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rawrfrferrari · 2 days ago

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The One Who Stayed | CS55

Plot: Y/n is Charles' ex but their families have been friends since even before they were born. Arthur is attached to Y/n like a brother and is not happy with his brother and his new girlfriend. After a few family events Y/n couldn't bear the uneasy atmosphere with the new couple and the hate by Charles fans, so she distances herself from them and finds herself a new man who treats her right.

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x girlfriend!reader

Type: Angst, Fluff, SMAU.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

[Request and Taglist] [Masterlist]

MONTE-CARLO, MONACO - DECEMBER 2024

Y/N’s best friend had flown in from London early that morning, her vacation energy in full swing.

By noon, the three of them, Y/N, Jade, and her best friend, were walking down Rue Grimaldi, arms swinging with boutique bags, sandals clicking against the warm pavement.

“Okay, this one,” Y/N said, pointing to the next store, minimalist glass with gold signage. “I saw this on Instagram. They have new swim sets.”

“Say no more,” her best friend said, already pulling her inside. “We’re raiding the racks.”

Inside, the boutique was airy and crisp. A sales associate greeted them like returning royalty. Soon, they were in different corners, digging through hangers, holding up neon orange, chocolate brown, and elegant off-white pieces.

“I don’t care how hot Maldives is,” Y/N’s best friend called out, holding up a black bikini top with side cut straps, and a wrap skirt with the bottom “I will be sweating pretty in this.”

Y/N giggled. “Carlos will combust. I’ll get it.”

She ended up grabbing three bikinis, two skirts, and a few linen shirts for Carlos, because the man will wear his polo's everywhere.

Later, over lunch at a café, her best friend leaned back, sunglasses perched on her head. “I found one more place. It’s a little formal, but trust me, you'll love it.”

“Yeah we can get some for one of the dinner,” Jade added, sipping her drink.

The boutique was tucked into a side street, quiet and polished. The interior was Parisian chic and soft jazz floating through the air. An assistant led them upstairs, where a single rack of new-season formalwear was displayed under a soft spotlight.

Y/N ran her hands along the fabrics, eyes catching on a silken ivory slip dress. Cut on the bias, delicate straps, and the kind of fluid drape that promised to melt onto the body.

“Try this,” Jade said suddenly, pulling it out and holding it up to her. “You have to.”

Y/N hesitated. “It’s… a bit much?”

“Exactly,” her best friend said. “Go. Dressing room. Now.”

A few minutes later, Y/N stepped out.

The dress clung to her softly, the ivory glowing against her skin. It pooled gently at her ankles, shimmered when she moved. Her hair was slightly messy from pulling it over her head, but even then — she looked ethereal.

Both Jade and her best friend stared.

“...Jesus,” Jade whispered. “Carlos is not surviving this trip.”

“we'll be needing a trip to the pharmacy,” her best friend said, jaw dropping.

Y/N laughed, her cheeks heating. “You’re insane. I’m not buying this. Where will I wear it later? My wedding? It’s—”

“No you’re not,” Jade cut in. “We are.”

“What? No—”

Her best friend was already walking to the counter. “Too late. You’re wearing that to the candlelit dinner. No backsies.”

Y/N blinked, overwhelmed but smiling. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Jade looped her arm around her. “You love us. And you look like a goddamn dream.”

yourusername

yourbestie

story caption: trip shopping 👙

jade_distinguinn

tagged: @/yourusername, @/yourbestie

f1gossipofficial

liked by carloshoney, car.y/nloveclub and others

f1gossipofficial Carlos Sainz was spotted leaving Y/N L/N’s family home in Monaco earlier today while Y/N was seen shopping with her friends, bf/n and Jade Distinguin. Could this mean things are more serious than we thought? 🥂👩‍❤️‍👨

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paddockpretties these two are peak grown-up love

racingstylelens casual fit but definitely trying to impress 🧐

landowifeys when you’re ✨loved✨ by the family

gossiptracker people in here acting like meeting the parents is breaking news lol

monacowatcher very few outside of the country know but her parents are actually very respected locally.

carloshoney He was waiting her to get back 🥰

→ ch4rlexhoney He didn’t even wait for her to be home. That’s… intense.

→ car.y/nloveclub They've moved in together, He told that his girlfriend was moving in with him, in the latest don't blink episode.

CARLOS AND Y/N'S APARTMENT, MONACO - DECEMBER 2024

Y/N slipped off her sandals as she entered the apartment, the soft echo of her keys hitting the marble counter breaking the silence. The scent of fresh laundry lingered in the air, Carlos’s faint cologne still hanging from the shirt she’d borrowed this morning and tossed on the couch.

She was tired, not physically, but in the way that came from being too online. Her bestie had already sent her the F1GossipOfficial post before she even got into the car, and now her name was trending on Twitter. Again.

She found Carlos sitting at the kitchen island, flipping through a folder of notes from his last sim session.

Y/N dropped her shopping bags by the door. “Why were you at my parents’?” Her voice wasn’t biting, but it wasn’t casual either.

Carlos didn’t flinch. He looked up from the folder, expression as steady as ever. “Your dad asked for help with some estate paperwork.”

She blinked, caught slightly off guard by the simplicity of the answer. “He… did?”

Carlos gave a soft nod, closing the folder and setting it aside. “Yeah. Something about sorting taxes of your old property in France and digital signatures. You know how he hates anything to do with digital documents.”

Y/N exhaled through her nose, eyes narrowing just slightly. “And you just… went over? While I was out?”

Carlos leaned forward, folding his arms on the marble. “You want me to wait for a permission slip every time your dad texts me?”

That earned him a sharp glare, until she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He was teasing. Y/N rolled her eyes, moving into the kitchen. “You’re lucky i like you.”

Carlos stood and followed, stepping behind her. “I am lucky. We moved in together and you still only like me?”

She smiled despite herself. “My love for you varies from moment to moment.”

“Wow,” Carlos said mock-gravely, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist from behind. “What a bitch!”

She leaned into him slightly, still annoyed, still thinking, but no longer tense.

“You know the internet thinks you went there to ask for my hand.”

Carlos chuckled, lips brushing her hair. “Good. Then they can’t back out of the wedding now. We wouldn't need to elope”

Y/N turned her face to look up at him, pretending to glare. “Not funny.”

Carlos gave a slow, exaggerated shrug. “Wasn’t a joke.”

“The empty suite in the villa just got booked,” she said casually, brushing a hand through her hair as she gulped the water.

Carlos looked up, the crease between his brows barely deepening. “Which one?”

“The one next to us.” She raised an eyebrow. “The one that’s been open for weeks and magically filled after our group finished booking.”

Carlos leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple, his arm draping behind her shoulders. “New friends, I guess.”

She gave a soft snort. “Sure.”

Carlos didn’t press. He walked over to the bar stool, sitting down and watching her. “I mean, it’s a public resort. We can’t gatekeep the Indian Ocean.”

She gave him a look. “No, but we can acknowledge that it’s weird.”

He nodded, still calm. “It is. A little.”

Carlos chuckled. “It’s not private anymore, huh? There goes our beach skinny-dip plan.”

Y/N laughed, nudging his ribs. “We never had a beach skinny-dip plan.”

He shrugged. “We could’ve.” And that shut her up, the way it always did.

She smiled faintly, sinking into his chest, his hand absently stroking her arm.

“Still,” she said, quieter this time. “Let’s just hope they’re not loud neighbours.”

Carlos chuckled into her hair. “If they are, I’ll just out-snore them.”

PRIVATE JET - DECEMBER 2024

The girls were spread across the plush sectional in the front cabin.

Y/N sat cross-legged between Jade and her best friend, a glossy resort catalog open across their laps, marked with lipstick smudges and laugh-creased corners.

“Okay, but this beach bar?” Jade pointed at a page. “We’re going. Second night. No excuses.”

“Seconded,” Y/N’s best friend added, stealing a handful of dried mangoes from the snack tray. “I brought a few specifically for bar-hopping.”

Meanwhile, in the rear of the jet, Carlos leaned back in his seat, legs crossed, half-listening to Arthur and Lando bicker about jet lag remedies.

“You brought electrolyte sachets and ear oil?” Arthur asked Lando, deadpan.

Lando looked smug. “It’s from a wellness place in Mayfair. You’ll thank me.”

Carlos smiled faintly, tapping his fingers on his espresso cup. Then, after a pause, “I think she suspects something.”

Arthur looked up. “Who? Y/N?”

Carlos gave a slow nod. “She’s been getting too many fan comments about it. I can tell she’s piecing things together. Or at least trying to.”

Lando tilted his head. “You think she knows when?”

Carlos shrugged. “She’s smart. But I’ve thrown enough curveballs that I think I’m still in the clear.”

Arthur smirked. “So you’re not telling us when either?”

Carlos lifted his brows. “I love you guys, but the fewer people that know, the less chance one of you ruins it.”

Lando threw his hands up. “But, you'll help us set up right?”

“Sure,” Carlos replied nonchalantly.

yourusername

story 1 tagged: @/jade_distinguinn, @/yourbestie

story 2 tagged: @/landonorris, @/yourbestie

carlossainz55

yourbesties

story voiceover:

[yourbestie behind the camera] girliepops came all the way long to maldives to just sleep.

[ Arthur in the background] No, I don't wanna share a room with Lando!

MALDIVES - DECEMBER 2024

The early sun filtered through the glass panels of the villa, soft golden rays settling over the pale stone floors and flickering across the white curtains. The ocean outside was barely making a sound, like even the waves were sleeping in.

Inside the villa. the three men were already up, slightly jet-lagged but surprisingly chipper.

Carlos padded barefoot into the shared kitchen area, his dark curls still a little damp from a quick shower. “They’re all still out cold?” he asked, glancing at Arthur who was scrolling through his phone lazily while nursing an espresso.

“Passed out like babies,” Lando smirked, balancing a mango between two fingers before tossing it and catching it again. “I checked. Y/N’s hugging Jade like a teddy bear, and your girlfriend’s best friend is snoring.”

Carlos chuckled. “Wow, Let bf/n hear what you've been calling her.”

Arthur, yawning, looked up. “Should we wake them? Or…”

“Let’s not.” Carlos smirked, tugging open the fridge. “Let’s do something nice. Set up breakfast outside, by the pool.”

Lando grinned, “Like a breakfast picnic? You’re turning domestic.”

Arthur added, teasing, “What next? Proposal with pancakes?”

Carlos shot him a look but didn’t say anything. Arthur blinked. “Wait-”

Lando quickly stepped in with a clap of his hands. “Anyway! Pool breakfast. I like the idea. I’ll call the front desk to deliver the breakfast floats too.”

Thirty minutes later, a dreamlike spread was laid out on the villa’s pool in a tray, chilled juice, fruits, scrambled eggs, avocado toast, and little notes Lando insisted they scribble on napkins “We worked so hard on this. Be grateful. –L”

Carlos stood back, admiring it all. He glanced toward the sliding doors leading into the girls’ room. “Let's go wake them up?"

They stormed inside the girls’ room, Y/N stirred under the thin blanket, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”

Carlos came in and sat on the bed beside her as hs e snuggled his waist. "It's 10 baby." Y/N groaned but smiled.

Carlos grinned. “Good morning, amour. Breakfast is served poolside.”

Jade let out a soft gasp. “What are you guys upto?”

“We got you guys breakie.” Arthur added, peeking over Jade’s shoulder. "Go get changed. We have to go kayaking after lunch too. Till then we can relax by the pool."

Best friend, still half-buried under a silk pillow, squinted at the bunch. “I need someone to dress me up. I don't wanna get uppppp.”

Carlos looked at Y/N again. “Vamos Vamos Vamos.” He pulled her up from the bed.

Ten minutes later, the girls stepped out, dressed in bikinis and sunglasses, Y/N’s hair clipped with a floral clip.

She took in the whole setup, the ocean breeze curling the scent of citrus and fresh coffee through the air, the boys looking unnecessarily proud.

“You did this?” she asked Carlos.

“I supervised,” he said, tugging her in for a kiss. “Lando did most of the lifting.”

Lando placed a hand on his heart. “It’s about time someone gave me credit.”

“Where’s my coffee?” Jade asked, already spotting the float.

The morning was light, filled with laughter and lazy bites of breakfast, feet dangling in the pool, birds chirping in the background.

Y/N leaned her head on Carlos’s shoulder as they shared a fruit bowl, her fingers laced in his. “I don’t deserve you,” she murmured, eyes soft.

He kissed the top of her head. “Maybe not. But you have me anyway.”

Lando pretended to gag. “Someone toss me a pancake to block my ears.”

Arthur raised his espresso as Carlos splashed water on Lando. “To the most domestic vacation morning we’ll probably ever have.”

yourusername

carlossainz55

MALDIVES - DECEMBER 2024

The sun dipped low on the horizon, bleeding coral pinks and amber oranges into the sky. The sea lapped gently against the shore, like it, too, was slowing down for the day.

Down by the beach, the villa staff had helped set up a small bonfire circle, mats and chairs arranged in a semicircle around a crackling fire pit, low tiki torches lining the edge of the sand.

A low table stood nearby, topped with blankets, a bar, and a portable speaker playing a lo-fi island playlist.

Y/N stretched her legs out on a mat, head resting lazily on Carlos’s shoulder. Her skin still smelled faintly of sunscreen and sea salt, her hair damp from their earlier kayaking trip.

Across from her, Lando strummed aimlessly on the small travel guitar he’d insisted on bringing, humming under his breath.

“Didn’t know you were a musician now,” Arthur teased, sipping from a coconut.

“I’m a man of many talents,” Lando shot back with a mock-bow, hitting a chord that very much sounded like a mistake.

“You just murdered Ed Sheeran,” Bf/n said flatly.

Lando grinned. “He’ll recover.”

Carlos chuckled, brushing a piece of sand from Y/N’s ankle. “You okay? Still tired from kayaking?”

She shook her head. “Not tired. Just… full of the day. It’s so peaceful here.”

“It is,” he agreed, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you this relaxed.”

“Mm. Because you’re usually dragging me to cities and racetracks,” she teased.

The group slipped into a gentle rhythm, munching on sweets, passing around drinks, and sharing embarrassing stories from years past.

The wind whipped gently, causing a few locks of hair to dance across faces and clothes to flutter against sun-warmed skin.

Lando played a few chords of Afterglow by Ed Sheeran, slowing the mood. His voice was low but surprisingly steady as he sang along, eyes flicking around as if unsure whether to be serious or not.

Y/N leaned into Carlos’s side again and whispered, “He’s actually good.”

“Don’t tell him,” Carlos whispered back. “It’ll go to his head.”

As the fire popped and cracked, throwing golden flecks into the night, the group’s laughter began to mellow. They lay back against their chairs and towels, staring up at the stars above.

“Alright,” Jade said after a long stretch of silence, her voice soft, “if you had to be stuck on a deserted island with two people from this trip, who would you pick?”

Arthur sat up. “Lando, for music, and Y/N to keep me sane.”

“Smart,” best friend nodded.

“Carlos and bf/n” Y/N quipped.

Carlos, meanwhile, watched Y/N as she blushed, wind in her hair and glowing from the firelight. His hand brushed hers, fingers curling between hers under the blanket draped over their laps.

He squeezed once. She looked at him. Something softened in her gaze, but she didn’t ask what he was thinking. She just smiled.

Later, when the fire began to die and the wind got cooler, Lando played the final strings of a mellow tune.

Carlos helped Y/N up, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. “Ready to head in?” She nodded, slipping her hand into his.

The rest of the group followed, yawning and teasing each other as they trudged barefoot through the cool sand back to the villa.

lando.jpg

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Liked by yourbestie, lorenzotl and others

yourusername If the sun’s setting, I might as well rise.

📸: @/carlossainz55

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yourbestie You’re the sun, the sea, and the entire damn sky. 😮‍💨🖤 ♥︎ by author

carlossainz55 3/55555 clicked

→ yourusername love uuuu

carlossainz55 My payment, Miss?

→ yourusername Hihi 🤭

formula1wives black dress supremacy

arthur_leclerc Carlos deserves a raise for these pics ngl

→ yourusername best personal photographer I got there.

ynsainznation SHE TAGGED HIM AHHHHHH

lando.jpg Calm down Vogue Maldives

→ yourusername Jealous bitch lol

alex.albon We see you glowing ma’am 👀 ♥︎ by author

username1 How is this legal 😭

sainzlvr55 Carlos is such a simp. 3 comments, boys slow downnnn

ynsprivatefanclub you either get it or you’re jealous. pick one 😌

sainzarchives She's in her villain era and I love it!!!

charleswifeyenergy Heavily edited herself. SMH

carlossainz55 🔥🔥🔥

→ yourusername 😘

wagslov3 she’s literally in her rise-and-slay era

jade_distinguinn Rising, shining, serving 🔥

→ yourusername for the masses 🫶🏽

username3 Sainz the photographer era is elite

charlosunitedxx she’s mid and riding Carlos’ fame. Sorry not sorry.

chaoticsainzgf does anyone else find her kind of… idk. try hard?

sophiet Where’s this dress from? Asking for myself and 70 others. ♥︎ by author

kika.gomes Iconic. Period. ♥︎ by author

username4 influencer captions are getting out of hand 😭

asmfanclub Alex would've never posted something this try-hard

fernandoalolo if I were Carlos I’d never stop taking pictures.

VILLA, MALDIVES - DECEMBER 2024

The villa buzzed with golden-hour warmth, laughter echoing off the whitewashed walls and across the private pool.

Carlos leaned comfortably into the back of his chair, one arm draped lazily around Y/N’s shoulders as she laughed at something Arthur said, a hand covering her mouth mid-snort.

Jade was across from them, sipping a cocktail and scrolling through the photos from that morning, while Lando teased Y/N’s best friend about nearly falling off the kayak.

Everything was going great until Jade’s sunglasses hit the floor. “Guys,” Jade cut him off, voice thin. “Dock. Look at the dock.”

A white seaplane had landed, its propellers slowing with a distant whir as two familiar figures stepped onto the floating walkway.

Y/N’s laughter stopped like someone had hit mute. Her arm slipped from around Carlos’s waist.

Carlos’s jaw flexed subtly as he followed her line of sight, his hand instinctively clunged her shoulder protectively. “Qué demonios…” he muttered under his breath. [What the hell.]

Arthur squinted as Charles and Alex strides, hand in hand. “Is that-? No way.”

Charles looked equally startled when he saw them. His stride faltered, but only for a second.

Alex, on the other hand, beamed with glossy confidence, waving a hand with feigned surprise. “Wow, what a coincidence!” she called out, voice carrying too easily over the water. “Small world, huh?”

Lando nearly choked on his drink. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Y/N stared at them like she’d just seen ghosts climb out of the ocean. Her voice came out low, measured. “Did anyone… know about this?”

“Nope,” her best friend said immediately, eyes narrowed like a hawk.

Arthur let out a sharp exhale through his nose and turned toward the approaching duo with a stiff nod. “I thought you said you were spending winter in Mexico,” he called out to the couple, voice flat.

Alex giggled. “Change of plans last minute. Maldives felt more romantic, don’t you think?”

“I can think of other words,” Jade muttered.

Charles hesitated at the edge of the deck, his eyes flickering toward her. “I didn’t know you were all… here,” he said finally, the lie so thin it didn’t even bother dressing itself up.

Y/N’s voice was soft, brittle. “You always land on your feet, don’t you?”

Alex clutched his arm. “Well, we booked the last suite. Funny how the universe works.” She turned to the group, lips stretched into a bright smile. “Mind if we join lunch?”

Before anyone could answer, Carlos pulled Y/N gently back into her seat, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You hungry still?” he asked quietly, ignoring the tension lingering just across the table.

Y/N didn’t look away. “I was.”

YACHT, MALDIVES - DECEMBER 2024

The late afternoon sun shimmered against the Indian Ocean as the group stepped barefoot onto the yacht, its white deck gleaming under the fading light.

Carlos held Y/N’s hand tightly, guiding her by the waist onto the cushioned seating area. She didn’t let go once.

He joked about something stud pic to which she laughed softly, noses brushing.

Meanwhile, Charles stood alone, leaning against the railing at the front of the boat. Occasionally, his gaze would flicker toward the back where the couple sat.

Beside Charles, Alexandra stood adjusting her mesh dress unnecessarily, pretending not to notice the cold shoulder from nearly everyone.

“Babe, take a picture of me here?” she cooed, holding her phone out to Charles without turning to look at him.

He blinked, snapped one absentmindedly, and handed the phone back.

“Seriously? My hair looks flat. You could’ve said something.”

Charles didn’t reply.

On the daybed, Carlos kissed Y/N’s bare shoulder and leaned close. “Are you okay?”

Her smile softened. “Now? Yes. You’ve barely let me breathe without you today.”

“Should I stop?”

“Don’t you dare.”

He chuckled and pulled her legs across his lap. “I’ll keep you right here. Let the ghost of boyfriends past keep staring.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked briefly to the front of the boat. “Don’t give him the satisfaction, cariño,” Carlos murmured, brushing a kiss behind her ear. “You don’t owe him anything.”

“I know,” she whispered. “It’s just… suffocating whenever he's in the same place as I am.”

Her best friend came over with drinks for her and jade. Y/n thanked her while Carlos took a sip and scrunched on the amount of alcohol in it.

Alex tried to join them later, squeezing onto the seat beside Arthur and making the entire group inch away like magnets in reverse.

“This view is just divine,” she said, snapping a selfie.

No one responded. She looked around. “Is it usually this… quiet with you guys?”

Jade deadpanned “No. Not usually.”

Carlos raised a brow but said nothing. His fingers lazily traced Y/N’s thigh as he poured her another drink.

The sun had started to near the horizon when the crew announced, “We’ll anchor here for an hour, great time for a snorkel if anyone’s up for it!”

“Bags are in the cabin, snorkels on the deck,” one of the crew members added, pointing toward the open bin of fins and masks.

Y/N stood at the edge of the platform at the back of the boat, wearing a blue bikini that Carlos was absolutely not handling well.

He was helping her with mask when he leaned in to peck her lips. "I really want to skip this and take you back to our room."

"Not happening." she pushed him back lightly, "We have the whole night to ourselves." She pulled him towards the group, ready to dive.

The water was warm, salt clinging to her skin like silk. Beneath them, fish darted between coral, and faint trails of glowing plankton shimmered like fairy dust as the sun’s last light glimmered.

She surfaced, laughing. “This is so beautiful.”

Carlos wiped water from her cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

They floated near the edge of the boat, arms around each other, ignoring the others for a moment. His nose touched hers underwater. They came up grinning like idiots.

Across the water, Lando was yelling, “Arthur, get the fish away from me, you Prick!"

“Come look!” Carlos tugged Y/N’s hand, guiding her toward a coral ridge where shimmering fish darted like lightning.

Y/N’s fingers gripped Carlos’s tightly underwater. They floated side by side, suspended between worlds.

When they surfaced, breathless, she pushed back her hair. “That was…”

He beat her to it. “Perfect?” She nodded, heart full. “You’re perfect,” he added quietly. “I mean it.”

She blinked, cheeks flushed. “Good. I want to ruin every man for you.” She laughed, splashing him.

yourusername

jade_distinguinn

alexandrasaintmleux

story 1 caption: love 🥰

story 2 tagged: @/charles_leclerc

carlossainz55

Liked by reyesvdc, yourusername and others

carlossainz55 Best days 🤿🚴🏽‍♂️🩵

tagged: @/yourusername

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landonorris Bro forgot we all saw you nearly eat coral 😭

f1gurliesunite His boyf era >>>>

lesteppen3316 How can you get in a relationship with your friend’s girlfriend. I never liked him. Good thing he’s out of ferrari now!

georgerussell63 Stylish AND romantic. What happened to you, mate?

charles16_curls I love them but I also hate them

alexalbon ah, love is slightly annoying

username2 everyone say thank you Y/N

yourusername

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yourusername Best days 🐟🩵

tagged : @/carlossainz55, @/yourbestie, @/jade_distinguinn

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carlossainz55 Te amo más cuando sonríes así 🤍

alex_albon Cutest girl ever. Can you spin him next time? 😂

ynfansunited Carlos put out girl down!!!

username1 Why don’t I have rich friends like this 💔

carlosfcchilli National Geographic could never.

arthur_leclerc so i didn’t exist on this trip? wow. coolcoolcoolcool

↳ yourusername next dump’s got u i swear 😭

f1dramaservice Okay but wait. Weren’t Charles & Alex also in Maldives?

↳ wagsnewsf1 Look at my story. I got anon send ne a vid of them in the same yatch.

jade_distinguinn we were SO unserious for this trip and i love us for that

↳ yourusername my girls >>

↳ carlossainz55 excuse me???

lilymhe the swimsuit collection is elite

anasainzvdc We need a Sainz family vacation now with THIS energy!!!

sainzsimps Did Charlex just gatecrashed our babies’ vacation!? Lol lonely bitches🫠

↳ monegasquemami okay but how do you know they weren’t invited? maybe y/n & carlos just didn’t post about it 🙄 not everything’s shade

↳ f1teaunfiltered Girl be serious 😭 They wouldn’t want to bring bad vibes to their trip. Alex doesn’t have any friends in the paddock except for charlotte…

landonorris atp I’ve lost hope that you’ll ever credit me for these awesome pictures 😔

lovealexcharles y/n really turned jade against alex huh… and now they’re straight up bullying her by crashing their romantic vacay. disgusting behaviour. 😒

↳ f1insightsdaily girl what?? 💀 they were there first. alex and charles literally showed up uninvited.

↳ jadeupdates Alex and Charlotte has always outcasted jade. Her being friends with y/n isn't for revenge but just because y/n cares about Arthur and didn't want his girlfriend to feel excluded.

↳alexfiercefan you guys just hate Alex for anything. our girl doesn’t need to ask permission to be on anywhere the world. 🙄

ynxstylearchive Outfit details, queen?? Drop them or we riot.

softforcharles Someone drop a heartbreak edit. I’m ready.

VILLA, MALDIVES - DECEMBER 2024

The next morning, the air in the villa felt heavier than the sunburned sky outside. It wasn’t just the heat, it was the uninvited guests.

Y/N sat perched on the white marble countertop of the villa's open kitchen, her bare legs swinging slightly, clad in one of Carlos’s oversized shirts from the night before. Her damp hair was twisted in a claw clip, beads of water still clinging to her collarbone from the shower. She hadn’t spoken much since breakfast. Her laughter, so abundant just yesterday, had gone quiet.

Carlos stood beside her, leaning against the counter with his phone turned toward her. A video of Diego was playing, waddling behind Reyes' Maltese, Olivia, who was running circles around his little rocker, a rattle toy in mouth.

“Look at that,” Carlos chuckled, nudging her thigh lightly with his elbow. “Olivia loves that rattler. My aunt got it when Ana was a baby.”

Y/N smiled faintly, but the crinkle near her eyes didn’t quite show up.

Carlos turned the volume down and let the screen dim, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Okay,” he said softly, voice dropping so only she could hear over the distant sound of Alex’s voice carrying across the open-plan living area, “what happened?”

She blinked up at him slowly. “Nothing,” she said, too quickly.

Y/N’s shoulders sagged when he shifted closer. She glanced across the room. Alex was seated squarely between Arthur and Charles on the large sofa. She was going on and about her upcoming shoot with Rhode and hosting a dinner for Nina Ricci. Charles wasn’t even pretending to listen. He stared ahead at nothing while Arthur checked his phone under the table.

“It just… feels off,” Y/N said finally. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Why would they do that when they're the one who didn't want me around.”

Carlos huffed a small laugh through his nose. “You’re not wrong.”

“I miss when it was just us.” she murmured.

Carlos reached up and gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Then let’s just let it be us?"

Her brows rose, confused. “Let’s take a break. Just you and me,” he said. “Lunch date? Maybe we can go to the local market and get our families gifts?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Seriously?”

“Sí, mi amor. Let’s disappear for a bit. Get some air.”

She smiled then. For real. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting her forehead rest against his. “Let’s run away,” she whispered.

He grinned. “I’d run anywhere with you.”

Across the villa, Lando walked in holding a large woven basket, a towel slung over one shoulder. “Okay, hear me out,” he said dramatically, “Beach picnic. I got the staff to arrange booze, sandwiches, and Jade made popsicles. out of fruit juice”

Y/N pulled away slightly, eyes lighting up, then hesitated. Carlos caught it and raised his hand. “Actually, we were thinking of taking a few hours to ourselves and get lunch.”

Lando blinked, then smiled instantly. “Ah. Got it. Romantic escape. Approved. I’ll keep the crowd entertained.”

“Thanks,” Carlos said, and Y/N squeezed Lando’s arm affectionately as they passed.

“Wear protection! I'm not ready to be an uncle yet!” Lando called after them.

As they grabbed their towels and slipped on sandals, Y/N heard Alex behind them, still going on, now about how her clothing ad was going to be shot in Capri, and how Rhode sent her two extra PR boxes by accident but “obviously wanted her to keep them.”

Carlos took Y/N’s hand as they stepped outside into the blinding sun.

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carlossainz55

BEACH, MALDIVES - DECEMBER 2024

Evening rolled in slow, the air was still warm . Carlos and Y/N strolled hand in hand along the curved shoreline, the sand cool beneath their feet now that the sun had begun to dip low.

Y/N’s hair was salt-tangled, cheeks flushed, her linen dress fluttering just above her knees as the breeze danced around them. They were supposed to meet the rest of the group and head back to the villa to get ready for dinner.

As they reached the curve that opened up to the villa’s private beach, Y/N slowed her steps. No one was there. The beach was completely empty. Y/N blinked, confused. “Wait. Where’s everyone? Did we miss them?”

Carlos didn’t answer. He gently tugged her forward by the hand.

“Carlos…” She looked up at him, but he wasn’t meeting her eyes. His gaze was set ahead, a softness in his expression she couldn’t quite read.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low, steady, but if you listened closely, it trembled just the tiniest bit. “You’ve been my home ever since we got together.”

She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around his.

“I didn’t even know I was searching for something until I found you. I thought I had everything figured out, my career, everything. But you…” He smiled, softly, eyes glassy but never looking away. “You reminded me there’s more to life than just the world championship.”

She was already tearing up, her breath catching. “You’re the person I want to tell everything to. You laugh at my worst jokes, you make fun of me, and you kiss me goodnight like I’m your most favourite person in the world.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “I’ve never felt more myself than when I’m with you.”

Carlos paused. Then quietly, like a vow “Spending forever with you? That would be the best decision of my life.”

Then, his voice dropped even lower. More certain than ever. “So… marry me, Y/N?”

It hit her all at once, what this was, what today had meant, what this entire trip had been quietly building to. Her hands flew to her mouth, the first sob escaping before she could even answer. Her knees buckled slightly, and Carlos reached up instinctively, steadying her as she nodded, hard and fast, still crying.

“Yes,” she managed between broken laughter and saltwater tears. “Yes, yes! God, yes.”

Carlos bent down on his knee and slipped the ring on her finger, hands steady despite the tremble of the moment. It fit like it had always belonged there, her sun-warmed skin now kissed by a perfect band of love. And then he kissed her, cuddling her in his arms.

Behind the flowering fence that separated the beachfront, Lando crouched low with his DSLR in hand, snapping photo after photo with the biggest grin on his face.

He’d promised not to interrupt. And he wouldn’t. But he’d be damned if he didn’t capture every single second of it.

The moment Y/N stepped into the villa, the sound of laughter and soft music greeted her, but so did two girls' happy screams.

“OH MY GOD, YOU SAID YES!” Jade nearly knocked her over with the force of her hug, mascara already smudged under her eyes from crying earlier when Carlos had given her the heads-up.

“Where is it? Let me see it, let me see it!!” her best friend squealed, grabbing Y/N’s hand and gasping at the glimmering ring now nestled perfectly on her finger.

Y/N laughed, a little dazed, a little out of breath. “I literally just said yes like five minutes ago-”

“DOESN’T MATTER,” Jade interrupted, dragging her toward the lounge. “We have, like, exactly an hour to get you ready before dinner and engagement pics. This face is not going on Instagram without a highlighter.”

“Wait. Arthur! Lando!” Y/N started to turn toward them with open arms, but both guys just grinned and waved her off knowingly.

“Later!” Arthur called out with a wink.

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, her heart too full for her body to handle. They were already pulling her toward the hallway when she turned back, just in time to catch a glimpse of Charles.

He hadn’t said much when they returned, just stood quietly off to the side. Now, he stepped forward, just for a second, his eyes finding hers.

“Congratulations,” he said simply. His voice was soft, almost tired. But genuine.

She blinked, surprised for a moment, then nodded, "thank you" before Jade tugged her into her room and closed the door behind them.

Charles watched the door shut, chest hollow. He didn’t hate Carlos, how could he? Carlos had always been one of his bet mates. He didn’t even hate Y/N for having a relationship with his former teammate. He could never hate her for any reason.

But watching her laugh like that… the way she lit up around Carlos, how she reached for him instinctively, trusted him fully, smiled like she'd won the trophy, that was what love should look like.

And he hadn’t given her that. He had loved her, in the only way he knew how. But maybe that hadn’t been enough. Maybe it never was.

So he quietly turned around and went back to his room.

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Liked by charles_leclerc, williamsracing and others

yourusername I’d choose you in a hundred lifetimes, Mr. Sainz ❤️

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yourbestfriend MY GIRL’S GETTING MARRIED 😭💍

carlossainzofficial Bienvenida a la familia officially y/n!

landonorris about time 😮‍💨 congrats you two ♥️

pascale_leclerc Stunning couple. Congrats 🤍

reyesvdc Mi corazón está tan feliz 💍💛

yourmomofficial Carlos, all the best for the rest of your life 😅

wagscentral future Mrs. Smooth Operator 😩

lorenzotl congrats both of you. wishing you the best.

anasainzvdc mejor hermano y cuñada❤️

alex_albon wait WHAT 😭😭 i missed this??

carlosonoros Felicidades mr and mrs chilli 🌶️❤️

slowmoferrari Charles liked. The ice is melted

arthur_leclerc carlos actually pulled this off without anyone leaking it. insane.

jade_distinguinn i cried more than her ngl. love you guys 🫶

georgerussell63 huge congrats mate 👏👏

blancasainz oficialmente la tía de diago

lilymhe she said YES !!!

fernandoalo_oficial felicidades, chico.

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VILLA, MALDIVES - DECEMBER 2024

The waves lapped gently under a moonlit sky, the sea glowing silver against the darkness. Everyone was tucked inside, packing, prepping for the flight to Monaco the next morning. But Charles couldn’t sleep.

He wandered down the narrow path that led to the beach, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. The cold breeze off the water hit his face, crisp and clear. That’s when he saw her.

Y/N was sitting on the sand, knees tucked to her chest, face turned toward the ocean. Her hair was tied in a lazy bun, a blanket draped around her shoulders, the sound of waves her only company.

He paused thinking for a second before he walked toward her.

She turned her head slightly, then looked up at him. She passed him a gentle smile “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, patting the sand beside her.

Charles sat down wordlessly. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t tense. Just… heavy.

“I saw you walking,” she said. “Figured I’d give you your moment.”

Charles exhaled slowly. “And yet here I am ruining yours.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “You’re not. Come on, you can join me for a while” She patted the sand beside her.

Another beat of silence passed. He looked at her profile, the same face he once knew like the back of his hand, now belonging to someone else in a way that felt final.

“You’re happy,” he finally said.

She glanced at him, nodding. “I am.”

He smiled, but his eyes didn’t quite catch up. “Carlos is good to you.”

“He is.” She turned toward him more fully. “I didn’t know love could feel like… peace. It is very calm and settled with him. Even when things are messy.”

Charles swallowed hard. “I wanted to give you that. I swear I tried.”

“I know,” she said, softly. “But you couldn’t. And maybe that’s not your fault.”

He looked at her then, really looked. “I loved you.”

“I loved you too,” she whispered. “But love isn’t always enough, Charles. You know that.”

The wind picked up slightly, tousling her hair. She pulled the blanket tighter.

“I won’t lie and say I didn’t hate you for a while,” she said, a sad smile playing on her lips. “For not showing up. For making me feel like I was too much or not enough, depending on the day. But I also gave up too soon. I stopped fighting when things got hard.”

“You stopped fighting when you were tired,” he corrected gently. “And I didn’t notice soon enough.”

They sat in silence again, the sea roaring gently behind their conversation.

“I’m glad you found what you were looking for,” he said finally. “You deserve someone who shows up. Who loves you loudly. Carlos does that. He's a good man.”

She touched his hand, briefly. “And you will too, Charles. Someday. When you let yourself. But you’ve got to stop punishing yourself for what didn’t work out.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Is that a polite way of saying stop sulking behind us?”

She gave him a teasing look. “Absolutely. It’s Christmas in a week. You’re not allowed to brood. That’s the rule.”

He smiled, this time, it reached his eyes. “I’ll try.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They stood slowly, brushing the sand off their clothes.

“Now go to bed,” she said, nudging him. “You look like you haven’t slept in a year.”

“Maybe two,” he teased.

She laughed, light, easy, unburdened. The way she used to.

As they walked back toward the villa under the stars, side by side but not touching, something between them quietly healed the stretch of the distance.

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hxlxnaaa · 1 day ago

Text

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬

you spent your whole life loving him, and he never said a word. a retelling of your story—of the way he made you feel without meaning to, of all the things you held in, waiting for something that was never coming. and now it’s too late to ask what any of it meant.

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: tied to iris by the goo goo dolls, first part of a 2 part series, non-mc reader, ever so slight canon divergence to make the story work, MC x Zayne mentions, fic spans over the course of a few years, childhood friends to something almost, angst, hurt/no comfort, character death (it’s caleb exploding), unresolved tension, mentions of grief, not all that beta read we die like caleb

★ 𝐰𝐜: 17k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: this literally took me ages. life was throwing hurdle after hurdle at me while i was trying to write this and finally its done. im tossing this out there into the tumblr algorithm abyss and praying it does well because this literally took me almost 2 months. this is going to be a 2 parter (if it’s well received) so if you want your happy ending come back soon!! i hope!! enjoy!!

. . . .

And I’d give up forever to touch you,

Cause I know that you feel me somehow

. . . .

It started as something simple—childish, really.

He’d tug on your pigtails and jab you with pencils, and you’d shriek that he had cooties.

You lived next door, your bedroom window facing his. At night, he’d flash a flashlight through the glass just to annoy you, grinning and sticking his tongue out as you yanked the curtains shut.

But the moment anyone besides him picked on you at the playground, he was there in a heartbeat—stick in hand, chest puffed out, baring his teeth (even if a few were missing). He was the toughest kid on the block, and he always had your back.

Perfect, adorable, insufferable little Caleb.

He lived with this girl—and you quite liked her. She’d play dolls with you, dress up, and mix muddy potions in the backyard. She sat next to Caleb in class and always whined at him to knock it off when he threw things at the back of your head.

She always had the biggest crush on this older boy who lived in the neighborhood. He’d sculpt little animals out of snow, even in the dead of summer, and she’d squeal with giddy delight, cheeks flushed pink as she sprawled out on your bedroom floor. She’d grab your dolls and make them kiss, pretending it was the two of them.

Yet, even though you knew she liked someone else, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that twisted in your stomach whenever Caleb trailed after her like a lost puppy. When he’d groan about having to be your husband when playing house instead of hers. When he’d puff out his chest and play the hero on the playground—but not for you.

It felt like someone had taken your favorite toy and started playing with it right in front of you.

Perfect, adorable, angelic little MC.

It wasn’t until you got a little older that you could name the feeling.

You felt it behind all the tight lipped smiles you wore when they showed off their matching apple shaped hair clips, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Jealousy was a green eyed thing that settled in your chest like rot, quiet at first, but patient. It made its home there, digging in deep—something you’d carry for years without even realizing.

You did what you could to hold yourself together through the mess of puberty, piecing yourself around every scrap of attention Caleb bothered to throw your way. You wore orange ribbons in your hair because it was his favorite color. Purple, on days when you were desperate—just to match his eyes.

There was some kind of bitter peace in knowing MC didn’t feel the same. She brushed Caleb off like he was nothing more than an annoying older brother, and it stung less knowing he was in the same boat as you; chasing someone who wasn’t chasing him back.

She was blind to the way Caleb looked at her. Oblivious to the obvious change in his voice when he said her name, to the way he followed her around like a lost cause. She soaked up his attention without even realizing it—like some sort of Caleb absorbing sponge.

And God, you hated her for that. Hated how easily she sucked up what you’d spend your nights awake and aching for. You would’ve killed to be in her place—just once. To be the one he looked at like that. But she didn’t even want it. Didn’t even care. She tossed his affection aside like it was nothing.

Still, she was your best friend. That didn’t change. You smiled when you were supposed to. Stayed loyal. Bit your tongue until it bled. Reminded yourself she didn’t want him—that you stood a chance.

. . . .

MC and Caleb were usually late to school, trailing behind like always—yet Caleb was on time, catching up to you on the sidewalk.

“Hey!” He caught your shoulder, flashing you that grin with his signature sparkling eyes.

Damn, that smile. Even back when he was just a gap toothed kid, it could’ve lit up the whole sky. Caleb was like that—like the sun. All warmth and gravity, the center of everything.

Well, of your everything.

And those eyes—that shade of violet you thought was your favorite color never failed to always pull you in like a magnet. There was something about them, soft and deep, like the galaxy at twilight.

They were the first thing you noticed, the part of him you found yourself staring at when you thought no one was watching.

Every time his eyes met yours, it felt like that purple shimmer was reaching out—tangling itself into your heart with a vice-like grip, something you couldn’t explain but couldn’t let go of either.

In their depths, you felt drawn back again and again, hearing the silent language only an iris can speak.

The sudden attention from him startled you. “Hi.”

Caleb dropped his hand from your shoulder and nodded toward the road ahead. “Mind if I walk with you?” His voice was friendly—like it hadn’t been years since you’d felt this close. Now that you were teenagers, young adults in high school, Caleb would toss you a smile in the halls—maybe make small talk when MC was around.

But you hadn’t always needed her in the middle. The two of you also used to be best friends.

Back then, he’d invite you over after school, dragging you to his room to show off his toy plane collection. He’d flip through his worn out books with greasy fingers, rattling off facts and flight names. You’d listen to him talk for hours about how one day he was going to be a pilot—how he’d fly faster than sound, higher than anyone.

Now, if you were lucky, on some quiet nights you’d catch a glimpse of him through the window—sitting at his desk with tousled and wild hair, dressed in worn pajamas and knees pulled up under his chin as he buried himself in homework.

Sometimes, when your movement caught his eye, he’d look up and give you that familiar, slow smile.

He’d wiggle his fingers in a shy wave, almost like a secret between the two of you. You’d respond with the smallest lift of one finger, careful not to break the quiet spell.

In those moments, you’d see him—not just the boy with the model planes lining the bookshelf behind him, but the Caleb who used to really see.. well… you.

The Caleb walking next to you felt familiar—like some old song you hadn’t heard in a while—but also strangely distant, like the boy you knew had somehow grown into someone else. Yet you weren’t sure you really recognized him.

He talked without pausing—about his classes, his friends, about how MC was sick and how frustrated he was that his Gran wouldn’t let him stay home to help her.

As you passed the the corner store, he nudged your shoulder lightly.

“Remember when we used to grab candy there after school?” he asked.

You didn’t even have to look. “Yeah. You’d always pick the weirdest flavors.”

“Weird?” he gasped like you’d slapped him. “Psh, no. More like daring. I had range.”

“You bought clam flavored gum.”

“And? I was young and full of hope.”

“You made me try it.”

He stretched and smiled, “You’re welcome.”

“It tasted like rubber bands.”

Caleb clicked his tongue. “Yeah, that’s what excitement tastes like. Unlike your go to strawberry laces. How bold of you—were the vanilla wafers out of stock?”

“At least my candy didn’t double as a chemical weapon.”

“It built character,” he said. “Your taste buds needed the challenge.”

You rolled your eyes. “You once spent seven dollars on something called ‘Mango Chili Sour Slime.’”

“And I’d do it again—for the experience.”

“You ate half of it, turned green, and declared yourself legally dead.”

He held up a finger. “Temporarily dead. I came back stronger.”

“You threw up behind the bus stop.”

“And rose like a phoenix.”

“You cried.”

“Phoenixes have emotions!”

You snorted, trying not to smile. “A phoenix who can’t handle spicy gelatin, and claims cilantro tastes like soap.”

“Because it does!” He said with genuine offense, pausing on the sidewalk with arms crossed.

“You survived chili goo, but a leaf ruins your day?”

“It’s not just a leaf. It kills your taste buds.”

“Right… Right… Or I propose again, maybe you’re just weird?”

“Maybe,” Caleb shrugged, “And yet, somehow, still the most well adjusted person you know.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by your footsteps continuing again on the sidewalk. Caleb looked over at the store again, the paint on the awning cracked and curling.

“Crazy how small it looks now,” he said.

“Yeah,” you replied, “Or maybe we just got taller—wiser.”

“Speak for yourself, I peaked at thirteen.”

“You peaked the moment you bought clam gum.”

“But here you are, still walking next to me. Interesting.”

Rolling your eyes, you sighed. “It’s like a field study in poor life choices.”

“And you’re the control group?”

“I’m the exit strategy.”

He laughed again.

As you reached the school gates, he turned to you. “Hey, we’ve got a basketball game this weekend.”

He kicked at the ground, a little awkwardly, then added, “You should come, if you’re free.”

Your heart swelled—like an old dog finding love again after years. You nodded a little too quickly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah—yeah, I’ll be there.”

“You better be.”

Before you could say anything, he reached out and tugged gently at one of your pigtails—and for the first time in what felt like ages, you recognized the boy in front of you.

Caleb twirled one of the orange ribbons between his fingers. “I like your hair like this. The orange is pretty.”

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there pinching yourself.

That night, lying in the dark of your room, a sudden flash caught your eye—a beam of light slicing through the window. You sat up, heart quickening as the light blinked again. Drawn to the window, you crept over and peeked out.

There was Caleb, grinning like a kid, flashlight in hand, his laughter bright in the quiet night.

You pushed open your window.

“What are you doing?” you called out, voice curious.

He shrugged, flashing a cheeky grin as he opened his own window across the way, pretending to look innocent.

“I got this new flashlight,” he flipped the flashlight in his hand, “just testing if it works.”

Caleb aimed the beam at you again, winking.

And as you slid back under the covers, you found yourself wondering what had come over him.

Did that walk stir up memories—the way it had for you—awakening some old nostalgia buried within? Or maybe, you thought, he realized in some small way that he missed you.

. . . .

You tied those orange ribbons into your hair, dancing around your room to your favorite songs, giddy and light like your body couldn’t hold all the excitement. You spent hours picking out the perfect outfit—cute but casual enough that maybe he’d think you just woke up looking that way.

You practically floated out the door, humming under your breath as you made your way to school. The night sky was cloudless, a deep stretch of dark velvet scattered with stars. The winter air bit at your cheeks, crisp and cold enough to sting, but you barely felt it.

No—your heart was beating too fast and too warm, like it was carrying a fire inside you. One that spreads to your fingertips, your chest, your smile; every breath you took came out in clouds, but you didn’t shiver.

Not when the world felt this full. Not when something—hope, maybe? Was lighting you up like a firefly from the inside out.

When you got to school, the buzz of the gymnasium hit you with bright lights, sneakers squeaking on the court as people filed in, and laughter echoing in tight circles of friends.

You lingered near the entrance for a second too long, suddenly unsure of where to go or what to do with your hands. Everyone seemed to have someone.

And for a brief, unexpected moment—you kind of wished MC was with you.

She had gone on a date with her boyfriend, so she wasn’t going to be able to make it. Something Caleb had thrown a fit about, but you silently rejoiced.

Aw… Bummer! You had thought to yourself, bubbling and beaming with glee.

You made your way toward the bleachers, weaving through the crowd until you found a spot tucked away in the back corner. It was quiet, just far enough from everyone else, but close enough to see the court.

Any lingering nerves disappeared the second you spotted him. That familiar mess of brown hair stuck out even from the bleachers, and your eyes locked on him like they always did. He was on the court already, bouncing the ball lazily between his hands, talking with his teammates.

He glanced up at the bleachers, eyes scanning the rows.

And then he found you.

His face lit up with a grin, and he gave you that signature wave—fingers wiggling in their own little dance.

A quiet smile tugged at your lips, your cheeks growing warm.

You lifted a single finger in a returned wave, your own half of the silent, almost secret handshake the two of you had created—just yours, and just his.

Suddenly, you didn’t feel so alone in that crowd.

The buzzer sounded, and the game began. Caleb turned back to the court, falling into step with his teammates.

You settled deeper into your seat, hands clasped in your lap, eyes fixed on him.

Once or twice, you thought he glanced your way.

You told yourself that even though he was the star of the team—the school’s perfect, adored heartthrob—he had asked you to come tonight.

He had invited you.

He had thought of you.

But when the game ended and your team won, you lingered by the front of the school—hoping to catch him.

To say hello.

To tell him congratulations.

Maybe even walk home together.

You waited. And waited.

And waited some more.

But he never appeared.

Maybe he left with his team, caught up in the noise and celebration.

Maybe he slipped out the back, avoiding the crowd.

As you walked home alone, the cold air wrapped around you like a cruel reminder—you were still on the outside.

And the joy you’d carried all day began to fade, replaced by the familiar hurt of being forgotten.

When you got home, you stopped at your front doorstep, eyes catching the warm glow of light spilling from his living room window.

There he was—laughing with MC on the couch.

Your eyes began to burn. Did it even matter to him that you showed up? Or was your invitation nothing more than a convenient excuse—a way to make sure someone was there? Someone to fill the bleachers when she couldn’t.

You weren’t the reason he wanted you there—you were a placeholder.

The anger bubbled up, but underneath it was something much harsher—the sting of being invisible when all you wanted was to be seen.

As you closed your front door behind you, the silence in your house felt louder than the cheers at the game.

You lay awake, sleep slipping through your fingers as a heavy sadness pressed down on you—desperate to break free in tears, yet leaving you empty and unable to cry.

Hours dragged on as you lay there, staring at the ceiling, desperate for a way to make him see you. You had thought for years, since you knew what love was about changing everything—dyeing your hair, changing the way you talked, the way you walked—anything to be different, to be enough for him, what he wanted.

But if Caleb was Adam, she was Eve—the first, the original, the one he always went back to.

The one you could never replace.

A flicker of light broke through the dark, casting a small glow on your wall.

You didn’t move at first.

You sat there, full of rage and sorrow, still bitter from the feeling of being forgotten. You told yourself not to move.

But your body betrayed you.

Like something ancient pulled at your limbs, you found yourself crawling to the window. Not with hope, but with habit. As if your soul had already answered before your heart could protest.

Some might say you were possessed. And maybe you were.

Not by ghosts, but by something lonelier.

Possessed by love so one sided it hollowed you out. By that hunger to be seen.

There he was—sitting across the way, still in the soft spill of moonlight, and all you could see were his eyes.

Those eyes.

Violet and reflecting the pale glow of the night like glass. They shimmered under the dark sky, catching the light like polished amethysts—so bright it almost hurt to look. Almost beautiful enough to believe.

You didn’t move. Just stared.

No wave. No smile. Not this time—you waited for him to speak first, to do something.

Finally, he opened his window.

You followed. Opened yours. Let the silence stretch thin.

“Sorry for not saying hi after the game,” Caleb said, voice low. “I kind of had to run off afterwards.”

Run off to her, you thought.

Sorry? That was it? That was all he had to give?

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Bit down the words clawing their way up. Your mouth felt dry, your hands curled into fists on the sill.

“Right,” you said, quietly. “You were busy.”

He looked at you then, brows drawn like he was trying to read something on your face.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

You nodded once, not trusting yourself to say more.

Because the truth was, he didn’t have to go.

He chose to.

But yet, he hadn’t promised you anything. Not a meeting, not a moment after. Not even a goodbye. But still—you waited. You had hoped. So was it cruel of you to expect something? Anything? Or were you just naive?

He lingered at the window, fingers fiddling with the flashlight, eyes flickering with something that almost looked like regret.

“I didn’t mean to blow you off,” he tried to add. He sucked at trying to defend himself.

He let out a breath, eyes dropping for a second before meeting yours again. You stayed quiet, your heart twisting, but your face stayed still.

“I feel bad,” Caleb muttered. “I was thinking of hitting the mall tomorrow. Just to hang out. You should come with.”

He tried to smile, softly and casually, like this wasn’t a scrap of attention handed out too late.

“Walk around, get pretzels or something. Check out that record store you like?”

Your throat tightened.

Part of you wanted to shut the window. Part of you wanted to scream at him. But mostly;

You just wanted Caleb to look at you the way he looked at her.

You nodded.

Because even if it was a leftover moment, it was something. And with him, something always felt like more than nothing.

. . . .

You didn’t bother with the ribbons. Not today.

As you stepped outside, you braced yourself—half expecting to see MC by his side, like always. Maybe she’d decided to come last minute.

But there he was, alone—standing at the end of your walkway, hands in his pockets, watching your front door.

His eyes met yours instantly.

“No ribbons today?” You hated that he noticed.

You forced a shrug, eyes anywhere but his.

“I forgot them,” you lied.

The walk was quiet, tense in that way where every step felt louder than it should.

“You look tired,” Caleb nudged your shoulder lightly. “Sorry for keeping you up late.”

“S’okay. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

He didn’t say anything right away, before stopping suddenly. “Oh—wait. I have something for you.”

You turned just in time to see him dig into his coat pocket.

“Strawberry laces,” he said, holding them out to you with a sheepish grin.

You hated the way your heart jumped at the sight of them. You wanted to stay mad.

But why did he have to remember? Why did he have to think about you?

“The vanilla wafers were out of stock,” he added.

You took them, fingers tracing the wrapper as you turned them over slowly. Then you looked up at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

“How bold.”

As you went to tear open the bag, Caleb snatched it back, holding it just out of reach with that smug, teasing grin you both loved and hated.

“Nuh-uh,” he wagged a finger in your face. “No candy unless you stop being mad at me.”

You pouted. “That’s not how that works. Gifts aren’t conditional.”

“This one is,” Without missing a beat, he stuffed the bag behind his back dramatically.

“I could just stay mad and take them anyway.”

“You could try,” he teased, backing up a step. “But I’ve got longer legs. And I’m fast.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was that warmth bubbling under your skin now.

Stupid boy. Stupid eyes. Stupid candy.

You were still mad.

But it was getting harder to remember why.

“I’m sorry for leaving you high and dry after the game,” he seemed more sincere now.

“I invited you, and you were so sweet to take the time to come watch me play...” He trailed off, giving you that miserable, kicked puppy look—eyes wide, all violet and tragic.

Those damn eyes. You could never say no to them.

“Could you ever forgive me?”

You huffed. “Yeah. Fine, whatever. I forgive you.”

Stepping up to him, standing just inches away, you held your hand out.

“Now give me my candy.”

He raised a brow, smirking. “Nope. Say it better.”

You groaned, but your smile betrayed you.

“I forgive you, Caleb.”

That was enough for him. He grinned, tossed an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close.

“Atta girl.”

He finally handed the candy back, but not before sneakily grabbing a few pieces for himself.

You smacked his hand, eyes narrowing. “Seriously? You make fun of my candy and then steal it?”

He popped one into his mouth, completely unfazed.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, hugging the bag protectively.

The air between you lightened, the tension dissolving with every shared glance and playful nudge.

He pointed out weird cracks in the sidewalk, made dumb jokes, and told you stories about kids on his basketball team. You teased, called him dramatic, and laughed harder than you meant to.

The mall was fun too. You bounced from store to store, trying on ridiculous hats and oversized sunglasses—laughing over belts with giant, rhinestone buckles neither of you would ever actually wear.

He dragged you into the model shop, eyes lighting up as he pointed out the different planes and jets with boyish excitement. “I’m gonna fly this one someday,” he said, tapping the glass with a proud little grin. You just smiled and nodded, because he'd said that about a dozen different models already.

Then it was your turn—you led him to the record store, your favorite little corner of the mall. You flipped through crates of vinyls, pulling out your favorites while he hovered behind you, pretending to scoff at some of your picks.

“Seriously? This?” he teased, holding up an album.

“You notoriously have zero taste,” you shot back, snatching it from him.

But when you looked away, you caught him out of the corner of your eye, phone in hand, quietly adding the artist to one of his playlists.

The two of you wandered through the mall, half finished pretzels in hand, when you suddenly stopped short in front of a jewelry store window.

Something in the display tugged at you—a necklace, delicate and simple, but impossibly beautiful.

Caleb kept walking a few steps before realizing you were no longer beside him.

He turned, eyebrows raised. “You see somethin?”

You didn’t answer right away, just stood there, eyes locked on the amethyst pendant that sat at the center of the display.

It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. The gem shimmered in the light, a swirl of purples—some soft as lilac, others rich like wine.

It was his color.

The exact shade that lived in his irises.

“It’s so pretty…” you breathed, voice distant.

He stepped beside you, peering into the glass. “The necklace?”

But your gaze had already shifted—up, to him. To the very thing the gem reminded you of.

You were still staring, caught somewhere between memory and longing.

And when your eyes met his, glittering under the same fluorescent light, it was like looking at the stone again.

You tore your gaze away, pretending you hadn’t just compared a piece of jewelry to the boy beside you like you were twelve again and hopeless.

You took a bite of your pretzel, more for something to do than anything else, chewing to fill the silence, to distract from the way your hands were suddenly too aware of themselves.

Caleb stayed behind for a beat longer, still staring at the necklace—or maybe just thinking. So you started walking, hoping he’d follow and say nothing.

But, of course, he did.

“Hey,” he called, catching up and poking your cheek. “It was my turn to look at it.”

You smacked his hand away, trying to keep your face neutral. “You were taking too long.”

“What? I’m allowed to admire pretty things too.” He ruffled your hair.

You didn’t dare ask if he meant the necklace.

You didn’t dare hope he meant you.

“Wait!” Caleb came to an abrupt halt after walking aimlessly—and you turned to see him with this goofy, unexpected grin.

“Let’s go in here.”

“The craft store?” you asked, surprised. “Since when do you craft?”

He shook his head. “Just come on.”

Before you could say another word, he reached out and grabbed your hand and pulled you inside.

Your breath hitched, a rush of excitement blooming all the way down to your toes.

Oh my god, he just grabbed my hand.

Suddenly, the whole mall seemed brighter, the noise fading into the background as you let yourself be swept along, fingers tangled with his.

Caleb pulled you through the store like he had some grand plan, weaving through displays with a determination you didn’t expect.

“What are you even looking for—” you stumbled a little, trying to keep up, nearly tripping over your own feet.

He didn’t stop right away, only paused for a quick second to scan the store before spotting whatever it was he’d been hunting down.

“Found it,” he said with a proud grin, tugging you in that direction.

You blinked as he led you straight into the sewing section.

“The sewing aisle?” you looked around, confused. “Wait, do you sew now or something?”

He didn’t answer, just walked you—gently this time—over to the wall lined with ribbons.

Rows and rows of them. Every color. Every texture.

And it hit you a second too late.

You didn’t even have time to hide the way your stomach flipped.

He remembered.

Caleb finally let go of your hand as he stepped closer to the wall of ribbons, fingers flipping through the endless options.

He grabbed a spool of sheer blue ribbon, held it up to your cheek, then immediately shook his head.

Next was a deep red. He furrowed his brow. “Nah—too dramatic.”

One by one, he held up different colors and textures next to your face—some he barely considered before tossing them back, others had him tilting his head, really thinking about it.

You stood still, watching him, caught somewhere between embarrassment and giddiness.

When he finally picked up a spool of soft orange lace, he paused. Held it up. Looked at you.

A slow smile crept onto his lips.

“This one,” he said softly. “It’s perfect.”

Your throat tightened.

It was the color you wore for him. The one he’d noticed, the one he remembered.

And here he was—choosing it for you. Like it was obvious. Like it had always been yours.

“Shouldn’t you get one too?” you teased, reaching up to tug playfully at a piece of his hair. “I think you’ve got enough to work with.”

Caleb grinned. “You’re absolutely right.”

He turned back to the wall of ribbons, eyes scanning for barely a second before his hand reached out with surprising certainty.

He pulled down a spool of velvet ribbon—the exact color of your eyes.

He didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t even look at you right away. Just held the ribbon between his fingers, studying it.

“Gotta match, right?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because while he stood there so casually holding a piece of you in his hand, you were still trying to remember how to breathe.

You stood behind Caleb at one of the food court tables, hunched forward with delicate focus as you tied the soft velvet ribbons into his hair.

It wasn’t easy—he didn’t have much to work with—but you managed two tiny pigtails that sprouted from the top of his head like a toddler’s, crooked and ridiculous in the best way.

You giggled, standing back to admire your handiwork.

And instead of swatting them out or calling it dumb, Caleb pulled out his phone, flipped the camera, and grinned at his reflection like he’d just discovered a new level of charm.

“Oh yeah, I look good.”

He struck a pose, tilting his head with exaggerated sass.

You burst out laughing. “Yeah? You feel pretty?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Feel pretty?” his eyes twinkled as he turned back towards you. “No, I know I’m pretty.”

He pulled out the chair beside him with a dramatic flourish and patted the seat. “Your turn. Take a seat.”

You eyed him suspiciously but sat anyway. He circled behind you like he was preparing for serious work, cracking open the spool of ribbon with a little too much enthusiasm and gently petting the top of your head.

“Welcome to Caleb’s salon,” he said, voice smooth and over the top. “You’re in good hands.”

You craned your neck to look up at him upside down, squinting. “I don’t trust that.”

“You should.” He guided your head back into place with both hands.

You stared ahead, heart fluttering against your ribs while he stood behind you, threading his fingers through strands of your hair.

You couldn’t see his face now, but you could feel his focus, the care in his hands as he worked.

He gathered your hair into two little pigtails near the top of your head—mirroring his own—and tied the orange lace into uneven bows.

When he stepped back and handed you your phone to look, you flipped the camera and smiled.

They were a little lopsided, not even close to perfect.

But they were perfect to you.

“Feel pretty?” he asked this time.

You nodded, turning your head side to side to get a better look. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you for a moment—his lips parting slightly like he was trying to choose his words.

“Beautiful,” he said finally.

You laughed, brushing it off like it was a joke. “You mean your work?”

But Caleb didn’t laugh back.

By the time you made it to the exit, the winter sun had already set, casting moonlight across the sidewalk as you stepped outside.

Caleb walked beside you, swinging the bag of leftover pretzel between his fingers. You walked a little slower than usual, not wanting the day to end. Not wanting this to end.

He glanced over at you, and his eyes dropped to the bows in your hair. One corner of his mouth lifted.

"You gonna leave those in?" he asked.

You shrugged. “Maybe. Why? Embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Pfft. Please.” He lightly tugged on one of them, “I think you make 'em look cooler than I do.”

You smiled at the ground, heart full.

He let out a small breath and looked forward. “Thanks for coming with me today,” he said. “It was fun.”

Caleb scratched the back of his neck, eyes on the sidewalk, and said it like he wasn’t sure how you’d take it.

“Y’know… I missed hanging out with you.”

Your heart jumped, caught completely off guard—but you reeled it in fast, kept your face light.

You puffed your chest out playfully, trying to keep your tone casual. “Yeah, I’m pretty unforgettable, aren’t I?”

He chuckled, but his eyes stayed on you a little longer than before.

You turned your gaze forward again, not trusting yourself to hold it.

You wanted it to mean something more. So badly—but wanting things just kept ruining you.

When you got back to your house, the world had gone still—quiet in that way only winter dares to be, like even the earth was holding its breath. The night had settled softly, and the only sound was the faint crunch of your shoes on frostbitten pavement.

Snow had just started to fall slowly in the background, like it didn’t want to be noticed.

You reached the end of your driveway and turned to him.

“Wait,” you said, fingers already pulling your phone from your pocket. “I wanna take a picture of my art.”

He rolled his eyes playfully but didn’t protest, stepping back just enough so you could frame the shot. When he faced you, his face softened into something else entirely.

It wasn’t a pose. It wasn’t for the camera.

It was for you.

Something warm lived in that smile. Something almost shy—hesitant, even.

Snowflakes clung to his lashes, caught in the messy strands of hair poking out from the bows you tied. And the ribbons—your ribbons—fluttered gently in the breeze.

But it was his eyes that undid you.

Dark and shining under the porch light, like amethysts half swallowed by shadow. The snow reflected in them, tiny constellations in his iris. He looked like a boy carved from a dream—fleeting and too beautiful to keep.

You stared a second too long, then snapped the photo. Saved it to your favorites. Not just because it was a good picture.

But because it felt like capturing a version of him you didn’t want to lose.

Caleb held out his hand. “Give it here.”

You clutched your phone to your chest. “No way, you’re gonna delete it.”

“I’m not,” he stepped in closer. “Come on. Pass it to me.”

After a pause—just long enough for your heart to panic a little—you gave in, placing the phone in his waiting palm.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached up with his free hand and gently squished your cheeks, molding your face into a pout.

You furrowed your brows in confusion, just as the camera shutter snapped.

He laughed, letting go of your face, and the cold rushed back in where his touch had been. You pressed your palms to your cheeks, not to rub away the sting, but to cool the warmth under your skin.

“You needed a picture too,” he looked down at your phone.

There was something delicate in the way he said it. Like he wanted to remember you—just as you were, here in the snow, with his ribbons still in your hair.

“Cute,” he murmured, thumb tapping the screen.

Your eyes widened. “Hey—don’t delete the one I took of you!”

You lunged for the phone— and using his evol, he held it high over your head whilst laughing.

“I’m not! I’m just making sure I look better in mine.”

You both stood there, caught in that silly moment—your hand reaching for your phone, his laughter tangled with yours in the stillness of the night. The snow swirled around you both in slow, glittering arcs—clinging to your sleeves, the world around you muted.

He finally lowered the phone, now holding it out to you with a little smile. “Okay, okay—you can have it back. I promise I didn’t delete your masterpiece.”

You took it, brushing his fingers as you did, and neither of you said anything about the way the touch lingered just a second too long.

His eyes caught what little light the porch gave, violet glinting beneath snowflakes like something out of a story you weren’t sure would end happily.

Then he nodded toward your door. “It’s freezing. You should head in before you turn into a popsicle.”

You opened your mouth to argue—to say you weren’t cold, not really.

“Go,” he said, his voice gentler this time. “I’ll see you soon.”

When you stepped inside, your cheeks stung from the sudden change in temperature, and your fingers itched as the numbness slowly faded.

You didn’t bother taking off your coat right away.

You just stood there, in the dark entryway, phone still clutched in your hand, heart still somewhere outside on the sidewalk where Caleb had smiled at you like that. Where his hands had touched your face. Where his voice had gone soft and said, “I’ll see you soon.”

You made your way to your room in a daze, the snow still glittering in your hair, shoes leaving melted prints down the hallway.

Once inside, you dropped your coat to the floor and collapsed onto your bed, phone in hand. The ribbons in your hair shifted beneath your head on the pillow, one falling loose—but you didn’t fix it.

Instead, you unlocked your phone. Opened the camera roll. Scrolled to the photos from just minutes ago.

There he was—eyes sparkling with snowflakes caught in his lashes. He looked like a painting.

You swiped to the next one. The picture he took of you.

You hated how airy you looked. How hopeful. Like your heart had written itself all over your face before your brain could stop it.

And still, you couldn’t stop staring.

Outside your window, the snow kept falling.

And as you watched it blur the world into softness, all you could think about was the warmth of his hands on your skin, the color of his eyes under the porch light, and the sound of his voice wrapped around the word soon.

You told yourself not to hope.

Your phone buzzed in your hand—a text from Caleb.

‘let me know when you get warm’

A second passed.

‘actually wait’

‘don’t, you’ll use it as an excuse to talk to me again :D’

Another pause.

‘kidding. you can text me whenever. even if you're still cold’

‘especially if you’re still cold’

Your thumbs hovered over the screen, not sure what to say back. But you were smiling—so wide it hurt, like your face hadn’t been asked to feel this much in ages.

And then you noticed it—nestled just above his texts, timestamped from just a bit prior.

A message. From you.

Your heart stuttered.

The photo he took of you—sent to his chat, not yours.

While you were too busy worrying he’d delete his own, he’d been sending himself yours.

He hadn’t said anything about it.

Compared to the frigid cold outside, your body felt like it had finally thawed from the inside out. Warmth hummed beneath your skin, buzzing in your fingertips and curling in your heart. Hell, if you looked in the mirror, you were sure you’d be glowing.

You didn’t just have Caleb back in your life, talking again—he wanted to keep you too.

You fell asleep with the ribbons in your hair. Everything was perfect.

. . . .

You’re the closest to Heaven, that I’ll ever be,

And I don’t wanna go home right now

. . . .

You didn’t usually sleep over at MC’s place—she liked your house better. Said it felt like a break from Caleb. You never really got that—a break from him? You couldn’t imagine ever wanting one.

But this time, she invited you. And while you didn’t want to be that friend, the kind who only says yes for someone else entirely… you agreed—heart already skipping at the fact that Caleb would be there.

When you arrived, you hadn’t even unpacked your bag yet before Caleb was sauntering into the room—arms behind his head, socks mismatched.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite ribbon girl,” He shot you a lazy smile, “guess the gang’s all here.”

The three of you fell into an easy rhythm, or at least, it seemed easy. MC was her usual loud, bright self, bouncing from snack to snack, laughing at her own jokes. Caleb matched her beat for beat, as he always did. And you—you laughed when you were supposed to, nodded when it fit, and tried to keep up with the tempo of the third wheel.

It was late and the screen was playing a movie none of you were really watching. MC lay sprawled out on the couch, her voice drowsy and soft.

“My neck’s killing me,” she whined. “Caleb. Do something.”

Caleb made a face. “What do I look like to you, a massage therapist?”

“A lazy one,” she shot back.

He moved anyway, climbed down behind her and began rubbing her shoulders in slow, practiced circles. Like this was routine, like it was something they did.

You stared at the screen, but the image blurred.

His fingers moved slowly and gently. She made some soft noise, teasing him when he hit a knot, and he rolled his eyes in that way he always did when he was trying not to smile.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself.

Caleb down at you from the couch, and tossed a piece of popcorn at you.

“You good?” he asked.

You forced a smile. “Fine.”

The moment passed.

Then her phone lit up.

zaynie <3 calling…

You saw it before she did. The way her whole face changed when she picked it up. Like he had dialed into some part of her that no one else could reach.

“Heyyy,” she said, rolling over and away from Caleb. “Missed you.”

And just like that, she stood up and left. Took the call upstairs like the rest of the room didn’t matter anymore.

Caleb was quiet. Still sitting there, his hands empty now. He stood, dusted nothing off his pants, and dropped onto the floor next to you with a sigh.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered.

You didn’t answer right away. You were still watching the stairs, watching the shadow of MC’s voice floating down, sugary and sweet.

“Maybe she just really likes him,” you said.

“He doesn’t even like her… not really.” Caleb turned to you, annoyed. “Zayne likes school. That’s it. He graduates in the spring, and he’s not gonna have time for her anymore when he goes off to university in the fall.”

“Then maybe she needs to figure that out for herself.”

He scoffed. “She’ll just get hurt.”

“Maybe,” you said. Then, quieter: “Or maybe you need to stop waiting around for her to realize something she doesn’t want to.”

He looked at you—a long, puzzled stare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You forced a little laugh, picking at your sleeve. You worried you had struck a nerve. “Nothing. Just... maybe it’s time you looked somewhere else.”

You meant it.

He shook his head. “I’m not wired like that. I don’t just switch things off.”

“Doesn’t have to be switching off. Just... shifting focus. Trying something new.”

He let out a breath, something between a scoff and a laugh—the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah? Like what?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t—because what were you supposed to say? Me?

So instead, you looked at him. The TV light hit his face in just the right way—highlighting those ridiculous eyes, the ones you’d loved since before you even knew what love was. They flickered with frustration, with sadness, with something so close to tenderness you could almost taste it.

But it wasn’t for you. It never was.

He leaned back against the couch with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling like maybe the answers were written up there.

You stayed silent beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Mile to mile.

He didn’t look over again, but rested his head on your shoulder.

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe too deep. Because if you did—if you shifted even slightly—you were terrified he’d lift his head. That he’d remember where he was, who he was leaning on.

And maybe it was pathetic.

Yeah, it probably was.

But you’d take the weight of him over nothing at all. You’d carry it gladly.The movie played on, long forgotten, just sound and flickering light. He was quiet, lost in a place you would never be invited to.

And yet… he reached for you anyway. Not just because you were there, because when his world tilted and spun, you were steady. You were warmth without demand, softness without question.

He wanted you—just not like you wanted him. Not with the fire you carried in your chest for him. Not with the hunger that hollowed you out every time he looked past you.

He wanted your quiet, your presence.

Your shoulder to lean on when hers wasn’t there.

And maybe that was love, in some twisted, diluted form. Maybe he did love you—in the way people love familiarity. In the way someone might miss the smell of home but never stay long enough to unpack.

Your shoulder ached, but your heart ached more.

You wanted to cry. Not sob—not loudly, just let tears slip out slow and unnoticed. Because there was something deeply cruel in being almost chosen.

Looking at the screen, at the blur of colors you couldn’t name, you thought maybe this was all you’d ever be. A detour before he remembered where his heart belonged.

And you swore if he reached for your hand, you would’ve taken it. You would’ve broken your own heart just to hold his a second longer.

But he didn’t, he just breathed softly against your skin.

And you sat there, the rot inside of you blooming too wide for your chest.

You said nothing.

Because what was there left to say, when even silence hurt?

You took what he gave you—gratefully, almost desperately—because it was more than the nothing you’d known for so long.

You reminded yourself that he said he missed you, that you meant something to him. Maybe not everything. Maybe not like you dreamed. But something. And wasn’t that supposed to be enough?

You told yourself it had to be. That being wanted in any way was better than not being wanted at all. Even if it was only in the moments she wasn’t around, when his eyes softened and his guard slipped.

Sometimes, when he reached for you, you felt you could pretend that this was enough. That crumbs could taste like a feast if you were hungry enough.

And you were starving.

It wasn’t as if he were cruel. He was never dismissive, never cold. If anything, he was thoughtful in ways that made it all harder. He remembered things—small, stupid things you wished he’d forget.

Your favorite candy, the songs you loved when you were ten, the way you tied your shoes backwards as a kid. Sometimes you caught him glancing at you like he still knew who you were beneath all the years.

Sometimes you wished he didn’t.

Sometimes you wished he’d snap at you, ignore you, give you something mean to hold onto—some reason to turn the yearning into anger. You wished he’d be heartless, just once, so you could hate him.

But how could you hate someone you loved like this? How could you hate a boy who wore ribbons that matched your eyes—tied in soft little bows to the belt loops of his jeans like he didn’t even realize what he was doing to you? He wasn’t trying to hurt you, and that’s what made it worse.

. . . .

Winter slipped away slowly, dripping from the trees and sidewalks like it didn’t want to leave. The snow thawed, and everything came alive again. Buds peeked from branches, the world turned pretty and green, the sky starting to hold more blue than grey.

But no matter how much the world shifted, you didn’t feel any different.

You thought you would—yet spring only brought more confusion.

Because Caleb never pulled away. He still sat next to you in class when he could. Still gave you that stupid, heart melting smile in the hallway. Still texted you late at night about nothing and everything. Still tied your ribbons to his belt loop, still brought you candy.

And you were left wondering what any of it meant.

Because as much as he gave you moments and fragments—he still looked at her like the sun rose behind her shoulders.

You were caught in the in-between. The maybe. The almost.

And it was worse than being ignored.

You were friends. Sure, that part you understood. But was that all? Was that all he saw when he looked at you?

Because if it was, why did it hurt like this?

You were friends with MC too. And she never looked at you the way Caleb did. Never leaned into your side, never reached for your hand out of nowhere, never lingered in your doorway just to say one more stupid thing before leaving. You and MC had never shared that kind of closeness that you and Caleb had.

And it wasn’t just some guy thing either. You knew Zayne. You watched how he acted with her, the way he smiled and touched her arm, shared his stupid sunglasses and inside jokes. It was obvious what he wanted. It was easy to read. Caleb? Caleb was something else entirely.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because he never said anything. Never clarified. Never told you what you were or weren’t to him. He just kept giving you pieces.

What were you supposed to do with that?

You wanted to scream. To shake him and demand answers. You weren’t some placeholder. You weren’t his emotional crutch for when MC wasn’t around. But if you said anything, anything, you were scared it would all disappear.

You thought winter was heavy—but spring? Spring was unbearable. Because the world was blooming and he was still not yours.

You had started to reach your limit.

You could only be so compassionate. You only had so much empathy—only so much hope to give before it all began to die inside you. Before you felt stupid for still believing in anything at all.

Slowly, the pieces of yourself began to slip. Slipped through the cracks, down into some place that felt like fury and heartbreak mixed together. You were unraveling, losing your marbles one by one.

Frustrated was too gentle a word.

Prom season, junior year. The first one you were allowed to go to. But what was the point? To squeeze into a too loud dress and pretend you weren’t invisible in a crowded gym full of glitter and heartbreak? To stand alone while MC and Zayne twirled under cheap lights, and Caleb glared at the back of their heads from across the room?

Because that’s exactly what he had done when he found out Zayne asked her.

You didn’t mean to overhear their fight through your window, but the whole neighborhood practically did.

“Seriously?” Caleb barked. “You’re going to prom with him?”

MC sounded stunned. “Caleb, I don’t understand why that’s a problem.”

“I just—I thought you hated dances.”

“I do,” she snapped, “but Zayne asked me and I thought it might be fun! What’s with the attitude?”

There was silence. He didn’t answer her. You could picture it—his jaw clenched, that angry crease in his brow. The way he’d look at her like she had just betrayed him, without even knowing how or why.

MC’s voice was quieter after that.

“Caleb… what’s this really about?”

But still, he said nothing.

And it killed you. Because even she didn’t know.

She didn’t know he was in love with her. She didn’t know the way he watched her, the way he spiraled over her. She didn’t understand why he acted like this—and maybe that was the worst part. Because she didn’t even mean to hurt him.

She never did.

Honestly, you didn’t think he’d go at all—because who was Caleb without MC?

Sure, he was still the heartthrob. Captain of the basketball team. The boy teachers fawned over, who made old ladies smile at the grocery store and got away with murder just by flashing that grin. On the outside, he was untouchable.

But you knew better.

Without her, he felt lost—like a kite with no string, flailing in the wind and pretending it was flying. He never said it out loud, but you’d seen it. In how his confidence cracked when he didn’t have her around.

So why the hell would he show up to prom alone?

Why go to some overhyped high school dance when the girl he loved more than anything was showing up on the arm of someone else?

You knew him. Knew how deeply he attached his identity to her, even when he didn’t realize it himself.

So you were surprised, to say the least, when he asked you.

Well—told you.

Some boy from your History class caught you between periods—he was the type who always spoke up when called on, always cracked jokes in group work. You’d talked before, mostly in passing, always lended him your pencils. You knew he played basketball, knew he sat at the end of the bench near Caleb, but that was about it.

He stopped you by your locker, holding out one of the many pencils he’d borrowed.

“Hey, thanks for this,” he said casually. “Also—been meaning to ask—are you going to prom?”

The way he said it was confident. Like he already knew the answer, like you’d be crazy to say no. It wasn’t pushy, just matter of fact—you weren’t sure you were really being given a choice here.

Before you could get a word out, Caleb materialized beside you.

Arm around your shoulder. No warning, no “hey.” Just suddenly there. Like he always was, when you least expected him but needed him most.

His voice was deceptively sweet. “I didn’t know you two talked.”

“We don’t really,” the boy didn’t miss a beat. “ But I was asking her to prom.”

You didn’t even have time to react.

Caleb’s grip on your shoulder didn’t change, but his posture shifted. Slightly in front of you now. Calm and casual, but there was more now under the surface.

With the way Caleb stood beside you, it pulled you back to those days on the playground, when he was a kid with teeth bared, standing guard with a stick clenched tight in his hands—ready to fight one of the boys that had stolen your chalk.

But now it was just his arm around your shoulder, yet the fierce protectiveness hadn’t dulled. His posture, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed—it was the same guard dog instinct. You could feel it in your bones, a warning that no one else could cross this line. That was Caleb’s claim, before he even spoke a word.

“Oh,” Caleb said, smiling like it wasn’t the start of a storm. “Sorry, dude. She’s going with me.”

That made your eyes snap to him.

The boy blinked, confused. “Oh. Really?”

Caleb turned to you then, eyes locking onto yours like a silent challenge—expectation, tension, a little heat.

“Isn’t that right?” he asked.

You stared at him, unsure if you were angry or flustered or just completely lost. Your mouth opened and closed. You knew you should say something, should correct him, should remind him he never even asked.

But with his violet eyes shimmering like fire trapped in glass—you nodded.

“Right.”

The boy backed off, giving Caleb a tight lipped smile before walking away.

You stood still, Caleb’s arm still a brand. He hadn’t looked at you yet.

“Since when am I going with you?” you asked, voice low.

Now he turned, that easy confidence wavering just slightly when he caught your expression.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to go alone.”

“I didn’t say I was even going,” you glared.

“Didn’t say no, either.”

You stood there wondering what the hell just happened.

Because he hadn’t asked. He’d claimed.

You stared at him as he walked off down the hall, waving back at you like it was nothing.

He was only asking because MC was going with Zayne. Because he didn’t want to be the one left out. Because he needed someone—anyone—to keep him from feeling like second place.

Exhaling, you deflated right there in the middle of the hallway.

Damn it. Now you had to get a dress.

. . . .

And all I can taste is this moment,

And all I can breathe is your life

. . . .

There was a kind of silence that felt eerie—like the world was holding its breath. A soft spring rain dusted the streets in a dull mist, the sky grey and sad. Not a single car passed by your window. It felt like an omen, if you let yourself think about it long enough.

You had woken up early, just like every other girl probably did on prom day—but unlike them, your chest was tight. Something was wrong. You didn’t know what exactly, but your body did. That gnawing dread wouldn’t leave you, even as you tried to force yourself through the motions.

Every breath felt wrong. Every moment alone in your room only made the silence louder. You curled your hair with shaking hands. Did your makeup with a pit in your stomach. Got dressed like you were preparing for a funeral instead of a dance.

MC was going with a different group of friends. She’d invited you to come along—kindly, of course—but you’d said no. Didn’t want to intrude.

You knew you’d feel like an outsider.

But maybe that’s what made the air feel so tense.

That’s what you told yourself.

You looked pretty. The dress shimmered against the gloom outside, your hair tied up and curled with Caleb’s—no, your purple ribbons. The long gloves you bought felt a little ridiculous, but you wore them anyway. Told yourself they made you look regal.

But no matter how hard you tried, that sinking feeling wouldn’t leave.

Caleb arrived with a knock at your door, and he smiled when he saw you. You didn’t expect really much of a reaction from him, you knew you weren’t the one he had wanted to go with tonight.

You weren’t sure you wanted to go with him either—at least, not this version of Caleb. You wanted the version of Caleb you had grown up romanticizing.

And he wanted MC.

You’d told him the colors of your dress—purple and orange, like a sunset—but you didn’t send a picture, no matter how many times he asked.

He had nagged you about it all week. But you wanted it to be a surprise. Maybe some small, stupid part of you thought that he’d see you and pause. Say something that would make all of this feel worth it.

You wished you’d never tried to make it special at all.

He looked you over. “You look good,” he said, “Didn’t think you’d pick something like this.”

You let out a pathetic laugh at his poor compliment, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “Yeah. Me either.”

It wasn’t the reaction you wanted.

But then again, he hadn’t been the boy you wanted in a long time. You were learning that the hard way.

You pitied both of you, and it crushed you. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not the way you imagined it. There was no excitement, just this haunting, hollow feeling—no limousine, no friends laughing around you, no magical night.

The look in his eyes while he put on your corsage—whatever it was—was something you couldn’t reach. Maybe regret, maybe guilt, maybe just tiredness. You couldn’t blame him. You’d rather be anywhere else, away from this tangled mess between you, away from the silence that screamed louder than any words.

Your friendship was strangling you, twisting tighter with every forced smile and every awkward moment. It was supposed to be something safe—a warm blanket you both could wrap yourselves in when the world got cold.

But instead, it was a ball of tangled yarn, knotted with all the broken pieces neither of you knew how to unravel. And you were suffocating, drowning in what it had become. You wanted to pull it apart, tear it open and let it all fall apart rather than keep pretending it could be smoothed out, but you were too scared of what the emptiness would feel like without it.

The night was fading into a blur, each moment slipping past like smoke. Your mind was a mess of static, every word Caleb muttered to break the silence during the photos, during the drive to school, just washed over you and disappeared. You felt detached, like you were watching yourself from outside your body.

You wished—if only you could pretend hard enough—that this was all a dream. That when you finally opened your eyes, none of it had happened. Caleb never asked you. You could go back to living with the kind of sadness that at least made sense, the kind you were used to.

Or maybe, you’d wake up and Caleb would be yours. It would be prom morning, but everything would feel right. Everything would line up with the way you’d dreamed it, planned it, wished for it to be. But you knew, deep down, that waking up to that kind of hope was just as painful as facing this empty reality.

The gym was a chaotic mix of noise and shadows, too loud to think while the flashing lights stabbed at your eyes. The air was thick with sweat and perfume, bodies packed too close in dresses that hung awkwardly and suits that were too tight. Caleb was pulled away almost instantly, swallowed up by a group of his friends laughing loudly, already slipping into a world you didn’t belong in.

He looked back at you—searching for maybe a sign that you were okay, or that this wasn’t as lonely for you as it felt.

You forced a small smile. “It’s okay,” you told him, but the words felt small, a fragile shield against the gnawing hurt growing inside as he was tugged away toward the table where they all sat, already leaving you behind.

Finding your way to a quiet corner, you pictured the gym as it was that night you had gone to Caleb’s basketball game. Felt that feeling of hope, the first time in what felt like forever he had made a conscious effort to make you feel seen.

But then he chose her. Without a word, without a glance back. You were left standing by the cold gates, swallowed by the dark and silence, waiting for someone who never came. That night, months ago, should have been the first warning—a cruel prophecy of all that was to come.

A little ways off, where the music pulsed and bodies moved in rhythm, you saw MC spinning like a princess in her dress. She was everything you thought she’d be—like a light bright enough to awaken the dim room, shining and dazzling everyone around her. Her laughter bubbled up, surrounded by friends who hung on every smile. She looked like she belonged there, like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Your hands twisted together, trembling, tears gathering but refusing to fall.

You looked beautiful.

You had your dress, your hair done, your makeup just right.

You were here with Caleb.

No—you were there in a corner.

Alone.

You sank to the floor, not even flinching when the grime clung to the hem of your dress—the one you told yourself would make you feel beautiful. It didn’t matter now. You felt dirty anyway. Used up. Stupid for thinking this night would be anything but a reminder of everything you didn’t have.

You hugged your knees to your chest, blinking through the tears that refused to stop. The music kept playing, song after song bleeding together, slow ones turning fast and back again. You watched couples sway under the lights like it was the easiest thing in the world to be loved. And you just sat there, still as stone.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there before a voice pulled you out of your mind.

“Are you okay?”

Startled, you lifted your head from your knees, not expecting anyone to notice you curled up in the shadows. But there he was—Zayne, crouched in front of you, concern written all over his face.

You straightened quickly, wiping at the tears on your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Oh—yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” You let out a laugh that sounded maybe a little too fake.

Zayne didn’t look convinced. His eyes flicked around the room before landing back on you. “Where’s Caleb? I thought you two came together.”

“I don’t know. He disappeared with his friends as soon as we got here. I haven’t really seen him since.”

He sighed and quietly sat beside you without another word.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said, curling in on yourself again. “You should probably be with MC.”

“And you should probably be with Caleb,” he replied, resting his head back against the wall. “Looks like both our dates are having more fun without us.”

You followed his gaze. MC was still out on the dance floor, spinning in circles with her friends.

He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. You’d grown up around Zayne just like you had with Caleb. You knew him—knew this wasn’t his scene. He was here for her. Just like you were here for someone who didn’t really want you.

You tried to make conversation, anything to distract yourself from where you were—and where you weren’t.

“So,” you said, voice still scratchy, “you excited to graduate?”

He glanced over, giving a soft shrug. “Yeah, a bit.”

“That’s cool…That’s cool…” You sometimes forgot how quiet Zayne was, in contrast to the girl he was with.

“I’m just hoping I don’t trip when I walk across the stage.”

It made you smile, and for a second, things didn’t feel quite as lonely. You were still sitting in a corner, still dressed up with no one looking for you, but at least you weren’t invisible anymore.

“I thought this night would feel different,” you admitted quietly, eyes on the chaos of the dance floor. “I thought it’d feel special.”

Zayne didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like he understood.

“I like your dress,” he said.

It was simple. Just a compliment. A nice, polite thing to say.

But it hit you harder than you expected—because it was the least someone had given you all night.

Before you could stop it, the tears started to fall again.

Zayne’s eyes widened a little, clearly startled. “Oh—I didn’t mean to—”

You shook your head, holding up a shaky hand. “No, no, it’s not you. I’m okay, I promise.”

You weren’t. But it was easier than admitting how desperately you had needed to feel seen.

And seen you were—when a pointed, loud “Ahem” broke the quiet between you and Zayne.

Caleb stood a few feet away, arms crossed, and jaw tight.

Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. “Look who remembered he had a date,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

You almost laughed—almost. But your stomach turned instead.

You quickly wiped at your face, forcing yourself to stand. “Hey,” your voice was thin. “You, uh... you disappeared.”

“I’ll let you two talk,” Zayne said, finally pushing himself to his feet and brushing off his pants. He looked at you and gave the faintest nod, not quite a smile, yet still was the most comforting gesture you had received that night—before he walked off with hands in his pockets.

You turned back to Caleb, hands twisting in the fabric of your skirt.

“I’m sorry,” Caleb said, not looking at you.

You didn’t know what to say. Your cheeks were damp, your eyes sore, your makeup probably ruined. You didn’t really want him to see you like this anyway.

“S’okay,” you mumbled. But it wasn’t. And a part of you wished he’d never found you at all. At least then you could stay in that corner with Zayne, pretending you didn’t care.

“There’s a slow song next,” he said, clearing his throat. “Do you want to dance?”

You hesitated, then nodded. His hand reached for yours and you let him take it. Let him lead you to the floor.

The music was soft. The lights spun gently overhead. Around you, couples swayed like they were in love.

Caleb’s hand found your waist. His other stayed in yours. It was the way you were supposed to dance. Normal, fine.

But it felt like he was holding you just far enough away. Like if he pulled you closer, he’d feel everything—your hurt, your want, your love he didn’t return.

And you were scared if you got any nearer, you’d fall right into him. Disappear into someone, a soul that didn't want to catch you.

You blinked slowly. Let your gaze drop to his chest, the fabric of his button up creased a little too much from where he probably yanked it off a hanger last minute. You had tried so hard—made everything perfect. And for what?

“Caleb,” He looked at you then, startled, like he wasn’t expecting you to speak.

You opened your mouth to say more, but nothing came. There wasn’t anything left. Nothing he hadn’t already ignored.

So instead, you said the only thing that didn’t feel like begging.

“Thanks for dancing with me.”

He nodded. Smiled a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You wondered if he even wanted to be holding your hand.

The song was almost over.

And you wished it had never started.

He watched over your shoulder, eyes fixed on something. You tried to ignore it, but then he spoke.

“Why were you sitting with Zayne earlier?”

That was it?

Of all the things he could’ve said… that?

Not Are you okay?

Not I’m sorry I left you alone all night.

Not You look beautiful.

Just that.

You were flabbergasted. “Seriously?”

Caleb finally met your eyes, face unreadable. “I just didn’t expect to see you with him. That’s all.”

You gave a disbelieving laugh. “You didn’t expect it? I was alone, Caleb—for most of the night.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked vaguely uncomfortable, shifting his weight like he couldn’t decide whether to defend himself or stay silent.

Typical.

You tried to let it go. Tried to smooth down the fire rising from your toes and through your throat—to be reasonable, level headed and calm. The kind of girl who doesn’t make a scene. But then, something in you cracked.

You turned your head, following his line of sight. Zayne and MC were dancing.

They looked good, and comfortable. Happy. MC glowed under the gym lights, and Zayne had that rare, soft look on his face.

And there Caleb was, still staring.

“Is that what this is about?” your voice rose just a bit, not enough to turn heads, but enough to sting. “You’re upset because I was sitting with someone who actually noticed I was upset? Someone who, I don’t know, maybe cared?”

Caleb’s brow furrowed. “It’s not like that. I just—Zayne’s always been—”

“Don’t. Don’t turn this into something it’s not. You abandoned me tonight. Not him.”

“I can’t lose you.”

You froze.

He looked right at you, eyes desperate. “I can’t lose you to him too.”

Too.

That word.

You didn’t even fully understand it—what it implied, what he meant—but it scraped something inside of you anyway.

“I’m not a fucking consolation prize, Caleb,” you snapped, voice breaking on the edges of anger. “You don’t get to ignore me all night and then get jealous. You don’t get to watch me fall apart and only speak up when your ego is bruised.”

His face paled, but you didn’t care.

Because all the things you’d been holding back—the pain, the loneliness, the crushing sense of disappointment—were flooding to the surface now, unrelenting.

“You don’t get to lose me,” your voice wobbled, “because you never even had me.”

The music blurred in your ears. Your pulse roared.

You broke free from his grasp, practically running out of the gym.

You ran, and you ran.

You ran until you didn’t even know where you were going—you just needed to get away. Away from the music, the lights, the people, him.

You kicked off your heels halfway down the street, too tired to care that your feet were raw, bleeding from the blisters. Your dress dragged behind you, snagging on twigs and the sidewalk and god knows what else. You didn’t care.

You didn’t care about anything anymore.

Then you tripped.

You hit the ground with a loud slap—palms scraping open, knees stinging. You just stayed there, frozen. The kind of still that comes after your body gives up. After your heart already did.

And then it started to rain.

Like, really rain.

Cold, heavy and merciless—soaking through your hair, your dress and your skin in seconds. It was quiet, but not peaceful—like the world had decided to shut up just to let you hear how alone you were.

You crawled forward a bit before curling up like a little kid. Arms wrapped around your legs, head tucked down, shaking all over.

Your body started to rock, and then you were crying. The kind of crying that sounds like gasping. Like begging—like something being ripped out of you. You couldn't even tell where your tears ended and the rain began.

You looked down at your dress, torn and muddy, and it made you cry harder. You tried so hard to look pretty for him. You practiced walking in heels, curling your hair, doing your makeup—just to be his date. Just to be chosen. Just to feel like you were enough.

But you weren’t.

Not for him.

You never were.

You cried like a kid. Like someone who’d just realized love doesn’t mean safety. That sometimes people don’t show up. That sometimes, you’re not enough for them to stay.

And sitting there, soaked and shaking, with your mascara smeared down your cheeks and your hands burning from the fall—you didn’t feel like a teenager anymore. You felt five. You felt like a little girl, crying on the sidewalk because Caleb had taken one of your toys. Except this time, it was your heart. Your life.

You curled up tighter, but it didn’t help. You were soaked straight through. Your teeth started to chatter, but you didn’t even try to stop them. You just sat there shaking.

You whispered to no one, “It’s cold.”

Your voice cracked. You said it again.

“It’s cold.”

It was all you could think. All you could feel. Cold, and alone. And small. So small. And you hated that the world just kept going. That the rain didn’t pause for your heartbreak. That the streetlights still flickered above you like everything was fine.

Eventually, your body couldn’t take it anymore. Your knees hurt from how long you'd been sitting, and your hands were stiff and raw. So you got up, dragging yourself to your feet, soaked dress clinging to your legs like it didn’t want to let go either.

You walked home.

Barefoot, your shoes long gone. The sidewalk was rough and uneven, cold and sharp. You felt every step, but also… you didn’t. Your brain had turned off somewhere between the gym and the street. You didn’t look at anything, didn’t check your phone, didn’t cry anymore. You were empty now—wrung out.

By the time you reached your front door, your fingers were too cold to get the key in right. You fumbled and dropped it and just stared at it for a second on the welcome mat, wondering how this had become your life.

You went straight to the bathroom, peeling the wet fabric off your skin piece by piece. Your zipper got stuck and you cried out in frustration—because it was just one more thing.

You looked in the mirror and wished you hadn’t.

Your makeup was a disaster. Your eyes were red and puffy. Your hair hung in damp, tangled clumps. You looked like a ghost. Like a little girl who’d been left behind. And maybe that’s what you were.

You didn’t even shower. You just wiped your skin down with a towel, like that would make it all go away. You stepped out of your dress and left it crumpled on the bathroom floor, too tired to care.

Crawling into bed, still damp, the cold clung to you under the blankets. You curled onto your side and squeezed your eyes shut.

And in the quiet of your room, you whispered one more time:

“It’s cold.”

Not just your body.

Everything.

Your eyelids were heavy, sore from all the crying, and they started to fall shut on their own—suddenly everything felt far away. Like you were still watching yourself from outside your own body.

You could still feel the cold.

It echoed inside you—like a scream that never stopped ringing.

Your breath hitched once, maybe twice, and then your body gave out.

It was a loud, cracking thunder that yanked you out of sleep like a slap. You shot up, heart pounding, breath caught in your throat. For a moment, everything felt heavy and blurry, like your body hadn’t caught up to your mind. Like you were underwater, or dreaming.

You sat there, dazed, blinking at the darkness until another flash of lightning lit up your room as you flinched. The room looked unfamiliar under the pale blue white glow. Like it didn’t belong to you, none of this did.

Still half asleep, half sick from everything, you shuffled to your window, hands weak as you reached for the curtains. You just wanted to shut it all out—the storm, the world, the ache in your chest. You were so cold, and so tired, and—

Then you saw him.

Caleb.

Out there in the rain.

You froze. Blinked. Rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand.

He didn’t move.

Just stood there under your window, soaked through like you had been earlier that night—hair dripping, arms limp at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. His eyes were lifted, searching, and even though the rain blurred everything, you knew he was looking at you.

For a second, you were convinced you were still dreaming. That maybe you hadn’t actually woken up. That maybe your mind had conjured this out of sheer exhaustion and heartbreak. It felt too surreal, too cruel and too stupid.

Because what else could it be? Why else would he be there now?

For a second, you just stared.

Part of you was too tired to even feel anything.

But then the confusion came. The disbelief. Then the anger—creeping hot up your spine.

What did he want?

What did he think this was?

You just stood there, silently, trembling in your oversized t-shirt, mascara still smudged from earlier. You were cold. So cold.

And he was just out there.

Looking like the boy you wished had loved you right.

He looked so small out there. And you felt so small in here.

Caleb would’ve been stupid not to know exactly how you felt. You were sure of that. Maybe he never said it out loud, never admitted it—even to himself—but he knew. He saw the way your eyes lingered on him, the way your smile faltered whenever he looked away, the way your whole body tensed and softened in his presence. He knew.

And you sometimes wondered if he used that—your feelings—as a kind of quiet leverage. Not because he wanted to hurt you, not because he was cruel or calculating. No, Caleb wasn’t like that. But he had his own battles, his own demons clawing at him, and you were there. You were safe, always willing, always there. You didn’t fight it. You just let yourself get wrapped up in whatever he offered.

You loved him. Painfully so.

And Caleb knew it.

He didn’t need words. He never needed words. You think maybe that was his silent power over you, and maybe his curse.

The rain tapped harder against the windowpane as you slowly closed the curtains, shutting out the cold, the storm, and the figure waiting outside. You shut it all away—his gaze, your heart, the space between you that kept growing wider.

You wanted to close him out, too. But you knew that no curtain could block the way he’d already found inside you.

. . . .

And sooner or later, it's over

I just don't wanna miss you tonight

. . . .

Just as fast as it had seemed like maybe—maybe Caleb loved you back the way you loved him, he vanished. Not physically. He still walked the halls. Still laughed in class. But it was like you’d been scrubbed from his memory. Like you were a bad dream he didn’t want to admit he ever had.

Or maybe you were the ghost. Hovering and haunting, left behind in the wreckage of something that never even got a proper name.

And that was the worst part—there wasn’t even a clean break. No screaming match. No final fight. Just silence. Just Caleb looking through you like you were steam on a mirror, like all he had to do was blink and you’d be gone.

Though he tried to talk to you a few times, after that night—you still shut him out. Slammed the door of communication closed. You wanted him to feel the gut-punch. Wanted him to beg. To grovel like he always did for her.

You wanted him to feel it—wanted him to hurt.

You thought he might fight for you. Thought maybe if you made him miss you enough, he’d come crawling back the way he always did with MC.

You thought if you were good—if you were patient and quiet and hurt in silence—he’d realize what he lost.

Silly girl, you were never her.

You’d never be her.

But still, you watched him. And sometimes—when he thought you weren’t looking—you caught it. The way his face would twitch. The way his eyes almost darted to yours like they used to. The ghost of a habit he was trying to unlearn.

You told yourself that meant something. That it was proof he cared. But glances aren’t apologies. And flinches aren’t love.

You were grieving someone who wasn’t even gone— and that’s the cruelest kind of mourning, isn’t it? Not absence, but a presence that ignores you.

He was right there. He just didn’t really see you anymore.

It’s like being underwater while the world goes on above you. Like screaming with your mouth full of blood and saltwater and no one ever hearing. You were still there—heart still beating, love still burning—but he’d already moved on like none of it ever mattered. Like you never mattered.

And the worst part?

You still loved him.

Like a song stuck in your teeth.

Like a scab you keep picking.

And he just keeps walking.

In love, you spoke in lifelines. He spoke in escape routes. You kept translating, bending, breaking to understand him.

You kept setting fires in your chest, and he kept warming his hands and leaving.

Zayne graduated, and just like Caleb said he would, he was gone by summer. And with that, everything Caleb had warned about came true.

He left MC.

She was wrecked—crying in the bathrooms, drifting through the halls like she’d lost a limb. And a part of you felt for her. You did. You knew the sting of being left behind, of watching someone you loved choose something (someone) else over you.

But your heartbreak had been different. And unlike MC, you didn’t have Caleb to help sweep up the damage.

If Caleb hadn’t been obsessed before, now he was relentless. He was at her side constantly—waiting at her locker, following her laugh like a tether, orbiting her like he couldn’t breathe unless she let him. He bent to her every need. Carried her books, fetched her favorite coffee, dropped everything the second she called. It was like watching a soldier answer roll call—there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t belong to her.

The rest of senior year passed like that.

You had your own future planned—acceptance into Hunter’s Academy, something you should’ve been proud of. But even that was overshadowed. MC, despite being a year younger, had louder dreams. Dreams people paid attention to. She was going to be a hunter too, and somehow her ambition shined brighter. Everyone saw it. Everyone talked about it. You were just the…one who got in first. Something like that.

And so, you started to fade.

Life became something to get through. With time, a faultline cracked open beneath your feet. A quiet divide between you and everyone else.

And instead of trying to cross it, you stood still. Because at least on your side, the silence didn’t lie to you.

. . . .

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

. . . .

You graduated—walked the stage, took the diploma, and smiled for the picture—ut inside, there was nothing. No flicker of pride. No sigh of relief.

People clapped, your name was called, and you existed. That was the most you could say.

It felt like the past two years had sucked all of the life out of you. Silly teenage girl and silly teenage love, yet you still carried that grief with you through the summer and to the Hunters Academy.

It wasn’t excitement that got you there—it was inertia. You had nowhere else to go. Nothing else waiting for you.

You existed on autopilot: wake up, train, eat, study, sleep.

Repeat.

You passed exams. Earned marks. Beat out half your class by sheer willpower alone. And still, no one really saw you. You were just… there.

No one ever really saw you. Not when you were a kid, not in the chaos of high school. You existed quietly, in the background—present, but never quite acknowledged. Like wallpaper in a room full of louder voices.

And the one person you wanted to see you—the only one whose opinion ever really mattered—never truly did. Caleb.

He went on to the Aerospace Academy, chasing his dreams with the same certainty he didn’t chase you. And you were happy for him, because you’re the kind of person who still loves people who hurt you. You clapped for him through a screen, watching from the sidelines like you always had.

He’d like your posts sometimes. You’d like his. That was the extent of it. No messages. No check ins. Just the algorithm throwing two ghosts at each other every now and then, reminding you he still existed.

As if you could forget.

You became mutuals in each other’s lives. Background characters. Polite nods in the hallway of adulthood.

And somehow that hurt more than anything else.

Because you didn’t forget.

You remembered every version of him—every moment that made your heart hurt when you looked at him too long.

It was like everything the two of you shared had dissolved into nothing. Like your whole childhood had been a figment of your imagination. Like you were the only one who felt it all for real.

You were close to graduating from the Hunters Academy when something shifted in you. Maybe it was just a crack in the numbness.

Either way, you found yourself driving back home—the place you’d been avoiding for quite a while.

Past the corner store where you'd once bought candy with spare change. Past your old high school, its windows still filled with the same kind of teenage loneliness. Past the playground, empty now, except for the memories of who you used to be.

You kept circling. Not really sure what you were looking for—maybe a feeling, maybe some closure. Proof that it didn’t all happen in your head.

Because you had left this town, but it never really left you. Its grip was firm—the streets still knew your name, the air still smelled like the version of you that never got to grow up right.

It was like your soul had gotten stuck here, trapped in the cracks of the pavement and the dust on old windowpanes. A ghost, pacing the same streets, waiting to pass on—but never really knowing how.

As you pulled up to the curb outside your childhood home, the past was already wrapping its hands around your throat.

And there he was.

Sitting on his front steps like nothing had changed. His eyes widened slightly when he saw your car, recognition hitting him.

His lips twitched into the beginning of a smile, and he lifted his hand in a wave—that wave.

You stepped out of the car, forcing a small, polite smile back, because what else were you supposed to do? Hug him? Cry? Pretend like it hadn’t been too long you last saw him—unless you counted the glimpses of him in photos online, standing inside a life that didn’t include you anymore.

You didn’t even make it to your porch before his voice stopped you.

“Hey there,” he called, shielding his eyes from the low evening sun, squinting at you like he needed to really see if it was actually you. “What brings you back to this little old town?”

“Visiting,” you looked at him for a beat too long, then glanced down and fidgeted with the keys in your hand. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He tilted his head a little, pretending to think, “Visiting,” he echoed.

Caleb shifted over on the steps, patting the spot beside him—like there wasn’t years of silence and heartbreak hanging in the air between you. Just a simple gesture, an invitation.

You stood there, frozen for a second.

Your brain screamed no, told you this wasn’t smart—you weren’t even sure coming home had been good for your sanity. And now this? Caleb, inches away? Alone?

But your body moved before your heart could catch up.

Because your soul still recognized him. It remembered the way his eyes used to light up when he looked at you. It remembered the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the cadence of his voice when he whispered your name. He had Pavloved you. Conditioned you, without meaning to, into obedience.

You hated that he still had that power.

And you sat down. Because even if it destroyed you, some part of you still wanted to know if there was anything left to ruin.

“How’s the Hunters Academy treatin’ you?” Caleb asked, his voice so familiar it made your head swirl. That voice had once been your comfort—had once been home.

He looked… different. Not unrecognizable, but not quite the same either. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, like someone who’d lived a little more.

You rubbed at the fabric of your jeans. “It’s okay. I graduate in a few weeks.”

Caleb let out a low whistle. “Didn’t realize that much time had gone by. You must be excited.”

“Yeah,” it was the easiest thing to say.

“Do you see MC a lot?”

There it was. Her name. You didn’t even get one full conversation before she slipped in.

You looked down at your hands, at the little ridges on your knuckles, anything but him. “Sometimes.”

She was also a student at the Academy now, following right behind you—always a step behind and yet somehow miles ahead.

“You’re graduating soon too,” you tried to steer the conversation, to redirect it anywhere else. “Right?”

Caleb nodded slowly, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Feels weird. Like I blinked and suddenly I’m here.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Because for you, time hadn’t passed in a blink—it had dragged. Time that felt like a decade, marked not by milestones, but by every time you managed to get out of bed. Every time you saw him tagged in another photo with her. Every time you reminded yourself not to care, and still did.

“Do you like it? Flying?”

He paused, eyes shifting away like he needed to look far enough away to answer it honestly. “It makes sense to me. Being in the air, it’s quiet up there.”

You nodded, “Quiet sounds nice.”

He looked over at you then. And maybe it was just your imagination, but for a second, it was like he could see it. All of it. The hurt. The years. Maybe even the version of you that used to look at him like he hung the stars.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

You snorted, tired. “Life’ll do that.”

“I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I didn’t either,” you admitted.

Caleb stared out at the horizon, the sky bruised in orange and purple—the setting sun dipping low behind the rooftops and trees. You followed his gaze. It reminded you of that night—of your dress, and the light it caught as you moved. It reminded you of him, too—of the boy he was, the boy you loved, and the one who never reached back.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he, for a while. Just that quiet between you, full of things too old to still hurt this much.

Then, softly:

“I hoped you would.”

You swallowed. “You don’t mean that.”

He shifted a little, elbows on his knees. “I do.”

You finally glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at you. Just his hands, like they might say something for him.

“I checked in. Here and there.”

You frowned.

“Your posts. Stuff you’d share.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Didn’t know if I should say anything.”

You waited. He didn’t say more.

“I didn’t hate you,” You stared at the sky again, the purple deepening, the orange slipping.

“I thought you did.” his words stung. “Would’ve made it easier.”

You knew the feeling.

Silence passed—just the soft sound of crickets in the grass, and the rustle of wind in the trees being exchanged between the two of you.

Caleb stood, stretching like he’d been holding something in. “I should probably get dinner going for Gran and MC. They’ll be home soon.”

You nodded and watched the sky shift fully into purple, the sun finally disappearing like it had somewhere more important to be. You stood, dusted off your jeans like you could shake off everything else too.

“Hey,” he said before you could leave, voice quieter now. “I’ve got something for you. Come grab it before you leave town.”

You looked at him then—into his eyes, not just at them. And for a moment, you felt so small. Like nothing had changed. Like you were still that girl who wanted him to choose her. Who thought he might.

So you didn’t say anything else.

You told him goodnight. Waved.

And left.

You never grabbed whatever he had for you.

You were scared.

. . . .

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

. . . .

You saw it on the news.

Another explosion caused by a Metaflux fluctuation.

At first, it barely registered. Just background noise in the chaos of everything else. A feeling of sympathy for the strangers caught in it—until they weren’t strangers anymore.

Until you saw the pictures.

That yard. That house. The one next door.

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like your body hollowed out.

You remember laughing on those steps. Smiling in that yard. That same yard now torn apart on the screen in front of you.

MC had posted something about her and Caleb, visiting Josephine.

You froze. Maybe for a second, maybe for an hour—you couldn’t tell.

Then you moved.

Rushed to your phone, his contact already there like it had been waiting for you. You hit "call." Let it ring. No answer. Hung up. Called again.

Again.

Nothing.

You sent messages. Poured every panicked, shaking thought into them.

Please call me.

Are you okay?

Please.

I just want to know you're okay.

Caleb please.

There was no reply.

Not that night. Not the next.

Three days passed. You didn’t sleep. Barely ate. Every time your phone buzzed, your chest seized.

When it finally lit up, it wasn’t him.

MC.

Her voice cracked, but she was alive. You were grateful for that.

But then she said it.

"Caleb’s gone."

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Your mouth moved but no sound came out.

You holed yourself up in your room like you were curling into your own grave. Days passed. Maybe weeks. Time lost all meaning. It dragged and collapsed in on itself like your chest every time you remembered.

You didn’t go to work. Didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. You stopped checking your phone, stopped opening the blinds. Stopped being.

Your bed became a coffin. You laid there, eyes open, blinking slow, letting all of it crush you inch by inch. You didn’t cry at first—couldn’t. It was worse than crying. Your grief was too big for tears. It swallowed you whole.

Then MC texted.

Said she’d been in Caleb’s room. Said she found something with your name on it. Said she’d leave it on your doorstep.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Just stared at the screen until it dimmed, then set it face down and turned away.

You left the box there.

For hours. For days. Then you imagined someone stealing it—ripping it open, tearing through whatever he’d left you.

And the fear of losing it—losing one more thing—dug its claws into your chest and pulled you out of bed.

You dragged your body to the door like it weighed a thousand pounds.

There it was.

Small. Plain. Wrapped neatly with that goddamn ribbon.

You hadn’t seen it in years.

That lopsided bow he always tried to fix three times before giving up and grinning like an idiot.

In your color.

Your knees nearly gave out. Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you were going to be sick right there in the doorway. You almost left it. Almost let the wind or a stranger take it from you. Almost walked back to bed and pretended it had never been there at all.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, clutching it too tight like it might vanish if you let go.

You brought it inside and set it on the floor by the door.

And then you stared at it.

For hours.

For another day.

For as long as it took to work up the strength to open the last thing he’d ever give you.

You finally undid the ribbon one morning, when curiosity and desperation to know what it was finally overcame you. Peeling back paper revealed a black box, with gold lettering of the name of a familiar company you couldn’t help but forget to recall.

Inside it sat a loose leaf paper.

“I’m sorry,”

It read.

“I miss my best friend.”

That was it.

Two lines.

You stared at them for a long time. Like maybe you’d read them wrong.

But they didn’t change.

You gripped the paper until it tore.

Beneath it was the necklace.

That necklace. The one you’d stopped in front of that shop window years ago to admire. He’d remembered. He’d bought it. Wrapped it up. Written you a note.

Called you his best friend.

It shattered something in you.

The tears came fast—ugly and unstoppable. Not neat or quiet, but sobs that raked your throat raw.

You weren’t angry at the gift.

You were angry at him.

Angry that he never told you the truth when he was still alive. That he let you spend your whole life clinging to this hope, this maybe, this someday. That he made you feel like there was something there—every glance, every moment, every brush of his hand that lingered just long enough to make you wonder. All of it.

He didn’t have to love you back. But he should’ve said something.

Instead, he left you with two lines and a necklace.

You screamed. You screamed so hard it hurt your ribs, begged the empty room for answers, for a rewrite, for one more chance—just one—to say everything you’d never gotten to.

But he was gone, and now there wasn’t even the comfort of pretending. No half-smiles across the room, no soft memories to cradle yourself in, no flicker of hope to nurse late at night when sleep wouldn’t come.

You clutched the necklace and the note to your chest like they were the last things in the world. You curled around them like they could still protect you, like if you held them close enough maybe you’d wake up and he’d still be alive.

You tried to believe it was him you were holding—not a box, not paper, not metal—but him.

But it wasn’t, it would never be.

You sobbed until your throat gave out, until your tears soaked your clothes and the floor beneath you. You screamed his name into the quiet, begged for him like a child, like someone praying for a miracle that wasn’t coming.

But Caleb was gone.

And he never saw you the way you saw him.

119 notes · View notes

starkeygirl114 · 9 hours ago

Text

Baby daddy Rafe x shy reader

Warnings: toxic relationships, cursing, past trauma, pregnancy, possessiveness, narcissist, mean girl vibes, Abuse, physical and mental abuse, mentions of blood, weapons, Ward Cameron (yes he’s alive in this story 🥴, past drug abuse, mentions of drugs, rehab, alcohol, being drunk/high, teasing/ poking fun of friends, Mentions of cheating, mental health mentions, anxiety, angst, crying, vomiting ( I’m sorry 😣) smut 🙂‍↕️

18+ read the warnings. If the warnings are too much for you do not read!!

authors note: I’m gagged with this one it’s messy as hell enjoy 💖

Fair warning this part does contain Ward Cameron

Part 5 1/2

As the day ends and the shock of the race wears off, I lay there holding Keegan as he sleeps.

Is Rafe really capable of being the father his son needs—and deserves?

Am I making the right decisions when it comes to my son?

My thoughts spiral well into the morning. The sun begins to rise, casting a soft glow across the horizon.

Keegan sleeps peacefully, his little lashes resting on his cheeks.

My whole world, bundled into one little boy.

He’s my biggest and greatest blessing.

When Keegan finally wakes up, we sit at the table eating cereal.

“Baby, I wanna talk to you about something,” I say, gently fixing his hair.

“Okay, Momma,” he answers, spilling milk on his chin.

“How are you feeling after yesterday? I know you were scared… and I’m so sorry you felt that way.”

He looks down, thinking hard before answering.

“I was scared for Daddy. He could have hurted himself.”

I reach over, wiping his chin.

“Well, Daddy’s okay. He’s not hurt—no boo-boos.”

“Yeah, boo-boos are not fun. Can we call Daddy?” Keegan asks hopefully.

As Keegan calls Rafe, I silently hope it’s a good morning—because after the last couple of days, I honestly can’t take much more.

Rafe answers, and he sounds cheery enough.

With plans to pick Keegan up shortly, we start getting ready. While we wait outside in the garden, Keegan wanders toward the bell peppers Auntie Kie’s been growing.

A car pulls into the driveway.

Rafe.

He sees us in the yard and approaches the garden cautiously, like he’s expecting a sneak attack.

“It’s okay, Rafe. No one’s awake but Keeg and me,” I say, meeting his eyes.

He doesn’t say anything—just nods—and gives his usual quiet hello. Keegan keeps digging around in the dirt.

“He loves digging,” Rafe says softly, smiling as he watches his son crawl around.

“He’s probably looking for bugs. That’s his favorite thing to find,” I reply, watching him.

He turns, catching me staring. I quickly look away, but it’s too late.

“You like what you see, huh?” he teases in a flirty tone.

“Please, Cameron—don’t be so full of yourself. I was looking at the cut on your eyebrow and lip,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“You should really make sure you clean that.”

Rafe laughs and steps closer.

“I mean, if you wanna play nurse, I’ll be your patient.”

My eyes go wide.

“Rafe, are you okay? Clearly, you hit your head,” I say sarcastically.

He laughs—really laughs.

“I’m okay. Can’t keep me down.” He pauses, then adds, “About yesterday… I know it was—”

Rafe’s never been the type to admit when he’s wrong or apologize.

“It’s fine. It happened. Can’t change that,” I say, shuffling my feet.

“There’s a cookout or some shit at Tannyhill today. My dad wants me there. I don’t know why I’m even thinking of going,” he says, looking down.

“Oh wow, I didn’t realize you and Ward even talked enough for him to invite you back there,” I say softly, not wanting to ruin the moment.

“I guess, not really. It’s just small talk here and there. But he called me yesterday and brought it up,” he says, watching Keegan still digging around.

“I mean… it’s free food and drinks. I’d go if it were me,” I say with a smirk, trying to lift the mood.

Rafe turns and stares at me for a beat.

“Let’s go. You, me, and Keegan. I’ll drop you back home after.”

“What?” I blink at him.

“Yeah. Let’s shake it up. Plus, like you said—free food and drinks.”

“What about Sofia?” I ask, stunned he even brought this up.

“She’s with her family or something. I don’t know,” Rafe shrugs, totally unbothered.

“Are you actually being serious?” My jaw drops.

“Yes, I’m serious. I want you to come with me,” Rafe says, looking straight into my eyes.

I try to process everything—his mood, this conversation, how he’s acting like yesterday didn’t even happen. And now he’s just casually inviting me, like we’re still… us. After dropping the bomb that we’re not.

Before I can respond, Keegan comes bounding over.

“Are you ready to go, Daddy?” he asks, clinging to Rafe’s leg.

“Yeah, buddy, I am—as long as Mommy’s ready,” Rafe says, glancing at me.

“Mommy, you’re coming to Daddy’s house?!” Keegan looks between us, wide-eyed, confused—but clearly thrilled.

“Uhm… I guess. Grandma and Grandpa Cameron are having a cookout, and your dad invited us to it,” I say, looking at Keegan, still unsure myself.

“You want Mommy to come with us, right?” Rafe asks as he picks him up, and I swear I see that smug little spark in his eye.

Using Keegan as leverage? Dirty game, Cameron.

“Yes! I want Mommy there! It’ll be so fun!” Keegan says, arms tight around Rafe’s shoulders.

“Okay then. It’s settled—looks like Mommy’s coming with us,” Rafe smirks, shooting me a look.

I don’t even bother arguing. Not when both sets of those icy blue eyes are on me—that’s my kryptonite.

As Rafe takes Keegan to the car, I rush inside to grab my purse. Thankfully, the house is still quiet—everyone’s snoring, so I don’t have to explain the mess I’m about to walk into.

Slipping back outside, Rafe is waiting by the passenger door.

“The door for you, miss,” he says, holding it open with a mock bow.

I just stare at him for a beat, heart pounding, knees slightly weak. What the hell am I doing?

The drive to Tannyhill is smooth. Keegan’s in the backseat, singing along to the music, blissfully unaware of the tension up front. I watch the world roll by out the window, then glance over at Rafe. His jaw is clenched, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Hey,” I say gently. “It’s okay. I’m here. If Ward starts anything, I’ll cuss him out, and we’ll leave.”

I smile, trying to lighten the mood.

“It’ll be like old times.”

Rafe glances over at me and smirks. He’s not totally relaxed, but a little of the tension leaves his face.

As we pull up to the house, it hits me—this is strange. Being here with Rafe, about to face Ward.

Must be a full moon tonight, I think.

The times I do show up at Tannyhill to pick Keegan up from Wheezie, I keep it quick. In and out. But today, I need to be brave. No backing down—not even from the ghosts that haunt this house.

Keegan runs ahead of us, giggling.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Rafe asks, staring up at the front door.

“I’m ready if you are,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just stands there, breathing, trying to steady himself.

Rose opens the door before either of us can knock.

“Rafe! It’s so nice to see you—I’m happy you could make it. And my sweet grandson,” she says, smiling as she reaches out to touch Keegan’s hair.

Keegan hugs her tight. “Where’s Auntie Wheezie?” he asks, already taking off into the house.

Then she turns to me—and her expression shifts. She’s clearly surprised to see me standing there beside Rafe Cameron, of all people.

“Oh my God—what a lovely surprise,” Rose says, pulling me in for a hug.

“I’m happy you’re here.”

Rose and I have never been the best of friends. So either she’s genuinely thrilled… or she popped hella Xanax before this lunch

Walking through the house toward the backyard, Rafe makes a beeline for the bar cart. He pours his first—of what I’m sure will be many—whiskeys and downs it in one sip. Without missing a beat, he refills the glass.

“I needed that,” he mutters, catching me watching him.

Stepping outside, the air feels heavy. Ward is standing at the grill, Rose by his side, whispering something in his ear. He turns slowly, his eyes locking onto Rafe’s.

“Rafe. It’s good to see you,” Ward says, voice clipped.

“Yeah, you too, Dad,” Rafe replies stiffly, standing close to me.

“I see you brought a guest… and the little guy,” Ward adds, glancing down at Keegan, who’s now hiding behind Rafe’s legs.

There’s a pause—silent and tense. Ward and Rose both look us over, like they’re trying to piece together what’s really going on.

Thankfully, Wheezie bursts out the door.

“Hey, Rafe. Hey, Y/N! Is the food almost done?” she asks, giving me a quick hug before turning to her dad.

I feel Ward’s eyes by me. I glance up and catch him and Rafe staring at each other, some unspoken standoff simmering.

Finally, Rose breaks the silence.

“You all can go sit at the table. Food’s done—it’ll be served shortly.”

Rafe picks up Keegan and turns to head back inside. I stay frozen for a beat, still locked in Ward’s disapproving gaze.

“Y/N, you coming?” Rafe calls back, nearly at the door.

“Huh? Yeah,” I mumble, shaking myself out of it and hurrying to catch up.

At the table, Keegan sits beside Wheezie, while Rafe and I sit across from them. Ward and Rose take their usual places at each end of the table. Dinner is served—way more food than I expected, and surprisingly really good. We eat mostly in silence, the only real noise coming from Keegan giggling with Wheezie.

A staff member brings Rafe another whiskey. I stick with water.

“So, son. How’s business going?” Ward asks, taking a calculated bite of food.

“It’s good. I’ve got a few things in the works,” Rafe answers, eyes on his plate.

“Darling, can we not talk business at the table, please?” Rose interjects with a polite smile.

I just focus on my food, minding my own business. Then, out of nowhere—

“So… are you and Rafe back together?” Ward asks, turning his attention directly to me.

I nearly choke on the bite I’m chewing.

“Oh—uh, no. We’re not. I’m just here for support,” I say quickly, dabbing my mouth with a napkin.

He doesn’t say anything else after that, just nods once. The rest of lunch goes better than expected. Quiet, but still better than the old times I remember at this table.

By the time dessert is served, Rafe is visibly ready to leave. His leg bounces under the table, and I can feel the tension vibrating off of him.

Ward gets a phone call and excuses himself. Rafe immediately seizes the opportunity.

“Let’s go,” he says, already pushing back from the table.

“Wait, you’re leaving already?” Wheezie pouts, hugging Keegan tight. She’s not ready to say goodbye to her favorite little human.

“Yeah, Wheez. I gotta get outta here. You know how it is,” Rafe says gently.

Rose offers me leftovers, and I accept. She disappears to go pack some up.

As we wait, Wheezie takes Keegan to show him her new lizard. Rafe downs the rest of his drink. When Ward returns, he immediately picks up where he left off.

“Sorry about that. Business never sleeps,” he says, then looks at Rafe. “Leaving so soon?”

Rose returns with two bags of food.

“Here you go. I think this’ll be enough for whatever you need it for,” she says, handing them to me.

“Thanks. And thank you both for lunch,” I say politely.

Ward gives me a half-smile.

“Anytime. It’s nice having my grandson around.”

Rafe and I turn to leave, with Ward and Rose watching us from the dining room. As we walk through the house, Rafe turns to me.

“Go wait outside by the car. I’m gonna grab Keegan.”

I nod and step onto the porch. I don’t even get two steps out before I hear Ward’s voice behind me.

“If you’re not dating my son… why are you with him?”

I turn slowly.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a fairly simple question, dear. Why are you and Rafe spending time together if you’re not back together?”

“Uhm… maybe because we have a child together? We have to talk.”

Ward watches me silently, eyes cold and analytical.

“Well, I think if you’re going to start showing up to family events, you should be more willing to let Rafe see his son whenever he wants. And maybe even let Keegan come over here when I’m home. After all, you’re the one who made the rule he’s not allowed around me unless one of his parents is present.”

My jaw tightens.

“Ward, I do let Rafe see Keegan whenever he wants. It’s on Rafe how much time he takes. Don’t put that on me,” I snap, holding his gaze.

Seeing I’m getting annoyed, Ward finally says his goodbyes and slinks back into the house.

“Bastard,” I mumble under my breath, walking to the car.

Rafe and Keegan come out a moment later. I toss the food into the back and close the door—maybe a little too hard.

“Damn, you okay? You’re slamming my door,” Rafe says with a smile as he buckles Keegan in.

I stand next to my door, arms crossed, taking a second.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just… your father,” I say quietly.

Rafe looks over, confused.

“Wait—he said something to you?”

I nod slightly.

“It was stupid shit. You know how he is—trying to size me up.”

Rafe watches my face closely.

“Nah, I don’t like that. He has no reason to be speaking to you alone.” He turns to head back toward the house.

I grab his arm.

“No, Rafe. It’s fine. No harm done,” I say, pulling him closer.

“Well, you’re clearly upset by it. I’ll tell him to fuck off.”

He glances down at my hand on his arm, and I let go quickly.

“No, don’t do that. It was an okay lunch. Let’s not ruin it.”

I take a step toward the car, and after a pause, he nods.

“Alright. I’ll let it go.”

“You’ve been drinking though,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’ll drive your car to your place and just Uber back to the Cut.”

Rafe eyes me up and down.

“You’re not Ubering anywhere. It’s not safe—for one. And two, I’m not even drunk. But if it makes you feel better, you can drive to my place and stay there until I’m good to drive.”

“You want me to come over and be inside your house?” I ask, anxiety creeping in.

“Yeah, why not? Sofia’s not there. It’ll just be us and Keegan,” he says, already sliding into the passenger seat.

Taking a deep breath, I get in the driver’s seat. Off to Rafe’s house we go.

Pulling up outside, I take it all in. I’ve been here a few times, but never inside. Usually, Rafe just meets me out front to pick up Keegan.

“I’ll put your food in the fridge,” he says, grabbing Keegan and the bags.

We follow him to the door.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll go drop this off,” he says, disappearing into the kitchen.

I stand in the living room, looking around. It’s a nice place—beachfront, modern, with those polished bachelor-pad vibes. Along one table are a few framed pictures, most of Keegan and Rafe. But one stands out: a family portrait. Rafe, Sarah, their mom… and Ward. I’m staring at it when I hear Rafe come back in, so I quickly turn away.

“Uh… do you want a drink?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck.

“No, I’m okay. Thank you,” I say.

Keegan tugs on my hand.

“Come on, Mommy. I wanna show you my room!”

Walking into Keegan’s bedroom is like stepping into a dinosaur exhibit. His room is every little kid’s dream. Bright colors, toys everywhere, a small tank on the windowsill. I lean in for a better look.

“He actually made that,” Rafe says behind me, smiling. “It’s his ant farm.”

I kiss the top of Keegan’s head as he excitedly shows me all his books, his favorite stuffed animals, his ‘coolest’ rock he found last week. He’s got so many neat things tucked into every corner.

Once he settles down to play with his Legos, Rafe steps back from the doorway.

“If you wanna see the rest of the house, I can show you.”

I nod. Keegan says he’s gonna stay and build, totally focused.

Rafe walks me through the upstairs. He shows me the guest bathroom, a spare room, and quickly opens the door to his bedroom. I only glance inside—trying not to feel weird about it. It’s personal, private. I don’t linger.

Downstairs, he points out his office near the front door, then leads me into the game room—complete with an eight-foot pool table, a massive screen for video games, and even a golf simulator.

“Damn,” I whisper. “You really don’t leave the house, do you?”

He just laughs and keeps walking. We pass the living room and kitchen, then step outside through the sliding doors.

There’s a pool. A small garden lines the edge of the yard, colorful flowers bright against the green grass.

“I wanted Keegan to have somewhere the bugs would be,” Rafe says as I look around. “So I had them build the garden.”

I glance at him, surprised by how soft his voice is.

The view of the water stretches out behind the house, calm and wide.

For a second, I forget everything else—because Rafe Cameron really did build himself a tiny paradise.

#outerbanks rafe #toxic rafe cameron #rafe fanfiction #rafe cameron #rafe smut #rafe x you #rafe x reader

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sesshy380 · 3 days ago

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nice to see you using your fic rec tag again 🥹 was wondering if you had any specific authors you could rec cause iiii am in the mood to binge some fics (already been through all of yours by now hehe)

I am both excited and embarrassed that you've been through all of my fics lol (there are a few that while I own up to the cringe of writing them, I am still very much hiding my face lol)

As far as author recs, sadly I don't really have anything new since I haven't been reading as much as I'd like to. This past year has been chaotic and left me very little time to sit down and read the backlog of fic updates, not to mention even touch my TBR's.

BUUUUUT....

I know how authors love getting notifs and potential new readers, so I'll throw out my usual's plus a few (I'm gonna dig deep through my bookmarked list lol)

Obligatory disclaimer: READ THE TAGS, I like stuff that pushes the boundaries.

crushedmary - Gotta throw Sair's stuff here ofc (@crush3dmary).

Resuri - I can't make a list without reccing @resuri-art lol

QueenBastet - Sadly, we lost this amazing author. She will always be on my rec list. She really had a way with writing the Puzzle boys that I absolutely loved.

BladeofM - Also known as @micheladee, is the author of one of my faves, Eldritch Encounter. Not only did this fic introduce me to the indescribable awesomeness that is @andr0nap's art, but I fell in love with BladeofM's writing style.

atlas_x - Also known as @x-atlas-x, If you like smut, look no further than Atlas.

YadonushiRyou - Also known as @millenniumringg, and author to The Cornered Collection.

MMMOTH - Also known as @apathetic-theme-song, is author to Kill Shot, as well as several other good fics.

Ninjam117 - @ninjam117 is another of my must rec authors based on their Role Play AU.

SaijSpellheart - @saijspellhart is author of Chained to You.

Sitabethel - @sitabethel has a loooong list of fics to look through lol

LadyHenbane - @ladyhenbane is a new addition to my subscription list.

daisytealeaves - Looking through my list of bookmarked fics and I see a lot of @daisytealeaves. Why I haven't subbed already is beyond me.

Yusariis - @yuusaris is another that I for some reason I have a lot of bookmarked fics, but for some reason I haven't subbed lol.

IAmAllYetNotAtAll - @iamallyetnotatall (I am really going to have to look into all of these authors I have bookmarked a bunch of fics but not subbed lol)

Melodic - Another author that I think I found via someone elses rec, so unfortunately don't have the tumblr username right offhand.

lossen - @sowideasea loves doing to Atem what I do to TKB, and that is snapping that bitch like a glowstick and shaking him until he's crying and begging for it all to stop lol.

puzzle_d - sadly their blog appears to be deactivated, but this is another author who's smut I enjoy reading lol.

kitsuneFaux - @kitsunefaux writes my favorite flavor of Ryou

justapal - @justapalspal writes some amusing stuff that reminds me of the old FFN days when authors just had fun with the characters (and I love that sort of stuff as much as I love angst lol)

I'm sure there are tons more, but I only made it to page 2 of my bookmarks before getting hit with a black page with 'Retry later' in the upper left corner (plus I kept getting distracted by the multitude of bookmarks that I discovered the dreaded 'This has been deleted, sorry!' note)

#anon ask #answered asks #author rec #ao3 recs #fic recs #i tried to tag everyone here on tumblr #if you know the authors that i didn't tag #pls let them know they were recced!

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maomango-doodle · 3 months ago

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Do I deserve these infallible hands?

#jeeves and wooster #bertie wooster #reginald jeeves #shinxo art #shinxo comic #i just think a lot abt bertie's endless gratefulness (and incredulity) for jeeves' presence in his life #the young master's veneration for his heaven-sent valet #the angst is right there if i dig a little #tbh the paneling kicked my ass and i'm not rly satisfied with the end result but oh well. it is what it is

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supershithits · 11 days ago

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mysteries of our disguise revolve

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

summary: you’re just the new intern at the daily planet—anxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.

word count: 22.4k (i know it’s a lot but it’s worth it)

warnings/tags: +18 mdni, angst, banter, fluff !!!, clark has a savior complex, friends/coworkers to lovers, intern!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, the reader’s sort of a sensitive and insecure gal at times, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, both of them are very awkward at times, idiots in love (proceed with caution), declarations of love, p with plot, fingering (f receiving), handjob, oral (m and f receiving), whiny clark kent !!!, cum swallowing, p in v, missionary, happy ending.

a/n: first time writing for clark kent!!! to say i’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. i finally got to watch superman last week, and let me tell you: i’ve been obsessed with it <3 i walked out of the theater and pretty much ran home to start writing this fic. so yes, this one’s completely self-indulgent. i just got carried away by the feelings and couldn’t stop writing, hence the length lol. i really hope you enjoy this story. if you do, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world. and feel free to scream in the tags—i’ll be screaming too 🫂

Sometimes, you truly wished you didn’t have a brain.

It sounds ridiculous, worded like that. You know for a fact you’re not the first person to want a quiet mind, to dream of a day when you’re not held hostage by your own intrusive, spiraling thoughts. You take a look around and realize there are much bigger problems out there in the world.

Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.

And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you.

If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.

The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:

It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.

But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid:

It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.

Just so much for a girl in her twenties.

You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.

She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.

Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—

“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.

He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”

At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”

A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.

Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.

Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”

With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”

As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”

“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.

She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”

You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.

The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.

Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.

“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”

Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”

Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.

Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.

You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”

He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”

No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.

He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.

Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.

“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”

“Shut it.”

“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”

You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”

Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”

A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.

He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”

Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.

He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.

At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.

Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.

“James Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”

Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”

You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.

Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.

“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.

Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.

Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.

In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”

Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”

Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.

“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”

“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”

You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.

Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”

Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”

Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”

Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”

Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”

Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”

“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”

The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.

You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.

Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.

A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.

It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.

Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.

Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.

Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.

Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”

“Excuse me?”

“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”

“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.

“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”

“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”

His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”

To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.

You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.

Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.

You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.

“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.

You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.

He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.

Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.

An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.

At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.

Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.

Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.

It’s yours.

Goddammit.

Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.

[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]

[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]

[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]

You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.

The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.

A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.

It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.

Don’t beat yourself up over it.

It’s just one article.

Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.

What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.

You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.

Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.

He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.

“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”

Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.

The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.

You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.

You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.

You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.

A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.

You hear it. His voice.

“…Hey.”

Clark.

You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.

There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.

Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.

He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”

That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.

“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”

Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.

You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”

It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.

Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”

“It’s not.”

You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.

That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.

Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.

You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.

It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”

You choke on your own saliva.

“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”

Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.

Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”

He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.

“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”

His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.

“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”

Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”

His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”

“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”

“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”

Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”

There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.

“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”

You scratch your nose. “Sure?”

“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”

“…No.”

He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”

“Oh my God.”

“I warned you.”

“No, but—a thesaurus?”

“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”

“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”

“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”

“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”

He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”

“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”

You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he echoes.

A pause.

“Wanna hear another one?”

“Clark, please—”

“What do you call fake spaghetti?”

“I don’t even want to think about that one.”

“An impasta.”

You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”

Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”

“Of terrible puns?”

“Of coffee and emotional support.”

You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.

By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.

“You always carry tissues with you?”

“A man needs to be prepared.”

He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.

You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.

“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”

Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”

Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.

Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”

Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.

You like Lois.

You really, really do.

She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.

You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.

Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.

They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.

In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.

All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.

“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay?“

You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”

Jimmy blinks.

Then blinks again.

Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”

You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.

“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”

The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”

“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”

“Drop it, Jimmy.”

Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”

“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.

Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.

Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.

Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”

You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.

And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.

Again.

They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.

And somehow, that settles it.

The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.

The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.

The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).

You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.

The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.

You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.

He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.

“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”

You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”

He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”

“Well, are you?”

His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”

You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.

Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.

“Are you annoyed?” you ask.

His smile fades. “What?”

“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”

“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”

You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.

Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.

Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.

“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”

“She’d eat you alive.”

“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”

“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”

Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”

Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”

“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”

He smiles then. “The team.”

“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Carl.”

“Caro?”

“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”

“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”

You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”

“Oh. You sure?”

“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”

“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”

He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know.” He’s already turning toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll grab our stuff.”

And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.

The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.

But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.

The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.

“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.

“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”

You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.

Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”

“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.

You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”

He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”

“How do you…?”

“What?”

“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”

“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”

“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”

“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”

“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”

“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”

Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.

He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”

“Excuse me?”

“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”

“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”

“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”

As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.

“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.

“You say that like I’m not honored.”

“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”

“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”

You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.

“Clark?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”

He pauses. “I had a feeling.”

You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”

Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”

You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.

By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.

You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”

“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.

There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—

An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.

He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me a call if it gets worse.”

“Only if I want to be carried again.”

“Happy to oblige.”

And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.

You’re beyond head over heels.

Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.

Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.

Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.

You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—

“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”

“Clark told you,” you say flatly.

Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”

“I cannot believe he told you.”

“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”

“I hate you.”

He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”

“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”

“Not attention in general. Just his.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.

Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—

“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.

You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”

Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”

“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”

“...Okay.”

You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.

“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”

“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”

He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”

“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”

And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.

Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.

You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.

Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”

You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.

Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.

Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.

You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.

And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.

Your charger.

Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.

Jimmy Olsen.

You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”

“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.

“You left your charger here—”

“Don’t even get me started on that.”

“—but I already gave it to Clark.”

Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.

“You what?”

“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”

“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”

“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”

“Jimmy—”

“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.

You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.

Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.

In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.

“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”

You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”

He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”

You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”

He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”

You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.

“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”

You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”

He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”

Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”

He says nothing. So you keep going.

“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”

You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”

Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”

You blink. “What?”

“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”

Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.

“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”

“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”

And so he begins to read.

You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.

There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.

“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”

“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”

“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”

Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”

“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.

You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.

He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.

“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”

“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”

When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.

You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”

“Do what?”

Does he want you to say it?

You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.

That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.

One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.

His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”

You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.

Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.

You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.

He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.

“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”

A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.

Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.

At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.

It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.

He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.

Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.

Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.

And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.

At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.

Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.

Then:

“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.

That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”

He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”

He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.

You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”

“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.

“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”

“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”

“How noble of you, Kent.”

Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.

But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.

Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.

It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.

Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.

One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”

Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.

Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”

He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”

“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”

“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”

Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”

Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.

Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”

The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“Mr. Kent.”

His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”

He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”

“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”

“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look beautiful today.”

It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”

His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.

As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.

Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.

Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.

You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.

There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.

You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.

Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.

The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.

Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.

Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.

Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.

And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.

The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.

Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.

The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.

Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”

You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.

You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.

Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.

“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”

He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.

Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”

You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”

His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”

If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.

Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.

In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.

His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.

For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.

A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.

You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."

He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.

Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”

“I told you—”

“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”

He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Disappointed, then?”

“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”

He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”

You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”

That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”

“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”

“I’ve been telling you—”

“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”

“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”

“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”

“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.

Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”

“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”

“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”

You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”

“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"

“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”

Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.

He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”

“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.

“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”

Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.

The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.

One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.

You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.

Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.

He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.

It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.

Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.

Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.

But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.

You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.

Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.

Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.

Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.

Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.

His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”

You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”

He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”

“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”

He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.

His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.

Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”

You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I want to know.”

“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”

“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”

For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.

Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.

So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”

“Then you know what comes next.”

Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.

It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.

Sleep won’t come.

You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.

So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—

You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.

And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.

It all makes you wonder where Superman is.

He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.

You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.

Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”

It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.

You can’t look away.

The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.

For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—

No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.

Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.

“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”

Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.

Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”

You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.

Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.

There he is.

Clark.

Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.

Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.

Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.

Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.

Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.

Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.

If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.

If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.

They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.

Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.

You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.

The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.

The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.

Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.

For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.

Straight through you.

Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”

You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.

He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.

You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.

Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.

Gone.

You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.

“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”

The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.

Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”

Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside

At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.

“Clark—”

“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”

It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.

They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?

“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”

Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.

You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?

“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”

You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.

In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.

“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them. “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”

You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.

Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.

The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.

He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.

A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.

“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”

You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.

“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”

His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment. “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”

So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.

“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment. “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.

There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”

“What do you mean—”

“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”

Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”

It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”

“I love you.”

“Again. Please.”

You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”

He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”

“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.

Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.

But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you

He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.

You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”

“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”

“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”

You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”

“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”

A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”

“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”

Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”

“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”

Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”

“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.

“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gorgeous

Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.

He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”

“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”

Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.

“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”

You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.

You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth. “I came as well. Mentally.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”

“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.

Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.

“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”

Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.

“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”

You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.

“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”

It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.

His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.

“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.

“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”

Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.

This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.

When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.

He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—

Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.

Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.

Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.

By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.

You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.

He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?

“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”

And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.

The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.

Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.

At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.

To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.

“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”

You slow your pace but don’t let go.

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.

You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.

“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”

“Baby, I swear—”

“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”

“Then you deserve it.”

“But twice?”

“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”

One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.

“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”

He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.

Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.

In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.

Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.

His voice is low. “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”

“Condom?”

He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”

“I told you you could come inside me.”

That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.

“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.

He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.

“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”

“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”

Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”

“Yes.”

“Bare.”

“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”

He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”

“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”

“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”

He pushes in.

At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.

“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.

“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”

“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”

“Want me to kiss you?”

He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”

You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”

“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”

A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”

His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.

“Why not?”

“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”

It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.

As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.

Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.

He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.

The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.

It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.

“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.

The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.

You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.

“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.

It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.

His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.

You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.

“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.

“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.

“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”

And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.

It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.

He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.

Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.

You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.

He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.

“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”

You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.

The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”

You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”

“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”

You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.

There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.

“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.

A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”

“What does that have to do with what I just said?”

“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”

“That… was a weird route to get there.”

He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”

You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”

“It was like a week ago.”

“We weren’t even speaking.”

He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”

“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”

“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”

“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”

“Oh. Right. I guess I—”

“Are you going to?”

“I—would you want to?”

You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”

When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”

At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.

Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.

Somehow, it feels even truer in his.

dividers by: @bbyg4rlhelps <3

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alygator77 · 7 months ago

Text

just a little drabble for my current wip. arranged marriage with clanhead gojo.

warnings: mdni, smut, breeding kink, lots of breeding, praise, creampie, bit of angst.

arranged clanhead! satoru who still isn’t used to sharing his space, even after months of marriage. the grand Gojo estate, once his sanctuary, feels smaller with you in it—your scent lingering on the furniture, your soft hums echoing in the halls—not unpleasant, but… unfamiliar.

arranged clanhead! satoru who notices how your shampoo smells so sweet, clinging to his pillow. how your hair clogs his drain and it drives him fucking insane, yet he still finds himself instinctively reaching for your favorite brand of conditioner while he’s out, tucking it into his basket without a second thought. he doesn’t know why—it’s not like he cares… right?

arranged clanhead! satoru who steps into the kitchen late one evening to find you leaning against the counter. your hair falls in loose strands around your face, messy but still maddeningly pretty, and you sip tea from a mug—his favorite mug. you’re draped in one of his shirts, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh—your bare legs illuminated by the dim glow of the overhead light.

for a fleeting second, he freezes. you look… almost at home. he doesn’t want you to look at home. or does he? he shakes the thought away.

“couldn’t sleep?” he drawls, his eyes lingering on the curve of your legs. “or… were you waiting up for me? ‘cause I could really blow off some steam.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who emerges from the bathroom later that night, his snowy hair damp and tousled, a towel slung lazily over his broad shoulders. he’s wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants, the defined lines of his abdomen on full display as he rubs the towel through his hair, his gaze sliding over to you lying on the bed.

“ready for tonight?” he asks, tilting his head with that signature nonchalance, as though he isn’t about to fuck the hell out of you, as though his sole intention isn’t to fill you so full of his cum that there’s no question the Gojo Clan will get their heir.

arranged clanhead! satoru who pushes you into a mating press the moment he’s on top of you, his large hands gripping your thighs as he folds your legs back against your chest, pinning you beneath him. his cock slides against your slick folds before splitting you apart, and his breath shudders as your cunt swallows him greedily.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, panting through thrusts. “always so good f’me. always takin’ me so fucking well.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who hates himself for the shameful thrill that bubbles up within him, the sick satisfaction of watching you come undone beneath him. the way your pussy clenches around his dick, the way your gasps and moans echo in his ears, drives him to thrust harder, deeper, as though his very existence depends on filling you—which it does.

arranged clanhead! satoru who’s pace is merciless, hips slamming into you with an almost feral hunger. he tells himself it’s just biology, but deep down he knows better.

“good fucking girl…” he smirks, pushing your legs higher as you squirm beneath him—your nails digging into his arms, but the sting only spurs him on. “don’t worry sweetheart—haaa—this time, for sure, m'gonna breed that pretty pussy. gonna make you drip with my cum ‘til you can’t hold it all…”

arranged clanhead! satoru who watches your eyes roll back as his cock slams into you, the bed shaking beneath you as his focus narrows on the way your breasts bounce with every forceful thrust.

“you’re mine,” he groans, the words slipping out before he can stop them, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you—hot, thick ropes of cum painting your walls. his body trembles against yours as he buries himself to the hilt.

“fuuuck, take it…” he rasps, his forehead dropping to press against yours. “so fucking good f’me.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who doesn’t move for a long moment, his chest pressed to yours, his weight pinning you to the mattress. your breath mingles, warm and uneven, and for a fleeting second, he almost forgets why he’s here. why you’re here. but then reality creeps in, sharp and cold, and he pulls out slowly, watching as the mix of his cum and your slick drips onto the sheets.

arranged clanhead! satoru who remembers his duty as clanhead, as the leader of the Gojo Clan. like a good husband—like a good leader—he doesn’t waste a single drop. he shifts, his fingers dipping between your legs to scoop up the cum leaking from you.

“can’t let this go to waste, sweetheart,” he mutters as he pushes the thick mess back into you. his thumb presses against your clit, and he smirks when it earns a soft gasp from you—his fingers sliding deeper. he watches, transfixed, as his cum disappears inside you again, his cock giving a weak twitch at the sight.

arranged clanhead! satoru who rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his chest heaves with the effort of catching his breath. he doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t hold you, and you don’t reach for him. the silence afterward is louder than any moan you could make. he tries to ignore the ache in his chest, something he refuses to name.

arranged clanhead! satoru who lies awake long after you’ve drifted off, his arm slung over his eyes as he tries to ignore the ache in his chest. he won’t admit it—not to you, not to himself—but he’s starting to crave more than your body. he craves the softness in your voice when you call his name, the quiet way you laugh when you think he’s not listening.

but this is just obligation. just duty. just… fucking. right?

full fic in the works 🫶🏻 lmk if you wanna be tagged. update: it's out! read it HERE!

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cherry-lala · 3 months ago

Text

The Devil waits where Wildflowers grow

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing:Female! Reader x Remmick

Genre: Southern Gothic, Angst, Supernatural Thriller, Romance Word Count: 15.7k+ Summary: In a sweltering Mississippi town, a woman's nights are divided between a juke joint's soulful music and the intoxicating presence of a mysterious man named Remmick. As her heart wrestles with fear and desire, shadows lengthen, revealing truths darker than the forgotten woods. In the heart of the Deep South, whispers of love dance with danger, leaving a trail of secrets that curl like smoke in the night.

Content Warnings: Emotional and physical abuse, manipulation, supernatural themes, implied violence, betrayal, character death, transformation lore, body horror elements, graphic depictions of blood, intense psychological and emotional distress, brief sexual content, references to alcoholism and domestic conflict. Let me know if I missed any! A/N: My first story on here! Also I’m not from the 1930’s so don’t beat me up for not knowing too much about life in that time.I couldn’t stop thinking about this gorgeous man since I watched the movie. Wanted to jump through the screen to get to him anywayssss likes, reblogs and asks always appreciated.

The heat clings to my skin like a second husband, just as unwanted as the first. Even with the sun long gone, the air hangs thick enough to drown in, pressing against my lungs as I ease the screen door open. The hinges whine—traitors announcing my escape attempt—and before I can slip out, his voice lashes at my back, mean as a belt strap. "I ain't done talkin' to you, girl." His fingers dig into my arm, yanking me back inside. The dim yellow light from our single lamp casts his face in a shadow, but I don’t need to see his expression. I've memorized every twist his mouth makes when he's like this—cruel at the corners, loose in the middle.

"You been done," I whisper, the words scraping my throat like gravel. My tears stay locked behind my eyes, prisoners I refuse to release. "Said all you needed to say half a bottle ago." Frank's breath hits my face, sour with corn liquor and hate. His pupils are wide, unfocused—black holes pulling at the edges of his irises. The hand not gripping my arm rises slow and wavering, a promise of pain that has become as routine as sunrise. But tonight, the whiskey’s got him too good. His arm drops mid-swing, its weight too much. For the first time in three years of marriage, I don't flinch. He notices. Even drunk, he notices. "The hell's gotten into you?" His words slur together, a muddy river of accusation. "Think you better'n me now? That it?" "Just tired, Frank." My voice stays steady as still water. "That's all." The truth is, I stopped being afraid a month ago. Fear requires hope—the desperate belief that things might change if you're just careful enough, quiet enough, good enough. I buried my hope the last time he put my head through the wall, right next to where the plaster still shows the shape of my skull. I look around our little house—a wedding gift from his daddy that's become my prison. Two rooms of misery, decorated in things Frank broke and I tried to fix. The table with three good legs and one made from an old fence post. The chair with stuffing coming out like dirty snow. The wallpaper peels in long strips, curling away from the walls like they're trying to escape too.

My reflection catches in the cracked mirror above the wash basin—a woman I barely recognize anymore. My eyes have gone flat, my cheekbones sharp beneath skin that used to glow. Twenty-five years old and fading like a dress left too long in the sun. Frank stumbles backward, catching himself on the edge of our bed. The springs screech under his weight. "Where you think you're goin' anyhow?" "Just for some air." I keep my voice gentle, like you'd talk to a spooked horse. "Be back before you know it." His eyes narrow, suspicion fighting through the drunken haze. "You meetin' somebody?" I shake my head, moving slowly around the room, gathering my shawl, and checking my hair. Every movement measured, nothing to trigger him. "Just need to breathe, Frank. That's all." "You breathe right here," he mutters, but his words are losing their fight, drowning in whiskey and fatigue. "Right here where I can see you." I don't answer. Instead, I watch him struggle against sleep, his body betraying him in small surrenders—head nodding, shoulders slumping, breath deepening. Five minutes pass, then ten. His chin drops to his chest. I slip my dancing shoes from their hiding place beneath a loose floorboard under our bed. Frank hates them—says they make me look loose, wanton. What he means is they make me look like someone who might leave him.

He's not wrong.

The shoes feel like rebellion in my hands. I've polished them in secret, mended the scuffs, kept them alive like hope. Can't put them on yet—the sound would wake him—but soon. Soon they'll carry me where I need to go. Frank snores suddenly, a thunderclap of noise that makes me freeze. But he doesn't stir, just slumps further onto the bed, one arm dangling toward the floor. I move toward the door again; shoes clutched to my chest like something precious. The night outside calls to me with cricket songs and possibilities. Through the dirty window, I can see the path that leads toward the woods, toward Smoke and Stack's place where the music will already be starting. Where for a few hours, I can remember what it feels like to be something other than Frank's wife, Frank's disappointment, Frank's punching bag. The screen door sighs as I ease it open. The night air touches my face like a blessing. Behind me, Frank sleeps the sleep of the wicked and the drunk. Ahead of me, there's music waiting. And tonight, just tonight, that music is stronger than my fear.

The juke joint grows from the Mississippi dirt like something half-remembered, half-dreamed. Even from the edge of the trees, I can feel its heartbeat—the thump of feet on wooden boards, the wail of Sammie's guitar cutting through the night air, voices rising and falling in waves of joy so thick you could swim in them. My shoes dangle from my fingers, still clean. No point in dirtying them on the path. What matters is what happens inside, where the real world stops at the door and something else begins. Light spills from the cracks between weathered boards, turning the surrounding pine trees into sentinels guarding this secret. I slip my shoes on, leaning on the passenger side of one of the few vehicles in-front of the juke-joint, already swaying to the rhythm bleeding through the walls. Smoke and Stack bought this place with money from God knows where coming back from Chicago. Made it sturdy enough to hold our dreams, hidden enough to keep them safe. White folks pretend not to know it exists, and we pretend to believe them. That mutual fiction buys us this—one place where we don't have to fold ourselves small. I push open the door and step into liquid heat. Bodies press and sway, dark skin gleaming with sweat under the glow of kerosene lamps hung from rough-hewn rafters. The floor bears witness to many nights of stomping feet, marked with scuffs that tell stories words never could. The air tastes like freedom—sharp with moonshine, sweet with perfume, salty with honest work washed away in honest pleasure. At the far end, Sammie hunches over his guitar, eyes closed, fingers dancing across strings worn smooth from years of playing. He doesn't need to see what he's doing; the music lives in his hands. Each note tears something loose inside anyone who hears it—something we keep chained up during daylight hours.

Annie throws her head back in laughter, her full hips wrapped in a dress the color of plums. She grabs Pearline's slender wrist, pulling her into the heart of the dancing crowd. Pearline resists for only a second before surrendering, her graceful movements a perfect counterpoint to Annie's rare wild abandon. "Come on now," Annie shouts over the music. "Your husband ain't here to see you, and the Lord ain't lookin' tonight!" Pearline's lips curve into that secret smile she saves for these moments when she can set aside the proper church woman and become something truer. In the corner, Delta Slim nurses a bottle like it contains memories instead of liquor. His eyes, bloodshot but sharp, track everything without seeming to. His fingers tap against the bottleneck, keeping time with Sammie's playing. An old soul who's seen too much to be fooled by anything. "Slim!" Cornbread's deep voice booms as he passes, carrying drinks that overflow slightly with each step. "You gonna play tonight or just drink the profits?" "Might do both if you keep askin'," Slim drawls, but there's no heat in it. Just the familiar rhythm of old friends. I step fully into the room and something shifts. Not everyone notices—most keep dancing, talking, drinking—but enough heads turn my way that I feel it. A ripple through the crowd, making space. Recognition.

Smoke spots me from behind the rough-plank bar. His nod is almost imperceptible, but I catch it—permission, welcome, understanding. His forearms glisten with sweat as he pours another drink, muscles tensed like he's always ready for trouble. Because he is. Stack appears beside him, leaning in to say something in his twin's ear. Unlike Smoke, whose energy coils tight, Stack moves with a gambler's grace, all smooth edges, and calculated risks. His eyes find me in the crowd, lingering a beat too long, concern flashing before he masks it with a lazy smile. My feet carry me to the center of the floor without conscious thought. The wooden boards warm beneath my soles, greeting me like an old friend. I close my eyes, letting Sammie's guitar and voice pull me under, drowning in sound. My body remembers what my mind tries to forget—how to move without fear, how to speak without words. My hips sway, shoulders rolling in time with the stomps. Each stomp of my feet sends the day's hurt into the ground. Each twist of my wrist unravels another knot of rage. My dress—faded cotton sewn and resewn until it's more memory than fabric—clings to me as I spin, catching sweat and starlight.

"She needs this," Smoke mutters to Stack, thinking I can't hear over the music. He takes a long pull from his bottle, eyes never leaving me. "Let her be." But Stack keeps watching, the way he watched when we were kids, and I climbed too high in the cypress trees. Like he's waiting to catch me if I fall. I don't plan to fall. Not tonight. Tonight, I'm rising, lifting, breaking free from gravity itself. Mary appears beside me, her red dress a flame against the darkness. She moves with the confidence of youth and beauty, all long limbs and laughter. "Girl, you gonna burn a hole in the floor!" she shouts, spinning close enough that her breath warms my ear. I don't answer. Can't answer. Words belong to the day world, the world of men like Frank who use them as weapons. Here, my body speaks a better truth. The music climbs higher, faster. Sammie's fingers blur across the strings, coaxing sounds that shouldn't be possible from wood and wire. The crowd claps in rhythm, feet stomping, voices joining in wordless chorus. The walls of the juke joint seem to expand with our joy, swelling to contain what can't be contained. My head tilts back, eyes finding the rough ceiling without seeing it. My spirit has already soared through those boards, up past the pines, into a night sky scattered with stars that know my real name. Sweat tracks down my spine, between my breasts, and along my temples. My heartbeat syncs with the drums until I can't tell which is which. At this moment, Frank doesn't exist. The bruises hidden beneath my clothes don't exist. All that exists is movement, music, and the miraculous feeling of being fully, completely alive in a body that, for these few precious hours, belongs only.

The music fades behind me, each step into the woods stealing another note until all that's left is memory. My body still hums with the ghost of rhythm, but the air around me has changed—gone still in a way that doesn't feel right. Mississippi nights are never quiet, not really. There are always cicadas arguing with crickets, frogs calling from hidden places, leaves whispering to each other. But tonight, the woods swallow sound like they're holding their breath. Waiting for something. My fingers tighten around my shawl, pulling it closer though the heat hasn't broken. It's not cold I'm feeling. It's something else. Moonlight cuts through the canopy in silver blades, slicing the path into sections of light and dark. I step carefully, avoiding roots that curl up from the earth like arthritic fingers. The juke-joint has disappeared behind me; its warmth and noise sealed away by the wall of pines. Ahead lies home—Frank snoring in a drunken stupor, walls pressing in, air thick with resentment. Between here and there is only this stretch of woods, this moment of in-between. My dancing shoes pinch now, reminding me they weren't made for walking. But I don't take them off. They're the last piece of the night I'm clinging to, proof that for a few hours, I was someone else. Someone free.

A twig snaps.

I freeze every muscle tense as piano wire. That sound came from behind me, off to the left where the trees grow thicker. Not an animal—too deliberate, too singular. My heart drums against my ribs, no longer keeping Sammie's rhythm but a faster, frightened beat of its own. "Who's there?" My voice sounds thin in the unnatural quiet. For a moment, nothing. Then movement—not a crashing through underbrush, but a careful parting, like the darkness itself is opening up. He steps onto the path, and everything in me goes still. White man. Tall. Nothing unusual about that. But everything else about him rings false. His clothes seem to match the dust of the woods—dusty white shirt, suspenders that catch the moonlight like they're made of something finer than ordinary cloth. Dust clings to his shoes but sweat darkens his collar despite the heat. His skin is pale in a way that seems to glow faintly, untouched by the sun. But it's his eyes that stop my breath. They don't blink enough. And they're fixed on me with a hunger that has nothing to do with what men usually want.

"You move like you don't belong to this world," he says, voice smooth as molasses but cold like stones at the bottom of a well. There's a drawl to his words. He sounds like nowhere and everywhere. "I've watched you dance. On nights like this. It's… spellwork, what you do." My spine straightens of its own accord. I should run. Every instinct screams it. But something else—pride, maybe, or foolishness—keeps me rooted. "I ain't got nothin' for you," I say, keeping my voice steady. My hand tightens on my shawl, though it's poor protection against whatever this man is. "And white men seekin’ me out here alone usually bring trouble." His lips curve upward, but the smile doesn't touch those unblinking eyes. They remain fixed, assessing, and patient in a way that makes my skin prickle. "You think I came to bring you trouble?" The question hangs between us, delicate as spiderweb. I don't trust it. Don't trust him. "I think you should go," I say, taking half a step backward. He matches with a step forward but maintains the distance between us—precise, controlled.

"I'm called Remmick."

"I didn't ask." My voice sharpens with fear disguised as attitude.

"No," he says, nodding thoughtfully. "But something in you will remember."

The certainty in his voice raises the hair on my arms. I study him more carefully—the unnatural stillness with which he holds himself. Something is wrong with this man, something beyond the obvious danger of a man approaching a woman alone in the woods at night. The trees around him seem to bend away slightly, as if reluctant to touch him. Even the persistent mosquitoes that plague these woods avoid the air around him. The night itself recoils from his presence, creating a bubble of emptiness with him at the center. I take another step back, putting more distance between us. My heel catches on a root, but I recover without falling. His eyes track the movement with unsettling precision.

"You can go on now," I say, my voice harder now. "Ain't nobody invited you."

Something changes in his expression at that—a flicker of satisfaction, like I've confirmed something he suspected. His head tilts slightly, almost pleased. "That's true," he murmurs, the words barely disturbing the air. "Not yet."

The way he says it—like a promise, like a threat—makes my breath catch. The moonlight catches his profile as he turns slightly. For a moment, just a moment, I think I see something move beneath that worn shirt—not muscle or bone, but something else, something that shifts like shadow-given substance. Then it's gone, and he's just a man again. A strange, terrifying man standing too still in the woods who wants nothing to do with him. I don't say goodbye. Don't acknowledge him further. Just back away, keeping my eyes on him until I can turn safely until the path curves and trees separate us. Even then, I feel his gaze on my back like a physical weight, pressing against my spine, leaving an imprint that won't wash off.

I don't run—running attracts predators—but I walk faster, my dancing shoes striking the dirt in a rhythm that sounds like warning, warning, warning with each step. The trees seem to whisper now, breaking their unnatural silence to murmur secrets to each other. Behind me, the woods remain still. I don't hear him following. Somehow, that's worse. As if he doesn't need to follow to find me again. As I near the edge of the tree line, the familiar sounds of night gradually return—cicadas start up their sawing, and an owl calls from somewhere deep in the darkness. The world exhales, releasing the breath it had been holding. But something has changed. The night that once offered escape now feels like another kind of trap. And somewhere in the darkness behind me waits a man named Remmick, with eyes that don't blink enough and a voice that speaks of "not yet" like it's already written.

Two day passed but The rooster still don’t holler like he used to. He creaks out a noise ‘round mid-morning now, long after the sun’s already sitting heavy on the tin roof. Maybe the heat got to him. Maybe he’s just tired of callin’ out a world that don’t change. I know the feel. But night comes again, faster than mornin’ these days. Probably cause’ I’m expectin’ more from the night. Frank’s out cold on the mattress, one leg hanging off like it gave up trying. His breath comes in grunts, open-mouthed and ugly. A fly dances lazy across his upper lip, lands, takes off again. I step over his boots; past the broken chair he swore he’d fix last fall. Ain’t nothin’ changed but the dust. Kitchen smells like rusted iron and whatever crawled up into the walls to die. I fill the kettle slow, careful with the water pump handle so it don’t squeal. Ain’t trying to wake a bear before it’s time. My fingers press against the wallpaper, where it peeled back like bark. The spot stays warm. Heat trapped from yesterday. I don’t talk to myself. Don’t say a word. But my thoughts speak his name without asking.

Remmick.

It don’t belong in this house. It don’t belong in my mouth, either. But there it is, curling behind my teeth. I never told a soul about him. Not ‘cause I was scared. Not yet. Just didn’t know how to explain a man who don’t blink enough. Who moves like the ground ain’t quite got a grip on him. Who steps out of the woods like he heard you call, even when you didn’t. A man who hangs ‘round a place with no intention of going in.

I tug the hem of my dress higher to look at the bruise. Purple, with a ring of green creeping in around the edges. I press two fingers to it, just to feel it. A reminder. Frank don’t always hit where people can see. But he don’t always miss, either. I wrap it in cloth, tug the fabric of my dress just right, and move on. I don’t plan to dance tonight. But I’ll sit. Maybe smile. Maybe drink something that don’t taste like survival. Maybe Stack’ll run his mouth and pull a laugh out of me without trying. And maybe, when it’s time to go, I’ll take the long way home. Not because I’m expectin’ anything. But because I want to. The juke joint buzzes before I even see it. The trees carry the sound first—the thump of feet, the thrum of piano spilling through the wood like sap. By the time I reach the clearing, it’s already breathing, already alive. Cornbread’s at the door, arms folded. When I pass, he gives me that look like he sees more than I want him to. “You look lighter tonight,” he says. I give a half-smile. “Probably just ain’t carryin’ any expectations.” He lets out a low laugh, the kind that rolls up from his gut and sits heavy in the room. “Or maybe ‘cause you left somethin’ behind last night.” That makes me pause, just for a beat. But I don’t show it. Just raise my brow like he’s talkin’ nonsense and keep walkin’.

He don’t mean nothin’ by it. But it sticks to me anyway.

Delta Slim’s at the keys, tapping them like they owe him money. The notes bounce off the walls, dusty and full of teeth. No Sammie tonight—Stack said he’s somewhere wrasslin’ a busted guitar into obedience. Pearline’s off in the corner, close to Sammie’s usual seat. She’s leaned in real low to a man I seen from time to time here, voice like honey drippin’ too slow to trust. Her laugh breaks in soft bursts, careful not to wake whatever she’s tryin’ to keep asleep. Stack’s behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, but he ain’t workin.’ Not really. He’s leanin’ on the wood, jaw flexing as he smirks at some girl with freckles down her arms like spilled salt. I find a seat near the back, close enough to the fan to catch a breath of cool, far enough to keep my bruise out of the light.

Inside, the joint don’t just sing—it exhales. Walls groan with sweat and joy, floorboards shimmy under stompin’ feet. The air’s thick with heat, perfume, and fried something that’s long since stopped smellin’ like food. There’s a rhythm to the place—one that don’t care what your name is, just how you move. Smoke’s behind the bar too, back bent over a bottle, jaw set tight like always. But when he sees me, his mouth softens. Not a smile—he don’t give those away easy. Just a nod. Like he sees me, really sees me. “Frank dead yet?” he mutters without looking up. “Not that lucky,” I say, voice dry as dust. He pours without askin.’ Corn punch. Still too sweet. But it sits right on the tongue after a long day of silence.

“You limpin’?” he asks, low, like maybe it’s just for me.

I shake my head. “Just don’t feel like shakin’.” He grunts understanding. “You don’t gotta explain, Y/N. Just glad you showed.” A warmth rolls behind my ribs. I don’t show it. But I feel it.

I don’t dance, but I play. Cards smack against the wood table like drumbeats—sharp, mean, familiar. The men at the table glance up, but none complain when I sit. I win too often for them to pretend they ain’t interested. Stack leans over my shoulder after the second hand. I smell rum and tobacco before he speaks. “You cheat,” he says, eyes twinkling. “You slow,” I fire back, slapping a queen on the pile. He whistles. “You always talk this much when you feelin’ good?” “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Oh, I ain’t. Just sayin,’ looks Like you been kissed by somethin’ holy—or dangerous.” “I’ll let you decide which.” He laughs, pulls up a chair without askin’. His knee brushes mine. He don’t apologize. I don’t move.

I leave before Slim plays his last note. The night wraps itself around me the moment I step out, damp and sweet, the kind of air that clings to your skin like memory. One more laugh from inside rings out sharp before the door shuts and the trees hush it. My feet take the path without me thinking. I don’t look for shadows. Don’t linger. Just want the stillness. The cool hush after heat. The part of night that feels like confession. But halfway down the clearing, I see him again. Not leaning. Not hiding. Just there. Standing like the woods parted just to place him in my way. White shirt. Sleeves rolled. Suspenders loose against dusty pants. Hat in hand like he means to be respectful, like he was taught his mama’s manners. I stop. “You followin’ me?” I ask, but it don’t come out sharp.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Didn’t know a man needed a permit to take a walk under the stars.” “You keep walkin’ where I already am.”

He looks down the path, then back at me. “Maybe that means you and I got the same sense of direction.” “Or maybe you been steppin’ where you know I’ll be.” He doesn’t deny it. Just shrugs, eyes steady. I don’t move closer. Don’t move back either.

“You always turn up like this?” I ask. “Like a page I forgot to read?” He chuckles. “No. Just figured you were the kind of story worth rereadin’.” The silence after that ain’t heavy. Just… close. The kind that makes your ears ring with what you ain’t said. “You always this smooth?” I say, voice low. “I been known to stumble,” he replies. “Just not when it counts.” I shift. Let my eyes roam past him, toward the tree line. “Small talk doesn’t suit you.” “I don’t do small.” His eyes meet mine again. “Especially not with you.” It’s too much. It should be too much. But my hands don’t tremble. My breath don’t catch.

Not yet.

“You always walk the same road as a woman leavin’ the juke joint alone?” “I didn’t follow you,” he repeats. “I just happen to be where you are.” He steps forward, slow. I don’t retreat. “You expect me to believe that?” I ask. “No,” he says softly. “But I think you want to.” That lands between us like something too honest. He runs a hand through his hair before putting his hat on. A simple gesture. A human one. Like he’s just another man with nowhere to be and too much time to spend not being there. He watches me, real still—like a man waitin’ to see if I’ll spook or bite. “Figured I might’ve come off wrong last time,” he says finally, voice soft, but it don’t bend easy. “Didn’t mean to.” “You did,” I say, but my arms stay loose at my sides. A flick of something passes over his face. Not shame, not pride—just a small, ghosted look, like he’s used to bein’ misunderstood. “Well,” he says, thumb brushing the brim of his hat, “thought maybe I’d try again. Slower this time.” That pulls at somethin’ behind my ribs, makes the air stretch thinner between us. “You act like this some kinda game.” He shakes his head once. “Not a game. Just…timing. Some things got to take the long way ‘round.” I narrow my eyes at him, trying to make out where he’s hidin’ the trick in all this.

“The way you talk is like running in circles.” He laughs—low and rough at the edges, like it ain’t used to bein’ let out. “I won’t waste time running in circles around a darlin’ like you.” I cross my arms, squinting at the space between his words. “That supposed to charm me?” He shrugs, one shoulder easy like he don’t expect much. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “Just thought I’d give you something truer than a lie.” His voice ain’t sweet—it’s too honest for that. But it moves like water that knows where it’s goin’. I shift my weight, let the breeze slide between us.

“You ain’t said why you’re here. Not really.” He watches me a long moment, like he’s weighing how much I’ll let in. “Maybe I’m drawn to your energy,” he says finally. I scoff. “My energy? I don’t move too much to emit energy.” That gets him smilin’. Slow. Not too sure of itself, but not shy either. “You don’t have to move,” he says, “to be seen.” The words hit like a drop of cold water between the shoulder blades—sharp, sudden, and too real. I take a step forward just to ground myself, heel pressing into the dirt like I mean it. “You a preacher?” I ask, voice sharper than before. He chuckles, deep and close-lipped. “Ain’t nothin’ holy about me.” “Then don’t talk to me like you got a sermon stitched in your throat.” He bows his head just a hair, hands still at his sides. “Fair enough.”

A pause stretches long enough for the night sounds to creep back in—cicadas winding up, wind sifting through the trees. “I’m Remmick,” he says, like it matters more now. “I know.” “And you?” “You don’t need my name.” His mouth quirks like he wants to press, but he don’t. “You sure about that?” “Yes.” The silence that follows feels cleaner. Like everything’s been set on the table and neither one of us reaching for it. He nods, slow. “Alright. Just thought I’d say hello this time without makin’ the trees nervous.” I don’t smile. Don’t give him more than I want to. But I don’t turn away either. And when he steps back—slow, like he respects the space between us—I let him. This time, I watch him go. Down the path, ‘til the woods decide they’ve had enough of him.

I don’t look back once my hand’s on the porch rail. The key trembles once in the lock before it catches. Inside, it’s the same. Frank dead to the world, laid out like sin forgiven. I pass him without a glance, like I’m the ghost and not him. At the washbasin, I scrub my face until the cold water stings. Peel off the dress slow, like unwrapping something tender. The bruises bloom up my side, but I don’t touch ‘em. I slide into a cotton nightgown soft enough not to fight me. Climb into bed without expecting sleep. Just lie there, staring at the ceiling like maybe tonight it might speak.

But it don’t.

It just creaks. Settles.

And leaves me with that name again. Remmick.

I whisper it once, barely enough sound to stir the dark. Three days pass. The sun’s just fallen, but the air still clings like breath held too long. I’m on the back stoop with my foot sunk in a basin of cool water, ankle puffed up mean from Frank’s latest mood. Shawl drawn close, dress hem hiked above the bruising. The house behind me creaks like it’s thinking about falling apart. Crickets chirp with something to prove. A whip-poor-will calls once, then hushes like it said too much. And then—

“Evenin’.”

My hand jerks, sloshing water up my calf. I don’t scream, but I don’t hide the startle either. He’s by the fence post. Just leanin’. Arms folded over the top like he been there long enough to take root. Hat low, sleeves rolled, collar open at the throat. Shirt clings faint in the heat, pants dusted up from honest walking—or the kind that don’t leave footprints. I say nothing. He tips his head like he’s waiting for permission that won’t come. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” “You always arrive like breath behind a neck.” “I try not to,” he says, quiet. “Don’t always manage it.” That smile he wears—it don’t shine. It settles. Soft. A little sorry. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me again,” he says.

“I don’t.”

He nods like he expected that too. I don’t blink. Don’t drop my gaze. “Why you keep comin’ here, Remmick?”

His name tastes different now. Sharper. He blinks once, slow and deliberate. “Didn’t think you remembered it.” “I remember what sticks wrong.” He watches me a beat longer than comfort allows. Then—calm, measured—he says, “Just figured you might not mind the company.” “That ain’t company,” I snap. “That’s trespassin’.” My voice cuts colder than I meant it to, but it don’t feel like a lie. “You know where I live. You know when I’m out here. That ain’t coincidence. That’s intent.” He don’t flinch. “I asked.”

That stops me. “Asked who?”

He lifts his hand, palm out like he ain’t holdin’ anything worth hiding. “Lady outside the feed store. Said you were the one with the porch full of peeled paint and a garden that used to be tended. Said you got a husband who drinks too early and hits too late.” My mouth goes dry.

“You spyin’ on me?” “No,” he says. “I don’t need to spy to see what’s plain.” “And what’s plain to you, exactly?” My tone is flint now. Sparked. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.” He leans in, just enough. “You think that bruise on your ankle don’t show ‘cause your dress covers it? You think folks ain’t noticed how you don’t laugh no more unless you hidin’ it behind a stiff smile?” Silence folds in between us. Thick. Unwelcoming. He doesn’t press. Just keeps looking, like he’s listening for something I ain’t said yet.

“I don’t need savin’,” I murmur. “I didn’t come to save you,” he says, and his voice is different now low, but not slick. Heavy, like a weight he’s carried too far. “I just came to see if you’d talk back. That’s all.” I pull my foot from the water, slow. Wrap it in a rag. Keep my gaze steady. “You show up again unasked,” I say, “I’ll have Frank walk you home.” He chuckles. Real soft. Like he don’t think I’d do it, but he don’t plan to test me either. “I’d deserve it,” he says. Then he tips his hat after putting it back on and steps back into the night. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look back. But even after he’s gone, I can feel the place he left behind—like a fingerprint on glass. ——— Inside, Frank’s already mutterin’ in his sleep. The sound of a man who ain’t never done enough to earn rest, but claims it like birthright. I move around him like I ain’t there. Later, in bed, the ceiling don’t offer peace. Just shadows that shift like breath. I lay quiet, hands folded over my stomach, heart beatin’ steady where it shouldn’t. I don’t say his name. But I think it. And it stays.

Mornings don’t change much. Not in this house. Frank’s boots hit the floor before I even open my eyes. He don’t speak—just shuffles around, clearing his throat like it’s my fault it ain’t clear yet. He spits into the sink, loud and wet, then starts lookin’ for somethin’ to curse. Today it’s the biscuits. Yesterday, it was the fact I bought the wrong tobacco. Tomorrow? Could be the way I breathe. I don’t talk back. Just pack his lunch quiet, hands moving like they’ve learned how to vanish. When the door finally slams shut behind him, the silence feels less like peace and more like a pause in the storm. The floor don’t sigh. I do.

He’ll be back by sundown. Drunk by nine. Dead asleep by ten.

And I’ll be somewhere else—at least for a little while. The juke joint’s sweating by the time I get there. Delta Slim’s on keys again, playing like his fingers been dipped in honey and sorrow. Voices ride the walls, thick and rising, the kind that ain’t tryin’ to be pretty—just loud enough to out-sing the pain. Pearline’s got Sammie backed in a corner again, her laugh syrupy and slow. She always did know how to linger in a man’s space like perfume. Cornbread’s hollering near the door, trading jokes for coin. And Annie’s on a stool, head tilted like she’s heard too much and not enough. I don’t dance tonight. Still too tender. So, I post up at the end of the bar with something sharp in my glass. Smoke sees me, gives that chin lift he reserves for bad days and bruised ribs. Stack sidles up before the ice even melts. “Quiet day today,” he asks, cracking a peanut with his teeth. I don’t look at him. Just stir my drink slow. “Talkin’ ain’t always safe.” His brows go up. He glances around like he’s checking for shadows, then leans in a bit. “Frank still being Frank?” I lift one shoulder. Stack don’t push. Just keeps on with his drink, knuckles tapping the bar like a slow metronome.

Then, quiet: “You got somethin’ heavy to let go of.” That stops me. Just a second. But he catches it. “Huh?” He shrugs, doesn’t look at me this time. “You ever seen a rabbit freeze in tall grass? That’s the look. Ears up. Heart runnin’. But it ain’t moved yet.” I run a fingertip down the side of my glass, watching the sweat bead up. “There’s been a man.” Now Stack looks. “He don’t say much. Just… shows up. Walks the same road I’m on, like we both happened there. Then he started talkin’. Knew things he shouldn’t. Last time, he was near my house. Didn’t come in. Just… lingered.” “White?” I nod.

Stack’s whole posture changes—draws tight at the shoulders, jaw working. “You want me to handle it?” I shake my head. “No.” “Y/N—” “No,” I say again, firmer. “I don’t want more fire when the house is already half burnt. He ain’t done nothin.’ Not really.” Yet. He lets it settle. Don’t agree. But he don’t argue either. Behind us, Annie’s refilling her glass. She don’t speak, but her eyes cut over to Mary. Mary catches it. Lips press together. She looks at me the way you look at something you’ve seen before but can’t stop from happening again. And then, like it’s all normal, Mary chirps out, “You hear Pearline bet Sammie he couldn’t outdrink Cornbread?” Annie scoffs. “She just tryin’ to sit on his lap before midnight.” Stack grins but don’t fully let go of his watchful look. The mood shifts easy, like it rehearsed for this. Like they all know how to laugh loud enough to cover a crack in the wall.

But I ain’t laughing.

I nurse my drink, fingers cold and wet around the glass. My eyes flick toward the door, then away. Remmick. That name’s been clingin’ to my mind like smoke in closed curtains. Thick. Quiet. Still there long after the fire’s gone out. I think about how he looked at me—not like a man looks at a woman, but like he’s listening to something inside her. I think about the way his voice wrapped around the air, soft but steady, like it belonged even when it didn’t. I think about how I told Stack I didn’t want to see him again.

And I wonder why I lied.

Frank’s truck wheezes up the road like it’s draggin’ its bones. Brakes cry once. Gravel shifts like it don’t want to hold him. Inside, the pot’s still warm on the stove. Not hot. He hates hot. Says it means I was tryin’ too hard, or not tryin’ enough. With Frank, it don’t matter which—he’ll find the fault either way. The screen door creaks and slams. That sound still startles me, even now. Boots hit wood, heavy and careless. His scent rolls in before he speaks—sweat, sun, grease, and the liquor I know he popped open three miles back. I don’t turn. Just keep spoonin’ grits into the bowl, hand steady. “You hear they cut my hours?” he says. His voice’s wound tight, all string and no tune. “No,” I say. He drops his lunch pail hard on the table. The tin rattles. A sound I hate.

“They kept Carter,” he mutters. “You know why?” I stay quiet. He answers himself anyway. “’Cause Carter got a wife who stays in her place. Don’t get folks talkin’. Don’t strut around like she’s single.” The grit spoon taps the bowl once. Then again. I let it. “You callin’ me loud?” “I’m sayin’ you don’t make it easy. Every damn week, somebody got somethin’ to say. ‘Saw her smilin’. Heard her laughin’. Like you forgot what house you live in.” I press my palm flat to the counter, slow. “Maybe if you kept your hands to yourself, folks’d have less to talk about.” It slips out too fast. But I don’t take it back. The room goes still.

Chair legs scrape. He rises like a storm cloud built slow. “You forget who you’re speakin’ to?” I feel him move before he does. Feel the air shift. “I remember,” I say. My voice don’t rise. Just settles. He comes close—closer than he needs to be. His breath touches the back of my neck before his hand does. The shove ain’t hard. But it’s meant to echo.

“You think I won’t?” I breathe once, deep. “I think you already have.” He stands there, hand still half-raised like he’s weighing what it’d cost him. Like maybe the thrill’s dulled over time. His breath’s ragged. But he backs off. Steps away. Chair squeals across the floor as he drops into it, muttering something I don’t catch. I move quiet to the sink, rinse the spoon. My back still to him. Eyes locked on the faucet. Somewhere behind me, the bowl clinks against the table. He eats in silence. And all I can think about the man who ain’t never set foot in my house but got me leavin’ the porch light on for him. —— Two weeks slip past like smoke through floorboards. Maybe more. I stopped countin’. Time don’t move the same without him in it. The nights stretch longer, duller. No shape to ‘em. Just quiet. At first, that quiet feels like mercy. Like I snuffed out something that could’ve swallowed me whole. I sleep harder. Wake lighter. For a little while. But mercy don’t last. Not when it’s pretending to be peace. Because soon, the quiet stops feeling like rest. And starts feeling like a missing tooth You keep tonguing the space, even when it hurts. At the juke joint, I start to dance again. Not wild, not free—just enough to remember how my body used to move when it wasn’t afraid of being seen. Slim plays slower that night, coaxing soft fire from the keys. The kind of song that settles deep, don’t need to shout to be felt. Pearline leans in, breath warm on my cheek. “You got your hips back,” she says, low and slick. “Don’t call it a comeback,” I grin, though it don’t sit right in my mouth.

Mary laughs when I sit back down, breath hitchin’ from the floor. “Somebody’s been puttin’ sugar in your coffee.” “Maybe I just stirred it myself,” I say. But even as I say it, my eyes go to the door. To the dark. Stack catches the look. He always does. Doesn’t press. Just watches me longer than usual, mouth tight like he wants to say somethin’ and knows he won’t.

Frank’s been… duller. Still drinks. Still stinks. Still mean in that slow, creepin’ way that feels more like rot than fire. But the heat’s gone out of it. Like he’s noticed I ain’t afraid no more and don’t know how to fight a ghost. He don’t yell as loud now. Doesn’t hit as hard. But it ain’t softness. It’s confusion. He don’t like not bein’ feared.

And maybe worse—I don’t like that he don’t try. Some nights, I sit on the back step long after the world’s gone to bed. Shawl loose around my shoulders, feet bare against the grain. The well water in the basin’s gone warm by then. Even the wind feels tired. Crickets rasp. A cicada drones. I listen like I used to—for the shift in the dark. The weight of a gaze. The way the air used to still when he was near. But there’s nothin’. Just me. Just the quiet. I catch myself one night—talkin’ out loud to the trees. “You was real brave when I didn’t want you here,” I say, voice rough from disuse. “Now I’m sittin’ like a fool hopin’ the dark says somethin’ back.”

It don’t.

The leaves stay still. No footfall. No voice. Not even a breeze. Just me. And that ache I can’t name. But he’s there. Further back than before. At the edge of the trees, where the moonlight don’t reach. Where the shadows thicken like syrup.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just waits. Because Remmick ain’t the kind to come knockin’. He waits ‘til the door opens itself. And I don’t know it yet, but mine already has.

The road to town don’t carry much breath after sundown. Shutters drawn, porch lights dimmed, the kind of quiet that feels agreed upon. Most folks long gone to sleep or drunk enough to mistake the stars for halos. The storefronts sit heavy with silence, save for McFadden’s—one crooked bulb humming above the porch, casting shadows that don’t move unless they got to. A dog barks once, far off. Then nothing. I keep my pace even, bag pressed close to my side, shawl wrapped too tight for the heat. Sweat pools along my spine, but I don’t loosen it. A woman wrapped in fabric is less of a story than one without. Frank went to bed with a dry tongue and a bitter mouth. Said he’d wake mean if the bottle stayed empty. Called it my duty—said the word slow, like it should weigh more than me.

So I go.

Buying quiet the only way I know how. The bell above McFadden’s door rings tired when I slip inside. The air smells like dust and vinegar and old rubber soles. The clerk doesn’t look up. Just mutters a greeting and scribbles into a pad like the world don’t exist past his pencil tip. I move quick to the back, fingers brushing the necks of bottles lined up like soldiers who already lost. I grab the one that looks the least like mercy and pay without fuss. His change is greasy. I don’t count it. The bottle’s cold against my hip through the bag, sweat bleeding through cheap paper. I step out onto the porch and down the wooden steps, gravel crunching soft beneath my heels. The lamps flicker every few feet, moths stumbling in circles like they’ve forgotten what drew them here in the first place. The dark folds in tight once I leave the storefront behind. I don’t rush. Not ‘cause I feel safe. Just learned it looks worse when you do. Then—

“You keep odd hours.” His voice don’t cut—it folds. Like it belonged to the dark and just decided to speak. I stop. Not startled. Not calm either. He’s leaned just inside the alley by the post office, one boot pressed to brick, arms loose at his sides. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, suspenders hanging slack. His collar’s open, skin pale in the low light, like he don’t sweat the same as the rest of us. He looks like he fits here. That’s what makes it strange. Ain’t no reason a man like that should belong. But he does. Like he was built from the dirt and just stood up one day. I keep one foot planted on the sidewalk.

“You don’t give up, do you,” I say. He shifts just enough for the light to catch his mouth. Not a smile. Not quite. “You make it hard.” “You looked like you didn’t wanna be spoken to in that store,” he says, voice low and even. “So I waited out here.” The streetlamp hums above us. My grip on the bottle shifts, tighter now. “You could’ve kept walkin’.” “I was hopin’ you might,” he says.

Not hopin’ I’d stop. Not hopin’ I’d talk. Hopin’ I might.

There’s a difference. And I feel it. I glance down at the bottle. The glass slick with sweat. “Frank drinks this when he’s feelin’ good. That’s the only reason I’m out this late.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t press. “Is that what you want?” he asks after a beat. “Frank in a good mood?” I don’t answer. I just start walking. But his voice follows, smooth as shadow. “I was married once.” I pause. Not outta interest. More like the way a dog pauses before crossing a fence line—aware. “She was kind,” he says. “Too kind. Tried to fix things that weren’t broke. Just wrong.” He says it like it’s already been said a thousand times. Like the taste of it’s worn out. I look back. He hasn’t taken a single step closer. Just stands there, hands tucked in his pockets, jaw set loose like he’s tired of carryin’ that story. “How do you always end up in my path?” I ask. Not curious. Just tired of not sayin’ it. He lifts a shoulder, lazy. “Some people chase fate. Some just stand where it’s bound to pass.”

I snort, soft. “Sounds like somethin’ you read in a cheap novel.”

“Maybe,” he says, eyes flicking toward mine, “but some lies got a little truth buried in ‘em.” The quiet after settles deep. Not awkward. Not empty. Just close. “You shouldn’t be waitin’ on me,” I say, voice rougher now. “Ain’t nothin’ here worth the trouble.” He studies me. Not like a man tryin’ to see a woman. More like he’s lookin’ through fog, tryin’ to remember a place he used to live in. “I’ve had worse things,” he murmurs. “Worse things that never made me feel half as alive.” For a breath, the light catches his eyes. Not wrong. Not glowing. Just sharp. Like flint about to spark. Then he tips his head. “Goodnight, Y/N.” Soft. Like a promise. And just like always, he disappears without hurry. Without sound. Back into the dark like it opened for him. And maybe, just maybe, I hate how much I already expect it to do the same tomorrow.

The next day dawns heavy, the sun a reluctant guest peeking through gray clouds. I find myself trapped in that same tired rhythm, the kind of day that stretches before me like an old road—the kind you know too well to feel any excitement for. Frank’s got work today, though I can’t say I’m sure what he’ll be cursing by sundown.

As I move around the kitchen, pouring coffee and buttering bread, the silence feels thicker than usual. It clings to me, wraps around my thoughts like a vine, and I can’t shake the feeling that something's shifted. Maybe it’s just the weight of waiting for Remmick to show again, or maybe it’s that quiet ache gnawing at my insides—the kind that reminds you what hope felt like even if you’re scared to name it.

Frank shuffles in with those heavy boots of his, barely brushing past me as he grabs a mug without looking my way. He doesn’t say a word about the food or even acknowledge me standing there. Just pours himself another cup with a grimace. “How long’ve you been up?” he mutters, not really asking.

“Early enough,” I reply, holding back the urge to ask if he slept well.

He slams his mug down on the table hard enough for a ripple of coffee to splash over the edge. “What’s wrong with the damn biscuits?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just shoves one aside before storming out, leaving behind his bitterness hanging in the air like smoke.

I breathe deeply through my nose and keep packing his lunch—tuna salad this time; at least that’s something he won’t moan about too much. Still, every sound feels exaggerated, each scrape against porcelain echoing louder than it ought to.

Outside, I stand at the porch railing for a moment longer than necessary, feeling the sunlight warm my skin but unable to let its brightness seep into my heart. Birds are flitting from one tree branch to another—free from this heavy house—or so it seems.

I want to run after them. Escape to where everything isn’t tainted by liquor and regrets. But instead, I stay rooted in place until Frank’s truck roars down the road like some angry beast.

Once he's gone, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and pull on my shoes. A decent day to grab some much-needed groceries.

The heat wraps around me as I stroll through town—a gentle reminder that summer still holds sway despite all else changing. I walk through town, grabbing groceries on the way as I enjoy the weather. I run by grace’s store to grab some buttered pickles frank likes. The bell jingled above me as I entered the store, and grace comes from the back carrying an empty glass jar. She paused when she looked at me before smiling. “Hey gurl, haven’t seen ya in here for a while. Frank noticed he ate up all them buttered pickles? That damn animal.” I chuckled at her words as she set the glass jar down on the front counter. Grace moves behind the counter with that same easy rhythm she always has—like her bones already know where everything sits. The store smells like dust and sun-warmed glass, sweet tobacco, and something faintly metallic. Familiar.

“He Still workin’ over at the field?” she asks, pulling a new jar from beneath the counter. “Heard the boss cut hours again. Seems like everyone’s gettin’ squeezed ‘cept the ones doin’ the squeezin’.” “Yeah,” I mutter, glancing toward the shelf lined with dusty cans and glass jars. “He’s been stewin’ about it all week. Like it’s my fault time’s movin’ forward.” Grace snorts, capping the pickle jar and sliding it across the counter. “Girl, if Frank had his way, we’d all be wearin’ aprons and smilin’ through broken teeth.” I pick up the jar, running my fingers absently along the cold glass. “Some days it’s easier to pretend I’m deaf than fight him.” Grace leans forward, voice dropping low like she don’t want the pickles to hear. “You need somewhere to run, you come knock on my back door. Don’t matter what time.” That almost cracks me. Not enough to cry, but enough to blink slow and hold the jar tighter. “I appreciate it,” I say. She doesn’t press, just gives me a knowing nod and starts wrapping the jar in brown paper. “Also grabbed you a couple of those lemon drops you like,” she says with a wink. “Tell Frank the sugar’s for his sour ass.” That gets a real laugh outta me. Just a little one, but it lives in my chest longer than it should. Outside, the air’s heavy again. Thunder maybe, or just the kind of heat that makes everything feel like it’s about to break open. I tuck the paper bag under my arm and make my way down the street slow, dragging my fingers along the iron railings where ivy used to grow. Everything’s changing. And I don’t know if I’m running from it, or toward it. But I walk a little slower past the edge of town. Past the grove of trees that hum low when the wind slips through them. And I wonder—not for the first time—if he’ll be waiting there. And if he ain’t, why I keep hoping he will.

——

I don't light a lamp when I slip out the back door.

The house creaks behind me, drunk with silence and sour breath. Frank's dead asleep like always, belly full of cheap whiskey and whatever anger he couldn't throw at me before sleep took him.

The air outside ain't much cooler, but it's cleaner. Clear. Smells like pine and soil and something just beginning to bloom.

I walk slow. Like I'm just stretching my legs.

Like I'm not wearing the dress with the small blue flowers I ain't touched in over a year.

Like I'm not heading down the narrow path through the tall grass, the one that don't lead nowhere useful unless you're hoping to see someone who don't belong anywhere at all.

The night hums soft. Cicadas. Distant frogs. The kind of stillness that makes you feel like you've stepped into a dream—or out of one.

I settle on the old stump by the split rail, hands folded, back straight, pretending I ain't waiting.

He doesn't keep me waiting long.

"Always sittin’ this straight when relaxin'?"

His voice folds in gentle behind me. Amused. Unbothered.

I don't turn right away. Just glance sideways like I hadn't noticed him there.

"Wasn't expectin' company," I say.

He steps into view, lazy as twilight, hands in his pockets, shirt sleeves rolled and collar loose. Looks like the evening shaped itself just to dress him in it.

"No," he says. "But you brought that perfume out again. Figured that was the invitation."

I shift on the stump, eyes narrowed. "You pay a lotta attention for someone who don't plan on talkin'."

"Only to the things that matter."

He stays a little ways off, respectful of the space I haven't offered but he knows he owns just the same.

"You just out here wanderin' again?" I ask, trying not to sound like I care.

"Nah," he says, grinning a little. "I came out to see if that tree finally bloomed. The one you like to lean on when you think no one's watchin'."

I feel heat crawl up my neck. I smooth my skirt like that'll hide it.

"You always this nosy?"

He shrugs. "Just got good aim."

I shake my head, but I don't tell him to leave. Don't even ask why he's here.

'Cause I know.

And he knows I know.

He moves slow toward me and sits—not close enough to touch, but close enough I can feel it if I lean a little.

We sit in it a while. That hush. That weightless kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, "You laugh different at the juke joint than you do anywhere else."

I blink. "What?"

He doesn't look at me. Just watches the dark ahead, like he's reading the night for meaning.

"It's looser," he says. "Like your ribs don't hurt when you do it."

I don't answer. Can't. I ignored the question rising in my head about how he knows what’s goes on in the juke joint when I’ve never seen him in there or heard his name on peoples' lips there.

But somehow, he's right, and I hate that he knows that. Hate more that I like that he noticed.

"You got a way of sayin' too much without sayin' a damn thing," I mutter.

He huffs a laugh. "I'll take that as a compliment."

We go quiet again. But it ain't tense. It's like we're settlin' into something neither one of us has had in too long.

Eventually, I say, "Frank don' like it when I'm gon’ too long."

"You wan’ me to walk you back?" he asks, like it's the easiest offer in the world.

"No," I say, but it comes out too soft. "Not yet."

He nods once. Doesn't press. Just leans back on one elbow, eyes half-lidded like the night's pullin' him under same as me or so I thought.

"You got stories?" I ask.

He raises a brow. "You askin' me to talk?"

"Don't make a big thing outta it."

He grins slow. "Alright then."

And he does. Tells me some nonsense about stealing peaches off a preacher's tree when he was too young to know better, how he and his cousin swore the preacher had the Devil chained under his porch to guard it. His voice wraps around the words easy, like molasses and wind. Whether it was true or not, I don’t seem to care at the moment.

I don't laugh out loud, but my smile finds its way out anyway.

When he glances at me, I see it in his eyes—that same look from the last time. Not hunger. Not charm.

Something gentler. Something like… understanding.

And for the first time, I let it happen.

Let myself enjoy him.

Not as a ghost. Not as a threat.

Just as a man sitting in the dark with me.

——

I've been lookin' forward to the night often these days, not because of him, of course… The night breathes warm against my skin. I'm on the porch, knees drawn up, pickin' absently at blades of grass growin' between the cracked boards like they're trespassin' and don't know it. I pluck them one by one, not really thinkin', not really waitin'—but not exactly doin' anything else either. I'm wearing the baby blue dress, The one with the lace at the collar, mended too many times to count but still hangin' right. I don't light the porch lamp. The dark feels easier to sit in. And then I hear him. Not footsteps. Not a branch snapping. Just… the way quiet shifts when something enters it. He steps from the tree line, slow like he don't want to spook the night. This time, he's carryin' something. A small bundle of wildflowers—purple ironweed, white clover, queen anne's lace—loosely knotted with a bit of twine. He stops at the porch steps and looks at me. Then, without a word, he sets the flowers down between us and lowers himself to sit at the edge of the stoop. Close. Not too close.

"I didn't bring 'em for a reason," he says after a while. "Just passed 'em and thought of you." My fingers drift toward the flowers, not quite touchin' them, but close enough to feel the velvet edge of a petal against my skin. The warmth of his nearness makes my breath catch somewhere between my throat and chest. "They're weeds," I murmur, though the word comes out gentle, almost like a caress. "They're what grows without bein' asked," he replies, and the corner of his mouth lifts in that way that makes my stomach drop like I'm fallin'. That quiet comes back. But it's a different kind now. Softer. Like the world's hushin' itself to hear what we might say next. I look at him then. Really look. Not at his mouth or his clothes ,that easy lean of his shoulders or those pouty eyebrows —but his hands. They're calloused, dirt beneath the nails. Not soft like the rest of him sometimes pretends to be. My fingers twitch with the sudden, foolish urge to trace those rough lines, to learn their map.

"You work?" I ask, the question slippin' out before I can catch it, betrayin' a curiosity I wasn't ready to admit. "I do what needs doin'." The words rumble low in his chest. "That's not an answer." I tilt my head, and the night air kisses the exposed curve of my neck. He turns his head, slow. "That's 'cause you ain't ready for the truth." The words wash over me like Mississippi heat—dangerous, thrillin'. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I go back to pickin' the grass, my fingertips brushin' wildflower stems now instead of weeds. Each touch feels deliberate in a way that makes my pulse flutter at my wrist, at my throat. He doesn't push. Doesn't move. Just sits with me 'til the moon's hangin' heavy over the trees, his presence beside me more intoxicatin' than any whiskey from Smoke's bar. The space between us hums with possibilities—with all the things we ain't sayin'. When he leaves, I don't stop him but my body leans forward like it's got its own will, wantin' to follow the trail of his shadow into the dark. But I take the flowers inside. Put 'em in the jelly jar Frank left on the windowsill.

——

The wildflowers sit in that jelly jar like they belong there—like they’ve always belonged. Their colors are faded but stubborn, standing tall in the quiet corner of the kitchen, drinking in the slant of light that filters through the window. I find myself glancing at them too often, like they might tell me something I don’t already know. I tell myself not to read into it, not to hope. But hope’s a quiet thing, and it’s been whispering to me since I first set foot in this place. By dusk, I’m already outside, wrapped in the blanket I keep tucked in the closet, knees drawn up tight. The dusty brown dress I wear is softer with wear, almost like a second skin. I clutch the two tin cups—corn liquor, waiting in the dark, like a held breath. It’s a ritual I don’t question anymore. He comes out the trees just after the steam from the day’s heat begins to fade, silent as always. No rustle of leaves, no announcement. Just that subtle shift in the hush, like the woods are holding their breath. I see him leaning on the porch post, eyes flickering to the cup beside me, like it’s calling him home. “Always know when to show up,” I say, voice low but steady, trying to sound like I don’t care if he’s late or not. Like I’m used to waiting. He tosses back, smooth as dusk, “Always pour for two?” I can’t help the smile that sneaks up—soft and slow. “Only for good company.” He steps closer, slower tonight, like he’s weighing each movement. Sits beside me, leaving just enough space between us for the night air to stretch its arms. I hold out the second cup, the one I poured just for him.

He wraps his fingers around it but doesn’t lift it. Doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Don’t drink?” I ask, voice gentle but curious, like I might catch a lie if I ask too loud. His thumb taps the rim, slow and deliberate. “Used to,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “Too much, maybe. Doesn’t sit right with me these days.” I nod, like that makes sense. Maybe it does. Maybe I don’t want to look too close at the parts that don’t fit. The parts that hurt, that choke down the hope I’m trying to keep buried. Instead, I take a sip, letting the liquor burn a warm trail down my throat. It’s a small comfort, a fleeting warmth. I watch the dark swallow the road that disappears into nothingness, and I say, “Used to think I’d leave this place. Run off somewhere—Memphis, maybe. Open a little store. Serve pies and good coffee. Wear shoes that click when I walk.”

He hums, low and distant, like a train far away. “What stopped you?” My gaze drops to my hand, to the dull gold band that’s thin and worn. I trace the edge with my thumb, feeling the cold metal. “This,” I say. “And maybe I didn’t think I deserved more.” He doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t say I do. Just looks at me like he’s already seen the ending, like he’s read the last page and ain’t gonna spoil it.

“I worked an orchard once,” he says softly, voice almost lost in the night. “Peaches big as your fist. Skin like velvet. The kind of place that smells like August even in February.” “Sounds made up,” I murmur, feeling the weight of the quiet between us. He leans in closer, eyes steady. “So do dreams. Don’t mean they ain’t real.” A laugh escapes me—sharp and surprised, like I’ve been caught off guard. I slap at his arm before I can think better of it. “You talk like a man who’s read too many books.” “I talk like a man who listens,” he says, quiet but sure. That hush falls again, but it’s different this time—full, like the moment just before a kiss that never quite happens. I feel it—the space between us thickening, heavy with unspoken words and things I can’t say out loud.

— Days passed, he shows up again, bringing blackberries wrapped in a white cloth, stained deep purple-blue. The scent hits me before I see them—sweet, wild, tempting. “Bribery?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, trying to hide the way my heart quickens. “A peace offering,” he replies, with that quiet smile. “In case the last story bored you.” I reach in without asking, pop a berry into my mouth. Juicy and sharp, bursting with sweetness that makes me forget everything else—forgot the weight of my ring, forgot the man inside my house, forgot the world outside this moment. He watches me, a softness behind his eyes I don’t trust but can’t look away from. I hand him the other cup again. He takes it, polite as always, but doesn’t sip. We settle into stories—nothing big, just small things. The town’s latest gossip, a cow wandering into the churchyard last Sunday, the way summer makes the woods smell like wild mint if you walk far enough in. I tell him things I didn’t know I remembered—about my mama’s hands, about the time I got stung trying to kiss a bumblebee, about the blue ribbon pie I made for the fair when I was fifteen, thinking winning meant freedom. He listens like it matters, like these stories are something he’s been waiting to hear. And for the first time in a long while, I laugh with my whole mouth, not caring who hears or what they think. The sound spills out, unfiltered and free, filling the night with something real. I forget the ring on my finger. Forget the man inside the house. Forget everything but this—the night, the berries, and him. The man who doesn’t drink but still knows how to make me feel full.

——

The jelly jar’s gone cloudy from dust and sunlight, but the wildflowers still stand like they’re stubborn enough to outlast the world. A few petals have fallen on the sill, curled and dry, and I haven’t moved them. Let ’em stay. They feel like proof—proof that life’s still fighting, even when everything else is fading. A week’s passed. Seven nights of quiet—hushed conversations I kept to myself, shoulders pressed close under a sky that don’t judge, don’t say a word. Seven nights where my bruises softened in bloom and bloom again, where Frank came home drunk and left early, angry—always angry. Not once did I go to the juke joint—not because I wasn’t welcome, but because I didn’t want to miss a single echo from the woods, a single step that might carry me out.

Remmick never knocks. Never calls out. He just appears—like something old and patient, shaped out of shadow and moonlight, settling beside me without question. Sometimes he brings nothing, and I wonder if he’s even real. Other nights, it’s blackberries, or a story, or just silence, and I let it fill the space between us. And I do. God, I do. I tell him things I never even told Frank. About how I used to pretend the porch was a stage, singin’ blues into a wooden spoon. How my mama braided my hair so tight it made my scalp sting, said pain was the price of lookin’ kept. How I almost ran—bags packed, bus ticket clenched tight—then sat on the curb ‘til dawn, too scared to move, then crawled back inside like a coward. He never judges. Never interrupts. Just watches me, like I’m music he’s heard a thousand times, trying to memorize the lyrics. Tonight, I don’t wait on the porch.

I’m already walkin’. The night’s thick and heavy, like the land’s holdin’ its breath. I slip through the back gate, shawl loose around my shoulders, dress flutterin’ just above my knees. The clearing’s ahead—the path I’ve grown used to walking. He’s already there. Leaning against a tree, like he belongs to it. His white shirt glows faint under the moon, suspenders hanging loose, like he forgot to do up the buttons. There’s a crease between his brows that smooths when he sees me—like he’s been waitin’ for me to come, even if he don’t say it. “You’re early,” he says, low. “I couldn’t sit still,” I whisper back, voice soft but steady. His eyes trace me—like he’s drawing a map he’s known a thousand times but still finds new roads. I step toward him slow, the grass cool beneath my feet, and when I’m close enough to feel the pull of him, I stop. “I been thinkin’,” I say, real quiet. “Dangerous thing,” he murmurs, lips twitching just enough to make my heart kick.

“I ain’t been to the joint all week,” I continue, voice thick as summer air. “Ain’t danced. Ain’t played. Ain’t needed to.” He waits—patient, silent. Like always. “I’d rather be here,” I whisper, and something inside me cracks open. “With you.” The silence that follows ain’t cold. It’s heavy—warm, even. Like a breath held tight in the chest before a storm breaks loose, like the whole earth hums with what’s coming. “I know,” he says. Just that. Two words that make me feel seen and bare and weightless all at once. I don’t think. I just move. Step into him, hands pressed to the buttons of his shirt. My eyes stay fixed on his mouth, not lookin’ anywhere else. And when he doesn’t pull back—when he leans just enough to meet me—I kiss him. It starts soft. Lips barely grazin’, testing, waiting for something to happen. But then he exhales—like he’s been holdin’ somethin’ in for a century—and the second kiss isn’t soft anymore. It’s heat. It’s need. My fingers clutch his shirt like I’m drownin’, and he’s oxygen. His hands find my waist, firm but gentle, like he’s afraid of breakin’ me even as he pulls me closer. I swear the whole forest leans in to watch, silent and still.

He don’t push. Don’t take more than I give. But what I give? It’s everything.

He don’t say nothin’ when I pull back. Just watches me, tongue slow across his bottom lip, like he’s already tasted me in a dream. “C’mere,” he says low, voice rough as gravel soaked in honey. “You smell sweet as sin.” I step into him again without thinkin’, heart rattlin’ around like it’s tryin’ to climb outta my chest. His palm presses to the back of my neck, warm and heavy, pulling me into a kiss that don’t feel like a kiss. It’s a deal, made in shadows, older than us all—something that’s been waitin’ to happen. The second our mouths meet, he moans deep in his chest—like he’s relieved, like he’s been holdin’ back for years. Then he spins me—fast—hands already under my dress. “Ain’t no point bein’ shy now, baby. Not after all them nights sittin’ close, like you wasn’t drippin’ for me.” My knees almost buckle. He bends me over a log, and I don’t resist. I can’t. My hands grip the bark tight, dress shoved up, panties dragged down with a yank that’s impatient and sure. I hear him spit into his palm. Hear the slick sound of him strokin’ himself once, twice. Then he sinks into me—slow, too slow—like he’s memorizing every inch, every breath I take. My mouth opens, no words, just a gasp that’s all I can manage. “Goddamn,” he mutters behind me. “Look at you takin’ me. Tight like you was built for it.” He starts movin’, deep and filthy, grindin’ into me with purpose. I arch back into it, already lost in the feel of him. And then I see it. His face—just behind my shoulder. His jaw clenched tight. His pupils blown wide—no, glowing. A flicker of red embers in each eye, like fire trapped inside. I blink, and it’s gone. I tell myself it’s the moonlight, the heat, how mushy my brain is from what he’s doin’, like he owns me. He don’t give me a second to think. “Feel that?” he growls. “Feel how your pussy’s huggin’ my cock like she knows me?” I whimper—pathetic, high-pitched—but I can’t stop it. “Remmick—fuck—” He yanks my hair, just enough, til I tilt my head back. “You was waitin’ for this,” he says, voice low and rough. “I seen it. Seen the way you look at me like I’m the last bad thing you’ll ever let hurt you.” Leaning into my neck, lips brushing skin, breath cold now—too cold. “But I ain’t gone hurt you, darlin.’ I’m gone ruin you.” He bites—just a little, not sharp—enough to make me gasp, my whole body tensing on him. He laughs—soft, wicked. “Oh yeah,” he says, rutting harder. “You gone come for me like this. Face in the moss, legs shakin’. All these pretty little sounds spillin’ out your mouth like you need it.” I can barely keep up. Dizziness hits hard, slick runnin’ down my thighs, his cock hittin’ that spot over and over. “Say you’re mine,” he growls, hips slammin’ in so deep I cry out. “I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, Remmick—” His voice drops—dark, velvet, dirtied—like he’s talkin’ from a place even he don’t fully understand. “Good girl,” he mutters. “Ain’t nobody gone fuck you like me. Ain’t nobody got the hunger I do.” And I feel his hand—big and rough—wrap around my throat from behind, just enough to remind me he’s still in control. Then he starts pumpin’ into me—fast, mean, nasty. My back arches. My moans break into sobs. “You gone give it to me?” he pants, barely human anymore. “Come all over this cock?” I want to answer. I try. But I can’t—my body’s already gone, trembling on the edge of something wild and white and all-consuming. And the second I come—everything breaks loose. He buries himself deep and roars—low and wrong, not a man’s sound at all. I feel him twitch, feel the flood of heat spill inside me, and his face presses into my neck, mouth open like he’s fightin’ the urge to bite down.

But he doesn’t. He just stays there. Still. Breathin’ like he ain’t breathed in years. ——

The morning creeps in slow, afraid to wake me, like it knows I’ve crossed a line I can’t come back from. I roll over, the sheet sticky against my skin, last night’s heat still clingin’. For a second—just a second—I forget where I am. Forget the weight of the house, the stale scent of bourbon and sweat baked into the walls. All I feel is the ghost of him—Remmick—still there in the ache between my thighs, in the buzz that lingers low in my belly. Remembered the way remmick carried me back to my porch and kissed me goodnight before walking away becoming one with the night. My fingers drift without thought, pressing just above my hip where a dull throb pulses. I wince, then pull the blanket back. And there it is. A dark, new bruise—shaped like a handprint—only it ain’t right. Too long. The fingers are too slim, curved strange, like something trying too hard to be human. My breath catches. I press again—harder this time—hoping pain might wash the shape away, or that pressure might flatten whatever’s twisted inside me.

But it doesn’t.

So I pull the blanket up, wrap it tight around me, and lie still, staring at the ceiling—waiting for some sign, some answer, some permission to feel what I shouldn’t. Because the truth is—I should be scared. I should be askin’ questions. Should be second-guessin’ everything last night meant.

But I’m not.

Instead, I replay how he looked at me—how his hands, too warm, too sure, moved like they’d known my body in another life. How he said my name like it was already his. I press my legs together under the sheet, close my eyes, and breathe deep. A girl gets used to silence. Gets used to fear. But nobody warns you how dangerous it is to be wanted that way. Touched like you’re somethin’ rare. Somethin’ sacred. Somethin’ wanted.

And I—I liked it. More than that—I craved it now. Even with the bruises. Even with the shadows twisting in my gut. Even with the memory of those eyes—burnin’ too bright in the dark. Don’t know if it’s love. But it sure as hell felt like it.

——

I move slow through the kitchen that morning, feet bare against cool linoleum. The coffee’s already gone bitter in the pot. Frank’s still in bed, his snores rasping through the cracked door like dull saw blades. I lean against the sink, sip from a chipped mug, and glance out the window. The jelly jar’s still there. Wildflowers wiltin’ now, but proud in their dying. I touch the bruise again through my dress. And I smile. Just a little. Because maybe something ain’t quite right. But for the first time in a long while—I’m happy, or well I thought…

——

The nights kept rollin’ like they belonged to us. Me and Remmick, sittin’ under stars that blinked like they was tryin’ to stay quiet. Sometimes we talked a lot. Sometimes we didn’t too much. But even the silence with him had weight, like it was filled with words we weren’t ready to say yet.

I’d tell him stories from before Frank, when my laughter hadn’t yet learned to flinch. He’d listen with that look he had—chin dipped low, eyes tilted up, mouth soft like he was drinkin’ me in, slow. He never interrupted. Never tried to solve anything. Just sat with it all. That kind of listenin’ can make a woman feel holy.

And I guess I got used to that rhythm. I got too used to it.

Because on the twelfth night, maybe the thirteenth—don’t really matter—he said something that pulled the thread straight from the hem. We were sittin’ close again. My shawl slippin’ off one shoulder, the moonlight makin’ silver out of the bruises on my thigh. He had that look on him again, like he wanted to ask somethin’ he’d already decided to regret. “You know Sammie?” he asked, real casual. Like it was just another name. I blinked. The name hit strange. “Sammie who?” He shrugged like he didn’t know the last name. “That boy. Plays that guitar like it talks back. You said he played with Pearline sometimes.” I sat up straighter.

I never said that.

I’d never mentioned Sammie at all. I swallowed. My smile faded before I could think to save it. “I don’t remember bringin’ up Sammie.” The pause that followed was heavy. And not in the good way. Remmick shifted beside me, slow. His jaw ticked once. “You sure?” I nodded, eyes never leaving him. “I’d remember talkin’ ‘bout Sammie.” He looked out at the trees, the edge of his mouth tight. “Huh.” And just like that, the air changed. It got thinner. Like breath didn’t want to come easy no more. I pulled the shawl closer. Suddenly real aware of the fact that I didn’t know where he slept. Didn’t know if he ever blinked when I wasn’t lookin’. “You alright?” he asked, too quick. “You askin’ me that, or yourself?” He turned to me then—real sharp. Real focused. “Why you gettin’ quiet?”

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

“Just surprised, is all,” I finally said, trying to smooth it over like I hadn’t just tripped on somethin’ sharp in his words. “Didn’t think you knew anybody round here.” “I don’t,” he said, fast. “You’re the only one I talk to.” “Then how you know Sammie plays guitar? I’ve never seen you at the juke joint nor heard word about you from anyone there.” His stare was too still now. Too fixed. Like a dog watchin’ a rabbit it ain’t sure it’s allowed to chase. “Maybe I heard it through the wind,” he said, not responding to the other part. But there was no smile behind it. Just the shadow of a man used to bein’ questioned. A man who didn’t like the feel of it. I stood, brushing grass off my legs. “I should head in.” He stood too, slower. Taller than I remembered. Or maybe the night just made him bigger.

“You mad at me?” he asked, quiet now. “No,” I said. “Just thinkin’. That alright with you?” He nodded. But it didn’t look like agreement. It looked like calculation. I didn’t turn my back on him till I hit the porch. And even then, I felt his eyes stick to my spine like syrup. Inside, I sat by the window, hands still wrapped around the cup I didn’t finish. The wildflowers were dry now. Curlin’ in on themselves. And I thought to myself—real quiet, so it wouldn’t wake the rest of me: How the hell did he know Sammie and what business he wan’ with him?

——— The days slipped back into that gray stretch of sameness after I started avoidin’ him. I filled my hours with chores, with silence, with tryin’ to forget the way Remmick used to sit so still beside me you’d think the night made room for him. But the nights weren’t mine anymore. I stopped goin’ to the porch. Stopped lingerin’ in the dark. The quiet didn’t soothe me—it stalked me. I felt it behind me on the walk home. At the edge of the trees. In the walls. I knew he was there.

Watchin’. Waitin’.

But I didn’t let him in again. Not even with my thoughts. That night, the juke joint buzzed with life. Hot bodies pressed close, laughter thick with drink, music ridin’ high on the air. I hadn’t been back in weeks, but I needed noise. Needed people. Needed not to feel alone. I sipped liquor like it might drown the nerves rattlin’ under my ribs. Played cards with a few men, some women. Slammed down a queen and grinned as I scooped the pot. That’s when Annie approached me.

“Y/N,” she whispered, voice tight. I looked up. “Frank’s here.” The name hit like a slap. I blinked. “What?” “He’s outside. Ask’n for you.” Annie’s face was pale, serious. Not the usual mischief in her eyes—just worry. I rose slow. “He’s never come here before.” Annie just nodded. We moved together, my heart poundin’. Smoke, Stack, and Cornbread were already standin’ at the open door, muscles tense, words clipped and low. When Frank saw me, he smiled. That wide, too-big smile I’d never seen on him. Not even on our wedding day. “Hey baby,” he drawled, too casual. “Wonderin’ when you’d come out here and let me in. These folks actin’ like I done somethin’ wrong.”

My stomach dropped. He never called me baby.

“Frank, why’re you here?” My voice was calm, but confusion lined every word. He laughed—soft, amused. “Can’t a man come see his wife? Thought maybe I’d finally check out what keeps you out so late.” Something was off. Everything was off. “You hate loud music,” I said, heart poundin’. “You said this place was full of nothin’ but whores and heathens.” He looked… wrong. Eyes too glassy. Skin too pale under the porch light. “Can’t we all change?” he said, teeth flashin’. “Now can I come in and enjoy my night like you folks?”

I looked at Smoke. He gave me that look—the one that said “you don’t gotta say yes.” But I opened my mouth anyway. Paused. Frank’s smile dropped just a little. “Y/N,” he said, his voice darker now. Familiar in its danger. “Can I come in or not?” My hand flew up before Stack could step forward. I swallowed hard.

“Come in, Frank.”

The words fell like stones. And just like that, the door to hell opened. The moment he crossed that threshold, the temperature dropped. I swear it did.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t drink. Just sat at the bar, stiff and still, like a wolf wearin’ man’s skin. Annie leaned into Smoke’s shoulder. “Somethin’ ain’t right,” she muttered. Mary nodded, arms folded. “He looks hollow.” Thirty minutes passed. Then Frank stood. Didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked into the crowd like a man on a mission. Headin’ straight for the stage.

Straight for Sammie.

Smoke pushed off the wall, followin’ fast. But before anyone could act, Frank lunged—grabbed a man near the front and tackled him to the floor. Screamin’ erupted as Frank sank his teeth into the man’s neck. Bit down. Tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards, across people’s shoes. The scream that left my throat didn’t sound like mine. Smoke pulled his pistol and fired. The sound cracked through the joint like lightning. The man jerked, then stilled. Frank’s body fell limp over him, gore soakin’ his shirt. Then suddenly Frank stood back up like he wasn’t just shot in the head, the man he bitten standing up besides him the same eerie smile on both their blood stained mouths.

I stood frozen in place.

People screamed, chairs overturned, glass shattered. Stack wrestled another body that started lurchin’ with glowing -white eyes. Mary grabbed Pearline, draggin’ her through the back exit. Annie grabbed me. “Y/N—we gotta GO!” We burst through the back, runnin’. I took the lead, feet slammin’ down the path I used to walk like a lullaby. Not now. Not anymore. Now it felt like runnin’ through a grave. Behind me, I heard chaos—growls, screams, more gunshots. I looked back once. Bodies jumpin’ on each other, teeth sinkin’ into flesh. All Their eyes— White. Glowing like candle flames in a dead house. Annie was right behind me.

Then she wasn’t.

I turned. They were all gone. Sammie. Pearline. Mary. Annie. Gone.

I kept runnin’. The clearing opened up like a mouth, and I stumbled into it, chest heaving. And that’s when I saw him. Same silhouette. Same calm. But he wasn’t the man I knew. Remmick stood just beyond the tree line, Same shirt. Same pants. But now soaked through with blood. But his face— That smile wasn’t his smile. Those eyes weren’t human. Red. Glowing like coals. Just like I thought I saw that night I gave him everything. I froze. My legs locked. My throat closed up. Remmick tilted his head, playful. Mocking.

“Oh darlin’,” he cooed, stepping forward, arms out like a man offerin’ salvation. “Where you think you runnin’ off to? You’re gonna miss the party.” I stumbled back, tears burnin’ in my eyes. “What are you?” He stepped forward, arms open like he meant to cradle me, like he hadn’t just let blood dry on his chest. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, like it was me betrayin’ him. “You knew. Somewhere in that smart little head of yours, you knew. The eyes, the voice, the way I don’t come out durin’ daytime—”

“You lied,” I whispered. “Only when I needed too,” he said. I shook my head. “I thought you loved me.” Remmick stopped, cocking his head. Everything soft in him was gone. Only sharp edges now. “You thought it was love?” he asked, teeth glintin’ between blood. “You thought I wanted you?” I flinched.

“All I needed was a way in. You—” he stepped closer, “—were just a door. But you kept it shut. Had to break you open. Took longer than I liked.” “I trusted you,” I said, voice crumblin’. “And you broke so pretty,” he said. “I almost didn’t wanna finish the job. But then you ran. Made it… inconvenient.” He hissed softly, a grin curling up like a scar.

“I didn’t want you, Y/N. I wanted Sammie. That boy’s voice carries somethin’ old in it. Ancient. And that joint?” He gestured back toward the chaos. “It’s sacred ground.” “You used me,” I whispered, tears burnin’ now. “I let you in. I trusted you.”

“You believed me,” he corrected. “And that’s all I ever needed.” My breath caught somewhere between my ribs and spine, all my blood screamin’ for me to run. But I couldn’t move—just stared at Remmick, my chest heavy with grief, with betrayal, with rage. He tilted his head again, eyes burning like iron pulled from a forge. “I didn’t want you,” he said again, voice soft as a lullaby. “I wanted the key. And girl, you were it.”

My throat worked around a sob. My legs, finally rememberin’ they was mine, shifted. I turned to bolt— And stopped.

There they stood.

A wall of them.

Faces I knew too well. Cornbread. Mary. Stack. Even Annie—lips pulled in a wide, wrong smile. Their skin was pale, waxy. Their eyes—oh God, their eyes—glowin’ white like candles lit from the inside. They didn’t speak at first. Just smiled. Stared.

And then—slow and soft—they started to hum. That same song Sammie used to play on slow nights. The one that never had words, just a melody made of aching and memory. But now it had words. And they all sang ‘em. “Sleep, little darlin’, the dark’s gone sweet, The blood runs warm, the circle’s complete, its freedom you seek…”

I backed away, breath shiverin’ in and out of my lungs. The chorus kept swellin’. Their voices overlappin’, mouths stretchin’ too wide, white eyes never blinkin’. Like they weren’t people anymore. Just shells. Just echoes.

I turned back to Remmick— And he was right in front of me. So close I could see the dried blood on his collar, the gleam of teeth too long to belong in any man’s mouth. He lifted his hand—calm, steady. Like he was invitin’ me to dance. “Come on, Y/N,” he whispered, smile almost tender now. “Ain’t you tired of runnin’?” I didn’t know if I was breathin’. Didn’t know if I wanted to be. Everything hurt. Everything I’d carried—love, hope, grief, rage—it all sat in my mouth like copper.

I looked at his hand again. And maybe, for just a moment, I thought about takin’ it. But maybe I didn’t. Maybe I turned and ran straight into the woods. Maybe I screamed. Maybe I smiled. Maybe I never left that clearin’. Maybe I did. Maybe the darkness that took over me, was just my eyes closed wishing to wake from this nightmare.

#jack o'connell #remmick #sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners x reader #sinners imagine #remmick x reader #vampire #vampire x human #smut #18 + content #fem reader #fanfiction #imagine #sinners fic #angst fanfic #dark romance #my writing #cherrylala

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softaestluv · 3 months ago

Text

prev. | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ | angst a lil, fwb, jealousy, toxic Simon, possessive sex

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the last place he visits before being sent off on an assignment.

‘Jus’ need somethin’ to tide me over, yeah dove?’

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but when he’s away, his rugged and calloused hands don’t feel like yours, can’t get off unless he pictures you.

Above him. Below him. On your knees. On your back. In your mouth. Buried in your cunt.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the first place he visits when the mission is finished, doesn’t even bother going home.

And you answer, despite it being three in the morning.

“There’s my girl.” He breathes. Relieved. Dropping his bags on the floor before lunging forward to cup your face in his palms.

The claim makes you whine quietly, digging your fingertips into his wrists, arching on your tippy toes to meet his lips halfway. It’s ravenous, leaves your breath ragged, and lips thrumming with swelling blood.

He hoists you in his arms, burrowing his hands under your thighs and ass, pinching the flesh so hard it’ll bruise, but he can’t help it. He’s greedy. Selfish. Hasn’t quite coaxed himself down from the harsh realities of being ‘Ghost.’

“Ah—Simon,” You whimper, huffing hot air against his lips, “You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry, baby,” He smooths his hands, petting the backs of your thighs, “I just-”

The ‘missed you’ dies on his tongue, stops it from rolling off and filling the empty space between the two of you, but you know.

That night when he asks you to repeat him, tell him you’re all his, you don’t respond like usual. He tries his best to coax it out of your pretty lips orgasm after orgasm because he needs to hear it, but you don’t give him the pleasure.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, so he has no other option but to accept it because you’re not his. The lack of acknowledgment eats at his skin, brutal talons gnawing at his flesh when you slowly stop responding to his texts.

Shows up at your doorstep anyway because you don’t get to tell him when this stops. When you answer the door, you’re all dolled up, a tight little skirt hugging your figure, lip gloss smeared on your lips like you have somewhere to be other than on his cock.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, glaring at him, “I’m busy.”

“With what?”

You frown, “I have a date.”

He snorts, pushing past you, making a show of taking off his boots and placing them next to yours, has no intention of leaving.

“Simon,” You sigh, closing the door behind you, “I don’t have time for this right now. He’ll be here any minute.”

The statement alone pinches his temples with irritation, but that’s when he sees it, one small hickey adorned on your neck, just below your ear. His vision narrows, tunneling red, nudging you against the wall with one swift movement, tilting your jaw to get a better look at it.

“The fuck is this?” He snarls, runs his thumb over the bruise, and makes your breath hitch slightly.

“Nothing.” You mutter quietly.

“Your little date give you this? Huh?” He grits through clenched teeth, grip tightening on your jaw, drawing dimples in your skin.

“None of your business.” You spit back, but it’s far too gentle to have any real bite like it always does with him, pup with baby canines.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he seethes at the idea of another man inside of you, another man marking you as theirs when you’re his.

Sinks his teeth around the stupid mark, dragging sharp fangs against your delicate flesh, and sucks the skin viciously. Covers the ugly bruise with his own claim.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he presses you right up against your front door, so your date can hear him fucking you in two when he comes to pick you up.

‘Can yer little boyfriend fuck you like this? Huh, baby? Did he know jus’ how you like it?’

Fucks you messy and pretty, until your cheeks are tear-stained and your breaths are wrecked, hiccuping over your moans that’s he’s so mean, so cruel, asking you to say you’re his when he doesn’t even have the courage to say he missed you.

‘Be a good girl f’me, yeah? Tell me you’re all mine.’

And when you do finally say it, he carries you to your bed, fucks you slow and deliberate like he always does, like he really means it, and whispers the words against your skin.

@bbygirl9 @ailanbutterfly @amberbalcom14 @h0lydrag0ns

#cherri writes #softaestluv #cherris drabbles #call of duty #cod #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley smut #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost smut #ghost x reader #ghost cod

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mostly-imagines · 9 months ago

Text

Motion Sickness

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason makes you cry after a fight

warnings: angst with comfort

“Jason—”

He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”

Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying?” he challenges.

You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”

He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently.

A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”

“It’s not about needing it—”

“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”

You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”

“I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways.

You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung.

Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen.

“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”

There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.

The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.

You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.

You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that.

Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?

You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat.

It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.

He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.

Dick stills, blinking warily.

“What’re you doing here?”

His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.

As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”

Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”

Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch.

“What’d you do?”

Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth.

“Be myself.”

Dick says nothing.

When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.

“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.

Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.

He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.

“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.

Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”

Jason exhales desperately.

“Both, I think.”

Dick nods, understanding.

“Then go home.”

Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“What did you say?”

He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”

“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”

Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”

“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”

Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to.

He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it.

The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.

He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.

“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.

He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.

So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.

“Not right now.”

Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.

He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.

He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.

He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance.

Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands.

It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now.

Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.

He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.

He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.

He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.

“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.

It takes a long few moments, but you nod.

He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.

“Will you turn over?”

An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot.

He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.

He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.

You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to.

He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.

“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”

Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated.

You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”

He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”

Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.

You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out.

Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly.

“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”

But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.

He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.

“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.

You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”

“No, it’s not.”

That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.

It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.

When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.

He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.

You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”

You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”

“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”

His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.

Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.

“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.

He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?”

You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement.

He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.

“I love you,” you tell him quietly.

His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered.

“I love you too, baby. So much.”

🦟 if you don't reblog things i'm actively sending bad vibes your way 🦟 and maybe also a plague

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wildwestdean · 1 year ago

Text

impetus

summary: dean gets targeted by a witch while working a case, and she curses him to yearn for what he secretly loves the most. it seems to have no effect, until it's pointed out that he can't seem to stay away from you - but what happens when he tries to fight it?

pairing: dean winchester x female reader

word count: 9.4k+

warnings: violence, hunting/working a case, mentions of murders, gore, evil witches, reader and dean get attacked, swearing, alcohol consumption, angst, fluff, yearning, mutual pining, idiots oblivious to their own feelings, magical curses, hallucinations, nightmares, depictions of death, depictions of drowning, fighting/arguments, heart-to-heart, confessions, use of [y/n], nicknames, mature themes

“Right, well, this isn’t creepy at all,” Dean declared, rolling Baby to a stop before switching into park.

You both sat quietly as you surveyed the desolate building, a feeling of unease washing over you.

“Maybe we should wait for Sam,” you suggested half heartedly. He was only down at the Sheriff’s station, and it wouldn’t even take ten minutes for him to meet you here, but you knew Dean wouldn’t wait.

“No,” he said, confirming what you already knew. “Someone else is missing and this is our best lead so far. If you don’t want to go in, that's fine, but I am.”

“I’m not letting you go in there alone,” you snapped, sitting up as tall as you could despite the pit forming in your stomach.

“Awe, you worried about me, sweetheart?” Dean teased, turning to look at you with a grin; one that was effectively wiped from his face when he saw the look in your eyes. “Hey, what is it?”

“I don’t know,” you said honestly, shrugging lightly. “I just have a bad feeling about this.”

“Bad feeling like what?” he questioned, his brows knitting together.

You thought about it, trying to pinpoint what it was you felt, but you couldn’t. “Just…. don’t go wandering off,” you ended up saying- begging, more like.

“Alright,” he agreed easily. “We stick together, and we’ll be in and out before you know it.”

“Right,” you confirmed with a nod. “Let’s gear up.”

You exited the car as quietly as you could, making your way around to the back as Dean unlocked the trunk and propped up the panel to the arsenal.

“You and Sam better be right about this,” he muttered, digging out the box of witch-killing bullets.

Your mind raced through the details of the case: An exsanguinated priest, a dead nun with her tongue ripped out, the president of the high schools abstinence club found without a heart, and various livestock missing various body parts - if this wasn’t a witch, you were a little scared to find out what else it could be.

“We have to be,” you breathed out, loading your ammo.

“Can you do me a favour and sound at least a little confident?” he asked playfully, lightly nudging your arm with his own before tucking his gun into his jeans.

“Sorry,” you said sheepishly, holstering your own gun.

“It’s alright,” he said earnestly, handing you your favourite knife (one that used to be his before you claimed it as your own). “I’m just not used to seeing you so spooked.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle quietly as you took the knife from him. “I’m not used to feeling spooked.”

“We’ll make it through,” he consoled, closing up the trunk. “Just like we always do.”

“Just like we always do,” you echoed with a nod, following him towards the building.

The overgrowth brushed your calves as you made your way up the walk, and after a quick survey of the facade, Dean swung the door open after picking the lock.

“Wait!” you hissed, stopping him before he entered. “Sam does know we’re here, right?”

You watched as his shoulders shrugged before stepping inside. “Probably.”

“That’s… comforting,” you sighed, following him across the threshold.

The two of you did a quick preliminary sweep of the main level before making your way to the top floor, finding nothing of significance in any of the rooms. Making your way back down, you both stopped dead in your tracks as you heard a clatter come from beneath you.

“Of course there’s a basement,” Dean whispered. “Why wouldn’t the creepy ass witch be in the creepy ass basement of this creepy ass house?”

“How do you know she’s a creepy ass witch?” you teased, raising an eyebrow at him. “Maybe she’s hot. Or a guy. Or both.”

He faltered over his response, considering your words for a moment. “I’ll bet whatever tab you drink up at the bar once we end up ganking this bitch. She’s creepy.”

“Deal,” you grinned, wiggling your eyebrows at him.

You both chuckled, before another noise from the basement drew your attention back to the case at hand. Dean awkwardly cleared his throat before leading the way in search of the basement entrance, using the occasional noise as guidance.

“God, I hate witches,” he muttered to himself, slapping away cobwebs as he descended the stairs.

“I don’t think the witch put those webs there,” you said with a snicker.

“No, they’re just the one turning this rotting corpse of a house into a lair of evil and despair,” he hissed.

You rolled your eyes in response, unable to stop the fond smile from creeping onto your face as you made it to the bottom of the stairs.

A muffled cry caught your attention, and Dean spared you a quick look before running in the direction it came from, you hot on his heels. Coming up on a corner, he slowed to a halt and peered around the wall.

“It looks clear,” he decided after a moment. “Just be careful,” he added, continuing on his way.

Upon turning the corner, you were enveloped in the warm glow of candles, which would have been nice, had it not been for the rest of the scene. An altar lay at the far wall, burning candelabras stood in each corner of the room, and the very person you were searching for was bound and gagged in a chair in the middle of the room, surrounded by a circle of candles.

Dean cursed and muttered under his breath, surveying the room. “I’ll get him, you get the altar.“

“Okay,” you agreed, running across the room. Once you reached the altar, you couldn’t help but stare in shock and disgust for a moment as you took in the sight; all the missing body parts seemingly staring back at you from where they lay soaked in blood. It took Dean shouting your name from across the room to bring you back to your senses, and you quickly upturned the altar as Dean instructed the now freed man to get out as fast as possible and wait by the car. As soon as the contents of the altar were scattered, an ear piercing shriek came from behind you.

Quickly whirling on your heels, you were greeted by a cloaked figure, who seemingly came out of nowhere.

“What have you done?” she screamed, dropping her hood as she stared daggers into you.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you feigned innocence. “Did I ruin your big plan?”

“You ruined everything!” she shrieked, slowly approaching you. “You’ll pay for this!”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Dean called out from behind her.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this?! How many centuries passed by until the circumstances were right? I had it! I had it all! I was one spell away from seeing my love again!” she continued to scream, advancing further towards you as she ignored Dean.

“Back off, Grunhilda!” Dean roared from behind her, drawing his gun.

“No!” she shrieked, barely lifting her hand in order to easily swing his gun away - and stop you from drawing your own. “You stupid little gnat. You think you can just come in here and mess with things you don’t understand? You think you can take this from me?!”

Her shouting was drowned out by the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears, your entire body feeling like it was on fire as your throat constricted, the air leaving your lungs and not returning. You felt your bones cracking beneath your skin as your feet left the floor, and you shared a look of terror with Dean before black began to cloud the edges of your vision.

Without an effective weapon handy, Dean rushed the witch and tackled her to the floor, sending you crashing down. You met the concrete with a thud, and it knocked the rest of your senses out of you. You laid there for who knows how long, fighting off the waves of pain and nausea, willing yourself to move as you listened to the struggle happening a few feet away from you.

By the time you managed to prop yourself up, Dean was pinned down as she advanced on him, and you desperately looked around for either of your guns.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” you heard her ask, menace laced deep in her words. “To want something so desperately, to feel that desire within your very soul?!”

Dean struggled against her hold as you struggled to pick yourself up, to at least crawl to a weapon if you had to.

“Well you will,” she sneered, cackling to herself. “You’ll know how it feels. To have what you want the very most to be so close to you, to have it at the edge of your fingertips, only to never be able to grasp it! For it to be the only thing you can think about!”

“Shut the hell up,” Dean seethed through clenched teeth, glaring at her.

She only stepped closer towards him, cackling to herself. “Your strongest yearning, hidden deep in your heart, will nevermore be yours to part. Be it with sun or with rain, that which brings joy won’t be without pain.”

“You finished yet?” Dean interrupted, before he had the wind knocked out of him, rendering him silent.

Moving as quickly as you could without being noticed, you closed in on Dean’s pistol while the witch carried on.

“Whatever you crave you cannot say, yet you’ll seek it out be it night or day,” she continued, hovering over him. “Consider yourself lucky, you useless toad. I’ve had countless lifetimes yearning to see my love again, and I’ll spend lifetimes more. At least you only have this one measly little life to yearn for what you want.”

Grasping the gun in your hands, you carefully rose to your feet and steadied yourself to take aim. “Man, you really do talk too much,” you huffed out.

The shot rang out just as she turned towards you, though it was silenced by a roaring wind that accompanied a bright blue light. Within seconds, everything was calm and quiet again.

Fighting every urge you had to collapse back onto the floor, you trudged your way over to Dean in an attempt to help him up.

“God, I told you she’d be creepy,” he gasped out, groaning as he stood.

“You want a prize?” you asked incredulously, staring up at him.

“I wanna get the hell out of here,” he said, ushering you to take leave. “Then I want those drinks you owe me.”

After what felt like another entire day, you and Dean had dropped the victim off at the hospital, patched each other up, cleaned out the basement, showered, and filled Sam in on everything that went down.

“So… she cursed you?” Sam asked curiously, trying to understand.

“I dunno. She tried to, I guess,” Dean replied nonchalantly. “But [Y/N/N] put a bullet in her. No witch, no curse, right?”

Sam shared a brief look with you, before turning back to Dean. “Yeah, but… there was no body.”

“What?” Dean asked gruffly.

“The witch,” you said. “I shot, but she vanished. What if she isn’t dead?”

“Well, I feel normal, so I’m gonna say she’s dead,” Dean declared with a shrug. “Now, can we head to the bar? I’m in desperate need of a drink… or twelve.”

Without waiting for an answer, he quickly stood and donned his jacket before looking back at you and Sam. “You guys coming or what?”

“Oh, do I have a choice to not go?” you asked playfully.

“You can stay if you want, but your wallet comes with me,” he replied, smiling innocently.

“Alright, let’s go,” you said with a dramatic sigh, grabbing your own jacket.

Not long after, the three of you were sliding into a booth in the nearest dive, enjoying the lack of people; you guys seriously needed to decompress.

“Alright, I’ll be back,” you declared, hopping out of the booth to get the first round of drinks.

“Make sure you get a tab started!” Dean jokingly called after you.

You flipped him off in response, taking a seat at the bar after placing your order. While you waited, Sam watched as Dean grew more restless in his seat.

“Dude, what the hell is your problem?” he finally asked, eyeing Dean as he fidgeted anxiously.

“What?” Dean asked cluelessly, glancing around the bar. “I’m thirsty. She’s been gone for what, like, half an hour?”

“It’s… barely been two minutes, Dean,” Sam informed him with an amused grin.

“Yeah, well. I want my beer,” Dean mumbled, tapping his fingers on the table as he glanced around once more. “I’m gonna go see if she needs help.”

Before Sam could even reply, Dean was already halfway across the bar, meeting you just as you got your final drink.

“Need a hand?” Dean asked cheerfully, his sudden appearance making you jump. “Sorry,” he added with a snicker.

“Dick,” you muttered with a laugh, hopping down from the stool. “Here you go,” you added, handing him his beer.

“Awesome,” he beamed, taking the bottle from your outstretched hand.

He followed closely as you made your way back to the table, handing Sam his drink before sliding into the booth; Dean followed suit, leaving you nestled in between him and the wall.

The three of you had a few more rounds before Dean slipped away, determined to teach a lesson to the arrogant ass harassing players around the pool tables - just because you didn’t need to hustle people anymore didn’t mean it wasn’t still fun every now and then. You watched him fondly, laughing quietly to yourself as you watched him fumble around with his cue before making a terrible break. Harder than it looks, you could just hear him say.

Your attention was turned back to Sam when he cleared his throat, and you were met with his questioning gaze. “Does he seem weird to you?”

“Weird how?” you asked, face scrunched in confusion.

“I don’t know, strange,” he replied with a small shrug. “Like- like antsy or something.”

Your eyes flit back across the room to Dean, who was very much in his element as he upped his ante, before focusing on Sam again. “I haven’t noticed anything, Sammy.”

He sighed in resignation, seeming to already know that would be your response. “It’s probably nothing, just forget I said anything,” he replied, shaking his head dismissively before finishing his drink.

“If you say so,” you muttered quietly, sipping your drink as you cast a worried gaze across the bar, getting lost in thought.

By the time you each finished another round of drinks, Dean made his way back over to the table; much to the surprise of you and Sam.

“Done so soon?” Sam questioned, raising an eyebrow at his brother.

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged, sliding back into the seat beside you.

“But you only played one round,” you said quizzically.

“So?” Dean wondered, gulping down the rest of his beer.

“So, you usually play a lot more than that,” Sam pitched in, shifting his gaze between you and Dean.

Dean sighed, his bottle clanging on the table as he set it back down. “Why am I getting the third degree here? I played a game, he learned his lesson, I got over it. End of story.”

“Okay, grouchy,” you snickered, ruffling his hair a little just because you knew he hated it. Except he really did love it when it was you doing it.

“Whatever, anyone want another round?” he asked with a huff, lightly swatting your hand away.

“No, I’m gonna call it a night,” you admitted, shifting to slip your jacket back on.

“Yeah, me too,” Sam declared, starting to stand from the table.

Dean stood as well, assumingly just to let you out. “Alright, let’s go.”

You and Sam both stilled in your movements at his response, sharing a shocked look with each other. “You’re… coming with us?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked with a scoff, shrugging his jacket on as he looked questioningly between you and Sam. “Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you guys?”

“We just didn’t expect you to call it a night so early,” Sam explained helplessly. “Gettin’ old, huh?” he added, trying to lighten the mood a little.

“Yeah, I mean, you barely even wracked up a tab!” you declared with a laugh, before grinning mischievously. “Drinks just don’t agree with you anymore, do they, old man?”

Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes, fixing his collar just to busy his hands. “Okay, alright, one more wisecrack and I’m leaving you both here.”

Despite the finality in his tone, the amusement dancing in his eyes gave him away - as did the hand he extended to you to help you slide from the booth.

“Whatever you say, grandpa,” Sam teased, patting Dean on the shoulder before walking away with laughter in his wake. “I’ll be outside!”

You chuckled in response, and the stern look Dean gave you only made you laugh even more. “Yeah, yeah. Hurry it up, chuckles,” he chided, wiggling his fingers at you. He surveyed the bar as you finally took hold of his hand, sliding out from your seat with ease and standing before him. “Ready?” he asked, gaze turning back to look down at you.

“Yeah, I just gotta go pay,” you replied, nodding your head in the direction of the bar counter.

“Alright,” he said with a nod. He gave your hand a squeeze, though instead of letting go like he normally would, he held it firmly as he led the way across the bar.

You followed along quietly, trying your hardest to not read too much into it. Though when you stood before the bar and he had yet to release your hand, you gave him a puzzled look. “Did you wanna go get the car?” you asked hesitantly.

He looked confused for a moment, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on either, before he cleared his throat with a curt nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll meet you out there. Don’t take too long,” he rushed, giving your hand another fleeting squeeze before shuffling away.

Strange, you thought briefly, before shifting your attention to the bartender before you.

As you paid the tab, Dean settled into the driver's seat of Baby, and Sam watched him impatiently drum his fingers against the wheel as he hummed along to whatever song was in his head; and he couldn’t help but snort a laugh as Dean checked his watch one, two, three times since getting into the car.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sam chided with a laugh, shaking his head.

“What?” Dean inquired, annoyance clear in his voice.

“Dude, please tell me you see what’s going on,” Sam pleaded.

Dean widened his eyes in confusion, glancing around the near empty parking lot before looking back at his brother. “What’s going on?”

Before Sam could reply, their attention was caught by the opening of the bar’s door when you emerged from the building, a grin forming on your face as you caught sight of them waiting in the car.

Dean matched your grin, quickly reaching for the door handle and scrambling outside. “There she is!” he greeted happily, opening the back door for you.

“Fucking idiot,” Sam muttered to himself, staring out the window with an amused grin as you and Dean settled into your seats.

The three of you made it back in no time, and, having to settle for a single bed when first getting to town over driving for another who-knows-how-long just to find another motel, shuffled out of the car and into your shared room with heavy feet.

“Finally,” Dean muttered with relief, shutting the door behind him as Sam took a seat. “Whoa, whoa,” Dean barked, holding up a hand. “What’re you doing?”

Sam froze just as he sat on the bed, staring up at his brother. “What?”

“That’s my bed,” Dean declared with a huff.

“No, it’s not,” Sam answered with a scoff. “It’s your turn for the couch.”

“Dude, I’m not sleeping on the pull-out!” Dean declared with finality.

“What, are you kidding me?” Sam asked incredulously. “You got the bed last time!”

“Yeah, and I just got ragdolled by a crazy ass witch, I deserve a mattress!” Dean argued, stepping towards the bed. “Get up.”

“No,” Sam argued stubbornly, relaxing further atop the sheets.

“You guys are ridiculous,” you said with an exasperated sigh, walking across the room. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Not a chance,” Dean denied, not even sparing you a glance.

“What, why?” you asked in confusion.

“First of all, I’m not sharing with Sam,” Dean replied, turning to look at you. “Second, you got it worse than I did. I’m not shoving you on a pull-out.”

“Oh, please-” you started to argue, before he cut you off.

“I patched you up myself, [Y/N]. Don’t bother trying to lie to me,” he cautioned.

You opened your mouth to argue once more, but the look on his face stopped you short. “Whatever,” you mumbled, turning towards the bathroom. “I’m getting ready for bed. Figure this out before I get back so I can actually go to bed, please.”

The bickering resumed as you quickly retreated, shutting the bathroom door on Dean’s disgruntled declaration of “best two out of three.”

By the time you re-entered the room, you were met with silence. Surveying the surroundings, you found Sam digging through his toiletries bag while sitting in his original spot on the bed. Your gaze snapped over to the couch, where Dean sat looking like a kicked puppy.

“You went with scissors again, didn’t you?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

He met your gaze as Sam snickered behind you, causing his face to sour even more. “Shut up,” he mumbled before standing, bristling past you with slumped shoulders.

You chuckled quietly to yourself and grabbed the spare sheets, quickly making up the pull-out for Dean while he got ready; hopefully he’d be a little less cranky about it all if this was at least already done.

Once finished, you made your way over to the bed and curled up under the covers. After saying a quick goodnight to Sam, you were asleep before Dean even left the bathroom.

Fear gnawed at Dean, his body frozen in place as a cold spread through him, panic clinging to him like ice. He tried to call out to you, but all that left him was a strangled breath as his lungs seized up. He watched as the waves carried you away, further and further from where he stood. By the time his legs finally moved to carry him closer to shore, his feet were so heavy it was as though he was wading through quicksand.

“No, no, no,” he pleaded quietly, watching as the waters edge never grew near no matter how far he ran.

Your voice cried out to him, surging him forward even faster as you drifted ever outwards, terror seeping deeper into his bones with every futile step he took.

He couldn’t reach you.

He couldn’t save you.

The realisation that you were gone caused his world to come crashing down around him as he fell to his knees. A roaring filled his ears, and he didn’t know whether it was the irascible water that held you captive or the blood racing from his pounding heart.

As he stayed there - watching the crashing waves for any sign of you, listening for a call of his name, unwilling to move for fear he’d miss you - the water suddenly crept up around him, as if to mock him.

The sky darkened as he let out an anguished cry, his voice blending in with the storm beginning to brew around him. Yet despite the deafening howls, he heard it clear as day: your voice, calling out to him.

“Dean.”

The world stilled around him once more, your voice ringing out in a whisper as gentle as the wind.

“Dean.”

He stood, frantically searching the horizon for you. He tried to call out, yet his voice still never came.

“Dean!” you called out, voice booming like thunder from above.

A small hand gripped his own, pulling him so forcefully he was yanked off his feet. He let out a startled cry, a spark of lightning igniting so brightly before him that he screwed his eyes shut.

“God dammit, Dean!”

Another force shook him, and when we reopened his eyes, he was met with the suspiciously stained ceiling of the motel room. He bolted upright, heart hammering against his chest as he looked around. He caught your worried gaze as he wiped the sweat from his brow, trying to steady his breathing as you leaned in closer.

“[Y/N?]” he gasped out, pushing himself further upright.

His hand reached out automatically, fingers tentatively brushing against your cheek as if to evaluate your solidity. When he was satisfied that you wouldn’t evaporate, he surged forward to wrap you in a desperate embrace; the icy grip of terror finally starting to melt.

“It was just a nightmare, De,” you soothed quietly, tracing a hand along his back. “Everything’s alright.”

“Yeah,” he said tightly, swallowing the lump forming in his throat as he let you go. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’m alright, get back to bed.”

“You’re okay?” you questioned, concern laced in both your face and tone of voice.

“I’m okay,” he affirmed with a nod, casting his gaze aside so you wouldn’t see the panic still swirling within him.

“Okay,” you said softly, placing a gentle kiss upon the crown of his head before standing from the edge of the pull-out.

Dean got up after you to grab a glass of water, his heart jumping in his chest as he remembered the sight of you being ripped away by the current.

“Just a nightmare,” he reminded himself under his breath. “Just a nightmare.”

Not having slept another wink after his nightmare, Dean was unsurprisingly the first one up the next morning. Taking it upon himself to get breakfast for the three of you, he found himself at the nearest diner waiting for his order.

Drumming his fingers impatiently on the sticky linoleum counter, a burning desire to call you began to build within him. Knowing you were likely still sleeping, he decided to busy himself with a stupid game you downloaded on his phone.

Yet the urge to reach out to you grew tenfold as he sat there, a sinking feeling that it might mean you were in danger starting to take hold of him. Just as his mind began to swirl with questions of what the hell was going on with him, he heard your voice calling his name.

His head snapped up, expecting to see you sliding onto the stool beside him, ready to give you hell for walking here in search of him all by yourself in a random town. He figured you must’ve known he was here, and it wouldn’t have been a far walk from the motel, but it was still stupid.

Though the words died on his tongue as he realized you weren’t there, and that familiar feeling of dread trickled through him after scanning the diner and not finding you anywhere.

Another voice called out, this time the waitress, announcing that his order was ready. He met her smiling face with nothing but confusion, her smile faltering for a moment.

“Everything alright?” she asked hesitantly.

“Huh?” he asked, before snapping out of his daze. “Oh, yeah. Just a little too early for me. Thanks-” he paused, squinting to read her name tag. “Thanks, Edna,” he charmed, flashing his signature grin as he gathered the order.

“Anytime, sugar,” she charmed, her smile perking back up as she sent him a wink.

With one last - albeit awkward - grin sent her way, Dean quickly left the diner; already feeling lighter for knowing he’d be back at the motel soon. His grin only grew when he glanced across the street and caught a glimpse of you staring back at him, proving that he wasn’t crazy and you really did come to meet him.

He took a step forward, intending to call out to you, when a truck drove by and blocked you from sight. The grin was wiped from his face and the coffee tray nearly slipped out of his hand when he noticed you had completely disappeared in its wake.

Fearing the worst once more, he scrambled into the car and quickly called you, firing Baby to life as the line rang.

“Hey,” you answered with a stifled yawn. “Please tell me you’re getting breakfast. And coffee.”

“Yeah, I-” he faltered in his response, having to let out a breath of relief as he realized you were safe and sound. “I’ll be back in a few, you and Sammy still there?”

“Where else would we be?” you asked with a giggle.

While the sound would normally bring a smile to his face, your words only caused a frown to appear. “You only waking up now?”

“Don’t judge me,” you teased. “It’s only… ten after seven, I barely slept in.”

“Just not used to being up before you,” he lied, knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel.

“Miracles really do happen,” you joked with a laugh. “You sound weird, is everything okay?” you added, worry tinting your voice.

“Hm?” he wondered, not processing your question right away. “Oh, no- yeah, I-... just didn’t get much sleep.”

“Right,” you said, teetering on the edge of believing him or not.

“Really, I’m good,” he assured, sensing your apprehension. “I just gotta catch some z’s and I’ll be good as new.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in a few then,” you relented. “Drive safe,” you added as an afterthought before hanging up.

The line went dead as he stopped at a red light, his stomach churning as he stared at his reflection in the rearview.

“Just need some sleep,” he assured himself.

“Dude, would you quit it with the pacing?” Sam snapped, setting his book down on the table for sheer lack of concentration.

Dean stopped just long enough to stare daggers at his brother before marching down the library once more. “She’s been gone too long.”

“She’s been gone an hour,” Sam informed, hands running over his face in exasperation.

“Exactly,” Dean replied, pointing a finger at Sam in acknowledgment. “Something must’ve happened.”

“Dude, she’s at the grocery store. With Jack. What the hell could possibly happen?”

“I don’t know!” Dean exclaimed, arms flailing as he whirled to face Sam. “Something must’ve! She hasn’t answered my last text and it’s been-” he paused, pulling out his phone to brandish the screen. “Seven minutes!”

“Oh, my god,” Sam groaned, tossing his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I can’t deal with this anymore.”

“What are you talking about? Aren’t you worried?” Dean asked gruffly.

“No, Dean, I’m not worried! There’s no reason to be worried!” Sam proclaimed.

“No reason? She could be dead!” Dean barked, his face taking on an expression of disbelief.

Sam sighed as he leaned over the table, raising his eyebrows. “Okay, let me ask you this: why, exactly, do you think she’s dead?”

“Oh, come on, Sam!” Dean grumbled. “We don’t exactly live cookie cutter lives here, you know. One minute she’s returning the shopping cart, and the next she’s got a damn knife in her back!”

“Dean,” Sam soothed. “You know as well as I do that’s a load of crap.”

“No,” Dean argued, shaking his head. “We don’t know that. We don’t know anything, you know why?”

Before Sam could even respond, Dean waved his phone around before dropping it on the table. “Because she won’t answer her damn phone!”

“Okay, this is actually ridiculous,” Sam declared. “How can you seriously not see what’s been happening to you?”

“Knock it off, Sam,” Dean muttered, waving a hand dismissively as he began pacing again. “I’m fucking fine.”

“You’re fine,” Sam repeated incredulously. “You’re friggin’ cursed, Dean!”

“I’m not cursed!” shouted Dean. “Would you quit it with that crap?”

“Right, because nothing’s been going on with you lately, right?”

“Right!” Dean agreed with a huff.

“You haven’t been, say, I don’t know…. not sleeping? Feeling stir crazy? Getting paranoid?”

“Sam-”

“No, I’m serious, Dean! How can you not see this?”

“Because I’m fine!” Dean argued, stalling his movements to gather his phone from the table.

After a few moments of silence, Dean rolled his eyes and found himself once more walking the length of the library. “Okay, maybe I’ve been feeling a little weird lately, but I’ve just been tired - and you know what? I survived worse. So yeah, I’m fine!”

“Right,” Sam said sceptically. “And have you… noticed when it is that you feel… weird?”

“I don’t know!” Dean announced frustratedly.

“Dean,” Sam chastised.

“What?”

“You’ve been feeling like this all week, and it’s only getting worse. You’ve been like this since that witch cursed you - and don’t say she didn’t. Use your fucking head, Dean! You’re cursed!”

Dean’s jaw clenched as he tried to remain calm, taking a moment to formulate his response. “You’re insane,” he finally declared.

“I think you’re the insane one,” Sam contested. “You were cursed to yearn for something, Dean. Only in this case… it’s someone.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“C’mon, Dean!” Sam pleaded with a laugh. “The only time you get like this is when you’re more than ten feet away from [Y/N].”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean muttered dismissively.

“You’ve checked your phone another five times since you picked it up.”

“So?” Dean questioned, failing to resist the urge to check it once more. “I’m worried, not cursed.”

“You’re worried because you’re cursed!” Sam argued.

“I’m worried because I lo-” Dean quickly fell silent as the words died on his tongue, his brain firing into total overdrive as he laughed nervously. “I care, that’s why I’m worried.”

Sam stared at his brother in total disbelief, trying to find a way to make him realize what was going on- or, most likely, acknowledge what was going on.

Yet before the conversation could go any further, the bunker door screeched open and the sound of your laughter fleeted down to greet Dean, effectively turning his scowl into an affectionate grin.

“Hope you remembered my pie!” he called out, marching to meet you at the foot of the stairs without so much as a glance back in Sam’s direction.

“When have I ever forgotten?” you asked, feigning offence as you held out the bag which contained his pie.

“Well,” he started, taking the bag from you. “There was that time in Redford-”

“Hey!” you interrupted with a laugh. “I didn’t forget, they were out!”

“See, I still don’t believe you,” he teased, heading for the kitchen.

“Believe whatever you want, Dean,” you replied playfully.

“I’m still waiting for it, you know. You should get me two next time,” he joked, though he was partly serious.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice tentatively called out.

“Yeah?” Dean replied hotly, keeping his back to Sam as he went to grab a beer from the fridge.

“Who, uh… who the hell are you talking to?” he asked carefully, surveying the empty kitchen.

“Hilarious, Sam,” he said dryly, shutting the fridge. “I’m talking to-”

His mouth ran dry as he turned around, being met with just his brother, who was staring with concern from the doorway.

“[Y/N],” Dean finished weakly.

“Her and Jack aren’t back yet, Dean,” Sam said carefully, as though talking to a lost child.

“Yes, they are. They got back, she gave me my pie, we came in here,” Dean said fiercely, his confidence shattering when he went to gesture at the pie he set down moments earlier and found it to be gone.

“Maybe you should sit down,” Sam suggested, not knowing what to do.

“I’m fine!” Dean shouted, hovering over the counter. “I’m fine,” he repeated, moreso to himself than anything.

“Okay, look, how about I try calling [Y/N], okay?” Sam offered, hesitantly walking further into the kitchen. “See when they’ll be back.”

“They are back!” Dean barked, glaring at Sam. “She was just in here!”

Sam didn’t know what to say, the fear and concern for his brother crashing down on him.

“She was just in here,” Dean repeated shakily, meeting Sam’s gaze with confusion.

“Dean,” Sam started to say, before the familiar tone of your ringtone came from Dean’s phone, cutting through the air like a knife.

Dean pulled the phone from his pocket, clearing his throat before answering. “Yeah?”

“Dean, thank god,” you cheered, sighing in relief. “Listen, we came out to a flat tire and I don’t have a spare because I forgot to fucking replace it and there are too many people around for Jack to, you know, try fixing it,” you rambled anxiously. “Can you please come help?”

“You’re still at the store?” Dean clarified, looking up at Sam with frightened eyes.

“Yeah, we’re stuck in the parking lot,” you told him breezily.

“Okay,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Alright, I’ll be right there.”

“Thanks, De!” you said happily, ending the call.

Dean stood there for a few moments staring down at his unopened bottle of beer on the counter, trying to gather his thoughts, before finally lifting his gaze to Sam.

“I’ll, uh…. I’ll be back,” he told him, not waiting for a response before trudging out of the kitchen.

You found yourself yet again rushing down the hall to Dean’s room, his muffled yells waking you in the dead of night once more.

He uttered your name as you shut the door behind you, and though it took you by surprise the very first time it happened - nearly two weeks ago, now - it was something you’ve almost come to expect. It was killing you, watching him go through this every night and not being able to fix it. You would sit with him, find ways to gently rouse him from his terror filled slumber and comfort him when he woke, but it never seemed like enough; he deserved more.

At first you didn’t think there was too much going on, figuring his shift in behaviour was just due to his lack of sleep. You didn’t believe Sam when he talked to you about it; Dean may have been acting a little more strange than usual, but it didn’t raise any red flags.

It wasn’t until the morning following your conversation that you noticed it, cluing in and realising how different Dean had been; how long he’d been different. The excess text messages, the increase in phone calls, the insistence on you not going anywhere without him and his exuberant reactions to you getting back safe when you did go somewhere without him, his constant questioning on where you were or where you’ve just been. Something else was going on, and you could only think it really did come down to the witch you two encountered. So you and Sam called up Rowena, getting her take on the situation and figuring out what to do.

Her words now echoed through your head as you perched yourself on the edge of his bed: “Magic isn’t simple. Some curses are anchored by the witch, ending whenever they were to die. But others are more complex, rooted not in the witch but the object of the curse itself, not breaking until their purpose is carried out one way or another. Perhaps if you can figure out what it is Dean needs, you can break the curse yourselves. If this carries on for any longer… I’m worried it will kill him.”

While you ran your fingers through his hair, you decided right then and there that once he woke up, you wouldn’t leave without confronting him about it. You knew it would likely start a fight, and you felt a little guilty knowing you would all but interrogate him right after having another nightmare, but all that guilt flew right out the window the second Dean startled himself awake, the sight of his panic stricken face as he gasped for air nearly bringing you to tears; you’ve seen him like this too often as of late.

“It’s alright, Dean,” you soothed, reaching out to him. “I’m right here, everything’s fine.”

His gaze snapped to you, unable to hide the confusion and terror still coursing through him despite the relief he felt. “[Y/N]?”

“Yeah, De,” you cooed, running a hand across his shoulder blades. “We’re in your room, everyone’s okay.”

He let out a shuddering breath, hanging his head in his hands. “You’re okay,” he whispered softly. “You’re okay.”

You sat quietly with him for a few more minutes, patiently comforting him as best as you could while you thought of how to approach this conversation.

Clearing his throat, Dean was the first to speak again as he rose from the bed. “Sorry I woke you again.”

The dejection and shame laced in his voice tore your heart to bits, and you had to put up a good fight to keep your emotions in check. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“Yeah, I do,” he disagreed, trudging to his sink in the corner.

“Dean, please talk to me,” you pleaded, watching as he turned on the water.

You fell silent, waiting for him to deny you and brush you off again. You waited for him to say something, to do something, but all he did was stare at the running water.

“Dean?” you asked cautiously, slowly getting up from the bed yourself.

“I can’t save you,” he muttered quietly, his gaze on the faucet unyielding.

“What?” you asked curiously, not knowing what he meant.

“I can never save you,” he carried on. “You always just… slip away from me. Every time. It’s always the same.”

“What’s always the same?” you questioned, moving closer towards him.

“I try,” he muttered, seemingly oblivious to your presence. “I run, and I fight, and I try, but I can never reach you. I can never get to you.”

He seemed to snap out of his daze a little, moving to splash water over his face before turning off the tap. “You keep dying. I keep watching you die. I can’t watch you die again, [Y/N]. I can’t.”

“This is what your nightmares have been?” you wondered.

He fell silent again for a minute before meeting your gaze in the mirror. “Yeah.”

“It’s not real, Dean,” you told him softly.

“It’s real enough for me,” he muttered, turning to face you.

“And is this why you’ve been… acting differently towards me?” you asked hesitantly.

He averted his gaze, hanging his head as he considered your question. “I guess,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe, yeah. I don’t know.”

“Dean,” you scolded with a sigh, plopping back down on the bed. “Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

“Because everything’s fine!” he argued once again.

“I’m not stupid, Dean!” you challenged. “I know you. I can see something's eating you alive and it’s fucking killing me to witness it. So please, tell me what the hell is going on.”

“It’s just nightmares,” he lied, crossing his arms against his chest.

“It’s more than nightmares!” you cried. “You’re withering away into nothing, Dean! I mean let’s face it! You’re practically a zombie nowadays with how little sleep you get, you’ve been acting like a puppy with separation anxiety, and let’s not forget how completely erratic you’ve been.”

He glared at you, jaw clenching as he decided whether or not to entertain this conversation. “Okay, so maybe I haven’t slept lately,” he admitted starkly. “But like I keep saying, I’m fine.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of lying?” you sneered, glaring up at him.

He rolled his eyes, averting his gaze to anywhere else as he shook his head. “No, but I’m getting tired of having this conversation all the time.”

“Well too bad!” you yelled, abruptly standing from the bed. “Cause I’m tired of never having this conversation go anywhere! I’m tired of you brushing off the idea of you being cursed. I didn’t believe it at first either, but what the hell else could it be, Dean?”

“Oh, come on!” he barked, running a hand over his face. “I see Sam got his hooks into you.”

“Yeah, he did. And you need to listen to us.”

“No, I really don’t,” he scoffed, starting to head to the door.

“Even if it kills you?” you blurted out.

“It’s not gonna kill me!”

“God, look at you, Dean! It already is!” you argued, marching closer to him. “How would you feel if the situation were reversed?”

He let out a sigh, pausing with his hand on the doorknob before turning back to you. “What?”

“What if it were me going through all this instead of you? Would you let me get away with not even listening to you and Sam?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, staring at you in silence for so long you expected him to turn away again. Instead, he let out a deep breath as he took a seat, gesturing for you to carry on. “Five minutes.”

You almost went to argue before you thought better of it, knowing full well that if Dean never came around to the theory he would actually cut you off at the five minute mark. So, you did your best to recount the entire situation for him, reiterating what you, Sam, and Rowena had to say about it all in the hopes of getting through to him. By the time you finished, you knew it was well over five minutes, so you took Dean not interrupting you to be a good sign.

“Okay,” he finally said with a small nod. “Well, I listened. Can I go now?”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, anger and fear bubbling inside of you as you exploded. “God, you are unbelievable!”

“Well what do you want me to say?” he grumbled. “I just don’t believe that’s what’s going on.”

“How can you not believe it?” you asked incredulously. “It’s obvious!”

“Look, I said I don’t believe it, alright?” Dean snapped. “Why are you so hellbent on making this into some big fight? Just accept it.”

“No!” you seethed. “I can’t just accept the fact that this could kill you. Especially not when there’s a way we could end this.”

“No,” he disagreed, shaking his head. “You can’t fix this, [Y/N/N]. You just can’t.”

“I can!” you cried. “Just tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“You know what,” you scolded.

“This is so fucking ridiculous.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Why the hell do you care so much?” he questioned exasperatedly.

“Because I’m fucking terrified, Dean!” you exclaimed. “I’ve watched you grow more restless and anxious every day since the night we finished that case. I’ve seen the life drain from you more and more as sleep became nearly impossible for you. And I know it’s nearly impossible for you, because I have spent the last eleven nights sitting on that bed as you got terrorised by your own mind. I don’t care if you believe in this curse or not, Dean, because I do.”

Dean stood quietly, absorbing what you said as the severity of the situation began to dawn on him.

“I mean don’t you get it?” you asked sadly, cutting through the silence. “If something happens to you, if I lose you… that’s not something I can come back from.”

Dean fell silent once more, running a hand through his hair as he took a deep breath, pacing around the room a little as he turned everything over in his head.

“I’m scared, Dean,” you reiterated softly. “Please, just let us try to fix this.”

“There’s some things I should tell you, then,” he admitted quietly after a moment of silence, taking a seat on the bed.

“About what’s been happening?” you asked hopefully.

He nodded, staring down at his hands folded in his lap. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” you said, moving his desk chair to take a seat. “I’m listening.”

He took a bracing breath, taking a few minutes to build the courage to speak. “Well, you know I’ve been having nightmares.”

“I do,” you agreed quietly.

“It’s always the same one,” he admitted, keeping his gaze cast downwards. “I could never figure out why. It didn't make sense to me why it was always the same thing. So I finally talked to Sam about it, and he had a pretty good theory. But, you know me. I didn’t want to believe it because it came back down to that witch and this stupid fucking curse.”

He let out a bitter laugh, pausing long enough for you to speak up. “What did he have to say about it?”

“I tried telling myself I was fine,” he continued, ignoring your question. “I was fine, at first. At first it was just not sleeping well… but then other things started happening.”

“Other things like what?” you wondered quietly.

“Like my blood feeling like it’s on fucking fire,” he muttered, wiping at his face. “And my skin feeling like it-… like it’s being peeled off my goddamn bones, and my face feeling like it’s melting… and how I get this- this bubble inside my chest that feels like it’s either gonna burst or suffocate me and how it all only happens-” he stopped in his rambling, taking a deep breath before chuckling in disbelief. “God, it only happens when you’re not around, [Y/N].”

“I-... what do you mean?” you asked breathlessly.

“Oh, come on, [Y/N],” he said bitterly. “I know you’ve noticed. I text you more, I’m almost always calling you. I just- I get this… this unwavering panic inside me when you’re not around. I keep-... I swear to god I see you everywhere when you’re gone. I catch sight of you across the street, I smell your stupid shampoo when I’m alone, I hear your voice when no one’s there. I had an entire conversation with you and you weren’t even there,” he carried on, shaking his head as he briskly wiped away an angry tear. “God, I’m going fucking crazy,” he added with a manic chuckle.

“You’re not crazy, Dean,” you said gently.

“That night,” he started, staring at the wall across from him. “She was trying to get back someone she lost… someone she loved.”

“Right,” you agreed.

“They used to drown them, people they accused of being witches,” he continued slowly.

“Yeah, it was pretty common. Sink, and you were innocent. Float, and you were guilty,” you pitched in. “But… what does that have to do with this?”

“I think they were innocent,” he said simply. “Whoever she lost… I think that’s how she lost them.”

“Why do you think that?” you asked curiously.

Dean cleared his throat, staring pensively at his hands once more. “The nightmares. It’s always… you always drown. I keep-... I can never save you.”

“I don’t get-” you started to say, before he cut you off.

“It’s how she lost who she loves, [Y/N],” he said curtly. “It makes sense for me to see the one I love go the same way.”

“I-... what?” you asked, too stunned to think of anything else to say.

“The dreams, the hallucinations, the- the way I’ve been feeling… I didn’t want to admit it, I still don’t, but I can’t… I mean I can only ignore it for so long, right?” he said, scoffing quietly. “Especially with you and Sam breathing down my neck about it.”

“Ignore what, Dean?” you asked breathlessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

“You,” he muttered. “They way I feel about you. The way I’ve always felt about you.”

You didn’t dare respond, his words ringing in your ears as he fell silent, each of you lost in your own thoughts for a while.

“I’ve always known that I love you, [Y/N/N],” he carried on, slowly meeting your gaze with glistening eyes. “But this… this curse, this whatever it is. God, it’s just made it all so much worse, and I knew. I knew it was you that my entire being was screaming out for but I couldn’t… I couldn’t admit it.”

“Why not?” you asked shakily, feeling your tears starting to build.

“How could I put that on you?” he asked, a few rogue tears slipping down his face. “You said it yourself, this thing is killing me. It’s gonna kill me, unless I get what I want, and given that that’s you, I’m calling it game over.”

“No, Dean, it’s not,” you denied with a sniffle, cutting through your own stray tears. “You should’ve told me.”

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, shrugging lightly as he looked back at his hands. “I told you now.”

“Dean,” you sighed, wiping your face as you stood from your seat. “Do you trust me?” you asked, walking towards him.

“Of course I do,” he said quickly, almost offended by the question.

“Okay, well, I’ll need you to trust me on this,” you replied, stopping just in front of where he sat.

“Okay,” he said with a huff.

“You gotta look at me, though,” you said, laughing softly.

Sighing dejectedly, he slowly lifted his head to meet your gaze, a ghost of a smile dancing on his lips as he looked at you.

You smiled softly at him, gently taking his face in your hands before wordlessly bringing your lips down to meet his. At first, neither of you really knew what was happening, and just when you thought to pull away you felt his lips moving against your own. His hands gripped your waist to hold you in place a moment longer before you each pulled away, staring silently at each other as you processed what just happened.

“What, uh… what was that for?” Dean finally asked.

“Well, it was either that or slapping some sense into you,” you said playfully. “Which I almost think you still deserve, because I can’t believe you honestly think I don’t love you back.”

“What?” he asked, his grip on your waist loosening in shock before tightening once more.

“You’ve had me since the day we met, Dean,” you told him softly, carding your fingers through his hair.

“You actually…” he trailed off quietly, trying to focus his thoughts. “You actually love me, of all people?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I do.”

“So I- well, I guess I could’ve saved a lot of trouble if I really did just tell you, huh?” he asked jokingly, laughing tightly.

“I’ll give you hell for it tomorrow,” you teased, half serious. “For now, how about we try getting you back to sleep?”

“Actually,” he said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I have a better idea involving this bed.”

You couldn’t help but snort a laugh, grinning fondly at him. “Oh, really?”

He grinned back, laughing with you before taking on a more sombre tone. “Do you trust me?”

“Always,” you said honestly.

“Good,” he replied with a grin, laughing heartily at the shriek you let out when he tossed you on the bed.

He stared down at you, a look you’ve never seen before painted on his face. “What?” you asked, giggling nervously.

“I love you,” he said earnestly, brushing a lock of hair away from your face.

“I love you, too,” you replied shyly, grinning softly.

He matched your grin, drinking you in a moment longer before crashing his lips upon yours once more.

When Dean woke the next morning, it didn’t take long for a grin to spread across his face as he quickly realized two things.

The first thing being that you, the love of his life, still remained tangled up in both his arms and the sheets, sleeping peacefully atop his chest.

The second being that, for the first time in a total of thirteen days, he was able to sleep without being haunted by his nightmares.

He felt you stir, and his grin widened as you nestled in closer, tightening your grip on him as you slept. He planted a kiss against your temple, pulling you in close as he blissfully settled in for another peaceful rest.

Maybe witches aren’t so bad.

tagging: @roseblue373

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incognit0slut · 9 months ago

Text

was i stupid to love you?

in which a lingering glance at Rossi’s wedding threatens your engagement.

content: angst, 4.8k, takes place right after truth or dare (14x15), a lot of dialogue, mention of prison arc, emotional distress, relationship conflict, not proofread a/n: when was the last time you saw me write angst? exactly. this is inspired by malcolm & marie bc i really like the idea of having an argument while moving around the house (also disclaimer i have nothing against JJ i just like being dramatic)

The lock clicks open. The door swings with a creak. Your heels tap against the hardwood in a hollow rhythm that feels almost too loud. There’s a tightness in your chest, that prickling behind your eyes, and a familiar ache pressing up from the pit of your stomach, churning into a faint nausea that you try to ignore. You’re trying to hold it back.

Not here.

Not now.

Spencer doesn’t even look up. The keys slip from his hand with a soft clink as they hit the side table, and he turns away with a quiet sigh that reverberates deep in your bones.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, tossing a glance toward the kitchen. “Think we could order something?”

You trail after him, the sharp click of your heels echoing as you step onto the kitchen tile. “We just came back from a wedding.”

He’s rifling through the cupboard, his fingers brushing over the mismatched mugs and neatly stacked plates before he pulls down two glasses. “I barely ate anything at the reception.”

You watch him, biting back a response as memories flicker to mind. The slice of cake he’d poked at absentmindedly, washing it down with sips of water instead of real food.

It wasn’t hunger he seemed focused on tonight. No, it was his quiet glances across the room you keep on catching from the corner of your eye, and that conversation he’d had at the bar. The one where his posture softened, his gaze so intent you’d found yourself staring at the back of his head, trying not to read too much into it—and obviously failing.

“Why didn’t you eat?”

He shrugs, his back still to you as he fills the glasses with water. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding almost absent, like it’s something he hasn’t really thought about. “I didn’t get around to it, I guess.”

The muscles in your jaw ticks as you bite the inside of your cheeks.

Spencer turns, offering you a glass. “I was thinking of Chinese, or maybe we can check if that Thai place you like is still open.”

You take the glass from him, barely sparing it a glance before setting it back down on the counter. “Whatever you want is fine.”

A subtle crease appears between his brows. “You sure? You usually have some opinion when it comes to food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t want to eat anything?”

You suppress a sigh. "No. I'm tired."

The soft amber of his eyes dims slightly as he studies you. There's a flicker of uncertainty passing through them before he nods. “Alright,” he concedes. “We don’t have to order anything.”

A faint, humorless laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It tastes bitter, a little unfair, but it slips out before you can pull it back, “You don’t have to change your plans on my account, Spencer.”

“I’m not changing any plans,” he responds. “I’m just making sure you have something to eat in case you’re hungry.”

Your shoes dig uncomfortably into your feet. You shift your weight, starting to pace a few steps back and forth. "It's dinner, you don't have to check on me for every little thing. Do whatever you like."

He blinks, looking genuinely perplexed. "What are you saying? I was trying to be considerate."

"Right. Considerate.”

There’s an unmistakable bite in your tone.

“Yes, because we like doing these things together," he observes, watching your uneasy pacing. "Am I missing something here?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

"Honey."

The term of endearment lands softly, slipping from his lips like he believes it has the power to melt whatever tension has suddenly crept between you. But it only tightens the knot building in your stomach. It’s stirring the words you’re trying to hold back, tangling them somewhere between your chest and throat.

He calls your name this time, his eyes narrowing into sharp lines. “You’ve been awfully quiet on our way home, and now you’re… honestly, I don’t know why you're acting this way.” His voice dips with a tinge of exasperation. "What’s this really about?"

The words you’ve been biting back feel like a stack of stones in your throat, rising up, up, up, each one pressed tighter by the gnawing nausea in your stomach. You can feel them gathering, and before you know it, they tumble out messily.

“I’m just saying, don’t let me hold you back from getting what you want. I wouldn’t want to stop you from anything—or, god forbid," you add, letting your gaze drift away as if a little distance might soften the blow, “anyone.”

The soft, almost stifled inhale he takes is audible. You don’t even have to look up to see his expression shifting. You’ve known him long enough to recognize the way his shoulders tense, the way his breathing slows as he processes your words. You know his reaction by heart, yet right now, you wonder if saying this was a mistake, if this is the start of something neither of you can take back.

His fingers twitching at his side slip into your line of sight. He's angry.

Maybe this isn’t the time to start a fight.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Your heels click softly as you turn.

“Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything,” you mutter, already moving toward the bedroom that’s been yours, too, for the past year. Although it feels strange tonight, like a space that belongs to someone else. A life you’re not entirely sure you belong in.

“No." His voice is somewhere behind you. “I think you should explain to me what you mean by that.”

You don’t respond, choosing instead to sink onto the edge of the bed, hands fumbling as you try to undo the straps of your heels. You twist the stubborn leather with more force. His shadow fills the doorway.

“Honey.”

Not again.

You decide to ignore him.

“Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

You tug harder at the strap. “No.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’re clearly bothered by something.”

You shake your head, fingers still fumbling, the leather cutting against your ankle with each pull. “I’m just tired. Can we leave it at that?”

There’s a flicker of frustration in his gaze now, a crease forming between his brows as he studies you. He moves into the room. You barely have the chance to react before he lowers himself, bending one knee to the floor as he reaches toward the strap you’ve been fighting with. “Here, let me—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, pulling your foot away. “I can do it myself.”

“I know you can. But let me—”

“I can do it myself!”

Your heartbeat thuds loud in your ears, each pulse feeding the frustration that’s wound its way up from your chest. He rises slowly, not a word passing his lips, but the tension radiates off him like heat. He’s close enough that his warmth presses against your skin, although it’s not the kind you usually find comforting. It’s almost suffocating.

You turn your focus back to the stubborn strap, your fingers trembling slightly as you struggle to grip it. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him slipping off his shoes, one after the other, the soft thuds barely audible over the rush of your own heartbeat. He pulls off his suit jacket, carefully smoothing the crumpled fabric before hanging it in the closet. For a moment, it seems like he’s going to let it go… until his gaze drifts back to you.

You can tell his patience is fraying, and you’re proven right when he asks again, “What did you mean by that? When you said you wouldn’t want to stop me from anyone… what was that supposed to mean?”

You finally manage to tug the strap loose. The heel drops to the floor with a muted thump. “It was nothing.”

“I don’t think you’d say something like that if it was nothing.”

Your focus shifts to the other shoe. “Just drop it, Spencer.”

"How am I supposed to drop it when you're implying... whatever it is you're implying?"

You keep your eyes down, wrestling with the strap in silence. He cuts through the quiet before it has a chance to grow.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t brush it off like it’s nothing when it clearly means something. I need to know why you said that.”

You kick off the other heel and meet his gaze for the first time since you walked into the room. “You really want to know?”

He reaches for his bow tie, yanking it loose it with one hard pull. “Do I want to know why you’re giving me this attitude right now? Yes. Yes, I do.”

Oh. So this is going to be that kind of fight.

You hadn’t expected it to go here. Fights with Spencer are very rare, usually more a clash of misunderstandings that you both laugh about with limbs tangled between sheets by the time you’ve made peace. But seeing him standing there with the tie hanging loosely around his neck and his five o’clock shadow casting an even darker line along his jaw, it hits you differently.

This is real. And this time, you don’t know if brushing it off will fix anything.

“Fine, let’s talk about it then.” You rise from the bed, tension carrying you to your feet. “Emily’s speech tonight.”

His brow furrows, not quite a scowl, more a cautious crease as he processes your tone. “Emily’s speech? What about it?”

“What do you remember of it?”

There’s a slight pause, and you can tell he's clearly caught off guard by the question. “She mentioned how Rossi and Krystal are twin flames."

“Right. Two souls that are always meant to be together.”

His face is still marked by confusion, but there’s something else creeping in. A subtle tightening around his eyes tells you he’s starting to piece it together. “I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

“You looked at JJ the second Emily made that speech,” you cut him off. “Spencer, you didn’t even spare a glance at your future wife because you were too busy making eyes at the woman who’s apparently been in love with you all these years.”

There. You said it. The words that have twisted around your insides all evening are finally out. And maybe they taste a little bitter, but at least they're not choking you anymore.

A second passes, then another, and by the time the fifth heartbeat ticks by, he’s standing there with his hand on his hip.

“That’s not what happened."

“Then what was it?” you demand. "I sat beside you the whole day, you didn't even try to hide it."

“That’s not—you’re twisting things.” His hand moves through his hair, fingers digging in as his curls tumble forward onto his forehead. “And you know what happened that night wasn’t real. It was a forced confession. She was under duress, we both were. JJ and I are just friends.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You look at all your friends like that?”

His hand drops to his side. "I don't know what else you want me to say. JJ said what she did because she thought we might die. She has a family, and a husband who she loves. We already went through this, I don't understand why this is suddenly an issue again."

“Maybe I wouldn’t be bringing this up if you didn’t look at her tonight like you were ready to break up that marriage yourself.”

A flash of shock and anger crosses his features.

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice sharper than you’ve heard in a while. “Do you really think I’d disregard everything I have with you because of a look? Because of a history that has never gone anywhere?”

“I don’t know what to think. It's not like it happened just once, I saw you looking at her the same way at the bar." You step forward, accidentally kicking your discarded heel as you move. "What were you two talking about, anyway?”

He lets out a tight breath. “She was checking in on me. She… we haven’t talked much since then.”

The corners of your mouth pull down. “Mhm. Another round of truth or dare?”

“I can’t believe you’re using that against me." His hair flops forward as he shakes his head, falling messily over his brow. "If there were anything unresolved with JJ, I would’ve said something. But I didn’t, because there’s nothing there."

“And yet, she’s always been an important part of your life, hasn't she?"

He tilts his head. "What are trying to say now?"

Your tongue darts out, briefly brushing your lips. You're not sure you should say it, but it feels like a door has swung open—a door to words that have been waiting for their moment.

You take a slow, deep breath, filling your lungs with as much air as you can.

“When you were in prison, you put her on your visiting list ahead of almost everyone else. Doesn’t that say something about where she stands with you?”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.

“She’s part of the team,” he says, as if he’s trying to spell out something he’s already explained a dozen times. "There were strict rules, I already told you that only a handful of people were allowed to visit. It wasn’t like I could just put anyone on the list.”

“But you could’ve put me on there!”

The familiar burn of tears prickles at the edges of your eyes, but you blink them back, refusing to let them fall. An explanation or protest is poised on his lips, but you’re already moving, closing the distance with a single, decisive step. A finger lands on his chest.

“I was your girlfriend, Spencer. Were you that determined to keep me out? Was the thought of seeing me really so unbearable? Do you even understand how hard it was to sit at home, knowing you were locked up, feeling completely helpless? Do you have any idea how much I hated myself day after day because I couldn’t do anything to help you?”

Your lips quiver. You feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat.

“I was out here, just… waiting. Wondering if you were okay, if they were treating you alright, if you even had someone to talk to. And meanwhile, she’s there, with you. Every single time, she’s the one who gets to be by your side.”

Your nail digs into the fabric of his shirt.

“So forgive me if I can’t just let that go. Because when it mattered, it felt like you didn’t want me to be there for you. And now… now I don’t even know if you need me the way you seem to need her.”

Your breathing turns shallow, each inhale catching in your chest. The tears you’ve been holding back are dangerously blurring your vision. You swallow the knot lodged in your throat.

“I need a minute.”

Without another word, you turn and walk out of the room, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. You slip back into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you finally reach for the glass of water that’s been sitting there untouched. You take a sip, barely feeling the cool water on your lips, when you hear his footsteps behind you.

“You think I don’t want you in my life?” he demands. “You think I somehow need her more than I need you?”

You set the glass down. “What part of ‘I need a minute’ do you not understand?”

“You really expect me to wait quietly after you unloaded every doubt you’ve ever had about us?”

You life your chin up. “Yes, I do. I need space to think right now.”

“What more do you want to think about when you’ve already convinced yourself that I’m always going to fall short? Is it so hard to believe that you’re the one I want?”

“You want to know why it’s so damn hard to believe?” You turn towards him. “Because every time I try to let this go, there’s always something. A confession. That—that not-so-subtle look. And when those things happen, it reminds me that I’m not as close to you as she is. I’m fucking tired of feeling like I’m fighting for space in your life.”

“Do you think I want you to feel like that? Do you think I’d go through everything we’ve been through if you didn’t matter to me?”

“Then explain to me why I wasn’t on that list!” you cry out. “Explain to me why, in one of the hardest times of your life, you couldn’t make space for me?”

“Because I was trying to protect you!”

A heavy, dreadful silence falls between you. He takes a step back, his eyelids fluttering shut briefly, and when he opens them again, there’s a softness in his gaze that mirrors the gentleness now threading through his voice.

“I know it probably doesn’t make sense to you, and maybe it never will, but I couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing me like that. Living through it was hard enough, but having you there, seeing me so helpless… It would have crushed me. I didn’t want that to be your memory of me.”

His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, a quick, almost anxious movement you’ve witnessed countless times.

“And when JJ came to see me,” he continues, “the way the inmates looked at her, the things they said after she left… it was disgusting. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen to you. I couldn’t live with thought of you being subjected to that because of me.”

You lower your head with a sigh. “I don’t care if they looked. I don’t care what they would’ve thought.”

“But I care,” he fires back, taking a step forward. “Because you mean more to me than anyone. All I wanted was to keep you safe, and maybe I didn't handle it right, maybe I made the wrong call... but it was only because I—" His voice drops into an even more gentle note. "Because I love you."

Your heart stumbles, an uneven beat that feels almost bruised, pounding hard against your ribs.

"I-I love you so much. More than I know how to put into words." The ache in your chest sharpens as his hands come up to cup your cheeks. "I don't like fighting with you. I hate it, actually. I hate seeing you look at me like this."

You also hate the way he’s looking at you. There’s a depth to his annoyingly pretty eyes that makes it impossible to hold up your defenses without feeling them crumble. You let your eyes flutter closed.

“Why don’t we… call it a night?” He suggests. “Let’s lie down. We don’t have to talk about this now.”

The blackness behind your eyelids does little to quiet your mind. Nor does his voice. Or his touch. Instead of offering peace, his presence throws every glance, every moment of tension from tonight into sharper relief.

You draw in a breath, trying to find some comfort in his palms against your cheeks. Yet, even this can’t smooth away the doubt that’s settled in. With a resigned sigh, you release the breath you’ve been holding along with the words that have been pressing at the back of your throat.

“You haven’t explained it to me.”

The shadows in his gaze seem to deepen when you open your eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been going in circles, but you haven’t explained to me what happened tonight,” you say quietly. “Why did you look at her, Spencer?”

His thumb absently strokes your cheek in a way that feels more hesitant than reassuring.

“Be honest with me,” you press. “Was there a part of you, even the tiniest part, that still wanted something with her? Some small part of you that… wondered what it might be like?”

The silence between you presses in from all sides, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled ticking of a clock on the wall. It’s the kind of quiet that sharpens even the smallest sounds, yet his lack of response feels like the loudest thing of all.

You pull back from him with an incredulous laugh.

“Unbelievable.” The word barely makes it past your lips, then louder as you start to move, pacing the length of the apartment. “Unbelievable.”

“Wait,” he says, trailing after you, “I didn’t even say anything.”

You stop short by the couch and whip around to face him.

“You didn’t need to! You—you hesitated," you stammer, searching his face for any flicker of denial, but it’s there, plain as day, that split-second of doubt you caught. “That was already an answer.”

He inches closer. A hand closes in on you. “Please—”

You flinch, pulling back, and every muscle in your body tightens. “Don’t. Don’t touch me right now.”

His hand falls to his side. “Please… let me explain."

You watch his hand drop, fingers twitching like they’re not sure if they should retreat or reach out again, but he keeps them there, hovering in some invisible line you’ve drawn. He looks at you with those big, pleading eyes, and for a split second, you almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

A bitter sort of smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "So now you want to explain?"

He takes that as permission, and his voice comes in low, almost cautious. "When I first started at the BAU, I had… maybe a crush. A passing thing, barely anything, really. But that was fourteen years ago.” His hand scrubs through his hair in a frustrated sweep. “Fourteen years."

Your brows pull into a frown. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“Because it was nothing,” he says, almost too quickly. “I was young, it didn’t matter. I didn’t think it was worth bringing up.”

“Oh, I get it now. All those old feelings came rushing back the night she confessed, didn’t they?”

He mirrors your frown, a visible line of tension etching itself between his brows as he protests, “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?” you press. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a whole lot like you’re caught between us because some part of you is still hung up on what might’ve been with her."

He shifts uncomfortably, and you notice the muscles in his jaw clenching the moment his gaze falters, dipping away for just a heartbeat before he looks back at you.

“It’s not that I don’t know what I want,” he starts to explain. “I didn’t expect her to say those things, and, yes, it threw me off for a moment. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking back, or that I want her. I want you.”

You shake your head, feeling a tired sort of frustration settle over you, and walk over to the couch. The soft cushions give slightly beneath you as you sink down.

“If you really wanted me, this wouldn’t be happening. You wouldn’t have let her get into your head like that. And now, you expect to believe that none of it meant anything?”

He’s quick to follow, closing the distance in a few tense steps. “It’s not—” His hands flex open and close at his sides. “You’re acting like one single look tonight is enough to decide I’m not committed to you. Do you really think I’d let some confession I didn’t even ask for get in the way of what we have?”

“It’s not just about that single look. It’s the way she could say something and suddenly, you’re pulled back to something you swore you’d put behind you. How am I supposed to feel secure when she still has that power over you?”

“And what am I supposed to do, then? Apologize for things I don’t even feel anymore?”

You flinch at the sharpness in his voice. A low, frustrated noise rumbles in his chest when you don’t respond.

“You’re always going to question me no matter what I say, aren’t you?"

You glance over at him, catching the disheveled strands of hair falling over his forehead, and it pulls you back to that night he came home after that dreadful night. He’d walked in looking worn in a way you’d never seen before, his whole posture weighted down as if he was carrying more than just the fear of being held hostage.

You remember sitting with him on this same couch, fingers brushing his, and asking what was bothering him.

JJ said she loved me.

Your heart lurched, a quick, quiet ache that you tried to swallow down. Really?

Don’t worry. It’s not true.

But with that same haunted look in his eyes right now, you can’t help but wonder if it really was just a well-intentioned lie.

“One glance and you’re accusing me of things that are never going to happen,” he starts again. “Do you really think so little of me? After everything we’ve shared, you really think I’d betray you like that?”

In true honesty, you don’t believe he would ever cross that line. But the doubts still linger, fed by those small hesitations, the moments when his eyes seem somewhere else. It’s not that you think he’d betray you. It’s that a part of him might still be holding onto something he won’t let you see.

“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

Now those words you might actually believe.

“Maybe I don’t,” you say quietly, eyes drifting to the ring on your finger. You twist it absently, remembering the night he proposed. How he’d stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing as he tried to make the moment perfect but ended up rambling in that endearing, nervous way of his. You’d laughed, reassured him that it was exactly right, that you didn’t need grand gestures. All you needed was him.

And yet, you don’t think he needs you as much you need him.

A hollow ache settles around your hand as you slip the ring off.

“What are you doing?”

You stare down at the gold band in your palm, blinking back the sting of tears.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

Panic. Desperation. There’s a sudden rush of melancholy in his voice, a heaviness that wasn’t there a moment ago.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “I—I don’t know anything right now.”

His face crumples, and in a sudden, almost instinctive movement, he drops down to his knees.

“No, no, you do know me. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. Isn’t this—” he stops, then dips his head, trying to catch your gaze. “Isn’t that what couples do? They argue, they mess things up… but they work through it, right? Right?”

You look down, feeling the cool weight of the ring pressing into your skin.

“Spencer…” you begin. “I trust you. I do, and I’m sorry if I made it seem like I didn’t. But… I need to feel secure. I… I need to know that I don’t have to wonder or worry about where I stand. I never thought you’d be the one to make me doubt that.”

There’s a sharp ache in your chest.

“I didn’t think it could hurt this much. Not from you.”

Your pulse ring in your ear.

“I can’t—” The words catch in your throat, a stinging burn rising as you force them out. “I can’t be your wife when I’m constantly questioning if I have all of you. When I feel like… there’s always a part of you that isn’t mine.”

“I’m yours, honey. I’m always yours.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

There’s a slight falter in his voice. “Don’t—please don’t do this—”

“I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

He falls silent, and for a moment, the only sound is the rough, uneven rhythm of both your breaths filling the space between you. Then, like something inside him finally cracks open, he sinks down, pressing his forehead against your lap. The sudden weight of him forces a broken sob from your throat.

“Please,” he begs, fingers clutching at your sides. His chin presses deep into your thigh. “Tell me how to fix this. I can’t— I can’t lose you.”

“Spence…”

“I love you,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from him in a rush. “I love you.”

But what is love, really? Is it just a word people reach for when they’ve run out of things to say, a way to patch over bruised hearts and broken promises? Or should it feel like something more solid, something that doesn’t leave you questioning or aching? You can’t even tell anymore.

You wonder, too, if maybe you’ve been wrong all along. If this feeling in your chest isn’t love but something dressed up as it, something that fills the gaps while slowly hollowing you out. Because here you are, clinging to a love that somehow makes you feel like you’re both needed and unseen. Everything and nothing all at once.

You feel like a fool.

“I want to go to bed.”

His head lifts from your lap, a flash of surprise darting across his face, as though he hadn’t expected you to say anything at all, let alone that. “Yeah, okay, let’s go to bed. We’ll… we’ll figure this out in the morning.”

“I’d rather be alone.”

The words hit him visibly. His mouth opens, an argument forming there, but he catches himself, letting the silence stretch before he nods slowly.

“Then… I’ll stay out here. On the couch,” he offers softly. “Just… in case you need anything.”

A pang cuts through you at the thought of him stretched out on the couch, his legs too long, his shoulders folded in to fit the cramped space. But the idea of sharing a bed right now feels impossible.

You reach down, holding out the ring towards him.

“No,” he says firmly, gently pushing your hand away. “Don’t do that. This… it doesn’t mean we’re giving up. It just means we need time. That’s all.”

You’re not sure if your mind will change in the morning. The ring presses into your skin, but finally, you close your hand around it, nodding faintly before you peel away from him.

The tears start the moment the bedroom door clicks shut behind you. It spills over in a jagged, helpless cry that sounds nothing like you imagined heartbreak might sound. It’s messy, a kind of aching grief that feels too big for your chest, clawing its way out with no grace at all. You can practically hear how pathetic you sound, and yet you can’t seem to stop.

Even when the hem of your dress trails across the floor. Even when you finally collapse onto his side of the bed. There’s no stopping you. With the ring sitting cold in your hand, your tears keep coming, soaking into the pillow as you cling to the last trace of him woven into the sheets.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid fem!reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #angst #angst with no happy ending

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urmum-lovesme · 1 month ago

Text

Bunny (P14)

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: Whelp- after 2 months of waiting here's what everyone's been longing for.... Jeez Louise, I did re-write and re-read this a few times cause it's pretty intense so I hope you all feel the same heart shattering feeling I did when I re-read this for the last time.

warnings: angst angst angst, extremely violent behaviour, abuse, broken bottles, bleeding, implication of drug abuse, alcohol, injuries, abusive father, domestic abuse, mentions of past trauma, sad!rafe, sad!bunny, soft!rafe.

(P1) (P2) (P3) (P4) (P5) (P6) (P7) (P8) (P9) (P10) (P11) (P12) (P13) (P14) (P15) (P16)

The silence clung to the walls like thick and choking smoke and the heels sat perfectly placed on the coffee table like some cruel centre piece. Her eyes couldn’t leave them. Her chest was so tight she felt like her throat was constricted as she stood frozen. It was quiet except for the low buzz of the lamp beside Luke, shadows flickering on the walls and across his face. She could hear the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen but every mundane noise around her felt too loud- like the whole house was holding its breath just like she was. Luke shifted, just slightly, a lazy movement of him casually leaning back into the couch, his eyes flicked up to her with a sick kind of amusement,

“Didn’t think I’d find out, huh?”

His voice was gravelly, thick with liquor and something else that she'd become much too familiar with- something clearly much stronger and it clung to every word. She didn’t answer right away, her mouth was too dry and her fingers were twitching at her sides, but she forced herself not to flinch. Her heart thudded against her ribs like it wanted to escape.

Run.

Hide.

She felt… small.

Small in the way she hadn’t felt in years, small like a little girl caught with something behind her back waiting for the consequence. But she vowed to herself years ago that she wasn’t a little girl anymore, so she straightened. Her spine stiff, shoulders squaring as much as she could manage under the weight pressing down on her. She made her voice as steady as she could, dragging the words up from somewhere deep inside her chest as she took a few steps away from the front the door into the house.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about...”

She hated how it sounded, too light, too rehearsed and much too defensive. Luke didn’t move- he didn’t need to. His presence was already a vice around her lungs. Instead he just gave a low, bitter laugh, shaking his head like she was the one being ridiculous.

“No?” he rasped, “Then maybe these just walked in all on their own...?”

He nodded toward the shoes with a mocking jerk of his chin and she swallowed thickly, jaw tightening,

“You went through my stuff-”

“-I live here, don’t I?”

He slurred, as if that made his actions justified. As if being under this roof gave him permission to dig into pieces of her that didn’t belong to him- that she'd worked so incredibly hard to keep a secret.

“You have no right—”

“-I have every right to know what my daughter’s doing for money.” He leaned forward now moving his elbows on his knees and even in the dim light she could see the bloodshot gleam in his eyes.

“So tell me sweetheart, how much do they pay you to walk around like a whore?”

The word hit like a slap and her whole body went stiff. There it was. No more dancing around the subject. No more fake passive tone- he’d said it out loud, and it sounded ugly. Her nails dug into her palms and the heat behind her eyes built fast, but she blinked it back.

“Don’t call me that.”

She said, voice low and he smirked like it was funny. Like she was amusing him, then he took a sip from his glass the melting ice clinking lazily around the small amount of liquid left.

“Why not? That's what you do, right? You dance for men- let ‘em stuff their dirty little bills wherever they want. Bet you like that, huh?”

She wanted to scream, to throw something at him and run. But she didn’t, she stood her ground, even though every part of her felt like it was going to collapse in on itself. She whispered out bitterly,

“You don’t know anything about me”

“Oh- I know enough.”

His words slurred at the edges a cold silence fell between them again. She looked at him- really looked at him. The man sitting on the couch wasn’t a father. Not the kind she’d spent her childhood wishing would show up to school plays or bandage her scraped knees. This was just a shell, hollowed out and rotting from the inside out, drenched and drowning in whiskey and maybe it had always been this way. She took a breath, the weight of it cutting sharp through her lungs.

“No you don't”

"Someone’s feeling brave tonight.”

Luke’s mouth twitched into something mean but she didn’t flinch- she refused to give him the satisfaction her cowering. Even when he stood up, her eyes didn’t leave the shoes on the coffee table. He stumbled slightly as he rose, and the half-empty glass he’d abandoned wobbled on the edge of the table where he'd placed it down. She took a breath, deep and slow and the floorboard beneath her creaked quietly in the otherwise suffocating silence around them.

“Where did you get those?”

She asked, voice low but clear whilst her eyes flicked up from the heels to his face, searching for confirmation of what she already knew. Luke was already pushing himself further away from the couch, movements sluggish, as he uncoordinatedly dragged his shoes against the floor. He swayed toward her, close enough now that she could smell it, cheap whiskey that clung to him.

“None of your damn business.”

Her jaw tightened, “They were under my bed,” she said slower this time, “why were you in my room....” He didn’t answer right away, just sneered. The lamp’s light hit the sharp planes of his face, deepening the shadows under his eyes, casting an eerie glow along his jaw.

"Were you looking for mone-"

“-I said,” he repeated, his voice dropping into a slurred mockery, “none of your goddamn business.”

She didn’t flinch, but she felt her pulse hammer in her throat. Her skin prickled with cold, even as heat burned in her chest. She said stiffly, crossing her arms, though her fingers trembled, “They aren’t mine” He laughed then, an ugly sound that rattled in his chest and echoed around the living room. Not amused but spiteful. “Oh, right,” he said, teeth bared in something that was definitely not a smile.

“Right. Some other girl’s little hooker heels live under your bed.”

Before she could say anything back, before the breath could even reach her lungs- he picked the heels up with one unsteady hand and hurled them. The sound was sharper than she expected, a hard clatter of plastic striking the floorboards, the left heel bouncing once before skidding to a stop at her feet. She didn’t move- stood completely still- arms at her sides, fingers trembling faintly like static was moving beneath her skin. The heels lay crooked at her feet, their rhinestones catching the warm light and glinting like they were mocking her. The other rested just beside it, half-twisted, the clear strap folded in on itself like it was ashamed. Luke’s breathing was ragged now, heavy in the quiet room. She could feel him watching her, could feel the pressure of his gaze, like it was trying to crawl under her skin, tear into whatever defences she had left. “Go on,” he muttered,

“Pick ’em up, you need ‘em for your shift tonight.”

Y/N's vision sharpened, then blurred around the edges as she kept her eyes on the shoes. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but instead she swallowed hard and she said nothing because if she opened her mouth now, she wasn’t sure what would come out. Not even as her father narrowed his bloodshot eyes at her, studying her with the kind of loathing that seeps deeper than a blade. Her spine stayed stiff and she slowly meets his stare. She refuses to drop her gaze. Luke lets out a rough exhale, then turns, staggering back toward the couch. She watches every movement like a hawk, the weight of her heartbeat thunderous in her ears. He reaches for a bottle on the table, half-balanced between ashtrays and pill bottles. His fingers curl around the neck of it and he tips it back. Nothing. The bottle’s empty. He stares at it, eyes vacant and lips curling in disgust and then—

He turns and throws the glass bottle across the room.

The sound is sudden. It hits the wall just behind her and shatters, exploding into glittering shards like fireworks. She gasps- a small, strangled sound- and her hands instinctively fly up to shield herself as fragments rain down and clink against the floor. One shard bounces and skims across her arm, leaving a stinging trail of red. She’s still frozen, chest rising and falling too fast, breath catching in her throat. Luke’s voice cuts through the moment, “You’re just like your mother,” he spits, tone low and cruel.

“Whoring yourself out to the whole damn island.”

Her stomach drops, “Stop,” she breathes,“Stop it.” She tries to keep her voice even, but it quivers as she glances toward the hallway- toward the small, cracked door at the end... JJ’s room. She can’t- he can’t hear this. Her voice sharpens, panicked.

“Please. Just— keep your voice down or you'll wake him up.”

Luke ignores her- he smirks, “What?” he taunts. “You’re embarrassed now?” He throws his head back and laughs amused,

“You’re embarrassed aren't you-”

“-stop raising your voice!”

She snaps, quieter than before but more desperate, her words shaking, “Please stop.” He steps toward her again. Too fast. She doesn’t even have time to move as he grabs her chin- fingers digging in hard, rough- yanking her face up to meet his. The pressure sends a bolt of pain through her jaw and she lets out a quiet gasp.

“Shut the fuck up”

He growls, his breath is hot and too close flooding her senses smothering her. Her eyes sting, and her heart is thudding against her ribs so loud it might claw its way through her skin. Her breath is barely there now, shallow and trembling. She doesn’t dare look toward JJ’s door again. For a moment- just a breath- there’s stillness and Luke’s hand drops from her chin, fingers uncurling like a slow release of pressure. She exhales shakily, chest tight with dread. Her face throbs where his grip had been but he let go and maybe that means he’s don—

His arm swings.

The slap comes without warning- a violent CRACK echoing through the small living room like a gunshot. Her head whips to the side from the impact and a choked sound leaves her throat, barely a cry. Her vision goes white for a second as the sting blooms across her cheekbone. She stumbles backward- legs buckling- and she crashes down hard onto the floor. Her hip hits the edge of a chair, knocking it sideways. Wood scrapes across the floor, loud and jarring and she lands on her ass with a thud, palms hitting the ground to catch herself. She’s dazed her ears ringing and the room sways slightly.

From down the hall, there’s the creak of a door opening.

“...What the hell?”

JJ’s voice, groggy, still thick with sleep as he mumbles more to himself than anyone else. His figure rounds the corner, rubbing his eyes with the bottom of his t-shirt which is rumpled from sleep. But then he stops- freezes mid-step. His eyes drop to the scene, Y/N on the floor dazed one hand holding the side of her face, a toppled chair beside her. They hadn’t spoken since their argument and even though it cut them deep and left them both angry and raw, it didn’t matter now. Whatever was said, whatever tension hung between them, he wasn’t about to stand there and watch their father raise a hand to her. Not after all the times she’d stood up for him- shielded him, defended him when no one else would. Luke staggered forward again with his hand raised like he’s about to strike again and JJ’s whole body snaps into motion.

“Hey-!”

He grabs Luke’s wrist mid-air just before it can strike and shoves him back hard. Luke stumbles, nearly tripping over the coffee table but steadies himself with a growl, face flushed with rage and drunkenness. His eyes burn with fury as he shoves JJ right back, sending him a step back toward the wall, feet barely avoiding the broken glass on the floor by his feet. JJ doesn’t stumble far- he’s too steady for that and the second he finds his footing again, he attempts to put himself between Y/N and their father. His arm automatically moves in front of her like a shield but Luke’s chest is heaving his voice slurring with venom as he spits over JJ's shoulder to the girl on the floor,

“Get out of this house.”

The words cut through the space harshly. Y/N’s ears are still ringing, but she hears it and it's like a slap all over again. Her head lifts slowly, lips parted. “...What?” Her voice is weak, barely a whisper whilst JJ’s eyes flash with confusion,

“What?”

He echoes incredulous but Luke isn’t listening. He pushes past JJ, snarling like a wild dog. And before either of them can react, he grabs Y/N by the hair- fist twisted tight as he yanks her up from the floor like a rag doll. She lets out a sharp cry, her hands flying up to grab at his arm, fingers scrabbling and nails digging into his skin. JJ’s shout in protest breaks like thunder, hands already reaching to wrench her free, but Luke holds steadily, dragging her upward until she’s on her knees, her neck straining under the pull. The pain is blinding and her scalp screams at the pressure- vision going spotty and through it all her heart pounds. “Stop.” JJ’s voice comes low and firm, no longer confused, no longer groggy and his hands are on Luke again, trying to pry him off her.

“Dad get off of her”

He’s practically wrestling Luke now, arms locked around his to break his grip. Y/N’s face is tight with pain quiet whimpers escaping her lips involuntarily, her knees barely finding balance on the hardwood, her scalp still burning from the pull.

“JJ stop-”

She gasps out, voice cracking, because although she doesn't want to admit it she knows this can get worse. Luke snarls and shoves JJ back, catching him off balance. The blonde boy stumbles, trying to recover, but Luke follows fast and grabs him by the collar of his T-shirt, jerking him forward like he weighs nothing. Then he shoves JJ back so violently, he knocks his shin on the coffee table and flies into the couch. The cushions buckle under his weight, and he hits the backrest hard, a grunt punched out of him as the wind is knocked from his lungs. He curls forward slightly, hand on his ribs, trying to catch his breath.

“Jay—”

Y/N calls out as she pushes herself up and takes a step toward him, reaching out instinctively- but Luke catches her by the back of her top. He wrenches her to a stop like he owns her and her breath catches in her throat as she feels the fabric of her shirt pull tight around her collarbones, choking her slightly. Voice like acid Luke speaks out;

“I won’t have a prostitute in my house.”

It’s not shouted, it’s spat, full of filth and shame.

Her entire body goes still, not just frozen- but paralysed, like her soul stepped out of her skin. JJ looks up at them, finally catching enough air to sit upright again and for the first time since he appeared, he hears what this argument is even about. Every nerve in the room goes electric and the silence that follows is louder than the violence. Y/N’s face pales and her jaw tightens- but her eyes… they’re glassy. Because in that moment, her worst fear is real- JJ's looking at her eyes wide and unmoving

He's still sitting on the couch his chest rising and falling, watching. Watching frozen as Luke picks up the heels from the floor and hurls them across the room. They bounce off Y/N’s thigh with a sharp thud, then clatter uselessly to the floor by her feet again. She flinches, her lip trembling, tears gathering like stormwater.

“Dad... please”

She whispers, her voice wrecked, her hands up now palms half-raised like she’s pleading, not sure whether to defend herself or beg. Luke turns, sneering like a madman, he points at her but addresses JJ,

“Your sister here’s been slutting herself out to the whole island” His head tips mockingly, his tone acidic.

“Haven’t you sweetheart?”

She breaks- just completely breaks. “Please,” she cries, her voice ragged, barely recognizable.

"Working as a fucking stripper thinking we wouldn't find out?

“Please stop—”

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

He bellows and Y/N snaps back, trembling from head to toe. Her face is wet with tears, her eyes red and wide with disbelief.

“I pay for this house,” she chokes out, “I pay for everything-”

Luke’s arm lashes out toward the table. His hand grabs a beer bottle, half-full, sticky, and hurls it at her CRASH. It explodes on the wall next to her and JJ flinches from his spot on the couch as the glass rains down scattering near her feet the warm alcohol landing in warm splatters over her skin.

“GET OUT!”

Luke roars out again, the veins in his neck pulsing. She’s sobbing now- deep, guttural, humiliating sobs she’s never let out before, not in public, not even alone- never like this. Her gaze flicks to JJ, still slumped slightly forward on the couch. His face is blank and she can tell he's still stunned, still trying to process. Not just the violence but the truth behind his fathers words because surely this cant be true... He’s never seen his father like this. Not this bad. “JJ,” she gasps out through her sobs.

“Please I can explain…”

But he doesn’t move- he can’t. His father is standing right in front of him, tall and wild and swaying like a storm with legs, casting a shadow over JJ like he’s eight years old again hiding defensively in his bedroom whilst he listens to his sister taking the blows of his fathers anger through the cracked wooden door.

“We don’t want your dirty fucking money”

Luke snarls, he spits the words out each syllable laced with years of resentment and JJ finally starts to rise, hands bracing against the cushions but Luke is already on her. He storms over to her like a force of nature, grabbing her by the arm, yanking her toward the front door.

“Get off me”

She sobs through her tears, but it’s useless. “Y/N!?” JJ calls out, but he’s caught between the couch and Luke as the older man throws open the door like it’s nothing, pushing her onto the porch. Her feet stumble, scraping over the wood as she tries to gain footing but Luke is relentless.

JJ pushes through the doorway now protests falling from his mouth, but Luke has momentum. He manhandles her through the porch, down the steps, and shoves her hard- her knees hit the grass outside the house. She lands with a choked sob, both palms and knees scraping against the dirt, her breath punched from her lungs as she crumples in the dark yard. The porch light flickers above her like it’s ashamed and JJ follows after her, heart pounding, reaching out but Luke twists back and-

Slams a palm into JJ’s face.

“NO!”

Y/N cries out from the ground as JJ stumbles back hand flying to his cheek, eyes narrowed in pain as the sting sets in. Blood flushes to the surface, his tanned skin blooming with the red shape of a palm. Luke turns his head back towards her slowly, locking eyes with her again. His lip curling with disgust,

“Don’t fucking come back,” he growls, low and final. “You hear me?”

He turns to JJ grunting out, “Get in”

Luke mutters his voice sour, then he shoves the blonde boy one firm hand in the centre of JJ’s chest pushing him hard enough that he stumbles backward into the house, nearly tripping over the edge of the carpet. JJ barely catches himself, breath hitching in his throat. Luke doesn’t look at him again, instead, he turns back to the porch, to the night, to her. Y/N is still on her knees in the grass, chest heaving with desperate sobs, her arms limp now at her sides. The tears streak her cheeks like messy rivers and Luke sneers at the sight of her like she’s filth he stepped in and then he lifts his arm again.

Whip

The heels sail through the air- those stupid plastic heels. They hit the ground a few feet away from her with a soft thud, not nearly dramatic enough for how much they meant meerly a few moments ago. One lands upside down, the other on its side.

Pitiful.

Y/N stares at them.

Settled awkwardly in the grass like discarded trash, like they’re a symbol of everything she tried to hide, everything she gave up to survive. Luke stands there in the doorway just second longer, long enough to let the insult settle into the silence between them.

SLAM

The door crashes shut behind him, the frame trembling and Y/N is left outside alone in the dark. On her knees surrounded by the pieces of her life now scattered in the grass. She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting there, could’ve been five minutes, could’ve been twenty. Time stopped making sense the moment the door slammed behind her, the moment the grass kissed her knees and refused to let go. Her legs are numb now, tingling from the way she's been sat in this kneeling position. Stiff from how she’s been folded on them like a prayer left unanswered. Her breath still hitches every so often broken, shivering sobs leaving her in empty exhales.

Eventually, with a soft whimper of effort, she drags herself forward. The grass is dry beneath her palms, dust rough against her skin as she reaches for the shoes- the stupid fucking heels. She picks them up, fingers curling around the plastic, the weight of them suddenly so heavy it makes her stomach twist and then she stands on shaky legs.

She doesn't even look back at the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N sits in her car the engine off, the world around her still. She’s in the parking lot tucked-away in their spot. Hidden from the rest of the world. Her arms rest heavy in her lap and the heels sit beside her on the passenger seat, one of the straps dangling limply. Her fingers twitch, the pads of them an angry red. Her hands sting with every shift- scraped and bruised from the way she'd hit the ground. Her knees burn too, and her cheek is swollen and hot, the imprint of Luke’s hand still burning on her skin like a brand. Her head feels like it might split open from the ache thumping behind her eyes.

It all hurts.

Inside and out

Her hands weakly fumble into her back pocket, digging through the fabric until she finds it- her phone. When she pulls it out, the screen is cracked, not enough to kill it but spiderwebbed across the top corner. It must’ve been crushed when she fell- when Luke slapped her and her whole body crumpled like it wasn’t hers. The screen lights up:

1:37 AM.

The numbers blur as her vision wavers, her thumb hovers for a second and then moves before she can stop herself. Before she can think and before she can remember all the reasons she shouldn’t. She dials the number at the top of her call-list, it rings once then twice and her breath snags in her throat.

“Y/N?”

Rafe’s voice rings out rough and confused, it can be heard the way his tone changes over the phone, like he feels her discomforting silence crawling through the line.

“What’s wrong?”

Her lips part but nothing comes out just air and pain and then- she breaks. The sob rips out of her so fast, so hard, it nearly chokes her up in the process. She curls over herself in the driver’s seat, her forehead pressing to the steering wheel, phone clutched so tight to her ear it might snap “Y/N- hey, hey,” Rafe says, instantly alert now, voice taut,

“Are you okay? What's wrong? Talk to me- speak to me please...”

She can’t get words out, just more sobs start to wrack her body, more gasps for breath as fat tears start to drip down onto her thighs as she sits hunched over.

“Where are you, baby?” he asks, voice cracking with worry. “Where are you—”

“-our spot...”

She whispers, it’s the only thing she can manage, a broken little breath between sobs. He doesn’t hesitate after her voice slips through his phone speaker.

“Okay. Okay- stay there, yeah? Stay right there”

He says already moving. You can hear it in the background through the scraping of a chair against hard wood floor followed by the shuffle of keys and a door opening and closing.

“I’m coming- I’m coming right now just hold on for me okay?”

She nods even though he can’t see it, phone still pressed against her cheek, tears spilling faster now. He doesn't put the phone down - instead keeps their call going- his hearing straining for her every little breath to have some kind of sign she's still there- she's still okay. As Rafe slid into his car, his mind flickered back to just hours before, to the words that had rooted themselves in his skull, echoing on a brutal loop no matter how hard he tried to shut them out.

“I can’t do this with you, Rafe.”

She’d said it with tears in her eyes, voice breaking as she backed away like he was something that disgusted her- something dangerous. And maybe he was. But he hadn’t expected the rejection to feel like this, like something ripping open inside him. His grip tightened around the wheel as he remembered how he’d just stood there in the lot of the country club after she drove off, his eyes fixed on the empty space her car had occupied like she might somehow reappear if he stared long enough. He didn’t even remember the drive back to Tannyhill, just the heaviness pressing in on him.

He’d gone straight into his father’s office and sat in the leather chair like a ghost. Motionless and numb. The desk drawer had remained closed, but his thoughts had locked on it all the same, on the small plastic baggie inside that he hadn’t touched in months. The urge was there gnawing at him from the inside, whispering to him.

But he never reached for it.

Because then the call came.

And now, as he pulled out of Tannyhill’s tall gates, headlights cutting through the dark, her voice still echoed in his ear, this time not distant and cold but raw and trembling. Even after everything she’d said to him, after he’d laid his heart bare and she’d begged him not to make her feel something she wasn’t ready for- he didn’t hesitate.

Not for a single second.

She’d shut him down, left him standing there with his love hanging heavy between them but this? Her voice breaking on the other end of the line- scared, small and needing him?

There’s no version of the world where he won't run to her.

Time doesn’t move the way it used to, instead it feels like it stretches, she can't even tell how much time has passed since she first dialled his number. Her phone’s still pressed against her cheek the sound of the cars's repetitive turn signal filling the phone speaker.

She’s shifted now, her feet hanging out the open door of her car, her side pressed into the back of the seat. Her knees are drawn up a little, arm which isn't holding the phone is wrapped around herself, fingers gripping onto the material of her once white work polo. Her body aches in every direction, sharp stings in her hands and knees, the throb in her cheek- it's almost unbearable, and her head?

It aches so badly.

From all the crying.

She didn’t know it was possible to cry this much, didn’t know there could still be more left to spill. She sniffles softly, wiping at her eyes, but it does nothing. The tears keep coming. Slow and silent. Her throat is raw, her breathing shallow and she’s so tired it feels like her bones are humming. She's broken out of her trance when headlights sweep across the lot and her eyes flicker up. The familiar sleek black Range Rover rolls in slow, pulling up a few yards away from her car. It cuts its engine, and for the smallest second, the world is quiet until the driver’s door flings open. Rafe is out of the car before it fully settles, rounding it quickly, shoes hitting against the cement and he doesn’t hesitate as he jogs over to her. He doesn’t say anything at first just sees her- really sees her- and his whole face drops.

Her smeared makeup.

The swelling on her cheek.

The trembling in her hands.

The way her eyes, red and puffy, meet his with so much hurt it nearly floors him.

“It’s okay.”

He exhales softly, stepping up to her and that’s all it takes because she's breaking again, crumpling forward with a soft wrecked sob, her body tipping forward her head falling against him right into his stomach as he stands in front of her. He stiffens for the briefest second, startled by the sudden contact, her body curling so small against him. But then, without a word, one of his hands comes up to her head- fingers gently running over her hair, stroking carefully, tenderly. The other hand rubs slow circles into her back. He doesn’t flinch at the sound of her sobs soaking into his t-shirt. He doesn’t push her away- doesn't dare- he just holds her, anchors her the best he can. It’s quiet, just the sound of waves in the distance and her breathing uneven against him. Eventually, he gently guides her back to lean against the car seat, crouching down to her level. One hand lifts to her face. His thumb traces over the edge of her cheekbone, featherlight over the angry red skin, his touch is heartbreakingly soft. "Talk to me hmm?” he murmurs, voice low, eyes searching hers.

“What happened?”

Her lips part and her throat works but no sound comes out- not at first. Her eyes blink slow and heavy, glassy with exhaustion and then her voice finally breaks.

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

The words come out small and fuck- he feels it in his chest like a punch, something fierce and ugly rising in his throat. His jaw clenches, heart physically aching at the way she says it- like she’s apologising for even existing. He kneels properly now, closer, palms on either side of her arms, grounding her.

"I don't know what to do I- I- dont know-"

“It’s okay- just breathe Y/N. You look like you're about to pass out just breathe baby.”

He says it again, quieter this time. As he kneels fully in front of her, his eyes flicker over her, taking in the brunt of her injuries, and for a second, everything slows. Her hands are both scraped raw, skin irritated and dirt-smeared, little pieces of gravel stuck to her palms. Her knees are red and scuffed, theres a cut on her arm, a thin slash still weeping slightly with red. Her cheek- god her cheek? It’s red and swollen, blooming with a bruised hue, the shape of a handprint faint but unmistakable. Her eyes are watery, lashes stuck together and mascara smudged from the crying. Her hair’s a mess looking like it's been tugged viciously out of place, and her whole body looks like it’s fighting just to stay upright. “C’mon,” he says, his voice quiet but urgent now, thumb brushing lightly against her arm to get her to look at him.

“We need to get you to a doctor-”

“-no.”

It comes out before he even finishes. She shakes her head hard, panicked, her body tensing.

“No Rafe. No doctors... please.”

He exhales sharply, biting down on the inside of his cheek as he runs a hand over his buzzed hair. He’s not mad at her- not at her. He’s mad at this. At everything that got her to this point. At the fact that she’s more scared of being helped than staying hurt. “Y/N,” he says, voice lower now, gentler in fear of scaring her.

“You’re hurt—”

“Please.” Her voice cracks. “No doctors Rafe- please don’t make me, they'll ask questions and I can't-.”

Her voice cracks at the end of the sentence and it makes his jaw tick, chest rising and falling in a sigh, but finally he just nods, forcing the tension out of his shoulders as he drops his hand to her knee. “Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. No doctors.” He stares at her for another moment, quiet, then says,

“...but you’re coming back with me to Tannyhill. You’re not staying out here by yourself.” She doesn’t answer right away, she looks unsure- frightened, even. “I know it’s not ideal,” he says quickly noticing her shift in expression, “but you’ll be safe- I’ll take care of you. I won’t let anything happen to you, alright?”

She bites her lip, staring down at the floor by the car, her hands clenching and unclenching slowly which makes her skin burn. She’s weighing it all, but she’s so drained—mentally, physically. She’s got nothing left in her so she nods, just once, barely there.

“Okay”

She whispers out and relief floods him. It doesn’t show on his face much, but he breathes it out, slow and quiet. He pushes himself up and gently helps her out of the car. She leans on him more than she realises, and he doesn't mind- he holds her steady, supporting her like she’s made of glass. She asks weakly as they near his Range Rover.

“What about my car?”

“I’ll come back and get it later don't worry 'bout that”

He says softly and she starts to open her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out- she just lets her eyes drop. There’s no fight left in her, certainly no energy to insist. He opens the passenger door for her and helps her in, mindful of every flinch, every wince she lets out subconsiously. Once she’s seated, her head drops slightly against the headrest, eyes glazed.

“Just one second...”

He murmurs reaching across her. Rafe's fingers find the seatbelt and he buckles her in, she doesn’t move really just stares at him silently. Rafe closes the door and rounds the front of the car, jaw clenched, hand in a tight fist as he moves because if he ever sees Luke Maybank—

He doesn’t even let himself finish the thought as he gets behind the wheel, and looks over at her again noting her eyes closed peacefully as she rests against her head against the seat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house is quiet for a place so big, just the faint creak of the old leather couch as Y/N shifts a little, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her knees drawn up to her chest. A glass of whiskey sits in her hands which had been sipped at with shaky breaths like it was the only thing tethering her to the room. Rafe is sitting on the couch across from her, leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, a drink in his hand too- but the liquid in his glass hasn’t moved since he poured it. It’s more for her sake really, just so she wouldn’t feel alone in whatever comfort she was trying to pull from it.

He’d cleaned her up the moment they got in, didn’t even give her the space to protest against him. He'd brought out the first aid kit he roughly knew how to use from times when his words did nothing but cause harm, and he wiped at the scrapes on her hands and knees with disinfectant, quiet apologies falling from his mouth every time she flinched. He wrapped her knees in a thin gauze, not too tight but enough to provide some pressure. An old bag of frozen vegetables came out of the freezer next, and he pressed it gently to her cheek before he handed it off to her to hold for herself. If she’d asked, he would’ve stayed right there beside her, holding it to her cheek himself all night until his arm ached and went numb from how long he’d been doing it.

But she didn't ask.

So instead they'd just… sat.

An hour passed, then another, and another and neither of them said a word. She hadn’t looked at him- but he never took his eyes off her.

Not once.

Now, the bag of vegetables was melted and her thumb was brushing slowly along the rim of her glass her eyes distant, stuck somewhere far away from the safety of his home. There’s still dirt under her nails and a small piece of bandaid is peeling at the edge from where she's been picking at it unconsciously. Her voice is so soft he almost doesn’t catch it.

“You should’ve seen the way he looked at me...”

Her eyes don’t lift as she speaks out, she just keeps staring down at the floor like it might open up and swallow her whole. Rafe’s whole body stills at her voice, his fingers tightening slightly around his untouched drink.

"Who...?"

Her voice is more breath than sound as she adds but doesn't answer his question,

“He was disgusted by me.”

He wants to ask, but something in his chest already knows.

There’s only one person she’d care enough about for it to hurt this much. Only one person whose opinion could shatter her like this and it makes his jaw tense as he looks up to her, her shoulders are hunched in on themselves like she’s trying to disappear. He swallows hard and purses his lips together.

He hates that he's right.

Rafe sets his drink down on the side table with a quiet clink of glass, the only sound in the room besides the crackling of the fire. She downs the rest of the whiskey in one breath- tilts the glass back and lets it burn its way down her throat, but it's still somehow not enough to dull the sharp edges of what’s pressing down on her chest. When she places the empty glass on the table, it clinks gently the sound little in the big room.

“I should go to sleep”

She mumbles, barely above a whisper. Rafe nods from where he’s been watching her, wordless, careful not to crowd her. He stands slowly, smooth and steady, then waits for her to move. She rises on stiff legs, blanket still clutched around her shoulders, and she follows him without a word. The hallways of Tannyhill are dim, lit only by the warm lights spaced along the walls and her footsteps are quiet behind his as he ascends the stairs.

He pushes open a bedroom door, stepping aside for her. The room is something out of a magazine, the walls are soft coloured, a large four-poster bed dressed in white sheets and a comforter that looks as soft as clouds. There’s a matching dresser and wardrobe, polished and antique. A wide window is curtained off with thick drapes which pool slightly on the floor preventing any light from coming in, and to the right a door sits cracked open, leading into a private en-suite bathroom. On the foot of the bed, a neatly folded pile of clothes waits for her- his clothes. A black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants accompanied by a soft-looking towel. Rafe lingers by the door not wanting to push her boundaries as he speaks out,

“I’m a few doors down...”

He says, voice soft, hand gripping the edge of the door frame like he doesn’t want to leave her alone but knows he needs to give her space,“If you need anything just tell me. I’m not gonna close my door so you can find me”

“Okay”

She nods slowly, barely moving and he holds her gaze for a second longer, his expression unreadable, then closes her door with a quiet click. She’s left alone with the silence, her eyes flick down to the clothes. Her fingers curl around the fabric of the t-shirt first, soft from too many washes. It smells like him. Like fresh detergent and musk, it makes her chest twist. She slips out of her clothes and into the t-shirt, then pulls the sweatpants on. She looks toward the en-suite for a second and she knows she should go in to wash her face and brush her teeth. But she also knows there’s a mirror in there, and she can’t look at herself.

So, she leaves the towel on the end of the bed and climbs underneath the comforter, and exhales slowly as her aching body sinks into the mattress. The pillows are insanely soft, moulding perfectly around her head and shoulders. The sheets are crisp and cool, freshly laundered, and they feel soothing against her sore, bruised skin. Every inch of the bed smells like luxury, like money and warmth, like a place she doesn’t belong in but can finally let herself collapse inside of.

She doesn’t cry this time.

Instead she simply lies there, curled on her side and buried in the bed, inhaling the scent of his t-shirt and the linen sheets whilst trying to remember how to breathe right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dirt bike skids to a stop outside the Chateau, its roar cutting through the dead hush of 2AM. JJ doesn't bother to park it properly- just lets it tip over and crash onto the ground as he hops off, boots hitting the dirt hard. He’s at the door in seconds, flinging it open with a bang that echoes through the thin walls. Inside, it’s dark and still- until John B stumbles out of his room half-asleep, hair a mess, baseball bat gripped in his hands like he's ready to swing. “JJ ?” he blurts out, blinking in confusion.

“What the fuck, man? It’s-” he checks the clock behind him, “-two in the goddamn morning.”

"Where is she?"

JJ doesn’t even acknowledge the bat, his chest is heaving as his eyes dart around the dark house. John B lowers the bat a little, frowning,

“Sarah’s sleeping, man. What’re you—”

“No. Y/N."

JJ’s voice cracks around the name as he asks again, "Where is she?”

John B pauses confused, “She’s not here... ?”

JJ lets out a harsh exhale, running both hands through his hair before suddenly slamming his fist into the nearest thing sitting on the corner of the old table, an open cereal box. It hits the floor, scattering flakes across the dusty floorboards of the house. John B raises his brow,

“Dude- can you not trash my house please?”

“Sorry”

JJ mutters, instantly like muscle memory and his hands drop, shoulders sagging. He stumbles backward and drops into the couch, his head falling into his hands. John B hesitates, then sets the bat down by the door and walks over, sinking down onto the old raggedy cushions beside him. He glances sideways.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on or do I have to guess?”

JJ doesn’t answer just lets out a small groan at first, frustration deeply embedded in the sound. He sits there chest rising and falling a little too fast, like he’s still trying to calm down. Then, finally, he speaks his voice rough,

“My dad… he lost it. Like really lost it tonight with her.”

“With Y/N?”

JJ nods, jaw tightening. “I didn’t know it’d be that bad. I’ve seen him go off before but he…” He swallows hard, “I didn’t even do anything- I froze. I just sat there and watched while he shoved her out the door.”

There’s a beat of silence and then John B says, softer now,

“Where’d she go?”

JJ’s fingers rake down his face, “I don’t know. I thought maybe here. But- she’s not picking up. She just kept repeating my name and…” He shakes his head, “-and she was crying, man." John B exhales, sits back into the couch with a furrowed brow and JJ repeats himself,

"Like really crying.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah”

"Why did he kick her out?"

John B leans forward, elbows to his knees, hair falling into his eyes as he rubs his hands over his face. JJ doesn't answer at first. He’s biting at the skin of his thumb, anxious and raw, his leg bouncing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Then like something inside of him just snaps, he lets out a sharp breath and tells him everything. John B’s brows pull together as he listens to his best friend, sympathy coursing through his veins.

From the dark of the bedroom, the thin crack of light from the hallway spills across Sarah’s face as she shifts in bed. Her hand reaches out groggily for John B’s side of the mattress but it’s cold, the blanket already slipped down. She frowns, eyes cracking open. The room is empty. She sits up slowly, bare feet brushing against the wooden floor as she hears something, voices, muffled and low. She moves toward the door, careful and quiet, pressing her fingers against the edge to ease it open a little more. JJ’s voice filters through, tense and tight.

"She was pregnant… and she went to him?"

Sarah freezes as JJ's voice drifts through the house once more,

"My sister went to Rafe fucking Cameron...?"

The words hit her like a gut punch- Pregnant? Y/N? And...- Rafe? Her blood runs cold as the pieces start to click together, her brain scrambling to make sense of what she’s just heard. Her cheek stays pressed firmly into the door frame in attempt to hear the rest of the story spilling past the blonde boy's lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sheets are soft, the pillows even softer, but sleep still won’t come. It’s been two and a half hours and Y/N's been tossing and turning, her body sore in all the wrong places her chest heavy with that familiar awful ache that won’t go away no matter how tightly she pulls the sheets around her.

Eventually, she gives up and sits up slowly, pushing the comforter off her legs, the cotton whispering against the mattress smoothly. Her feet touch the floor which is cold against her skin and she stands- wobbly for a second- then steadier. The guest room door looms quietly ahead and she pauses fingers brushing over the handle. Then, with a shallow breath, she opens it. The hallway outside is dark, but not completely. There’s a bluish tint filtering in from the tall windows at the end of the hall, early morning light just beginning to rise casting long shadows across the wooden floors.

She pads down the hallway barefoot, arms wrapped tightly around her own middle. Her steps falter when she sees a photo on the wall- framed in gold and hung just opposite the railing of the stairs. It’s of Rafe, much younger, standing with Sarah and Wheezie, arms slung around them, all three of them caught in time. She stares at it for a long second her lips parting just slightly. There’s something in her chest that clenches and she swallows it down before continuing on.

Rafe’s door is slightly cracked- just like he said it’d be. She stands in front of it for a moment and peers in, watching the rise and fall of his breath from across the room. He’s asleep, facing away from the door, lying on his side with one arm tucked under the pillow. Her hand brushes the door open a little wider and she slips inside moving quietly like a ghost. She stops at the edge of the bed and for a moment she doesn’t move.

Just stares at the empty space beside him.

Then- almost without thinking- she climbs under the covers. The sheets are warm where his body had heated them prior and she tucks herself into the bed, it feels so- natural. She hesitates again one breath, two... and then-

she shifts closer

Her body curls gently around his back, and her arm shakily slides over his waist, face tucking into the space between his shoulder blades. She closes her eyes and exhales against the fabric of his t-shirt clinging to the feeling of the rise and fall of his chest, like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered. His breathing is steady- peaceful.

He doesn’t stir.

And for the first time all night, she feels something close to calm. Not happy but… safe. Like maybe the pieces of her won’t completely shatter if she stays like this just a little longer. Her fingers clutch gently at the hem of the bottom of his t-shirt, her eyes fluttering closed. And then so soft it’s almost not there at all, her lips brush against the fabric at his back as she whispers- like a confession, like a secret only the night should hear.

“I love you too."

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millermouth · 2 months ago

Text

Part VII

Summary: The days blur together, a steady cycle of bottles, naps, laundry, a rhythm of new motherhood slowly reshaping you. Joel and Tommy orbit you in different ways, their presence both comfort and complication. Therapy brings things to the surface, but not resolution. And when the truth finally comes out over the dinner table, everything you thought you'd been holding together starts to come undone. || smut MDNI 18+, angst and fluff, therapy, mention of polyamory/throuples, tommy is still an ass, still aint kosher folks, sooo much kissing, pinv, dirty talk (!!), fingering, f!recieving oral, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, missionary (better to look into your eyes <3), 1 use of the word mama, please remember these characters suck at communicating, adding more tags later because I don't want to spoil! || a/n: woowee its a doozy. wc: 14k

“So, you’re back.”

In your arms, your baby squirms with a soft grunt, his little mouth puckered in protest. You shift him gently, rocking him with a practiced motion that’s more muscle memory than thought at this point. His weight is a comfort, solid against your chest. You breathe out a quiet laugh.

“Good to see you too, Dr. Servopulous.”

“Didn’t I say somethin’ about callin’ me Tess?”

Joel and Tommy both offer small smiles from either side of you. Tess returns them, her eyes warm as she leans forward, looking at the bundle in your arms.

“And look who we have here,” she says. “What’s his name?”

“This is Sammy,” you murmur, lifting your baby just slightly so she can see his round, pink-cheeked, bleary-eyed face. He yawns, clenching his fist around a lock of your hair.

“Samuel TJ Miller, ain’t that right, buddy?” Tommy adds with a soft smile, reaching to poke gently at the baby’s belly. Sammy squirms, kicking one foot free of the blanket.

“Thank you for joining us, Samuel,” Tess says with mock formality, then glances at the clipboard in her lap. “A lot has happened since I last saw you three.”

“Understatement of the century,” Tommy mutters.

You glance sideways at him, trying to read his face. It’s soft—eyes crinkled at the corners, tone easy with no bitterness. At least, not today.

Joel says nothing. He sits still on your other side, arm draped loosely across the back of the couch just behind your shoulders. His fingertips occasionally brush your upper arm when you shift, a quiet presence more than a participant.

Tess looks between the three of you, pen poised. “Tell me about your dynamic lately. We can start there and dig into what’s happened.”

You turn to Joel, exhaustion clinging to your bones, to your posture, to the deep, purple shadows carved beneath your eyes. Two months of near-sleepless nights etched into your skin like bruises. You look at him fully, wordlessly asking him to speak first.

Joel clears his throat and shifts forward, arm dropping to brace against his knees. “Uh, well,” he starts, nodding to himself. “We’ve been mostly focusin’ on takin’ care of Sam. Of her.”

Tess nods, encouraging.

“We’ve been a good team, I think.”

“It’s been quite the journey,” Tommy adds. “Feels like since Sam came into the world, things have been... I dunno. Easier, wouldn’t you say?” He glances between you and Joel.

“Define easy,” you scoff, untangling your hair from the baby’s fist.

“I just meant between us,” Tommy says, lifting a hand. “Not so much goin’ on dynamic-wise.”

“Then what brought you in?” Tess asks, calm and direct.

You pause, glancing between the two of them before your eyes land on the doctor again.

“I think... we’re trying to prepare. For when things don’t feel like survival mode anymore. When Sam’s sleeping through the night. When I’m ready to start…” You trail off, the words feeling distant, almost absurd. “Being intimate again.”

Tess nods, jotting something down. “And how have you been feeling? Emotionally.”

You hesitate, then shift Sammy in your arms and glance toward Tommy.

“Can you—?”

“Yeah, of course.” He takes the baby gently, already tucking the blanket around him just the way you like. You sink back into the couch, chest suddenly lighter without the weight of another body pressed against you. You exhale, slow.

“Obviously it’s hard,” you say finally. “Harder than I thought. I cry a lot. About nothing. About everything. I’ll lie awake wondering if he’s warm enough. If he’s eating enough. If he’s…” your voice falters, “...if he’s still breathing. I feel insane about it sometimes.”

“All very normal,” Tess says softly. You nod, staring at Sam as Tommy smiles down at him.

Tess gives you a moment, then adds, “And how about the dynamic between the three of you? How’s that felt lately?”

You look at the two men flanking you, and your mouth lifts slightly.

“Honestly... it’s been a gift. They’ve both been incredible. I’m never alone. They’re so good with him. I barely even have to ask, they just know.”

“Helps that you’ve done this before,” Tess says, smiling at Joel.

He chuckles under his breath, eyes down.

“My body still doesn’t quite feel like mine yet,” you admit. “But I feel... really connected. To both of them. And to Sam.”

“That’s really good,” Tess says. She scribbles a few more notes before shifting her attention.

“Now, Tommy,” she says, catching his eye. He straightens a little, as if realizing he’d tuned out, his mind and eyes having only been on the baby. “I want to talk about you for a moment. Last time we spoke, you were the one who had some reservations about opening the relationship. About all of this. How are you feeling now?”

Tommy looks between you and Joel, slow.

“I don’t really know how I feel,” he says. “Truth be told... things feel fine. Between me and her. Joel too.”

You let out a dry laugh and look to Tess.

“That’s ‘cause they barely see each other,” you say. “When Tommy’s at the site, Joel stays. When Joel’s working, Tommy’s there. We’ve got a rhythm. But it’s not... us. Not really.”

Tess nods slowly at your comment, the slight crease between her brows deepening.

“That 'rhythm' you’ve found sounds functional. But is it fulfilling?” she asks gently. “Or are you all just getting by?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. Joel doesn’t either.

Tess lets the silence sit for a moment before turning to Joel.

“Joel,” she says softly, “you’ve been quiet. I know that’s not unusual for you, but I want to check in. How are you feeling about all this?”

Joel shifts slightly, eyes on the floor. His voice is low when he answers.

“I think I’m just tryin’ to be where I’m needed,” he says. “Not stir things up too much. She’s been through a lot. The baby needs her calm. Last thing I want is to be another problem.”

“You think your presence is a problem?” Tess asks, head tilting.

Joel gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Sometimes it feels like it could be. I try to stay out the way.”

You turn to look at him then and there’s something in his face you hadn’t noticed before. A kind of quiet resignation. Like he’s still halfway out the door, even while sitting beside you.

“Joel,” Tess says after a moment, “that kind of self-erasure might feel noble. But it’s not sustainable. And it’s not honest, not if you care about them, which it’s obvious that you do.”

His jaw works for a moment before he nods, once.

“They…” you begin, fidgeting in your seat, fingers twisting into the fabric of your leggings. “They got into a bad fight. Right before I went into labor. I’d like to talk about that, if it’s okay.”

Joel glances over, his eyes meeting yours briefly. He gives a small nod, steady and quiet. You shift your gaze to the other side, to where Tommy sits. His arms are folded around the baby, posture rigid, a frown pulling at his mouth. But after a beat, he nods too.

“Um,”

You clear your throat, but the words won’t come easy. Because really, where the hell do you even start? How do you explain something like this? That Joel asked you to leave your husband, that you ignored him for weeks, shut him out like he hadn’t cracked something wide open in you, and then he showed up drunk, wild-eyed and full of hurt, and threw a punch at his own damn brother?

You shift in your seat, your chest tight, pulse fluttering. It's all there, still living in the back of your mind like a bruise you keep pressing, sharp and tender and unresolved.

“I acted like an idiot,” Joel says, cutting in when you still can’t find the words. His voice is low, rough. “Said things I shouldn’t have said. Did things I shouldn’t have done.”

You exhale slowly, eyes shifting to Tess.

She lifts her pen, not writing. “Care to tell me what those things were?”

Joel hesitates. His eyes meet hers, and when he speaks again, the words are quiet, nearly swallowed.

“I told her to leave him.”

The air seems to pull inward. The room holds its breath.

Tommy’s face doesn’t move for a second when you go to calculate his reaction. But then he blinks, a sharp laugh escaping his mouth, not a trace of humor in it.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” His voice slices the room open. The baby begins to squirm in his arms, face tightening, body fussing.

“That was months ago,” you say quickly, reaching over to settle your hand on Tommy’s arm. “And he regrets it. Don’t you?”

Joel’s eyes don’t leave the baby, his gaze a thousand miles away. His voice is flat. “I regret saying it out loud.”

Tommy turns sharply to look at him then, jaw clenched.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Joel—”

“Okay,” Tess interrupts, lifting a hand, her tone calm but firm. “Before this turns into something I can’t break apart, I’m going to ask all of us to take a breath together.”

You nod and reach out instinctively, taking the baby from Tommy’s arms. He gives him over willingly, the baby's small hands clenching the fabric of your shirt. Joel stops you, taking him from your arms. You look at him with wide eyes.

He shifts beside you, holding out his arms. “It’s fine. I got him.”

You hesitate, caught between them. Then you hand the baby over. Joel lifts him gently, settling him against his chest. The baby fusses once, then quiets.

Tess watches the exchange closely. “All right. Let’s take that breath.”

You inhale together, slowly.

Deep breath in.

Hold, hold, and exhale all the way out.

Another.

And another.

Your heart rate finally begins to slow. You open your eyes, grounded just enough to keep going.

Tess glances down at her notes, then back at the three of you. “I appreciate you all staying here in this moment. I know that wasn’t easy. But this is why we’re here. Not to pretend things are fine, but to look at what’s underneath.”

She shifts slightly in her seat. “Would you be open to trying something together? It’s an exercise I use often with couples. Or, in this case, throuples.”

You glance at Joel, then at Tommy. They both nod, though a little begrudgingly.

Tess continues, voice steady. “This is about transparency. About seeing each other, not just reacting to old patterns. It’s called the ‘I see you’ practice. One at a time, you’ll each speak to the others using a few prompts. You don’t have to explain or justify what you say. The goal is just to be witnessed.”

She picks up a note card. “You can use these to start:

What I see in you right now is… What I need from you is… What I miss about us is…

And you’ll finish the sentence for each one, to each other. This is your time to be honest, to be open.”

She turns her eyes to you first. “Do you want to start us off?”

You nod slowly, your heart thudding beneath the weight of it all. You smooth your palms against your thighs, grounding yourself, then look to Joel.

Tess sees the hesitation on your face and offers, gently, “Why don’t you hold her hand, Joel?”

Joel shifts, eyes searching yours as if asking permission. When you nod, he reaches across the small space between you, careful not to jostle the baby who is already dozing against his chest, and threads his fingers through yours. His hand is warm, steady. You feel the weight of it go straight through you.

Your voice wavers as you begin.

“What I see in you is someone who’s scared to admit his role in all this.”

You glance up into his eyes. Joel doesn’t look away. His brow creases, just slightly, but his grip on your hand tightens.

“I see someone who helps, day in and day out. Who shows up, quietly, constantly. But only says what he wants when everything’s already blown up and it’s too late.”

Joel swallows, throat bobbing as he shifts the baby slightly, and you think the touch of your hand might be grounding him too.

“What I need from you is honesty. Not just in the aftermath. All the time. I need you to stop playing the martyr. You don’t have to earn your place here. You already belong. With me. With us.”

You feel Joel’s thumb move across the back of your hand, slow and steady.

“What I miss about us is… is the fun we had. I miss taking Sarah out for ice cream. I miss going to the fair. I miss being spontaneous with you…even if that feels like a lifetime ago now. I realize we can’t just do those things now with the baby but…I still miss it.”

He smiles, nodding along with you. You take a breath and turn to Tommy, letting go of Joel's hand as you do so. He shifts slightly under your gaze, like he knows what’s coming.

Tess says gently, “Maybe place your hand on his arm.”

You do. Your fingertips brush his bicep, and you feel the slight tremble there. He doesn’t move away.

“What I see in you is someone holding a lot of resentment.”

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. His fingers twitch on his knee.

“What I need from you is consistency. I feel like one minute you’re with me, and the next you’re not. I just want to feel secure, to know you’re not going to pull back when this is hard.”

You press your fingers into his arm a little firmer now, a little more tender, “What I miss is… us.”

The words nearly catch in your throat, and you see Tommy’s eyebrows furrow in anguish.

“I miss the way you used to kiss me just because you were thinking about me. I miss the little touches like your hand on my back when we were brushing past each other in the kitchen. I miss being your best friend. I miss feeling like your wife. Your other half.”

Tommy’s hand comes to rest over yours, finally. He doesn’t speak yet, but his grip says what he can’t.

Tess gives a soft cue with her eyes, and Joel looks at Tommy.

Joel shifts slightly in his seat, adjusting the baby with one arm.

“What I see in you is someone who’s trying really hard to build a family. I see my brother. Someone I’ve known and loved my whole life. Since the day you were born.” He glances at Tommy, voice low.

“And I see you throwin’ it away with jealousy.”

Tommy stiffens, but doesn’t look away. His fingers curl around his knee.

“What I need from you is to stop pushin’ me out. I didn’t sneak in here. You asked me for this, and we all fell into it. And yeah, it got messy. But it’s happening. She wants me here. And I want to be here.”

Joel’s hand tightens protectively on the baby’s back as he continues.

“What I miss about us is knowin’ I could count on you. Maybe I haven’t earned that lately, but I need you to know you can still count on me. I’m still your brother, Tommy.”

Joel turns to look at you then, and your lungs catch.

His voice is soft, almost reverent, and his hand joins your fingers that are clammy and splayed on the couch, intertwining his with them again.

“What I see in you is... someone doin’ such a beautiful job bein’ a mother.” His eyes flicker over your face and your heart constricts.

“I see how tired you are. How you keep pushin’ through, even when you’ve got nothin’ left. Sam is lucky to have you. We all are.”

A long pause.

“When I see you... I see everything.” His eyes glint. “I see my future. I see the mother of my child—”

There’s a short pause as his eyes flicker over to Tommy, gauging the reaction, before gazing back at you, clearing his throat.

“What I need from you is to stop actin’ like you’re caught in the middle. You’re allowed to make a decision that might hurt us. But you chose this too, same as we did. You’re allowed to want both of us. To lean on us in different ways. We can work with that. We can make that work.”

“What I miss is... how easy it was. Bein’ near you, talkin’ to you. Just sittin’ in the same room and feelin’ like that was… enough.”

He glances at you, something flickering behind his eyes.

“It used to be simple. And I didn’t realize how much that mattered ‘til it wasn’t.”

The room quiets.

Tommy shifts forward slightly, his knees brushing yours. Tess watches closely.

“Tommy,” she says gently, “Why don’t you hold her hand while you speak?”

Tommy hesitates. Then he reaches out, lacing his fingers through your free hand. Your hands are linked between them, one held in each of theirs.

He turns to Joel first.

“What I see in you is someone who’s been trying to take my place.” Joel stiffens, but he lets Tommy keep going.

“I know how things got. How tangled up everything’s been. But I’m allowed to feel that way. You’ve been whisperin’ in her ear, turnin’ her against me when we fight. That’s what it’s felt like. But couples fight, Joel. They cry, they scream, they figure it out. It don’t mean it’s over.”

Joel opens his mouth, but Tess lifts a hand slightly: not yet.

“What I need from you is the truth. Not the quiet kind you use to protect people– to protect yourself more like. I need the real truth of it. Because if you’re gonna be here, then you better stop waitin’ for the bottom to fall out. Either be in it, or don’t.”

His eyes drop to his lap.

“What I miss is feelin’ like I could count on you too. Even before all this. Before we both fell in love with the same damn woman and stopped talkin’ like we used to. I miss gettin’ wings at the Tipsy Bison with you an’Sarah on Wednesdays. I miss watchin’ the Cowboys, crackin’ a cold one on a Sunday. I miss us just bein’... just brothers.”

Then Tommy turns to you, his thumb sweeping gently across the top of your knuckles.

“What I see in you is someone stretched thin. Tryin’ to be everything for everyone. And I think in the middle of that, I forgot how to make you feel safe.” His voice shakes just slightly.

“What I need from you is to stop actin’ like stayin quiet keeps everything fair. Like not choosin’ is somehow keepin’ the peace. It’s not. All it does is make me feel like I’m a third wheel in my own marriage.” he sighs, sorting through his thoughts, “I just want you to be honest about what you feel, what you need. From me. Not just from him. I don’t wanna feel like I’m always a step behind, tryin’ to prove I still matter in all this.

You squeeze his hand, nodding.

“What I miss about us,” he finishes softly, “is that feeling I used to have when I looked at you. That certainty. Like no matter what, we’d figure it out.”

You pinch your brows together, an apology written on your face as Tess draws in a soft breath, folding her hands over her clipboard.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice a little quieter now. “All of you.”

She pauses, letting her gaze pass over each of you — Joel, still holding the baby, Tommy, knuckles a little white where his hand still holds yours, and you, sitting between them, strung out and seen for the first time in what feels like months.

“That was not easy. And you stayed with each other through it.” Her eyes are kind, earnest. “That matters.”

She leans back slightly in her chair. “You’ve given each other a lot to think about. There’s hurt here, but there’s also love and commitment, even if it’s messy.”

She nods once, thoughtful.

“I’m not going to ask you to do more today. You’ve all been carrying enough. For now, I want you to sit with what was said. Let it settle. Think about each other’s expectations. How you heard each other. What you want moving forward.”

Her smile is gentle.

“We’ll meet again next week. No homework. No pressure. I know you’ll be busy with the little one.”

Joel glances down at the baby still cradled against his chest, his palm softly cupping the back of Sam’s tiny head. A quiet hum of agreement leaves him, like he already knows you'll be awake every hour tonight.

Tess stands slowly. “Take care of yourselves. And each other.”

Outside, the three of you walk out into the cooling afternoon air. The sun is low, casting gold along the pavement. Joel still carries Sam, his big hand shielding the baby’s head from the breeze.

The silence between you isn’t necessarily heavy, but full and settling.

You stop beside the car and turn toward both of them.

Without speaking, you wrap your arm around Joel’s side and your free arm around Tommy’s back, pulling them both in. Neither resists. Joel leans his head against yours for just a second. Tommy's hand presses gently at your lower back.

The hug holds.

Then Joel shifts, adjusting the baby and glancing down at him. “Here,” he murmurs, careful as he lifts Sam and passes him back to you.

You cradle the baby close, resting your cheek against the top of his soft little head, breathing him in.

Then you glance up at Joel, your voice gentle. “Come over for dinner tonight?”

He raises an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Tommy’s cooking his famous chili,” you add, nudging your shoulder lightly into Tommy’s side.

Joel’s brow lifts a little higher. “Since when you got a famous recipe I don't know about?”

Tommy shrugs with a quiet laugh. “Since I started doin’ more of the cookin’ lately. But… could be nice,” he says, glancing at Joel, then at you. “Just to talk.”

Joel hesitates for a second, then shifts his weight, looking over to his truck, “Can’t tonight. I gotta get Sarah settled, junior year’s kickin’ her butt right now, wanna make sure she has a good night.”

You nod, trying not to let your disappointment show, but he notices anyway.

“I’ll be over first thing in the morning,” he adds, then looks at his brother, “You’re good to be on site, right? Got contractors comin’ to lay the framing before they pour concrete.”

Tommy nods. “Eight sharp.”

Joel leans in, kisses your cheek, just light and familiar in his farewell. Then he rubs his knuckles gently over Sammy’s cheek, careful not to wake him.

He meets Tommy’s eyes and gives a short nod. “See you.”

Tommy nods back. “Yeah. See you.”

“Goodnight,” you murmur, watching him turn away.

Joel smiles briefly before walking off toward his truck, the light stretching long behind him.

“I just don’t understand why everything has to be a damn therapy session,” Tommy mutters, rubbing at his face as he yanks a shirt over his head, his voice low but sharp in the stillness of morning.

You shift Sammy against your chest, adjusting your grip as he nurses quietly, his small body heavy in your arms. The weight of him is comforting and exhausting all at once. Your back aches. Your eyes sting from another night of broken sleep. You’re still in the oversized shirt you slept in, bunched up awkwardly to give the baby access as you lean into the headboard.

“Tommy, it’s not,” you say, voice hoarse with tiredness. “Tess says we need to communicate. And I was just saying—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, bending to grab his boots from the floor. “You were sayin’ I don’t do enough.”

“That’s not what I said.” You exhale hard, slumping back as the baby shifts and latches again. “I said maybe if you were more aware of how you’re feeling, I wouldn’t have to pull it out of you every damn time.”

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh as he sits on the edge of the bed to tie his laces. “Sounds like the same thing to me.”

You adjust the blanket over Sammy’s back, trying to focus on the slow rhythm of his breathing, his tiny hand resting against your chest. Everything in you feels pulled taut. Between your body and your thoughts, there’s nothing left that belongs only to you.

“I’m not trying to fight,” you say, quieter now. “I just don’t want to keep playing this guessing game of how you’re feeling. We have to talk to each other.”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He finishes tying his boots, stands, and grabs his jacket from the hook by the bedroom door. For a second, it seems like he might walk out without saying anything at all.

But then he circles around the bed and leans down and kisses the top of your head, his lips barely touching your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right.”

And that’s it.

Not tender but not unkind either. Just enough to move past it.

You nod, but your eyes stay on the baby. Tommy lingers for a moment longer, then heads for the door. The sound of it closing behind him is soft, but it feels louder than it should.

You adjust Sammy again, not because he needs it, but because you don’t know what else to do with your hands.

Downstairs, you hear the low murmur of voices, a few words exchanged, calm and indistinct. Joel, you assume. Then footsteps, slow and familiar, making their way up the stairs.

He appears in the doorway with a mug in his hand and that quiet, almost apologetic smile he gets in the mornings. His voice is soft when he speaks.

“Mornin’.”

“Hey,” you exhale, too tired to say more.

He comes around the bed just as you lift Sammy up to your shoulder, patting gently at his back. Joel sets the mug down on the nightstand and holds out his hands.

“Let me take him.”

You don’t hesitate. You ease the baby into his arms, and Joel takes him like it’s second nature, one hand cradling his head, the other curling protectively around his small body, patting him on his back.

“Get some more sleep,” he says, voice low, steady. “Tommy said you were up half the night. I got this.”

You manage a faint smile and murmur your thanks. Joel just nods, already rocking gently in place, gaze focused on the baby like there’s nothing else in the world that needs his attention right now.

And as he shuts the door behind him, you’re already drifting back to sleep.

When you wake again, the light in the room has shifted, warmer now and spilling across the hardwood in quiet streaks. You lie still for a moment, your body heavy and aching in all the familiar places—shoulders sore, lower back aching, and breasts heavy.

The house is quiet, but not silent. There’s a low, murmuring voice downstairs, rhythmic and gentle. You push the blankets back and stand, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you shuffle barefoot to the door.

Once down the stairs, you detour into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of toast from the counter, half-eaten from a midnight snack during the wee hours of the morning. The murmuring continues closer now, just around the corner in the living room.

You peek in.

Joel is on the couch, legs bent with his heels resting on the coffee table. Sammy lies across his thighs, his head by Joel’s knees, arms flailing in slow-motion like he’s swimming through thick air. His little feet keep kicking up into Joel’s stomach, and Joel keeps pretending to be offended by it.

“Oh, alright,” Joel says softly, eyes on the baby, grabbing his feet gently after one good kick. “You’re feelin’ tough this morning, huh? Gonna try and take me out one toe at a time?” He leans in slightly, eyebrows raised, and gives the tiniest shake of his head. “You don’t even know how dangerous I am, buddy. One more punch to the gut and I’ll eat those toes right off.”

He scoops up one of Sam’s feet and presses a loud, smacking kiss to the bottom of it. Sam wiggles, blinking up at the ceiling, cheeks pulling into a half smile.

Joel grins. “Tough crowd.”

You lean against the doorway, smiling into your toast, watching the way Joel’s voice softens around the baby. He looks completely at home, like this is the only thing he was meant to do. He took to the caretaker role with ease, with a gentleness you knew was there but still pulled at your heartstrings to see. His hand rests gently on Sam’s belly, thumb stroking absent patterns through the fabric of the blanket.

Eventually he glances up and spots you there.

“Hey,” he says.

You step into the room, yawning softly. “I’m surprised he let me sleep so long,”

Joel nods. “Oh, yeah. We’ve been busy havin’ lots of intelligent conversations about how to build a house, how kickin’ your daddy is rude,”

Your feet still halfway across the rug.

It hangs in the air, the word daddy.

Joel doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t look at you either. Just gently tugs the baby’s sock back into place like nothing happened.

You move toward the couch slowly, toast forgotten in your hand. He said it so easily, like it belonged to him, like it didn’t need discussion.

You’re not mad. Not even really surprised. But something knots in your stomach all the same. Not in a bad way, just… tight. Complicated.

Because what do you call him? What do you call either of them?

Tommy’s the husband. The legal father. But Joel’s the one who got you here, who made this all possible. He’s been here in the quiet hours, the one who holds Sammy like he’s always known him, the one who keeps showing up with soft hands and gentler eyes than he knows what to do with.

Is it normal for a baby to have two dads?

You don’t know. But somehow, it doesn’t feel wrong.

Joel finally glances up, like he can feel you thinking too loud. His eyes meet yours, uncertain.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, like he’s backing away from the thought.

You shake your head, sitting down beside him. “Don’t be.”

And just like that, you both look down at the baby again.

“He’s probably due to eat again soon,” you say, voice low.

Joel nods, “I figured. He’s been frowin’ at me for the last ten minutes.”

“He gets that from you,” you say around your last bite of toast as you brush the crumbs off your fingers, holding your hands out to take the baby. Joel transfers him gently into your arms without a word, just a soft look. You adjust your shirt and get Sammy latched, his small mouth working almost immediately. It still aches a little, but you’re used to that now. The sting fades fast enough.

Joel doesn’t look away from your face. He just watches you, like he’s still surprised by the whole thing. The way your body knows what to do. The way you cradle Sam like he was always supposed to be here.

“It suits you,” he says finally, “Motherhood.”

You scoff, “Not so sure about that,” then, tucking the blanket around the baby, you add. “I look like I got hit by a truck.”

Joel huffs a breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “Still.”

You glance up at him, cheeks warm, but before you can say anything else, he leans over and presses a kiss to your temple.

And then your cheek.

And then, gently, he kisses your lips.

It’s slow. Soft. Still tinged with that quiet affection that’s been simmering between you since before everything fell apart.

You let it happen, you even lean into it.

But when he pulls back, your mouth curls into a crooked little smile.

“Real romantic of you,” you murmur. “Kissin’ me with a baby attached to my boob.”

Joel laughs, real and warm, the sound vibrating from his chest. “Can’t help myself,” he says, eyes flicking over your face. “You’re just so damn pretty.”

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. Sammy suckles contentedly between you, unaware of the way his mother and… whatever Joel is now… keep orbiting closer and closer.

You don’t have the words for any of it. Not yet. But it feels good. It feels okay.

The thing is, you'd already gotten the all-clear from your doctor. Physically, your body was healed, ready to be intimate again. But emotionally, mentally, you hadn’t felt ready. Not yet.

Not when your body still felt like a vessel. A machine built to feed, to soothe, to keep tiny lungs breathing steady through the night. You hadn’t really felt like you again. Not in the way that mattered. You were a mother now, and that shift had been swift and irreversible. Beautiful, yes, but altering in a way that left you grasping for pieces of who you used to be.

And now, everything had more weight. You weren’t just navigating your own wants, or theirs. There was someone else in the mix. A tiny person who would grow up watching you, learning from the way you looked at Joel, the way you touched Tommy. Watching the love between all three of you and making sense of it in his own way. That made you cautious. Careful.

Sarah came around too. Mostly in the afternoons now that fall was in full swing and she was buried in homework. She’d slip in after school, wave hello, drop her backpack by the couch and curl up to do her work while Joel rocked Sam or helped you prep dinner. She didn’t ask questions, not yet—but there were still answers you knew would have to come.

At least the chaos had begun to settle. Sam was four months old and sleeping longer stretches now, Joel coming and going with his usual quiet consistency. Tommy stayed most mornings, all of you still trying to find the rhythm of it all. You hadn’t lied to the therapist when you said you’d found a groove, something steady in the storm of new parenthood.

But where you fit in it...that still felt blurry.

This morning, Tommy’s home. You’d heard him moving quietly through the nursery, the soft creak of the floorboards and the hushed murmurs he offered the baby as he changed a diaper. And now, he’s by your side, handing Sam over with no more than a gentle brush of your fingers. He doesn’t say much, but he sits back in bed, yawning. The morning is still early, the sky outside a pale wash of gray and blue.

After Sammy finishes nursing, you hold him close for a while, letting his warmth soak into your skin, getting him to let out a little burp against your shoulder. His breath is slow and steady, his small weight curled against your chest like he still belongs to your body. But eventually, he’s out cold, and you carefully get up lay him back to his nursery and set him in the crib.

When you walk back to your bedroom, it’s still quiet. Morning light filters in through the curtains, the house hasn’t woken up fully yet, and neither has the day. It feels like one of those rare soft moments, the ones you’d come to cherish just between you and your husband.

So you climb back into bed and turn toward Tommy, watching as he stretches out beside you. You touch his arm, then his chest, letting your hand linger.

“Come here,” you murmur, your voice still gentle from sleep.

He does. He settles in next to you, his arm rising to loop around your shoulders and pulling the blanket over both your bodies. You nestle close, your face tucked near his collarbone. It feels good. Solid. Safe.

You kiss him, tentative at first, testing the waters. He kisses you back, warm and a little surprised, but you press into it with more urgency, craving that spark you’ve been missing. The one that used to live between you so easily.

Your body is finally feeling like yours again—or, at least, starting to. For the first time in months, you feel that ache in your belly that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with having a man with his arms around you. With missing the feeling of being wanted. Your blood feels warmer, your skin more sensitive. You’re ready. You want this. You want him.

Your hand moves to his waist, slips beneath his shirt. You press your chest against his, mouth parting against his.

But Tommy pulls back a little.

Not completely or abruptly, just… enough. His hand stills on your hip. His eyes dart toward the monitor on your bedside table.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. You can feel it, that reluctance. The discomfort.

You pause, breath shallow in your throat.

“…What?” you whisper, “You okay?”

Tommy shifts, pulling his hand away. “Yeah. I just—” He sits up slightly, dragging a hand down his face. “I dunno. It’s early. Gotta keep an eye on the monitor. And I just…”

He doesn’t finish.

You sit back against the pillows, heart sinking. The moment has slipped through your fingers like sand, and now you’re left holding the shape of something that could’ve been.

It’s been months. And within the past week, you’d started to feel like you again. And your husband said no. Maybe not outright, but not a wholehearted yes either. He’s allowed that, sure. You just…didn’t expect it.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and say nothing.

Tommy exhales and swings his legs off the bed. “I’ll make some coffee,” he mutters.

You nod, eyes locked on the ceiling, willing the sting behind them to go away.

You sit across from him at the dinner table that evening, a simple dinner between you, picked up while you and Sammy napped that afternoon.

Sammy kicks his legs with soft, erratic movements, his little fists in the air. He coos soft and sweet, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan, then flickering toward the two of you. When you lean over and tickle his tummy, his mouth opens in a gummy grin.

You smile back, brushing your knuckles lightly over his soft cotton onesie. “You’re in a good mood today,” you murmur.

Across the table, Tommy forks food into his mouth with one hand, scrolling something on his phone with the other.

“How’s work been?” you ask, trying not to let the silence stretch too far.

He shrugs. “Busy. Contractors finally started pourin’ today.”

“That’s good.”

“Mm.”

You push a piece of food around your plate before bringing it to your mouth and chewing slowly as you glance at him. His face is unreadable, focused somewhere far away. Not cold, just distant.

“You’ve been quiet,” you say. “Even this morning. I just… I don’t know where your head is lately.”

Tommy sets down his fork, wiping his hands on a napkin.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, he glances over at the baby, at the slow bounce of the seat, the soft dimples pulling in your son's cheeks as he looks back at him. They both smile at each other for a moment, though Tommy’s doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Like I said before” you offer, “I just don’t want to have to guess what you’re feelin’, if you’d just—”

“I’ve been seein’ Maria.”

The words land like a weight between you. No preamble. No softening. Just like that.

You blink. The baby kicks again, cooing again for your attention.

The room goes still.

“You’ve been…seeing….” your brain feels like static, channels flickering through words as you try to piece them together, “Maria…”

Tommy sighs, rubbing his jaw. “Her an’ Frankie split, ya know. I’ve been stoppin’ by her place sometimes, see if I can help with anythin’. We got to talkin’. About everything—relationships, parenthood. It’s been nice, havin’ someone to talk to about all of it.”

“Okay,” you say slowly.

He looks over at you, “We’ve been sleepin’ together.”

Your eyes don’t move from him, but they begin to burn with a slow, simmering rage. “When the hell did you even have time for that? Between the site and bein’ here with Sam—”

He shrugs, jaw tight. “Made time.”

You blink at him. The room feels smaller.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tommy.” you say, throwing down your napkin, the utensils clattering on the table.

His voice flares a little. “It ain’t like you and Joel haven’t—”

“Don’t,” you say sharply, standing up so fast your chair scrapes against the floor. “That is not remotely the same.”

Sammy fusses at the sudden tension, a little cry bubbling up in his chest.

“I’m not doin’ this right now,” Tommy mutters, shaking his head.

“You brought it up!” you shoot back. “You practically dropped it in my lap like some casual thing! Like it doesn’t wreck everything we’ve been trying to do!”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks past you, jaw tight, fingers flexing slightly against the table as Sam starts to cry again.

You take a breath. “How long?”

He finally looks at you. There’s no fight in his eyes. No remorse, either. Just tired acceptance.

“A few months.”

Your throat tightens. You push your chair back fully, bending down to lift Sammy from the bouncer, hitching him on your hip. He quiets as you lift him up, his little hands pressing into your collarbone, both of you looking at Tommy with red cheeks and glistening eyes.

“Well,” you say quietly, adjusting the baby's onesie with trembling fingers, “I was really trying to figure all this out. Trying to make it work.” You lift your eyes to him, something sharp creeping into your voice. “But I guess you’ve gone and made the decision for us.”

Tommy’s brow furrows, his jaw working like he wants to say something as he looks up at you from his seat.

“I want a divorce, Tommy.”

He flinches like you hit him. But he doesn’t argue or raise his voice. After a moment, he sighs and just nods. Like it’s something he’s already thought about.

And that somehow hurts worse than if he’d fought you on it. He doesn’t even ask for an explanation.

You hug Sammy a little closer, watching Tommy’s shoulders sag.

“Why the hell did we even go to therapy if this was already happening? Why’d you sit next to me and bother to pretend like you were trying?”

“I was tryin’,” he says, but the words are thin, paper-flat. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I was tryin’ to be a good dad. And I figured…if I could just do that much…”

You hadn’t seen it. Not really. He’d been good with the baby, gentle and helpful, and you’d been too tired to notice how he’d already left you behind. Not physically. Emotionally. As a husband. As a partner.

And now, when you need him to show up and fight, there’s nothing left in him. Nothing but a shrug and a sigh.

You take a breath, force your voice to stay calm.

“Well, I hope Maria has room in her bed for you tonight,” you say, shifting the baby higher in your arms. “Get out.”

The next morning, you wake with a jolt.

The light streaming through the blinds is too bright. Not the soft pale glow of early morning, but that harsh, bright sunlight of the day already starting without you. You hadn’t woken up to the sound of Sam crying for his next meal. You shoot upright, heart hammering and hand already reaching towards the baby monitor on your bedside table.

But the crib is empty.

You sit up quickly. The covers slide off your legs. Your throat tightens.

Empty.

For a second, your breath stops. You forget how to move. Your entire body goes still, locked in place as the worst possibilities flash through your mind like a siren. The room tilts slightly before the static hum from the monitor finally catches up, and then a soft sound filters through the tiny speaker. A voice.

It's just a gentle murmuring from Joel’s figure, voice low and quiet, the familiar rasp of it slowed into something gentle. You blink at the screen. The camera has tilted slightly, off center, but just enough to catch the edges of the rocker in the corner of the nursery. Joel’s legs are stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other, his body relaxed in that way only he ever manages. Your son is in his arms, nestled to his chest with a bottle held steady in one hand.

You hear him singing.

“If I ever were to lose you…”

You sink back into the pillows, one hand pressed flat over your chest, trying to slow your breathing. The tension melts from your body all at once, leaving behind something else—something heavier.

“...I’d surely lose myself,”

You watch him on the monitor as the image flickers again. Joel is looking down at Sam like he’s the most important thing he’s ever held. His expression is so soft it makes your chest ache. The bottle is nearly empty. The baby’s fingers curl loosely around one of Joel’s thumbs, and Joel shifts just enough to cradle his small head more securely.

“Everything I have found dear, I’ve not found by myself…”

You stare and stare and stare at the monitor screen.

Your hand lifts to your mouth without thinking. Your palm presses firm against your lips, trying to stop the feelings before they start.

“Try and sometimes you’ll succeed… to make this man of me…”

You don’t mean to cry. You don’t even feel it coming. One second, you’re watching Joel rock gently with your son, and the next your eyes blur, your shoulders hitch. A sob climbs up the back of your throat, muffled beneath your hand as you try to keep quiet.

You tell yourself it’s the postpartum. The hormones. The sleeplessness. The residual ache in your joints, the rawness in your body, the way your heart seems too big for your chest lately.

But you know that’s not the truth.

Not the whole truth.

You know it in the deepest parts of yourself. In the spaces you haven’t had time to visit lately. The ones that have gone untouched while you learned how to be someone new. A mother. A woman who survived childbirth. A woman who stayed up night after night whispering lullabies in the dark, nursing a child while the man she married quietly drifted further and further away.

It had been happening for months. You see it clearly now. You were so consumed with survival, with getting through the day and the next one after that, that you didn’t realize how far gone he was.

Tommy found something in Maria that you weren’t giving him. Something easier, maybe something softer. You don’t even blame him, not really. You know you’ve been hard to love lately. Closed off, frayed at the edges. But he didn’t fight for you. He just went and found someone else. And now that you know, the hollowness inside you twists into heartbreak.

“...All my stolen missing parts, I've no need for anymore…”

Joel’s voice settles over you like a blanket. You close your eyes, clutching the edge of the plastic monitor in your hand, as your ribs ache from trying not to fall apart completely.

You think of the way he always holds Sam like he was made for it. The way he instinctively knows how to quiet him when he fusses. The way his voice drops into something softer, something warmer, even when he’s speaking to you.

Joel has always been steady. Even in his silence, even in his desolation. He never once let you feel alone, even when you tried to push him away.

And now, as he rocks your child in the nursery, singing softly through the monitor, you feel something split open in your chest.

Because he never made you guess where his heart was.

He gave you everything without needing to be asked.

And it was never about obligation. He knew how to see you without looking away. He made you feel wanted. Desired. Not for what you could do. Not for the baby you could make, but for who you were.

Joel made it about you. Always you.

Tommy wanted a future. A family. A child. And in so many ways, he meant well. He was good. He gave you so much. But there had always been this sense, deep underneath it all, that you were trying to become the version of yourself he needed. That everything you were, everything you gave, was meant to fit into that shape he’d carved out for a life with you.

You curl onto your side, tears sliding across the pillow, the monitor still clutched in your hand.

“I believe,” Joel sings, voice quieter now, but still carrying through the static, “and I believe, ’cause I can see… our future days. Days of you and me.”

You sob quietly into the sheets, biting your knuckle so you won’t wake the whole house.

But eventually, a little while later, your body’s needs win over any semblance of staying in bed. Hunger gnaws at the edges of you, and the dull ache behind your ribs reminds you to get up. To eat, to do something. So you peel yourself from the bed with effort, padding barefoot into the hallway.

You expect silence, maybe Joel whispering to the baby in the nursery, maybe the sound of a lullaby or soft humming. What you don’t expect is the low hum of the washer and the sight of him shirtless over it, the laundry room door wide open. The soft light of the hanging bulb spills out around his frame, casting him in a light frame of gold.

He hears your steps immediately.

“Hey,” he says, glancing up.

Then he really looks at you, and his brow furrows. “Hey,” again, firmer this time, already stepping forward. His hands come to your face without hesitation, warm and steady. “What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?”

That voice, so kind and low and worried, is enough to split you wide open. Your chin trembles as your hands find his shoulders, curling into the back of his neck, fingers tangled in the curls at his nape. You don’t answer him. You just pull him down and kiss him.

It’s messy and desperate and tastes like salt and his minty toothpaste, but he meets you right there, mouth warm and open against yours, hands sliding around your head and into your hair to steady you.

When he pulls back, it’s just enough to breathe. “What’s—”

But you cut him off again. Another kiss, more feverish this time. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to think. You just want to feel something that isn’t betrayal or failure or loneliness.

He kisses you back until he can’t anymore, and then he murmurs against your lips, “Baby, stop. Come on.”

You finally let him go, arms dropping limply to your sides. Rejection stings like vinegar in a wound. You know it’s not fair, Joel doesn’t owe you this, he doesn’t understand. But still, it’s there, sharp and fresh.

And he sees it, of course he does. He stays close, cupping your jaw, eyes darting between yours, steady and searching. “Talk to me.”

You deflect without thinking, looking down at the running wash. “What happened to your shirt?”

He blinks at the question, thrown for a second, but he lets it go. “Got spit up on by your son.”

“Your son,” you echo, soft and low. Your fingers brush over his chest, the hair there thick and coarse under your touch.

Joel huffs a soft laugh, and you feel his hands move to your ribs. He lifts you with ease, turning and setting you on top of the dryer, the machine quiet beneath you. He leans in, arms caging on either side of you with his palms flat, face close.

“Talk to me, please,” he says again, quieter now. He kisses the corner of your mouth, gentle and coaxing.

You drop your face into your hands. You can't look at him. Not yet. But Joel doesn’t let you hide, he takes your wrists carefully, the pads of his thumbs stroking over your pulse as he draws your hands away. He presses a kiss to one fingertip. Then another, and another. The tenderness of it threatens to break something open in you.

“I just… I feel like I do everything wrong,” you murmur.

Joel starts to shake his head. “You don’t—”

“I’ve been a terrible partner. To you. To Tommy.” Your voice wavers, thick with shame. “I pushed him away. I know I did.”

“Hey,” he says gently, leaning in, “no—”

But you shake your head, and Joel quiets immediately. He waits, still and steady, just like always. You can feel him holding space for you, not trying to fix it, not trying to rush you. Just being there.

You swallow hard, throat tight. “He told me…” You pause, breathing in a deep gulp of air, “Tommy told me he’s been seein’ Maria.”

Joel’s body tenses, the air goes very still, only filled with the sound of the washer, your uneven breathing, your sniffling.

“He what now?”

Your throat tightens. The tears burn again. You nod, swallowing hard.

“He’s been seeing her for months. Since her and Frankie separated.” You look down at your hands again, like maybe they’ll make this make sense. “He said they’ve been talkin’. About parenting. About everything. That it…just happened. And I just… I asked for a divorce, Joel.”

It takes him a long beat to respond. You watch the storm pass through him, one of anger, disbelief, something colder and harder. He closes his eyes, moving to press his forehead to yours. His breath is deep, slow, like he’s forcing himself to stay grounded.

His hands come back to your face, strong and warm.

“He’s got no idea,” Joel mutters, voice like gravel. “He has no clue what he’s got.”

You shake your head slightly, and Joel feels it, his grip only tightens.

“He has no fuckin’ clue what a prize you are,” he breathes.

Your hands find his wrists, clutching hard. Tears spill again, hot and fast.

“He’s a fuckin’ idiot if he thought he could do better. You are everything. I mean it.”

He kisses you, slow and sure, pressing into you like he’s trying to remind you with every breath who you are. Who you’ve always been.

“I don’t ever wanna hear you thinkin’ otherwise,” he murmurs between kisses. “Not ever. This ain’t on you.”

You let out a choked little sound that might’ve been a sob, might’ve been relief. His hands are so soothing as they begin to drag along your sides, your arms, warm against your waist, and you can’t help the way you lean into him. How your body starts to melt under his touch. You sigh, your lips parting under his, the kiss deepening all on its own. Your tongue meets his and something inside you shivers awake, slow and warm and wanting.

“I love you, Joel,” you whisper between kisses, your chest tight as the words spill out. “I’m sorry. For everything. For puttin’ you through all—”

“No,” he says quickly, firmly, pulling away for a moment to brush your hair back with a shake of his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t start with that. None of that was on you.”

He trails his mouth down your jaw, warm and open, grazing your pulse with his lips. Then your neck. Then the soft curve just beneath your ear.

“‘Nough of that apologizin’,” he says again, barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes as he plants little soft kisses against you, and you feel that deep want inside you awaken, making your skin sensitive and belly flip beneath his touch. You grip his shoulders and pull him back to your mouth, needing more of him, needing everything.

“I love you too,” Joel murmurs, kissing you deeper now, his hands spreading wide over your hips. “And miss you. Missed kissin’ you. Missed havin’ you close.”

“I miss you,” you whisper, broken and breathless. “All the time.”

Joel groans quietly against your mouth, like it physically hurts him to hear that.

“I’m right here, baby,” he breathes, kissing you again like a promise. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Your breath shudders out of you, lips pushing against his. “Joel…” you whisper.

He stills, watching your face closely, his hands warm where they hold you.

“I’m ready,” you say, voice small but certain. “Please. I want you. So badly.”

His brow knits together, like he wants to be sure—completely sure. “You feel okay?” he asks quietly. “You sure you’re up for it?”

You nod, cupping his face with both hands now, the stubble scraping your palms. “I feel more myself than I have in months,” you say. “Please, Joel. I need you.”

And that seems like it’s enough for him.

He kisses you again, but messier this time, wetter, like he can’t hold back anymore. His mouth slants over yours with more hunger, more heat, like he’s trying to get closer than skin will allow. His hands slide under your thighs and pull you further to the edge of the dryer, crowding into you until there’s nothing left between you but heat.

He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow beneath your ear, each place drawing a little gasp from your lips. And when you sigh his name again, something soft and breathless, Joel growls low in his chest.

His mouth moves lower, dragging over your collarbone, your chest. He pulls at the hem of your sleep shirt, tugging it upward, exposing you to the open air and the warmth of his mouth. He kisses your breasts, slow and open-mouthed, tongue flicking softly as you arch under him.

“Christ,” he mutters against your skin. “Missed you so much. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You whimper, thighs tightening around him, and he kisses down the curve of your stomach, and you lean back to give him access as his lips press into every inch he can reach, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties.

When he tugs them down, slow and careful, his eyes flick up to meet yours again.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice low.

You reach for him again, threading your fingers into his hair. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He hums softly, a little broken sound, and kisses the inside of your thigh and his hands slide down your legs, fingers grazing over your knees.

“Let me take care of you, baby,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. His hands guide your legs apart with care, spreading you open for him as he kisses a path up from your knees. His lips graze the inside of one thigh, then the other, slow and careful, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s savoring you.

Your breath comes quicker the higher he gets, chest rising and falling with shallow little pants, your skin already flushed and hot. It’s been so long—months— since anyone touched you like this, looked at you like this, and Joel is looking at you like you’re holy.

He glances up, eyes half lidded and dark. “Always so good for me,” he murmurs against your thigh, voice a low drawl that makes your belly clench. “You’re burnin’ up, sweetheart.”

“Joel,” you whisper, your voice nearly breaking on his name. You can’t sit still, your hips already tilting toward his mouth like you’re starving.

His hands squeeze at your thighs. “I got you,” he says, and kisses right at the crease where your leg meets your hip. “Just let me take my time with you. Been dreamin’ about this.”

Then finally, his mouth finds you.

You cry out softly, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue parts you with aching slowness. Hooking your legs over his shoulders, a low hum of contentment rumbles from his throat as he tastes you. His fingers press into your thighs, holding you still as he works, mouth so gentle, so thorough it makes your legs tremble.

He pulls back just a little, breath hot against you. “So sensitive, baby,” he says, grinning a little when you mewl and try to press yourself closer.

Joel leans in again, licking a long stripe before wrapping his lips around you, tongue flicking gently before suckling around your clit.

“Gonna make a mess of you, sweet girl. Make you come so many times before I even get my cock in you,” he pants, one of his hands sliding upward, the pads of his fingers finding you and pushing inside of you with slow, careful movement, curling just right once pressed to the knuckle. The stretch makes you moan, your hips undulating against his fingers and mouth. He groans into you, loving the sound, the way you clench around him.

He licks and strokes you, teasing until you’re shaking, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. He keeps one hand firm on your thigh, his eyes never leaving your face as you come unravel above him. Every gasp, every cry, he drinks it in like he’s been starving for the sound of it.

That pressure, the kind only he ever managed to pull from you like this and always so damn quick, coils deep along your spine, winding tighter with every curl of his fingers. And then he finds it, just that one spot, and presses.

You wail, high and ragged, your body bowing toward him as the wave crashes through you, fierce and fast and blinding. You’re cresting, cascading, bursting at the seams, coming hard around his fingers with a helpless cry that rips from your throat.

Joel groans into your center, holding you through it, letting you shake apart in his hands.

His hands slow. One strokes your hip, the other smoothing gently over your thigh after he pulls it from your walls. He kisses the inside of your leg, then again a little higher, then higher still, trailing a path back up along your skin.

You feel his breath first, then the low rasp of his voice.

"How many more you think you can do?" he murmurs against you, lips brushing against your stomach.

Your head falls back, neck craning as you catch your breath, body limp and overheated, sweat clinging to your skin. You run your fingers through his hair again, a gentle tug, and sigh with a breathy laugh.

“Oh god,” you whisper, still panting. “I don’t know if I could take any more.”

Joel chuckles against your thigh, hot and smug and a little devilish. He lifts his head just a little, and you look back down at him to see a devilish glint in his eye.

“I don’t know, sweetheart…” he says, bringing his hand between your thighs. You jolt as his thumb begins brushing the lightest feather touch to your swollen, sensitive clit. “Our record’s five just from this. Think I could get at least six.”

Your eyes widen, your jaw dropping a little in disbelief, a laugh bubbling up in your chest. “Joel—”

But he just winks, and before you can finish whatever protest you were about to make, he dives back in, tongue and fingers working in tandem like a man on a mission. And all you can do is gasp, clutch his hair tighter, and try not to completely fall apart all over again.

But he makes you.

Again.

And again.

“Okay, okay, okay!” you eventually squeal, breathless and trembling, your whole body buzzing as you push him away from your soaked center. You're slick with sweat, flushed all over, and the insides of your thighs slide against one another, wet from your own arousal. Your skin is glistening, the aftermath of release painting every inch of you. Joel slowly pulls his fingers from between your legs, wet and glistening with the proof of your seventh—yes, seventh—orgasm.

You pant, trying to catch your breath, still twitching from his attack on you. “I’m only just getting back into this,” you manage, voice thin and hoarse with pleasure. “You gotta go easy.”

“That was me goin’ easy,” Joel mutters, standing and kissing you before you can protest. He tastes like you, tangy and sweet. His beard is damp, his lips sticky from the mess he made of you, and when he plunges his tongue into your mouth, you moan at the flavor of yourself on him. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight, then carefully lifts you from the dryer and carries you down the hallway.

As he passes the nursery, he whispers against your ear, “How much more time you think we got before he’s up?”

“At least twenty minutes.”

“Perfect.”

He nudges your bedroom door open with his boot and steps inside, the room dim and soft in the mid morning light. He lays you gently down on the bedspread and doesn’t move right away. He stays there, looking at you like he’s memorizing every part of you. One hand lifts to brush your damp hair back from your face. His eyes are still dark with want, but there’s something else there too, something quieter.

“I love you,” he says, voice steady and low.

You feel the words tighten in your throat, a rush of emotion sweeping over you. Your hands reach up to cup his face, fingers threading into his hair.

“I love you, Joel.”

He kisses your chin, your jaw, the tip of your nose, then finds your mouth again and kisses you slow and deep, like he’s sealing it in place.

Then he sits up, and you watch as he strips off what little clothing he has left. You don’t look away, taking in every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur.

He laughs under his breath, bending back over to kiss your neck, his beard rasping gently across your oversensitive skin.

“You’re so pretty,” he replies, voice teasing.

“I’m serious,” you say, smiling.

“So am I. Now shut your mouth before I start blushin’.”

You both go quiet then, but the smiles don’t fade. You just look at each other for a long, suspended moment, something soft and unspoken settling between your bare skin and the morning light.

“I’m sorry,” Joel says eventually, voice low. “About my brother.”

You shake your head, hands still buried in his hair, “I don’t wanna think about that right now.”

He nods, leaning down to kiss you again, slow and warm, like a balm.

“Just wanna show you how good you are,” he murmurs against your lips. “How perfect. For me. With me.”

You hesitate for a second, remembering the boundary you’d tried to put in place last time. No more messy comparisons or crossing wires. No more talk of Tommy during sex. But right now, with Joel hovering over you, his cock hard and hot against your thigh, your body still shaking from his mouth, all you want is to feel wanted. Claimed. Loved in the most primal, unshakable way.

“No one makes me feel like you do,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it, the truth of it curling in the space between you.

Joel stills slightly, lifting his head just enough to catch your eyes. “What was that?”

You look right at him, breath catching a little. “Tommy could never make me feel as good as you do, Joel.”

And maybe it’s petty, maybe it's mean and vengeful, but you don’t care. Because Joel’s eyes darken instantly. A low sound rumbles from his chest, and he leans in, lips brushing yours, voice barely held back. He nips at your bottom lip before murmuring:

“Say it again.”

You swallow, your pulse thrumming in your throat, your body still trembling from everything he’d already given you.

“You fuck me better than he ever could,” you whisper, breath hitching in your lungs. “Better than anyone ever has.”

Joel groans, low and rough, like it’s been pulled straight from his chest. He presses his forehead into the crook of your neck, the heat of his breath hot against your skin. One hand slides down to your thigh, gripping firmly, spreading you wider as he nestles between your legs. His other hand wraps around himself, thick and heavy in his palm.

You reach down, your smaller hand covering his, fingers curling over his wrist as you guide him to your center.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs, his voice reverent as he rubs the head of his cock through your slick folds. “So wet.”

Your breath shudders out, your lips brushing against his cheek. “For you, all for you,” you whisper, words trembling on your tongue. “I missed you, missed the way you make me feel. Every time.”

Joel groans again, rutting forward just enough to press the head of his cock at your entrance.

“Fill me up, Joel,” you breathe, your voice soft and aching. “Please.”

He sinks into you with a groan that sounds torn between pleasure and pain, the thick stretch of him dragging against every hypersensitive inch of your walls. It’s too much and not enough all at once. He fills you up completely, your pussy fluttering and pulsing just trying to accommodate the size of him, the heat of him. You gasp as your back bows, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders for purchase.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, legs wrapping tight around his hips, anchoring him to you. “You’re so…so deep.”

Joel’s head drops to your shoulder, his mouth pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin as he slowly starts to move, moaning into your skin. He takes long, languid strokes that feel endless, like he’s dragging himself through molasses, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, the blunt head catching just right.

“You take me so goddamn well, baby,” he mutters, voice thick and reverent. “Always do. Always so tight, so fuckin’ wet for me.”

His body eclipses yours entirely, shielding you from the rest of the world like he’s your shelter, your storm, your everything. His forearms bracket your head, caging you in, the muscles in his back working under your palms as he drives into you with slow, consuming force.

“Feels so good, Joel,” you whisper, mouth pressing into his as his head turns to you, and you let out a breathless laugh as you admit, “Feels like you’re splitting me in half,”

You kiss him deeper, your tongue sweeping through his mouth before you say, “You make me feel so good, so wanted. Like I’m yours.”

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you again, lips kiss bitten and his eyes wild with heat and something deeper.

“You are mine,” he says, jaw tight. “Look at you, baby. Look at how fuckin’ pretty you are. Laid out for me like this. All mine.”

His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, as he shifts the angle of his hips. The new rhythm hits something inside you that makes you cry out, your fingers clawing at his back. Joel’s lip snarls at the look on your face, that primal, possessive side of him clawing its way out as he growls low in his throat, a sound more animal than human. He dips his head to take your breast in his mouth, sucking your nipple between his teeth while his hips never stop.

Your body lights up at the sensation, pleasure ripping through you as you keen beneath him, sweat beading at your temple.

He releases you with a wet pop, panting against your skin, the sound making your walls convulse and flutter around him. “You feel that, sweetheart? That’s how much I missed you. Missed this tight little pussy. Fuck—” he bites down gently on your other breast, then kisses the sting away.

You whimper, your body jerking as his cock pulses inside you.

“You’re so fucking big,” you gasp, “I can feel you everywhere—Joel—oh my god—”

“That’s it,” he grits, one hand slipping down to rub slow, aching circles over your clit. “Come on, baby. Come again for me. Let me feel you squeeze me. I need it. Need to feel you.”

Your head tips back as the pleasure builds again, white-hot and unforgiving. Your thighs tremble around his waist, slick with sweat and arousal, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the quiet of the room.

“Joel, I—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasps, speeding up, fucking you harder now, his mouth at your ear. “You’re so close, I can feel it. Come for me. Right now, mama. Right on this cock.”

You shatter for him, again, your whole body locking up as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your vision blurring with the force of it. Joel curses, groaning as he watches you fall apart, his hips stuttering with the effort to hold back.

He doesn't stop.

Joel fucks you, his rhythm slow but steady as you milk him through your orgasm, savoring the stretch, watching your body open up around him. You’re soaked, still twitching and trembling as you come down, and he’s so thick but it doesn’t matter. You take him anyway. Your cunt flutters, pulling him in, and he grits his teeth at the way you clench down on him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice wrecked. “You feel like heaven, such a good girl for me,”

Your nails dig into his biceps as he starts to move faster again, hips grinding deep and mean, dragging moans out of you with every thrust. The stretch, the pressure, the weight of him has you gasping again, mouth open, eyes fluttering.

“Joel—”

“Uh-uh,” he growls, hand wrapping around your jaw, not tight, just enough to hold your head still so you’ll look at him. “Don’t start with the whining, sweetheart. You wanted this. You begged for it. Said no one fucks you like I do, remember? Look at me.”

You do, whimpering and pulling his thumb into your mouth, suckling on it, and that only makes him smile, a little dark and wicked but a sweetness still there when he kisses you over it.

“That’s right,” he says, rocking into you harder, filthier. “You like it when I ruin you. When I split you open and stuff you full of cock. You fuckin’ love it.”

You cry out as his hips slam forward, the angle brutal and perfect. He pulls his hand away to watch your tits bounce with every thrust, swollen and heavy.

“Christ,” he groans, “Look at these tits. So full. So fuckin’ pretty. My girl. The mother of my goddamn baby and still beggin’ for it so pretty, too.”

You clench around him at that, and he laughs, low and breathless.

“Oh, I know you like that, like when I talk dirty to you, huh, baby? When I tell you how good you are like this, all open and wet and mine?”

“Joel—please—”

“You’re fuckin’ milkin' me,” he growls, deep and low and primal, pulling back to watch his cock disappear into you again and again. “Drippin’ all over me. Look at this pussy, baby. Takin’ what’s hers, tight as a damn vice.”

You’re spiraling, thighs twitching, body already racing toward another climax. Joel feels it, sees it, smells it on you. His hand drops between your legs and he starts circling your clit, fingers rough, perfect, practiced.

“What’re we at now? Eight? Wanna make it nine?”

You shake your head, hands gripping his wrist, pushing him away.

“But you feel so good, clenchin’ around me like that baby, I think she wants it, damn near loves it.”

You shake your head again, but it’s half-hearted now, your grip on his wrist already weakening. The moment his fingers start circling again—tight and relentless, exactly where you need it—you whimper, back arching, thighs quivering around his hips.

“You’re so goddamn perfect. Every inch of you.”

You exhale hard, trying to catch your breath. “Joel…”

He leans over you, brushing a thumb along your cheekbone, then down to your lips, which are swollen and slick. “Talk to me, baby.”

“I love you,” you breathe, blinking up at him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he says breathlessly.

Your eyes squeeze shut, and the tears finally slip free, clinging to your lashes before they fall. You nod, lips trembling as you breathe through it, the words cracking out of you like you’ve been holding them back for years.

“You’ve always made me feel safe. Like... like I’m home.”

You don’t even know where it’s coming from, only that it’s true. Maybe it’s the release. Maybe it’s the eighth orgasm. Maybe it’s the months of aching and wanting and feeling like you’d lost yourself. But now, with him, his hands on you, his body still buried inside you, you feel found.

His hand cups your jaw, steadying you. “You are home. Right here with me. Always.”

You whimper as he slows down, still just as deep, stretching every inch of you. It’s overwhelming, even after everything, but it’s perfect—he’s perfect—and you cling to him like you might fall apart without him.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You do. You meet those heavy, hazel and honey-dark eyes, and he stares back like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“Mine.” he murmurs, not asking, just claiming. “Always have been.”

Your breath stutters, your thighs twitching again. “Yours,” you echo, and he smiles like he’s never heard anything better.

“Say it again.”

“Yours, Joel,” you whimper. “I’m yours.”

“Damn right,” he whispers, picking up pace again. “And I’m yours. Every piece.”

You hold on with everything you have, arms locked around his neck, legs trembling, ankles crossed tight at his back, but your body is barely hanging on. You’ve lost count more than once of your orgasms, your body exhausted. Every nerve ending is raw, every breath shallow. You’re shaking, soaked, spread wide and taken fully, your skin slick with sweat and his touch.

He fucks you like he’s starved for it, like every part of him belongs here, in this moment, inside you. And it’s too much. The way his body dwarfs yours, his broad chest brushing your flushed, sensitive breasts, the deep, aching drag of his cock that finds every part of you like it was made to. You feel him everywhere. In your lungs. Your ribs. Your throat.

“Please,” you whisper, or maybe you moan, it doesn’t matter. It’s all coming apart at the seams, your vision blurring with tears of pleasure and overstimulation. “Please come with me.”

Joel groans, low and guttural, his hand cradling the back of your head as he presses a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “I will,” he breathes. “I got you. I always got you.”

Then you’re gone.

The world whites out. Your body locks, then convulses. Your thighs shake violently, clamping around his hips as your back arches off the bed. You feel everything and nothing—just heat, just pressure, just the overwhelming wave of pleasure snapping through your core and spiraling you under. You can’t breathe, can’t see. All you hear is Joel, panting and whispering your name like a prayer, his voice like static through the roar in your ears.

He follows, and you can feel it all. That deep, jolting pulse as he buries himself inside you and comes with a desperate, broken grunt. You feel every thick, hot rope of spend filling you, the warmth spreading deep, spilling from the seams. He twitches inside you, stilling as he empties himself completely.

Your eyes stay closed, the blackness of your lids soothing as your body pulses with the aftershocks of everything. You feel Joel, though. You feel the way his fingers press into your hair, tethering you to reality. His length still inside you, still pulsing, his lips still kissing you softly, over and over, like he’s trying to bring you back from wherever you just went.

“I got you, pretty girl,” he murmurs, barely audible over the sound of your panting. “I got you.”

You hum in response, tongue swiping over dry lips, lungs still trying to remember how to breathe.

“Holy shit,” you manage, voice hoarse, a dazed smile tugging at your mouth.

Joel chuckles, the sound rough and full of affection. “Too much?”

You shake your head slowly, the movement loose, hazy. You open your eyes to finally meet his, warm and swimming with something that settles you down to the bones.

“No,” you breathe. “Perfect.”

The crackle of the baby monitor cuts through the last of the silence, followed by a sharp, insistent cry. You both go still for a beat, like your minds haven’t quite caught up yet.

You groan softly, pressing your palm to your face. “Guess it’s my turn.”

Joel’s already moving, slowly sitting up and reaching for his pants at the foot of the bed. “Nah, I got 'em.”

You blink at him through the strands of your hair, still splayed against the pillow. “No, it’s okay, you were with him all morning—”

“I said I got him,” he says again, firmer this time, but not unkind. He leans over, brushes your hair gently away from your forehead, and kisses the space just above your brow. “You take a shower. We’ll join you in a minute. He needs a bath anyway. Little guy stinks.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Oh, so like you?”

His hand stills on his belt, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Easy,” he warns, though you can see the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

You giggle, covering your smile with the sheet as he buttons his fly and finishes dressing. He’s half-disheveled, hair a mess, skin blotchy red and a sheen of sweat across his chest, but still. You think he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Joel heads for the door, pausing just before the threshold. He glances back at you, eyes soft, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “You're gonna be okay. We will.”

You watch him go, heart aching in that strange, quiet way it does when you realize you're deeply, hopelessly in love. Not just with the way he touches you or how he fucks you—but with the way he remembers the baby needs a bath, the way he tells you to rest, the way he makes you feel safe and wanted and not alone in any of it.

The bed is warm around you, the room still thick with the scent of him, of you, of what you’ve just shared. You press your hand to your belly, smile against your wrist, and finally let yourself breathe.

It's going to be okay.

6 Months Later

Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Sammy, Happy birthday to you!

Applause erupts around the yard, a chorus of clapping and laughter and camera shutters. Sam just blinks, stunned by the attention, his round cheeks dusted pink as he stares at the sea of faces all beaming at him.

Joel steps up with the smash cake, all blue and white icing swirled across the top just like you made it the night before, carefully piping it under the glow of the kitchen light after Sammy had gone down. He sets it on the highchair, and the baby leans forward, captivated, pudgy hands curling into tight fists at the edge of the tray.

You guide him gently, pressing your own finger into the frosting to show him what to do. When you pop the sweet mess into your mouth, Sam follows, smashing his hand into the cake and shoving a generous amount into his mouth with startling determination.

You laugh, licking icing off your finger, glancing back at Joel beside you. “He gets that sweet tooth from you, you know.”

Joel hums in amused protest, slipping his arm around your shoulders. He dips a finger into the frosting and swipes it across your nose. You gasp, playfully scandalized, and he leans in to kiss it off with a quick, warm brush of his lips. Around you, no one notices. Phones are out, Sammy is being thoroughly documented from every angle, and the low buzz of chatter and laughter fills the air.

When the kiss ends, you linger just long enough to rest your head against Joel’s shoulder, soaking it in—an entire year of you and your baby. And Joel. Memories fly through your mind like a cinematic reel, first words, first steps, first tooth. He was growing too fast for his own good.

Then your eyes catch on something across the yard.

Tommy and Maria stand off to the side, a little tucked away but not distant. Maria has baby Abigail on her hip, the girl wearing a pale pink dress and matching bow, her tiny fingers waving excitedly in the direction of the cake. Tommy’s arm brushes Maria’s as they both smile toward Sam, and for a moment, it’s almost hard to remember how much it hurt—how messy things were.

“Dada!” Sammy calls out from the highchair, cake smeared from cheek to ear, holding up a sticky hand like an offering. Joel smiles, crouching to take a bite straight from his tiny fist. The baby squeals, delighted.

You leave Joel to play and cross the yard, dodging through guests of familiar neighbors, a few folks from Joel’s job, Sarah’s friends.

“Hey,” you say softly, coming to stand in front of Maria and Tommy.

“Hi,” they both say in near unison. There’s no tension in their voices, just tired smiles and that kind of weary, mutual understanding that only time can build.

You smile at the toddler in Maria’s arms. “Hi, miss Abby,” you coo, brushing a finger along her arm. “You enjoying the party? You get yourself some lunch?”

Abigail nods emphatically, then stretches out her arms toward you, open and wanting. “Auntie!”

Maria lets you take her without hesitation, and the baby settles in your arms with the trust of someone who already knows you love her. You hold her close, already sticky from something and warm, and glance back at your son, who’s now banging his fist against the tray while Joel pretends to be scandalized by every slap of icing.

“Thank you for coming,” you say to Maria, voice quiet but sincere.

“Of course,” she replies without missing a beat. “She’s been talking about ‘Sammy’s party’ for days.”

Tommy adds, rubbing a hand along Maria's back, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, smiling, and shift Abby against your hip. “You wanna go help Sam eat some of that cake?”

“Yes!!!” she squeals, and all three of you laugh.

And as you carry Abby back into the fray of laughter and frosting and the remains of one-year-old chaos, you feel the ache in your chest shift.

It’s not what any of you imagined. It’s more complicated, more layered. But the love is still there. There's effort. There's presence.

It’s messy, but it's family.

And family matters.

you guys 😭 what a journey it has been! THANK YOU so much for everyone who has been along for the ride with me. Whether you've been here since the very start, where I'd listened to some podcast tell a reddit story about a brother helping a couple conceive and falling in love, or maybe you found it somewhere along the way, i'm so so grateful you're here.

I had no idea it would grow into something like this or that so many of you would love it the way you have. Your comments, reblogs, messages, they mean the world to me. You've made the story feel bigger than just some silly joel miller fanfic I wrote in my free time. you made this truly special.

thank you for reading, for sharing, for sending me all your feelings, for rooting for these chaotic characters.

I love you. I'm eternally grateful.

love, may x

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @alidiggory92 @pinkylouise @izzy698 @doblasftcisco @devotedlypaleluminary @elsplayground @puduvallee @victoriaholland @legoemma @leenieweenie12 @possiblyafangirl @alitaar @mads198-9 @emmaoc10 @auteurdelabre @the-last-twin-of-krypton @lilasskicker2 @levislegislation @flowercrowns-goodvibes@starmurdock, @94namkooksworld, @staley83, @escapefromrealitylol, @starkleila, @ashleyfilm, @honeyydip, @timeladyrikaofgallifrey, @brooklynbbxo, @ratoonstown, @caroldxnvxrs, @lovelykat001, @snowlycanroc, @powellssaturn, @marylimlp, @pklol, @tomie-it-girl, @nayomi247, @joshylanefleet, @pedrospurplerain, @person-005, @beewithouthoney, @thegoldenhood, @aj0elap0l0gist

#family matters #the last freaking chapter omg :'(((#joel miller #tommy miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #tommy miller x you #tommy miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #tlou #the last of us #the last of us fic #tlou fic #joel tlou

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studioeisa · 4 months ago

Text

keeping score ⚽ mingyu x reader.

hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader. ⚽ word count: 20.4k ⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse. ⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo. ⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3 🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.

▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH.

The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.

You love the Kims. Really, you do.

His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?

Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.

And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.

You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.

“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”

You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”

He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”

You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”

The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents.

Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.

“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”

Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”

His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”

“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”

It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”

His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”

“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.”

You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.

Nose scrunch. Head shake.

Not in this lifetime.

There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.

You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.

Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.

And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.

He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall.

Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.

You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.

Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.

You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.

“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.

He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”

You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.

The camera clicks.

This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.

“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”

“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”

“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.

Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”

You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother.

There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.

And you’re perfectly fine with that.

▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE.

Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.

“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”

Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”

Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.

And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.

You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.

The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.

Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”

“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life.

Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”

Vernon blinks. “Oh.”

Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs.

Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”

Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort.

You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech.

For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles.

Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”

“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”

Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?”

“So, what?”

The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”

Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”

It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on.

“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.

“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”

Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.”

“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he adjusts his cleats.

“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”

He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”

Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”

Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”

“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu.

His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.

When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was.

When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’

And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.

Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.

“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.

Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”

That one’s easy.

“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu.

Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off.

The feeling was most definitely mutual.

The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.

Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”

Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.

The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.

Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”

Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”

Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”

“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply.

Vernon blinks. “What bet?”

“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol.

Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.

How long it’ll take the two of you to get together?

“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.

Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding.

“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does.

He watches as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.

There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.

Huh.

A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills.

“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle.

▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR.

You don’t know why you always end up here.

Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators.

Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”

You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”

“You say that every time.”

You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.

The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.

“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”

“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”

He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”

“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”

“Okay, but—”

Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.

And then everything goes black.

For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.

Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.

“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”

You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”

“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.

You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”

But then you actually look at him.

The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.

Oh.

He’s genuinely scared.

A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”

“I just—” Mingyu gulps. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”

And then it clicks.

You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.

He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.

But you knew.

Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.

Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”

Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”

“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.

You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”

He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax.

“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”

“I will murder you.”

An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”

“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face.

“You are kind of pathetic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.

With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.

Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”

He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff.

It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him.

Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.

He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though.

“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again.

“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”

“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.

As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine.

“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.

Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”

“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.

You make a face. “Be serious.”

He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”

“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic.

You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”

Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back.

“You don’t have taste.”

“Excuse you—”

“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”

Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.

You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude.

“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way.

You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation.

What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.

Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.

Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.

▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT.

Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you.

He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it.

He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.

Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight.

If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself.

But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him.

Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights.

“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt.

The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.

He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend.

It takes him all of three minutes to find you.

Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried.

It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick.

He hates it. He hates you.

He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too.

Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump.

Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling.

Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.

It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most.

He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news.

And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you.

“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”

Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone.

“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—”

“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”

Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow.

“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?”

He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple.

Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you.

You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu.

He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?”

Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same.

“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.”

The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.

“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this.

Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself.

That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth.

“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”

In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were… kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true.

In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’.

The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other.

“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement.

Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you—

You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger.

The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.

Mingyu, still paces away.

By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.

“We’re going,” he announces.

The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss.

“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves.

“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”

Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car.

You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further.

“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.”

“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”

“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it.

That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle.

“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Your mother asked me to—”

“Well, she can go and—”

“Please!”

Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together.

“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.”

You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up.

“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night.

“You are,” he responds exasperatedly.

“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.

You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—”

“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat.

You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”

If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago.

A beat. And then—

“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips.

To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground.

You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car.

▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER.

You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber.

Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.

Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.

The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.

Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab.

And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.

You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.

Stop drinking. -KMG

You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.

Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is. You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”

“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”

There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later.

Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.” The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”

You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.

As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.

And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?

You shove it deep down where it belongs.

Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.

His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.

Today, Mingyu is untouchable.

The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”

Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”

It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.

But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.

Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.

And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.

Mingyu’s jaw tightens.

When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.

Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”

Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.

You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.

And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.

That’s just the cherry on top.

He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible.

Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing.

▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME.

Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section.

The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time.

Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.

“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.”

Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.”

The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”

As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.

He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job.

Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.

The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen.

But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.

His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.

It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.

Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory.

Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes?

He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.

And then— what the hell is he doing?

Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s.

That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo.

“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires.

“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell.

He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you.

(In the other side of the mall—)

▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP.

You love shopping.

Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.

Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.

It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.

You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.

“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.

You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.

Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”

The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.

“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”

A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.

The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.

You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.

The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.

A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders.

Mingyu’s shoulders.

You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.

You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.

Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.

Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it.

You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.

But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.

It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.

What the hell are you doing?

Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.

You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.

No. Absolutely not.

You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.

Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.

▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.

And yet, here you are.

Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.

He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.

The worst part? It works.

Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.

He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.

Instead, he heads straight for you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.

You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”

You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.

Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.

But he does.

It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.

Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.

A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.

Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.

The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.

A one-point lead. Game over.

He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in.

Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.

He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching.

Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.

There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today.

Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.

He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage.

“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.��

“Excuse me?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”

That sets him off.

“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”

You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”

Your jaw clenches.

“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”

The words hit harder than they should.

The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.

He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”

You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it.

But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”

Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”

“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”

You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.

Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.

This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.

Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.

Just… because.

It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night.

He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”

Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here.

Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.

The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.

His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?

Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.

“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”

Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”

He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”

To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.

The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.

Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.

Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.

And, maybe, so is he.

It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.

He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—

But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.

Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.

By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.

▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive.

It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.

You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.

Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered.

That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.

You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.

Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.

He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.

You blink. Then blink again.

The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—

Oh, God.

With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.

You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.

You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.

“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.

“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

Well, then.

If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.

You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.

A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.

The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor.

You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.

You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.

It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it.

You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer.

You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.

“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.

Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”

You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks.

You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”

A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in.

The moment is bizarre.

His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours.

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.

The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.

You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.

“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.

“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.

You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.

It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.

The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...

The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”

Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.

Shit.

You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”

But the thing is— you can’t ignore it.

Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.

A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.

Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.

“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor.

“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”

You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”

“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.

You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.

You are warming up to Mingyu.

It hits you like a truck.

Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.

Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.

By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.

You need to stop being too nice to him.

▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH.

Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching.

He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.

And then, as expected—

“Kim.”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.

He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.

He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.

“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.

You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”

“No.”

Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.

“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”

“I need a favor.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”

Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”

Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”

You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”

He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”

“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”

Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.

And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.

“I need help moving some furniture.”

Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”

He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.

“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges.

“Because you owe me?”

He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”

“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team.

“Not my problem,” he settles on saying.

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“And yet, here you are.”

The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a headache, Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.

Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough.

“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”

To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed.

Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”

“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”

“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”

The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.”

You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”

You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.

Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.

“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic.

Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.

But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.

You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon.

▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON.

The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.

“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”

Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”

You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.

Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”

Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”

The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.

Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately.

So you double down.

You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”

Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.

There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head.

Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you?

The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.

As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”

You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.

But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air.

The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.

Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you.

“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly.

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs.

“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”

Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”

You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”

“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”

You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.

Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead—

“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful.

You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”

“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful.

You hate it.

You hate him.

Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.

You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players.

One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too.

In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option.

It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that.

If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse.

He had pretended not to.

You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.”

Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut.

The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to.

Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant.

You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit.

Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away.

You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word.

His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause.

Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”

You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant.

Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called.

▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE.

Mingyu doesn’t get it.

He’s been off his game for days.

It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.

It pisses him off.

The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.

Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority.

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest. “One more round.”

“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”

Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.

As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump.

Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.

You?

You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing.

It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.

Instead, he’s a goddamn mess.

Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.

It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate.

He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.

You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.

But then—

You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told.

You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.

Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.

And what’s worse—

Why does he want it?

He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.

He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.

Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.

The realization slams into him all at once.

His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.

Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel.

Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.

He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have.

“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s fucked.

▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING.

You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.

It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes.

Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.

It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it.

Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return.

“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”

Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”

He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”

“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”

Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.

Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole.

“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."

“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”

“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”

“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”

Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”

“... Lighting?”

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”

Something twists in your stomach.

The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating?

You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”

“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”

“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”

There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.

It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you’re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition.

The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.

“Table for two?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says.

She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”

For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted.

He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”

The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.

“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.

As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”

“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”

He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You knew that when you got in the car.”

The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again.

“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”

His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."

Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead.

“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song.

“Absolutely not.”

You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?”

“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.”

Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas.

The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces.

And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.

But maybe that’s not the whole truth.

The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered.

Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage.

Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.

“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”

Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”

“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”

It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women.

Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?

Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”

“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”

You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.

“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”

The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.

You know someone like that.

Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.

You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged.

Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”

You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

You don’t dare look at him.

You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like—

▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE.

Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is.

He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.

The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.

Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.

He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.

Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?

He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.

It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.

And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him.

Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.

You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom.

Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now.

Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—

You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when you’d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.

The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter.

It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.

His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.

The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off.

Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.

Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?

Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?

Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—

What would you sound like?

In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—

“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself.

He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—

“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”

Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.

Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.

You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.

A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it.

You pucker your lips.

A flying kiss.

Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.

▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE.

Seven minutes.

You could do anything in seven minutes.

Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.

You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.

The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.

“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty.

This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.

Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated.

The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people—

“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.

Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim.

To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.

You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.

You don’t.

It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.

You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu’s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him—

“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”

Fuck.

You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter.

He opens one eye. “You totally did.”

You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.

But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging

The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.

Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back.

No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?

“It’s complicated,” you gripe.

Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.”

He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”

That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound.

It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.”

You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.

“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.

You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid.

The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.

Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.

And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.

After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.”

You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you.

Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”

“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.”

“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything.

“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—”

“Let’s not go there.”

He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips.

You take a deep breath, and then you follow.

It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes.

You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly?

That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red.

You have never wanted Mingyu so badly.

▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’.

He doesn't want to be mad.

Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it.

He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.

You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant.

Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.

You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.

He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.

But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet.

He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.

“Can you not?”

“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”

Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.

He does.

“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”

You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended?

“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—

“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”

There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung.

It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest.

He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—”

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

And there it is.

The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.

Mingyu’s head spins.

You wanted him to kiss you.

His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.

Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen.

Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.

When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you.

You look as crazy as Mingyu feels.

“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”

“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”

His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.

Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe.

You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night.

His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.

“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer.

He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.

He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years.

And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.

Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.

It might be a mistake. He knows that.

He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.

But then you kiss him back.

You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there.

Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.

His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life.

“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.

And for once, you don’t fight him.

▸ S01E17: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE.

The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly dinner in his car with its one working speaker, and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.

You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering.

If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask.

Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.

“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.

“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”

He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved.

Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it.

Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection.

It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.

Almost.

Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking.

At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.

It’s all suspicious.

Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out.

Under the table, something changes.

You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

His expression is half-agony, half-hope.

And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now.

You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win.

No. This is a game you no longer have to play.

You lace your fingers through his.

Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.

You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.

But maybe— just maybe— this one will do.

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