#when one door closes another... opens... anyways

[yamysunmoon]

My treasure

Pairing: jenna x fem!reader

Words: 1.6k (it was supposed to be a drabble bruh)

Summary: Jenna has an event and her look doesn't disappoint. On the way there, you get... Handsy.

a/n: couldn't think of a specific fit of hers so choose your fighter.

MASTERLIST

Your phone buzzes with a new message from Jenna's agent.

"where is she? We're waiting at the entrance! She has to leave the building now!"

You look up at the bathroom door closed in front of you.

"Jenna, your agent is going insane. You're gonna be late yet for another event and—"

The door opens, revealing Jenna clad in a breathtakingly beautiful dress. It's highlighting evert perfect curve, hugging her body the exact right way.

Your jaw drops just a bit, mouth ajar, lips parted. Your gaze drifts across her body. She lifts her arms, smirking in that particular way of hers. "You like it?"

You look up at her. Her hairstylist gets out of the bathroom behind her, carrying her things. "I like you" you correct her, ignoring the fact that you two are not alone.

She comes closer to you, with that playful glint in her eyes. The hairstylist exists the room, leaving you alone.

Your hands find her waist authomatically, the gesture already memorized, treasured in a special spot in your brain.

"You look incredible" you say softer, almost a murmur. She looks up at you, and her playful stare turns tender.

You lean in but she stops you, her hands on your chest. "The lipstick." She whispers, and she giggles a bit when you give her a grumpy glance.

"Hmmm..." You groan, your previous devotion shifting to soft annoyance.

Your phone buzzes again in your pocket. "We gotta go anyways" you murmur.

You lean back, but one of your hands remain on her waist as you lead her out of the hotel room.

She follows your guidance, as she usually does. You check her out bluntly when she passes by you, which doesn't go unnoticed for her.

Admiring her perfect ass, your eyes find hers when you look up, briefly glancing at you over her shoulder. You both chuckle softly, one of her hands finds yours and leads you to the elevator.

She turns around slowly once there, and now you cup her neck with both hands, almost capable of feeling the particles of warm air fillling the distance between you. Neither of you say a thing, but the tension becomes dense in that reduced space.

She parts her crimson lips, tilts her head just enough for the tendons of her neck to tense seductively, and her collarbone is prominent when she inhales deeply, then lets the air go out a profound sigh.

You scan every one of this details as in trying to know everything about her by heart. Every single touch. Her gleaming skin, and that soft, elegant perfume.

"You can't look at me like that and expect me not to kiss you" you whisper in a husky voice.

It's not intentional, but as you say those words, you take some steps forward, causing her to press her back against the wall behind her ever so softly.

"Like what?" She coos, looking up at you with that innocent sparkle, wiggling her eyebrows.

"Exactly like that" you murmur, more to yourself.

She lets out a breathy chuckle. You can feel her dimples under your thumbs.

Your eyes meet again, and the teasing glint in her eyes subsides. Pure adoration and smoldering passion replace it.

You could get lost in that stare. You have, indeed, done that already. Purposefully. Inevitably.

You feel her hands hold onto your shirt, exactly above the waistband of your pants. You feel her nails gently scratching your waist through the fabric.

You know what that grip means. That quiet, raw passion she always has inside of her, burning. That untamed desire she usually keeps on point, but occasionally invades her.

You know what she needs.

"I swear, the moment we get back here..."

The elevator makes a sound, indicating you've reached the main hall. The doors opens, and her grip looses until her hands fall languidly to her sides.

You give her chin a shallow caress with your thumbs before finally letting go.

"When we get back here...?" she asks suggestively, glancing briefly at your lips before gently pushing you away and walking out of the elevator.

You follow her. She chats briefly with her agent before the main doors, then the agent gets out before her, a horde of paparazzis are waiting outside.

You lean closer to her, your lips graze her ear as you whisper "When we get back here... I'll show you just how easily I can take off all of this," you gesture at her clothes, "those that took that long to put on".

She glances at you almost imperceptibly, raising one of her eyebrows ever so slightly. Her lips curl up into a sideways smile.

But she doesn't say anything. You know you make her speechless when you say things like that.

Instead, she lifts her chin, defiant, already getting into character, into her celebrity persona. "We'll see" she says playfully, looking outside.

You shake your head and chuckle. "Sure... We'll see" You step outside, before her.

The cameras ignore you, but just as you reach the car, you hear the frantic clicking behind you, letting you know Jenna is following you.

"Jenna! Jenna, over here please! Beautiful!"

You open the door for her and wait patiently. You smile softly, admiring her pose. She has her hands on her waist, one foot before the other, and she tilts her head here and there, taking a moment to pose for them all.

Just as she's turning her head, she notices you and her gaze softens, and she truly smiles. To you.

She walks towards you, "thank you, pretty girl" she flirts as she steps into the car.

"Oh, she treats her so well" a fan comments, referring to you just as you get inside and close the door. You can't help but to smile slyly.

As you go through the city, you look through the window with Jenna resting against your shoulder, both of her hands possessively cupping one of yours.

"Hey" you comment, turning to look down at her. "You don't usually pose that much for paparazzis, right? Especially in a day like this, where we're in a hurry".

You notice the dimple forming in her cheek, even if you can't fully see her face.

"I don't" she says plainly, in a soft voice. "But you were watching."

Your breath hitches for a moment, and you squeeze her hand. She looks up, with that stare again.

You can't resist.

You gently push her against the seat, one of your hands wandering along her thighs, fingers splayed out, pressing teasingly.

She looks surprised, but she lets you continue, her hands gently grabbing your sides.

You lean forward, giving her a lustful, passionate stare before you tilt your head, going for her neck.

Your gestures are paused, calm, slow. Tracing her neck with gentle peck kisses, brushing your nose against her pulse point.

She's stiff, tense. Incapable of giving in to her desires, being fully aware of where she's heading. Of who she is, who she has to be.

But you make her mind go blurry sometimes. She closes her eyes, lost in sensations, and for a moment she forgets who she has to be for everybody, instead she can only think of you, of who she is with you.

Your kisses grow, pressing your lips against her perfumed skin for long seconds now.

You feel her arms around your shoulders. She whimpers your name, in a weak warning. "Baby..." She whines against your ear, her voice husky and high.

Your hand continues roaming over her skin, making the silky fabric slip up. Your knuckles graze her panties covering her mound, and she jolts. "Babe...!" She scolds, but her hug tightens around your neck.

"Trust me, I'm trying..." You murmur before tracing her jawline with your nose.

"No, not there" she murmurs, leaning back, shivering a little. "You're gonna ruin my makeup, dork" she says beaming.

You take a moment to admire her relaxed expression, with hooded eyes and a lazy smile. Her breathing is a little labored, soft puffs leave her full, crimson lips.

Still looking at her, you move your fingers a bit, this time grazing her panties with full intention.

She jolts again and pulls her hips back. "Stop..." She scolds again, her voice now low. But her smirk remains. You spread your fingers a bit, and trace her slit.

Her expressions melts into a beautiful mix of pleasure and delight. Her smile curling into a silent moan, she throws her head back slowly, and looks at you through hooded eyes. She drives you nuts.

You groan. "Hmm, you're such a tease..."

And even if you two are still looking deeply into eachother's eyes, you can hear the racket outside.

After a final trace, you withdraw your hand, not before leaving gentle caresses all over her thigh.

You break eye contact only to look down and help her fix the dress, pulling it down back to place. You don't notice her loving, heart eyes on you as you do so.

She fixes her hair as well, even if there's nothing to fix. "Hey, it's okay. I was good, alright?" you joke, giving her a teasing smile.

She glares at you playfully. "Mhm..."

Even if she's comfortable with you, you can tell she's now getting nervous.

You're now in the car queue, getting closer and closer to the event.

She looks outside, sitting straight, hands on her lap, waiting. Tense.

You give her a soothing touch on her arm. "Hey" you call her softly.

Slowly, she turns her head. She tilts it, listening. You smile sweetly.

"You're looking stunning. Nobody here is taking away from your beauty, your talent or your kindness."

The car continues moving, now it's almost time. Her expression relaxes the moment she looks at you and hears your words.

"So, don't worry, my love. You've got it."

She smiles, completely in love.

"Damn you, you earned a kiss" she murmurs leaning forward.

You have the right time to chuckle smugly, but before you can use that sharp mouth of yours, she silences you with a soft, intentional kiss on the lips.

She leans back seconds after. "And your makeup?" You tease, raising an eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes and leans back. "I'm sure Melanie can fix it" she comments, turning around to open her car door.

People outside immediately call her name. Excited shouts reach your ears. And you know, they might love the idea of her, but you love her. And that, is yours to treasure.

a/n: Maybe you're gonna beg for a part 2. Well, beg harder.

Taglist: @ijustlovemaths @babyhumanoidpsychicnerd @ortegalvr @2thamax @oxt3n @paulvalmont @lightningirlz @bellward3456 @lailathegayqueeeen @avaseye @dequiem @bbygrl008 @red1culous @bella423 @jennassamoanwife @ttoxicbumper012

[hamilton-here]

Heya, just another idea I want to drop in your inbox so I don’t forget about it. Lewis taking his famous girlfriend to the f1 premiere and the relationship has been secret before so eveyone is like wooooah they are dating???????! And he‘s supe protective of her (maybe also possessive when there’s men getting closer?) something like this, thank you

𝐿𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈, 𝒞𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓈, 𝒰𝓈

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! I have around 17 requests to complete😫. Y'all were keen for me to open my requests oh my lordy. Requests are definitely gonna be closed for a while. I can't wait to watch the F1 movie this Sat. Anyway enjoy! Apologises if this is somewhat short 😞Lots of love xx

Summary: At a high profile premiere, Lewis Hamilton and his partner navigate the chaos of fame, finding strength in their private bond amidst the public spotlight.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was one of those mornings where the world felt slightly off-kilter with a strange, humming energy hung in the air, buzzing quietly just beneath the surface, like New York itself knew that today would be anything but ordinary. Even from the safety of the hotel’s lavish suite you could feel it, the weight of what was coming, the undercurrent of anticipation threading through your every breath.

The floor-to-ceiling windows let in the soft morning sunlight, its pale glow stretching lazily across the minimalist décor - cream walls, cool marble counters and dark wooden accents. It should’ve felt calming. It should’ve made you feel like you had time. But the walls seemed to close in, your thoughts ricocheting off them as the clock’s relentless ticking filled the silence.

You were standing in front of the mirror, unmoving, almost like if you stayed still long enough, you could delay the inevitable.

Today’s the day.

Your eyes flicked to the dress draped neatly on the back of the bathroom door, which was a delicate, fluid masterpiece in soft gold, threaded with a whisper of shimmer so faint that it only caught the light when you moved. It was simple, intentionally understated, but the thought of wearing it made your chest tighten. The fabric was like your emotions of serene on the outside, but inside you were vibrating with nerves, spinning with every anxious what-if.

What if you stumbled in front of the cameras? What if people didn’t like you? What if, stepping into the spotlight next to him, made you more than just his partner - what if it made you a target?

From the other room came the gentle rustling of fabric, the soft thump of shoes against carpet as Lewis moved around. His presence, even unseen, always brought you comfort. Normally, he was the calm in your storm. But today? Today was different. This wasn’t just another gala, another appearance where the world expected him to show up alone. This wasn’t even about racing. This was his movie.

The F1 movie. The one Brad Pitt had starred in; the one Lewis had poured years into as a producer. The project that blended Hollywood with the fierce, unrelenting world of motorsport. Lewis had worked for this and fought to shape it, to tell the story right.

And today wasn’t just the culmination of that journey. It was the day your quiet, sacred relationship was about to be placed in the centre of the world’s stage.

You’d both kept it hidden for so long. It was easy, in private. In hotel rooms, late-night phone calls, tucked-away vacations where no one could reach you. But now would change everything. You would walk out of that car, and the world would see you.

Your fingers fiddled nervously with the hem of your robe. Was this really happening? Were you ready to stop being invisible?

The sound of footsteps nearing the bedroom pulled you from your spiral. You looked up just as Lewis appeared in the doorway, framed by the soft morning light, and for a second, it stole your breath.

He wore his pale pink jacket, the one with the diamond-studded goat symbol glinting just below his shoulder blade. He hadn’t needed to say it out loud, but you knew exactly why he’d chosen that jacket. He was stepping into the premiere knowing exactly who he was. He wasn’t shying away from being seen.

Paired with sharp black pants and his signature sleek boots, he looked as effortlessly commanding as always, but you didn’t see Lewis Hamilton, the seven-time world champion.

You saw your Lewis the one who remembered how you liked your coffee, who rubbed your back when you couldn’t sleep, who pressed quiet kisses to your temple when the weight of the world felt too heavy.

“How are we doing, love?” His voice was soft, but you could hear the edge of concern, the subtle way he was reading you like you were a puzzle he’d long since figured out but still studied, just to make sure.

You offered him a weak smile, brushing your palms down the sides of your thighs to ground yourself. “Just trying to get it together.” You glanced at the dress again, as if it might help settle your racing thoughts. “It just feels like something’s shifting, you know?”

Lewis’s lips quirked into a faint smile, and he crossed the room in a few strides, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, his touch warm, steadying.

“You’re going to be amazing,” he said, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your cheek, lingering there just a moment longer than usual. “They’re gonna see you the way I see you.”

You let out a breathy laugh, the nerves still clinging to your chest. “I just don’t want to mess this up. I don’t know how to be someone people talk about. Someone they pick apart.”

Lewis gently lifted your chin with two fingers, his thumb brushing softly against your jaw. His gaze, deep and unflinching, held yours like an anchor.

“They’re gonna talk, no matter what,” he said, his voice velvet smooth but laced with quiet certainty. “But I’m not letting them near you unless you want them there. You don’t owe anyone anything. We’re in this together, yeah? You’ve got me.”

The sincerity in his tone loosened something in your chest. You nodded, feeling the edges of your fear begin to soften under his steady gaze.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Together.”

Lewis’s grin widened, and he dropped his hand to your waist, giving you a little squeeze. “Damn right.”

The simplicity of the moment, his unwavering calm, reminded you of who you were doing this with. If Lewis was willing to walk through the fire with you, you could handle the heat.

By the time you both left the hotel room, hand in hand, the hum of New York City had sharpened into a tangible pulse that seemed to vibrate through the streets.

It was no longer just background noise, but it was alive, a persistent rhythm that reminded you of the weight of the moment you were walking toward.

The sleek red car waiting at the curb shimmered in the late morning sun, its glossy surface polished to the point where it mirrored the skyline. Even from a distance, you could hear the faint pop of camera shutters and the sharp, echoing shouts of paparazzi, though they were still just spectres at this point not close enough to suffocate you yet, but looming, hovering on the horizon.

Lewis guided you toward the car with quiet ease, his thumb brushing across your knuckles as though it was second nature because it was. You’d walked together like this countless times before. Grocery runs. Lazy afternoons. Late dinners when no one was looking.

But never like this.

Never where the entire world was waiting to see you.

He reached for the car door first, opening it smoothly and gesturing for you to slide in. You caught the softness in his expression, the way his eyes flicked over you like he was mentally checking every detail, not of your outfit but of you.

Are you okay? Are you ready?

You didn’t have to speak for him to know you were on the edge of unraveling. You settled into the car’s cool leather seats, the door shutting behind you with a soft, final click that somehow felt heavier than it should have.

Lewis circled the car, taking his time as though he was deliberately drawing out these last few seconds of peace. When he slipped into the seat beside you, the space immediately felt smaller in a good way. Like you could breathe again, but only because he was there.

The driver merged seamlessly into the pulsing afternoon traffic, the streets of New York sprawling past the windows in a blur of yellow taxis, glinting skyscrapers, and pedestrians that didn’t know, or didn’t care, what was about to unfold a few blocks away.

Lewis’s hand found yours again, his fingers slotting between yours with the familiarity of someone who had done it in the dark, in elevators, in back seats always with that same quiet certainty. But this time, you couldn’t stop the trembling in your palm.

He noticed immediately, his thumb starting to stroke gentle, reassuring circles over your skin without missing a beat.

And then, without hesitation, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. He lingered there. Not a quick, passing touch, but a moment, as if he could anchor you and absorb the nervous electricity humming beneath your skin.

“You don’t have to be nervous, you know,” he murmured, his voice low, steady, that slight rasp curling around the edges like smoke. The kind of voice that always made your chest tighten, though it carried something more. Something protective. Something that felt like a promise.

Your throat tightened. You tried to smile, but you knew he could see straight through it.

“It’s just this is the first time. I’ve never had to -” you gestured loosely, as if the words themselves were too big to properly shape, “be seen like this. With you.” Lewis’s brow softened, his thumb pausing momentarily as he studied you, really looked at you.

“You’ve got nothing to prove to them,” he said, his tone quietly resolute, each word measured like he wanted them to sink into your bones. “Not today. Not ever. They don’t get to define you. You’re mine now. Let them write whatever headlines they want. What matters is what’s real. Us.”

The words weren’t suffocating or possessive in the wrong way they were protective, wrapping around you like armour. Like he wanted to build a wall between you and the sharp teeth of the outside world. You exhaled slowly, the knot in your chest loosening just a little. “You really think I can handle this?”

His lips curved into a soft smile, the kind that brought out the faintest dimple on his cheek the one you always loved catching when his guard was down. He leaned in, brushing another kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than necessary, his breath warm against your skin.

“I know you can. And you’re not doing it alone. We walk through that carpet together. Always.” It wasn’t just a line. It was a vow. One you felt settle deep inside you.

The rest of the ride passed in a pocket of silence - comfortable, grounding. Every few blocks, Lewis would squeeze your hand like a pulse check, a quiet I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. But the closer you got, the louder the energy became.

The muted hum of the city sharpened into the distinct roar of a waiting crowd. Even through the double-insulated car, you could hear the rising commotion followed by the blend of engine rumble, the faint blare of speakers, the excited calls from fans who had been camped out for hours just to catch a glimpse of the stars arriving.

Your heartbeat jumped as you caught your reflection in the tinted window. The way your makeup had been carefully perfected, the delicate shimmer of your dress catching in the sunlight, the slight tension still lingering in your jaw.

It hit you, suddenly, like cold water.

You were about to step out next to Lewis Hamilton. Not as a friend. Not as a PR plant. As his. Officially. Unmistakably.

When the car finally pulled up to the curb, your heart felt like it was lodged somewhere between your ribs and your throat. Through the safety of the dark glass, you could see them. Hundreds of people. Dozens of cameras. The flashes had already begun, stuttering white sparks popping like fireworks as they homed in on the unmistakable car.

You gripped Lewis’s hand tighter, your pulse hammering in your wrists. He turned to you, his thumb brushing firm, grounding strokes over your skin. His eyes softened, but his jaw was set with a quiet line of resolve.

“Hey,” he murmured, tilting your chin gently so you couldn’t hide from him. “I’ve got you. You ready?” Your breath trembled on the inhale, but you nodded. “Yeah.” His lips tugged into a slow, knowing grin. “Let’s give ‘em something to talk about.”

The car door swung open, and Lewis stepped out first, unfolding to his full height in a smooth, commanding motion that instantly drew every pair of eyes in his direction. The collective hum of the crowd exploded into cheers, gasps, the frantic whirl of camera shutters cranking into overdrive.

He moved like he owned the moment as it was unhurried, deliberate and as if the carpet had been rolled out just for him. Even the late morning sun seemed to bow to him, its bright rays catching on the pale pink jacket he’d chosen for the day, the fabric shifting in soft glimmers as he moved.

The diamond-encrusted goat symbol shimmered like a crown on his back. It wasn’t loud, more intentional. The greatest. And he knew it.

The outfit alone would’ve set social media ablaze but paired with his effortless charisma—it was like gravity itself bent toward him.

And then he turned back to the open car door. To you. His hand reached out, palm up, fingers open waiting for yours. There was no rush. No spectacle. Just an invitation. Step into this with me.

His hand wasn’t just a gesture it was a lifeline, a quiet anchor against the roar of the crowd. It was Lewis, saying without words, you don’t have to face this alone.

Your heartbeat so hard you could feel it in your teeth. But your hand moved to his like it always had like it belonged there. The moment your skin touched his, the world seemed to shift. The gasps from the crowd sliced through the noise in sharp, staggering waves.

“Wait is that -?”

“Who’s she?”

“Lewis brought someone?”

“Are they…are they together?!”

The murmurs surged, building into something uncontrollable, like the spark of a match dropped into dry grass. The media scrambled reporters elbowing for position, photographers tripping over each other to capture the shot that would headline a thousand news feeds.

You stepped out carefully, your heel meeting the carpet with delicate precision, but you felt weightless, unsteady under the sheer force of the moment. The noise blurred with shouting, cheering, cameras flashing so rapidly it felt like lightning was fracturing the air around you. For a heartbeat, you wanted to retreat, to fold back into the shadow of the car.

But then Lewis’s hand. His grip, warm and solid, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your knuckles. You looked up, your breath caught in your throat. And he was already looking at you. His expression wasn’t tense. It wasn’t forced. He looked proud. Unapologetically proud to be here, to be standing with you. There was no hesitation. No doubt. He wanted this. He wanted you with him. Seen with him.

His hand slid to the small of your back, his touch protective but gentle, guiding you forward onto the iconic red carpet, step by step, as if the rhythm of his body would keep you steady.

And it did.

The cameras clicked, reporters fired off questions that tumbled over each other in desperate waves.

“Lewis! Who’s your date for this event?”

“Is this your girlfriend?”

“How long have you two been together?”

“Lewis, can we get a quote? Is this serious?”

You could feel the weight of the world pressing against your skin, their curiosity a heavy, sharp thing. But Lewis never faltered. His hand on your lower back was warming, his voice calm, smooth, but with a quiet finality that settled over the crowd like a closing door. “A while now,” he said simply, his gaze flicking back to you with a softness that felt like home. “We’re happy.”

And somehow, those two words made everything else fade. The noise. The flashes. The rush of adrenaline.

You were here. Together.

And in that moment, you realised it didn’t crush you like you thought it would. You didn’t crumble under the pressure. You felt steady and protefted. Seen but not exposed.

Because Lewis was right. They could write whatever they wanted thought what mattered was what was real.

You leaned in just a fraction closer to him as you both posed for the cameras, the rhythmic flashes sharp and unrelenting almost starting to blur into the background, like a metronome you could finally find comfort in. The noise, once deafening, began to soften at the edges as you found your rhythm by his side.

Your arm slid into his, a natural tether and Lewis subtly adjusted his stance, shifting his weight just enough to tuck you closer against his side. It wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t for the cameras. It was instinct, Lewis’s silent way of making sure you knew you were his and that he wasn’t about to let you drift, not even an inch.

The photographers barked instructions with increasing urgency, their voices stacking over each other in a chaotic medley.

“Lewis! Look here!”

“Over the shoulder, please!”

“Give us that smile, champ!”

“Just one more this way!”

Lewis accommodated them, turning when they asked, angling his body toward each flash in controlled movements. But you noticed something else, he kept glancing back at you. His attention never fully left.

Even when he posed, even when he smiled for the lenses, his body was never squared away from you. He was always slightly turned toward you, his hand tightening around your waist, his thumb sweeping soft, deliberate patterns against your dress. Like a quiet promise, like a claim.

The longer you stood there, the more you felt the initial hurricane of media attention settle into something more manageable, almost rhythmic. The sharp staccato of the camera shutters became predictable. The crowd’s gasps softened into murmurs. The disbelief settled into fascination.

You’d survived the peak. The rest, you could handle.

As the red carpet stretched onward beneath your feet, the moment began to shift. More arrivals. More distractions for the crowd. The cameras still followed your every move, but the focus, the suffocating intensity, began to fracture as other stars and drivers made their own entrances.

Familiar faces from the paddock appeared of drivers Lewis had competed against, traveled with and known through seasons of brutal races, podiums and near-misses. They came with easy handshakes, claps on the back, brief but genuine embraces. You could see the years between them, etched in their shared smiles, in the casual way they joked about the season, the film, their own cameo scenes.

You recognised some of them instantly, men whose names had been etched into the sport alongside Lewis’s, their histories tangled with his through championship fights, victories, and heartbreaks. Some were younger, just beginning their legacy, still wide-eyed on carpets like these. Some were the old guard, battle-worn but still magnetic.

As the press scattered between the stars, the Hollywood elites, and the racing royalty, the energy on the carpet shifted from tense spotlight to curated chaos. Lewis’s world now your world started to fill around you.

And still, through all of it, his hand remained anchored at your back. Firm, steady, a quiet signal that even amid the waves of familiarity, the interviews, the handshakes, you were his fixed point. His centre.

You watched the ease with which he navigated the room graceful but unyielding, the kind of practiced charisma that came with years in the spotlight.

Yet, despite his seamless flow through conversations and greetings, his focus circled back to you in loops. He would smile, laugh, speak in that rich, grounded voice the cameras loved but his hand never drifted from your lower back, his thumb still brushing those slow, grounding circles against the fabric of your dress.

And then just as you were beginning to relax you felt it.

Lewis dipped his head slightly, his breath grazing the delicate curve of your ear, his lips barely brushing your skin as he murmured, low enough that only you could hear, “Stay close, yeah?”

The softness in his voice didn’t hide the edge beneath it a quiet possessiveness threaded through the words like silk over steel. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a question.

It was a promise.

A directive.

An unspoken tether.

You nodded, a subtle but certain movement, your breath catching as a shiver ghosted down your spine from the intimate brush of his lips against your ear. “I will,” you whispered back, the words slipping out on instinct. It didn’t matter where he went. Interviews, photos, greetings you would follow.

For a while, the two of you moved in seamless tandem.

Lewis eased through interviews with practiced charm, answering questions about the film, about his producer role, about the legacy of Formula 1 and the authenticity the movie promised to deliver. His voice dipped into passion when he spoke about motorsport how much he cared about telling the story right, about honouring the sport’s culture.

You trailed just a step behind him, your hand never far from his, your presence wrapped safely within the invisible border Lewis’s body seemed to create around you.

Drivers passed by some offering friendly nods, some casting knowing glances toward Lewis with subtle smirks that said so this is the secret girlfriend, huh? - but none dared to push too far.

Most of them knew better.

Until he arrived.

The man appeared almost out of nowhere sliding easily into the edge of your space, wearing a polished smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His event badge was flipped backward, his credentials unreadable, and his approach lacked the caution you’d grown used to seeing from others around Lewis.

He wasn’t familiar. He wasn’t part of the F1 world. But he was curious. Too curious.

“So,” he started, his voice laced with that smooth, false charm that made your stomach twist, “must’ve been hard, huh? Keeping him all to yourself all this time?”

You blinked, caught off guard by his directness. You opened your mouth, unsure whether to offer a polite deflection or to retreat entirely.

But he didn’t give you the chance. “A man like Lewis?” His gaze raked over you in a way that made your skin prickle. “I’m surprised the secret lasted this long.” His tone wasn’t overtly inappropriate but there was something in his delivery, something too casual, too invasive, that made your pulse spike.

You instinctively leaned away, shifting your weight to subtly create space, searching for Lewis with your peripheral vision. You didn’t have to search long.

Suddenly Lewis was there.

His presence enveloped you in an instant, a wall of calm, immovable certainty. His arm curled around your waist in one smooth, possessive sweep, pulling you tightly against his side as his other hand rested firmly on your hip.

The air between you and the man closed like a slammed door.

Lewis didn’t speak at first. His silence - that silence hung in the space like a loaded chamber. And when he finally did speak, his voice was so controlled, so disarmingly calm, that the warning beneath it landed like a thunderclap. “She’s with me.” Three words. Quiet, steady, but wrapped in steel.

The man faltered. You watched it ripple across his face a slight shift, a flicker of discomfort, as if he’d miscalculated how far he could push. Lewis’s posture didn’t change. He didn’t bare his teeth. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

His message was carved into the taut set of his jaw, the protective cage of his arms around you, the sheer weight of his presence pressing into the man like an invisible wall.

Back off. She’s mine.

The man’s bravado crumbled just enough to reveal the hesitation beneath. He raised his hands in mock surrender, a forced laugh tumbling out as he tried to soften the edge of the moment. “Didn’t mean to overstep. Just making conversation.”

Lewis’s polite smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Conversation’s over.” The dismissal was soft. Lethal. Final.

The man lingered for half a second too long, then retreated mumbling something about catching Lewis later, slipping quickly into the crowd like a man who knew he’d overplayed his hand.

Only after the man disappeared entirely did Lewis’s grip on you soften just slightly but his arm didn’t fully release you. His thumb resumed its slow, soothing circles against your waist, like he was wiping away the residue of the unwelcome attention.

“You good?” he murmured, his voice now velvet-soft, the tension in his shoulders dissolving as his focus narrowed solely to you. Your heart was still racing, your adrenaline still buzzing beneath your skin, but you nodded, pressing into his side with a small exhale. “Yeah. I’m good.” Lewis didn’t rush you. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slid from your waist to your fingers, lacing them together tightly, a deliberate act that sent a silent signal to everyone else.

You were his.

Unmistakably. Unapologetically.

His.

The possessiveness wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t about control more about care. It was about making it impossible for anyone to mistake what you meant to him.

Even as the photographers continued to call out his name, even as the press still lingered nearby, you felt safe.

And as Lewis guided you forward with that quiet, magnetic certainty, you realised this wasn’t just about stepping into the spotlight. It was about stepping into it together.

The velvet ropes and the relentless flashes of the red carpet finally gave way to the grand entrance of the theatre, and with each step inside, the roar of the crowd outside began to dissolve into something distant, like thunder fading over a distant hill. What had moments ago been a hurricane of noise camera shutters, reporters shouting, fans crying out Lewis’s name softened into a low hum, gradually swallowed by the thick walls of the grand hall.

There was an invisible threshold, one you crossed almost without paying attention it, where the world outside - the headlines, the speculation, the careful curation of public image no longer followed. It all slipped away, as if you’d passed into a different universe where none of it could reach you.

Inside, the theatre was awash in soft, amber lighting that shimmered faintly off the marbled floors and stretched upward into soaring ceilings etched with intricate moldings. The grandeur of the space wrapped around you, not in an overwhelming way, but like a protective cocoon, shielding you from the weight of the spectacle you’d just endured.

Plush, uniformed ushers moved through the lobby with quiet efficiency, their voices hushed as they guided arriving guests toward their seats. There were no shouting reporters here. No cameras shoved inches from your face. No strangers inching closer, pushing boundaries.

Just calm.

Just the low, steady murmur of conversations and the gentle rustle of expensive fabrics as people drifted toward their places. It felt like exhaling for the first time all evening.

For the first time, you realised how tightly you’d been holding your shoulders, how shallow your breathing had become under the heat of the public eye. You felt the weight begin to lift, inch by inch, like your body was finally giving you permission to exist again without bracing for impact.

And through it all, Lewis’s hand never left yours.

If anything, his grip had tightened the moment you stepped inside, the second the velvet ropes disappeared behind you. It was as if now finally he could drop the armour he’d worn outside, the polished composure that had kept him steady in front of a thousand lenses. Here, in this sliver of quiet, he could relax. And with that release, his instinct wasn’t to let go of you it was to hold you closer.

You followed the usher as they guided you toward the front of the theatre, past rows of important names and famous faces, past whispered greetings and exchanged nods. Of course, your seats were front row. There was never a question.

Lewis gently tugged you toward your seat, and the moment you sank into the velvety embrace of the plush chair, it felt like you were landing after free-falling all night. The contrast was striking of the weightless buzz outside against the grounded stillness now settling over you.

Lewis dropped into the seat beside you, his body shifting with a long, measured exhale, as though this was the first time he’d allowed himself to breathe deeply since stepping out of the car. And then, like muscle memory, his hand found yours again fingers lacing together like they belonged there, like they always belonged there.

“This is going to be a good time,” he murmured, his voice low, softer now that he no longer needed to project for microphones or entertain the crowd. It was no longer the carefully measured public version of himself. This voice was only for you unfiltered, unguarded. The words, simple as they were, wrapped around you like a balm, soothing the frayed edges of your nerves.

You turned your head toward him, your gaze catching the curve of his lips, now curled into the softest hint of a smile not the practiced one he wore for photographers, but something smaller, warmer, real. His dark eyes had lost the sharp glint he carried on the carpet; now, they were calm, drenched in quiet affection.

And in that moment, the tension that had gripped your shoulders, the racing pulse that had thudded relentlessly in your chest it all started to melt away.

The headlines didn’t matter now.

The whispers didn’t matter.

The speculation didn’t matter.

Inside these walls, it wasn’t about what the world would say tomorrow. It wasn’t about trends or social media frenzies or dissected footage. Here, it was just you and him. The rest of the world could wait.

The lights dimmed gradually, the soft amber glow fading into a deeper, velvet darkness, until the only light remaining came from the enormous screen flickering to life. The chatter in the theatre dissolved into silence, like a switch had been flipped, and the quiet reverence that filled the room was almost sacred.

As the opening sequence of the film began, you shifted instinctively, your body leaning toward Lewis like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your head came to rest against his shoulder, the fabric of his pale pink jacket soft beneath your cheek, still carrying the faintest trace of his cologne clean, fresh and uniquely him.

Lewis welcomed you into him instantly, his arm sliding around your shoulders, pulling you into the warm, protective curve of his body. His hand splayed wide across your upper arm, his thumb brushing lazy, almost absentminded strokes along your skin through the thin fabric of your dress.

It was comforting. Yours.

You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear steady, unhurried, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

His touch wasn’t performative anymore. It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t for the curated narrative the world was already racing to write.

It was just Lewis holding you like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. He didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to fill the moment with more promises or empty reassurances. His presence was enough. The weight of his arm around you was enough. This was the truth of who he was not the man in front of the flashing bulbs, not the headline, not the legacy.

Just Lewis. The man who kept you close. The man who made sure you were safe. The man who had never once let go of your hand since you stepped out of that car.

You could hear the film continuing, the hum of engines, the dialogue, the familiar cadence of the racing world but your focus drifted, your heartbeat syncing with his, the velvet darkness cocooning you in the most intimate of silences.

Because this wasn’t just the premiere of a movie. This wasn’t just another milestone in his already illustrious career. This was the night Lewis chose to pull you into his orbit not in pieces, not in fragments, not as something to be tucked away in the shadows and it wasn’t about being his secret anymore.

And what struck you most what melted something in your chest was the quiet realisation that he had always been preparing you for this, gently, without pressure, until you were ready to walk beside him in full view of the world.

The media would dissect the two of you.

The photos would flood the internet.

The world would spin its stories.

But none of it mattered in this moment.

Because the most important headline had already been written in the curl of his fingers around yours, in the warmth of his breath against your hair, in the steady cadence of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

You were his. And maybe you always had been.

And as you nestled just a little closer to him, your eyes softening as you allowed yourself to exhale completely, you knew this wasn’t about surviving the spotlight.

It was about standing in it together and that would always be enough.

By the time the film ended, the velvet seats were now empty, the grand theatre slowly slipping back into quiet as guests trickled out into the cool New York evening.

The buzz outside was still alive reporters lingering for scraps of commentary, fans clinging to barricades for one last glimpse, but Lewis had expertly guided you out through a private exit, a warm hand at your back the entire way, keeping you tucked close to him, away from the chaos.

Now, the hum of the city wrapped around the car as you both sat cocooned in the soft leather seats, the tinted windows blurring the flashes into distant glimmers that felt too far away to reach you anymore.

For the first time all night, the silence wasn’t filled with tension.

You sat with your legs tucked toward him, your body turned just slightly, head resting back against the seat as you let yourself really breathe long and deep, the adrenaline finally beginning to fade from your bloodstream. The noise outside, the relentless clicking of cameras, the flashing bulbs they all felt so far away, like they were happening to someone else, far removed from this intimate, quiet moment you now found yourself in.

Lewis’s hand was still in yours. Always in yours. His thumb was still brushing that same, familiar rhythm against your skin, a quiet tether that had grounded you all night, the gentle movement providing a sense of calm you hadn’t noticed you’d been needing.

He hadn’t let go, not once.

You looked over at him, your gaze tracing the softened curve of his jaw now that he wasn’t wearing the weight of the room anymore. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders had unraveled. His posture more relaxed, but his eyes those deep, thoughtful eyes still flickered to you like he couldn’t quite stop checking, like some part of him still needed to make sure you were okay.

“You alright?” he asked softly, his voice now stripped of the polish he’d worn on the carpet. This wasn’t the voice he gave the cameras. This was the voice he saved for you.

You gave him a small, tired smile. “Yeah. I think I am now.”

Lewis’s lips quirked into that half-smile, the one that always made your heart skip a little. “Told you we’d be alright.”

You let out a quiet laugh, your head tilting against the seat as you studied him, the memory of the night still warm on your skin. “I was so nervous,” you admitted, the honesty slipping out easily now, safe in the privacy of the car. “I thought I was going to faint when I stepped out. I thought maybe I’d embarrass you.”

His brows drew together instantly, his thumb pausing its rhythm to grip your hand a little tighter. “Embarrass me?” His voice softened with disbelief, the very idea of it clearly throwing him off. “You didn’t embarrass me. Not for a second. You -” He trailed off, searching for the words, his thumb resuming its soft circles, grounding you in a way that only he could. “You were perfect.”

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks, a soft flutter in your chest that had nothing to do with the cameras or the crowd. “You really think so?”

Lewis’s gaze softened, his eyes lingering on you like he wanted to etch this version of you - tired, glowing, real into his memory forever. “I know so.”

The car slowed as the driver turned onto a quieter street, the city’s pulse dimming to a soft murmur as the chaos of the premiere faded into the distance. The night air slipped through the cracked window, cool against your skin, fragrant with the distant scent of rain and city life.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty it was full, wrapped in the comfortable weight of shared understanding. The light outside seemed softer now, more intimate, as though the world had dialled down, just for you two, to let you breathe.

Lewis finally broke the silence, his voice a low murmur as his thumb brushed over your knuckles. “They’re gonna talk, you know. They’re gonna write their stories.”

You nodded, your heart steady now. “Let them.”

He smiled at that, proud and soft all at once. “That’s my girl.”

His words settled in your chest like something permanent, something you wanted to hold on to. He didn’t need to say more everything he had already said, everything he’d done, told you more than words could. The car pulled up in front of the hotel, the quiet rumble of the engine slipping into stillness. The driver moved to open the door, but Lewis squeezed your hand once more before you moved, anchoring you there just a moment longer.

“Thank you,” he said, his gaze locking with yours, the weight of the words settling between you, grounding you even deeper. “For being with me. For walking through that with me.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten in a way that almost took you by surprise. You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, the warmth of his skin seeping into your lips as you whispered, “Always.”

There, in the soft glow of the streetlights, in the quiet safety of the car, you allowed yourself to close the distance between you and him just a little more. His lips, soft and warm, brushed gently against yours before he pulled away, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to capture every second of the moment.

You lingered there, your face still inches from his, the rush of the night finally settling into something you could hold onto.

His brown eyes stared into yours almost like a plea. His hand slid to your face, cupping your cheek as if to remind you that this wasn’t for the world it was just for the two of you.

Soon enough, Lewis’s lips found yours again, this time with more certainty, more passion, more everything. The kiss was slow, deliberate, as though he was savouring the feeling of having you this close, finally able to love you without the weight of the world on his shoulders. His thumb traced the line of your jaw as he deepened the kiss, and you melted into him, letting him pull you closer, hands finding his neck, your bodies aligning with ease.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t hurried. It was perfect.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, Lewis’s forehead pressed gently against yours. “You’re mine,” he murmured softly, almost as if reminding himself.

“I’ve always been yours,” you whispered back, feeling that truth settle in your heart.

And as you walked toward the hotel, his thumb brushing slow, steady circles against your hand once more, you knew with certainty -

You’d walk through it all again.

[jamieroyjamieroy]

This is the start of Tommy buying a ring for Buck after their hook up. Let me know if you would be interested in reading more.

Tommy is just window shopping - daydreaming really - he is not seriously considering buying an engagement ring for a man that doesn’t love him. A man that only days ago told Tommy he slept with him but has no feelings for him, well that was the gist of the outburst to Tommy’s ears. But Tommy is a stubborn romantic and isn’t ready to shut the door on any opportunity to be with Evan. Tommy has known how he felt about that man since the unexpected but delightful invite to Maddie and Chim’s wedding.

That has to be the reason for Tommy being drawn to the jewellery shop he is standing outside of. Thinking of weddings and how he and Evan spent that night has Tommy’s - rarely seen - optimistic side taking the drivers seat. It’s the only reason he follows that beacon pulling him closer, enticing him to select that one ring that will bring love and joy to his life.

Tommy rubs a hand down his face ‘god damn it Kinard, you are going to start yelling my precious and living in a cave if you don’t quit thinking like that.’ He thinks to himself and pushes the door open anyway. He is going to waste money on a ring that will likely sit in his drawer for the rest of his life, all while knowing there is only one man he ever wants to give a ring to. Only one man he wants to spend forever with. Life has had a funny way of throwing Evan Buckley in his path this last year, he wants to be prepared for the next time. It could be the last chance he gets. After all, third times the charm. Or are they at their fourth chance? Whatever number they are on Tommy wants to make it count, with that final thought he enters the store to find a ring he thinks Evan would be happy to wear for the rest of their lives.

Later that night Tommy sits on his bed the ring box open on his nightstand, his phone in hand opened to Evan’s last message from months ago. Tommy’s imagination running wild with all the outlandish ways he could ask Evan to marry him, all of which he knows won’t happen. Not when he can’t even work up the courage to text Evan. Sighing loudly he closes the message app and double checks his alarm for tomorrow before locking his phone and placing it facedown on his nightstand. Next to the ring. Snapping the box shut he hides it at the back of his drawer chastising himself for spending that money and promises himself he we will return it on his next day off. Tommy knows deep in his heart that the only way that ring will leave his drawer is if it’s on Evan’s finger, but he can lie to himself tonight and pretend he will return it another day.

A week or so goes by with the ring still taking up space in Tommy’s drawer. A week, or more, of excuses for not returning the ring. ‘The store is too far out of the way.’ ‘I need to wait until I have other things to do in that part of town otherwise it’s a waste of gas. Gotta think about my carbon footprint.’ ‘I should really work on my truck today.’ ‘It looks like it might rain and everyone drives like an idiot in the wet, safer to stay home.’ Each excuse became flimsier and flimsier as he waited for Evan to call, or to run in to him in a bar. Or for his own resolve to crumble and he ends up on Evan’s doorstep begging Evan to give them another chance.

Unfortunately when the call comes it goes nothing like Tommy expected. He wishes he never got that call. Not that he is sorry he helped saved Chim’s life, he just wished Evan didn’t have to make it. He wishes the 118 were never called to that lab, that none of them had to go through what they have been through. That Bobby was still here. Tommy would give up his chance to be in Evan’s life - at any chance of happiness - if it meant he never had to witness the love of his life fall apart all alone over the death of his only real father. The sounds of Evan’s wails wake him up at night, pulling him from nightmares where Evan is in Bobby’s place and Tommy has to say goodbye separated by a glass door. If Tommy believed in such things, he would have considered the ring in the back of his drawer a curse. An omen taunting him and mocking his moment of romanticism by putting Evan back in his life for such a brief and devastating event to derail everything. And yet he still can’t return the ring.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Say It Plain

Eddie Diaz x fem!firefighter!reader

✰ You make Eddie feel like he belongs in Los Angeles and in the 118, caring for him and his son. The closer you get, the more he realizes that you bring something to his life he didn't know he needed. After you become close friends, he decides to tell you he sees you as more than that.

✰ fluff, banter/humor, friends to lovers, brief angst/fear, confessions, spoilers for 2x02-2x03, 5.7k+ words, requested

✰ pictures from pinterest (Joe's is in NYC, just don't think about it)

✰ A/N: This is my first attempt writing for Eddie, so he's most likely OOC!

“It’s hot,” Chimney complains.

“When did you get a meteorology degree?” you question, lacing your voice with faux shock until your conversation is interrupted by an alert of a car accident.

“If you think it’s hot now,” you murmur, “tell me how the gear feels.”

“It’s gonna be a long day,” Hen sighs as you open the truck door.

You nod, and she taps her hand comfortingly on your back.

When you return to the station, you change and look forward to going home to eat as much ice cream and as many popsicles as you have in your freezer. You drop your phone from your pocket, groaning as you squat to retrieve it. Your fingers brush the concrete, and your eyes widen at the realization that it’s cool – at least twenty degrees cooler than the air. Not caring that you’re in an open area, you shift to sit on the concrete floor, then lay down with your back on its cool surface. Sighing, you close your eyes and hope that you don’t have to get up for a while.

“Are you okay?” someone asks.

“Yep,” you answer, lifting one arm to send them a thumbs up. It’s not a voice you recognize, but you don’t know everyone in the station right now anyway.

“Okay,” the voice drawls. “You’re just lying on the floor because?”

“It’s cool. It feels good.”

The man above you hums, then says, “You know, you can run cold water over your wrists to regulate body temperature.”

He sounds closer, so you pry your eyes open and turn your head, surprised to see him lowered to one knee with his left hand spread on the floor and his right elbow propped on his knee.

“You’re the new recruit,” you realize. “And, yeah, everyone knows the kangaroo method.”

His brows lift as he fails to hide his smile. “Not everyone knows that,” he argues. “Eddie Diaz.”

He offers you his hand, but you lift your index finger to ask for a second. You stand, then offer your hand.

“Wait,” he murmurs as he stands. Only when he’s upright does he shake your hand and murmur your name under his breath.

“Welcome to the 118,” you say. “I assume someone has shown you around already?”

“Yeah, I got the tour. Didn’t include the fun fact about taking naps on the floor to cool off, though,” he jokes.

“Well…” you look around, then lean forward to whisper, “I know all the good tricks around here.”

“Seems like I met the right person, then.”

“I heard you graduated top of your class,” you say as you walk down the hall. “Congratulations, that’s amazing.”

“Thank you,” Eddie replies. “I know it doesn’t really win much in a new station, but I’m committed to this.”

“We’re glad you’re here,” you assure him. “Even if a lot of us are intolerable.”

“You seem alright.”

Your smile grows when you see his, and you pretend to flip your hair over your shoulder despite having it pulled up. “I’m more than alright,” you tease.

He laughs at you, and your belief is confirmed: Eddie is amazing, and he’s going to be a great addition to the station. You can see a great friendship with him.

“Diaz!” Nash calls. “Got some people to introduce you to.”

“The intolerable ones?” he asks through his teeth.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, waving at Nash.

“Eddie, this is Hen,” Nash introduces. “Hen, Eddie. This is Chimney-“

Nash is interrupted by yet another call, and you tap your knuckles against Eddie’s bicep in a silent wish that his first day is memorable for the right reasons.

You’re sandwiched between Buck and Chimney as you drive to the auto shop, where someone is apparently blowing up. Chimney leans over you to talk to Eddie, who presses his lips together when you shove Chimney off of you.

“Nash,” you complain into your headset. “Chimney’s touching me.”

“Whoa, okay, that did not sound good,” he argues. “If HR calls me, I’m going to be very upset.”

Buck interrupts your playful conversation to ask, “Is your full name Eduardo?”

“No,” Eddie answers.

“People ever call you Diaz?”

“Not if they want me to respond.”

You look at Hen and mouth, what is happening? She makes a measuring tape motion, and you shake your head. As Buck continues badgering Eddie about getting an unofficial ‘callsign,’ you let your gaze stray to Eddie. He’s inarguably attractive, but there’s something about his demeanor that makes him immediately likable.

“Look,” Buck begins again.

You smack your hand against his chest, then point at him in warning. When he falls silent, his eyes wide and obviously offended, Nash laughs in the front seat.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Hen yells, slapping her hand down on the table. “Go back?”

“I have a son named Christopher?” Eddie repeats slowly, looking at you for confirmation.

“This isn’t supposed to be an interrogation,” Nash intervenes.

“Yeah, ask a good question,” you encourage. “Like mine was.”

Eddie smiles at you but doesn’t say anything.

“I was asking for clarification on the ex-wife part,” Hen clarifies. “Someone left you? Is she stupid?”

“No,” Eddie answers immediately.

“She fumbled, that’s what she did,” Chimney deadpans.

“Chim,” you gasp, turning toward him.

He lifts his hands over his chest so you can’t hit him the same way you slapped Buck earlier.

“May I ask another question?” you ask.

“Go for it,” Eddie answers.

“Can we go home?”

“I actually do need to get going,” Eddie agrees, standing.

“No,” Hen complains, causing Eddie to stop halfway between sitting and standing.

“You can go,” you tell him. “I’ll walk out with you.”

Away from the rest of the team, you sigh and look up at the sky.

“Thank you,” Eddie says.

“For?”

“You made my first day really great,” he explains, watching you as you draw your eyes back to him. “I was a little nervous about fitting into the team, being the new guy. You made me feel really welcomed, and I appreciate that.”

“Well, you’re great, so it wasn’t hard,” you reply, not realizing that it sounds a little flirty.

“And thanks for Buck, too, of course,” he adds as you begin walking again.

“No one has ever thanked me for him before. I think I’m offended, Eddie.”

He laughs before he clarifies, “I mean, thank you for interceding. He seems…”

“Intolerable?”

“Unlike you,” he agrees with a nod.

“Have a good night, Eddie,” you say. “And enjoy some time with your son.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Eddie ensures you’re safe in your car and it starts properly before he heads home. He met his new team today, but you’re the most memorable member of the 118. You’re sweet, made him feel like he belongs, literally knocked manners into someone for him, and didn’t get in on the jokes about his ex. There’s a mutual respect between you and Eddie, the beginning of a great friendship, he thinks. And while the team is good, you make the transition to Los Angeles and the LAFD seem conquerable.

While you spend the night alone in your apartment, Eddie picks up Christopher from his mom’s house and takes him home.

“How many friends did you make on your first day?” Christopher asks, copying Eddie’s question from after Christopher went to his new school for the first time.

“One,” Eddie answers, chuckling. “I guess I’m not as popular as you.”

Christopher laughs, and Eddie wonders what his son would think of his new friend.

“Mango pineapple or strawberry banana?” you question when Eddie enters the kitchen on his second day.

“Uh, neither?” he replies carefully. “Why?”

You lift two smoothie cups, and he makes an ah sound before pointing to the one in your left hand. As you extend it to him, your fingers brush, bringing a smile to both of your faces. Eddie takes a single sip of the smoothie before his eyes widen appreciatively.

“Did you make this?” he questions.

“Of course not,” you scoff. “My favourite place is three blocks from here and I thought we could use a good start to the day.”

“This is amazing,” he muses. “What do I owe you?”

“An answer to a question.”

“No, I mean-“

“I know what you mean,” you interrupt. “And I can appreciate that you’re a gentleman, there aren’t many of you left. But it’s a gift.”

“Thank you,” Eddie says softly. “What’s the question?”

“Can I see a picture of Christopher?”

Eddie slows, impressed that you cared enough to remember his son’s name. He sets the smoothie cup down and pulls his phone from his pocket. When he finds a picture, he turns his phone toward you, but you move closer, pressing your shoulder to his arm to see.

“He’s adorable,” you gush. “Oh my gosh.”

“He’s a great kid,” Eddie agrees, watching your profile.

“How’s he like LA?” you inquire.

“Pretty well so far,” Eddie replies, pushing his phone into his pocket and briefly wishing you’d stayed against his side. “He loves the museums, all the places to go and see.”

“Have you taken him to the LA Zoo?”

“No, but it’s on the list.”

“There’s a first responder discount when you do go,” you tell him. “Not a huge one, but it helps.”

“What would you recommend we see first?” Eddie asks, leaning on the counter across from you as you share breakfast.

“Ooh… LA County Museum of Art, The Getty, California Science Center, Griffith Observatory, and the zoo and botanical gardens are some of the best,” you list. “And that’s just museum-adjacent locations.”

“Hey,” Buck greets. “Is Nash here?”

“In the office,” you answer. “How are you?”

“My sister made me coffee, things are great.”

Eddie glances at you from the corner of his eyes, and you fight the urge to laugh.

“Wait, why hasn’t Nash cooked yet?” Buck questions.

“It’s not his week to make breakfast,” you say simply. Buck frowns, so you add, “Is it, Buckley?”

“It’s my week?” he asks.

“Ding ding,” you sing-song. “Get crackin’, Buck. Seriously, there are eggs in the fridge.”

Eddie follows you out of the kitchen, looking down at the smoothie cup in his hand. You brought him this knowing that someone else was supposed to cook; you only brought him something. Maybe he was right when he told Christopher you were his friend.

“Hey, I was gonna go to CityWalk for dinner and to hang out for a bit tonight,” you tell Eddie. “Would you want to come? You could bring Christopher if you wanted, of course.”

Eddie had planned to get yet another pizza and try to unpack the last of his boxes tonight. A night out with you, however, sounds a lot more enjoyable. You’ve given him more than one reason to unpack, to make a home here where he can be himself and happy for a long time.

“That would be great, if you’re sure,” Eddie replies. “Christopher would like the break in routine, I’m sure.”

“Great,” you cheer. “If, uh, if you want to ride together, I can pay for parking.”

“Yeah, but I’ll cover it, since we’re crashing your night.”

You prepare to argue again, but Nash steps out of the office and waves to you and Eddie.

“Nonemergency medical call a few blocks from here, can you take it?” he asks.

“Of course,” you answer while Eddie nods.

Eddie leads you to the ambulance, checking that everything is in place before he climbs into the driver’s seat. You radio to dispatch that you’re responding to the call while Eddie pulls out, and only then do you realize this is Eddie’s first ‘real’ call. He was incredibly helpful yesterday, but it wasn’t quite the same.

“Hey, take the lead on this,” you suggest.

“No, no, you’ve been here longer,” Eddie argues.

“LAFD isn’t exactly a hierarchy of seniority,” you point out. “Besides, I’m more inclined to spray water on problems. You’ve got the experience and the knowledge for this. Let me support.”

Eddie nods as he slows to enter the driveway where the 9-1-1 call originated. You follow his lead from the time he greets the caller – the mother of a young girl who’s having difficulty walking – until you leave, after the girl’s pulled tendon is iced, bandaged, and her mom has instructions on what to do.

“Great job,” you applaud as you return to the ambulance.

“Thanks,” he replies. “Couldn’t have done it without you. Never met someone so competent at bandage cutting.”

“I try.”

Your laughter mingles with Eddie’s as you return to the station, and suddenly, neither of you can remember what life was like before you met.

After you knock, you shift the bags in your hands and wait. You’re early, but you know Eddie is home. The door opens, and he smiles at you with a button-down shirt halfway on.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I’m early, but I had something I wanted to bring.”

“You’re fine,” Eddie assures you, welcoming you into his home. “Whatever that is, you shouldn’t have.”

Rolling your eyes, you wait at his side until he closes the door and leads you into his house. When you reach the kitchen, you set the bag on the counter and look around. His home is cute and homey if a little empty and noticeably missing a woman’s touch.

“It’s not much,” you say when you realize Eddie is watching you. “Just some food. You can put them in the freezer, warm them up whenever you want.” You stop, nodding awkwardly as Eddie continues staring. “Or throw them away,” you add, “your choice.”

“Thank you,” he says. “And I won’t be throwing them away, though I appreciate the opportunity to choose.”

“You’re so annoying,” you groan, not meaning it at all.

“Dad?” Christopher calls as he comes down the hall.

Eddie tugs his shirt down, smiling at his son.

“Hey, pal,” Eddie says, kneeling to tidy Christopher’s clothes. “You look nice.”

“Your shirt’s off.”

Eddie smiles as you chuckle, then he looks toward you. “Christopher, this is the friend I was telling you about.”

Your smile falls upon learning that Eddie told his son about you, but when Christopher turns to say hello, you don’t have to think about smiling at him. He’s already the sweetest kid you’ve ever met, and when he makes jokes that remind you of his dad’s somewhat dry sense of humor, he somehow becomes cuter.

“I can put these in the freezer while you finish, if you want,” you offer, pointing over your shoulder toward the food.

Eddie nods as buttons his shirt, directing Christopher to take a seat so he can comb his hair quickly.

“You brought food?” Christopher asks.

“I did,” you reply as you move into their kitchen. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I made a few things mine and your dad’s friends at the fire station enjoy.”

“Are you a good cook? Will it taste good?”

“Christopher,” Eddie chides quietly.

“It’s a fair question,” you point out. “I wouldn’t say I’m great, but no one has complained yet.”

“That’s good,” Christopher muses.

“Guess where we’re going,” Eddie encourages.

“Last time you said we were going somewhere fun, it- it was Target,” Christopher replies, squinting up at Eddie as he stands.

“Target is pretty fun,” you interject.

Eddie points at you in agreement and nods before he says, “No, she’s in charge now, so it will actually be fun.”

Christopher and Eddie both look at you, so you press your hands against the counter and murmur, “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“You know, I’ve never been to Universal with my other friends,” you muse as you wait for a car to pass in the parking garage.

“And I’ve never had a friend bring me food or give me first responder discount advice,” Eddie counters. “Or met someone that could give Christopher such a fun experience that he falls asleep in the middle of a sentence.”

You glance in the rearview mirror, smiling at the sleeping boy in your backseat. Eddie had carried him through CityWalk, drawing lots of looks and coos from passing women. He either didn’t notice them or was too interested in your conversation about where you grew up to care. Either way, you’re honoured to be his friend and to be worthy of such attention.

“I know you’ve got a busy week with unpacking and post-academy stuff,” you say as you merge onto the freeway. “So, if you need anything, let me know.”

You’re back at your apartment when you realize there’s a twenty-dollar bill and a sticky note in one of your cupholders. Eddie just couldn’t let you pay for parking.

A week after your impromptu trip to CityWalk, Eddie approaches you with a proposition. The problem, he realizes quickly, is that he isn’t sure what exactly he’s proposing.

“I want to take you to dinner to thank you for all your help, everything you’ve done,” he explains. “But I don’t really want to leave Christopher with a sitter, and he’s gotten so comfortable at the house, so…”

“You don’t have to get me anything to say thanks,” you reply, smiling. “We’re friends, Eddie.”

“I want to.”

“Then,” you pause to think, then finish, “order me a pizza.”

Eddie considers the idea for a moment, then smiles. “I’ll order a pizza, but you have to come share it with me and Christopher. He’s been asking about you.”

“Eddie-“

“I know I don’t have to,” he says for you. “Please?”

It doesn’t take much to convince you, apparently, because his big brown eyes and soft murmur lead you to agree. As if you could tell him no, you think, startled by your own inner voice.

A few hours later, you’re knocking on Eddie’s door. Christopher opens it, smiling up at you as he says hello. Immediately, he pulls you into a hypothetical conversation about how animals communicate with each other. Over pizza, you talk to Christopher about anything and everything he can come up with, laughing and smiling while Eddie sits beside you. He watches you and Christopher, failing to identify the feeling blooming in his chest. When it’s time for you to go home, he has a sudden desire to take your hand and ask you to stay.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say as he walks you to your car. “Maybe we should try to communicate with our eyes only, like giraffes.”

“Nash would love that,” Eddie agrees, though he knows it isn’t hard to tell what you’re thinking by looking at your eyes – which he does often.

You raise your brows, and Eddie smiles at the look in your eyes.

“Already working,” you muse as you open your door.

“Drive safe,” Eddie says. “Text me when you get home?”

“Of course. Goodnight, Eddie.”

Days after your shared dinner, you get a chance to have another conversation with Eddie. He’s under a truck, trying to figure out why its wheels aren’t turning properly to the left, but at least you can talk for more than two minutes about something that isn’t call-related.

“And?” you ask when Eddie trails off while telling you about a project Christopher did for school. “How’d he do?”

“He made an A, the kids loved it,” he says before grunting. “Wish I could get that kind of popularity with popsicle sticks.”

“Well, you’ve got the Diaz smile to go with it.”

Eddie moves his leg to kick you, his touch gentle as he laughs. He begins to push himself out from under the truck when the ground shakes. You throw your arms out to catch yourself against the side of the ambulance, but the movement doesn’t stop when you attempt to right yourself.

“Earthquake!” someone yells.

Someone says it must be a six or seven magnitude, but you’re focused on getting out from under the rafters and lights above you. Reaching down, you pull Eddie’s ankle, then take his hands and backpedal to the corner. He stands from the lying board and pushes you farther into the corner, sheltering you with his body until the shaking finally subsides. The station is a wreck, but you know that the city is probably in worse shape, and you have mere seconds until the calls begin.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks. When you don’t answer right away, he steps back and places a large hand behind your neck, tipping your face toward his. “Are you okay?” he repeats urgently.

“I’m okay,” you promise, laying your fingers on his forearm below his tattoo. “Are you?”

Eddie nods, keeping his hands on you until Nash begins yelling about a collapsed hotel.

“Is Christopher at school?” you ask quietly.

“He is. I’ll send his teacher a text to check on him.”

Eddie spreads his hand against your back as you rush to the truck and ambulance, preparing yourself for a long day. You try to text your friends and family, but there’s no service.

“Are you okay?” Buck asks.

You lift your head and realize he’s talking to Eddie. Eddie says he doesn’t have service, shaking his head as he looks at you. Your heart feels like it drops at the news that he can’t check on Christopher.

“Who are you trying to get a hold of?” Buck inquires.

“My son,” Eddie answers.

“Whoa, you have a kid?” Buck exclaims.

“Oh, right, we waited until Buckley left to get to know Eddie,” Hen says into her mic, mostly to mess with Buck.

“Is he at school?” Buck asks Eddie. “They’ve got earthquake procedures, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Eddie nods, and for once, he avoids looking at you.

The hotel becomes visible a moment later, leaning out over the street with its structural components made visible past the broken windows and shattered cement. Your team exits the truck with their eyes up, intimidated by the job but mentally finding routes to get inside and get people out. You think about going inside once, but immediately remember Christopher is at school, probably scared of his first earthquake.

“Have you ever dealt with something like this?” Eddie asks.

“No,” you answer with Nash.

You stay by Eddie while Nash talks to the incident commander, but you don’t listen to what she says, only your racing thoughts and the groaning steel before you.

“Okay, listen up,” Nash says, succeeding in drawing your attention for the first time since you got out of the truck. “Here’s how you make it to the end of the day: you don’t worry about the things that you can’t do anything about, focus on one task at a time. I can’t order you guys to go inside that building, and I’m not gonna judge you if you decide not to.”

“Hen,” Chimney begins, “you got a kid, so…”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “And I’d hope if someone whose job it was to save him had the chance, they’d do it. No matter what.”

You know Hen is right. You also know that Eddie is just as scared as you are but won’t leave.

“Where do you want us?” Eddie asks.

A police officer runs up behind you and beckons your team, but you don’t move. Nash steps toward you and lays his hand on your shoulder.

“I meant it,” he says. “I’m not judging you for leaving.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“I’m not. You’re doing what’s most important to you, and to someone you care about. But roads are going to be mayhem and you’re too far from the station to get your car easily regardless.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a plan for that.”

Nash smiles and shakes you gently. “Of course you do, kid. We’ll see you on the other side of this.”

He drops his hand and steps around you before you spin and call his name.

“You better see me on the other side,” you demand. “All of you.”

Nash salutes you, and you return to the truck to leave as much gear as you can. Left in your base layers, you slide your phone, your ID, and your keys into your pocket before you push through the crowd gathered around the hotel to start running.

Behind you, Nash joins your team on the street to survey a man in need of saving. Eddie notices he’s alone and looks over his shoulder.

“We’re down a player,” Nash says. “And she’s expecting us to come home, alright?”

Eddie doesn’t get a chance to ask where you went before he and Buck hatch a plan to reach the man above them.

It takes you three times as long as it should to run the few miles from the hotel to Christopher’s school. All of the students are gathered in the gymnasium and on the baseball field, and your heart beats faster as you move through the crowd of kids and scared parents. The elevated heart rate isn’t from the run but from your concern. Christopher is important to you, and his dad grows more special to you each day. When you know Christopher is safe, you’ll shift your worry to his dad, and this day will seem like an eternity, so you have to stay focused on one task at a time, just like Nash said, and only think about what you can do something about. Like finding Christopher, which proves easy when someone yells your name, and his bright smile brings you to your knees before you hug him tightly against your chest.

The first thing Eddie does when he returns to the truck is check his phone. There are three messages from you: the first is an apology for leaving, the second is an assurance that Christopher is okay, and the third lets him know that you took Christopher home. After the pizza night that has become a defining moment in your relationship, Eddie gave you a key. It’s what friends do, he had told himself. Now he’s not so sure that was the real reason.

He pushes that out of his mind and accepts Buck’s invitation for a ride. When he reaches his front door, he unlocks it and steps inside, expecting to be greeted by Christopher’s easy smile and a relieved look in your eyes. Instead, he sees you lying on his couch, your eyes closed peacefully, and Christopher lying comfortably against you, fast asleep.

Eddie places his hands on the back of the couch and leans back, stretching his arms as he sighs. I’m home, he thinks. Then, he realizes that he’s never thought of this place as home before tonight.

“Eddie?” you ask, opening your eyes slowly. “Eddie.”

Your eyes fly open then, and Eddie drops one hand to lay on your shoulder as he leans over the couch.

“We’re all okay,” he promises.

You check your phone, see one new message, and then move carefully, standing as Christopher burrows deeper against the couch cushions in his sleep. Smiling down at him, you don’t regret leaving your team because you trust them, and they’re safe.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” you say.

Eddie pulls you into his arms, hugging you tightly as he murmurs, “Thank you.”

You return the hug, wrapping your arms around his waist and exhaling.

“You’re on his pickup list,” Eddie reminds you, “so no overstepping.”

Nodding against him, you think about how tired you are. You could fall asleep in his arms without much effort, but you force yourself to step back and gather your things.

“I’ll see you later, Eddie,” you say. “Tell Christopher I said goodnight.”

“Wait, how are you getting home?” he asks, stepping toward the door with you.

“Buck’s waiting; he can take me.”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah. Goodnight, and thank you again.”

“Of course.”

Eddie watches the door close behind you, and this house doesn’t feel quite so much like home anymore. Oh, he realizes, I wasn’t thinking about the house. He should have seen it sooner: the piece of himself he thought was missing, what he thought he couldn’t get back after the divorce, or when he left Texas, it’s you. You made him feel like part of the team, like a good friend, but there’s more now. You make Eddie Diaz whole. And he didn’t notice until after you walked out.

“I only need one more chance,” he whispers as he locks the front door. He exhales heavily, then asks himself, “How do I make sure I don’t blow it?”

It takes three days of working together before Eddie has an opportunity that he actually takes. During those three days, he is constantly aware of how he feels. When you’re at his side, when you’re working, when he’s not sure if you’re okay, every situation brings a different thought, a different emotion into his heart and mind. You were separated briefly during a house fire call when the car in the garage exploded while you’d been in the backyard getting the family’s dog. For the next five minutes, your team fought the growing fire with no radio transmission from you. You jogged down the street then, panting and carrying the dog inside your turnout gear. Eddie wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, tell you that he needs you, and never let you go. But the raging fire took precedence.

Today, your 48-hour shift ends at a decent hour, and you go home, shower, and make dinner before the sun sets. While you do that, Eddie paces in his house, wondering how he can tell you that you make him feel whole, that you make life promising and full for him. Eventually, Christopher tells Eddie he’s surpassed his 10,000 steps, and he has an idea.

You’re sitting on your couch watching TV when your phone rings. After you pause the show, you answer Eddie’s call and immediately ask, “Are you okay? Is Christopher?”

On the other end of the line, Eddie laughs. “Can you open your door?” he replies.

“What?” you mumble, still awaiting an answer to your question.

“Open the door, please?”

You walk to your front door and pull it open, your jaw dropping at the sight. Moving without thought, you end the call and step back, letting Eddie step inside. He’s wearing a suit and tie, he has a large bouquet in his hands, and you practically have to force your jaw closed again as you close the door.

When you turn toward him, your back against the front door, he doesn’t give you a chance to speak, though you desperately want to tell him how good he looks. He sets the bouquet on your coffee table before he speaks.

“I need you let me talk and not say anything because if I don’t get all of this out, I’ll never say it,” he explains.

You remain silent, crossing your arms over your waist and chewing your bottom lip.

“Right,” Eddie realizes, shaking his head when he remembers you won’t answer because of what he just asked. “I realized something. When we became friends I thought it was great, because it is, but I also felt like I’d never encountered a friendship like this one. And then we went out to dinner, and you care about Christopher. Moments between us started feeling different…”

Nodding, you try to keep up with him, watching his mouth move as he speaks, rambling between his points about what he realized.

“…it’s because you’re the piece that I didn’t want to admit was missing, you make everything feel right, perfect, whole-“

You’re still nodding along with his speech but grow more concerned about whether he’s actually breathing while talking. Between what he’s saying, the fact that you’ve known you felt the same since he bought you pizza, and your worry about his lung capacity, it’s an easy decision to step forward and kiss him.

Eddie freezes when your lips meet his, your hands clutching the lapel of his blazer. Then, he melts into your touch. His hands rise, one arm circling your waist as he cups the back of your head and steps forward, caging you in against your couch as he moves with you. The kiss meant to slow him down and give him a chance to breathe takes your breath away instead.

When Eddie pulls back, keeping his hands on you like they were shaped to hold you, he looks between your eyes. “Does- does that mean you feel the same?” he wonders softly.

“Did I not say it plain enough?” you tease, bumping your nose against his. “Yes, Eddie, I feel the same.”

Eddie kisses you again, a series of quick pecks interrupted by your question, “Where’s Christopher?”

“On his way over with pizza,” Eddie says. He kisses your jaw, then adds, “Buck’s bringing him.”

“You’re welcome,” you sigh, softening beneath his touch.

Eddie lowers both hands to your waist and steps back to look at you. “We should probably stop referring to each other as friends now.”

“Whatever you say,” you agree, smiling.

Eddie rolls his eyes at your playful tone before he pushes his hands over your hips and then up the length of your back, kissing your neck when you tip your head up. You kiss him again, then step back.

“I got that ice cream Christopher told me about,” you say. “Let me make sure I have enough for all of us.”

Eddie watches you, the lovesickness he felt in his chest before now evident in the smile on his face. Buck pulls up outside and taps the horn, so Eddie leaves your house to go get Christopher.

“About time, man,” Buck sighs when Eddie pulls the back door open.

“You didn’t even like me when we met,” Eddie points out.

“Yeah, but I saw how she looked at you. Do her right, man.”

“I will. Thanks for everything, Buck.”

“Your son tips better than you.”

Buck smiles at Christopher, who laughs. Eddie thinks he probably doesn’t want to know what they talked about on the way over.

“Can I help?” you ask, standing on the sidewalk behind Eddie. You don’t wait for an answer before you lift the pizza boxes from Buck’s passenger seat and thank him softly.

“Be careful, kids!” Buck calls before he drives away.

Eddie shows Christopher around your house, then tells him to sit on the couch while he helps you. Alone in the kitchen, you steal one more kiss. Eddie was a great friend and continues to be a great teammate, but this is even better than the life you thought you wanted.

[dark-night-hero]

「Echoes in the Sky」 Caleb (ii)

       ↳ A grounded pilot with no memory of the past is drawn back to the sky, to the people who never stopped waiting for them. In the quiet of a small pub and the open sky above, fragments return. Not through words, but through flight, instinct, and the ones who still remember. (10.5k)

They said no.

Too high-ranking. Too political. Too far removed from the cockpit to be of any use to the new generation of Top Gun pilots. A lieutenant colonel doesn't volunteer for frontline training. Others were assigned. Younger men. Hungrier ones.

But Caleb had read the roster. He'd seen the name halfway down the page, and the world tilted.

Your brother.

Call sign: Echo.

Sharp. Fast. Reckless in a way that felt familiar.

And just like that, it came rushing back. The distant thunder of afterburners overhead, the shrill cut of your laughter through comms, the way you used to fly like gravity was an insult.

The past didn't speak in full sentences anymore. It came in fragments. In static. In moments stitched together by grief.

It came like echoes in the sky.

You had been the best, his best, and when you went down, the silence that followed never really left. They called it a crash. He called it the day the world stopped making sense. They buried an empty casket, folded a flag, handed him a medal he never touched. You were gone. Officially. Professionally. Completely.

Except not really. Not to him. You lived in the students who flew too close to the edge. In the way their hands danced over throttles. In the heat that rolled off the tarmac. You lived in every ghost that screamed past at Mach 1.

So Caleb returned. To Miramar. To Top Gun. To the echoes. He told command it was strategy. Experience. Protocol.

But the truth?

He heard you in the sky again. And he wasn't ready to let go.

🍎

The hallway was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't last long at Miramar. Caleb had always liked this stretch of corridor. Tucked behind the briefing rooms, just out of reach of the noise.

It used to be where pilots came to breathe between flights. Where you once leaned against the vending machine, helmet tucked beneath your arm, eyes gleaming with something louder than adrenaline.

He did not come here to chase ghosts. But they followed him anyway.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Caleb turned, expecting a recruit, maybe another instructor. Instead, it was him. Your brother. Flight suit sharp. Call sign stitched in crisp white, ECHO.

The irony stung. The name was a legacy. Maybe a curse. Maybe a middle finger aimed at fate.

He hadn't seen the kid in years, not since the memorial. He was older now. Shoulders broader. Jaw set in that same stubborn tilt you used to wear whenever you didn't want to talk about something. Caleb straightened.

"Lieutenant." He said and your brother didn't stop walking. He didn't slow. Just brushed past without so much as a glance. The silence was louder than any answer and Caleb doesn't blame him.

You had been wingmates. Closer than blood. Caleb flew lead. You followed him into everything. Until one day, you didn't come back. He knew what your brother must've thought. What most people probably did. You trusted Caleb with your life. And he lost it.

He exhaled as your brother disappeared around the corner, boots steady, back stiff. No confrontation. No words. Just that cold, deliberate kind of silence that said. I know who you are. I haven’t forgiven you. And I’m not going to pretend I have.

Caleb leaned back against the wall. Let his head rest against the concrete, eyes tracing the ceiling. You used to say the air up there didn't judge. That the sky had no memory. But the people left behind? They remembered everything. Even the things you couldn't.

🍎

The smell hadn't changed. The mix of coffee, jet fuel, old chairs and pressure washed concrete hit Caleb the moment he stepped through the door. It pulled at something buried deep, something quiet, something sharp before he'd even spoken a word. It was the scent of pressure. Of anticipation. Of young pilots trying to carve names into the sky.

They were waiting for him now. Twenty of them lined in neat rows. Uniforms crisp. Eyes too sharp for their age. Postures wound tight with ambition. The next generation of Top Gun. The best of the best. He'd been one of them once.

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Caleb Xia. Call sign: Caleb." He began, voice flat but clear, eyes sweeping over the room. "You don't need to like me. You don't need to impress me. But if you want to fly out of here with that patch, you'll learn to out think me.”

A few of them smirked. Confidence blooming in their expressions. The cocky kind. Already calculating where he might rank on their mental kill boards. Caleb let the silence stretch. "The men and women who've stood where you stand now. They earned it by knowing when to listen, and when to lead. That starts today."

Then came protocol. He opened the floor to clarifying questions. A few hands rose. Standard inquiries. "What's your policy on push-throughs in a vertical dive?" "Will we be rotating instructors per module?" He responded in clipped, mechanical answers. Efficient. Professional. Distant. Then a voice floated from the back row, not loud. Curious, maybe even a little bored.

"Sir, did you come through Top Gun yourself?" Caleb's gaze swept across the room. The speaker didn't identified themselves. Still, he gave a single nod. "Class of '37." Another voice followed, different, but close enough in location to suggest they were friends. "Anyone we'd recognize from your cycle?" Light laughter stirred across the classroom, unforced and easy. But Caleb felt something catch in his chest. A small hitch.

There it was. A thread. Waiting to be pulled. But his tone didn't waver. "One or two. But they're long gone." The laughter died quickly. A different kind of quiet took its place. And then your brother stood. No fanfare. No attitude. Just the weight of a question he already knew the answer to but had to ask anyway. "Was Echo one of them?"

The name didn't go unnoticed. A few students glanced at each other, expressions shifting. Some recognized it from simulator recordings or whispered hallway stories, rumors about a pilot who should have become a legend but didn't. The atmosphere changed. Barely but unmistakably. Caleb felt it settle into his bones.

He looked at the young man now standing at the rear of the room. Back straight. Boots anchored. Composure exact. His features held the same controlled intensity Caleb remembered from a different face, yours. He was your brother. Of course.

He hadn't spoken to Caleb since orientation. Not during roll call. Not even a nod. He had been colder than protocol required but not openly hostile. Just silent. Deliberately so. Until now. Caleb met his gaze and didn't look away.

"Echo was in my class." He said. "And my flight team." He added. Not his sibling. Not his wingmate. Just facts. Clean. Impersonal. "They were one of the most gifted pilots I ever flew with." It should have ended there. But your brother didn't sit. Didn't blink. He watched Caleb like a man reading static, hunting for the signal underneath. "They never graduated, though. Right?"

The words dropped like a weight. Heavy. Sharp. Ugly with truth. Caleb's jaw tightened. Something flickered behind his eyes, just a second of something raw but he buried it before it could surface. "No." he replied quietly. "Their last mission was classified. They didn't come back." And that was it. The moment everything shifted.

The air thinned. The hunger in the room turned tight, uneasy. Like everyone had taken a breath they suddenly couldn't justify holding. Your brother sat down. Said nothing more. But the space between them, the quiet, deliberate space spoke louder than anything else in the room.

It said. You were there. And they’re not. So what the hell went wrong?

And Caleb? He felt it all over again. Your voice cutting in through comms. "I've got this, Apple. You're clear." Then the silence that followed. And now, a new silence. Louder. Heavier. Filled with someone else's blame.

🍎

The mission briefing had labeled it a standard three plane engagement. Guns only. Kill lock disables. No allies. But everyone in the hangar knew better. This wasn't training. It was a measuring stick.

Commander Caleb Xia had launched into the air like the sky still remembered him. He flew like it owed him something, ruthless, precise, terrifying in the sheer efficiency of his control. Angles bent for him. Altitude folded into advantage. Every maneuver looked less like strategy and more like instinct forged in fire.

Some of the students whispered about the past. About how Caleb had flown with the original Echo, the pilot whose name now rode on his helmet. Most didn't say it out loud. Not around him. He hadn't asked for the callsign. But once it was assigned, he never let it go.

"Big name to take on." One of the instructors had muttered months ago, a casual comment not meant to stick. Echo's answer had been quiet. Unshaken. "It's not about the name. It's about reminding the sky who it lost."

Now he was climbing fast. Six thousand feet and rising. The sun cut across the canopy glass in streaks of copper and blood. He could feel the jet tighten beneath him like a living thing, hungry for altitude. And just like that, Caleb disappeared from radar. Again. Too fast. Too smart. Too familiar.

His fingers curled around the throttle. Jaw tense. He muttered under his breath. "You always disappear when it gets real, Colonel?" No reply. Of course not. It wasn't personal. Not officially. But ever since Caleb's name had gone up on the instructor board, something inside him had coiled tight and never let go.

They hadn't spoken. Not really. A line here. A nod there. But Echo knew. He knew. Caleb had been in the air that day. The day Echo One didn't come home. His sibling. Gone. The sky silent. The official report, redacted. And the one constant in all of it? Caleb Xia.

Sudden tone. Lock warning screamed through his headset. Too late. "Guns. Echo, you're dead." Colonel Xia's voice cracked through the comms like cold steel. He pulled the stick into a high-G roll anyway, refusing to die easy, even in simulation. Chasing a ghost that had already taken him down. Too slow. Too far behind. Tagged clean. He leveled out.

Silence returned to the radio. The other student would be debriefing soon, probably spinning some excuse. But Caleb remained aloft, circling above like a hawk that had never learned how to land. Echo opened his mic. "Where you there?" A pause. Static. Then Caleb's voice can be heard. "When?" "The last mission. The one where Echo One didn't come back."

He didn't say my sibling. He didn't need to. There had only ever been one Echo One. The reply came after a breath. Measured. Controlled. "Yeah. I was there." "And?" "They flew solo. I wasn't on comms when they went down." His grip tightened on the controls. "But you were in the sky. Weren't you?"

Silence. No confirmation. No denial. Just the cold air and the sound of his own breath. He stared out through the glass, eyes burning. "You fly like no one can touch you." He said. "Like you're the end of every fight before it starts." Still nothing. Only the faint sound of engines above. Caleb's jet cutting quiet arcs through open sky.

"So if you were in the sky that day..." His voice cracked, just once. "Why didn't you bring them home?" The comms went dead. No beep. No farewell. Just silence. Final.

Above, Caleb's jet leveled out and climbed higher. Alone. A silhouette against the glare of sun and haze. Echo didn't chase him. He couldn't. He just watched. Watched that machine vanish into white gold light and felt something tear in his chest. Not anger. Not even grief. Something worse.

Recognition. He hated the man and respected him. And yet couldn't forgive him. And worst of all, he understood him. Because if he had been in that sky… if it had been him on your wing, with your voice crackling through the comms. He would've torn the sky open. He would've shattered heaven itself to bring you home. Wouldn't he?

🍎

The door slammed open, hard enough to shake the hinges. The sound cracked through the locker room like a cannon blast. Caleb didn't flinch. He sat on the bench head down, helmet balanced on one knee. Sweat still clung to the collar of his flight suit. The flight had ended but whatever was about to begin between them. This wasn't over.

Echo stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling like he hadn't taken a full breath since landing. He looked like a storm barely contained by skin. Fists clenched. Shoulders locked. And for a long, breathless second, all he did was stare. Then he saw it.

Inside Caleb's locker, partially hidden beneath a cracked nameplate and a curling flight checklist was a worn, sun bleached patch. ECHO. The original. Yours. The breath caught in his throat like shrapnel. "What the hell is that doing there?" Echo snapped, the words low and shaking. Anger, disbelief, grief. None of them could stand on their own, so they came together like glass splintering.

Caleb looked up slowly. His entire body stiffened. He didn't need to ask what Echo meant. "It's theirs." Caleb said, voice steady but ragged. "It stays." "You don't get to hang their name like a trophy." Echo took a step forward, heat rising in his chest like fire through a sealed cabin. "You don't get to keep them like they were yours."

Caleb rose quietly, deliberately like standing wasn't just a motion but a choice to meet the storm head on. "I didn't keep them." He said, jaw tight. "I lost them." "That right?" Echo's voice rose, cracked at the edges. "Because the way you fly, the way you carry yourself, you act like you walked out of that wreckage a damn hero."

Caleb stepped in close, until they were eye to eye, breath to breath. "I walked out of that wreckage alone." he bit out. "Do you know what that feels like? Looking down at fire and twisted steel and knowing the only person who ever mattered to you is gone?"

"You don't get to talk about mattering." Echo snapped. "You weren't blood." Caleb's expression shifted. Like the words hit a place still bleeding. "No." He said quietly. "I was worse." A pause. "I loved them." The air collapsed between them. Echo blinked.

"What?" He asked, almost like a whisper. "I loved them." Caleb repeated, louder now, voice cracking as the words clawed their way out. "And don't stand there acting like I didn't. I would've burned the goddamn world to bring them home. You think I didn't try?" "You were there!" Echo's voice broke as he pointed, hand trembling. "You were in the air! Why didn't you go after them? Why didn't you stop it?"

"I did!" Caleb roared. The word echoed off the tile like thunder. "I flew back. I broke protocols. I crossed into restricted airspace, I ignored orders, I-" His voice fractured. "I got there too late." The silence that followed was unbearable. Thick. Violent in how gentle it became. Echo's chest rose and fell, shallow and fast. So did Caleb's. No movement. Only pain.

"You think you're the only one who grieves them." Echo whispered, his voice thick with rage and something deeper. Wounded, unfinished. "But you got to fly with them. You knew them. I grew up chasing their ghost and all I ever heard was (Your name) this, Echo that. Like I was supposed to become them. Like I was some kind of replacement."

Caleb looked at him. This time, the fury in his face faded. It cracked. Pain replaced it. Something hollow and old and aching. "You were never supposed to live in their place." He said softly. "They weren't supposed to die." The locker room was silent again. The kind of silence that made you feel like the whole world was holding its breath.

Then Caleb turned away and slammed the locker door shut. The metal rang through the room like a warning. Or a goodbye.

"I see them every time I close my eyes." He said, not turning back. "Do you understand that? Every mission. Every time I'm in the air. I hear them. Laughing on comms and for half a second, I forget they're gone. And then it comes back. The crash. The report. The sky that should've given them back."

Echo felt it. Deep in his ribs. A burn that wasn't fury this time, but grief with nowhere to go. He blinked hard. His vision swam. And for the first time. He saw Caleb not as the myth, a legend. Not as the flawless pilot or the man who didn't fall apart. But as someone gutted still flying through wreckage.

"...They loved you too." Echo said, voice thin and broken. Caleb stopped. Echo swiped at his face with one hand, as if trying to force the tears back where they didn't belong. "They told me once, over a phone call. Quiet. Like it was some secret they weren't supposed to say out loud." He exhaled. "Said you made the sky feel different. Said you made them believe in more than just flying." The words landed like a punch to the lungs.

Caleb inhaled sharply. It was like hearing your voice again, only from someone else's mouth. A ghost speaking through blood. And just like that, the fight dissolved. No punches. No apologies. Only the silence that comes when two men realize they've both been standing in the same crater, just on opposite sides. Broken. Still chasing the echo of someone neither of them could let go.

🍎

The pub was quiet, even for a Thursday. Not empty, just slow. The kind of night where everything felt softer. The sound of glasses, the quiet music playing, and the occasional noise of a motorcycle outside. You were behind the counter, wiping glasses, serving drinks. This was your routine. It was simple. Comfortable. Safe. The door creaked open.

Then the door opened, and three Navy pilots walked in. You could tell right away. The flight jackets, the loud voices, the way they carried themselves, they were Top Gun or wanted everyone to think so. They dropped onto the stools like they'd just landed and needed to get flying out of their system. Trouble, in other words. The three Navy pilots stepped in like they owned the place or at least needed to convince themselves they did.

"Two beers." Said the blonde one, already grinning. "And something dark for the serious one." The so called serious one didn't argue. Just started scanning the shelves behind you like he already knew what he wanted and was giving the bottles a chance to impress him.

You poured. Quiet. Efficient. "So what's your story?" Asked the second one, taller, leaner, full of that relaxed arrogance you'd learned to spot from a mile away. "You a veteran?" You gave a short nod. "Retired." "Pilot?" Another nod. You didn't offer more. Didn't need to. The way you moved said enough.

"Damn." The blonde said, sitting up a little straighter. "Top Gun?" You hesitated for a moment then. "Yeah." That changed the air around them. A couple low whistles. Raised brows. The kind of impressed reaction that still made you uncomfortable, even years later. "Seriously?" He asked. "What class?"

You turned slightly, picked up a glass to polish. "I don't know." He blinked, thrown. "Wait, what do you mean?" "I was injured." You said, your voice even. "During a mission. I don't remember the details. I don't know who I flew with. Don't remember the op. Just that I didn't come back from it the same."

That quieted them. The tone shifted. Not pity at least, not exactly. Just a kind of weight settling in the space between their drinks. The third one, who hadn't said much until now, leaned forward. "You lost everything?" You shrugged. "Not everything. Still remember how to pour a drink." That earn a few chuckles.

The tall one cleared his throat. "But you remember your callsign, right?" You nodded again, slower this time. "Echo." That landed hard. A pause stretched out, tense and sudden. The three of them exchanged quick looks, something unspoken passing between them. "That's... weird." One said finally. "There's a guy in our class right now. Callsign's Echo too."

Your hand paused mid wipe. Barely. But enough. You set the glass down slowly, kept your back turned to hide the way your spine stiffened. "He's good." Said the quiet one. "Sharp instincts. Flies like there's something personal in it." "Yeah." The blonde added. "Like the sky took something from him and he's up there trying to take it back."

Your hand twitched. "He's got a grudge.” The third one continued. "Especially when it comes to Colonel Xia." That name. It didn't spark anything clear in your mind, but something under your skin shifted. A subtle, instinctual response like your body recognized a name your brain couldn't place. "Xia?" You repeated.

"Yeah. Lieutenant Colonel Caleb Xia. Instructor. One of the old guard. Still flies like he's trying to outrun something." You kept your hands moving, wiping the same spot on the bar for far too long. "Think they knew each other?" You asked, careful not to sound like it mattered.

"Maybe." One said with a shrug. "People say Sir Caleb lost someone. A pilot he flew with. Think it was a student." You didn't reply. Just listened. "And now I don't know. Feels like Echo reminds him of whoever that was. Like something got left unfinished." The third one took a sip, leaned back, then tossed the question out like it didn't mean much.

"So what about you? What kind of pilot were you?" You exhaled through your nose. Thought for a second. "I don't remember the missions." You said. "Or the aircraft models. Or even the base." That got their attention. "But I remember the feeling." They quieted. "What feeling?" The blonde asked, voice softer.

You leaned against the bar, eyes drifting for a moment, gaze unfocused. "You're up there. Just you, the stick, and the wind. And for a few minutes nothing else matters. Not gravity. Not names. Not memory. You're flying like your soul knows something your body forgot." The words hung in the air, fragile and real. The pilots didn't say anything for a while.

You finally looked at them again. Steadier this time. Tired, but not broken. "I know I flew solo. I know something went wrong. I know I woke up in a hospital with a folder of half redacted charts and nobody waiting." You said it plainly. Without bitterness. Just what it was.

They didn't know what to say. You didn't expect them to. "Anyway." You added, pushing off the bar. "The skies are yours now. I've got my boots on the ground." You smiled. It didn't quite touch your eyes, but it passed for one. They mumbled thank yous and respectful nods. The topic shifted, football, missions, girls back home. They moved on. You didn't.

Later, when the bar had emptied out and the neon signs clicked off one by one, you stood alone behind the counter. Same rag in your hand. Same glass. Wiping a clean surface for no reason. And under your breath, soft and private, you said it again. "Echo." Like a name not yet done with you.

🍎

The hangar wasn't loud but it was alive. The kind of noise that settled in your bones after years on the job. Low voices, the clank of gear, the soft whir of tools, the distant cough of an engine winding down. The sun was nearly gone, dipping behind the stacks leaving the place drenched in gold and shadow. End of day.

Caleb stood on the upper level, leaning against the railing with a lukewarm mug of coffee in his hand. He wasn't really drinking it. Just holding it like habit. His eyes wandered the floor without much focus, watching people move, watching the shift change. Same as always.

He liked this hour. Not for any deep reason. Just that it was quiet. It gave him room to breathe. Below him, two younger pilots were posted up near a deck cart, still in flight gear, helmets under their arms. Their voices carried up a little too easily.

"You been to that new place off base?" One of them asked. "The pub?" The other said. "Yeah. Went once. It's quiet. Old school. Feels like time stopped in there." "Owner's a veteran" The first added. "Pilot, apparently." Caleb kept his eyes ahead. No reaction. Not yet.

"Top Gun too." The kid said. "That's what someone told me. But they don't talk about it much. Just keep to themselves. Pour drinks, stay out of the way." The second one frowned. "You know what squadron?" "Nope. They said they don't remember. Got hurt in a crash. Solo op. Walked away but left most of the memories behind." Caleb's hand went still on his mug.

They didn't say a name. But the shape of the story was familiar. Top Gun. Solo mission. Crash. He stared straight ahead, jaw tightening. No. Couldn't be.

He'd been there. He'd seen what was left of the wreck. The smoke. The way the comms had gone silent and never came back. He'd flown over the site three times until they made him return to base. And still, all he found was fire and twisted metal.

You were gone. That had been the one truth he didn't let himself question. And now, here were two kids trading bar talk like it didn't mean anything. Like they hadn't just dropped a match into the middle of everything he'd tried to bury. He took a slow sip of coffee, even though it was cold.

"Colonel Xia." He turned at the voice. Echo, your brother was coming up the steps. His flight suit hung open at the collar, sweat still fresh at his temples. He looked tired in a way that didn't just come from flying. Not angry anymore. Just worn.

The tension between them had faded since the last blow up but it wasn't fixed. Just dulled. Time and silence had done that. Maybe pain had too. Echo glanced at the mug in Caleb's hand. "That stuff any good?" Caleb gave a dry smile. "Not even close." He said. "But after twenty years, you stop expecting good coffee. You just get used to drinking your regrets."

Echo didn't laugh, but he gave a short nod, stepping up beside him to look out over the hangar. They stood there for a while. No words. Just the background hum of the night shift taking over. Lights dimming. Crews thinning out. That tired rhythm settling into place.

But Caleb's thoughts weren't in the hangar anymore. That story, those voices downstairs had gotten under his skin. He didn't say anything. He wouldn't. He didn't believe in ghosts. And yet as he stepped away from the railing, coffee still in hand, something followed him. A weight he couldn't shake. Not grief. Not quite hope either. Just a question. One that wouldn't let go.

🍎

The sky opened wide over the desert, hard blue sky and five jets sliced through it like blades.

F/A Hornet spread across the training range, locked into a tight, aggressive dogfight. The sun hung low over the clouds, flaring off the glass of the canopies. Simulated rounds traded back and forth. Chatter bled through comms. Sharp, clipped, tense.

"Fox Two. Splash one." "You're wide open on your six, Tex. Roll out, now." "Caleb's moving fast. Where the hell did he go- he's off radar again-" Caleb didn't answer. He never did when it counted. No dramatic move, no wasted breath. Just fast, precise, practiced.

He cut low beneath Echo's wing, barely a flash on their sensors, then pulled up hard into the sunlight. It was a move he'd made a thousand times in his career. One he knew down to the smallest twitch of the stick. Predictable to him. Not to them. Up here, nothing else existed. Not rank. Not age. Not ghosts. Just flying.

And Echo? Echo had kept up. More than that, he was flying better than Caleb had ever seen him. Sharper. Cleaner. More focused. Something had shifted since that last argument in the locker room. Whatever weight Echo had been dragging behind him for months, he wasn't flying with it now. He wasn't trying to be anyone's replacement. He was just flying.

Then- "Caleb, we've got smoke off Echo Two." Caleb's heart lurched before his head caught up. He craned around. A streak of smoke curled out behind Echo's jet, dark and dirty, not the burn off of a flare or a sim hit. This was real. It was coming from the right engine, leaking fast, trailing like a warning sign across the sky.

"I'm losing power." Echo's voice came in, strained. "Right engine's surging. Controls are getting stiff." "Do you need to eject?" Snother pilot asked. "Negative." Echo snapped. "Still flying. Not punching out of a sim." Caleb was already turning, banking hard and pulling in beside him. "Echo, break left. Ease off speed. Let it coast down. I've got you."

"Commander-" "Don't argue. Just do it." It wasn't an order, not exactly. It was instinct. Muscle memory. Trust forged in the same way most good pilots formed it. Mid air, mid threat, no time for second guesses. Caleb closed the distance and dropped in off Echo's wing, just far enough to stay safe, close enough to intervene if things got worse. No more fighting. No more games. This wasn't a mission now, it was escort. It was survival.

"Throttle down. Stay smooth." "Copy. Trying. Trim's fighting back." "You're not going down today." Caleb said it quietly, but meant every word. They descended together, the desert widening below. The smoke got thicker as they dropped, but the engine held. Barely. Caleb didn't leave his side. Not once.

By the time both jets touched down, Caleb just seconds ahead, the crew was already rushing toward them. Fire control. Med techs. Maintenance. The runway buzzed with motion, but for Caleb, it all dropped into the background. Echo climbed out of his jet slower than usual, helmet under one arm, sweat on his jaw, his chest still rising fast. But he was walking. Alive.

Caleb met him halfway across the tarmac, where the heat shimmered in the space between them. Neither spoke at first. Then, Echo stopped in front of him, and the look in his eyes had shifted. Not just the adrenaline. Not even relief. Something else, recognition, maybe. Something heavier.

"I couldn't pull up." Echo said, voice rough. "I tried, but..." "I know." Caleb said, just as quiet. There was a long pause. Then Echo glanced away, jaw tight. "I used to think..." He let out a breath. "I used to think you let my sibling go." Caleb didn't speak.

"I needed someone to blame." Echo said. "It made things easier. Simpler. That if someone had just done something different, maybe..." "I was there." Caleb said. "I saw the radar. I flew back for them. I tried." His voice dropped. "I just got there too late."

Echo looked at him, and this time, there wasn't anger in his expression. Just the kind of tired honesty that doesn't need to be dressed up. "You don't owe me anything." Echo said finally. "You flew with them. You cared. That's more than most." He stepped back slightly, gaze steady. "Thanks for getting me down." Caleb nodded once. "Anytime."

Echo paused just long enough for the moment to register then added. "Commander Caleb." Not Colonel. Not 'sir' Not with edge or distance. Just the name. Caleb gave a faint smile. Not bright. Not triumphant. But real. And Echo returned it. Then he turned and walked away, shoulders a little lighter, steps a little surer. Not healed. Not yet. But steadier.

Caleb stayed behind, looking up at the sky for a second longer. Neither of them had found peace. But this time, they hadn't come down alone.

🍎

The pub was alive.

Not some fancy officer's lounge or rundown pub but the kind of place that felt like it had stories soaked into the walls. Old vinyl records framed behind the bar. A rusty jukebox still managing to blast Van Halen. Pool balls cracking across worn green felt. Laughter too loud. Bottles sweating under dim lights. And above it all, a tired ceiling fan humming like it might fall apart any second.

Caleb stepped inside and paused. He hadn't planned on stopping here. Just a drive off base to clear his head, get away from ghosts and jet noise. But something about the place caught his eye. The name. The glow through the windows. And then he saw you. You were behind the bar.

Pouring drinks for a few young aviators, the sleeves of your gray shirt rolled up just enough to show strength and old scars. No name tag. No callsign. Just the calm, steady presence of someone who knew exactly who they were. Hair pulled back. Eyes clear but distant. The same quiet energy he used to fly beside.

Caleb froze. It was you. Older, sure. A small scar near your temple he didn't remember. A heaviness in your face that hadn't been there before. But still you. Same way you stood. Same tilt to your mouth. Same eyes that used to scan the clouds like they owed you something.

His heart dropped. You were alive. And you didn't recognize him.

You glanced up briefly, just another stranger walking in. Gave him a polite nod, then went back to pouring. Caleb felt like the ground had shifted under his feet. You didn't remember him. But he remembered everything.

He took a seat at the bar, three stools away. Close enough to see you clearly. Far enough not to shake. His chest felt tight. You moved with ease. Calm. You smiled at a joke from a fresh faced pilot who clearly thought he was funnier than he was. Still no sign you knew him.

When you finally made it to him, you slid over a napkin and asked. "What can I get you?" Caleb blinked. Your voice. Still you. "Beer." He said softly. "Whatever's cold." You poured it without hesitation. Just as smooth as you used to fly. Then you leaned forward, studying him just a little. "First time in?" You asked. He nodded, throat dry. "Yeah. Just passing through."

You gave a small smile. "Hope it holds up." He almost said. It used to be you who held me up. Instead, he glanced around. "Nice place." "Thanks." You said, wiping down the counter. "Built it up a few years back. Wanted something quieter. Something familiar." "Feels like it has a soul." He said. You raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know pubs had those." "The right ones do."

You gave a tiny smirk at that. Down the bar, one of the younger pilots called out. "Hey, boss! Tell him the story about the colonel! The guy you almost kicked out last year for trying to explain G-forces to you." You rolled your eyes. "That wasn't a colonel. That was a second lieutenant who watched Top Gun twice and thought it made him bulletproof."

Everyone laughed. You turned back to Caleb, shaking your head with amusement. He tried to smile. His hands were shaking. Then you looked at him again, a little closer this time.

"You fly?" You asked. He nodded. "Used to." With you. For years. And then now. You paused for a moment, eyes narrowing like you were searching for something. "You look like you've been through hell." you said quietly. Caleb gave a shaky breath. "Still climbing out."

You didn't say anything. Just gave him a slow nod and went back to wiping down a glass. He looked down into his drink. In his jacket pocket, his fingers brushed against something small and worn. A flight patch.

ECHO

He closed his eyes. He didn't say your name. Didn't ask why no one told him. Didn't beg for a memory that might hurt you both.

Instead, he sat in the bar you built with no memory of the sky, and watched the person he loved serve strangers with a calm he barely recognized. And all he could do was to sit in silence. And hope that somewhere deep down, some part of you still remembered how to fly.

🍎

The doors to HQ slammed open, the sound echoing down the hall.

Caleb didn't slow down. He walked past junior officers without a word, boots hitting the tile with sharp, angry precision. His jaw was clenched. Shoulders tight. His whole body moved like it was holding something just barely in check.

He didn't knock. He pushed the office door open and walked straight in. General Ross looked up from his desk, calm and unreadable. The kind of calm that came from decades in command. He didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Caleb stopped in front of the desk, fists tight at his sides.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" He said. Ross raised an eyebrow. "Colonel Xia-" "No. Not rank. Not this time. Why the hell didn't anyone tell me they were alive?" The room went quiet. Ross leaned back in his chair slowly, fingers steepled on the desk. "I saw them disappear off radar." Caleb continued, voice cracking. "I read the report. I held their patch in my hand. I buried them." Ross sighed.

"Sit down, Caleb." "I'm not sitting." "Then listen." There was a pause. Caleb didn't move. Ross spoke carefully. "They were found three days after the crash. Concussed. Dehydrated. Memory mostly gone. They'd walked miles from the wreck, no gear, no comms. A recon team spotted smoke and found them by accident." Caleb froze.

"Why wasn't I told?" "You were already in black ops training. The file was sealed during their recovery. By the time the report cleared, you'd delivered the eulogy. And they didn't remember you." Caleb's breath caught in his throat. "What?" "They remembered flying. They remembered instinct. But not names. Not faces. Not even their own call sign, not at first."

Caleb shut his eyes. He thought of the bar. The way you'd looked at him. Like he was a stranger. "And now?" "They built a new life. Clear their name. Opened that pub. Didn't want to go back to flying. Didn't want to be found. We respected that." Caleb shook his head slowly. "You let me believe they were dead." Ross leaned forward, voice firm. "They were listed missing. Then presumed killed, based on the wreckage. You had no reason to think otherwise."

"I had every reason." Caleb snapped. "You don't lose someone like that and just forget. You don't erase them because it's easier." Ross's voice stayed level. "They asked for peace. After everything they lost... We gave it to them. You think we didn't want them back? You think we didn't try?"

Caleb looked away. His voice dropped low. "They were the best thing that ever happened to me in the sky." Silence stretched between them. Ross finally asked, quieter now. "Do they remember you?" Caleb shook his head. "No." "Then maybe the question is." Ross said. "Do you want them to?"

Caleb didn't answer. Because deep down, he didn't know what scared him more. That you might never remember him or that one day, you might.

🍎

He didn't plan to come back. Not on purpose. Not as part of any plan. But somehow, Caleb found himself standing outside that same small bar just off base, like his feet had taken him there without asking.

He pushed the door open. The little bell above it gave a soft ring, tired, like it had been ringing for years. The place was quieter tonight. Fewer uniforms. Less noise. A slow song played from the jukebox, something old, maybe Fleetwood Mac. The lights were dim and warm, the kind that didn't ask questions. And there you were.

Behind the bar again, wiping glasses, moving with that same easy rhythm he remembered from a long time ago, on flight decks, during mission prep, or when everything was falling apart and you somehow still kept your head. You didn't notice him at first. He took the same seat, three stools down, where he could see you but keep a little space. Then you looked up.

"Back already?" You asked. He gave a small nod. Didn't say anything. His chest felt tight, like if he tried to speak, he wouldn't be able to stop. You picked up a clean glass. "Same beer?" He hesitated, then nodded again. "Sure."

You poured it without making a big deal out of it. Set it down in front of him. Then leaned a little on the counter. Not too close. Just there. "You look worse than last night." You said. He let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Thanks." You shrugged, not unkind. "Said with love. Or at least bartender concern."

He stared at the glass. Didn't touch it. "Rough day?" You asked. He gave a small nod. That was all he had. You tilted your head, voice still light but a little more thoughtful. "Let me guess. One of your students got cocky, messed up their landing, and nearly clipped your wing?" He looked up, surprised. You smiled a little. "I've seen that look before. A long time ago."

"Yeah?" His voice was hoarse. You nodded. "I used to fly. A while ago. Before... Whatever happened." You paused. Looked down at your hands. "I don't remember much." You said quietly. "Bits and pieces. Muscle memory. Some habits. But names? Faces? All gone." Caleb's breath caught. Then you looked at him again. Really looked.

"Do you know me?" That question almost knocked the air out of him. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Gripped the glass so his hands wouldn't shake. "I used to." He said. You didn't pull away. You didn't look away. Just stayed there with him in the quiet. "I'm sorry." You said.

He shook his head. "Don't be." Something passed between you then. Not words, exactly. But not silence either. After a moment, you nodded toward the jukebox. "Want me to change the music?" He didn't answer. You smiled, just a little. "Didn't think so. You seem like the kind of guy who lets the song pick itself." He almost laughed. Just barely. But it was real.

You poured yourself a glass of water, took a slow sip, and said. "You can stay. You don't have to talk." He looked at you. And for just a moment, time felt like it folded in on itself. There you were again. Just like before. Steady. Calm. That quiet strength he'd leaned on in the worst storms. The only difference now was... You didn't even know him.

But still, you were here. And Caleb realized memory or not, you were still the safest place he'd ever known.

🍎

He had not planned on going out.

The new cadets had convinced him. They were still buzzing from a good run in the sim, laughing and light, trying to ride the high as long as they could. "It's just a small pub a few miles from base." One of them said. "Nothing fancy. Feels like it's off the radar." A place to cool down after the rush of a dogfight.

He figured a beer wouldn't hurt. Pretending to unwind for a night seemed harmless enough. He stepped inside just as the jukebox switched songs. Tom Petty. Learning to Fly. Of course. The bar wasn't full. A couple people around the pool table. A few quiet conversations. The smell of beer, sweat, and old wood. One guy near the back was talking too loudly about fighter jets, and it was obvious he'd never flown one.

And then he saw you. Behind the bar. Drying a glass with a towel, focused on your work. Still. Alive.

His entire body locked up. He nearly dropped his drink but caught it just in time. His feet felt heavy. His chest, even more so. It couldn't be you. But it was. Hair pulled back like it used to be. That calm, steady posture. Like the world didn’t rattle you the way it did everyone else. You moved with quiet confidence, just like you used to in the cockpit. Then you looked up. Right at him. And you smiled.

"Evening." You said, like he was just another stranger. Like you hadn't grow up beside him. Like your name and face hadn't been written in folded reports, pictures and stories remembered every time he looked at the sky. He couldn't say anything.

The cadets pushed in behind him, full of jokes and orders. One of them pointed toward him and called out. "Boss! Give this guy something strong flew like a maniac today!" You didn't react. You just kept serving drinks. Calm. Unbothered. But for him, the room was spinning.

He walked closer to the bar, slow. Eyes locked on yours. You looked so familiar it hurt. "You're..." He tried to say, voice rough. "You're Echo." You tilted your head. "Pub owner." You said. "Some people call me that. Not sure why. I guess my names going around in base?” You chuckle and it knocked the air right out of him.

You didn't remember. The callsign meant nothing to you now. He swallowed hard. "You were a pilot." You nodded. "So you've heard." You didn’t say it with pride. Just like it was something someone else had told you, like a fact in a file. You added. "I don't really remember it. Took a hit to the head, I guess. They said I walked away from a crash. Don't remember much, but I still dream about flying sometimes. It feels... Familiar."

His chest ached. You still felt it, even if your mind couldn't explain why. Then he noticed someone else nearby, Caleb. Sitting quietly, watching everything. And suddenly it made sense. The sadness in Caleb's eyes. The way he'd carried the loss. Why he was sneaking out more often. The way he was looking at you now. He already knew.

You turned to grab another drink order, and for a moment, a scar near your neck caught the light. One that hadn't been there before. From the crash. Your brother moved slowly to sit down at the bar, like he was afraid he might scare you off. Then he asked quietly. "Do you ever remember names?"

You looked at him again. Thought about it. Then shrugged. "Sometimes voices feel familiar. Or faces. But it's like an echo. You hear it, but you don't know where it's coming from." His hands were trembling. You gave him another soft smile. "Beer?" He nodded. "Yeah. Please."

And when you walked away, still humming along with the jukebox, he just sat there. Breathing. Still broken. But also somehow okay. Because you were alive. You were here. And that was more than he ever thought he'd get again.

🍎

The air outside the bar was cooler now. A breeze drifted in from the ocean, carrying the scent of salt and the sound of waves pulling back from the shore. Crickets chirped somewhere nearby. A truck rumbled down a street a few blocks over, music thudding faintly from its speakers. But right here, under the pubs flickering sign, it was quiet.

Caleb stood near the edge of the sidewalk, shoulders slumped, staring at the cracks in the pavement beneath his boots. The same pavement you used to walk with him. Back when things were brighter. Easier. Whole. Behind him, your brother stepped outside. No heavy footsteps. No anger in his voice. Just quiet steps.

He stopped a few feet behind Caleb. Neither of them spoke at first. The silence hung between them, not tense anymore just heavy with something quieter. Something sad. Your brother finally spoke. "You knew." Caleb didn't turn. "Yeah." "How long?" A short pause. Caleb's voice was rough. "Two nights ago."

Caleb ran a hand down his face, shaking his head like he still hadn't made peace with it. "I went back to that pub to forget them. To drink it all away. And instead they were standing there. Behind the bar. Pouring my drink." Your brother let out a long breath. Folded his arms.

"And you didn’t say anything to them?" "Say what?" Caleb finally looked at him, tired and angry all at once. "That I thought they were dead? That I buried them and gave a speech over a casket with nothing in it? While they were lying somewhere in the dirt, bleeding out alone?" Your brother didn't answer right away. His jaw tightened.

Caleb's voice dropped. "They don't remember me. Or you. Or what they used to be. I asked command why no one told me. They said it was classified. Then medical. And later... their choice." He looked him straight in the eye. "They didn't want to come back." That hit hard.

Your brother's shoulders stiffened. "No." He said. His voice cracked. "They wouldn't have-" Caleb raised a hand not to argue, just to pause. To keep things from falling apart again. "They've built something new." He said. "A quiet life. No more nightmares. No panic when a jet flies over. No waking up in a sweat reaching for a control stick." He gave your brother a long look. "Can you really blame them for not wanting to return to all this?"

Your brother slowly let his arms fall to his sides. He didn't answer. Caleb looked away again. His posture sank, like the weight of everything he’d held onto was finally too much.

"I tried to find them, you know." He said after a moment. "Back then. I wasn't supposed to but I did it anyway. I left straight from my sortie and followed their last signal. But by the time I got there, there was nothing left. Just smoke. Just fire. I was too late." The words felt like they'd been buried too long. "I flew every mission after that like I could stop it from happening again."

Your brother stepped forward, the anger in him finally fading. What was left was grief. Honest and deep. He looked at Caleb. Really looked at him, he saw the exhaustion, the guilt, the time. And then quietly, he said. "It wasn't your fault."

Caleb's jaw tightened. His shoulders tensed, like he didn’t believe it. Like it was the first time he'd heard it from someone who meant it. Your brother kept going. "They chose that mission. You all knew the risk, they knew the risk. But they trusted themselves and more than anything they trusted you. That trust didn't die out there." He paused. Let the words settle. "You carried it. Even when they couldn't."

Caleb finally looked up. Your brother who had once blamed him for everything gave him a quiet nod. "Thank you, Colonel Caleb." No sarcasm. No anger. Just respect. And something close to peace.

Caleb looked back through the bar window. Saw you again. Laughing softly at something a customer said. Moving with the calm of someone who'd built a life they could live in. Then quietly, he said. "They were more than a wingman to me." Your brother nodded. "I know."

They stood together a while longer, neither of them speaking. Because sometimes, when the worst has already happened and something lost is found again, silence is the only thing that feels honest.

🍎

The bar had fallen into a rhythm. Steady. Familiar.

Pour a drink. Wipe the counter. Listen when needed. Smile when it felt right. Keep the jukebox playing and the peace intact. It wasn't exciting, but it was yours. And after a life that started in a fog you couldn't fully explain, quiet felt like enough.

Most nights passed the same way. Cadets wandered in after flight drills, loud, tired, full of swagger. Locals claimed their usual spots. The jukebox picked random songs and no one complained. The hours moved by in slow sips and soft chatter.

But lately... Two men had changed things.

Not because they caused trouble. They didn't yell. They didn't argue. They were quiet, too quiet. And they looked at you like people waiting for something that might never come back. Like seeing you stirred something painful.

The younger one, he went by Echo, just like the callsign some folks used for you, had been in twice now. Both times, he stopped cold the second he saw you. Like the sight of you knocked the wind out of him. He didn't talk much. But the way he looked at you said more than any words could. There was something in his eyes. Familiar, aching, recognition, maybe. Hurt. Maybe even love, but the kind that had been through fire.

And then there was the other one. Older. Still. The kind of calm you only got from doing something dangerous too many times and surviving it anyway. He never got drunk. Didn't flirt. Just sat near the end of the bar, watching the room like it was something he'd seen before. But when his eyes landed on you, it was different.

Like he was watching someone he'd already lost once. Like looking at you hurt. You noticed it the first night he came in. The tension in his shoulders when you spoke. The way his hands tightened when you laughed. You didn't know him. At least, you were pretty sure you didn't. But his name stayed with you anyway.

Caleb.

It felt strange. Not wrong, just out of reach. Like something from a dream you half-remembered. Something said once in another life. And now the two of them kept looking at you like you were someone else. Someone they'd known. Someone they'd lost.

Sometimes, after they left, you'd stare down at your hands behind the bar, searching for something. You weren't sure what. Scars? Calluses? Clues? You'd catch your reflection in the mirror and wonder if your face had ever belonged to someone else.

There weren't any big flashbacks. No sudden memories rushing in. Just small things. The drop in your chest when someone mentioned Mach speed. The way jet engines made you pause, just for a second. And once, a song from the jukebox made your knees go weak before you even knew why.

You didn't ask the men what they saw in you. You weren't sure you wanted the answer. But late at night, when the place was quiet and the glasses were clean, a question stayed with you. Who were you… that they look at you like had already died once?

🍎

The night was quiet. Soft around the edges, like the world itself had grown tired.

Outside, a breeze tugged gently at the old flag by the door. The sky beyond the pub was dark and still, the way it always got after flight hours, just the low hum of distant jets, too far to see. Inside, the lights glowed low and warm. Not bright enough to chase away the quiet, but enough to hold it.

You were behind the counter, leaning on your elbows, nursing a warm drink. Across from you sat Echo, quiet, thoughtful. Caleb was beside him, jacket folded over his leg, his dog tags hidden beneath his collar. He hadn't said much since sitting down. None of you had.

It should've felt like just another slow night. A few regulars hanging around after hours. But it didn't. You stared into your glass, listening to the silence stretch between the three of you. It wasn't awkward. It wasn't tense. It just carried weight. Like it was balancing something none of you wanted to drop.

Then, softly, you asked. "We used to be close, didn't we?" That got their attention. Both men looked up. Echo's jaw tightened. He didn't speak, just rubbed at the back of his neck. Caleb didn't move either, but you noticed the way his grip tightened around the glass. His knuckles went white.

You gave a tired smile, more sad than anything. "I'm not dumb. You two keep showing up. You look at me like... like I used to matter to you." Still no one said a word. So you pushed a little harder. "Why won't either of you just tell me who I was?" There was no anger in your voice. Only quiet confusion. A dull ache you'd been trying to name for months.

Caleb's voice came first. Low. Careful. "Because if you're meant to remember, you will. And if you're not..." He paused, choosing his words. "You shouldn't have to suffer just to know." You looked at him. Really looked. Then turned to your brother. His eyes were a little too red, like he hadn't slept or maybe had tried not to cry. "So what? I just move on and pretend nothing's missing?"

"No." Your brother said softly. "We just don't want to force you. That's all." You nodded slowly. Ran your thumb along the rim of your glass. "It's like there's something inside me. Not gone, just hollow. Like something used to live there." That landed harder than you expected. Caleb flinched, barely but you saw it. That's when it clicked.

The name Echo. It wasn't random. It wasn't just an old call sign. You looked between them. "That name... it meant something, didn't it?" They didn't answer. But they didn't have to. The way they stared at you like they were both hoping and afraid you might remember was all the confirmation you needed.

You let out a quiet breath and straightened up, grabbing a towel to keep your hands busy. "Fine. Don't tell me. Just..." You glanced toward the door, then back at them. "Don't disappear again." Caleb stood slowly and came to lean against the bar, not too close, just enough that his voice didn't have to rise. "We're not going anywhere." Echo, still seated added almost like a whisper. "Not this time."

You didn't say anything back. You just nodded. Once. And somehow, that was enough for now.

🍎

The bar was quieter tonight.

Most of the regulars had already come and gone. A few locals lingered at their usual spots. A couple of flight crews sat in the back, half-asleep, still in uniform. The jukebox played something soft an old Springsteen song. Familiar. Easy. Like a memory that didn't need explanation.

You were behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, a towel over your shoulder. The routine was second nature by now. But tonight, you weren't running on autopilot. Tonight, you wanted quiet. And maybe... Someone to sit with.

Caleb was there again. Same stool. Three seats down. He never asked for it, but it had become his. He didn't talk much, just sat there holding his drink, watching the room like he was waiting for something to happen. You set a glass down near him and leaned on the bar. "You always sit in that spot." You said casually.

Caleb gave a small smile without looking over. "Best view." You raised a brow. "Of the bourbon?" He glanced at you then, just for a second. "Something like that." You rolled your eyes, topping off his beer. "Careful. Compliments around here only get you colder beer and maybe some stale pretzels." He gave a soft laugh. "Sounds fair."

You moved to rinse a few glasses. He watched your hands for a moment. Quiet, and steady movements. You noticed. "You ever work behind a bar?" You asked. Caleb snorted. "Me? No chance. I'd probably drop half the bottles the first night." You smiled. "It's not hard. You just need rhythm. And the sense to know when someone wants to talk or when they don't."

He nodded. "You're good at that." You hesitated, then asked quietly. "Was I always?" Caleb looked up. His face softened. "Yeah." He said. "You always were." Before you could say more, a voice called out from across the room. "Yo, Boss!" It was one of the younger cadets. "Tell the Colonel what really happens when someone forgets to pull up their gear!"

You sighed, then called back. "I'm not telling that story, Styles. You're the one who tried to land with your ego still hanging off the wing." The pub laughed. Caleb even cracked a smile. "You know." He said under his breath. "I think they come here just to get roasted." You didn't look back. "Keeps them grounded."

"Wish someone had done that for me when I was their age." He chuckled. You raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem like someone who needed humbling." He gave a crooked grin. "That's because you didn't know me back then." He lied. You paused, head tilted. "You sure about that?"

That question hung in the air a little too long. His smile faded, not in a bad way, just quieter. "I think I've always known you." You said softly. He didn't reply. He didn't need to. Then Styles yelled again. "Hey, Colonel! Boss! You two married yet or what?" The other cadets burst into laughter. One raised a drink. Another whistled.

Caleb turned red. You didn't miss a beat. "God, I hope not." You called out. "I'd remember something that traumatic." The room cracked up again. Someone banged a pool cue on the floor. Caleb covered his face with one hand, trying not to laugh. "I walked right into that." You shrugged. "You sat at my bar. Comes with the territory." He raised his glass. "Fair enough."

The noise settled eventually. Cadets drifted toward the jukebox or back to their tables. The air softened again. You leaned on the bar across from Caleb. Just watched him for a while. He looked up. No rush. No pressure. Then he said. "You ever feel like you're close to remembering something but the second you try, it slips away?"

You didn’t look away. "Yeah." You said. "Every day." Neither of you spoke for a while. Then you straightened, tossed the towel over your shoulder, and gave him a half smile. "Come back tomorrow. I'll teach you how to pour a proper drink." He blinked. "Seriously?" You nodded. "You said you'd break bottles. I want to see if that's true."

That made him laugh, quiet, real, like he hadn't in a long time. As you turned back to your work, stacking glasses and wiping down the counter, Caleb just watched you. You didn't know what your past had been. But for him, in that moment. You were starting to feel like something he hadn't had in years. A future.

🍎

It started as a joke.

"Well." Caleb had said that morning, arms crossed loosely as he leaned on the counter. "If you ever want to feel the sky again, I know a guy with a plane." He smiled sideways, sheepish, like he expected you to flinch at the suggestion.

But you didn't flinched. You just blinked once and grinned. "Let me guess. You're the guy?" You asked, stirring the last of your drink lazily, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic. He gave you a mock offended look. "I am always the guy."

There was something in the way he offered it, gentle with the careful weight of someone who knew the sky might still carry sharp edges for you. But the idea of flying didn't scare you. Not really. It stirred something strange instead, like a familiar note echoing from a hallway you couldn't quite see the end of.

"I'd like that." You said, surprised by how easily it came out. Caleb blinked, visibly relieved. "Yeah?" You shrugged. "Sure. Why not. What's the worst that could happen? I forget how to fly?" His laugh was bright and warm and completely involuntary. "You're the most dangerous kind of mystery, you know that?"

"I'm aware." You said with mock pride, and took a sip of your drink. "Lead the way, colonel."

🍎

The hangar smelled of dust and old oil. The sun warming the concrete in long golden strips. Caleb led you to the small twin seater with a quiet conversation, his voice softer now as he walked you through the basics. But he didn't overdo it. He didn't try to teach you like you were broken. He just pointed and explained like you were any other pilot, maybe a little rusty, but still whole.

You let your fingers drift over the fuselage, eyes narrowing slightly. The aircraft felt familiar in the same way that dreams sometimes do, real enough to touch, but slipping sideways when you looked too closely.

Caleb climbed into the other seat, waiting for you to settle in before flipping switches and adjusting controls. The ritual hummed between you like an old tune. You hadn't done this in years or maybe you had. You didn't really know. But your hands knew.

They moved like they remembered. Reaching for levers, pressing gauges, making sense of the readouts without needing to ask. The way you adjusted your headset, checked the engine pressure, tapped the altimeter. It all came back like breath.

Caleb watched you with a quiet, private awe. "You really don't remember flying?" He asked, almost to himself. You shook your head, still focused on the instruments. "Not in words. Not in pictures." You flexed your fingers on the yoke. "But this... this part? I know it like a second skin."

Outside, the wind whispered against the hangar doors. Inside, you could hear your heart, steady but expectant. Like it was about to return to something it once loved.

🍎

The wheels left the ground so gently, it took a breath before you noticed. The earth dropped away like it had simply agreed to let go. The sky opened around you in quiet blue. Clouds shifted slowly beneath the wings and the light softened as the altitude climbed. It was smoother than you expected, less like escaping and more like coming home.

You didn't speak much at first. Neither of you did. It wasn't the silence of awkwardness, but of honor. The kind of stillness you don't want to disturb. Your fingers adjusted the trim with a practiced motion. You banked left to catch the sun. Somewhere in the back of your mind, your body took over, each motion echoing steps you didn’t know you remembered.

Caleb glanced at you, smiling quietly. "You flew before. I mean really flew." You lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. "Seems like it." A beat. Then you added, teasing. "You're lucky I'm not doing barrel rolls." He laughed, relaxed now, watching the horizon. "You're the one who said you might forget how." "I said might." You replied, nudging the throttle with an amused flick. "I didn't say I would"

The banter made the air feel lighter. It wasn't performative, it was comfortable. Easy. And yet under it, something deeper moved. A knowing. A sense of connection not just between the two of you, but between you and the air, the wings, the open sky. As the plane sliced gently through the blue, the wind wrapped around you like something that remembered you, like something that had missed you.

And slowly, you began to remember it too. Not with names or places, not with specifics. But in muscle. In ease. In rhythm. Your body didn't hesitate. It simply was, here, flying, being. You found yourself leaning into the turns just before they came. Adjusting altitude without thinking. Glancing at dials only for confirmation, not instruction.

At one point, Caleb turned off the radio. Just the soft hum of the engine remained, and the low wind across the canopy. "I think the sky missed you." He said. You smiled faintly, eyes watching a bird wheel far below. "I think I missed it too. Even if I didn't know it." The words settled between you like dust in sunlight. Not heavy. Not dramatic. Just truth, spoken simply.

Later, as you circled back toward the airfield, you let the descent carry you slowly, not rushing it. There was no urgency here. Only the long, slow return of something sacred. When the wheels finally kissed the earth again, the plane rolled quietly to a stop. You didn't move right away. Neither did Caleb.

Instead, you sat there in the still hum of cooling metal, letting the sky echo inside your chest. "Thank you." You said. He turned toward you, his voice gentle. "For what?" "For this. For not treating me like I’m broken." You looked at him, eyes soft. "For giving me the sky back." His expression flickered, something warm, something careful. "You never lost it." He said. "You just stopped looking up."

And so the sky, once forgotten, whispered back to you in fragments. Not loud, not insistent, but tender. The echoes weren't voices. They were movement, instinct, belonging. And in them, you began to remember who you had been, not all at once, but enough to begin again.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: I've been typing this since 11am, its 10pm now. Had to take a break because plants vs. Zombie couldn’t be played above tabs.part 3 soon.

[cosmickid-inmotion]

When You Build Your House, Then Call Me Home

Frankie Morales x AFAB!Fem!Reader

Masterlist : Triple Frontier Masterlist

Taglist

Summary: You are pregnant, and don't want to be.

Warnings: Abortion. Addiction. Explicit mentions of drug use. Pregnancy ofc.

A/N: Thank you to my beloved @toxicanonymity for encouraging me with this, and for being so outspoken about abortion access, how it effects lgbt, poor, and POC people different, sharing resources for access etc. Thank you to EVERYONE in this tumblr fanfiction community who has come together to make it clear they don’t think abortion is murder, and it is healthcare. I don't know who all has personal reasons, but I do.

A/N2: This fic is from the perspective of "I want this with you, but now now" I plan to write another of the perspective of "we know we both dont want kids, it's an easy choice, but all these factors (protestors, medical lies etc) make it harder" Sometimes it's a difficult choice to abort. Sometimes it isn't

Resources and some myths linked

Enough yapping.

***

You couldn’t look at the test results. 

On the floor of the bathroom, you stared up at the counter where the blue tip hung off the edge. You still had piss on your fingers from taking it, and you were pretty sure there was still coke on the counter from last weekend’s rager. God knows you’d been too high or in a stupor to do anything but drag yourself to work. Frankie was too far in the same state to clean either. It’d been going like this for months, worse and worse every week…

Now was not the time for a baby. 

By the time you heard Frankie’s voice approach, it was too late to realize you hadn’t locked the door.

“And Ben says he-” Frankie stopped, a look of concern on his face at seeing you dead-eyed on the bathroom floor; the room was so small, the door opening grazed your toes. “I gotta go, she’s taking a pregnancy test.” Yup, definitely high if he’s saying that outloud to Santi.

‘Wait, what-’ But Frankie hung up, practically throwing his phone blindly. It clattered against the sink as Frankie dropped to his knees. The cheap linoleum floors that had been bubbling up creaked under him.

“Baby…” He hands on your bunched up knees. “You’re pregnant?”

You wish you could say you felt anything at the confirmation of your fears, but you knew already. In your gut, you knew. “That what it said?” You let go a breath when he nods.

���Two lines, right?” His gaze is unsteady, but it’s soft. You reach out, guiding him to sit down for fear he’s going to fall over. You both confirm each other: yes, it showed two lines. Yes, two lines mean pregnant. A smile grew on his face. “We’re having a baby.”

But instead of warmth, your face whips to him. “We can’t have a baby, Frankie.”

Confusion blisters his face. “I mean… there is one. Already.”

“It’s not a baby.” You snap at him. “It’s a fetus. And we don’t have to have it.”

Whatever he’s on that created the cloud lifted. His face fell. “Oh. Right.”

Tears prickled at your eyes, feeling like he was disappointed in you. “Francisco Morales, don’t you dare make me feel guilty about this.”

Frankie scrambles to sit up, unsteady but his eyes wide with worry. “I’m not! Baby, I’m not, I swear.” He was earnest. You know where Frankie stood on abortion; your body, your choice. You also know you and him talked so often about having children together, this must be a shock.  He takes a hand, kissing your knuckle. You don’t tell him you haven't washed yet. Might be the wrong hand anyway, you are sure anymore. “I just think… we could do this, you know? I’ll get sober, we can get sober. I’ll get a real fucking job, stop the parties… Santi said we could stay with him for a bit if we were sober… save up a little for the baby?”

You would need to save up a lot more than a little. You had $27.53 in your bank right now. You sigh. “Frankie…”

“I bet he’d let us stay a while too. Will could probably help me get some help at the VA”

Your eyes close. “Frankie.”

“Ben might know a good job too, if I’m sober. He knows a lot of peo-”

“Frankie!” Your voice is louder than you want it to be. You grip his hand back, only realizing your nails are digging into his skin. You wonder if he can even feel it.

“We can’t have a baby right now! No amount of help from your friend is going to change the fact we are drug addicts. We can’t just- we can’t quit magically! It takes time! I’m what, 4 weeks? How much fucking drugs do you think I’ve had already? I can’t go through withdrawals and detox like this! I can’t be a new mom and be what, 8 months sober? Jesus Frankie, you aren’t even supposed to start a new relationship until into sobriety minimum! You think a baby is better?” His eyes are large and sad, but understanding is seeping in. “I’m high right now, Frankie.” You couldn’t take the test sober.

The reality settled onto his face. Still holding your hand, he sat beside you this time. You both looked out the open door, to the cracked wall of the studio apartment. 

“Yeah. I am too.” A beat before he spoke, a little more steady now. “You’re right. It’s not my choice to make, but I support you. It’s the right choice.”

You rest your head on Frankie’s shoulder. He’s thinner than he used to be, but still strong. “I want this life with you. I do. I love you, more than anything I’ve ever known, my sweet, sweet man. I’m not keeping it… but are you serious about getting sober?”

“Yes.” He was firm, definitive. His head rested on yours. “I’ll get sober.”

A deep breath. “We’ll have to ask Santi to visit him. I’m probably at 6 weeks. Heartbeat. All that.”

He nods. “He’ll understand.” And you knew he would. Santi lived in a blue state. They’d keep it under wraps, only tell Santi. They wouldn’t even really need to tell Santi at all, but you’d want to stay a few days to recover and you felt wrong doing that without explanation. Besides, you weren’t ashamed. It was healthcare, and you were doing what’s best for you. For Frankie. For your lives and family together.

“I want a family with you. Children.” You blurt out. “We can do it. I know we can. We’re gonna get better.”

Frankie kissed the top of your head. “Yeah baby, you’re gonna get better.”

*

Santi is driving. You and Frankie in the back seat. Suitcases in the trunk.

It was your drop off first. St. Monica’s would help you through detox, something Frankie was scared to leave you alone for. He’d held you through many before, but this was something you had to go alone. You’d had your abortion, and Santi wanted to help you guys get on your feet. Santi would take Frankie to his treatment center next. After giving you a hug and a sincere goodbye, he sat in the car while Frankie held you.

“I’m gonna get better for us, okay baby? I’m gonna be the man you need, from now on.”

Tears wet the flannel your face was buried into.

“Me too. We’re better together, as a team. We’re gonna be there for each other. Always.”

His hug was tight enough it felt like he might never let go. He never did, not really. When you focused on getting better, it wasn’t always easy in the rehab center… But when you closed your eyes, you could still feel that last hug, and you knew he’d be right there waiting when you both got out. Better, and ready to start a new life.

***

It's not a heartbeat

Abortion resources (thanks Tox and @dark-scape for sharing these)

LGBT and abortion

Abortion as an economic issue

Where to donate

Indigenous women rising rain fund

Adriana Smith fundraiser

Other perspectives

Indigenous perspective on abortion

Reform Judism perspective on abortion

Asian countries and abortion

Progressive christian pro choice

Islam and abortion (Debate among leaders, but generally more open than the fear mongering right would have you beleive. I know less about these arguments than I do Christianity and Judaism, so if anyone else has resources hmu.)

Thank you all for reading! I'll keep my asks open for now incase anyone wants to share their story but if I get nonsense, I'm closing it.

You won't change my mind on abortion. I co-founded an anti-choice youth group as a teen. I know all the talking points, propaganda, and lies. I changed my mind.

If you got the abortion you wanted, I'm proud of you.

Shout out Haru bc when I sent this header to the server you asked if frankie was having an abortion and given my toe dipped into mpreg i wouldn't put it past me.

to show I’m putting my money where my mouth is I may respond to comments but im largly on hiatus still i just felt the need to post this today.

regular tags (i know this can be triggering or not someones cup of tea so its okay to not read!): @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @pedge-page @hornystan @mani-pedro @femmeanonymelives

[camficdiner]

hiii can i get a (1.6) (2. 8 & 12) (3. 3, 4 & 5 if u can do all these would be amazing but if u can’t then the 5 pls) (4. 3) pls

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 041

🍒 Thank you for this sinful, delicious order — you asked for rough, jealous, and corrupted, and I said: yes chef. Hope it left a mark. Hope you read it twice. And I hope Macklin never lets you go.

Enjoy your meal love

-your favorite server

🔗 ko-fi.com/camsficdiner

Slide a coin to your server, babe — tips keep the club open and the players obsessed 🍒

💬 “Sharks Don’t Share”

✨ Description and prompts:

Character: Macklin Celebrini

 Prompt: you’re a fan partying at the table next to his at a club 

 Word Count: 1.5k

 Type: smut (rough, first time, obsessive)

⸻

You’d seen him before. Not like this — not in a dark club with strobe lights bouncing off his chain and a drink in his hand — but on the ice. At the Tank.

He saw you too. Maybe once. Maybe more.

You’re not sure if it was the Sharks jersey knotted up over your crop top or the way your eyes never left him during warmups, but he looked. He stared. And now, weeks later, he’s sitting in the VIP booth just a few feet from yours, and his eyes haven’t left you all night.

You told yourself you were going out with friends.

You told yourself it wasn’t for him.

But you wore the little black dress anyway. The one that hugs your thighs and dips low enough to be a sin. And now Macklin Celebrini is watching you like you belong to him already.

And worse — you like it.

⸻

You don’t even realize you’re dancing too close to another guy until his hand slides to your waist. You let out a laugh, awkward, trying to shift away. The guy leans in, says something stupid and loud.

You feel it before you see it — a shift in the air, a heat on the back of your neck. When you glance over, Macklin’s already standing. Drink on the table. Jaw tight.

Ten seconds later, a club staff member appears at your elbow.

“Mr. Celebrini would like a word with you. In private.”

You blink. Your heart stutters.

You follow.

⸻

The private lounge is quiet. Cold. Expensive.

The second the door closes, Macklin’s on you.

“You think I didn’t see the way you were looking at me at the Tank?” he says, voice low, dangerous.

“The way you looked at me tonight?”

“You wore that dress for me. Don’t lie.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He steps in. Hands go to your hips, pinning you to the wall.

“That guy touching you…” he grits, eyes flashing. “That for me too?”

You shake your head.

He grabs your jaw. Tilts it. Makes you look at him.

“Good. Because you’re mine now.”

And then he kisses you.

Rough. Fast. Like punishment and reward all at once.

⸻

He pulls your dress up, grips your ass tight, bites your neck like he needs to mark it. You’re breathless, dizzy. You barely register your panties being shoved aside before his fingers slide down — stroking, teasing, pressing hard.

“So fucking wet,” he growls. “You wanted this.”

You moan, nodding, back arching into him.

He grabs your hair. Pulls it back just enough to make you gasp.

“Say it.”

“I wanted this.”

“No. Say you wanted me.”

“I wanted you.”

That’s when he drops to his knees, spreading your thighs, mouth on you before you can think.

Tongue swirling. Fingers pumping. Rough, perfect rhythm that has you moaning into your hand to stay quiet.

“That’s right,” he murmurs between licks. “You’re gonna come on my face, and then I’m gonna ruin you.”

You do. Hard.

⸻

He stands. Unzips.

“Turn around. Hands on the couch.”

You do as you’re told — the room spinning, thighs trembling.

He drags his cock through your folds, just once, then pauses. Still. Silent.

“You’re shaking.”

You nod.

He stills completely.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Your voice is small. “No.”

He swears under his breath. Pulls away slightly.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

He’s flushed. Breathing hard. But his eyes are soft. Concerned.

“Are you sure you want this?”

You nod. “Yes.”

He stares at you like you’ve just given him something sacred.

“Then I’m gonna teach you how to take me,” he whispers. “And you’ll never forget who did it first.”

⸻

He bends you forward, kisses your spine, then thrusts in slowly. Inch by inch. Letting you feel it. Stretch around him. Burn for him.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Take me like a good girl.”

He sets a rhythm — deep, rough, controlled. One hand in your hair. One around your throat. Not tight. Just a reminder.

“You’re mine now,” he says in your ear. “You let me in first. You gave this to me.”

“And I’m never letting anyone else touch you.”

You whimper, overwhelmed. But he doesn’t stop.

“You think anyone else could fuck you like this? Fill you like this?”

“You’re gonna come with me inside you and you’re gonna thank me.”

You do. Loudly.

He follows with a growl — hips jerking, cock pulsing deep inside you.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.

Just holds you there, trembling, breathing hard, mouth against your neck.

“You were just a fan before,” he whispers. “Now you’re mine.”

⸻

You try to fix your hair. Smooth your dress.

He catches your hand.

“Don’t hide from me.”

“People will know.”

“Let them.”

He kisses you again. Slower this time. Gentle. But not less possessive.

“I’ll see you at the next home game.”

And you know — you’ll never just be a fan again.

[luvvjayk]

𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 - 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐤

(and one time he didn’t have to)

✎ by rie 𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ☾

Paring : jungkook x reader

genre : angst, yearning, almost-love, slow burn

synopsis :

he never said the words — not really.

but in car rides, in silence, in almost-kisses and almost-goodbyes…

he didn’t need to.

you always felt it anyway.

1. “come get me”

You didn’t say hello.

You just whispered into the receiver, “Can you come get me?”

And that was all it took. No explanation. No detail. Your voice cracked once and he was already grabbing his keys, slipping on whatever hoodie was closest, the door slamming softly behind him like it knew how late it was.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up next to the curb outside a dimly lit convenience store. The flickering neon light overhead cast tired shadows over your face, and you looked so small, curled in on yourself like you were trying to disappear.

You didn’t say anything when you slid into the passenger seat. He didn’t ask.

You were shivering, so he handed you his hoodie. You took it without meeting his eyes. He adjusted the heater. Turned the music down.

The car was quiet except for the sound of the tires on the road and the occasional sniffle you tried to hide behind the sleeve of your sweatshirt. He kept his hands on the wheel, ten and two, knuckles pale from how hard he was gripping it.

At the first red light, he looked at you. You were wrapped in his hoodie now, knees drawn to your chest, head leaned against the window.

He opened his mouth. The words were right there. I’m here. I’ll always be here. You don’t have to do this alone.

But all that came out was, “You cold?”

You nodded. He slowed down a little more than necessary for the rest of the ride. He didn’t want it to end. Not yet. Not like that.

2. “you sleep here like it’s yours”

It was supposed to be a movie night.

Casual. Familiar. Harmless.

He’d gone to grab snacks and came back to find you asleep in his bed. You were curled up in his blanket, tangled around the pillows like you’d been there a hundred times before.

You looked soft. Peaceful.

He stood in the doorway for a long time, snack bowl in hand, just watching. Your mouth was parted slightly. You were drooling a little. Your hand was twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like even in your sleep, you needed to hold onto something.

He knew he should wake you up. Tell you to move over or maybe to go home. But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped closer and crouched down beside the bed.

His hand hovered near your cheek but didn’t touch. He wanted to, but it felt too loud. Too much.

You shifted slightly, murmured his name in your sleep.

That was when it almost happened. The words sat heavy in his chest, tight against his ribs like they were trying to claw their way out.

He wanted to say it so badly.

But instead, he stood up. Turned off the light. And walked out.

He slept on the couch that night. Didn’t sleep much at all.

3. “kiss me and run”

You always played with him. That was the rule.

Flirting that never turned serious. Jokes that went too far then snapped back like rubber bands. You tugged him close just to laugh and push him away.

So when you kissed him that night, he thought it was another joke.

You pulled him in by his hoodie strings and pressed your lips to his just for a second. Soft and barely there. A whisper of a kiss.

Then you stepped back. Said, “Goodnight, Jungkook,” and turned like you didn’t feel it.

Like he didn’t just lose gravity under your mouth.

He stood on your porch long after your door clicked shut. The night air was cold, and his fingers brushed over his lips like they were trying to remember the shape of you.

He wanted to knock again. To ask what that meant.

He wanted to kiss you back properly, this time. Hold you close. Say, “Don’t do that unless you mean it.” Say, “I’ll kiss you again and again and again if you let me.”

But instead, he turned around.

Walked to his car. Drove home in silence. And dreamed about your mouth.

4. “someone else had your hand”

You were with someone else.

He saw it from across the room. The party was loud, the lights too dim, and your laughter sounded like it had been rehearsed. You were holding someone else’s hand.

But you were twisting your hair the way you only did when you were nervous.

You turned your head. Your eyes found him.

And everything stopped.

For a moment, the music faded. The crowd blurred. It was just you and him. Your gaze held him in place like a secret.

And then you looked away.

That was when he almost did it. He almost shoved through the crowd, almost took your hand back, almost said, “Why are you pretending it’s not me?”

But he didn’t.

He stood there. Still. Staring at the space you used to be.

And he swallowed the words with another drink.

Let the bitterness sit on his tongue until he couldn’t taste anything else.

5. “ruined me, you know”

He showed up at your apartment just past midnight.

Barefoot, hoodie pulled low, bottle in one hand and your name on his lips.

You opened the door and stared. He looked so tired. Not just physically something in him looked worn down, like he’d been holding something too heavy for too long.

“I didn’t wanna be alone tonight,” he mumbled.

You stepped aside. He walked in without waiting for permission. He didn’t need it.

You sat on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, the bottle between you. You didn’t ask questions.

After a while, he rested his head in your lap. You ran your fingers through his hair like you used to. It felt too familiar. Too easy.

His voice was quiet when it came.

“You ruin me, you know?”

Your hand stilled. Your breath caught.

He didn’t look at you. Just closed his eyes like it hurt to say it out loud.

You wanted to say something. Anything. But your throat felt too tight.

Instead, you stayed like that. Fingers tangled in his hair. His arms curled around your waist like a prayer.

And the silence between you pulsed with everything that had never been said.

+1 “take care, jungkook”

There was no big goodbye. No bags at the door. No shouting.

Just silence. And space. And everything that had been left unsaid.

You were leaving. You didn’t say for how long. You didn’t say why. But he knew.

He stood in the doorway, still in his t-shirt from the night before, watching you fumble with your scarf. Your hands were shaking.

You didn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t ask you to.

And then you looked up. Just for a second. Your lips parted like you might say it. Finally. But instead, you smiled. Sad and small.

“Take care, Jungkook.”

He didn’t say anything.

He stepped forward. Fixed your scarf. Brushed your hair behind your ear.

And in that second, he almost broke.

He almost told you. Almost begged.

But instead, he let his fingers linger a second longer on your cheek.

You turned. Walked away.

And he stood in the doorway long after you disappeared.

He didn’t say it.

But the way your hand trembled at your side and the way his chest ached when the door closed and the way the silence settled like grief in the hallway

That was enough.

You knew. and for once, you didn’t need the words. not when every silence had been a confession. not when his eyes said what his mouth never could.

✎ author’s note:

hi, i’m rie ⸝⸝ ☁︎︎

this was a short one and has been sitting in my notes for a while ,that kind of almost-love that sits heavy in your chest but never quite gets said. the ache, the silences, the timing that never lines up.

i’ll be posting more one shots that have been in my drafts forever + i’m working on a full series soon too if you liked it show some support <3 or drop me recs’ !!

thank you for reading 💕

[coupsoficecream]

Unnotice

It’s been weeks, yet the heaviness in your chest never fades.Tears fall quietly whenever you're alone.The meals in front of you remain untouched—either given away or thrown out.You try to fight whatever this feeling is, but your focus slips.Problems pile up.Until one argument breaks you completely.And the next thing you know… you’re in a hospital bed, barely holding on.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It had been weeks since the fight.

And still, your heart felt like it was carrying bricks.

The kind of weight no one else could see.

Your days blurred into one another. You smiled at the right times, laughed when you were expected to, and nodded when spoken to. You played your part well. So well, in fact, that no one noticed.

No one noticed that your smiles no longer reached your eyes.That your laughter had a strange hollowness to it.That your voice—always so full of energy—was quieter now, duller. Slightly cracked at the edges.You still showed up. Still trained. Still talked.

But you didn’t eat.

Not really. You picked at food during meals. Passed your portions to others with a joke.You told them you “ate earlier,” or that you “weren’t hungry,” and they believed you.

Why wouldn’t they?

You were Y/N—strong, cheerful, unshakable.

But behind closed doors, you were slowly falling apart.You cried at night. Quietly, into your pillow.Your body ached from exhaustion.Your thoughts screamed constantly.

And you? You said nothing.

Because everyone was busy.Because there was a comeback coming.Because you didn’t want to be a burden.

The practice room was hot. Air thick with sweat, frustration, and exhaustion.Everyone had pushed beyond their limits, shirts soaked, knees weak, water bottles long emptied.

But still, they pushed on.

The music blasted again.Eight-counts. Sharp steps. Repeat. Again. Again. Again.Your body was slower today.

Sluggish. Limp.

The world was tilting slightly with every turn.Your limbs were like weights dragging you down, and your chest felt tight. But you danced anyway.

Because this was SEVENTEEN. Because no one had time for weakness.

From across the room, Hoshi scanned the group with critical eyes. He was tired too—his shirt clung to his back, and sweat dripped from his temples. Still, his voice remained focused, commanding.

“Y/N,” he said loudly, eyes narrowing on you. “More energy please. Everyone else is in sync—only you’re behind. Please, cooperate.”

You flinched.

You nodded quickly. “Yes, sorry.” The music started again. You pushed harder. Ignored the way your vision swam. The tightness in your chest. The pain in your stomach from not eating for two days.

But then—

A wrong step.

Another mistake.

Another one.

Another.

And then someone shouted.

“Y/N, seriously—what’s wrong with you?” one of them snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. “We’re all tired too! We want to go home! You keep messing up! It’s like you don’t even care!”

You stood there, stunned.

Every pair of eyes turned toward you, drenched in sweat and anger and fatigue.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. You bowed your head. “Sorry.” You took one step back. Then another. And then—

Darkness.

Your body collapsed onto the floor, limbs twisted beneath you, unmoving.

“Y/N?!”

“Y/N!”

“Someone call someone!”

“Get help—NOW!”

You woke up to the cold sterility of a hospital room. A monitor beeped softly beside your head. Your arms were hooked up to IV drips. Your lips were cracked. Your throat burned. You blinked—and were met with the quiet sound of someone breathing beside you.

Jeonghan was there, holding your hand gently. His eyes were red. “You’re awake,” he whispered. You looked around.

Seungcheol was pacing by the door, jaw tight, eyes dark with worry.

Joshua sat beside your bed, wiping your forehead with a damp towel.

Woozi stood silently near the corner, staring at the IV drip like he wanted to break something.

Mingyu was at your feet, gripping your blanket like a lifeline.

Hoshi sat on the floor, head buried in his arms.

Vernon stared at you like he didn’t believe you were real.

And the member who had yelled at you earlier?

He sat against the wall, face hidden in his hands, his voice a wreck as he whispered:

“I didn’t know. I thought you were just tired. I didn’t know it was like this…”

The room was silent.

Tense. Guilty.

Broken.

You tried to speak—but your voice cracked. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” you whispered. Seungcheol walked over. Sat beside you. Placed his hand gently on top of yours.

“You’re not a burden, Y/N. You’re our family.”

“You’re the reason we don’t fall apart on days like these.”

“And we… we didn’t see you falling.”

Joshua looked down. His voice was low. “You always made sure we ate… and we never asked if you had.”

Minghao finally spoke from the corner, voice flat and tight. “I swear, if anyone ever makes you feel like you have to hide your pain again… I’ll make sure they regret it.”

You laughed weakly—and the tears came fast after that.

Because for the first time in weeks,

You weren’t invisible. You weren’t alone.

They took turns staying with you. Feeding you. Brushing your hair. Rebraiding your bracelet.

Mingyu brought soup in a thermos with your name drawn on the lid.

Seungkwan made playlists to cheer you up.

Jun bought new pajamas because “the hospital gowns were ugly.”

Dokyeom held your hand through every blood test.

And Woozi sat beside you all night, quietly adjusting your IV drip even though he didn’t know how.

They didn’t treat you like glass.

They treated you like royalty.

Because to SEVENTEEN…

You weren’t just a trainee.

You weren’t just a teammate.

You were their little sister.

Their light.

The glue that held thirteen pieces together.

And they promised, in the silence of that hospital room,

To never let you break again without someone catching you.

[oleander-cup]

ramekins and fondue - osamu makes fondue for your birthday // wc: 1.4k // pairing: osamu x reader // content: birthday bliss, fondue, eating, just general fluff and birthday surprises

It starts out with needing sugar and a tentative knock on a wooden door. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she says as the door opens and reveals a man behind it. He looks to be in his mid twenties and he’s wearing a loose shirt, his hair is tousled like he just rolled out of bed. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”

“It’s fine, is there something you need?” He lifts up a hand to cover his mouth as he yawns. 

“I need some sugar, if you don’t have any I can go to the store or pay you back or something–” he cuts her off with a small smile.

“I have some, you don’t have to pay me back or anything.” He opens the door wider and beckons for her to follow him inside so she carefully steps over the barrier and closes the door behind her with a click. “Here,” his voice rings out from around the corner as she hears a cabinet creak open and close. He hands her a bag of sugar that has a red clip keeping it closed. “You can have the rest of it, I needed to get more anyway.” She smiles and takes the bag from him with an appreciative nod.

“Thank you, I’ll treat you to coffee or something.” 

“Alright, I’m not home this early most nights but I can maybe squeeze you in during a lunch break on the weekend.”

“Okay,” She closes the door behind her and takes a deep breath. Interacting with people should not be as difficult as it is. It’s just her neighbor and all she’s doing is asking for sugar so she can put it in her coffee. When she closes the door of her apartment she’s greeted by her cat and she immediately sets the sugar on the coffee table and picks him up. “Hi baby,” she kisses his small head and smiles when he starts purring, she sets him down and returns to the kitchen with her bag of sugar and finishes making her coffee. 

The next time she sees him is when a note is posted on her door telling her to come over. She laughs and puts her purse down on the couch before making her way over to his door. She holds the note up and waves it once he opens the door. “I thought you weren’t usually home this early?”

“I can make exceptions.” She rolls her eyes with a laugh and follows him inside of his home. She smells the food and hums with delight. “Did you make me dinner before I even got your name?”

“It’s Osamu.” He jests with her and she lets out a small laugh. He pulls the chair out for her at the kitchen island and pushes it back in once she sits down. “This is what I want for you taking the last of my sugar.”

“To be fair, you never told me when we should meet for coffee and you never asked for anything back.”

“This is what I want, you to have dinner with me.”

“I guess I can accept that.” There is a silence that settles around the room as she watches him finish cooking. His hands move with practiced ease as he goes around the kitchen. She can see his shirt is nicer than she’s used to seeing him wear. Usually he leaves the house in a black shirt that has a few stubborn stains on them although it’s clear the shirt had been washed. He usually wears pajama pants and when she asked him about it one day he said he was going to work. 

“What do you do for work?” She asks as a steaming bowl of food is placed in front of her, her mouth waters slightly and she waits for it to cool down before taking a bite. The flavors melt in her mouth and she hums as she takes another bite.

“I’m a chef, I own my own restaurant actually.” He leans against the counter on the other side and blows on his own bite of food.

“I can’t believe I’m getting this for free,” the statement causes him to laugh and he shakes his head.

“Come by the shop anytime and I’ll set something aside for you.” 

“Aww come on, you can’t show blatant favoritism like that,” she teases and she can feel the smile etch itself onto her face. 

“It’s my restaurant, or you can just come over here. Anytime really.”

“I’ll have to take you up on the offer,” they eat dinner in silence and just as she puts her shoes back on to leave the apartment he stops her. 

“You can stay a little longer if you want, it’s barely dark out.”

“If you insist,” she kicks her shoes off once more and sits on the couch with him. By the end of the movie his arm has found it’s way around her shoulder and her head found its way to his chest. They stay like that even after the credits roll, too scared to move in case the moment ends. She ends up being the first to move as she feels a cramp in her foot. “I suppose I should go home.”

He feels disappointment settle in his chest as he helps her up and walks her to the door. “See you soon?”

“I guess,” she teases and he doesn’t go back into his home until he hears her door lock. 

Over the next few months she’s visited him at the restaurant on days she had computer work. She always pays, and he conveniently cleans tables around her as an excuse to talk but he refuses to say it although they both know it. 

Within six months she feels closer to him than she has to anyone in a long time. She has a coat at his apartment and a toothbrush incase she leaves from his house for work instead of her own. Her table at Onigiri Miya is always clean and empty even during a lunch rush. Both of their friends at frustrated as they refuse to say. 

When she gets home from work she finds a note on her day reminiscent of when they first started doing whatever you want to call what they’re doing. She pulls out her key ring and unlocks his apartment, the lighting is lower than usual and she follows the noises to the kitchen and sets her bag down on the couch. “And what’s all this?” She says behind a poorly contained smile. 

“You aren’t supposed to be here yet,” he glares jokingly at her and turns around with a wooden spoon still in his hand. There are heart shaped ceramic containers on the table with candles under them and pieces of fruit cut and displayed on his nice plates. “Close your eyes and pretend you didn’t see this yet.” She laughs but goes along with it as she sits down at a seat. She can feel a hat be placed on her head and can feel his lips press gently against the skin on her forehead. 

“You’re not sneaky you know.”

“I know.” She hears more pots and pans clash as he rummages with things, hears the clinks of the ceramic against the table and then hears the sound of his chair scraping against the wood. She knows there’s a scratch on the wood from the metal of the chair scraping against it so often. “Okay, you can open you eyes.”

“Do I need to ask what all this is for?” She looks around at the fondue set up with a smile as her chin rests in her hand.

“It’s for your birthday, okay, I admit it.”

“Thank you.”

“Happy birthday darling,” his hand reaches out and skewers a piece of fruit before dipping it in the cheese and extending it out to her. She sighs happily as the taste hits her tongue and she can’t help but shake her head.

“Did you call off work today?”

“Possibly, I’m sure everything is fine. Let’s not talk about work.”

They sit at the table occasionally feeding each other bits of food and Osamu is grateful to his past self for putting down a discardable tablecloth under the food. There’s bits of cheese when he takes it off the table and the dishes sit in the sink when they make it over to the couch to enjoy the rest of their evening.

They don’t need to say what they mean to each other, it’s evident in the way the spare key jingles on her key ring and in the way that there are heart shaped dishes with the price tags still on the bottom in the sink. Love isn’t always something that needs to be said.

gen taglist (fill out this form) @tansypansydandy @phoenix-eclipses @h-llsp-wn @megapteraurelia @nomyimi @ottocre @xiaoquanquans @yatoatyourservice @avis-writeshq @fweakygyatt

masterlist

[skzpen]

Oui chef! (Preview)

Pairing: Felix x Reader

Rating: M+

(it will be, this is just a preview)

The rain came down in thin silver needles, tapping the windows like impatient fingers as Felix wiped down the last of the café tables. The warm scent of burnt espresso still lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic chill of the storm outside. A flickering neon sign—“Miette & Co.” in faded cursive—cast a pinkish hue on the puddled cobblestones just beyond the glass. It had been another slow day.

Felix sighed and glanced at the nearly empty pastry case—two matcha croissants and a single mangosteen tart left untouched. The city of lights hadn’t exactly fallen in love with his quiet blend of Seoul’s street flavors and Melbourne brunch culture. Not yet, anyway. He turned the key in the register with a dull click and let it stay open, more out of habit than for any real cash inside.

He leaned on the counter and stared out into the darkened street, the ghost of a dream pressing against his chest. This was supposed to be the start of something. Instead, it felt like the end of a chapter no one else had bothered to read.

A gust of wind pushed the door open with a soft groan. Felix looked up, startled—

And that’s when he saw her.

She burst through the door like a storm herself—soaked to the skin, cheeks flushed, hair clinging to her face in dark waves. The little bell above the door gave a startled jingle, and Felix straightened instinctively, cloth still in hand.

“I—I know you’re closed,” she stammered, chest rising and falling like she’d sprinted the last few blocks. “But I need five minutes. Please.”

Felix blinked. Rainwater pooled at her feet, her coat dripping onto the tile. Her eyes, wide and sharp beneath dripping lashes, locked on his like they were the only steady thing in the room.

“I’m not here for coffee,” she added quickly. “I’m here for the sous chef position. I saw your flyer—Rue de l’Abbé Grégoire. I was halfway through a trial shift at another place, but I ditched it. This—this place, you—I need to be here.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hadn’t even remembered putting that flyer up. It was printed on cheap paper in a language that wasn’t quite his own, a desperate gesture in a city that hadn’t exactly welcomed his food—or his quiet ways—with open arms.

“I don’t do interviews at midnight in the rain,” he said slowly, more surprised by his voice than anything else.

She gave a half-laugh, half-shiver. “Then don’t call it an interview. Just let me cook. One dish. Yours or mine. If I’m no good, I’ll mop the floors and go.”

For a moment, the only sound was the rain pounding the awning above them. Then, without a word, Felix turned and disappeared into the kitchen, letting the door swing behind him.

She stood there, trembling, dripping, uncertain—until his voice called back:

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

[imaginedreamwrite]

fluff Friday with LMF - reader brings her infant child (I think it was a boy in one of the drabbles) to meeting with her advisors - it isn’t that important, so she thought it was okay. babe has a phase where they can sleep through anything as long as they are sleeping in their mother’s arms. and that’s true - meeting goes smoothly, babe was comfortably asleep, advisors are impressed as always, reader’s alphas (whomever was present) where sitting there like this 🥰😍😍😍🥰😍🥰😍🥰😍🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩

There’s a kind of quiet that extends throughout the room, a few hushed whispers as the doors open and you slip inside and close the door behind you. It wasn’t a matter of great urgency that garnered the advisors to call a meeting. And you realistically could’ve skipped it and been caught up to speed by John, but you attended anyway.

Your baby boy was sleeping, nestled in a carrier that was strapped to your chest. He was going through a phase where he couldn’t sleep deeply in the afternoons without being attached to you, or Simon. Leaving him alone with Johnny or Gaz would have been an option however the two alpha’s were conducting their own business.

“We won’t keep you long.” The advisor to your left had made the statement while observing you with your babe in a soft carrier, the sleeping infant comfortable and relaxed. “It’s a matter of policy that needs to be rehashed and renewed. The ground work has been laid out and we have the generalized understandings-”

Your attention faltered from the advisor who was speaking toward two of your mates. Simon was standing near the wall, leaning with his arms crossed over his chest as he tucked his chin down. His eyes, which were previously sweeping the room, were now focused on you and your baby. There was a studiousness that was reflected in his gaze, a softness that lingered beneath the guardedness.

Next your attention fell toward John, who was shifting from the seat he was in to come and stand near you. He leaned over and brushed a hand down your baby’s head, smoothing your boy’s soft and wispy hair. No one would question the action, no one would dare call out the affection from the senior advisor, not when all the alpha’s were so protective of their child and mate.

“When does the redux of the proposal need to be submitted?” You glanced down at your baby boy and then the stack of papers sitting in the middle of the table. “When is the earliest it can be sent to the courts?”

Even with the discussion started, the conversation was hushed as to not disturb the little prince. He was comfortable and sleeping soundly yet he had inherited a temper like his daddy Simon when he was woken up. And the screaming would not be well received when your son expelled the air from his healthy lungs.

“The proposal needs to be submitted by the 25th, the earliest we can submit the redux is by the 17th.” Those stacks of papers were handed toward you, the dockets and all the markups were tabbed with colourful sticky notes, important agendas that had been highlighted.

You had begun flipping through the pages when your son started squawking. The first few noises of hunger, the soft curling of his lip and the deep furrow of his brows had told you everything. He was a hungry little man, demanding and desperate for breastmilk when he wanted it, and not a second later.

“The meeting’s over,” Simon had raised his voice to cut above the chatter, the statement a demand and not a request, “schedule another meeting sometime else.”

No one was going to argue with him, not the imposing and protective alpha—not when his son was involved. With the order given and no one willing to argue, Simon had drawn a himself toward you and John. He slowly reached for the carrier and took his son who was crying, whining and whimpering.

He had found himself nestling your baby boy against his chest, giving him some form of comfort. While your son would ultimately need to be attached at your breast to get exactly what he wanted, the comfort of one of his daddies was enough for now.

“We’ll reschedule.” You nodded your head and stood from where you were sitting, grabbing the paperwork for the proposal so you could look it over later. You tucked it under your arm and followed Simon out of the room, with John by your side.

Simon stepped out and headed toward a sitting room, gently patting your son’s back. He was starting to get fussier, his cries more desperate as his belly was empty. Simon crooned softly until you were able to perch against the couch and have a cushion on your lap, and then your boy was handed back to you.

You hummed softly and prepared to breastfeed, already sensing your son’s desperation for food. A perfect little boy, just like his father’s, hungry for the breast.

[m0reighn4]

I saw you had your requests open!—I was wondering If you could do write about Sakadays men (Specifically Shin, Uzuki, Gaku [HEAVY ON GAKU], Nagumo and Tenkyu since I feel like no one writes about him! [Althought it's fine If u wanna leave him out]) on what's their fav thing to do in bedroom, or what do YOU think they would be inclined to like the most. 🙏

Get creative on it, i'm just thristy af for Gaku 🤤🤤🤤

Shin

Hand holding. It's not a question.

If we're being completely honest with each other, it really actually means intimacy in general— closeness, kisses and slow loving— but he isn't against trading a few of those off. What isn't negotiable is handholding! If things get heated, you best believe his hand is finding yours and linking your fingers with his.

I know I've mentioned it before in another fic too, but Shin likes intimacy. Especially if its quiet, calm. And it's during these moments that he refuses to read your mind. It simply adds.

But because he won't read your mind to get a clue on what you're thinking, he'll just have to go for the next best thing, how you feel.

A twitch of the fingers means that he's doing something right. And if you squeeze just a bit too hard it means that you're overwhelmed and need to be called down— preferably with kisses.

"Fuck, fuck... it's okay, pretty. Just breathe. Here, hold my hand. Squeeze it, if it gets too much, 'kay?"

Uzuki Kei

I feel he'll be very much into eye contact.

The saying, "The eyes are the gateway to the soul" means a lot to him. This is the case for a lot of things.

When coupling this with the fact that he thinks your eyes are the most beautiful piece of art he'll ever have the privilege of witnessing, his love for eye contact makes 10× more sense.

Because there's something about the; the way the sparkle in the light like precious gems, the way they soften around the edges when gazing at him, or the way they get glassy when you're overwhelmed with pleasure. Whenever he peers into your eyes, he always sees something new to marvel at.

But on your end, it makes you feel seen in the most uncomfortable way possible. His eyes simply bore into you, studying every dip and curve, every expression, every jerky motion— all of it is studied under his gaze.

"Mhm... taking it so well for me, dear. Just need you to look at me with those pretty eyes of yours."

@muoo910

Gaku

He likes pinning you down.

Gaku is strong and he knows it. He definitely enjoys knowing that he has the strength to protect you. But it's also a plus that he can use that same strength to give you pleasure.

Hand around your neck, pushing your hips down onto the bed, pinning your hands above your head. You name it and he is definitely locking you down that way— with your consent, of course.

But ignoring his own sick joy, it also has it own perks! Because you get so squirmish while he's fucking you; how is he meant to work with that?!

He almost sees it as a game— giving you so much pleasure that you can't keep still, but then still forcing you you anyway. (Like I said, sick joy.)

"Come on, bunny. Stay still. Can't make you feel good, if you're gonna keep squirmin' around."

Yoichi Nagumo

He loves to tease you.

This guy. He's a prankster at heart. Silly little jokes and lies to get a reaction, suddenly disappearing and then reappearing, springing this out to scare you; anything and everything to get your heart racing. And this doesn't get left at the door!

His hands and mouth with always be on you, but never in a way that can truly get you off; just enough to feel pleasure, but not enough to get you there.

He knows that you're always on edge around him and he thrives on that knowledge.

But, should you ever find yourself being comfortable around him, he reminds you why it wasn't possible in the first place.

Nagumo is not above taking his sweet time to even touch you people. And by the time he does, you're quite literally dripping. Think that's where he stops? No! He'll then teasingly build you up, only to strip you of your peak. All of that, just for him to coo in your ear and calm you down, whispering sweet nothings and even sweeter promises. (Asshole.)

Good news is; when he does decide to stop playing around and properly get you off, you best believe that it'll be the best orgasm you'll experience in your life! Trust!

"Ah, ah, ah! You really thought! Aw! Don't cry. Okay, one more time, I promise, it'll feel so good."

Tenkyu

Tenkyu loves making you weak.

Something that brings him joy is watching to see what makes you tick.

Because he is something of a sniper, I doubt he has any issues with precision. So he very quickly learns what makes you squirm. And it definitely isn't long before he figures out what makes you moan just the way he likes.

He gets an almost sick pleasure in knowing that he has you where he wants.

Even worse is that he's a quick learner. This means that once he has caught onto a weak point, that's when you're done. He's latching onto it— making sure to poke, prod and caress it just to hear you gasp and whine.

And when he's feeling especially 'bored,' he'll poke at them for funsies, just to watch you jerk.

The only silver lining is that this also means that he knows how to take care of you, both during and after sex. So it isn't all bad.

"Oh, you feel good? How about if I touch here? Oh! Guess that's a new one! You would mind if we played with it for a little longer, would you?"

a/n: Making this took embarrassingly long. And I apologise. After a hectic term of exams and my whole design project (one where I make a whole ass BOOK from scratch) I can finally write fanfiction in peace and actually start working on all my requests that have come in! Plus, I don't have school for 3 weeks, so I can finally crack down on all my requests and personal projects! Everyone cheer right now!👹

Surprisingly, I haven't had much time to actually read the manga, so I went and read on Tenkyu as much as I could. I only do it because I am a woman of the people! ✊🏽😌 I shall never leave my under-fed brethren starving in the cold when I can help it!

Otherwise, how are we feeling about the mini quotes? I don't normally do stuff like that under my headcannons (since I can't write dialogue for shit) but let me try. For the people! 😝😝

Doc, she's acting up again. Please put her back on her meds or sumn 😐

Like my work? Check out my other masterlists!

[saras-almanac]

currently untitled Sarah ends up moving in to Vic's and actually growing a relationship with Vic and Robert... might change things later...

Okay so I’ve been having some thoughts about Sarah having more of a relationship with Robert and Vic because she is a Sugden and I think it would be really cool if the show remembered that and let her explore that side of her family—as well as potentially become a catalyst for rebuilding the Sugden Family since they have all disappeared as the Dingle Plague swept through the village. (I kid but there are just way too many Dingles and not enough other families and I’m gonna need that to change). Anyways, I had some stuff planned for Robert helping Sarah and becoming closer to her as she goes through her cancer and IVF stuff and was struggling to figure out when and was going to change the timing and then today’s episode (26 June 2025) happened and I was hit with inspiration--but incredibly limited time. So I wrote this little thing out quick and want to go back and work on planning out this fic and actually seeing what happens with it. (That and all the other fics I keep talking about... please feel free to come and talk to me about them because I've been really struggling with writing and creativity this year and might need some pushes)

Victoria was anxiously wringing her hands as she walked with Robert through the hospital. He’d just gotten back from another day up at the farm when Vic’s phone rang. Sarah had called her from the hospital crying and basically begged Vic to come and get her. It seemed like they weren’t that close since Vic had seemed unsure what to do until Robert said that they should go to the hospital. If Sarah’s upset, especially upset enough to call Vic and not a Dingle, then they were going to be there for her.

Robert was along for moral support—for both Vic and Sarah, whichever one needed him most. It felt nice, almost normal, to be someone who could be there and support the people he cared about. Or at the very least, he could pretend for a little while.

“What are you doing here?” Cain’s voice was hard as they walked up to Sarah’s room.

“Sarah called. Asked me to come and visit,” Victoria said, leaving out that she begged Vic to take her home, let her stay. That was a fight for later, when they knew if Sarah was even getting out today.

“Why would she call you?” Cain asked, looking at Robert.

“Well she is family,” Victoria said. “Besides, she just had a major surgery. If she wants us to visit, we’re coming.”

“She’s not letting anyone in,” Charity said. “So best you turn around and head back home.”

“I think we can go in and see what Sarah wants,” Robert said quietly. “And then we can all go from there.”

He turned to go and knock on the door, peeking his head in seeing Sarah laying in bed. “Sarah, me and Vic are here if you’re up for a visit?”

“Uncle Robert! Auntie Vic!” Sarah said, her eyes filling with tears. “You came. You came to get me?”

Robert opened the door, feeling Victoria being pushed into the room with Charity and Cain hot on her heels.

“What’re you talking about?” Charity asked. “Come and get you? What do you mean?”

“Right,” Victoria said. “So Sarah did call and ask us to visit, but she also asked if she could stay with us for a little while.”

“You want?!” Charity asked, but it was unclear if she was directing that toward Sarah or Victoria. “She just had major surgery. She needs to be resting and recovering with family! With people who care about her!”

“And that’s you, is it? The people who never supported my decision? You think I can recover and just get back to normal after this?” Sarah asked. “I can’t. I can’t be around you both right now. I just need to be somewhere else.”

“Besides, like Vic said, we’re her family too,” Robert said.

“Not like you were ever there for her before,” Cain said.

“Well, I’ve been a bit preoccupied being in prison,” Robert said.

“And before that?”

“Would you lot or Debbie have really wanted me to be around?” Robert asked. “But that’s not the point. The point is right now, Sarah is asking for this and I’m going to support her and be there for her.”

“You don’t even know what’s going on,” Charity said.

“I know she’s our niece,” Victoria said. “And that she wants to stay with me. That’s all I need to know. Well, that and any medical stuff that I need to help with.”

“I’m going with Auntie Vic,” Sarah said. “And I’m gonna stay there with them for a while.”

[elderwisp]

◁ || ▷

[ door creaks ]

Kai: Taryn? You’re home early- Oh god, what happened? Are you alright? Did someone hurt you?

Taryn: N-No, I think I need a second. I’m sorry.

Kai: Okay. Let me run you a bath?

Taryn: Yeah, yeah that’s fine.

Taryn: [ mumbles ] Hey…

Kai: How are you feeling?

Taryn: Hungover and dead inside.

Kai: Ven. | Come.

Taryn: This is so stupid. I shouldn’t care this much, right?

Kai: Depends on who this is about. The stranger that left you in this state or Atlas? 

Taryn: Both.

Kai: Well, if spending the night with a guy leaves you like this, maybe they aren’t the right person.

Taryn: He was kind. Gentle, even. A perfect first. The issue is me. I thought I was supposed to feel some type of way but I felt empty afterwards. Maybe I’m not built for one off things right now and that’s embarrassing to admit.

Kai: Hey, that’s completely alright. Everyone’s got different ways of going about things and you’ve been through a lot. As for Atlas.

Taryn: I, uh, I don’t want to be bitter, Kai. 

Kai: Understandable.

Taryn: But it’s really fucking hard. I wish I hadn’t opened up, it backfires, it always does.

Kai: So you were vulnerable for a moment and it didn’t work out. Doesn’t mean you can’t try again. Taryn, you can’t let this be the reason why you shut people out.

Taryn: I know, I know, I just… Feel like every aspect of my life is an opening for rejection and he was the final blow. I shouldn’t blame him.

Kai: But it’s easy. Like you said, the final blow.

Taryn: Do you miss him?

Kai: Y-Yeah. I think I miss my friend most of all. Before everything got so messy. 

Taryn: Isn’t it strange how things change all of a sudden? 

Kai: Like I picked the wrong choice in a game and all the companions die.

Taryn: That’s so brutal!

Kai: A bit. There are a lot of things I need to make right with people. I don’t want my life to work like some sort of confessional. The constant need for repentance, you know? I guess I need to find the courage to actually reach out. 

Taryn: You could… Always restart.

Kai: I will if you do.

Taryn: Maybe I’ll nut up someday.

Kai: PFFT- What?!

Taryn: Some kid told me that the other day.

Kai: Holy shit! 

Taryn: I mean… There’s some truth in that. Hey, you think you can help me with something?

Kai: Sure! 

Taryn: You still good with scissors?

Kai: Yeah, why?

Taryn: I feel like it’s time for a change.

Kai: Oh? This should be fun.

[rockspider556]

One of my absolute favorite conspiracy theories is that 911 is just the universe’s fix-it fanfic of Hawaii Five-0, where a higher power saw McDanno being robbed of canon status and was like, "Fine, I'll do it myself."

The evidence you ask?

Steve = Eddie (military background, broody, emotionally constipated but will kill for his partner).

Danny = Buck (loud, dramatic, sunshine dumbass, absolutely in love with his best friend).

Charlie in H50 vs. Christopher in 911—both are adorable kids who serve as the emotional glue.

The entire "work partners but basically married" thing.

Slow-burn so agonizing that it’s actively hurting the fandom.

Domestic couch scenes

Conclusion: The McDanno fandom somehow manifested Buddie into existence as a second chance, a cosmic fix-it fic where this time, the writers will actually pull the trigger and make them canon.