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osarina · 3 days ago

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ᡣ𐭩 I'LL TAKE A QUIET LIFE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you didn't mean for things to turn out the way they did—you swear you really didn't. but when a certain someone decides to provoke you when you're trying to do the right thing… well. things take a turn for the worse. all you wanted was to peacefully borrow dazai for his birthday, whisking him away for a one-week getaway from the city and work, but you know how dazai is, and you couldn't risk any of his coworkers letting something slip. so, now, instead of a nice peaceful surprise and maintaining relations with the agency, you've had to resort to kidnapping. again. you'll make the most of it anyway.

(word count: 13.2k, fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, dazai-typical suicide mentions, past suicide attempts referenced, oral (male receiving), a bit of face fucking, unprotected sex, a little overstimulation, minor implied ptsd episode/grieving (reader))

AUTHOR'S NOTES: HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYY TO THE CUTEST BOY IN THE WHOLEEE WORLD WAHHHHHHH take a cute little post-canon fic for the big day<33 i am so proud of how this fic came out. before you read, i do want you guys to take note that there's a bit of a time jump—i have this fic set around 5-6 months after the ada-pm swap fic. i have a lot to say about this fic so maybeee come back up here at the end to read this because there are some spoilers for it ... this is ur last warning ....... ANYWAY, so as you all know (even though you have no faith in me) pmreader universe DOES have a happy ending. to get to that happy ending, the biggest hurdle that needs to be crossed is what was addressed in one of the more recent pmreader fics (i think i've seen this love before): dazai struggles to find a reason to live. i can't really see him marrying pmreader when he still feels so hopeless about himself/living, for HER sake more than his mind you, because he knows he's very fickle with life and doesn't want to marry her and then leave her behind. so i do think that this is a necessary step to the happy ending: dazai needs to acknowledge that he does see himself having a future with her & their relationship gives him a reason to wake up in the morning. now, this of course doesn't take away from his depression—i dont want any of you to misunderstand and i dont think you will, but i just want to make it clear that him acknowledging this doesn't take away from his depression. it's something that i headcanon dazai struggles with his whole life, but i think this is a necessary step to the happy ending. also on another note, pmreader !!! i hope her whole thing doesn't feel like it comes out of the blue. once they get together again at age 22, i hc that the first few months of their relationship are so chaotic that neither of them can fully come to terms with their situation, and once she does, she really does begin to doubt things. because of course she loves him, and she wants him to feel like he's fulfilled odasaku's last request so he can feel better about himself, but she starts to feel like her presence in his life might be holding him back. so those lingering doubts + her doing something that reminds her of a past she can't remember puts her in a rlly vulnerable space. AND I THINK I CONVEYED IT WELL, but i just like explaining. ANYWAY if you guys got this far, i love you, thank u for entertaining my rambly thoughts

Dazai is over three hours late to work, but in his defense, it’s his birthday, and not even Kunikida is cruel enough to scold Dazai on his birthday. Still, he very much expects dirty looks from the man, and maybe a few loud comments about his terrible work ethic, but that’s just Kunikida. If he wasn’t giving Dazai dirty looks and making loud comments, Dazai would be concerned.

Which is why when he steps into the office at half past twelve and is met with dead silence, Dazai knows something is wrong. He shuts the door quietly behind him and looks around warily, trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s no sign of forced entry or any fighting—there’s an untouched stack of papers in the waiting area that he assumes are from a new client, and a hot coffee still steaming next to it.

It’s all so unassuming, it’s what he expects coming into work, but it’s too quiet. He can’t hear Naomi bothering Tanizaki, he can’t hear Yosano complaining about the stick up Kunikida’s ass or Kunikida promptly scolding her for her language, he can’t hear Kyouka, Kenji, and Atsushi chatting away whenever Kunikida is pulled away by something. There’s no furious typing from the clerks as they fix all of the mistakes in the reports being filed, and there’s no sighing when they think they finish, only to realize that there’s another report, likely one of Dazai’s, waiting for them to edit.

It’s too quiet, and that’s how Dazai knows something is seriously wrong.

When he steps into the office, he almost expects nobody to be there—maybe they were all called out to some emergency mission, and Dazai is going to have to race to catch up with them.

What he doesn’t expect is finding his coworkers all sitting stiffly and silently in their seats, and a heavy Port Mafia presence all over the room. Hirotsu is leaning against the far back wall, a cigarette dangling between his lips, Gin is hanging over Haruno, carelessly playing with one of her knives, and Tachihara is trying to convince Atsushi to play a game of cards with him as if Akutagawa isn’t looming right behind him.

If it were just the Black Lizards, Dazai thinks that they’d probably fight back, but naturally, the red-headed slug is here too, leaning up against the wall with Hirotsu, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. Dazai’s eyes narrow when Chuuya gives him a smirk that’s far too smug, but the insult on his lips dies when his eyes land on the last person in the room.

You’re sitting on top of his desk, a pretty smile on your lips and a glitter in your eyes that promises no good. You look beautiful, and Dazai’s chest feels all warm and fuzzy—he hasn’t seen you in a few weeks now because you’ve been abroad dealing with pressure from some foreign organizations, and he didn’t think you’d be back for his birthday. He’s so enamored by the sight of you that he almost doesn’t catch the glint of metal on your lap or the way Kunikida is sitting tense at his desk next to where you’re lounging.

“Hey,” you say easily, like there isn’t a gun in your lap pointed at his coworker, safety off, finger firm on the trigger, ready to pull it at a moment’s notice. “Happy birthday.”

“What-” Dazai starts to say, baffled, but flinches when he feels something prick his neck, head snapping to the side to focus on a vaguely familiar figure now standing at his side—your new subordinate, Dazai can’t remember his name.

Whatever he injected Dazai with works fast, because he’s instantly dizzy, his gaze blurring, and his head all woozy. Just as his knees start to give out, he feels the kid grab under his arms to make sure he doesn’t hit the ground, and he hears you say proudly: “This is a kidnapping.”

---------

In your defense, you really did try to talk things out peacefully with the Armed Detective Agency before resorting to this.

You weren’t planning on kidnapping Dazai, but you knew he probably didn’t call out of work, and the last thing you needed was to be scolded by Mori for causing any more tension between the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia if they realized that you were the reason Dazai didn’t show up to work.

Things have been rocky on both sides since the failed transfer—the Agency because the Port Mafia dared to take one of their own, and the Port Mafia because the Agency reneged on their deal and took their member back—but you can’t afford for things to be rocky when things are still incredibly unstable. So instead of just picking up Dazai and leaving for a few days and possibly pissing off the Agency for not giving them any forewarning, you decided to do the right thing and tell them before disappearing with one of their detectives.

Except the President of the Agency isn’t in town. So, you were stuck dealing with that bullheaded blonde who clearly still holds a grudge over the incident with Pushkin and he decided to act on his grudge by making your life as difficult as possible.

All too smugly, he refused to give Dazai leave for the week because they have an emergency case that needs all hands on deck, and when you offered up Klaus to replace him, much to the boy’s abject horror, he refused. Then you offered up Klaus and Akutagawa, and he still refused. You even proposed giving them Chuuya for the week, and that wasn’t enough, so that’s when you realized he was just being difficult to be petty.

And you doubt the man actually would’ve forced Dazai to miss out on time with you on his birthday, Dazai is his friend and he’s not that much of an asshole. He probably would've okay'd it as soon as Dazai showed up to the office, but he was clearly just trying to be a pain in your ass. And well, you didn’t take that kindly, obviously, so all thoughts of preserving the fragile peace went out the window as you quite promptly demanded all hands on deck for a possible conflict because you were not going to let Kunikida Doppo keep that smug expression on his face for a second longer.

Was Chuuya happy about it? No, you could tell when he gave you a side eye after he showed up, but you knew he wasn’t going to sit by and let the Agency get one over you. So, he was content to stand there as a looming threat, because you were pretty sure that the Black Lizards weren’t going to be enough to scare the Agency into backing down, but the threat of Nakahara Chuuya splattering one of their own against the wall so that there was nothing left for their doctor to revive was more than enough to keep them down.

The Black Lizards and Akutagawa didn’t have the authority to question your orders, and Klaus was more than willing to spill blood at any given moment, so the only thing you have left to worry about is Mori, and you’ll deal with that once you get back from your getaway with Dazai. If Chuuya’s feeling nice, he’ll probably handle it for you, but you don’t think he’s pleased with how you offered him up like a bargaining chip to the Agency.

Your lips curve up into a smile when Klaus tosses Dazai over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Was drugging him unnecessary? Probably, but you didn’t want to deal with his smug ass making comments about the lengths you go to so that you can steal him away for the week the whole way up to the house you and Chuuya bought on the coastline of Hokkaido. It wasn’t just for Dazai—it was your own pride on the line too, it was the principle.

As you motion for Klaus to bring Dazai out to the car, you rise to your feet and look down at Kunikida. You place your gun under his chin to tilt his head up so that he’s looking up at you; he swallows thickly as he glances down at where your finger is still resting on the trigger, throat bobbing before he glowers at you. You give him a too-sweet smile.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” you say, very pleased with yourself. You look back at Chuuya, signalling him to come with you as you put your gun away and start to make your way out of the Agency. You lift your hand in a lazy wave before saying, “I’ll bring him back in a few days.”

It’s only when the door to the Agency shuts behind you that he finally speaks to you, hands shoved in his pockets as he says dryly, “Mori specifically told us not to antagonize the Agency over the next few weeks.”

“The Agency antagonized me,” you reply airily. “It would’ve been a terrible look for us if we let them walk all over us and come out unscathed. There are already too many rumors circulating in the East about us being weak after the Guild Incident, and now, Dostoevsky, the failed transfer, and the Clocktower—preserving our reputation is more important than relations with the Agency.”

Chuuya barks out a laugh. “You can twist anything to fit your narrative, can't you? If you weren’t an executive, you’d make a great lawyer.”

You raise your eyebrows, unfazed. “It’s not twisting if it’s the truth.”

He scoffs, muttering something under his breath before shaking his head as he holds the door to the cafe open for you. “Right. Next time you decide to ‘preserve our reputation’ through a diplomatic disaster, at least give me a damn warning first.”

“There’s no fun in that,” you say with an easy smile. “Will you deal with Mori while I’m gone?”

“You’re shameless,” Chuuya tells you flatly. “No, I’m not dealing with Mori. You just tried to pawn me off to the Agency like a fucking mule. You can deal with him.”

“Please.” You flutter your eyelashes at him, pushing your lip out in a pout that has him rolling his eyes. You scowl and then offer, “I’ll take over your mission in Sapporo when I get back.”

“Deal,” Chuuya agrees immediately, reaching out to open the car door for you. You slide inside, and he shuts the door behind you; you immediately roll the window down. He gives you a sharp smile, resting his arms on the car door and leaning in. “I would’ve dealt with him either way.”

“I know because you’re a sucker,” you reply, raising your eyebrows and giving him an equally sharp smile. “I just thought I’d be nice and offer you something in return.”

Chuuya clicks his tongue sharply as he leans back. He stands up straight and gives you a side eye. “Bitch,” he mutters, but there’s a fond smile on his lips. “Enjoy your week with that bastard, you’re gonna be in for hell with Mori once you get back.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” you say dryly, turning to the side as Klaus opens the door to toss Dazai into the car. Literally. “Jesus, Klaus, be a bit more careful with him.”

“No.” Klaus says and then sneers down at Dazai before slamming the door shut behind him.

You shake your head and adjust Dazai into a more comfortable position. He should be out for at least two or three hours—you aren’t quite sure, he’s always had a freaky metabolism, but you don’t know if it’s gotten faster or slower in the four years he was gone. You rest his head in your lap, brushing his hair out of his face. You’ve missed him a lot; you’ve barely been able to see him at all the past few weeks because you’ve been so busy, and your chest aches just at the sight of him in your lap. You turn your gaze back up to the window to find Chuuya staring at you in disgust. Klaus is there too, scowling.

“What is your problem with him?” you ask the boy, giving him a weird look. “You’ve hardly even met him before now.”

“I don’t like him,” Klaus replies, raising his chin.

You stare at him in disbelief, but Klaus only huffs and stalks off, likely to cause chaos elsewhere. Chuuya snorts in amusement, trying to muffle a laugh as he turns his face away. You roll your eyes and fling your hand up dismissively. Klaus has always had something up his ass about Dazai, you never understood why. You’ve learned better than to question what runs through that boy’s head.

“You should get going,” Chuuya says, stepping back from the window. “The jet’s waiting for you.”

“Right,” you agree, stretching your arms and then resting your hand on Dazai’s forehead, fingers carding absently through his hair. “Thanks, Chuuya.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies dryly, turning his back to the car to walk over to where he’d parked his motorcycle. He lifts his hand up in a lazy wave. “See you next week.”

“See you next week.”

---------

Dazai wakes up to the whole world shaking. His heart rate spikes as he shoots up, disoriented and confused. His hand flies to his head, blinking hard to try to clear his blurry vision. He doesn’t even really remember what happened. He remembers waking up late for work and feeling smug because Kunikida couldn’t scold him because it’s his birthday, and he remembers…

Oh.

You.

Dazai glances around, trying to figure out where the hell he is. He’s laying on a white couch in a small room… or, this isn’t a room, is it? There’s a window next to him. Dazai squints at the sudden bright light that blinds him, but he shifts closer to the window so he can look out of it.

He is in the air.

Dazai blanches when he realizes that he’s in a plane. It must be close to landing because the ground is much closer than he expected. He doesn’t recognize the area—there doesn’t seem to be any big cities nearby, only forests and the ocean, so he’s not really sure where you’re bringing him.

He pushes himself out of his seat, stumbling a bit before he catches himself. Whatever you injected him with was strong, but at least now he has something he can whine and complain about. Maybe he’ll be able to convince you to make him the sweet buns you tried baking a few times back when you two were teenagers. You never liked the way they came out, but Dazai had been obsessed with them and was thoroughly upset when you refused to make them every time he asked.

He salivates a bit at the thought and decides to get a head start on his guilt tripping, making his way over to where you’re sitting. A smile unconsciously pulls at his lips when he sees you sitting a few seats away. Your back is facing him, but he can see you’re focused on your computer, typing furiously with earbuds plugged in your ears. He stumbles once more before kneeling on the seat behind yours, draping himself lazily over the back of it to rest his chin on the top of your head.

His lips part to make a complaint when he pauses, gaze focusing on what exactly it is that you’re doing on your laptop.

Are you on a… video call?

Dazai stares at the screen blankly, recognizing the several faces staring right back at him. Leo Tolstoy looks unbearably amused when he sees Dazai in the frame of the camera, hiding a smile with his hand. An older man who Dazai realizes is Carlo Goldoni raises his eyebrows, lips twitching. Mishima Yukio casually rubs at his lips, pretending he’s not smiling. There are three others, two men and a woman who Dazai doesn’t recognize—they must be new allies of the Port Mafia.

Well, Dazai thinks awkwardly, staring at the screen as he realizes that he just interrupted a meeting between you and several mob bosses. He doesn’t bother moving now, they’ve already seen him, and you don’t seem bothered, considering you don’t immediately shove his face out of view of the camera.

“I’ll contact you all when I’m available again to speak next week,” you say after a moment. “Thank you for meeting.”

You exit the call without waiting for them to answer, taking out the earbuds from your ears. Dazai lifts his chin when he feels you turning your head to look up at him. He gives you a sheepish smile.

“Did I interrupt?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you reply. “We’re almost here anyway.”

Dazai shuffles around to sit across from you, resting his arms on the table and his head on top of them. He looks up at you, eyes still a bit droopy from whatever you drugged him with. Your lips curl up into a soft smile, and warmth spreads through Dazai’s chest at the sight of it. His cheeks heat up, so he hides them in his arms and peeks up at you. The smile on your lips becomes a bit fonder, you place your arms on the table, mimicking him, and then rest your head down like he did, peeking up at him the same way as he is at you.

It’s a simple action. A nothing action, really. You’re just mimicking him. Teasing him for being flustered. He doesn’t know why his chest suddenly feels like it's about to cave in. He doesn’t know why he suddenly wants to cry. He doesn’t know why he’s so suddenly and violently reminded of how much he loves you.

Maybe it’s just because he’s missed you these past few weeks.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper.

A lump that’s shaped suspiciously like his heart forms in his throat as he looks up at you. He hides his smile behind his arms and says quietly, “You kidnapped me.” Then adds belatedly, “Again.”

“I did,” you agree, eyes glittering with amusement. “It’s a bit of a tradition now, don’t you think?”

“Where are we going?” he asks curiously, hand creeping forward to try to grab yours. He pokes your arm twice; you raise your eyebrows before realizing what he wants and putting your hand in his. Dazai’s fingers slide to your wrist to press against your pulse, feeling the familiar, even thrums and matching his own heartrate to to them.

“To a foreign countryside so I can kill you and dump your body,” you say without pause.

Dazai snorts, lifting your hand to his lips so he can kiss your palm, lashes fluttering shut when your fingers brush over his cheekbone. He says dreamily, “A woman after my own heart.”

“You’re such a freak,” you say fondly.

“Your freak,” he corrects with a flirty smile before setting your joined hands back down on the table. “I can’t believe you kidnapped me again. And drugged me. I still feel a bit woozy, y’know? How are you going to make it up to me?”

“A one week escape from work isn’t enough?” you ask dryly.

“Nope,” he agrees, popping the ‘p’. “How about you make me those sweet buns you used to make this week? I haven’t had them in ages, I miss them.”

You squint at him, leaning back in your seat but leaving your hand in his. “Maritozzi?” you ask, and Dazai faintly recognizes the name from back then, so he nods. “What flavor?”

Dazai pauses and then asks, “Strawberry? Or lemon?”

“Both?” you offer.

His eyes widen slightly. He didn’t expect you to give in so quickly. Back when you guys were teenagers, he’d whine and ask you to make them and it would turn into a six hour argument of him insisting that he deserves them and you refusing him.

“That was easier than I expected,” he admits sheepishly.

“It’s your birthday,” you say like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Again, Dazai’s heart flutters, and he squeezes your hand gently. “The first one we’ve celebrated together in four years. We can stop to get the ingredients on the way to the house.”

The house. Where is it that you’re taking him? Dazai’s mind bounces around with potential answers—far enough that you had to take him on a plane, but not so far that he’s just woken up and its already begun its descent. Dazai has a quick metabolism and a high tolerance for most drugs. You know this and probably would’ve accounted for it, but there’s a large margin of error. You don’t know if his metabolism has gotten quicker or slower over the years apart, and you don’t know if his tolerance has weakened, so you probably didn’t want to risk pushing the dosage anymore than you would’ve four years ago.

Which probably puts the time at… four hours after you injected him? Which would make sense from the position of the sun in the sky. Probably took forty minutes from injection to take off between getting him here and getting everything settled. So a three hour flight? About? Where would that leave you guys? Seoul? No, it couldn’t be—there were no cities anywhere in sight. One of the northern islands then?

“You didn’t answer my question,” he whines. “Where are we going?”

You hesitate for a moment like you don’t want to tell him, but he pouts and widens his eyes in the way that always makes you give in. You roll your eyes at him exagerratedly, and he gives you a sweet smile in response.

“A property up in Hokkaido,” you finally say. Dazai is smug, realizing his deductions were right, until you continue speaking. “It’s near a small village. Pretty. Me and Chuuya scoped it out and bought it a couple of months ago just to have.”

What. Dazai stares at you blankly, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion, unsure why he suddenly closed off. He narrows his eyes at you, willing away the bitterness that suddenly swells in his chest. It’s sharp and sour, and he definitely doesn’t like it, but when he tries to push it away, it only intensifies.

“You bought property with Chuuya,” he asks flatly. “You’re taking me to a property that you bought with the slug.”

You roll your eyes. “Stop that,” you say immediately. “I’m taking you to a property that I scoped out because I wanted to bring you here. Chuuya jumped on and offered to pay for half because he wanted a place to escape to outside the city.”

Dazai squints at you, and you raise your eyebrows challengingly. He immediately huffs and looks away, stomach lurching when the plane begins the final part of the descent to the ground. He decides to change the subject instead of pressing, maybe he’ll whine about it some more later.

“So,” he says slowly, voice dropping just enough to catch your attention from the way you tilt your head to the side. “You’ve kidnapped me away from the Agency… to bring me to a house in the middle of nowhere… and decided not to tell me about it until now…”

You hum in response, eyes narrowing, and Dazai leans closer over the table separating the two of you, lips curling up into a lecherous smirk that has you rolling your eyes. You already know what’s coming, but you must let him have his fun on his birthday.

“And we’ll be there for… how long again?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, seemingly intent on staring out the window. “A week.”

Dazai whistles, leaning back in his seat again. His eyes rove over you—it's been a hot minute since the two of you have been able to do anything intimate. He hasn’t even seen you in a few weeks. And before that, most days, you’re either too exhausted or he’s too in his own head about things to get in the mood. But this… Seven days. No work. No people interrupting. No reason to spiral in his own head. His lips unconsciously pull into another small smile, teeth scraping his tongue as his gaze lingers on the top few buttons of your dress shirt—they’re undone, just low enough for him to see a hint of…

You clear your throat. Dazai’s gaze snaps back up to your face. He gives you an innocent smile that makes you roll your eyes at him again.

“Pervert,” you accuse.

“Yeah,” Dazai breaths out, voice a bit raspy as he lifts your hand back to his lips. He kisses your knuckles and then the inside of your wrist, gaze flickering back up to your eyes. “I’m going to take advantage of this week.”

The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting off a smile. “Oh, I counted on it.”

Dazai lets go of your wrist when the plane lands. He watches you tuck your hand back into your lap, pulling your phone out to shoot a text to someone before sliding it back into your pocket. His eyes stay on you as the plane rolls to a stop, watching the way the sunlight dances across your cheekbones. You look beautiful—always do—but you’ll look more beautiful tonight when he has you underneath him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you tell him flatly as you rise to your feet. Dazai follows after you, standing too close, and when he leans down to ghost his lips to your neck, you swat at his head, but he immediately dodges and then drapes himself over your shoulders obnoxiously. “Osamu.”

Dazai lets his full body weight rest on you. You stumble forward, trying to walk toward the exit of the plane, but fail miserably because you’re dragging his dead weight with you. His lips curl up into a smile when he hears your frustrated groan, arms tightening around you.

“Get off of me, you freak,” you complain. “Walk on your own.”

“But I’m still so woozy,” he sighs dramatically. “You drugged me, take accountability and carry me to the car before I pass out and hit my head and die on my birthday. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

He pouts against your skin, nipping your neck for a second before resting his forehead in the crook of it, right next to the small mark he just left. Vision obscured, he misses the way you motion for the pilot, who had come out to lower the steps to the ground, to grab him until he feels two hands around his waist lifting him off the ground. Dazai yelps and flails, trying to figure out what exactly just happened, and blanches when he realizes he’s being held princess style by a grown man.

“Watanabe-san, please make sure Osamu makes it down the steps safely. We wouldn’t want him to pass out and hit his head and die on his birthday, would we?” you say with a sweet smile.

“Of course not, hime,” the man replies gruffly.

Mortified, Dazai tries to worm out of the man’s arms, but his grip is too tight. He looks at you, betrayed, but you’re only fighting giggles as you make your way over to the car waiting on the tarmac, leaving him in the arms of this man.

By the time he makes it to the sleek black car waiting for the two of you, Dazai’s face is flaming red. The moment he’s placed on the ground, he throws himself into the car and turns his back to you. You laugh and climb in after him, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

“I hate you,” he whines.

“I love you too.”

---------

Dazai naps once the two of you get to the house, so you focus on getting everything together to make the maritozzi in the morning. You don’t really like making it—the pastries make you upset. Or, well, it’s not the pastries that make you upset, but the fact that every time you make them, you get this strange, aching feeling in your chest—a sense of deja vu so strong that it nearly brings you to your knees.

Your hands always remember what to do, even when your mind doesn’t. You knead the dough with a practiced ease that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. You know exactly how much flour to dust on the board, how warm the milk should be, how to press your thumb into the dough to check if it’s ready.

It’s muscle memory, maybe.

You sigh as you rest your hands on the kitchen counter. You plan to start baking in the morning, but you already feel that… odd feeling spreading through you, both sharp and tender at the same time. A homesickness for a place you can’t name. Grief for people you don’t remember. It happens every time: a flicker of something just out of reach. A child’s gleeful laugh, a pair of warm hands guiding yours, a whispered promise that isn’t kept.

You lay your head in your arms for a moment, eyes sliding shut. You can never get the maritozzi right, regardless of how hard you try. You don’t know what you’re doing wrong, or even what’s wrong with them at all, but you know it’s not right. You hate making them. Each time, you can’t help the hope that swells in your chest that maybe this time will be different. Maybe you’ll get it right.

Each time you’re disappointed.

And yet, here you are again trying.

The things you do for love.

You feel a familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind, hands slipping beneath your shirt. Dazai drapes himself over your back, pinning you to the counter. He sighs softly as he kisses the nape of your neck and your shoulder before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you whisper softly, a smile pulling on your lips as you lift a hand to rest it on the top of his head. You feel his heartbeat thrumming against your back, and his fingers tracing absent patterns on your stomach. “You were tired.”

“You’ve been away for a few weeks,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your neck. You feel him yawn before nuzzling his face against your skin, eyes sliding shut. “I wasn’t sleeping well.”

“My apologies,” you say with faux remorse. “How dare I go away for work and mess up your sleeping schedule.”

He hums in agreement. “A crime worthy of capital punishment, honestly,” he says, and you feel him smile softly, kissing your neck again. You let out a breathy sigh and instinctively tilt your head to the side to give him more room. “I had to sleep without my favorite pillow. You know, the soft, warm, breathing one that makes cute little noises when I kiss her neck.”

“Oh, shut up,” you scowl, but the expression quickly fades when you feel him trailing slow kisses up your neck, deliberately lingering just below your ear.

“How are you ever going to make it up to me?” he whispers playfully before he nips your skin.

You ignore his noise of complaint when you shift in his arms so that you can face him, resting your hands on his hips as you look up at him through your lashes. You give him a sweet smile before saying, “I can think of a few ways.”

“Oh yeah,” Dazai drawls, lips curling up into a lazy smirk as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt again. “Is this the part where you beg for forgiveness?”

“Oh?” you hum, leaning in to ghost your lips against his jaw, kissing slowly to his ear as you murmur, “You want me to beg?”

He lets out a soft groan when you nip his skin. “I want you to convince me you’re sorry for leaving me to suffer all alone,” he corrects, breathing a little heavier when you start to kiss down the column of his throat. His voice catches over his words as you slide down the sweatpants he changed into and lower yourself to your knees in front of him. “Oh, fuck.”

“You poor thing,” you say softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his hip bone. “All alone for weeks. I bet you were just aching without me.”

“I—” His voice breaks into a groan as your mouth trails lower down the line of his ‘v’, lashes fluttering as he rests his hands back onto the counter and glances up at the ceiling before looking back down at you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them before. “You have no idea.”

“I think I have an idea,” you say more to yourself than to him, a teasing smile playing at your lips as you finally lift your hand to stroke his leaky cock. His hips jerk instinctively, he twitches in your hand like he’s already on the verge of finishing, and you lift your gaze. His chest is heaving, pink lips swollen and parted, head tilted back as he looks up at the ceiling again, desperately trying to gain control of himself.

God, you love him. You’ve loved him for years, since you were sixteen, even if you only started acknowledging the depths of your feelings for him when you were eighteen. He was always so flighty and unpredictable, you never expected one day he’d be yours the way he is now. You’ll never let him go now. You’ve missed him these past few weeks apart much more than you realized.

“I would do terrible things for you, Osamu,” you tell him softly, running your thumb over his tip just so you can hear the way he keens. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” he pants. You’re not even sure if he fully hears what you say, already lost in the haze of pleasure, and you don’t really care. “Please.”

You don’t look away from him for a second as you take his tip into your mouth, flattening your tongue against his slit to lap up all of the precum that had beaded there. He lets out a ragged groan, but you can’t see his face, so you lift your hand to grab one of his and tug to get his attention.

His head falls forward, bangs falling in his eyes as he looks down at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he breathes heavily, gaze entirely unfocused as need quickly fogs and dismantles the cogs of his quick brain. Having gotten what you wanted, you try to slip your hand free to hold his hips again, but his grip on your hand tightens, refusing to let go.

You hum softly, entwining your fingers with his instead as you slowly take him deeper into your mouth. His eyes half-roll back when his tip hits the back of your throat and your tongue presses against the vein on the underside of his cock. He almost lets his head fall back again, but your grip on his hand keeps him grounded to you. Even as fucked out as he is with his cock deep down your throat and your nails tracing patterns on his inner thighs, he manages to keep his gaze mostly locked to yours.

“I—haaah, fuck—you feel s’good,” he slurs, free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. He lets you set the pace, and you pick a slow and steady one that you know kills him. You want to see how long he can last before he snaps. “I—so many nights…”

His sentences are garbled and mostly unintelligible. It makes you happy—you’re glad he lets his brain shut off when he’s with you like this. He used to try so hard to maintain control that you could tell it was stressing him out when he was supposed to be feeling good, but he doesn’t bother with the pretenses anymore, letting everything crumble away the moment he has you in bed with him. Or, in this case, in the middle of the kitchen.

You can’t respond, so you resign to letting out a soft hum of acknowledgment; the vibrations make him whimper, cock twitching in your mouth as he gnaws on his bottom lip, desperately trying not to cum so quickly. You can feel his thighs tense beneath your touch as holds himself back from fucking your face.

Your gaze traces his face, catching sight of the red flush of his cheeks, his wet lips, the way his expression is all twisted—he’s so pretty, so you decide to have a bit of mercy on him.

Plus, it is still his birthday after all.

You lift your hand to tap his hip twice, signaling to him that he can take control if he wants, and the effect is immediate. His eyes snap open fully, glassy and wild with need, and then he moves.

His grip on your hand tightens just a bit, and the hand on the back of your head slips down to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips, tracing how they’re stretched around his cock. He rocks his hips forward once—slowly, like he’s testing the waters, worried that you might change your mind, but you stay still and pliant, looking up at him through your lashes imploringly.

“Fuck,” he breathes out again. “Love you. So good to me. Always been so good to me.”

He thrusts again, this time deeper, more sure of himself, and you relax your throat for him, letting him set the rhythm. It's not rough or frantic—not yet—just a slow, needy grind of someone who’s waited for this too long. His hand slides back to cup the back of your head as he starts to pick up the pace; you gag a little on his cock, eyes tearing up, but you squeeze his hand encouragingly, telling him silently to continue. To give you more.

He does.

He rolls his hips forward sharply, cock thrusting deeper, harder, and you take it, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as your throat stretches around him. His thighs tremble under your hands, breath ragged as he fucks your throat. The noises in the kitchen—his low groans, the way you’re choking on his cock, each wet, sloppy thrust into your mouth—it makes your head all foggy, heat pooling in your lower stomach.

His free hand comes back to your jaw, thumb swiping at the drool spilling from the corner of your mouth before he squeezes your cheeks gently to feel his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. Your jaw aches, your throat burns, and still, you stay there, tears spilling freely down your cheeks, because he’s close. You can feel it. His thigh tenses under your palm, his fingers tighten around yours, his rhythm stutters and takes a more erratic turn, and his voice breaks on your name, groans shifting into pitched moans.

“Haah,” he gasps, hips jerking. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, please, please, baby, I—I’m gonna—”

Your nose is flush to his pubic hair as he cums deep down your throat—his cum tastes so familiar, too salty, after all of these years, he still hasn’t taken your advice of a better diet. Hazily, you remind yourself to scold him about it later, but right now, you’re too focused on trying not to choke over him, swallowing the copious amounts of cum he spilled into your mouth as he trembles above you violently, still feeling the aftershocks of the intense orgasm.

When he finally pulls out, he drops to his knees in front of you, hands cupping your cheeks as he leans in, kissing you deeply. He kisses you like he’s trying to devour you—claim you, even, like he hasn’t already, like you haven’t been his since the moment the two of you met. His breath is uneven, chest heaving, and there’s a flicker of something wild in his eyes as he pulls back to look at you, eyes roving over you. His eyes slide shut again as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, hands sliding down to your sides as he ghosts his lips against yours. “God, you’re everything. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You lift your hands to cup his cheeks, pressing your lips to his again. You toy with the tips of his hair as your lips slide messily against his, letting out a soft moan when his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling your body flush to his. His hands dip lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts, and you smile against his lips.

“I’m not fucking you on the kitchen floor,” you say, leaning back slightly. He chases your lips to kiss you again, a hazy smile on his lips as he gives you a half-lidded look.

“It would be hot though,” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip before letting out a low groan against your skin, dragging his lips from your jaw to your ear. You let out a shaky breath when his fingers slide down to your panties, pressing his finger down on your clit through thin silk and moaning again. “Have you face down, nails clawing against the tile, pinned between me and the floor—nowhere to go, can only take it.”

“Jesus, Osamu,” you say shakily, eyes sliding shut as his fingers curl into your hair, pulling your head back so he can kiss down your neck, kisses wet and lingering as he sucks at your skin. He traces slow circles around your clit, and your grip on his shoulders tightens as you try to ground yourself. “Not the kitchen floor.”

“Such a bore,” he complains. “Ruining my fun. It’s still my birthday, y’know?”

Before you can retort, Dazai’s hands drop to your thighs, and you yelp as he rises to his feet, bringing you with him. Sometimes you forget how strong Dazai is—it’s easy when he constantly acts like he’s helpless and drowns himself in long jackets and loose clothes. He used to be able to go blow-for-blow with Chuuya in combat, and although you know damn well he hasn’t kept up his training, you can feel the lean muscles of his biceps beneath his sweatshirt.

Your grip tightens on them; he’s still mouthing at your neck as he carries you into the back bedroom. You whisper softly, “You are so…”

When you don’t finish, Dazai nips your neck playfully and finishes, “Handsome? Charming? The image of your deepest, darkest desires?”

Usually, you would roll your eyes at him, but this time, you gasp, “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

He nudges the door open with his foot before kicking it shut. He sets you down gently on the bed, pushing you back until your back is flat and hovering above you to steal another kiss. This one is slow and lazy as he settles above you on his elbows, tongue running along your bottom lip, and fingers dragging over your ribs reverently. You think you could kiss him forever and never get sick of it.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his eyes are half-lidded, and his breath is warm against your lips as he looks down at you.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, thumb circling your hip bone.

“Always,” you answer quietly.

His eyes soften as he looks down at you, lifting his hand from your hip so he can cup the side of your face. You lean into his touch, lashes fluttering shut momentarily as you bask in the familiar warmth of his skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You give him a hazy smile as you look back up at him. “For what?” you ask, voice teasing, but Dazai’s smile only softens even more. He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, and you nip at it playfully.

“Everything.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to question him, leaning down to press his lips to yours again. This kiss is chaster than the last, like he just wants to savor in the taste of you rather than outright devour you. His thumb traces soft circles over your cheek, and his other hand slides down your body to your thigh, hiking your leg over his waist so he can slot his hips between your legs.

He kisses you and holds you so gently that you forget to breathe until your lungs start burning. When you push at his shoulder to get some air, he immediately leans down to keep kissing your neck, sliding your shirt up, and tapping you to beckon you to lift your shoulders so he can pull it off.

Once he has it off and flings it to the side, he leans back to let his eyes roam your body. His pupils are blown wide, and his fingers are a bit shaky; he slides them down your body, tracing your figure like he’s worshiping it.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers more to himself than to you. “Divine. The kind of beauty that drives saints to sin and kings to kneel. You make the stars look dim, and the heavens seem dull. I still can’t believe you’re mine. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.”

“My god, Dazai,” you laugh, face heating up at his words. “A bit over the top with the poetry tonight, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly,” he says, voice low and serious as his gaze lifts back to your face. He repeats softly, “No, not nearly.”

Your throat swells as you look up at him, and he runs his knuckles across your cheek before trailing his fingers down your face. His thumb presses heavily against your bottom lip, and you give him a kittish smile before taking it into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digit as you look up at him through your lashes.

His breath catches, and you hum around his finger when he presses down slightly on your tongue, rolling your hips up to grind against his clothed cock. He murmurs, voice strained, “You drive me insane.”

“Oh yeah?” you press, voice breathy. “Prove it?”

He kisses slowly to your collarbone, making sure to leave marks on his way down. “Gladly,” he rasps, swiping his tongue along your collarbone before biting over the bone lightly.

“You’re going to leave so many marks,” you complain, breath hitching when he slowly rocks his hips against yours. He’s already hard again; you can feel him through the thin material of your panties, and you want him desperately. Your walls clench around nothing, and the heat pooling in your stomach has your thighs trembling. “Shit, Osamu, will you just—”

“Good thing I have you to myself all week,” he croons, a smug smirk on his lips as he kisses down your chest to the swell of your breasts. He lets out a shaky puff of air as he pulls back just a bit to get an eyeful of your tits before his lips wrap around your nipple. He moans against you as he rolls it between his teeth, lifting his free hand to grope your other breast. Your back arches up as you press yourself into his touch, a keen escaping your lips. “Gonna mark you up all over, you won’t even have to hide them.”

“Please,” you gasp, head falling back against the pillows. “Please, Osamu, I—”

You choke over your words when you feel him slide your panties down your legs. He pulls his lips off your nipple with a pop before trailing wet kisses back up your chest until his face is hovering above yours. His thumb slips from your mouth so that he can pinch your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“Please, what?” he hums insufferably. “C’mon, baby, use your words.”

“You’re so—” You start to reply irritably, only to whimper when he rolls his hips again.

“So what?” he presses, giving you a cocky smile as he taps your cheek twice to get your attention again. “What am I? You’re so cute, I’ve barely done anything, and you’re already so close to finishing.”

“I hate you. I—haaaah, shit—” you moan, but your lashes flutter shut as Dazai slides his fingers between your wet folds. “Osamu—”

He lets out a ragged breath, hot against your skin. “Shit, baby, you’re drenched,” he groans. “All this just from letting me fuck your face? Fuck, I love you. Tell me what you need. Tell me. I want to hear you say it. It’s my birthday.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, lifting trembling hands to cup his cheeks. “Please, fuck me, Osamu.”

“God, I love hearing you beg,” he breathes out, nipping at your jaw before his lips drag hot and slow up to your ear. “Love seeing you all worked up for me. Only I get to see you like this, yeah?”

His teeth graze your ear lobe, and you exhale shakily, shivering under his touch. He laughs softly, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and you can’t even hit him with a snide comment like you usually would, because your whole body shudders when you feel his cock slide between your folds.

“You don’t even know how good you look right now,” he goes on, voice low and smooth as he traces his fingers down your body again.

The noise you let out is embarrassing, something caught between a whine and a gasp of his name when he presses the tip of his cock to your entrance. Your hips jerk up, desperate for him to sink inside you again, but he holds your hips down. It’s been weeks since the two of you have done anything together, and your body is falling apart just at the idea of having him deep inside you again.

“Please,” you whisper again, voice coming out more of a whine than anything else. “Osamu, it’s been so long, I—”

Dazai doesn’t let you finish your sentence. The words are knocked from your lungs when he snaps his hips forward, thrusting deep inside you. Your hands slide underneath his sweatshirt, nails raking down his back as you writhe beneath him. His eyes are half-lidded as he looks down at you, and you’re pleased to realize he’s just as much of a mess as you. His lips are pink and swollen, his face is flushed, hair matted to his forehead, and dark eyes unfocused. He looks beautiful.

You love him. You’ve always loved him, but it hits you so suddenly that it makes your chest ache. You surge upwards to press your lips against his, and Dazai moans into your mouth, rocking his hips against yours suddenly as he presses you back down into the mattress, tongues sliding together messily. Each thrust is deep and even, less like he’s trying to chase release and more like he’s just savoring in the feeling of being with you like this again.

“Osamu,” you beg, and you don’t really know what you’re begging for, but your lashes suddenly feel wet, and he’s lifting one hand to wipe tears you didn’t realize were falling over your cheeks. “Osamu, I—”

Your words break into a moan when Dazai thrusts just a little harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white at the edges. Dazai ghosts his lips against yours, laughing breathlessly.

“Aw, baby, you missed me, didn’t you?” His voice is teasing as he brushes kisses across your face, deceptively gentle when compared to the way he’s fucking the air right out of your lungs with every thrust. “I missed you too, we’ve both been so busy lately… Didn’t even know if you’d have time today with everything going on.”

Even with your brain fogged with pleasure, you can hear the brief waver of insecurity in his tone. You lift your hands up to cup his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“Always have time for you,” you tell him softly. “Especially today.”

Dazai’s throat bobs at your words, and instead of responding, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of skin-on-skin, breathless moans, and his cock driving in and out of your cunt. You gasp his name, hips bucking up to meet his, both of you now chasing release.

You’re so close that it hurts, abdomen coiled tight and thighs so tense that they’re shaking around his waist. When he slips his hand between you to rub tight circles on your clit, you finally fall apart. His name spills from your lips and your vision whitens at the edges, you let out a ragged sob that he swallows with a kiss as he fucks you through your high, gasping your name like a prayer over and over again. He’s close, too—you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters and how his breath hitches over every chant of your name.

Your walls spasm around him as he chases your high, pleasure shifting into overstimulation as he uses your body for himself now. You hiccup over a sob as your whole body squirms beneath him, but he holds you down, fucking you so hard that your body jolts further up the bed with each thrust. Your vision darkens at the edges a bit, your head feels woozy, and it’s when you really feel the pinpricks of numbness spreading from your fingertips up to your arms, that he finally finishes, burying himself deep inside you as he cums with a low, broken moan of your name.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just breathing hard against your shoulder, body trembling above yours. He finally lifts his head, and with a lazy, sated grin, he says, “What a birthday gift.”

You roll your eyes at him, but the smile that curls at your lips is fond.

“I love you,” you whisper, reaching up to caress his face, thumb running along his cheekbone. “Happy birthday.”

“I love you,” he replies softly, eyes sliding shut as he kisses your palm. “Thank you.”

---------

You wake up early the next morning to make the maritozzi for Dazai. He’s still fast asleep in bed next to you by the time you wake up, tangled in the sheets and curled into your warmth. Slipping out of bed without waking him is no easy feat—he’s always clingy in the mornings, even more so when he’s exhausted. You know he hasn’t been sleeping well these past few weeks you’ve been away, and the last thing you want is to disturb the rare peace he’s found.

So, for a while, you stay. You hum softly under your breath, fingers trailing gently through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. It takes nearly half an hour before his grip on you slackens enough for you to ease out of his arms and tiptoe into the kitchen.

You’ve been up for a few hours now. Dazai is still sleeping, surprisingly; you underestimated just how tired he was. Usually, you can slip out of bed, but he’ll come wandering in, looking for you within the hour. His sleep rarely lasts when you’re not in bed with him.

The pastries are almost done now; though, you just took them out to cool, and you've put together a little basket for when they’re done. You think maybe you’ll drag him outside to eat. He needs to get some sun; all he’s been doing the past few months is rotting away in your apartment or his.

You hum softly to yourself as you grab a blanket out of the closet, folding it before placing it next to the basket. You need to clean still, too, but—

You jump slightly when you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist. Dazai’s familiar weight settles on your back as he leans on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck to kiss your skin gently before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Cheater,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Making my favorite, so I can’t be mad at you for sneaking out of bed. So unfair.”

You smile to yourself, looking to the side so you can see him. He still looks sleepy—his eyes are drooping shut and his breathing is heavy, but the bags beneath his eyes are lighter, if only a little. You lift up your hand so you can cup the side of his face before leaning in to press your lips against his cheek.

“Good morning,” you say quietly. “You slept for a while.”

His eyes slide shut when your lips brush his skin. “Come back to bed,” he whispers. “Lay with me a little longer.”

“I need to finish cleaning,” you tell him, ignoring the way he pushes his bottom lip out dramatically; he looks stupid pouting so hard with his eyes closed. Your chest bubbles with warmth. “It’ll be annoying to clean the cream after it hardens in the bowl.”

His eyes fly open at that, gaze suddenly sharp as he scans the counter. He lights up when he sees the two bowls on the counter in front of you, giving you imploring eyes and a sweet smile. You roll your eyes at him.

“You’re such a child,” you insult fondly, but you do reach forward to scoop up some of the leftover cream onto your finger, lifting it to his lips. Dazai immediately wraps his lips around the digit, sucking the thick cream right off your finger and moaning obnoxiously.

“Strawberry,” he says approvingly after he pulls his lips off your finger with a loud pop. He gives you a sharp smile before saying, “You taste better though. My favorite type of c—”

“Stop,” you interrupt before he can finish the sentence. He pouts again, but then presses a slow kiss to the back of your neck. You sigh, leaning into his touch despite yourself, and he hums softly as he rocks the two of you back and forth slowly, resting his forehead on the top of your head. You rest your hand over one of his, eye sliding shut and then admit, “I’ve missed you a lot.”

“It’s been a long three weeks,” he agrees softly. “I wish Mori would start sending someone else to handle business abroad.”

“I wish you could come with me,” you say with a frown. “The only time you’ve ever left the country, you were thrown in prison. There’s so many places I want to bring you.”

“You don’t know that,” he says petulantly. “I could’ve left during the two years I was underground.”

“Did you?”

“... No.”

“Do you like arguing for the sake of arguing?” you ask dryly, but you find yourself smiling fondly.

“Where do you want to take me?” he asks instead of answering the question, arms tightening around you. “Hmm? Tell me.”

Your lips part to list off all of your favorite travel destinations. Paris, the City of Love—Dazai would be horrendously obnoxious there with you, but he would love it, so it would probably be one of the first places you brought him. The Yucatán Peninsula too, you think, and maybe Egypt—he had a whole phase back when the two of you were teenagers where he would spend hours a day researching ancient civilizations, watching people explore old ruins with a pout and complaining incessantly about being stuck in Yokohama. You want to bring him to Zhuhai one day to show him the Chimelong Ocean Kingdom, but Qu Yuan and Cao Xueqin have been fighting for territory there for almost two years now so it won’t be any time soon.

But you don’t say anything, because your gaze draws back to the mess of bowls on the counter and then to where the maritozzi are cooling. More than anything, you want to bring him to a home that no longer exists. A home you don’t even remember. You don’t know why you’ve been yearning so badly for it lately; you went years without thinking of your past before you met Mori, not even once had it crossed your mind in that time, but over the last few months, it's crossed your mind frequently. You swear that you can feel familiar arms wrapping around you, a laugh that makes your chest ache that you can’t quite place; you find yourself looking up at the stars, and you can almost hear whispers of a voice you should know laying next to you, telling you all the stories of the constellations.

Dazai seems to recognize something is wrong, because he lifts his hand to your chin to tilt your face up and to the side so that your gaze lands on his. He frowns slightly, running his thumb over your skin before he says, “Dance with me?”

“Dance?” you ask, trying to laugh but it comes out too forced. Dazai only gives you a sweet smile in return before he spins you around to face him, one hand resting on your waist while the other reaches for yours, entwining his fingers with yours as he starts spinning to a song only he can hear, dragging you along with him as he dances the two of you around the island in the kitchen. “You’re so cheesy.”

“I prefer romantic,” he disagrees as he spins you beneath his arm, dipping you down slightly and holding you there for a moment so he can lean in and place an obnoxiously loud kiss right on your nose. “Isn’t this romantic?”

You laugh again, and this one is more genuine as you look up at him. His dark eyes are a warm golden color beneath the morning light, sickeningly soft as he looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. Your throat suddenly feels too tight, and his lips curl up into a soft smile as he places another kiss on your face, this time on your lips.

He lifts you from the dip, and you slip your hand from his so you can hook both of your arms loosely around his neck. His hands settle on your hips as the two of you continue to sway slowly to an imaginary song.

“Why don’t you like baking them?” he asks quietly. It’s a question you know he’s been dying to know the answer to for years; you’re surprised it took him this long to ask.

Your gaze lowers. “I think… my mother was the one who taught me how to bake them,” you say softly. “I can never get them right. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything right away. His hold on you tightens just the slightest bit as he rests his forehead against yours. Your lips press together and your eyes sting with sudden tears. You think about how your hands move automatically through the steps, how your heart always sinks when they come out just a little too dense or the cream doesn’t taste quite right. It’s like there’s a version of the pastry that lives in your memory—light, sweet, perfect—and no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to recreate it.

Like it belonged to another life. Another version of you. One that was pure, sweet, gentle, and this one doesn’t deserve it.

This version of you has seen too much, done too much. You carry too many shadows in your heart and have too much blood under your fingernails. You were softer then—before the Great War, before Mori, before the Port Mafia. Every time you make them, you’re reminded that you’ll never be that girl again. The one that exists now… you don’t even know if she can be considered human by most people. The pastries don’t come out right because they’re not meant to. You no longer know how to make something so sweet. You don’t deserve something so gentle.

You suddenly understand why you’ve been thinking so much of your past.

Your gaze flickers up to Dazai as he lifts his hands to cradle your face between his hands. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. He gives you a small, sad smile before he asks quietly, “This isn’t about the pastries, is it?”

You try to look away but he doesn’t let you. Your voice is barely a rasp as you say, “They’re not right. They don’t—”

I’m not right. I don’t know if I deserve this.

“They’re yours,” he murmurs, cutting you off before you can finish what you’re about to say. He leans in to press his lips against your temple. “They’re perfect to me.”

You’re you. You’re perfect to me.

“It’s not what I want to give you,” you insist. Your voice cracks, much to your horror. You turn your face into his shoulder, not wanting him to see the tears that threaten to spill. “I feel like I’m holding you back, Osamu. That you’ll never be able separate yourself from your past as long as you’re with me, and you’ll never believe in your own goodness when you come home to me every night. I don’t want to be the reason you can never accept that you’ve fulfilled Oda’s last request.”

Dazai’s smile is unbearably soft as he gently pulls your face from his shoulder and forces you to look at him again. His gaze darts up to the basket you started putting together on the table and he asks quietly, “Did you want to eat breakfast outside?”

You nod, swallowing thickly.

“C’mon,” he nudges you. “Let’s finish getting it all together and go eat. We can talk out there.”

---------

Dazai has never had a reason to live.

The first time he tried to kill himself, he was eleven. It was when his grandfather had started pitting his siblings and cousins against each other, and Dazai first started questioning why he was even alive. He had no ambition for power like his siblings, he had no passion for any hobbies like his mother, and he had no friends, not even his own family liked him. His mother found him slumped over in the bathroom and rushed him to the hospital—she made him swear to never do something like this again. He agreed, but his promise to her died when she did when he was fourteen.

The second time he tried to kill himself, he was fourteen. His mother got caught trying to smuggle Dazai and his siblings out of his grandfather’s estate. Two of his siblings had already been killed by his cousins, and she was desperate to not lose anymore of her children. She got caught trying to escape with them, and his grandfather ordered his father to kill her. Dazai jumped from the rooftop that very night—that’s how he ended up in Mori’s clutches.

He’s not sure how many times he tried to die from fourteen to fifteen. More than he can count, and they got progressively more violent and desperate over time. When he met Chuuya and then Odasaku, he found his first friends—although at the time, he’d never been able to fully bring himself to believe that they viewed him that way. Dazai slowed down on his attempts after meeting them; he didn’t fully stop, he just became more… passive with it. Attempts to blow himself up shifted into recklessness during missions; instead of drinking various poisons, he would drink copious amounts of alcohol until his skin was gray and clammy and the room started spinning.

And then, he met you.

Dazai’s lips curl up into a soft smile as he watches you set up all the stuff you’d prepared for breakfast. He keeps trying to sneak one of the maritozzi buns, but you catch him every time, slapping his hand away and giving him an accusing look. You’re still upset, but you’re a bit calmer now as you focus on something else.

You drove him mad. You drive him mad. You didn’t flinch at his barbed humor or the way he suddenly and irrationally tried to push you away after worming his way into your life. You never gave up when he deflected conversation with a smile or silence. You didn’t recoil from the mess that he was; you just acknowledged it like it was something as simple as the weather, accepting it, him, into your life so easily. You saw through the cocky facade and self-destruction, and you stayed anyway.

It terrified him. He couldn’t fathom it for years—you didn’t lecture him over his self-destructive tendencies, and you never pulled the whole ‘please, stop for me’ shit that he hated so much. You just sat with him. On the nights when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he couldn’t remember how many bottles he’d emptied, you were there. You didn’t touch him unless he asked, didn’t talk unless he initiated it, and over time, Dazai found himself relying on you in a way that scared him.

After meeting you, for the first time in maybe his whole life, he started to want things again—small, stupid things, but things nonetheless. He wanted a morning that didn’t start with a hangover so he could wake up early and have coffee with you before you left for your meetings. He wanted to come back from a mission in one piece so he could watch a movie with you before laying down. He wanted to be able to sit beside you and not feel like a grenade with the pin halfway out, ready to take you out with him. Dazai has never believed that he deserved you, and a part of him almost wants to laugh when he realizes that you feel the same about him.

He thinks back to the conversation he had with you a few months ago when you came back from Rome early to be with him, and he feels so silly.

“What are you thinking?” you ask quietly as you set the basket to the side, finally looking up at him, but only briefly.

“Do you remember the conversation we had a few months ago? When you came back early from Rome?”

You raise your eyebrows at him, and Dazai wiggles across the blanket so that he can sit beside you. He nudges your shoulder with his, beckoning you to look at him again. You turn your head to the side, gaze focusing on him.

“Yeah,” you answer after a moment. “Of course.”

“It’s us,” he whispers. “It’s always been us.”

You look at him, tilting your head to the side. You press your lips together tightly, an expression on your face like you understand what he’s saying, but you think maybe you’re misunderstanding and don’t want to get your hopes up. You set the napkins in your hands down, and Dazai continues, voice low.

“I didn’t understand it then,” he admits quietly. “I think maybe I haven’t understood it until right now, but it’s us. My reason to live—it’s you and me, has been for years. Since we were sixteen. I—”

“Osamu,” you start to say, and your voice wavers. You want to believe him, but you’re scared of being disappointed, like maybe he’s just saying this in the spur of the moment to make you feel better.

He shifts to sit on his knees, grabbing your hands and pulling them into his lap, squeezing them tightly. He can feel your fingers shaking ever so slightly.

“It’s true,” he insists. “Being with you… it gives me something to look forward to every day. You make me want things I didn’t think I could want. You make me feel things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling.”

He lifts one of your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles and then your palm. His voice is shaking a bit now, but he continues. “You make me want to live. Not just survive. Not just keep breathing because I haven't figured out how to stop. Live. Really live. I want a future with you, I want—”

Dazai’s voice breaks, his grip tightens on your hand. Your eyes are wet with tears, and your lips are trembling, and Dazai loves you. He loves you so much that it makes him sick sometimes.

“I want to marry you,” he rasps. “I want to wake up every morning your husband. I want you to be my wife.”

He watches as you inhale deeply. He can feel your nails digging into his hands and it stings, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t realize just how much he means the words until he says them. And he realizes, a bit belatedly, that he doesn’t have a ring and this isn’t the proposal you deserve, but there’s so much hope in your eyes that he can’t take it back now.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, Osamu,” you whisper. “Please, don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.” He lets go of your hands to cup your cheeks. He lets out a broken laugh, blinking hard. “I’ve never been more certain of anything. You’re the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense. I want to live, and I want to live with you. As your husband. And I—I don’t have a ring. I didn’t plan this, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t think I was capable of ever asking anyone—of ever wanting this.”

He leans in to press his forehead to yours. He can taste the mint on your breath, and he can’t help himself from stealing a kiss, a brief brush of his lips against yours that makes his chest ache.

“But I want it with you. I want to be yours in every way a person can belong to someone. And I want you to be mine,” he says softly, hands sliding down from your face to cradle your neck instead. “This—it isn’t me asking, okay? I want to get a ring, I want to do it right, make it special, but I want you to know, because there is no world where you’re ever holding me back. You’re what keeps me going, so whatever silly thoughts you have going on in that pretty head of yours, they need to stop, okay?”

You take in a ragged breath and lean forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, and Dazai pulls you into his lap, holding you close, one hand wrapped rightly around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses the top of your head and lets out a long breath, a weight lifting from his chest. Your body fits against his like it always has, like you’re made to be here, curled in his arms with the early afternoon light painting you in gold. He shuts his eyes and buries his face in your hair, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he finally murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple in a lingering kiss. “I don’t even fully understand it, but I know that I want you. I need you. You don’t have to change for me; you don’t have to be someone else for my sake. You as you are—it’s enough. You’re enough. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted; it doesn’t matter that you’re still with the Mafia and I’m with the Agency. None of that matters to me. What Odasaku asked of me… you being in my life doesn’t change anything. He’d never have wanted me to chase after his last request if it meant coming at the cost of you. Do you even know how many years he spent trying to get me to pull my head out of my ass and make a move on you? I think he was more relieved than either of us were when we finally got together.”

You let out a watery laugh, or maybe it’s a sob, Dazai can’t really tell, but he holds you a bit tighter, savoring in the feeling of having you in his arms. He thinks he could stay here forever if given the chance. Live a quiet life away from everything, just you, him and the rest of your lives together.

Maybe one day.

“I love you,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his throat before settling against him. The tension in your shoulders slowly dissipates, and you let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”

He kisses the top of your head again. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “I love you too.”

The two of you bask in each others arms, relaxing beneath the early afternoon sun. He toys with your hair absently, running soothing circles on your upper back. After a few moments, he glances back on the maritozzi you’d pulled out of the basket.

“... Can I have one now?” he asks, giving you an imploring look when you pull back to give him a deadpan one. “Please. It’s literally been five years, do you know how much self control I’ve had the past hour?”

Your lips curl up into a fond smile. “Fine.”

Dazai’s hand snatches out immediately before you can change your mind, shovelling the sweet bun into his mouth all at once. Your eyes shoot open in shock.

“Jesus Christ, Osamu,” you say, scrambling for a water bottle when he chokes over it. “What is wrong with you? My god, could you eat it normally?”

His eyes sting with tears, but he manages to give you a thumbs-up between coughs and wheezes. “So worth it,” he gasps, mouth-half-full, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

You hand him the water, watching with a mixture of horror and amusement as he gulps it down. You shake your head when he finally manages to swallow, muttering, “You’re insane.”

Dazai leans back with a dramatic groan, collapsing onto the blanket like he’s completed a Herculean task. He reaches out for your hand, entwining your fingers again and tugging you to lay on top of him.

“So perfect,” he sighs dreamily, voice still a bit hoarse. He winks at you and gives you a flirty smile and then coos, “Just like the baker.”

“You’re so corny,” you complain, but you’re smiling when you look away from him.

“I’m so yours,” he corrects teasingly, kissing your knuckles.

Your smile softens.

“You are,” you agree quietly, “and I’m yours.”

Yeah, Dazai thinks, an adoring expression on his face as you lean in to brush some of the cream at the corner of his mouth away with your thumb. Yeah, this is definitely all he ever needs.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu smut #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bungo stray dogs smut

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joshujin · 1 day ago

Text

dude, nice try!

◀ part one • series masterlist • part two

joshua hong has had the immense privilege of living 30 whole years without ever feeling so much as an ounce of jealousy. that is, until you come prancing into his picture-perfect life on your dumb burner account with evidence that his long-time girlfriend is cheating on him… with your boyfriend.

as he gets tangled up in your chaotic plan to get back at your adulterous partners, he begins to wonder if this growing discomfort in his chest was ever even heartbreak to begin with, or if it’s something entirely new to him—something that has the ability to eat him alive from the inside out.

♫ get him back! olivia rodrigo ⟡ my kink is karma chappell roan ⟡ see u never niki ⟡ good to me seventeen

pairing: joshua x fem!reader part two: 14.6k words cw: strong language, mentions of/implied sexual activity, kms joke, reader is highly emotional and tbh kind of crazy maybe even toxic but idc bc i support women’s rights and wrongs <3 tags: cheating (not between main ship), strangers to partners-in-crime to partners PERIOD, joshua pov, pining, he fell first AND harder oops, he’s also so incredibly whipped from the jump, a few smau bits but mostly writing, no smut, inspired by get him back! by miss rodrigo a/n: oh nothing, just me getting carried away with the dialogue and my word count like usual :) to the anon that requested this: pls feel free to pop back into my ask and tell me how you think this is going LOL. i'm having fun writing it but i know the jealousy isn't fully fleshed out yet. to everyone else: ENJOY!

dividers by @cafekitsune cover by yours truly!

joshua was being sincere with you when he told you he wasn’t a good bar to set yourself against when it came to breakups.

there was stephanie from when he was still in college in the U.S.; they broke up because he decided to move back to korea. it was amicable for the most part, but he probably could’ve given her a more generous heads up than the two weeks he did give her. it wasn’t until a year or so later that she realized how unfair that had been and made sure joshua knew—with a series of voice memo texts that were nearly 15 minutes each.

then, he dated miyoung. she was nice but she also decided she wanted to get married within the next year only three months in, and as a 23-year-old, joshua was freaked out enough to run almost immediately. his relationship with miyoung ended on a phone call that lasted three hours because she was sobbing so hard, he didn’t have the heart to hang up even though he had no idea how to comfort her. he saw her consistently for weeks after out of pure guilt until jeonghan pointed out that this was just a disguised way of stringing her along.

after that, there was bada, nari, bora, aram, and hana, all girls he casually dated for no longer than a handful of weeks before one of them decided it actually wasn’t a fit for various, mostly dumb reasons. nari told him she didn’t like that he collected cologne and had three times as much perfume as she did. he left aram because she ate so messily, it gave him the ick. though apparently, that might be something he doesn’t mind anymore.

he dated yumi for six months, and to this day, she’s still the only serious girlfriend of his that broke up with him. she told him that she felt like after six months, she still barely knew him, and that he was “too concerned” with upholding an image of himself that “didn’t feel real.” he went straight to therapy for that one.

and when he felt a little better in his own skin and ready to put a “realer” version of himself out there, he met mina. mina, his longest relationship, and up until now, someone he was convinced was his first love. he said as much anyway. he was the first to tell her he loved her, he reminded her he did every day, and he thought they had a nice, long future ahead of them. what he pictured in that future exactly, he had no clue. but after an odd and somewhat unlucky streak in dating, he finally felt like mina was a nice and comfy place to land.

he’s never been more wrong about something in his entire life.

and after the laughable amount of breakups he’s experienced, he’s also never been angrier after the end of a relationship in his entire life.

mina was proving to be a lot of firsts for him—first cheater, first master manipulator and liar, first person who’s ever made him wonder if he could possibly switch over to dating men instead… or simply stop dating at all! sure, he would die alone but he would die in peace.

whatever the case, he's quickly approaching the conclusion that “first love” is not among those firsts, and it probably never was. no amount of teasing from you or jeonghan did it, but in less than a handful of minutes spent breaking up with mina, he is a million percent sure this was not someone he could have loved. or else what did that say about him and his taste?

sixteen minutes earlier

joshua arrives at mina’s apartment exactly two hours after work ends for her—5 p.m. every day because she always scheduled a pilates class at 5:30 p.m. thirty minutes for her to get to her class, one hour for her to finish it, 30 minutes for her to get home, zero minutes for her to get clean because he doesn’t care how presentable she is when he dumps her.

plus, however long it takes joshua to end this—hopefully a lot shorter than his experience with miyoung.

he hadn’t bothered to tell her he was coming over; he didn’t think she really deserved that courtesy. he may be intent on a clean break, but he also wanted this to be as annoying for her as it has been for him.

so at a prompt 7 p.m., joshua finds himself casually leaning against the elevator’s railing, ascending the floors of mina’s apartment and feeling almost excited to be free of this experience.

after he got off the phone with you, he decided he would bite the bullet when work was over. he spent the rest of his day absentmindedly finishing his reports, periodically stopping to scribble an idea for what he would say to his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend.

he takes the folded piece of paper out of his pocket now and runs over his options again.

his levels of shame and self-pity were sky high when he first pulled out his notepad at the office to write his thoughts out, but after texting you and letting you know what he planned to do, you insisted on meeting at a cafe beforehand to brainstorm together while he waited for mina’s pilates class to end. and once you both workshopped the entire list, his embarrassment diminished almost completely.

it was clear you took this a lot more seriously than he did. he doesn't know what he expected; you probably have a manila folder stuffed full of notes for what you plan to do to siwoo.

as such, you were very helpful. sure, you were also really distracting, with your subtle, spiced perfume he recognized as lola james harper, and your daunting and unrelenting eye contact, and the way your eyes smiled all on their own when they weren’t busy crying over siwoo, and the fact that you graced him with your laugh in person for the first time (every bit as fun as he thought it would be), and everything else that came with just existing in your presence.

all of it was really distracting—almost to the point of it being entirely counterproductive for him. almost, if it weren’t for the fact that you were so determined on his behalf to make this the most unpleasant experience for mina. he was mostly pleased with where you two landed, and if anything, he at least had a better idea of what he wanted to say.

he reads the completely ruined paper, a mess of his black ink and wrinkles where you kept trying to grab it out of his hands. it was already a vulnerable enough occasion talking about this with you; he did not need you seeing his notes on top of it.

TALKING POINTS FOR BREAKING UP WITH EVIL GF i know you’ve been cheating on me, and don’t try to deny it because someone sent me proof! — cannot say this without exposing that y/n knows about siwoo!!! i know you’ve been cheating on me, and don’t try to deny it because i went through your phone and saw your text messages! — better, but am i willing to look crazy just to cover for y/n? yes what am i saying NO this will do ✓ how could you do this to us? i loved you! — seems disingenuous? note: yell at jeonghan and y/n for putting ideas in my head later! i literally gave you everything you could’ve wanted, and that still wasn’t enough? what does any other man have that i don’t? — ok met with y/n for feedback. says this sounds pathetic and that i can't let her think this affected me. but she cheated on me? this LITERALLY affects me. i will come back to this one ok y/n made a different, better point: i am perfect •ᴗ• and i shouldn’t present myself as lacking. so true. she's very good at this! •ᴗ• do you really think anyone with half a fucking brain cell who's willing to homewreck a relationship is really going to give enough of a fuck about you to be capable of putting up with your insufferable ass and treating you as well as i did? — y/n suggested. had to workshop bc she's alarmingly vulgar. plus, maybe toxic to say i "put up" with mina ?? not sure do you even regret hurting me? — y/n says this is silly bc siwoo and mina obviously do not regret anything, but i want mina to feel guilty. y/n now agrees and says i should add: "or are you just so heartless you don't care?" she said this more colorfully, but i will remain respectful why should i remain respectful? mina is literally the most disrespectful person i’ve ever met. i’ll say what y/n suggested ⤵ your commitment to being a heartless asshole has you by your ugly ass neck and i hope it starts squeezing with both hands GET SOME HELP! — more for catharsis. won’t be yelling this at her you're going to regret this and if you think there's a world where i take you back when you do, you're mistaken — wow, no notes from y/n! must be very good •ᴗ• definitely say this one!! please never contact me again — note from y/n: "why are you being so goddamn polite? tell her to fuck off and if you ever see her number on your phone screen, you'll set up an appointment on her behalf to get a lobotomy." ????? note from ME: have a serious discussion with y/n at a later time about why i, a MAN, can't just talk to WOMEN like this!

despite the circumstances that led to having to make the list at all, joshua can't help but grin at it. the time spent with you at the cafe was not only helpful; it was fun. maybe the most fun he’s had with a woman since he started dating mina, who chased off all his female friends within the first two months of being in his life. joshua winces as he pockets the list, wondering how he didn’t see the red flags.

his thoughts are interrupted with the loud and obnoxious ping of the elevator as it arrives on mina’s floor. the doors slide open, and immediately, he hears the obscene sounds of a woman moaning down the hall. his eyes widen as he steps out and turns down the hall in the direction of mina’s apartment.

the walls of her place were always thin; they were constantly getting into wars with the neighbors that involved banging on the floor, ceiling, and shared walls with her broom. still, he had never heard this kind of noise from her neighbors.

“tell me about it.”

joshua looks to his right to find an older woman stepping out of her apartment and locking her door. he must have a look of shock on his face because she snorts and nods in what seems like solidarity as she tucks her empty reusable bags into her armpit.

“that girl doesn’t seem to ever stop,” she informs him. “i’ve complained to the building manager so many times, and still, here she is, screaming like a little banshee and disrupting this entire floor’s peace.”

joshua feels his skin break out into a cold sweat as his mind starts to go a mile a minute. “huh… interesting…”

“i mean,” the woman turns to step into the elevator joshua just walked out of. “what is she even doing? auditioning for a god damn porn? she sounds like my fucking shih tzu’s squeaky toy!”

he forces a laugh, too distracted to even feel uncomfortable over the inappropriate joke. “maybe,” he mutters. “she sure is putting on a performance.”

“oh my god!” the voice shrieks in perfect timing, making him flinch.

“ugh, inconsiderate! all hours of the day! does she even work?!” the woman shakes her head and clicks her tongue in disapproval as she presses a button and the doors close.

joshua stands there for a moment, staring at the elevator, unable to move as he listens to the noises of what could possibly be his girlfriend having sex with siwoo right now. it didn’t even sound remotely like her, and that fact terrifies him even more because if it is her, then she had to be faking it with someone. was she faking it with joshua or with siwoo?

he groans, letting his head fall into his hands.

“who cares?” he grumbles to himself. the last thing he should be worrying about is whether or not an adulterous liar like mina thought he was good in bed. he should definitely not care anymore. “i don’t care.”

joshua can practically hear jeonghan’s voice telling him, sure you don’t. he shakes his head, trying to banish his jeonghan-shaped conscience from his brain.

he doesn’t even know if it’s mina. it could very well be some other female neighbor; it’s not far-fetched for people to be having sex. he could just be paranoid right now since he knows she’s cheating on him.

each floor of mina’s apartment is huge—a maze, really. dozens of units, at least ten near the elevator, several people who could be having sex.

he always counted himself lucky that mina lived so close to the elevator, just down the hall a few units down. today, though, as the wailing reverberates off the walls of the hallway leading to the elevator, he thinks mina’s floor plan is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

his phone is to his ear before he can fully consider what he’s doing.

“did you do it?” you seem to dislike greeting people on the phone properly like a normal human being. you speak a little louder than usual, your surroundings lively and buzzing with the noise of what sounds like several conversations. “that was fast.”

“uh,” joshua elongates the sound for a few seconds while his brain tries to tune out the “porn audition” long enough to comprehend your question. “no… nope. i haven’t done it yet.”

“oh. then what’s up? you need backup after all?” you ask too seriously for him to confidently say you’re joking.

before you both parted ways at the cafe, you offered him company and said you could tag along and jump mina for him. you both laughed and said your goodbyes, but if what joshua fears right now is true, he definitely doesn’t hate the idea of you jumping her.

“i’m a little busy—well, kinda, not really—but i can fake some kind of horrific emergency and get out of here and over to you in…” you trail off, probably checking the time. “twenty minutes… maybe ten if i’m okay with breaking a few laws. which, rest assured, i am!”

he feels the dread over his predicament slipping as you keep talking, his emotions turning into an incredibly confusing mix of panic, amusement, anxiety, relief, and so on and so on. the number of odd emotions you elicit out of him are countless.

joshua glides over what he assumes is a joke and straight to the point; the faster he finds out what he needs to, the faster he can hopefully escape this building.

“do you know where siwoo is?” he asks, taking the first few tentative steps to mina’s door. he walks painstakingly slowly, almost tiptoeing even though there’s no possible way anyone could hear him over the lewd moans.

“he’s at dinner with his vile parents,” you say, sighing like you’d rather talk about anything else.

“are you sure?”

“yes… why?”

“like… how sure?” joshua presses.

“uh, 100 percent.” he can picture the frown on your face that usually matches this tone of yours—confused bordering on annoyed. “i’m literally staring at him as his awful monster of a mother tucks a napkin into his collar like a little fucking devil baby, bro.”

joshua doesn’t know how at a time like this, his brain has the capacity to still take note of how much he loathes when you call him bro. it’s a weird thought to have to process alongside the thousands of other things he’s suddenly feeling.

“i’m at the bar of this pretentious ass restaurant waiting on the bartender to finish their drink orders while they eat all the appetizers without me, like a good, little stay-at-home girlfriend slash maid slash server slash revenge connoisseur!” you inform him, your voice sarcastically cheerful. “i’m going to spit in all their drinks.” that bit comes out in your normal, low—and a little irritated—voice.

“wow” is all he says because his brain doesn’t supply him with anything else.

“like i said, revenge connoisseur,” you say, sounding bored. “so yes, i’m 100 percent sure he’s here. we have to have dinner with these assholes once a week but—” you cut yourself off as you address someone else. “ah, thank you! oh wait, can you actually remove the espresso beans from this one? the abominable woman who gave birth to my boyfriend doesn’t want to have too much caffeine this late in the day.”

joshua realizes his brain has the capacity to do a lot of things in stressful situations as long as he’s talking to you. because he stops walking and immediately starts laughing when he hears the bartender deadpan: “it’s an espresso martini.”

you sigh like you’ve had to explain this a million different times to a million different bartenders.

“joshua? hold on, okay?” you tell him before immediately addressing the bartender without waiting for him to reply. “listen, i get it. you don’t have to tell me. i know! she’s a ridiculous airhead who gets her life force from making little people like me suffer and ask for embarrassing things on her behalf. i don’t even care if you stick your bare fingers in there to pluck them out—in fact, i actually kind of prefer you do that. i just need them gone before she comes poking her snobby, little nose over here and demands you make her an entirely brand new one.”

that seems to do the job because the next thing you say is:

“thank you so much. and please give yourself a 50 percent tip—100 even!” you shout the last part as, joshua assumes, the bartender walks away. “it’s on their card, go crazy!”

the bartender says something that he can’t make out and you laugh. the sound of it—so light and mischievous and charismatic—completely severs the already increasingly weakened grip his panic has on him. he feels like he can breathe a little easier, even among the horrible sounds filling the hallway.

“okay, i’m back, sorry,” you say into the phone, picking up exactly where you left off as if you never stopped talking. “like i was saying, we do this shit every week, so i can definitely get out of this if you need me to. why are you asking about siwoo anyway?”

there’s something comforting about the way you’re ready to drop everything to get to joshua even though you just said bye less than an hour ago and you don’t even know why he’s calling. though, he does realize your eagerness is also probably due to the fact that you just don’t want to be around your cheating boyfriend and his family.

joshua exhales slowly through his nose. “well, it’s not quite your 100, but i am like, at least… 70 percent sure that mina is having sex with someone in her apartment as we speak. i thought it was siwoo, but…” he lets you come to your own conclusions.

the silence on the other end of the phone is so much more threatening than the gasping and yelling he expected. it stretches for so long that at some point, joshua wonders if you even heard him.

“did you—”

“i heard you,” you say, your voice clipped. you pause again for a shorter period and when you speak, you sound a lot less short. “i was trying to ignore it because i couldn’t imagine what the hell it was, but you definitely sound like you’re on the set of a porno.”

joshua grimaces, stepping away from the side of the hallway that mina’s apartment is on as if that will help—it doesn’t, not with the way it echoes off the walls. he cups his hand around the mouthpiece of his phone, hoping that it will keep the shih tzu squeaky toy sound effects from traveling to you. “shit, i’m sorry,” he breathes, scurrying down the hallway and several units past mina’s apartment in a desperate attempt to get away from the moaning. “i didn’t realize you could hear it clearly.”

“are you running away from the noise, joshua hong?” you ask, obviously amused.

“um, maybe.”

“wow, what a gentleman, protecting my innocence like this,” you fake-sigh like you’re swooning on the other end of the line and he blushes furiously. he can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. “chivalry is not dead.”

“you’re so insufferable!” he whisper-yells at you. the poor residents of this floor already have to deal with ‘round-the-clock sex; they don’t need to add him being obnoxiously loud on the phone too. “i’m having a horrible time right now, and you’re joking around?!”

you giggle. “okay, fine. i’m insufferable. but at least i made you smile.”

“and how on earth could you possibly know that if you can’t even see me?”

you snort. “please. i can hear it in your voice. your smile transcends all obstacles, hong. you could smile on the other side of the world and i’d know it.”

the claim makes joshua’s hands clammy, and he finds he has no idea what to say to that. he can barely breathe, but this time, it feels a little different—not quite so wrought with anxiety like it was when he first exited the elevator.

sensing you may have gone overboard with your compliment this time, you clear your throat and steer the conversation back on track.

“mina is a real piece of work,” you state the obvious before rambling a little. “cheating on you… cheating on siwoo… though, is that called cheating if siwoo is also her sidepiece…? no, right? she’s just cheating on you twice—fuck, sorry, that was so callous and dumb to say.” he hears something that sounds like you hitting your forehead repeatedly.

“yeah… i don’t know…” his mind is not on the logistics of the cheating.

“okay, so here’s what we’re going to do,” you say, voice kicking into high-gear. “i’ve been gone from the table for almost… 10 minutes; these rats get impatient after, like, two.”

joshua leans against the wall, finding your little plotting voice weirdly comforting.

“siwoo is going to stand up any moment now to see what’s taking so long at the insistence of his egg donor.”

he closes his eyes and tries to calm his heartbeat, smiling a little at your refusal to call siwoo’s mom anything but his mom.

“and when he does, i’m—oh my god, i’m amazing.”

joshua opens his eyes and frowns. “what?”

you laugh in disbelief before frantically whispering, “siwoo just got up and is walking over here. he is so predictable. also, i just got the ick so bad. this idiot forgot to take his little napkin bib off. okay, he’s almost here. don’t reply to anything i say, alright?”

“al—”

“oh my god, are you serious?!” you shriek at joshua. he immediately brings his phone away from his ear. “are you okay?” you pause like you’re listening to a nonexistent response. “holy shit, girl—” your next words are an exaggerated whisper. “—it’s soph, she’s on a date, having… explosive diarrhea!”

joshua looks at his phone incredulously. he doesn’t know how you manage to sound so convincing when it’s clear to him everything you say comes to mind the very second before you say it.

“that’s disgusting.” his eyes involuntarily narrow at what can only be siwoo’s voice. he sounds just as dumb as joshua thought he would.

“i have to go!” you exclaim.

“what?! why?”

“did you hear me?! soph is having a crisis! what am i supposed to do, just leave her in the bathroom of some dingy sushi restaurant covered in her own shit while her date thinks she snuck out on her?!” she speaks back into the phone. “hold on, girl.”

he snorts as he passes a hand over his face in embarrassment even though he’s completely alone. he’s truly amazed at how committed you are to your act. he would’ve cracked before he ever even got to utter the word “diarrhea.”

“uh, yes? we’re at dinner with my parents and that sounds like a really gross her problem.”

joshua rolls his eyes. siwoo is an asshole through and through.

you pause and he likes to imagine you’re taking a moment to really process what a fucking dick your boyfriend is. “i’ll be quick, baby,” you say through barely concealed annoyance. his eye twitches at the term of endearment anyway. “tell your parents i said sorry! i’ll text you when i’m on my way home! soph, i’m on my way!”

“y/n!” his voice is further away than he previously sounded. “what about our drinks?!”

“ask the bartender!” you practically bellow at him. “fucking incompetent. ‘what about our drinks?’” your impression of siwoo is simply an exaggerated baby voice, and joshua thinks it sounds exactly the same. “what the fuck kind of question? where else would you get your drinks?” you mutter—to yourself, joshua presumes. “okay, shua, i am free and i am on my way!”

he doesn’t even have the opportunity to be surprised about you coming to mina’s apartment; he’s too caught off-guard by the sudden nickname.

“hello?” you call, suddenly sounding like you’re, at the very least, brisk-walking if not fully running. “you can talk now! i am not in the restaurant anym—oop, excuse me, sorry!”

“shua?” joshua repeats mindlessly.

“aw, don’t like it? we can workshop that too,” you huff, excusing yourself as you navigate whatever street you’re on. “i think it’s cute, though. no? shua... shua!”

you repeat it a few more times like that will get him to agree. most of the instances of “shua” are breathed out in a quick exhale as you move, and joshua is almost completely convinced you’re running.

“okay, i’m kind of losing the meaning of ‘shua’ now. i swear it’s cute, though.”

he smiles. “uh, yeah, it’s… cute. different but cute.”

“right? josh is tired,” you claim. “shua feels more fitting for you. anyway, give me… 12 minutes and i will be there.”

“why are you coming here again?’ he asks, remembering to feel confused about your plans.

“for moral support, hello?” you answer like it’s obvious. “ah! sorry!” you shout at someone who curses. “you have me now, dude.” dude is better than bro, he supposes. “we don’t have to go through these traumatic events alone anymore! i’ll be there and if you want me to blow my cover and this entire plan so i can slap mina across the face, i will!”

his mouth twitches to keep from smirking. the thought is tempting. “you really don’t have to—”

“shut up, i just told siwoo my best friend is having explosive diarrhea for you,” you point out, practically panting now. “we cannot walk this back! now go break up with that horrid bitch, and if she really is fucking someone in there, you tell me and i’ll march up there and win my very first fistfight… uh, what floor is her apartment, by the way?”

joshua shakes his head, trying his hardest not to grin. “no, you stay downstairs. there will be no fistfights tonight. i’ll see you in a bit.”

“got it, boss.”

“and stop running,” he orders. “you’re just going to hurt yourself.”

“mmm, agree to disagree,” you heave. “see you soon!” you hang up in a hurry, giving him no time to say bye.

as he stands in the hallway, he realizes that in the time he spent with you on the phone, the moans subsided. between the absence of your mayhem and the vulgarity of maybe-mina’s maybe-cheating, it’s almost eerie how suddenly quiet the floor is.

he drags his feet as he makes his way back to mina’s door. when he gets there, he tentatively presses an ear to the wood, and when he can’t hear anything, he raises his fist and knocks before he can change his mind. several seconds pass and he doesn’t hear anyone coming to the door or even speaking. his discomfort eases a little as he starts to think maybe she’s not even home.

mina isn’t one to deviate from her plans; she gets irritable when she has to, so joshua knows that pilates definitely had to be on the agenda today. and if she’s not home yet, then she should be arriving any moment now. he punches in the code for her apartment, determined to wait it out and get this over with because he has no plans to spend another day tied down to a cheater.

“mina?” he calls out as soon as he steps in. he almost bends down to take his shoes off, thinks twice about it, and leaves them on. what did you call it again? taking your small joys wherever you can. tracking dirt into mina’s apartment felt like a small joy right now.

with no response, he heads into the kitchen to grab himself a water bottle before sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar. he’s about to take his notes out again when he hears a door click. he frowns.

“hello?” mina’s voice tentatively calls out from the hallway.

“it’s me,” joshua says, leaving his notes where they are in his pocket. “i knocked but i guess you didn’t hear.”

“josh?” mina rounds the corner, in her bathrobe. she smiles brightly when she confirms it’s him. “hey, baby. what are you doing here?”

she walks up to him with the ease of a loyal girlfriend. he’s astounded by it, actually; how she can act so sweet and kind and cute when she’s sleeping with siwoo every chance she gets. if he thinks about it too hard, it actually scares him.

she loops her arms around his waist and hugs him from behind, hooking her chin on his shoulder. he tenses and immediately slips off the stool and out of her grip.

“i wanted to talk to you, remember?” he says, stepping away when she tries to reach for him again. she frowns like she’s finally understanding there’s a problem. “yesterday. but you said you were busy.” busy fucking siwoo.

even with a direct reference to her infidelity, mina doesn’t bat an eye. he thinks she could probably thrive in a career in acting. “yeah, i had to clock some overtime yesterday,” she lies. “it was such a drag,” she complains as she gets her own water bottle from the fridge. “i paid for my pilates class and everything and had to pay the fee for missing it.”

the lies roll of her tongue so effortlessly, joshua knows he would’ve easily believed them if he didn’t have cold, hard proof. even with the cold, hard proof, he wonders if there’s any way you could have still gotten it wrong. he knows you didn’t. maybe he is gullible because after two days, he already trusts you more than he does mina.

“pilates,” he repeats in a daze.

she raises an eyebrow as she takes a sip. she caps her bottle again and nods slowly. “yes, baby, pilates… is everything okay?”

“mina, have you ever cheated on me?”

joshua sees it then—the crack in her facade. her eyes widen, not with surprise or disbelief the way an innocent person’s probably would, but fear. to her credit, it passes quickly as she schools her expression into one of bewilderment. if joshua hadn’t known to look for it, he knows he would have missed it. he would have missed it along with all the other red flags he’s missed.

“why are you asking me that?” she asks, her voice sharp with the vexation of someone who’s been offended. joshua doesn’t let it faze him.

he shrugs, clenching his jaw briefly before speaking again. “just answer the question, mina.”

mina seems to realize joshua isn’t in the mood for games because her shoulders deflate the tiniest bit, her eyes flicking from one side of the room to the other as she tries to think of what to say. he knows it’s because in the year they’ve been together, joshua has never—not once—lost his temper or expressed any kind of annoyance with her.

it’s always “joshua is so sweet,” “joshua is such a gentleman,” “joshua is so kind,” “joshua is so mild mannered,” “joshua is so fucking gullible.”

joshua is done.

“mina.”

he doesn’t mean for his voice to come out sharp and raised the way it does, but when she flinches, he realizes his patience is slipping faster than jeonghan could ever dream of making it.

“wh—?” she squeezes her eyes shut like she’s trying to understand how they got here. “what?” she suddenly shrieks, eyes opening wide with disbelief and what he’s sure she thinks is translating as devastation. “what are you even saying, joshua?!”

the sheer amount of willpower it takes to keep from rolling his eyes is staggering. “it should be an easy question to answer,” he sighs, running a hand over his face tiredly. “so i think the fact that you refuse to is an answer in itself.”

he sets his bottle on the counter and moves to step around her so he can leave and just let it be over with—going out, not with a bang, but with a pathetic little sigh—but she steps the same direction, palms out like she’ll shove him if he gets any closer to the door.

“what the fuck are you on right now?” she asks, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted into an ugly, displeased sneer like a switch just flipped.

joshua feels the hair on the back of his neck stand as he frowns down at her. she doesn’t try to wrestle her face into playing along with her placating, innocent girl act. instead, she wears her scowl proudly, crossing her arms across her chest in defiance as she blocks his way from his emergency exit.

“you’re not leaving until you tell me why you’re asking me that,” she states.

he finds her rage as discomforting as yours but in wildly different ways. your anger makes him freeze up and almost panic; it renders him unable to speak or even think, and he’s still not even sure why. but mina’s makes him physically cringe away. it… annoys him.

just like she wasn’t used to his impatience, he wasn’t used to her being angry—at least not at him. all mina’s ever been angry about have been baristas who used 2% instead of fat free milk in her lattes (and yes, she insists she can tell), long wait times, and her boss demanding she work overtime. though joshua realizes that was probably just an excuse to see siwoo.

“mina, why are you doing this?” he asks, exasperated.

“why am i doing this?!” she repeats, scoffing so obnoxiously hard in his face, spit lands on his cheek.

he closes his eyes for a brief moment as he wipes it away, willing his patience to hold out long enough to get him out of this building.

“why are you doing this?! why are you as—”

“because i know!” he shouts over her increasingly high-pitched whining. “i’m asking because i know all about how awful you’ve been, mina! and i wanted to see if after a year together, you’d at least have the decency to be honest with me!”

mina’s attitude drops, her hands immediately combing through her hair frantically, a nervous tic she always had.

“i know you were faking business trips, i know you were sleeping around, i know you were fucking him last night when i told you i needed to talk to you—when your boyfriend of a year wanted to see you!”

she stares at him helplessly, mouth hung open and her eyes quickly filling with tears. he realizes as he stares back, feeling nothing but resentment and disdain for her, that your wildly fluctuating emotions unnerve him because he wants to find a way to get you back to your baseline, if not all the way to the other end to happy.

as he watches mina begin to weep, he feels none of that. for the first time in his life, joshua yearns to be cruel. he wants to make her cry harder, and it makes him resent her even more—for making him think and feel something so reprehensible.

he suddenly sees why you’re so open to letting your fury flow through every part of you before unapologetically releasing it right out into the world the way you do. after a lifetime of insisting on being the calm one, the collected one, the unbothered one, the unfeeling one, he realizes that being angry like this is addicting—freeing.

“baby, i…”

“don’t, mina, i’m not your fucking baby,” he says. even he can hear how tired he sounds.

“i’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking. “i am, i really am. i don’t know why i did it. i—i don’t know—i’m so—i…”

“save it,” he puts her out of her misery of trying to find the right words to manipulate him into thinking she’s anything other than the deceitful cheater she is. “i know you don’t regret hurting me like this. i—”

“no, i do!” she wails, throwing herself at him now.

he immediately starts untangling himself from her hold but she makes it impossible, her grabby hands all over him as she tries to get him to stop attempting to escape her.

“mina, let go o—”

“i regret it, joshua, i swear to god i regret it!” she weeps so loudly now, he starts to feel dread gathering in the pit of his stomach the way it did when he broke up with miyoung. “i never wanted to hurt you, i love you!”

“holy shit,” he grumbles, shoving her hands off him and stepping away from her even though it meant being farther from the only exit. “how can you even say that to my face right now?”

“it’s true!” she screams, grating his nerves. “i love you! i want to spend the rest of my life with you! it was all a mistake! minhyuk was just a temptation i gave into at a weak moment, and i swear it didn’t mean—”

“who the hell is minhyuk?” he asks, frowning when her words finally catch up to him.

mina freezes, and it’s like her tears get the memo because they stop too. it’s the only reason joshua knows that no matter how convincing, this was also just an act.

he glares now.

“who. is. minhyuk. mina?” he staggers his words like it’ll help her few remaining brain cells unite long enough to understand and answer his question.

“i… what do you mean? you said… you said you knew that i… you said—”

“i know about siwoo,” he clarifies, his temper at its breaking point. he’s a moment away from calling you to come up here and make sure he doesn’t land himself in jail, wrecking mina’s entire apartment in an attempt to claw his way out of it. “who the fuck is minhyuk?”

joshua doesn’t think he’s ever cussed this much in his life.

“i—”

“who the fuck is siwoo?”

joshua’s head whips around toward the voice, coming from the hallway that leads to mina’s room. the laugh that immediately escapes his mouth is instinctive and hysterical. he doesn’t know any other way to react than to start laughing; if he doesn’t, he’s positive he’ll somehow spontaneously combust.

because standing in mina’s hallway is one of the many reasons her neighbors despise her. a very half naked reason, dressed only in boxers.

“are you for fucking real?” mina hisses, shutting her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose as if joshua isn’t even in the room. “i told you to wait in the room and be fucking quiet, you moron. are you—”

“who is siwoo?!” the man shouts now.

joshua’s laughs peter out, and with them goes his anger. he sighs, shaking his head and remembering how drained he feels.

“i take it you’re minhyuk.” the man glares at him but doesn’t respond, so he nods. “well, mina, i guess you were truthful about one thing: you really were busy last night, weren’t you?”

“how did you even know siwoo stopped by here?!” she yells. joshua hopes building management kicks her out after the noise complaints she’s bound to get from today alone.

“i can’t believe you’re fucking cheating on me!” minhyuk disappears back into mina’s room, shouting nonsense as he gathers his things.

“you’re definitely not the one who was cheated on!” joshua calls after him, rolling his eyes. he turns back to mina, mustering up the very last of his energy to finally end it. “mina. you’re disgusting. i will move on from this remembering you as nothing other than a nasty stain on my otherwise amazing life.”

a squeak of protest erupts from her mouth, but he doesn’t let her get a word in.

“but you... you’ll continue to do whatever sleazy shit you’ve been up to for who knows how long, and one day, you’ll wake up and realize how empty and tragic and ugly you and your life both are—” she has the audacity to look offended at the word ugly. “—and you won’t be able to do anything to change that because no one worth having around will have cared enough to stick by you.”

her tears start again and this time, they feel real—they don’t come with screaming or begging or lying. they steadily stream down her face and it makes joshua feel like he’s high.

“your commitment to being a selfish asshole really has you by the neck and i pray to god it starts squeezing with both hands,” he says, delivering your line with a tight-lipped smile.

he finally steps around her, making his way to the door. he opens it and just before he leaves, he thinks, what the hell? and turns back.

“mina,” he calls softly. she turns back to him, face red and splotchy. “don’t contact me. if i ever see your phone number on my screen, i’ll personally call every single cafe on this fucking continent and make sure they only serve you whole fat milk for the rest of your life.”

she gasps like he just made a legitimate threat, and he gets the immature and overwhelming urge to ridicule and laugh at her.

“oh, and get some fucking help,” he adds before turning away and leaving without waiting for her reaction.

fortunately, he gets the elevator immediately.

unfortunately, none other than minhyuk comes barreling in before the doors close. he has the sense to at least look ashamed, throwing joshua a pitiful smile, but it isn’t enough, so he steps forward and presses a finger to the button that keeps the doors open.

he doesn’t say anything, blankly staring at the man who apparently had sex with his girlfriend either before or after siwoo did last night. minhyuk gets the clue and sighs.

“bro, we’re on the 13th floor,” he protests.

he still doesn’t respond. finally, when several seconds of minhyuk fidgeting have passed, the man groans dramatically—not unlike mina herself—and he stomps out of the elevator and toward the stairwell.

joshua smiles to himself, releasing the button and letting the elevator doors close and take him down to the lobby—down to you.

when joshua exits mina’s building, you’re waiting exactly where you had accosted the two of them the night before, sweaty and disheveled from your run over, but somehow still looking so incredibly pretty.

you take one look at his face and know exactly how the entire conversation went down without even having to ask. then, an interesting thing happens: you do something joshua thinks is akin to exploding, and he has to hold you back from storming the building. you don’t even know where mina lives, but he knows if he lets you go, you’ll knock on every single door of all 25 floors until you find her and sock her in the face.

and even as he tries to calm you down now, something warms his heart knowing you care enough to do something as ridiculous as that.

“you’re causing a scene,” he grunts, stepping in your way again when you try to dodge him.

“if you think this is a scene, you’re gonna hate what i’m about to cause on whatever goddamn floor that bitch lives on!” you inform him.

“i’m not telling you and the front desk won’t either. he’d probably call security on you before you even get to the elevators.”

“i don’t care! i’ll punch the man at the front desk too! my fists are rated E for everyone!” you shriek wildly, darting back and forth as you try to get around him. against his will, an amused snort escapes him.

when it’s clear to you that joshua’s height and long legs are going to make it impossible for you to fake him out, you give up on going around and decide to go through.

joshua shouts in surprise when you barrel right into him, opting for pushing him backwards to get a few steps forward. he catches on quickly and digs his heels in, gripping your shoulders and holding you at arm’s length.

“she’s not worth this time or energy,” he tells you.

“oh, i disagree, i think she’s worth a lot of my time and energy!” you refute. “i think she’s worth as much of my time and energy as it takes for me to rock her shit!”

you groan as you struggle against his hold, and he almost laughs at how hard you seem to be trying because it’s relatively easy to keep you where you are. you shrug his hands off and slap him away, charging forward again, but before you can, he plants his palm on your forehead, stopping you in your tracks.

“yah! joshua hong!” you shove his arm away from your forehead, and he can’t help when the laughs finally break free. “how are you laughing right now? i could kill her!”

he shrugs, his laughter suddenly snowballing until his hands are on his knees and he’s trying to catch his breath.

he can’t do anything other than laugh. he has to laugh at the year he’s wasted with mina, or he’ll drive himself crazy asking himself what’s wrong with him that his taste led him so astray (something to unpack when he inevitably returns to his therapist). he has to laugh at the memory of walking in while minhyuk was still there or he’ll fixate on the fact that he has no idea how many men mina’s cheated on him with—and the fact that he needs to go get tested for STDs immediately. there is no other option but to laugh because he has no idea how someone’s life can change this fast because of an instagram DM.

when he finally stops, he sighs, straightening up to find you looking at him with a blank expression.

“oh, you’re so not okay,” you mutter.

“i’m fine,” he insists, shaking his head. he rests his hands back on your shoulders, this time gently, and he nods once. “this has just been the most ridiculous 24 hours of my life, and i’m tired and i’m starving. can we please escape this hellhole and eat? i’ll even pay.”

your eyes narrow at that, studying his face like you’re trying to see if he’s lying to you about being okay. he isn’t—at least he doesn’t think he is—but he also doesn’t think you’d be able to tell if he were anyway.

“i know a ramen spot near here?” you offer hesitantly.

it irks him that you not only have a go-to fried chicken spot in the area but a ramen spot too, and only because you’ve followed siwoo here enough times to have favorites. he thinks you deserve to find favorites in more meaningful ways.

he doesn’t say that, though, of course. instead, joshua looks you up and down before he scans himself, pointedly staring at how sweaty the two of you are in this sticky summer heat.

“ramen is good for the soul,” you say, reading his mind. “the best comfort food. plus, you’ll sweat out all your heartache.”

“i have no heartache to sweat out.”

“right,” you agree, nodding easily and in a way that makes him question if you’re being sarcastic or not. “maybe we should invite jeonghan.”

he tilts his head. he’s not opposed because he needs to fill his best friend in, but he’s also not enjoying you being the one to suggest it. “why…?”

you shrug. “my offers to dole out violence on your behalf can only go so far. your best friend will probably be better equipped to handle… whatever that was that just happened right now.”

he snickers and rolls his eyes. “okay, i’ll text him.”

“no need, i already did!” you say as you loop your arm through his and begin to pull him away from the building.

he scoffs, a little too aware of the scowl that erupts on his face. “how do you have jeonghan’s number?”

you look up at him and snort. “we all exchanged information last night, remember?”

no, you and joshua exchanged information last night after he insisted on it so he knew when you got home safe. his eye twitches when he thinks about jeonghan sneaking you his number too—and maybe even texting or calling you as much as he was today.

“he’s waiting for us at the ramen shop.”

he clenches his jaw before forcing a smile. “you really are such a well-prepared individual, aren’t you.”

“gotta be if i’m going to ruin siwoo and mina’s lives.”

“mina? i thought—”

“oh baby,” you say it with fake pity like he’s actually a child, but he finds he likes it a hell of a lot more than dude. infinitely more than bro. “she doesn’t get a pass anymore. that ship sailed when she decided to do my shua like that.” oh, he likes that one a lot. “she’s officially back in the plan.”

joshua grins genuinely now, nodding without arguing. even if he didn��t want you to wrap your metaphorical revenge hands around mina’s ugly neck and shake violently (he does), he knows arguing with you is futile.

“okay.” he feels the exhaustion from earlier slowly leave his body, already feeling lighter as he walks with you, arms looped together like you’ve been best friends for years. “let’s ruin some lives then.”

you look up at him and squeeze his arm, jumping a little as you squeal, “let’s!”

“bye, y/n.”

joshua tries not to glare as jeonghan pulls you into a hug, one arm snaking around your waist as he grins over your shoulder at him. he flashes his eyebrows at him and all his efforts go to waste. he gives him the nastiest glower he can. his best friend’s smirk just widens.

he doesn’t know what’s going on—with jeonghan, with you, with the both of you, with himself. for the first 40 minutes sitting in the restaurant, joshua retold the hellish afternoon he experienced and took all of his best friend’s many i-told-you-so, what-a-bitch, and i-knew-she-was-a-snake comments with grace. but as soon as that was over, jeonghan flipped a switch.

all night, the man has been acting so weird with you, laughing too hard at everything you say, touching you any chance he gets, saying things just because he knows you’ll agree. and all night, for a reason he can’t quite put his finger on, it’s been driving joshua up the wall. it’s probably because you’re literally still in a relationship. his best friend could at least wait until you’re properly single before he starts doing whatever jeonghan-styled mating call this is.

nope. that’s not it. that thought drives him even further up this insufferable, metaphorical wall.

“later,” you say as you step back. “don’t forget to send me that brand of hair remover you were looking at.” you turn over your shoulder and joshua immediately drops his glare and smiles. if you saw the look he was giving jeonghan, you don’t show it. instead, you wink at him. “we’re going to need that for mina’s shampoo now, huh, shua?”

“shua,” jeonghan repeats, obviously delighted, eyebrows rising and grin quickly entering shit-eating levels. “cute!”

you turn back to him excitedly. “right?! i think so too!”

“you’re such a genius, y/n,” he says, sounding nauseatingly lovesick. joshua silently scoffs at him behind your back. he should know better, though, because that just eggs him on. “i’ll text you the link as soon as i get home. or—” he meets his eyes again. “—i’ll just call you!”

“sure, whatever,” you shrug, as indifferent as ever. it makes joshua happy. maybe a direct rejection would make him even happier, though. “get home safe!”

“yeah, get home safe,” joshua echoes as jeonghan steps around you to hug him as well. “don’t fall into a manhole or get run over by a massive truck or anything,” he mutters too quietly for anyone else but him to hear.

“i love you too, man,” jeonghan laughs, rubbing his back and squeezing his shoulder as he steps away. “call me if you need to drink your sorrows away. see you two!”

he finally walks off toward his car as you step up to joshua’s side, looping your arm through his again. his heart immediately slows, recovering from the irritation of dealing with a menace.

“jeonghan knows i have zero interest in dating him, right?”

joshua can’t help the bark of laughter that all but rips its way out of him.

“no, like,” you laugh a little, “he comes on so strong? i don’t think i’ve ever met someone as bold as he is.”

that’s ironic, seeing as joshua has never met anyone as bold as you.

“i don’t know if he knows that,” he says honestly. “but either way, he wouldn’t make a move until you were single.”

he gets brief flashes of jeonghan’s fingers brushing up against yours, jeonghan delivering wings onto your plate, jeonghan hugging you a beat too long, jeonghan existing around you.

“i think,” he adds, frowning.

you make a sound of disbelief as you both watch jeonghan pull out of his spot and drive away. you both stay rooted to the spot, watching nothing in particular.

“i am single. for all intents and purposes, i am absolutely single.”

joshua is alarmed at how horrible the chill that runs up his spine feels—like an omen of how unbearable his life will become if two crazy people like you and jeonghan join forces to become one.

“i just happen to be a single woman pretending to still love her ex so she can obliterate his entire existence from the inside out.”

“right,” he says, nodding. “of course. i just mean that… i—uh… i have no idea what i mean. but i’ll tell jeonghan to fuck off.”

you whistle, laughing after you do. “i think that’s the first time i heard you cuss,” you inform him. “my shua cussing…”

you don’t finish your thought because you giggle, and he thinks the sound triggers his fight or flight. he lets you laugh and when it fades, you shake your head.

“don’t tell jeonghan to fuck off,” you tell him. “it’s fun. flattering.”

“flattering?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

you shrug. “i’ve been with that idiot, siwoo, for two years. i guess it’s nice to know that someone thinks i’m cute enough to flirt with. at least i know i’m still an eligible bachelorette.”

joshua huffs out a laugh of disbelief. “are you serious?”

you yank your arm out of his, startling him. “what?! you don’t think i’m cute enough to flirt with?!” you ask, half offended but obviously thoroughly amused.

“quite the opposite, actually,” he says before he can convince himself not to. he’s about to start sputtering about how he means it in the most platonic and objective way possible, but since you’re you, he doesn’t need to.

“good, that’s what i thought,” you say, grinning and weaving your arm through the ditch of his elbow again. “i’m very cute.”

joshua is glad you’re so comfortable to be around. he knows if he agreed with you now, you’d happily accept the compliment, but if the roles were reversed, he would be flustered for the next week.

you two enjoy a comfortable silence before he sighs contentedly and looks down at you to ask if you’re ready to leave. he forgets what he’s about to say when he meets your eyes, though.

you’re already looking up at him and smiling softly. “did you like the ramen? do you feel better?” you ask, tilting your head.

he thinks you would look nice resting it against his shoulder. “i feel much better,” he confirms. “thanks again—for coming so fast and so last minute without me even asking you to.” he pauses to think, frowning when he confronts how ride-or-die you’ve been for him today. “and even before that. thanks for workshopping all those horrible lines with me.”

you grin. “don’t mention it, dude.” he’s too content right now to make a face at that. at least it’s not bro. “it was a lot of fun, actually.”

“i still don’t think i have any heartache to sweat out into any other bowls of ramen—” you snicker. “—but it’s nice to know i have two people to cry to if i ever do.”

you nod enthusiastically. “exactly! you have jeonghan, and you have me now.”

he hums, feeling an intense desire to say you have him too—because you do, and you unfortunately already have jeonghan as well—but he stops himself. he’s only known you one day, and he’s just not as courageous as you are with your words.

“it’s nice,” you mutter, “to have people to go through these things with.”

joshua doesn’t voice his curiosity about your own friendships. were there no other people you were able to expect this kind of support from? where was this soph you used to excuse yourself from dinner? any other friends? family?

he lets his curiosity simmer. you’ve already subjected each other to incredibly intimate parts of your life; the rest can come another day.

“hopefully, it’s the first and last time we go through this,” he remarks, chuckling.

“one can hope,” you agree. “and the ramen?” you prod. “was it good?”

“i loved it,” he says honestly, “but—”

“‘but’?!” you practically shriek. “but what?! the ramen here is really good! what could you possibly have to say about the ramen here?”

he laughs, looking away from you and rolling his eyes at how fast you are to pounce. “i love the ramen, but,” he continues, “we need to find you some favorites that don’t involve roaming around the area that siwoo and mina happen to be in. i’ll show you some of my favorites. away from here. and if you want your own favorites, then we’ll go to a place you’ve never been and we’ll find you new favorites. but i hate to inform you… this will be the last time we eat in this godforsaken area so i hope you enjoyed that.”

when joshua looks back down at you, you’re no longer smiling. he tenses when he realizes you look a little sad, your mouth turned down at the corners so slightly, he probably wouldn’t notice if he weren’t so close to your face.

“oh,” he breathes, “y/n, i’m sorry, i didn’t—”

you shake your head quickly and he clamps his mouth shut.

“y’know,” you say quietly, like any louder and you’ll start crying. he doesn’t doubt that you would. it’s been a whole 24 hours since you did—at least in front of him. “it really fucking sucks… finding out your boyfriend is cheating on you, and on top of that, having to continue relying on him.”

your hold on his forearm tightens for a moment, and before he can think about it, he removes his right hand from his pocket and closes it over yours.

“and i know that we’ve only known each other for like… a day,” you say, laughing even though your voice is getting dangerously watery, “but every time we talk… i stop to think i’m really lucky that of all the people i could’ve been suffering through this with, it turned out to be you.”

joshua’s mouth parts to say something, but nothing comes out because nothing even comes to mind. there you go again—so honest and forthcoming and bold and you. there you go again, making his brain the most useless organ in his body without even trying.

“you’re really nice,” you sigh. “thank you.” you turn away and wipe at your eyes quickly before taking your hand back from his and releasing his arm altogether. he immediately feels a little colder. he returns his hand to his pocket. “for my last dinner in this stupid fucking neighborhood.”

he clears his throat. “you’re welcome.”

“i’ll hold you to it, y’know,” you warn him, bumping his shoulder. “don’t think you can say nice things like that and then have no follow-through.”

from the way you say it, he knows you’re thinking of siwoo. he wonders what sort of tiny things siwoo promised you that he never delivered on if he couldn’t even do something as simple as stay true to you. joshua thinks it will be easy for him to show you how nice people can be when they aren’t taking you for granted.

“good, hold me to it.”

“i will! you owe me a favorite chicken shop, a favorite ramen shop, a favorite boba shop, a favorite ice c—”

“jesus christ, how often were you here?”

you laugh loudly. “you owe me so many favorites.”

joshua smiles. “come on,” he says. “we’ll get you all those favorites. but for now, let’s get you home.”

“goodbye forever, ramen shop,” you bid the establishment farewell happily. “and goodbye, stupid fucking neighborhood!”

he grins. “good riddance, stupid fucking neighborhood!”

you’re consumed by giggles hearing him curse again.

acting normal while texting you proves to be the hardest thing joshua has done every single time he does it. it’s either you’re being incredibly funny and he’s smiling at his phone like an idiot, or you’re saying a bold inside thought and he’s smiling at his phone like an idiot. either way, even if he thinks he does a good job at appearing normal via text, he knows he looks crazy in person.

“you’re cheesing real hard, bro.”

joshua immediately locks his phone and shoves it into his pocket as he forces his face into a blank stare.

“smooth,” jeonghan says, snickering from where he’s sprawled across the other side of joshua’s couch, no longer paying attention to the movie he begged to put on. “texting y/n?”

“no.” the lie comes out before he can even think about it. “watched a funny video.”

he hums, a soft smile on his lips. joshua knows he doesn’t believe him. “well, speaking of her, what’s going on with the two of you anyway?”

“what?”

“what’s going on with—”

“no, i heard you,” he laughs. “i just meant, like… what do you mean? i’m helping her with siwoo. you know that.”

he narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly, but being his best friend, joshua is educated on all the nuances jeonghan’s face comes with.

“what?” he asks again.

“do you like her?”

“yeah, she’s cool. kind of intense but cool. don’t you?”

jeonghan rolls his lips between his teeth like he’s trying not to smile too widely. he cocks an eyebrow at him. “i mean, do you like like her? do you fancy her?”

joshua scoffs. “what?”

it’s such a ridiculous question to ask someone who broke up with his girlfriend not even a full week ago. he thinks he was mostly telling the truth when he told you he had no heartache for him to expel from his body because both his heart and brain have been fairly quiet since that afternoon, but even then, he’s still too disoriented from how fast his life changed to think about liking anyone.

“it’s been days since mina and i broke up,” he reminds his best friend. “how could i already be interested in someone else?”

“well, mina didn’t wait to break up before she bec—”

“okay,” joshua holds a hand up to stop him from pointing out mina’s infidelity for the thousandth time since they found out. “mina and i aren’t the same. i can’t just jump into something else so quickly after. and it’s not even about mina.”

“oooh,” jeonghan sits up properly and crosses his legs, folding his hands over his knee. “explain.”

he shrugs. “i don’t really feel all that torn up about her as much as i am about how bad my instincts are.”

he frowns. “your instincts?”

“yeah, like… the signs were glaringly obvious,” joshua explains. “you knew she was a snake before all of this; you just didn’t know why. how come i didn’t see any of that? and,” he practically yells as he resituates himself on the couch so that he’s fully facing jeonghan, “how could i have thought i was going to possibly marry someone like that? i can’t even think about looking at another person until i wrap my mind around how i could have ever thought i was in love. what if i don’t even know what love is?”

“whoa, okay—”

“what if i end up with another mina?”

“—slow down,” jeonghan raises his hands like he’s trying to calm a bull. he mirrors his position, fully turning to him on the sofa now. “first of all, you know what love is. your judgment was just clouded for a little bit! you were lost in the joy of having a girlfriend that lasted a lot longer than the others. or you were being a weirdo and getting swallowed up by the plight of being in your 30s with no prospects for marriage, so you deluded yourself into thinking mina was it.”

joshua’s mouth pops open in shock a little at that. “i mean… that’s… plausible.”

“whatever it is—even if it is that she fooled you and you were blind to all the red flags, that doesn’t mean you don’t know what love is. how could you not know what love is when i’m your best friend? i love the shit out of you.”

he does crack a smile at this. he lets the reminder sink in and marinate in his brain. jeonghan could very much be right on the money with this one; after all, mina came at a time when joshua was starting to question if his love life was cursed. he was fresh out of therapy he sought out because his ex broke up with him for essentially being a robot, and he was eager to share more of himself with the next one—to love the next one harder than he had the rest. maybe he really was just forcing something to be that wasn’t meant to be.

“say it back.”

he laughs. “i love you too.” he sighs. “what else?”

“huh?”

“you said ‘first of all.’ i assume you have a second of all?”

jeonghan frowns for a moment before a light bulb goes off in his head. “yes! second of all, y/n is not mina.”

“wait, what?”

“you said, ‘what if i end up with another mina?’ y/n is not mina.”

“of course she’s not mina,” joshua says. that much is obvious; if mina is one end of the spectrum, you’re so far on the other end, it went all the way back around to mina. “but why are we even talking about y/n?”

“because it’s clear you like her,” he informs him, amused.

“i don’t like her like that,” he disagrees confidently and somewhat exasperatedly. whenever jeonghan got ideas like this in his head, it became an inarguable truth to him regardless of what anyone else said. he knows if he doesn’t nip it in the bud, he’ll run with it for the rest of their lives. “she’s funny and nice and cool to hang out with, but she’s just a friend.”

“is that why you’re texting and calling her 24/7 when the rest of us feel like we’re pulling teeth trying to get you to respond to us?” jeonghan points out. joshua opens his mouth to refute his point, but he steamrolls right over his words. “is that why you’re extra mean to me whenever the three of us hang out?”

“we’ve only hung out all three of us twice. and what do you mean i’m mean to you?”

his best friend laughs openly in his face. “you’re really going to tell me you don’t notice the way you kick me or interrupt me or glare at me whenever so much as an ounce of y/n’s attention is on me instead of you?”

is that what his odd behavior at the ramen shop was about? he was trying to get on joshua’s nerves as some kind of experiment?

joshua narrows his eyes at him. “i do those things because you’re annoying me.”

“i’ve annoyed you our whole lives,” he shoots right back. “you’ve only started abusing me recently.”

“you’re so dramatic and wrong.”

“okay!” jeonghan agrees too easily. he stands up.

“where are you going?” joshua leans back to look up at him. “aren’t we getting dinner later?”

he hums in thought before quickly saying no. “rain check! i think i’m going to ask y/n if she wants to go out instead. i’ve been thinking about asking her out.”

joshua is not dumb. joshua is actually very smart. he graduated top of his class from an ivy league in the U.S., he has an MBA, and he—much like you were supposed to be before siwoo upended your life—became a director at his company before 30, still on track to become the youngest senior director.

joshua is smart and he knows what jeonghan is trying to do, but his dumb face frustratingly doesn’t get the memo. before he can even fully process the words, his eyebrows are pulling down, eyes sharpening into a glare, and jaw clenching so hard, he knows jeonghan can hear his teeth grinding.

“oh, really,” he deadpans.

“yup!” he has the audacity to grin at joshua, eyes so full of mischief and mirth, he wants to kick him again and give him something to really complain about. “i’ll see myself out, don’t worry about getting up. bye joshuji! i’ll tell y/n you said hi!”

joshua scoffs as he watches him actually leave his apartment. and again, because various parts of his body seem to be missing signals from his brain that he doesn’t care, once the door clicks closed behind jeonghan, he throws himself back onto the couch mindlessly and hastily, struggling to retrieve his phone from his pocket.

“why are these jeans so fucking tight,” he mumbles as his hand gets a little stuck. when he finally rips the phone out of his pocket, he briefly considers texting you but lands on calling you instead. what he’s going to say, he has no idea.

“i was just about to call you,” you once again answer without greeting him first.

“oh. hi,” he says, a little thankful for the non-greeting for once because it gives him some time to come up with an excuse for calling you other than he wanted to beat jeonghan to it. “why were you going to call?”

“because you were taking a long ass time to reply again,” you say simply. he snickers at your streak of impatience. “why are you calling?”

that wasn’t a lot of time to come up with an excuse at all, but joshua thinks “so we can make plans. i don’t feel like texting” is more than good enough.

“oh yay,” you accept the fib easily. “well, as an unemployed idiot, i am free… let me see… oh yes, all day every day, but extra free on whatever day siwoo’s parents decide to hold me hostage at dinner with them.”

joshua laughs, slowly relaxing against the couch once more. “well, how about tonight?”

“ugh, unfortunately, they do not want to have dinner tonight, but yes, i am free.”

“how about we meet to discuss your top secret plan tonight and then hang again whenever your dinner with that nightmare family is?” he suggests.

“joshua hong, my knight in shining armor,” you joke. his cheeks warm at the words. “sounds like a plan. can we meet at yours, though? i don’t want to reveal how crazy i am in a public setting. that seems too vulnerable. and i’d invite you over here but it’s probably best we don’t discuss these plans in the home of the man whose life i’d like to destroy.” joshua truly admires your way with sarcasm.

“yeah, i’ll text you my address,” he agrees. and because he’s extra irate with jeonghan for thinking he can manipulate him into becoming some kind of jealous monster, he adds: “you can come over whenever—even now if you want. i’m free all day” just in case his best friend calls you too after you hang up.

“oh great!” you say. “siwoo is out all day doing lord knows who or what and i’m done brushing the toilet with everything he owns, so i can be on my way once you send it.”

joshua smiles. “perfect.”

he knows he literally just played right into jeonghan’s game, but somehow, he still feels like he won.

it doesn’t take you long at all to get to his apartment, and when you do, he’s a little stunned to open the door and find your arms completely empty—no files full of information only the CIA would have or fat manila envelopes stuffed with plans to eviscerate your exes like he expected. instead, you stand there, hands clasped in front of you with nothing but your purse hanging on your shoulder.

“nice place,” you comment as you look around his apartment, unabashedly looking at the books on his shelves, art on the walls, even running your fingers across the strings of his guitar in the corner. “you play?”

he hums as he plops back down on his couch. “yeah, since i was young. do you?”

you laugh like he told a joke. “no. i’m not creatively gifted. it doesn’t really surprise me that you are, though.”

he’s about to ask you what makes you say that but you turn to him and clap your hands together once.

“okay! let’s do this! we have a lot of material to get through tonight.”

you throw your purse on the counter of the breakfast bar, make your way to the coffee table in front of him, take your phone out of your pocket, and sink to the floor.

“let’s start with mina; i think she’ll be much easier since she doesn’t have a family-owned empire for us to topple.”

joshua’s eyes widen. “a family-owned what for us to what?”

you wave your hand like it’s an irrelevant detail. “we’ll get into it later,” you assure him as you get to wherever you were swiping to on your phone. you read a few lines and then nod, looking up at him. “so mina is a grade A gold-digger.”

joshua huffs, leaning his elbows on his knees and shaking his head. “i’m not saying i disagree because you have very solid evidence—good job, by the way—”

“thank you!” you chirp happily, smiling widely.

“—but i am not rich enough for anyone to try digging for gold around here.”

your smile disappears, expression flattening into a glare as you pointedly look around his apartment. he follows your gaze, and yes, he sees what you see: a very spacious apartment, all of the interests and hobbies he can afford to indulge in, and furniture he hired an interior designer to curate for him. he’ll give it to you—he’s definitely a little more than just comfortable, but he’s not gold-digging material. he never even gave mina much money; he just paid for dates, and he tells you as much.

“well, i did some digging, and that’s all she would’ve really needed you to pay for. little miss busy body had multiple streams of income,” you tell him, swiping on your phone until you’re showing him screenshots of instagram profiles. the first is siwoo’s.

joshua would never admit it, but his curiosity got the best of him after overhearing your conversation with siwoo over the phone, and he found his profile after combing through the accounts you follow. the man’s face was tolerable enough, though not anything special to look at, in joshua’s opinion. he definitely thinks you can do a lot better. but for mina, though, he’s perfect. they’d make monstrous, ugly, little children.

“so here are my theories,” you announce. “correct me if you think i’m wrong with any of this since you know mina better.” he nods in agreement. “i think siwoo was target number one. she thought because he’s the heir to a sizable company, that he would be a good sugar daddy to land, but he was already taken by a smart, beautiful, kind, and insanely funny woman that turned out to be way too good for him.” he grins at you. “and because too many people have eyes on his finances—mommy, daddy… and me but only because i started snooping—”

joshua snorts, looking down at his lap when he thinks of the things you’re pushed to do when a man is making you feel insecure. it’s not fitting for you and he hates it.

“—he probably couldn’t give mina as much money as she was expecting. but she thought she’d keep him around in case there was ever an opportunity to go full-time with him,” you theorize. you turn your phone back to you, swiping to the next account. “minhyuk.”

joshua looks up and rolls his eyes when he sees an account full of shirtless photos of the man he met in mina’s apartment. “yeah. minhyuk.”

“he lives about 30 minutes from mina’s apartment in the opposite direction of siwoo, putting them about an hour away from each other,” you inform him.

“how the hell do you know that?”

you smile slyly. “i have my ways.” when he keeps staring at you, you roll your eyes. “his full name is on his instagram so i looked him up on linkedin and facebook, and the latter had photos of him moving into his apartment, okay? kids nowadays don’t care about internet safety; it’s not rocket science, shua. anyway,” you point back to the screenshot of his account, trying to redirect his attention, “that’s a healthy enough distance that she probably felt safe dating these two. on top of that, minhyuk is a pilot for korean airlines—did you know they can make up to 300 million won a year? absolutely rich enough to warrant mina’s attention.”

joshua has to admit that maybe he should reconsider what he thinks is rich versus what is comfortable if 300 million won was impressive to you.

“so mina snatches him up, knowing it won’t be much of a time commitment since he’ll constantly be flying all over the place,” you explain. “then, we have…” you swipe and sigh, shaking your head. “this guy.”

joshua narrows his eyes at the screen where he’s met with the account of a man he’s never seen before. he’s very tatted, with a kind face and a nice smile, and if his photos are any indication, he works out just as hard as minhyuk apparently does.

“and who is this?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“boyfriend number three,” you say a little uncomfortably. “jeon jungkook.”

joshua grunts but says nothing, so you continue.

“before you ask how i found him, i went through all of the people mina follows on instagram, and—”

“her profile is private,” joshua points out.

“that’s what burner accounts are for,” you respond.

“she approved aggretsuko’s request to follow her…?”

you smile. “no, silly, i followed her from my believable burner. aggretsuko is more just for being able to blindly like and follow whatever and whoever i want to. i have a fake account featuring a fake person with a fake life and fake followers. she let that one follow her.”

“i should really stop questioning you. you’re obviously very capable at this whole revenge thing.”

“yeah, the sooner you do that, the faster our conversations will be. so i went through all the accounts she follows, which thankfully aren’t many because the bitch likes having a skinny mini following to follower ratio.”

joshua shakes his head at your name-calling but fights off a smile anyway.

“i picked out every man—again, not many because she was probably mindful of them being able to see each other’s accounts—and i looked up their occupations on linkedin and if they made a good salary, they made the cut. from there, i just heavily cyberstalked them until i had no choice but to rule them out, or in jungkook’s case, until i found something incriminating.”

he doesn’t bother asking because he can see you get a kick out of explaining this to him.

“a photo of him and mina at a romantic dinner, dated a year and a half ago.”

“before me.”

you nod. “yup. jungkook is an investment banker, aka basically a bank, period, to mina. and seeing as the korean stock exchange is based in busan, he’s constantly flying between there and here for work—”

“making him another good candidate for a boyfriend since he wouldn’t demand a lot of her time.”

you nod and point at him. “exactly! which brings us to boyfriend #4.” you put your phone on the table and gesture at him. “you.”

he nods. “me.”

you tilt your head at him. “honestly, i couldn’t figure out what it was that made mina choose you.”

he scoffs. “wow.”

“no, don’t get me wrong,” you say, shaking your head calmly. “you’re a fucking catch—leagues better than any of these guys as far as i can tell.” he feels his cheeks get hot. “but that’s why i couldn’t figure it out. mina digs her claws into these rich, kinda vain, kinda power-hungry men, and then she found you, and you’re yes, rich, but also kind, sweet, caring, and all of the other good words in the dictionary.”

the heat spreading across his face grows exponentially warmer.

“therefore, i concluded that mina chose you to be her real boyfriend.”

joshua frowns.

“doesn’t it make sense? she chooses guys who are either romantically unavailable or physically unavailable, so she still has all this time on her hands. the girl is evil but she’s also human so she craved an actual partner. she chose you.”

it sounds like it should be a compliment, but joshua feels even more repulsed by the idea that three just wasn’t enough for her. she really went out of her way to find him and torment him when she had more than enough to go around.

“this is the kind of greed the bible warned us about,” joshua mutters under his breath, mostly to himself. you hear it though, and the sound of your laugh immediately makes him smile back at you.

“yeah, mina is definitely a warning sign from god.”

“wish i listened.”

you give him a smile. “eh, where’s the fun in that?”

he knows you’re just trying to make him feel better but that you probably don’t believe that. he hasn’t forgotten what you were like the first night you met—how you cried and drank so miserably. still, you somehow found it in yourself to joke around like this. it makes him stop moping.

“okay,” he says, nodding and leaning forward with renewed vigor. “so she’s really good at time management. now what?”

you laugh. “she doesn’t need to be good at time management because i learned that mina doesn’t even fucking work, bro.”

the information is jarring enough that he doesn’t fully register what you call him. “what?”

“i called the company you mentioned her working for and pretended to be a recruiter calling for a reference, and they said no one by that name has ever worked there,” you report. “i think she’s making her living off her boyfriends. which is why i said that she only needed you to pay for dates. the others are funding her whole life.”

“oh my god, i hate her,” he says plainly as he thinks of all the “overtime” she had to clock in and the “business trips” she went on and the never-ending complaints about a boss that didn’t even exist. “what kind of fucking sociopath…”

you nod solemnly. “it at least makes our job easier; all we have to do is cut her from her money source.”

“the boyfriends.”

you hum affirmatively. “you and minhyuk are already done, so we just need to get siwoo and jungkook to cut her off. but now that she’s suddenly out two streams of income, i’m sure she’ll be really laying it on thick with those two to make up for it. we’ll have to be a bit creative.”

the craziest, most intrusive thought enters joshua’s head and in the next second, it’s exiting his mouth. “mingyu returns this weekend.”

you raise an eyebrow at the sudden change of topic but you don’t comment on it. “mingyu, the man you kept accusing me of being when i first messaged you?” you ask, sneering at the mere mention of his name. “that mingyu?”

he nods. “yup. there’s always been three of us: me, jeonghan, mingyu. he’s been traveling and he comes back in a few days.”

“okay… and what exactly does that have to do with ruining mina’s life?”

joshua grins, feeling excitement bubbling in his stomach. “kim mingyu, y/n, is rich. and not just comfortable—actually rich. as in rich enough for mina to drop all her boyfriends and quit scouting rich guys for the rest of her life if she had reason to think he was willing to fully support her.”

“does she not know what one of your best friends looks like…?” you question, making the most judgmental face joshua thinks he’s ever seen. he snickers.

“nope,” he says, popping the p. “mingyu’s been gone for the entirety of our relationship, traveling all over the place, so she never met him and his social media presence is equivalent to your aggretsuko account—for looking, not posting. all he does online is try to prank me.” he laughs more fully now, shaking his head at how perfect it is. “he’s a bored trust fund baby who knows how to act. he’s going to love doing this.”

your mouth drops open in awe, staying there for several seconds before you realize you haven’t said anything. “well,” you mutter, a smile very slowly beginning to spread across your face, “if you say he’s rich, then he must be absolutely rolling in it. and if he’s rolling in it—”

“then mina’s going to take the bait.”

you grin widely now, leaning forward onto the coffee table and shaking your head. “you, joshua hong, are so much more diabolical than you let on.”

he smirks. “learning from the best.”

“oh, she is so over.”

a/n: thanks for your patience! i'm afraid i will require more of it as i continue getting used to my new schedule LOL (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

if you’d like to be added to the tag list, comment here or send me an ask! if you requested to be on the list but weren’t tagged in this post or the reblog, it’s bc you don’t have an age indicator on your page. pls add that (and lmk that you did) if you want to be tagged next time.

part three teaser

"i really lost myself in this, y'know?" you whisper, head tilting up at the sky like maybe you'll find whatever it is you think you lost up there in the never-ending black.

joshua follows your gaze. “i don’t think you lost anything. i think it’s all still there.”

“how would you know? you didn’t know who i was before siwoo changed every aspect of me and my life,” you remind him like he needs to be reminded at all. every day, he found himself thinking about what life would be like if he had met you before siwoo had. he doesn’t need the reminder.

“i know because there’s no way any part of you that’s here with me right now is because of siwoo,” he tells you confidently. “you’re so… funny and smart and confident and reliable and cool. and you want me to believe any of that is because of siwoo?”

that gets him a small smile. “careful or i’ll start to think you have a favorable opinion of me.”

he snorts. “if you don’t already think that, i’m probably not being a good enough friend.”

joshua looks down when you press your shoulder against his. the breeze blows strands of hair into your face, and he suppresses the desire to tuck them behind your ear. “you’re a great friend. probably the greatest i’ve made in my adult life.”

he nods. “you too. all of you—every version of you before, during, and after siwoo. i like them all. even the ones i never got to meet."

"you're so..." you start but never finish.

"hmm?"

"nothing," you say. "thanks."

"for?"

"saying all of those nice things."

"pfft, don't get too big-headed about it," he says, trying to play it cool. you smile. "i just can't stand the idea that you think any part of who you are today is due to an idiot like siwoo."

you sigh and rest your head against his shoulder. he has to actively try to keep his body relaxed when you do. “did you know that the name siwoo means divine intervention?”

joshua shakes his head. “i didn’t.”

“divine intervention,” you repeat, scoffing this time. “like, yeah. he definitely intervened and derailed my whole life, that’s for sure. i have no idea where the fuck ‘divine’ comes from, though.”

“are you sure you didn’t misread it and it’s actually disturbing intervention?”

you laugh and slap his arm softly. “what does joshua mean?” you ask after a few moments of silence.

“uh,” he squints as he tries to remember what his mom told him, “salvation, i think.”

you suddenly lift your head up off his shoulder and look at him, eyes narrowing a little as you very closely and openly study his face. he feels self-conscious, a feeling he seems to have gotten used to around you.

“salvation…” it sounds like you’re testing the word on your tongue. you scan his face for something he doesn’t have the composure to ask about right now. no, his composure is nowhere to be found as your gaze rakes every centimeter of every feature of his face, taking your time like you're simultaneously trying to understand him and committing him to memory. “huh" is all you say when you're done.

“what?” he asks quietly, resisting the urge to pass a hand over his face in case there’s something on it.

“nothing,” you say, face relaxing one again. you smile a little, and even with the lessened intensity, your stare is starting to feel like it’s burning a hole right through him. “it’s just… fitting. joshua. salvation.”

and why exactly would that be fitting?

tag list: @coupsma @tokitosun @nothingbutadeadesceane @ateez-atiny380 @minghaofied @reiofsuns2001 @turtash @https-seishu @gaslysainz @dawn-iscozy @mrsjohnnysuh @sunnysidesins @thepoopdokyeomtouched @faizaa09 @hearts4itoshi @iamdkayyyyy @randojeon @iwannakisspoutycheol @youre-on-your-ownkid @justanotherkpopstanlol @sanaxo-o @seokqt @tjtales @ilouvwonwoo @littlemisshyperfixation @mxelatrix-x @papichulomacy @o-schist @sumzysworld @alyssa19123456

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smutmind · 2 days ago

Note

ive yujin for when it doesnt fit please

When It Doesn't Fit ft. Yujin

Idol X BBC

The classroom had emptied hours ago, but the lights still buzzed overhead, casting a low hum through the silence. Chairs were stacked. Desks wiped down. Only one seat remained occupied—center row, third from the front.

Yujin sat there, one leg bouncing, lip gloss worn down to a soft sheen. Her tie was undone, blouse wrinkled, skirt hitched just a little too high for someone claiming to wait innocently. She twirled a pencil between her fingers, pretending not to notice you watching.

You—Mr. Daniels—leaned against the edge of your desk. Tall, dark-skinned, patient in a way that made students stand straighter when you walked in. You’d seen her act before. Seen the way she toyed with authority like it was a game she knew she could win.

But today, she hadn’t even tried to leave.

You folded your arms. "You asked to stay late. Let’s not waste my time."

She looked up, lashes fluttering. "I want to understand detention better, sir."

"Detention is for students who break rules. Not for girls who want attention."

Her smile widened. "What if I want both?"

You watched her closely. She shifted in her seat, thighs parting just enough to make the message clear. But beneath the sass, her voice dipped—tentative, searching.

"I don’t think punishment works on me the usual way," she said. "I’m good at pretending. But I want to know what it feels like when someone doesn’t let me get away with it."

You approached slowly, your steps deliberate. Her eyes followed you the whole time.

"You want to learn what real discipline feels like?"

She nodded, lip caught between her teeth. "Yes, sir."

You reached her desk. Placed one large hand flat beside hers.

"Then take off your jacket, Yujin. And keep your hands flat. From now on, you don’t move unless I say so."

She shivered.

"Yes, sir."

"You want discipline? Then you start by showing me obedience."

You circled behind her. Her back stiffened instinctively, but she kept still. Good girl.

"Spread your knees. Wider."

She obeyed. The hem of her skirt crept higher.

"Now tell me what you want."

She hesitated, voice thin. "I want you to teach me."

"Teach you what, Yujin?"

She swallowed. "How to behave."

Your fingers brushed the back of her neck. She gasped but didn’t move.

"Wrong answer. Try again."

She flushed. "I want you to punish me, sir. The right way."

Your hand rested on her shoulder. She trembled beneath it.

"And what makes you think you deserve that yet?"

She didn’t answer.

You pulled her chair back, forcing her to brace on the desk. Then you sat in her seat, legs wide, letting her feel the shift in power. Letting her feel watched.

"Take off your tie. Slowly. Keep eye contact."

She did. Slid the fabric through her collar like she knew it meant more than uniform. You took it from her, folding it into your palm.

"Good. Now kneel."

She slipped from the desk, skirt riding up, knees kissing the floor.

You didn’t touch her. Just looked down at her, waiting.

"You’re not here to be pleased," you said. "You’re here to prove you’re worth correcting. Show me."

She sat straighter. Hands behind her back. Eyes up. Her bratty edge was gone, replaced with something hungry, raw.

"Yes, sir. Please let me earn it."

Yujin's breath came shallow as she knelt on the tile, her knees spread, skirt hiked indecently high. You still hadn't touched her. That was part of the lesson.

You slid her tie between your fingers. "Mouth open."

She obeyed. Lips parting, tongue resting against her lower lip, eyes never leaving yours.

"Good girl."

The praise made her blink. Then shiver.

You leaned forward just slightly, pressing the folded tie against her tongue. She let you, closing her lips around the fabric. A makeshift gag, not tight, but symbolic. You raised an eyebrow. She nodded.

"Now we begin."

You rose from the chair. Unzipped your pants.

Her eyes widened at the sight of you. And still, she didn’t move.

You stroked yourself slowly, letting her watch, her lips wrapped around the tie, panting through her nose. Her thighs squeezed together as she squirmed on her knees.

"Hands behind your back."

She obeyed.

You stepped closer. Tapped the head of your cock against her cheek, then her lips.

"If you want this, spit the tie."

She didn’t hesitate. The tie dropped to the floor.

"Please, sir," she whispered, voice hoarse. "Let me serve you."

You guided her mouth over the tip, slowly. Her lips stretched, tongue circling under instinct and pressure. She gagged once, steadied herself. Tried again.

You held her hair.

"Slow. Let me use you."

She moaned around you, the sound vibrating down your shaft. Her eyes watered, but she didn’t stop. She swallowed you deeper, surrendering control, the perfect mix of submission and need.

Your hips began to move. Gentle thrusts. Controlled.

"You're learning, Yujin. But we’re not done yet."

You pulled out, slick with her spit.

"Stand up. Bend over the desk."

She stumbled slightly as she rose, dazed, obedient. Bent low, elbows flat, head down. You lifted her skirt. Her panties were soaked.

You pressed your palm to her ass. She gasped.

"Count."

Then the first slap.

She yelped.

"One."

Again. Firmer.

"Two."

And again, until she whimpered your name, hips rolling toward each strike.

When you pressed the head of your cock against her entrance, she was already shaking.

"Please, sir. I want to be used."

You pushed in slowly, stretching her around you. Her breath hitched.

"F-Fuck… you're too big… it’s not going to fit…"

You held steady, letting her adjust, easing deeper with each inch. Her fingers clawed the desk.

"You're learning, Yujin. But we’re not done yet."

You pulled out, slick with her spit.

"Stand up. Get on my lap. Ride it."

Yujin climbed into your lap, straddling you with shaky knees. She reached down to guide you, but faltered when the tip nudged against her entrance.

"You're too big," she murmured, breath catching. "I—I need a second."

"You take your time," you said. "You control the depth."

She braced her hands on your shoulders. The first inch made her eyes flutter. The second made her gasp.

"Fucking hell... it’s too much," she whimpered.

But she didn’t stop. She rocked her hips gently, easing down a little further, moaning like it hurt and thrilled her all at once.

Her face twisted between pain and craving.

You took her blouse in hand. Unbuttoned it slowly.

Her bra barely held the swell of her breasts. You pushed the cups down, mouth finding a nipple.

She moaned loudly.

"That helps," she whispered. "Do it again. Suck harder."

You obeyed. Your mouth sealed over her nipple. Your tongue flicked, then pulled.

She cried out.

Her hips dropped another inch.

"Oh fuck, I'm cumming—"

She shuddered, eyes wide and dazed as the orgasm washed through her. Her nails dug into your back. Her cunt clenched around you, squeezing.

She breathed through it, panting hard.

Then she blinked.

"Again," she said, breathless. "Don’t stop. I want to take it all."

You held her hips and guided her. She bounced slowly now, getting used to your size. You felt her stretch, take more.

"Good girl," you murmured. "Look at you, stuffed full and still hungry."

Her smirk returned. "I’m bratty, not greedy. Maybe both."

You thrust upward, burying yourself fully.

She screamed.

"FUCK—yesss... finally..."

You gripped her tighter. Faster. She rode you now like she meant it. Her body trembled but didn’t stop.

You neared the edge.

"Where do you want it?"

She leaned in, voice low against your ear.

"Fill me. I want to walk home leaking."

Your hands still gripped her waist as she trembled above you, her cunt still fluttering from the last pulse of your release. Warm, wet, and full—she leaned forward, breathless, chest pressed to yours.

Yujin's cheek rested against your shoulder, hair damp, skin flushed. You felt her clench again around nothing, instinctive and raw. She gave a shaky laugh.

"I'm still twitching," she whispered.

You kissed the crown of her head. "That’s what happens when you take all of me."

She stirred, and a low whimper escaped her lips as your cum trickled down her thigh. Her legs trembled when she tried to shift.

"Fuck... it's leaking," she breathed. "You’re still... everywhere."

"Good," you said. "I want you walking home with it dripping."

She bit her lip and smiled through her exhaustion. "You're such a bastard."

You helped her off your lap slowly. Her legs nearly gave, knees wobbling. She steadied herself on the desk, eyes wide as she looked down at the slick mess between her thighs.

"Jesus," she muttered. "That much?"

You handed her a tissue, but not before letting your eyes roam. She cleaned slowly, wincing with each brush against oversensitive skin.

"You did good, Yujin."

She glanced up at you, expression soft. "Yeah?"

"More than good. You took all of me. Like a good girl."

Color bloomed on her cheeks again. She stepped back into her skirt, panties forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Before leaving, she paused by the door. Her blouse hung loose, hair wild, thighs still glistening faintly.

"Next time," she said over her shoulder, "I want it on my knees. In my mouth. I want to taste it."

You smiled, voice steady. "Then behave. Earn it."

She smirked. "I will. But don’t go easy on me."

Then she slipped out, and the classroom fell silent again.

#asks #yujin smut #yujin ive #ahn yujin #girl group smut #kpop smut #female idol smut #male reader smut #kpop idol smut #male reader #idol x bbc

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megalony · 2 days ago

Text

The Perfect Match

Since so many of you asked for an Eddie imagine, here is a new Eddie Diaz story, requested by the lovely @buckslifeline I hope this turned out how you wanted.

Please let me know what you think, there will be a follow up for this one.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyje @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra848484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana @shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @callsignwidow @winterreader-nowwriter @reneinii @bellsbomb @western-pyro @itsgigikay @harry-satellite @midsummereve1993 @babyqueen17 @buckyyyismahhlife @sammiejane22 @mrsyixingunicorn10 @op-81-lvr-reblogs @talicat713 @niamhmbt @strawberry-canyon @bieberhoodforever @911fangirlie @hollandxxmix @jasmineee05 @creat1venat1onn @devilslittlehelper @darlingcharling-blog @bear8585 @nickie-amore @elliott-calls @person-005 @mbioooo0000 @amara-mars @shypy92 @nikfigueiredo @sabsthedoll @rach2602 @itshamleth @ladespedidas @devilslittlehelper

911 taglist: @teenwolfbitches28 @mandmilovehim @jooniesbears-blog @riywasu @amy2265 @buckandeddiesverison @forestsandgrimoires @peteparkersbug @btskzfav @buckslifeline

Eddie Diaz Masterlist

Summary: Since she's been single for a while, (Y/n) gives in and lets her mum set her up on a date with the nephew of one of her friends. But wires get crossed when Eddie's aunt is the one to organise their first date.

Enjoy.

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

"No, no ma I really don't want to-"

"Oh come on, you'll love him. He's so sweet, always helping out and he's a fireman. He's handsome too."

A groan tumbled past (Y/n)'s lips and her head hung down until it was resting in her hands. Both elbows dug into the kitchen counter that was so cold that her skin was beginning to turn numb from the touch. Her nose crinkled and her brows sagged.

She didn't want to be set up. The last thing she wanted was for her mum to find her a date and set her up with someone who was the total opposite of her. (Y/n) didn't want her family trying to pawn her off with someone they deemed appropriate for her.

Knowing her mother, this man would be a mummy's boy, someone who couldn't do anything without permission or who was the quiet, pushover kind.

Or it could be someone who outdid every expectation about him. He could have a God complex, and (Y/n) wouldn't be able to stand dating someone who thought the world revolved around them and that they were better than anybody and everybody else around them. That kind of ego was something that would cause trouble or get (Y/n) into unnecessary trouble.

And she certainly didn't want to be set up with someone who made her look inferior to her family. Who did everything asked of them and seemed like they were made out of gold dust. Someone who could do no wrong and who her family treasured and thought was lovely beyond compare.

Everyone had flaws.

(Y/n) knew there was no such thing as a person without flaws, and she didn't want to date someone who had no apparant flaws. Because finding out what they were would come as a shock, and someone that pristine would have darkness hidden away somewhere. When she finally dared to lift her head, she saw that familiar smile on her mum's face. That smile usually meant trouble was brewing.

"Come on, he sounds like a catch-"

"Then you date him, I don't want you to set me up with a Saint. Besides, nobody's perfect." (Y/n) angled her head to one side as she gave her mum a pointed look.

No catch was as perfect as her mum seemed to think this man was. The way she was smiling and so giddy to tell (Y/n) and set this up proved that she had been talking about this with this man's family. That was always the way. Since (Y/n)'s few serious relationships had ended, her mum was constantly trying to find someone she knew who she thought would be 'the perfect match.'

He never turned out to be perfect, and he never seemed to be the right guy. There was always a catch, always a deal breaker or these dates went stale after one or two and they never seemed to go anywhere.

(Y/n) was tired if it. She wanted to meet someone by accident, she wanted fate to decide when she bumped into the right guy and drop him right in front of her. Being set up by family always came with expectations that (Y/n) and her respective date could never live up to.

Plus, if their families knew one another and these dates ended in a disaster, it would only cause friction and unnecessary heartache. And (Y/n) didn't want that happening.

"I never said he was perfect. Just go on one date with him, I want to see you happy." The pleading tone to her mum's voice made (Y/n)'s heart clench and she huffed. There was no way around this. She either agreed or got badgered until she gave in. This would be the easier option.

"Who is he?" She sighed through the words and flopped her arms down on the counter rather than digging her elbows down into the countertop.

The bright grin she got in response was like a beaming ray of sunshine that dazzled (Y/n) and made her system flood with adrenaline. She would hate to see that smile fade if this proposed date didn't go very well. There would be a lot of expectations riding on this if it went ahead.

Her mum tapped her hand down on the countertop in triumph before she slid a cup of iced tea across to (Y/n) and leant forward on the opposite side of the counter.

"Tia's nephew, she's desperate to find him someone to be with. He's on his own raising a young boy, she says he's lonely."

(Y/n) did know Tia, she was a sweet lady. Surely her nephew would be a kind person too? If he was anything like her and if he took after her, then it might not be such a bad idea.

"One date. And I'm not making any promises."

Just one. That was all (Y/n) would agree to, she would be pushed on this one date and then see where it went from there. If she didn't like this fireman or if she got strange vibes from him or something didn't feel right, (Y/n) wouldn't go through with the hassle of more dates and more pretending.

He got one chance; (Y/n) hoped he would make a good impression.

Deep breaths tumbled past (Y/n)'s lips as she rung her hands together in front of her. She was starting to regret this. Why did she let them talk her into this?

Her mum had spoken to Tia Pepa after she agreed to this date, and it had all been arranged. Eddie knew his aunt was trying to set him up with someone, and he had told her today was his day off.

The date was supposed to be a surprise. He was supposed to expect someone to come round- at least that was (Y/n)'s understanding- and they would talk and get to know one another. And if they wanted to go out, Tia said she would watch Eddie's boy.

From what (Y/n) could gather, his ex-wife had passed away and his son was around eleven or twelve. (Y/n) seemed to get the impression from Tia that she hadn't liked Eddie's wife very much, so she made a mental note not to bring up his ex, or at least not talk about her a lot. Not until they got to know each other better and he was comfortable around her.

Well this seemed to be the right address. (Y/n) had searched the address and had been staring at the text on her phone and the house she was stood in front of for a good few minutes. She didn't want to turn up at the wrong house and make a fool of herself. And she certainly didn't want to take this Eddie by surprise and upset him if the idea of a date was going to freak him out.

Surely he would have told his aunt if he really didn't want to be set up with someone. Tia had sounded so certain that Eddie would like her that (Y/n) was hoping she had nothing to worry about.

Her stomach ignited with butterflies that surged throughout her chest and fluttered through her arms until her fingertips were cold and numb and she thought she might be having a heart attack.

Each step up the garden path made her knees shake and her hands continued to fumble in front of her until she was scratching her nails down the back of her hands, almost leading indents in the skin.

Her heart was beating so loudly that she was sure everyone in the street would be able to hear it. It was loud enough that her heart could have knocked on the door for her with its incessant thrashing.

There. She had knocked; there was no turning back now. The only choices were having a good first date or walking home in embarrassment and (Y/n) was praying for the former.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting this guy to look like, but the image in (Y/n)'s head looked nothing like the man standing in front of her.

He was out of breath, that much was clear. His chest was heaving beneath his pale mint shirt that seemed a little too tight around the upper chest and shoulders.

He leant forward with one hand clinging to the door handle and the other resting on the doorframe like he was a guard blocking any entrance into his home. His fortress. His dark lips were parted, letting out little pants and puffs of air and his hair- which was long on top and shaved at the sides- was forming in waves with just a few strands hanging down over his temple.

He seemed to look (Y/n) up and down with blown pupils that held a lot of surprise in them, but she wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not. But when his lips quirked into an open-mouthed grin, (Y/n) felt as if her chest was a cage that had opened to allow some of the butterflies within her to make their escape.

A weight was being lifted. She wasn't about to be shunned or turned away or laughed off his front step like she feared.

"Hi, are you Edmundo?" She knew she sounded breathless and somewhat dazed, but she tried her best to smile warmly and stop fidgeting from foot to foot. She didn't want to make him anxious.

A light seemed to sparkle in his eyes and he pushed off the doorframe, stepping back so he no longer looked like some kind of protector or bodyguard for his home.

"Brilliant, you're here. And everyone calls me Eddie, come in."

He knew.

Tia Pepa had told him that she would be coming, or in the very least she had told him about the date. (Y/n) thought he would only know that something was happening today. But his enthusiasm and eagerness told a different story. This was much better than what (Y/n) had been thinking and worrying about all night long.

A sigh tumbled past her lips despite the bright smile on her face and she nodded, moving her hand to clutch her bag to stop from scratching her hands. She didn't want to make any bad impressions. She stepped over the threshold with relief and took her time to look at her surroundings.

She had no idea whether they would be staying here to just chat and see how they got along, or if they would go out. She didn't know what the rules were or what the plans would be, and she wasn't sure what the rules were when it came to his son.

Did she have to wait until they knew each other to meet him? Could she ask questions about him? Would he be okay with his dad dating someone new?

"Thanks, I- I was a bit nervous coming over out the blue, she said it would be fine but we've never actually met, you know?"

She heard the door shut behind her and she stepped to one side as Eddie grinned and weaved around her. He didn't seem to mind that she was looking around the few photos scattered about and seeing the décor. There were a few seashells and boards and décor that suggested he liked the beach. That was one thing they had in common.

"Oh, hey I get it. But you don't have to be nervous, if she trusts you then so do I."

That seemed like a bit of an odd thing to say, but (Y/n) smiled and nodded all the same. Trust wasn't one of the things (Y/n) had been worrying about, but she guessed it was a big issue for him.

He wouldn't want to date just anybody or have a stranger coming into his home. If his family trusted (Y/n) then it seemed likely that Eddie would too or that he would be more comfortable with her being here at his home.

And (Y/n) should feel the same, after all, going into a stranger's home when she knew nothing about him wasn't the smartest idea. But her mum knew his aunt and she said she had seen Eddie a few times. She thought he was lovely and kind, not the creepy type. So it seemed okay that (Y/n) walked into his home, because he wasn't a total stranger. He was an acquaintance, up to now.

"Okay," She nodded and grinned, following him down the hall as she watched him with growing curiosity. He seemed to be preoccupied about something, like he had a million and one things running around in his head.

Her fingers tapped incessantly against her bag which she wasn't sure whether she was supposed to keep hold of or set down. She didn't know whether to take off her shoes or keep them on, but she could hear Eddie's boots thundering against the laminate floor so she supposed it was okay to keep her shoes on.

She was about to hurry down the hall after him when a figure suddenly stepped in her path and caused her to step on her back foot.

Surprise flooded her face and her lips parted as she stared down at who she could only presume was Eddie's son.

He had such a wide grin it was as if (Y/n) was an old family friend that he hadn't seen in years. His grin was somewhat cheeky and reached his eyes that were squinting up at her behind his glasses.

He was fidgeting from foot to foot like he was giddy with excitement and there was something hidden in those eyes that made (Y/n) smile.

"Are you any good at puzzles?" His question took her by surprise and (Y/n) found herself staring at him as if she had forgotten how to speak English.

He didn't ask her what her name was. He didn't ask why she was here or if she was a friend of his dads. He didn't quiz her about what she was doing or if she was staying long or having tea with them. He didn't ask any of the questions that (Y/n) would expect, but then again, this wasn't her typical kind of situation.

She looked up to see Eddie back in the hall, attaching his watch to his wrist as he grinned like they were all old friends gathering together for a night out.

"This is Chris, I'm sure Carla told you about him."

"A little, you're eleven right?" (Y/n) loved how Chris seemed to light up as if she were a psychic considering she was a stranger he had never met before, but she knew his age. He nodded eagerly and (Y/n) chuckled, until something clicked in her mind.

Carla. Eddie said Carla, not Tia Pepa or her mum's name. Who was Carla? Had he got his names mixed up? Did he think that was her mum's name? Was he just nervous and getting his words all in the wrong order? Whatever was going through his mind, (Y/n) couldn't seem to work it out because Eddie was grinning at her with his hands on his hips. He didn't look nervous or embarrassed or panicked.

"Uh you-"

"Puzzles?"

The feeling of a small hand gripping hers and tugging on her arm drew (Y/n)'s attention away from Eddie and down to his boy instead. She found him grinning at her like the cat who got the cream and he began to tug on her arm to get her attention so she would answer him.

"Hm? Oh, I'm great at puzzles, but-" Her tender expression must have been welcoming to Chris, because he didn't let (Y/n) finish her sentence before he was pulling her along with him.

"I need you're help." He was easily impressed and eager for some assistance. He had gotten a new science puzzle and he was starting to get stuck, if (Y/n) could help him then this would keep them occupied for hours, and he would find himself with a new friend.

A quiet 'oh' left (Y/n)'s lips as she was steered away from the hall and towards the living room. But on her way, she managed to catch sight of Eddie, and the smile she saw on his lips made her heart do summersaults. His smile was infectious and the way he flashed those pearly teeth and seemed to tilt his head down whilst looking up through those dark eyes caused (Y/n) to shiver.

She let Chris drag her into the living room that was rather quaint but stylish, and once he plonked himself down on the floor in front of the coffee table, (Y/n) did the same. She knelt down next to him, easing her bag onto the floor beside her while she looked over the puzzle.

He had cleared everything off the table and had gotten half of the edging pieced together and each corner in their place.

Without thinking, she reached out and began to place a few smooth edge pieces where she guessed they went. The puzzle looked to be one of the galaxy, a lot of dark blue hues and swirls of black with tiny specks of white dusted across like flecks of paint.

"Do you like the solar system?"

"Hm, my uncle Buck got me this one."

"It's lovely, I've not seen this one before." (Y/n) picked up another piece and slotted it into the right corner edge which seemed to spark something within Chris. For he sat forward, planted his arms on the edge of the table and began scouring through the pieces to try and find the right one.

When she lifted her head, (Y/n) noticed Eddie was rummaging around grabbing a few things. Was he tidying up? If he was, that wasn't necessary, (Y/n) wasn't here to inspect or judge his home.

She slid another piece into place while she glanced over and watched Eddie pull his phone from his pocket. His smile loosened and his nose twitched when he read what she presumed to be a text.

"Are they checking up on you?" She murmured softly to which she earned a grin that caused her stomach to flutter again.

Was his aunt checking in on him? Was she asking if (Y/n) had arrived and if so, was everything going okay? (Y/n) was expecting her mum to flood her with messages in a little while with tips and begging for information. And she knew she would have to call her mum tonight to let her know as soon as possible how tonight had gone.

"Work have been non-stop today." Eddie gave a slight shake of his phone that was constantly buzzing with messages from Bobby and Buck. Asking him to come in to work, telling him they were short staffed. Reminding him he was on call and they were having a few problems.

"Must be a hard job, being a fireman." (Y/n) wasn't sure what job she would have guessed Eddie did if her mum hadn't told her he was a fireman. That particular job wasn't one she would peg him for.

It was an important job, one that she could easily give him a lot of respect for, especially since he was doing such an important and draining job whilst being a single dad. It must be hard for him, and for Chris too.

"Yeah, we don't always get to leave work at the door, especially not this week."

She turned her head when she heard Chris mutter "Does that look right?" and she chuckled when she realised he had forced one puzzle piece into another.

"I'm not so sure, sweetie." She gently removed the piece and set it in the centre of the puzzle, to be properly placed later.

(Y/n) didn't pay too much attention when Eddie disappeared from the room, she could hear his boots thudding about the place, letting her know exactly how close or far away he was. But her head snapped up in his direction when his next words suddenly called through the hall until he was standing in the doorway.

"Right, dinner is already in the kitchen so don't let him fool you for takeout. I won't be late I swear, work is kinda hectic at the moment, we're short staffed and I'm now on-call until tomorrow."

What was he talking about? Oh God, he was going out. Was he politely asking (Y/n) to leave? Had work called before she got here and now he was telling her that their date couldn't happen and she would have to go?

"Um- late, I thought-"

"It's just a few hours, I promise. I'm really grateful for this, Carla said you're one of the best. Chris I'll see you tonight buddy."

"Bye dad."

Oh shit!

Terror seized (Y/n)'s heart and she tried to pass the puzzle piece to Chris who was none the wiser to her state of panic. He pointed where he thought the piece should go and (Y/n) tried to hurry and slot it into place before she was bashing her hands down on the floor to push herself up to her feet.

Words tumbled past her lips, trying to tell Chris that she would be one minute while her hand stretched out and she called "Wait!" after Eddie right as the door slammed closed.

By the time she got to the door, found the spare key hanging on the hook next to the doorframe and managed to open the door, Eddie's car was already reversed out the drive and heading out of sight.

What just happened? What was that? Did (Y/n) have the word muppet painted across her forehead? How much cheek did Eddie have to think he could just leave her here with his boy- when she barely knew either of them? What was he doing?

Did he seriously just blow off a date and rope her into babysitting duties instead? And who the Hell is Carla?

Deep breaths left (Y/n)'s lips and she let the door shut with a bang as her mind clouded over, leaving her stood in the hall like she had been cast under a spell or put in a trance.

She didn't seem to have much of a choice. She couldn't very well walk out the door and leave Chris here alone, unattended. He was a kid, he needed supervision and he surely wouldn't feel safe being home alone waiting for Eddie to come back. (Y/n) couldn't call anyone. She didn't have Eddie's number to demand he come back and sort this out. She didn't have his aunt's number either to ask for her help and advice.

There was no choice. She would just have to watch Chris and hope he was as happy and easy-going as he seemed to be. She would have to hope that he would be fine with her watching him until his dad came back.

"What a dick."

***

Eddie felt like there was a fire building up in his chest by the time he got back to his locker. Not long now. Not long and he could get back to Chris and be done with this extra shift he didn't even want, but he had stupidly agreed to be on call once a month, just like everybody else.

At least he didn't have to stay for a full twelve hour shift, he was only here helping out because someone else had gotten burned and had to head to the emergency room halfway through their shift. Eddie was only covering half a shift today.

He slumped against his locker, taking a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath. He felt like he had run a marathon, sorting out that house fire. God, he was ready to go home.

It was only because of Carla's help that he even managed to cover this shift.

When Bobby rang and said that Eddie really needed to come in for this shift as he was on call and they were desperate, Eddie panicked. Carla couldn't look after Chris and she was his go-to babysitter. He knew his Abuela and his aunt were out tonight so they couldn't help either. He rang Carla and asked if she knew anyone else, and she came to his rescue.

'I know a great friend, Amy, she's great with special needs kids and she's always willing to help out. Let me call her and ask and I'll send her your address. Don't worry.'

It had been a relief that Carla found someone so quickly, and Chris seemed to take to Amy the moment she walked in the door. Eddie thought she was rather endearing; he might just have to get her number to see if she would babysit Chris more often.

With a shake of his head and a smile toying on his lips, Eddie pushed up and opened his locker to retrieve his phone.

Damn. He hadn't given Amy his number, in case there were any problems. She would have Carla's number, surely she would just message her if there were any problems although Eddie couldn't see there being any. Chris was in a great mood, and Amy seemed eager to do activities with him and actually talk to him. They both looked happy and settled when he left.

He unlocked his phone, but when he scanned through his notifications, Eddie felt his blood turning to sludge in his veins and waves of heat consumed him like he was being burned alive.

Two missed calls from Carla. At least half a dozen messages from her.

*Eddie I'm sorry, my friend Amy was on her way when something came up. She can't make it. xx

*Are you and Chris okay? Have you managed to find someone else to watch him? xx

*Is everything okay with work? xx

*Eddie please answer me!

Oh God. If Carla's friend never made it… then who was that waiting at his home, watching his son?

Why had she walked right in and gone up to Chris? Why did she say she would watch him? How on Earth did she know his and Chris's names and how old Chris was and what Eddie was a fireman?

He presumed everything. He presumed she was the girl Carla had sent to babysit. He presumed that her knowing his name and occupation and that he had a son meant that she was the girl he had been waiting for to turn up at his home. He assumed she would be fine watching Chris and that there was nothing to worry about. If Carla trusted and vouched for her then Eddie had no problem with her looking after his boy, the most precious thing in his life.

But Carla didn't know the girl Eddie had let into his home. He didn't know her. Chris didn't know her. She could be a psycho. She could hurt Chris or take him and wander off and Eddie would have no way to contact or find her.

Shit. What was he going to do?

"Cap, Cap I gotta go, t-there's an emergency at home with Chris."

Who the Hell was looking after his son?

***

Eddie had never burst through the front door with so much vigor and paranoia in his life. His heart was pounding out of his chest and his lungs were burning like the house fire he had put out a few hours ago. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and heat seemed to surround him like he was trapped in a beaming ray from the setting sun.

God, he hoped Chris was alright. He hoped nothing horrible had happened while he was at work. Why did he leave them? Why didn't he talk to this woman some more before he went? Why did he blindly trust her?

Eddie knew better. He knew better than to trust people so eagerly and blindly like this. Shannon broke him time and time again and he trusted her and let her back in. He trusted his father to make amends and do right by him and his sisters, something that had never happened in his life. He trusted his mother to treat him fairly and stop taking over his life like he was such a screw up or disappointment.

Every relationship he ever had taught him not to give his trust to anyone. This girl smiled at him and walked right up to Chris like she had known him her whole life, and that was enough to satisfy and appease Eddie.

Never again. He wouldn't let it happen again, and he wouldn't let anything happen to Chris, just as long as he was alright now. He couldn't have his son injured or missing or frightened and scared out of his mind.

"Chris? Chris, buddy where…" Every word that wanted to spew out of Eddie's mouth and that was on the tip of his tongue suddenly faded out when he stumbled through the hall.

His feet skidded to a stop right on the threshold to the living room and his eyes went wide in their sockets when he looked at the scene in front of him.

Chris, and this stranger, both sat close together on the sofa with a blanket draped over them both and the lamp on in the background. From the music blasting out, he figured that they were watching one of the Toy Story movies. The puzzle was almost fully complete and laid out on the coffee table with just a small bundle of scattered pieces left to finish off in their places.

His boy looked tired, but very happy with a wide grin and his head bopping back and forth in a stim that Eddie knew to be a very content, happy one.

He was alright. This stranger had seemingly looked after him rather than taken advantage and robbed the place or snatched Chris or frightened him or left him home alone. She almost looked like she belonged here, and that was frightening to Eddie.

"Hi dad." Chris giggled when he looked in the doorway. His dad didn't look his usual self tonight, he was still in his messy work uniform which he normally washed down at the station. He would normally come home in his spare clothes that he took in his work bag.

His hair was a matted mess with dirt and soot mingled in and he had a streak of black soot smeared across his left cheek. His eyes were wide, his blushing lips were parted and he was panting like a wild animal.

"Chris, go to your room for me. Now."

A frown furrowed onto Chris's face and he felt the need to whine, but seeing his dad's angered expression was enough to make Chris stay quiet. He huffed, clearly dismayed and he threw the blanket onto the armchair before he got up. A soft "See you soon," was mumbled in (Y/n)'s direction before he stomped off to his room like he had been asked.

Unease flooded (Y/n)'s system as she looked across at Eddie. It must have been a rough shift. Had something bad happened? Had he realised how wrong he had been to dump his date at his house watching his kid who she had never met before? Had he finally come to his senses? Perhaps his ego had deflated just a little by now.

She sat forward, running her hands up and down her thighs while she tried to put on her best smile to keep the atmosphere from becoming stale and putrid.

"He's a great kid, really smart and so swee-"

"Who even are you?"

(Y/n) straightened up, as stiff as a board while her eyes narrowed and her placid smile faded into a contorted look of anguish.

Well that was rude. Even worse than leaving her here with his son without asking or even thinking about her at all. What had she done to deserve that? She stayed, she looked after his son, did a puzzle and fed him and played a game of cards and answered all his budding questions.

She looked after Chris and treated him with respect, she hadn't let him know that anything had been wrong and she hadn't flied off the handle like she so rightly deserved. What went through Eddie's mind to make him think that he could talk to her like this?

"I beg your pardon?" A snarky tone flooded (Y/n)'s voice and she pushed up from the sofa, daring to step closer to him while her arms folded over her chest.

"Carla didn't send you, did she?"

That name again. That name of someone she was supposed to know, a name that wasn't even vaguely familiar to (Y/n). And that stance, Eddie stood there with his arms folded over his chest and his foot impatiently tapping against the floor like he was the one who deserved an explanation.

"I don't know who Carla is, why do you keep asking about her?" She didn't care how crude she was being, because clearly he didn't either.

A sarcastic laugh left Eddie's lips and he tilted his head back while one hand moved to scratch down his jaw that was ever so lightly layered in stubble. She wasn't even denying it. She wasn't going to deny that she came in under false pretenses. She wasn't denying that she clearly wasn't who Eddie thought she was. She wasn't here to babysit Chris, even though that was what she had seemingly done while he had been at work.

"Great. You know my name, walk right into my house and sit with my kid but nobody sent you? What kind of shit is that, pretending to be the babysitter-"

"Hey, hey who do you think you're talking to?"

The way (Y/n) stepped forward and pointed her finger at Eddie caused his words to die down in his throat and his eyes widened. He was stunned. It wasn't often that someone would so blatently talk to him like that and put him in his place, even if he currently felt like she was the one stepping over the line.

The fury in her eyes was frightening and if Eddie didn't know any better, he would guess that her eyes were close to watering. Her hands were shaking and each breath she took was faster than the last, coming out shallow and hollow as her upper lip curled in anger.

"What kind of prick blows off a date and leaves them- an acquaintance no less, to look after their kid? You barely know me and you walked out and left me here with your son, that's some form of blind trust you have there, pal. I never said I was a babysitter, who told you that?"

Deep breaths ragged past (Y/n)'s chapped lips and her shoulders quaked and heaved as she stared up at the man who was starting to get on her last nerve.

He barely knew her. They were supposed to be on a date and he just left her here to watch his son. He didn't know her, not properly, and he just swanned off to work. What kind of parent was he to trust a total stranger with his child?

And why was he calling her the babysitter?

Was he some kind of macho, old-fashioned man who presumed all women were only good for being mothers and housewives? Did he think that a date meant he decided what they did and that at a drop of a hat, (Y/n) would be a substitute mother and care for his boy?

Well if that was his ideals then he was going to have a harsh landing when (Y/n) brought him back down to reality.

But the incredulity in his eyes caused (Y/n) to frown and she watched him step closer as his lips parted and he huffed. His hands held out at his sides until he was practically shaking and he looked around before his outburst cut through the air.

"You did!"

"No I didn't!"

Not once had she told Eddie that she worked professionally as a babysitter or that she would be happy to care for his son. She hadn't come here to play mother to his boy, no matter how sweet and charming Chris was. And Eddie couldn't just spring this on her and expect he was getting a second date after this fuck up.

(Y/n) felt like stomping her foot, but she hurriedly stepped back when a loud "Fuck!" spat past Eddie's lips and he turned his back to her. One hand tangled in his hair, pulling on the locks until they almost broke free from his scalp.

And when he turned back to face her, (Y/n) could feel a tear trickling down her face at the malice swirling around in those dark fudge eyes.

"Right, I don't care who you are or what you think you're doing but you need to leave. Dios, what is wrong with you, are you fucking insane or what?"

Shudders broke out and caused (Y/n) to look like she was being electrocuted as she turned and reached down for her bag. She barely managed to check that she had her phone and her keys before she turned back in Eddie's direction.

Her hand clenched around her bag, scrunching it in her fist while she stormed forward and barged her shoulder into Eddie's shoulder as harshly as she could. And she hoped he heard her mutter 'bastard' under her breath as she fled for the door.

How dare he. How dare he!

Either he was the most stupidest man in the world or he had misunderstood whatever his aunt had told him.

Well, (Y/n) wasn't going to stand around and be talked to like that. She wouldn't be made to feel like some kind of insane creep when she had done him a favour by watching his son rather than calling the police when she was left alone with him.

This was the last date that she was going to let her mother set up for her. No more dates. No more interactions like that.

And no more Edmundo Diaz.

***

Exhaustion clung to Eddie's body and wove itself into every fibre of his being. His limbs felt heavy and weighed down. His head was pounding and the headache he'd had for the last two hours just wouldn't cease.

He didn't know what to do with himself. He was tired enough to have an early night's sleep, but his mind was too wired to actually let him relax like that. Chris wasn't happy that he didn't get to say goodbye to the stranger who had made herself so at home here, for a reason Eddie didn't even know about.

Chris said her name was (Y/n), and that he'd had a great time with her. He was still under the impression that she was a babysitter; whereas Eddie had no idea who she was.

He ran his hands up and down his face, trying in vain to ward off the futile emotions coursing through his system. He had no idea what to do with himself or how to rectify this situation or whether to just leave it be and hope this girl didn't come back again.

His eyes ached and burned as he stared blankly at the tv while he rounded the sofa and plonked down. Chris was settled in bed now, he wasn't quite asleep but he was on his way. That was one less thing for Eddie to think about.

When a buzzing sound and vibrations caught his attention, he looked down at the sofa. His phone was pinging with messages. It was still on silent from being on shift, he had sent a brief text to Carla to say that everything was covered and not to worry before he dumped his phone on the sofa and stewed around the house in frustration.

Who was messaging him? Was it Carla, triple checking that everything had gone okay and that she hadn't left Eddie in a mess by not finding someone to babysit Chris? Eddie didn't want to tell her what had happened tonight, he didn't want to panic or upset her when it wasn't her fault. It was his fault for not being more diligent.

It wasn't Carla. A frown furrowed on Eddie's features when he looked at who had been messaging him. His aunt Tia Pepa had sent him a flurry of messages. Her son, Eddie's cousin Marcus had also sent a few but there were a lot of choice words in his messages.

*What the fuck did you say to (Y/n)? She was in tears when she rang, said you shouted at her!

Panic and confusion tore at Eddie's heart until he was certain his palpitations were signs of a budding heart attack.

How did they know (Y/n)? How did she know his family? Why had she rang his cousin? What the Hell was going on here?

When he got another text through from his aunt, Eddie didn't bother to read them, he clicked her contact and decided to phone her instead. Talking was going to be a lot quicker and more effective than sending a dozen messages back and forth to try and find out how this woman knew his whole family and what she had been doing.

"Hi Pepa,"

"Edmundo, what did you say to that lovely girl?"

He found himself cringing and coiling inwards at his aunt's sharp voice that cut through to his core. She was angry- no, she was furious. He could hear that coarse hint to her voice like she was getting over an infection or smoked twenty a day.

He didn't like being told off by any of the women in his family. Eddie had a lot more respect for the women than the men in his family and his life. It was the women who raised him, and him who raised his younger sisters while his dad was away far too much for his own good. Eddie had been brought up to try and do his best, to outshine everyone else.

He wanted to make his family proud, that was woven into his soul, so hearing any of his family sounding this disgruntled and disappointed in him cut his heart into shreds.

"What? Pepa I've had a real bad, confusing day and 'that girl' w-"

"I don't care. What did you say to (Y/n)? Her mother just called me, said she doesn't want to see you again. One date, that's all I asked. She gave you a chance and you frightened and shouted at her. And what's this about leaving her with Chris? This was supposed to be a date-"

"Pepa- Pepa slow down. What date?"

It took a lot to confuse Eddie, with all the drama he had to deal with in his life, at his work and with the teledramas he and Chris watched together. He could usually keep up with a lot of things, but this, oh this was different.

Why was he in the wrong or arguing with someone who came into his home under false pretenses? She hadn't explained anything, she had stayed with Chris when she clearly shouldn't have and then she had the nerve to say that she wasn't actually a babysitter. Why was Eddie not allowed to get angry about this?

She hadn't exactly been kind to him either, but Eddie hadn't gone running to friends or family to complain about this strange girl that came into his home and seemed to know an awful lot about him and his son. Compared to Eddie knowing virtually nothing about her. He hadn't even known her actual name until Chris told him.

"You silly boy, I told (Y/n) your address, her mother told her about you. We set up a date for you. Now what did you do to her?" Pepa's exasperated voice cut through Eddie's ears and had him cringing and coiling in on himself.

Oh dear.

His head dropped forward like his neck had been broken and a groan burned at the back of his throat.

This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

That was why she knew him, and why she called him Edmundo and not just Eddie; that was how his aunt would always introduce him to people to show his heritage and background.

She had been set up with him. That was why she was angry that he left. She thought she was there to go out with him, and Eddie thought she was there to babysit. Their wires had been crossed from the moment (Y/n) walked in the door, and Eddie was mostly to blame for all of this.

Eddie knew his aunt was trying to find him someone, despite him constantly telling her that he was okay and didn't need or want to date anyone right now. But he didn't know she had found someone so soon or that she had arranged a date without telling him or asking him about it first.

"I didn't- I swear, I… Ooh Dios. I thought she was the babysitter, then Carla said- she said the sitter hadn't turned up. I panicked, I had no idea who was home with Chris. She never said about a date!"

"Well you'd better apologise, you've really made a fool of yourself this time Edmundo. And me."

#imagine #911 imagine #eddie diaz x reader #eddie x reader #eddie diaz #eddie diaz imagine #evan buckley

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cherrypickedchaos · 2 days ago

Text

Framboisine

What begins as a pit stop becomes something far less temporary as Lando finds himself tangled in the quiet rhythms of rural life, complicated histories, and the unexpected pull of a woman who has no patience for charm and even less for goodbyes.

Genre: Smut, Contemporary Romance, Small-Town Fic, Slice of Life Found Family, Soft Angst, Post-Grief Healing, Gentle Comedy, Fluff

NSFW warning: 18+ Explicit sexual content, Oral (f. receiving), Unprotected sex, Praise kink (if you squint), Mild angst, Grief mentions, Single parent dynamics

Inspired by Turning Page by Sleeping At Last

🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️

The heat had finally broken, but the walls still sweated. She stood barefoot in the doorway, one hand on the chipped frame, watching the horizon shimmer above the lavender fields. The old inn creaked around her, the kind of creak that meant the stone was settling or maybe protesting. She hadn’t decided which. Behind her, the sound of a cheap cartoon echoed faintly from the kitchen. Her daughter was lying on the cool tile floor, chin in hands, humming to herself between mouthfuls of cereal that absolutely did not belong to dinner. It was nearly six. Too late for new guests, too early for the good kind of silence.

Then the car came. She heard it before she saw it, wrong rhythm, high and irregular, like something imported trying to survive on rural backroads. She stepped off the stoop, squinting down the gravel drive as a sleek, unfamiliar shape cut through the late dust and heat haze. Silver. Low to the ground. Out of place. The car coughed once, then died. She waited. Arms crossed. The driver’s door opened slow. Out stepped a man in a white t-shirt, creased in the wrong places like he’d slept in it. He was maybe mid-twenties, unshaven. Sunglasses still on. He looked around like he was trying to pretend he hadn’t just stalled halfway up a hill. Then he caught sight of her.

“Excusez-moi,” he called out. “Je suis en panne-“ She said nothing. Just raised one brow. He tried again, slower, more hopeful. “Euh panne de voiture? Vous avez une chambre, peut-être?” Still nothing. He hesitated, switched gears. “Eh, misschien, Nederlands? Spreekt u?” “Nope,” she said flatly, in clipped English. “Try again.” He blinked, like she’d smacked him in the face with a towel. “Oh,” he said, straightening. “You’re British?” “Partly.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Right. Well. My car’s dead.” “Dead how?” “Bit of smoke. Some noise I’m choosing to pretend didn’t happen.” She narrowed her eyes. “Sounds terminal.” “It might be sulking. Or French.”

That earned the faintest twitch of her mouth.

He stepped forward. “Is this a hotel?” “Inn.” “Not to sound like Joseph, but do you have a room?”

She looked him over. Sunglasses, trainers too clean, a backpack that didn’t belong to someone who stayed in places like this. There was something about him that didn’t sit right. Not dangerous. Just wrong kind of tired. Like someone used to being looked at who didn’t want to be.

She paused. Then nodded toward the side entrance. “One. Upstairs. Cash only.” He looked relieved. “I’ve got cash.” “Then you’ve got a room, as long as there isn’t a pregnant woman with you, about to pop in my inn.” He hesitated at the steps. “Do you want my name or?” “I don’t care.”

He blinked at that. Then smiled. Not a performance, just surprise. Inside, her daughter peeked out from behind the doorway, clutching a stuffed bear and eyeing him like he might be another delivery. The man smiled, slow and natural. “Hey, little one.”

Margaux didn’t answer. Just tilted her head.

He adjusted his bag. “I’m Lando, by the way.” She didn’t blink. “Good for you.” Then turned, barefoot on the cool stone, and led him inside.

🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿🏎️🌿

The inside of Maison du Pin was ever so slightly cooler. Stone floors. Whitewashed walls. A tired ceiling fan that turned like it had a grudge. He ducked under the archway, shoulder brushing the wood, and followed her past the little sitting area where a bookcase slouched under its own weight and the couch had the look of something that had been re-stuffed more than once. She moved quickly, without ceremony, one hand catching a light switch, the other already halfway up the stairs. He hesitated, still blinking at the space, the way it smelled of lemon soap and old varnish.

"Coming or what?" she called, not looking back.

He followed. Upstairs was narrower. Low ceilings, creaky steps, a small window at the end of the hall with its shutter propped open by a paperback copy of Rebecca. She pushed open the third door on the left. “It’s not fancy.” The room had a bed, a window, a fan that might’ve once worked, and a single chair too close to the radiator. The bedsheets were clean, if a little sun faded. The walls were uneven plaster. A bee buzzed lazily against the glass.

Lando stepped in, nodded slowly. “Looks like it doesn’t know what century it’s in.” She leaned on the doorframe. “Neither do I. You want it or not?” He turned toward her. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She didn’t reply. Just crossed the room and snapped the window open. The bee escaped. The air shifted. “There’s no aircon,” she said, pointing. “Fans got two moods: moody and possessed. Don’t touch the radiator, it hisses when it’s bored. And if you break the bedframe, I don’t want to know how.” Lando blinked. “That was oddly specific.” She gave him a look. “This is a working inn, not a Netflix romcom.” He grinned despite himself. “Right. No touching haunted radiators, no bedframe acrobatics.” “You get one towel. You can ask nicely for more.” “I always ask nicely.” “Mm.” He took a slow lap of the room, ran his fingers along the edge of the desk. “You clean all this yourself?” “No,” she said flatly. “The mice pitch in.”

He turned. She was still standing in the doorway; one hip cocked like she was already halfway back downstairs.

She nodded once, unbothered. “Right. You’ll need a key. And your passport.” He raised an eyebrow. “You serious?” “Welcome to France.”

He laughed softly, the kind that said he wasn’t sure if she was joking. From the hallway, a tiny voice broke the tension.

“Maman?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?” Margaux appeared around the corner, one hand dragging a soft toy across the floor, curls wild, socks mismatched. She eyed Lando like he was some particularly shiny wildlife. He smiled. “Hi again.” The girl held up her bear in silent reply. “Don’t stare,” her mother said gently, brushing a hand over her daughter’s head as she passed. “Come on. Time for your bath.”

The little girl stuck close to her leg, but kept glancing back at him, clearly filing him under interesting things to ask about later. Lando watched them go, then turned back to the room. It was still hot, still slightly musty, still humming with the kind of stillness you only got in old buildings and empty hearts. He let his bag drop by the bed, then opened the window wider. Somewhere in the garden, cicadas screamed like they had something to prove.

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He gave it ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Sat on the edge of the bed. Checked his phone. No bars. Held it up. Turned in place like a lost dog. Still nothing. He headed back downstairs. The front door stuck when he pulled it, like it had swollen with pride. Outside, the sun had started to dip, casting long gold streaks across the gravel. The swing in the side garden creaked once in the breeze. No traffic. No movement. Just cicadas and the distant clink of someone setting out glassware next door. He walked a little way up the road. Then down. Then back again. No bars. Not even a flicker. Behind him, the screen door swung open with a protesting groan.

“You looking for something?” she asked. He turned. She had a tea towel over one shoulder and a screwdriver in her hand. “Signal,” he said, holding up his phone like it was self-explanatory. She made a face somewhere between pity and amusement. “Ah. That.” She pointed with the screwdriver. “There’s a café bench two streets down under a fig tree. Sometimes if the wind’s right you get a bar. One. For a minute.” He stared at her. “You’re joking.” “Nope.” He blinked. “Is that legal?” “In this village?” she said. “Legal’s just a suggestion.”

He almost smiled at that. Almost. She didn’t wait. Just turned back inside like she hadn’t derailed his entire digital reality with a screwdriver and a shrug. He stood there for another few seconds, watching the road like it might suddenly sprout a 5G tower just for him. It didn’t.

Inside, he could hear Margaux laugh. Not loud. Just enough. It cut through the quiet like something fragile and warm. He let out a breath. Looked up at the inn again, tired shutters, old vines, walls the colour of toast. Maybe one night wouldn’t kill him. Maybe two.

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By noon, the village had started its slow, predictable hum. A pair of cyclists took the bend outside the inn too wide. Someone’s goat had gotten loose again and was chewing on the post box. The air smelled like thyme and dish soap. Inside Maison du Pin, the inn was doing what it did best: pretending to be quiet while everyone pretended not to listen. Willem stood behind the bar like he had been born there, arms folded, leaning comfortably against the wood, polishing a glass with the kind of patience only retirement could buy.

“Your tap’s loose again,” he said, in his thick Belgian accent, without looking up. “I know.” “And your barrel’s nearly empty.” “Also know.” He set the glass down, satisfied. “You never let me complain properly.” She wiped her hands on a tea towel and gave him a look. He chuckled, deep and fond. “Lieveke, if you were mine, I would have married you off by now. Or locked you in the cellar for your own good.” “Lucky for both of us,” she said, “I’m not yours.”

He raised his eyebrows but didn’t push. They had this rhythm. Her and Willem. Like an old, bickering clock. At the end of the bar, Margaux was colouring furiously with a box of half-snapped crayons, her legs swinging off the stool. A glass of orange juice sat untouched beside her, already sweating in the heat. From the kitchen came the faint clang of metal and the sizzle of something that was either a very aggressive omelette or Bas showing off again. She didn’t need to go check. Bas always cooked like someone was watching.

“He’s a good boy,” Willem said eventually. She shrugged. “So’s the postman. Doesn’t mean I want to marry him.” Willem snorted into his tea. “You’re a menace.” “I’m tired.”

The door creaked open before he could answer. Lando stepped inside like someone testing the temperature of the air. Fresh t-shirt. No sunglasses this time. His hair was still damp, like he’d dunked his head under the tap. She nodded toward the bar. “You want coffee, or do you just enjoy standing in doorways looking confused?”

“I enjoy options,” he said, stepping in. “Is one of them breakfast?” “You missed it.” He raised his eyebrows. “By how much?” “Four hours and an attitude.” “Right,” he said. “Lunch, then.” She turned, called toward the kitchen, “Bas, feed the lost boy!”

A muffled clang. A low reply. Something vaguely enthusiastic. Lando glanced toward the child at the bar, who was now drawing with one crayon in each hand and narrating something under her breath about dragons and laundry.

“Is she always that focused?” he asked. “Only when she’s ignoring everything important.” He smiled faintly. “Wonder where she gets it from.” She glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You want to see the village later?” He looked surprised. “Sure. If you’ve got time.” “I don’t. But come anyway.” She stepped out from behind the bar, wiping her hands again. “Finish your food. You’ve got ten minutes.” Lando watched her go, then turned to Willem, who was watching him like a man who already knew all his secrets. Willem held up the glass he’d just cleaned. “Good luck, boy.” Lando blinked. “Thanks?” “She’s more work than the whole village combined.” Lando smirked, glancing toward the open door. “Noticed.” Then Bas appeared, apron stained, blonde hair a mess, eyes narrowing just slightly when he saw where Lando was standing. He said nothing. Just set a plate down with more force than necessary and disappeared back into the kitchen. Lando stared at the food. Then at the door she’d gone through. Ten minutes.

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They took the back way, through the orchard where the trees leaned like gossiping aunts and the ground was all dust and apricot pits. She didn’t walk slowly. He just kept pace. She pointed with her chin as they passed the first stone wall. “That’s the café. If you sit on the right bench under the fig tree, you might get signal.” He glanced at the table, two old men were already there, phones held high like offerings to a stingy god. She added, “Don’t lean too far back or the bench tips.” “Let me guess,” he said. “You learned that the fun way?” “No,” she said. “Bastien did. I laughed.”

She pushed open the café door. Inside, the air was cooler, thick with espresso and that faint, nostalgic scent of old croissants and printer paper.

“Order something,” she said. “They won’t give you the Wi-Fi code unless you pay first.” He pulled out his wallet, already amused. “And what do I get if I charm them?” “You won’t. They hate Parisians and footballers.” “I’m neither.” “They’ll assume.”

He smirked, but didn’t argue. She sat by the window while he ordered. Watched him try to pronounce noisette. Didn’t help. He returned with two tiny cups and a scrap of paper with the Wi-Fi code scribbled in green pen. “Victory,” he said. He opened his phone, connected, and stared at the notifications for a long time without touching any of them. She didn’t comment. Outside, the men under the fig tree were arguing softly in Occitan. A moped buzzed past like a drunken bee. After a few minutes, he locked the phone again. “Right,” he said. “Where to next?” She stood. “The river. Then the mechanic. You should at least pretend you want your car fixed.”

The river was low. Summer always did that. The kids had dammed it up with stones again, building miniature worlds between the reeds. A few barefoot teenagers were lying on the bank with their headphones in, sun-drunk and indifferent. She pointed toward the footbridge. “We used to jump off that as kids.” He glanced at it. “Looks painful.” “It was. That’s why we did it.” She crouched briefly to pick up a stone Margaux would want, flat and speckled, good for a pocket. Then straightened. “Come on.” They passed the épicerie. The post office. The old man with the newspaper stands who saluted without looking up. She returned it without thinking. The village moved around them like clockwork, like the whole place was one big, dusty machine she was part of.

He, meanwhile, stuck out like a misplaced brushstroke. At the mechanic’s, a squat, oil-streaked building with an open yard, she called out in French. A teenager in a vest and too-short shorts waved from under a bonnet, shouted something back.

“He’ll look at your car tomorrow,” she translated. Lando nodded. “Should I be worried?” “No more than usual.” “Reassuring.”

They started back, uphill this time. Slower.

“You don’t really want it fixed, do you?” she asked suddenly. He didn’t look at her. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing, staying here a little.” He added, “It’s quiet.” She didn’t smile. But she didn’t argue either.

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The sun had shifted by the time they made it back. The inn looked different in late light, gold on the shutters, the vines glowing a little. The world hadn’t moved much, but the edges had softened. She unlocked the side door with one hand and dropped the stone she’d picked up into the blue bowl by the stairs. It joined a dozen others. Her daughter’s collection. All named, probably. All sacred. Lando hesitated by the doorway. “So, I suppose I should call that guy?”

“You’re not going to.” He looked at her. “Excuse me?” She dropped her bag on the bench. “You’re not going to call. Because you don’t actually want to leave.” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty big assumption.” She turned, arms crossed. “Is it wrong?” He opened his mouth. Then didn’t answer. She gave a humourless smile. “That’s what I thought, everyone here, didn’t originally plan to stay here forever. Willem was on his gap year, and now look at him, 40 years later and he’s still here.” “I’m just tired,” he said, softer now. “It’s been a long few months.” “Mm.” She didn’t press. Just nodded toward the back. “Come on. We’ve got leftover frittata if you’re brave.”

The garden was mostly shade now. A single wooden table sat crooked under the cherry tree. The swing moved once, lazily, like it had been told a joke. She brought out two plates. He didn’t offer to help. She didn’t ask. They sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t demand filling. Just two people eating slightly soggy frittata, listening to the hum of the air. She took a sip of something cold and homemade. Lemon. Mint. Regret.

He stabbed a piece of onion and said, “You really don’t ask questions, do you?” “You look like you don’t answer them.” “Touché.” She finished her bite before adding, “I don’t care about your family drama, job or women troubles or whatever story you’re trying to outrun.” “Harsh,” he said. But he was smiling now.

From the far end of the garden came a thud, then a shout. Margaux came barrelling around the hedge with a plastic sword and one sock on.

“Maman!” she cried. “The swing’s broken again!” She didn’t look up. “Is it broken or dramatic?” “It squeaks!” “Then don’t swing so hard.” “I wasn’t!” Lando was already standing. “I’ll look at it.” She glanced up. “You know swings?” “I know a lot of things,” he said, stretching lazily. “Like physics. And leverage.” Margaux eyed him sceptically. “Are you a knight?” He blinked. “I- I don’t think so?” She handed him the sword anyway. “You can help, if you don’t ruin it more.” He took it like it might explode. “Noted.” She watched him walk across the grass, sword in one hand, the kid in the other, already explaining swing angles with the kind of patience only people trying not to think too hard tend to have. Margaux laughed. He joined in. She didn’t smile, she watched. Too long.

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She was already at the sink, rinsing a small plastic lunchbox that had once been white but now looked like it had survived a war. On the counter beside it, an apple, a triangle of cheese, and a folded napkin with a poorly drawn frog. Margaux’s idea of a joke. The front door creaked open. She didn’t need to look.

“You’re early,” she called, still drying the box.

Willem’s voice drifted in, gravelly and smug. “And you’re welcome.” He came in with his usual rhythm: two steps, a dramatic sigh, a muttered comment about arthritis that never quite seemed to slow him down. Behind him, Bas was quieter, more precise, carrying a crate of fresh eggs under one arm and looking very pointedly not toward the back stairs.

“Morning,” Bas said, barely. She nodded. “Coffee’s fresh. Just don’t touch the lemon cake.” Willem grunted, already reaching for the pot. “That for your little Framboisine?” She glanced up. “Obviously.” Margaux padded in moments later, wearing a dress backwards and one shoe. Her curls were wild, her mood even more so. “Your dress is inside out,” her mother said without turning. “No, it’s custom,” Margaux replied solemnly. Willem laughed, scooping her up with surprising ease for someone who claimed to have a bad back. “My little Framboisine! You’re going to rule the school.” “Framboisine,” Lando repeated from the doorway, rubbing sleep from his face. “What does that mean? Like… jam?”

The whole room turned to look at him.

He blinked. “Just asking.” “It’s a word Willem made up,” she said, adjusting Margaux’s collar. “Technically means nothing.” “Means everything,” Willem corrected. Lando raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a perfume.” Bas cleared his throat but didn’t speak. Margaux was now arranging a small army of sugar packets into a battlefield across the bar. She grabbed her keys. “We’re walking. I’ll be back in ten. Try not to burn anything.” Willem saluted with his mug. “We’ll keep the walls standing.” “Bas, check the back freezer, yeah? It’s humming again.”

He nodded, already disappearing into the kitchen. Outside, the morning was crisp, the air laced with rosemary and woodsmoke. Margaux skipped two steps ahead, humming something off-key. Lando followed them halfway down the drive.

“Do you walk her every day?” he asked. “When I can,” she said. “It’s not far.” He hesitated. “Can I come?” She gave him a sideways glance. “You planning on enrolling too?” He grinned. “Just curious.” “You’re nosy.” “Same thing.”

Margaux had already run ahead to collect a rock she’d named yesterday. She looked at Lando again, barefoot in trainers, eyes still soft with sleep, not asking the right kind of questions.

“Fine,” she said. “But don’t complain if someone throws a baguette at you.”

They walked on, past shuttered windows and crooked doors, her daughter darting in and out of shadow like a fish in clear water. At the school gates, Margaux turned just once to wave, already tangled in conversation with a friend. Then it was quiet again. Just the gravel underfoot and the lazy hum of a town not in a rush. The épicerie sat like it had grown there, wedged between the café and the church, shutters flaking, lavender in old jam jars on the sill. She opened the door with the same touch she used to quiet her daughter at night. Inside, it smelled of thyme, newspaper ink, and twenty years of salted butter.

Jacky popped her head up from behind the counter like a startled badger. “Ma petite veuve!” she cried, arms flung wide. Lando, mid-step behind her, froze. “Sorry your what?” “Little innkeeper,” she muttered. “It’s a long story. Just smile.” Jacky swept around the counter in a blur of floral fabric, clutching her by both arms and kissing each cheek with the force of a small riot. “You never visit anymore,” Jacky scolded. “I thought you’d eloped with a plumber.” “I don’t have time to elope.” “Well, that’s depressing,” said a new voice, higher, sharper, amused. Chloé strode in from the back room, hair buzzed on one side, eyeliner theatrical. Behind her trailed Romain, in a crochet tank top and sandals, carrying an open bag of lentils and looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of gravity. Chloé blinked at Lando. “Oh, he’s pretty.” Romain tilted his head. “He’s famous.” “I knew I recognized the jawline,” Chloé said, snapping her fingers. “Racer?” “Relax,” Romain said, waving a lentil at him. “We’re anarchists.” The innkeeper was already moving toward the back shelves, ignoring them. “I need juice boxes and batteries.” “Romantic,” Jacky called after her. Chloé leaned across the counter toward Lando. “She raised that kid alone, you know. Moved back five years ago. Took over the inn. Her parents gone, the baby’s dad too, some freak accident, boat crash or something. Didn’t even speak for the first month.”

Lando’s stomach twisted.

“She never talks about it,” Romain added, like it was fascinating. “Doesn’t mean we don’t.” “She’s good,” Jacky said firmly, tapping the counter. “Solid. Doesn’t ask for help. Too proud, probably. But the girl’s got backbone.” “She used to cry behind the wine crates,” Chloé offered helpfully. “Chloé,” Jacky snapped. “I’m saying it nicely.”

Lando said nothing. Just glanced toward the far aisle, where she was crouched, choosing the least dented juice box with surgical precision.

“Look at her,” Romain murmured. “Like nothing touches her.” Lando nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I see that.” She returned with an armful and a frown. “You’re all talking about me, aren’t you?” Jacky fluttered a hand. “Just saying you should visit more. And eat more. And maybe date someone not terrible.” She sighed and dropped the groceries on the counter. “Add bread. And whatever Margaux got here on Wednesday.” Chloé slid a jar of olives toward her. “Your kid’s a genius. She re-alphabetized the spice rack.” “She’s five.” “Exactly.”

While they packed the bag, Lando moved toward the till.

“Don’t,” she said. “I’m just-” “You’re a guest.” He looked at Jacky. Jacky looked at her. Then took his card anyway. “I’m ignoring her,” Jacky said brightly. “You’ll die first,” she warned, with a straight face. Jacky smiled. “Maybe. But not today.” As they left, Chloé called out, “Don’t let him fix your swing, by the way! He’s too pretty. He’ll break it.” Lando looked back once. Jacky gave him a nod he didn’t understand but felt anyway. They walked in silence. The bag in her hand was heavy. The words in his throat, heavier.

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That night, the bar was finally quiet. Bas wiped down the counters with slow, steady movements, the familiar rhythm grounding the end of the day. She moved between bottles and glasses, locking up, her thoughts elsewhere. Outside, the air had cooled, sharp and clean, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the garden. Lando caught her just as she stepped out the door, the last lock clicking shut behind them.

“You still here?” she asked, half-smiling, trying to hide the tiredness beneath. He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.” She studied him in the low light, the lines of his face softer without the day’s sun or the buzz of the inn around them. “So,” she said, voice light, “I just found out you’re an F1 driver.” He blinked, surprised. “You didn’t know?” “Of course I did,” she said, shaking her head. “You just never mentioned it. Didn’t seem relevant, sometimes, it’s easier to keep things to yourself. The stuff you don’t want people to see.” Her fingers twitched with something unspoken, the weight of years she’d carried alone, of losses too sharp to name, I lost people,” she said, voice low. “Not in a way you talk about. Not aloud. Just in the silence that follows.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something slipped out, a truth he hadn’t meant to say. “I get that.”

She glanced up, surprised by the honesty. No judgement. No trying to fix it. They stood close, the cool night wrapping around them like a whispered secret. He reached out almost without thinking, brushing a stray leaf from her braid, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t pull away. Her eyes flickered down to his lips, soft, tempting, and then back to his eyes, caught between wanting and holding back. Their breaths mingled, shallow and uneven, the space between them charged, electric and fragile, balanced on the edge of something neither dared to cross. His eyes searched hers, silent questions tangled in the dark. She tilted her head, lips parted slightly, heart quickening. Then, from just down the path, a small voice called out, clear and bright. “Maman?” The spell broke. He stepped back, but the air between them still hummed with all the words left unsaid.

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The kitchen was already hot. The fan above the stove turned like it regretted being alive. A pan sizzled too loudly. Coffee steamed in a chipped white mug by the sink, untouched. She was slicing tomatoes. Bas was too quiet. He moved like he always did, clean, efficient, sleeves rolled, apron already stained. But there was something about the way he stacked the bread this morning. Like it had personally offended him.

“Did you check the fridge door?” she asked, without looking. “It clicks now,” he said. “Good.”

Silence. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, “You and the Englishman were talking late.” She wiped juice off her hands with a tea towel. “I run an inn. Talking happens.” “He’s still here.” “He’s waiting on his car.” Bas turned, slow. “Fancy cars don’t wait well in this village. Not with the mechanic we’ve got.” She met his eyes for a beat too long. Bas shrugged, casual like a knife. “You should tell him to see Henri today. Parts take forever.” From the hallway: footsteps, light and loose. Lando, hair still damp, a different T-shirt, holding two empty mugs. “Coffee?” he offered. Bas turned back to the stove. She took one mug. “Kitchen’s full.” “I can go.” “No,” she said. “You should go see the mechanic.” Lando raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know there was a rush.” “There is,” she said flatly. “Here.” She handed him a slip of paper with a number on it. Henri’s. “Tell him I sent you. He’ll know the car.” Lando looked between the two of them. “Everything alright?” “Perfect,” Bas muttered.

She didn’t answer. Lando nodded slowly. “Right. I’ll call him.” He turned to go but paused at the door. “Tomatoes smell good,” he said, almost as an afterthought. Bas didn’t look up. “They’re not for you.” Lando blinked, then smiled. “Noted.”

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The sound of Henri’s van backfiring up the hill was impossible to miss. She wiped her hands on a cloth and stepped outside just as Lando met the mechanic at the gravel edge of the drive, where the silver car sat sun-baked and miserable. Henri climbed down with a groan, jean shorts and a sweat-stained cap, followed by one tall, serious boy, maybe eighteen, clearly the one who actually fixed things, the one they’d seen on Lando’s tour; and Romain, holding a glass bottle of fizzy lemonade and absolutely no tools. Lando looked from one to the other. “I’m guessing he’s not the assistant?” he asked, nodding toward Romain.

“Assistant in vibes,” Romain said cheerfully, adjusting his crochet top. “But I supervise aggressively.” Henri clapped Lando on the back, already peering under the hood. “She tells me you broke this beauty somewhere between bravado and a bad decision.” “She’s not wrong.” Romain leaned against the car like he’d posed for a perfume ad. “The village is very interested in this, by the way.” Lando looked up. “In what?” “Your car. Your arrival. Your face.” “I thought they didn’t care about famous people.” “They don’t. That’s why they love talking about them.”

The older boy, Henri’s eldest son, was already under the hood, muttering in rapid French. She stayed back by the doorway, arms crossed. Lando looked over his shoulder, caught her eye. He came toward her, brushing his hands on his shorts. “Hey,” he said, quieter now. “That guy in the kitchen, Bas. You two alright?” She raised one eyebrow. “You asking personally or for the guestbook?” “I’m asking because he looked like he wanted to put my head in the fryer.” She tilted her head slightly, weighing the honesty in his voice. “We’re fine,” she said. “He just has a long memory.” Lando nodded slowly. “Right.” She studied him. “You’re not in a rush, are you?” He looked back at the mechanic, the car, the two sons now half-arguing in French over whether something was cracked or just French by nature. “Not really,” he admitted. “Honestly, if they said it’d take two weeks, I’d probably thank them.” She smirked. “Dangerous thing to say in this town.” “I’m full of dangerous things lately.” From across the garden, Romain shouted, “We’re going to the florist in ten!” Henri groaned. “Don’t yell in front of the vehicle, Romain. It’s fragile.” “It’s English,” Romain corrected. She turned to Lando. “You want to stay for the postmortem?” “I feel like it’s already being live-streamed.”

He followed her back inside just as Margaux came barrelling down the stairs, sunhat backwards and one shoe on, holding a flower drawing like it was an international treaty.

“Maman,” she announced. “I need violets.” Romain spun dramatically. “Then you shall have them! I’m going to meet Chloé and Jacky. Margs can come.” She hesitated. “You sure?” Romain pressed a hand to his heart. “I would die for the Framboisine.” Margaux beamed. “Yay!” Romain grabbed Margaux’s hand. “To the florist, small queen!”

Then they were off, skipping toward the road, leaving behind the car, the argument, the inn. Lando exhaled. She did too, but quieter.

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The door had barely shut behind Romain and Margaux before the house fell quiet again. Too quiet. She stood in the hallway a moment longer than she meant to, watching the swing of the empty coat hook where Margaux’s sunhat usually hung. It was silly. She knew that. But still. Lando didn’t say anything. Just hovered nearby, hands in his pockets, eyes softer than usual.

“She’ll be fine,” she said finally. “I wasn’t worried.” “You were.” He smiled, faint and lopsided. “Maybe a little.” They drifted back outside. The sun was slanting low, burning everything gold. The mechanic was still under the hood, muttering and swearing. The serious son nodded once and disappeared inside for a cold drink. Romain’s echo had long faded down the road. “I keep thinking about that grocery shop,” Lando said after a moment. “Oh?” “They all know everything. Or think they do.”

She didn’t answer. Just kept her arms folded.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he added quickly. “It’s just intense.” She looked at him then. Really looked. “You’re not used to people seeing you, are you?” He thought about it. “They see the wrong parts.” “They always do.” Henri banged something metal against something louder. “C’est de la merde de luxe, ça!” “Translation?” Lando asked. She smiled. “Luxury bullshit.” “Fits.”

A silence stretched out between them. Not tense. Just there. Honest.

He glanced toward the road. “What happened to her dad?” She didn’t flinch. “Fishing accident. Small boat. Bad storm. No signal. By the time they found them.” She trailed off. He nodded, not pushing. “And your parents?” he asked gently. She shrugged. “Same storm. Same boat, I didn’t go because I was pregnant, I couldn’t be on the boat without throwing up.” He looked at her. “Jesus.” “Yeah.” Lando ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say.” “You don’t have to say anything.”

Another pause.

“She was born two months later,” she added quietly. “That’s why the name stuck. Framboisine. My mum used to call me that. I hated it. But Margaux, she makes it work.” He swallowed. “That’s a lot.” “Mm.”

The sun touched the tree line. The mechanic packed up with curses and promises to return. Lando stood beside her like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to move or stay.

“I didn’t come here for any of this,” he said. She met his eyes. “Good. Then maybe you’ll stay for the right reasons.”

That hung in the air between them. Close. Too close. Then Bas pushed open the bar door behind them. “Need help cleaning up?” She stepped back. “Yeah.” Lando exhaled. “I’ll be upstairs.”

She nodded, already walking. He paused at the door, glanced back once. The garden was quiet. The house even quieter. He didn't know what he wanted. But he was starting to know where it was.

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Lando was still supposed to be a guest. That was the rule. Unspoken, but sharp-edged. Guests paid. Guests passed through. Guests didn’t fix things or fold tea towels or make children laugh like they’d been there all along. And yet. By midweek, he was wearing one of Bas’s spare aprons, slightly too small, while retying the back of a chair cushion for the third time. He hadn’t asked permission. He just started. Margaux trailed after him like it was her job. She sat cross-legged on the counter while he stacked glasses. Gave him running commentary while he restocked the ice. Played sous-chef while he chopped strawberries, mostly just to steal them.

“Are you working here now?” she asked with full-mouthed curiosity. He grinned. “Depends. Do I get paid in juice boxes?” “Yes,” she declared. “And also, one of my rocks.” “Then it’s a deal.”

She watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, towel slung over one shoulder. It was unnerving how easily it had happened. One day he was a stranded guest. The next he was teasing Margaux into brushing her hair without protest or rewiring the dodgy switch in the hallway with a screwdriver he borrowed from Willem.

She liked it. Not just the help. Not just the extra hands when the bar got too full or Bas got moody. She liked him there. The way he made her daughter laugh from the stomach. And that scared the hell out of her. Because she'd spent five years turning this house into a fortress of competence. Because she knew how easily kids attached.

Willem eyed Lando like a stray dog who kept coming back to the porch. Not hostile. Just cautious. Bas wasn’t so subtle. He stopped speaking to Lando altogether, except for clipped one-word exchanges that came sharp as a snapped string. He spent more time than necessary in the cellar. And when he passed Lando in the hallway, he did it with the silence of a man actively choosing not to shove someone.

Jacky, of course, was the opposite. “He carries things,” she said while dropping off a crate of soda. “With his arms, and not his ego. That’s rare.” Chloé chimed in later with, “I don’t trust his hair. But he’s polite.” And Romain, “I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not looking. Like a sad puppy with a credit card.”

She rolled her eyes at all of them. But Margaux, Margaux called him “Sir Lando” now, like he was in a storybook. And when he lifted her onto the garden wall so she could watch the bats at dusk, she laughed so hard she hiccupped. That night, after closing, she found the rock Margaux gave him sitting on the windowsill by his room. Carefully placed. Like it meant something. She didn’t touch it. But she didn’t stop looking either.

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The first time he tried, it was mid-morning. She was hauling empty bottles out to the recycling bins behind the kitchen. He followed her out, grabbed one of the crates before she could. “Can I ask you something?” She didn’t look up. “If it’s about the coffee machine, the answer’s probably ‘swear louder.’” “It’s not.”

That made her pause. Then the door banged open behind them.

Willem, wiping his hands on a cloth, stuck his head out. “Do we have any more of that dark rum, or has Bas hidden it again?” She groaned. “Bottom shelf. Far left.”

Willem disappeared again.

She turned back. “What was your question?” He hesitated. “Nothing.”

The second time, it was in the garden. He was fixing the lantern. She was moving chairs. “Tonight,” he said, half-breathless. “You busy?” She raised an eyebrow. “Always.” “No, I mean, not work. I was thinking dinner. Maybe. If you wanted.”

Bas slammed the bar door open at exactly that moment, muttering something in Dutch about inventory and missing aprons. Lando sighed. “Never mind.”

She said nothing. But her mouth twitched like she almost smiled.

Third time was technically the worst.

She was in the kitchen. Margaux had just fallen off the garden bench and cut her toe on a pebble. There was blood. There were tears. There was the kind of chaos only a child can generate in under eight seconds. By the time Lando found them, she was crouched with a wet cloth and soothing voice, and Margaux was hiccupping in dramatic pain.

He hovered in the doorway, helpless. “Do you need anything?” he asked. “Not unless you’re secretly a surgeon,” she said, not looking up. He retreated.

Fourth time. Evening. Light fading. Tables set. The projector screen already hanging from the side of the shed. She was behind the bar, arranging wine bottles. He didn’t delay this time. Just said, “Do you want to go out with me?”

She paused. Looked at him. Really looked. Then, “I can’t.” He blinked. “Oh.” “No, I mean, I can’t tonight. It’s movie and karaoke. I run it. I’ve got wine to pour, kids to keep from falling into the firepit, and at least one guy who always throws up after singing Céline Dion.” Lando relaxed. Just slightly. “So not a no.” She smirked. “Just bad timing.” “Seems like I’m cursed.” “I told you this village was a nightmare.” He tapped the bar. “Then I guess I’ll come. Sit in the back. Heckle you during karaoke.” “You heckle me,” she said, “you’re next on the mic.” He grinned. “Deal.”

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The garden transformed just before sunset. Willem strung up the lights like he’d been rehearsing for a wedding. Bas moved chairs with grim efficiency. Chloé painted faces on the kids who asked, then on a few who didn’t. Jacky brought champagne. Romain brought cake. Uninvited, but no one said no. The screen, an old white sheet, tugged tight against the side of the shed, flapped in the breeze until Lando pinned the corners with bricks. By the time the projector warmed up, there were thirty people settled on mismatched chairs, beanbags, and picnic blankets. Dogs barked in the distance. Someone had brought a saxophone, just in case. She moved through it all like a conductor. Directing, calming, pouring, smiling when necessary. But never still. Never quiet. Lando watched from a low wooden stool with a plastic cup of Jacky’s punch and a slight buzz in his chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

She never sat down. But she laughed, real and open, when Margaux spilled popcorn on the headteachers feet. She high-fived Chloé after catching a stray wine cork mid-air. She mouthed the words to the movie from behind the bar like someone who knew every scene by heart.

When the credits rolled, the real chaos began. Someone dragged a speaker inside. Jacky shouted something about Céline Dion. Willem groaned. Bas disappeared. Lando stayed.

He stood at the edge of the room, near the wine rack, half-shadowed, watching. The karaoke list was a mess of scribbled names and inside jokes. Half the village seemed to have chosen “their” song. Margaux was already dancing barefoot on a chair.

Then someone shouted, “Madame la patronne!” The room erupted in cheers. Someone pushed a microphone into her hand.

She raised it, horrified. “No.” “Yes!” Jacky barked. “It’s tradition!” Margaux jumped down, grabbed her hand. “We practiced!” “Oh god,” she muttered.

Lando leaned against the wall, smiling now. The music started. Off-key. Too loud. One of those French pop songs from the 90s that sounded like fizzy water and heartbreak. She sang badly. So badly. Flat on every chorus. Late on every verse. But Margaux belted along like she was headlining Glastonbury, and somewhere between the second verse and the bridge, they were dancing. Just the two of them, mother and daughter, spinning in a swirl of terrible notes and wild joy.

It was awful. It was perfect.

Later, when the room thinned out, when Jacky had fallen asleep sitting up and someone was mopping up what might’ve been cider, he found her stacking chairs with one hand, wine glass in the other.

“You survived,” he said. “Barely.” “You were-” “Don’t.” He held up both hands. “Okay.” They stood there for a beat. Then he asked, quieter now, “Tomorrow night?” She didn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah.” A second passed. “Just don’t pick karaoke.” He grinned. “Deal.”

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Chloé had arrived , armed with a velvet scrunchie, three mismatched eyeshadow palettes, and the absolute conviction that she was born for this moment. “I’ve seen ‘Amélie’ twelve times,” she declared. “I know what whimsy looks like.”

Romain trailed in behind her with a bowl of something green and ominous. “Spirulina face mask. Organic. No preservatives. Smells like regret.” “You’re not putting that on my face,” she said. “It’s for me, obviously,” he replied, already smoothing it across his cheekbones with two fingers and a spoon. “I want to look radiant when your child inevitably braids my hair.” Chloé shoved her down into a chair and started attacking her braid with a brush like it had personally offended her. “This isn’t just a date. This is post-parenthood redemption.” “I don’t need redemption.” “You wore the same hoodie for three days last week.” She opened her mouth to argue but Romain held up a finger. “To be fair, it was a good hoodie.” Margaux skidded into the room wearing fairy wings and socks that did not belong to her. “Can I have a sword?” “No,” her mother said. “Too late,” said Romain, pulling one out from behind a cushion.

Somehow, between the chaos and the laughter, she ended up in a dress she hadn’t worn in years, her lips slightly glossed, her nerves trying not to show.

“You look like you belong in a romantic comedy,” Chloé said proudly. “I don’t know what that means.” “It means perfect.” Romain, lying sideways on the sofa with Margaux climbing over his back, gave a thumbs-up. “Go seduce the race car capitalist. We believe in you.” She tried not to smile. “You’re both insane.” “And babysitting for free,” Chloé added. “Don’t forget.”

Downstairs, the inn was quieter. Bas was restocking the wine shelf, half-crouched with a crate against his knee. He looked up as she stepped off the last stair. And then, paused. “You look,” he started, then trailed off. A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Nice. It suits you. I mean, the Englishman. He’s lucky.” There was no bitterness in it, just something soft and true.

She gave a half-laugh, brushing a hand down her skirt like it could shake the moment off. “Don’t start being sweet now, Bas. It’s confusing.” He shrugged. “Maybe I like confusing you.” For a beat, she didn’t know what to say. She took one last breath, tucked a curl behind her ear, and stepped out into the night. Lando was waiting just outside the door, leaning against the fence, like he’d only just remembered how to stand still. When he saw her, whatever words he’d been holding vanished. His mouth opened, then closed again, helpless. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re staring.” “I, yeah,” he said, blinking. “I am.” The corners of her mouth curled, despite herself. “We’re not staying in town.” He nodded quickly, still caught somewhere between surprise and something heavier. “Okay.” “The next village’s quieter,” she added, reaching for the keys. “Less likely to be interrogated over dessert.”

He followed her out to the gravel drive, where her father’s old Peugeot sat hunched like an aging cat, sour yellow, dented in one door, and always smelling faintly of varnish and memory.

“You’re kidding,” Lando said. She tossed him a look. “This car has climbed the Alps.” “Recently?”

She didn’t answer. Just got in. It rattled over the roads like it remembered them better than she did, every turn filled with the soft squeal of age. The radio refused to tune properly, spitting out fragments of chanson and static. Lando didn’t complain once. Dinner was at a tiny bistro a village over, the kind of place that didn’t bother with menus or music, just wrote the day’s offerings in chalk and let the chef decide who was worth impressing.

“Don’t make that face,” she told him as they sat down. “I’m not making a face.” “You’re definitely making a face.”

Lando looked around, at the rusted lanterns hanging like forgotten fruit, the cracked tiles underfoot, the old man behind the bar aggressively ignoring them. “I’ve just never eaten anywhere with this much personality.” She smirked. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.” He leaned in. “You think I’m pretty?” “I think you’re going to cry when the wine arrives.”

He did. Almost. It was cold, red, and unapologetically sour. She drank hers without blinking. The food was rough and honest, lentils with sausage, a hunk of bread that could double as a doorstop, and something involving mushrooms that might have been soup, or might have been a dare. They ate all of it. Or most of it. Lando gave up on the soup halfway through and fed it covertly to a cat under the table. She pretended not to notice.

“You always like this?” he asked, somewhere between the second basket of bread and a piece of walnut tart that flaked apart when you looked at it too hard. “Like what?” “Sharp. Funny. Impossible to read.” She tilted her head. “You always this forward?” “No,” he admitted. “But I like it when you look at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you already know how this ends.”

She didn’t answer. Just stood, tossed a few coins on the table, and said, “Come on. I want to show you something.” They walked without touching. The streetlights were dim, flickering like they couldn’t quite commit. He watched her as she led them off the main road, down a side path edged with wild thyme and silence. There was an old bridge there, no longer used. Just stone and shadow and the sound of water below. She leaned against the railing, arms folded and looked out like it meant something. Like it always had. He joined her, close but not too close.

“I used to come here when I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Still do, sometimes.” He nodded, gently. “Margaux too?” “She thinks it’s haunted.” A pause. “It probably is.” He laughed quietly. “You’re hard to figure out.” “That’s the point.”

They stood like that for a long moment. Then she looked at him, really looked, and something in her softened. Her guard shifted. Just enough. He leaned in, but not all the way. She didn’t meet him. Not yet. Their breaths tangled, shallow and hesitant. A pause stretched between them, just long enough to feel heavy. His hand brushed hers, just their pinkies touching.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice low, like if he said it louder it might ruin the moment.

She nodded. Once. Then again, more vigorously. They both hesitated anyway. And then, barely, a kiss. A soft press. Tentative. Unsure. Not even long enough to count, but it bloomed in the quiet between them like something delicate and unspeakably rare. When they pulled apart, neither of them opened their eyes. Her forehead found his. Their pinkies still hooked. Neither moved. Like they could stay in that breathless, suspended space just a little longer.

“You’re extremely red,” he murmured. “Shut up.” “Like actually vermilion.” She groaned. “Go to hell.”

He smiled. Wide. Pleased with himself. She leaned in and kissed him again. Quick. Impatient. Right on the mouth. He blinked.

“Stop talking,” she said. His grin only grew. “Make me.”

She shoved his shoulder. He caught her wrist. Neither of them let go.

“This scares me,” she whispered. He didn’t move. “Yeah.” “I have a kid. A business. A whole life. I don’t have space for guesswork.” He exhaled slowly. “I know. And I won’t pretend I’ve got it figured out. I travel a lot. My life’s a mess most of the time. But I really like you.”

She looked up.

“And I like Margaux, too,” he added. “She’s a great kid. Batshit crazy, like you, but brilliant.” That did something strange to her chest, like grief and hope had decided to share a drink and settle in together.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile either. But she touched his hand. And didn’t let go.

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He drove them back along narrow, winding roads framed by dark cypress and whispers of lavender. She let him, fingers loosely resting near the gearshift, close enough to touch but not quite daring to. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was electric, humming beneath the quiet, charged with all the words neither wanted to say aloud.

The engine thrummed low, steady, like a heartbeat. When the inn appeared ahead, bathed in soft golden light from the porch, she hesitated, caught between the safe and the unknown.

Then, “Fuck it,” she whispered to herself.

Before he could ask, she reached out, fingers tangling in the soft curls at his neck, pulling him down. The kiss was different now, heated, urgent. Their breaths came in short huffs, warm and tangled, slipping between mouths in desperate rhythm. Hands fumbled and grabbed at clothing as they spilled out of the car, bodies pulling impossibly close, like magnets that refused to let go. They stumbled inside, still wrapped around each other, every step an excuse to lean in, to touch, to feel. A sudden quiet pulled her back just long enough to check on Margaux. Through the cracked bedroom door, she saw the small figure curled under soft blankets in a unicorn onesie. Chloe was beside her, wings spread like a fragile guardian angel, and Romain was slumped on the beanbag, his face a mess of “fairy-turned-pirate” makeup, utterly asleep.

She smiled softly, heart pinching.

The moment passed and they melted back together.

“Your room, or mine?” she whispered, voice thick with breath and promise.

“Either, if, you are sure?” His hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer still, as she nodded energetically.

Her hands found his hair, fingers threading through curls, then trailing down to the front of his shirt. Soft sounds escaped her lips, half moans, half laughter. They broke apart just enough to giggle when he discovered a ticklish kiss on a sensitive spot at her neck. Smiling, laughing into the kiss, they backed onto the bed. He slipped her dress off slowly, eyes dark and full of wonder for a few seconds before he covered every inch of her face with gentle, teasing kisses, grinning all the while. He traced slow, feather-light kisses down her jaw, his smile mischievous but eyes burning with something deeper.

“You’re too beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “Makes me want to forget everything else.”

She laughed softly, breath hitching. “Oh, really? Maybe I should take advantage of that.” He grinned, fingers slipping under the hem of her underwear, thumbs brushing the skin beneath. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”

There was a pause, electric, full of promise, before he eased her back, lips finding the sensitive curve of her neck again, softer this time, coaxing. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging gently, voice playful but breathless: “Well, then, show me how much you mean it.” She swallowed, heart racing, but her mouth still found the words. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a professional race car driver, you’re surprisingly clumsy with buttons.”

Nervous, but not enough to stop teasing, she raised an eyebrow. “So, uh, you’re sure about this? Because last time I checked, I wasn’t exactly the ‘date-of-the-year’ type.” He bent down, breath warm against her skin, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Are you kidding? You’re the only one I want to be here with.” Her breath hitched, a mix of nerves and something fiercer stirring inside. “I haven’t done this in ages. Like, real dates. And this? Not what I expected.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, voice husky. “Neither did I. But maybe that’s what makes it perfect.” She bit her lip, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Perfectly terrifying, you mean.” His hands slid down, tracing the lines of her ribs, and she felt the electricity of his touch teasing and certain all at once. “Terrifying, maybe. But I promise I’m good at taking care of terrifying things.” She let out a shaky breath, a laugh breaking through. “Well, Mr. Caretaker, start showing me then.” His grin was wicked, hands moving with purpose as he leaned in again, every kiss and touch laced with a hunger tempered by something gentle like he was learning every curve, every shiver, every word she didn’t say. He paused, eyes locking with hers, a teasing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “So, where exactly do you want me to start? Because I’m good at multitasking.” She rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed. “Wow, confident. I like it. But let’s not get too ambitious, Romeo.” His fingers trailed down her side, light and deliberate. “Ambition’s kind of my thing. But I can take it slow. Very slow.” She swallowed hard, heart pounding louder than any engine. “Slow’s good. Slow’s safe. For now.” He dipped his head, breath warm against her skin, and she couldn’t help but shiver. His mouth found the delicate curve just below her hipbone, lips teasing, then pressing with more intent.

“Okay, multitasking starts now,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging gently, breath hitching between quiet laughter and soft gasps. She bit her lip, trying to sound unimpressed but failing spectacularly. “Smooth talker. I’m warning you.” He pulled back just long enough to grin up at her, eyes dark and serious. “Only for you.” Then he went back, slower this time, like he was memorizing every reaction, every shiver, every whispered word she didn’t dare say out loud. And she let herself fall into it, nervous, teasing, and utterly alive under his touch. His tongue traced slow, deliberate circles, each movement sending sparks through her nerves. She arched beneath him, fingers tightening in his hair as a breathy gasp escaped her lips.

"Fuck!" The word came out ragged, half-laugh, half-moan, as his mouth pressed harder, hotter, like he was savouring the taste of her. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady, but there was no rush, just the slow, maddening drag of his tongue, the way he paused just to feel her tremble. "Still terrifying?" he murmured against her skin, the vibration of his voice making her hips jerk.

She let out a shaky exhale, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. "More," she breathed, barely a whisper, and he obeyed, his tongue dipping deeper, coaxing out a broken sound as her back arched off the sheets.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, possessive and grounding, while his mouth worked her with relentless precision. His tongue curled in a way that made her thighs clench around his shoulders. A whimper caught in her throat as he dragged his teeth lightly, just once before soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue.

"God," She arched, her heel digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. Lando chuckled, the sound vibrating against her, and she could feel his smirk.

"Told you I multitask," he murmured, before one hand slipped between them, thumb pressing in slow circles just above where his mouth had been.

Her breath hitched as his fingers and tongue worked in perfect, devastating rhythm, slow, then relentless, then slow again, dragging her toward the edge with agonizing precision. Every nerve burned, every gasp came sharper, until her hips jerked against his mouth, her fingers twisting in the sheets.

"Lando" His name tore from her throat as the tension snapped, pleasure cresting in slow, shuddering waves.

He didn’t let up, drawing it out until she was trembling, until her thighs clamped around him in helpless oversensitivity. Only then did he pull back, pressing a final, lingering kiss to her inner thigh before crawling up her body. He hovered over her, forearms bracketing her head, sweat-damp curls falling across his forehead as he studied her face. His thumb brushed her lower lip, rough and deliberate.

"Still with me?" he murmured, voice roughened.

She nipped at his thumb, breath uneven. "Depends. You planning to talk all night or?" Lando exhaled a laugh, shifting his hips just enough to tease, the heat of him pressing where she ached. "Just checking," he said, dragging his nose along her jaw. "Wanted to hear you say it."

Her nails scored down his back. "Now," she demanded.

His laugh was dark and hungry as he caught her wrist, pinning it above her head.

"Demanding," he murmured, but there was no protest in it, only heat. His hips rolled forward in one slow, deliberate stroke, filling her with a groan that tore from his throat. She arched beneath him, breath catching as he pressed deeper, his free hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.

She dug her heel into his back, urging him on. "Shut up and move." Lando obeyed, dragging out almost completely before thrusting back in with a sharp snap of his hips. His thrusts turned punishing, the slick slap of skin filling the room as he drove into her with raw, unfiltered need. She met him stroke for stroke, her back arching off the mattress, nails raking down his shoulders as pleasure coiled tight in her gut.

"Look at me," he growled, fingers tightening on her hip. Her eyes flew open, locking onto his, dark, hungry, ruined, just as his thumb found that perfect spot between them, circling hard.

The pressure snapped, her cry tearing through the air as she shattered around him, muscles clenching so tight he groaned through gritted teeth. His breath was ragged against her neck as he slowed to a torturous pace, hips rolling in deep, deliberate circles that made her toes curl.

"Think you can handle one more?" he murmured, teeth grazing her earlobe.

Her laugh came out breathless, half-moan, half-protest. "Mmf you," a sharp gasp cut her off as his thumb pressed down again, ruthless and perfect, "are insufferable." Lando grinned, all teeth and wicked intent, before snapping his hips forward hard enough to steal her next words. "That a yes?" Her nails bit into his shoulders as she arched, voice fraying at the edges, so she nodded instead.

"Say it," he said, fingers tightening in her hair as his hips stuttered against hers. "Gotta hear you say it."

Her breath hitched, lips parting around the words he wanted, needed. "I'm close," she gasped, arching as his thumb circled that sweet, torturous spot again. "So close." "Good." His praise was rough, possessive, mouth crashing against hers in a messy kiss. “Do it, come now."

The command, the way his voice broke on the words, unravelled her completely. A sharp cry tore from her throat as pleasure ripped through her, waves of it, relentless, stealing the air from her lungs. His own release following after. The room was quiet, except for their breathing. Not soft. Not yet. It still came in waves, uneven and catching in the throat like it didn’t quite know how to settle. And then he grinned.

She barely caught the flash of it before he shifted, kissed her cheek once, then again, and again, all over her face in quick, silly bursts. Her forehead. Her nose. Her jaw. A smattering of affection that felt like he couldn’t stop if he tried. She let out a laugh, sudden and breathless, covering her face with one hand. “What are you doing?” He kept going. “Showing off,” he said against her temple. “Victory lap.” “God, you’re unbearable,” But she was laughing too hard to make it convincing. He kissed the corner of her mouth. “You love it.” She huffed, wrapping her arms around him, letting herself be pulled back into his chest, both of them breathless now for a whole different reason. They lay tangled, smiling into each other’s skin, hearts racing but slowing with each second. Then, like a tide creeping in, the quiet returned. The curtain shifted with the breeze. The distant bark of a dog. The faint creak of the house settling.

And just like that, her thoughts began to catch up. She shifted, sitting up a little too fast, the sheet slipping from her chest as she turned away, legs over the side of the bed. The cool air against her skin felt like a jolt. Lando lifted his head. “Hey,” “I just need a second,” she said, voice tight. Not angry. Just threadbare. He sat up too, tugging his boxers back on. He crossed the room and crouched in front of her, hands resting gently on her knees. “You’re not a mistake,” he said quietly. “This, whatever this is, it doesn’t scare me.” “It scares me,” she whispered. He nodded once. Didn’t flinch. “Because of her?” She nodded, throat tight. “Then let it scare you,” he said. “Just don’t shut it down before it starts." She looked at him. Really looked. He looked open. Steady. Not perfect. Not certain. But here. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted. “We figure it out.” “And if you leave?” “I will,” he said honestly. “Eventually. That’s my job. But I don’t want to leave this, not you.” Her heart ached at that, split down the middle between hope and something sharper. “You say that now, you barely know me.” “I’ll say it tomorrow too,” he said. “Promise?” He gave her a small, crooked smile. “Ask me tomorrow.”

She smiled. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t easy. But it was real. She reached for his hand. “Stay,” she said. And he did.

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The light came in soft and golden through the thin curtain, like it knew not to rush them. She stirred first, one arm across Lando’s chest, her leg tangled with his under the sheets. He was warm, calm. Still mostly asleep. And it was tempting, dangerously tempting, to stay that way. To let the world wait. But the world didn’t wait. She slipped out of bed quietly, pulled on the shirt he’d worn last night, her underwear from the chair, and padded over to the window. The village outside was already beginning to stir. Lando shifted behind her.

“Hey,” he said, voice thick with sleep.

She turned. “Hi.” A beat passed. Then she crossed to the bed, sat beside him, and said softly, “We need to keep this quiet.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “Right. For how long?” “Just until I talk to Margaux. And Bas.” “Bas?” His face shifted, confused. “You don’t owe him that.” “I don’t,” she agreed. “But I’ll give it to him anyway.” Lando nodded slowly, watching her carefully. “Okay. I’ll follow your lead.” She squeezed his hand, then stood. “Let’s get downstairs before anyone notices.”

They almost made it. The hallway was clear. The stairs creaked once, but quietly. She glanced back at Lando with the ghost of a grin, and when she turned forward again, Bas stood at the bottom step, towel slung over one shoulder, crate of glasses in hand. He clocked her first. Then Lando. Then her shirt, Lando’s shirt.

His jaw twitched. Nobody moved. Lando took one more cautious step, catching the tension too late. Bas didn’t speak. Just muttered something in Flemish, something creative and very much not church-appropriate, and walked off, fast, through the kitchen and into the storeroom. She closed her eyes briefly. Then handed Lando the crate. “Can you find Margaux? Keep her distracted?”

He nodded, already setting off. She followed Bas.

The storeroom smelled like lemon oil, aging potatoes, and quiet resentment. Bas was stacking bottles with too much purpose.

“Knock, knock,” she said, not bothering to. “I heard you coming,” he muttered. “You always do.” He didn’t look up. “You sneak around like someone who’s never owned a squeaky floorboard in her life.” “I wasn’t sneaking.” Bas dropped a bottle into the crate with a little too much force. “No?” “I was delaying.” He turned to face her finally. “That’s worse.” She folded her arms. “I didn’t mean for it to be a secret.” “No, Capitaine,” he said, with a dry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You just meant to keep the ship sailing while I clung to the side.” She winced at the old nickname. “Don’t call me that.” He shrugged. “Hard habit to break. You always were the bossy one.” “You never minded that before.” “Yeah,” he said. “Well. I minded it the morning after you left my bed and never looked back.”

The words hit sharper than she expected, even now. She didn’t flinch. “That night was a mistake.” “You didn’t say that then.” “I didn’t want to hurt you.” He looked at her, tired. “You just wanted someone who wouldn’t ask questions.” Silence stretched. Then she stepped forward. “You know me, Bas. You’ve always known me. Since we were kids throwing rocks at the school bell. Since you dared me to kiss Luc Delacroix and I broke his nose instead.” “God,” Bas said, a laugh catching in his throat. “Luc cried so much, his snot got on my shirt.” She smiled, briefly. “You let me wear that shirt for a week.”

“I was in love with you.” He didn’t say it with any drama. Just a flat, sad truth that hung in the air like humidity. “I know,” she whispered. “And I waited,” he said. “Like an idiot. I thought if I stayed, maybe you'd look at me the way you used to look at her dad.” She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “You were never an idiot. You just wanted something I didn’t have to give.” Bas looked at her hand. Then her face. “Is he serious?” “I don’t know yet. But he’s kind to her.” “That counts.” “It’s everything.”

He gave her a long, quiet look. Then nodded, slow. “You gonna make me work tonight?” “Absolutely.” “Even karaoke?” “You’ll sing if I say so.” “Still the Capitaine, then.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Only because you let me be.”

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Margaux was holding a wrench. This alone should have been cause for concern “Are you sure this goes there?” she asked, standing on the swing’s wooden seat with one foot and pointing like a dictator at the bolt Lando was tightening.

“Nope,” he said. “But if it breaks, I’ll blame you and flee the country.” Margaux giggled. “You’d never get away. I’d tell Jacky.” He gasped in mock betrayal. “You wouldn’t.” She grinned. “She knows everything. She’s probably watching right now.” “Do you think she spies with binoculars?” “She uses birds,” Margaux said, deadly serious. “Little ones.” Lando laughed. “Noted. No escaping village surveillance.” They were halfway through rebuilding the swing, old rope, new bolts, wood that had been sanded unevenly by someone who clearly had more confidence than tools. Lando was sweating through his shirt, kneeling in the grass, holding a power drill that clearly did not belong to him. Margaux, meanwhile, had appointed herself site supervisor, snack overseer, and honorary Empress of the swing.

“Can I try it now?” she asked. “Give me two more bolts and a miracle.” She sat cross-legged in the grass beside him. “You’re funny.” He grinned. “You always like bossing people around?” “I learned it from my mum,” she said, with absolutely no shame. Lando paused, glancing toward the inn. “She’s good at that.” “She’s good at everything.” His smile softened. “Yeah. She is.” Margaux lay back in the grass, arms stretched wide like she was making a snow angel in summer dust. “She used to push me on the swing after dinner. But it broke. So, we just kind of stopped.” Lando didn’t answer. Just picked up the last bolt and quietly locked it in.

Inside, she watched them through the kitchen window. The way Margaux gestured, all drama and limbs. The way Lando crouched beside her, nodding solemnly, pretending to follow every mad idea she pitched. He didn’t talk down to her. He didn’t perform. He just was. And her daughter was laughing. That sound, light, high, unguarded, it pulled something tight in her chest and unwound it, slow. Maybe she didn’t know what this was yet. But she knew what it wasn’t.

It wasn’t chaos. Or damage. Or a quick fix. It was better. And that was terrifying. She stepped away from the window. Her hands were still damp from scrubbing breakfast plates. But her heart was louder than the tap and the clock and the whisper of her own second-guessing.

It was time to ask the question that mattered most.

Margaux was still flushed from playing, hair full of bits of grass, shirt damp with whatever had been in Romain’s garden spray bottle. They were upstairs now, the window cracked open to the lavender breeze, the stars just beginning to prick the sky. She was tucking the sheet up under her daughter’s chin when Margaux blinked up and asked, “Can Lando come to story time tomorrow?”

Her hands stilled. “I’m not sure,” she said gently. “He might be busy.” Margaux shrugged. “He tells stories funny. Not like a teacher. Like he forgets the ending and just makes one up.” She smiled at that. “That sounds about right.” She sat beside her on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket. “Sweetheart,” she said softly, “can I ask you something? And I want you to be honest. Like when I asked if you brushed your teeth and you said technically no.” Margaux’s eyes sparkled. “Okay.” “It’s always been just us. You and me. For a long time.” Margaux nodded. “Because we’re a team.” “Exactly,” she said, her voice thickening slightly. “But if someday, there was someone else. Not instead of you. Just with us. Would that be okay?” Margaux blinked. “Like another teammate?” “Yes. Maybe. Someone who made us laugh. Who was kind. Who cared about you as much as I do.” Margaux pursed her lips thoughtfully. Then: “Is he like Lando?” She stilled. “Maybe.” “Then it’s okay.” Her heart twisted. “But if he’s like Luc Delacroix,” Margaux added gravely, “then absolutely not.” She let out a laugh, quick and cracked. “You remember Luc?” “He told me broccoli was dessert. He can’t be trusted.” They both laughed, and her eyes stung. Margaux reached for her hand. “You can be happy, Maman. I don’t mind.”

That broke something open, soft and unbearable. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, whispered something into her curls she couldn’t even hear herself. Then Margaux yawned. “Can I swing tomorrow?”

“Only if it doesn’t rain.” “Lando said it’s strong now. He said we could fly.” “He’s good at making people believe that.”

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Later, she found him in the garden, sitting on the swing he’d just rebuilt, head tilted back toward the stars. When he heard her footsteps, he turned, smiling, warm, expectant. She didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him, letting their shoulders brush.

Moments later, Margaux burst through the door in pyjamas and boots, arms flung out like wings.

“You’re meant to be asleep, Framboisine!” “You said we could fly! I want to try.” Lando laughed, standing. “Alright then. Strap in.”

He lifted her gently onto the swing. And the two of them, him on one side, her on the other, began to push. Slow, rhythmic, steady. Margaux squealed as her feet kicked higher and higher.

The stars above twinkled. The garden swayed in quiet motion. And for the first time in a long, long while, it didn’t feel like letting go. It felt like moving forward. Together.

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The inn was alive by midday. Weeks had passed since the date, and Lando had integrated himself further and further into the village life. Chloé had brought a speaker, and a playlist called happy-sad but mostly wine, which was already blasting through the garden. Jacky swept through the kitchen like she owned the place, dropping off a tray of almond croissants with strict instructions not to warm them, unless you want the almonds to go sad, and no one wants sad almonds. Willem brought wine. Six bottles. Two chilled. “I figured we’d need two for each ghost,” he said, and no one corrected him.

Henri showed up in his mechanic overalls, grease still on his arms, dragging his two sons behind him, one helpful, Romain purely here to eat, dressed entirely in black, sunglasses included. “I’m here for emotional solidarity,” he announced, then immediately burst into tears after one of the kids handed him a flower.

Lando stayed close, hands busy all day. Carrying chairs, pouring drinks, letting Margaux boss him around with a flower crown and a plastic sword. He was supposed to be training. Two weeks left before the next race. But today, this day, he stayed. No hesitation. Bas was there too, quieter than usual. He helped without asking. Set up the sound system. Cut bread in silence. Watched her from the edges like he always did, present but not reaching. The music built as the sun sank lower. Not sad songs. Not hymns. But the sort of music you could dance to barefoot, with a wine glass in one hand and your grief folded like a napkin in your pocket. She moved through the garden like someone being held up by everyone. Laughed at Romain’s melodrama. Hugged Jacky too tight. Let Willem kiss her cheek. And every time she passed Lando, she touched his arm. Just briefly. Like a tether. Later, when the plates were nearly cleared and people were starting to steal cushions for the grass, he caught her just behind the bar, stealing a swig of something stronger from a coffee cup.

“Hey,” he said, sidling up beside her. “Hey yourself.”

They stood like that for a moment, the music drifting through the open windows. He glanced at her. “Do you like dancing?” She arched an eyebrow. “No.” He mock-winced. “Oh. Okay.” She smirked. “Ask me anyway.” His grin returned. “Will you dance with me?” She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” They stepped out into the garden, where Jacky was already dragging Henri into a swaying sort of half-waltz. Lando didn’t lead. Not really. He just let their hands find each other, let the rhythm carry them. She didn’t move much, just enough to match him. Enough to stay close. She looked up once. His smile was soft, not quite steady.

“You’re bad at this,” she whispered. “So are you.” “Good thing we’re pretty.” He laughed. “Exactly.”

Around them, the village spun on, buzzing with old jokes, remembered names, shared wine and long-held love. But between them, under the strings of lights and the weight of memory, it was quiet.

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By the time the sun had dipped fully behind the trees, the garden was glowing. Not just from the string lights or the candles tucked into empty jam jars, but from the warmth of people who had made this day what it was, what it always was. A celebration. A tether. A refusal to forget. Margaux, sugar-hyped and pink-cheeked, was falling asleep under a table with a blanket wrapped around her like a burrito. Chloé had drawn a heart on her forehead in pink pen, and no one had stopped her.

One by one, the goodbyes began. Jacky was first, of course. She pressed two kisses to each of their cheeks, then pulled her into a hug that was longer than necessary, tighter than expected. When she finally let go, her voice was thick. “Your mother would’ve been proud. You’re still her girl. Just with more wine and worse posture.” She laughed through her nose. “I’ll work on that.” Chloé kissed the top of Margaux’s head and whispered something in her ear. Margaux nodded solemnly. It was probably a secret. Or a threat. Romain tried to go next but burst into tears halfway through his goodbye speech. “You are the village’s backbone,” he sobbed. “The soul! The very croissant crust of this place!” “No more pastries for him,” someone muttered. Henri and his eldest shook her hand, formal, warm. “Strong girl,” he said in that soft way of his, like a mechanic who knew how fragile engines really were. Then came Willem. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her for a long time, eyes full of something ancient and gentle. Then he kissed the top of her head.

“You did good, Lieveke.”

That was all. She nodded, throat tight. Bas was behind him, hands in his pockets, gaze low. He lingered a second longer than he had to, then looked up at her, not quite smiling, but close.

“Same time next year,” he said, pecking her temple. She nodded. “Same time.” He glanced once at Margaux, still curled up under the blanket, then gave Lando a look. Not threatening. Not warm. Just measured. Then he turned and walked out, no fuss, no backward glance. And then it was just them.

She and Lando stood there in the quiet, the garden littered with empty glasses and folded napkins. Margaux asleep in the corner. The stars coming out without asking. Lando exhaled, hands in his pockets.

“This village,” he said. “They don’t just love you. They carry you.” She looked at him, eyes rimmed pink, smile flickering. “Sometimes I think they are me.” “I’ve never seen anything like it.” “It’s not always good.” “I know,” he said. “I want you even when it’s shit.” She blinked. “But this,” He gestured to the night around them, the candles still flickering, the music now faded into the hum of cicadas. “This isn’t shit. This is love in its truest form. A whole village remembering for you. Celebrating for you. And I,” He stopped, like the words had gotten too big. “I’m just lucky I got to see it.”

She looked away, but her hand found his. Held on. For a long time, they said nothing. Then she whispered, “She’s waiting.” He nodded. “Then let’s go.”

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The churchyard was quiet in the way only old places can be. The gate creaked on its hinges as they pushed it open. Gravel crunched under their shoes. The stones glowed pale in the moonlight, rows of names and dates, all softened by time and lichen. Margaux walked ahead, her blanket still draped around her shoulders like a cape. She knew the way. She always did. She stopped at the same three stones, side by side beneath the rowan tree. Bent down. Touched the middle one with both hands. Then started talking. “Hi,” she said brightly. “Today was busy. Everyone came. Bas made your favourite cake, Romain cried again. Maman didn’t sing this time, but she danced a bit. Also, the swing’s fixed now. Lando helped. He’s not bad. Bit weird. But funny.”

Her voice drifted on the breeze, steady, almost cheerful. She sat cross-legged between the graves, humming as she pulled a handful of pebbles from her pocket and started sorting them by colour. Her mother stayed standing a little back. Still. Tense. Lando moved beside her. Didn’t speak. It was only when Margaux started humming something soft and off-key that she said, “That one on the right. That’s him.”

Lando nodded.

“He was meant to propose. That fishing trip. My dad was there too. I think he wanted to ask for permission properly then. He was old-fashioned like that. Romantic in a weird, boyish way.” Lando didn’t interrupt. “I was supposed to go with them,” she added, voice quieter now. “But I didn’t. I was too sick. Morning sickness. All-day sickness, really. I stayed in bed, and he kissed my forehead and left.”

Her arms crossed over her chest, pressing into her ribs. "They never came back. The storm-” her voice cracked. She inhaled through her nose, sharp and fast. “No one found them for days. And even then, pieces. Just pieces.”

Lando stepped closer. Close enough to offer something but not take anything away. She looked at the graves, then up at the sky. Her voice cracked on the edges, almost breaking before the words even made it out.

“It was hard, Lando. It was so hard. I used to walk around all day thinking,” she paused, breath trembling, “I was even jealous of euthanised dogs, why can they be put out of their misery?”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was sacred. Weighty. Lando didn’t flinch. But his face shifted, like the words had lodged somewhere deep, somewhere that would ache later.

He stepped closer, not touching her yet, but there with her. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “I mean, I knew it must’ve been hell. But not like that.”

She didn’t respond. Her arms were still wrapped tight around herself, like she was holding something in, something vast and ancient and screaming.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he added. “Except, fuck. I wish I’d known you then.” “Why?” “Because no one should ever feel that alone,” he said. “And if I couldn’t fix it, I could’ve sat beside you while it stayed broken.” Her eyes met his then, wet, tired, guarded. He held her gaze, steady. Then, softer now: “What do you want from me?”

She blinked. The honesty of it undid her a little. Not pity. Not a fix. Just the willingness to be asked. She turned fully toward him. “Anything you’re willing to give me.”

Silence stretched long between them. But it didn’t feel empty. She watched Margaux press pebbles into the dirt like tiny gifts. Then let herself smile, barely. Just enough. “You know,” she said, her voice returning to something lighter, “for a guy who’s paid to drive fast, you walk really slowly.” He smirked. “I like the view.” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus.” They didn’t move. Just stood there. But somehow, it still counted. He looked at her. Really looked. “You’re tough.” She nodded. “I can take care of myself.” “I know you can. You have. You still do. You always will.” Then his hand found hers, fingers warm in the cool air. “I’ve just joined in, too,” he added softly. “Now we’ll share. And take care of each other.”

She squeezed his hand. Then turned her face toward the gravestones. And cried. Not loudly. Not broken. Just real. And this time, she didn’t cry alone.

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The day he left was warm. Too warm for the end of August, the kind of heat that made people slower, quieter. Everything shimmered just slightly, like the village was holding its breath. His car was parked outside the inn, packed but not cluttered, he travelled light. Always had to be ready to go. Margaux was crouched on the front step in her socks, poking at the gravel like it might spell something out for her if she looked long enough. She didn’t say much. But she kept inching closer to him every time he moved, like if she stayed near enough, he might not leave. She stood by the door, arms crossed, mouth tight.

“You don’t have to look like I'm going to war,” Lando said gently, slipping his sunglasses onto his head. “It’s just Zandvoort.” She didn’t smile. “You say that like it doesn’t matter.” He moved closer. Not touching her, but near, “It matters. That’s why I’m coming back.” “People say that all the time.” “I’m not people.” She gave him a long, wary look. "I know.” He let the silence stretch. Then added, “You can still watch me screw up from here. That’s not nothing.” Her smile finally cracked through, thin, but there. “Be safe,” she said. He nodded. “Promise.” Then he crouched down to Margaux’s level. “You gonna keep your mum in line while I’m gone?” Margaux nodded solemnly. “She makes weird noises when she’s cleaning. I’ll record them.” “Perfect.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck without warning. Tight. Quick. Then let go and darted back inside like nothing had happened. He stood, eyes on the door she disappeared through. The rest of the village had gathered out front. Jacky with a basket of snacks for the road. Romain already misty-eyed. Chloé holding a homemade sign that read, Zandvoort = Hot Dutch Sand + Fast Pretty Men. Henri shook Lando’s hand like a father. Willem clapped his shoulder like a soldier. Bas just gave him a quiet nod. When Lando looked back at her, she was still on the step. Still watching. He opened the car door, then paused.

“You know where to find me,” he said. She nodded. “Go win something.” He grinned. “No pressure, then.”

Then he got in, started the engine, and drove. Everyone waved. She didn’t. Not because she didn’t want to. Because she wasn’t ready.

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The inn was full again but not like it had been two weeks ago. This time, the noise came from the screen. Friday morning. Free Practice One. She stood behind the bar, dish towel in hand, screen pulled up on her old iPad propped against the register. Margaux had made a paper cutout of Lando’s helmet and taped it to the corner.

He went fastest. Top of the table. Her heart surged before she could stop it. It wasn’t pride, exactly, it was relief. Like watching someone she loved balance on a wire and land without a wobble.

“Alright then,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “That’s one.”

Free Practice Two was wetter. Rain slicked the track. The spray off the rear tyres turned the screen into abstract art. She had a cloth napkin clenched in one fist, half-folded. Forgot about it halfway through. Lando finished fourth. Oscar was second. Coming into the pit lane, the camera cut just in time to catch his front wing brush against Lewis Hamilton’s rear tyre. She stopped breathing. The screen didn’t show panic. The commentators didn’t either. No damage. No drama. Still, her fingers were locked around her tea mug like it might break loose and sprint.

“You alright?” asked one of the regulars at the bar. She blinked. “Fine.” Saturday morning. FP3. She was in the kitchen, watching from a corner near the coffee machine. Then the screen went black for a second, red flag.

Logan Sargeant has gone off at Turn 10. When the cameras returned, the car was in flames. She gasped, dropping a spoon into the sink with a clang. The whole inn seemed to go still for a second. But the voice in her ear was calm. He was okay. He was out. Still, her hands trembled.

She stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed her.

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Qualifying arrived with sun. The air in the inn had shifted. Tighter. Lighter. She let herself sit down for once, flanked by Chloé on her left and Romain on her right, both buzzing like caffeine and mischief. Bas hovered near the edge of the room. Pretending not to care. Watching everything. Margaux was in Jacky’s kitchen, elbow-deep in cookie dough, apron covered in flour.

Q1—easy. Q2—fine. Q3—flawless. The lap was smooth, poised, sharp at the edges. Controlled fury. Lando went purple in every sector and crossed the line ahead of Verstappen. Pole position. The inn erupted. Chloé screamed. Romain jumped up and knocked over an entire tray of glasses. Someone behind the bar whistled like it was a wedding. Even Bas, quiet, watchful Bas, grinned.

She didn’t cheer. She just exhaled. One deep, long breath she hadn’t realised she was holding all day.

They decided before the cookies were even cooled. Romain suggested it. Chloé seconded it. Jacky made it law. The race will be at the inn, they declared. Everyone’s coming.

Willem brought out the good wine. Someone found the extension cable from the mairie. Jacky promised to make her “emotional support tarte.” Everyone had a job. She didn’t argue. But that night, when the kitchen was half-clean and the house had gone mostly quiet, she lingered at the counter with Jacky beside her, wiping glasses by hand like it mattered.

“I’m scared,” she said. Jacky didn’t look up. “Of what, ma fille?” “That Margaux will get attached. That I’ll let her. And then,” Jacky placed the towel down slowly. “Are you really scared for Framboisine? Or is that just the excuse that feels safer?”

She didn’t answer. Jacky waited. “I’m scared to touch happiness,” she admitted. “Only to have it ripped away again. I’m scared that he might not understand, it’s always Margaux first. She is the pinnacle of my every action, my every word, my entire being. And yeah, I can learn to love him, but she comes first.” Jacky nodded like she’d expected nothing less. “And why does that scare you?” She hesitated. “Because what if he doesn’t understand that? What if he puts me first?” Jacky smiled, soft and sharp. “Is that not allowed?” She looked down at the bar. “I don’t know.” “If he loves you,” Jacky said, “then he will put you first. But if your entire being is her, then surely that translates. Everything he does will also be for her. Because of you. Love doesn’t divide; it expands. And I do not think you need to worry. That man, he adores her.”

They both turned, as if on cue, toward the window. Outside, Margaux stood in the garden, orange ribbons in her hair and face paint sloppily smeared on her cheeks. Chloé’s handiwork, no doubt. She was holding a tiny Dutch flag and staring at the screen like it was sacred.

Afternoon arrived. The garden was full. She didn’t sit. Just stood near the bar, arms folded. Watching. The race was chaos. Safety cars. Strategy calls. Overtakes that made people scream. And in the end, Lando won. Not just won. Owned it. Pole to flag.

The garden erupted like the sky had cracked open. Romain nearly passed out. Bas high-fived a child. Willem declared Lando “one of us now,” and no one disagreed. She didn’t cheer. Just smiled. Quiet. Proud. When no one was looking, she slipped out to the bench by the cafe, where the Wi-Fi was stronger.

She pulled out her phone. Typed: Well done, Lan. It was beautiful x Sent it. And went back.

The music had started, soft and swingy. Someone had dragged the old speaker out and wired it to the inns power supply. Kids ran barefoot, chasing leftover confetti. Jacky danced with Romain. Chloé spun in place like no one was watching. She found Margaux near the table of pastries, still sugared up, still bright-eyed.

“Dance with me?” she asked. Margaux grabbed her hand like she’d been waiting all day. So, they danced. Not well. Not gracefully. But together. And that was more than enough.

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The car pulled up just before ten. Same engine. Same dust kicked up off the gravel. But something about it still made her breath catch in her throat like it was the first time. He stepped out wearing sunglasses, trainers that still had flecks of Dutch sand on them, and the kind of casual confidence that made you forget how many cameras followed him daily. The village erupted before he could knock. Jacky pushed a croissant into his hand and declared him a national treasure. Henri gave him a thump on the back and said he should consider switching careers to cheese-making, because “only a man that calm under pressure can work with rennet.” Willem saluted with a glass of something definitely not juice. But Lando barely saw any of it.

He saw her. She was standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel, trying not to smile too much. Or maybe too early. Margaux beat her to it. She ran, socks slipping on the gravel, arms flung wide. He caught her with ease and spun her once. “You won,” she yelled.

“Not without my lucky charm,” he replied.

She giggled, then scrambled down, grabbing his hand. “You have to come. Everyone has to know. Chloé said she’d paint a whole mural of you!” “Oh god.” Margaux tugged him toward the road. “Come on, hurry!” Lando glanced at her once, briefly. She nodded. So, he let Margaux drag him away. That left her on the step. And Bas. He was by the gate, arms folded. Not glaring. Not scowling. Just watching. “Don’t,” she said before Bas could speak. He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say anything.” “You were going to.” “I wasn’t." She gave him a look. Bas shrugged. “Fine. I was going to say, he looks like a man about to propose in the middle of a bakery.”

She rolled her eyes and turned inside.

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They were upstairs fifteen minutes later. The room hadn’t changed. Same sheets. Same dusty window. Same space between the bed and the wardrobe where she sometimes dropped laundry and forgot about it for two days. But now he was in it. And she couldn’t stop moving. Picking things up. Straightening. Folding. He stood by the door, watching.

“I don’t need croissants,” he said softly. “I didn’t offer you any.” “Then why won’t you look at me?”

She froze. She wasn’t sure how to answer.

He stepped closer. “I didn’t know how much I missed you until I saw you again. And then,” She turned to him. “It’s not you.” “Okay.” “It’s me.” “Still okay.” She exhaled, tight and sharp. “I watched every session. Every lap. I didn’t breathe during Q3. And when you crossed the line, I wanted to scream.” “You didn’t?” “I made a cup of tea.” He tilted his head. “That sounds very British, not very French.” She finally smiled. Briefly. “I was scared, Lando. Really scared. I was proud, too. So proud. And that made it worse. Because it was so much. And I didn’t know where to put it.”

There was a pause. Then, gently, “Put it here.” He reached for her hand. Not demanding. Just offering. “Come to me when you’re afraid,” he said, voice low and careful. “Let me be the one to steady the ground when it starts to shake. Let me hold that weight too.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

Then whispered, “You weren’t here.” He nodded. “Ask me to be. And I will.” “You’re busy.” “I don’t care if I’m racing. If I’m halfway through a lap. If you need me, call. And I will be here.” She swallowed, her throat thick. Then, softly, “Bit dramatic.” He grinned. “I have a flair for it.” “Maybe you missed your calling.” “Opera?” “Soap opera.” “Bold. But fair.” She laughed, finally. He stepped forward fully then, arms slipping around her waist. “I really did miss you.” “I made tea,” she said again, like it meant more now. “I’ll drink it,” he promised. “Even if it’s terrible.” “It is.” “Perfect.”

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Wednesday night came slow and golden, the air still clinging to the last of summer. Margaux was wriggly in bed, a tangle of knees and elbows and too many questions. Lando sat beside her, letting her braid his fingers into her stuffed rabbit’s ears. “Will you be gone for a long time?” she asked.

“Less than a week,” he said gently. “Next race is in Italy. I’ll be back before you miss me too much.” “I don’t miss people,” she lied. He smiled. “That’s okay. I’ll miss you enough for both of us.” She squinted at him. “Bring me something Italian.” “Like pizza?” “No. Like earrings.” Her mother choked on a laugh. “You don’t have your ears pierced.” Margaux shrugged. “Future planning.” They both kissed her goodnight. She clung a little longer to Lando’s neck before letting go, eyes already heavy.

“I’ll come say hi when I get back,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. “Okay,” she murmured. “But you better knock.”

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Later, the house was still. The kitchen light was off. The garden dark. The window cracked open to let in the sound of crickets and the faint smell of earth cooling down. They lay in her bed, legs tangled under a light sheet, the silence between them thick, but not heavy.

“You know,” she said into the hush, “you’ve already been here longer than any man I’ve ever slept with.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Bold of you to assume you’ve seen the peak of my staying power.” She laughed, quiet, tired. “Gross.” “Flattering.” She shifted to face him. “You’re really going tomorrow?” “Unless I fake an engine failure.” “Tempting.” “I’m good at making exits dramatic.” She reached out, traced a line across his chest with the tip of her finger. “And entrances.” He caught her hand, kissed her knuckles. “You’re softer now.” “Don’t tell anyone.” “Especially not Willem. He’ll cry.”

They laughed into each other’s skin. Then the quiet settled again. He kissed her shoulder, slow and unhurried. Her collarbone. The hollow of her throat. She didn’t tense. Didn’t joke. She just let him in. There was no rush. No burn of urgency. Just a kind of mutual exhale, like they both knew what they were doing this time. What it meant.

His hands moved with certainty. Hers didn’t flinch. They kissed like people who had already chosen each other, who had made peace with the fear and decided to touch anyway. No promises were made. But none were needed.

Lando's fingers trailed across her skin, tracing the contours of her collarbone. Her shoulder rose in a gentle arc, offering him access, and he took it, claiming her with a soft, plodding kiss. Their lips touched like autumn leaves rustling against each other, the soft hiss of their breaths mingling as they savoured the moment. The air was thick with anticipation, but there was no rush. No frantic heartbeat. Only the gentle acceptance that this was their time, and they were finally ready to surrender.

Her hands drifted up, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, her fingertips dancing across his skin like raindrops on a hot pavement. He didn't flinch, didn't tense up. He just let her in, allowed her to claim him as her own. Lando's fingers found her waist, his thumbs tracing the soft curves of her hips. She didn't squeeze his hand, didn't lean into him. She just let him guide her, let his touch become the axis around which she revolved.

Their bodies met in a slow dance, skin against skin. Lando's hands explored every inch of her body, as if he were mapping out new territory. She arched into his touch, moaning softly as he traced patterns on her stomach and hips. He kissed his way down her torso, stopping to nip at her chest before trailing his tongue down to her navel. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair. His rough hands slid down her thighs, parting her legs as if he'd always know where to go. She gripped the sheets, her knees falling apart as he teased her entrance with gentle fingers. She trembled beneath him, lost in the sensation of being claimed.

They moved together, their rhythm in perfect sync. Lando nudged against her wet entrance, and with a groan, he thrust inside. She gasped, her back arching as he filled her completely. He moved slowly at first, savouring the feeling of being inside. She met his thrusts, their hips slapping together in a primal rhythm. Their skin slick with sweat, they moved together in a dance that was both familiar and new. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she drew him deeper inside her.

He hummed against her neck, his hair tickling her sensitive skin. She arched her back, her nails digging into his shoulders as she rode him harder. He groaned in approval, his hands finding her ass, squeezing and massaging as he thrust into her. Their breathing grew ragged, their gasps and moans filling the room. It wasn't fast or rough, but it was intense.

Every touch, every look, every whispered word held a world of meaning. They were lost in each other, consumed by the heat of the moment. Finally, they finished together, their bodies shuddering as they reached their peak. Lando spilled into her, and she cried out his name as her walls clenched around him. They collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together. They lay there afterward, wrapped around each other, limbs tangled and warm, skin cooling beneath the sheets. The room was quiet again, but not empty. Her head rested against his chest, rising and falling with each of his breaths. For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then. “You’re squashing my leg,” she mumbled, voice muffled. “You’re squashing my chest.” “You don’t need your chest for driving.” “I literally do.” She snorted softly, shifting just enough to poke him in the ribs. “You make the worst pillow.” “Funny. I just set a lap record. Felt very supportive at the time.” “Oh, so now you’re a mattress and a show-off.” He grinned into her hair. “Multitalented.”

They lay in the haze of post-everything comfort, their bodies still humming with leftover heat and something more dangerous: peace. Eventually, she whispered, “Do you think it’ll always feel like this?” Lando tilted his head. “Good?” She nodded. “And scary.” He was quiet for a beat. Then, “Probably. But you’re allowed to be scared, you know.” She exhaled through her nose, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Tell that to my spine every time you touch me.” He chuckled. “Should I leave it a note next time?” “No, just carve it into the inn’s headboard. With a pocketknife.” He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at her properly. “You’re ridiculous.” She shrugged, smiling a little. “And yet, here you are.” “Here I am.”

He brushed a damp strand of hair off her cheek, then leaned in, not for another kiss, not this time. Just to rest his forehead against hers. “I really don’t want to leave.” “I know, I don’t like you leaving either.” “But I will come back.” “I know,” she repeated, more quietly now. He kissed her gently, once on the cheek, once near the corner of her mouth, and then one last time, right in the middle of her forehead. His lips lingered. “Sleep,” he murmured, and she grinned.

He was halfway to the door before he turned around. “Come.” Her eyes shot open, “What?” He stepped closer, “I mean, I know you can’t come to Italy, its too late notice. Come to Azerbaijan. It’s in two weeks. Willem and Bas can look after the inn, Jacky and Chloé can babysit Margaux for the weekend. Come.” Her smile was bittersweet. “I can’t.” “Why not?” “It’s Margaux’s birthday.” His smile reappeared. “Okay, so come to Singapore. Its three weeks away. Plenty of time to prepare. Please.” “Okay." “Okay?” “Okay, I’ll come.” She said, grinning. Her brain hadn’t thought it through, but she wouldn’t let it. The smile on Lando’s face was worth any consequence.

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She had three lists. One for the inn. One for Margaux. One titled Things I Will Definitely Forget and Panic About in the car. It was still pinned to the fridge, half-smeared with marmalade.

Lando had left the night before, already en route to Singapore, something about a brand sponsorship. She could still smell his cologne faintly on her suitcase handle. That shouldn’t have been comforting. But it was. Now it was up to her.

She zipped up her case for the fourth time, grabbed her notepad, and marched downstairs into the organised chaos of the inn. “Willem!” she shouted, already halfway into the kitchen. Willem popped up from behind the bar like an ageing meerkat. “If this is about the wine order-” “It’s about everything,” she said. “You have the calendar?” “I’m sixty, not senile.” “That’s not what I heard,” Bas muttered from the back fridge. She spun around. “Bas. Do you have the supplier codes?” “I’ve memorised them.” “You say that like you don’t make them up every time.” Bas smirked. “Still works.” She stared at them both. These men. These chaotic, loving, half-feral village uncles who had held this place together more times than she could count. “You’ll call me if something happens?” Willem gave her a look. “You’re not going to the moon. You’re going to Singapore. With a man who makes driving look like ballet.” “Yes, and ballet is dangerous,” she replied. Bas crossed his arms. “Go. We’ve got this.”

As she wrestled Margaux’s backpack over one shoulder and checked her coat pocket for the fifth time, she turned back to Bas and Willem. Willem took the inn keys from her like they weighed more than they did.

“Don’t burn the place down,” she said, deadpan. “Pretty sure my favourite driving man would like our Inn intact when we get back.” Bas smirked. “Which one’s your favourite again?” She rolled her eyes. “The one currently halfway to Singapore and pretending he didn’t forget his sunglasses.”

They both laughed. And as she stepped out into the crisp morning air, Margaux skipping ahead of her, she realised she hadn’t needed to say his name for them to know exactly who she meant. She still checked the door locks. Twice.

Jacky’s house was already full of glitter and noise when she and Margaux arrived. Chloé was trying to learn how to make lanterns out of tissue paper. Romain was dancing with a colander on his head. It felt like leaving Margaux in a well-organised circus.

“You packed snacks?” she asked. “Two lunch boxes,” Jacky confirmed. “Emergency numbers?” Jacky pointed to a laminated sheet on the fridge. “Margaux’s bedtime?” “I’ll fight her into pyjamas with my own two hands,” Jacky said solemnly. She crouched down in front of Margaux, who was already tugging off her shoes and reaching for the glitter glue. “You good, Framboisine?” Margaux nodded seriously. “Tell Lando I said hi.” “You’ll see him next week.” “I know. Just in case he forgets.” She hugged her tight, then stood and immediately double-checked her overnight bag. Jacky placed a hand on her arm. “Go.” “But-” “Go,” Jacky said again. “Bring me back a photo of that boy in bad lighting. With a tan line.”

She laughed, against her better judgment. Hugged Jacky too. Then walked out the door. Her chest was tight. Her legs moved anyway. She was going. Singapore was calling. And Lando was already waiting.

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The city hit her like a wave, hot, dense, humming with electricity. Singapore was nothing like the village. There were no gravel paths or hanging flower baskets. There were glass towers, neon lights, and heat that clung to your spine. It smelled like sugar and spice and melted rubber. The hotel was too clean. The bed too square. She stared at the bathroom sink for five minutes, trying to figure out how it worked. By the time Lando knocked on her door Wednesday night, she’d changed outfits three times, cursed the humidity twice, and had no idea if her hair was supposed to look this big.

He wore a simple shirt. Linen. Open at the collar. No fanfare. “Wow,” he said, eyes flicking over her. “You look-” “Sticky,” she cut in. He grinned. “Yeah. That.” The restaurant was on a rooftop, quiet and tucked away, not a flashbulb in sight. There was a candle on the table and too many forks. Lando made a face at the menu, then ordered two things at random and shrugged. “You’re not nervous?” she asked. He sipped his drink. “I’ve survived Monaco dinner service with three Michelin chefs and a vegan on fire. This is nothing.” She stared at him. “That feels like it needs more context.”

He just smiled. They talked about nothing, mostly Margaux’s glitter obsession, Jacky’s tarte rulebook, whether or not frogs had knees. But somewhere beneath the joking, there was a softness. An unspoken we’re doing this. When they returned to the hotel, she stood outside her door for a second too long. Lando leaned on the wall beside her.

“You know you don’t have to impress anyone tomorrow,” he said. “I’m not trying to.” “You are.” She didn’t deny it. “I already like you,” he added. “You’re very confident.” “I like you nervous too.” She rolled her eyes. “Go to bed.” “Yes, Framboisette.” He winked and disappeared down the hall.

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Thursday morning came loud. Her hotel room buzzed with nerves as she pulled on a sundress, twisted her hair up, and hesitated twice before putting on her sunglasses. Too much? Not enough? The paddock was chaos. People. Cameras. Equipment being wheeled past her with military precision. Heat shimmering off the asphalt. Lando met her at the entrance. He was in his team gear now, walking fast, phone in hand, smiling like he wasn’t about to be dissected by every journalist on site.

“You alright?” he asked. “I’m good.” “Liar, but you look gorgeous.” He reached out, briefly, gently, and took her hand. Just for a second. But it was enough.

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Media Day was a masterclass in misdirection. Lando walked in with a grin, answered questions about tire degradation and race strategy like a seasoned diplomat, and completely deflected any attempts to dig into his personal life.

When a Sky Sports reporter asked, “Are there any special guests with you this weekend?” he shrugged and said, “Just my trainer and a very dramatic jetlag.” She was watching from the hospitality area, arms folded, sunglasses on indoors. The smirk on her lips was subtle but deeply satisfied. “Dramatic jetlag,” she muttered under her breath. “You should hear yourself at 3 a.m.”

She hadn’t expected to be handed a lanyard that said GUEST: FULL ACCESS, but Lando had slipped it into her hand that morning with a wink.

“VIP treatment,” he’d said. “Even comes with unlimited fizzy water and watching grown men scream into headsets.”

FP1 was hot. The air shimmered. The walls felt closer than usual. She watched from the McLaren pit wall, tucked beside an engineer who handed her a headset that wasn’t even connected. Lando went second quickest. Charles Leclerc topped the timesheets.

Not bad. Not perfect. Her fingers tapped nervously on her knee the whole time. FP2 was chaos. She flinched when Lando’s rear end kicked out of Turn 8, brushing the wall. He caught it, just. Slid, corrected, kept going. By the time the session ended, he was top of the board. She didn’t speak for a while.

“Is he always like this?” she asked the engineer beside her. “Only when he’s having fun.” She rolled her eyes. “He has a very strange definition of fun.” Saturday morning, FP3. She was in the back of the garage now, sunglasses perched in her hair, holding a cup of too-hot coffee she wasn’t drinking.

Lando was flying. No brushes. No drama. Just clean, confident speed. When the session ended, he was top again. She didn’t cheer. But her hand found her chest and stayed there, steadying the thing inside it. He came back to the garage, helmet off, sweat-slick curls everywhere. He looked for her first. Always.

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She stood just outside the McLaren garage, watching mechanics dismantle a floor like it had personally offended them, when someone stopped beside her. Quiet. Tall. Polite smile.

“Hi,” the guy said, accent sharp but soft. “Oscar.” She blinked. “Oh. You’re the-” “Yeah. That one.” She laughed. “You’re so calm. Is that an Australian thing or just you?” Oscar tilted his head. “Might just be the trauma.” Before she could respond, Lando jogged over, still in race boots, holding a banana and looking mildly sweaty.

“Oh no,” Oscar said. “He’s in snack mode. Run.” “You’re just jealous,” Lando replied, half-breathless. “My potassium levels are elite.” “He talks a lot,” Oscar said to her, deadpan. She smiled. “Tell me about it.” Lando looked between them, eyes narrowing. “This feels like an ambush.” Oscar nodded. “Correct.” Then, from behind them: “Are you plotting, or just bullying Lando?” Max Verstappen appeared like a heatwave, cocky grin, hands in his pockets, very much wearing his media-mandated shirt correctly. “I think it’s both,” she said. Max grinned. “Smart girl.” Lando groaned. “Why do all my rivals flirt with my-?” She raised an eyebrow. “With my guest?” Max winked, purely to annoy Lando. “If you’re not claiming the noun, I might.” She chuckled. “Bas back home will be thrilled you’re making moves. He was rooting for you at Zandvoort.” Max lit up. “Bas? I like him already.” Oscar deadpanned, “Does Bas want a grid penalty?” Max snorted. And just like that, they stood there, her, Lando, Oscar, Max, joking like it was normal. Like this glittering world had always been part of hers.

Until a camera clicked. Then another. Someone behind the barrier angled their lens, zoomed in. She stepped back, just slightly. Lando caught it. Didn’t make a show. Just leaned in and murmured, “They’d panic if you so much as sneeze beside a Red Bull.” “Do I look sneezy?” “You look like a problem.” “Thanks.” “I like problems.” She gave him a look. “Don’t make me shove you into the pit lane.” “I dare you. They’d definitely take your photo then.”

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Qualifying didn’t start well. Lando looked frustrated in the garage. Her own nerves buzzed like static. Q1 was tight. Q2, worse. And in Q3, the first two laps were scruffy, hesitant, like the car was dancing one beat off rhythm.

Oscar was purple in sector one. Max was fast everywhere. She stood off to the side, chewing a straw from her drink cup like it was personal. Then, on his final flying lap, something shifted.

He crossed the line and lit up the timing screen, P1. Ahead of Max by a tenth. The radio crackled in his helmet: “You’ve done it, mate.” He whooped. Loud and happy. The car rolled back into parc fermé. She didn’t run to him. But when he walked past the barrier, still in his helmet, he slowed. Leaned in. Kissed the side of her head. No words. Just that.

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Race day. The city steamed in the heat. Tyres squealed. Hearts inched up throats. She watched every lap like a prayer she hadn’t written but desperately hoped would land. He had a near miss on lap 16, brushing the barrier so close it left her breathless. Lap 28, he dove into the pit lane late, almost too late. Still, he held it. Every restart. Every threat. He didn’t just win, he owned it. Over twenty seconds clear at the chequered flag. Max second. Oscar third.

In parc fermé, Max pulled off his gloves and grinned. “I thought you were going to lap me, mate.” Lando shrugged. “That was the plan.” Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t even look like you were sweating.” Lando winked. “Secret weapon.”

Later, on the podium, champagne flew. Lando didn’t even flinch when Max sprayed his face with it. She watched from the garage. Smiling. Not wildly. Not like the others. Just steady. Whole.

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In the post-race interview, a reporter asked: “You’ve been on incredible form lately. Three poles. Two wins. What’s changed?” Lando scratched the back of his neck and smiled. “Well,” he said, “my team’s amazing. Car’s feeling good. I’ve started eating better. Superfoods and all that.” “Oh?” the reporter laughed. “Kale? Spinach?” “Nah,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Two raspberries a day. That’s all I need to win.”

She choked on her drink. Framboisine. Framboisette. She didn’t need him to say it. He already had.

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They celebrated with the team. Champagne. Dancing. Someone played an ABBA remix too loud. By the time they reached the hotel, it was well past midnight. They were both too drunk to think, too happy to care.

They didn’t make it past the edge of the bed. They just kissed. And laughed. And kissed again. And when sleep finally pulled them under, it did so with their fingers still laced together.

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It was one of those dusky afternoons where the air inside the inn smelled like warm wood and simmering garlic. Outside, Margaux was chasing a cat that definitely didn’t want to be caught. Inside, Lando was leaning against the counter like he belonged there, which was dangerous. Because he didn’t. Not really.

“You’re doing the face,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “What face?” “The one you do when you’re about to ask me for something.” “I don’t have a face.” “You absolutely have a face.” He paused. “I might have a face.” She arched an eyebrow. “Out with it.” Lando crossed his arms. “Abu Dhabi.” “No.” “You didn’t let me finish.” “I don’t need to.” He tried to look casual. “It’s the last race of the year. Big one. Kind of a thing.” She started stacking clean plates. “Congratulations.” “You should come.” She laughed, short and flat. “You’re adorable.” “I’m serious.” “That’s the problem.” Lando pushed off the counter, moving closer. “Look, it’s not Monaco. It’s not yacht parties. No flashbulbs in your face. It’s all inside the paddock. It’s got childcare. Snacks. Shade.” “Not convincing.” He leaned in. “Max is bringing Penelope.” She froze. “The five-year-old?" "The one who called Helmut Marko a dusty broom with a driving licence? Yeah.” Her lips twitched. “That was iconic.” “She and Margaux would get on.” “That’s not the point.” “Also, Hulkenberg’s kids will be there. They’ve got a whole crafts setup. Oscar’s planning to bring colouring books to the driver briefing.” She rolled her eyes. “Lando-” “You’d have your own suite. Full privacy. I’ll sneak you in the side gate if I have to.” “You make it sound romantic.” “It is romantic.” “Jetlag and tantrums are romantic?” “They are when you’re around,” he said, grinning now. She laughed despite herself. “You are unbelievable.” “And yet, here I am. Still asking.” She turned back to the sink. “I have a business to run. A child to wrangle. A life that doesn’t pack into a carry-on.” Lando moved behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, let his chin rest on her shoulder. “I know all that,” he said quietly. “And I love all that. But maybe just this once, let the village take care of it. Let someone else carry the list.”

She sighed. Margaux stormed in with two mismatched shoes, a backpack, and a fistful of toast. “Do planes have Netflix?” she demanded. Lando didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you promise not to chase Oscar.” Margaux blinked. “No deal.” He turned to her mother. “You’re outvoted.”

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Two days later, she handed over the keys to the inn. Willem took them like a holy relic. “I expect a full report on Abu Dhabi snack options.” “I’m more concerned about the bar tabs,” she said. Bas smirked. “Don’t worry. Willem’s cutting himself off after his third glass.” “Of the week,” Willem added helpfully.

She hugged them both, tightly. Bas more than necessary. Willem like a daughter. Then she turned to Margaux, who had packed her sunglasses, and an entire tea set.

“You ready?” Margaux gave her a look. “I was born ready.” Lando, leaning in the doorway, smiled like he was already halfway on the plane. “Let’s go,” he said.

And just like that, they did.

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The paddock was too clean. That was her first thought as they stepped in Thursday morning, everything shined. Floors polished to mirror brightness. Every logo crisp. Every team member walking like they knew they were being watched. Margaux, on the other hand, looked like a walking sticker book, hair in plaits, orange cap too big for her head, and a McLaren lanyard around her neck like it was a royal sash. By the time they’d made it ten metres, Penelope had already found them.

“You’re the toast girl,” she announced, eyes wide. Margaux blinked. “Yes?” “Come on, we’re making slime behind the Red Bull motorhome.” Margaux turned to her mother. “I have to go now.” “You haven’t even-” “Slime.” And that was that.

She spent the next two hours walking laps of the paddock with an iced coffee that kept melting, trying to keep her daughter in sight while dodging TV crews, photographers, and someone who definitely just mistook her for an Alpine strategist. When she finally found Margaux again, she was sitting cross-legged beside Oscar Piastri, explaining the plot of Frozen 2 in worrying detail. Oscar looked up with the expression of a man facing his greatest challenge yet.

“She’s very thorough,” he said. “She’s auditioning you for the role of Uncle,” she replied, sipping her coffee. “I gathered.” Margaux looked between them, then back at Oscar. “You’re in.” Oscar blinked. “Was there a vote?” “No.”

He accepted it with a quiet sigh, pulling out a snack pouch from his pocket and handing it to her like it was part of the job description. During FP1, Oscar wasn’t driving, rookie Hirakawa had taken the seat. Oscar sat beside them in the hospitality suite, watching telemetry like it owed him money. Margaux curled into his side, legs swinging. Lando finished second, just behind Charles Leclerc.

“Not bad,” she said quietly. Oscar didn’t look up. “He’ll pretend it doesn’t bother him. It absolutely does.” She smiled. “You’re funnier than I expected.” “I save it for special occasions. Like being hijacked by small humans.”

FP2, both cars were back out. She watched Lando top the table. FP3, Oscar returned the favour, first place. Lando a breath behind. They didn’t speak much about it. But she noticed the way Lando grinned when he saw Oscar’s time. Not threatened. Just thrilled for his team. It was strange, this world. Loud. Sharp-edged. Hyper-controlled. But it was also soft in places. And her daughter had never looked more at home.

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Saturday. Qualifying. She stood behind the screens, nerves balled so tight in her chest they might’ve had their own pulse. Lando went fastest in Q3. Oscar followed. A McLaren front-row lockout. The garage went wild. Mechanics whooped. Someone behind her cried.

Lando pulled into parc fermé like it was instinct. And when he climbed out, helmet still on, he scanned the crowd, found her, and didn’t even hesitate. Just reached for her, curled a hand around the back of her neck, and kissed the side of her head like it was something he did every day. She didn’t breathe for five full seconds.

Sunday. Race day. The air hummed with heat and nerves.

Lap 1 was chaos. Max lunged into Turn 1 and clipped Oscar’s front wing. It wasn’t malicious. But it was reckless. Oscar’s voice crackled over the radio, dry as bone, “Move of a world champion, that one.” She nearly choked on her water. Oscar dropped to P20. But he clawed his way back, smooth, strategic, inching past car after car until he crossed the line in tenth. Max found him post-race, helmet off, head down. They spoke quietly. Then fist bumped.

Done. Squashed. No drama. Meanwhile, Lando was flying. Not just leading. Commanding. Lap after lap. Gap growing. When he crossed the line, twenty seconds ahead, McLaren exploded.

Screams. Airhorns. People jumping into each other’s arms. The drivers’ championship was theirs. Not just the race. Everything.

Oscar had joined them for the team photo. Champagne sprayed like firecrackers. And when they cut to Lando’s interview, he was already grinning, hair soaked, champagne in his ear.

“You looked completely at ease out there today,” the interviewer said. “Was it the car? The strategy? Or something else?” Lando wiped his face with his sleeve, still breathless. “Honestly? I just felt settled. Like I knew where I was going.” “That a new mindset?” He glanced off-camera, just for a second. His grin softened. “Not new. Just real. Finally.” She stilled. The crowd was still cheering, the lights flashing, people shouting his name. But she just stood there.

Hands loose at her sides, pulse racing.

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That night, the paddock was a rave. Lights. Music. Champagne on tap. Penelope had invited Margaux for a sleepover, complete with four types of popcorn and a movie tent. She hesitated. But Jacky’s voice echoed in her head: Let her go. Let her live a little.

So, she did. And with her daughter safe, she let herself breathe.

She and Lando partied with the grid. With mechanics. With rivals. Everyone.

Drunk. Joyful. Messy. He kissed her like the world had ended and this was the afterlife. And at some point, voice low in her ear, he said, “Next time the grid needs a break we’ll all come to your village. Hide out. Drink wine. Let Willem lecture everyone about cheese.” She laughed into his neck. “Pretty sure Max would end up running the bar.” He smiled against her skin. “Then It's definitely happening.” She kissed him again, grinning now, her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt. For a moment, just one beat, they weren’t at the centre of the racing world. They were already there. Back home.

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The inn had never looked so alive. It shimmered with frost on the windows and firelight from inside, garlands strung across the beams, tables covered in wine, bread, laughter. Every time the front door opened, someone new stepped through, and every time, the whole room seemed to shift to make space. It was winter break. But it felt more like Christmas and midsummer had collided and decided to throw a party.

At the centre of it all was Lando. He stood behind the bar, because of course he did, pouring glasses of cider like he hadn’t just won the constructors world championship three weeks ago. He was laughing with Charles and George, dodging Yuki’s elbow as he tried to balance three tiny plates of food and a dangerously overloaded fondue stick. Franco was already on his second round of wine; cheeks pink and animated. Ollie Bearman had brought a snowball inside, claiming it was a "guest of honour." Esteban and Pierre were locked in a debate about who looked better in flannel. Neither did, and she told them so. Margaux darted between people like a spark in human form, wearing a paper crown and dragging Penelope along by the hand. They’d already covered one wall in sticky stars and half-finished lanterns. Max, watching them from a corner near the fire, had the softest look she’d ever seen on his face. Even Daniel Ricciardo had arrived, too loud, too charming, already asking for shots and hugging people like he owned the place.

“I brought tequila,” he declared. “And several questionable life choices.” Jacky, from behind the buffet, shouted, “Leave the choices at the door. The tequila can stay.” The room roared. It should’ve felt surreal, these men, these names, these lives, folded into her tiny village like it was just another pit stop. But somehow, it didn’t.

It felt right. Because Lando didn’t stand out like a visitor. He moved through the space like he’d grown up here. He held her hand when no one was watching. Shared a joke with Willem. Whispered something to Bas that made him shake his head and smile. It had only been four months since they’d officially started this. Since he’d kissed her in the quiet of her room, in the space where grief had once lived. But he fit. So completely, so easily, it made her wonder how they’d ever not been this.

And the inn, her inn, glowed from the inside out. Like it knew.

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It didn’t take long for the drivers to start collecting villagers like souvenirs. Willem had claimed Carlos Sainz within ten minutes, dragging him into a debate about whether real wine should ever be served chilled. Carlos looked both alarmed and enchanted. Kimi Antonelli, quieter than most, had somehow ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor with Jacky’s cat in his lap and three of the village kids building a tower of marshmallows on his shoulders. Lewis Hamilton helped Henri carry firewood out back, both deep in conversation about meditation and French bread. When they returned, Lewis had his sleeves rolled and flour on his hands. Henri looked like he’d just discovered religion.

Pierre Gasly flirted shamelessly with Chloé until Romain tossed a tinsel scarf around his neck and said, “She’s taken, you Christmas elf.” Pierre bowed dramatically and offered to help serve drinks instead. Chloé and Romain started making TikTok’s, singing wildly off-key. Lando wandered past in the background mid-laugh, arm slung lazily around her shoulders, and almost didn’t even notice the camera. She did. For a moment, she almost told Chloé to cut it. But then she didn’t. Let it post. Let it live. It wasn’t hiding anymore; it was just life.

Oscar, with Margaux attached to one hand and a mug of cider in the other, was cornered by Madame Lefevre, the elderly postwomen, who declared she’d once been proposed to by a Belgian race car driver in 1962. “Told him no, of course,” she said. “He was allergic to cheese.” Charles ended up playing piano, poorly, while Alex Albon and Yuki sang along with alarming confidence. Even Max joined in for one off-key chorus, Penelope on his shoulders and shaking a tambourine like her life depended on it. Esteban discovered the village had a homemade chili sauce competition and immediately entered. George Russel was last seen walking into the garden with a tray of drinks and three grandmothers hanging off his arm. Similarly, Daniel had made it his mission to charm every single person over the age of seventy. Within half an hour, he was seated at the centre of the dominoes table with four elderly women, each of whom referred to him exclusively as mon petit soleil. One had braided a sprig of rosemary into his hair. Another was feeding him slices of quince from a napkin. He didn’t question any of it.

“This is the most powerful coven I’ve ever joined,” he told Lando, very seriously. “If I disappear tonight, it’s because I’ve been adopted.” “Fair,” Lando said. “You always said you wanted a French retirement.” Daniel gestured dramatically with his wine. “I shall open a vineyard. Play boules. Write a memoir.” “You can’t speak French.” “I don’t need to. They feel me.” From across the room, his new fan club raised their glasses in unison. He winked.

It wasn’t just chaos. It was community. And she watched it all from behind the bar, heart full to the point of ache, knowing this wasn’t just a party.

It was a moment. And it was hers.

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The kitchen was somehow even warmer than the main room, steam rising from pots, wine bottles cluttering the counters, and flour on every surface like it had snowed joy. Jacky stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled vaguely of cloves and rebellion. She slipped in quietly, half-hoping for a quiet breather, half-hoping Jacky would read her mind and pour her something strong. Without turning, Jacky said, “He fits.” She smiled. “I didn’t say anything.” “Didn’t have to.” Jacky tapped her temple. “I’ve got a radar.” She stepped beside her, leaned against the old wooden counter. “You were right.” Jacky made a satisfied noise. “Say it again. Louder.” “You were right,” she groaned. “There it is.”

They laughed. And then, Jacky reached over and pulled her into a one-armed hug, apron and all. Flour transferred onto her jumper. She didn’t care.

“I’m glad you let yourself have this,” Jacky murmured. “You’ve been giving to everyone else for so long, it’s about damn time someone gave something back.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You don’t owe me anything.” “Still.” Jacky nodded once. “Alright then. But next time, bring more chocolate to the village party.”

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Later, outside, she stood by the garden gate, the cold air a welcome contrast to the heat inside. Lanterns bobbed overhead. Margaux was on tiptoes, arms outstretched, helping Lando tie one above the archway. He held her steady, laughing quietly, eyes only on her. Beside her, Bas sipped from a mug, quiet as ever. “You look like you’ve got something to say,” she murmured. “I usually do,” he replied. She turned to him. He didn’t look away from the scene in front of them. “He’s good. Especially with Framboisine.” She nodded. “You did good. He’s good. I’m happy for you.” He paused, then added, softer, “I held on for a long time, thinking maybe you’d come back to what we were. But it wasn’t real. Just two people keeping warm in the dark. He’s your light now.”

Something shifted in her chest.

Bas glanced sideways at her, smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m happy for you. I mean it.” She bumped his arm gently. “I know.” They stood there in silence a moment longer, lanterns glowing gold above them. Then Bas added, “Still think he over-salted the potatoes at dinner, though.” “Get out.”

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Near the fire pit, Chloé and Romain swayed lazily to music only they seemed to hear. Fairy lights tangled around their shoulders, wine in one hand, each other in the other. Romain dipped her too far. Chloé screamed with laughter. Someone clapped. Someone else tried to join and tripped over a log. It was messy. Loud. Full of love. She watched them with a full heart. Willem found her just before midnight, when the music softened and the stars took over the ceiling. He pressed a kiss to her temple, the scent of wine and firewood lingering on his jumper.

“You did it,” he said. She smiled, eyes glassy. “I knew you’d make it work. I’m proud of you, girl.”

She leaned into him. Just for a second. That was all she needed.

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The party trickled out like candlelight, flickering down to embers, one laugh at a time. Empty glasses lined the tables. Someone had fallen asleep under a pile of scarves. The fire pit had shrunk to a soft orange glow, snapping every so often like it still had something to say. Margaux had made her rounds like royalty, hugged Oscar tight, fist-bumped Max, told Daniel she was “still thinking about the rosemary ladies.” She yawned through it all but refused to be carried. When she was finally tucked into bed, crown slightly crooked, cheeks flushed, she wriggled under the blanket and declared, “Next time we do this, I’m driving. Lando can sit in the back.”

She snorted. “Sure. I’ll let him know.” Margaux was already half-asleep. “Tell him I want music.”

She and Lando sat on the old stone bench just outside the inn, coats over their shoulders, legs pressed together. The cold was settling in, biting gently at their cheeks, but neither of them moved. Behind them, the inn still glowed, gold light in every window, laughter echoing faintly from the kitchen. The stars had come out sharp, white, endless. Lando shifted slightly, reaching across the space between them. His fingers found hers. Threaded. Held.

“I love you, you know.” No hesitation. No big lead-in. Just that.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just leaned into him, rested her head against his shoulder. “I know,” she said. Then, softer, “I love you too.”

He let out a breath. Not relief. Not surprise. Just something he’d been holding since the moment she let him in. They kissed, slow and certain. When they pulled apart, their hands stayed joined. Behind them, the inn glowed quietly. Alive with music, memory, and everything they’d built together. Home.

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shortandsosweet · 3 days ago

Text

YOU AND ME FOREVERMORE

Summary: New Years means new beginnings, so does that include you and the older brother of your best friend you've been pining after forever?

Pairings: Jack Hughes x Brother's Best Friend!Reader + Luke Hughes x Best Friend!Reader (Platonic)

TW: Age Gap (Reader is implied to be Luke's age so roughly a 2 year age gap), mentions of sex, light cursing, underage drinking, probably more but let me know what I missed.

A/N: Soooooooooo.... I know I haven't released anything I should have but I'm blessing you with something I do have which I really hope you like instead of being sad about no Back To The 80s or Weird Science (I still have no clue how chapter one managed to get posted but fuck me whatever I guess!!!!) I also know I said this was gonna be posted 15 minutes after but I just finished editing this on my lunch break. Anyways, I hope you love it. Love, Amelié

THERE'S GLITTER ON THE FLOOR AFTER THE PARTY, GIRLS CARRYING THEIR SHOES DOWN IN THE LOBBY,

POLAROIDS AND CANDLE WAX ON THE HARDWOOD FLOOR, YOU AND ME FROM THE NIGHT BEFORE,

NEW YEARS DAY 2025 - PRESENT DAY

You're sweeping glitter, picking up pictures, cups and champagne flutes from the party the night before. Jack is off picking up pictures on the opposite side of the apartment. He picks up one taken of you by Luke. When you're not looking he slides it away in his pocket.

"You don't have to clean up. I got it." He says picking the last of the polaroids off the floor and heads over to you. "I know. I wanted to. Besides, there's a mess and Lukey's off with a girl and not here to help. That's not fair to leave it all on you." I say not looking up from my picking at the wax on the floor. One bigger piece giving me an issue. He bends down and our hands brush and our gazes meet and we giggle at the other.

And all I could think about is how I could do this for the rest of my life if the world would let me.

I STAY WHEN YOU'RE LOST

MAY 7TH 2024

"I don't get it Y/N/N. I can pick a girl up easy enough but keeping her is another story. Not just any girl, a good one. One Mom and Dad would treat like their daughter, someone Lukey would love and Quinn would crack a smile at." Jack says, head in your lap as you rake your fingers through his curls. You give the thought time to breathe. You fit the whole bill. Why couldn't he see?

One breath, two, three, four, then five.

"I guess she's just....not the one." You brush the hair from his eyes, "You'll know when you find her, J. You won't have to think about it because it'll be so obvious that anyone else would seem incomparable."

Breaths pass between you two in perfect synchronicity, and Jack will never admit it, but that's when he knew how bad he had fallen.

AND I'M SCARED

APRIL 14TH 2022

"JACK PLEASE COME OVER RIGHT NOW!" You screech over the phone as you sit on your dorm counter holding a frying pan as a weapon. In no less than ten minutes, Jack arrives and hurriedly opens the door. "What's wrong?" he asks as you point and screech at the massive spider crawling around your kitchenette.

"KILL IT JACK!!!!" You yell, crying and clutching the frying pan. Jack calmly walks over, puts the poor spider out of its misery, takes the frying pan out of your hands, picks you up and sets you down on your bed and pulls out your laptop. "What movie are we watching?" He turns and smiles. You instinctively lay your head on his shoulder.

Does he know you'd wrangle the moon and stars for him? Does he know how badly you wish this moment would last your entire lifetime?

AND YOU'RE TURNING AWAY

OCTOBER 15TH 2017

You were fifteen. Hormones were high and boys were no longer just friend or foe. Boys became bro or boyfriend and you wanted so badly to have Jack Hughes be more than another bro.

Sure, he was two years your senior and your best friend's older brother. As you went through puberty, Jack got distant. Focused more on school and hockey. You, his baby brother's friend, were put on the back burner. Even Luke got funky, though it probably had something to do with a crush of his own on a girl in your grade.

Luke was out at practice a little later than usual, so you strolled over expecting to hang out with Luke but decided to hang out with Jack while you waited. "Hey, Jackie. Whatcha up to?" Jack was on his phone aimlessly scrolling, clearly up to nothing.

"What are you doing here?" he says semi-coldly. I flinch slightly but answer. "Lukey was supposed to be home to hang out but I guess practice ran late." he nods in response, walking over to where you were standing outside his door and closing it in your face. You, on the brink of tears, were found by Quinn, who hung out with you until Luke got home.

You never wanted to love a boy ever again.

I WANT YOUR MIDNIGHTS

NEW YEAR'S EVE 2022

You moved to New Jersey when you got accepted to Rutgers, it wasn't a conscious decision to be closer to Jack. It just happened and when you moved in with him after his insistence and his three bedroom apartment being too empty for himself, a year after you had your fill of the college dorm experience.

You moved in and for the past year in Jersey, you watched Jack not be your new years kiss. You told yourself, new year, new chances. The whole night you threw glances at him and he threw some back. You two were 100% eye fucking the other and neither of you cared. You drank like you were Irish and at midnight, you found your way to Jack.

Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.

You chanted with everyone around you as the ball slowly dropped.

Five.

You turned to Jack,

Four.

You took his face in your hands,

Three.

You steadied your breath,

Two.

"I'm sorry,"

One.

You kiss Jack and don't hold back, fingers tangle, tongues make an entrance into the other's mouth. What should have been an elongated peck has turned into a fireworks show in the middle of the room. Far too soon for you, but far past the midnight kiss grace period, you break away. For the rest of the night, neither of you glance the other's way.

BUT I'LL BE CLEANING UP BOTTLES WITH YOU ON NEW YEARS DAY

NEW YEARS DAY 2025 - PRESENT DAY

You and Jack got the wax off and decided to tackle the large amount of beer bottles scattered across the apartment. After getting your little portion you head to help Jack with his massive pile. You drop a bottle, "Oops, I got it." and in a lame attempt to pick up the pieces, you cut your hand. "Ah!"

Drip. Drip.

Jack hurries over, "Where? Show me." You open your palm,

Drip. Drip.

Jack lifts you and carries you to the bathroom and sets you down on the counter. "Y/N/N, you need to be careful." He says sharply but still gentle, you nod in acknowledgement. He pulls out peroxide, "I have to clean it." he holds your hand steady over the sink and once it hits your wound, you start to cry. Jack puts gauze over your wound. Jack wipes your tears away and you place a kiss on his cheek. Your favorite way to say thank you that you've used forever.

"Not on the lips?"

I'LL BE THERE IF YOU'RE THE TOAST OF THE TOWN, BABE

JUNE 21ST, 2019

Jack's draft day. He was nervous but he knew he'd get picked. What really made him sweat was the girl who sat next to him. He'd seen you in a dress for homecoming and winter formal, but this one was short and you no longer were Luke's brace face barely hit puberty friend. You got hot and everyone could tell. Quinn and Jack's heads rolled any time you walked in. You were put between Luke and Jack at the draft. Jack started bouncing his knee furiously. You merely put my hand on his knee.

"Jack, any one of these teams would be blessed to have you on their roster. You'll get picked. It wouldn't even surprise me if you were the first to go." You whispered just loud enough for him to hear. He moves to hold your hand instead of having it on his knee. And you were right. Jack went first overall to the Devils. He turned and squeezed you. You kissed his cheek. "Go get 'em champ!"

Despite being friends with more hockey players than you can count, you knew little to nothing about it. Jack hugged Quinn, then Luke, and his parents last, before heading up to the stage. There was a sea of potential prospects and family but his eyes were on you. A mouthed "Thank you," was all he said but you couldn't do anything but smile.

Maybe you could love a boy again... or maybe you never stopped loving him.

OR IF YOU STRIKE OUT AND YOU'RE CRAWLING HOME

SEPTEMBER 30TH 2022

The Devils had just lost miserably in a score Jack would rather not think about or repeat.

This being the last year you and Jack had the apartment to yourselves before Luke joined you two in Jersey. You sat on the couch with a wine glass. Jack came in and looked defeated, slumping on the couch, his head in your lap.

He did a double take at it. "Is that-" he said before quickly cutting it off. "I had a bad date and yes, I'm under age by like less than a year but it's not my fault the liquor stores in Jersey like my fake ID." You say sipping your wine again. Jack promptly takes it from your hands and finishes it off. "Remind me to find that and take it from you." You don't mention you saw the game. It'd only serve to make him feel worse. He walks over to the mini table by the front door, decides goes through your purse and finds the fake ID before snapping it in half, then tosses it in the garbage.

"Hey! I paid good money for that wine and that ID!" Jack scoffs and shoves 300 bucks in your wallet.

"That should about cover it." As you attempt to steal back your wine, Jack decides that he would much prefer to lay his head on your lap and pass out instead of wallowing in self pity and anger. Instinctively, you run your fingers through the strands. Jack groans in response, burrowing his face into your stomach. "Feels good. Soooo fucking good." To which, you grin eagerly in response, somewhat relieved he can't see your face. You'd think that with the way you're acting, you just got told you won the lottery and not the Shirley Jackson kind.

About an hour or so later, you and Jack had finished the bottle of wine. "Y/N, you're so pretty. Like that you don't even need to think about it kind of pretty."

That night gave you new found hope for what could be right in front of your eyes and not your dreams.

HOLD ON TO THE MEMORIES THEY WILL HOLD ON TO YOU

NEW YEARS DAY 2025 - PRESENT DAY

The apartment is quiet after the question,

"Not on the lips?"

Did he feel it too? The pull? Your feelings? Did he have some of his own? Or was it to pity you? Either way, you took too long to speak. Like always. You silently walked to your room laid down and let quiet tears spill. You hold on to the thought of how even though you'd screwed it up, you'd hold on to your New Years kiss, it was a moment, a memory, you'd cherish forever. And now that's all it'll ever be.

'Be Bold Y/N, silence never got you anywhere.' you thought, far too intently and it wasn't till an hour later that Jack came into your room.

"Do you always overthink about what you want?" he asked. Shocking you to your core, making you fumble for words. "What do you mean?" You say nervously fidgeting, replaying his earlier words over.

"Not on the lips?"

No matter how you say it or emphasize it he's flirting. Right? Do you even want that? Of course you do, you've only dreamed about it forever. But like this? Here and now? The truth is you don't know what to do. You've only ever wanted, a never been wanted.

"I meant what I said earlier and I meant it now. Do you always overthink what you want?" I freeze. "I guess that's my answer." he responds.

I sit in a self deprecating and confused loop stuck in my head. What ifs and he wouldn'ts spiral. Jack's voice snaps you out of your spiral as he turns back from presumably his exit.

"Y/N, I think about that night all the time."

PLEASE DON'T EVER BECOME A STRANGER WHO'S LAUGH I COULD RECOGNIZE ANYWHERE

SEPTEMBER 19TH 2023

For the first time ever, you and Jack weren't the only ones living in the apartment. Nights where your head used to lay on his shoulder and watch movies were filled with Luke quite literally between you two. Never a moment alone. Cooking, carpool, movie nights, dinner, you name it he was probably there.

You two weren't a couple but it felt like you both craved alone time with the other. The first person either of you to nominate to leave the apartment for a grocery store run or to get the take out.

One night, you were fed up. So fed up with your best friend you were determined to say or do anything for him to leave the apartment for even an hour or two.

"Luke, you should go out tonight."

"Luke, don't you always say you don't know anyone in Jersey? You're never gonna meet anyone stuck in the apartment."

"Have you seen the shore this late at night? It's beautiful. You should go see it."

"Luke, I hear the deli 7 blocks away has fantastic sandwiches. You should go see if they're still open."

"What about that girl from Hinge? What is she doing tonight? You should go see her."

He brushed off every attempt for you to try and get him to leave.

"Luke! Okay, I tried being subtle and you know I love you to bits and pieces, but you are always here! Sometimes it's a little suffocating with you around all the time." It silently clicks in Luke's head and he leaves with a wink and awkward finger guns. "Gotcha, I expect to hear about what a douche bag whatever hookup you're referring to is!" And he's gone before I can say anything.

Jack walks in and says, "Since when do you have a hookup over?" A flicker of hurt shines in his eyes before it's quickly masked. It was so quick it could've just been a figment of imagination. You weren't so sure.

"I'm not and I don't. I told Luke plain and simple he's around the apartment far too much and he took it a different way." He seems relieved but ghosts an indifferent tone over it.

"Cool."

YOU AND ME FOREVERMORE

JULY 4TH 2012

The first time you realized you loved Jack Hughes, was a way you could only ever do the first time around.

"Lulu?" You asked, your feet softly padding against the floor of your best friend's room at the lake house. You found your best friend fast asleep and if there was one thing to learn about Luke Hughes, trying to get him up was like waking the dead. No matter how scared you were of the fireworks that already started at 2 am, Luke couldn't quell your worries now. Defeated, you skipped past Quinn's room hearing him talk quietly with another female voice. You didn't need to know whoever was in there, so you scurried to Jack's room.

"Jack?" You step quietly over to the bed as another firework goes off. A quiet tear rolls down your face. You softly jostle Jack, "Jacky? Please wake up."

"Y/N?" He glances around to outside, still dark, then to his alarm clock 2:12 am. "What are you doing awake? Is something wrong?" He sits up, noticing the tears on your face and quiet sniffles. "Oh Y/N, what's the matter?"

Another firework sounds and I flinch, Jack in response immediately tugs you into the bed with him. Tears well in your eyes and he holds you close. Your head lays on his chest. "It's okay, Y/N. It can't hurt you. I've got you." He lulls you asleep and follows soon after, fireworks still booming outside.

Luke wandered around in the morning, wondering where you'd gone. Not in your room, not in his, not in Quinn's or the living room. He found you saddled up next to Jack who laid asleep next to you, his position protective. Luke kept quiet, left the room, and never said a word about it. You were half awake wondering if every boy was this caring and understanding. After that, you never were alone for fireworks anymore. Jack made sure of that.

I WILL HOLD ON TO YOU

NEW YEARS DAY 2025 - PRESENT DAY

Sheets rustle and tangle beneath, above, and between your bodies. Sweat thick in the air covering your stripped bodies. The heat between you a palpable contrast to the cool air blowing in and the sting of scratches from the other. The two of you intertwined in sheets in ways you never would've thought of when you first shared a bed so many years ago. You hear the door of the apartment open and you give a slightly panicked glance to Jack who only holds you closer. You can hear Luke set his keys down in the bowl and him kick off his shoes which will 100% be all over the walk in area. You hear his feet move against the floor, hitting the creakier floorboards.

"Hellooooooooooo? Guys, I'm home! Where are you at? I know you're at least home Jack, you don't have shi- OH MY GOD I KNEW IT WAS GONNA HAPPEN EVENTUALLY BUT OH MY GOD MY EYES!" Luke says walking out but you two couldn't help but smile.

©shortandsosweet do not redistribute, recreate, repost my content on any other platforms.

#jack hughes blurb #jack hughes fic #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes smut #jack hughes x y/n #jack hughes #jack hughes x oc #jack hughes x you

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revelboo · 2 days ago

Note

Could we get some Dad Skyfire? Cute domestic stuff- he’s such a darling

thank you for your service to the Transformers community

Sure!

Domestic

Skyfire x Reader

• Venting as she twists her face away with an unhappy warble, her tiny wings flaring, he sets the bottle aside and runs a big hand over his helm. Thought he had it right this time. Refining out impurities from the energon to try and make it easier on her internal systems, but she still won’t take it. He’s tried liquid and semi solid energon goodies both. The latter she’s only interested in smearing everywhere. Popping one into his own mouth, he can’t detect anything off about it. So why won’t she eat?

• Looking up when his shadow falls across you and smiling at the soft press of his mouth against your neck, you feel the tiny sparkling in his hands grab a fistful of the back of your shirt, chirping and bouncing. And after he pries her servos loose, you turn and even mass displaced, she’s so small in his big hands. But he’s just huge, smiling affectionately as you reach to take her, the forming nubs of her wings flicking when you brush them getting her settled against you. “Did your sire manage to get any energon in you?” You tease, shifting her weight so you can use the tail of your shirt to wipe her face as she warbles protests and leans away.

• “Very little,” he murmurs, optics pinched as his sparkling pats an energon smudged hand on your cheek to leave a blue smear. “It’s not agreeing with her,” he adds and you lean your head against her helm, eyes closing. “I’m going to try and refine what the Autobots are giving us further.” Knows it could be that she’s only picky, but he can’t help but worry as she clears her little vents with a harsh noise, big optics blinking and he reaches to wipe away the fine spatter of energon the sparkling left on your neck. He did it right. He’s sure he did, scoured the old databases to learn how to create a protoform, so why does he feel like he failed? Like he’s still failing?

• “Maybe you should take her in. You said there’s a medic at the Ark,” you say, the words tentative. Know he likes his autonomy and doesn’t want to get sucked back into picking a side. But his worry is starting to affect you. Trying to smile, but now you’re aware of every noise your daughter makes. Terrifying yourself because she’s not human and you have no idea what’s normal. Surely you’d know if something’s wrong? You can tell he’s concerned, but he won’t talk to you. Won’t say why he’s worried. “Skyfire?” And he’s cupping the back of your head in his palm, leaning his helm against you. “Talk to me?”

• Knows he’s stressing you, that you’re picking up on his worry. How to explain that he’s scared to let the Autobots know about you, about his sparkling? That he’s scared the war he didn’t want to fight will become hers? Hears her chirping softly, mouth open against your skin and his jaw clenches. Warbling hungrily as her wings flick and her face twists in distress. Needing energon and unable to keep it down. “The Ark,” he says on a growl, hoping he’s not making a mistake as your head lifts and you search his optics. “It’s just the fuel, she needs better energon. That’s all.”

• Blowing out a breath as she begins a raspy wailing, you rock her and watch him run the tip of a servo along one of her little audial fins. “Today,” you whisper and he vents to stir your hair, but he nods. ‘Now,’ he agrees and some of the worry eases. There’s nothing wrong. It’s just the fuel like he said. Brushing a kiss between her optics to make her warble and blink, you carry her outside into the sun, feeling the warmth sink into you. Watching him mass shift and transform, dropping a ramp for you both, and there’s still a moment of disconnect. Sometimes having a hard time reconciling that this is also Skyfire as you walk inside his alt mode and your daughter starts fussing again, chubby legs kicking and tiny servos clinging. Moving deeper inside him, you find a seat and a belt snakes around you as you settle her in your lap, bouncing your legs to try and distract her. And she looks up at you with wide optics while you search for yourself in her face and use your thumb to wipe away a smudge of energon from the corner of her mouth.

#transformers x reader #skyfire x reader #idw skyfire

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seokwrts · 3 days ago

Text

I LIKE ME BETTER | jjk

PART FIVE | nsfw

summary : After walking in on her boyfriend Sanho cheating, Y/N moves out and ends up living with Jungkook, a cocky yet caring acquaintance she once couldn’t stand. What begins as a tense, passive-aggressive roommates situation slowly transforms into something deeper, as both navigate heartbreak, vulnerability, and emotional healing. Through stormy nights, late-night confessions, domestic routines, and quiet tension, Y/N and Jungkook gradually uncover the warmth and safety they’ve both been missing—especially in each other.

“After all, what’s the worst that could happen just living under the same roof?”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 4.2k

The days leading up to the party were tense.

Too tense.

Y/N barely looked at Jungkook. She was either gone—leaving early for her shift and coming back late—or locked up in her room with the door shut tight, a clear boundary he wasn’t allowed to cross. When she did emerge, it was only to grab coffee or slip past him silently, her eyes never quite meeting his.

Jungkook pretended not to notice. Pretended he didn’t wait up, earbuds in but no music playing, listening for the soft creak of the front door when she got home. Pretended the sight of her in Taehyung’s hoodie one night didn’t make his jaw clench so hard it ached.

There were moments, though—sharp, electric moments—when the silence cracked. When they passed in the hallway and her bare shoulder brushed his chest. When she bent to grab something from the fridge and he caught the curve of her waist, her tank top riding just a little too high. When she emerged from the shower, hair wet and skin flushed, walking right past him like he wasn’t standing there unraveling.

It was maddening.

He tried once—to talk. To fix whatever this was before it tipped too far.

“Y/N,” he said, low, standing outside her door as she opened it, towel slung around her neck. “Can we talk?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Now’s not a good time,” she said, breezing past him without a second glance.

And just like that, the door closed again.

Now, the apartment buzzed with a strange kind of anticipation.

Like everything might combust at the slightest touch.

And maybe that’s exactly what they both wanted.

The group chat didn’t help either.

Group Chat: “the espresso sluts ☕”

(Jimin, Taehyung, Jungkook)

Tae:not to be dramatic but y/n literally remembered i take half a shot of vanilla in my iced americano ☕😩marry me rn

Jimin:you’re so easy bro 😭

Tae:say what you wantbut that’s real connection

Tae:

also her hair smells like peaches just putting that out there 🍑

Jungkook:ok

Tae:ok???

bro if someone made your coffee, remembered your order, laughed at your jokes AND smelled like fruit you’d write a whole ass album about her 💀

Jimin:he already did 🫣

Jungkook:what the fuck are you talking about

Tae: nothing bro chill 😭. just saying she’s sweet. and she actually listens?? kinda rare ngl

Tae: also she hummed while cleaning up today. cutest shit ever like little indie girl vibes 😭 i was dead

Jungkook: not that deep

Tae: you don’t get it she gave me this look when i almost knocked over the syrup bottle. like full-on death glare ,made me wanna knock them over again 🧍🏻‍♂️

Jimin: ur sick

Tae: sick in love y/n if you’re reading this, blink twice and say yes 💍

Jungkook: i’m muting this chat

Tae: why lmaooo??

u jealous or just allergic to happiness

Jungkook: tae. drop it.

Tae: damn okay 💀

someone woke up on the wrong side of the fuckin apocalypse

Jimin: 💀💀💀💀💀

Tae: anyway she said she’s helping me open tomorrow pray for me

gonna try to sneak in a playlist of just love songs and see if she notices 🤞

Jungkook: you’re pathetic

Tae: i’m romantic

there’s a difference 🕊️

Jimin: watch her play the guitar and he’ll propose on the spot 😭

Tae: wait she plays guitar????

i’m DONE

Jungkook: bye.

Jungkook has stopped responding.

Tae: …yo why is he always so grumpy these days

Jimin: idk

mercury in rage or whatever 😌

Jungkook stared at his phone screen, thumb hovering over the group chat before he locked it and tossed the device face down on the couch.

He couldn’t read another word. Not another “she’s so cute,” or “she made me coffee,” or “might marry her.” Not from Taehyung.

Especially not from Taehyung.

The worst part was—he didn’t even know.

He had no idea what happened between Jungkook and Y/N. No clue about the night they kissed. About the way things had shifted after. About how she’d started avoiding him like he was toxic.

Jungkook leaned back against the couch, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His jaw was tight, teeth grinding. That sharp, invisible thread between him and Y/N had gone slack. No more late-night conversations. No stolen glances. Just silence.

And Taehyung—Taehyung was filling the silence with that damn laugh of his and “accidental” jackets and morning shifts together.

It was driving Jungkook fucking crazy.

He didn’t even know what pissed him off more: that Taehyung kept flirting like he was in some harmless romcom, or that Y/N let him. Smiled at him. Looked at him the way she hadn’t looked at Jungkook since—

He stood abruptly, pacing now.

What the hell was he even doing?

He hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t fought for anything. He couldn’t. Because he didn’t know what they were. What they were supposed to be.

He remembered the feel of her lips, the way she’d melted into him that night. The way her breath caught when he touched her.

And now she wouldn’t even meet his fucking eyes.

Now she wore Taehyung’s jacket.

His hands clenched at his sides.

Jealousy sat heavy in his chest—ugly, hot, unspoken.

He couldn’t even blame Taehyung. Not really. Not when he was the one who let her slip behind closed doors and never knocked.

But god—he wanted to knock now.

He wanted to barge in.

He wanted to make her look at him again.

Instead, he sat back down, eyes on the ceiling, heart thudding like it had something to say.

But still—he said nothing.

Jimin 🐣

you good?

Jimin 🐣

and don’t send me some one-word bullshit

Jungkook 🖤

what do you want me to say

Jimin 🐣

maybe the truth?

like the fact you’ve been acting like a ghost since the kiss?

Jungkook 🖤

there’s nothing to say

she doesn’t want to talk

Jimin 🐣

so you’re just gonna sit there and watch tae flirt with her all day?

Jungkook 🖤

what do you want me to do?

she made it clear. she’s over it. over me

Jimin 🐣

bro she wore his jacket

not a wedding ring

Jungkook 🖤

might as well have

she doesn’t even look at me anymore

i’m not stupid

i feel it

Jimin 🐣

you don’t know what she’s feeling

you’re just assuming the worst and shutting down

Jungkook 🖤

she kissed me and then pulled away like it was a mistake

since then? nothing.

just silence. distance. and now tae

Jimin 🐣

she didn’t pull away, man

you did

emotionally

you shut down first

Jungkook 🖤

i didn’t know what the fuck to do

she’s my roommate

my friend

my… i don’t know

Jimin 🐣

your something

and that’s the part you won’t say out loud

Jungkook 🖤

it doesn’t matter

i fucked it up

Jimin 🐣

only if you keep pretending you don’t care

you think tae would even flirt if he knew?

Jungkook 🖤

don’t tell him

Jimin 🐣

i won’t

but that doesn’t mean you get to keep hiding

say something

or someone else will

Party Night

Jungkook didn’t want to go.

He told himself that three times while buttoning his black shirt in front of the mirror, jaw clenched, chest tight. But he still went.

Eunji was already waiting downstairs when he got to the car.

She looked like trouble. In the best way.

Curls wild and glossy, lips painted in some cherry-red shade that matched the peek of her lace bra beneath a sheer corset top. A short leather skirt hugged her hips, her heels clicking confidently as she approached him.

“Damn,” she said, eyes dragging down his frame. “You clean up nice.”

Jungkook gave a small smirk. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

She leaned in without hesitation, fixing the silver chain around his neck, fingers grazing the top button of his shirt. “You gonna let me undo this by the end of the night?”

He chuckled, low and noncommittal. “We’ll see.”

In the car, she talked a lot. About a new session, a playlist she wanted him to hear, how she couldn’t believe he still hadn’t posted a selfie in three weeks.

Jungkook stared out the window most of the ride, letting her talk, nodding at the right moments, texting Jimin once:

“You there?”

“Already drunk 😎”

The party was already alive when they stepped in—bass pulsing through the floorboards, colored lights painting the ceilings, bodies moving in dim-lit corners, glasses clinking. Someone had pulled the couches to the edge of the room to make space for dancing. The playlist was tasteful, curated, shifting between moody R&B and alt-pop.

People noticed them the second they walked in.

Whispers buzzed in the background:

“Yo, that’s Jungkook from Blue Noise, right?”

“Isn’t that Eunji?”

“They came together?”

“Hot couple.”

Jungkook heard it.

He didn’t correct it.

Eunji clung to his side like she belonged there, hand already sliding down the small of his back as they moved through the crowd. She greeted a few producers she knew, threw compliments like darts. Jungkook nodded vaguely, cracked smiles. He was good at playing cool. Detached. Untouchable.

Until the door opened again.

And suddenly, the temperature shifted.

Like gravity tilted.

Everyone turned.

Taehyung stepped in first, tall and magnetic in a slim brown suede jacket and black pants, rings catching the light as he casually sipped from a flask. His arm was around someone—

And then came her.

Y/N.

Every head turned.

Her black mini dress shimmered faintly in the low light, clinging to her figure like it had been poured onto her skin. Thin straps framed her collarbones, the neckline dipping just enough to make Jungkook’s pulse stutter. The hem barely reached her thighs, and when she walked, it shifted like silk, showing flashes of leg that made him forget where he was.

Her makeup was soft but sharp—winged liner, flushed cheeks, red gloss that glinted when she smiled.

Her hair was pinned up loosely, curled strands falling like temptation around her neck.

Taehyung’s hand rested comfortably on her waist.

The room reacted instantly.

“Holy shit—who is that?”

“She’s with Taehyung?”

“No way that’s just his employee.”

“They look like a magazine cover.”

“They look like… sex.”

Jungkook couldn’t look away.

Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

His fingers curled around the glass Eunji had handed him, knuckles white.

“Who’s that?” she asked, voice neutral—but he could feel her watching him instead of the girl.

He forced the words out. “My roommate.”

Eunji tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Oh?”

And then Jimin walked over, grin already trouble. He was flushed from the alcohol, pink-cheeked and grinning too wide.

He raised his glass. “Might also be the girl he made out with a few days ago,” he said casually. “Maybe the one he’s in love with.”

Eunji blinked, slow and amused. “Spicy,” she muttered, sipping from her drink. “This should be fun.”

They approached.

Taehyung was all smiles, greeting people like they were old friends. He tugged Y/N closer to whisper something in her ear—something that made her laugh, mouth tilted, hand briefly touching his chest.

Jungkook saw red.

The fake small talk started. Stiff greetings. Forced laughs. Y/N didn’t even look at him at first. She smiled at Eunji, polite. Spoke to Jimin. Nodded at someone who complimented her dress. But Jungkook?

She passed over him like he was no one.

Eunji, picking up on it all, slid her hand up his chest again. “You okay?” she murmured low, feigning concern with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Fine,” he lied.

But inside, he was already unraveling.

Taehyung’s fingers stayed glued to Y/N’s waist. Her dress clung tighter every time she moved. Her laughter danced through the room like it didn’t know it was killing him.

And worst of all—

She wasn’t even looking at him.

She hadn’t even looked.

Small talk passed in waves—tight smiles and clipped words that barely masked the undercurrents beneath.

Eunji’s hand curled around Jungkook’s bicep, her touch casual but deliberate. She leaned in close, brushing her fingers lightly over his chest. “You’ve been working too hard,” she murmured, voice low, almost purring. “You need to let loose sometime.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward Y/N, who stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching with quiet intensity. He didn’t stop Eunji. Not yet.

Y/N met Jungkook’s gaze and held it, unblinking. There was something fierce in her expression, something that dared him to say or do anything.

Taehyung, standing nearby with a drink in hand, caught Y/N’s eye. His smile was slow, confident. “Come dance with me,” he said softly.

Y/N hesitated, then smiled—a small, knowing curve of her lips. Without looking back at Jungkook, she reached for Taehyung’s wrist and pulled him toward the dance floor.

The music swelled, bass pounding heavy and relentless. The lights flickered low and warm, casting everyone in shades of gold and shadow.

They moved together—slow, deliberate, sensual. Y/N’s back pressed against Taehyung’s chest, his hands resting possessively on her hips. Their bodies swayed as if daring the whole room to watch.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.

And then, impossibly, Taehyung dipped Y/N and kissed her.

Hot. Raw. Like fire and ice all at once.

Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat.

He snapped.

Storming through the crowd, every step fueled by a rage that simmered beneath his skin for days.

He reached them and grabbed Y/N’s wrist, pulling her away from Taehyung’s hold.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he bit out, voice low and fierce.

Taehyung blinked, unfazed. “Dancing? Kissing? Breathing? Isn’t that what people do?”

“She’s not—”

“What?” Taehyung stepped closer. “Not what, Jungkook?”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

He just grabbed Y/N’s wrist and pulled her out of the party without another word.

Taehyung took a step forward when he saw Jungkook yank Y/N toward the door, his brows furrowed in concern.

“Hey—what the hell?” he started, about to follow.

But a hand landed on his arm.

“Let them go,” Jimin said firmly.

Taehyung turned, surprised. “He just dragged her out. What if she doesn’t want to—?”

“She does,” Jimin said, quieter this time. “Trust me. He’s not gonna hurt her. Not like that.”

Taehyung looked at the door, still half-open, now swinging shut with the breeze. He hesitated, then let out a breath and stayed put.

Outside, the night had teeth.

The cold sliced through the haze of beer and sweat and music. Jungkook didn’t slow down until they were a good distance from the pulsing bass of the party. The parking lot was mostly empty. A few flickering streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows.

Y/N yanked her arm free the second they stopped, heels scraping the pavement.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hissed, her voice trembling—not from fear, but white-hot fury.

Jungkook whirled around, his jaw locked. “No. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Her breath caught. “Excuse me?”

“You show up with him—wearing that—and then spend the whole night grinding on him like you’re trying to piss me off.”

She blinked. “Oh, I’m trying now?” A harsh laugh bubbled out of her. “Funny. Didn’t know I needed your permission to dance. Or wear whatever the fuck I want.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Oh, did I? What about you, huh?” she stepped closer, eyes flashing. “Letting Eunji hang off your arm like some glittery stage prop? You didn’t even flinch when she stuck her hand down your shirt. You let it happen. You wanted it to happen.”

“I didn’t stop her because I was trying to forget you!” he shouted, louder than he meant to. The words tore out of him, jagged and brutal.

Y/N flinched.

The silence stretched.

Jungkook stepped back, raking a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold himself together. “I’ve been trying to forget you for weeks,” he said, voice lower now. “Ever since you moved in and started taking over my space. Leaving your mugs everywhere. Your headphones tangled with mine. Fucking humming to my unfinished demos like they were yours.”

Her breath caught.

“And then that night. When we kissed…” He looked up at her like he was reliving it. “When you kissed me back—I couldn’t breathe, Y/N. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

Her chest rose and fell in shaky rhythm.

“And then tonight,” he said bitterly. “You show up looking like that, with him touching you like it’s nothing. Like he gets to. And I just—” His voice cracked. “It felt like watching someone else unwrap the only thing I ever wanted.”

She stood frozen, heart in her throat.

“I hate it,” Jungkook continued, stepping closer. His voice was breaking now, every word burning. “I hate the way you look at him. I hate that he makes you laugh. I hate that he gets to carry your stupid bag and put his jacket on you like you’re his.”

She swallowed hard.

“I hate all of it,” he breathed, “because I want it. I want to be the one who makes you laugh. I want to be the one holding your hand and keeping you warm and hearing your voice first thing in the morning.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“I want you, Y/N.”

The confession slammed into her chest.

Jungkook’s voice dropped even lower, soft but broken. “And I think I’ve been in love with you since you made fun of my playlist and called my studio a cave.”

A breath left her lips like she’d been punched.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added, eyes flicking away. “I just—I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Watching you with him was fucking killing me.”

Y/N stared at him—his shoulders tense, his hands curled into fists, his whole body shaking like he’d finally let go of something he never meant to say.

“I thought…” she whispered. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

Jungkook let out a bitter, empty laugh. “No. I didn’t think I deserved you.”

She took a step forward.

Then another.

When she reached him, she didn’t kiss him—not yet. She reached up and brushed his cheek with her knuckles.

“You idiot,” she whispered.

His breath caught.

“You’re mine too.”

And that was it.

That was all he needed.

He surged forward and kissed her.

It was soft at first. Barely there. Like something sacred. His lips moved over hers with aching tenderness, and her hands found their way into his hair, holding him steady like the earth had tilted.

But it didn’t stay soft for long.

Because that tension—the one they’d been sitting in for weeks—finally snapped.

And it all came rushing out.

Jungkook groaned against her mouth, grabbing her waist and hauling her against him. She gasped, fingers tangling tighter in his hair as his tongue slid over hers, hungry and rough.

Her back hit the cold side of a car, and she barely noticed. His hands were everywhere—her jaw, her hips, her thighs. She moaned into his mouth and he swore he almost lost it right there.

“You’re mine,” he growled, lips moving to her neck. “Mine.”

“Prove it,” she whispered.

He pulled her thigh up, pinning her to the car, grinding into her like he had no intention of stopping.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

She laughed breathlessly. “You’re not so unaffected yourself.”

He kissed her again—deeper, messier. His hands dipped under her dress, teasing along the edge of her thigh as she gasped into his mouth.

“Say it again,” he demanded.

She was panting now, lips swollen and breath shaky. “You’re mine, Jeon Jungkook.”

He kissed her like he wanted to devour her. And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like they were running from anything.

They were finally colliding.

Jungkook pulled back first—barely, reluctantly. His forehead rested against hers, their breaths still tangled, lips kiss-swollen and flushed from the way they’d devoured each other against the side of someone’s car.

“We need to get home,” he muttered, voice hoarse, low, and thick with heat.

Y/N blinked up at him, her brain fogged with adrenaline and lust. “Now?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Before I fuck you right here.”

A sharp inhale left her lips.

She didn’t protest.

They made it to the car in a blur—Jungkook’s hand never leaving her waist, her thigh, her wrist—some part of her always under his grip like he couldn’t risk her slipping away again. He opened the passenger door for her, barely managing a breath as she slid into the seat, dress still riding dangerously high up her legs.

He shut the door with more force than necessary and jogged around to the driver’s side.

Once the engine roared to life, the silence inside the car wasn’t calm. It crackled. It hummed with tension.

Her knees were pressed together, thighs clenched. Jungkook’s hands tightened on the wheel, his jaw locked, eyes flicking between the road and her legs.

“Seatbelt,” he grunted.

She clicked it into place without a word. But when she leaned back, her dress shifted—just enough to expose more skin. He noticed. Of course he did.

The drive started smooth. Tense.

Until the first red light.

Jungkook’s hand gripped the gear shift, knuckles white. She leaned over, her fingers brushing the back of his neck. Light. Teasing.

His jaw flexed. “Y/N…”

She smiled, dangerous. “Yeah?”

“You’re driving me fucking insane.”

“Oh?” she leaned in closer, lips at his ear. “Already?”

He turned his head.

And just like that, their mouths crashed again.

Hot. Desperate. Full of all the things they hadn’t said for weeks.

Jungkook pulled her closer by the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair. His other hand stayed on the wheel—barely. She kissed him like she needed it to breathe, her lips soft and then rough, her teeth dragging along his lower lip as he groaned into her mouth.

The light turned green.

Neither noticed.

Until a car behind them honked.

They jumped, breathing hard. Jungkook let out a sharp curse and slammed the gear into drive, eyes wild.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re going to kill me.”

“You started it,” she replied, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lipstick was smudged. Her smirk? Evil.

The next few minutes were a blur of tension.

His hand slid to her thigh at the next light. Not innocently. Not this time. He traced slow circles, eyes never leaving the road—except when he glanced sideways to see her reaction.

She shivered.

“You like that?” he asked.

“You know I do.”

At the next red light, she unbuckled her seatbelt.

“What are you—”

She crawled over the center console before he could stop her, straddling him in the driver’s seat. It was reckless. Stupid. Hot.

“Y/N,” he warned, voice ragged.

“Shut up,” she whispered—and kissed him again.

It was deeper this time. Her hips rolled slowly against his, dragging a growl from his throat. His hands gripped her ass, holding her to him like she was the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

“Fuck, baby,” he hissed. “We’re not gonna make it home.”

“Yes, we are,” she gasped. “But barely.”

Another honk behind them. Another curse. She slid off of him with a wicked grin and adjusted her dress, licking her swollen lips. Jungkook’s hair was a mess now, lips red, eyes half-lidded as he focused on the road again, his breathing shallow.

“Put your seatbelt back on before I make you,” he said through gritted teeth.

She clicked it back into place, but her hand stayed resting on his thigh.

The rest of the drive was torture.

She’d drag her fingers along his leg. He’d grip the wheel tighter. She’d moan when the car hit a bump and her body bounced. He’d mutter curses under his breath, threatening to pull over and end her right there.

By the time they pulled into the apartment lot, his shirt was wrinkled, her hair was a mess, and both of them looked like they’d just committed a felony.

Jungkook cut the engine, head falling back against the seat.

“We are so fucked.”

Y/N laughed—breathy, teasing. “Not yet.”

His eyes snapped open.

And the next moment?

They were stumbling out of the car, barely managing to lock it before they were all over each other again, right there in the parking lot, mouths clashing like magnets.

Hands in hair.

Fingers on zippers.

Heels clattering against the pavement.

But Jungkook pulled back, panting.

“Inside,” he said. “Now. Before I lose the last shred of control I have left.”

She didn’t argue.

She ran.

And he chased her up the stairs, every footstep a promise.

hey tumblr!

back with part five and omg i had so much fun writing this one 😭💥

jimin truly came through for jungkook — like, emotional support king behavior.as for taehyung… let’s just say, he really doesn’t know what he’s walking into. 😮‍💨

jungkook’s absolutely spiraling this part — from taehyung talking about her to him walking in with y/n at the party. yeah, chaos. delicious chaos.

hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. the final part is up next (full-blown spicy, you’ve been warned 👀🔥)

reblogs, comments & kisses are welcome here 💌

with love,

xo, ario 💗

TAGLIST 🔖

@gyeomibear @dna2723 @lachimolalajeon @yunhoswrldddd @whoa-jo @notsevenwithyou @dmstoyangyang @songbyeonkim

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cece693 · 1 day ago

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Hear me out percy jackson x demeter reader what if reader got kidnapped too by Luke just like Hades but reader doesn't like Luke an let me tell you percy and demeter ARE GOING WILD the crops are all dead and the water is going crazy

That's all thank you!

YOU TOOK THE WRONG PERSON

pairing: percy jackson x son of demeter

You were never meant to be part of the prophecy. You weren’t a warrior, not in the traditional sense. You could make vines grow through concrete, calm wild animals with your voice, and coax life from dry earth—but a fighter? No. You weren’t supposed to be on the battlefield.

But you were Percy’s.

And that made you a target.

They took you in the night—Luke and his followers. You fought, of course you did. You thrashed and shouted and lashed out with roots and thorn-covered whips, but Luke had planned this. He used celestial bronze nets soaked in hydra venom to dull your magic, and even as you screamed Percy’s name, the earth couldn’t reach you. Your mother couldn’t reach you.

At least, not yet.

Camp Half-Blood woke up to wilting gardens. Strawberries shriveled on the vine. Roses blacken mid-bloom. The Demeter cabin is on its knees, their prayers unanswered, the soil refusing to listen. But that’s only the beginning. Because when Percy finds out, when Chiron breaks the news that Luke took you,—“We think he intends to use them as leverage. You’re close, and their connection to the seasons—”

Percy’s already gone.

He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t shout. He just leaves, a storm trailing behind him. Quite literally.

The skies turn black. The ocean begins to surge unnaturally, even in places far from Poseidon's domain. Water floods subway systems and overflows dams. Rain won’t stop. Thunder pounds the clouds like a war drum. And Demeter? She’s not idle, either.

“My son,” she says, her voice brittle as frost. “Taken like Persephone. But this time, I will not weep. I will rage.” She refuses to bring spring. Crops fail. Vineyards rot. Fields across the globe dry into brittle husks.

Humanity begins to notice. But none of that matters to Percy.

He would tear the world apart ocean by ocean if it meant getting you back.

Meanwhile…

Luke tries to manipulate you, playing the old card of, “They don’t care about the truth, only the prophecy,” and, “You and I could be so much more.”

You stare at him like he's soil that refuses to grow. “You’re not Hades,” you spit. “You don’t get to play villain and still act like you’re in love with the world you’re trying to destroy.”

“You think Percy will come for you?” Luke mocks, cruel. “He’s a pawn of Olympus.”

You stare at him, the pain in your wrists forgotten, your breath catching not from fear but fury. Your voice is soft when you speak, but every word lands like the crack of roots splitting stone.

“No,” you say, gaze locked and unflinching. “That’s where you keep getting it wrong. He’s not a pawn.” You lean forward, eyes sharp with something ancient, something your mother passed into your bones like wildseed. “He’s the storm. He doesn’t take orders—he makes the sea rise.”

Luke falters—just for a second.

“He’ll come for me,” you continue, your voice calm, almost pitying, “not because the gods told him to. Not for Olympus. But because he loves me. And you? You wouldn’t know what that kind of loyalty looks like if it strangled you in your sleep.”

The silence stretches. You feel it in the walls—the faint tremble of far-off water

“You’re not a god,” you finish. “You’re just a boy playing tyrant in someone else’s war.” And that’s when the walls groan. Dust rained from the ceiling. Somewhere above, something—no, everything—shifts.

Luke’s smug smile finally cracks. “What did you do?”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t do anything.” You tilt your head, listening. “But the tide’s coming in.”

And then it hits.

The far wall of the chamber explodes inward, not with fire—but with water. Pressurized and howling like a leviathan. It floods the corridor, swallowing Luke’s guards in seconds. Vines as thick as tree trunks burst through cracks in the floor and lash out like serpents, tearing down pillars, choking weapons from hands, dragging the unworthy underground.

And then—him.

Percy stands in the breach. Soaked to the bone, blood trailing from his temple, celestial bronze blade clenched so tightly in his fist it creaks. His sea-green eyes land on you, and something ancient and wild ripples behind them.

“Get away from him,” Percy says, and there’s no room for argument. His voice booms like waves against cliffs. “Now.”

Luke draws his sword. “You won’t make it out of here with him,” Luke hisses. “I’ll make sure of that.”

“You already lost,” Percy growls. “The ocean doesn’t ask permission.”

And suddenly he’s moving—the kind of speed you don’t see, only feel. Water blasts forward in a crashing spiral, knocking Luke off his feet. The two clash in a blur of silver and blue. You watch helplessly, shackled, vines too exhausted to respond—but the earth is listening again. You whisper low, coaxing the stone, and slowly, steadily, the roots obey.

Chains snap. Your arms fall limp at your sides, burning—but free. Just in time to see Luke flat on his back, sword flung from his grasp. Percy doesn’t strike the killing blow. No. He plants a foot on Luke’s chest and points Riptide at his throat. “You hurt him. You took him."

Percy’s voice trembles—not from weakness, but from holding back the kind of wrath that could shatter continents. “You tried to break the world by using the person I love most as bait.”

Luke sneers, though he’s pinned. “Still think you’re a hero? You’ll never stop it—Kronos is coming. You’re just another demigod in the meat grinder, Jackson.”

“Maybe,” Percy says, eyes burning. “But I’m the demigod who’s still standing.”

He doesn’t kill him—not out of mercy, but defiance.

Instead, he lets the earth have him.

Vines snap from the ground, curling around Luke’s limbs, dragging him down like an ancient punishment—the wrath of Demeter herself. The floor cracks, soil groaning, and the last thing Luke sees before darkness claims him is Percy wrapping you in his arms.

Percy collapses to his knees beside you, arms instantly pulling you in. He smells of salt and blood and ozone, the sharp scent of a storm that finally passed. “I’m here,” he breathes. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

You sag against him, the adrenaline finally fading. “You came.”

“Of course I did,” Percy says, almost incredulous. His voice cracks at the edges. “I’d flood the world if that’s what it took. You think gods scare me? You think fate scares me?” He cups your cheek, thumb brushing over the grime and dried blood. “Losing you—that’s the only thing that terrifies me.”

You lean into the touch. “You scared the plants.”

He laughs wetly, eyes still shining. “You scared the sea.”

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agent19mockingbird · 2 days ago

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For her part, Natasha wasn’t surprised to hear and know that Bucky was nervous; hell, it helped to know that he was feeling the same way she was. Not that she wanted him to feel that way, but it was comforting knowing she wasn’t alone.

“We’ll have to talk to them and see, with no pressure from us. I don’t want you to want it just for me; I want you to want it for you, too. For both of us together, and for them. Because we could be doing this with say Steve and Sharon, and that would likely be a very different experience than this.

She smiled as she watched him shake his head like a dog, laughing as she got pelted with water droplets. “Mmhmm, let’s. I’m rather wrinkled,” she replied as she turned the shower off and handed him a towel, using the other one for herself to begin drying off.

————————

Bobbi’s brow furrowed as she observed him. Something about the way he was behaving made her uncomfortable, like he was going to behave in some way she already knew she wouldn’t like. She shoved that feeling down, hoping she was wrong. She nodded at his explanation, unable to stop the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Well, let’s get dried off, get dressed and we can keep conversation between us light for the rest of the night. Plus our groceries should be here by now so we have soup and grilled cheese to look forward to,” she said with a tiny smile.

She shook her head. “I get it, but let’s hold off on talking about that for now. We can sort that out later.”

Bobbi hummed softly at the kiss and began drying herself off. To find that Clint hadn’t gone to get dressed as they’d planned made her frown, that sickly feeling in her gut growing. She didn’t have to be able to read minds to know where he’d went. Bobbi wrapped and rolled her towel around herself before making her way out to the kitchen and finding him holding a beer. She knew he was upset from earlier, that was understandable. It was the fact that he hadn’t even stopped to get changed that concerned her, but she pushed that aside and took a deep breath.

“I’d really hoped I wouldn’t find you in here. Lost that bet with myself. Babe, I know that things aren’t great and that neither of us is in the happiest place right now. I’m not going to pretend to know why you have that in your hand, but I will say this: you have a couple of options. You can drink that and however many others, though I would you ask you kept it to just one and I’d prefer you didn’t drink it at all; it’s a not good way to handle things and it’s a horrible coping mechanism from when we weren’t together as well as your childhood. Your second option is that you can use me in whatever capacity you need and I won’t judge you, be it physically, emotionally or otherwise. We can sleep however you want tonight, just the two of us together or apart, or all four of us. Whatever will help you. I know I messed up by not telling you and I hurt you, but Lincoln Slade is not worth sinking into a bottle for. I’m definitely not worth that, not again,” she told him levelly, her voice wet sounding.

“Well, considering the response it usually gets me, which is you tapping out and me winning in two ways, you could say I like doing it,” Natasha smirked down at him with a wink. “And you won’t hear many complaints from me about that being your favorite place to stick your head.”

She nodded in agreement, understanding where he was coming from completely; among the list of reasons she’d been attracted to Clint initially was how hot he was. “I know what you mean. I’m nervous, too. I’ve certainly flirted with lots of women but I’ve never slept with any of them. I agree; I think making out first will help break the ice between all of us and is a good place to start.”

“Uh huh,” she replied with a teasing roll of her eyes. She tilted his head back gently and began running her fingers through his hair, making sure to get all the suds out. “I also think that if you’re nervous, and once we’ve made sure that Clint and Bobbi are okay, that you say something. They could also be nervous or scared or excited, just like we are.”

——————

Bobbi shook her head in agreement; the mission they were on was a big one and Fury had impressed its importance on them multiple times before they’d left and since. “I know, I get what you mean. I don’t want anyone to have to come in and replace us and I’m worried about that. But more importantly, I understand what you mean about trying to do that conversation here and your worries about it. What would help you relax that isn’t harmful to you or to anyone else? What can I do to help?” she asked softly.

She returned to washing her body as she watched him be silent for a long moment. She’d already pushed him to speak his mind once before and wasn’t going to do so again. Once he spoke, she frowned as she considered what he said. “That’s….hmm. I get why you might be feeling that way, and that’s understandable. Let’s table that discussion for now until it’s a better time for us to talk to Bucky and Nat about it. They should be included in it, you know? It’s only fair. And we can gauge where they’re at and how they feel about it happening or not too.”

“Mkay,” Bobbi nodded, nuzzling him for a moment. She finished washing her body and rinsed off, watching him with a smile as she waited. Once he was done, she reached out and grabbed their towels, handing one to him to use.

#clintbobbibuckynat rp #verse: swingers #barnesandbarton

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sunsetmade · 2 days ago

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Hi!! I love your writing I feel like you capture everything perfectly!!! I was wondering (and this is probably weirdly specific) if you can write something about reader knowing about Sofia being shady and trying to warn him but rafe doesn’t believe her which causes a riff between their friendship until he finds out and tries to make it up to her and finally confesses his feelings?

Thank you so much!! I love this idea, thank you for requesting it to me!!

One Who Knew Best

Rafe Cameron x Reader

The sun was just beginning to dip into the water, casting a warm, sleepy glow across the sound. The sky above the Outer Banks was painted in soft watercolor strokes—rosy pinks bleeding into pale gold—like the world had slowed for just a moment. But her chest felt anything but still.

She stood off to the side, arms loosely crossed over her yellow sundress, watching the scene in front of her with a hollow kind of ache. From the outside, it was just another perfect summer evening. The kind where everyone looked golden and happy, like a photograph come to life. But something was wrong. Again.

Rafe had just stepped away, his phone buzzing in his hand, the sound of his low laugh still lingering in the air. Sofia had said something funny—something flirty, probably, judging by the way he’d grinned at her with that effortless charm he didn’t even seem to realize he had.

And that’s when she saw it.

Sofia’s fingers, delicate and well-practiced, casually trailed across the back of Topper’s deck chair. They hesitated just long enough for her to slip something from beneath the towel draped over the seat. It was smooth, practiced, so subtle that if the reader hadn’t been watching—really watching—she might’ve missed it.

But she didn’t miss it.

The watch. Gold. The same one Topper had been flashing earlier, bragging about it like he always did. It had been right there not even a minute ago. And now? Gone. Quietly tucked into Sofia’s expensive-looking bag like it had always belonged to her.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Her stomach twisted, heavy with disbelief even though her mind was already certain.

It wasn’t the first time.

For weeks now, she’d been brushing things off. Sofia overhearing things no one had told her. Making comments that didn’t quite line up. Money that Rafe said he’d lost—cash that had disappeared from his glove box or his jacket pocket with no explanation. She never wanted to be the girl who pointed fingers. She wasn’t nosy. She didn’t dig for drama. But when it came to Rafe, she paid attention.

She always had.

Because Rafe wasn’t just some guy. He was her person.

Her best friend since they were kids. The boy who used to sneak out of his house just to sit on her porch steps when her parents were fighting. The one who would throw a lazy arm around her shoulders when he noticed her getting quiet at parties, grounding her without a word. The boy who let the world think he was bulletproof, even though she knew exactly how many cracks he carried underneath it all.

She’d watched him fall apart and pull himself back together more times than she could count.

And now, she was watching him laugh with someone who didn’t care enough to even try to hide how shady she was being.

It made something burn in her chest.

Not just because of what Sofia had done. But because he didn’t see it. Because Rafe had always looked at her like she was safe, like she was steady—but not in that way. Not the way he looked at Sofia. And she couldn’t help but wonder if that was why.

Was it because she wasn’t loud or flashy? Because she didn’t bat her lashes and press close when she talked? Because she saw him—really saw him—and maybe that was too much for someone who spent his whole life trying to be untouchable?

She hated the way it stung, watching him fall for someone who didn’t even respect him. Hated how powerless it made her feel. Like all the years of being there, of loving him quietly and fiercely, didn’t count for anything. Like loyalty could be outshined by lip gloss and secrets.

But the worst part?

She wanted to tell him. Needed to.

But how could she, when he looked at Sofia like she hadn’t just stolen something two feet from where he stood? When his guard, so carefully built around the world, seemed to drop only for her?

She didn’t want to be the reason he started doubting someone he trusted. But she also couldn’t stand by and let him get used.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt that awful space widening between them—between what she knew and what he refused to see.

Between best friends.

And something that had always felt like it was almost more.

That night, after the party, the hum of crickets filled the quiet between them as they sat in Rafe’s truck. The windows were rolled down, warm summer air drifting in, thick with salt and the faint scent of firewood from a bonfire miles down the beach. His truck was parked near the bluff, the headlights off, the world outside bathed in silver from the moon overhead. It was the kind of night that usually made her feel safe next to him. Familiar. Like they were still kids sneaking out to talk about nothing and everything.

But tonight, her heart felt heavy in her chest.

She twisted the fabric of her sleeve between her fingers, stealing a quick glance at him. “Can I tell you something?” she asked quietly, her voice barely louder than the breeze.

Rafe leaned back in his seat, one arm lazily slung over the open window, the other resting on the console between them. His hand brushed her arm—careless, casual—but it made her skin tighten anyway. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, smirking. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” he teased, a flicker of mischief in his voice.

She let out a soft, dry laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “No,” she said, trying to keep her voice light, even though her chest ached. “It’s… about Sofia.”

The smirk faltered. Just slightly. Enough that she noticed.

Rafe shifted, sitting a little straighter, eyes narrowing just a bit. “What about her?”

She hesitated. Her throat was tight. She hadn’t rehearsed this—hadn’t wanted to believe it would come to this. But she couldn’t keep pretending. Not when it was eating at her.

“I think she’s not who she pretends to be,” she said carefully. “Tonight… I saw her slip Topper’s watch into her bag when no one was looking. And last week—remember when you said you lost cash? I saw her near your stuff, right before you noticed it was gone.”

His reaction was immediate. He blinked, then leaned forward, confusion morphing quickly into disbelief. “You’re joking, right?”

She shook her head, her voice smaller now. “I’m not. I know it sounds bad—I know how it sounds—but Rafe, I’m only saying something because I care. I’m not trying to start drama, I just… I’m worried.”

He stared at her like she was speaking a language he didn’t understand. And then he laughed—short, sharp, incredulous. “Okay, well, maybe stop. Because you sound jealous.”

The words hit her like a slap.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. Then, “What?”

“You’ve never liked her,” he said, and suddenly his tone was colder than the night air. “The second she showed up, you gave her that look—like she didn’t belong. Like she was stepping on your territory.”

“Territory?” she echoed, stunned. “Rafe, I’m not jealous. I’m trying to protect you. There’s a difference.”

He scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “Yeah, well maybe don’t act like you know everything. You don’t. Not everyone’s out to screw me over.”

Her stomach turned. He didn’t mean to be cruel—she knew that—but he was defensive. And when Rafe felt cornered, he lashed out before anyone could reach him.

“But what if she is?” she said, almost a whisper now. “What if I’m right?”

He didn’t look at her. “Then I’ll figure it out myself,” he muttered. “I don’t need you trying to babysit me.”

And just like that, the bottom fell out.

She stared at him, heart in her throat, tears threatening but refusing to fall. She wanted to scream, to shake him and make him see her—really see her—for the friend who had stood by him through everything. The girl who always noticed when his hands shook or when his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The one who loved him quietly from the background, without ever asking for more.

But she didn’t say any of that.

She just nodded, slowly. Bit her tongue. Let the silence settle like dust between them. He turned the radio back on a few seconds later—something slow and soft, like it could patch over what just broke.

But it didn’t.

And when he dropped her off, she didn’t leave the truck with a smile or a promise to text him later. She just climbed out, closed the door gently behind her, and walked inside without looking back.

For the first time in years, there was no goodnight text from Rafe waiting on her phone.

And for the first time, she wondered if he had ever really known her at all.

⸻

A week passed. Then two.

She tried.

She smiled when she passed him on the street, even when it felt like her chest was splintering just beneath the surface. She sent him a few texts—carefully worded, never too much, never too needy. Just Hey, hope you’re good or Saw a boat that reminded me of that time we almost sunk yours—the kind of things that used to make him laugh. But they sat unread. Unanswered. Unacknowledged.

He didn’t come by anymore either.

He didn’t show up unannounced with that crooked grin, didn’t tap his knuckles against her window in the middle of the night like he used to when he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t sit next to her on the dock anymore, thighs barely brushing, talking about things he only trusted her with—like the way Ward’s silence stung worse than his anger, or how sometimes he thought maybe he was just wired wrong.

Now it was just empty space where he used to be.

And Sofia was always there. Everywhere.

Wrapped around his arm at parties, laughing too loud, acting like she belonged. Looking at her with smug little glances—like she knew she’d won. Like this had been a game, and she’d played it better.

But the worst part wasn’t Sofia. It was Rafe.

Because it wasn’t just that he was distant—it was that he had looked at her, listened to her voice tremble that night in his truck, and still chose someone else. And he hadn’t even looked back.

It left a dull ache in her that she couldn’t quite get rid of. Like she was grieving something that wasn’t hers to lose—but had still meant everything.

And people had started to notice.

“Thought you and Cameron were glued at the hip,” JJ said one afternoon, sliding into the booth across from her at The Wreck. His tone was casual, but his eyes weren’t.

She stirred the ice in her soda, keeping her gaze down. “Not lately.”

“You guys fight?”

“No,” she said quietly, then after a pause: “Just… distance.”

She didn’t say how it felt like the distance had teeth. Like every day they didn’t speak, something inside her bled a little more.

But Rafe wasn’t the same either. Not completely.

Sure, he laughed at Sofia’s jokes, let her hang off his arm like she was some prize. But it was hollow. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. He went to parties, but left early. He didn’t text her, but he didn’t really text anyone else either. He was there—but in a way that felt almost ghost-like. Haunted. Unmoored.

And sometimes—only sometimes—he would glance across the room at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. But when her eyes met his, he always looked away too fast.

Like it burned.

Still, she didn’t chase him.

If he didn’t want her around, she wouldn’t force it. He’d made that choice. And she was trying—trying—to live with it.

Until the day he showed up on her porch unannounced, sun glaring behind him, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt.

She stepped outside slowly, confused by the sharpness in his posture, the tension radiating off him like heat. “Rafe?”

“Where is it?” he snapped.

She blinked. “What?”

“The bag,” he said, voice tight, impatient. “Sofia said you borrowed her purse at that party two weeks ago. She says you still have it.”

Her stomach dropped.

He wasn’t here to see her. Not to talk. Not to apologize. Not even to pretend like they still had something real. He was here because Sofia sent him.

“I never borrowed her purse,” she said, slowly. Carefully. Like if she moved too quickly, something in her might crack.

His eyes narrowed. “She says you did.”

“Well, I didn’t,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Silence fell between them—hot, uncomfortable, laced with something sharp.

For a second, she hoped he’d see the look in her eyes and remember who she was to him. That he’d remember she wasn’t the girl who lied or made things up or stole.

But he just stood there, jaw ticking, eyes dark. “She’s missing something. A necklace.”

Her breath caught. “And you think I took it?”

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered, but it was too late. The damage was done.

“You didn’t have to.”

She was quiet for a moment, swallowing hard past the ache in her throat. “You used to trust me,” she said softly.

He looked away. Said nothing.

And in that silence, she realized something that broke her a little more.

She had lost him.

⸻

It unraveled quickly after that.

Just three days after that confrontation on her porch, Rafe was down at the marina, killing time and trying to outrun his own thoughts, when Topper stormed up to him—face flushed, jaw tight, phone clenched in one hand like it had personally betrayed him.

“Hey,” Topper barked. “You got a second?”

Rafe looked up brows furrowed, caught off guard. “What—?”

“Remember that watch I thought I lost at my party?” Topper cut in, no patience for small talk. His voice was sharp, eyes burning. “Check the damn footage.”

He shoved the phone into Rafe’s hand before he could respond.

Rafe blinked against the sun, angling the screen until the glare faded. The footage was old, grainy—some security camera pointed lazily at the edge of the patio. The quality sucked. The lighting was worse. But even so, he could see it.

A girl.

Long, tanned legs. A tank top. Brown short hair.

Sofia.

She paused as she passed one of the deck chairs—Topper’s chair. One hand trailed across the backrest, light and casual, like she was just steadying herself. Then, quick as a blink, her fingers curled around something shiny, and she kept walking. Smooth. Effortless. Like she’d done it before.

And Rafe’s stomach flipped.

It wasn’t even just what she did—it was the way she did it. The ease. The confidence. The slight smirk curling her lips like she knew no one would question her.

Like she knew Rafe wouldn’t.

He just stood there, silent, the image frozen in his hand. His heart dropped like a stone in his chest.

It was her.

She had done exactly what the one person he trusted tried to warn him about—and he hadn’t listened.

Topper shook his head, disgusted. “She’s been using you, man. You think I’m the only one missing shit? Kelce’s got cash gone. I heard Chase is missing a bracelet. She’s been hopping between parties for weeks. You’re not the only one she’s playing.”

Rafe’s mouth was dry. “Fuckin’ shit. I didn’t know.”

“No,” Topper snapped, stepping back. “But she did. And you treated her like she was nothing.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and walked off, muttering as he went, “Should’ve listened to your girl.”

Your girl.

The words echoed, sharp and cruel and suffocating.

She wasn’t his girl—not anymore. Maybe she never had been. But the way those words hit… it felt like grief. Like something he had and didn’t protect. Like something he’d broken beyond repair.

And now?

Now it was too damn quiet without her.

Rafe stared down at the phone, the image of Sofia’s hand stealing the watch still playing behind his eyes. His mind was racing, but his body felt frozen. Cold. Empty.

He remembered how she had looked the last time he saw her—standing barefoot on her porch, tired but still soft around the edges. Her voice trembling as she told him she didn’t take anything. The way she said, You used to trust me.

God. The way her face fell when he accused her.

He’d stood there like a fool, like a coward, holding onto someone he barely knew while throwing away the only person who had ever truly seen him. He let Sofia twist the truth while she—his girl, whether he ever had the guts to say it or not—stood there, eyes wide and aching, trying to protect him.

And what did he do?

He told her to stop being jealous. He told her not everyone was out to get him. He said he didn’t need her.

But the truth?

He always needed her. He just didn’t realize it until she was gone.

The guilt came fast and heavy, thick in his throat. He felt sick. Like he couldn’t breathe. Like the weight of it all had finally settled onto his shoulders—and it was crushing him.

He wanted to throw the phone. Punch something. Shout. Apologize. Take it all back. Hold her.

But he couldn’t do any of that standing there like a shell of himself.

So he turned on his heel, phone still in hand, heart pounding against his ribs.

He had to see her.

Even if she slammed the door in his face.

Even if she never looked at him the same again.

Even if she couldn’t forgive him.

He had to try—because losing her wasn’t something he could live with.

Not again.

He didn’t remember getting in the truck.

Didn’t remember turning the key, or shifting gears, or the familiar hum of tires over gravel. All he knew was the heaviness in his chest, the way the footage played over and over in his mind like a cruel loop, and the fact that the only place he could go—the only person who mattered—was her.

Her porch light was off when he pulled up. The sky was dimming, caught somewhere between late blue and near-black. The world felt quiet, like it was holding its breath. Like maybe even it knew this wasn’t just a conversation.

It was a reckoning.

He parked in the same spot he always did, without thinking. No text. No warning. Just hope and desperation and guilt sitting in his throat like glass. He wasn’t even sure she’d open the door. If she didn’t, he’d deserve it.

But after a long minute, the front door cracked open.

And then she was there.

She looked tired. Wary. Her oversized t-shirt hung low on her thighs, soft with age and sleep, and her hair was twisted into a loose, half-fallen bun. Barefoot. Natural. Beautiful in that unshaken, unpolished way that always made his heart ache.

But her eyes—they didn’t shine the way they used to.

Rafe didn’t move closer, not yet. “Can we talk?”

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the door. She didn’t step out, but she didn’t shut him out either. “About what?”

He swallowed hard, throat dry. “I messed up.”

She blinked, slow. Blinking back the weight of everything that had been piling up since the night he walked away. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “You did.”

That cut more than if she’d yelled. He’d hurt her so badly, she didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore.

“I saw the footage,” he said. “Sofia. It was her. She took the watch—Topper’s watch. You were right the whole time.”

Her face barely changed, but something shifted behind her eyes—like a crack letting light through. Not vindication. Not smugness. Just quiet, tired pain. Relief tangled with the kind of hurt that comes from knowing you were right and betrayed.

“I’m sorry,” Rafe said. The words scraped his throat raw. “You tried to look out for me, and I didn’t listen. I didn’t see you. I didn’t trust you. And that’s… that’s on me.”

She stepped out slowly, arms folding over her chest—not defensive, but protective. Guarded. “You didn’t just ignore me, Rafe. You accused me. You looked me in the eye and acted like I was the problem.”

He nodded, barely able to look at her. “I know. And I hate myself for it.”

Rafe stepped forward, carefully. His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I missed you,” he said, his voice breaking a little. “Even when I was with her. Especially then. I missed you like—like it physically hurt.”

She looked down, her voice smaller now. “Then why didn’t you come back?”

He exhaled shakily. “Because I thought I’d burned it all down. I thought I didn’t deserve to.”

She didn’t say anything. The silence between them stretched wide and tense and full of everything they’d left unsaid.

So he filled it.

“I know I don’t say it right. I know I’ve never been the guy who shows up with flowers or makes the right call. But I’m here now because pretending I didn’t care—it’s killing me. I’ve been pretending for years, and I’m tired of lying to myself.”

Her voice cracked, soft and shaky. “It wasn’t about Sofia. It was never about her. It was you. Watching you choose her—it felt like I stopped mattering to you. Like all the history between us didn’t mean anything.”

His jaw clenched, emotion rising like a wave in his throat. “You matter,” he said fiercely. “You always mattered. You’re the only person who ever looked at me and saw me. And I pushed you away, and I let you think you didn’t mean anything, and I hate that.”

She blinked fast, and for the first time he saw it—real pain glimmering behind her lashes. The kind that doesn’t yell. The kind that just aches.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. “And I can’t live with that. I don’t want to. I’ll spend as long as it takes proving that I can be better. That I see you. That I trust you. And that I—”

He hesitated, heart racing.

“I love you.”

The words hung there, raw and unvarnished.

Her eyes widened, just slightly. Her lips parted, but no sound came out right away. She looked like she’d been waiting to hear those words for years—but never believed he’d actually say them.

After a moment, she whispered, “I know. I think… I think I always knew.”

She took one slow step forward. Then another. Her hand lifted, brushing lightly against his—the softest touch, like she was afraid he’d disappear if she touched him too hard.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

Not yet.

But it was something.

Hope. A beginning. A lifeline.

He closed his fingers around hers like a man gripping a second chance. And this time, he wasn’t letting go.

#outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fanfics #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x reader #obx x reader #rafe cameron #obx fic #rafe angst #rafe fluff #rafe x you #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron fic

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beforeoursecrets · 3 days ago

Text

In the Beginning, There Was Love.

Summary: Hidden among mortals for centuries, the goddess Aphrodite is finally found. Not by the gods, but by Natasha Romanoff, a woman bound to her by something far older than fate. As cosmic forces rise to tear the world apart, their souls remember what history has long forgotten: they have always been connected across lifetimes, through the stars, and into the heart of war.

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Aphrodite!reader

Author's Note: I've had this written for some time now, and though maybe I could post it here. Hope you like it! Planning to revise it later.

Divisors by @miau-meow-miau

The Nine Realms were no longer in harmony.

It started as a silence. Subtle. Hollow. Treaties that once stood for millennia unraveled with a single word. Ambassadors from Alfheim never returned. The sky over Vanaheim no longer answered the sun. In Muspelheim, flames burned out of rhythm. A chaos no blade could fix.

The threads were loosening. And Yggdrasil, the great tree that held the cosmos together, trembled.

In the halls of Asgard, thunder cracked low and restless. Thor stood at the edge of the Observatory, watching the stars drift ever so slightly… wrong. Portals flickered, constellations stuttered.

He gripped Mjolnir harder.

“You feel it too,” came a voice behind him. Odin. Pale, older now. Tired.

Thor nodded. “Something’s tearing the Realms apart. But it’s not war. Not yet.”

“It’s older than war. And deeper. It’s the unraveling of connection. The beginning of forgetting.” Odin’s eyes were far away.

Thor turned sharply. “Then we fight. We defend the bridges—”

“You misunderstand,” Odin interrupted. “You cannot strike at this with a hammer.”

He moved to the ancient crystal table at the heart of the Observatory.

A shimmer formed above it, not a map, but something more fragile. The Ley of the Realms, glowing threads that linked one world to another.

Or they had. Now, one by one, they faded into gray.

“Only one power in existence was ever strong enough to bind the Realms through feeling, through trust, through love.”

Thor narrowed his eyes. “…You're not saying—”

“Aphrodite.”

The name fell like thunder across silence.

Thor flinched. “She hasn't been seen in centuries. She vanished. Some say she abandoned us.”

Odin looked at him with something almost like grief. “No. She stayed where the connection still burns brightest. Where love, in all its forms, is chaos and beauty.”

He raised his hand, pointing toward the center of the stars. Toward Midgard.

Thor’s jaw clenched. “If she’s there… I’ll find her.”

Odin shook his head. “You won’t. She won't come for Gods. She hides from us. But she might come for someone who doesn't worship her. Someone who sees beyond the myth.”

Thor hesitated. Maybe he already knows who he'd ask for help.

Somewhere in New York, Natasha Romanoff sat at a rooftop bar.

Her glass sat untouched. Her fingers traced a coaster, not from boredom, but instinct. She was listening.

Something in the air had changed.

No explosions. No reports. Just… static. On every channel. As if the world had lost signal with something it didn’t know it needed.

When Thor appeared — cloak damp with rain, face grim — she didn’t flinch.

“That bad?” she asked.

He didn’t sit. “I need your help.”

“Always a good sign,” she muttered.

Then he said the name.

She blinked. “Aphrodite? The goddess?”

Thor nodded. “She's the only one who can restore what's breaking. But no one knows where she is.”

Natasha leaned back, folding her arms.

“And what makes you think I’ll find her?”

Thor stepped closer.

“Because you’re not looking for power. You’re looking for something real. You don’t chase gods, Romanoff. You chase ghosts. And Aphrodite… is both.”

That night, Natasha started walking.

She didn’t ask SHIELD. Didn’t consult a file.

Instead, she followed instinct. Old whispers. Symbols buried beneath cities, songs played in subway tunnels, fragments of myths wrapped in pop songs and perfume ads.

Something was pulling her. Older than magic.

Natasha Romanoff had always chased ghosts. But this was different.

She didn’t leave New York like a soldier on assignment. She left like someone being pulled by something that whispered just beyond hearing, something that felt like memory and dream intertwined.

Her first stop wasn’t a temple or tomb.

It was a record store in Rome, one with no digital footprint. She sat for hours, listening to dusty vinyls of old love songs translated into twenty languages. Each version had a different lyric. A different name whispered into the chorus. One of them — just once — sang of a woman with golden light in her hands and eyes that changed color with the sky.

She copied the lyric onto a page and kept moving.

In Athens, she visited the ruins no one guarded — a collapsed courtyard said to have once bloomed with roses in winter. The stonework had faint carvings, worn down by centuries, but when she traced her fingers over one spiral, her chest ached. Not pain. Something else. Like recognition.

She started noticing patterns.

Pigeons swirled faster in cities where street musicians played songs about longing. Couples met eyes longer in cafés where a certain perfume lingered. Neon signs flickered like constellations in alleyways where no one had hung lights.

In Istanbul, she met a woman who read fortunes in tea leaves.

"You’re looking for the goddess," the woman said without prompting.

"But you already carry part of her inside you."

In Tokyo, she followed the scent of roses down to an underground club that only played ballads from the 1970s. The bartender said he had never heard of Aphrodite. Yet when Natasha asked, he quietly slid a napkin across the counter. On it was a sketch of a woman smiling like she knew all your secrets and loved you anyway.

The napkin was decades old.

She slept on trains. Ate little. Talked less.

But each place she went, she found evidence of something slipping just beyond the edges of reality. Someone moving like emotion, leaving no footprints but awakening something ancient in everyone who crossed her path.

In London, she cracked it.

She fed keywords through SHIELD’s forgotten archives. Cross-referenced them with poetry, intercepted text messages, and emotional spikes in public areas. She used AI to filter out everything logical, and what remained was a path made of feelings.

Not dates.

Moments.

Whispers of miracles. Lovers reunited without explanation. Strangers moved to tears on subway cars. People who described seeing a woman in the crowd just before falling in love, or remembering something they thought lost forever.

Each witness described her differently.

But all of them remembered her eyes.

Some said blue. Some green. Some said they were like galaxies collapsing inward.

And so Natasha followed the thread across continents.

Until it led her to Paris.

It was always going to be Paris.

The city hummed with every kind of love — soft, broken, desperate, new. And tonight, it pulsed like a heartbeat under lights and laughter.

Natasha moved through the crowd outside the stadium like she belonged, but her senses were razor sharp. Something was here. She could feel it under her skin.

A Taylor Swift concert.

The singer’s voice echoed through the city like a spell — every lyric about loss, about redemption, about surrender. Each note feeding something in the air.

And then…

At the far end of the stage pit. Surrounded by strangers and strobe lights.

She saw her.

Not glowing. Not crowned.

Just standing still, in the middle of movement.

Smiling at nothing.

But when Natasha’s eyes met hers, the woman turned.

Tilted her head, and smiled like she’d been waiting.

The concert pulsed around her like a living heart. Natasha moved through the bodies swaying in rhythm, ignoring the brush of hands, the bursts of flashlights, the wave of sound. She wasn’t looking for a threat. Not this time. She was following a presence. A warmth. A gravity unlike anything she'd ever felt.

She caught sight of gold disappearing beneath a velvet curtain at the far end of the venue, just beyond the stage.

Without hesitation, Natasha slipped backstage.

It was quiet there. Dim. The muffled roar of the crowd beyond the walls seemed distant now, like thunder far away. The air was heavy with anticipation, or maybe it was just her.

She turned a corner and stopped.

Aphrodite stood near the open arch of a balcony, her silhouette glowing softly in the moonlight, as if the stars themselves bent toward her. The golden fabric of her dress rippled gently, though there was no wind. The scent of roses hung in the air.

Natasha didn’t speak. She waited.

Aphrodite smiled without turning. "You came."

Her voice was music, not in the way of poets, but in the truest sense. It resonated inside Natasha’s chest like the echo of something she’d forgotten she needed.

"You left the moment I saw you," Natasha said, her voice rougher than she intended. "But you wanted me to follow."

Aphrodite turned then. Fully. Slowly. Her eyes were galaxies, not metaphorically, but truly. Endless depths of color, light, and memory.

She looked at Natasha like she knew her.

"I didn't leave," she said gently. "You just had to decide if you wanted to see me."

Natasha took a step forward. Her instincts screamed for logic, for distance, but her body moved like it belonged somewhere else now. Somewhere closer.

"Who are you, really?" she asked. Not like a demand. More like a confession.

Aphrodite tilted her head. "You already know."

Natasha hesitated. Her mind searched for protocol. There was none.

"You're not just a goddess, are you? Not like Thor. Not like the others."

Aprodite’s smile deepened. Not prideful, but aching. "I’m the memory in every soul that ever longed to be understood. I’m the silence between the first look and the first touch. I am love before it’s named."

Natasha blinked, throat tight. "And you’ve been on Earth all this time? Why?"

Aphrodite walked closer. She moved like water, like light, like every answer Natasha had never let herself ask.

"Because Midgard needed me. And because I needed it." She looked out at the city beyond the balcony. "This world is the last place where love still tries. Even when it’s broken. Even when it hurts. That effort… it feeds me."

Natasha followed her gaze. Paris glowed. Bridges lit like veins, streets alive with laughter, pain, and connection. She didn’t answer right away. But she did understand. She felt it. The hum in her chest, the way her pulse synced with something far older than blood. Older than logic. Older than fear.

Aphrodite watched her, eyes soft and full of knowing.

"You're quieter now," she said with a smile, voice playful, velvet-smooth. "I expected more fire from the woman who tracked me through the world like a shadow."

Natasha let out a quiet breath, crossing her arms more for control than defense. "I was on a mission."

Her voice was cool, but her cheeks betrayed her. A faint warmth she couldn’t quite hide.

Aphrodite stepped closer, the golden light clinging to her like breath.

"Are you still?"

The question hung in the air. Not accusing, not teasing. Just open.

Natasha didn’t answer. Instead, she straightened, shifting her stance like a soldier trying to remember her orders.

"The world needs you," she said finally. "Thor… your brother. He asked me to find you. He says the Realms are collapsing. That only you can fix what's coming."

Aphrodite tilted her head slightly, a strand of hair catching the moonlight. "And you came all this way for him?"

Natasha hesitated. Her heart gave the answer before her mouth did.

"I came because something told me you were real." She swallowed hard. "And because when I saw you, I couldn’t… walk away."

Aprodite’s smile deepened, not victorious, but moved.

"Oh, Natasha. " Her voice dripped with affection now, her gaze sweeping slowly upward. "That name… feels too sharp for someone like you."

Natasha raised a brow. "Someone like me?"

Aphrodite circled her slowly, enchanted. She stopped behind Natasha, fingertips grazing the ends of her hair. "You wear danger like silk," she whispered. "But you carry so much softness under it. Your heart, your grief, your fire…"

Her fingers brushed a lock of red hair gently forward over Natasha’s shoulder. "And these? Flames on silk. No wonder the stars leaned closer the night you were born."

Natasha's breath hitched. She stepped forward — half from instinct, half from nerves.

"You're really good at that," she muttered, trying to shake off the effect. "Flattering people. Making them forget what they’re doing."

Aphrodite laughed softly. "I don’t flatter, Natasha. I only speak the truth, especially when it’s wrapped in a red braid and smirking like a storm."

Natasha turned then, facing her. "So you'll come with me?"

Afrodite was quiet for a moment.

"I will. But not because of Thor." Her voice dropped lower. "Because you asked."

That stopped Natasha. Completely.

"Why does that matter?" she asked, the words almost caught in her throat.

Aphrodite stepped closer, until their hands nearly touched. "Because I’ve hidden from kings. Escaped gods. Turned away armies...But I’ve never looked into someone’s eyes and thought…" She leaned in, gaze searching. "‘This one sees me.’"

Natasha didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. And for once in her life, she didn’t have a plan.

Aphrodite smiled softly, her voice a whisper now. "Take me to him, fiery heart. Let the worlds wait a little longer. Tonight, I want to walk beside the one who found me."

The night wrapped Paris in velvet as the quinjet lifted from the rooftop of an old museum near the Seine. The engines hummed low and steady, cutting through the stars like a whisper. Below, the City of Love faded into lights and shadows.

But in the cabin, it was just the two of them.

Natasha sat in the pilot seat, eyes scanning the dashboard, pretending to be more focused than she was. She felt the shift behind her, the way the air moved when Afrodite walked like the atmosphere itself remembered how to feel.

The goddess stood near the window now, fingers resting lightly on the frame, watching the clouds rush past beneath them.

"The sky never looks the same twice," Aphrodite murmured. "Even the stars change when you're falling in love."

Natasha glanced at her reflection in the control panel, then back to the flight path.

"Are we calling this love already?" she asked. Voice dry, but there was no real sarcasm in it. Only breathlessness.

Aphrodite turned, her expression playful but sincere. "No. But I can feel its shape forming between us." She tilted her head. "Can’t you?"

Natasha said nothing. She only stared forward, jaw clenched in defense. Of something cracking. Something she wasn't ready to name.

"You’re used to danger," Aphrodite continued, moving closer. Her feet made no sound on the metal floor. "You dance with it. Sleep beside it. Wear it like perfume." She stopped beside Natasha's chair, lowering her voice. "But you’ve never really let softness in. Have you?"

Natasha’s fingers tightened on the steering column.

"Softness gets people killed," she said.

Aphrodite’s smile didn’t fade, but it grew… sadder. "Only if they forget what it’s for."

A long silence fell between them. The quinjet flew steady, silent, an island between stars.

Finally, Natasha spoke.

"You’ve seen so much," she said. "More than anyone. You’ve been loved and worshipped. Forgotten and feared. Why stay hidden for so long?"

Aphrodite looked out the window again, her profile bathed in moonlight. "Because sometimes even love has to rest." She turned her gaze back to Natasha. "And because the world stopped listening. They wanted power, not connection. I needed to wait… for someone who still remembered what it felt like."

Her eyes softened. "And then you came. A woman who walks like silence and burns like dawn."

Natasha exhaled slowly, her walls cracking under the weight of something she didn’t recognize, or maybe didn’t want to.

She looked up at Aphrodite. "You’re not what I expected."

Aphrodite smiled. "Neither are you."

The console beeped softly, autopilot engaged. Natasha stood from her seat, taking a step toward the back of the quinjet, needing space. Needing distance.

Aphrodite followed, but didn’t press. She simply watched her with calm, open warmth.

Natasha leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. "Thor will want to see you the second we land."

"Then let him." Afrodite sat gracefully on one of the passenger benches, legs folded beneath her like the goddess she was, casual and radiant.

"And you?" she asked gently. "What do you want, Natasha?"

The question landed like lightning in a silent field.

Natasha looked at her. Really looked. At the way Aphrodite's presence made the quinjet feel less like a weapon and more like a vessel of something alive. The way her voice carved its way through the quiet, not like an echo, but like a beginning.

She didn’t answer.

But Afrodite smiled anyway, as if she already knew.

The cabin was quiet again.

Aphrodite had settled into stillness, eyes half-closed, as if she were listening to something only she could hear, a melody woven into the stars. Natasha stayed by the back wall of the quinjet, arms crossed, back straight. Watching her.

Trying not to feel.

Her heart was racing again. Not in the way it used to before a mission or a kill, but in that unfamiliar, maddening way that made her aware of her hands, her breath, the space between her skin and someone else’s.

She hated it.

She turned away, walked toward the back of the ship where a narrow service corridor offered some illusion of privacy. There, she leaned against the cool metal and closed her eyes.

"Get it together." She muttered it under her breath, jaw tense. But the words felt hollow. Something was happening to her, And it wasn’t part of the plan.

Natasha ran a hand through her hair and exhaled sharply.

Aphrodite. The goddess of love. Desire. Emotion incarnate.

Of course she felt something. That’s what Aphrodite did, right? That’s who she was. Her presence created longing. Her voice slid into your bloodstream like honey and poison. Her gaze wasn’t just beautiful, it was designed to unravel you.

Any rational person would fall under her spell. So what made Natasha think she was any different?

She clenched her fists. Her thoughts spiraled.

"This isn’t you," she told herself. "You don’t fall for smiles and poetry. You don’t melt just because someone touches your hair."

But the words didn’t calm her. They only dug the hole deeper.

Was any of this real? The stolen looks. The breathless moments. The warmth in her chest when Afrodite said her name like it was sacred.

Was Natasha actually feeling something… Or was she just failing to resist?

She'd spent a lifetime guarding her emotions, keeping everyone at arm’s length. Now, in the span of a single night, one goddess had cracked her open like glass in warm water.

And she hated how much she wanted it to be real.

Because if it wasn't — if this was just magic, manipulation, the natural consequence of being near the source of divine desire — then it meant she was a fool.

It meant anyone in her place would feel the same. That none of this was hers.

That Aphrodite’s gaze — her voice, her smile — didn’t belong to Natasha. They were just echoes of what the goddess always gave.

She swallowed hard.

A small part of her wanted to run. To finish the mission, deliver Aphrodite to Thor, and then vanish before her own walls gave in completely. Before she said or did something she couldn't take back.

But another part — quieter, older, almost buried — whispered:

What if it's not magic?

What if it's just… you?

She shook the thought away and pushed off the wall, jaw clenched, spine straight again. She had to be ready. They were almost there.

Whatever this was, whatever it meant, she couldn’t afford to fall apart.

Not yet.

The quinjet landed softly on the Avengers Compound’s main platform, the engines purring to silence beneath the glow of dusk.

Natasha stayed in the cockpit a moment longer than she had to, her fingers resting on the controls, knuckles pale. The mission was complete. She'd found the goddess. Brought her here. Fulfilled her duty.

So why did it feel like something in her was unraveling?

Behind her, Aphrodite moved gracefully down the ramp, the wind playing with the golden fabric of her dress. She looked at the compound with quiet disinterest — not disdain, but fatigue. As though she were walking into a memory she’d already mourned.

Thor was waiting at the edge of the landing pad, his presence broad and unmoving, the storm restrained just beneath his skin.

He took a step forward the moment he saw her. "Sister."

Afrodite didn’t stop walking, but her expression shifted, not warmly. Not with excitement. Just… resignation.

"You finally found me," she said.

"We need you," Thor said. "The Realms are tearing apart. The Fates themselves have no thread strong enough to hold them. Only you—"

"No." Afrodite’s voice was soft, but it sliced through the air like a blade wrapped in silk. She stopped a few feet away from him, eyes steady. "I’m not going back."

Thor looked stunned — and then confused, frustrated.

"You have to. Odin's sent visions from beyond the veil. The rupture is growing. Vanaheim has fallen silent. Even Loki fears—"

Aphrodite shook her head. "You always think it’s about fear. Or duty. Or prophecy."

Her eyes shimmered with something deeper now. "But I didn’t hide, Thor. I left. I walked away from that world because love stopped meaning anything up there. It became a transaction. A crown on a broken head."

She glanced toward the building — the cold steel, the sharp corners, the endless war rooms.

"Here, it’s messy. Loud. Human. But it’s real."

Thor stepped closer, trying to keep his tone steady.

"And what happens when the Realms collapse? Midgard won’t be spared. You know this."

Aphrodite turned from him, looking out over the treetops that framed the compound. The wind lifted her hair gently.

"Then let it end with truth," she whispered.

Thor opened his mouth to speak again — but Natasha stepped forward.

Quiet. Careful.

Aphrodite’s eyes found her instantly. And stayed.

Natasha held her gaze, jaw tense. "That’s it? You’re just going to walk away? Leave everything to fall apart because you got tired?"

Aphrodite didn’t bristle. She didn’t strike back.

"No," she said. "I’m going to protect what I still believe in. And if that means staying far away from the games the gods play, then yes — I’ll walk away. Again."

But there was something else in her voice now. A flicker of doubt. The first fracture.

Natasha stepped closer.

"You told me Midgard still tries. That we remember love, even when it’s broken." Her voice wavered, but her feet stayed planted.

"But what if we can’t do it without you? What if we lose that thread too?"

Aphrodite didn’t answer. Her lips parted slightly, her chest rising like she’d stopped breathing for a moment too long.

She looked at Natasha like she’d forgotten the sky above them. The world. The war.

"You still think this is just magic, don’t you?" she asked softly.

"That what you’re feeling… what I’m feeling… is just the ripple of my name?"

Natasha didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Aphrodite stepped back, visibly shaken for the first time.

"You see, Thor…" she murmured, without looking at him.

"That’s why I can't go back. Because the Realms never gave me anything like this."

She turned away from them both, eyes closed, like she needed to press herself into the night air just to stay whole.

Thor looked to Natasha with a kind of unspoken ache. "You got through to her in ways I never could."

Natasha didn’t look at him. She only watched Afrodite’s back.

Her pulse thundered like she was still falling.

For a long time, Aphrodite was seen by Odin as an ornamental presence in the pantheon. Beautiful, yes, enchanting, without a doubt, but useless in the face of the demands of war and the brutal strategies that shaped the realms. To him, love was a luxury, not a force. That is why, when the goddess chose to descend to Earth, distancing herself from the celestial field, Odin did not oppose her. He may have even seen her departure as one less distraction.

But he was mistaken.

On Earth, Aphrodite did more than walk among mortals; she understood them. She lived their fleeting and profound loves, felt their pain and rebirths, witnessed how love could move mountains, make kings yield, and unite peoples. She discovered that love, far from being fragile, was the force that sustained hope even in the darkest times. She fed on passion, longing, tenderness, and the courage of those who love despite fear. And she grew.

Far from the halls of Asgard, she transformed. She learned to channel the emotional energy of people and convert it into pure cosmic force. She learned that a sincere promise could hold more power than a sword, and that love — true, unwavering — could be more destructive than any war hammer. Aphrodite became a goddess not only of love, but of emotional transcendence. She came to command constellations, manipulate psychic realities, and heal traumas with the same ease with which other gods wield weapons.

Now, Odin sees.

He sees that while many warriors destroyed themselves in battles of blood, Aphrodite survived and thrived in an invisible war — the war within hearts. He watches her summon auroras with a gesture, transform pain into healing, and realizes that she is not merely useful… she is essential. The love he once scorned is the only force capable of uniting a shattered kingdom, of restoring faith in a world devastated by coldness, ego, and fear.

And so, he calls her back.

Not as an ornament. Not as an empty symbol. But as a primordial force. A reborn goddess.

Odin, the All-Father, finally understands: Aphrodite is not weak for feeling. She is powerful because she makes others feel. And in the new chapter of the war that looms ahead — a war that will not be won by steel alone — the universe will need her.

Aphrodite stormed out of the room and headed straight for the compound’s garden. Natasha and Thor followed in the same direction but kept their distance. Through the window, they could see her standing quietly, gazing up at the night sky. A soft pink glow surrounded her, and Natasha glanced at Thor, surprise and unspoken questions written all over her face.

"She's kind of… recharging," He tries to explain what's happening.

"So…" Natasha started, her voice low and curious as she glanced at the stars above them, the cool night breeze brushing her hair. "Tell me… about your sister. Aphrodite. Is she really all that? Or is she just another pretty goddess with a flashy title?" She tilted her head slightly, trying to hide the genuine intrigue behind her words.

Thor chuckled softly, his eyes never leaving the axe resting on his lap. "You’ve faced monsters with hearts of stone, Nat. Now imagine someone who can melt those hearts with just a glance." He looked up at her, his expression softening. "Aphrodite is not just beauty. She is the very power of love, made divine. And love… well, it’s far more dangerous than most realize."

Natasha arched a brow, leaning a bit closer, the flicker of the constellations reflecting in her eyes. "Okay, but what does that actually mean? She shoots heart-shaped beams that explode? That doesn’t sound like a real threat."

Thor’s smile faded, replaced by a knowing seriousness. "Oh, but it is." He raised a hand, fingers spreading like roots reaching deep. "She channels cosmic energy born from human emotions—especially love. Whenever people around her connect, fall in love, or open their hearts, she grows stronger. Every genuine feeling is like a ray of sunlight feeding her power."

He paused, eyes intense. "With that, she doesn’t just fire golden pink blasts of emotional energy. She creates shields made of affection. The deeper the emotional bond, the more impenetrable those shields become."

Natasha’s eyes widened, a slow smile teasing her lips. "Wait. You’re telling me feelings become armor?" Her voice softened, curiosity sharpening. "That’s… actually kind of beautiful."

Thor nodded, voice reverent. "That’s just the beginning. She summons constructs of pure cosmic light, floating bonds that can trap enemies, hearts ablaze with pure desire, luminous wings that make her untouchable." He leaned back, gaze drifting upward. "And there’s more, she’s deeply connected to the constellations."

Natasha’s gaze followed his, interest blossoming as the stars twinkled like secrets waiting to be told. "Wait, constellations? She fights with the sky?"

Thor smiled, a hint of awe coloring his words. "She calls on the myths etched among the stars. Andromeda, Cassiopeia, Orion… Each constellation holds a power born from an ancient love story." He paused, his voice dropping. "Take the Flame of Andromeda, for example. It’s a force that frees anyone imprisoned by the fear of love."

His eyes locked with hers. "She uses these stellar powers to heal, to free… or to destroy when she must."

Natasha crossed her arms, a thoughtful expression overtaking her playful smirk. "Alright… now this is sounding a lot more dangerous than cute." Her voice softened as a question slipped out. "But what about in a real fight? Does she actually know how to fight, or just throw love in the air and hope for the best?"

Thor’s tone grew solemn. "She doesn’t fight with anger." He glanced at her, eyes steady. "She fights with her heart."

His voice lowered, almost a whisper. "And sometimes that’s more deadly than any axe or hammer."

He turned fully to face her, the stars reflected in his eyes. "Aphrodite can weave a Cosmic Veil—an illusion made of love and pain. Anyone trapped inside has to confront their deepest wounds, the heartbreaks they hide. It’s not a battle of fists, but of souls."

Natasha’s breath caught, captivated. "You mean… she can win wars without lifting a sword?" Her voice barely audible.

Thor’s nod was slow, deliberate. "Yes. But when she does strike…" He sat up straighter, voice ringing with quiet power. "She unleashes a Cosmic Explosion of Love. She gathers every spark of love around her, friends, lovers, families, even self-love, and turns it into a wave of cosmic energy that heals wounds, shatters curses, and erases hatred. Machines shut down. Evil dissolves. It’s as if the universe itself remembers how to feel again."

Natasha looked away for a moment, her lips parting as she tried to process the weight of it all. Then, slowly, she looked back at Thor, eyes shining with something new—admiration, fascination… maybe something more. "And she… seems so calm, so serene."

Thor’s smile was tender. "That’s what makes her so terrifying. Her energy is light, beautiful. But it hits with the force of thunder. She can disarm armies with a gesture, make the sky weep, or dance with stars. Every power she calls out makes the cosmos respond. Stars flicker, auroras glow." He sighed, "She is a fundamental force. Like gravity. Like fate."

Natasha exhaled, a slow smile curving her lips as she looked back at the night sky. "Alright then." She looks at the golden hair surrounded by a pink energy, making it flow graciously. Feeling some butterflies in her stomach, Natasha thinks she's just overwhelmed by such a beautiful concept. "Next time someone tells me love isn’t a weapon…" She glanced at Thor with a teasing spark. "I’ll remind them of your sister. And maybe… stay out of her way when she’s in a bad mood."

Thor laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Smart choice."

"Because when Aphrodite’s heart breaks…" He shook his head with a smile. "Even galaxies feel it."

They sat on the old stone bench near the edge of the Avengers compound garden, the night soft and still around them. The stars above blinked quietly, as if listening. Just a few meters ahead, Aphrodite sat cross-legged on the grass, her back to them, a soft golden glow around her shoulders like a sigh from the universe itself. She was running her fingers through the clover and watching the fireflies dance in silence.

Natasha couldn’t stop looking at her.

"She’s been here all this time," she said quietly, almost to herself.

"Living among humans. Not hiding, just… being." Her voice held a mix of awe and confusion, the kind that came from someone trained to see through illusions, and yet, completely disarmed by this one.

Thor nodded beside her, his gaze fixed on the woman in the grass. "She always knew how to disappear when she wanted. I looked for centuries." He sighed, his voice touched with something rare, reverence. "And yet, it was you who found her."

Natasha’s lips parted, then closed again.

She didn’t want to say it out loud.

That from the moment she saw Aphrodite, it was like something in her… woke up. Something warm, ancient, and terrifyingly tender.

"She didn’t seem surprised," Natasha said after a pause. "When I found her. Like she already knew I’d come."

Thor turned to her then, his expression quiet and knowing.

"Because she did."

The words settled over her like gravity.

"But what I still don’t get," Natasha said, tearing her eyes away from the goddess, "is why she’s so important to Asgard. To everything. You’ve got gods, armies, and sorcerers. Why her? She clearly doesn't want to go back. She was pretty happy singing with Taylor, you know…" Natasha said with a little smirk.

Thor leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Because the realms are falling apart. And no blade, no thunder, no spell can fix it." He looked over his sister and smiled, "And she always said that Taylor was her best modern creation."

"Wait. She's her mother? Like these semi-god shit?" Natasha was a little surprised.

Thor laughed a little too loudly. "Oh, no. Not like mother. It's something more like… energy. Inspiration. She gives part of her energy to her creations."

He looked back at Aphrodite. She hadn’t moved. But it felt like the air around her pulsed softly, like a heartbeat too big to fit inside one body.

"There’s a rupture between the Nine Realms. Something unnatural. A cosmic fracture that's severing everything that holds us together — treaties, alliances, even blood ties. The energy that used to flow between us… is dying."

Natasha frowned. "What’s causing it?"

"Eris." The name came out like frost. "An ancient goddess. Banished ages ago from Vanaheim. She’s returned, stronger, crueler. She calls herself the Goddess of Dissolution now." He clenched his jaw. "She believes love makes the cosmos weak. That loyalty, honor, emotion are flaws. She wants to burn down the old universe and build a new one. Cold. Controlled. Disconnected."

Natasha looked down at her hands. Quiet.

"And she’s winning?"

"She already is. Treaties are crumbling. Families turning on each other. Realms pulling away into silence and distrust. Even the gods feel it. I can barely talk to Loki without feeling… like something is missing." Thor straightened slowly. "And that’s why we need her." He nodded toward Afrodite. "She’s the only one whose power comes from what Erisdall is trying to destroy."

Natasha looked back at the goddess. She wasn’t glowing with rage, or preparing spells. She was just there. Quiet. Soft. Present.

"She doesn’t look like a savior," Natasha whispered.

Thor’s lips curved faintly.

"That’s the trick. She doesn’t save the world by fighting it. She saves it by reminding it what it feels like to be whole."

Natasha blinked slowly.

"She can repair ancient bonds. Rekindle alliances buried in myth. She can walk into the heart of that rupture — that void where nothing is supposed to survive — and resist it. Because her power doesn’t shatter things. It holds them together."

His voice grew lower, steadier.

"She can mend the connection between gods who've grown distant. Between peoples who no longer trust. Between families, hearts, worlds."

A pause.

"Maybe even between you and yourself."

Natasha swallowed. The words hit too close.

She looked back at Aphrodite, who now tilted her head slightly, as if she could feel them watching. A breeze lifted her hair. The stars above flickered — faint constellations Natasha had never noticed before blooming into soft patterns.

And in that moment, Natasha realized something terrifying and true.

She didn’t just want to protect Aphrodite. She wanted to stand beside her.

Later that night, the Compound was quiet.

The sky outside the large glass corridor bled indigo and silver, the stars suspended like breath held too long. Most of the team had retired, and Thor, reluctantly, had given Afrodite space. He said he would wait until morning for her answer.

But Natasha couldn’t sleep.

She found Aphrodite in the garden behind the compound, where wild lavender and dark ivy twisted around marble statues left by Stark's occasional whims. The goddess sat barefoot on the stone edge of a fountain, her reflection flickering in the water like a memory that couldn’t settle.

Natasha didn’t announce herself. She just walked forward until the night wrapped around them both, and then she sat on the edge across from her.

Silence lingered.

Finally, Aphrodite spoke, barely a whisper.

"I used to believe love was enough."

Natasha’s brows pulled together gently. "You don’t anymore?"

Aphrodite looked up, her eyes softer than Natasha had ever seen them, not glowing, not burning, just human.

"I’ve watched worlds crumble under the weight of devotion," she said.

"I’ve seen kingdoms betray their own gods in the name of loyalty. I've held hearts in my hands that shattered anyway."

She dipped her fingers into the fountain, rippling her own reflection.

"And for a long time… I thought maybe it was my fault. That I was worshipped for something I could never fully give."

Natasha watched her, quiet, letting her speak without interruption — something inside her cracking open a little more with every word.

Aphrodite exhaled, shoulders tense. "But here…" she looked at her. "With you…"

A pause. Something raw rose to the surface.

"You didn’t kneel. You didn’t ask for blessings. You saw me, not the goddess, not the legend. Just me."

Her voice dropped, rough with emotion.

"And that scares me more than the war."

Natasha felt her throat tighten. Her voice, when it came, was low and careful. "I don’t know what this is, either. And I keep trying to tell myself I’m just… reacting to you. That it’s magic. Psychology. Proximity."

She glanced down. "But I’ve never reacted like this to anyone. Not even close."

Aphrodite stood then, slowly, and stepped toward her. The sound of water whispered behind her, but her presence was stronger than any wind.

She stopped right in front of Natasha, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, the scent of roses and lightning.

"What if the Realms don’t need me to win this war?" she asked softly.

"What if they need us?"

Natasha looked up, startled. "Us?"

Aphrodite nodded.

"You’re not just the one who found me. You’re the one who reminded me I was worth being found."

A long pause.

"If I fight this war… I want to fight it with someone who still believes love is worth saving. Even when it hurts. Even when it’s terrifying."

Her hand lifted, barely touching Natasha’s cheek. Not a claim. Just… presence.

"Do you?" she asked. "Still believe?"

Natasha closed her eyes just for a second.

Then, she leaned her face gently into the touch.

"I think I want to."

Aphrodite’s smile was slow and radiant. "Then I’ll stay."

The night wrapped around them like an oath. And for the first time, the goddess of love didn’t feel like she was running.

She felt like she was home.

The next morning, the sky over the Avengers Compound broke in gold.

Pale sunlight spilled across the training fields, warming the steel and glass of the war rooms. Birds flew low, circling the treetops like they sensed the shift in the air — like the Realms themselves were holding their breath.

Inside the strategy hall, Thor paced.

He’d been waiting since before dawn, arms folded tightly over his chest. The projections from Odin flickered across the table — constellations shaking out of place, ley lines unraveling, names of Realms blinking red one by one.

Time was running out.

When the door finally opened, he turned fast.

Afrodite entered first.

But this time, she wasn’t drifting like a myth, she walked with purpose. Still radiant, still golden, but anchored. Present. There was a new steadiness in the way she moved, a quiet strength that came not from power, but from decision.

And beside her, Natasha walked too.

Calm. Eyes forward. A silent message in every step.

Thor looked between them and immediately knew: something had changed.

Afrodite gave him a small nod. "I’ll help."

Thor’s shoulders dropped just slightly, like the storm inside him finally caught a breath. "You’re sure?"

"I am," she said. Then she glanced at Natasha, and something soft flashed in her expression. "Not because I was summoned. Because I chose to."

Thor looked to Natasha with raised brows, his voice low and gruff. "You convinced her."

Natasha didn’t flinch. "She convinced herself," she replied. "I just stayed."

There was a pause. Then Thor smiled.

"Then maybe the gods aren’t the only ones who can hold the realms together."

He gestured to the glowing table. "Come. We have much to show you. The rupture is spreading faster than we expected. If we don’t act soon—"

Aphrodite raised a hand, interrupting gently. "We will act. But not only with force."

She stepped toward the map, eyes scanning the fault lines of connection breaking across the Nine Realms. Her fingers hovered over a fading constellation, one that once symbolized unity between Alfheim and Midgard.

"You’re trying to solve a wound by cutting deeper." She turned back toward them. "Let me try to heal instead."

Natasha moved to stand beside her, arms crossed but not closed off.

"She’s not just a symbol," she said quietly. "She’s a weapon you forgot you had."

Aphrodite smirked. "Elegant, but still a weapon. I think I’ll take that as a compliment."

Thor nodded, gesturing them closer. "Then let’s begin. If you truly want to restore what’s been lost, you’ll need to start where the threads first snapped."

Natasha tilted her head. "Where?"

Thor’s eyes darkened. "Vanaheim."

Aphrodite’s smile faded slightly in recognition.

She looked at Natasha. "You’ll come with me?"

There was no pause.

"Always," Natasha said.

And in that room, under the weight of galaxies breaking and gods falling, something unshakable formed between them — not just an alliance.

A beginning.

The sky above Vanaheim was fractured.

They emerged from the bifrost gateway into a land that once shimmered with spring light and endless gardens. Now, the color seemed drained, like someone had turned down the saturation of an entire world.

Trees stood twisted. Rivers ran in silence. The very air trembled with something that felt like… forgetting.

Aphrodite stood at the edge of the stone path, her gold-wrapped sandals sinking slightly into the soft ground. She closed her eyes.

"It’s worse than I thought," she whispered.

Natasha scanned the terrain, her fingers near the holster at her side.

"Where are the people?"

"Gone," Aphrodite said. "Or hiding. The rupture doesn’t just tear realms apart, it erodes what holds them together. Memory. Loyalty. Love."

She opened her eyes, and they were brighter now, not glowing with vanity or glamour, but fire. Something ancient.

"Eris’ influence is here."

Natasha looked at her sharply. "You’ve faced her before?"

Aphrodite nodded slowly. "Once. Long ago. Before she became what she is now. Back then, she was merely bitter. Now… she’s purpose with no heart."

A cold wind swept through the empty field. Natasha felt it in her bones.

They walked in silence through the ruined path of what once was a palace garden. Stone arches crumbled above vines that no longer bloomed. The colors seemed to flicker, like reality itself was… thinning.

Then they heard it.

A low hum. A resonance that tugged at their chests.

Aphrodite stopped, brow furrowed. She reached out, touching a cracked pillar etched with an old sigil of unity. The symbol flickered weakly beneath her hand, like it recognized her.

She turned to Natasha.

"Help me."

Natasha blinked. "With what?"

"Stay close. Focus on me. Not with your mind, with your heart."

Aphrodite’s voice trembled with something Natasha hadn’t heard in her before: need.

Natasha hesitated, then stepped forward, placing her hand over Afrodite’s where it touched the stone.

The effect was immediate.

The symbol under their hands pulsed, slow and golden. The air shifted.

Afrodite gasped, her hair lifting slightly, as if weightless. Light rippled from her chest outward in concentric waves, soft but strong.

"What’s happening?" Natasha asked, her voice low.

"You’re anchoring me," Aphrodite said, voice barely above a whisper. "I can feel the threads again. I can feel them."

Natasha’s fingers curled slightly, holding on tighter. "Then let’s pull."

The pillar shone brighter now, vines blooming again in reverse, stone stitching itself back together. The ground beneath them hummed with resonance. The sky began to glow with a faint color, and somewhere in the distance, birds cried out. Remembering.

Aphrodite turned to Natasha, her face lit by both power and disbelief.

"You’re more than a tether," she whispered. "You’re a key."

Natasha didn’t move. "To what?"

Aphrodite stepped closer, the energy between them still pulsing.

"To making this real."

And then, the hum cut off. Like a rope snapped mid-pull.

A shockwave burst from the tree line, and both women were thrown backward. A wall of emptiness rippled toward them, cold and gray and hungry.

From the shadows beyond the trees, a voice slithered into the air.

"You always needed someone else to matter, didn’t you, sister?"

A tall figure stepped forward. Robed in deep slate, crowned with a broken circlet of silver thorns. Her eyes were empty sockets of mist. Her skin cracked like marble under pressure.

Eris.

Aphrodite straightened, breath ragged, fury and grief written across her face. "You have no place here."

Eris smirked. "Neither do you. You walk into the wound like you can fix it with sentiment." She looked at Natasha now, head tilting.

"And what is this? Another fragile flame you think will save you?"

Natasha stepped forward before she could stop herself, chin raised.

Aphrodite's hand brushed Natasha’s again for strength. And suddenly, despite the ruin around them, they stood brighter than the dusk.

Together.

"You should’ve stayed hidden in your temples, sister," Eris said, voice cold as fractured glass. "This world doesn’t need love. It needs clarity."

Aphrodite stepped forward, her glow dimming slightly — not from weakness, but from resolve. "Clarity without connection is just ice."

"Exactly." Eris lifted her hand.

The air shifted. Like all color was being drained again. Like the idea of warmth was being erased.

Natasha staggered slightly. Her memories — soft ones, human ones — flickered in and out. Childhood. Laughter. A hand on hers during a dark night. Faces. Names. Gone. Back. Gone again.

"She’s pulling at you," Afrodite warned, catching Natasha’s arm. "She feeds on fear. On isolation."

Natasha tried to respond, but her throat burned. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t remember what to say.

She didn’t know what she believed anymore.

What if this wasn’t real?

What if everything she felt was just…

"A trick," Eris whispered, now behind her. "You think she loves you? That fast? You think your souls are connected? You're only a trained assassin. She shines for everyone. You’re just another heartbeat in the crowd."

Natasha gasped. The words struck deep, deeper than any weapon.

She pulled away instinctively from Aphrodite’s hand and took a step back.

Aphrodite's face broke. "No. Don’t let her in."

But it was too late.

Eris was inside now, whispering into every fracture of Natasha’s heart, every scar she had buried beneath layers of discipline and control.

"You’ve always been alone, haven’t you? Even when they fought beside you. Even when they smiled. You’re not built for connection. You’re built to survive."

Natasha’s hands trembled.

Her knees hit the ground.

But just before the darkness swallowed her, a warmth returned.

Familiar. Constant.

A hand, again, finding hers.

Aphrodite.

She was kneeling too, refusing to leave her side.

Not radiant. Not perfect.

Just there.

"She’s lying," Aphrodite said, her voice raw now — human.

"I do love everyone. That’s true. But not like I love you. We're connected. You were made to be my queen."

The words broke something open.

Light surged from their joined hands — a deep, ancient gold, tinged with scarlet. Not beautiful like a painting. Beautiful like a wound healing.

Eris recoiled.

"No—!"

Aphrodite held tighter.

"You dissolve what you can’t understand, Eris. You destroy what you envy. But love isn’t something you can erase."

Natasha, breath shaking, looked up, eyes meeting Aphrodite’s.

And finally, finally, she saw something she could hold onto.

Not magic.

Not myth.

Her.

She nodded, once.

"I'm still here."

Aphrodite smiled tearfully, fiercely.

And with a final surge of radiant energy, the wave of dissolution shattered, breaking like glass against the bond they had built.

The skies above Vanaheim brightened for the first time in weeks.

Flowers bloomed again along the path behind them.

And Eris vanished into the mist, forced to retreat.

Aphrodite collapsed into Natasha's arms, both of them shaking from the weight of having held each other through it.

"You held on," Aphrodite whispered, burying her face in her shoulder.

"So did you," Natasha replied. And then added, softly: "I think I’m done running from this."

Aphrodite leaned back, eyes shining.

"Then we’re just getting started."

The Bifrost opened like dawn through glass.

Light spilled across the golden bridge as Natasha stepped out beside Aphrodite. Her boots clicking softly against the smooth crystal, her shoulders squared, but her heart still bruised from what they had survived in Vanaheim.

Ahead, the towers of Asgard gleamed with quiet tension. The Realm of Gods had heard what happened.

And they were waiting.

At the palace gates, warriors lined both sides — silent, reverent in recognition.

Aphrodite walked like flame contained, eyes forward, no longer shimmering with illusion. This time, she carried herself not as a leader.

Natasha, though mortal, matched her stride.

When they entered the Hall of the High Council, murmurs rippled like wind across marble. Odin stood in the center, regal and still. At his side: Balder, Heimdall, Sif — and even Loki, half in shadow.

Thor waited behind them, arms folded. But when he saw Natasha beside his sister, his stern gaze cracked just slightly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Odin raised her hand.

Silence fell.

"Aphrodite of the Old Flame," Odin said, her voice echoing like memory. "You left this Realm centuries ago. We feared you had vanished. And yet here you stand."

Aphrodite nodded. "I did not vanish. I simply chose… to feel again."

Loki scoffed under his breath, but said nothing.

Odin stepped forward. "Vanaheim speaks your name with reverence. You pushed back the darkness not with blades or thunder, but with bond. With truth."

She turned her eyes to Natasha now. The entire hall followed.

"And you." A mortal. A shadow-walker of Midgard. "You stood in front of Eris. Not because you had power. But because you had heart. Why?"

Natasha looked around, hundreds of eyes, some glowing, some ancient, all waiting for her to falter.

She didn't.

"Because she never asked me to kneel," she said simply. "She just held my hand."

A ripple of surprise moved through the crowd.

Thor smiled fully now.

Odin stepped back. "Aphrodite, do you accept your mantle as Protector of the Sacred Ties — Keeper of Connection, Voice of the Heart, Defender of the Ties That Bind the Realms?"

Aphrodite took Natasha's hand. "Yes," she said. "But not alone."

She turned toward the circle of gods.

"I ask that Natasha Romanoff stand beside me as my Queen of the Ties."

Gasps.

Even Loki blinked.

Odin's brows lifted, then softened.

"You would name a mortal as co-ruler of the oldest force in the cosmos?"

"Yes," Aphrodite said. "Because the gods have forgotten what it means to hold on. She hasn’t."

The room fell silent again.

Then, after a breathless pause, Odin stepped forward.

He reached into her cloak and drew out a small silver circlet — delicate, woven like threads of fate. He walked to Natasha… and placed it gently upon her head.

"Then let it be known," Odin declared. "That the Queen of the Ties walks among us. And the Realm of Love has returned."

Applause didn’t come like thunder. It came like dawn: slow, warm, undeniable.

Aphrodite turned to Natasha and whispered, low enough that only she could hear:

"You’re not just the one who found me, Natasha. You’re the one I’ll hold on to."

Natasha, still dazed by the weight of the crown, smiled.

"Then let’s teach the gods how to feel again."

And so began the era of restoration.

Not of kingdoms.

But of connection.

The night over Asgard was impossibly clear.

Above the palace towers, the stars bloomed in soft spirals of gold and violet, each one humming quietly like the remnants of forgotten love stories. The Realms were healing — slowly, but surely. The war was not over… but the tide had changed.

On the terrace that wrapped around the highest point of the palace, two figures stood alone in the wind.

Natasha leaned against the edge of the carved marble rail, the breeze lifting strands of her hair, loose from any braid or mission. She wore no armor now — just a soft crimson robe that caught the starlight like flame.

Behind her, Aphrodite stepped barefoot across the polished stone, her silhouette bathed in lunar silver. No crown adorned her head. No symbols floated around her. Just her, golden, real, and breathtaking.

"You’ve been quiet," Aphrodite said gently.

Natasha looked up at the sky. "I'm not used to peace." A small smile curved her lips. "I keep expecting another war to fall from the stars."

Aphrodite moved closer, until their shoulders nearly touched.

"I’m not used to staying," she whispered. "But something keeps me here."

Natasha turned, eyes meeting hers. "Something?" she echoed, teasing softly.

Aphrodite’s gaze dropped briefly to her lips, then back to her eyes.

"You."

Silence stretched between them, warm and slow like honey in the throat.

Then Natasha’s voice dropped, quiet as a confession.

"When I found you… I thought I was bringing you back to the world."

She stepped forward, her hand brushing lightly against Afrodite’s.

"But maybe you were bringing me back to something I forgot how to want."

Aphrodite let out a soft breath. Her fingers threaded through Natasha’s, delicate but certain.

"You know what’s strange?" she said. "I’ve been loved by kings and poets. Wished for by empires. Worshipped by mortals who never knew my face. And yet…" She leaned in, her lips brushing just above Natasha’s cheekbone. "None of them made me feel like you do when you look at me, like I’m more than myth. Like I’m real."

Natasha’s breath caught. Her hands slid to Aphrodite’s waist, slow, reverent.

"You are real."

Afrodite tilted her head, her nose brushing softly against Natasha’s.

"Then kiss me like I am."

Natasha didn’t hesitate.

She closed the space between them with a kiss that was everything. Slow and desperate, tender and claiming, full of the ache of battles fought and the hunger of promises yet to come.

Aphrodite melted into her, arms wrapping around her neck, mouth parting with a quiet sound that sent a shiver down Natasha’s spine.

The kiss deepened. No rush, no fear, just the undeniable pull of soul meeting soul. When they finally parted, foreheads pressed together, both of them breathing heavily and tangled in each other’s warmth, Natasha whispered: "You stayed."

Aphrodite smiled, her thumb brushing along Natasha’s jaw.

"Because you’re the only home I’ve ever wanted."

And above them, the stars danced just for them.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x female

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