lewis was more than capable of handling it.

*******************************************************

The Atlantic City strip club pulsed with muted bass and strategic lighting, designed to flatter both the dancers and the clientele while maintaining enough shadow for private conversations. Lewis followed Sal and Paolo through the main floor, his expression betraying nothing despite the performances happening on elevated platforms around them.

Tommy Venucci waited in a private room toward the back, his slight limp evident as he rose to greet Salvatore with exaggerated deference. "Don Ricci," he said, the formality deliberate in the presence of others. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Sal's nod was barely perceptible as he took his seat at the head of the small table. "This better be worth interrupting my family dinner, Tommy."

"It is, I promise," Tommy assured him, his gaze shifting nervously to Lewis before returning to Sal. "The Colombians are here. They want to renegotiate distribution terms."

Lewis maintained his position slightly behind Sal's right shoulder, the traditional place for a trusted lieutenant—or in this case, son-in-law, who had proven his loyalty. From this vantage point, he had clear sightlines to both entrances and could observe everyone's expressions without being the direct focus of attention.

The door opened again, admitting three men whose expensive suits and careful movements marked them as something other than ordinary club patrons. The leader stepped forward, his face breaking into genuine surprise as he caught sight of Lewis.

"Hamilton," he said, his Colombian accent wrapping around the name with familiar ease. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Lewis stepped forward, extending his hand with the confidence of established connection. "Alejandro. It's been a while."

Salvatore's eyebrows rose slightly, his gaze shifting between the two men with newfound interest. "You know each other?"

"We've done business for years," Alejandro confirmed, his handshake with Lewis lingering with the weight of shared history. "Hamilton's weapons have helped us maintain certain competitive advantages in disputed territories."

Salvatore's expression shifted from surprise to satisfaction, as if Lewis's connection further validated his choice in arranging the marriage. "Small world."

"Getting smaller every day," Alejandro agreed before turning back to Lewis. "Congratulations are in order, I hear. Marriage suits you."

Lewis nodded, accepting the comment with characteristic restraint. "Thank you."

"And to a Ricci daughter, no less," Alejandro continued, genuine admiration in his tone as he glanced at your father. "You chose well, Don Ricci. Hamilton's reputation for loyalty is legendary in our circles."

Sal couldn't quite hide his pleasure at this endorsement, his chest puffing slightly with pride as if he'd somehow discovered Lewis rather than simply selecting from options presented to him. "My daughter deserves the best."

As the men settled around the table to begin their negotiations, Lewis resumed his position behind Sal, his attention divided between the business discussion and the subtle dynamics playing out between old and new alliances. What had begun as Sal's strategic arrangement had evolved in unexpected ways, creating connections that benefited not just the Ricci organization but Hamilton operations as well.

The thought of you waiting back at the estate crossed his mind briefly—your strength in executing Hernandez, your natural command with his people, your easy integration of him into family moments. Not at all what he had expected when entering that study seven weeks ago to negotiate for your hand, but increasingly valuable beyond any strategic calculation.

"Hamilton," Alejandro's voice pulled him back to the present moment. "Your thoughts on this distribution proposal?"

Lewis stepped forward, seamlessly joining the negotiation with practiced ease. "The percentages are fair, but your timeline needs adjustment. Three shipments in the first quarter creates unnecessary risk with the increased Coast Guard presence."

Alejandro nodded thoughtfully, clearly valuing Lewis's input. "What do you suggest?"

"Two larger shipments instead of three smaller ones. Same volume, lower profile," Lewis explained, his tone carrying that quiet authority that commanded attention without force. "I can provide additional security measures for the increased payload."

The discussion flowed smoothly after that, the Colombian's trust in Lewis clearly easing tensions that might otherwise have complicated negotiations with Salvatore. Within an hour, terms had been agreed upon, papers signed, and handshakes exchanged with the practiced formality of men accustomed to sealing deals in unconventional locations.

As Alejandro and his associates departed, Salvatore leaned back in his chair with evident satisfaction. "Good work, Hamilton."

Lewis nodded his acknowledgment, already calculating how long it would take to return to the estate. To you.

But Salvatore had other ideas. His attention had shifted to the main stage where a new dancer had appeared—tall and statuesque with mocha skin and long, flowing hair that cascaded down her back. Her movements were hypnotic, a practiced sensuality that commanded the attention of every man in the room.

"No rush to get back, is there?" Salvatore said, his expression shifting to something more relaxed, more indulgent. "Let's enjoy the entertainment for a while. It's been a successful night."

Lewis maintained his neutral expression despite his growing unease. This aspect of business negotiations had never appealed to him—the objectification, the performance of masculinity, the expected participation in rituals he found unnecessary at best, distasteful at worst.

Salvatore gestured toward a booth with a clear view of the stage, clearly interpreting Lewis's silence as agreement. With no graceful way to refuse without potentially offending his father-in-law, Lewis followed, taking a seat with calculated composure.

The dancer moved with fluid grace, her routine clearly well-rehearsed yet performed with an artistry that elevated it above mere exploitation. Salvatore watched with unabashed appreciation, while Lewis maintained his stoic demeanor, his thoughts elsewhere despite his physical presence.

Noticing Lewis's evident discomfort, Salvatore leaned over with a knowing smirk. "What she doesn't know won't kill her," he said, the implication clear in his tone.

Lewis kept his expression neutral, neither agreeing nor openly disagreeing with his father-in-law's philosophy. The tension in his jaw was the only indicator of his discomfort, a tell so subtle most would miss it entirely.

A server approached their table, offering a tray of expensive cigars with practiced deference. Salvatore selected one immediately, while Lewis hesitated before eventually taking one as well. The server leaned down to light it for him, her low-cut top providing a deliberately provocative view of her breasts as she did so. Her eyes met his with calculated invitation, a silent offer of more than just service.

Lewis didn't react beyond a polite nod of thanks, taking a slow draw from the cigar as the server moved away, clearly disappointed by his lack of response.

Salvatore chuckled, clapping Lewis on the shoulder with unexpected familiarity. "Look at you, finally letting loose a little," he commented, misreading Lewis's acceptance of the cigar as some kind of concession to the environment.

"Your daughter is waiting for me back at the estate," Lewis replied simply, the statement both explanation and reminder of his priorities.

Something in Salvatore's expression shifted—surprise, perhaps even respect. He studied Lewis with newfound consideration before nodding slowly. "You're truly a loyal man, Hamilton. We need more of you in this world. I'm glad we chose you."

"Thank you," Lewis responded, the sincerity behind the words evident despite his characteristic restraint.

Salvatore leaned back to sit more comfortably, his own cigar held expertly between his fingers as he turned his attention back to the stage. "But a man needs vices, you know. Something to keep him sane, from going over the edge."

"Like your daughter," Lewis reminded him, taking another measured draw from his cigar. "She's my vice."

The statement hung between them, weighted with meaning beyond the simple words. Salvatore gave him a curt nod, understanding dawning in his expression.

"I see how this is going down," Salvatore conceded with surprising grace. "I won't push you anymore, but I am allowed to have my own vices." He gestured toward the dancers on stage, the motion encompassing the entire environment.

"You are," Lewis concurred, neither judging nor endorsing his father-in-law's choices.

Tommy Venucci appeared beside Salvatore, leaning down to whisper something in his ear before handing him a stack of ones. Salvatore's face lit up with boyish enthusiasm that seemed strangely at odds with his usual commanding presence.

"Tommy's arranged a private dance," he explained to Lewis, already rising from his seat. "You're welcome to join, or—"

"I'll wait here," Lewis replied smoothly, relieved at the opportunity to maintain some distance while not openly refusing his father-in-law's hospitality.

Over the next hour, Lewis found himself politely declining numerous offers—drinks from servers with suggestive smiles, dances from performers with practiced seduction techniques, even a direct proposition from a woman who claimed to be "not really a dancer, just filling in" with an emphasis that suggested higher-end companionship.

Through it all, he maintained his composed exterior while his thoughts repeatedly returned to you—to the complex, capable woman who had executed Hernandez with unflinching resolve, who had stood up to her father with unexpected authority, who had somehow become essential to him in ways that transcended their strategic beginning.

When Salvatore finally emerged from the private room, slightly disheveled but evidently satisfied with the evening's entertainment, Lewis rose immediately. "Shall we head back?" he suggested, careful to keep any hint of judgment from his tone.

The drive back to the estate was conducted mostly in silence, Salvatore occasionally breaking it with observations about the Colombians or comments on business matters, while Paolo dozed in the back seat, clearly having indulged more heavily in the club's offerings.

It was late when they finally arrived, the estate quiet under the watchful eyes of security personnel who nodded respectfully as Lewis made his way to the pool house after brief goodbyes to Salvatore and Paolo. The night air was crisp against his skin, carrying the scent of snow and the promise of another storm approaching.

Inside the pool house, he moved quietly through the darkened living area, assuming you would be asleep given the hour. But as he entered the bedroom, he could sense your presence immediately—awake, alert, waiting. You sat up against the headboard, makeup removed, hair wrapped neatly in your bonnet, expression unreadable in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

"You smell like them," you said, disgust evident in your voice as Lewis closed the door behind him.

"My apologies. I'll take a shower then," he replied, neither defensive nor apologetic, simply acknowledging the reality.

"You had fun, didn't you? With the guys?" Your tone carried an edge that drew a dark chuckle from Lewis, surprising both of you with the sound.

"Do you really want to go down this route, babygirl?" he asked, his eyes finding yours in the darkness. "You know me. You know who I am."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. "You're a man, Lewis, and men—"

"I am not the same as other men," he interrupted, a brief flare of frustration breaking through his usual control. "You could've said no, right? You could've told me not to go tonight."

"I know that, Lewis," you replied in an obvious tone, watching intently as he slowly removed his clothing, methodically undressing to reveal the tattooed skin beneath.

"So why are you upset? Or is this jealousy then?" The question was direct, characteristic of his preference for clarity over emotional games.

You gasped at the accusation, though its accuracy was evident in your reaction. Lewis clicked his tongue disapprovingly, a smirk gradually forming on his face as understanding dawned.

"Oh babygirl, you don't need to be jealous, at least not with me. I'm devoted to you," he said, the statement simple but carrying unmistakable weight.

"Are you?" you countered, the sass in your tone deliberate, challenging.

Your words made Lewis's eyes darken, his expression shifting to something more primal than his usual controlled demeanor. "There she is, my little brat coming out to play. We're doing this?" he asked, finally removing the last of his clothing, standing before you with confidence that bordered on arrogance.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you replied, feigning innocence despite the tension crackling between you.

"Don't play coy," Lewis said, approaching the bed with deliberate slowness. "I know how this game works, and I was willing to not probe and wait until you were ready, especially after what happened... but it seems as if you are."

A weighted silence fell between you, a battle of wills conducted through unwavering gazes.

"You always take the whole rope, don't you?" he observed, the metaphor deliberate and loaded with meaning.

"I—"

"Come 'ere," he commanded, his voice dropping to that dominant register that never failed to send a shiver down your spine.

"Lewis—"

The look he gave you stopped your words instantly, his raised eyebrow making it clear that refusal wasn't worth the effort. Slowly, you swept the covers off and padded toward him, your heartbeat accelerating with each step, goosebumps forming on your skin in anticipation.

Once you stood before him, Lewis pulled you close, allowing you to fully experience the scent of strippers and cigar smoke still lingering on his skin. Your face contorted in disgust as you tried to pull back.

"You still smell like them," you protested, attempting to create distance that Lewis immediately negated by drawing you closer.

"Then let's clean me off," he challenged, already leading you toward the bathroom with determined purpose.

You turned slightly to reach for a towel or maybe even to catch your breath, but Lewis was already there—right behind you, tugging at the hem of your night slip.

The slip lifted slowly over your body, the hem brushing up your thighs, over your hips, then higher still. He didn’t rush it. He wanted to feel the drag of the fabric, wanted to take in every inch of you as you were revealed. The material caught briefly on your breasts before he pulled it free, exposing your bare skin to the cooler air. Your nipples pebbled instantly, sensitive under his gaze.

Lewis leaned down, breath warm against you before his mouth met your skin. He kissed the slope of one breast, then the other, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with just enough pressure to make you gasp. His tongue lapped softly before switching sides, wet and deliberate.

You steadied yourself against his shoulders, trying not to lose your footing, but he didn’t give you the chance to recover. His hands were already on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides as he kissed a slow path across the curve of your chest.

His body was already pressed against yours—hot and solid and unmistakably male. The lean muscle of his frame held tension just beneath the surface, the compass tattoo on his chest inked in precise black lines that pointed north even as he lowered his mouth to worship you. His collarbones were inked too—faint script, sharp lines—and a trail of tattoos stretched along his forearms, disappearing under the flex of muscle as he moved. You traced one absentmindedly as he kissed you, hand drifted lower, brushing against his abdomen, and then lower still where his dick—thick, hard, and already flushed—rested against your belly. You felt it twitch slightly as you leaned into him, the intimacy of it dizzying.

He grinned against your skin before pulling back just enough to turn on the shower. The water hissed to life behind him, steam already curling toward the ceiling. Then he turned back to you—naked and gorgeous, the kind of man who should be carved into marble.

"Get in," he ordered, voice low and full of heat.

You moved to obey, but not before he delivered a sharp slap to your ass, the sound echoing off tile. You yelped, more from surprise than pain, but you didn’t stop. He followed you into the shower a moment later, stepping under the spray just enough to let it soak his braids before he pulled you close again.

The water coursed over both of you, hot and heavy, but Lewis kept you shielded from the brunt of it, positioning his body like a wall. His mouth found yours immediately—sloppy, needy, possessive kisses that had your knees wobbling. You melted into him, fingers exploring his back, your hands smoothing over damp, tattooed skin.

His lips moved over yours, then to your jaw, then your neck, nipping just enough to leave a mark.

"Clean me," he rasped against your throat. “Since you hate how I smell so much.”

You reached for the soap without breaking eye contact, and he smirked like he’d won something. You started at his chest, gently soaping over the compass tattoo, then moved up to his collarbones, your fingers tracing the script there as you worked the lather in slow, circular motions.

He watched you the whole time, his breathing low and steady.

You moved down his arms next, hands smoothing over thick biceps and forearms, gently scrubbing around the lines of his ink. When you finally dropped to your knees, it wasn’t submission—it was ritual. You worked carefully down his torso, around the rose on his ribs, then along the sharp lines of his hips.

"Delicate hands," he murmured, voice thick with pride and desire.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

When your hands reached his dick, you were gentle. Not teasing—just reverent. You cleaned him like it mattered, like it meant something. You soaped the length of him slowly, tenderly, your hands light but sure.

Lewis hissed softly, head tipping back.

"Fuck, babygirl… you’re too good at this," he groaned, hips twitching slightly as your fingers worked around his base.

You rinsed him just as carefully, letting the water do the work, your hands smoothing over him like you’d been made for this.

"You’re not mad anymore," he noted, looking down at you, water dripping from his lashes. "Or maybe you are. You just like proving a point."

"I’m not proving anything,” you muttered, rising to your feet. "Just cleaning off the smell of other women."

He laughed low in his throat, pulling you back into his chest. "There’s my little brat," he said again, kissing you hard—like a punishment, like a reward.

Water poured down both of you, heat rising with every second.

And the night was far from over.

That same controlled power you enjoyed—calm on the surface but storming underneath—followed Lewis out of the shower as he dried the both of you off. His touch was rougher now, more possessive, the soft towel brushing across your skin before he let it fall to the floor. Your heart fluttered with every pass of his hands, trailing over your body like he was reacquainting himself with what was his.

And you were his.

He led you back into the bedroom, the air was cooler now against your damp skin, but you barely noticed. Lewis's hand on the small of your back was a tether, keeping you grounded in the rising heat between you.

He kissed you before you even hit the mattress—his mouth hot and consuming, tongue demanding entry and devouring yours the second you parted your lips. It wasn’t soft or patient, it was primal. Starved. He maneuvered you back, your thighs opening automatically as he settled between them, mouth never leaving yours.

"Still want to act like I’m not loyal to you?” he murmured between kisses, lips dragging down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone.

You whined, toes curling as he kissed lower, slow, wet presses of his mouth down the valley of your breasts. Your nipples, already sensitive from the shower, were lavished with his tongue again before he continued his descent—over your stomach, the dip of your navel, every deliberate press igniting something wild in you.

And then he got there.

He pulled your thighs apart like he had every right to—and he did—shoulders wedging them open as he dipped his head and flattened his tongue against your pussy with no warning.

"Fuck—Lewis!" you cried out, your hips jerking, but his strong forearms anchored you down.

He was loud. Sloppy. Deliberate. Moaning against you as if he was tasting something decadent and rare, his beard scraping your thighs just enough to drive you mad. Your hands tangled in his braids, gripping for dear life as he flicked, sucked, devoured your clit like it was his last meal.

"Mmhm... yeah, make that sound for me," he groaned against you. "All that attitude, and now you’re just whining like a little slut for me."

Your back arched off the bed, cries of his name leaving your lips as he pushed you further, tongue teasing your entrance, nose rubbing your clit, his rhythm relentless.

"Lewis—" you gasped. "I’m—Lewis, I’m gonna—"

"Do it," he growled, fingers digging into your hips. "I want to feel you come all over my face."

And you did. Violently. Loudly.

You screamed his name as your orgasm tore through you, body trembling, legs shaking uncontrollably. He licked you through it like a man possessed, slowing only when you whimpered from the sensitivity.

Only then did he crawl back up your body, kissing your thighs, your stomach, your breasts, and finally your mouth—letting you taste yourself on his lips. The kiss was messy and sweet and dripping with want.

"Please," you whispered between kisses, batting your lashes at him with a pout. "I need you. Now."

Lewis paused, his dark eyes raking over you, hand braced beside your head.

“I’m not sure you deserve a reward, babygirl,” he said lowly, voice wrapped in amusement and threat. “The way you acted earlier? Accusing me. Throwing your little jealous fit.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have. I was just... I was jealous. I missed you.”

Lewis gave a dark chuckle, sharp and knowing. “You are a little jealous thing, aren’t you?” His hand came up and tugged gently on your bottom lip. “Fine. You want a reward that badly?”

You nodded eagerly, and before you could reply, Lewis’s large palm pressed firmly against your chest, pushing you flat onto the mattress.

You gasped at the sudden dominance, but your grin betrayed you.

Lewis lined himself up between your thighs, his tip dragging slow and sticky over your slit, teasing, watching your eyes flutter in desperation.

"You’ve been teasing me all night," you whined.

"Good,” he said, eyes locked on where you were soaked for him. “Now you’ll remember who you belong to.”

And then he pushed in.

Your mouth fell open in a silent moan as he filled you inch by slow inch, the stretch delicious and deep. Lewis hissed between his teeth, head falling forward.

“Shit, you feel so fucking good. Tight as ever.”

His hips started to move, long, deep thrusts that hit your spot just right—each one stealing breath from your lungs. His rhythm was patient, controlled at first. But when you clawed at his back and wrapped your legs around his waist, he snapped.

“You want it rough now, huh?” he groaned, voice wrecked as he began to fuck you harder, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room. “You’re going to whine again? Beg again? Tell me how sorry you are while I’m splitting you open?”

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, head tipping back as he pounded into you. “I was wrong. You’re mine. I’m yours. Please—don’t stop.”

Lewis growled and leaned down to kiss you hard, biting your lip before whispering against your mouth, “You’re damn right you’re mine. And I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your body met every thrust, desperate and slick and trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. This wasn’t just sex. It was punishment. It was a claim.

And when your release hit again—sudden and brutal—you screamed for him, nails digging into his tattooed shoulders, heart pounding so fast it nearly hurt.

Lewis kissed you through it, hips slowing just enough to let you breathe. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “That's it, babygirl. Let me feel that pussy grip me. Let me know who owns it.”

You could only moan in reply, completely undone beneath him.

And still, he wasn’t finished with you.

You were breathless, spent—and still, he kept moving inside you, now slow and deep, grinding into that tender spot that had your thighs twitching.

“Lewis…” you whimpered, voice barely a sound.

“Shhh,” he murmured against your neck, licking a stripe up to your jaw. “You can take it. You will take it. After all that shit you talked, baby? This is what you earned.”

His thrusts slowed even further, but they hit deeper, rougher with the way he angled his hips. Every drag of him inside you made your body clench and your hands grasp for something, anything—his shoulders, the sheets, the edge of sanity.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you repeated, voice wrecked. “I’m yours.”

He kissed you again, filthier than before, tongue fucking your mouth the way he’d just been fucking your body—commanding, devouring, relentless.

And you kissed him back like you were starving, tasting your own pleasure on his tongue, sighing into the soft pull of his lips. Even now, when your limbs were jelly and your skin was burning, you wanted more.

He pulled back, staring down at you with a smirk, braids damp and hovering around his face.

“You still begging?” he asked, that glint in his eye making your core throb again.

You nodded, lips parted. “Please…”

That wicked smile curved deeper, and he picked up the pace again, fucking you slow and mean, grunting softly every time your pussy squeezed around him. “One more, then. You come one more time, and I’ll let go too.”

Your nails dragged down his back, your body arched into his, everything inside you unraveling at his command. And when that third orgasm crashed over you—sharp, unexpected, and blinding—you cried out his name again, over and over like a broken record.

Lewis cursed, burying his face in your neck as he finally let go, hips jerking, spilling deep inside you with a guttural groan.

He didn’t move right away.

Instead, he stayed there, pressed against you, breathing hard, lips brushing over your shoulder. One hand tangled with yours above your head, the other smoothing over your waist like he was grounding both of you.

You stayed like that for a long moment—sweaty, tangled, and sated.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression softer now, even as that cocky smirk lingered on his lips.

“You really need to stop doubting me,” he muttered, kissing your cheek. “Because if this is what jealousy gets me? You’re going to give me a damn heart attack.”

You giggled, too spent to even sass him back. “Shut up and hold me.”

Lewis chuckled and pulled you into his arms, settling you against his chest. You could already feel the slow thump of his heartbeat, warm and steady beneath your ear.

And as you drifted off in his embrace, your body wrecked but your heart full, you knew two things for sure:

One, you were definitely going to be sore in the morning.

And two, you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

......tbd

[talesofesther]

ten reasons not to kiss her

➥ Ch one: The first reason

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader/fem!OC

Series Summary: Natasha slowly adapts to a life by your side, all the while thinking of all the reasons why she shouldn't kiss you.

A/N: This story is a labour of love. I have loved Natasha for longer than I can remember, and this story is that love written down. If you ever wondered what Natasha would be like as a partner, this story will show you. <3 At first, this was going to be a very long one-shot, but I decided that it looks and works much better divided into chapters. The chapters won't be huge, but the updates will also not take long to come out. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing; let me know your thoughts.

Masterlist

It had been a strange decision from the start.

Natasha did not need an apartment; she could live in a million-dollar tower if she wanted to.

She rented an apartment anyway. It was a small thing, only a couple of blocks away from Stark's tower. Sometimes, free will still felt like a foreign concept. Natasha wanted to break the cycle; she wanted a thing of her own, a home to go back to that was solely hers. And maybe that concept was even more foreign, but she was content.

The time she spent in her apartment didn't have a schedule or pattern. Work kept her away for several days at a time. Good work, clean work—Natasha would tell herself over and over each time she put on her black suit. If she stole files for SHIELD, if she took people's lives, it was for a good cause. She was going clean; she was washing away the red on her ledger.

Natasha told herself over and over. A mantra, muttered under her breath. Maybe if she said it enough times, she'd believe it.

On free days, she went back to her apartment. The decoration was still bare and dull; cream colored walls had no art or portraits on them, there was a single grey couch in front of a flat screen tv, a small kitchen with only the necessary amount of cutlery for one person, and thin curtains that did nothing to keep sunlight away and flowed easily with the wind.

But Natasha liked it. She had bought a small potted plant on a whim; the little thing had its place on her windowsill, and a rush of giddy pride filled Natasha when she noticed a new green leaf had grown after a few days of close care. It was peaceful, it was quiet. Natasha never had anything of her own. This? It belonged to her.

It didn't take too long for Natasha to meet you, then. When she rented the apartment, Natasha forgot to consider that she'd have neighbors.

She was about to step into the only elevator of the building. You, were rushing out of it.

Natasha had quick reflexes; she took hold of both your arms before you could crash into her and undoubtedly spill the coffee inside the to-go cup you were holding.

You gasped in surprise, looking at Natasha with widened eyes. And she frowned, more at herself than at you; because Natasha immediately noticed how beautiful your eyes were, even under the crappy blinking light of the hallway.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." You were quick to say. You had a burgundy scarf around your neck, which matched the pink of your cheeks. Maybe it was colder outside.

One of your hands grasped at the fabric of Natasha's black bomber jacket, around her forearm—out of reflex, no doubt—but Natasha was a little too aware of your touch. She averted her gaze, focusing on the open doors of the elevator behind you.

She shook her head dismissively. "No problem."

"You're my new neighbor."

When Natasha looked at you again, her brow raised with curiosity. She noticed that the smile on your lips was as soft as your voice. Natasha should not be looking at your lips.

"I had noticed the door next to mine was vacant. And then it wasn't." You explained further with a shrug when the redhead, still holding onto your arms, kept silent. Your eyes carefully followed the curls of her red hair. "Welcome."

Natasha held your stare for a second longer. She could only nod. She hurried inside the elevator and away from you faster than she meant to.

There was a kindness to you. Each time you and Natasha happened upon each other again—in the elevator, when you'd be arriving home at night and Natasha was just leaving, sometimes in the street just before going inside the apartment building—you always greeted her with a smile and a small wave, even on the days when she'd give you nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement.

In just a couple of weeks, you became a peculiar variable in Natasha's life, something she wasn't used to. She hadn't accounted on meeting someone like you. Someone as sweet as you.

At first, Natasha avoided you like the plague. At the same time, she secretly always hoped you'd find her, anyway.

And you did, because when Natasha walked into the cozy coffee shop across the street from the building, the face that greeted her at the counter was yours. There was a barely there falter on her steps, a fleeting moment of hesitation where Natasha considered choosing another place to buy coffee. But the poorly contained excitement shining bright in your eyes as soon as you noticed Natasha opening the door kept her hostage.

The place was very inviting, with brick walls, order suggestions written with chalk on blackboards, plush red seats that were too carefully crafted to be from this decade, and a grunge melody coming from a vintage jukebox in the corner.

Natasha reached the counter, gripping the edge with her hands. A beat or two passed, and she pretended to look at the coffee suggestions written to your right.

You waited until she was ready. You were kind like that.

When the redhead chanced a glance at you, that soft smile of yours that Natasha had already memorized the shape of was back; "What can I get you?"

She raised a brow, deciding on a challenge. "Why don't you surprise me?" Natasha's voice was velvety, her smirk tantalizing.

And you did, when you attuned with her quickly. You tapped your pen against your lips once, twice; smile not wavering. You wrote something down in your notepad. "It would be my pleasure."

Natasha chose to sit in a booth by the nearest window, which had a clear view of both the door and the counter.

You brought the coffee to her yourself. A Macchiato, along with a plate holding two chocolate cookies. You placed it in front of her with a quiet "Enjoy" falling past your lips.

Natasha drank the coffee and had to hold back a groan of satisfaction. She took a second sip and glanced up towards the counter in the same heartbeat. You caught her staring, but she caught you staring back. Your eyes had already been on her.

Natasha fought a smile when she watched the way your bashful eyes avoided hers, and a smile of your own framed your pink cheeks and crinkled the sides of your eyes.

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Natasha had trouble looking away from you. She realized, with sudden shortness of breath, that she too became softer in your presence.

This sort of love was not allowed for someone like her. You were both too soft, and the world around you was all knives and chipped teeth. Natasha knew it well. And she should not be looking at your lips. This was the first reason why.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Next chapter

Natasha’s taglist is open, let me know if you’d like to be added. Or you can follow @talesofesther-library and turn notifications on to know when I’ve posted a new story/chapter.

Thank you for reading this chapter. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

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[mcrdvcks]

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 1974 - ...but it was never meant to be

chapter summary: You and Logan have been living in the Canadian Rockies for almost 6 months, enjoying the peace and solitude that comes with it.

word count: 8.9k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this is just fluff, at least until the end... but we're finally hitting the movies! and sorry for it being a bit shorter than the others, there are some ideas i'm saving for a future chapter :))

(p.s. the first sentence about the hotel in nyc is going to be very important to remember for a future chapter...)

warnings/tags: fluff, origins!logan, smut, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, (beginning of) x-men origins, character death

series masterlist - chapter 5 → chapter 7

Leaving was easy once you got past the one incident. You and Logan had stopped that day at a hotel a bit out of New York City only to be found by your father’s men.

But what happened was almost like magic. Logan, your Logan, took them all out with claws. At first you were bewildered, shocked at what you just saw. But now, after 6 months of living in the Canadian Rockies, it was normal.

Normal.

Mornings would start with the soft light streaming through the windows, casting a warm glow over your shared space as Logan brewed coffee and you stretched, enjoying the easy comfort of it all.

Logan had found work quickly enough as a lumberjack, something that kept him outside and busy, and it suited him. Meanwhile, you’d stumbled upon a small animal shelter in the nearby town. You’d started going once or twice a week, helping out with the dogs and occasionally picking up shifts to keep yourself busy and connected to some semblance of normal life.

The routines you fell into together were quiet, steady, and for the first time in a long while, you felt grounded. Though you missed New York sometimes, especially the volunteer work at the retirement home, the silence of the woods and the small town was a peaceful change.

Not only were things peaceful, but Logan had started opening up to you in the quiet of your cabin, usually in the early morning or after one of his nightmares. It started with little things—details about his mutation, his healing ability. Then, as the days blurred into weeks, he told you about his age and the wars he’d fought in, his voice quiet, words weighed down with old memories.

One chilly morning, you found him staring out the window, his gaze distant as he sipped his coffee. You moved up beside him, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Hey, you alright?”

He looked down at you, a flicker of a smile breaking through the shadows. “Yeah. Just… thinkin’,” he murmured, his voice rough but calm.

“Anything you want to talk about?” you offered, watching his face closely.

Logan considered this for a moment, then took a long breath. “I think… just realizin’ how long it’s been since I had somethin’ like this,” he finally admitted, a glint of honesty in his eyes. “It’s been a hell of a road, darlin’.”

You reached out, resting your hand on his forearm. “I don’t need to know everything, Logan. I’m just glad you’re here now.”

He gave a short nod, letting his hand rest over yours, a simple gesture that spoke volumes. He didn’t say anything, but his fingers wrapped around yours, holding them a moment longer than necessary.

---

Life in the cabin wasn’t extravagant, but there was a certain charm in the simplicity. Nights spent by the fire, mornings with the scent of pine and fresh coffee, and the comforting weight of Logan’s arm draped over you as you both drifted into sleep. But there were also the little bumps—like the time you tried making him dinner.

It had been a stew recipe, something you thought would be foolproof. You’d stirred, added spices, tasted… but when you served it, the look on Logan’s face was priceless.

He took a spoonful, eyebrows lifting as he held back a chuckle. “This a new recipe?”

“Okay, I get it—it’s not great,” you sighed, laughing a little as you took a bite yourself. “Alright, yeah, maybe it’s terrible.”

Logan chuckled, setting his spoon down. “It’s not so bad. I mean… it’s got heart.”

You nudged him, rolling your eyes. “Heart doesn’t mean it’s edible, Logan.”

“Maybe not,” he smirked, “but I’ll still eat it.” He winked, lifting another spoonful as he pretended to struggle through the bowl, making you burst into laughter.

---

Late one night, Logan awoke from one of his nightmares. You knew, even before he’d fully come to, just by the way he stiffened beside you. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, and you reached out, fingers brushing his shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you whispered.

He looked down at you, the muscles in his jaw tight. But after a moment, he nodded. “It was a long time ago. Just old ghosts.” He paused, exhaling heavily. “There’s been a lot of violence. Stuff… I don’t ever want you to have to see.”

“I know you’ve seen a lot,” you murmured, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “But you don’t have to go through it alone, Logan. Not anymore.”

Logan’s hand covered yours, and he turned his head just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes soft but searching. “You’ve been more than I deserve, Y/N,” he said quietly.

Your heart twisted, and you reached up to cup his face. “Logan, I don’t care what you’ve done or where you’ve been. All that matters is who you are now.”

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes. “Then I’m one lucky man,” he whispered, his voice low.

He held you close that night, your presence calming the echoes of a past that seemed finally willing to rest, if only for a while.

---

One day you were trying to make something simple, roast chicken and potatoes before Logan got back from work. You diligently checked the oven, making sure that nothing was burning, until Logan came home, wrapping his arms around your waist as you stood up from the oven.

Logan’s hands settled warmly around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder as he looked over at the oven. The familiar, steady weight of him grounded you, even as you felt your heart give a quick little skip at the simple, domestic gesture.

“Smells good in here,” he murmured, his breath brushing your ear as he took in the scent of roasting chicken and herbs. “Didn’t know you were this fancy in the kitchen.”

You let out a small laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “Fancy might be a stretch. I’m just hoping it doesn’t come out dry.”

His arms tightened just a bit, pulling you closer. “Even if it did, I’d still eat it,” he said, a hint of that playful glint in his voice. “Means a lot, havin’ you here. Feels like… home.”

A warmth rose in your chest, one that went beyond the physical, and you leaned back into him, a smile tugging at your lips. “You know, I could get used to this too.” You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “Long days, quiet dinners, just us.”

“Us,” he echoed, his voice softer, thoughtful. There was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes, something unspoken yet weighty. His thumb brushed small, slow circles along your hip, as if anchoring himself in the moment, and he gave you a slight smile that didn’t quite mask the intensity behind it.

Logan was quiet for a moment, and you felt a shift in his posture, almost like he wanted to say something but was holding back. He looked at you in that way he sometimes did—like he was seeing more than just you standing there in your small, cozy kitchen. Maybe he was seeing all the days stretching ahead, those simple moments you’d have together, and the weight of that left him speechless.

“Logan?” you asked, brushing a hand along his arm.

He blinked, then smiled, the intensity in his gaze easing back into something gentler. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ how lucky I am.”

You laughed softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Guess that makes two of us.”

The kitchen fell into a comfortable silence, with just the faint hum of the oven and the quiet, steady beat of Logan’s heart against your back. In the quiet of your little life together, things felt simple, natural. Here, there were no expectations, no obligations—just the two of you, building something real out of those little, ordinary moments.

But later that night, as you drifted off beside him, Logan stayed awake, lost in thought. His hand brushed over the small velvet box in his drawer, the ring that had waited all this time, the one that had been meant for you once before. He ran his thumb along the edge, thinking about when the right time might be—or if he’d even have the chance. For now, though, he’d savor each day, each quiet moment, holding on as tightly as he could.

---

You lay nestled between Logan’s legs on the couch, your head resting comfortably on his chest as you read, while he watched TV, idly sipping his beer. His free hand drifted up and down your arm absentmindedly, and you could feel the faint rumble of his quiet breaths beneath you. There was a calm in the cabin tonight—a peace you’d found only since being with him.

“What’s got you so hooked?” he asked, glancing down at your book with a smirk. “Looks like you’re deep in it.”

You tilted the book so he could see the cover, Jaws. “It’s a book about a shark.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, “a shark, huh?”

You turned back to the book, keeping a small smile hidden. “Kind of. It’s a little deeper than just a shark, though.”

“Deeper than a shark, huh?” Logan smirked, shifting slightly to glance down at you, looking mildly amused. “Didn’t think a fish story could be that interesting.”

“It’s not just any fish, Logan,” you said, letting your hand rest on his as you settled back into his warmth. “This shark’s on a whole other level—a menace, basically unstoppable. And there’s all this tension between the people in the town, like who’s responsible, what to do, whether they even believe it’s happening.”

He gave a soft grunt of understanding, taking a sip of his beer. “Guess I can see why you’re hooked. Townsfolk fighting over a monster they can’t get rid of… kinda familiar.”

You tilted your head to look up at him, a glint of curiosity in your eyes. “You got experience with monsters, Logan?”

“More than you’d believe, darlin’,” he murmured, his eyes holding that far-off look he sometimes got when his mind slipped somewhere else, somewhere harder. But his grip on you stayed gentle, grounding him here.

There was a moment’s quiet, then he smirked, leaning down closer. “But I could take out your shark, no question.”

“Oh, really?” you teased, closing the book and giving him a look of mock skepticism. “A great white shark, Logan. One that can bite clean through a boat. I think even you’d have some trouble with that one.”

He snorted, giving you an exaggerated look of disbelief. “I’m tellin’ ya, I’d have it done in five minutes.”

You laughed, poking his chest. “I’d like to see that. You, in the water, with a shark. You’d probably scare it off.”

“Probably,” he chuckled, his tone playful but carrying a hint of something genuine. “But I’d do it for you.”

His words caught you off guard, softening the teasing banter into something warmer, something real. You looked up at him, and the light in his eyes held a familiar steadiness, a promise you hadn’t expected. You felt a smile creeping up, one that made your heart beat a little faster.

“That’s sweet of you, Logan. But don’t go risking your life over a shark.”

He shrugged, giving a small grin. “Risking my life’s kinda my thing.”

With a smirk, you shifted to put your arms around his neck. “I don’t need you to fight any sharks. I just need you here, safe, preferably not trying to tackle any more sea monsters.”

Logan’s hands came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing along your cheek. “Don’t worry, darlin’. For you, I’d stay outta trouble… or at least, try.”

Your breath caught as he leaned in, his lips brushing yours softly. You melted into him, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath you, the steady beat of his heart, a promise in every kiss, every touch.

When you pulled back, he let out a small sigh, looking at you with a softness that made you feel as though you were the only person in the world.

“Now,” you murmured, your voice quiet as you tried to keep the mood light, “how about you let me finish reading this book before you start making any plans to fight sharks?”

“Fine,” he chuckled, leaning back into the couch, his arms still loosely around you. “But I’m just sayin’, the offer stands.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting back to lean against his chest, your book in hand. But even as you returned to the words on the page, the comfortable silence between you filled every corner of the cabin, your heart warmed by the man beside you.

---

When Logan came home and removed his jacket, the sound of music drifted to his ears, mingling with the low hum of a vacuum. The cabin was warm, a sharp contrast to the biting chill outside, the smell of pine and faint wood smoke greeting him like an old friend. The soft glow of late afternoon sun streaked through the windows, and as he stepped further in, he caught sight of you.

You were standing in the middle of the room, barefoot, wearing one of his old flannels that hung loose on your frame, the hem brushing just below the tops of your thighs. The vacuum roared in your hand as you cleaned, entirely oblivious to his arrival.

Logan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you. Something about this—a simple domestic scene—made his chest tighten, a warmth blooming there that he couldn’t quite name.

“Y’know, you’re not supposed to wear clothes that fit me better than they fit you,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the vacuum’s roar.

Startled, you turned it off with a quick flick of the switch and looked up, a sheepish smile spreading across your face. “Logan! You scared me,” you said.

“Didn’t mean to,” he replied, his tone warm as he pushed off the frame and walked toward you. His boots thudded softly against the wooden floor, and as he got closer, his eyes drank you in, lingering on the way the flannel gaped slightly at the neck, exposing the soft line of your collarbone. “Got a habit of sneakin’ up, I guess.”

You laughed softly, setting the vacuum aside. “If you were a little less loud, I’d think you were some kind of predator.”

“Oh, darlin’,” he said, his grin spreading as he reached for you, hands settling at your waist and pulling you close, “if I wanted to catch you, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Your breath hitched as his words settled between you, his voice a low rumble that always managed to make your knees feel just a little weaker. You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the solidness of him beneath your palms. “Good thing I’m not running then,” you murmured, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

He leaned down, his nose brushing yours. “Good thing,” he echoed, before his lips claimed yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. His hands slid lower, fingers splaying over the curve of your hips, pulling you tighter against him. The flannel you wore rose slightly under his touch, and you gasped softly into his mouth as his fingers found bare skin.

“Logan,” you breathed against his lips, your voice a soft plea.

“Yeah?” he rasped, his mouth trailing down your jawline, his scruff brushing your skin in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine.

“Think you should let me finish cleaning,” you teased, though your hands had already slid up to wrap around his neck, fingers threading through the dark strands at the base of his skull.

He huffed a laugh, his teeth grazing the delicate line of your throat. “Nah, think I got a better idea.”

With a swift move, he bent and swept you off your feet, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. You let out a startled laugh, clinging to him as he carried you toward the couch. “Logan, the vacuum—”

“Vacuum’ll be there later,” he cut in, his voice gruff but tinged with amusement. “Right now, you’re the only thing I’m worried about.”

He set you down gently on the cushions, his large frame hovering over you as he knelt on the floor, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing the flannel higher. The intensity in his gaze sent a flush rising to your cheeks, your heart pounding in anticipation.

“Been thinkin’ about you all day,” he admitted, his voice thick, raw. His hands paused, fingers curling just under the hem of the shirt. “Mind if I show you how much?”

You nodded, breathless, and he smiled—a rare, almost boyish expression that quickly dissolved into something darker, hungrier. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that left no room for doubt about where his mind was. His hands roamed freely now, skimming along the curve of your thighs, pushing the flannel higher and higher, exposing bare skin to the cool air of the room.

“Goddamn,” Logan muttered against your lips, his voice thick, raw. His hands splayed across your thighs, gripping them as though grounding himself, his thumbs brushing along the tender skin there. “You’re a fuckin’ dream, darlin’.”

A shiver ran through you, anticipation building as his kisses trailed lower, down your jaw, your neck, leaving a path of warm, open-mouthed caresses. You gasped softly, your hands tangling in his hair as he moved further down, sinking to his knees before you, his broad shoulders nudging your legs apart.

"Logan..." Your voice was barely more than a whisper, already trembling.

“Shh,” he murmured, his hands gripping your hips as he pressed a kiss just above your knee, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. The intensity there made your breath hitch. “Let me take care of you.”

He kissed his way up your inner thigh, taking his time, each press of his lips deliberate, teasing. Your heart pounded as you felt his warm breath against your skin, so close to where you wanted him, needed him.

When his lips finally brushed against you, his tongue darting out to taste, you couldn’t suppress the soft moan that spilled from your lips. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you closer as he buried his face between your thighs, his tongue working you with an expertise that made your head spin.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your hands clutching his hair, your hips arching into him. He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, his tongue delving deep before retreating to flick against the sensitive bundle of nerves that had you trembling, your thighs pressing around his head.

Logan growled against you, the vibrations shooting straight through your core, and the sound of it—rough, primal—only spurred you on. He was relentless, his lips and tongue working you with a fervor that left no doubt about how much he enjoyed this, enjoyed you.

“Logan, I—” Your words dissolved into a whimper, your body tensing as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. His name was a mantra on your lips, each syllable punctuated by gasps and moans as he pulled you apart and put you back together with every stroke of his tongue.

When you finally shattered, the release crashing over you like a tidal wave, he didn’t stop. He worked you through it, his hands holding you steady as you trembled, as your body arched and writhed against him. Only when you were completely spent, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, did he pull back, his lips and chin glistening as he looked up at you with a wicked grin.

“You taste like heaven,” he said, his voice rough, gravelly, as he rose to his feet, his hands still resting on your thighs. “I could do that all night.”

You laughed breathlessly, leaning back against the couch, your body still tingling, your cheeks flushed. “You’re insatiable.”

“Says the woman who was just beggin’ me for more,” Logan teased, his voice a low rumble as his lips brushed against yours. His kiss was slow and deliberate, his tongue sliding into your mouth with practiced ease. The taste of him mixed with the remnants of your own release sent a thrill racing through you, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly, keeping him close.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You sure you’re not tryin’ to kill me, darlin’? Feels like every time I get my hands on you, I lose a few more pieces of myself.”

Your lips curved into a soft smile, your fingers idly playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “That doesn’t sound like such a bad thing.”

Logan huffed a laugh, the sound deep and almost self-deprecating. His thumb traced lazy circles on your thigh, his gaze locked on yours. “For you, maybe not. For me? I’m startin’ to think I wouldn’t mind it.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, a quiet confession that made your chest tighten. You reached up, brushing your thumb along the rough edge of his jaw. “I wouldn’t let that happen,” you murmured, your voice soft but steady. “You’re too important, Logan. To me.”

His expression softened, the hard edges of his usual demeanor giving way to something more vulnerable. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me, Y/N.”

“Maybe you should show me,” you said, your voice carrying a teasing lilt, though the heat in your eyes betrayed how serious you were.

Logan’s lips quirked into a small, almost mischievous grin. “You’re insatiable, you know that?”

You shrugged, feigning innocence. “Maybe. But you don’t seem to mind.”

He let out a low growl, his hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips. “You’re damn right I don’t.”

In one fluid motion, Logan had you lifted, his hands firm as he repositioned you to straddle his lap. You let out a surprised laugh, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself as you settled against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, the solidness of him grounding you in a way that felt almost necessary.

“See? Told ya I had better plans than cleanin’,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your collarbone as he spoke.

You tilted your head, giving him more access, a soft hum escaping your lips. “I think I’m starting to agree.”

Logan’s hands roamed over you, calloused fingers exploring the soft curves of your body with reverence. There was no rush, no urgency in his movements. It was deliberate, almost tender, as though he wanted to memorize every inch of you.

His lips trailed a path along your neck, his scruff scraping against your skin in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he admitted, his voice low, almost like a growl.

“I could say the same about you,” you whispered, your fingers trailing down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his shirt.

Logan’s hands gripped the hem of the flannel you wore, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he slowly lifted it. He paused, his gaze flicking up to meet yours, seeking permission.

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as he pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside. His eyes darkened as they roamed over you, taking in the sight of your bare skin bathed in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, his voice thick with something between awe and hunger.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, but the look in his eyes kept any hint of self-consciousness at bay. “You’re staring,” you teased, though your voice wavered slightly under the weight of his gaze.

“Can’t help it,” he said simply, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just beneath your ribs. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful, Y/N. Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of lookin’ at you.”

The sincerity in his words made your heart ache in the best way. You leaned forward, capturing his lips in a kiss that was slow and deep, your hands threading through his hair as you pressed yourself against him.

Logan’s hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he shifted beneath you, the hard press of him against your core drawing a soft gasp from your lips. He swallowed the sound with a groan, his grip tightening as he began to rock you against him, the friction sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.

“Logan,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need.

“Shh, I got you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Just let me take care of you, darlin’.”

His hands moved to your waist, guiding your movements as he kissed you again, his lips moving against yours with a deliberate slowness that left you breathless. Each roll of your hips against him was maddeningly slow, the steady build of tension making you ache for more.

“Logan, please,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his shoulders as you tried to quicken the pace.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your lips. “Patience, Y/N. I’m not in a rush.”

You huffed in frustration, though the warmth in his gaze softened the sharp edges of your need. “You’re cruel,” you muttered, though the slight smile tugging at your lips betrayed your words.

“Cruel, huh?” he echoed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hands slid down to cup your ass, squeezing gently as he shifted beneath you. “Pretty sure you’ll be thankin’ me when I’m done with you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound dissolving into a soft moan as he bucked his hips against you, the friction sending another wave of heat coursing through you.

“Logan,” you gasped, your voice a mix of exasperation and longing.

He grinned, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you. “Yeah, darlin’? What do you need?”

“You,” you said simply, the single word carrying a weight that seemed to hang in the air between you.

Logan’s expression softened, his teasing demeanor shifting as something deeper flickered in his gaze. “You’ve got me,” he said, his voice steady, his hands firm on your hips as though anchoring you to him.

Your heart stuttered at his words, the raw sincerity of them making your chest feel impossibly tight. You leaned in, pressing your forehead against his as your fingers slid down his chest, the fabric of his shirt rough under your touch. “I’m glad,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s lips found yours again, the kiss unhurried and deliberate, his hands roaming up and down your thighs. The heat of him seeped into your skin, grounding you as you moved against him. The friction was maddening, a slow burn that made you ache for more.

“Darlin’,” he rasped against your lips, his voice thick and strained, “you’re makin’ it real hard to take this slow.”

“Maybe I don’t want slow,” you countered, your tone teasing, though the way your breath hitched betrayed your own urgency.

Logan chuckled low, the sound vibrating through you as his lips moved to your neck, trailing kisses along your skin. “Trust me, you do,” he murmured, his teeth grazing your pulse point just enough to make your thighs tighten around him. “I want to feel every second of this.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your fingers tightening in his hair as he took his time exploring every inch of you. Logan’s hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting you slightly as he shifted on the couch, settling back further into the cushions.

The new angle pressed you more firmly against him, drawing a gasp from your lips that he swallowed with another kiss. “Fuck,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

“You okay?” he asked, his tone softer, though the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable.

“More than okay,” you replied, your voice trembling as you shifted your hips, testing the pressure between you.

Logan growled low in his throat, his grip on you tightening as his hands slid up your back. “You’re somethin’ else, Y/N,” he said, his words heavy with reverence.

You didn’t reply, too caught up in the way he was looking at you, as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. “Off,” you said simply, your voice breathless but firm.

He smirked, obliging without hesitation as he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Your eyes raked over him, taking in the broad expanse of his chest, the scars that marred his otherwise flawless skin.

“Like what you see?” he teased, though there was a hint of vulnerability in his tone.

“Always,” you replied, your hands trailing over his chest, fingers tracing the lines of old wounds. “You’re beautiful, Logan.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his hands sliding back to your waist. “Don’t think anyone’s called me that before.”

“Well, they should have,” you said, leaning in to press a kiss to his collarbone.

Logan’s hands tightened on your hips, guiding you as you moved against him, the steady grind of your bodies making your head spin. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, though the words were laced with affection.

“Not likely,” you quipped, a soft laugh escaping you.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm as he shifted again, one hand moving to undo the button of his jeans. Your breath hitched as you realized what was coming next, anticipation coiling tightly in your stomach.

“You sure about this?” he asked, his voice softer now, his gaze searching yours.

“Logan,” you said, your tone steady despite the way your heart was racing. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

He nodded once, his hands steady as he slid his jeans down just enough, freeing himself. You couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped you as you took him in, your cheeks flushing at the sight.

“Come here,” he said, his voice rough as he guided you closer, his hands firm on your hips.

You moved slowly, adjusting yourself over him, the heat of him against you making you tremble. Logan’s hands were steady, his thumbs brushing soothing circles on your skin as he guided you.

When you finally sank down onto him, the feeling was overwhelming, a perfect mix of pleasure and fullness that made you moan softly. Logan groaned, his head falling back against the couch as his hands gripped your hips tightly.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasped, his voice raw. “You feel... Jesus, darlin’, you’re perfect.”

You didn’t reply, too caught up in the way he felt, the way he filled you completely. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your breaths coming in short, uneven gasps as you began to move.

Logan’s hands guided your movements, his grip firm but not controlling as he let you set the pace. His lips found yours again, the kiss deep and consuming as you rocked against him, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

The steady rhythm built slowly, the intensity growing with each roll of your hips. Logan’s hands roamed over you, sliding up your back, tangling in your hair, grounding you in the moment.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You met his gaze, your heart skipping a beat at the way he was looking at you. It wasn’t just lust—it was something deeper, something that made your chest ache in the best way.

“I’ve got you,” he said, his hands tightening on your hips as he thrust upward, matching your movements.

The new angle sent a wave of pleasure crashing over you, a soft cry escaping your lips as you clung to him. “Logan,” you gasped, your voice trembling.

“Right here, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice steady despite the strain in it.

The intensity between you grew, the slow, deliberate pace giving way to something more urgent as your bodies moved together. Each thrust, each kiss, each touch pushed you closer to the edge, the tension building to an almost unbearable peak.

When you finally shattered, it was like nothing you’d ever felt before. Logan held you through it, his hands steady on your hips as your body trembled, his name falling from your lips in a breathless mantra.

He followed moments later, a low, guttural groan escaping him as he buried his face in your neck, his grip on you tightening as he found his release.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breaths mingling as you clung to each other, the world outside forgotten.

“You okay?” Logan asked finally, his voice soft, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“More than okay,” you replied, your voice muffled against his neck.

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not lettin’ you go anytime soon.”

“Didn’t plan on going anywhere,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips as you leaned back to look at him.

Logan’s expression softened, his hands moving to cup your face. “You’re somethin’ else, Y/N,” he said, his voice filled with quiet reverence.

“And you’re mine,” you replied, your tone steady despite the warmth spreading through your chest.

“Damn right I am,” he said, his lips curving into a small, almost boyish grin.

The two of you stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, the rest of the world fading away. For now, there was only this—only him.

---

You turned off the water that was filling the bathtub and dipped your hand in to test the temperature of the water. The water was just right—hot, with steam gently rolling off the surface. You stood, wiping your hands on the towel, just as you heard the front door creak open and close with a soft click. Logan’s footsteps padded quietly through the cabin, but you could still feel that familiar presence, that comforting weight of him even when he wasn’t yet in sight.

You barely had time to turn around before he appeared in the doorway, eyebrows raised as he took in the sight of you standing by the tub. “Now this is a surprise,” he said, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

“Thought you’d like a soak after all that work you did today,” you replied, a little smile tugging at your mouth. You stepped aside, gesturing toward the water. “Go on, it’s ready.”

Logan’s gaze softened, though his smirk never quite faded. “So you’re spoilin’ me now, huh?”

“Maybe a little,” you teased, leaning against the doorframe as you watched him. “Can’t have you overdoing it. You might be practically indestructible, but a hot bath never hurt anyone.”

He chuckled, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off. “Got a point there,” he admitted, tossing it onto the nearby chair. You tried not to stare, but you couldn’t help your eyes drifting over the familiar planes of his chest, scars crisscrossing his skin like a map of all the years he’d survived. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he didn’t mind—just kept undressing as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Logan stepped into the tub, easing himself down with a contented sigh as he settled into the water. He leaned his head back, his eyes fluttering shut as the steam rose around him. For a moment, you simply watched him, a fond smile on your lips.

“Good?” you asked softly, breaking the silence.

He cracked one eye open, glancing at you with a lazy grin. “Better than good. You joinin’ me?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “This one’s all yours. I’ll go make us something to drink.”

Before you could turn, Logan reached out, his wet hand catching yours. He looked up at you, his expression softer now. “Stay, darlin’. Least for a bit.”

His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles, and you found yourself nodding, unable to refuse him. You sat down beside the tub, close enough that you could still feel the warmth of the water, and he let his hand rest in yours.

Logan kissed the top of your hand, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Sure ya don’t wanna join me? Promise I don’t bite."

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Uh-huh. That's what they all say."

He chuckled, his fingers still wrapped gently around yours, as if he was savoring this quiet moment between you. “Could use a little company, that’s all,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving your face.

“This is supposed to be a bath for you.” You replied, your own eyebrow quirked.

“I’d enjoy it more if you were in here with me.”

You raised an eyebrow at Logan, the corner of your mouth quirking into a teasing smile. “Is that right? Well, maybe if you’re lucky.”

Logan’s smirk deepened, a playful glint in his eye as he leaned forward, resting his arms on the side of the tub. “Oh, come on. I’m always lucky when it comes to you.” His voice was a low murmur, pulling you in with that familiar, lazy charm he always seemed to have.

“Uh-huh, says the guy who tried to convince me he could take on a shark,” you shot back, crossing your arms, leaning casually against the wall. “You’re just full of bold ideas, huh?”

He chuckled, giving a shrug. “I stand by that. But I’m talkin’ serious here.” His hand reached out, fingertips grazing your wrist in a way that sent a warmth through you. “No sharks, no messin’ around. Just you, right here.”

The sincerity caught you a little off guard. The tension settled into something deeper as you looked at him, his hand steady on yours, like he was holding onto more than just the moment.

“I guess… I could keep you company,” you said softly, the lightness of your earlier words giving way to something quieter. You slipped out of your shirt, feeling Logan’s gaze follow you, his eyes dark with a warmth that made you feel both nervous and excited.

Sliding into the water, you settled in close to him, leaning back as his arms naturally came around you. The water was hot, relaxing every part of you, but it was Logan’s touch, the gentle press of his fingers tracing over your arm, that made you feel completely at ease.

“See?” he murmured against your hair, his lips grazing the top of your head. “Told ya this was a good idea.”

You hummed, closing your eyes as you leaned into him. “You did. Guess I should listen to you more often.”

Logan’s hand slid along your shoulder, trailing down your arm with a steady, careful touch, like he was trying to memorize every inch. You felt the warmth of his breath against your neck, followed by the soft press of his lips just below your ear. The tension of the day melted away, leaving you relaxed and content in his embrace.

For a few moments, you both just stayed there, the only sounds the quiet rustle of water and the occasional creak of the cabin settling. Logan’s fingers traced small, lazy circles along your arm, his other hand holding you close against him, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“So,” you murmured, breaking the silence, “this isn’t so bad, right?”

Logan let out a low chuckle. “Could get used to it,” he said, his voice rumbling against your back. “Peace and quiet. Just the two of us.” His hand dipped below the water, wrapping around yours.

You squeezed his hand, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest. “Thought you’d be the type to get bored out here, all this peace and quiet.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug, though his thumb continued to brush over the back of your hand. “Can handle a bit of quiet if it means you’re here,” he said softly, almost as if he was talking to himself.

You smiled, tilting your head to look at him, your faces close. “Guess that makes two of us.” You felt a strange flutter in your stomach, the weight of those unspoken words lingering between you both.

Logan’s eyes flicked down to your lips, his gaze soft and intent. “You gonna kiss me, or do I gotta ask real nice?”

“Always so impatient,” you teased, but you leaned in, closing the distance, your lips meeting his in a soft, lingering kiss. His hand moved up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he deepened the kiss, slow and unhurried, like he was savoring every second. When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little heavier, your forehead resting against his.

Logan looked at you, a small, crooked smile on his lips. “See? Worth the wait.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but there was no denying the truth in his words. “You really know how to charm a girl, you know that?”

“Only got one girl I’m tryin’ to charm,” he replied, his voice rough but warm.

Your smile softened as you nestled back against him, letting the silence settle over you both once more. The warmth of the water, the feel of his arms around you—it felt like a small eternity in that moment, like nothing else in the world mattered except this.

---

Trying to turn the conversation away from what Logan told you, about Stryker coming to visit him about a ‘mission’, you started to talk about your day, with Logan’s head in your lap as you ran your fingers through his hair.

“The stray was matted but Tina started calling him Wolf. Said the dog reminded her of another animal.”

Logan hummed, his eyes still closed, “lemme guess, she showed you a picture of the animal from her book.”

You giggled, “yeah, she did. Gotta admit that dog looked quite similar to the wolverine in her book.” You tilted your head downwards to look at him, “Reminded me of you. Grizzly, sometimes dirty.”

Logan opened one eye, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh yeah? Grizzly, huh?”

“Maybe a little.” You grinned, your fingers drifting through his hair in slow strokes. “Not just the dirty part, by the way. Wolverines are pretty fierce, don’t let much stand in their way.”

He let out a low chuckle, closing his eye again, seeming to relax further under your touch. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment, comin’ from you.” There was a slight pause, and his voice softened a bit. “Not everyone’s a fan of the grizzly type.”

You scoffed lightly, continuing to thread your fingers through his hair. “Well, good thing I am. You know, even wolverines have a soft side somewhere.”

Logan huffed a small laugh. “Yeah? Don’t think I’ve got much of that left, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Oh, you definitely do.” You brushed a thumb gently along his temple. “Trust me. Like today—taking the time to help out with that old couple’s truck, even after a full day’s work.” You smiled down at him, admiration clear in your gaze. “I see it, Logan, even if you don’t.”

He tilted his head a bit, opening his eyes and looking up at you, his expression unreadable for a second before he sighed, a smirk breaking the moment. “Keep sayin’ things like that, and I might start to believe you.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

Logan’s gaze softened, but he kept his usual, laid-back tone. “Guess I’m lucky you put up with me, huh?”

“You know it.” You winked, letting your fingers trail down to his jawline, and you felt him relax a little more, like he could melt under your touch. “Plus, someone’s gotta keep you in check.”

“Not an easy job,” he muttered, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he leaned into your hand, his voice barely above a murmur. “You’re somethin’ else, Y/N.”

The two of you fell quiet for a moment, the warmth in his gaze making your heart beat just a little faster, and you couldn’t help but lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. When you pulled back, he just looked at you with that familiar mix of amusement and something else—a depth you didn’t need him to explain.

You shifted slightly, a small smile still on your face. “Now, about that dog—think you could convince Tina to bring him around here?”

Logan’s eyebrows lifted, a smirk tugging at his lips again. “Bringing a stray mutt up here? You sure?”

“Why not? He’d be a good watch dog for you when I’m not around,” you said, with a wink.

He chuckled, a bit softer this time. “Guess I’ll think about it.” Then, his eyes crinkled with that familiar spark of humor. “But only if you promise not to call me Grizzly in front of anyone else.”

You laughed, leaning back against the couch, his head still in your lap. “Deal.”

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke, and you just let yourself soak up the comfortable silence, the simplicity of Logan resting there, perfectly at ease. And as your hand drifted gently through his hair again, you couldn’t help but wonder if this—these quiet moments—might be what you’d both been needing all along.

---

You were driving down a narrow road, the trees thickening as you made your way toward town. The familiar hum of a cassette player filled the car, and you tapped your fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm. It had been a good week—a small but sweet milestone with Logan, half a year together, and you’d even managed to keep things peaceful in that cabin of his. Tonight was supposed to be simple, a little surprise you’d planned: a tiramisu. Probably the only thing you could bake to perfection.

You rounded a curve, smiling to yourself when—

The sight in the distance made your stomach twist. A figure stood in the middle of the road, dressed in black, unmoving, watching you with an unsettling focus. You slowed the car, blinking to see if you were imagining things. But no—he was still there, large and unflinching in the middle of the narrow path.

As you approached, your heart hammered against your ribs. Something about him was familiar, but not in any way that felt safe or warm.

You pressed on the brake, bringing the car to a cautious stop. The man took a slow, deliberate step forward, his face coming into view under the faint sunlight streaming through the trees. His eyes were cold, almost amused, and his mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

It was him—Victor. The man Logan had mentioned a few times, enough to make you know he wasn’t someone you’d ever want to meet, much less find waiting for you like this.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice deep, mocking, and calm in a way that was anything but reassuring.

You tried to keep your face calm, hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. “Just heading into town,” you replied, voice steadier than you felt. “Is there…something you need?”

He tilted his head, like he was sizing you up. “Logan ever mention me?”

A chill crawled up your spine, but you kept your expression guarded. “Maybe once or twice.”

Victor took another step forward, his gaze raking over you with a twisted curiosity, almost like he was toying with the idea of letting you go—but only almost. “See, I’ve been meaning to have a little chat with him,” he drawled, his tone venomous, “and here you are, just making it easy for me.”

You felt a pulse of dread, instinct telling you to turn the car around and get out of there, fast. But you knew better than to provoke him. “Logan’s not here,” you said, hoping that would be enough.

He smirked, that same cold expression never leaving his face. “I’m aware,” he murmured, taking another slow step toward you. “You think he’d leave someone like you on your own if he thought you’d be safe?”

Your heart raced, a knot of fear tightening in your throat. You wanted to say something, anything, to stall him, to get yourself out of this, but nothing came to mind. The realization was dawning, and from the look in Victor’s eyes, he knew it too. There would be no bargaining, no reasoning with him.

"Didn't think Logan would be the type to leave someone behind. Guess I was wrong," he said, sounding amused.

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, refusing to give in to the fear swirling in your chest. "Logan’s not here," you repeated, your voice firm.

"Like I said, I know," Victor replied smoothly, taking another step. His eyes traveled over the car, then over you, a twisted curiosity behind them. "But I figure, maybe you can pass along a little message for me."

Every instinct told you to run, but the car blocked you in, and Victor was only feet away. "What do you want, Victor?"

He grinned, his sharp teeth glinting under the dim light. "Simple. Tell Logan I said 'hi'... if you get the chance."

The dread in your stomach crystallized as he lunged forward. You tried to move, to react, but he was too fast. His hand closed around your throat, lifting you out of the car as though you weighed nothing, and you fought, kicking, clawing, anything you could think of to get free.

"You know," Victor’s voice was disturbingly calm, "he’s been through a lot. But there’s always that soft spot, that weakness he can’t seem to shake."

Desperation flared within you, and you kicked harder, one foot making contact with his chest. It only made him laugh, and he tightened his grip, his face drawing close enough that you could see the cold cruelty in his eyes.

"You’re just like all the others," he murmured, voice almost thoughtful. "Maybe a little more stubborn, but that’s hardly new."

Black spots began to dance at the edges of your vision, your breath coming shorter and shorter. You knew there was no getting out of this—not with him, not with a monster like Victor Creed.

But Logan...

---

Logan walked through the vegetation right by where he and the other guys were cutting apart a tree. He stopped short once he saw the head of an animal laying on the yellow grass.

“What you doing, Logan?” One of the guys asked from behind.

Logan looked around before seeing large scratch marks on a tree trunk, lined with red. “Y/N.” He whispered, before running down the hill and through the forest.

Once he hit the clearing, he could see the truck on the side of the road. Logan reached the car, his hands gripping the window frame as he scanned the empty interior. “Y/N…?” His voice was rough, the crack of worry breaking through, echoing in the quiet forest.

His eyes darted down to the disturbed earth, faint scuff marks in the dirt telling him where you might’ve been dragged. His heart hammered as he followed the path into the trees, every step growing heavier with dread as he moved through the dense underbrush, the silence unsettling.

And then, in a small clearing, he found you.

You were lying there, so still, your skin pale against the forest floor, hair fanned around you like a dark halo. Blood flecked the ground, stark and terrible against the greenery. He staggered, dropping to his knees beside you, reaching out with trembling hands, one of them clenching briefly before he let himself touch you.

“Y/N…” he whispered, voice breaking as he cupped your face, his fingers brushing a smear of dirt from your cheek. Your eyes were closed, lips parted just slightly, as if you’d been trying to say his name. For a split second, he could almost pretend you were just asleep, and that any second you’d open your eyes, make some joke, or reach up to tug him down to you.

But there was no warmth, no spark, nothing.

Logan’s breath caught, and he pulled you close, his arms cradling you as if he could shield you from the reality already etched into his heart. The rage simmered below his skin, burning through the grief, fueling the ache with something primal. He rocked back, jaw clenched so hard it hurt, his face buried in your hair, trying to hold on to any last trace of you, the faint scent of you still lingering, even as everything around him felt like it was falling apart.

“You… You were supposed to be safe here,” he whispered against your hair, voice hoarse. “I shoulda been here. I shoulda…” His words trailed off into silence as he sat there, unmoving, clutching you in his arms as if the weight of his grief alone could pull you back.

He looked down at you, his thumb grazing over your cheek one last time, as though trying to commit every detail of your face to memory. “Y/N… I swear… I’ll make him pay.” The last words came out like a promise, a vow laced with the kind of anger only a man like Logan could bear. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before letting out a long, broken breath.

When he finally tore his gaze away from you, his eyes turned cold, a new resolve searing through him.

This wasn’t over.

umm... sorry??

i tried to make a different version of how logan got the name 'wolverine' to try and fit reader's personality, since she probably doesn't know about the myth kayla did.

next chapter will be x2!

[its-me-levi]

Title: “The Forgotten One”

Chapter Four: Where Obsession Grows

Warning(s): Obsession, mentions of violence, etc

Masterlist Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three, Part I Chapter Three, Part II Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven

They called it a search.

But it was no longer a search.

It was an obsession.

Because when someone disappears and all that’s left behind is silence—real, final silence—they start to lose themself in the noise they didn’t hear before.

And they were all losing themselves.

Bruce stopped patrolling as Batman.

He wasn’t needed out there. Not right now.

Not when they were still out here somewhere, a ghost slipping through the cracks he never thought to look into before.

He slept in the Batcave now. Or near it. The computers ran constant scans—Gotham city cams, online forums, burner phone records, missing persons reports, every Leah born in the tri-state area.

He refused to speak unless it was necessary. Refused to change out of the suit. Refused to sit in the empty dining room where they used to say nothing, and they let them.

He replayed the note in his head every day.

Please don’t come looking for me.

But he was.

And when he found them, he wouldn’t let them go again. He didn’t care how many times he’d have to apologize. He didn’t care what it cost him.

Because now he remembered their name. And that was dangerous.

Tim stopped logging time.

His computer rig buzzed 24/7, heat radiating from overclocked servers. The team’s missions? Ignored. Sleep? Abandoned.

All energy was redirected to one purpose: finding them.

He tracked Leah’s parents' cars. Hacked phone companies. Built an AI to simulate their voice from old recordings just to hear it again.

Sometimes he’d stare at the model and whisper, “Say something real. Please.”

It didn’t work.

He knew this wasn’t healthy. But he also knew that he was the smart one. The planner.

He should have noticed the signs. The empty chair at dinner. The drawings quietly peeled off their wall.

They had been crying out. But not with words.

And now, he would hear everything—even the silence.

Jason tried punching his way through guilt.

It didn’t work.

He wandered the manor in the early hours, haunted by the fact that he hadn’t even tried with them. Not really. Not when it mattered.

They had been there. In the shadows. Trying so hard to be noticed. And he had been so focused on his own pain—his own resurrection—that he didn’t see them drowning in theirs.

Now? He felt it in his bones. Every breath they must’ve held. Every sob they had swallowed alone in their room.

He found himself in their old closet one night, kneeling, fists trembling, forehead against the dusty carpet.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Over and over. Like a prayer.

And if he found them?

He wouldn’t let them go.

Not again.

Even if he had to chain them to the walls to make them stay.

Dick still smiled in public.

He gave speeches. Held fundraisers. Laughed with his team.

But when he got home, the smile cracked, and he became someone else.

He filled a scrapbook with everything he could find of them—photos, sketches, notes, timestamps from old footage. He clipped their face from surveillance stills and taped them next to polaroids of the rest of the family. As if he could stitch them into their memories.

He talked to the pages sometimes. Apologized. Promised things would be different.

“They’re gonna see,” he told the empty scrapbook. “When we bring you back, we’ll do it right this time. No more silence. No more birthdays alone.”

Then, quieter, trembling: “You’ll love us. You’ll have to.”

Damian had stopped speaking.

To everyone.

He spent his days training harder than ever before. As if sharpening his blade would let him cut through the timeline and undo it all.

He hated them. Once.

Or he thought he did.

But now he saw the truth in the emptiness. The emptiness in himself.

He caught himself setting the table for them once. He didn’t even know why. Just muscle memory from all the times he’d watched Alfred do it, without realizing he’d ever been watching.

He’d started drawing them from memory. Silently. Always in the margins of his notebooks.

He didn’t know if he wanted to apologize or beg.

Maybe both.

Alfred moved quietly through the house.

He still made their favorite tea once a week. Still cleaned their room, even though it was empty. Still kept the porch light on.

He never said it aloud, but he believed—hoped—that they were safe.

That someone, somewhere, saw the beauty they all missed.

But deep down, he feared what would happen if the family ever found them.

Not because they didn’t love them now.

But because they loved them too late—and now it had festered into something else.

They didn’t speak of the line they had crossed. The growing obsession. The need to make them come back, even if they didn’t want to.

They convinced themselves it was about love.

They told themselves they just needed time. That they were scared. Confused. That if they could show them how much they mattered, they’d come running back.

But underneath it all, they knew—

They had chosen to leave.

They had found something better.

And they couldn’t bear it.

So they searched. And searched. And searched.

Until the search stopped being about bringing them home...

And started being about making sure no one else ever had them again.

Taglist:

@p1nkh3artz @lilyalone

[simplygojo]

Friend-Of-A-Friend ⸺ Chapter Seven

author's note ⸺ Hello lovely people! I hope u are all doing well this Sunday :) I have finished up my edits on this chapter and am very excited to hear your thoughts as this is where the plot begins to thicken. I love all ur comments and some of y'all have just started DMing me and sending in asks and MY HEART IS SO FULL <33 Also exciting news: I will be publishing a nerdjo x reader multi-chapter fic in June!! So stay tuned!! pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, reader uses female pronouns, taglist at end, 3.8k, this is an 18+ series - mdni

divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter

Geto: Got it. Be there in 30.

And just like that, your night cracked open.

You stood in the middle of the kitchen, phone still in your hand, as if it might say more if you just kept looking at it.

Thirty minutes.

You didn’t think—just moved.

You wandered into the bathroom, flicking on the soft overhead light. Washed your hands. Then your face. 

You looked up, water dripping from your chin, and stared at your reflection in the mirror. 

Your eyes were wide—not panicked, just… alive. Awake in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time.

You reached blindly for the towel, dabbing at your face, suddenly aware of how warm your cheeks felt.

After touching yourself up a bit, you made your way back to the bedroom, still not really thinking, just doing.

A gentle patter of rain against the windows settled into the background, faint but rhythmic. Not a storm—just the kind of rain that settles in and stays a while. 

The sound curled at the edges of the quiet, filling the space without asking.

But something about the quiet of your apartment made everything sound louder—the whining of the pipes in the wall, the sigh of the heater kicking on, the creak of the floorboards as your heel shifted, just slightly off center.

You moved toward the chair by the window, where your hoodie from two days ago lay draped, sleeves twisted like it had slumped there after giving up.

Picking it up, you folded it without thinking. Placed it on the armrest, suddenly now hyper-aware of how many little messes were sitting around your place that you’d just hadn’t noticed before. 

Not that it made the place look dirty—just kinda more… lived in. And there wasn’t anything wrong with that…right?

A mug sitting out on the counter with a ring of tea at the bottom.

Three receipts in a pile near the keys.

Your shoes—one tipped over, half-tucked under the coffee table.

You righted them. Not for him. Just—because. You’d have to do it eventually, why not now?

You quickly pulled your phone from your back pocket to check the time: 9:47.

Eleven minutes.

The silence you felt was heavy. No music. No TV playing mindlessly in the background. Nothing to fill the void that felt like your apartment.

Your thumb hovered over the screen a second longer than necessary.

Then—Spotify. 

That old, faithful green app on your home screen.

You pressed shuffle on a playlist you’d built over the past few years. Songs shuffled together from half-sleepless mornings and lazy Sunday afternoons. The opening chords of a familiar track spilled into the room—warm, looping guitar, steady drums. 

The kind of sound that didn’t demand anything, just offered itself up and stayed a while.

You let the music play.

Not for any particular reason. It just felt better than the silence.

You sat down on the couch, thumb grazing the seam of your jeans, letting the song fill the space. Nothing dramatic. Just… something to do while the minutes passed.

You weren’t expecting much from tonight.

Geto had always kind of moved through your life like this—unexpectedly, casually. Like showing up was just something he did sometimes. And this felt like one of those times.

You only ever really got to know him in the moments between Gojo.

For a long time—maybe two years—Suguru Geto had just been Gojo’s friend. 

The quieter presence, the steadier one. Always with that half-smile and his sleeves rolled neatly at the forearms, as if even his ease came with intention. You could still picture the first time it was just the two of you, alone in that library.

He was the person standing just off to the side in every memory you had of those years, hands in his pockets, watching the way Gojo filled up the room.

But sometimes Gojo would be late, or forget, or disappear entirely.

And that’s when Geto would sit across from you. 

Just the two of you, sharing whatever was left of the afternoon or the space or the silence. No spotlight. No noise. Just low conversation and the occasional dry comment that stuck with you longer than you expected it to.

Those were the pieces of him you learned—quiet, rare things. A glance. A line from a book. 

The way he really listened when you spoke, not just waiting to reply but actually there to hear you.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

**4 Years Ago: Campus Library 2:28 pm**

The library had that particular kind of quiet that wasn't really silent—just full of other people trying not to make noise. Pages turning, pens scratching. The occasional cough muffled into the crook of an elbow.

It was an older building, with real wooden shelves, not the cold plastic or industrial steel you'd gotten used to in public libraries growing up. These shelves were warm-toned and tall, climbing nearly to the ceiling, stacked tight with worn spines and little brass call number plates.

You were tucked into the far end of one of the long tables by the windows, headphones in, jazz looping soft in your ears. A watered-down iced coffee sat sweating beside your open textbook. 

Business Law. Final exam. Second year.

Your notes were a mess. Your eyes were tired. But your focus had reached that kind of dull, narrowed state where time bent around the pages and the words almost started to make sense.

You didn’t notice him until he put his bag down.

Suguru Geto. Gojo’s best friend—well, other than you.

You blinked up, tugging one earbud out. He gave you a nod—not sheepish, not smug. Just… neutral. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to join you, even though you were pretty sure the two of you had never spoken one-on-one before.

You gave him a polite smile. The kind reserved for like classmates or acquaintances, or friends-of-friends.

Then he opened his bag and pulled out a textbook, spine softened from use, corners curled. He didn’t make a sound beyond that. No explanation. No question. Just settled in, a quiet body beside yours at the edge of the window light.

You tried to refocus on your notes, but the presence of him lingered—a shift in the air, not intrusive, just… present. 

Every so often, your eyes flicked toward him. 

He read steadily, one hand curled near his jaw, thumb brushing the page as he turned it. A pen tucked behind his ear. A faint scuff on his sneakers.

He hadn’t brought headphones, but he didn’t seem to need them.

Your playlist looped into another low, slow track. Jazz drums and upright bass. Something that made the library feel more like a moment than a place.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes still on the page in front of him.

Then, without looking over, he spoke—voice low, just above the hush of the room.

“You studying for BA121?”

You glanced at him, surprised, but then looked down at your boldly labelled textbook and sighed. “Yeah.”

He nodded once, still thumbing the corner of his book, which turned out to be the same one as yours, just in a much worse condition. “Same.”

You blinked. “Oh, wait—really? I didn’t realize you were in that class.”

His mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but close. “Oh really? Interesting. I guess disappearing into the back row really does work.”

You winced, a hand half-lifting in apology. “Sorry—I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I usually sit near the front.”

He let out a soft laugh, and the sound caught you off guard—not loud, but warm, rough around the edges like he didn’t use it all that often.

“It’s alright,” he said, glancing over now. “I wasn’t exactly trying to be memorable.”

You gave a sheepish smile, suddenly aware of how dry your mouth felt.

The silence shifted—same shape, different weight. A little looser around the edges now.

You reached for your pen again, but your grip was soft, unfocused. The lines on the page blurred, just a bit. The kind of blur that had nothing to do with your eyes.

You hadn’t even realized he was in that class. 

Something about that sat a little funny—like you’d missed something obvious. Had he noticed you? Or had the textbook just given it away? Either way, it left a small echo in your chest.

He adjusted in his seat. The hem of his sleeve brushed the table. Nothing big, nothing showy. Just a reminder that he was still there, right next to you.

Not loud. Not distracting. But present.

After a long beat, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“You think you’re gonna pass this final?”

You exhaled through your nose, each word laced with fake annoyance. “Not if I keep talking to Gojo’s mysterious friend.”

He smiled at that. Not sarcastic this time—just a real genuine smile. “Touché.”

You both looked back down at your textbooks, as if by unspoken agreement.

The quiet folded over you again—pen to paper, eyes tracing text—but something buzzed low in your chest now, faint and bright like a secret you weren’t sure you were supposed to have yet.

You fought the smile tugging at your mouth. Really tried. But it was no use. It crept up anyway—cheeky and uninvited.

Curious, you risked a glance sideways in his direction.

And there he was. Suguru. Also looking up. Also smiling.

That same unreadable curl at the corner of his lips, like the two of you were in on something that no one else would ever quite get.

His eyes were dark, but not in the way of shadows, more in the way old velvet holds warmth—quiet, weighty, and worn with something you couldn’t quite name.

Your gazes held.

Not long. Maybe a second. Maybe less.

But it settled in your chest like the gentle weight of a blanket—comforting and light and kind of impossible to ignore.

Then, as if coordinated without a signal, you both dropped your eyes back to the pages in front of you like it hadn’t happened. 

You flipped a page in your notes, hand slower now, pen resting loose between your fingers.

He capped his pen, rolled it once across the back of his knuckles, then uncapped it again.

Neither of you said another word.

But the silence no longer belonged to the library.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

**Present Day: Your Apartment 9:58 pm**

You pulled yourself out of the memory like stepping back from a window—one moment inside it, the next with your palms flat against the glass. 

The library dissolved, its warm wood and filtered light giving way to the dim quiet of your apartment. A different kind of silence. A different kind of ache.

It had been years, but the moment clung like dust in the corners of your mind, undisturbed until now. 

It’s strange, how something so small—just a glance across a library table—could leave a memory deep enough to resurface years later, still whole, like it had been waiting in the quiet just beyond reach.

You blinked, the soft blue glow of your phone as it vibrated, tugging you from your thoughts and back into reality.

Geto: Here. Wanna buzz me up?

You stared at the message for a beat, then stood up and made your way towards the buzzer by your front door.

You had no butterflies. No last-minute panic. Just the faint hum of readiness, like a light turning on in a room you hadn’t entered in a while.

You: Yep! One sec :)

Somewhere below, the door groaned open. Pipes clanked. The building held its breath.

You didn’t move from your little kitchenette beside the entryway. Just stood, fingers curled lightly at your sides, the music behind you still spinning something soft and familiar through the speaker.

Then—

A pause. Just on the other side of your front door.

A knock. 

You reached for the knob. The metal met your fingers, cool and smooth. 

You opened it.

And there he was—Geto.

Rain clung to him in soft streaks, running the length of his coat sleeves, caught in the collar where the fabric had darkened. His hair was all the way down, loose and heavy with water, a few strands pressed flat to his cheek. 

It gave him a different look. 

You noticed how his eyes reflected the warm spill of light from inside when you opened the door, highlighting the softness you tended to see behind his gaze.

You stepped back without thinking, leaving just enough to let him in without speaking.

“Hey,” he said, quiet, with a nod that somehow felt like it held more weight than the word itself.

“Hey,” you echoed, your voice not loud, but enough to cut through the space between you. 

You weren’t sure why you felt so—nervous. You had opened your door to Geto countless times, although it was always when others were already in your apartment…

He stepped inside, careful to toe off his shoes by the door, water already beginning to bead on the floor. You reached instinctively for the towel hanging on the hook near the entry—normally used for grocery runs or spilled tea—and handed it to him without a word.

Thank god you did the laundry this weekend…

“Thanks,” he murmured, accepting it, rubbing the back of his neck first, then pushing his wet hair back with one slow pass of his hand, the towel dragging behind like an afterthought. It didn’t do much—just shifted the strands out of his face before they fell forward again.

You tried not to stare.

Tried not to notice how good he looked like this—rain-damp and quiet, something about the messiness softening him. 

Like an artist's greatest portrait left out in the weather. Like a version of him not meant to be seen by you up close.

He wore it well, though. 

The water-darkened sleeves, the slight flush on his nose and cheeks from the walk, the way the low light caught on the curve of his cheekbone.

Not the kind of thing you should necessarily be noticing. But I mean, you’re not going to hell for thinking your friend is a good-looking dude. It’s not like that meant anything to either of you. 

Still, your eyes caught on the little details. 

The tilt of his jaw when he glanced toward the living room. 

The way his hand settled on the towel, gripping it once like he didn’t quite know what to do with it now that he was inside.

He slid his jacket off, careful with the sleeves, like the fabric might protest if tugged too hard. The movement sent another few drops scattering to the floor.

“Shit—sorry,” he said, glancing down as water beaded at his feet. “Didn’t think it’d be coming down this hard.”

You shook your head, already stepping aside so he could hang it on the rack by the door.

“It’s fine,” you said. “Coat rack’s been bored anyway.”

—That's a bit odd to say, but that’s alright!

He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes flicking toward yours—holding it for just a moment while he smiled at your dumb joke—before returning to the coat rack.

The jacket landed with a wet, muted thump against the hook, shoulders sagging the second he let go, like it had been holding something up for him.

He gave it one last glance, then rubbed his hands along his forearms, slow, trying to shake off the leftover chill.

For a moment, nothing more than the sound of the rain outside, dull and steady against the windows, the faint scrape of the towel as he patted at the ends of his hair.

Then—

“You want tea or anything?” You asked, your fingers brushing the lip of the counter.

He glanced at you, eyes warm. “Yeah. If it’s not a hassle.”

“Of course it’s not,” you said without missing a beat, already turning toward the kettle.

Behind you, the door eased shut on its own. Not a slam—just the soft click of something returning to place.

He stepped further inside, eyes drifting across the space like he was trying to take it in without making a thing of it. You wondered if he was comparing it to your old place—the tiny student flat with barely enough room to turn around, where Gojo used to complain the walls were too thin and the fridge made ‘psychotic noises’ at night.

This one wasn’t much bigger to be honest, but it was yours now. Yours in a way the last one hadn’t been considering you lived with four other girls, and Gojo practically visited every day.

Geto’s gaze flicked across the bookshelf, the little trailing plant over the kitchen cupboard, the single framed print above the couch. 

Not in a nosy way—just absorbing the environment. Familiarizing himself.

He moved toward the couch, careful of the damp towel still hanging from one hand, and sat down like he was half-afraid the thing would squeak under him. It didn’t, the cushion just let out a quiet sigh.

The couch wasn’t far from the kitchen—nothing in your apartment was—so even with your back to him at the counter, you could still hear the soft shuffle of him settling in. 

The towel rustled again as he rubbed the ends of his hair, slower now, like he wasn’t in a rush.

“So…Welcome to my apartment, you haven’t been in this one before,” you said, only half-looking over your shoulder as you measured out loose leaf into the strainer.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little lower now. “Kind of weird, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” you said, turning to face him for a beat. “Just overdue, I guess.”

That made him smile—small, crooked. The kind of smile that made your throat go a little tight for no reason at all.

“Nice place,” he said, glancing around again. “Very you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. It just feels like yours. Lived-in. Warm.” He shrugged. “Also the music. And your loose-leaf tea. And the fact that there are, like, four different oddly shaped mugs on that shelf.”

You huffed a laugh as your grin widened. “Okay, Geto, now you’re being judgy.”

“I’m not! I swear…I like it.” His gaze cut to yours, easy.

“Feels settled,” he said, easing back into the couch. “Like it’s got a rhythm.”

You turned toward the kettle, eyebrows lifting. “That’s a polite way of calling it cramped.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose. “Didn’t say that.”

“No, but you thought it.”

Another soft smile. “I just meant—it feels like you. Like you’ve been here a while.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “I have.”

He nodded once, almost to himself, then reached for the towel again, pressing it behind his neck where his hair still dripped a little. 

His eyes scanned the nearby shelf, the quiet kitchen details. No commentary. Just noticing.

You turned back to the counter. “And for the record, I pay too much rent for it not to feel like me.”

“City tax,” he murmured, almost too quiet to catch. “Comfort’s always overpriced.”

Geto laughed under his breath, then went quiet again. You could hear the shift of the fabric beneath him as he crossed one ankle over his knee, glanced down at a coaster on the coffee table like it had caught him off guard.

“This one’s got a cat in a space helmet,” he said.

“Yeah. Set of four. Each one is a different animal in space.”

He paused. “Nice. I like space animals, what are the other ones?”

“One’s a duck. Another one’s a bear, and the one I will be using—” You set down a second coaster beside his. “—is a hippo.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Did you buy these or were they a gift?” He said, completely deadpan.

You glanced back at him with that same grin you just couldn’t seem to shake. “Does it matter? Don’t you like them?”

“Of course I do,” he said, smiling back at you and letting a small chuckle slip past his lips. “Wish I was that cool y’know?”

That made you laugh—quietly, through your nose. You shook your head as you reached for the boiling kettle. “Yeah I do know.”

You poured the tea, the faint hiss of water filling the mugs, and carried them over—setting his down on the space cat. He thanked you with a quiet murmur and wrapped both hands around the mug, warming them.

You sat across from him, your own mug nestled against your legs, knees pulled up comfortably under you. 

For a moment, neither of you said anything—just letting the steam rise, letting the silence stretch a little in that comfortable way that didn’t need filling.

Then—

“So,” you said, your tone light but edged with curiosity, “What’s up? Was this just…You being spontaneous?”

He looked at you then—really looked.

Not with that easy warmth he wore like second nature, but something closer to stillness. 

Like he was weighing the moment in his hands, turning it over before deciding what to offer back. 

After all—Geto never wasted words.

His smile lingered, soft at the edges, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. There was a flicker there instead—something hesitant, almost searching.

His gaze fell, not abruptly, but with a slow sort of grace. 

Drifted down to the rim of the mug cupped between his palms, where steam curled lazily into the air. 

Then further, toward the window, where the rain slipped down in quiet ribbons. The kind of rain that made you feel like the world had shrunk to just the room you were in.

And in that small silence, something in your chest pulled tight. 

It wasn’t weird to ask that—was it?

When his eyes returned to yours, they were softer. 

Unshielded in a way they hadn’t been before. But quickly darted away.

He didn’t speak right away—just let the moment stretch between you, fragile and thin and glinting with something that felt too honest to touch.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low—barely above the whisper of the rain. “I’m just… kinda spontaneous.”

His lips curved slightly, the kind of smile that followed a thought he hadn’t meant to say out loud, but it was a fleeting thing. 

Not a deflection. Not even a joke. Just an acknowledgment that the words were only part of what he meant.

There was a subtle shift, his posture easing toward you with quiet intention.

“But—” His gaze found yours again. This time, he didn’t look away.

And you felt it. The weight of it. 

His thumb drifted along the curve of the mug, slow and deliberate, the motion steadying in a way that suggested he wasn’t quite at rest.

“Is it so wrong if I just wanted some good company?”

Your heartbeat faltered at his words. There was no bravado in it. No performance. Just a small truth, placed gently between you like an offering. 

You were his idea of good company.

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[himasgod]

I want to see Idia help dying reader(cancer perhap) keep it a secret from other. Only Idia know that reader dont have much time!

IDIA X READER

Where you are terminally ill.

Where you spend your last moments with him

I really hesitated to write this one, as it's a very, very sensitive topic. Of course, these types of illnesses shouldn't be romanticized, so I haven't added any sugar coating to this fic under any circumstances. They should be treated with the respect they deserve. If this content is triggering for you, I ask that you not read it.

Your diagnosis came quietly.

No dramatic crashes, no outbursts.

Just you, sitting in the sterile nurse’s office with that white paper crinkling beneath your hands, trying not to cry when you’re told that magic and potions can only do so much.

Stage four. Late discovery. Spreading like wildfire.

You were running out of time. Months, if you were lucky.

You told Idia first—not because it was easy, but because it was necessary.

He noticed things others didn’t: the way your fingers trembled when you held your books, how you started taking longer naps in his room, and how you felt weaker each day.

He listened that night, shoulders hunched, blue hair dimming to a dull sickly hue as you explained it.

"I don’t want anyone else to know,” you had said. “Just you.”

And he had nodded, eyes glassy, trembling like his fingers were already typing out a thousand lines of code to try and find a solution that didn’t exist.

The world still turned.

NRC still buzzed with chaos.

You still went to class, laughed when Grim made a fool thing, and lived in Ramshackle like everything was normal.

Like you weren’t quietly dying from the inside out.

Only Idia knew.

You’d sneak away between classes to rest in his room, curled up beneath a blanket while he played games beside you, pretending not to glance your way every few minutes just to make sure you were still breathing.

"Y'know... you're just farming sympathy buffs from me at this point," he mumbled one evening, awkwardly pressing a warm mug of tea into your hands.

His fingers lingered too long.

“I should be charging mana for all this emotional damage.”

You smiled, weak.

“I’ll pay you back in hugs.”

“Not fair... That’s like... an SSR-tier bribe.”

Sometimes, when you were too tired to speak, he’d talk to fill the silence. About his game progress. About the latest manga chapters.

About Ortho, who had no idea you were fading.

You never asked him to lie to Ortho. But he did anyway.

“I told him you’re just really busy,” Idia murmured once, sitting on the edge of his bed, fingers digging into his sleeves.

“That you’re helping Crowley with secret work or whatever.”

“That’s a terrible lie.”

“Yeah, well… it worked. He believes in you more than, like, 99.999% of people. And I guess I do too.”

He paused, voice cracking.

“So maybe I’m lying to myself too.”

“Idia…”

“I know. I know, okay? You don’t have to say it. Just… stay. Here. With me. For as long as you can.”

The days blurred.

You stopped attending most classes.

Everyone thought you were simply burnt out or finally fed up with the school’s chaos. Even Grim didn’t suspect much, too busy enjoying the tuna and the quieter dorm without having to fight ghosts or deal with overblots every weekend.

But Idia knew. He always knew.

He watched the color drain from your face, the way your body moved slower than it used to, like you were stuck in molasses.

The way your coughs grew harsher and more painful, and how sometimes, when you tried to speak, the words didn’t come out right.

And yet you still smiled for him.

“You’re still here,” you whispered one night, curled into him under the flicker of his room’s neon lights.

“Of course I am. Where else would I be? The... "final boss fight" hasn’t even started yet…”

“Idia, there’s no final boss. Just… a game over screen.”

He flinched, the words slicing through the layers of deflection and sarcasm he used like armor.

“I’ll... I’ll find a way,” he said, pulling you tighter.

“I don’t care if I have to hack into the underworld or bribe Hades himself. I’ll use forbidden code, I’ll glitch the world—hell, I’ll write a patch for reality. Just... don’t go. Please.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, eyelids fluttering.

“I didn’t tell anyone else because I didn’t want them to look at me differently. I just wanted to be me. Just… me and you. Like always.”

“And that’s all I want too,” he whispered, tears he never let himself cry sliding down his cheek.

“Just the two of us.”

And the final week came faster than either of you could have prepared for.

You could barely stand anymore.

He carried you everywhere now—not that you were heavy, just that your legs forgot how to move most days.

He set up a custom bed in his room, surrounded by screens playing soft ambient music from your favorite games.

Ortho wasn’t allowed in, which hurt, but Idia had made some excuse about “anti-virus calibration zones.”

You both knew this was goodbye, even if you didn’t say it.

And on the last night, when your breath was shallow and uneven, he held your hand like it was a lifeline.

"I’m scared. I don't want to die, Idia...," you whispered as you looked into his dark-circled eyes for the last time..

“I’m not,” he said, even though his hair had turned the color of ash and his voice was shaking.

“I’ll keep you here, in every memory, every save file, every photo, every saved profile. I’ll talk to you every day. In my head. In my dreams. You’ll be part of my world always.”

You tried to smile.

“Even after the Game Over screen?”

He squeezed your hand.

“Especially then.”

You looked away from his eyes and up at the fading ceiling.

"Idia… meeting you and loving you was the best thing that could have happened to me."

And when your breath slowed, your grip loosened, and your eyes fluttered shut for the last time—

Idia didn’t scream.

He didn’t cry out.

He just held you, silently, for hours.

His screens blinked around him. A still frame of your favorite game lingered on one of them.

“Yuu has left the world. Yuu has left me.” he whispered.

But deep down, he believed—you were just waiting for him at the next checkpoint.

One where it was just the two of you.

[gigiwritess]

BACK TO EARTH

dr. jack abbott x f!resident!reader!vega aka "wildcard"

wc: 2,100 synopsis: the weeks go by—until the pittfest happens. jack wasn't even supposed to be working, but there he was. he didn't expect to have to save vega from herself, too, as her personal dark spiraled out of her control.

contents: 20-year age gap (vega is 26, jack is 46). vega's worsening mental health issues; she's having an anxiety attack, but it's not heavily described. usual pitt dynamics. probably lots of medical inaccuracies that i'm not gonna apologize for. this is totally self-inserted and vega is totally based in lots of aspects of myself. this list is concerns general warnings and specific chapter warnings—i'm gonna keep updating it as i go

gigi's notes: hi people!!!! i'm sorry for not posting the 3rd piece sooner. besides work, classes, organizing and academic conference, my depression keeps getting the best of me and i dissociate and don't do all the shit i need to do and it's an endless cycle. so it took me a bit longer to be able to flesh it out exactly how i wanted this to go and to find the right voice for the things i wanted to write. i really loved this piece and i hope you like it to. i'll try my best to write the next one sooner <3 about the 'jack abbot x reader x frank langdon love triangle', i can tell she's here and she's called TRAITOR (based on the song TRAITOR by elley duhé). i'm nowhere near finished but i'm already at 3k soooo it might take a bit longer to finish cooking it. i should probably make a list of jack abbot's works in progress because i have many lol i'm also gonna write jack abbot x firefighter!reader bc it's my alter-ego, probably a mini-series shorter than BRIGHTER, and i'm also thinking of somethinng like jack abbot x brat!reader in nessa barrett's vibes. as you can tell, jack abbot is rotting my brain :()

PLAYLIST | NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST

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There was something wrong.

The worst of the Pittfest chaos had passed. The ER wasn’t quiet—it never was—, but now the screaming had dulled down to murmurs, the steady beep of machines, the last critical cases being dealt with. Even though it wasn’t over, there was finally a small semblance of quiet starting to spread.

Jack was hands-deep in a tracheotomy when it happened—a kid. Couldn’t have been older than ten. Vega had been working on him since he arrived; Jack caught a glimpse of her across the room as she stopped her compressions and called time of death. He saw the way she stilled for a second, the way something in her eyes cracked. She didn’t lose it, didn’t panic, didn’t break protocol. Just took a deep breath and moved on. But he saw the look in her eyes. He knew that look.

He knew, the moment she stepped out of Trauma Two, her shoulders sagging, her hands shaking as she pulled the latex gloves off with far more force than necessary, there was something wrong.

The beeping from the monitor finally went back to a steady rhythm; his patient was stable. Jack could finally breathe normally again; no one else was calling out his name to go help another patient. He ripped off his gloves, shoved a blood-soaked gown into a bin, and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. By the time his patient was finally handed off, Vega was gone.

He probably shouldn’t have been paying that much attention to her all this time working together, but he couldn’t help it—he was, by nature, an observant person; he had thrived in workplaces exactly because of that. But Vega was the biggest mystery Jack had ever faced—the most fascinating one.

Every time they worked together or were near each other—which happened way more frequently than it should’ve, considering they worked opposing shifts—, he noticed something about her, sometimes without even meaning to.

It was almost as if she were a giant magnet and he was made of iron (part of him was, at least). He noticed the way her forehead would furrow whenever she was in deep thinking; he noticed the way she would let a quiet groan escape when stretching her back, always a grimace of pain she was quick to disguise when there were people around. He noticed how picky she was with her fingers, always scratching something, filing her nails, finding something to fix in her cuticles. He noticed how expressive she was; how her face always showed what she was feeling, even when she was trying to pretend otherwise.

He noticed a lot of things about her. Especially how well she held herself together, but her eyes gave her away—he always saw right through them.

It took him longer than it should’ve to find her. She wasn’t in the break room, wasn’t in the stairwell. Not in the far supply closet that staff usually went to scream into empty shelves, not in the ambulance bay.

It was one of the old, near-empty trauma bays, half-lit, curtain drawn. Vega sat on the edge of a gurney, knees close to her chest, elbows on her knees. Her hands were covering her face, her palms pressed against her eyes as if she could absorb back her own tears.

Jack didn’t announce himself. He just stepped inside, quietly closed the door behind him, pulling the curtain shut. For a moment, he just stood there. The room felt too small, the air too heavy.

“Vega?” He called out in a low voice, rough from a long, chaotic day.

No response—she didn’t move. He could hear her small, soft sobs.

He crossed the room in two strides, invading her space, her knees touching his chest. Carefully, gently, Jack took her hands in his and slowly pulled them away from her face, her eyes, wet with tears, sealed shut as he lowered her hands to her sides.

“Look at me,” Jack said, both his hands coming to cup her face, firm and steady, warm palms against the sides of her neck.

She did. Her eyes, usually so full of fire and life, were dark, red-rimmed, almost vacant as they met his. It was as if an angry, destructive storm had passed through them, taking everything in its wake, taking a piece of her with it. A storm that had been hidden deep, brewing for some time—not just the Pittfest.

“Breathe.” Quietly, she did. “In and out.”

Her breathing hitched, the tears subsiding, the tremor in her chest slowly fading away. His thumbs brushed the sharp line of her cheekbones—not soft, not tender. Grounding. Just enough to tether her back to Earth, back to the present, away from her spiraling thoughts, back to him.

“Good girl,” he muttered as her breath came in shaky but obedient, almost even now.

It was meant to come out as a tease, something for her to laugh, to bring her back to reality. But it didn’t sound that way, not as she shivered, not as his thumb grazed the corner of her mouth. Not as her gaze fell to his lips once, twice before flicking back to his eyes. It shouldn’t have made his stomach twist—but it did. They stayed that way for a moment, just breathing, just looking at each other, existing in each other’s space. Simply being with each other, her pulse a steady rhythm against his fingers.

But his eyes betrayed him—his gaze dropped to her lips before he could stop himself. Maybe it was the tiredness. Maybe it was the blood stuck under his nails, or the way his chest still ached from all the patients he’d lost. Or maybe it was the way that here, in this room, right now, with her, none of it mattered.

Jack leaned in—Vega met him halfway. It wasn’t a careful kiss, not sweet. It was like a collision of exhaustion and adrenaline, and months of looking at each other as if they were two souls who knew something about each other, who recognized something in each other. Her hands gripped the collar of his scrubs, his palms sliding to the back of her neck—it was a kiss meant to ground them both. Hard and a little desperate, meant to translate everything that couldn’t be said yet. No promises, no words, no soft confessions. Just here, right now.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads stood almost touching for a moment. Jack’s breath was ragged; his hands still cupped her face.

“Keep looking at me like that, old man,” she said, voice hoarse, “and I might start thinking you like having me around.”

The wicked smirk on her lips, swollen from his kiss, was the first real thing he’d seen on her face all night.

It took a moment for her teasing to hit its mark, for him to realize she was back. “Yeah, yeah,” he laughed. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Jack was the first to pull back, hands falling away slowly, reluctantly. The air between them still crackled, was still charged as they stared at each other for a moment longer, the memory and the weight of the kiss too fresh, too sharp. For a second, neither of them spoke.

Outside, someone faintly asked about more negative O units—the world hadn’t stopped.

He jerked his chin toward the toward.

“Come on, Wildcard,” he said, the usual sharp-edged version of him settling back into place, “you’ve got a shift to finish.”

There was something about the way he uttered ‘Wildcard’. It was not in the usual teasing, mocking way people did. It felt personal—he spoke it like a secret kept between just the two of them.

She slid off the gurney, her hand brushing his as she walked, her pinkie tangling with his for a single moment before she put distance between them. Her expression was the same as it always was—cool, a little cocky, composed. But her pulse was still visible at her throat.

Jack noticed. Of course he did.

The world was calmer now as they sat down on the park benches, Matteo happily handing beers to whomever would accept. Life still went on around them—music thudding faintly against the night air, sirens going off in the distance—but here it felt quieter. Slower.

Vega looked up; the night sky was clear and bright, stars twinkling faintly. Jack sat beside her on the same worn-out bench. He was sitting close, almost too close. His thigh brushed hers, solid and warm; his arm bumped hers when he shifted slightly to accommodate his prosthetic leg, but he didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned closer, the barest tilt of his body, casual enough that no one would notice.

She noticed—every single second. She could’ve inched away, could’ve created a little space. She didn’t.

They hadn’t spoken since leaving that trauma bay, hadn’t worked together—only traded stolen glances throughout the ER, glances full of everything they didn’t recognize yet.

“You held up good today,” Jack said, nudging her leg with his left knee, beer in hand, “better than most.” He angled his body towards her, looking at her profile.

She nudged his leg back, turning her head to look at him, finding his eyes. “Even with a breakdown?”

“Even then,” he said, sipping his beer and staring intently into her.

Vega tried to play it off, act cool—but her throat still tightened all the same as she held his gaze, as she tried not to think about the anxiety black hole she’d just barely clawed her way out of. She tried not to think about how everything had been spiraling each time worse than the previous, each time getting far out of her control, until his warm, steady hands pulled her out. She didn’t want to think about how grounding his touch felt—or how his kiss felt like a lifeline she didn’t know she needed, how his kiss felt like being above the surface after being underwater for so long, how his kiss felt like feeling a spark of something after being numb for so long.

But that was all she could think about as she looked into his eyes, as the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them under the amber streetlights.

She looked away; her heart sounded stupidly loud in her ears, overwhelming. She took a breath, trying to quiet it down.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” she said, breaking the moment, pretending like it didn’t weigh heavily on her chest. “But thank you.”

“I know,” Jack said after a beat, a half-smirk ghosting across his mouth. “Guess I just have a thing for trouble.”

Vega let out a breath of a laugh, genuine, small, and surprised, meant just for him. Something warm started to spread over her chest, something good. When she turned to him again, her eyes were brighter, crinkling just a little at the corners. She shouldn’t say anything—or at least say something else. But she couldn’t help it when his eyes had a spark of something daring, of something dangerous, something familiar.

“Yeah? That why you keep hanging around?”

The air between them went still. Heavy, charged. Like something coiled and tense, just waiting for someone to make a move—any move.

Feeling just a bit emboldened by the spark in his eyes, she reached out and snagged the beer right out of his hand. Jack’s eyebrows shot up, surprised, but he let her do it, watching as she lifted it to her lips and took a long sip. Brave. Almost defiant.

Vega handed the beer back. Eyes still locked on Jack’s hazel ones, his fingers closed around hers, slow, deliberate, and his head tipped toward her, just a bit, like he was going to say something to Robby instead—he didn’t.

Jack’s mouth brushed near her ear, low enough that only she caught it, meant just for her.

“Careful, kid. Keep that up and I’ll think you’re flirting.”

It was her turn to stay silent, her breath caught like a deer caught in a trap, just for a split second before she masked it into a tiny, sly smile. Her cheeks, her whole face, felt like it was on fire. She didn’t need to look at him to feel the wicked grin tugging at his mouth.

Vega leaned back against the bench, purposefully pressing her shoulder against his. She said nothing as she stole his beer again, brushing his fingers—and he let her—, acting as if her heart was beating normally. It wasn’t. Not since his kiss brought her back to earth.

@cosmoscoffeee @mackycat11 @sunfairyy @starkgaryan @amandarobertsboyce @starlight-starbright-8080 @patatesliomlet @saynotononsense @sweetestcowboy @diaryofafeelsaddict 

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.82)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: The first beach day of the season prompts both You and Tae to talk through some of your sadness. This time, you do something about it. "You’re so gentle. I don’t think you understand it.”

Tags: Trans! Tae, Dysphoria, talks of jealousy and love, top surgery/boob jobs, medical talk, talk of weight gain, body insecurity, body dysmorphia, crack, attempts at humor boobs, fingering, mild dirty talk, voyeurism, Talks of depression, mention of seizures but no seizures today, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, talk of marriage and wedding rings, mentions of past physical abuse, mentions of past self-harm, mentions of ptsd, scars, this is the beach episode that all anime's have,

W/c: 20.6k

A/n: wow! this is the chapter that officially pushes us up and over the 1million words mark of this story! i hope that everyone has enjoyed the ride so far, it feels so satisfying to get to the end of tae's arc after all this time <3 i really enjoyed writing this even if it took me a bit longer to get here. please tell me what you think of it and if you like it lol.

Previous part- Masterlist - First part

Summer comes, polishing its rusty claws.

It’s easy to feel daunted by the change in season, it always makes you feel like you’re running out of time. But change doesn’t always bring bad things. Scary Things? Sure. But alot of change is necessary, even if it's scary at first.

The date is June 1, and the change in weather is welcome. An early warm spell sends the pack scrambling to set up the outdoor furniture, cutting up watermelon after watermelon and strawberry over strawberry.

Jimin gifts Tae a new outdoor settee with a thick pink cushion and woven rattan back, dotted with swans and flowers. You and Tae tear through your sundress collection and keep your favorites on rotation. matching most days and color cordinating. You wear yellow on monday and pink on wednesday. Sometimes when Namjoon asks, you wear blue.

Hobi's sprouts come up on the windowsill and Yoongi makes him a set of four raised garden beds out front for green onions and parsley. the tomatoes that are green and small now will get a little out of control by the end of the summer.

Sort of like the roses. They heap over the rock wall. Wild and untamed and beautiful. Hobi can't bear the idea of cutting them back or even propping them up with a trellis.

But Picking the flowers for you and Tae however- that is something that Hobi can stomach.

Jungkook is perpetually empty from the nest from the hours of 6am to 9am. Intent on using as much sunlight as possible to take his ridiculous 12-mile runs. Sometimes when he feels like going slow, you go with him. He has this stupid dream of running a 5k with you (and you are unfortunately prone to indulging his stupid dreams). Even if he spends half of your morning walks teasing you for your slow pace.

You can only run like 50 feet without getting too out of breath to continue. But every day you go a little farther. Run a little longer. change is funny like that- it creeps up on you.

"Did Yoongi's mating mark make you like- more like a cat?"

"That's a really nice way of calling me lazy" you tease. Jungkook just grins. Both of your hands are sweaty and swinging between you. You have too many questions for him. “Why do you even like running anyway? Why do you want to run with me? Wouldn't it be faster if you went alone? You could run a marathon like tomorrow if you wanted.”

“Yeah, but it would be different if it was with you and I ran my first marathon when I was 20 before I even met Jimin and Tae. They're fun but only if you do it with a ton of people.” he looks down at your feet.

"When those wear out we should get matching sneakers."

"Can mine be pink?"

"Only if mine are purple."

"Deal."

When you do leave with Jungkook you always come home to Namjoon sitting on the front porch reclining in Tae's pink settee, reading and sipping his coffee. The curious chickadees twittering around you a gentle giant of a pack alpha.

Namjoon’s hair has started to go truly salt and pepper. Probably from the stress of the last year. You try to count them all one evening sprawled in the living room, spirited away playing on the TV, Namjoon on the floor sitting between your legs. He lets out a groan and tells you to stop when you get to 100.

“We could always dye it you know? You don’t need to go grey if you don’t want to. Jimin's pink for Christ's sake-” Jimin had perked up from the dining room chair, fresh dye dotting his hairline like the roses dot the rock wall outside. (And most of the windowsills since Hobi likes to pick the roses and bring them inside.)

"Yeah hyung, go pink with me! you're practically a blank canvas" Tae hums from behind Jimin, smiling down at him as she mixes a fresh bowl full of fuchsia.

Namjoon peers at the back of his head with the handheld mirror. He catches your love-struck look as you gently thread your fingers through his nape, your soft smile.

“No. It's okay.” He says. Contemplative. Even though you tell him that Tae dyes her hair so much that she has no idea when she’s going to go grey or if she’ll even ever really notice.

(Jin shaves Namjoon's hair later that week, going short for the heat and summer. And you and Jimin perpetually rub his spiky short hair, a bit obsessed with how sensory it is until he tells you to stop).

But this is how summer with the pack goes. Warm nights spent at your favorite spot and hamburgers and French fries. There are people to call, and things to orchestrate. Jin’s been going a little insane since quitting his job with the FBI, and the warm weather only makes him more prone to fussing. You hardly survived the post-heat spring cleaning.

More than once this spring Jin has demanded that Jungkook actually be hosed down outside after one of his runs turned him muddy and sweaty. Sometimes, Jin does the same with Hobi if he gets particularly grimy taming the garden. The veggies and the Roses. The walks and slow evenings. Life with the pack goes like this; a little lazy, a little busy chasing everyone around and keeping it together.

The garden grows. The sweet lemony lemony-smelling French doubles fill the yard with their scent and Red David Austins dot the fence in the corner like red stars. White fragrant French cups drape up and over the stone.

Hobi likes to pick them in the early morning, right as he has his first cup of coffee. Someone else is inside is getting you yours, or maybe you and Tae are changing for the pack's beach day. You both looked sleepy and draped all over each other when Hobi last saw you. Trailing after Jin who was already griping about the UV index as he and Tae led you in the direction of the dressing room to pick out your bikini for the day.

His careful fingers are mindful of thorns as he snips them free of the bush. A morning dove coos in the middle of the cul de sack, and Noodle meows from around his ankles guarding the alpha’s coffee (and occasionally sneaking sips. Especially if Hobi's used half and half). His baby blue cup rests in the grass slightly overgrown because Hobi is ever mindful of the pollinators.

He has a few blooms in his hands, mainly the pink ones. Hobi offers one to Noodle, crouching on creaky knees, letting the cat smell. Pushing his whiskers past the first row of petals. Purring loudly.

“What do you say Nu? Should we head inside and see if the girls like them?”

The door creaks and Hobi's coffee cup dangles from one pinky, empty. Three brightly colored beach bags wait by the door clogging the doorway and stopping Hobi from being able to open it all the way. They're piled high with towels, chip bags, and enough sunscreen to cover a small parking lot. Your and Tae's dresses are draped over the back of the couch, colorful and long patchwork spilling half onto the floor. A river of multi-colored floral squares.

Hobi can be forgiven for not immediately realizing what he’s watching.

You’re up on the counter and the bikini you wear is small, a bit too small. The red string at the back tied in a bow. One of Tae's hands tangle in it. Winding the red strand over her knuckles, back and forth between her fingers. Your bare back and your dimples are on display- distracting Hobi from what’s going on at your front. 

There’s just a lot of skin on display is all, and not much clothes. Hobi can handle it. Like a gentleman.  He restrains his imagination. Reminding himself that he's allowed to look, that he's not being creepy. But still- he's a little happy that Tae seems to be too busy whispering something to you from between your legs to notice Hobi's eyes trailing up your back.  

She's got one hand on your hip, digging into the alluring cleft where hip meets torso, the other concealed by your bodies.

You’d think he’d be used to it- you and Tae lounging around in little to nothing. Tae's gauzy collection of night dresses, or your spread of mini sleep shorts- but the mini bikini seems extra extra mini today. The thread-narrow straps and small red triangles do little to conceal your body and how it swells. 

Your milk had tapered off after the first few weeks of your heat but the swelling has been slow to go down.  That coupled with a little bit of post-heat indulgence and doting has left your body round and supple in a way that the alphas just devour. Hobi knows you've complained more than once about the newfound back aches and the new stretch marks and he sympathizes he really does but-

But fuck.

You sort of look like something off the cover of one of those vintage Playboy magazines that Tae pretends she likes for 'aesthetic reasons'. Not that Hobi judges. Hobi understands why tae's a little obsessed with them. Your chest is sort of a wet dream.

The whole pack is a lot obsessed with them.

Hobi thinks you're just kissing until You tip your head back and moan, and he almost trips over the corner of the carpet.

“Oh? You're-” Hobi's throat goes dry.

Tae picks her head up from where it was buried in your hair and laughs. Showing her canines, eyes bright and mischievous.

Her hand keeps moving between your thighs. When you try to close your legs, Tae's other hand grabs your knee and pushes them open. She does it like she hardly notices you squirming away or your sudden shyness.

Your scar shines silvery. Hobi hardly notices it. Eyes flicking down to it, to where tae grips your hip, fingers dimpling. Hardly catching the half-frantic glance you send over your shoulder at him. Caught.

Tae bites into the skin of your shoulder, so quick that Hobi almost misses it, directing your attention back to her with a jolt. It's a light correction, a playful one. There are other bruises and evidence of the pack's loving on your body too, a hickey under your jaw that hobi's pretty sure is from him. Others on the inside of your thighs from Jimin, And even more along the line of the bikini.

Jungkook has this funny habit of leaving bruises in the shape of a heart. Tilting his neck so that his hickeys make a pattern.

It's nothing Hobi hasn't seen before. This kind of thing is sort of routine for the pack. Yesterday he found Jungkook and Yoongi fucking in the sunroom, and the morning before that Hobi walked in on Jimin and Namjoon in the upstairs bathroom having some sort of staring match as Jin showered. Both of them hard and pretending they weren't.

And the day before that Tae had walked in on you and Hobi and Yoongi being…a little bit ridiculous on the front porch. Doing some all too public heavy petting that the pack alpha and pack omega would surely disapprove of if they found out.

It's not the first time Hobi has kept your secrets.

The last time Hobi saw Tae finger you, you were at the kitchen table (three mornings ago) but Hobi can't say it's not a welcome surprise. Your squirming is all you can do to keep the pack's pawing at bay when you're like this.

Tae grins, Drinking in Hobi's blush like it's strawberry lemonade. She doesn’t slow her pace at all. Two fingers or three? Her hand works in between your tights as you sag against her front, boneless. Giving in to the fact that you have an audience and Tae doesn't have any plans of stopping. Her wrist crooks to find the angle that makes your toes curl and Hobi sees it on your face the moment she finds that little spot that makes you clench extra hard.

Upstairs, Jungkook laughs loudly. Someone or something crashes into a door or a wall hard enough to make the windows in the kitchen rattle. Probably Jimin and Jungkook chasing each other around, zoomies that are sure to get worse when they get to the beach.

“Guys” Jin’s stressed tone sounds and Namjoon’s deep baritone says something in response. Too low to hear. Distracting the pack omega so that the pups can be pups. Who knows where Yoongi is, probably tightening down a screw or a loose nail or something.

Hobi smirks, kicking a hip up against the counter after refilling his coffee. Settling in to watch. The roses are forgotten about, discarded on the counter where they glimmer, going withy.

Hobi sips his coffee. Making eye contact with you over Tae's shoulder. And you blush furiously at the blatant way his eyes flicker from your face to your chest to between your legs.

"Do you-" you breathe heavily, cheek resting against Tae's arm, scrambling to paw at her hand when she crooks her fingers a little deeper, petting insistently in and in. Your bikini bottom is pushed to the side, leaving a little trickle of slick on the counter. The dewy and delicious parts of you are hardly hidden by Tae's wrist. A delighted growl-pur builds in Hobi's chest at the sight.

"Do you have to watch?" Your voice goes breath as Tae changes the angle of her hand and you throw your head back, but Hobi doesn't even blink.

"I'm quite enjoying my view thank you very much." He teases. "a settling?" He asks, taking in your dazed expression and the way you cling to her.

"Hole check." Tae quips, her tone vaguely endeared, like Jin's hole checks aren't the pack's favorite form of entertainment when it comes to teasing you and keeping you settled. Hobi's seen you get them just about everywhere; in the shower, bent over the arm of the couch. Or jin's favorite- sprawled over his lap in the nest before bed, usually post knotting.

You hiccup and paw at her wrist, but she just keeps going.

Tae growls, deep and pleased. There must be something with her instincts today, something setting her on edge. Maybe it's just the sight of you in that itty bitty bikini, a size too small for your new healthy body that spills out around its edges. Fuck- girls are so-

Hobi's grip goes white-knuckled on his coffee, and Tae shifts to the side so that Hobi can see. You duck forward into her chest overwhelmed nuzzling the faint fat there. You want to suck. To keep something in your mouth to keep the moans at bay.

You’d woken up a little bit soft-minded, a little bit more laconic than usual. Yoongi wrapped around your shoulders and Jungkook nuzzling somewhere around your stomach. No one was too surprised that it had been hard to wake you up.

It’s no wonder that Tae- usually more prone to being riled up by you in omegspace, had taken the way you’d trailed after her as something of an invitation.

You’re not wearing one of your bikini no- Hobi is intimately familiar with those (on account of how much you’ve both used the upstairs hot tub this spring) this red one is Tae's. Normally that wouldn’t be an issue but-

Tae's chest is not the same size as yours, especially not after your heat- whereas this bikini fits Tae perfectly- on you- it’s a little small.

Hobi can’t stop looking at your sternum, can't stop looking at you. the rest of the day is going to be torture. everything about you distracts him- the chub at the side of the red triangles, that freckle between your chest- all of it.

Tae grins at him like she knows and that's why she chose it, her cheek resting on the top of your head, smiling gently like she’s not knuckle deep in your pussy. Your bikini bottom is pushed to the side darkening to a faint maroon.

Her hand keeps moving, nudging sweet little sounds from you. Her hands are glossy to the knuckle and you know you’re leaking onto the kitchen counter (not that it hasn’t seen worse) you bury your nose in her throat, and let out these little huffs, and tae's hand slips under the side of your bikini to feel the flutter of your heart.

or just feel you up a bit. Her squeezes are appreciative and surprisingly tender.

Ah, fuck.

Hobi crosses his arms and sips at his coffee. You make eye contact with him and then shy away, hiding your moans in Tae's shoulder. Tae's bikini is dotted with small flowers, white on top and pink on the bottom.

Her chestnut hair is extra curly- Hobi doesn’t know why she bothered with the rollers when any effort that she puts into her hair will be damaged by the salt water later but still. It spills over her shoulders in pretty waves. She’s still wearing a clip at the nape of her neck, Hobi darts forward to take it out as you let out high-pitched ‘ah- ah- ah's

“Yah guys! Not in the kitchen! We eat here.” Jin already has a healthy glob of sunscreen covering both his cheeks, depositing yet another beach bag by the front with a loud and uncermous thud as he catches sight of what you and tae and now hobi are doing in the kitchen.

You can tell by the brief glance you cast over Tae's shoulder that he was planning on hassling you to get some sunscreen on too, a task now forgotten.

Tae cocks an eyebrow at Jin, and her fingering goes a little stronger, she picks up one of your legs hips splaying wider, showng jin too. "Yeah? I eat here too."

Jin huffs, half laughing. Hobi snorts into his coffee. "You're unbelievable."

“Just one sec, she’s almost there.”

You hide your face in Tae's shoulder, blushing furiously at the casual way she says it, all but pawing at her. Your fingers dig into her arm, the delicate bracelets on her wrists jingle and she crooks her fingers right there.

“You’re just gonna stand there? Your bathing suit is still upstairs?”

Tae grins at Hobi, pressing her thumb against your clit in the way that makes you squeal. All but ignoring your predicament. Hobi knows you like it when your pleasure is treated as routine, as something casual. Hardly worth mentioning or acting up over. They could make you cum over breakfast and then in the car and it would just be taking care of you. they'd decide and you'd take it. 

“And what? Miss the show?”

Jin sighs and forces you to untuck your head from her shoulder. "you have until she cums before I make you go upstairs and change baby."

"But-"

"No buts." you bite your lip to keep your moans at bay. Eyes dazed and foggy, completely small underneath their attention. “Pretty little thing,” Jin comments, eyes dark. Tae's hips shift ever so slightly. Like she’s supremely aware of the pack omega so close behind her.  And Jin’s hand crests your knee and your ankle, holding you open so that Tae can continue.

“Close your eyes pup,” You moan through it, Jin spreading a generous layer of sunscreen on your cheeks as Tae's hand works, turning your bathing suit dewy, wet, and messy.

You whine, high-pitched quiet. Jimin trips over the carpet in the main room same as Hobi, eyes flicking from Tae's hands to you then back again. “Oh, I- oh”

Hobi takes another swallow of his coffee, "yeah, oh" Hobi watches Jimin's eyes flicker from your pussy, to the wet countertop below.

Jimin's been being…a bit weird about your slick since your heat. A little bit less likely to reach out to you, to touch you. Like he’s too mindful of his own desires (or of triggering an early rut, Jimin is sort of due for one just like Hobi- he can feel it, an itch under his skin sometimes that threatens to build). But still unable to stop the almost magnetic draw to you in the evenings when the night falls and the hours grow slow.

He hasn’t exactly been obsessed with your pussy since your heat, but to say there's have barely been a 2-day span where Jimin hasn’t sought you out would be true. There's hardly been an evening that he hasn’t folded himself close in the nest and shuffled up behind you. Needy and a bit hard already at just the thought of asking. It's hard to pretend like he hasn’t sat next to you at every available opportunity. That Jimin hasn't trailed behind you and Tae or closed the door to the library room when Tae decides she needs some 'personal reenactment' for a chapter in her book.

Hobi doesn't blame Jimin for being pussy whipped. Hell- all of them are a little obsessed with it. He's heard Namjoon and Jin talking about it, late at night when they think no one is awake.

"The doctor did say that we should be careful. About her slick and us alpha's."

"Do you think they could get like- dependant on it?"

"I think it's only an issue if the pup says it is." Jin had snorted, and the sound of lips connecting had slightly woken Hobi from sleep. Wet and messy kisses getting messier by the second.

"If Minnie wants help, he'll come to us."

Hobi sort of wonders if this is like that, if Tae is like that with you, either addicted or dependent on it and that's why she's fingering you on the kitchen counter. Watching as you paw at Tae's wrist as it starts to become too much, moaning against her throat as she stalwartly continues to rub up against the spongy part of you.

Hobi could tell you the exact moment that she tips you over the edge. Fingers reaching just a bit deeper in almost a petting motion. Hobi laughs, and your squirming goes a little overstimulated, trying to pull back, gripping Tae's wrist with a choked-off moan. But Tae won't stop until you actually start to tremble.

Your body seizes and then relaxes, and you cling to her, sighing, burying your face in her neck to hide from the others who shuffle around the kitchen. Yoongi barely pauses to dot a kiss on your forehead before he gets the cut-up watermelon out of the freezer and asks Jimin to carry the cooler up from the basement. The others continue to chatter.

"Did you grab the lemonade?"

"Yes!" Jungkook bounces around the kitchen, already with so much energy even though he's had no caffeine.

"And the liquid iv?"

"Yes hyung- yes, come on- the tide is changing and I wanna make sure we have high tide for body surfing-"

"Wait Yoongi- could you check the oil in Hobi's car-" 

"I checked it two days ago." Hobi puts his empty coffee cup in the sink.

"Before or after you and the pup took it out? I know how you drive baby."

That makes Hobi blush, it’s as gentle of a scolding as Jin is capable of giving, "Hyung-"

"Go change pup."

Hobi sighs and follows the pack omega's instructions. Tae keeps her fingers inside of you until you’ve had the chance to come down all the way, until your breathing has gone heavy and you blink up at her, feeling a little hazy. She grins and kisses you on the nose. She takes her fingers out with a faint squelch, wiping them on a kitchen towel before she gently puts your bikini back in place. You whine and squirm.

Namjoon comes down the stairs, nostrils flaring, looking up at you and Tae, you’re a bit debauched, but Jin continues rubbing sunscreen onto your cheeks, switching to Tae's after a second. “Are you guys ugh- ready to go?”

Tae shuffles away with a lazy grin. You blink at her like you're half surprised that she's left you alone on the counter. She asks for it, and Jimin hands her both of your dresses, she pulls her dress over her head and sets yours on the counter.

“Hold on, one sec,” Tae fixes your bikini bottom, putting it back in place before dropping to one knee. Your hand goes into her hair, tugging and blushing furiously as she does. Trying to pull her back up as the whole pack watches her press a kiss over your pussy lips, the wet fabric of your bottom clinging to them, showing everything. Every ridge and dip.

Tae doesn't lick or nibble. She just kisses your wet spot and pops up onto her feet with a grin, hair bouncing,

“There we go, ready!”

~-~

It’s an uncommonly hot day for June. The seagulls turn slowly in a circle, like one big mobile buffered by the gentle ocean breeze. Even the screaming children feel quiet, dampened by the sound of the ocean waves roaring.

You almost bump into Jungkook as he helps unload the car, a brightly colored beach bag under either arm. Shirt already off and looking drippy and boyish in the summer sunshine, romantic looking in a way that only Jungkook can gring. He grins, his tousled hair just so before he ducks down to peck your forehead and dance around you.

You sway in the sunlight like a reed before toppling back into the passenger seat.

Hobi leans low, hands balanced on the hot metal roof of the car. Eyeing you over the rim of his dark sunglasses. A little worried. The others dart around both of you. Getting the bags, the cooler, the umbrella from the cars.

“You okay?” He asks and you fiddle with the ribbon on your sunhat, not meeting his eyes.

“Yeah,” you say after a second. You'd spent the whole car ride staring out the half-cracked window, eyelashes catching the wind. Hair going tangly until Tae leaned forward from the backseat to put it up for you in a claw clip.

The rendezvous earlier hadn't woken you up, not like they'd hoped, not at all. Hobi looks at you for another long moment before saying, “okay, I’m going to believe that until you tell me otherwise alright?”

“Alright.” You say, trying to convince yourself to smile. It’s easy when Hobi is looking at you like that. It's a nice day, you should enjoy it without worrying.

But the worry is hard to let go of.

Jin's endless chatter is the companion to your quiet. "Joonie- did we pack the watermelon? Did anyone see my SPF 70? Jungkook- do not run down the stairs, you remember what happened when you slipped and you skinned your knee? that goes the same for you too Hobi! Yoongi did you remember your sun top? Where did I put my sunglasses- thank you, baby.” Yoongi hands them over, dark hair glistening shiny, and healthy under the sun.

Tae wears a big pink sunhat and you wear a black one, sparing your shoulders from the sun, although they’ve been dotted and smeared with sunscreen too. Although the pack omega made each and every one of you line up for another layer of sunscreen and morning kisses before getting into the car you know today will leave you with tan lines no matter how many times Jin asks you to re-apply.

Especially when it comes to swimming.

The ocean hovers, stretching to the end of the world. The tide is still high but turning. A storm surge from a few days back has left even the waves aggressive at low tide. “Buddy system- Jungkook, you’re not allowed to go out on your-” Jungkook ignores Jin’s griping, dashing out into the hot sand. Jimin and Hobi and Tae hot on his heels.

The pack files down the steps, toting woven chairs and tasseled umbrellas, Yoongi’s face looks several shades lighter than normal from the sheer amount of sunscreen that he’s applied. He grumbles and hugs a big 2-gallon jug of water and lemon slices to his chest. But Jin is a professional. Each of them hold one fishing rod a peice, a small tackle box between the two of them is all that they need.

From the bottom of the steps, Namjoon waits.

He smiles up at you. You’re taking the steps slowly, one at a time in your squeaky plastic flip-flops hugging the big woven beach blanket to your chest. Jungkook Jimin and Hobi are already chasing each other across the sand, halfway to the ocean. You watch Jungkook dive, all but tackling Jimin up and over the dunes, Hobi valiantly comes to the other alpha’s rescue, but it’s no use, the three of them go rolling and tumbling. You can see the sand in Jungkook’s dark hair from here.

Namjoon smiles at you from the bottom steps, switching from holding the packs cooler with two hands to one, he offers you his hand wordlessly tugging the cooler behind him while you walk. Waiting for you to take off your flip-flops and hook them through his fingers so that you don't have to hold them.

Namjoon and you trail behind, the pack alpha going slow for you. Your hat nudges his shoulder. Yoongi and Jin walk a few paces ahead, bickering like an old married couple about the place you'll set up shop, matching rings on their fingers, bound between the two of them even if they’re both carrying too much. They still hold hands.

The rings are a new development, simple silver bands for the two of them, a tiny diamond on Jin's. You don’t know when it exactly started to come up in conversation (shortly after you'd drunkenly announced that you wanted to marry Tae maybe, although that was months ago at this point) but somewhere along the last 4 months, they've both started to wear them every day. One morning you’d woken up to Yoongi grumbling about ring sizes, that all the nitrogen from the day before was making his fingers feel too swollen for it.

You're hardly surprised.

They’re just testing it out, just making sure to see if they even like wearing them. Is it even a real marriage if they haven't filled out the paperwork and don't want to do anything like a ceremony? Does starting to wear rings even matter when Yoongi and Jin have already been semi-married in everything but paperwork for nearly all of their adult lives?

You’d known sort of from the beginning that Yoongi had always planned on marrying Jin, regardless of the mating mark. Maybe it would bother you more if you weren't fully planning on marrying Tae one day.

But with that you're going slow. Like today, you're in no rush.

Just like you plan on marrying Tae, just like you're sort of already mated to Hobi- regardless of the fact that you'll never bite him and he'll never be able to bite you. The feelings are still there.

You’d talked about it with Yoongi shortly after your heat. Alone, just the two of you cuddled up together late one night in the nesting pod after a bit of pack revelry. you can still hear everyone upstairs if you listen hard enough, spilling from the upstairs windows. The windows open to allow in a stray sun-warmed breeze. The weather shifting, the season changing and another summer is on its way.

"It feels like something I need to do before I finish the house. You know? Like it doesn't make sense to finish the house and not be married to Jin inside of it."

"This sort of feels like you're breaking up with me."

Yoongi had rushed to reassure you before he'd clocked your teasing expression. that really- you were just joking. he'd bent over you, and you'd put your foot flat to his stomach and pushed playful. A little tipsy, a little silly.

"Does that mean i can ask you out again if we're broken up?"

"Why don't you ask your husband first!"

It’s hard to believe that it’s been a full year since the pack moved in and yet, the empty champagne bottles on the floor linger gathering condensation. Tae had pushed you to celebrate it. The house is almost nearly complete too- there are only a dozen or so odd tasks that Yoongi has yet to do, picking a color for the exterior of the house being one of them.

They linger on the edge of his to-do list, so unimportant when it comes to the regular responsibilities of the pack beta. Like taking Jungkook to work, cooking dinner and doing the shopping, taking Noodle to his vet and grooming appointments, and picking Namjoon up after his night shifts (of which there are thankfully few).

And edit Tae's novel.

It’s almost complete but in need of serious serious review. She’d asked you first, but you’d read it, cried, and deemed it a complete masterpiece a welcome compliment but not exactly what she’d been looking for. Tae's sensitive heart cannot take much criticism, especially for something so close to her soul. But Yoongi and Jin are gentle enough.

Jimin, Namjoon, and Hobi had all asked to read it as well. And had whined and tried to barter when she told them that they'd need to wait to read the finished product.

You have a feeling that might have to do with the main character and the love interest. The love interest is a bit of all of them- although you confess you can’t read it without picturing Hobi or Jungkook in their slot.

But for today everything can wait. Editing books and chapters. Words and confessions. Everything can wait in the wake of a beach day. It's so rare that no one has to work, on a weekday no less. Jimin’s off from his bodyguarding, Jungkook doesn’t have another client or class scheduled until two days from now, and Namjoon’s next day of work isn’t until then either. You guess it’s just really you, Jin, Tae, and Yoongi who are regularly without anything to do these days.

Although that might be changing soon.

You’d submitted your application over a month ago, and yet, there has been nothing, no rejection or confirmation. No nothing. Although you’ve gone out and gotten the mail every morning without fail. Hobi is always reassuring you that there is still time, and that even if you don’t get in this cycle there’s always next semester.

Yeah, you’d taken his advice and applied for culinary school. You talk through it all the time, late at night on a drive, over lunch when you bring it to the flower shop after he forgets it at home again, after Jungkook's early morning walk/runs.

“As much as I hate to point it out but becoming a baker will mean that you’ll have to wake up like- really early every day. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

You’d whined and flopped down into the nest on top of Hobi, shuffling to the side to get your body all aligned up against the pack omega. Still Half-asleep, glasses askew, Yoongi already carrying three cups of coffee up the stairs, steaming good.

“I know- I know," Although the rest of the pack defaults to being encouraging, Hobi is the only one who asks questions like this. "I don’t know if I’m like- so focused on the results or that I just want to go to school in general but-"

He'd grinned at you. "You want it too bad for it to matter."

"Yeah…I think I do. Even if I don't even like do anything with it after. It would be nice to like- understand why I can't make a fucking souffle."

"You're the shame of the regimen."

"What do your superiors do with you." (Tae made you watch Pride and Prejudice again a week ago and you've been quoting it back and forth since then.)

Wanting something enough to try for it is strange for you. It feels strange to have a dream after so many years of straight survival. But the pack isn’t really hurting for money these days, what with your old penthouse sold to the highest bidder and the dizzying sum put into stocks and bonds that pay out at regular intervals.

It's more than enough to make your taxes and utilities and even have a good bit left over at the end of every month. You're not really involved with it, Jin and Yoongi handled all of it. The sale, the business with the realtor, and property in Manhattan always goes for a lot, even with a burnt-up top floor.

It's a strange thing, but you honestly don’t even have to think about money anymore. No one in the pack does.

Although that’s not what’s making you quiet.

Your slowness right now has nothing to do with your and Tae's rendezvous earlier. If anything, you might be worse if it wasn't for her. You have that vaguely disgruntled look that Jimin gets when he's overstimulated today. Like your skin isn't fitting right, or your hair is pressing in from all sides. It's not overstimulation- not exactly.

Your thoughts are still somewhere too slow for summertime. Dripping and melting slowly like ice cream. By the time you get over the hill, Hobi is wearing Tae's sunhat and Jimin is holding her flip-flops. Jungkook is walking backward several paces in front of them. Saying something that makes Jimin throw one of Tae's flip-flops at him.

Jungkook takes it and runs. Tae's pink sunhat goes fluttering in the breeze and the three of them chase after him until they drop their towels and bags in a spot that Jin and Yoongi deem alright enough and continue their pell-mell puppy tumble to the ocean, Tae's pink flipflop nearly gets taken by the sea but Jungkook dives for it.

"Help me set up the umbrella?" Yoongi asks, touching your arm gently. You nod, happy to have some shade in the bleeding sunlight. You hold it still while Jin fluffs out the beach blanket and Namjoon sets up the chairs, and when you're finished and Namjoon sits in the camping chair, Jin and Yoongi meander their way towards the shoreline, still holding hands both of them covered to the wrist.

"They look like a pair of grandmas."

Namjoon looks up at Yoongi and Jin and grins, "Yeah they do."

You plop down on the blanket just next to him and Namjoon raises an eyebrow at you. "Are you sure you don't want a chair?"

"I'm sure."

Namjoon spends a long moment looking at you, but you're not paying attention to him. You watch Jimin spin Tae in the sea spray, her dress twirling with him, she holds around his neck until he puts her down, pulling her dress over her shoulders too. Jimin runs it back to your things, grinning at you and ducking low to kiss your forehead then Joonie’s mouth.

You still watch Tae, mouth a little turned down as you watch her. taking in the way her shoulders hunch, the way she looks down at her body and then up at Jimin.

Joonie makes a noise and Jimin ruffles his buzz cut before darting back to Tae with a giggle. you watch tae straighten up before he gets back over to her. The pack alpha shakes his head. Tae has crossed her arms over her chest, but she’s still smiling at Jimin.

Tae has always been better than you are at pretending that nothing is wrong.

The ocean is speckled with people, brightly colored swimsuits, and beachballs. You’re glad you came on a weekday because there aren't too many people here. It's not crowded. From a distance, the Ferris wheel turns slow and when you listen you can almost hear the Jingle of the carousel mixing with the screech of the gulls.

You know that later there will be fried dough and milkshakes up on the pier and a walk on the boardwalk later. You should be more excited for that, you love fried dough and you’ve been meaning to try and make your own for the longest time.

Jin is quick to call Jungkook and Jimin back for more sunscreen and to take off his clothes before he gets them wet. Really he's getting a little ridiculous with it. Jungkook and Jimin strip the rest of their clothes until there's little left beyond a tiny red Speedo.

It causes more than a few groans. Your mate looks away, laughs, then looks back.  "Jungkook-" "Really Koo-"

"What? I wanted to match the pup!" That actually gets a laugh out of you. You touch his knee and Jungkook smiles down at you, winks, and bounds off in the direction of Tae and Jimin. 

Tae looks gorgeous running through the water, her hair quickly during dark from the salt water. Both of them tug your mate into the water when he dares to come too close and it's seconds before Yoongi sinks a Jungkook-shaped necklace wrapped around his shoulders to pull him to sea. Yoongi puts up a valiant fight you can hear his "yah!" from here.

Jimin isn’t far behind. Getting more than a few looks as he wets his hair and flips in back. You find it hard to look at Jimin and Tae actually. Flustered. Hobi is already 50 feet down the beach, head lowered to look for things that have washed up. Headphones barely visible at this distance. You didn’t want to walk down the beach today with him, too tired.

And it’s so hot.

You sigh, Namjoon is already flipping through his book (fiction for a change- probably one of Tae's recommendations if you had to guess from the ballgown on the front.) You watch as Hobi becomes a dot on the horizon.

You sort of wish that you’d gone with him after a few minutes. You alternate between watching him become smaller and smaller, and watching Tae, Jungkook, and Jimin roughhouse in the water while Yoongi and Jin stand in knee-high waves, keeping an eye on them and talking. Still holding hands. Mostly just making sure nothing happens.

You know the pack is always worried, always just a little bit extra watchful of Jungkook on beach days. It’s always a risk, having him go out and swim. But someone's always nearby. If anything happened, if he started having a seizure, the rest of the pack wouldn’t be that far away. He's never had a seizure in the water before but it's always a risk. Jungkook doesn't act like he's nervous whatsoever, pushing off from the bottom when the big waves come and diving where they break, cutting through the water like it's effortless.

You feel a little too tired to share in their worry today.

The pack has picked up on it of course, that there is something wrong with you today. That something is turning you quiet and a little bit grumpy. There are only so many forehead kisses and reassurances that they you can give before you sort of have to come to them for help. Tae at least had tried this morning. And while you hadn’t not enjoyed your rendezvous…

Namjoon opens up the cooler. Offering you a piece of watermelon. You decline it.

“Do you want some water?”

“No Joonie.” You cover your feet with sand. Wiggling your bright red toes up through it before covering them again.

"How about an ice cream?”

You snort. “It’s not even noon.” You find a little pink shell in the sand, sun-bleached, and you balance it on Namjoon's knee. The pack alpha watches you line it up with others you find searching through the sand. You'll show Hobi when he gets back.

“I won't tell Jin if you don't, we could walk and get some for everyone?” he offers. Folding his book to the side. Index finger keeping his place.

“They’d melt and I’m still full of breakfast.” Hobi had made French toast this morning, sticky and yummy and melty with how good it was. Your lips are stuck in a pout, and you school your expression into something neutral the second you realize.

Namjoon gets barely another paragraph under his belt before he's trying again. “Are you sure you don’t want to join the others in the water?”

“No Joonie,” You nudge his novel with your elbow, “Read your book.”

“We could get you some lemonade or something else from the boardwalk? It’s kind of hot out you know, you should be careful of heatstroke.”

“Joonie-”

“Pup.”

Namjoon folds his book in half again, raising an eyebrow at you. You know he’s asking you to tell you what’s wrong without actually doing it. An invitation if ever there was one.

The cool ocean breeze tickles your forehead comforting. “Do you wanna tell me why you’re a little grumpy this morning, or do you want me to wait until noon until I start to actually try and cheer you up?”

"You are cheering me up."

A look at your phone tells you noon is about 40 minutes away, and the temptation to wallow is there but-

You pull up the hem of your long skirt. Green and yellow and embroidered, Tae got it for you special just for today, it was wrapped in gauzy paper this morning at the end of the settee in the dressing room. One for herself already hanging in your shared closet. You like matching with Tae- you always do, but-

She looked so good in hers, and you couldn’t help but feel like it didn’t look the same on you- your legs too short and stubby, your arms, just a little too pudgy when you turn to the side. You don't pick yourself apart in the mirror nearly as bad as you used to. And it's stupid, because you know she probably thought the exact opposite about how it fit you. You’d seen it just briefly, the way that her eyes had fixated on your chest and then quickly looked away.

You don’t make Tae feel dysphoric often but you hate it when you do.

She'd noticed you noticing, and then in the best way she knew how she'd distracted you from your own feelings and let you know just how delectable she found you in your bikini and dragged you downstairs into the kitchen-

Ugh, today might be a good day if you could only get over it. You might be happy to spend it here, lounging with the pack alpha but it’s also a bad day too.

You kneed the sand with your feet. And Namjoon waits for you to speak, recognizing that you’re working through it. You bury your head in your knees, skin pressed to skin, holding around your calves tight.

"I thought I’d have more time, when the weather started to change and Tae and I started looking at bikinis. All of them were just so small and I’m so big now.”

“Pup, you’re perfect,” You can tell Namjoon means it.

“I know, I just want to feel more comfortable.” you say it like you don’t really believe it. Steamrolling past the pack alpha before he has a chance to argue with you. To pry. “I ordered a one-piece and I know that but-” you tug your knees to your chest, feet sandy, flipflops discarded. Pink. Tae's matching ones are a few sizes larger and not far, resting in the sand.

“But I also don’t want anyone to look at the scars on my back.”

A gull squawks and Jungkook giggles as he gets up on Jin's shoulders. tae is already perched on Jimin's, playing a game of chicken. An extra large wave hits them from the side and they both go tumbling. Laughing and falling into the salt water. Yoongi smiles from his spot with his fishing pole, screwing with his line and then Jin's, getting them set up. Namjoon drops his book to the side.

“Ah. So that’s what it is.”

“It doesn't bother me when you guys see them but-“

You look at the waves instead of at him. And you realize it honestly hadn’t occurred to him that that might be the reason why you’re nervous, why you’re off today. You hadn’t really realized it either, not until you caught Tae looking at them this morning and then Hobi.

You look at the ocean, and then back at Namjoon. He folds his book and puts it away. Beneath his big body, the beach chair creeks. You lay your head against the sun-bleached wood of the arm rest. His fingers naturally find themselves in your hairline, rubbing at your temple. You don’t know how he knew that you’ve got a headache but the relife is near instant.

“It’s not that I’m even that self-conscious of them.” You say after a moment. You don’t think about it at all when it’s just the pack when it’s just the eight of you. You don't feel nervous when you're walking around in a bra with Tae or in a bandeau and a pair of Jungkook’s sweats when he eventually badgers you into stretching in the sunroom. You never think about them when it's days like that.

“If anyone looks, I can tell them off for you.”

“No, you don’t need to, I just-” You watch a little kid and his friends toss a ball to each other, getting too close to the waves until it's swallowed by the seafoam, Jungkook is close to it. He gets it for them before it has a chance to get swept out for sea. They scream and crowd him. You get it- all little kids sort of love Jungkook.

“I don’t want anyone thinking that it’s you guys who did that to me, I don’t want anyone to look and wonder how it happened.”

You think of it, the scar, the sharpness of a knife, your face under Geumjae’s boot. It doesn’t bother you to remember it anymore. All the pain from it is so far away. But anger has a habit of sticking around.

“It doesn’t matter to me, if it matters to you, I understand, but I don’t care what strangers think about us, not anymore.” You feel warm at that, that the pack alpha doesn’t care about his reputation so long as you know who he is. The content of his heart and soul, or whatever.

“It matters to me just- I hate them, I hate having them.” You bury your hands in the sand to hide that they’re trembling and this time, when Namjoon passes you a slice of watermelon you take it from him.

"Come with me to get ice cream?"

"Did you only suggest it earlier because you wanted to get some?"

"Yeah," he admits, he gets up from the chair. Hand out, waiting.

You put your palm against his and he pulls you to your feet. "Okay, only if I can get mint chocolate."

His face goes sour, “pup-” you laugh and down the beach, Hobi picks his head up from looking down, pockets heavy with sea glass, listening to the sound of it on the wind and smiles.

Your hands stay like that, tangled together between the both of you. Now that you're talking about it, it's hard to stop.

“At first, I was so disgusted with myself that I’d let someone do that to me. You know I didn’t fight back until the end, not really, not until Yoongi.” Namjoon hums, and lets you vent. Let’s you talk it through as you walk up the steep steps. You know he knows all of this but you want to vent.

“I spent so long thinking I deserved it, wondering if I did, and trying to convince myself that I didn’t. I still don’t know if deserving has anything to do it. But after I stopped wondering, I just got angry.”

The sun beats down, burning the sand and bleaching the earth slowly, leaching the color out of everything, the seashells, Namjoon’s eyes, the grey strands in his hair. Everything. “I got angry at me, and then at him, and then at myself again because I couldn’t punish him.”

Your feet thump up onto the boardwalk, staccato. Namjoon pauses so you can put on your pink flip-flops. You know he doesn't want you to get splinters. “Do you still want to punish him?”

“No.”

You realize how true it is, you really, don't think you want revenge anymore. “I just want to let go of all of it and start again, I just want it to not matter anymore. I don’t care about it and I’m not ashamed of what he did to me because that’s his shame to bear now. Even though he's dead."

"But I still don’t how to let it go. I still have the scars. I don’t want to hold onto all this rage and grief and fear anymore. I woke up angry, and I'm trying to let go of it, that's why I'm grumpy.”

Namjoon’s voice is so deep, that it’s almost hard to hear over the crash of the waves. “I don’t know how you let go of it, I don’t know how to grow. Change is of course natural and you can't avoid it- but I think healing is different for each person. Some people just need love and care, and some people need a fire lit underneath them. I won’t sell you a false promise because I don’t know if it’s possible for everyone to heal. Brains aren't like bodies.”

Namjoon pauses, and he glances at you tentatively, like he’s not sure he’s supposed to say what he wants to. The second you clock the look you want to know what he’s thinking. He must guess it from your face because he soldiers on.

“But you’re so gentle. I don’t think you understand it. you don't understand how rare it is, how special you are to have gone through so much and still be gentle. Your anger doesn't take that away. Not to me."

“Oh, uhm- thanks?”

"And I think if you weren’t healing, we’d know.” Namjoon still has the tacky feeling of sunscreen- probably from spreading it on Tae's shoulders. When he touches your cheek, tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear. Eventually, you say,

“I don’t want anything about me to be violent anymore. I think I’ve earned it.”

“You have,” Namjoon says. You need it, the permission to be this way, permission to be peaceful after fighting for so long. There is no joy in this trying, there is no satisfaction in trying to get better if you can’t have peace.

So, what if life gets a little boring eventually? It's better than things being painful all the time. You have your coffee; you go to the beach with the people you love. What will the unblemished skin of your back feel like when the scars are gone?

You want to know. You realize it then, that you wish you didn't have them. That not having them would be easier. You want a new body, you want a new life, or maybe not a new one- But the same one just different, without all the pain and anguish and struggle.

When you look back at the pack, they’re nothing but dots among the ocean. Your heart pangs when you realize you can’t pick out Tae.

Namjoon squeezes your hand. “What are you worried about?”

“Tae's feeling dysphoric today, it’s kind of odd that we’re so in sync don't you think? I’m feeling like shit about my body and what’s been done to it, and she’s feeling like shit because hers won’t love her right.”

Namjoon tips his head. “I noticed. How do you think we could help?”

The pack alpha is asking you how to care for another member of your pack, and you wish you knew better how to say it. How to explain what tae needs. You feel so fragile today, you’re not sure you could help but- loving Tae is easy for you. Loving Tae has always felt like breathing.

“I don’t know. Probably just braid her hair and tell her she looks lovely. Support her. You’re good at doing that. You don’t need my help.”

Namjoon kicks at the boardwalk, “I wonder if it will ever not matter to her if she’ll ever truly reclaim her body and make it what she wants. Do you think she should stop trying? That she should stop wearing dresses, even if it never makes her feel the way she wants it to?”

“No, never, Tae should always try. I love her and I just want her to be okay.”

Namjoon takes your hand, turning it over tracing a scar on the back of your hand. It's a burn scar, one of the ones you gave yourself back when you wanted hurt because you didn’t know how to make everything stop hurting. It makes sense- in a recursive sort of way.

“Then I think you can try to let it go, and if it doesn’t work the first time or the second or the third you just try again. You can try, even if you think you’ll fail. If Tae deserves it then you deserve it too.”

“Sometimes all I want is a do-over, sometimes all I want is a new life. I've wasted so much time being sad-”

Namjoon drops your hand and then holds it out. Smiling brightly in that what that only the pack alpha can, dimples and all. His tone switches from serious to goofy so quick that it gives you whiplash “My name's Kim Namjoon, it's nice to meet you, what's yours?”

“Joonie.”

His eyes are teeming with mirth, the kind of goofiness that Namjoon only really has when he’s one-on-one. You won’t do him the disservice of thinking that he’s only this goofy with you. You know he acts this way with the others too.

But when it's all of you together Namjoon is always counting heads and bending down to tie loose shoelaces. He's not silly like this. He's your caretaker and your confidant, your pack alpha, and sort of your dad in the best kind of non-creepy way. You've learned alot from him over the last year, you've grown alot with him.

“I’m here with my pack, I think you’d really like them. Especially my girl, Tae.” He bumps his shoulder into yours and you giggle. He holds the door to the ice cream shop open for you with a faint jingle.

"Can I have your maraschino cherry?"

"Yeah. You can even eat the others too and I won't tell. I’m getting an extra sugar cone too."

"Deal." You don't end up getting mint ice cream at all, the strawberry gram cracker is too tempting for you. You're ladened with them when you're on your way back, the shop has these special little insulated cups to keep the ice cream cold, but it's still in danger of melting.

Namjoon is a little quieter, that might just be from the sheer amount of ice cream that both of you hold and the concentration it takes to avoid spilling it. You've got a strawberry milkshake for Tae, a peanut butter scoop and split for Jin, something with caramel for Yoongi that Namjoon thought he'd like, and fish-shaped samanco for Jimin and a chocolate covered banana for Jungkook. The whipped cream and cherries hardly make it off the boardwalk.

But you sense there's something more to it, that there is something more to Namjoon's quiet than simple concentration.

So, before you get back to the others you pause, sun beating down, ice-cream melting. "If you want to say something Joonie, just say it."

His eyes are heavy-lidded. "I know you doubt your progress, but you are getting better. I think with healing, it's either heal now, heal later, or heal never. And while I don't think you're wasting any time at all because healing isn't a waste, but-" Namjoon takes a deep breath, looking at you, unable to tear your eyes away,

"I'm really really glad you decided to heal now, because I get to spend a lot more time with you and I like spending time with you. I'll hash this out with you as many times as you need me too because I love you."

"Oh," you blink at him, at the sun, trying not to cry, pausing in the sand. Namjoon looks a little alarmed that you've stopped walking.

"The ice cream is melting."

You ignore him, you can’t pull him close because you’re holding too many ice creams. So you just demand "Come here." It takes a bit of juggling on his part but he leans down and kisses you. A bit of whipped cream ends up in the sand, but you'll just tell Jin that you ate his instead.

You already ate the cherry on top anyway.

"Oh! They're back!"

The pack is towling themselves off, with sandy bottoms and wet heads. You grin as Yoongi excitedly tells you that he's gotten 2 nibbles on his fishing rod, two! At this rate you'll be having fish for dinner. Even Jin has let himself be dunked, and you disseminate the ice cream to everyone with thank you side hugs and thank you kisses.

No one comments that all the cherries are missing.

Tae flops down next to you and then Jimin on the other side competing for the shade. "Oooh strawberry." "Can I try a spoonful of yours?" Jimin asks, then hums, eyeing it, "We can switch if you want Minnie." You offer before he can pout. "Oh, really? You don't care?" you shrug, you don't mind red bean. It sort of always reminds you of Yoongi and Jin since they like it so much. You trade back and forth and then.

"Hobi's back too!"

A smile stretches your face before you’ve even caught his scent in the air. When you look up Hobi has his hair held back by his sunglasses and his headphones are looped his neck. Pockets round and hands full, looking freckly already. "You didn't go far?"

"Yeah, got too hot" Hobi grins dropping to his knees on the beach blanket. "And besides I got a lot."

"Oh show!"

He dumps out his sea spoils while you lick ice cream off of your spoon and nibble at Jimin’s Samanco. Oohing and aahing over his chunks of glass and pretty shells. And he takes a nibble when you offer him one, but only a bite before he relents-

"It's so hot, I wanna go swim. You haven't been yet? Wanna come?" Your hands are sticky and your mouth goes dry. But before you can tell him no Namjoon is already taking off his shirt, jumping when Jungkook's hands get a little pinchy at the gentle chub around his waist. "Here, you can wear this-"

Oh, it's perfect. You take off your dress and you miss the heavy knowing glances between Jungkook and Jin and the hungry way Jimin's eyes flicker up from your waist to your face, the way that Tae can hardly look at you. Yoongi taps Jungkook on the shoulder when he reaches to squeeze and give you the same treatment Namjoon got, shaking his head imperceptibly. You have your back to it so you don't see.

You are this way; taken care of even when you are unaware of it and loved even when it is not seen. The pack knows that what you need today is not any more of that sort of attention. Tae gave you enough earlier. They watch, wink, and linger. Unseen by you. Does love matter any less if you don’t know it?

You put Namjoon's shirt on and it falls just below your hip. It's worn at the shoulders. A hole in the hem that Jimin hooks his finger into experimentally. Making a deep hum in his mouth around the sugar and sweet. The texture has passed your pickiest alpha's inspection. Perfect. No one asks why you feel the need to wear it or why Namjoon offers it up.

Jin immediately reaches for the tube of sunscreen and starts spreading it on Namjoon's shoulders, leaning against the pack alpha's back when he's done and resting his chin on the top of Namjoon's head.

Namjoon tilts his face up, pressing a quick kiss under Jin's jaw. Licking his lips and grimacing. "You taste like sunscreen hyung."

"I'm going to ignore that because when I'm fifty I'll be pretty and wrinkle and skin cancer free and you'll be even more grey." Namjoon turns, touches his hip fondly, and then glances to you.

“i'm sticky, I’ll come with.” Namjoon doesn't offer you the choice, he makes the decision for you and you're so thankful you don't know how to say it. You finish your ice creams and when Hobi takes your hand, you let him pull you up and into the water. You let him tug you until you're running the last few feet before you and the ocean collide. Cold, but just right, just what you need underneath the heat. Jungkook runs with you too, barreling through the waves.

Yoongi and Jin walk down to where there aren't many swimmers and more rocks, casting out their lines. Glimmering when they catch the light properly. Leures hurdling through the air to land with a plop.

The hem of Namjoon's shirt is just turning wet when he tells you. "You know, the human body and the sea have roughly the same salinity."

You don’t feel like that strong of a swimmer, at least not like Jungkook who cuts through the waves like it’s nothing. Like he's a part of the ocean, salinity or nothing. Namjoon is close behind, Hobi too, back to the waves, the red of his hair catching the sunlight. Tae comes in but goes back to the shore just as fast. Tossing her wet dark hair over her shoulder, ringing it out. And you know she’s probably going to want to do a hair mask later.  Jimin stands on the shore, watching you, waiting for Tae.

the sea foam glitters in the sun bobbing and tumbling, lost to the waves. A cold wave of water crashes against Namjoon’s back as he and Hobi lead you to deeper water until your feet just barely brush the bottom.

“Just kick pup. I've got you." You breathe, letting the water wash over you, ducking and closing your eyes, bracing yourself for it as it hits you. But Namjoon holds onto you so that when you rise up, you're still right next to him.

Something light and fast, silvery in the water slithers past you and you jump, clinging to him.

"Joonie! Joonie! Something slimy hit me! Namjoon!"

You cling to his shoulders and he laughs. His strong hand splays against your back. "It's just a fish!" Hobi calls.

"A fish! Where?" Jungkook dives, looking around under the water. Where did he even get goggles? You cling to Namjoon's front, his body warm in the cold water. "Do you wanna get out?" He asks, dimples curved.

"Yeah, just let me dunk." Namjoon holds onto you as you go under, keeping you steady. For a moment all you can feel is the pull of the ocean, the way that the tide is shifting, pulling you out to sea too. Namjoon's hands remain on your arm.

When you rise up there are fingers against your cheeks wiping away the water before it has a chance to get in your eyes. It's Hobi, holding you as you bob. You're so much shorter than them. They get to stand just before the break whereas you have to tread water.

They help you time it right but you manage to avoid getting tumbled by the next crashing wave and when you turn your back to the ocean, you spot them there.

Jimin and Tae stand by the edge of the ocean a good 20 feet from your umbrella. The roar of the waves is so loud that you can’t hear exactly what they’re saying. But you can see Tae's mouth move, the upset lilt to her smile that falters. The way Jimin’s lips are turned down as he says what he wants to say. Standing close the way that lovers do.

He says something then entwines their hands tentatively, like he’s not sure he should. His shoulders are already turning freckly under the sun, the same as Tae's. Like little bits of summer trapped there against their skin.

They have new freckles, you have new stretch marks, and Namjoon has new grey hairs. Your mouth turns down into a frown the longer you watch them.

You watch Jimin reach up and wipe at tae's cheek, watch it as he says something that makes her shoulders shake, that makes him pull her tight against his front.

Your white shirt speckled with sand. Still damp from the ocean water as you splash through the waves to get to them. Tae smiles at you before you get there, eyes glassy. She doesn't do anything to hide the fact that she's been crying just a little as you effortlessly fold yourself into her side Jimin's arm trapped under your ribs.

You watch her smile falter. She hasn't been crying too much, just a tear or two, And she leans down to peck your forehead. Her skin is hot to the touch. Warm.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, quiet and know, it's somewhat of a lie. Jimin looks from you to her, and you sense some special small conversation going on like whatever they were talking about before you came over has been touched on just by you being there.

Tae looks down at you, biting her lip. “Are you mad at me?”

“What? No. Why?” Your hands go hard on her waist easily, because you hardly come up to Tae's sternum. You happen to know that she likes it when you grab her waist, but something that usually makes her squirm in a good way right now has no effect.

Maybe you respond too quick for her, because Tae looks at you under her lashes. “For this morning, did you-" did you not want it, did I misinterpret? Did I give you attention that you did not want? Would you tell me if I was loving you wrong?

Jimin squeezes her shoulder and you watch Tae brace herself for what you might say, “Tae,” you smile up at her, blushing just thinking about it, scent sweeting as you remember this morning. You can tell that both of them can smell it by the way that they straighten up and adjust their stance. Alphas.

"Tae I would have told you- I’m not- I’m not like that.” Anymore you don’t say.

Her dark hair is curling against her cheek, all of her salty and soggy. Tae looks like just wearing her bikini is making her ache. Like just standing here next to you is hurting. She sighs, Jimin loops his arms around her waist with you. His voice is deep and rough. “Tell her, you know she makes it better.” He mumbles the words against her shoulder.

“Minnie and I were talking about me getting a boob job. Since my boobs aren’t growing anymore, I've been at the max dose on my estrogen for like 3 months and there's still been no change."

You perk up a little at that, eyes bright. “Oh? That’s awesome, 10/10 should, totally agree.”

But the words don't soothe Tae, if anything, her shoulders just get closer to her ears as she hunches them making herself look and feel small. “But it’s expensive and it's like- not a necessary surgery like- it’s extra? Right? I can wear a push-up bra and inserts it’s not like-”

“Tae” you cut her off, and you can tell really this is what’s been bothering her. “Do you want it?” Tae looks down at you.

“Yes.”

“Would it make you feel better? Would it make you feel more girl?”

“Yes.”

You wipe away the wetness on her lash line with a thumb. “Then it’s not too much. What you need is never too much.”

"You wouldn't be like, nervous if I did?" You can tell that nervous isn't what she means.

"Maybe for your health but-" This isn't really helping, Tae is just getting more frustrated, her words failing her such a rare thing. You sigh, taking her hand in yours and you sense a little that none of this, none of Tae's anxiousness is about your approval. Not really.

She reaches down and fusses with her bikini and Jimin looks like he wants to say something. "What's got you so worried? Tae, what's wrong?"

Tae looks up at you and then back down. “But, I’m being so not a girls girl."

"Don't care, tell me."

"But are you sure?"

"Tae"

"Fuck pup, you look so good in yours and I just look- I feel gross. I feel all wrong and I look at you and sometimes it just- comparing myself to you isn't fair to you." Tae closes her eyes turning to Jimin, “Can I wear your shirt?”

Jimin has it off before she’s even really finished her sentence. His miles and miles of skin and muscles are even more alluring under the sun. His hair shimmers like it’s burnished gold underneath it too. Jimin is always sort of golden. He's always sort of stunning.

"I don't like feeling jealous of you. It doesn't feel good, it doesn't feel right. I’ve been mad at myself all morning for it" she tells you. And it sort of makes you want to laugh but in a good way.

“Tae, I’m jealous of you all the time.”

She looks up sharply, “really?”

“Yeah like, whenever you put your hair in rollers and you do the back perfect on the first try, or when you string words together or when you get out of bed and you put on your dresses and makeup like it’s nothing. I'm jealous of how much you want it. You make being a girl look effortless when it's given me nothing but trouble. And then I wander out of the nest room and I look like Adam Sandler half the time and you guys do a good job of pretending I look cute instead of like a gremlin.”

“You do look cute. You're a cute little gremlin.” Jimin says.

“You look like your sweaters are swallowing you.” Her tone is scandalized. Like she can't even believe you're saying that about yourself.

Jimin nods, “You just like being comfy like me. I like it when you're comfy especially when you wear Joonie’s worn clothing and it's like-” Jimin shivers happily and you laugh.

"That was like- so autistic of you Minnie."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I like it when you say how you’re feeling that way I know you’re not having grumpy alpha time.”

“You don’t have to call it that.”

“Well, I could go with ‘Jimin looks so overstimulated he looks like he’s gonna punch someone’ time but 'grumpy alpha time' sounds cuter.” Jimin is looking awfully red, and you suspect it has nothing to do with a potential sunburn.

Tae shakes her head, still sort of angry with herself, This might be the closest you've ever gotten to a fight. “It’s not the same, it’s not the same as me being jealous of your body and wishing it was mine.”

“Isn’t it? I’m jealous of the rest of the pack, even the boy stuff sometimes, like- You want boobs but half the time I’m just wondering if my life would have been easier if I was born a boy omega like Jungkook. It’s not the same as you, because it’s not a gender thing but a safety thing. But I’m jealous of him too, you know I can’t even run one single mile and he goes like 5 every morning and he always has energy.”

Jimin snorts, “Everyone’s a little bit jealous of Jungkook.”

“And Jin,” Tae adds, casting a glance over to where they’re both standing, both looking absurdly model esc. They’re both unfairly pretty even for omegas. You always feel a little too grubby if you think about it too hard, but you’re getting over it. In the same way, Tae will eventually get over this too. Namjoon was right earlier when he said that healing takes time, it's going to take Tae a while to heal from being born in the wrong body.

“My point is, does my feeling jealous over it mean I love Jungkook any less? Does that mean I hate him at all?”

“No, you love Jungkook.”

You hold your hand up, splaying, letting the silence pause and the realization dawn on her. “Then why does you wanting my boobs mean you have to feel guilty about it?” Her expression slowly crumples, and she goes from looking nervous to feeling guilty.

she's quiet for a few breathes, and when it's clear to you she's not going to say anything, you fess up.

“I ate the cherry off your ice cream earlier just so you know. I don't feel guilty about it at all and I will do it again, just fyi.”

A laugh forces its way out of Jimin's mouth, and even Tae can't resist a smile and a roll of her eyes.

Obsession and infatuation. Jealousy and love. It’s always been a bit of a tangle with you three. With you, Jimin, and Tae.

Some omegas that are a little too young- probably still in high school glance in Jimin's direction. You do not pull him closer, just pout. But Jimin only has eyes for Tae, and the way his eyes flicker down to yours tells you there’s nothing to fear.

“Oh, we know.” Jimin grins, “I think the only one who was upset about it was Kookie.”

Jungkook bounds over as if summoned by his name, looking gorgeous shaggy-haired, muscled arms rippling. “What are you guys talking about?”

“How jealous we are of you,” you say before Jimin or tae have the chance to. Tae blanches a little like she expects jungkook to be upset but Koo just shrugs.

“Big wop." He tugs on the hem of Joonie’s shirt. Almost pulling you off balance. "I wanna go body surfing again but Hyung’s say I can’t go alone- come with me?” He wraps his arms around your shoulders, dragging the last syllable and batting his eyes. It's too hard to say no to him.

You glance at Tae one final time and she sighs at you. Nods. “I’ll be alright. I just need to think more."

Bodysurfing turns out to be the most fun you've had in months, weeks, years maybe. Jungkook shows you how to do it. One second you feel like you're going to be tumbled in the wave and the next you're hurtling not through the ocean but over it. sliding across the water all the way from where they crash to the shore. Giggling and bubbling in the salt water. hair hanging lank over your face all messy.

“Did you see me!? i was going so fast!” You cry happily, picking yourself up off the wet sand, you'll probably have sand in unmentionable places later but you don't care. Yoongi is standing on his own.

Jin has disappeared somewhere no longer yoongi's shadow. both of their poles sit tip up in the sand. You hardly wait for him to respond before you're back in the water. Dashing back to where the waves are breaking.

“I did but! Be careful!”

The rest of the day passes like that. You walk down the beach with Hobi and find handfuls and handfuls of sea glass. You suntan with Tae (it's more just lounging) and ask Namjoon to read you snippets of his book while Hobi and Jungkook play volleyball. You go to the tide pools after, because Joonie wants to look for crabs.

It doesn't end all that well. It ends with your bloody finger, a fat seagull who is amazingly adept at snatching crabs out of thin air with a full belly thanks to you.

You swear you didn't mean to fling it, it just surprised you. You tell Namjoon as much as he sniffles and wraps a band-aid around your finger. Pierced through by a crab claw (it's nothing more than a paper cut). "I didn't mean to kill it, promise it just startled me."

The rest of the pack contains their snickers. And Namjoon's sniffles reignite. "It's fine, it's okay, it was a big crab anyway probably at the end of it's lifespan." 

Jin disappears, but when he comes back, he's toting several pizza boxes and a liter of soda. Jungkook shows you how to feed your crusts to the seagulls without them biting your fingers. And Jin also brings back a big big bowl of maraschino cherries from the same ice cream parlor as earlier. Red and bright like mini suns.

"I had a feeling you might want more." he teases, but you don't respond with anything more than "I do!"

Jin makes everyone grab one first, but after, he lets you have the rest.

~-~

At home, Tae gently lifts Namjoon's shirt over your head, the house is so noisy- as it often is whenever the whole pack is moving about, in the kitchen Jin and Yoongi are fixing dinner, still in their own perfect little bubble. Two fish already filleted in the sink.

Jungkook is half slumped against the wall, already in the shower. Turning wetter and wetter under the spray, groaning low, “god I love the sting when hot water hits my sunburn.” jimin pinches at that sunburn. there's alot of that going on, pinching.

“You’re such a fucking masochist.”

“Shut up”, he says with a smile. “I've never spanked you before.” He licks his lips, “soon.”

Tae huffs and pulls herself over to him, sudzing up his hair. Jungkook is the only one truly nude. Tae is still wearing her bottoms and so is minnie. You linger. Still in your bikini, a little resistant to getting wet again but working up to it. Jungkook goes to give her tan lines a pinch and you watch her brace herself.

You grab his hands before he has the option too. Your shower with them isn't sexual. Not this one. Not when you're all so sun tired from the day you had at the beach. You're gonna sleep so well later, your whole body aches from body surfing and you have a scrape on your hip that namjoon had frowned at earlier but you don't even care you had so much fun today.

your hands tangle with Jungkook's, "Be careful with her, she's delicate."

"Why? What's going on?" he glances from you to her.

“Tae wants to get a boob job and She's feeling sensitive about her body today,” Tae says nothing, looking from you to Jungkook, measuring his response.

"Oh? Sweet. thanks for letting me know." Tae makes an affronted noise in her throat.

You talk. Back and forth about it. “Are you sure you don’t just like- want it for us? Cuz dang I love boobs-" It’s a fair question, even if it does come off wrong. tae doesn't take it personally, shaking her head.

"It's not like that, i'm just tired of waking up in the morning and not having them, i just- i want to be done with the dysphoria. it's such a pain feeling like this all the time, but what if i like- don't like them? what if thats not going to fix it? and boob jobs are like- so expensive too." Jimin hardly responds with more than a hum. He's been a little bit less verbal than usual since you got home- but no one comments on it, no one prods him to speak.

Namjoon steps into the bathroom, hips swiveling. It's absurdly attractive- the way that Namjoon moves in his body. Leaning down to take off his bathing suit, he's got sand in them, but you don't mind because you also have sand in your bottoms too.

“82 percent of women express satisfaction with their boob job. I looked it up.”

Tae looks surprised then stricken, “you did?”

“Yeah, I wanted to know in case you ever asked for it.” Tae goes quiet, looking at Namjoon over your shoulder. You can feel the string of your bikini digging into your skin. The slight chub under your arms and around your middle. The place where you go soft. You reach behind your back, undoing it. jimin beats you too it, pulling at the string.

"i've got it."

“Oh Joonie- you’ve got tan lines.” He almost trips when he looks up and sees you topless, actually does stumble. He does have tan lines, rimming his hips, cutting across his hip bones. Tae giggles and traces along them. (If Namjoon's cock jumps a little at the touch, no one hassles him for it, you're all too sun tired for sex).

"Are you asking for it? A boob job? Is that something you want?"

"Yes."

“Oh!” Namjoon's eyebrows shoot up, and he glances from her face down to her chest, and then your face down to yours. Going red from ear to ear like he's imagining it. Namjoon scratches at the back of his head, you can hear the sand flop onto the tile floor. Tae takes your bikini and hangs it over the glass door where it drips. Namjoon clears his throat and Tae looks at him.

“Do you want me to make you an appointment on the same day as the pups?"

“What? Are you planning on getting a boob job too?” Tae cups your chest in her hands, and it’s not necessarily sexual, not even when you wrap your arms around her neck. and tug her close enough that your chests squish together.

“No, not that just-” You peck her lips, and she’s already starting to smell better.

“Just the scars, I want them gone. I got all in my head about it and Joonie helped me earlier.”

“Really?” Tae says, glancing from Namjoon to Jimin to Jungkook to you. the boys look a little dazed, a little love-struck as you reach for her bikini straps and paw at them. Namjoon takes it when you hand it to him and hangs it over the glass next to yours. You like it when it's like this, your warm body pressed to her body.

“Yeah- I got all in my head about it too.”

“Our boys are kind of good at fixing that, aren’t they?” You giggle and start to suds her up. Namjoon and Jimin grumble at the teasing, but join in.

~-~

Everything moves fairly quickly for Tae.

Maybe it only happens so fast because having a doctor for a pack alpha makes shit get done, or because Namjoon and Jin have sort of been planning for this for the last few months. It's been in their back pocket and they've been making measurements and taking down names of good doctors since just after Tae came out.

They’re funny like that. Always planning how to make sure the pack has everything they need. Everything that they could possibly want.

It's like that with your scars too.

The pack all insist on coming for her consultation. The room is full, Jungkook has to sit on Yoongi's lap because there isn't a seat for him. You and Tae are knit close together and you stubbornly refuse to let go of her hand with Jimin on the other side.

It had gone well, well enough that Tae had looked up at the doctor, a kind omegan woman in her 50s. All ready with pre-release forms and the final quote. She comes highly recommended, Namjoon even looked over her case files and gave her his stamp of approval.

She specializes in reconstructive surgery, and for some reason, Tae likes that. She likes the idea that she's not adding but restoring her body to what it should be. What it should have been in the first place.

(Tae doesn't believe in God, not anymore. But a small voice whispers in her head about it. About divinity and mistakes. People say God doesn't make mistakes, but if we are made in God's image, then God must also have an awkward phase. She must also make her mistakes; like cancer in children and what happened to you. Like Jungkook's seizures and women like Tae. It's okay to revise a little. To scribble out and rewrite the lines.)

“You mean I don’t have to like, prove it?”

The pack had gone still at the question, scents anxious and stressed, your hand on hers tighter. Readying yourself to whisk her out of here if the answer isn't to your standards.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Just getting here is enough. And besides, I believe you.”

I believe you. It’s strange how 3 words can make you feel so much. Can have such an effect on you. There is a lump in Tae's throat just thinking about it. It's on repeat in her head over and over again, I believe you, I believe you, I believe you. In this moment I exist, in this moment I am believed.

it's silly, because the pack has always believed Tae. she's had proof of that belief in the little things like the omega's putting more pink in the nest and how Yoongi made tae a whole dressing room, and the new pink plates in the kitchen. Your endless trying with her, even when you were too tired to try with everything else. Everything in the house is pink because it's Tae's favorite color. Everything is pink because it makes her happy.

But it feels different to hear it from someone new. Tae doesn’t have to talk about the dysphoria if she doesn’t want to to this doctor. She doesn't have to talk about it at all. About passing and expectations.

She only talks about it with you, only with your heads close under a big sheet. A pillow fort just for two. The light of mid-morning, or the Christmas lights above blocked out. Counting down the days with lipstick in the corner of the vanity mirror. 21 days. 17. 11.

9 days to go for her, and only 2 days to go for you.

There has been a new addition to your vanity too. Pretty delicate packages. Rose-scented tissue paper and golden ribbons, Chanel and Versace and even something called la Perla that you are incredibly unfamiliar with.

Tae always blushes and pushes them into the back of her closet, but not before taking them out of their packages.

The lingerie is Pastel pink, Deep purple, buttery orange, delicate white lace, something almost bridal. Every single color of the rainbow and then some. She's gotten one set every day since the beach day, she's pretty sure Jimin ordered the first one on the drive home.

“Jiminie- you don’t have to spend all of your money on me, and I don't even know what size I'm going to be yet. I know you don’t make as much now, it’s alright, I don’t need all of this." You’d simply clicked your tongue and leveled Tae with a look that was not to be debated or questioned.

“He’s not spending all of his money; he’s spending all of my money. And a bit of Namjoon’s. and Yoongi actually got you that one, not Jimin. I helped him pick it out. ” Yoongi's choice is so feminine it almost makes Tae cry. Pink ribbons and yellow ruffles. Matching garters and buttery soft stockings.

You've never minded being frivolous if it means making Tae happy, making Tae happy is a priceless expense. Paying for her top surgery had been a no-brainer, not something you even had to think twice about or discuss with Yoongi in any overt terms. Like the expenses for the house that come out of the account that you and Yoongi share, the account that receives the dividends from your stocks.

Huh, stocks. You never thought you'd have those.

By halfway through the month, you’re sitting in the upstairs dressing room with Namjoon, Hobi, Jimin, Jungkook, and Yoongi draped across each other and the settee in the corner by the window and the door that leads to the deck outside.

There's so much weight on the settee that the legs creek. A very large tray with Jelly silicone implants sit on the vanity. They're only samples. Tae has to return them after she decides. 

Tae is having trouble choosing. Naturally- the pack put in their two cents. It's easy to be casual about it, to talk about C cups and D cups and even double D cups.

But what started out as trying to help her decide exactly which tits to get has turned into everyone getting drunk and dumb. Has turned into the boys trying on those bras and putting the implants inside. The general ridiculousness in the room might have something to do with the 5 (yes 5) bottles of fancier-than-normal champagne discarded and empty around the room.

Namjoon puts a stop to it when Jungkook throws the largest one and hits Hobi square in the stomach. The resounding 'thwap' is almost loud enough that it makes you flinch.

“Wait, are these the ones that are modeled after yours?” Jungkook asks, Yoongi says something into your ear that makes you flush and giggle, and when Hobi tries to come close onto the settee you put your socked foot against his chest and push.

Hobi catches your ankle and fiddles with your sock, thigh high, white, knit. sliding his hand up your calf and tickling under your knee. "It's hard to believe they're like that big"

"Imagine how I feel Jungkook, it feels like carrying around mellons not lemons."

Jungkook scoots to the edge of the settee, "let me try them on." It’s stupid and you feel like a bunch of boys playing with water balloons but Tae doesn’t seem to mind at all. If anything, she's more comfortable when you're goofy about it. You're just deciding what tit's she's going to have for the rest of her life, no big deal. It's no big deal at all.

Tae is sort of freaking out about it, which is why you're drinking and trying to get her to lighten up. Emphasis on trying.

Tae had asked for implants that would give her a similar side profile and cleavage to yours. But truthfully, after she tried them on… she's going to go with something just ever so slightly smaller and more conical.

You honestly didn’t know there were so many different types of implants or so many different shapes and feels. But this choice matters. She’ll only choose this once so she wants to make the right choice.

The ones your size simply hadn’t looked right when it came to her shoulders- made her look too wide up top.

There's one pair, your pick, that looks a little bit more perky than the ones she initially wanted to go with. And while you understand wanting a natural result…

The horny side of you is sort of winning out. But you are 4 glasses of champagne deep, your judgment is a little impaired.

“We can do back exercises! So that you won’t get rounded shoulders!” Jungkook had excitedly commented when Tae had confessed she was just a little bit worried about how much the ones modeled after yours might weigh on her back.

By midnight, the champagne is gone and Seokjin is mostly asleep. Asleep enough that Jimin’s attention is divided. Earlier there was a moment, Tae wearing them and the lingerie, standing between Jimin’s legs, his arms around her waist, eye level with the implants shoved into one of those bra’s. “Go on tell me they’re too big.”

Jimin had hummed, looking down at them then up at Tae, “will they make you happy?”

“Yes but-”

“Tae, will they make you happy? Yes or no?”

Shifting from foot to foot, eyes flicking down to them, then to the mirror. “Yes but-“

“No buts” he’d said, which had led to you and Jungkook doing a chorus of “butts butts butts!” Sing a song and ridiculous.

Namjoon did try and twerk. Emphasis on try.

“Should we take a vote?”

“It feels like we should take a vote.”

“Okay, but the pup gets two because she actually knows what it’s like to have big boobs.”

You do, your votes written out on scraps of that rose-scented tissue paper. “Jungkook- don’t you dare put down the big ones.”

“But then they’ll match-”

It feels good to do it this way. To help her make a choice that would probably make Tae's head spin, cry, and melt down over choosing the right one. She got close to having a melt down earlier but It's all goofy and silly and light like this. Maybe even the hard things are easy if you're doing them with the right people.

Tomorrow they’ll order the implants, and on Friday Tae will have to get up very very early. She will not eat breakfast, will be driven to the hospital by Jin and Namjoon, and Jimin. You’ll tag along for moral support with Yoongi in a separate car and Hobi and Jungkook will follow later because there’s no real reason why she’ll need all of you there.

The surgery will take Tae around 3 hours, by mid-day she’ll be in post-op and by evening she’ll be home. You get the ground floor bedroom all set up because Tae will be too dizzy to manage the stairs. A bright pink nest with a minimal border so that Tae can get in and out without straining her abdominal muscles too much.

You know to expect bruising, to expect her to be out of it from the anesthesia first and then the drugs. Namjoon will be the only one to sleep in the nest with Tae, although Jin won’t be far and Jimin will eventually decide to sleep on the floor around midnight. Just to make sure she doesn't have to get up for anything.

You'll be buzzing up and down the steps several times through the night to check on Tae, everyone else will too. You, Yoongi, and Jungkook are going to go to the store tomorrow to get some recovery foods to help her heal faster.

You put your slips of paper, your votes into the largest bra that Jimin's gifted Tae. You get your two votes, and everyone else gets one. Yoongi cranes his neck to see what you're writing downand you shove at his shoulder playfully.

"No peaking!”

~-~

The pleather gurney is cold beneath your knees as you gently lift yourself onto it, trying not to be nervous. Trying not to be afraid as you lie on your stomach. A breeze makes you shiver through the open back of your hospital gown, bare underneath.

You're cold everywhere, although the numbing cream has already taken effect, carefully smeared over the sensitive scared skin of your lower back by Yoongi. As gentle as ever, rough fingertips rub over skin that will burn in just a few minutes.

He wears stupid small glasses to the side now, designed to block out the light from the laser that will scrape away your scar tissue. He wears lemon yellow ones whereas Jin wears black, and to your side, Namjoon wears red ones- all to protect them as they watch over you. You'd had a good moment of laughter earlier when you'd realized just how ridiculous it made them all look. But any levity in the situation has dissipated now.

Now, you're just nervous.

“It will probably take more than one session to see the results you want, but complete and total removal is definitely possible if you're good with your aftercare.”

The doctor had warned you before you’d started, "she will be. We'll make sure of it" Namjoon, Jin, and Yoongi had all promised. And you believe them, there is scar cream and a special oil and even a compression vest for later, similar to the one that Tae will wear for her surgery in 4 days' time.

You’ve spent sleepless night after sleepless night talking through it with Namjoon, with Yoongi, with Jin. They’ve all been supportive. It’s all happened relatively quickly- same as Tae's surgery. The second that you’d given Namjoon and Jin the all-clear that you wanted to go through with the plastic surgery to reduce the appearance of the scar on your back they’d expedited the process and gotten you in contact with a world-renowned plastic surgeon who works at Namjoon’s hospital.

He's not the same plastic surgeon working on Tae, no- this one is a specialist in scars, in burns, in places that have been kissed by pain in a way that no skin should ever be. You think he might understand it. The way that you tremble when you get onto the gurney. He's seen the scars, had seen them during the consultation. He had asked very very politely and as gently as possible Whether they were 'situational' wounds or self-inflicted. 

"I've been married- Widowed actually." Had been your only reply.

The doctor hadn't looked at your face, gloved fingers testing the skin around the scar to see how much it stretched. You felt a little weird about having your back end bare to another man, but with Namjoon there and Yoongi and Hobi too, it had felt a lot less nerve-wracking. You can tell from the flex of his jaw that Yoongi is about to step in when the doctor says one word. after a moment. After he's pieced together what you're implying.

"Good."

Good. This is a good thing; this is a thing that you want to do. The wrath might never leave you; you might never stop being angry about what was done to you. But you can at least keep it from your body and let the pain become a memory and not an imprint. You will not let your body become a place of pain again. All scars are temporary, you're just expediting the process.

Heal now, heal later, or heal never.

You’d woken up this morning with Hobi and Jungkook blanketing you on either side, Tae's long-manicured fingers scratching at your scalp. Stomach uncomfortably empty for a change because they’d told you to fast before your procedure. Bot that you’ll need to go under general anesthesia like Tae. But sometimes laser therapy can make people get sick.

You’d woken to the sound of them taking through it. Something like “I’m going to get her a cake anyway.”

“You should make her one Hobi, you know she likes it when things are homemade."

The hum of your best friend against your front had felt like the ripple of a river. Hobi's deep voice- the one that only comes out after he’s been in deep sleep for a while is always so soothing. “I guess I made you that boob cake with her didn’t I huh-"

They say something to each other, softer, laughter petering off. trying to be quiet and let you sleep but sort of failing. The sound of slow kissing joins the coo of mourning doves and Jungkook feeding Noodle downstairs. He's come back from his run early to make sure he can see you off.

“We can both- yeah?”

You’d been happy to doze until Yoongi’s hand had joined Tae's on your cheek, slowly picking you up off of Hobi's shoulder. Tucking your messy hair away from your face.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, but it’s time.”

You’d fussed only a little. Only the pre-requisite amount to get a bit of babying (a necessary medicine, as important as the numbing cream) before allowing Tae and Yoongi to pull you out of the nest. putting on loose clothing that can easily be taken off and put back on.

You wanted to get this done before Tae and her top surgery and you want to meet the new version of her with the new version of you. It feels good that both of you are going through this change, this healing together.

Next week. Next week Tae will have boobs, next week she'll look whole and beautiful and so so pretty. She'll look exactly as she wants to look and you can hardly wait to see. To meet that version of her as the new version of you.

You still haven’t decided if there are any other scars on your body that you’d like to get rid of. Maybe the one under your chin- that's the only one that's so visible or as the one on your lower back. Or maybe the ones on the inside of your thighs. Those are so faint, too faint to matter. Too faint to hurt in a way that’s not purely psychological. Not like your back that you can feel when you turn wrong.

Your heart is in your throat as Namjoon helps you onto the gurney, wearing surgical gloves. The doctor behind him already has black-out goggles on his head. There is a pair that Namjoon hands you for you to wear. Jin and Yoongi stand back, wedding rings catching the light. Jimin is a faint presence outside the door, a shadow looming, protective instead of threatening.

“It’s going to smell pretty horrible, but the lidocaine should block most of the pain."

Namjoon does the honors of unlooping the back of your surgical gown and revealing your scars for the last time.

Worthless. But not for long. Worthless once, but not anymore.

You nod, “Okay.” You hear the clatter of the plastic machine against each the floor. The roll of the wheels on the linoleum as they wheel the machine over to you. Two technicians adjust it and the doctor clicks away at the computer before he grabs the wand and fiddles with the settings.

“The first pulse is going to come in just a second. I'll count down to three.  Are you ready?” You nod and try to relax, untensing your muscles and your body.

This pain, you can handle. This pain, you welcome.

Namjoon’s hold on your hand tightens, the doctor counts, and the light flashes.

~-~

Tae will also have scars. But not like yours. Not like stitches. They'll be like growing pains and stretch marks. Like her heart making room.

The surgeon has done a good job, but when Namjoon unwraps her gauze. You see the bloody stitches and whine. 50 of them under the edge of her generous curve, small nipples also taped over still. There's a fair amount of swelling- making them look larger but-

Yoongi's hands slip on the mirror as he holds it up for Tae, holding it at a tilt so that Tae can see. It's the next morning after her surgery, and you blink as you look at them. behind you, hobi bites on one nuckle.

“Oh my god.”

Jimin's face is flaming. He looks at the ceeling. "That bad?" tae slurs, head tipping limply to one side, her eyelashes fluttering, "Why are you all looking at me like that? How are my lemons?"

"Delicious." you say, at the same moment Jimin says, "breathtaking."

"I don't want anyone to juice them, they're mine, my lemons" tae pouts. Hobi holds his mouth trying not to laugh as yoongi chuckles. jin whipes her hair back from her sweaty forhead.

"Oh my god you are so high."

“No one can touch them.” Namjoon warns, looking at everyone in warning. "Promise me. No pawing. You cannot touch them when you're not sterile."

You let out an upset whine, “Joonie, just a kiss” Tae smiles from the bed, gently, tired. She's barely awake. It's the same bed that you and Yoongi used to share, this used to be your bedroom before you moved upstairs.

“Pup, It's non-negotiable” You pull up the straps on her billowing night dress and cuddle up next to her, sniffling and peaking at them while he wipes them down gently with gauze. Tae can't feel anything through the painkillers, but Namjoon's wipe comes away rusty and red.

You rest your head against her shoulder where bruises spread like ink as Namjoon works to clean them and her. The smell of blood doesn't bother you. You tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear and Tae murmurs quietly- eyes still closed that she could use some skincare.

Doing it for her is a reverent act, rubbing it across her cheek the bridge of her nose. When she remembers to open her eyes, she smiles dopily.

“Drugs are so so goooooood.” the pack laughs, yours jiggles the bed and Hobi shakes his head from the doorway. Tae furrows her eyebrows at Jimin.

"You're so pretty."

"I know, you were saying that in the car." Jimin is ever patient with her.

"Do you wanna like, be my boyfriend or something? I feel like we should kiss."

"Tae, we've been dating for twelve years."

"Oh! nice, I should tell Jimin."

"I am Jimin."

"No you're not. Your name's noodle cuz you're little." Jimin sighs trying to keep his smile at bay.

jin kicks hobi and jungkook out of the room for laughing too loudly and you shuffle closer to her. barely keeping your laughter hidden.

You kiss her cheek, the apple of it where her skin goes round and full and pink. “I’m sure the drugs feel amazing.” Your voice goes husky as you look at her, and when her hand tangles with yours. You notice that her nails have gone chipped. you'll fix that for her later.

Tae flutters in and out of consciousness for the first-day post-op. By noon- most of the good drugs have worn off. Movement means pain, but there is always someone there to help her move, change her clothes, or help her to the bathroom (even if that part is significantly unglamorous). Noodle rests in the crook of her knee, purring loudly.

There is cool water directed to her lips, guiding her to sip, then a soft kiss. When she asks for a pen and paper the pack calembour gives it to her. To brush her hair, to pat her skin dry, to praise her, and tell her how well she did. Apparently, she was a stellar patient. She's not sure why Namjoon says it like that. Like it took more energy to just lie there than actually doing the surgery but-

Tae's hand moves sloppy, and her words are half unintelligible but this is what she writes on the paper:

Cage or no cage. We are both birds. Wingless or not. Me a chicken, you a penguin looking at the sky no longer flightless when we close our eyes.

Jimin’s scent blooms close, happy and vanilla goodness. The smell of reading old books at nighttime is comforting and familiar. Tae's heart beats a little faster. Namjoon huffs with his stethoscope and listens some more- laughing lightly when Tae opens her eyes and looks up at him, heart pumping quicker. He zips up her compression vest, to help with the swelling and buttons up her shirt, one of Yoongi's warm flannels. The same one that the pack trades back and forth.

She closes her eyes and you take the notebook and pencil from her before it can clatter onto the floor. Jimin kisses one eyelid and then the other. Murmuring something softly to you at her elbow. Kissing you too- judging from the way that the bed dips as he leans over. The light is turned low and honey.

Tae doesn’t really feel it, the weight or the pain of the incisions or anything really, just a bit of nausea when Namjoon asks and she thinks about it. She turns down the crackers and the toast that Jin offers.

She breathes in, feeling her body move with air. There is no weight to them, the lump of her chest. Compressed close to her body by a surgical vest to minimize inflammation. Honestly, she feels a little lighter if anything. Something like a string poised to snap that is no longer wound around her ribcage and aching heart. No longer suffocating.

She hasn’t even seen them yet; she shouldn’t be able to feel a difference already. But somehow when she closes her eyes, she can tell it’s different. That she’s different. A good sort of change.

It’s a slow healing process, Tae can’t get up or get out of bed for a few days, can do little more but sleep and eat and listen to Namjoon read her favorite books to her in his deep voice when she gets too dizzy to read on her own. Watching bad television and every single Studio Ghibli movie that ever did exist.

She can’t even do so much as put on her own shirts- although the pack is there to help with literally all of it. Buttoning a shirt over her fresh bandages, Jin kisses up her midline the same way she seen him do to you. Namjoon cleans her drains and Tae asks for perfume for once. Her Rosey cinnamon scent has stayed foggy with sickness and stress. Almost dewy damp.

You understand, the skin on your lower back is pealing and smells so ewey. You still can't sleep on your back.

It takes her 3 days before she can lift her arms above her head without pulling her stitches and manages to convince Namjoon and Jimin that she’s well enough to eat dinner like normal at the dining room table.

She sits with you on the outdoor furniture in the morning and eats watermelon. There’s only so much editing and staying yes to the dress that she can handle. The others herd her back to bed any time she looks the least bit uncomfortable or in pain.

Everyone is good, everyone is perfectly well-behaved, you don’t get handsy you don’t even paw at her to look when Namjoon undoes the compression vest. Although there is a moment when Namjoon stands back with the surgical gloves and blushes from his collar bones to his ear. "You need to wear this for the next three weeks, you can only take it off when you shower okay? And be gentle, the skin is so tender."

By day five she can dress herself, and she can't sleep any longer that to 5am when jungkook starts moving around for his walk, rousing you gently. She’s going stir crazy enough that you’re very very happy to take her with you on your morning walk.

Going extra extra slow. By the time you’re home the rest of the pack is in a bit of a tizzy trying to find her, Jimin wrenches open the door at the sound of your steps on the stairs.

Both you and Tae chagrined, Jungkook smiling a little too wide at Jimin’s generally disheveled appearance. Hair all a mess, scent acrid with panic.

“We went on a walk.”

Jimin’s eyes narrow, “where?”

“Around the block. Tae woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep.”

“You have fun?” "Yes." "Are your stitches torn?" "No" "You're not bleeding anywhere?" "No."

He wipes down his hair, behind him. Yoongi looks similarly off-kilter, buttons mismatched on his flannel. Rubbing his eyes. “Hobi's making breakfast.”

"Oh? Pancakes?"

"Boob-shaped ones!" He calls from inside.

Everyone is a little protective of Tae, a little possessive too.

By Wednesday of the next week, Namjoon goes to work and you drag Yoongi and Jin out for a little bit of shopping for nesting materials. Jimin has to go back to work too. She'll be fine on her own for a few hours. She can get dressed all right by herself. But Namjoon and Jimin have their ringers on and she's got a day's worth of snacks already pre-wrapped in the fridge.

Jimin and Tae had a moment earlier, helping her get dressed, smiling, looking up at her face and then back down, cheeks slowly going red. "hey my eyes are up here."

"I know," his fingers are gentle as they stroke down her midline. looking at them.

"They suit you, they look so nice and soft. They look so- you." Jimin's voice is rough and Tae's is too, but there are kisses and soft words.

"I'm so glad you told me, you're so brave. I'll never not be proud of you. I'm so glad you tried to be you. I'll never not be thankful that I got to meet the real version of you and got to fall in love all over again."

there's more, but i'll save that for them. Their little secret. Tae is sort of crying when Jimin's done, but he just wipes her tears away gently and lets her cry. The last of it goes away with that. The last of the tension. The dysphoria that will become a distant memory.

Tae hasn't really seen them yet. They're covered with the compression vest almost all the time. She's been sitting too much. Reading and editing and writing because she can at least use her hands. The brief glance she'd gotten at the bloody stitches had sort of freaked her out. But everyone has been so appreciative. You especially.

Hobi has another wedding to do the flowers for and Jungkook has his Wednesday kickboxing classes. The house is quiet and Noodle naps in a puddle of sunlight in the living room. The air conditioning hums and Tae is home, alone, for the first time.

She spent the morning waking up slowly, forehead kissed, waist held, but when the house gets silent, she steals away upstairs. Take the steps slowly, one at a time. going as fast as she's able. Aiming for the dressing room.

Her body is still a bit sore. A little tender, it's only been a week- and it's going to take her another week before she can really move around like she used to. But Namjoon took her stitches out at the kitchen table last night. And the slide of thread through the skin was only a little bit gross, a little bit nauseating.

The weight of her chest is welcome, but hard to get used too- she feels like she’s a little off balance as she teeters up the stairs. but she was warned about this, she knows to take it slow and adjust to her new center of gravity. Going up the stairs one at a time. patiently waiting for her body to stop hurting.

Tae steals away to the side of the room that contains your dresses and a spilling over set of drawers that hold your and Tae's lingerie collection (let's be honest, most of it belongs to Tae.)

Somehow, most of Jimin's gifts had actually been in the right size. It's soulmate magic maybe, or perhaps just good intuition that had him picking out the right cup and band size. Most of them are unlined anyways.

A lot of them are new and hers but a few of them are yours and old, your workout bras and old bralettes. If she’s not careful she still catches you wearing the same bras and underwear greying with age. The type of thing that's gone worn and brings back affectionate memories of the first time you and her ever did your makeup in the library room downstairs.

The little book box of makeup that once held her soul and kept it hidden away now sits open on the top shelf just above her head. The inside of it is filled with costume jewelry, fake pearls, and glittering Swarovski chokers.

Tae gets a stool so she can reach for it.

What Tae reaches for isn’t anything that you or Jimin have bought. It's small enough that she had almost forgotten about it (and you’ve probably forgotten about it too). But the bralette is thin and flimsy at the bottom of the book box. Made of cheap plastic fabric, white and gauzy mesh dotted with small yellow daisies. The first bra she ever bought and the only one she ever bought for herself.

It's not even really a bra, but a bralette.

Tae unzips her compression vest with shaky fingers.

Tae remembers you looking at it the first time you ever did your makeup together, the crinkle of the plastic as you touched it. A realization dawning on your face that you hadn't voiced. But you'd used 'she' pronouns for her pretty soon after that. And Tae had always know, that seeing this was the moment you realized, that was the moment it started to feel real for her too. Not just some stupid dream.

Tae puts it on quickly, hissing when she feels her sensitive new skin touched. The band digs into her skin uncomfortable, the fabric brushing over her sensitive nipples.

It will take some getting used to. She’s careful to close her eyes before she sees herself in the mirror, careful not to spoil it for herself. She wanted her real first look to be like this, alone. Just herself and her body.

It might be a little too early to wear this and yet, she keeps her eyes closed as she maneuvers herself in the direction of the floor-to-ceiling mirror over by the settee. Almost tripping over your pj's discarded on the floor as she goes. Her eyes are still closed when her fingers touch the cold glass, and she stands in front of it properly, gripping either side so hard that the gold filigree edge digs into her skin.

later tonight there will be dress up and dress down. it will feel like the most natural thing in the world and tae will realize that although they're new to her, her boobs have always felt like they were there. There will be no more dysphoria, no more clawing at her throat when she takes off her shirt or puts on a dress.

Your hands will hold around her waist as she tries on each and every one of her dresses to see how she looks in them now. The blue dress from the first day at the thrift store, the one you wore for your first date, every dress, even the ones with the puffy skirts that Jimin got for her after she came out. The ballgowns and corsets and lingerie.

Tae is going to try on all of it. You're going to do her makeup and when you're finished, both of you will be covered in kiss marks from your belly button up. It won't even be sexual it will just feel like love.

You're going to take so many photos that you'll fill up your camera roll and ask for yoongi's phone instead. They'll be half boudoir and half not. Pictures of the two of you in each and every one of those new bras and underwear, photos of tae in this pose and that pose. Kisses on her cleavage and even lower.

She's going to not be able to take her eyes off of them in the mirror but the feeling of them squishing into your front when you hug will be something else entirely. You might have a second photoshoot just for you- a gift maybe for the rest of the pack, you and Tae bare. One chest pressed to another, nothing between the two of you.

Tae will be a bit obsessed with them, will be a little bit proud of them. they'll be perfect.

She's perfect.

But that's for later. Right now, Tae takes a deep breath and opens her eyes.

~-~

Notes:

-sometimes i worry that i'm starting every chapter of bily the same way and while i know i started the letter to my dead cat this way, i hope this is the fist chapter of bily i've started with the line of summer polishing it's rusty claws. Because thats what i'm refrencing, my old cat, i miss her every day. Barely a day goes by that i don't miss her. we're planting cat nip over her grave this summer. i think hobi probably does the same when noodle dies.

-90% certain that namjoon is reading one of the Bridgerton books when they’re at the beach, I love the idea of him being like “don’t fall for it Penelope, make him work for it” when it comes to pollin you know? Like namjoon would be so cute and so so into it.

-Okay but??? I actually got emotional thinking about noodle and Hobi smelling flowers together. You’re telling me noodle went from living in a 2 x 2 cage to having his own garden and 8 humans that love him 🥺 stop I just know he’s so happy. I’ve also decided that noodle is 8 years old. I think that feels like the right age for him.-

-Not to be unintentionally soft but I think the act of putting on sunscreen for someone else might but the most drawn out act of loving there is, when jin does it he’s taking care of the packs future health, a sort of daily effort that shows the investment and that he’s invested in their health for a long time :( I personally think it’s a very soft way of loving.

-i feel like at one point in the future hobi and the m/c actually do try doing oral sex on each other but it's way way too much of a trigger for both of them- hobi especially with pussy, that he tries it once and decides he doesn't want too do it for trauma reasons and both of them are so very cool with it. especially because all of the other alpha's do eat her out fairly regularly and jungkook loves sucking cock so- one thing i like about the bily pack is that they're all so sexually active that everyone gets what they need without hose needs imposing on any of the other packmates.

-the part where hobi and the m/c are like "you're the shame of the regimine.", "what do your suprieriors do with you." is a quote from the 1996 pride and prejudice movie, in my mind i think it's one of their inside jokes with tae too! hopefully people get it.

-yoongi is so cute telling her that he got a nibble on his bait like- i can just picture him being so excited and gummy smiling at her when he sees her. i feel like yoongi might be a tiny bit unaware that she's having a bad day, but their relationship is more equal this way when he's not like- hingeing his entire self worth on weather or not she's okay. i think about them post and pre moonbyul and i think this is one of their diffrences post moonbyul

-i think that the conversation that tae and jimin where having before the m/c walked up went something like this. "i feel like this morning, she might not have wanted it but she didn't tell me." "you should ask her before you ruminate on it any more." "i know i know, it's just hard." "thats not what has you upset today though, you're blaming yourself for that for a reason." "don't tell on me," "i'm not, i just know you." "i don't look good today and it's stupid, it's stupid to be upset about it when the pup- when jungkook- it's stupid to worry about how i look when there's so much going on." "it's not stupid, not when it's you." "i feel like if i hadn't been jealous this morning, i might have noticed that she wasn't into it." "tae, you still don't know if she was even upset." or something like that.

-i know it's silly, but i absolutely love the part where the m/c tells tae she ate her cherry and she's remorseless about it. like thats so /her/ she has such a personality to her you know? i don't think she'll ever be a true reader insert.

-I did not mention namjoon's dick in the shower scene because i knew i would get side tracked if i did.

-the line of 'i believe you' is because clover told me that this last time she visited and honestly, i don't think anyone's ever believed me before. it was the first time anyone told me that they belived me. like- someone /belives/ me??? how wild is that???? i know she loves bily more than anyone and i wanted to make sure i put bits of her in this story too. i haven't told her it will be in here but i hope she reads it and knows its from her without even having to read the notes. i sorta wanted to send her this chapter of bily early because she was sick but i also! wanted it to be perfect and a good surprise <3

-this might be an unpopular opinion but i think tae looks the best in yellow.

-i helped a trans friend of mine remove their boobs in 2020 so i'm hoping that getting a boob job is a similar process/recovery time. they told us the surgery would only last 2-3 hours but we where there for 18 because of pre and post op.

-the drug section where tae is being dumb was a last minute addition- i hope people think it's funny as opposed to thinking it's stupid.

-i actually got really emotional writing that ending i hope...i hope one day being trans won't be so scary. i hope each and every trans person gets a moment like tae's a moment where they love their body and love themselves as much as they love the people around them. i hope your body loves you back. i hope you never stop trying or dreaming.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-seven: margot

word count: 4.5k

warnings: the chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

twenty-six | twenty-seven | twenty-eight

It had been twenty-four days.

It wasn’t meant to be a big deal—twenty-four days wasn’t much, not really. Less than a month. A stretch of time that could pass without much fanfare. But when you were used to someone being a part of your every day—quietly, seamlessly—three and a half weeks felt like a shift in orbit.

She didn’t let herself dwell on it too much. People got busy. Work piled up. Life did what it always did—moved forward whether you were ready or not.

Still, her mornings felt slightly off. He’d been around long enough that she’d stopped checking the street before heading out, stopped glancing over her shoulder, stopped carrying that low buzz of unease she used to ignore. He’d made her feel safer without making a point of it. That absence hung in the air now—not threatening, not ominous. Just… noticeable.

Life had picked up again—there were essays to finish, coffee orders to mess up, the unrelenting rhythm of the city around her. She’d made it this far without needing him. Whatever space he’d carved into her routine, she was clearly capable of patching over. Even he could be temporary, inconsequential.

It’s not like she was waiting for him, or something. She wasn’t. And yet…

She still half-glanced at every black car that slowed by her building. She still paused outside cafés without knowing why. Still unlocked her phone more often than necessary, only to scroll past the name that used to light up her screen.

Once, a barista drew a little bear in her foam. She smiled, took the photo without thinking, thumb hovering over the send button—before locking the phone again and tucking it deep into her coat pocket.

She didn’t want to be dramatic about it. She didn’t want to chase someone who clearly wanted space. So, she adjusted. She wasn’t going to be the one to reach out, not again. Not after that.

If he wanted space, he could have all of it. 

Lando noticed the silence long before he was ready to admit it.

No more photos in the middle of the day. No blurry videos of a latte she’d screwed up or some dog she thought looked like him. No sarcastic commentary about a book she swore he’d hate.

His phone had gone quiet. And it should’ve been a good thing.

He’d told himself he needed space, and now he had it.

Still, his eyes flicked toward his phone more often than they should. He kept it face-up now, just in case. Some nights, muscle memory had him opening their messages, stopping short of replying to any of them. He’d drafted something once. Deleted it before the second sentence.

He worked more. Stayed later at the office. Picked up meetings he would’ve normally sent Logan to handle. He trained harder. Sparred longer. There was no time to think when your knuckles were raw and your lungs were burning.

He worked until his eyes blurred, until emails bled into contracts and contracts bled into calls, until the hum of exhaustion drowned out every thought that threatened to claw through the haze of being on autopilot.

Lando was still waiting.

Not actively. Not desperately. He wasn’t weak like that. But some part of him—a stubborn, half-wounded part buried somewhere behind all the noise—kept waiting for a sign. A text. A photo. A “hey, remember this?”

But none came.

Instead, his phone was quiet. He turned the notification volume up one night, for no reason at all. Just in case, a voice had whispered in the back of his mind. Then he turned it back down the next morning, cursing himself for being so fucking soft.

He boxed more often now. Longer, harder, sometimes until his hands went numb through the wraps. Logan kept his distance, especially after the reassignment. Lando had said it was a logistics thing. No one believed him, but no one pushed.

The others didn’t bring her up anymore. And Lando made sure to keep it that way.

She was a distraction. He’d removed her. 

Everything was fine.

Well, except the mornings. The ones where she used to sit in his car with sleepy eyes and a sarcastic joke. Or the nights when he’d find a stupid meme from her just as he was ready to lose his mind over work. Or the way silence used to feel rare—earned—and now just felt like it was swallowing him whole.

Lando shrugged it all off.

She wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t even—

Whatever. It didn’t matter. 

He had his reasons, and he sure as hell didn’t owe anyone an explanation. It was cleaner this way. Simpler, certainly.

He was back in control, and everything was exactly how it used to be.

Before, they’d somehow inadvertently ended up spending almost every day side by side, without realizing how tightly they were stitching themselves into each other’s lives. Now, they moved through their days like strangers—living separate lives in the same city, thinking of each other too often and pretending not to.

It was easier to believe things were different.

They were never that close. She was probably just bored anyway. He’s just been busy. That’s all. Life goes on. People move on.

They persuaded themselves with tiny reassurances, built a quiet wall of denial brick by brick. She got used to not reaching out. Told herself she was being respectful, not overstepping. Told herself that it was better this way—less confusing, less messy. He had things to do. He didn’t need her cluttering up his life with dogs and coffee and half-baked thoughts at midnight.

And Lando told himself she probably didn’t even notice he was gone. That she had a full life, people around her. That he’d been the one stepping into something that was never meant to include him.

So they moved on.

But sometimes, when she walked past a coffee shop and smelled the roast he’d once insisted was undrinkable, she smiled without meaning to.

And sometimes, when he leaned against his desk and took a moment to peer out the magnificent windows and saw the skyline—the one they’d once admired as they sat side by side, wrapped in silence and something that almost felt like peace—he remembered her voice so clearly it made his throat go tight.

But they were fine.

Everything was fine.

The café was unusually slow for a Thursday morning. Rain tapped against the windows, soft and steady, blurring the outside world into a watercolor gray. It had been a quiet morning. The kind that made you forget things had ever felt complicated.

The café hummed with its usual rhythm—steam hissing from the espresso machine, the soft clink of cups stacking, the bell above the door chiming every few minutes with the gentle regularity of breath. It smelled like brown sugar and coffee beans and the damp pavement outside each time the door opened momentarily. Y/N’s apron was slightly stained with oat milk, and her hair was frizzing near her temples from the steam, but she didn’t mind.

Margot had just made some offhand comment about a customer trying to flirt his way into a free muffin, and they’d been laughing about it. That easy, familiar kind of laugh. The kind you only share with someone who’s seen you bone-tired, crabby, half-soaked in a fridge leak, and somehow still loves you.

She stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, steam rising from the milk pitcher as she worked on a cappuccino. Margot stood beside her, elbows propped against the edge, peeling a clementine with the lazy ease of someone who’d lived three lives. Perhaps nine.

“You know,” Margot said, voice low, “I was going to give you grief for coming in early again. But then I saw the bags under your eyes and figured—ah. Boy trouble.”

She snorted, pretending to focus on the drink in her hand. The latte art she’d been practicing ended up looking disfigured anyway – like a foamy blob instead of the elegant dove she’d intended for it to be. “There’s no boy. I just didn’t sleep well.”

“Mm. Didn’t sleep well,” Margot mocked, her words teasing as she automatically handed her a wedge of orange. “Back in my day, that was code for heartbreak.”

She took the piece, popped it in her mouth. “Maybe I just drank too much caffeine.”

Margot gave her a look, eyes sharp over the rim of her glasses. “You’ve been drinking too much caffeine since you were sixteen, or perhaps since birth. What is his name, hm?”

“No one.” She tried to smile. “It’s not like that.”

Margot didn’t push. She just reached over, tucked a stray curl behind her ear like it was nothing, like she’d done since the first day they met.

“Alright. No man. Just… promise me you’re eating. And not just those old pastries. Mange un légume ou deux, veux-tu?”

She nodded, throat suddenly tight. “Oui, I promise.”

Margot patted her shoulder. “Good. Now go check if we’ve got any more of that rose syrup. Those girls from the yoga studio will riot  if I tell them we’re out again.”

“On it,” she said, grateful for something to do. She pushed through the backroom door, humming under her breath. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered and half-labeled. She tiptoed up, scanning the top rows.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered, stretching for the box.

“Top shelf, right side,” the elderly woman yelled, as if somehow magically able to tell. “Don’t break your neck.”

The stockroom was dim and tight, cold air from the walk-in leaking under the door. She scanned the shelves, fingers brushing labels. Maple, rosewater, the weird chili one no one liked…

And then—

Sharp, but distant. A car backfiring, maybe, or something falling.

What?

Then, a second one.

This one was closer. Inside. Her chest tightened and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The bottle of syrup slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. Her heart stopped, then slammed back into rhythm, hard and chaotic.

The air changed. The silence after the sound was worse than the sound itself.

Another one.

Then two more, fast. The fifth and sixth were unmistakable.

Gunshots.

Her breath caught in her throat. Instinct took over, pulling her down behind a stack of inventory before her brain could even process the sound. Her hands trembled where they clutched the edge of a box. Cold air from the fridge brushed her spine, but her skin was burning.She pressed herself back against the metal shelving, heart hammering so loud she was sure it would give her away. 

Something told her they stopped, but between the ringing in her ears and the hammering in her chest it was difficult to be certain. As soon as some semblance of silence settled, however, her mouth went dry.

Margot.

Her heart lurched.

Margot had been there. Margot had been standing just a few feet away. Hadn't she?

Without thinking, she moved. Her legs moved before logic could get in the way. Her hands gripped the backroom door, pushing it open with a force that sent it banging against the wall. She burst from the storeroom, shoes skidding against the tile floor. Her eyes searched, the café hazy now, her vision narrowed from adrenaline. The door had been blown inward. One of the front chairs was knocked over. And Margot—

No.

No.

There was so much red.

Margot was on the ground, crumpled awkwardly, like someone had cut the strings holding her upright. Blood pooled too fast, too dark beneath her.

It soaked through the elderly woman’s apron, smeared across the floor like someone had tried to wipe it away. Her glasses were crooked, one lens cracked. She was breathing—barely. Each inhale a wet, rattling sound.

“No—no, no, no,” she gasped, falling to her knees. “Margot. Hey. Hey, look at me—fuck—look at me.”

Y/N’s heart punched in her throat. She was already moving forward, fingers shaking as she kneeled beside Margot, blood soaking her fingers the moment she touched her. 

There was so much blood. Too much.

Pressure. That’s what you were supposed to do, right? 

She had no clue how this worked. She just remembered some basic first aid crap she’d learned ages ago, something from an infomercial, or was it a book?

So she pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding, but—

Why was there more blood?

Her breath came too fast, her hands trembling like a leaf in the wind as she tried to find something—anything—to slow it down. She could feel the warmth of it, see the way it spread. Her fingers slipped as she pressed harder, praying for a miracle.

No. No, no, no. 

Her stomach lurched.

Margot? Margot, please.

Her fingers were slipping through the blood now, and her head spun, breath ragged. She felt useless. Why wasn’t it stopping? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady herself, but it was impossible.

“No, no. Please, no—”

Margot blinked a second later, but slowly, like it took effort.

Y/N pressed her hands against the wound, not even sure which one, just trying to stop the blood from being everywhere. It just kept coming. She pressed down hard, too hard maybe, but it was the only thing she could do. “C’mon, you’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, it’s okay—just stay with me, please, Margot, please—”

She sounded young. She didn’t realize it until her voice cracked.

Margot was still warm. Her breath was shallow, lips parted just slightly, like she might say something but couldn’t find the words. One of her hands twitched like it had tried to move.

She curled closer, trying to shelter her somehow. As if that would help. As if her body could protect Margot’s.

Fuck. Fuck. Say something. C’mon, you gotta say something–

“You’re okay, alright? You’re gonna be okay,” she whispered, shaking. “It’s fine. I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere.”

Somewhere outside, tires screeched. People yelled. Sirens wailed, far-off but getting closer.

Margot coughed, the faint stain of blood tinging the cracks in her lips now. Her hand reached up, weakly, touched her cheek. A gesture she’d done a thousand times.

“No, non,” she chided weakly, barely audible. “Don’t cry, mon chéri.”

“M’not,” Y/N lied, voice breaking. “I’m not crying. I’m– You’re gonna be okay.”

Y/N brought one of her own trembling hands to place over Margot’s, holding it where it cradled her cheek. She shut her eyes tightly, convincing herself she didn’t need to memorize the feel of those soft wrinkled hands in case it was the last time she’d ever get to feel them.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to hold pressure with one hand now, trying to keep Margot’s blood inside, to rewind time. Her knees were soaked. The world blurred. Her lungs couldn’t find air.

“Where the fuck are they?” she screamed to no one, her voice hoarse with desperation. “Where the fuck is everyone? Anyone! Aidez-Moi! Help me!”

Margot’s fingers slipped away from her face. Y/N gave her hand a gentle squeeze before placing it in her lap, helping her save her strength. Margot would need all the strength she could get, right? 

She kept pressing, even when her hands started to ache. Even as those kind grey eyes began to blink more slowly.

“Please. Please, please, please don’t—don’t do this, okay? You still owe me that lemon cake recipe. You still haven’t met my—” Her throat caught. “You can’t. You can’t.”

Her voice broke, and she was talking to herself more than to Margot as she rambled out apologies and pleas. 

“You have to be okay. You can’t go. Please don’t leave me. I can't— I can’t do this alone, you know that.” 

The words spilled out, raw and desperate. She tried to convince herself, tried to keep some shred of composure. She shifted, trying to lift Margot just a bit, to get a better angle, but the blood kept coming. More, more, more. Her hands were slick with it now, the viscous substance coating her skin. Margot’s lips trembled, a faint breath escaping.

“I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re okay. Please, please... just be okay. Please, please. Don’t leave me, Margot. I can’t—” Her voice cracked, the words coming in jagged gasps. She was losing herself, losing control of everything, the panic squeezing her chest until she couldn’t think straight.

Margot coughed once, an ugly hacking thing before she spluttered. Her chest gave a faint, labored rise and fall, like a thread pulling through water, faint but still there. The corner of her lips formed a weak version of the smile the young woman would recognize anywhere.

“So brave, ma belle fille,” she hummed softly.

For a moment, her heart swelled with anger. Her hand trembled as she held the pressure again. “No, no! Stop it! Please, just hold on. Please, you have to hold on. I can't do this without you, I need you. You’re– You’re all I have, okay?”

Her face morphed into some sad attempt at a smile, a desperate attempt at reassurance. But Y/N’s eyes were too watery and lips trembled too much for Margot to get to see her darling girl’s beautiful smile, sweet and radiant as the sun. 

She tried to recall all the other times she’d gotten to see it when her mind provided her with the image of that very first day – a younger Y/N, shy and awkward and looking terribly lonely, smiling brightly at the sight of fresh coffee and something warm to eat.

But Margot struggled to remember that warmth now, struggled to remember the hot summer breeze from years ago. All she felt now was the cold, because suddenly it was terribly cold.

Y/N’s fingers dug into the blood-soaked fabric of Margot’s shirt, the hammering in her chest threatening to crack her sternum in half. She felt the heat of her own tears mixing with the sweat on her face. Everything was slowly blurring together.

Please don’t leave me.

Margot’s hand twitched. It was weak, but it was a movement. The tiniest sign of life, and for a second, Y/N clung to it, her breath coming back in shallow, frantic gasps.

She couldn’t lose her.

Not yet.

The phone call was a blur, the desperation in her voice barely cutting through the ringing in her ears. She wasn’t thinking, wasn’t processing the words as she frantically hit the call button with shaking fingers.

“Liam,” she gasped, the name falling from her lips the one someone may beg a saint. “I—I need you. Please. It’s Margot. She’s—” The words hit her throat like shards of glass. “She’s hurt,and now- and the blood, oh. There’s so much blood–”

The young woman let out a choked sob, something thick and ugly lodged in her chest. “I- I don’t know what to do, it won’t stop, I’m trying–”

“Tell me where you are,” he replied instantly.

“I’m putting pressure, and I keep trying to talk to her but she won’t– she won’t–”

“I need you to tell me where you are, Y/N. Now, alright?” his voice was firm, but not unkind– just stern enough to pierce through the haze of panic long enough to hold her attention.

“I’m– The cafe, the cafe. Please, Liam, hurry!”

The line went dead after that, but Y/N didn’t care. Her focus was on Margot—on the blood, the rising panic, the fear that tore at her insides. Her hands were shaking so violently now, she couldn’t hold on anymore, but she refused to let go of Margot’s limp body. She wasn’t—Margot wasn’t gone.

No, she couldn’t be.

Seconds felt like hours, but then there was finally a sound. Tires screeching, and then the rev of an engine. Her heart leaped as the door slammed open.

Liam stood there, barely minutes after the call ended. He’d come fast, so fast. There he stood, strong and steady, his eyes scanning the scene before landing on her. It was almost like he’d been waiting for her to need him, even though he had no idea how badly. But now suddenly there he was, that familiar silhouette walking through the entryway like some divine savior.

Liam’s here. He’ll take care of everything, and then everything will be okay, right? 

Liam knows how to make things okay.

Everything’s gonna be okay.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

She was kneeling beside Margot, her hands stained with too much blood, her heart so heavy it felt it was crushing her lungs, stealing her ability to breathe. Her chest tightened as she watched the paramedics step forward, the familiar beeping of equipment and their cool, methodical movements only making her panic worse.

“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She clutched tighter, desperate. Her voice wavered like a child’s, begging like she had nothing left to give. “Please, no. Please? Don’t take her—don’t you dare take her, I need her. I need her!”

They reached closer to her, to the woman who had given Y/N everything but her name – who had given her a roof over her head, clothes on her back, food on her plate, and perhaps most importantly, someone to call family. When they did, the younger woman flinched, instinctively curling around the still-warm body in her hands like there was something still left to protect.

She turned to look at Margot, who must have closed her eyes because she was tired – she always did get tired so easily nowadays – and she asked her. Margot always listened when she asked, right? Margot would listen.

A small, shaky hand barely let go of Margot’s side, only to come up and cradle the side of her face. The action caused a small smudge of deep red to appear on her skin where the color once used to be, and immediately, Y/N hated it. 

No, no, that doesn’t look right. Margot wouldn’t like that.

She quickly tried to find a clean corner of her sleeve to try to wipe it away, to wipe away the tingle of blood until she could see the natural blush that always dusted the apple of her cheeks. She’d always been beautiful, Margot – stunning eyes, rosy cheeks and lots of smile lines from decades of good laughs. She’d often tell Y/N that she’d had a “movie star” face when she was younger, that she was on her way to an audition when she ran into the man that would eventually become her husband. The name of the movie she’d gone to audition for changed every time, but they’d simply laugh about it each time.

Y/N would let her tell all the stories she wanted if it just meant she’d talk to her.

“... Margot? Margot, don’t go! Please, don’t go! Please!”

For some reason, Margot wouldn’t answer her.

Y/N shook her gently, desperate for an answer. She didn’t want to let these strangers near Margot, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t.

The paramedics were gentle but firm. They moved to try to pull Margot’s body from her grasp, but Y/N didn’t let go, her fingers wrapped around Margot’s wrist as though the force of her touch could stop everything. She was shaking, crying, unable to breathe. The world was spinning, everything spinning, until—

“Y/N,” came Lando’s voice, low and steady.

She didn’t look at him at first, couldn’t. She was caught in the agony, trapped in the raw panic that gripped her chest.

“Y/N, you’ve got to let go of her, alright? C’mon now,” he spoke, his voice calm and unwavering, but there was a tinge of pain there—something Y/N couldn’t quite place.

But it wasn’t about him. Not right now. Not when Margot was slipping away.

“I—I can’t,” she whimpered, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t... not her. Please. She’s all I have left. I need her!”

His hands were on her then—so gentle, but strong, like something steady in a world that felt like it was falling apart. His warmth wrapped around her as he knelt to sit beside her, his torso firm against her back and his voice a soft murmur against her ear, trying to pull her from the chaos.

“I know,” Lando whispered, his hand sliding stroking softly along her back. “I know, Angel. I’m here. I’m here I’ve got you, yeah? C’mon, I’ve got you, I promise.”

The paramedics approached closer as they attempted to work quickly, carefully, but they were too late. The beeping of the equipment had long since gone flat, as if there had been no pulse at all, the silence so loud it felt like it was crushing her. A deep, suffocating silence that filled the air. She couldn’t hear anything except the ringing in her ears. She could barely feel anything except the numbness that was creeping in, filling every part of her.

And then, Lando’s larger hands, warm and firm, encompassed her own as he gently peeled her fingers away from Margot’s body. His fingers slowly came to close around her own, still curled and stiff from how long she’d been holding on. He wasn’t forcing her, but his touch was steady, unyielding. She could slowly begin to feel the sensation of the pads of his thumbs gently stroking across her knuckles on each hand, a soothing back and forth motion. It was just enough to draw her out of the tight hold she had on Margot.

“Hey, look at me. Look at me.” His voice is low and calm as he crouches beside her. Her hands are slick, shaking, still pressed to Margot’s chest. “You’ve done everything you can, alright? You’ve done enough. Let ‘em take it from here.”

“Oh angel,” he breathes, softer now, like it hurts to say. Like it’s all he’s got. Her hands won’t let go—won’t stop pressing, blood blooming between her fingers. She’s crying now, whispering nonsense, pleading.

“Hey, hey,” he says again, firmer this time as he wraps his arms around her, prying her hands free. “She needs help, and so do you. It’s… It’ll be okay. She’ll be okay. You just have to let them take her, Y/N,” Lando’s voice broke through the fog in her mind. 

“Please, angel.”

She couldn’t move. Her body was frozen, her hand still clutching Margot’s lifeless wrist, but his presence was enough to make her feel like she could maybe begin to breathe again. The warmth of him—his strength—was steady, grounding. Like it was starting to melt the frost frozen around the bubble that encompassed this moment.

He pulled her gently into his chest then, his arm around her back, holding her close as she continued to shake, unable to speak. Her sobs came in ragged gasps. She was a mess—her clothes, her hands, her face smeared with Margot’s blood. Her body felt like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

But Lando held her, steady and silent. His chest rising and falling beneath her as she buried her face into the fabric of his shirt. His hand was smoothing over her back, soothing, like he was trying to piece her back together. Like if he held her long enough, she’d feel the chasm in her chest begin to close.

For a long while, they just stayed there, the paramedics doing their job in the background, the sharp scent of blood mixing with the damp smell of rain on pavement. But none of that mattered. Not anymore.

Lando had her, even when everything else slipped away.

a/n: so...

[starlit-writer]

in sickness and in health, ch. 2 - alpha!simon riley x omega!reader

here is chapter two!!!! in writing this chapter, i realized that this little fic has taken on a complete life of its own that i never anticipated, and will have many, many more chapters to come, so if you want to be added to a tag list to make sure you stay up-to-date, let me know in the replies! eat well, lovelies <3

as always, if you want to understand more about my omegaverse au, you can look at my masterpost here, and it'll help explain all of the intricacies that may or may not be explained well enough in these short-form fics!

word count: 4,270 chapter one chapter three masterlist ao3 link

You slept. And you slept. And you slept.

But, Simon held tight to his promise to you. He didn’t leave your side for any longer than necessary, and necessary held a very… loose definition to Simon as you laid on his bed, all but comatose. In the three days since you had shown up at his door, Simon had left the bed maybe five times to relieve himself, and a handful of other times just to growl somebody away from the door who had missed the memo that Simon and you would be out of commission for the foreseeable future. The rest of the time, he just laid next to you, curled up like a guard dog. Sometimes he talked to you, but most of the time, he was just watching your chest as it rose up and down, his fingers resting delicately over your wrist to ensure your heart was still beating. That you were still here.

It had been three days. And you still hadn’t woken up. The worry in Simon’s heart was becoming hard to keep down, and the neglect of his own body was starting to catch up with him. He hadn’t done any work, hadn’t showered, and had barely eaten the food that the team had left at the door. He was going insane with panic, with fear, at the thought that he lost you. That he had killed you.

He never knew what he had had until it was gone.

Simon was spiraling. He sat in the corner of the bed, making sure to keep his thigh pressed against you, but his head was in his hands as his fingers tugged relentlessly at his dirty blond strands. It was his fault. All of this was. He didn’t know how to be a good alpha, let alone any sort of partner that he knew you needed him to be. He was so completely lost in his own tortured mind that he didn’t even hear Soap as he slipped into the room.

It wasn’t until the tray full of food that Soap was carrying clattered to the ground that Simon even noticed he was in there. Simon’s head snapped up, his hackles rising as a vicious growl ripped through his throat. The sound was a clear warning to get the fuck away from him and his mate, but all Soap did was roll his eyes in complete exasperation and take a step closer to your sleeping form.

Simon’s growl intensified at the intrusion, his muscles rippling in preparation to fight. It didn’t matter that this was Johnny, one of the few people on this earth that Simon trusted wholeheartedly. His mate was dying, and Simon’s alpha was tearing itself apart, identifying anything and anyone that got too close to you as a threat. But, the other alpha ignored him. The only sign that Simon got that Soap even heard his posturing was the low, return growl that left Soap’s lips as they curled up to reveal his alpha fangs.

“Haud yer wheesht,” Soap grumbled in reply as his hand came up to rest on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently over the joint. Soap’s focus was entirely on you, completely ignoring the massive bulk of Simon just on the other side of you. Soap and you had always been friends, and you had sought comfort in him over the last few months of Simon’s neglect. Guilt gnawed at him that he wasn’t enough, that he couldn’t help prevent the bond sickness from stealing you away, but that guilt was far overshadowed by the rage he felt towards Simon.

“How could ye ever do this to ‘er, huh?” Soap muttered, the words low and dangerous as he finally glanced up at Simon. “She was good. More tha’ good. She was a great fuckin’ medic, better teammate, and now look at ‘er.”

Simon’s alpha growled in response. He knew he had fucked up, destroyed you in ways he was only beginning to comprehend. He would take you yelling at him, telling him how shit he was, but hearing it from Soap, another alpha, was a whole new level of shame and guilt. Simon wasn’t built to hold this much emotion, never taught how to properly deal with his feelings, and he was at his breaking point. His rage was rising, like water that had been left on the stove too long without proper supervision, the bubbles breaking free over the steely confines of the walls he had built around his heart.

The very same confines that had kept him from you.

Simon’s eyes zeroed in on Soap’s hand on your shoulder, and he lost it. He scrambled off of the bed, his movements uncoordinated due to the lack of sleep and sustenance, but still full of the undeniable power that lived within the massive bulk of the alpha. He slapped Soap’s hand away, and grabbed at the straps of his tactical vest. Simon picked the smaller alpha up and spun to press him against the wall, Soap’s head cracking off the drywall. But, it wasn’t enough. Simon hated himself. Hated Soap. Hated everything that he could even remotely tie in as a factor to your comatose state on his bed. Simon gnashed his teeth in Soap’s face, pure, unbridled alpha rage pouring off of him.

Soap just smirked, completely unfazed.

“Oh, I see. Now you can be all protective over ‘er when she’s dying, aye? When it’s yer fuckin’ fault that she wasted away like this? You should’ve been better!” Soap was close to yelling now, his own hands coming up to Simon’s throat. Soap wasn’t going to kill him, no, the only thing that that would accomplish right now is causing more harm to you. But, dammit, if he wasn’t close.

Soap squeezed at Simon’s throat, his alpha claws digging into the mating bite on the side of the larger alpha’s throat. “I should rip that fuckin’ bite right off of ye, ye know that right?”

Simon roared, jerking his neck around to get Soap’s claws as far away as possible from the scent gland that held the imprint of your smaller omega fangs - the last thing truly tying him to you. He was far too gone with his rage, his alpha bursting against the confines of his skin, to even begin to formulate a response. All he could see was the red-hot haze of his rage, of his grief, the anguish that had settled so permanently into his bones over the last three days.

Soap grinned, a mean, sadistic thing that did little more than show off his alpha fangs. It was a challenge, an expression eerily similar to what a predator does when defending their territory. But you were not Soap’s territory. He knew that. He wasn’t trying to vye for your affection or to stake claim on you. His goal was single-minded: get Simon pissed enough to finally admit that he needs you, that he’ll fight for you, for your health, and that he’ll never abandon you this way again.

And if he wouldn’t? Well, Soap wasn’t looking for an omega of his own. Mainly just saw you as a constant in his life, in his pack, but he would single-handedly rip out that mating bite that glared, swollen and red from the strain of the bond, on the edge of Simon’s throat with his own claws and claim you as his own, if it meant fixing you, giving you some sort of stability.

“Ye did this to ‘er! Yer neglect, yer fuckin’ issues, made ‘er this way! All because your head was so far up your goddamned arse you couldn’t see it! She deserves better! She deserves an alpha who will take care of ‘er, not someone who will abandon her for months on end in hopes of getting blown to pieces!”

“I know!” Simon roared in response as he lifted Soap away from the wall again and slammed him back into it. “I know!” His grip on Soap started to falter as tears welled up in his eyes. He let go of Soap with one hand, the smaller alpha falling back to his feet on the ground as Simon scraped his hand across his face to prevent the tears from falling.

“I… I just… I don’t know how to do this, Johnny. It’s not like I grew up with a…” Simon trailed off, his voice thick with tears and regret as he completely let go of Soap to run his hands through his hair in anguish. “My father was an awful man. A horrendous example of an alpha. He… the things he did, Johnny, to me, to Tommy, to my poor fuckin’ mum… the only promise I made to myself when I left that place and let it burn to the ground was to never be like him. And that meant keeping myself as far away from any omega as I possibly could. I never wanted this! And then the brass gave that ultimatum, and shoved us together, and… and I sure as shit wasn’t gonna be the reason that she got kicked out of the place that she worked tooth and nail to get to! I didn’t know how to be an alpha! I didn’t know how to protect her, and I had no one to ask! I just… I… I just didn’t know…”

Soap stood against the wall, mouth agape as he looked down at the massive, trembling form of the man he considered his best friend. Somewhere in his monologue, Simon had completely collapsed onto his knees, his head back in his hands, but Soap was too busy listening to the raw, honest truth falling from Simon’s tear-stained lips to even begin to try and guess when it had happened. Soap was in shock. But, he was at even more of a loss at how to comfort the other alpha.

Soap crouched down beside Simon, his hand awkwardly, yet gently, patting his shoulder as Simon’s hulking form shook from the force of his silent tears, his agony. Soap sighed as he rubbed his other hand over the back of his own neck. What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

“Ghost, I… I think you need to go talk to Price. Maybe get in with the base therapist.”

Simon stiffened under Soap’s touch as those words left his mouth. He didn’t want to go talk to Price, even if he was his captain and a part of his pack. He didn’t want to have to admit to his failures to the same person who gave him orders, signed off on his paychecks. And a therapist? Yeah, he talked to a therapist, he’d just about be signing off on his own discharge forms.

Soap felt it. How his words affected Simon. He sighed again, a low rumble reverberating from his chest in an attempt to provide some comfort to the larger alpha. It was normally a move reserved for comforting a pup, or a distressed omega, but Soap was truly at a loss of what to do here. He had never seen Simon break down like this.

“Ghost, Price can help. He’s been with his bonnie lass for years, and they’re happy with pups runnin’ ‘round. Just… you can’t keep doin’ this to ‘er. And if that means you need direction, need to see how to be an alpha… at least talk to Price. She deserves an alpha who can be there for her, at the very least.”

Simon nodded slowly, wiping his hand across his face again. He felt weak, like a failure, but he knew he had to try.

You never knew what you had until it was gone.

Yeah, well, he knew now. And he wasn’t ever going to let it go again.

Simon lifted his head, his watery brown eyes meeting Soap’s determined baby blues. There was still anger in Soap’s eyes, but he was shoving it away. No point in kicking his friend while he was already down.

“I… I can’t just leave her here.”

“I’ll stay with her,” came Soap’s immediate response. You had sought solace in him over the last few months, and as another alpha from your pack, you would probably be the most comfortable with him around, even if your alpha was gone.

Hearing Soap’s immediate reply made something in Ghost’s alpha twist with distress, aching at the idea of another alpha taking care of his omega, even if it was another member of his pack. A low growl born of his alpha’s displeasure of the situation rumbled out of his throat for a moment before he quickly cut it off by clearing it. Simon knew this needed to be done, and sooner rather than later. He had to fix his ways, to see what it meant to truly be the type of alpha that you needed, that you deserved. But, before he agreed, he had to know one thing.

“Do you love her?”

Soap froze, his head rearing back slightly in shock. Did he love you? “What?”

“You heard me. Do you love her?”

“Simon, she’s a part of our pack. She always has been, even before you and her mated. So, yes, I love her, but not… not like that.”

Simon nodded slowly, his joints aching as he stood up to his full height again. Everything hurt. His muscles were sore from lack of movement, sleep, and nutrition, and his heart and soul felt as if they had been ripped to shreds. Your end of the bond felt like it had been shrouded in impenetrable inky blackness, which just made him feel even more empty. Gods, it used to annoy him to no end to feel your neverending presence in his mind, but now he would give anything, his own life, just to feel it again.

Soap breathed out a silent sigh of relief as he saw the acceptance in Simon’s nod. His best friend was going to be okay, both of you would be. He had to believe it. And, in classic Soap fashion, he couldn’t help but try to chip away the sour, somber mood in the room by cracking a joke.

“But, ye fuck it up again, and I really will rip that mating bite right out of ye, ye can bet on tha’.”

Simon glared at him, but it was the first bit of normalcy he had felt in… months. He shoved at Soap’s shoulder, but all it did was make the smaller alpha’s cocky smirk widen.

“Fuck off, Johnny,” Simon mumbled half-heartedly as he pulled off the tank top he had slipped on after you had fallen asleep, and he tucked it gently next to your head to ensure you still had his scent while he was gone. He ran a gentle, almost reverent finger down your cheek, smoothing an errant piece of your hair back behind your ear. He sighed softly, his guilt threatening to break free again, but he quickly stepped back from you and tugged on a sweatshirt. He glanced at Soap, his gaze glinting with a possessive protectiveness.

Soap, knowing exactly what was running through his mind, put his hands up in a placating manner.

“I won’ touch ‘er. Just don’ be gone too long, aye?”

Simon grumbled something under his breath but nodded, grabbing his keys and shoving them in his pocket before he opened the door. He paused in the open doorway with one last, longing glance back at you filled with all of the pain and regret and guilt swirling through his veins before he finally stepped through and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

—

He didn’t want to be here. To be doing this but he would, if it meant fixing you. He stood in front of Price’s office door, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried to muster up enough courage to knock. The light was on, so Simon knew Price was in there. Hopefully he was just doing paperwork, and not anything… else.

Simon sighed loudly, scraping a hand down his face before he shook out his arms. He just needed to open the door. And, you know, pour his heart and soul out to the Captain, but that would come after. However, he didn’t get the chance.

“You gonna stand out there all day or are you comin’ in?”

Shit. Simon squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he took a deep breath. He could do this. For you, he could. He had to. He shouldered open the door, but he kept his gaze on the ratty red carpet of Captain Price’s office. Mmm, low-pile. Probably feel really scratchy on his face when Price inevitably-

“Ah, Simon. I’ve been expecting you.”

Fuck. Simon felt untethered, for lack of a better word. He couldn’t get a read on Price’s expression as the older, greying alpha moved his glasses off of the bridge of his nose and carefully folded the arms in to set them on the giant wooden desk in front of him. Simon made a point to keep his gaze away from the gouged out claw marks on the surface of the desk. Simon swallowed thickly and looked back down at the carpet in front of him. He had never had to ask for help before, at least, not like this. Not anything that meant showing his weakness, his losing hand, the fact that he’s a shit ass alpha.

“Uh, yeah. I… um, sir, I need… help.” Gods, kill him now.

“Yeah,” Price breathed out harshly as he stretched his arms back around his head. “Yeah, I’d say you do.”

Simon winced at Price’s words. He sounded like a disappointed father, or, at least, what Simon imagined a disappointed father would sound like, and he felt like he had been brought into the principal’s office after painting graffiti on the side of the building during recess. He finally brought his gaze up to the older Alpha, taking a deep breath before he spoke.

“Captain, listen, I-”

Price cut him off with a raise of his hand as he stood up. Simon watched with wide eyes as Price grabbed a cigar out of the humidor that had always laid on his desk. Price grabbed his lighter, and placed the cigar between his lips before he turned away from Simon and looked out the window in the back of his office. A few moments later, and Simon heard the shink of the lighter catching, and he watched as a thick plume of dark grey smoke rose above Price’s form.

“You should’ve come to me for help sooner.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Price questioned, looking back at Simon over his shoulder.

“You’ve been running for years, Simon. Even before she came into the picture. And I let you. I shouldn’t have, but I kept hoping you would figure it out. And then, well, you didn’t. And then I watched you continue to close yourself off, to keep your distance. I watched as you brushed her off over, and over, and over again. And, I admit, as the pack leader, I should have stepped in. Should have forced you to stay on base and figure your shit out, but, tactically, it would’ve been a mistake to keep you here. So, we’re here now. What’s happened has happened. How are you going to fix it?”

Simon stood there, slack jawed and wide eyed as Captain John Price just essentially ripped down every single one of his defenses, his excuses, in one fell swoop. He wrung his hands in front of him, feeling exactly like he had been flayed open, all of his weaknesses and failures laid out in the open like intestines.

“I… I don’t know. That’s why I came here. I was looking for… pointers, I guess. Of how to be a better alpha- fuck, how to just be a good alpha. How to treat an omega. I wasn’t ever… I didn’t have good role models for that shit, and I just- well, Johnny said-”

“Will you actually listen?”

“What?”

Price took a deep inhale of the thick, grey smoke and held it as he turned to look at Simon face-on, studying Simon’s shaking form, the wild, lost look in his eyes, before he exhaled. Price kept his face schooled in a neutral expression, but he really did feel for Simon. He had once been a lost alpha like him, confused on how to even begin to take on the responsibility of an omega, how to take care of them. “If we have this conversation, will you actually take what I say into consideration? Or are you going to attempt for a few days, get frustrated, and then give up?”

Simon winced as Price continued to lay into him with that same cold, calculating gaze he used when discussing potential battle plans. Simon sighed softly, letting his head fall back to stare at the ceiling for a moment before he rolled his shoulders and looked at Price. “I have to fix this.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

Price grinned around his cigar and sat back down at the desk, his fingers tracing idly over the claw marks in the surface of the wood. He gestured his arm out, inviting Simon to sit across from him. Simon squeezed into the chair, his large bulk making the chair creak in protest. He leaned back, trying to feign a confident, or at the very least, unaffected air, but all of his thoughts just kept coming back to you, his knee bouncing in a very distracting fashion as he fought every urge to just run back to his quarters, just to check on you.

Price smirked and steepled his hands in front of him, resting his chin on his thumbs. “You’re scared, ain’t ya?”

Simon nodded, biting down on his plush lower lip.

“Good. Means ya care. You’re just shit at showing it.”

Simon’s lips pressed into a thin line, but what could he do? He couldn’t protest the truth. He was already flayed open, might as well attempt to dissect and treat the diseased portions where he has been keeping all of his shit coping mechanisms.

“Did you ever court her?” Price asked, watching Simon skeptically. He could guess at the answer, as the relationship between you and Simon was far from traditional.

“No, I… Price, the brass gave us an ultimatum, you know that. I didn’t have time!”

“Not before, you didn’t, but what about after? You still could have courted her. Maybe then you would’ve trusted each other more, and we wouldn’t all be in this situation. Do you even know her favorite food? Flower? Song to dance to at 3 am in the kitchen? Color?”

With each question, Simon sank further and further into himself. He felt like the worst alpha on the planet. And, honestly, he probably was, or else you wouldn’t be still laying in his bed practically comatose.

Captain Price sighed and rubbed his thumb over the deep-set lines in his forehead. “Alright, well, those are good places to start, I guess, but… being an alpha isn’t all about gift giving and protecting. You have to listen to her. And I don’t just mean the words out of her mouth - although those are still very important - I also mean her pheromones. Her body language. Her microexpressions. All of the things she doesn’t say.”

“What!? How am I-”

Price put his hand up again to stop the tirade that he knew was about to come pouring out of Simon. “You pay attention. That’s it. It ain’t rocket science, Simon. You’ve led how many teams through how many missions? I’m sure you can figure out if one omega prefers dark or milk chocolate.”

Simon sighed loudly, the sound trailing off into a growl. He felt so stupid. He had been too focused on himself, on his own trauma and his own issues that he had completely neglected the bare minimum for you. He had so much to make up for. He slammed his forehead down into the desk in frustration, the force making the pens on the desk jump. “I should’ve just allowed the brass to kick me out. At least then she could’ve been forced to mate someone who could actually provide for her.”

Price shrugged, leaning back in his own chair as he puffed on his cigar. “No point in thinkin’ like that. You guys are mates, and that bond stayed together for a lot longer than I ever thought it would. That means somethin’, you know. So, you’ve really only got one option. You’ve gotta fix it. Listen to her. Pay attention. Make her feel cared for.”

Simon nodded, his forehead still pressed against the cold wood of the desk, but something Price said kept sticking in his brain, ruminating like a dog trying to lick peanut butter off of the roof of its mouth.

“That means something?” Simon asked, looking up at Price, skeptically looking for clarification.

Price just grinned and pretended to zip his mouth shut before waving Simon off. “Go back to your girl. If you still haven’t figured it out in a few weeks, come talk to me. But remember, court her. Especially after all of this. Show her you care. That you can be a good alpha.”

Simon furrowed his brow, not thrilled about not getting an answer about what Price meant, but got up from his seat. He had been dismissed, and all he wanted to do was get back to you.

Courting. Courting. Right. He could do that. Right?

tag list: @kerst666 @misscaller06 @letaliabane @sai-int @itsmeamysworld @massivescissorsthingperson @aeeliy

[antonsbf]

Unspoken

chapter 1 - before goodbye

⤷ summary: a slow-burn, emotional story about childhood friends torn apart by time and dreams—only to meet again years later as rising stars in the spotlight. Between secrets, past feelings, and second chances, they learn that some things never really fade.

⤷ pairing: ni-ki x male reader

⤷ wc: 1.7k

⤷ warnings: heavy angst! slow-burn! secret feelings!

⤷ read chapter 2

the sound of the creek was soft, like a whisper just for the two of you. it had always been that way, a hidden little world tucked away behind the trees, a place where words flowed easily, or sometimes not at all. where silence felt like a conversation of its own. today, though, the silence felt different. it stretched too long, heavy with things left unspoken.

the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced across the water. you sat on the same log you’d sat on countless times before, your feet brushing the surface of the creek, the cool water gently lapping at your sneakers. you leaned back, resting your elbows on the log, letting your fingers dip into the stream as you watched the light catch in the ripples. everything felt slower, like time itself had decided to pause, just for a little while.

ni-ki was beside you, his knee occasionally bumping into yours as he tossed stones into the creek, the soft plop of each pebble sinking into the water echoed in the silence. he was staring ahead, his eyes fixed on the water, but you could tell his mind was elsewhere.

it wasn’t hard to read him. not anymore. you had spent years learning the little things, how his lips twitched when he was trying not to smile, how he always cracked his knuckles when he was nervous, how he hummed softly to himself when he was thinking. today, though, he was quieter than usual.

you could feel it, the heaviness between you both, the unspoken hanging in the air. he was leaving tomorrow. not just for a few weeks or months. he was going away for good. korea. idol training. it was everything he had ever talked about, ever dreamed about. it was what he deserved. he deserved more than anyone actually.

but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was slipping through your fingers, something you hadn’t been able to hold on to, no matter how hard you tried

"are you sure you’re okay with this?" you asked, your voice softer than usual, like you were afraid of disturbing the silence between you.

ni-ki glanced at you, his gaze lingering a little longer than necessary. “of course. it’s what i’ve always wanted…” he paused, just for a second, before adding, “right?”

you simply nodded, he was correct he indeed wanted this. but something about his respond stung you, not his tone, nor the words being spoken. maybe the reality, the unspoken, that made the aching in your chest unease to bear. “i just… i don’t know,” you said, trailing off.

he tilted his head slightly, looking at you with those eyes that always seemed to see through to the heart of things. “what? you’re being weird today.”

you sighed, looking away. “i guess i just never thought it would actually happen.”

ni-ki looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah… me neither, sometimes.”

the silence stretched on again, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was the kind of silence that made everything feel like it was frozen in time. you felt like you could stay here forever, just listening to the creek and pretending that nothing was ever changing.

ni-ki throw another stone into the water, his gaze still focus on the ripples created "it's not like i'm going to disappear, we'll still talk. i'll be back soon enough, i promise."

you clenched your hands, your finger digging into the log beneath you. you knew he meant well, but it didn't make it any easier. it wasn’t the same as having him here. not when he was thousands of miles away, chasing something bigger than both of you.

you weren’t sure when it started, the way you felt about him. you hadn't noticed it at first, not when you were kids running around playing games, or when you were adolescents staying up at night talking about everything but nothing at all at the same time. but somewhere along the way , it had changed somewhere between sneaking out at midnight and laughing at bad movies, you’d started to look at him differently.

you remembered one night, just a few months ago, when the two of you had stayed out too late at the creek. the air was warm, the sky heavy with stars. ni-ki had laid down on the grass, head tilted toward you, eyes half-closed. you’d sat beside him in silence, and at some point, his hand had brushed yours. he didn’t move it away, but he didn’t grab it either. you’d both just… let it be. not quite touching. not quite letting go.

you’d told yourself it didn’t mean anything. but you remembered the way your heart wouldn’t calm down for hours afterward.

and now, with him leaving, you couldn't ignore it anymore. the feeling growing stronger in your chest, the one you hadn’t been brave enough to name, was finally undeniable.

“do you ever think we’re just—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “never mind.”

ni-ki shifted next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “what?”

you bit your lip, trying to ignore the way your heart sped up just from the touch. “just… never mind,” you repeated, forcing a laugh. "it’s nothing."

“you’re acting weird.” his voice was light, but his eyes searched yours. “were you gonna say something important?”

you opened your mouth to answer, but the words got caught in your throat. what could you say? that you’d been in love with him for longer than you cared to admit? that the thought of him leaving made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to fix? that you were terrified that you’d lose him, not just to the distance, but to something else, something you hadn’t even allowed yourself to name.

instead, you muttered, "i don’t want things to change."

ni-ki’s voice somehow softened. “they don’t have to change.”

but changed had already taken its course.

the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the creek. fireflies started to blink in the air, their tiny lights flickering in the dusk. you could feel the day slipping away, could feel that this moment, this last summer, this last day with him, was slowly slipping away with the light of the sunset.

ni-ki nudged you again, his smile smaller this time, but still warm. “promise you won’t forget me?” he said it with a smile, but his voice caught slightly at the end, like maybe he was afraid you actually might.

you didn’t answer immediately. the lump in your throat felt too big to swallow. instead, you just nodded, even though you weren’t sure how true it was. you didn’t want to forget him, but you didn’t know what would happen when everything changed. when distance started to stretch between you both.

ni-ki stood up, brushing his hands off. "we should go. it’s getting late."

but you didn’t move right away. you stayed sitting on the log, your legs numb from the cold water, your hands still clutching the edge of the log. you didn’t want to go. didn’t want this day to end. didn’t want the summer to end. didn’t want him to leave.

"you’ll text right?" you asked, finally lifting your gaze to meet his.

"of course." his smile was soft, but you could see the hesitation behind it.

you tried to smile back, but it didn’t reach your eyes, as they had began to feel heavy.

ni-ki smiled one last time before turning to walk away, his footsteps soft on the dirt path. you watched him go, knowing it was the last time you’d see him here, at this creek, in this moment.

and when the sound of his footsteps faded, you finally let the tears fall.

the sun had finally set, the fireflies glowing lights had taken over completely of the darkness like small little blurry green stars, summer was over, this cruel and aching day with him was over. 

the next morning, the airport was already alive, rolling suitcases clattering over tile, quiet announcements echoing overhead, the smell of burnt coffee and something fried hanging in the air. you stood near the windows, hoodie pulled up, trying to stay invisible. your eyes burned a bit, still puffy from the night before, but you kept your head down. no one needed to see that.

ni-ki moved through the goodbyes like he’d practiced them. hugged his parents, your mom, gave your little brother a fist bump. smiled like everything was okay.

then he turned to you.

he hugged you last.

and when he did, it felt like the noise around you faded, like the world had paused just long enough for this one moment to stretch out. his arms around you were warm and steady, and you clung back like you were trying to memorize him, his warmth, the way his hoodie smelled like detergent and something uniquely him, the quiet strength of his grip.

you didn’t speak. you didn’t trust your voice.

it was tight, longer than usual, like neither of you were ready to let go. your heart thudded loud against your ribs as you buried your face in his shoulder for a final second. you wanted to say something, please stay, don’t go, i’m gonna miss you, but the words became stuck somewhere in your throat and never made it out.

when you finally pulled back, his hand lingered on your arm. his fingers twitched like he wanted to say something too, but all he did was look at you, really look at you, like he was trying to remember every part of your face.

“take care of yourself,” you mumbled, barely more than a breath.

“you too, y/n," he whispered.

and then he turned, slipping past the security gates. you watched him go until he disappeared behind the crowd.

you didn’t leave right away. you stood by the windows, watching the planes taxi and lift into the sky. your reflection looked small and tired in the huge glass, and your chest felt empty, like something had been carved out. the flight didn’t just carry ni-ki away, it carried all the unspoken with it too.

you didn’t cry.

not right away.

but later, when the sky turned black and the stars blinked again, you found yourself back at the creek.

you sat where you always had, but it felt different now, emptier. like even the trees were mourning.

you whispered the words, hoping maybe the night air would carry them across the ocean.

'i love you, ni-ki"

the wind stirred the leaves, like it had heard you.

but the only answer was the sound of the water and the fireflies blinking slowly, like they too knew summer was over.