#until like two days before they needed to be done

[dismalflo]

The Archive

Remus Lupin x Fem!reader ✩ 7k words

summary: After starting work as a museum guide, you get to know the brooding barista in the café.

cw: strangers to friends to lovers, a bit grumpy remus x sunshine reader, fluff, one mention of vomit, reference to a weird/creepy co-worker

The bus is loud and crowded, typical for a Monday morning, but the quiet thrill of starting a new job still flutters in your chest. It lifts you above it all, leaving you untouched by the noise and motion around you. Even with the sky draped in grey, you feel sunny.

The bus comes to a stop a few hundred metres from the museum with hissing breaks. The clouds haven’t moved; they still hang heavy and indifferent above the city, but you’re buoyed by a quiet sense of purpose.

Week two. You’re still learning the way your voice carries in the marble echo of the Ancient Cultures hall, still fumbling to remember if it’s the 5th or 6th century when someone asks about the mosaic floor. But you’re getting there. You like the way the museum smells in the morning, like paper and stone, a little musty, like it’s still half-asleep. You like the rhythm of it. Predictable. Solid. A place with weight.

Your feet know where to take you now. Down the staff hallway, past the security desk, a nod to the sleepy guard who never remembers your name, and then the turn into the little tucked-away café, the archive, with its blackboard menu and always-fogged windows. You’d discovered the free coffee perk on your first day  and it’s quickly become the small joy you look forward to each morning. A soft landing before the day begins.

Except, this morning, the usual barista – a blonde girl with star tattoos on her fingers – isn’t at the counter. Instead, there’s someone new. Well, new to you.

He’s tall, lanky, with a sweater pushed up to his elbows and a couple of rings that flash silver when he adjusts the grinder. His hair is the kind of soft brown that probably curls if he lets it, and his face, there’s something unreadable in the set of it, even handsome as it is. A few pale scars slash across his cheek and nose, faint but distinct. Not recent. You try not to stare.

You clear your throat quietly, stepping up to the counter. “Hi.”

He glances up, eyes warm-toned and quick. “Morning. What can I get you?”

Your routine wants to blurt out vanilla latte, but his voice is lower than you expect with a little gravel in it and now your brain’s off script. You manage to get the words out, but with half a second of lag.

He just nods and starts moving. Efficient. No wasted motion. There’s a practiced rhythm to it, like it’s all muscle memory. He doesn’t speak again until he’s back with the cup, reaching for the till. “That’ll be—”

You hold up your lanyard, the little plastic card still stiff from disuse. “Staff.”

His gaze flicks to it. “Oh.” He leans slightly, reading your name. “Are you new?”

“Yeah.” You smile, trying to match his neutrality, but you know your grin probably tips too friendly. “I started last week. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

There’s a pause, one breath longer than it needs to be. Then a tight smile. 

“Remus.”

And just like that, he’s turning back to the machine, rinsing something out, already done with the conversation.

You blink, standing there with your cup cradled in both hands. Okay then.

Sliding into your usual seat by the window, you sip the coffee - it’s better than last week - whilst sneaking a look back at him as he wipes down the counter. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t glance your way once.

Grumpy, you decide, watching him. Great. What did you do, breathe too loud?

You exhale into the drink. Maybe he’s just not a morning person. Or maybe he’s like the museum – slow to warm up, full of quiet corners.

Still, part of you hopes he’ll say something tomorrow. Even a hi would do.

You finish your drink, the cup warm in your hands, and head off for the start of your shift, back to the echoing halls and curious strangers. But the thought of him lingers, your attention captured by a stranger.

Everything goes on like that for a while.

Every morning, your routine holds. You nod to the guard, who now thinks your name is “Eloise,” but you don’t have the heart to correct him,  push through the café door with its quiet jingle, and find Remus already behind the counter. Always there before you. Always quiet. Always efficient.

The blonde girl reappeared once, briefly, but only to drop something off and vanish again, leaving Remus in charge. You’d hoped she might make conversation. Or at least act as a buffer. But no, it’s just him now. And you.

Your greetings are consistent, cheerful. Predictable, even.

“Morning, Remus.”

“How are you today?”

“Busy morning so far?”

“Did you get a break yet?”

Each one is met with a version of the same reply: a nod, sometimes a “fine,” sometimes just a half lifted brow that could mean anything. You get a thank you if you say something like “have a nice day,” but it’s clipped, almost like it costs him.

Still, you keep asking. Keep smiling. Keep showing up with soft eyes and the same friendly tone, like politeness might one day wear him down. 

You start noticing things. The way he always double-checks the milk temperature. The way he loosens one ring absentmindedly when the café is empty. The way he looks at the sky for a second before opening the blinds.

Week four. He hands you your drink, and when your fingers brush against his – purely by accident, you're sure – he doesn’t flinch away. He just glances at your hand, then back at you.

Week five. He asks, “Do you work in that old tile room?”

You blink. It’s the most he’s said to you in a sentence.

“The mosaic floor, yeah,” you say. “Ancient Cultures.”

“Thought so.” He looks down at the counter as he wipes it. 

You leave that day flushed, heart pattering like a schoolgirl with a stupid crush.

After that, his answers get longer. Not much. Not always. But enough to notice.

Some days, you learn things about him in scraps.

He used to work evenings somewhere else. He hates the music they play here now (“Too jangly”). He doesn’t like sweet drinks but will sneak half a biscuit if the blonde-haired girl (Marlene)  leaves them on the staff table. 

His eyes are a hazel that looks green in the café’s light, and when he smiles it’s a small, barely there thing. 

He still never asks anything personal. Never lingers. But he’s warming, you think.

Week seven.

The museum has settled into its summer rhythm, a slow, humming drone of tourists and school groups, all trailing sun cream and questions. You’re learning to smile through the heat, through the endless questions about where things are,  even though your exhibit is half a wing away from what they want. You ignore that one co-worker, Josh, who has made it his mission to make work so much harder than it needs to be. But it’s easier somehow lately. The rhythm of it. The known things.

And then there’s Remus.

You come in with your usual nod to the security guard – still calling you Eloise – and push open the café door. The bell chimes above your head in its usual sleepy way. You step into the warmth and scent of dark roast and milk foam, already sliding your lanyard from your pocket.

There’s a line today, longer than usual, and you join it without thinking, eyes on your phone, thumb tapping through unread texts.

“Yours is at the end,” a voice calls, smooth and unhurried.

You glance up.

Remus isn’t even looking at the current customer. He’s looking at you, wiping his hands on a towel like he’s been waiting. He tilts his chin toward the side counter, where a white cup already waits with its lid on, your usual blue marker initials scrawled across the sleeve. Still steaming.

You blink. “Wait–really?”

“Vanilla latte.” He says it with a shrug. Like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just take a quiet little hammer to your morning.

People behind you are shifting, someone’s tapping a foot, but for a second you just stare at him.

“Thanks,” you manage, a little too high-pitched, and scurry around the line and out of people's way.

You cradle the cup like it might shatter if you hold it wrong. Still hot. Still yours.

When you glance back, he’s already returned to the espresso machine, sleeves pushed up, rings catching the soft overhead light. But as he slides a shot glass under the portafilter, he glances at you. A flick of his gaze.

Then, the smallest twitch of a smile.

And just like that, the air feels warmer than the coffee in your hands.

You retreat to your usual window seat, hiding behind your cup, heart thrumming somewhere in your throat. You just sit there, quietly stunned, sipping the drink he made for you before you walked in. Like he knew you’d come. Like he looked forward to it.

You want to say something. To go back to the counter and offer something casual, “That was really sweet” or “So you do have a heart under all that broodiness.” But you don’t.

Instead, you watch him work. Watch the careful way he knocks the grounds from the portafilter, the way he leans into the counter when no one’s ordering, thumb worrying the edge of a napkin.

You wonder if he’ll do it again tomorrow

-

The café quiets, the hush of espresso machines powered down, the last clink of a cup into the dish tray, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Remus moves through the space with the same muted precision he always does, wiping down the counters in wide, practiced strokes. There's a quiet satisfaction in it, the methodical wrap-up.

It’s muscle memory by now. Stack the ceramic cups, flip the chairs, sweep the corners, start locking everything up. His body knows what to do even while his mind wanders.

He doesn’t know why he made your coffee ahead of time.

He told himself it was efficient and you always come in around the same time anyway, like clockwork. A latte with syrup. Easy. It’s not a big thing.

But it sits oddly in his chest, the memory of your face when you saw the cup. The way your voice went slightly wobbly when you said “thanks,” like he’d surprised you.

He tells himself he didn’t mean to watch you the entire time you sat by the window, fingers curled around the cup.

“Stupid,” he mutters to himself, rinsing the last milk pitcher with a little too much force. The water splashes up onto his sweater sleeve. Of course.

He dries his hands, tosses the towel into the laundry bin, and flicks the back lights off. The place dims to a hush, that same familiar closing-time gloom. It’s a comfort, mostly.

Until he gets to the cubby room.

It’s a small alcove off the hallway outside of the café, half locker room, half staff closet. His bag waits in its usual spot, slouched and tired-looking. He shrugs his coat off the hook, ready to leave, already half-thinking about which book he might try and read tonight, but then–

He freezes.

A sound.

Barely there, muffled. A sharp inhale, the kind people try to bury. Then another. A stifled breath, wet at the edges. Like someone’s trying to cry quietly.

His jaw tenses before he even fully processes it.

He should leave. It’s late. It’s probably someone from exhibitions or marketing. Whoever it is deserves their privacy. He could just grab his stuff and go, let them have their moment, pretend he didn’t hear a thing.

But he doesn’t move.

There’s something about the sound that sticks under his ribs. He knows that kind of crying, the kind you push down until it erupts in the wrong place, where someone might hear. The kind that only slips out when you’ve kept too much in, for too long.

“Shit,” he mutters, exhaling sharply through his nose. Then, like the world's most reluctant ghost, he drifts toward the staff toilet door.

He knocks once, soft. The kind of knock you can ignore if you want to.

A silence. Then a rustling behind the door. He almost hopes they don’t answer.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost gruff. “You alright in there?”

Another silence. A breath. Then, to his slow dawning horror – your voice.

“I’m fine.”

You are absolutely not fine.

And now he’s stuck. Standing in a narrow hallway with your voice cracking on the other side of the door, and the memory of how happy you looked this morning when he handed you that cup.

Remus’s heart stutters painfully in his chest. Your voice cracking makes his stomach twist tight with something sharp and unfamiliar. 

“Y/N?” he says, his voice softer this time, like saying your name might somehow soothe the raw edges in the air between the door and him.

There’s a long pause. Then the door creaks open slowly.

You step out, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to fold yourself small enough to disappear. Your face is blotchy, tears streaked down both cheeks, and your eyes are red-rimmed, desperate to look anywhere but at him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice barely more than a breath. “I didn’t mean for— I thought... Go ahead.” You try to step past him, head bowed, like you’re ashamed for letting yourself break in the first place.

But before you can slip away, Remus steps forward, blocking your path without a word. His hands clench into fists at his sides, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “What?” he asks quietly, but there’s something fierce in his eyes now, a sudden urgency. “No. I’m not leaving you like this. What’s wrong?”

You blink, the shame flickering against the tiredness in your eyes. You open your mouth to answer but nothing comes out for a moment. The weight of the silence between you is thick, almost suffocating.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making your voice catch before you manage to say, almost reluctantly, “Do you… know Josh?”

Remus’s jaw tightens, and something flickers in his eyes; something fierce, protective. He folds his arms, stepping aside just enough to gesture toward the bench by the lockers. “Yeah,” he says low, voice rough around the edges. “Enough said. He’s a right sod. What did he do?”

You drop onto the bench, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the day has finally caught up with you. For a long moment, you just stare at your hands, fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve, before you start to explain. Your voice is quiet, but steady.

“Josh… he’s made working here a nightmare. He’s always around, hovering where he’s not wanted, acting like he owns the place even though he barely knows anything about the exhibits. And worse–he’s gross. Like, constantly making weird comments, and he tries to make me feel stupid.” You let out a bitter laugh that barely hides the hurt. “He acts like he’s smarter than everyone, even though he clearly doesn’t know his stuff. I mean, I work in my area – I know what I’m talking about – but he’s like this constant shadow, trying to undermine me. Like if he can’t have control, he’ll just make things miserable for everyone.”

Remus’s eyes darken, and his hands clench again, fingers tapping against his thighs. “That’s bullshit. No one should have to deal with that crap, especially not here.”

You nod, grateful for the sudden flare of his anger. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, keep my head down, but some days it’s just… too much.”

Remus hesitates, then slides down onto the bench beside you, the scrape of his jeans against the chipped paint breaking the silence. His voice is softer now, cautious but edged with concern. “Have you talked to Mindy about it? The HR girl?”

You shake your head, shoulders trembling just slightly. “No. I didn’t want to kick up a fuss. I figured it’d just blow over… or maybe I’m just being too sensitive.”

He scoots a little closer, the space between your thighs shrinking until they’re almost touching. His knee bumps yours. “You’re not being too sensitive. And if you don’t say something, he’s just going to keep on doing it. It’s not right.”

You hum in reply, a soft, unsure sound. You lean your head against the cool locker behind you, taking a shaky breath as the tremors in your body slow. The pressure of his presence, quiet and steady, feels nice.

The silence stretches between you both, thick but gentle, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Your chest rises and falls unevenly at first, the raw ache behind your ribs dulling little by little. 

After a few minutes, his voice comes, low and careful, almost hesitant like he’s testing the air. “I’ll have to make Josh’s drinks even worse than I do now.”

You scoff, opening your eyes to find him watching you with a hint of dry humour flickering in his gaze.

 “Do you really do that?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, a little flush creeping into his cheeks, and shifts so his body angles more toward you, less guarded. “Yeah,” he says quietly, voice rougher than usual but soft underneath. “Of course I do. People get the coffee they deserve.”

You laugh then, a short, genuine laugh that feels warm. It breaks through the tension in your chest, lightening the air around you. The sound seems to ease something in Remus, too, because his usual stoic expression softens, and you catch a flicker of relief in his eyes.

“Why do you think your coffee is always so good?” he adds, a teasing note threading through the words.

Remus watches you laugh – properly laugh – for what might be the first time. It softens something in his chest that’s been tight for weeks, like a string pulled too taut. The sound of it settles somewhere behind his ribs, where he knows it’ll stay longer than it should.

You're still smiling as you shake your head, brushing your sleeve across your cheek. “I thought you were just… good at your job.”

He huffs out a quiet breath, almost a laugh himself, but his eyes don’t leave yours when he says, “No. You’re just lovely.”

The words land in the air like something delicate. Not a throwaway. Not a joke. Just soft and honest and entirely intentional.

Your breath catches.

You look down, smiling before you can stop it. It’s a helpless sort of smile that blooms despite the redness in your eyes. You tuck your hair behind your ear in that absent, nervous way he’s come to recognise.

“Thank you, Remus,” you say softly. And the way you say his name twists something sweet and aching in his gut.

You glance at your watch then, eyes widening. “Shit. I have to go – or I’ll miss the bus and be stuck wandering the halls till morning.”

You stand a little too quickly, brushing off invisible dust from your coat. “But… I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

You give him a grateful look and then you’re gone, your footsteps fading down the hallway.

-

The air outside hits colder than you expect. The evenings dropped fast, draping the sky in a dull blue wash, and the street lamps blink on with a hum as you walk to the bus stop.

You shove your hands deep into your pockets and try not to replay the whole thing in your head. But of course you do.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not here. Not where people could hear. Not where he could hear.

God, Remus.

He hadn’t turned away. Hadn’t offered you a useless platitude or made a weird joke or said oh no no no please don’t cry in that awkward way people do when they don’t know what to say. He’d just… sat there. Like it was fine. Like you weren’t making a mess of yourself.

And then that voice with its low, gravel-edge, “you’re just lovely.”

You groan quietly, ducking your head.

Great. Now you’re the girl who cried in the staff toilets and got soft-eyed over her barista. Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe he says that sort of thing to people all the time. He probably doesn’t.

Still, your brain itches with doubt. What if he thinks you’re too much? That you made it weird?

You scuff your boot against the pavement and watch a wet leaf stick to the toe.

Too late now. You’ll have to face him again tomorrow. You always do.

You let out a slow breath and step onto the bus.

He probably doesn’t think you’re a freak.

You hope.

-

You’re early but this time it’s not because of excitement or routine. This morning, it’s avoidance.

You skip the café.

You push through the museum’s staff entrance, still shrugging off your coat, and march straight past the security desk before Old Greg can butcher your name again (“Morning, Eloise!”). Your steps echo down the polished hallway, heart thudding with a strange mix of regret and mortification.

You should go in. That’s the truth. You want to, if only to prove you’re not the kind of person who has one crying episode and then pretends it didn’t happen. But the thought of seeing Remus again, of meeting those steady, unreadable eyes after sobbing in front of him makes your stomach roll in embarrassment.

So instead, you beeline for your exhibit.

The mosaic gallery is still dim when you get there, the lights on their early-morning timer delay, casting long shadows over the tiled floor.

You throw yourself into prep work you don’t need to do.

Brochure restocking. Cleaning the display cases, even though the cleaners already did it. You even re-label the “Unknown Roman Male Bust” for the fourth time, aligning the plaque a single millimeter straighter, because apparently today that matters.

You keep telling yourself it’s fine. This is fine. He probably didn’t think about it again. Probably chalked it up to an awkward one-off. If anything, maybe you did him a favour by not showing up.

Still, you feel… wrong. Like you’ve knocked something out of balance, a rhythm you didn’t even realise was holding you steady until it faltered.

Your first tour group filters in, three parents, two bored teenagers, and a kid who’s far too interested in whether anyone’s ever died in the museum. You manage it fine. You’re getting good at this. The words come smoothly now, practiced without being robotic, your voice echoing just right off the marble as you explain how these mosaics were lifted from their original sites in the early 1900s, how they tell stories if you know how to read them.

But your thoughts are elsewhere.

You wonder if he noticed.

You tell yourself it’s better if he didn’t.

You hate that you kind of want him to have noticed.

It’s only after the group has trickled out, sticky-fingered children and camera-toting grandparents in their wake, that you return to your little info desk tucked near the back corner of the gallery. You’re digging for a fresh stack of feedback forms when you spot it.

A cup.

Sitting quietly on the far edge of the desk.

Still warm.

White lid. Blue sleeve. Your name written in sharp, angled handwriting — the kind you’ve only ever seen scrawled on one café chalkboard.

A folded note lies underneath.

You freeze.

No one’s nearby. You glance toward the hallway as if the coffee might vanish the moment you look away.

You reach for the note with slow fingers, like it might burn you.

Unfold it.

You didn’t come to the café this morning, and I prepared my best cup yet :( — R.

The sad face is ridiculous. You stare at it like it might shift into something else. But no, it’s real. Undeniably him. A little crooked and careful. Like he’d been trying to be light about it, but something in the curve of the frown betrayed him.

And just like that, the giddy thing in your chest unfurls. Something warm and bright spreads up through your ribs, so soft you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

He noticed.

He didn’t think you were weird. He didn’t pull away. He made you a coffee anyway.

And he left it here. He found your station, dropped it off without a word, then vanished like a ghost with rings and good taste in espresso.

You hug the cup between your palms, holding it for a second before taking the first sip.

It’s perfect. Better than usual, even. He wasn’t bluffing about it being his best.

You smile into the lid, lip quirking against the rim.

Of course he made it today, of all days. The day your eyes are still puffy and your pride feels scraped raw. The day you told yourself to keep your head down.

And now you want to go see him.

But you don’t get the chance.

The museum is relentless. Your supervisor pulls you for an extra tour. Someone in admin ropes you into helping set up folding chairs for a lecture in the east wing. A kid throws up in the Greco-Roman alcove (pink slushie – impressive range) and you spend fifteen minutes helping a mortified mum find the right staff member.

By the time your shift winds down, the café is already closed.

You pass the doors on your way out. The lights are off and the chairs are stacked and you press a palm briefly against the fogged glass, just for a second.

There’s nothing in the window, no sign of him but you’re still smiling.

-

The next morning, you don’t hesitate.

No detours. No self-conscious stalling in the exhibits. You walk straight past Greg (who’s migrated from Eloise to Louisa, bless him), turn the corner before your nerves can change your course, and push open the door to the café with a soft jingle.

And he’s there.

Of course he’s there with his sleeves pushed up, a towel tossed over one shoulder and his whole shape haloed in the early light streaming through the fogged-up windows. He’s halfway through restocking the pastry case when the bell rings, but the second he looks up and sees you, he grins.

Not the usual small, polite tilt of his mouth you’ve come to know. No, this is a real smile. Full. Bright. It changes his whole face. Softens everything. Makes you feel like you’ve just walked into a sunrise.

His eyes crinkle a little at the corners as he leans both elbows on the counter, forearms flexing with the shift. One hand tucks under the other, fingers idly tapping as he watches you cross the room. The silver rings flash when they catch the light, and you’re momentarily derailed by the unfair handsomeness of it all.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep but lighter than usual, like the gravel’s melted into honey.

You raise your brows, dropping your lanyard on the counter between you. “Wasn’t sure I’d get such a warm welcome.”

“I was hoping I’d see you today,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. No second-guessing. Just those words, said with quiet conviction and a flick of warmth behind his eyes.

You grin, chin tilting just slightly. “Why? Did you miss my loveliness?”

Remus laughs that soft, startled kind of laugh that curls from his chest before he bites down on it. His head ducks a little, hand scrubbing the back of his neck, like he hadn’t meant to let it out quite so easily.

“Something like that,” he murmurs, glancing back at you with a spark in his eye that makes your stomach tilt a little too happily.

You lean on the counter to mirror him, fingertips brushing the wood. “Must’ve been hard for you yesterday, pouring your best coffee and no one showing up for it.”

“It was tragic,” he says, tone dry but eyes bright. “You’ll be pleased to know Marlene got to drink plenty of it.’”

“Well I suppose if I couldn't have it, Marlene would be my top choice” you say, smug.

“Don’t tell her that it’ll go straight to her head,” he says, mock-sulky. 

You laugh, and the sound seems to light something between you.

The rest of the morning blurs. You talk too long. Neither of you mentions it. He hands you your drink with a soft “here you go, lovely” that makes your ears feel too warm, and you tease him about his very nice handwriting. He deflects by accusing you of being a coffee snob with “absurdly high standards for someone who used to drink instant.” You gasp in betrayal and he shrugs, all innocence.

By the time you leave, you’re buzzing more from the exchange than the caffeine.

And then… it just keeps happening.

Every day that week, it’s the same. Easy. Familiar. Better than before.

He greets you with that real smile now, the one that makes you feel like you’ve been missed. Sometimes you catch him watching the door before you walk in, like he’s waiting. He’s still quiet in that Remus way, still folds into corners and doesn’t give much away, but with you, something’s shifted. He leans into the banter. Laughs more. Looks at you longer.

You learn he reads poetry – “the sad kind, mostly” – and hates using digital calendars. You tell him, what feels like a million little tidbits about yourself

Sometimes he tosses you a biscuit wrapped in a napkin. Sometimes you bring him a weird little fact from your gallery – “Did you know Roman cement gets stronger with seawater?” – and he rolls his eyes but always listens.

It’s all easy. Soft.

But underneath it, something else simmers.

A glance that lingers a beat too long. A brush of fingers over a coffee cup. The way your name sounds different when he says it, like he’s tucking it into his pocket.

-

The museum is quiet, everything is hushed and humming with the sound of a building exhaling. Somewhere, a cleaner wheels a cart down a hallway, the distant squeak of mop wheels echoing like footsteps in a cathedral. The last of the visitors are long gone, the lights dimmed to half, and you’re tucked into the little bench nook outside the Ancient Cultures gallery, coat balled beside you, bag in your lap, phone in your hand but not really looking at it.

The bus app offers its verdict with the apathy of a machine that does not know how tired you are. Next arrival: 47 minutes. Last update: 6 mins ago.

You sigh.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve had worse. It’s just – you’re tired. And it’s unseasonably cold in the kind of creeping, inside-your-sleeves way that makes everything feel a little thinner.

You glance out through the thin museum windows. The sky’s gone blue-black, smeared with the last streaks of orange. Your reflection stares faintly back at you in the glass, hair a little mussed, cheeks flushed from the air.

You don’t hear footsteps.

But you do hear his voice.

“Hey.”

It’s soft, close, and it pulls you out of your thoughts like a hand gently tugging at your sleeve. You blink up and there he is.

Remus.

Still in his work clothes – jumper rumpled, sleeves pushed up, messenger bag slung crosswise over his chest. His hair’s messier than usual, like he’s been dragging his fingers through it.

His expression is familiar. Open. That gentle, attentive look like he’s trying to read your mood before you can even name it yourself.

“What are you still doing here?”

You shift, a little embarrassed, brushing at the hem of your coat. “Oh – my bus got cancelled. Signal issue or something. Not sure. The next ones delayed too.”

He huffs out a breath, the barest edge of a smile curling at his mouth, and moves closer. Not just a polite step, either. Close.

You can feel the heat of him now, the warmth from his coat, the faint smell of coffee beans and citrus soap. He stops in front of you, hands tucked into his coat pockets, one eyebrow lifted.

“Come on,” he says, like it’s already decided. “I’ll give you a lift.”

You blink. “What?”

“A lift,” he repeats, deadpan, one brow raised. “In my car.”

You let out a startled laugh. “Remus, no, it’s okay. Seriously. I’ll be fine. The next one’s just a bit delayed, and there’s a bench, and I can’t ask that of you–”

He cuts you off with a tilt of his head. “You’re not asking, dove. I’m offering.”

Your brain trips over the word, the pet name, like it hit a loose stone. He says it so naturally, like it’s always been your name, soft and certain and low in his throat.

You look up at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You can’t just call me a nice name and expect me to go along with whatever plan you’ve cooked up.”

“It’s working though, isn’t it?” His smile curves sharper at the edges and it’s stupidly smug as he sighs. “Please let me give you a lift, lovely.”

You stare at him – this utterly ridiculous, infuriatingly warm-eyed barista with stupidly good hands and a knack for catching you right when you're about to spiral – and you want to say no. Just out of principle. Just to prove you can.

But it’s cold.

And the bench is hard.

And his voice is a warm hand on your spine.

“…fine,” you say, quiet but clear.

Remus smiles, it’s not smug, but pleased, quiet and certain. And before you can even start doubting your own choice, he reaches down and takes your hand.

He slides his fingers around yours like it’s nothing, like you do this all the time. Like you’re not two people who have existed solely in the space between lattes and locker room small talk.

The contact is warm. Solid.

You blink down at your joined hands, startled but not resisting, and he gives yours a soft, reassuring squeeze. Doesn’t tug. Doesn’t rush. He Just waits until you lift your bag with your other hand and nod and then he starts walking.

He doesn’t let go.

Even when you’re halfway down the main corridor. Even when Greg mumbles “Good night,” and you toss him a weak wave with your free hand. Even when the staff door groans open and lets in a rush of cold night air.

Remus keeps your fingers wrapped in his like he’s afraid you’ll float off otherwise.

You reach the staff car park, tucked behind the museum’s east wing. His car’s parked under one of the flickering lamp posts. A beat-up, dusky green hatchback with mismatched hubcaps and a dent near the bumper that you think might be shaped like a shopping trolley. It’s endearing. Stupidly so.

He drops your hand only to unlock the doors, tossing his bag into the backseat before opening the passenger door for you with a little half-bow.

You narrow your eyes, trying not to smile. “I take it back. I am getting back on the bus.”

“You’re awful.” He grins. “It’s too late anyway. You already agreed.”

You slide in. The seat is a bit low, the dash cluttered with a few loose receipts and what looks like a crumpled poetry zine jammed into the side panel. It smells like bergamot and espresso grounds – not unpleasant. Just… him.

He starts the car with a cough and a wheeze that makes you both wince. “That’s normal,” he says, fiddling with the heat dial. 

The first few minutes are… quiet. Not tense, exactly. But unfamiliar.

You’ve never been in a space with him that didn’t include steam or café noise or the soft clink of ceramic cups. This is different. Too quiet. His profile in the passing streetlights is sharp — all nose and jaw and flickers of shadow — and you catch yourself sneaking glances like a weirdo, trying to place this version of him. The one who drives you home.

You fidget with the strap of your bag.

He adjusts the heat and says, casual, “Do you not drive?”

You glance over, surprised, then laugh. “Not all of us want to be in charge of a vehicle, Rem.”

He smirks. “I suppose if I had people willing to drive me about, I wouldn’t either”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t know if you’ve realised, but the only chauffeur I have is public transport.”

He raises a brow, glancing over as he turns down a quieter side street. “ And me, now.”

You pause. “…And you.”

He grins, and it’s like the air eases. Warms. His voice goes a little gentler. “So. How was today?”

You shrug, staring out at the blur of headlights. “Long. Better than yesterday, though.”

A pause.

Then: “Glad to hear it.”

You glance at him, then back at the windshield, your smile small but sincere. “Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

He hums, casual. “Which one?”

You nudge his arm with your knuckles. “You know which.”

“Oh. That one.” He feigns thoughtfulness. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure you’d find it. Had to bribe Carol from admin to tell me your desk.”

You laugh. “Carol? Cardigan Carol?”

“That’s the one. Very protective. Nearly bit me when I asked.”

“She likes me,” you say, pleased.

“Everyone does,” he mutters. “Lot’s of competition for your work time affections.”

There’s a beat of shared amusement, and then the conversation just… flows. You talk about nothing and everything. He tells you about a café regular who only orders hot water and leaves a ten-pound tip (“I'm worried it's some kind of social experiment”), and you tell him about the time a kid on your tour started a rumour that one of the Roman statues was haunted and it spiraled into a three-week school ban.

Somewhere between the second roundabout and your street, your laughter fills the car in easy bursts, the kind that makes your stomach flutter with something dangerously close to joy.

He pulls up to your building with a gentle halt, the engine coughing softly before it settles into silence. The headlights catch on the chipped curb outside your flat, and for a moment neither of you moves.

The street is quiet. No one else around. Just the two of you, tucked into the warmth of his little car, the windows fogged at the corners.

You hesitate.

Your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag again. Then you glance sideways, your voice softer now, careful. “Thank you.”

Remus looks over, brows ticking together just a little like he’s not sure why you sound so serious. “Of course, lovely. Anytime.”

But you shake your head, shifting a little in your seat to face him more fully. “No. I mean… for everything.”

He blinks.

“For being kind,” you say, voice low but steady. For making me laugh when I felt like shit. For remembering how I take my coffee. For not making it weird. I just—” You pause, breath catching. “You didn’t have to be so nice. But you were. You are. I was sure you didn’t like me when we met.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, then something gentle and sharp all at once. His hand is still on the gear shift, thumb resting idle, but his whole body seems to lean in a fraction.

“I don’t think there’s anything that could make me not want to be nice to you,” he says. “I did like you, I’m just slow to warm.”

And while he says it, his eyes drop, just for a second, to your mouth.

You notice.

And you don’t look away.

“You’re really lovely,” you whisper, voice catching only slightly on the truth of it.

Your words tremble a little, but not from uncertainty. More like something building. Your eyes flick down to his lips, then back up again.

Then down.

Then up.

Remus swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretches, soft and crackling, full of tension like the second before a summer storm breaks.

And then – like it’s inevitable – you both move at the same time.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just sure. The way his hand rises to cradle your jaw like he’s done it a thousand times. The way your breath mingles in the narrow space between. The way your lips meet.  Warm and firm and certain, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The kiss is slow at first. Testing. Careful. His mouth moves against yours like he’s learning the shape of your breath, like he’s been waiting for this and wants to remember every second. His hand slips to the side of your neck, thumb brushing just below your ear.

You lean in closer, fingers curling in the collar of his coat, anchoring yourself to him. Your lips part and he kisses you deeper, fuller, with a low hum in the back of his throat that makes your stomach flutter.

The windows fog a little more.

And when you finally pull back, breath shaky, he doesn’t go far. Just rests his forehead against yours. His nose brushes yours. He smiles,  small and stunned and glowing.

You laugh, quiet and breathless. “Hi.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Hi.”

You linger there, neither of you ready to break the moment. Outside, the street stays quiet. The world can wait.

Right now, there’s only the warmth between you.

And the way his thumb keeps brushing your cheek like he still can’t believe you’re real.

masterlist <3

[kawaiigirly21]

Our Little Soda Pop: Chapter 7

“P-pregnant? You? How? When? Who!?” Natasha watched as Abby tried to make sense of her ‘sudden’ pregnancy. As if the 5 of them hadn't been dicking her down for weeks at that point. Especially Jinu and Mystery. “Well, when a man and woman love each other very much-” Baby started with a smart alec tone making Abby hit him upside his head with an empty soda can with their faces on it. “Fucking dumbass.” He muttered. “Guys, read the fucking room. She's obviously scared about this.” Romance replied as he took Natasha's hand in his gently.

“Sweetie? Are you ok?” Jinu asked as he offered her a hot cup of tea. “I… I never got pregnant before. I never thought about it before..” That was a lie. She thought about it all the time. She always wanted to be a mother but she couldn't tell them that. They were young. They had their whole lives ahead of them. She couldn't ruin their youth by making them fathers so soon. “I think I'll-” “Can I listen?” Jinu asked. “Listen?” “The fluctuations of the soul… I've been able to listen to them now. Can I listen to it?” Nodding, Natasha lifted her shirt and watched as Jinu put his head to her stomach then after a minute, smiled.

“Oh it's strong. It's definitely a fighter.” He chuckled. “You're gonna be a mama. And we're gonna be dads.” Mystery smiled softly. “Who's the biological father though?” Abby pondered before grabbing a drink from the fridge. “Well we know it's not Jinu.” Baby smirked. “What!? Why couldn't it be me!?” Jinu asked offended as he moved his head from his lover's stomach. “We never seen you two fuck. What makes you think it is you?” Romance added with a teasing smile. Jinu suddenly pulled out his phone and pressed play on a recording he had made.

‘Oh fuck! Jinu! Deeper! Mm! Fuck me!!’ The recording was of him and Natasha in the recording studio. He had her bent over the table with one hand holding her head down while the other held her arms behind her back. ‘Good little minx. You just couldn't wait until I was done working could you?’ Baby then shrugged and held up his hands in a mock form of surrender. “My bad. I didn't know you was fucking her like that.” A tiny bit jealous, Mystery laid his head on Natasha's shoulder. “I hope it's mine…” He mumbled.

“Hey, if it's not, we still have plenty of time afterwards to impregnate her with our own seed.” Abby grinned. “Fertile soil provides the best fruits.” Romance replied. “Lest we tend the soil with care to bring a more astounding crop.” Mystery added nuzzling his head into Natasha's neck. “Why are you guys talking about me like I'm a garden!? And the baby is not produce!” The next day, as the others rested from their concert the night before, Jinu awoke early to find Natasha missing in bed. Then, a sweet delicious smell filled his nose and he inwardly groaned.

She was up cooking for them. Even after they told her they would make their own meals for the time being.

Yawning heavily, the man dragged himself to the kitchen, in which upon entering, his suspicions were correct. Natasha was cooking omelets in one skillet and rushing to scoop rice into bowls for them afterwards. “Sweetie…Come back to bed… you're supposed to be resting.” Jinu sighed. “I'm not showing yet and I've only thrown up 3 times this morning. I'm on a roll. I find keeping myself busy really helps with the morning sickness.” Natasha smiled brightly.

She looked to be full of energy, but looks could be deceiving. Her legs were trembling slightly and her caramel complexion looked slightly pale. She was pushing herself through her sickness to cook for her lovers. How sweet. And incredibly dumb. “Sweetie, let me take over. You need to at least sit down.” Jinu stepped forward to take the spatula from her hand. “What? No! I'm fine! I'm so f-fine. Like the both of you…” She mumbled. “Both? Oh no, you need to lay down. Now.” He scooped her up and placed her on the couch.

Draping a warm blanket over her and kissing her forehead. “I'll finish breakfast. You stay here. And I mean it.” He said in a serious tone before walking back to the kitchen. A few minutes later, Baby emerged from the bedroom. “Why are you up so damn early? Where's Natasha?” He was always a grump in the morning. “First off, it's 8:30 and second, she's on the couch. She decided to make breakfast. After we told her not to drain herself.” Jinu replied. “Damn babe. You must really like putting yourself through a bunch of unnecessary shit. On another note… your tits are fatter. I like.” Baby smirked as he laid on the couch next to her.

“Mm go away. My tits are a normal size…” Natasha mumbled as Baby pulled her on top of him. Her head laying on his chest. “Sure babe. Sure.” Not long after, the others soon arrived. “Damn I'm so hungry I could eat a horse.” Abby yawned. “Oh wow, love the savagery. It's so you.” Romance grumbled trying to wake up and still a little bitter about how Abby kept kicking him in his sleep. “Food please.” Mystery watched as Jinu set the table before taking his seat. Turning his head, he then scrambled out of his seat towards Natasha.

“Is she alright?” Baby nodded as he petted her head while she slept. “She's so cute. Makes you forget she's hundreds of years older than us and probably capable of killing us in just one strike.” Romance smiled softly. “I love her.” Mystery replied with such fondness leaving the rest in shock. They felt the same but to actually hear the words aloud… it was a feeling they couldn't describe. “Me too dude…” Abby spoke. “I love her as well.” Romance smiled. “Yea. I love her too. Hard not to.” Baby added. “We all love her. Deeply.” Jinu responded as he stood next to Abby.

Finding that they were too comfortable near the couch, the group decided to have breakfast in the living room while watching TV with the volume on low to not disturb Natasha. As Jinu's eyes drifted around the room, he smiled to himself. This was home. This was family. And he would die before anyone would try to destroy it.

[tojbnuy]

hey! Please could you write a little something where roommate sukuna is a little mean to reader and it’s a bit angsty but he feels bad and has to make it up to her with lots of cuddles

thank you for the request! i know it’s been a while but i hope this is okay :3 this is the same reader as part one and two pls do check them out <3

yours and roomate!sukuna’s relationship was complicated to say the least. complicated yet comfortable. your old dynamic was still up and running just with the addition of proximity. but that didnt mean things were always perfect, sukuna was still sukuna at the end of the day and he was far from perfect but he was trying.

bickering was common for the two of you, it was usually about guys or cleaning up mess but there were times were your heart was left feeling slightly shaken. you were a sensitive soul that was clear as day. sukuna was a lot more gentle with you than he was with his friends for example but sometimes the words left him before he could think about their repercussions.

today’s fight was a minor one to begin with. who had forgotten to unload the dryer and led a few of your clothes to become incredibly creased.

‘like seriously i need this shirt for tomorrow morning now im gonna have to wake up early to iron.’

‘im telling you kuna it wasn’t me, i would have remembered i always do.’

‘pssh yeah definitely.’

‘what does that mean?’

‘it means what more could i have expected from you of all people.’

‘if it was me i didn’t mean it.’

‘you didn’t mean it yet you’re always managing to do and say dumb shit. like seriously fucking grow up.’

immediately tears welled up at the harsh tone of his voice and the anger behind his words. you knew you weren’t as clever as some people but you didn’t think he found you this annoying, you had thought maybe there was even a bond developing between the two of you. comments from others about your sometimes unusual behavior and out of the blue remarks didn’t affect you as much, it was the ones from people who’s opinions you valued that tore away at your self esteem. stupid of you to think he would want to create a bond with someone as stupid as yourself when he has plenty of beautiful smart women at his hand. he would make random remarks about you being silly, maybe call you a dummy but you tried to not let it get to you, this however had tipped you off until you could no longer keep it inside. you were ashamed. ashamed to have done something so stupid.

sukunas hands were still inside the dryer, his focus on the task at hand so he hadn’t realised you hadn’t responded. then all of a sudden he heard the slight squeak of your feet on the tiled floor and a whispered sorry and only then did the guilt begin to situate. he himself was having a shitty day and the anger had built up so much so that the first inconvenience had him lashing out. at you of all people. he felt bad of course he did and he didn’t have the slightest clue as to how to check on you.

he made his way over to your room ready to be met with anger, that he could deal with. what he wasn’t prepared for was you hunched over, breathes coming out short and your shoulder shaking with how much you were crying.

‘baby? baby, hey look at me.’

you frantically wiped at your tears and attempted to stop the trembling of your hands. he hated to see you trying to act unaffected. he knew he was crazy about you before but seeing you like this, because of him was a pain he had never experienced before. the words were stuck in his throat, his pride always managing to ruin things for him.

‘you hate me.’

‘no i don’t brat, look what i said was out of line i was just mad i shouldn’t have said any of that. how could you think i hate you?’

‘because you’re always calling me stupid. i know im not like your other girl friends but you don’t have to be so rude to me all the time.’

sukuna had fucked up. majorly fucked up. what he thought was a harmless joke was actually hurting you. how could he care about anyone the same way he cared for you.

‘No, no i’m sorry baby i really am. i don’t give a shit about anyone let alone any girl the same way i care about you. i mean that doll from the bottom of my heart. i didn’t know it hurt you. i love everything about you doll. i look for you in everyone.’

‘do you think i’m stupid?’ you said with a sniffly nose and your hands gripping the comforter.

‘no doll i don’t think you’re stupid. i think you say some funny things sometimes but it makes you you. and i lo-‘ ‘i’ve gotten used to your antics by now brat’

‘i’m still a bit upset.’

‘yeah? what can i do to make it better?’

‘i think you have to cuddle me extra today.’

‘i’ll see what i can do’

immediately he folded you so you were pressed intro him. he was laying in his back against your pink fluffy cushions with you resting directly on his chest. he could feel your stuttered breathing against his chest, some tears still falling onto his shirt. he wanted so badly to tell you exactly what he was feeling but instead decided to stroke up and down your back, occasionally letting his hand roam down to your ass, softly molding you, patting you gently. your soft flesh under his palm was not only comforting to him but had you purring directly into his ear. he alternated between massaging your scalp, rubbing you back and patting your bum until your breathing had completely calmed.

‘really am sorry doll’ he whispered into your hair.

‘i know’ you whispered back with a little kiss to his chest.

he was really and truly fucked but this moment right here was one wherein he would die happy.

[melodiesz]

I really liked the obey me sleeping with them for the first time post you wrote! Can I request the same thing for Satan Solomon and Mammon too? :)

Their first time with you ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

ft: Mammon, Solomon, & Belphegor x gn!reader

Here’s the one with Satan! tysm for the request! ◟( ˃̶͈◡ ˂̶͈ )◞

MAMMON

☆ Mammon acts all high and mighty but I think he's actually pretty inexperienced.

☆ In true mammon fashion he talks cocky but the second he sees you there under him—bare and looking so pretty—his mind goes blank.

☆ He turns to a blushing, stuttering mess and your first time is filled with stumbling and laughter.

☆ Tries to stifle his noises, but after like 10 seconds he can't handle it anymore and lets out pathetic moans and groans of your name into your ear.

☆ Will beg to go a second round after, then a third, then a fourth...the greedy fuck wouldn't stop until you're both crying from overstimulation.

☆ Leaves hickeys all over your neck so he can look at them later and smile proudly at the look on other peoples faces when they see them. He likes knowing that other people can see that you're his.

☆ Would get as deep as possible inside you to rock his hips so his tip grinds against your sweet spot, trying to make you cum again for the nth time as he begs you to "please baby, give me another one."

☆ Do be warned, now that he's got a taste of you, he’s begging you for it multiple times a day. ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

SOLOMON

⏾ With Solomon, it sort of feels like you're a test subject under his strong gaze.

⏾ He has a calculated expression, hands roaming your body like he owns it. Whenever you make a noise when he touches a certain spot, his expression doesn't change, like he already expected the reaction.

⏾ He knows every spot to make you shake and moan, like you've done this together before.

⏾ He has the kind of expertise only an immortal can, making you cum at least 3 times before he even looks close to hitting his own climax.

⏾ Speaking of, he doesn't care about his own pleasure. He gets off on seeing the reactions and noises he can pull out of you, how many times he can make you cum before you pass out.

"Too much? Come on, you can take it."

⏾ DEFINITELY leaves very clear hickeys on your neck just to piss off the brothers. It works.

⏾ Later he has you fucked out, laying on your back on the bed staring at the ceiling trying to remember how to think, and just smiles and offers you water like he didn't just fuck your soul out.

BELPHEGOR

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 With Belphegor it's a spur of the moment thing. For possibly the first time ever he wakes up before you, and just watches your peaceful sleeping face, which suddenly turns into him getting hard.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 When you wake up to a deep call of your name, you turn to find him above you, arms braced beside your head and cheeks flushed. "mc... need you.”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Fucks you in spooning position, your back against his chest and his face buried in your neck as he gives slow but hard thrusts into you, holding up one of your thighs for better access.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 His deep morning voice is enough to make you flush, groaning your name into your neck before he moves to kiss at it.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 His other hand would reach under you to grab your throat, not harshly, but just to feel your pulse under his fingers and know that it was him and his dick so deep inside you that had it quickening.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Would pull away for a moment to admire his pact mark on your back, proof of the claim he has on you enough to have him spilling inside you with a shaky moan.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 When you two are done, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you somehow even closer, falling asleep with his dick still deep inside you.

a/n: I am SO sorry I took so long to write this!! I don't even know if you still want this but I finally have a break from school and work for a bit so I will be trying to write lots! (ᵕ•_•)

[bbyg4rl]

୨୧ ─ more than just friends . . .

cw: REQUESTED / bsf!jj x reader, friends -> lovers, fluff, first date.

JJ’s always doing things for you. Pulling a leaf out of your hair before you notice it’s there. Passing you the drink you were just about to ask for. Fixing the strap of your top when it slips with a casual, “Hold still, princess,” like it doesn’t make your whole brain stutter.

You’re used to it. Or at least, you pretend to be.

He doesn’t say much about it, just keeps orbiting around you, always too close, always right where you need him. Sometimes he twists the little woven bracelet on his wrist, the one that matches yours. It’s faded now, sun-bleached and fraying at the ends but he never takes it off.

You catch him staring sometimes. Not in a weird way. In a watching you laugh like he’s memorizing it kind of way. You pretend not to notice that, too.

It’s all the same, until one day, John B leans over to him and says, “Dude. Just ask her out. You already act like her boyfriend anyway.”

JJ scoffs, flicks a bottle cap at him, dismisses the idea like it isnt the one thing he wants most. “Shut up.”

But later that night, he’s stringing up lights in the backyard with shaky hands. Doesn’t tell you what he’s doing. Just mutters something about “a chill night, nothing big.”

You find it a couple hours later—blankets laid out, chips and candy piled on an old tray, two beers sweating in the grass. There’s a candle flickering in a jar. It’s stupid. It’s perfect. It’s JJ.

He’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of it, picking at a thread on his jeans. When he sees you, he grins, but it’s softer than usual. “Took you long enough.”

You sit beside him, heart thudding in a weird, slow rhythm. It’s quiet for a while. The night’s warm. Crickets. Distant waves. JJ leans back on his hands, head tilted up to the stars. He looks... nervous, his breath uneven.

You glance at his wrist. He’s playing with the bracelet again.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say.

He shrugs, eyes still on the sky. “Didn’t wanna do nothing.”

You don’t say anything. Just lean your head lightly against his shoulder. His voice drops. “You always wear it,” he says, like it surprises him. “The bracelet.”

You nod. “Yeah. You too.”

Another beat of silence. It’s comfortable, familiar.

Then he turns toward you, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear with his thumb. His hand lingers, warm on your jaw. He’s close now. Closer than usual. “You look really pretty right now,” he says softly.

You smile. “Yeah?”

He nods. His gaze drops to your mouth. “Yeah.”

And then, he leans in. His eyes flicker back and forth between your eyes and your lips. He’s nervous. More nervous than he’s probably ever been in this life. You swear you can hear his heart thudding against his ribs.

You meet him halfway.

It’s not fireworks. It’s not even sudden. It’s slow. Easy. Like breathing. Like the kiss was just waiting there, soft and patient, until the two of you finally caught up. It felt natural—like maybe this was what it was supposed to be this whole time.

When he pulls back, barely, he’s still smiling. Thumb still at your cheek. Voice lower now, “Should’ve done that forever ago.”

♡ requested by @melancohol1c for ꒰ ⑅ ๑  𝟖𝟖𝟖 : : BALANCE ꒱

check out my — masterlist / 2k celebration ૮꒰•༝ •。꒱ა

[seungsoftly]

enhypen at the gym with you

⟢ genre: drabble/suggestive ⟢ wc: 2.1k ⟢ warnings: enha and y/n thirsting over each other, mentions of kissing, slight menstrual cycle mention, slightly crazy workout behavior

livi's note ✸ this drabble has been floating in my head for a couple of days now, and i really love thinking about how enha would be when they take you to the gym with them. (i'm a sucker for gymrat enha). this is on the shorter side compared to my other drabbles, but i think their behavior doesn't require much to say about it. hope you guys enjoy!

⟢ taglist: @s1rawb3rry

⟢ lee heeseung

i think heeseung would love taking you to the gym with him just to see you in action while you worked out. he rarely gets to see you like this, doing squats with weights and on the leg press, like the days that he begrudgingly does legs instead of arms or abs, so he’s soaking it all in, distracted from his own workout.

he’d definitely be hovering around you, ready to spot you if you needed it, but leaving you be unless you asked for his help specifically. it’s honestly more hot to him to watch you do things like this on your own like the stunning girlfriend you are to him than to be over there all on you.

he knows you can handle yourself, but he will be on the watch for any other men with wandering eyes, moving just a little closer to you if there was someone who looked like he was a little too close to you for heeseung’s comfort.

and since watching you had distracted him from his own workout, you get done with your sets earlier than he does, standing over him while he’s doing sit ups. this is his favorite way to wrap up a session at the gym, looking at you, all sweaty but still gorgeous nonetheless, while he keeps himself in shape for you. some days, you’ll even hold his feet down and give him a kiss at the top of each rep.

⟢ park jongseong

jay is taking no chances in the gym. he will quite literally be over your shoulder permanently, adjusting his own workout to fit right alongside yours, which allows the two of you to just take turns doing sets and spotting each other on the same machines. (and by spotting, i mean jay actually spotting you and you just standing there and watching your boyfriend pump iron and get all hot and sweaty)

he’ll be the absolute best spotter ever, but at the same time he’ll just keep telling you to push and get the weight all the way up and then he’ll tell you to do another rep in that voice of his that he knows makes you absolutely melt on the inside. when he says he knows you well, he means it.

the man is crazy dedicated to his gym schedule, having to go at least five times a week with his routine so clearly established at this point. you’re an amazing girlfriend to him, so he just wants to give back and keep himself in the best shape for you. (and the gym makes him feel better about himself and keeps him sane)

towards the end of your workouts, you two do abs on the mat together, each taking turns to pick the next exercise to do and motivating each other to keep going until the end of the one minute timer set for each exercise on your phone. after this is done, jay typically insists on doing some body weight exercises as you cool down. and by body weight, i mean him making you sit on his back as he does sets of pushups and squats.

⟢ sim jaeyun

to be quite honest, you go to the gym more often than jake does. he prefers to run around and play basketball or soccer at the park on random days over moving weights around. however, if you ask him to go with you, you won’t even be able to finish your whole sentence before he enthusiastically agrees and runs off to get everything that you and him may need for a gym session. water bottles, sports drinks, towels, good shoes to wear to the gym, and he’ll put it all in the car for you and grab all of it when you two get to the gym.

jake is the definition of distracted when he sees you in your gym outfit, fitted tank top and shorts on some days and a sports bra and tight leggings on others. he just can’t help but stare, enthralled by you and still confused about how you’re dating him of all people.

he’ll be by your side constantly, darting around and helping with your every need as you move through your workout. jake is a pretty good spotter, always watching your face to see whether or not you need help getting the weights up, although he might have been staring at you because he’s obsessed with how pretty you are first.

he’d be so focused on you that he forgot he needs to do his own workout, only remembering when you remind him as you’re delicately patting sweat off your face and then taking a sip or two out of the water bottle he just handed you. so you’d go sit through his workout with him, offering him encouragement through every rep.

jake would be huffing and puffing through his sets, determined to impress you with every move he makes and pushing his body to the very limits. he’d beg you to give him a long kiss every time he hit a pr on something, and you’d oblige him after just a bit of teasing. this just made the cycle continue, jake working himself half to death on every single exercise that he did just to get that pr kiss every time you two worked out together.

⟢ park sunghoon

on the rare occasion that you join sunghoon at the gym, he’ll switch from your boyfriend into your personal trainer like that. he’s already got a workout plan for you typed up, prepared weeks ago along with many other workouts. he’s made a variety too, and he picked one for you for that day based partly on what he was doing for his own workout and partly on how much energy you had for whatever point you were at in your cycle.

sunghoon goes to the gym so often that all of the staff know who he is. they also know to stay far away from him and especially from you as you two are working out, and the other gym goers have likely sensed this energy as well, so you two have a whole corner of the gym to yourself.

the first thing that sunghoon does is make you stretch with him, ensuring that there are no pulled or torn muscles for you to complain about later and hopefully helping you to be a little bit less sore. it’s just a part of his routine that he cannot skip, especially with someone like you who doesn’t go to the gym and lift weights that often. you prefer to keep fit by going to a biweekly yoga class and walking every day.

then, you two move into the actual workout. today is leg day, which means sunghoon is going to be right behind you as you squat the barbell, telling you to get up with a rapid tone and continuing to instruct you to do more reps even after you’d passed the number that he’d originally told you was in your set.

not to mention when you move onto the leg press, he’ll do the same thing, except he’ll also add more weight without telling you. safe to say you were surprised to learn that you could lift a lot more than you thought you could. and after all of this, when it’s his turn for his sets, he’ll do over double the weight that you could, smirking confidently at you as you just watch him in his element. it’s obvious to him that you find it attractive when he does so, so why not give you a good show after all your hard work?

⟢ kim sunoo

honestly, you and sunoo aren’t really the type of couple to be huge gym goers. sure, you two do like to stay fit, but you mainly do so by taking walks together or just going to the gym to use the stairmaster and the little section with yoga mats for some self-stretching and simple pilates.

you two have a schedule set up, written neatly on the cute little calendar that hangs on the kitchen wall in your apartment, where you’ll take a trip to the gym together for a short little bit two days a week. one is more stairmaster focused and the other is more stretching and pilates focused.

it’s a good balance for the two of you. sometimes you’ll even spot sunghoon or jay at the gym, offering them a nice wave before walking over to the area that you two will be in that day as they walk by towards the weights. the two of you really haven’t gone over there at all, and that’s okay to you and sunoo. it’s just not your type of workout.

the two of you like to spend your time chattering as well, talking about the latest news that you’d heard from your friends as you lean forward and stretch your legs and sunoo does the same. he’ll also offer you some words of encouragement on the more difficult days when you’re on the stairmaster. you’ll be barely making it onto the next step, and his voice is really the only thing that will actually get you through the workout. there’s a reason that you call him your sunshine.

⟢ yang jungwon

i feel like jungwon would be somewhere between jay and heeseung. when you go to the gym with him, your workouts are often not coordinated and you two head to different areas of the machines. yes, you still stay within sight of each other, but you’re not right on each other either.

he knows that you can handle yourself in the gym, having been a pilates girl for some time now, and he was confident that you could fend off any wandering men that happened to go over to you. you could be bold when you wanted to, and that's how you defended yourself from thirsty men at the gym and how you defended your boyfriend from the influencer girls that saw him all alone.

in fact, sometimes it’s even attractive to him when you have to shoo away men from you. in the sense of you being such a queen and amazing girlfriend, not in the sense of another man hitting on his girl. that’s his least favorite part about it. although after that happens, jungwon will make his way closer to you, standing around as you do your workout and helping by teasing you just a little bit and putting more weight on the bar or grabbing you a heavier dumbbell to show you that you can lift just a little more.

he’s overall just a chill guy at the gym with you. jungwon’s not going to show off too terribly much because he’d much rather do it in the comfort of your own apartment instead of in public with other girls around, but he will flex his muscles for you if you ask. usually he’ll just talk with you instead and ask all about what you can do with your pilates skills.

⟢ nishimura riki

ni-ki definitely makes every time you work out together a competition. who can hold a plank the longest. who can do the most weight on the leg press. who can hip thrust the most reps. it’s a good way to liven up your workout time, that’s for sure.

he’s always teasing about how he can lift more than you and beat you at said work out competition, and then you’ll spout off into a whole rant about how he always rigs it with the exercises that he does crazily often and that you don’t do a lot. his only response, of course, is that maybe you should have done it more then.

you two are definitely known as the sporty couple in your friend group, attending the gym quite often together and always looking good while you do it. like everyone stares at you two when you walk in, you in your matching workout set and ni-ki in his compression shirt and workout shorts. and then they know to stop staring at you and just leave you alone like they do sunghoon.

every once in a while, you two will have what you call a mile marathon race. it’s where you both run a mile on the treadmill, then do a minute-long plank, and finally twenty jump squats. then you two just repeat those three things over and over until one of you taps out. your friends and some of the other gym regulars call you two crazy for it, but it’s just yet another part of your lively relationship.

divider credits to @chachachannah

© seungsoftly 2025 please do not copy, repost, or translate

this is a work of fiction and is not intended to depict any accurate representation of any members of enhypen. please do not take this as real.

[rafeslvbug]

CLEAN…a taylor swift inspired fic

summary – addict!rafe overcoming his addiction

warnings– drug/alcohol use, violence, withdrawal

his hands hadn’t stopped shaking. nails bitten to the quick, eyes glossing over and becoming red with hot tears. the pain wasn’t dull, or a distant ache, it was searing– all-consuming. it invaded each corner of his mind, all he could think of. the white baggie tucked into his drawer, fatal temptation.

but he promised you.

…

when it got too much three weeks ago, sniffing line after line of pure snow on his desk table. hands ripping through his hair, drowning the pressure away with a glass of whiskey..that soon became a bottle. he hadn’t noticed you walk through the door, peek your curious head around. he hadn’t noticed until your fingers, manicured nails painted in a blue he’d picked out, was gently wrapping around his hand. delicate, and caring in a way he didn’t deserve.

and it should have soothed it all. wore away the pressure, the way you looked after him like he was a baby– your baby.

but it didn’t.

he’d snapped. shoving you away. he’d never done that before, he did it that day. said everything he shouldn’t have too..

“god! you’re just bothering me! oka–okay? i don’t fuckin’ need this shit, not right now.”

“rafe please–” you still persisted, you still tried.

“n– no! you don’t get it, you just don’t! my dad an– i’m tryin’ to take care of shit okay, and you’re just getting in my way!”

drywall cracked. wallpaper torn through. a cloud of dust billowing from his fist. from the whole in the wall.

you should have left. should have gone because he hurt you, emotionally and nearly physically. but you didn’t. only stepped closer when he was shaky, hyperventilating. guided him softly out of the room that always got him like this. alone. numb. useless.

when he woke up the next morning, one headache pill on his bedside table, a cold glass of water he saw you you..curled into the armchair next to the bed. still there. still with him, after everything. so he promised he’d quit. get sober. and you promised you’d go through it– the withdrawal, the struggles, the cravings, all of it– with him, together.

…

he kept calling you. watching the phone ring

..ring

…ring

nothing.

the white powder was tormenting him, because he knew where it was. rafe knew he shouldn’t have kept it, his ‘just in case’, he needed to get rid of it but he didn’t know how.

it took minutes of internal battling before he tore himself from the desk, pacing out the room. the door to his car slammed before he could change his mind. before he’d run back inside and betray your trust.

he didn’t know where you’d be.

he drove everywhere.

your house? empty.

your friends? not a clue.

the sun was setting quick, his cheeks were sticky by now. fingers gripping the leather of the steering wheel enough to leave indents.

the hollow breeze of the beach. the one place you always turned your phone off for. serene, and calm, not disrupted by his hasty footsteps down the path, frantic eyes across the sand to find you.

hair blowing in the gentle wind, knees huddled to your chest in your spot in the sand. he didn’t want to disrupt you– he didn’t– but he needed to.

“baby?” his voice is hoarse, strained across the space between you two. you lift your head to see him, ragged, worn, eyes red and cheeks glistening.

“rafe..” you softly gasp, getting to your feet and hurrying towards him, palms cupping his face. “whats wrong?”

“i tried callin’, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry,” he rambles, grounding himself in your touch.

you shake your head with each apology, “its okay, baby, what did you do?”

“nothin’, i didn’t– i was going to– i wanted to.”

“but you didn’t, and that’s all that matters,” you say softly, catching his dropping head by leaning your forehead against his. “i’m proud of you rafe..”

and it’s all he needs to shatter. tears unlocked, streaming freely down his face which he pushes into your neck. the feeling of your hands around him, stroking the back of his hair, being there for him is everything.

he’s never had the support before, but he has it in you.

[kiplex]

⛧ LaDs Boys Night Time Routine / Sleep HCs ⛧

This came to me in a dream after I heard we were getting the sleep quality time for the 4.0 update. Low-key kind of crack HCs but God forbid I keep up my writing streak!!! Also I made the LI dividers in like 10 minutes be kind to me. I'll work out a long term solution when I do more serious multi boy HCs LMFAO

Warnings: suggestive (for Sylus) and mentions of nüdïty (for Sylus... Again)

Xavier can sleep anywhere at any time. You have a photo album on your phone titled “Xavier sleeping where he shouldn't be." You're favorite is him dozing off during a work meeting, the whole UNICORN unit posing around him

Loves a cozy cup of tea before bed, yes, you guys do have matching mugs!!

Sleeps like a log. Literally will not move, but the second you climb into bed he latches on to you and will not let go no matter how hot it is

He does panic slightly when he wakes up from a nap or the middle of the night and you aren't there. You're normally not far but he still has a slight feeling of uneasiness until you join him again.

While he doesn't snore he does that boy thing were he twitches like crazy in his sleep

Has a plethora of sleep masks still manage to misplace like half of them

Will pout if you forget to give him a goodnight kiss, who cares if he wasn't awake to feel it, how dare you neglect him like that.

Rafayel has a 20 step skin care routine he has to do before bed, which in turn has turned into a “Our 20 step skin care routine…” you guys have matching skincare headbands

Will get you guys, couples pajamas as a joke, but they're so comfy, you should wear yours too and maybe you guys can take a photo or something.. AS A JOKE OF COURSE haha… unless

He's really good about sleeping on his side of the bed, too good sometimes and will complain if you clinging to him is too hot

Sleeps with white noise of the ocean, cannot sleep without it

Rafayel loves to play with your hair while you sleep. Spooning you and braiding your hair gently, feeling your body rise and fall with your breath?? He's in heaven, he could die here and be the happiest man alive

He's a sleep talker, and a very convincing one at that. It's scary how many conversations you guys have had where he doesn't have a clue what you're talking about the next day

Claims he needs his beauty rest, but will turn around and stay up to binge Love Island with you

Zayne is the type to get up in the middle of the night for one of two things, finish work after you begged him to go to but, or on the opposite end of the spectrum, sneak sweets while you are asleep

He is also a sleep talker and a sleep walker. More of a sleep walker though. You've caught him getting dressed for work on multiple occasions, thinking he got called in for an emergency at the hospital but a few minutes later he'll flop down on the bed again.

He also does that boy thing where he twitches a whole lot in his sleep, claims he's never done that before in his life

He's absolutely the best to cuddle with during the summer, his evol makes him run a lot colder. During the winter?? Eh not so much, but you do it anyway

He does value his space when you sleep together, but if you initiate cuddling he's not complaining. He relishes in it honestly.

Do you have insomnia?? Zayne may be a cardiologist but girly, he's still a doctor!!! You already know he's doing everything under the sun to try and solve your sleep issues.

He's the type to really value sleep health and promote deep REM sleep. Has the coziest possible bed and pillows. Bonus points for all of them being tempur-pedic

Sylus sleeps in matching silk pajamas set or completely nude; no in-between

Always humming you to sleep, you always say he’ll make a great dad some day

Loves watching you do your skincare routine, he's starting buy you the expensive Korean skincare products for you, he even caves and starts using some night cream

Always says goodnight to Luke and Kieran, he's such a mother hen sometimes

We know he doesn't sleep much, but will humor you if you ask him to sleep with you. He does pull an Edward Cullen and likes watching you sleep so peacefully in his arms

Can't sleep? Great, Sylus will stay up with you, maybe take you boxing if you need to burn some energy. If you still have energy after that… he finds other ways to expend your energy 😏

When Sylus does sleep… he SNORES oh my god he snores. Should probably have a cpap machine but would definitely deny he snores at all

Caleb will deny he's tired but as soon as his head hits the pillow, he's out. You have a firm theory that during his DAA days, they trained him to be like that

He is a skincare routines worst nightmare. He canonically has dry skin and dry lips. Does not understand for the life of him why you load your face up with lotions and potions. BUT he will do a sheet mask with you from time to time

He always jokes about getting a plane shaped bed to the point where you low-key think it isn't a joke anymore.

He is such a cuddly man. Oh my god he is so dramatic when you are on your side of the bed. He'll pull you toward him, make grabby hands at you, pout and whine that you're too far and you hate him!!!!

Caleb SNORES so loud. Not all the time but when he's especially exhausted, typically after multiple days on the fleet. He wears those nose strips to try and help but… it is what it is.

Suffers from chronic nightmares; boy can't catch a break even when he's sleeping. He's got it under control for the most part but when they're especially bad, he'll sometimes wake you up and ask you to hold him.

He is a low-key blanket hog during the winter. He'll wake up and be like “Pips why are you shivering??" Girl, you took all the blankets??? Will warm you back up with his body heat though, so it's fine.

You can find my master list here (I promise, I write better stuff than this)

[revelboo]

I'm tryna be in a KOBD sandwhich fr. Like put them 42DDDs on me Breakdown and tell ur twink doctor to get behind me and put it in my [redacted] and then [redacted] until he [redacted]

... I apologize for my outburst

He knock on my out till I breakdown

Ok im done 😫

🤣 surrender to the thirst! 🔞 Mass displaced mechs 🌶️ DP fem bits implied

Sharing

Knockout x Reader x Breakdown

• Letting himself into his habsuite after a frustrating day of being threatened, roughed up, and yelled at by Lord Megatron all because his little heir had a tiny rattle when he’s venting, Knockout’s lips twitch at the wet smack of Breakdown rutting into you. The big mech on his knees behind you, hips pumping and it’s hard to be annoyed at the two of you for not waiting for him when he enjoys watching Breakdown servo’s flexing on your hips, spike driving deep, hips rocking urgently. Pleased that the two of you are getting along better, because for the longest time, Breakdown hadn’t wanted you. The big, fool actually afraid you were replacing him, instead of just adding a new element to their berthplay. And after finding out humans can be sparked? Needs Breakdown to spark you. Wants to hold Breakdown’s sparkling in his arms, feel the warmth of a little one in his arms. Desperate for it.

• Moaning as Breakdown’s servos tighten on your hips to jerk you back to meet his thrusts, you hear Knockout clear his vents and your head turns to look up at him mass shifted and standing over the two of you, watching Breakdown rutting against you. You try to say hi and it just comes out as a breathy whimper when Breakdown drives deep and overloads, feeling his excess running down your thighs as he leaves you behind. Again. It’s hard to be annoyed, when he’s usually surprisingly attentive with you. Except for when Knockout’s around, then he’s impatient and hurried. Know he loves you, but given a choice, Knockout’s definitely his favorite.

• ‘I’ve had a terrible day and you’re taking both of us,’ Knockout growls, the command in his deep voice almost making Breakdown overload all over again. Reluctantly slipping free of you, he palms you, servos driving into you until they’re slippery with slick as you whimper a soft ‘please.’ And you tremble when he presses his servo inside you, feeling how much tighter you are here, not able to take his spike here. Slicking you with his release for Knockout, before he’s standing and pulling you up. “Everything okay?” Breakdown asks, trying to get a read on the other mech as you wrap your hands on his spike, to make him shudder. ‘Megatron?’ You ask, eyes innocent as he rumbles at you.

• Watching Breakdown lift you and pull you down on his spike with a growl, Knockout shifts behind you as Breakdown’s big hands flex on your hips when you wrap your legs around him with a moan. Releasing his spike, Knockout presses against you. “Relax,” he growls. Because you’re ready for this, he’s been training you so they could both claim you for weeks. Rocking lazily against you, he hears you whimper as you squirm between them and he’s slowly stretching you when you suddenly relax to let him drive deep. “I want a sparkling,” he admits, hating the vulnerability in the words. And Breakdown’s optics widen, the big mech almost looking scared.

• Gasping as Knockout drives deep, the feeling of fullness is almost overwhelming and they’re not even moving yet. Trapped between them as Breakdown raggedly vents and growls something in their language and Knockout hesitantly responds. “If you’re talking about sparking me, I’m in,” you manage and they both freeze to make you sure that’s what they’re talking about even though you should have a say, too. Hear them both growl and then they both begin slowly thrusting. Can feel them both bottoming out inside you. Breakdown finding a rhythm and Knockout matching it. And it really is too much, body racing for that peak much faster than you’d imagined possible. Feeling both of them going deep. Knockout venting against you, hands on your middle as Breakdown’s servos tighten on you. Hearing their engines getting noisy as fans kick on and you’re sweating as they start overheating.

• Groaning feeling Knockout’s spike rubbing against his own through a thin layer of you, Breakdown swears. And you’re squirming urgently between them, gasping his name and Knockout’s. Crying out as you come apart and his pace falters when Knockout grabs the back of one of his hands, snarling. Hips pumping as the medic overloads, head thrown back and you whimper between them when he leans down to claim Knockout’s mouth, overloading inside you. Feels Knockout shift his plating and he doesn’t hesitate to shift his own. Imagining a little Knockout as his spark snares you and Knockout both. His back hits the wall as Knockout’s hips pump lazily. So tangled in you and Knockout both, he’s almost drowning, coaxing hungrily to spark you. To spark Knockout. Needing to hold a sparkling in his arms and not caring how he gets one.

[unluckilyimnot]

Nat's roommate – bucky x fem!reader (2)

Summary: You take care of Alpine while he's away and he thanks you with a home made dinner.

Friends to lovers but they kiss this time, baseball player!bucky, mention of alcohol, mutual pining, they both get bolder wc:3.8k

Note: I like this one honestly, but it made a little less sense alone even if it can be read by itself ! It was simply someone motion on the first part in the begging but I thought it was nice writing it slsls Reblog appreciate, I'm insecure in my writing lately..

part 1 | masterlist | rules

You sigh as you finally step into Natasha's apartment. Your body is sore from the pilates session you just had. You can barely hold your bag up to the table and took a second to curse the friend you asked you to come with her. You kept your shoes on as you didn't intend to stay long today.

"Alpine ?" You called out, since she didn't run into your legs today, while you opened the windows to air the living room.

You took another look around, searching for the white ball of fur you love so much. You called her name again as you made your way to Bucky's room.

Bucky left for his training camp almost two weeks ago. It happens twice a year, he goes camping with his baseball team and trains like a military man for 2 weeks. Usually, Natasha takes care of Alpine while he's away, but this time their calendar didn't match. Natasha left to visit her sister as she always did every two breaks at uni – the other, it was her coming to New York. So there you were, wondering about the place you know like the back of your hand, looking for his adorable cat.

Pushing the door of his room opened, you're welcome with his baby resting on his pillow – like she usually does when he leaves for a long time. Your eyes soften at the sight, cooing gently at her before you take out your phone and snap a picture. The deal was for you to take care of her while they're both away – and for you to send him pictures every day. You were not getting over the fact that he, out of all the man you knew, was such a cat dad. You had to push him out of his own place or he would've been late because he was still petting her in your arms when he was supposed to leave.

You send it immediately before moving to sit next to her, running your finger through her long, white fur. She meowed quietly, before she rolled on her back and rested against your thigh. A dumb smile curled on your lips as you pet her under the chin.

"You didn't hear me, huh," you whispered with a baby voice, mesmerized by the sweet kitty next to you. "He's coming back tomorrow, you must have missed him a lot."

Now she was fully awake, looking up at you with her beautiful crystal, blue eyes that remind you of him as she blinked slowly your way. You took her in your arms before laying down on his bed, with her staying on your chest. You couldn’t help it, you love taking care of her. To be fair, you were really happy when he asked you to do it – it meant he trusted you. Plus she was used to you, liked you a lot even so it was probably just easier. But still, it made your heart flutter. Even more after the other night at the bar, it made you think that, maybe, it was more than that. Than just making sure she was comfortable and trusting you.

It felt like a violation to come into his room without him, laying on his bed when he's not there and you hope he wouldn't mind. It didn't last long though, as much as you wanted to, you were in need of a shower to get rid of all the sweat remaining on your body. So you grabbed her and made your way back into the living room again.

She jumped out of your arms by herself, waiting on the counter as she watched you move around her home. You changed her water before filling her small plate with cat's wet food. It'll be all for tonight you fear. You stayed with her until she was done eating and kissed her good night.

The next day, as you were working on the English essay you had to return on the first day of the next semester, your phone lit up. Deciding it wasn't a bad time to take a break, you took your phone. It was Bucky, inviting you over tonight for dinner – as a thank you.

Your phone fell from your hands, hitting the pill of paper on your desk. You hold in a small gasp and lend a hand on your heart, trying to steady yourself. That was something new. You already spent nights with Bucky, watching a movie or talking, waiting for Natasha to come back from her lessons. But it was never just the two of you by the end of the night and your heart had a hard time registering that. He was a gentleman, of course he would thank you while inviting you over for dinner. It still puts your heart and mind through a lot.

He never really seemed interested in you, not really, before that night. You thought he saw you more like a third roommate, like he sees Natasha – a close friend, he can rely on, flirt with playfully without it becoming weird. And at first it was, you played along, not expecting anything. But for once in your life, you were treated so well that you couldn't help it but fell for him. For his smile, his pretty blue eyes and the stupid pet names he calls you; for the way he holds you when you drink too much or checks on you every time you get quiet. There were too many things now, it wasn't just casual, it couldn't be.

You cleared your throat, shaking your head before replying quickly, that you were free. He just had to tell you what you should bring.

'Nothing. I invite you, I'm cooking.'

God your heart will not survive the night.

You knock twice in the door as when you arrived – you've left his keys in the mailbox when you left yesterday. You heard Alpine meow and his heavy steps on the ground even if he seemed far away. She kept on meowing in front of the door, again and again as if she didn't just see you yesterday. You giggle, finding it funnier than you'd like to admit to hearing him trying to calm her down.

"Yes mama's there, I know ! No need to scream," you heard him say on the other side of the door.

Your cheeks turn hot in a second at the sweetness in his voice.

"Hey," he said quickly after opening the door, nearly panting as he smiled at you.

Your heart skipped a beat – not surprising at all, everyone would catch their breath at a pretty smile like his. You smiled his way, happy to see him back, before your eyes tear away from him at the feeling of Alpine soft fur in your legs. You take her in your arms quickly, burying your face into her neck and walk inside.

"Who would know you didn't hear me yesterday huh," you teased her as she pushed her small head in your cheek. 

"So, I'm her mama now?" You asked his way now, with an eyebrow raised and a smug expression on your face.

He scoffed, his hand ran around his chin. He looked away for a second before he nodded, looking back into your eyes with a small smirk on his lips. "Well, she's more cuddly with you than with Nat, so yeah. I think that in her little head, you're her mom." He admits.

Your eyes linger on him as he talks and moves around the kitchen, getting everything he needed out to cook. He was wearing a simple gray shirt but God, it was fitting him so well, his broad shoulders seemed to suffocate in it. When he looked back at you, your eyes turned away quickly to his cat, petting her a little before letting her go.

"Is that so..." you stated softly, making your way to sit on the kitchen island next to him, brushing the fuzzy feeling in your belly away. "So, how was the camp ?"

"Hum, well actually," he said with a nod even if he seemed to look for his words. "I'm making carbonara pasta, good for you ?"

Your eyes widened as you gasped. "Of course ?? I love it so much !"

He chuckled at the happiness dripping from your lips. "Yeah, I know."

He seemed to avoid his camp for some reasons, and you were no-one to force him to talk, yet. Instead, you shook your head lightly, staring at your feet hanging in the air rather than his focus face. He pokes his tongue out when he's focused, he does that during his baseball game too. You find it absolutely adorable, but you can never take him seriously when he does. You jump down, taking place on the other side of the island then place your hand on it.

"How can I help ?" you asked, fingers drumming on the surface. He shook his head.

"You, my dear, won't help. This," he showed the room around, dim light, music you liked in the background and two glasses still empty – but not for long. "Is all for you. You're not doing anything, I'm thanking you."

You scoffed at his dramatic setting as he finally filled the two glasses with white wine and gave one to you, sending you a playfully wink before his features softened. He goes back to his preparation in silence for a while, starts cooking soon afterward – his head moves along with the music. It is comfortable, almost domestic and it would make your pulse quicken if you weren’t already a little used to it. He's a rather good cook, so he already made dinner for you and Natasha a few times over the last few months.

"No but really, thank you for taking care of her. She's as if I never left," He confessed quietly, taking a sip but not turning your way. "She's usually more stressed when I leave for so long. She must really like you."

That makes your heart beat faster. You have no idea how much he loves her, you can only imagine it; so him telling you he could tell she was doing fine with you switch something inside you.

“I’m glad then, I did my best.” You didn’t say it was nothing, ‘cause it wasn’t – not for him.

You were sure that he would only date someone his cat loves as well at this point, so you really, deeply appreciate the compliment.

"You skipped the camp question far too quickly," you commented, moving slowly to lean next to the stove and look at him. "What's that ? Something went wrong ?"

He scoffed again, looking up for a second and you didn't miss his tongue poking inside his cheek. Something bothered him for sure.

"There was a girl team nearby, and some folks bothered me with one of them," he confessed after a beat, shaking his head in the process.

You cheered softly, hitting your shoulder with his arm, asking for more – doing your best to ignore the sting in your heart.

"So you got her number ??"

"Nah, she wasn't my type. I was definitely hers though." Here was the confident smirk on his lips that rarely leaves him. "I already have my eyes on someone."

His eyes fell on you for half a second, something between a knowing gaze and resignation. You, on the other hand, dramatically gasped for air, making him chuckle.

"Who ?!" you gasped again, not believing it.

He never showed interest in anyone you know. Yes, you've seen him flirt with people at university or at the bar, but nothing serious that ended up being something more. And not in a long time, you have to admit. That brought you back to yourself, to the longing feeling in your chest that maybe, just maybe, it could be you – but he wouldn't have told you that easily then, right ?

"I can't tell you," he kept on shaking his head, but there was a playful smile on his lips as he dressed the plates. "You know them, so nope. Not happening. There, princess."

"Never do that again," you warned him, a playful disgust all over your face as you frowned his way.

You still take your plate from his hand gently. He outdid himself, it was pretty, it would be a shame if it fell on the ground.

"I thought you had someone in mind ?" You joked further, but honestly, you liked it more than you should authorize yourself.

"They'll never know," he winked playfully too before making his way to sit at the small kitchen island.

"That's some bad mentality you have there," you snored.

Sitting next to him, taking a bite before him your eyes widened. You were sure he could see the glitters in your eyes when your head snapped his way. He always waits for you to taste first before starting to eat for some reason.

"That's amazing!! Oh my God, come to my house and redo it every night !"

He laughed out loud – a real, haha, laughter and you swear, your heart stopped. Warmth filled your body, your heart melted and you were probably blushing now. That was the most raw laugh you've ever got from him by yourself. And you love that desperately. This moment, the intimacy of sitting on a dirty kitchen island with him, his thigh touching yours and his cat's tail around your legs. You're not even sure you'll ever want somebody who's not him in your life.

"I could, but you'll have to eat something else at some point." His laugh still hung in his voice.

"Try me."

He knew you were dead serious, that was probably the worst part. The way your eyes were glued on him, and he was staring back, a smile in his eyes.

"You're impossible," he chuckled softly, shaking his head while taking a bite.

"You love me," you answered before you could think about it and, for a second, you were scared you went too far.

You took a second to blink, composed yourself, and wet your lips before you got back to eat, watching his reaction closely despite yourself. He smiled, soft, gentle – he probably didn't know you were looking. He almost looked sad.

"Yeah, I do." His voice mirrors the mix of feelings in his eyes.

If you didn't know better, if you weren't so scared to ruin everything, if you didn't know he was already into someone – you would've kissed him. But you couldn’t, something held you back from getting any closer for a second. Despite the wait, there was no hesitation in his voice and that was the most unsettling. Your vision shook, not sure if you were ready to fully accept that maybe, maybe, he was into you too. Instead, you hit his arm gently with your elbow.

"Stop it, don't say yes on top of that," you whispered playfully, but a flash of his lips on your skin came back to your mind and your throat tightened.

"So, how was your break ?" he changed the subject without denying anything, leaving you stuttering.

"F–fine, hum, I got to spend a lot of time with Wanda, I think it’s going somewhere with her senior crush," you tag along, running away from what you two just said, from your feelings before it gets out of hand.

Your pasta never looked so interesting, your eyes barely teared away from it while you talked about the news things you learned during the last two weeks. You steal glances at him while taking bite after bite, meeting his eyes every time without fail – it was ridiculous at this point, and you both ended up laughing. Your face leaned on the back of your hand, it was your turn this time, a genuine smile on your lips and you swear you heard his breath catch; or maybe you imagined it because you wished it’d happened.

"You missed a lot of things," you said finally, twirling your fork around your plate.

"I'm sure I did."

Just like that, you two ended up drinking on the couch after being done eating, with Alpine curled into Bucky's laps. You took a picture when he wasn't looking, too busy laughing at Natasha's favorite top being destroyed by Fanny, Yelena's dog.

“How did I miss that ? Why didn’t she send it to me too ?” he choked out between two laughs, grabbing air with his hand for you to give him your phone once more, so he could laugh again.

“What can I say ? I’m privileged, Buck,” you smiled, giving him happiness.

Your feet were hidden below his thigh to keep them warm and your head leaned into the backrest. You started to feel hot with the wine. As much as you love white wine, it does go to your head easily. Your cheeks felt hot and you closed your eyes for a second, enjoying the calm moment a little more. Bucky’s laugh was fading away slowly, making you crack your eyes open.

He was mirroring you, his head rested the same way as yours, staring at you softly. He had small eyes, his eyes bags were a lot darker than you noticed earlier but he seemed content, at peace.

“You can stay here tonight if you’re tired. Nat wouldn’t mind giving you her room,” Bucky offered gently. “I can’t offer you a ride right now, I’m too tired for that,” he added in a chuckle.

You shook your head. “I don’t feel like sleeping alone tonight, and sadly she has no plushie for me,” you only half-joke.

You had no idea since when you get bold enough to see something like this; but here you were, staring in his eyes playfully, watching him swallow hard enough to make him swallow hard.

“I’ll go home soon, I don’t wanna bother you,” you added leaning a little more into the couch.

Bucky’s eyes study you for a second, your features, stopping a second too long either on your lips or your chest – you couldn’t really tell – before leaning in dangerously. Maybe the alcohol made him bolder too, even if he never really needed it before. Your heart stutters, before picking its pace and beating faster. You close your eyes when you could feel him getting closer and closer before a weight landed on your laps.

You open your eyes – Alpine.

“I can offer you this, if that’s enough.” His breath hitch on your face.

You chuckled as you pet her gently. “She only sleeps with you at night, don’t play dumb.”

“You can still have her,” he answered without missing a beat, a knowing gaze in his eyes. Daring you to say yes.

Yet you hesitate. It suddenly felt like a lot, or at least more than you could possibly handle. It felt like he could hear your heart drumming in your body, he was aiming for it, trying to lure it his way and keep it forever – and you’ll let him. If it wasn’t for this stupid fear of losing the friendship you’ve built for him. You couldn’t handle returning to a world without him and this step felt like you might be forced to if it goes wrong.

“I’m not sure about this Bucky…” your voice came out as a whisper, not that you wanted to.

His eyes fluttered around, his jaw worked – you didn’t shift away from him, not even a bit. It took it as a green light, leaning in closer until his nose brushed into yours.

“You’re the only one playing dumb right now,” his voice was low and rough, yet his eyes shine with longing. With a desperation that needed to meet its end.

They fell on your lips again and, after he captured the sparkles in your eyes as he did so, his lips fell on yours gently, barely touching but still managing to steal a kiss from you. You expected butterflies in your stomach, feeling all fuzzing and seeking for more immediately – but you met an unnamed warm feeling, your breath catching when he pulled away. Instead of running after his lips, your hands find his cheek and you lean your forehead against his. All the worry clouding your mind for the last few weeks were gone in a blink of an eye. You could finally let go of a breath you’ve been holding for what felt like hours, the weight of uncertainty now melting away.

So you kissed him back. Late, yes, but you did and you could feel his lips curled up in the kiss.

“Took you long enough,” he cursed under his breath in a small, relief chuckle.

“It only means you're not that good at flirting,” you answered without missing a beat, but still leaning your cheek into his hand.

“You’re just dense,” he said, deadpan. “You were the only one I allowed close to me for months, the only one I called with pet names,” he urged, shaking his head. “And I could tell you were in love, but you were always keeping yourself at distance, I hated it. Why do you need alcohol so bad, huh ?”

“You’re intimidating Buck, what can I say” you giggled at first, but your shoulders fell. “I never thought you could be interested in me,” you admit after a beat, not looking at him anymore. “I knew you were like this, caring,” you precise, “with other people. I– I didn’t think I was special.”

He captured your lips again, not wasting a second. Both his hands hold your face now as he kissed you more fiercely this time, looking for more, letting you know you were as he deepened the kiss gently. Until he pulls away as gently.

“It’s only you love, for a while now. Sorry I didn’t do enough,” he cooed, leaving a small peck on your puffy lips.

“I think I just couldn’t see it, or I didn’t want to. I was scared I'd lose you, you know ? If I authorized myself to see it. I couldn’t handle the idea of not having you around anymore, it hurt too much, and –”

You started rambling, and after that, it didn’t make much sense to be honest, but you were far too gone to realize that. Bucky didn’t stop you. He listened carefully, nodding softly from time to time as he pulled you closer. He pushed your hair away from your face, gazing deeply in your eyes when you looked his way for reassurance. He gave it to you, with his voice low, warm and a kiss on the temple.

You hadn’t drunk much, but the pressure leaving your body, mixed with the tiredness and the alcohol lead you there – not that you’ll mind. There’s far more worse way to end your night than in Bucky’s arms as he listen you talk about how capitalism fucks up people’s view of love.

Let me know if you liked it ! <3

[rhettrosunsets]

Bewitched - Robert Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Fluff.

Summary: You'd watched others love from the sidelines, always watching but never experiencing it yourself. Until Bob Reynolds show's up and makes you believe that he's bewitched you.

(Based Off Bewitched By Laufey)

Masterlist

Warnings: Mentions of reader not being experienced in love. Mentions of Bob's prior drug abuse and family issues. Mentions of Bob's and Readers mental health journey. Reader learning how to let herself be loved. No description of reader. No use of Y/N.

Notes: I love writing fics based off songs so much. Someone take Laufey and Taylor away from me rn. Also a super self indulgent fic, cause I needed some hurt/comfort and fluff. 🫣❤️

You weren’t used to this.

You weren't used to love.

You weren’t used to soft silence that filled the room in such a comforting aura that it made your body turn into putty. You weren’t used to the way your body naturally melted into his side like you were a puzzle piece always meant to fit there. And you were definitely not used to the way he looked at you.

You’d spent your entire life tending to others and their needs first. You dedicated yourself to your friends and family, always wanting to be a reliable shoulder for someone to cry on. To be a support system when things went wrong.

Before long, you began to quietly shelve your wants and needs away, always doing for others what you wished someone had done for yourself. 

You watched as your friends and family fell in and out of love. You would congratulate your friends at their weddings, or comfort them during their breakups all while you felt like you were sitting on the sidelines.

You felt good enough to watch from the side, but not enough to experience. Love had always felt like a second language to you. You could recognize it in others, see it play out in front of you, see it fall apart in moments, but never quite spoke it fluently yourself.

Until Bob.

Bob wasn’t flashy. He didn’t sweep in like a Disney prince, or save you from some super epic threat. He’d just shown up one day in your life, and he kept showing up every day after. A soft smile always present on his face as he became a steady presence in your life. Something you didn’t even know you were missing.

The first time you got sick after the two of you had met he brought you a tupperware container full of warm soup, his soft voice muttering “I brought you something, if that’s okay?”

He stayed long after the steam faded, and the two of you talked as he took care of you, something that was so foreign to you that you didn't know how to react.

Now, a few months later you’re officially dating is when you feel the shift happen. You lay tucked beside him on the worn leather couch in the living room of the tower.

His arm was wrapped around you firmly while his fingers traced slow shapes into your shoulder. Your head rested against his firm chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat a gentle lullaby soothing even your deepest thoughts to a soft hum. He smelled comforting, and like yours. A revelation that sunk deep into your chest, grasping at your heart like a weight had been sat upon it.

“I feel weird.” you whispered quietly.

Bob glanced down at you, his thumb pausing it’s soothing motions on your shoulder as he looked down at where you laid on his chest. “Weird how? Like getting sick, weird?” he asked softly moving his hand to feel your forehead, a concerned tone to his voice.

You swallowed. “No. Just like I’m not me. Or like I’m under a spell or something. This, what we’re doing? Us being together, I-It just doesn’t feel real to me, I guess."

He was quiet for a moment just breathing with you and letting you press your cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt before continuing the soft soothing motions on your back.

“What do you mean, Baby?” he asked softly wanting to understand you even more before he tries to soothe you.

You shook your head softly as you sighed, “That’s the thing, I don’t know? It feels like you’ve bewitched me. I’ve never known what love felt like before. I’ve watched it from the sidelines, I can recognize it, but now that I’m feeling it, it’s absolutely terrifying.” you whispered softly.

Bob let out a soft hum one that rumbled through his chest and into your cheek. He gently rubbed his thumb over your temple. “I get that baby, more than you know.”

You tilted your head up slightly, watching the way his brow furrowed not with worry but with thought. “I’ve dated before. But it never once felt like this." He said with a soft voice.

Bob paused before continuing "Most of those moments were just distractions, not love. I was dealing with a lot, addiction, guilt, mental stuff, and I was never really there emotionally, even when I physically was.” He said distantly.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “But you’re here now?”

He looked down at you with something soft in his eyes and a smile quirking up on his lips. “Yeah. And I’ve never wanted to be anywhere else more than here with you."

He jostled you softly so he could look you in the eye's before continuing, "You don’t have to do anything for me to stay, Baby. I want to be here with you. You don’t have to earn love with me, I just want you sweetheart.”

You blinked quickly, tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you reached up to wipe them before they could fall.

He leaned in, quickly kissing the top of your head so tenderly that it made your heart twist in your chest. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let myself be loved” you whispered.

“Neither do I, sweetheart” he admitted quietly before continuing “But we’ll figure it out together, and that’s what matters.”

You exhaled shakily, letting your head fall back against his chest as you resumed listening to the soft sound of his heartbeat. And as Bob’s arms wrapped around you tighter, and you felt it. That feeling again.

It wasn’t a curse, it wasn't some spell, and you weren’t bewitched.

You were just loved.

[wandasaura]

CRUSH CULTURE

summary — yelena’s never had the freedom of considering her sexual orientation, but she knows that girls like boys, and she knows her sister likes girls, but even when you’re the only person on her mind, she can’t succumb to the suffocating standardized crush culture

warning(s) — established queer-platonic relationships, asexual yelena belova, self-acceptance, pride parade, established blackhill, caught fucking, internalized homophobia, childhood trauma, past sexual assault, mention of the red room, yelena’s first pride, coming to terms with sexuality, crying, light banter, alcohol consumption, pre-gaming, day drinking, men/minors dni

authors note — based off of ‘i’ll never need a reason to show the world how much i love you’ from this prompt list! a little asexual representation for pride!

“Hey Nat,” There’s a soft smile on your face. You brace your hand on the bedroom door, a question on the top of your mind. There’s sunshine spilling in from every corner. Everywhere you turn, one window or another is open wide, and the breeze that sweeps inside dances sweetly with the sheer curtains that don’t block out much light. They weren’t purchased to block light, just to soften it, and keep private moments from the windows of other apartments across the way. Today though, they’re pulled to the side, and anyone who dares to be nosey and glance into your two bedroom Manhattan apartment is welcome to watch the show unfold.

Seven months ago, you’d first thrown this idea around. A year ago, you’d first begun to set the groundwork and lay the expectations. Natasha and Maria, for the most part, had been following your color coded agenda down to the very T. They’d done pride events before, many of them, some of them even with you tucked into their side as a third wheel, still taking everything in, still figuring out who you were. How General Dreykov’s prized possession recognized her calling to lesbianism before you did, you would never know, but years later, it’s your turn to teach somebody else the beauty of being unconditionally and unapologetically free.

“I thought we still had vodka—“ Your eyes sweep across the furniture in your guest bedroom. Unlike Yelena, who lives out of a suitcase, Natasha unpacks whenever she gets somewhere. It’s interesting to watch them handle trauma individually. It’s interesting to witness how Natasha overcompensates with allowing the world into her heart and her mannerisms, and Yelena can’t seem to close herself far enough off from it completely. “Oh my god, Nat!” It takes you a moment to glance at the bed in the center of the room. You’d been captivated by a ripped strip of film sitting on top of the dresser. It’s not yours. It’s the other half of Yelena’s. It’s a photo booth film reel from the years in their life where family had been a core value. Yelena’s cheesy smile is missing a couple of teeth, her hair is wild, falling down her shoulders and her back just until it reaches her breastbone. She’s so little. So full of radiance and innocence. It’s hard to imagine that she’d been only a few months away from the end of her life at that point. It’s hard to swallow that her little face hadn’t ever smiled that sincerely since.

It’s like somebody dumps a bucket of ice water on you — to one minute be considering how Yelena Belova had overcome the worst fate imaginable, and then the next lay eyes on her naked big sister whom you’d established a relationship with before you’d even known of her existence was shocking. It was only subconscious that your eyes raked up Maria’s toned back in the initial shock.

The brunette straddled the redhead, using two pride flags as restraints that kept the reformed assassins hands pinned above her head. The sunset colors looked pretty against Natasha’s skin, and the green of her eyes seemed incandescent as she raised her head from the pillows and tugged her hands out of the restraints like they’d never really held her down anyways. Maria glanced down at her when hands looped around her warm waist, a gleam of annoyance on her face.

“You’re supposed to tell me when they’re too loose, not just force yourself still. Will you tell her that it’s about letting go completely? She won’t let me drill it through that thick skull.” Your cheeks flame at Maria’s brazen question. She doesn’t seem to mind that your eyes glance down at her nipples, or that you flicker back to Natasha with a compulsive need to memorize the way her pasty skin looks speckled with love bites and bruises. This isn’t the first time you’ve walked in on Natasha and Maria like this. This isn’t even the first time Maria’s roped you into a conversation about their sex life, but it’s the first time it’s happened with Yelena down the hall, getting ready in the bathroom with your blow dryer on its quietest setting. It’s still a trigger for her; the sudden loud noise and inescapable heat. She can’t tell you specifically what it reminds you of, you don’t think she knows, or at least can’t distinguish a specific memory through the haze in her mind, but nonetheless it triggers her, and that response is as real as anything else.

“Um, it’s about letting go completely.” You tell Natasha, because you’ll do anything Maria tells you to when she uses that tone of voice. Natasha snorts, sitting up fully, until Maria is cradled in her lap. The veteran. who you’ve never known to be the one getting held in their relationship, wiggles off of Natasha’s lap and stalks toward the closet like she’s equally as uncomfortable. She has a pair of black underwear on, nothing scandalous, but you watch Natasha watch her swing her hips with every step.

Both of them are entirely unphased that their marked skin is exposed to the sunlight and your gaze. Neither of them care that their nipples peak before your attention, either subconsciously or not. Maria’s a veteran, she spent six years stripping naked in communal showers and whatever their sleeping arrangements looked like on base. She’d been deployed to the field, where it’s not a guarantee you come out alive, so stripping a couple layers to pee isn't so embarrassing in front of company. Natasha, she’s just never known privacy a day in her life. Sex has been normalized since she’d sprouted her first pubic hair, and probably before then too, but she’s never told you that, and you’ve always avoided asking. Even when she’d joined Shield, she’d been a lower level agent who wasn’t yet above the communal showers and locker rooms. She might know that her body is her own now, she might value that, but some morals aren’t relearnable. Yelena’s the same way. You’d seen her completely naked before she’d even let you in enough to stop constantly threatening your life. Despite naked Russians and veterans being in your life for years, it never fails to make you blush.

Natasha loves to watch you squirm. That’s just the kind of person she is. Now is no different. Her hair might be pulled up into some kind of intricate half-up half-down style, two little sections pulled away from her face, lifting her hairline and pulling the corners of her eyes just the slightest bit taut, but that doesn’t discredit her natural edge. There’s glitter sprayed into her red hair, there’s a shimmer on her skin from the body oil you’d set out on the counter for anyone to grab, but she’s still deadly. There’s still a knife beneath the pillow she leans against, it might just happen to be wrapped in pink, white, and orange duct tape. That’s one thing Natasha’s learned how to do that Yelena still hasn’t. Natasha welcomes life into her trauma in ways that are beautiful and tragic. She still can’t walk around without a weapon. She feels too vulnerable, like she’s practically asking for an ambush, but she decorates the handles of her blades when there’s something worth celebrating in the near future. Not all of them, not the ones that she’s going to be the most inclined to use in a fight, but the ones that she’ll only reach for if she really needs them; if it's her life on the line. Natasha Romanoff may not be entirely free of the trauma imparted on her aggressively in childhood and adolescence, but she’s free enough to know she wants to die with character, because she’s not made of marble, she’s made of flesh, and blood, and bones, and she’s not just another widow in the endless sea of assassins, she’s a person with a girlfriend and a sister, and a best friend that she considers another little sister at points, but only when she has clothes on and isn’t flush from a third round with her girlfriend.

“What did you need?” Natasha rises from the bed, your bed, the one that you paid for and dressed in silk sheets specifically for her because you know cotton against her thighs reminds her too much of the red rooms' wool blankets after a nightmare. She might have a better grip on reality now, she might not be as prone to flashbacks and panic attacks as Yelena still is, but she’s still a woman living with more PTSD than anyone in your history books. She still deserves to be cared for like she’s delicate and irreplaceable.

She has an outfit already laid out. Maria’s in the closet, and you make a note of how the blue-eyed latina is halfway hidden behind the door as she shimmies into whatever clothes she and Natasha packed with enthusiasm before they came down from the upstate Campus. You giggled as you watched Natasha hold up a white baby-tee with black and red letters. Treat Her Right. It was so boldly on the nose for her. Not in your face pride, not cheesy enough to elicit an eye roll or a grimace, but just casually enforcing that she’s in fact a lady lover when she’s not saving the world. Sometimes even when she is. You recall a few kisses or two happening beneath falling rubble and alien weapons.

“You’re not really going to wear those jeans are you? Skinny jeans, Natasha? Really?” You deadpanned, glancing at the black skinny jeans she hasn’t been able to let out of her sight since she’d first been given a shield credit card and stocked up on whatever she thought fit Western style at the time. She’s gotten more accustomed to comply with fashion trends, and she officially has the coziest oversized hoodie out of everyone you know, but those damn skinny jeans are looking like they’re going to have to be clawed out of her dead, cold hands.

Natasha rolls her eyes, “What did you need, detka?” She reiterates, and you grin at the term of endearment that rolls off of her lips in exasperation. Natasha rolls her eyes at your reaction, throwing the jeans aside again and plopping down onto the edges of the bed in only a pair of underwear and the baby-tee.

Maria finally steps out of the closet, and you manage an amused laugh at her lesbian flag cargo shorts and self-cropped wife beater with rainbow letters that spelled out ‘a little bit fruity’. Sometimes you just couldn’t with them. Sometimes it was impossibly hard to remember that they were the only reason the entire world was still spinning, and that they couldn’t sleep soundly at night because of it.

“Oh! Vodka.” You grinned, perking up slightly as you remembered why you initially entered the guest bedroom. “Yelena used the rest of it to make Jell-O shots last night, and didn’t think to tell me that before we went to bed.” You sighed, trying hard not to let the little inconvenience ruin your entire mood now that you remembered it had happened at all. You wanted this to be perfect for her. You needed this to be perfect for her. Natsaha’s first pride had been perfect. She tells you that every year. She’d gone with Maria and Carol Danvers, and a rather excited Clint who had dragged Laura Barton around New York City pregnant and all. Carol hadn’t known that. She’d just thought Laura was strategically sober and knew how to have a good time without alcohol. Natasha had told you that was the pride she realized she didn’t like men at all; that she only associated feelings of love with them because it was drilled into her head in the red room that men are the ultimate honey trap. Women are harder to break, harder to seduce. Men are easy if you show enough skin. “I think she’s on the verge of a breakdown in the bathroom. So, if I give you money, can you run down to the corner and pick up another bottle?”

“I brought some.” Natasha shrugs, nodding toward her duffle bag that's placed in the corner of the room between the nightstand and the wall. Your eyes trail over to the black bag embroidered with her Red hourglass symbol, a ‘seasons end’ gift from Tony the last time they’d momentarily gone their separate ways after a crisis.

“Oh, great!” You beam, a bright smile on your lips before her words catch up to you. “You brought your own vodka to my apparent? When worst case scenario there’s a liquor store on the corner?” You stare at her, lips fluttering. Sometimes, Natasha Romanoff can still catch you off guard after all these years.

“I’m Russian.” Natasha shrugs, and Maria just shakes her head from the corner of the room, willing you to go with it, to just accept that Natasha is a lotta bit weird and a little bit a certified functioning alcoholic. ”Do you want to do a shot?” She changes tune, and you grin eagerly, bouncing on your feet.

Your head bobs up and down, and your eyes glance at the clock on the wall. It’s eight in the morning, almost nine if you consider that it’s exactly thirty-seven after, but the premise stands that people are still down below rushing to work or somewhere prestigious, and here you are, preparing to start the day with a shot a vodka as breakfast. “Yeah. I’ll just bring one to Yelena. I think she needs a minute to just…take in what she’s getting herself into.” You say, knowing Natasha was going to tell you to find her sister before she broke into the bottle of Grey Goose.

Natasha frowns, and Maria inches toward her compassionately. Her fingers rub at spots of collecting tension in Natasha’s shoulders, and while the ginger relaxes, it doesn’t entirely quell her accumulating resentment. “Is she going to be okay?” Natasha’s voice cracks. She knows what it feels like to stare straight down the barrel of a gun pointed at your identity. She knows what its like to battle for control, what it’s like when the first brush of brass against your fingertips shoots through every nerve in your body. Yelena is strong, but Natasha doesn’t know if she’s strong enough to face something like this only a year after getting out. ”I can hang back with her today. You and Maria can go.”

You shake your head, because while Yelena would appreciate having the option, you don't even want that suggestion anywhere near her. “She’s never going to let me help her if you’re always there to guard her corner.” You smile wistfully, because you know that Natasha means well, that she’s only looking out for her baby sister the way she wishes she could’ve all their lives. You know this means a lot to her too. It means a lot that her entire life hasn’t been for nothing. If she never got out, Yelena may never have even had the chance at all to figure out who she loves when her body isn’t being used for profit or murder. Natasha wants today to go okay, for Yelena’s sake, but if it doesn’t, her sacrifice was already worth it for getting them this far. “She just needs a minute to herself. I got her a flag pin and I think she just…I think this is the first time she’s realizing she’s not who she thought she would stay after you killed Dreykov. We both know she doesn’t give herself enough credit as it is, let alone does she ever stand far enough back to realize she’s entirely reinvented herself how she wants to be perceived.” You smile. Yelena’s changed so much since the first time you met her. She’s a sarcastic little shit, she always has been, but she’s less defensive with it now. She doesn’t guard her every feeling like you might use them against her. She cut her hair, painted her nails for a while before she decided she doesn’t like when it chips, and she pierced her ears. She bought a vest, and then she bought a dress, and she realized she hates dresses when she has the option to wear pants instead. Yelena has changed. She has grown. She has healed. You smile knowing that all of that is unconditionally true. “It’s not a bad meltdown, it's just… well it’s the inevitable one.”

“Your meltdown was rather cute.” Maria hums, reminding Natasha that this was normal, this was just another step to Yelena establishing herself as a free agent, not just a hive mind. ”Has she ever told you the story?” Maria’s eyes sparkle as she glances at you, stepping up to be Natasha’s voice of reason before the Russian can convince herself they should just abort while they’re ahead, while Yelena’s still in one piece.

Your lips curve upwards. It’s not often you witness Natasha Romanoff blushing, especially not regarding a story of her recent past. You can’t pass this up, so you shake your head eagerly. Natasha Romanoff can break anyone she wants, but she wouldn’t dream of touching the pure light that shines in your eyes. “What? No. Tell me! Please, please, please!” You gasp, and Maria laughs like you’ve just made her day.

“Oh, I could have so much fun with you.” She notes, and your cheeks flame. Maria is undeniably attractive, Natasha as well. Their sly comments unmake you every time they hit the air, and when Yelena’s around to overhear them, she bustles with laughter that you think could shake the frame of every building in the world.

“You have to stop saying shit like that.” You groan, your hands coming up to hide your blushing cheeks from their equally strong gazes. Natasha and Maria don’t know that you’re not just Yelena’s best friend. They have no reason to assume you’re anything more when all they’ve ever witnessed is an intimate brush of hand against the small of your back that could’ve just been mutually needed at the time. You’ve had no reason to run your mouth and share the news anyway, not when it doesn’t hold any weight in your relationship with them, but a world of difference in theirs with Yelena. Natasha knows her sister is gay. Yelena had told her that before she’d even known there were more umbrella terms and categories to shift through and understand. She doesn’t know that Yelena’s finally found a label that she thinks fits her, or that you happened to be intertwined in the existence of her identity. Even if Natasha knew that Yelena was your partner, you know it wouldn’t stop the comments. It’s just the kind of relationship you have, and you knew her ten years before she ever told you Yelena existed at all. “Will you just tell me the story?”

“Laura kissed me.” Natasha deadpans and your eyes widen, because surely Laura Barton, mother of three, ex-shield agent, long-term committed wife hadn’t kissed Natasha Romanoff three months pregnant in the middle of New York City at the parade, but Natasha was telling you it happened, and Maria was nodding enthusiastically behind her. Maria and Natasha lie, but never to you. ”And I freaked out.”

“She turned to me with the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen and said ‘I think I love women.’ and then proceeded to break down crying about how many years she’d wasted fucking men on her own volition. Clint had to peel her off the corner and apologize to the Drag Queen she fell into while he pulled her away.” Maria laughs and Natasha reaches a hand back to slap at her waist, huffing beneath her breath as she rolls her eyes.

“Whatever. It still took you a year to ask me out after that.” Natasha huffs petulantly and Maria laughs, shooing her up and off the bed. “Shots, right. I almost forgot.” Natasha nods, racing toward her duffle bag with wiggling fingers. “I don’t want anything super loose.” She says randomly, and it takes you a moment to remember you’d thrown a fit about her skinny jeans, and she’d thrown in the towel and put them aside. Her easy compliance was questionable in retrospect, but you didn’t care enough to wade through potential intentions.

“I have denim shorts I was going to wear before I found the skirt I was originally looking for.” You wave her worries off, “I’ll grab them. Don’t start without me! The Jell-O shots on the door, not the shelf, are doubles!” It’s a jumble of words and instructions, but Natasha salutes dutifully as you buzz out of the guest bedroom like a bumblebee — entirely harmless.

The hair dryer is still whirling in the bathroom, the door closed. You can’t hear anything concerning, there’s no crying or soft whimpering, so you assume Yelena’s fine, just taking her time, wrapping her head around all of this as best she can before she lets it all assault her without walls to deflect the contact of the hits. She’s going to go into this with an open mind. She’s going to let herself just be in the moment with you. If Natasha can do it, Yelena knows that she can do it, but she has to get herself to that point first. You let her have however long she needs. After a year of walking this tightrope with her, you know what works best for her now. You know that sometimes, she needs to be alone for a while with her thoughts.

When you return to the kitchen, Natasha’s tipping back what looks like a third Jell-O shot and Maria’s leaning over your countertop, her fingers scrolling through the iPad you have perched against the backsplash. You laugh brightly when Lady Gaga starts playing through the speakers, and quickly you tell her to add another song to the queue, one by a newer artist you and Yelena discovered on a walk through central park a month ago. The little things that remind you of Yelena are your favorite. This song. Kraft. Hot sauce. American Pie. Curly fries. Lightning bugs. She’s everywhere and nowhere, in the little things, not the bigger picture. You think that explains Yelena’s impact on the world and your fragile heart beautifully. After all, even if you’re in the shadows, you’re around for someone to hold onto and protect; darkness can be a beautifully warm blanket when it’s not a death sentence.

Natasha pours you a double, and she slides it down the counter toward you with a lively grin on her lips. There’s a pink Jell-O shot on the counter too, waiting for your touch like it’s meant to be a chaser. It’s another one of the doubles, and you roll your eyes at her intentions to get you drunk before you even step out on the confetti littered streets.

“Ready?” She smirks at you over the rim of her shot glass, her lips curved into a challenging smirk while her eyes throw daggers at you tauntingly. She drips with danger, and it swallows you entirely as you attempt to match her glare and slam the bottom of the shot glass against the counter, and then tip it down your throat. The swallow that comes after all of it sloshes down is thick and unpleasant, and your nose scrunches to avoid coughing at the splatter of a burn against your uvula. Your hand reaches for the jell-o shot, and without breaking eye contact with Natasha, still determined though you’re not sure about what, your tongue eases the gelatin away from the plastic container and flicks it onto your tongue with a hum of readiness. It’s sweet and bitter, it burns when you swallow before it’s soothed by the temperature of the Jell-O. You grin, cheeks flush, feeling warmth bloom in your chest.

Maria, who had evidently taken a shot when your back was turned, comes to you with a High Noon already cracked open. You grin, reaching for it eagerly. It’s pineapple, one of your favorite flavors, and she knows that after many years of supplying it to you beneath tables at Stark events. It soothes the remainder of the burn when you take a sip, and you hum eventually in satisfaction.

“They might be a bit big around your waist.” You hum informatively, glancing at Natasha who's finally stepping into the denim shorts you’d handed over and concealing the lovebites left on her thighs from Maria. She takes a moment to consider your advice, fixing the button and the zipper, pulling the waistband up to her mid-belly. “They look good.” You decide before she can share her own opinion, and Natasha nods agreeingly.

“You’re ass looks great.” Maria interjects suavely, and her pinches her thumb and pointer finger together in a smooth motion, her lips pursing into a pleased frown as she bobs her head. You giggle, taking another sip of your high noon. Natasha rolls her eyes, turning toward the counter again.

”Detka!” You hear Yelena’s voice over the music, and you grin with delight. Natasha’s poured you another shot, and it sits next to one that’s been intended for Yelena all along. Her eyebrows pull together at the endearment that rolls off of her sister's lips and echoes through your quaint little home. Yelena’s not the nickname kind. She’s even less the petnames kind. Natasha can count on one hand the amount of people Yelena’s ever called anything other than their name. The list is short because it doesn’t exist. Yelena doesn’t even call her anything other than a variant of her name.

Your lips curve into a sly grin, and you down the second shot she poured without flinching. “Told you you should stop saying shit like that.” You winked, leaving any direct conclusion up for her to draw herself. Maria laughs, and you grin all the way to the bathroom, not wasting your time with knocking before you enter.

Yelena’s hair is entirely dry, but your hairdryer is on the floor by the toilet, still humming, still blowing hot air into the room at a quiet volume that still sounds too loud. You frown, setting the shot glass down on the counter to reach for it instead, turning it off once its between your soft fingertips.

Yelena yanks you into her chest, her arms wrapping around your body until you’re certain she’s trying to fuse the two of you together. It’s only been half an hour since you left her alone, but it feels like a million years whenever you're away from her. Your head rests on her chest, and the faint pulse of her heart beneath your ear is soothing. The music plays overhead, Maria and Natasha are singing along in the kitchen, but it hardly penetrates this moment with Yelena.

She has a white t-shirt on, and black shorts with silver chains hanging from the pockets. The pin you’d given her is secured to the patch of fabric on the front of her thigh, you can feel the cold metal against your bare skin. It makes you smile, and you know it lightens her heart when you reach down to brush your finger against it.

“Does it feel good? To have a little piece of you to touch? To share with other people without having to explain?” You whisper softly, not wanting to scare her off when you can see that she’s doing her absolute best to open up to you right now. No walls. There’s not a single wall in her usually guarded green stare, and you know just how much effort it takes for her to come at any conversation with a fully open mind and fragile emotions.

“I’m asexual.” She whispers as an answer. You don’t know if you’ll ever get tired of hearing Yelena whisper her sexuality into the limited space between your bodies. You don’t know if you’ll ever get tired of knowing you’re the only person she trusts enough to explore this with; to confide in. “I..I do not—”

“Yelena, you don’t have to.” You shake your head, because you know she’s been trying to find a reason for this in her life. If that doesn’t make sense, it because it doesn’t make sense. You’ve tried to tell her that no single event made her this way, that asexuality isn’t something born of natural consequences and trauma responses, but she’s never been quite able to accept that she was born this way. She’s never been able to accept that Dreykov took something for her that she never had any intention or thought of giving away at all. It’s one thing to take her virginity, to take Natasha’s virginity, to take the virginity of every widow that’s come through its doors, but she feels impossibly violated sitting with the newfound reflection that if she’d never been forced into sex and honey trap missions, she might’ve never even had sex at all.

“I need to tell you why I can’t love you.” She whispers. Her words are a desperate plea, but you can’t give into them no matter how easily you typically crumble. “I want to explain to you. You show me all of this love, and I can’t do more than hold your hand. I— I don’t want to do more!” She’s never been allowed to choose how she expresses emotion. She’s never been allowed to decide whether a victim is sliced with her smallest blade, or ripped apart by her bare hands. She never got to pick who she seduced, or when it happened. It’s been a year, but that’s not enough time to unlearn everything you’ve ever known. Yelena still thinks she needs to be worthy of your love in physical ways. She still tries to tether herself to physicalities to express what she doesn’t know how to say. It’s worked for an entire year, but it’s failing her now.

“You don’t have to do more.” You whisper, because it feels important to match her energy right now, even with Born This Way blaring through the speakers overhead. “Yelena, I’ll never need a reason to show the world how much I love you. Never. Sex isn’t everything in a relationship. Not to me. I love you because I love you. I was just always meant to.”

“Natasha was… Natasha was raped too, and she still enjoys having sex with her girlfriend.” It feels wrong to talk about Natasha’s trauma without her present, but it’s the only way Yelena knows how to encapsulate everything she’s feeling in a way that you can digest. She’s glad that you have no idea what it’s like to attempt to move on with your life when so much of it is haunted, but it puts her even farther out in a sea of isolation when you just have no real way of knowing what she means fully.

“Natasha, is also a lesbian. She’s also something that the General never would’ve allowed either of you to be.” You crane your head to the side, your hands gently cupping Yelena’s cheeks. She thinks so highly of her sister, you don’t think she even realizes that she’s so much like her. “She’s sacrificing normative relationship culture just to call Maria her girlfriend. Natasha’s also had fourteen years to adapt to society, and freedom, and accepting her sexuality. Believe me, she didn’t always have a healthy relationship with sex. I was still with the IT department when her and Maria started sleeping together. Every single day, multiple times a day, like she couldn’t get enough. And she couldn’t. She had a meltdown the first time Maria told her to wait until after their mission debrief. I thought someone had died, she stormed out, slammed the door, didn’t come out of her quarters for two days. She was breaking down, Yelena.”

Yelena looks surprised, like she can’t imagine Natasha ever being in a position any less stable than she is now. You’re happy she doesn’t know what it was like to experience Natasha Romanoff before she’d decided to let the world into her heart again. It would’ve destroyed her to realize how truly broken she’d been all those years ago.

“I am asexual.” She says it again, and you nod just as acceptingly as you’d done the first time. “I was raped. I have sexual trauma, but that did not make me asexual. I was born this way. It is just who I am.”

“You were born this way. It’s who you are — at your best and your worst.” You parot, and a single tear leaks from Yelena’s eyes and she lets her forehead fall into yours. “I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.” You whisper, your lips brushing her cheek. Yelena shivers, she curls her fingers into your top. She holds you tightly against her chest.

“You don’t mean that.” Yelena whispers. It breaks your heart. She breaks your heart just as much as she fixes it. “There’s no way you could mean that.” Her voice is hoarse. Her eyes are wet.

“I mean it with every fiber of my being, Yelena Belova. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you. I wouldn’t change a single thing about how we met, or this last year we’ve had together. None of it. I don’t need your body to have you. You’ve let me have the best and worst parts of yourself without it. What more could I ask for from you?” Your fingers curl into the hair at the name of her neck, and Yelena sighs softly as she deflates into your touch, nodding like what you’ve been telling her for months is finally, finally setting in. “And we both know I have my own methods.” You wiggle your eyebrows, and Yelena goes flush, chuckling softly as she dips her head and agrees that you definitely do have your methods with still finding pleasure.

“Yelena!” Natasha yells, and you shake your head. “Did you take the shot!” Yelena rolls her eyes, but glances down at the counter where you’d placed the counter. Her lips curve into a grin, and she reaches for it as she untangles her limbs from yours. You nod once, glance that she’s in better spirits already.

“Yes!” She calls back once it’s down her throat, and you laugh as she makes a face at you in the mirror as she reaches for your practically empty High Noon. Whatever was left is very quickly gone, and the can makes its way into the garbage can besides an empty bottle of Nair. Only Maria Hill would nail her legs. “I’m excited.” She tells you eventually, when she leans in close to the mirror and takes an eyeshadow brush to her waterline. She sketched in deep purple shadows, and you smile at her willful acceptance of the asexual flag. You know that once the novelty has expired and she doesn’t feel so fragile exposed she’ll find comfort in the community and freedom, but for now she’s just taking it one minute at a time.

“I’m excited.” You tell her, fixing the hem of your skirt. “Nat’s the best to come with. I’m thinking we let her and Maria blindly lead us around, and see how long it takes for her to get pissed that we're not keeping up quick enough.” You get caught in the purple eyeshadow. It’s captivating, but so are her eyes without it. Yelena smiles softly, her hands frame your face.

“YA tebya lyublyu.” She breathes, sweeping down to peck your lips. Your belly buzzes every time she kisses you, no matter if it’s intended to take your breath away or not. Yelena’s kisses are rare, beams of sunshine that spontaneously fall from the sky onto your skin. They’re not something she can give you a lot of the time, trauma to sift through still a priority ahead of romantic relationships, but when she finds the strength to have comfort in her own freedom your heart soars higher than all the lives lost to get here. Phil Coulson would adore Yelena Belova. You think she’d have a friend in him too.

“I love you more.” You whisper, dropping your head to her chest. You press a chaste kiss to her chest where the fabric of her t-shirt covers soft freckles. “So much more than you’ll ever know.”

“You know I do not like that.” Yelena frowns, and you laugh softly, inching out of her arms again to grab the gleaming silver knob in the door. “Natalia brought vodka?” She questions when it dawns on her that she’d never heard anybody leave.

“Yeah.” You snort and Yelena nods, something you only see through the reflection in the mirror before you pull the door open.

“Ah, I knew she would.” Yelena praises and you shake your head, guiding her down the hallway where Natasha and Maria are both working through the Jell-O shots. You assume they’ve made it their mission to individually try every flavor, so when Natasha hands you an orange one without any hesitation and Maria bats a yellow one at Yelena, neither of you hesitate. You trust that they know that you’ll like best, not that you’d complain either way.

“What’s that?” Natasha asks around a mouthful of Jell-O, swallowing after it’s off her tongue and the weight of her curiosity is distributed to Yelena.

“I am an asexual lesbian.” Yelena says simply, shifting her stance to show Natasha the asexual pride pin she’s secured to her shorts proudly. Natasha closes her eyes for a moment, slightly shocked that the first time Yelena’s brought up specifics for her sexuality it’s two terms she wasn’t even sure the blonde knew, but her heart swells with pride and you can tell by the way she shrugs haphazardly.

“Okay.” Natasha nods, and Yelena nods too before her eyes flicker to Maria seeking approval she didn’t know she wanted. Maria offers the same nonchalance and you can visibly see Yelena relax more than she has in the last month.

“Okay.” Yelena whispers softly, a smile on her lips that doesn’t dwindle once throughout the remainder of your day.

[coffeewasamistake]

Home is where the heart is

For the Mini Pride Bingo hosted by @genderthings.

[AO3]

Prompt: HRT | Rating: T | WC: 1184 | Relationships :Wayne Munson&Eddie Munson; Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson. Warning: Implied/Referenced child abuse

Summary:

Eddie meet his uncle Wayne in a hospital room. From that point, his life improves significantly.

It’s not something he would ever say publicly, but Eddie was so glad his father had broken both his leg and arm when he had pushed him down the stairs. The fact that he had done so while totally drunk in the middle of the day, in full view of three neighbors and the very same cops who were coming to arrest him may have been part of the reason he was so happy about it.

It had hurt. It still did, even with the meds he was under. His body felt like a giant bruise, and he had nearly fainted when he had seen his arm bent in a really, really abnormal way. Said arm was now in a cast, along with his leg, and it sucked. At least his right side had taken the brunt of the fall, and he was still able to write and eat almost normally.

He didn’t know where he was going to end up now that his dad had been locked up, but after two days spent at the hospital, a social worker showed up with a vaguely familiar man she introduced to him as Wayne Munson. His uncle. Or “that fucking fairy,” according to his father.

Eddie was hurt, high on painkillers, and in presence of an authentic degenerate. The kind of person who was different from everyone Eddie had ever met and was proud of it, enough to get in trouble with the pigs for being involved in a riot. That was insane.

 As soon as the social worker left them alone, Eddie started to vomit all his problem for Wayne to hear. The man listened in silence, barely nodding a few times to encourage him to talk. When Eddie finally ran out of secrets to tell, Wayne only said one thing.

“So, you’re a boy, right?”

And that was the end of it.

A couple of days later he found himself in small-town Hawkins, while his father was probably in the clink for good, this time. He was now the proud owner of the only bedroom in his uncle’s trailer, because according to Wayne, teenage boys needed their own space.

Three days after his arrival, Wayne sat him on a chair and carefully buzzed his hair. Eddie watched each lock fall to the ground, feeling strangely bereft. Afterwards, he kept running his hand against his bare scalp, fighting against the burn in his eyes.

Wayne put a hand on his shoulder, firm but kind. “It’s safer like that, son. You’ll be able to regrow it soon enough.”

He left the next day, having arranged for a woman living two trailers from them to watch over Eddie for the weekend.

“Don’t tell anyone you were not born a boy, you hear me?” Wayne told him just before the neighbor arrived. “I can help you be yourself, but you have to be careful if we want it to work.”

“Never?”

“As long as you’re still a kid. Keep it under wraps at least until you can vote.”

The neighbor was blind as a bat, made the best casserole in the state, and called him Edward in such a nice tone that by the time Wayne came back, he had decided that he liked that very, very much.

He was still going to go by Eddie, though.

It turned out Wayne had a lot of friends, and all of them were the wrong sort. Not the kind that ended up in jail for grand theft auto and assault, like his dad, but the kind dear ol’ Al Munson would have called “a bunch of degenerates that should be hanged.”

Wayne came back with a stack of falsified papers, a box, zines, and a whole spiel for him.

By the end of the week, he had been enrolled in the local middle school for the next year as “Edward Munson” and was starting to wince less and less each time his uncle stuck a syringe in his thigh. 

Eddie spent the last of the spring and most of the summer holed up in the trailer, writing page after page in a notebook and devouring each book Wayne brought him from the local library. By the time school started again, his arm and leg were healed, the duvet on his upper lip had slightly darkened, and his voice was cracking. 

Ten years after his first trip to the ER, Eddie had been left in the tender care of nurses way more times than most people, and he had almost always gotten along with them.

That one, though, was his favorite.

“Hiya, nurse Harrington. Nice scrubs.”

Steve dropped his key in a bowl and turned around to face his boyfriend. 

“Hi, babe.”

Eddie stretched his neck, and Steve gave him a quick kiss when he passed by the couch in the way to the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later he was back, wearing his pajamas, his hair damp and in disarray. 

“Rough day?”

Steve slumped on the couch and curled up against Eddie. “Could have been easier,” he mumbled.

“I made lasagna.” 

His head shot up.

“You did?”

“Yep. Followed your recipe to the letter. It’s in the oven.”

He got a kiss for his trouble. Then another. 

By the time his watch biped, they had been making out for nearly ten minutes.

Steve pushed his boyfriend back a bit. 

“Is that for you shot or for the lasagna?”

“For my shot.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Eddie smiled dopily and leaned back on the couch. Soon Steve was back with a syringe and a wipe.

“Take your pants off, will you?”

“My, my, nurse Harrington, you’re taking some liberties.” He shuffled out of his jeans, throwing them to the other side of the room. “Aaaall ready for you, my good sir.”

Steve laughed and sat down beside his boyfriend. Eddie immediately put his legs on his lap and lied back.

“Stick me with the boy juice, sweetheart.”

The only answer he got was a kiss on his thigh. Steve cleaned up a square of skin with the cotton wipe and emptied the syringe.

“Ouch,” Eddie said in his most indifferent tone.

“Awww, did that hurt, baby?”

Eddie had been jabbing a needle in his thigh daily for the last ten years and was thinking about getting a new tattoo. He could barely feel needles anymore, and his pain threshold was very high anyway. But being the center of his very caring boyfriend’s attention was always nice.

He batted his eyelashes. 

“Yes, terribly.” Eddie sat back and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend’s neck. “The pain is immeasurable, my liege. I need your lovely kisses to make it all better.”

Steve put down the needle with a laugh and dropped a quick kiss on his lips. “And now?”

“Still hurting…”

They were still laughing between kisses when Steve pushed Eddie down to better make out with him on the couch.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

“Hey, what’s that sound?”

“Oh, that’s just the alarm for the lasagna.”

“What???”

“It can stay in the oven for a bit longer, don't worry. No! Come back here!”

[oddinary4bts]

Be With You | ch 14

☆summary: who knew that the hot guy you've been paired with for a class project is also a kind soul? Certainly not you, and you feel yourself falling even though you know you shouldn't. Will it be your demise, or will it all work out in the end?

☆pairing: Choi San x female!reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, some chapters contain mature content)

☆genre: slow burn strangers to lovers, college!au, smut, angst and fluff

☆warnings: cursing, minghao :(, alcohol, mentions of jungkook and anxiety

☆word count: 13.1k

☆series masterpost

☆add yourself to the taglist here

☆a/n: i love them in this one🥹 thank you to @moonleeai for your amazing work as my beta reader, I love you and am forever thankful for you <3

☆☆☆☆☆

Cold snowflakes Withered down Until you bloom As a spring flower I'll be with you

Be With You, Ateez (english translation)

☆☆☆☆☆

Friday, February 14th

The beginning of the semester has passed in a blur, and you can’t believe you’re sitting in front of your small, round mirror, applying your makeup for your Valentine’s Day date tonight. 

You’re going on a date. You are going on a date. On a date! 

You barely can believe it yourself. Yet here you are, getting ready, applying your makeup surgically, though you’re a little clumsy thanks to your nails. Indeed, you decided to get them done for the holiday, if only because you wanted to know what it’s like to have fake nails on.

Needless to say, you’ve been loving it, the sound your nails make whenever they click on the screen of your phone somehow addictive.

You finish with your eyeliner, and you lean in to closely look at yourself in the mirror, making sure it’s even. It is, so you pick up your lash curler, carefully curling your lashes. You add mascara to them next, making sure that your eyes are popping prettily, and then you move on to do your contour and highlights. That part of doing your makeup is quick, efficient, and you’re soon applying blush to your cheeks, blending the whole thing evenly before you finish with your makeup fixing spray.

Some lip tint later and you declare yourself ready for the date. The thought makes your heart race in your chest, and you wish you could go outside to talk to Yunho or Sydney, but they’re at Sydney’s place, most likely getting ready for their own date.

The rest of your single friends are all drinking at Wooyoung and Yeosang’s apartment tonight. Even Seonghwa and Hongjoong will be there, though that is only because they haven’t declared their feelings to each other yet.

If your hunch is right, that is. You think it has to be. Over the last few weeks, you’ve seen them on multiple occasions, and they’ve seemed even closer than they were that night you watched Squid Game with them, Sydney and your brother. 

The only person you’ve told about that to is San, if only because you’d already mentioned it to him before Christmas break, when he’d walked you home from the bar. 

The thought of San makes your heart flutter, and you swallow, your throat drying out. Much like it does whenever you think of him. Though you’ve been managing this friend thing a lot better than you were initially expecting, you’ve seen the way he looks at you whenever Minghao is mentioned around the two of you.

San doesn’t particularly like Minghao. At least you don’t believe he does, yet he’s never really said anything about it. So you try not to talk about Minghao in front of San too much - you’d never want to make San feel uncomfortable.

Or maybe you’re just imagining things. You don’t like thinking about it too much.

You’ve been going on dates with Minghao now. Tonight will be the fifth, yet all you’ve done with him so far is kiss him, and it didn’t even happen on all of your dates. It’s like there’s a slight discomfort with him, something not quite connecting, and you’ve been hoping that you just need time to get there with him.

After all, things ended sort of recently with San, and you probably still need time to move on. Minghao has been understanding, though he’s wary that San is part of your friend group. You’ve tried to convince him that he has nothing to worry about, but you’re not sure who you were trying to convince most of it: him, or you?

You take a deep breath to ease your nerves. Thinking about all of this is not doing you any good, so you instead check the time. It’s half past six, and Minghao will be picking you up around seven. You have thirty minutes to kill, and you end up doing so by watching some reality TV show you’ve started two weeks ago. You can’t really concentrate though - you keep fidgeting, your eyes darting to your phone every minute. 

The second your phone lights up with a notification, you pick it up. Your heart slightly strains in your chest when you see that it’s a message from San, and you open it, you ache as you read it.

[6:43 pm] San: have a nice date tonight!

He’s never wished you that before. You wonder if it’s a good sign, yet it doesn’t really feel like it. Not when you get flashbacks of nights you spent with San, of his lips on yours and his body moving with yours. It happens regularly, yet you weren’t expecting it right now. Not when you’re about to go on a date with someone else.

[6:44 pm] You: thanks! have fun with everyone

[6:44 pm] San: i’ll try

You don’t blink as you read the words. You see the underlying meaning right away, and, for a second, you wonder if it’d be okay for you to cancel on Minghao. You feel horrible for even considering it just a heartbeat later, so you only turn off your phone, focusing on the television again.

San sounds… upset. And you reckon, he totally might be.

What the fuck are you doing?

You worry at your bottom lip, anxiety flashing through you, and you take a few steadying breaths, hoping that it will pass quickly. You don’t want to be a mess once Minghao gets here, and you’re definitely starting to be one.

You shoot up from the couch, jogging to the kitchen. You pour yourself a glass of ice cold water, chugging it as fast as you can despite the brain freeze that it causes you. It does help with the anxiety though - it’s a trick you’ve found with your therapist back when you were trying to get over Jungkook, and she’s reminded you of it during your last appointment.

It helps. The water helps, and you breathe a little easier once you’ve put the glass away. You make your way back to the living room, plopping down on the couch with a long sigh. And that’s where you still are when Minghao texts you that he’s there, ten minutes later.

Your anxiety spikes for a few seconds, thoughts of San lingering at the back of your head while you put your coat and shoes on before making your way downstairs. Minghao managed to park right outside your door, and he’s leaning against his car, holding a bouquet of roses.

He smiles when he notices you, pushing off his car. You mirror the smile, your eyes moving to the flowers, and you let out a nervous laugh.

“You didn’t need to buy me flowers.”

Minghao chuckles. “It’s Valentine’s Day, what do you mean?”

You stop in front of him, hugging him before grabbing the flowers. They look beautiful, and you take a moment to inhale their sweet fragrance.

“Thank you,” you whisper then, looking up to meet his gaze.

You don’t miss the way his eyes drop to your lips, and he leans in, pressing a chaste peck on your mouth. You don’t really reciprocate, not really having time to, and he doesn’t seem to realize. Indeed, he straightens, opening the door behind him.

You get in the car, watching him as he makes his way to the driver’s side. Soon, he’s sitting next to you, the car’s engine revving to life, the purr of the expensive car so unlike that of San’s car.

Indeed, Minghao owns a Porsche here despite only being here for his studies. His dad bought it for him, and you don’t blame him for not refusing the gift. 

It’s a really nice car after all.

“How was your day?” Minghao asks as he’s driving down the street.

He glances at you, the light from a car passing by sliding on his features.

“It was nice!” you reply. “Class was not too bad for once.”

He smiles, resuming his attention on the road. “That’s good. The professor was not too much of an asshole?”

Indeed, your Friday morning class’ professor has been a dick since the very first week, barely giving you time for a break in the middle of class and screaming at anyone who dares touch their phone. But he seemed like he was having a good day today, and his usual aggressive demeanour didn’t come out, which was a relief.

You were texting with Sydney all class as she was bored in her own class after all.

“Nah, he was chill,” you reveal. “I assume he’s going to have a good time with his wife and he was excited for that.” You scowl as you finish your sentence, disgust swirling through you. “Ew, I can’t believe I said that.”

Minghao bursts out laughing. “I mean…” he trails off, and he glances at you with a corner smile. “It’s Valentine’s Day after all.”

You chuckle, and then you ask him about his own day. He’s lucky - he doesn’t have classes on Fridays, but his father has been making him intern at the branch of his company here, so Minghao tells you that he had to go in to help on some project, but that it went well. 

“Do you see yourself working for your father in the future?” you ask him.

Minghao shrugs. “Yeah, I mean… I feel like it’s kind of a given that I will.”

You glance at him, studying his profile for a few seconds as he doesn’t sound too enthused about the idea.

“Is that what you want to do?” you ask him.

His Adam’s apple bobs on his throat as he swallows, and then he says, “Well… now that I’ve met you, I’m not sure if I want to go back to China, you know?”

For a few long seconds, you just sit there, looking at his profile as your gaze widens. You wonder, did you give him any indication that you were there yet with him?

Have you gotten to this point in the relationship without even realizing it? The thought is scary. Because you still don’t know if you want to commit to him, still don’t know where you see yourself in a month.

You’ve been taking it day by day when it comes to your relationship with him, but now you realize that you might have been the only one doing so.

Shit.

“Oh,” you let out. “I don’t want to stop you from pursuing your career, though.”

He shoots you a quick look. “I can always find work at the branch here. My dad wants me back in China, but I could manage something.”

“But you graduate in just a few months,” you point out. 

Indeed, he’s the same age as your brother, who’s also going to be graduating at the end of the semester.

“Yeah?”

You worry at your bottom lip, looking at the street in front of you as you try to figure out what to say. “Didn’t you say you were going back to China after?”

There’s an awkward silence, only interrupted by a honk outside of the car - the car in front of you is honking at a delivery driver who parked in the middle of the street, which explains why you’ve been at a standstill for a few moments.

“Do you want me to go back?” he asks.

Your lips part on a word that doesn’t cross the boundaries of your mouth, and you close them again to swallow around it. “No, that’s not what I’m saying.” You search for the right words to speak, highly aware that he’s staring at you now. “I’m just surprised that you would change your life plans for me like this.”

“I mean…” he trails off, and then the car starts moving again. He doesn't say anything for a moment, turning left at the next intersection. “Isn’t that kind of… what we’ve been doing though?”

“Well, yeah,” you quickly reply. “Just, I didn’t think we were there yet.”

You think you hear him gulp. “Do you want us to be there?”

You hate this. You hate the loaded question, because just half an hour ago you were thinking about San and the way San makes you feel. Yet here you are, sitting next to someone that really isn’t San, someone that you now realize has likely been falling for you this whole time.

“Honestly, I’ve just been going with the flow,” you reply carefully. “You know I don’t really do relationships.”

He nods, and heavy silence settles on the car for a moment. You feel like you’ve ruined everything, and the flower bouquet in your hands seems like a dead weight now.

“That’s okay,” he eventually says. “I’m okay with that. But I do like you though, and it’d suck to go to China and not see you anymore.”

Something lifts in the atmosphere. You don’t know exactly what, but you’re able to meet Minghao’s gaze, a smile curving your mouth upwards. “Am I that great?”

He rolls his eyes, chuckling, but he forgoes an answer, instead focusing on parking his car in the parking lot on the side of the road. You both get out, and he goes to pay while you leave the flowers in the car. Two guys walk past, their gazes going round at the sight of Minghao’s car, and you politely nod to them.

Minghao is back a minute later, and he offers you his arm before guiding you to the restaurant he reserved for the occasion. And you feel bad. You feel bad the second you walk in, because the restaurant looks obviously very expensive, and you just know it’s out of your price range.

It’s confirmed when you’re sitting at the table, menu in hand, your eyes almost bulging out of your head at the prices next to the different - and very few - meals.

“Oh God, Hao,” you let out. You scan the room - the ambiance is lovely, rich wood panels decorating the walls and round tables placed at regular intervals around the floor - to make sure that no one is paying attention, and then you add, “I cannot afford this.”

“Good thing I’ve got you, mmh?” he says, meeting your gaze over the menu. He winks at you, and you worry at your bottom lip. “I’m serious,” he continues. “I’ll pay for you, please don’t worry about this.”

“But how am I supposed to repay you?”

He smiles softly, tilting his head to the side as he lowers the menu. “You really don’t have to. Just your company is plenty enough.”

You blush at that, and then you nod, looking at the menu. “Alright then. Let me order the most expensive thing here.”

It turns out to be beef Wellington and, never having eaten it before, you do end up ordering that, though Minghao starts by ordering a glass of wine for himself. You tell the waiter you’ll be okay with just water, and he ends up pouring you a glass of lemon water, with a hint of a strawberry taste to it that increases the fancy ambiance surrounding you.

The music contributes to it too. It’s jazz music, the kind of music you’ve always imagined rich people to enjoy, so you’re not surprised that it’s playing at a restaurant like this. You like it too - sometimes, you listen to jazz music without any lyrics when you’re studying. It helps you focus, and perhaps it makes you dream too.

But mostly, it helps you push through hours of excruciating studying, and allows you to get the results that you want and expect from yourself.

The conversation with Minghao is easy once the waiter leaves after bringing Minghao his glass of wine. You talk about college - Minghao is studying business - and it leads to you explaining what you think you’ll do when you’ll pass the bar in a couple of years. It still seems far down the line, but you already know you want to help victims of various crimes get the justice they deserve.

“I admire you for that,” Minghao says once you finish explaining the kind of things your dad does for work, and how you want to follow in his footsteps. 

You blush. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he says with a nod. “I think it’s admirable to want to defend those that have suffered. A lot of lawyers would rather defend the defendant only because the pay is better.”

“Oh, that’s for sure,” you agree. “But I really am not into it for the money.”

“Another thing I admire you for.” He smiles softly before taking a sip of his white wine. “Most people usually are just in it for the money.”

That you definitely are aware of. Though it makes sense - you live in a capitalistic world after all.

“What about you?” you ask. “Are you in it for the money?”

You realize the question might be more loaded than you meant it to be once you hear it aloud, but Minghao shrugs his shoulders, like he doesn’t really mind it.

“Honestly?” He pauses, chuckling. “Yeah, a little bit. I think I would have pursued some art if it wasn’t for the company.”

That surprises you, as he’s never mentioned any interest in art before. “What!” you let out. “What art do you like?”

He blushes lightly, and he hides his gaze in the content of his glass so he doesn’t have to look you in the eye anymore. “I like singing,” he admits. “Producing too, but mostly singing.”

“You will totally have to sing for me one day,” you say, a smirk growing on your lips.

“I’m not a trained singer, your ears deserve better than that.”

You wave him off. “I still want to hear.” You both laugh, and then you say, “Wait, you’re a good dancer too. You could have totally been some K-pop idol or something.”

“As if my parents would have ever let me do that,” he says with a wince. “But yeah, I don’t know about K-pop, but I feel like something like that would have been fun.”

“I bet,” you agree.

Before you can speak more, the waiter comes back to refill your glass of water, and then informs you that the entrée - pumpkin soup - is on its way. It shifts the conversation to the different foods you like, and then time passes in a flash as you eat and talk.

It’s fun. Hanging out with Minghao is always fun, but you know something is different tonight. Perhaps because it’s Valentine’s Day, or because it’s your fifth date. But by the time you’re walking back to the car, hand in hand, you know something is different.

Minghao is acting jittery. A little bit like he’d been when you’d seen him at that party at the beginning of the semester. Like he’s shy, searching for his words, and you wonder where his bubbly self from inside of the restaurant disappeared.

“Everything okay?” you ask as you reach the car, and he opens the door for you.

“Yeah,” he says with a nod. “Yes, of course.”

Your brow creases, but he’s closing the door behind you before you can say anything. You still don’t know what to say once he’s sitting next to you, so you remain silent while he starts driving you home.

But your thoughts aren’t silent. Your thoughts start running around, searching for an explanation for the sudden shyness Minghao seems to be enshrouded with. Is it something you said?

Is it the conversation you had in the car before the restaurant?

It’s hard to tell, and it’s not like you want to ask. You’re afraid of what he’ll say, afraid he’ll ask to stay over tonight. You don’t know why. But suddenly, all you can think about is that he’ll likely want that, considering it’s Valentine’s Day, and your heart feels constricted in your chest.

“So,” Minghao lets out as he parks not too far from your apartment, unable to park out front this time around. “Thank you for the restaurant tonight.”

“Thank you,” you reply. “You paid for everything.”

He waves you off, like paying for you was nothing after all. Which, you don’t even know. He didn’t even let you check the bill, but he reassured you that his meal and drink were much more expensive, and that you had nothing to worry about.

It didn’t really help, considering you ordered something that was expensive, but he was the one that insisted on paying, wasn’t he?

“That was nothing,” he says. “Just wanted to treat you for Valentine’s Day.”

You look at the flowers in your lap. “These weren’t enough?”

“For you?” He shakes his head. “No, not nearly enough. As a matter of fact…” he trails off, his voice sounding strange, like he’s suddenly embarrassed. “There’s something in the glovebox for you.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Huh?”

He motions towards the glovebox, ending up opening it. You spy a red box in it, which he takes out, handing it to you.

You grab it, your eyes going wide at the sight of the paper on it.

“Minghao…” you whisper, reading the sentence over and over again.

Do you want to be my girlfriend?

“I know you said you don’t really date people,” he starts. “But I really like you, Y/n. I don’t want us to just be casual, and I promise I’ll treat you right.”

In the moment, all you can think about is that he doesn’t know about Jungkook. Doesn’t know where your reticence about being in a relationship comes from. Hell, he doesn’t know that your heart still longs for Choi San whenever you’re in the same room as him. Doesn’t know that you look for San everywhere you go, and that your dreams of him leave you to wake up with a smile on your lips.

You feel stupid. You feel stupid and guilty and everything in between, as you just sit there, looking at Minghao whose eyes are filled with so much hope your heart breaks for him.

“And… and if you need more time, that’s okay too…” He wets his lips, and he looks down at the box you’re holding. “I just… I don’t want to be led on, and it’s been a little while already and… and yeah, I like you, Y/n. I even think I could love you someday.”

You want to disappear. To be wiped off from the surface of this planet, to go with the wind like a whisper of smoke. But you remain seated in Minghao’s Porsche, right in front of him, and his awaiting gaze doesn’t budge from yours.

Could you love him one day? You know the answer. It’s blaring in your head right now like the shrill cry of an alarm, and you feel horrible. Oh so horrible.

“Hao… I wasn’t expecting this.”

The hope in his eyes slowly withers and dies, much like a flower when the autumnal cold hits it head on. He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and his gaze drops to the box.

“I…” His mouth closes and opens a few times, and then he curses - or at least you think the Mandarin word he said was a curse, though you’re not entirely sure. “It’s because of your friend, right?”

Your gaze widens. “My friend?”

“The one you were sleeping with last semester.”

And though it’s not entirely because of San, you know part of it is because your feelings for him haven’t left you yet. They still cling to your heart, still have their home in its beating depth, and you don’t know what to tell Minghao. So you say nothing, and pain flares in his gaze.

“Are you still sleeping with him?”

“No, I’m not,” you reply. “It’s not like that between us anymore.”

Minghao’s hand clenches in a fist, and red flags start waving in your head. Though he relaxes his fist almost immediately - he’s not Jungkook. 

He’ll never be Jungkook.

“But you like him, right?” he asks. “I… I see the way you two look at each other.”

“Minghao, I do want to give us a chance,” you tell him, motioning between the two of you. “But I said I need to take things slow.”

“I get it,” he says, sighing deeply. “I get that.” He adds your name, and then says, “But you barely even want to kiss me. We’ve been seeing each other for almost a month and we haven’t even gotten close to being physical. Which is fine, I’m not saying it isn’t.” He shuts his eyes, leaning his head against his seat. “But it does make me feel like you’re not attracted to me.”

“Am I not?” you ask yourself. 

Minghao is objectively an attractive guy. His hair looks nice, the length framing his features well, and it’s currently dyed a shade of blonde that emphasizes the honey tone of his skin. His eyes are dark, though they often shine from within whenever he smiles. And he does have a beautiful smile, one that makes his whole face light up.

But… but he’s thinner than San. His hair is so different from San’s. His smile, too, as is the shape of his eyes. Though the shade might be similar… Minghao will never compare to San.

And you fucking hate that he doesn’t.

“You are attractive, Hao,” you reassure him. “I guess…” Your gaze drops to the paper on the box, to Minghao’s nice calligraphy and to the small smiley face he put next to the question. “I guess I just am not there yet. And I don’t want to lead you on.”

“Why do you think you would lead me on?” he asks, his voice small and defeated.

He too has understood where this conversation is headed to.

“Because… because I’m just not ready at all for a relationship,” you admit. “It’s not you. I just… I guess I don’t see myself dating anyone at the moment.”

“So what have these last weeks been?”

He sounds bitter, more than you’ve ever wished to hear him be, but you understand. You’d be bitter too if you’d invested time in someone and they chose to end things with you instead of pursuing a relationship. You were, when San ghosted and left you hanging for weeks.

Yet today… today you barely even think about those weeks without San in your life. Perhaps because the thought of them still hurts to a certain extent, and revisiting the past doesn’t help. But also because it would make this friendship between you and him harder, and you think it’s already hard enough.

“I appreciate your company,” you carefully answer.

He scoffs. “That does not really sound like a compliment.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, almost by reflex. Because you don’t want to hurt him, yet you can tell by the look on his face that he’s hurting right now.

“Ah, it’s fine,” he says. “You know Seher? Mingyu’s girlfriend? She said that this would happen.”

You remember the pretty girl in a hijab you’ve seen around Mingyu a couple of times. You’ve never talked to her, not even once, but she’d always seemed like a nice person. 

“She said that she and Mingyu started dating after three dates, and that anything more than that was a sign that it likely wouldn’t work.”

You don’t necessarily agree with the statement, but you understand where she’s coming from.

“Personally, I need a lot more than that,” you tell him. “I really don’t date, Hao. It’s something hard for me.”

“Why?”

The question is too loaded for an answer here tonight, so you shrug your shoulders. “I guess I just prefer focusing on myself and on my education.”

Minghao holds your gaze for a few seconds before looking away. He sighs deeply again, running his hand through his hair.

“I can’t even be mad at you for that, but I understand,” he says, catching you by surprise.

“You… understand?”

He nods. “Yeah. Honestly, this makes… everything easier.”

“It does?” He only nods once more, not saying anything. “How so?”

“Well now I can confirm to my dad that I’ll be going back to China. He, but mostly my mother, will be relieved.” He offers you a weak smile. “She wants me to meet this girl, and I really don’t feel like it.”

The confession makes you arch a brow. “What?”

“Yeah. There’s this rich family back in China? They have a girl around my age, and my parents have always wanted me to meet her.”

“You… never told me this.”

He laughs though it lacks joy, slightly shaking his head. “I was trying to date you. I would not have told you about that then. It usually scares people away.”

Understandably so, because… how can his parents like any of his girlfriends if they aren’t that girl they want him to meet?

“Yikes,” you let out. 

He shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “I guess I’ll give it a try.”

“You don’t have to, you know?” you reply equally as soft. “You should be able to decide who you want to be with.”

“I know.” He meets your gaze again. “Don’t worry about that, I know. The girl seems nice, so… I am willing to give it a chance. And my mom is the sweetest. She’s not trying to be controlling or anything.”

You’re relieved to hear that, and so you offer him a small smile. “That’s good.”

He nods once, and then he looks ahead. “Well, in that case…” he trails off, and heaviness hangs from his words. “I guess this is it?”

You gulp, worrying at your bottom lip. “I guess so.”

He purses his lips. “Alright. I’m sorry this happened on Valentine’s Day.”

“Don’t be,” you gently say. “Please don’t be sorry.”

He offers you a poor excuse of a smile, but you know he’s just trying, so you don’t say anything about it. “Then I won’t be.”

You nod, and you glance at the box in your hand. It’s a box of chocolate, and you can tell it likely wasn’t a cheap one either. “Keep the chocolate,” you tell him, offering him the box.

“Why?” he asks. “It’s a gift.”

“Then take some of the chocolate now,” you suggest. “That way you can enjoy it too.”

He chuckles, and then he says, “Alright then.” He grabs the box, opening it, and he picks a small heart shaped chocolate that he pops in his mouth. He chews for a few seconds before swallowing. “Happy?”

The word is teasing, more than you expected him to be right now.

“Yes.” You smile, and then your hand moves to the handle of the door next to you. “Thank you for everything,” you tell him.

The ghost of a smile curves his lips, but you’re not quite sure it meets his eyes. “Thank you for everything. You’re really fun to be around.”

“I know,” you tease, and you wink at him.

He laughs, and this time it rings a little truer. “Have a good evening, Y/n.”

There’s dismissal in his tone, so you don’t linger in his car, opening the door and stepping out. “Drive safe,” you tell him, and he nods, offering you a thumbs-up. You close the door then, and you move to the sidewalk, waving him goodbye as he pulls out into the street.

And then you stand on the sidewalk for a few confused seconds, holding the gifts Xu Minghao gave you. You look at the empty spot his car was in just a moment ago, a thought occurring to you. 

You sprint inside, barely stopping to drop the gifts in your room before you’re running outside again.

There’s someone you need to talk to tonight.

*****

It’s cold. It’s all you can think of as you stand outside Wooyoung and Yeosang’s building, your heart beating out of your chest. Perhaps because you almost ran all the way here, or perhaps because you’re anxious to see your friends.

To see him.

But tonight, you won’t let the anxiety stop you. No, you shove it away from you, and then you find your phone in your pocket, opening it and pressing call as soon as San’s contact appears. 

You put the phone against your ear, looking at the door. You’ve tried it before, but it’s locked and you can’t for the life of you remember which apartment is your friends’. So you listen to the ringing on the phone, teeth worrying at your bottom lip, and your heart sinks when it goes to voicemail.

So you try Wooyoung’s phone number instead but, as soon as it starts ringing, you receive another call, this one from the person you want to be talking to. So you hang up on Wooyoung, accepting San’s call, and you press your phone to your ear.

“Hey,” you let out as the line connects.

“Are you okay?” San asks, and the worry in his voice is barely concealed.

“Yes, yes,” you reassure him. “It’s just freezing cold, and I can’t remember what number Wooyoung’s place is.”

“Huh?” 

You laugh, and you feel like you might be floating. “I’m downstairs,” you reveal.

“You… what?” You can tell he’s walking away from the noise on his side of the line. “What about your date?”

“Ah.” You shrug, even though he can’t see you. “I figured that it isn’t really what I want.”

There’s a world of unsaid words hanging heavily at the end of the sentence. But you think San understands - after all, you’ve always understood each other.

“I’m on my way down,” he says after a few seconds. “The intercom doesn’t work anymore.”

You glance at the dark screen next to the door, nodding your head. “Okay. I’m right outside.”

He doesn’t hang up as he comes down, almost as if he doesn’t quite believe you’re really out there. But then he appears on the other side of the glass door, coming down the short staircase leading from the door to the ground floor, and his gaze widens. 

He stops at the top of the stairs, his arm dropping at his side, and then he smiles softly, rushing down the stairs.

“You’re really here,” he says as he opens the door.

You walk in, looking up into his eyes. 

And just like that, you know you’re right where you were meant to be tonight.

“Yeah, I am.”

His gaze darts between your two eyes. “Why?”

“I wanted to see everyone,” you answer with a small voice. “But I… I wanted to see you, too.”

He gulps, slightly nodding his head, and then he glances to the stairs. “Should we go up?”

He has goosebumps on his arms so, refusing to have him stay in the cold here, you grab his hand, pulling him behind you as you climb up. He follows you gingerly, his fingers tightening around yours almost imperceptibly. He leads the way once you’re inside the building proper, his hand not leaving yours.

You wouldn’t let it. Not anymore.

Turns out that Wooyoung and Yeosang live on the second floor, behind door six. San leads you in, and he meets your gaze, his cheeks a light shade of pink. And then he looks at your entwined hands, raising them in the space between you.

“Does this…” he trails off, gulping, and then he lets out a vulnerable laugh. “What’s going on?”

“I just wanted to-”

“Y/n!” Wooyoung yells, interrupting your sentence, and you let go of San’s hand as if you were caught doing something you shouldn’t be. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t work out with my date,” you say, meeting Wooyoung’s gaze as he wraps an arm around San’s shoulders, while San’s hand is still up in the space between the two of you. “So I came here instead.”

Wooyoung’s eyes trail to San’s profile, while the latter just stares at his hand. “RIP that guy.”

You wince. “At least I didn’t lead him on for too long.”

“How long was it? Like three weeks?” Wooyoung asks.

San’s hand falls, and he looks at you, his lips slightly curved upwards at the corners. 

“Like four,” you reply. “It doesn’t really matter.”

Wooyoung smirks, and then rubs his hands together. “So does that mean you’re here to party with us?”

“Actually, yeah.” You smile mischievously. “Let’s do it.”

You take off your coat, dropping it on top of the pile that’s already on the small bench by the door. You take off your boots next, and then you follow behind San and Wooyoung, making your way to the living room where Seonghwa, Hongjoong and Yeosang are in the middle of playing a game of Smash on the television. Yeosang waves at you, and then he curses loudly as his character gets thrown out of the screen. The three guys are sitting on the floor, their backs against one of the couches, and you sit down on the other one, looking at the screen.

“What brings you here?” Hongjoong asks. He throws you a quick glance, but he’s quick to focus on the television again.

Your eyes trail to San, who’s just standing awkwardly next to the couch, his hands in the pockets of his grey sweatpants.

“Just wanted to chill with you guys,” you reply simply. “Wooyoung said it was a party, but Smash? Y’all are so lame.”

“How dare you!” Wooyoung bursts out as he sits next to you. “I bet you’re only saying that because you suck.”

You narrow your eyes at him, daggers shooting from your gaze. “Let’s 1v1, then. Pretty sure I can beat your ass.”

He smirks. “Game on.”

And that’s how you end up with a Switch controller in hand when the guys finish their game, pressing every button as you hope to land a hit. Wooyoung is a laughing mess next to you, clearly aware that you have no clue what you’re doing. San eventually decides to sit next to you, though he’s higher than you, as he had no choice but to sit on the armrest. You’re far too locked in to make room for him, but his proximity encourages you.

Or perhaps his proximity only makes your fight with Wooyoung all the more vicious, and you’re both screaming and shrieking far too loud for this apartment. Yeosang only tells Wooyoung to shut up, and you stick out your tongue at him. 

“You really fucking suck,” he teases. “Don’t be a brat.”

“Nah, I’ll win this, just look at me.”

San chuckles next to you. “You know you can block his attacks, right?”

“I don’t even know how!”

He slides off the armrest, and now his thigh and the side of his body are pressing against yours, so much so that you entirely forget everything that you are currently supposed to be doing. 

“Give me this,” San says, and you hand him the controller. “Let me show you how to play.”

You shift, giving him as much room as you can, though you remain close enough for your thighs to be touching, and for his arm to press against yours as he starts beating the shit out of Wooyoung. Unfortunately, you were already almost dead, and Wooyoung manages to win, celebrating by jumping up and down in front of you like the little kid he is.

Yet, even though there’s now the rest of the couch free for you to move away from San and to find that safe distance you’ve been sticking to since the beginning of the semester, you don’t move, staying right against him.

“Love how you don’t even know how to play yet you claimed you could beat me,” Wooyoung says sassily, his fists on his hips.

“San can beat you,” you declare.

Wooyoung winces, and you both burst out laughing. “Yeah, he definitely can.”

You end up watching the guys play a few more games, all of which San ends up winning, though Hongjoong is a close second. You notice Hongjoong and Yeosang throwing not so subtle looks your way as you remain cuddled up in San’s side, but you entirely ignore it, focusing on the TV and the TV only.

And perhaps on the man next to you, too.

“Fuck that,” Wooyoung curses when he dies first for what seems like the hundredth time. “Let’s just drink, this is getting boring.”

Though you can tell it’s because he’s getting upset about constantly losing, no one mentions it, agreeing to stop playing. Instead, Yeosang puts a chill beats playlist on the TV that he finds on Youtube, and then you all gather in a circle around the coffee table, with drinks that Wooyoung got from the kitchen. San is on your right, Hongjoong on your left, yet once again you just sit as close to San as you possibly can.

He’s been silent tonight. Barely even looking your way, though whenever he does you catch him looking. He blushes every time, and something melts in your chest each time, something you’d initially wanted gone after what happened last semester.

But not anymore and shit, it’s the most relieving feeling you’ve ever felt in your entire life.

“Let’s play Titanic!” Wooyoung suggests, and he grabs a spiked lemonade, pouring it into a glass. He then grabs an empty plastic shot glass, which he puts in the lemonade. The glass floats for now, but you know it won’t last long.

Especially not when Seonghwa, who’s the first to play, almost fills it to its half.

“You could have been a little nicer,” Hongjoong complains next to you. 

Seonghwa shrugs, winking at him, and Hongjoong rolls his eyes, pink dusting his cheeks. He then pours what seems like a single drop of the tequila in the shot glass, and it wavers a tiny bit before stabilizing itself.

Hongjoong hands you the tequila bottle, and you slightly wince at the smell that hits your nose. “You guys really want to drink this?” you ask. “It smells foul.”

“You said you were ready to party,” Wooyoung lets out. “What’s a party without tequila?”

You fight the urge to remind him that you don’t drink, instead focusing on pouring tequila in the shot glass. It moves around in the lemonade, dipping lower in the liquid, but it doesn’t sink yet.

“Good luck,” you tell San as you hand him the tequila bottle.

“I feel like I’ll need it,” he jokes, and the second his fingers brush against yours, electricity shoots up your arm.

And despite your good luck wishes, the shot glass sinks the second San pours some tequila in it, causing San to curse loudly. You all laugh as the guys start chanting for him to chug the glass, which he does after throwing a quick look your way.

His throat moves as he swallows - you don’t know how, but the sight is attractive enough that it makes you look away, as if you’re ashamed of where your thoughts travelled as you looked at him.

“That tastes surprisingly good,” San says once he’s done drinking. “Tequila and lemonade work better together than I thought.”

“Not too much of a punishment then,” Wooyoung says with a pout. “I’ll grab beer instead.”

“Hey, nah, we’re keeping the lemonade,” Yeosang refusing as he grabs the open can, pouring some in the glass from which San already drank. “You’re not making me drink that piss poor excuse of a beer we have in the fridge.”

Yeosang’s words make you all laugh, though Wooyoung glares at him. “You said you liked it the other day.”

“I lied,” Yeosang says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Motherfu-” Wooyoung’s words get lost in the way he throws himself at Yeosang, wrestling him like you’ve seen San and Wooyoung do before. Though this time, Wooyoung is in control, and he messes up Yeosang’s hair before pushing him away. “You deserved that.”

Despite his hair standing in all directions now, Yeosang looks pretty as ever. He just laughs, running a hand through his hair, and then he grabs the shot glass, putting it back into the lemonade. 

“Let’s keep playing.”

You do a few more rounds like this, and you manage not to make the shot glass sink even once. San has to drink another time, but Hongjoong unfortunately ends up having to drink a couple of times, so much so that he begs to stop playing, if only so that he doesn’t get too plastered tonight. You all agree despite Wooyoung’s complaining, and then you move to the kitchen along with San, looking for more drinks.

“I’m really surprised you came tonight,” he admits as he digs in the fridge, pulling out the half empty box of spiked lemonade.

You shrug, though your cheeks burn. “I really just wanted to see you.”

He smiles. He smiles and it’s soft and it makes his eyes shine in a way you haven’t seen them shine in a while. “Me too. I’m sorry the date didn’t go well, though.”

“Oh, it’s not that.” You worry at your bottom lip, eyes never straying from his. “I just realized he wasn’t what I wanted.”

You’re aware that San could reject you. That he could tell you he doesn’t want you in his life like that anymore, yet his smile only widens, bringing out those dimples on his cheeks that you’ve come to love so much.

“That’s… good,” he says, and then he looks confused. “I mean, that you figured out what you want.”

Your heart starts racing as you nod. “I know.”

“Do you think-”

“What’s taking you guys so long?” Wooyoung asks as he strolls into the kitchen like he owns the place, which you reckon he sort of does considering he lives here. “We’re dry out there.”

“Sorry,” you say, cheeks flaming. 

Wooyoung eyes you, his gaze then sliding towards San. Yours is downcast, as if you’re a child who just got caught doing something they shouldn’t do, but you’re pretty sure that San is glaring at Wooyoung.

“Whoops,” Wooyoung lets out, though he does not sound apologetic at all. Indeed, his tone is teasing, much like the smirk on his lips is, and you kind of want to push him out the window. “I’ll let you guys talk, but I’m grabbing this.” He motions at the box, and San gives it to him.

“Wait,” you say as Wooyoung starts retreating out of the kitchen.

His eyes widen. “What?”

“I’ll take one of these,” you tell him, and you dive into the box, pulling out a can. “Now, leave.”

“This is my apartment,” Wooyoung whines.

“Wooyoung.” San’s voice is stern, and Wooyoung just laughs, winking at San before finally leaving the kitchen.

“Gosh, he can be so annoying sometimes,” you mumble, and San chuckles, nodding his head in agreement.

“He definitely can,” he says. “You get used to it eventually.”

You want to say you doubt it, considering you’ve already been friends with Wooyoung for a couple of months now, but you keep it to yourself, knowing San’s sentence didn’t really need a reply.

“Why the drink?” San asks as a short silence stretches between the two of you.

You purse your lips. “You said you wanted us to drink together?” you say like a question. “Last semester.”

“Oh, we really don’t have to,” he reassures you.

“No.” You shake your head, and then you offer him a small smile. “I kind of really want to share a drink with you right now.”

His cheeks flush a hundred different shades of red, and then he nods, mirroring your smile. “Alright then, let me grab glasses.”

He does so, and you sit at the kitchen table as you wait for him to join you, the conversations from the living room forming a lively melody. San is quick to sit next to you, and you hand him the can so that he can pour it in the glasses. 

He does his best at pouring it equally, and then he gives you your glass with a small, “Ta-dah!”

You chuckle, grabbing the glass, and butterflies swarm your chest as your fingers brush his. “Thank you.”

He just smiles, and then he clinks his glass with yours. “I hope you like it.”

You look at the liquid, watching the way small bubbles fizzle in it. “I love lemonade, so pretty sure it’ll be fine.”

“Hopefully.” San’s lips are stretched in a tiny hint of a smirk, his eyes sparkling with mischief, and then you clink your glasses again, bringing yours to your lips.

The first sip burns. Not because of the alcohol, but because the drink is more bubbly than you expected it to be, taking you by surprise. It tickles in your nose, yet you swallow easily, and the taste seems somehow sweeter than regular lemonade, which wouldn’t be a surprise if it was. 

But it’s good. That much is obvious, and you raise your eyebrows as you meet San’s expectant gaze. “Oh, this is good!”

He laughs, almost like he’s relieved, and he nods his head. “It really is,” he agrees. “But it’s a little dangerous, you know?”

“Why?” you ask as you take another sip, a bigger one this time.

“Because it doesn’t taste like alcohol,” he answers. “It’s treacherous.”

That makes a whole lot of sense, especially as you already go for a third sip. “Right.”

“See, that’s what I mean,” he says as he too takes a drink. “You’re drinking too fast.”

You put down your glass, slightly pushing it away from you as you chuckle. “You’re right, I need to chill.”

San just looks at you with familiar warmth in his eyes, and you wonder if it’s alcohol already heating up your chest, or if it’s just that look on his face.

“What did you do today?” you ask, feeling stupid as you know you had a class together. 

San seems to understand that you mean after that, because he says, “I went to the gym, and then went home to take a quick shower before coming here.”

You nod, feeling somehow awkward as you enquire, “What did you hit at the gym?”

“Back and shoulders,” he replies, and he makes a show of flexing his biceps, his shoulder muscles popping out despite the loose t-shirt he’s wearing.

Though it isn’t quite loose. It’s indeed tight around his chest, and you avert your gaze, refusing to be salivating over him so soon into… whatever this is.

“You know what?” he says before you say anything else. “You should come with me to the gym.”

And though it sounds like a lot of effort, you reply, “I’d love to. Only if you let me watch you squat.”

His gaze widens, and then he bursts out laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s adorable, oh too adorable and fuck, you’re so happy you came here tonight.

“Deal,” he says, offering you his hand to shake, which you do with a grin on your lips. 

He doesn’t let your hand go, and you don’t try to move away from him, not even when he puts your entwined fingers down on the table, his thumb drawing gentle lines on the back of your hand.

“You know…” he lets out, and his cheeks darken. He falls silent, and you cock an eyebrow. He slightly shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Hey, that’s unfair!” you say, and you make to let go of his hand. He doesn’t allow it, and your heart beats wildly your chest. “Just say it,” you say with a slight pout of your lips.

“You’d laugh at me.” He chuckles, sounding embarrassed. “It really isn’t important.”

“Now I want to know even more.” You take a sip of lemonade, tilting your head to the side. “What secret are you hiding from me, Choi San?”

The pink tint on his face that was left from when his cheeks darkened earlier slowly becomes red, and he shrugs. “Nothing. I just…” He meets your gaze, lips curved upwards. “I’m really happy I get to spend some time with you tonight.”

You melt. You melt like snow in the spring sun, and you want to kiss him. You almost do, but you resist at the last second, not wanting to move too fast.

No, despite figuring out that you do want him still, he did break your heart last semester. You don’t want to rush into something new, not when the raw pain is still too recent.

“I’m much better company than those idiots in the living room,” you tease and, as if to give emphasis to your words, someone screams in the living room.

It seems like Seonghwa, and you snort at the sound, surprised that he’d scream like that as he’s usually more of the reserved kind.

“Oh,” San let out, and his fingers momentarily tighten around yours. “I just remembered something.”

You meet his gaze. “You’re going to tell me what this is, right? You’re not going to try and go all mysterious.”

“No, no,” he reassures you, and then he glances at the doorway to the kitchen, as if Wooyoung might come back. When he seems sure that you have your privacy, he leans closer to you, and whispers, “I saw Hongjoong and Seonghwa kissing earlier. You were right.”

Your mouth falls open. “No way.”

“Yes!” San insists. “When I went out to let you in? They were kissing right here,” he says, pointing to the general spot next to you. “I don’t think they saw me but… something is totally going on between them.”

“Yeah, they were cuddling at mine the other day,” you admit. “While we were watching Squid Game.”

It’s been weeks now, yet San still nods. “I’m not surprised. I wonder if they’ll ever like, come out to us.”

“Maybe?” you let out. “I feel like they both are secretive in general, and they’re probably trying to figure their shit out first, you know?”

Wooyoung’s laugh comes from the living room, and you both glance in that direction before meeting each other’s gaze again. “I understand that,” San says in a soft tone, and you become keenly aware of your hand still in his, and of the circles he’s now drawing on your skin. “I think they might not be the only ones needing to figure their shit out.”

His gaze widens as if he didn’t mean to say the words aloud. Yet you take it in stride, nodding your head and, though your heart is once more beating too fast in your chest, you prepare yourself for what you’ll say next.

For words you repeated to yourself during all those sleepless nights since the beginning of the semester. For words you didn’t think you’d ever say, yet words you know by heart. 

“That’s true,” you say, and you offer him a small smile. “San, I know last semester was a lot for both of us, but you still mean a lot to me.”

“You mean a lot to me, too,” he whispers.

You’re warm. Warm and smiling and fuck, is this what happiness is?

“I realized tonight that I want to give us a chance,” you admit, heart racing in your chest. “Though last semester really hurt, I think we might be able to push through all of that and… and be for each other what we were trying to be last semester. But doing it right this time around.”

You think San might cry. His eyes are swimming with emotion, silver on his waterline, and he gulps as he looks at you. He’s looking at you like he’s been dreaming of hearing those words, and you reckon he might have.

“But,” you say, and you swallow around the lump in your throat. “Let’s take this slow. I… I don’t think I’m fully over what happened.”

And you aren’t. But for the first time, you realize maybe you don’t have to be. Maybe it can be a lesson learned, for both of you.

Learned but not lost.

“I think I can do that,” San says softly, softer than a feather. “I… am not sure I deserve this, but I’ll do everything I can to earn it.”

“San…”

“I’m serious,” he insists. “I want to prove to you that you are not making a mistake. I don’t want it to ever be a mistake between us. I…” A tear spills on his cheek. “I really care for you.” He adds your name like the gentlest plea. “And it killed me to see how much I hurt you, and how much that… that dickhead hurt you, too.”

He pauses, long enough for you to say, “But I hurt you too. I lied to you.”

“You didn’t.”

You frown, not quite understanding.

“He didn’t count. He never fucking did. And you didn’t cheat on him, either. He deserved that.”

You didn’t realize how much you needed to hear the words until San says them, and then tears spill on your cheeks, and he’s pulling you on his lap. You hide your face in his neck, clutching him tightly, and he rests his forehead on the side of your head as he gently runs a hand on your back.

You will be okay. For the first time ever since you met Choi San, ever since Jungkook crashed and burned you, you realize that you will be okay.

With San at your side, how could you not be?

You don’t cry for long. Not when you’re exactly where you’ve wanted to be all this time.

“San,” you whisper. You pull away, just enough to be able to see his features. His eyes remain closed, but he hums, waiting for you to say more.

But you don’t say anything. Instead, you act in a sudden impulse, and you gently press your lips on his. And the second your mouths touch, even though it’s the softest touch, a star implodes in your chest, turning your insides into a supernova that destroys the you from before, giving space for the new you.

For the one that will forgive Choi San. For the one that will forgive yourself, too, for lying to Choi San. For the one that will try and spend the rest of her life learning how to love the man next to you properly.

If he allows.

And you think he will. You’re almost certain he will as he kisses you back like you’re fragile at first, like you might be porcelain a second from breaking, and then kisses you like you’re a volcano erupting, like passion is the driving force of your lives.

And it might be. There’s always been a lot of passion between you and Choi San, and you reckon there likely always will be.

You doubt there’s anything more beautiful than that in the universe.

You kiss for what seems like forever. Barely even breathing, just getting lost in him until you find your home again, until his arms tighten around you and yours snake around his neck. Your hands get lost in his soft hair, while his remain strong and steady on your back, and though the passion burns you up, you don’t let it take control.

It would be too soon, way too soon.

And you’re in Wooyoung and Yeosang’s kitchen, too. As if you’d want this to happen here.

The kiss naturally ends what feels like a thousand years later. And maybe it truly has been a thousand years. Maybe the world outside has had time to die and be reborn by the time you part from Choi San’s lips. And it doesn’t matter.

All that matters is you and him. You with him.

“Wow,” he breathes out with a disbelieved chuckle as he leans his forehead against yours. “This is the best Valentine’s Day ever.”

You laugh, and you can’t resist from pecking his lips once more. “It is.”

His gaze drops to your neck, his forehead resting on your shoulder. You breathe in the scent of his shampoo, the scent of him, and you peck his head.

“I just do want to say that…” you trail off.

“What?” he mumbles against you. 

“I don’t think I’ll be ready to go further than this for… for a while.”

“That’s okay.” His words are barely a whisper, yet you hear them nonetheless. “I don’t need that at all.”

You know. You know he doesn’t, yet… 

“No, I mean…” you trail off. You peck his head again. “I’m not ready for dates, and to hang out with just the two of us yet.”

He slightly stiffens, yet he doesn’t move away from you. “That’s okay, too. As long as… as long as you want us, I’ll wait for you.”

Your arms tighten around him. “I promise I won’t make you wait for too long.”

He pulls away, slightly fighting against your arms until you loosen your embrace. His eyes meet yours, and they shine from within, so beautiful that you feel the breath go out of your lungs.

“You let me know,” he whispers, and he leans his forehead against yours again. He cups your cheek. “You let me know whenever you’re ready.”

“I promise,” you whisper, and you kiss him again.

Slow and sweet.

Like the first rays of the sun.

“I promise,” you repeat when you pull away. 

He nods. “You’re…”

He doesn’t say anything else, yet you understand the words better than if he’d screamed them at you. They settle in your chest, warm it from within, much like you think you’ve settled in his chest too.

And tonight, you welcome this possibility of a bright future with him, welcome it in like a long lost friend.

Though it was never really lost, was it?

Wednesday, February 19th

The idea to rent a house down south by the beach for Spring Break comes a few days later, when you’re studying at the library along with your brother, Sydney, San, Hongjoong and Wooyoung. You’ve reserved a large study room for almost the whole day to study for your midterms and, during one of the many breaks you’ve been taking, Hongjoong throws the idea out there.

Everyone agrees, the thought of going down south where summer will likely already be showing itself in early April an exciting one. 

It leads to planning more than studying, as Hongjoong texts the whole friend group to see who wants to go. Only Yeosang seems reticent, but you all know that he will still follow, his fear of missing out winning on his will to take Spring Break easy.

You’re grinning from ear to ear as Wooyoung plugs his computer into the TV that’s in the study room, projecting to all of you different houses to rent. San’s sitting next to you, and he too grins as he watches the houses. All you see is the dimple on his cheek when you glance at him, and warmth spreads through you.

Things have been… calm with him, since last weekend. You’ve been texting a lot, and he even video called you last night under the pretense that Byeol was looking cute. But other than that, he’s letting you lead the dance between the two of you. You’re taking it slow - you haven’t kissed since last Friday, but you’ve been holding hands a lot, sitting next to each other whenever you can.

You like it like this. Your friends have also been respectful of this, not asking questions, but you’ve noticed how Wooyoung’s been smiling at the two of you, and teasing San whenever you turn your back. It makes you happy - you know Wooyoung only does it because he’s happy for the two of you, and you love him for it.

“What about this one?” Wooyoung says as he clicks on a link, and the house appears. “It has… twelve places to sleep and three bathrooms.”

“That’s not a lot of bathrooms for eleven people,” Hongjoong points out.

“Make it twelve,” Yunho says as he looks up from his phone. “Mingi’s coming.”

Your heart quite literally drops to your ass, your gaze widening. “Why is Mingi coming?”

“He wanted to link up for Spring Break, so I invited him.” Yunho shrugs his shoulders, glancing at Hongjoong. “Remember Mingi? You met him last summer.”

“Tall, buff guy that’s always laughing?” Hongjoong says.

Yunho chuckles. “That’s the one.”

“Yeah, he’s chill, he can come.” 

You tense, and you glance at San. His grin has vanished, and he’s instead just looking down at the table, like he suddenly wants to disappear. Hongjoong doesn’t notice your or San’s unease, and Sydney mouths an apology as you meet her gaze. You shrug your shoulders because…

Why would it matter if Mingi’s there? You saw him during the holidays and nothing happened. This won’t be different… right?

“Will his girlfriend be there?” you ask, suddenly remembering the shy girl he’d brought home for the holidays.

“Nah.” Yunho winces. “They broke up.”

Fuck.

There’s an awkward silence, and Wooyoung’s the one that interrupts it by squealing as he sees that there is a hot tub and a small pool at that house. It piques everyone’s curiosity, and San asks how close it is to the sea.

“It seems like it’s on the beach, sort of,” Wooyoung says as he scans the lines of text under the pictures of the nice looking house. “Why is there a hot tub and a pool, then?”

“Why not?” Sydney lets out. “It’s probably going to be too cold for the ocean anyway.”

“Is it?” Hongjoong asks. “If we go down south, it’ll probably be fine.”

It leads to a small argument - or more of a debate - whether the weather will be hot or cool, and you tune it out, instead focusing on San who’s on his phone now, almost looking subdued.

You tap his forearm, attracting his attention. He looks at you, offering you a small smile that fortunately reaches his eyes.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods. “You?”

You mirror his nod, and then glance down at your fingers still on his arm. He doesn’t make to move away, so you just rest your hand on him, meeting his gaze again.

“I’m sorry Mingi will be there,” you gently say.

San’s gaze trails to your other friends, then returns to you. “It really is okay, please don’t apologize for that.”

“Yunho’s a little dumb,” you complain. “He should’ve known it’d be awkward.”

“It’ll only be awkward if you let it be awkward,” San reassures you, and his large hand covers yours. “I really don’t care if he’s there.”

A wave of relief washes through you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am. Besides, he’s your friend, no? You’re allowed to have friends.”

You realize… San is right. Mingi is just a friend - a childhood friend at that. Yes, you once had sex with him, but it’s not like it’s something you ever want to do again. Especially not now that you have San in your life.

“Right.” You give a quick nod, and then you pull your chair a little closer to him, if only because you want to feel the warmth of his body.

It’s healing. Soothing, healing and one of your favourite things about him lately.

“What time do you want to go home?” San asks you, and you glance at your phone.

It’s already half past ten, and you’ve been here for hours. So you don’t hesitate when you say, “Do you want to go now?”

His gaze widens. “Wait, are you…” He pauses, cheeks turning red. “Are you inviting me?”

“Oh.” You chuckle awkwardly, your blood rushing up to your face. “That’s not what I meant. I huh… I don’t think we’re there yet. I just meant that like, if you want to leave, I’ll leave now too.”

You’re rambling, embarrassingly so, but San doesn’t seem to care. “Yeah, we can go,” he agrees. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to, I’m sure…” you trail off as you glance at Sydney and your brother, who also seem to be lost in their own little world. Refusing to interrupt them, you set your attention on San again. “Never mind. Yes, let’s go.”

You’re awkward. Both of you. It’s been like that since last Friday, but it’s comfortable. Reassuring, that you can be a mess like that when it comes to him knowing that he doesn’t care. That he’s equally as much a mess as you, and that you’ll figure it out together.

You will. You know you will, and it’s a beautiful feeling.

“I think we’ll go,” you say to no one in particular. “But this last house seems like the best we’ve checked, so I say we go with that one.”

“I’ll send it in the group chat to make sure everyone else agrees,” Hongjoong says, and he takes a screenshot of the TV while you and San get up.

Sydney makes to get up too, but the second she notices that San is going with you, she sits back down, offering you a wink.

She’s told you to be careful with San. To take your time, and to not be afraid to not pursue things if he does something like he did last semester. You know he won’t, and you’ve told her so, but she claimed she’s just looking out for you.

And you know she is. She’s your best friend after all. But then, once she finished with that little speech, she also encouraged you to try and make things work with San, and she’s been highly supportive.

Even though she has to listen to you talking about him almost all the time, which you reckon might be annoying. But it’s not your fault - he’s your favourite conversation subject at the moment after all.

Soon, you’ve packed your bag and put your coat on, and you wish good night to your friends before leaving the study room. You’re surprised to see just how cool the library is compared to the study room, though you don’t linger long, heading towards the entrance.

You stop by the door to wrap your scarf around your neck properly, San patiently waiting for you, and then you step out into the winter night.

It’s not too cold. Earlier today, the weather was warm enough for snow to be melting, and it created an icy ground for you to walk on tonight. So you waddle more than you walk, carefully putting one step in front of the other as San follows behind you. To your relief, it doesn’t last too long, and the second you’re on the sidewalk next to the boulevard, the ice gives way to concrete.

“It’s going to be fun,” San says, his breath clouding in front of his mouth. It raises towards the cloudless sky, and you notice stars winking down at the two of you.

“Spring Break?” you ask just to confirm, and he nods. “Yeah, it will be.”

“I’ve never really done a trip like that,” he admits. “Not after my dad left.”

Your heart aches at the sudden reminder of his father, and you immediately reach for his hand. His skin is warm, chasing away the cold of the night, and you step just a little closer to him.

“I’m glad you’ll get to do one with us, then,” you gently say, offering him a soft smile.

His lips curve upwards, but he still looks chagrined, like there’s a weight on his shoulders. “With you,” he whispers. “I’m happy I’ll get to go on this trip with you.”

You melt much like the snow earlier, heart doing somersaults in your chest. “Me too.”

You don’t talk for a moment as you reach the red light where you have to cross the street, and you wait for the pedestrian sign to turn on, shivering in the night. San notices, and he pulls you closer, putting your joined hands in the pocket of his coat.

“You should have worn a warmer coat,” he scolds.

You can’t help but roll your eyes, though you chuckle playfully. “You sound like Yunho.”

San laughs, too, slightly shaking his head. “Well, maybe your brother is onto something.”

You narrow your eyes, and then you’re crossing the street, your hand safely tucked in San’s pocket. It’s romantic - the stars above, the cold that pushes you closer, your hands together…

And you’re falling. You’re falling and this time, you know he’ll catch you.

“In a month it’ll be a lot warmer,” you point out.

Indeed, even starting next week the winter weather will start giving way to spring, and you’re looking forward to it.

“It will be,” San agrees. “But not quite yet, and you shouldn’t catch a cold during midterms.”

You wince. “Yeah, that would suck big time.”

There’s another silence as you keep walking, hand in hand, the peaceful night only interrupted by the occasional car driving down the street.

“Do you feel ready for Friday’s exam?” you ask.

You definitely aren’t, especially not when you barely ended up studying tonight.

“Sort of,” San says, chuckling. “I’ll study some more at home.”

“It’ll be easier to focus,” you agree. “I’ll do that before bed too.”

“You’re going to ace the exam,” San says. “You got a perfect grade on all the mini quizzes.” 

Somehow, you did, but you only think it’s because the subject is interesting, the professor passionate enough for it to be easy to learn from her.

“We’ll see.” You shrug your shoulders. “The midterm is not even worth a lot, so it’s not like it matters too much.”

“Which is good for Wooyoung.”

You laugh, nodding your head. Indeed, Wooyoung failed one of the quizzes, despite you explaining everything to him in the hall before the class. “True. But I’m sure he’s got it now.” A thought occurs to you, chasing university out of your mind, and you glance at San’s profile. “By the way, this is going to be random, but do you know if he’s seeing anyone now?”

San snorts, clearly not expecting the question, but then he grows somber. “I don’t think he is. He’s kind of sworn off relationships for now.”

You purse your lips, inadvertently feeling guilty. Because you know why he’s sworn off relationships. No matter what he’s told you, he did care a lot about Park Jimin.

“We need to find him a date,” you say. “I feel bad for him.”

San’s hand tightens around yours. “You don’t have to feel bad.”

“I mean…” You worry at your bottom lip, trying to figure out the right way to say the words on your mind. “If I hadn’t been there, he would have still been with Jimin.”

“Maybe.” San glances at you. “But you didn’t ask him to not date Jimin. He made that decision himself, and you really shouldn’t feel responsible for it.”

A firetruck blares its alarm in the distance, the shrill sound disrupting the peace of the night for a few heartbeats. 

“I know,” you say. “I guess I still do.”

San stops walking, and you’re forced to stop too as he still holds your hand in his pocket. “Please don’t,” he gently says, and he raises his free hand to gently grip your chin so that you can’t look away. “It just shows how much he cares about your friendship.”

You’d cry. You’d cry if you weren’t so damn lost in San’s striking gaze, his eyes so familiar yet so new whenever you look into them. His fingers don’t stray from your chin, his gaze doesn’t budge an inch, and you feel yourself falling forward while simultaneously being anchored to the ground, to this moment in time.

“He’s a good friend,” you murmur.

San nods, and he glances down at your lips. You think he’ll kiss you - hell, you want him to kiss you. But he straightens, his hand letting go of you, and then he turns towards your apartment again.

“He really is,” he agrees, and then he pulls on your hand still in his pocket as he starts walking, forcing you to follow behind him. 

Your heart is beating wildly in your chest for the rest of the walk, and you don’t find anything else to say. Not when your throat feels strangely dry, and you wish you’d go back to just a few moments ago so that you could tug him down for the kiss he so clearly wanted.

For the one you wanted, too.

Alas, you make it home without returning back in time, and San faces you, your hand unfortunately falling out of his pocket. Luckily enough for you, his eyes find yours again, and it’s like the moment is resumed.

“Thank you for walking me home,” you tell him.

He offers you the tiniest smile, one that does not reveal the dimples on his cheeks, yet does a myriad of things to your insides that you barely understand.

“Of course,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

To your surprise, he raises his hand between the two of you, and then he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheeks before falling to his side.

You remember a familiar scene, months ago. He’d walked you home from the dumpling restaurant, and he’d stood right in this spot, looking at you like there was nothing else in the universe. Tonight, he looks at you the exact same way.

Isn’t there beauty in that?

“I guess I should go in,” you say, your eyes darting to the door before finding his again.

“Yes, go take a warm shower.” He reaches forward, grabbing your hand. He squeezes it once, and then takes a step back.

But you take a step forward, and he doesn’t move. He stays rooted in his spot as you tentatively wrap your arms around his neck, leaning your head against his chest. But then he’s melting, his arms closing around you to hold you tightly, and he presses the softest kiss on the top of your head.

“Good night, San,” you say while you’re still in his embrace.

“Good night, princess.”

The pet name comes unexpectedly, yet it feels so right. You pull away, just enough to meet his gaze. He looks between your two eyes, his own shining with more light than this world could ever hold, and then he bends down, just enough to press a featherlight peck on your forehead.

When you’re in bed later that night, cradling your own Mr Snake to your chest, the warmth of his lips on your forehead still lingers, dragging you to the sweetest land of dreams.

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[vivwritescrappythings]

petrichor

logan howlett x reader

Logan finds himself in upstate New York post WW2, and he is renting out a room from a sweet widow--you.

a/n: this is my incredibly late second contribution to @princessanglophile's 22nd birthday challenge--I'm so sorry it took me forever! The rest of the stories can be found here. I received 2013 Logan and 1940s as my time period.

tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader contemplates her dead husband, storms, fluff, comfort, kissing, interrupted just before smut, not proofread, first time writing for Logan, soft!Logan

word count: 4.3k

masterlist

MDNI

--

The kitchen smelled like bitter coffee as you let it brew, stirring the pot of oatmeal on the stove within an inch of its life. Sweat gathered at your brow, your jaw set with tension that you were starting to become used to in the early mornings.

Running a boarding house was far from what you had expected to be doing after the war. 

But, you kept Henry’s wedding band on a chain around your neck, the weight of it reminding you that few things went according to plan. Your wedding ring was tucked away in your jewelry box upstairs, sparkling and painful to look at. 

It didn’t actually matter these days. You were on your own all the same.

You looked up from the breakfast on the stove, the crack of an axe on wood drawing your attention to the window over the sink. The floral curtains were drawn aside just enough to give you a view of Logan–one of your quieter tenants–outside despite the threat of rain. He swung an axe down from over his head, splitting a log in two clean pieces. Then he adjusted, two pieces became four before they were tossed in an impressive pile he was amassing.

He’d forgone a shirt, you could see the flannel hung up on a branch near him. Steam rose from his tanned skin, the cool autumn breeze drying his sweat there. He must have felt you looking, his hazel eyes flicking up to meet yours. 

It seemed that he always noticed when you were around, gaze lingering as he kept an eye on you. He wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, but he was the first to help you around the house when you asked. Sometimes you didn’t even have to ask him.

Logan showed up on your doorstep six months ago, dirty and disheveled. He seemed hunted and dangerous at the time—a wounded beast with dog tags around his neck that were similar to a pair in his pants pocket with a wedding band threaded on them. He knew your Henry, promised him that when he got back stateside from Japan he would keep an eye on you until you got back on your feet.

Either way, you watched him chop through a few more sections of wood. Your mouth was dry, lips parted slightly as you watched his muscles move beneath his skin like ropes. It was hard to pinpoint when you started feeling a pull toward him low in your gut. You tried to ignore it, treating him like the other people you rented rooms to, polite and distant. Attentive.

But it was becoming harder to pretend that your heart didn’t flutter or your cheeks didn’t warm when he entered the room.

The smell of the SPAM starting to burn brought you back to the present. You didn’t see the way Logan’s lip twitched when you spun back to the stove, looking flustered as you grabbed the pan off the heat.

—

Autumn brought evening storms with it.

It was raining something biblical outside that night, loud against the eaves and the shutters as you did the dishes after dinner. The boarders had returned to their respective rooms for the night, both of them laborers in the lumber yard that would need to be up early. 

You preferred it that way. They left you to your solitude as long as breakfast was on the table in the morning, dinner was on the table at night, the laundry was done, and there was still electricity and running water. At first you had tried to befriend the occupants of your two extra bedrooms, inviting them to listen to the radio with you or play cards. 

It fell flat, the men meeting you with little enthusiasm. You eventually left them alone.

But Logan helped you out around the house. 

The first time was after you’d complained about your leaking sink out on the porch with Lucy, the woman who lived across the street. You were both sipping lemonade, her darling toddler playing with toys on the slightly overgrown lawn. The sink had been leaking for weeks, you resorted to just changing out the bucket beneath it every morning. 

When you went inside to stave off the afternoon heat of July, Logan was already on his back beneath the sink. He had Henry’s old toolbox out, grunting as he grabbed blindly at the different wrenches before twisting the piping back into place.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t even ask for acknowledgement or a discount on the rent.

Soon enough he was doing all the odd jobs you had around the house, trimming tree branches and repairing holes in the walls and chopping wood. Logan eased some of the hardships that came from Henry’s absence.

You glanced outside, realizing he had stacked up all the wood on the porch where it wouldn’t be touched by the rain.  

The kettle you put on whistled, startling you for a moment before you poured yourself a cup of tea. There was a glass tumbler of whiskey on the counter, you grabbed it before heading upstairs.

A sliver of light was visible beneath Logan’s door, the quiet murmur of a radio playing just beyond. You bumped your elbow against the door to knock.

“Logan?” you called softly, taking a step back when you heard rustling on the other side. 

He pulled it open, still dressed in his work jeans and an undershirt. You felt your mouth go dry for a moment as you looked at him. His shoulders looked broad beneath his white tank top, the fabric sticking to him like a second skin and half tucked into his pants.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low and rough. His hazel eyes ran over you once like he was checking to make sure you were still in one piece. One eyebrow arched like he was waiting.

You said nothing for a moment, just blinking at him before you came back to yourself. “Oh, um, I brought you this,” you said, holding out the rocks glass to him like an offering. Henry’s whiskey sloshed inside–you had poured a generous three fingers inside. Logan looked at it skeptically, like he couldn’t decide if you were trying to poison him or come on to him. “Consider it a thanks for chopping all that wood.” 

He let out a grunt, nodding once as he took the glass from you. His calloused fingertips brushed against yours.

You pulled your hand back like he was made of lightning, nodding once. “Well, have a good night, Logan,” you said, offering a tight-lipped smile. 

If he answered, you didn’t hear it. You were already headed down the hall to your own bedroom before he said anything. Steam curled off the mug of tea you carried as you shut off the hall light and closed your door behind you.

The storm was fierce as you settled into bed with that day’s newspaper in your hands. It was a habit you picked up while Henry was deployed, wanting to keep up with the most up-to-date information about the war. Now it was just a habit, bringing the newspaper to bed with you became a ritual you fell in with ease.

Thunder rattled the shutters, rain pelting the windows in big, fat drops. The house creaked and groaned, wind buffeting on the outside walls. It sounded like the house was going to blow away at any moment.

You were trying to ignore it, reading about town gossip by lamplight when lightning cracked across the sky outside your window. It illuminated the sky and your room through the space in the curtains. You jolted, crinkling the newspaper in your hands for a moment. 

Something close by popped, a boom that sounded far too close for comfort.

The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then they died completely with a soft, electric sigh.

You huffed, still holding the paper in your hands as the house fell into silence aside from the rain. It was hard to notice the hum of electricity until it was gone, just the rain drumming against the roof filling the empty space. 

Heavy footsteps sounded down the hall between Logan’s bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. His steps were confident and certain, like the dark didn’t faze him at all.

You were suddenly restless in a way you weren’t before. The mug you brought with you sat empty on the nightstand–you needed more tea. Or water. Something to quench your suddenly parched throat. 

It was easy to feel around for your floral-patterned robe. The rayon satin was soft against your skin, covering your baby blue nightgown. It was long, cotton floating around your ankles as you groped for the taper shoved into a brass candlestick holder on your vanity, a box of matches lingering nearby. 

It took a few tries, but you managed to strike the match. The smell of burning sulfur filled your nose as you held the match to the wick, flicking orange light illuminating a portion of your bedroom.

It was easy to feel like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol as you picked up the candlestick, the brass cool beneath your fingers as you ventured out into the hall. The floorboards creaked beneath your bare feet, making you still for a moment before you took another careful step.

“Thought you turned in.” Logan’s voice carried from the stairwell. He had a glass of water in his hand, the amber light from your candle just barely reaching him. His eyes gleamed as they focused on you.

You shrugged. “I did,” you answered, a slight nod. You realized that you didn’t get up for water, you just didn’t want to be alone.

Henry used to sit with you through storms.

You bit your lip, uncertain. It wouldn’t be hard to turn back, to pretend like you had just come out to check on the noise and go back to bed. Or forge ahead to grab a glass of water like you had originally planned. 

“I… I didn’t want to be alone,” you breathed. The candle flame guttered in the draft of your whisper. You were embarrassed as soon as you said it out loud, warming from your chest to your forehead as your gaze strayed from Logan’s perceptive stare. Some days it felt like he was seeing straight through you.

He paused for a moment, both of you staring at one another as you blinked.

Logan didn’t laugh at you, though. He could have. You were already imagining it, a huff of air through his nose that would substitute for a chuckle if he were anyone else.

But instead he nodded.

“You don’t have to be,” he said softly, that same gravel tone you had grown used to after months of him renting your room washing over you.

He walked to his bedroom door, leaving you space to decide if you wanted to follow. You did, scampering after him like an imprinted duckling as he held the door to his room open for you.

You lit the candle on his nightstand, setting the one you held on his dresser as you looked around. His living quarters were almost Spartan–any personal touch in the room was some decoration you had before he rented it out. Embroidery was framed on the walls, frilly and lacy in a way that didn’t suit him. But he didn’t seem to mind, his own sparse belongings neatly organized and tucked away.

He gave you little reason to enter his room, always piling his laundry outside his door before he left for work at the lumber yard in the mornings, expecting you to leave it folded in the same place in the evenings. 

“So, how have you been liking the room?” you asked, struggling to think of something else to talk about. He pulled out the chair from the small desk, nodding for you to sit down as he sat on the edge of his bed. It was still made, the quilt crisply tucked in like a soldier’s. 

Spending more time in his room made it obvious to you that Logan had served.

“Room’s fine,” he muttered, drinking more water before he fixed his hazel eyes on you. It seemed like he didn’t know what to say, his gaze cutting down to his hands. He flexed them.

“You know, I’m not very good company,” Logan said, softly, as though he didn’t want to let you down. His head turned, lifting just enough so he could see your face still. “I’ve got a lot of shit, y’know? I’m usually by myself.”

You nodded understandingly. Sitting across from Logan reminded you of caged lions at the travelling circus rather than a man. It was in the way his muscles moved beneath his skin, his jaw tense and brows furrowed. Despite his haircut and trimmed beard, he didn’t quite seem like belonged between four walls and in a bed. 

“I am, too,” you said, hands clasped together as you spoke. Loneliness became your constant companion. You thought the extra bedrooms in your home would be filled with children by now, but instead you rented them out. “But if you want me to leave, I’ll go.”

He grunted, shaking his head. “No, that’s not what I want,” he told you, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “But you probably should go.”

Your brow furrowed, arms crossing over your chest as you leaned back against the seat. The candlelight illuminated the curve of your cheek and the curious gleam in your eye. “Why?” you asked, guileless as you spoke. Logan had lived with you for over six months, he never seemed like anything other than helpful, maybe too introverted.

There was another huff of air out of his nose–an exasperated chuckle. “Because, I’m not the type of man you should get close to. I’m not someone you let in after the lights go out,” he explained, voice low as he spoke. 

You rolled your eyes at the cliche. “You seem just fine to me, Logan,” you said, tapping your fingertips against the silky fabric that covered your arm. “If anything, your reputation precedes you in being too helpful in this town. You do things without people asking you to, you don’t ask for anything in return. Not really a monster.”

He let out a huff, one side of his mouth curling into an almost smile. It was the closest thing to a smile you had seen him make. 

“Consider me a wolf in sheep’s clothing, bub,” Logan countered. There was a lift to his tone, an attempt at humor that wasn’t there before. It made you smile, still closed-lipped as your gaze drifted to your lap. 

You snorted, a brighter smile on your face as you shook your head. “I’d hardly consider you a sheep, either.”

Logan looked at you for a long moment, mirth flickering in his eyes before he shifted back on the bed, pulling a pack of cards from his nightstand and nodding for you to sit down with him. “You know how to play poker?”

You eased yourself onto his mattress, legs half tucked beneath you as you watched him shuffle his army-issued playing cards. His motions were fluid, well-practiced like he had shuffled a million times before. “I have nothing to bet,” you murmured, hunching to rest your chin in the palm of your hand. You knew enough to be dangerous.

“Just for fun, for something to do,” he said, dealing out onto the quilt. 

“Well don’t be upset if I win,” you murmured with a smirk, organizing the cards as you picked them up.

He chuckled, hazel eyes flicking up to meet your gaze. There was a moment where he sized you up, his half-smile turning into a smirk. “Alright, bub,” he murmured, adjusting how he sat to better face you, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

–

Logan obliterated you so efficiently it couldn’t even be called cruel. It was obvious you didn’t know what you were doing, missing a full house and a three-of-a-kind because you thought you needed all four cards. He caught onto your tells, on the way you got a gleam in your eye when you got cards you wanted, the slight slump of your shoulders when you didn’t have anything good.

“Let me teach ya,” he murmured, leaning in as he pressed the top of your cards down enough to see over them. His forehead was nearly touching yours as you looked at the cards clutched in your hand, his warm fingers wrapped around your wrist.

He tipped his own cards into view. “See, right here you’d beat me,” he tapped your cards with his fingertip, the noise satisfying, “You’ve gotta full house–three of one kind and two of another. I’ve only got a two pair–full house always beats a two pair.”

You nodded solemnly like you were in church, hanging on to Logan’s every word. He dealt out the next hand, still keeping his close proximity as he talked in hushed tones about what you would do next. 

Despite nodding and humming in all the right places like you were taking it all in, you were distracted. The smell of cigar smoke and cologne and the laundry detergent you used filled your nose, a combination you found heady and enticing as you leaned in slightly to get a better smell of it. 

Logan had leaned in too, chasing the view as the cards in your fingers tilted back toward your chest on instinct.

His hair brushed your forehead, your gazes lifting. Logan’s nose nudged the side of yours, his hazel eyes shining like pools you could stumble into. 

It felt like gravity, both of you converging on a point. The progress was halting, breaths shared between you as you oscillated between hesitant and eager. Logan had always had a sort of weight to him, something that made him feel entirely inevitable. But he still moved like a man expecting to be turned away.

His mouth hovered over yours for a breath. For a second, all you felt was the heat rolling off him, taking in the way the flickering shadows of the candles moved over his face.

The kiss wasn’t rushed or hungry, not like you had expected it to be.

Logan’s lips were warm, if not a little chapped, melding with yours with a gentleness that you would think foreign for a man like him. He kissed you like it was his first and last time he’d get the chance to, slow and deliberate. If you had to guess, he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth by memory.

Your palm rose to his jaw, the scratch of his trimmed beard beneath your fingertips welcome as it cracked something wide open inside of you.

The last time you kissed a man was with Henry. You never realized how different it could be: Henry had always kissed you with purpose beyond just kissing. He was always clean shaven.

The press of your hand on his jaw unlocked something between you, Logan feeling for your waist over the silky fabric of your robe. The cards on the quilt were forgotten as he pulled you closer. Your knee pressed into his thigh, you could hear the stack of playing cards spill across the rug.

Logan cupped the nape of your neck, tilting you into him. You followed willingly, a lamb following a guardian dog’s steady guidance as you pressed yourself into the spaces he left for you.

You undid the tie of your robe with frantic fingers, the hand on your waist hesitant as it slipped beneath the open article to bunch in your soft nightgown. 

“Do you want this?” he asked against your lips, voice little more than a grunt.

You nodded frantically, pulling your robe off your shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. That was enough to convince Logan, his big hand splaying wide over your ribs as he dragged you across his lap and pressed you into the mattress beneath him. Your nightgown twisted around you, the robin egg blue fabric riding up on your thighs and the strap falling off your shoulder. 

He looked down at you like you were something marvelous. It had been years since someone looked at you like that.

“You ever let anyone touch you like they meant it?” he murmured, low and rough as his hands ran up the outsides of your thighs. It was like he was enchanted by each inch of skin he revealed, his eyes stuck at the lace-trimmed hem of your nightgown. 

You didn’t know what to say, warmth blooming on cheeks as you resisted the urge to cover your face with your hands under his gaze. 

He paused, like he wanted an answer from you before he was willing to continue. You let out a huff of air, a nervous smile twisting your lips. “Henry and I didn’t have a lot of time together to explore before…” You trailed off, not sure if bringing up your dead husband was the wrong thing to do. 

It probably was–you couldn’t imagine how that would really be exciting bedroom talk.

Henry’s wedding band was warm against your sternum, the gold glinting in the candlelight. Your fingertips drifted to it, wondering if you should take it off. 

Logan’s hands kept moving up, your nightgown bunching on his wrists. If he was bothered by you bringing up Henry he didn’t let it show. He bent, capturing you in a slow kiss as your thighs parted over his hips. His hand found the swell of your hip beneath your nightgown, his thumb tracing circles on your skin.

His forehead pressed against yours, your breaths slow and heavy.

There was weight behind his gaze, he was steady, strong above you. He was watching you–something cautious and unsure behind his eyes. Maybe protective, even.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, his finger hooking over the waistband of your panties. Goosebumps ran down your arms.

“I don’t wanna…” he swallowed hard, “I don’t wanna take something you’re not ready to give.”

It was easy to see that he expected you to pull away. His shoulders were tense, bracing for your rejection. His free hand squeezed the sheets beside your head, like he already thought he took too much.

Your hand slid to the back of his neck, your fingers threading in his hair. 

Surprisingly enough, you were comfortable. You leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, trying to pull him back in.

But Logan pulled away, trailing kisses down your cheek to your jaw. “Tell me. I need to hear it,” he said, his voice low and gravel-warm. You feel the blunt scrape of his teeth on your neck.

You whined, soft and a bit overwhelmed. It took a moment for you to find the words. “I want this,” you breathed into the quiet of his bedroom. “I want you.”

Logan nodded against your throat, hands moving again. “Okay,” he said, like a vow. “Then I got you.”

You sighed as your head tilted to give him more space. His palms slid beneath your nightgown, over the plane of your stomach. He felt you like a map beneath his touch, trying to memorize you without seeing. A hand dipped between your thighs, warm and sure as it pressed to the damp gusset of your panties.

Then–

CRACK.

The violent snap of wood echoed from outside Logan’s window. It was sharp and too close for comfort, followed by the wet thump of something falling to the dirt.

You both froze.

Logan lifted his head, eyes cutting to the window. The storm howled outside, rattling the glass. Wind buffeted against the outside wall.

“Tree came down,” he muttered as he pulled his hands away from you. They pressed into the mattress, his body tilting to get a better view of outside. “It was close.”

“Did it hit anything?” you asked, sitting up. Your heart was racing, but your lust was long forgotten. 

He listened for a moment, head still cocked to one side. “No,” he said definitively, looking back down at you. “But even if it crushed the fence, or the shed, I’ll fix it in the morning. Promise.”

You nodded, successfully talked down from the spiral of anxiety. But everything felt different now. Your skin felt warm from where he touched you, nightgown still rucked up haphazardly. The storm pressed in once more, the rose-colored haze gone from the room in an instant.

Logan leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. His hands smoothed your nightgown back over your thighs, curling around the backs of your knees.

“We don’t have to rush this,” he said softly, hazel eyes soft and sincere as he looked over your face. 

You were touched by his sincerity, looking up at him through your lashes. He wasn’t trying to push through the pause, you would have let him if he asked.

“Can we just sleep?” you asked, sounding small. Logan nodded, shifting off the bed to take off his jeans. You looked away as he changed into blue, drawstring pajama pants and blew out the candle on the dresser. The one on his nightstand flickered as he lay down next to you, an arm open to invite you in without a word.

He blew out the other candle as you settled against him, cheek to his chest, heartbeat under your ear.

“Gotta warn you,” he murmured in the dark, arm curling around your back to hold you close, “I’m not very good at staying in one place.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just placed your hand on his sternum. His dog tags made a metallic clinking sound beneath your fingertips. The rain was slowing outside, or at least you could convince yourself of it as your eyelids started to get heavy.

You were right on the edge of sleep when he spoke again, your lips parted, your breaths evening out and becoming soft sighs. It was so quiet you almost could convince yourself it was a dream. 

“If you asked me to… I might.”

[lpmurphy]

Begin Again

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Summary: It had been thirty years since his truck tires rolled out of her drive for the last time. Even longer since the day his locker door slammed shut beside hers and marked the beginning of Jack Abbot. Beth had never expected it to end. Never expected to live a lifetime with only the ghost of the boy who promised her one together. She never expected to see him again. Until that curtain flung open, and there he was. And just like that, Jack Abbot began again.

Notes: jack abbot/single mom!ofc, reunited high school sweethearts, second chance romance, slow (emphasis on the SLOW) burn, seriously it's slow, ofc’s daughter is a teenage gen z menace and we love her for it, angst/longing/yearning to the max, hurt/comfort, author is just an english teacher with no medical background, eventual smut, jack and ofc are emotionally constipated idiots

Word Count: 9,336

Read on AO3

Chapter Ten: The Girl Before

That girl was so grounded.

For what, Beth wasn’t entirely sure yet. But she’d find something. And despite the fact she gave birth to her own worst nightmare, she’d find a way to make it stick, too. She couldn’t necessarily say that she was grounded for inviting Jack in, and with that invitation, made her mother feel far too much of what she’d buried a lifetime in the one place she had left to not feel it at all. But she’d figure something out, and it would have to be good. Petty? Probably. But as is the relationship between mother and daughter. She knew if she left any room for argument or analysis, that girl would occupy it like France in 1940.

God damn it. Now she was thinking about World War Two.

Fucking Abigail.

Fucking Jack.

Fuck.

And fuck herself, too, really. She’d done it to herself the moment that tiny, pink, furious bundle was laid on her chest and she made a silent promise to raise a girl who would never be small. A girl who would never shrink herself to make anyone else more comfortable. You don’t water yourself down just to make it easier for someone else to swallow , she’d told her, wiping tears after some kid—or teacher—told Abigail Baker that she was too much. Somewhere along the line, she must’ve overshot. Abby was iron-willed, mouthy, and maddening in all the best and worst ways.

And now here they were. Abby, all sharp edges and fearless heart. And Beth, washed out in her own kitchen, steadying her breath while she rinsed forks.

She looked up and found her reflection watching her in the dark glass of the kitchen window, lit from behind by the soft glow of the living room. The same haphazard bun, same tired eyes, but there was something else that she struggled to recognize. Something softer in her face. Some girl she used to be. Some version of herself that still wanted to believe in what she’d buried.

Behind her, Jack said something that made Abby laugh. Atlas’s tags jingled as he rolled over and thumped his tail against the floor.

Beth tore her eyes from that girl and slapped the tap off. That girl didn’t belong here. Not anymore.

God, she should have drowned that girl a long time ago. She wouldn’t resuscitate her a third time. She needed to get her a DNR.

He stayed after dinner. The three of them lingered at the table long after their plates were empty, long after his first glass of wine turned into his second, and the stories began to flow between them like they’d happened last week instead of a lifetime ago. For a few easy moments, she let herself forget that they hadn’t. It was simple. It was gentle. It was warm. It was everything it shouldn’t have been and all it should’ve, and it tore her open and stitched her back together in the same breath.

But somewhere between the story about the brutal sunburn he got the summer they spent two weeks in South Carolina at her aunt’s, despite her multiple warnings and his multiple dismissals, Abby snorting, Jack looking like he’d earned the win, and the shift into heavier ground once Abby left the table with a bat of her lashes and some flimsy excuse; to her first MCI in Boston, his experience with the aftermath of PittFest and the way he looked at her like he was trying to memorize her all over again… somewhere in that space, her chest started to tighten.

She’d stood up a little too abruptly, muttering something about dishes before she cleared the table and retreated to the kitchen like the flatware was a white flag.

But he’d stayed.

He stayed. He sat on her couch in her living room with her daughter, listening as Abby launched into a breathless recounting of her AP assignment and her school’s field trip to D.C last year. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t patronize; just nodded, asked a question here and there, then let her tear off on another lap of brilliance like he was lucky to be in the room.

So Beth hid.

She stood at the sink, trying to steady her breath, trying to quiet the grotesque clawing in her gut; the way something fluttered wild against her ribs like hummingbird wings, sharp and unrelenting. It made her feel dizzy. Ill. Alive.

Still, despite the white-knuckled grip she had on the counter, she couldn’t help but watch him. Couldn’t help but see the way he gave her girl his full attention. Like he recognized she was worth every second of it. Just like Beth always had.

She dropped her hands into the sink again, scrubbing at a plate that didn’t need it. The motion gave her something to do, something to focus on besides the tightness blooming in her chest or the static in her limbs. The water had gone cold. The plate was spotless. But she kept washing it like it could rinse the feeling out of her bones.

She knew she couldn’t hide in here forever. Eventually, she’d have to walk back in, cross the invisible line between what is and what never quite was. She didn’t know why her feet wouldn’t move. Why the tile felt like quicksand. Why the same three plates and one pan held her hostage.

Maybe it was because nothing about tonight had been unpleasant. It had been pleasant. It had been warm. It had been easy.

And she liked it.

God help her, she liked it.

She shouldn’t, she told herself.

She shouldn’t.

She can’t .

It scared her how much she wanted to.

A voice behind her broke the rhythm of her spiraling mind.

“You sure I can’t help with anything?”

She jumped, just slightly. Not enough to make a scene, but just enough to feel stupid. Her eyes lifted to the window. Jack’s reflection hovered in the dark glass, framed by the soft glow from the living room. She exhaled, slow and controlled, and forced her shoulders to settle before turning with a tight smile.

“No,” she said, her voice tight and sweet and falsely fine. “I’ve got it.”

But he stepped in anyway. Of course he did.

He came to stand beside her, close enough to feel it, and held out a hand for the sponge with a crooked little smirk that tightened her jaw. 

“Your mom would have my ass if she knew I let you cook and do the dishes,” he said. “Hand it over, Baker.”

She hesitated, then relented, passing him the sponge. “Abby usually does it,” she offered, her voice softer now. “She’s gotten off easy this week. Not that she minds; I think she’s going to milk it as long as she can if it means she gets out of chores for the time being.”

He chuckled, glancing toward the doorway. “Yeah, well. She’s too busy handing my ass to me in there, anyway. I knew she was bright when she diagnosed herself in the ER and gave Whitaker a run for his money, but damn—she’s definitely got her mom’s brain.”

Beth felt her cheeks go warm. She hated how quickly they flushed. “Did she really?”

“Oh yeah,” he laughed, a warm, real sound that filled the kitchen like steam. “And she was dead on, too. You should’ve seen Whitaker. I think she scared him a little.”

Beth laughed before she could stop herself. “That sounds like my child.”

“She’s a good kid,” Jack said, quieter this time. When she looked up, his eyes were on hers. “You’ve done a hell of a job with her.”

Something twisted in her chest. She reached for the dish towel, trying to shake it off, trying not to sink into the weight of it; the compliment, the look, the kitchen that wasn’t theirs. He handed her a wet plate. She took it, dried it slowly. And suddenly she was somewhere else. Another kitchen. Another night. Whispering about somedays. Dinners they hadn’t made but pretended they would. A dream that never even had the chance to rot.

“Thank you,” she murmured, almost under her breath. She cleared her throat, tried to lighten it, tried to come up for air. 

“You sure as hell made sure she respects me a little less, though,” she said, swatting him lightly with the dish towel as she moved past him to the cupboard. “I cannot believe you told her that story. I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

He grinned, unabashed, and held out the next plate. “Oh, come on. That was the G-rated version. I could’ve gone nuclear. You should be thanking me for my restraint, really.”

She glanced over her shoulder as she added the next plate to the stack, meeting his gaze with an exaggerated eye roll and a small smile she couldn’t fight when he chuckled again. “I don’t think you can get any worse than that party.”

“Really?” He tilted his head, that maddening glint in his eye. “Because I could always tell her about the bonfire the summer before senior year. You know, the one where you—”

“Nope.” She turned sharply, pointing the towel like a weapon. “You are not telling her the Miniskirt Story. She thinks that scar is from a biking accident and I intend for it to stay that way.”

He grinned. That grin. And she could practically see the idea form behind his eyes as he turned toward the door.

“You wouldn’t,” she warned.

“Oh, but it’s such a good story.” He took a step. “Remind me, how tall was that fence?”

“Jack Abbot, don’t you dare .”

“Hey House!” he called, already halfway across the kitchen.

“You are the worst!” She laughed, grasping out on instinct before he could clear the threshold into the living room. Her fingers wrapped around his forearm, the soft knit of his shirt warm under her touch. She pulled him back without thinking, and he let himself be reeled in with a laugh, stumbling one step back into her space.

He spun around just as she pulled, and for one clumsy second they collided, her hand still gripping his sleeve. His palm caught her waist to steady them both.

The laughter stalled in her throat. His hand lingered, firm but unassuming, fingers spread along the curve of her hip like they remembered the shape of her.

Neither of them moved. For one strange, weightless moment, they just… stood there. Her hand still on his arm, solid and warm and real under her fingertips. His fingers resting against her hip, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of her shirt. He wasn’t holding her, not really, but he wasn’t letting go, either. And she wasn’t stepping away.

“Sorry,” he said finally, but his hand didn’t leave.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, not sure what she meant.

When she looked up, his smile was gone, replaced by something quieter. Something softer in hazel eyes that always looked a little greener in this light. Something she couldn’t name but recognized instantly. It came spinning forward as if conjured from the dark corner of her memory she’d neatly folded and tucked it away into to stand in front of her in her kitchen. His thumb shifted slightly against her side; barely noticeable, but enough to startle her with how aware she was of it. She cleared her throat and took a breath like she meant to move, but didn’t.

Beth swallowed. Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. “I didn’t mean for you to get dragged into dinner.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second too long.

“I didn’t mind,” he said, low. “It was nice.”

She smiled, gentle now. “Yeah. It was.”

She hated that she meant it.

The silence between them felt too full. Too still. Like it had taken a breath and held it in its chest until its lungs screamed, begging for release. Beth’s hand slid from his arm slowly, but her fingers grazed his on the way down, an accidental drag that sent a sharp pulse up her spine. His own twitched in a momentary jump towards her own that she told herself was involuntary. This all was. A balancing act. A way to keep upright; that’s all. She cleared her throat and stepped back a half pace, suddenly too warm, and turned, grasping for something to occupy her attention anywhere but on where he stood in the dim light of her kitchen.

Quiet settled over the space like fog, save for the low hum of Elton John crooning something old and wistful from the Alexa in the corner. Beth barely registered the lyrics. Just the rise and fall of the melody, the soft clatter as she set the pot in the drying rack, the faint ringing in her own ears from the way her heartbeat hadn’t quite leveled out. Beth moved slowly, deliberately, turning her back to him as she tucked the last of the silverware away in the drawer. She could still feel the ghost of his hand on her skin, heat pressed into the side of her waist like a brand.

She didn’t look at him.

She didn’t have to look at him to know he was still by the sink, still watching her. She could feel it, like a shift in air pressure before a storm. Watching. Waiting. Probably unsure if he should say something more, or just leave it alone, searching for what to say the same as she did. She didn’t turn. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed on the sink, her hands busy. She reached for the towel, drying the counter around the sink, and tried to shake the heat from her skin. Tried to settle the parts of her still humming.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t takeout,” she said finally, without turning. Her voice came out a little too even, a little too casual for the shake underneath it. “That seems to be all I have time for these days. Abby was weirdly insistent that I cooked tonight, though. Usually, she jumps at any chance to eat out.”

“Then I owe her one,” he said. “This was way better than whatever overpriced junk I would’ve grabbed on the way home.”

Beth gave a soft hum of agreement but didn’t say more. Neither of them made a move to tidy up the rest of the kitchen.

“Speaking of home, I should get going,” Jack said after a moment, though he didn’t shift an inch. “Moose’ll throw a fit if I go any longer before feeding him.”

Beth leaned her weight into the counter. “Moose?”

“My dog,” Jack said. He smiled, though it wasn’t entirely present. He shifted slightly, then added, “Well. He was Rachel’s, originally. He’s the reason I met her, actually.”

Beth tilted her head and crossed her arms loosely over her chest. “Yeah? How’d that happen?”

“I was still in Washington,” he said, matching her posturing from the other side of the counter. “I was driving home, and here’s this dog wandering toward traffic like he was trying to make friends with every single car. I almost hit him, had to slam on my brakes and nearly got rear ended by the person behind me, and that big idiot is just standing in the middle of the road wagging his tail. Just this dumb grin and the worst survival instincts imaginable.”

Beth laughed quietly. His whole posture softened, like telling the story eased something in him. He looked down, toeing at a crack in the kitchen tile thoughtfully, his smile settling in slow and unguarded.

“I pulled over, opened my door, and I didn’t even have to call him. He just trotted over and hopped right into my car. Didn’t even hesitate. Like he’d been waiting for someone to pick him up and just called shotgun.”

“Not picky, huh?” Beth smirked.

He chuckled. “Oh, not even a little. I think he would have gone home with just about anyone—still would. You have no idea how many times I’ve had to stop that damn dog from getting into a stranger's car; I’m lucky he’s not a kid. But, I got him home, called the number on his tag, and it went to voicemail every time. I probably left a half dozen messages before I finally gave up and figured I’d drop him off at the shelter in the morning if no one called me back. Meanwhile, he made himself right at home; took over the couch, drank out of the toilet, stole half my dinner when I wasn’t looking. The works.”

“Oh, so you two were kindred spirits from the start, huh?” she laughed, crossing her arms. 

“Exactly.” Jack’s smile deepened. “So, later that night, I finally get a call back. The girl on the line’s talking a mile a minute and is apologizing over and over; ‘I’m a nurse, I was at work, left my phone in my locker, I’ll be there in thirty minutes.’ It took her more like an hour.”

“And that was Rachel.”

He nodded. “Yeah. God bless that woman, but she had absolutely no sense of time. She kept apologizing, I invite her in to come get the dog, and Moose refused to get off the couch. Just completely hunkered down like he had no fucking clue who she was. She tried calling him, bribing him, finally resorted to trying to muscle him off; nothing. Finally she just laughed and said, ‘I guess he picked you.’ Then she offered to buy me a beer to say thanks.”

“And then she picked you, too,” Beth finished softly.

Jack smiled, something soft and sad tugging at the corners of his mouth. “She did. Still couldn’t tell you why, but she did.”

Beth’s arms were still crossed, but her stance had eased without her realizing. “How long were you two married?”

“Six years,” Jack said. His voice didn’t falter. “Really good ones.”

He said it without hesitation, like he still lived in them. Like she was just somewhere else for now; not gone, just out of frame until it came into focus again. There was no edge to it. No hesitation. Just the quiet conviction of someone still speaking in the present tense. Like Rachel was just out walking the dog or waiting in the car. It tightened something in her chest as they stood there in the soft light, watching him twist the black band on his finger that he wore like an oath, the metal rubbed silver in places from years of wear.

Beth looked down at the counter, fingers brushing a stray breadcrumb into the sink. Love like that lingered. Love like that crawled into the cracks and made a home. Russell had been that in the beginning; something filling the spaces of her that were left gaping and raw until that wholeness felt like infestation that she foolishly let fester. That home was left to rot and disintegrate into something ugly and resentful. It pinched like a vice and loosened enough to free something all at the same time to know that he hadn’t known a similar ugliness in the time after her. That he’d known something kind. 

“You and Abby’s dad…” Jack started, voice low. Hesitant, almost. “Were you—?”

Beth felt it before she realized it. Her shoulders drew back, posture tightening; a quiet defense. Reflex more than choice.

“We were,” she said after a pause. “Russell. We weren’t married long—three years.” She offered him a small, tight smile before adding, “It didn’t work out. Things finalized not long after Abby was born.”

Her tone was even, but final. Not bitter, not angry; just closed. Like a door that had long since been shut and locked behind him after Russell slammed it and pinched her fingers on the way out. She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just kept her eyes on the dish towel in her hands, folding it over once, then again, like it gave her something to do with the silence that followed.

Jack didn’t push. He just nodded, gaze steady but soft. And she was glad for that; glad he didn’t ask the kinds of questions that required her to reopen a door she’d closed for a reason after Russell paraded out of it.

Beth smoothed the towel beneath her palms, chasing a wrinkle that wasn’t really there. Her fingers found a loose thread and worried at it for a moment before she looked up again. Her voice was quieter this time, gentler. “Tell me about her?”

Jack paused long enough for her to wonder if she shouldn’t have asked, but then his mouth twitched, just slightly, like the memory was already blooming behind his eyes.

“She was… stubborn,” he said, fondness softening the edge of the word. “Strong-willed, kind. She had this way of making people feel safe without even trying. Compassionate. Sharp as hell, too. Real dry humor; could say more with a raised eyebrow than most people could with a monologue. Worked her ass off, never complained. Didn’t let me get away with anything, either. That woman took no shit from anyone, especially me.”

Beth’s brow lifted slightly, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. “Knowing you, I’m sure you gave her plenty.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Jack laughed, softer this time. He tilted his head with that little smirk, watching her, then said it like a quiet confession. “I guess I have a type.”

It slipped beneath her ribs before she could brace herself. That flutter kicked against them before she could tell it to stop. Her mouth curved despite the lump in her throat. “I guess you do.”

They stood there for a moment too long, eyes on each other, like the conversation hadn’t fully ended, or maybe had ended in one way and was still unfolding in another. His lips parted like he was going to speak, still watching her in that way that made her skin feel too tight, but they closed with a soft sigh like he thought better of it. Part of her wished he would just say it. He’d had thirty years to be silent. But this silent felt different as it stretched between them; less like a void and more like a thread. That thread tugged at something left in thirty years of rubble that she never bothered to rescue. She didn’t mind this silence. 

The speaker in the corner glowed blue before the current song cut out mid-chorus and shifted. The opening chords of that fucking Jewel song came through again, barely into the first line before—

“Alexa, stop,” Beth said, a little too sharp, the words catching more in her throat than she meant them to.

The speaker flashed blue again before it went silent, and the room went still.

Jack tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Reminds me of—”

“Prom,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah, me too.”

Jack broke the stillness first, shifting back on his heels. “Speaking of that dog…” he said, voice lighter now, tugging at the edge of their mood without breaking it entirely. “I should probably go feed mine.”

Beth let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a soft laugh, her nod almost reluctant. “Yeah. Of course.”

She followed him to the door, flipping off the kitchen light as they passed through. The low glow of the lamp cast the living room in amber light, the tv throwing the shadows of the show she wasn’t watching across the walls. Abby was camped on the couch with Atlas draped over her lap like a weighted blanket with paws, her thumbs busy over on her phone.

She didn’t look up. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, leaning over the back on the couch to give Atlas a parting scratch behind the ears. “Figured I’d skedaddle, let you and your mom get back to your night.”

Abby snorted. “Not the middle-aged white guy lingo.”

He grinned. “What, I’m leaning into the brand. Fully committing. And I’ll take middle-aged, thank you very much.”

“I know, how generous of me, right?”

“Entirely too generous,” Jack chuckled, straightening back up. “I’m sure the Nobel Committee will be reaching out any day now.”

Beth saw the twitch at the corner of Abby’s mouth. She tried to hide it, but it was there; that reluctant grin threatening to break through.

“Mother Teresa could never,” Abby smirked, swiping to the next TikTok. She glanced up and offered Jack a small smile before returning to that damn phone. “Night, Jack.”

“Night, kid.” He returned her smile and continued to the door. Before he reached the entryway, he called over his shoulder like an afterthought, “Hey, I wanna hear how you did on that paper next time you come through with your mom. Alright?”

“Sounds good,” Abby called back.

Beth watched her daughter duck her face behind her phone again, but not before that tiny, crooked grin snuck its way across her mouth. Something seismic shifted in Beth’s chest. Quiet and slow and a little bit terrifying.

Because Abby didn’t do this . Didn’t click with people. Not like this. Not without friction, or caution, or the emotional small print that came with being seventeen and razor sharp and too smart for her own good. She’d always been a slow burn. A hard sell. The kind of girl who made people earn it, because Abigail Baker watered herself down for no one. It had taken Ed nearly a year to find an in with her before her quips felt less barbed, and even then, despite his efforts, she still moved around him like a stray cat he was trying not to spook.

But Jack? Jack hadn’t earned it so much as strolled into it like they were speaking the same language. She tossed him a line and he caught it midair. He’d tease, and she’d smirk, and they’d volley back and forth like they’d been rehearsing for months. The way they bounced off each other, the way their energy filled the room and made it feel more like something alive… fuck, it terrified her. It terrified her how easy all of it was. It had been easy then, too. 

Beth stood in the middle of her living room and watched it happen like it wasn’t her house. Like she was seeing something she wasn’t supposed to. Something that was supposed to be hers until she learned that life was unkind. For a moment, it felt like standing in front of a roaring hearth, letting it slowly bleed out a chill that she’d grown accustomed to. But fire still burned no matter how it was contained, no matter how beautiful it looked. No matter the small voice that whispered that maybe, just maybe, the flames wouldn’t bite like a dog if she got too close this time.

It didn’t stop her from stepping closer though. Just for one more minute in the same warmth that still danced on her skin.

She took a steadying breath and pulled her cardigan tight around her before she started to follow him to the door. Abby’s eyes jumped over her phone as she passed, and the little shit had the audacity to look smug about it before sinking deeper into the couch cushions and tucking her chin into her sweatshirt like that would hide it. Like they didn’t share the same fucking face and Beth knew each tick of her mouth like it was her own, because it was. 

Night air flooded into the entryway as soon as he opened the door, sweet with the decay of early autumn and the promise of rain. It curled around them, cool against the warmth of the house, and made Beth suddenly aware of how close they were standing. The streets had grown quiet in the hours since he arrived. She watched behind him when he turned to face her, counting the glow of exterior lights on her neighbors’ houses to keep her from looking up into the hazel. 

Jack shifted his keys in his hand, thumb brushing over the worn leather strap. “Thanks again for dinner.”

She smiled. “Thanks again for bringing my wallet. Would have been quite the shock when I made it to the register at Costco tomorrow.”

He nodded and hesitated like he might say something else, but instead he stepped onto the threshold, halfway between inside and out. Before he could leave entirely, she reached for his wrist to stop him from turning away with a brush of her fingers. She tilted her head toward the living room and added, a little more softly, “And thank you. For being so good to her. Really. She doesn’t exactly warm up easily.”

Jack’s smile was faint, crooked. “Neither did you.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from her, reluctant but genuine. “Guess we’re both a little difficult. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.”

He looked at her then; really looked at her. That same patient, infuriating, familiar way he always had. “Nah,” he said. “Just worth the wait.”

The words landed somewhere low in her stomach, a slow ache blooming beneath the flutter. The silence that followed filled every corner the porch light touched, thick and golden like honey in late light. She felt it in her throat, in the sudden thickness of her chest. Her eyes dropped first, trailing down to the floorboards between them like they might offer her somewhere to hide.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just let the quiet hum between them, heavy and humming, like a struck tuning fork. Her fingers tightened on the doorframe, not enough to steady her, just enough to feel something when the wood bit into her fingertips. Her body remembered him in ways her mind refused to entertain, like the way the air changed when he was near, or how the silence turned companionable instead of suffocating.

They lingered in the doorway longer than they should’ve. Jack stood just outside, backlit by the porchlight. It haloed him in gold, soft around the edges, and for a second, just one traitorous second, it took the years off his face. Trimmed back the lines, brightened the eyes, transformed him into the boy she once knew like the man who stood in front of her was still him. Like all he had to do was smile that smile and lean against the frame, just as handsome and brave and kind as her Jack had been, and it turned back the clock to the same girl that never could stay mad at him for too long. Her stomach twisted, sharp and sudden.

For a breath, she felt eighteen again. Eighteen and barefoot on a back porch in late August with only one sock, watching a boy with that same look on his face tell her goodbye. That girl stirred in her chest, surfacing in the beam of a lighthouse that promised safety and instead led her right into the rocks. 

“Night, Beth,” he murmured, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“Goodnight, Jack,” she said, and it came out quieter than she meant it to.

He lingered a moment longer and stood there at the bottom of her steps, bathed in porchlight and August air, like he wasn’t sure whether to turn and walk away or come back and say one more thing. Like he wasn’t sure to stay. But then his mouth twitched like it always used to, like he’d landed on some secret joke only he knew the punchline to, and he gave her a small nod. He stepped backward off the porch, his hand rising in a lazy wave before he turned and made his way down the walk, vanishing into the hush of the street and the hush of the hour.

Beth stood there for a second longer. The porchlight buzzed gently overhead, but the night was otherwise silent. No headlights, no breeze, just the quiet echo of a door shutting and a car starting before tires creaked on asphalt. 

She leaned against the door as she shut it, forehead resting against the wood, her fingers still curled loosely in her sweater sleeves. She let out a long breath before finally stepping back into the house. Then she turned slowly, the lamp-lit living room greeting her like a room paused in time. The TV flickered quietly. Abby was still sunk into the couch, Atlas curled against her side, snoring like a diesel engine.

Abby watched her from the couch, her phone forgotten on the cushion, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

“Well, that was—”

“Go to bed,” Beth cut in, walking past her without breaking stride.

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s late,” she said flatly, glancing sideways at the clock on the mantle in hopes that it would validate her reasoning, and added. “And because I said so.”

“Mom, it’s nine o’ clock. That’s not even—”

Beth turned, arms crossed. Jesus Christ, was this girl absolutely certain about med school? She’d make one hell of an attorney. But Beth didn’t have the patience for opening arguments tonight. “Go. To. Bed. Abigail.”

Abby scoffed dramatically, sitting up. Beth stared her down. Unblinking. Unamused. Exhausted.

Abby rolled her eyes, muttering as she stood. “Fine. Jesus. Overreaction much?”

“Goodnight,” Beth said, turning off the TV.

Abby didn’t move right away. She lingered there, halfway to the stairs, giving her mom that sideways look that always preceded something smug and usually right . “You’re literally crashing out for no reason! At least admit that you had a little fun. I could tell.”

Beth froze, just for a second. She didn’t speak. She didn’t trust what would come out of her mouth, though that Girl’s voice echoed through her like she was shouting into a chasm. Yes. But I shouldn’t. Yes. But I can’t. Yes. But I did. But I want to.

“Goodnight,” she said again, softer this time. “I love you big.”

“Whatever,” Abby huffed as she trudged toward the stairs, “Love you bigger , you total liar .”

Beth listened to her daughter’s footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the old wood on the landing. Beth braced herself for the slam of the door, but it didn’t come. 

“He’s really nice, Mom.” Abby called back down. 

Her door clicked shut, and a few seconds later, the muffled thump of music started up, far too loud as always. Beth stood there for a moment, rubbing at the knot in her shoulder, and stared at the dent Abby had left in the couch. Atlas gave a long, sighing groan and looked up at her with half-lidded eyes. She crossed the room and sat down beside him, letting the quiet press in.

Fuck. What was she doing? 

She leaned back into the couch with a low sigh. Atlas shifted with the movement and let out a displeased snort before tucking himself in tighter. She let her head tip back for a second. Let the silence stretch and settle around her, though she wasn’t sure she wanted it. Then, as if tugged by some unseen thread, she pushed herself up. She hesitated a moment, still hovering over the cushion before she straightened up and crossed to the built-in under the bookshelf.

The cabinet creaked open, revealing the clutter she always meant to sort through; old photo albums, Abby’s art projects from elementary school, the backup charger she kept forgetting didn’t work and kept meaning to throw away. The hinges gave a familiar groan as she opened it. Her fingers moved past Abby’s yearbooks first; fresh ink and bright photos, the names of friends that Beth had watched play in this same house scrawled in bubbly cursive. She dug a little deeper until she found her own. The spine was soft from being opened and closed so many times in those first years after graduation, before it became too painful to remember who she’d been then.

Abby had flipped through it before, always laughing at the hair, the outfits, the dramatic handwritten messages scrawled in the margins and the version of Beth before her name was ‘mom’. But Beth had mostly let it be. Let it gather dust. Let it wait in the dark like it didn’t belong to the life she had now.

She rocked back onto her heels and sat with her legs tucked beneath her, the yearbook balanced on her lap. She set the charger onto the coffee table. She really should throw that away. The cover felt strange beneath her hands, familiar and foreign all at once. She opened it slowly, the pages flipping past in flashes of faces she used to know. Names she used to say out loud. Moments she hadn’t thought about in years.

She smiled when she hit the sports section. There she was; all pleated skirt and smiles and pom-poms mid-cheer next to Becca on the sidelines. A blur of Friday night lights and adolescent joy. She took a picture of it and sent it off to Becca before she could second-guess the impulse.

Then she kept turning pages. Past group shots and club spreads and class photos. Her fingers stalled on the picture of her senior debate team and she snorted softly. She hadn’t needed any help arguing, Jack, she thought. That’s why she never lost. And that accident had not been as bad as he made it sound. He rear-ended a cop and she hadn’t brought that up once . 

She turned the page again and paused. The senior sunrise picture was there; everyone in a messy, half-awake heap on the bleachers, wrapped in hoodies and blankets, their whole lives still in front of them. And there, nestled in the middle of it all, was the two of them. She sat beside Becca on the bench above him, the old blanket he kept under the seat of his truck draped over her shoulders and her arms around Jack’s neck, cheek resting on his head. He leaned back into her, his smile so relaxed it hurt to look at. And hers… God, her smile was effortless. That girl didn’t flinch. Didn’t guard herself. She had no reason to. Not yet.

Beth stared at it for too long. Not because it made her sad, but because it didn’t; not in the way she expected. It just made her feel… far away. Like she was looking through the wrong end of a telescope at a version of herself she could almost remember being. A girl who believed in things like forever. Who believed that a moment like that could stretch out in all directions and hold. Who still believed that love looked like lip gloss stains and not a bruise.

She flipped the page, though she wasn’t sure exactly why. She should put it away. She should go to bed. But she just kept flipping from one page to the next, eyes scanning over each page like she was trying to photocopy them into her memory. She had just moved past the superlative pages when the gap between the pages felt slightly wider than the last. She turned to it, and tucked between the pages was a folded photograph. The edges were soft from years of being pressed flat, worn right in the middle where the elastic used to rub against it when she kept it tucked in the trap on her visor. Her fingers hesitated before tugging it loose.

Her own face smiled back at her from the piece of photo paper. Seventeen, golden with the future, standing in front of the campus sign during her first campus tour. Her mom had taken it before they left, though Beth had been surprised that she had any space still left on the camera after the pictures she’d taken of every single building they passed by. Beth was beaming, eyes bright and proud with her arms looped around his waist. Jack had one arm around her shoulders, the other stuffed in his hoodie pocket, smiling in that quiet way he did.

She let out a breath and carefully tucked the photo back between the pages, smoothing it flat before flipping through the rest.

The prom spread came towards the end; a collage of moments frozen in flash and film, glossy and bright. She remembered Becca nearly losing her mind trying to finalize the layout in time for printing, the two of them sifting through the pictures late into the night over sodas and half-eaten pizza. It had all felt so immediate then, like prom was the pinnacle of youth and every shot had to be perfect. Beth skimmed past most of them until one caught her eye, and she felt her throat close.

Not a posed picture. Just a wide shot of the dance floor taken from the balcony above. Most of the frame was a blur of motion, colored lights, dresses and rented tuxedos. But in the background, almost hidden, was her.

Just a glimpse of her back, really; the low dip of that blue dress Dad had a fit over when she came home with it, the spill of her hair against bare skin. Her arms looped around Jack’s neck, his hands resting lightly at her waist, and a Sharpie marker heart drawn beside them like a footnote. Even from a distance, even through grain and blur and the passage of time, Beth could still see it. The way he was looking at her. Like she was the most beautiful thing in the room. Like the noise and the lights and the whole night had gone quiet around her.

He always looked at her like that. He had on that last night, too.

He looked at her like that tonight. 

After all these years, he still looked at her like he knew her. Every little bit. Every reflex, every scar, every stubborn little thing she thought she’d grown out of. And it infuriated her. It infuriated her that he still carried that version of her in his head. That he’d thought of her often enough to still know who she was. That somewhere along the way, through the years and the silence, he’d chosen to remember her. And still, he hadn’t come back.

He was the one who left. He made his choice, and with it took hers from her. Left her standing on a porch with half a goodbye and nothing to hold onto but the memory of what they were. And fine . She’d learned to live with that. He had decided she wasn’t worth knowing then. But if she wasn’t worth knowing, then why had he bothered to remember?

And the worst part? The last twist of the knife that felt placed there by her own hands?

She knew him, too. Still. In every small and painful way. She remembered the sound of his laugh and the weight of his hand at the small of her back. She remembered how he looked when he was trying not to cry, how he clenched his jaw when he was scared. She remembered him even when she didn’t want to. And that made her angry, too. Because if they had both spent years remembering, if they’d both been haunted by the same shadow, then why the hell hadn’t he come back?

Had he looked for her the way she had him? Had he seen her profile on strangers in crowds, just long enough to forget how to breathe? Had he chased shadows through grocery aisles, heart pounding, only to feel foolish when they turned around? Had he dreamt like she had of the impossible? That maybe she’d show up one day. A little older, a little rougher, but still her. Still the girl who loved him with everything she had.

And if he had, then why the fuck hadn’t he just come home?

But he didn’t. He chose to remember her without her. Chose to leave and let those pieces of her live in memory instead of in reality. 

And then the fucking cruelty of it all—the viciousness in the simplicity of sitting beside him at that table, watching him make her daughter laugh like it was the easiest thing in the world. Hearing him remember small things, things he shouldn’t still know. It was unbearable, the way it all played out so effortlessly, so peacefully. Like a scene from a life they never got to live. A memory that had never been hers, just a glimpse into some other timeline where he had known how to stay. Where he hadn’t left. Where that table, that laughter, that peace, were theirs.

That was what hurt the most in the midnights after he left. Not just the sharp, unraveling kind of pain that gutted her at first. The kind time couldn’t dull, but only reshape into something quieter, something crueler. A chronic ache that flared up when the weather cooled and she caught him in the tilt of a stranger’s jaw, or the melody of an old song she still couldn’t turn off. It wasn’t being alone that undid her, not really. It was the devastation of knowing what could have been. The might-have-beens that took root in the dark and bloomed into grief. If he’d just turned around, even once; if he’d fought instead of folded—then maybe the story would have been different.

Before, those fantasies stayed locked away in her subconscious, haunting her dreams with a life that never belonged to her, and maybe was never supposed to. She’d suppressed those long ago until he showed up in that hospital room and tore through the images she’d marked confidential and filed away. But now? Now she had to watch it happen. Watch that life play out around the dinner table and watch him be the man he promised to be like a film reel she couldn’t shut off. One she didn’t even want to shut off, because God help her, it felt familiar. Like something she already knew the ending to. But she’d never been good at guessing the ending anyway. She always got too caught up in the middle.

And then that fucking song. That song from prom started playing, as if the night hadn’t already been enough. And he looked at her like he remembered every second of that slow dance in the gym; his arms wrapped around her, his forehead resting against hers, the soft hum of his voice in her ear as he whispered that he’d love her forever. Forever, as it turned out, had an expiration date. A short one. And now that song, once something sacred and safe, played casually over a cheap piece of Bezos plastic while he stood across from her like a stranger with memories he had no right to still own.

She turned back a few page to the senior sunrise picture and stared down at the smiling face of the Girl Before. Sometimes she still caught glimpses of her in the mirror: the curve of a grin, the brightness in her eyes, fleeting and cruel. But then she’d blink, and that girl would be gone again. She’d dissipate like mist and leave behind the Woman After. After Jack. After Russell. After Ed. After she learned to stop counting the times her heart got broken and decided that if love was contagious, then she must be immune to it.

The Girl Before and the Woman After simply didn’t coexist. Not out of malice. Just… necessity. One had to survive. She had to grow up and move in a straight line that only went forward. The other had to be buried for her to learn how to.

But tonight, as she sat at that table beside him, Beth allowed the Girl Before to linger just a little longer. For a fleeting moment, the bright-eyed girl who had once believed in forever was there again; tentative, trembling with hope, daring to believe that maybe this time could be different. That maybe wounds could heal, maybe men who left could learn to stay, that maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time. 

The Woman After had been quick to remind her otherwise. She’d swept in fast. Efficient. Gentle, even, in her way. Diminished the little flicker of hope before it could catch fire. Before the girl could ruin them both with wide eyes and open hands because hope was a lovely, dangerous thing. It was best left to girls in prom dresses who didn’t know better yet.

Beth closed the yearbook gently and placed it back on the shelf with more care than it probably deserved. She leaned back against the coffee table and stayed there for a moment, her arms looped around her legs, chin resting on her knees and let herself feel the ache. Not wallow in it, but just acknowledge it. Like a scar she still traced in the quiet.

The house settled around her, creaking in the way that had once frightened Abby. It’s just the house saying goodnight, she’d tell her. She missed when fears could be buffed out with just a few words. Abby’s music buzzed through the ceiling, some muffled pop song she’d heard a hundred times. She listened for a moment, letting the familiar noises fill the space. With a tired groan, she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and rubbed hard, blinking the spots out of her vision.

Fuck, she was in trouble. Wasn’t she?

Beth reached behind her for her phone. Becca had texted her back, but Beth flicked the message away before she could read it. She opened her contacts and scrolled until she found the name she didn’t quite know she was looking for. She tapped on it and put the call on speaker before she let her phone rest on the floor beside her.

It didn’t have a chance to ring a second time before he picked it up.

“You alright?”

Beth smiled, even though it trembled a little. Only Tom Baker answered the phone that way; like he already knew she wasn’t.

“Hey, Dad,” she said softly, letting her chin rest on her knees again. “You’re up late. Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” he replied, the hum of an old western buzzing faintly in the background. “Chris and the boys were here this evenin’. Just left.”

“Yeah? How is everyone?”

“Oh, you know,” he sighed. “Chris came over to get his fishing license outta the boat, and they ended up stayin’ for dinner. Coop started football a few weeks back, and it’s all the kid can talk about. He’s damn good at it, though. Wes is growin’ like a weed. Owen didn’t so much as spare Jess a second glance when she dropped him off at kindergarten on Monday. Damn near broke the poor girl’s I think.”

Beth listened with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, eyes glassy. When was the last time she saw those boys? Chris had texted her the pictures her sister-in-law had taken of them in front of their schools on their first day last week, and she hardly recognized her nephews. 

“Sounds like a good night,” she said. “Abs and I will have to come up one of these weekends after school starts. We miss you guys.”

“You could just move back, you know,” he said. “The Hughey’s just moved down to Florida. Could live just down the street and see everyone all the time.”

She laughed. “Wow, three minutes in and you’re already guilt tripping me? That’s a new record, Pops.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying,” he chuckled. “How’s the new job?”

“Oh, you know,” she sighed. “Same shit, different building.”

“Language.”

She rolled her eyes. Even at forty-eight, she never stopped being eight-years-old in his eyes. She was old enough to have a mortgage and retirement fund, but still never old enough to cuss in front of her father. “Sorry, Daddy.”

There was a pause, just long enough for both of them to hear the other breathe on the other end of the line. She could still hear the western playing; someone shouting about horses or land or money. Abby’s fondness for deafening volumes started to make a little more sense.

“No, it’s… it’s good,” she added, picking at the sleeve of her sweater. “It’s good.”

“What’s wrong?”

Damn it.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“I said, what’s wrong?”

“Dad…”

“You haven’t called in a week. Now you’re callin’ after dark just to shoot the shit? I don’t think so, Elizabeth. What’s goin’ on?”

She huffed out a shaky laugh. “A girl can’t call her dad just to chat?”

“She sure can,” he said. “But I know my girl. C’mon now. I’m not gettin’ any younger.”

She stared at the ceiling. “Jack’s back.”

The other side of the call fell silent.

“Jack?”

“You know who I’m talking about, Dad.”

“Now that’s what I worried you were gonna say,” he grunted. The recliner creaked. The TV clicked off. “When’d that happen?”

“Last week. He was Abby’s doctor at the ER. At my ER. He works at my new hospital, in the same department,” she muttered, fingers bothering at the cable of her cardigan, tracing over the weave of the pattern. “He was just at the house, actually.”

“ Your house?” He balked, his voice a low grumble. “The hell was he at your house for?”

“Who else’s house?” She said a little too incredulously. “You have your granddaughter to thank for that. He showed up to drop off my wallet after I left it at the hospital and she invited him in for dinner.”

“Good lord, that girl…”

“Tell me about it,” Beth scoffed. 

He went quiet, but Beth could hear movement around him. She heard fabric shuffle, the muffled thunder of his voice down the hall when he pressed his palm against the bottom of his phone like he was still using a landline. Abby had taught him how to mute a call a half dozen times, but he’d always been stuck in his ways. Mom’s voice followed—something about do I need to go too? and You’re going to drive through that city at night?— before he moved again, and she could hear the jingle of keys.

She sighed, closing her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not doin’ anything,” he muttered, his voice too far away for a moment before it drew closer in a change of hands.

“I can hear you. You’re putting on your jacket.”

“I’m just checkin’ the weather,” he hummed, feigning innocence. She heard the familiar, heavy fall of his footsteps on the carpet.

“With your keys, Benjamin Franklin?” She quipped, then sighed. “Dad...”

“Elizabeth,” he said flatly. “I mean it. You need me to come down there?”

She let out a broken laugh through her nose. “And do what? Kick his ass for breaking my heart thirty years ago?”

“You didn’t stop being my little girl over those thirty years, Beth.”

Her chest went tight. She stared across the living room at the yearbook tucked away on the shelf like the memories were trying to claw their way out of it.

“You okay, pumpkin?”

She tried to answer. Tried to breathe past the lump in her throat. But her voice cracked when she said, “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

A sob pressed against her ribs like it had been waiting all night. Her shoulders shook as she curled in tighter, one hand pressed to her mouth like she could keep the sound in, the other drawing her knees in closer. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and bit down on her lip hard, but it was no use.

“No,” she whispered, “No, Daddy. I’m not.”

Tom didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t never did. He didn’t need to. He just breathed with her, slow and steady on the other end of the line.

“I know, baby,” he said at last. “I know.”