ageofwonderland

[ageofwonderland]

Waiting for a Friend - Chapter 8

I just got back from my Mirador trip :D Here's chapter 8

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He was waiting by the bus when I stepped out of the motel. At first, I didn’t see him; I was too focused on the coffee burning my palms and the lingering warmth in my chest from Sam’s arms. But then I heard my name, it wasn’t loud, it wasn’t angry. No, it was hollow, wrecked. I turned, and there he was. 

Jake. 

Hair a mess, face pale, eyes red-rimmed and wet. Not drunk. Not high. Just bare. Like he hasn’t slept, hadn’t breathed, hadn’t been Jake in days. And I knew, he knew. The way he looked at me said everything. He’d felt it settle in his chest the moment I left him behind. 

“Can we talk?” he asked, voice cracking like it was made of glass. I hesitated, and that was all it took. Because he stepped forward, hands trembling, words tumbling out too fast, too messy to catch. “I know what I am,” he said, “I know I was selfish. I know I wasn’t what you needed. But I can be. I will be. Just don't…don’t do this. Don’t leave me.” 

“Jake–”

“No, please, just let me say this. Please.” He reached for me, then thought better of it, pulled his hand back, and rubbed it through his hair like he could tear the desperation out of himself. “I can change. I am changing. You saw me trying. You know I was trying.” Tears were slipping down his cheeks now, and he didn’t even try to stop them. “I love you. More than being on the road, more than the fucking music. I didn’t show it the right way, but I swear to God I felt it. Every day. Even when I couldn’t say it.” I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. Because this isn’t what I wanted, to break him like this. To see him come undone when he had spent so long pretending he was invincible. 

“You’re choosing him?” he whispered. 

And it was that, not the yelling, not the begging, that shattered me. The disbelief. The helplessness. The sound of someone losing something they thought they could always come back to. “I already did,” I said softly. 

He dropped his head, shoulders hunched like he was physically trying to hold himself together. “I don’t know how to live in a world where you’re not mine,” he said, “I don’t want to.” I stepped toward him and touched his arm, “Jake–” 

“No,” he choked out, stepping back like my fingers burned him. “Don’t pity me. Don’t…” his voice broke, “don’t comfort me while you’re in love with someone else.” We stood there, both of us silent, both of us bleeding in different ways. And then, quieter, “I’d give up everything to go back. To fix this before it got this bad.” I nodded because I believed him. But it was too late. Some things don’t break clean; they just dissolve slowly until you can’t hold them anymore. 

“I loved you, Jake.” I said. 

“I know,” he whispered. 

***

Years before

Before the touring. 

Before the silence.

Before the slow unraveling neither of us noticed until the knots came loose…there was a rooftop. There was a night in July when the city felt like it belonged to only us. I was nineteen, he was twenty-one. The world hadn’t gotten to us yet, hadn’t hardened us. Not the way it would eventually. 

We climbed the fire escape behind his old apartment, hands sticky from cherry popsicles and warm beer, my converse were too big and my knees were scraped, but he held my hand like I was fragile anyway. “Almost there,” he said, grinning as he pulled me up the last few rungs. The roof was cluttered with rusted AC unites and forgotten folding chairs. We found and old blanket behind a vent, and he threw it down like it was a throne. We laid there, side by side, sweating and laughing. The stars were faint, the sky was hazy and orange from the city lights, but we looked anyway. “It’s stupid,” he said after a while, voice soft, “but when I was a kid, I thought I’d be famous by twenty. Like…the guy. Selling out arenas. Headlining festivals.”

I turned my head toward him, “That’s not stupid.” He smiled, just barely. “Well, I’m twenty-one, and I live with three guys who can’t remember to flush a toilet.” 

“Yet.” I said, almost a whisper. 

“What?” 

“You’re not famous. Yet.” 

He looked at me like I just said something sacred, “You really think I could be?” 

“I know you could be.” He turned to face me then, really face me. Eyes soft, searching. Like he couldn’t believe I said it, like part of him was still waiting to be proven wrong. No one had ever looked at me like that before. Like I was the anchor holding his dreams in place. Like I was the one thing in the world that made him feel seen. “You always say things like that,” he whispered, “Like they’re facts.” 

“Maybe they are.”

He stared at me for a moment longer, then looked away, back at the sky. I could see the way his throat bobbed, like he was swallowing something he didn’t know how to say. Then, quietly, “My mom never believed in this. Music. Touring. Said I’d burn out or starve before I ever made it. I think she thought I was too soft for it. Too distracted.” I didn’t say anything, just moved closer, our arms touched now. “I used to think maybe she was right,” he added. 

“You don’t anymore?” He looked back at me then, eyes wide, raw. 

“Not when you say my name.”

That was the first time I felt it, not just attraction, not just the thrill of being nineteen and infatuated with someone impossibly magnetic, but something bigger. 

We stayed on that roof for hours. Talking about music, and what kind of dog we would get if we ever settled down, and what it would feel like to sleep in a van for months on end chasing nothing but applause and cheap gas station coffee. He played a demo on his phone, it was rough and beautiful and too loud in places, but I cried anyway. 

He wiped the tear away with the back of his hand, confused and tender. “Why are you crying?” he asked me softly. 

“Because you wrote something real. 

He smiled that slow, crooked smile that would undo me so many times in the years to come, and he leaned in. Hesitated just long enough to ask without words. And I kissed him first. 

If I could go back, maybe I would freeze us there. 

Before the fear. 

Before the distance. 

Before I learned that love alone doesn’t keep you from falling apart. 

But I cant, so I just carry it. That night on the rooftop. The way he looked at me like I was his beginning. And mauyube I was. Even if I wasn’t his end. 

Months Before

It wasn’t the first kiss. Or the first time he touched me like I mattered. Or even the night he said he loved me, with that quiet, steady voice that didn’t shake even though mine didn. 

No. 

It was a Tuesday. Mid-tour. Middle of nowhere. Some no-name diner off I-80 in Nebraska, a greasy spoon kind of place that smelled like burnt coffee and overcooked bacon. The rest of the band had passed out in the van or wandered off to smoke, but I couldn’t sleep, and he saw that.

Of course he did. He always did. “Come inside,” he said. “You look like you need pancakes.” I remember I rolled my eyes, but I followed him anyway. Hair a mess, hoodie three sizes too big, no makeup, eyes puffy from another silent fight with Jake the night before. 

Sam didn’t ask about it. He just slid into the booth across from me, unwrapped his silverware like this was the most important breakfast either of us had ever had and said, “So whats the weirdest dream you’ve ever had?” I blinked at him.

That was Sam. Never reached for the bleeding parts first. He waited. Let you come to him. Gave you space to laugh before you cried. And God, I needed that. 

We sat there for an hour, talking about nonsense. About dreams and conspiracy theories and which breakfast food had the most chaotic energy, which he swore was waffles. And at some point, I started laughing. Not the polite kind. Not the careful kind. The kind that comes from somewhere deep, the kind you don’t realize you’ve been holding in for months. He just watched me. Smiling. Not trying to fix me. Not needing to be anything but there. 

When the check came, I reached for my wallet. He stopped me with a shake of his head, “let me take care of you.” 

Six words. 

That’s all it was. But it hit me like a wave. Not because I needed him to pay for my pancakes, but because he meant it. He meant every quiet thing he ever did, the way he kept my favorite snacks in the back of the van, the way he stood beside me without asking for anything back. He had been loving me in the small, silent ways all along. And I hadn’t seen it, not really. Not until that moment. 

Later that night, I cried into his chest, and he held me like I wasn’t broken. And maybe that was when it started. 

But the dinner? The laughter? The simple offering of let me take care of you? That’s when I fell. That’s when everything changed. 

[ageofwonderland]

Waiting for a Friend - Chapter 7

The sun was beginning to rise over the dusty Texas horizon, throwing streaks of pale gold across the motel parking lot. The tour was moving again in a few hours, but the band was still asleep, or pretending to be. The world was in that soft, in-between silence before noise returned. I hadn’t slept. I’d been turning the truth over in my chest all night, letting it shape me, bruise me, steady me. 

I was going to choose Sam. 

I already had. The decision sat quietly inside me now, not with fanfare or fireworks, but with calm, like a steady hand pressed against my heartbeat, reminding me who I had become in his arms, and who I could become if I stopped looking backward. 

I found him outside, leaning against the back wall of the motel near the vending machine, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. When he saw me, something flickered across his face–hope, fear, maybe both. He straightened but didn’t move toward me. Just waited, like he was giving me a chance to run again. But I didn’t. 

I walked to him slowly, and before I could say anything, he spoke. “I know you heard us last night.” I blinked. 

“How?”

“You never came back with the ice.” A faint, wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I meant every word,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion and honesty. “I love you. And I haven’t asked you to choose because I didn’t want to make it harder than it already was. But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay, just waiting. I need you to know that.” He paused, took a breath, and stepped closer. “I don’t want to be your maybe. I want to be your always. And I don’t care how complicated it gets. If you pick me, if you really pick me, I will fight for us. Every single day.” I felt something crack open in my chest. Not fear this time. Not guilty. Just…relief. Because I didn’t have to wonder anymore, I reached out, wrapped my fingers into the fabric of his hoodie, and pulled him close. 

His breath caught. “I already chose you,” I whispered. 

Sam stared at me, like he wasn’t sure he heard me right. “I love you,” I said again, firmer this time. “And I’m done running from it.” He kissed me then–fast, desperate, full of every sleepless night and every unsaid thing we’d held back. I kissed him back like he was the only future I wanted. Because he was, and when he held me, I finally felt like I was home. 

Sam

She was standing in front of me, Eyes wide and full of something I didn’t date name yet. 

Hope?

No. Hope was dangerous. I’d live in the ache of almosts for too long to believe in it now. So, I stood there, the sun rising behind her like a damn halo, and told myself to stay still. To not reach. To not fall. She’d always be falling back to him. 

Even when she kissed me. 

Even when she held my hand in the dark. 

Even when she said nothing at all. 

He was the ghost in the room, in her mouth, in her memory. So I told her the truth, that I love her. That I was done pretending I didn’t want more. That I didn’t care what it cost me, and then I waited for her to walk away. But she didn’t. She stepped closer, tugged on my hoodie like it was the only tether keeping her from disappearing completely, and she said it. 

I already chose you. 

For a second, I thought I’d imagined it. Like maybe I’d finally cracked under the weight of loving her in silence for too long, but then she said it again. 

I love you. And I’m done running from it. 

My heart stopped. It stopped. Because for weeks, I’d been living in the space between her fingertips, and her fear. Watching her teter between memory and desire, never knowing where I stood. But now? Now she was here. Really here. With me. 

I kissed her because I didn’t know what else to do, because my hands were shaking and my chest felt too full, and if I didn’t hold her I might break apart on the spot. She kissed me back like she’d been waiting a lifetime for this moment. And maybe she had. God, maybe we both had. And then I let her breathe. Because even in my joy, I knew this wasn’t simple. I wasnt naive. I knew what it had cost her to get here. But I also knew, finally knew, that this wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t just the aftermath of Jake’s absence or the thrill of something new. She chose me. Not by accident. Not by default. She chose me with her whole chest, with her whole damn heart. And I was going to love her like I had been waiting my whole life to do it. Because I had. 

***

We were two hours from rolling out when I found Jake sitting alone behind the venue. Everyone else was busy with coffee runs, tuning guitars, and pretending everything was normal. But nothing felt normal anymore, not to me, and maybe not to him either. He sat on an overturned crate, legs stretched out, smoke curling from the cigarette pinched between his fingers. He hadn’t shaved, and his hoodie was stained with something that looked like last night’s beer. He looked like someone holding himself together with string and a prayer. When he looked up and saw me, he didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away. I almost turned around, but I didn’t. I owed him something. Or maybe I just needed to hear what he had left to say. 

“You look tired,” I said, stepping closer. He gave a breath of a laugh, no humor in it. That’s funny. I was gonna say the same thing about you.” I leaned against the brick wall across from him. Neither of us said anything for a minute. Then he stubbed out his cigarette, flicked the butt toward the dirt, and looked up at me like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. 

“Are you in love with him?” The question hit like a punch, not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I knew he didn’t really want to hear it. I didn’t say anything, and that answer was enough. He nodded slowly, jaw tight. “Right.” 

“Jake…”

But he stood up suddenly, rubbing his hand over his face like he could wipe away the truth. “Look, I know I wasn’t good to you. I know I shut you out, and I let the music come first and made you feel like shit for needing more. I know” 

I swallowed hard. 

“But I was trying,” he went on, voice cracking around the edges, “I was trying to fix it. I am trying.” 

“I know,” I whispered. 

“And maybe it’s too late, maybe you’re already gone in all the ways that matter. But I still love you. I’ve always loved you.” He laughed bitterly, “Even when I didn’t show it. Even when I thought you’d never leave. And I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I would’ve done it all differently if I’d known this was where we’d end up.” 

I looked away. Because watching him fall apart made me feel like the villain in someone else’s love story. “I’ll share you,” he said suddenly, desperately. “If that’s what it takes. If it means I get to keep part of you. I’ll take the pieces he doesn’t hold.” 

My heart broke. He wasn’t angry. He was begging. And somehow, that hurt worse. Much. Worse. 

“Jake…You don’t want that,” I said gently, “You don’t want half of me.” 

“I want anything you’ll give me.” 

He stepped closer, voice dropping to a painful whisper, “Tell me it’s not too late. Please tell me that.” I looked at him, this boy I had loved, this boy I still loved in ways that didn’t make sense anymore–and I felt everything. 

All the history. 

All the softness. 

All the almosts. 

But love wasn’t enough if it didn’t hold you the way you needed to be held. And Jake…Jake had always held me with one hand open and one foot out the door. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice barely holding, “I already chose him.” 

He stared at me for a long time, eyes wet, mouth tight. He didn’t yell. Didn’t beg again. He just nodded slowly and stepped back, and I knew I’d broken something in him that he might never fix. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “of course you did.”

Jake

She’s going to say it. 

I knew it before she opened her mouth. I knew it from the way she looked at me. Like she was already mourning what we used to be. That gaze, soft and distant, like someone gently closing a door and knowing it won’t ever open again. But still, I stood there. I waited. Because there was a part of me, somewhere deep down, that hoped she wouldn’t say it. I hoped the silence between us was just a pause, not the ending. But then, she spoke. 

I’m sorry. I already chose him. 

My chest didn’t crack, it caved. Like someone had punched straight through bone and grabbed what was left of my heart with both hands, that was it. That was the death sentence I’d been trying to outpace for weeks. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there, frozen in the middle of my own ruin. Because the worst part wasn’t hearing her say it. The worst part was knowing I deserved it. 

She had waited. She had tried. She begged me to let her in, over and over, and I kept the walls up like I thought they’d protect us. Like I thought love was about surviving, not showing up. But she stopped asking. Stopped waiting. And I didn’t notice until she started laughing with Sam in ways she hadn’t with me in months. And now she was here, telling me it was over, and doing it with kindness. Like that would make it hurt less. But it didn’t. Her mercy was the sharpest knife. I wanted to say something. Anything. Tell her that I’d change, even if it was already too late. That I’d burn every song I’d ever written if it meant she’d stay. That I’d rewrite myself from scratch if she just gave me one more chance. But the words caught in my throat like thorns. I didn’t want to beg. But I would have. God, I would have gotten on my knees if I thought it would matter.

You don’t want half of me. 

But she was wrong. I wanted any part of her. I would’ve taken the late nights, the silences, the heartbreaks, the pieces Sam left behind, just to be near her. Just to be something again. But she didn’t want to be broken anymore. Not even for me. So I stood there. Nodded. Said nothing as she walked away. And when she disappeared down the hallway, taking everything soft and golden with her, I let the hollow settle in my chest like it belonged there. Because maybe it did. I loved her too late. Too poorly. And now I’d have to carry that for the rest of my life–the girl I let go, the girl I couldn’t keep, the girl I loved more than the music. 

And it still wasn’t enough. Oh, my broken drum, you have beaten my heart. 

[ageofwonderland]

Waiting for a Friend - Chapter 6

We were packing up after a show in Austin, sweaty, tired, half-drunk on adrenaline and the kind of heat that clung to your skin long after the music stopped. Sam was outside loading gear with the rest of the band, and I was in the greenroom alone, wrapping cables, when Jake walked in. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the doorframe, watching me. There was something in his eyes tonight. Not suspicion or anger, just…softness, and perhaps a little nostalgia. He stepped further into the room, the door closing softly behind him. “Do you remember the first time we played that song? Lost in the Haze?” 

“Chicago,” I said instantly, the memory flashing bright in my mind, “Your amp blew halfway through.” He laughed, and we started reminiscing about the day of that awful show, all the mishaps and problems they used to have as a new band. For a second, it was like nothing had changed. Like we were back at the start again, before the distance, before Sam, before all the things we couldn’t say. Jake sat beside me on the couch, not too close, but closer than we’d been in weeks. “I miss this,” he signed, voice lower now, “Not just the music. Us.” I didn’t know what to say. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. “I know you love him,” he said, just like that, no venom—just the truth. I looked down at my hands. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“ I know,” he whispered. He reached out, brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered, light, warm, familiar. So painfully familiar. “You loved me once,” he said. 

“I still do,” I admitted back to him. He leaned in, slow, like he was giving me every chance to pull away, but I didn’t. His lips met mine gently, hesitantly–nothing like the desperate kisses of our past. No, this one was quiet. Tender. A memory and a question all at once. And it shattered me because I felt it. Not just the comfort, but the love. The part of me that still belonged to him, that maybe always would. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine. “I would wait forever if I thought you’d come back,” he said, an almost whine to his voice. I closed my eyes, heart tearing in opposite directions. “Don’t say that.” 

“Why?” he whispered, “because it makes you feel something?” 

Because it did, God, it did. And suddenly, I didn’t know which part of me was the truth–the part that bloomed in Sam’s arms…or the part that still burned quietly whenever Jake touched me like this. 

***

The walls at the motel were thin, cheaper than usual. The kind that made secrets harder to keep and silences louder than they should be. I wasn’t eavesdropping, not intentionally. I was walking down the hallway with a bag of ice pressed to the back of my neck, Texas heat relentless even at night, when I heard their voices seeping through the half-open door to the room Sam and Jake shared. 

I froze. 

Their tones weren’t angry, not raised. But there was a quiet edge to them, the kind of sharpness that only comes when the words underneath are too loaded to say plainly. I hovered. Then I listened. 

“She’s different around you now,” Jake said, voice low but not cold. “She’s…lighter.” There was a pause, then Sam replied, quieter, “I never wanted it to happen this way.” 

“But you still wanted it.” 

“I didn’t go looking for her,” Sam pleaded, “You know that.” 

“I know,” Jake said. There was a rustle, maybe he sat on the bed, maybe he turned away. “But it doesn’t make it easier to watch.” 

“I love her,” Sam said, pointed. Plain. Unapologetic. Something in me twisted. “I know,” Jake repeated, “And I think she loves you, too.” Then silence. For a long moment, nothing but air between them. I could hear the hum of the air conditioner, the buzz of a fly at the window. Then Sam spoke again, “So why are you still holding on?” 

Jake’s answer came slowly, like it hurt. “Because I still believe we’re not finished.” A chair scraped the floor, and a sharp exhale. “She kissed me last night,” Jake added. My heart stopped. “I didn’t push it,” he continued. “It just…happened.” Sam’s voice was strained. “Did she say anything?” 

“No. But she didn’t pull away.” Another silence. Heavier now. 

When Sam spoke again, his voice had dropped, a quiet thread of pain woven through it. “So we’re both still standing in the middle, waiting for someone who can’t move.” 

“She’s trying,” Jake said, and I hated him for being kind. “We both know she’s trying.” 

“I just don’t know how long I can stand still.” 

I backed away from the door before they could hear me, ice forgotten, throat dry, heart loud in my chest. Hearing their truths laid bare like that, without performance, without posturing, rattled something deep in me. They were both in love with me. And they were both hurting in silence, trying to be gentle with something that was bleeding from both ends. 

And I…I was still the storm in the center. Still afraid to choose. 

***

The motel room felt colder than it should have. I sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. Wrapped in one of Jake’s old hoodies that I’d never given back. My hair was damp from the shower, and the ice I’d fetched had melted into a small puddle in the sink. I didn’t even remember walking back into the room. All I could hear was their voices. 

She’s different around you now. 

She kissed me last night. 

I love her. 

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes and tried to breathe past the ache in my chest. I had spent weeks walking a tightrope, balancing between guilt and desire, history and hope. I told myself I was being careful. Thoughtful. That I was trying not to hurt anyone. But the truth?

I was hurting everyone. Especially myself. 

Jake was the past I couldn’t seem to stop loving. He was the first song I ever believed in. The first person to make me feel like I belonged somewhere. And through the distance and detachment, I’d clung to the idea that maybe love could circle back, that maybe timing was the only thing we got wrong. And now…now that he was soft again, present again, trying–that part of me that remembered our beginning burned brighter. But what if that was just memory? What if I only loved the version of him that lived in our first summer? Before tour buses and emotional dead ends? 

And Sam…

Sam was the love I never saw coming. He knew the exact moment I got overwhelmed. The exact look I gave when I was about to cry but didn’t want to. He never made me feel like I had to earn his attention or compete for space in his heart. 

With Sam, I felt seen. Safe. But it was more than that. It was electric. It was how he looked at me when I laughed, like I was the chorus he never wanted to stop singing. And I loved him. 

God, I loved him. 

But I had buried that love under so much indecision, so much hesitation, that even now, after everything, I wasn’t sure if I deserved to say it out loud again. The worst part was that I understood both of them. Their pain. Their patience. Even their quiet expectations. And I hated myself for not being ready to meet either of them where they deserved to be met. Because the truth, the real, ugly, brutal truth, was this: No matter which way I turned, something had to break. And I couldn’t keep pretending I could hold on to both without bleeding myself dry. So I sat there, alone in the hush of the night, and whispered the question that had been circling my thoughts for days:

What do you want? Not what’s right. Not who’s hurting more. Not who came first. What do you want? 

And for the first time, a whisper of an answer came back, not in words, but in feeling. A warmth. A name I hadn’t said aloud yet. But I knew. And soon, I’d have to say it. 

[ageofwonderland]

Waiting for a Friend - Chapter 5

The air outside was thick with summer, and something heavier. The show had ended hours ago, but the tension still clung to my skin like sweat. I couldn’t breathe in the same room as Jake anymore. Not with Sam’s gaze burning through my thoughts. Not with the truth gnawing at the edge of every word I hadn’t said. 

So I found Jake. 

He was sitting on the curb behind the venue, cigarette in one hand, his phone in the other, scrolling through voice memos like they could save him. His hoodie was pulled over his head, even though it was too warm for it, he looked up when I stepped outside. 

Didn’t smile, didn’t flinch. Just said, “You okay?” 

And that broke me. Because he still cared, and I didn’t know how to hold that without hurting him. I sat down beside him, close but not close enough to lie. “I need to tell you something,” I said. 

Jake exhaled slowly, like he already knew. “It’s Sam.” It wasn’t a question. I nodded, “it wasn’t planned…it just..happened. But it’s not physical, Jake It’s–” He held up a hand, “Stop.” 

And I did. 

He stared out at the empty street, the orange glow of the streetlights painting tired shadows under his eyes. “I knew. I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew.” 

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” I whispered. 

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “But you did.” 

I swallowed hard. “I know, I’m sorry.” 

A long silence, the kind that stretches time. Then he turned to look at me, something vulnerable and raw in his voice, “I don’t want to lose you.” I blinked, “Jake…”

“I don’t care,” he cut in, quickly, desperately. “I don’t care if you’re with him. I don’t care if he’s who you crawl to when you need comfort. I just…I want to be someone you come back to. I want to try. Even if I have to share you while I figure it out.” 

My chest ached, “You don’t mean that.” 

“I do,” he said, and the worst part was–he did. “I’ve spent months pushing you away, burying myself in songs and shows and pretending that was enough. But I see it now. I see you. And I want to change.” I closed my eyes, because here it was–what I’d once begged him for. And now? Now it felt like love arriving too late. “I’m not asking for permission,” I said softly, “I’m just being honest.” Jake nodded slowly, eyes glassy but unbroken. “Then be honest with yourself, too. Do you still love me?” 

I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know if it was love, or loyalty, or grief for a version of us that only existed in the beginning. He took one last drag of his cigarette, then stood. “Just…don’t go yet,” he said. “Even if it’s not mine anymore, I still want time with your heart.” And then he walked away, leaving me sitting on the curb, shaking with the weight of a choice that no longer felt simple. 

Because now I knew. I wasn’t just deciding between two men. I was deciding who I was going to become. 

***

Jake didn’t bring it up again. After that night, he stopped asking where I went when I disappeared for an hour after soundcheck. He stopped reaching for my hand in the van. Stopped trying to read the answers off my face like lyrics he’d forgotten how to sing. But he stayed close, smiled more, talked to me about songs, about the past, about the future. He didn’t press. He didn’t beg. He simply…stayed. And it hurt more than I expected it to. Because he meant it. Every broken, generous word. He was trying. I saw it in the way he looked at me now, like he was seeing me again for the first time and hating every version of himself that hadn’t before. And still…I drifted. 

Sam didn’t ask me to choose. But he felt it too, the weight of Jake’s presence in my orbit. The tension in my shoulders. The way I pulled back sometimes, just slightly, when his hand brushed mine in the dark. We were together in fragments now. In whispered conversations in the greenroom, in the soft press of his lips to my shoulder when no one was looking, in motel rooms where we didn’t undress but we just lay side by side, sharing silence like it was the only language we had left. 

It wasn’t passion anymore. It was ache. He never said it, but I knew: He was waiting for me to be brave enough to leave the in-between. And I wasn’t, not yet. 

One night, we stayed in a motel on the edge of a desert town, the kind of place that feels like it was built for ghosts. Everyone was tired. Half the band fell asleep with the TV on. Jake passed out with his guitar across his chest. I lay in bed, wide awake, staring at the cracked ceiling. I couldn’t go to Sam’s room, not tonight, not like this. So instead, I pulled on a hoodie and stepped outside. The sky was clear. Cold. Too many stars. I walked to the edge of a parking lot and sat on the curb, hugging my knees, feeling like I might never be whole again. A few minutes later, Sam sat down beside me. He didn’t speak, he didn’t touch me, he just let the silence grow around us. Eventually, I whispered, “I’m breaking both of you.” 

He exhaled through his nose, “And yourself.” That was the worst part; he was right. “I don’t know how to leave someone who is finally trying.” 

“And I don’t know how to stop loving someone who won’t choose me,” he said. The words hung between us, cold and sharp and true. I turned to him, “Why are you still here?” 

Sam didn’t look away, “Because even if you never pick me, I’ll never regret loving you.” My eyes burned, I leaned my head against his shoulder, and he let me. Let me stay in the in-between. Let me ache next to him. He didn’t kiss me, didn’t ask me to explain. He just stayed, and somehow, that made it harder. Because the longer I lived here, in this nowhere space, the more I realized: no one was going to make the choice for me. Eventually, I’d have to walk out of it. One way or another. 

*** 

The room was dim, lit only by a flickering lamp on the dresser and the TV playing some late-night rerun on mute. I sat on the edge of the bed, and he stood by the window, arms crossed over his chest, back straight–but his eyes gave him away. They always did. There was something soft in them tonight. Something breaking. 

“I know you’re not ready,” he said finally, voice low, even, “I’m not here to push.” I nodded, unable to speak, my throat was thick with everything I hadn’t said. Sam glanced down at his hands, then back up at me. “But I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. Watching you carry this weight…watching you pretend you don’t already know where your heart wants to be.” 

I closed my eyes, “I wish I didn’t love him,” I said. 

“But you do.” 

I looked up at him, “And I love you.” His mouth parted just slightly, like the words had struck him somewhere deep and quiet. “I love you,” I said again, steadier this time. “Not like a fling, not like a distraction. I don’t know when it happened, or how, but I do. I love you, Sam.” 

He crossed the room in two steps; he didn’t say a word. He just kissed me. Slow, deliberate, like every moment up until now had led to this one. When he finally pulled back, his hands still cupped my face. His forehead rested gently against mine. “I love you, too,” he whispered. “God, I love you.” 

We didn’t undress that night, we didn’t rush into anything more than what was already overflowing between us. We lay in bed, fully clothed, tangled like roots, breathing in sync, clinging to the truth like it was the only thing keeping us above water. Because for the first time in weeks, there was no pretending. No in-between. No maybes. Only this: I loved him. And he loved me. And whatever came next, we’d walk it together. 

*** 

It was the first night in weeks we didn’t have anywhere to be. No stage. No motel curfews. No eyes watching us over guitars or morning coffee. Sam found us a cabin in the hills, something rustic, barely furnished, but with windows that opened wide to the sky and silence that wrapped around us like a secret. We lit candles we found in a drawer, shared a bottle of cheap wine, sat on the old wooden floor, knees touching, laughing about nothing until it got quiet again. The kind of quiet where every glance feels like a question and every heartbeat sounds like permission.

He kissed me like we had nowhere to be tomorrow. Slowly. Intently. Like every part of him had been aching to be close to me again in a way that didn’t need hiding. I fell back on the mattress, fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt, his weight delicious and warm above me. We undressed slowly, not to tease, not to delay. But because we wanted to feel it. Every inch. Every second. 

His hands were reverent, his mouth trailing heat down my throat, across my collarbone, lower still. I arched into him without shame, because in this space, in this moment, I didn’t need to hide what I wanted, what we wanted. Sam’s hand slipped between my thighs with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing, from listening, from loving someone deeply enough to pay attention. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Sam moaned into my ear as he dragged his finger over the growing wet spot of my underwear. He kisses his way down my stomach, stopping to lick and suck at my skin. He looks up at me when he reaches where I want him most, “Lift your hips for me, baby” 

I obey without thinking, he pulls my underwear down my legs and throws them to the floor over his shoulder, he spreads my thighs open and lowers his head between them, and breathes me in. “You smell so good, bet you taste even better,” he says between kisses on my thighs, “your pussy is dripping for me, baby, want me to fuck you that bad?” I answered with a moan. 

He towered back over me, kissing me deeply, he presses his thumb against my swollen clit, “Please,” I whine, “just fuck me already,” grinding my hips into his thumb. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you.” He pushes his middle finger inside me, “so fucking wet for me.” he pushes another finger in, stretching me open. Pushing my hips back, I moaned for him, panting. He curls his fingers with each thrust, his cock throbs in his boxers from the sound of me. 

He watched me squirm under his touch, watched me like I was the only song he’d ever want to write again. He adds a third finger, and fucks me even faster. I clench around him, cumming around him. He continued to push into me until I couldn’t take it anymore, starting to squirm away “its…too…much” I manage to pant out. 

“Sorry angel,” he pulls his fingers out and brings them to his mouth, moaning at the taste. He stands up and drags me to the edge of the bed, “just another taste…it’s all I need” He fucked his tongue into me, humming lightly. He latched onto my clit, and pushes two fingers back into me, his fingers curling into me and fucking me while a wave is building within me. I cum again, legs shaking, back arching, I tried to push his head and squirm away but he held me down by my hips, “just a little more baby, you can take it.” I start panting, unsure if I can take it like he said, like he wanted. I was on the verge of tears, whining and moaning, and trying to squirm away. Gasping for air, seeing nothing but white heat, and then it happened. He started moaning into me, panting to the same rhythm as me, gripping onto my thigh, gasping my name. He brings his face back to core, one last taste is all he needed, “I’m cumming baby,” he groaned against my thigh. He finished all by himself, just by touching me, just by watching me melt under him. 

He stood and laid on top of me, nuzzling into me. Boxers still on. Our heartbeats slowed against each other, and neither one of us said a word. We didn’t need to. Because some truths live better in the silence between bodies. 

[ageofwonderland]

Waiting for a Friend - Chapter 4

:D

“Let’s get out of town for a day,” Sam said, one morning after rehearsal. “Just you and me.” The band had two days off before the next gig, and Jake was buried in mixing demos and sending out feelers to producers. He barely looked up when I left the motel room. Sam had already gassed up the van, he didn’t say where we were going. We just drove. Windows down, music low, the sky cracked open in that soft, late-afternoon way that made everything feel fragile and golden. I didn’t ask questions; I just let the road pull us somewhere that didn’t exist on any map. 

We ended up at a lake outside a forgotten town, surrounded by pine trees and silence. The water was still, like glass. No one else was around. It was just us, and the smell of summer, and the distance we’d both finally closed. 

We sat on the dock barefoot, legs dangling over the edge. “It feels like the world stopped,” I said. Sam nodded, looking out at the water, “I wish it would.” And when I looked at him, the soft curve of his mouth, the warmth in his eyes–not hungry, not desperate, just there I realized something terrifying:

I wasn’t waiting for Jake anymore. 

The kiss came slowly, not new, not surprising, but deep this time, like neither of us was holding back. He touched me with reverence, like he’d been building this moment in his head for months and didn’t want to shatter it. Clothes peeled away with quiet sighs and fingers tracing skin like discovery. It wasn’t rushed, it was just two people letting down walls, brick by aching brick, until nothing was left but breath and skin and the sound of the water rocking gently beneath the dock. 

Sam whispered my name like it was a prayer, like a secret he wanted to keep forever.

It was slow. 

It was full. 

It was real. 

Afterward, we lay tangled in a blanket we’d pulled from the van, watching the stars blink into the night sky. His hand rested on my hip, thumb drawing lazy circles into my skin. 

“I don’t want to go back,” I whispered. 

He didn’t say, then don’t. He didn’t say, stay with me. Sam only turned his face to me, pressed his forehead to mine, and said the one thing I knew he meant more than anything else: 

“I’m here.” 

And for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like someone waiting to be loved. I felt like someone who already was. 

***

At first, we were careful. Stolen moments behind closed motel doors, soft kisses pressed into collarbones in the early morning before soundcheck, Sam brushing a hand long my back when no one was looking, my fingers slipping into his as we walked down gas station aisles, releasing just before anyone could see. 

We lived between shadows, between glances, between all the things we didn’t say out loud. But in those quiet corners, our connection bloomed, not in fireworks, but in roots. In quiet knowing, in the kind of laughter that came easily again, even when the days were long and the rooms smelled like old cigarettes and someone else's dreams. He brought me tea when I had headaches; I patched up a blister on his finger after a long night of bass runs. We didn’t need big declarations. We just needed each other. 

One night, while the rest of the band went out drinking, Sam and I stayed behind in a small motel two towns over. The room was too warm, the AC broken, the sheets were scratchy, but we didn’t care. 

We lay on the floor, backs pressed against the thin carpet, fingers laced above our heads. “What do you think this is?” I asked, staring up at the stained ceiling. He turned his head toward me, “You and me?” 

“Yeah.” His thumb stroked mine, “I think it’s the only thing that feels honest right now.” I exhaled, “It scares me how right this feels.” He didn’t flinch. “Good things should scare you. Means they matter. 

We didn’t sleep that night, not really. We talked until the clock blinked past three, until the line between bodies blurred again, until I wasn’t sure where I ended and he began. 

We were never reckless. But love, real, quiet love, leaves traces. And sometimes I caught the way Jake looked at me now. Like he was trying to place a feeling he couldn’t quite name. Like something was slipping through his fingers, and he hadn’t figured out what yet. Sam noticed too, but he didn’t pull away. He held my hand a little tighter when no one else could see. And I started to wonder how long we could live in the shadows before the truth demanded light. 

*** 

The road stretched ahead of us like a secret none of us knew how to tell. We were on our way back home, back to Tennessee, we had a cheap rental van that smelled like feet and coffee, and barely enough sleep between us to keep our eyes open. It should’ve felt like all the other road trips, late-night playlists, gas station snacks, arguments about which diner had the best pie. But it didn’t. This time, everything was different. This time, I had Sam’s handprint on my waist beneath my shirt, and Jake’s voice in my ear from the night before, soft and unsure: “Are we okay?” I’d smiled, lied, and said I was just tired. But in this van, with all five of us crammed shoulder to shoulder, and too much silence humming between the guitar cases and Red Bulls…it was obvious. Something was off.

Jake drove most of the day, sunglasses on, jaw tight. He kept the music loud–too loud–like he was trying to drown out a feeling he hadn’t figured out how to name. I sat behind him, pressed against the window, watching trees blur into each other. Sam sat to my right, close but not too close, flipping through a dog-eared book he wasn’t really reading. Every now and then, our thighs brushed. Neither of us moved. 

At a rest stop in Arkansas, the others went inside to stretch and grab snacks. I lingered by the vending machines, the sun hot on my skin, my brain heavy with guilt and want and too many what-ifs. Sam came up beside me, quietly. Not touching. Just there. “I had this part,” I said. 

“The hiding?” He asked. I nodded, “It makes everything feel like it’s not real.” He turned to me, voice low, “It’s real to me. Every second of it.” I looked up at him, heart aching with the truth of that. “Do you think they know?” I asked. Sam didn’t answer right away, just looked through the gas station window, toward the van. “Jake isn’t stupid,” he said. “Just scared. Same as you.” 

Back on the road, the tension pulsed. Jake made more jokes than usual, louder, forced. He looked at me through the rearview mirror more than once, like he was trying to catch something behind my eyes. Sam sat still, calm, like a stone in a river, trying not to be carried away. By the time into the next town, a small stretch of asphalt and neon signs, my whole body felt tight with things I wasn’t saying. Jake reached for my hand as we pulled into the motel lot, and I let him take it. Sam looked away, and I felt like I was breaking in half. 

That night, we played a dive bar packed wall to wall. The crowd swayed with the music, lost in it, drunk on it. But I saw Jake watching me. And I saw Sam watching him. And somewhere in the noise, I felt myself unraveling, thread by thread, song by song, lie by quiet lie. Because what do you do when the person you want is two feet away…and the person you’re still with is staring straight through you?

[ageofwonderland]

Waiting for a Friend - Chapter 3

I've been writing these at work (it's my slow season) so I'm posting these day by day as I finish it up :) I'd love to know who you think she's going to pick!! (for the 2 of you who read this)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It rained the next day. Not the dramatic, cinematic kind. Just a steady, rhythmic drizzle that softened the world and blurred the edges of things. The band canceled rehearsal, everyone stayed in, playing cards, passing around beers, waiting for the storm to pass. 

Jake found me in our room, curled beneath the motel blanket, watching droplets race down the window like they had somewhere better to be. He didn’t say anything at first, just sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me the way he used to, before the gigs, before the distance, before I started drifting into someone else’s gravity. 

“I miss you,” he said quietly. I blinked, unsure whether he meant the past version of me or the one lying here now. Then he reached for me, not with heat or hunger, but with something far more dangerous. Tenderness. His hand found my wrist gently, fingertips grazing the inside where my pulse betrayed me. “Can I…just lie here?” he asked. I nodded, and he slid under the covers beside me, fully clothed, body warm from the outside. He pulled me close, not possessive, not needy. Just there. Solid. Familiar. 

His face was close to mine, breath slow, eyes tired but open, “You remember that night in Ashville?” he asked, “the tiny room with the broken radiator and that terrible diner next door?” 

I smiled despite myself, “You ordered pancakes at midnight and fell asleep with syrup on your cheek.” He grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners, “You wiped it off, then kissed me like I was the best mistake you’d ever made.” 

I looked down, heart splintering, “You weren’t a mistake.” 

Jake grew quiet, then, “I think I forgot how to hold you without needing something from you. I don’t want to do that anymore.” 

I didn’t know what to say. 

His thumb brushed against my jaw, feather-light, “You still make me nervous,” he said, voice raw, “Like I’m not enough. Like you’re gonna outgrow the mess I am.” 

I wanted to tell him he was enough, that I didn’t want perfect. 

But that wouldn’t have been the whole truth. 

Instead, I let him kiss me, slow and soft, like he was trying to memorize a language he’d once spoken fluently but had forgotten somewhere along the way. And for a moment, I let myself fall into it. Let myself believe that maybe he was really changing. That maybe love didn’t need to be out loud or painful or torn between two people. Maybe it could be this: a rainy day, a shared bed, a kiss that tasted like apologies and almosts. 

Afterward, we lay tangled in silence, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat like it might anchor me back to him. But when he fell asleep, arms still wrapped around me, I stared at the ceiling, heart racing, throat tight. 

Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure who I was cheating on.

Jake…or Sam. 

*** 

It happened two days later, outside of a venue in Pasadena, an old converted church with stained glass windows that caught the sunset like fire. The band had just finished soundcheck. Jake was inside, tuning up alone, humming quietly to himself. The others had scattered. Sam lingered by the van, arms crossed, watching the sky as if he could will it to rain again. I didn’t mean to walk toward him. I didn’t mean to say anything. But sometimes, when something inside you breaks, it finds its way out, whether you let it or not. 

“I kissed him,” I said, “well, he kissed me. But I…I let him,” I was rambling. 

Sam didn’t look surprised. “Jake?” 

I nodded, my voice was barely there. “It was…gentle. Soft. like who we used to be.” Sam’s jaw tightened, but his expression stayed calm. “And did it change anything?” 

“I don’t know,” I took a breath. Maybe. I wanted it to.” Sam turned to face me fully now, his eyes searching mine like he was reading a song he didn’t like the lyrics to: " You were always allowed to go back to him.” 

“I haven’t made a choice.” 

“Yes, you have,” he said, “Every day that you stay, you’re choosing. Even when you say you aren’t.” 

That hit harder than I expected. He looked away, exhaled through his nose, then looked back at me–steady, clear, like always. “I don’t care,” he said. 

I blinked, “What?” 

“I don’t care if you’re still with him. I don’t care if you kiss him again. I want you anyway.” The wind picked up, tugging a strand of hair across my face. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Sam stepped closer to me, careful as always, but this time there was fire in his voice. He cupped his hands under my jaw and made me look up at him, gentle but with purpose. His fingertips made my skin feel on fire. “I’m not asking you to leave him. I’m not asking you to run away with me. I just want you to know that even if he figures it out–even if he becomes everything you hoped for–I still want you. Not the broken version. Not the leftover pieces. You.” 

My throat burned. 

“You deserve someone who sees you, even when you’re not shining. Someone who doesn’t make you question if love should feel like walking on eggshells.” 

Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them, “Sam…” 

He looked me in the eyes like he was looking right into my soul, “I’ll be here. No matter what you decide.” 

And then he turned and walked away, leaving me breathless, wrecked, and more seen than I had ever been in my life. 

***

The thing about Sam was–he never asked for more than I was ready to give. After that night, nothing changed, and somehow, everything did. He didn’t press. He didn’t pull. He simply stayed. Present. Steady. A low hum beneath the chaos. Jake started staying out later again, writing with other musicians, talking more and more about “the record,” about how this one might finally be the one that changes things. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t ask to be included. I just stopped waiting for him to look at me and really see me. 

One morning, about a week later, I found Sam by the vending machine, barefoot, hair a mess, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “Gummy bears or Doritos?” he asked, holding up a few quarters. I smiled without meaning to, “Doritos, obviously.” 

“Good,” he said, “I hate gummy bears.” We walked back to the van, sharing the bag, fingers brushing every now and then. No sparks. No fireworks. Just warmth. It was…easy. 

Days passed like that, softly, no declarations, no promises. He’d sit next to me during soundchecks, humming harmonies under his breath, letting his knee rest just barely against mine. We’d share playlists in the van, talk about books we never finished, on nights when Jake didn’t come back until morning, Sam would knock on my door, not come in, but to make sure I was okay. And every time he left, I wanted to call him back. But I didn’t. Not yet. 

Then one night, in a sleepy town with one gas station and no cell service, the band stayed in a house borrowed from someone’s cousin. A creaky, beautiful mess of a place with old records on the shelves and mismatched quilts on the beds. After dinner, the others drifted off. Jake passed out on the couch with his guitar still on his chest. I wandered into the screened porch, barefoot, hoodie zipped up to my chin, moonlight painting the floor silver. 

Sam was already there, sitting on the porch swing, waiting like he knew I’d come. He didn’t speak, just held out a hand. And I took it. He pulled me down beside him gently, and we swung in silence for a while. My head eventually found his shoulder; his thumb moved over the back of my hand in soft circles. “Why are you so patient with me?” I asked. His voice was low, “because when you love someone, you don’t rush them into loving you back. You just stay close enough that they can find their way if they want to.” I looked up at him then, heart full of questions, and he met my gaze with the kind of tenderness that made everything else in the world fall away. 

He leaned in. And I let him. 

The kiss was quiet, no fireworks, no desperation. Just a slow, aching certainty. The kind of kiss that asks Can I keep you? Without demanding an answer. When we pulled apart, I didn’t speak. I just rested my forehead against his, breathed him in, and felt, for the first time in a long while, like I wasn’t losing something…but finding something new. 

Maybe even finding myself. 

[ageofwonderland]

Waiting for a Friend - Chapter 2

The motel room felt colder than usual, though the thermostat hadn’t budged. Maybe it was the silence. That tight, charged silence that settles in after a fight, not quite an ending, not yet a beginning. Just the in-between. The waiting room of heartbreak. Jake had slept on the armchair, knees awkwardly bent, hoodie pulled over his face like he was trying to disappear. I had curled up on the far side of the bed, back to him, fists curled in the blanket like that would keep me from unraveling. Neither of us said a word that morning. He left early, guitar case in hand, a mumbled, “back later,” trailing behind him like smoke. 

He didn’t ask if I’d be there when he returned. 

I didn’t promise that I would. 

That afternoon, I wandered down to the gas station a few blocks away just to move around. To breathe. To get my blood pumping. I stood in front of the fridges for ten minutes trying to decide if I was hungry or just lonely. Eventually, I grabbed a Gatorade and headed back toward the motel, the sun hot on my shoulders, everything around me feeling too loud and too still at the same time. 

Sam was sitting outside his room with his bass across his lap, idly plucking strings, no amp. Just the soft hum of notes that didn’t go anywhere in particular. He must have heard me coming because he looked up and said a soft “Hey,” like it wasn’t loaded. “Hey.” I echoed back.

I hesitated, then sat beside him on the curb. 

“How’s Jake?” he asked after a beat. I shook my head, “Don’t know. We’re in that place where we’ve both said too much but not enough all at once.” 

Sam nodded, his fingers still on the strings. “You staying?” 

“For now.” 

He studied me, quiet. “You don’t owe anyone misery, you know.” That caught me off guard. “I’m not trying to be the reason anything ends,” I said quickly. “This isn’t—whatever this is” I threw my hands up in the air, not knowing exactly what to say. “I know,” he said. “And I’m not asking you to be anything. I just..I care. That’s it. I care about what happens to know. That’s not a betrayal.” 

That word–betrayal–hung between us like a thick fog. 

I closed my eyes, “sometimes I just wish he’d stop loving me sto I could leave without guily.”

Sam’s voice was soft, “Maybe he does love you, but that doesn’t mean he knows how.”  The quiet after that was different, not heavy, not sad, just honest. 

Later that night, I returned to the motel room. Jake was there, sitting on the floor, ack against the bed, his guitar untouched in the corner. A beer half empty on the table. His hands were clasped together like he’d been trying to pray but didn’t remember how. He looked up when I walked in. Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. Just…looked. I sat on the bed without a word. Let the silence stretch. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he said finally. “I know I’ve been gone, even when I’m here. I don’t know why I keep doing that to you.” 

“Because it’s easier to vanish than to show up,” I said quietly. He nodded, “Yeah.” 

He turned toward me, “Are you still mine?” 

I swallowed, “I don’t…I don’t know.” I stammered, and there it was. Not a door slammed shut. Not a promise made. Just the truth between us like a third person in the room. And when the lights went out, we lay side by side on the same mattress, hearts beating miles apart. 

***

Jake tried. For a while, at least. He started waking up early, buying cheap motel coffee before I did, sometimes even bringing one to my side of the bed like a peace offering he wasn’t sure I’d take. He asked about my day, if I was okay, but the words felt stuff in his mouth, like he hadn’t practiced them in years. But he said them, at least. 

He played fewer sad songs, and the first time he left his guitar in its case during a rehearsal, the rest of the band looked at him like he’d walked in missing a lumb but he just shrugged it off and said, “Not today.” 

Later that night, he pulled me close in bed and whispered, “I want to do better. I just don’t always know how.” 

I didn’t pull away, because I knew. He was trying, he was trying to be better, be different. I didn’t answer either, I just let it mellow in the silence. 

The band got booked for a weekend set at a festival two hours away, nothing big, just a dusty patch of land outside of Los Angeles with folding chairs and a stage made of plywood. But Jake was energized in a way I hadn’t seen in months, he jokes more, tapped his fingers on the dashboard to the rhythm of the songs on the radio, rehearsed until his voice cracked. 

I watched it all like I was on the other side of glass. Sam kept his distance during rehearsals, not cold, but careful. We hadn’t talked much since that night on the curb, since that line between us blurred and didn’t quite snap back. But on the second night of the festival, everything changed. 

It was late, the others had gone off somewhere, Jake was talking to a small group of fans by the food truck, laughing too loud, smiling like it didn’t ache. I stepped away, I needed air, space. Sam found me by the edge of the field, near the tree line where the lights faded into dark. 

“You okay?” He asked. I nodded, “I think he’s really trying.” 

“You don’t sound happy about that.” I turned to him, “I am…” I trailed off, “I just don’t know if its enough.” Sam looked at me then, that same unreadable softness in his eyes, “Do you want it to be?” 

“I want to believe in him,” I said, “But I don’t know if I still believe in us.” He nodded slowly, stepping closer to me. “He doesn’t see you the way I do, he doesn’t see you.” Sam said, and my breath caught. “I’ve tried not to say it. Tried to stay in my lane, but everytime you laugh, and it’s real? I can’t pretend it doesn’t mean something to me.” 

I opened my mouth to speak, but he closed the distance between us. It wasn’t wild, or urgent. It was careful. Like he was afraid I’d break if he got too close, but I didn’t break. I kissed him back. 

For just a moment, then I pulled away, heart slamming in my chest, “I can’t,” I whispered, “Not yet.” 

He nodded, stepping back without apology, without regret, “I know.”

And that hurt most of all, that he understood me more in three seconds than Jake had in three years. 

I returned to the motel late, heart pounding in my ears. Jake was already asleep, curled on his side, mouth parted slightly. He looked peaceful. Innocent. A version of him I used to know. His hand reached out in the dark and found mine. He whispered, half-asleep, “Thanks for staying.” 

And I didn’t have the courage to tell him I wasn’t sure how much longer I would. 

***

The days blurred after the festival. Jake was steadier now, he was trying. Really trying. He asked more questions, held me longer. Even started writing a song he said was for me, though he never played it aloud. But something in his eyes stayed guarded, like he feared if he loved me too openly, I might disappear. And maybe he was right. Because I was starting to feel like I already had. 

Sam and I didn’t talk about the kiss, we existed in careful choreography, never alone for too long, never too close, always pulling away before the gravity became obvious. But the tension was a living thing, breathing between us during every soundcheck, every motel breakfast, every unspoken glance when Jake wasn’t looking. The guilt clung to me like humidity, and yet, it wasn’t guilt for what had happened. 

It was guilt for what I wanted to happen again. 

One night, the band played a small bar outside of Santa Monica, it was a dim place, all low ceilings and sticky floors. The kind of place where dreams either sparked or died slowly, one set at a time. Jake was electric. He played like he meant it. Looked at me from the stage with that fire in his eyes that I used to live for, and I smiled. But it didn’t reach my chest. After the show, the others drank and laughed with the locals. Jake was in his element, people orbiting him, girls leaning too lcose, though he didn’t lean back. He was trying to be good. I saw that. But still, I needed air. 

Sam was outside already, leaning against the van, his bass case at his feet, a cigarette burning between two fingers. I stopped a few feet from him,, and he didn’t say anything, just flicked the ask and nodded at the stars. “I’m so tired,” I said softly. 

“Of him?” 

“Of trying to remember who I am when I’m not with him.”  Sam glanced at me, quiet. “You’re allowed to want something that doesn’t hurt.” I shook my head, “He’s not hurting me, not now. He’s trying.” 

“I know,” he said, “but you’re still not happy.” The truth in that felt cruel, but also necessary. I stepped closer, too close. 

Sam didn’t move, just brought his eyes down to mine and whispered, “Don’t kiss me unless you mean it.” 

And I did, oh I meant it. 

I kissed him like I’d been holding my breath since the first one. His hand rose to my waist, grounding me, and for one suspended moment, I felt like myself–completely, frighteningly, seen. 

Then I stepped back, breathless. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whispered. 

“You don’t have to,” he said, voice thick, “just don’t lie to yourself about what you want.” 

I left him there by the van and walked back into the bar, where Jake was still laughing, still shining for everyone but me. And I wondered how long you could stay in something simply because you loved who someone used to be. 

[ageofwonderland]

Waiting for a Friend - Chapter 1

Pairing: Jake x reader, Sam x reader 

Description: Jake and the reader have a tumultuous relationship, and a spark strikes between the reader and Sam. But will it last? What is the right choice?

It's just something I'm working on - never really written something like this, so let me know what you think :D Kind of sort of inspired by the song Waiting for a Friend by the Pretty Reckless and Jake sings!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time that I realized I was dating a ghost was during the sound check at the Troubadour, a venue that smelled like spilled whiskey and stories people didn’t want to tell. Jake stood center stage, cradling his battered guitar like it was something more sacred than anything he’d ever held with me. His eyes were closed, brow furrowed in that way that made girls with cameras whisper about him like he was a living poem. I watched from the wings, arms crossed, pretending I was cold. 

He sang in murmurs, fragments of a song he’d been writing for weeks, and I still didn’t know who it was about. Maybe me. Maybe not. Maybe that was the point. Jake’s music always felt like confessions meant for a room full of strangers rather than for me, the person who slept beside him, who folded his laundry, the one who learned how to stretch a twenty into breakfast, dinner, and enough gas to make it to the next gig. 

When the last chord rang out, his bandmates shuffled off to grab beers, but I stayed where I was, just waiting. He didn’t look at me. Not even once. 

“Sounded good,” I said, louder than I needed to, wanting to make a dent in whatever world he was in. Jake blinked like he’d just come up for air. “Yeah?” I nodded, trying not to sound too hopeful. “Yep. Really good.” 

He lifted his eyes to me, only half paying attention to me, “You always say that.” 

“You always sound good.”

Which was true, but that wasn’t what I meant. What I meant was: Talk to me. Be here. Miss me like I miss you, even when you’re standing feet away. 

He stepped off the stage and brushed past me, his fingertips grazing my shoulder like an accident. “Gonna grab a smoke.” 

That was Jake. A song for every silence. A cigarette for every conversation we didn’t have. I trailed behind him into the back alley, where the air buzzed with the summer heat and the soft hum of cicadas. He lit his cigarette with a practiced flick, the glow illuminating the shadows under his eyes. He looked tired. He always looked tired. 

“Are you okay?” I asked, because it felt like something someone’s girlfriend should ask. He exhaled slowly, “Just thinking.” 

“About?”

“Nothing important.”

I wanted to scream. Then why does it matter more than me? But I didn’t. I just sat beside him on the crumbling step and watched the smoke curl into the sky, disappearing like every word he never said. Sometimes, being with Jake felt like trying to kiss fog. There was the outline of something beautiful, but no matter how tightly I held on, it slipped through me. He loved me, I think. In the way people love old songs and worn-out sweaters. With nostalgia. With absence. 

He finished his cigarette and stood up. “You coming to the bar?” I hesitated. “Maybe later.” 

“Okay.” He didn’t wait; he just walked off, boots echoing against the concrete. 

I sat there a long time, watching his silhouette shrink into the amber streetlight. A part of me wanted to chase him. A bigger part of me was tired of running after someone who never looked back. 

That night, when he crawled into bed next to me, I lay awake long after he started snoring, wondering if you could still be this lonely with someone breathing beside you. I already knew the answer. I just didn’t want to admit it. 

***

It started with a chord. 

Jake was sitting on the floor of our hotel room, guitar resting on his knee, mumbling lyrics into his phone. I’ve learned to recognize the signs, the twitch of his fingers, the way he rocked gently when he was in it. He was chasing a song again. One that didn’t want to be caught. 

I sat on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to my chest. Pretending to scroll through my phone. But really, I was waiting. Waiting for him to remember I was there. Waiting for the moment he’d look up and ask what I thought, even if he never really listened to the answer. 

“Play that part again,” I said, unable to help myself. 

Jake didn’t look up, just played the chorus again. The same four lines, over and over like a scratched record. “You should change that third line,” I offered gently. “It sounds..I don’t know…flat. Doesn’t hit the way the others do.” 

He froze, hands hovering over the strings. “What?”

“I’m just saying it could be better.” 

A pause, then a scoff, then almost a laugh. “ You don’t even write songs.” He said, pointedly. Sharply. The words sliced quicker than he realized, or maybe he did realize. Maybe he knew exactly how to push me back into my corner. 

I dropped my phone. “So, what? I’m not allowed to have an opinion now?” 

“I didn’t say that.”

“You kind of did.” 

He rubbed the space between his eyes, like I was a headache that wouldn’t go away. “Jesus, I’m trying to work, okay? I don’t need a critic. I need space.”

“I’ve given you space, Jake. I’ve been sitting here for three hours in silence while you chase a song that doesn’t wanna be caught, and that probably isn’t even about me!”

That got his attention. He looked up, eyes hard now. “Why does it have to be about you?” 

I stood up. “Because I’m the one here! I’m the one sleeping on motel sheets and living out of a duffel bag and skipping calls from my mom because I chose you. And you barely even see me anymore.” 

Jake set his guitar aside, like it had betrayed him, his voice sharp. “You think this is easy? You think being in my head all the time, trying to make something real out of noise, is easy?” 

That is not what we are talking about 

“No,” I said. “I think being with you is hard. I think loving you feels like clapping for someone who never looks up from the stage.” 

He laughed. He laughed. “You knew what you were signing up for.”

“Did I?” My voice cracked, the heat behind my eyes burning. “Because I thought I was signing up for us. Not just to be your backstage cheerleader while you bleed into a song I don’t even recognize. Not your punching bag when the music isn’t right. Not to wonder who these songs are for. Not to wonder if you even give a damn if I’m here.” 

Silence. 

He ran his hand through his hair, stood, and paced. “You think I don’t care? You think I’m just–just what? Using you for gas money and motel rooms?” 

“No,” I whispered. “I think you care about me the way you care about your old guitar. You love that it’s familiar. You love that it’s always there. But when the string breaks, you get mad and stop playing. 

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it. And that was worse than the yelling. Worse than anything. Because at least a fight meant there was fire, now there was just smoke. 

“Right.” He turned, walked to the door, and grabbed his keys. 

“Where are you going?” I asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Out.” 

“For how long?”

He didn’t answer. Just left. The door clicked shut like a period at the end of a sentence neither of us wanted to write. I sat down on the bed, stared at the dent his guitar left on the carpet. That was the thing about Jake–he never made a mess, but absences. Quiet places where love used to be. 

***

The next morning, Jake was back before dawn. I heard the door crack open, his boots thudding softly across the floor, and the gentle rustle of his jacket hitting the chair. I didn’t turn over. He didn’t speak. 

When the light finally slipped through the blinds and brushed against my face, he was asleep. Sprawled on top of sheets, facing away from me, as if even in dreams, he couldn’t quite face what we’d become. 

We didn’t talk about the fight. That was the rhythm of things now: argue, silence, pretend. Rinse and repeat. 

Later that afternoon, the band loaded into the van for another rehearsal. We were parked outside a dive bar with a flickering sign with half of the letters burnt out. Fitting. 

I didn’t want to go in. But I didn’t want to sit in the van like a ghost.

Inside, Jake was already on stage, tuning his guitar like the night before had never happened. The rest of the band trickled in, lazy and loud, except for Sam—Jake’s little brother and bassist. 

He saw me in the corner booth and slid into the seat across from me without asking. He set down a Styrofoam cup and pushed it toward me. “Black. No sugar, right?” 

I blinked. “You remember that?” 

He shrugged. “You’re the only one who drinks it like poison.”

A small smile tugged at my lips, but faded quickly. 

“You good?” He asked, eyes steady. 

“No,” I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but it was the first honest thing I’d said to anyone in days. Sam didn’t flinch. Just nodded like he already knew. “I heard you guys fighting,” he said quietly. “Last night.” 

I stiffened. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I’ve heard worse. Way worse.” 

I looked at him then, really looked. He had one of those faces that never asked for attention but held it anyway—soft angles, quiet strength, dark eyes that never tried to look through you, only at you. 

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” I admitted. “I don’t know if I’m with Jake because I love him or because I’m afraid of what leaving says about me.” 

Sam leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table in time with the distant rhythm from the stage. “Loyalty’s not love. It’s just weight if you carry it too long.” 

His words hit harder than they should have. “What would you do?”

“I’d stop trying to make music out of silence,” he said simply. 

The rehearsal kicked up, Jake’s voice filled the bar, raw and aching. He wasn’t singing to me. Maybe he never had been. 

Sam stood up slowly. “Come walk with me?” I hesitated, looked toward the stage. Jake didn’t even look in my direction. 

I stood. 

We walked two blocks in silence, our steps in sync. The street was empty except for the hum of neon and the echo of a city that never slept, just muttered in its dreams. 

“You know,” Sam said after a while, “You’re allowed to want something more than being second place to a song.” The words burned in my chest, not because they were cruel, but because they were kind. Too kind. 

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” I whispered. He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Then maybe start with what you don’t want.” 

I looked back toward the bar, toward Jake. My heart didn’t ache the way it used to when I thought of him. It just felt…tired. 

“I don’t want to disappear next to someone who says he loves me but never chooses me,” I said. 

Sam’s eyes searched mine. “Then don’t.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt seen. Not written into a song. Not imagined into a lyric. Just…seen. And for a flicker of a moment, I let myself wonder what it would feel like to be chosen first. 

***

It started small. They always do. 

A glance too long. A brush of hands when passing a coffee cup. The kind of silence that didn’t feel like absence, but peace. 

Sam didn’t push; that was the difference. With Jake, love always felt like standing onstage with the wrong setlist—always guessing, always a beat behind. With Sam, there was space to just be. And in that space, something began to shift. 

We were still in Los Angeles, still in that same motel with paper-thin walls and rust stains on the faucet, but everything else was starting to change. 

Jake noticed. I saw it in the way his eyes flicked to me during practice when Sam cracked a joke, and I laughed just a little too freely. I saw it when I came back from a late-night walk with Sam and Jake asked, flatly, “Where were you?” like he’d just realized I had somewhere else to be. 

I didn’t answer. 

That night, I sat on the balcony with Sam again. We shared a blanket. Not touching. Not even close. Just sitting. The city below us buzzed with life—neon, engine growls, and distant music—but we were quiet. 

“I don’t want to ruin anything,” I said suddenly, not sure if I meant Sam’s relationship with Jake, or my already-fractured relationship. 

Sam didn’t look at me when he replied, “You can’t ruin what’s already breaking.”

He said it without malice. Just the truth. And it hurt in the way honesty does when confronting something you’ve been avoiding for too long. 

A door slammed below us. Jake. Coming back from wherever he disappeared to at night. We both watched his figure cut through the parking lot like a shadow that couldn’t decide where to land. 

Sam stood, “I should go.” 

I nodded, heart pounding. But before he turned away, he looked at me, really looked at me. “You deserve to feel wanted. Not tolerated.” 

He didn’t wait for a response. 

I didn’t sleep that night. 

The next morning, the fight came. 

Jake slammed his guitar case shut hard enough to echo through the motel room. “You’re into him.” 

I didn’t say anything. Because what was there to deny? 

“Sam,” he spat the name at me like it tasted wrong. “I see the way you look at him now. Like you used to look at me.” 

I kept my back to him, staring at the cheap floral wallpaper. “Maybe I just stopped looking at you because you stopped looking at me.” 

He stepped closer, voice sharp. “So that’s it? You trade me in for the first guy who gives you a little attention?” 

I turned around then, shaking. “Don’t you dare. You don’t get to act like a victim in a story you wrote.” I yelled with my finger in his face. 

Jake blinked, thrown. 

“You left me a long time ago,” I said, “you just forgot to walk out the door.” 

He exhaled like I’d hit him. “I gave you everything. My life’s a mess, and you’re still the best part of it.” 

“No,” I said softly, “I was the quiet part. The part you didn’t notice until someone else did.”

He looked at me then. And maybe for the first time, he saw me–not the girl in his passenger seat, not the familiar body in his bed, but the woman standing in front of him, choosing herself. 

“What are you going to do?” he asked. And, I didn’t have one. Not yet. 

But I knew this: I wasn’t going to be a song lyric he only sang when he was sorry. I wasn’t going to be the applause after someone else’s show. 

[ageofwonderland]

I Burned LA Down

Pairing: Sam x reader

Word Count: 1k

Inspired by the song I Burned LA Down by Noah Cyrus

Los Angeles was never quiet, but the night she left, it somehow found a way to be still. The hum of the 101 faded into a distant murmur, the flickering neon buzz of Sunset Boulevard dimmed, and the stars, normally drowned by smog and city lights, burned fiercely above as if the heavens themselves were bearing witness to the heat unraveling. 

(Y/N) stood on the balcony of their apartment, barefoot, a glass of red wine trembling in her hand, her mascara had long since surrendered to the flow of tears, leaving streaks down her cheeks. The city sprawled endlessly behind her, sparkling with oblivious indifference. She used to love this view; she used to love everything. 

The door clicked behind her. Soft. Almost apologetic. 

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Sam said. His voice, once her favorite song, now sounded like a memory out of tune. She didn’t turn. “You packed?” 

“Yeah,” she said, short, staccato. “I’ll be out by morning.” 

And just like that, seven years fit into two suitcases and an overnight bag. They'd decided to split the rest—the books, records, memories. Some things neither of them could bear to keep, others were too painful to give away. It wasn’t one moment that broke them; it was all the small ones. Missed calls. Lingering silences. Apologies that came too late. Forgiveness that never fully grew back. 

(Y/N) sipped the wine. It tasted like smoke. “I thought we’d make it.” She whispered, whether to herself or to Sam, she didn’t know. He didn’t answer. Because what was there to say when the wreckage was already smoldering? 

***

They had met in the rain. Typical for a love story that would become anything but. (Y/N) was interning at a music studio downtown, grabbing coffees and labeling track takes. Sam a session guitarist, all messy brown waves, vintage denim, and a laugh that cracked like thunder. She spilled coffee on his amp, and he told her it was fate. Their first kiss happened in a parking lot after a dive bar gig. Not too romantic–the scent of cigarettes and cheap beer in the air–the night wrapped around them like a blanket, and it was the first time that (Y/N) had felt seen. Truly seen. 

They burned fast. 

Late night drives up Mulholland, vinyl records echoing off of cement walls, whispered dreams under tangled bed sheets, a life neither of them could afford, but both were willing to borrow. “I want to be someone who matters,” Sam once said, fingers threading through her hair. “But I don’t want to lose you to get there.” 

She kissed his forehead, “Then don’t.” 

But dreams are far too greedy, and the city knows how to feed them just enough to keep you hungry. 

Sam started booking bigger gigs, touring with up-and-comers. Clara landed a job with a label, long hours, and relentless pressure. They passed like ships in the night, each chasing a version of success that slowly pulled them in opposite directions. They fought, they made up, fought again, until the apologies felt more like a surrender than a resolution. 

One night, (Y/N) came home to find Sam asleep on the couch, his phone buzzing endlessly beside him. A text, but not from anything (Y/N) recognized. Miss you already. Last night was everything. xo.

The room tilted, time fractured. The world paused, even if for just a moment. When he woke, her bags were packed. But she didn’t leave, not then, not yet. Because love, even in its dying breath, clings to hope like it’s oxygen. Holds on to anything it can grab onto. 

“I made a mistake,” he pleaded, eyes raw. “It didn’t mean anything.” 

“It meant enough to risk everything,” she said, voice hollow. 

He cried, so did she. They screamed, they fought. Rebuilt. 

And for a while, it seemed like maybe. Maybe this can work. Maybe this can last. But maybe isn’t a promise. 

The final unraveling came quickly. No affair. No betrayal. Just the aching realization that sometimes love isn’t enough. That people can hold each other so tightly that they smother all that is left. He forgot her birthday, she forgot how to left when he walked into the room, they stopped saying goodnight. 

And then, one night, (Y/N) stood by the window as fireworks bloomed silently in the distance, and felt absolutely nothing. That was the scariest part. She used to love this view, this life, what she built with Sam. 

“I burned LA down,” she said aloud, still on the balcony. Sam paused in the doorway. “What?” 

(Y/N) turned, eyes glassy, “at least it feels that way. Like I torched every good thing we ever had.” 

He stepped closer, “We both lit the match.” 

Silence. 

The wind shifted, the noise of the city buzzing. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she said, finally. 

“So do I.” 

He left without another word. 

***

The city moved on as it always did. Life moved on, too. (Y/N) moved into a smaller place, she played old records, and walked to the farmer’s market on Sundays. She started writing music again, too. Nothing polished, just chords and confessions, late-night humming into voice memos.   

You kissed her and I kissed the sky goodbye I watched the sun fall out of your eyes I  built a fire just to watch it die and I burned LA down.

Sam moved to Nashville and bought a motorcycle. Joined a new band. Played small bars and festivals. Every now and then, he’d catch a song on the radio that sounded like (Y/N), and he’d listen until it ended, taking it all in. 

They didn’t keep in touch, not really. A birthday text, maybe. An old photo tagged by a mutual friend. Once, they passed each other at LAX–he was arriving, she was leaving. They locked eyes and smiled, but that was it. Said nothing. It was enough. 

Time has a way of softening the edges. The grief turned into an ache, into a memory, into something like gratitude. For the love that was. For the lessons it left. For the aches that made way for something new. 

Because some things aren’t meant to be mourned, they’re meant to be honored. And then, released. 

[ageofwonderland]

Masterlist

Holy Ground

'tis the damn season

ivy

Maroon

I Burned LA Down

Tim McGraw

Electric Touch

Wildest Dreams

Robin

I Wish You Would

Waiting for a Friend

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8

[ageofwonderland]

Holy Ground

Pairing: Sam x reader

The first time (Y/N) saw Sam, she was running late. 

The kind of late where your heart beats in your ears and every red light feels personal. She sprinted across the rain-drenched street, half-laughing, half-praying she wouldn’t fall, and shoved open the door to the coffee shop with more force than necessary. The bell overhead jingled in protest. 

And there he was. 

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark messy hair like he’d just run a hand through it. He glanced up at the commotion and smiled. Not a polite, retail worker smile. A real one. The kind that catches you off-guard and makes the world tilt a little, makes it spin.

(Y/N) froze for half a second too long.

“Rough morning?” he asked, his voice warm.

“You have no idea,” she said, breathless. She tugged her soaked scarf off and approached the counter. “Um, large coffee. Black. Please.” 

He nodded, started pouring without missing a beat. “You look like you need it.” 

“Is it that obvious?”

He chuckled. Let’s just say you’re not the first caffeine emergency I’ve seen today.”

As he slid the coffee across to her, she caught sight of his name tag: SAM. 

And maybe it was the rain, or the way the soft Indie music filled the shop, or just the simple kindness in his smile…she felt it. 

A spark.

Later, she’d think of it like lightning striking pavement: sudden, unexpected, leaving a mark you couldn’t ever fully scrub away. 

***

It became almost routine after that. 

(Y/N), always too busy, always a little messy, found reasons to pass by the coffee shop. And Sam, he was always there. Always ready for whatever she was about to throw at him.

Sometimes she’d bring her laptop, pretending to work. Sometimes she’d just sit by the window, tracing the outlines of people in the rain, while Sam stole glances when he thought she wasn’t looking.

One night, after closing, he asked if she wanted to stay a little longer.  

He turned the old stereo behind the counter up louder, playing a song that sounded like it belonged to another lifetime. 

And right there, on the scuffed wooden floor between the espresso machine and the class pastry case, Sam held out a hand. 

“Dance with me,” he said, smiling like he already knew she would. 

(Y/N) laughed—a real, belly-deep laugh—but she set her coffee down and slid her hand into his anyway. 

They danced like idiots.

They danced like they were seventeen again and the world hadn’t bruised them yet.

Sam spun her around until she was dizzy, and she crashed against his chest, breathless, grinning up at him.

And for a moment, he looked at her like she was the only thing in the whole wide world worth looking at.

Maybe he always had.

Outside, the city was still awake, lights smeared against the wet pavement like watercolor.

Inside, (Y/N) thought This is it. This is holy ground.”

***

Their first real date wasn’t anything planned.

It was a Thursday, one of those evenings in early June when the heat was thick even after sunset, and the city streets buzzed like they had something to say.

Sam had just finished his shift, tugging off his apron and stuffing it under the counter when he caught sight of (Y/N) sitting at her usual table, scribbling in a battered notebook.

"You busy?" he asked, wiping his hands on his jeans.

She looked up, a strand of hair stuck to her cheek, and grinned. "Define busy."

"Busy enough to turn down ice cream and extremely questionable music choices?"

(Y/N) laughed, closing her notebook with a snap. "Not even close."

They ended up wandering downtown, sharing a cone of melting strawberry ice cream and arguing about the best one-hit wonders of the early 2000s.

Sam swore up and down that "Stacy’s Mom" was a timeless anthem. (Y/N) threatened to walk away dramatically every time he sang it under his breath.

They were ridiculous. And it felt so good to be ridiculous with him.

When they found a small fountain tucked between two buildings, spray-painted with old band logos, half-hidden by ivy, (Y/N) pulled off her sandals and waded right in.

"Come on!" she shouted, spinning, arms flung wide.

Sam hesitated for one heartbeat before grinning and stepping in after her, shoes and all. 

Water splashed everywhere.

(Y/N) screamed when he kicked a wave toward her, and Sam laughed so hard he almost doubled over.

It wasn’t fancy.

It wasn’t planned.

But it was perfect.

That summer became a blur of messy, beautiful days.

Picnics in the park with sandwiches too big to eat neatly.

Driving nowhere, windows down, singing loud and off-key.

Lying on the hood of Sam’s beat-up Toyota, counting stars and trading secrets like pocket change.

It was the kind of love that sneaks up on you.

The kind that makes the air itself feel different.

Lighter.

Holy.

One night in late July, after a concert downtown, they found themselves alone on the sidewalk under the neon buzz of a dive bar’s sign.

The world felt slowed down, like a film reel stuttering frame by frame.

Sam looked at her, messy hair, smudged eyeliner, wearing his old denim jacket, and thought “I am in so much trouble.”

And (Y/N), staring back at him, feeling that familiar electric current under her skin, thought: “Let it happen. Let it all happen.”

He reached for her hand. She stepped closer.

No words, no speeches. 

Just a kiss.

A sweet, clumsy, heart-rattling kiss that tasted like cheap beer and caramel popcorn and summer itself.

For (Y/N), the city shifted under her feet, just a little.

For Sam, the stars overhead re-arranged themselves.

And somewhere deep inside both of them, something whispered “Remember this. This is holy ground.”

Fall came quicker than anyone expected.

One minute it was still too hot to think; the next, leaves were crunching under their sneakers and the air tasted like bonfires.

(Y/N) got a new job, a real one, the kind with a lanyard and ID badge and emails she answered at midnight.

Sam picked up extra shifts at the coffee shop and started writing music again on the side, scribbling lyrics on napkins and receipts when things were slow.

They were still them, (Y/N) in his jacket, Sam driving her home half-asleep, but something had shifted, just slightly, like a record spinning a little off-center.

It started small.

Missed calls.

Missed texts.

Falling asleep mid-conversation, work stealing hours they used to waste together. 

One night, (Y/N) showed up at the coffee shop just before close, hair messy, dark circles under her eyes. She ordered her usual, but she barely touched it, just stared out the window as the rain streaked down the glass.

Sam wiped down the counter, watching her in the reflection.

"You okay?" he asked finally.

She started like she’d forgotten he was there and forced a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."

He wanted to say, You don't have to lie to me.

He wanted to say, Tell me what's eating you up.

But instead, he just nodded, because sometimes love means giving people space even when you want to pull them closer.

There were still good days, though.

Cold mornings spent in bed, the window cracked open, the city humming outside.

Making pancakes at midnight, arguing about whether syrup or Nutella was the superior topping.

Dancing barefoot in the living room to Sam's half-finished songs, laughing so hard their sides hurt.

It wasn’t falling apart, exactly.

It was just...different. Like a murmur instead of a yell.

Like they were holding something precious between them with both hands, careful not to drop it, even as it grew heavier.

One evening, as October settled into the bones of the city, they sat on the roof of (Y/N)’s building, wrapped in blankets, drinking cheap wine out of coffee mugs.

The skyline stretched out in front of them, all glitter and motion, and for a long time, they just sat quietly, letting the cold press against their cheeks.

Finally, Sam said, voice low, "Do you ever think about...the future?"

(Y/N) tilted her head back, looking at the stars barely visible behind the city glow.

"All the time," she whispered.

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah. Me too."

He didn’t say with you, and she didn’t say what if we’re not meant to make it all the way, but the words hovered between them anyway, silent and sharp.

(Y/N) shifted closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her hair.

And even though neither of them knew where they were headed, they both knew this moment mattered.

No matter what came next, this, sitting under a bruised purple-pink sky, the whole world breathing around them, this would always be holy ground.

It happened one night in November.

The city was already dressed for Christmas, strings of lights tangled in the trees, shop windows glowing warm and inviting, but (Y/N) felt colder than she had in months.

They were supposed to meet at their favorite little diner, the one with the checkered floors and the jukebox that always seemed to know what song they needed.

(Y/N) waited in a booth by the window, sipping watered-down coffee, watching the door.

And she waited.

And waited.

Sam didn’t come.

An hour later, her phone buzzed with a text:

"I'm so sorry. Got stuck covering a shift. Can we raincheck?"

(Y/N) stared at the screen for a long time, the noise of the diner blurring around her.

It wasn’t just tonight.

It had been weeks of almosts and maybes, of good intentions crumbling under the weight of real life.

She left a few crumpled bills on the table and slipped out into the night, the cold air biting at her cheeks.

And she realized, with a sudden, aching clarity, they were starting to live parallel lives. Close enough to see eachother in the chaos, not close enough to touch. Not close enough to hear what the other needed to say.

Sam looked tired.

(Y/N) knew she did, too.

They sat across from each other, hands wrapped around warm mugs, searching for the right words.

"I miss you," (Y/N) said first, voice shaking despite herself.

Sam’s eyes softened. "I miss you, too."

Silence stretched between them, full of everything they weren’t saying.

"I feel like we’re always running," she whispered. "Like...we're trying so hard to hold on that we’re forgetting what it felt like when it was easy."

Sam nodded, staring into his coffee like it might have answers.

"I know what you mean”

She blinked fast, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.

"I don’t want to lose you."

"You’re not," he said immediately. "You could never."

But they both knew, love wasn’t just about want.

It was about timing.

And sometimes, no matter how much you loved someone, you couldn’t make the clocks align.

They didn’t end it right there.

There was no dramatic fight, no shouting or door-slamming.

That wasn’t them.

Instead, it was like a slow, aching goodbye stretched over weeks.

Fewer texts.

Quieter calls.

More space where laughter used to live.

But every time (Y/N) closed her eyes, she saw flashes of the beginning:

Sam was twirling her in the coffee shop.

Sneaking into the fountain that night, dripping wet and weightless.

Their first kiss under neon lights.

Counting stars on the hood of his car.

Those memories stayed sharp and gold-edged, untouched by the slow unraveling of the present.

And somehow, that mattered.

The last time she saw him, really saw him, it was snowing.

Big, soft flakes tumbling from a grey sky.

Sam stood across from her on the sidewalk, his breath fogging in the air.

Neither of them said goodbye.

Neither of them said I love you.

They just hugged, tight, lingering, like maybe if they held on long enough, time would listen.

When they finally pulled apart, Sam touched her cheek with a tenderness that shattered her heart.

"Thank you," he said simply.

"For what?" she asked, voice breaking.

"For making even this place feel like holy ground."

(Y/N) smiled through the tears she couldn’t stop.

"Right back at you, Sam."

And then, because life moves, even when you want it to freeze, they stepped away from each other.

(Y/N) watched him disappear down the sidewalk, the snow swallowing his footsteps.

Later, when the world felt quieter and her heart wasn’t so raw, she would think of him like a song.

Not the kind you forget.

The kind that lives in your bones, in your laughter, in the way you trust the magic of new beginnings

And she would know:

Some people aren’t meant to stay.

But they leave you with something even better.

A place inside yourself that will always be holy ground.

A year later, (Y/N) found herself standing outside the coffee shop again.

It was a Sunday morning, the kind where the air was sharp but the sun was soft, and the city felt almost like it belonged to her.

She hadn’t planned to come.

She had just been wandering through streets she used to run, past windows she and Sam once left handprints on, lost in the rhythm of it all.

And somehow, her feet brought her here.

The little bell jingled overhead when she pushed the door open.

It still smelled the same, roasted beans and vanilla syrup and something warm she couldn’t quite name.

Different baristas worked behind the counter now.

Different music played low from the speakers.

But in a strange, lovely way, it felt like she was visiting an old dream.

(Y/N) ordered a black coffee and found their table, yes, their table, still tucked by the window, and sat down.

Outside, the world blurred past:

People walking dogs, kids dragging mittens through the snow, a guy playing guitar badly on the corner.

Inside, (Y/N) cradled the warm cup between her hands and closed her eyes.

She thought of him.

Sam, grinning at her from behind the counter.

Sam, twirling her under dim lights.

Sam, kissing her forehead before they both let go.

It didn’t hurt the way it used to.

It wasn’t a sharp stab anymore.

It was a gentle tug.

 A reminder that some loves, no matter how long they stay, build foundations inside you.

Sam had been a season.

A spark.

A holy, irreplaceable place her heart could always come home to.

The door jingled again, and she glanced up without thinking.

It wasn’t him.

Of course it wasn’t.

She smiled anyway, setting her coffee down, feeling something settle in her chest.

Maybe love wasn’t about clinging.

Maybe it was about letting things be beautiful even when they ended.

Sam would always be part of her story, not a scar, but a song.

A city street shining under rain.

A dance after closing.

A first kiss under neon.

Holy ground.

Later that day, (Y/N) wandered into a bookstore a few blocks away and found herself thumbing through an old poetry collection.

Inside, tucked between the pages like a secret, she found a handwritten note:

"Sometimes the most sacred places are the ones you build between hearts."

She laughed softly, holding the note against her chest.

She didn’t know who wrote it.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

The point was, she understood now.

As she stepped back into the street, the city swirling around her, (Y/N) thought about how the past wasn’t something you had to outrun. It was something you could carry, carefully, like a pressed flower between pages.

She tucked her hands into her coat pockets and walked toward whatever was next.

And somewhere deep inside her, under everything she had lost and everything she had yet to find, she still danced.

On holy ground.

[ageofwonderland]

i’m gonna get around to adding summaries to my stories and saying who it’s about so yall know (the 2 people who reads these) but i’ve just been posting to post :/ okay thank u bye love u

[ageofwonderland]

Electric Touch

Pairing: Jake x reader

Word Count: 6.1k

The rain hadn’t let up for three days. 

(Y/N) sat in her car, fingers drumming anxiously on the steering wheel, staring out at the neon-slick pavement. The glowing sign of The Ember Lounge buzzed dimly in the drizzle, letters occasionally flickering out like a dying heartbeat. She’d driven past it a hundred times before. It wasn’t her kind of place–too loud, too chaotic–but tonight, everything felt different. She was tired of the quiet, tired of the routine, and something about tonight felt…charged. 

She reached for her phone, checking it for the fifth time in two minutes. No new messages. No missed calls. Still, she hesitated before opening the door.

“It’s just one night,” she muttered, half to herself, half to the universe. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

The moment she stepped inside, the warmth hit her like a wave—bodies pressed close, laughter spilling through the air, and music thumping like a heartbeat she hadn’t felt in a long time. The lighting was low, flickering gold and amber like sparks waiting to catch fire.

That’s when she saw him.

He was standing by the bar, a little too radiant to ignore, with a guitar slung casually over one shoulder and a look in his eyes like he’d been waiting for something just as long as she had. His name was Jake, though she wouldn’t learn that until later. For now, all she knew was the electric jolt that zipped through her chest when his eyes met hers.

He smiled—crooked, unsure, like he wasn’t used to being the first to smile. And something inside her said, Don’t look away.

But (Y/N) was nothing if not cautious.

And love? Love had burned her before.

The bartender’s name was Jules, and she served (Y/N) a whiskey neat with a knowing smirk. “First time here?”

(Y/N) nodded, pressing the rim of the glass to her lips more for something to do than any real desire to drink. “Is it that obvious?”

Jules laughed. “Only a little. You’ve got the look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says, I didn’t come here for the music, but something told me I should.”

(Y/N) glanced over her shoulder. The guy with the guitar—Jake—was still there, now laughing with someone who clapped him on the back. He had that kind of presence: the sort that didn’t demand attention, but stole it anyway. Every time he moved, it was like the air in the room shifted slightly, catching on his orbit.

“He play here?” (Y/N) asked.

Jules followed her gaze. “Yeah. Friday nights. Sometimes Tuesdays. He’s got this thing with a few other guys—kind of indie, kind of grunge. But his solo stuff? Different. Personal.”

(Y/N) looked down into her drink, the amber reflecting the lowlight in soft ripples. “He any good?”

Jules didn’t answer right away. “He’s the kind you remember.”

Before (Y/N) could ask what she meant, the house lights dippe, and a hush fell over the lounge like someone had thrown a blanket over the noise. On stage, a few musicians took their places, but it was Jake who stepped up to the mic.

“Hey,” he said simply, voice raw and unpolished. “Thanks for coming out. This first one’s new. Not finished. But… it’s been living in my chest for a while, so I figured I’d try letting it out.”

Then he started to play.

The first chord was soft. Tentative. But as the song unfurled, it bloomed into something electric—aching with promise and fragile hope. His voice wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. Every word carried weight, like he meant every single syllable.

And when his eyes found (Y/N)’s again from across the crowd, she swore she felt it: that invisible flicker. Like something igniting beneath her skin.

The lyrics curled around her like smoke.

I’ve been burned before, baby—too close, too fast,

But something in the way you look at me makes me wanna try and make it last…

Don’t know if this is love or just a storm about to crash,

 But maybe we can hold on 'til the lightning turns to ash…

(Y/N)’s heart stuttered in her chest.

She hadn’t come here to feel. Not tonight. But here she was—breath caught, pulse racing, as if the universe had just flipped a switch inside her.

When the last note faded, the applause rolled in like thunder. But (Y/N) couldn’t clap. She could only stare, her hands still wrapped around her untouched drink.

Because in that moment, something deep inside her whispered, That song was for you.

And the scariest part?

She wanted to believe it.

(Y/N) wasn’t the type to believe in fate. She believed in logic, in patterns, in the safety of control. She could predict quarterly trends and manage marketing campaigns with military precision. But this—this feeling? There was no spreadsheet for it.

After the set, the crowd scattered to refill drinks and laugh too loudly over the music still playing through the speakers. But (Y/N) didn’t move. She sat there, hands still on her glass, watching as Jake stepped off the stage and was immediately swallowed by a dozen people vying for his attention.

She told herself she should go.

Leave before the moment shattered. Before she mistook art for intention.

Then he started walking toward her.

Not through the crowd—around it. Like he didn’t need to prove anything. Like he’d already made up his mind.

Her stomach tightened. There was still time to bolt. But her legs refused to move.

“Hey,” he said, arriving like a calm aftershock.

“Hey,” she answered, barely trusting her voice.

“I’m Jake,” he added, running a hand through his hair, slightly out of breath. “Not great at small talk, but you looked like someone I might want to know.”

She almost laughed. It wasn’t a line—it was too uncertain for that. Too real.

“I’m (Y/N),” she said, offering her hand before realizing that was too formal. He shook it anyway, gently.

“You liked the set?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. Especially the last song.”

His eyes crinkled with something like relief. “It’s a weird one. Not exactly radio-friendly.”

“It didn’t need to be,” she said, and when their eyes met, something passed between them—unspoken, charged, delicate.

He gestured toward the empty stool beside her. “Can I…?”

She nodded again. “Yeah, of course.”

He sat, and for a moment, they didn’t say anything. Just let the silence stretch comfortably between them, like a thread pulling tighter.

“You ever feel like something’s about to happen,” Jake said suddenly, “and you don’t know if it’s going to be good or bad—but you know it’s going to change everything?”

(Y/N) blinked. “Yes. All the time.”

He looked at her like he understood that answer more than anyone ever had.

“You scare me a little,” he said quietly, like it was a confession. “In a good way.”

She tilted her head, heart thudding. “You scare me too.”

His smile was crooked again. But this time, it stayed. “Well. That’s fair.”

They talked for hours. About nothing and everything. She told him about her job in advertising, how she loved writing slogans that no one would ever remember. He told her about the band, the three-day road trips to nowhere, and the time he got stranded at a rest stop in Wyoming with a broken guitar and a fever.

The bar thinned out, and still, they stayed.

Every time his fingers brushed hers—accidentally or not—it felt like a live wire.

By the time they stepped outside, the rain had stopped. The air smelled like pavement and electricity.

Jake looked up. “Sky’s clearing.”

(Y/N) followed his gaze. “Finally.”

They stood there a moment too long, the air thick with unspoken things.

“Would it be too soon,” he said slowly, “if I asked to see you again?”

She hesitated—not because she didn’t want to, but because she did. And wanting that scared the hell out of her.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’m not great at… letting people in.”

“Same,” he said. “But maybe we try anyway. Carefully.”

“Carefully,” she repeated, and then—before she could second-guess it—she leaned forward and kissed him.

Just once.

Just enough to feel the jolt run through her, like plugging into something bigger than herself.

And when she pulled back, his eyes were wide, stunned.

“You felt that too, right?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded. “Yeah. Like lightning.”

The next morning, (Y/N) woke to sunlight slicing through her blinds and a dull ache in her chest she couldn’t name.

She lay in bed longer than usual, trying to replay the night in her head—not like a movie, but like a dream she wasn’t sure had really happened. The bar, the music, the way Jake had looked at her like she was the center of something he hadn’t even known he was orbiting.

And that kiss.

She could still feel it.

It hadn’t been fireworks. It hadn’t been a cinematic sweeping moment.

It had been electric. Sharp and quiet and raw. Like the first static spark of contact when your fingers graze someone’s in the dark.

Still, a thousand thoughts crowded her brain now that the morning had settled in.

What if he was just being nice? What if it was a song and a look and a moment and nothing more? What if she misread everything?

Then her phone buzzed.

A single message.

Jake: Hey. I know I said I’m not great at this. But last night felt like the start of something. Tell me I didn’t imagine that.

She stared at the screen, her heart slamming into her ribs.

(Y/N): You didn’t imagine it. I felt it too.

The reply came almost instantly.

Jake: Wanna feel it again tonight?

She hesitated only a second.

(Y/N): Yes. But slow. Carefully, remember?

Jake: Careful is my middle name. See you at seven? Same place.

She smiled despite herself.

Something about him made her want to be brave.

At seven sharp, (Y/N) stepped into The Ember Lounge again, this time with less hesitation. She spotted Jake instantly—he was seated at a small corner booth, a glass of something dark in front of him, one knee bouncing like he was just as nervous as she was.

He stood when he saw her, grinning like he couldn’t help it.

“You came.”

“I said I would.”

He nodded. “Still surprised. In a good way.”

The night unfolded softer this time. Less adrenaline, more ease. They ordered food, played a game of darts she absolutely lost, and shared stories like puzzle pieces being handed over one at a time.

“I used to be in love,” (Y/N) admitted over her second glass of wine. “The kind of love that makes you believe in things you shouldn’t.”

Jake didn’t flinch. “Me too. She liked control. I liked chaos. That lasted a year and a half.”

(Y/N) laughed, and it was strange how easy it felt to talk about pain when someone else wasn’t scared of it.

“You think we’re all just broken magnets?” she asked. “Always pulled toward people who can never hold on?”

Jake tilted his head. “Maybe. Or maybe we just haven’t found the right voltage yet.”

She looked at him, a little stunned.

“That was weirdly poetic.”

“I have my moments.”

A pause.

Then he leaned across the table slightly, his voice lower. “I want this to work, (Y/N). Whatever this is.”

She looked at his fingers—calloused, twitching slightly against the condensation of his glass.

“I want it too,” she said. “But I need to take my time. I don’t do fast anymore.”

Jake nodded like he understood that bone-deep. “Then we move like static. Slow. But you’ll still feel it.”

She smiled, heart thudding harder.

She was starting to believe him.

***

They fell into a rhythm.

Not every day. Not every night. But enough to feel like something was growing—small and green, like the first fragile shoot after a long winter.

Jake would text (Y/N) songs in the middle of the day. Voice memos sometimes. Little snippets of melodies or lyrics with notes like “this one sounds like you” or “not sure if this is anything yet, but it won’t leave me alone.”

(Y/N) would send him photos—coffee cups, bookstores, city sidewalks with strange graffiti she thought he’d like. Once she sent a voice message of her laughing uncontrollably at something dumb and completely unexplainable, and he saved it to his phone without telling her.

And at least once a week, they’d meet at The Ember Lounge, their unofficial halfway point. Sometimes they stayed hours. Sometimes just long enough for a drink and a kiss that left her breathless.

But nothing was defined.

And that was starting to gnaw at (Y/N).

She was used to clarity—labels, agreements, rules. And this... was a feeling without a name.

Then came Thursday.

She’d had a brutal day at work—back-to-back meetings, a pitch that got rejected, and a migraine threatening behind her eyes. All she wanted was to hear his voice, to see that dumb, crooked smile that made the rest of the world blur.

So she texted.

(Y/N): Rough day. Can I see you tonight?

Minutes passed. Then half an hour. An hour. No response.

She told herself not to spiral. Told herself he was probably rehearsing, or asleep, or in one of those deep songwriting zones he’d talked about.

But the worry crept in.

By the time midnight hit with no word, (Y/N) had convinced herself she’d misread everything. That maybe it had been real for her but temporary for him. That maybe she was just a temporary fix, a muse with an expiration date.

The next morning, she got the message.

Jake: I’m sorry. I should’ve texted. We were in the studio all night. Lost track of time. I get if you’re mad.

She stared at the screen, her fingers hovering above the keyboard.

She wasn’t mad.

She was terrified.

Terrified of falling again. Of believing. Of opening herself just wide enough for the storm to get in.

So she typed back:

(Y/N): I just need to know what this is, Jake. I’m not built for half-connection.

There was a pause—longer than any before.

Then:

Jake: Neither am I. I think I’m falling for you. That’s the scariest sentence I’ve typed in years.

Her breath caught.

She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that.

And suddenly, the fear didn’t feel quite so big.

Because maybe falling wasn’t the same as crashing.

(Y/N) read Jake’s message three times before her fingers dared to move.

"I think I’m falling for you."

It sat on her screen like a live wire, too dangerous to touch and too powerful to ignore.

In the past, she’d heard words like that under fluorescent lights or over wine-stained dinners. But this felt different. Less rehearsed. More like a truth pulled from someone’s chest.

She typed and deleted half a dozen replies.

Then finally:

(Y/N): Then let’s not run from that. But I need you to understand—I fall slowly. Carefully. I’ve hit the ground before.

Jake: Then I’ll catch you before you land.

It was simple. It was bold. And somehow, it didn’t scare her. Not the way it used to.

That weekend, they left the city.

Jake picked her up in a beat-up Jeep that smelled like old coffee and pine-scented air freshener. They drove north toward the mountains, no destination in mind, only playlists and laughter and quiet moments that needed no filling.

They stopped at a lake somewhere past midnight, the stars too loud not to stare at.

(Y/N) kicked off her shoes and let her feet dangle off the dock. Jake sat beside her, strumming his guitar with soft fingers, the notes echoing over the water.

He sang without words—just the hum of a melody not yet named.

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” she said softly.

“What?”

“Let someone hold the quiet with me.”

Jake set the guitar down and turned to her. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, (Y/N).”

She looked up, caught by the sincerity in his eyes. “But what if I mess it up?”

“Then we fix it,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

The wind moved around them, cool and sweet and alive.

Then he kissed her—gentler than before, less like static and more like slow-burning flame. The kind of kiss that asked for nothing but offered everything.

Later, wrapped in blankets in the back of the Jeep, she asked, “What if this doesn’t last?”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t lie.

“It might not,” he said. “But what if it does?”

(Y/N) closed her eyes and let the warmth settle into her chest.

Maybe love wasn’t always loud. Maybe it wasn’t a lightning strike.

Maybe it was a steady flicker.

A hand reaching for yours in the dark.

A voice that says, I’ll stay—and means it.

The Monday after the lake trip, (Y/N) returned to the city with a lightness in her step and an ache in her chest she didn’t know how to name. Something about the way Jake had looked at her, had seen her—it rewired something in her bones.

But real life waits for no one.

Her office was a tornado of deadlines. Her boss was circling like a hawk, and a new client pitch had landed in her lap with a smile and an impossible forty-eight-hour turnaround.

She dove in headfirst—long hours, coffee-fueled nights, the blinking light of her phone ignored more than it should’ve been.

Jake texted. Called once. Then texted again.

Jake: Hey, everything okay?

Jake: I know you're probably swamped. Just let me know you're breathing.

Jake: Miss you.

She saw every message. But somehow, every reply felt like a weight she couldn’t carry in the moment.

Because deep down, a voice whispered: If you let this in too deep, you’ll lose your edge. You’ll get soft. Vulnerable. Distracted.

And (Y/N) had built her whole life around staying sharp.

It was Friday before she called him back.

“Jake—hey, I’m sorry. This week has been chaos.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then his voice was quiet. “I get it. I just didn’t know if I’d said something wrong.”

“No, no—it’s not that. It’s just work. Deadlines. Stress.”

“I can handle busy,” he said. “But don’t shut me out, (Y/N). I’m not asking for all of you, not yet. Just… let me stay in the room.”

She exhaled, closing her eyes.

“I want that too,” she said. “I’m just scared I’ll ruin it.”

“You won’t,” he said. “But if you don’t let me in, there won’t be anything left to ruin.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was necessary.

“Can I see you tonight?” he asked.

She hesitated. She still had work. Still had a hundred things pulling at her.

But something inside her whispered, Choose him.

So she said, “Yes.”

***

That night, they met on a rooftop. No bar, no music—just sky and air and the hum of the city far below.

He brought a blanket and takeout, and they sat shoulder to shoulder, watching planes slice through clouds.

“Do you always go quiet when things get intense?” Jake asked gently.

(Y/N) nodded. “It’s my default setting.”

“You can rewrite that, you know.”

She turned to look at him. “You think people can change?”

“I think the right connection can make them want to try.”

Her heart clenched at that.

Because she wanted to try. She really did.

But just as the moment softened, her phone buzzed again—work calling.

She stared at it.

Then, for the first time in a long time, she hit ignore.

Jake noticed. “That’s new.”

(Y/N) smiled, leaning into him. “So is this.”

He kissed her then—slow and certain, the kind of kiss that says we’ll figure it out.

And for a little while, the interference faded.

All that remained was them.

(Y/N) hadn’t planned to fall asleep on Jake’s couch. But she did.

One minute, they were watching old music documentaries, legs tangled and laughter tucked into the spaces between them. The next, she was blinking awake to the soft tick of the wall clock and the realization that her head was resting on his chest, his arm still wrapped gently around her waist.

She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Slow. Certain.

“Hey,” he murmured, half-asleep. “You okay?”

She nodded, shifting just slightly so she could look up at him. The soft gold of a lamp across the room threw warm shadows across his face. His hair was a little messy. His eyes still heavy with sleep.

He looked at her like she was something beautiful and breakable and worth staying awake for.

“You ever feel like the quiet is louder than everything else?” she whispered.

Jake brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “With you, the quiet makes sense.”

(Y/N)’s breath hitched. That feeling, that unbearable closeness, rushed in again. Not panic this time—just the overwhelming sense that she wanted to be known. Here. Now.

She leaned up and kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t driven by some cinematic urgency.

It was soft. Slow. A question asked with mouths and fingers instead of words.

He responded like he already knew the answer.

She pulled him closer.

He let her.

Their kisses deepened, and with every touch, the space between them vanished. His hand found the curve of her hip, the small of her back. Her breath caught as he whispered her name like a prayer.

“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze.

“Yes,” she said, her voice unshaken. “But only if it’s slow.”

He smiled, thumb brushing her jaw. “Always slow.”

The room disappeared around them.

Clothes slipped off in quiet exchanges, laughter caught between kisses, hands exploring like they were learning a new language together. The air was thick with heat and reverence, and (Y/N) couldn’t stop watching his face—the way he looked at her like she was the only song that ever mattered.

When they moved together, it wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was honest.

A new kind of electricity—less of a shock, more of a current. Steady and pulsing. Like the world had gone still so they could write a verse only they would ever understand.

After, they stayed tangled in each other.

(Y/N) rested her head against his chest again, just like before. But this time, she wasn’t hiding from the silence.

“You okay?” Jake asked, his voice low.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I didn’t know it could feel like this. Like… home.”

Jake kissed the top of her head.

“That’s because this is home. At least, it is when you’re here.”

***

For a while, they lived in the sweet hum of something rare and real.

(Y/N) kept thinking: This should scare me more.

And maybe that’s why it did.

Because everything was good. Too good, almost. They were falling into habits, into rhythms that felt dangerously close to permanence. She left a toothbrush at his place. He started showing up at her apartment with her favorite pastries on rainy mornings. They started finishing each other’s sentences without realizing it.

The current was steady. Strong. Easy.

But (Y/N) wasn’t used to easy.

Her life had been built on structure. Control. No unknowns. No high-stakes chances. And loving Jake felt like standing in the middle of a lightning storm, arms wide open, asking the sky to hit her.

So when work picked up again—late hours, endless meetings, the weight of a new campaign on her shoulders—she started to retreat without meaning to.

Jake noticed.

The canceled dinners. The delayed texts. The way her eyes would dart past him like she was already two steps ahead in a different conversation.

One night, after she’d postponed their plans for the third time that week, he showed up at her apartment anyway—armed with Thai food and that patient kind of smile she didn’t feel like she deserved.

She opened the door, startled. “Jake, I told you I—”

“I know. You’re busy. I just figured… you still need to eat.”

She stared at him. That gentle persistence. The way he didn’t demand space, just quietly took the risk of offering it.

Inside, they ate in silence for a while. The quiet wasn’t angry—it was careful.

“I miss you,” he said softly, finally breaking it.

(Y/N) blinked. “I’m right here.”

“Not all the way,” he said, meeting her gaze. “You’ve gone somewhere. And I don’t know if you’re coming back.”

She put her fork down, throat tight. “I didn’t mean to pull away. I just… when things get overwhelming, I tunnel in. It’s how I’ve always been.”

“I get it,” he said. “But I’m not something to be handled or pushed aside. I’m with you. Not in the way.”

She looked at him then, truly looked. His brows slightly furrowed. The soft, steady pain in his voice. He wasn’t angry.

He was afraid of losing her.

And something about that—about being worth holding onto—made her chest ache.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” she whispered.

“Then let’s not,” he said. “Together.”

There was no big dramatic moment. Just her reaching across the table, threading her fingers through his. A choice made in the quiet.

Later that night, when they curled up on the couch—no music, no distractions—(Y/N) leaned her head against his chest.

“I’m still learning how to let someone in,” she murmured.

Jake kissed the crown of her head. “Then I’ll wait at the door as long as it takes.”

And in that silence, the power came back on.

Not in a surge. But in a slow, steady flicker.

The kind that lasts.

It started with a sunrise.

(Y/N) hadn’t meant to stay the night, but after falling asleep wrapped in Jake’s arms, her body had refused to leave the warmth. The city outside was still quiet when she woke, the early blush of dawn painting golden light across the floorboards of his apartment.

She turned her head to find him already watching her.

“Creep,” she whispered with a sleepy smile.

Jake grinned. “Guilty. But in my defense, you make sleep look like art.”

She rolled her eyes, but the compliment lingered in her chest like a held note.

He reached over, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You look lighter today.”

“I feel lighter,” she said honestly. Then, “I think I’m done running.”

Jake didn’t speak. He just listened—carefully, openly. The way he always did when it really mattered.

(Y/N) propped herself on one elbow. “I’ve spent so long being afraid of what happens if I fall. If I let someone in too far, give them too much. But you…” Her voice softened. “You never asked for too much. You just stayed.”

He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.

“Falling doesn’t have to hurt,” he said. “Not when someone’s waiting to catch you.”

She looked at him—really looked—and saw the ease in his smile, the steady hope in his eyes, the kind of love that didn’t come to rearrange your life, but to sit beside it and make it warmer.

And then he said it.

“I love you, (Y/N).”

It wasn’t dramatic. No orchestral swell or cinematic pause.

Just truth, given freely.

Her breath caught—not in fear, but in awe.

Because the words didn’t terrify her. They fit.

She hadn’t been waiting to hear them.

She’d been waiting to believe them.

“I love you too,” she said. The words came so naturally, it surprised her how long she’d lived without saying them.

Then she laughed—an honest, full laugh that made Jake blink in confusion.

“What?” he asked, smiling.

“I just… I didn’t know it could feel this easy.”

“It’s not easy,” he said. “It’s just right.”

They spent the morning wrapped in each other, laughing about childhood stories, mapping future dreams on the ceiling with their words, stealing kisses like they were breathing.

(Y/N) talked about the little girl she used to be—the one who used to dance barefoot in her backyard, who once wanted to be a songwriter before life told her to pick a ‘real’ job.

Jake told her about the time he got stage fright in front of twenty people at a high school open mic, and how that same fear turned into fuel by the time he stood before hundreds last month.

They cooked pancakes. Burned the first batch. Ate them anyway.

And when Jake spun her around the kitchen in an impromptu dance to no music at all, (Y/N) thought: This is the life I didn’t know I was allowed to have.

Later that afternoon, as she lay with her head in his lap and he strummed his guitar softly, she asked, “What would you write about us? If this was a song?”

Jake paused, fingers stilled.

Then he said, “I’d call it Electric Touch. Because from the moment I met you, I felt like something in me finally woke up.”

(Y/N) smiled, eyes shining.

“Then write it,” she said. “I’ll be your muse.”

“You already are.”

***

Three months later, (Y/N) stood in the wings of a small, softly lit venue, watching Jake tune his guitar beneath a string of amber fairy lights.

The place was packed—friends, strangers, regulars sipping wine and whispering as they waited for the music to start. The air buzzed with anticipation, the kind that hums through your skin before something unforgettable happens.

(Y/N) wore a navy-blue dress, her fingers wrapped around a warm mug of tea. She wasn’t nervous.

Not anymore.

Because somewhere between all the late-night talks, the slow kisses, the unexpected laughter, and the way Jake looked at her like she was made of both lightning and poetry, she’d stopped doubting that she was worthy of this.

Of him.

Of love.

He looked over his shoulder then, catching her gaze. And he smiled—full and genuine. The kind of smile you only give to the person who knows all your quietest secrets and loves you louder because of them.

When his name was called and the applause started, he stepped out under the lights.

And before he even played a note, he said, “This song is for the girl who walked into my life like a storm, and stayed like sunlight.”

(Y/N)’s breath caught.

And then he began to play.

The melody was simple—raw and sincere. And the lyrics, woven between the strum of chords and the hush of the crowd, told their story:

I was fire without a match / waiting for the spark to land

You were the lightning strike / I never saw coming

Every word, a live wire / every look, a fuse

You held me steady when I didn’t know how to stay still

Now I can’t imagine a world without your electric touch

By the time the last chord faded, the room was silent in reverence.

And then came the cheers.

(Y/N) wiped a tear from her cheek, laughing through it. She didn’t care who saw.

After the show, he found her in the hallway behind the stage, glowing from the inside out.

“You didn’t tell me it was our song,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He grinned. “Some things sound better when you hear them out loud.”

She kissed him, slow and sure.

“I’m proud of you,” she said.

“I’m proud of us,” he replied. “We built something real.”

She nodded, heart full. “I never thought love could feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like home,” she whispered. “Like a current that never shorts out. Just… stays lit.”

They didn’t need grand declarations after that. They didn’t need promises shouted from rooftops.

They just needed each other.

Over the months that followed, their lives continued to unfold—simple, joyful, sometimes messy, but always together.

They moved in, slowly, naturally, like gravity pulling them into the same orbit.

They danced in the kitchen. Argued about music. Made up over pancakes.

Jake played bigger shows.

(Y/N) pitched bolder ideas at work.

And whenever the noise of life grew too loud, they returned to the quiet they’d built—curled up with tea, or hands held on a rooftop, remembering that love, at its best, is not a fire that consumes, but a steady warmth that carries you through.

One night, as lightning flashed gently outside their apartment window, (Y/N) leaned into Jake on the couch.

“You think this is forever?” she asked softly.

He turned, brushing his lips to her temple.

“No,” he said with a teasing smile. “I know it is.”

And when their fingers found each other’s—familiar, certain, unafraid—the spark didn’t shock them.

It simply reminded them that love, when it’s real, is always electric.

***

Five years later. Upstate New York. Late September. Golden hour.

The venue was a little vineyard tucked into the hillside—sun-warmed wood, wildflowers everywhere, and a long aisle flanked by rows of chairs filled with the people who mattered most.

It was simple. Intentional. And so them.

The kind of wedding that didn’t need perfection to feel unforgettable.

(Y/N) stood just beyond the open doors of the barn-turned-ceremony space, her heart thudding in her chest. Not from nerves. But from joy so big it barely fit inside her.

Her dress was soft ivory, delicate lace along the sleeves, a slight train trailing behind her like a whisper. In her hands, she held a bouquet of sunflowers, baby’s breath, and one electric blue thistle—Jake’s idea, “because every bouquet needs a little spark.”

Music drifted out—a quiet acoustic version of “Electric Touch,” the very song he’d written for her all those years ago.

She stepped out.

And there he was.

Standing at the end of the aisle in a deep navy suit, no tie, his hair a little messier than it probably should’ve been. But his eyes—

God, those eyes.

He looked at her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered. Like the sun was rising just for her.

They didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

Every step she took was a memory:

Their first accidental coffee spill.

The stormy night they kissed like the world was ending.

Pancakes. Laughter. Fights and forgiveness.

Quiet mornings. Electric touches.

And when she reached him, he didn’t wait.

He took her hand.

“Hi,” she whispered, smiling up at him.

“You look like magic,” he breathed.

The ceremony was short. They didn’t want long speeches or anything performative. Just truth.

They wrote their own vows.

Jake went first.

“(Y/N), I used to think love was supposed to hit hard and fast—like fireworks. But you showed me it could be a fuse that never burns out. You’re my home, my spark, my quiet in the chaos. I promise to hold your hand in every storm, to dance with you in every kitchen, and to love you with every version of myself, for all our days.”

(Y/N) had tears in her eyes before she even started hers.

“Jake… you are the calm I never knew I needed and the thrill I never stopped chasing. You’ve taught me that love doesn’t have to be loud to be strong—it can be soft, steady, and still move mountains. I promise to believe in us, even on the hard days. And I promise to always choose you, again and again.”

They exchanged rings.

And when the officiant said, “You may kiss the bride,” Jake pulled her in like he’d been waiting his whole life for that moment.

Cheers erupted. The music swelled.

And as they walked back down the aisle, hand in hand, petals in the air and laughter trailing behind them, (Y/N) leaned close and whispered, “Still electric.”

Jake smiled, kissed her temple.

“Always.”

Later, under the stars, after the dancing and the toasts and the cake, they stood barefoot in the grass, away from everyone.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“Want to hear something wild?” he said, his chin resting on her shoulder.

“Always.”

“I knew I loved you before I even touched you. But I felt it that night when you looked at me like I wasn’t something to fear.”

She turned to face him. “And I knew I loved you the moment you didn’t ask me to change. You just made room.”

The breeze was soft. The night alive with quiet.

“I don’t know what comes next,” she said. “But I know this—”

“What?”

“We’ll face it together. Lightning or not.”

He smiled, forehead pressed to hers.

And with the stars above them, the soft hum of music in the distance, and a lifetime ahead, they kissed—

Electric.

Eternal.

Home.

[ageofwonderland]

Robin

Pairing: Josh x Reader

Word Count: 3.9k

I first met on the kind of morning that makes you believe in omens. 

The sun had barely stretched over the hills, and the dew still clung stubbornly to the grass, like the earth didn’t want to let go of the night, not yet. I had gone out early to clear my head–something about spring always made it feel like my chest couldn’t hold all the light trying to pour in. 

The air smelled like thawing soil and lilacs, and that's where he was in the garden that didn’t belong to either of us. 

He stood barefoot in the damp grass like he’d been stitched into the scene long before I arrived. A stranger in a white sweater, holding a book, humming something that sounded vaguely familiar but too soft to name. 

“You’re trespassing,” I called out. 

He turned, slow and unbothered. “So are you.” 

Touche. 

I have never seen anyone look so unapologetically calm in the face of confrontation, but then again, I wasn’t very good at confrontation. Not really, I just liked pretending that I was. Still, I narrowed my eyes, tucked my hands into my coat pockets, and waited. 

He smiled like he knew a secret and said, “This garden’s always empty when I come. I thought it was just forgotten.” 

“It’s not, it’s in between things,” I said. “A house burned down here five years ago.”

He looked at the spot where the house used to be. The grass grew unevenly there, as if memory itself had trouble settling. 

“Oh,” he said, with a softness that made me feel like I’d said something sacred.

He didn’t ask what happened, just walked to a bend and sat down, patting the space beside him like we were old friends. 

I should’ve left, gone back to my rented cottage, and let the silence have the morning back, but I didn’t. 

I sat beside a stranger who smelled like cedarwood and black coffee, who hummed lullabies to the flowers and read poetry in ruins. I sat beside him because something whispered that this moment would echo. 

And it did. 

His name was Josh, I learned a few mornings later when I came back with a book of my own and asked if I could join him again. I’d pretended it was a coincidence, but we both knew better. 

“You know,” he said, flipping through pages like they were leaves, “I don’t usually talk much, but with you, it’s easy.” 

I didn’t know how to say that was the nicest thing anyone had ever told me. 

Instead, I asked, “What are you reading?”

He turned the book so I could see the worn cover—Letters to a Young Poet. 

Of course. Of course, he read Rilke. 

We were both good at the quiet, not just tolerating it–but enjoying it. Sometimes hours would pass without a word, just the turning of pages and the sound of birds overhead. But even in the silence, he felt close. Like a thought you hadn’t formed yet but already understood. 

And slowly, the garden stopped feeling like a forgotten place. It began to feel like a beginning. 

***

It became a rhythm. 

Every morning, I’d wake before the sun and make the short walk to the Garden, where Josh would already be waiting–or arrive just after me, grinning like he had a secret that only I deserved to know. We didn’t speak about where we came from or where we were going. Maybe that was the rule, or maybe it just didn’t matter yet. 

I liked that about him–how he lived in the moment without clinging to it, like he understood that beauty doesn’t need to last to be real. 

One morning, I brought him a thermos of tea. Earl Grey with lavender, the way I liked it. He took a sip, then smiled like I’d just handed him a new season. 

“I knew you were a lavender person,” he said. 

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, tipping his head like a bird listening to the wind, “you have the kind of heart that bruises easily but heals just as fast.” 

That was the first time he looked at me too long, long enough that I had to look away. 

It was the beginning of the ache. 

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t even touch. But the space between us felt stitched with something tender and alive, something that grew in the hush between words. 

He told me once, “I come here because I like how this place holds memory without asking for anything in return.” 

I nodded. I knew what he meant. The garden had started to feel like a chapel for things unspoken. Wildflowers bloomed in crooked lines, vines reached for the sky with no real plan. Even the air felt sacred, like it had learned to carry both grief and joy without choosing one over the other. 

One day, I brought a small notebook and pen and wrote him a poem while he read. 

I didn’t show him. 

Not then. 

But I remember the words. 

You look at the world 

Like it might look back and understand you

That's why I stay

We didn’t talk about love, not explicitly, but there were many moments. So many moments. 

Like when a storm broke out suddenly, and we took cover under the skeletal frame of a half-burnt tree. We were soaked, shivering, laughing.

“Maybe the tree’s haunted,” I teased. 

“If it is,” he said, “it likes me better than me.”

And then, quieter, “Most things do.” 

That was the first time I wanted to kiss him. 

But I didn’t. 

Instead, I pressed my shoulder to his, and we stayed like that until the rain slowed into a hush. 

That Night, I dreamed of his voice, not his face. 

And somehow, that felt more intimate. 

***

There’s a certain kind of quiet that comes right before something beautiful happens. 

It’s not total silence, it’s more like the pause between heartbeats, the moment a match touches the tip of a candle’s wick. It’s small, still, but charged. Waiting. 

That was the kind of quiet I found in Josh’s eyes one morning. 

We sat on the bench again, the same one we shared since that first day. The air smelled like honeysuckle and early summer, and there was something warm in the breeze, something kind. 

He was reading aloud from a book I didn’t recognize–something with soft metaphors and aching lines about the ocean. His voice dipped low at the sad parts and rose like a bird's song at the hopeful ones.

I wasn’t listening to the words. 

I was watching his mouth. 

He stopped mid-sentence and glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. “You’re somewhere else.” 

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe I’m right here. Too much…” I trailed off. 

“You ever feel like you’re on the edge of something?” he said, “but you don’t know if you should jump or wait for the wind to carry you?”

I nodded, “All the time.” 

“I think…” His voice dropped. “I think I’d like to fall. Just once. With someone who’d fall with me.” 

My heart stilled. Or maybe it sped up so fast I couldn’t tell the difference. 

He reached out, slow and unsure, and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. His fingers lingered, just barely. 

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered, as if even the garden had to give its blessing. 

I leaned forward before I could think about it. 

The kiss was soft. Not careful, not cautious–just soft. Like the petals of a flower pressed gently between pages. Like something sacred passed hand to hand, there was no urgency, no hunger. Just the kind of warmth that fills a room without making a sound. 

It only lasted a few seconds, but I think it changed me. 

When we pulled back, neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to. His eyes were still closed, his lips parted slightly, like he wanted to remember the moment in full. 

Later that morning, he kissed the inside of my wrist, like he was memorizing me in pieces. 

I let him. 

And the garden? It felt different after that. Brighter, maybe. Or quieter. Or maybe it was me who had changed–who had opened up just enough to let the light pour in. 

Josh didn’t say he loved me; I didn’t say it either. 

But it was there. In the air. In the hush. In the way our shadows leaned into each other when the sun came through the trees. 

After the kiss, things didn’t change. 

Not in the loud, sweeping way stories sometimes suggest. There were no fireworks or confessions. Just a quiet deepening. A shift. The way the sky changes color before dusk–slow, subtle, impossible to mark until it’s already happened. 

He started bringing me things. Not gifts—offerings. A folded leaf shaped like a heart. A shell he claimed had a secret whisper. A pencil sketch of the bench where we always sat. Each one made me feel more known, as if he were tracing the edges of who I was and learning them by hand.

I pressed wildflowers between pages of my journal and wrote about him with ink that bled when I paused too long. I didn’t reread the entries. I didn’t have to.

One morning, I asked, “Why here, Josh? Why this garden?”

He was lying on the grass beside me, arms behind his head, eyes closed to the sun. “It’s the only place I feel like time slows down. Like I can breathe the way I’m meant to.”

“And when you leave here?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I disappear a little,” he said, voice soft. “Everywhere else feels like I have to wear someone else's name.”

I rolled onto my side to look at him. “And here?”

He turned to meet my gaze. “Here, I’m just Josh. The version I wish I could be all the time.”

I wanted to tell him that this version—this one in front of me, sunlit and barefoot and vulnerable—was the one I loved. But that word still lived inside my chest, tucked between ribs, too delicate to set loose just yet.

Instead, I traced a line across his forearm, memorizing the way he shivered slightly beneath my touch.

We built a world of small rituals. Sharing fruit from the market. Making up names for the birds that perched on the half-burnt tree. Reading each other poetry and laughing when it got too tragic. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep with his head in my lap, and I’d watch the way his eyelashes fluttered in dreams.

One night, as twilight slipped through the trees, he whispered, “I had a dream you were a flame. And I wasn’t scared of burning. I just wanted to stay warm.”

I held that line as if it were holy.

But something was changing in him.

Some days, he arrived later. Some mornings, he didn’t show at all. When I asked, he’d say he overslept, or got caught in town, or needed time to think.

And I believed him. But a thread had been pulled loose, and I could feel it.

Still, when he was here, he was here. Fully. Gently. Intensely. Like the world narrowed down to just us, and for a little while, that was enough.

One morning, I found him waiting with a small paper kite.

“I want to fly something with you,” he said, holding it out like a question.

We ran barefoot through the garden, laughing like kids, like the ghosts of old pain couldn’t keep up with us. The kite wobbled, dipped, soared. And for a second, we did too.

When it finally landed in the tree, tangled in vines, he looked up at it and said, “Even if it doesn’t last, it still flew.”

I knew he wasn’t talking about the kite.

I didn’t say anything.

But I held his hand a little tighter that day, as if love alone could keep him from drifting.

*** 

The days grew longer. The sun lingered later in the sky, draping gold over the garden like it, too, didn’t want to leave. And still, something in Josh began to pull away like a tide.

He tried to hide it.

He smiled the same, kissed me with the same reverence, and read aloud like his voice was a ribbon weaving us together. But I noticed the moments when his eyes drifted somewhere far away. I noticed how his fingers trembled when I touched his wrist.

One evening, while the sky turned every shade of lavender, he said, “What if some people are just borrowed?”

I looked at him, heart already tightening. “What do you mean?”

“Like... what if we’re only meant to belong to each other for a little while? Just long enough to learn something we couldn’t have without each other.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

He was talking about leaving. I knew it even if he hadn’t said the word.

Instead, I said, “What did you learn?”

He looked at me for a long time. “That I could be gentle. That I could love and not be afraid of it.”

I swallowed the ache rising in my throat.

“And you?” he asked. “What did I give you?”

I looked at the half-burnt tree. At the garden that had grown around the wreckage. At the notebook in my lap, filled with poems I could never have written before him.

“A place to bloom,” I whispered.

He leaned in and kissed my forehead, slow and careful. As if sealing a letter he’d never send.

We didn’t speak of the future after that.

But it hung there. Between us. Like morning mist before the sun burns it away.

In the days that followed, we clung tighter to the small things. A shared pastry on a stone wall. A dance in the rain with no music. The way he’d tuck a daisy behind my ear like it was armor.

One afternoon, he arrived with a folded piece of paper in his hand. No envelope. No explanation.

He placed it in my hand and said, “Not yet. But someday. Read it when you have to.”

My fingers itched to open it. But I didn’t. I nodded instead, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans.

Later that night, I found myself awake beneath a sky so full of stars it hurt. I stood barefoot in the grass, the garden humming around me, and felt the pull of everything I couldn’t name.

When I turned, he was there.

He didn’t say anything. Just wrapped his arms around me and held me like the world might end if he let go.

“I don’t know how to keep you,” I whispered.

He shook his head against my shoulder. “Don’t try. Just remember.”

And then he kissed me like it was the last time.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just… full. The kind of kiss you give when words won’t hold enough. The kind you write into poems and hope the page never forgets.

We didn’t say goodbye.

We didn’t have to.

The next morning, he wasn’t there.

The garden was.

And the note in my journal burned quietly against my spine.

***

The first morning without him felt like standing in a room after the music stops. You expect the next note, but it never comes.

I sat on the bench alone. His absence wasn’t loud—it was soft, like something missing from a photograph. The garden went on blooming, unaware. Or maybe just indifferent. A robin landed on the edge of the fountain, tilted its head at me, and then flew off again.

I didn’t cry.

Not that day.

Instead, I opened my journal. And after a long breath, I slid the folded paper from the back pocket. I held it in my hands like it might vanish if I wasn’t gentle.

There was no name on the outside.

Just my initials, in his handwriting.

I unfolded it slowly.

If you’re reading this, I’m already gone.

Not because I wanted to leave. Because I had to. Because staying would’ve asked me to lie about something, and I never wanted to lie to you.

You made me believe in soft things again in mornings that matter. In the idea that maybe not all good things are meant to be permanent—but they can still be true.

I don’t know what happens next. For either of us. Maybe we’ll meet again in another version of this life. Maybe we’ll just live in the same stars. But please know this:

I loved you.

In the way rain loves the roof it lands on.

In the way fireflies love dusk.

In the way you can love someone and still have to leave.

Thank you for letting me be something beautiful for you.

You were everything beautiful to me.

Josh

I read it once. Then again. And again.

Each time, it felt like something inside me shifted and settled, like sand rearranging itself after the tide.

I didn’t hate him. I didn’t feel abandoned. I felt full—with sorrow, yes. But also with the kind of peace that only comes from being loved well.

I spent the rest of the day in the garden. Watching light filter through the trees, listening to the hush of leaves, writing down everything I could remember about him—the way he tilted his head when he listened, how he always paused before he spoke, how he never once tried to rush the silence between us.

Weeks passed. Then months.

The garden changed. Summer edged into autumn. The vines reddened. The air turned crisp, carrying the scent of smoke and apples.

And still, I came back. Every morning.

I didn’t wait for him anymore.

But I still sat where we used to sit.

Sometimes with tea. Sometimes with a book. Sometimes just with my thoughts.

And I spoke to him.

Not out loud. Not always.

But in the way you talk to the sky when you think it’s listening.

***

Autumn came with quieter mornings. I started bringing a blanket to the garden, tucking it around my legs as I sat with my notebook. I didn’t write to Josh, not exactly. I wrote around him. Like he was still part of the landscape, just out of frame.

The garden began to sleep for the season, slowly and gracefully. The flowers curled inward. The fountain gathered leaves. The robins visited less. But I stayed.

One day, I met an older woman who wandered in with a thermos of coffee and a gentle smile.

“Pretty spot,” she said, settling onto the bench beside me.

I nodded. “It’s my favorite.”

She tilted her head. “You look like you’re waiting for someone.”

I smiled at that. “I think I was. But not anymore.”

She looked out at the trees, golden and thinning. “Funny how the right people leave a trace, even after they’re gone.”

“Yes,” I said. “They do.”

She didn’t ask for the story. And I didn’t offer it. But her presence beside me—quiet, kind, unassuming—made me feel less like a girl who had been left, and more like a woman who had loved.

And who still could.

After she left, I pulled out my notebook. I wrote the way I used to when Josh was still here, but the words felt different now. Less like longing, more like remembering. Less like ache, more like bloom.

Sometimes I imagined he was still around—just one street over, still drawing trees and tasting rain. Still carrying me in some quiet corner of his chest.

Other times, I let go of the thought. Let it float. Let it be enough that we had been real.

The last line I wrote that afternoon read:

Some things don’t end.

They just change shape

and wait for you in the light.

Winter came like an exhale—slow, cold, and soft. The garden quieted almost completely. The bench stayed empty more days than not. But I still visited.

I had stopped expecting to see him.

And still, sometimes, my eyes would trace the paths between the trees, wondering—what if?

I didn't live in that wondering anymore, but I visited it sometimes, like an old song you only play when the rain is soft enough.

One morning, just before the frost set in, I found something tucked under the bench.

A folded paper crane.

My breath caught.

It wasn’t weathered. It hadn’t been there long.

I picked it up carefully and held it to my heart like I might hear something.

Inside the folds was a single line, written in his handwriting:

I still think of you when the light hits right. 

I didn’t cry.

Instead, I smiled.

Because it didn’t matter where he was, not really, it didn’t even matter if I ever saw him again. What mattered was that what we had was true. It had changed me, opened something inside me. Given me a language for tenderness, for patience, for the kind of love that doesn't ask to own, only to know.

And I was different now.

I painted my bedroom that spring. I made new friends. I let someone read my poems.

Sometimes, I caught myself laughing at nothing—at the wind, at the memory of a kiss under a rain-drenched tree, at a leaf shaped like a heart.

And on certain days, when the air was warm and the garden began to bloom again, I left space beside me on the bench.

Not because I needed him to return.

But because if he ever did, I’d want him to know—

I stayed soft.

I stayed open.

I never stopped carrying the flame.

Epilogue

Years passed.

Not all at once, but steadily, like the slow drift of seasons. I learned to live with the space he left—not as a hollow, but as a quiet room in my heart with windows wide open to the sun.

I moved to a small house by the sea. Somewhere, the gulls cried over the tide, and the mornings began with fog that tasted like salt and poetry. The garden there wasn’t as wild as the one where I first met Josh, but I planted the same flowers. Daisies. Foxglove. Lavender. They grew taller than I expected.

Every now and then, when the wind turned west, I’d sit outside with a cup of tea and think of him.

Not in a sad way.

Just in the way you remember someone who once knew your favorite dreams.

I published a book. Poetry, mostly. Little letters to the past, threaded with softness and silence and the shape of things that never fully left me. I titled it The Flame and the Robin.

It was about him. And not.

Once, at a book signing, a man placed my book on the table. Worn cover, corners curled like it had been read too many times. He didn’t say his name, but there was something in his eyes that made my breath catch.

He said, “This one saved me. That line about not needing to be found—just remembered? That stayed with me.”

I smiled and signed his copy with shaking fingers. I didn’t ask anything. I didn’t need to.

He walked away with a nod and a soft glance over his shoulder.

That night, I wrote a new poem in the back of my journal:

Sometimes the people we love

become stories in other people’s hands.

Sometimes, that’s how they come home to us.

And as the sea hummed against the shore, I leaned back, letting the memory of him curl around me like mist.

Still no goodbye.

Only that small, glowing ache.

And the whisper of a maybe, always waiting in the wind.

[ageofwonderland]

Ivy

Pairing: Sam x reader

Word Count: 1.5k

The old stone house sat on the edge of the cliffside, draped in ivy like a secret whispered in green, each tendril curled around the windowsills, crept across the gray brick like a lover’s hand on skin. Time had forgotten the house, but (Y/N) hadn’t. She came every summer since she was seventeen, ever since inheriting it from her grandmother. It was her escape, her hidden place, a secret all her own—far from the gilded suffocation of her real life. 

She arrived this year with a suitcase and a heart she wasn’t quite ready to unpack. The air smelled of sea salt and old memories. It clung to her as she stepped out of the car, heels crunching on gravel. The moment she opened the gate, she heard it—the soft creak that had always sounded like the house was sighing, as though it recognized her, missed her. 

What she didn’t expect was the man in the garden. 

“You must be (Y/N),” he said. “I’m Sam. The groundskeeper. Hired by the estate agent to tame the wild.” He gestured around him. “Looks like I still have some work to do.” 

(Y/N) tilted her head. “There is a kind of wild that shouldn’t be tamed.”

His smile grew, slow and genuine. “Then maybe I’ll leave the ivy alone.” 

She wanted to tell him she hadn’t asked for a gardener; she wanted to tell him to go. But the truth was, she didn’t want to be alone this summer. Not really. Not after everything. So she let him stay. 

And every morning, like clockwork, he was there. Sam with his calloused hands and soft voice. Sam, who hummed when he worked and talked to the plants as if they answered back. Sam never asked why she watched him from the porch, coffee in hand, with her bare feet tucked beneath her. 

Something about her calmed the ache in her chest, made the house feel different—less haunted, more alive.

He knocked one evening with a basket of blackberries he’d picked from the forest beyond the fence.

“I thought you might like them,” he said. “Or you could throw them at me if I’ve pruned something you liked.” He said with a cheesy smile on his face. 

She laughed. She hasn’t laughed in months. 

They ate the berries on the porch, fingers stained purple, stories spilling in slow drips between silences. He told her about the cabin he’d built in the woods, how he grew herbs for his own teas, how he came to his job not for the money but for the peace. 

She didn’t tell him everything, just enough. She told him she had come here to remember who she was, that the world she was living in no longer felt like hers. 

“Do you believe in love that feels like ruin?” she asked, out of nowhere. 

He paused, a berry halfway to his mouth. “Ruin?”

“Like it tears down everything you thought was solid, like Ivy. It stars so small, and then…” she trailed off. “Like one day it’s wrapped around everything. You can’t even see the walls anymore.”

Sam leaned back, watching her. “I think that kind of love is the realest kind. The one that changes the shape of you. 

She couldn't breathe for a second, her heart tender and bruised, and she recognized something in his voice. Something dangerous and real. 

She should have gone inside then.

But she didn’t. 

*****

The days slipped by like silk—slow, sun-drenched, and strangely suspended. The world outside the ivy-covered walls faded, and it was as if only the two of them existed. (Y/N) had never known silence could feel so full. Sam moved through the gardens like he belonged to the Earth, and somehow, she found herself circling him like gravity. 

One night, a storm rolled in. Rain lashed against the windows, wind howled like a wounded thing, and lightning cast frantic shadows across the rooms.

She stood in the kitchen barefoot, watching the storm, when a knock came. 

Sam. 

His hair was wet, stuck to his forehead, his white shirt soaked and clinging to every line of him. He looked like something out of a fever dream—wild and wind-swept and utterly unreal. 

“You walked here?” she asked, stunned. 

“I didn’t want the trees falling on my cabin,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Thought I’d wait it out here, if you don’t mind.”

He brought the scent of rain inside with him, and something else—something electric that made the hair on her arms stand up. She handed him a towel, her fingers brushing his as she did, and the touch felt like lightning, too. 

He dried off slowly while she made tea, both pretending the air between them wasn’t crackling. 

“Want to sit by the fire?” she asked, her voice softer than usual. 

He nodded.

They curled up on the rug before the hearth, the flames painting gold on his cheekbones, shadows in his jaw. He leaned back on his hands, stretched out, and she noticed a scar running along his forearm, pale and raised. She wanted to trace it with her fingers. 

“Do you miss anyone?” he asked suddenly, eyes on the fire. 

“I miss…who I used to be.” 

Sam didn’t speak, just nodded, understanding in the quiet of him. Then his hand found hers on the rug, slow, hesitant—an offering, not a demand. 

She let him hold it. 

The rain softened, but the thunder inside her chest didn’t.

And then, she turned toward him—and the moment unfolded like a secret neither of them had ever dared to say out loud. 

“I don’t know why it’s you,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I just know I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

Sam leaned in slowly, giving her space to pull away. But she didn’t. Her breath hitched, eyes fluttered shut, and when his lips finally touched hers, it was everything she hadn’t let herself feel. 

It wasn’t a polite kiss. It wasn’t careful. It was heat and hunger and need. Her hands found his shoulders, clutching like he was the only solid thing in her world. He deepened the kiss, lips parting hers, their breath tangling. She gasped into him, and he kissed her like he’d been waiting years. 

They pulled apart only when the fire cracked too loud. 

Their foreheads pressed together, both breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, guilt flooding in uninvited. 

“For what?” he asked, confused. 

“For…wanting something I shouldn’t.” 

Sam leaned back, just enough to look her in the eye. “There's nothing wrong with wanting something that makes you feel alive. 

She could have cried at that, but instead, she kissed him again. 

This one is slower. Softer. Like a vow. 

The firelight flickered across (Y/N)’s skin, casting her in gold and shadow, as Sam looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he’d dreamt her into existence. 

She leaned in again, kissing him softly–just once–then pulled back to search his eyes.

But Sam didn’t let her go. His hand rose to cradle her jaw, his thumb brushing along her cheek like a painter studying his canvas. And he kissed her again–slower this time, deeper. It was the kind of kiss that lingered, not on your lips, but in your bones. 

Their hands started to move—hesitant, then urgent. Her fingers slid into his damp hair as his hands cupped her waist, pulling her gently closer. She shifted into his lap without breaking the kiss, legs curling on either side of him, rustling like whispers in the dark. His breath hitched as her mouth opened to him, inviting, intoxicating. 

The kiss turned fevered, lips colliding like they’d been starving. His hands moved up her back, memorizing the curve of her spine. She could feel the tremble in him–the restraint, the wanting. 

When his mouth left hers, it only traveled lower. His lips brushed her jaw, her throat, that fragile hollow beneath her collarbone. She gasped, tilting her head back, offering more. 

He murmured her name like a prayer. 

And the way he said it made her body ache. 

Her hands slid beneath his shirt, finding warm, rain-damp skin. Muscle, breath, and heartbeat. He groaned softly against her neck as her fingers explored him, slow and reverent. Every inch of contact felt like unraveling thread–like she was coming undone, stitch by careful stitch. 

Their movements slowed–not out of hesitation, but out of awe as though neither wanted to rush something this rare. She arched into him, and he wrapped his arms around her like she was something precious. The fire crackled beside them, heat licking their skin. 

She whispered against his ear, her voice ragged, “Tell me this isn’t a mistake.” 

He pulled back just enough to look at her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. 

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s the most honest thing I’ve felt in a long time.”

And then he kissed her again, this time not like a spark, but like a slow-burning fire meant to last the night. 

They didn’t leave the rug, not for a long time. 

Their kisses grew deeper, slower, exploring. His traveled paths they’d only dreamed of, mapping skin, memorizing breath. There was heat, yes. But more than that, there was reverence-like both of them understood how fragile this was. How sacred. Like ivy, curling quietly around something once stone-cold, now warm again. 

And when they finally stilled, tangled in each other’s arms, the storm had passed. 

But something in her heart was only just beginning.

[ageofwonderland]

Maroon

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

It started with a spilled bottle of wine.

Not just any wine, but a deep, rich red—maroon, if you want to be precise. And he was always precise. Sam liked things in neat rows, with clear definitions. Books on the shelf by genre and alphabetical order, spices labeled and lined up in a drawer, even the records in his collection were organized chronologically by the release date. So when I knocked over the glass, soaking the cream-colored carpet in his pristine apartment, I thought he might throw me out. 

Instead, he laughed. 

And that laugh, low and started, genuine—was the first time I ever heard him let go. 

We weren’t supposed to be anything more than friends of friends. A coincidence at a rooftop party in Nashville, both of us lingering near the edge of the terrace while our respective groups clustered around the fire pit. I was tispy and wearing someone else’s denim jacket. He was drinking neat whiskey and watching the city lights like they were speaking directly to him. 

“You don’t seem like you want to be here,” I said. 

He glanced at me. His eyes were warm, like pools of honey—soft, warm, and kind. “Neither do you.” 

That was all it took. One sentence turned into an hour, then two, then an invite back to his place because “the music is better there.” And it was. He  played a dusty Joan Baez vinyl, and we drank until the bottle tipped. 

I still have a photo from that night—my hand, stained red as I tried to mop the floor with paper towels, and his bare feet beside mine. It’s blurry, the kind of picture you only keep just for the way it makes you feel. The photo smells like red wine, cedarwood, and something new. 

The thing is, we were both a little broken. 

I had an ex who cheated and left without warning, and he had a trail of half-relationships that never turned into anything worth remembering. We were both used to things ending. But Sam—he was a slow burn. A careful conversation. He read novels in the bath, and quoted poetry when he thought I wasn’t listening.

We built a rhythm. Sunday mornings with his head in my lap while I read the paper aloud. Thursday dinners where I’d cook and he’d do the dishes. Winter nights where we stayed in bed, watching the snowfall blur the city skyline. 

And then there was the color.

Maroon. It was everywhere.

The rug we picked out together, the scarf he bought me on a whim, the lipstick I wore when we first kissed, the sheets on his bed, the wine we drank, the shadows on his walls when the sun set.

It became a symbol of us, our shade. Not red—too obvious. Not burgundy—too formal. Maroon was quiet passion—deep, old, and bleeding. 

We never said “I love you.” Not exactly. But there were nights he’d look at me like I was made of stories he wanted to read forever, mornings where he’d tuck my hair behind my ear and whisper, “Stay.” 

I thought it would last. 

But some loves don’t burn out, they fade. 

It was little things at first. His laughter became less frequent. He stopped playing music in the morning. He took longer to text back. When I asked if something was wrong, he smiled too quickly and said, “Just tired.” 

We stopped going to our favorite diner, I started sleeping over less, and the maroon sheets stayed perfectly made for days at a time. 

Then one night, I came over with a bottle of that same wine. He opened the door, and I saw it in his face. 

He didn’t kiss me hello.

We drank in silence, the air between us tasted like the edge of goodbye. I said his name, a soft whisper, like a prayer. He looked away. 

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” he said. 

And just like that, the color drained out of the room.

We didn’t fight. There were no accusations, no slamming doors—just a quiet unraveling. I left the bottle on the counter and walked out into the night. 

It rained. 

And the next morning, the world looked grayer than I’d ever seen it. 

Months passed.

I’d see maroon in small places—on a stranger’s umbrella, in the velvet curtains of a theater, in a lipstick shade on a magazine cover—and my chest would ache. But the ache dulled, I stopped checking my phone at midnight, I stopped wearing the scarf.

One day, I passed by a record store and heard Joan Baez playing. I didn’t go in. 

But I smiled. 

Because some colors don’t belong to heartbreak forever, sometimes, they just remind you that once, you loved deeply enough to stain the carpet. That once, you were part of something worth remembering. 

And maybe that’s enough. 

But memory is funny, it forgets the mundane, but clings to flashes—his hand on the small of my back as we crossed a street; the warmth of his body behind mine when I woke up from a bad dream, the scent of rain on the pavement after we kissed in a downpour. 

Spring arrived slowly that year, as if the world was mourning with me. I saw him once, months later, in Centennial Park. He was sitting on a bench, reading, a wool coat pulled tightly around his frame, and there was a woman with him. She smiled at something he said, and I saw the tilt of his head, the way his lips curved, the way he used to smile at me. 

I didn’t stop. I walked on, boots hitting the ground with forced purpose. I didn’t cry. But that night, I drank the last glass of maroon wine I’d been saving and wrote his name in my journal, then crossed it out.

Healing came slowly, wrapped in early morning coffees and novels that made me forget him for hours at a time. I went to art galleries alone, took weekend trips, anything I could do to fill the silence. 

And then one day, a man named James walked into the bookstore where I worked. He asked for help finding a book—poetry, of course. I led him to the shelf, and he smiled at the way I recommended Neruda without hesitation. He came back the next day. And the one after. 

James was light where Sam was shadow, he laughed easily, touched my hand often, and told me his feelings with no hesitation. We went dancing under string lights and kissed in flower-filled parks. He brought me yellow tulips instead of wine.

I thought maybe this was what it was meant to be—easy, full of color, no stains on the floor. 

But still, every now and then, I’d catch a glimpse of maroon, and my heart would skip. 

James asked me once, “Have you ever been in love?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“What was it like?”

I paused, unsure of how to explain Sam. How could I describe something that felt like a song only I could hear? 

“It was…Maroon,” I said finally. 

He smiled, not understanding, and kissed my forehead. 

I moved apartments and left the bookstore for a small publishing house. James and I made it three years. Ended with tears but no anger. Just the understanding that love, even the bright kind, sometimes fades too. 

One day, I was cleaning out a box of old things and found the photo—the one from that night. My wine-stained hand, his feet beside mine. I sat on the floor and stared at it for a long time, then placed it gently back in the box and closed the lid. 

That night, I poured myself a glass of red wine. Not the same brand, but close enough. I sat by the window, watched the city breathe, and listened to Joan Baez. The voice felt older now, so did I. 

But there was peace in that. 

Because some loves never really end, they become a part of you. They live in your favorite song, your scent of choice, the pages of books you can’t bear to give away.

And maybe that’s the truest kind of love—the one that stains you, marks you, lingers like maroon on cream carpet. 

Not loud. Not perfect.

But unforgettable. 

[ageofwonderland]

Wildest Dreams

Pairing: Jake x reader

Word Count: 2.2k

The desert stretched endlessly, a vast sea of golden sand beneath a bruised, purple-pink sky. Somewhere in the distance, a storm was brewing—not the kind that made people run for cover. No, this storm was different. It was quiet, sultry, made of glances and secrets; it was made of things you don’t say until it’s too late. 

It was on the set of The Dust Between Us, an indie film that nobody expected to make much noise, that (Y/N) first saw him. Leaning against the vintage convertible like it was made just for him, wind teasing his chestnut brown hair, he looked like the kind of trouble she usually avoided. He wasn’t too tall, all smirking confidence and lazy charm, with eyes that seemed to dare her to look away. 

“Jake Kiszka,” he said, offering a hand with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You must be (Y/N).” 

The moment their hands touched, something shifted. It wasn’t thunder or lightning—it was softer than that. Like silk sliding over bare skin. Like deja vu. Something familiar in a place that shouldn’t have felt like home, but did. 

They spent the first week dancing around each other like two constellations caught in the same orbit. Their characters were supposed to fall in love on screen—sad, beautiful, tragic—but it was the moments in between that lingered. The stolen laughs during rehearsal, the late-night takes under the desert moon, the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. 

He was dangerous in the most delicate way. 

“You ever been in love?” he asked on a night, a cigarette hanging from his lips as they sat on the hood of his car, the stars watching like voyeurs. 

She didn’t answer right away. “Not the real kind. You?” 

He shrugged. “No. But I’ve had moments that felt like it.” 

(Y/N) turned to him. “And what happened?”

He smiled again, that heartbreaking kind. “They always end. But for a while…it’s like a dream. The wild kind. You know it won’t last, but you jump in anyway.”

That night, she dreamed of him. But not the way people usually dream of movie stars. She dreamed of his laugh, the way he looked at her when the director called cut. She dreamed of the softness in his voice when no one else was around, the tenderness in his touch. 

And deep down, a part of her already knew—

He’d leave her with memories soft as sand slipping through her fingers. 

But oh, what a beautiful fall it would be. 

Jake 

She walked on set like she belonged in a different era. Hair catching the breeze like the golden hour had fallen in love with her. (Y/N) wasn’t just beautiful—she was the kind of beautiful that made time slow down. The kind you remembered long after the lights dimmed. 

Jake had seen lots of pretty faces—had kissed most of them on screen and even a few off. But (Y/N) was…untouchable. Not because she was cold, but because she was careful. And maybe that’s what got to him first—the way she held something back, like she knew how easily hearts broke in places like this. 

He had been burned before. Fast romances, press-fueled fantasies, things that ended with headlines and hollow apologies. He didn’t believe in permanence anymore, but when she smiled at him, just once, late in the afternoon between takes, he felt something dangerous stir in his chest. 

She didn’t flirt, not like the others. She listened. She noticed things, like how he tapped his thumb when he was nervous, or how he got quiet before a scene that mattered. And maybe that’s what scared him the most, because (Y/N) saw right through him. 

They shot the kiss scene three days into filming. The director wanted longing, tension, the ache of wanting what you know you can’t keep. But when her lips touched his, it didn’t feel like acting. 

It felt like remembering something he hadn’t lived yet. 

Later, alone in his trailer, he watched the footage and barely recognized himself. The way he looked at her—it wasn’t the character. It was him. 

Shit. 

He tried to stay cool. He teased her on set, making jokes and keeping it light. But every time she laughed, it felt like gravity tilted a little more in her direction. 

One night, she sat beside him on the hood of his car, wrapped in a blanket, moonlight painting her face silver. She asked him what scared him most. 

“Being forgotten,” he said without thinking. “Or being remembered wrong.” 

She didn’t say anything. Just leaned her head on his shoulder. And in that quiet moonlight, he thought—

Please let her remember me the way I feel right now. 

Not the headlines. Not the version of him the world ate up. Just this: the boy beneath the bravado, aching in silence beside her. 

He knew she wouldn’t stay. Neither of them would. These stories never ended clean. But if she remembered him with soft eyes, if she whispered his name like a secret when it was all over…

That would be enough. 

That would be everything. 

(Y/N)

The night desert was quiet in a way that made your thoughts louder. (Y/N) stood just beyond the edge of the trailers, her bare feet sinking slightly into the cool sand, eyes lifted to a sky so full of stars it almost hurt to look at. There was a strange ache inside her, soft and blooming. The kind that only came when you were falling for something you shouldn’t, like a hypnic jerk before a deep sleep. 

Jake had a way of making her forget who she was supposed to be. Around him, her armor slipped without her meaning to. He never pushed, never asked for more, but something almost worse. He was always there, in the pauses, in the glances, in the space between breaths. 

She wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the way he always lingered just a second longer after a scene, or how he asked her about her childhood, her favorite book, the kind of music she played when no one was around. Things nobody else ever asked, never cared to ask. Like he wanted to know her, not just the version lit up by camera flashes and magazine articles. 

It terrified her. 

He was everything she’d trained herself to avoid—too charming, too beautiful, too temporary. Because boys like Jake Kiszka didn’t stay. They left you with Polaroids and promises that faded faster than the summer air. And (Y/N) had spent her whole life keeping her heart neat and untouched, like a dress too pretty to wear. 

Until now. 

Until Him. 

That night, she walked toward his trailer without knowing what she’d say. Maybe she just wanted to sit beside him again, wrapped in silence that somehow felt like conversation. But when he opened the door and looked at her—really looked at her—something deep in her chest unraveled. 

“I don’t do this,” she whispered, almost to herself. 

“Do what?” 

“Let people in.”

Jake didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just let her words settle. 

“Me neither,” he said, finally. 

She stepped inside. 

No kiss. No grand moment. Just two people on a paper-thin ice, choosing to lean closer. They sat on the floor, backs against the wall, legs stretched out and barely touching. 

They talked until the sky began to lighten. 

And somehow between midnight confessions and 4 a.m. yawns, (Y/N) knew. This wasn’t forever. It was now—intense, golden, and already slipping away like a dream you try to hold onto after waking. 

But if she had to lose something, let it be this. 

Let it be him. 

In her wildest dreams. 

The final days of filming felt like the last days of summer—heavy with knowing, and impossibly fast. Everything was sharper now. The heat. The colors. The way (Y/N) felt when Jake looked at her, like the whole world had narrowed to her and her alone. 

They never defined it. No late-night declarations. No whispered promises beneath the stars. Just moments—hundreds of them, quiet and scared. A brush of fingers as they passed scripts, a shared glance after a scene ended, and they were still breathing like their characters. 

It was more than a fling—less than a forever. 

And (Y/N) could feel the clock ticking. 

The last scene was a sunset shot—a goodbye that echoed too close to reality. Her character, Alice, stood beside the car as Jake’s character drove away, leaving behind dust and heartbreak. The director wanted tears. Regret. Angst. The ache of letting go. 

(Y/N) Didn’t need to act.

She watched Jake slip into his car, his jaw tight, his hands gripping the wheel as if the weight of leaving was just as heavy for him as it was for her. The cameras rolled. The engine roared to life. He drove away, not looking back. Not even once, not even for a second. 

Cut. 

The director called it a wrap. The crew clapped, some cheered, and just like that, the illusion was over. 

People hugged, popped champagne, and reminisced on the months of shooting. Some took photos under the falling sun. But (Y/N) just stood there, watching the dust settle where Jake had driven off just moments before. 

He didn’t come back for a while.

When he did, the sky had gone soft and violet. He found her sitting on the roof of the prop car, her legs tucked beneath her, the wind teasing strands of her hair. 

“Guess that’s it,” he said.

“Yeah.” She said, pointedly. She didn’t look at him.

He climbed up beside her. “I hate endings.”

She smiled faintly, “They’re just beginnings in disguise.”

They sat in silence, the kind that says everything words could not. The kind that carries a thousand things neither of them could say without ruining it.

Finally, he asked, “Do I get to be a part of your real life?”

Her throat tightened, “ You already are.”

Jake didn’t try to kiss her. He didn’t ask her to stay. He knew her all too well by now. She was all poetry and steel, all softness wrapped in an armor of self-preservation. And she knew him, too—wandering heart, wild spirit, born to leave even the things he loved.

But still, she wished, just for one second, that they were different. 

That they were ordinary. 

That she could love him without knowing how it would end. 

“I’ll remember this,” he said in a low voice. “You. This version of us.”

She turned to him, eyes shining. “In your wildest dreams?”

Jake nodded. “Always.”

And as the sun dipped behind the hills, casting long shadows across the sand, (Y/N) leaned her head against his shoulder, just once more. 

A soft ending. 

A beautiful beginning of missing him. 

Epilogue

The film had become something of a cult classic—a story that aged like fine wine, gaining quiet reverence over the years. The Dust Between Us was screened in old theaters and—once a year, in the late summer—usually to rooms full of strangers who’d never know the truth behind those eyes, those almost kisses, that heartbreak that looked just a little too real. 

(Y/N) sat in the back row of a small cinema in New York, sunglasses on, hood up. She didn’t come every year. Just when the pull got a little too strong. When missing him didn’t feel like an open wound, but a place that she could visit without falling apart. 

He was still beautiful on screen. 

Even after all this time. 

And she was still pretending that she didn’t memorize every frame. 

The scene came—the scene. The goodbye in the desert. Dust in the air, him behind the wheel, her standing in the loudest kind of silence he left behind. Her throat tightened, just like it always did. 

The woman beside her sniffled softly. “God, the way he looks at her…like he knows he’s going to lose her.” 

(Y/N) almost smiled.

Because he did. 

After filming ended, they never really said goodbye. There were half-written texts, voicemails she kept but never played, and a single photo tucked away, hidden in her journal—Jake laughing behind a clapperboard, sun catching his honey eyes, happiness caught mid-breath. 

They both moved on, sort of. Other movies. Other names whispered in the dark. But no one has ever looked at her the way he did. Never before, and never since. No one made her feel like she was the dream they were afraid to wake up from. 

Outside, the night air wrapped around her like an old friend. The Marquee behind her glowed  in faded neon: “The Dust Between us – 10th Anniversary”

She pulled out her phone, fingers hovering. 

Jake Kiszka 

Still in her contacts. 

Still untouched. 

She didn’t call.

She didn’t text. 

She didn’t need to.

Some love stories aren’t meant to be lived every day. Some are meant to live in moments—in sunsets and silent car rides, in movie scenes and dusty air. In the hush of a theater seat, where the lights go dim and the heart remembers. 

Somewhere, she hoped he was remembering her, too. 

In his wildest dreams.