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itwillbethescarletwitch · 14 days ago

Text

Clear for Takeoff

bob floyd x fem!reader

Smut

The base was already alive by 0700, humming with movement, boots on pavement, jet engines revving in the distance.

Bob Floyd sat in the briefing room, posture straight, hands folded neatly over his open flight notebook. His pen was uncapped, ready to underline whatever Cyclone barked at them today. He’d already finished his coffee, already done a final walkaround of his aircraft, already memorized the sortie plan twice.

He did not look up when the door creaked open behind him.

He only looked up when he heard her.

“Don’t worry, I’m here. You can all relax now.”

She strolled in like she owned the place—coffee in one hand, aviators perched high on her head, flight suit rolled to her waist to reveal the fitted black tank top beneath. She smiled at Phoenix on her way by, shouldered Hangman with a lazy grin, and dropped into the empty seat next to Bob with the kind of confidence that came from always winning.

“Morning, Floyd,” she said, voice casual.

“Vixen,” he replied, quick and even.

He didn’t look at her. Not directly. Not at the way a few strands of her hair had slipped loose from her bun. Not at the curve of her mouth around her straw. Not at the patch on her shoulder or the scrape on her knuckle or the place her knee accidentally brushed against his under the table.

He absolutely did not look.

And yet.

She smiled a little to herself and sipped her coffee.

⸻

“Who wants first go at Vixen?” Phoenix asked an hour later as they crossed the tarmac.

“In the sky or in general?” Hangman drawled.

“In the sky,” Vixen said sweetly, tugging her hair into a bun. “The rest of you couldn’t handle me.”

Bob didn’t mean to glance her way, but he did.

Her smirk turned sharp.

“C’mon, Floyd,” she said, slinging her helmet under one arm. “Take me up?”

He blinked. “I—I’m not flying with you today.”

“Shame.” She turned on her heel, sauntering toward her jet. “Guess I’ll have to kick someone else’s ass.”

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “Poor Bob. You look like she just stepped on your throat and you said thank you.”

Bob didn’t answer. He just watched her walk away.

⸻

From the ground, he watched her take off. Smooth, powerful, elegant.

She flew like gravity was optional. Like the sky was hers and she’d never even heard of crashing.

Bob stared too long. He always did.

“You got it bad, man,” Fanboy said beside him.

Bob blinked. “What?”

“For flight envy,” Fanboy replied innocently, clapping him on the shoulder.

Bob rolled his eyes, but his stomach twisted anyway.

He didn’t have it bad. He didn’t have anything.

Not for her.

Not for Vixen.

He was just…watching.

That’s all.

⸻

Later, in the locker room, she was laughing with Hangman, peeling off her flight suit and towel-drying her sweat-slick hair. Bob passed by in a clean shirt and jeans, fully intending to keep walking—until she turned and winked at him.

Just a flicker of amusement in her eyes. Teasing. Innocent.

It wrecked him anyway.

Fanboy, behind him, snorted. “Jesus, dude, she looks at you and your ears go red.”

Bob didn’t dignify it with a response. Just kept walking. Straight past the hangar. Straight to his car. Straight home to try and forget that her call sign echoed in his head like it belonged there.

⸻

That night, the group chat lit up.

phoenix: hard deck in 30, come on losers

hangman: I’ll buy the first round if Vixen shows up in that sundress again 😮‍💨

vixen: I’ll show up if Bob does. He’s the fun one 😇

fanboy: ohhhh??

bob: …

He stared at his phone for a long time.

He didn’t understand it.

He didn’t get her.

But he found himself getting ready anyway.

——

The Hard Deck was full by 2100, all warm lights and louder laughter. The jukebox crooned something old and flirty. Phoenix was on her second beer, Hangman was already halfway through his tequila truth spiral, and Bob was—unexpectedly—drinking.

Not nursing a beer like usual. Actually drinking.

“You feeling alright, Floyd?” Vixen asked as she leaned beside him at the bar.

He didn’t meet her eyes. Just tugged at the hem of his shirt and muttered, “Fanboy made me.”

Fanboy raised his glass like a devil on Bob’s shoulder. “Peer pressure works, baby.”

Vixen grinned. “Well… I like drunk Bob.”

Bob turned to look at her—and promptly lost his train of thought.

She was wearing that sundress again. The white one with the little flowers and the thin straps. Her hair was down and her smile was sharp, and he was not equipped for this. Not even with three drinks in him.

Maybe especially not with three drinks in him.

“Y’know,” she said, sipping her cocktail, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

“I’m not,” he said too fast.

She smiled, slow and pleased, like she’d won something. “Good.”

And then she walked away.

Bob turned back to his drink and whispered, “I’m so fucked.”

⸻

The pool table was already a battlefield when he shuffled over an hour later, cheeks pink, sleeves pushed up. Phoenix handed him a beer he didn’t remember asking for, and Fanboy gave him a pat on the back.

“Vixen versus Hangman. Place your bets,” Payback called.

Vixen stepped up, cue in hand, sundress fluttering around her thighs. Bob leaned against the jukebox, watching her line up her shot.

She bent over the table.

And something just broke in him.

“God, I love the view.”

The words came out low and slow, like he didn’t even realize he was speaking.

The bar went silent.

She didn’t even look up.

Bob kept going. Louder now. Looser.

“Bet she tastes as good as she looks too.”

CRACK.

The cue ball missed.

Hangman turned, stunned.

Phoenix’s mouth fell open.

Fanboy muttered, “What the fuck.”

Bob blinked slowly, half-aware of what he’d done. He was warm, and swaying, and drunk on more than liquor.

And Vixen—still bent over the table—turned her head and looked at him.

Something feral flickered behind her eyes. And Bob realized too late: he’d said that out loud.

Fanboy grabbed him by the shoulders. “Alright. Time to go. Let’s get you home, buddy.”

“No, wait—” Bob stumbled, trying to look back. “I didn’t—I mean, I didn’t mean—”

“Yup,” Fanboy said, steering him through the crowd. “You meant every word. And you’re gonna regret all of it in the morning.”

The door slammed behind them.

⸻

Vixen stood up, pool cue still in hand.

Hangman let out a breath. “What the hell was that?”

Phoenix laughed, still wide-eyed. “Bob’s been holding that in?”

“Freaky little freak,” Hangman muttered, resetting the balls. “Who knew?”

Vixen didn’t speak.

Not right away.

She just walked around the table slowly. Cue dragging along the felt. Bob’s voice echoed in her head like a bell—

Bet she tastes as good as she looks too.

She sank the eight ball without blinking.

⸻

That night, Vixen lay awake in her room, staring at the ceiling.

She hadn’t touched her drink since Bob left. She hadn’t stopped replaying it since either.

He liked her.

No, scratch that.

He wanted her.

He wanted her bad enough to say that in front of everyone.

She laughed to herself—half-stunned, half-delighted.

“You freaky little freak,” she whispered into the dark.

And she smiled.

———

Bob Floyd woke up with a hangover and absolutely no memory of the night before.

His head throbbed. His tongue was dry. His hoodie smelled like someone else’s spilled whiskey. But none of that concerned him as much as the sick, gaping blank where his memories of the Hard Deck should’ve been.

He remembered arriving. He remembered the pool game starting. He remembered Vixen in that sundress.

After that? Nothing.

He stared at the ceiling in horror. “Oh no.”

From the other room, Fanboy called out, “Morning, Casanova!”

Bob winced. “Why are you calling me that?”

“You’ll see.”

⸻

He got to base early, mostly to hide in the back of the squad room and suffer in silence. But fate, and Hangman, had other plans.

“Hey there, Romeo,” Hangman drawled the second Bob stepped inside.

Phoenix snorted into her coffee. “Speak of the devil.”

Bob froze. “Okay, what is going on?”

Hangman spun lazily in his seat. “You really don’t remember, huh?”

Bob blinked. “Remember what?”

Fanboy walked in behind him with the biggest smirk on his face. “You don’t remember anything you said last night?”

Bob’s stomach dropped. “No.”

“Ohhhh, buddy,” Phoenix said.

Hangman leaned back and crossed his arms. “Let’s set the scene. Pool table. You’re posted up by the jukebox. Vixen bends over for a shot—”

“Okay,” Bob interrupted, already red in the face. “You can stop there.”

“I will not,” Hangman said gleefully. “Because then you, Robert Floyd, opened your mouth and said—quote—‘God, I love the view.’”

Bob went still.

Hangman continued, voice full of dramatic flair. “And then, because you apparently hate peace, you added: ‘Bet she tastes as good as she looks too.’”

Bob made a sound like a dying animal.

Phoenix just laughed. “The delivery was pornographic, Bob. I almost passed out.”

Bob sat down hard in the nearest chair. “No. No, I didn’t say that. You’re messing with me.”

“Multiple witnesses,” Phoenix said, sipping her coffee.

Fanboy nodded. “You left right after. I dragged you out of there before Vixen could do anything crazy like climb you like a tree.”

Bob dropped his head into his hands. “I’m gonna pass away. This is it. I’m gonna die.”

“Want the real kicker?” Hangman added.

Bob didn’t lift his head. “What.”

“She’s here.”

That made him look up.

The door opened and in she walked—aviators in her hand, ponytail high, mouth glossed and smiling.

Bob felt his soul leave his body.

“Morning, gentlemen,” she said lightly.

She looked directly at him.

“Hi, Bob.”

He squeaked. Actually squeaked.

She took the seat in front of him like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t heard any of it. Or worse—like she had.

Bob panicked. Panicked.

He rushed over to her desk before his legs could talk him out of it. “Vixen. Hey. Um. Can I talk to you?”

She looked up with faux-innocence. “Oh? About what?”

“I—I heard I said some things last night and I just wanted to say I didn’t mean—well I didn’t mean to say them. I don’t even remember saying them and I would never—”

She cut him off, head tilting. “So you’re saying… you don’t have a crush on me?”

He blinked. Froze. “What?”

“I mean, I woke up extra early,” she continued, tapping her glossed lips, “put on cute earrings and everything—so if you’re gonna stand here and tell me last night meant nothing…”

Bob’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

Her voice dropped. “Didn’t you say something about the view?”

He combusted.

“No! I mean yes! I mean I do! I have a huge crush on you! I just—I didn’t mean to say it in public like that—”

She leaned back in her chair, triumphant. “There it is.”

Bob stared at her, stunned.

“You—you wanted me to say that?”

She smiled. “I wanted you to say it sober.”

———

It started as a joke.

“Movie night at mine,” Vixen said casually in the locker room, unzipping her flight suit halfway. “Bring snacks. I’ll provide the trauma.”

Bob looked up from where he was tying his boots. “Wait. Seriously?”

She shrugged. “Unless you’re too scared to be alone with me now.”

His jaw dropped. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Then I’ll see you at eight.”

⸻

Bob brought Red Vines, kettle corn, and a six-pack of root beer because—of course he did.

He also spent forty-five minutes debating which shirt to wear (he settled on a navy Henley because it “accidentally” made his arms look good), and paced outside her door for a full minute before finally knocking.

She answered in shorts and a tank top.

He died.

“Wow,” he said, blinking.

She grinned. “Wow what?”

“Nothing. You just… uh. Look comfortable.”

“Should I be less comfortable?”

“No! I mean—no. You’re fine. I mean—you look—you’re great.” He cleared his throat. “I brought snacks.”

She took them from him with a smirk. “Floyd, relax. We’re watching a movie. You’re not meeting my parents.”

⸻

Ten minutes in and Bob was not watching the movie.

He was watching her.

Not intentionally. It was just… every time she shifted on the couch, her thigh brushed his. And every time she leaned forward to grab popcorn, the neckline of her tank would dip just enough to make his ears turn red. And when she laughed—

He was gone. Fully gone.

“You’re quiet,” she said at one point.

He jolted. “What?”

“You’re always like this when you like someone?”

His head whipped toward her. “What? No! I mean—I don’t—what?”

She looked smug. “You’re blushing again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “You were more confident when you were drunk.”

He covered his face with both hands. “Please never bring that up again.”

She laughed and tugged one of his hands away. “C’mon. I liked drunk Bob.”

“You liked freaky little freak Bob?”

Her voice dropped. “I liked hearing what you actually thought.”

Bob swallowed hard.

“Y-you remember all of it?”

“Oh yeah,” she said, not looking away. “Every word.”

He blinked at her. “And you’re not… mad?”

“I was flattered.”

“Oh.”

Their faces were closer now.

She didn’t move.

And neither did he.

“Bob,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “If you want to kiss me… now would be a good time.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

⸻

The kiss was soft at first.

Hesitant.

But then her hand slid into his hair, and his fingers found her waist, and suddenly they were pressing closer, breathing each other in like they’d been holding back for months.

Her mouth was warm. Sweet. Open. Inviting.

Bob groaned into it before he could stop himself.

She smiled against his lips. “There’s that freaky little freak.”

He pulled back, dazed. “You’re gonna make fun of me forever, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

And she kissed him again.

———

They didn’t talk about the kiss.

Not the next day. Not the day after that.

They still trained together, still flew with the team, still threw snark back and forth in the locker room like nothing had changed. But it had.Something about the way they looked at each other now—longer, slower, heavier.

Needier.

It all came to a head on Friday night.

She invited him over again. Just another “movie night.”

But this time?

He brought nothing.

Just showed up on her doorstep in a plain black t-shirt that clung to his chest, all tense posture and unreadable eyes, and said:

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

⸻

They never made it to the couch.

She kissed him the second the door closed. He backed her into the wall, breathing hard, hands planted on either side of her head like he was afraid to touch her too soon.

“I’ve been going crazy,” he whispered. “Thinking about the things I said that night.”

She smirked. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to take them back,” he said, mouth brushing her jaw. “But I can’t. Not when every word was true.”

“Even the—‘she probably tastes as good as she looks’?”

He groaned, low and wrecked.

“I think about it all the time now,” she whispered, fingers curling in the front of his shirt. “Wondering what else you’d say if no one else was listening.”

That broke him.

His hands grabbed her waist and lifted—just enough to pin her between the wall and his body, mouth dragging down her throat, slow and sinful.

“Jesus, Vixen…” he muttered against her skin. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“I can,” she panted. “You started it.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

“You really want to know what I’d say?”

She nodded, breath shaky.

His voice went dark. “If I didn’t respect you so damn much, I’d be on my knees right now with your thighs over my shoulders.”

Her lips parted.

“I’d pull that pretty little tank top off. Take my time with your tits. Bite just enough to make you gasp.”

“Bob—”

“I’d make you beg.” His grip tightened on her hips. “Make you cry for it.”

Her nails dug into his arms.

“You don’t say stuff like that,” she whispered, wide-eyed.

“You asked,” he said, mouth ghosting hers. “You asked what I’d say sober.”

She kissed him hard.

⸻

They made it to the bedroom. Eventually.

It was messy. Clothes everywhere. Breaths gone. Hearts racing.

She was straddling his lap, grinding slow and taunting, her tank top somewhere on the floor. His hands kept sliding under the waistband of her shorts like he couldn’t stand not touching her.

“You wanna keep pretending this is just a little crush?” she whispered, voice teasing.

His eyes were dark.

“I’m not pretending anymore.”

He sat up, hands cupping her face.

“I’m so into you it’s ruining me.”

And then?

His mouth was on hers again—hotter, rougher, hungrier.

———

She woke up to sunlight on her back and Bob Floyd’s hand already sliding up her thigh.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice low and sleep-rough, his lips grazing her shoulder.

She smiled into the pillow. “You’re awake early.”

“I never went back to sleep.”

He sounded calm, but his hand was not. It was slipping under the hem of the borrowed t-shirt she’d thrown on after they collapsed last night. He pushed the fabric up slowly, knuckles grazing the bare curve of her ass.

“I’ve been lying here thinking about how wet you were for me.”

Her breath caught.

“About how you begged.”

She rolled over, chest brushing his bare one, and met his eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, starving.

“You were loud last night,” he said, voice soft but wrecked. “You gonna be louder this time?”

“You want me to be loud?” she asked, already breathless.

“I want the walls shaking, baby.”

He kissed her like he needed her to breathe. Like the night wasn’t enough. Like he’d been thinking about round two since the second round one ended.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispered against her mouth. “Laid out like this. All warm and sleepy and mine.”

Her hips rolled into his on instinct.

“Still needy?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she teased, reaching down to wrap her fingers around him. “You tell me.”

Bob groaned. Long and ragged.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he said, eyes fluttering closed.

“Then die slow.”

She kissed down his throat. Took her time. But Bob didn’t stay patient for long. Once she slid her shorts down and straddled his lap again, he was all hands—gripping her thighs, dragging her forward, lips at her ear.

“Ride me,” he said, voice a growl. “Nice and slow. Want to feel everything.”

She whimpered.

He licked into her mouth. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”

She rocked against him, slow and deep, and Bob lost it. His fingers dug in. His head tipped back. And the filthy things that poured out of his mouth—

“Fucking heaven.”

“Feel so good, baby, look at you—”

“Taking me so well. Like you were made for it.”

She moaned, thighs shaking.

“Yeah, that’s it. Give it to me. Give me everything.”

She clenched around him and Bob’s head snapped forward—forehead resting against hers, jaw tight, voice trembling.

“You’re gonna come just from this, aren’t you?”

She nodded, too far gone to speak.

“Goddamn. I knew it. Knew you were a filthy little thing under all that flight gear.”

“Bob—”

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Come on my cock like a good girl.”

She shattered.

⸻

When her vision cleared, she was still shaking. Still straddling him. Still trying to breathe.

Bob kissed her shoulder, her throat, her cheek.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

He smiled. “You’re not gonna walk straight today.”

She smacked his chest, giggling. “Shut up.”

He just grinned, smug and satisfied and utterly ruined.

———

It started with a look.

Bob was already twitchy that morning. Watching her like he hadn’t just had her falling apart in bed twenty-four hours ago. His hands kept twitching. His jaw kept locking. And when she bent over the Ops table during the briefing?

He whimpered.

Quiet. Barely audible. But she heard it.

And smirked.

⸻

The break between briefings was only fifteen minutes.

She barely made it three steps down the hallway before a strong hand wrapped around her wrist and tugged her into the nearest door.

SLAM.

Supply closet.

Dim light. No windows. Shelves full of classified binders and aircraft grease.

“Are you seriously—”

Bob kissed her before she could finish.

“I couldn’t wait,” he muttered, already lifting her onto a crate like it was muscle memory. “Been thinking about this all day.”

She gasped as his hand slid up her inner thigh. “We’re on base—”

“Locked the door.”

“Someone’s gonna—”

“Don’t care.”

His fingers found the waistband of her uniform pants and tugged. Hard.

“Bob—”

“I need you,” he whispered, wrecked. “Right now.”

And that was it.

⸻

Meanwhile…

Hangman was walking by with an energy drink in hand when he heard it.

The thud.

The whisper.

The distinct sound of Bob Floyd moaning.

He paused.

Turned back toward the supply closet. Stared at the locked door for a beat.

Then?

He sighed.

Leaned against the wall.

And waited.

⸻

Inside, Bob had her against the shelving unit, pants halfway down her thighs, his mouth hot against her neck.

“You’re already wet,” he rasped. “You like sneaking around with me?”

She nodded, breathless.

“You like being bad?”

She gasped as he slid two fingers inside her. “You’re the one who pulled me in here!”

“And you didn’t stop me.”

She grabbed his face and kissed him hard. Grinding against his hand. Breath catching on every thrust of his fingers.

“Want you,” she whispered. “Want you now.”

He groaned. “Say it again.”

“Fuck me, Bob—”

That was it.

He spun her around, pressed her chest to the shelving, and pushed her pants the rest of the way down.

“Keep your voice down, sweetheart,” he whispered, dragging the tip of himself over her slick heat. “Unless you want the whole hallway to hear you.”

⸻

Outside?

Hangman popped open his drink.

Sipped.

Checked his watch.

Smirked.

“Two more minutes,” he muttered to himself. “Maybe three if she’s feeling generous.”

Then he heard the slam of a hand on metal and a choked-off whimper.

He snorted. “Damn. Vixen’s got him on the ropes.”

⸻

Inside, Bob was losing it.

“Fucking tight,” he gasped, driving into her slow, deep, filthy. “You feel like heaven—shit—I’m not gonna last—”

“You better,” she whispered, bracing herself on the shelf. “Or I’m leaving you in here with blue balls and shame.”

Bob laughed, breathless.

Then he grabbed her hips harder, pulled out almost all the way, and slammed back in.

Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream.

“You want it like that?” he rasped. “Tell me.”

“Yes—fuck, yes.”

“You want me to fill you up right here in a goddamn closet?”

“Bob—”

“Say it.”

“*Yes—*want you to come inside me—please—”

Bob shuddered.

And then?

He did.

⸻

Two minutes later, they emerged—flushed, hair mussed, uniforms barely pulled back together.

Hangman was standing right there, sipping his drink.

Bob froze.

Vixen blinked.

Hangman just raised his can in a lazy toast. “Hope y’all used protection. You know how many germs are on that shelf?”

Bob turned bright red.

Vixen grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know weather boy.” (please tell me you guys get this joke)

They kept walking.

Hangman whistled after them. “Don’t worry, Romeo. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Then he muttered, “Until next briefing.”

482 notes · View notes

cherryyluvs · 3 months ago

Text

Just for Practice

What started as homework turns into something else entirely… and it involves kissing Mark

⋆₊˚⊹♡ ───〃★Mark G. x fem!reader| Warnings: best friends kissing, light angst, first kiss / making out, awkward post-kiss vibes.

You were supposed to be doing your homework, that was the plan.

But Mark wanted to play video games and how could you say no to him? The TV screen was glowing with the menu of the game you both stopped playing after who knows how many rounds.

You were lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, notebook sitting beside you while Mark lied next to you, shoulders touching yours every time he moved around. It was quiet, usually it didn't feel awkward or anything but tonight was off.

You weren't sure why till Mark spoke.

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” breaking the silence. The question hit you like cold water, It was so sudden and unexpected. You blinked at him. “Ye- I mean… no. Is that weird?”

Mark laughed softly. “I'm not judging! I just thought.. I dunno, someone would have kissed you by now.”

Your cheeks turned slightly pink, he said it so casual, like of course someone would have kissed you by now. But you still havent had your first kiss, not yet. Unlike the rest of your friends you were still waiting for that moment.

You sat up, crossing your legs. “Well, they haven't.” you mumbled, eyes darting away as you felt more heat rising onto your cheeks, Staring at the floor. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

“Wanna practice? I mean we ARE best friends. It’s not weird, right?”

You froze in place, heart racing. “You're joking, right?”

“No”, he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks flushed pink, “ i mean.. Unless you want me to be.”

Your heart was beating so fast. You swear he could probably hear it from where he sat. Hell, you could feel it in your throat,

Your thoughts were spiraling, your best friend, Mark wants to kiss you!? Do friends do this? Was he serious? Was this really happening?

“Okay..” you said quietly.

He blinked. “Okay??”

“Yeah.. I trust you.” Which was no problem to you but the REAL problem was how your stomach flipped inside out just thinking about kissing him, noticing how long his lashes are and how soft his voice sounded when he was nervous.

His eyes widened slightly, as if he wasn't expecting you to actually say yes, but then he nodded,

the two of you slowly leaned in. Your noses bumping into each other. Causing you both to laugh and you almost called it off out of embarrassment. But Mark gently shoved you down.

Your head softly hit the pillow, the soft cotton felt cool but your face was hot. Is this what it feels like? Your heart was pounding against your chest and in your ears.

His soft lips touched yours, it was soft, tentative, gentle, almost like he was unsure? The kiss deepened slightly as you kissed back, his lips pressing against yours more firmly. You felt his knee between your thighs, parting your legs slightly.

This was supposed to be a quick thing. Innocent.

All your friends talked about this and giggled about boys they kissed at parties or crushes they met behind the school building. You always nodded and smiled, pretending you knew what they meant but this? This wasn't just some random guy from a party.

It's your best friend, Mark.

He pulled back and kissed your jaw, then lower, lips pecking at your neck and up again. Mark kissed you, this time the kiss was slow and sensual. Taking his time to explore every inch of your mouth with his tongue. He tasted like mint and something else that you can't get enough of.

God, your mind went blank.

You were almost out of breath but this felt so good, it happened so quick and it ended fast. Mark pulled back, lips pink, wet, eyes half lidded. And a thin string of saliva connecting your mouths before it broke.

Both of you were gasping for air, chests rising and falling with fast breaths, You blinked up at him. Mark’s cheeks were red and pupils wide.

Then it hit you.

You just kissed your best friend! No- made out with him. The way his knee was placed between your legs, you didn't even notice but you could feel how wet your panties were.

“So… that was…” Mark started, clearing his throat.

“Awkward?” you replied, not even sure what to say anymore.

He didn't respond immediately, just looked at you., “We’re best friends.” You stared at him, still catching your breath, “Yeah..”

“We’re best friends,” he repeated, like saying it out loud would make this less… intense. Like it was some kind of reassurance.

Yet… nothing about this felt like a friendship.

“We’re still friends right?” He asked, running a hand through his hair.

“Of course.” you said, but even your own words sounded empty. You weren’t sure anymore.

He looked away. “Cool. Cool..”

You sat up quickly, grabbing your stuff, avoiding his gaze, too embarrassed to stay any longer. “I should probably head out. It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice normal now. “I’ll walk you home.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine. I’m like two blocks away.”

Another awkward silence.

“Text me when you get home?” he said quietly, leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom as you stepped out into the hallway.

You didn’t answer, just nodded. Your heart was still in your throat.

Once he heard the front door shut behind you, Mark just stood in his bedroom, his heart was still racing, ears ringing with silence now that your footsteps had faded. He sat down on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees.

Then, his phone buzzed.

Y/N: Got home safe.

He stared at the screen for a second too long before tossing the phone onto his nightstand. Then, slowly, he raised his fingers to his mouth. He could feel where you kissed him. Like a ghost of your mouth lingering on his. His fingertips brushed over the slick layer of lip gloss clinging onto his lips.

He whispers to himself, “What did we just do?” The question hangs in the air, unanswered “Shit…”.

That kiss wasn’t supposed to go like that. It was supposed to be quick. Dumb. A joke, maybe. But it hadn’t been. Not even close.

“Her kisses were so moist,” he muttered under his breath, “That sticky-ass lip gloss…” He doesn't even like lip gloss. It was messy and it got everywhere.

But now? Now he couldn't stop thinking about the way it felt. How it turned innocent into something more complicated. How he wanted to kiss you again, just to feel that sticky lip gloss getting on his mouth again. Just to taste you.

He groaned and fell back onto the bed, arm over his face.

You’re his best friend.

#invincible #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson #invincible season 3 #reader #kissing #practice kissing #GIMMIE MARK

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damneddamsy · 2 months ago

Text

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xii)

THEOREM OF BECOMING—Transformation is not a moment, but a process.

summary: The journey back to Jackson is full of make-believe of a life that almost feels like it's coming true.

a/n: woohoo, happy AAPI month! I'm sorry this update took so long, I was so indecisive on how I wanted this chapter to end, and what I wanted to depict, especially at the end when it was hard for me to decide where I wanted to place all of them... I just hope it turned out okay! one more chapter left before the epilogue :)

word count: 12,800+ words (dare I say, a short one?)

Joel tried to imagine himself at university. Outlandish things like, what would’ve happened if the world had given him a second door to open?

Because being here—goddamn. It was hard not to wonder what it might’ve felt like, walking into a place like this with a backpack and purpose instead of a rifle and regret.

What kind of kid would Joel have been, sitting in one of those chairs? Twenty years old, maybe. Hell—eighteen if he'd played it straight. No Sarah. No mortgage. No busted-up drywall jobs. No worry about gas bills or whether the AC would hold another summer.

Fuck no, he wouldn't do whatever it was Leela was doing in that lab, with data and diagrams that looked like chicken scratch to him. He would want a degree in something that lets the brain wander. A major in liberal arts, maybe. History. Music theory sounded nice. All that “not real work” crapola folks in his neighbourhood used to scoff at.

He’d always had a good head on him—just never the time or the cash to spend chasing someone else’s definition of smart. See, college wasn’t for men like him. Places like this weren’t made for people like him.

It was a gate you needed a key for, and that key used to cost fuck-ton loans and inevitable debt. More than he ever had or would have.

But that never meant he wasn’t curious. Never meant he didn’t know things.

Truth was, Joel used to like ideas. He liked stories. He read when he could. Listened. Paid attention. Watched old movies with Sarah, sometimes caught the way dialogue turned into meaning. Took in books secondhand, borrowed from neighbours, dog-eared and scribbled in. Kept his head and hands busy. When he worked construction, he could out-measure, out-calculate, and out-plan any of those stiff-collared pricks with their clean hands and degrees nailed to their office walls.

Tommy used to joke that Joel could memorize a script better than a foreman could read a blueprint.

“Man, you ain’t dumb,” his baby brother said once, picking dried cement off his hands. “We’re just poor.”

And he'd agreed. Their whole academic system was a racket, just a way of putting a price tag on knowledge.

Places like Caltech were always for them—it was for the bright ones, the born-lucky, the rich kids with trust funds and internships lined up like bowling pins. Kids like Leela, in fact. He'd never set foot in a real university, let alone one like this. All that prestige and legacy. Hell, even the labs looked like spaceships.

Joel had never even been on a real campus before the world went belly-up, and now here he was, boots echoing in a dead lecture hall, listening to Leela piece together the last remnants of science like she was born for it.

He stood halfway down the sloped aisle, one hand dragging along the edge of a long desk. The laminate was peeling at the corners. He could picture a thousand students slouched here over the decades, bent over laptops or spiral notebooks, yawning, scrawling notes they’d forget the second finals ended.

Behind him, Ellie climbed onto the stage at the bottom of the hall, testing the strength of the lectern like a kid playing teacher. Her voice carried, all grin and gravel.

“Bet you’d sit in the back row. Right, Joel?”

Joel smirked. “Only place I could get away with nappin’.”

“Or so you think. I’d definitely be front row. Raising my hand. Asking annoying questions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t nothin’ changed.”

“Pft, whatever.”

Beyond the doors, down the corridor, he could just make out the faint click-clack of keys—Leela, working in the lab with that same eerie calm she always had when the world dropped away and it was just her and the numbers. Her silhouette had barely shifted in an hour. Her hair was loose, falling over one shoulder, half in the light. She looked like she belonged in there.

“Y’know,” he drawled out to Ellie from somewhere inside his head, “I think she and I… if we’d met like that back then… we’d’ve found each other.”

Ellie didn't tease him about it. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d be the guy just tryin’ to keep up. Probably complainin’ about the campus coffee and the goddamn parking passes.”

She grinned. “She’d dodge you for two whole weeks.”

“Hm. Sounds ‘bout right.”

“Then one day you’d say something too smart that’d make her stop and think. And boom. Now you’re study partners.”

He sighed. “I ain’t smart, kiddo.”

“Nah, you’re smart.”

“Not that kinda smart.”

“Bullshit. You literally remember everything. Details. Faces. The way you describe a guy’s boots, I feel like I was there.”

Joel clucked his tongue. “You learn to read people when your life depends on it.”

She shrugged. “Still counts.”

He didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched—somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Hey, know what else? She’d’ve helped me cheat on a math exam.”

“Ha, no way. Leela would smack you across the face.”

He rubbed his jaw, the beginnings of a smile ghosting across his mouth. “But she’d tutor me. Make me memorise some dumb equation by makin’ it a song or somethin’. She hums that stuff sometimes, y'know? 'Spretty cute.”

Ellie gave him a look—half fond, half exasperated. “Jesus. Jesse was right. You're cuntstruck.”

“Ellie,” he muttered, more warning than scolding, but it didn’t carry much heat.

“Aw, c’mon, Joel. Can you just imagine a life where,” she sighed, “you just live that time-honoured, grey area of life? Be a normal dude with a college sweetheart or some shit?”

“How the hell do you know all that?”

“I'm just that baller.”

“Jesus.”

Now, Joel meant to leave it there, but the thought had already taken root.

He let his eyes drift toward the broken chalkboard at the front of the room, and the lecture hall around them seemed to grow in his mind—less ruin, more memory of something he never had.

He imagined Leela sitting at a desk beside him, in a school that let smart kids like her and dumbasses like him sit together—just one of those big halls with sticky floors and ceiling fans that clicked when they turned, where the smart ones always found the front row and the tired ones sat wherever the sun didn’t hit their eyes. She’d be chewing a pen cap, probably, maybe twirling a strand of hair around her finger, nodding all serious while some professor went off about Gödel or Fermat or one of those names that felt more like hexes than people. Joel wouldn’t understand a lick of it—not even on his best, most caffeinated day.

But maybe—she’d lean in, whisper it in Layman's for him. Not to make him feel dumb, but because she wanted him to know. All sweet, patient, gracious Leela.

He’d pretend to follow along, nodding at the right times, but mostly he’d be watching the way her mouth moved around the words, the way her brows bunched up when she really got into it. Watching the gears turn in her beautiful, brilliant head. Joel still did that, when she went off on a tangent in their living room between her blackboards, he'd just want her to kiss her until she was blue in the face.

He nevertheless would've fallen so damn hard for her. Right on his ass. No question about it.

Wouldn’t have taken him long to ask her out, either—not if they’d met like that. Not if she didn’t already know all the things the world had done to a man like him. He would have acted like his balls had just dropped or something—nervous as hell, but trying to play it cool. Sweaty palms, rehearsed lines in front of his mirror. Something about those big, dark eyes of hers, her fancy shoes, or her mint-condition books. Something along the lines of: I promise I’m more interesting than I look… though I realise the bar’s low since I’ve been standing here staring at you for the last thirty seconds.

And if she’d fold and giggle ‘okay’—and he liked to believe she would—he’d take her out someplace decent. Someplace with candlelight, silverware, suited waiters, cloches and folded napkins. He’d pick her up in front of her building. Show up with a fat bouquet of daisies. Pull her chair out for her at dinner. Hold the door. Call her ma’am without even thinking. He would be flat-broke in that life too, but he was raised right with Texan manners imbued upon him by Mr and Mrs Miller, after all.

Leela would probably tease him a little, maybe make fun of how stiff his shirt collar was or how he kept checking the long-ass bill like it was going to change. But she’d smile through it and offer to go Dutch instead. That rare, toothy smile of hers that made her look so young, unguarded and just a little bit shy.

He imagined them walking back across campus after—quiet, inseparable, arm around his. Maybe it was autumn. Maybe the crimson maple leaves crunched under their feet, and she kept pushing her hands into the sleeves of her coat like she always did when she was cold but didn’t want to say so. Maybe he’d offer his jacket. Maybe she’d take it. Maybe he’d blow into her hands in an attempt to kiss them.

Maybe that night, standing outside her place, she’d look up at him with that same quiet challenge in her eyes she had now—like she was daring him to be gentle.

And he would’ve been. Gentle as fuck. Their first kiss wouldn’t have been some clumsy, rushed thing. No desperation. No fear of the dark coming back. Just... time. Time you don’t know you’re wasting until it’s gone.

He imagined her fingers curled into his coat on maybe their fourth date, maybe he'd just taken her out ice-skating or bowling, and she would push the coat off him, and pull him a little closer. Stay with me tonight. A breath caught between their lips. And maybe—God help him—maybe they’d have stumbled into the fancy elevator of her expensive off-campus apartment, shoes kicked off halfway, giggling when she nearly tripped over her own purse left by the door. He’d catch her waist, steady her, and she’d glance at him with those mischievous eyes that already knew what he wanted. I want all of you.

They’d lock the door behind them, not because they had to, but because they could—because no one was chasing them, nothing was breathing down their necks. Just a night in. Quiet. Private. Theirs.

The desk lamp would still be on, casting light over her math books still open, forgotten now, pages fluttering. Her room would be warm, a little cluttered, with too many books for one person. A corkboard with pinned movie stubs and Post-it reminders. A polaroid of them, maybe, from some campus event—Joel squinting at the lens, Leela mid-laugh as always, her nose scrunched in that way he loved.

They’d peel off layers slowly. Clothes in a trail from the doorway to the bed. His shirt, her dress, his belt, her tights, his boxers. Her bra hanging from the lamp. They’d laugh a little, giggling some, fumbling with the condom in his wallet like it was a joke they’d made earlier in the week—about how just in case that had suddenly become now.

No pressure. No pain. First times. A night they got to have too late. No urgency, no hunger born from grief or fear. Just intimacy. Just plain, affectionate, stumbling, careful sex. Earned. Trusted. Wanted.

He pictured them afterwards, her curled against him beneath tangled sheets, tracing lazy shapes on his chest while the radiator clanked in protest against the cold. Nodding while they discussed their upcoming test, how she’d incentivise him with a kiss for each question he scored, fingers moving through her hair, catching on a tiny braid she must’ve done while studying.

The window would fog up by morning. They’d sleep through their alarms. Maybe skip class like dumb rebels. Maybe make breakfast instead—pancakes from a box, the batter too thick, the frying pan too hot. He’d burn the first one and she’d steal it anyway, kissing him with syrup on her lips. Good fuckin' morning to me.

They’d graduate together, in this life. He’d be in the back row on ceremony day, shoes shined for once, hair swept back neatly, watching his best girl stride across the stage to grab her scroll. Top of her class, honour roll, summa cum laude. Maybe he didn’t get a diploma of his own—maybe he took night classes, taking the slow route out—but he’d be there, standing up before anyone else, clapping like hell, hooting her name with his hands cupped around his lips.

And she’d find him later, tassel on her crooked hat flying, gown wrinkled, eyes shining, leaping into his arms, and he’d spin her about. Kiss her right there in the crowd like he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

And in that life—the life he never got—maybe they’d go on like that for years. Their families are all tight-knit, spending holidays together, all of them waiting on hand and foot for Joel to pop the question, but he promised his girl all the time in the world. No muss, no fuss.

Graduation photos in front of some ivy-covered wall. Travel photos of the two of them from roadtrips and weekend escapes—mountains in Telluride, coasts in Monterey, lighthouses in Nantucket. Maybe later they’d rent a shitty apartment together in a big city even if he hated it—New York, or London, or some big German town with a zigzag skyline and a bakery on every corner—while she chased her PhD dreams and he’d just be happy to take care of them. Joel would take on carpentry jobs to keep the lights on and fix things around the building in exchange for rent. He'd play gigs, strum his old guitar, in pubs and bars all night for a good sum of cash. Patch the leaky sink with elbow grease. Assembling furniture that they couldn’t afford to buy. Shelves full of her notes. Coffee rings on the floor. Late-night supermarket runs. Eat dinner for breakfast and fall asleep with her textbooks open between them. The laughter of a life being made from scratch.

And maybe one day, not in a church, not even in a courthouse—but under that oak tree just outside her big, white house in Jackson, they’d say their vows. Soft ones. Barely louder than the wind. Just a handful of people who mattered, a patch of wildflowers in springtime, and the gold ring he’d carried in his pocket for years. Her hand in his, sliding the band into place. Her thumb brushing his knuckles while he tried not to cry. I offer you all I have, my dumbass and beating heart.

And she’d laugh when he picked her up, white dress, veil and all, just to prove he still could, and carry her over the threshold, whilst her sandals dangled from his fingers. They'd make love like it was the first time, on a nice, month-long honeymoon in the Maldives or Bali, on a linen, canopy-frame bed that wobbled by the time they were through.

And one day, he’d come home—sawdust still in his hair, tired to the bone, aching for his long shower—only to find a positive test on the bathroom sink, and they’d smile at each other like they’d just won the lottery. Those soft, teary eyes they’d share. You think we've got room for one more around here?

And from that moment on, Joel would've been all in. No half-measures. No second-guessing. Just him, right in her pocket. He wouldn’t leave her side unless he had to—work, maybe, or some emergency—and even then, she’d be on speed dial (not that she already wasn’t). He’d check in constantly. Make sure she was drinking water, eating enough. Sitting her antsy ass down.

Late at night, he’d press his ear to her belly, grinning when their baby kicked like she already had her mama’s fire. He’d murmur promises against her skin—about giving her the world, about love, about never missing a thing again. And he’d mean every damn word.

He wouldn’t miss a single ultrasound, even if the clinic was across town and the truck was coughing smoke. He’d be there for all of it—Lamaze classes, nausea, mood swings, sleepless nights, midnight drives for god-knows-what. He’d baby-proof every damn inch of the house, stock the cabinets with baby items, triple-check the crib screws, read every parenting book he could find, even the ones with goofy cartoon covers.

Overbearing? For fucking sure. She might threaten to divorce him half a dozen times before the third trimester—but he’d take it, all of it. With a grin and a kiss and a Yes, ma’am.

And when it was time—when the world narrowed to a hospital room and the sound of her hurting wails—he’d be right there, surgical gown and all, holding her hand through every contraction, brushing damp hair from her face, whispering through the panic, through his heart tearing in two: I’m right here, baby. I ain’t going anywhere.

And Maya would come hollering into their lives. Of course, that’s what they’d name her in this life, too. Radiant, beautiful, nascent Maya, looking just like her mama and holding his heart in her tiny fist. All that imagining he’d ever done—every if, every maybe—had somehow led to this little girl he called his.

He pictured Maya clearly in that other life—the one that never got to be. Toddling around their grad-school apartment, leaping onto his stomach in PJs on a lazy Sunday morning, giggling through a mouthful of sugary cereal while Leela chased after their little thief, trying to snatch the box from her sticky hands. One sock is on, and the other is always missing. Her wild curls bouncing as she ran to him when he walked through the door—always early, maybe this time in a stable job which involved him wearing a suit and tie, lugging a briefcase—arms outstretched, shrieking Da-da! like he was some kind of superhero, and without fail, he'd rain at least a hundred kisses on her before letting her go.

She’d throw a fit in the toy aisle over exactly the faulty stuffed animal, with lopsided eyes and a ripped tag, and Joel would fold like wet paper the second she pouted.

And if the bad times did come, the only arguments he and Leela might’ve had were the soft kind, inconsequential—disagreements over something like Joel’s brief, doomed venture into stocks, or Leela being scatterbrained with the grocery runs, or whether Maya should go to that elite preschool an hour away with the long waitlist and sterling reputation. Joel would’ve wanted the best for her, the kind of start he never had. But Leela would just want to keep Maya close a little longer, probably even attempt to homeschool her if she could swing it.

They’d make up over pizza on the couch—Maya asleep between them, still clutching that faulty toy, cartoons flickering on the TV. Their fingers would find each other over the back of her blanket, apology and forgiveness exchanged without a single word spoken.

And thereafter, the mornings were ones where he'd juggle coffee cups, lunch bags and backpacks, dropping Leela off at her university, her hair still wet from a rushed shower, pencil skirt on a tight ass that waited for it's morning squeeze, a thick binder clutched to her chest, a soft lingering kisses shared over the console; and then Maya in the backseat, singing along to the radio, squealing when he pulled up to her school next. She’d barely get her backpack on before she tore across the pavement to her friends, flashing Joel a quick flying kiss and a grin that damn near knocked the wind out of him every time.

And at night—the three of them crammed around a too-small kitchen table, Leela would sit, drafting her research papers or scribbling in a notebook, Maya in her lap, doodling in the margins, asking about black holes and dinosaurs in the same breath. Leela would answer every question like it was the most important one she’d ever been asked. Joel would just listen, smiling into his beer, tuck the moment away somewhere safe inside him, like a man who knew exactly how fragile good things could be.

And Maya would believe everything her mama told her. Because why wouldn’t she?

Joel blinked, staring at the cracked chalkboard. The room was silent, save for Ellie’s soft humming and the hum of distant power from the lab down the hall.

But that life—that life—wasn’t the one they got.

But maybe... maybe it wasn’t too late for some piece of it. Not the degrees or the papers.

But the love part. The quiet part.

Maybe that kind of life still had a place in this one. Maybe that was still real. Maybe it was standing just down the hall, surrounded by equations, stubborn as ever.

He smiled to himself, soft and stupid, like a man who’d just lived a whole other life in three minutes.

A loud metallic clatter broke the spell.

Joel turned—slow, blinking like he'd just woken from a dream—and found Ellie grinning at him, holding up a dusty diploma frame like she’d just pulled a sword from a stone. The glass was cracked in one corner, the name beneath faded and half-eaten by sun and decay. But scrawled across the middle in thick, unapologetic black marker was something brand new:

Dr. Leela Miller.

“Well,” Ellie said, lifting it higher like a trophy, “I didn’t know her last name, so…”

Joel stared. His breath caught on something warm.

“Reed,” he said, slow and quiet, like the name had weight. Affection weaved through it like a thread. “But this… this is fine.”

He could almost see it—this on the wall of that little apartment they never had. Over a desk cluttered with paper and empty mugs and one tiny sock, someone still hadn’t found the match for.

Ellie held it out to him like a kid offering a crayon drawing. “It’s probably not, y’know, technically accredited,” she said with a crooked smile. “D'you think she'll feel a little better?”

He snorted, folding his arms. “That's a ten-dollar word from a dollar-sized person.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

He gave her a look, soft and knowing. “Well, Leela won’t say it right now, but yeah. She will.”

Then he glanced across the hall.

There she was—his smartass, hunched on a table littered with papers and old, curling printouts. Leela had one hand braced against the edge, the other pressed over her mouth like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her fingers moved through a page, tracing lines of ink like a woman touching scripture. Like she was holding a piece of a language she'd thought was long dead.

Joel brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, low whistle.

Across the hall, Leela jolted a little—more like a reflex than real surprise—blinking over at him with a stunned, empty look. It cracked after a second, softening into something small and sheepish, but Joel didn’t miss the way she moved, like she was dragging herself up from somewhere far away.

He tipped his head toward her, half a smirk pulling at his mouth, trying to keep it easy, light.

“Weather’s turnin’,” he called, voice carrying across the dusty floorboards. “We oughta get movin’ along before it gets any worse.”

“Um...”

Leela hesitated, staring back at the whirring, flickering monitor like it was something alive she’d been charged with keeping breathing. Her hand lifted slowly, clumsily, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist.

She gave a stiff little nod—obedient, automatic, like she wasn’t even aware of doing it.

Joel opened his mouth—half-ready to tell her it was fine if she needed more time—but Ellie piped up behind him.

“Ooh, we gotta head down to the coast first. Ay, you promised the beach, old man!”

Joel felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. He turned slightly, cutting a look back at Leela for silent backup.

And Leela just shrugged. Just the barest hitch of her shoulders, like even the decision didn’t mean much anymore. Her mouth twitched at the corners, a hint of old amusement surfacing and dying again all at once.

“I've almost finished the upload,” she said, tapping the corner of the monitor, where some ancient progress bar crawled along painfully slow. “Just... eleven more minutes.”

Eleven minutes.

It used to drive Joel a little crazy, if he was honest. He’d thought it was grief or obsession. Maybe denial. He’d even thought as much, once—there wasn’t anyone left who cared about prime numbers and proof sheets. Leela's long nights hunched over scavenged paper, her fingers smudged with graphite and ash, scribbling until her wrist cramped. A fucking waste indeed.

No one needed the big hypothesis solved when there were clickers on the road and medicine running thin.

And now he saw it.

She wasn’t trying to bring the old world back. She was trying to make sure some vestige of it survived.

Not the comforts. Not its power grids or grocery stores, or monuments. But it's thinking. It's questions. The bones of the mind that had once built bridges and satellites and figured out how to split atoms. She was keeping that, preserving hope for the world that would eventually look back.

And she was sending it forward like a time capsule in the shape of code—across a patchy uplink, through battered infrastructure, to a settlement that might not even know what to do with it.

One day, someone would.

Someone with a mind like hers. Someone with less blood on their hands and more time. A student, a child, a generation down the line who’d never seen the world fall and might still wonder how it once stood.

She was sending it all to Jackson—not as salvation, maybe, but as seed.

Something to plant. Something to grow if they ever got a spring again.

And if that someone asked, if they searched—she’d be there. In the pages, in the math. In the margins, scrawled with her restless handwriting. A woman who had no lab, no colleagues, no safety, but still sat down and thought.

Joel rubbed his thumb over a dent in the metal of the desk. It was humbling, what she was doing. Quiet and unadorned, the way most real things were.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel far from her work. He didn’t feel like it belonged to a world he couldn’t touch. He was somehow a part of it, too.

He exhaled through his nose, scratching the back of his neck. Eleven minutes. Seemed like a small enough thing after everything they'd been through.

He shifted his weight, the old floor creaking under his boots, and his gaze caught on the diploma again—still cradled in Ellie’s hands, the cracked glass catching the faint grey light.

Dr. Leela Miller.

Miller.

His name. His... wife.

He hadn't expected it to hit him like that. The word sitting there plain and heavy, stitched onto her like it had always belonged. The beginning of his other life.

His name stitched there so plainly, so firmly, like it had always been meant to sit against her like that. A jolt went through him—sharp and unexpected—settling low in his gut like a stone thrown into deep water.

He could almost see it, just for a second—clearer than any dream he ever allowed himself to linger on: Leela standing beside him at some clean, sun-warmed courthouse, signing her new name across the marriage license with a little grimace, muttering about how bureaucratic nonsense would outlive them all. Joel, laughing under his breath, taking the pen after her, signing his name next to hers. The flash of a cheap camera. The clap of a judge’s hand on his back. Her grinning face turned up to his, awaiting a congratulatory kiss. And he would make it linger, pressing two, three, four kisses before he murmured against her lips: You alright there, Mrs Miller?

Yes, Joel didn’t feel the press of the world closing in.

He just stood there, hands planted firm on his hips, heart too big for his ribs, and thought, Maybe it ain’t the life I thought I'd have.

When he was young—back before the world cracked open—he thought he understood what a good life was supposed to look like. Steady work. A home. A little backyard for Sarah to tear around in. A dog, one of those loud mutts that drove the neighbours crazy. Bills paid on time. Supper on the table by six. Simple. Straightforward. A line you followed if you kept your head down and your hands busy.

He’d built toward that life once. Brick by brick. Sweat and sacrifice and stubbornness. And he’d watched it all turn to ash in a single night, leaving nothing but the brutal math of survival behind.

Wake up. Choke down rations. Shoot. Kill without a thought. Stay alive. Sleep with one eye open. Repeat.

Hope had been a dangerous thing after that, an unaffordable luxury. Like college.

But standing here now, and Leela hunkered over that blinking screen like she was fighting the universe itself to save what little good was left in it—Joel realised he’d been wrong about what makes a life and what was worth holding onto.

It wasn’t about clean houses or paid-off trucks or picture-perfect little towns.

It was about this.

It was about watching the woman he loved refuse to give up on the world, even when the world had given up on her. It was about Ellie clutching a battered diploma like it was the goddamn Declaration of Independence, blinking out the window like a daydreaming college kid who still believed she’d make it here. It was about Maya somewhere back home, waiting, safe, growing up in a place that hadn’t been paved over by fear.

It was about them.

So, why not... breathe life into that other reality?

Joel shifted slightly, his hand drifting to his pocket—more out of habit than thought. His fingers closed around the small thing he’d stashed there weeks ago, careful not to draw attention to it.

Rolled it between his fingers sometimes, in replacement for the brass button that Maya had bestowed on him—in quiet moments, when no one was looking. Like maybe if he kept turning it long enough, the edges would smooth out, the crack in the band would seal, and time would forget whatever broke it.

It wasn’t much to look at. Just a beat-up old ring he’d pocketed back in Vegas, half-buried in dust beneath a shattered display case. The stone was gone. The band was thin and cracked, barely holding together. Still, he’d kept it. Couldn’t say why at first. Just felt right in his hand—small, broken, stubborn. Reminded him of someone.

Lately, he’d been thinking about what he might do with it. How he could fix it, in his own way. Maybe shave a sliver of intricate wood into the place where the diamond used to be. Not anything fancy, maybe a flower. She liked sunflowers. Just something honest. Pine, maybe—she always smelled like pine sometimes. Or walnut, strong and durable, like him. Something alive, something that wouldn’t shine too bright, but would still catch the amalgam of Leela.

He didn’t know if he’d ever give it to her. Or when. Or if she’d even want it.

Hell, he didn’t even know what he’d say.

But he carried it with hope anyway.

That was the strange part. It wasn’t really the ring that mattered—it was the idea. That someday, there might be room for something like that between them. Not as some big gesture. Not to fix anything. Just to say: this is still yours if you want it. Just to prove he still believed in what could come next.

Maybe sometimes love looked like a broken ring in a calloused hand, waiting for a world soft enough to give it back.

The sharp things—the grief, the anger, the failure—they were still there, rooted deep under his skin like old thorns. They always would be. But for once, Joel could see something else threading through it. A quieter kind of ache. Not the pain of losing, but the ache of wanting.

He wanted the kind of life that didn’t just survive the world’s ending—but stubbornly, stupidly, beautifully outlived it.

He wanted her, and Ellie, and Maya, and every goddamn scraped-together piece of a future he never thought he'd deserve.

And in this dead place, in the flicker of failing light and old dreams burned onto curling paper, Joel believed—just a little—that maybe this had all been for something. After all, maybe they hadn't come all this way just to bury what was lost. Perhaps they were here to carry it forward.

Maybe they were the ones meant to build what came next.

His throat felt tight, but he welcomed it. A man could learn to carry that feeling. He should carry it. Get used to it. All these good things he was doing.

He slipped the ring back into his pocket, careful, like it might bruise. Gave the pocket a small, reassuring pat.

He glanced at Leela, at the way she leaned into the light like a plant aching for the sun, and felt that wild, wordless thing rise again inside him.

Ours, he thought. Not just hers. Not just his.

Ours.

The ocean resembled a busted mirror.

Not glittering or big or blue. Just slabs of grey and darker grey, churning slow under the breadth of a sky that didn’t give a damn. The wind came off the water in lazy fits, carrying salt and rot and the memory of heat that had long since packed up and gone.

Wind tugged at what was left of the boardwalk nearby, a few slats still clinging on like they didn’t know how to fall properly. Rusted carnival lights hung in strips. Booths were gutted. A souvenir shack had collapsed into itself, hurling faded postcards and cracked plastic mugs across the ground. He saw a cracked one half-buried in the dune: I Survived Santa Monica Pier. Bit fucking ironic.

The sea had taken it all back. The joy. The noise. The crowds. It felt biblical, in a way. Like the tide was the big guy's long exhale.

Joel stood at the edge of it all—boots half-buried in wet sand, stepping over a tangled snarl of sea-bleached fishing net fibres, arms crossed against the cold that kept slipping under his jacket. The pier beyond was a half-collapsed skeleton, stripped bare, its spine curling out into the surf with broken ribs of wood jutting upward. Boats still rocked gently in the distance—untouched, paint peeling, sails long since devoured by saline winds, hulls soft with barnacles and time. No lights. No squalling. Not even of birds.

Funny. He used to think that if they ever made it to the coast, something would change. That maybe it’d feel like the end of the road—or the start of something. No, this was just another place the world forgot.

Ellie was already out near the waterline, her boots discarded in a heap beside a tide pool. She’d rolled up her jeans and waded ankle-deep into the cold muck, laughing as she scratched her name into the sand with a busted piece of driftwood. She looked so small like that. Innocent. Her shoulders loose, grin so secretive. He didn't get to see that often.

He watched her kneel, tongue poking slightly out in concentration, and for a moment—just a flicker—it wasn’t Ellie crouched in the sand.

It was Sarah.

Not imagined, not hoped. Saw. Not older, not younger—just as she was the day he lost her.

Kneeling beside her, seaweed looped over her wrist like bracelets, giggling about how it was going to get washed away but doing it anyway. He could see her—clearer than anything. Her head of sunlit curls, tossed by the wind. Making a heart out of the seaweed. Lining the letters with broken shells. Elbowing Ellie with that half-teasing grin she used to have, the one that always said, Do not mess this up for me, Dad.

He clenched his jaw. Swallowed hard. Blinked until the double image snapped apart again, rattled the thought loose from his head, and it was just Ellie again, whistling tunelessly, digging up dead coral to decorate her crude scrawl in the sand.

Goddamn, was this what it was going to be now?

Visions. Ghosts. Fantasies of another life. Wishing, wanting. His mind folding over itself. Losing the thread.

Or was it just the many extremities of grief? The accumulation of too many years? Or was this the beginning of something slower and crueller? Alzheimer’s or some shit. Some fucking cordyceps variation they didn’t have a name for yet. Maybe he’d start forgetting the way back to Jackson. Maybe he already had.

He rubbed a hand across his face, dragging grit from his cheek. The salt clung to his stubble, and the ocean made his eyes sting even when the wind didn’t hit them.

A little ways off, Leela sat cross-legged on the sand, her back to the surf, little haphazard strands from her long braid slapping at her cheeks. A neat little pile of small seashells sat beside her, most of them dull with age and wear—but one, a tiny conch, recently vacated by some poor creature that hadn’t made it. It was still freshly pink inside, gleaming, faintly iridescent.

She had a needle gripped between her fingers, her brow furrowed as she carefully worked it through the shell’s spire. Every movement was methodical, like she wasn’t thinking about what she was doing, like it was all buried muscle memory. When she threaded the bit of twine through and tied a knot, she held the shell up between two fingers, inspecting, squinting at it like it was some precious thing instead of beach trash.

“For Maya,” she said quietly, flashing him a smile—small, lopsided, but real.

Joel let out a soft grunt of recognition. Awful lot of jewellery to be taking back to Jackson.

“Cute.”

He remembered that story—the one he hadn’t meant to overhear, but things stuck. Something about her old life, before Jackson, before her parents, before a child of her own. How she used to make little shell necklaces just like that one and sell them to dumb tourists along the coast back in her hometown. Overpriced junk, she’d said. That weird, lonely kind of pride people have when they remember who they used to be.

Maybe this was her way of passing it on. A sliver of childhood she could carve off and give to Maya. A small thing that said I was here. I was whole once.

He took a step closer, boots sinking into the sand, hands in his jacket pockets. “Still remember how to rip folks off, huh?”

She glanced up at him, just barely. “Who says this one’s not priceless?”

Joel smirked. “Better be. Our baby girl’s got high standards.”

That got a laugh. A real one—small, scratchy, but it cracked the stillness in a way nothing else had all day. Leela shook her head, still smiling, eyes on the necklace, watching the shell sway from its string.

A beat passed. Wind was threading through the bare bones of the city. Maybe this place had once been paradise. Joel didn’t know. All he saw now was wreckage. Absence. A ghost town choking on salt.

Behind them, far away, Ellie whooped, triumphant. “I told you, little bastard! Joel, look, that’s a motherfucking crab!”

Joel glanced over. She was crouched in the wet sand, a long stick in one hand, something small and wriggling and furious in the other. Her sleeves were shoved to her elbows, knees soaked through, hair wild in the wind. She grinned like she was twelve again. Like the world hadn’t burned down.

Another shriek from Ellie. “Holy shit—there’s more of them! A whole Jackson community!”

“Well, don’t just play with ’em. Grab a few. Might be good eatin’.”

Ellie wrinkled her nose, poking one with the tip of her stick. “Eat this? Dude, it’s got, like—claws. And it’s hard as shit.”

“That’s how you know it’s good,” Joel called back, deadpan. “Hard shell means there’s somethin’ sweet inside.”

Ellie gave him a look. “Oh, hear, hear—Wordsworth over here.”

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Just get a few, kiddo. We’ll see what we can do.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if it kills me, I’m haunting your lying ass.”

Then she dropped the crab anyway, watched it scuttle sideways into the surf with all the drama of a jail break, and burst out laughing—real, unguarded. Her laugh rippled across the beach like it didn’t know how rare it was. Like it didn’t think it was a goddamn miracle.

Joel turned back to Leela. His voice dropped, not meaning to get soft but unable to help it.

“So, is this what you pictured?”

He didn’t say the beach. He didn’t mean California. Didn’t mean the long road behind them—full of blood and breath and quiet, feral hope. Didn’t even mean the life they’d clawed together with broken fingernails and dogged luck.

Leela didn’t answer right away. She just looked out toward the horizon, the sharp line where grey sea met grey skies. Where the world used to open up into possibility, into summer vacations and shipping routes and postcards with skipping dolphins. Now it looked more like an ending. A sentence with no period.

Then she shook her head, just once. “Not even close.”

But she was still holding the shell in her hand. Still tying another knot in the twine. Still smiling, just barely. And somehow, that answer—quiet, and unfinished—was more honest than anything else she could’ve said.

Joel sat down beside her, his knees cracking like firewood. The cold bled through the seat of his jeans, but he didn’t flinch. Just sat. Facing the water.

Leela didn’t.

She was turned slightly away, angled toward the sand, toward the ground, like she’d taken some quiet oath never to look at the sea again. As if it had taken something and she wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of her eyes.

Joel laid his hand over hers, careful.

She stilled.

His palm was unpolished against hers, but he could still feel the tiny shape of the shell necklace beneath it. Warm from her skin. Light as a breath.

“Joel.”

Before she could ask him to get the fuck off her, he said, “Look, I just—”

“What do you think Maya’s going to be when she grows up?”

Leela’s voice was soft, half-swallowed by the sea wind. Not wistful, not dreamy. Just plain and curious, like she was asking about the tide.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His eyes slid back on the water—on the slow, thick roll of it, the lazy collapse of each wave as it dragged itself onto the sand. This landed hard—not because it was tragic, but because it was so normal.

And yet that question hung there. He rubbed his jaw in deep thought. That wasn’t a question people dared to ask anymore, not seriously.

Honey, what do you want to be when you grow up?

He'd asked Sarah that plenty of times. And her answer had been no-bullshit: a rockstar. He used to joke to her about it, how maybe she'd take her old man backstage one day and sign T-shirts with her primped face on it.

The world was too fucked-up now, no rulebook to follow. See, back in the old world, kids had answers ready. Doctor. Firefighter. Astronaut. Singer. Shit like that. You dreamed, you planned. You had options. Only now, the world didn’t want anything from its kids but survival. To grow up at all was a feat. To grow up and become something? That felt like a pipe dream.

Joel breathed out through his nose. He shifted in the sand, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched against the wind.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “Ain’t somethin’ I let myself think about too much. We used to imagine the future. Now we’re just glad to get through the day.”

Leela said nothing. Just waited, steady, patient, the way she always did when she knew he wasn’t finished.

A bitter little smile curled the corner of his mouth. “Baby girl’d probably be a scavenger. Some real slick trader. Hustler like her mama used to be.”

Leela huffed softly.

“Maybe a sharpshooter,” Joel added. “Takes after Ellie. Bossy as hell.”

That made her laugh again—just a little. Joel felt it in his chest like the thinnest crack of sun through stormcloud.

He kept talking, quieter now. “Could be she ends up one of those quiet ones. People listen when she speaks. Not ‘cause she’s loud—but ‘cause she means her shit. Maybe that makes her a leader. Or a target.”

He hated that last part. But it was true.

The truth was—he didn’t really care what Maya became. He just wanted her to have the space to choose between gentleness and survival. To live long, safe, and full enough to even ask that question. And he hated the world for making him think all this shit.

“And maybe she’s just alive long enough for it to matter,” he finished. “It’s enough for me.”

Leela’s fingers paused at the shell’s knot.

Joel looked over at her, and she still wasn’t looking at the sea. Her face was turned away a little, but her eyes were distant—thinking hard, probably thinking too much.

“Does it scare you?” he asked.

She blinked slowly. “What does?”

“The future,” he stated. “What she might become.”

Leela was quiet for a long time. She pulled the twine taut, tied another knot. Maybe the third one in the same place.

Then she nodded, but it wasn’t sharp. As if something she’d carried for years, only just now saying out loud.

“I just can’t have Maya become like me, Joel,” she said.

Joel didn’t say anything because he knew what she meant. And she was fucking right.

Not just Leela's impossible intellect that she carried like a blade. Not Joel's desiccating anger. Not the endless spinning logic or the obsessive calculations that had driven her across the country in a haze of grief and purpose. Not the math or the memory or the way she could see ten steps ahead while the rest of them were still tripping over the first one.

No—she meant the burden. The self-blame. The detachment. The constant need to understand everything instead of just feeling it. The survival that looked like a function but was really just a retreat.

The way Joel disconnected. The guilt that never left. The way he didn’t flinch at corpses anymore because somewhere along the way, his empathy had learned to ration itself. The way he lived in his head because that was the only place he could guarantee no one would hurt him.

And because of all the ways they taught themselves to cope—none of them were life. They were pauses. Contractions. Damage control.

She sighed. “I thought I wanted that. I did. But after everything back there…”

She nodded toward the road that led back to the university. Toward where she'd left her hopes and regrets. A whole piece of her past.

“I realised that…” She tapped her temple, fingers light, like she was knocking on the side of something hollow. “She doesn’t need this.”

He didn’t press or fill the space like he normally would with some muttered acknowledgement, because this wasn’t a moment for patch jobs.

“This saved me,” she murmured. “The logic. The focus. It’s how I kept going after—after what happened. If I could just understand enough… if I could predict things, calculate the worst-case scenario, I could keep her safe.”

Her voice tightened. Just a bit. Joel heard it.

“She deserves more than that.”

Joel’s throat was dry. He swallowed hard, barely managing. “And now?”

Leela let out a long breath. Not weary. Just… stripped bare.

“Now I just want her to scream,” Leela said. “To run fast. To fall hard. To be loud, and wrong, and stupid—and free. I want her to feel so much that she doesn’t know where to put it. I want her to hit back, punch hard, when someone corners her. Not stand there frozen, plotting some clever escape like that’s gonna save her.”

Joel’s eyes flicked toward her.

She wasn’t looking at him. Still had her gaze fixed on the necklace in her lap, the shell swinging gently as she tied and re-tied the same knot like it was muscle memory. Like if she stopped moving, she’d splinter.

And goddamn.

That’s when it landed. What she was really saying.

He’d seen people go quiet in the worst moments of their lives—seen them freeze, let it happen, disappear behind their own eyes. Not because they were weak, but because someone, somewhere, had taught them that silence was safer than screaming. That survival meant outthinking, not resisting. That pain was something to calculate your way around.

Leela had been that sort of survivor.

“I couldn’t even save myself,” she said, bitter, flat, after a beat.

The fuck kind of thing was that to say? Making it seem like it just made sense?

Joel’s fingers tightened gently around hers, unable to unclench his jaw. “That ain’t your fault,” he reassured to an extent, teeth gritting. “You sayin’ that like it was your choice.”

She said nothing. But the silence was answer enough. And Joel couldn’t sit with that.

“I don’t give a damn what you think you didn’t do,” he muttered, heat rising in his throat like bile. “Someone took... somethin’. They did that. You think being smart, or planning a way out—fuckin’ hell—none of that would’ve mattered.”

She shook her head once. Not in argument—just acknowledgement. “No. But it still happened. And I did nothing.”

Then, finally, she looked at him.

There was no shame in her eyes. Just a brutal clarity. The kind that only came from staring something dead in the face for years and deciding to live anyway.

“I know what I am, Joel. I know what it took to survive. I know what it turned me into. And I don’t want that for her.”

Joel didn’t speak right away. There was nothing to fix. Nothing to deny. He understood her too well for that. She wasn’t afraid Maya wouldn’t make it.

She was afraid Maya would—by becoming someone like her.

“Baby, she’s gonna carry us,” he said, a promise in his voice. “But she ain’t gonna be us.”

Then he reached out, covered her hand with his—rough skin on hers, grounding her.

“She’s got us, Leela,” he added, more quietly.

And he meant every word. He knew what it was to survive through retreat. To mistake numbness for control. To wear grief like armour and call it strength.

Leela didn’t flinch. But she didn’t smile either. Her face softened—like she wanted to believe him, that she was someone worth having.

“I hope so,” she said.

They sat there a while longer, the tide crawling up toward their boots whilst Ellie shouted at them about a jellyfish. Joel felt the sting in his joints when the winds picked up, faster, saltier, sharper.

He looked down at the shell again, their hands twined around it. Small. Pink. Still shining faintly inside. Something you’d pick up on a beach day with a little girl who didn’t know the world yet.

They couldn’t offer Maya that clean world they had lived in. But they could hand her a few pieces worth carrying. And she’d figure out what to build.

For one brief moment, he let himself believe his baby girl would have the chance to answer that question one day—for real.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Maya?

The fire had sunk lower to the forest floor, just embers now, red, pulsing like a heartbeat under ash. Shadows lean long against the trees. Night smells like salt and old leaves, smoke in cloth, and distant sea. Boots scuffed quietly on dirt. The silence that only came late, when everyone else was asleep, or pretending to be.

“Can’t sleep either?”

“No.”

“You okay?”

“Just thinking.”

“Night too loud? I've got headphones.”

A pause. Then: “Thanks... I'm missing home.”

“Oh. Me, too..”

“Hm. It's the longest I've been away from it.”

Another pause. “Yeah?”

“I keep wondering if I’d feel different if I got back. Things just magically change.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Fabric creaks. One of them tugs their sleeves down.

“Still mad at him?”

Pause.

“…He just left. You saw how bad it got.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And he didn’t tell me a word about the Fireflies. Or Caltech.”

“He thought he was protecting you. You know how he is.”

“That’s the problem.”

Another pause. “He said nothing. Just packed up and left. Like I’d only get in the way.”

“I know.”

“You think I meant it?”

“You sounded like you did.”

“I think I did, too. Then. I was just... so angry.”

“But now?”

A defeated sigh. “I don’t know.”

A beat.

“Maya watches the world like he does, too. I noticed.”

“She does that because she learns from him. You can’t raise a kid halfway in, halfway out. You can’t teach them to trust and then disappear when it counts.”

“Yeah, but—” Someone exhales sharply. Tosses a pebble into the fire pit. It hisses. “He came back, didn’t he?”

“Only because we followed him.”

“He came back because he’s never gonna stop coming back. That’s the whole point of him.”

Silence. A reckoning in the dark.

“You know what he told me once?”

“What?”

“He said—he didn’t think people like us got second chances. That we ruin too much. And still, every time he looks at Maya, it’s like he believes she’s the one thing he didn’t fuck up.”

Silence.

“He loves her more than he knows how to say. But he shows it. In everything. That’s the closest someone like him gets to a promise.”

“…he still left.”

“I didn't say he's good at it. He's a goddamn dick. And he was wrong.”

The voice is calm, blunt. Not trying to win. Just telling it as it was.

“But so were you. Saying you’d take her. Like she’s a thing you can lift out of him.”

Quiet again. Then: “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“I just—she’s all I have. Everything good in me went to her. I had to follow him, and I have to keep her safe. Where do I win?”

“Jesus, she is safe.”

“No, I mean... he’ll break her heart someday, I know it.”

“Fuck no. Never Joel.”

“Hmph. You sound sure.”

“He didn’t break me. And the world gave him every reason to.”

Silence again. A longer moment, this time.

“Maya asks about you when you’re not there, right? She misses you. She asks for you. But when Joel’s gone? She watches the door. She won't leave it. That’s the difference.”

A breath.

“You take her away, and you’ll still have her. But she’ll never stop watching that door.”

Then the fire popped. A shift of posture. The brush of hair against cloth.

“He didn’t get to do all that before, you know. The whole marriage and two-parent household thing. Not with…”

Another breath.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And you’re still thinking about kicking his ass out.”

A creaking silence.

“I’m not good at staying.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why do you?”

A small sound. Could be a laugh or a sigh. “Because he’s good at making me think I can. I’ve seen what that man does when he loves someone.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“No.”

A beat. “It really should.”

“I guess that’s the difference. I'm not scared of him. Not like you are.”

“I'm not scared of Joel.”

“Bite me.”

“It’s more about what he’d give up. For us. For her. What it would turn him into.”

“A dead man.”

No response. But from the dark—

“You think you’re protecting him?”

“I think I’m trying to keep us all breathing.”

“Well. That’s one stupid way to live.”

A rustle. Someone folding their arms. “Do you hate me?”

“What?”

“For saying all this. For thinking it.”

“Of course not. If anything, it makes you more real to me.”

“…But?”

“But if you take her from him—really take her—it’ll kill him.”

“I’m not trying to hurt him.”

The silence after that settles deeper. One of them pokes at the embers with a stick, ash dancing up like fireflies.

Then, softer: “I know. That’s why it would.”

As if into the mouth of some ancient beast, the Jackson gates shut behind them with a final clank, steel locking steel, rusting, slow, a reluctant welcome, and for a second, it sounded like a cell door closing.

Joel walked under the shadow of it and didn’t say a word.

The sun hung low on the horizon, flooding the snow-melted streets of Jackson with a weary saffron. Familiar smells maundered through the air—woodsmoke, cattle, hay, pine needles thawing on the wind. There was boisterous laughter somewhere. Hammers. And it all felt just close enough to touch, but not quite real. Like something playing behind a looking glass.

He was back.

Somehow, again, he was still standing. Luck—or stubbornness, someone up there still not ready to let him rest—was still with him. He’d gone to California half-dead and half-stupid, and still made it out. And more than that—they had come for him. Ellie. Leela. They’d followed. Chosen to come after him.

Because he was worth saving. Because someone out there still cared if he lived or died.

That part stuck like a splinter in his chest.

He barely had time to register the weight of it before Tommy was on him, hauling him into a rib-crushing hug, laughing through a wet voice.

“Goddamn, you tough bastard. You just don’t die, huh?”

“Too much to live for, baby brother.”

Joel didn’t hug back. Not at first. Then he did—hands slow, uncooperative, gripping Tommy’s shoulders like he had to feel the bones to believe this was real.

Joel pulled back from Tommy’s grip like he’d just come up for air.

The noise of Jackson started to creep back in—the call of someone on a ladder, boots on pavement, a dog yapping in the distance. All the moving pieces of life.

He turned to his brother, voice low. “Maya?”

Tommy smiled, but it was tight around the edges.

“She’s doin’ just fine,” he said. “Caught the sniffles crying her eyes out, but she’s fine.”

Joel stiffened. “She sick?”

“I said she’s fine, Joel,” Tommy said, firmer this time. “She… she just missed her daddy, is all.”

Joel looked away.

Of course she did. And he hadn’t been there. Not for her fever. Not for the nights she cried herself hoarse. Not for the mornings when she didn’t understand why he hadn’t come back. He’d walked out with nothing but a note and the ghost of an apology, like that would hold up in a house full of silence.

They passed through the main square, Joel’s boots heavy on the stone. It all looked the same; that was what struck him most. The tedium. The cruel, gutting way the world carried on like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t nearly drowned. Like Ellie hadn’t pulled him back from the brink. Like Leela hadn’t followed him into hell and back.

Like Maya hadn’t cried herself sick.

Then, they turned the corner. And there it was.

The big, white house.

For a moment, Joel took it in. How much he missed this place.

Its porch was half-shadowed, steps dusted with snow. The gate creaked in the wind. He used to hear it from the bedroom. Used to fix it every two weeks, he could never find the right hinges. Used to—

He swallowed.

It used to be a shape in the distance. Something he’d catch through the branches of the old oak tree on mornings, sitting like a clean dream against the sky. Back then, it was just a house. Then it was her house. Then his. A home that was anchored in history and laughter, and Leela’s quiet hum as she flipped a page in her notebook. Full of Maya’s shrieks, toy horses skittering across the floor, her squeaky boots thumping against the wood.

Now, it just looked... tall. Unreachable. Like he’d have to climb back up the whole goddamn mountain to get inside again.

He had left something whole and returned to find it grown in his absence, evolved without him—carved deeper, tighter, stronger. Or maybe that was just him. His fear of losing.

Tommy called out, “Maria’s up ahead—she brought baby girl down the block to get some fresh air. Cranky all goddamn morning. She won't listen to anyone unless it's me.”

“Why's that?”

He sighed. “Guess I remind her of her old man.”

Jesus Christ, this was going to hurt like a bitch.

Joel’s head lifted.

And then he saw her.

A small figure on the porch.

Standing just like she used to, on the top step—like she always did when she waited for him after patrol. One mittened hand resting on the railing, the other clutching that old stuffed horse, ears chewed and fur matted from love.

She was watching the path. Waiting. Lips trembling like her whole world had been breaking every hour they were gone.

His feet wouldn’t move.

Her curls were a little softer now, matted, darker. Her coat was buttoned crooked, boots mismatched, nose splotchy from a recovering fever and maybe something else—like she knew something was coming. Some part of her did.

He took a half-step forward and stopped himself.

Then—

“Mama!”

The word left her like a crack splitting open. Her eyes widened. Her whole body leaned forward as if pulled. Arms out. Little hands grabbing at the air.

“Mama, mama—ha—come—Mama—”

It was the kind of sound only babies could make. Too raw to fake, too loud for their size.

And she teetered on the step, wailing.

Not to him. Not even a glance.

Just attempting to barrel forward to her mother, stubby legs churning, the toy horse flopping from her hand.

Joel felt it like a bullet.

Every effort she took—away from him, toward Leela—landed heavy in his gut. It was instinct. Pure. Unforgiving. She had learned that when someone disappears, you hold tighter to the one who doesn’t. The one who stayed.

Joel barely noticed Leela rush past him, knees bending, a ghost trying to reassemble a body—and didn’t even register the blur of movement until she was halfway to the porch, arms already outstretched. Her eyes were wet but unshed, her mouth twitching like she was keeping herself stitched shut by force.

Maya crashed into her, as if her mother made her real.

“Mama, Mama…”

No trembling. No collapse.

And the sound she made then—Joel had never heard it before. Not from her. Not from any baby. It was half-relief, half-fury, all heartbreak. Like something in her had cracked wide open from the waiting.

He staggered, stopped walking altogether.

Leela lifted her, spreading kisses on her cheeks, nose and hair, rocking her like she was trying to put every second of the last few days back inside her arms. Maya’s sobs were hiccuping now, her face buried in Leela’s neck, her whole body trembling.

She pulled Maya in like she meant to disappear with her. Pressed her face into her curls, kissed the top of her head and closed her eyes like that was where all the warmth lived now, shushed her with slow, circular bounces, murmuring nonsense in that gentle, rhythmic tone only mothers had.

“It’s okay, Maya. Shh, Mama’s here now. Mama’s here.”

While Joel stood frozen on the road.

He didn’t know when his hand had clenched into a fist or when his breath had left him.

He didn’t feel anger. Not at Leela. Not even to himself. It was something deeper. Older. Like watching a life he’d dreamed of grow old without him. A desolation.

And Maya—was still crying. Still hiccupping. Her fists balled into Leela’s coat. She hadn’t even looked at him. Or maybe she had, but didn’t know what she was looking for.

He wanted to step closer. Just one more step. Reach out. Soothe her. Say something. But his feet might as well have been nailed to the frozen earth.

He had nothing in his hands. Not even the strength to say her name.

Ellie moved up beside Leela, brushing Maya’s curls back from her sticky, tear-wet face. She said something. Leela nodded. And they all began to walk up the porch steps together.

Joel didn’t follow. Not yet.

He just watched.

Watched how tightly Leela held their daughter. Watched Ellie glance back at him once, her face unreadable, before she jogged past him and followed Maria and Tommy down the road, and away.

Watched his whole life move ahead of him, step by step, without turning around.

Leela’s arms were tight around Maya’s little body, the baby’s sobs quieter now but still hiccupping against her mother’s shoulder.

All he knew was that he’d left all of this behind with nothing but a note and a mission and the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could do something that mattered. Maybe he could fix something.

He eventually trailed behind them like a ghost.

They reached the porch. Leela didn’t pause. Just hitched Maya higher on her hip, the little girl whimpering against her shoulder, and stepped inside.

Maya twisted as they crossed the threshold, her arms flailing, her cries rising in volume. A shrill pleading screech.

“Da-da! Come, come!”

“Maya,” Leela tried to shush.

“No, no! Da-da, pease!”

Her voice punched through him, sharp and high and raw.

“Da-da-da-da—...”

The door closed with a soft, final click. Over.

Somewhere inside, the baby girl's cries still carried over in fresh pricks at his pummeled heart.

Joel stood there, one foot still planted on the step below, like a man halfway to salvation and halfway to hell. He hadn’t moved. His hand—useless at his side—twitched, searching for something it had forgotten how to reach.

The latch echoed louder than any gunshot he’d heard these past weeks.

He stared at the wood grain of the door, the same one he'd walked through a hundred times before, and now couldn’t seem to approach. A stupid part of him still thought maybe it’d open again. That she’d come back, that she’d say—something. Let him hold Maya just once.

But the house stayed still.

So Joel sat. Dropped like a felled thing onto the top step, legs spreading, elbows propped on his knees, fingers pressed to his lips. Because where else did he have to go?

He stared at the dirt packed under the railings, at the porch slats he’d helped mend last summer. He wasn’t sure he had the right to look at any of this anymore.

It hurt to breathe. Not from the bruised ribs or the deep-healing wound in his side. The knowing. The understanding that he’d done this. The rot. The shame. The guilt. The want to fight Leela, argue, and bash against the door.

And when he rubbed a hand over his face, he felt it—wet.

Tears. Real fucking ones.

He stared down at the shine on his fingertips like it was a new language he didn’t speak.

Crying. Goddamn. So he was still capable of that.

After all this time. After the blood. After the fear. After the killing.

It wasn’t the pain of the trip. Not the near-drowning, not the way his ribs still clicked when he breathed too deep. Not even the damage done to Leela’s precious math notebook, still folded at the bottom of his pack like a prayer he couldn’t read.

It was this silence that used to be his favourite harmony. This porch. This big white house across the street, standing like a lighthouse in the middle of the Wyoming snow.

His big, white house.

Or maybe it never had been his. Maybe he’d only been borrowing this life. A thief in someone else’s dream.

In this big dream, he might not be welcome anymore. He’d left thinking he could prove something. That there was still good he could do. That it mattered if he bled for it. That the sacrifice would mean some shit when he brought it back.

Only now—he was just a man sitting on the porch, hands empty, spine bent like a penitent.

He was still the loser. Always had been, hadn't he? A man who couldn't hold onto what mattered, even when it was pressed into his hands. Slipping through his callused fingers, sand in an hourglass.

“Da-da.”

A tiny voice. Raw. Exhausted from crying.

He blinked. Looked down.

Two tiny fists rested against his knee, barely covering them.

She stood there—his baby girl—in her yellow footie pyjamas, curls plastered to her forehead with sweat and tears, her cheeks flushed and snotty, a fist now halfway to her mouth. A warrior, somehow. She looked like she'd marched out here on stubbornness alone.

“Up, up, Da-da,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath, lips rounded to an 'O'.

He didn’t move. His hands stayed clenched on his knees, like he wasn’t sure if they were still allowed to touch her.

He just looked at her—like he was seeing a miracle and wasn’t sure he deserved to touch it. This small miracle with her tangled hair and her crooked little mouth, trying to be brave. Her big brown eyes stared straight through him, full of a deep, solemn thing children shouldn’t carry but sometimes did.

Maya wobbled slightly, off balance, still reaching. Her coat sleeve bunched at the elbow, her fingers finding a fold of his jacket and tugging. It wasn’t strong. It wasn’t a demand. Just a little pull. A tiny act of faith.

“Pease, da-da.”

That was it.

That was all it took.

He broke. Open like a thundercloud. A dam giving way after too many winters.

No big sound. No shudder. Just a quiet, helpless noise from the back of his throat, a beam giving out in a storm, as he leaned forward, reached for her with hands that shook, that had pulled triggers and choked men and now dared to try and lift someone so little and innocent. Someone still his.

He drew her in like she was the only warmth left in the world.

She wrapped her arms around him, little boots stomping onto his ribs, one arm locked around his neck, her fingers fisting the collar of his shirt, and burrowed in like she’d never left him. Like there’d been no time apart. Like he hadn’t abandoned her.

She just clung. The way babies always do. She didn’t care about the mess. Her dainty love hadn’t learned conditions yet.

His throat narrowed, his chest hitched once, sharp—then again, then again. He dropped his face into the crook of her neck and let it come, loosening that lock in him that had been latched since Sarah died. The kind of crying that doesn’t make sound, that just happens. Tears soaking into the fabric of her coat, into her hair, into his beard. He breathed her in like it might fix something, might make him whole.

“I got you, baby girl,” he sniffed.

She smelled like cinnamon. Like sleep. Like their kitchen in the mornings when Leela was fresh from her shower, Maya would toddle in and reach for a bite of breakfast with both hands.

She smelled like everything he’d fought for. Everything he might’ve lost.

Maya leaned back slowly, the softest untangling of her arms, her tiny body still half-draped over his chest. She blinked at him, her brows drawn close in a look far too serious for her little face. Her mouth tugged slightly downward, curious and concerned all at once.

Joel tried to smile for her. Tried to smooth his face. “I'm okay, it's okay.”

But she saw it anyway. The tears, still clinging to his lashes, streaked into his beard.

She stared, her little hand floating uncertainly in the air between them, fingers flexing like she knew there was something she was supposed to do but wasn’t quite sure how.

Then—clumsily, earnestly—she reached up and touched him, just one little hand against his cheek.

Joel looked from her eyes to her palm.

So small, it barely registered, but he felt the gentle tap, the warm pressure. He felt her try to wipe it—like she’d seen done before—dragging her palm across his stubble, awkward, too hard, leaving a streak of baby drool behind.

She sniffed. Then tried again, this time gentler. The way her mama would do it.

“Mm-mm, no,” she told him.

And then—her other hand went to his hair.

A soft, patting motion. Adorable, pure toddler comfort. No finesse, no words.

She looked at him like she was waiting for him to stop crying. Like she believed he could. That he should. Because Mama always did, when she wiped Maya’s tears. Because after the tears came warm arms. And sometimes applesauce.

Joel let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob—just breath. Cracked, quiet. “You takin' care of me?”

His hand cupped the back of her head. His forehead rested against hers, their noses nearly touching. Her fingers were still in his hair.

“Da-da, no, no,” she resonated.

Joel’s heart clenched again—but differently this time. More like remembering what it was for. Beating for her. Alive for this.

He kissed her temple, the warmth of her skin soaking through his bones.

For a moment, the world held still.

No howling wind. No boots on snow. No years of silence pressing down between now and what he’d lost. Just this: the tiny weight of her heart against his chest. Her trust, folded into his jacket like a brass button or her mama's ring in his pocket.

The floorboard behind him creaked.

Joel didn’t lift his head. He felt her before he saw her. The air changed when Leela entered a space—like some internal pressure recalibrated. Softer, but tighter. She didn’t take up more room than she needed, never had. But somehow, her presence always rearranged it.

She stepped to the railing beside him and leaned, arms resting along the wood. The porch light behind her cast a low, golden ring along her dark, frizzed-out hair on her shoulders. The fire inside flickered behind the curtains.

She said nothing at first. Just looked at him. Looked at them.

Like she was trying to map it out—this man, this child, this picture she couldn’t quite trust yet, this picture that didn’t match the one she’d carried around for too long—of absence, of damage, of a man who left too much behind.

Joel didn’t look at her straight on. His eyes stayed on the horizon past the railing, that dim stretch of pine and powder blue, mountains against the dusk that bled into dark. He could feel her gaze, though. The questions in it. The ache. The absence they were both pretending didn’t sit between them like a third body.

“Joel,” she murmured, the first ripple on still water.

He swallowed. His arms tightened almost instinctively around Maya, who shifted with a faint hum, fist tucked against her mouth once more.

“Just let me hold her for a bit,” he said. It came out low, like an apology, or a prayer through gritted teeth.

A breath passed. Then, quietly—

“You can hold her as long as you want.”

He finally looked at her. Her face was turned to the dark, but he could see the fine edge of exhaustion there. Not the kind that came from no sleep—but from too many nights spent enduring what no one saw.

Her voice was softer when she added, “Do you want to shower first?”

Joel blinked, the words hitting him sideways. What a normal fucking thing to say. So regular.

His mind fumbled with it—like she'd offered him a cup of coffee in a warzone. Like there hadn’t been a canyon gaping between them only days ago, carved out by silence and anger and too many things said too late.

The absurdity of it almost made him laugh. Almost. But the sound got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled with something older and harder.

The wind stirred again, tugging at the hem of her sweater. She didn’t smooth it down. Just let it flutter around her thighs like she didn’t feel the cold.

“Leela,” he said, low, worn, like gravel under tired boots.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak right away. Just leaned a little further into the porch railing, her fingers curled loose around the wood. Shoulders rising. Falling.

Quieter this time—less like she believed it, more like she needed to—“Come inside, Joel.”

Not an invitation. Not a plea. Just something said because it had to be. Like muscle memory. Like faith said out loud.

“You don’t belong anywhere else.” A beat. Then, “And it’s cold outside.”

Joel looked down at the little girl in his arms. Maya’s cheek was pressed to his chest, her lips parted, her breath warm through his shirt. Her small hand clung to the collar of his jacket like she thought he might still disappear if she let go.

He felt it again—his daughter. His reminder. His consequence.

She came to me, he thought. She still comes to me.

Even now. After everything.

He shifted his weight and rose, careful not to jostle Maya. His knees ached. That old pain in his spine flared, but he barely felt it. She was heavier than he remembered. That, too, was a gift.

Across from him, Leela didn’t move. She didn’t offer him a hand. Didn’t clear the way. But she didn’t block it, either.

The door behind her stayed open.

Oh, here they were again.

Same porch. Same house. Same damn man, more or less.

But different. He wasn’t pounding on the door this time. Wasn’t driven half-mad by a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. He wasn’t walking in blind and bitter and ready to do a good thing just to silence a bad one.

Now he carried that baby in his arms. His baby. His girl.

And Leela—she was the one with the door now. Not just the one behind him. The one she kept closed for years, locked and latched and bolted from the inside, because too many people had barged through without asking.

Joel stepped forward.

Not past her. Not through her. To her.

The space between them was close. Intimate. He stopped just short of touching her, close enough to feel her breath ghosting warm in the cold.

She turned her head, finally. Just enough to see him.

Their eyes met. A half-second. A heartbeat.

There was no forgiveness in that look. Only recognition. And maybe—God help them both—want. A bit of love. Still there, under the rubble and the ruin.

He didn’t say, Thank you. Couldn’t. Didn’t think they’d be enough if he did. And she didn’t say, Welcome home.

When he stepped through the door beside her, the warmth met him like a memory.

As he crossed the threshold, this time he came to carry it all. To be part of it.

Maya stirred in his arms, murmuring something soft and wordless. Her thumb found her mouth again. Her head dropped against his shoulder like she knew this place of hers. Like her little body remembered what his mind kept trying to forget.

Joel blinked hard, the air in his lungs thick.

It was the same spot he’d once stood when he almost didn’t come back. When he’d looked at Leela in that doorway and thought about forgetting this ever happened.

Now she stood just behind him. A quiet key turning in an old, rusted lock.

And he thought: This is how it happens. Not with a grand gesture. Not with a reckoning or a flood of apologies. Not with big dreams of another life coming crashing down.

But like this.

A door not closed in anger. A man not barging in. A home not yet reclaimed, but not lost either.

Step by step. Word by word. Warmth bleeding slowly into cold skin.

Not a finish line or a full repair.

A place to start again.

One last time.

taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

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uncuredturkeybacon · 3 months ago

Text

𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which paige takes her pen pal on a date

a date.

that’s all it was. a date.

a first date.

to say paige was nervous was an understatement. she didn’t know what to plan for a date, let alone a first one. when was the last time she went on a date?

it’s been a week since you’ve met and paige is pacing back and forth her shared dorm living room. azzi and kk are sat on the couch, munching on some popcorn like they were watching some kind of television show.

“if you keep pacing i’m pretty sure you’ll burn a hole in the ground.”

paige freezes in her spot, turning to glare at azzi. “i’m not pacing.”

“girl boo! yes you are!” kk grabs paige by her shoulders and forces her to sit down. “we get it, you’re nervous—”

“—i’m not nervous,” paige interrupts.

“bookie be so for real right now,” kk deadpans, not believing paige at all.

“okay! fine, i’m nervous. so fucking nervous cause she’s so pretty and like what if she hates me after this? what if she realized i wasn’t as cool as the letters made me out to be?” paige spiraled and her friends hadn’t seen her like this before.

“okay, let’s just calm down. paige, you’ve been texting and calling nonstop since meeting in person. if she didn’t like you then she wouldn’t be doing that.”

they were right.

she was nervous.

paige bueckers has never been this nervous in her life.

not before a championship game, even before her first game back from her injury.

but now? she’s sat on her bed, phone in one hand, a notebook filled with scribbled-out ideas in the other? she was freaking out.

for some reason, this felt bigger than anything she had ever faced in the court.

she had spent the past half hour staring at a blank text message, trying to come up with something casual, something cool. but every time she types something, she immediately deleted it.

“hey, wanna go out some time?”

(nope, too vague.)

“i was thinking we could go out to dinner this weekend?”

(ugh, too basic.)

“what’s up? wanna go to the gym with me?”

(really? a gym?)

she groaned, flopping onto her back and staring at the ceiling. this shouldn’t be this hard. she had spent months writing you letters, talking about everything from childhood stories to her most embarrassing moments. and yet, not that she had the chance to actually take you on a real date, her brain was short-circuiting.

she eventually goes with her gut, writing a short note and taping it on your door with a single rose. she knocks on the door and runs away, not wanting you to see her yet.

you open the door to find nothing there, but as you were about to close the door, you notice the rose, then the note.

y/n,

i would love to take you out on a date tonight. pick you up at six? dress casual but comfortable.

text me your answer.

-p

paige was pacing in her room, hoping to get a message from you. minutes later, she hears a ding. scrambling for her phone, she sees a message.

it’s a date.

she jumps, pumping her fist in the air.

before she knew it, she was outside of your dorm building, leaning against her car, waiting for you to come out.

you walk out shortly after and paige thought you were the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen.

“hey.”

“hi,” paige replied, opening the passenger side door for you. hopping into the driver’s seat, she drives to your destination, not telling you where no matter how many times you ask.

your eyes light up when you saw her pulling into the parking lot.

“the arcade!”

paige smiled so big, loving how excited you looked. “yup! you ready to get your ass beat?”

“oh we'll see about that!”

the arcade was buzzing with noise—bells ringing, kids shouting, the hum of old-school machines filling the air. paige handed you a game card, fingers brushing against yours for a second longer than necessary. she pretended not to notice the way her heart jump at the contact.

“alright,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “what’s first?”

“you pick,” you challenged.

paige grinned, “say less.”

she led you straight to the basketball shooting game. “figured i’d start with a little warm up.”

you rolled your eyes in feign annoyance, but you were smiling. “of course you picked this one.”

paige swiped the card and grabbed the ball, effortlessly sinking shot after shot. by the time the timer had ran out, she had nearly doubled the previous high score.

she turned to you looking smug. “think you could beat that?”

you crossed your arms, “i know i can.”

paige swiped the card for you, watching you take the ball and to her absolute horror, you started sinking shot after shot like a pro.

“wait-what?” paige watched with wide eyes as the scoreboard ticked up.

the buzzer sounds and you barely just surpassed her score, then turned to her with a smirk. “i thought you were the professional one here?”

paige blinked, “okay, hold up—who are you?”

you laughed, “i may have forgotten to mention i played basketball in high school.”

paige groaned, running a hand down her face. “you sandbagged me.”

“maybe a little,” you admitted, grinning.

paige laughed, shaking her head. “okay, that was actually kind of hot, but i will be getting revenge.”

for the next hour, the two of you went back and forth, competing in everything from skee-ball to air hockey. paige had expected to be the dominant one, but you held your own, matching her win for win. she had never met someone who could actually keep up with her competitive side without being obnoxious about it.

by the time you made your way to the claw machine, paige was down my one game.

“alright, i have one last challenge,” she said. “if i win you a prize, i get bonus points and we call it a tie.”

you raised an eyebrow, “or you could just admit i won.”

“not happening.”

you laughed as paige swiped the card and maneuvered the claw toward a stuffed blue dinosaur in the corner. she focused, tongue poking out slightly as she adjusted the controls.

“serious question,” you said, watching her concentrate. “are you this competitive about everything?”

paige didn’t look away from the claw. “only when it matters.”

she pressed the button. the claw descended… grabbed the dinosaur… and promptly dropped it before it could reach the chute.

paige stared, “are you kidding me?”

you burst out laughing. “so close.”

paige sighed dramatically. “alright, fine. you win. but only because the machine is rigged.”

“sure it is,” you teased.

paige shook her head, smiling as she turned to you. “you’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“a little,” you admitted.

she smirked. “guess i’ll just have to redeem myself at ice cream.”

the two of you walked to the ice cream shop down the street, the air crisp but not too cold. paige felt the nerves from earlier completely disappear. the date had gone better than she could’ve hoped, and the best part?

it felt easy.

she stole a glance at you as you debated between flavors, your nose scrunching slightly in thought.

she liked this. she liked you.

once you both had your ice cream, you found a bench outside to sit on.

“so,” paige said between bites. “did i do okay? you know, for a first date?”

you smiled at her. “you did great, p.”

her heart flipped at the nickname, at the warmth in your voice.

“good,” she said, leaning back against the bench, looking up at the sky. “because i’d really like to do it again.”

you nudged her playfully. “only if you’re ready to lose again.”

paige chuckled, shaking her head. “we’ll see about that.”

and as she sat there beside you, eating ice cream under the city lights, she realized something—

this was the best win she’d ever had.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige buckets #paige x reader #lesbian #wlw #ucon wbb #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb

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lnracer · 2 months ago

Note

Hii babe, I have another little request if you’re taking them!

Could you write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s super stressed because she’s about to take her final exams (like the French bac) and she hasn’t started revising at all?? It’s literally in a month, and she feels completely overwhelmed and behind.Like she’s spiraling a bit, maybe crying over highlighters and making dramatic “I’m gonna fail” speeches while Kimi just tries to calm her down and support her. Maybe he helps her organize her revision or just stays with her through the stress, reminding her that she’s smart and capable even if she doesn’t feel like it. Basically soft academic panic + golden retriever boyfriend energy. Only if it inspires you of course!! But I’d love that dynamic.

Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x High Schooler! Female Reader.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 1.190k.

a/n: Thank you very much for the request! From my interpretation of your text, I understood that you mentioned the French BAC just as an example, so I took the liberty of changing it to the Italian exam just to make more sense with the narrative I put together (But if it was indeed a specific request, then I'm really sorry 😔).

Also, I don't know anything in depth about this exam so ignore everything here and take it as just narrative progression (In case I wrote something that doesn't match reality 😅) Anyway, I hope you like it and that it met your expectations! ☺️🩵

The table was a war zone.

Papers everywhere, half-empty water bottles, pastel highlighters tossed like grenades across her notebook. Her laptop screen blinked mockingly with a half-finished Word document titled "Philosophical theories I don't understand."

“I’m gonna fail,” she declared dramatically, one hand in her hair, the other holding a yellow highlighter like a weapon. “Like properly. Publicly. It’ll be humiliating. I’ll go down as the girl who cracked during Maturità and died in a pile of her own flashcards.”

Kimi leaned against her bedroom door frame, arms crossed, watching the scene with raised brows and soft amusement. She hadn’t noticed he’d come in.

“Is that how you want your legacy to go?” he asked gently.

She whipped her head up, red-eyed and flushed from stress. “Don’t tease me, Kimi. I haven’t even touched physics. Or Dante. Or that one stupid math module I swear I never learned because my professor went on maternity leave!”

“I’m not teasing,” he said quickly, crossing the room to crouch beside her chair. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re not about to commit a highlighter-based crime.”

She let out a weak laugh through her sniffles. “You think this is funny now, but wait until you’re dating a Matura dropout who has to live in the countryside and raise goats.”

“Okay,” Kimi said, grinning, “one, you’d be a very glamorous goat girl. And two—”

He gently pulled the yellow highlighter out of her hand, tossing it onto the table.

“—you’re not going to fail. You’re panicking. Which is fair. But you’re not stupid. You’re just overwhelmed.”

She let herself fall forward onto his shoulder, muffling her next dramatic sigh into his hoodie. He held her tightly, pressing a kiss into the crown of her hair.

“I’ve never felt this behind before,” she murmured. “Like, I don’t even know where to start. I feel like I should’ve started months ago.”

“Okay,” he said, brushing a hand down her back. “So, what if we start right now? We make a plan. You and me. I’ll sit with you while you go over stuff. I’ll quiz you. I’ll even learn Dante if it means you stop crying over neon pens.”

She let out a snort, leaning back to look at him, eyes still watery but a little brighter.

“You’d suffer through Dante’s Inferno for me?”

“I’d suffer through Purgatorio too,” he said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart.

She smiled properly now, finally. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But I’m also your boyfriend. Which means I believe in you, even when you think your future is goat-herding.”

He stood up and clapped his hands once, all energy.

“Alright. We make a study plan, you shower, I make you pasta, and we get through this. Deal?”

She nodded, wiping her face. “Deal.”

And as he kissed her temple and picked up the scattered flashcards, she couldn’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — she’d survive this exam season after all.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

It was past midnight and her bedroom smelled faintly of lavender tea and ink.

Textbooks were stacked in little towers across the floor, the lamp dimmed low to match the quiet. Her eyes were drooping as she tried to re-read the same line from her literature notes for the fifth time.

“Okay,” Kimi said softly from beside her on the bed, “last question. Then we sleep. Promise.”

She whined, flopping sideways into the pillows. “No, I have to finish this chapter. I haven’t even touched Manzoni yet.”

“You’re literally blinking in slow motion.”

“I’m not!”

“You just tried to highlight your own hand.”

She blinked down at her palm and groaned. “Betrayed by muscle memory.”

Kimi grinned, pulling the notes gently from her hands and setting them aside.

“Alright. Look at me.”

She turned her head slowly, cheek squished against her pillow, eyes glassy with exhaustion. He leaned on one elbow, face soft in the low light.

“Tell me one reason you’re gonna pass this exam.”

She blinked. “Because you’ll dump me if I don’t?”

He laughed. “Wrong. I’d proudly date a goat farmer if that’s where this goes. Try again.”

“…Because I’ve studied hard?”

He tilted his head.

She exhaled. “Because I’m smart. Even when I feel stupid.”

“Exactly.” he smiled like she’d just solved the world’s hardest riddle.

“Ugh. You’re so disgustingly wholesome when I’m spiraling.” she buried her face in his chest, muffling a little groan.

“Someone has to balance us out.” he stroked her hair, slow and rhythmic, as her breath evened out against him.

“Can you sleep here? For the rest of the night, I mean…” she mumbled.

“Will it make you feel more at ease and not secretly go back to studying later even though you're tired, like I know you would if I left?” his voice dropped into a whisper against her temple.

“Yeah. Stay.”

So he did.

And in the quiet hum of late-night pages, sleepy comfort, and the boy who never once doubted her, the weight in her chest lightened — just a little.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

A few months after that stressful but nonetheless comforting night — all thanks to his crucial presence in preventing eventual deaths caused by pastel highlighters — Kimi's screen lit up with her name, and he didn’t even wait for the second ring. He answered instantly, flopping back onto the crisp hotel sheets, hair damp from a post-sim session shower, cheeks still a little flushed.

“Ciao, amore.” he said, voice warm with familiarity.

Her face appeared, still slightly flushed too — but from sun and nerves and residual adrenaline. The backdrop was her bedroom, but her smile was something brand new.

“Well?” he asked quickly, eyes scanning her for signs. “How’d it go? Are we moving to the mountains to start goat farming or—”

“I have a question first,” she interrupted, leaning into the camera with a smug, tired little grin. “Do you think you can score points this weekend in Imola?”

Kimi blinked. “Uh… I mean, yeah? I’ll try my—”

“Because I think we should both do something in honor of our country,” she said, eyes gleaming now. “Since, you know, I basically just slayed the Maturità.”

He sat up like she’d thrown a trophy at him. “Wait— wait. You did well?!”

She nodded, grinning now. “Really well.”

Kimi’s jaw dropped for a second, and then he lit up — fully, like sunlight breaking through clouds. He fist-pumped the air with both hands, nearly knocking over his water bottle.

“YES. YES. LET’S GOOOO.”

She laughed so hard her phone shook.

“You’re making this feel like I won a race, not passed an exam.”

He pointed at the camera. “You beat Italian literature. You deserve a podium.”

“Only if you get one too,” she teased.

“Deal. Countrymen on the rise.”

There was a pause — soft and lovely — before his voice dropped.

“I’m so proud of you.”

Her throat tightened a little.

“I wouldn’t have made it through the panic without you, you know.”

“Good,” he said softly, “because I’d sit through a hundred crying-over-highlighters nights if it meant this face right now.”

She smiled — tired and radiant.

“Go win in Imola.”

“I’ll try. For Italy. And for the smartest girl I know.”

#kimi antonelli #andrea kimi antonelli #kimi antonelli x reader #kimi antonelli x y/n #kimi antonelli x you #kimi antonelli x fem!reader #kimi antonelli fanfic #kimi antonelli imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 x female reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #formula one fanfic #formula one fanfiction #f1blr #formula one imagine

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ledesaid · 3 months ago

Text

Twelve photos and one video

▶️▶️▶️▶️▶️▶️▶️▶️▶️▶️

It took twelve photos to bring Billy Batson out of anonymity.

He's proudly ten years old, but those photos don't do him justice; he looks six or seven...

He sighs, somewhat defeated... He didn't expect things to end this way...

When Slade, alias Deathstroke, accompanied him to buy new clothes (after a mishap where his favorite hoodie ended up resembling a sieve) and to eat ice cream with the most innocent intention (of course, this was one of the few acts of generosity from the notorious villain), to a street kid he accidentally traumatized... he hadn't anticipated things would spiral so wildly.

But it seems Batman has more eyes than he expected. A high-definition video was being projected in the Justice League meeting room. Is there a stain under his chin? Who would have guessed?

Flash: Does Slade have a new kid? He looks pretty young... I'm gonna talk to Cyborg so he can look for him in the global camera network.

Marvel: He's not Slade's son.

The certainty in his voice causes everyone to turn to him and notice a certain... resemblance.

Flash: But... he looks way more like you, Cap.

Hal: Yeah, don't tell me you hired Deathstroke as a babysitter.

Marvel: That's ridiculous, Hal. Slade doesn't charge for those kinds of services...

The word "charity" dies in his throat. Everyone's stares explode in astonishment.

Flash: No way! Is he really your kid?

WW: By Athena, he has your eyes and your cleft chin.

Marvel simply grimaces in discomfort... "Help me, Solomon!" Billy pleads in his mind.

Solomon just chuckles a little and offers a few words of advice.

Marvel: Sorry, it's confidential and private.

Flash closes the video file and apologizes for intruding. Still...

Marvel: It was a coincidence that they met. I had no idea who Slade was until yesterday.

WW: Brother, is Deathstroke's real name Slade Wilson?

Marvel: Yes, he told me. No! I mean Billy told me before going to sleep...

Guy: I like that name! Does he play any sports? I coach the community center’s little league in Baltimore. He can join after school without a problem!

Marvel: Thanks, Guy! I'll ask him, and speaking of that... Look at the time! I have to go!

With a poorly planned escape, Billy returned to Fawcett. He wonders what he could say to the others to keep them from asking more about Billy...

The excuses he's writting in his notebook were forgotten as a knock sounded at his apartment door... An abandoned apartment.

Bad.

It turns into something less bad when he sees it's Bambi, a woman from the building who's quite friendly with the younger kids.

Bambi: You don't have much time, grab what you need! Gambit's guys are downstairs, and they're looking for you!

Little did she know the cause was an old feud between Deathstroke and Gambit.

Bambi got him out of the place inside a bag, and the next thing he knows, they're waiting at the bus station... Billy tells himself that maybe he could visit Guy in Baltimore while things settle down in Fawcett.

#fanfic #billy batson #ao3 #cómics de dc #shazam #dc comics #fawcett #dc captain marvel #slade wilson #justice league #guy gardner #flash comics #bambi fawcett

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ultravioletbrit · 7 months ago

Text

“relevant” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 473 words

“holiday music” - 25 Days of Jegumas - Day 8 - @noblehouseofgay

James and Regulus are sitting on the floor on either side of the coffee table that’s covered in a mess of books and folders and notebooks and notecards. Regulus is in the middle of it all typing frantically on his laptop and James is… watching Regulus type frantically on his laptop.

He can’t stop thinking about Friday night. It’s their first date and James wants it to be perfect. They’re just going ice-skating because he knows Regulus loves to skate and James didn’t want to go too over the top for their first date. Something simple and casual that he knows Regulus will be comfortable doing. Plus, with a built-in activity, hopefully there won’t be as much pressure to fill any quiet moments that could lead to awkward silences.

There could be quiet moments in the car, though; James needs to make sure those moments don’t become awkward or uncomfortable either. He’ll need to make a playlist, but the wrong song at the wrong time could also lead to awkward moments. He needs simple songs that can be background noise, but also create the right atmosphere, something that—

“James!” Regulus snaps James out of his spiraling thoughts and it's clearly not the first time he said James’ name.

“Sorry, what?”

Regulus huffs and rolls his eyes. “Do you have any questions?” He asks slowly and very annoyed.

“What are your favorite Christmas songs?” James blurts out.

Regulus blinks at him several times before he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose “Do you have any relevant questions?”

“That is relevant!” James insists.

“How is my preferred holiday music relevant to our presentation?” Regulus asks with growing frustration.

“Well, I haven’t really been helping with the presentation.” James says with a guilty smile.

“I’ve noticed.” Regulus grits his teeth.

“I’ve been distracted thinking about songs to put on a playlist for our date. So, if you just tell me what songs you like then I’ll be able to focus much better and—”

“Our what?” Regulus cuts him off with wide eyes.

“Our date…?” James says slowly.

“We have a date?” Regulus’ eyes get impossibly wider.

“Errrm… yes?” James ask, genuinely confused. “Err… on Friday?... Right?…” He starts to fumble his words. “I have… We were… You said—” James freezes then snaps his mouth shut when he realizes… Regulus didn’t say anything… Because James never asked the question.

James got so far ahead of himself thinking about every little detail to make sure Regulus has the best possible time on their date; only to realize, he never actually asked Regulus to go on the date.

“James…” Regulus starts slowly with the hint of a smile. “Did you plan a date without asking me on a date?” Regulus voices James’ thoughts.

James squeezes his eyes shut before dropping his head in his hands with a groan and Regulus chuckles.

“See, now that would have been a relevant question.” Regulus tells him.

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fluffybunny-godpls · 7 months ago

Text

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me

Krampus x researcher reader

At this point you had come to terms with three current facts: you were alone in a cabin in the freezing cold, you were going to be alone in a cabin in the freezing cold for at least a week, and it was your own fault that you were going to be alone, in a cabin, in the freezing cold, for at least a week.

You were a young researcher, more eager, anxious, and optimistic than others. And this was a once-in-a-generation opportunity. Not only was the project getting funding indefinitely, but no crackpot millionaire was helicoptering. There was no hesitation.

So you took the chance and went on ahead of your team to the cabin. You planned to complete preliminary data collection, set up some equipment, take every second possible to give you and your team a head start. After all, indefinite was a double edged sword. You knew that if your sponsor decided to pull their support that would be the end of it. Time is of the essence.

Only, you didn’t realize how unprepared you were for the oppressive emptiness. The snow and ice bleached everything and deafened the noise. With all the animals either asleep or hidden everything felt dead. Only the evergreen trees remained as the last signs of life. And it was going to be like this until your colleagues arrive. Living in what felt like a freezing desolate wasteland. It didn’t help that you were a long drive out from any nearby towns. As eager as you were for human interaction, being stuck in the middle of the woods freezing to death didn’t sound particularly appealing. So you were stuck.

Your sigh surprised you, breaking the spiral of thoughts and the series of grunts and 'ow's as you took boxes into the cabin. You were officially on the clock. Pride soon joined and now you were the picture-perfect researcher, notes scrawled over page after page between a notebook, journal, and computer.

After a while, your anxieties had taken to the back burner. The finished work left you satisfied and confident. A glance at a nearby clock told you it was half an hour after ten.

Now that you could focus on the present, you took in the features of the room. You were sitting at a small table off to the side of the kitchen in a simple breakfast nook. Your work is spread out over the table, easily covering it. The cabin was rather simple, no decorations other than a handful of pictures that must have been bought with the frame.

Walking around the place, it was easy to see its potential. You were not into interior design by any means, but this cabin had the make of an all-be-bit much larger, classic cabin style. In the end, after meandering through the house, you were left staring at the rather bland living room. Maybe it was the stress, the holiday spirit, or you missed your calling in interior design, but you had the desire to decorate.

Then an idea struck you, a wonderful idea, an awfully wonderful idea. With this new excitement, you hurried to bundle up and run outside, though not before turning on How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

You had a faint recollection of a shed on the side of the house. As you opened the doors you could feel your heart beating and your emotions reached a crescendo. This felt like the answer to all your problems and it was so simple.

Clothes now soaked in sweat stuck to your skin and your muscles burned. Gloves lay abandoned in the snow, axe gripped tightly in your hands, and you leaned over using the axe to support yourself. You barely noticed the crash from the fall of the tree as you struggled to catch your breath.

Your plans to cut down a tree seemed so simple at first and now the cold air burned your face and throat as you panted. You shakily lifted your head to look at the tree, now lying on its side.

"Finally!" You exasperated, letting your head fall back down, not without cursing. You took your time to eventually standing straight. The dread only just set in as you stared at the tree, smile slowly falling. You needed to drag it back. After a glance at your wrist, your stomach flipped at how long you’ve been out.

Unbeknownst to you, something entertained itself watching you struggle to get the tree to the cabin. Cloven hooves didn't make a noise in the snow as they followed you back.

Your miserable attempt left you whimpering as you pulled the tree through the snow. You stifled a whimper as you let go of the tree to give yourself a moment to breathe. The shed had to have something that could help. You jogged over to the shed, close to just heading inside. Even just for a little bit, those daily defeats were starting to wear on you.

You were lost in thought as you neared the open doors, brainstorming the simplest solution. You almost didn't noticed the sled. Your head snapped to face it when you caught sight of it out of the corner of your eye. It was a rather lovely pull sled. A nice coppery wood with a lovely shine. The red cushioning was of a nice quality, soft and springy. It looked big enough to get the job done and more importantly the easiest option.

You were halfway out of the shed before stopping in your tracks. The hair on the back of your neck stood straight and your entire body stiffened. The sweat didn't help, now making you much colder. The tree leaned against the now-open doorway of the house. You dropped the reigns of the sled and slowly, and maybe foolishly, went inside.

You took the time to quietly pull the tree inside. After the effort you put into cutting and dragging it halfway, you were unwilling to leave it.

It was sometime before you continued on. You simply stood there and tried to find any signs of another life. You only moved on when you were satisfied that the only breathing was yours.

It took some sadistic amusement from watching you carefully go about the cabin. Analyzing every bit and piece, every sense heightened. The natural prey instincts were alluring, it made them wish they were in there with you, stalking you. And why should they resist?

You moved through rooms with deliberation. You didn't touch anything, changing would cover the intruder's tracks. Every step was slow and deliberate, you couldn't help but feel watched. The muscles in your legs tensed at any noiseIt was animalistic, the way you crept through the cabin, stiff and wide-eyed.

You moved at the creaks of the floorboards. A couple of times you almost caught sight of them, twisting around inhumanly fast. His hoves were fast, and wit even faster. Slowly, you were unknowingly led upstairs.

By now you were in a basic shirt and pants, shedding layers as they hindered you. The last thing you shed was your socks after they almost made you slip. They could almost taste your fear, now accented with the shock, when you caught yourself. The gasp was the only sound they had heard from you since this game had begun and it was tantalizing. He licked his lips as they slowly followed you up the stairs. It should be humiliating with the amount of pleasure he was deriving from this, but not once did he stop to care. Maturity or age did not matter, the ocean could steal a tourist's hat and still drown a ship and he was no better.

His tail swung between his legs as he slowly cornered you upstairs. Excitement built, the tension growing. They knew you could feel it. Even if you couldn't understand it. With the way your back was taut like a deer about to leap, he bet you could taste it.

His luck ended there with the open door. A mirror graced you and in it a beast. You lept forward, twisting back as you did to see the monster stalking you. It was already leaping at you, easily covering the distance between the two. Long, heavy dark fur covered you, and his face pulled a twisted smug grin down at you.

Fear and downright irritation joined and pushed you on to fight.

He reeled back when you punched, more from the shock than any pain. You were already on your stomach crawling away. He couldn't stop the grin on his face. Your fighting spirit left him eager for more. Large clawed hands grasped at your sides, pulling you to him. A swift kick to the stomach was enough to get him away. Then it clicked, he was toying with you, treating this as some sort of game. Letting you get away but pulling you close when you got too far. Your fear quickly transformed into rage and you did everything you could to make this painful for him.

After a while of them toying with you as you violently attacked, he finally used a bit of their strength. You felt the muscles underneath the clothes and thick fur ripple and come to life. The pressure held you flat to the floor, incapable of injuring yourself or them. Now forced to lay there underneath him, sounds turned into words.

"What the hell you shit-stained oversized terrier!" You snapped at him, the start of what was a long rant, "Was there even a reason behind any of this bullshit you local-theater-off-brand? Did ya just have the time and decided it would be more fun to fuck with someone already having a shitty day? Too unoriginal to go ruin someone else's might as well go to someone who's already had it ruined, huh?" You punctuated that one with an attempted kick, only to remember you were immobile.

Through all your struggling and further ranting, you hadn't noticed his amused expression. It was only when a deep rumble that formed a laugh came from their throat that you realized. They threw their head back, accentuating his massive twisted horns and long teeth. You laid there, finally speechless.

His laugh finally trickled out and he sneered down at you.

“You are quite the entertainment.” They mused. A deep, growling voice greeted your ear, uncharacteristically sweet.

In that moment you realized how tired you were. You throat, which had already burned from the cold, felt dry and sore. Your entire body felt sore, not unwelcoming of the soothing pressure this beast had on you. You let yourself relax as you assumed you were safe. You were exactly sure what you could have even done if you weren’t so you didn’t feel like worrying.

They smirked at your dazed expression.

“Aw, is the little deer tired?” He mocked before slowly getting up. They took you with him, picking you up and pulling you flush to their chest.

“How about you go fuck yourself” You snapped back.

They weren’t deterred, humming happily as he carried you. One of their large hands rubbed circles on your back, pressing just enough for it to relax your muscles.

Despite your previous words, you found yourself relaxing against soft wool and thick fur, lulling you to sleep. Your breathing evened and you took in their scent, pine and some sort of holiday spice, and maybe… a bit of smokeyness?

As you got lost in thought you further drifted from the waking world, deeper into dreams.

To be continued

#krampus x reader #x reader #holidays #monster #monster fucker #gender neutral reader #Holiday oneshots #x gender neutral reader #monster x reader #tetrophilia

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mrs-delaney · 1 month ago

Note

Hi my love!! Hope you are doing well I was hoping to get a Joe burrow imagine where he is planning a surprise dinner for his gf whose birthday is coming up on Tuesday (May 20th) but has another surprise up his sleeve where he invited all her friends and family ❤️

Author’s Note: I know I need to be working on Hide, Behind the Lens, and the other requests in my inbox, but this one felt a little too perfect to pass up. Someone sent in a request for a Joe Imagine where he plans a surprise birthday dinner on May 20th… which just so happens to be my partner’s birthday, too. So yeah, I had to do it.

It’s short but sweet. Hope you like it 💛

Warnings: Some light emotional damage, Joe acting weird on purpose, and Y/N spiraling just a little. It works out, trust me.

The Planning

Saturday, May 17th

"So her parents' flight gets in at 2:15 on Tuesday, and her sister arrives at noon," Joe said, scrolling through the detailed itinerary on his laptop. "They're both confirmed at the Kinley downtown."

Across from him at his home office desk, Melissa nodded, making notes in her planner. After three months of coordinating this surprise, the event planner had become something of a co-conspirator.

"And her college roommate?" Melissa asked, not looking up from her notes.

"Lands tomorrow. Staying with her cousin so Y/N won't accidentally run into her." Joe leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he mentally checked another item off his list. "I still can't believe we're pulling this off."

"I appreciate the detailed notes," Melissa said, acknowledging his thoughtfulness.

Joe shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I pay attention."

The laptop screen illuminated his face in the afternoon light filtering through the office blinds. The room was minimal but warm, his style was balanced with touches of Y/N throughout. There were photos of them together over their three years, a small plant she'd given him that he'd somehow managed to keep alive, and her notebook still open on the corner of his desk from when she'd been working there the evening before.

"Pepp & Dolores confirmed the chef is preparing that custom menu we discussed," Joe continued, clicking through the email confirmations. "And they'll have those Aperol spritzes she loves ready when everyone arrives."

Melissa nodded approvingly. "The florist will deliver the arrangements directly to the restaurant at 3:00. Lilies and roses, just as you requested."

"Great, those are her favorites," Joe said quietly, almost to himself. He glanced at the clock on his desk. Y/N wouldn't be back from her Saturday yoga class for at least another hour. Plenty of time to finalize the remaining details.

"Let's go through the seating chart one more time," he said, pulling up another document. "I want her parents and sister at the table with us, then—"

The sound of the front door opening made Joe freeze mid-sentence. His eyes darted to the hallway, then back to Melissa and the papers spread across his desk, pages clearly labeled "Y/N's Surprise Birthday" and diagrams of the restaurant layout.

"Joe?" Y/N's voice called from the entryway. "You home?"

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, quickly closing his laptop. "Office!" he called back, his voice impressively casual despite the panic flashing in his eyes.

He hurriedly gathered the papers, shoving them into a folder while motioning for Melissa to follow his lead.

"So anyway, as I was saying about the charity golf tournament," Joe said loudly as footsteps approached the office door. "The team really appreciates your help coordinating."

Melissa caught on immediately, smoothly tucking her planner with "Y/N BIRTHDAY SURPRISE" written in bold letters on the tab into her bag.

"Of course, I'm happy to help organize the auction items," she replied with practiced ease. "The food bank will be grateful for the support."

Y/N appeared in the doorway, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, still in her workout clothes. Joe's heart did that familiar flip it always did when he saw her, even after three years. Even in the middle of a covert operation.

"Hey," she said, a little breathless, glancing curiously between Joe and the woman sitting across from him. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. Yoga got canceled instructor has a stomach bug."

Joe stood up, crossing the room to greet her with a kiss on the temple. His thumb brushed a strand of hair from her face with an ease that belied the adrenaline coursing through him.

"Not interrupting at all," he said, his voice warm and steady despite his racing thoughts. "Y/N, this is Melissa. She's helping with that charity thing for the foundation."

Melissa stood and extended her hand with a smile. "Joe's been telling me about the work you do. It's nice to finally meet you."

Y/N smiled, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you too. What charity thing?" she asked, turning to Joe with a raised eyebrow. "You didn't mention anything."

For a split second, Joe's mind went blank. His eyes darted to the desk where, thankfully, all evidence of birthday planning was now hidden from view.

"Just that, uh, foundation thing," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "For the food bank. Sorry, meant to mention it earlier. It's still in early planning stages."

"In December," Melissa added smoothly. "We're securing venues now since they book up fast for the holiday season."

"Right," Joe nodded, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. "December. Gotta plan ahead."

Y/N's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than usual, and Joe felt a twinge of guilt at the lie. In their three years together, he'd never been anything but honest with her. The past few weeks of pretending to forget her birthday went against every instinct he had.

"Well, don't let me interrupt," Y/N said, stepping back toward the door. "I'm going to grab some water. Nice to meet you, Melissa."

"You too," Melissa replied with a warm smile that revealed nothing.

Once Y/N was out of earshot, Joe exhaled heavily and dropped back into his chair.

"That was close," he whispered, running a hand over his face.

Melissa suppressed a laugh. "You're really not used to lying to her, are you?"

"Is it that obvious?" Joe asked, grimacing slightly.

"A little," she admitted. "But it's sweet. Not many people would go to these lengths and be this uncomfortable just to give someone a perfect surprise."

Joe's expression softened as he glanced toward the doorway where Y/N had been standing. "She deserves it. She loves her birthday, always goes all out for everyone else's celebrations." He paused, a flicker of worry crossing his face. "She already thinks I've forgotten. I saw her checking her phone yesterday, probably looking for early birthday messages or hints I might leave."

"Two more days," Melissa reassured him, gathering her things. "And judging by all this planning, it'll be worth every moment of her thinking you're the worst boyfriend ever."

Joe winced. "Is that what she's going to think?"

Melissa smiled knowingly. "Probably. But imagine her face when she walks into that restaurant on Tuesday and sees everyone there."

Joe could picture it: Y/N's surprised expression, the moment of realization, the joy that would light up her eyes. All the planning, the secrecy, the uncomfortable deception would be worth it just to see that look on her face.

"Oh, before I forget," Melissa said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a small velvet box. "The jeweler dropped this off at my office this morning, as requested."

Joe took the box, opening it carefully to reveal the ring inside, elegant, unique, and perfectly Y/N. He'd spent months working with the designer to create something that captured her essence.

"It's perfect," he said quietly, a mixture of nervousness and certainty washing over him. "You're sure everything's set for that part of the evening?"

"Just like we discussed," Melissa assured him. "No big production, just like you wanted."

Joe nodded, closing the box and slipping it into his desk drawer. "Thank you. For everything."

As Melissa gathered the last of her materials, the sound of Y/N moving around in the kitchen filtered down the hallway. Joe could picture her there, probably wondering why he hadn't mentioned this charity event before, maybe already suspecting something was off.

"Just two more days of pretending," Melissa said, reading his thoughts. "Then you never have to lie to her again."

Joe nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Can't wait for this to be over."

"Something tells me you might be off the hook for surprise planning for a while after this," Melissa laughed softly. "I'll text you when her parents' flight lands on Tuesday."

As Joe walked Melissa to the door, he could feel Y/N watching them from the kitchen. He caught her eye and smiled, the genuine, soft smile he reserved just for her. She returned it, though he noticed the slight furrow in her brow, the subtle hint of confusion.

Two more days, he reminded himself. Two more days of keeping the biggest secret he'd ever kept from her. Two more days until he could finally ask the question he'd been wanting to ask for months.

Two more days until he never had to pretend to forget anything important to her ever again.

The Hints

Monday, May 19th

The kitchen smelled of garlic and herbs as Y/N stirred the pasta sauce, occasionally glancing at Joe who sat at the island scrolling through his phone. She'd spent the day waiting for some acknowledgment, some hint that he remembered tomorrow was her birthday. So far, nothing.

"I was thinking," she said casually, tapping the wooden spoon against the pot, "we haven't gone out in a while. Might be nice to do something this week."

Joe looked up, his expression perfectly neutral. "Actually, I was thinking maybe tomorrow night we could try that place you mentioned a while back. Pepp & Dolores. Unless you've got plans?"

Y/N's heart sank a little. So he really had forgotten. Tomorrow was her birthday, and he was suggesting dinner as if it was just any other Tuesday. "Tomorrow?" she repeated, giving him one last chance to catch on.

He hadn't mentioned any meeting. She'd checked their shared calendar twice, finding Tuesday conspicuously empty. Three years together, and suddenly he had plans on her birthday that he'd never bothered to tell her about?

Her phone lit up on the counter, another birthday eve text from her college roommate. Joe's eyes flicked to it before Y/N could reach it, and for a split second, she thought she saw something like guilt cross his face. But when she looked more closely, his expression was impassive again, focused on whatever was on his screen.

"My mom called earlier," she tried again, stirring the sauce with more vigor than it required. "She was just checking in, seeing what we were up to this week."

"Yeah?" Joe responded, the perfect picture of casual interest. "What'd you tell her?"

Y/N's spoon stilled. He really didn't remember. Three birthdays together, and this year, it had simply slipped his mind. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat.

"Nothing special, apparently," she said quietly.

Joe's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then quickly turned it face-down on the counter. That was the third time he'd done that tonight. Usually, he had no issue checking messages in front of her.

"Everything okay?" she asked, nodding toward his phone.

"Just work stuff," he said with a shrug, turning his phone face down.

Y/N nodded, stirring the sauce even though it didn’t really need it. She didn’t look at him when she spoke again, trying to keep her tone casual.

“Have you been looking at new restaurants or something?” she asked, eyes still on the pot. “Pepp & Dolores isn’t really something you’d normally be into.”

He shrugged. "No specific reason. You mentioned wanting to go not to long ago and I’ve been meaning to take you, and my schedule's clear tomorrow night. Thought it might be nice."

She turned back to the sauce, adding a pinch more oregano with more force than necessary. "Sure," she said, keeping her voice even. "Tomorrow works."

"The sauce is almost ready," she said, her voice carefully steady. "Can you grab the plates?"

Joe stood, moving around the island to the cabinet. As he passed behind her, his hand brushed her waist—a casual touch, the kind she normally leaned into. Tonight, she remained stiff, and his hand fell away.

"You okay?" he asked, reaching for the plates.

Y/N considered confronting him directly. Do you know what tomorrow is? But the thought of having to remind him, of seeing the realization and hasty apology on his face, was too humiliating.

"Fine," she said instead. "Just tired."

Joe set the plates on the counter beside her, lingering a moment longer than necessary. She could feel him watching her face, and she kept her expression carefully neutral as she served the pasta.

"This looks great," he said as they sat at the table. "Thanks for cooking."

"No problem." She twirled pasta around her fork without enthusiasm. "So how was your day?"

"Good. Productive." Joe took a bite, then reached for his water. "Yours?"

Well, I spent most of it wondering if my boyfriend of three years has forgotten my birthday. "Fine," she said instead.

They ate in a silence that grew increasingly uncomfortable, punctuated only by the occasional clink of cutlery against plates. Y/N found herself unable to enjoy the meal she'd prepared, each bite tasteless as her mind churned with confusion and hurt.

Joe studied her face a moment longer, then nodded. "I'm going to grab a shower, then. Been a long day."

"Of course," she said, turning back to the dishes. "Goodnight."

She listened to his footsteps retreat down the hallway, waiting for the sound of the bathroom door closing before she let out a deep sigh. Part of her still couldn't believe he'd forgotten. Joe remembered the exact date they'd met, knew her coffee order down to the extra half-pump of vanilla, and had never missed an important moment until now.

Y/N finished the dishes with a heaviness in her chest, trying to remind herself that it was just a birthday. Just one day. It shouldn't matter this much.

But it did.

Once he was out of sight, Y/N let her fork drop to her plate with a clatter. She pulled out her own phone, checking again to see if there was anything from Joe—a scheduled delivery for tomorrow, a hidden calendar item, any evidence that he hadn't completely forgotten.

Nothing.

A text from her best friend lit up the screen: Has he said anything about tomorrow yet?

Y/N hesitated, then typed back: We're going to dinner at Pepp & Dolores. But he hasn't mentioned my birthday at all. I think he genuinely forgot.

Three dots appeared immediately: No way. Joe wouldn't forget.

Y/N wished she could believe that. But Joe was many things: thoughtful, loyal, steady—but he wasn't deceptive. If he'd remembered her birthday, he would have said something by now. He wouldn't let her spend the entire day feeling forgotten.

She began clearing the dishes, the cheerful clinking of plates a stark contrast to the heaviness in her chest. From down the hall, she could hear Joe's voice, too muffled to make out words. He was speaking quietly, which was unusual for his work calls.

She tried not to let it bother her. Joe was entitled to his privacy, and just because they'd been together for three years didn't mean he had to remember every important date. Still, the disappointment sat like a stone in her stomach.

The Joe who had orchestrated her perfect birthday last year, the one who had remembered her offhand comment about wanting to see that band and surprised her with tickets, seemed far away tonight. She rinsed the plates more aggressively than necessary, trying to drown out her thoughts with the sound of running water.

Once she finished up in the kitchen, she headed to the bedroom. She noticed his side of the closet looked the same as always: no special outfit laid out, no gift hidden away. Whatever was happening at Pepp & Dolores, it certainly wasn't any kind of birthday celebration.

She crawled into bed, telling herself it didn't matter. It was just a birthday, after all. There would be others.

But as she reached to set her alarm, her gaze fell on the framed photo of their trip to Italy last year, the one where Joe had surprised her with a gondola ride, she'd mentioned wanting months before. The Joe who remembered every little detail, who planned thoughtful surprises, who made her feel like the most important person in his world.

The Surprise

Tuesday, May 20th - Y/N's birthday

Y/N woke to the soft chime of her phone. She blinked sleepily, reaching for it on the nightstand. The screen illuminated with a string of notification texts from her college roommate, her sister, and her coworkers. All wishing her a happy birthday.

She glanced over at Joe's side of the bed. Empty. The sound of the shower running down the hall told her where he was.

For a moment, she let herself hope. Maybe he'd been playing an elaborate game. Maybe there was breakfast waiting in the kitchen, or flowers, or some small gift wrapped in her favorite paper.

When she padded into the kitchen in her slippers, she found none of those things. Just a clean counter, the coffee maker running its cycle, and Joe's protein shake in the blender.

Her phone chimed again. Her mom this time: Happy birthday, sweetheart! Hope Joe has something special planned.

Y/N typed back a quick "Thanks!" and left it at that.

By the time Joe emerged from the bathroom, hair damp, hoodie on, joggers that fit just right, she’d already resigned herself to the reality. He’d forgotten. The man who remembered every snap count from his rookie season, who once brought her the exact lip balm she’d mentioned in passing, had somehow forgotten her birthday.

"Morning," he said, dropping a casual kiss on the top of her head as he passed. "Sleep okay?"

"Fine," she managed, watching as he poured his coffee and checked something on his phone.

"So, dinner tonight," he said, not looking up from his screen. "Seven work for you? I made the reservation."

"Seven's fine," she said, forcing brightness into her voice. "Looking forward to it."

Joe glanced up then, his expression unreadable. "You sure you're okay?"

She nodded, wrapping her hands around her mug. "Yeah, just..." She hesitated, giving him one last chance. "Just tired."

"Well, get some rest today," he said, finishing his coffee. "I've got a few things to take care of, but I'll be back to get ready for dinner."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Just errands," he said, already heading for the door. "Stuff for the foundation, gonna get a workout in. I’ll be back in time for dinner."

Before she could respond, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Y/N sat alone at the kitchen island, scrolling through the birthday messages on her phone. Friends asking about her plans. Family hoping she'd have a wonderful day. Only Joe, the person she loved most, seemed to have no idea what today was.

She spent the day in a haze of halfhearted productivity. Her sister called, and Y/N found herself making excuses for Joe. "He's probably just waiting for tonight," she said, not believing it herself. "We're going to Pepp & Dolores."

"That's nice," her sister said, though her tone suggested it wasn't nearly enough. "Well, happy birthday anyway. Love you."

"Love you too," Y/N replied, ending the call with a sigh.

By six, she was getting ready, though her enthusiasm had dimmed considerably. Still, she pulled out the new dress she'd bought last month, deep burgundy, fitted, with a subtle shimmer when she moved. She'd been saving it for a special occasion. And birthday or not, dinner at Pepp & Dolores was still a night out.

She was applying her lipstick when Joe returned, calling her name from the hallway.

"In here," she called back.

He appeared in the doorway of their bathroom, and something in his expression shifted when he saw her, a warmth in his eyes as he took in the dress, her carefully styled hair, the extra effort she'd made.

"You look beautiful," he said quietly.

Despite everything, her heart fluttered a little. "Thanks."

"I should get changed," he said, checking his watch. "Reservations in forty minutes."

Y/N nodded, turning back to the mirror to finish her makeup. Even if he'd forgotten, even if this was just another Tuesday to him, she was determined to make the best of it. Twenty-nine was going to be a good year, birthday celebration or not.

The drive to Pepp & Dolores was quiet, though almost uncomfortably so. Joe seemed preoccupied, checking his mirrors more often than usual and tapping his fingers against the steering wheel at red lights.

"Parking might be tough downtown," he said as they neared the restaurant. "Tuesday night and all."

Y/N just nodded, watching the city lights blur past the window. Tuesday night. Not her birthday. Not any special occasion. Just Tuesday.

When they finally pulled up to the restaurant, Joe handed his keys to the valet with a quiet word that Y/N couldn't quite catch. He seemed almost nervous as he took her hand, leading her toward the entrance.

"Go ahead," he said, his voice oddly tight.

"Mmm," she replied, distracted by the darkened windows of the restaurant. It looked almost empty inside. Was it closed? Had he gotten the reservation wrong?

But Joe pushed open the door confidently, gesturing for her to go in first.

Y/N stepped into the dimly lit entryway, confused by the silence. And then—

"SURPRISE!"

The lights blazed on, revealing a restaurant packed with people, her people. Her parents, her sister, her college roommates, her cousins from home, coworkers, friends—all grinning at her with delight.

Y/N froze, her mouth falling open. The restaurant was transformed, flowers cascading from every surface, candles flickering on the tables, and a banner hanging above the bar said, "Happy Birthday Y/N!"

She turned to Joe, who was watching her with a soft smile, his eyes bright with barely contained joy.

"You didn't..." she breathed, unable to form a complete thought.

"I did," he replied simply.

Her eyes filled with tears as the realization washed over her. He hadn't forgotten. He'd been planning this, all of this, for who knew how long. The fake obliviousness, the casual dinner suggestion, all of it had been leading to this moment.

"Joe," she whispered, her voice catching.

Before she could say more, her parents were there, enveloping her in a hug. Then her sister, her friends, a whirlwind of familiar faces and birthday wishes and exclamations over how surprised she looked.

"We flew in yesterday," her mom explained, squeezing her hand. "Joe arranged everything."

"He's been planning this for months," her college roommate added. "Made us all swear to secrecy."

Y/N looked around in wonder. The entire restaurant had been transformed, decorated with her favorite flowers, strings of lights casting a warm glow over everything. And at the center of it all was Joe, hanging back slightly, watching her reaction with quiet satisfaction.

She made her way back to him through the crowd, her heart so full she thought it might burst.

"I thought you forgot," she admitted, her voice thick with emotion.

Joe shook his head, reaching out to brush a tear from her cheek. "Baby, I'd never forget your birthday," he said softly.

The simple words, delivered in his steady, matter-of-fact way, broke something open inside her. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck as tears flowed freely now.

"Thank you," she murmured against his skin. "For all of this. For everyone being here."

Joe's arms tightened around her, solid and warm and real. "Happy birthday," he said simply. "I love you so much."

When she pulled back to look at him, his eyes were suspiciously bright too, though he'd never admit it. He brushed her hair back from her face with gentle fingers.

"Now come on," he said, his voice returning to its usual calm steadiness. "Everyone's waiting to celebrate with you."

Y/N let him lead her into the crowd, to a table where her parents and sister sat. The night stretched ahead, full of food and laughter and love. She couldn't stop glancing at Joe throughout the evening—this man who had orchestrated all of this, who had maintained the most elaborate ruse, just to see the look of surprise on her face.

As the night went on, she found herself overwhelmed again and again by the friends who had traveled across the country to be there, by the custom menu featuring all her favorites, by the thoughtfulness behind every detail, but most of all by Joe, the one person who never made a big show of anything, and still managed to make her feel like the center of the world.

For a man of few words, it was the most beautiful expression of love she could imagine. As Y/N looked around at the faces of everyone she loved most in the world, gathered in one place because of him, she knew with absolute certainty that twenty-nine was going to be her best year yet.

The celebration was in full swing. The restaurant hummed with conversation and laughter, plates of food being passed around family-style as everyone shared stories and caught up. Y/N sat between her sister and Joe, her cheeks flushed with happiness as she took it all in.

Her favorite pasta arrived, the special one the chef had prepared just for tonight. As she took her first bite, she closed her eyes in appreciation. "This is amazing," she said to no one in particular.

Joe watched her quietly, a small smile playing at his lips. While she was distracted by her food and the conversation her sister was having with her cousin across the table, he reached into his pocket.

The small velvet box had been burning a hole there all night. He'd originally planned to wait until after dessert, maybe find a quieter moment, but sitting here watching her, surrounded by everyone who loved her, glowing with happiness, he suddenly couldn't wait another minute.

He pulled the ring out, keeping it hidden in his palm. Then, casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he reached for her left hand where it rested on the table.

Y/N glanced at him with a smile, assuming he was just holding her hand as he often did. But instead of interlacing their fingers, he slipped something cool and metal onto her ring finger.

She looked down, confused for a split second before her brain registered what was happening. There, catching the soft light of the restaurant, was a ring, elegant, brilliant, and unmistakably an engagement ring.

Her eyes widened, her fork clattering against her plate as she turned to Joe in shock.

He leaned in close, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "I had this whole thing planned for after dinner," he said, his eyes never leaving hers, "but I've been keeping so much from you these past few months planning all this. And I've known even longer that I wanted to do this. I can't wait anymore to ask."

Y/N's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with fresh tears.

"What? What's happening?" her sister asked, suddenly noticing Y/N's expression.

But Y/N couldn't form words, just stared at Joe with her heart in her eyes.

Joe's smile grew a little, that confident half-smirk she'd fallen in love with. "So?" he prompted quietly.

That broke the spell. Y/N let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeal, loud enough that the conversations around them faltered.

"Everything okay over there?" her father called from across the table.

"Joe just asked me to marry him!" Y/N blurted out, holding up her hand where the ring now glittered.

A chorus of gasps and exclamations erupted around the table. "What?" "Just now?" "What did you say?"

Joe, normally so composed, looked almost nervous as he glanced around at her family before turning back to Y/N. "Yeah," he said, louder now so everyone could hear. "What do you say?"

Y/N laughed through her tears, throwing her arms around his neck. "Yes! Are you serious? Yes!"

The restaurant erupted in cheers and applause. Her mother was crying, her father beaming. Friends were on their feet, raising glasses in toasts.

But Y/N was only dimly aware of all that. Her world had narrowed to Joe, to his face so close to hers, to the warmth in his eyes that spoke volumes more than words ever could, to the smile that was no longer controlled but wide and genuine.

"I love you," she whispered against his lips, before kissing him deeply, not caring that they had an audience.

When they finally broke apart, she couldn't stop staring at the ring on her finger. "It's beautiful," she said, her voice filled with wonder.

“Glad you like it,” Joe said, his eyes not leaving hers. “Your sister helped me pick it out. I was overthinking it like crazy.”

As their friends and family surged around them with congratulations and demands to see the ring, Y/N found herself overwhelmed all over again. First the surprise party with everyone she loved, and now this a proposal so perfectly Joe in its quiet simplicity and genuine emotion.

She looked up at him, at this man who continued to surprise her in the best possible ways, and knew with absolute certainty that she'd just received the best birthday gift of all, a future with him.

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abdesade4 · 4 months ago

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Spiral Notebook - Ruled Line

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emmiesoverthemoon · 4 days ago

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AISLE BE DAMNED

two: closer than my comfort allows

wc: 6.3k ss count: 8 < previous | navigation | next >

friday, 2:50pm

the florist studio is tucked into the edge of the city like it belongs somewhere else entirely— glass walls half-swallowed by ivy, a hand-painted sign that reads blush & thistle, and the thick, heady perfume of fresh blooms rolling out onto the street like it’s trying to pull you in.

you’re early for once, as opposed to being just on time.

you stand just outside the doorway, one hand shading your eyes from the afternoon sun as you scan the carefully curated front window: a spiraling bouquet of peonies the color of spilled champagne, ranunculus with edges kissed in soft coral, and something vaguely poetic and wispy in cream. the arrangement is asymmetrical in the way only the most meticulous hands can make look effortless.

it smells like the kind of life you never admit to wanting.

you close your eyes for a breath, let it catch at the back of your throat. it already smells like the wedding. like the version of it you can see in your head— soft, decadent, wild around the edges but structured just enough to hold its shape. like magic, but orderly.

a place where nothing gets dropped. where the timeline bends without breaking. where everything just works.

“i knew you being early as a concept was real,” comes a voice behind you. dry. familiar. amused. “but seeing it in person? shocking.”

you turn without even flinching.

“oh my god,” you say, deadpanning. “you’re early and funny. someone write this down. it needs an entire section in the history books that will be studied for generations to come.”

minho steps beside you without looking over. he’s dressed more casually this time— well, casual for him. a slate-grey sweater layered cleanly over a collared shirt, coat folded neatly over one arm, sleeves already pushed to the forearms like he’s bracing to fix something broken. even now, he looks like a walking google calendar. somehow both timeless and scheduled.

he doesn’t glance at the flowers, just pushes open the glass door and steps inside like he’s done it a thousand times.

you follow behind him. “you didn't tell me this place was so fancy.”

“you never asked,” he replies, voice low as his eyes sweep across the shop’s glossy floors.

inside, the florist is already setting out samples on a long oak table— velvet-lined trays of boutonnières arranged like jewelry displays, pale rose bundles rising from glass cylinders in perfectly staggered tiers, tall taper candles resting in antique brass holders that glow soft gold under the skylights. it’s as close to sacred as a planning space can feel.

you catch your breath for a second.

minho, naturally, doesn’t blink.

he slides his coat onto the back of a nearby chair with surgical precision, then rolls up his sleeves and starts flipping through the sample binder like he’s clocking in at a job he plans to outperform.

you narrow your eyes at him. “you’re awfully comfortable.”

he shrugs. “i like efficiency.”

but then he pauses. his fingers stop mid-turn over a page showcasing a trailing jasmine installation, its shape loose but elegant— intentional, but not rigid. something about the mess that makes sense.

he taps the page once.

“this one,” he asserts.

you blink. “…really?”

“your cousin will love it,” he replies simply. “you were right about the overgrown romantic thing.”

you stare at him.

not just because he said it. but because he said it like it cost nothing. like you being right was a given, not an anomaly. like you weren’t supposed to be on opposite ends of a never-ending argument.

“mark the calendar,” you mutter. “lee minho said something nice and no one has died.”

he rolls his eyes. “yet.”

the walkthrough begins in earnest. the florist leads you both through timelines, options, backup options. you follow her across the studio, scribbling in your notebook, nodding in all the right places, but your eyes keep drifting back to minho.

he’s not watching you. he’s not really watching anything.

he’s tracking.

when your pen slips from your notebook, he catches it mid-fall and sets it silently beside your hand. when the florist struggles with the ladder, he steps in without hesitation, holding it steady with one hand while helping rearrange a stubborn garland with the other. when she asks if you'd prefer the jasmine woven through the arch or draped more freely, you pause, unsure— and minho just says, quietly, “the drape. it catches the light better.”

you watch him without meaning to.

watch the way he folds his sleeves again as they start to slide. how he wipes his palms on his pants before handling delicate pieces. how he does things without being asked, does them well, and says nothing afterward.

it’s infuriating.

it’s— kind of amazing.

he’s not just good at this. he’s quietly good.

the kind of good that doesn’t need credit. that doesn’t point to his work when he’s done. that just makes sure the thing gets finished the way it’s supposed to.

you hate how the chaos seems less sharp when he’s near it.

you hate that you didn’t see it sooner.

you hate that you are seeing it now.

and you really, really hate the way your stomach flips when he steps back from the archway, nods at the florist, and says, “better. now it looks like it was meant to be here.”

what the hell is this supposed to mean?

later, as the florist talks through delivery dates, you find yourself zoning out just enough to realise how close the two of you are standing now. how his shoulder brushes yours each time he shifts weight. how he doesn’t seem to mind.

he notices everything, and yet— he doesn’t step away.

you’re not sure what that means.

you’re not sure you want to know.

you scribble a few final notes. mostly for show. your brain is a fog of jasmine, candle wax, and the smell of minho’s cologne that is unfortunately expensive and effective.

the florist asks for a final decision on what centrepieces and small motifs you’d like to order for the dining tables.

you open your mouth to speak, but before you do, minho leans forward, just slightly.

“she wants the low ones,” he affirms. “so people can see each other across the tables.”

the florist nods while ticking a section in her binder, then turns away.

you look at him.

not annoyed. not defensive.

just—

“how’d you know that?”

he shrugs. doesn’t look at you. “your eyes hovered over that section of the page for almost a full minute.”

you blink.

“…what?” he questions, catching your stare.

“nothing.”

“you’re doing the face.”

“what face?”

“the one where you realise i’m useful.”

you scoff. “i’d rather die.”

he grins.

not smirks. grins.

full, unguarded, slightly lopsided, but bright across his whole face. not for show, not for spite.

just for a second.

just for you.

and it hits you somewhere low and warm. something small but deep and entirely unprepared for.

you look away. immediately.

the florist clears her throat gently. you say something vaguely articulate.

he doesn’t look at you again.

when the meeting wraps, he helps pack the samples with the same quiet competence. he holds the door for her, thanks her for her time, checks the time and murmurs “on schedule, good” under his breath.

you linger by the car after. watching his hands as he scrolls through his calendar. efficient. focused.

you try not to notice his sharp knuckles or the veins raised along his wrists and hands that contorted with each of his movements.

you fail.

you used to think he was cold.

now you’re starting to wonder if he’s just careful.

and if maybe—just maybe—there’s more under that surface than either of you are ready to say out loud.

friday, 8:14pm

saturday, 12:48pm

sunday, 4:23pm

he should have said no to meeting at her place.

he should have said no the second the words “you can just come over, i have snacks and post-its” appeared in his texts like that was a normal thing to offer your co-planner. like it was a completely neutral suggestion to invite someone you had spent the past week or so bickering with into your living room with snacks and oddly aggressively colour-coded planning boards.

he told himself it was fine. he would stay an hour, maybe less. they would rearrange the seating chart, double-check the RSVPs, confirm vendor follow-ups, and move on. he wasn’t there to hang out. or linger. or notice things.

but now he was standing at your door, folder under his arm, coffee in his free hand, staring at the crooked little magnet on your front door that read:

no bad vibes (and also no men with opinions)

he stared at it for five seconds.

then knocked.

the door swung open on the second knock. you were already mid-sentence, wild and animated, one sock bunched halfway down your ankle like you hadn’t stopped moving all morning.

“ignore the mess,” you spoke quickly before he could get a greeting in, backing up into the apartment. “i’ve been in wedding-brain for three hours and i’m down a glue stick and most of my dignity.”

he stepped inside.

the first thing he noticed was the smell. vanilla and paper and something faintly like clean linen or lotion. the second thing was the absolute chaos spread across your living room floor. cushions tossed around a coffee table covered in seating cards, floor plan sketches, colour swatches, and the remains of what looked like a very enthusiastic snack run.

it looked like a storm made of washi tape had landed here and been told to get married.

“you said this would be a working meeting,” he said.

“this is a working meeting,” you replied, nudging a space clear on the floor for him to sit. “it just happens to include a little pizazz. and comfortableness. essentials!”

he didn’t roll his eyes. not outwardly.

but he did hesitate before lowering himself onto the floor beside you.

close. too close, maybe. but the coffee table left no room for distance.

“we’ll be quick,” he informed, opening his folder. “just seating and caterer reconfirmation. no need to—”

“minho,” you interrupted, reaching across him for a pen. “i designed laminated name tags! see?”

he blinked.

“you… laminated them?”

you held one up like it was a trophy, waving it proudly. “mhm, we’re not animals in this household.”

he didn’t respond. but he felt the corner of his mouth twitch once. involuntarily.

they settled into the work slowly.

or rather— you settled. you were cross-legged, phone propped against a jar of markers, flipping through guest notes and muttering about which side of the family was “least likely to start a scene,” or who was most incompatible with the elders of the family. your handwriting was neat but frantic. your mind, faster than your mouth.

he sat straighter. made notes in real time. watched your process like it was a foreign language he almost understood.

and slowly—almost annoyingly—he found himself syncing to it.

you spoke in half-formed ideas. he filled in the blanks.

you reached for one name, he already had it sorted alphabetically.

you frowned at the spacing when it felt off, he adjusted the layout with three quick gestures and no fanfare.

he didn’t ask questions. he didn’t announce when you had made a mistake. he just fixed it, no questions asked.

and for once, you didn’t fight him on it.

sometime between the third snack break and the fourth round of placements, he started noticing things.

like how you always tapped the side of her pencil twice before suggesting a change.

how you rechecked the same line of the guest list even after he’d confirmed it.

how you would squint at the chart with the intensity of someone trying to win an argument without saying a word.

and also— how your knee kept brushing his.

not deliberately. not flirtatiously. just the accidental contact of two people sitting too close for too long, both pretending not to notice.

but minho did notice.

he noticed it every time.

and the longer they sat there, the more aware of you he became. not in a distracting way. not even in a romantic one.

just… aware.

your perfume. faint. sweet. nothing showy. just you.

your fingers. always moving. fidgeting. rearranging.

your voice. lower when you were focused. softer.

your laugh, when you let it slip between sentences— unconfined, quick, like it surprised even you.

he didn’t want to learn these things. he just did.

“what if we moved table six next to the head table?” you suggested suddenly, breaking his spiral. “it’s awkward now, having these people out by the fireplace. it’s too far.”

he looked down at the map. then up at her.

you were biting the corner of her lip. unsure, for once.

he took the name cards. shifted the pieces around. slid your proposed change into place.

“you’re right,” he agreed.

you blinked. “i am?”

he nodded. “it balances the room.”

you smiled then— soft and easy. the kind that didn’t feel defensive or smug or rehearsed. the kind that made something buzz low in his throat.

“you’re not bad at this,” you hummed.

“you sound surprised.”

“just impressed. you didn’t even sigh once this time.”

“yet.”

you laughed again. this time, he let himself smile too.

they sat in that hush for a long moment. paper around them like flower petals. warm yellow light spilling from the lamp above. your shoulder barely brushing his. his thumb tapping absently against the corner of a card.

he didn’t say the thing in his throat.

the one that sounded a lot like you’re easier to be around than i thought. i like this more than i’m letting myself admit.

he didn’t say anything at all.

but when he reached for the final place card and your fingers met his halfway, neither of you pulled back.

not for a second.

then—finally—you stood, and stretched your arms above your head.

the moment broke like sugar glass.

“i’ll finalise this tonight,” you spoke. “unless you want to triple-check everything in your sleep.”

he stood too. adjusted his folder. gave you a look.

“only twice.”

you rolled your eyes.

he watched you without meaning to.

in the car, on the way back to his side of the city, he stared out the window.

not thinking about anything.

but not not thinking about you.

that was new.

monday, 10:02am

wednesday, 1:27pm

friday, 5:11pm

the sky is a melted spill of lavender and peach, the last sun-glow dipping behind the treetops. the breeze is warm for winter, dusted in late golden hour, and you’re adjusting the strap of your dress with a pit in your stomach and a buzzing under your skin.

you smooth your dress again. fix the collar of your coat. stare at your reflection in the hallway mirror like it might give you instructions.

just take a deep breath.

it’s just minho.

just minho, who once called your table styling “visually exhausting.” minho, who adjusted the itinerary once because your bullet points weren’t “uniform enough.” minho, who made planning feel like a chess match played with garden shears.

except tonight, you are fairly certain he is in a suit.

you do not know that for a fact, but you’ve heard him say “semi-formal” in the exact same tone most people say “murder,” and if he took it seriously—which he would—then he is absolutely out there right now dressed like a warning label for heartbreak.

you are not nervous. you are not. you are just slightly flushed from the glass of white wine you definitely did not drink to calm yourself. and maybe your hands are a little cold, and maybe your thoughts are not particularly safe for work, but—

you peek through the front window.

he’s here.

minho. suit-clad. leaning against the side of his car like he stepped out of a magazine editorial called brooding elegance. charcoal grey jacket and black slacks, tie tied almost too perfectly around his neck. his sleeves are rolled just slightly, enough to reveal forearms and a glint of silver watch that should not make you feel the way it does. his hair is still damp from a recent shower, the ends curling just above his temples.

you grip the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping your knees upright.

and then— your phone lights up. his name. your thumb hesitates above the screen before you answer.

“i’m outside,” he informs, voice smooth, low. irritatingly calm.

you nearly drop your phone. “be down in a sec,” you reply, breathless. “hold your horses. or whatever it is you drive.”

the door opens.

he turns.

you descend the steps one by one, heels soft against the concrete, coat draped over your arms, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes catch— how they stay fixed. the way he straightens up as if jolted by electricity.

he blinks. once. twice.

and then— he swears under his breath. quietly. reverently.

he’s trying to stay neutral. to act like your presence in that dress isn’t causing minor system failure. but he is not fooling anyone. especially not himself.

he opens the passenger door for you.

“you look—” he begins, but then his voice cuts out like he changed his mind halfway through.

“you’re driving?” you deflect, half-laughing, already sliding into the seat.

“i can legally operate a vehicle,” he feigns offense, but his mouth twitches into a smile. he sits in the drivers seat. “don’t act surprised.”

“no, it’s not that. it’s just…” you exhale and give him a pointed once-over. “you. suit. behind the wheel. how dare you.”

“oh how dare i, hm?”

his hands tense around the wheel, knuckles white.

“the way you said that. oh that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you murmur to yourself, quietly enough so that he doesn’t hear.

he does hear it.

the rest of the ride is quiet. not silent, not comfortable, charged. like someone turned the volume down on the world but turned the brightness way, way up.

his cologne coils low in your throat. something clean, something subtle, like cedar, cold water, and a hint of heat beneath. you keep your eyes ahead, fingers fidgeting in your lap, trying not to notice the line of his thigh pressed close, the way his hand flexes on the gearshift. the flick of his gaze toward you at every red light.

he doesn’t speak. but he feels. like static across your skin.

friday, 5:44pm

the venue is glowing when you arrive— fairy lights strung in loose constellations through the trellises, draping low over the courtyard like starlight caught in a net. soft instrumental music filters through hidden speakers, just shy of orchestral, just shy of overwhelming. it pools into the golden hour like it belongs there. like it was written to gild the edges of a night like this.

it’s elegant. lush. dizzying.

it’s everything you had wanted for your cousin. it’s everything you had drafted in sketches, pinterest boards, and blurry midnight notes in your phone.

and it feels real now.

you step inside. and minho is beside you.

not ahead, not trailing behind— just there. shoulder to shoulder. like the rhythm has been established and neither of you are willing to break it now.

you both field questions like co-hosts. not just efficient— seamless. one unit split between two bodies.

he defers to you on décor. you defer to him on vendor logistics. a glance is all it takes for a decision to be made.

people notice.

they always do.

someone’s aunt knocks over a glass of wine with a too-wide gesture. you both move at once— him for the glass, you for the napkins. he catches it mid-fall. you’re already blotting the linen. he holds the glass steady as you reach for it. your hands brush— barely.

neither of you says anything.

but your pulse thuds behind your ears.

he disappears at one point and reappears moments later with a new drink, no explanation. he does not ask if you want it. just places it beside your elbow like it belongs there. there for you if you were to want a fresh glass. he would be unoffended if you left it, you know. he just wants you to have what you want.

obviously only in the context of ease and convenience. nothing else.

you do not thank him out loud.

you just hand him a new place card for table five without being prompted.

this is how it goes now. reflexive. unspoken. comfortably in swing with each other.

you do not touch.

but you almost do.

when you reach across him for the floral sample, your sleeve brushes his wrist.

he doesn’t move.

at one point, you bend to fix the ribbon placement along the sweetheart table. he kneels beside you, adjusting the arrangement opposite your hands with quiet precision. you’re close— close enough to see the shadow of his lashes, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he concentrates.

you glance over to him.

he’s already looking at you.

and for one full second, neither of you look away.

your breath sticks.

his fingers pause mid-placement.

then—too fast—he clears his throat and shifts back like nothing happened.

“you handled that toast well,” he compliments—almost smugly—later, voice just behind your shoulder.

you turn your head, slightly.

he’s close enough that the scent of his cologne fogs your senses. warm. dark. something spiced that makes your head hum.

“was that a compliment?” you murmur, lips tilted.

he blinks once. then—quiet, like it’s an accident—he says, “maybe.”

you don’t answer.

but you also don’t move away.

you stand like that for a few long beats. shoulder to shoulder in the half-lit hallway, the sound of laughter echoing off the walls from the next room. the party goes on without you. but your body is tuned to him, now. to the static, the charge, the sharp ache of whatever this is becoming.

friday, 7:32pm

the courtyard is warm with late sun and champagne. the soft glimmer of fairy lights makes the air feel a little enchanted— like something impossible might happen if you just stepped a little farther into the gold.

you step back instead.

a soft breeze trails through the stone archway as you slip away from the bustle, away from the table setup and the politely enthusiastic relatives and the never-ending sea of questions. you don’t go far— just near the fountain, where the string music fades into a gentler hush and the flowers curl around the trellises like they grew just for tonight.

you breathe.

a moment. just one.

and then, your cousin appears. she’s still in rehearsal whites, hair pinned up loosely, glowing with that particular kind of joy that only belongs to the week before a wedding. when she sees you, she smiles like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

"you look like you needed rescuing," she laughs softly, linking her arm through yours.

you breathe out a soft laugh. "i was hiding."

"same thing."

you stand like that for a moment. the breeze is just warm enough, the laughter from inside low and soft like it's part of the décor.

she pulls back slightly to look at you. "so… how are things going with my two favourite planners?"

you snort. "we haven’t killed each other. yet."

"interesting," she hums, tilting her head, clearly playing innocent. "because it looked a lot like i saw minho refill your glass and brush the hair off your shoulder and laugh at something that was not remotely funny."

"he didn’t—"

"mmhm."

you blink, suddenly aware of the residual warmth in your chest. of the way you’d caught yourself watching him earlier— adjusting the lighting chart, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. how he’d glanced over like he felt it too. like he was watching you back.

"he’s just being polite," you dismiss finally.

"he’s never been polite a day in his life."

you glare. "do you want me to plan your wedding or not."

she grins, completely unbothered. "just sayin’. you two are… something."

"something?"

"something. simmering."

a moment passes.

she rests her head briefly against your shoulder, voice gentler now. “thank you. for everything. i know this past time has been hell, i know how he can be to deal with sometimes. i know i dumped you into this on the spot when i asked you.”

you shake your head. “no, you didn’t. i said yes. and… i’m glad i did.”

“even with him?”

“…maybe especially with him.”

she smiles. then, her head perks up like she’s just remembered something.

"anyway—before i forget—do you have next weekend blocked out?"

you furrow your brows. "uh. no? what’s next weekend? i didn't think i had forgotten something was on..."

"oh no, you didn't forget. i just booked this yesterday. it's a super crazy catering presentation, with that chef group you picked out—great taste, by the way. it’s at their fancy vineyard estate a few hours out. the head chef wants you and minho to sample the full menu and sign off."

"that sounds…" you trail off, suspicious.

"delicious?" your cousin offers.

"inconvenient."

"it’s in the evening," she says, all fake-cheerful. "they’re serving everything as a full-course dinner. with champagne pairings. and the estate insists on overnight guests to ‘ensure palette clarity’ or some crap."

"girl—"

"relax. i already booked the room."

"the room? singular?"

"the one room they had left."

you stare at her.

she smiles like she just got away with a crime. "it’s all they had on short notice! i said you were very close coworkers."

"you’re going to hell."

"worth it."

you cover your face with both hands. she hugs you sideways.

"you’re welcome," she smiles into your shoulder. "only good can come from this."

friday, 9:17pm

the champagne goes straight to your head.

not a lot. but just enough.

you’re perched beside him on a low stone ledge in the garden, empty glasses between you, the air full of murmuring laughter and distant violin.

you’re tipsy. not sloppy. you’re still completely in control, just loose around the edges.

your cheeks are warm. your guard’s cracked.

you glance sideways. he’s got one arm draped across his knee, suit jacket folded neatly over a nearby chair, dress shirt unbuttoned just slightly at the collar, tie abandoned to his pocket.

“you look really—” you start. pause. sip your drink even though it’s empty. “—stupid hot tonight.”

minho stills.

you don’t look at him when you say it. you stare straight ahead. pretend it was a joke. a mistake. a side effect of the alcohol.

but he turns slowly.

you feel the weight of his gaze like a hand on your throat.

he says nothing.

he doesn’t need to.

the air shifts. tightens.

his knee brushes yours.

you don’t move.

he should say something. you should say something.

instead, you both just sit in it. the weight of what was said and what wasn’t. the electric hum under your skin. the way your eyes catch on the curve of his mouth every time he exhales.

someone calls you both back, instantly shattering any moment you both were in. minho helps you up and aside to let you reenter the building first, his palm lightly brushing the centre of your back to guide you.

you almost thank him.

you almost reach for his wrist as you pass.

but neither of you breaks the silence.

instead, you fall back into step.

like gravity.

like a pattern already written.

and in every step beside him, in every look passed between wine glasses and candles, the truth lingers beneath the surface:

you are not pretending to hate each other anymore.

but you are still pretending not to want.

and that’s worse.

so much worse.

friday, 10:01pm

it’s later that night, and the party is starting to splinter— guests leaving in soft clusters, heels in hands, speeches echoing in their laughter. minho stands near the exit, nursing the last half of a drink that’s long since lost its chill.

minho does not look for you.

he’s been doing that all night. too much. too obviously.

so now, he’s looking at the chandelier. or the gift table. or absolutely anything that isn’t the swing of your dress across the room.

"you’re brooding," comes a voice to his left.

he turns slowly, and sees the groom looking back at him.

"i’m standing," minho replies.

"brooding while standing, then." his friend clinks their glasses together. “what’s going on with you and my fiancée’s cousin?”

minho exhales through his nose. “nothing.”

"mhmm. and yet here you are, glowering into your whiskey like a tortured protagonist.”

"we’re working."

"you’re working,” the groom echoes, nodding with mock seriousness. “working together. respectfully. professionally. with all that almost-hand-touching and deep eye contact."

minho sips his drink and says nothing.

"anyway," the groom says, smirking now, "the missus told me i was meant to give you a heads-up."

minho raises a brow.

"about next weekend. the vineyard. she booked you both in for the catering run-through."

“right,” minho nods. “the dinner thing was mentioned to me earlier in passing.”

“it’s a whole presentation now,” the groom replies. “chef’s running a full-course mock-up— wine pairings, menu tasting, all that. they’re trying to make a night of it. impress you.”

minho nods once. this was practical. expected, even.

then the groom adds, far too casually: “and they’ve got a room ready for you two.”

minho pauses. “a room?”

“mhm. they only had one left. something about peak wedding season. it's been booked already.”

there’s a beat of silence. the music has shifted— slow, distant, some soft piano instrumental echoing through the space like the tail end of a love story.

minho sets his glass down with a little more force than necessary.

“it’s not weird,” the groom offers, attempting nonchalance. “it’s a huge room. i think. probably. big vineyard. rustic charm. candles and shit. very aesthetic.”

“why would i care,” minho says, voice tight. his attempt to cover the fact that he in fact does care is futile.

the groom’s expression shifts— just slightly. “you shouldn’t. obviously. but you do look a little…”

"i don’t."

“…weirdly tense about it.”

minho closes his eyes for half a second. opens them again.

“we’re professionals,” he breathes evenly. “we’ll manage.”

"mm. you do seem like you're managing. especially when you aren’t staring at her for three minutes straight across the bar."

minho doesn’t reply.

he picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. straightens the collar. and ignores the grin spreading across his friend’s face.

"if it helps," the groom remarks, one last parting shot, “from the time that i've known her, i think she likes working with you.”

minho freezes for half a breath.

then leaves. the silence swells around him, full of everything he didn’t say. didn’t ask.

she likes working with you.

he lets the words sink in.

one room.

one dinner.

not a problem.

not a problem at all.

this might be a problem.

friday, 10:37pm

on the way back, the silence is unbearable.

minho drives.

his right hand stays steady on the wheel, knuckles tight with restraint, the other resting uselessly on the gear shift as though it needs something to grip— anything to ground him. the interior of the car smells like you. your perfume, the faintest trace of champagne on your breath, your laughter still echoing somewhere in the seams of the leather seats.

you do not speak.

you do not dare.

your body is turned slightly toward the window, knees angled just enough to look casual, but not distant. the air between you is vibrating, humming with the static of everything that did not get said. your thigh brushes his once—accidental. then again, more like a whisper. more like your skin asking a question it cannot voice.

he does not flinch.

you are thinking things you are not supposed to think.

what his mouth would taste like— how it would feel to pull him in by the collar and kiss him like you mean it. what sound he would make if you said his name like a secret. if his hands would hesitate or devour. whether his tie is still tucked into his coat pocket and whether he would ever let you tug on it just once.

you grip the hem of your coat tighter in your fists.

outside, the streetlights paint passing gold ribbons across your thighs, your cheek, the line of his jaw when you steal a glance.

a red light.

you risk it.

you look at him.

and he is already watching you.

his eyes are dark, unreadable. but something inside them flickers— something raw and wrecked and wanting. his jaw is tense. his mouth parted like there are words balanced right there on the edge, waiting to tumble out if only he could bear to say them.

he opens his mouth.

your breath catches. you feel it— feel the shift, the second the air grows tight and ready to snap. your lips part too, like maybe this is it. maybe this is the moment everything gives way.

but then—

the light turns green.

he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours.

and he drives.

he walks you to your door because he is polite. because he is eighty-five percent sure you're still tipsy, and you actually don’t know what you’re doing. (you do know). because if he leaves without seeing you inside, he will worry. because if he leaves without one last look, he will break.

you fumble with your keys.

your hands shake a little— not obviously, not enough for him to comment, but you feel it. the adrenaline of something almost-born still stuttering beneath your ribs. you glance up once, open your mouth. the words are right there, tucked beneath your tongue. i wanted to kiss you. i don’t hate you anymore. i don’t want to pretend.

but he speaks first.

“goodnight.”

simple. even. too smooth to be accidental.

you blink.

“…goodnight,” you echo.

neither of you moves.

he stands there, hands in the pockets of his coat, chest rising slowly. you think he might lean in again, just slightly, barely perceptible— but you see it. you feel it. like the universe is teetering forward with him.

his gaze traces the outline of your lips.

your collarbone.

your eyes.

you are all heat, all pulse, and all maybe, and he is looking at you like he might do something unforgivable.

but then— he tilts his head. just a fraction. and steps back.

“see you soon, get some rest,” he mutters, voice thick, rough around the edges like it scraped against everything he did not say.

you nod. even though you are not ready. even though your mouth aches with every unspoken thing you swallowed down instead.

the door closes softly behind you.

you lean against it. then slide down to the floor in your stupid pretty dress and too-warm skin and heartbeat that does not know how to calm down. you press your palm flat to the hardwood flooring, like if you stay there long enough you might still feel the echo of his footsteps through it.

you want to tell him to come back. say something. scream.

instead, you just sit there, clutching your coat like it might explain anything.

outside, he does not move.

minho stands under the porch light, eyes fixed on the crack between your curtains, trying to convince himself to turn around. to breathe. to forget.

but he can't.

his hands curl into fists inside his pockets, like they’re holding him together. like if he loosens one finger, the whole thing might break.

minho doesn't sleep that night.

and neither do you.

both of you lying in separate beds, in separate parts of the city, thinking the exact same thing:

i should have said something.

i should have kissed them.

but the window of opportunity has closed. and the night has carried on, leaving you in the dust.

saturday, 11:04am

the morning is too bright.

you wake with your cheek pressed into your pillow and your hand curled beneath your chin, the imprint of last night’s makeup faint against the fabric. your mouth is dry. your hair smells like champagne and something floral.

you do not open your eyes right away.

you are remembering things. not dreams— real things.

his hand on the small of your back, guiding you inside like it was nothing.

the look he gave you when you stepped into the car.

the silence between you, thick enough to drown in.

you should have said something.

you roll onto your back with a hefty sigh, blanket kicked to the floor, one arm draped across your stomach like it might hold the ache there still. it is not a romantic ache. not a lovesick one. it is sharper than that. brighter. like your body is still buzzing from a voltage it was never allowed to discharge.

your phone is facedown on your nightstand. you consider ignoring it.

you do not.

the screen lights up in your palm— no messages from him. no messages to him, either. not yet.

your text thread from yesterday is still open, like it’s waiting for one of you to admit something.

it mocks you.

you type out thanks for the ride

then delete it.

you type what would you have done if i brought you inside?

then delete it.

you type did you get home okay?

then delete that too.

you lock your phone and toss it gently across the bed.

in the kitchen, your kettle sputters to life, and you lean against the counter, waiting, eyes still swollen from too little sleep. your dress is still pooled on the chair. your heels by the door.

you don’t feel bad.

you just feel… unsettled.

as if something important almost happened.

as if it still might.

somewhere across the city, minho sits on the edge of his bed, tie still crumpled in the pocket of his coat, phone in his hand. his thumb hovers above your name, unread messages unsent.

he’d meant to text.

he’d meant to say goodnight, or you looked beautiful, or what would you have done if i leaned in?

he doesn’t text any of those things.

instead, he gets up, drags a hand through his hair, and stares at the mess on his desk— your invitation designs, your schedules, your ceremony timings.

everything in its place.

everything but this.

he thinks about your perfume.

the way you looked at him when you said that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.

how your fingers almost touched his at the stoplight.

how he almost said i wanted to kiss you and instead said nothing at all.

he makes coffee, and proceeds to not drink it.

he tells himself to let it go.

he knows he won’t.

you sip your tea slowly.

you scroll through photos you do not remember taking— random areas of the venue, family members you haven’t seen in too long, and only one of minho. it appears to have been taken in a random room at the venue, you think he was speaking with some vendors? the memory is foggy. it’s a candid image, and your slightly blurred-drunken photography gives it a dreamy look, making him appear even more ethereal than you remember.

you stop on that one and stare at it for a long time. it’s like you’re frozen in a daze, he’s so capturing.

then, you open your messages with him and him the image.

just that.

no message. no caption. no follow-up.

you leave your phone on the counter and walk away.

when you return five minutes later, there’s a reply.

your heart stutters once.

you close the thread.

and smile. freely.

you’re alone, and you’re sick of pretending he isn’t the reason for it.

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thanks for reading chapter two! keep hanging around for chapter three and beyond <3

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