coffeeshades

[coffeeshades]

Hi! How are you? I hope you’re doing wonderful just dropped by to say I love guilty as sin so much, I keep on coming back to it because it is just that good! And btw I love your music taste! I love discovering new music from fanfics. I also love how you wrote Cillian and his POV on the latest chapter and how you correlate music into your writing. Can’t wait to read more of your works! 💖

omg 🥲🥲 this is so kind of you, thank you so much!!!! i loveee writing about him and in general, it’s a nice little escape. i honestly don’t write/post as often because life gets really really busy but now i have a little bit more time so i’ll definitely be more active!

thank you thank you for this message, it made my day 🫂💜

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

GUILTY AS SIN? - PART III

summary: flashbacks from cillian’s pov trace the unraveling of a long marriage, his struggle to feel at home in his own life, and the slow, startling way you slip into the spaces he thought were closed off for good.

pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader

word count: 5.1k

warnings: angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hi everyone! i know it's been a long time and idk if there are people who are still interested in this but i got time and inspiration and decided to finish a draft i had of this so enjoy!

masterlist

Three years ago

The flat smelled like burnt food and eucalyptus, which probably meant someone had tried to cook and then lit a candle to hide the shame. He liked that. Places that weren’t perfect. Places where mugs didn’t match and the bookshelves sagged in the middle and people talked over each other because they were used to being heard.

Tom’s place had always been like that, half bohemian, half collapsing under the weight of a thousand dinner parties. He’d known Tom since his theater days. Now Tom was thirty-something and had a flat in Kentish Town with framed posters of old New Order gigs and a group of friends who were somehow all beautiful and vaguely in bands.

Cillian stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the lounge, nursing a bottle of beer that was too warm. The cap had twisted off like it had been opened and closed again. There was probably a metaphor in that, but he didn’t feel like reaching for it.

The lights were low. The birthday banner drooped. Someone had queued Selfless by The Strokes on the old speakers in the corner, and that was when he noticed you.

Sitting on the counter, one hand wrist-deep in a bowl of crisps like you were digging for treasure.

You looked the same, more or less. Hair a bit longer. A thin gold chain catching the light at your neck. You were talking to someone he didn’t recognize, someone tall and too interested, and Cillian found himself moving into the kitchen before he thought better of it. As he approached you, the guy you were talking with turned to him and flashed a quick, polite smile before exiting the room.

“You’re treating that snack bowl like it owes you money,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the fridge.

You looked up and smiled like you’d already known he was there. “It does. For emotional damages.”

That made him laugh. Not much had changed. Same wit. Same sharp tongue softened at the edges by whatever you were drinking. Same way you said things like you were writing the scene as you lived it.

“I thought you were on tour,” he said, even though he already knew you’d wrapped last week. He still followed the breadcrumbs for some reason he didn't quite know. Quietly.

“Finished. Now I’m drinking gin and pretending I know anyone here besides Tom and you.”

He opened the cupboard, found the limes—of course he knew where Tom kept them. He’d been here enough. He pulled out a knife and started slicing.

“You’re very domestic tonight,” you said.

“Because I know where the citrus lives?”

“Exactly. Only someone terrifyingly well-adjusted knows where the citrus lives in a flat that isn’t theirs.”

He handed you a wedge. You took it. Your fingers touched. Nothing happened. Or maybe everything did, but it passed between you like a secret handshake.

He couldn’t quite remember when the friendship had happened. It had just… formed. Not in any grand, operatic fashion, but in the half-lit spaces of afterparties and dressing rooms, in the back corners of award shows where the music was too loud and the air too thin.

He’d never quite known what made you linger by his side. He wasn’t charming in the way others were; he wasn’t boisterous or easy with strangers. He could be taciturn to a fault, drawn inward in ways that often puzzled those who tried to get close. But you hadn’t seemed to mind. You didn’t ask much. You didn’t require performances from him, which was, perhaps, the most generous thing anyone had ever offered.

You looked tired, not in a way that detracted from beauty, but in the way that revealed it. The dark circles beneath your eyes only made you seem more real to him, more here. Your face, though bare and worn by travel, still radiated something luminous. It struck him suddenly that he would rather be in this room with you, half-drained and mouth full of chips, than anywhere else.

You didn’t see each other often; you worked too much, and he avoided crowds as if his life depended on it, but you were his go-to when he wanted to talk about everything and nothing. When he wanted a pint without pretense. When he wanted to feel less like a man who had lived too many lives and more like someone simply living.

And yet, you made space for him in texts sent from dressing rooms, in little voice notes from long drives, in postcards you still insisted on sending when you passed through strange towns. He’d find your handwriting scrawled with a song lyric or a line from a book you’d once talked about over a long, tipsy dinner.

Cillian often felt petulant and sullen in moments like this, like some adolescent boy in a novel who can’t bear to admit he’s fond of someone. It was odd. He was 46, for Christ’s sake, and still, the feeling remained. He thought of his home, of the quiet rhythm of it. His children; teenagers now, making their own way. His wife, whom he loved with a steadiness that had grown stronger with time. He didn’t question that.

But something in you made him feel like a version of himself he didn’t get to be very often: someone looser, a little less haunted by the passage of time.

He wasn’t sure what that meant. Perhaps nothing at all.

And yet, standing beside you in this kitchen, the air filled with the sound of some easy rock song that he didn't recognize but fit the moment so perfectly from the speaker in the other room, he felt… moved. That was all. Not by desire, but by the strange grace of it all. The luck of knowing someone who asked nothing of him and yet gave so much.

"You okay there, Cill?"

He blinked. "Sure, why?"

You grinned and reached for the salt-rimmed glass you’d just finished assembling. "You spaced out for a moment there. Looked like you were about to write a sonnet about the limes."

He gave a soft laugh, one that curled up at the edges. “I was composing an elegy, actually. For the last lime that gave its life for your very elaborate drink.”

“Ah, a noble fruit. Gone too soon.” You held your glass up, inspecting it like a critic. “I like to think it died for a good cause.”

He smiled at that. You were closing the cap of the gin, and he saw how your mouth moved along with the lyrics of the song.

"You know this?"

"Yeah, Falling Apart by Slow Pulp. Band from Wisconsin. They're really good."

He nodded. It never ceased to surprise him how easily you seemed to know so many different songs. Ones he’d never even heard the name of, let alone placed. That was your thing. Not in a showy kind of way, but in a quieter, almost accidental sense. You just absorbed things—bands, lyrics, odd bits of trivia—like someone always half-listening to the world and somehow catching all the good parts.

“You still writing things down on napkins?”

You smile at him with reticence, as if you're not sure if he's mocking you or genuinely interested. "Sometimes," you admit, reaching into your front pocket to pull out a crumpled napkin with scribbled lyrics on it. "It's your lucky night, Murphy."

You hold it out to him, and he takes it, careful with it. Reads. His brow tugs faintly inward.

You couldn't have, you couldn't have

Stuck your tongue down the throat of somebody

Who loves you more

So I will wait for the next time you want me

Like a dog with a bird at your door

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Jesus.”

He doesn’t look at you right away. He often wonders who and what inspires these lyrics, but he knows better than to ask. Maybe he'll find out one day.

“Good Jesus or bad Jesus?” you ask lightly, though your voice has a soft edge to it.

“Definitely good Jesus,” he says, and when he finally meets your eyes, there’s something close to awe in them. He could swear your cheeks go a little red. “Yeah… those don’t always make it to the albums. Too sad. Too…"

"Too intense, too beautiful, perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

He folds the napkin, deliberately, and places it on the counter.

“So,” you said, glancing at him again, “how are your boys?”

The question landed gently, but with weight. He wasn’t sure why it surprised him. You always asked like you meant it.

“They’re good,” he said, then paused. “They’re… them. You know?”

You looked at him, waiting.

“They’re taller every time I see them. One of them suddenly got opinions about music, and the other’s convinced he’s going to reinvent Star Wars.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Reinvent it?”

“Yeah. Not watch it. Reinvent it. From scratch. He says the Jedi ‘need a rebrand.’”

You laughed. “He’s not wrong.”

He grinned. “He’s fifteen.”

“That’s even better. Delusions of grandeur start early.”

“Oh, totally. And now they mock every movie I’ve ever been in. One of them saw Sunshine recently and texted me, ‘You were kinda jacked in this, what happened.’"

You broke into a laugh that made the kitchen feel warmer.

“That’s brutal.”

He shook his head. “Unprovoked! I’m just there, making coffee, and I get roasted by a teenager on a random Tuesday.”

“You’ve raised little comedians.”

“Monsters,” he corrected, but he was smiling. “But funny ones.”

He watches you bring your drink to your lips and take a sip. "And how’s work?” you asked, your voice casual but not distracted.

He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Long days lately. Like—twelve, fourteen hours sometimes. And all of it… heavy.”

You tilted your head. “What are you working on again?”

He hesitated, out of habit more than secrecy. “Just this biopic thing. Period piece. Lots of suits and silence.”

“Sounds intense,” you said, and he caught the twitch of a smile. You already knew. Maybe not the full scope, but enough.

“It is,” he admitted. “Chris is directing it, so it’s very… you know.”

“Precise?”

He laughed under his breath. “That’s a polite way of putting it.”

“I try,” you said, raising your cup like a toast.

He shook his head fondly. “It’s good, though. Just… there are days when I go home and I can still hear the echo of it. In my chest, you know? Like it stays with you.”

“Sounds like it’s living in you.”

He nodded slowly, not needing to say more.

You were quiet for a beat, looking down at the rim of your cup, then back up at him. “Do you like that? When a role sticks like that?”

He thought about it. “I do. But it’s exhausting. Being in someone else’s skin that long. I forget how to come back to mine.”

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared at your drink, thinking.

Then, with sudden brightness, you pointed to the far end of the kitchen. “Hand me that. The bowl.”

He turned and spotted it: a tacky plastic bowl filled with leftover party favors. Glow sticks, plastic rings, candy bracelets, and—

He frowned. “Are those temporary tattoos?”

“Bingo.”

You dug through it until you found what you were looking for—a small sheet with a red anatomical heart, inked in simple black lines.

You held it up. “We’re fixing your identity crisis.”

He gave you a look. “What, with a cartoon organ?”

“It’s symbolic,” you said, dead serious. “It means you’re still in there. Somewhere.”

“You’re mental.”

“Absolutely. Wrist, please.”

Cillian sighed but extended his wrist. You pressed the tattoo to his skin, smoothing it carefully with a damp paper towel.

When you peeled it back, the little heart gleamed on his pale skin, red and stubborn.

“There,” you said, satisfied. “Now if you forget who you are, just look down.”

He stared at it. It was silly, sure. Childish. But it stayed with him more than he wanted it to.

“You always do this,” he said softly.

“What?”

“Make things feel like they mean more.”

You shrugged. “Maybe they already do.”

Before he could respond, someone popped their head into the kitchen. “Hey, Cillian—someone's looking for you!”

He nodded, muttered something, but didn’t move just yet.

As you hopped down from the counter, you brushed your knuckles gently over the edge of his wrist, not intimate, not anything that could be mistaken.

“I’ll see you out there,” you said with a small smile.

And you were gone.

But the tattoo stayed. All the way home. All the next day. Faint by the third, but not forgotten.

He kept the empty wrapper in his coat pocket longer than he’d ever admit.

Two years ago

He didn’t usually call. A text, maybe. A link dropped without context. Sometimes a photo of a record sleeve with nothing but a question mark. That was his language. Disjointed, implicit, safe.

But that night, it felt strange not to hear you. He missed your voice without realizing it. So he rang. He was at home, barefoot in his kitchen, leaning against the counter with a chipped mug of tea going cold beside him. It was half past eleven. Rain tapped against the windows in a steady rhythm. The house was dark except for the glow from above the stove. Everyone was asleep. Or pretending to be.

You picked up on the third try. He imagined you squinting at the screen, confused.

“Cill?” you said, soft, like you weren’t sure it was really him.

“You’re alive,” he said.

“You’re calling,” you shot back. “Is this an emergency?”

“Sort of. I’m down to the wire for the BBC show. Need a final track to close it out. I’ve gone blank.”

You sighed, mock-dramatic. “And naturally, I’m the emergency contact for all musical meltdowns.”

“You say that like it’s not an honor."

“Right. I’ve been training for this since you sent me a My Bloody Valentine CD that didn’t even play.”

“It played,” he said. “Eventually.”

You laughed. He closed his eyes for a second. It was strange, the kind of tranquility that settled when you were on the other end of the line. Like his brain stopped buzzing so loudly.

“Alright,” you said, like you were taking out a clipboard. “Give me the vibe.”

“I don’t know. It’s late. Something bleak, but not dramatic. Something that sounds like headlights hitting wet pavement. Like… the moment just after you say too much.”

“Oh, so your usual brand.”

“Exactly.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Okay. The Gold. But not the Manchester Orchestra one. Phoebe’s version.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, letting the idea move through him like a slow tide. He could hear it already: the hush in her voice, the spaces in the song like breaths held too long.

“Yeah,” he said. “Fuck. That’s good.”

“Bit understated, maybe. But it aches in the right places.”

He nodded, then realized again that you couldn’t see him.

“What about Fiona?” he asked, softly.

"Which one?"

He hesitated. “Something with teeth, but slow. A little bitter.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I Know. But I don’t think you’re brave enough.”

“Maybe not for radio.”

“No. But for sitting alone in your kitchen at midnight? Absolutely.”

He glanced at the clock. 11:37 PM.

“Are you spying on me?”

“Is the mug in your hand chipped?”

He looked down. It was. He smiled. “Alright, that’s scary.”

“I know you. That’s all.”

A pause settled there. Not heavy. Not expectant. Just full.

He leaned into the silence. Let it rest between you like steam on glass.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, quieter now.

“I’m okay. Just busy. Trying not to go feral.”

“Hard this time of year.”

“Hard all the time.”

He swallowed. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“No.”

“Did I do something?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he hated them.

Not because they weren’t sincere, they were, but because they sounded so small. Boyish. Clumsy in a way that made him wince.

There was a pause on your end. Just a second. But in that space, something in him collapsed inward, like a wave folding in on itself before it ever touches the shore.

He wasn’t the sort of man who asked questions like that. Not out loud. Not unless something had already broken. But this wasn’t that. You hadn’t vanished. There’d been no fight. No rupture. Maybe a low-grade drifting apart.

So why had he said it?

It embarrassed him, how easily the insecurity surfaced. How unguarded he’d been with you.

He felt like a teenager again, pacing his old bedroom with the corded phone pressed to his ear, trying to decode silences and second-guess tones. Only now he was nearly fifty, married, greying, a father, and still, somehow, wondering if someone he cared about was slowly backing away and he just hadn’t noticed the first step.

He rubbed the back of his neck. The air felt closer now. Heavy with something unsayable.

Maybe you’d just outgrown him. Maybe he was a relic to you now. Someone who used to be sharp and strange and full of fire, and had become reliable. Predictable. The kind of man who talked about which tea was his favorite and forgot to text back.

You hadn’t answered yet. And that silence, it wasn’t unkind. But it gave him time to feel stupid.

Juvenile.

Then: “No, of course not. Why would you—life's just… messy.”

He nodded, rubbing his temple. “Yeah.”

There was a comfort to this, talking in circles, never quite landing on the thing. It was safer that way.

“You want a few more recs?” you offered gently.

“Please.”

You rattled off a few titles—some he knew, some he didn’t. He wrote nothing down. He’d remember.

“Alright,” you said after a minute, voice lighter. “Get back to your tortured-artist hour. Don’t forget to pretend the playlist was all your idea.”

He smiled again. “Wouldn’t dream of giving you credit.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Thanks.”

A pause. Then, a little softer: “Call me next time before you lose the plot, yeah? Not after.”

He let that settle.

“Yeah,” he said. “I will.”

You didn’t say goodbye, and neither did he.

The line just ended, but the air still felt full.

Later that night, he’d listen to The Gold on his earbuds, staring at the ceiling. He wouldn't play it on the show.

Some things, he figured, were just for him.

One year ago

Cillian let the door close behind him with a soft click. He dropped his bag by the wall, coat damp and clinging, and stood there for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should even come in.

She was at the sink, arms folded, the radio low. The Smiths—her music, not his.

Oh, Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head…

He tried to joke. “Christ, you always put that one on when you’re in a mood.”

She turned slowly. “You were meant to be home hours ago.”

“I told you there were interviews—”

“And I told you the boys had their thing tonight.”

His face fell. “Fuck. I thought that was tomorrow.”

“Course you did.”

“I’m sorry, alright?”

“Sorry doesn’t show up and clap for them, does it?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, then shrugged his coat off. “It’s not like I was out partying.”

“No, you were playing the genius on red carpets. Like always.”

He frowned. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make me out to be the villain for doing my job. I provide—”

She cut him off, sharp now. “No one asked you to be a martyr, Cillian.”

He stared at her, then looked away. “It’s never enough for you, is it?”

“No,” she said, quietly. “Because I stopped needing anything from you a while ago.”

That silenced him. For a long beat, they just stood there. The kettle clicked off behind her, forgotten.

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“It means I’m tired.” She took a shaky breath. “Of living with a ghost.”

“I’ve been working. For us. For the family.”

“No. You’ve been working for you. You just bring the rest of us along like luggage.”

That one hurt. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed now too, mirroring her. “You think I like being away all the time? You think I don’t miss anything?”

“I think you miss the idea of us,” she said. “Not the actual people. Not me.”

He scoffed. “Right. So now I’m some selfish bastard who doesn’t care about his own family.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t care,” she said, suddenly weary. “I said you’re not here.”

They both fell quiet. The tension deflated a little, not resolved, just worn out.

The song kept playing in the background. “If you're so funny, then why are you on your own tonight?”

She sat at the table. He didn’t follow immediately.

Then, finally, he moved, slowly, and sat across from her. His eyes were red around the edges.

He wasn’t crying, not quite. But close.

“You know what’s sad?” he said. “I don’t even know how to fix this.”

She nodded, small. “I don’t think it needs fixing. I think it’s already done.”

He looked at her like he was seeing someone he used to know.

“Feels like quitting.”

“No,” she said softly. “Feels like letting go.”

He didn’t argue.

They didn’t talk about lawyers.

Or the kids.

Or who’d move out.

But it was decided—it was over.

Six months ago

He spotted you the second he stepped into the afterparty, Oscar in hand, tie slightly loosened, the rush of the night still humming in his chest like static.

You were in black. He had no idea what kind of fabric it was, something silky, maybe satin, maybe sin itself, but it moved like a whisper every time you turned your head. And you turned your head a lot when you laughed, which was often, and usually at your own expense.

You caught his eye across the room and beamed. Not politely. Not for show. Just for him.

“Congratulations,” you said as he approached, already grinning. “I told you. I said it this morning, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he said. “Very cocky of you.”

“Well. I like to back a winner.”

He held the statue up between you. “Still doesn’t feel real.”

“I was sitting there,” you said, “clutching my wine, and I swear to God, I nearly screamed. You looked so… stunned. Like you’d wandered into the wrong part of the building.”

“I sort of had.”

He was still looking at you. You were incandescent. That’s what his wife used to say about women who dressed up for events like this. Incandescent, like they were catching fire from the inside. That’s how you looked now.

You sipped your drink. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Just… haven’t really breathed since I got up there.”

“Well then, Mr. Murphy, I propose we fix that.”

You clinked your glass gently against the edge of his Oscar. “To breathing.”

“To breathing,” he said, almost smiling.

There was no tension. Not yet. You were just talking and talking, the way you did when you were nervous, he’d noticed that early on, how the nerves never silenced you, just made you funnier, quicker, a little more dangerous.

“Can I say something, and don’t get all awkward about it?”

“That’s a good way to begin any sentence, love.”

“I’m really, really proud of you,” you said. And you weren’t performing it. There was no gush, no faux gravitas. Just steady, sincere admiration. “I know you hate all this. And I know you’d rather be anywhere but here. But you did it. And it’s well deserved.”

He wanted to say something. Something clever, something cutting, something about how no award ever felt better than standing in front of you and hearing you say that. But then—

“Murphy!” someone shouted. He turned half toward the voice, nodded.

And that’s when he arrived.

Tall, sharp-jawed, confident in the way only a certain breed of actors ever were. He looked vaguely familiar, an indie darling or maybe someone who’d played a Marvel villain, and Cillian already didn’t like him.

“Hey,” the man said, shaking Cillian’s hand. “Congrats, brilliant work. Seriously.” Then he turned to you, and his whole posture changed. Opened. Brightened. “And you—massive fan, love your music. You’re fantastic.”

You smiled, caught off guard. “Thank you.”

“I know this is forward,” he said, with all the charm of someone used to getting yeses, “but would you dance with me?”

There was a split-second pause. You looked to Cillian, maybe checking his expression, maybe expecting him to interject, to say she’s with me, even though you weren’t.

But he only stepped aside.

“Go on,” he said lightly, hand slipping into his pocket. “He’s not wrong.”

You laughed once, softly, and took the man’s hand.

Cillian watched them walk toward the dance floor. He didn’t follow. He didn’t joke. He just stood there, silent, invisible now, holding a golden statue, watching someone else make you laugh.

From across the room, his wife caught his eye. She was sitting with one of the boys, her body turned inward, her smile faint, familiar. She raised her glass in his direction, not as celebration, but as habit.

He didn’t go to her, either.

He stood in the center of it all.

He didn’t know why it felt like the loneliest moment of his life.

Three months ago

The back garden was still. Everything in it looked freshly washed, the grass slick and green, the patio stones pale under the sun, and the sky a wide, impossible blue.

Cillian sat on the back step, elbows on his knees, nursing a mug of tea he hadn’t touched in ten minutes. His sleeves were rolled up messily, and his shirt had one button undone too many. He wasn’t exactly unkempt. Just lived in.

The screen door creaked. His eldest stepped out, barefoot, holding a piece of toast in his mouth and his phone in one hand.

“You’re up,” Cillian said, glancing sideways.

“Technically.”

The boy sat beside him, stretching his long legs out onto the flagstone. “It’s hot.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“It is.”

Cillian squinted at him. “You’d think the sun was a threat, the way you talk.”

“I’ve got delicate Irish skin.”

“You’ve got lazy Irish skin.”

That earned him a small grin. They sat in companionable silence for a bit, just listening. The birds were busy, and somewhere over the fence, someone’s radio was playing a bit of Van Morrison—just loud enough for Cillian to catch a few chords.

"Have you talked to Mum recently?"

"No, not really."

There was caution in his voice.

“I didn’t want her to go,” he said after a while, not looking at his son. “I asked her to stay. I tried.”

“I know.”

The boy paused to take a bite of his toast. Crumbs scattered over the step. “She called us yesterday."

Cillian didn’t react, just blinked out at the lavender near the fence, heavy-headed and swaying with the early heat. “Yeah?”

"She told me not to let you sulk,” his son said eventually.

Cillian raised an eyebrow. “She said sulk?”

“She said, and I quote, ‘Don’t let your father turn into some tragic novelist just because we broke up.’”

Cillian snorted, then laughed, a full, warm sound that cracked something open in the air. “Christ.”

“She said you’d probably buy a typewriter.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Please don’t.”

Cillian gave him a sidelong look. “What if I start writing poetry? Mournful, rambling, heavily symbolic stuff. All lowercase.”

“Then I’m moving in with Mum.”

That got another laugh. It felt good, brief, ordinary, like the old days.

He set the mug down beside him and looked out at the garden, the stones they’d laid together one summer when the boys were small, the lavender bush she’d planted by the fence. It was still standing. Blooming, even.

"We're fine, Dad."

Cillian nodded. “That's all I care about.”

A pause.

“You going to be alright, too?”

He let the question settle. Then looked at his son, not at the baby he remembered, but the near-man beside him. Taller than him now, voice deeper, but the same eyes.

“Eventually.”

He didn’t miss her, exactly. That wasn’t the feeling. It was stranger than that, like stepping out of a house he’d lived in for years and turning to see it still there, the lights off, the curtains drawn. No hatred. No regret. Just the eerie hum of absence. They’d been kids when they married, barely formed people trying to build something permanent with borrowed tools.

Now it was over, and he was relieved, truly, but the quiet that followed unnerved him. He didn’t know what to do with it. Like his body was still adjusting to the lack of friction. It was easier, yes, and lighter. But sometimes, in the mornings especially, when the kettle was boiling and the boys were still asleep, he felt untethered. Like he should be bracing for something. Like his heart hadn’t caught up to the fact that there was no one to fight with anymore.

Just himself.

Another silence. Comfortable this time. Then—

“You’re not gonna start dating weird women now, are you?”

Cillian raised an eyebrow. “Define weird.”

“Like crystal-healing types. Or influencers. Or do videos about gut health. I’ve seen what happens to famous men after divorce, and it’s grim.”

He laughed, head back, deep and bright and surprised. Cillian grinned in spite of himself.

“That’s oddly specific.”

“I’ve been online.”

“I’ll try not to date anyone who’d make you need therapy.”

“No promises?”

“None whatsoever.”

They sat there, legs nearly touching, the kind of closeness that was earned slowly over years of school runs and bedtime stories and quiet disasters. The sun moved overhead like a lazy hand across a windowpane.

“D’you want to go into town?” the boy asked. “Could get those lemon things you hate.”

“I don’t hate them.”

“You say you do. Every time. After eating three.”

“I respect them. They’re complicated.”

“Right.”

Cillian stood and stretched, squinting at the sky like it owed him something. “Go put shoes on.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got ‘delicate Irish skin,’ remember?”

The boy rolled his eyes and vanished back into the house, muttering something he couldn't make out.

Cillian lingered for a second longer. The house behind him, the garden ahead, and the quiet certainty that even broken things could hold shape in the light.

He picked up the mug and followed his son inside.

a/n: thank you for reading! please share your thoughts with me and don't forget to like or reblog.

[coffeeshades]

PEDRO PASCAL The Fantastic Four: First Steps | Meet The Family

[coffeeshades]

PEDRO PASCAL as Harry Castillo MATERIALISTS 2025 | dir. Celine Song

[coffeeshades]

PEDRO PASCAL as REED RICHARDS The Fantastic Four: First Steps (2025) | Dir. Matt Shakman

[coffeeshades]

PEDRO PASCAL Jimmy Kimmel Live! | March 24, 2025

[coffeeshades]

Pedro Pascal in MATERIALISTS — 2025, dir. Celine Song

[coffeeshades]

PEDRO PASCAL The Materialists, dir. Celine Song (2025)

[coffeeshades]

i can’t breathe

[coffeeshades]

Reblog if you're okay with receiving asks for backstory info on any/all of your fics.

If not all, specify which ones in the tags.

[coffeeshades]

Pedro Pascal as Reed Richards THE FANTASTIC FOUR: FIRST STEPS 2025 — dir. Matt Shakman

[coffeeshades]

PEDRO PASCAL ON GOOD MORNING AMERICA ON FEBRUARY 4, 2025

[coffeeshades]

PEDRO PASCAL as REED RICHARDS Fantastic Four: First Steps (2025)

[coffeeshades]

Pedro Pascal as Reed Richards THE FANTASTIC FOUR: FIRST STEPS (2025) dir. Matt Shakman

[coffeeshades]

—true blue ⭑ part ii

summary: two strangers meet in a city of millions, only to discover they've been searching for each other all along.

pairing: pedro pascal x f!reader.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: age gap, angst, fluff, mentions of alcohol, loneliness, nostalgia. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: happy reading <3

Several weeks had passed since Pedro’s last letter, and your heart had fallen into a state of quiet, private anguish. At first, you waved it off—surely, he was busy; perhaps work had claimed his attention. It was only reasonable, you told yourself. Your own days were heavy with work; your nights were weighed down by the kinds of dreams that stretch between waking and sleep.

You expected his silence would soon be broken.

But as each day drew to a close without word from him, your soul grew restless, your mind endlessly rehearsing the contents of your last letter. Did you overstep some invisible boundary? Did he, perhaps, see the words on the page and find them lacking?

It was a mad habit, replaying the messages, re-reading them through imagined eyes. Had you given yourself away too soon, foolishly assuming some intimacy that perhaps had never been there?

Resigned, you finally abandoned any hope of hearing from him again.

One bright Saturday in late autumn, you sought solace in Hyde Park. The air was brisk, threading itself with the scent of dying leaves. In one hand, you clutched a warm pumpkin flavored coffee, and in the other, the last book Pedro had given you, its spine softened by countless touches, as though he’d read it a hundred times before sending it on to you. The vibrant red of your cardigan caught the eyes of passersby, a bright, defiant spot against the muted colors of the late autumn landscape.

As you walked, you saw the shapes of couples in the distance, silhouettes tangled together as they strolled or lingered under trees. You were reminded of those precious, everyday moments—of your friend's comforting calls, your patients’ murmured thanks at the end of long days, the warmth of those early letters exchanged with Pedro. Each of these small flashes of light is a reminder that life held joy even amid decay.

Yet even those small joys paled in comparison to what Pedro had come to represent to you. He was more than just a light; he had become the sun, his warmth reaching some part of you long-buried, awakening hope you’d thought lost forever. You clung to that hope, fragile as it was, in your steps.

And then, as if conjured by some unseen will, he appeared.

You saw him, standing near a tree talking on his phone, dressed much the same as the first time you’d met, only this time his glasses were different. Your heart raced, a sudden jolt of fear gripping you. You shouldn’t be scared—you’d been writing to him for weeks. You’d spilled your guts on paper, sharing things with him you hadn’t told anyone else. Talking to him shouldn’t be a big deal.

But it was.

You kept walking, hoping to avoid him, but then you heard it. Your name—deliciously spoken in his voice, rich and deep. You stopped dead in your tracks, heart hammering in your chest.

Your footsteps slowed, your pulse quickening as you turned. There he was, hands tucked into his pockets, his smile just as soft, as if he’d known all along that you’d appear there on that same path.

“I thought that was you,” he said, taking a few steps toward you.

It was all you could do to muster a reply, your voice an unsteady whisper against the gusts of wind. “You’ve only seen me once,” you stammered, “and you remembered me?”

A laugh, gentle and reassuring, rumbled from him as he replied, “You’re hard to forget.”

“Oh.”

It was the only word you could manage, your brain still trying to process the fact that he was here, in front of you.

He glanced down at the book in your hand. “How’s it going?” he asked, nodding towards it.

“I’m halfway through already. It’s fast-paced,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual, even though your pulse was racing.

“Yeah, it is.” He smiled again. “You going somewhere?”

You glanced around, desperate to avoid his intense gaze. His brown eyes were impossibly warm, pulling you in. “Not really,” you said. “Just walking.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

From there, conversation flowed, interrupted only by the brisk autumn breeze, as if you hadn’t already shared your deepest thoughts in letters. He asked about your work, and when you told him you worked in healthcare, he teased, “Could you be a little more specific?”

You laughed. “I’m a doctor, actually.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “No way. That’s impressive. Beauty and brains.”

You blushed. Did he just—did he compliment you?

“It’s no big deal. I applied for a residency here a while ago, and now… here I am.”

“Where’d you go to med school?” he asked.

“New York,” you said, smiling softly. “Lived there my whole life.”

“Why not stay there?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “It sounds silly, but I always dreamed of escaping to somewhere new. Somewhere no one knew me.”

“And how’s that going for you?”

You laughed, glancing down at the ground. “Pretty lonely.”

He frowned. “Lonely?”

“Not much different from my life before,” you added quickly, feeling too exposed. You turned the conversation back to him. “What about you?”

“Uh, well, I’m…an actor,” he said with a shrug. “That's why I'm in London, filming a movie. Been here for a few months now.”

You bit your lip, feeling the weight of the moment stretching out between you. You had to say it. It had been gnawing at you since that first encounter—this unspoken truth, hovering between the lines of every letter you’d exchanged.

“I... I know who you are, by the way,” you blurted out, the words rushing out faster than you intended.

Pedro raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting into that familiar, crooked smile. “Oh?”

You nodded, suddenly shy, feeling your face grow warm. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t sure at first. You look different, a little. But then when you signed the first letter with your name, I was like, ‘Oh yeah, it’s him.’ And then I didn’t want to ruin it or make things weird, so I didn’t say anything, but maybe I should’ve? I don’t know, I—”

You rambled on, your voice a frantic mess as the words stumbled over themselves. Pedro watched you, his eyes crinkling in amusement, letting you spiral out without interrupting. His quiet, steady presence only made you more flustered, the way he seemed so completely at ease, while you felt like you were falling over your own sentences like an idiot.

“Hey,” he said gently, cutting into your monologue. “Slow down. It’s okay.”

“Is it?” You sighed, feeling the ridiculousness of your own nervous energy. “I just don’t want you to think I’m only talking to you because of… you know. Who you are.”

He seemed unsurprised, a knowing look in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have kept this up if I thought it was just about… well, who I am,” he said, his tone softening. “Honestly, I was grateful for a reason to just… be myself.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, relieved. “Thank you. It’s just… I didn’t want to make it weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Pedro said, smiling again, but softer this time. “Actually, thank you for coming clean about it. If it makes you feel better, I knew you knew. I could tell.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’m not exactly subtle, am I?”

“No, but I like that about you,” he said, eyes glinting with warmth. “You’re refreshingly honest, even when you’re rambling.”

Your nerves melted just a little at his words, and everything felt easy again, just like in the letters.

The walk turned into an invitation to lunch, and soon enough, you found yourselves tucked into a cozy corner table at a little restaurant nearby. The place was warm, with soft lighting and wooden beams overhead, the air carrying the scent of fresh bread and something savory cooking in the back. It was intimate, inviting.

Pedro picked up the menu, scanning it briefly before glancing at you with a playful grin. “So, what’s your go-to order? Something pumpkin-flavored, I’m guessing?”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “Ha ha. Only the coffee. But sure, I’ll embrace the autumn stereotype.”

“Nothing wrong with that. I had a pumpkin spice latte the other day—didn’t hate it.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I knew you were the type. All that rugged, cool guy persona? A front for your love of seasonal beverages.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

Lunch came, and so did the conversation between bites of food and sips of wine.

At one point, Pedro started telling a story about his first audition, a disaster that involved a broken chair and spilled coffee, and you nearly choked on your drink from laughing so hard.

“And then,” he said, shaking his head, “the casting director just looked at me, deadpan, and said, ‘Well, that was memorable.’”

“Oh my god,” you gasped, wiping your eyes. “I would have died.”

“I nearly did,” he said, grinning. “But hey, I got the part. Pity, probably.”

“Or charm,” you said, raising your glass. “Here’s to charming your way through life.”

He clinked his glass with yours, the sound soft, like the connection between you.

A nameless, delicate thing.

Laughter faded, and the conversation settled into a more vulnerable rhythm. The weight of what you had said in your letters hung between you, an acknowledgment that this was more than just books and thoughts shared on paper. It had become a bridge—fragile, intimate, but undeniably real.

“I know what that’s like,” you said, breaking the silence, your voice softer now. You swirled the last of your wine in the glass, staring at it like the answer might rise up in the reflection. “To try to mold yourself to fit into someone’s life. To make yourself pliable, digestible... because you love them. Because you want them to love you back. But I realized… that’s useless. You can change everything about yourself and still not be enough. So why betray yourself?”

Pedro’s, warm and deep eyes seemed to catch the weight of your words and hold them for a moment before he spoke. “That’s... yeah, I get that. More than I care to admit.”

You bit your lip, immediately feeling exposed. “I’m sorry,” you added quickly, waving your hand in a dismissive gesture. “I didn’t mean to get all existential on you.”

He shook his head, his expression soft. “No, don’t apologize. It’s real. Honestly, it’s refreshing to talk about this stuff. It feels like people avoid these conversations, you know? Too much noise, not enough... depth.”

You nodded.

“And please don’t think I’m, like, dreadfully sad,” you added with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I mean, yes, I am, but at the back of it, I promise there’s faith. There’s hope. And love. Lots of love.”

Pedro’s smile widened, just enough to deepen the creases at the corners of his eyes. "Same. I could tell from your letters."

"I don't know, I've always wanted this thing that's not quite love but something more."

“What is that?” he asked quietly, his voice dipping in a way that made the question feel more intimate, as if he already knew part of the answer.

You hesitated; the answer slipped out anyway. “To be understood.”

He didn’t speak right away, just took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours. His face was a map of tiny details you had already memorized in your letters—his dark hair streaked with silver, the subtle patches of white in his beard, more prominent under the soft light of the restaurant. His eyes crinkled at the corners, even when he wasn’t smiling, like someone who’d spent a lifetime both laughing and crying deeply. He carried it all with him—his history written in the lines on his face, in the way his hands moved slowly, thoughtfully.

“You know,” he began, setting his glass down, his voice low but steady, “there’s something from one of your letters that’s been stuck with me. When you wrote: ‘All I’ve ever known of love is how to live without it. I just can’t seem to find it.”

Your breath caught in your chest. You remembered writing those words late one night, fingers trembling as your pen hit the paper, thinking it might be too much to share. But now, hearing it come back to you in his voice, you realized it had struck him, too. Maybe he had been holding onto it, turning it over in his mind, just as you had.

“That…” he trailed off, shaking his head, his gaze falling to the table for a moment as if searching for the right words. “That hit me. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

You swallowed.

Pedro’s eyes met yours again, and this time, there was a quiet intensity behind them. “I do feel like that too,” he said simply. “I’ve felt that way for a long time.”

There was a pause. Not the awkward kind, but the heavy kind—the kind where things shift, where you realize the other person is carrying the same scars you’ve spent a lifetime hiding.

“I’ve always been good at feeling things deeply,” he continued, his voice growing quieter, more reflective. “Too deeply, maybe. And with love… it’s like this paradox, you know? You want to be loved for who you are, but you end up bending yourself into knots, just trying to be enough for someone else. And when it doesn’t work, you wonder what you did wrong. Why you weren’t enough.”

He exhaled, rubbing a hand through his dark hair, the streaks of white catching in the light. “I’ve been in relationships where I thought, ‘This is it, this is love,’ but it wasn’t. I was just... fitting myself into someone else’s idea of love. And I don’t think I’ve ever let someone really see me. Not like this.”

You sat in silence for a moment, his words hanging in the air between you. There was something profoundly human about his confession. He wasn’t just a famous face or a larger-than-life presence. He was a person, flawed and searching, just like you.

“I think that’s what scares me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “That maybe I’ve never been seen either. Not really.”

Pedro looked at you then, and there was something in his eyes that made your heart thud harder in your chest—a softness, a recognition, like he understood you in ways you hadn’t even begun to understand yourself.

“I see you,” he said quietly, his voice steady, no trace of hesitation.

You blinked, feeling your throat tighten, not trusting yourself to speak. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The world outside the restaurant—Hyde Park with its autumn chill, the bustling streets of London—faded away. It was just the two of you sitting at that small table, the space between you shrinking.

Pedro leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers brushing the rim of his glass absentmindedly. “And what if,” he said, his voice low, “what if love isn’t something you have to find? What if it’s already here? In these moments, in the quiet spaces between words?”

Your heart fluttered, the weight of his gaze anchoring you to the moment. He wasn’t just talking about love as an abstract concept. He was talking about this—the connection between you, the letters, the words that had brought you both to this place.

And suddenly, you realized that you weren’t just yearning for love. You were already in it, knee-deep, feeling everything so deeply you hadn’t even noticed.

You smiled, a soft, tentative thing. “Maybe we’re both learning what love looks like.”

Pedro’s lips curved into a small smile, and for the first time in a long while, you felt like you weren’t alone in your search.

You were here, in the mess of it. And that was enough.

a/n: don't forget to like, reblog or comment! and remember my ask is always open, would love to hear your thoughts!

next part should be up soon!!

[coffeeshades]

—true blue ⭑ part i

summary: two strangers meet in a city of millions, only to discover they've been searching for each other all along.

pairing: pedro pascal x f!reader.

word count: 7.3k

warnings: age gap, angst, fluff, mentions of alcohol, loneliness, nostalgia. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know! (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hello lovelies, i’m back with another story! hope you guys enjoy it and happy reading <3

London had a way of swallowing you whole, especially on days like this—when the sky was nothing but a massive stretch of gray, heavy and low, threatening rain but never delivering it. The city seemed to disappear into the clouds, a wash of neutral tones that made everything feel colder, quieter.

Six months in, and you still weren’t used to it. The grayness, the dampness that clung to your skin, or the way the city seemed to keep you at arm’s length, never quite welcoming you in.

You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck as you walked into the café, your breath fogging the glass for a moment before pushing the door open.

The warmth hit you immediately, the smell of roasted coffee beans filling your senses. The place was small, cozy, and comfortably worn—wooden floors scuffed by years of foot traffic, walls lined with photos of the city taken from angles only locals would recognize.

It was a great place, one you had found early on in your stay. Most of the baristas knew you by now, especially Tom, who greeted you with a nod as soon as you walked in.

You tugged at the sleeves of your sweater, slightly too big but soft and comforting, and ran a hand through your frazzled hair, still somewhat damp from the earlier drizzle. You hadn’t bothered with an umbrella; London rain was more a constant mist than a downpour, not enough to get soaked but just enough to make you feel cold in your bones. Your dark pants clung to your legs, and your worn black boots scuffed the floor as you made your way to the counter.

It was late afternoon, your favorite time to stop by. Usually, you had to battle before work-rush. But you were free today. Most people had already grabbed their coffee and gone back to their lives, leaving the café quieter, almost meditative. You liked that. It was one of the few moments in your day where you didn’t have to think about the silence that otherwise hung over life.

New York had been noisy, full of distractions, but here, the quiet was inescapable. It followed you home, lingered in the corners of your rented flat, and made you feel more alone than you ever had back in the States.

“Hey, Tom,” you said, offering him a small smile as you dropped your purse onto the counter.

He smiled back, his hands already reaching for a cup. “The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

You leaned against the counter, absently scrolling through the phone. Emails. Work messages. Nothing personal, nothing to distract you from the dull rhythm of solitude you’d grown so accustomed to. A novel you’d just finished reading peeked out of your bag.

As you waited for the order, the bell above the door chimed softly, and you felt someone step up beside you. You didn’t look up, not at first. The presence was warm, close enough to feel but not close enough to intrude. You were just another person standing in line, waiting for coffee.

Then you heard the voice.

“A large iced black coffee, please,” the man beside you said, his voice deep, casual, the kind of voice that made you listen even when you weren’t paying attention.

Another barista nodded, moving quickly to prepare the drink, and you tried not to feel the man’s presence. But it was hard not to. He wasn’t looking at you, but could sense him—the quiet weight of someone standing just close enough that it made you aware of yourself.

“Blue.”

The word pulled you out of your thoughts, and you glanced sideways, confused. “Sorry?”

He was smiling now, his expression easy, as if we were in on some joke. He nodded toward your bag, where the book was still partially visible.

“The cover of your book. It’s blue.”

You blinked, your brain trying to catch up with the conversation. “Oh…yeah, it is.” You managed a half-smile, still unsure of where this was going.

“You must think I’m weird now,” he added, his tone teasing, but there was something behind his eyes—something almost vulnerable, like he was testing the waters.

“No, not really,” I said, shrugging. “I just wasn’t expecting...that.”

“It’s just…uh, lately, I’ve been reading a lot of books with blue covers,” he explained, running a hand through his hair. It was slicked back, but not perfectly—there was a curl that had escaped, hanging slightly over his forehead, giving him a disheveled charm. His brown leather jacket looked well-worn, like something he’d had for years, and his white sneakers were clean but scuffed, like they’d seen their fair share of travel.

“When I saw yours, it made me think of that. Sorry to bother you.”

“No, you’re not bothering me,” you said quickly, feeling an odd need to put him at ease. “Not at all.”

You took him in more fully now, and something clicked. There was a familiarity about him, something that tugged at the edges of recognition, but it hadn’t fully registered yet. Dark jeans, black t-shirt, the jacket slung casually over his frame, and those clear glasses that made him look both intelligent and approachable. His smooth skin seemed ready to tip into weathered, his dark hair almost shot full of gray. Solidly middle aged. 

There was something unguarded about him. Something real.

Before you could figure out where you knew him from, Tom interrupted, handing you the coffee with a nod. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” You reached for your card to pay, then paused, glancing back at the man beside you.

“Do you want it?”

He looked at you, clearly surprised. “Want what?”

“The book.”

You gestured toward the blue-covered novel still poking out of the bag. “I finished it earlier today. You can add it to your collection of blue books.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. “Oh, no, I can’t take that from you.”

“Of course you can.”

You pulled the book out fully, holding it out to him. “I’m done with it. And you seem interested.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, like he was trying to figure out if you were serious. Then, slowly, he reached out, his large hands brushing against yours as he took the book. His fingers lingered on the cover for a moment, running over the title as he read it out loud.

“It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over.”

You watched as he flipped the book over, his fingers tracing a small bullseye doodle inked on the back of his hand, just between his thumb and index finger. It was such a small detail, but it told you something about him. You suddenly wanted to know everything about him.

“It’s a good read,” you said, slipping the card into the reader. “It’s about mortality, grief, love… you know, the usual light fare.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Sounds like my kind of book. Gut-wrenching, then?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, “I think I have a thing for devastating literature.”

“That makes two of us.”

Tom handed him his iced coffee, and he nodded gratefully, still holding the book like it was something fragile. “Thanks again,” he said, glancing at the title one last time. “I’ll make sure it’s in good company.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” you said, gathering your things. You had to go home before the rain started pouring.

As you stepped toward the door, you felt the chill from outside starting to creep back in, and just before the door closed behind you, you heard him call out, his voice soft but sure.

“I know I will.”

The cold wind hit you as you stepped out into the gray street, but this time, it felt different. Less like a wall, more like a breeze pushing you forward. Something had changed, though you weren’t sure what yet.

The rain had picked up again, tapping against the windows of your flat like impatient fingers. The days were growing shorter now, the afternoons fading into evenings before you even had time to notice. Autumn had a way of settling into your bones—the way the cold crept in through the cracks, the muted light casting long shadows across the room, the golden hues of fallen leaves scattered on the pavement outside.

You had made the flat your own in small, quiet ways. A few plants scattered along the window ledge, books stacked unevenly on shelves that were too small to hold them all, some even on the floor, and a woolen throw draped over the worn arm of the couch. The place wasn’t large, but it was enough—just one bedroom, a kitchen that overlooked the small living room, and large windows that framed the world outside in a way that almost felt intimate. It smelled like home now—a mix of coffee and the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle burning on the table.

You were halfway through folding a pile of laundry when the phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. You wiped your hands on your pajama shorts before picking it up, smiling as Olivia’s name flashed across the screen. She called at least once a week, sometimes more if she had something “urgent” to discuss—which, in her world, could range from a new recipe she'd tried to the latest celebrity drama.

You answered on the second ring. "Hey, Liv."

“Finally!” Her voice came through the speaker, bright and full of life. “I’ve been texting you all day.”

You balanced the phone between your shoulder and ear, picking up a stray sock from the couch.

“Sorry, I was at work. Just got back a little while ago.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “You’re always at work. You know that’s not healthy, right?”

You could rattle off a hundred reasons why being a medical resident wasn’t healthy—none of it was. It had taken you months to find your footing at the hospital. You hadn’t really made any friends outside of work, just the occasional outing with Sabrina, a fourth-year who’d taken you under her wing like the hospital’s den mother.

You rolled your eyes, tossing the sock into the laundry basket. “I know, I know, but you know how it is.”

“Whatever,” she said, clearly moving on. “So, guess what?”

You smiled, already bracing myself for whatever tangent she was about to dive into. “What?”

“I found this article about why cats are secretly plotting against us, and I swear, it’s changed my whole perspective on Peanut.”

“Peanut? Your ten-year-old tabby who sleeps all day and barely looks at you?”

“Yes! That’s exactly why it makes sense. He’s too quiet. Too calm. He’s plotting, I know it.”

You laughed as you wandered into the kitchen to grab a Coke from the fridge. “Olivia, he’s a cat. I think you’re safe.”

“Don’t you dare dismiss me, okay? I have facts. I’ll send you the article.”

“Can’t wait,” you said dryly, leaning against the counter as you sipped your drink.

There was a brief pause on her end, and then her voice softened, shifting to something more serious. “But really, how have you been?”

You glanced out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass in slow, steady lines. “Same old. The hospital, laundry, eating dinner in front of the TV. You know the drill.”

“Nothing new?” she pressed.

“Not really.”

You hesitated, a brief smile tugging at your lips as you remembered the café. “Although… I think I met Pedro Pascal the other day.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by a shriek so loud you had to pull the phone away from your ear. “What?! Shut up, shut up! You what?”

“I mean…I wasn't sure it was him when it was happening, but now I'm kinda positive.”

“Girl, how positive?” Her voice was breathless, excited in the way only Olivia could manage.

You chuckled, walking over to the couch and sinking into the cushions, curling your legs under you.

“I don't know, pretty positive?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Did he give you his name?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then how do you know it was him?” She sounded like she was about to combust with impatience.

“Because I talked to the man, Liv. He looked like him; I don't know. Maybe…maybe it wasn't him."

“You talked?!” she nearly screamed. “Oh my God, what did you talk about?”

“Not much,” you said, shrugging even though she couldn’t see you. “It was about my book—the one I was reading.”

“What was he like? Was he charming? Did he look at you with those eyes?”

You could practically see her waggling her eyebrows, and you laughed, shaking your head.

“Calm down. He was just… normal. Kind of charming. We didn’t talk for long, though.”

“Normal? Pedro Pascal is not normal. People would die to have a conversation with him, and you’re over here like, ‘Oh, we just talked about a book."

You smiled, running a hand through your hair, which had dried into a messy wave. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not! This is huge!” she insisted. “Did he ask for your number?”

“No, are you crazy? ” You snorted. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You’re killing me here.” She groaned. “How do you not make the most of a moment like that? You had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to shoot your shot, and you’re telling me you just let it go?”

“It wasn’t like that, Liv,” you said, still laughing. “It was just a casual conversation.”

She let out another exasperated sigh. “You’re hopeless. Completely hopeless.”

“Okay, well, I have to go,” you said, picking up the empty laundry basket and setting it aside. “I still have to make dinner, and it’s getting late.”

“You’re brushing me off because you don’t want to admit you missed your chance with Pedro Pascal.”

“I’m brushing you off because I’m starving,” you corrected.

“Fine, fine. But promise me this isn’t the end of the story. If you run into him again, you have to—”

“Not gonna happen."

"Don't be so pessimistic. If you run into him again, you tell me."

"Not gonna happen, but fine."

“That’s all I ask,” she said, her tone suddenly cheerful again. “Okay, go make dinner. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Liv.”

“Bye!”

You hung up, dropping the phone onto the couch as you stared outside again. The rain had softened into a steady drizzle. The flat was quiet, the only sound being the occasional hiss of the radiator and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

You sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions. It was a small life you had built here, simple and quiet. But there was something comforting about it too. Even if you hadn’t figured everything out yet, there was a strange sense of peace in the routine of it all.

And yet, the thought of that brief encounter at the café lingered in the back of your mind, like a spark that hadn’t quite caught fire.

A week had passed since the encounter, but you couldn’t shake him from your mind. It was ridiculous, really. You hadn’t asked for his name, hadn’t lingered long enough to let the moment stretch into something more. But the man with the deep voice and warm laugh had somehow taken up residence in your thoughts.

It was as if the quiet, unremarkable routine you’d built for yourself here had been cracked open, just a little, by that brief, unexpected meeting.

Still, you tried not to think about it too much. But every time you walked past that café, your steps slowed, as if you expected to see him again, leaning against the counter with his easy smile.

By the time you actually went in again, a full week later, the cold October air was biting at your skin, and your mind was no more settled than it had been that day.

You ordered the usual—a flat white—and lingered by the counter as Tom prepared it, his familiar movements almost soothing in their predictability. You were lost in thought, half-aware of your surroundings, when Tom placed the cup on the counter.

But this time, there was something else.

A small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with a blue ribbon.

“What’s this?” you asked, staring at it like it was some kind of puzzle.

Tom smiled, his thick accent wrapping around his words. “Someone left it for you.”

You blinked, completely baffled. “What is this, a secret admirer thing? Because I gotta say, Tom, I wasn’t prepared for that kind of drama today.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not from me, love. But someone wanted you to have it.”

Intrigued, you grabbed the coffee and the package, thanking him before heading to your usual spot by the window. The window fogged slightly from the heat of the café, offering you a misty view of the street beyond.

You sat down and placed the package in front of you, staring at it for a few seconds as your mind raced. What the hell is this? Your fingers traced the edges of the paper, carefully undoing the small ribbon before pulling the wrapping away.

A book. Of course, it was a book.

You smiled faintly as you read the title aloud: Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead.

The cover was blue—deep and rich, just like the one you’d given away the week before. The faintest blush crept up your cheeks as you realized who it must have been from.

Your heart did a weird little somersault in your chest as you ran your fingers along the cover. Before you even opened it, a folded piece of paper fell out and landed softly on the table. You unfolded it, smoothing the creases, and read the note inside:

Hi, stranger. I realized five minutes after you gave me your book that I didn’t ask for your name. How rude of me. I’m sorry. I walked out of there as soon as I realized and walked a few blocks, but you were gone.

I finished the book, by the way. It was beautiful. I loved how real and layered the main character was. I also laughed so much; I didn’t think a novel this heartbreaking would be such a joy.

Anyway, I feel like I’m rambling now. Since you gave me one, I thought I might return the favor. I think this is a long shot since I don't know if you are a regular, but I hope you are. I hope this finds you.

Enjoy.

Love, Pedro.

You stared at the note for what felt like a full minute, your mind slowly processing the words. Oh my god. Pedro. So you weren't delusional after all. It had been him. All this time, you’d been trying to convince yourself that it was some random guy with a coincidental likeness, but no—it was him.

The smile that spread across your face was involuntary, and you felt your cheeks flush with the sudden realization that you had somehow fallen into a casual book exchange with him. Your fingers traced the edge of the note, and you leaned back in the chair, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

For the next several days, the book accompanied you everywhere—on the train, to work, in bed at night. You found yourself highlighting passages and underlining sentences that spoke to something deep inside you. The book was dark and witty, a strange blend of humor and melancholy that left you thinking long after you’d closed it each night.

You hadn’t seen Pedro again, though you hoped—each time you entered the café—that maybe he’d be there. Maybe you’d exchange a few more words; maybe this strange little connection would become something more.

But days passed, and there was no sign of him.

A week later, you finished the book. As you placed it on the nightstand, you knew what you had to do.

It was only fair to continue the game, wasn’t it?

And there was one book that immediately came to mind—Alone With You in the Ether. The cover was, of course, blue.

You spent that morning getting ready, your usual routine of sluggishness replaced by something else—anticipation, maybe. You pulled on your blue navy scrubs and your running shoes, taking a little extra care with your hair, though you weren’t quite sure why.

At the café, you ordered the usual and approached the counter with the book neatly wrapped in brown paper. When Tom handed you the coffee, you slipped the book into his hands, along with a note:

Hi, Pedro.

That’s okay, no need to apologize. To be fair, I didn’t ask for your name either, so that makes the two of us very rude people. I’m so happy you liked the book. As for the one you gave me—wow. I think it’s going to stick with me for a while.

Now, this one is really special to me. I read it earlier this year, and even though it’s kind of a drag to get through in the first few chapters, once you get the hang of it, it’s totally worth it. And yeah, it made me cry a little because it explores what it means to be unwell and how to face the fractures in yourself and still love as if you’re not broken. Really happy stuff, I know.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Love,

You hesitated for a second before writing your name at the bottom of the note. You had to, right?

You couldn’t keep this up forever without knowing who the other person was.

As you handed the book to Tom, excitement bubbled inside you, and you felt a strange sense of giddiness that you hadn’t experienced in ages. You were exchanging books with this enigma of a man—this charismatic, famous man who somehow understood the same quiet parts of the world that you did.

As you left the café that day, the autumn air crisp and cool around you, you realized just how much had changed in these past few weeks. you’d been living in your head for so long, buried in stories and thoughts that weren’t your own, but now—now there was something tangible.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.

It had been days since you’d left Pedro the book, and though a small part of you hoped to hear back, you hadn’t expected it. Surely he had better things to do than trade novels with a stranger. Yet, here you were again, standing at the counter of the café, that familiar flutter of anticipation creeping up on you.

“Just a matcha today,” you said to Tom, trying to rein in your caffeine habit. He raised an eyebrow, surprised at the switch, but didn’t say anything as he rang you up. “It’s surgery day,” you added, shrugging.

When he handed you the drink, there it was—a familiar brown-wrapped package slipped discreetly into your other hand. Your pulse quickened. You did your best to keep cool, to act as though this was just another day, but your fingers betrayed you, trembling slightly as they closed around the package.

“What now?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the excitement was barely concealed in your voice.

Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “Another one. Same guy.”

You didn’t even sit down. You stood right there at the counter, carefully peeling away the paper. Another blue book. The Book of All Loves. A smile tugged at your lips, warm and uncontainable.

Inside, a folded note fell out—this one thicker, the creases worn, the ink smudged in places. Your hands shook slightly as you unfolded it and began to read.

Hi again, stranger—

Well, I guess I can’t really call you that anymore, now that I know your name, huh?

He had written your name at the top—three times.

The letters were neat but hurried, repeated as though he were testing how it felt to write them. The ink stuttered in places, lingering on the curves of each letter, like he had taken his time. It is such a gorgeous sight. To see your name in his handwriting awakened something in you. 

There. It’s stuck in my head now. What a great name, by the way. I could probably write it out a hundred more times and still not get tired of seeing it. Is that weird? That’s probably weird. I’m rambling again.

So, the book—wow. It hit me in ways I didn’t expect. You weren’t kidding when you said it was about being unwell, but it was more than that. The characters were dancing on this fragile edge between chaos and peace, and I felt that. And that church scene...

You paused, feeling the tenderness of his words wrapping around you, pulling you in closer.

The way they held hands—it was more than just a gesture. There’s something about it that felt so raw, so intimate. In a place where you’re not supposed to be that close, it made it all the more... heartbreaking. Have you ever felt like that? Like you’re carrying all this weight but still holding onto this tiny sliver of hope that someone will see you for who you are? Without needing you to explain every scar?

His words resonated deeply, tugging at something tender within you, as if he had unknowingly plucked a string that had long been silent.

Do you get what I mean? Or am I just talking in circles again?

The next part of the note was a jumble of thoughts, ideas pouring out in bursts. He wrote about the book's characters, how they reminded him of his own isolation, even when surrounded by people. He confessed that sometimes he felt as though he wore a mask—something to hide behind—but books like this allowed him to drop it, if only for a little while.

I think I’m really good at pretending sometimes, you know? We all are, right? But in books, I don’t have to pretend. It’s like I get to be myself for a little bit, without all the noise. Does that make sense? I’m probably being too heavy, sorry. The truth is, I feel comfortable writing to you. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the books, this exchange—like it’s okay to be vulnerable. Or maybe I’m just being dramatic.

There was a little smiley face drawn beside that sentence, and you found yourself laughing softly, the sound light in the quiet café.

Anyway, thanks again for sharing this with me. It’s a gem. I thought I’d give you something in return—something that fits. Have you read The Book of All Loves? It’s about love beyond romance. I think you’ll like it.

Until next time.

Love, Pedro.

You stood there for a long time after finishing the note, his words echoing in your mind, stirring feelings you hadn’t allowed yourself to acknowledge. The way he wrote—so raw, so real—made it feel as though you weren’t just two strangers exchanging books. It felt deeper, like an unspoken understanding had passed between you, hidden in the lines of each letter, in the ink that had smudged under the weight of his thoughts.

Your heart swelled with a mixture of emotions. Just hearing from him has made you so driven, so romantic, so excited. The brief connection you had made through these letters felt real, almost tangible, as though roots had begun to take hold beneath the surface of your everyday life.

You read the note again, slower this time, savoring every word, every thought he had poured onto the page. His question lingered.

Have you ever felt like that?

Of course you had. You had spent most of your life searching for that connection, that elusive feeling of being truly seen without needing to explain every wound, every hidden corner of yourself. And now, through these letters, it felt as though Pedro saw something in you that others hadn’t.

The thought was ridiculous, you knew that. But still, there was comfort in it, in the way he opened up to you with such ease. There was something undeniably romantic about it—this quiet exchange of words and books, of thoughts and feelings that had probably never been shared aloud.

You carefully folded the note, tucking it back into the book, and cradled your matcha in your hands. A small smile played at the corners of your lips, warmth blossoming in your chest. You weren’t sure what this was—this strange, beautiful exchange—but whatever it was, it made you feel seen. It made you feel connected.

You didn’t mind being lost in the unknown.

Weeks passed, and your days fell into an easy rhythm—a rhythm that beat around the exchange of books and letters with Pedro. Each novel was chosen with care, both of you quietly mindful of keeping them short, under 300 pages, so they could be devoured quickly.

But the real reason wasn’t the books themselves now—it was what came with them.

The letters.

They weren’t just pages full of thoughts about the stories. They were windows. Each one revealed more of who he was, and in return, you found yourself offering up pieces of yourself. You couldn’t help it—the way he wrote, the way he asked questions that no one else dared to, as if he genuinely wanted to know you. And so, you let him in.

After finishing The Book of All Loves, your response was a little more vulnerable than you’d expected. You’d thanked him for the recommendation, told him it had cracked something open inside of you. “It’s strange,” you’d written, “how a book about love that exists in such quiet, unassuming forms can make you feel like you’ve been missing it your whole life. I’ve never thought much about love outside of romance—what it means to love a moment, a gesture, the way the wind feels when it hits your skin in the early morning. All I've ever known of love is how to live without it. I just can’t seem to find it. This book made me think about all the things I’ve taken for granted. The small loves. The unnoticed ones.”

Pedro’s letter back had been equally intimate. “It feels good to read this from you,” he wrote. "To know that maybe we’ve both been looking for something neither of us can really name. I guess there are certain things we stumble upon that make us feel less alone in our strangeness.

When I read your letter, I thought about a lot of things I haven’t said out loud. I thought about how it’s always felt easier to live without love, or at least to live like I didn’t need it, as if needing it would somehow make me weaker. I think of all the times I’ve skimmed over beauty just because I didn’t want to stop and notice what was missing. Reading your words made me realize that maybe I’ve always been chasing something, too, not realizing that these quiet, unassuming moments—like the way the rain sounds against the window at night or the exact shade of blue that the sky becomes before sunrise—maybe they’re as close as I’ve been to something real.

The words spilled out slowly, and you read them twice, tracing each line with your fingertip, as if trying to hold onto every word for a little longer.

When you said the book cracked something open in you, I understood. We don’t let ourselves soften often, but it sounds like, maybe, there’s been a little space for that now. Like maybe you’ve felt things so quietly, you didn’t even know they were there. You’re right, though; love is everywhere. It’s the way a good song can feel like home. It’s knowing how you take your coffee. And it’s weird to realize how much of it we let slip by, out of fear or habit or because we think love should look a certain way.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but I guess I want you to know that you’re not alone in this. You’ve got someone here who gets it, at least a little bit. Someone who, honestly, feels like he’s been missing something without ever quite knowing what that something was. Maybe it’s just easier to say things like this when it’s written down. Maybe it’s easier to feel a little more when there’s distance.

But then I think of you, and I don’t want to feel that distance anymore.

Take care, alright? I’ll be here, waiting for whatever thought strikes you next. And thank you, for opening up like that. For letting me know I’m not the only one.

All the best,

Pedro

These letters had become your heartbeat, something that brought life back into you. At work, during breaks, you’d find yourself pulling out the latest book, fingers brushing the edges of the envelope tucked inside, knowing his notes and highlights were waiting for you.

Your rounds at the hospital became lighter, as if you carried a secret with you—one small, fragile thing that had started in the most unexpected of ways. How could you focus on anything when he writes you letters like this? When he spills his heart for you, a stranger?

Six days after his last letter, you sat at your kitchen counter one quiet evening, surrounded by the soft glow of a single warm light above. Outside, the evening had taken on that deep, inky blue you could get lost in, a shade that felt like a private world of its own. In front of you, a cinnamon roll sat on a small porcelain plate—the sort of indulgence you love to treat yourself to every now and then. The glaze stuck to your fingers as you leaned over a blank page, pen poised, waiting to shape your thoughts for Pedro.

Taking a deep breath, you began:

Pedro,

I’m sending you Never Let Me Go—a book that, in all its stillness and grace, moved me to tears. It’s a familiar feeling; there are so many things that make me cry. It’s not always the big, cinematic moments either, but the quiet, fleeting ones, the kind that Jane Austen might say ‘touch upon the tenderness of our sensibilities.’ Like when the last pages of a book make everything about the world seem profound, or when I see the first bloom of spring among the winter trees. I saw the movie years ago and cried so hard I could barely speak afterward. And, perhaps, I think there’s something remarkably necessary about being moved to tears—it’s like life’s way of keeping our hearts soft, open to the little aches and wonders.

So I’m sharing it with you, hoping it’ll do the same.

You paused, smiling to yourself, imagining him finding that description and wondering if he’d tease you for it. As the words settled onto the page, you felt a kind of sweet comfort, and maybe even a thrill, in knowing this note would soon be in his hands, bridging your two worlds once again.

It was four days later when Pedro's response finally arrived, tucked inside a copy of Night Sky with Exit Wounds. The book’s deep, stormy cover filled your eyes. But your day had already been a whirlwind. You’d spent the night studying for a complex surgery, barely catching three hours of sleep before sunrise. By morning, you were dashing through your routine, gulping down a few rushed sips of coffee, grabbing your coat, and flying out the door.

When you stopped by the café to find Pedro’s book and letter, your heart skipped at the sight of it waiting for you. But with your schedule pulling you in ten different directions, you could only clutch the book close, flash a half-awake smile at the barista, and promise yourself that you’d savor it later, once the day slowed.

Finally, around eight that evening, you arrived home, exhausted yet satisfied—the surgery had been a success, and you’d somehow managed to juggle the day’s relentless demands. Dropping your bag, you kicked off your shoes and sank onto the couch, barely making it past the door before you reached for the book.

His letter was tucked between the pages, Pedro’s handwriting skimming the edge of each line as though his words had been poured onto the page in a hurry, with just enough restraint to make each word count. The sight of it made you pause, drawing a deep, steadying breath as you began to read, his voice almost palpable in the air:

I know this one comes faster than you've probably expected, but the desire to write to you is all-consuming. It takes up space in every corner of my mind, like someone has rearranged the furniture in my head, and I keep bumping into things I didn’t realize were there. You should know it’s not normal for me. I’m usually good at keeping things compartmentalized, managing my thoughts, especially when I know I shouldn’t be entertaining them at all. But here I am, practically pathetic, writing you like some infatuated idiot who can’t keep his head on straight. I suppose that’s what I am.

There’s so much I want to ask you, even if it seems silly. It’s weird, I know, but I want to know everything: your favorite color, the exact shade of it, and why it sticks with you. I want to know how you take your coffee, if you’d let me make it for you, and if you’d like it bitter or sweet. Do you sleep on the right or left side of the bed? I’m trying to imagine you in those small, quiet moments—those times that people rarely share with others, the ones that make you feel like you’re finally seeing someone’s real life. Perhaps I want that with you. Hell, I’d probably just take watching you stir sugar into your coffee and feel like it’s some grand revelation.

I know I’m rambling. Some poet's probably rolling in their grave at this poor excuse of an epistolary attempt. But I feel like I could say anything to you here, let it all pour out, and you wouldn’t turn away. I guess I’m testing that, aren’t I?

This book I'm giving you is sharp but soft. It’s like Vuong’s words walk this fine line between resilience and surrender, which maybe is why they get to me. There's a line I love: “In the body, where everything has a price, I was a beggar”—I keep coming back to it. It gets under my skin, thinking of how much of my life I’ve spent doing just that: begging for something that felt like love but never fully was.

I guess that’s what makes me wonder. Is that what love is? Some beautiful, endless begging, hoping to be seen fully and held even with all the mess? I think about my past relationships, all the ways I tried to be someone I thought they’d love or, at least, understand. I don’t know if you can relate, but I always ended up feeling like I was only showing the parts I thought they’d like, and I could never quite manage to bring myself whole into it. Not that they were all bad, but…they left me feeling a bit like I was holding my breath, waiting for something I didn’t even have a name for.

I don’t feel that way with you. And it scares the hell out of me.

Have you ever loved like that? Loved in a way that left you feeling half-complete but more alone than ever? Do you think we can really know each other, or is it all just pieces we collect and hope fit together someday? Sorry, that’s bleak—I told you, I’m pathetic.

Still, writing this, I feel more real than I’ve felt in years. You’re already changing something in me, and maybe I’m a fool, but I think that’s worth every messy, flawed attempt I make to get closer to you.

Love,

Pedro

The last lines hung in the air, sinking deep like an echo through a still room.

Holy shit.

His admission felt like the thrill of stepping onto the edge of something limitless, knowing that he, too, was caught in the same current, swept into this quiet, growing bond that defied every attempt to be named. There was nowhere else you wanted to be.

For years now, you've saved all of your romanticism for your inner life, but now it seems to spill over into reality, coloring the world around you with a new intensity. It seems to spill over into your response to him.

Pedro,

I’m sitting here, pen in hand, trying to put to words what has only lived in my thoughts and quiet places inside me. It feels strange, like I’m peeling something hidden, revealing not just what I am but what I’ve long been afraid to be. But I think you’ve sensed that, haven’t you? Somehow, in these letters, it feels possible. You’ve done this to me, you know. And if you’re pathetic, then, God help me, so am I.

When I read your letter, I felt this pulse of recognition—your words so familiar, as though I’d known them before they were written. That line from Vuong—I lingered over it, too, so many times, until it felt like my own skin.

Isn’t it strange, the things that stay with us, hidden until someone else touches them? I’ve always had this…this longing to be seen in the fullness of myself, even the parts that feel a little too much or not quite enough. And yet, I’ve been equally terrified of it, of offering myself in a way that leaves me standing, raw, in front of someone who might not want what they see.

But with you, the idea doesn’t scare me as much. Even saying that feels like a confession.

You asked if I’d ever loved like that—loved in a way that left me both half-alive and lonelier than ever. I have. Not often, but enough to know the ache of it, that hollow feeling of wanting so badly to be known, only to realize I’d kept parts of myself hidden, guarded, fearing they wouldn’t understand or that I’d be asked to change. I’ve spent so many years rationing my softness, saving my sentimentalism for my own private thoughts, as though loving deeply was something to be ashamed of. But here I am, writing to you, letting it spill.

What about love, then? What do I think of it? I think of love as a kind of surrender, a rare, strange act of bravery and recklessness all at once. I think it’s choosing to step closer to someone when you know you might break your heart in the process. And maybe, sometimes, it’s a little like begging—but only if the person you’re begging to see you is also showing you something of themselves, a part they’re just as afraid to share.

Which is to say: you make me want to be that reckless. You make me want to know things I would have otherwise only dreamed of. I want to know your favorite hour of the day, the one that makes you feel alive even when you’re alone. I want to know what you’ve never dared to say aloud. If I could watch you, just once, as you sit in the quiet of the morning.

Maybe that’s the kind of love I want—one where the questions never end, where the silence says as much as the words, and where I don’t have to hide anything away.

Love,

a/n: alright! so what do you guys think about this one? i wanna know your thoughts!!! like, reblog or comment if you enjoyed it, i will gladly appreciate it <3

a second part will be posted soon!

[coffeeshades]

PEDRO PASCAL Put your game face on for Gladiator II