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igorluvr · 6 months ago

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‘LOVE AND LATTES | kang dae-ho x reader

PAIRING: kang dae-ho x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: during the games, dae-ho promised to take you on a proper first date. now that you had both successfully made it out, he was going to keep his promise

CONTENT: fluff, literally the tiniest bit of angst, kinda corny, trauma, kissing on the first date smh, reader is implied to be black

AUTHORS NOTE: tryna get a lot of fics out for u guys bcs almost 400 likes on my first ??? omg yall r so sweet i swearrr, tysmm !!! ngl this might be kinda bad bcs im too tired to read over it …

word count: [2.5k]

IT’S been around 3 days since you got out of those hellish games, and you still can’t seem to process it. There was so much death, you felt guilty for taking the money, but it was your only chance at having a way out.

After surviving and splitting the money with a good handful of people, you found yourself dropped off in a dark alleyway. With only a large duffel bag at your side, you felt lost, unsure of where to go.

Eventually, you made your way to a bus station and caught a ride back to your apartment. It took a while to adjust to being in the real world again, a world where a gun wasn’t being held up to your head every hour of the day.

You remembered how you met the sweetest boy there. Kang Dae-ho. He was everything you could’ve asked for. The perfect man, met at a perfectly terrible time. Your mind flashed back to the end of mingle game.

‘I swear, when we get out of here I’m gonna take you on a real date. No guards, no games, just us two and the future ahead of us, okay?’ Dae-ho promised, cupping your face gently in his hands.

‘I love you with all of my heart, and I wanna see you when this is all over. We can move in with eachother and spend everyday in eachothers arms.’ He rambled with tears in his eyes, ‘I can’t lose you.’

Now in the present day, you wished you’d spend more time with him. You thought back to the last day in the games, when you wrote your number on his hand, hoping it wouldn’t be wiped off by the guards before he got home so you could live out the future you planned.

As the days passed, you lost hope in being able to reunite with your lover. Memories of him flashed through your mind. “Fuck, Dae-ho.” you whispered, “If only I had one more day with you..” and as if on cue, you heard your phone ring.

You stared for a couple seconds, confused as to who it could be. ‘It wouldn’t be Dae-ho, would it?’ With an ounce of hope left in your mind, you hurried and clicked the green answer button.

Silence lingered, then you heard a voice that made your heart explode.

“Hello?” Dae-ho’s wavering voice sounded “Is this you?”

You jumped up in joy, feeling a huge smile stretch across your face.

“Oh my God, Dae-ho!! It’s actually you!!” You exclaimed. “I missed you so much I thought we’d never talk again.”

A relieved sigh came from the other line, followed by a slight laugh. “I missed you more. How have you been? Where are you? Do you want me to come over?” he bombarded

“Okay woah, I can tell you missed me. I’m doing good, well better than I was a couple days ago, I’m at my house, and yes, I would love for you to come” You answered

The line went quiet for a moment, making you wonder if you’d lost the connection. Just as concern started to creep in, Dae-ho spoke again “Do you remember that promise I made before we got out?”

Of course you remember, his words have been playing on repeat in your mind like a record. Your heart skipped a beat as you thought of it actually coming true. You muttered a quick ‘mhm’ for him to continue.

“Tomorrow, meet me at the cafe down the street from that big market. I don’t know where you stay, so if it’s too far tell me and I’ll call you an uber.” he planned, “Dress up, even though I know you’ll look amazing in anything” You felt the butterflies in your stomach form as he carried on about what’ll happen the next day.

As the conversation came to a close and you got ready for bed, you found yourself thinking of any possible scenario that could happen tomorrow, good and bad.

‘What if my hair doesn’t cooperate?’

‘What if he doesn’t like how I look anymore?’

‘What if he’s setting me up?’

All these unlikely events start to run through your mind and it caused you to be overwhelmed with everything happening. When drifting off to sleep, you hope that everything turns out right.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

You woke up to a constant ‘ding’ blaring through your room every 10 seconds. Immediately, you pressed the power button on your phone thinking maybe you’d accidentally set an alarm. When it didn’t subside after this, you groggily opened your phone to locate the noise.

There were about 15 notifications from Dae-ho, them all texting you as if you’d died in your sleep or something.

A pool of ‘are you awake?’ and ‘are you okay?’ flooded on your lock screen. Not wanting him to worry any further, you decided to text him back

‘goodmorninggg, i’m up now sorry 😭 im okay, how are you?’ You typed, half asleep.

Immediately, your message was read and the bubbles on the left side of the screen appeared.

‘I’m okay. Why do you sleep so late? You scared me.’ the message read. You hadn’t even realized the time. ‘2:26pm’ the clock read. You always had a bad habit of sleeping in but it had gotten unusually bad after getting back from the games.

You quickly apologized in your message, explaining your situation to which he swiftly understood. As the conversation progressed, you discussed your date. You were the type of person that needed to know every detail before doing something, especially something like this.

The both of you decided to meet there at 7pm, to give you time to get ready, and to dress up—but not too much. To be honest, you weren’t sure if you guys had the same definition of too much but you decided to put it aside for now.

Immediately after you guys finished discussing the details, you rushed to get ready. Even though you had 4 hours, it didn’t seem like nearly enough time to see him.

The closet was your first thought, since you basically lived by the rule of getting dressed first, doing hair, then putting on makeup. You scanned your closet for anything that would impress Dae-ho.

It took about 30 minutes alone to pick out an outfit. You decided on a long black dress you bought for your halloween costume that you never got the chance to wear, due to the pickup for the games occurring the same day. You picked out jewelry and a coat to go with it, since it was the beginning of winter.

After getting dressed, you gathered all your makeup supplies and rushed to the bathroom. Doing your makeup took longer than you wanted it to, but you wanted everything to be perfect since this was the first time you’d see him outside of life-or-death situations.

Every wing of eyeliner had to be just right, your lip gloss needed just the right amount of shine, everything had to reflect how much you cared.

The hair was the part you’d been dreading. You didn’t know if it was the detangling, or getting your part straight, but it gave you a headache just thinking about it.

After stalling for about 20 minutes, you finally built up the strength to start on your hair. Pinterest was your best friend for situations like this. You quickly opened the board labeled “hairstyles” and scrolled through them to find the perfect one.

You’d found this beautiful blown-out hairstyle that would look amazing with your outfit and makeup. Since you knew it would take a long time, you silently braced yourself, this wouldn’t be an easy task. You grabbed the blow dryer, flat iron, heat protectant, and got to work.

In about 2 hours, you had finally finished at 6:50pm. The cafe was about 7 minutes away from you, so you grabbed your stuff and walked out of the door.

The drive there was the worst part. Your stomach was doing somersaults. Even though you’d seen eachother at your literal worsts, it still felt so scary. With all these anxieties flashing through your mind, you managed to push them to the back and keep a confident facade.

As you pulled up, you sent a quick text stating your arrival. You fidgeted with the ends of your dress absentmindedly, spacing out and hoping for the best.

The ding of your phone sent shivers down your spine as a text popped up reading ‘Perfect. Come inside and turn to the left, I’m here.’

You felt like throwing up as you walked up to the entrance of the café. The strong smell of caffeine and pastries hit your nose as you searched for Dae-ho in the warm lights.

Turning left as he instructed, you were met with his beaming face, looking like he’d seen the most beautiful sunrise. His eyes widened in awe, and for a moment, he seemed frozen. The corners of his mouth curled up into an infectious smile, and you felt a rush of warmth, knowing that in this moment, you had completely captivated him.

Almost immediately, he jumped up and gave you an engulfing hug. You didn’t know if it was because you were used to the smell of blood being around him, but he smelled astonishingly good. It was like the best mixture of his natural scent and a very expensive cologne.

As he pulled back slightly, you noticed a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hands—delicate white lilies mixed with soft pink roses. “These are for you,” he said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I thought it was only right for our first date.”

His hair was down to his neck, loose and messy, quite different from the bun you were used to seeing him in during the games. The collar of his shirt was casually unbuttoned, too. He looked effortlessly flawless.

“You look… wow. You’re so beautiful,” Dae-ho complimented, sending electric shocks through your veins. A rush of shyness met your face—he really thought of you like that?

“It’s so good to see you,” you said, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and delight. “You look amazing too. I mean, I always thought you were handsome, but just… wow.” You took the bouquet from him, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the flowers.

His laughter danced through the air, a sound that brought you so much peace and clarity. “I’m just glad I could pull myself together after… well, everything.” His smile faded a bit, and you felt the silent weight of shared trauma hovering between you.

“Let’s not think about that tonight ,” you suggested softly, taking a seat across from him. “We deserve a night where those horrible games are the last of our worries.”

“Agreed,” he said, leaning forward, his gaze intensifying. “Tonight is about us, and starting fresh,together.”

As you scanned the cafe, adorned with twinkling fairy lights and the faint piano covers playing in the background,you felt the tension from earlier gradually melt away. You could see other people laughing, having the time of their lives. It felt surreal to be part of such a normal scene after everything you had both endured.

The waitress came up to your table and you both ordered drinks; he went for a dark roast coffee while you chose for a sweet vanilla latte. “It’s nice to be able to actually enjoy these little things.” you ranted, “After everything, I never even thought we’d get here.”

Dae-ho's eyes sparkled with that familiar warmth. “I’ve thought about this moment every day since I got back,” he admitted. “Dreamt about sitting across from you in a place that feels safe, where we can just be us.”

That sentiment made your heart swell. You immersed yourself in his beautiful sunkissed eyes. “What do you want for us, Dae-ho?” You asked, knowing that his answer could make or break you.

He hesitated for a moment, his expression solemn. “I want to build a life with you, whatever that looks like. It could be road trips everyday and always having new experiences together, or a cozy apartment with a beautiful family and no worries. I want us to share everything, the good, the bad—everything.”

The sincerity behind his words wrapped around your heart like a warm, familiar blanket. “I want that too,” you said softly, placing your hand over his. The connection was electric, sending sweet shivers up your body.

As you sipped your drinks, Dae-ho leaned in closer, a serious look in his eyes. “You know, I’ve thought about you every single day since we got out. I really missed you.”

“Really? I missed you too,” you replied, voice full of veracity. “It’s been hard without you.”

He took a long pause, as if he was searching for the right words. “I never realized how much I wanted someone like you in my life. Just knowing you were out there somewhere gave me hope.”

You felt your heart pang at his words, you spent all your life searching for a love like this, it felt so good to finally have it. “It was the same for me too. Every time I felt like giving up I had to remind myself of us, and our future.”

A soft smile grew on his face. “I knew we’d find our way back to each other. I just didn’t know how much it would mean to finally be here, like this.”

“Me either,” you said softly. “I was nervous about tonight. I worried that maybe everything would feel different.” You thought back to earlier and how stupid you were for thinking he would see you differently. This is genuinely all you could've asked for.

Dae-ho shook his head with his eyebrows fixed in a furrow. “I was nervous too, but being with you feels right. I could really see us living a perfect life someday”

Your heart swelled with warmth. With him, you felt like you can just be yourself without any fear. He was genuinely your safe space.

“I promise we’ll stay connected. No matter how hard things get, we’ll keep fighting for each other.” You swore, knowing how your past relationships ended and wanting to break the cycle.

“Thank you, really. It means the world to me,” Dae-ho said sincerely, his eyes meeting yours. “I just want us to have a future, no matter how hard it'll be.”

“Yeah, me too,” you replied, feeling a sense of calm settle over you. “It’s comforting to have someone you know will be there for you, even on the darker days.”

His smile deepened, and for a moment, everything else faded. Just the two of you were in the room—focused on your shared promise. Nothing else mattered in this moment, you were ready to finally create a new beginning.

Silence in the air was broken as he finally spoke up, “I want to build a life where we support each other through any and everything." he grinned. “Even the small moments matter. Like cooking together and trying not to burn the kitchen down.”

You chuckled softly, picturing you both in the kitchen attempting to cook and leaving something in the oven too long. “I can definitely see that happening.”

“And if we accidentally set the place on fire, at least I’ll have an excuse to scoop you up and look all heroic while I rescue you.” he joked, his expression growing more playful

Laughter erupts from you and your eyes sprinkle with joy, causing Dae-ho to lean in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You know, I really missed your laugh. It makes everything feel so much brighter.”

“Really?” you asked, feeling warmth spread through your chest, “I missed yours too, it’s cute.”

The atmosphere felt light, almost euphoric, as you both relaxed into the comfort of eachother's presence. “Believe it or not, I was really so nervous for tonight,” Dae-ho admitted, his voice softening as he brushes his hair back behind his ear. “I thought I’d forget how to talk to you.”

“Trust me,” you said, voice tender, “I was nervous too. But I realized that after everything, who else could understand us like this?”

“Exactly,” He said before taking a sip of his coffee. “I feel like I can be myself around you, like I’ve never been able to with anyone else. It’s so freeing.”

“Freedom and love. Isn’t that what life’s really all about?” you said, your voice filled with hope and longing. You felt a warmth in your heart as you spoke, realizing that these two things were what you truly cherished.

As the conversation flowed, you exchanged stories, laughter, and memories—you shared dreams and fears, and slowly the nervousness slowly melted away.

“I can’t believe we made it out,” he said, his voice stern. “I can’t stop thinking about the others we lost… what they would’ve did if they made it out too.”

A brief silence enveloped the moment, both of you remembering the friends that didn’t make it, the faces of people who had shared brutal experiences with you.

“I think they’d want us to live, like really live,” you said firmly, squeezing his hand gently. “To make the most of us getting out, we owe it to them.” Dae-ho silently nodded, the thick atmosphere slowly leaving.

As the evening progressed, you lost track of time, so caught up in the warmth of shared smiles and nervous laughter. You could hardly believe this was the same man who stepped up and took initiative at every rough point during the games, willing to sacrifice himself for everyone's safety.

The night ended slowly as Dae-ho walked you outside to your car. The stars twinkled like tiny beacons in the dark sky above. “It feels different tonight, doesn’t it?” you said, glancing up at the stars. “Yeah, it really does,” he replied, his voice soft but full of warmth.

As you strolled along, flowers in hand, you both shared stories from before you met, your voices mixing with the soft hum of the night. Every smile and nervous chuckle made you feel a little lighter. You realized how much you valued this moment, this time together, away from the chaos and pain that had once consumed you both.

You exchanged glances, and you both understood something unspoken between you. “I never thought I could feel this way again,” you said, a hint of vulnerability in your voice. Dae-ho stepped closer, his gaze steady. “Neither did I. But I’m glad we’re here together.”

Finally, you paused beneath a big, ancient tree. Its branches stretched out like arms, swallowing you both in its shadow. Dae-ho turned to you, his eyes beaming in the starlight. His stare locked onto yours, and he took a step closer, face inches from yours.

"I wish this could last forever baby, I love you." he whispered, breath caressing your skin. Then, without another word, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, gentle kiss. You felt a spark of connection, and your heart skipped a beat as you kissed him back, the warmth of his lips sending shivers down your spine. The kiss deepened, and everything else faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the sweetness of the moment.

As the kiss lingered, time itself seemed to stand still, the world around you fading into a beautiful blur. When you finally pulled away, his eyes searched yours, a mix of desperation and love radiating from him. "Whatever happens, I'll always be here" he said softly, his hand still cradling your face. You smiled, knowing that no matter where life took you, this memory would be a cherished part of your story, a promise of what could be.

#kang dae ho x reader #kang dae ho #squid game #dae ho x reader #kang daeho #daeho x reader #squid game x reader #kang dae ho fluff #dae ho fluff #squid game fluff #need that

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orellazalonia · 3 days ago

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His to Guard

Summary: After hiding your pregnancy from your husband for a while, Bucky, fiercely territorial and quietly devoted, turns every moment into proof that you and the baby are his entire world. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

Word Count: 2.4k+

A/N & Disclaimer: This is a special addition to this series due to my 1k followers event based off the Character Questionnaire game from this ask! It has a significant time skip and is not part of the main chapters (at least not for a longggg time). The next update to this AU will go back to when they are not married, not expecting babies, etc.

Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist

You didn’t mean to keep it from him.

You chalked the fatigue up to stress. The soreness? A bad night’s sleep. The way your stomach flipped at the smell of coffee one morning and you nearly cried because of a stupid dog commercial? Well… okay, that was harder to explain.

But still, you told yourself it was a fluke. A weird week. Hormones, maybe. You didn’t want to worry Bucky. Not when things had been so peaceful lately with quiet mornings curled together in bed, more meals together, and late-night walks with his hand brushing yours. You didn’t want to ruin it with paranoia.

Still, Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

You’d catch him watching you, brow furrowed slightly like he was running numbers in his head. When you started getting lightheaded every time you stood up too fast, he stopped letting you carry anything heavier than a throw pillow. You tried to wave him off, but he didn’t say much, just kept that steady gaze on you like he was trying to crack a code you hadn’t realized you were writing.

You weren’t hiding what was going on for some grand plan or secret rebellion. It was fear. And maybe… maybe a little bit of disbelief. If you didn’t say it out loud, if you didn’t name it, then maybe you could keep everything as it was. Simple, safe, and normal.

So you smiled through the nausea, blamed the headaches on allergies, and quietly swapped your morning coffee for tea when Bucky wasn’t looking. You were careful. You hid your vitamins behind the cereal boxes and kept the pregnancy test buried under old wash clothes and unused toiletries in the very back of the bathroom drawer.

You were good at pretending, but Bucky was better at watching.

He saw the way you flinched from certain smells, the way your body gravitated toward the couch faster than usual after a long day, or the way your hand went protectively to your stomach whenever you thought no one was looking.

And then came the mood swings.

You were usually patient, especially with him, but one night you snapped at Bucky for leaving a dish in the sink. He didn’t even argue, just tilted his head, studying you quietly as you stormed out of the room like your heart was on fire.

He found you in the bedroom twenty minutes later curled into a ball, blanket pulled over your face like you could hide from the world.

“Wanna talk?” He asked, voice soft.

You didn’t answer, just shook your head.

He didn’t press. He just sat beside the bed quietly until you fell asleep.

And still… you didn’t tell him.

You wanted to be sure. You wanted time to think. You wanted to hold onto the tiny, flickering hope for just a little longer, uninterrupted.

So you waited and you planned.

One quiet morning, when Bucky left early for a training session, you slipped into the bathroom with shaking hands and another test clenched tight in your fist. The mirror showed a pale version of yourself, someone who was nervous, uncertain, and blinking too fast.

You followed the instructions with breathless precision and set the test on the counter like it might explode.

Then you waited. Two minutes. You could survive two minutes.

Except you didn’t feel like you were surviving. You felt like you were floating and sinking all at once, like the air had turned to static and your bones were filled with buzzing dread. Your gaze shifted to the drawer where the old tests were.

Maybe they were faulty or glitched, maybe even expired. Maybe this was just stress, or a weird shift in your cycle. Maybe your body was playing tricks.

You hoped so.

Because your hands were shaking, your mouth was dry, and your head kept looping the same thought like it was stuck on a scratched record:

You still haven’t told Bucky.

The subject of kids had never come up, not seriously. There were no “what-ifs,” no late-night talks about futures with cribs or lullabies. You didn’t know if he even wanted them. What if he didn’t? What if the idea of a baby scared him and pushed him back into memories too dark to name?

Your stomach twisted. Not from nausea, though that hadn’t exactly eased, but from the gut-deep fear that this one thing, this one tiny life-altering truth might shift everything between you. Bucky loved you. That wasn’t in question. He told you in every touch, every breath, and every stupid middle-of-the-night trip for snacks you hadn’t even realized you were craving.

But love didn’t always mean ready.

And the last thing you wanted was to see anger on his face. Or worse, disappointment. Cold, quiet regret. A sharp flinch that said I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t want this. A withdrawal.

And when the lines appeared clear, certain, and real, your stomach dropped. You slid down onto the cool tile floor and stared because it was happening. You were pregnant, no doubts about it. And Bucky didn’t know.

You stayed in the bathroom longer than you meant to. Long enough that, when the front door creaked open, you jumped, heart lodging in your throat. Bucky’s voice echoed softly down the hall.

“Sweetheart? I forgot my gloves–”

Panic surged through you. You shoved the test back in its box and crammed it under the sink, slamming the cabinet door closed, standing back up just as Bucky rounded the corner into the hallway.

He paused when he saw you, your wet eyes, tense shoulders, and breath caught halfway to a sob.

You really weren’t as convincing as you thought.

“…You okay?” He asked gently, blue eyes narrowing with something deeper than concern. “You look… pale.”

You forced a smile that hurt. “Just tired.”

He studied you like he didn’t quite believe you, then stepped forward and raised a hand to your forehead. His touch was careful, the brush of his fingers cool against your skin.

“No fever,” He murmured. “But your heart’s racing.”

“I said I’m fine,” You said a little too fast.

That look came over him again. The one that meant he was filing something away, mentally circling something he couldn’t yet name.

“…Alright,” He sighed softly. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t go fainting on me.”

You nodded, lips pressed tight.

He kissed the top of your head before heading back out the door, but you could feel the weight of his concern even after it shut behind him.

He knew something was going on. He just didn’t know what. Not yet.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Bucky didn’t ask what was wrong, but he made it impossible for you not to notice that he knew.

It was in the subtle things. You reached for the car keys one morning and found one of his men already standing by the door, your coat in hand, saying, “Mr. Barnes has requested I drive you.”

When you went to brew coffee, there was suddenly a mug of herbal tea beside your usual spot, caffeine-free, floral, and warm.

“I just thought you might want something gentler,” He said with a shrug, eyes fixed on the kettle like he hadn’t spent ten minutes researching safe teas and had them delivered the day of.

You told yourself it was coincidence, that you weren’t being obvious, that he couldn’t possibly know.

But then you caught him watching you when you sat on the couch and curled your arms around your stomach, something you did more and more without thinking. He didn’t comment, just gave you that look. That look.

Gentle. Patient. Heartbreaking.

And you knew. He was waiting. He’d already figured it out.

You came home one evening quite late, exhausted and foggy with emotion. Bucky had left a blanket folded over the back of the couch, soft and warm. The fireplace was already lit. There was soup in the kitchen made by Nico. Something mild, simple, and exactly what your stomach could handle lately. He didn’t greet you at the door, didn’t hover. Just let you ease into the silence of the house as he was sat on the couch with a discarded book, staring patiently.

He was giving you a choice.

“Thought you were busy, didn’t think you’d be down here,” You murmured.

“Didn’t think you’d be home so late,” He answered, and you caught the quiet worry behind the words.

You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, neither of you saying anything for a long time. The crackling of the fire filling the space.

Then he asked, so quietly it nearly broke you, “You gonna tell me?”

Your breath caught.

“I mean… when you’re ready,” He added quickly. “I’m not going to force it out of you. I just…”

He paused, looking down at his hands, then up at you again.

“I just want you to know I already got you. No matter what it is.”

Your eyes stung. You didn’t say it yet. Not out loud.

But your hand found his, fingers weaving slow and certain. Holding on.

And Bucky didn’t push. He just laced your fingers together and waited with you.

The fateful day happened on a Tuesday.

Not a dramatic day. Not a falling-apart kind of day. Just… a Tuesday. The kind where your lunch didn’t settle right and everything felt a little too loud.

Bucky had been trailing the edges of your space again. Not smothering, just there. Like gravity that’s always near, always steady.

He hadn’t asked again, but he left things: crackers in your bag, your favorite fuzzy socks on the bed, or a bottle of ginger ale already opened with the fizz just right. You didn’t have to tell him. Somehow, Bucky knew the shape of your day before you could say it.

And maybe that’s what broke you.

Because when he found you that evening, curled in on yourself on the edge of the bed, blanket half-dragged over your lap and your hands clutched tight in your sleeves; you looked up, met his worried blue eyes, and said it.

“James,” You whispered, voice wrecked and tired.

His whole body went still, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Yeah?”

“I’m pregnant.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Bucky exhaled, slow and trembling, like you’d cracked something open in his chest.

“I know,” He said gently, stepping forward and kneeling in front of you. “I figured.”

Tears burned behind your eyes. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

His hands came up to rest on your knees, tentative and warm. “Because I didn’t want to take it from you.”

You blinked. “Take what?”

“The chance to say ii, to let it be yours first.” His voice cracked, quiet and tender. “You needed to hold it for a while before sharing it. I get that.”

You stared at him, lip trembling. “Aren’t you mad I didn’t tell you sooner?”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I was never gonna be mad.”

You broke then as your sobs spilled out and your hands trembled. Bucky gathered you close without a second thought. He rocked you gently, murmuring things you didn’t catch.

When your tears slowed, and your breathing steadied, he kissed the side of your head and said quietly, “We’re gonna be okay. All three of us.”

You nodded into his shoulder, still shaking. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” He whispered, pulling the blanket around both of you. “But I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in weeks, the fear didn’t feel so overwhelming.

But then it started the day after you told him.

At first, it was subtle. Bucky adjusted your car seat a little further back and mumbled something about “spinal alignment.” Then he replaced your shampoo with one that had “better prenatal safety ratings,” and you realized it was happening.

By the end of the week, your world had shifted.

You tried to carry a grocery bag inside one afternoon and he blinked like you’d committed a war crime.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping?”

“Not anymore, you’re not.”

From that moment on, you were banned. From lifting, from bending, from anything Bucky Barnes decided was “unnecessary effort” for a person growing a child.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

He didn’t argue. He just took the bag from your hands, scooped you up bridal-style, and carried you inside like you weighed less than a breath, ordering his staff to handle the rest of the groceries.

From then on, it only got more apparent how determined he was to provide nothing but the best for you.

If you so much as shifted in bed at 3 a.m., he was up. Padding to the kitchen in his sweats, eyes still half-shut, and grabbing pickle chips, orange slices, or whatever weird craving your body decided it had to have. You once whispered “s’mores” at 2:47 a.m. and woke up to him standing over you with a plate of them.

You weren’t allowed to open doors. You weren’t allowed to walk into any building first; he always went in first, eyes scanning, and body subtly angled in front of yours like a living shield.

You tried to argue once. “James, you can’t possibly keep doing this every single time we go somewhere–”

“I can and I will,” He said simply, “I know what this world’s like. I’ve seen too much. No one gets near you unless I say so.”

He meant it. No one raised their voice around you. No one touched you. People who even looked at you wrong got a tight-lipped stare that made them suddenly remember an urgent reason to be elsewhere.

Sam called him “feral.” Nat called him “a full-time bodyguard with a nesting complex.” You just called him yours.

And under all the sharp edges was softness.

Warm hands rubbing your lower back when it ached, whispered promises to your child, and bought an overly-excessive amount of books about parenting, swaddling, and sleep schedules. He helped you build baby furniture in the middle of the night when insomnia hit you and even hand-painted the tiny mural on the nursery wall, stars and constellations, soft and glowing.

He looked at you nowadays like he couldn’t believe he got this lucky. Like it terrified him, grounded him, and gave him purpose all at once.

And when he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and then lower to the swell of your stomach, you knew what he meant without words.

You and the baby were his everything now and he’d do anything to protect you both.

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lonerslug · 25 days ago

Text

Heat Laps

the starting line

racer!sevika x racer!reader, smut, slow burn, enemies to lovers, read at your own discretion.

“Lap forty-eight out of fifty!! Its neck and neck between sevika and her rival”

The roar of the crowd is nothing compared to the scream of engines.

Your tires hug the corner with surgical precision, the rear of your car sliding just enough to kiss the red-and-white curb. Every muscle in your body tightens, jaw clenched behind your visor, heart hammering in time with the RPMs flashing red across your dash.

P7 ➝ P6 ➝ P5. You’ve been climbing since Lap 21, shaving down seconds like it’s personal. Because it is personal.

Sevika’s just ahead.

And she knows it.

“These two have a long history, folks, rivals since their first season. Some say it’s the fiercest competition on the circuit. Others say there’s more than just adrenaline behind that tension!!”

Ignore it. Focus.

Your gloves flex on the wheel as you pull out of the chicane. Ahead, Sevika’s car glints in the sun, matte black with streaks of silver, aggressive, brutal, fast. Her signature. And she’s driving like she always does in the final laps, dirty, hungry, daring you to catch her.

Your engineer crackles through your comms.

“She’s guarding the inside line. Wait ‘til the straight. You’ve got the pace.”

You don’t reply. You never do.

Because you know her.

You know the way she brake-checks right before Turn 12, the way she leaves half a car’s width just to taunt you, the way she watches her mirrors more than the track. She doesn’t race the others, she races you. Always has.

And god, it makes your blood burn.

You see it. The narrow chance.

She slips wide by a fraction coming out of Turn 3.

That’s your opening.

You dive. The world blurs. She sees you too late.

The front of your car inches alongside hers, screaming through the corner side-by-side, rubber on rubber, millimeters from disaster. You feel her nudge you. Not enough to spin. Just enough to say I’m still here.

Your voice finally cracks the radio,

“Tell her to stop flirting.”

Your race engineer sighs. “What the hell do you want me to do? Send her flowers?”

You both hit the final straight.

The finish line is ahead. One lap left.

And now?

Now you’re beside her. Right beside her.

Fifty laps.

Two legends.

One shot.

Sevika’s helmet turns just enough, just enough for you to know she’s looking at you. Watching. Measuring. Daring.

Your chest heaves. Not just from speed. From everything.

You remember the last time she touched you. Not during a race, off-season, in Monaco. A private party. Press weren’t supposed to be there, but someone caught the way she grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the dark. Nothing happened. Not really.

Just a look.

Just her lips at your ear saying, “I want to beat you. And then I want to see how fast you fall apart.”

You didn’t speak for weeks after that.

You should snap back to reality right now… adrenaline is hitting fast.

“Last lap, last chance, ladies and gentlemen! Who’s taking the win today? These two are giving us a goddamn showdown!”

your engine roars in your bones.

She tries to push wide again. You don’t let her.

Your wheels touch.

Carbon splinters fly. A gasp rips from the grandstands.

You stay on the throttle. You’re done playing safe.

Final turn.

Final breath.

Final heartbeat.

And then,

Checkered flag.

Silence.

Then the comm explodes.

“WOAH WOAH!! SIX-HUNDREDTHS OF A SECOND—UNBELIEVABLE FINISH!” The announcer says your name, the crowd chants it.

You scream. You howl. It’s not joy, it’s release. You did it. You did it.

You won against fucking sevika! Your rival.

Your hands are shaking as you pull into parc fermé. Mechanics swarm the car, cameras flash like lightning, the air thick with smoke, champagne, and heat.

You yank off your helmet, hair soaked, chest rising and falling like you just survived war.

And there she is.

Sevika.

Helmet off. Skin damp with sweat, god she looks hot, but you’re to happy to care. Her jaw clenched. Walking toward you with that heavy-limbed, predatory stride that says this isn’t over.

She stops inches away. Eyes boring into yours.

No one breathes.

Then she leans in, voice low and rough.

“One win doesn’t make you better than me, sweetheart.”

You smirk, stepping forward.

“Then come catch me.”

The lights are hot.

The cameras are hotter.

But Sevika’s gaze? That’s fucking nuclear.

You sit two seats away from her at the post-race conference table, damp hair swept back, race suit half-unzipped and hanging around your waist like armor that’s been peeled off. A bottle of water sweats in your hand. The champagne’s already been sprayed, but your pulse hasn’t come down.

She hasn’t taken her eyes off you since the podium.

“Congratulations on the win today,” a reporter says, voice echoing across the room. “That finish was the tightest of the season. Did you expect to edge out Sevika in the last lap?”

You glance toward her.

She’s leaned back in her chair, legs spread like she owns the air between them. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching you.

You smile slowly.

Not for the reporter, but for her.

“I expected to beat Sevika,” you say into the mic. “Even when she tries to take me out on Turn 14.”

The room erupts. Laughter, gasps, flashbulbs.

Sevika’s brow arches. No smile. Just that simmering, unreadable look.

The reporter turns to her.

“Sevika! any response?”

She shifts forward, long arms resting on the table, eyes locked on yours.

“Yeah,” she says, voice low, amused. “Next time, I won’t miss.”

A ripple of shock goes through the room.

You lick your lips. Your fingers curl on the edge of the table.

Someone asks about tire strategy. You don’t hear it. Neither does she. The air between you hums like a live wire, dangerous and private, despite the crowd.

Back in the hallway, the press keeps hounding you. Cameras flashing. Someone shoves a mic in your face.

“There’s a lot of buzz around the rivalry, some are saying it’s more personal than professional. Any comment?”

You don’t stop walking. Just toss a smirk over your shoulder.

“Rivalry takes two,” you say. “She makes it personal every time.”

You duck out before they can ask more. You’re still catching your breath, adrenaline tapering off, heat still simmering under your skin, and that’s when you hear the footsteps.

Heavy. Familiar.

Sevika.

You don’t turn around. Just keep walking.

“Running?” she calls behind you. Voice low, teasing. “Didn’t think you had to, after a win.”

You stop.

“Didn’t think you’d be sore about it,” you reply, not looking back. “But I guess I hit harder than I thought.”

She laughs, dark, rough. Close now.

“Is that what you think this is? Sore?”

And then suddenly, she’s there. One arm braced on the wall beside your head, her body a breath away from yours. Her suit’s still half-zipped, clinging to her hips, her collarbone sharp under the open collar, throat glinting with sweat and stubborn heat.

You tilt your head up. “If it’s not sore, then what is it?”

Her eyes flick over your face like she’s choosing what part to bite.

“Focused.”

Your heart lurches.

“On what? The next race?”

She leans in, lips near your ear.

“On you.”

For a second, you don’t breathe. Neither does she. The silence aches.

Then she pulls back, barely, just enough to lock eyes with you again.

“You drive like a brat,” she murmurs. “Always have.”

You smirk. “And you chase like a dog.”

“Careful,” she growls. “Dogs bite.”

Your breath catches. Her hand drifts, just a little, brushes your wrist. Just enough to feel the tremble.

“Touch me again,” you whisper, “and I’ll scream.”

Her smile is filthy.

“That’s the point, baby.”

You leave her in the hallway, but not without looking back once, just once , and catching the way she’s watching your ass as you walk away.

The next time she touches you, you won’t be screaming out of protest.

You’ll be begging for more.

The paddock is quiet now.

Most of the teams have packed up, the champagne’s gone flat, and the media circus has moved on to editing headlines and uploading dramatic slow-mo shots of the final lap. You should be in your hotel suite, showered, asleep, with the trophy propped on your nightstand.

Instead, you’re in your trailer. Lights dim. Suit unzipped to your waist. Sitting on the edge of the bench, helmet by your feet, chest still tight with the echoes of the race.

And then you hear it,

The door creaks open behind you. Heavy boots. Slow, deliberate steps on the metal floor.

You don’t turn around.

“Locked the door?” you ask, voice low.

“Should I?” she answers. Her voice is a little raspier tonight. Or maybe that’s just what it sounds like when she wants you.

You turn your head just enough to see her.

She’s leaning against the door, one hand still on the handle, the other curled into a loose fist at her side. Her race suit hangs low on her hips, black tank clinging to her broad chest, hair slightly damp, mouth twitching at the corner.

“I figured you’d be halfway through a victory fuck by now,” she says.

“I figured you’d be halfway through a tantrum by now,” you shoot back.

Sevika hums. Pushes off the door. Walks toward you slowly, like you’re prey and she’s not in a hurry to catch you, because she knows you won’t run.

When she’s close enough, her thigh brushes your knee. She looks down at you, eyes heavy, fingers twitching like they want.

“I watched the footage,” she says.

You blink. “Of the race?”

“Of your interview. You said I flirt with you on track.”

You tilt your head. “that a lie?”

She leans down, both hands bracing on either side of you. Her arms cage you in. Her breath is hot. Her voice drops low.

“You know what’s funny?” she murmurs. “I’ve never actually touched you.”

A shiver climbs your spine.

Her lips hover just beside your ear.

“I think I’m done being patient.”

And then?

She grabs you.

Big hands on your thighs, spreading them wide so she can stand between them. One hand slips up to your neck, not choking, but holding, tilting your chin up.

“You gonna make me work for it, sweetheart?” she asks. “Or are you done pretending you don’t want this?”

You glare at her. “I beat you.”

“I’m still gonna make you come first.”

Her mouth crashes into yours like she’s claiming you. It’s not a kiss, it’s an opening lap, teeth and tongue, breath and heat. You gasp, and she smirks against your lips like she was waiting for that sound.

She lifts you like it’s nothing, like you’re light, easy, hers, and sits you on the bench. Your legs wrap around her waist, and she grinds in close, hips rolling between your thighs like she’s memorized your rhythm already.

“God, you’re warm,” she mutters against your throat. “Always run this hot, or just when I’m near?”

You try to snap back, something cocky, something cruel, but then her hand slides down, between your thighs, and all you can do is whimper.

“No comeback?” she taunts. Her fingers rub slow over your still-clothed heat. “That’s new.”

You bite your lip. “You talk too much.”

“So shut me up.”

You do. With your mouth. With your hands in her hair. With your hips grinding into her palm like you’ll die if she doesn’t go harder.

She tears your suit open at the waist, one finger slipping beneath your underwear, and when she finds how wet you are, she laughs, low, dangerous.

“damnn,” she breathes. “You’re soaked.”

“You’re late,” you hiss.

She growls. “Not for long.”

Two fingers, deep and perfect, curl inside you while her thumb circles your clit like she owns it. You gasp, arch, grip her shoulders so hard she groans, and she whispers into your neck, “There it is. That sound. You gonna give me more?”

You’re already trembling. you did not have a good fuck in a long time till now.

Your thighs are shaking, and she hasn’t even gotten on her knees yet. Her clothes aren’t even off yet. You think she might, but instead, she holds your gaze, watching you fall apart for her just like this. Upright. Raw. Rivals undone.

“You know what’s different between us?” she says, breath ragged. “You race like you’ve got something to prove.”

You gasp, legs tightening around her.

“I fuck like I already won.”

And when you come, loud, clutching her, face buried in her neck, she just holds you through it, fingers slow and relentless, like she’s savoring it. Like she’ll never forget.

She kisses your temple once. Light. Too soft for someone like her.

Then she pulls her hand free, sucks her fingers into her mouth, and says,

“Fast. Loud. Wet.

Yeah. That’s mine.”

The charity event is for PR.

You hate PR.

But you’re the face of your team. And Sevika, god help you, is her teams poster girl, even when she refuses to smile. Especially when she refuses to smile.

That’s what the fans love about her. That and the arms.

You show up at the venue in Monaco with your hair done, makeup perfectly in place, and a pitiful attempt at patience. There are photographers lined up by the red carpet, media waiting by the branded backdrop, and a camera crew already circling the mock race simulator set up on the far end of the hall.

You scan the crowd, press, PR reps, influencers, and then you see her.

Sevika.

Black designer jumpsuit with the top unzipped halfway. No tie, no smile. Aviators indoors, chewing a toothpick like she owns the oxygen.

Her eyes land on you instantly.

She grins.

“Great,” you mutter under your breath.

The event coordinator walks up mid-intro. “You’ll be presenting together, by the way.”

Your brow furrows. “Together?”

She beams. “Yes! You two are the biggest names on the circuit. Paired segment, photo ops, live sim race, then the auction. Oh, and the hotel is booked. Shared suite.”

“…What.”

She’s already walking away.

Sevika sidles up behind you, voice low, smug.

“You heard the lady.”

You turn to face her, too close. Her eyes drop for just a second, just enough to remind you she’s seen what’s under that suit.

“Don’t get cocky,” you hiss.

She leans in like she might bite. “Too late.”

The presentation is a disaster, orrr a success, depending on which side of the camera you’re on.

The two of you stand side by side on the small platform, pretending to care about the foundation’s cause (you do, genuinely, but right now all you can focus on is the heat of her body next to yours). The PR manager gives you both talking points. You barely register yours.

She doesn’t follow hers at all.

When asked what she thinks of being paired with you, she shrugs and says, “Guess I’m the lucky one. I could be stuck with someone slower.”

The crowd laughs. You glare. She winks.

Then comes the simulator race, a rig set up with custom-built seats and big LED screens. You and Sevika climb in side by side. Her thigh brushes yours.

Every time you overtake her in the game, she growls.

Every time she overtakes you, she mutters something like “Just like last night.”

A reporter leans in during the post-race photos. “You two seem… close lately.”

You smile for the camera, teeth bared. “We’re just competitive.”

Sevika doesn’t say anything.

But her hand settles on your lower back and stays there just long enough to ruin your train of thought.

You escape the venue after too many autographs and just enough fake smiling to make your cheeks hurt. The PR team hands you a keycard with a wink.

“Shared suite’s on the top floor. Try not to kill each other.”

You ride the elevator up alone, fists clenched, heart pounding.

You can’t do this again. You can’t. She gets into your skin, under your tongue, behind your ribs, and you hate her for it. Hate how she looks at you like she knows what you taste like even when you’re fully dressed.

You swipe the keycard.

The door opens.

She’s already inside.

“Locked the door?” you ask flatly.

“Should I?” she answers, amused.

She’s in a black tank and sweats, hair damp, no makeup. Somehow more dangerous like this, bare. And she looks at you like she already owns the bed behind her.

“You look tense,” she says. “Miss me?”

You slam your bag down. “There wasn’t another room?”

“There was,” she says casually. “I told them to cancel it.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why?”

“Thought you might want a rematch.”

She stands up, walks to you and brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

She doesn’t kiss you at first.

She manhandles you.

Once that “yes” leaves your mouth, Sevika drags you by the wrist like a thing she owns, across the hotel room, to the bed, tosses you down like she’s done waiting. She straddles your thighs and unbuckles her belt with one sharp flick, pulling it free from her jeans with a low leather hiss.

“You’re gonna stay still for me,” she mutters, grabbing your wrists. “Got it?”

You nod fast. Too fast.

“Use your words.”

“Y-yes, Sevika.”

That earns you a smirk. She loops the belt around your wrists, tight, snug, then pulls your arms over your head, anchoring them to the headboard with one hand. You squirm.

She leans down.

“You move without permission, and I make it worse.”

You whimper. She hasn’t even touched your pussy yet and you’re already wet to the thighs.

Her mouth brushes your neck, open and hot, teeth grazing your skin. Then she trails lower, kisses down your collarbone, your chest, your ribs, all teeth and tongue, but never soft. She’s marking. Claiming.

And then?

She pulls open her little black zipper case.

You glance down. Inside is a sleek, small vibrator, thin, silver, terrifying, hers. She turns it on with a quiet click and it hums to life in her hand.

“You ever use one like this?” she asks.

You shake your head.

She grins. “Good.”

She doesn’t tease. Not really. She splits your thighs open with one big palm, drags her fingers along your slit, slow, testing, then slicks the vibrator right over your clit with no warning.

You yelp.

“Already soaked,” she mutters. “Fucking perfect.”

It buzzes directly against your clit, pinpoint, steady. Not the kind you grind against. The kind you endure.

Your hips twitch. She slaps your thigh. “Still.”

You try. You try so hard.

But she’s watching you like a scientist, like your whole body is her experiment, her toy. The more you squirm, the lower her hand presses on your stomach, pinning you down.

“Don’t fight it,” she murmurs, tone almost sweet. “Let it happen.”

The first orgasm builds too fast. You clench, you arch, you cry out. Your thighs are shaking, hands pulling at the belt.

“Seviii —!”

“No.”

She doesn’t let you finish that word.

She grabs your chin and shoves her fingers into your mouth, deep, past your tongue.

“Shut up,” she says, “and take it.”

You gag. She moans.

“Ohh,” she breathes, “you’re sooo good with your throat. Bet you didn’t even know you had it in you.”

You choke around her fingers as your orgasm slams into you, hips jerking, thighs seizing, eyes wide. But she doesn’t stop.

You try to squirm away. Her other hand grabs your jaw and forces your head straight.

“You don’t get to run,” she growls. “You come until I say stop.”

Your clit screams under the toy. You’re sobbing now, gagging on her fingers, drooling down your chin, legs quivering with every jolt of pressure.

And Sevika?

Smiling. Cruel. So proud.

“Yeah,” she mutters, “just like that. Let me break you in.”

When she finally pulls her fingers from your mouth, you sob her name. Begging.

“Please, Sevika, I can’t —”

“Shh.”

She pulls the vibrator away.

You wilt, gasping like you’ve been drowning. But she isn’t done. She licks her fingers, tastes you, groans like it’s her reward.

Then she wraps her fingers around your hair. Fist tight. Yanks your head back to look you in the eye.

“Don’t avoid me again,” she growls.

You nod. desperate, flushed, ruined.

“Words.”

“Yes, Sevika,” you gasp.

She leans in.

“Next time,” she whispers, “you’ll thank me for tying your legs too.”

↪️ reblogs are appreciated!!

hey… guys i’m so sorry… 😞 so i wanted to make this a multi chapter fic but im got disinterested FAST 💀💀 I AM TERRIBLY SORRY 🙏 felt like i scammed yall 🤭

taglist: @eleinacutie @barelykiramman @luminescentqueer @lesbo-tuliplvrr @shxdy0ariia @sapphicstrawcore @sevikas-whore @butchpuppyy @serenaspalace @andersonsprincess @riotstemple29 @lucidfairies @leeidk87 @blessupblessup @undercoverdesire @homo-arsonist

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all-with-angel · 2 months ago

Text

Stress test // Superhero!Sukuna

➤ Superhero!Sukuna x Gearmaker!Reader

➤ Deadlines are nipping at your heels and you haven't found yourself a willing test subject for your projects. As your last Hail Mary, you waltz into the training area and borrow the first person you see; Not knowing who exactly you had just made your test subject. Not like it matters to you.

➤ gn!reader, Sukuna being sukuna, cocky Sukuna humbled by reader, both are 20+, light injury, sfw, NOT PROOFREAD and I couldve probably done a better job but wtv we die like gojo

You haven’t slept in thirty hours.

You haven’t eaten anything other than energy bars and instant coffee in fourteen, and the last time you took a break was when a rogue drone had exploded and knocked you out for 16 minutes. Those were a good 16 minutes.

You’d love to take a rest, sleep until the world exploded even, but deadlines were looming over your head like a death knell, red marker on your calendar telling you ‘You’re screwed.’

You had ideas- God, you had way too many ideas. Building them was one thing, but that was the easiest part really. You could do that in your sleep, and frankly, probably had once or twice. No, the problem was testing them.

You needed raw data. Field stress levels, user performance under duress, energy thresholds when pushed to their uppermost limit. Simulated tests could only go so far. The board wanted grit. They wanted the real deal. The kind that said, “Yes, this will absolutely survive a villain launching a bus at your face.” or “Yes, this will hold up against the strength of Infinity.” (Like that's even possible)

And you couldn’t give that. How could you? You didn’t have teams of testers like the more known gadget makers, no, you had yourself and A.I. test dummies that started flirting with you if they weren’t reset every other week.

You were a genius. But what good is a genius without results?

You put on your best unwrinkled lab coat, shoved your tablet under one arm, slapped a fresh stim patch onto your neck, and marched your overworked ass down to the training floors of the facility. Academy, as the higher ups would say, but it was anything but that really.

You didn’t learn much here other than that most of your coworkers were stupid.

Today’s plan?

Find the strongest idiot. Throw gadgets at them. Hope for the best.

Yeah.

Yeah, that sounded good. You really were a genius. Or sleep deprived. You couldn’t tell.

The facility, of course, was always active. Training rooms were booked 24/7 by heroes, cadets, and the occasional egomaniac. As you stepped into the third hall, the sound of explosions- actual explosions- echoed down the corridor, followed by some deeply maniacal laughter.

Sounds like the strongest idiot to me.

You took a step into the viewing area, peering into the highly reinforced glass and observed. There was smoke everywhere, but it quickly dispersed to reveal your maybe test subject.

He looked pretty familiar. HawkTuna-something?

He stood there in a scorched tank top, hands on his hips, surrounded by sparking debris. Pink hair and red eyes, face tattoos. He looked more like a gangster than a hero.

You jogged your memory, as fucked as it was- and remembered some news broadcasting about a Hero that had more than half of his fights end with a building or two collapsing. You snapped your fingers when you remembered, “The King”. That was his hero name.

You recalled it from an interview, where he refused to be called anything other than that. Right, so he was a cocky fucker. You could work with that.

A few minutes later, you found yourself at a vending machine right outside the training hall, buying yourself your nth energy drink today. Just as you grabbed the can from the machine, the mechanical doors of the training room opened. Out came walking the King, steps heavy but not rushed.

You straightened your lab coat, holding your tablet to your chest and energy drink in the other as you walked up to him. “Uh, excuse me?” You smiled politely. Holy hell, he was bigger up close.

“What?” He clicked his tongue, red eyes narrowing at you. “You better make this quick. I have things to do.”

“Would it be alright if I borrowed you for a little while? You see I need test subje-”

“Not interested.” He huffed, shoving past you.

Okay, rude. You stumbled to the side, head whipping in his already departing direction. You mentally debated whether pursuing an already bitchy test subject was worth it, before realizing that both your job and education was on the line. You let out a huff of frustration before running after his retreating figure.

“Hey! Wait! Um- Tuna guy? Suzuki, was it?”

He stopped abruptly, leading you to bump into his back face first. He didn’t even budge. Instead, he turned around, a scowl that would leave any sane person shaking in their boots.

Unfortunately, you were not sane. At least not right now.

“Sukuna. It’s Sukuna.” He hissed at you.

“Oh right, yeah, Sukuna. Anyway-” You took a few steps back, clearing your throat before continuing. “I need to put my projects under stress tests so I need-”

“Don’t they have simulations for that?” He was tapping his foot, crossing his arms as he looked down on you.

Okay, this guy seriously had to stop interrupting you. “Well uh, those can only go so far. And the board wants actual real life testing,” You answered. “Could you come up to the lab with me and test some of them? It’ll be quick. I promise. I just need to get my reports done before my deadline.”

“Why should I care?”

“Sorry?”

“I said why should I care?” Sukuna repeated. “You’re some nobody asking me for a favor when I’m supposed to be getting dinner. Who do you think you are talking to the future number 1, huh?” He leaned forward, looming over you with a scowl.

“The future number 1 hero?” You mused, staring right back at him. “I highly doubt that.” It hurt your neck to crane your neck this high, but you kept your voice from wavering.

“Tsk. Do you not even know who I am? What I’m capable of, brat?” He clicked his tongue, voice lowering into a growl as he glared, crimson eyes inches away from yours. “I can destroy this facility and everyone in it in seconds.”

“So?” You blinked.

You could see his eye twitch. “Do you have a death wish you-” His voice raised, almost yelling before you cut him off.

“Dude. Seriously, I can’t care less about what you can do.” You waved him off, “I only care if you can help me. Got it?”

Sukuna, The King- The so-called prodigy with more potential as a villain than a hero, stood there, dumbstruck at your audacity. You could see the gears turn in his head, the veins starting to pop on his neck.

You sigh in faux defeat, slumping your shoulders. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to test some measly little gadgets.” You shake your head, turning away from him. “It’s a shame really, the so-called future number 1, scared by some nobody's little inventions.”

“Do I look stupid to you?” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not falling for your taunting.”

“Alright.” You shrug. “But you do sound,” You look him up and down, pointedly ignoring the imprint of his muscles the size of your waist. “-pretty weak to me.”

Sukuna stood there, glowering at you, a support course nerd he’d never even heard of. To be honest, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit curious at what you’ve got in store in that lab of yours if you’d really go this far to recruit him. His manager probably would be annoyed that he was late to their dinner meeting again, but what was that idiot gonna do anyway? Yell at him?

He clicks his tongue. “Fine.”

“Fine?” You raise a brow, a small smirk tugging on your lips.

“Yeah, fine.” He snarled.

“Perfect!” You clapped your hands once, previous ‘disappointed’ demeanor melting away quickly. “Come, come. Follow me.”

You click the handcuffs into place. “Comfortable?”

“No.” Sukuna answered, flexing his hands under the cold steel of the cuffs.

“Good. They’re not supposed to be,” Nodding, you take a few steps back. “Now break out of them.” You look down to your tablet, tapping a few buttons to monitor the stress levels of the cuffs and see how quickly they might break. You two have been at this for a while now, most of the gadgets being destroyed or barely grazing the cocky hero- Who simply grew more arrogant with every failed test. “These are a pair of reinforced handcuffs, they should hold up quite well-”

The handcuffs explode into pieces, scraps of metal littering the floor and edges of the testing area. “Against some robber, maybe.” Sukuna drawled. “Is this it? Are you seriously gonna waste my time with barely put-together chunks of metal?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing the pair of handcuffs off the list and marking it for extra blast reinforcement and maybe power dampening qualities.

“Nope. Next.” You grabbed a gadget from your side table, raising it and aiming at Sukuna. The hero stares at you, the weapon and then back at you. Seemingly unimpressed. “A gun? Really?”

“It's a non-lethal firearm, just as impactful as rubber bullets but not as harmful.” You keep your aim steady, ready to fire.

“I’ve melted bullets in mid-air. Do you really think that would work?”

“They’re high velocity, so we’ll find out.” You pull the trigger twice, but nothing hits Sukuna. Instead, two very small and unrecognizable puddles of the bullets are a few feet away from him.

“Well, well, well. Looks like your high velocity rounds aren’t much compared to me.” He scoffed.

This time, you felt your eye twitch. He really was starting to get on your nerves. “Yeah, guess so.” You lowered the gun to your side. “Could you get the next gadget? It’s behind you.”

“Tsk. Asking me to do your job now, huh?” Sukuna rolled his eyes, large frame turning around and inspecting the table behind him. Just enough time for him to lower his guard. You raised the gun again, firing at his back- This time, it hits.

“Fuck!” The hero exclaimed, lips pulled into a scowl as he whipped his entire body towards you. “The hell was that?!”

You hummed in satisfaction, finally setting down the gun and tapping your tablet to record the results. Success. “My finger must’ve slipped, sorry.”

“Like hell it did!”

“Did it hurt?” You smirked.

Sukuna felt a bruise forming on his back, the point of impact throbbing lightly on his back. “No. Of course not.”

“Noted.”

Sukuna growled at you, ready to lunge and rip you a new one before he remembered that if he did maul another of his coworkers, that he’d get suspended. Again. So instead, he huffed and crossed his arms. “Are we done yet? Or do you have more chaos to unleash?”

“Yep, just one more.” You tossed a grenade-shaped contraption up and down your hand. “Though, this one has healing properties. Should help with the pain.”

Sukuna eyed you suspiciously, checking if this was another trick. He didn’t find anything other than quiet amusement in your eyes and anticipation. You were clearly enjoying it with him as your test subject. When you noticed his distrustful glare, you reassured him with a smile. “Don’t worry, if something goes wrong, the agency has your medical bills covered.”

He rolled his eyes, like that made it any better. “So you're saying something can go wrong?”

You shrugged. “Anything could go wrong, really.” You traced your thumb on the metal of your little toy, finger hovering right on the detonation button- It should go off after 5 seconds after pressing it. “But trust me.”

“I don’t trust you.” Sukuna said, voice flat.

“Shame.” You pressed the button, tossing it at his feet and stepping backwards. He didn’t move though, even if he did raise a brow at your sudden withdrawal- It didn’t last long before the healing grenade exploded.

Green slime-like substance coated him and a good portion of the area, luckily nowhere near you. The substance from the grenade seemed to pulse and glow green, especially the chunks that were on and around Sukuna. You quickly noted that down.

Sukuna cringed at the sludge coating his body, he didn’t feel any better than he did 3 seconds ago, maybe even a little worse with how icky the green goo felt. “The hell?” He raised his hand, the slime connecting in strands to the rest of his torso. “Some healing grenade this is.”

You stayed quiet.

He clicked his tongue, glaring at you before looking to the door. “I’m done with this bullshit. Now I gotta take a shower before going anywhe-” Sukuna tried to take a step forward, only to be halted by the slime. He kept trying to pull at his limbs, each action taking more effort than the last as it became apparent that this was no ordinary healing grenade.

It hadn’t even passed any screenings yet. And this was still a work in progress, not an actual thing you had to test at the moment. It was one of your flukes, you knew that. Sukuna, did not. “Oh, right. About this one,” You picked up your tablet, voice painfully nonchalant as you act unaware of the struggle that Sukuna was going through. “I don’t exactly have a dissolvent for the healing cream, and it gets quite sticky.”

“Then what are you waiting for??” Sukuna screeched, head snapping in your direction as any fire or explosion he tried to use was cancelled by the healing agent. Did you mention that it also doubles as a power-cancelling agent? No? Oops. “Get to work on it then!!”

You shrugged, turning your back to him and towards the exit “Alright.”

“Hey, HEY! Where the hell do you think you’re going?!”

You turned around, motioning towards the testing area in shambles. “You don’t expect me to work in this mess, do you?” Voice level, like you were pointing out solid facts- trying your damn hardest to not let the smugness bleed into your tone.

“So, what? You're just gonna leave me here??” Sukuna sounded a mix of stunned, confused and angry.

“Thats the plan, yeah.” You start walking away, the door hissing as it automatically opened. “Don’t worry! It’ll probably melt off in an hour if I’m not done by then!” You give him a wave, smirking at him over your shoulder.

“Probably?? You motherfu-”

He was spewing curses at you now, belittling you and trying his hardest to defend his last remaining drops of dignity. You simply smiled back, polite. “See you, Number one.”

Yeah, you weren’t going to work on that dissolvent.

(open!) tags: @idontwannatalkrn1

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cryoculus · 2 months ago

Text

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

★ word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service.

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?”

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right.

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with.

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you.

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room.

And you did. For about twenty minutes.

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that.

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus.

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break.

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift.

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?”

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #phainon x reader #phainon #phainon hsr #full length fic #cryoculus

1K notes · View notes

worlds-we-write · 2 months ago

Text

time in a bottle

pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

summary: You survive. Barely. After a brutal ambush meant for Joel, he’s the one left picking up the pieces. As you recover, both of you have to learn how to live with the scars—inside and out. Inspired by Time in a Bottle by Jim Croce

WC: 5.5K

Tags: graphic violence, detailed injury descriptions, near-death experience, PTSD and trauma response, panic attacks, nightmares, body image insecurity, physical and emotional recovery, protective Joel Miller, soft and emotionally vulnerable Joel, hurt/comfort, angst with a soft ending, established relationship, no smut (pure emotional intimacy), canon-divergent

My Masterlist

You’re only supposed to be out for another hour.

It’s a familiar path—worn by hooves and boots, trees thin enough to see through, quiet enough to feel safe. You’ve ridden it dozens of times.

But this time feels off.

You turn your head too late. You barely register the snap of a branch before someone slams into you from behind.

Your forehead cracks against the ground. Pain explodes across your face. Your ears ring. Your mouth fills with dirt.

Boots stomp near your ribs. You try to move, but you’re already being dragged—hands under your arms, your limbs limp, rifle long gone.

They drop you in a clearing like you’re nothing.

You blink past blood.

Three people surround you. One woman crouches in front—built like a tank, arms tense, jaw tight.

You don’t know her.

But she knows you.

“Thought I’d find you eventually,” she says, voice sharp with venom. “Joel always did have a soft spot for strays.”

Your heart stutters.

Joel?

You push up on one elbow. “What… what the hell are you talking about?”

You try to move, but hands hold you down—two of her crew pinning your arms and legs.

“I was hoping for Joel,” she continues, crouching beside you, pulling out a knife. “But you… you’ll do.”

The knife kisses your cheek.

Then slices.

Not deep—but enough to sting. Enough to make you flinch.

Her jaw twitches.

She stands up and kicks you hard in the side. You scream as ribs snap like brittle twigs.

“You don’t get to play dumb,” she snarls. “You’re the girl from Jackson. His… what, girlfriend? Housemate? Fuck-buddy?”

You stare, mouth open, breath stuck. You don’t recognize her, but she’s looking at you like you killed someone she loved.

“I should kill you quick,” she says, pulling a hammer from her belt. “But that wouldn’t hurt him enough.”

You try to crawl backward. The others move to block you.

“I don’t know who you are,” you rasp.

She crouches beside you, grabbing your face roughly. “No, but I know you. And that’s enough. I’m gonna make sure when he sees you, he sees what he did.”

The first hit with the hammer doesn’t come down on your skull—it crashes into your leg. You scream.

She’s not trying to kill you.

She’s trying to destroy you.

Another hit. Another. Your vision blurs. Your shoulder is yanked backward until something tears. You cry out, choking.

She whispers things you can’t make sense of—“My father,” “hospital,” “he didn’t hesitate.”

None of it makes sense.

But all of it hurts.

Eventually, you stop fighting. You just breathe. Try to stay awake.

Then—

Gunfire.

A sharp crack, and one of the men drops.

Another shot—clean through the second’s chest. He collapses.

The woman—though you still don’t know her name—spins too late.

Jesse’s bullet hits her square in the chest.

She gasps, stumbles. Her hammer falls. One more shot and she hits the ground, lifeless.

When it’s over, the world is deathly still.

He rushes to you. You can’t even lift your head.

“Hey. Hey, I got you,” he whispers, falling to his knees, pressing his hands to your bleeding side. “Oh fuck, oh my god…”

You try to speak. Your lips barely move.

He leans in close.

“…Joel,” you breathe, tears mixing with blood. “Don’t let him… blame himself.”

Jesse shakes his head, panicking. “No. No, don’t talk like that. We’re gonna get you home.”

He shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around you, lifting you carefully into his arms. You scream—your shoulder’s dislocated—but he holds you like you’ll break. Because you will.

“Shhh, I know, I know,” Jesse pants, voice shaking. “It’s bad. It’s so bad. Just hold on.”

He starts running.

“I’m getting you back. I swear to God. I swear to God,” he pants, staggering toward the trees, back toward Jackson, covered in blood that isn’t just yours.

Behind you, she lies dead in the dirt.

But her legacy is carved into your skin.

And all you can do is close your eyes and hope he gets you there in time.

You never even got her name.

He hears the shouting before he sees the blood.

Joel’s just outside the stables when the gates open too fast—too loud. His head snaps up.

People are running. Someone yells for help. Maria’s voice barks orders from the tower. Joel drops the shovel in his hand and moves before he can think.

Then he sees Jesse.

And everything stops.

Jesse is soaked in blood. His arms are trembling. And in them, slumped and broken, is you.

Joel doesn’t recognize you at first.

Your head lolls back. Hair matted with blood. Face unrecognizable—swollen, bruised, sliced. There’s something wrong with the way your arm hangs, like it’s not attached right. One of your boots is gone. Your jacket is torn and soaked through.

Joel’s stomach drops. His vision narrows.

“No,” he hears himself whisper.

Jesse pushes through the crowd, shouting— “I need help! She’s still breathing! She’s alive!”

Joel moves to intercept, chest heaving, but Jesse shoves past him, too focused.

“Get outta the fuckin’ way—Maria! Get a goddamn stretcher!”

Joel follows, dazed. “What happened?” he croaks. “Jesse—what the fuck happened?!”

Jesse’s voice breaks. “They jumped her, man. Out past the old checkpoint. One of ‘em—she knew who she was. Said her name. Said your name.”

Joel goes still. The cold wraps around his spine.

“Who?” he demands.

Jesse doesn’t answer.

They reach the clinic. The doors slam open. Jackson’s medics rush forward, shouting over each other, hands everywhere, lifting you from Jesse’s arms and onto a gurney.

Joel sees your blood smear Jesse’s jacket.

“Ribs are broken—she’s lost a lot of blood—”

“Shoulder’s out—maybe punctured lung—”

“She’s going into shock—get the morphine now—”

Joel doesn’t hear the rest.

He’s stuck.

His boots feel nailed to the floor as the doors swing shut behind the gurney.

You’re gone. Out of his reach.

And he wasn’t there.

He always told himself he wouldn’t let it happen again—not to Ellie, not to Tommy, not to you.

But he did.

He let you go.

He let you go out there alone, and now you’re somewhere behind those doors fighting to stay alive because of something he did. Something he caused. A ghost from his past, lashing out in a way he never saw coming.

Jesse is breathing hard, leaning against the wall, blood on his face and hands.

“I shot her,” he mutters. “The woman. Whoever she was. I killed her. Killed the others too. But I—” he swallows. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

Joel can’t even respond. His throat won’t work. His hands are fists at his sides.

All he can do is stare at the closed doors, heart pounding like war drums.

You’re in there.

And he’s out here.

Alone.

Again.

The machines are the only things making noise.

Soft, steady beeps. A faint hiss of oxygen. The occasional rustle of gauze or plastic as the nurse changes your IV bag in silence. Joel barely hears any of it.

He hasn’t moved in hours.

He’s sitting beside your bed—hands clasped tight between his knees, boots planted on the cold floor, head down. Watching your chest rise and fall.

You look… barely human.

Your face is swollen on one side. Purple, green, black. Stitches across your temple. Your arm is bound to your side, shoulder reset. Tubes in your nose. Dried blood crusted beneath it. A faint line of bruises runs along your throat like a cruel necklace.

Joel stares at your hand resting on the sheets. There’s an IV in it. A splint along your wrist. He hasn’t touched it yet. He’s too afraid you’ll be cold.

Or worse, that you won’t squeeze back.

He swallows hard. His eyes sting. But he won’t cry.

Not here.

Not where people can see.

The room clears eventually. Nurses change shifts. Jesse came by once—left you a cup of water and a little stuffed bear someone gave him when he was in the clinic for a busted ankle. Joel didn’t say much.

He just waits. And watches.

And breaks.

He doesn’t talk out loud at first.

For the first few hours, Joel just sits in it. Lets the silence crawl under his skin and stay there. He thinks of everything he could’ve done differently. Should’ve done. Would’ve done—if he’d known.

Shouldn’t’ve let you go out alone.

Should’ve been the one on that route.

Should’ve recognized the signs.

Should’ve told you to stay.

Should’ve told you the fucking truth.

Eventually, the silence gets too loud, and the guilt starts to spill.

“I should’ve been out there,” he says, voice rough and too quiet. “You should’ve never been alone.”

You don’t move.

Joel glances at your face. You’re still far away. Too far.

“I think she was lookin’ for me,” he adds, words slow like he’s choking on each one. “The one Jesse killed. She said my name.”

He runs a hand over his face, jaw tight.

“I don’t know what I did to her. But I’ve done enough to enough people that it don’t matter. It always comes back around.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. For a second, he looks older than he’s ever felt. Like the weight of the whole damn world is back on his shoulders.

“I told myself I’d never let someone I love get hurt again,” he whispers. “Not like this. Not like Sarah. Not like Ellie. But here I am. Sittin’ in another fuckin’ hospital chair. Watchin’ you fight for your life.”

Joel swallows hard. His hands shake.

“You didn’t even know her name,” he says. “You got all that pain and blood for someone you didn’t even know.”

He finally reaches out and brushes your hand with the back of his fingers.

It’s warm.

Barely.

He’s trying to stay strong. Like he always does. For Tommy. For Ellie. For Jackson. For you.

But there’s a crack in him now—and it’s spreading.

He rubs a hand over his face for the fifth time in an hour, like he can scrub the emotions away if he just tries hard enough. But his breath catches when he looks at you again.

You’re so still.

Too still.

And he can’t stop seeing the blood. The way Jesse held your body like it might fall apart in his arms. The way your fingers didn’t move when Joel reached for them. The bruises. The silence. The stillness.

He blinks fast. Looks down. Jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

But then—

A sound slips out of him.

Small.

Involuntary.

Like a wounded animal.

He squeezes his eyes shut, like that’ll hold it in.

It doesn’t.

His chest heaves, and the breath that comes next is a sob.

Low. Broken. Shameful.

“Goddamn it,” he rasps, pressing the heel of his hand against his mouth. “Goddamn it…”

The tears come slow at first—hot and silent. Rolling down his face before he can stop them. He hides behind his hand, hunched over, shoulders shaking.

It’s not loud. Not the kind of crying that screams.

It’s the kind that hurts more because it doesn’t.

He leans forward, elbows on your bed, forehead resting gently near your arm.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice thick. “I should’ve been there. Should’ve known. You were just tryin’ to help. And I left you out there…”

Another sob claws its way out of his throat.

“I’m so goddamn tired of losin’ people,” he chokes. “But if I lose you—if you don’t wake up—I swear to God, I don’t think I’ll survive it this time.”

He breaks fully then. Quiet, ugly, aching. Like his soul is caving in on itself.

It’s been years since he cried like this. Since Sarah. Maybe not even then.

Because this time… he let himself love again. He let himself believe he could have something good. That maybe, just maybe, someone could love him back.

And now you’re lying here—broken, because of him.

He stays there, folded in on himself, for a long time.

Holding your hand.

Letting himself fall apart where no one else can see.

It starts with sound.

Dull and warped, like you’re underwater. You can’t tell what’s real—what’s dream or memory. There’s pressure in your head, a deep ache in your chest, and something burning in your shoulder every time you try to breathe too deep.

You want to move.

You can’t.

Everything is wrong.

You try to blink, but your eyelids feel like they’re glued shut. Even thinking is hard. Like someone filled your skull with cement and let it dry.

Voices blur in and out. Someone’s crying, maybe. Or maybe that was just you.

Then—

A voice cuts through the fog.

Rough. Southern. Familiar.

Low like gravel and thunder.

“…can’t do this again…”

You try to move toward it. Just a twitch. Just your fingers.

Nothing.

“…can’t lose her…”

Your heart trips in your chest.

You know that voice.

Joel.

God—Joel.

You try to say his name, but your throat won’t cooperate. It’s raw. Like you swallowed glass.

More words. Barely audible. Like he’s talking to himself.

“…should’ve never let her go alone…”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he’s crumbling. Like he’s been holding himself together by nothing but spit and string and your heartbeat. You can feel it in the air. The weight of him. Heavy. Exhausted.

You blink again.

This time, your eyes open a sliver.

The room is dark. Dim light from a lamp in the corner. The shadows are soft. The world is blurry, like it’s behind a veil.

Joel is sitting beside your bed, hunched over with one hand pressed to his face. Shoulders shaking just slightly.

He doesn’t see you looking.

You try again. Just a whisper. Just his name.

“J…Joel…”

It’s barely sound. More like a breath shaped around a memory.

But he hears it.

His head jerks up. Eyes wild.

“Hey—hey, hey,” he breathes, scrambling to sit forward. “You—you awake? Baby, can you hear me?”

You manage a twitch of your fingers. Barely.

He lets out a noise like relief and agony all tangled together. One hand cups the side of your face, trembling like he can’t believe you’re real.

“You’re alright. You’re here. Jesus Christ…” He sucks in a breath like it hurts.

You blink again. His face is red, tear-streaked. His beard’s thicker than you remember. His eyes look like he hasn’t slept in days.

Your lips part.

“You okay?” you rasp, barely audible.

Joel lets out a sharp exhale that’s half a sob, half a laugh.

“Am I—? No, darlin’. Don’t ask me that,” he says, brushing your hair back from your forehead so, so gently. “You’re the one lyin’ in a goddamn hospital bed lookin’ like you got trampled by a fuckin’ truck. You askin’ me if I’m okay…”

Your eyes flutter. You want to smile, but it hurts.

“Didn’t mean to worry you,” you whisper, a flicker of humor in your broken voice.

Joel closes his eyes like that hurts worse than anything else.

“You didn’t worry me. You near killed me,” he murmurs. “Don’t say sorry. Not to me.”

You shift slightly—just enough to let the pain remind you it’s all real. The weight of your body. The ache in your bones. The bruises singing beneath your skin.

The flashes come in bits and pieces— The dirt. The hammer. Her voice.

You shiver.

Joel notices. He wraps his hand around yours instantly, warm and grounding.

“She’s dead,” he says, like he can read your mind. “Jesse shot her. She won’t hurt you again.”

You blink, slow.

“I didn’t… even know her,” you whisper.

Joel nods, jaw tight. “But she knew you. Knew me. That’s all it took.”

Silence falls again. You can feel your body begging you to sleep—but you don’t want to. Not yet. Not while he’s here.

Joel leans in closer. His voice drops.

“I love you,” he says, rough and low, like it’s been sitting on his tongue for years. “You hear me?”

You blink slowly. Nod once.

“I love you, too,” you rasp, and it hurts—but it’s worth it just to see the way his eyes close like he’s praying.

He presses your hand to his mouth and stays there. Quiet. Breathing with you.

You fall asleep with his fingers laced through yours, the echo of his voice still in your ear.

And this time, you know you’ll wake up again.

Because Joel’s here.

And he’s not letting go.

The days bleed together at first.

Morning and night don’t mean much when your body refuses to do even the simplest things. Breathing hurts. Talking drains you. Moving? Feels impossible.

Still—Joel is always there.

He helps you sit up the first time, cradling your spine like it might splinter in his hands.

You cry. Not from pain—but from the humiliation of it. Of being this weak. This… broken.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing tears from your cheeks before they fall. “You ain’t broken. Just healing. There’s a difference.”

You don’t believe him, not yet.

It takes a week before they let you leave the clinic. Joel argues to bring you home earlier, but the nurses insist on waiting until your fever passes and your oxygen holds steady.

When they finally wheel you out in a battered chair, Joel’s already waiting on the porch with a blanket, a flask of weak tea, and that look in his eyes—the one that never left from the moment he saw Jesse carrying you in.

Wrecked. Quiet. Protective.

He carries you inside like he’s afraid the wind might steal you away.

You sleep in his bed.

He insists.

“Only place in the house that don’t creak,” he grumbles.

He sits with you through the worst of it.

The fever sweats hit first—cold and sudden, leaving your body trembling under damp sheets while your teeth chatter like glass. Joel is always there before you even call out. A towel in one hand, a water cup in the other, his voice low and steady as he presses cool cloths to your forehead.

When the spasms start—violent jerks that rip through your legs, your healing ribs—he doesn’t flinch. Just slips his hand beneath your shoulder blades, murmuring your name over and over like it might steady your spine.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, voice like warm gravel. “I got you. I got you, sweetheart.”

Some nights, you wake screaming.

No build-up. No warning.

Just full-body panic, lungs dragging in air like you’re drowning, fingers clawing at invisible restraints. You don’t know where you are. Can’t tell what’s real. You think the hammer’s still coming down. You think the dirt’s still in your mouth. You think you’re still dying.

And Joel—he’s already there.

“Hey, hey—it’s just me,” he says, voice low, hands up like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “You’re home, baby. You’re safe. I got you.”

You sob. You shake. You try to get the words out, but your throat won’t work.

So he climbs into bed behind you, pulls you back against his chest, and just holds you—one hand wrapped around your middle, the other cradling your hand against his heart.

You cry until your body gives out. Until all that’s left is soft hiccups and a shaking breath that finally, finally goes still.

Other nights, it’s worse in its quiet.

You don’t scream.

You just… tremble.

Eyes open, unfocused. Breath shallow. Hands clenched in the sheets so tight your knuckles go white. Frozen in place like your mind’s trapped somewhere your body can’t follow.

Joel notices right away.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just slides into the bed, lays on his side, and touches your back—light and slow, letting you feel the weight of his palm so you remember where you are.

“You with me?” he whispers, after a while.

You nod.

But then the whisper comes, cracked and pitiful, over and over again like a broken record:

“I didn’t know her. I didn’t know why.”

Joel squeezes his eyes shut, face buried in your hair.

Every time you say it, it cuts deeper. Not because you’re admitting something—but because you’re still carrying it. Still shouldering it.

He holds you tighter.

“I know,” he always says. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

And it’s not just for what happened. Not just for the pain, or the bruises, or the sleepless nights.

He’s sorry for letting you walk out that gate.

He’s sorry for not telling you about his past. About the ghosts that still walk, still kill, still reach for the people he loves.

He’s sorry he wasn’t the one who took that beating.

And if he could take it from you—every scream, every scar, every ounce of fear—you know he would.

You feel it in the way he holds you.

Like you’re something he’s not just afraid to lose—

But something he knows he doesn’t deserve, and still begs the universe to spare.

Recovery isn’t linear.

It’s a jagged, crawling thing—three steps forward, two steps back, and a whole lot of days where it feels like you’re going nowhere at all.

You’re angry. A lot.

At your body, for not doing what it used to. For aching with every movement. For stiff joints and a limp you can’t shake. For how the skin around your shoulder pulls where the sutures were. For how even breathing sometimes feels like a betrayal.

But mostly, you’re angry at your face.

The first time you see it clearly in the mirror, you can’t look for more than a second.

The swelling is down now, but the bruises are stubborn. Deep. Sickly yellow in some places, dark red in others. One scar stretches along your temple in a jagged, cruel arc. Another bisects the curve of your lip.

You touch the stitches near your jaw with shaking fingers.

You barely recognize the reflection.

You drop the mirror on the counter and leave the room. You don’t talk for the rest of the night.

Joel notices. Of course he does.

But he doesn’t push.

He never does.

When you snap at him for standing too close, he just nods and gives you space. When you burst into tears halfway through trying to button a shirt, he wordlessly takes over—finishing each button with patient fingers and no pity in his eyes.

He carries you to the bathroom when you’re too weak to walk. Sits on the floor while you shower with your back to him, hands braced against the tile as the hot water runs over scars you don’t want anyone to see.

But he never stares. Never comments.

When you nearly collapse trying to shave your legs, you snap, “This is fucking pointless, Joel!”

He just gently eases the razor out of your hand and says, “Ain’t nothin’ pointless ‘bout feelin’ like yourself.”

And when you do finally cry into his chest again, fists clenched tight in his shirt, he just holds you and lets you fall apart.

“You don’t have to be okay every second,” he murmurs into your hair. “Just let me carry some of it when you can’t.”

He reads to you at night.

Old books. Short stories. Sometimes old letters he found in a busted file cabinet out near the edge of town—ones he thinks you might like. You fall asleep most nights to the sound of his voice and the weight of his hand resting over yours.

One day, weeks into your recovery, you catch your reflection by accident.

It’s late. You’re in the bathroom, brushing your teeth slowly, shoulders aching from using the cane all day. You glance up—and there you are.

Scarred. Pale. Tired.

Not you.

You stare at your reflection for a long time, toothbrush hanging loose from your hand.

Then you step out into the bedroom, where Joel’s sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots.

“Do I still look like me?” you ask, voice small. Barely audible.

Joel doesn’t even hesitate.

He looks up. Straight at you. And his expression is… soft. But unflinching.

“You look like the woman I was gonna spend the rest of my life with,” he says, steady and sure. “You still do.”

Your breath hitches. Your lips part—but no words come out.

He stands, steps closer, careful like he always is now.

“You think those scars make you look less like you?” he asks gently, brushing your hair behind your ear. “'Cause all I see is you. Braver than anyone I’ve ever known.”

You look away. “You’re just saying that.”

Joel cups your face, thumb brushing just below the old bruise near your cheekbone.

“I ain’t never just said anything to you in my life,” he murmurs. “And I sure as hell ain’t startin’ now.”

Tears burn behind your eyes.

You don’t try to stop them.

He pulls you in close, and you let yourself be held—not because you’re weak. But because you’re strong enough now to know that being held doesn’t mean broken.

You’re healing.

Slowly.

But you’re still you.

And Joel sees all of it.

It’s a few weeks after you come home when Jesse finally stops by.

He knocks once—three quick raps, casual, almost sheepish—then pushes open the front door like he’s done a thousand times before.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, Joel’s sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, your cane resting against the chair leg. There’s a blanket around your legs and a mug of tea gone cold beside your hand.

When you see Jesse, you try to smile.

“Hey, hero.”

He raises an eyebrow. “If I’m the hero in this story, we’re all fucked.”

You let out a soft laugh, which still pulls at your side. “Don’t sell yourself short. You saved my life.”

Jesse walks in with a brown paper bag clutched in one hand. “Brought you that soup you like. From the new kitchen down by the stables.”

You blink. “The mushroom one?”

He sets it in front of you. “You think I didn’t memorize your post-patrol cravings after all this time?”

You go quiet. The steam rises between you.

Jesse leans against the counter, arms crossed.

“You look better,” he says finally. “Still a little like a raccoon with PTSD, but you know… cuter.”

You snort. “You always did know how to charm a girl.”

The silence after stretches. Thicker. He doesn’t look at you at first—just stares at the edge of the table.

So you say it.

“I never thanked you.”

His jaw flexes. He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“I mean it, Jesse. You… you showed up when I thought no one would. You put a bullet in her without hesitating. You carried me back. You—”

“I said don’t.”

You stop.

Jesse finally lifts his eyes to yours. His voice is lower now. Calmer, but shaking just underneath.

“Don’t thank me for doing what anyone who loved you would’ve done,” he says. “That wasn’t brave. That was… reacting. I saw what she was doing to you and I just—” He swallows. “I didn’t even think. I just fired.”

You blink, watching his hands clench into fists against his arms.

He exhales hard through his nose and looks away.

“I’ve never been that scared in my life,” he mutters. “Not even during the outbreak. Not even when the infected rushed us last winter. Nothing’s ever scared me like seeing you lying there, not moving.”

You’re quiet.

“I thought I was too late,” he says.

You shift in your seat. “You weren’t.”

His eyes meet yours again, darker now. “Joel didn’t talk for two days after. Did you know that?”

You shake your head slowly.

“Just sat there. Outside the clinic. Hands covered in your blood.” Jesse’s voice goes rough again. “I brought him water. He didn’t drink it. Brought him food. He didn’t touch it. I think if you had… if you hadn’t woken up—”

He stops. Runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re the only reason Joel didn’t break entirely,” he finishes.

You feel that. In your ribs. In your throat. In the parts of you that are still learning how to beat again.

Jesse looks at you for a long time, then pushes off the counter.

“So yeah. Don’t thank me.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“But…” he adds, more softly now, “you’re welcome anyway.”

He gives you a half-smile, ruffles your hair gently, and starts to head out.

At the door, he pauses and glances over his shoulder.

“You ever wanna talk about it… about her, or anything… I’m around.”

“I know,” you say.

And you do.

The world doesn’t stop hurting.

But it gets softer.

Months pass. Slowly. Some days feel like entire winters packed into the space between breakfast and sleep. But your body grows stronger. The cane becomes more accessory than necessity. The ache in your ribs dulls. You walk without flinching. You sleep without screaming.

You live.

One breath at a time.

Joel never leaves. He gives you space when you need it, patience when you can’t ask for it, and love in the quiet, steady way he does everything — with his whole damn soul, hidden behind a low voice and calloused hands.

You find yourself falling in love with him all over again, this version of him that isn’t trying to be a hero. Just a man.

Your man.

Spring comes early that year.

The snow thaws, the streams swell, and Jackson begins to bloom again — cautious and slow, like it’s remembering how.

That’s when Joel shows it to you.

He doesn’t tell you where you’re going—just helps you onto one of the horses and rides beside you for twenty quiet minutes, down a path behind the eastern fields.

You’re confused at first. Until you reach the end.

A clearing.

A hand-built bench nestled beneath a twisted old tree, branches just beginning to bud green again. A stream runs past it, water glittering in the afternoon light.

The view is breathtaking—wide and open, far from town. It smells like fresh grass and wild mint.

You slide off the horse slowly and limp toward it, one hand bracing against your thigh.

“You made this?” you ask, turning back.

Joel nods, standing with his thumbs tucked in his belt. “Started workin’ on it when you were still in the clinic.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, looking away like he’s embarrassed.

“Needed a place to talk to you. Where it was quiet.”

You sit down on the bench. It creaks under your weight, but it’s sturdy. Comfortable.

Joel lowers himself beside you and pulls something from his coat pocket.

A leather journal.

Worn edges. Filled thick with pages.

You frown. “What’s that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses it into your hands.

You open the cover slowly.

The first page is dated the night Jesse brought you home, soaked in blood.

March 4th. She’s not waking up. I can’t stop thinking about what her last thought was. Was it me?

Your breath catches.

You flip to the next.

March 5th. She always hated the silence at night. I’m talking out loud to her anyway. Told her the whole story of how I saw her at the market the first time. I think I talked for an hour. If she can hear me, I hope she knows how beautiful she is, even now.

Page after page. Memories. Guilt. Confessions. Anger. Fear.

He wrote you letters he never planned to send. Pieces of himself you never knew he could give.

There’s a page with lyrics. Half-remembered ones.

"If I could save time in a bottle…"

The ink is darker there. Blotted in places. You realize he was crying when he wrote it.

Your hands tremble.

“Why give me this now?” you whisper.

Joel leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and steady.

“‘Cause I spent too long not sayin’ the things that mattered. You damn near died with me never tellin’ you half of ‘em.”

He looks over at you, eyes full of something raw and terrifyingly real.

“I wrote all that down ‘cause I didn’t think I’d get another chance. But I did. And I ain’t gonna waste a second of it.”

You blink back tears and look down at the last page.

Just two lines.

If I could save time in a bottle… I’d save every second I wasted not telling you how much I love you.

You close the journal and hold it to your chest.

Joel watches you for a moment. Then reaches out and takes your hand.

You let him.

The two of you sit in silence—shoulder to shoulder, fingers laced—listening to the stream and the wind in the trees.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t feel haunted.

You feel held.

AN: if you made it all the way here… first of all, I love you. second, I hope your heart is okay. this one meant a lot to me — I wanted to write something that felt like grief and healing holding hands, and Joel just being there in the most Joel way possible. soft hands, steady love, long recovery.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics 🫶🏼🫶🏼

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