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639-hear-me-out-bby · 3 days ago

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under a thousand moons | jinu saja

each night, he plays his worn bipa beneath the temple eaves—music born not of glory, but of need, of survival, of something quietly breaking. she hears it from across the city, a melody like a secret meant only for her. when they finally meet, it isn't grand or loud—it’s soft, inevitable, like a thread tugging two hearts closer. in a city that forgets the poor and passes by the quiet, one boy’s song and one girl’s pause become the start of something neither of them expected—and neither can forget.

pairing: kpdh jinu x f. reader (she/her pronouns used) genre: rom-fantasy, timeless love, angst, slow burn (i hope i deliver aaaaaa) rating: teen and up audiences warnings: poverty, emotional vulnerability, animal neglect (implied mention), soft angst word count: 2.7k+ credits & honoraries: inspired by @scribblewytch’s incredible fic—thank you for letting me build off your magic ♡ nabi's notes: this movie has me in a chokehold im tellin' y'all soooo here's my entry to the fandom. to many more!✧˖° ⊹ ࣪ ˖

the bipa had five strings. two were frayed. one never stayed in tune, no matter how often he coaxed it. but when he sat down to play, it didn’t matter. the sound it made was still beautiful—raw and unpolished, yes, but achingly human. like something old and weathered that still remembered how to sing.

each day began the same way. at dawn, he rolled up his sleeves and helped his mother run the small tteok stall they kept on the edge of the lower market row. it was nothing special—just a squat wooden cart, its lacquer faded from too many summers, with a rusted grill and a few baskets of skewered rice cakes waiting to be cooked. they brushed each one with a glaze of sweet soy, let the sugar bubble and crisp over the coals until it shimmered, then handed them over with folded hands. some customers came with kind words. most came and went in silence. a few haggled over every coin. but his mother never turned anyone away.

by midday, the heat clung to their skin like syrup, and the scent of grilled tteok soaked into his sleeves. his fingers were often sticky from the glaze, and the soles of his sandals were worn thin from standing. still, they didn’t complain. that stall kept them fed. most nights, they brought home whatever hadn’t sold and reheated it for dinner.

only after they closed up—after the coals died down and the cart was wheeled into the narrow alley behind their home—did he sling the bipa over his back and make the climb to the temple wall.

there, just beyond the final incense stalls, beneath the tiled eaves that curved like crescent moons, he sat and played. the space was small, no wider than a doorway, but it shielded him from wind and rain. smoke from incense coils lingered in the corners, curling like ghost-thin ribbons around the worn stone. monks passed by in silent rows, their eyes never drifting toward him. not out of cruelty—just habit. to them, he was part of the landscape. a boy and his old instrument, folded into the city’s edge like moss on a wall.

he wore the same clothes each evening: a thin tunic that might’ve once been sky blue, now faded to the color of old parchment, patched at the seams. a ribbon of cloth—once red, now rust-brown—tied his hair back from his face. but the wind always had its way. strands slipped free and clung to his cheeks, kissed by the night air. he never pushed them aside.

around him, the kingdom moved. the scrape of sandals on cobble. the creak of carts laden with root vegetables and late-summer melons. laughter drifted up from the market below, mingled with haggling and half-sung lullabies. somewhere down the slope, a city official barked at delivery boys, his voice sharp as cut metal. and still, the boy played.

not for attention. not for pity. not even for coin—though sometimes a silver or two clinked to the ground from a passing stranger. there was no jar in front of him. no woven hat. only dust, and the long, curling shadow cast by the setting sun.

the music was quiet at first. a murmur. the low breath of something buried deep beneath the city’s noise. it didn’t rise like a grand overture. it seeped. moved. unfurled. a melody not born from memory but from need—notes remembered by the body.

it wasn’t a courtly tune, nor one meant for festivals or drinking nights. it was older. nameless. felt, not recognized. like something that lived between stories and prayers.

his fingers moved not with elegance, but with persistence. each note was earned. grit carved into calluses, calluses pressed into chords. his wrists ached from lifting tteok all day, from the strain of playing the same refrain until it stitched itself into his bones. the pain didn’t stop him. it was part of the rhythm.

"that again," muttered a woman, shifting the baskets on her shoulders.

"always that same sound," her companion said, wiping his brow with a rag.

"like a funeral."

"no," she said after a moment. "like something trying not to die."

a stray cat had taken up residence nearby—a scrappy thing with matted fur and ribs like bent reeds. it limped with every step, its tail dragging like a tattered ribbon. he sometimes fed it. never touched it. but he never made it leave. it came back each night and curled beside him, closing its eyes like it, too, needed the music to stay whole.

when the final note came, it didn’t rise. it fell—quietly, like the last ember giving in to ash. there was no applause. no dramatic hush. only the wind and the continued murmur of the city.

but the air had shifted. ever so slightly. like something had been scraped away, leaving a raw edge where silence used to be.

he leaned back against the temple wall. the stone was cool. firm. familiar in the way old things are—unyielding but steady. the wind slipped past him, threading through alleyways, brushing across rooftops like a whisper. his music went with it, tangled in the scent of grilled tteok, smoke, and rain.

down the crooked street, past the baker’s alley and silk stalls, a girl paused.

she was running errands, a woven basket clutched to her chest. her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, hands dusted with flour. her hair was pinned in a loose coil, held by a carved wooden comb that had begun to slip. people brushed past her, muttering complaints, but she didn’t notice.

her head tilted. not toward him—she couldn’t see him from where she stood—but toward the sound. that soft, distant melody floating between rooftops and lamplight. she had heard it before. every night, as she closed her father’s shop. always that same tune, never quite the same twice.

there was something in it—something that curled beneath her ribs and settled warm in her chest. as if the music was calling to something inside her she hadn’t yet named.

she didn’t smile. didn’t cry. she just stood there, for one breath longer than necessary.

and then she moved.

but her steps were slower now. not heavy. not sad. just... changed. as though the music had rearranged something inside her. smoothed something out. stirred something else.

she always heard it.

and tomorrow—maybe—she would follow it.

she was the shaman’s daughter, her mother, the royal spiritual and physical practitioner to the queen and the women of the palace. her mother’s hands—soft, but stained with oils and ash—moved between this world and the next with a grace that was half-learned, half-inherited. she was the one the queen called upon for warding dreams, easing births, or quieting the tremors that followed sorrow. her words were few, her silences deep. the girl had grown up beside her, tucked into quiet corners of court halls and forest shrines alike.

that morning, she walked the palace path with a woven basket in hand, heavy with herbs and thread. she was to wait by the eastern courtyard, where the garden met the temple wall, until her mother finished tending to the queen’s favored attendant—a young woman who had woken with a grief she couldn’t name. the girl did not ask questions. she had learned to let silence carry its own answers.

she sat on a stone ledge beneath a fig tree whose limbs arched low like old shoulders. sunlight filtered through the broad leaves, dappling her arms and the ground with uneven gold. the breeze carried the mingled scents of jasmine, roasted barley, and sandalwood. around her, the palace stirred with its usual rhythm—slippers whispering against stone, the faint clatter of bowls after morning offerings, the low calls of guards changing posts.

and then—she heard it.

that sound.

the bipa.

the boy had moved closer. she hadn’t seen him at first, but the music reached her before her eyes did. it always did. the thread of melody wove through the morning noise, rising from somewhere near the incense stalls beyond the temple gate. it was unmistakably his—rough around the edges, aching in places, but with a core of beauty that couldn’t be dulled.

she rose slowly and stepped out of the fig tree’s shade.

there he was.

seated cross-legged near the worn stone steps, tucked into the angle where two walls met, his back straight and his hands steady on the bipa’s body. the instrument looked more frayed than ever—its lacquer dulled with use, one string stretched so thin she was surprised it held. yet he played it like it was whole. like it had never known a flaw.

he didn’t play like the court musicians. there was no flourish, no poised performance. his hands moved with the rhythm of someone who knew work: who had scrubbed pots, flipped skewers, stacked bowls, then picked up his instrument. his sleeves still bore faint traces of dark sauce—evidence of the morning’s labor at his family’s stall along the lower market road. she had passed it once. she remembered a woman—likely his mother—turning skewers of grilled rice cakes over hot coals, brushing them with sweetened soy as steam rose into her face.

now, in the hush at the temple’s edge, he played. not to perform. not for coin. but for something quieter. truer. as though the sound was part of his breath, and he simply needed to let it out before it collapsed inside him.

she watched his fingers curve around the strings—not with elegance, but with effort. there was strength in the way he played, the kind born of repetition and necessity. the music wasn’t delicate, but it was deliberate. it resonated.

around them, the palace continued—vendors calling prices, monks sweeping walkways, officials stepping from palanquins—but it all seemed dulled, like the world had slipped underwater, and only the music remained sharp.

her fingers tightened around the basket’s handle.

her mother would appear soon—tall, solemn, cloaked in robes faintly scented with mugwort and pine. she would say nothing, only tilt her head in that knowing way, and the girl would follow. that was how it always went. routine wrapped in reverence. tradition passed like a cup of tea between hands.

but for now, she remained still.

her gaze lingered on the boy. his dark hair, tied back with a faded ribbon, caught the sunlight like thread in a loom. his face was calm, focused—neither hardened nor soft. his clothes were modest, worn but clean, carefully cared for even if the dye had faded to parchment hues. he looked like someone with nothing extra to give, but who gave anyway.

and the music—gods, the music.

it pulled at her, low in the ribs. not like a tune sparking memory, but like a sound tapping something older. like the cry of a crane over still water. like wind through hollow bamboo.

without thinking, her lips parted.

a hum slipped out—quiet, instinctive. a single note, then another. she didn’t sing in words, only tones. barely more than breath. a harmony beneath his melody. not strong enough to interrupt. just enough to thread through the spaces he left open.

her song met his like a second flame catching the edge of the first.

she didn’t know why she sang. only that her heart felt suddenly full—of smoke and sunlight and something she hadn’t named in years. something like longing. something like recognition.

and still, the boy never looked up.

he didn’t need to. the music didn’t ask to be noticed.

it only asked to be heard.

and across the courtyard, standing in that quiet pause between waiting and duty, she answered.

evening stretched thin across the city, staining the sky in folds of indigo and rose. the lanterns along the temple road were already lit, their warm glow pooling on the stone path like spilled gold. a breeze carried the scent of grilled chestnuts, burnt sugar, and the tail end of incense.

he sat in his usual spot, beneath the curved eaves of the temple wall, just beyond where vendors were packing up for the night. the bipa rested in his lap, its wood familiar beneath his fingers. he had just returned from helping his mother. his sleeves still faintly smelled of sweet soy and smoke.

he wasn’t playing yet. just sitting with the weight of the day in his limbs, brushing his thumb lightly across a string. adjusting. listening. breathing. the cat had already curled beside him, tail tucked in, eyes half-closed.

then—soft footsteps.

she appeared like a skipped beat in the rhythm of the street. a figure not meant to be there, and yet exactly right. she walked quickly at first, basket in hand, sleeves rolled from a long day, her hair pinned with the same comb now slightly askew. she looked like someone with tasks to finish, brisk in her steps, measured in her pace.

but then she heard it.

just a few notes, plucked like drifting questions. not a song yet—just a whisper of one.

she slowed. then stopped.

he noticed her before she noticed him. a slight hesitation in her step. a tilt of her head. she stood at the base of the stairs, caught between leaving and lingering.

he hadn’t meant to meet her eyes. but he did.

and something flickered—quick and quiet—between them. not quite recognition. just a shared pause. a subtle understanding neither of them could name.

she took a cautious step closer.

“is that a bipa?” she asked, voice low, careful not to disturb the silence.

“it is,” he replied, adjusting the tuning peg. his voice was soft, a little rough from the smoke and the long day, but steady.

“it sounds like…” she hesitated. “like wind inside a memory.”

he smiled—not widely, but enough. “that’s a good way to put it.”

she looked at the worn edges of the instrument, the curve of its belly, the way it seemed to fit him like a second spine. “i always hear it from down the hill. at the weaving stalls. every night.”

“i didn’t think anyone noticed,” he said.

“i notice.”

another silence stretched—longer now, not heavy, but held. she set her basket down at the stone wall’s edge and sat, folding her legs beneath her. not too close. not too far. the cat, ever territorial, glanced at her, then looked away.

“do you take requests?” she asked.

he chuckled softly. “only if you don’t mind it sounding a little... frayed.”

“i don’t mind.”

she looked at him then—not just his face, but the whole of him. how the threadbare tunic sat across his shoulders. how the ribbon in his hair was more string than silk. how his hands looked strong and worn and capable.

“what you play,” she said, “feels like it’s holding something together.”

he paused. then nodded, gaze lowering to the strings.

“i play because if i don’t,” he said quietly, “i’m afraid something in me might fall apart.”

he plucked the first note.

it rang out, low and full, then trembled softly into the night. the next followed. and the next—until the music unfolded like breath held too long. there were no words to the song, but she understood it anyway.

he played for her—not with grandeur, but with honesty. like unspooling thread from the chest. the sound rose and fell, shifting between shadows and lantern light. around them, the city exhaled. voices passed. the day let go.

when the music faded, she didn’t speak right away.

“do you always play like that?” she asked finally.

he shrugged lightly, wiping his fingertips on his tunic. “only when someone’s really listening.”

she looked down at her hands. then up at him again. “i’ll listen tomorrow, too.”

he didn’t answer. but something in his expression warmed.

then she stood, lifted her basket, and introduced herself.

he nodded. “i know.”

her brow lifted, amused. “you do?”

“you ask for the broken tteok at the end of the day,” he said. “you give it to the street dogs when you think no one’s looking.”

she flushed. “so you do notice.”

he shrugged. “only some things.”

she smiled—not wide, not bright, but real. the kind of smile that made the evening feel whole.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

then she turned and walked down the path. her steps were quieter now, as if she didn’t want to disturb the fading echo of his music.

and he sat a while longer, fingers resting on the strings, eyes on the place where she had been.

they had met by chance.

but in the way the world stilled for just a breath—just long enough for two people to notice each other—they had met at exactly the right moment.

should i continue? heart, reblog, or interact whatever. i highly appreciate feedback!

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ronearoundblindly · 6 months ago

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I have a request! This can be for your ‘Every Cevans character’ or you can choose specific guys from your fics like Fools Rush in! Steve / Root of All! Ransom etc.. whichever you want :)

What does initiating sex look like for the boys? I’m curious which guys do think initiate sex the most? Or do some only wait for the girl to initiate? I have a feeling Jakey boy waits for his girl initiate most of the time 🤣. Maybe there’s some where it’s 50/50? Curious to know your thoughts.

Yeah, sorry I completely wiffed getting this done yesterday, but here's half of the promised content! I did try to reference most of my other works for multiple story insights...

Warnings for discussion of sex, but nothing explicit.

James Mace

Unfortunately, Mace gets distracted by work, spending tons of time (even when you're together) chasing possibilities down rabbit holes, so sometimes you have to remind him that what you two have is real and, like a living thing, will die without oxygen. In this case, oxygen is affection and attention. He...gets it and then forgets again after a while. Mace doesn't need a hard push by any means, but in total, initiating sex is close to 50-50.

He's not a big romancer, but that doesn't mean Mace can't be deeply romantic. Initiating simply looks like more of a "you feeling it?"-type conversation rather than gentle, building foreplay. That said...Mace, when you too are intimate, is 100% focused on you and your pleasure and connection together. He's a very practical compartmentalizer, meaning he also goes hard on the mission in front of him 😉 ya dig?

Curtis Everett

This boi?? Oh lawd. This boi is the king of that look--the one that hits you like a train from across a busy room that says "let's fuck." Curtis doesn't need words; he just needs you. He absolutely ends up being the main initiator if you count all the looks. However, that doesn't mean you aren't giving him the eyes right back. 😁🤭

Jimmy Dobyne

Ugh. Jimmy waits for signals too much and really only is the initiator when he's very, very horny. In Common Education, since that's a modern AU, he takes the lead just as much as reader, but that is because reader has a position of authority (professor) over him at the beginning. Counter-intuitive? Nah, Jimmy finds that attractive. He's hot for it. See, the thing about Jimmy is he's an average joe. He gets kinda complacent and comfortable in traditional setups, so when his perfect partner pushes back against that boring dynamic, it lights a fire under him. He's intrigued. He's energized. That hint of danger is totally an aphrodisiac. "We shouldn't" are two of the sexiest words to this man.

Johnny Storm

Rarely isn't the initiator. Admit it, you knew that already. He's literally got the hots for you all the time. He's got that spunky energy of youth and cosmic radiation. He's DTF.

Jake Jensen

Okay, y'all know I love our babygirl so, so much, but Jake is oblivious to the idea women have libidos. He kinda thinks he's being a burden with how often he wants to touch you or fool around. It ends up being 50-50 on who initiates because he's s.l.o.w. He makes jokes and blushes and plays it off, and Jake assumes he looks more like a goofy man-child (probably because you've said that, verbatim) who isn't exactly the guy you'd want to jump on. Again, he's an idiot. We love him. Just...good gracious, just fuck him as much as you want. He's cool with it.

Lloyd Hansen

Lloyd is not patient enough to wait for you to initiate and also isn't so great with the word 'no,' even in the innocuous form of 'not now.' He will, at very least, threaten to find other entertainment to guilt you into servicing him. Secretly, he loves this game, a bit of fight, but only in small doses. Pretty much you're one chance to initiate is waking Lloyd up, otherwise it's all him.

Ari Levinson

Ari enjoys closeness. He mostly wants to be wrapped around you on the couch after long days at work which leads to who-knows-who started it sex, and with a little luck, a snack, and a hydration break, leads to a who-knows-who-started-it Round 2. He's pretty good at initiation but must be told to wait during those times you need either a different kind of closeness or some alone time.

This is only slightly different from Bedrock & Blueprints!Ari since having a decade of non-romantic experience with you, he doesn't always default to being that close to you. Not in a bad way--Ari is simply used to respecting your space, talking, and listening to you. All that 'baggage' actually helps you two have a deeper, longer-lasting relationship because it's more than just-physical for Ari.

Ransom Drysdale

Ran is a moody son-of-a-bitch and sex improves his mood. It's 50-50 since depending on whether he tries or you try to improve his mood. Ransom's not the most observant dude (putting it mildly), so he doesn't usually notice your mood behaves the same way. If you need some loving, it's then 100% on you to ask, let him know, or jump on that. This applies to...every single version of Ransom I can imagine, so this is RoAR, too.

Andy Barber

Busy. He gets tired. Andy will run himself ragged before remembering that he could have you join him in that essential-shower after a long day. He has bursts of horniness once big cases are finished or vacation energy once you two finally get away. While Andy is deep in work, it's all on you to initiate. If he's less busy/stressed, he will be the best, most playful, most attentive man, but Andy compartmentalizes his life. He can't focus on two aspects of his life fully at the same time.

Steve Rogers

Generally, I totally see Steve as being passive when it comes to initiating sex, but once I broke down the series I've written him in, that guy surprised me.

FRI--For the longest time, obviously, Steve was not the initiator in pretty much any way (couple of kisses, sure, but eh, that's about it), so he has to grow into a 50-50 split. There's a natural ebb and flow between Sketch & Keeps--sometimes it's more you, sometimes it's more him.

Hideout--Steve sure as shit wants you, but all the initiating and encouraging is you for a while. He rarely isn't in the mood when you hint at sex (or any variation of touch, etc). He takes less and less convincing to let go as you two get to know each other. Once he's gained the confidence, Steve initiating is a hott treat, let me just say...

IHTBY--Ummm, it's mostly Steve. Bit of a horndog, this one, and he's highly aware of the previous taboo of you working for him for most of your relationship. He checks in a lot, makes sure you're comfortable and not feeling pressured, and then takes over to show his devotion to you as a woman. Steve is intensely committed to appreciating your independence; he feels lucky (and turned on) knowing you choose to be with him.

Threadbare--Steve enjoys starting intimacy with Button because he often watches her handle lots of tools, paper, fabric, and other people (professionally), which gives him *ideas.* He likes to be the subject of your artistic attentions ☺️

Autumn Is Healing--Steve is the initiator most of the time actually. It began that way because he wanted to show you soft affection, but...he also really likes you (and escalation happens). He starts with very gentle touch, like running his fingertips down your arm.

So...I guess perhaps I was wrong about it being on you to start something...

Bucky Barnes

Cautious. Nowadays, Bucky likes to know the answer to a question before he asks, so he does wait for certain signs from you. He doesn't need overt signals, though, because Buck can sense every subtle change when he pays attention (there's something to be said for his comfort is *turning off* this gift around you as well btw): warmer skin, picked up heart rate, clamping and rubbing your thighs together. All that is to say that he absolutely knows if you're in a mood before making his move on you, and the only times when you technically get to initiate is if you legit pounce on him the instant he returns from a mission.

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; Who Would... Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555

@yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory

@brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn

@late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries

@rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm

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jeonginsleftcheek · 1 year ago

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Seasons with you

pairing: changbin x gn!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers au

word count: 5.0k

warnings: vague descriptions of anxiety, insecurities, depression, abusive exes (not physically), lots of metaphors, they're in love your honor!

a/n: okay this might be one of my favorite fics i ever wrote, i got so emotional and sappy while writing it (i cried aksksll) and i hope y'all love this as much as i love it🥹🩷 binnie deserves the world and so do you, reader💕

(the book i'm referencing in my fic is called 'my name is memory' by ann brashares)

~check out my: Masterlist

🌸SPRING🌸

It is a known fact that everything comes alive with the arrival of spring. The sun rises earlier in the morning, illuminating the trees and the flowers, uncovering new sights to be seen, ones that were blanketed by the darkness of the night before.

The first drops of dew are heavy on a small leaf, making it bend but never break as they slide down to the grass, all the way into the earth below, satiating it's thirst, kissing the roots buried deep.

It's silly to think so, but you kind of relate to the little leaf as you sit on your picnic blanket and stare at it. You always bend to other people's will, always put yourself in the second place, forgetting about your own needs, telling them and yourself that it's fine and you're fine just like this. You bend and bend, and you wonder how much longer you can bend without breaking.

Sometimes you're the little drop in the sea of other drops, invisible and unremarkable, existing just to serve some higher purpose, to feed the earth and disappear like you never even existed before.

Thoughts like this plague your mind often times, especially on a beautiful day like this, when the sun is shining high in the sky, revealing all the colors of pretty flowers that bloomed in the grass, the clouds that look like cotton candy, so fluffy you wish you could bite into them and taste the sweetness of sugar.

The serenity and the beauty around you only feed into the sorrowful black hole inside you that grows bigger and bigger each time you give a piece of yourself and get nothing in return.

Everything comes alive with the arrival of spring, and you hope that this spring you will come alive too, blossom with all the pretty flowers, be one of them and not just a disregardable little leaf.

You wouldn't dream of being the sun itself, when that title is already taken, saved in your heart for your best friend Changbin. The one who is as warm and bright as the sun itself that you're sure the flowers bloom whenever he passes by them. They bask in his incadescence, seeking his light just like you do, but you would never ask for too much, never say it out loud, never bother him with the darkest parts of you in fear of dimming his brightness.

You have no idea that you don't even need to ask, Changbin would reach up and pluck the stars out of the sky only for you, just so he can see that beautiful smile you give him as he approaches you. And as much as he loves the smile that dances on your lips, he can't help but notice every time that it doesn't reach your eyes.

You hide, but the eyes are a mirror to the soul and the dark hole that grows inside you is reflected in your gaze, making Changbin wish he could reach in and touch your soul, illuminate the darkest parts of you. Where you see yourself as the insignificant leaf, he sees you as the most beautiful flower, too delicate to be plucked out roughly like you were before when uncaring hands wrapped around you. Where you see yourself as a little droplet, disappearing and forgettable, he sees you as the water giving life to everything and everyone you come in touch with, the love you carry inside your heart for others quenching their thirst as you scatter parts of yourself all around.

You wave at him, your other hand coming up to shield your eyes from the rays of sun peeking through the leaves as they start rustling. The wind is picking up and your eyes fall to the flowers swaying in the field and then back to your friend's fluffy hair, swaying in unison with the flowers.

Changbin waves back at you, a smile so big on his face that you wish it was all yours, you wish you could be selfish like that and keep him all to yourself, but you can't.

"You left without me."- he pouts as he sits next to you, placing the basket he brought next to his legs.

"Sorry, I peeked into your room and you were still asleep. I didn't want to wake you."- you say, placing your book aside as Changbin opens up the basket.

"Brought you apples."- he says, knowing it was your favorite thing to eat early in the morning. "I washed them, too!"- he adds as he hands you one and you chuckle.

"Thanks, Binnie."- you smile and bite into the apple. It's the perfect sour and refreshing taste sprinkling on your tongue and waking you up a little, spreading through your body.

"Are you still reading that book about soulmates?"- Changbin asks, getting more comfortable on the blanket as he chews on an apple too, the crunchy sounds filling your ears, melting together with the birds singing in the tree above you.

"Yes well, it's the third time I'm reading it actually."

"Doesn't it have a sad ending?"- he asks, tilting his head to look at you as you stare ahead, counting how many red flowers you can see in front of you. Sometimes counting stuff like that calms you down and you do it almost subconsciously, listening to what Changbin is talking about at the same time.

"Not everything is meant to have a happy ending."- you sigh, he reads between the lines. You're referring to yourself, he knows it as well as you do and it's like a thorn in his heart, piercing through the muscle, making him bleed red, red like the flowers you're tallying up.

"Maybe the journey should be appreciated more than just wanting to skip to an ending. Be it happy or sad."- he smiles and you chuckle at his words, the warmness of the sun on your legs is nothing compared to the warmness Changbin envelopes your heart with.

"Maybe."- you shrug, your apathy deeply rooted inside you, you're stubborn like a child and you can't or maybe don't want to let the sunshine in.

🌸

Today must be a special day, a day filled with warmth and laughter. You don't remember the last time you had this much fun, the last time you were this carefree, finally forgetting about what you have to do and who wants to tear away another piece of you.

There's a fair in town, one that has been a constant in your lives, you attended it every year, ever since you were kids when your mothers had to hold your hands and warn you not to wander too far. You never missed a year and this one was probably your favorite.

The only thoughts in your head are Changbin and how you had to try so hard to resist kissing him all over his face when he picked up a kalimba from one of the stands and started playing a random melody on it.

He looked so gleeful like he was that child again, your best friend, who grew up with you and who you grew to love more than yourself, so irresistible and loveable to you. He focused on the instrument in his hands and you didn't want to shatter the sweet moment even though he wasn't even hitting any of the notes right.

"I'll get it for you."- you say when he finally looks up at you, his eyes are shiny as he smiles.

"Really?!"- he asks excitedly and you nod, thinking nothing of it, it wasn't something very expensive and you didn't mind buying him a gift he liked but to Changbin it meant so much more.

After all, he still has the pretty rock you found on the beach when you were 9 and gave it to him as a present, claiming you were sure that it was the prettiest one and that he deserves to have it.

"I swear I'll learn to play it."- he says after you pay for it, making you laugh.

"I'm expecting a full concert."- you tease, wiggling your eyebrows.

"With an encore!"- he adds, both of you giggling as you stroll together, your shoulders brushing occasionally, making your heart skip a beat or two.

You browse through many stands and both of you get hungry, stomach growling and legs cramping from all the walking. You decide to get some dessert, pancakes with ice cream, and you sit on one of the benches, the view of people eating, laughing and talking with their loved ones before you.

Changbin notices pretty flowers right there next to him and he gently plucks one out. You look at him and he smiles at you, like you're the most beautiful of them all as his hand reaches towards you and places the flower in your hair.

"What is that for?"- you chuckle, your cheeks warm and you almost bring your hand up to touch them, but you're balancing the ice cream pancake in your lap, you don't want it to fall and make a mess of your clothes and the floor.

"Looks prettier there."- he says and your breath is caught in your throat.

He means the flower, not you, it's not you, it's never you, that is what you think.

You don't say anything, you look back at your food and Changbin deflates, wishing he could find a delicate way to yell out how beautiful you are, how precious your heart is and how rare a soul like yours is. He wishes to do so quietly, so you don't get scared and run off like a vunerable animal that jumps at any loud sound.

You feel down suddenly, but Changbin doesn't let you feel blue for too long, quickly changing the subject to something funny he remembered or a movie he found interesting.

And when you finish your pancake, your stomach is full and so is your heart. Even just for a moment, you feel full.

You start walking back home, your legs hurting and Changbin offers you to climb on his back and you do so, both of you laughing as he jokes around, pretending he'll drop you as you squeal before he actually starts walking normally with you attached to his back. He carries you home as your limbs wrap around him, wrapping around his heart even more.

You fall asleep as he carries you and he hates having to wake you up as he stands on your porch.

Your peaceful sleepy state is something Chanbgin wishes you could have when you're awake. He wishes he could be your peace, your comfort, your home.

And as he bids you good night, he stands on the porch a little longer than he needed to, even after you close and lock the door.

"I love you."- he whispers, his hand clutching the kalimba you so happily bought for him.

🫧SUMMER🫧

You don't like it. None of it. Not the weather, not the sun constantly making you feel like you're sizzling, not the crowded streets, not the laughter and squeals you can hear whenever you arrive at a beach.

You're a starfish, arms and legs spread out on your bed as you melt into it, the only sounds you hear are the fan turning and the music playing low as you stare up at the ceiling.

There are weird little spots on the ceiling, they were always there, you remember them since you were a child and you know how many there are. Exactly 43 of them but you will count them again and again, with the thought that a new one may appear any day now.

You concentration is broken on spot number 21, when Changbin walks into your room carrying a towel and a backpack.

"No."- you say before he can even open his mouth and he shakes his head, opting to try a light approach as he chuckles at you.

"You're gonna burn a hole into that bed if you keep laying in it."- he says.

"Great. Maybe it swallows me."- you say.

"You're a grim little thing, aren't you?"- he asks and you laugh, throwing a plushie at him but he manages to catch it mid-air.

"Come on, look I have watermelon. And sandwiches. And cards, we can play cards, you love that. And I brought my portable speaker."- he pouts at you and how can you say no to that?

"Alright, alright, you won me over. Give me 15 minutes to get ready."- you say, finally getting up and only then feeling how sweaty your back actually is.

Changbin waits for you in the kitchen, as you pick yourself up, take a quick shower and finish getting ready.

Your heart flutters just a little when you come down and see him helping your mom with the dishes.

In moments like this you wish you could tell him how much he means to you but your tongue twists, a knot in your stomach and a void inside your chest pulls you deeper under water, drowning you in the darkest depths of the ocean.

There's a smile on Changbin's lips the whole way to the beach as he leads you down the path you're familiar with, where your feet have padded through countless times before.

It's unbearably hot and you try to chase the shade as much as you can, the crickets screaming in unison with your burning skin. The closer you get to the beach, the more excitement courses through your veins and Changbin notices how the ends of your lips quirk up and how there's a skip in your step. His mood instantly shifts, matching your pace before the two of you start racing to the beach and giggling like crazy.

"Whoever gets there last, pays for lunch!"- you shriek as you start running, and Changbin scampers behind you slowly, ofcourse letting you win as he looks at your figure getting further away from him and fusing into the sparkly ocean and the blue sky before you.

The little giggles spilling from your lips fuel his heart and his desire to drink from your lips and taste the love that you carry inside you. He hurries to catch up and you turn to look at him breathless, weightless, elated.

The smile he loves reaches your eyes, for a fleeting moment, the sparkle that he unknowingly ignites is burning in your irises, bringing your soul out transparently only for him.

"Thank you for lunch in advance."- you smirk and he giggles.

"You don't have to thank me."- Changbin says and he means it, you don't have to thank him for anything he does for you, he would do it in a heartbeat again and again.

The two of you make it to the water, finally stripping and all but running into the water, excited to cool off a little on a hot summer day.

As soon as you adjust to the temperature of the water, laughter travels through the air between the sounds of splashes as you and Changbin start playing around, not caring if anyone is looking at you, feeling like only the two of you exist.

You wished every day of your life feels just like this.

Only when you get exhausted and the skin on your fingertips shrivels is when you finally get out of the ocean. Changbin is quick to grab a towel and put it around you, another one of the little things he does that makes your face and chest warm.

He opens the mini portable fridge, taking out some watermelon that was cut into pieces. You are the dj, playing some music on his speaker as the two of you settle into a chat.

You get lost in the ocean, watching as the waves roll and roll, your head is a little dizzy and it feels like your body rolls and crashes together with the waves. At first, it soothes you together with Changbin talking about some new band he discovered. Suddenly you feel like something's grabbing your ankles and pulling you down, and you try to fight against it. But the turmoil grows bigger and stronger, grappling to pull your head under water. You want to fight so bad, you wish to have it in you to fight for survival but you are just so tired and you have no fight left inside you anymore.

The sweet juice from the watermelon melts down your fingers, mixing with the salty tears sliding from your face down to your hand.

"Y/n?"- Changbin looks at you. "What's wrong?"- he asks, his face turning into a face of worry, his eyebrows pinched together.

You hate it, hate seeing him unhappy, hate bothering him with your silly little outbursts that you don't even know the cause of.

"N-nothing. I don't know."- you wipe at your face and his eyes soften, his hand coming up to caress your upper back gently.

"It's okay. We can count the clouds together and take deep breaths, what do you say?"- he smiles and you're slowly being pulled up from under the ocean, Changbin being the first thing you see as you emerge out and steady yourself, his hand searching for yours, fingers slotting perfectly together.

You count and he squeezes your hand, sticky from the watermelon but neither of you care. All you care about is him, and all he cares about is you finding your way back to him.

That evening, Changbin goes home with a new pretty rock you found before the two of you made your way back from the beach.

He places it next to the other one,

"I love you."

🍁FALL🍁

The heat has gone away, replaced by crisp air and the smell of petrichor. The rain drips, drips, drips on your windowpane as you sit with your warm cup of tea, a comfy blanket wrapped around your body, your book laying on the side forgotten as Changbin paces around the room, talking excitedly about some people he met who share the same love for making music as he does.

You gaze out the window, watching as the leaves fall down, hitting the ground soundlessly and making piles under the trees. You wanna count how many red ones fall down, but you can't, not when your friend is literally bouncing off the walls as he talks, distracting you from the task you gave yourself.

"Okay Binnie, I love that for you but please slow down, you're making me dizzy."- you chuckle.

"Oh! I'm sorry!"- he bursts into laughter with you, before he finally sits down, taking a deep breath in.

He talks about this Chan and Jisung that are apparently geniuses at what they do and he wants to join their little squad, and they want him to make music with them.

You're extremely proud of Changbin, you're estatic for him but you can't help feeling just a tiny bit jelaous and weird, like someone is bursting your little bubble and taking Changbin away from you. You know it's irrational, but you can't stop the tears that slide down your cheeks that night together with the raindrops sliding down your window glass as you stare at it, your legs pulled up to your chest.

You wonder what is wrong with you, why you feel so cold and abandoned, why you feel so completely alone when you know you're not.

You fall asleep only after counting raindrops.

🍁

Halloween might be your favorite holiday ever and Changbin shares the excitement with you as you decide to dress up in matching vampire attire. It wasn't the first idea that came to his mind for costumes but when he saw your puppy eyes and your lower lip jutting out cutely he couldn't say no.

There was a party held by one of your acquaintances from your uni, Hyunjin, who was popular enough to probably have the whole town come to his house, which is what went through your mind as you arrived at the party.

There were too many people for your liking, and Changbin assured you he wouldn't leave your side the whole night and if you needed to get away, he would be your partner in crime.

The evening was going fine until you caught sight of your abusive ex. A chill went down your spine. They never lifted a hand on you physically, but they always took from you, never gave anything in return, they peeled away all the layers, cut out all the pieces, fed their own desires and just kept taking and taking until you were left shattered on the floor like a porcelain doll. There were so many broken pieces that you're sure you'll never be able to glue them back together.

Changbin follows the line of your sight and finds out the reason the look on your face turned sour. He wrapps his arm around you and pulls you closer to him as your ex had the audacity to approach you.

"What are you doing?"- you whisper to Changbin and he just squeezes you gently.

"Trust me."- he whispers back, and you do. You would trust him with your life.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"- your ex smirks.

"A loving couple. You got a problem with that?"- Changbin speaks up and you gasp, you've never seen him speak to someone like that, you always saw him as a soft teddy bear, tender and sweet, always delicate with you like you were made of glass.

Your heart beats hard against your chest at the thought of you and Changbin being a couple, a loving couple at that and you dare to let yourself dream for a second as you drown out the sounds of the party wilding around you and your ex scoffing as they fuck off back into the mass of moving people.

"You okay?"- Changbin asks and you nod.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Surprised they didn't talk back to you, honestly."- you say as Changbin leads you to the couch so you can sit and calm down.

"Maybe they turned over a new leaf."- he says and you chuckle, it sounds so easy to do that, a leaf weighs absolutely nothing. You wish you could do the same, but when the hands are heavy, even lifting something as wispy as a single leaf seems impossible.

Changbin hold your hand again as you sit and count the fairy lights in Hyunjin's living room.

You don't know how, but your eyelids get heavy and you fall asleep on Changbin's shoulder.

His lips gently press into your hair amidst the chaos of the party, something so simple and gentle unfolds as his heart hammers inside his chest, spelling out,

"I love you."

❄️WINTER❄️

It's a yearly occurence, your families get together every Christmas and travel to a big house in the mountains to enjoy winter in all of it's glory; the snow high to your knees, the skiing resorts, the cable car where you can take in all the sights, the mountains massive, strong, soaring, touching the clouds and sky itself, they almost seem surreal to you.

Something like Changbin, who is always strong for you, a rock you can lean on, someone with a soul as big as his definitely touches the clouds and deserves to have the sky.

You almost feel like a little ant staring at the mountain, like you're nothing compared to it. Nothing compared to him.

Thoughts swirl in your mind, painting your soul black again, the dark void is now almost swallowing you whole, you're afraid you'll disappear inside it.

It grows even when your families are all together, wearing stupid christmas sweaters and exchanging gifts, it grows when you and Changbin go sledding, screaming and racing each other which ends up in a snow fight and him profusely apologizing because he hit your leg too hard with a snowball. It grows and grows, and you know you can't bend anymore, you're about to break. About to run out of fake smiles and I'm fine's, terrified of spring coming and nothing ever changing.

The vast snow covered hills and mountains that you stare at look like the void inside you feels, and that void looks back at you and mocks you, laughs at you.

"Hey, it's pretty late. Come inside, you'll get sick."- Changbin appears on the balcony and you jolt out of your thoughts and turn around to look at him.

He looks at you ever so softly, a beacon of light in the darkness of you.

"Where is everyone else?"- you ask, peeking into the living room behind him.

"They went to sleep. It's just you and me. Come on, we'll make some hot chocolate and gossip by the fire."- he wiggles his eyebrows and you can't help but laugh as you follow him inside.

Your eyes are trained on the fire, as Changbin's are on you, the reflections of it dancing on your face and illuminating every single spot, freckle, wrinkle that you have, everything he loves about you, everything he's already counted many times before wishing he could count them with his lips too, not just in his head.

"Is the chocolate good?"- he asks.

"Yeah, perfect."- you nod, but you want to scream. You want to tell him how scared you are of being unloveable and broken, scared of ending up alone, scared of never blossoming into a beautiful flower.

It's like he feels your thoughts and Changbin's heart swells, growing and expanding to fit everything that makes you you inside it, as the words spill from his lips;

"I love you."

Your head snaps towards him, the movement making you spill a few drops of chocolate on your sweatpants.

"W-what?"- you say, sure you've gone deaf in the middle of everything else.

"I love you. I can't keep it in anymore, I'm sorry. I've loved you always and I don't know living without loving you. I don't know who I am if I don't love you."

Your ears ring as you stare into his eyes, the crackling of the fire sounds like the crackling of your heart as it bursts in little fireworks and you feel like you've lifted up into the air, your body weightless like the little leaf, unbothered and carefree, and you cry.

You burst into tears as sobs escape your lips and Changbin's arms envelop around you, keeping you safe and pulling you back down to root yourself in the ground.

"Shh, it's okay. It's gonna be okay. I'm here."- he keeps whispering as he rocks you and you clutch onto him like he'll fade away from existence if you let go.

You want to tell him you're unworthy, that he's so much better than you and he deserves someone with an open heart, not you, the black hole that sucks everything in, you want to tell him you feel as empty as the white snow covered field, you want to tell him of your fear, your insufficiency and your doubt, residing in your soul that was tainted with darkness of other, befouled souls.

But you don't have to say anything, he knows you better than you think he does, and he holds you tightly, like you're the most precious thing to exist since the dawn of time until now.

But most importantly, you want to tell him that you love him too. And you can't. It eats at you as you cry harder but he understands. He always does.

His hands are smoothing down your back as he whispers over and over again;

"I love you."

🫀EPILOGUE🫀

And with the arrival of this spring, you have come alive too. You're not just a little leaf anymore, nit just a drop of dew, you're the most lovely flower of them all, you're his flower. Like a butterfly you've emerged from your cocoon, more beautiful, more colorful, more mature and loved. Your sun rises in the shape of your wonderful boyfriend, the one who removed the blanket of darkness from your eyes, the one who helped you pick the pieces back up, helped you love yourself.

It's a journey, the hole is still there albeit considerably smaller and you sit and count the red flowers while Changbin feeds you sliced up apples, nothing but love and adoration in his eyes as they observe you.

"Seventy six."- you exclaim suddenly, startling your lover from admiring you.

"Oh yeah? That was pretty fast."- he smirks jokingly at you.

"I'm kinda good at counting, actually I'm a professional at it."- you say matter-of-factly.

"I expect you to count all the kisses I give you today."- he giggles, pecking your cheek.

"Right, like you don't kiss me every second."- you roll your eyes playfully.

"Mhm, acting like you don't like it. Maybe I should just stop and make it easier for you to count when there's less of them."- he jokes and you laugh, the smile gracing your face reaches all the way up to your eyes.

"No, you should keep going. That way, I'll get even better at counting."

You continue joking around, like there's no care in the world, your book is next to your legs, the one you read over and over again. Maybe it doesn't have a happy ending, but now you know you don't need a happy ending in a book because yours is right next to you, being silly for the purpose of making you laugh.

The gaping hole inside you shrinks smaller and smaller and you don't feel like you're constantly on the edge of a cliff anymore. And even if you were, Changbin would be there to catch you.

You're lost in counting his eyelashes as he leans in closer to you and before your lips touch his, you whisper,

"I love you."

🫀

✨Taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae

#skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids #skz changbin #changbin x reader #changbin fluff #changbin scenarios #changbin imagines #seo changbin #skz fluff #changbin #skz imagines #skz scenarios #stray kids changbin #changbin x you #changbin soft thoughts #changbin soft hours

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hadesisqueer · 6 months ago

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Something I did love about the movie is that I thought Spider Punk was going to be part of a love triangle with Miles and Gwen but he wasn’t. Thank god

Oh god yeah. I mean, I feared that too before I watched the movie, that he was set up to just be there to cause drama between the protagonist and deuteragonist who are LI's and that he was going to be an asshole to Miles over Gwen or something like that. But not at all. Miles was a bit jealous and all, but anyone actually willing to pay attention could see that Hobie and Gwen are just great friends. Yeah, she stayed at his universe and left her sweater there; y'all, she literally left her sweater at Miles' room and she was there for like two minutes, she's just forgetful, and my god, have some people never had friends? You guys really have never crashed at your friends' place? Lmao. Hobie knew she was in a bad situation and didn't really have anyone looking out for her at the time —her own dad had pointed a gun at her, she wasn't allowed to see Miles, Miguel thought she was a liability and Jessica would only have her back as long as she didn't 'mess up', as it was seen when she was sent home—. So Hobie became her friend and looked out for her. He wasn't an asshole to Miles, in fact he liked him and tried to mentor him and told him how he could escape. He was always chill and honest with him, not antagonistic, no jealousy; his own dynamic with Gwen is not romantic. In fact, I'd say Hobie is probably very much aware of Gwen's crush on Miles: the guy spent months with Gwen, and Gwen talked about Miles enough for Hobie to connect the dots lmao. He knows how much Gwen cares about Miles and that she would regret things and want to find him and help him, which is why when he left the gizmo for her, it was already programmed to go to Earth-1610. And he went around calling those two Gwen and Peter Pan lol. Rather than being an antagonistic romantic rival stuck in a love triangle, I'd say the guy is just a genuinely great guy and a very good friend who's kinda rooting for her and Miles lmao

#atsv #spiderman across the spiderverse #hobie brown #spider punk #gwen stacy #spider gwen #ghost spider #miles morales #spiderman #ghostflower #gwiles

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doberbutts · 10 months ago

Text

Oh this time it's terfs forgetting that "black" and "man" can describe the same person. So all y'all that were fussing at me about this saying you're not using terf rhetoric can venmo me 5 dollars or shut the fuck up forever actually.

Also I love that logic "omg you think being part of half the population is similar to being a minorty" I mean... women are also the other half, so like. What's your point?

Also do you think it's easier to be black in non-western societies because I can promise you that it is not.

and then these folks wanna be mad that I'm calling them a terf when they're calling themselves terfs

AND she admits to being blackpilled, which is a sociopolitical leaning with deep deep roots in the most violently misogynist and also self-hating portions of the manosphere and yet my post about "it is your responsibility to be a decent fucking person and not treat people badly based on demographic doesn't change just because the demographic did" is the problem. Yeah ok.

And also another example of "terfs make me feel nothing but pity and contempt because they are clearly suffering from extreme mental illness with how much they talk about wanting to die and self-medicating and rejection of anyone who offers even a shred of kindness, but they make it other people's problem and lash out on purpose to hurt other people rather than take any amount of healing steps out of that mindset"

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sunvmars · 2 years ago

Text

sour | s.r. [2]

pairing: steve rogers x afab/fem reader

↞ previous | next ↠

word count: 3.2k

warnings: swearing, brief mentions of abortion, pregnancy/pregnant reader- that's ab it

summary: you and steve discuss plans for the pregnancy, steve faces the consequences of his actions

a/n: oh boy have i got a little plot twist coming for y'all soon. also, the chapters will get longer as more of the story is revealed!

“I’m pregnant, Steve.”

Steve's hold on you became a little tighter. He found himself unable to fully process the information you'd just dropped on him; you being pregnant wasn't something he had even considered. You stood still in his arms, allowing him time to process the news and awaiting any type of response from him. He took a deep breath, his mind racing with thoughts and emotions. The words kept repeating in his head; she’s pregnant, she's pregnant, she's…pregnant.

"Steve? Did you hear me?" you questioned, voice slightly muffled by how you were being pressed into his chest.

Only after hearing your voice again did he move. He released his grip on you and took a step back to look you in the eyes. His eyebrows furrowed, his expression containing a mix of disbelief and confusion. There was something else hidden below the surface of his gaze too- a deep-rooted concern. A concern not only for you but for the tiny little life growing inside of you too, the life both of you created.

"What..? I'm sorry, this is just, uhm, wow."

You cock an eyebrow up at him, "That's all you've got to say?"

When he doesn't respond, you scoff. His eyes search the room as he tries to avoid direct eye contact with you.

"Well, now that you've made this abnormally awkward, I think I'm gonna go home now," you chuckle, trying to hide your irritation, ''Since I'm having your baby, please feel free to call me when you've got something else to add, alright?"

He grabs your arm when you turn to leave, "Wait. I'm sorry, y/n. Come inside, please. We can talk in here.”

Reluctantly, you allowed Steve to guide you into the apartment. His grip on your arm stayed gentle but firm like he thought you were gonna turn and run away at any moment. Once fully inside, you noticed how everything seemed so familiar yet foreign at the same time. Most of the pictures were off the wall except for two.

One picture was one that Tony had taken at the beach a year ago. The photo was of you, Steve, and Bucky sitting in the sand. You were laying in Steve's lap with your head resting on his chest while playing rock, paper, scissors with Bucky for the last slice of Steve's birthday cake.

The other photo just had you and Steve on your first date. You'd made him take a picture with you in front of the movie theater you went to. It was the oldest theater in town and, at some point during the night, you made a joke about how the theater was the only thing as old as him in the city.

He'd rolled his eyes at the joke but found himself unable to contain a smile when he saw your face light up as you laughed. You were witty, and that was his favorite thing about you, even if he was on the butt end of the joke. As long as you still had that pretty smile on your face, he didn't care how many jokes you made about him.

The soft, white couch you'd picked out together when the two of you first moved in was still there too and so was your favorite vase. The vase was missing the flowers though- the flowers he'd come home with every Friday without fail. More often than not, the ones he bought the week before weren't even dead yet, but he'd buy you new ones anyways.

"Ma used to tell me that if someone buys you flowers and they don't die for a long time, that means they really love you. But it's unavoidable that they'll die eventually, right? So I figured that if I buy you new ones before the old ones die then you'll never get the chance to forget how much I love you," he explained, leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead.

"Right, but what if I forget anyway?" you joked with a smile.

And then he shrugged and gave you a peck on your nose, "Then it's a good thing I'll be right here to remind you, honey," he cooed.

You bit your tongue, forcing the lump in your throat to go back down upon remembering all of the moments you shared. This was your home until just a couple of months ago, and now it felt like you were standing in a shell of what used to be your safe space.

Steve led you to the living room, the last room you'd been in before he gave up on your future together. He gestured for you to take a seat and you plopped into your favorite recliner that didn't even seem like it'd been touched since you left. The tension in the room was palpable as he sat on the far end of the couch, the side farthest away from you.

"You scared I'm gonna bite you or something?" you joked, rubbing a hand over your aching stomach.

He gave a short-lived chuckle before speaking, "Listen, I'm sorry for my reaction," he began, his voice filled with sincerity, "I didn't expect this, and I'm sure you didn't either."

You nodded to show your understanding, "It's alright, this is a lot for both of us."

"What do you wanna do..?"

"Me?"

His brain blanks as he tries to think of whether or not he'd said something wrong.

"Yeah?" he finally says, almost saying it like a question.

"It's not just my decision, Steven. You get a say in this too."

"I do?"

You laugh a little at his confusion, "Yes. You do."

"I'm sorry, it's just that with everything that happened I... I'm trying to say that I'd understand if you didn't want me involved in this decision," he says, looking down at the floor to avoid your eyes.

"Steve, look at me," you begin, pausing until he looks back up at you, "I wouldn't leave this choice up to just me. Whatever decision we make has to work for both of us though."

He looks up at you with surprise etched all over his face, "Thank you, y/n. It's more than I deserve."

"Mhm, tell me about it," you sigh while still rubbing a hand soothingly over your stomach, trying to ease the nausea.

He's silent, avoiding the dreaded breakup conversation. Luckily enough, neither of you are ready to have that discussion yet. He claps his hands together in his lap quietly and clears his throat to get rid of the silence.

"Do you know how far along you are?"

"No, not yet. I have to find a doctor. I'll ask Tony to make the call for me tomorrow."

"So, what do you wanna do?" he asks again, emphasizing the 'you,' "Have you thought about...you know?"

"The alternative? Yeah, I thought about it for a bit, but I think I wanna keep it. I've only known about the little guy for less than an hour and I'm already attached."

What you said was true, you did think about every possible alternative from abortion to adoption; but at some point on the way here, you'd decided on keeping it. You feel a bit of hope when you look down at your stomach. You smile to yourself, momentarily forgetting all your troubles. Though your smile is quickly replaced with a frown when you remember the situation at hand. You look up to lock eyes with him, seeing he's clearly hesitating to respond.

"But if you don't want this, I can raise him or her alone. Y'know, move out of town or move a few states away to be closer to family so there are no unwanted run-ins. The whole nine yards," you say softly, wiping a stray tear off your cheek.

"Oh, y/n," he mumbles, "I'm sorry. I didn't want it to be like this- I didn't want any of this."

You take in his words, trying to make sense of them. You felt your heart beginning to break as he remained silent. How can he just give up so easily before it even gets hard? Not that you'd pressure him into raising a kid he didn't want, I mean you did give him the choice, but his words still come as a surprise.

"So, the whole nine yards it is then?"

"I'm sorry, y/n..."

“I need you to look at me and say it, please.”

Steve looked around the room, appearing as though he was about to cry. His eyes finally land on you and you swear there's bits of guilt and regret in them.

"I don't want this baby."

That was all you needed. Hearing him say the words to you only solidified that y/n l/n and Steve Rogers didn't stand another damn chance. You sniffled as you stood up, trying to conceal any glimpse of sadness he could possibly see in you. You make your way to the door and go to turn the handle only for him to start speaking and stop you in your tracks.

"Y/n. I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't expecting any of this. I don't know what I want yet."

"Of course you do, Steven, you just said it," you say with a fake smile as you turn to look at him, "I'm not upset with you for not wanting this, but I'm disappointed that you're not the man I thought you were. If you change your mind, you know where to find me, but decide soon because I won't let you be in and out of our lives."

With that, you leave and quietly shut the door behind you.

The drive back to the tower is entirely too slow and painful. You slipped your shoes off once back inside the comfort of your room and made your way to the bathroom to run a bath. After sinking in the warm bubbles and water, you unlocked your phone to unblock Steve's number. You awaited a text as you bathed- a text that never came, that is. You felt a little silly for ever thinking he'd want this with you but brush the feeling off quickly as it makes you feel physically sick.

You dry off, slip into your favorite night clothes, then slip under your covers. After trying to fall asleep for four hours and either waking up after a few minutes or not being able to fall asleep at all, you text Bucky to see if he's awake. It's about 3 a.m., but he responds after only five minutes to tell you he's coming to your room. The fact that he knew you wanted him to come over without saying it had a smile spreading across your lips.

When he arrived, you hugged him tightly and let out a shaky breath you'd been holding. He pulled away from the hug and looked at you with a concerned expression painted on his face.

"What's wrong?" he asks, hands resting on your arms.

"I'm pregnant, Buck."

You laugh a little to hide the way your voice cracked but Bucky sees right through it. He frowns at the sight of you, taking in the dark bags under your eyes and your skin that was paler than your usual tone.

"Let's go sit down, yeah?" he smiles warmly.

The two of you sit on your bed in silence as you lay your head on his shoulder. You make small talk after a few minutes, Bucky mainly asking questions about what you plan to do and how you feel.

"I'm guessing you told Steve?" he inquires.

He feels you nod slowly against his shoulder and he takes it as a sign to continue.

"And how did he take it?"

You shrug before speaking, "It seemed like he wanted to be a part of it all at first...then he said he didn't want this, but then he said he wasn't sure."

"Huh," he sighs out of confusion, "You know I'm here for you though, right? Both of you are my best friends, no matter how stupid he's being."

"I know you are," you reply.

"I know it's early and all, but have you thought about if you want a girl or boy?" he asks cautiously, worried the topic might upset you, "If you keep it, that is," he quickly adds.

"Buck, can I be honest with you?"

"Of course."

"I went to Steve's to get his input, but I think I decided to keep it as soon as I found out about it. I hate Steve so much right now, but this baby is a piece of both of us. I can't bring myself to get rid of something so innocent just for being a part of him," you explain, "I know it's not that simple for other people, but I did want kids with him eventually. I'm not unhappy with the pregnancy, I'm unhappy with the circumstances. Boy or girl, I'll be overjoyed either way."

He smiles to himself briefly, "You've got the biggest heart, you know that? You'll be a wonderful mother, y/n, and I mean that."

As hard as he tries to come up with an explanation for his friend's odd behavior, he can't. He'd promised you that he wouldn't go digging for answers when you broke up, you'd told him you didn't care to know and that it wasn't his problem. You're his friend, so he respected that. But now? Now it wasn't just you that Steve was abandoning, which meant that now he had to have answers.

Your breathing slows after a little bit, a sign that he recognizes as you getting sleepy. Slowly, he lays down, cradling your body so that you lay down with him. He lets you rest your head on him as he strokes your hair back soothingly. He waits until he hears your soft snores to gently ease your head onto your pillow before getting off the bed. He'd decided that he was going to get answers, even if it was three-forty in the morning.

Back at the apartment, Steve had only moved once to turn off the lights, pour a glass of alcohol, and sit in your recliner. He would never say it now but he hated being alone in the apartment without you. This wasn't his home, and it never was, not without you there with him. The space that used to be filled with your laughter and your love now felt void of anything other than cold. He sat in the dark, alone with his thoughts, as he did almost every night since you broke up.

His phone buzzed, startling him out of his thoughts. The timing of him getting a message was unusual given the late hour. He picked up the phone and saw it was from Bucky, he smiled softly in hopes that his friend would offer some sort of help. He was sadly mistaken.

Bucky: We need to talk.

Steve frowned at the cryptic message as he typed a response.

Steve: About what?

Bucky's reply was swift.

Bucky: You know exactly what.

A knock sounded at the door no more than ten minutes later. He sighed, mentally preparing himself for whatever talking to he was about to get.

"It's open," he called out.

The door opened to reveal Bucky. As he walked in, the light from outside lit up his face and allowed Steve to see his expression of concern and irritation. He closed the door behind him and then turned to face Steve.

"I'm starting to worry you're turning into a vampire or something, punk. Why are you sitting with all the lights off again? Haven't we had this talk before?" he questions, flipping the overhead light on, "Have you been crying again?"

Steve groans and rubs his wet eyes with his free hand, "No," he lies.

His eyes narrow in Bucky's direction as he walks towards where he's sitting. Steve then brings the drink up to his lips to take a sip only to have it yanked away.

"Buck-"

"Now this is new, is this alcohol?" Bucky asks, bringing the glass up to his nose only to recoil at the scent, "Steve, oh my God, What is in this?"

"Whiskey, tequila, a little bit of everything. Well, everything she left here."

Bucky looks away, desperately trying to contain a laugh, "You can't even get drunk. What are you doing? What's the end goal here?"

"The taste helps me forget how big of an idiot I am," Steve confesses as he snatches his drink back, "It's like a punishment."

"Glad you know you're an idiot, it makes my job here easier."

"Did she send you over here," Steve asks, looking up at Bucky through his eyelashes.

"No, she didn't. But she told me what happened and I came here on my own," Bucky responds, "You know as well as I do that she can fight her own battles."

"Then why are you here?"

"To check on you. And like you said, you're an idiot. I'm here to figure out why you're being such an idiot, though. Whatever Steve you've been for the last four months isn't the Steve I know."

When he doesn't answer, Bucky continues talking, "I've let this go on for far too long. I should've asked when I noticed you were acting weird, but I chalked it up to how rough that last Hydra mission was. But this whole baby thing is the last straw, Steve. I've had to put up with your dumb decisions recently, I deserve an explanation. The woman carrying your child does more so, but we'll get to that."

Steve let out a heavy sigh and his shoulders slumped as he realized there was no escaping the conversation. Bucky had always been a straightforward friend. For as long as they knew each other, he was never one to beat around the bush, and he wasn't about to start letting Steve get away with stuff now.

"I don't even know where to start," Steve admits, his voice laced with frustration.

He takes another sip of his drink, hoping it might give him the kick he needs to explain himself. His face turns up at the taste and Bucky tries yet again to conceal a laugh.

"Okay, enough of that," he says, taking the drink back out of Steve's hands.

Bucky crosses his arms and sits on the end of the couch closest to Steve, giving him a stern look, "How about you try starting with why you decided to walk away from her? She's the best thing that ever happened to you, Steve, we both know that."

Steve winces at his words. He knew Bucky was right, as he usually was, but facing the same truth every day didn't make it hurt any less. It actually hurt worse since he knew that this entire situation was his fault.

"So?" Bucky says, urging Steve to speak.

Bucky instinctively brings the glass up to his lips and takes a sip. His expression turns from understanding to disgust as he spits the drink back into the cup.

Steve chuckles under his breath, "Habit?"

"Think it was the feeling of the cup in my hand, not sure why I did that. Guess old habits do die hard," Bucky explains, "Anyways, get to the explaining."

"I... I don't know, Buck. I messed up, bad."

"We already know that, care to elaborate?" Bucky prodded.

"It wasn't up to me, Buck," Steve sighs, speaking again when he sees Bucky's confused look, "Remember that Hydra mission you were just talking about?"

taglist! @vicmc624 @tooruen @athenabarnes @blackhawkfanatic

to be added to or removed from the tag list for this series, leave a comment or message me :) submissions and asks are now also open

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wizardofahz · 25 days ago

Text

The Paradox of Sophie Devereaux

Fandom: Leverage: Redemption Compilation: Moments in the Life of Leverage Fam A/N: Harry holds Sophie in such high regard that I think it'd be funny if he found out how bad of an actress she was once upon a time.

"I couldn't help but notice the Shakespeare reference in your dating profile," Harry tells Sophie one day. "It's a shame you didn't go into acting. I know you've mentioned directing, but with your talents, it would have been a mighty fine treat to see you on stage."

Parker lets out a snorting laugh.

"Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you," Eliot says with a pained grimace.

"Oh, stop it," Sophie protests. "It was a long time ago."

Harry glances between the three of them. "I don't understand."

"She did try acting," Eliot explains before Sophie can nip this whole thing in the bud. He shakes his head. "Worst actress I'd ever seen."

Years ago, the comment would've stung. Now Sophie can take some teasing, but the thought of Harry witnessing her earlier attempts at acting still makes her cringe.

Luckily, the whole concept seems entirely alien to Harry. "Now I find that very difficult to believe," he says.

Unluckily, Parker decides to give a demonstration.

"uUnSex me HEre," she says in a ghastly voice, sashaying awkwardly.

Sophie steps forward to divert everyone's attention away from her. "Again, that was a long time ago. We need not speak of it anymore."

Harry frowns, bewilderment apparent in every one of his features. "I thought you were already a grifter before you all met."

"I was," Sophie says, trying to preserve her dignity. "Best one they'd ever seen."

"Eventually," Eliot says. "Nate brought us to one of her plays to recruit her. He didn't even put it up for a vote, and I still tried to vote no."

Neither of them had ever told her that, but Sophie supposes she can't be surprised. Still, Eliot is going to be making her a lot of tea in the near future.

"Eventually," Sophie quotes, rolling her eyes. "It was one day."

"Oh yeah," Breanna says as a distant memory resurfaces. "When I was a kid, I think Hardison also said something about people rooting for the Nazis in The Sound of Music." She grimaces. "Which, in this day and age, sounds really, really bad."

How utterly mortifying. "Hardison told you about that?"

At least Breanna had forgotten by the time they actually met in Panama. Now to make her forget again.

"He used to tell us everything," Breanna explains. "Y'know, trying to be the cool big brother. Like, y'all were cool, but he was the most put together of you all. Nate was the alcoholic mastermind, Sophie the grifter who couldn't act, Parker was a cool thief but also kinda crazy, and Eliot the cowboy was actually just a horse girl."

Eliot growls. "A what?"

"A horse girl," Breanna repeats easily. "You know, like, a girl that's crazy about horses."

"Damn it, Hardison," Eliot growls. "I'm gonna kill him."

With the new topic, Sophie is ready to breathe a sigh of relief. But then Harry Wilson---bless his heart---does not let it go.

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand," Harry says. "Is this another one of those inside jokes?"

In spite of everything, Sophie is relieved and a little touched that Harry's high regard for her renders the whole concept unbelievable.

Breanna starts typing on her laptop. "I wonder if there's anything online. You can find all sorts of bootlegged theater performances on the internet if you know where to look."

"Absolutely not," Sophie says adamantly. "Hardison assured me that everything has been scrubbed from the internet."

Or so he had said. Knowing him, he might have kept backup copies for his personal amusement. She may very well have to con them from him in the future.

"I think this will just be one of those things I accept I'll never understand," Harry says.

Thank goodness.

#leverage redemption #sophie devereaux #harry wilson #parker #eliot spencer #breanna casey #moments in the life of leverage fam #leverage: redemption

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fratboykate · 1 month ago

Note

Ok, but I really need to see Kate in rehab now. Also Yelena not willing to say ex-wife but Kate's like "no, we broke up. I fucked this."

And maybe it's me needing some fluff, but just. Kate and Yelena FaceTime. Little talks. The ones where they ignore the shit and it feels like it did before, but then they get quiet because they remember it's not before. Its now and it's kind of fucked.

Can we get Yelena visiting Kate in treatment? Kate reconnecting with her kids? Kate accepting accountability? There’s so much angst to explore! It’s like Christmas but if Christmas made me cry.

Kinda a combo of parts of these two. Not fully fulfilling either but...I think it'll scratch y'alls itch. Here's 7.8k of angsty goodness.

Thirty days.

That’s how long it’s been since Kate overdosed on their bathroom floor, shaking and blue and almost gone. Thirty days since they called 911. Thirty days since her world transformed in an instant.

The doctors said no visitors. At least three weeks. Standard protocol, apparently. Full detox. Full isolation. No calls. No visits. No distractions. Yelena had argued, but not much. She knew better than anyone how Kate could manipulate a room. How she could talk her way out of anything, convince even the sharpest doctor she was fine. Better. Cured.

Three weeks. Clean break. Let the treatment take root. That’s what they said. Yelena knows it was the right call. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt.

Yelena didn’t realize how much Kate handled until she wasn’t there. Didn’t realize how overloaded Kate must have felt. Because that’s how she feels now. Drop-offs, sports, dance classes, dentist appointments, remembering that Alexia needs a poster board or Maks has a costume party. With the kids in her care full-time now, Yelena’s brain runs like a computer with too many tabs open. None of them organized. All of them on fire.

Sonny’s teething again. Maks wet the bed three times this week. Alexia…Yelena doesn’t even know. The girl’s gone quiet. Too still. She doesn’t ask about Kate much anymore. Doesn’t cry. Just watches. That’s worse.

The silence. The observing. The waiting. Yelena can feel the weight of Alexia’s eyes on her when she’s folding laundry, when she forgets to pack a snack, when she doesn’t laugh at Maks’ joke fast enough. She can feel it like a measuring stick being held up to her forehead.

Are you enough? Are you enough without her?

Alexei has all but moved in. At first it was just to help for the week. Then the week stretched. Then it became routine. He makes breakfast every morning like he’s been doing it forever. Walks Sonny up and down the block when she won’t stop crying. Tells Maks stories about when Yelena was little, always ending with, "And that is why your Mama is like this."

Melina stops by every day with printouts. Meal plans. Color-coded calendars. Suggestions for managing the emotional trauma of children post-crisis. She talks in bullet points. But she has never, not once, told Yelena or Alexei how she feels about any of this.

Alexei and Melina are helping. They are. But it’s still also only Yelena now. She’s the one who wakes up every night to check if the kids are breathing. The one who takes the calls from the school. The one who remembers which brand of pull-ups doesn’t give Sonny a rash. The one who has to answer the same question, over and over again:

"When is Mommy coming home?"

She tells them: Soon. When she’s better. When the doctors say she’s ready.

Maks asks if they’ll get to live together again after. Alexia doesn’t say anything.

Yelena goes to group once a week. Nar-Anon. The one for the families and friends of addicts. Took her three tries to actually walk inside. Sat in the car the first time, engine running, hand on the door. Couldn’t move. The second time she got as far as the hallway before a woman smiled at her too kindly and she bolted. The third time, she sat down. Didn’t talk. Just listened.

Heard stories that sounded too familiar. Stories about addicts who lied and stole and relapsed and swore they wouldn’t. About kids who grew up with half-parents. About the helplessness. The rage.

She cried halfway through her second real meeting.

Now she’s made it a point to put in on her calendar. She promises herself she’ll go every Thursday night. So far, she’s stuck with it.

She sits in the third row, near the back. Not sharing. Not uttering Kate’s name. Not even her own. She simply shows up and listens. And, for now, that’s enough.

Yelena misses work deadlines constantly now. The lab understands. Mostly. Her name still carries weight. But the remorse gnaws at her. She was never late before. Never missed a review or stood someone up for a meeting or forgot to follow through.

Now she sets alarms and forgets what they’re even for. Now she pours coffee and drinks it cold. Now she folds laundry at midnight because it’s the only time the house is quiet.

Alexia stays up too late. Pretends to read. Yelena doesn’t push her. Maks has become more clingy, crawling into her bed in the middle of the night and whispering that he had another bad dream. Sonny hangs on to Alexei like a barnacle. Yelena calls him Dad. So now Sonny calls him Dad. Like it’s always been that way.

Yelena loves them so much it hurts. Loves them beyond measure…yet nevertheless, she sometimes wants to scream. But there’s no room to fall apart. No corner of the day where she can shatter. No one to pass the baton to. Kate isn’t there. Kate isn’t texting to say she’s running late but will pick up dinner. Kate isn’t leaving her notes in the margin of grocery lists or fixing the playlist in the car.

Kate isn’t there. But Yelena is.

The house is clean now. Too clean. Alexei’s doing. He can’t sit still. He folds every blanket. Organizes every drawer. Makes the beds with hospital corners. Something about control, Yelena thinks.

Maks spilled juice on the carpet and cried like it was the end of the world. Yelena knelt down, cleaned it, held him, told him it was just juice. Told him it’s something you can wipe away.

Yelena understands their tantrums have nothing to do with juice spills or teething or dinner choices. So she tries to be extra patient with them. That’s the best she can do lately.

Kate’s been in rehab for fourteen days. No visitors. No phone calls. The center sends progress updates through a family liaison. Yelena reads every one three times.

"Katherine has been compliant with all treatment protocols."

"Katherine is responding well to group therapy."

"Katherine has rejected additional individual counseling."

“Katherine isn’t being entirely honest.”

The reports are clinical. Distant. Yelena reads them like a lifeline. Every sentence a heartbeat. Every paragraph a breadcrumb that means maybe…maybe…Kate is coming back to the kids.

Yelena doesn’t know if she’s coming back to her. That’s…not something she lets herself think about. Not yet.

Yelena talks to Dr. O’Grady twice a week. Once for solo therapy, once with the kids. It was Dr. O’Grady who suggested the group meetings, the Thursday ones Yelena now attends like a quiet form of penance.

When it’s just the two of them, the sessions are usually quiet. Dr. O’Grady is maddeningly good at silence. She doesn’t push. She just…waits. Long enough that Yelena starts talking just to fill the air.

“What are you most afraid of?” She asked last session.

Yelena stared at the carpet for what felt like minutes. Her fingers twisted in her lap. Her mouth opened once, then closed.

Then finally, she said, “That Kate doesn’t want to come back.”

A beat.

“Not to the kids.”

A longer one.

“To me.”

On Day Twenty-One, the rehab center calls while Yelena is at work. Her stomach drops.

Yelena hesitates, then stands and steps just outside the door, answering with a tight, “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Amy from Reed Recovery. Is this Ms. Belova?”

“…Yeah.”

“We’re calling to confirm visitation availability for Saturday. Ms. Bishop blackout period is over. You’re cleared to schedule a visit and Kate has listed you as her primary contact. Would you like to schedule a time?”

Yelena’s every muscle goes stiff. For a second, she can’t breathe.

“Yes. Yes, I…sorry. Yes. I’d like to come.”

“Great. Would 10AM work?”  “Yes. Definitely. Yes.”

“You’re confirmed for 10AM. We recommend arriving fifteen minutes early and bringing a form of ID. We’ll go over visitor rules and expectations when you arrive.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Yelena hangs up before she can hear the rest.

Instead of going back to the meeting she just…leaves. She sits in her car for forty-five minutes. Breath ragged. Phone still in her hand. She closes her eyes.

A month ago, she almost became a single parent permanently. A month ago, she shoved her mouth against Kate’s and begged her to stay. Now she has to see her again. Hear her voice.

Yelena doesn’t know if she wants to cry or scream or run. But she’ll do it. Because this is her life now. Her mess. Her kids. Her family. Her responsibility. And maybe…just maybe…her future, too.

The room smells like burnt coffee and industrial-strength floor cleaner. The chairs are all the same. Metal, beige, barely cushioned. Uncomfortable by design. There’s cheap carpeting underfoot, a table in the corner with cookies no one touches, and a corkboard on the wall covered in photos and typed-out success stories. It’s the kind of space meant to disappear into itself. Neutral. A blank enough canvas to hold grief, rage, hope, regret. Whatever you bring in, it’ll carry. That’s the idea, anyway.

Yelena sits in her usual spot, third row from the back. The ceiling tile above her is still stained. She’s counted it twice. It doesn’t change.

The room’s half full. Some familiar faces. Some new. Most of them worn in the way pain wears people down. Quiet around the edges, as if loosening even a little might make them fall apart completely. She’s listened to them speak for three weeks now. Sat through the stories. Mothers crying over sons, daughters raging about brothers, husbands whispering about wives they barely recognize.

She’s understood all of it. Just never knew what the fuck to say. Until tonight. Maybe it’s the phone call. Maybe it’s the silence that followed. Either way, something itches under her skin. Restless. Inevitable.

Because tonight, for the first time in twenty-one days, Yelena has a date and time. She’s going to see Kate. Saturday. Ten AM.

After three weeks of silence, no calls, no updates beyond the sterile progress notes from the facility. After twenty-one days of fielding tantrums and bedtime meltdowns and teething and quiet questions from Maks and sideways glances from Alexia. After all that…she finally gets to see the woman she used to call her wife.

She hasn’t told the kids yet. Not until she sees for herself.

She picks at her thumbnail. Around her, the meeting begins. Someone checks in. Someone else reads from a pamphlet. The man across the circle sips his coffee like it’s been keeping him alive for decades. A tired laugh breaks out when someone makes a dry joke. Then the room settles again. A lull.

The facilitator scans the circle.

“Who wants to go next?”

Silence. A chair squeaks. Then, before she knows why she’s doing it, Yelena hears herself speak.

“I’ll go.”

Heads turn. Some surprised. Some quietly supportive. She doesn’t move to the center. Just stays where she is, hands in the pockets of her jacket, voice low but steady.

“I’m Yelena. Been coming here for three weeks.” She exhales. Her fingers curl tighter in her pockets. “First because I didn’t know what else to do. Now because I still don’t. I haven’t spoken yet. Didn’t think I would.” She glances around. The faces are kind. Or at least trying to be. “My wife…ex-wife…we were in the middle of finalizing our divorce when she overdosed.”

That word lands. She sees a few eyes shift. Nods. A soft inhale.

“It wasn’t…some perfect fairy tale. It was a fucking mess. I’m not quite sure what we are now…Sorry. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I don’t know what I want to say….”

She stops. Regathers.

“Three weeks ago, she overdosed. Cocaine laced with fentanyl. Her heart stopped. She seized. Then had a heart attack. The doctors told me if I’d gotten there a few minutes later, she’d be dead.”

A murmur. One man closes his eyes.

“Our kids were home. I found her on the bathroom floor. Blue. Not moving.”

The words don’t come dramatic. They come plain. Undecorated.

“I did CPR until the medics got there. I didn’t think it would work. I didn’t think…I thought I was going to have to tell our kids that their mom was dead.”

Someone across the circle nods. Quietly. Like they’ve been there. Maybe they have.

“She made it. Barely. She was in the hospital for a week. Got released. Got into a program. They sent her upstate. No contact for three weeks. Today, I got the call. I’m allowed to visit. Saturday. Ten AM.”

Yelena shifts. Scratches at the seam of her jeans.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to her. I don’t know if I’m supposed to scream or cry or hug her or just…sit there. I’m mad. I’m scared. And I’m so fucking tired.”

Her throat tightens. She pushes past it.

“I’ve had the kids full-time since it happened. Three kids. One in diapers. One who is desperate to understand everything but is too little to truly grasp anything. One who’s trying to carry the weight of all of it without saying a single word. I look at them and think, ‘They have no idea how close they came to losing her.’ And they shouldn’t. They shouldn’t have to carry that. But I do.”

The facilitator offers a gentle nod. Silent encouragement. Yelena breathes deep. Keeps going.

“I came here because I thought I needed to vent. Or hear that I was right to be mad. That I wasn’t crazy for feeling like this. But I don’t want her punished. I just…want her better. I want her to want to be better.” A pause. “She’s a good mom. She loves them. That’s not the problem. The problem is that she’s sick. And now I’m stuck in this place where I’m furious and terrified and still trying to be kind. Trying to be generous. And I don’t know how the fuck to do it all at once.”

There’s a hush now. That real silence. When people aren’t just listening, but hearing you.

“I don’t know who she is to me anymore. She’s been every version of something. Girlfriend. Partner. Wife. Roommate. Ex. Co-parent. Estranged. The woman who almost died in our shared bathroom.” Her voice lowers. “I almost had to call her my dead wife.”

Yelena lets that sit.

“I keep thinking that should be enough. That she survived. That I didn’t have to make those calls. That should be enough, right?” She shakes her head. “But it’s not. It’s not even close.”

Silence again.

“Sorry. I didn’t plan to speak tonight. But it felt worse not to.” She exhales. Her shoulders slump. The room exhales with her. “Anyway. That’s me.”

Yelena sits back down. Breathing shaky. Heart louder than it should be.

Someone murmurs, “Thank you.”

Another: “Glad you’re here.”

And then the circle moves again. Someone else stands. Someone else starts. And Yelena sits back and listens.

Even if the words don’t fix anything, they were real. And that’s a start.

The rest of the session passes in a blur. Someone cries. Someone else hands them tissues. A man across the room talks about how his daughter stole from him to get high. Yelena barely hears a word.

When the meeting ends, Yelena doesn’t bolt like usual.

She lingers. Watching people trickle out. Coats shrugged on. Murmured goodbyes. Chairs screeching as they’re pushed back into straight lines.

She drifts toward the cookie table, eyeing a lonely oatmeal raisin that looks like it’s been there since the Carter administration. She debates it. Even knowing it’ll taste like chalk and drywall, she takes a bite. Instantly regrets it.

Then a voice behind her: warm, low, just amused enough.

“You speak like you’re used to being listened to.”

Yelena turns.

The woman behind her is tall. Late thirties, maybe. Warm brown skin. Dark curls pulled into a half-knot that manages to look effortless and deliberate at the same time. Her black jeans are worn, her cardigan oversized, and her boots look like they’ve stomped over lesser men. There’s navy polish chipping off her nails and a little mischief tucked into the corners of her mouth. Her eyes are darker still. Serious. Curious. Magnetic.

“Most people don’t,” the woman adds.

Yelena lets out a soft snort.

“Used to yelling, maybe. Listening’s harder.”

That earns a smile.

“Still. I’m glad you spoke.”

“Thanks.” Yelena nods, cautious.

“I’m Ava.” She offers a hand.

“Yelena.”

“I know.” Ava grins. “You’ve been sitting in that same chair for three weeks.”

Yelena quirks a brow.

“You keeping tabs?”

“I’m observant.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

Ava shrugs.

“Something like that…Talking’s harder than it looks, huh?”

“At least I didn’t cry.”

“No shame if you had. I ugly-cried my first five meetings. Full snot. Olympic-level.”

Yelena huffs a laugh. It catches her by surprise. “Impressive.”

“I own it now. Snot and all.”

They fall quiet for a beat. Then Ava nudges the table.

“Okay, be real with me. Are these cookies as bad as they look?”

“Worse.”

“Thought so.”

Ava drops her hands into her pockets.

“You wanna walk? There's a decent bodega two blocks over with actual cookies. Fresh. Usually.”

Yelena hesitates. Ava notices.

“Not trying to be weird. Just…you looked like you needed to talk a little more. Or not talk. I’m good with either.”

Yelena glances at the time. 9:13. Alexei’s at home with the kids. They’re probably already asleep. And she…doesn’t want to go back. Not just yet. The thought of going home, of crawling back into silence, tastes worse than the cookie she didn’t eat.

“Alright. Lead the way.”

Outside, the air is brisk. The streets are slick with earlier rain, neon puddles blooming under streetlights. They walk side by side, Ava with that relaxed stride of someone who’s been through shit and lived to laugh about it.

“Saturday, huh?” Ava says.

“Yeah.” Yelena nods.

“Longest you’ve ever gone without seeing her?”

Yelena nods again.

“Never in twenty years. Even during the worst of it, we were always circling each other. Drop-offs. Pickups. Something.”

“She know you’re coming?”

“I assume so…I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel. Angry. Relieved. Panicked. It’s like everything’s fighting for space in my head. I can’t decide if I want to hug her or punch her in the throat.”

“That tracks.”

“You always this good at reading people?”

“I’m a school counselor. I spend most of my day navigating hormonal chaos and unspoken trauma. You get good at spotting what’s really going on under the surface. And you get especially proficient at sorting the quiet from the dangerous.”

“And what am I?”

Ava surveys her.

“Neither. You’re something else entirely.”

Yelena doesn’t know what to do with that. So she doesn’t.

The words settle between them like a match waiting to be struck.

The bodega hums with fluorescent light and the low buzz of a radio behind the counter. The cookie shelf is still stocked.

“These…” Ava points. “These are the good ones.”

Yelena grabs two. Pays in crumpled bills. They step back out into the night, warmth of the store giving way to chill.

Ava breaks off a piece and hands it to her. Yelena takes it. Their fingers brush. Electric current hums under it.

“What do you think Saturday will be?”

Yelena chews. Swallows.

“I don’t know. And that makes it worse.”

“Nothing bad with a bit of mystery. Sometimes it gets you to the other side.”

“I’m not trying to get to the other side of anything. I just want her to be okay.”

“And you?” Yelena remains silent. “What about you?” Ava looks over. “Do you want you to be okay?”

Yelena stares at the sidewalk. At a puddle. At her shoes. Anything else.

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Maybe start.”

There’s no judgment in Ava’s voice. Just a kind of understanding that sits quietly in the chest.

They walk more. It’s quiet. Not heavy. Just present.

“You come to group often?”

“Couple times a week.”

“Why?”

‘My sister. She’s in her fifth rehab stint. This one’s in Arizona. Desert views. God and green juice. The works.”

Yelena huffs a laugh.

“Fuck.” She reels it back. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”

“Don’t be. I laugh about it too.”

They fall into step again. The city sounds rise and fall around them. Cars. Music. A siren somewhere distant.

“You should decide what you’re gonna say to her. The first time is always weird. I’ve realized it’s easier if you come prepared.”

“I want to shake her. I want to hold her. I want her to say she’ll fix everything. I want to believe it.”

“None of those are mutually exclusive…I’ve wanted to kill my sister and protect her in the same breath. That’s love, I think. Stupid and savage and soft.”

Another pause. This one softer. Yelena finds herself watching Ava again. The sharpness in her tone hasn’t dulled the warmth in her face.

“How long was your sister sober? Before Arizona…” Yelena asks.

“Two years. Then…bad overdose too. I don’t know what happened. She won't tell me. Three months sober this time. I haven’t talked to her since she checked in. Says she needs distance to focus. And I’m…pretending I’m okay with that.”

Yelena nods. “Yeah.”

“Anyway…you did good tonight. Saying all that. Takes guts.”

“Didn’t feel brave.”

“It never does.”

Another silence. This one warmer.

“Do you think they change? I mean…really change?” Yelena asks.

“I think they can.”

“But do they?”

Ava exhales. “Sometimes.”

“Her brother was an addict. OD’d. Same thing. Cocaine. Her parents are basically functioning alcoholics. It’s a family affair apparently. I keep asking myself if I’m delusional for thinking she’s gonna make it out. That she won’t end up the same. I don’t even know if I can trust her again. Not really.”

“She’s not her brother. Or her parents.” Ava’s voice is quiet but certain.

“No. But she’s still her.”

They stop at the corner. Ava turns to face her, eyes catching the streetlight just right. Too perceptive, too steady.

“Then make sure she’s coming back to someone real. Not just to her guilt…Or your fear.”

The words land hard. Not cruel. Just true.

They walk in silence for a few blocks. The kind of silence that doesn’t ache. Just exists. Like they’re making space for each other in real time.

“How old are your kids?” Ava asks.

“Rounding up? Eight, five, and eighteen months.”

“Woof. That’s a lot of snack crumbs.”

Yelena lets out a soft, unexpected laugh.

“So much vacumming.”

“I think the best we can do is be someone they’d be proud of. At their best. And hope they meet us with that same energy.”

Yelena doesn’t respond. She doesn’t know how to. She just looks at Ava. This stranger who doesn’t feel like one. This woman who’s asked nothing of her.

Yelena doesn’t know if she wants anything from her either. Doesn’t know if this is a connection, or just two people orbiting the same ache. But it feels like something. Like space. Like room to exhale. It feels like air. And after the last month, that feels like a fucking miracle.

Her heart starts pounding. Not from panic. Not from grief. But from the quiet shock of still being alive. From something warmer. Stranger. Hope, maybe. Or the very early outline of it.

//\\

They take her shoelaces first.

The moment she’s admitted she’s left barefoot, shaking, silent. Then they cut the strings out of her sweatpants. Just protocol. Then her hoodie. Then her bag. They peel her life away piece by piece, like they’re undressing her for autopsy.

Everything sharp. Everything with a cord or edge or weight is removed. For her safety, they say.

That’s the first time she genuinely cries. Not the ER. Not the ICU. Not even on the ride over.

It’s the moment a stranger puts most things she owns in a clear plastic bag with her name on it and says, “You’ll get these back when you discharge.”

It hits her then…she’s not leaving for a while.

They take her phone next. That one hurts worse. Yelena and the kids are lock screen. Alexia on her hip. Sonny asleep in her arms. Maks making a face behind them. That photo…the one she looked at every time she felt like a failure…is gone now too.

The woman at intake tells her kindly that the first 72 hours are the worst. If she can get through those mostly sane, she’ll probably be okay.

Kate nods. Says nothing.

Kate pukes six times in the first three hours. She was still getting SOME drugs at the hospital. For the pain. That dulled the edges of the symptoms. She’s not getting anything here and that sends her spiraling.

Withdrawal is…hell.

She knew it would be. She vividly remembers watching DJ go through it. The cold sweats. The bone-deep ache. The tremors. But nothing…nothing…could prepare her for the fucking silence.

There are no distractions here. No phone to scroll. No playlist to drown out the static in her head. No Yelena to pick a fight with. No kids to orbit. Just time. Time and pain and shame.

She doesn't talk for the first week. Not in any real way. Just enough to get through the vitals check. Just enough to keep people out of her face. But the thoughts don’t stop.

The worst part isn’t the physical withdrawal.

The worst part is remembering the look on Yelena’s face the first time she saw her in the hospital. The disappointment behind her eyes now that she fully knew what Kate had been up to.

Day six, she cracks.

Not publicly. Not in front of the group or staff or the med tech who hands out her meds like communion. But in the shower. On the floor. She slides down the wall, shaking and soaked, her forehead pressed to her knees. She sobs until she dry-heaves.

And even then, it doesn’t feel like enough.

The guilt doesn’t come in waves. It sits on her chest. A cinderblock. Constant. Every time she thinks about Sonny’s face. Or Alexia’s voice. Or Maks rapid fire questions.

She doesn’t deserve to get better. That’s the thought. Over and over. She doesn’t deserve to get better.

Day nine, her group counselor calls her out.

“You can’t sit in the back with your arms crossed forever, Bishop.”

Kate meets her eyes.

“Bet I can.”

The woman laughs.

“Wanna bet your gym privileges?”

That night, Kate speaks in group for the first time. It isn’t poetic. It isn’t a breakthrough. It’s one sentence.

“My wife found me.”

No one says anything. Someone nods. Another whispers “fuck” under their breath. Kate doesn’t say more. Doesn’t need to.

It’s the first time she refers to Yelena as her wife since the divorce paperwork was filed.

By Day Fourteen, she sleeps through the night. Mostly. She stops sweating through her sheets. Stops throwing up after every meal. Stops pacing the length of her room at 3AM trying to scrape the itch out of her skin. But she still doesn’t feel right.

There’s something about sobriety no one tells you: when the drugs leave your system, the rest of you catches up. All the things you were trying not to feel? They wait for you.

Kate starts journaling because they make her. She writes like she’s reporting someone else’s crimes. Third person. Detached. But eventually the sentences bend. Become personal.

“I wanted to disappear.”

“I didn’t think about the fact that they were home.”

“I wasn’t trying to die. But I didn’t care if I did.”

The staff calls Kate “high-functioning.” Says she presents well. Says she’s a “good candidate for reintegration.”

Kate wants to throw a chair through the window. Of course she presents well. She always has. That’s what scares her the most.

Even in rehab, even after nearly dying, she can still talk her way into being believed. She can say what they need to hear. Smile at the right moment. Show progress in a measured, digestible way.

She can do that. And underneath?

She wants to use again. She wants the quiet. Not all the time. Not every second. But enough. Enough that it scares her.

The reports go to Yelena, apparently. Kate finds that out from her counselor during one of their one-on-ones.

“She’s listed as your primary contact. She’s been receiving regular updates.” The woman says.

Kate’s throat closes.

“She’s reading them?”

“As far as I know.”

Something shifts in Kate’s chest then. A sob she doesn’t let out. A hope she doesn’t want to feed. She nods. Bites her lip until she tastes blood.

Then she asks what more she has to do to earn her visit privileges.

On Day Twenty-One, they tell Kate she has a visit scheduled.

Saturday. 10AM.

She doesn’t ask who it is. She already knows. After all this time, Yelena is coming. And Kate? She isn’t ready. Not even a little. But she wants to be.

Kate has a couple days to figure out how to look her in the eye. Days to become someone worthy of being seen.

So Kate sits down. Picks up the pen. And starts writing.

“Dear Yelena…”

She writes. Then writes some more. Like a prayer.

And hopes…just fucking hopes…she’s earned the chance to say it out loud.

SATURDAY

Yelena pulls into the lot an hour early. It’s the only way she knows she won’t be late.

She’s been parked for nearly fifty minutes now. The engine’s off. The clock glows 9:43AM. Her hands are locked around the steering wheel like she’s afraid it’ll bolt. The dash ticks forward.

9:44.

Her stomach backflips.

It’s been twenty-four days since she last saw Kate. Not that she hasn’t seen her. Kate’s in her head constantly. Eyes half-lidded. Mouth slack. Skin cold and blue against the tile. That image lives behind her eyelids now. Every night.

Yelena exhales slowly. Unbuckles. Grabs the small duffel from the passenger seat. There’s a few changes of clothes, a new toothbrush, the kids’ drawings. And a letter from Alexia that she wouldn’t let anyone read. Yelena respect her wishes and hasn’t opened it. She doesn’t know what it says. Only hopes it won’t hurt more than it helps.

She shoulders the bag and walks toward the building.

The lobby is sterile. Cheerful in a curated, eerie way. The woman at the desk greets her with a soft, professional smile.

“We just finished morning group. They’ll bring her out shortly.”

Yelena nods and takes a seat in a stiff chair that squeaks beneath her. The corners of the room feel round. Soft. Safe. There’s a fake plant next to the bookshelf and a corkboard full of smiling headshots. Recovered alumni with laminated quotes printed underneath. She stares at it. Trying to reconcile the feelings it brings forth.

Then she hears footsteps. Her whole body tenses. Kate turns the corner with her counselor a step behind her. And for a second, Yelena forgets how to breathe.

Kate looks…diminished. Not thinner, not sickly, but smaller somehow. Like something’s been hollowed out. Her posture’s straighter than before. Rigid, even. But she looks like someone scrubbed her down too hard and left her raw. There’s no makeup. No armor. Just a braid, clean clothes, and a face that no longer knows what to expect.

It’s the most honest Yelena’s seen her in a long time.

Kate hovers by the visitor check-in desk, one hand buried deep in her pocket, fingers toying with the folded letter she’s eager to give. The other hand stays rigid at her side, pressed flat against her thigh to keep it from shaking. She hasn’t worn real clothes in three weeks. Just rehab-issue sweats and those sad little socks with grippy soles. But today, she asked for jeans. A shirt that fits. Something that gives some semblance of normalcy.

She tries to remember how she used to hold herself when she was out in the world. In real life. Taller, maybe. Shoulders back. Chin higher. Now it all feels like like she’s cosplaying herself.

She rounds the corner. Stops cold. Yelena is already there.

It’s like walking into a memory. Her blonde hair is down, loose waves framing her face. She’s wearing a green dress. Deep, sea glass green. The kind that makes her eyes burn brighter. The shoes even match. Kate doubts she dressed up for this. It’s just how Yelena always looks. But some part of her wants to believe Yelena tried. Because she did. God, she did.

Their eyes meet. Blue and green. Yelena offers a soft smile. Walks forward. Kate mirrors her.

She watches Yelena’s gait. It’s different. Slower. Measured. Like her balance has shifted in the last three weeks. Like something invisible’s been redistributed in her bones.

They stop two feet apart.

The counselor, all clipped warmth, gives the spiel.

“You’ll have one hour. There’s a private room down the hall. No touching outside of one hello and one goodbye hug. No gifts. Bags will be held and checked for restricted items.”

Yelena nods, wordless. Hands over the duffel bag. Watches the staff unzip it, flip through everything. A sweatshirt gets held up. A t-shirt stretched by its seams. They check the hems like Yelena stitched heroin into the thread.

Kate can’t look at her. She almost flinches when she hears the whisper.

“Hi.” Yelena finally says.

Kate turns. Yelena’s looking right at her. Steady. Calm.

“Hi,” Kate echoes.

That’s it. Nothing more. Just that small, brutal exchange between two people who’ve known each other too long to need filler.

The staff goes on rifling. After a beat, they’re cleared to carry on with the visit.

They walk. Side by side. Not touching. Not speaking. Just breathing the same air again. For the first time in twenty-four days.

Kate gestures to the far end of the corridor.

“They call it the Family Room. Which is hilarious.”

Yelena gives a half snort. Not quite a laugh.

“A little on the nose.”

Inside, it’s beige and beige and more beige.There’s a round table and two plastic chairs. A small couch. A box of tissues. Everything in here is either unbreakable or bolted down.

Kate sits. Yelena follows. Across from each other. A few feet and a lifetime apart. For a minute, they don’t speak.

“You look…” Kate trails off. “Good.”

“You look tired.”

“I am.” Kate chuckles once.

“You feel okay?”

“Define ‘okay.’”

Yelena chuckles too. It’s a start.

“Alex drew you something.”

Yelena hands over the folder she was holding.

Kate opens it gingerly. Inside, a few drawings. The top one is definitely Alexia’s. A seven-year-old’s crayon-scribbled mess…but Kate knows exactly what it is. Their family. All five of them. Yelena and Kate holding hands. Alexia with a thundercloud over her head. Maks mid-dinosaur attack. Sonny holding what looks like a sword but might just be a juice box.

Kate’s hand trembles slightly.

“How is she?” Kate asks.

“She’s quiet. That’s new…I think she’s just processing.”

Kate’s eyes drop to the paper again. Shakes her head. Guilt washing over her.

“She still drew you…She wanted to.”

Kate closes the folder like it’s fragile. Like if she moves too fast, the whole thing might shatter.

“How’s Karina?” Kate asks after a long beat.

Yelena furrows her brow, taken aback. The name drops like a coin in water.

“I don’t remember the last time anyone called her that.”

“It’s her name.”

“It is.”

“I was…we did this thing in group this morning. Had to write down our kids’ full names. I don’t know. It’s just…stuck in my head.”

“She made a friend at daycare. Bit her. We’re dealing with that.”

Kate groans.

“God. How bad?”

“Tiny vampire-level bite. Minimal blood. But emotionally? Devastating.”

Kate snorts.

“Sounds like her.”

“She’s still teething. Still pissed at the world about it. Honestly, biting is low on the list of traumatizing things she’s done this week.” Yelena offers with a faint smile.

“She’s STILL teething? How many teeth does she even have to grow?”

“She’s a dental overachiever.”

Kate smiles again, something honest breaking through in her face. Yelena leans back in her chair, studying her. Kate knows that look. The scan. The slow once-over. Watching for tremors, pupil dilation, the microexpressions of a lie. Yelena doesn’t speak until she’s satisfied.

“Maks only sleeps in my bed now,” Yelena adds quietly. “And he refuses to eat soup. Says it’s a vegetable conspiracy.”

Kate lets out a real laugh. Short. Startled. She covers her mouth like it slipped out by accident.

“He needs to stop spending so much time with my dad.”

“I miss his weird little brain.”

“He misses you too.”

Kate’s smile falters. Her throat works around something that doesn’t quite make it out.

“Yeah?”

Yelena nods.

“He asks when you’re coming home. All day long.”

Kate glances away, jaw tight.

“What do you tell him?”

“That you’re trying really hard.”

Kate nods, slow. Thoughtful.

“Do you believe that?”

“I hope so.”

Another silence. This one different. Softer. But sharp around the edges.

Yelena glances at the clock. Half the visit gone.

Kate shakes her head. A breath escapes her, half a laugh, half a sigh.

“Jesus, I missed you.”

Yelena doesn’t say it back.

Kate notices.

They talk about the kids. About therapy. About Susan. About school drop-offs and field trips and Maks accidentally calling Alexei “Dad” in public. They fall into the shape of old habits. Let it breathe between them.

Kate talks about group. About a woman who keeps trying to convince her yoga will change her life. About journaling. About her roommate who snores and cries in the shower and reminds her of DJ in all the worst ways. She talks about detox. About how bad it got.

Yelena listens.

Then finally, Kate says what she’s been trying not to.

“So…next week’s thirty.” Yelena nods. “I could come home. Technically.” She pauses. “Do you want me to?”

Yelena doesn’t answer right away. And that’s the answer.

“I think it’d be a mistake.”

Kate swallows. Nods once.

“Okay.”

“You don’t?” Kate hesitates. Then shrugs. Deflated. “You’re doing better. But you’re not there.”

“You don’t think I could be…at home? With you. With the kids?”

“I think you need to want to get better more than you want to be home.”

Kate looks down at her hands.

“I thought…I don’t know. You’d be mad if I stayed.”

“I’d be mad if you came home too soon.” Kate shrugs. “I wanted you back every second of every day. Until I found you on the bathroom floor. Now…I just want you alive.”

Kate looks down at her hands. Rubs her thumb against a hangnail.

“You should’ve let me die.”

Yelena’s hand slams against the table. Violently. Loud. Final.

“Don’t fucking say that to me. Ever. Are we clear?”

Kate doesn’t look up.

“You weren’t supposed to be there.”

“And what? Alex was?” Yelena’s voice rises. “Maks? Sonny?”

Kate flinches. Holds the silence for a long beat.

“I wasn’t trying to die.” Kate argues, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.

“Then what were you trying to do?”

Kate doesn’t have an answer. She’s been looking for one since it happened.

Yelena leans back. Crosses her arms. Lets the silence burn. Finally, Kate lifts her chin. Meets her eyes.

“Is there still a life to come back to?”

“I don’t know.”

And that silence is louder than anything Kate’s heard since she got sober.

They sit in it. Sit in what’s left. It’s not dramatic. It’s not even tense. Just…true.

“I guess I could stay.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

Kate hates how calm Yelena sounds. How reasonable. How fucking distant. She wants to knock the table over. To scream. ‘Are you fucking serious? That’s all I get? ‘That’s a good idea?’’

Instead, she just nods. “Yeah.”

For some reason, this hurts more than anything else. More than the broken ribs. Or the detox pain. Or the days alone with her thoughts. This moment. This quiet, reasonable agreement that her being gone is what’s best for the people she loves…it shatters her in slow motion.

Yelena isn’t begging her to come home. Isn’t clinging. Isn’t even cracking. She’s not screaming that she needs her, or that the kids do, or that this is killing her. She just sits there, composed, steady. It stings like nothing else.

“So you’re not mad that I’m not coming home?”

“I’m relieved you’re not pretending you’re ready.”

The words land like a punch to the sternum.

“So what, you want me in here forever?”

“You should stay until you’re well. That’s it.”

Kate swallows. Her throat burns. She focuses on her breath. Four seconds in, six seconds out. One of those grounding gimmicky tricks from therapy. The silence between them starts to hum with everything neither of them is saying.

“I thought…if I stayed clean. If I finished thirty days…you’d want me back.”

“I want you alive.” Yelena’s voice is even.

“Not the same thing.”

“No. It’s not.”

They let that ache. Kate leans forward, elbows on knees, palms open.

She thought seeing Yelena would feel like winning. Like some impossible victory. She thought it would feel like returning from war. Roses. Relief. Redemption.

Instead, it feels like standing in front of a locked door with no key. Because she broke it. She broke it, and Yelena isn’t even reaching for the handle anymore.

“When they told me you were coming, I thought…” Kate exhales hard. “I don’t know. I thought it would feel like something was over. Like I passed a test.”

“This isn’t pass/fail.” Yelena offers, gentle.

“Try telling that to my brain at 3AM.”

Yelena leans in too now. Mirrors her posture. Hands folded.

“I’m proud of you for staying.”

Kate laughs, humorless. “Yeah. You would be.”

“Kate…” Yelena’s voice is careful now, but not soft. She studies her. Sees through her. Always has. “If you were ready, actually ready, we’d talk about next steps. But you’re not. And I’m not doing this halfway. The kids deserve better. You deserve better.”

Kate’s eyes shine. Not with anger. With something deeper. Sadder. More familiar.

“I didn’t think it would feel this fucking lonely.” Yelena reaches across the table. Takes her hand. “I don’t know when I’m coming out,” Kate admits.

“That’s okay. Everyone will be waiting.”

‘Everyone’. Not ‘I’. That one word guts her.

Kate grips her hand tighter.

“Will you bring the kids?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I miss them so fucking much.”

“When you’re ready. Not before.”

“Okay.” Kate’s voice cracks.

Yelena squeezes her hand.

“You’re doing good…You are.”

Kate shakes her head.

“I feel like shit, Yel. All the time.”

“That’s part of it.”

They sit like that. Hands clasped. No more pretending. Just two people who’ve loved each other longer than some countries last.

The door opens. Someone pops their head in.

“Five minutes.” They say.

Yelena nods. Stands. Kate does too.

“Tell them I love them.” Kate pleads softly.

“I do. Every day.”

Kate hesitates.

“And you?”

Yelena doesn’t answer. Just looks at her. Kate waits a second, then steps into her arms. The hug is brief…too brief…but it grounds her. She breathes for the first time in weeks.

Yelena pulls back first.

“I’ll talk to your therapist. If it’s cleared, I’ll bring them next time.”

Kate nods. Doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t say please. Just nods.

Yelena turns. Kate doesn’t stop her. Doesn’t watch her walk away. Doesn’t say come back. Doesn’t say don’t leave. Just stands there and watches the woman she’s still in love with disappear through the door.

Kate closes her eyes. Slips her hand into her pocket and pulls out the letter she didn’t give. The one she rewrote a dozen times. The one she planned to give because she knew the words in it wouldn’t come out right if she tried. She unfolds it.

“Dear Yelena,

I didn’t think you’d come. I wouldn’t have, if I were you.

I’ve been trying to figure out what to say for days and I still don’t have it. I don’t know that I ever will. There’s no version of this that makes it okay. And even if there was, you wouldn’t owe me forgiveness.

So I’m not writing this to fix anything.

I’m writing it because I almost died. And if I had, I think I would’ve gone with your name in my mouth. I think that’s something you deserve to know.

I don’t remember most of that night. Not really. Just flashes. I don’t know how to explain what happened. I don’t know how I let it get that far. I don’t know what I thought I was doing. Truth is, I think I’ve been unraveling for a long time. Quietly. Bit by bit.

DJ told me the urge to use wasn’t loud. It waits. It creeps up. Builds a nest in the silence. I didn’t listen. And I almost followed him.

I’m sorry for a lot of things. But most of all, I’m sorry it was you who had to find me like that. Who had to save me. Who’s had to pick up the pieces now that I’m away.

I don’t deserve whatever grace you’ve got left for me. I probably never did. But I’m here. And I’m trying. Every second of every day. I miss the kids like fucking crazy. I miss you so much it’s almost suffocating.

I’m not asking for anything. Not a second chance. Not a maybe. I just don’t want you to forget what we were. Because we were good, Yel. We were great. We were the best thing I ever did.

Tell them I love them. That I’m getting better. That I’ll come home in a few days. That Mommy’s working really hard to be okay again.

I don’t know what life looks like on the other side of this. But if you’re ever willing to talk…I’d like to. About possibilities. About us. About what could still be.

Maybe we’re not all the way gone yet.

I love you. Always have.

-KB”

Kate stares at the last line. She folds the paper shut. Walks to the door. On her way out, she passes the trash can in the hallway.

She chucks it in.

#kate x yelena #bishova #bishlova #katelena #yelena belova #kate bishop #kyfbaup #kyfbau #answers #anonymous

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