incloudcity

[incloudcity]

folks ive been crazy busy but more fics and requests soon !

[incloudcity]

Hello! I was wondering if you’d be willing to write a oneshot featuring Mat Barzal. I was thinking something along the lines of the reader being a sports journalist who’s been covering the Islanders for a while, and they’ve always had a bit of tension, maybe some banter, unspoken attraction, etc nd then something finally brings it to the surface (maybe a post-game interview that turns a bit personal?). I’d love if it leaned toward slow-burn but ends fluffy. Thank you so much for your time and talent, love everything you've been writing!!

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The Islanders had just secured a hard-fought victory, and the locker room was buzzing with energy. Victory music blared in the background, players were slapping each other on the back, and reporters were scattering between players for post-game interviews.

You’d been covering the team for the better part of three years now, so you were no stranger to the chaos of these moments. But Mat Barzal? Mat was always a challenge. From the moment you started covering him, there was an unspoken tension, something that lingered just beneath the surface of every interview. A mixture of banter and subtle flirtation, mostly one-sided on your part, but you couldn’t deny the way his eyes would linger when he spoke to you.

It wasn’t that he was rude—far from it. He was charming, witty, and always had a smile ready. But there was something more there, something unspoken that made your pulse quicken whenever you found yourself interviewing him. And after every press conference or post-game chat, you’d leave wondering if maybe, just maybe, he felt it too.

Tonight, you were bracing yourself for another round of questions. You had your recorder in hand, notebook tucked under your arm, prepared to get the usual stuff—game analysis, the standard ‘what went right’ and ‘what went wrong.’ But when Mat stepped in front of you for the interview, it was different this time.

"Hey, good win tonight, Mat," you began, already flipping your notebook open, but there was a shift in the air. You caught his eyes as he grinned, but it wasn’t the playful grin you were used to. There was something more there now—something more aware.

"Thanks," he said, his voice steady, but there was a hint of something else beneath it. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe the game had taken more out of him than you realized. But the way he leaned a little closer, the subtle intensity in his gaze—that wasn’t just fatigue.

You glanced down at your notebook, clearing your throat. "So, it seemed like you were really clicking out there tonight. What was the key to that chemistry?"

Mat’s smile deepened, and for a moment, you thought he might crack a joke. But instead, he leaned in just a little more, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the podium. "You know, it’s funny you say that," he began, his voice lower than usual. "I think it’s just about feeling comfortable, right? And sometimes, it’s the little things that make all the difference. Like having someone who knows exactly where you’ll be on the ice."

Your breath caught for a moment. Was he being... personal?

You blinked, trying to stay professional. "Yeah, I can see that. The communication out there was on point."

He tilted his head, looking at you through his lashes, and you realized your attempt to keep things strictly professional wasn’t going to work. Not tonight.

"Communication," he repeated, his tone almost teasing now. "You know, I think that’s something we’ve always been good at, too, right?" He gestured between the two of you, his smirk widening as he watched you closely. "You always know exactly how to ask the right questions. Makes my job a lot easier."

You swallowed, a little taken aback. Was he flirting with you right now? Was he really flirting with you?

"Well, I try to keep it interesting," you said, trying to cover up the nervous edge in your voice. "Though, I don’t know if that’s what the fans want to hear after a win."

Mat’s eyes softened as he leaned in closer, his lips curling into a genuine smile now, the kind you hadn’t seen much of in your interactions with him. "I think they’d like to know about the guy who’s been setting up the plays and scoring the goals, don’t you?"

There was a beat of silence, the hum of the locker room almost deafening now. The connection between the two of you felt undeniable. You couldn’t ignore the heat radiating between you anymore. For once, it felt like the two of you weren’t just talking at each other.

You let the pause hang, fingers tightening around your recorder. "I don’t think anyone’s ever asked you about the guy who’s setting up the answers," you said, your voice quieter now.

Mat’s smile faltered just for a second, something flickering behind his eyes before he recovered. "Maybe they should," he said, his tone softer. "I mean, we’ve been doing this dance for how long now?"

The sudden realization hit you like a ton of bricks. You’d been doing this dance for years. A little flirtation here, a quick joke there. You’d never let it go further, always chalking it up to playful banter, never wanting to disrupt the dynamic.

But maybe... maybe it was time to let it happen.

"Maybe we should stop dancing around it, then," you said quietly, meeting his gaze head-on.

The world seemed to pause for a second. Mat’s eyes softened, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his features before he nodded slowly.

"Yeah," he whispered, his hand reaching out to gently brush against your arm. "Maybe we should."

And just like that, the moment shifted. The playful energy from earlier turned into something warmer, more intimate. The tension that had always existed between you felt like it was finally being acknowledged, and for the first time, it didn’t feel awkward or forced. It felt... right.

You took a deep breath, letting the weight of everything sink in. "I’ve been wanting to say that for a while."

Mat chuckled softly, his thumb brushing against your skin. "Good. Because I think I’ve been waiting just as long."

The laughter in his voice felt genuine, like the entire atmosphere between you two had just melted away. For once, the lines between reporter and player, professional and personal, didn’t matter. Not anymore.

"Now, about that post-game interview," you teased, your heart lighter than it had been in years. "I think we might need a second take."

He grinned, his hand still on your arm, and you could feel his warmth seeping into you, like he was already claiming the space between you.

Mat Barzal’s smile was a little different now, his eyes softer, warmer. But the connection between you was stronger than ever.

And for the first time, it felt like there was no more tension to hide behind.

[incloudcity]

can u do a jack hughes x reader where he’s jealous but it ends cute? thx!!

you already know this is my cup of tea lol

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You’d always known Jack to be the chill, laid-back type—easygoing, always cracking jokes, and totally down for whatever. That was one of the things you loved about him, how effortless he was in every situation. But tonight? Tonight, Jack was not being his usual self.

You were at a small get-together at a mutual friend’s place, nothing fancy, just a bunch of people hanging out, playing games, and catching up. But you were having a great time, chatting with everyone, laughing, and catching up with some old friends from college. And, like always, you had that way of making people feel comfortable around you. The conversations flowed easily, and before you knew it, you were in the middle of a group, surrounded by people, talking and laughing like you had all the time in the world.

Jack had been quiet since he walked in, sitting on the edge of the couch, his arms crossed over his chest. You had noticed it at first but didn’t think much of it. He was probably just tired after a long week of games. But as the evening wore on, you began to sense a subtle shift in his mood. He wasn’t actively participating in conversations, and he definitely wasn’t laughing like usual.

It wasn’t until you found yourself standing next to one of your friends, a guy named Evan, who was animatedly talking about a recent trip he’d taken, that things took a turn. You were laughing at something Evan had said, your hand on your hip, completely unaware of Jack’s gaze on you from across the room. He hadn’t been subtle about his glances, but you hadn’t caught on. It wasn’t until Evan brushed his hand against yours as he reached for his drink that Jack’s expression darkened.

You turned back toward Jack, a little confused, when you saw his eyes narrowing slightly. He was leaning against the back of the couch now, his jaw tight. You’d never seen him like this—at least not over something so small.

“Everything okay?” you asked, walking over to him, a small frown tugging at your lips.

Jack looked up at you, his expression softening slightly as if he hadn’t realized how obvious his mood had been. “Yeah, of course,” he said, forcing a smile. But there was something about his voice that made you pause. It wasn’t like him to be so... distant.

You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’ve been kind of quiet tonight.”

Jack shrugged, but the unease in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed. “Just tired, I guess.” He didn’t meet your gaze, instead taking a slow sip from his drink, avoiding the way your eyes searched his face.

Before you could say anything, Evan’s voice carried over to you again. “Hey, you guys want to come over here for the next round of drinks?”

You turned back toward Evan, but when you looked at Jack, his expression had changed again. The tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders were slightly tensed—it was as if he were holding something back. You swallowed, wondering if something was off.

“I’ll be right there,” you said to Evan with a quick smile, before turning back to Jack. “Jack... you sure everything’s okay? You’re acting kind of distant tonight.”

He glanced up at you, clearly trying to play it off. “I’m fine. Just... you know, it’s nothing.”

But you knew Jack well enough by now to recognize when he was trying to avoid talking about something. “Are you sure it’s nothing? Because I’m getting the feeling you’re not happy about something.”

Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair, before finally meeting your eyes. “Okay, fine,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, but still with a hint of frustration. “It’s just... you’re... getting a lot of attention tonight. From him,” he said, nodding toward Evan, who was still chatting animatedly with some other people.

You blinked, not sure if you’d heard him correctly. “What? You’re jealous?”

Jack’s lips curled into a half-smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not jealous... I just don’t like seeing you laugh like that with someone else.”

You stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or to actually process what he was saying. “Jack, it’s Evan. We’re friends, that’s it.”

“I know,” he replied quickly, his eyes flicking toward the floor. “But still. It’s just... I don’t know. I’m not used to seeing you so... comfortable with other guys.”

You bit back a smile at his confession. This was Jack Hughes—one of the most laid-back guys you knew—and here he was, sounding almost insecure. It was cute in the most unexpected way.

“Well, I’m comfortable with you too, Jack,” you said, your voice softening as you took a step closer to him. “And there’s no one else I want to be here with.”

He glanced up at you, eyes softening. “Yeah?”

You nodded, offering him a small, teasing smile. “Yeah. But if it makes you feel better, maybe you should come steal me away from all the other guys.”

Jack’s lips curled into that signature grin of his, and for the first time tonight, he looked like his usual self. “I might just do that.”

And then, in true Jack fashion, he reached out, pulling you into a quick hug, his arms wrapping around you just a little tighter than usual. “I’m not good at this,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your hair. “But I just... don’t like seeing other guys try to take my place.”

You smiled against his chest, your hands sliding up to rest on his back. “You’ll never have to worry about that.”

Jack pulled back slightly, his eyes soft and full of affection now. “You sure?”

You nodded, your fingers brushing against his arm. “Positive.”

He smiled, that signature playful smirk now fully in place. “Well, good. Because if anyone else tries, I might just have to challenge them to a fight.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension that had been hanging in the air between you both melting away. “You wouldn’t.”

“I totally would,” he replied, the playful glint back in his eyes.

You smiled up at him, realizing just how much his feelings for you meant. Maybe his jealousy was unexpected, but in a way, it made you feel wanted—like you mattered to him more than you’d ever known.

And with that, you leaned up on your tiptoes to plant a soft kiss on his cheek, a quiet promise that, even with the playful jealousy, you were his.

[incloudcity]

OKAY HEAR ME OUT— Cale Makar x reader where she’s a hot mess (like tripping over everything, always late, etc.) and he’s this calm, soft-spoken king who is somehow head over heels for her anyway. Bonus points if she has NO idea he likes her and is totally oblivious.

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You were always late. Always. Like, no matter how many times you set alarms or reminded yourself the night before, you were always a few minutes behind. Right now, you were practically sprinting across the parking lot, your phone in one hand and a coffee in the other—though most of that coffee had already spilled down the side of your shirt.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself, tugging at your shirt in an attempt to wipe it off. You didn’t even care that you had three minutes to get into the building—you were just praying that you wouldn’t fall flat on your face before you got there.

Of course, you did. You hit a crack in the sidewalk—your foot caught—and down you went, landing on your knees with a thud that you were sure could be heard across the entire parking lot. You swore under your breath, but before you could even attempt to pick yourself up, you heard the familiar, low voice behind you.

“You okay?” Cale Makar stood there, casually leaning against the side of his car, arms crossed, his calm, unbothered demeanor the complete opposite of your chaotic mess of a self. He had a coffee in hand, looking about as serene as a person could look while you were sprawled out on the concrete, feeling like a complete disaster.

“I’m fine,” you said, wiping dirt off your palms, trying to act like you were totally in control of your life. “Just another day, you know?”

Cale just nodded, a little smile tugging at his lips. He was always like this—soft-spoken, patient, and somehow so... perfect. He didn’t even seem remotely stressed, even though you were basically an emotional hurricane, always running late or spilling things or tripping over your own two feet.

The worst part? You had no idea that Cale was so into you. Like, head over heels. You were oblivious to the way his eyes lingered on you just a little longer than usual, how his voice had that extra softness whenever he spoke to you, and how he always went out of his way to make sure you were okay after your latest disaster.

But you didn’t know any of that. You just thought he was being... Cale. Calm. Collected. Perfect.

“Do you need help?” Cale asked, stepping closer and offering you a hand, his expression warm, but there was a quiet, almost amused glimmer in his eyes as if he was used to this by now.

You glanced up at him, suddenly aware that you probably looked like a mess. “I’m fine, really,” you insisted, grabbing his hand and allowing him to pull you up. You tried to smooth out your clothes and brush off the dirt, but the coffee stain was definitely there to stay.

“You sure?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, though he didn’t push it. “I could get you a napkin or something?”

You waved him off. “No need. I’ll survive.” You were always like this, trying to laugh off how badly you were failing at existing. Cale just watched you, a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth, as if he found your “I’ve got this” attitude endearing rather than irritating.

You both walked into the building, the sound of your footsteps echoing as you tried to keep your head held high, praying that no one else noticed the coffee stain. Cale was so steady beside you, his calmness practically radiating off him, and it made your flustered, disorganized energy feel like a stark contrast.

By the time you made it to the team meeting room, you were 10 minutes late, but at least you hadn’t tripped again. Yet.

Cale was the first one to speak up when everyone else started gathering around the table. He didn’t even seem to notice your chaotic arrival. “You’re here,” he said softly, his voice a little too gentle, like he was trying not to make you feel worse about being late.

You threw him a sheepish smile and muttered, “Yeah, sorry. I’m always late. It’s just my thing.” You laughed awkwardly, trying to play it off as if you weren’t internally cringing at your own life.

“I don’t mind,” Cale replied, with that typical calmness of his. His words were so simple, but they always felt like a safe space. “I like the energy you bring.”

You blinked, momentarily distracted by his words. What did he mean by that? But you shook it off, thinking you were probably just overanalyzing things. You always did that.

As the meeting started, Cale settled into his seat, his attention focused on the discussion. He was always so professional, so composed—it almost made you feel like you needed to get your act together.

But then, as the meeting progressed, you could feel his gaze flicker over to you from time to time. It was subtle, but enough that you caught it. You thought maybe you were imagining it, so you distracted yourself by scribbling down notes, half-paying attention.

It wasn’t until the meeting ended that you realized just how clumsy you still were.

You stood up, grabbed your water bottle, and immediately knocked over your coffee mug. “Of course,” you muttered under your breath.

Cale was already by your side, silently helping you clean up the mess, his face a picture of quiet patience. “You know,” he said with a tiny smile, “I think you should try not to spill everything you own in one day.”

You laughed, totally oblivious to the way his heart was literally in his eyes. “I try. Honestly, I do. But apparently, the universe just wants me to suffer.”

“I don’t mind,” he said softly, his voice low, like a secret only the two of you shared.

You met his gaze, the weight of his words almost too much to process, but before you could respond, someone else called out to you from across the room.

You flashed him a quick smile, “Thanks, Cale,” before walking away, completely unaware of how his heart had just skipped a beat.

[incloudcity]

Hi, if you're taking requests, I'd love something soft and cozy with willy styles. Like… maybe a rainy day at home, baking cookies, wearing his hoodie, that kind of thing. Something really simple and intimate, where it just feels like love in the small things.

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The rain had been falling steadily for hours, soft and rhythmic against the windows of your cozy little apartment. The air smelled fresh, clean, and there was a quiet, peaceful energy that only a lazy day inside could bring.

You were curled up on the couch in Willy’s hoodie—one that was way too big for you, but you loved how it smelled like him, the soft cotton wrapping you in warmth. Your hair was a little messy, but you didn’t care. You hadn’t bothered to do much more than slip into comfy clothes, because today was all about being at home, in your little bubble of comfort with Willy.

Willy was in the kitchen, humming softly to himself as he pulled out the ingredients for the cookies you’d decided to bake together. His movements were easy, relaxed—he had this way about him, making even the simplest tasks feel effortless, like baking cookies on a rainy day was just a small but beautiful part of life. And right now, that was all that mattered.

“Need a hand?” you called from the living room, your voice drowsy and content.

“Nah,” Willy replied, his voice light but affectionate. “You just stay comfy. I’ve got this.”

You could hear the smile in his voice as you pulled the blanket tighter around your legs, sinking into the soft fabric of the couch. It was like you could feel the warmth radiating from the kitchen all the way to where you were sitting.

A few moments passed, and then you heard the familiar sound of his footsteps padding over to the couch. He leaned over, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head as he draped a dish towel over his shoulder.

“Thought I’d bring the party to you,” he said, grinning down at you. His hair was a little tousled, his face flushed from the heat of the oven. “You good?”

You tilted your head back to look up at him, his face now above you, warm and glowing in the soft light of the kitchen. You were wrapped in the smell of freshly baked cookies already, and the sound of the rain tapping against the windows felt like a lullaby. His smile was easy and genuine, a small crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the kind that made your chest feel tight in the best way.

“I’m perfect,” you replied softly, reaching up to brush your fingers against the edge of his hoodie. “How about you?”

He dropped down onto the couch beside you, nudging you playfully as he stretched his arm out, pulling you closer against him. His hoodie smelled like him too—like a mix of warmth and his cologne, comforting and familiar. You let yourself melt into him, your head finding a natural resting spot on his shoulder.

“I’m good,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing. “But it’s even better with you here.”

You smiled, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you. It wasn’t the grand gestures or anything flashy—just this. Just being together in the quiet moments.

After a few minutes of silence, just the soft hum of the rain and the occasional rustle from Willy in the kitchen, you both settled into an easy rhythm. Willy passed you a spoonful of dough, his eyes playful. “Go on,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Test the product.”

You grinned, your eyes lighting up as you took the spoon from him, savoring the sweet taste. “That’s dangerous,” you said, glancing up at him, only to find him looking at you with that soft, adoring gaze of his. “I could eat this entire bowl.”

Willy chuckled and then leaned in, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I wouldn’t mind.”

You both laughed, the sound of it blending with the rain outside, a soft soundtrack to your perfect, cozy day. You spent the next few hours mixing, baking, tasting, and just being together, the kind of intimacy that felt like it was woven into every little moment. There was no rush, no need to be anywhere. Just the two of you, wrapped in warmth—both from the oven and from each other.

As the cookies finally came out of the oven, warm and golden brown, you sat together on the couch, each holding a plate, a cup of tea, and the undeniable feeling that this was everything you needed.

“I love this,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the edge of your tea cup. “It’s just so... simple. But perfect.”

Willy turned toward you, his eyes soft, and he smiled that smile that made everything feel so right. “Yeah. Me too.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder again, your heart full in a way that only days like this could make it. There was no rush, no worry, just the quiet, simple certainty that being with him was all you needed.

And as the rain continued to fall softly outside, you both sat in that little bubble of quiet contentment, sharing cookies, and knowing that, sometimes, love was in the smallest, simplest things.

[incloudcity]

Hey!! Could you do a fic with Trevor Zegras where the reader is his childhood best friend and they realize they’re in love with each other? Maybe something fluffy with a bit of angst? Totally okay if not, but I’d love to see your take on it!

thank you sm for the request ! finally catching up on my inbox, hope this is to your liking :)

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You’ve known Trevor Zegras since you were seven years old and he offered you half of his orange popsicle because yours melted on the pavement. You still remember the sticky sugar on your fingers, the way he grinned like he’d just solved the world’s biggest problem.

He hasn’t changed much. Taller, sharper jaw, a little more reckless in how he moves through the world—but that same grin still gets to you.

The two of you have stayed close through it all. Games, trades, cities. He calls you every week, sends you blurry selfies at 2AM, flies you out for big moments. You're his constant—he’s yours.

And yet tonight, sitting beside him on the worn-out couch in his apartment, something feels off.

Not in a bad way. Not exactly. Just... different.

He’s scrolling through old photos on his phone, laughing at a picture of you both at prom—he’s got braces and sunburn; you’re in a dress two sizes too big, flipping off the camera.

“You were in love with me,” he teases, nudging you with his shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “Please. You cried when your boutonnière fell off.”

“Because you stepped on it,” he shoots back, grinning. “Sabotage.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t fully reach your chest. There’s a flutter there now, something tighter, more unsettled.

He turns toward you a little, still smiling, but quieter now. “Remember when we swore we’d get married at 30 if we were still single?”

You glance over. “You mean when we were thirteen and thought 30 was ancient?”

He shrugs, playful but unsure. “Still counts.”

Your heart stutters. Just a little. “Are you saying we should pencil it in?”

He hesitates—not the kind of hesitation you’re used to from him. Trevor’s always been bold, impulsive, full-speed-ahead. But now he looks down at his hands. Fidgets.

“I think I would’ve married you already,” he says softly. “If I wasn’t so—scared, I guess.”

The room goes quiet.

You blink. “Scared of what?”

His eyes lift to meet yours, and suddenly the air between you feels heavier, more fragile.

“Losing you,” he says. “Messing everything up. We’ve always been... us. And I didn’t know how to tell you I think about you all the time. That I can’t imagine any version of my life without you in it.”

You feel like the ground tilts under you—just slightly. Your breath catches, the weight of his words settling into your chest like something you’ve been waiting to hear without realizing it.

“Trevor,” you whisper, and your voice cracks a little on his name. He watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s just broken something.

“I know it’s a lot,” he says quickly, “and maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but—”

You cut him off without thinking, reaching for his hand, your fingers threading through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” you say, quietly. “I just didn’t think you felt the same.”

Something shifts in his expression—relief, disbelief, maybe even a little bit of fear still clinging on. But then he leans forward, and suddenly your forehead is resting against his, both of you frozen in this soft, suspended moment.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice barely a breath.

You nod.

The kiss is gentle. No fireworks, no dramatic music swelling—just warm lips and steady hands, and the feeling of years-worth of something finally being spoken aloud without words.

When you pull back, his cheeks are pink, and he looks like he’s still trying to catch up with what just happened.

You smile. “Guess we don’t need to wait until we’re thirty, huh?”

Trevor lets out a breathy laugh, pulling you closer until you’re tucked against his side, his arm wrapped around you like it’s always belonged there.

“You’re not getting rid of me now,” he says into your hair.

You close your eyes, heart full. “Was never trying to.”

[incloudcity]

plastic palm trees

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The light was fading fast, the kind of golden hour glow that softened everything — the edges of the furniture, the colors of the room, even the way your thoughts tangled together in a quiet, restless haze. You sat on the couch, the fabric worn but familiar beneath you, John’s presence just inches away. His hand was close enough to brush against yours, but you didn’t reach out. Not yet.

It was like the world outside was moving too fast, but inside this small apartment, time had slowed to a crawl. The hum of the city was distant, muffled by thick windows and the soft pulse of the fridge. You both existed in a quiet bubble, where the moments felt suspended — too still to be comfortable, too delicate to be ignored.

John’s gaze was steady, calm, as if he were holding himself together with quiet strength. But you caught something beneath that composure: a hesitation, a subtle uncertainty in the way he glanced away when your eyes met. It reminded you of those plastic palm trees you used to see in travel magazines — perfect and pretty, but not real. Beautiful illusions.

You thought about how he had become your safe place, the steady rhythm in the chaos of your life. The way his quiet confidence was a refuge, a constant you could count on when everything else felt unpredictable. You smiled faintly at the memory of mornings where you’d make coffee together, the steam curling between you as you moved around the kitchen in easy silence.

But lately, something had shifted — the way the small moments felt heavier, like you were both holding your breath under the surface, afraid to say the things you couldn’t quite put into words. The late-night conversations were full of pauses, the silences longer than the sentences, like you were both skating around a truth neither dared to name.

You remembered the first time you noticed it. How his smile, usually warm and sure, faltered at the edges during one of your quiet evenings. How his hand hesitated before taking yours, like he was testing the waters of a deeper connection but unsure if he should dive in. It was subtle, almost invisible, but it lodged itself in your chest like a splinter.

Tonight, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, the quiet became unbearable. You turned to him, voice soft but resolute.

“John... do you ever feel like we’re pretending? Like maybe we’re holding onto something that isn’t quite real?”

His eyes flickered with a vulnerability that caught you off guard. He took a slow breath, then nodded. “Sometimes. I think we want it to be real so badly that we hold on to the parts that feel right and ignore the cracks.”

You swallowed hard, the truth in his words settling over you like a weight. You wanted to argue, to say that what you had was enough — that love, even imperfect, was worth fighting for. But the silence stretched between you, filled with all the unspoken fears and doubts.

John reached out then, his fingers brushing against yours in a tentative, steady touch. It wasn’t the passionate grip of a perfect romance, but something quieter — a fragile promise. A hope that maybe, in this messy, complicated reality, there was still something worth holding onto.

You looked down at your hands, tangled together for the first time that evening, and felt the bittersweet ache of wanting something more — something real, not just beautiful on the surface.

Because sometimes, the hardest truth is realizing that what feels safe and familiar might also be fragile and incomplete. But maybe, just maybe, it’s enough to keep trying.

[incloudcity]

want that too

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You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone in your hands. The screen glows softly in the dim light of your room, but the message you’re about to send feels heavy—like it could change everything, or nothing at all. You hesitate, fingers hovering, heart racing.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

You almost hit send, then stop.

Because you don’t really know what this is.

Brock Faber has been in your life for a few months now — quiet, steady, intense in ways that don’t shout but quietly consume you. You like how grounded he is, how he never pressures or demands. But there’s an edge to him, a depth you can’t quite reach, and maybe don’t want to.

Every time you try to put distance between you, every time you tell yourself you need space, something pulls you back. A look. A touch. The way he knows your favorite coffee order without asking, or how he notices the small things no one else does.

But with that understanding comes complication.

Tonight, you’re sitting on his couch after a long day neither of you wanted to face alone. You’re wrapped in one of his old hoodies — it smells like pine and something unmistakably him — and you haven’t spoken much since you got there. The silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Brock breaks it first, voice low and steady. “You okay?”

You shrug, looking down at your hands. “I don’t know.”

He leans back, eyes searching yours. “I feel it too. This… mess. The not knowing.”

You bite your lip, because that’s exactly it. The mess. The questions. The ache that settles deep in your chest. The guilt for wanting someone who complicates everything, and the fear that you’re the only one feeling this way.

Brock’s hand moves to yours, fingers curling gently around your wrist. “We don’t have to have all the answers now.”

You look at him — really look — and see the quiet honesty there. Not the easy kind, but the real kind. The kind that doesn’t pretend it’s all simple.

You take a deep breath and decide to speak, the words spilling out slower than you want but faster than you expect.

“I want this — you — but I’m scared it’s going to hurt. I’m scared I’ll lose myself trying to hold onto something that might not be right.”

His thumb brushes over your skin, soft and steady. “I’m scared too. But maybe that’s part of it. Maybe some things are worth the risk, even if they’re messy.”

Your heart tightens at his words. You want to believe it, but the doubt doesn’t disappear.

The night stretches on, and you both sit together — sometimes talking, sometimes just being — caught in that complicated space between wanting to hold on and knowing you might have to let go.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes it real.

Because sometimes wanting someone — even when it’s tangled and confusing — is the only thing that feels certain.

[incloudcity]

guilty conscience

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You never expected it to be like this.

Jeremy — calm, collected, the kind of steady presence everyone relies on. The last line of defense, the one who’s always focused, always controlled. That’s what everyone sees.

But with you, there’s something else.

Something complicated.

It started small. A glance lingering a second too long, a quiet smile exchanged in passing, a shared moment that felt electric but unspoken.

You tried to convince yourself it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Every interaction is a test of will.

You tell yourself you shouldn’t feel this way. You know better. There are rules — boundaries — things you’re supposed to keep intact. But every time Jeremy is near, those rules blur.

His presence is magnetic, pulling you in with a quiet strength. He doesn’t need to say much; a look, a touch, a breath close enough to feel — that’s all it takes.

One night, you find yourself sitting on your bed, phone in hand, the weight of the day pressing down. You scroll through your messages, eyes lingering on the ones you sent to Jeremy that you probably shouldn’t have.

“You don’t have to make sense of this right now.”

You replay his words over and over in your mind.

They’re steady, calm — just like him. But they carry a weight that makes your heart ache with uncertainty.

You want clarity. You want certainty. But Jeremy… he doesn’t rush things. Instead, he waits in the silence between your words, lets the tension build without pushing you to decide.

That silence is both a comfort and a torment.

You try to push the feelings aside, telling yourself it’s easier this way. That getting involved is dangerous, that this complicated pull between you two is more trouble than it’s worth.

But then he’s there again — quietly present, steady and strong.

His hand brushes yours, a simple touch that sends a jolt through your body.

His eyes catch yours, and in that moment, the world narrows down until it’s just the two of you.

You think about all the risks — the doubts, the whispers of guilt that nag at your conscience.

You wonder if this feeling, this tension, this aching pull between desire and doubt, is something you should fight or surrender to.

Jeremy’s not the reckless type.

He’s measured, thoughtful — the kind of person who carries his emotions quietly, never exposing the storm beneath the calm.

But with you, even his restraint feels like an invitation.

Days blur together — stolen moments, charged silences, the way your hands find each other even when you’re miles apart.

You catch yourself wondering if maybe, just maybe, it’s possible to have something this real and intense without the guilt swallowing you whole.

One evening, after a long day, Jeremy finds you sitting alone, the weight of everything clear in your eyes.

He sits beside you, not saying a word, just letting his presence speak for him.

You lean into him, heart pounding.

For a moment, the doubts fade.

Because sometimes, the hardest part isn’t feeling the guilt — it’s deciding whether the risk is worth it.

And maybe, for the first time, you’re willing to find out.

[incloudcity]

where we end up | chapter 7

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The storm rolled in fast.

One second the air was muggy and still, and the next, clouds crowded the sky like a warning. Thunder in the distance. Lightning threading through the horizon.

Everyone had cleared out earlier — Luke heading into town for the night, Quinn meeting friends for dinner. You hadn’t planned to stay at the lakehouse long, just stopped by to grab a sweater you'd left.

But then the rain came.

Hard. Relentless.

You’d just closed the screen door when Jack walked into the kitchen from the back hall, damp hoodie clinging to his frame.

You froze. So did he.

He looked… rough. Like he hadn’t been sleeping much either. Hair still dripping, shoulders drawn tight. He hadn’t expected to see you here. That much was obvious.

“Storm’s nuts,” he muttered, shaking water off his sleeves.

“Yeah,” you said, voice flat. “Didn’t know you were here.”

He glanced at the counter. “Was gonna head out but… too late now.”

You nodded, then turned your attention to the rain lashing the windows. A long silence settled between you.

You could feel it — all the unsaid things pulsing like static in the air.

You weren’t going to break the silence.

But you didn’t have to.

“Look,” Jack said, finally stepping closer, “I didn’t mean to ghost you.”

You blinked at him. “Sure felt like you did.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I just… I got in my head.”

Your arms crossed before you could stop yourself. “About what? You kiss me like you mean it, you look at me like I matter, and then you disappear. What part of that is confusing?”

Jack winced. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it?” you asked, sharper now. “Because I don’t know what I did wrong. I thought things were—” You exhaled. “I thought we were starting to be something.”

Jack didn’t answer. Just stared down at his hands like they held all the guilt he didn’t know how to name.

“If you’re done,” you said, steadier this time, “just say it. But don’t pretend I imagined all of it.”

His head snapped up. “You didn’t.”

You blinked.

Jack took a step closer.

“I’m not done,” he said, voice low and rough. “I’m just scared. Of screwing it up. Of Quinn. Of what happens when I let myself want something like this.”

You held his gaze, throat tight.

He kept going, barely pausing to breathe. “You matter, okay? You matter more than I know what to do with. And it’s not just some stupid crush. It’s not about drama. It’s—fuck, it’s real. You make me want to be better. You make me slow down. And that terrifies me.”

The air between you crackled. Not with storm, but with truth.

You swallowed. Then, softly: “You think I haven’t heard this before?”

Jack’s expression flickered.

You didn’t flinch.

“People always think they’re protecting me when they walk away,” you said. “Like they’re doing me a favor. Like I’m some strong, stable, self-sufficient saint who doesn’t need anyone.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Yes, you do,” you said. “You decided I deserved better before even asking what I wanted.”

Jack’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.” You stepped forward. “And the worst part is, I would’ve forgiven you. I would’ve tried to understand. But you just… left. Like everyone else.”

Jack’s mouth opened, then closed.

You let the silence sit, then exhaled.

“I’m tired, Jack. Tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt when people call it love and then run the second it feels heavy. I don’t need perfection. I just need someone who stays.”

His throat worked, eyes shining with something unspoken.

And then, slowly, he stepped forward again.

“Okay,” he said. Just one word — full of everything. “Okay. I’m here.”

You didn’t say anything. Just nodded once.

Jack’s hand reached out, tentative, and brushed your fingers.

This time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t frantic or rough. It was slow. Certain. Like he was choosing this — choosing you — with every part of himself.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, you felt the shift settle.

Not perfect. But real.

And no one was running.

The next day, you didn’t hide it.

You didn’t flaunt it either — but when Luke gave you a look over breakfast, a knowing, smug sort of look, you didn’t bother lying.

He grinned over his cereal. “Told you something was gonna happen.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling.

Later that afternoon, Quinn pulled Jack aside. The three of you had been sitting by the water, and he motioned for Jack to follow him up toward the dock.

Jack went, nerves coiled tight.

Quinn didn’t say much.

Just stood beside him for a while, watching the breeze ripple over the lake.

Then: “You care about her.”

It wasn’t a question.

Jack nodded. “Yeah.”

Quinn nodded too. “Okay.”

Jack blinked. “That’s it?”

“I’m not thrilled,” Quinn said plainly. “But I’m not stupid either.”

He turned back toward the house.

“She’s not someone you treat casually,” Quinn added over his shoulder. “Just remember that.”

“I know,” Jack said, softer now. “I do.”

That night, after dinner, the house slowly quieted.

You ended up on the porch swing with Jack beside you, a blanket tossed over both your legs. His arm rested loosely behind you, his fingers grazing your shoulder now and then like he just needed to know you were there.

The air smelled like earth and rain.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, eyes slipping closed.

No pressure. No definitions. Just this moment.

His voice, low and steady, reached your ears.

“Not running,” he said.

You smiled.

“Me either.”

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like enough.

[incloudcity]

think later

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You didn’t plan on the night turning out like this.

One minute, you’re scrolling through your phone, debating whether to just stay in, and the next, Luke’s texting you with that cocky grin you can almost see through the screen.

“Shut off your phone. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes but hit ignore, telling yourself you’re too tired for whatever “this” is. But then your phone buzzes again, insistent. You give in.

Luke’s already waiting when you get there — that effortless confidence radiating off him like heat. His leather jacket is thrown over one shoulder, hair a little messy in that perfect way, eyes sparkling with that reckless energy that’s impossible to resist.

“Thought you’d bail,” he smirks, stepping closer, voice low and teasing.

You laugh, heart already racing, and just like that, the night shifts. The city blurs around you, the noise fades, and all that matters is the way he looks at you — like you’re the only one who gets him, and he’s the only one who gets you.

No plans, no rules.

You’re drinking something blue — sweet, sharp, the kind of drink that burns a little on the way down and loosens your thoughts. Luke’s daring you to dance in the middle of the crowded bar, to laugh louder, to forget everything you should be thinking about.

“Think later,” he whispers in your ear, voice rough with laughter. “Tonight’s just us.”

You don’t question it.

You don’t worry about the consequences or the morning after. You live in the moment — spinning, wild, electric.

The hours stretch and collapse all at once. You forget your phone, your worries, your carefully constructed walls.

You’re reckless, alive, caught up in a night that feels like it’ll never end.

Later, when you finally collapse onto his couch, breathless and dizzy, you’re not stressing about the “shit show” the night became.

Because with Luke, the messiness is part of the thrill — the kind of chaos that leaves you wondering if you’ll regret it… or if you’ll just think later.

[incloudcity]

omg folks just switched to default mode to see what my blog looks like and it’s SO UGLY. pls switch to low contrast and classic it is sooo the vibe and also makes my blog not look bad :)

[incloudcity]

where we end up | chapter 6

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For a few days, things were… good.

Not perfect. Not simple. But good.

You and Jack didn’t talk about what had happened — the kiss, the slow unfolding of something real — but you also didn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. He texted you random memes. Brought you iced coffee without asking. Sat beside you on the dock and let your knees brush without pulling away.

It was quiet. Tentative. But it felt like something.

You caught him watching you once while you laughed at something Luke said. His gaze didn’t hold its usual sharp edge — just soft wonder, like he couldn’t believe you were real and sitting right there.

You didn’t say anything. Just let it happen.

That morning, Jack showed up at your door without warning, holding a paper bag of pastries.

“Don’t read into this,” he said, eyes flicking away like he already regretted being sweet. “You skipped breakfast yesterday.”

You raised a brow, pretending to smirk. “You stalking my meals now?”

“Just making sure you don’t collapse again. You’re high maintenance.”

You took the bag and smiled, something warm and fragile sparking behind your ribs.

It was mid-evening when Jack walked into the kitchen to grab a drink, only to find Quinn sitting at the counter alone, finishing a late meal.

“Hey,” Quinn said, nodding.

Jack gave a lazy wave, reaching for the fridge.

“You got a minute?” Quinn asked.

Jack looked up, wary. “Yeah?”

Quinn stood, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Let’s walk.”

That alone was enough to put Jack on edge. Quinn wasn’t a “let’s talk” guy unless something mattered. They headed outside, down the gravel path that led to the far side of the lake.

The sky was a muted kind of gold, cicadas humming low in the trees. The air smelled like warm pine and water.

Quinn shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I know something’s going on with you and her,” he said finally. “I’m not here to play dad or whatever. I just… I need to say something.”

Jack rolled his shoulders back. “Okay.”

Quinn’s voice stayed calm. Measured. But there was weight behind it.

“She’s not fragile. I don’t mean it like that. But she’s been through some serious shit, Jack. And she still shows up for people — even when she’s running on nothing. Even when she’s exhausted. Even when no one shows up for her.”

Jack said nothing. Just stared out across the water.

Quinn continued. “She pulled me out of a place I didn’t even know I was in. Just by being who she is. She didn’t ask for anything. She just stayed. That kind of loyalty? It’s rare.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “I know that.”

“I’m not saying you’re a bad guy,” Quinn said. “But if you’re not serious about her — if this is just some messy thing you’re not ready to admit out loud — you need to let her go before you turn her into collateral damage.”

That landed sharp.

Jack turned to face him, brows raised. “You think I’m just messing around?”

“I think,” Quinn said carefully, “you don’t know what you want yet. And she deserves someone who does. Someone who doesn’t flinch the second things get complicated.”

Jack scoffed, taking a step back. “So what — I’m not good enough for her?”

Quinn didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The silence said everything.

Jack let out a bitter laugh and nodded once, like that settled it. “Right. Cool. Got it.”

“Jack—”

“Nope,” Jack cut in. “You made your point.”

He turned and walked back up the path, the taste of humiliation rising in his throat like smoke.

That night, he didn’t text you. Didn’t show up for dinner. Didn’t sit on the deck after dark like he usually did.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You’d gotten used to him being around — not hovering, not clinging — just there. Solid and steady in a way you hadn’t expected from him. You’d started to believe in the shift, in the fact that maybe he was showing up not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Now, all at once, he was gone again.

And you felt it in your chest like a bruise.

By the third day of silence, you stopped wondering if he’d reach out.

You already knew.

Luke found you sorting through receipts at the dining table, chewing on the edge of your pen, your eyes unfocused.

“Where’s your little shadow?” he asked lightly.

You didn’t answer. Just kept tapping your pen.

Luke tilted his head. “He do something stupid?”

You blinked once. “He disappeared.”

Luke’s smile faded. “Since when?”

You shrugged. “Three days ago, I think. Maybe four.”

He studied your face for a moment, then said carefully, “You want me to talk to him?”

“No.” Your voice came out quiet but firm. “If he didn’t mean it, he could’ve just said so. He didn’t have to vanish like it never happened.”

Luke opened his mouth, then closed it again.

You looked down at the papers, willing yourself not to cry.

You weren’t going to chase someone just to prove you were worth staying for.

Not ever again.

Upstairs, Jack sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, your name on his screen.

He hadn’t texted. Hadn’t explained. He didn’t know how.

Quinn’s words kept echoing in his skull — all the ways he wasn’t ready. All the things he wasn’t yet.

And maybe it wasn’t about you not wanting him.

Maybe it was about him not believing he deserved you.

So he stayed silent.

And let the space between you grow wider.

[incloudcity]

messier

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You know the feeling — the one where you want out, but every time you try to walk away, something pulls you right back in. Like a magnet you hate but can’t stop yourself from touching.

That’s what Connor is to you. The one who knows exactly how to cut the deepest wounds because he’s the only one who truly sees you.

You’re wrapped up in a relationship that’s messy — raw edges, bruises that don’t show but ache anyway, words thrown like daggers, apologies whispered in the dark. You fight. You break. You come back.

Because even when it hurts, he’s the only one who understands the parts of you no one else does.

It wasn’t always like this.

When you first met Connor, it was electric. Bright smiles, shared laughs, that effortless way he made you feel seen. You were both young — too young, maybe — but you believed in something real.

There was a spark in everything he did — the way he played, the way he talked, the way he held your hand when you didn’t even realize you needed it. You thought maybe, just maybe, this was different.

But love, you learned, wasn’t always clean.

It came with shadows — jealousy, silence, fights that spiraled faster than you could catch up. You learned to read the signs — the way his jaw tightened when he was frustrated, the sharp edge in his voice when he snapped, the cold distance that settled after words that should never have been said.

And somehow, even in the worst moments, you couldn’t let go.

You tried to leave once.

Packed your bags, the knot in your stomach tightening with every second that passed. You told yourself it was over — this time for good. You imagined a life without the constant storm, without the emotional rollercoaster that left you dizzy and drained.

But then he showed up at your door. His eyes were red, his voice shaky.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I’ll change. I swear.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe in the good — the moments when he was soft, when he was yours without reservations.

So you stayed.

Because beneath the mess, you loved him. Loved the way he got you — the quiet parts you kept hidden, the pain you refused to admit. Loved the way he could silence your doubts with a look, the way his touch was the only one that felt like home.

But love isn’t enough when every day feels like a battle.

One night, after a fight that left you both bruised in ways you couldn’t see, you sat in silence on the cold floor of his apartment.

The air was thick with everything unsaid — regret, anger, exhaustion.

He looked at you, eyes glossy, voice low and rough.

“You don’t want to be with me,” he said, “but you can’t walk away either.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your heart pounding like a storm.

“Because I’m the only one who knows how to hurt you,” he continued, “and maybe… maybe I’m the only one who knows how to love you, too.”

You didn’t say anything. You just let the truth hang between you.

You both knew it was messy. You both knew it wasn’t forever. But right now, it was real.

And sometimes, real means being messier than you ever imagined.

Days turned into weeks, and the cycle repeated.

Moments of tenderness and laughter blurred with sharp words and cold silences. You wanted out, but every time you stepped back, he pulled you in — a magnetic force you couldn’t resist.

You tried to find yourself in the chaos, to remember who you were before the fights, before the broken promises. But it felt impossible.

Because in his arms, even the messiest parts of you felt alive.

One rainy evening, you found yourself staring out the window, tears mixing with the drizzle.

He sat beside you silently, not pushing, just being there.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered. “I don’t know how to fix us.”

He took your hand, fingers trembling.

“Maybe we don’t fix it,” he said softly. “Maybe we just keep trying — even if it’s messy, even if it hurts.”

You looked at him — really looked — and for a moment, the chaos faded.

Maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

[incloudcity]

sorry if you read my fics and you see the same very specific phrases over and over again

[incloudcity]

where we end up | chapter 5

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It started as a normal morning — if you could still call anything in your life normal these days.

You’d barely slept the night before. Your body buzzed with that familiar tension — too many tabs open in your brain, too many responsibilities shoved to the margins to make room for pretending everything was fine.

Quinn had texted you around ten: Hey, we’re taking the boat out this afternoon. You coming? You’d stared at the message for a full minute before managing a reply. "If I can get my head to stop spinning. Might need a nap first."

He sent back a thumbs-up and a heart emoji. The Hughes version of insisting you take care of yourself.

Apparently, you weren’t convincing, because a few hours later, someone was knocking on your apartment door.

You didn’t hear it at first.

You were half-asleep on the couch, still in yesterday’s clothes, your phone dead on the floor and a barely touched glass of water sweating on the coffee table. Your limbs felt heavy, your mouth dry. Your body was past tired — it had crossed into something else. Something quieter and more dangerous.

The knocking came again. Harder this time.

“Hey,” Jack’s voice called from the other side. “Open up.”

A pause. Then:

“Quinn sent me. Said you weren’t answering.”

You tried to lift your head, but even that made the world spin. Dull nausea curled in your stomach.

Jack knocked again, more insistent now. You heard the door creak open — you must’ve left it unlocked. Footsteps. Then:

“Yo—” His voice cut off sharply as he saw you.

You blinked up at him, disoriented and foggy. He looked huge in your tiny entryway, the afternoon light behind him casting sharp angles across his face.

“What the hell,” he muttered, crossing to you in a few long strides. “You okay?”

“Just tired,” you mumbled, but the words felt slurred, distant. “Just need a minute.”

He crouched in front of you, concern overtaking the usual sharpness in his expression. “Have you eaten?”

You shook your head slowly. “Forgot.”

“And water?”

You gestured weakly toward the glass on the table, barely touched.

“Jesus,” he breathed, standing up. “Alright, that’s it. You’re not going on the boat. You’re not doing anything. I’m taking you back with me.”

You tried to protest — something about needing your bag, or needing a second to change — but he wasn’t listening. Or maybe he was and just didn’t care.

He helped you sit up, carefully looping an arm around your waist when you swayed. His touch was steady but gentle, like he was handling something breakable. You hated that — how vulnerable you felt. How seen.

Still, you didn’t fight him.

Once Jack realized helping you to the car would take too long, he lifted you up bridal style and placed you gently in the passenger seat. The silence on the drive back wasn’t uncomfortable, just weighted — thick with everything unspoken between you. Jack kept glancing over, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the wheel.

You could feel how angry he was, but not at you. At the situation. At the fact that he’d been the one to find you like that.

At the fact that no one else had.

Back at the lakehouse, he helped you up the stairs and into the guest room, ignoring the questions from Luke and Quinn with a short, “She’s fine. She just needs rest.”

You heard Quinn murmur something about checking in, but Jack shut the door behind you both before anyone else could enter.

You sat on the edge of the bed, dizzy, heart pounding in your ears.

Jack didn’t speak right away. He grabbed a bottle of water from your nightstand and some snacks Luke had handed him on the way up. You took them without meeting his eyes.

“I’m not helpless,” you said finally, voice hoarse.

“I know you’re not,” he said. “But you scared the hell out of me.”

You looked up.

His expression was open, vulnerable in a way that caught you off guard. No sarcasm. No teasing. Just raw honesty.

“I thought something was really wrong,” he added. “You weren’t answering. You didn’t look—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair. “You looked like you were about to just… disappear.”

That landed harder than you expected. Because part of you had felt that, too.

“I didn’t mean to ignore anyone,” you whispered.

“I know.”

Silence stretched between you — not tense, but heavy with meaning.

And then something shifted.

He stepped closer. You didn’t move away.

His hand reached out, fingers brushing your cheek, like he was testing the line between restraint and something else entirely.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he said softly. “But I don’t want to pretend it’s nothing.”

You nodded once, heart in your throat.

He leaned in, slower this time — nothing like the rushed heat of the bathroom.

This kiss was softer, deeper. Like he meant it.

You kissed him back, your hands curling into his shirt, grounding yourself in something real.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, the room felt quieter. Steadier.

He stayed with you after that. Just sat with you on the edge of the bed, your head against his shoulder, the silence between you no longer something to avoid.

You didn’t define it. Didn’t talk about what it meant.

But you didn’t run from it, either.

Over the next few days, things shifted.

You still kept your space. Still worked. Still pretended like nothing had changed.

But now, Jack found reasons to linger in the same room. To pass you your coffee. To bump your shoulder gently when no one was looking.

You didn’t call it anything. Not yet.

But Luke was definitely watching.

One afternoon, while you packed up supplies from the youth clinic, he grinned and said, “You and Jack are weird. But like, weird-cute.”

You rolled your eyes. “There’s nothing going on.”

Luke snorted. “Sure. You wanna try that again, but say it like you mean it?”

You smacked him with a clipboard.

Quinn, meanwhile, stayed blissfully unaware. He still called you his “anchor,” still asked for your opinion on whether Luke’s shoulder was actually healing or just “being dramatic”, still planned movie nights and dinners.

If he suspected anything, he didn’t say.

And for now, that was enough.

[incloudcity]

calgary

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There’s a weight to feeling stuck that no one ever really talks about. It’s not dramatic or explosive. It’s not the kind of thing that makes headlines or demands attention. It’s quiet, slow, like sinking into a familiar place you don’t want to leave but can’t truly call home.

That’s where you are. And somehow, so is Jamie.

He’s the kind of quiet that isn’t empty — it’s full of noise you can’t hear. You watch him, the way his eyes flicker with thoughts he never shares. The way his hands twitch when he’s nervous, like he’s trying to fight the restlessness that lives beneath his skin.

You’re sitting on the threadbare couch in your apartment, the dim light from the city filtering through the blinds, casting stripes across Jamie’s face. He’s got his headphones on, the soft hum of a guitar melody filling the room. The kind of music that feels like a secret, just for you two.

You reach out, hesitating for a moment, then gently pull one headphone off his ear.

“Hey,” you whisper.

Jamie blinks, like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or awake. He shrugs off the headphones and lets them rest around his neck, eyes settling on you with that guarded softness.

“You don’t have to pretend here,” you say, voice barely louder than the guitar.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, the kind of tired sigh that speaks of long nights spent wrestling with himself.

“I’m tired,” he admits quietly. “Tired of feeling like I’m stuck. Like every day is the same.”

You nod. You know exactly what he means.

“I take these pills,” you say, pulling the bottle out of your jacket pocket and setting it on the table between you. “Some nights they help. Some nights I just feel numb.”

Jamie watches the bottle like it’s a fragile thing, dangerous and necessary all at once.

“Creature of habit,” you continue. “That’s what I call myself.”

He smiles faintly, a crack in the wall. “Same here.”

You both sit there, letting the silence stretch between you — not empty, but full. Full of things neither of you says out loud.

Sometimes, you wonder if either of you will ever break free. Or if you’re just meant to be the ghosts haunting each other’s lives, holding on because it’s easier than letting go.

Jamie reaches out and takes your hand. It’s a small gesture, but it feels like a lifeline.

“We don’t have to fix it right now,” he says. “We just have to be here.”

And for once, that feels enough.

Because sometimes, home isn’t a place. It’s a person. And sometimes, being stuck means finding someone who’s stuck right there with you.