rorysverse

[rorysverse]

sweatshirt

pairing: jack abbot x gn!reader summary: you fall asleep during a shift and jack watches over you word count: 1.1k tags: soft moments , mutual pining a/n: for those of us who think long looks are the equivalent of sex scenes

Jack finds you on accident. At least, that’s what he’ll claim later. Truth is, he’s been pacing. The trauma team cleared out. The surgery board’s empty. And the only thing Jack has to show for the last three hours is a splintered coffee stirrer and a half-written report that makes no damn sense. Somewhere along the way, he misplaces a patient chart - again. He knows it’s somewhere nearby. He just doesn’t care enough to keep looking.

But when he walks past the half-ajar door of the back supply room, he slows. The lights are off, except for the faint lamp someone forgot to shut down. It's barely enough to see by, but he steps in anyway, boots quiet against the tile.

And then he sees you.

You’re curled on your side, tangled in a mess of fabric and fatigue, one cheek pressed to a scrub pack like it’s a pillow. Your arms are pulled close, one knee bent toward your chest. You’re still in your work uniform - smeared with blood (someone else's, hopefully), sweat, and coffee.

Jack pauses. He doesn't speak. Doesn't even breathe for a second.

There’s something about the quiet of you. Something that catches him off guard. He sees people unconscious every day, but not like this. Not peaceful. Not soft. Not someone like you, who’s usually all sharp reflexes and half-joked sarcasm and kind eyes even when things are falling apart.

Jack moves closer before he realizes he’s doing it. He kneels beside you. His hand hovers for a moment, fingers twitching like he’s going to brush your hair back from your face - but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands again and shrugs out of his hoodie. It’s old. Worn soft from too many on-calls and late nights. The cuffs are stretched, and the front pocket has a faint tear near the seam. He drapes it carefully over your body, making sure it covers your arms, your shoulders, your curled-up knees.

You don’t wake. So, he pulls over a chair. Sits, and stays.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

You wake to warmth. A quiet kind of warmth - not sun, not heat - but something softer. Familiar. You shift and blink slowly, vision swimming as the hazy edges of the room come into focus. You sit up, sluggish and confused, and the hoodie slinks off your body like second skin. It smells like soap and eucalyptus and coffee. A little like hospitals, and a lot like someone you’ve stood too close to too many times without admitting how it made you feel.

Jack.

He’s sitting nearby in a scuffed rolling chair, legs stretched out, a manila chart folder open in his lap. He’s reading something under the lamp’s glow, his expression pinched in concentration. There’s a smear of ink on his knuckle and a shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

You clear your throat, the sound low and scratchy in the quiet.

Jack looks up immediately. Like he’d been waiting for you to say something. Like maybe he'd been listening for your breathing to change, for your lashes to flutter, for any sign that you'd wake up and he could stop pretending to read that damn chart.

“You drool in your sleep,” he says, deadpan.

You blink, still heavy-limbed and swimming in the warmth of his hoodie. “Excuse me?”

He shuts the folder with a soft snap and leans back in his chair like this is the most casual conversation you’ve ever had. Like he hasn’t been sitting in silence with you for… what, an hour? Two?

“Figured I should tell you before the entire surgical team finds out,” he adds. “Get ahead of the scandal.”

You squint at him, then swipe the sleeve of his hoodie across your mouth instinctively. “I do not drool.”

“Floor begs to differ.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. A fraction of a smile that dies before it can settle on his face.

You lean back against the wall, sighing out a laugh that sounds more like relief. “What time is it?”

“Close to five.”

You grimace and push a hand through your hair, fingers snagging on dried sweat and tangled strands. “Shit. I was supposed to help Eli restock the med closet.”

Jack lifts one shoulder in a shrug, but there’s something deliberately casual in the motion. Like he's downplaying something he absolutely did not downplay at the time. “Handled.”

You frown. “You restocked?”

“I supervised.”

“You hate inventory,” you say, voice full of disbelief.

Jack turns his face away slightly, toward the lamp, like the glow makes it easier to avoid looking at you straight on.

“Didn’t want you waking up just to fall over again.”

It lands heavier than you expect. The words aren’t playful. They aren’t sarcastic. They’re… honest. Your heart stutters once. You try to hide it by shifting in your seat, adjusting the hoodie around your shoulders.

You look at him a second longer than you mean to. He’s tired. You can see it in the way he’s slouched in the chair, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the tension still sitting in his shoulders. But he’s watching you now - not impatient, not judgmental. Just… watching. Like he’s memorizing this moment. Like he doesn’t want to forget how you look in his hoodie, rumpled and soft in the middle of a world that demands steel and fire.

“You didn’t have to,” you murmur.

“I know.”

You could leave it there. But you don’t.

“You didn’t have to stay, either.”

Jack exhales, long and quiet. Then he lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck. You watch the motion, the stretch of tendons in his arm, the way his jaw ticks when he doesn’t speak right away.

Finally: “Didn’t seem right, leaving you alone like that.”

You feel something crawl into your throat - unspoken and delicate and stupidly hopeful. Something that tastes like I care. Like stay. Like I notice you even when no one else does. You swallow it down before it shows on your face.

Jack stands slowly, rolling his neck until it pops. You watch him - every line of tension, every unspoken thing left hanging between you.

“Come on,” he says, voice rough with fatigue. “Coffee’s probably drinkable by now.”

And when he turns to leave, he doesn’t look back. But he doesn’t walk fast either. He leaves space beside him. Just enough for you to follow.

“You sleep okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He doesn’t answer. But when you pass him your coffee a few minutes later - too sweet, barely warm - he takes a sip without complaint. And when you hand him back his hoodie, he shakes his head.

“Keep it.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next time you wear it, it’s two weeks later. Graveyard shift again. You’re dead on your feet, and Jack’s yelling at someone over a misfiled toxicology screen. But when he sees you walk past wearing his hoodie, he shuts up mid-sentence. He doesn’t say anything. But his expression softens.

[rorysverse]

my head's in heaven, my soles are in hell

pairing: bucky barnes x gn!reader summary: what starts as a desperate connection fueled by mutual destruction soon becomes something more fragile and real. word count: 4.1k tags: angst ; emotional hurt/comfort ; complicated relationships ; mild sexual content a/n: this is what happens when i listen to w.a.m.s. by fall out boy on repeat for hours

I.

You met him on a Thursday night. The bar was tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat, just far enough off to keep it from becoming crowded. You liked it that way. The regulars were quiet, the bartender knew your name but didn’t ask questions, and the jukebox never worked right. You shook the chill from your shoulders and moved toward your usual stool -

And saw him.

At first, he was just a shape at the end of the bar. Broad shoulders, hood up, body hunched forward like someone nursing a bad sickness. He had the kind of stillness that drew the eye - not tense, but dangerous in its quiet. Alert in a way that felt wrong. When your eyes adjusted, you saw the metal. A flicker of silver beneath the dim lights. The telltale gleam of something inhuman.

That was when it clicked.

James Buchanan Barnes. Winter Soldier.

Ghost. Killer. Avenger. Traitor. Hero. Man.

You froze. Not because you were afraid, but because you didn’t know what version of him you’d be sitting beside if you chose to sit down. The man who’d stood beside Steve Rogers in the final battle? Or the one who’d been a weapon in the shadows for decades, trained to disappear before dawn?

He took a sip of whatever was in front of him. You noticed his hand - the flesh one - gripping the glass with knuckles that had seen too many fights. The other, the metal one, rested on his thigh, still and inert.

You almost turned around. Almost. But something in your chest pulled tight, like a magnet snapping toward a polarity you couldn’t fight. And hell, you were tired of pretending to be careful.

So, you slid into the seat beside him. Close, but not too close. He didn’t look at you.

“You look like a man trying not to be recognized,” you said casually, glancing at the bartender and lifting two fingers for your usual.

His jaw twitched. “I’m not trying hard enough, then,” he muttered. His voice worn down by time and war.

“Should I pretend I don’t know who you are?”

That made him glance at you. His eyes - sharp, clear, and pale blue like the sky right before snowfall - met yours. “Might be nice,” he said.

You nodded and said nothing else. Not right away. You took your drink and sat in that moment, letting it settle around you. You didn’t pepper him with questions. You didn’t ask what it was like to be brainwashed or how many people he’d killed. You didn’t bring up Steve. Or Sokovia. Or the shield. You didn’t need to. The answers were all over his body.

He didn’t ask who you were either. But you could feel his eyes drift back to you more than once. Like he was waiting for the catch. Waiting for the play. When he shifted slightly, enough to turn toward you, his knee brushed yours. A soft, accidental contact - but he didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

Your drinks disappeared faster than usual. Neither of you were drinking to get drunk. Not really. It was a ritual. Something to hold in your hands while the rest of the night slipped through your fingers. You talked a little. Traded meaningless details. He said he’d been living in Brooklyn again. You said you worked too much. He said nothing about the Avengers. You said nothing about how sad his eyes looked.

His hair curled slightly at the ends from the rain. His lashes were long and damp. His lips were chapped. And even though he looked like hell, like he hadn’t slept right in months, there was a kind of brutal beauty to him. He wasn’t pretty. He was sharp. Ruined in places. And you were drawn to it like a moth to a fucking house fire.

“I’m not gonna be what you want,” he said, almost like a warning. Like he’d seen the look in your eyes before.

You raised your glass to your lips. “Who says I want anything?”

His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. More like a shadow of one. That was the closest he got to permission.

The walk to his place was quiet. You didn’t hold hands. You didn’t speak. He led, and you followed. When he unlocked the door to his building, you noticed the way he glanced over his shoulder. Still checking. Still expecting to be hunted.

His apartment was… hollow. No furniture besides the mattress and a small table with a single chair. No warmth. No color. Just function. Survival. A place to wait for something to come crashing down.

“This place is depressing as hell,” you said.

“It’s mine.”

Fair enough.

You pulled your jacket off, set it down on the only chair, and turned back to him. He hadn’t moved.

You crossed to him slowly, closing the space with something between recklessness and curiosity.

“You gonna kiss me,” you asked, “or just keep looking at me like I’m a question you don’t wanna answer?”

His hand reached for you - hesitant, at first - but when you didn’t pull away, he dragged you in like gravity. He kissed you like he needed it to breathe. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t tender.

It was feral. Hungry. It was a language neither of you had spoken in years but somehow remembered all the words to.

He stripped you slow, careful, like peeling back a wound. His lips left bruises on your neck. His metal hand stayed tentative at first - but when he saw you weren’t afraid, he used it. Gripped your hips. Spread your thighs. Held your throat just enough to feel your pulse.

When he fucked you, it wasn’t about dominance. It was about being seen. Known. Touched. It was about two people who didn’t believe in salvation but were still stupid enough to try and find it in each other’s skin.

You woke up alone.

Sunlight sliced through the dusty blinds. The sheets beside you were cold. His scent lingered, faint and stubborn. You sat up slowly, wincing at the ache in your thighs, the soreness in your lips.

He was gone.

Not a trace. Not a note. Just an empty room and a used condom in the trash. You wandered barefoot into the kitchen and found a napkin in the drawer. You wrote your number on it in smeared ink with the pen clipped to your keys.

You didn’t expect him to call. You didn’t expect anything.

But when you shut the door behind you, you hesitated. Just long enough to realize that something inside you had shifted. You knew what you were doing. You just didn’t know how far you’d fall.

II.

Two months passed before he called. No warning. Just: “Can I come over?”

It was 2:13 a.m.

Of course, you said yes.

That night, he fell asleep on your couch. He didn’t touch you. Just stared at the ceiling like it held all the names of the people he couldn’t save.

When he finally looked at you, his voice cracked. “You’re the only memory that’s not rotten.”

You touched his face. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“Then stop running from me,” you said.

He didn’t answer. He kissed you instead.

III.

The room itself smells like whiskey, sex, and regret. The tang of sweat still clings to the air. Last night’s chaos sits heavy on your skin. It’s always like this with him - hot, fast, and desperate - and the aftermath always tastes the same: bittersweet and choking.

You're still wearing his shirt - black, oversized, stretched at the collar where his fingers yanked it down. It swallows you, soft with too many washes, the hem brushing your thighs. It covers the bite on your collarbone, but the skin there still throbs, raw. You curl your knees up beneath you, folding in on yourself on the edge of the mattress. Bare legs brushing against a sheet that hasn’t been washed in at least a week. You know. You’ve laid here more than once.

He stands shirtless by the window, back to you, shoulders tense and wide. The metal of his arm catches the light. The rest of him is carved muscle and memory. A patchwork of scar tissue and silence. You can trace parts of him by heart. But there are still places, still stories, still years he doesn’t speak of - and maybe never will. Sometimes you think you don’t want to know.

His posture is rigid, like he’s bracing for something - another fight, another confession, another goodbye.

“You leaving?” he asks, voice low, like he hasn't spoken in hours.

You hesitate. The question hangs in the air like gunpowder. He doesn’t turn around. “Do you want me to?”

There’s a pause. You hear the hitch in his breath, just faintly. That does it. He shifts, and for a moment, you think he might speak again. Instead, he only glances back over his shoulder - eyes cutting through the dim like moonlight on deep water. They’re tired. Pale blue. Half-alive.

“You always come back,” he says.

His voice isn’t accusing. It’s not cruel. It’s almost...surprised. Like he hasn’t figured out why you keep doing it. Why you keep letting him ruin you. Why you keep letting him pretend you’re not what he needs.

You offer him the ghost of a smile. “Do I?”

A beat of silence stretches out between you - wide and sharp. You can feel the weight of last night still suspended in it. Not just the touch. Not just the heat. The ache. The loneliness that wraps around both of you like a shared noose.

You stand slowly, the mattress creaking beneath you. Your feet hit the cold floor, and the chill bleeds up your legs, into your gut. You walk barefoot across the room, wrapping the oversized shirt tighter around your frame like armor. Like if you hide enough of your skin, maybe he won’t see how much of you is showing. You stop just short of him, close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off his body in faint waves. But you don’t close the gap. Not yet.

Your voice is quiet. Firm. “Tell me to leave.”

He doesn’t.

You swallow. Throat tight. “Tell me this meant nothing.”

He can’t.

You study the slope of his back, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. You wonder if he’s angry. With you. With himself. Or if this is just what it looks like when a man is full of horror.

You lean in the smallest fraction. “You won’t,” you whisper.

Because he never does. Because he wants you here even when he swears he doesn’t. Because you’re a mirror - he looks at you and sees what he used to be. What he’ll never be again. And maybe he hates you for that. Maybe he loves you for it, too.

He inhales deeply. You can hear it - the way the breath shakes on the way in. Then he speaks. Low and broken. “You should’ve stayed gone.”

You lift your eyes to his, daring him to look away. “You should’ve let me.”

He turns his head just slightly, his gaze brushing yours like a match tip dragging over sandpaper - sparking, dangerous. He doesn’t touch you. But he doesn’t move away either. And that’s all the answer you need.

IV.

The overhead lights have long since burned out, and Bucky rarely replaces them. Says they’re too harsh. Instead, the room glows in half-measures - what little light there is comes from the thin lamp in the corner, flickering like it’s about to give up too. The record player crackles from the other side of the room, its needle skipping slightly before settling. You don’t know the song. It sounds like something from another century, a low, dusty wail that sits heavy in your bones. Something old and sad. Something perfect.

Bucky is in the kitchen, his back to you, moving like a man who’s fighting not to vanish into his own body. His shoulders are tense beneath the fabric of his shirt, his metal arm catching the light in flashes.

He pours two fingers of whiskey into a chipped glass. Doesn’t ask if you want one. Doesn’t look at you. Just sets the second glass down near your feet and walks away, sitting across from you with his legs bent, arms draped over his knees. His hands hang loose - flesh and steel both. He’s always somewhere else. Somewhere behind his eyes.

You take the glass. The whiskey is warm. Not from the drink, but from him - from his hands, from the heat he always pretends he doesn’t have. You take a sip and let it burn down your throat. It tastes like every night you’ve spent here. Bitter. Familiar.

He doesn’t speak for a long time. Just stares at the floor like he’s waiting for something to crawl out of it. Then - softly, without looking up - he asks, “You ever think about disappearing?”

You glance at him sideways. “You mean again?”

A pause. Then the faintest curl of his mouth, not quite a smile. “Yeah. Running. Like the first time. Just... gone. No explanations. No trail. Just - disappear.”

He says it like it’s easy. Like it’s a comfort he’s fantasized about so often that it feels like a plan.

You hold your glass tighter. “You’re not that man anymore.”

He lets out a low sound - not a laugh, but something close. Something bitter. He downs the rest of his drink in one swallow, jaw clenched. The ice clinks against the side of the glass when he sets it down, harder than necessary.

“Aren’t I?”

And there it is. The root of him. The rot. The guilt that never leaves. He says it like a challenge. Like he’s daring you to argue. Like he needs you to say he’s wrong - because he doesn’t believe it himself.

You don’t respond.

You can’t.

Because maybe he is still that man. Maybe he always will be. Maybe no amount of time or therapy or good intentions will ever erase what was done to him - or what he did. You look down at your hands, thumb running the edge of your glass. You’re not sure when it happened, but your pulse is beating hard. In your throat. Your wrists. Behind your ribs.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and stares into the dark like he’s trying to see through it. “Sometimes I think you deserve better,” he says. “Someone who doesn’t treat affection like a weapon. Someone who doesn’t turn soft things into sharp ones.”

“Then stop using me to feel something.”

His head jerks up. His jaw tightens. You see the twitch there, the pressure building behind his teeth. His hands curl slightly into fists on his knees.

“I never asked you to stay,” he says, and it’s too calm. Too measured.

You nod. “No. But you never ask me to leave either.”

That’s the story of the two of you, isn’t it? He never pulls you close, but he never pushes you away. He lets you drift in and out like a ghost - just real enough to ruin, never real enough to hold.

He drags a hand down his face, scrubbing at his eyes like he’s trying to erase something behind them. “You don’t get it,” he mutters. “I don’t know how to ask for things I want. I don’t know how to keep anything. Every time I care about someone, they get hurt.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Your voice is hoarse now. Barely above a whisper. “You think I don’t carry that with me every time I come back here?”

He breathes in slowly, then lets it out like it hurts. Then, quietly - so quietly it almost doesn’t reach you - he says, “You make me feel human.”

You freeze. Because you’ve heard him say a lot of things. But not that. You look at him. He’s hunched over, head bowed, like he’s ashamed of the confession. You’re afraid to speak. Afraid to move. Because if you do, he might take it back.

After a long, aching moment, you whisper, “Then stop treating me like your sin.”

And then he’s moving.

He crawls across the mattress, cups your face in one warm, trembling hand and crashes his mouth against yours. His metal arm braces against the floor beside you, grounding him. Grounding you.

The kiss is hard. Frantic. Like he’s trying to climb into your lungs, like he’s trying to pour all the feelings he’s never spoken into your mouth so you can carry them for him.

You kiss him back just as fiercely. Because you’ve been waiting. Because you’re angry, and scared, and so goddamn tired - but none of it matters when he’s this close. None of it matters when his hands are on your skin and his breath is filling your throat and you can feel the sharp edge of his desperation pressed against your hip.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp and presses his forehead to yours. You’re both breathing hard. Shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes.

“No, you’re not.”

He laughs. But it’s broken. Hollow. And then he kisses you again, and again, and again, and you let him. Because this is the only way you know how to speak the same language.

IV.

There’s a kind of love that leaves bruises under your ribs. Invisible bruises, hidden from the world, but every time you breathe, every time your heart thuds in your chest, you feel the ache. It is a slow-burning, internal ache that doesn’t fade. It’s the kind of love that isn’t gentle or safe. It’s a fierce, raw hunger, the kind that tears down walls and burns bridges in its wake. It’s a fire you don’t want to put out because it’s the only thing that keeps you warm.

That’s what this is.

Between you and him, it has always been like this.

You don’t reach the bed easily.

He lifts you as though it’s instinct, as though it’s muscle memory embedded in his very bones. His arms wrap around you with a strength that is both comforting and terrifying. The weight of him presses you down. Your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, the thin mattress dipping beneath you both. And before you can even catch your breath, his mouth is on yours again - fierce, demanding, like he never left.

His lips move with urgency, a mixture of hunger and desperation so intense it catches in your throat. Teeth clash, tongues seek, and his hands - one rough, one impossibly smooth and cold - travel over you, memorizing the curves, the dips, the places that only exist because you’re here.

Metal fingers dig hard into your hips, leaving marks you will find later when you wake up. His other hand threads through your hair, tangling and pulling with a possessiveness that surprises you every time. His breath is ragged, hot against your skin as he breathes your name like a prayer, like it’s the one thing he’s allowed to say that can still be beautiful.

“Tell me you hate me,” he rasps, voice breaking under the weight of everything.

Your nails rake down the muscles of his shoulders, biting into him with the sharpness of your frustration and desire. “You want it to hurt?” you whisper back.

His jaw tightens, muscles working beneath his skin. “Always.”

It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said, and it cuts you sharper than any blade.

In one fluid motion, he flips you over. There’s no violence in it - only certainty and necessity. Your breath catches in your throat as you land softly on your stomach, sheets twisting beneath you.

His weight presses down behind you, a warm and overwhelming presence that makes it impossible to move. One hand, the metal one, rests at the small of your back, steady and unyielding. The other clasps your hair at the nape of your neck - not pulling, just holding you still, keeping you grounded, tethered to this moment.

His mouth finds the delicate skin along your spine, pressing soft kisses that feel like both a benediction and a curse. You want to cry at the tenderness buried beneath the roughness, but instead, you moan - a low, ragged sound that escapes you unbidden.

His breath ghosts along your ear, every exhale a shiver that travels down your spine. “I dreamt of you,” he murmurs, voice barely audible, raw and confessional. “Back in Wakanda. Before I ever met you.”

You swallow thickly, the words hitting you in a place you didn’t know was waiting to be touched. “You weren’t even real,” he continues, voice cracking, “but you were always there. Just out of reach.”

You want to turn, to meet his eyes and demand what it means. But before you can, he moves, pushing your legs apart with slow, deliberate care.

Then he takes you. Completely. Every inch of him presses inside you like a verdict. He fills you with a need so raw, so pure, that your body trembles in response. His hips move slow and sure, dragging a guttural sound from deep in your throat. You bite the pillow to hide the way you cry out, the way your voice breaks beneath him.

His hands never lose their hold - one tangled in your hair, the other anchoring your hip, thumb pressing into your skin with an intensity that says this moment matters.

He moves with a rhythm that is almost ritualistic - steady, measured, as if the world could fall apart around you both and this moment would still hold meaning. He wants to burn himself into your memory, to anchor himself in a body that refuses to forget.

You think maybe he’s trying to save himself through you.

You clench around him, tears threatening, burning behind your eyes.

He ruins you slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to pull every ounce of feeling from you so that maybe, just maybe, he’ll feel something too.

You bite your lip so hard it tastes like iron.

You twist your head just enough to catch his face in the low light.

His eyes are wet.

And that’s what breaks you.

You come with a cry that tears through your chest, muscles trembling, legs shaking beneath him.

He follows seconds later, shuddering with a noise so raw and broken that it feels like the end of the world and the beginning all at once.

His body collapses against yours, chest pressed to your back, still inside you, still holding on.

He doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t let go.

Instead, he rests his forehead against the curve of your shoulder, breathing hard, every shudder of his chest syncing with the rise and fall of your breath. You can feel the steady beat of his heart through his skin, steady and sure.

His hand slides slowly around your waist, fingers splayed wide, tracing the ribs beneath your skin, counting the rise and fall of your chest.

You lie there for what feels like forever, but you don’t move. You don’t speak. You just exist - wrapped around each other in the fragile space between chaos and calm.

He’s the first to break the silence.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he whispers. The words are fragile, almost breaking beneath their own weight. They slip out like a secret spilled in the dark, desperate and honest.

You turn your head, brushing your lips softly against his temple, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.

“Then stop choosing it,” you say.

You stay pressed together, two broken souls holding onto something fragile, something worth fighting for. Because with him, love has never been easy. It’s never been kind. But it’s real. And sometimes, that’s enough.

V.

You wake to silence.

The morning light filters gently through the curtains, casting soft gold across the kitchen counter. There, tucked beneath a mug, is a note. The handwriting is rough, familiar.

Be here when I get back?

You blink, heart tightening for a moment. But this time, the words don’t sting. There’s no finality here. No coldness.

You fold the note carefully and tuck it into your pocket, feeling the weight of it like a promise.

You shower, letting the warm water wash away the tangled ache of last night, the uncertainty. You slip into your favorite jeans, the ones he said looked good on you. You glance at the shirt lying crumpled on the floor and then smile softly.

You pour yourself a cup of coffee and settle into the worn couch, the quiet filled with possibility. Because this time, you know he’ll come back.

And you’ll be waiting.

[rorysverse]

RORY \ 25 + \ SHE , HER

fic writer. <3 i like dark fics , slow burns , age gaps - all the juicy stuff.

ao3.

fic info : readers are fem!based though i try to avoid gendering reader if possible, minimal if any use of y/n, 18+ requests : open!