#this is NOT where i like... intended to go or end....

[kitimeq]

⊹₊⟡⋆ gravity hurts (you made it so sweet) 🤍 caleb 以昼.𖥔 ݁ ˖

⋆˙⟡pairing: caleb x nonmc! reader

⋆˙⟡word count: 17.3k (i wrote a book lol)

⋆˙⟡summary: the three of you have been the best of friends ever since you remembered, and although your love for Caleb wasn’t exactly the friendly kind, you were more than happy to have him close. But who would’ve thought that one night by yourselves would end this way? The warmth of acceptance and the sting of the heartbreak that came after, and among all of it—a lost boy desperate to make it right.

⋆˙⟡tags: 18+, mdni!!! NOT a love triangle!! mc is treated as a caleb’s sis in this one, the reader and mc and caleb are friends!! best of friends!! unrequited love!! but not really, angst, angst with happy ending, misunderstandings, or more like lies, love confessions obsessed caleb, kinda pathetic caleb, insecure caleb, he cries, we cry, everyone literally cries, first times, but the scene is quite short, they love each other so much, my babies, please read it.

⋆˙⟡writer’s note: my first ever commission for my wonderful stella 🥺 i hope you like it baby and i hope all of u will like it too, despite the length. i wanted to stretch it in time so that the reconciliation at the end wouldn’t be forced. i hope you’ll read it and like it, i loved writing for caleb 🤍

!!likes, reblogs and comments, pls comment, would be appreciated ♡ let me know what u think!

* 20+ unread messages from [ my miss hunter!<3 ]*

✉︎ baby what happened, where are you?

✉︎ you don’t pick up and even read my messages, i don’t know what’s happening, are you okay?

✉︎ caleb’s going totally ap(pl)eshit pun intended god i hope if you’re reading this you laughed at least. PLEASE write back or i’ll join him.

✉︎ he’s actually going insane, does he know something? he refuses to tell me anything, what happened between you guys? i was absent for literally one meeting, did you throw hands or something? he seems really unstable, like, much more than usual and he already had issues before, that’s for SURE.

✉︎ i’m so sorry for joking. i’m just really worried. it’s been a week. please respond to me, i don’t know what to do. i need to know you’re safe.

✉︎ what did he do? now i know that he’s at fault here, he’s acting insane.

✉︎ he’s not sleeping. i don’t think he’s eating either? he looks like a walking corpse and he’s still looking for you everywhere. i’m not sure who’s managing the fleet now but for sure not him.

✉︎ he’s not saying a single word. i know now that he must’ve done something, he’s not just worried, he’s fucking terrified and to be honest i am too. it’s been almost two weeks now, please answer me.

✉︎ i swear i won’t tell him anything. just please respond.

It was supposed to be a day like any other.

You, her, him—sitting together, eating your favorite food, maybe watching one of the movies MC somehow always managed to convince you to watch. Such nights always ended in the same way: with you sleeping next to her, right on Caleb’s bed. The gruesome scenes replayed behind your closed eyelids, your body nearly sprawled on top of your friend, your hand gripping hers—too tightly to just be affectionate. Caleb’s laugh echoed through his apartment, jokes and jabs aimed right at you, spoken in soft tones from his usual spot on the couch, where he always slept during your sleepovers.

And while you were pouting and trying to defend yourself from his absolutely false accusations of being a scaredy-cat, it was always his little sister who defended you like a lioness. Her clever comebacks always softened his teasing nature towards you. But it was all just a silly little game—the truth was you didn’t mind being teased, you knew Caleb long enough to realize that it was just the way in which he showed affection. It just so happened that MC showed hers by protecting you and attacking Caleb right back, every time his teasing seemed to be endless.

“Easy, pip, I’m just tryin’ to get her mind off of that spoooky imitation of a movie.” He answered between quiet laughs, and a quiet scoff left your mouth, quickly followed by a small smile. “Besides, if she really was scared, she would sleep here with me. She would be much, much safer, right?” His question followed by your name, and you immediately sprung upwards to sit on your legs.

“As if! You would probably maul me in your sleep before any monster would even get a chance to reach me.” You answered quickly, your body turning toward the salon where he slept, your eyes meeting MC’s, shining with mirth in the darkness. You heard an exaggerated gasp from him, and you imagined how he probably looked right now: gripping his shirt right on top of his chest in a gesture feigning hurt.

“You wound me. I would protect you with all I have, my Evol, my Fleet, my annoying little sister—”

“Jerk!”

“—From any harm the flying sharks would want to cause you.” You laughed quietly, and you felt the tension in your shoulders slowly dissolving. MC’s faux-offended expression, along with his soft voice were doing a great job at melting the irrational fear you felt in your chest after the movie.

A second passed; then two, maybe three, while your eyes were looking through the huge glass walls, following the clouds that were drifting languidly outside. A sigh left your lips, and your hand squeezed that of MC, who was laying beside your sitting body, her eyes already closed. And when their laughs died down entirely, their breaths slowly evening out, preparing for a good night’s sleep, that’s when you decided to add one more thing.

“Laugh at me all you want, but it’s your fault for living so high up in the clouds, where all the flying sharks in the world have us literally handed to them on a silver platter. But fine, I don’t care anymore, eat up you little motherfu—”

“Oh my god—”

His bubbly laugh echoed loudly, bouncing off of the walls, filling the rooms, breaking the tranquil atmosphere that had fallen not so long ago. His sister’s body shook with laughter right next to yours, wide smile now present on your lips. Your silly joke landed exactly how you wanted it to land—concealing the fear still nestled inside you, simmering delicately just beneath the surface of your smile. Which was, despite their assumptions, not only caused by the abominations presented in the movie.

The enormous clouds, surrounding you from everywhere—that was what truly bothered you. The vastness and uncertainty of the sky which stretched out before you, visible through the glass walls, its eerie silence making the little hairs on your nape stand straight.

Sleepovers at Caleb’s place, which had happened occasionally ever since he moved to Skyhaven to study—and continued even after he became a Farspace Colonel—were something you had already got used to and looked forward to. But the location of his apartment, the surroundings and their quietness, the strangely uneasy privacy and stillness, especially at night—that was what made you so scared every time you were here.

You never told them about your little fear; you didn’t want to cause problems, especially when they were both so happy whenever the three of you found enough time for a sleepover, and Caleb’s place was perfect for accommodating all of you. Besides, you had your best friend, a literal Hunter, close to you, and Caleb’s presence right behind you, just a wall away. Your mind knew that you were safe, it was just your body that was having second thoughts in a form of occasional shivers and quickened heartbeat.

That’s why it always striked you whenever he seemed to notice your concealed discomfort, which this time happened an hour after you said your good night’s. Mc’s breath was already calm and steady, yours far from it, unwanted thoughts and the feeling of uncertainty making you lose your precious hours of sleep.

You heard him first: his calm steps, quiet breath. You saw him second: his head peeking through the door frame, eyes wide open, not clouded with sleep, landing straight on yours. His body approached the bed frame, and he crouched slowly by your side, a small smile adorning his lips. And you felt him at last: his huge, warm hand searched for yours under the covers, and proceeded to hold it gently, his thumb caressing the back of your knuckles in a comforting gesture. You were familiar with such touches, both him and his sister were touchy-feely ever since you remember. So you reciprocated his smile, tiredness clutching to your lashes, yet mind still refusing to rest.

“Are you okay? I heard you tossin’ and turnin’.” He whispered, whether to avoid waking his sister up or to not disturb your precious moment, you weren’t sure. You met his beautiful, sparkling eyes, which always made your stomach twist with longing, and you already started to feel better. His gaze was so gentle, so earnest that your heart decided to switch the reason of its rapid beating from fear to a complete adoration.

You were laying on your side, a pillow warm underneath your cheek, and your hand squeezed his in an answer to his worry. You noticed that his hands were dry and rugged, but so pleasantly warm. And so were your cheeks, their color fortunately hidden from his watchful eyes behind the curtain of the darkness.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m just a little uneasy, that’s all.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, but his eyes were giving you skeptical signals as if he knew exactly what you were hiding.

The truth that the sky and space scared you, when he was the one who was constantly covered by the clouds, was always embarrassing to admit out loud. And thankfully, he never pressed you to do it.

Instead, he hummed, his chin resting on the edge of the bed, his eyes landing on your clasped hands, thumb sliding through your fingers back and forth. You knew he had no idea, but that slight touch was enough to make you shiver, your heart filled with unspoken, overwhelming emotions towards the one who was supposed to just be your best friend.

“But you know you can always come to me, right? The couch is really cozy and maybe you would feel safer there, somehow. Aaand, I’m much bigger than her. More comfortable too, I’m sure.” Your lips turned up in a smile, and your eyes closed for a second, trying to focus on calming your heart down. When you finally opened them, he was looking right at you with an unreadable expression. His face seemed to get closer to yours too, most likely unknowingly.

From such proximity you could see the freckles that covered his face like small specks of cosmic dust, that you have always longed to trace with your fingers. His eyes were also a sight to behold, even in the darkness they shined so brightly, violet mixed with a hint of a sunset, always so full of wonder and awe, looking right back at you. He was so handsome, even covered only by the moonlight, when you always thought that a warm sunlight suit him best.

“We’re not kids anymore, Caleb. Sleeping in the same bed would be a little bit weird, don’t you think?” He scoffed under his breath, and you bit your lip, not wanting your true emotions to appear on your face. Desperate to not let him know how much you’d like to join him, to fall asleep resting in his embrace.

“I don’t.” His reply instant, a sure whisper, accompanied by a slight shift of his head. His hair looked so soft, the strands falling into his eyes, making you want to reach out and fix them. His faint freckles seemed to flicker, once again catching your attention, teasing you to give each one of them a small kiss. But you knew that you didn’t have the right to. “Besides, we’re friends. You know I would never touch you or anything. You’re safe with me.”

These exact words echoed through your mind months later, a memory fresh and vivid, the only one you could think of when your heart wanted to beat straight out of your chest.

I would never touch you.

You remembered him saying, on that day that was supposed to be like any other, yet MC cancelled on you at the last moment. You were already drinking boba next to the relaxed Caleb, leaving you two alone for the first time in what felt like forever. An emergency mission, was her excuse, and although you were upset that she couldn’t make it, the happiness of finally being able to spend some time with Caleb, whom you missed just as much, was enough to raise your mood back up.

I would never touch you.

That sentence swirled inside your head, hours after you both went out for a hotpot, sharing a meal filled with laughter, catching up on nothing and everything all at once. You always had fun together, the years of friendship formed thanks to MC made you comfortable with one another, the banter teasing but affectionate, the atmosphere warm and familiar. Later you went for a walk in the park, searching for squirrels, and sending MC pictures of every single one you managed to spot with a short caption ‘You’. After that, you also stopped at the arcade to play with claw machines for some time: you managed to win a small cat plushie for MC, while Caleb gave you a similar one he got for you when you weren’t looking. And then, after the sun had long since set, you went back to his place—in the same way you always did when meeting up in Skyhaven. But this time, you two were completely alone.

I would never touch you.

And yet, by heavens, you thought that after that night there wasn’t any place on your body he left untouched. Not when he was paying such a close attention to you, his hands wandering absolutely everywhere, accompanied by his shaken breaths and whispers full of worship and wonder.

You weren’t sure who kissed whom first, your mouths connecting unexpectedly, meeting right in the middle, the movie you put on a while ago still playing in the background. The flakes of popcorn scattered everywhere around you; the bowl had fallen from your hands, so desperate was he to pull you to himself the moment he dared to push his tongue past your lips—uncertainly at first—only to feel how quickly you accepted him.

You were almost dizzy with happiness of finally having him this close, touching at his hair, neck, shoulders, waist. He was holding you in his arms tightly, squeezing your waist, while you sat comfortably on his crossed legs, lips sealed to his. But suddenly, your head became heavy the moment the gravity of the situation pulled you down. You pushed him away, pressing your hands to his broad shoulders.

You parted with a gasp, your breath uneven, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

He didn’t look any better, if his equally red cheeks and tousled hair were any indicator. His slightly chapped lips chased after yours, eyes lidded and brows furrowed when he felt the loss of your warmth.

“C—Caleb, wait, stop, what on earth are we doing—” You tried to reason, your legs struggling to stand, your heart uncertain what it truly meant to him. A panic overtook you, your true feelings suddenly out in the open, composure lost in a moment of weakness. You remember meeting his eyes in the room lit only by his TV, his head already turned your way, closer than it ever was before. That’s all it took; the sudden closeness, his intense, lingering gaze and hand reaching your way, for you to start making rush decisions.

He didn’t let you escape. In one quick motion you were grabbed by your arms and pushed back into his chest. His hands softly squeezed the flesh, his head fell onto your shoulder listlessly. Dark hair brushed at your neck when you heard his shaky breaths, his body trembling under the touch of your fingers, which now rested on his torso. They were the only barrier keeping you from melting entirely into his embrace.

“No, please—please. Don’t go.” He choked out, his voice pained, his forehead nuzzling up to the juncture between your shoulder and neck. His lips touched your neck, and you gasped. “Don’t go. Don’t run away from me. Please.” A quiet plea, which made you close your eyes in an attempt to finally think; think of the reason it happened, think of the ways in which it would affect your friendship, think of what it truly meant for him.

Afraid that the answer would hurt you.

Your head suddenly felt too heavy for your body, mind spiraling with possible answers, when you heard his voice once again, loud and certain against your heated skin.

“I dreamed of this—Of you—” He nuzzled at your neck, sending a shiver throughout your whole body, your chest squeezing, the implication slowly uncovering into something crystal clear. “Of holding you. Touching you, like this—” His fingers started a gentle trial up your spine and you pressed your body closer to his on impulse. His left hand buried in your hair, softly touching your scalp, and he finally lifted his head to meet your gaze. He looked ruined; eyes glossy and eyebrows scrunched in an image resembling an anguish. His eyes were shifting between yours and your lips, which you were biting in uncertainty. “For so, so long, you have no idea how I—”

“Caleb—”

“Let me. Let me kiss you one more time, just once.” The last word a desperate whisper, his eyes stuck on your lips, his head getting closer and closer with every second, as though he psychically couldn’t help himself. He cupped your cheek and placed his thumb on your bottom lip, pulling it from the confines of your teeth, his touch feather-light. A quiet grunt left him and he met your eyes again, your hands going to grab him by the shoulders to gain more balance. You were getting dizzy, his proximity maddening, his touches and honeyed words overwhelming. “I was always scared to be alone with you like this, and this is the reason. I knew that the moment you let me, I will continue to take, take, take…” He closed his eyes, his forehead falling onto yours, your heavy breaths already mingling. The hand on your cheek started shaking, but a calloused thumb never stopped caressing your skin. “You can say ‘no’ to me. You can say ‘no’ alright? Just—please. Please say somethin’. Anything. You’re so quiet and it’s killin’ me here—”

“I—I want the same thing. Caleb, I—” You finally breathed out, your eyes half opened, lowered to look at his chest, where laid a necklace you and MC gave him quite a while ago, before his first trip to Skyhaven. That memory appeared behind your lashes, along with MC’s face, the image making you halt momentarily. “Oh God, but what about MC? Wouldn’t she be weirded out when we suddenly—” You flinched again, and this time he caught you instantly, his big hands reaching for yours, pressing them into his forehead like a prayer, then huffing out a low laugh.

“She knows. She figured me out ages ago.” You didn’t hide your surprise, your heart beating so quickly you thought it will beat straight out of your chest. “You don’t have to worry about anythin’, alright? If only you feel—You fell the way I do, then I—”

“Ages…?” The word stuck inside your head, the implications making your eyes sparkle. He lowered your hands to rest flat on his chest, and you felt it—the thump of his heart matching yours, a rapid, uneven beat that could only mean one thing.

“Ages.” He answered surely, his violet eyes glued entirely to yours, his hand covering your palms. And when he nudged your nose with his, silently asking for permission, you found that you didn’t have any reason to refuse him anymore.

Not when you wanted him just as passionately.

Your lips met his again in a kiss so intense it was nearly bruising, your hands going over his neck, your mouth swallowing down his sigh of contentment. His hands quickly found their way under your t-shirt; grabbing and holding, caressing and squeezing everywhere he could touch.

I would never touch you.

And yet he did. He did and continued throughout the whole night, his hands never leaving your body, his lips almost permanently sealed to your soft skin, the quiet laughs and whispers of reassurance filling the entire room, your body almost floating even without his Evol, lifted by the feelings of finally being accepted. Of loving and being loved in return.

“You’re perfect. Perfect for me. I have seen countless sunsets above the clouds, and you are far more beautiful than any of them. Absolutely—” He choked out, his slow thrusts making you see stars, his sculpted body covering yours completely, mindful not to crush you in the process. His movements slightly awkward at times, totally inexperienced but you didn’t mind—it was your first time too, after all.

You had boyfriends before, but the relationships never lasted long. He was the first one you managed to open up to. The first one you were able to trust fully, the only man you ever loved. So how could you ever think of doing it with someone else?

“—magnificent. I can’t believe I get to have you like this… I—Ah—I still think that I must be dreamin’, what if I wake up and you’ll disappear? That’s how it always was. A lucid dream, a cry for even a scrap of—of your attention, and now you’re—” Your hands were gripping his biceps, leaving half moons in the glistening skin. Soft sighs were escaping your lips, along with the tears streaming down your cheeks, whether from the intensity of your feelings or the tight way he fit inside you, you weren’t sure. You closed your eyes and let him press more kisses along your shoulder and neck, cheek and lips, the very same ones to which he continued to speak his praises. “And now you are beneath me, f-fuck—Utterly beautiful. The best thing that ever happen’ to me, I knew that I was doomed ever since I met you—” You moaned his name and he smiled, his lips landing on your wet eyelashes, kissing the tears that had yet to come out. His lips were softer now, entirely covered in your chapstick, tasting of sweet apples and something that you already recognized as undeniably him. There was a hand placed under your back, bringing you even closer to his body, his hips moving more steadily, mouth attacking your breasts, making you shiver in pleasure. His hands were going up and down the sides of your body, a gentle touch, meant to bring comfort.

“Caleb—please. Faster, I can’t, I need—” Your hands went to grab his hair, pulling at the strands, making him moan, his body shaking. He looked at you as with so much adoration you thought you were dreaming.

“Okay, okay—Mmm—I got you. I—I got you, darlin’, I always got you. But if it was up to me I would have you like this the whole night long.” He lifted you up in a way that you were now straddling his thighs and sat down, not stopping his thrusts, his hands resting on your waist. Every single indication of inexperience he made up in passion, desperation and enthusiasm, always putting your pleasure above everything else. You opened your mouth in another gasp, his hips rutting into you without stopping, his arms circled around your body, refusing to let you get away even for a second. Not that you ever wanted to leave the safety of his hold. “I got you, my sweet girl. And will never let you go, never. You’re so adorable, so clever, so so kind and precious, you are—”

“—Annoying and too clingy to be honest. When you get to know her better, that is. Sooo, going after her would be a total waste of time, then.”

A quiet gasp, torn out of you suddenly, violently.

Unexpectedly.

You froze, your heart stopping, along with your hand which was already raised to push open the door to Caleb’s room. His voice, even though muffled by the door, was still perfectly distinguishable to you, having heard it even in your dreams by now.

You only came back for your makeup bag, which you had hastily left at his place this morning, the night after your moment of closeness, having overslept for work. You only managed to kiss his adorable sleeping head goodbye, wear the clothes from the day before and run through his door, smile not coming off of your face the whole day long, despite the slight soreness in your limbs.

It was reminiscent of your night together; that’s why it didn’t bother you. The night that was supposed to change everything for the better, the night that your feelings turned out to be reciprocated.

Or so you thought.

You knew that he was having a boys’ night—he told you during your hangout the day before, how excited he was to finally reunite with some of his college friends, after Gideon managed to get a hold of everyone. But you still hoped to quickly collect your things, maybe steal a small kiss or two.

You just hoped to see him again, even for a moment.

A second, nothing more.

You only wanted to—

“And she’s kinda afraid of flying, sooo not exactly a good girlfriend material for a pilot, guys.” His laugh, although a little nervous, made the crack in your heart spread further. “If she weren’t my lil sister’s friend, I wouldn’t wanna pay her any mind—”

Crash.

Loud and echoing, pierced through the living room where you were standing, your hands shaking. One hand went straight to cover your mouth, which opened in utter disbelief.

At first you thought it was the sound of your heart breaking; exploding into millions and millions of pieces, from the way it squeezed painfully in your chest upon hearing the words undoubtedly coming out of his mouth. You nearly screamed in anguish, the scenes from the night before appearing in your mind, the wonderful things he said to you reverberating inside your ears, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin—his rugged hands so soft, so gentle, the touch loving, worshipping so why—

“Who’s there?” His uncharacteristically harsh voice reached your ears but you had no idea what was happening. You felt as if you were underwater, all sounds quieted down, your body moving in slow motion.

You looked at your feet and saw your makeup scattered before you, the actual source of the crashing sound, coming from the small bottles hitting his apartment floor. Your hands apparently too shaky, too numb to hold the makeup bag after hearing his words. A dagger to your heart would hurt less, you thought, your vision getting blurry, your legs taking a few steps backwards, the movement awkward, your body suddenly too heavy for you to move.

Why did you come back? Why were you here? Why did you need to hear such things coming from the same mouth that had whispered sweet nothings to your ear for hours on end, not even a day before?

You raised your head abruptly, tears staining your cheeks now, when you heard rapid footsteps coming from the other side of the door. The ones you would recognize absolutely everywhere.

You choked down a sob and bolted straight for the door, your shaky hands fumbling with the lock for a second—enough to give him time to process the situation at hand, to connect every single dot, to notice your makeup sprawled on the floor and maybe your pathetic little teardrops lying among it.

That’s what you were. That’s who you made yourself to be. A pathetic little fool, for kissing him, opening up to him, giving so much to him in such a short amount of time when in reality all he thought of you was—

“No. No. Oh, no, no, no, no, fuck, fuck, please, wait, no!” You heard him shouting your name the moment you opened the door and bolted for the elevator. You did not bother closing the door, he already knew that you were there just a second before. He already realized what you heard, even though the true meaning of his words still felt like a fever dream, a nightmare that was unfolding right before you, painful and so, so, unbearably cruel you feared you will pass out the moment your eyes met his face.

You needed to get out of there. You needed to go outside, to breathe, to find the air he stolen from you so suddenly.

Fortunately, the elevator was waiting for you, a spec of light in the darkness of the situation, and you jumped right in, your hand frantically pressing the close button over and over again, even faster now that you heard him running down the hallway to reach you.

Ironically, this time, the luck was on your side.

His shadow was the only thing you could see before the door closed, cutting him off completely. The echoing thump of his fists hitting the surface of it made you flinch.

“No! Fuck! No, no, please!”

Your name reached your ears, desperate, panicked.

But you were already on your way down, tears falling freely, your hands squeezing at your collar, at the material covering your chest, at anything you could reach just to lessen the pain of your heart breaking. Your knees shaky, threatened to give out but you were holding onto the knowledge that he was still following you, and you absolutely couldn’t let him catch you. That’s why, you refused to let yourself break before you were sure that you were somewhere safe.

And it paid off. You miraculously managed to ascape from him, that day.

And many, many days after that.

* 50+ messages from [ ur caleb!<3 ] *

✉︎ please, let me explain myself. I can only imagine what youve heard and I need you to listen to me, please.

✉︎ what I said wasn’t true. everything youve heard was a big fucking lie and I need to tell that to your face, you have to believe me.

✉︎ please don’t do this to me, I know that I deserve it but you have to hear me out, please.

✉︎ answer me.

✉︎ I beg you, give me anything. I need to know youre safe. I can’t locate your phone is it turned off? I don’t know if youre safe. please.

✉︎ its torture. its my fault I need to see you and tell you everything just let me see you. let me find you.

✉︎ I need to find you.

✉︎ I miss you.

✉︎ I need you, don’t leave me in this loneliness any longer, I will do anything. anything to earn your forgiveness, even if i have to work my whole life for it I will, even if you say that you don’t ever want to see me anymore I will stay out of your sight, I just need to tell you the truth, I need to see you and tell you what I really feel, not that awful lie youve heard me saying I wish I could turn back time and scrape these disgusting words out of my mouth.

✉︎ I will do anything for you. I will do anything for only a second of seeing you, I will fulfill your every wish, every desire and unspoken craving just for a second of your time, for a chance to say that I’m sorry.

✉︎ It ruins me, the thought that you may still think that what you heard me saying was true, you are not reading my messages and you probably still think that I meant it. I’m going insane, I’m losing my mind, I need you. I need to see you.

✉︎ I searched for you everywhere and I still haven’t found you, but I won’t stop, I will never stop searching for you even if it kills me, even if you will be the last thing I see, I will find you.

✉︎ baby, please. sweetheart. my treasure. please let me explain myself. where are you? where haven’t I searched yet? how did you manage to escape me?

✉︎ you know me too well, that’s how. you knew where I will be looking for you and you took advantage of that, my smart girl.

✉︎ but this one time, I wish you made a mistake. even a small one, a millisecond long. because I’m waiting and I’m ready to find you. and I will find you. you know me and how stubborn I am. I will never stop looking, you have to come back at some point. and i will get to you before that. I promise. wait for me.

Three weeks have passed since you last saw Caleb—the memory of his betrayal still fresh, and the wounds he inflicted on your heart with his cruel words still open and bleeding.

But the tears were no longer staining your cheeks, and a mere thought of him didn’t make you panic anymore. At least, not when you knew that he wouldn’t be able to find you here.

After you left his apartment that day, you knew that he would search for you, taking into account his desperation to catch you when you were running away. Yet you couldn’t bear to look him in the face, not after what happened between you, and how humiliated he made you feel.

You thought that he felt the same, that maybe he loved you, but it seemed that he was just playing with your feelings. That you must’ve been an easy target. And you just couldn’t believe it, no matter how frequently you repeated the things he said in your mind, both to you during the night and the to his friends during the day. You knew him ever since you were children, his presence constant in your life, even if you were not seeing each other that often after he relocated to Skyhaven. He was always there for you, and for MC, no matter what happened, his care and friendship something you got used to long time ago.

If she weren’t my lil sister’s friend, I wouldn’t wanna pay her any mind.

Was your friendship always only a huge lie? Were you unknowingly only a burden, a nuisance that he had to put up with, because of your friendship with his sister?

And that night, when he was holding you so gently, treating you with such kindness and devotion, whispering the things you dreamed about hearing from him for so long, was it also something he did just because you were easy to manipulate? The easiest choice, a familiar body to satisfy his needs with?

And God, did he know about your true feelings before all of it went down?

You shook your head, trying to stop another train of thoughts, fighting with yourself not to break down in tears again. You came here not only to temporarily run away from him, you also wanted to take your time and relax, to calm the storm brewing inside your head, to survive that heartbreak and breakdown on your own terms, without anyone’s nagging or judgmental stares. Without others telling you what you were supposed to feel.

You fixed your sunhat, the slight wind making your hair gently caress your face, and you went down from the ladder, a basket full of fresh cherries hanging from your arm. You sighed, the fresh air and the smell of fruit filling your nose trills, reminding you that you were far, far away from Skyhaven and Linkon, the places that held too many painful memories.

Here, you were safe, because no one knew about your little, peaceful gateway, which was long ago introduced to you by one of your distant cousins. It was a peaceful little plot of land, belonging to one of your family members, a place they visited occasionally, usually in the summertime. And now, that small house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the trees of fruit, fields of flowers and tranquil atmosphere were exactly what you needed to get back on your feet.

You took a sick leave from work for a whole month, and you were planning to use that time to soften your dark thoughts and harden your skin before the gravity of the situation and its consequences met you upon your return to Linkon. Before you would have to inevitably face Caleb—the one you were trying to avoid at all costs.

“Here you are, auntie.” You approached her crouched figure, her hands paused in their strawberry picking, and she looked up at you with gratitude in her eyes.

“Thank you sweetie, you helped me so much.” She answered and stood up, taking off her gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of her baggy jeans, covered in strawberry juice and grass. A huge smile lit up her face, and you couldn’t help but return one just as bright, shaking your head.

“Oh, please, that’s the least I can do. I should be the one thanking you for letting me stay here.” You fixed your hat once again and went up to a bucket filled with rainwater, so that you could wash the cherries from your skin. “I haven’t known such peace in a long time, really. The air is so refreshing, the scenery so beautiful, and I’m visiting the orchard everyday. I probably ate half of your crops by now, like some kind of a pest.”

“Oh, stop it!” She playfully swatted your butt with a rug, and you giggled, snatching it from her to use it to dry your hands. “You’re always welcome here, you know that. Besides, you are a huge help with harvesting fruit each week. I always bring my boy with me, but as you can see, he’s nowhere in sight.” You laughed and picked up the basket with cherries again, as well as the one she was holding before. You peaked inside it and noticed that it was filled with strawberries and raspberries, a perfect amount for a snack. You opened your mouth and let her place one small strawberry inside it, the sweet juice filling your mouth, making you momentarily forget about your worries.

Everything here was just so peaceful and easy.

“It’s that age. He’s more interested in exploring than in sitting around and picking fruit. I was a chaotic kid, too.” You answered and she sighed, your walk to her truck much shorter than you wanted it to be. You placed the baskets inside the vehicle and saw the boy’s hair from where he sat in the passenger seat. You ruffled his hair, and he appeared startled, his hand immediately reaching up to fix it, a blush spreading to the tips of his ears.

“Chaotic and addicted to gaming, that’s what he really is.” She answered as you stepped back from the truck to hug her goodbye. She offered you a ride back to the house but you decided to stay in the orchard. The sun was still far from setting, and you wanted to read under the tress and snack on the fruits for a while longer.

You also remembered to thank her for delivering your letter to MC last week, in which you told her that you were safe, and apologized for not reaching out to her sooner, explaining that you will be back after some time alone. You decided to restrain from mentioning that you had to turn off your phone the moment you escaped from Caleb’s apartment, knowing damn well that if you didn’t, he would be able to track your location without any issue. You knew him and his little tricks like the back of your hand, or at least, that’s what you thought before everything that happened recently.

You were already waving goodbye to them, when it happened.

The boy opened the car door and handed you something, his small hands quick and secretive. Your eyes opened wide, and your smile faltered instantly, recognizing the weight.

“Sorry for taking it, mom never lets me take mine and I get so bored here… But I charged it for you!” He said your name and looked at you apologetically, his round eyes shining excitedly. You gulped, your mouth opening slightly, struggling to find your voice. “You can delete the game now. Oh, and you got a loooot of messages, are you, like, famous?” He asked in a hushed tone, then flinched when the aunt called out to him. He hugged your waist tightly, clearly thankful for your unintentional lending of possession, and went back to the truck, his small hand waving at you through the window until they disappeared from sight, turning onto the main road.

Leaving you by yourself, speechless, your hands full of something you avoided like fire throughout your stay here. The only thing that could betray your location.

A phone.

The one you intentionally turned off and left on the bedside cabinet inside the house.

Your phone.

A device that was Caleb’s only way of tracking you, now lit up after weeks of lying unused, for the purpose of your escape.

“No way, no, no, no, no.” You mumbled, your shaking hands going straight to turn it off, the device turning black again, your panicked gaze staring back at you from its small screen. You closed your eyes and hugged the phone to your chest, praying that it hadn’t been turned long enough for him to track you. For him to notice. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Not now, please. Not yet.”

You weren’t ready to face him yet. You didn’t know if you ever would, but you definitely weren’t ready right this instant, your heartbreak still fresh, your heart too weak to feel this much again.

You looked around slowly, taking in the the sight of the orchard and the endless expanse of the field, calm, steady and sunny, just the way it was during the weeks you’d been here. A gentle wind carried the strands of your hair behind you, the sunhat protecting your head from the light of day. You put the phone slowly inside the pocket of your shorts and began the long path back to the house, your plans of a leisure reading session long forgotten.

It was completely quiet, almost too quiet, but there was no one in sight. You had no idea if he had managed to track your location, or if he was even still looking for you. Maybe he decided to let go, you comforted yourself, even if you knew him well enough to realize how stubborn he could be. You just hoped that maybe if he truly didn’t care for you, he would leave you alone.

The wind intensified, and so did your steps. The house still not yet visible, the long way back made you anxious. You wanted to be inside already, lock yourself up, just in case he really waited for your slip up.

You huffed a small, nervous laugh under your breath the moment you felt the wind biting into the exposed skin of your arms, the temperature dropping, making goosebumps appear on your skin. You bit into your bottom lip and quickened your pace, your heartbeat already pulsing inside your ears, your mind trying to convince you that it was just a coincidence.

But when the wind blew away your hat, you didn’t turn back to fetch it.

Instead, your stride broke into a full-blown run, your legs moving in a panicked frenzy, your hair flying behind you freely. Your lungs and eyes already burned the moment the aircraft appeared in your peripheral vision, its shape and size so unmistakably matching those from the Farspace Fleet that you wanted to laugh at your brain for still hoping is wasn’t.

You heard it now—the deafening roar of it descending onto the field not far from you—and you cursed under your already ragged breath, knowing he must’ve already seen you. There was no one else in sight, after all.

You hadn’t stopped running. The house was twenty minutes away on foot, and if you were fast enough, you could make it before he caught up with you. The plane had already landed, and you didn’t have the courage to look back to see if—

“Hey! Wait!” The shout of your name pierced the wind in your ears, and a weak groan escaped you. He was close, too close if you were able to hear him, his voice bringing back all the memories from that day. Of comforting closeness, then cruel confession said so surely behind your back.

Every single muscle ached, but you didn’t stop running, you couldn’t stop running. The house was already there, peeking from behind the trees, and if only you could reach it in time, you would just lock the doors and regain your false sense of freedom for a while longer.

“Stop runnin’ away from me! Please!”

“Stop—Stop chasing me!” You screamed, the emotions built up inside of you finally having their outlet. “Leave me alone, I don’t—I don’t want to see you, I—I don’t—”

“Just talk to me! Let me explain—” He was getting closer, and your body was growing weaker, your legs moving seemingly only by the sheer force of your will.

“I don’t want to talk to you!” A sob almost escaped your lips, the knowledge and fear that he was this close to you again making panic squeeze at your chest. You were not ready to see him yet, not ready to look at that irritatingly handsome face of his, and hear him lying without batting an eye.

“Baby, please—” Closer. He was so close, just a couple of steps and he wouldn’t have to shout through the wind anymore, but you didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

“Oh, fuck you!” You shouted right back, tears already forming in your eyes, your legs burning with extortion. How dare he call you this way, as if there was something between you, as if he cared about what happened, about the kiss, your first night, you. “Don’t call me that, don’t chase me like some kind of an animal—Ah!”

Your run stopped abruptly, your chest heaving as you desperately tried to catch your breath. Sweat stuck to your forehead and neck, your limbs tensed, grasping for something, anything, to keep your body from floating up in the air.

Naturally, you failed. His Evol too powerful, holding you gently up in the air, your body too weak to fight back against the invisible force, so you did the only thing you could do at that moment.

You took off your shoe and threw it at him, groaning pathetically when you heard it landing in the grass.

“Let—me—go!” You shouted, your breath heavy after the run, body refusing to calm down. You kept your head turned away from him, unable to look even at his shadow. The knowledge he was this close to you was enough to fill your eyes with tears.

You heard his footsteps close now, his breath heavy. You closed your eyes, tears instead of falling down your cheeks, drifted away from you, the temporary lack of gravity around you taking them away.

First your heart, then your sorrow—what else could he steal away?

You didn’t see how he stood below you, only few steps away, still wearing his Fleet uniform, looking up at your struggling frame with awe and relief. His hand reached out to catch your teardrop with his hand, the sign of your pain staining his fingers now. He brought it to his lips slowly, itching for any part of you, his brows furrowing with anguish.

“I can’t. I let you escape from me once and I won’t make the same mistake again.” His breath was already calming down as he crouched to pick up your shoe, not expecting the other one flying his way, catching it with his Evol right before it hit his head. He scoffed, his laugh sad and full of disbelief, as he let it fall right in front of his face.

“You coming here was a mistake.” He grit his teeth as he heard your poisonous words, spoken in a teary tone. He looked up at you again and his breath hitched. Your drifting body was surrounded by your teardrops, swirling around you and reminding him just how much pain he caused you by his own selfishness. “Me believing in your sugary words was a mistake. Me kissing you was a mistake, God, our whole night together was a—”

“Don’t.” His harsh voice cut through the air, silencing you at once. “Finish that sentence. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Why? You said you wanted to talk so let’s talk.” With your back still turned to him, your hands swatting at your flying teardrops, his audacity to use his Evol on you making you see red. “Let’s talk about how you tricked me. How you made me believe that we were friends, that I could count on you—”

“Please—”

“That I maybe, maybe meant something more to you. Because it turned out that you were feeding me lies for years—”

“That’s not…”

“You—You made me believe you liked me, and then you… You took advantage of—”

“Quiet!” He nearly growled, his harsh voice echoing in your ears, the tone unfamiliar, instantly making you flinch. The Evol with which he held you up faltered, shaking your body, making a quiet squeal come out of your mouth. For a second there, you thought that he will let you fall right into the ground, but the impact never came.

You finally looked at him, scared and stunned by his outburst. He stood there, eyes clouded and distant, arms hanging loosely at his sides— one hand gripping his hat—both of them shaking equally.

And just when you thought you had imagined his expression darkening, you noticed the clouds shifting faster, the sky growing darker.

A thunder stroke in the distance, forcing the hair on your nape stand straight.

“T-That’s how you think you’ll solve this? By force? By scaring me?” Your voice wavered, your fear slipping right through your confident facade. “I—I don’t take orders from you, Colonel. You will not intimidate me into anything. I don’t—I don’t—” More tears floated around you, your vision blurred, fear mixing with the feeling of helplessness.

He whipped his head, finally grasping the reality upon hearing how you addressed him. And when your eyes finally met, both equally red-rimmed, tired and pleading, he felt as if something in him broke.

Because while he was pleading for a chance to be redeemed, you, on the other hand, for him to stay out of your sight.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice. Please, don’t be scared, I’m—” Another plea, another apology, another way for him to mess with your mind, you thought. And you were scared, tired and hurt, lacking the energy for that conversation. Not knowing how to go about this, not being sure if there was anything that he could say that would fix this.

You were too shaken to listen—let alone react logically. Too unprepared to see his familiar face again so soon, to hear the voice that once offered you refuge for years, but now hurt you more deeply than you ever thought it could. Even the touch of his Evol—once used to help you, to ease your burdens, to cheer you up with his silly little teasing—was now a weapon. A way to trap you. To make you feel small. Helpless beneath the weight of his power.

It was not going well at all, both of you clearly too emotional, incapable of having a normal conversation. You weren’t prepared, but you noticed that he wasn’t either, his mental state unsteady, mind locked on one thing and one thing only—to catch you and never let you out of his sight again.

It was no way of resolving anything. And you really didn’t want to get hurt even more—not by his words, nor by the things you wanted to scream at him, rage tangled with fear, creating a poisonous mix that placed the most hurtful of things at the tip of your tongue.

You didn’t want to use them. Saying them out loud to him would break your heart in the process too.

“Let me go. Please. I’m not ready yet, I—” You closed your eyes, and the first drops of rain fell onto your warm skin. “I don’t want to talk. I can’t talk. Just—let me be. We will have to have this conversation at some point. And I know that. B—But for now just. Please, Caleb.” Your eyes full of tears met his, and he opened his mouth just to close it again, the sight of them rendering him speechless. The pleading, hurt look in them seemed to get him out of the trace. “Let me go.”

His breath hitched when you didn’t break eye contact. There was pain in your eyes, but also unwavering resolve. You kept looking at him with those radiant, exquisite eyes of yours, and that’s when he knew: he had lost this battle.

He slowly lowered you down, holding back tears when you refused to accept his hand to steady yourself. Then he bit his lip, his hands shaking, clenching into fists while he was forced to watch you run from him again, battling his desire to chase after you.

You said that you will have to talk at some point, and he believed you. He took your words and cling to them like a lifeline, a reason for him not to lose his hope. He would be patient, he could be patient, he had already waited for you for so long, he didn’t mind waiting some more. At least now he knew you were safe. Now he could protect you.

And he knew that the war to win you back had only just begun.

The heavy rain spattered against the windows, its sound echoing through the house, easing your shaken nerves and slowly lulling you to sleep.

A lightning struck in the distance, brightening the whole room. You rose quietly, waiting for the sound of thunder. Eyes closed, breathing evened out after what felt like eternity.

More raindrops hit your window, pushed violently by the wind as you stood, wrapping yourself in your huge, knitted cardigan, sinking your cold, shaking fingers into the thick, soft material.

He came here, for you.

A fact that you couldn’t shake for hours now, the weather outside an embodiment of what was happening inside your head. He came for you, the moment he managed to get your location, desperate, oh so desperate to talk, to explain, to repent, and you were left absolutely torn.

Because in your mind, you had already started seeing him as the bad guy, that thought a constant companion through these long weeks, your main coping mechanism. And now? He came here, looking anguished and miserable, his face thin and eyes red—a picture of a man in despair—and he was ready to drop everything just for a second of your time.

Which you didn’t give him. And that’s what kept you awake.

Your hand reached for the light switch but in vain. The storm that had lasted for hours must’ve cut the power some time ago, and you accepted it quickly. Your eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and you didn’t want to give any sign that you were awake either. You didn’t want to give Caleb false hope, knowing his aircraft still stood on the empty field, exactly where he had landed it hours ago.

You knew he wasn’t asleep either, not if he was as apologetic as he seemed to be. You should’ve listened to him, maybe. And if he hadn’t scared you so much, if he hadn’t used his Evol or raised his voice, maybe you wouldn’t have been so afraid, so defensive. Despite everything he said that fateful night, a large part of you was still curious about what he wanted to say and how he intended to explain himself.

Your deep infatuation with him, your huge soft spot for his expressive puppy eyes, his gentle, playful voice and soft dark hair, were his real weapon. You saw him, looking so devastated and your first thought was to comfort him, despite everything he had done. And you hated yourself for it, hated how much power he held over you unknowingly.

Because was there anything to explain, really? The things he said sounded pretty self-explanatory, and even the simple recollection of them made your heart squeeze painfully.

You knew you’d have to have this conversation sooner or later. He was your best friend’s brother, he used to be your best friend and you had to return to Linkon soon. He would find you then, and the conversation would have to happen either way. So wouldn’t it be easier to just get it over with now and try, slowly, to move on? If moving on from that kind of heartbreak was something you were even capable of.

That was what scared you most about all of this. Caleb had been your friend—the man you loved more fiercely than life itself—and it had taken everything in you just to get out of bed after what you heard from him that day. And now? He had shattered your precious, tranquil solitude so suddenly, and even though you knew that you were supposed to hate him—you should hate him, because that was the easiest way, the only way to survive the heartbreak and reclaim the part of your soul he’d so cruelly taken when he betrayed your trust—You also knew, the moment you saw him running after you like his life depended on it, that what you felt deep inside wasn’t even close to hate.

It was relief.

That he searched for you, after all. A longing, for him to somehow fix this, to tell you that it wasn’t him who said these things despite the fact that it was indisputable, because you would recognize his voice everywhere, even from thousands of miles away you once thought, because of how his timbre made you feel inside. When you saw him, dressed in that stupid, stupid Colonel uniform you felt nothing but love. Love, excruciating love for someone who did not deserve it.

You were stupid, so stupid for being like this, so stupid for still thinking so fondly over the man who lied to you for years, who created a false safe space for you to drown in, who slept with you, even though he thought you were not enough for a wonderful pilot like him.

A sudden crash came from the window downstairs, making you jump in place.

You quickly ran down the stairs, your fingers brushing the wooden railing, your footsteps blending with the sound of falling rain. A cold breeze seeped through the widow, now flung wide open. The wind must have been strong enough to burst it open, and as you rushed to close it, something outside flashed in the corner of your eye.

And your heart almost stopped at the sight.

Your head turned, leaning from the window, the cool droplets hitting your skin harshly, reminding you that you were still awake, and that your eyes didn’t deceive you.

Caleb was sitting right there, on the porch, leaning against the wooden beams, his head hung low, arms crossed on his chest.

And he was soaked to the bone.

Rain dripped from his hat onto his crossed arms, his posture nearly curled in on itself. His body trembled every few seconds from the cold, and the moment you realized he must’ve been standing there ever since you left him—hours ago, just before the storm rolled in—you felt the blood rush into your head.

You left him, but he stayed right there, sitting, waiting patiently for you to come out, not knowing when it will happen. He let you go, but he never left.

“Caleb!” A sudden shout tore from your throat, laced with dread and disbelief, your hands instead of closing the window, reached for one of the blankets lying nearby. “God, Caleb, you—” The front door bursted open and you reached him in no time, falling onto your knees before him, taking off his hat and throwing it to the side in an attempt to wake him.

He wasn’t asleep. Startled, his head shot up the moment he saw you, alarmed by your sudden appearance. His eyes immediately fell to your bare legs, your sleeping shorts far too thin and short to stand against such weather, and he reached for you in a rush of panic.

“What are you—go back inside, you’re goin’ to be sick!” He said alarmed and you scoffed in answer, taking notice of his wet uniform, clinging uncomfortably to his glistening skin. His hair was completely soaked too, streams of rain tracing paths down his temples and nose, the sight making you furious.

“You—absolute—hypocrite!” You barked back, your hands tugging at his wet arms in an attempt to make him stand. You threw the blanket over his head first, his hand grabbing at the material, and then you began pushing him into the house. “I had no idea you—Why did you—?!” He raised quickly, letting you push him past the doorway, and you already felt the cold biting at your skin, the seconds spend outside enough to make you wet.

And he was sitting there for hours.

“I—” He started, but you didn’t let him finish, his posture slightly slumped under the weight of the drenched uniform.

“You—you have a literal plane nearby, why didn’t you hide in there? It’s been raining for hours.” Words escaped you faster than you were able to form them in your head, your hands already working to remove his soaked clothes hastily. He fell completely silent, letting you ease your frustration, his eyes glued to your face. “I thought you were safe in there, I thought you already left, I—I thought—” The heavy material hit the floor with a loud thud, your shaking hands trying to take off the shirt he had underneath, horrified by how cold his skin was underneath your palms.

You bit your lip and sniffed, tears already streaming down your face, whether from the cold piercing at your skin, the thought of him sitting for so long, freezing outside, or from his closeness, which you were deprived of for these weeks, you weren’t able to tell.

You grunted quietly, your fingers slipping from one of the buttons of his shirt, shaking too violently to take it all off. Suddenly, through your blurred vision, you saw his hands reaching for you. You felt their warmth the moment he covered yours, pressing them against his chest. His heart pounded so violently you could feel its rhythm through the wet fabric, sending a shiver down your spine.

A broken sob escaped you, the weight of reality pressing you down hard. His hands stroked your trembling arms, trying to soothe you; but it wasn’t working. The stings or remorse cut through you one by one, haunted by the image of him sitting there, drenched, and cold, and shaking—

“I didn’t want you to—to—I had no idea you were there this whole time, I thought you left t—to sit in your—” Another sob came out stifled, because he brought you in for a hug; his hard, wet chest strangely warm and comforting. You didn’t return the embrace, but stayed there, sobbing quietly, letting him drape the blanket over you both, the material somehow still dry enough to bring comfort.

“Shh… Easy. Don’t cry, okay? It was my decision to stay there.” His soft voice reached you, and another sob came out, this time right into the shirt still clinging to his chest. “I had to stay there. I couldn’t leave you again. I didn’t want to leave you. I’m sorry.” He leaned down and rested his chin hesitantly on top of your head, bringing you even closer to himself. He released a long, heavy sigh, followed by a whisper of your name and another apology.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered right next to your ear, and you trembled in his strong arms.

“I’m sorry.” His hold tightening, and you hated how good it felt to have him this close again.

“I’m sorry.” His words no longer held just one meaning, and you shook your head as best you could, restrained by his tight embrace. Yet you stayed, your eyes closing, heart heavy with the knowledge that you were too weak to run away from him anymore.

The sound of the rain intensified, a thunderstorm still raging outside, and you both stayed close, Caleb cradling you to his chest, swaying gently side to side, almost lulling you to sleep. You took a deep breath, the scent of rain and him washing over you, and realized that you were ready to at least hear him out.

After you both calmed down your breaths and beating hearts, and after your bodies started warming up again, that is.

Because how can someone so warm have bad intentions? The feelings inside you were messing with your head again, and you let them, hoping you won’t regret making that decision.

Wishing, that this love won’t bring you to ruin.

The kettle began to whistle the exact moment he stepped out of the bathroom, candlelight casting his shadow across the room. Every movement danced on the walls, creating the illusion of him surrounding you from all sides. Ironic, because that’s exactly how you felt ever since you let him back in. Your body cautious not to relax in his presence, caged by the unfamiliar weight of broken trust.

You bit your lip and began pouring hot water over the tea, waiting for the pleasant scent to reach you, hoping that it will calm your racing heart—if only for a second. Its rapid beating didn’t slow down since you brought him in here willingly—the very man you’d successfully avoided for a whole month, dreading your next encounter, having no idea how you should act upon seeing him again.

And now there he was—standing behind you nervously, thinking so loudly you were almost able to hear it. Yet you stayed silent, believing that you had every right to. The awkwardness in the air wasn’t your fault, after all.

Letting him inside, not being able to stand the thought of him sitting out there in the storm—that was your doing. And you hated yourself for how easily you let your guard down, and for failing to hide the pathetic trace of love you still carried for him, even after he hurt you so deeply.

Your first encounter several hours ago didn’t exactly end in the way you wanted it to: him using his Evol on you and you breaking down in tears could hardly be considered a peaceful reunion. You were both not ready to talk yet, too shaken by being in each other’s presence after all this time. You, stubborn in your hatred. He, desperate and unraveling at the thought of loosing you again. An explosive combination, a disaster waiting to happen.

So you ran, as fast as you could from him.

And now, because you couldn’t stay indifferent to his discomfort, you had nowhere to hide.

“The clothes fit. They’re even a bit loose.” Caleb’s light tone finally broke the silence, though the slight tremble in his voice betrayed his stress. He was as nervous as you were. “Phew, I’m lucky your uncle isn’t here today, he would totally take me in a fight. To him I would probably look like… a walkin’… A walking stick.” Voice grew quieter with every word he spoke, and once he noticed he was rambling, he clamped his mouth shut, cussing internally.

He had always made a fool of himself when you were near, ever since the day he met you, all those years ago. Even just the sight of your turned back, the knowledge you were listening, made his head heavy with the need to impress you, and now, to make things right. He was terrified that at any moment you might lock yourself away in one of the rooms, somewhere he couldn’t reach you again—and he had no idea how he’d handle it if that happened.

Suddenly, you turned to him, your eyes glued to the mugs of tea you were holding. You placed them carefully on the table in front of you—the only piece of furniture that provided a bit of a distance you so desperately craved to have. From the corner of your eye you noticed he wasn’t exaggerating—the black sweatpants and a white shirt seemed to be a bit loose, and you realized that his homely appearance actually made you feel a bit more at ease. Now, without his Colonel uniform to hide behind, he seemed more approachable, if not more lost.

The air of authority vanished the moment his wet suit hit the floor, leaving only an uncertain man in its wake, one who knew he’d been walking on thin ice the moment you let him into your space again.

And you just couldn’t bring yourself to make him feel more welcome—the words he said still ringing in your ears, despite the time you spend to forget about them entirely.

“Thanks for letting me stay here. And for the clothes.” He was still standing in the same spot and you still refused to meet his eyes. Your hands grabbed one of the mugs and you started blowing air to cool your tea down, thankful for that little distraction, for something warm to hold when your heart was freezing cold. “And I wasn’t sitting there to make you pity me. If you were wondering. I wasn’t tryin’ to manipulate you into anything, I just—”

“I know.” Your voice rusty from the uncontrollable sobbing from before, hands gripping the mug harder. The light from the candles was too low for you to see your reflection on the surface of the drink. Maybe it was for the best, you must’ve looked like a trembling mess, eyes puffy and lips bitten red, still shaken by the storm of emotions that had torn through you during the day. “That, I know.”

You slowly sat on the nearest stool while he processed the meaning behind your words, still standing motionless few steps before you. You took a sip—and the warmth of the drink did nothing to soothe your nerves.

So, you waited. For something. Anything. Feeling his intense gaze on your frame, almost drilling a hole in your head, a silent prayer for you to look back at him.

You couldn’t, and that broke him all over again.

“You run away from me.” His voice trembled and your hands grabbed the mug tighter, the rain outside intensifying—or maybe you just became aware of its sound again. “I’ve searched for you everywhere. Every day. And I was loosing my mind every minute I couldn’t see you.”

“Did you?” You couldn’t help the venom spilling out of you, the tone mocking if it wasn’t so weak. “Why? Because of guilt? Pity? Out of obligation for—”

“Guilt? Pity? Is that what you think?” He took a step forward, and you didn’t move, head held high, still not meeting his eyes. “Everything I did for you, everything I ever said to you was out of—Shit—” His hands ruffled his hair, tugging at the strands. A pause, heavy, followed by a thunder, and then—“Out of love!” The last word nearly a growl, ripped out of him suddenly, as if holding it inside brought him pain.

You froze.

A thunder roared in the distance.

And the tears filled your vision once more.

You stood abruptly, putting down the cup on the table with a loud thud, its contents spilling out, nearly burning your head. His voice calm and sure now, so sure it almost made you choke.

“Out of overwhelming love, that I have felt for you for as long as I can remember—”

“Stop.” You choked out, your head dizzy, hands shaking in fury. What was he saying? What was he even—

“—Out of desperation to make things right, because I couldn’t bear the thought of you sitting somewhere alone, and hurting because of me, the things I said, the things I fuckin’ despise myself for—” He heard you, so he spoke much quicker, words spilling one after the other, hurting you more than you could imagine. He was getting closer to you, and you flinched, one leg already taking a step back.

He wasn’t serious, he couldn’t be. If he were, he wouldn’t have said those things, especially not after he got to have you. It wasn’t what you were prepared to hear, he was surely just messing with—

“Caleb, please.” Not more than a whisper, a calm before the storm, your head shaking, legs feeling weak.

“I lied. I lied that day and you need to believe me. I lied because I was a coward, and I didn’t know what to do, I panicked and I lied, because I love you, and they—”

“No, please, stop, I—I can’t listen to this, it was a bad idea, I—” With tears in your eyes you turned away and passed Caleb quickly, wanting to go back upstairs and hide: hide from his lies, from the hurt of his sudden confession, and from the way his voice sounded, so anguished and outright mad.

He didn’t love you, he couldn’t love you, because if he did he would’ve told you that night, when he held you so close and whispered broken praises into your ear. He would’ve said it then, not now, when you’d already made up your mind to cut him off, to forget the warmth of his body and the cold sting of the words you overheard.

You expected an apology, not a confession, which made and your whole facade crumble with his every word.

“No! Please—” He grabbed your hand, his touch frantic and secure, the contact and the memories it reignited made you gasp. And before you could realize what was happening, he fell down on his knees in front of you, his hands grabbing your arms, the hold strong but gentle, meant to slow you down, rather than cage.

You looked at the bare skin of his back, sticking out of the shirt, speckled with faint freckles, and noticed he looked thinner than you last saw him. Then your eyes landed on his dark hair, falling into his face freely, strands damp after the shower, but still looking so unbelievably soft.

“Please, I’m not lying, I’m—You have to believe me. You have to—Fuck—”

You eyes met and the time seemed to slow down.

Because you saw his beautiful, violet orbs, that always made you feel as if you were looking at the eight wonder of the world, flooded with tears for the very first time in your life.

His lips were trembling and you noticed how chapped they were, his teeth biting into them to stop himself from sobbing. You could hear the humming of your heart in your ears, your whole body shocked to stillness.

He looked absolutely torn.

And you couldn’t look away; your eyes traced the path of the first tear that slipped out of his eye, down to his chin, landing in front of your bare feet.

Like an offering. A statement. The last prayer of a man who lost hope.

“I’m not—I’m not lying to you. You have to believe me, please, please.” Tears. One after the other, tracing paths on his flushed cheeks, eyes burning with sincerity, lashes wet and shiny.

You nodded slowly, a lump forming in your throat, eyes filling with tears upon the sight, but you were trying so hard to keep them at bay.

And after a sniffle, he continued, warm hands stroking your shaking arms, eyes glued to yours like a lifeline.

“I lied that day. Everything I said was a fucking lie, okay? A big, pathetic lie to save my skin, to buy me more time. I said the first things that came into my mind—”

“But I heard you, Caleb.” You cut him off, your brows furrowing, unable to contain your confusion. “I heard you. If you really didn’t mean it how could you sound so sure? You said these things without even a single thought, and you expect me to—”

“I didn’t have to think! I just twisted—I think I just twisted the truth—”

“Wow. T—That’s low Caleb. That’s really, really low—” And when you started to back out from his hold he grabbed you harder, his arms going to circle around your waist, his face pushing into your stomach. You gasped and before you managed to push him away, his next words made you stop.

“No! Wait, shit, that’s not what I meant. Don’t go.” A sob escaped his lips and you took a deep breath, your hand almost reaching to caress his head. You’ve never seen him so broken and the need to comfort him was overwhelming. The sight of his tears excruciating. “I said you were clingy and you are—” Another sharp tug, but he refused to let you go. “You are. You are clingy and that’s okay, that perfectly fine, that’s perfect. And I love that about you. Every time you were holding my sister’s hand, I wished, God—How I wished you would hold mine instead. I wished, I prayed you would cling to me instead. Just as much as I wanted to cling to you.” He raised his head and you saw that he was telling the truth in the way his eyes gleamed, and his cheeks burned red, body trembling against yours.

And you felt your legs nearly bucking under your weight, his words making your head spin, not knowing whether you should stay offended or let him take your breath away once more.

“But—but what about me being annoying? You said—”

“You loved to push my buttons ever since we were kids, you are trying to annoy me all the time, just how I try to annoy you back. But for me, every jab, every joke, it was always to catch your attention. A pitiful attempt for you to just look at me, even for a fleeting second. And it worked—MC always called us annoying because of it, remember? That’s why it came to me so quickly. That’s the only reason I said it so surely.”

He was talking so fast he nearly lost his breath, his chest heaving against you, arms still holding you close to his chest. You took a deep breath and wanted to think, to have a second to process it, the burn in your cheeks intensifying, his words actually starting to make sense, because of your usual dynamic.

But it wasn’t all. It wasn’t what hurt you the most.

“You told them about my fear.” Caleb’s huge, red-rimmed eyes never left yours, and you fought with yourself not to fix the strands of hair that were slightly blocking his vision. His lips formed a straight line and turned slightly downwards, making him look like a kicked puppy. And you felt your anger slowly slipping, hope filling the hole in your heart. “And you listed it as my fault. You took my biggest fear and embarrassed me for it, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. I didn’t even—I didn’t even know you noticed how scared I was when—”

“I did. I notice everything about you. Of course I noticed.” His strong hands hugged you tighter, and a single tear slipped out of your eye. He was still kneeling before you, showing no signs of raising. “Just how I noticed that it didn’t keep you from visiting me at my place, even though the stillness of the clouds terrified you to the point of loosing sleep. But it’s okay. It doesn’t change a single thing for me. I only dreamed of showin’ you the view from the clouds, I hoped that I would take you up there with me one day, to show you that it doesn’t have to be scary. That it’s actually beautiful, and freeing, and calm up there. Cause I would protect you, always. And if you didn’t change your mind it would be fine—It would always be fine. I would just share with you the stories ‘bout the things I saw. And I would be the happiest to do it.” His shaking hands reached to touch your face and wiped the tears from your cheeks, ones that you had no idea you even shed. “I never thought about it as your flaw. Never. For me, you are nothing but a wonder.”

His touch was feather-light and comforting, his hands warm and so painstakingly familiar, bringing you back to the night that changed everything. How he held you back then, as if you were something fragile, something precious.

A wonder.

A sob tore through your body and he shook his head, hushing you quietly, his hands taking a hold of yours, bringing them to his lips, pressing a kiss to every single one of your knuckles.

“Then, why? Why did you list it as one? I just—I just don’t understand why, Caleb.” You cried out, one of your hands leaving his to cover your face from him. The past month of running away flashed before your eyes, making you even more tired. And although you wanted nothing more than to believe him and let yourself be held, he still didn’t give you the reason for saying such things. “Why did you even say that? If you lied, why did you do that? Why, Caleb, why did I have to hear—?”

You were crying again, and Caleb looked at you from his knees in panic, his hands caressing your arms, spine straightening so that his head could rest against your chest. The way he hugged you so tenderly made you want to hug him back, your head fighting with your heart. Yet he still didn’t give you all the answers, no matter how better the situation seemed now. You still had doubts about believing him at all.

There was a beat, or two, and he let out a deep sigh, hands gripping you tighter.

You sniffled, the word around going completely quiet, just to be disturbed by his quiet groan.

“I’m even—I’m even embarrassed to say.” He stood up slowly, and you gulped, his size all-consuming, making him be the only thing you could see. You took a careful step back, and he took one of your hands in his hesitantly. From this position he was too stressed to hug you, opting for less intense contact, especially when your hand was still limp in his, not reciprocating the hold. He scratched at his neck, his eyes meeting yours, an anticipation visible on your features. “And I know that won’t make the situation better.”

“Caleb—”

“Yes. Yes, I know—They—” A squeeze of your hand, the orange spark in his eyes shining beautifully, making your breath hitch. His hand went up to gently touch your face, fingers tracing patterns along your cheek. “They started talkin’ bout girls that day. The boys, my friends from college.” His brows furrowed, eyes looking at your face as if searching for something there. You listened patiently, his earlier words still ringing inside your head, the gravity of them almost crushing you. “Asked me if I knew someone they could go out with. I said ‘no’. They didn’t believe me, though.” His eyes narrowed, chin went down slightly in annoyance while recollecting the conversation. “They started teasing me about MC first. Asking if I would like to have a brother, too. But then one of them mentioned you.” His eyes darkened, the hand on your cheek stopped its caress. “Said he liked you. And that he already had your number. He was pretty confident, said something ‘bout you two having a connection. He said he talked with you that one time you and MC were visitin’ me in my dorm, and I—I started sweating right then and there.”

Your frown deepened but you already knew where this was going. You closed your eyes and swore under your breath, one hand covered your mouth in shock. You couldn’t even remember the guy.

“And—And we just slept together that night, and I finally got to hold you, caress you, kiss you—I was on cloud nine. Wasn’t thinking clearly. And I wanted to tell him about us, that you were mine, but I realized that we haven’t talked about it. And you weren’t there when I woke up—”

“Caleb, I overslept for work, I had to leave quickly—”

“I’m so, so sorry, but I wasn’t sure. I haven’t confessed to you either, I was just too—too overwhelmed, I felt too much, I thought too much and I realized that I couldn’t tell them you’re mine because you weren’t. Not yet.” You bit your lip and looked at him in disbelief, his face getting closer. He put a strand of your hair behind your ear, and his jaw tightened. “And when he asked me what I thought ’bout you I couldn’t tell him the truth. If he knew what I felt he wouldn’t let you go. They wouldn’t let you go, it would only make them want you more.”

You felt your hands shaking, your mouth opening and closing, not knowing what to say. His hands were still holding yours, feeling the tremble, caressing them with his thumbs in an attempt to bring you comfort.

“But you knew that what happened between us wasn’t a one time thing. You knew how I felt about you, and if you felt the same why didn’t you just—”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d pick me, if you had a different choice. And at that moment, I wanted to make sure you would. That they wouldn’t take you away from me. And that they would never want to again.” His hands cupped your cheeks, and you felt how rough and warm they were, your hands immediately going to hold at his wrists. He closed his eyes for a moment and you couldn’t believe what he was saying.

It was all a misunderstanding. And all of this happened because he was jealous? He hurt you so much just because he didn’t want others to reach out to you?

“So you had to say all these things about me? And that was supposed to be a better alternative than lying about us being together? Caleb, it really doesn’t sound—” You pushed his arms away, legs taking you further away from him, craving some space to think things through, but he followed suit, hands already reaching for you again.

“I panicked. I’m so, so, so sorry, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know where we stood, and I had no idea if that would make a difference for them. I had to say something to discourage them. So I did.” His hands went to tug at his hair and now he was the one who took a step back, breathing louder, obviously distressed. “And I hated myself for it. It felt so wrong the moment it came out of my mouth and I wasn’t even sure if they even believed me. And then I heard you. Fuck, when I heard you—”

A loud crash, making every single doubtful look from the boys leave Caleb’s face. Grateful for a distraction, his head heavy, heart burning with the weight of his lies. But when he opened the door and noticed your makeup scattered across the floor, his heart sank to his stomach. A wave of terror froze his body for a short while, until he heard you fumbling with the front door.

He didn’t even think about using his Evol, your beautiful frame running away from him enough to make him panic, the things he said hanging above his head, the knowledge that you had heard them becoming his worst nightmare.

And later, when he returned to his empty apartment after hours spend searching for you, calling you in hope you’d pick up, even by accident—he finally broke down. He screamed, throwing his phone against the wall, making it shatter. His Evol spiraled out of control, shifting the furniture, crashing the plates, the entire place left looking as if it had been broken into.

He lost you on the day he finally got to have you. And ever since that day, he hadn’t known peace, until your phone lit up again, a single red dot glowing on his device, revealing your location.

He left the Fleet right then and there in the middle of the meeting, everything else forgotten. Every duty postponed, every shout of his name ignored.

There wasn’t anything more important than you.

And now you were standing before him, as beautiful as the day he lost you, with tears in your eyes and your heart no longer open for him to take solace in. The eyes which used to look at him with mirth and affection—now uncertain, scared of him hurting you again.

And he felt that he was at his limit—one more second away from you and he thought he’ll burst into flames, the intensity of his feelings will turn him to ashes.

So, he begged.

“I’m so sorry. Please. Believe me. Take me back. Give me one more chance. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I swear I will never to it again, as long as I live.” You flinched when he fell onto his knees again, your arms trying to catch him before his knees hit the floor, but it was useless, his body too heavy for you to hold.

“Caleb! Caleb, stop doing that—” You grabbed his arm in an attempt to pick him up, but he was too strong, his bicep not even tightening. Goosebumps appeared on his skin under your palms and his head fell onto your arm pathetically.

And you just couldn’t look at him when he acted this way, your anger dissipating, the situation although still not ideal—him lying, then saying such things behind your back, whether he meant them or not, wasn’t something you could forgive him after one conversation.

Yet you couldn’t bear to look at him like that—on his knees, begging for forgiveness, crying and shaking, words slipping uncontrollably from his lips. In all the years you’d known him, this was the most vulnerable you had ever seen him—and the sight made your eyes sting. The image of the man you loved—once an unshakable, controlled pillar of strength—reduced to a broken mess before you.

You now knew why he did it. And that he didn’t mean it, not in the way you thought he did.

And you understood the jealousy, the anger, and the selfishness, because you had times you felt such way about him too. The image of him with another making you nauseous, the possibility of him loving someone else like a dagger cutting through your chest.

You took a deep breath, and glanced at him again. His shaking back, hands clinging to your body in an attempt to keep you close.

And you had made your decision.

“Oh, Caleb…”

To believe him.

“Caleb, please stand up!”

To build your relationship back up again, no matter how long i’ll take. And you just hoped you were making the right one.

“N—No, you have to understand. Please. I love you. I’m sorry. And I’ll do anything to earn your forgiveness, no matter how long it takes.” He breathed into your arm, his face snuggling into it, his head slowly rising, eyes meeting yours.

And you gasped at the anguish displayed all over his pretty eyes, two eternal sunsets clouded with misery.

“I love you. So much. I am in love with you, and I’ll do anything to prove it, I’ll spend my whole life trying to make it up to you. You want me to give you more space? I’ll do that. I will try to do that. You want me to leave the Fleet? Just say a word. I will. I will follow you to the end of space and time. You like it here? I can build you the exact same house with my own hands, brick after brick, and it would be the most beautiful, peaceful of places, you own private sanctuary. I will—”

Your knees hit the floor, joining him and you grabbed his wet cheeks in your hands, yanking his head down to meet your lips, effectively shutting him up.

And he melted.

Putty in your hands, leaning into your touch instantly, his chapped lips warm against yours, his soft sigh vibrating between your mouths. And when you broke the kiss and met his sparkling eyes, round with surprise and hope, you send him a small smile, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

You wouldn’t let them. Not anymore. Not when for the first time in weeks you finally believed that you will be okay.

It was all a huge misunderstanding. A big mistake, fueled by insecurities, secrets kept for far too long, his desperation to keep you near, no matter the means. When he spoke so rapidly, afraid you’ll leave him again, you realized that wanting to keep you to himself might have been one of the few times in his life he had ever done something purely for himself—even if his methods were far from right.

You could see now, that behind his thick skin, and the air of countless of responsibilities, he was still just a boy that had to grow up too quickly. For MC. For you. For all of you to live as comfortably as you could, the burden of all your issues and failures always spoken to him, knowing that he will be able to help and find a solution for all of them.

And yet, he never confessed when something bothered him, his feelings and desires always bottled up inside, kept hidden and threatened to spill when it got too much for him to handle.

And that one time, when faced with the threat of someone taking you away from him, the threat of loosing you, the one he loved, he acted on instinct. He chose the option that wasn’t fair, and certainly wasn’t healthy, but he truly believed it could work to keep you beside him for a while longer.

He wasn’t used to being selfish, so he had no idea how to start, and how to do it right.

He looked down at you through half-closed eyes, taking you in and memorizing your small smile—one he felt he hadn’t seen in ages. Then he dove in for another kiss, his arms wrapping around your frame, pulling you tightly to his chest. He couldn’t believe that you kissed him, his brows furrowing, wanting to make this moment last forever.

And you reciprocated every single one of his hasty kisses, your head finally freed from the questions that dragged you down.

You will work this out. You will fix this, together. And you will make sure he’ll know how you feel, so that he could finally realize that he doesn’t have to fight dirty battles just to keep you close. Because you would never want anyone else who wasn’t him.

“Caleb-mmmh. Caleb, oh God, wait.” He reluctantly let your lips go, your lungs filling with a deep breath, and you hugged him around his waist, feeling the fast beating of his heart under your ear. He placed his shaking hand on your head, stroking your hair, placing a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.

“Sorry, can’t stop. Come back here, you kissed me first.” And he took your cheeks in his palms and dived in, wanting to capture your lips in his again, but you blocked his mouth with your hand, making him frown.

You giggled softly, eyes still teary, making his eyes sparkle—mesmerized by the happiness finally breaking through the walls you’d build around yourself over the past month. He kissed your fingers once, twice, his arms resting at your waist as he lost himself in the warmth of your body, and the pleasant fragrance of your skin.

He felt as though he had returned to where he truly belonged. He had finally come home.

You opened your mouth, your cheeks flushed and eyes sincere, and nothing could prepare him for what you said next, your tone soft, slightly unsure, a melody only for him to hear.

“I believe you, Caleb. But you hurt me that day so badly, I thought I would never get over that heartbreak. I thought I lost you, my best friend, the only boy I ever cared so deeply for. I thought you really hated me all this time. And I couldn’t face it, couldn’t even think about it, that’s why I fled.” He nodded quickly, eyes holding so much hurt and regret. You slid one of your hands into his hair, stroking the soft strands gently. And thats when you both sat down on the warm floor, bodies relaxing, hearts slowing down. “But it’s okay. I understand you now. And I’m sorry too, for not letting you explain yourself sooner. I was just so focused on trying to hate you to somehow cope with what I’ve heard—”

“Stop, it’s my fault, don’t—”

“I shouldn’t have run away. I should’ve faced you, even if I was scared of what I’ll learn. But it will take some time for me to forget about it, okay? It really—It really messed me up. The thought you put up with me only because it was convenient.” You bit your lip and he groaned softly, his head lowering, a symphony of apologies falling from his lips once again. You hushed him gently, taking his cheeks in your hands and wiping away the wet trails of his tears. He sniffed quietly, making your heart squeeze. “But it will be okay. Because I believe you. So you don’t have to be scared anymore, I won’t run away again.” His body shook as he kept nodding, biting at his lips, trying so hard not to interrupt you. You leaned over him again, the movement slow, and you looked deep into his eyes, silently asking for permission. Once his eyelashes fluttered, eyes looking at your lips expectantly, you placed a soft kiss on his swollen ones, red from his constant biting, still salty from the tears he shed. “And you have to promise to be honest with me. No more tricks. No more lies.”

“I promise.” Your name escaped his lips like a prayer. “I promise. I will never hurt you again, I swear. I promise. I love you more than you could ever realize.”

He groaned into another kiss, a quiet “mmm” followed by the touch of his hands on your cheeks. He brought you to himself closer, one kiss turning into three, four, five and still counting, yet all of them gentle and reassuring, meant to anchor, not escalate. One of his hands landed on your hip and tugged, touch meaningful—he wanted for you to sit in his lap, and although you were still shaken, you craved the closeness as much as he did.

You climbed onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing at your lower lip.

You let him in, slowly, unhurriedly, your ears catching the sound of the falling rain, the storm coming back with the same intensity as before—but this time, it didn’t feel like a bad omen anymore.

You parted with a quiet pop, Caleb’s head instinctively following yours, unwilling to let the distance linger. His large hands caressed your arms and thighs, his expression love-drunk, looking as if he couldn’t believe you were really here with him again.

His eyes met with yours and you swiped the pads of your fingers below his under eyes, tracing the faint freckles.

A whistle of the wind, a spatter of rain against the window, the sound of your beating hearts, and then—

“I love you too, Caleb.” His breath hitched, hands clenching on the material on your shirt, eyes big and shining with disbelief. “I love you. So much. You’re the only boy I’ve ever loved.” His eyes closed and he rested his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses touching in a gesture so gentle your eyes stung.

“Again. Repeat that for me.” He whispered in awe, and you obeyed, another confession spoken into the night. One of the candles burned out, marking the end of a chapter, and, hopefully, the end of your separation. “Hmm, again.” He probed and you did, watching as a soft smile spread on his lips, his thumbs swiping circles into the exposed skin of your thighs. “Wanna hear it again.” Caleb’s voice unbearably soft, his touches even more so, and you put your hands on both sides of his neck, putting more distance between you. “And again. And again. I never want you to stop saying it.”

He opened his eyes and studied your face, eyes closing when you pressed a lingering kiss on one of his eyelids, his breath shaky, hands warm against your skin.

“I love you. Have been for so long I lost count ages ago.” His lips formed a line, happiness squeezing at his chest, and he nodded once, eyes opening slowly to bore into yours and don’t stray.

“Ages?” He repeated, partly mimicking your words from weeks ago, but still visibly shaken, chest filling with the warm ache of being accepted. Of loving, and being loved in return.

He cursed himself internally, eyes nearly filling with tears, dread rising in his chest at the thought that he had almost lost you, because of his selfishness and insecurities.

You kissed his lips again and he almost sobbed right into yours, his head falling onto your shoulder, kissing the soft skin, feeling the way in which it warmed up under the contact. He hugged you to his chest, kissing your neck, wanting to be even closer, to get under your skin, to merge with you for evermore and never let go.

“Ages.” Your answer sure and final, your arms returning his embrace, hands tracing patterns into the skin of his strong back. His necklace rested right next to your heart, where it should always be.

You began to hum a lullaby,letting your soft voice replace the harsh sounds of the rain and thunder. The melody drifted through the house, seeping into the walls, and into Caleb’s memory.

And when he whispered more confessions, his lips marking your skin with them, you exhaled a long, steady sigh, marking the end of this cruel storm.

And later, as you fell asleep in a tight embrace, listening to each other’s heartbeats and imagining the life ahead of you, neither of you noticed the objects gently floating around the room—silent signs of Caleb’s excitement. The heavy stone of guilt had finally lifted from his chest. He had won you back, and he wasn’t going to let you get hurt again—not by him, not by anyone else. He swore to protect you, and he would keep that promise for as long as he lived.

And if the sound of plant pots shattering, books tumbling, and your things scattering around woke you up from your slumber hours later, his puppy eyes, a kiss to your cheek and a promise of a breakfast in bed was enough to make you melt. You could always clean it up later.

This time, together.

*bonus!*

3 years later

* 15+ unread messages from [ my miss hunter!<3 ]*

✉︎ hii babey, why is caleb being so weird today??? he literally called me earlier, asked me to freaking pray for him and hung up on me that menace.

✉︎ did u like fight or smth? u never fight what did he do this time

✉︎ the last time he acted so weird was when he ate his bday cake day early cause he didn’t realize what it was for, remember that? what do u see in him i cant quite understand we’re like, losers trapped in hot bodies istg

✉︎ wait he just send me a pic

✉︎ OH MY GODDDSSG???? BABY CONGRATULATIONS!!!!! THIS SECRETIVE LITTLE SHInzsn

✉︎ you look so happy in that picture!! im literally bawling, the ring’s so pretty and you both look gorgeous. im so so so happy for you (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)♡ ♡ ♡ i love you guys sm please INVITE ME TO THE WEDDING IN CASE CALEB FORGETS TO TELL HIS SIS SOMETHING THIS IMPORTANT AGAIN

✉︎ im so happy for you, can’t stop looking at ur lil happy faces. U both deserve the world. NEXT UP!! picking a wedding dress!!!!! Im already on it, you’ll look like a PRINCESS!!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ gorgeous little b caleb’s a lucky maaaaan

✉︎ call me when you’re done with kissing!! or u know, other stuff. u guys can be pretty gross.

✉︎ i love you. both. can’t wait for the wedding!!!!!! AHH!!!

thank u for reading!! 🤍 if u managed to that one’s LONG. I hope it was worth ur time 🥺

if u want to support me, u can do it here!!: https://ko-fi.com/kitimeq

every like, comment and reblog would mean the world to me 🤍

[whisperedmeg]

THE LAW OF TRULY LARGE NUMBERS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x analyst!reader

summary: the law of truly large numbers says coincidences are inevitable. but somehow, running into spencer reid never stops feeling like fate.

genre: fluff! | w/c: 3.4k

tags/warnings: none really. reader has some self-image issues and insecurities related to a sucky ex but nothing too crazy. glasses!reid, reader works for the fbi but not the bau, written with fem!reader in mind but could pass for gn!reader too if you ignore one use of the world “girl,” story takes place over the course of a few weeks but I wasn’t wildly specific about it

a/n: based on this request from @oh-yourloveis-sunlight! this ended up getting longer than I intended originally but oh well, I was having way too much fun coming up with ideas for how they’d run into each other next lol. hope you enjoy, tysm for requesting! ❣️

You first meet Spencer Reid at 8:21am on a Tuesday morning.

You’re holding a paper bag of still-warm pastries because your unit chief is on a “morale boost” kick this week and nothing says team bonding like volunteering to bring in baked goods. You’re thinking about the long day ahead and how stale the break room coffee is going to be and not watching where you’re going when the elevator doors open and—

You almost walk straight into him.

He’s tall. Tall-tall. And thin in a slightly unwell academic way, tousled brown hair parted on the side, honey brown eyes wide and blinking at you through browline glasses.

“Sorry,” you both say at once. You take a step back. So does he. Then he does that thing people do where he gestures for you to go ahead, and you hesitate before stepping forward at the same time as him, and now you’re doing an awkward, uncoordinated dance in front of a steel box.

Eventually, you both make it in.

You press the button for floor 5. He presses 6. Someone else gets in and hits the button for 4.

You stand silently. He glances at you. Then down at the floor. Then at your badge, clipped to the waistband of your dress pants. Then at the bag of pastries.

“The cinnamon ones are the best. If those are from Van’s, I mean,” he says tentatively.

You blink. “They are, actually.”

He nods. “They use Saigon cinnamon. It’s from Vietnam. It’s stronger, a little spicier than regular cinnamon. I—sorry, I’ve, uh, read a lot about spices recently.”

You don’t have time to answer before the doors open and he’s stepping out into the hallway, manila file folder tucked under his arm.

It takes you a second to realize he got off on the fourth floor with the other passenger by mistake. You catch him making an embarrassed, awkward turn back toward the elevators once he’s halfway down the hall before the metal doors slide shut.

You think about Saigon cinnamon and those glasses for the rest of the day.

—

Friday morning, 9:12am. You’re running horribly late.

You’ve got a USB stick in your hand and a mission in your head — get it encrypted, get it cleaned up, get it into the system by 10am. You’re halfway through the lobby when someone says your name.

You freeze. Turn. He’s already waving.

It takes you a second to place him without the glasses.

He’s wearing contacts today. His hair’s a little neater. Another soft sweater — burgundy this time — and a leather messenger bag slung across his chest like he just walked out of a grad seminar.

“Hey,” he says, catching up with you near the badge check. “Van’s cinnamon pastries, right?”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re still thinking about those?”

“Hard not to,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m Spencer,” he adds, like you don’t already know that from his badge, same way you assume he knew your name.

You both hesitate. You’re painfully aware of the USB drive in your hand and the growing line of people waiting for the elevators and the clock ticking steadily toward 10am. Your eyes dart to the stairs — they seem to be the fastest option.

He shifts his weight, pushes his hair back behind one ear.

“Can I walk you up?”

You blink. “What?”

“To wherever you’re going. I’m headed to the sixth floor, but I’m not in a rush. We’re between cases right now.”

You laugh. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“Too late,” he says, and he falls into step beside you.

—

It’s raining when you see him again.

Not dramatic rain, just a halfhearted Virginia drizzle that dampens your sleeves while you fumble with your umbrella and mutter curses under your breath. You duck into the small coffee shop across from the office — the one with the black bistro tables and an overfilled bulletin board — and shake the water from your coat as you slide into line.

You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy debating between hot chocolate and your usual latte.

But then someone behind you says your name.

You turn, and there he is.

Spencer.

Hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. Glasses fogged. Sweater vest layered under a coat too thin for this kind of weather. He smiles at you — tentative, like he’s not sure if you’ll smile back.

“Hi,” you say, a little breathless. “You following me?”

He blushes. “No, I’m—I mean, we both work across the street, so it’s not, um, statistically improbable we’d run into each other here.”

“I’ll chalk it up to fate.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and steps up beside you.

“Can I guess your order?” he asks.

You arch a brow. “You’re going to profile my coffee?”

He shrugs. “I can try.”

“Be my guest.”

He tilts his head. “You work long hours. You probably don’t get enough sleep. You must drink something with espresso in it, but not just that — it has to be dressed up enough to feel like a treat. Maybe a seasonal flavor.”

Your jaw drops a little. “Okay, that’s… freakishly accurate.”

“Caramel latte?” he guesses.

“Close. Pumpkin,” you admit. “But that was impressive.”

He shrugs again, cheeks a little pink. “Lots of practice.”

A few minutes later, you’re both perched at one of the tiny round tables by the fogged-up window, drinks in hand, steam curling up between you. You’re technically on your break. So is he. Neither of you seems eager to get back.

You ask what he’s working on. He tells you about his last case, a triple homicide in Texas. Then he asks about your job, and you explain — badly — what exactly a tech analyst does for a department that isn’t the BAU. You’re pretty sure you’re boring him to death, but he’s watching you like you’ve just quoted Wordsworth.

“You talk with your hands a lot,” he says, after a pause.

You blink. “What?”

“When you’re excited,” he adds, quickly. “Not all the time. Just when you’re explaining something that matters to you. You kind of —” he makes a vague fluttering motion with his fingers, “— move them like you’re sculpting the air or something.”

Your face burns. You wrap your hands around your coffee cup.

“Oh. Yeah. That,” you murmur. “My ex used to say it was distracting.”

Spencer’s expression shifts. It’s subtle, but you see it — a flicker of something protective in his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s distracting,” he says. “I think it’s cute.”

You freeze.

He freezes.

The moment folds in on itself. His face goes pink again, and he ducks his head as he mutters something about meaning it in a completely observational way, not, you know—

You interrupt before he can spiral further. “Spencer.”

He looks up.

You smile. “It’s okay.”

There’s a beat of silence between you. Rain patters softly against the glass. In your chest, something flutters.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just a friendly coffee. A weird coincidence of schedules and elevators and cinnamon pastries. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all.

But when he offers to walk you back — and when you say yes — your heart betrays you a little.

—

The FBI library isn’t exactly cozy. It smells like aging carpet and copier toner, but there’s still something about it that you’ve always found comforting. Especially on days like today, when your code has glitched five separate times and someone on your team said “let’s pivot” like that actually means anything and you just need a break away from a screen.

You’re curled up at one of the long wooden tables near the back with a spiral notebook, a pencil, and a pile of casefiles your unit chief asked you to cross-reference to give you an excuse to work on something that didn’t involve a keyboard. It’s not thrilling, but it’s quiet. Which counts for something.

You don’t notice Spencer at first.

He’s sitting at a smaller table a few feet from yours when you glance up — half-hidden behind a teetering stack of psychology journals, long fingers curled around a fountain pen, hair falling into his face.

He looks up a second after you do.

“You again,” he says softly, like it’s a private joke.

You arch an eyebrow. “Starting to think you’re stalking me.”

“You’re the one in my library,” he says, mock offended.

“Your library?”

He nods. “I basically live here.”

You glance at the empty paper cup beside him, the five or six books spread out across the table, the absurdly detailed notes he’s scrawling in messy handwriting.

“Yeah, I can see that. You’ve really made yourself at home.”

Silently, he gathers his belongings and moves to take the empty seat across from you at your table.

You go back to your work. So does he.

But every few minutes, you catch yourself glancing up.

Not on purpose, not exactly. It’s just… he’s got this way of reading like he’s somewhere else entirely. Lips moving a little. Eyes flicking fast across pages. You wonder if he knows how intense he looks when he’s thinking. How pretty his hands are when they move — when he writes, when he fidgets with his pen, when he adjusts his glasses like he’s trying to hide behind them.

You wonder what it would feel like if he looked at you the way he looks at those pages or if he touched you with those hands.

He wouldn’t, of course.

You’ve long accepted that you’re not the kind of girl guys like that go for — not crisp and stylish, not someone who walks into a room and makes the temperature change. You’ve never quite known how to wear your hair right, or what to do with your hands, or how to stop fixating on the way your nose looks in photos. You haven’t even dated since the last guy — the one who told you that you were being “a little much” anytime you got excited about something.

You shake your head. Focus.

You’re halfway through reviewing the next file when you realize Spencer’s watching you.

“Sorry,” he says, when you meet his eyes. “I was just—I was going to ask if that’s a 0.7mm Pentel mechanical pencil.”

You blink. Look down. “Uh… yeah?”

“I thought so,” he says. “You write really small. And neat.”

You stare at him, then down at your paper, then back up.

“Are you profiling my handwriting now?”

He shrugs, looking sheepish. “Only a little.”

You smile despite yourself.

After a pause, he adds, “I like it — your handwriting. It’s meticulous.”

You laugh. “I’ve never heard that word used as a compliment before.”

“Well, I mean it as one.”

There’s something in his voice — not flirtatious, exactly, but sincere. Earnest. He doesn’t even realize it’s making your heart hiccup a little.

You don’t talk much more after that, but when you both stand up at the same time twenty minutes later and realize you’re heading out in the same direction, you fall easily into step beside him.

And this time, you both walk a little slower.

—

It’s just after 1 p.m. when you walk into the Quantico cafeteria.

The lunch rush is tapering off — fewer suits in line, more empty trays abandoned on beige tables. You slide your badge into your pocket and step toward the soup station, only half paying attention. You haven’t eaten much today, and your stomach’s been in knots ever since Spencer spotted you in the stairwell earlier and asked what time you were heading to lunch.

You try to act casual when you spot him.

He’s at a table near the window, brown paper bag open in front of him and a spiral notebook beside it. He’s writing something down, but he looks up the moment you approach as if he’d been eagerly waiting.

“Hey,” he says, and the smile he gives you is small and a little shy. “I was hoping you’d come.”

You sit across from him, tray in hand. “Yeah, well, you did say in the library last week that the soup selection is better on Thursdays.”

His eyes widen slightly. “You remembered that?”

You nod, breaking off a piece of bread. “You said it’s the only day they serve lentil soup, which also happens to be the only soup they make that you claim is any good.”

“I stand by that.”

You laugh, and the warmth of it catches you off guard. It’s easy with him. You like the way he doesn’t fill silences just to fill them and how he listens like every word you say is a thread he wants to follow all the way to its center.

You talk for a while. About work, a little. About books and poetry and music. About your mutual disbelief that anyone could function on decaf. He doesn’t flirt, not exactly, but he compliments you — in that slightly awkward, matter-of-fact, Spencer Reid way that’s somehow more disarming than a rehearsed line.

You’re telling him about your failed attempt to install a new monitor alone while you had a broken arm last year when he goes still for a moment, causing you to trail off into silence. He clears his throat.

“Would you maybe want to, uh, go out with me sometime?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

“What?”

He fidgets. Pushes his glasses up. “I mean, like, to a real lunch or coffee or something. Not in the office. I just—I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you, and I was thinking, if you wanted, we could—”

You shake your head.

It’s not harsh. You don’t mean it to be. It’s just… instinct.

He stops talking. His face falters. “Oh,” he says softly. “Okay. Yeah. No worries.”

You rush to explain. “It’s not you. Really—I mean, I just… don’t get it. Why would you want to go out with me?”

Spencer blinks.

You look down at your tray. “You’re a genius,” you murmur, voice low. “You’ve probably read more books this week alone than I have in the last two years. You talk like a textbook and still somehow make everything sound incredibly poetic. And you—God, you’re so—”

Cute. Attractive. Hot. That’s what you want to say, but you stop yourself before you can finish the statement. You swallow hard.

“And I’m… not,” you finish quietly.

It’s not that you don’t want to say yes. God, you do. But there’s a familiar ache in your chest, a voice you haven’t shaken, the echo of someone who once made you feel like being too much meant you’d also always be not enough.

Across from you, Spencer is silent. For a second, you wonder if he’s angry. Or worse, embarrassed.

But when you finally look up, he’s just watching you — gently, curiously, like he’s figuring something out.

He opens his mouth. Then closes it again. His brow furrows slightly.

You stand. The words come out too quickly: “I should get back to my office. I’ve got a code freeze coming up and I told my boss I’d review the rollout plan before—yeah.”

He nods. “Right. Of course. I’ll, uh, see you around.”

You hate the way his voice sounds now — too polite. Too guarded.

You force a smile as you gather your tray. “Thanks again for the soup rec.”

You make it out of the cafeteria before the lump in your throat rises.

You tell yourself it was the right call. It’s better this way. You’re not built for someone like him. You’d only mess it up.

But when you glance back, just once, through the glass of the cafeteria doors, Spencer’s still sitting there, scribbling in his notebook like maybe if he writes enough, he can make sense of whatever just happened.

You don’t know it yet, but he’s writing a list.

—

It’s raining again the next afternoon.

Not much — just a misty drizzle that turns the parking lot into a soft gray blur. You’re already halfway to your car when you hear footsteps behind you. Then a voice, calling your name.

“Wait—wait, just—can you stop for a second?”

You turn.

Spencer is jogging toward you, messenger bag bouncing against his hip, one hand holding a flimsy-looking umbrella, the other gripping something — a piece of paper, maybe. His coat is half-buttoned. His glasses are a little fogged.

He’s completely out of breath by the time he reaches you.

“Hi,” he pants. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to chase you down, I just—I tried to find you on your floor, and they said you left early, and I—”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “No. I mean—I’ve been thinking. Since yesterday.”

You look away. “Spencer, we don’t have to talk about—”

“I made a list,” he blurts out.

You freeze. “What?”

He thrusts it at you — a folded piece of notebook paper, lined, slightly smudged. You unfold it slowly, holding it under the umbrella he’s angled over you, and he watches you like he’s just handed over something radioactive.

It reads:

Reasons I like you and want to go out with you: A non-exhaustive list by Dr. Spencer Reid

you talk with your hands

you remember weird things I say about soup

you were nice to me in the elevator even though I rambled about cinnamon

you snort when you laugh (you try to hide it but I’ve heard it twice)

you don’t pretend to know things you don’t, and you always ask good questions

you hum under your breath when you’re concentrating

you don’t hold my technophobe tendencies against me even though your job is literally all tech all the time

your whole face lights up when you’re excited about something

we have the same taste in pastries and poetry and classical music

you talk about the people you care about with more kindness and affection than I thought possible

your nose scrunches a little when you’re confused and I think it’s adorable

speaking of which, I think everything about you is adorable. “beautiful” would be a more apt word to use, actually

you said us meeting in the coffee shop that one day was “fate” and I haven’t stopped thinking about it (or believing in it) since

You stare at the list for a long moment. Then you press your lips together, eyes stinging.

“It’s not exhaustive,” Spencer says quietly. “And it’s in no particular order. I wrote it fast. I could probably think of twenty more things. I… I like lists.”

Your fingers tremble slightly on the page.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur. “You’re… you. And I’m…” You trail off.

He tilts his head, studying you. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

You look away.

He steps forward, voice softer now.

“I don’t like you despite who you are — I like you because of it. Because you say what you mean, and you get excited about the little things, and you care more than most people do, and you never look at me like I’m too nerdy or too awkward or too much.”

Your chest tightens.

“I thought I messed everything up yesterday,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“No,” he says. “You were just scared. I get that.”

“I’m still scared,” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he says, and there’s a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Me too. We can be scared together.”

You smile and fold the list carefully like it’s something delicate.

And before you can overthink it, before the doubt creeps in again, you lean forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

But in the same moment, he coincidentally turns his head just slightly. Just enough that your lips land on his mouth instead.

It’s only for a second. A little awkward. Completely accidental, but also completely real.

He blinks. You blink.

You start to pull away.

But then he wraps his free arm around you and kisses you again, on purpose this time, the umbrella overhead shielding you both from the rain. It doesn’t last too long, but it’s soft and smiley and achingly wonderful.

When you break apart, you’re still in disbelief that it even happened at all. You look up at him, studying him, searching his face for signs of regret. You can’t find any.

“I keep thinking about all the times we ran into each other,” you say softly. “So many coincidences, it almost feels improbable.”

He smiles again, brighter this time. “There’s a theory called the law of truly large numbers,” he says. “It basically says that with a large enough sample size, coincidences are inevitable.”

You tilt your head with a quiet chuckle. “So this was all just math, basically? That’s kind of depressing.”

“Or,” he says, stepping closer, “it means the universe just kept trying. Over and over, until it got it right. Like fate.”

You smile fondly and kiss him again before he can say anything else.

Not just a coincidence. Not anymore.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[jeeseth]

# GABRIELA? — megan skiendiel x f!reader

ᝰ.ᐟ you fell for the nerd. now she’s hot—and obviously gabriela wants her. but too bad so sad megan’s already yours. and gabriela? she never even stood a chance.

˖⋆࿐໋ ( hotnerd!megan x f!rᥱᥲdᥱr ) ── .✦ you might wanna tune in < gabriela by katseye > ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

⟡﹒ tᥲgs ﹐ ﹅ ⟢ angst. tiny bit of fluff at the end :D idek the genre atp. non-idol au, college au, nerdy!megan, hotnerd!megan, mention of that stewpid gabriela, jealousy?, kissing, lowkey suggestive if you squint your eyes, lowercase intended, mens dni, grammatical errors .

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! a/n - i’m going insane as i patiently waits for katseye comeback BUT HERE THEY ARE ! so this fic is clearly based on their first comeback and i hope yall like it! i use grammar checker. anyway enjoy :3

megan’s wearing two different socks again.

you notice it halfway through class—her left foot has tiny cats doing yoga, and the right one has pineapples. not even trying to match. and somehow, you think that’s kind of cute.

she’s hunched over her desk, bangs in her eyes, poking at a calculator that looks like it was made in the early 90’s or sum.

"megan," you whisper, nudging her arm. "that’s a scientific calculator. we’re doing stats."

she looks up, blinking rapidly like a baby deer caught mid-crash.

"oh!" then she laughs quietly. "that explains a lot."

you didn’t mean to fall for her. she was just the quiet, weird girl in your class who asked too many questions and carried way too many pens. but then she offered you her last highlighter. and you both got locked out of the lab once and sat on the floor for an hour talking about which disney princess would survive a zombie apocalypse (she said mulan. you said anna. and she obviously judged you).

she wasn’t cool. she wasn’t smooth. but she made you laugh when your life felt flat. and when she finally kissed you under that sad-looking tree behind the science building, you knew. you were gone.

now it’s your third year.

and megan—your megan, is no longer the girl who forgets her id card every other day. she still snorts when she laughs and still can’t really do her eyeliner to save her life. but she’s hot now. confident. witty. everyone looks at her when she walks by. you pretend it doesn’t bother you. you pretend you’re used to it. until she shows up.

gabriela. the new transfer with perfect hair, smooth talker and suddenly, she’s everywhere. in the library where you and megan used to study alone. in your group chats. next to megan in the cafeteria, smiling like she owns the place. you don’t like how she looks at megan. and you hate how megan doesn’t seem to notice it.

"you’re staring again," megan says, bumping your shoulder with hers gently.

you blink, trying to pretend that you’re clearly not staring. "no i’m not."

"yes you are." megan grins, turning her head toward you. "what is it?"

you hesitate, the words catching in your throat before you finally let them out. "gabriela," you say quietly, like just saying her name might shift the mood. "i don’t trust her."

megan looks up from her phone, brows pulling together. you’re not sure what you expect her to say. maybe to agree. maybe to ask why or maybe even nothing at all. but right now, the only thing you do know is that something about gabriela makes your chest tighten and you need megan to know that.

"what? she’s just friendly." megan blink in confusion before she burst out laughing. you don’t laugh with her because why would you?

"she’s not. she wants something. and i think it’s you." megan’s smile fades a little upon hearing you say that, her smile softening into something you can’t quite read.

megan then reaches out and tucks your hair behind your ear. something she always do to calm you down. "then she’s already lost."

-

you try telling yourself that it’s fine. when it’s clearly not. you’re sitting across from megan at the library table. your laptop’s open, but you haven’t typed anything in ten minutes. why? because you’re too busy watching gabriela slide into the seat beside megan like she’s been doing it all semester.

"sorry." gabriela says, out of breath and smiling like she’s in a freaking romcom. "there were no seats left." that’s a lie. you literally passed by four empty tables on the way in.

megan only took a glance at gabriela before focusing back on her laptop. "you can sit." she says, friendly as ever. you clench your jaw but still nod. whatever. be positive, right?

the next day, gabriela shows up with two iced coffees and she places one in front of megan with a huge grin on her face.

"i noticed you always get oat milk." she says, biting her straw.

you don’t get a coffee. plus you weren’t even told they were meeting. like what? megan thanks her then laughs awkwardly, and then she shoots you a look across the table. one that says i swear i didn’t ask for this.

you nod, trying to stay calm and collected. and suddenly freezing in your own relationship.

day by day, it’s starting to get out of hands. gabriela starts tagging megan in memes. makes a private story and only adds you two. starts borrowing her pens, then her jacket, then you swear you saw her wearing one of megan’s hair clips.

and megan? sweet, clueless megan? she’s still trying to see the good in her.

"she’s lonely." she says one night while scrolling through her phone beside you. "i think she just wants to be friends."

"she clearly wants you." you reply almost immediately.

megan snorts before laughing softly. "stop."

the last straw for now, comes a week later.

you walk into the cafe near campus, holding your breath and a half nervous smile, ready to surprise megan after her class. maybe share a slice of cake, maybe just sit with her for a bit. cute right? but there she is.

megan. sitting by the window, sunlight catching the strands of her hair. and gabriela. leaning across the table her fingers brushing megan’s hand and whispering something that makes her laugh—her laugh. the real one. the one that reaches her eyes.

your heart immediately drops into your stomach. but you don’t storm in. instead, you just watch from the cafe door for a second too long. well, long enough to see the way gabriela looks at megan like she’s already won. like this is all a game.

and in that moment, you realise that this isn’t friendly anymore. gabriela? she’s not playing fair. and worse, she’s playing hella dirty.

-

it’s one random night where you just can’t seem to shut your brain off. you toss and turn then toss again. your pillow is too hot, the air is too still, and your thoughts won’t shut the fuck up.

you stare at your ceiling like it owes you an answer, but all you get is silence and that heavy, itchy feeling in your chest like something’s off or wrong, crawling under your skin and settling there like it belongs.

gabriela. you don’t even want to think her name, but it’s stuck in your brain like a bad song. you grab your phone and look at the time on your lockscreen. 2:04 a.m.

you hesitate for a second. then type. you don’t care anymore. you need megan.

you : you up meg?

meimei : always. what’s up??

you : can we meet? i can’t sleep.

meimei : see you in 10.

the wind bites a little as you sit on the chipped concrete ledge, pulling your hoodie tighter. you used to come here with megan all the time during your first year. at this skatepark back before things got weird. before gabriela smiled her way into your life like an infection you didn’t catch fast enough.

just then, megan’s headlights flash across the park before she turn off the engine.

"hey." she says, walking over with her usual stupid grin that makes you feel both better and worse.

"hi." you mumbles softly as megan sits beside you. she doesn’t ask why and doesn’t push. she just sits. you absolutely love that about her. but tonight, you need to say something.

"i don’t like the way she looks at you." you mumble quietly but it was loud enough for megan to hear and turns to look at you slowly. "who?"

"gabriela." you sighs before looking at megan.

megan laughs softly, like you just said something stupid like the sky is purple or something. "she’s just friendly."

"no, megan." you say, sharper than you mean to. "she’s not just friendly. she’s everywhere and it’s not normal."

"what are you talking about?" she frowns, a little confused and a little hurt.

"you really don’t see it?" you hate how desperate your voice sounds. but it’s 2 in the morning and you’re so tired and the words are just pouring out now.

"she flirts with you, she touches you, she buys you coffee, she posts about you like she’s already got you—and you let her. you smile and you thank her and it’s like i’m standing there like some background character."

megan looks at you, stunned like you just accused her of robbing a bank.

"i thought she was just being nice." megan says, voice small and soft and it tugs your heart.

"that’s the problem, megan." you whisper. "you always think everyone’s being nice. even when they’re not."

megan stays quiet for a while, picking at the sleeve of her hoodie. "i didn’t mean to make you feel like that."

"i know." you sigh. megan gently pulls you to her and make you leans your head on her shoulder. feels warm and familiar.

"i only want you," she says softly. "you know that, right?" you nod. you want to believe it. but in the dark, with her pressed against you and gabriela’s smirk haunting your memory, it still doesn’t feel like enough.

you’re quiet on the drive back. megan’s hand brushes yours a few times on the gear shift, and each time she smiles it’s like the world is still okay. like your heart isn’t pounding so hardly against your ribs with the weight of everything unsaid.

she parks in front of your dorm building and shifts into neutral. "i wish i could keep you longer." she says, eyes soft.

you smile, a little forced. "you could. just saying."

megan laughs softly. "tempting, but you have a class in six hours and i still have to finish my lab report."

you reach for the door handle—reluctant, tired, still tangled in thoughts. when suddenly megan’s phone, sitting face up in the cupholder, lights up. a text notification.

gabriela : hi pretty, you up? 🩷

then you feel like the time slows. your hand freezes. you don’t even mean to look. you really don’t. but there it is, glowing like a slap across the face.

megan doesn’t even notice it. she’s reaching to turn the engine off while humming under her breath.

you force a breath. "she has your number?"

"huh?" megan turns to looks at you, feeling confused.

you nod toward her phone. "gabriela. she texted you." megan glances down and momentarily freezes. you wait for her to say something else. explain. laugh. anything. but she doesn’t.

"did you give it to her?" you ask, trying to sound calm. your voice comes out small like you’re already bracing yourself for the answer.

megan runs a hand through her hair. "i-i yeah. she asked if we could work on econ stuff together. i didn’t think it was a big deal."

you nod slowly. "right. not a big deal."

"baby…" megan sighs, hands reaching out to caress your thigh. "please don’t do this. it’s not like that."

but your mind’s already going places. its spiraling. because damn it is a big deal. because now she can text her cute nicknames and send stupid pink hearts and megan might just smile at her phone and don’t even realise why it hurts.

you want to say something—something clear, something fair. but instead, your voice cracks "you know she wants you, right?"

silence. megan’s eyes flick down, feeling guilty now. "i didn’t reply." but the message is still there and it’s taunting you.

you open the passenger door quietly and step out. "goodnight." you mutter simply.

megan reaches out but you’re already stepping out, hoodie pulled tight with hands in your pockets.

you don’t slam the door and you don’t cry. you just walk away, trying not to think about how easy it is for someone else to call your girl pretty at 2 in the morning. and how easy it might be for her to answer.

-

megan’s eyes light up the second you walk into class. you see it. of course you do. that tiny lift of her shoulders, the way her pen stops mid scribble, like her entire body is quietly screaming finally.

but you don’t look at her. you walk past and take your seat two rows behind. no wave, no smile, not even a glance. if she notices, she doesn’t show it. but gabriela does. and that’s the part that really stings.

gabriela turns in her seat just slightly, her lips curving when she catches your cold silence. then of course she leans a little closer to megan. you look away before you have to see her stupid smirk.

megan tries again after class. she lingers outside the lecture hall, waiting to see your familiar face.

"y/n." megan calls once she spotted you. but you just keep walking.

you hear her footsteps behind you, quick and light, trying to catch up to you. but someone says her name. gabriela probably and megan stops. you don’t.

you ignore megan’s texts, leave her on read, respond with "👍" when she asks if you’ve eaten already. because yeah, maybe you’re being dramatic and maybe you’re hurting her. but it hurts to feel replaceable. to feel like someone else can call your girl pretty at 2 in the morning and you’re just supposed to laugh it off?

by lunchtime, megan’s getting way desperate.

you see her walking across the quad, squinting into the sun, scanning the crowd for you. you duck into the side hallway before she spots you. five minutes later, you hear her calling your name again. soft, almost confused. you keep walking.

you think you’ve escaped her for the day, but no. not megan. you’re halfway through washing your hands in the girls’ bathroom. just trying to breathe, honestly—when suddenly the door swings open.

"y/n." you look up and see megan standing in the doorway, clearly out of breath after finding you, her eyes wide and red-rimmed like she’s been holding it in all day. she walks in quietly.

"can you—" her voice cracks. "can you just stop running for one second?"

you don’t say anything. she moves closer, gently placing her hands on your shoulders. "please," she whispers. "talk to me, baby."

"what’s the point?" you shake your head slightly, no you’re not angry. just tired.

"because you won’t even look at me anymore."

"yeah." you snap, sharper than you meant to, but it’s too late to pull it back. "and you barely noticed until now."

megan flinches just slightly, but you see it. the way her shoulders tense. the way her eyes drop for a split second like your words hit exactly where they were meant to.

"you gave her your number, megan." you say, stepping back. "you let her call you pretty. and you think i’m just supposed to sit there and smile while she plays this whole innocent act in front of you?"

her voice trembles. "i didn’t reply."

"you didn’t stop her, either."

-

you don’t say let’s break up. you just say, "maybe we need space." and megan? her eyes red and shoulders trembling, just nods. no begging. no yelling. just silence. and that actually might hurt more.

she leaves the bathroom first. you wait until the door closes before letting yourself cry.

days pass.

you still see her across campus, in the shared classes you now sit far apart in. she looks smaller, almost like she’s folding in on herself.

you almost want to run to her. but you remember the text. the smirk. the way she looked confused when you told her it hurt. so you don’t.

gabriela, of course, notices. and now that you’re ‘on a break’ she turns it up. first, it’s subtle.

"oh sorry, didn’t know you two weren’t sitting together anymore." she says loudly in class, like it’s some kind of news.

then it’s the coffee. again. the same iced oat milk latte now with a little pink sticky note on it.

you looked pretty tired today, thought you could use this ☕❤️ - g

you don’t drink. for some very obvious reasons.

by the end of the week, gabriela starts worming into your friends. laughs with them too easily, shares inside jokes you’ve never heard before and suddenly, you’re not being tagged in the group’s stories anymore.

one day, you walk into the student union and see her sitting in your usual spot—your seat, laughing with people who used to sit beside you. one of them looks up, sees you, and hesitates. but they don’t say anything.

gabriela does. she waves and mouths "you okay?" so you just turn around and walk out.

-

it was one random day where you’re sitting alone on the campus bench near the main hall. you weren’t planning to be here. it’s just where your feet stopped walking.

the breeze is cool, but not enough to calm your thoughts. your phone’s been silent all day and even the birds seem to know you’re not really in the mood. you’ve been holding yourself together for weeks now. but today? it feels heavier and lonelier.

you scroll aimlessly on your phone. click your screen off and then on again. still nothing.

elsewhere, megan is watching gabriela laugh with your friends again. but it doesn’t feel so casual this time.

gabriela leans into one of them, whispering. they all laugh. megan watches one of them glance at her, then quickly look away. something twists in her chest.

later, gabriela catches up with megan after class. "megan!" she calls happily, like they’re best friends- no. like they’re lovers. megan stops walking.

"hey." gabriela says, touching megan’s arm. "are you free right now? i wanted to—" but megan isn’t listening.

her eyes flick past gabriela’s shoulder. and then they light up almost immediately upon seeing you’re sitting on that bench with your head down. and suddenly, nothing else matters.

"megan?" gabriela steps in front of her, trying to get her attention. "i said—" but megan doesn’t even look at her. she pushes past, literally brushing her shoulder and walks straight to you.

your heart stutters when you hear footsteps approaching fast. you look up and there she is. your sweet megan looking all winded and flushed. her hand holding her bag like she ran across campus just to get here.

"y/n." megan says, a bit out of breath.

"meg?" you blink, clearly stunned. she doesn’t wait for another word. she just sits beside you like it’s the only place she wants to be.

"i was so stupid." you open your mouth, but megan cuts you off. "no—listen. i thought she was just being nice. i wanted to believe that. but she wasn’t and now she’s trying to replace you. trying to replace us. and i let her get too close. i’m so sorry, baby."

you stare at her. megan’s breathing hard, eyes shining like she’s about to cry.

"i miss you." she says. land i don’t care if you hate me right now. i just need you to know that gabriela never even had a chance. it’s always been you."

you don’t say anything at first. you just look over her shoulder and see gabriela standing in the distance, watching and clearly stunned. exactly how you once felt. you turn back to megan. and for the first time in weeks, you smile again.

you don’t speak for a moment after she says it. megan’s eyes are locked on yours like she’s afraid if she looks away, you’ll disappear.

"you’re really late." you whisper softly to megan. she swallows hard. "i know."

you cross your arms over your chest while looking at megan. "you ignored me while she was crawling all over you."

megan nods quickly, fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie. "i did. i-i’m literally the worst."

"literally?" you raise an eyebrow. "scientifically." megan blurts out. "i ran the numbers."

she opens her tote bag and pulls out a folded piece of paper. you unfold it slowly. it’s a handwritten bar graph titled, ‘times i’ve been an idiot in the past three weeks.’ you snort at it.

"i was going to make it in excel." she says sheepishly, pushing her glasses up, "but you stopped answering my texts so i kind of panicked."

you cover your mouth, trying not to laugh. "you’re such a loser, mei." you mumble quietly but loud enough for megan to hear it.

then megan leans in, hopeful. "but like, your loser?" you look at her. messy hair. anxious eyes. notebook paper graphs and all. gosh.

"yeah. my loser." you says softly. megan grins so wide her whiskers dimples show.

then she reaches into her bag again. "i also made you this." she pulls out a keychain. it’s a tiny pixel heart. "it’s from that game we played last summer." she says, voice quieter now. "the one where you said if we were video game characters, you’d always pick me."

she hands it to you carefully. like it’s fragile. like it means everything.

"so… do you forgive me?" megan asks, her eyes filled with hope. you don’t answer right away though. instead, you loop the keychain onto your bag before standing up and hold out your hand.

"buy me a hot chocolate and maybe i’ll think about it." you say while looking at megan. she stumbles up so fast she almost drops her phone. "yes. absolutely. i brought my punch card. you get a free one if—"

"megan meiyok skiendiel."

"yeah. right. i’ll shut up now."

you take her hand. you’re walking away together when you glance over your shoulder, just once. and gabriela’s gone. and this time, you’re the one who won.

-

the campus is warm under the golden hour light. you’re walking beside megan, sipping the hot chocolate she bought you. extra whipped cream, because she said you deserved it and listening to her nerd out about something you don’t even fully understand.

"so technically." she says, pushing up her glasses, "the multiverse theory means there’s a version of me out there that never messed up, and we’ve been together the whole time."

you raise an eyebrow. "so you’re blaming parallel universe you for this entire mess?"

"i’m just saying. it’s possible." megan shrugs making you laugh. and she grins hearing that sweet sound of your laughter. and for the first time in what feels like forever—it’s easy and it’s light again. until.

"oh my god." you whisper, abruptly stopping in your tracks. megan follows your gaze and freezes. stupid gabriela turning the corner. with her perfect hair, her fake smile and her eyes locked right on megan.

"nope." you mutter. "same here." megan says. you waste no time and grab megan’s hand and bolt away.

"this is ridiculous." you gasp for air while ducking behind a vending machine with megan. then you spot the janitor’s closet. open and empty. you don’t need to think twice. so you dive in and pull megan with you.

the closet door barely clicks shut before your back hits the wall. you gasp when you feel megan’s already on you. her glasses fogged, her jaw tight and her eyes burning.

"you’ve been running." megan says lowly, bracing a hand beside your head.

your breath catches in your throat. "megan—"

"shut up." she whispers, tugging you in by the collar. "you owe me." her thigh slips between yours, and your knees almost give out.

"thought so." she grins. the dangerous type of grin. you try to answer, but her mouth silences yours, rough and desperate and starved. her hands swiftly slide up your thighs, taking her time. taking everything.

"you’re not walking out of here the same." she mutters, biting down on your lower lip. and damn she’s right.

when the door finally creaks open, the hallway’s quiet. you step out first with you cheeks flushed, skirt crumpled beyond saving. megan follows behind, hair a wreck, glasses crooked, lips pink and smug.

someone passes by and does a double take to make sure they’re not hallucinating or something.

megan gently wraps her arms around your small waist and keep walking with that stupid smug grin on her face.

[acmeangel]

I’ve had this in my drafts for about 5 months because I’ve been too afraid of stirring the pot if my takes are hot, but I also really just enjoy character analysis so… this is my opinion!

Levi would not be a rough, mean dom in bed, and he wouldn’t have a high sex drive.

(CW: sex, prostitution, trafficking, all the Levi childhood things)

To start, if we look at his childhood, his mother was a prostitute in the Underground. And he was the direct product of this. While it was never specified exactly how Kuchel died — just that she was sick — I'd wager that it was almost definitely from an untreated STD; and even if not, it was precisely her dire circumstances that would've prevented her from receiving adequate treatment for any other illness. This lifestyle killed his mother, and we can see how deeply her death impacted Levi through even the smallest behaviors in his adult life; in the way he treats life as valuable, how he looks out for the young teenagers who end up on his squad, even in the way he holds his teacups. Kuchel loved him, and she was a kind person, but it didn’t matter—the world was too cruel of a place.

In Bad Boy, we see young Levi being threatened with the prospect of being sold into the same life as his mother — one of the men says, "We should make him do the same job as his mother. He might have inherited her talents." That's not something he'd easily forget, and, unfortunately, would likely be an experience that shaped his perception of self-worth, what sex is, and how the world works. This is not to say anyone is defined or shaped by their traumas, but our childhoods are very often where many of all our behaviors lead back to.

I'd imagine that if this is the life he grew up with, it would make his viewpoint on sex that it's something harmful, cruel, and unforgiving; it's a transactional means to an end, something taken with brutality, not an act of care, love, and intimacy.

There likely wasn’t anything in his life in the Underground to shown him otherwise, and he was there for all of his key, formative years. Even aside from his own personal experiences, we know that prostitution and trafficking ran rampant in the Underground—Mikasa and her mother were intended to be sold into it.

His abandonment by Kenny (who he almost definitely thought was his father at the time), only would've compounded his negative views regarding self-worth and the dysfunction/unreliability of relationships that are supposed to be caring, comforting, and nurturing. It took him decades to find out who Kenny really was or why he was abandoned—that's plenty of time for these emotional scars to cement themselves deep within him, even if subconsciously.

He'd then go on to lose basically anyone he'd ever dared to care about from that point forward—from Furlan and Isabel to the original Levi Squad to almost the entire Scout Regiment to Erwin to Hange to Sasha and Eren. Because of all of that emotional turmoil and the loss of all of his relationships that had mattered to him (despite his best efforts to keep them), I don't think emotional or physical intimacy would come easily to him or be something that he'd go out of his way to find, because why risk it? Why take the chances of getting attached to someone if your life is full of loss?

For that reason, I don't think he'd seek out sex just for the pure physical release. I think that for sex to even interest him at all, there'd have to first be a level of emotional connection and trust. With the right person, I'd reckon that over time, he'd develop a desire/need for it—it feels good physically, he'd see that it does foster intimacy, it would likely soothe some of his emotional wounds, and he'd want to please his partner. It’s also not to say he’d be overly gentle or timid or meek; but there’s a difference between passion and being rough with someone to the point of harm.

I just don’t envision him being particularly rough or dominating about it. He's not a violent or aggressive person at heart—only by necessity and circumstance. Honestly, I think, to some degree, he likely struggles internally with the super-human physical strength and fighting skills he's inherited. In my mind, it's not a far stretch to think that Levi has viewed himself as more of a tool/weapon/killer than a person, and I don't see him wanting to bring that into sex (or a relationship at all for that matter).

Levi didn’t choose to be an Ackerman/fighter — it was a perfect storm of his bloodline, Kenny’s influence, and the survival instinct necessary to live in the Underground that turned him into one. But that doesn’t mean that it’s his true nature. (Yes, he can at times reach a breaking point and lash out because he’s human, and almost no one constantly acts in line with their true nature and morality when put into dangerous, pressurized situations.)

I feel that Levi would want to avoid being violent or aggressive in an intimate setting, toward someone he deeply cares for, at all costs. Underneath his stoic exterior, crudeness, and the hardened mask he's often had to wear, he's shown to be a deeply caring, protective, and empathetic person.

Not to mention, I could genuinely see him being wary of his own sheer strength and not wanting to hurt his partner in any way or potentially scare them off, which would lead to yet another loss/abandonment.

Again, none of this is to say that a person’s trauma has to define them or shape their actions, feelings, and behaviors; but Levi is a deeply empathetic person, and I don’t see him easily shaking off seeing his mother’s tragic life, being abandoned, the loss he’s experienced, and the violence he has committed. Sure, it’s possible that after he gets into a relationship, or feels truly comfortable enough with someone, he’d be more open to different types of sex and not be as wary, but he’s just not a violent person in my eyes.

But mostly… I think, after a life of fighting and violence and aggression, he’d be eager to leave that behind when he can.

He’s not a violent dog, he doesn’t know why he bites.

This is not to discount anyone’s versions of Levi that they write/enjoy in fics/smut, I don’t really care what other people do and this isn’t about that. I’d never tell anyone what to do in regards to that. At the end of the day, we are really all just having fun here and living out our little fantasies as our our collective favorite character (I mean, I mostly write fluff pieces, so it's really not all that serious…). This just happens to be my take on Levi, it doesn’t have to be anyone else’s by any means, and I think character analysis is interesting! Pls don’t come for me, I won’t come for you!

[nopaintjustpain]

Okay so addressing this rb— good point, @dysfunctionalcreature!!! Your comment made me realize I may have based this whole meta on an assumption I made, or a widely accepted fanon, as is often the trap people fall into with their favorite longform media. So I went back in the transcripts to check the source material for evidence to back up my little thesis!!

Please enjoy the following textual analysis, courtesy of a bored English Major who doesn’t get to use their literary analysis skills much irl:

Ep 121:

If you would turn your attention to figure 1!!

Fig. 1.1: This line implies, to me, that Georgie visits often enough to have a sense of who does or doesn’t generally visit Jon in the hospital

Fig. 1.2: This implies that Georgie checks in with Jon’s nurses regularly enough that they would’ve notified her of a new visitor on the way in if they had seen Oliver

Fig. 1.3: Here’s Georgie displaying a significant show of protectiveness over Jon while he’s helpless. Arguably, this could also be chalked up to her (justifiable) hostility to anyone End-affiliated, and her desire to get Oliver Out of her General Vicinity. But it’s worth noting that if her *only* motivation is to be Away from Oliver, she could’ve just given him a minute alone with Jon like he asked. Instead she goes on the defensive. She practically chases Oliver out of the room, rather than flee and leave Jon alone with a potential threat. For all she knows in this moment, she could very well be putting herself in serious danger by getting between Oliver and Jon. She knows the minute she lays eyes on Oliver that he’s Bad News, but she doesn’t hesitate. Just because Georgie doesn’t feel fear doesn’t mean she can’t recognize risk. She knows EXACTLY what she’s risking in this moment, and she does it anyway. That, to me, feels like a significant show of loyalty and care. You see this defensiveness continue on here in Fig. 2:

Fig. 2.1: Okay so after that tense interaction, we get THIS cute little line where Georgie talks to Jon in his coma, knowing he may or may not be able to hear him. It’s generally encouraged to talk to coma patients. And if I remember correctly, her like delivery is casual. Conversational. Implying that she’s comfortable talking to his functionally-dead body. She’s Been Here. She intends to continue Being Here. In addition, the sentiment she’s expressing in this line is also one of care and protection! She cares about who he’s spending time with. She wants him to be surrounded by people who are good for him, not pulling him deeper into danger.

Fig. 2.2: In a continuation of my earlier point in 1.3, here we see Georgie run AFTER Oliver after she’s finally got him to leave. If we extrapolate our earlier assumption that she knows very well what a risk this is, we again see reinforcement of her loyalty to Jon. Here, she’s afraid Oliver may have done something to Jon while she wasn’t there, or left something sinister behind. At the very least, she clocks that Oliver recorded something or left something behind, and she’s not gonna let that slide. Again, she goes against her own discomfort for Jon’s sake.

And last but not least, here’s the lines in Ep 122 that essentially define Jon and Georgie’s falling-out:

Not much to say on this tbh. The lines speak for themselves. Georgie is honestly, genuinely disappointed to see him wake up no worse for wear. And WOW does that hurt. But he’s awake now. He’s cognitively whole. He’s making his own decisions. He’s not helpless anymore, which means he’s no longer her responsibility. And now that he’s no longer her responsibility, she finally gets to make a Choice about whether she’s going to continue trying to be a caregiver for him in light of this information. She runs a risk assessment on the spot and realizes… no, she’s not willing to make those sacrifices for someone who A) isn’t physically or financially dependent on her and B) poses a danger to her via his very existence.

I remember her delivery of that “Goodbye” having a certain ring of finality to it, and Jon calling out after her sounded pretty heartbroken and desperate to stop her from walking out. Because he knew that once she was gone, that was it for them. But ultimately he lets her go.

So, in summary: No, it’s never explicitly stated in the text that Georgie stuck by his bedside for six months. But I got that impression from details in the source material which, to me, feel like a strong implication.

So yay! Glad to know I wasn’t just pulling this meta out of my ass lol. I was just kinda trusting my recollections when I wrote the original post, but it’s vindicating to look back on the text and find evidence to back it up.

Hey.

Do you ever think part of the reason Georgie stayed by Jon’s bedside through all 6 months of his coma but then abruptly walked out of his life when he woke up is because she was fully expecting to be a caregiver for him during a long, grueling post-coma recovery process?

Do you think part of the reason she was so spooked by him waking up (relatively) unscathed is because she had mentally, physically, and emotionally prepared herself to take him in? That her best case scenario — what she had planned and hoped for — was that he’d wake up with severe cognitive and/or physical deficits, as one would expect from someone who survived an explosion and six months in a coma? That he’d have to re-learn how to walk or talk or eat or hold a spoon on his own? That he would *need* someone, and even if it wasn’t what she wanted for herself or him, she had decided she would step up and be that person for him?

It can be so jarring when you build up a vision of your near future around one assumption, only for that assumption to be completely shattered by reality. Do you think she constructed a future for him in her head, and when he woke up “fine”, she was so startled by the breaking of her expectations that it felt almost like a betrayal? And the sheer uncanny impossibility of him waking up “fine” made her think that her friend was dead after all?

Do you think that after Martin stopped coming around and Georgie found herself alone at Jon’s bedside, she realized she was all he had left in the world? The only one who held onto hope that he would survive in some form? The only one who thought he could wake up, severely disabled by his experiences but free at last? The only one who thought he deserved the chance at a mundane life after all of this, even if that life would look radically different? Do you think she grappled with the reality that if she didn’t step up for him, no one would? Do you think she spent long hours coping with the fact that she was going to have to take on new responsibilities and make new sacrifices for him, but she was willing to do it for an old friend who deserved better than the hand he was dealt? Do you think she mourned her old vision of her future, before she reconstructed that vision around caring for him?

Do you think she started talking to Jon’s doctors about what she could expect if she brought him home after he woke up? What kinds of disabilities he would live with, and what the prognosis was? About his quality of life afterwards? His road to recovery? Do you think she made up her spare bedroom with a severely disabled person in mind, and then started looking into hiring a part time caregiver to come help her make sure Jon got the help (she assumed) he’d need? Do you think she did all kinds of research into brain injuries and their aftermath? Physical therapy for people with severe atrophy? NG tubes for re-feeding severely starved people? Occupational therapists?

Do you think part of the reason she was so upset when he woke up (relatively) unscathed, lucid and talking and breathing on his own, maybe a little physically weak but still much like his old self, is because she had realistic expectations of what his life would look like after his injuries? And seeing him suddenly defy all odds by waking up into a full cognitive and physical recovery — a completely unrealistic hope that she never even considered as part of the realm of possibility — only reinforced the idea that the old Jon was dead, and this new Jon wasn’t safe for her to be around?

Do you think it hurt when she realized she couldn’t bring him home?

I think about that.

[alllgator-blood]

Have I ever shown a zoomed-out version of my canvases that reveals that all of my comics are just one really really long canvas I cut up in post?? Don't try zooming in, it'll just be incoherent pixels lmao- I didn't intend for this to be readable, and I had to merge two screenshots to show both GARGANTUAN canvases....I used to print zines for a couple years so I habitually draw all comics to be in a printable size Just In Case.

The "kallamar + narinder" comic ended up morphing into a shamura + narinder redemption arc thing where narinder doesn't act like a cartoon villain for once. TECHNICALLY it's not even done being sketched yet, but I maxed out the pixel side of TWO canvases so far so I'm gonna take a lil breather before doing the last 5-10 panels. I am going to hate my life when it comes time to actually lining/coloring this.....

Here's some panels from the second half, which takes place waaaaaaay after the childhood scene in the first:

I didn't really know where the plot was gonna go when I started drawing, I just knew what the general theme was. SORRY KALLAMAR FANS FOR WRITING HIM OUT IMMEDIATELY, he does appear briefly in this one but only for one panel-

[wangxianficfinder]

Fic Finder

June 25th

~*~

1. I’m looking for a fic - it’s post canon and two chapters. In the first chapter - the juniors talk about how Wei wuxian is attractive especially after he got soaked saving them. The second chapter has a maid sneaking into his room and the whole troop barges in to save him. @misscrazytastemaker

FOUND? 🔒 A Lure and Catches not Intended by mondengel (T, 3k, WangXian, WIP, Humor)

~*~

2. Hello—

Looking for a modern fic where lwj chases off any male that shows interest wwx & all their friends assume they are together. But then it comes out that they are not together, or wwx is a virgin?

FOUND? envy by quillifer (E, 5k, WangXian, Bottom LWJ, Top WWX, A/B/O, Omega LWJ, Alpha WWX, Modern, College/University, Misunderstandings, Jealousy)

~*~

3. Alrighty, I got another request and I can't seem to find it. Wei Ying offers Lan Zhan a heart as a courting gift and Lan Zhan, horrified by the heart and not knowing it was a courting gift, drops it. Not knowing that it signifies rejection at the harshest level. Wei Ying is devastated and ignores Lan Zhan and Lan Zhan has no idea what he has done. It ends with a happy ending. @marietsy40-blog

~*~

4. Hi! I’m looking for a specific fic that I’m kind of shocked I can’t find by myself. It’s a vampire au where lwj is a vampire prince that picks wwx as a companion. The setup is that the vampires go around to different villages and see everyone of a certain age, and the day lwj comes is wwx’s birthday so it seemed like it’d be unlikely he’d be picked. But then he is! I thought the word they used was “blood singer” but couldn’t find it just on ao3 :/ also checked “vampire au” but to no avail.

FOUND? red likes roses, red like blood by bubble_t (lokwacious) (Not Rated, 8k, WangXian, Rape/Non-Con, Dark LWJ, Vampire, Royalty, Mild Blood, Forced Marriage, Forced Relationship, Morally Questionable LWJ, Shameless Smut, Everyday is everyday)

~*~

5. Hello!

I'm searching for a fic where yllz!Wei Wuxian teaches kids how to read& write by writing on mud while their mothers are washing their clothes in the river. I think it leads to wwx being a real teacher to them? I read it last year but can't find it again.

Thank you for your help! @kaptainkoalaoshiz

FOUND? Just as the Snow Melts by draechaeli (T, 66k, WangXian, Everybody Lives, Canon Divergence, Mojo’s bookmark)

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6. hi. Can you help me find a fic where Wei ying is old omega wolf from different clan. It’s like hunger game style but they all finding mates. And alpha lan zhan from different clan found wei ying on top of the mountain. Not sure if they’re both wolves or not.

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7. Can you help me find a fic where

• Each pack/clan sends one alpha and one omega into a forest,

• Omegas go first and run,

• Alphas follow a day later to find their mates,

• All shapeshifters are the same animal species (not necessarily wolves), I don’t remember

• It’s a pack-based hunting ritual or competition for soulmates/mates,

• Modern setting, WangXian characters.

Thank you so much

~*~

8. Hi again, little by little I remember past fics. Tnx for always finding them :)

So this fic is about little wwx who grew up alone and not with any sect. I remember him mastering demonic cultivation and then solving the nie saber issue while nie mingjue's father was alive thus creating a good relationship with them. Nobody knows him tho except ppl whom he helped before. And lwj heard of him but nie huasang never told him that he knew him personally or that they were friends. I'm not sure but it might be time travel considering the events of the fic @raven-hale

FOUND? Practical Mythology by metisket (T, 17k, WangXian, Time Travel, YLLZ WWX, myths and legends, apparently the burial mounds has to fix everything itself, zombie farm collective, accidental deities, Families of Choice)

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9. Hii I'm looking for a fic where it's A/B/O and alpha Lan Zhan and Omega Wei Ying are gonna share Wei Ying Heat and Lan Qiren has Lan Zhan locked in the hospital and it almost kills Wei Ying due to it looking like Lan Zhan didn't want to be with him and Lan Qiren saw Wei Ying coming to the hospital due to it

It's a one shot and is canon dynamic

FOUND?🔒mistaken measures by cherishthespark (M, 4k, WangXian, A/B/O Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, (though the comfort is a bit limited in this fic), Themes of Coercement, Separation Anxiety, Non-consensual Hospitalization, Modern AU, Alpha LWJ, Omega WWX)

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10. Hi! I'm looking for a fic in AO3. It was an Among Us AU but I can't seem to find it in the tag. It was where both Wangxian were the alpha imposters/alien monsters but normally there is only one alpha that can be on a ship at a time. They skirt around each other not sure if they have one of their kind there but the signs are there. In the end, LWJ wifes up WWX and they eat everyone in the ship. It had a horroresque vibe to it. I've been looking so hard for it but I can't seem to find it. Thanks a bunch if you do! @theninziparadox

FOUND? Two Alphas, One Ship by fenaly (E, 6k, WangXian, Rape/Non-Con, A/B/O, Bitching, Rape/Non-con Elements, Non-consensual sex, Non-Consensual Bitching, Aliens, Non-Human Genitalia, Blood and Gore, Murder Husbands, Feminizing genitalia terms, Among Us AU, Sci-Fi, Explicit Smut, Tentacles, Shapeshifting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Monsterfucking, Violence, Alpha/Alpha becomes Alpha/Omega, Breeding Kink) might not be this one but it's somewhat similar

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11. Hii mods!! It's my first time submitting for someone else, so i will just put here what they writed word by word:

"Hi, I need help finding a fic I read a few months ago. It’s an MDZS fic where JZX and JYL don’t die, but WWX still dies and then is resurrected via MXY. WWX, JC, JZX and LWJ go to follow the ghost hand tgt and JC knows about the Phoenix Mountain kiss, cuz LWJ got drunk and told him about it, so he forces LWJ to tell WWX the truth. That’s all I can remember pls pls help me find it I’ve been looking for weeks 😭😭(I just want JZX and WWX to be brothers in law 😭😭 they’re hilarious in every fic where they’re frienemies)"

Hope someone can find it. As always thank u in advance!! @for13years-i-play-inquiry-foryou

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12. Hi, me again. i wanted to find the fic where Jiang cheng is owns bakery shop and mia mian wrks for him but wen chao wanted revenge thus kidnapping Jc. lan xichen is a judge, lan wanji a lawyer and wei ying a detective that has put wen behind the bar.here they torture jc for 7 days something like that.. pls help me @jiangcheng1709

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13. Hello, my lovely! This is my very first ask, it's a long shot: Is it possible to find such a fic, in which Wei Ying is pregnant with Lan Zhan's baby. And they (the whole clan) are under attack (by another clan, not sure exactly who). Wei Ying wants to carry on fighting with Lan Zhan side by side, but Lan Zhan desperately doesn't want him to, because he's carrying their baby. I don't know how it ends. I'm really sorry for such a vague description, please help pretty! Thank you so much! @kalevala568b

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14. Okay so I found this fic sometime between 2020-2022 (incomplete at the time) and it was an arranged marriage between Wangxian but Wei Wuxian had to wear the silver mask the whole time for an unknown reason (although it’s heavily hinted Lan Wangji is cursed by something). Lan Wangji is very cold to him during their marriage and then takes Wen Qing as a concubine (although not because he likes her but because he needs her medical skills without anyone asking questions). Wei Wuxian doesn’t know that though and runs off meeting A-Yuan’s parents and living with them for a while. It’s implied that when Lan Wangji finds him he think Wei Wuxian fathered A-Yuan with the mother (he didn’t) which Wen Chao mocks him about during the Indoctrination. They kiss in the Xuanwu Cave and LWJ calls WWX ‘airen’. But then his chest starts hurting and he calls out for Wen Qing - WWX misunderstands.

WWX sends a baby A-Yuan and Jingyi to Cloud Recesses before the Sunshot Campaign to keep them safe and has them adopted under the Lan Family name.

Later on WQ mentions something about a “vine” to do with LWJ’s curse. After WWX does demonic cultivation, the Qishan Wens are taken in by Cloud Recesses as long as WWX agrees to have the resentful energy purified. WWX knows that this will kill him since the resentful energy is keeping his Burial Mounds’ wounds from reopening but goes through with it because he wants the Wens to be safe and he thinks Cloud Recesses want him dead anyway. His mask falls off mid-cleansing and he collapses coughing blood.

When he wakes up, the Jiang family including Madame Yu are pissed at Cloud Recesses for nearly killing him and have begun divorce proceedings. WWX doesn’t want to get divorced by LWJ does. But because A-Yuan and Jingyi are on the Lan family register WWX is furious he can’t take them with him.

The fic hadn’t updated after that the last time I read it. I read it before 2023 so it would have been started before then. It was implied LWJ did love WAX but because of some curses (that weren’t fully disclosed at that point) he couldn’t commit to their relationship.

FOUND! The deleted "A Price to Pay" by wangxianist. Not avaiable on the Wayback Machine but in this Google Drive folder

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15. Looking for a fic I read pre-2023. Complete.

Lan Wangji hears that the Lan elders are trying to arrange a marriage for him but then he suddenly turns into a fox. Everyone thinks he’s cursed because (I think his mother) tells everyone it can only be broken when finds his true love.

So the Lan Clan calls in various people but no one seems to be able to break it. The WWX shows up and immediately starts teasing Fox!ji. He works out immediately that LWJ isn’t cursed, he’s a fox shifter and is refusing to turn back to avoid having to get married. LWJ later finds out that WWX is also a fox shifter after chasing an unknown black fox away.

LXC sees the two foxes and then panics because what if LWJ’s true love is a fox. So he starts trying to shove human Wei Wuxian at LWJ because he’s the only person he’s seen Fox!Ji tolerate.

LWJ does eventually turn back into a human for WWX and I’m pretty sure they banged afterwards. LXC was thrilled when he saw LWJ back to being a human.

FOUND!🔒 A Mother’s Curse (A Mother’s Blessing) by Eudoxia (E, 33k, wangxian, A/B/O, Omega WWX, Alpha LWJ, Huli Jing LWJ, Huli Jing WWX, Everyone Lives, Curses, Case Fic, Animal Transformation, Arranged Marriage, Misunderstandings, No Sunshot Campaign, No Yīn Iron, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, LXC is a good brother!, He tries so hard!!, Mentions of Ace LXC, Mentions of Ace WN, Knotting, Rimming, Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Size Kink, 69 (Sex Position), Mpreg, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, wangxian Have a Breeding Kink, Intersex Male Omegas, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Squirting, wangxian Have a Non-Con/Rape Kink, but no actual CNC/rape play occurs in this fic. It’s only discussed. there is also discussions of monster fucking but no actual monster fucking)

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16. i'm looking for a fic about wei ying getting cursed by the lan olders by being a perfect lan while lan zhan is away. The cursed is broken when jiang cheng uses lan sizhui as bait. Anyone know what is fic is called?

FOUND? Perfect to Me by theearlymorningmist (T, 12k, WangXian, LSZ & WWX, LXC & LWJ, JL & WWX, JC & WWX, Protective LWJ, Good Uncle LQR, Yunmeng Siblings Feels, JC & WWX Reconciliation, Location: Cloud Recesses, Gusu Lan Elders Bashing, Curses, WWX is Loved, protect wei ying squad, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Good Nephew JL, Protective JL)

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17. hello! i am looking for a fic where wen qing (after circumstances i cant remember) travels back in time, and eventually realizes she's travelled back MUCH further in time than she thought. she's there to see the great clans form (i think wen mao or lan an or both mightve been in the fic?) and eventually she decides to retreat from society and live on a mountain. the end of the fic is the realization that she is baoshan sanren, as she catches up to her present and sees cangse come and go. thank you! @summerwoodsmoke

FOUND? The Immortal Wen Qing by Nillegible (G, 1k, Time Travel, Canon Compliant)

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18. Hi! I’m looking for a fic I read where after WWX and LWJ move back to Cloud Recesses, Lan Qiren leaves some students with WWX to supervise temporarily while he finds a teacher for them. When Lan Qiren takes too long, WWX ends up teaching them by taking them to practice wind (I think) talismans by having a snowball fight. When Lan Qiren realises that WWX has been teaching the students the whole time he freaks out but when he sees WWX help the youngest kid he decides to offer WWX a permanent job as a teacher.

FOUND? 🔒❤️ Joy In the Midst of These Things Series by Glitterbombshell (T/G, 53k, WangXian, Angst with Happy Ending, Post-Canon, Teacher WWX, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff) (various podfics available)

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19. You’re doing incredible work! Hope you can help me :D

I read a fic back in like 2021 and for the life of me I can’t seem to find it again. Its wasn’t complete at the time so I’d love to know if it is now!

It’s post canon and Wangxian are living at Cloud Recesses happily. Then someone breaks into WWX’s workshop - where the Lan Clan gave him permission to work on some of his stuff - but nothing seems to have been taken. WWX is quite touched that even Lan Qiren seems pretty upset on his behalf. There’s a few more weird incidents including WWX finding a paper left for him that’s dosed with some kind of drug (he catches it though and doesn’t get affected).

Later on, he’s talking to LXC (I think) and gets a brief glimpse of a financial report and finds out that all of his inventions are so good that he essentially brought in a fortune to the Lan Clan that could even rival the Jin Clan by this point.

WWX realises that someone might be targeting him rather than his work so he decides to disguise himself as a Lan disciple and investigate. His disguise is so good that when he leaves the jingshi, Lan Sizhui briefly points a sword at him because he doesn’t recognise him for a moment. WWX then goes to one of LWJ’s meetings/classes (can’t remember exactly what) and after everyone leaves, the two get very flirty with one another. Someone walks in and then quickly leaves but it’s implied that they don’t recognise WWX either.

Because then a rumour seems to go around that LWJ is secretly seeing another disciple. WWX did bump into someone while disguised who was acting very weird but didn’t confirm whether or not that was who was after him.

I’d love to find this fic again!

FOUND? How Odd by bedheadrat (M, 35k, WIP, WangXian, Case Fic, Fluff and Smut, BAMF WWX, Protective LWJ, Possessive LWJ, Rich LWJ, Genius WWX, Separation Anxiety, Demonic Cultivation, Evil Plans, Touch-Starved, lwj’s white robes kink, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Seduction, Misunderstandings, Not Cheating, Threats, Vandalism, Stealing, Canon Compliant, Post-Canon) I’m pretty sure the no.19 on this week’s fic finder is ‘How Odd’ by bedheadrat. It’s incomplete but it has some of the details the anon mentioned.

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20. for fic finder

it was a series w/ immortal wangxian in modern era

started out with lwj going to uni (to be a vet if i remember right) and becoming the campus heartthrob

main pov is an OC whos friends with an OC Yu character

JC runs a car company @whatifijustnifeyou

FOUND! ridiculous future bullshit by sami (M, 190k, WangXian, WQ/JC/LXC, WWX & LSZ, LSZ/Other, JYL/OMC, Future Fic, in theory it follows on from an au specifically, The Same Moon Shines Series, the rewriting of history, if the past was different the future is different, But still ridiculous, Humour, the evolution of fashion, immortals through history, LWJ visits other cultures and judges them, Modern AU, a centuries-long game of telephone, best boy LSZ, Pride Parades, Cats, the legend of WQ, Academia, Border Crossings, biosecurity, Paperwork, Family, Parents and Children, Uncles and nephews, the mortifying ordeal of your family seeing how you really live, Social Media, Chaos Gremlin WWX, University, outsider pov, Movie Stars, Fluff, Weddings, Adventures) original poster is looking for this series. The first story with LWJ going to University is part 25 "Lan Zhan's University Days (JAFFY)". Jiang Cheng and the car company is scattered throughout the series.

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[nellie-elizabeth]

This was the first full episode of the show I watched, and I'm really excited to get back to it as I watch through chronologically! What I was so impressed by in the whole episode was the details of their intimacy, the cleverness and subtlety of the writing. Like, not to over-explain what's happening in this moment, but I kinda want to break this down.

Starsky says "You got any plans after this is over?" and the premise of the banter, as it were, is that he's making "small talk," saying the same kind of thing he might say casually at work, akin to "what are you up to this weekend."

And Hutch, he matches his energy but he tosses the ball directly back to Starsky to hit the punchline. He doesn't answer the question with a jokey fake small talk answer. Instead he says "it's up to you."

Which works on like, so many different levels for me? For one, it's Hutch just being sweet, telling Starsky that his plans are with Starsky, whatever they are. He could have deflected, but he affirms that he wants to spend his free time with Starsky. For another, he's implicitly referencing the fact that being here in this restaurant where things have gone so catastrophically wrong, was Starsky's idea, and affirming that he'd still defer to him to make plans. And then on the more serious level underneath the premise of the joke, Hutch is serious: what happens after this is wholly dependent on if Starsky is okay or not. If he makes it through this, if they both make it through this. Hutch's plans, both immediate and long-term, are completely up to Starsky in a very real sense.

And then Starsky hits us with the Butch & Sundance reference, which, you know, famously queer coded, along with being a response to Hutch's statement: Starsky, too, plans on doing whatever comes next with Hutch. The plans they make, they make together. And Hutch gives the sweetest little laugh, such open affection on his face! Starsky makes jokes because it's his only way of taking care of his partner when he's in this vulnerable state, and Hutch is being so terribly gentle with Starsky while still participating in their back-and-forth. If the banter stops, that's the sign that things are actually dire.

The bit at the end of this episode when Starsky makes a joke about Hutch getting his teeth capped, and then retracts the joke just before Hutch goes out to confront the armed baddies alone, is a good continuation of the rhythm they have going on in this ep. They keep things light and superficial in order to keep each other calm, but by the end of this episode shit is dire enough that Starsky can't keep the banter going.

When I first watched this episode, I didn't know these characters yet. I was (and am) still so new to the show. But even on that first viewing I remember being impressed by the economy of storytelling and relationship building that was happening in little moments like this. The whole show is built out of scenes between the two leads that work this way, multi-layered and performed with an impressive amount of subtlety and power. Obviously it's the domain of fandom to overthink the media we consume, to pick at little moments and dissect them beyond any possible intended meaning. But this show... man, it holds up under that scrutiny, in so many ways big and small.

[julietcpulet]

what do you think would be the most satisfying ending for jinmao?

i'm so conflicted about them because while i do not want jinshi to ascend the throne, i have to admit a part of me thinks renouncing his true position would be a waste. i mean, he's a damn pretty good leader and sometimes i enjoy imagining him and maomao being a power couple together. but then i'm always like damn they both canonically wouldn't like that </3 (so, thank the lord for fanfics, right?)

anyway, an unhappy jinmao is hardly a satisfying ending. but then i also wouldn't want them to be commoners because, again, it'd be a waste. as for the "faking their death" ending, it sounds really romantic but i feel like it's too cowardly and ooc for them. they'd never back down from a challenge after all.

so yeah i don't know how natsu-hyuga will conclude their romance. maybe the ending will just be them finally getting together? like the ending of the kaguya-sama movie where the last shot focused on the two main leads' interlocking hands, and then boom, the end credits. that would be an open ending (and i think that's what natsu was intending from the start), but is that satisfying? i'm not sure. just wanted to know your thoughts!

Love this question! And so sweet of you to be interested in my input 💕. Here's a breakdown of my thoughts on each possible ending and my personal speculation on an ending I like. Of course I have no idea what Hyuuga is really planning but just going on general direction and how things could play out if these were the proposed endings. (Spoilers below)

Emperor and Empress ending - I agree that this isn't the ideal nor the likely ending. To me, although there are factions pushing for Jinshi to be Emperor, it all feels like a mis-direct to the final outcome. Both Jinshi and Maomao are opposed to him becoming Emperor and he knows she would be miserable as a woman at the head of the nation, holding scorn from the other women.

Jinshi felt it was something close to a miracle that he had met a woman like Maomao. That was why he didn’t want to let her go. He’d gone so far as to press a brand into his own side, all to keep her.

He has struggled a lot to make it clear Maomao is the only woman he wants, he doesn't want to be the Emperor and also just is not the right person for the job. I don't believe these plot points are in vain only to be reversed later by a realization of avoidance and Jinshi wanting to accept his position out of familial obligation or maturity, nor do I think the plot is moving the characters in that direction. If anything it's continually showing that Maomao and Jinshi have to be willing to assert their own wishes against that of others despite what may be expected of them. And while Jinshi does have excellent leadership qualities, as Maomao easily points out, his kindness often brings him to overwork himself and struggle with dealing out harsh punishments or having necessary and uncomfortable entanglements an Emperor would have to have.

Jinshi was watching the pitiful family closely. He didn't seem to be thinking of how to punish them, but rather how to connect this to whatever came next. As he watched the family, Maomao silently watched him.

Romeo and Juliet ending - This was a favorite of mine previously and I still think there's the smallest possibility for it to happen but it's unlikely. I liked it simply because it brings back the resurrection drug which was a recurring theme for so long with Maomao wanting to obtain it and also the potential for a callback to the beginning of the novels with Shisui somehow making an appearance since she is the only character to disappear successfully and not be found. The downfall of considering this ending is two-fold. One is that Maomao and Jinshi do have some connections with people they may miss if they faked their deaths and disappeared. Her father Luomen might be able to come but Basen, Mrs. Chue, Lihaku and anyone else would never be able to see them again. Secondly, Maomao herself has said she sees death as a cop-out for escaping the fallout to problems you have caused.

"I hate it when people think everything's over just because they're dead!" It was as good as refusing to face the consequences of whatever you had done.

This to me is the biggest indicator this likely won't be the ending. It's interesting to consider and could bring back some fun appearances from early novel plots but I agree that given Maomao and Jinshi's character they're not much for disappearing and leaving others to handle the mess.

Grand Commandant and Court Physician ending - This is personally the most satisfying end for Jinmao I can imagine right now. Basically if Jinshi renounces his title as Moon Prince and Maomao accepts her role in the La Clan then they go on to get married with Jinshi being brought into the family, he could take on her clan name. From there, Lakan could step down as Grand Commandant and have Jinshi take the role. This would be optimal for both as Lakan appears to enjoy the strategy involved in military affairs but often delegates the rest of his work to his aids. He has found Jinshi interesting and should like to have a son-in-law who will take his position so he can retire to play Go games which is what I imagine.

To his surprise the eccentric strategist was there, lying on a couch and drinking from a gourd. To all appearances he was quite at his ease, but a secretary placed some paperwork sheet by sheet on a table and gave Lakan a stamp to press on them.

Being Grand Commandant would also give Jinshi the ability to back up the Emperor's son with Gyokuyou while not being his enemy. Jinshi has had a clear interest in the military from having the training, to when he stormed the Shi clan stronghold himself and then has wanted to boost the ranks of the military but been denied given that his current position is mostly in name and he has to go through others to do the things he wishes in the government. It also removes Lakan as such the fearsome threat against the Emperor and puts his son in the position whom he trusts.

When the younger brother had at last appeared, though, it turned out that he was as beautiful and as gossamer as a celestial nymph-and that he was also a hale young man as skilled in the military arts as the administrative.

As for Maomao, her accepting her place in the La Clan is integral to both her and Jinshi potentially being free from the grip of Imperial politics. Ironically this whole time Jinshi has been taking the burden on himself to find ways of removing the obstacles for both of them by getting himself taken out of the line of succession. It would prove to me to be funny if it turns out that Maomao accepting a noble position is the key to both of them finding actual freedom.

From my perspective if she becomes the La Princess not just in others recognizing she is outwardly but taking on the Clan name and what comes with it, I think it could open other possibilities for her and Jinshi. Like I said above she and he could get married if he was no longer royalty and he could take on her clan name, as we've seen that men can be welcomed into a wife's family and become the head of that family.

The position itself would bring her a noble status, which she could then use to work in the circles Jinshi would be in as Grand Commandant. For instance, if he is no longer considered a threat to the Emperor, he could also put forward more initiatives like he used to in the rear palace like helping the women read but along the lines of potentially having female physicians. I think the Emperor would accept without a problem, he merely needed someone who was respected with in the Imperial Court and who could make a reasoned argument for it to present the idea.

If Maomao then becomes a Court Physician in her own right she can still see Empress Gyokuyou and treat her as a doctor without having to be her lady-in-waiting or her servant and not being able to have a connection to Jinshi. She could be friends with the Empress again because she has her own established position which finally removes her biggest fear that has driven so much of Jinshi's efforts to remove himself as a potential successor.

Finally, I find this possible ending to be the most satisfying because what Maomao and Jinshi want most is to help people. And a place they can be where they have the best ability to help people is where they would thrive the best.

"You're only human, Master Jinshi. You're not some mythical immortal who can save everyone." She held his face in her hands, the fingers of her left hand brushing his scar. "You can be wounded, scarred, brought low. Only human."

Being Emperor and Empress would only stifle them because as we see with the current sovereigns there is a lot they cannot do and their hands are tied by relations with foreign nations and keeping friendly terms in the palace itself. Being commoners wouldn't work either because as we have seen with Maomao, having to constantly work and scrape for very little causes a defeatism of feeling like you're not able to do much for others or improve life for yourself.

Sadly but truthfully, Luomen won't be around forever and to me Maomao will find happiness taking over for him as Court Physician and working with the Quack in the Medical Office where she's comfortable and able to help the ladies and others, plus she'll always have access to the best medicines and can visit her Verdigris House family at any time. This ending also brings back the feeling of the early novels where Jinshi can peek in on her in the medical office after he's finished his paperwork as Commandant but this time they're able to go get chicken skewers together and have the freedom as husband and wife.

He wished he could have gotten her tucked into bed sooner, with a nice, soft blanket around her. She hadn’t been able to resist her first sleep in days, and she looked as comfortable as if she were in a pleasant bath.

Here they're both able to work, doing something they enjoy but freed from troublesome entanglements, all the while finding new ways to improve the lives of others. That's a happy ending to me.

Lastly, I don't see it having them be together and fade-to-black, I think we'll know some of what their future holds. To me the idea of being open-ended is more, the possibility for further adventures to be had. So we can see them get married, have jobs and be happy but that doesn't mean there couldn't be more, there just wouldn't be at the time we leave them because they've achieved a certain peace for the moment.

That was longer than I intended it to be 😂 but fun to write and explore the different endings. Thanks so much for the question!

[radiohao]

why are men so annoying? + nct wish

sypnosis: arguing w nct wish (hyung line)

pairings: nct wish hyung line x gn!reader

genre: kinda angst, comfort, fluff, some crack, non!idol nct wish, uni!au

warnings: fighting (not physical), lowercase intended, not proofread, first time writing angst, pinching riku, reader is petty but for good reason

wc: 2.9k (my longest fic yet!!)

—

oh sion

your boyfriend is someone that is very lighthearted and fun-loving. he makes your rainy days sunny again and is the life of the party. you never thought there'd be a day where you'd find his lack of seriousness a bother to you. but like anything in life, too much of a good thing can easily become a bad thing. as time went by in your relationship, you, like anyone else, starting thinking more about the future — getting married, having kids, and buying a house together are things you wanted with sion. but the two of you tended to live more in the moment instead of constantly wondering what the future holds. it was only when you were nearing the end of your university schooling that you started to question sion regarding future endeavors, especially like getting married or buying a house together. you wanted to settle down, spend your forever with him.

but it seemed that whenever you brought it up, your boyfriend would change the topic or make it seem less serious than you thought it to be. the first few times you brushed it off, but the more he pushed it aside, the more it irritated you, to the point where you starting doubting sion's love for you, thinking he didn't want you for the long-run.

it all blew up one day when you went out with your parents for their anniversary dinner. it was just a family thing, so sion didn't tag along. "honey, when are you and sion getting married?" your mother had asked. you didn't respond, couldn't respond. all you managed to blurt out was, "i'm not sure yet, mom. we're still kinda young, you know?" she nodded understandingly and chuckled. "i suppose you're right. but you're going to graduate from university soon, and you can't live in the dorms forever. no pressure, sweetie. just something to think about."

her words had you thinking about marriage with sion up until the following day when you decided to relax at his dorm. both you and sion sat on the couch, cuddling as you watch your favorite tv show.

"sion?"

"hm? yes, baby?" he turned to look at you.

"when are we gonna get married?" you ask him. "we've been dating for a while now." sion's breath hitches at your question, and he scoffs before planting a kiss to your forehead. "let's not think about that right now baby, it's not what's important at the moment." your brows furrow in frustration, and you take a breath before speaking back.

"it is important. babe, you can't just brush it off every single time i ask you about getting married or moving in together — we're not getting any younger."

"i'm not brushing it off, it's just not what we should be prioritizing-"

"so when will you?"

"soon, baby. just not right now." you're slowly getting even more irritated.

"when is soon? it doesn't really seem like you want to get married to me..." you mumble towards the end.

"i never said that- why are you accusing me?"

"i'm not accusing you?? you're just not giving me a direct answer! sion, i'm going to get my degree soon. i need to know what plans you have for us-"

"i don't have any, i just- don't think about that stuff when it comes to you." he blurts out. you look at him silently, eyes wide. you sigh, not finding the energy to say anything back. "i'm gonna go home," you utter. "it's late." you sit up from the couch and grab your bag, walking towards the door. "baby, no— i didn't mean it like that," he says, grabbing your wrist. you muster a small smile, saying, "it's okay, let's just talk about this tomorrow." you take sion's hand off yours and walk out the door, leaving him standing there.

tomorrow never came. you stopped bringing it up after that one night, deciding not to stir up another argument again. sion noticed, of course. he thought you would mention marriage at a certain time, but two weeks went by and no words were spoken regarding your future. you began to drown in assignments and exams, and sion went back to mokpo to visit his parents. you two barely spoke, words like 'how are you?' and 'did you eat yet?' being thrown around. silence filled the space in your dorm, your texts, and your relationship.

you assumed he forgot, that he was actually glad that it was never mentioned again. but you were proved wrong when you arrived home one evening after a long study session at the library. you open your dorm to find it neatly organized, blankets folded and condiments put away into the pantry. you look around in confusion, until you see oh sion sitting on your couch, flowers in hand.

"what are you doing here?" you ask him, cautiously taking a step forward. he stands up and hands you the flowers, your fingers brushing against his. you realize then how much you missed this; how much you missed him. his touch, his affection. maybe you should've talked about this sooner. but sion beats you to it.

"we should've talked about this sooner. i'm sorry i didn't bring it up, i thought you didn't want to talk about it- okay, that's not the point. i wanted to give you a proper apology. i'm sorry i never took those conversations seriously and for always brushing it off. i lied when i said i don't think about that kind of stuff. in fact, i think about it too much. to be honest, i'm just-" he exhales shakily, "i'm scared. i'm scared that you'll realize you won't want forever with me, scared that the universe's idea of forever doesn't have us in it. but i realized that you want it as much as i do. so yes, i do want to get married, maybe in about a year, get our own place, have a family of our own, and grow old together. i want it all with you, so please, let me make it up to you."

you say nothing but grab his shoulders and pull him in for a warm embrace. both you and sion bask in each other's touch for a while, the world stopping for you two, the stars glistening in joy.

maeda riku

riku is a very patient and understanding person, you know all too well. but sometimes you wish he wasn't as patient as he is, especially now that his childhood friend nako moved to the same university you and riku attend. like any sweet person would do, riku welcomed her with open arms and let her adjust at her own pace. he introduced nako to you, of course, as well as sion, yushi, jaehee, ryo, and sakuya. over time, she became a part of your little group with the other guys.

you really had no problem with her being close with your boyfriend. no matter how much your friends said he was pushing boundaries, you trusted riku with everything in you. he always made time for you despite having to help nako get used to living in a new place. it started to get a little suspicious, like her getting way too close to riku, but alas, you decided to brush it off, thinking she was just shy to talk to others.

she was in fact, not shy to talk to others. you saw her conversing with some other girls in the halls, overhearing her saying something about how he's so hot and that she just needed to get rid of his girlfriend. you obviously knew she was referring to you and riku. you at least tried to warn riku, saying she's the devil's spawn, but he laughed it off, thinking you just had a little misunderstanding. but no matter how irritated you were, you sucked it up and just pushed those feelings down. but it all blew up one day for you when riku brought her to one of your dates.

the two of you had planned to watch the new wicked movie together. you were looking forward to it especially because you had a long week and needed some boyfriend time with your one and only. little did you know another person would be tagging along, because when you're waiting in front of the theater, you see riku walking towards you with nako by his side. "hi baby! sorry, little rain check — nako had to tag along because her place is full of termites. she had to call pest control to have them exterminated." he says happily, nako just stupidly nodding along.

as much as you tried to keep your composure, you couldn't help but scoff. you lean into riku's ear and whisper harshly, "you did not have to bring her. you could've had ryo or something hang out with her." he looks at you a little surprised, like he didn't expect you to not like the idea of another girl tagging along on your date. he whispers back, "i know, i tried, but she said she was more comfortable with me." your face bitters and you turn to nako, who is still standing there like she can't comprehend where she is. you cross your arms and sigh, "nako, i love you so much girl, but respectfully — this was supposed to be our date. meaning, just me and riku. nothing against you, but maybe we can call ryo or sakuya so they can accompany you. is that fine?"

she purses her lips in concentration and looks back at you, "u-um, i don't want someone e-else to join. i'm only okay with riku-chan." it takes everything in you not to smack the crap out of her face. you're not one to fight, but you're also not one to let people disrespect your boundaries. "nako, this is a date. just for riku and i," you repeat slowly. she grumbles softly and speaks up again, "i can j-just stay on the side! don't worry." you cannot believe the audacity this girl has, so you take your car keys and turn back to riku, whispering into his ear once more.

"if she won't leave, i will."

riku doesn't even have time to react before you're taking your car keys out and walking to the parking lot. he tries to go after you, but nako grabs his arm and asks him to stay. you later send a voice message to riku later that day, full of words like "you have no boundaries!' to "why don't you just date nako then for christ's sake?" riku heads to your dorm immediately, pounding on the door aggressively. you open the door and find him standing there, sweat dripping down the tips of his hair. "what do you want, maeda?" you say coldly. your boyfriend winces at your tone, and he asks, "can i please come in?" you give him a disgusted look, scoffing, "fine."

he sits on your dining table, panting. you assume he ran here. a small part of you feels bad for him because he seems so tired, but the bigger part tells you to just leave him be. as he catches his breath, you take it upon yourself to start the conversation.

"look, honey. i know nako is a nice girl and all but-"

"i'm sorry. you were right — she's literally the devil's spawn. she tried to get me to stay, saying we could go on a date instead. god, i don't know how i didn't see it sooner. i just left her there, told her not to talk to me again. and i blocked her on everything. i'm so sorry, baby."

you walk over and pinch riku's cheek, and he winces at the pain. "i told you!!" you scold. he laughs despite the sting and nods. you snicker, enjoying the fact that he just lets you do this to him. you cup his face and kiss riku, lips capturing each other's effortlessly.

even after you two reconciled, riku did his best to make it up to you anyway, buying you gifts and taking you out to more dates than you've ever been to before. whenever nako passes by, he gives her a look nastier than spoiled milk to the point where you have to tell him to stop so she doesn't try to beat his ass.

and whenever you think about her from time to time, he never fails to reassure you and let you know he's the only one for you as you are for him. maybe having an incredibly patient boyfriend is good after all.

tokuno yushi

your relationship with yushi is peaceful because he isn't one to start arguments and you're not one to provoke him. but you noticed that he doesn't really give details regarding his day or events that are coming up. you feel that sometimes he talks to you like you're an acquaintance and not a lover. you try to bring it up to him as you're both making dinner in your dorm.

"yushi, baby."

"yes, my love?"

"i noticed that you don't really like- tell me everything."

"huh? but i do, baby."

"i know, but like, you just say 'i had class today' or 'i went to the store.' you don't say all the details- hell, i don't even know your schedule."

he purses his lips a little before continuing. "i don't think you need to know all of the details."

you turn around to roll your eyes before sighing, "yeah, i guess."

maybe yushi thought that'd be the end of that conversation, but he was incredibly wrong. you hate arguing with yushi because it never gets you anywhere, so you do the second best thing and give him a taste of his own medicine. every single time he asks you, "how was your day, baby?" all you say is "good," "okay," "alright." is it petty? definitely. but it's better than screaming and yelling at your boyfriend, isn't it?

you were slowly getting impatient. it's been about a week, and it seemed like yushi was a little too nonchalant to notice how petty you were trying to be. but little did you know, he did notice. how could he not? you used to tell him every single thing, from what time you woke up to what brand socks you decided to put on for the day. but now your responses are one or two words. he wondered what he did wrong, until he thought back to your little argument and realized that you were just doing it to get back at him. he had a plan in his mind and decided to go for it.

one day, you and yushi are hanging out at a nearby cafe after class. silence isn't uncommon for you two, but this particular silence is too unbearable, so you suck it up and ask your boyfriend how his day was.

"well, it was good." of course, you think.

"i had science first, and all we did was write some notes while our professor talked about our upcoming test. then i had my language class, which was much better because we did a little group activity as a way to memorize the terms we learned. lunch was okay, sion and riku had to stay back at their class so they weren't there. i had to basically babysit ryo and saku. my last class was math, which was so boring, i almost fell asleep. no, i did actually. riku had to wake me up. how about you, baby?"

you're staring at yushi like he grew a second head because he just spoke more words than he does when talking to his friends. you point at him, absolutely puzzled. "what, who- who are you? what did you do with my boyfriend?" you say accusingly. yushi can't contain it anymore and laughs at your reaction. he takes your hand from across the table and rubs his thumb on your knuckles.

"it's me, y/n. you thought i didn't notice how you started replying like me?" he says. all you can do is stare at him, not expecting him to bring it up. "i'm sorry for what i said last week. maybe you don't need to hear all the details, but you want to, and that's what i love about you. the genuine interest you have for others. i realized that those small things matter to you, and that it's what keeps our relationship interesting. i'll work on it, for you. only if you promise to just tell me next time. i know you don't wanna fight, but it's better than leaving things unsaid."

you smile softly and chuckle. "god, i hate how well you know me," you say sarcastically. "i'm sorry too, i should've just told you instead of making things difficult." he shakes his head, "it's okay, we'll both learn."

your relationship with yushi is peaceful because he isn't one to start arguments and you're not one to provoke him. but it's also peaceful because he understands you like no other and doesn't invalidate your feelings, rather, he makes you feel seen, heard. you learn that he talks about his day vaguely because he pays attention to other things, like the way you hold his hand in the cold of the night, the way your nose scrunches when your allergies are getting worse again, and the way you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

—

author's note: hiii! requested by @pppopppyyy :)) i hope it's okay :'> have a good day/night everyone i love uuuuu!!

[cherrieshalo]

Something More

k.bakugo x gn!reader | slight angst, friends to lovers? | 1.4k words

You couldn’t sleep. 

That you ever really could, but tonight was a degree worse that it usually was. 

You sat in the common room of the dorms, knees pulled up to your chest as you scrolled through your phone. The time read 3:56 am and despite the looming dread of the upcoming day and intense training, you just couldn’t get yourself to sleep. 

Very little light filled the room, the small amount of moonlight seeping through the windows just enough for you to see the outline of a figure approaching you. 

“Why the hell are you awake?” 

You looked up to see him. 

The first words he greeted you with after ghosting you for almost a month, accompanied by the signature snarl he always wore. 

“Couldn’t sleep, Bakugo. Rather not lay in bed like an idiot if I can’t fall asleep,” you replied simply, attention shifting back down to your phone. 

“Don’t fucking call me that. It’s Katsuki to you,” he scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. “And scrolling your phone isn’t any better.” 

“You’re up too, you know.” 

“Yeah, because I was hungry. Wasn’t going to get a small snack and then back off to bed. Or is that too much for your simple mind to comprehend?” Katsuki’s voice was still gruff, despite the quietness of the night. 

“God forbid, geez…” 

“Whatever. Get your ass back to bed. Mina made me come hunt you down because she heard you leave but not come back.”

You let out the biggest eye roll of your life. The fucking audacity of this man. “Really? Hunting for me? After ghosting me for three weeks?” 

“I did not ghost you-” 

“Yes, you did!” You were a lot louder than you intended, muscles tensing up as you glared at him.

It wasn’t either of your faults that you ended up making out at the last party. It was a dare, and you can tell that he was definitely a little too into it. You felt like your soul was sucked from you after, his hand that rested on the back of your neck tightly gripping onto your hair and the nails of his other hand digging into your waist. He wasn’t a bad kisser, but you were most certainly not expecting the outcome. 

You also hadn’t expected him to get up and leave the party immediately after the dare. He ignored you for  weeks up until now; never read your texts, ignored you in the halls, and took specific routes to not be near you. It was horrific. Were you really that bad of a kiss? 

You felt your stomach churn. God, maybe he hated you… “Are you mad at me?” 

“I’m not mad,” Katsuki spoke with a shake of his head, avoiding your gaze as his tone was soft. “What we did was stupid, that’s all. Shouldn’t have taken the fucking dare. It was a mistake, never should have happened.” 

“Was my kissing really….that bad…?” Your voice came out in a hushed whisper as your shoulders sank. You knew it would be pathetic to try to defend yourself in a situation like this, but he was the one to overreact. Not you.

“The kiss was fine! I was just stupid and drunk,” he spat angrily. “I wouldn’t have done something so stupid while sober.” 

“Have a good night, Katsuki,” you said in a dull voice as you stood up from the couch. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” 

“Back to my room. Your presence exhausted me enough.” 

“Sit your ass back down. We’re not done talkin’ yet,” his hand reached out and grabbed onto your wrist, not enough for it to hurt but enough to keep you in place. 

“Talk?? After three fucking weeks?” You pulled your hand away with a scoff. 

“I know, I know. But…That night was stupid. I should have never taken that dare and it was a horrid mistake to kiss you like that,” Katsuki’s fist clenched as you pulled away. He wanted to pull you back in, he really did, but was too afraid to hurt you. 

“Was it really? I've kissed Denki and Hanta countless times but neither of them made a fuss out of it. We laughed about it, joked, and moved on. So do you think you’re special enough to be a drama queen about it?” You turned to him with a glare, nails digging into your palm as you resisted the urge to slap him across the face. 

Friends don’t kiss. 

But friends also don’t ghost the other after the kiss. 

“Don’t you fucking dare compare me to those damn extras, you hear me? This is different,” Katsuki snapped, voice laced with anger and jealousy.

“The point is that neither of them ghosted me after!” 

“Doesn’t matter,” he spat. His brows furrowed, muscles bulging as he tried to keep his voice down. “You shouldn’t be messing around with those idiots, you hear me? They don’t deserve you.”

It was comical, really. You tried not to laugh but a small snort escaped your throat. “And you think you do?” 

“Damn right I do,” Katsuki shot back almost immediately without hesitation. “I'm better than those useless extras, and you know it. You should be with me, not them." 

You stared at him in shock, mouth agape and eyes wide. 

This was practically a confession…right? 

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. Kissing you without hesitation, even though it was a dare and he was drunk…ghosting you after…it didn’t make sense. 

“Oh come on, don’t look at me like that. I know I'm probably the last person you want to be with romantically, alright? But damn it, don't you realize how I feel about you, dumbass?” Katsuki looked nervous. Too nervous. A look you never saw on him. It seeped through the cracks of his confident demeanour, sheltered by the late night intimacy present in the room. 

You couldn’t lie and say you didn’t think about Katsuki in a romantic light from time to time. He was strong, goodlooking, well-mannered, and refused to take bullshit from anyone. He had many admirable qualities, and it wasn’t like he’d be a terrible romantic partner. 

You just never thought about actually dating him. 

“Ah…cool…” 

Katsuki pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath to prevent himself from lashing out. "I'm trying to pour my damn heart out here and you just give me a 'cool'? Come on, give me something here."

“Sorry…” you shook your head. “I just…wasn’t expecting that. Of all things.” 

“Why not? Don’t think you’re worthy of being loved?” 

“I never said that!” You shot back with a small scoff. “I just…didn’t think it would be you of all people.” 

“Problem?” He shifted his weight to one leg, brow cocked up. “Or do you just not see me in that way?” 

You nervously picked at your nails. God, you really didn’t want to be mean. He wasn’t awful, but then again…how did he like you?  

“I just feel like we’re in different leagues, you know? You laughed awkwardly, hoping that you could move on and just go back to your room. 

“So you don’t like me-” 

“I didn't mean it like that!” 

Katsuki rolled his eyes as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Chill, I’m not angry. Disappointed? Fuck, maybe a little. But that’s it.” 

“I’m sorry…I just didn't think you’d want me to view you like that. You’d make a great boyfriend for someone else, though…” you whispered. 

“Nah. I can wait,” he shrugged. “Let you think about it for a bit. Let it simmer.”

“Kats…” 

“Nope, you’re gonna think about it, yeah? I don’t want you to only have feelings for me just to appease me. Think about it for a bit. Good night, (name),” he gave you a small wave before disappearing out of the common area. 

Fuck. 

You trudged back to your dorm, flopping back onto your bed as you stared at the ceiling. At Least he was nice enough to tell you to put yourself first…

Maybe something could happen. There was potential, after all. Stolen glances, the way he always helped you up during practice battles, and the friendship teetering on the edge of being something more. 

Maybe you did think about him romantically after all…

© property of cherrieshalo 2025 - please do not steal or copy my work to post elsewhere

[rna-world]

"Like— isn’t one of the main themes of the dlc that there’s multiple “ripples?”" Multiple strands*, and its clear still that you don't experience all the strands, and their existence is branching and you still have a timeline of events that have ACTUALLY happened to you The ripples are just the effects that these events have on each other

"not to mention Unfortunate Evolution, where Five Pebbles is just SITTING IN A ROTTEN VERSION OF THE VOID SEA" What?? You literally just made that up. It is not the void sea, you don't swim in it, it has 0g. Also its not even a 1-to-1 of Five Pebbles' structure, as it adds 2 and a half entire new rooms

"The big reason why we can’t say what is and isn’t canon to Watcher is that Watcher fucked it all up within 2 minutes of playing the game" I don't see where it did this. The DLC was probably not for you.

"I don’t think what was supposed to be taken away from the DLC was “pick whatever you want to be canon” because there’s different endings to both Watcher and Downpour. They’re possibilities." The two endings in Watcher are unrelated to each other and are from two entirely different branching paths. You can do both, or you can do neither. The same way that you can visit the echoes, or visit FP in canon. The game is just giving you choices, but certain events are still expected to happen and this is an extremely meta analysis

"We’re not SUPPOSED to try and fit it together like puzzle pieces." What??

"Is it so hard to believe that there doesn’t HAVE to be a definitive timeline? We’re talking about Rain World. Rain World isn’t really something we can fit into one timeline anymore." Yes it is. Vanilla, Downpour, and EVEN WATCHER still only have a single timeline. Even if in Watcher you travel up and down that timeline. Its just that Downpour and Vanilla's timelines are completely separate things, and DP exists as a FANMADE MOD that CONTRADICTS vanilla DIRECTLY

"Hunter Long Legs doesn’t happen in every timeline" Hunter long legs was intended to be an exaggeration that Gourmand made up after seeing Hunter's corpse as a silly little easter egg rather than anything extremely important Hunter leaving behind a Karma Flower would be far more important here, because that appears in both survivor and monk later on EVEN IN VANILLA But even then, Moon is still alive in those 2 campaigns, regardless if you've delivered the green neuron in hunter or not, because there is a continuous intended timeline

"Artificer doesn’t ascend in every timeline, yet we know that there is one where they get to see their children again." Her ascending or not doesn't change anything majorly, and we don't know for sure

"Rivulet doesn’t get the Rarefaction Cell to Moon in every timeline, yet it’s a huge part of the story that delivers a huge message." Moon appears in Saint's campaign with the Rarefaction Cell. There is an intended timeline.

"Rain World has different possibilities, and to me, it’s not just “jumping back and forth in time.”" Then please, tell me, where in Watcher are there actually multiple timelines instead of just the player playing a game in a different order or completing certain events. Are there two different AR futures? One where AR is upright, and another where its destroyed? No. There's only one future, where AR is destroyed.

"The idea that it can’t be anymore than one thing or that we have to have a canon at all feels closed-minded." You can't just claim things about the canon without any actual evidence, because if the text and events in the game go AGAINST your point, maybe you're just wrong

ALSO DOWNPOUR WAS CREATED BY AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT TEAM AS A FAN-MADE MOD WITH NO INVOLVEMENT FROM VIDEOCULT, MADE FROM OUTDATED LORE AND CHARACTERIZATION IDEAS

Watcher has been foreshadowed by the devs since 2017, and James is currently actively leading the team right now. This is clearly the intended continuation of the lore that the devs wanted but had to cut out

You can believe Downpour to be your interpreted version of canon, but you have to accept that it's simply not. You can still LIKE downpour. I'm not saying you can't. And it's not close-minded of me to be able to read that as the case

Even by the devs, DP is stated to only be an AU. not an IN-UNIVERSE AU, but an out-of-universe fanmade one

learned how to make stamps today. I don't have anything to put them on though

[seeminglyunconcious]

My Muse (your smile, our time)

Pangi falls away from the world as Youtube and Streaming work don't come together. Statistics fall in sync with his expectation and emotions. Luckily, with a quick call from his sister, someone comes to do an impromptu wellness check!

tw: depressive symptoms Also, if you want listen to "My Muse - Owl City" on the part where it describes a cascade of tears. The song ambushed me whilst I was writing the end... still haven't recovered.

Read below or online!

It hurt Pangi for Lukey to see him like this; broken, weak, disgusting… incompetent.

—

He’d been in a rut for a while now, imposter syndrome, but then it got worse and worse as the videos he put out didn’t hit expectations or completely fell through. The symptoms started off with late meals and missing the walks; usually opting for his sister to take Binky for a walk instead of him. Before long it all started adding up: he sent Tertel a termination letter, constant headaches, and the once vibrant calendar fell empty to endless hours stuck in bed.

His sister called their mom over out of worry, but he played it off well as a quick fever from overworking. With empty promises to eat properly and getting more rest she left to Pangi’s relief, which then turned into daily acts of pretend with his sister as he swallowed food, but regurgitated it in shaking fits after. He felt empty. A fraud.

Multiple times he left messages from friends on read and calls unanswered, feigning sleep and illness to pacify their overt worries. The lies kept adding up as the days went on and eventually tangled up to a point with a surprise visit from probably the only person he least wanted to see him like this. Lukey.

—

Pangi’s room had pretty much been shut off from the rest of the world. The doors always remained closed, windows slightly open, and the curtains drawn only enough to let a sliver of light through. Up until the door was opened and the familiar scent of apples invaded his senses.

“Hey…” It was a careful greeting, quiet and to the point, yet Pangi could tell it held the heavy weight of concern. “I’m not gonna lie, I almost didn’t believe your sister when she said you’d locked yourself up here. But- well nevermind, it’s nice seeing you again Pangi.”

Lukey stood by his door, slightly hovering between entering and leaving. He wore an all-white sweater and sported a fond smile. It would be a lie if he admitted that the scene didn’t give him butterflies.

Pangi closed his eyes nonetheless, exhaustion washing over him followed by guilt which killed any other rising emotion.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was hoarse and rapped from disuse.

There wasn’t a response, only the silent padding of footsteps and the sinking feeling of the bed’s edge before a slightly-cold palm lightly touched his forehead.

“Well, good to know you aren’t sick with fever.” His tone was shaky.

Leave me alone…

“At least everyone can chill out, ya know they were all worried right? I had to hold them all back with the promise I’d visit and take care of you.” Lukey narrated his trip slowly, a hand finding its way to Pangi’s shoulder- his thumb gently petting him: from the people worrying about his health, Tertel’s concern, a call from his sister, and then booking an overnight flight over— it almost seemed like some shitty movie plot.

Why do you care? Why do they care?

Pangi covered his head with the abundant blankets around him. He wanted Lukey to leave and forget everything he saw. He wanted to apologize for being a burden on everyone. He wanted so desperately to be the Pangi they all knew and loved, but he couldn't. He just wanted– wanted…

To die?

“I’m fine, you should go. Don’t you have a movie you’re working on or something?” The words came out faster than he’d thought, sharper than he’d intended.

Please don’t…

Lukey sighed and chuckled lightly, “It’s not your call to make, mister. You’re stuck with me, this is what you get for ignoring me for 17 times in a row.” 

That’s not true–! I wouldn’t ignore… I would. You did.

Although Pangi couldn’t see what was going on from under the covers, the shift in weight and temp suggested that the other boy had chosen to stay true to his word and laid down beside him. No sooner, he felt an arm lay over his waist and reached around until Lukey found his hand that wasn’t hidden under the blanket cocoon and held it.

“I’ve got you.” It was a muffled whisper just for him to hear.

Pangi grasped the hand and pulled it closer to his chest as tears silently spilled down his cheeks.

Thank you…

They spent the rest of the day like that undisturbed.

—

To Pangi’s surprise, Lukey was serious about sticking to him. It’s been three days since he’d arrived from out of the blue and for most of it, he was the one next to him: silently taking care of him and chatting about the nonsensical things he’d missed.

To which was usually met with silence. The nagging voices in his head had slowly quieted down a lot since then though.

The older gentleman never pushed him to do anything, only ever offering suggestions and riling him up in some sort of rage baiting fashion to get him to eat small amounts of food that he’d otherwise disparage.

At one point, they got into a super heated argument which resulted in warm soup spilling over Lukey’s sweatpants he’d chosen to wear that day. Pangi was then met with one of the most terrible moments of his life, Lukey’s disappointed glare. He quietly finished a bowl of soup without complaint that evening.

This continued on for about a week, all the while Pangi only ever offered small grunts  of approval or silent objection to most forms of interaction. Yet, the ever present Lukey was patient throughout it all. It warmed his heart that a friend would do so much for him, but the guilt also became overbearing as time passed between them…

One-sided conversations became the breeding ground for those dark thoughts that never left.

“Ya know Tertel and Aimey are the most worried about you? They actually call me every now and then when you’re asleep and ask how you’re doing.” Lukey was folding some of his laundry, another hard fought battle of wills to which Pangi listlessly gave up on. Turtle is probably better off with someone more successful to work for….

Lukey was absently scrolling through videos on his phone one day and attempted to show him a fancam of them two with a light laugh. “Everyone misses you Pangi. You have no idea the amount of messages I get asking if you’re okay. Seriously, how did they even know I’m with you?” They probably don’t care. They only care if they get their stupid gay yaoi. It’s not like that anything was real….

“Look, I bought a new shirt! Your sister was nice enough to suggest some new colors for me.” Lukey came into his room wearing an off-white button up shirt, on the chest where a pocket should’ve been was a stitched in pattern of a cornflower. Why… Why do you torment me with glimpses of what could never be..?!

It was the evening of whatever day- Pangi had lost count- Lukey had convinced him to watch the sunset from his window with him with the promise that they wouldn’t have to go out to the dining room for dinner. 

“Kinda romantic if you think about it,” the older boy said between bites of lasagna. “We’re here in your room, alone, watching the sunset and eating the same food we had for our first dinner date on the realm, remember?”

Pangi watched him in silence as he almost choked mid-laugh to the memory. His own plate had long been empty, Lukey was kind enough to never give him portions that would be too daunting.

Romantic?

Do you even think Lukey would ever have those sort of feelings to someone so pathetic? 

He has models and movie stars as friends, you’re nothing!

Lukey couldn’t ever lo—

“Pangi!” Warm hands had cupped his face and a gaze filled with concern watched him. “Ar- Are you okay?” It was barely a whisper yet it shook the regretful feelings crowding his chest, agitating them even more. He tried to turn his head away, but he didn’t realize how strong the young producer was.

LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

“You zoned out and weren’t responding to anything. I didn’t mean to yell...” Lukey apologized in a soft voice and pulled him into a hug, nothing tight, but he could feel Lukey’s quickened heartbeat.

Please… I don’t want you to see me like this… please……..

They sat there, letting the silence speak in their stead, just finding the comfort in being so close.

“I-” Pangi’s voice faltered and his shoulders started to shake, “I feel like a failure…”

And before he knew it he couldn’t stop.

“The cha- channel wasn’t doing well. I had to drop Tertel as an editor… everything feels like it’s falling apart and I just couldn't—” His voice broke as the words escaped him.

“I didn’t want to be a disappointment- I didn’t want to drag him down with me- nothing was going right- everything was just— and you, I feel like y-you…”

“Shhhhhh…” Lukey interrupted him, guiding him to his shoulder, “It’s okay…”

A cascade of liquified fear, worry, and guilt came bursting forth in waves, followed by shuddering shoulders and deep gasps for air. Pangi was drowning, yet he was also in the safest place in the world.

Pangi wept, he wanted to stop, he really did. Yet everything kept pouring out onto the shoulders of his best friend; it was quiet, torturous, and everything hurt. He didn’t notice when the arms around him shed the blanket that held him together, when they rubbed slow concentric circles on his back, or when they pulled him close enough to hear the whispers of someone who’s heart was breaking to see him like this.

“We can take it slow, ya know? Small steps.” Lukey’s voice cracked, “I’ll be there with you every step of the way. Just- don’t ever think of yourself that way again. Please…”

—

It was midnight when Pangi awoke all crusty-eyed from the dried tears that overwhelmed him before. He found himself wearing a new shirt, pajama bottoms, and— a familiar blue flannel… it smelled nice, comforting, safe.

Beside him was the boy who’d stayed with him at his worst, wearing a standard white tee and black pajama bottoms. Typical. One arm strayed across the small gap between them to his hip, the other tucked beneath the pillow which his messy head lay. A little bit of drool quietly pooled out the corner of his mouth.

Pangi held back a laugh. He wished he had his phone with him, it was rare to see Lukey so open like this and so close. But he couldn't even recall what had happened the day before, yet he felt… free.

He settled back in the blankets that covered them, opting to close the distance that had split them before. To his surprise, Lukey’s arms pulled him in a secure hug.

“Don’t ever leave me…” A groggy mumble broke the quiet.

Pangi felt a warmth drift through his stomach, climbing higher. “Why would I do that?”

“Mmmmm good,” the arm around him grew a little tighter and he felt the warm breath against the nape of his neck. “I promised you and you said yes.”

“What did I promise?” He really couldn’t remember, his own fingers played with Lukey’s. He opened his hand and threaded theirs together, putting it against his chest.

“We’ll deal with everything together. One step at a time.” Lukey seemed to be waking up now, the slurred speech from before had become more coherent. Pangi could feel the change in his heartbeat.

“That if it was too much, we’d take it day by day. And if that is too much, hour by hour. Minute by minute. Second by second, and so on until we get through it together.”

I would. I want to. I will.

“Really? I promised all of that… that doesn’t sound like me man.”

He was met with a low, extended groan. “Pangi, pleeeease…” There was a pause, “you also promised that you’d eat downstairs tomorrow and eat anything I give you.”

Pfffft. Liar! 

He held a laugh back, smiling into their intertwined hands as he shook his head. “Minute by minute, I like that.”

I love you.

“Mmmmmm… I love you too.”

[honeyncherry]

summer’s end - joe burrow

summary summer 2017 brought along a boy you didn't see coming, stolen moments that felt like stolen hearts, learning that some people can love you completely without choosing you at all

content 18+, smut, angst, fluff, language, alcohol, slowwwburn

June 16th, 2017

It was unfair. All of it.

The humidity that had turned your carefully done hair into a frizzy disaster within ten minutes of stepping outside. Professor Klubertz and her final grades that came back three points lower than you needed, three points that determined your next school year. Michael and his stupid, perfect engagement announcement that had your dad calling every relative to brag about his successful son. Your friends and their effortless ability to slip into conversations with strangers, to laugh at jokes that weren’t funny, to make everything look so goddamn easy.

But most of all, this damn telescope.

The thing looked like it had survived several natural disasters and maybe a small war. The black paint was chipped and fading, revealing patches of dull metal underneath. One of the adjustment knobs was held on with what appeared to be electrical tape, and the eyepiece was so scratched up you wondered if it was even possible to see anything clearly through it. Someone had abandoned it here next to a cooler full of warm beer and sandy towels, probably after reaching the same level of frustration you were currently experiencing. 

By now, it had to have been nearly fifteen minutes you’ve spent tinkering with the old thing that looked like it was on its last life. Your knees were aching from crouching in the sand, there was grit working its way into uncomfortable places, and the sweat was beginning to bead along your hairline despite the breeze. You’d tried every combination of knobs and adjustments you could think of, following the water-stained instruction manual that was written in what might’ve been English but to you, read like a foreign language.

The thing was mocking you at this point. Every time you thought you’d figured something out, peering hopefully through the eyepiece, you were met with the same blurry mess of nothing. Streetlights, maybe some stars… possibly just your own eyelashes—it was impossible to tell. 

Twisting something—you weren’t quite sure what it was supposed to do, but it was the only knob you hadn’t tried in the last five minutes—you were about to give up and walk away when you heard a voice behind you. 

“You struggling?” No shit.

“What does it look like,” you replied without turning around, voice maybe a little sharper than intended.

The boy behind you hummed, somehow managing to convey more understanding than judgment, and you heard footsteps in the sand as he came closer. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him crouch down next to you, close enough where you could smell beer and sunscreen and something else—laundry detergent, maybe. Or just the general scent of someone who had their life together.

“Mind if I?” he asked, setting his beer down on one of the towels with a soft thunk.

You looked at him then, really looked, and felt thrown off. He was attractive in an effortless way—broad shoulders, strong jaw, the kind of strewn blonde hair that looked intentional even when it definitely wasn’t. But it was his eyes that caught you off guard. They weren’t laughing at you or looking at you like you were some poor incompetent girl who needed rescuing. They were just… intrigued. 

Huffing, you started to stand. “Have at it,” but he made a small noise of protest.

“Where are you going?” His face scrunched up as he looked at you, and you paused halfway to standing. Looking at him, you watched as he struggled to find the words. His cheeks were flushed, though whether from the alcohol or the weather, you couldn’t tell. “Give me a second.” His tone left little room for argument. You stood there begrudgingly, not filled with nearly as much interest as you’d held in the beginning. The whole stargazing thing had seemed romantic and mysterious when you’d first spotted the telescope by itself, but now it just felt like another thing you were failing at. 

The lake stretched out before you, dark water reflecting the lights from the party behind you and the distant flow of the campus. It was actually pretty, you had to admit, even if you were too frustrated to appreciate it properly.

You could hear him making small adjustments, the soft scrape of metal against metal as he turned various knobs and shifted the telescope’s position. His movements sounded confident, like he actually knew what he was doing rather than just randomly trying different combinations like you had been. It was probably going to work for him on the first try, and then you’d have to stand there and pretend to be grateful while internally dying of embarrassment. 

“How long were you fighting with this thing?” he asked without looking up.

“Dunno.” You tried to keep the irritation out of your voice and mostly failed. “Long enough to question my intelligence.” Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, your arms crossed over your chest, trying to look like you weren’t desperately hoping he’d fail just as spectacularly as you had.

He hummed before going back to work. After another minute, he leaned down to look through the eyepiece one final time, was quiet for a second, and let out a short laugh. 

“Okay,” he said, sitting back on his heels and gesturing toward the telescope with something that looked suspiciously like pride. “Come take a look.”

Uncrossing your arms, you reluctantly walked over, preparing yourself for another round of disappointment.

But when you looked through the telescope, your breath caught.

Stars. Actual, real stars, vibrant against the dark sky, arranged in patterns that actually made sense instead of the blurry mess you’d been staring at for twenty minutes.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, not pulling away from the eyepiece. “I can actually see them.” “That’s the Big Bear constellation,” he said, and you could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Ursa Major. The brightest part there is what most people call the Big Dipper.”

You finally pulled back to look at him, your earlier irritation completely forgotten. “How do you know that?”

Something changed in his expression at your question, like he was deciding whether or not to tell you something. “I’m kinda into space,” he said almost sheepishly. “Have been since I was a kid.” “Really?” You saw him tense slightly.

“Yeah, I know it’s probably weird—” “No, that’s actually really cool.” You found yourself leaning forward slightly, genuinely curious now. “I mean, I’ve been trying to figure this thing out for half an hour and you fixed it in like five minutes. That’s pretty impressive.”

His whole face changed when you said that, relaxing in a way that made you think he’d been expecting you to laugh at him. “Most people think it’s boring.”

“Most people are idiots,” you said mindlessly, then feeling the heat creep up your neck. “I mean…”

“No, you’re right.” He was grinning now, and it completely transformed his face. “They are.”

You smiled back, the first real smile you’ve had all night. “So what else can you see with this thing?”

Joe, as you learned his name was, guided you through different constellations over the next twenty minutes, or at least the ones you could successfully make out from your spot on the beach. He explained that the telescope was, as you’d suspected, ancient—probably from the seventies and definitely not designed for serious stargazing. But he made it work anyway, pointing out Cassiopeia and showing you how to find the North Star, his voice taking on an enthusiasm that was completely different from how he first approached. 

“You come here alone?” he asked eventually, after you’d spent a few minutes in comfortable silence just looking at the stars. 

“Not exactly.” You glanced over toward where your friends were still scattered across the beach. “My friends are here, they’re just… busy socializing. And I’m apparently too busy sulking to join them.” He laughed, and it was a nice sound. “Sulking? On a night like this? Finals are over, its summer, you’re on the beach. What’s there to sulk about?”

You probably should’ve shrugged it off, maybe laughed, that way you wouldn’t regret this tomorrow. But, this was a stranger, someone you’d never see again. And you needed to get it off your chest. Ariella was too busy playing house with her boytoy of the month to actually listen, and Iris and McKenna were stuck in that only child rhythm where the second you say anything even remotely messy, they tilt their heads and go, “Oh… so you’re not happy for him?” “My brother got engaged last week,” you finally spoke. “And now my dad’s calling every person he’s ever met to tell them how Michaels got it all figured out—perfect job, perfect girl, perfect future.” You picked at a loose thread on your shorts. “Meanwhile I’m failing organic chem and apparently need help just pointing a telescope at the sky.”

“Ah.” Joe nodded like he understood completely. “The ‘why can’t you be more like your sibling’ thing.” “Is it that obvious?” “Only because I know the feeling.” He was quiet for a moment, staring out at the water. “My brothers both played football. Good at it too. But they decided college was more for academics, less sports. Now they’re both doing well, have good jobs… families.”

“And you?”

“And I’m here playing football and hoping it turns into something.” He shrugged, but there was almost a defensive manner in the gesture. “They built something substantial, you know? Something reliable that’ll last. They’ve got real jobs, real paychecks, real life figured out. And I’m still chasing something that might not even work out.”

“Football’s real,” you said, though you weren’t sure why you felt the need to defend his choices. 

“Is it though?” He looked at you then, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. “Like, what happens if I don’t make it past this? What if I get hurt, or I’m just not good enough? My brothers, they had backup plans. They’ve got skills that transfer to actual careers. And I’m just… stuck in this weird gray area where I’m not building anything concrete, but I’m also not ready to give up on this dream that might be completely unrealistic.” The tone of his voice made your chest feel tight. “The whole ‘why can’t you be more like your sibling’ thing.”

He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Sometimes I think they had it right all along. Maybe I should have just focused on school, picked a major that actually leads somewhere.”

“But you love it,” you said, guessing really. “Football, I mean.” “Yeah, I do.” He was sure of his answer before he spoke. “Which is probably what makes it worse. Like, at least if I hated it, walking away would be easy.” You hummed in understanding, then felt a clouding wave of embarrassment wash over you. “God, sorry for dumping all that on you. You definitely didn’t come over here for all that.”

He laughed, and it was genuine this time. “Are you kidding? This is better than listening to my friends argue about whether—”

“Hey!”

The shout cut through his sentence, and you both turned to see McKenna jogging toward you across the sand, looking frantic and slightly out of breath.  “There you are! Jesus, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She stopped in front of you, breathing hard. “We have a situation. Ariella’s about to make a very questionable decision with that guy from her psych class, and she’s not listening to Iris or me. We need backup, like, now.”

You were already getting to your feet, brushing sand off your legs. “Sorry,” you called over your shoulder to Joe as McKenna grabbed your arm and started pulling you away. “Thanks for the telescope thing!”

And then you were jogging across the sand, McKenna filling you in on exactly what kind of questionable decision Ariella was about to make, leaving Joe sitting in the sand next to the ancient telescope. You didn’t even get his last name, and Ohio State was big enough to ensure you’d probably never see him again.

June 25th, 2017

A nice, relaxing beach day is exactly what you needed after the week you’ve had. Professor Klubertz’s final grades are still making your stomach twist, but at least out here with the sun on your skin and the sound of summer, you can almost forget about organic chemistry. 

“Can you put sunscreen on my back?” Ariella asks, flopping down on her towel next to you. “I’m already burning and we’ve been here like twenty minutes”

You squeeze a generous amount of SPF 30 onto your palm and start working it across her shoulders, half listening as McKenna and Iris debate whether they should walk down to the docks or just stay put. The beach is packed today, weekend crowds claiming every available spot on the sand. Coolers, towels, and umbrellas create a maze of temporary territories. 

A couple minutes later, you’re stuck in that perfect lazy state where the sun is making you drowsy and the conversation around you fades into background noise. Your book is open next to you, but you haven’t turned a page in how long. 

The group of guys your age playing volleyball to the left have been at it for a while, their game adding shouts and laughter to your background noise. Then the noise gets louder, more excited, and you glance over to see what the commotion is about. 

A few new people have joined their game, making it all the more competitive. One of them is jumping to spike the ball, his whole body stretched tall and powerful against the blue sky.

When he lands and turns slightly, you catch a glimpse of his profile. You sit up a little straighter, trying to get a better look without being obvious about it. The guy rotates to face your direction as he sets up for the next set, and your breath catches.

Joe.

You’d almost forgotten about the telescope guy from the party you spilled your heart to—it’s been over a week, and between family stress and helping Ariella through her crisis, he’d faded to the back of your mind.

But seeing him now, wearing board shorts that hang low on his hips and nothing else, it’s weird how different he looks in daylight. More… real, somehow. You find yourself watching as he moves around the makeshift court, and you have to admit he’s clearly athletic. Really good at volleyball, actually.

You look away, try to pretend you’re suddenly interested in your book or your friends’ conversation, but your eyes keep drifting back. It’s just curiosity, you tell yourself. You barely know the guy, but there was something nice about the conversation you had.

Every time he pushes off the sand with a small grunt, laughs with his friends, lifts his hat to run a hand through his sweaty hair, you feel… something. But it’s probably just recognition.

You barely know him—you shared one conversation over a broken telescope and a mutual spiral, and now you’re acting weird, stealing glances across the beach like some stalker.

But then Joe serves the ball, a perfect arc that his opponents can’t return, and his team erupts in celebration. He’s grinning, that same easy smile from the night you met him, and when he turns to high-five one of his teammates, his eyes sweep across the beach.

And land directly on you.

For a second that feels like an hour, you both stare at each other across the sand. You’re very aware that you’ve been caught red-handed watching.

Then Joe’s face breaks into a wider smile, more knowing. He lifts his chin in a small nod—casual but somehow intimate, like you two share a secret—and you can’t help but smile back before quickly looking down at your book, pretending you were reading all along.

Your heart is racing, and you’re pretty sure your cheeks are burning, but mostly you just feel embarrassed. He remembered you. He seems happy to see you. And unless you’re completely misreading the situation, he definitely caught you staring. 

“Oh my god, look at that one,” McKennna says suddenly, and you glance up to see her pointing (not so subtly) towards the volleyball net. “The tall one with the backwards hat.” You follow her gaze straight to Joe, who’s now setting up for another serve, and try to keep your expression neutral. “Yeah, he’s okay.”

“Okay?” Iris looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Are we looking at the same person?” “I think I’m gonna introduce myself,” Ariella announces, already sitting up and adjusting her bikini top.

“No,” you blurt quickly, then catch yourself. “I mean, he’s probably busy. They’re in the middle of a game.”

“Since when do you care about interrupting boys?” McKenna asks, studying your face with the kind of attention that makes you nervous. Does she remember? She couldn’t. “Wait… do you know him?”

Or not.

Before you can answer, you hear someone calling out your name questionably, and you look up to see one of Joe’s teammates jogging toward your group. He’s tall and blonde with the kind of all American good looks that probably got voted prom king, and he's grinning like he knows something you don’t. 

“Hey, I’m Derek,” he introduces himself. “My buddy over there thinks he knows you guys.” He jerks his thumb toward the volleyball net, where Joe is very obviously trying to look like he’s not watching this interaction while still absolutely watching it.

“Which buddy?” Ariella asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.

Derek laughs shortly, “the one kicking our asses. Joe. He wanted me to come over and ask if you girls want to play.” Derek scratches the back of his head and you look behind him at Joe. “We could use some more people, make the teams more interesting.”

You feel all three of your friends look at you, and you know you’re probably burning up again. This is it—the inevitable moment where you either have to admit you know Joe or pretend you don’t and hope no one figures it out.

“Oh, I don't really play volleyball,” you say.

“We’d love to,” McKenna cuts you off, already getting to her feet. “Right, guys?” “Absolutely,” Iris agrees, closing her own book with a snap.

“I’m really not good at it,” you protest, but Ariella is pulling you up by the arm.

“It doesn’t matter, it’ll be fun. Come on.” And before you know it, you’re being dragged across the sand toward the volleyball net, where Joe is waiting with a shit-eating grin that makes you want to hide behind your friends.

“Hey,” he greets when you get close enough, and his voice is welcoming and warm like you’re old friends instead of near strangers who had one conversation nine days ago.

“Hi,” you manage, noticing how little clothing you’re both wearing, how the sun is catching the sweat droplets falling down his neck, onto his chest.

You look around, glad to be able to hide behind your sunglasses. “I was hoping I’d run into you again,” there’s something shy about the way he says it that makes your stomach flutter. “Were you?” You tilt your head trying to look unimpressed.

He nods his head and he’s still grinning, but there’s friendliness underneath it that puts you at ease. “You left before I could even get your number.” 

The comment is casual, teasing, but there’s definitely a question buried in it. 

“Did I? I don’t really remember that.”

A complete lie, and from the way Joe’s grin widens, he knows it.

“Really? Cause I definitely remember you running off with your friend like there was some kind of emergency.” “There was an emergency,” you say, fighting to keep a straight face. “My friend needed help.”

“Right, of course. Very important emergency. And here I thought maybe you were just trying to escape before I could ask for those digits.” “Why would I do that?” “I don’t know. Maybe you’re one of those girls who’s too cool for guys who know about telescopes.” “Maybe I am,” you say, but you're smiling now, and you can see in his eyes that he knows you're full of it.

"Burrow!" one of his teammates shouts from the other side of the net. So that’s his last name. "We playing or what?"

Joe glances over, then back at you. "You playing?"

"I don't really—"

"She's playing," Ariella announces, patting your shoulder as she walks past you.

“Actually, no,” you say quickly, taking a step back from the group that’s already organizing themselves around the net. “I’m good just watching. Really.” McKenna gives you a look like you’re being ridiculous, but then she’s just as quickly caught up with one of Joe’s flirting friends to argue. You grab your towel—thank god you managed to snag it before they dragged you over here—and look around for somewhere to sit.

The guys have their stuff scattered in the sand nearby, a collection of water bottles and t-shirts and flip-flops, so you settle down there. The sand is warm against your skin as you spread your towel out, and you take your time smoothing out the corners, brushing away the grains that have already managed to find their way onto the fabric. 

The sun feels good on your shoulders, and you’re actually starting to relax again when you hear the soft thud of someone dropping down next to you. 

You glance over to find Joe settling beside you. He’s got that same grin from before, and he’s looking at you like he’s planned this whole thing. “Had to sit out,” he says simply, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs out in front of him. “Even the teams out.”

You look over where everyone is playing, also where there are clearly uneven teams now that he’s abandoned the game. “Joe, that makes no sense. Now they're completely lopsided.”

“Really? I’m terrible with numbers,” he's completely shameless about his ridiculous excuse. This face tells you he knows exactly how bad his logic is, yet doesn’t care even a little bit. 

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his complete lack of effort. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’ve been told that before,” he jokes again, then falls quiet. “About that emergency from the other night.” “What about it?”

“Was it really that urgent or were you looking for a way out?” You consider lying, keeping up the pretense that you barely remember him or that night, but something about him makes you want to be honest. “Cause if I’m reading this all wro—”

“It was real.” You cut him off quickly. “My friend was having a complete meltdown.” “And you’re the designated crisis manager?” “Something like that.” You focus your attention ahead, suddenly feeling exposed under his full attention. “What about you? Do you always abandon your friends to sit with girls you barely know?” “Only the interesting ones,” he says without missing a beat. “And for the record, I don’t think we barely know each other.”

He got you there. 

“So,” Joe continues, settling more comfortably in the sand beside you, “tell me what you’ve been up to for the past week and a half. Besides avoiding giving cute guys your phone number.” “Did you just call yourself cute?” “I was talking about Derek,” he says with mock seriousness, but then his nose twitches and he smiles. “But if you think I’m cute too, I’m not gonna argue.”

The rest of the afternoon unfolds easily. Conversation with Joe comes naturally, slipping between stories and quiet moments that don’t feel awkward at all. He tells you more about football—his teammates who think astronomy is weird, the pressure of growing up in a small town where everyone knows your name and keeps track of what you’re doing.

You find yourself opening up without meaning to, talking about childhood memories, the classes that drained you this semester, even Ariella’s latest boy drama. Joe grins at that part, leaning in like he’s genuinely invested, asking for more details than you probably should share—but he makes it hard to say no. There’s something about the way he listens, like whatever you’re saying is worth it. Like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.

The sun starts to sink lower in the sky, painting everything golden, and you realize you’ve been sitting there for hours. Your friends are still playing, or pretending to play while mulling around with Joe’s friends, but you haven’t thought about them once. 

At some point, Joe shifts closer, a gradual drift that brings his knee within inches of yours. When he laughs, he leans in, and you notice his eyes are really blue when they’re caught in the sunlight. His fingers trace absent minded patterns in the sand between you as he talks, spirals and lines that you find yourself watching before catching yourself and looking away. You shouldn’t be thinking about—nope. Just sand and patterns. Nothing more.

Eventually, McKenna waves from across the sand with the sort of urgency that means it’s time to go. There’s a reluctance in the way you both move when you finally stand, like breaking this conversation may mean you can’t get it back.

Joe pulls out his phone without a word, and you take it, fingers still dusty with sand as you type your number in. When you return to your group, your friends are already gathering their things, chattering about dinner plans and who’s driving, but it all feels strangely far away, like the tide’s pulled something softer around you that hasn’t quite let go.

You start to follow them, the sand cooling beneath your feet, the sky turning a deeper shade of amber—and just before you leave, you glance back. He’s still there, standing where you left him, hands in his pockets, eyes on you, smiling like he already knows he'll be seeing you again soon.

And maybe, maybe, you want him to be right.

June 28th, 2017

Your head is buzzing pleasantly from the two beers you nursed during the game, and you’re still giggling about the drunk guy who kept trying to order nachos from the hot dog vendor. The stadium lights fade in Joe’s rearview mirror as he navigates the busy streets.

Earlier tonight, you’d spent an eternity in front of your mirror trying to figure out what “casual but cute” meant for a baseball game. Iris had finally intervened, tossing you a pair of denim shorts and a fitted Reds tank top while McKenna painted your nails a soft pink.

They’d been buzzing with excitement ever since yesterday, when Joe had texted you about the Cincinnati Reds after you’d mentioned during your conversation that you’d never been to a professional baseball game—not even minor league.

The invitation had come out of nowhere. One minute you were planning out summer bucket lists, and the next Joe was texting you about a game today. Ariella caught you staring at the message, formulating a reply, and intervened before you could even think about saying no. 

“I still can’t believe he thought she was his ex-wife,” you sink back into the passenger seat and turn to face him. The alcohol has made everything feel softer around the edges, more relaxed. You don’t even like beer normally, but something about sitting in those stadium seats with Joe had made you nervous enough to order one, then another.

“The way he kept calling her Linda,” Joe shakes his head grinning. “Poor woman was just trying to sell hot dogs and this guy’s in his own world.” “And you bought nachos for him!” you point out, laughing. “Like that was going to help the situation.” “I felt bad for him! He looked so confused when she didn’t recognize him.” Joe’s fingers tap against his leg as he stops at a red light, and you find yourself watching the movement. “Plus, he seemed pretty harmless. Just really, really drunk.” You tuck one leg up under you, getting more comfortable in the worn leather seat. The truck smells like him—that clean, warm scent you’re starting to associate with Joe—mixed with the lingering smell of stadium food. “I thought baseball was supposed to be boring.” “Who told you that?” “Everyone. Every movie, every TV show. It’s like the universal symbol for boring American pastimes.”

Joe glances over at you as the light turns green, a smile spreading across his face. “Well, those people are wrong. Baseball’s only boring if you don’t understand what’s happening.” “Or if you don’t have someone explaining why the pitcher keeps shaking his head at the catcher.” “That’s calleds strategy,” he says matter of factly. “Very sophisticated communication.” You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. The truth is, you enjoyed tonight more than you’d expected. Not just the game itself, but the way Joe had explained things without being condescending, how he brought you back a hamburger despite you saying you weren’t hungry, the way he seemed genuinely interested in what you thought about the experience. 

“What was your favorite part?” Joe asks, turning down your street. “Besides drunk Linda guy, obviously.” You think about it for a moment, watching the familiar college houses pass by. “Honestly, the seventh-inning stretch. When everyone was singing and you knew all the words.”

“You didn’t sing along.” “I didn’t know the words,” you laugh. “But you looked so happy to be there.” Something changes in his expression. “I was happy. It’s more fun when you have someone to share it with.” The way he says it makes your stomach flutter. The truck slows as Joe pulls into your driveway but leaves the engine running. The porch light casts a warm glow across the front of your house and you can hear crickets chirping in the background.

“So,” Joe drawls, turning to face you properly, one arm draped over the steering wheel. “What’s the verdict? Would you go to another game or was this a one-time experiment?” 

The way he’s looking at you makes the easy atmosphere shift slightly. The truck feels smaller, more intimate. You can see the way his hair is still messy from when he’d run his hands through it during a particularly tense inning, the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest. “I might be convinced,” you muse, then add more honestly, “it was actually really fun. Even if I still don’t understand why everyone gets so excited when a guy just… runs really fast.”

“He wasn’t just running—” Joe starts and then catches your expression and laughs. “You’re messing with me again.” “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. There’s something softer around the edges of his eyes now. The dashboard light casts everything in a muted glow, and you can see the way he's looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out. 

You turn away and reach for the door handle, needing some distance from the intensity of his gaze, but you pause with your hand on the cool metal. “Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for tonight. Inviting me, I mean. And for explaining everything. I’m glad you remembered about me never going to a game.”

You turn to face him again and watch as his eyebrows furrow slightly, like he’s surprised you think he might’ve forgotten something like that. “I remember everything you tell me.” The admission hands in the air between you, heavier than it should for something so simple. To you, it’s not just about remembering—it’s about the fact that he was listening in the first place, that what you say matters enough for him to file away for later.

“I should go in,” you finally say, though you don’t move.

He hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t look away. There’s something building between you, some invisible thread that’s pulling tighter with each conversation, each shared laugh, each moment like this one. You can feel it in the way he’s looking at you, in the way your heart is beating just a little too fast.

The moment stretches between you, full of potential and unspoken questions. Finally, you force yourself to open the door, the cool night air rushing in and breaking whatever spell had settled over the cabin of the truck.

“Text me when you get home?” you ask, hopping down onto the pavement. “It’s like a five minute drive,” Joe points out, amused.

“Still.”

His smile softens. “Okay. I will.”

You climb out and he waits, engine idling, until you’re safely through the front door. Through the window, you watch as his tail lights disappear around the corner, your stomach in your chest from whatever just happened.

July 4th, 2017

The gravel crunches under McKenna’s tires as she pulls into the driveway of Derek’s family lake house, and you can already hear music and voices carrying from the backyard. Your skin is tight and warm from a full day in the sun, in desperate need of more moisturizer, yet a pleasant exhaustion that comes from hours of doing absolutely nothing productive settles over you.

You’d spent the morning sprawled on towels at the beach with the girls, nursing hangovers from last night with greasy gas station breakfast sandwiches and too many lattes. By noon, the mimosas Iris had smuggled in a water bottle had you all buzzed and giggly again, splashing each other in water and taking turns rating the guys who walked past.

Joe’s text came through around four, letting you know about the lake house and the barbeque followed by fireworks they had planned. Ariella immediately said yes when you showed the message, making a joke about how she could use some company tonight.

McKenna, who had opted out of drinking nearly two hours ago now, gladly agreed to make the drive a little ways north, excited to see Derek. And now, two hours later, you’re climbing out of the car with sandy feet and sun-drunk smiles, following the sound of voices toward the back of the house.

The lake house is beautiful in a lived in way. Weathered wood siding and a wraparound porch. Sitting on top of a hill that may be a little dangerous to balance on a couple drinks deeper.

“Holy shit,” Iris murmurs as you round the corner to the backyard, and you have to agree. The property stretches down to the water, complete with a dock and what looks like a pontoon boat tied up beside it. There’s a fire pit set up near the water’s edge, and closer to the house, a few guys are manning a massive grill while others lounge in deck chairs with beers in hand.

You spot Joe immediately—he’s on the lawn with someone else, tossing a football back and forth with easy precision that reminds you he's actually good at football. He’s wearing a different pair of swim shorts than you last saw him in with a faded t-shirt. When he catches the ball, he turns slightly in your direction from the impact.

“There’s your boy,” McKenna says under her breath, nudging you with her elbow.

“He’s not my boy,” you protest automatically, but you’re already walking toward him, drawn by some invisible magnet. 

Joe looks up as you approach, and his face breaks into a smile you’re starting to know by heart. “You made it,” he calls out, jogging over with the football still tucked under his arm.

“Thanks for inviting us,” you say shyly despite the fact that you just saw him two days ago when you’d dragged him to the farmer’s market downtown after he mentioned he’d never been to one. It was your turn to play tour guide, and you loved watching his face light up at the honey vendor’s samples, the way he was genuinely fascinated by the woman explaining how she had her own beehive.

He followed you around like a curious little kid, asking questions about everything and insisting on carrying your canvas tote when it got heavy with peaches and fresh bread. You spent two hours wandering the stalls, him marveling at things you took for granted. The morning felt domestic in a way that surprised you both, especially when he insisted on buying you sunflowers from the flower stand, claiming it was payment for the “cultural education.” 

“Course.” He spoke, drawing you back to the present. “How was the beach?” “Sandy. Hot. The usual.” You gesture to your slightly disheveled appearance.

“You look good,” Joe says simply, and it makes heat bloom within you that has nothing to do with a sunburn.

“Joe!” Derek calls from the grill. “Stop flirting and come help me with this before I burn everything.” “I wasn’t—” Joe starts but Derek’s already laughing, and you can see the tips of his ears go red.

“Go,” you say, giving him a little push toward the grill. “We’ll find our way around.”

You and your friends come to learn that Derek’s family has clearly hosted many times before. There are about five coolers full of beer scattered around the yard, a whole setup of lawn games, and enough food to feed a small army.

The evening flows easily from there. Dinner happens around a long picnic table that’s been dragged onto the deck, everyone squeezing together on benches and mismatched chairs. The food is simple but perfect—grilled burgers and hot dogs, three different kinds of pasta salads, and corn on the cob that drips butter down your chin.

Laughter and stories circled the table, someone telling a story about a camping trip last year gone wrong, McKenna describing her internship, Derek explaining how his family ended up with this place.

You find yourself actually contributing to the stories instead of just listening from the sidelines like you usually do around people who aren’t your girlfriends. It’s a small thing, but it feels significant somehow. Usually you’re the one who laughs at everyone else's jokes and nods along, but tonight words are coming easier. It crosses your mind how different this is from family dinners, where Michael always dominates the conversation and you face into the background. Here, people actually seem interested in what you say.

The lakehouse reminds you of the places your family used to vacation when you were younger, before your dad got himself too caught up in work to take proper time off. There’s something about the wood siding and the casual elegance that brings back memories of summer weeks spent reading on docks just like this one. You wonder if Michael remembers those trips the same way you do, or if he was already too focused on impressing everyone even then.

After everyone’s satisfied and the table’s been cleared, the competitive spirit emerges. Someone suggests a cornhole competition, and suddenly everyone is picking partners and trash talking each other's abilities. You end up paired with Iris, facing off against some of Joe’s friends who are, annoyingly, taking this way too seriously. 

You’re somewhere between your second win and a losing streak that’s picking up speed when you feel someone step in behind you. “Your forn is terrible,” Joe says, close enough to your ear that you can feel his breath on your neck.

“My form is perfect, thank you very much,” you shoot back, lining up for your next throw. “Not all of us can be freakishly good at everything we do.”

“Here, lemme show you.” Before you can protest, Joe’s stepping up behind you, his chest almost touching your back as he adjusts your arm position. “You want to keep your elbow steady, like this.”

His hand covers yours on the bean bag and you realize this is the first time he’s touching you. Every nerve in your body seems to light up at the contact, and you’re remembering that several people are watching this interaction. 

The rational part of your brain is screaming about how this looks, about how obvious you’re being, but the rest of you doesn’t care. His hand is warm and steady, and standing this close to him makes your heart race in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

“Got it?” He asks, voice lower than it needs to be.

You manage a nod back, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re agreeing to anymore. Joe steps back and you throw the bean bag, which sails cleanly through the hole in the board.

“See? Perfect form.” Joe says with a grin, and you roll your eyes but you’re smiling too.

The cornhole tournament continues for another hour, you and Iris getting kicked off the next game despite Joe’s assistance. Eventually, as the sun starts to set, people begin gravitating toward the water. Someone finds a speaker, and soon there’s music mixing with the sound of waves lapping against the dock.

You end up sitting on the edge of the pier with your feet in the water, watching Joe and a few others attempt some sort of diving competition off the end of the dock. Someone attempts a backflip and belly flops spectacularly. Another tries some kind of twist and ends up hitting the water sideways.

“That was definitely a belly flop,” Ariella judges from beside you, and the victim surfaces with a wounded expression. 

“Those underwater swimmers do the same shit!”

“But yours was painful to watch,” you laugh, and Joe smirks at the interaction before swimming closer to where you’re sitting. Ariella excuses herself, hopping up with her empty cup. You watch as she makes her way to the coolers that are set up near the firepit.

Joe plants himself right between your dangling legs, arms folded on the dock, looking up at you with water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. “Think you could do better?”

Your breath catches slightly at his position, and you instinctively scoot back just an inch on the dock. But you can’t look away from his face—the way his wet hair is pushed back, how a single droplet of water clings to his bottom lip before falling onto his hands where they rest against the dock. 

“Absolutely not. I’ll stick to my choice of sitting in the audience."

“Smart choice,” there’s something in his voice that makes you never want to look away from him. His eyes are a mesmerizing shade of blue this close up, and there’s water still dripping from his chin, and you realize you’re staring but you can’t seem to stop.

Joe stays there for another minute, but when he finally does push back from the dock to rejoin, his hand finds your ankle first, fingers wrapping around it in a gentle squeeze that sends fire crackling through your skin.

The touch lasts maybe two seconds at most, but your skin burns where his fingers were long after he’s swimming away.

“So,” Ariella settles down next to you with a fresh drink. “When exactly is he going to ask you out officially.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply back, but your eyes are glued to Joe as he surfaces from his latest dive, shaking the water from his hair. “Right. And I’m sure the way he’s been hovering all night is just friendly concern.” You glance around and catch Joe looking in your direction. When your eyes meet, he flashes you a cute smile before diving back under the water. “We’re just friends,” you insist, but even you don’t sound convinced anymore. 

A month ago, you were dreading three months of nothing, of being stuck while Michael got engaged and your dad pestered you about plans for next year. Now, you’re sitting here with people you actually want to spend time with, teetering on the edge of uncharted territory with a boy you’ve just met.

When someone mentions that the fireworks should be starting soon, people heave themselves out of the water and towel off. Someone runs inside to grab more blankets, another person emerges with s’mores fixings for after.

As the fireworks start blooming over the lake, you find yourself sitting next to Joe on a blanket he spread out on the grass for the two of you. The heat has finally cooled down, and there’s something grounding about the way the colors reflect off the water, the sound of everyone’s oohs and ahhs mixing with the distant boom of the explosions. 

“This is perfect,” you say softly, thinking out loud. 

“Yeah,” Joe agrees, but when you glance over, he’s not looking at the fireworks at all. He’s looking at you.

Somewhere during the finale, as you’re both leaning back on your hands watching the sky, his fingers find yours against the blanket. It’s subtle at first—just the lightest brush of skin against skin—but then his fingers slowly intertwine with yours.

By the time the show ends, people are yawning, checking the time, debating whether anyone’s sober enough to drive. The unanimous decision emerges quickly—everyone’s staying. Derek’s family (not so surprisingly) was prepared for this. There are various air mattresses and extra pillows scattered around the home, and people are already claiming spots on couches and in spare bedrooms.

“You guys can take the last guest room.” Derek offers to your group, but McKenna waves him off.

“We’re fine wherever. This couch looks perfect,” for added effect, she bounces down on the couch with a smile on her face. 

You somehow (through the plotting of your friends) end up on the floor with Joe, tucked into a cloud of pillows, other’s laying around in various states of exhaustion and lingering drunkenness. People begin to drift off to sleep, and the room grows quieter, but you and Joe keep talking in hushed voices about everything and nothing. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen the Star Wars movies,” Joe whispers, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you cried during Marley and Me,” you whisper back.

“That dog dies! It’s devastating!”

You’re both trying not to laugh too loudly and wake everyone up, but the effort is making you giggle even more. Eventually, your eyelids start to feel heavy, the combination of sun and alcohol and Joe’s warm presence next to you lulling you toward sleep.

The last thing you remember is the steady rhythm of his breathing and the comforting weight of his arm around your shoulders. 

When you wake up, the early morning light is filtering through the windows, and you’re completely wrapped up in Joe. Somehow during the night, you shuffled until you were practically lying on top of him, your head on his chest, his arms around you, your legs tangled together. He’s still asleep, his face relaxed in a way that makes him look younger, and for a moment you just lie there, listening to his steady heartbeat under your ear.

For a second, it feels perfect. Natural. Like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. Like all those careful boundaries you’ve been maintaining were just getting in the way of something that was always meant to happen.

Then reality crashes over you in seconds. This is Joe. Your friend Joe. Who you’ve been telling everyone is just a friend, who you’ve been trying to convince yourself is just a friend. But friends don’t wake up like this, all wrapped around each other. Friends don’t feel this safe and right together.

Panic flutters in your chest as you carefully extract yourself from his arms, trying not to wake him. Around the room, everyone else is still passed out, and you’re grateful no one else is awake to witness this.

July 16th, 2017

The lookout point spreads out before you like something from a postcard, the city lights of Columbus twinkling below in the warm summer darkness. Joe’s truck is parked at the edge of the gravel lot, tailgate down, both of you sitting with your legs dangling over the side. A bag of fast food is shared between the two of you, the taste of a chocolate milkshake still sweet on your tongue.

It’s been nearly two weeks since the Fourth of July. Nearly two weeks since you woke up tangled around him and panicked your way out of the house before anyone could see. You’ve been keeping your distance since then, not obviously, but carefully. 

Responding to his texts hours later instead of minutes. Finding excuses the couple times he suggested hanging out. It’s not that you don’t want to see him—that’s exactly the problem. You want to see him too much, and that scares you more than you’re willing to admit.

The last time you felt this way about someone was junior year of high school, when Marcus Solomon asked you to homecoming and your dad somehow found out. The lecture that followed still makes your stomach twist when you think about it—you needed to focus on your future, a career, not get distracted by boys who would just derail your (his) plans. 

Marcus had stopped calling after your dad “had a conversation” with him, and you learned to keep your feelings to yourself after that instance. 

But Joe, for one, makes it hard to maintain that distance. When he called two days ago, his voice was warm albeit a little confused, asking if you were okay because you seemed different lately, you almost caved. Instead, you made some excuse about being busy with family stuff, and he’s suggested tonight. Just us two, he said, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to say no.

Now here you are, and it’s like nothing’s changed.

“My nephew turned six,” Joe is saying, grinning at some memory from his weekend. He went back to Athens in order to spend time with family at said nephew’s birthday party. “Kid’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Spent the whole party roaring at everyone who tried to talk to him.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you smile back. The way he lights up when talking about his family makes you feel warm. “Did you survive the attack?” “Barely. He informed me that I was being eaten by a T-Rex at least four times.” Joe takes a sip of his Coke, and you find yourself watching the way his throat moves when he swallows. “But I bought him some triceratops thing, so I’m officially the coolest uncle again.”

“Smart strategy.” The two of you jumped around from talking about his family to yours to random observations of the city sprawled out below. He tells you about driving through his hometown, how everything looks smaller than he remembered, how his mom still makes him sit through sunday dinner even though he’s twenty years old.

You tell him about spending the past weekend at the mall with Ariella, how she made you try on exactly eight dresses before finding one she deemed acceptable for some party you didn’t even want to go to.

It was comfortable, this back and forth, but there’s an awareness beneath it that wasn't there before—or maybe it was always there and you’re just noticing it now. The way he looks at you when you laugh, how he leans closer when you talk, the careful space he maintains between you that feels both respectful and somehow charged.

“What else did you do while you were home?” you ask, settling back on your elbows and looking up at the sky. “Besides surviving dinosaur attacks.”

Joe is quiet for a moment, and when you glance over, there’s a change in his expression. More serious. “Talked to some people. About football stuff.” “Oh.” You sit up a little straighter, sensing a shift. “Good conversations?” He shrugs, but it’s not casual. “Some coaches from different programs. People wanting to know what I’m thinking long-term.” “And? What’d you tell them?” “That I’m focused on this season first.” His voice has a deflective quality to it that you’ve never heard from him before. “It’s all hypothetical anyway.” You want to push, to ask more about what these conversations meant, whether they were about transferring or the draft or something else entirely. But something in his posture warns you off, tells you this is territory he’s not ready to explore with you. So instead, you just nod and let the subject drop.

Joe hums after a moment, clearly eager to change the subject, “whatever happened with your brother and all that engagement stuff?”

You exhale a short laugh, the sound more bitter than intended. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Lots of planning. Talks about flowers and venues and all the things that apparently require months worth of discussions.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about it.”

“It’s not that I’m not happy for him,” you sigh out the words you seem to repeat day in and day out. “Michael deserves to be happy and Sarah’s nice enough.”

You trail off, not sure how to explain the complicated knot of emotions you’re tangled between every time someone brings up the wedding. “But?” 

“They tried to get me to be a bridesmaid. Sarah’s idea, I think.”

“But you said no?”

“Dad helped me get out of it,” you admit with a  slight laugh. “Which is probably the first time in my life he’s actively helped me avoid something involving Michael.”

“Why’d you want to avoid it?”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Michael and I aren’t exactly the close sibling type. More like polite roommates who happened to grow up in the same house.” You fiddle with the rings on your fingers. “Standing up there pretending we’re best friends would’ve been weird for everyone involved.”

You make a face. “Plus, can you imagine me in some pastel bridesmaid dress? Dad saved everyone from that disaster.”

Joe laughs at that, and you’re thankful he doesn’t dive deeper into it. Maybe it was payback for the football thing. “Fair enough,” he mumbles in response.

The air is warm against your skin, breeze carrying the scent of summer grass and wildflowers. You two are sitting so close it would be easy to lean against his shoulder, to let yourself have that comfort. But something holds you back—maybe the memory of waking up wrapped around him. Or could it be the fear of wanting more than he’s willing to give?

“Look,” Joe says suddenly, his voice filled with excitement. “Shooting star.”

You follow his gaze upward, scanning the dark sky, but you don’t see anything. “Where?”

“There,” he says urgently, and before you can look where he’s pointing, his hands are on your shoulders and pulling you back toward him. “Gotta see it before it’s gone.”

Before you can process, you’re sitting between his legs, back against his chest. His hands are gentle but firm as he handles your head toward the right part of the sky. “See it? Right there above that really bright star—”

And then you do see it, a streak of light so brief you almost miss it, burning across the darkness before disappearing. “Oh,” you breathe, genuinely amazed. “I saw it.”

“Make a wish,” Joe says softly, his voice close to your ear.

But you can’t think about wishes right now because everything else is clouding your mind. The warmth of his body behind you, the way his hands are resting lightly on your bare shoulders, how his breath stirs the hair near your ear. Your heart is beating too fast, and you wonder if he can feel it through your shirts.

“Did you make one?” you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Yeah,” you lie, just to please him.

July 23rd, 2017

The night is thick with humidity clouding the air and the lingering smell of fried food from the street festival you both just left. Your head is pleasantly fuzzy from the drinks you shared—overpriced cocktails served in plastic cups that tasted more like sugar than alcohol, but somehow still managed to leave you both giggling at everything and nothing. 

Joe is in the middle of telling some story about his teammate who got stuck in a porta-potty earlier, accentuated with exaggerated gestures that nearly send him stumbling into a streetlight. You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts, the kind of deep, uncontrollable laughter that only comes when you’re tipsy and everything seems funnier than it actually is.

“I’m serious,” Joe insists, steadying himself against your shoulder as you both pause under a streetlight to catch your breath. “Derek had to literally push the thing over to get him out. Everyone was watching.”

“Stop,” you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. “That’s horrible. The poor guy.” “He deserved it.” Joe shakes his head in mock disgust, and you dissolve into another fit of giggles.

You’re about to respond when something catches your eye—a non sign buzzing in the window of a narrow storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a late-night diner. ‘INK & STEEL TATTOO PARLOR’ flickers in electric blue cursive, and through the window, you can see the glow of fluorescent lights and the dark silhouettes of people inside. 

“Joe,” you point at the shop. “We should get tattoos.”

It’s meant to be a joke. You expect Joe to laugh, make some joke like about how you should get a dog from the shelter further down the street next—something silly. Instead, his glazed over eyes sharpen with interest, and before you can process, he’s walking toward the door.

“Joe,” you call after him, your laughter dying in your throat. “Joe, wait. I was kidding.”

He stops with his hand on the door handle and turns back to you, his eyes somewhere between hopeful and uncertain. “Were you joking?” he asks. “Cause if you were, that’s fine. But if you weren’t…”

You stare at him, taking in the way the neon lights cast blue shadows across his face. “What would we even get?” you hear yourself asking, and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or genuine curiosity that makes the words tumble out. “I dunno,” he hums, eyes flickering around your surroundings until they stop suddenly, looking up at the sky. “A star,” comes his next answer without hesitation. 

A star. Because of course it would be a star. 

“That’s…” you trail off, considering. The sober part of your brain is screaming that this is insane, that you barely know the guy, that getting matching tattoos with someone you’ve known for five weeks is the kind of decision you’ll regret for the rest of your life.

“Okay,” you surprise yourself when the word slips out. “Okay, but something small. Really small.”

Joe’s face breaks into a grin so bright it could power the neon sign behind him. “Really?”

“Really. But if we hate it tomorrow, I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Deal,” he states, pushing the door open.

The inside of the tattoo parlor is neat with black leather chairs and art covering every inch of wall space. You’re not sure if it's the steady buzz of a tattoo gun buzzing, or the air smelling like antiseptic and ink that almost makes you back out. 

The woman behind the counter looks up when you enter, her expression shifting from a professional welcome to barely concealed skepticism as she takes in your slightly unsteady gaits. She’s probably in her forties, with intricate sleeve tattoos and the kind of seen-it-all expression that comes from years in a business. 

“We’re about to close,” she says slowly, glancing between you and Joe with wariness.

“We just want something small,” Joe says, pulling out his wallet as if to prove you were serious. “A star each.”

The woman—her name tag reads Diana—studied you both for a long moment. There’s a maternal aspect of the way she looks at you, like she’s trying to decide whether to send you home or let you make what might be a terrible decision. “You two sure about this?” She asks finally. You and Joe both look at each other, smile, and then back at Diana, giving her a reassuring nod. 

Diana sighs, but she’s already moving toward her station, decorated with scribbled drawings, torn out from different pages. Her art is good, looking at it assures you that she should have no problem doing a star... at least you hope.

“Alright. But I’m making them tiny, and you’re both signing extra waivers. What kind of stars are we talking about?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re watching Joe extend his right wrist to Diana, his right hand gripping the larm of the chair as the tattoo gun starts buzzing. The design is simple, just a small, delicate outline of a five-pointed star, no bigger than a dime. But watching it take shape on his skin makes something flutter in your stomach.

“You okay?” you ask, leaning forward in the chair beside him.

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth, though his knuckles are white where they’re gripping the leather. “Just feels weird.” “Big tough football player can’t handle a little needle?” you tease in order to distract him.

“I’d like to see you sitting here instead.”

“You will in about five minutes.” Diana speaks up from the other side of him. The thought makes your stomach flip. You’ve never wanted a tattoo before—never saw the point in permanently marking your body with some generic design that didn’t mean anything to you. But this feels different, like it means something, even if you can’t quite articulate what. 

Diana works quickly and efficiently, cleaning the fresh tattoo and covering it with a clear bandage before turning to you with an expression that suggests she’s still not entirely convinced this is a good idea. “Your turn, honey.”

You settle onto the padded table, extending your right wrist the same way Joe had. Turning your head away from Diana, because if you watch you know you’ll back out, Joe immediately crouches down next to the table so you’re at his eye level. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” you reply, surprised by how steady your voice sounds. “I want to.”

Diana preps your sin with the same clinical care she’s shown with Joe, and then the tattoo guns tarts buzzing again, you instinctively reach out and grab Joe’s hand.

“Shit,” you breathe as the needle makes contact. It’s not unbearable, but it’s definitely more intense than you’d expected—like a sharp, persistent scratch that seems to vibrate through your entire arm.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice is soft, grounding. “Look at me, yeah?” You focus on his face, the way his eyes are completely locked in on you, the small scar above his left eyebrow you’ve never noticed before, the way his thumb is tracing gentle circles across your knuckles.

“What do you think our friends are gonna say about this?”

You laugh despite the discomfort, picturing their faces when they see the tattoo. “Ariella and Iris are going to think we’ve lost our minds. McKenna’s probably gonna be jealous she wasn’t here to watch.”

“Mine are gonna say I’m whipped,” Joe adds in with a grin.

“Are you?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. His face hardens, something that makes your heart skip even as the tattoo gun continues its steady patterns. “Maybe.”

“What about your dad?” Joe continues, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory. “Is he going to be thrilled about his daughter coming home with a tattoo?” “Oh god,” you groan, the reality of that moment hitting you. “He’s gonna lecture me about ‘permanent decisions’ and ‘thinking about my future.’ I can already hear it.” “Worth it though,” Joe says, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something in them that suggests he’s not just talking about the tattoo.

Diana’s voice cuts through the moment. “Alright, you’re all done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You look down at your wrist, the small start that now matches Joe’s. It’s tiny, delicate, but somehow feels significant in a way that’s completely disproportionate to its size. “It’s perfect.”

After Diana bandages you up and gives you both care instructions (which you’re definitely too out of it to fully absorb), Joe pays for both tattoos despite your protests. Outside the shop, the reality of what you’ve done starts to settle in. 

“We actually did that,” you breathe, staring down at the bandage on your wrist.

“We actually did that,” Joe agrees, but there’s no trace of regret in his voice. “Can I see it again?”

You lift your arm up, revealing the small star etched into your skin. Beneath the bandage, it’s slightly red and tender, but the clean lines of it are clearly visible. Joe reaches out, fingers wrapping gently around your forearm. 

He studies the tattoo with an intensity that doesn’t match the gravity of what he’s looking at. It’s the same exact tattoo he has, after all. His thumb moves without conscious thought, brushing over the bandage where your fresh tattoo lies underneath. 

“Ow,” you gasp, instinctively jerking your wrist back as pain shoots through the tender skin.

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” Joe says immediately, his eyes wide with concern as he gently catches your wrist again, more carefully this time. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Before you can say it’s okay, that it’s fine, he’s lifting your wrist to his lips and pressing the softest kiss just bedie the bandage, on the unmarked skin of your inner wrist. The gesture is so delicate that it stops your breath entirely. 

“Better?” he murmurs against your skin, and you can feel the word more than hear it.

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare down at him as he holds you like something precious, lips still hovering near your skin.

Because in this moment, standing under the flickering non light with your fresh tattoo throbbing and Joe’s mouth pressed against your pulse point, you finally understand what you’ve been trying so hard to deny.

You don’t see Joe as a friend anymore.

You can’t.

Maybe you never really did, if you’re being honest with yourself. Maybe all those careful boundaries you constructed, all that insistence that you were just friends, all those moments of pulling back when things got too intense—maybe it was all just an elaborate defense against this exact realization.

You’re falling for him. Have been falling for him, probably since that first night with the telescope on the beach. Every shared laugh, every moment together, every time he remembered something you told him or looked at you like you were the most interesting person in the room—it’s all been leading here, to this moment where you can’t pretend anymore. 

The matching tattoos aren’t just ink under your skin. They’re a promise, a declaration, a permanent reminder that whatever this is between you has moved far beyond friendship into a territory that pulls you in with a force that’s equal parts fear and desire.

And as Joe finally pulls back to meet your eyes, his hand still cradling your wrist like he doesn’t want to let you go, you realize that you don’t want to fight it anymore.

You don’t want to be just friends.

You can’t be just friends.

Not anymore.

July 30th, 2017

The past two days at home had been a special kind of torture—the sort that comes wrapped in well-meaning family obligations and thinly veiled disappointment. Your dad has spent most of Saturday morning talking to you about “summer productivity” while pointedly ignoring the new scar on your wrist, though you caught him staring at it more than once.

Michael has been worse, somehow, Fresh off his engagement high and apparently feeling generous with unsolicited life advice, he’d cornered you during brunch on Friday to ask if you were “taking advantage of your opportunities” at Ohio State. The implication being, of course, that you weren’t. That while he’d graduated summa cum laude, and landed his dream job while finding his perfect fiancé, you were drifting through college without an endgame.

helpppp me, you’d reached for your phone under the table and texted Joe. michael is giving me the when i was ur age speech again

His response had come back within minutes: Tell him when he was your age people were still jerking off to cave paintings

You nearly choked on your orange juice, covering it with a cough that made Michael pause his monologue about networking and five-year plans. For the rest of the meal, you’d felt lighter, like Joe’s ridiculous jokes created a little bubble of shared understanding that your family couldn’t penetrate. 

The texting had continues throughout the weekend. Little observations about your dad’s obsession with lawn maintenance (he’s had the gardeners back like three times already), updates about Michael’s wedding planning (apparently that are exactly seventeen different shades of ivory and they all matter), complaints about their shared passive aggressive comments about your “summer lifestyle”.

Joe had responded to every single one, sometimes with jokes that made you snort in the middle of family dinner, sometimes with questions that showed he was actually listening, actually cared about the small details of your weekend home. When you texted him Saturday night about feeling suffocated and ready to go back, he’d called instead of texting.

By the time you did finally escape, the first thing you did was text him that you were free, and he immediately suggested joining him and his friends at some pool party. 

You spent the afternoon in and out of the backyard pool, floating on inflatable loungers with Ariella and Iris (McKenna was too busy flirting with Derek), while the guys played games of pool basketball. Joe was in his element, with his friends, occasionally catching your eye across the water.

Around nine, when the party was reaching that perfect point in the night, someone had suggested moving the event to the beach. Most people had been too lazy or too drunk to make the move, but the idea sparked something in both you and Joe.

You caught each other’s eyes across the group, some wordless communication passing between you, and before you knew it, you were gathering your things and making excuses about wanting to see the stars over the water. 

“You two are so weird,” Iris has called after you, but she was smiling, that knowing look in her eyes suggesting she understood exactly what was happening even if you didn’t. 

Now, running across the sand toward the lake with Joe beside you, the wind whipping through your hair, you feel more alive than you have all weekend. The beach is completely empty, and the moon is bright enough to turn the water silver.

“Last one in is buying breakfast tomorrow,” Joe calls out, already pulling his shirt over his head as he runs.

“That’s not fair! You have longer legs,” you’re protesting, but already reaching for the hem of your sundress and pulling it over your head as you sprint toward the water’s edge.

You’re grateful you’d kept your bikini on under the dress from the pool party earlier—a simple black two piece that’s nothing special, but makes you feel confident enough to not worry about it. Joe’s already in his swim trunks from earlier, and in the moonlight, you can see the lean lines of his torso, the way his shoulders move as he crashes into the waves.

You hit the water a few seconds after him, the lake unusually warm from the day’s heat. “I totally won,” you declare, splashing toward him.

“You absolutely did not,” Joe laughs, turning to face you as you wade deeper. “I was in first.”

“By like half a second, which doesn’t count because you’re basically a gazelle.”

“A gazelle?” He raises and eyebrow, grinning. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Fine, you’re like… a really tall and athletic giraffe.”

“Better.”

You splash water at him in retaliation, and he immediately splashes back, starting a water fight that quickly escalates into full scale warfare. You’re both laughing so hard you can barely breathe, diving under the surface to escape each other’s attacks, coming up gasping and immediately launching new offensives.

“Truce, truce,” you finally call out, wiping water from your eyes. “I’m drowning over here.” Joe stops immediately, “you good?” “I’m fine,” you assure him, but as you try to find your footing, you realize you’ve drifted father out than you thought. Your toes barely brush the sandy bottom, and you have to treat water to stay afloat. “Just deeper than I expected.”

Joe moves closer, and you can see that the water only comes up to his chest. Of course. Even in the water, his height gives him an advantage. “Can you touch?” The playful teasing from his voice is gone. You try again, stretching your toes downward, but you shake your head. “Not really. You?” “Yeah,” he says, taking another step closer. “Here, come here.”

There’s no time to second guess his words, his hands are on your waist, coaxing you effortlessly to him through the water. The space between you disappears, water slipping around your bodies as your skin brushes his beneath the surface.

Your legs hook around his waist, pulled there by the slow drag of water and the closeness of him. Fingers find balance against his chest, steadying yourself. He;s solid beneath your palms, skin warm and slick from the lake, his heartbeat thudding beneath your touch.

You feel bashful under his gaze because his hands stay exactly where they landed—low on your waist with no intentions of letting go. You blink once, twice, then look up toward the stars instead, pretending that the sky is the reason your breath caught.

“Look at the stars,” you whisper, voice barley audible over the gentle lapping of the water. “They’re so bright tonight.” You scan the sky, searching for the constellations Joe had shown you that first night together. There’s the Big Dipper, clear as day. Cassiopeia, that distinctive W shape. The North Star, a constant anchor. Successfully spotting each one feels like a small victory for yourself.

“I am looking at them,” Joe murmurs, voice low and rough in a way that makes your stomach flip. The tone of his voice draws your eyes back down, and when you do, you find his eyes are fixed on your face, not the sky at all.

The realization crashes into you, his eyes aren’t on the sky, they’re on you, and they haven’t moved once. Not when you tilted your head back or spoke softly in the dark. Not when you searched the stars for something to hold onto. He’s been looking at you like maybe you’re the only thing up there worth finding. 

You’re his star. 

The thought lands low in your stomach, fluttery and bright and a little impossible. It steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with something lighter that makes you lightheaded. Your fingers twitch against his chest, your thighs tighten slowly around his waist like your body’s reacting before you’ve even caught up.

“Joe,” you breathe, but it comes out weightless. He’s looking at you like you’re something miraculous, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. One of his hands moves from your waist to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin.

You lean into the touch before you even think to stop yourself—because you decided not to care anymore. And when he bends toward you, closing the last bit of distance, you meet him without hesitation.

The kiss is soft. Like exhaling. Like being found. He tastes like lakewater and breathless hope, like every almost that led to this moment, and you melt into it—your arms around his neck, his hand holding the back of your head, the gentle roll of water cradling you both. It’s not urgent, nor is it desperate, but it is inevitable. 

Joe kisses you like he’s afraid of scaring you off, and you kiss im back like you’re afraid he might stop.

When he finally pulls back, leaving just enough space to breathe, his forehead finds yours like he can’t stand to let you go completely. Your eyes are still closed, chest still rising and falling too fast. And beneath the surface, your legs are still wrapped around him, holding on like you haven’t quite figured out how to let go.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he admits quietly.

Your fingers slip into the hair at the base of his neck, threading through the wet strands carefully. “Yeah?” you whisper back.

His throat works as he swallows, pupils dilating the smallest bit. “Since that night after the baseball game. Maybe even before that.”

Hearing those words feels like a breath let go. Your chest swells, and suddenly it’s hard not to smile. Your cheekbones ache from how wide your grin is, it feels ridiculous, it feels perfect. “Me too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

And then he’s kissing you again, and you’re kissing him back, and you think that maybe some things are worth all the risk in the world.

August 7th, 2017

The past week has felt like living inside a dream you never wanted to wake up from.

Every morning started with a text from Joe—sometimes just a simple “morning pretty girl,” sometimes a photo of his breakfast plate with a message about how his pancakes didn’t taste like the ones you make, with a sad face. You’d started setting your alarm fifteen minutes earlier just so you could lie in bed and read his messages, smiling like an idiot at your phone while McKenna got ready in your shared bathroom.

Tuesday, you’d gone back to the farmers market, and Joe still carried your canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder without being asked. He’d looked slightly ridiculous—this tall, broad shouldered football player carefully cradling a bouquet of flowers in one hand while holding yours with the other—but he seemed completely unbothered by the picture you two painted.

When the elderly flower vendor had assumed you were a couple, and Joe didn’t correct her, you felt a warmth bloom in your chest.

“These are the same ones from last time,” he said as you walked away, nodding toward the flowers. “You want different ones next time or are these okay?” “I like those. They’re pretty,” you assured simply, but what you meant was: I like that you remember what I like. I like you paying attention to details that don’t matter to anyone else.

Wednesday night, you’d driven out to the lookout point again, but this time you spent more time kissing than stargazing. Joe spread a blanket in the bed of his truck again, and you laid there for hours with your head on his chest, his fingers tracing circles against your tattoo while you pointed out constellations and he pressed kisses to the top of your head for each you remembered correctly.

When you’d finally driven home around one in the morning, your lips were swollen and your hair was a mess, and you felt drunk on the sort of happiness you only thought existed in movies.

Thursday, he surprised you by showing up to your house with takeout from that Italian place you mentioned liking, even though it was completely out of his way. The two of you are sitting on your living room floor, sharing tiramisu straight from the container for dessert while some movie played unwatched in the background.

Your roommates came home to find you both asleep on the couch, your legs tangled together, Joe’s arm thrown protectively around your waist. Ariella sent the picture to the group chat with approximately eight heart eye emojis.

Friday had been perfect in its simplicity—just a lazy afternoon at Derek’s place, floating in his pool on inflatable loungers, Joe’s hand trailing in the water between you so his fingers could brush yours. You’d felt so content, so settled in a way you’d never experienced before. Like all the anxious energy that usually buzzed under your skin had finally gone quiet.

The tattoos on your wrists had healed beautifully, the small stars just a permanent reminder of that night when everything changed. Sometimes you were able to catch Joe absently rubbing his thumb over his own tattoo when he assumed you weren’t looking, and it made your stomach flutter each time.

You started leaving things around his own home without meaning to—a hair tie on his nightstand, a book on his coffee table, one of your hoodies draped over his desk chair. And he started doing the same at yours, his Ohio State water bottle appearing in your fridge, his extra phone charger plugged in next to your bed. 

But underneath all the bliss, there had been this awareness of an approaching deadline. August seventh. The day football training officially started back up, when Joe would shift back into athlete mode and you’d have to figure out how to fit into his newly restructured world. 

You tried not to think about it, had focused on instead memorizing the way he looked when he laughed at your terrible jokes, the sound he made when you kissed that spot just below his ear, the careful way he would willingly brush your hair when you were too tired to do so yourself. But the date had loomed anyway, circled in red on some invisible calendar in your mind.

Now, sitting on Derek’s back patio with McKenna and Iris, nursing a beer that’s gone warm in the afternoon heat, you can’t shake the feeling of unease.

“He’s two hours late,” McKenna observes, an unkindly reminder as she glances at her phone screen. “Isn’t that kinda weird for him?”

You shrug, trying to look unbothered even if you’ve been checking your phone every five minutes for the past hour. “First day of training. I’m sure it ran long.”

“You okay?” Iris asks, studying your face with the kind of attention that makes you squirm. “You seem anxious.” “I’m fine,” you lie, then immediately feel guilty about it. These are your best friends—you should be able to tell them that you’re worried about how the season is going to change the perfect way things have been going for the two of you. But putting those fears into words makes you teeter between feeling like it’ll give them powers, but also clingy. You’re not even dating him.

Derek emerges from the house carrying a cooler of fresh beers, followed by a couple of his teammates you’ve met in passing. The guys immediately launch into a discussion about the new offensive coordinator, speculation about the upcoming season, and complaints about the conditions drills that apparently nearly killed them today.

“Burrow looked like he was about to pass out,” one of them says, popping open a beer. “Dude pushes himself more than anyone else there.”

Your stomach tightens at the mention of Joe.

Another twenty minutes pass before you hear the familiar rumble of Joe’s truck in the driveway. You resist the urge to immediately look toward the sound, instead focusing intently on McKenna’s story about the last day of her internship, but you’re listening to every sound—the slam of his truck door, his voice greeting someone inside the house, the sliding door opening behind you.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice is flat as he steps onto the patio, and when you turn to look at him, your chest constricts with concern. He looks drained in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion. His hair is still damp from what you assume was a shower, his shirt clings to his skin, and there’s rashes of turf burn on various spots of his body.

“Hey,” you say softly, standing up to greet him. “How was—” “Long,” he cuts you off, moving past you toward the cooler without his usual kiss hello, without even really looking at you. “Really fucking long.” The dismissal stings more than it should, and you feel heat creep up as everyone else notices the tension. You sink back into your chair, trying to process the sudden shift in his demeanor.

Derek hands Joe a beer, and he drains half of it in one go before finally acknowledging the group. “Went longer than expected, sorry.”

“Heard it was brutal,” Derek says carefully. “You good?”

Joe shrugs, settling into the empty chair next to you. The conversation gradually picks up again, but you find it hard to focus on anything other than Joe. When Iris makes a comment about how tan everyone’s gotte this summer, Joe glances around the group before his eyes land on you for the first time since he arrived.

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when people have no real priorities,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes you want to crawl under your own skin.

You know he’s tired, know he’s had a rough day, but the casual cruelty of it takes your breath away. Around you, the conversation falters as everyone processes what just said, the uncomfortable silence stretching until it becomes unbearable. 

The exact moment Joe realizes what he’s done, his face changes.The defensive anger melts into horror as he takes you in, the way you’ve physically recoiled, the hurt and confusion that must be written all over your face. 

“Shit,” he says quietly, sinking down into his chair. “I didn’t… that came out wrong.” You stare at him for a moment, trying to reconcile this version of Joe who’s been leaving you good morning texts and buying you flowers. The one who held you while you watched the stars, who kissed everything better, who made you feel more wanted and valued than anyone else ever has.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” you say finally, voice controlled as you drop Iris’s hand when you stand up. You need distance, a moment to college yourself before you can say something you’ll regret.

“Wait,” Joe stants too, his voice hushed and urgent. “Can we—can I talk to you for a second?”

You want to be petty and say no, let him sit with the weight of his words, but his devastated expression stops you. Despite what he said, you can’t stand seeing him like that when he clearly knows he’s done wrong.

“Fine,” you say, but you don’t make it easy for him, you don’t move toward the privacy of the house. If he wants to apologize, he can do it here. 

Joe steps closer, his voice dropping so the others can’t hear. “I’m sorry. That was… I’m being an asshole and you don’t deserve that.” “No, I don’t,” you agree, watching him flinch at the coolness of your tone. 

“It was just a really bad day,” he continues, desperation creeping into his voice. “With everything—I feel like I’m walking into another year of hell, and I’m not looking forward to it. But that’s not your fault. And I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” You study his face, taking in the genuine remorse there. You understand the pressure he’s under, have listened to him talk about his fears and doubts enough to know how much this means to him.

“Football’s really important to you,” you say finally, and it’s not a question.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Maybe too important.” “And it’s probably going to get harder from here, more demanding.” “Probably.” His jaw tightens. “Almost definitely.” You nod slowly, processing this new side of things. The Joe from the past week—attentive, present, completely focused on you—that version might become harder to find as the season progresses. But the Joe standing in front of you now, apologizing for his mistakes, trying to be honest about his struggles… Maybe that’s the new version you need to learn to work with. Because you would—will, for him. “Okay,” you say finally. “But if you’re going to be stressed and taking it out on people, it can’t be me.”

“You’re right,” he says immediately. “You’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He steps closer again. “I really am sorry. Today was just a reminder I guess. About what this season is going to be like.”

You reach out and take his hand, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders when you do. “I get it.” Your voice drops as you guide him a couple steps away from everyone else. “But we need to figure out how to make this work, Joe. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The relief that crosses his face makes everything within you settle, because you know he was worried about that. He didn’t want to lose you. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I don’t want you to.”

And despite everything, despite the sting of his earlier words and the looming specter of a difficult season ahead, you find yourself believing him.

August 10th, 2017

The past few days had been a delicate dance of adjustment, both of you trying to find your footing in this new reality where football had reasserted its claim on Joe’s time and attention.

You’d spent most of Tuesday and Wednesday preparing for the upcoming semester—ordering textbooks that made your bank account weep, organizing your schedule around the classes you’d managed to get into after your academic probation scare, trying to mentally prepare yourself for organic chemistry round two.

The familiar anxiety about the upcoming school year had settled in your chest like a stone, made worse by the uncertainty of how you and Joe would navigate his increasingly demanding schedule. But Joe has been making an effort; a real, tangible effort that showed he’d taken your conversation at Derek’s to heart.

Tuesday evening, he showed up to your house still in his practice clothes, but carrying a bag of Italian takeout and wearing that apologetic smile that made it impossible to stay distant. He sat on your bedroom floor while you organized your class materials, occasionally reaching over to run his fingers through your hair or press a kiss to your shoulder as you worked.

Wednesday, he texted you during what you knew was a brief break between practice and film study. The message was simple, something about wanting to see you again that night, but it carried you through the rest of your day.

That night, he’s fallen asleep in your bed again, his head in your lap while you studied all your upcoming professors. You spent an hour just watching him sleep.

Thursday morning, you’d woken up to find he made coffee and left a note on your kitchen counter: Good luck with your advisor meeting today :) 

Now, lying in the bed of his truck under a blanket of stars with Joe’s lips moving against yours, you feel like maybe you’d been worrying for nothing.

The lookout point has become sacred ground for the two of you, a place where the rest of the world falls away and it’s just you and him and the vast Ohio sky. Tonight feels different though, full of something that makes your skin hypersensitive to every brush of his fingers, every shift of his body against yours.

You’d never gone further than heated makeout sessions before. Hands wandering under shirts, breaths coming fast against each other’s necks, urgent touches that left you both frustrated and wanting more.

“Missed this,” Joe whispers against your lips, his voice hoarse in a way that has nothing to do with practice and everything to do with the way your hands are threading through his still damp hair. “Missed you.”

“You saw me yesterday,” you point out, but you’re smiling, breathless from the way he’s looking at you. 

“Wasn’t enough,” he says simply, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time.

The kiss doesn’t ask for permission, it sinks into you as if he’s trying to speak through the shape of your mouth. Like he’s telling you everything he hasn’t found words for yet. His hand slips beneath your shirt, warm fingers splaying across your lower back like he wants to feel every inch of you he’s missed.

You arch into his touch, breath hitching as his palm moves up, mapping your ribs in slow strokes that leave heat in their wake. Your own hands find their way beneath his shirt, fingertips gliding over damp skin, still warm from the shower he must’ve taken before picking you up.

His muscles twitch under your touch, and he grains softly into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through you like a string pulled tight. “My pretty girl,” his mouth bites at yours. “Don’t know what you do to me,” his lips brush your jaw now, then your neck, moving like he can’t stop.

You tilt your head and give him more access to yourself, chest rising fast beneath his as his mouth finds the hollow of your throat. One hand travels lower, gripping the back of your thigh and guiding it around his hip.

“Joe,” you whisper out, barely audible, but it's all you can manage at the moment. He lifts at that, eyes finding yours in the dim light spilling from the sky. The air shifts. His breathing is uneven. Yours isn’t any better.

He watches you with something new simmering behind his eyes, as if he’s waiting for the signal. Like he doesn’t want to push it but also doesn’t want to stop. Luckily for him—you don’t want him to either.

So you reach for him.

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, fingers sweeping lightly over the short scruff he forgot to shave this morning. Joe exhales hard through his nose and kisses you again, messier this time. His hand slides back down the expanse of your thigh until it finds the curve of your ass and squeezes, pulling you flush against him. You feel him, all of him. Hard and pressing into you through layers that suddenly feel far too thin. 

You gasp into his mouth, and he groans in response, like he’s been waiting to hear that sound. “Lift this,” he tugs at the bottom of your shirt. 

The fabric peels away and the breeze is licking at your skin, but it barely registers. Not when Joe’s mouth is moving down your throat, not when his hands are skimming your bare skin, not when he kisses between the swell of your breasts like he’s been dying to.

He covers your body with his own, bracing his forearm beside his head. His other hand finds your opposite thigh, guiding it around his waist so both your legs are parted, bent around him in a way that feels possessive. 

You whimper when his hips rock into you, a soft, instinctual grind that spends sparks shooting through your stomach. “I know baby,” he chokes out, nose brushing against your cheek. “Just let me touch you.

You nod, a jerky movement more than anything. His fingers trail down your torso, dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts slowly, enjoying the way your body tenses. His knuckles graze the inside of your thigh and then he finds you.

And god—the noise that comes from him when he feels how wet you are is something feral that does more to you than anything else thus far. He curses under his breath and kisses you had, like he’s thanking you for it. 

“Look at you,” he mutters against your mouth, fingers moving lower to stroke you over your panties, coaxing another shiver from your spine. “So fuckin’ soft.” You arch into him as his touch grows more purposeful, his thumb brushing a tender circle through the damp fabric, teasing you through it. You feel like your whole body is pulsing toward his hand, your hips chasing the rhythm without meaning to.

He helps you work fully out of your shorts, tossing them aside, and you suddenly feel grateful for the privacy of your spot. You feel more exposed than ever, but not nervous. Not with him.

Not when Joe’s eyes find yours and stay locked there as he pushes your last bit of clothing to the side and slides one thick finger into you.

That first night you met him, you remember his hands with the telescope. How they completely dwarfed the adjustment knobs, how his fingers seemed to wrap around everything twice. Now you understand why even just one feels like so much.

You inhale sharply, the stretch of it feeling like too much and not enough at the same time. Joe’s expression tightens in response. “Fuck,” he presses his forehead against yours. “My girl—feel so good wrapped around me.” Your body clenches around him, muscles fluttering, and his tumb finds your clit, stroking it slowly while his finger works in and out of you in measured movements, testing what you like, what makes your mouth fall open.

In the moment, you can’t find it in yourself to stop staring at him. His jaw will flex, then his eyes flick down to watch what he’s doing, how your body reacts to him, then back to your face.

“Want another?” he teases with a small grin. You nod, desperate for more, and feel the second finger press in beside the first. It burns in the best way. Fills you.

Your hips jerk, and he catches you with his other hand, splayed across your lower stomach, holding you steady. Joe leans down and kisses you again, but it's slower this time as his fingers are working you open.

“Don’t stop,” you beg against his lips, feeling more alive than you have in months wrapped around him like this.

“Not planning to.” And he doesn’t. Joe keeps his rhythm steady, curling his fingers and pinching your clit every now and then, enjoying the way it makes you squirm from under him. Your breath comes out in ragged gasps, body rolling into his hand as much as his hold on you allows.

It builds like a slow flame, heat winding around your spine, climbing behind your ribs, and when it finally breaks—when you cry out and clamp around his fingers, back arching—Joe swallows hard and kisses you through it.

You’re still shaking when he finally pulls his hand away. He kisses your shoulder, your jaw, your temple. And then he whispers, with the softest kind of pride, “told you I missed you.”

September 9th, 2017

The roar of the stadium is deafening, but somehow it feels muted as you scan the sidelines looking for number ten. When you finally spot him, you tense with a mixture of relief and heartbreak.

He’s there—standing with the other quarterback, headset around his neck, clipboard in his uninjured hand—but he looks like a shadow of himself. Even from your seats up high in the student section, you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself apart from the celebration happening around him as the team scores another touchdown. 

He’s focused, locked in, but there’s something hollow about it. It’s like he’s going through the motions of being present while being somewhere else entirely.

It’s the first game since he’s been cleared to return to practice, though “return” feels like a generous word for what’s actually happening. He’s not playing. Hasn’t played a single meaningful snap since the injury. 

You know he’s watching Dwaryne Haskins take the snaps that should’ve—should—be his, watching his opportunity slip further and further away with each game.

“There he is,” Ariella says, following your gaze and pointing toward the sideline.” How’s he doing with all this?” You don’t know how to answer that question because you’re not sure you know anymore.

The call had come from Derek three days after that perfect night at the lookout point when you felt closer to Joe than ever before. You were in your room, trying to make sense of your class syllabi, when your phone rang.

“Hey, I need to tell you something,” the usual upbeat tone of his voice was long gone. “Joe’s in the hospital. He broke his hand at practice today.” The papers had slipped from your hand, pages fluttering as they hit the floor. “What? Is he okay? How bad is it?” “He had surgery on it. It went well, but…” Derek had paused, and you could hear muffled voices in the background. “Look, I found out from one of the guys on the team. Joe hasn’t called anyone yet, and I think… maybe it’s best if you don’t show up here.”

The words stung, but deep down you had to remind yourself that Derek’s reasoning made sense in the cruel way logical things often do. You texted Joe right after that call and stared at your phone for the rest of the night, waiting for a response that never came.

The next day passed in a haze of worry and checking your phone obsessively between classes. By Tuesday evening, you’d managed to convince yourself that maybe Joe’s phone was broken, or he was staying off it to focus on his health. There had to have been a reasonable explanation for his silence.

Then, finally, a short text came through. Just stating that he was fine, thanks for checking up on him.

Friday, after class, you’d driven to his house carrying homemade cookies you and your friends spent last night baking, his favorite drinks, and a stack of movies you thought might distract him. The Joe who answered the door was someone you barely recognized—pale, visibly exhausted with his right hand wrapped in a surgical case that made your stomach twist with sympathy.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said, but stepped aside to let you in.

“I wanted to,” you assured, following him to the couch where he’d clearly camped out for days. “How are you feeling?” “Like shit,” he said bluntly, settling heavily into the cushions. “Four to six weeks recovery, minimum. Fall camp is basically over, and I missed all of it.” You tried to find the right words, some combination of sympathy and optimism that might help, but everything felt inadequate. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. You’ll be back before the season really gets going—” “Will I?” The sharpness in his voice had made you flinch. “Haskins has been taking all the reps I should have been taking. By the time I’m cleared, he’ll have the backup spot locked down. Do you know what that means?” “It means I’ll be third string. Maybe fourth. It means I’ll spend the season holding a clipboard and watching other people play my position.” His jaw had clenched, and when he looked at you, his eyes were harder than you’d ever seen them. “How many years of work, and it’s probably over because of one stupid play in practice.”

The next few weeks were a careful dance around his moods. Joe, thankfully, softened somewhat after that first brutal conversation. He’d even apologized for being “a dick” when you were just trying to help. But the intimacy you’d built over the summer felt fragile now, strained under the weight of his frustration and the uncertainty of his future.

Classes were going full swing, and you’d thrown yourself into your coursework with determined focus. The professors were every bit as brutal as you’d feared, and between studying and trying to be supportive to Joe without being overwhelming, you felt stretched thin in such a way that left you exhausted by Friday evenings.

Joe was cleared for light practice two weeks ago, but you could see it in his face every time you asked about it—he was going through the motions, but the spark that had always defined him on the field was dimmed. He talked about football differently now, with a wariness that hadn’t been there before, like he was afraid to want it too much.

Now, watching him on the sideline as Ohio State dominates their opponent, you can see all of that frustration and disappointment written in the set of his shoulders. He’s not sulking—Joe would never sulk during a game—but you can see him balancing on the edge of something close to the sort.

“He looks good though,” McKenna offers, clearly trying to be positive. “I mean, healthy.” “Yeah,” you agree, though you’re not sure that’s entirely true. Physically, maybe. But the way he’s holding himself speaks to a different kind of injury, one that won’t heal as cleanly as broken bones. 

The crowd erupts around you as Ohio State scores another touchdown, but your eyes stay on Joe, willing him to look up into the stands, to find you somehow in the sea of scarlet and grey. He doesn’t, of course. He’s too professional for that, too focused on doing his job even when that job has been drastically reduced. 

But for just a moment, as the team celebrates around him, you see him glance toward the student section. It’s brief, probably meaningless, but you choose to believe he’s looking for you too. 

After the game, you text him: looked good out there. proud of you.

His response comes hours later, after you’ve already changed out of your game day clothes and started on your homework while your friends were out at some party. Thanks. Doing what I can.

October 15th, 2017

“—and I don’t want to hear excuses about being busy. Every other student manages to balance their coursework with preparing for the future. What makes you so special?” Your dad’s voice crackles through your phone speaker, sharp with the particular brand of disappointment you’ve grown up fearing. You’re sitting cross legged on your bed, homework spread around you like a defensive barrier, though it’s doing nothing to shield you from the familiar sting of his words.

“Dad, I know I should’ve applied already, but this semester has been really intense—” “Intense?” He cuts you off with a bitter laugh. “You think the real world cares if school is intense? You think employers are going to be impressed that you couldn’t handle basic time management as a student?” You close your eyes, pressing your fingers against your temple where a headache is building. Through your room window, you can see other students walking across campus in the October afternoon sun, looking carefree in a way that feels impossible foreign right now. “I’m not saying i couldn’t handle it, I’m just explaining—” “You’re making excuses. Just like with your grades last year. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was when Henderson asked how you were doing in school and I had to explain that my daughter was on academic probation?”

The words hit hard, and you have to bite your lip from saying something you’ll regret. You want to tell him about the sixty hour weeks you’ve been putting in this semester, about the study groups that run until midnight, about how you’ve been struggling to balance everything while also being there for Joe through what may be the worst period of his life.

But you can’t mention Joe—can’t explain that you’ve been splitting your emotional energy between organic chemistry and watching the person you care about most spiral into depression and self-doubt. 

Your dad would just see it as another excuse anyway. Another sign that you’re not serious about your future. “I’ll start applying this week,” you say finally, your voice smaller than you hoped. “I promise.”

“You’ll start applying today. And you’ll have at least five applications submitted by Friday, or we’re going to have a very different conversation about who’s paying for your education.” The threat hangs in the air like smoke, acrid and suffocating. You know he means it—your dad doesn’t make empty threats, especially when it comes to money and what he considers your lack of direction.

“Understood.”

“Good. And next time I call, I expect to hear about interviews. No more sob stories about how hard your classes are. Michael never had these problems.” Of course he brings up Michael. Perfect Michael with his perfect grades and his perfect internships and his perfect trajectory toward everything your father considers success. Michal, who’s never had to worry about academic probation or disappointing anyone because he was apparently born understanding exactly what was expected of him.

The line goes dead without a goodbye, leaving you staring at your phone screen in the sudden silence of your empty house. Around you, your homework waits patiently—chemical equations that need balancing, reaction mechanisms that need memorizing, problems that have clear answers if you just work hard enough to find them.

If only everything in life were as straightforward as organic chemistry.

You set your phone aside and try to refocus on your textbook but the words blur together as hot tears begin to well up in your eyes. The worst part isn’t even the lecture itself, it's the way your dad manages to make you feel like you’re fundamentally failing at life. Like every choice you make is evidence of some deep character flaw.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are making excuses. Maybe you should have applied for internships weeks ago instead of spending so much energy worrying about Joe. Maybe caring about someone else’s problems is just another form of procrastination, another way of avoiding your own responsibilities. 

The knock on your door startles you out of your spiral, and you quickly wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. It’s probably McKenna coming back from her sociology seminar, or Ariella returning from her date with the latest guy she’s convinced is “the one.” Iris, though, is always the one who forgets her key.

“Coming,” you call, your voice only slightly hoarse as you climb off your bed and pad to the front door in your socked feet. But when you open it, Joe is standing in your doorway.

He’s looking better these days, still tired but more present. His hand is free of the bulky cast, replaced by a simple brace that allowed him more movement. He’s wearing an Ohio State long sleeve you always said looked good on him. 

For a moment, you stare at each other. You’re aware of how you must look—wearing shorts and an oversized shirt, eyes probably still red-rimmed from crying. He studies your face with careful attention you haven’t seen from him in months.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice so gentle it makes your throat tight with fresh tears.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, stepping back to let him in even though every instinct is telling you to close the door and deal with this alone. “Just family stuff. It's fine.”

Joe follows you inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “It doesn’t look fine.”

You’re already walking toward your bedroom, hoping he’ll take the hint and let it go, but you can hear his footsteps behind you on the hardwood floor. When you reach your room, you settle back onto your bed among the scattered homework, picking up your pen and pretending to focus.

“Seriously, it’s nothing,” you insist without looking up. “My dad being… you know. My dad.” Joe lingers in your doorway for a moment before stepping into your room properly and you can feel his eyes on you as you try to work. The numbers and letters on the page swim together, your brain too scattered to make sense of even the simplest reactions.

“You’ve been crying,” he observes, settling on the edge of your bed.

The mattress dips under your weight, and despite everything, you feel some of the tension in you ease at his proximity. It feels like it’s been so long since he’s been fully present like this. “I’m fine,” you repeat, but your voice cracks on the words, betraying you.

And that’s when you lose it.

The tears you’ve been fighting since the phone call spill over, hot and fast and completely beyond your control. Your pen slips from your fingers as your shoulders shake with suppressed sobs, and you press your hands into your face in a futile attempt to hold yourself together. 

“Hey,” Joe says softly, and then his arms are around you, pulling you against his chest in the first real embrace you’ve shared in months. “Hey, it’s okay.”

But it’s not okay. Nothing feels okay. You’re drowning in school, your own dad thinks you’re a failure, you’ve been watching Joe struggle while feeling completely powerless to help, and now Jow is being kind to you for the first time in weeks and it’s making everything so much worse.

“I’m sorry,” you cry into him. “I’m such a mess right now.”

“You’re not a mess,” he assures, one hand stroking your hair while the other rubs gentle circles on your back. “You’re just having a hard time. There’s a difference.”

The tenderness in his voice breaks something open in your chest, and suddenly all the words you’ve been holding back come tumbling out. You tell him about the phone call, about your dad’s threats and the internship applications you’ve been putting off.

You tell him about feeling overwhelmed by school and scared about the future and guilty for caring more about his problems than your own responsibilities.

Joe listens without judgement, without trying to fix anything, just holding you while you finally let yourself fall apart. When your tears eventually slow, he tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his face raw with emotion. “I’ve been so caught up in my own shit that I haven’t been there for you. That’s not fair.”

“You’ve been dealing with a lot—”

“So have you,” he interrupts. “And I should have noticed. I should have been paying attention.”

There’s a bit of silence where you just look at each other, and you can feel something changing, some wall that’s been up since his injury finally crumbling. “I missed you,” the admission slips out before you can stop it.

“I missed you too,” he says, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. “So fucking much.”

And then he’s kissing you, soft and esperate and full of months of pent up longing. You kiss him back with everything you have, pouring all your frustration and fear and love into the connection between your mouths. 

What happens next feels inevitable, like the natural conclusion to these past months of building tension and denied feelings. Joe’s hands frame your face as he kisses you deeper, and when you tug at the hem of his shirt, he helps you pull it over his head. 

Your homework scatters to the floor as he lays you back against your pillows, forgotten in favor of the feeling of his skin against yours, the weight of him above you, the way he looks at you.

His mouth drags over your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth that sinks deep into your bones. You whisper out his name when his hips press down, the thick line of him already hardening against your thigh through your thin sleep shorts.

He pulls back just enough to see your face, his chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your skin. “I’ve thought about this every night,” his voice is rough and almost disbelieving. “You know that?”

You shake your head, and he licks his lips. “That night… in the truck. When you—” His eyes flick down your body, a dark flush rising up his neck. “Went home and fucked my hand so many times to the thought of you like that. Been living on that memory for months."

Your breath catches, a bolt of heat shoots through your belly at the admission. You close your eyes and picture the image of him alone in his room, desperate for you.

You pull him down by the back of his neck, kiss him with everything you’re feeling—the missing, the anger, the apology, the wanting that’s never gone away.

His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up, and you raise your arms to let him take it off. The moment you’re bare to him, he drags his mouth down your chest, kissing the soft swell of your breast before sucking your nipple into his mouth, tongue warm and eager.

Your back arches. You feel dizzy with how much you want him, how much you want this to mean something. “Joe… please,” you breathe out, the word slipping from you like a secret. You rock your hips up into him and he groans, biting down just enough to make you gasp.

He pulls back, eyes blown wide, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. “You sure?” he rasps. “Baby, you tell me now—”

“I’m sure,” you say without hesitation, reaching for the waistband of his sweats. “I want you. I’ve wanted you.”

Joe kisses you so deeply you feel it in your stomach, one big hand trailing down to slip under the elastic of your shorts, pushing them down your hips. You squirm out of them, all clumsy and breathless, and when you’re finally bare, he pauses and looks at you. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, stroking a hand up your thigh, spreading you open for him. “So perfect.”

You whimper when his fingers slide through your folds, finding you already soaked for him. His forehead drops to yours, “god, you’re gonna ruin me.”

Laughing shakily, you thread your fingers through his hair. “You’ve already ruined me.”

His answering smile is small, crooked, almost shy. Then he’s tugging his pants down enough to free himself, and your eyes widen at the sight of him—thick, flushed, the head wet where it presses against your thigh.

He strokes himself once, twice, your slick coating his hand, before lining up with you. The tip nudges your entrance and you tense, hips rolling forward instinctively. “Breathe for me, baby,” Joe soothes, voice gone soft.

He kisses you through the stretch as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. It’s nearly too much—the burn, the way he fills you so completely. Your nails bite into his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Good girl… that’s it. Doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

When he bottoms out, your whole body trembles. You feel him everywhere, inside you, over you, in every frantic heartbeat that drums behind your ribs. 

You open your eyes to find him already watching you, gaze molten and tender all at once. His thumb brushes against your cheek again like he needs to make sure you’re real. “Look at me,” he whispers. “Want you to remember this.”

He pulls back, the drag of him sending a shockwave through your core, then rocks back in, slow at first, testing the give of you, finding a rhythm that has you gasping his name.

Your hips roll up to meet him, desperate for more friction, and Joe lets out a broken sound that goes straight to your core. He braces one hand behind your knee, pressing it up toward your chest you open you wider, sink deeper. 

“You feel so good,” he groans. “Been losing my mind thinking about this. About out.” “Me too,” you whimper, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t stop, Joe, Please—”

“I’m not stopping,” he vows, fucking into you harder, the headboard knocking against the wall with each trust. “Never would.”

Your whole body coils tight, pleasure winding sharp and sweet inside you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans, his pace growing rougher as your name falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when you come—when it finally breaks—you clutch at him like you’ll drown in it without him, his hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge, buried so deep you swear you feel him in your throat. 

Afterward, he doesn’t move right away, but before he does, he reaches for your right hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the small star etched into your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours.

November 28th, 2017

November had been a month of almosts. Almost like the summer you’d fallen in love with. Almost the way things used to feel between you and Joe. Almost enough to convince yourself that October had been the turning point you’d hoped for.

But almosts weren’t quite enough, and you spent the past few weeks existing in the uncomfortable space between hope and disappointment, never quite sure which Joe would show up when you were together. The good days were really good. Joe would pick you up from his afternoon classes, drive you to get coffee at that place near campus you both loved, and for an hour or two, it would feel like summer again.

He’d listen to you talk about your struggles with classes, ask follow up questions about your professors, steal bites of whatever pastry you’d ordered while pretending he didn’t want his own. Those moments felt like proof that whatever changed between you could change back, that the connection you built wasn't completely lost.

But then Saturday would roll around, and you’d be reminded that football was still the thing that defined Joe’s emotional state. Game days brought out a version of him that was sharp edged and distant, focused entirely on what was happening on the field. You learned to give him space on those days, to not take it personally when he barely responded to your texts or when his kisses felt more perfunctory rather than passionate.

He was better than he had been the past couple of months—less prone to the kind of bitter comments that had stung so badly at Derek’s—but there was still something guarded about him that hadn’t been there during those perfect summer weeks.

The weekend you’d gone home to visit your family had crystallized in your confusion in a way that left you more unsettled than before. You’d been complaining about having to make the drive alone, how they’d ask why you looked so tired, whether you were taking care of yourself, when Joe looked up from the textbook he was reading.

“I could come with you,” he said casually like he was suggesting grabbing lunch rather than meeting your family. “Might be fun to see where you grew up.”

You stared at him, completely blindsided by the suggestion. Meeting family felt like a relationship milestone, the kind of thing people did when they were serious about each other, when they were ready to integrate their lives in meaningful ways.

But the way Joe said it, so offhandedly without any apparent awareness of the significance—had left you completely unsure whether he was joking or not.

“You want to meet my family?” 

“Sure, why not?”

The comment left you spending the entire three hour drive home and whole weekend analyzing his tone, trying to figure out if he was serious. Did he want to meet your family because he saw a future with you, or was he just being friendly? Was this his way of telling you he was ready to take things to the next level, or had it genuinely been a throwaway comment with no deeper meaning? You returned to campus more confused than when you left, and when Joe asked how the weekend went, you were too embarrassed to bring up his offer again. 

Then, there were the mysterious absences. Three different times this month, Joe had cancelled plans with vague explanations about “meetings” or “taking care of some stuff.” When you asked for details, he’d been evasive in a way that wasn’t quite suspicious but wasn’t entirely reassuring either. 

“Just meeting with some people,” he claimed when you pressed him about missing your study date the previous Tuesday. “Nothing interesting.” But Joe’s definition of “not interesting” was usually things like mandatory team meetings or academic advisory check-ins—things he’d normally complain about in detail. The fact that he was being so deliberately vague made you wonder if something bigger was going on, something he didn’t want to share with you.

Maybe it was nothing, maybe you were reading too much into normal college guy behavior, letting your own insecurities turn innocent omissions into evidence of him pulling away. But the doubt had taken root anyway, adding another layer of uncertainty to everything between you.

Through it all, you'd been trying to navigate the increasingly demanding second half of the semester. Organic chemistry had somehow gotten even more brutal, and you'd been spending most of your free time in the library, surrounded by reaction mechanisms and molecular structures. 

The internship applications your dad had threatened you about were finally submitted, but the constant pressure to stay on top of everything academic while also trying to figure out your relationship with Joe was exhausting in a way that left you drained by the end of each day.

Now, sitting at your desk trying to make sense of a particularly complex synthesis problem, you feel that familiar weight settling in your chest. The late afternoon light is already fading outside your room window, and you have a stats problem set due tomorrow that you haven't even started.

You're so absorbed in the chemical equation in front of you that the knock on your door makes you jump. McKenna and Iris are both at work, and Ariella is at her boyfriend’s place, so you're not expecting anyone. For a moment, you consider ignoring it entirely—you really need to finish this homework, and unexpected visitors rarely bring good news.

But the knocking comes again, more insistent this time, and you reluctantly push back from your desk.

Joe is standing in your doorway holding a bouquet of wildflowers—the same mix of sunflowers, daisies, and those little purple flowers whose names you never learned that he used to buy you every week at the farmers market. They're slightly wilted around the edges, clearly picked up at the end of a long day, but they're beautiful in the imperfect way that makes your chest tight with unexpected emotion.

"Hi," he says, and there's something almost shy about his expression, like he's not entirely sure how this gesture will be received.

"Hi," you echo, stepping aside to let him in. "What's this for?"

"Last farmers market of the year was today," he explains, following you toward your room. "Figured you might want these."

The simple explanation warms you. You'd completely forgotten that the farmers market season was ending, had been so caught up in homework and relationship uncertainty that you'd lost track of the small rhythms that had once structured your weeks with Joe. But he'd remembered. He'd gone without you, had thought to buy the same flowers he always bought you, had shown up at your door because he knew it would matter to you.

"You went without me?" you ask, settling onto your bed and watching as he sets the flowers on your nightstand with careful attention.

"You've been swamped with that organic chemistry stuff," he says, sitting down beside you. "Didn't want to bother you."

It’s like he's trying not to make you feel guilty for being busy, but also maybe like he's gotten used to doing things alone that you used to do together.

"You should have told me," you say softly. "I would have made time."

Joe looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment his expression is so open and vulnerable that it takes your breath away. "I wanted to surprise you," he admits.

He leans over and kisses you then, gentle and sweet and tasting like the promise of better days ahead. When he pulls back, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing in a gesture that feels both familiar and new.

"I have about an hour before I need to get back for team dinner," he says. "Want to put these in water and tell me about your chemistry homework?"

You laugh, surprising yourself with how natural it feels. "It's organic chemistry, and it's terrible, and you're going to be so bored."

"Try me," he says, and for the first time in weeks, it feels like maybe he really means it.

As you get up to find a vase for the flowers, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above your dresser. You look happier than you have in days, lighter somehow, and you realize that maybe Joe was right. Maybe this—the flowers, the honesty, the simple act of showing up—was exactly what you both needed.

December 17th, 2017

Can I come help with Christmas shopping tomorrow? Joe's text had come through the night before, when you were sprawled on your childhood bed dreading the inevitable mall chaos.

you want to drive 3 hours to go Christmas shopping? you'd texted back.

I want to spend the day with you. The shopping is just an excuse.

You'd fallen asleep smiling at your phone, and this morning you actually put effort into getting ready, choosing your favorite jeans and the sweater that makes your eyes look brighter. Your dad had left for work an hour ago, giving you a pointed look and reminding you that he'd be home by five.

Joe arrives right on time, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a white hoodie, carrying two coffee cups and wearing that slightly nervous smile that means he's more invested in this going well than he's letting on.

"You actually came," you say, stepping outside and accepting the coffee that you know without looking will be exactly how you like it.

"Told you I would," he says, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "Ready to fight some crowds?"

Joe follows you through store after store with the patience of a saint, offering opinions when asked and staying diplomatically quiet when you're clearly overthinking things. At Williams Sonoma, he finds the perfect grilling set for your dad without you even having to explain what you're looking for.

"How did you know?" you ask, watching him examine the stainless steel tools with the kind of confidence that suggests he actually knows what he's talking about.

"My dad's got the same setup at home," Joe says. "Guys love this stuff. Makes them feel professional."

He insists on carrying all your bags, even when you protest that you can handle them yourself. At Bath & Body Works, he patiently waits while you agonize over scent combinations for your cousin, occasionally making comments that are surprisingly helpful for someone who probably hasn't set foot in the store before today.

"This one," he says, picking up a lotion. "Smells like you."

The observation makes your cheeks warm, especially when you realize he's right—it is similar to the perfume you usually wear.

Lunch is at the food court, which should feel like a strange place for what's essentially a date, but somehow doesn't. Joe seems genuinely interested in your stories about growing up here, about the summer job your dad made you get at the pretzel stand when you were sixteen, about the movie theater where you had your first kiss with Tommy Martinez in eighth grade.

"Should I be jealous of Tommy Martinez?" he asks, stealing one of your french fries.

"Probably not. He had braces and tasted like popcorn."

"Good to know I'm an improvement."

The afternoon continues in the same easy rhythm. Joe helps you pick out a scarf for your aunt, talks you out of buying the obviously overpriced earrings you're considering for your cousin, and somehow makes waiting in the endless gift-wrapping lines feel less like torture and more like an excuse to stand close to him while Christmas music plays overhead.

"Thank you," you say as you walk back to his truck, arms full of perfectly wrapped presents and shopping bags. "For driving all the way here just to help me shop for people you don't even know."

"I wanted to see where you grew up," Joe says, loading the bags into his truck bed with careful attention. "And I like doing things like this with you. Normal stuff."

The word 'normal' hits you in a way you don't expect. Because this does feel normal, domestic in the best possible way. Like something you could get used to doing together.

The drive back to your house is quiet and comfortable, Joe's hand finds yours across the center console while some Christmas song plays softly on the radio. The winter sun is already starting to set, casting everything in that golden light that makes even the suburbs of your hometown look magical.

"My dad might be home," you say as Joe parks in your driveway. 

"Is he going to give me the intimidating father talk?" Joe asks, but he's smiling like the prospect doesn't really worry him.

"Probably just the intimidating father stare," you say. "He's not much for talking."

Joe gathers your shopping bags from the truck bed, insisting on carrying them even though you could manage them yourself. You're still protesting when you open the front door and freeze.

Your dad is sitting at the dining room table, but he's not alone. Michael is there too, along with his fiancée Sarah, all of them looking up as you walk in with Joe behind you carrying an armload of shopping bags.

"Hey," you say awkwardly.

Your dad's expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the way his eyes take in Joe's presence, the shopping bags, the obvious fact that you've spent the entire day together. There's something in his posture that reminds you of every lecture you've ever gotten about focusing on your future instead of getting distracted by boys.

"Dad, this is Joe," you say, stepping aside so Joe can set the bags down. "Joe, this is my dad. And my brother Michael and his fiancé Sarah."

Joe steps forward with the kind of confident politeness that you know comes from years of meeting coaches and boosters and other people whose opinions matter. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Your dad stands up and shakes Joe's hand, his grip probably firmer than necessary, his expression giving away nothing. "Joe."

"And you must be Michael," Joe continues, turning to your brother. "Congratulations on the engagement."

"Thanks," Michael says, and you can see the moment he makes the connection. "Wait, Joe Burrow? Ohio State football?"

Something changes in Joe's expression, a subtle shift that you probably wouldn't notice if you hadn't been watching him so closely. "Yeah," he says quietly.

"That's awesome, man. You have plans for next season? I heard this one wasn’t the one for you."

The question hangs in the air, and you watch as Joe goes slightly pale, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "I'm not sure yet," he says, his voice carefully even. "Still figuring things out."

There's something in his tone that suggests this is territory he doesn't want to explore, and you feel a sudden protective urge to change the subject. But before you can say anything, your dad speaks up.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Joe," he says, his tone polite but distant. "I assume you'll be heading back home soon."

It's not quite a dismissal, but it's close enough that you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Joe, to his credit, doesn't seem fazed.

"Yes sir, probably in the next hour or so. Don't want to drive too late."

The conversation continues for a few more awkward minutes, your dad asking polite but pointed questions about Joe's major and his plans after graduation, Michael making small talk about football that seems to make Joe increasingly uncomfortable. 

Finally, mercifully, Joe glances at his watch and announces that he should probably get going.

"I'll walk you out," you say quickly, grabbing your coat and following him outside before anyone can object.

The December air is sharp and cold, but it feels like a relief after the tension of your family's dining room. "That was fun," he says dryly, but he's smiling in a way that suggests he's not entirely put off by the experience.

"My dad's just protective," you say, even though you know it was more than that. "And Michael... he doesn't really know when to stop asking questions."

"It's fine," Joe says, but you can see something thoughtful in his expression, like he's processing more than he's saying.

"Are you okay? About the football stuff, I mean. You seemed—"

"I'm fine," Joe cuts you off gently, but firmly. "Just not really something I want to get into right now, you know?"

You nod, even though you have a dozen more questions you want to ask. Instead, you step closer to him, close enough that you can see your breath mingling in the cold air.

"Thank you for today," you say softly. "For driving all the way here, for helping me shop, for being so patient with my family. It was perfect."

"Even the awkward dinner table interrogation?"

"Especially that," you say, and when he laughs, the sound makes something warm bloom in your chest despite the cold.

Joe reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. "I had a really good day," he says. "I like seeing you here. In your space."

"I like having you here."

He leans down and kisses you then, soft and sweet and tasting like the hot chocolate you shared at the mall. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment.

"Drive safe," you whisper.

"Always do," he says, stepping back toward his truck. "Text me when you get the rest of those presents wrapped."

"That's going to be a very late text."

"I'll wait up."

January 18th, 2018

The coffee shop near campus buzzes with the familiar energy of the first full week back from winter break—students catching up on holiday stories, comparing spring schedules, and settling back into the rhythm of campus life. You're sitting at your usual table by the window, the one that gets good sunlight, watching for Joe through the glass while absently scrolling through your phone.

The past week has been a whirlwind of syllabus collection and textbook purchasing. Your schedule is packed this time—organic chemistry II, advanced statistics, two psychology electives, and the internship seminar that goes along with the position you'd finally landed over break. The internship your dad had been pushing you toward since sophomore year.

When you'd gotten the acceptance email three days after New Year's, you'd immediately thought about telling Joe. Not just because it was good news, but because it felt like the kind of thing you'd want to share with someone who understood how much pressure you'd been under.

Joe pushes through the coffee shop door at exactly two-thirty, scanning the crowded space until his eyes find yours. He's wearing the navy blue henley you bought him for Christmas, the one that makes his eyes look even more blue than usual, and his hair is slightly messy from the January wind. When he spots you, his face breaks into a genuine smile, and for a moment it feels exactly like it used to—like summer, like possibility, like everything is exactly as it should be.

"Hey," he says, sliding into the chair across from you and shrugging out of his jacket. "Sorry, meeting ran long. Coach is really pushing hard this off-season."

"It's fine," you say, and you mean it. You've learned to build extra time into any plans involving Joe and football. "I ordered for you—medium black coffee with one sugar. That's still right, isn't it?"

"Perfect," he says, and the grateful look he gives you makes something warm bloom in your chest. 

You talk easily about surface things at first—smaller details about your respective winter breaks went, complaints about professors who assigned textbooks that cost more than your monthly grocery budget, the way campus feels different in January with all the fresh snow and new semester energy. 

Joe tells you about the team's winter conditioning program, about Derek's New Year's party that apparently got so out of hand the neighbors called the police, about his mom's attempts to feed him enough food over break to last the entire spring semester.

"She sent me back with like six containers of leftovers," he says, laughing. "I'm pretty sure she thinks the dining halls are trying to starve me."

"Moms are like that," you say, thinking about how your own dad had lectured you about eating enough vegetables.

There's a natural lull in the conversation, and you find yourself fidgeting with your coffee cup, turning it in slow circles on the table. The news about your internship feels too big to keep to yourself, but you're also nervous about how Joe will react. Not because you think he won't be happy for you, but because good news sometimes highlights the uncertain areas of your own life, and you're not sure where Joe fits into your post-graduation plans.

"I got some good news over break," you say finally, unable to contain your excitement any longer. "Remember that internship I applied for? The one downtown? They offered me a position for this summer."

Joe's face lights up immediately, genuinely pleased in a way that makes your chest tight with affection. "That's amazing! I know how much you wanted that one. Your dad must be thrilled."

"Oh, he's practically planning the celebration dinner already," you say with a laugh. "I think he's more excited than I am. He keeps talking about how it's going to 'open doors' and 'set me up for success after graduation.'"

"He's probably right," Joe says, stirring his coffee even though he hasn't added anything to it. "That's a really big deal. Competitive program, right?"

"Super competitive. I honestly didn't think I'd get it." You pause, watching his face carefully. "It's going to be a lot of work on top of classes this semester, but it feels like the right move. You know, getting serious about what comes after all this."

You let the comment hang in the air, not quite a question but definitely an opening. A door that invites someone to share their own thoughts about the future, their own plans for what comes after graduation. You find yourself holding your breath slightly, waiting to see if Joe will walk through it.

But he doesn't. Instead, he takes a long sip of his coffee and nods thoughtfully. "That's really great. You're going to be amazing at it."

The moment passes, and you feel smaller. Full of not disappointment, exactly, but something like it.

"Thanks," you say, trying to keep the moment light. "I'm nervous, but excited. It feels good to have something concrete lined up, you know?"

"Absolutely," Joe agrees, but there's something in his tone that suggests the conversation is closed, that he's not going to offer up any information about his own post-grad thoughts.

You pivot to safer topics after that—asking about his classes this semester, listening to him describe the new playbook they're learning, sharing your own fears about organic chemistry II and whether you'll be able to handle the increased workload.

Joe seems more careful with his words than usual, more measured in a way that feels unlike the easy openness you'd grown accustomed to over the past months. He's present and engaged, asking questions about your classes and laughing at your stories about your roommates' various winter break adventures, but there's something held back in his responses, some part of himself that feels guarded.

When he asks about your Christmas shopping purchases and whether your family liked everything you picked out, you tell him about your dad's reaction to the grilling set, about how your aunt had called to thank you for the scarf you'd chosen. The conversation feels comfortable and familiar, but you notice that Joe doesn't bring up meeting your family, doesn't reference that day in the same warm, nostalgic way you'd expected.

Maybe you're overthinking it. Maybe the semester starting has just put him back in football mode, made him more focused on the immediate demands of school and athletics. Maybe the distance you're sensing isn't distance at all, just the natural adjustment period that comes with transitioning back to busy schedules and competing priorities.

An hour passes easily, and when Joe glances at the time and mentions that he should probably head back, you do feel a pang of disappointment this time. 

"I should get going too," you say, gathering your jacket. "Professor Williams wants us to have the first three chapters read before class tomorrow."

"Already kicking your ass?" Joe asks with a grin, standing up and helping you organize your things.

"Oh, absolutely. I'm pretty sure I'm going to spend the next four months feeling like I'm drowning."

"You're not going to drown," Joe says with the kind of confidence that makes you believe him. "You're too stubborn to let some class beat you."

Outside the coffee shop, the weather is the sort that makes you want to walk fast and get indoors as quickly as possible. Joe walks you to your car, carrying your bag without being asked, and when you reach your driver's side door, he pulls you into a hug.

"It's good to see you," he says into your hair, and the warmth in his voice makes something loosen in your chest. "I missed this. Just talking."

"Me too," you say, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the cold winter air. "We should do this more often. Regular coffee dates."

"I'd like that," Joe says, pulling back to look at you. He kisses you goodbye, soft and sweet and tasting like coffee, and when he pulls away, his hand lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary.

"Drive safe," he says, stepping back so you can get in your car.

"Always do," you reply, echoing the exchange that's become routine between you.

As you drive back to campus, you find yourself thinking about the afternoon, trying to parse the feeling that something was slightly off without being able to identify what exactly it was. 

You push the thought away as you climb the stairs to your room. Whatever it is, it's probably nothing that can't be worked through with time and patience. After all, you've navigated harder things together—his injury, the pressures of football season, the complicated dynamics of balancing school with whatever this relationship is becoming.

Some things just take time to settle, you tell yourself. Some conversations happen when they're ready to happen, not when you're ready to have them.

March 25th, 2018

The sunlight filtering through Joe’s room window has that wishful quality that only comes in late March, when winter is finally loosening its grip and spring feels like a real possibility rather than just a distant promise. You're curled up against him on his couch, your legs tangled with his, both of you supposedly studying but really just enjoying the quiet comfort of being together.

Your textbook lies open but mostly ignored in your lap while Joe scrolls through something on his laptop—film study, probably, or maybe just checking his email. The past few weeks have settled into a rhythm that feels both familiar and slightly strained, like a song played in a key that's almost but not quite right.

Spring break had come and gone with both of you staying in town—you because your internship required you to start early, Joe because of other obligations. You'd spent most of that week together, falling back into some semblance of the easy intimacy you'd shared during the summer, but even then, there had been moments when you'd catch him staring off into space with an expression you couldn't dissect.

Now, with graduation looming just six weeks away, the campus has taken on that particular energy that comes at the end of senior year—a mixture of nostalgia, anxiety, and excited anticipation that makes everything feel both urgent and dreamlike. Your friends have been talking nonstop about post-graduation plans, about job offers and graduate school applications and the terrifying prospect of real adulthood.

"McKenna got that job in Chicago," you say, breaking the silence that had settled between you. "The one at the nonprofit she was hoping for. She's already looking at apartments."

"That's great," Joe says, glancing up from his laptop screen. "She'll love Chicago. Big city, lots to do."

"Yeah, she's really excited. Says she's ready to get out of Ohio, try something completely different." You pause, turning a page in your textbook without really seeing the words. "Iris is probably moving back home to Cleveland. Her mom's been on her about staying close to family."

Joe makes a noncommittal humming sound. You've been noticing that lately—the way he deflects conversations about the future, changes the subject when talk turns to post-graduation plans.

"What about you?" you ask, trying to keep your tone casual even though the question feels heavier than it should. "Have you figured out what you want to do after graduation?"

The question hangs in the air between you, and you feel Joe's body tense slightly against yours. He doesn't look up from his laptop immediately, and when he does, there's something carefully neutral about his expression.

"Oh, you know me," he says with a laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll probably just wing it. See what happens."

The deflection is so obviously a deflection that it makes your chest tighten with frustration. You've been together for almost a year now, have shared things with each other that you've never told anyone else, and yet when it comes to something as basic as his plans for the immediate future, he's treating you like a casual acquaintance.

"Come on," you say, shifting so you can look at him directly. "I'm serious. You have to have some idea. Are you going to try to stay in Ohio? Look for jobs here? I mean, we're graduating in six weeks."

Joe closes his laptop and sets it aside, but instead of meeting your eyes, he focuses on the coffee table in front of him. "I don't know," he says finally. "There are a lot of variables. Football stuff, you know? It's complicated."

"What kind of football stuff?" you press, because this vague non-answer feels worse than no answer at all. "Are you thinking about a corporate job somewhere? Or coaching? You've never really talked about what you want to do after college."

"Because I don't know," Joe says, and there's an edge to his voice now that makes you pull back slightly. "I don't have some grand plan mapped out, okay? Some of us can't just land the perfect internship and have everything figured out."

The comment stings more than it should, especially because you know he doesn't mean it the way it sounds. Your internship hasn't been perfect—it's been demanding and stressful and has made this semester feel like you're constantly playing catch-up. But more than that, his deflection hurts because it feels like a wall going up between you, a barrier that keeps you from accessing the part of him that used to feel completely open to you.

"I don't have everything figured out," you say quietly. "I'm just as scared as everyone else about what comes next. But I thought... I thought we could talk about it. Together."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you've learned to recognize as a sign that he's frustrated or feeling cornered. "Look, can we just not do this right now? I've got enough pressure from coaches and advisors and everyone else asking about my plans. I don't need it from you too."

The words hit like a slap, and you feel your face flush with a combination of hurt and embarrassment. You're not "everyone else"—you're supposed to be the person he can talk to about the things that worry him, the person who understands the pressure he's under better than anyone.

"I'm not pressuring you," you say, pulling your legs up and wrapping your arms around your knees. "I'm trying to have a conversation about our futures. That's what people in relationships do."

"Are we in a relationship?" Joe asks, and the question is so unexpected, so blindsiding, that for a moment you can't find words to respond.

"What do you mean?" you finally manage, your voice smaller than you intended.

Joe immediately looks stricken, like he can't believe he just said what he said. "Shit, I didn't... that came out wrong. I didn't mean it like that."

"How did you mean it?"

He's quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured in a way that feels rehearsed. "I just meant that we've never really defined what this is. And with graduation coming up, with everything changing... maybe it's better to not make assumptions about what happens next."

The rational part of your brain understands what he's saying. You have never officially defined your relationship, have never had the "what are we" conversation that turns casual dating into something more serious. But the emotional part of you is reeling from the suggestion that almost a year of shared moments, of him meeting your family, of matching tattoos and late-night conversations and sex, might not mean what you thought it meant.

"So what are we then?" you ask, proud of how steady your voice sounds despite the chaos in your chest. "What would you call this?"

Joe meets your eyes for the first time since the conversation started, and the expression you see there is so conflicted, so full of something that looks like pain.

Did it pain him to think about this?

"I don't know," he says quietly. "I wish I did, but I don't know."

The honesty in his voice is almost worse than the deflection had been. At least when he was being evasive, you could tell yourself that he was just being private, just processing things in his own way. But this admission—that after everything you've shared, he genuinely doesn't know what you are to each other—feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet.

You sit in silence for several minutes, both of you staring at different points in the room, both of you clearly trying to figure out what to say next. The evening light has faded to dusk while you've been talking, and Joe's room feels smaller somehow, like the walls have moved closer together.

"I should probably go," you say finally, closing your textbook and gathering your things. "I have that paper due tomorrow anyway."

"You don't have to leave," Joe says, but there's no real conviction in his voice. "We can just... watch a movie or something. Forget about all this."

"I think I need some space to think," you say, standing up and slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "About what you said. About what this is."

Joe stands too, following you toward the door with the kind of careful distance that suggests he's not sure whether you want him close or far away. "I really didn't mean for it to come out like that," he says as you reach for your jacket. "About the relationship thing. That was... I was being an idiot."

"Were you though?" you ask, pausing with your hand on the doorknob. "Because maybe you're right. Maybe we have been making assumptions."

"Don't do this," Joe says, and there's something almost desperate in his voice. "Don't let one stupid conversation mess up everything good between us."

"I'm not trying to mess anything up," you say, turning to face him. "I'm just trying to understand what we're doing here. What we've been doing for the past year."

Joe steps closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, close enough that you can smell his cologne mixed with the laundry detergent you've learned to associate with comfort and safety.

"What we've been doing is being happy," he says softly. "At least, I've been happy. Haven't you?"

The question breaks something open in you, because yes, you have been happy. Happier than you've ever been with anyone, happier than you knew was possible. But happiness without direction, without some sense of where it's leading, feels suddenly fragile in a way that scares you.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I have been happy."

"Then why does everything else have to matter right now?" Joe asks, reaching up to cup your cheek. "Why can't we just be happy?"

You lean into his touch despite yourself, closing your eyes and trying to memorize the feeling of his palm against your skin. "Because eventually everything else does matter," you say. "Because we're graduating in six weeks, and I don't know if you're going to be here next year, and I don't know what that means for us."

"We'll figure it out," Joe says, but even he doesn't sound convinced. "Whatever happens, we'll figure it out."

You want to believe him. You want to sink into the comfort of his touch and the familiar warmth of his voice and let tomorrow worry about itself. But something has shifted tonight, some fundamental understanding about what you mean to each other and what kind of future you're building together.

"I hope so," you say, pulling away from his touch and opening the door. "I really hope so."

The drive back to your house feels longer than usual, and you spend most of it replaying the conversation in your mind, trying to figure out where exactly things went wrong. By the time you're climbing the stairs to your room, you're no closer to understanding what just happened, but you're absolutely certain that something important has changed between you and Joe.

Something that you're not sure can be unchanged, no matter how much you both might want it to be.

May 8th, 2018

The organic chemistry textbook in front of you might as well be written in a different language for all the sense it's making right now. You've been staring at the same page about molecular orbital theory for the past twenty minutes, your brain too fried from three consecutive days of studying to absorb any new information. 

Finals week is in full swing, and your room has taken on the chaotic appearance of someone who's given up on maintaining any semblance of organization in favor of pure academic survival.

Coffee cups in various stages of emptiness sit scattered across your desk alongside highlighters, note cards, and the remnants of the granola bar you'd optimistically thought would count as lunch. Your roommates are similarly buried in their own academic disasters—McKenna camped out in the library for her senior thesis defense prep, Iris stress-eating her way through a statistics final, and Ariella having what she calls a "controlled breakdown" over her capstone project in the room next door.

You reach for your phone, telling yourself you're just checking the time but really looking for any excuse to avoid thinking about molecular orbitals for another few minutes. The blue light of the screen makes you blink as you scroll aimlessly through social media, your thumb moving automatically through the endless stream of posts about finals stress, summer excitement, and graduation countdown posts.

That's when you see it.

@JoeyB has posted a new tweet, and your heart does that automatic little flutter it always does when you see his name pop up unexpectedly. You and Joe have been in a weird place since that conversation at his apartment in March—still talking, still hanging out occasionally with friend groups or meeting for coffee, but everything feels more careful now, more surface-level. You've been existing in that strange space where you're not quite together but not exactly apart either, having pleasant conversations about classes and finals while carefully avoiding anything deeper.

Just last week you'd run into him at the campus coffee shop and ended up sitting together for an hour, talking in the cautious way of two people who used to share everything but now aren't sure what's safe territory. It had been nice, comfortable even, and you'd left feeling like maybe you were both finding your way back to some version of friendship, even if the romantic uncertainty remained unresolved.

You tap on the tweet without thinking, expecting maybe a joke about finals or a complaint about spring practice. Instead, you find yourself staring at words that don't immediately make sense, like your brain is refusing to process their meaning.

Excited to be playing in Death Valley next season. Ready to get to work.

You read it once. Twice. Three times, each pass making the words feel more surreal and impossible. There's a photo attached—Joe in an LSU baseball cap, grinning at the camera with the kind of genuine excitement you haven't seen from him in months. He looks happy. Genuinely, unreservedly happy in a way that makes something cold and sharp twist in your stomach.

Death Valley. LSU. A thousand miles away from Ohio. Joe is leaving—not just Ohio State, but you too. And you’re finding out like any random stranger on Twitter.

Your phone slips from suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto your desk with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the quiet of your room. The molecular orbital diagrams blur together as your eyes fill with tears you don't remember starting to cry, and for a moment you can't breathe around the weight of what you've just learned.

He's leaving. Joe is leaving Ohio State, leaving Ohio, leaving everything and everyone here, and he didn't tell you. After a year of shared secrets and matching tattoos and nights spent talking about everything and nothing, after meeting your family and driving three hours just to help you Christmas shop, after spending endless nights together and promising that you'd figure things out together—after all of that, you found out about the most important decision of his life the same way a stranger would.

The betrayal hits you hard, settling in your chest and making it hard to draw a full breath. You think about all those conversations over the past few months, all the times you'd asked about his plans and he'd deflected or changed the subject or gotten defensive about the pressure he was under. You think about that horrible night in March when he'd asked if you were even in a relationship, the way he'd looked so conflicted and pained when you'd pushed him for answers about what you meant to each other.

Now you understand. He'd looked conflicted because he was lying to your face. He'd been pained because he already knew he was leaving and was apparently too much of a coward to tell you.

Your laptop dings with a notification, probably another email about finals scheduling or graduation ceremony details, but you can't bring yourself to look at it. Instead, you find yourself opening your text conversation with Joe, scrolling back through months of messages that now feel like evidence of your own naivety.

how was practice? you'd texted three days ago.

Long but good, he'd replied. Hope your studying is going well.

Such a normal, friendly exchange.

The worst part—worse than the public humiliation of finding out via Twitter, worse than the months of lies and deflection—is the silence that follows. 

You keep waiting for your phone to buzz with a text from Joe, some kind of explanation or apology or acknowledgment that maybe he should have told you about this directly. 

You wait through the rest of Tuesday afternoon, checking your phone compulsively between half-hearted attempts to study. 

You wait through Wednesday, telling yourself that maybe he's been busy with transfer paperwork or family calls or any of the dozen legitimate reasons someone might have for not immediately reaching out to the girl they've been sort-of dating for a year.

By Thursday, the waiting has transformed into something else entirely. A cold, clear understanding that settles in your chest like ice water. Joe isn’t going to call. Or text. Or explain. The silence is your answer.

The silence isn't an oversight or a moment of thoughtlessness. It's deliberate. It's his answer to every question you've asked about your relationship over the past few months, his response to your concerns about the future and what you mean to each other.

You don't mean enough to him to warrant a conversation about his decision. You never did.

Thursday night, you finally allow yourself to truly process what this all means. Joe has been planning this for months—you can tell from the professional quality of the announcement, from the way the LSU athletics Twitter account immediately reposted his message with what's clearly prepared graphics and welcome statements. This isn't a last-minute decision made in response to some sudden opportunity. This is something he's been working toward, probably since winter break, definitely since before that conversation in March when you'd asked about his plans and he'd gotten defensive about pressure.

He's been lying to you for months. Not just avoiding difficult conversations or being private about his thought process, but actively deceiving you about his intentions and his future. Every time you'd brought up graduation plans, every time you'd tried to talk about what came next for both of you, he'd been sitting on this secret, letting you wonder and worry and make assumptions about a future that he already knew wasn't going to include you.

The tattoo on your wrist feels like it's burning. 

Finals week continues around you in a blur of stress and exhaustion and the kind of forced normalcy that comes from having to function when your personal life has imploded. You take your organic chemistry exam and your statistics final and your psychology research methods test, going through the motions of being a student while feeling like you're watching your life from a distance.

Your phone never buzzes with Joe's name. He never calls to explain, never texts to apologize, never even sends one of those awkward "hey, I know this is weird but I wanted you to hear this from me" messages that would at least acknowledge that you were once important enough to warrant direct communication.

The silence is its own answer. 

Sunday night, a week after the initial tweet, you finally allow yourself to feel the full weight of what's happened. Not just that Joe is leaving—though that hurts more than you want to admit—but that he apparently never considered you significant enough to deserve honesty about his plans. 

While you were falling in love with him, building your sense of future around the possibility of him being in it, he was planning his exit strategy and never once thought to include you in that conversation.

You cry harder than you have since you were a child, the kind of sobbing that leaves you exhausted and hollow and strangely empty. And then, finally, you delete his number from your phone.

Not because you're angry, though you are. Not because you want to hurt him the way he's hurt you, though part of you does. But because keeping his number feels like holding onto the hope that he might explain or apologize. 

And you're beginning to understand that he never will. This is Joe's goodbye—a public announcement and then silence. 

May 18th, 2018

The beach is full of hundreds of new Ohio State graduates scattered across the sand, some still donning their caps, the formal graduation ceremony having given way to an impromptu celebration that stretches as far as you can see along the shoreline. 

Coolers of alcohol appear and disappear, someone's brought speakers that blast music over the sound of waves, and everywhere you look, people are taking pictures and hugging and crying happy tears about the end of one chapter and the beginning of whatever comes next.

You should feel celebratory. After four years of hard work, questionable life choices, and more stress than you care to remember, you're finally done. You have your degree, your job that starts in two weeks, and a future that feels more concrete than it has in months. 

Your friends are ecstatic—McKenna keeps talking about her move to Chicago, Iris has been crying happy tears on and off all day, and Ariella is already planning elaborate post-graduation trips that none of you can afford but all of you want to take anyway.

But sitting here in the sand with your graduation cap beside you and your dress tucked carefully around your legs, you feel sad in a way that has nothing to do with the normal melancholy of endings and everything to do with the person-shaped absence that's been following you around for the past ten days.

Ten days of complete silence from Joe, ten days of watching your phone not ring and checking social media for any sign that he's thinking about the people he's leaving behind. Ten days of your friends asking carefully if you're okay while pretending they haven't seen the LSU announcement that's still being shared around Ohio State social media like some kind of local celebrity gossip.

You'd gotten through graduation itself by focusing on the ceremony, on your families’ proud faces in the crowd, on the surreal feeling of walking across that stage and shaking hands with the dean. But now, surrounded by  your entire class saying goodbye to college, the weight of everything unsaid and unresolved feels impossible to ignore.

"I'm going to get another drink," you tell McKenna, pushing yourself up from the sand. "You want anything?"

"I'm good," she says, barely looking up from the elaborate group selfie she's trying to coordinate with some girls from your psychology program. "Take your time."

You wander away from the main cluster of your friends, ostensibly heading toward the coolers set up near the parking lot but really just needing some space to breathe. The beach extends in both directions, and you find yourself walking toward the quieter end, where the crowd thins out and you can actually hear the waves over the music and laughter.

You settle into the sand a safe distance from the party. The moon is starting to rise, painting everything in those silver tones that make even the most ordinary moments feel significant, and for the first time all day, you allow yourself to really sit with everything you're feeling.

Grief, mostly. Not just for Joe, but for the version of your future you'd been imagining. You'd known, logically, that college relationships often don't survive the transition to real life, but you'd thought what you had was different. Special enough to at least warrant a conversation about whether it was worth trying to maintain.

Apparently, you'd been wrong about that.

You're so lost in your own thoughts that you don't hear footsteps in the sand behind you until someone settles down beside you with a soft thud. When you look over, your heart stops.

Joe is sitting next to you, close enough that you can smell his familiar cologne mixed with the salt air, far enough away that there's no risk of accidental contact. He's changed out of his graduation attire and he looks tired in a way that goes beyond the normal exhaustion of a long day. His hair is messy from the wind, and there are lines around his eyes that you don't remember being there before.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You both stare out at the water, watching the waves roll in and recede, the rhythm hypnotic and somehow soothing despite the tension crackling between you. You're acutely aware of his presence, of the way he's sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, of the careful distance he's maintaining even though he chose to sit beside you.

The silence stretches until it becomes uncomfortable, and finally, you can't stand it anymore.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, your voice quieter than you'd meant but still audible over the sound of the waves.

Joe doesn't answer immediately. He picks up a handful of sand and lets it run through his fingers, the grains catching the light as they fall. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, like he hasn't used it much lately.

"I didn't think it would matter," he says.

The words are so devastating in their casual dismissal that for a moment you can't breathe. You stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate, to explain what he could possibly mean by that, but he just keeps staring at the water like he's said something perfectly reasonable.

"You didn't think it would matter?" you repeat, and you can hear the edge creeping into your voice. "You didn't think that leaving the state would matter to me? To us?"

"There is no us," Joe says, still not looking at you. "You said it yourself—we never defined what this was. We were just... hanging out. Having fun."

"Hanging out?" you say, turning to face him fully. "Is that what you call a year of this? The tattoos were just hanging out? Meeting my family was just hanging out? Sleeping together was just hanging out?"

Joe finally looks at you then, and there's something defensive in his expression that makes you want to scream. "We agreed we weren't putting labels on anything. We agreed to keep it casual."

"When?" you demand. "When did we agree to that? Because I remember having a lot of conversations about what we were to each other, and most of them ended with you deflecting or changing the subject. I remember you asking me if we were even in a relationship like it was some kind of ridiculous question."

"Because it was complicated," Joe says, his voice rising slightly. "Because I didn't know what I was doing with football, with school, with any of it. I told you I was figuring things out."

"You weren't figuring anything out," you shoot back, standing up abruptly and brushing sand off your dress. "You already knew. You'd already decided to transfer, probably months ago, and you just didn't bother to tell me. You let me think we were working toward something when you'd already checked out."

Joe stands too, his jaw tight with frustration. "I didn't lie to you. I never promised you anything."

"You didn't have to promise me anything," you say, and you can feel tears starting to burn behind your eyes. "But you could have been honest. You could have told me you were planning to leave instead of letting me find out on Twitter like some random stranger."

"Would it have changed anything?" Joe asks, and there's something almost pleading in his voice now. "If I'd told you in January that I was thinking about transferring, would that have made this any easier?"

"It would have given me a choice," you say quietly. "It would have let me decide whether I wanted to spend the last few months of college falling in love with someone who was planning to disappear."

The words hang in the air between you, and you see something flicker across Joe's face—surprise, maybe, or guilt, or something that might be regret. But when he speaks again, his voice is carefully controlled.

"I never asked you to fall in love with me," he says.

The statement is so cruel, so deliberately cutting, that it takes your breath away. You stare at him, looking for some sign that he understands how devastating those words are, but his expression is closed off, guarded in a way that makes him look like a stranger.

"No," you say finally, your voice steady despite the tears that are now falling freely down your cheeks. "You didn't ask. You just let it happen. You let me think that what we had meant something to you, that I meant something to you. But I guess I was wrong about that."

"That's not—" Joe starts, but you cut him off.

"Do you know what the worst part is?" you continue, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. "It's not that you're leaving. I could have understood that. It's not even that you didn't tell me directly. It's that you genuinely don't understand why any of this matters. You really think that a year of my life, a year of us, was just casual enough that your leaving wouldn't affect me at all."

Joe opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but no words come out. He just stands there looking lost and frustrated and entirely unwilling to acknowledge that he might have handled this badly.

"I loved you," you say quietly, and the past tense feels like swallowing glass. "I loved you, and you knew that, and you decided it wasn't worth a conversation before you moved on with your life."

"It's not that simple," Joe says finally, but even he doesn't sound convinced.

"Yes, it is," you reply. "It really is that simple. You could have talked to me. You could have included me in the decision, or at least in the conversation about the decision. You could have treated me like I mattered to you."

"You do matter to me," Joe says, and for the first time in this conversation, his voice cracks slightly.

"No," you say, stepping back from him. "I don't. And that's okay, I guess. But I wish you'd been honest about that from the beginning instead of letting me think this was something it wasn't." Joe reaches out like he wants to touch your arm, but you move away before he can make contact. "Don't," you say. "Just... don't."

You can see the exact moment he realizes that this conversation isn't going to end with reconciliation or understanding or any kind of resolution that leaves you both feeling better. His hand drops to his side, and his shoulders slump slightly, like he's finally understanding the weight of what's happening here.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm sorry I hurt you. That was never what I wanted."

"I know," you say, and you mean it. "But wanting something and making sure it doesn't happen are two different things."

You look at him one more time, taking in the familiar lines of his face, the expression of confused regret that he's wearing like he genuinely doesn't understand how things got this bad. You try to memorize it, this last image of him, because you know that after tonight, you'll never see him again.

"I hope LSU is everything you want it to be," you say finally. "I hope it was worth it."

And then you turn and walk away, leaving him sitting alone in the sand with the sound of the waves and the distant laughter of your graduating class. You don't look back, not even when you hear him call your name softly behind you.

By the time you rejoin your friends, you've composed yourself enough to smile and laugh and pretend that nothing has changed. But as the night goes on and the celebration continues around you, you find yourself thinking that this is how some stories end—with the quiet recognition that some people are simply incapable of loving you the way you deserve to be loved.

And sometimes, walking away is the only choice that preserves any dignity at all.

September 2020

The cereal aisle at Kroger should not be this complicated, but here you are, standing on your tiptoes trying to reach the granola that's been placed on the highest shelf like some kind of elaborate psychological test. Your fingertips barely graze the box, and after the third failed attempt, you let out a frustrated huff.

"Seriously?" you mutter under your breath, glancing around for a store employee or even just a taller human being who might take pity on your situation.  

The store is unusually busy for a Thursday afternoon, filled with people stocking up for what the weather app promises will be the first real cold snap of the season. You'd only stopped in to grab a few essentials—coffee, bread, something that might pass for a healthy breakfast—but somehow you've been wandering the aisles for twenty minutes, your mind elsewhere as it often is these days.

You're reaching up one more time, determined to either get the granola or accept defeat, when you turn slightly to adjust your angle and find yourself face to face with someone you never expected to see in a Cincinnati grocery store.

Joe Burrow is standing three feet away from you, frozen in the middle of reaching for something on a lower shelf, his eyes wide with the same shock you're sure is written all over your face. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting for the other person to disappear or reveal themselves to be some kind of stress-induced hallucination.

But he doesn't disappear. He's very real, very much there, wearing joggers and a simple black t-shirt that shows off arms that are somehow even more muscular than you remember. His hair is shorter than it was in college, more professional, and there's a different quality to the way he carries himself—more confident, maybe, or just more settled in his own skin.

"Hi," he says finally, his voice exactly the same as it was two and a half years ago, warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest tight with unexpected emotion.

"Hi," you manage back, acutely aware that you're probably staring but unable to look away. "I didn't... what are you doing here?"

"Grocery shopping," Joe says with a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Same as you, I guess."

Right. Of course. You'd known, logically, that Joe was playing for Cincinnati now, had seen the news coverage and the social media posts about the promising young quarterback who was supposed to turn the franchise around. But knowing something intellectually and running into it in the cereal aisle of your neighborhood Kroger are apparently very different things.

"Right," you say, feeling heat creep up your neck. "The Bengals. I forgot you were... how is that going? The season?"

"Good," Joe says, then immediately looks like he wants to take it back. "I mean, it's going. We're working on it. Building something."

The conversation feels stilted in a way that conversations with Joe never used to feel, both of you carefully polite like you're strangers making small talk rather than people who once knew each other's bodies better than your own. You notice he's holding a basket with what looks like the contents of someone who's still figuring out how to grocery shop for himself—protein bars, bananas, a bag of pre-made salad that's probably three days past optimal freshness.

"That's great," you say, because what else is there to say? "I'm sure it's exciting. Playing professionally."

"Yeah, it's been a dream come true," Joe replies, but there's something automatic about the response, like it's something he's said in interviews a hundred times. His eyes flick over you, taking in your appearance. "You look good. Happy."

"Thanks," you say, suddenly self-conscious. "You too. You look... professional athlete-y."

Joe laughs at that, a genuine sound that reminds you so strongly of college that it makes your stomach flutter with muscle memory. "Professional athlete-y? That's definitely going on my resume."

For a moment, it feels almost easy between you, like you might be able to have a normal conversation despite everything that happened the last time you spoke. But then your eyes drift down to his hands as he adjusts his grip on the shopping basket, and you notice something that makes your breath catch.

He's wearing a wristband on his right arm. A simple red OSU band that wouldn't be remarkable except for the fact that you remember, with startling clarity, Joe telling you once that he never wore anything on his right wrist because of a scar he'd gotten as a kid, something about the way bands would catch on it and feel uncomfortable.

But there it is, covering exactly the spot where you know a small star is tattooed into his skin.

The realization hits you, and instinctively, you tug your right sleeve down further over your own wrist, covering the matching tattoo that you've considered getting covered up or removed at least a dozen times but never quite managed to follow through on.

Joe notices the gesture, his eyes following the movement, and for a second his expression shifts into something that looks almost guilty. Like he knows exactly what you're thinking, exactly what you've just figured out.

"So," you say quickly, desperate to fill the sudden tension with something, anything, that might make this feel less like a confrontation and more like a chance encounter between two adults who used to know each other. "How long have you been in Cincinnati?"

"Since June," Joe says. "Just got an apartment downtown. Still figuring out the city."

"It's nice," you offer. "Good food scene. The river's pretty."

"Yeah, I'm starting to see that."

Another pause. You're both running out of safe small talk, approaching the territory where one of you will either have to acknowledge what happened between you or make an excuse to leave. You're leaning toward the latter when you hear footsteps behind you.

"There you are," a familiar voice says, and you turn to see Derek approaching with the bouquet of flowers you sent him off for. "I've been looking everywhere for— Joe?"

Derek stops short when he sees who you're talking to, his expression shifting through surprise, recognition, and something that might be n as he takes in the scene in front of him.

"Derek," Joe greets, and there's genuine warmth in his voice as he steps forward to shake Derek's hand. "How are you, man? It's been forever."

"Good, really good," Derek replies, though his eyes keep flicking between you and Joe like he's trying to figure out exactly what he's walked into. "I heard you were in Cincinnati now. That's awesome, congrats on making it to the NFL."

"Thanks," Joe smiles. "What about you? What brings you to Cincinnati?"

"Work," Derek says. "Got a job at a firm downtown about a year ago. Really liking it here."

You can see the exact moment Derek realizes that this conversation is about to get complicated, that there are layers of history here that he, even the best people pleaser you know, isn’t sure how to navigate.

"We should probably get going," Derek says, glancing at his watch. "Don't wanna be late to our own rehearsal dinner."

The words hang in the air, and you watch as Joe's face goes through a series of expressions—confusion, realization, something that looks like he's been punched in the gut. The silence stretches uncomfortably as he processes what Derek just said, what he thinks Derek just said.

"Well," Derek continues, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling between you and Joe, "it was really nice seeing you, man. We ought to catch up soon."

"Yeah," Joe manages, his voice hoarse. "You too."

Derek gives a friendly wave and starts walking toward the registers. You stand there for a moment longer, caught between following Derek and staying to explain, watching as Joe stares after Derek's retreating figure with an expression you can't quite read.

After a minute, you follow Derek, but something makes you glance back over your shoulder. Joe is still standing in the cereal aisle, and when your eyes meet, you see something broken in his expression that makes your chest ache. He looks hurt in a way that reminds you of a kicked dog, confused and wounded and trying to understand what just happened.

You could have said something. Could have clarified, could have explained. But your feet keep moving toward the checkout, and you find yourself thinking about how it felt to discover his transfer plans via Twitter, how it felt to sit in that coffee shop talking about internships while he was hiding his entire future from you.

Part of you feels guilty for not saying more, for letting him walk away with whatever conclusions he's drawn. But there's another part—a smaller, uglier part that you're not proud of—that likes the look on his face.

It's petty and mean and not like you at all, but for just a moment, watching Joe Burrow look lost in a grocery store aisle feels like the universe settling a very old debt.

When you reach the checkout, McKenna is already there, holding a small vase and checking items off a list on her phone. She looks up when she sees you approaching. "There you are," she says. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."

You shake your head at her comment, the irony not missed on you.

[lelet-draws]

There was a concept in Miraculous where Adrien needed crutches and frankly I hate that they didn't move forward with this concept.

Apart from adding so many layers to Gabriel's overprotection and to his alter ego as Chat Noir, it's a missed opportunity having a main disabled character in a children's show.

Little disclaimer here, I'm not physically disabled (only neurodivergent). Don't take my word as absolute truth cause while I do have a lot of experiences in common with physically disabled people, I'm not physically disabled and therefore do not speak for them.

If you are physically disabled and want to add something or feel like I said anything problematic feel free to comment, I'm happy to hear your thoughts.

I'm not sure if they intended to go the route of the miraculous temporarily "curing" his disability (not a fan of that), but it would be interesting if they used a "the miraculous offers him more endurance, so he is still disabled but can support himself without his crutches for more time than usual" approach.

This is only one idea of the multiple storylines possible, the writers could make it so that Adrien's way of rebelling against his father overprotectiveness is still somewhat rooted in internalized ableism. He wants Chat Noir to be everything he's not (sassy, cool, confident enough to disobey authority, free and also physically strong), it's basically a form of escapism.

But at the end of the day even with powers Chat Noir is still him and so he forces himself to go way beyond his body capacity (+ the additional miraculous bonus). It's an unhealthy way to rebel his father idea of him being weak and fragile.

Unsurprisingly it ends up being detrimental to him and his health, which Gabriel notices and prompts him to become even more controlling, worsening Adrien's mental health and leading him to a vicious cycle.

It's the power of love that ends up saving him. He learns to accept himself through the friendship and partnership he develops with Ladybug and later the other miraculous users. That it's ok to have limitations and need help, real friends won't judge or infantilize you for it.

Later on it could even add more emotional weight to the story when Marinette hides the fact that Hawkmoth is his father, since it can be easily interpreted as infantilization. Big missed opportunity, really.

[howlingday]

Jaune: (Takes pill) Hm... I don't feel any different. I'm starting to think Weiss' brother isn't a real doctor.

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Ren: (Watching Jaune)

Jaune: TWAS THE PRIIIDE OF THE PEACHES~!

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Jaune: Where am I supposed to go from here?

Neo: Greetings, Jaune Arc. What up?

Jaune: Whoa! Neopolitan! I can understand you! And your voice is so sexy~.

Neo: Thank you. I do local ads for jewelry and vape pen disposal shops. I'm sure you have many questions. Ask me anything...

Jaune: Will you help us fight Salem and save Remnant?

Neo: Why should I risk my life for others who despise me?

Jaune: Because life is worth fighting for! Here, let me tell you how I got roped into all of this. See, it all started when I...

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Nora: (Watching Jaune)

Jaune: WRINKLED THE TOP OF THE BREADS AND CEREAL'S GROUP~!

Neo: (Staring intensely at Jaune)

Jaune: MY BASS BOARD IS FULL OF CHICKEN STICKS~!

Oscar: ...What the fuck am I looking at?

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Jaune: ...and that's when I ended up here, because of her.

Neo: Then I will join Team JNPR. First for ice cream. Then to die in battle.

Jaune: I don't intend to let you die, but thank you.

Neo: But first we must complete the three ancient tasks of crippling depression!

Jaune: Uh...

Neo: Nah, nah, I'm just fuckin' with you~! C'mon! Let's do this like nudists!

Jaune: Alright! Put on some dancin' shoes, Neo, because it's time to style on Salem!

Neo: I will follow you, and these are my dancing shoes. But first we must perform THE ANCIENT SACRED CEREMONY that my uncle Chuck taught me when I was a kid. (Shrugs) I always wanted to try it.

Jaune: So what do we do?

Neo: First you must relax, then join me in the summoning song. Ooooooooooooooough...

Jaune: Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh...?

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Everyone: (Staring at Jaune)

Neo: (Open mouth)

Jaune: (In her face) WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH~!