#static headers

[strangergraphics]

tv static headers:

version one:

font used: rubik vinyl (on canva)

blank version:

version two:

font used: architype stedelijk (on canva)

blank version:

please like and credit if you use, reblogs are appreciated! thank you! 💕

[cutewebgraphics]

[gonethroughthevhstapes]

I love my new url cause if you know you know, and if you don't it just sounds like I like old tech or something

[hwizou]

Jingliu tumblr layouts　☆

psd used here

F2u with credit

I made a poll earlier for this but I decided to delete it :3

[ruby-static]

Hey, who's this guy.

Saw people joining this place, so might as well. Check me out!

[brbuttons]

We were prepping our teletext pages for stream and stumbled upon this, with no recollection of having ever made it.

We can make an educated guess on which alter did, but. damn.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

　ུᩧ　 THE OLDER THE BETTERRRR !

₊˚ෆ tws : dilf mydei x fem!reader. nsfw/smut, creampie, clit play, clit slapping, dumbification, pet-names, dacryphilia, boob obsessed mydei, overstimulation, size kink, mentions of reader drooling, age gap, degradation, man handling, aftercare, slight fluff, multiple of rounds, body worship and praise kink.

₊˚ෆ synopsis : You should’ve known better than to follow Mydei home. That deep voice, those sharp golden eyes, the smirk that spelled trouble—you were his before he even laid a hand on you. Now, you’re beneath him, wrecked and trembling as he fucks you open, every slow thrust leaving you dazed and drooling, lost in his teasing words and the pleasure he drags out of you. (Modern au)

₊˚ෆ note : not proof read. header is a doujinshi and you can find it on X/Twitter from : sakuranotomoru !! also I wrote this half asleep.

You should’ve known what you were getting into when you followed Mydei home.

The way he looked at you across the café table, the way his deep, smooth voice wrapped around his words like he already had you figured out—it was enough to make your mind hazy before he even laid a hand on you.

Now, you were here, stretched out on his bed, your body trembling beneath him. His hands, large and firm, roamed your skin with possessive ease, his golden eyes drinking in every inch of you.

“Such a pretty thing,” he murmured, his voice thick with amusement and something darker. “Didn’t think you’d be this sensitive. Just a little touch, and you’re already shaking.”

You whimpered, barely able to respond. Your thoughts had melted the moment Mydei had started touching you, his fingers expertly teasing your clit, slow and deliberate. His size alone overwhelmed you, his body covering yours completely as he loomed over you, his broad chest firm and warm against your skin.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?” he teased, dragging his fingers through your slick folds before pressing a thumb against your clit again, making you jolt. “Can’t even answer me? Is it too much?”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a pathetic whimper. Your lips were parted, a thin string of drool trailing down your chin as your mind turned into nothing but static under his touch. Mydei clicked his tongue.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he chuckled, low and pleased, “You really are dumb for me, huh?”

You didn’t even care how embarrassing it was—you were dumb for him. Everything he did felt too good, too intense. His fingers were thicker than anyone’s you’d ever had, stretching you open with ease, pressing against the deepest parts of you. And he wasn’t even inside yet.

Your back arched as his thumb circled your clit again, this time with more pressure. The sensation sent a fresh wave of pleasure rolling through you, and you whined, grabbing at his wrist in desperation.

“Too much—” you gasped, legs trembling.

“Too much?” Mydei repeated, tilting his head. "You're already making such a mess, and I’ve barely even started."

He pressed a soft kiss against your cheek, deceptively sweet, before his other hand came up to wipe away the tear that had slipped down your face. His thumb smeared the wetness across your cheek, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Crying already? Thought you could handle this,” he cooed mockingly.

Your response was a choked sob, half-pleasure, half-overwhelmed, as he pressed his fingers deeper inside you, curling just right. You felt lightheaded, pleasure building too fast, too sharp.

“Mydei—” you gasped, your body tightening around him.

“Shhh,” he hushed, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart. You don’t need to think. Just let me use this pretty little body, yeah?”

His words made your walls flutter around his fingers, and Mydei chuckled at how easy you were to read. “Oh? You like that? Being my dumb little thing, just here to feel good?”

You nodded weakly, your mind blanking out completely as another wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your body trembled under him, mouth falling open in a silent cry.

“That’s it,” Mydei murmured, his pace never slowing. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Show me how much you need me.”

Your release hit you hard, your body jerking, breath stuttering as the pleasure washed over you. But Mydei didn’t stop. His fingers kept moving, coaxing you through it, overstimulating you as you writhed beneath him.

“Too much,” you whimpered, eyes hazy with tears, legs twitching.

“I know, sweetheart,” he cooed, but there was no mercy in his voice. "But I’m not done with you yet.”

And as he finally pulled his fingers out, only to replace them with the thick press of his cock, you realized he meant it.

Your body felt like it was floating—weightless, boneless, completely wrecked—and Mydei had only just started.

His fingers left you empty, leaving a desperate ache behind. Your walls fluttered around nothing, your body still twitching from your last orgasm, and yet, when he pressed the thick head of his cock against your entrance, another needy whimper slipped from your lips.

“That’s a good girl,” Mydei murmured, his voice smooth, approving. He rolled his hips forward just enough to tease you, letting you feel the impossible stretch that was about to come. “Look at you. So fucked out already, and I haven’t even given you my cock yet.”

You could barely process his words, your brain foggy with pleasure, but the feeling of him pushing inside you was all-consuming. He was big—of course he was—and the stretch made your thighs tremble around his waist.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groaned, his voice raspier now, roughened by restraint. “You’re squeezing me so tight. You’re gonna let me fit, aren’t you?”

You gasped, barely nodding, tears welling in your eyes again as he pushed deeper, filling you inch by inch. His cock stretched your pussy open so perfectly, so overwhelmingly, that for a moment, all you could do was clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Mydei whispered, his lips grazing your temple. “Your pussy’s drooling all over me, sweetheart. You were made to take me.”

A broken moan escaped your lips. The feeling of him stretching you, of him owning the space inside you, made your mind slip further into the haze. You could feel yourself spiraling—thoughts slipping away, leaving nothing but the pleasure, nothing but him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Mydei praised, rolling his hips forward again, sinking deeper. “Give in. Don’t think, just feel.”

Your body obeyed him before your mind could even catch up. Every inch of you belonged to him now—every moan, every twitch, every tear that spilled down your cheek as he finally bottomed out inside you, his cock stretching you to your limit.

“There we go,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, keeping you steady. “So full now, huh? Look at you, stuffed so perfectly.”

Your head lolled to the side, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, your body completely limp beneath him.

“Fuck, you’re so cute like this,” Mydei murmured, his thumb reaching up to wipe the wetness from your chin, his expression dark with satisfaction. “Already gone for me. Just a dumb little thing, huh?”

You whimpered, nodding weakly, and Mydei smirked.

“Good girl.”

And then he moved.

His first thrust was slow but deep, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, making you sob at the sheer intensity of it. His cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you, the stretch making your walls clench down on him instinctively.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue, voice filled with amusement and something darker—something possessive. “Squeezing me so tight, sweetheart. It’s like your body doesn’t want to let me go.”

Your only response was a choked sob, your walls fluttering around him as he dragged his cock out agonizingly slow before sinking back in, deeper this time, hitting a spot that made your vision blur.

“Oh, that’s the spot, isn’t it?” Mydei’s voice was velvety smooth, dripping with smug satisfaction. He kept his pace slow, teasing, letting you feel every inch of him as he stretched you open again and again. “You’re already cock-drunk, and I’ve barely even fucked you yet.”

You whined, the pleasure too much and not enough at the same time. Your nails dug into his shoulders, as if holding onto him would keep you grounded, but Mydei wasn’t letting you have control. No—he owned this moment, owned you, and he made sure you felt it.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his thumb brushing away the fresh tears rolling down your flushed cheeks. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“I—I—” Your words crumbled the second he snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, making you cry out. Your mind was blank, reduced to nothing but the feeling of him—his cock splitting you open, his weight pressing you into the mattress, the rough drag of his breath as he restrained himself from outright ruining you.

“Poor thing,” Mydei cooed, his tone mockingly sweet as he pulled out almost completely before slamming back in, his hips meeting yours with a sharp smack. “Too dumb to even talk now?”

Your back arched, a garbled whimper spilling from your lips as pleasure overtook you completely. You felt the wet heat of drool pooling at the corner of your mouth, your body limp and pliant beneath him.

Mydei’s golden eyes darkened as he took in the sight. “Look at you, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick with approval. His thumb swiped along your lower lip, collecting the slick before pushing it back into your mouth. “Such a mess. So fucking cute when you fall apart for me.”

The sound you made was desperate, wrecked, and Mydei groaned, his control snapping. His pace turned rougher, deeper, hungrier, his hips grinding against yours with each thrust. You felt everything—the stretch, the fullness, the way his cock nudged that perfect spot inside you over and over again, sending waves of heat flooding your veins.

“Mydei—!” His name broke from your lips in a sob as the coil in your stomach tightened, pleasure crashing over you so intensely that your whole body trembled.

“Good girl,” Mydei growled, feeling the way your walls clenched around him, your pussy pulsing as you came hard around his cock. But he didn’t stop. If anything, he sped up.

The overstimulation was immediate, your body shuddering as his fingers found your clit again, circling it with firm, calculated strokes. “One more, sweetheart. I know you can give me one more.”

You shook your head, gasping, tears spilling freely now. “Too—too much—”

Mydei leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he purred, “You can take it.” His voice was commanding, his pace relentless as he fucked you through the aftershocks, dragging out your pleasure until you were babbling, lost in it.

Your body tensed again, that unbearable heat coiling inside you too fast, too much, but Mydei didn’t let up.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his own voice strained, his grip tightening on your hips as his thrusts grew erratic. “Cum for me again, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

You had no choice but to obey. Your second orgasm ripped through you, even stronger than the first, leaving you sobbing in pleasure as your whole body shook beneath him. Your vision blurred, stars dancing behind your eyes, and you barely registered the deep, guttural groan Mydei let out as he finally spilled inside you, his cock pulsing with each wave of his release.

The room was filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, the lingering echoes of pleasure still humming between you. Mydei kept himself buried inside you for a moment, his hands smoothing over your trembling body, grounding you as you came back down from the high.

“Shhh,” he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. “You did so good for me, sweetheart.”

You barely had the energy to respond, your body spent, your mind hazy, but the warmth of Mydei’s embrace was enough to lull you into something soft, something safe.

And as he pulled you close, tucking you against his chest, one thing was clear—this wasn’t the last time.

You didn’t know how long you laid there, pressed against Mydei’s chest, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Your skin was warm, oversensitive, and yet you didn’t want to move. His hands, broad and steady, traced slow, soothing circles along your back, grounding you in a way that made your heart ache.

He was still inside you, still sitting so perfectly against you, as if he belonged there. As if you belonged to him.

And maybe you did.

The thought sent a flicker of something nervous through your chest, something that made you hesitate before you spoke, voice hoarse from crying and moaning his name.

“You’re too old for me, Mydei.”

His body went still, just for a second. Then he chuckled, the deep, velvety sound vibrating through your bones. “Oh? That’s what you're thinking about now?”

You felt his smirk before you saw it, the way his lips brushed against your temple, the way his arms tightened around you, as if daring you to pull away.

“Yes,” you huffed, though it was hard to sound serious when your voice was so weak, so utterly spent from everything he’d done to you. “You are.”

Mydei tilted your chin up, making you meet his gaze. His golden eyes glowed in the dim light, sharp with amusement and something far more dangerous.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over your kiss-swollen lips, “If I’m too old for you, why are you still lying here, all warm and satisfied in my arms?”

You opened your mouth, but no answer came—not when his fingers slid lower, trailing down your waist, over your hips, reminding you of just how easily he had wrecked you.

His smirk widened. “That’s what I thought.”

You should argue. You should remind him that the age gap was there, undeniable.

But the way he looked at you, the way his hands owned your body, the way he had just pulled you apart and put you back together again—how could you even deny it?

“…Shut up,” you mumbled, feeling your face heat up.

Mydei chuckled again, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw, his lips trailing lower, teasing.

“Make me, sweetheart.”

And just like that, your exhaustion melted away.

Because you knew he wasn’t done with you yet.

And you knew—despite everything—you didn’t want him to be.

You barely had a moment to recover before Mydei moved again, his lips trailing down your jaw, then lower, ghosting over your collarbone with lazy intent. His hands, large and warm, smoothed over your waist before sliding up, cupping your breasts with an appreciative hum.

“You know,” he murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, “I’ve been holding back.”

You barely had time to process what he meant before he squeezed, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples, making you whimper. Your whole body twitched, still sensitive from everything he had put you through, but that only seemed to amuse him.

“So fucking perfect,” Mydei groaned, his fingers kneading your soft flesh as his lips followed, trailing wet, hungry kisses down to your chest. “Could touch you for hours and never get tired of this.”

You whined, trying to squirm away, but he just tightened his grip, pressing you further into the bed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he chuckled darkly, finally dragging his tongue over your nipple, flicking it before pulling it into his mouth. You gasped, back arching as the heat in your core sparked again, too fast, too soon.

“Too sensitive,” you whimpered, voice barely above a breath.

Mydei just smirked against your skin, pulling away with a wet pop before rolling his tongue over the swollen bud again, teasing. “You can handle it,” he murmured. “You were made to handle me.”

You shuddered as he switched to the other breast, giving it the same slow, thorough attention. His hands squeezed and kneaded, his mouth warm and wet, sucking bruises into the soft flesh, claiming you in a way that made your head spin.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling back just enough to admire his work—the way your nipples were puffy and wet from his mouth, the way your chest rose and fell with every shaky breath. “So pretty when you’re like this. All needy and soft for me.”

You bit your lip, trying not to let another whimper slip, but Mydei wasn’t having it. His fingers pinched your nipples, rolling them between his fingers, making you gasp.

“There she is,” he cooed, pleased. “My pretty little thing.”

You felt lightheaded again, completely at his mercy, your body responding to his every touch like it belonged to him.

And judging by the way he looked at you, eyes dark with hunger as he leaned in to capture your lips in another deep, slow kiss—

You had a feeling he wasn’t letting you go anytime soon.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[grindhousegourmet]

[buckyseternaldoll]

Five Seconds, Five Years (Part I)

header from: pinterest

✮⋆˙ Part II | Part III

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes proposed just days before the world ended — afraid he might never get another chance. Then he vanished in Wakanda. Five years later, he’s at your door — unchanged, while your whole life has moved on. Some love survives time. But what happens when life doesn’t wait?

Disclaimer: Heavy emotional angst, pre-Blip tension, mentions of impending war, proposal made under fear of death, sudden character disappearance (Blip), ambiguous loss, spiraling grief, trauma resurfacing, no body or closure, emotional collapse, breakdown depicted in detail, survivor’s guilt, mentions of Steve Rogers relaying death news. **This story stretches between several timelines in MCU (only loosely, not to be strictly following the year gaps)

Word Count: 4,543

The morning started with a light shower of rain.

You watched the droplets race each other down the windowpane, your breath fogging the glass as you leaned against the frame. Then—two soft knocks. You didn’t need to look. You already knew.

“Hi, doll,” Bucky said, voice low and warm with something close to reverence.

His hair was slightly damp from the spring rain, curling around his ears in a way that always made your fingers twitch to brush it back. His hoodie was soft and old, the sleeves bunched around his forearms—one solid and familiar, the other sleeve empty, folded and pinned neatly at the elbow. He looked tired—not in the physical sense, but in the bone-deep way someone looks after wading through ghosts every day. But he smiled for you. A small, worn smile that still made something in your chest ache with love.

You stepped aside without a word, letting him in, and he walked in with the quiet of someone who knew exactly where he was going. The apartment hadn’t changed. Same lamp with the crooked shade. Same couch where you both had fallen asleep watching movies at 2AM. Same coffee table with the scratch he’d accidentally left with the blunt corner of his missing arm that first night you kissed.

He dropped his overnight bag beside the door, exhaled slowly, then turned to you.

“Still like chamomile?” he asked softly.

“Still need it to sleep,” you replied.

And just like that, like every visit before this, he melted into the space like he belonged. Because he did.

—

He never stayed long.

A few days at most—just long enough to fold himself back into the quiet corners of your life, like he’d never left. Just long enough to remind you what peace felt like in the shape of his hands.

Wakanda was still healing him—carefully, gently, methodically. Shuri had done the impossible, reworking HYDRA’s programming strand by strand. But even she said: healing isn’t a machine you can fix. It’s something you relearn, every day.

So he came back to New York when the shadows got too loud. When he needed something no vibranium tech could replicate. You.

He told you once, on one of those nights when he curled into your sheets like a man too big for peace, that he didn’t remember what love felt like before you. Only that with you, it was quiet. Safe.

“You don’t pull me out of the dark,” he said. “You just sit with me in it.”

You had no idea how much that would come to mean.

—

The night he proposed, there was fear in the sky.

You tasted it in the wind, felt it in his kiss—like the world was holding its breath, and he was holding you in case it collapsed.

He held you longer that night. Kissed you slower. Touched you like he was tracing every line of a goodbye letter he hadn’t written yet. You were half-asleep on the couch, your leg draped over his, one of his hands resting gently on your thigh while the city pulsed beyond the window. Everything felt like static—like something just out of reach was about to break.

Then he pulled a small velvet box from the pocket of his hoodie.

“I know this isn’t perfect,” he said. “It’s not candlelight or champagne. But I’ve spent so much of my life losing time—and I won’t risk losing this moment.”

He slid down to one knee, right there in the living room, ring in one hand, his other hand cupping your cheek.

“If I go… and I don’t make it back… I need to know I at least asked.”

“Marry me,” he said. “Let me go into whatever’s coming knowing I finally did something for me. For us.”

Your tears soaked his collar as you nodded yes and whispered, “Come back to me. I’ll be here. For you—always.”

—

You stood on the fire escape with your back to his chest, the city humming below.

It felt like a goodbye disguised as a promise. And you let yourself believe there’d be another hello.

He didn’t say much that morning. Just pressed his lips against your shoulder. Just held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him together.

Before he left, he turned to you one last time, eyes impossibly soft.

“After this… if there’s still a world left—let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. “Seoul, maybe. You always said you wanted to see the Han River.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “You remember that?”

He nodded, smiling softly. “You used to watch those Korean dramas in bed. Said you loved the way it looked—couples walking under cherry blossoms by the river, taking the KTX cross-country like it was something sacred. You said the peace there felt… quiet. Not empty.”

Your heart clenched. “I was learning the language. Thought if I really wanted to understand it all—the place, the people—I’d have to go live it. Not just dream it.”

“Then let’s live it,” he whispered. “I want peace. But more than that… I want you in peace.”

You kissed him once more.

You didn’t know it would be the last.

—

You didn’t see him disappear.

You weren’t even awake when it happened. The sun had barely risen over New York when your phone buzzed—once. Then again. Then relentlessly. The group chat with Sam. News alerts. A voicemail from Nat with no words, just labored breathing and distant shouting.

You sat up slowly, still in his hoodie, the ring box on your nightstand untouched from the night before.

Then came the knock.

Three times. Firm, deliberate.

You already knew.

You opened the door and found Steve standing there. Still in his suit. Mud on his boots. A small tear in the shoulder of his uniform. His shield wasn’t with him. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched so hard it ticked like a clock.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

You stepped back.

He moved like someone walking through wet cement—slow, deliberate, as though every step hurt. He looked around your apartment like it was sacred ground, his gaze falling on the framed photo of you and Bucky laughing in Central Park. He swallowed hard and finally sat on the edge of the armchair.

And then he said it.

“He’s gone.”

The words hit you like a blunt object. Not a stab—there was no blood. Just the absence of breath. Like your lungs forgot how to work.

“It was fast. Dust,” Steve said. “Just… dust.”

You didn’t respond. You just stared. Not at him. Not at anything.

Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Before the battle… he pulled me aside. Gave me this.”

From his pocket, Steve pulled out a small, worn notebook. You recognized it immediately. Bucky’s.

“He told me… if anything happened to him, if he didn’t come back… I was to find you. He wrote your name on the first page. Your number. Said, ‘She’s the only thing that ever made me feel like a man again. Please tell her I didn’t walk away.’”

Your knees buckled.

Steve caught you, arms strong and shaking all at once, pulling you gently to the floor.

“I’m so sorry.”

You weren’t crying. Not yet. You were too numb. The room spun in tight, slow circles.

“I need to see it,” you whispered.

Steve hesitated—then nodded.

He opened the notebook to the first page.

There, scrawled in Bucky’s neat, all-caps handwriting:

IF I DON’T MAKE IT BACK—CALL HER. TELL HER I WAS THINKING OF HER. TELL HER I DIDN’T RUN. TELL HER I LOVE HER.

Beneath it—your name. Your number. A little drawing. A tiny heart.

That’s when the screaming started.

—

You didn’t remember hitting the floor, but you remembered the sound of your scream.

Not human. Not you. Something primal, something that ripped through your throat and shattered into the walls around you. Your voice cracked. Broke. The notebook hit the floor. The ring box fell from the nightstand and landed with a hollow, damning thud.

You barely heard Steve calling your name. Felt his hands on your shoulders, grounding you, holding you like Bucky once did. You clawed at the couch cushions, the carpet, your own skin.

You begged. Pleaded. Not for God. Not for mercy. Just for one more second.

But there was no body.

No goodbye.

No grave.

Just dust on the wind and the weight of a love that had no ending.

You didn’t dream for weeks after that.

You couldn’t.

Because in every dream, he came back.

And in every one, he left again.

—

The first three days, you didn’t move from the couch.

The world around you buzzed in static—television left on, reports playing on loop. People screaming in airports. Planes crashing. Children disappearing from classrooms mid-laugh. It didn’t feel real. Nothing did.

You watched the news like a zombie. Not for information—you already knew the only part that mattered. But some stubborn part of you hoped someone, somewhere, would say his name. Would tell you they made a mistake. That he wasn’t among the dead.

But the screen stayed silent. And you did too.

—

By the fourth day, the calls started.

Steve again. Sam. Natasha. Even Bruce. You didn’t answer any of them. Not because you were angry—because the thought of speaking felt unbearable. Like it would make it real.

You didn’t want reality.

You wanted Bucky’s half-finished mug on the counter. You wanted the hoodie he left draped on the kitchen chair to still smell like him. You wanted his voice—gruff and low and quiet when he called you doll—to echo in the hallway again.

You slept on the floor.

It was cold there, under the window, but you didn’t care. The bed still had the dent where he last lay. The sheets still smelled like the skin between his neck and collarbone. You couldn’t touch it. You couldn’t bear to lie there and know you’d wake up alone.

You left the lights off. You didn’t eat. You stopped checking the time.

—

Your body broke before your mind did.

On Day Six, you collapsed in the hallway—halfway between the kitchen and the bathroom. Hunger, dehydration, grief. You woke up with the side of your face pressed to the tile and vomit dried in your hair.

You didn’t bother showering.

—

The ring box sat on the coffee table like a tombstone.

You couldn’t look at it.

Sometimes you swore it moved. That the air around it bent a little—like the force of your grief made it magnetic. But maybe that was just the fever setting in.

By Day Ten, the plants in the apartment had all died. You hadn’t watered them. Hadn’t opened the windows. You couldn’t stand the idea of fresh air. What was the point of anything growing if he wasn’t around to see it?

—

The fridge smelled like something rotting. You ignored it.

Instead, you sat on the kitchen floor in the same clothes from the week before. A loose shirt that smelled like Bucky and a pair of sweats with a hole in the knee. You held his dog tags in your fist so tightly, they left deep red grooves in your palm.

You thought about drinking.

The bottle of whiskey in the cabinet had dust on it—he’d been the one to stop you from spiraling back in those first months together. Always said he didn’t want to erase pain anymore. Just learn how to hold it.

You opened the cap. Brought it to your lips.

And stopped.

Not because you had willpower.

Because you knew it wouldn’t work.

There was no numbness strong enough to kill what was eating you.

—

The world outside moved on.

People rioted. Protested. Some fell into religion. Some into madness.

You fell into silence.

Your voice, when you finally spoke again, was raw. Dry. You tested it in the mirror one night like it was a broken instrument.

“Bucky.”

It cracked in half.

—

You didn’t leave the apartment for three weeks.

When you finally did—just to get milk, just to do something normal—you ended up on your knees in the middle of the sidewalk three blocks away. Some man passed you and smiled the way Bucky used to. And that was all it took.

You screamed. Sobbed. Clutched the concrete like it would split open and deliver him back to you.

A woman called 911. You told the paramedic you didn’t need a hospital.

You just needed him.

—

You stopped wearing your engagement ring. But you didn’t take it off either.

Instead, you threaded it through your necklace and wore it under your shirt. It dug into your chest when you lay down. Bruised your skin. But you kept it there.

Because pain, at least, reminded you that you hadn’t died with him.

Not completely.

—

You weren’t even sure how you got there.

One moment, you were standing in your kitchen, clutching a mug you hadn’t touched in days. The next, you were staring at a blank clipboard in a community center basement that smelled like old coffee and damp carpet.

Someone must have signed you up.

Sam, maybe. Steve.

You didn’t ask.

You just sat in a plastic chair at the far end of the circle, your hoodie drawn up, sleeves long enough to hide your shaking hands. The metal folding chair felt cold through your clothes. You hadn’t spoken to anyone in almost a week.

The room was too bright. Too quiet. You hated it.

—

A woman with kind eyes and a voice like a lullaby welcomed the group. She said her name was Jess. She offered tissues before anyone even spoke. As if she already knew.

Around you, strangers began to talk.

A man with graying temples spoke first. He lost his husband. Just vanished while brushing his teeth.

A mother next. Her little boy turned to ash in a park sandbox.

A teenager. His twin sister. Gone mid-laugh.

You couldn’t listen.

Because everything sounded like static.

Because all you could hear—all your brain let you hear—was him.

—

“You chew your pen when you’re anxious.”

Your lips curled slightly. Not in a smile—just recognition. You looked down.

You were chewing your pen. The same way Bucky used to tease you about.

Your hands trembled. You slid the pen across the floor, out of reach.

“Let me do the dishes. You cooked.”

You closed your eyes. Your throat ached.

You could still hear him humming while he cleaned. That stupid 1940s jazz that you pretended to hate.

You remembered standing in the kitchen doorway watching him wash the plates—one-armed, stubborn, slow—until you came up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist and kissed the center of his back.

He always laughed when you did that. Said it tickled.

“I like this one on you,” he murmured once, thumbing the hem of your sweater.

It was the sweater you were wearing now.

You curled your fists into it. Pulled the sleeves over your palms like armor.

—

You hadn’t realized tears were spilling down your cheeks until someone passed you a tissue.

You didn’t look at them. You just nodded, quietly, and held the tissue in your lap like it was glass.

—

You still hadn’t spoken.

And you wouldn’t. Not that day.

But someone sat beside you.

Not close enough to crowd you. Not far enough to feel like pity.

A man. Taller than most in the room. Wide shoulders. He said nothing. He didn’t stare. He didn’t fidget.

He just… sat.

His presence felt like a dim light in a locked room. Not enough to see by. But enough to remind you the dark wouldn’t last forever.

You caught his name once—said soft during introductions, almost like he hated saying it aloud.

You didn’t remember the name.

But you remembered his eyes.

They didn’t flinch when he saw your pain.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel invisible.

—

You didn’t plan to come back.

After that first session, you walked out into the gray drizzle of early fall and told yourself, That was it. Enough pretending. Enough people watching me fall apart.

But the next Thursday, you were there again.

Same plastic chair. Same empty hands. Same hollow ache under your ribs.

And so was he.

He never spoke first. Never leaned in. He was just… there.

Somehow, that was enough.

His name, you learned slowly, was Dean. He used to be a museum archivist. Lost his wife in the Snap—said it casually, like someone talking about bad weather. But you noticed the way his voice dipped when he said her name. Like he was still trying to hold onto it without cracking.

He never asked about Bucky. Not even once.

But when the others spoke of their losses, he never looked away from you. Like he knew yours ran deeper than words could reach.

—

Week three, he brought two mugs of chamomile tea into the session.

One slid toward you on the table without a word.

You stared at it for almost five minutes before lifting it with trembling hands.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Your first words in the group.

His only reply was a soft nod, like your voice was a fragile thing he didn’t want to scare away.

—

Your flashbacks to Bucky changed, slowly.

They used to come all at once—bright, vivid, crushing. The way his stubble felt against your neck. The way he’d lean his head against your shoulder without speaking, just breathing you in. The little notes he used to leave on post-its: Got groceries. Love you. Don’t forget your umbrella.

Now, the memories drifted in more quietly.

Softer.

You still heard his voice sometimes. Still caught the scent of his cologne on strangers in passing. Still reached for your phone on bad nights, forgetting—for just a second—that he couldn’t answer anymore.

But it hurt less.

And the guilt of that hurt in a whole new way.

—

One Thursday, weeks later, the group had to shift to a smaller room.

You ended up sitting closer to Dean than usual. Shoulder to shoulder.

You could feel the warmth of his arm through your sleeve. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

That night, walking home, your brain played a memory of Bucky helping you carry groceries—laughing as a bag ripped and apples rolled down the sidewalk.

You smiled, faintly.

Then you realized you hadn’t cried that day.

And you sat on the edge of your bathtub later that night, shaking.

Not because you missed Bucky.

But because you were starting to feel okay again—and that felt like betrayal.

—

A month passed. Then two.

Dean started walking you to the Metro. You didn’t ask him to.

One day, it rained.

You stopped under a shared umbrella, both of you damp and breathless from laughing—the first real laugh you’d had in months.

You looked up and caught Dean watching you, his expression unreadable.

Not romantic.

Not pitying.

Just… present.

Present in a way you hadn’t let yourself be for a very long time.

—

One night, after a particularly raw session, he spoke first.

“You know… when she vanished, I didn’t want to survive it.”

You turned to him, startled by the honesty.

He shrugged. “But then I realized… she’d kill me if I didn’t try.”

Your throat clenched. You looked at your lap.

“He used to say the same thing,” you whispered. “About me.”

Dean didn’t press.

Just walked a little closer that night.

—

By the time winter came, you could walk through your apartment without flinching.

You still had Bucky’s things.

You still wore his ring on a necklace.

But you didn’t collapse every time you looked at the spot where he used to sit.

Sometimes, you even caught yourself humming in the kitchen again.

You found yourself craving chamomile tea.

Not because it reminded you of him—but because it reminded you of you.

—

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no rose petals, no hidden photographers, no gasping onlookers.

It was quiet. Barely even romantic.

It happened on a Sunday.

You were walking back from the flower stall near the corner café—the one that had slowly become “yours.” Dean had picked up your favorite blend from the tiny tea shop on 12th. You had daisies in one hand, his in the other, and the sky had that late-spring haze that made everything feel softer than it really was.

It wasn’t a special day.

But it was a peaceful one.

And that was rare enough to feel sacred.

—

He stopped walking.

You turned when you noticed the gentle tug on your fingers.

Dean’s expression was unreadable—not nervous, not trembling. Just… full. Full of something warm and earnest.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Can I ask you something?”

You blinked. “Of course.”

“Not because I expect anything. Not because I need an answer right now. But just because I’ve been thinking about it.”

Your heart started to flutter. You knew. You knew what this was.

He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out a box—small, worn, simple.

But you didn’t open it.

You stepped back.

Just an inch.

The shift in your eyes told him everything.

“Dean,” you said, voice tight, “there are still memories of him. Bucky. They’re everywhere. In my apartment. In my closet. In my head.”

You looked down, fidgeting with the necklace around your neck. The one with the first ring. His ring.

“Some days I still hear his voice. Some mornings I wake up reaching for him before I remember he’s not there.”

Your throat caught. You didn’t even notice the tears starting to gather.

“I don’t know if I can give you… a clean slate.”

Dean didn’t flinch.

He nodded, slowly, with something like relief in his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “I never expected you to.”

He stepped closer, took your hands again, and gently turned them over in his.

“You’re not letting him go. Just like I haven’t let her go, either.”

You looked up sharply.

Dean gave a soft smile. Not sad. Just real.

“She’s still here sometimes. When I make coffee in the French press. When I take the long way home past the bookstore she loved.”

“Grief doesn’t end,” he said. “It just… softens. Changes shape. We don’t bury them. We carry them. That’s what love does.”

You stood in silence for a long moment.

You thought about Bucky. The first time he’d told you he loved you. The way his laugh shook his shoulders. The promise of Seoul.

You thought about Dean, sitting beside you in silence every Thursday. Making space for your pain. Never trying to fix you. Just being there.

“You’re not a replacement,” you whispered.

“And you’re not broken,” he replied.

Then he held the box up.

“No pressure. No timeline. Just… maybe this could be our next chapter. One that we write slowly. With room for everything that came before.”

You opened the box.

Inside—a ring of pale gold, delicate, nothing flashy.

But there was a tiny engraving inside.

“Still here.”

Your lip trembled.

You nodded.

He didn’t slip the ring on your finger yet. He let you take it.

You slid it on, next to the weight of the one around your neck.

Two loves. Two lives.

And somehow, still, yours.

—

It happened in a blink.

One second, Bucky was in Wakanda—the dirt thick under his boots, the scent of fire and blood hanging in the air. He’d just raised his rifle. Just started to call out to Steve.

And then—the wind shifted.

The trees looked different. Taller. Lusher. Greener. The sky above was brighter, fuller. The battlefield was… gone.

There were birds singing.

Not screams. Not gunfire.

Just birdsong.

He spun around.

The spear Okoye had thrown was rusting in the grass. The ship that hovered above had long since vanished. There was no dust on his fingers. No ash on his coat. He checked his arm—the new vibranium still intact, just like it had been before he vanished.

But the world had changed.

He felt it.

Like walking into a memory too old to trust.

“Steve?” he called, breath shaky. “Sam?”

No one answered.

He didn’t waste time.

He got back to New York the fastest way he could—everything was a blur of panic and fire beneath his ribs. There was no time to understand. Not yet.

He had to find you.

He had to come home.

—

The sun had already begun to set when he reached your building.

That familiar stoop. The cracked step on the left. The faded welcome mat with the crooked “O.” It was all the same.

He climbed the stairs two at a time. His boots felt too loud. His heartbeat louder.

Then he stood at your door.

His hand trembled.

He knocked—twice. Just like always.

—

Inside, you were plating the steak.

The pan still sizzled on the stove. Garlic, rosemary, butter—the smell rich and comforting, spreading through the apartment like a warm blanket. Dean was rinsing the salad in the kitchen sink, humming softly under his breath.

It had been a good day.

You wore his hoodie. Your hair was up in that casual way Bucky used to love—but now Dean did, too. It was domestic. It was safe. It was… yours.

The knock made your head lift.

Two knocks.

You froze.

It couldn’t be. That rhythm—it was etched into your bones.

You stepped toward the door.

Dean looked over, still smiling. “Expecting someone?”

“No,” you said softly. “I… I don’t know.”

You opened the door.

—

And there he stood.

Bucky Barnes.

Same shoulders. Same eyes. Same hair—curling at the ends, messy from the wind.

He was breathing like he’d run the whole way.

Your mouth parted but no words came out. The hallway felt too narrow. Too real.

“Doll,” he whispered, voice rough and broken. “It’s you. It’s really—”

Then he stopped.

Because Dean appeared behind you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, kissed your shoulder casually, unaware of the hurricane that stood outside.

“Hey, babe—who’s—?”

His voice trailed off as he looked up.

Saw the man in the doorway.

Saw your face.

“Bucky,” you said.

A whisper. A gasp. A prayer.

—

The world tilted.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to Dean’s hands around your waist. To the ring on your finger. To your body, five years older.

He stumbled back a step.

You reached out instinctively—and stopped yourself.

He looked like he’d been gutted.

“You’re… older,” he said quietly. “How long—?”

“Five years,” you said, voice trembling. “It’s been five years.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“It was five seconds for me.”

His voice cracked down the middle.

Dean slowly, gently let go of your waist. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The pain on Bucky’s face said everything.

“I came back for you,” Bucky said. “I came home.”

Then he shook his head.

“But someone already did.”

You couldn’t speak.

Your hands were shaking.

Bucky took another step back.

“I thought… I thought I’d walk in, and you’d be waiting.”

A faint, broken laugh escaped his throat. It wasn’t humor. It was disbelief. It was the kind of laugh you make when the world plays its cruelest card.

“I was just a few seconds too late,” he whispered.

And then he turned.

And walked away.

[retrcmoon]

XOXO - RPG THEME SET - 1k SPECIAL !!!

This theme set is completely free. It is a special thank you for 1k followers. Please support me and my work by liking and reblogging this post!

[ BLOG THEME INFORMATION ]

Option between 400px, 450px, 500px and 540px posts.

Custom Body Fonts and Body Font sizes (11px - 13px)

Two Custom Header Links

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Dropdown Links are optional

Fully supports NPF (beta editor) posts.

The theme adjusts to different screen sizes.

Visible Source Link & Scroll to top button.

A lot of the design can be changed in the editing panel. Everything else is explained in the code.

Sidebar Boxes for: Welcome, Events, Admins, Quick Links and Schedule

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Footer can be turned off.

[ LOCATION PAGE ]

The Page does not contain any javascript (100% java free)

Comes in 2 versions (with and without filters)

Location picture sizes are 130 x 130. They will resize automatically.

Option for a background picture.

3 Custom Links

All colors can be easily edited on top of the css code

The theme will resize to different screen sizes.

Custom accent colors (explanation in the code)

[ CHARACTER PAGE ]

The Page does not contain any javascript (100% java free)

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3 Custom Links

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[ GUIDELINES ]

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Static Blog Theme Preview  + Page Preview Links + All Codes  Location Page Preview + All Codes  Character Page Preview + All Codes  All codes (without preview)

[ryomenslvr]

feedback

rockstar!ryomen sukuna x reader x rockstar!satoru gojo

synopsis: Two rival bands. One sound engineer. Trapped between Gojo’s charm and Sukuna’s intensity, you navigate a world where music is war, tension runs high, and falling for the frontman, or both, could change everything.

a/n: this will be a multi-chapter fan fiction which is heavily inspired by @/indiewritesxoxo ‘s no. 1 party anthem series! (which you should 100% check out! it’s such an incredible concept and it’s very addicting. you can find it here) I’m still starting out as a writer so I can’t promise my series will be any good, but I do hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

if you would would like to be added to the tag list please let me know! :)

soundcheck

static

detuned

interlude

ch. 5 coming soon!

dividers by @/redroud1 <3

header art by @su2kuna on twitter <3

[phantomcodes]

poppy | theme by sage

get the code: static preview v1 / preview v2 header theme with a sticky headerbar

features (more info below the cut):

toggle: tags on click, updates tab, explore menu

responsive headerbox includes an uploadable image, custom title & description, and up to 5 info stats

sticky headerbar includes home/ask/archive & up to 3 extra links, updates, explore button or search bar, and day/night button

updates tab includes up to 5 updates with an icon & text

explore menu includes about text, up to 3 skills, up to 4 blogs, and up to 8 extra links, and a search bar

customizable: title, colors, body & title fonts, and font size

npf supported, responsive design, 3 post width options, 4 corner options, scroll to top, tabler icons

nothing needs to be changed in the code, everything can be changed in the customize panel!

terms:

reblog if using

do not touch the credit

all terms / faq

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please consider tipping or supporting me ♡

blog name !! important

make sure you fill out the blog name field, this is what will show on the top of all your original posts. to clarify: your blog name is your blog’s url - for example: phantomcodes

custom title

similar to the blog name, your custom title will show on the header, i recommend not making this too long

headerbox

uploadable image - this will default to your icon if nothing is uploaded

up to 5 info stats each with an icon & text - if you don't want the info stats leave the info 1 field blank

updates tab

the updates tab is toggleable, it has up to 5 updates each with an icon & text

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the explore menu is toggleable and has:

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(optional) skills section: up to 3 - you can use this for statuses, projects, progress, etc. leave the explore skill 1 field blank if you don’t want this section

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remember tumblr’s customize panel is buggy, make sure to toggle all the options on/off before saving

i’m still on a sort of semi-hiatus, i’ll be around for questions but please check my faq, answered asks, etc. before asking - i will not answer repeat questions!

[cutewebgraphics]

[hauntedbyjoel]

Stay A While

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: eventual smut | oral (f & m) | unprotected sex | dirty talk | praise | mutual longing | pining | slow burn | causal intimacy | soft but charged tension | no outbreak word count - 7.3k summary - You rent a guesthouse by the beach, needing space to figure things out. He lives in the main house—quiet, distant, and kind in ways that surprise you. Slowly, something shifts.

part two part three

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You don’t even remember typing the last sentence.

Something about Q3 projections. Client engagement. Numbers and buzzwords that used to mean something—now just static in your head. You stare at them like they might rearrange themselves into a reason to keep going. They don’t.

Across the office, someone laughs a little too loudly. Over by the breakroom, the microwave beeps and nobody moves. Your inbox pings again.

URGENT: NEED FINAL REVIEW BY 3PM. Appreciate your hustle.

You close the email. Not out of defiance. Just... fatigue. Everything feels like noise.

The coffee in your cup is cold. You drink it anyway. No creamer left in the breakroom and no energy to care. You stare at the screen and pretend to read something important while you try not to cry from a place that doesn’t even feel emotional—just... tired.

It’s not that the job is terrible. It’s fine. Everyone says you’re lucky to have it. Good benefits. Steady pay. A team that uses too many emojis in Slack but means well enough. It’s not bad.

But you hate it.

You hate the way it’s slowly eaten pieces of you in exchange for... what? PTO you never use? A title no one outside of work understands? Deadlines you never chose?

You open a browser tab.

“Quiet places to stay near the beach.” You’ve searched it before—every other week, like clockwork. Like maybe this time there’ll be something new. A way out.

There’s a little house on the coast. Too expensive. A cabin in the woods. Too isolated. A pastel Airbnb with ‘good vibes only’ in the header image. God, no.

You close the tab.

Your eyes flick to the sticky note on your monitor—“Your passion will lead you.” You don’t even remember who wrote it. Some old team meeting, probably. You peel it off and crumple it into your palm. You hold it there for a while.

Your phone buzzes.

A text from Jules:

Jules: Made the mistake of swimming after lunch again. I’m 90% seaweed now.

You smile, half-hearted but real. You text back a simple “RIP”, then pause for a second, staring at her name.

Without thinking too hard, you press Call.

She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up?.”

“You’re not seaweed, you’re just dramatic,” you say, flopping back in your chair.

“I am seaweed. I’ve accepted it. I’m part of the ecosystem now.” Jules sounds like she’s walking—wind in the background, maybe seagulls too. “Are you alright?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “Yeah. Just... needed to talk to someone who isn’t obsessed with productivity metrics.”

“Say no more,” she groans. “I got dive-bombed by a pelican this morning, so let’s talk about that instead.”

You laugh, and for the first time today it doesn’t feel forced.

The conversation wanders—lunch spots, bad music, someone named Eli who forgot to anchor the kayak rental dock again. It’s easy. Familiar. Until you’re quiet for just a little too long.

You hesitate, chewing your lip. The silence stretches just long enough before you say it. “I’ve been thinking about taking time off. Like, not a full break, just… remote. For a while.”

Jules doesn’t skip a beat. “So come here.”

You snort. “You’ve been saying that for two years.”

“And I’ve been right for two years. I’m overdue for being smug.”

You stretch your legs out under the desk, voice softer now. “I’m serious, though. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“Then stop trying to figure it out,” she says. “Come stay for a bit. Reset. I know a guy. Well, I know of him. Joel. He rents out this little guesthouse sometimes—it’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet and like... weirdly peaceful. I can ask around.”

You blink up at the ceiling tiles. “Would he be okay with that?”

“He doesn’t even know me. It’s word-of-mouth type stuff. I’ll see what I can find out. You just say the word.”

You let your eyes close.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Okay.”

You hang up the phone and sit there for a minute, letting the silence settle. The overhead lights buzz. Your back aches. The office is nearly empty now, just the cleaning crew and the low hum of someone’s forgotten desktop fan.

You stand up slowly. Shut your laptop. Slide it into your bag.

No announcement. No grand exit. Just… leaving.

The sky outside is dusky pink by the time you get home—your apartment still exactly as you left it: keys in the dish, shoes kicked off halfway to the door, a half-finished coffee cup on the counter you meant to rinse out this morning. It smells like lavender laundry detergent and burnt toast. Familiar. Still.

You drop your bag by the door and pull out your phone again.

Jules: Asked around. Guesthouse is open. Told ‘em you’re chill and don’t throw parties. It’s yours if you want it.

Your fingers hover over the screen.

Then:

You: I want it.

You toss your phone on the bed and open your closet. Not frantically—just... automatically. Like your body already knows what to do even if your brain is still buffering.

You grab the canvas duffel from under your bed. The one you always told yourself you’d use for a weekend getaway that never came. You don’t pack much. A few outfits. A swimsuit you haven’t worn in two summers. Your laptop. A couple books you keep rereading, even when they don’t hit the same.

Toiletries. Chargers. That old hoodie you wear when you’re pretending everything’s fine.

You stand there for a moment, staring down at the bag.

It doesn’t feel impulsive. It doesn’t feel like running away. It feels… necessary. Like your body hit its limit before your mind caught up.

You don’t know what’s waiting there. You don’t know how long you’ll stay.

You just know you need to go.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You spot her before she sees you—leaning against the side of a weather-faded Honda with the windows down, one foot propped against the tire, hair tied up in a messy knot. She’s scrolling through her phone and squinting at the sun, sunglasses sliding halfway down her nose.

When she looks up, she smiles like this is just another Thursday. Like you didn’t just leave your whole life behind.

“Hey,” she says, casual and warm.

You manage something close to a smile. “Hey.”

She opens the trunk without comment, just nods toward your bag. “Throw it in. The AC barely works and I’m already sweaty.”

You toss your bag into the trunk and slide into the passenger seat. The inside of the car smells like sunscreen and sand, and there’s an empty iced coffee cup wedged between the seats. Jules pulls out of the airport lot without turning on the music. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the salt air.

Neither of you talks at first. You’re grateful for that.

Outside, the landscape shifts from traffic and chain stores to palm trees and beautiful beaches. The sky is wide and pale, hazy from heat. You pass weathered houses on stilts, homemade signs for bait shops and beach yoga, kids on bikes in swimsuits still dripping from the ocean.

It’s not quiet in the way you expected. It’s the kind of quiet that has texture—wind through seagrass, tires on gravel, gulls somewhere above you, calling out like they own the place.

“You hungry?” Jules asks eventually, glancing at you as she turns onto a smaller road. “We can stop before I take you to the house.”

You nod. “Yeah. I could definitely eat.”

She takes you to a place with a cracked vinyl sign and a handwritten chalkboard menu out front. It smells like vinegar and something fried, and you already feel your hair starting to frizz in the heat.

The two of you sit at a shaded picnic table with water-streaked plastic cups and paper baskets of food between you. Jules picks at a plate of fries and orders a lemonade so sour she winces with every sip. You get grilled shrimp, something light.

Neither of you is in a rush.

It takes a few minutes before the conversation settles into something real.

“I still can’t believe you actually did it,” Jules says, brushing crumbs off her lap. “I mean, I knew you were close, but…”

You shrug. “I didn’t quit, exactly. Just asked to go remote for a while. My boss said I looked like I was about to pass out on a Zoom call, so.” You gesture vaguely. “Here I am.”

Jules raises an eyebrow. “And they let you?”

“Yeah. Shockingly, they don’t care where I answer emails from, as long as I keep answering them.”

She leans back in her seat and watches you. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You give a half-smile. “I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Then you’re doing it right.”

You blink. “That easy?”

She nods. “You’ve been so stuck trying to figure it all out. What if you don’t? What if you just… exist for a while?”

You pick up a shrimp, tear the tail off slowly. “You’re starting to sound like someone who eats seaweed and meditates on a paddleboard.”

“I’m starting to live,” she says. “There’s a difference.”

She tells you about her work—marine conservation, public education. She gives talks to tourists about nesting sea turtles, organizes cleanups, curses at jet skis under her breath. It’s all stuff she used to talk about back in college like it was some distant dream.

Now she’s just doing it. Barefoot, usually.

“You really like it here,” you say.

“I really like me here,” she corrects.

And that hits harder than you expect.

The drive to Joel's is quieter. You lean your head against the window and let her navigate through narrow side roads lined with tall grass and crooked mailboxes. There’s a rhythm to this place already, like it doesn’t care what time it is.

When she turns into the driveway, you sit up.

The house is simple—single-story, pale siding, a wide porch mostly in shade. A gravel path curves around to a second structure tucked behind it. The guesthouse is smaller, boxier, but clean and cared for. No frills. No clutter.

“That’s you,” Jules says, pulling up in front of the smaller house. “Joel lives in the main one.”

You glance out the window. “Is he home?”

She shrugs. “Probably. He’s around a lot, working. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t do the whole neighborly chit-chat thing, but I’ve never heard a single bad thing.”

“Sounds perfect.”

You step out of the car and stretch your legs. Jules grabs your bag from the trunk and sets it on the porch for you.

“You’re not gonna introduce me?”

She laughs. “I don’t know him. I just heard he had a place. Told a guy at the coffee shop my friend needed a quiet rental, and two days later he left a note saying the guesthouse was unlocked.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Small town.” She shrugs. “People hear things. People help. No one wants to make it weird.”

She glances toward the main house. The blinds are drawn. Somewhere behind it, you hear a faint, steady rhythm—maybe a hammer, maybe something heavier. Not loud, just… present.

“He’s harmless,” she says. “And honestly? Quiet might be exactly what you need.”

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The first morning you wake up in the guesthouse, it takes a second to remember where you are.

The light hits differently here—muted through gauzy curtains, soft and golden, like it filtered through the ocean first. The ceiling fan ticks gently above you, blades slicing through the air at a pace that feels patient.

You reach for your phone out of habit. No new messages. No calendar pings. No blinking notifications. For a split second, you panic—then remember: it’s Saturday. You got here on a weekend.

You told your team you’d be online Monday morning. Said it like it was no big deal. But now, standing here in someone else’s t-shirt with the sun warming your arms through the window… Monday feels like it might be a century away.

You make coffee in the small, slightly temperamental drip machine on the counter. The mugs are mismatched—one with faded sailboats, one that says “I’m crabby before caffeine” in peeling red letters. You pick the least offensive one and step outside barefoot.

The porch boards are warm under your feet. Everything smells like sun—salt and wood and something faintly green. You sit on the top step, cross your legs, and wrap your fingers around the mug like it’s the only thing anchoring you here.

The quiet isn’t exactly peaceful. Not yet. It’s unfamiliar. Expansive. It stretches out in front of you like something you’re supposed to do something with.

You don’t.

You just sit there and listen to the wind push through the dune grass. To the porch creak when you shift your weight. To the absence of anything that needs you.

Later, you half-unpack.

You open drawers just to see how they close. Leave your bag unzipped on the floor. Put a book on the nightstand you probably won’t finish. You don’t organize anything—you just scatter yourself around the room like you’re testing the space.

The guesthouse feels clean, but not in a rental kind of way. There’s intention to it. Like someone still cares about the way it looks when no one’s watching. You notice it in the way the towels are folded, the soap dish resting perfectly straight.

At some point in the late afternoon, you crack a window open. The air that slips in is heavier now—still warm, but with a little weight to it. Like it’s tired, too.

And then you hear it.

A low, steady bzzzzzt drifting across the property. Not jarring—just present. There’s a rhythm to it. Like someone who’s done the same motion so many times it no longer takes thought. A pause. Then again. And again.

It’s not constant—just consistent. The sound comes and goes, sometimes broken by the scrape of wood or a hollow thud. Somewhere behind it all, barely there, music plays. Not loud enough to make out lyrics. Just a muffled melody, anchored by a low voice and something with strings. Bluesy, maybe. Old.

You glance toward the main house without meaning to. Just for a second.

Through a break in the trees, past the far side of the porch, you catch movement—slow, deliberate. A man with his back turned, walking from what looks like a detached garage or shed. Barefoot in the grass. A loose-fitting T-shirt hangs low over work-worn jeans. He’s carrying something under one arm—a length of wood, maybe. You don’t squint. Don’t crane your neck.

It’s not interesting. Just part of the place. Just... what’s happening here.

Still, you find yourself pausing at the counter longer than necessary. Your fingers trace the rim of your coffee mug. The window stays open.

He knocks that evening. Just three times. Soft, spaced out like he almost changed his mind halfway through.

You open the door and he’s there—solid, quiet, uncomfortable in a way that doesn’t seem like insecurity. More like he just doesn’t do this very often.

Up close, Joel looks a little older than you’d guessed. Sun-worn, beard neatly trimmed, hair graying at the temples in a way that doesn’t look curated. His face is unreadable—not guarded, exactly. Just... still.

He holds out a paper bag. His other hand rests awkwardly on the back of his neck, thumb grazing the edge of his shirt collar.

“Welcome,” he says, low and flat like he rehearsed it once and decided that was enough.

“Thanks,” you say, blinking a little too slowly. You didn’t expect company. You’re barefoot, wearing sleep shorts and a tank top you’ve had since college.

“I’m Joel.” He jerks his chin toward the front house. “I live out here.”

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

He shifts, like he might bolt.

“Should be everything you need in there,” he says, nodding toward the house. “But if not... I’m around. Just knock.”

You reach for the bag and he seems almost surprised you’re taking it. Inside, you find a small jar of amber-colored honey, a bunch of clipped herbs—basil, mint, rosemary—and a small, handmade cutting board. The wood is pale, sanded smooth, warm under your fingertips.

“I made that,” he mutters, almost too low to catch. “Just... had scraps.”

You run your fingers gently over the edge. “It’s beautiful,” you say, looking back at him. “Really. Thank you. That’s… thoughtful.”

He nods, once. Then again. His eyes drop slightly, and when they come back up, his ears are flushed just a little pink.

“Most people like the quiet out here,” he says. “Gets easier, after a while.”

You smile—soft, tired, but sincere. “It already feels better than where I was yesterday.”

He holds your gaze for a second too long. Not intense—just surprised. Like he hadn’t expected you to say that.

“I’m glad,” he says, voice low. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like he’s not sure what to do with it.

You nod. “Thanks again. For all of this.”

He just nods once more, and then he’s gone—turning back toward the main house without another word, feet quiet over the gravel, his shoulders tight in a way that doesn’t read like discomfort. Just restraint.

You set the bag on the counter and pull out the cutting board again. Turn it over in your hands. It’s simple, but carefully made. Clean edges. Sanded smooth. Someone spent time on it.

You brush a thumb across the surface once before setting it down beside the stove.

You’re not sure what you expected—maybe nothing at all—but this feels... kind. Quietly so.

You open the jar of honey, just to look at it. Then you put it away and rinse your mug.

The house settles again around you, soft and still.

And for once, you let it.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You sleep later than you meant to.

The light is already full and soft when you open your eyes, the kind that suggests it’s closer to mid-morning than anything ambitious. The ceiling fan ticks overhead, blades slicing through the air in a rhythm that’s starting to feel familiar. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling for a long while, letting your thoughts drift somewhere quiet.

No alarms. No meetings. No expectations.

It’s Sunday.

You make breakfast in bare feet—eggs cooked a little too long, toast with too much butter, coffee in the mug with the sailboats on it. You eat standing at the counter, leaning against it like there’s nowhere else you need to be. The house is still. The air smells like citrus and toasted bread. You pull your hair up, throw on a tank top and shorts, and decide to give yourself the day. No pressure. No plan.

You do small things. Finish unpacking. Fold your clothes neatly into the drawers you didn’t touch yesterday. You pause over a notebook you’d almost forgotten about—half-filled, tucked into a bag pocket. You leave it out on the table with a pen on top.

You light a candle you found tucked in one of the kitchen drawers—lavender and something woodsy—and let it burn while you open windows to let the air in. Sweep the kitchen. Wipe down the bathroom sink. Rearrange the three books you brought twice before deciding not to read any of them.

Time starts to slide.

By noon, you realize you should probably get groceries. You haven’t had a vegetable in days and you’re down to one sad heel of bread. You grab your tote bag, slide your sunglasses on, and walk into town.

The road is mostly empty. A few bikes pass you. One kid on a skateboard. The heat clings but the breeze helps, and there’s something grounding in the sound of your own footsteps. It smells like salt and sunscreen and dry grass. You pass houses with porches draped in windchimes and laundry lines fluttering in the sun. There’s a hand-painted sign for a café you make a mental note to try later.

The store is small and old-school, with handwritten signs and wire racks that squeak when you turn them. You pick up the essentials—fruit, bread, a cold drink, something salty for later. A small journal with a linen cover catches your eye near the register. You don’t need it. You buy it anyway.

At the checkout, the woman behind the counter glances at you and smiles.

"New in town?"

You nod, setting your bag down. "Just for a little while."

She rings up your things, slow and easy. "Well, welcome. Hope you stick around."

You smile. "Thanks."

You walk back slower than you came. The sun's higher now, the heat sinking into your shoulders in a way that feels earned. You carry your bag in one hand and a bottle of cold tea in the other, condensation dripping down your wrist.

Back at the guesthouse, you put everything away without thinking too much about it. You make a sandwich—avocado, tomato, a little lemon—and eat it on the back steps with your feet in the grass. The sounds are the same as yesterday—birds, breeze, the distant hum of something mechanical.

Joel must be working again. You hear the faint buzz of a tool starting and stopping. The occasional scrape of wood or clatter of metal. No music this time.

You don’t look.

Instead, you wander.

The edge of the property curls into a small patch of shade where two trees lean slightly toward one another. Between them, strung with thick rope and a little sag, is a hammock. You don’t know if it’s meant for guests, or if Joel uses it, or if it’s just been there long enough to belong to the landscape now.

But it’s empty.

You climb in slowly, testing the tension. It sways just enough to make your stomach shift, then settles. You close your eyes. Breathe.

It smells like pine needles and sun-warmed rope.

You don’t fall asleep, but you stop keeping track of time.

Eventually, the light begins to shift. You hear the soft rustle of branches overhead and the distant creak of the guesthouse porch when the wind changes. Nothing pressing. Nothing loud.

You stay right where you are.

Eventually, hunger pulls you out of the hammock. You stretch your legs, brush off your shorts, and wander back toward the house, pausing once to tip your face into the breeze.

As the sky starts to turn the color of pale grapefruit, you head out again—this time toward the beach.

You walk slowly, toes sinking into the sand, the air cooler now, salty and soft against your skin. The tide is low, and the waves lap gently against the shore, folding and unfolding themselves in a quiet rhythm. You don’t swim, don’t sit. Just walk. Let your feet carry you past bits of driftwood and tangled seaweed, past shells you don’t stop to collect.

You don’t think about much.

Just the sound of the water. The way it feels to be small in the best kind of way.

Dinner is simple. Something easy. You can’t remember the last time it tasted this good.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Your first Monday in the guesthouse starts with light and birdsong instead of traffic.

You wake before your alarm, blinking at the ceiling like your body hasn’t gotten the memo that the rules have changed. For a moment, you expect the old rush—shower, clothes, keys, commute. But it never comes.

You make coffee and sit at the kitchen table with your laptop, the windows cracked open just enough to let the morning air in. A soft breeze rustles through the trees. Your inbox is full, but not urgent. You reply to a few things, flag some others, and fall into a rhythm that doesn’t feel punishing.

It’s not the work that ever drained you. It was everything around it—the noise, the pressure, the way the office swallowed whole days and spit them back out in meetings and recycled air. The elevator rides, the fluorescent lights, the sound of someone reheating fish in the breakroom microwave.

Now, you keep your camera off for most of the morning. Nobody seems to mind.

In the afternoon, you join a Zoom meeting with your camera on and your feet tucked under you. Someone from your team—Rachel, maybe, or Erin—squints at the screen and says, “You look really relaxed. The change of pace must be helping.”

You smile. “Definitely. It’s been nice to breathe a little.”

Someone else nods. “Glad you're settling in.”

The meeting moves on.

You eat lunch on the porch with your laptop balanced on one knee. You start a list of things to do later, but you forget about it almost as quickly.

The day goes fast.

At one point, you hear the sound of Joel’s saw in the distance. Not constant. Just there. A soft reminder of something happening outside of you.

You don’t look.

By the time you shut your laptop, the sun has already shifted to that late-afternoon gold. You stretch your arms above your head, roll your neck, and wander inside to change.

Jules picks you up just after six.

“First day on the beach payroll,” she says when you slide into the passenger seat. “How does it feel to not be rotting in a cubicle?”

“Less fluorescent,” you say. “Less... everything.”

She takes you to a little place near the water with plastic chairs and string lights overhead. You order wine and grilled fish with citrus slaw. She talks about the tourists, about the guy who keeps trying to name starfish after himself in her marine tours, about how she still hasn’t figured out if her neighbor owns a rooster or is just playing one through a speaker.

At some point, you ask, casually, "Do you know anything about Joel? The guy who owns the place."

Jules leans back in her chair. "Not really. He’s kind of a local fixture, but he keeps to himself. Builds furniture, mostly. Some people say he sells it out of state."

You nod. "He dropped off a cutting board the day I got in. Didn’t really stick around."

"Yeah, that sounds like him," she says. "He’s not unfriendly. Just... private. Been here a while. Doesn’t talk much."

You let that sit. Not because it means anything. Just because it's something to file away.

You let her talk. You let yourself laugh. You let the breeze lift your hair and the wine loosen your shoulders.

It doesn’t feel like a milestone. It doesn’t feel like a reward.

It just feels good.

You head home with the last of the light still clinging to the sky, salt on your skin, and no plans for tomorrow except doing it all again.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

He shows up again on Tuesday.

Late morning. You're mid-email, one hand wrapped around your coffee mug, rereading the same sentence twice when there’s a knock on the door. It’s light—tentative. Like last time, like he’s still not sure if he should be doing this at all.

You hesitate, push your chair back, and cross the room. When you open it, Joel stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets. No paper bag this time. No offerings. Just him.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Sorry to bother. Just wanted to check in. Make sure everything’s alright in the place."

You blink, then nod, holding your mug against your chest. “Yeah. Everything’s good. No issues.”

Joel gives a short nod. His eyes shift toward the trees, like he might leave immediately. But he doesn’t.

“I don’t usually rent it out this time of year,” he says after a beat. “Heard someone was looking for somewhere to stay. Figured the timing worked out.”

You lean a little into the doorway. “It did. It’s been... a really good reset.”

Joel glances down, thumb skimming the edge of his jeans pocket. “I’m not much of a host,” he says. “Wasn’t sure if I should stop by. But figured I should check in, at least."

You smile, soft. Not too much. “I appreciate it. Everything’s been really comfortable. Quiet.”

He nods again. "Good."

For a second, neither of you says anything. The wind rustles through the trees, and a bird chirps somewhere off to the left. Joel shifts his weight. The porch creaks faintly under his heel.

“Place is nice,” you add. “Feels lived in. In a good way.”

That makes him glance back toward the house. “Built most of it myself. Added the guesthouse a few years back. Didn’t think I’d use it much, but...” He shrugs. “People end up needing space."

You take a sip from your mug and nod. “Seems like a good place for it.”

Joel rubs the back of his neck. “If anything needs fixing—drawer sticks, windows squeak, anything like that—I’m around. Workshop’s just behind the shed."

You follow his gesture. You hadn’t really looked beyond the trees yet, hadn’t thought about what was back there. But now you notice it—a wide structure tucked in the shade, low roof, stacked planks leaning against the outer wall.

“Thanks,” you say. “I’ll let you know.”

You glance at him again, not expecting to find anything new—but this time, your eyes catch on the way his hands shift slightly, like he’s not sure what to do with them. They’re rough. Not just callused, but visibly worn. Small scars along his knuckles. A tiny cut near the base of his thumb, half-healed.

He notices your glance but doesn’t comment. Just clears his throat softly and lifts his eyes to yours for a second.

“I didn’t know I could feel this... still,” you say, before you really think about it.

Joel nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

You didn’t mean to say it. You don’t follow it up. And he doesn’t ask.

He nods once more, then hesitates like he might say something else. He doesn’t. Just lifts a hand in a half-wave and steps down off the porch.

You watch him walk back across the grass, slow and steady, barefoot like always. He disappears behind the line of trees, swallowed by the quiet.

You shut the door gently.

You try to get back to work, but it takes a minute.

Your coffee's gone lukewarm. The email you were writing doesn’t seem important anymore. You sit at the kitchen table and stare at your screen while the cursor blinks. It takes three tries to remember what you were even supposed to say.

Not because of him. Just... because the interruption broke whatever shallow concentration you had going. You close the laptop for a while and step outside instead.

The hammock is warm in the sun. You sit sideways in it, feet on the grass, journal balanced on your knees. You don’t write much. A line or two. Something about the trees. Something about the quiet.

Eventually, you wander inside, rinse out your mug, and grab a peach from the fridge. The rest of the day stretches ahead of you, soft and slow.

You don’t see him again that day. But you think about the way he stood on the porch. Like he didn’t quite belong there, but showed up anyway.

It wasn’t much. Not personal.

But something about it lingers.

You go back to work with the window open. The saw starts up again around two.

You don’t look. But you hear him.

By late afternoon, the light shifts. The workday winds down, email closed, another empty mug sitting by your keyboard. You stretch, fingertips pressing into the tight knots in your neck.

Out on the porch, the breeze has picked up. You step outside with a glass of water, blinking against the sun.

Down near the workshop, the truck is pulled up closer. Joel’s there, dragging the hose across the gravel. A bucket waits nearby, sponge in hand.

You catch yourself watching almost instantly.

He moves the way he always seems to—unhurried, steady. Shirt sleeves shoved high, forearms slick with water. The damp fabric of his t-shirt pulls faintly across his back when he leans forward into the cab. Broad shoulders, trim waist, the slow flex of muscle beneath sun-warmed skin.

It’s... more than you expected.

Not that you’d expected anything. He was just the landlord. Someone you barely knew.

But now your gaze lingers, and it’s hard to blame the sun for the warmth climbing up your neck.

He straightens, lifts a hand to the back of his neck. The small shift draws your eyes again before you can stop them.

You glance away fast, glass poised halfway to your lips. Take a too-long sip, hoping it’ll cool whatever heat is rising under your skin.

It doesn’t.

You didn’t think of him that way. Until just now, maybe you hadn’t thought of him much at all.

But now the image sticks. And when you head back inside, it follows you a little too easily.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The rest of the week settles into a kind of rhythm.

Not rushed. Not structured, really. Just… easy.

Mornings start with coffee on the porch, the air still cool enough to warrant a sweatshirt most days. You read there sometimes, legs curled beneath you, the hum of cicadas rising with the sun. The sound of the saw picks up mid-morning more often than not—low and steady from across the yard. After a few days, it blends into the background, like the soft rustle of the seagrass or the gulls overhead. You can’t say it bothers you.

Work stays quiet. Manageable. It’s easier here—something about the space between things. The absence of constant pinging and half-conversations and calendars stacked to the minute. You knock out your to-do list early most days, freeing the afternoons for… whatever feels right.

Sometimes that means walking down to the beach with a book tucked under your arm. Other days it means errands in town—a new bag of coffee, a browse through the little shop that sells lavender soaps and sea glass trinkets. You’ve started to recognize faces. A few hellos here and there. It’s nice.

You see Joel more, too. Not deliberately. It just… happens.

There’s a run-in at the mailbox midweek—he’s heading out as you’re heading back. A nod, a quick “hey,” an easy smile. A few words exchanged about the weather, about the stretch of warm days ahead.

Later, you catch him outside the workshop, arms full of lumber. He shifts the load with a quiet grunt, glances up as you pass on your way to the hammock. Another nod. Another smile. You can’t help but return it.

There are other moments, too. Small ones.

You’re trimming back the hedge one afternoon when you hear his voice nearby, low and even. On the phone, maybe. You don’t listen in, but the cadence of it draws your ear. You glance over without meaning to, catch the edge of him framed in the workshop doorway—one hand braced against the frame, the other at his hip.

You look away fast. No reason to stare.

Still, your gaze drifts that way more often than it used to.

Another morning, you catch a whiff of sawdust and soap on the air as you cross the drive. Not close—just enough to register. Enough to linger.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’re just paying attention more, that’s all.

But later, curled in the hammock with your book resting open against your chest, you realize you haven’t turned a page in several minutes. Your eyes keep flicking toward the workshop, half-expecting movement.

You sigh, shake your head, force yourself back to the words on the page.

When the truck door thuds shut later that day, you’re already looking toward the sound before you can stop yourself.

A glimpse through the porch rail—the steady motion you’ve started to recognize. The faint rise and fall of his voice. Familiar now, in a way it wasn’t before.

Funny how that happens.

Nothing more to it than that.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But you don’t go back inside right away. The sun is soft now, the porch warm beneath your legs. You let the minutes stretch, listening to the faint rhythm of his voice, the shuffle of movement from across the yard.

A soft scrape. The low creak of a hinge.

You glance over again. The workshop door’s fully open now, sunlight spilling across the worn boards inside. Joel moves through the space, a rag in one hand, sleeves pushed high.

Your gaze lingers longer than it should. You shift in your seat, fingers curling against the armrest.

The bag from town still sits just inside the door—lightbulbs you’d grabbed on a whim. You hadn’t meant to let them sit this long, and the porch fixture had been dim since your first night here.

A small thing. A small excuse. But enough.

You stand, brushing your hands lightly over your thighs. The path feels shorter than usual as you cross the yard.

The door stands open ahead of you, the hum of the radio low beneath the quiet.

You pause at the threshold, one hand on the frame.

“Hey,” you call, voice light. “Do you have a second?”

Joel looks up, straightens from the bench. His brow lifts faintly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Everything alright?”

You shake your head quickly, offering a small smile.

“All good. Just—” you lift the bag slightly, “—thought I’d check about the porch light. I grabbed some bulbs, wasn’t sure if there’s a trick to it.”

Something shifts in his expression then. Shoulders easing, mouth tugging faint at one corner—something warmer than before.

“Good timing,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to get around to that. Come on in.”

The words catch something low in your chest, loose and warm.

You step inside.

The scent greets you first—cedar and oil, the sharper bite of fresh sawdust. Thicker here, grounding.

Light cuts through the room in long strips, painting the floor in soft gold. Tools hang in careful rows above the benches, handles worn smooth from use. The faint hum of the old radio plays beneath it all—low and steady, like a heartbeat threaded through the air.

Joel sets the rag in his hand aside, straightening as you approach.

“What’d you grab?”

You pull the box of bulbs from the bag, fingers brushing the cardboard edges.

“Just the basics. Didn’t know if they’d fit.”

“Let’s see.”

He reaches for the box, and for a beat, your hands meet—his fingers brushing over yours as he takes it. Warm. Calloused. A flicker of heat trails up your arm before you can think.

Neither of you acknowledges it. But the air feels different now.

Joel lifts the box, tipping it in his hand.

“Yeah, these’ll work.”

You nod, glancing past him toward the bench. Your gaze lingers longer than it should—on the broad planks laid out across the surface, the sharp gleam of steel, the soft curl of wood shavings beneath his arm.

“You working on something?”

He shifts, setting the box aside. “Chair.” He gestures to the half-built frame clamped at the center of the bench. “Trying to get the joints right.”

You step closer, drawn without thinking.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, tracing the clean lines with your eyes.

Joel watches you a moment, something flickering beneath the steady look.

“Appreciate that.” His voice is quieter now, a rougher edge beneath it. “Lot of time goes into these.”

You glance up. He’s closer than before—only a foot or two away now, warmth radiating between the space that isn’t quite space anymore.

“I can tell.” You rest your hand light on the edge of the bench, grounding yourself. “I didn’t know you built everything here.”

Joel’s mouth lifts again, softer this time. “Yeah. Most of it. Took a while to get set up.”

There’s a pause then—a full one. Not awkward. Just… aware.

Your breath slows, skin prickling beneath the light cotton of your shirt.

Joel shifts again, reaching for a small chisel. Your gaze follows without meaning to—the way his hands move, strong and precise, veins cutting sharp beneath his skin.

He glances at you, catches your eyes lingering.

You look away fast. But not fast enough to miss the faint rise of color beneath his scruff.

He clears his throat. “You wanna see how it fits?”

You nod. “Yeah.” The word comes easier than your breath.

He picks up the seat slat, turns toward you—closer now. As he angles it into place, his shoulder brushes yours—light, brief, but enough to send your pulse climbing.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The moment holds there, stretched thin across the soft weight of the room.

Then—carefully—Joel steps back.

“Still needs some shaping,” he says, voice rougher than before.

You nod, fingers brushing the edge of the wood. “It’s… really nice.”

Another pause.

Joel’s gaze lingers on you, steadier than before. For a breath, neither of you moves. The air feels weighted now, thicker between the strips of light.

You glance down, smoothing your fingers along the grain of the seat.

“How long does something like this take?” you ask softly.

He shifts, arms folding loosely across his chest. The movement pulls his shirt taut across his shoulders, draws your eye before you can catch it.

“Depends,” he says. “Piece like this… week or two. If the wood cooperates.”

You glance up again, meeting his gaze. The edges of your breath catch faintly, but you hold it steady.

“I don’t think I realized how much goes into it.”

Joel huffs a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a shift in him now—shoulders looser, voice warmer. You can feel it in the way the air hums between you.

Your gaze flicks back to the shelves along the wall. Jars of nails and screws. Planes and clamps worn by use. The space feels different now—not just a workshop, but his. A reflection of the hands that shaped it.

“You’ve been doing this a long time?”

Joel nods. “Yeah. Picked it up young. Stuck with it.” His mouth lifts faintly. “Guess I like making things that last.”

The words settle low in your chest. You don’t know why, but they do.

You glance back toward him. He’s watching you again—not guarded, not unreadable, just… there. Present in a way that makes your pulse hitch.

And maybe it’s the way the afternoon light catches the curve of his jaw. Or the quiet between your words. Or the way your shoulders brush again as he shifts to reach for another tool, close enough that you can feel the heat of him.

Whatever it is, you’re suddenly aware that you’re standing closer than you’d meant to. That you haven’t moved.

Neither has he.

Another beat, full and slow.

Then—reluctant but even—you draw in a breath.

“I should probably let you get back to it,” you say, though your voice is quieter now.

Joel watches you for a second longer.

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s something softer beneath it. Something that feels like it might have asked you to stay if the words were easier to reach.

You step back slowly, fingers brushing once more along the edge of the chair.

“Thanks. For showing me.”

His mouth lifts again, the faintest tug of warmth. “Anytime.”

And when you turn for the door, you can feel his gaze follow you—steady and low, trailing after you as you cross the sunlit yard. 

You don’t let your steps quicken. No sense in it. And maybe next time, you won’t leave so soon.

[aurumalatus]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 (𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔)

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3.4k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers (yes kinich literally invented this trope okay. sue me), mini-drabbles, childhood to university, modern!au, fluff and slight angst, lots of bantering but it's light-hearted i promise

summary.

you've always been a sore loser—kinich is just the only one brave enough to say it. or, you and kinich fall in love over the course of your lives, and one thing never changes—you're both idiots

author's note. credit to @/scythidol for the header images! a bit of a different fic format this time (who is she....). i'm sick over kinich, i have nothing clever to say or excuses to make. that's all, thank you for reading! i'm finishing this at 5am so i'll fix any errors later lol. reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

I.

“You’re annoying.”

The old TV in your backyard treehouse buzzes with static and the constant thumps of Kinich’s fingers against the controller buttons.

It’s a summer evening—crickets chirp merrily in the grass and lightning bugs float lazily through the air, glowing among the stars. You’re sitting next to him, knees pulled to your chest and the straw of a Capri-Sun settled between your lips.

His reaction (or lack thereof) to your words leaves you less than entertained, a sour pout fixed on your lips as he sighs.

“You’re a sore loser. We said whoever got up here first got to play first.” Despite the intense game occurring on the screen in front of him, he diverts about half his attention to watching you out of the corner of his eye. “And I got up here first.”

“But you always win,” you whine. Kinich nudges at his own juice box with his knee, and you roll your eyes before picking it up and holding it to his lips—he drinks gratefully, still focused on his game. You’re not sure why you keep agreeing to this bet; you don’t think you’ve ever won.

“Then you need to get faster.”

Both of you know that such a feat would be impossible—Kinich has been the fastest kid in your grade since you started school. His athleticism affords him a bit of popularity, still at the age where winning a playground race is essentially the deciding factor between the cool kids and the lame ones. But he’s not interested in any of that, and he makes that quite clear in his actions.

After all, all the popular kids avoid him since he started a fight with them last year. 

“They were saying things about you,” he’d shrugged, like it was no big deal. The school seemed to think a bit differently, and his suspension felt like the longest week of your life.

The screen flashes then, a loud and colorful display that shows the words “you win”. Kinich leans back in his seat, a pleased half-smile spreading across his face. 

“Okay, now you can play.”

He tries to hand you the controller, but you huff, crossing your arms and turning away.

“I don’t even wanna play anymore.”

Kinich is far more mature than you at this age—even your own mother tells you as much—so he merely sighs, accepting of your tantrum.

“Okay, what do you wanna do then?”

You ponder that for a moment. There’s a lot of things you do often, but many of them are things that Kinich is much better at than you. Playing video games, climbing trees, riding bikes—he’s far more talented at them all. It’s one of the reasons you even became friends in the first place—you’d practically begged him to teach you to beat the final boss of Super Mario Galaxy, and the rest was history.

“I don’t know,” you mumble noncommittally, blowing your straw wrapper at him. It lands right on target, bouncing lightly off his forehead as he rolls his eyes.

“Come on, whatever you wanna do, we’ll do it,” he says, poking at your cheek. “I’ll even play house.”

And you know Kinich hates playing house—he has boundless amounts of energy most days, and house isn’t “challenging” enough of a game for him to expend it. But he does it occasionally, just for you.

You brighten at the prospect. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, already descending the treehouse ladder, waving you along. “Let’s go inside first, though. I’m hungry.”

Scrambling to your feet, you jump down to meet Kinich, already standing in the grass.

“Last one inside is a rotten egg!”

II.

The rainstorm ends just as classes dismiss—when you walk out the school entrance, a slight drizzle is still letting up, fresh puddles lapping at your toes. Kinich’s gaze finds you instantly as he slinks out of the school gates, bag tossed loosely over his shoulder.

“My socks are wet now,” you whine, patting down the edges of your skirt to look down at your shoes. You’d only just bought them recently, and your mom likely wouldn’t be pleased with the prospect of you ruining them so soon.

Kinich chuckles at first, a snarky sound as thick as the gathering clouds, only to sigh when your pout persists.

“Alright, alright,” he relents, squatting to the ground and gesturing for you to get on his back. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

He’s a bit frail, still in his growing phase—his bones and muscles shift rhythmically under his skin as he walks—but he’s so distinctly warm. The heat makes you curl closer, nose brushing against his neck.

He walks you home most days like this, spending the day at your house until the sky grows dark with dusk. His home life is something he rarely discusses, but you know enough, and you’re happy to welcome him to yours.

“You’re slow,” you mumble into his shoulder. The steady thump of his steps is comforting, nearly putting you to sleep.

“You’re heavy,” Kinich replies teasingly, adjusting your weight atop his back. His words are biting, but he’s being careful with his steps nonetheless, taking each one lightly so as not to jostle you.

“You’re rude,” you scoff back. His nose scrunches in annoyance when you loop your arms tighter around his neck, pretending to choke him as punishment. “You’re not supposed to say that to a girl.”

He blows his bangs out of his eyes, peering up at the newly visible sun that starts to dip low in the sky. You watch a cat scurry through the bushes to your right, golden eyes peering through the foliage before disappearing into the darkness. 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m saying it to you.”

Kinich is always a bit wittier than you, a bit quicker to the punch, but you like that about him. You like a lot of things about him, and you’re sure he knows it, too. A weighty silence settles between the two of you, unnatural—it’s usually you who fills the silence, and Kinich who patiently listens.

But something bigger sits at the back of your mind, and the words are having trouble surmounting the obstacle of your tongue. 

You’re still floundering for something to say by the time your house appears in the distance. The sight lights a fire under you—you don’t want to discuss something like this with your mother in earshot. You force the words out, voice weak and small.

“I heard Mualani confessed to you yesterday.”

The rumor had flown through the school like wildfire. Mualani is popular with the boys after all, so there’s bound to be quite a bit of heartbreak if she ends up in a relationship. Someone had seen them together at that sakura tree behind the school, and it instantly became a hot topic—it’s all you’ve heard about all day.

And though you know it’s not really any of your business, you can’t help but be curious, and the thought fills you with dread.

You manage a glance at his expression, searching for any sort of unrest, but he doesn’t show any at all. In fact, he seems wholly uninterested in the topic.

He shrugs. “Yeah, so?��

You take a deep breath for courage—you’re not sure you want to hear his answer. 

“So? What did you tell her?”

And it’s nothing against Mualani, really—she’s kind and beautiful, and you wouldn’t blame Kinich for falling for her. She’s never done anything wrong to you at all. But a beat passes, and you’re already halfway through mourning the end of your long-time crush when he replies.

“I told her I was flattered, but I wasn’t interested.”

A sigh of relief escapes you then, but you reel it in quickly—he can probably feel you relax against his back at his response.

“Oh,” is all you say, as aloof as you can manage. Kinich latches onto your hesitation instantly.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” comes your hasty reply. “...Is there any reason you said no, though?”

He frowns. “I don’t know. She just isn’t my type.”

“...Then what is your type?”

You’re going too far, you know—even just speaking the words has your chest twisting painfully, and you want to crawl into a hole and disappear. If Kinich isn’t an idiot, he can surely tell why you’re practically breathing down his neck over the whole thing.

But maybe Kinich is a little bit of an idiot, at least about these things, because he merely shrugs.

“Not sure. Never really thought about it.”

A frost unfurls in your chest, bitter—of course Kinich wouldn’t know, he’s never thought about anyone that way. Including you.

“Right.” You attempt a laugh, teeth gritting. “It’s all stupid anyway.”

You drop your head into his shoulder, trying to hide the pained expression on your face, and only then does Kinich’s stare flicker to you, soft.

“Right,” he says, a quiet rumble from his chest. “It’s really, really stupid.”

III.

Walks turn to drives when Kinich turns sixteen and buys his own car.

He’d saved up for months, working part-time jobs on weekends and after school, until the day finally came when he pulled up into your driveway, keys in hand. Your mom had been overwhelmingly proud—bought a cake and everything—and you’d merely been grateful that you no longer had to beg her to drive you places. 

It’s nothing crazy, just a simple sedan, but it represents a freedom that the two of you have never experienced together before.

That’s how you end up parked underneath the flickering streetlight just outside your house, excitedly recounting a story to your best friend. He’d driven you home from your club after school, an errand that always ended in several other stops—today, it had been fast food and boba.

His eyes seem to glow in the fading daylight, a pretty jade and amber that you’ve always thought was beautiful. It feels a bit more intense with his stare trained on you—Kinich isn’t the talkative type, sure, but he always ensures that you know he’s listening.

“So then she was asking me about you.”

“Mhm.”

“And get this,” a nervous chuckle escapes you then, “she thought we were dating.”

Everything falls still.

It’s times like this that you really start to hate just how unreadable your best friend can be. Despite how much you tease him for it, you actually enjoy how difficult it can be to force an expression out of him—it’s a little challenge every day. But now, when you’re on the precipice of pouring your heart out, his impassive expression stings.

Nothing on his face changes, save for a slight tilt of his head—he’s considering your words. The silence feels endless; a lump starts to form in your throat, humiliation burning at your cheeks. 

“I know, it’s so ridiculous,” you assert hurriedly, trying to avoid the rush of shame. “I mean, we would never—”

“Tell her we are, then.”

You’re sure that in that moment, your heart stops. 

Truthfully, you hadn’t planned to get this far—you were planning on brushing over that part of the story and moving on, but something deep in your heart had forced it out of you. Now, you aren’t sure what you really want to happen.

It’s always been your underlying fear, that once Kinich finds out, everything will change. Or even if he does return your feelings, it’ll all go up in flames eventually and you’ll never be the same. It’s terrifying enough to have kept your mouth shut all these years.

A tense laugh erupts from your throat, cutting through the silence. “I—I mean, it’s not that simple—”

He arches a brow. “Do you not want to?”

That’s another difference between you and Kinich—he’s far more straightforward about getting things that he wants. It’s one of the reasons that people misinterpret him as cold, but he sees it as being logical.

You gnaw at your lip, fingers tracing over the car door. Do you?

If the countless daydreams and romantic notebook doodles are anything to go by, you do. You really do. You’re just not sure if you’re brave enough to take that step.

When you look at him again, he’s observing you carefully, a delicate fondness lying in his stare. You shrink under the weight of it.

“No, I do,” you admit quietly. 

The moment falls still, and your eyes are drawn to the only movement within your line of vision—the quick bob of Kinich’s throat. Then, his hand advances toward your face at a measured pace, giving you endless opportunities to retreat.

Of course, you don’t.

“Can I…?” he asks, barely a brush of a whisper. The tension runs thick in the air as his tongue peeks out, swiping over his bottom lip at a tantalizing pace. It’s nearly enough to drive you crazy, but you know he’s just as anxious.

“Yes,” you breathe, wincing at the sound of your own voice—it sounds almost too eager.

But Kinich presses his lips to yours all the same, soft and wanting, and your heart flutters in your chest. It’s a chaste kiss, nothing like the fireworks-exploding-making-out-with-tongue types you’ve seen on TV, but it’s just right—it feels like him, and that’s all that matters. He pulls away slightly, lips still millimeters away from yours.

“I like you. If I’m not wrong, you like me too. I think it’s that simple.”

You almost want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Though you’d never admit it, you’ve practiced this scenario thousands of times in front of your bedroom mirror—what you would say to him, what he might say to you. Leave it to Kinich to not follow the script.

But he’s always done things his own way, so really, you should’ve expected this.

Gently, he reaches for your hand, fingers slotting through yours with ease. You sigh.

“I guess it is.”

IV.

“...that far, huh?”

Kinich stares at you upside down, head dangling off the edge of your bed as you sit at your desk, laptop keys clicking rapidly. He knows you’re serious about your future goals; you both are. He just never imagined it would bring the two of you so far apart.

You pause with one hand resting on the mouse, still staring at the screen. The map looks so daunting, too daunting, and you can’t imagine being that far away from him. 

An awkward, weighted silence hangs in the air, and by the time a few seconds pass, you’ve already foreseen eighty different bad endings for this situation. Clearing your throat once, you force yourself to speak.

“Kinich, I—”

“I get it.”

He doesn’t mean to interrupt you so suddenly, but he does. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. Because while he does understand—he really does—he also can’t help the stinging sensation of tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. It feels pathetic. It feels selfish. Here you are, chasing your dreams and supporting his, and he’s caught on the fact that there will be a little space between the two of you. And it’s not like it’s anyone’s fault, but maybe you’ll get tired of waiting and—

“You’ll come back to me, right?”

There’s an unmistakable thickness to your voice, evidence of the steadily growing lump in your weary throat. It grows larger with every passing second, an insurmountable mass dwarfed only by the impending distance between you and him.

That question catches Kinich off-guard, and he nearly wants to laugh then; not because he doubts you at all, but because he doesn’t, and he finds it ridiculous that you would ever think otherwise. Here you are, worrying about him.

Kinich doesn’t have any doubts or fears. He never does when he’s with you.

Maybe that’s why.

With a light laugh, he lets his eyes flutter closed, finally allowing an uneven breath to fill his lungs. The natural light outside is slowly dimming, the fluorescent lamps dotting your street flicking on one by one. He knows he should go home soon. His car is sitting outside, the same one the two of you have had endless adventures, fights, and make-ups in. It’s the same one he will use when he moves an unfathomable distance away from you. The same one he will use on the day you will cry, clinging to him like your life depends on it, before watching him disappear into nothing but a mere dot in the distance.

His fist clenches at his side. 

But you’re still here, the closest feeling he has to home, and you’re still in love with him, and he is still in love with you.

Maybe that’s why this is enough, for now. 

Turning onto his stomach, Kinich sees you right-side up this time, and it’s like nothing has changed.

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” 

V.

A knock echoes on your apartment door in the middle of the night.

You raise a brow at the sound, a bit unnerved—a lone college girl answering the door in the dark isn’t the safest thing, you think as you peek one eye through the peephole. But there’s a familiar figure standing outside, and it has your hand turning the knob immediately and flinging the door open.

He’s here.

“Kinich,” you breathe, in disbelief. Last you’d heard, he was somewhere halfway across the country, and certainly nowhere near your front door. But he’s here, in a black hoodie and grey sweatpants, looking like he’s just walked out of your dreams.

“Hey,” he says simply, as if his appearance hadn’t been totally shocking. He takes advantage of your shell-shocked state to invite himself inside, curiously looking through your apartment. “Nice place.”

You step aside in a daze. “Kinich—you—what are you doing here?”

He’s holding three flimsy bags in his fist, grocery store logos and restaurant labels stamped over the plastic, keys hanging off his pinky finger. He’d come prepared, clearly, but for what you’re not sure. 

He towers over you a bit more than he used to, hair a bit longer, and everything about him feels so grown up. It reminds you of all the moments the two of you have missed over the years, how much change has occurred beneath your nose, maybe without you realizing. 

He spreads the bags over your kitchen table—the mouth-watering smell of Chinese takeout filters through the air, and your stomach grumbles in reply. But it’s your tear ducts that react initially, a sting at the corners of your eyes as you squeeze them shut.

Kinich doesn’t notice at first, absorbed in inspecting the photos displayed on your wall—photos of you, photos of him, photos of the two of you together. It makes his chest warm that you still think about those times. He does too—after all, it’s rare that you leave his mind.

But he turns back to you, tears running rivers down your cheeks, and his breath hitches.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, carefully cupping your face. A lilt of panic laces his voice. “Does something hurt? Are you sick?”

“You’re here,” you sob, curling into his shoulder. None of it feels real. He’s warm and firm beneath your fingers, and you clutch at him tighter, half-expecting everything to disappear. It’s so much different than FaceTime or calling or anything else you do when he’s away. Because right now, he’s completely within your reach, and everything falls into place.

“Of course I am,” he murmurs. You cry into his hoodie, soaking the fabric with your tears, but he holds you close all the same. “Because you’re here.”

You spend a few minutes that way—you crying until your tears dry over your skin, and him comfortingly rubbing at your back. Air slowly returns to your lungs, and you sniffle, glassy eyes meeting his. 

“But why? I mean, it’s the middle of the semester, isn’t it?”

A rare half-smirk graces his lips.

“We made a promise. I came back to you first. So I do believe that means that I win,” he says. If you weren’t so emotional, you might have rolled your eyes—of course, all he ever focuses on is winning.

He drags you over to the couch, laying down and pulling you on top of him, safe. You draw closer to him, tangling your limbs together until you’re not sure where he ends and you begin.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, muffled into his chest.

Kinich shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“You’re still a sore loser. Thought you’d grow out of that by now.”

You grumble a few choice words at him, and he smiles—a sight that only you and the stars can claim to have ever seen.

And he’s right; you are a sore loser, and he’s been right just about every time he told you so. But you find it doesn’t matter, not really.

You could never win against Kinich anyway.

(Maybe you never wanted to.)

[muxshwriting]

coming home

Max Verstappen x reader

summary: max makes the decision no one thought he actually would. and he made the decision for you || word count: 950 || masterlist

You’re screaming as Max crosses the line. Yes, it’s P5 but it’s a championship secured. The team around you erupts as their dreams come true. There was a huge sense of anticipation as you ran through the pit lane towards parc ferme and towards him. You watch as he jumps out of the car with a weight visibly off his shoulders. He runs towards you, not a glance at anyone else.

“I’m so proud of you!” You’re shouting over the noise of the crowd but Max only hears you.

“I couldn’t have done it without you Schatz. For a second I didn’t think I would.”

“You made it. You won.”

He tears his helmet off, crashing his lips into yours and he finds himself home. The rest of the night is a blur as you watch Max receive his well earned celebrations for a season hard-fought. There’s nothing that could sour yours or his mood as the night burns on and Max goes from interview to interview, waiting for the time he can drink so much he forgets.

“Max, congratulations on the championship win. Would you like to speak about how much this means to you after this year?”

Max rubs a hand through his hair and adjusts his hat, a nervous tick he’d always had as he brought the microphone to his jaw. “Yeah. This championship means a lot because we weren’t sure it was going to happen earlier in the season. Of course it wouldn’t have been possible without my amazing team working so hard to make the car as good as it could be. It’s the people around us who push us to be the best versions of ourselves.”

Max can’t hope to get away sooner, to his team waiting to celebrate and to you. There’s always a choice in the back of his mind that tells him to abandon everything and run for the hills with you. Except this time, with the championship tucked in his belt, he’s not sure what’s stopping him anymore.

The triple header came to a close in Abu Dhabi, Max closing his season out with a glorious win but there’s a feeling in your gut that tells you Max is going to say it. You’d discussed his retirement before, and you’d always tried to persuade him to stick out his contract. You would tell him that you both had time to live your lives after his career. The last thing you wanted was for Max to throw his dream away for you.

A champagne-drenched Max finds you after the podium hiding in his driver’s room. “You’re going to announce it, aren’t you?” You quietly ask, not wanting to ruin the joy but needing an answer.

Max grinned, stripping his race suit from his body. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

“Then you know I am.”

“Max-“

He calms your worries with a simple declaration. “I love you. I know this is what I want. I’ve had my time, I don’t need anything more than you.”

You bite back the sting of tears and pull Max into a hug, pressing your lips against his.

“Is that a yes?” He whispers to you. “You’re okay with this?”

”Yes. I love you.”

With a kiss to his cheek, you send him to the hounds of journalists in the press conference and promise you’ll be right here when he’s done. It takes a moment for the right time to arise but when Max is asked a question about his hopes for the future, he only knows one answer.

“The future? My future? I’m retiring from formula one... effective immediately. I will be taking no more questions at this time. Thank you.”

And with that, Max put down his microphone. He stood and carefully removed his red bull hat and took a moment to simply look before he placed it where he had been sitting. He ignored the journalists practically screaming at him and the cameras that sounded like static. Without a word, he walked out of the door and promised himself he would never return.

The second he walks out of the door, your arms are wrapped around him and he falls into your embrace. Your words flow through him without being absorbed as he remembers and realises exactly what he’s done. A part of him will miss this life but most of his heart is grateful he stopped before it consumed his very being.

He had proved himself, set records for the ages and done what any formula one driver aims to do: win championships. Was it so unfair to want a different life than the one he had grown into? Was it so unfair to want that perfect family with a beachfront penthouse in Monaco or even a country home in the Netherlands? A house that always had spare bedrooms for guests to drop by, a house with love radiating from its walls and beauty running through it’s floors. Was it so unfair to want that before life slipped past him and he was a 40-year-old driving for a bottom ranking team trying to keep the dream alive?

But Max had a different dream now, a dream nothing could stop him from achieving.

Four years later, that dream is most certainly in progress as you sit in the window of that Dutch country home watching Max as he runs after your eldest daughter. There’s a babe in your arms and a feeling that nothing will ever be as perfect as this. There have been no regrets about leaving racing and no regrets about leaving that whole world behind.

Who knows what the future will bring? That’s the best part, it’s your future.