#(again. could just be because I’m a girl)

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru thought this was gonna go differently.

like, way differently.

there was supposed to be sparkles. blushing. a dreamy sigh and you flinging yourself into his arms like, “satoru, that was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. i think i love you. i think i wanna marry you and have your absurdly pretty babies.”

but no.

you’re just standing there. blinking. in silence. on the private rooftop he rented. at sunset. where a live quartet is playing your favorite song in the background.

you look like you're still buffering.

he’s smiling on the outside but internally? he’s going through it. he’s sweating. he thinks his lungs collapsed five seconds ago. he might actually pass out.

because instead of melting into his arms and swooning like a lovestruck anime girl, you're staring at him like he’s grown two heads. (which—okay, to be fair—if he had, he’d still look majestic as hell.)

but that is not in his ten-step seduction plan.

“...so?” he says, trying to recover, giving you his best wink. “pretty romantic, huh? for our third date?”

you finally blink. you slowly tilt your head. “did you… rent a rooftop?”

“…yes.”

“and a live band?”

“yes?”

“…for dinner?”

“yes?!”

you keep staring. like you’re waiting for him to yell ‘gotcha!’ and reveal that this was all an elaborate prank. but it’s not. it’s real. he's real. he just wanted to see you smile.

and now he’s spiraling. because what if it’s too much? what if he overwhelmed you?? what if you’re like ew he's insane i just wanted ramen and a walk and you’re going to ghost him right after this and marry someone normal??

he fidgets. plays it cool. leans against the table casually like “haha unless it’s weird. is it weird? no pressure. i can cancel the shooting stars. i mean they’re just drones, not real stars, i didn’t bribe the universe or anything—unless that would’ve been more impressive, in which case, i’ll try harder next time—”

you blink again and finally, finally—you laugh. soft and breathless. a hand to your face like you can’t believe him. “...you’re insane.”

he thinks he might actually ascend from relief.

he breathes. barely. something uncurls in his chest. “yeah,” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck, grinning like he doesn't know where to look, “but i’m your problem now, right?”

you roll your eyes and reach for his hand anyway. and that’s all he could ever need. he doesn’t care that the pasta’s gone cold or that the damn string quartet’s been playing the same song twice now. you smiled. you stayed.

he’ll call that a win.

(even if he does need to rethink the proposal plan because this woman clearly doesn’t rattle easy.)

[heartyluv]

note: i’m just sharing this thought, but still—!!MDNI!!

nobody come in here arguing about this because it’s canon and i don’t care what anyone says…

caleb ABSOLUTELY loves bigger women.

have you seen how big that man is..? he needs a girl who can TAKE HIM!!!

he knows how to cook too, so he always makes sure you’re fed and don’t play none of that “i’m gonna get bigger, caleb. i need to ease up on my eating.”

girl he’s going to fuck you upside down, left, right, on your side, back—in the sky if he could—and he’s holding you up with nothing but pure strength while he does it. one way or another, he’s gonna make sure he gets it through your pretty little head that you are EXACTLY what he wants.

you’re concerned he can’t lift you? not only will he prove that he can time and time again, but he’ll just continue to ensure he stays consistent in the gym so that he’s always strong enough. he can never have you stressing about something he loves way too much.

the way your stomach sits right over the waist band of your panties? GOOD GOD, IT GETS HIM HARD EVERY TIME!!!

one of his favorite things is backless dresses on you. he becomes equivalent to a caveman LOLLL!! a clear unobscured view of your plush body? LET YOU WEAR IT IN PUBLIC?!? you’re walking around with his cum in your panties for the rest of the day.

he adores your pussy because she’s just so plump and perfect. his favorite pastime is cupping you in his hand when you guys are just chilling or something. sometimes he’ll even press kisses to it—which ends up with your panties pulled to the side, his nose buried deep in between your lips, and his tongue in your hole. (and yes, his spit and your slick is EVERYWHERE!!! HE IS A MESSY EATER!!!)

your tits are his personal pillow. he hates when you wear bras, btw. he’s not able to hold your boobs in his hands properly when you do.

his strong hands and arms are always around and on your stomach. LOVESSSS to get a hold of you. he wants to bite you so baddd LOLLL!! it’s his love aggression, he can’t help it.

he doesn’t compare you to any goddess because you’re HIS deity. the only one that matters to him, in fact. baby, than man adores you. he wants you naked everywhere, all the time, 25/8.

he’s too hard of a man to not have his other half be his soft side. MHMM MHMMMMM!!!!

(i have so much more i could say, but then i’d just be yappin)

tags 🏷️: @innergardentoadpony @teacupwaifu @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @ajyoursgirl @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @inutrasha94 @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv

[strnilolover]

⌗ . . . VOICEMAILS

WARNINGS : ANGST. SLIGHT CRYING. HURT NO COMFORT (?). PLOT TWIST (?).

it was a habit—the way matt would pick up his phone everyday and call you. even if you never responded to him, he was more than okay with that. he just liked having someone there to listen to him.

and really this week was no different.

START VOICEMAILS - remaining - *7*

*beep*

“hi!—sorry i can’t come to the phone right now, you know how life can get. but just leave a message and i’ll get back to ya! love you!”

*beep*

Monday - 3:12 pm

Voicemail #1 :

“hey sweetheart, i just left the grocery store and got your favorite cereal,” he pauses, laughing softly to himself. “i don’t know why you ever liked it, it didn’t even taste right, but..i don’t know why i keep buying it even though i know i’m never going to eat it. it’s a habit i guess,” he lets out a small sigh running his fingers through his hair. “maybe i just like pretending you’ll come around and steal the last bowl again..”

there’s silence on the line for a moment, matt’s breathing filtering in before he spoke again.

“call me when you get this, okay?”

Tuesday - 11:46 pm

voicemail #2 :

“i can’t sleep. the apartment’s been too quiet recently, more than normal. do you remember that creaky floorboard in our hallway? yeah? well i keep stepping on it by accident, and it freaks me out every time even though i know it’s there,” he laughs to himself, at just how silly he sounds saying that. “you used to tease me about it every time. pretty sure you even doubled over to the floor once after i screamed like a girl one night.”

suddenly he paused at the memory, he could feel his head starting to swim.

“miss hearing your voice. miss everything. call me when you can.”

Wednesday - 5:07 pm

voicemail #3 -

“work was fucking hell today. chris tried to prank me by messing with my camera settings again, and I nearly threw him out a window,” he paused, allowing himself to take a few deep breaths at the thought of his brother. he exhales before speaking, “you’d have loved it. you always said I needed to get better at standing up for myself, or really speaking my mind.”

he exhales a laugh, but it’s quiet.

“i’m sorry this isn’t as long..but, i stood up for myself today. thought you’d be proud—i love you and thank you.”

Thursday - 9:21 am

voicemail #4 -

“i saw a girl with your jacket today. the one with the patches and the paint on the sleeve—i thought it was you and almost ran after her.” he took a deep breath, sniffling. “though i stopped myself in my tracks. because really i shouldn’t be bothering with it”

there was a long pause. then, his voice came quieter than before.

“i wish i had really…just to see your face one more time, even if it wasn’t really you.”

Friday – 1:33 pm

voicemail #5 -

“It’s been… how long now?” he sighs quietly, feeling the way his face goes hot. “i stopped counting honestly..it doesn’t feel right. time doesn’t move the same when you’re not here. it’s like it got stuck on that day and never wanted to progress.”

a sniffle. silence for a few seconds, then a quick breath.

“anyway. i’m rambling again. i’ll call you tomorrow, okay? like always, i promise.”

Saturday – 6:45 PM

voicemail #6 -

“remember that little bookstore you loved? they’re closing down…I was able to though before hand and bought that poetry book you kept picking up but never brought yourself to buy. it’s sitting on your nightstand. still has the receipt in it.”

he breathes in like he’s trying not to cry—cause god—he really was trying to hold on for you.

a few small sobs and sniffles are caught on the microphone. “i’m scared I’m forgetting your voice.”

Sunday – 10:00 am

he doesn’t leave a voicemail today.

not at first anyways. he’s walking through the quiet apartment—his phone to his ear as he scans the walls of everything that was yours—before he then ends the call. and suddenly he’s standing in front of the shelf in the corner of the room when he shifts his gaze up from the floor.

the one lined with polaroids, bracelets, your favorite candle—

and

a ceramic urn with your name etched in soft gold.

and next to it—your phone still sits propped upright beside it. the screen’s dark and the battery’s long been dead. matt stares at it for a while, knowing just how many messages he’s sent to you since you’ve been gone.

slowly, matt presses the call button again, bringing his hand up to his ear as his other hand reaches out to trace the pictures of you and him—and leaves one more voicemail.

Sunday – 10:06 AM

voicemail #7 :

“hey, angel. i know you can’t answer these—I know that. i know that every time i pick up my phone and dial your name,” he sucks in a sharp breath, biting his teeth into his lower lip to stop the sobs from spilling past his lips. “i hope you’re happy up there..wherever you are. and happy 6 years my love—i can’t wait to have you in my arms again.”

another broken breath slipped from him. and a pause full of everything he never got to say to you—never got to marry you.

“but.. i’m gonna keep calling anyway. you don’t have to hear me to know i’m still here for you—it’s forever right? i promised you that.”

his voice cracks just a little—his walls about to crumble the longer he stays on the line. but he couldn’t help the cry that left him as he said the last few words he’d never get to hear from you again.

“i love you so much…and i’ll talk to you tomorrow baby.”

END VOICEMAILS - remaining -*0*

a/n : my version of the voicemails :)

[lily-bisque]

dad!gojo getting back into the dating scene after retiring from the sorcerer world… but it’s not exactly what you’d think. cw: controversial age gap, dead dove. visuals included in this work! continue at your own discretion.

he’s running a hand through his milky tresses, wondering if you, the girl he’s been chatting with from some dating site, and who’s far too young for him, can tell that he’s sporting a few grey hairs.

surprise, you can’t, because it matches his natural hair color but when was gojo ever rational when it came to his love life.

a real silver fox.

you were posing in your bathroom mirror, sporting your cotton boy shorts, delicate lace fringing the ends, a mini tank, and snapping selfies when you got that familiar text.

a flush covered your cheeks intrinsically as you held your phone in both hands, hurrying to open it.

satoru gojo: how’s my pretty girl doing?

you scoffed, a futile attempt to mask how jittery he made you, turning around and leaning against the sink counter as your thumbs typed away at your screen, an exhilarating rush coursing through your veins.

he was checking himself out in his camera, pulling his top up in his bedroom and gazing at his stomach, doing anything to distract himself from the impending message bubble from you that had his heart stuttering.

you: pretty good. but i’d bet you’d like to see just how good i’m doing.

that had blood rushing south for the old guy, feeling like a pale and lanky teenager again and not a near forty year old man texting a girl a decade younger than him.

he ran a hand over his jaw, thinking up a flirty response before his hands got to work.

satoru gojo: and you bet right. hundred bucks just for that.

you watched him deposit it into your account, standing on your tiptoes as adrenaline pumped through you.

see, gojo wasn’t just some guy you’d been talking to.

he was your sugar daddy.

college wasn’t easy to pay your way through and when you’d managed to stumble upon an incredibly rich, witty, respectful and probably pretty lonely old guy, who were you not to take advantage of it?

but still, you were positive that what was supposed to be harmless conversation and nude images turned into a blossoming crush.

as you fantasized over what you could spend the cash on as he always made sure you had more than enough to take care of yourself, twirling a strand of hair between two fingers, you got another text from him and opened it.

satoru gojo: a present for my pretty girl.

satoru gojo: [Photo Attachment]

your mouth fell slack at the sight, thighs clenching as your gaze raked over his bare figure.

the veins protruding from his v-line had slick pooling in your panties, feeling weak in the knees at the sight of his ripped figure. you could only wish he’d tossed the entire top off. you wanted to run your fingers down his abdomen, suck on the hard skin and mark it like he was your own.

you knew he was quite older than you, so it only attracted you a hell of a lot more to see just how much he kept up with his figure as if he was in his youth. the man has probably been in his prime for fifteen years.

gojo awaited your response, knee bouncing as he sat on the edge of his bed, hunched over and seeing the little read under his image.

maybe it wasn’t good enough, he thought.

he stood again, tearing his top off and standing before his full length mirror, flexing his biceps, running a hand down his rock hard abdomen and holding his phone up to take another picture.

he was so caught up in his reverie that he hadn’t even noticed the door propping open, two figures standing in the doorway and staring bewildered at him.

“gojo what the fuck?” megumi called out, dragging a hand down his now flushed face, embarrassed that his benefactor managed to always be so weird.

“woah, sensei. i had no idea you were so shredded,” yuji awe-d out, matching gojo’s previous pose as he shoved his phone back into his pocket.

his kid and his student didn’t need to know what he was up to in his newly found free-time.

“it’s for, uh,” he drawled out, mind racking with an answer he was struggling to form. “my new gym community. wanted to show them my progress!” he exclaimed out, flexing a bicep at yuji to which the young boy clapped at.

after he’d kicked the boys out, he let out a sigh of telief, allowing his nerves to settle before he pulled his phone out from his pocket and opened the two texts you’d sent in the time away from his device.

you: why haven’t we met up yet?

you: [Video Attachment]

you’d already managed to send him just a little 10-second snippet of you in your bed, toying with yourself and whining out heady whimpers of his name.

you’d never sent him a video before.

satoru gojo: fuck. be a good girl and send your address over.

satoru gojo: let me help.

[floofin-raum]

I get so utterly enraptured every time I come across this because the connection between these two is just chef kiss. Whole other level. I could write an essay for what it is I love so much. I’m gonna, actually. Suffer my adoration.

That horse is in beautiful health. He’s fit, he’s muscled, and he’s got healthy fat on top. Horses are designed to run but this guy makes it look effortless. Bet this horse could go all freaking day and come out sound if he had to. Also betting he ain’t ever asked to do that in the first place.

This rider’s seat is fantastic and an absolute delight to watch. Talk about making yourself a light ride. She’s balanced, in tune, and independent. She’s carrying herself the whole time, slightly raised off the horse’s spine by the power of her inner thigh, and her lower leg is SO stable holy shit. Don’t let movies fool you into believing any of that is easy – that is a full body WORK OUT - and she’s sustaining a LARGE wind-dragged flag with a high lifted arm at the same time. GIRL.

You can see the moment that horse shifts gear from gallop to full throttle (secret final gait s2g) and he is focused. He is so comfortable in this endeavour. And best of all he is not ever micromanaged. A balanced and confident horse like this can move mountains when they are allowed to control themselves. But that isn’t to say she isn’t communicating!

She’s talking to him. She works through her attentive checklist (checks horse, herself, camera, what’s ahead, horse again, did you see that to the camera, flag) in such a steady manner. You can see, in that moment she mouthed something that amusingly looks a little like the 'oh shit' curse, that she SAW something ahead that could be concerning.

A change in terrain! When she lifted the neckrope and pulled back, that moment reads like a check in. That was not for her own balance (preparation, yes, to move with his decisions) - that is what I mean by an independent seat though, hands are a SEPARATE entity from the body’s job. Hands are for communicating, if used at all (most communication is actually in your seat and leg) and NOT for holding you there (common beginner error!). She was making an unmissable suggestion, but not interfering. She was saying ‘hey, something’s changed, do you see that ahead?’ and her horse says yep! I sure do! And he navigates the terrain roll with SUCH grace. He counterbalanced every foot fall that needed it with just the lift and dip of his head. What a beautiful, level-headed beast (affectionate). And the thing is, this kind of communication only comes about with relationship. There is a brilliant relationship between these two. I think I know exactly what I’d find if I dug deeper into that.blue.roan’s account.

And guys I haven’t even mentioned the immaculate flying lead change he does yet. He might do it twice in this clip, but definitely right before the film cuts – he switches which leg he is leading his strides with and. It. Is. Seamless. AT GALLOP. Free choice self-management at its BEST, baby!!! He’s doing everything he feels he needs to maintain that momentum safely, with the confidence that he is allowed to. Something in the path ahead after the video ends tells him he needs to adjust which leg he is on – I would assume a bend in the road that he may need to lean into to take, but it could also simply be that he is done with his run and slowing down is easier for him when on the other lead, so he adapts accordingly (horses have right and left-side dominance too!)

Overall I am in love with this video. A goddamn delight out of the horse world to witness. OoGH.

Description: [A video of a woman riding a galloping horse bareback while holding a large rainbow flag.]

[itneverendshere]

i love bitchy!pouge!reader x rafe soooo much! idk how to explain it but the way you write them brings me comfort. i was wondering if you could write what their first fight was about after exchanging i love yous? 🥺

fight so dirty, but you love so sweet - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe warnings: 70% angst

Feelings—especially yours—came barbed, similar to the way you’d grown up.

A girl with no patience for sugarcoated anything and Rafe Cameron with all his kooky contradictions had somehow slithered under your skin. Which made it worse, because you remember who he used to be.

You’re sitting on your porch, feet up on the railing, a melting popsicle between your fingers and your phone in the other hand, scrolling with vague boredom until your thumb freezes.

It’s a picture.

Rafe, at that stupid-ass annual Kook charity event he swore he hated but always went to.

The one he invited you to, told you you should come, even though he knew you'd rather set your hair on fire than mingle with sweater-vested trust fund kids drinking out of champagne flutes like it’s water. You had rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather get hit by a golf cart.”

And he’d laughed—understood. No pressure.

But now the photo…Your stomach drops.

It’s Brielle fucking Simmons, all pearls and perfect hair and fake everything. Rafe’s ex, standing close, hand on his arm, claiming him.

Both smiling, harmless fun, right? Wrong. You’re already texting him before you know what you’re saying.

You: lol tell Brielle she looked cute latched to your arm tonight. You two looked like a literal J. Crew ad. So wholesome. ❤️

It takes three minutes for the dots to start typing. Then stop, start again, and then he calls.

You let it ring out. 

He calls again. 

“Babe—”

“What the fuck was that?”

“What do you mean?”

“The pictures. Your little date.”

“She’s not my date,” He scoffs, “It was a photo. She walked up, I didn’t—what are you doing right now?”

“Wondering how fast I’d get kicked out if I slapped that fake-ass smile off her face.”

“She’s not important.”

“Oh, but she looks pretty important. All over you, dressed like she just walked out of a Lilly Pulitzer wet dream.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being—” You stand up, pacing now. “Wow. Okay. Let’s unpack that, Rafe.”

Rafe exhales hard. “It was a photo. She came up to me—”

“You sure as fuck didn’t stop her.” You’re pacing now, bare feet hitting the porch. “You look real comfortable. Like old times, huh? Bet she knows exactly where to put her hand.”

He groans. 

“Can you relax for a second—I wanted you here. You didn’t wanna be here, and I respected that. What was I supposed to do? Push you to come somewhere you’d hate to avoid a two-second interaction with my ex?”

“You could’ve told her to back off. You could’ve told the photographer to fuck off.”

“She means nothing. You know that.”

Your tongue kisses your teeth.

“That’s what every man says right before he ends up dicking someone in a monogrammed bathroom.”

“Are you fucking serious right now? She wasn’t even—fuck.” He sighs harshly. “You’re jealous over nothing.”

You stop dead. “Did you just call me jealous?”

“What do you want me to say? That I should’ve shoved her off me at a charity event, my dad’s hosting in front of thirty people and a news crew to protect your ego?”

Wow, okay, that one hurt.

“My ego? My ego?”

“You’re not trusting me,” he snaps. “I love you, and one picture sends you spiraling like I’m cheating on you in broad daylight.”

There it is.

He realizes it too late.

You inhale sharply, eyes stinging. “Right. Got it.”

“Wait—no, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t do halfway. If you want me, you want me. You don’t let your ex drape herself over you while you're fucking grinning for a photo-op and I’m at home baking stupid brownies for you.”

“You know I want you. I’m not gonna argue with you over one photo,” he grits out.

“Then don’t,” you say flatly.

Click.

You hang up.

You sit back down, popsicle dripping onto your jeans, and feel that sick, familiar feeling settle into your chest. You knew it was only a matter of time before the Kook fantasy ended.

You were just the wrong shape for him.

You toss your phone onto the steps beside you and stare out at the darkness, but all you can see is her. Her glossy hair, her effortless way of fitting into a world you never had a place in.

And he looked like that old Rafe again, the one who looked at you like you were a problem. You feel your chest rip apart, blooming beneath your ribs. You knew this would happen. You fucking knew it. You chew your thumbnail and tell yourself you’re fine.

You told him when things started to get real—when he began looking at you like you were worth more than a secret thrill—that this wasn’t something you knew how to do; you’d never been the girlfriend.

Guys never wanted you like that, not for long. They fucked you, they laughed with you, and they left, never picking you. You’re the girl who wears ripped shorts and tells people to fuck off before they finish their sentence, who drinks out of bottles and picks fights when she’s scared. You’re not polished. You’re not soft.

You’re not someone a guy keeps.

You know the things they used to say about you. Easy. Fun. Drama. A good time, not a long time. You’d hit, but don’t date her. Too much.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that Rafe said I love you, part of you thinks this was borrowed time.

The stars are out, but you’re not looking at them.

You’re still sitting on that rickety porch with your knees hugged to your chest, hoodie swallowed around your fists, and your phone screen dimmed black beside you.

It’s been thirty minutes since you hung up. It feels like years.

Now the anger’s gone. You know what you did, throwing a grenade and watching it blow—on purpose. It’s easier to burn it down yourself than wait for him to walk away. You chew at your thumbnail, heart beating slow and sick in your chest, that ugly lump still pressing up against your throat.

You knew you were being mean, pushing him in the other direction by accusing him of shit he didn’t do.

Better he hates you than pities you.

You drag your hands down your face and groan into the empty air, not knowing how to fix this. You’re not the girl who apologizes first, you don’t know how to come back after you say things you can’t take back.

You’re just starting to get up—arms sore, heart heavier than it was when you sat down—when you hear tires skidding on gravel.

You freeze on the porch step.

Headlights blast through the trees, and then—

SLAM.

Rafe doesn’t try to park right. The truck is half sideways in the grass, one tire up on the edge of the road, he barely remembered to throw it in park before yanking the keys out.

He’s already out.

You don’t say anything while he storms up the path, chest rising and falling, his shirt wrinkled, sleeves rolled, and hair messy—he likes to drive with the windows down.

When he gets close enough to see your face—the red eyes, the guilt and fear still holding your expression hostage—he softens.

“You’re not answering me.”

You glance away, shame washing over you.

“Didn’t think there was anything left to say.”

Old habits die hard.

Rafe steps up onto the porch, right into your space. You can smell his cologne, expensive and warm and unmistakably his.

You give him your best sneer. “How very on-brand.”

“Are you serious right now? You blew up my phone, accused me of God knows what, and then ignored me for thirty minutes. I thought maybe something happened—”

“Yeah. Something did.” You stand up, jabbing a finger toward him. “I realized I’m the biggest fucking idiot alive for thinking this was ever gonna work.”

“Don’t you dare.”

You laugh bitterly, trying to fold your arms over your chest, but it’s flimsy armor.

His eyes flick over your face—reading you like a fucking map he already knows by heart.

“Don’t run your mouth and act like none of this means shit.”

“It doesn’t.”

His eyes narrow. “Liar.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Say that shit again.”

You’ve always been good at mean. It’s your mother tongue. 

He scoffs, disbelieving.

“God, you’re so fucking nasty when you’re scared.”

Your first instinct isn’t offense or surprise. You could pretend to be wounded. Bat your lashes, gasp like a princess in a soap opera, but that’s not you, you’re not built from satin and sentiment.

You’re made of spunk and fight. 

Now it’s your turn: “Say that again.”

He exhales through his nose. “You heard me.”

“Yeah, I did. Wanted to make sure you meant it, Country Club.”

“Stop calling me that. I’m in it with you. Whether you believe it or not. Whether you make it as hard as possible or not. Stop acting like you don’t care when I know you do.”

You scoff, tearing your gaze away.  

“Looked real nice standing there with her. She had her hand on your arm, and you let her. You smiled.”

“She walked up,” He throws his hands up, “She put her hand there for two seconds, and the second I stepped away, the fucking photographer was already flashing. I didn’t invite her to drape herself over me like a fucking accessory, alright?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You used to want her to.”

“I used to do a lot of shit that made me want to crawl out of my skin.”

You shake your head, stepping down a stair, praying the distance will dull the hurting. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You know what?” Rafe snaps, stepping after you. “You know what didn’t feel nice? That text. You sent it knowing it would fuck with me.”

“I was being funny.”

“No, you were trying to hurt me first.” His voice sharpens. “Because you saw something that scared you, and instead of calling me, you picked a fight, convinced yourself I’m gonna leave.”

Your silence is confirmation, and he laughs once, exasperated.

“You think I’m gonna run because some Kook Barbie pressed her fucking nails into my arm? Did I look happy?”

You glare at the porch floor, too humiliated to meet his eyes but too stubborn to admit you’re wrong.

“She looked perfect next to you,” You mutter. “And I-I’ve never looked like that.”

Rafe’s whole chest expands on a rough inhale. “Bullshit.”

Your lip twitches. “You don’t have to lie just ‘cause I’m about to cry.”

“I’m not lying.” He steps closer, and now there’s no space between you, “I want you. I’m with you. I love you.”

You remember how his mouth used to curl when you walked into a room. You glance up—and you see none of that. His jaw is flexed, brows drawn, but his eyes are nothing but heartbreak, and it’s you he’s looking at like that. As if you have already been forgiven.

You hate how fast your voice cracks. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

The words hurt him more than the fight did. He moves, hands coming up to frame your face gently, catching your cheeks even as you try to turn away.

His thumbs swipe at the tear tracks, physically hurting him to see them. “I hate that you don’t see it,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

You do, barely.

His forehead drops to yours, breathing you in, whispering against your mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m not.”

You swallow. “I don’t believe you.”

“Tough shit, baby.”

Your throat works around a sob that doesn’t quite come. His hands are holding your face like you’re made of glass, but his grip says you’re not going anywhere, even if you try to fight him on it.

So you do. “You’re annoying as fuck.”

He almost smiles. “I know.”

You snort wetly, and it shatters something between you. He’s still close, touching, and you hate how fast you want to fold into it.

You try one last time. “She probably smelled better than me too.”

“I love how you smell.” His eyes roam your face—eyes red, nose pink, hoodie collar pulled up to your chin. “Sunscreen and salt and that stupid coconut lotion.”

Rafe’s smile comes then, unstrained as he kisses you. You gasp into it, and he uses it as an excuse to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours, one hand curling around the back of your neck and the other grabbing your hip, pulling you into him.

He pulls back for air, ducking his head to your height one more time, his voice dropping to a rasp.

“I wake up and want you. I get through shit days and want you. I think about my future, and—you’re there. It’s you.”

A single tear slips down your cheek before you can catch it. You hate how fast he’s wiping it away.

“You’re gonna get tired of me.”

“I’m tired without you.”

You let out a small, broken laugh, and Rafe smiles like it’s a fucking miracle.

“You’re gonna leave.”

“I’m here.”

“And if you change your mind?”

“I already made it up.” He kisses your temple, your cheek. “Stop trying to scare me of.”

You sag into him, pressing your lips together, “I’m sorry I was mean.”

He exhales through his nose; you wait for the reminder that you were cruel, but all he does is press another kiss to your shoulder.

“Baby,” he murmurs, “I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

Your throat tightens instantly. “Even when I say shit I don’t mean?”

He nods once, serious. “Even then.”

“That’s fucked.” You bite your lip, breath catching. “I didn’t mean it.”

Rafe cuts in, hands cradling your jaw. “I know.”

You bury your face in his chest, fingers fisting in his shirt, hoping it will stop your heart from beating so hard. His hands rub slow circles up and down your back.

“Country Club,” you say, and it’s usually a nickname you usually spit with venom. This time it sounds sweet.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” he says. “We won’t. “

Then, without looking up, you mutter, “I was gonna call you a privileged little trust fund reject with a savior complex and no taste in women.”

He laughs, loud this time, bursting out of him. “There she is.”

The porch is dark and quiet and way too far from anyone who would interrupt, and that might be the only reason you let yourself tip your head back and look at him like that—eyes blown wide.

Rafe mouths at your lips, doing what he’d been waiting all fucking night to earn back, groaning into your mouth, hand sliding up the back of your hoodie, palm pressing against the skin at your spine.

His tongue licks into you again, and your knees damn near buckle. He catches you with one hand wrapped around your thigh, dragging your leg up to hook around his. He pins you back against the porch post with his body, hard already, and not shy about it.

“You always run your mouth,” He makes that annoyed teeth-sucking sound against your neck, breath hot. “Always talking shit.”

You can feel Rafe smirk against your skin when you whimper. His teeth graze that spot beneath your jaw, the one he figured out three nights into fucking you, and he doesn’t let up—kisses, bites, and sucks until you’re pressing your hips forward, forgetting what pride is.

“And now?” He rasps. “Still got something to say?”

You tug at his shirt, breathless.

“Get your hand under my hoodie and maybe I will.”

He laughs and obliges, fingers sliding up over your ribs, under the hem of your bra. He cups one breast in his hand, his thumb brushing your nipple until you’re mewing into his mouth again.

He swallows every sound. Your hands are under his dress shirt now, scratching at the small of his back, hips grinding slowly against his.

“Rafe,” you whisper, need soaked into the syllables.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, his mouth dragging over your jaw, lips warm and wet. "I know."

You tug at his belt, and he doesn’t stop you, only continues to palm your ass and groans when your hand brushes his zipper. 

Rafe’s breathing is ragged against your mouth, hands still halfway under your hoodie. You roll your hips against him again.

He groans, head tipping back, needing divine intervention.

Your smirk is pure sin. “Problem, Country Club?”

His fingers dig into your waist. “Yeah, you. You’re the fucking problem.”

You giggle, nipping at his bottom lip just enough to make him twitch. “Oh no. Is the trust fund prince gonna lose his self-control on a porch swing?”

He growls this time and presses his hips forward, cock hard against you and very, very aware of the fact that your leg’s still wrapped around him.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“You already look tempted.”

“I’m serious.” His mouth is on your neck again, trailing hot, open kisses down to your collarbone, voice muffled against your skin. “We’re not fucking on your porch. Your neighbors already hate me.”

“That’s because you park like a psychopath.”

“They’ll hate me more when they see me bending you over the railing.”

You whimper before you can stop yourself, and his hands grip tighter, feeling that noise down.

“Baby,” he warns, teeth grazing your throat. “We can’t do it out here.”

Your hand slides between you, palming him through his jeans shamelessly. His breath stutters so hard he chokes.

“Oh, my God,” he hisses, grabbing your wrist, eyes wild. 

You shrug, all innocence, “You sure you don’t want the neighbors to know how well you fuck me?”

“I’ll throw you over my shoulder and take you inside if you don’t stop.”

You flash him a grin. “Promise?”

“Fuck. Fine. Inside. Now.”

You don’t try to hide the smug little giggle as he drags you inside by the hand, he’s a man being marched to war—hard, panting, and completely ruined by you.

If fighting gets him this desperate and needy maybe you'll keep doing it.

You love being his problem.

[landopoet]

to you, always.

pairing brother's best friend lando x fewtrell!reader

synopsis in which you call lando. and he comes.

warnings 14.8k words of angst, secrecy and brother max.

author’s note heyhey, sorry that i've been gone for a while, life gets a bit hectic and busy at times but i've finally gotten around to finishing this wonderful fic! and i have more fics coming your way soon. hope you enjoy <3

You’re not sure why you’re at this party to begin with. 

Actually, screw that, you knew exactly why— your older brother, Max, made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want you hanging around this specific crowd of people, and you had something to prove. You wanted to show him that you’re no longer the little sister he could push around, you wanted to finally be seen as grown, despite being younger than him.

It was cold outside Mason’s house. Your heels were off, your makeup’s smudged, the girl you came with ran off with some random guy neither of you knew, and you were left stranded in the cold night, somewhere with shitty connection. You tried to call an Uber, but the app won’t work without WiFi and you couldn’t be bothered to go back inside the party to ask for the password. 

Instead, you choose to flick through your contacts, maybe your drunk mind could find someone to drive you home. Mom? No, she’s most likely asleep. Max is an obvious no. You scroll past the random aunts, uncles, cousins, who all live scattered across the world. Then, something sets off in your mind and you find yourself reading Lando’s contact like it was the morning news.

You shut your phone off, sitting down on the curb. Lando. He told you once that he wasn’t your babysitter— like you were too loud, too much, always wanting to tag along with whatever he and your brother were doing. Still, your fingers put in your password and you click his contact again, this time not overthinking calling him.

Maybe it’s because you know he doesn’t care, maybe it’s because you know he’ll come.

The phone rings a few times before he picks up, raspy and tired. “Hello?”

“Lando,” you say, cautiously. 

You give him time to yell at you, to hang up, but he just stays in the silence, waiting for you to speak. “Hello? What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “I’m at Mason’s,” Lando scoffs on the other end. “Can you come get me?” 

Silence. You imagine him sitting on the edge of his bed, jaw tense, chest bare, those goddamn Jack & Jones boxers adorning his hips. Then, there’s movement. “It’s past one in the morning,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, I can still read the time, thanks.” You roll your eyes annoyed. “I knew it’d be stupid to call you, you’re nothing but an arrogant—”

Lando cuts you off, a sharp order coming from his end of the call. “Text me the address.”

“Fuck, I can’t remember,” you drag a hand across your face, ignoring how the cold of the curb slowly seeps in past your short dress and branches out through your skin. “It’s the house in Cherry Hill, the one with the stupid flamingo statue in the front yard.”

“I know it,” he nods, though you can’t see it. “Wait there, don’t go back inside.”

Lando hung up the phone call and pushed a hand through his curls, agitated that he didn’t even hesitate to come get you. He should’ve told you to call someone else, let you sit in the mess you made, but he also knew Mason and parties like that. And how everyone’s eyes naturally gravitated towards you, like you owned every room you walked into. 

He knew what that type of confidence could do, he had seen it happen to you before. And he knows Max would have his head on the front of the Fewtrell residence if he knew Lando refused to help you when you were in need. Or maybe it was just because that irritating warmth in his chest made him crumble every time he was near you. 

It takes half an hour until Lando’s headlights beam on your face. The car slows right next to you. It’s matte black with a booming engine, the one your brother kept hyping up like it was God’s gift to car lovers. Lando leans over the center console to shove the door open. 

The door clicks behind you and seals you in. The cabin is dim, except for the soft glow of the dashboard that casts blue shadows over Lando’s face. His jaw is clenched with every chew of gum he takes as he backs out of Mason’s driveway with one hand on the back of your seat. You can feel the tension in the small space between you two and you feel it even more when Lando finally grazes his eyes over you.

“You’re barefoot.”

His voice is flat, emotionless. 

You look down at your legs, the only thing adding any sort of warmth to them were your thin stockings. “Heels hurt.” 

Lando noticed the way you curled up in the seat, trying your best to keep yourself warm. He rolls his eyes, reaches behind you to the backseat and drops a hoodie in your lap. “Put it on,” he mutters.

You should say something, maybe a snarky remark, but instead you slip it over your head. It smells like him— a mix of lavender detergent, gasoline and Lando’s cologne. It’s big enough that the sleeves fall past the palms of your hands and you curl your fingers in them. “Thanks.”

The car falls quiet for a long while, Lando’s fingers so tightly curled around the steering wheel that it looks like it’s about to snap under the force. You can tell he wants to say something, to yell at you about waking him up, that you’re just some stupid girl who doesn’t know when to stop.

Instead, he sighs and asks, “what the hell were you thinking?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Oh, here we go.”

“I’m serious,” his voice is sharp, irritated. “There’s a reason Max didn’t want you at that party.”

“I can handle myself, Lando. It’s just a party.”

Lando lets out a humorless laugh. “Sitting on the curb, alone, with no ride home. You call that handling yourself?”

You don’t answer him anymore, instead continuing to look out the passenger seat window at the streetlights and houses blurring past. You’re not sure what it is, but something feels different about him— he’s not bantering as much, it’s almost like he’s actually worried. 

A few minutes pass before Lando briefly glances at you. “What happened?”

Your eyes glance at his green ones, blinking once before you turn your gaze back outside. You’ve just driven out of the neighbourhoods, so the stars became more evident due to the lack of houses and streetlights. 

“Did someone touch you?” He presses, voice edged with frustration. He continues to chew his gum, his jaw tensing with every bite. 

“Not really.”

Lando exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he’s debating whether to push. He doesn’t. Instead, he mutters, “you’re an idiot.”

You furrow your eyebrows and turn to him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he shrugs. “Going to some fucker’s party just to prove something to Max. You think he’ll see you as grown just because you disobeyed him?”

You ball your hands into fists. “That’s not what I–”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, yes it is.” He cuts you off, agitated, annoyed, tired. “I’ve known you for years and you’ve been trying to prove yourself to Max since you were, like, twelve.”

You turn your whole body back towards the door, choosing to ignore Lando’s lecture. It’s almost two in the morning, the sky is at its darkest and you’re feeling too tired to argue with him. Still, he continues.

“News flash, acting reckless doesn’t make people respect you. It makes them worried.”

You stare at him, a tiny smirk on your face. “Are you saying… You were worried?”

Lando’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you totally did.” You let that tiny smirk turn into a full one, still looking at him. “This is huge. Lando Norris—”

He turns to face the driver's door window, biting back a small smile. “Don’t.”

“—worried about me?” 

He exhales through his nose again, running a hand through his curls, eyes still stuck on the road. “I knew I should’ve left you on the curb.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” Lando’s eyes look at yours for a second. He can’t handle looking at you for longer, afraid his facade would fade under the weight of your gaze.

“Why’d you come? If I’m such an inconvenience.” 

His car comes to a silent stop in front of your house. His engine is still running, just so the heat would still circulate and warm your feet. “Because you called.” 

There’s no mocking tone to his voice, no bite. Just the raw truth, like a confession.

You glance at his lips, then back up at his eyes. “I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you.” He says it like it was obvious.

“You act like it.”

His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t hate you.”

You’re not sure what happened, why you suddenly felt so brave. You bite your bottom lip, leaning over the center console, softly grasping his chin so he looks at you. “Prove it.”

Lando’s breath stutters, just for a second. 

“Fuck it,” he mumbles into your mouth, already having pulled you in for a kiss. 

It’s not careful, it’s definitely not gentle— it’s like a flood. Like it’s something he’s been holding back for too long, something he can’t fight anymore. He kisses you urgently, lips warm and insistent, until your lips part just enough for his tongue to brush against yours, tentative at first, then deeper— demanding.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers pushing past your hair, angling your face the way he wants it. His other hand is still on the wheel, white-knuckled and tense, like he needs something to hold onto before he loses himself completely. 

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling around his collar, pulling him closer and closer, but it’s not enough.

Lando groans into your mouth, a low and frustrated sound, and then he’s undoing his seatbelt, undoing yours. The tension snaps, and next thing you know, he’s pulling you over the centre console and into his lap. His hands trail up your thighs, nesting right at the top of your hips as he continues to kiss you. 

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, you’re his best friend’s little sister, but god has he been waiting for this. Every time he looked at you for too long, he felt a burning heat in his chest that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Right now, he’s getting back all the times he wished he could kiss you, but knew he couldn’t. His hands grip you like he’s trying to memorise the feel of your skin under his fingertips.

Your hips softly grind against him as your hands come up to gently cup his jaw and you pull him in closer. Lando kisses you with hunger, chasing your lips as you pull away to catch your breath. You lean back against the steering wheel, careful as to not make a sound. Lando pushes himself up to kiss you again, but he fails to notice his foot on the gas and revs the engine as soon as his lips crash into yours again. 

Both of you freeze, eyes wide like deer caught in headlights. The streetlight casts a soft, golden glow on Lando as you study his face. And then both of you break out into laughter. 

“You think he heard that?” Lando asks when both of you finally calm down and you rest against his chest. 

You shake your head. “No, he’s a heavy sleeper. But I should probably go.”

Lando nods and helps you climb over the center console, eyes never leaving you. You turn back towards him, placing a gentle kiss to his lips, before reaching for the handle and opening the door. Lando stays parked on the side of the road, just until you’re safely inside your house, and when he sees the door close behind you, his engine revs again as his car pulls away. 

You walk downstairs only to be met by the sound of slamming cupboards, you don’t even have to step into the kitchen to know Max is letting out whatever pent up rage he has on the poor wooden furniture. 

Max, as if he could feel your presence, turns around. His eyebrows are set low, eyes studying your face like he’s never seen it before. You just awkwardly weave past him to rummage through the fridge.

He leans back against the kitchen island, arms crossed and voice calm when he asks, “so how was the party you weren’t supposed to go to?”

You softly slam your forehead on one of the shelves in the fridge. “Fuck.” You rub the hurt skin as you turn around to face your brother. “It was fine.”

“Mhm,” he looks down at the ground briefly, before he looks back at you again. Max tries so hard to look intimidating every time he does this, but he just looks like a sad dad and it takes everything in you not to laugh. “And how’d you get home?”

“Well, nowadays we have these awesome things called cars, right?” You motion turning a wheel with your hands, sarcastically. “You kinda just sit in them and then turn the wheel to go different directions, it’s pretty cool.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stone-faced and frustrated. 

“Why does that matter? I’m home safely, aren’t I?” You turn back to the fridge and take out ingredients for a sandwich.

“It matters because I explicitly told you not to go and because I know you, and because I woke up to Lando’s car outside my window at two in the morning.”

You freeze. Shit.

Max narrowed his eyes. “So? Wanna explain that one?”

“I called him for a ride, that’s all.” You’re not even hungry but you’re making a sandwich anyway, just to give yourself something to do and just so you don’t break underneath the weight of your older brother’s intense gaze. 

Max stares at you, jaw clenched.  “Why him?”

You shrug, spreading the mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “I obviously couldn’t call you and everyone I trust was asleep. And because he actually came.”

“He’s not—” He cuts himself off and starts pacing like he needs to burn the frustration from his limbs. “He’s not the guy you call for help. He isn’t good for this sort of thing, for you.”

You pause your movement, raising a brow at him. “You think I can’t handle Lando?”

“I know you can,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point. The point’s that he’s not a guy who gives a shit unless it benefits him in some way. He’s cocky, selfish, he was a dickhead to you for, like, as long as I’ve known him.”

You sigh, looking back to your sandwich. 

Max narrows his eyes at your hesitation. “Don’t tell me there’s something going on.”

“There’s not,” You say it fast, too fast, and you’re gripping the butterknife so hard that your knuckles turn white. 

He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows still drawn together as he connects the dots. “You like him?”

“No.” Lie.

Max shakes his head, running a hand along his jaw as he scoffs like the mere idea of you having feelings for his best friend was some sort of betrayal. “For fucks sake. This is exactly what he does, he gets into your head.”

“People change.” You mumble, not daring to look up at your brother.

Max lets out a humorless chuckle. “Not Lando.” 

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Deep down you know he’s right— Lando’s not the type to do relationships. He doesn’t stick to just one girl, you’ve heard him talk to Max about at least four different girls within the same week. You knew it was so wrong, but last night felt so right.

“I swear to God if—” He takes a deep breath and calms his voice, though it’s still laced with aggression when he says, “if he touches you, if he so much as thinks you’re someone to be played with—”

“Max, nothing happened,” the lie slips past your lips so easily that it scares you. “He drove me home. That’s it.”

He gives you one last glance before picking up his car keys from the basket on the kitchen island and walking towards the front door. He opens it, and just before he leaves, he pokes his head out to look at you again. “I’ll be back late, there’s money on my desk for dinner. Make sure to eat and, for fucks sake, take off that fucking hoodie.”

The door slams shut and you pull the sleeves of Lando’s hoodie into your palms, rubbing them together as if it’ll bring you any sort of comfort. Instead it just makes you more worried— an angry Max is a force to be reckoned with and you pray to whoever’s above that Lando can handle it.

Lando can feel Max’s eyes burning into him, despite being under a car.

They’re in the garage, the scent of motor oil and gasoline lingering in the warm air. Max leans back against a workbench, energy drink in hand, while Lando lays on a mechanic creeper and keeps his hands busy or else he’d be fiddling with his fingers and that’s something Max always notices.

He pulls himself from under the car just enough to reach a hand out. “Wrench.”

Max drops it into his hand with added force. “So, you wanna tell me about last night?”

Lando pulls himself fully from under the car, but just as he tries to get up, he bumps his forehead against the undercarriage. “Fuck,” he rubs the hurt skin as he sits up. “What about it?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Lando.” Max’s jaw tightens. “My sister came home at two in the morning and I woke up to your car outside my house.” 

Lando exhales, getting up from the ground as he wipes his hands on the fabric hanging from his hips. He always worked shirtless with only a flannel tied around his waist and his work jeans on. “She called me for a ride, I picked her up.”

Max tilts his head, accusatory, before taking a sip of his drink. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” Lando shrugs, trying his best to hide what he truly feels. He’s fucking terrified of Max, because he knows one wrong word could mean Max socking Lando right in the jaw, no hesitation. 

“She came home in your hoodie,” Max points out. 

Lando lays back down on the mechanic creeper after getting what he needed and goes back under the car. “She was cold,” he says, casually.

“You don’t just give people your hoodie.” 

Lando peeks his head out with a raised brow and a teasing smirk on his face. “What, you jealous or something?”

“You’re not funny.” Max glares at him, unamused.

The curly-haired man disappeared again, working on the suspension system of his older car. “You used to think I was hilarious.”

“Yeah, well, I used to think you weren’t a fucking problem, too.” Max hisses, again pacing the small space of Lando’s garage. “What are you doing, man?”

“What does it look like?” Lando pokes his head out again, confused, wrench in hand.

“It looks like you’re getting too close to my sister.”

Lando clenches his jaw, pulling himself back up from under the car, this time making sure not to hit his head. “I’m not.”

“I don’t buy it.” Max shrugs simply, anger, frustration and betrayal still radiating off of him.

Lando decides he’s done for the day and picks up his tools from the ground, walking over to his workbench. “She needed a ride home, so I drove her home. That’s all.”

Max studies him for a few seconds, trying to find something, anything, beneath the nonchalance that Lando was trying so hard to upkeep. Lando made sure there was nothing at surface level for Max to find.

Because if Max—if anyone— knew that something shifted in Lando that night, that something’s been shifting for way longer than Lando’s willing to admit, Max wouldn’t be standing here making civil conversation— he’d be throwing punches.

“It better fucking be all.” Max hisses again. “You keep your distance. She’s not some random girl you can mess with whenever you please.”

Lando’s stomach twists, like he didn’t already know you were more than just a girl. Lando couldn’t bring himself to say anything other than, “don’t worry, mate. She’s not my type.”

Max doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares at Lando with a look that makes something inside Lando’s chest feel heavy, and walks away.

You’re peacefully scrolling on your phone, watching the newest internet drama, when you hear two knocks on your door, and then another one a few seconds later. You recognised it to be Lando’s knock, the same one he’d do on Max’s door to let him know it was him and not you at his door, back when Max did everything in his power not to spend time with you.

You get up from your bed, feeling how Lando’s hoodie falls down to your mid-thighs when you stand, and open the door. Your eyes widen when it is, in fact, Lando that’s knocking. You grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him inside your room, peeking your head out to check if anyone saw him. Thankfully, the coast is clear. 

“Are you crazy?” You shut the door behind yourself and turn to look at the curly-haired brunette in your room. “You could’ve got caught.”

Lando steps closer, hands finding their place on your waist while his lips make home at the cusp of your shoulder and neck. “Had to see you,” he mumbles between sloppy kisses to your skin.

Your breath shudders. “Max is downstairs.”

“He’s on a call, ordering food. I have maybe five minutes.”

You push him away, a questioning look on your face. “And you thought the best use of those five minutes was to sneak into my room?” 

Lando grins. “Obviously.”

You shake your head, trying to fight the smile as Lando leans in. “You’re insane,” you mumble against his lips. 

“I’m starting to think you like that about me.”

His hands trail up your thighs, under the hoodie—his hoodie—and up your bare belly. He’s trying to not rush you, to take time and explore this with you. It’s new, for the both of you, and Lando would hate himself if he ruined it just because he’s so eager to have you.

Your back is pressed against the door and you’re softly mumbling sweet nothings into Lando’s mouth when you hear footsteps nearing up the stairs. Both of you freeze, unsure of what to do. Your eyes quickly scan over your room and you immediately shove Lando towards your closet door when you land your gaze on it. Once he’s all hidden, you quickly jump onto your bed, cover yourself with your blanket and try to act as casual as possible.

There’s a knock at your door and then Max peeks his head inside. “You good?”

“Yeah?” You lift your head, resting it against your palm as you lean on your elbow. “Why?”

Max does a quick once-over of your room. “Thought I heard voices.”

“Oh, it’s probably just my phone,” you pick it up from underneath you and wave it in the air. “Do you remember that one super annoying couple?”

Max leans against your doorframe, curious. “Yeah?” He studied the look on your face as you typed something into your phone. “Wait, no way. Did they break up?”

He’s now stepping into your room, sitting down at the foot of your bed as he patiently waits for you to show him. “Fucking finally,” Max laughs when the video ends. “I gotta tell Lando, we made a bet on how long they’ll last, and he lost.”

“Aw, Lando had faith in those two?” You tilt your head to the side, briefly glancing at the closet as you fail at holding back your giggle. “That’s unusual.”

“I know right? That guy barely has faith in anything.” Max gets back up and starts walking out of your room. “Oh, by the way, have you seen him?”

“Hm?” You glance back up from your phone. “Oh, Lando? Is he over?”

“Yeah, we’re watching the race downstairs.” 

“I didn’t know,” you shrug. “Haven’t seen him.”

Max looks at you with narrowed eyes, like he wants to ask something but doesn’t bother. “Alright. We ordered food, come down in 10 if you want some.”

“Cool, thanks.” You shout to him as he closes the door behind himself. You wait another ten seconds before quietly making your way to the closet.

Lando stood in the corner of it, arms folded, scowling. “You owe me for this,” he mutters.

You snort. “Apparently you owe Max, too.”

“Hey, in my defence, the guy talked to me about marrying her and I was rooting for him.” He steps out of the closet, hands immediately on you again.

You giggle, feeling him kiss your neck. “Next time, let’s not make out with my brother ten feet away.

Lando leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Next time, I’m locking the door.”

It’s been a long day at university and you were feeling tired.

What’s worse is that you had to go study for an upcoming test and couldn’t afford to skip another day, so you lazily stepped down the stairs at the front of the facility and heaved a sigh, looking down at your phone. Suddenly, it buzzed with a notification from someone you didn’t expect to hear from.

Lando: Look up.

You lift your eyes, confused, and that’s when you see his sleek, black car, him leaning against the side of it with a soft smile on his face when you see him. He opens his arms and you carefully run across the street to envelop him in a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I could drive you home.” He pressed his lips to your forehead. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to walk.”

You playfully slap his arm and place your head back on his chest. “Thank you,” you mutter. 

The drive to your house is quiet, but not awkward. Lando can tell you’re tired from school and he softly places his hand on your thigh, kneading the skin to try and comfort you in the only way he knew how. You could tell he was trying his best to show his affection to you in ways he wasn’t used to– the other day, he called you late at night and asked how your day went, intently listening to every detail you told him. He memorised your coffee order from that time and bought you coffee, that’s now peacefully sitting on your desk, in your room, as you and Lando make out on your bed.

“When does Max get home?” Lando asks, hastily, between kisses to your exposed chest. 

Your fingers are palming the curls at the base of his neck as Lando leaves faint hickeys along your breast. “He said later tonight.”

Lando continues to trail kisses down your torso, pausing at the waistband of your sweatpants. He looks up at you without a word, but as if to ask if it’s okay for him to go further, to not hold back in fear of breaking you. You reach down and untie the drawstring of your pants, watching as Lando’s fingers gently hook underneath the waistband and pull your sweatpants down, fully off of your body. 

You feel bare, exposed, but it’s not intimidating like you thought it’d be. Lando was gentle with you, placing soft bites followed by tender kisses to your thighs, inching closer to where you needed him the most. Your hips buckled upwards, urging Lando to do something to help the ache between your legs.

Just as he’s hooking his fingers under the waistband of your pink underwear, you hear the front door open. Lando immediately rises to his feet and bolts across the hall to Max’s room, pretending that he was waiting for him there to begin with. You lift your head confused and hear Max climbing up the stairs. You manage to shut the door before he reaches it and you rest with your back against it. 

“You in there?” Max knocks once on your door and you hold your breath.

You quickly pick up whatever clothes you can find on your floor and tug them on before opening your bedroom door, face flushed. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“What’s Lando’s car doing in the driveway?” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking at you with suspicion riddled across his features. 

“Oh,” you swallow, harshly. “Uh, I don’t know. He’s in your room if you want to ask him yourself.”

Max gives you a narrow-eyed look, trying to notice anything odd about your appearance. He peeks his head into the crevice of your door and looks around your room, before walking away and you finally let out the breath you were holding, shutting the door behind yourself.

Meanwhile, Lando was sprawled out onto the couch in Max’s room, scrolling through his phone. When Max walked in, Lando sat up. “Hey, you ready to go?”

“Go where?” Max furrows his brows and when Lando mimics a drinking action, Max remembers. “Fuck, the party.”

A few hours later, Lando found himself nursing a glass bottle of non-alcoholic beer on the couch in Lauren’s home.

Lauren was a mutual friend of yours too, so when Max offered you to join him and Lando, you happily agreed. Although, you didn’t account for how hard it’d be not to blab to Lauren about you and Lando’s newly found feelings. She’s telling you something about her current boyfriend, who you failed to find in the crowd, but pretended like you did. In reality, you were looking at Lando. You were admiring the way his black t-shirt hugged his skin tighter around his biceps, the way his curls poked out of his maroon cap and the way the lights from the other rooms cast a perfect shadow on his side-profile.

Meanwhile, he tried his best not to look at you, because Max was right across from him and turning his head would mean Max would follow suit. Instead, Lando watches the other people in the room. He makes the grave mistake of looking at this one girl, Madeline, twice within a few minutes and she took it as a sign to seat herself next to him.

“Hey,” she bites her bottom lip, holding back a smile. “Don’t think we’ve officially met, I’m Madeline.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Lando gives her a faux smile and turns back to reading the label on his beer bottle. It seemed to be much more interesting to look at than the girl touching his arm. 

Madeline tilts her head with a laugh. “I won’t get to hear your name?” 

Lando briefly looks up at Max, who’s standing across the room and urging Lando to smoothly talk his way into Madeline’s pants. He rolls his eyes and looks away, again. “Lando,” he grumbles.

“Lando,” she repeats, seductive. “Nice name.” 

Lando gives her a side-eyed look. “…thanks?” 

She bites her bottom lip again, trying to lure him in, throwing the bait but Lando isn’t biting. He’s uninterested, because each time he looks at Madeline, his eyes drift to the girl standing in the room behind her— you. You’re talking to Lauren, laughing at something she said as you nurse your red solo cup. 

When Madeline leans in, so close to Lando’s ear that her breath fanning against his skin makes it erupt in goosebumps, he feels nauseous. “Wanna go upstairs? There’s a condom in the drawer with your name on it.”

By this point, Max has come close enough to hear the conversation and nudges Lando’s shoulder when he notices the hesitation. Lando looks up at his friend with a confused look. Max’s eyes flicker between Lando and Madeline when he says, “I’ll save your seat for you.”

Madeline smiles at Max’s attempt to help before softly hooking her finger under Lando’s chin and turning him to face her. “So?”

Lando snorts at the thought that just flashed in his mind. “Y’know, Max’s name is also on most condoms, why don’t you take him upstairs instead?”

Lando watches as Madeline grimaces, looking at the two guys before mumbling something incoherent and walking away. The curly-haired man’s eyes immediately fall to you, leaving Max under the impression that Lando’s watching Madeline walk away. 

When Lando looks back at Max, he’s met with a scowl. “What?” He shrugs his shoulders and raises his hands, ready to defend himself against Max’s judgement.

Max sits down on the coffee table in front of Lando, quoting something Lando had said months ago. “Oh, I’d tap that.” He puts on an accent that mimics Lando’s one, but in a way that’s clearly mocking his best friend’s words. 

Lando pinches the bridge of his nose, not sure how to get himself out of this one. “That was ages ago.”

“Isn’t she, like, the epitome of your type?” Max recalls another thing Lando had said late at night in his garage. Lando had, in fact, said that Madeline was exactly his type, but that was back before he tapped into his feelings for you. 

Lando shrugs before he takes another swig of his beer. “Not anymore.”

Max gives him one last look, clearly confused by how Lando could reject Madeline, of all people. “You’re fucking weird, dude,” he says over the neck of his beer bottle and walks away to find something else to drink. 

It’s a few minutes before Lando decides that it’s safe to move from his seat, making a beeline to where he last saw you. The kitchen is empty of your presence, only the faint smell of your perfume lingering in the air. He pulls out his phone to text you and just as he clicks on your contact, he hears familiar laughter coming from the next room. 

He finds you leaning against the doorframe to the dining room, still talking to the girl from before. Lauren locks eyes with Lando and nudges towards him with her chin while looking at you. “I’ll see you later,” she squeezes your elbow and walks away. 

You feel Lando’s touch on your skin before he even gets the chance to talk. It’s darker in this room, less people, higher chances of getting caught— but that’s what makes it more exciting. 

You turn around, back to the nearest wall as Lando leans against the doorframe, mimicking you just moments ago. He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and drawing your attention. “Smooth move earlier,” you mutter with a little teasing glint in your eye. 

He huffed a laugh. “She was being persistent.”

“Thought she was your type?” You ask, trying to sound casual but it comes out more desperate than intended. Lando gave you a look, small smile and raised eyebrows, as he took a swig of his drink.

After a moment of him checking you out, he mutters, “not anymore.”

“Yeah?” You looked at him with a raised brow. “What’s your type then?”

Lando steps closer to you, hand immediately cupped against your jaw, fingers between your hair as he pulls you in. “I think we both know.” 

His breath fans over your face as he leans in to kiss you, his free hand placing the empty beer bottle on the fireplace next to you. Just as his lips are about to touch yours, someone slams the bathroom door and both of you jump at the sound. 

Both of you turn to look at the direction of the sound, only to be met with a guy stumbling out of the room. Lando drops his head as a laugh of relief leaves his lips. 

He looks around again, cautious, alert. Then, when his green eyes focus on your face again, his pupils dilate just the smallest bit, but you notice it. Lando nudges his head behind him, “meet me out back in ten?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip and he walks off, disappearing somewhere between the drunk crowd of people. 

The ten minutes before you sneak out to see Lando go by slower than anticipated. To pass the time, you decided to tour the house, as if you’ve never been there before— you loiter around the hallways, admiring everything picture and painting on the wall. 

“Oh, hey,” Max’s voice startles you just as you start looking for where the door to the backyard is. “Have you seen Lando?” 

“No?” You furrow your brows, trying to act as confused and offended as possible. “Why would I have seen him?” 

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, if you see him, tell him to check his damn phone.” 

You watch your brother storm off, heading upstairs and when he’s out of your line of sight, you bolt towards the living room. You squeeze past the numerous people in your way and try your best to find the door to the backyard. 

When you finally step out into the night, the cold air hitting your arms as soon as you do, Lando’s leaning against the wall by the door, in the shadow. 

“You sure no one followed you?” Lando reaches out his hand and you take it, following him behind the side of the house. 

You scoff, “you think I don’t know how to sneak around by now?”

He presses you against the wall, lips immediately on your neck. “Touche.”

The night envelops you two in a blanket of darkness, coolth and risk. Lando kisses down your neck to your shoulder, leaving mild hickeys that’ll go away in a few hours. When his lips find home on yours again, you let your fingers get lost in the curls at the nape of his neck and he pulls you in closer with a gentle hand on your jaw. 

There’s a rustling at the door to the backyard but neither of you are bothered enough to pause and check what it is. It’s only when Max’s voice cuts through the night that both of you halt your movements. “Oh, there you are.”

Lando turns to face Max, using his body to shield you from your brother while they talk. “Yeah? Kinda busy here, mate.”

“I was just gonna ask if you could get my sister home later, I’m going out with Mason for a few hours.” Max spins his house keys on his finger before throwing them towards Lando, and the curly-haired man in front of you catches it with no problem. “You can crash on the couch in my room if you want.”

“Alright, see you.” Lando says with an urgency in his voice that Max takes as a sign. Your brother winks at Lando before disappearing back inside the house. “Christ,” Lando rests his head on your shoulder as he takes a few breaths, adrenaline pumping through his veins at what could’ve gone so wrong so quickly.

“Did he see?” You ask, cautiously glaring over the corner of the house to check if Max was truly gone.

Lando pulled away, his face perfectly illuminated from the left side by the glowing porch light and fairy-lights that adorned the fence behind him. “I hope not or else I’m a dead man.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’d be a handsome corpse.” 

The walk back to your home is short, the cold night enveloping you in a secure sense of calm. 

Lando’s warm hand in yours kept you grounded, meanwhile the stars in the sky built your hope up. Your house comes into view and Lando swings the keys in his hand, whistling a tune only he knew the melody of. 

He unlocked the door and as soon as you heard it click shut, his lips were on yours. You barely made it up the stairs and into your bedroom, tumbling over each other and giggling at the mumbled curse words falling from his lips. 

Once in your room, Lando doesn’t bother to close the door. He’s too focused on how good his hands feel on your hips, how your soft whimpers vibrate in your throat before escaping through the space in your kiss and how long he’s been waiting for this moment. 

It all happens in a blur— one second you’re at your bedroom door, the next you’re laying with your back pressed against your mattress, Lando hovering above you, trailing kisses down your shoulder as he unzips the jacket he gave you and pulls it off your body. 

You’re exposed, nervous and unable to speak when Lando suckles on the skin atop your ribs. His lips burn into each crevice of your flesh, hands heating your hips as they envelop the skin, eyelids closed shut with fluttering eyelashes on his cheeks. 

Lando kisses you like he’s worshipping you— he’s gentle, cautious, exploring your body like it’s a temple and he’s blessed to be allowed to even look at you. 

His tongue runs along the space between your breasts, peppering kisses as he wraps them around your neck, trails them along your jaw until he reaches your lips. Lando kisses you with urgency, with hunger and deep-seated yearning that etched itself into your bones. 

You felt how badly he needed you, how large his hunger had grown, how intensely his craving for you radiated off of his tan skin. 

He’s sloppily kissing your lips, fingers inching closer to the waistband of your panties when he pulls away. “Tell me to stop and I will.” 

“Don’t stop,” you breathe against his lips, barely managing to get a word out before he’s tugging them off of you. 

Both of you are so enveloped in each other, so caught up in the moment, that neither of you notice him in the doorway. 

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” Max’s voice trembles through the room. Lando pulls away from you, eyes wide and glossy, lips parted in a gasp. The hands you had tangled in his curls were desperately trying to find something to cover your body with. You landed on the jacket Lando pulled off of you earlier. 

You’re too focused on not breaking into tears that you don’t notice how close Lando and Max are standing. 

“Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me you weren’t fucking my sister.” Max’s rageful tone lumbers a fire in his chest that’s only growing bigger with each second he watches the scene in front of him— you, pulling the jacket closer to yourself as you try to get decent and Lando standing shirtless in front of Max, lips puffy from kissing you. It makes Max’s blood boil. 

Lando runs a hand through his hair, taking a breath like he’s trying to come up with something to say— like there’s anything he could say that would make this better. “Max—“

“No, don’t say my fucking name like you haven’t crossed every boundary I’ve set.” Max pushes Lando’s chest.

You watch the fight unfold— Max’s eyes burning into Lando’s, betrayal, anger and hurt painted all over his face. Lando was standing calmly, alarmed but he kept it at bay. 

Lando doesn’t hold back. “I love her.”

The breath in your throat catches and tears prick your eyes as soon as the words leave his lips. Max freezes for a second, long enough for the words to land, hard and heavy. And then—

He swings. Hard.

The punch lands square on Lando’s jaw with a sickening crack. You gasp, standing to your feet almost immediately, but Lando barely stumbles— he wipes the blood from the corner from his mouth and stands upright, rolling his shoulders. 

“You think that makes it better?” Max says. “You think loving her gives you the right to sneak around like this? And you couldn’t come to me? Not a single fucking word.” 

“You wouldn’t have understood,” Lando’s breath is steady, voice sharp. “You never would’ve let me. I was trying to protect what we have.” 

“We?” Max huffs out a humorless laugh. “What about her? You think she needs some arrogant asshole sneaking her around like a fucking coward?” 

“I’m not a coward.” Lando exhales through his nose. “And I’d take a hundred more punches from you than hide this for another day.” 

Max’s fist twitches, like he’s going to hit Lando again, but he doesn’t. His eyes snap to you. “And you just let him? Him, of all fucking peop—“

“She didn’t let me do anything.” Lando cuts in, his tone harsher now that the blame shifted to you. “She chose me just like I chose her. So if you’re going to hate someone, hate me, but leave her out of this.” 

The silence that follows is deafening. 

You’re standing, tears falling down your cheeks. Lando’s still bleeding down his chin, but he doesn’t care— all he cares about now is that Max doesn’t lash out on you for no reason. 

Max’s eyes flicker between the two of you. They’re filled with fury, betrayal, hurt. But mostly confusion. 

Lando reaches his hand out to you as he speaks again, “I didn’t come here to hurt you. But I won’t apologise for loving her.” 

His heart is pounding. He didn’t expect to confess to both the Fewtrell siblings in one night. 

Max just stares at him, jaw clenched so hard like it might snap. “Get out,” he finally said. Not shouting, not loud, just final.

Lando glances at you for permission, fear flashing across his face as if he was asking if this was it. You nod slowly, squeezing his hand three times— one for each word of i love you. “Just give me a moment, okay?” 

He nods, muttering a quiet okay and watches as you lead Max out of your room into the hallway. 

And now it’s just the two of you. The Max Storm isn’t over, but it hangs above you like a calm thundercloud now. You knew he couldn’t be as upset with you as he pretended to be. 

You saw past his furrowed brows and deep inside, somewhere between his ribcage, was the same boy you grew alongside with, collecting rocks and sticks to make a mud cake. 

Max doesn’t say anything for a while. He just stands there, eyes closed, head resting against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Do you remember the treehouse?” You test the waters, standing across from him with your back against the wall. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. 

Max sighs. “What about it?” 

“I used to hide out there when you were upset with me.” You admit. “All the heart carvings were me. But the stars on the floor of it were Lando.”

Max’s head snaps up, eyes reading your face. “What?” 

“Yeah,” you laugh a little. “He found me there when looking for you and I was crying. I was like, I dunno, thirteen or fourteen. He climbed up without a word, sat down next to me and started carving.” 

“Why is this relevant?” 

You sigh. “He’s not an arrogant asshole to me when we’re alone.”

“That’s not-“ Max drops his hands, his shoulders sinking. “You’re my sister. I’m supposed to protect you.” 

Your bottom lip quivers as you try your best to keep your composure and to not crack under the weight of your brother’s anger. “I didn’t need you to protect me from him. He listens to me, he– he waits. He’s different, Max, and you just refuse to see it.”

Max runs both his hands down his face, turning his eyes towards the hallway— he can’t get himself to look at you. “Do you love him?”

You inhale sharply, the question catching you off guard. And then, softly, as if you’d crumble as soon as you said it: “Yes.”

That’s what breaks him. Not the intimacy, not the secrecy, but the quiet, unshakeable truth in your affirmation of the one thing he was always most scared of.

He nods once, not shaking the intimidating older brother demeanor, even though he knows you see right through it. “You’re serious about him.”

“I am.” You bite the inside of your cheek, anxiety coursing through your veins faster than the adrenaline of being caught by your brother, in bed with his best friend.

“And him?” Max nods his head towards the door, clenching his jaw at the indirect mention of Lando. “He better be serious about you, too, or else I swear to–”

“He is,” you finish before he can even start threatening Lando. “He’s more serious than I imagined. Maybe even more serious than me. You just– You have to give him a chance, Max.”

Your brother just stands there, a shell of himself compared to how excited he was earlier this evening, at Mason’s party. You worry this will affect your relationship, both with Lando and with Max, and you can’t help but break into a quiet cry. 

You use the sleeve to wipe away a tear off your jaw. “Do you… Do you hate me?”

Max’s shoulders immediately drop, his voice softer. “I could never hate you.”

You swallow hard, nodding your head. “I’m sorry it happened this way.”

He lets out a sad laugh. “Yeah, didn’t expect to lose my best friend tonight.”

You immediately reach out to touch Max’s arm, about to open your mouth to try and better the situation between them, but before you can even mumble a word, Max is pulling away and walking down the stairs. “I need time. I’ll be at Mason’s.” He says as he steps down the last stair, and you stand at the top of them, listening.

The front door closes shut. There’s no slam, just a quiet close of the red, wooden door. It somehow breaks you more than if he had slammed it shut.

Lando waits patiently on your bed, using his T-shirt as a wipe, trying his best to get the drying blood off of his chin. When the door to your bedroom opens, his eyes immediately flash to you and he can tell it didn’t go well. 

Lando closes the distance between you two almost immediately, discarding his bloody shirt to the floor as his arms wrap around you, warm, like home. “Are you okay?” He murmurs against your hair.

You nod with your face still pressed against his chest, fingers curling around him and settling on being lazily draped on his waist. “I will be. Are you?”

His chest rises underneath you, the events of that night hanging heavy in the air around you. “Took a punch to the jaw from my best friend, so… Not exactly my best night. But you’re here with me, that’s all I need.” 

You pull away enough to look up at him, enough to notice the purpling bruise on his jaw and the split in his lip. Guilt coils itself deep inside your stomach. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes again. 

“Don’t,” he cups your jaw, thumb softly caressing your skin before he pulls you close again, his cheek resting against the crown of your head. “You don’t have to apologise, not for any of it.”

After a few deep breaths and another two minutes of just standing there, holding each other, you pull away. Lando’s heart breaks at the tear stains on your cheeks, but you ignore his sad expression and mutter, “let me clean you up.” 

Lando stands in front of you as you sit on the cupboard, next to the sink, his hands on either side of your spread legs as he stands between them. 

You’re dabbing a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic onto the cut on his lip. “Hold still,” you order him and he raises a brow. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

You give him a look. “Not the time.”

“Okay,” you dab the cotton against his lip again and he winces in pain, but stays still. “Fuck, it stings.”

“Well, you did get punched.” You point out the obvious, shaking your head with disappointment. “You’re such an idiot.”

The irony of your words doesn’t get lost on Lando— he said the same thing to you months ago, when he drove you home from the party. 

“I know,” he shrugs. “Worth it though.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, a little bit in disbelief. “Getting punched by my brother is worth it?”

Lando puts his hands on your waist, sending shivers up your spine. “If it meant I get to be with you, I’d let him punch me a million times more.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you continue working on cleaning him up. “You’re lucky I haven’t punched you myself.” 

“Fair,” he grins and tries his best to hold as still as he can. His fingers dig into your skin as a way to keep himself at bay, and with the weight of his touch, you weren’t sure if he was holding back just because of the pain anymore. 

A moment passes— one in which Lando can’t stop looking at your focused face and you try your best not to get too flustered because of it. Your brain has been running a mile a minute since Max caught you and it only now had time to process what actually happened.

“You said you loved me.” You say, cautiously, like you’re scared he’ll tell you he didn’t mean it. That was your biggest worry at that moment— Lando just saying things, not knowing if he meant it. 

“Yeah,” he says it so casually, like his words were weightless. “I did.” 

You halt your movements, dropping your hands into your lap as you look anywhere but at him. “Did you mean it or was it something you said to calm Max down?” 

Lando laughs a little. “If I wanted to calm him down, I wouldn’t have said that.” 

You bite your bottom lip with anxiety and nod, “right.” 

He narrows his eyes, pushing his palms onto the counter as his head dips a bit to see you better. “I meant it,” he says after a moment. “It might’ve not been the ideal way to tell you, but it’s true.”

You place your head on his shoulder, still not looking up at him. The drawstring of his sweatpants gets pulled into your grasp as you fidget with it, not sure if you should ask this, but you do. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know,” his voice is soft, as if he was afraid of being heard. “It just kinda snuck up on me one day and hasn’t left me ever since.”

You nod, pulling yourself up to continue working on his lip. “Okay.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say?” Lando tilts his head to the side, much like a small, confused puppy would. 

“It’s a lot to process,” you shrug, eyes so focused on his lips that you don’t notice his eyes so glued on your face. “I need a minute.”

“That’s okay.” He smiles, hands finding their place on your hips again. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

“And you should probably not say that around Max anymore.”

Lando licks his lips with a laugh. “Duly noted. You gonna kiss me or keep playing nurse?”

You raise a brow, finally looking at him— his green eyes are no longer hinting at the sadness of the fight he had with Max and rather a glint of something brighter shines in them, something you’ve noticed only happens when he’s looking at you. 

“Let the lip heal first.” You kiss his cheek but Lando won’t settle for that. 

He cups your chin, softly yet firmly turning you to look at him. “Fuck the lip, I want to kiss my girl.” 

That’s when it comes. 

The moment you two had been dreaming of, yet every time it got close, something got in the way. Lando’s hands traveled from your hips to your jacket, unzipping it to reveal your bare body again. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled against your lips, ignoring the stinging of the cut on his bottom one. No amount of injury would keep him away from you. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him in closer. The way he kissed you was addicting— with every passing second it felt like his lips became more of a lifeline for you, like if he were to pull away right now, you’d feel a part of you go missing. 

Your nails softly traced formless shapes in his scalp, sending shivers down his spine as his lips left hickeys beside the ones he had decorated you with earlier. 

His hands settle on your thighs, slowly inching closer and when he triggers a spot on your skin that was particularly sensitive to his touch, your knees try to close but hit his hips instead. He pulled you closer to the edge of the sink, his hold on you so careful like he might break you. 

His lips are still on your neck when he mutters, “wrap your legs around me.” 

You do as told, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he picks you up, carrying you across the hall to your bedroom. He lays you on the bed again— the door shut this time— wasting no time as he unties his sweatpants. 

You don’t notice him reach over to the drawer of your nightstand, taking out the condom he slipped in from his jacket right when Max came into your room. All hell would’ve broken loose if it had somehow fallen out of the jacket when you wore it. 

You feel him pressing against you and another second passes before you’re gasping at him pushing into you, filling you up. “I know,” he coos, lips softly peppering kisses down your jaw. “You can take it.”

Lando stills his hips for a second, not moving as you take time to adjust. The excitement and anticipation grows so big in your belly that it jolts your hips slightly upwards, making Lando groan at the feeling. 

“I’ll move a bit, yeah?” He looks into your eyes, pushing away the hair that fell messily onto your forehead. 

You nod your head and he pulls out. Immediately, you feel the need for more, for him. When Lando pushes his tip past your folds again, setting a slow rhythm, you whimper softly against his mouth. Lando can’t help but moan quietly, the feeling of your walls around his cock being better than he ever imagined. 

Those nights of his hand wrapped around his length, your name spilling from his lips as he came undone on his own chest were nothing like having you— a whimpering mess— underneath him. 

He speeds up just the smallest bit, adding more force to his thrusts, and rolls his hips anytime they make contact with yours. The sound of skin-on-skin contact and shy moans fills the room. 

Lando’s necklace dangles in your face and, for some odd reason, it turns you on even more. Your hips jut against his and you mutter, “faster.”

The sound of your voice when he’s thrusting into you made Lando come closer to the edge. He speeds up again, fingers digging so deeply into your hips that he was sure would leave a mark. 

You gasp at the feeling of him pulling your hips up towards him with every thrust, your eyes squeezed shut as your mouth parted, loud moans bouncing off the walls of the room. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he kissed your jaw, softly biting down on the skin to earn more pretty sounds from you.

Every word you try to say gets drowned out by your moans or muted by Lando kissing you, and then you feel the pleasure build up so quickly that you’re unable to tell him when you come undone. Lando felt your walls pulse around him tighter and knew to keep the pace, thrusting into you as deeply as he could. 

“Look at me,” he ordered, eyes already looking at your closed ones. When your pupils meet his, you feel him reach down between your bodies and gently rub your clit. “Y’gonna cum on my cock, baby? Hm?”

Tears prick your eyes as Lando speeds up the tiniest amount, drilling into you with all he’s got as his right middle finger draws circles on your aching bud. And then, with a breathy moan, Lando feels you come undone. 

He thrusts a little more, reaching for his high with his lips pressed to your shoulder. You feel a warmth inside you before Lando stills. 

The next few minutes are of you two just laying in each other's embrace, not moving— aside from your fingers in Lando’s hair and his fingers drawing circles on your hips— and simply soaking in the calm after the storm.

It’s been two days since Max’s knuckles made friends with Lando’s jaw.

Mason found it quite funny— he never really liked Lando to begin with, so hearing that he fucked up in Max’s eyes made him that much more motivated to add fuel to the fire. He sat on the couch in his living room, watching as Max played some video game on the playstation. 

Another twenty minutes of uninterrupted gameplay passes before Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He’s so focused on the game that he doesn’t even check who’s calling, assumes it’s you, and presses the green button before putting the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Lando’s voice cuts through Max’s focus on the game. He immediately pauses it, rage building in his chest. 

Max takes a breath, trying to calm down before answering. “What do you want?” 

“I’m thinking of breaking up with her.” 

Max feels his heart drop to his heels. He’s what? 

On the other end of the call, Lando’s got his head in his hands as his phone lays atop his knee. He’s in his car, the already small space getting even smaller as his shallow exhales fill the air. 

He’s parked outside your house where, just five minutes ago, he left you peacefully sleeping.  

Over the last two days he had spent with you— all the slow dancing in the kitchen, the breaths bouncing off each other’s faces from being so close in the morning, the moments where his hands traversed your body like it was land unknown to anyone else but him— Lando realised that maybe he could do this forever. 

And that scared him. 

He’s always been a free man— going wherever he pleases whenever he wants, having no responsibility for anyone else other than himself— but now there’s you. 

Lando’s life feels like it’s split into two parts. The part before you seems free, fun, inviting yet gloomy. Like there’s an essential element of it that’s just missing, thus making his existence in that time seem like exactly that— existing. 

The part after you, though, that part is what’s so new yet scary to him. Rather than existing through his days, he lives them because of you. 

It’s a lot more domestic, this life— waking up in tangled sheets, making and burning pancakes in the morning as soft music spills from the speakers, sitting tangled on the couch as you read a book and Lando played a game on Max’s console. He’s not sure what happened for it to feel so wrong when everything was going so well. 

This morning, Lando watched you sleep. So serene, solemn and still. Your bare chest rose and fell with steady breaths, soft snores lingering at the back of your throat every once in a while. 

He stayed like that— propped up on his elbow, eyes tracing over every inch of your face— until the weight in his chest felt like his ribs were breaking. 

As he was getting dressed, he questioned it. He loves you— hell, he’s loved you for years, but he was too stupid to realise it sooner— and he knows you’re the girl he wants, so why is he running?

He’s quietly making his way down the stairs when he realises that maybe Max was right. Max made it clear that Lando wasn’t the guy for you, that you deserve much better, and while Lando disagreed with it before, he feels like it’s true.

He spent the majority of his later teens and early adulthood with more women than he could count on one hand, not a single one of them made him question his feelings, because there weren’t any. 

But now, with you sleeping soundly upstairs and him standing by the open front door, Lando realises that maybe somewhere in the middle of your blooming relationship, he got too caught up in the delusion to face reality— you deserve someone who won’t walk out on you while you’re asleep. 

For the past five minutes, Lando sat in the driver's seat, clutching the wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t want to call Max about this, but he was the only person in the world that Lando trusted and it was worth a shot. 

“You what?” Max’s voice rang in Lando’s ears. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

“You were right, I– I’m not the guy for her.” Lando’s voice sounded so flat that it made Max worried, just the tiniest bit. “She deserves better.”

“Mate, if it’s about what I said, I’ll fucking get over it eventually.” Max is now pacing around Mason’s living room while the blond man just watches him, a glimmer of hope in his eye that Max failed to catch. “But her? She’ll never get over you, Lando.”

“You don’t know that, Max.”

Max inhales sharply, as if he was just about to spew a string of insults at Lando but chose to take the calmer approach. “I do know that, she’s so fucking in love with you that it makes me sick. Do you realise how much you walking out will fuck her up?”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Lando’s starting his car now, still hesitant to turn the key. “It’s what’s best for her.”

“Since when do you decide that?” Max huffs a humorless laugh. “At least just talk to her, dude. I’ll get over you two dating but what I won’t forgive you for is walking out on both of us.” 

“Bye, Max.” Lando inhales a deep breath and before his best friend can speak again, he’s ending the call.

–

The smell of cinnamon, bananas and something burning hits Max’s nose the second he opens the front door to his house. He steps into the kitchen slowly, eyes scanning the mess— flour dusted across the countertops like snow, dishes cluttering the sink, you aggressively mixing something in a big, blue bowl. 

“What are you doing?” 

You halt your movements, turning around to Max with the fakest smile he’s ever seen from you. “Baking. Banana bread, you want some?” 

Max watches as you pull out the banana bread— that looks more like a chunk of coal— out of the oven. “Nah, I’ll pass.” 

He knew not to push, not to ask because, in reality, he shouldn’t even care. You betrayed him as much as Lando did, but you’re his little sister and Max would be damned if he let you set the house on fire with your baking. 

Max took a seat at one of the stools, eyes intently watching you. You never baked, not unless you were trying to occupy your mind by occupying your hands. 

“I talked to Lando,” he says casually, like he didn’t hate the guy. 

He notices the halt in your movements, the knife stilling in the burnt loaf. “Cool,” you shrug. 

“He said he’s ending things with you.” 

“And why do you think that is, Max?” You slam the knife down onto the counter with enough force to make Max jolt. “You got into his head.”

“I didn’t mean for him to take that shit seriously.” Your brother runs a hand down his face. “I was angry, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him to leave you.” 

“You punched him, that’s not something to take lightly.” You say, a little quieter this time, a little more hurt. 

Max notices the silent glimmer of a plea in your eyes, like you’re asking him what you should do. “You should talk to him.” 

“And say what?” Your voice breaks as tears begin to roll down your cheeks, shoulders dropping. “He left me, Max, he le-“ 

A loud sob echoes in the kitchen and Max’s arms are around you immediately. He caresses your back, softly kissing your head as his arms squeeze you tighter. 

“He’s at the garage, probably hasn’t left all day.” He mutters. “I’m not telling you to go fix it, but if you want answers, that’s where you’ll get them.” 

Max watches your face as you pull away and wipe your tears with your sleeve. “Okay.” 

“Go, I’ll clean up your mess.” Max gives your shoulders a soft squeeze and turns to the lump of coal you called banana bread. 

Lando’s garage had always been his hideout. 

The lights were always on too late and, even from across the street, you could see a sliver of fluorescent glow bleeding out through the cracked garage door. 

You were parked at the end of his driveway. The air, thick and way too warm, smelled like motor oil and rubber, and it reminded you of simpler days— your legs dangling off the workbench while your boyfriend tinkered with something, grease smudging his fingers and face. 

The door was already cracked open, your favourite song quietly playing from the bluetooth speaker at the corner of the room. 

Lando was bent over the engine of one of the cars, back towards you, elbow deep in whatever he was messing with. He didn’t need to turn to know it was you who came in. 

“You left while I was sleeping.” Your voice shook the calmness of his garage— his sanctuary— and he felt it in his bones. “You left and didn’t say anything. You talked to Max instead of me.” 

Lando pulls his hands out of the engine bay and reaches for a nearby rag, wiping his fingers slowly and methodically, giving himself something to focus on before he breaks. 

“I didn’t know what to say.” He finally turns to face you, though his eyes stay glued to the ground. He catches a glimpse of your pink crocs and it makes him smile, just barely. 

“You knew what to say to the guy that punched you and not your girlfriend?” Your voice cracked with a quiet sob. “Do you know what it felt like to hear from my brother that you wanted to end things with me?”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” he draws in a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry I disappeared, okay? I just- I didn’t know how to handle it. I needed space to think.” 

“About what?” You bit your bottom lip to stop it from shaking. “About whether or not I’m worth staying for?”

“No,” the word left his lips with urgency, eyes finally looking up at yours. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

The silence stretched, the music still playing from the corner of the room like it didn’t care that hearts broke in this room. 

Lando exhaled slowly. “I’m scared.” He didn’t wait for you to ask why. “I’ve never had a good thing like this, I’m scared I’ll fuck it up and ruin it.” 

“You won’t.”

He huffs a sigh of frustration. “You don’t know that.” 

You step a little closer, inching towards the wall Lando built up around himself,  a frail attempt to hide his feelings. Lando raises his eyes from the ground to— finally— look at your face. 

“I know that you’re trying,” your voice cuts through the sharp silence. “I know that I noticed all the things you did for me.”

“What?” Lando blinked. 

“I noticed,” you repeated. “You probably thought I didn’t, but I never mentioned it because I thought you’d stop doing them.” 

You reach out to take his hand, rough and warm, in yours. He didn’t pull away, just looked at you— sad, scared, waiting.

“I noticed how you remembered stupid details about me. I noticed how you’d text me when you couldn’t sleep and pretend it was about something random, when you were trying to subtly let me in. I noticed how you got quieter when overwhelmed, how you’d hold back things you wanted to say. I saw all of that. I see you, Lando.” 

Lando’s grasp on your hand tightened, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He looked up at you. Like your words were light he didn’t know he could stand in. 

“I tried,” he whispered, voice gentle and soft in the way he’d never spoken before— like every word he says drops to the ground with added weight. 

“I know you did,” you nod, eyes teary and locked into his face. “And I loved every bit of it. All the good and the bad. I wasn’t waiting for some perfect version of you, I just want you. The scared and the happy.” 

A silence stretched in the air. Then, he exhaled shakily and spoke again. 

“It’s like… The more I care, the worse I get at this. Like I’m holding something fragile and don’t know how to stop myself from dropping it.” 

“You’re not going to drop me. You don’t have to protect me from you. I choose you and I choose this.” 

He pulled his hand away gently, eyes focusing on anything  other than your face. His jaw clenched, voice low when he mumbled, “I think I need a break.” 

“A break?” 

“Not because I don’t love you,” he quickly added, looking at you with wide eyes before dropping his shoulders. “I do, God, I love you. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.” 

You don’t say anything— not a sound— tears falling from your eyes as you gave him a small, bittersweet smile.

Lando watched as you stepped closer, bringing your hands up to his cheeks. You pulled him in close enough to press your lips against the sweaty surface of his forehead, giving a gentle see you later, neither of you sure of when the later is. 

Then, you turned on your heel and stepped out into the night, leaving Lando in his sanctuary of motor oil and gasoline.

The next few weeks feel like they’re moving in slow motion. It’s cruel how grief stretches time.

You kept expecting to wake up one day and feel fine, but it didn’t work like that.

You still reached for your phone some mornings, typing out something before remembering you weren’t talking. The playlist he made for you kept playing on repeat in your earbuds, his hoodie adorned your torso, sleeves pulled over your hands so at least some part of him was still holding you.

You caught yourself looking for him in the small things— when you’d walk out of university, eyes flickering to see if his car was there; when you’d walk downstairs and half-hope he was playing a game with Max; when you’d hear a word or phrase he’d often use and whip your head around to catch a glimpse of him, but he was never there.

It’s like living with a phantom limb– he wasn’t there, yet everything still remembered him.

Your best friends didn't push, Max didn��t mention him. But the silence— the kind that only fills the room after something’s broken and no one knows how to sweep it up— spoke for you.

In the meanwhile, Lando was coping in the only way he knew how.

He skipped hang outs with friends, ditched parties, just to work longer hours in his garage. Stayed until the heater shut off on its own and his hands were numb from the cold. He didn’t talk to anyone for those weeks. He just drowned himself in tasks— changing oil, fixing brakes, changing tires— anything that kept his hands busy and allowed his mind to work on autopilot. 

His phone remained quiet. Once or twice, he clicked on your contact just to see the photo of you two. Thought about sending a voice memo or a meme— something friendly, something you’d tease him for— but he always backed out at the last minute. 

Lando could hide in the garage all he wanted, but one thing remained true: he missed you like hell.

He missed the way you’d talk to him, like he wasn’t something broken. Missed how you’d be his escape from reality, much more than his garage ever was. Missed how easy it had started to feel, until he complicated it.

He kept seeing you everywhere or maybe he was just finding any excuse to take a moment to stop and think of you. He’d catch himself standing in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand you liked most. Or outside a bakery, reading the chalkboard sign that said banana bread in funky script, thinking of how he’d come downstairs in the morning to find you baking it.

Lando tried his best not to feel it— the regret, the grief, the overwhelming love.

Yet, despite his best efforts, he found himself staring at his lockscreen, a picture of the two of you on it. You were asleep tucked into his side, so serene and peaceful that he couldn’t help but snap a picture. He did this on nights he couldn’t sleep.

It was already two in the morning and his mind was running wild, he could’ve sworn he hallucinated a message from you. He checked his phone again, seeing the message and just as he’s about to click on it, your contact pops up on his screen.

Lando doesn’t hesitate to answer, pressing the green button immediately. “Hello?”

On the other end, you’re locked in a bathroom at Mason’s house, mascara running down your cheeks, dress hitched way too high up your thighs. You didn’t anticipate this night to go so wrong when all you were trying to do is move on from wallowing at home.

The party, at some point, became too much. Too many people, too much noise, too many bodies brushing past you like you didn’t exist— except for the one who did notice you and in all the wrong ways. 

Mason caught you in the hallway, snaking an arm around your waist as he led you upstairs to his bedroom. You thought he was being nice, like he had been for the past few weeks. It was only when he started softly caressing your thighs, face inching closer to yours, that you realised his intentions. He didn’t stop, even when you were pushing and screaming at him to go away. 

You found a pause in his movements, kicked him somewhere that distracted him long enough for you to run out of the room and lock yourself in the nearest bathroom. Your fingers trembled when you opened your phone.

There were people you could’ve called. People who would answer and help. But you didn’t want people, only him.

When the phone rang once, then twice, you started doubting your choice of calling him. But then, his voice cuts through the chaos in your mind and silences it all with just one word. 

His voice was rough with surprise, tired, laced with something so familiar yet so distant. 

You didn’t mean to cry again, but it spilled out of you without warning. “I— fuck, sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Wait— hey, no— what’s wrong?” Lando sat up in his bed, alarmed by the trembling of your voice. “Where are you?”

“At a party,” you mumbled, wiping your tears uselessly. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I’m glad you called me,” he answered, no hesitation. “I’m coming to get you, text me the address?”

“No, I shouldn’t have called. I— I’m sorry.”

“Give me the address.” Lando says more sternly. You read it out and he repeated it back, like he was memorising it. “Stay there. You don’t have to explain a thing to me, just stay in that room and don’t open the door unless it’s me, okay?”

Then the line went dead.

You sunk to the floor, phone in your lap, arms around your knees. The minutes stretched painfully. Music blared, people walked by, someone knocked once but you told them to fuck off without even glancing at the door.

Then, barely ten minutes since the call ended, you hear a knock. Softer, rhythmic, familiar.

“It’s me,” he yelled over the music. You opened the door and there he was— messy haired, hoodie half-zipped, cheeks flushed like he ran the whole way there.

Lando saw your mascara-streaked face and something in him cracked open. He didn’t ask, not immediately. He just shut the door behind himself, reaching a hand out as if to ask for permission to touch you. And when he pulled you into him, arms shielding you, you let yourself break. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you mumbled into his, now tear and mascara stained, hoodie. “I shouldn’t have called you, it’s too soon, I’m–”

“Stop,” his voice was quiet, but firm. He took your face into his hands, guiding your eyes towards him. “You called, I came. I always will.”

“I didn’t wanna be a burden.”

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “You’re not. Not ever.”

Lando tucked you back into his chest again, hand on the back of your head like he’s anchoring you there. “Don’t worry about too soon or too late, I’m here for you. Doesn’t matter when or where.”

You nodded, inhaling shaky breaths until the ache in your chest became small enough to handle. Lando’s eyes traced your face when you pulled away, thumbs softly wiping the mascara from under your eyes. “Who did this to you?”

You bit your lip, not wanting to say anything. But Lando knew you. He knew how to read you, how to understand what you wanted to say even without words. “Mason?” A nod from you was all it took for Lando to mumble for you to stay there as he burst out the door.

The kitchen was buzzing— music hummed low, drinks were being poured, someone laughed too loudly over the sound of ice cracking in the glass. 

Lando stormed in like a force of nature, his shoulders tense and jaw clenched, a fury in his eyes no one had ever seen before, not even Max. 

Lando didn’t look around at the people in the small space. He moved straight to the kitchen counter, like a bloodhound drawn to the scent of something rotten. 

Mason was there, laughing, surrounded by people too excited for the shots being poured to notice the storm. But Max did. The second he saw Lando, he knew something was up. 

“Lando—“ Max’s callout was too late. Lando had already grabbed Mason by the collar and slammed him face-first into the marble. 

The music abruptly stopped, Mason’s yell echoing in the still air. “What the fuck?”

Lando pulled him back and threw him against the fridge with a bone-rattling bang, the bottle of vodka from Mason’s hands clattering to the ground and breaking at their feet. 

“You sick son of a bitch,” Lando snarled, pressing his forearm against Mason’s throat. “You don’t fucking know when to stop, do you?” 

Mason coughed, struggling. “What the fuck are you on about?”

By now, Max had shoved forward and tried to pry Lando off. “Hey, man—“

“You know exactly what,” Lando spat, eyes not once leaving Mason’s face. “You wanna tell Max what you did to his sister? Why she called me crying and couldn’t even say your name without breaking into a sob?”

Max froze. “What?” 

“She didn’t say no,” Mason tried to defend himself, wide eyed and panicked. “She didn’t say anything— She didn’t stop me.”

Lando punched him. Knuckles to cheekbone, sharp and brutal. Mason’s head whipped to the side with a force strong enough to bring him to the ground, blood already blooming from his lip. 

The whole room stood frozen. Lando hovered over the recovering Mason, before shoving him to the ground with his knee between Mason’s shoulder blades. 

“If I hear that you touched her again or even looked her way, you won’t be just bleeding.” Lando promises. 

Then he leaves, as quickly and quietly as he arrived. Mason’s left on the floor with a fuming Max while Lando finds his way back to you, knuckles bleeding and heart racing triple. 

The cold marble of your kitchen islands spreads coolth along your thighs, grounding you to the present, although your thoughts are elsewhere entirely. The kitchen light buzzing above you doesn’t help with the lingering headache from the party or the ghost of Mason’s hands still roaming your body.

You got home ten minutes ago. 

Lando stands beside you, the heat from his body bleeding into the silence like wildfire, even as he zones out into nothing. His eyes seem so far away, jaw clenched with uncontrollable fury.

“Your knuckles are bleeding,” you murmur, barely a whisper. He doesn’t answer, simply stretches out and closes his fist again, before tucking it into his pocket, like he can hide the violence and anger of tonight. 

He looked wrecked, not just from the fight, but from feeling— jaw clenched, lips tight, eyes narrowed in on the wooden floor. 

“I shouldn’t have called you,” you whispered. “It was selfish and too soon, and I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“Stop,” he said immediately, voice too gentle for how rough and broken he looked. He closed the distance between you, and like testing the waters, he placed a hand on the counter beside you. “Don’t ever apologise for needing me. I’ll always come when you call.”

The dam broke a little at that, tears pricking your eyes. Lando’s finger twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if he could. So you reached for him first— fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as you pressed your forehead into his shoulder. 

Lando melted around you instantly, arms winding around your waist, pulling you in, holding you against him like you were fragile and precious, and his. 

Neither of you moved for a long time. The house was silent, apart from your quiet gasps for air once in a while. Your heartbeat matched the steady thrum of his and you finally felt like everything was slowly becoming okay again. 

Eventually, Lando pulled away just enough to see your face, but kept you close enough for his fingers to still steadily warm your waist. “Can I clean this up?” He lifted his right hand, nudging his chin towards his knuckles. You nodded. 

He led you to the bathroom and sat against the bathtub’s edge, watching as you hastily looked for the first aid kit. You knelt in front of him, gently cleaning the dried up blood from his knuckles and skin. He hissed once the antiseptic touched an open wound. You didn’t apologise, just looked up and met his eyes, already watching you. “Why?”

Lando turned his head to the side with a questioning hum, “what?”

“You didn’t have to go that far,” you mutter, lowering your eyes to his hand again. “We could’ve just gone home.”

“I did have to,” he shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“You didn’t even think twice, you just went there and…” your voice was quiet, like you’re ashamed. 

“No,” he speaks again, “because it’s you.”

The quiet that settled in didn’t feel heavy anymore— it felt like home again. In the words Lando spoke and the tenderness of your fingers on his wounds, gentle and careful, both of you found your place again. Like two halves of one whole. You were the better half of him and he— of you.

The sun rose outside your bedroom window as Lando lay against your chest and you held him close, with a tight yet tender grip, like he’d disappear if you let go of him again.

“I’m glad you called me tonight,” Lando muttered, lips pressed to your bare chest. “I’m not sure how much longer I would have waited before talking to you again.”

“It was eating me alive,” you admit. “The not knowing whether this was it, whether you’d still want me whenever I saw you next. But I’m glad you do.”

“I always will,” the certainty in his voice, spoken like he knew what he’d feel for the rest of his life, made your heart skip a beat. “Thank you for calling me, again.”

You look down at him, your smile soft and bittersweet.

“Thank you for coming, again.” 

“To you, always.”

[brookghaib-blog]

The Dying Love of a Super-Soldier

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: After moving to Florida to live a normal, Y/N had manage to achieve everything she wanted. Even after Bob and her being a complete failure that made her rot from the inside, making her heartbroken to never fully recover. Only a new unexpected event would make her snap.

Warning: Very angst, depressive thoughts, heartbreak, betrayal, alcoholism, drug addiction, attempt murder, toxic behaviour, past-trauma, toxic relationship, bipolar disorder

Word count: 19,1k

Note: Based on this request!

--

Florida smelled like salt, oranges, and artificial calm — and that’s exactly why she chose it. A place where nobody knew her name. A place where the ghosts might stop clawing at the inside of her skull long enough to let her breathe.

She had a house now. Small. Quiet. White walls, cold tile floors, and a porch that faced the water. She never turned the TV on. Her phone stayed in a drawer. And every morning, like clockwork, she sat with her coffee in trembling hands, watching the sunrise like it might one day burn her clean.

But nothing ever did.

Y/N Ivanov— or whatever name the world gave her now — had once been the Red Room’s most perfected weapon. A ghost in combat boots. Better than Natasha. Sharper than Yelena. Not because she wanted to be — because she had no choice.

They stole her childhood before she could understand what having one meant. And then, when she was still just fourteen, they gave her something else: the serum. A gift, they called it. A reward for her "obedience." She remembered the needles — thick, cold, and shoved deep into her spine. She remembered screaming.

Then… she remembered nothing.

They had taken her memories. Cleaned her mind like a chalkboard. All traces of laughter with Natasha. The warmth of Yelena’s arms after a nightmare. Gone.

In their place, they inserted lies. They told her that Natasha was a traitor. That Yelena had abandoned her. That they had left her to rot. They gave her a mission: kill the defectors. The ones who had run from the cause. And Y/N did what she was told. Not out of hatred — but because she didn’t know any better. Her hands moved like machines. Her eyes didn’t blink. She was their prize soldier. Their wolf in the skin of a girl. But wolves remember.

She wasn’t sure when it started — flashes at first. A laugh she couldn’t place. The scent of blackberries in a dream. Then faces. Yelena’s face when she was seven, scolding her for scraping her knees on the training mat. Natasha holding her after her first kill, whispering “You’re still human.”

She broke the programming the same way she’d always survived: with rage. The Red Room called her a miracle. But miracles don’t scream until their throats bleed or wake up choking from dreams of blood-soaked hands and crying children.

When she escaped — truly escaped — it was with Natasha and Yelena beside her. Not as enemies, but sisters again. Family again. She wept in their arms like the world had ended. Maybe, in some ways, it had.

Natasha died not long after. Y/N still hadn’t forgiven the world for that.

Yelena tried to help her heal. They’d cook together. Laugh sometimes. But it wasn’t long before Y/N realized she was unraveling inside. Every mission was a trigger. Every news broadcast a reminder of how many people she’d hurt. How many she couldn’t remember. So she told Yelena she was done.

“I can’t fight anymore,” she said. “I don’t know who I am when I’m not fighting… but I need to try.”

So Yelena hugged her. Told her she understood. That she loved her.

And Y/N left.

Now she lived by the ocean, where the water could swallow her guilt a little at a time.

But the silence wasn’t kind. It was cruel. Every quiet night was filled with the hum of old nightmares. Her hands still shook when she washed the blood that wasn’t there. She kept a box under her bed: photos of Natasha, a letter from Yelena she couldn’t bring herself to read, and a bullet she had pulled from her own thigh in a mission she couldn’t forget.

She never went to therapy. She didn’t think anyone could fix a brokenness this deep.

Sometimes, on cold nights, she whispered apologies into the wind. To the children she’d left behind. The mothers she’d scared. The sisters she betrayed when she was nothing more than a weapon in someone else’s hands.

And sometimes — when the sun dipped just right over the horizon and everything glowed red — she thought she saw Natasha. Leaning in the doorway. Arms crossed. Smirking.

"You're still human."

Y/N would close her eyes and let the wind sting her cheeks.

Maybe, in another life, she could have believed that.

--

Florida nights could feel like nothingness — humid, slow, like the air itself refused to move forward. Y/N had started drinking again after three months sober. It wasn’t a dramatic fall. Just one glass of cheap whiskey after too many nights spent listening to the waves and her own thoughts crawling like insects under her skin. Then two. Then four. Then not bothering to count anymore.

That night, she didn’t plan to go to the bar. She never did. It just happened, like most things in her life now — accidental, numbing, slow suicide disguised as routine. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror had barely blinked before she slid on jeans, a worn tank top, and pulled her hair back. No makeup. No purpose. Just the quiet ache of needing to be somewhere that wasn’t her own head.

The bar was local. Ugly. Dim. Neon lights humming above tired faces. It smelled like sweat and spilled beer, with just enough silence between the country songs to remind you of how alone you really were. That’s what she liked about it.

She’d taken a booth in the corner. Sat sideways, one leg bent beneath her, the other stretched out like she owned the place. Nobody bothered her. Nobody ever did. Maybe it was the look in her eye — that flat, glassy nothingness she had perfected in the Red Room. The kind that told people not to try.

She had her second drink when she noticed him.

At first, he didn’t look like much. Just a man nursing a beer at the bar, hunched over like the world had cracked his back. Hair a mess, knuckles raw, jeans dirty like he hadn’t cared in a while. But there was something in the way he sat — still, deliberate, as if staying upright took every ounce of energy.

She didn’t remember who looked first. Or who crossed the space between them. It didn’t matter. They were pulled together by something beyond logic — two stars already collapsed, orbiting the same black hole.

He smelled like rain and ash. His voice was quiet. Gentle in a way that didn’t make sense for a man with hands like those — scarred, twitchy, like they wanted to tear something apart.

She didn’t ask for his name.

He didn’t ask for hers.

He said something stupid. She laughed too hard. Slurred her words, then covered her mouth, embarrassed. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t judge. Just looked at her with eyes so sad she felt like someone had cracked open her ribs.

And for the first time in forever, she didn’t feel watched. She didn’t feel analyzed. She just felt seen.

They didn’t talk about their pasts. People like them didn’t need to. It was all there — in the way they held their drinks too tightly. In the haunted pauses between words. In the way their eyes never stayed in one place for long.

She leaned her head on his shoulder eventually. He let her. His shoulder was strong, but it trembled slightly. She didn’t ask why. She could smell the meth on him — sour, chemical, ugly. But she didn’t flinch. She knew addiction. Knew what it meant to crave something that hurt you more than it helped.

She wasn’t sober either. Her blood was warm and slow, her head swimming. The room tilted. But his arm came around her waist and anchored her. Gently. Like she was something precious. That scared her more than anything.

They ended up back at her place. Not for sex. Not for anything people like to call “normal.” Just... because they didn’t want the night to end. They sat on the porch. Shared a bottle of something she didn’t remember buying. Talked in slurred pieces — about the stars. About what music sounded like when you were high. About what it felt like to lose yourself.

At some point, she turned to him. Really looked at him.

He was beautiful. Not in a clean-cut way. Not like the men she used to seduce and kill on missions. But in a ruined way. Like a statue cracked down the middle but still standing. His smile was sad. His eyes were oceans she didn’t know how to swim.

“You’re a wave,” she murmured.

He blinked. “What?”

“A wave. You came in and just... washed over me. And I didn’t know how much I needed that.”

His smile faltered. “Waves don’t stay.”

She didn’t say anything. She knew that better than anyone.

They fell asleep on the floor. Her curled into his side, like a child. His arm draped over her protectively. She didn’t dream. For the first time in years.

In the morning, he was still there. Hair messier. Shirt crumpled. She found a half-eaten granola bar in his pocket when he dozed off again on the couch. She ate it. It made her laugh.

And then the fear crept in.

She wasn’t supposed to feel this. Not comfort. Not connection. Especially not with someone like him. Someone whose hands shook more than hers. Someone with veins that pulsed with poison and guilt. Someone who looked at her like she was soft — when she knew there was nothing left inside her but steel and scar tissue.

But Bob — that was his name, she learned later — didn’t ask her to be soft. He didn’t ask her to be anything. He just was. A presence. A silence she could rest in. A broken thing that didn’t try to fix her.

And in a world that demanded she keep proving she was worth saving, that was the kindest thing anyone had ever done.

They weren’t lovers. Not then. They were strangers clinging to the same wreckage. Addicted to the quiet between them. Two ruined people who didn’t know what life was supposed to be — only that they didn’t want to spend it alone anymore.

And maybe that’s what made it so dangerous.

She’d built walls her whole life. Bob didn’t knock them down. He just leaned against them with his soft smile and tired eyes, and made her want to open the door.

She didn’t know then what he really was. That he wasn’t just broken — he was shattered beyond human comprehension. That his mind carried monsters. That one day, he’d vanish just like every other good thing.

But that night? That night was theirs.

They never meant for it to happen. Love wasn’t in the cards for people like them — not when your hands remembered blood more than touch, not when your mind was more familiar with silence than comfort. But it happened anyway. Quietly. Slowly. Like water soaking into cracked soil.

It started with the mornings.

Bob stayed over more often. At first, it was an unspoken agreement — neither of them wanted to be alone. Then it became routine. He’d make coffee while she watched him from the couch, her head heavy on the pillow, eyes tracing the curve of his shoulders in the morning light.

“Milk or sugar?” he asked once.

She blinked at him. “Do I look like a sugar-in-coffee kind of girl?”

He chuckled. “You look like someone who’d throw the mug at me if I asked again.”

She smirked. “You’d deserve it.”

There was always something playful in their mornings. Something soft. But beneath it was this ache — a knowing that the warmth they were building had to be temporary. Nothing good ever stayed for people like them. They were waiting for the storm, even when the sky was clear.

Still, they tried.

They went on walks — strange, meandering ones through Florida’s weather-worn streets. Bob would hold her hand, but only when she let him. Y/N wasn’t used to touch that didn’t hurt. But with him, she began to crave it — the grounding warmth of his fingers, the way his thumb would brush against hers without meaning to. Or maybe he meant to. She never asked.

There was a night in late October — humid, still, full of stars. They were lying on a blanket in the back of Bob’s truck. She had snuck a bottle of wine from the gas station. He’d brought a melted bag of marshmallows he found in the pantry.

They didn’t talk much. Just looked up.

“You ever wonder what it would’ve been like… if we were normal?” she asked.

Bob turned his head toward her, slow and careful, like even moving too fast might scare her away. “Yeah. Every day.”

She swallowed. “Do you think… we’d still find each other?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were so blue, even in the dark. Then: “I don’t think anyone else could understand me like you do.”

Her chest ached. He said things like that without knowing what they did to her — how they broke her open in places still healing.

They kissed that night. Not urgent. Not desperate. Just… full. Heavy with everything they couldn’t say. Her hands in his hair. His hands on her waist, holding her like he thought she might disappear. She almost did.

He whispered her name like a prayer. She let herself fall.

They moved in together two months later.

It wasn’t planned. Bob just… stopped leaving. His toothbrush ended up in her bathroom. His T-shirt in her laundry. He never said he was staying. He just stayed. And she never told him to leave.

They made a home out of chaos. Patching each other up in ways neither of them understood. When Bob had bad nights — when the trembling got worse and the shadows in his mind whispered things he wouldn’t repeat — Y/N would sit on the bathroom floor with him, her legs wrapped around his, whispering back until the voices got tired.

“You’re here,” she’d say. “You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.”

When she woke up from a nightmare — soaked in sweat, heart racing like she was still dodging bullets in the Red Room — Bob would pull her into his chest, rock her gently, and hum. He wasn’t a good singer. But she never told him to stop.

They were addicted to each other. Not in the toxic, burning way — but in that slow suffocation kind of way. Like if one of them left, the other would forget how to breathe.

Bob started calling her “angel.” Soft, reverent, like she was something divine. Y/N never corrected him, though she knew she was far from it. Every time he said it, she almost believed him.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense,” he told her once, his voice cracking, his pupils blown wide from the edge of another high.

She held his face in her hands. “Then stay with me. Stay clean. Stay here.”

He tried. He tried so hard.

She started cooking. Badly. Burnt eggs. Undercooked pasta. But Bob would eat everything with a grin and a wink. They danced once in the kitchen, barefoot on the cold tile, her hair in a messy bun, his T-shirt hanging off her shoulder.

“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he whispered against her temple.

She laughed. She didn’t believe in marriage. But she believed in him. And that was terrifying enough.

But with love came the cracks.

Bob had dark days — days he’d vanish, or stare at the wall for hours, mumbling about voices, about the Void, about not feeling real. Y/N would shake him sometimes. Cry. Scream. But he’d just look at her, hollowed out, and say, “I don’t know how to stop it.”

She understood. She’d been there too.

There were nights they fought. Nights where the house felt too small and the world too loud. Y/N would slam doors. Bob would disappear down the block with clenched fists and red-rimmed eyes. But they always came back to each other. Always.

One time, after the worst of their fights, Bob returned at 3 a.m., barefoot, shivering, clothes soaked in rain. He collapsed at her doorstep.

“I don’t want to be without you,” he said, voice cracking like porcelain.

She dropped to her knees and kissed his forehead, tasting salt and desperation. “Then don’t be.”

--

It was beautiful, that was the worst part.

Because from the outside, it looked like love. The kind of love you saw in movies where two broken people found comfort in each other, where hands shook but still reached, where silence didn’t mean distance. The kind of love that people romanticized because they didn’t know any better.

But it wasn’t a movie. It wasn’t a poem or a love song or a neatly tied ending.

It was real. And real love — love soaked in addiction — was ugly.

Y/N had been drinking again. Not just the occasional buzz. Not just the glass of wine after dinner.

This was deeper. Darker.

It started with a bottle left on the counter. Then one hidden in the bathroom. Then one in the car, tucked under the seat, clinking when she made a sharp turn. She didn’t mean to spiral. But the mornings came heavier. The days got colder. And Bob…

Bob wasn’t getting better.

He was losing.

Some days, he’d try. He’d sit in front of her and cry, eyes wide and helpless, begging her to hide his stash. “Flush it,” he’d whisper. “Please… please… I don’t want to be this anymore.”

And she would. God, she would. She’d sit with him for hours, cold compress against his burning forehead, whispering stories from her past to distract him from the voices. She’d sing, she’d read, she’d cry with him — do anything just to keep him grounded.

But then there were other days.

Days when he’d vanish for hours. Days when he’d come back shaking, eyes dilated and teeth grinding, too fast, too angry, too loud. He would slam doors. Break plates. Scream into pillows. One night, he punched the wall so hard the plaster caved in and blood ran down his wrist like war paint.

Y/N patched it up with trembling hands.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she whispered, voice hoarse with exhaustion. “You’re killing yourself, Bob.”

He looked at her like a stranger. “You think I don’t know that?”

Then he walked out.

She didn’t follow. Not that time.

Their fights weren’t the kind you could write off. They were wars.

Things were said. Terrible things. Things that clung to the walls like smoke, long after the shouting stopped.

“Maybe you want me to die. That way you don’t have to carry me anymore.”

“Don’t you dare make this about me. You think I like watching you disappear?! I am doing everything I can to keep you here!”

“Then why are you always drunk?!”

Silence. Cold. Crushing. Because he was right, she was slipping, too. And she hated him for noticing.

She had always been the strong one. The weapon. The one who didn’t cry, didn’t break. But Bob unraveled her. Not by hurting her — but by needing her. All the time. Too much. And she was running out of things to give.

Still, she couldn’t let go.

She told herself it was love. That’s what love meant — enduring. Fighting. Staying.

But in truth?

She was scared.

Scared that if she left him, he’d die. And if he died, then she’d have to live knowing she didn’t save him.

She had failed before — failed to stop the Red Room, failed to save the girls who screamed in their cells, failed to run soon enough when her own memories were stolen. She couldn’t fail this, too.

Even if it meant drowning with him.

There was a night — one of the worst — when Bob came home high out of his mind, twitching, muttering nonsense about the Void, eyes unfocused. He looked haunted. Like something inside him had died.

Y/N tried to touch him. He flinched.

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re disappointed.”

She didn’t answer. Her hand fell back to her side.

That was all it took.

He stormed past her, knocking a chair to the floor. “You don’t get it,” he snapped. “You never got it. You look at me like I’m this project. Like I’m someone you can fix. But I’m not.”

She followed. “I know you’re not. You think I’m not broken, too? You think I wanted this?”

“You chose this,” he spat. “You stayed.”

That one hit. Hard. She froze.

Bob’s chest was heaving, face red with rage. But even in that moment, she saw it — the way his hands trembled, the shame underneath the fury, the way his mouth quivered like he was about to break down. He hated himself. And she couldn’t save someone who hated themselves more than they loved her.

So, she walked away. This time, she was the one who slammed the door. But they always came back.

No matter how bad the fight. No matter how ugly the words. The mornings still came, and with them came the apologies.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered into her hair one morning, voice raw. “I was scared.”

She was still crying. “So was I.”

He kissed her. They held each other. And for a few minutes, they could pretend it would be different this time.

That they wouldn’t fight again, that love would be enough. But it wasn’t. Because the addiction was always louder.

So, she isolated. Drank more. Cried in the shower. Hid bruises — not from violence, but from where Bob had grabbed her too tightly during one of his spirals. He never meant to hurt her. He never knew what she was, he didn't know how she could crush his skull with one kick because no matter how bad she was, Bob was her everything, she would kill herself if it meant he would live safe and happy, and never let her state overtake her to the point of ever hurting him physically. His apologies always came with tears. And she believed him.

Because she had done things she didn’t mean, too. Said things. Chosen the bottle over him.

They were a mess. A beautiful, tragic mess.

They loved each other so much. But that love lived in a house full of ghosts — and they couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t haunted. Sometimes she looked at him — really looked — and wondered what would’ve happened if they’d met in another life. If Bob had never touched meth. If she had never been turned into a weapon. If they’d both been whole.

Would they have had a house with white curtains and sunflowers in the windowsill? Would she have come home from work to find him reading on the couch, glasses slipping down his nose, telling her about some science article he’d found fascinating? Would she have worn a ring? Would he have remembered her birthday without her having to remind him? Would they have been safe?

But that wasn’t their life.

Their life was stained bedsheets and empty bottles. Screaming matches and shattered plates. Apologies written on sticky notes. Hugs that felt like lifelines. Eyes that couldn’t hide the truth.

Their love was real. But it wasn’t enough.

--

The decision didn’t come like a lightning strike. It wasn’t some grand moment of clarity or a dramatic vow shouted into the night.

It was quieter than that. Softer.

It came one morning, when the apartment was still and heavy, when the sun crept in through the slats in the blinds and painted Bob’s sleeping face in gold. His chest rose and fell slowly. Peacefully.

He looked young when he slept. Gentle. Not the man he’d become — all tremors and tension and muttered voices in the dark — but the man she knew was still in there. The man who used to read to her in bed. Who would trace patterns on her back until she fell asleep. Who told her she made the world feel a little less heavy.

She watched him sleep that morning, her head aching from the night before, and her body screaming for another drink, and she whispered something barely audible to herself.

“I want to stay.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d said it. But it was the first time she meant it like this. She wanted to stay. To be here. To build something. To be better — not just for herself, but for him. For them.

And for the first time in years, she realized she didn’t want to just survive. She wanted a future. A real one.

She wanted to be his wife. She wanted to be the mother of his children. She wanted to build a home that didn’t feel like walking on glass. She wanted morning coffee on the porch and pottery in the backyard. She wanted to live.

And she was ready to try.

The first few days were brutal.

Her body rebelled in every possible way. The migraines were endless. The shakes were unbearable. The craving whispered to her every second, like a ghost wrapped around her spine.

“Just one drink,” it would hiss. “Just to take the edge off.”

But she didn’t.

She journaled instead.

Pages and pages of pain and guilt and hope and anger. She wrote until her fingers cramped, until the ink bled through the pages, until the crying stopped and the silence settled.

She made a list.

Things That Make Me Feel Alive Without Drinking:

The sound of Bob breathing when he sleeps.

Warm coffee in the morning.

Pottery videos on YouTube.

The smell of fresh soap.

The idea of painting a mural in the bedroom.

Buying gifts for Bob. Even small ones.

Imagining a future where we are both okay.

She stuck the list on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a tomato.

--

She started pottery first.

It was messy and frustrating and humbling. The first bowl she made collapsed like wet tissue. But the second one held. And the third one had a little curve, a personality. She started keeping them on the windowsill.

Bob noticed.

“You’re making things,” he said one day, tracing the edge of a misshapen cup with his finger. “Like… actually making things.”

She smiled. “I’m trying.”

He kissed her then. Long. Slow. Like he was proud of her, even if he didn’t know how to say it.

That made her cry in the bathroom later. Not from sadness, but from how good it felt to be seen again.

Whenever she felt herself spiraling, she’d leave the house.

It didn’t matter where she went — a bookstore, the pier, the dusty art supply store run by an old woman named Marta who talked too much but always smiled.

She would walk. Breathe. Touch walls. Smell flowers.

And then she’d come back.

Always with something for Bob.

A pair of socks with Saturns on them. A tiny notebook with gold edges. A cracked keychain in the shape of a star. A ceramic frog that looked so ugly it made her laugh.

Bob collected the gifts without question. He put them all on the bookshelf beside his science journals. He never said “You shouldn’t have.” He never asked why.

He just kissed her on the forehead and told her, “Thank you for coming home.”

--

There were relapses.

One night, after three weeks clean, she had a panic attack so severe she couldn’t breathe. Her hands shook as she unscrewed the bottle of vodka she’d hidden in a sock drawer weeks ago, “just in case.”

She poured it into a cup and stared at it, dumping it down the sink. Then she curled up on the bathroom floor and cried until Bob found her. He didn’t say anything. Just held her. Rubbed her back. Pressed kisses to her neck like prayers. They didn’t talk about it the next day.

But she knew he knew what she’d almost done. And that he was proud she didn’t.

She painted, too, nothing professional, nothing good, but it helped. The colors. The control. The freedom.

She painted skies. Hands. Faces. Things she didn’t remember seeing, but had probably dreamed about. Once, she painted them — her and Bob — in a field full of red poppies. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt right.

She hung it above the bed.

Bob stared at it for a long time. “Do you think that’s where we go when we’re okay?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she whispered. “Maybe we’re already there in another life.”

He didn’t respond. Just squeezed her hand.

She started cooking.

Burned rice. Under-seasoned chicken. Exploding eggs. But there were a lot of improvements.

But she laughed through it all. And Bob, to his credit, always ate whatever she made.

They started having “dinner dates” in the living room with a blanket on the floor and candles in mugs. Sometimes they would pretend they were strangers meeting for the first time.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” she’d say, extending her hand like they hadn’t kissed that morning.

Bob would take her hand. “Hi, I’m Bob. God, do angels just walk around on earth now?”

They’d laugh. But it always ended with tears.

Because underneath it all, they both knew how fragile it was.

And yet… there was peace. Little moments.

Bob planting lavender in a pot on the balcony. Y/N making playlists called “Songs for When We’re Better.” Them dancing slowly to music no one else could hear. Falling asleep with limbs tangled, dreams soft and quiet.

She was doing it.

Not perfectly, but honestly she was staying sober, becoming someone new.

Not for the world. Not for redemption. Not even for her sisters. But for him. Because she wanted to be the woman he could count on. The woman who wouldn’t disappear. The woman who could love him without losing herself. She was becoming better.

And for the first time in her life — really, truly — she believed that maybe, just maybe…

She deserved to be. And so did he.

--

He didn’t know when the cracks started to show again. Maybe they’d never fully healed.

Maybe he was never meant to be whole in the first place.

There were good days. God, there were good days. Days when Y/N came home with paint on her fingers and bright eyes, holding some little treasure in her hand — a rock shaped like a heart, a used book with notes in the margins, a stupid mug that said “World’s Okayest Boyfriend.” Days when she laughed freely, without the weight of yesterday clinging to her voice.

She was healing.

He could see it in the way she carried herself. She was lighter. Braver. Trying.

But he was still stuck in the mud.

Still shackled to the same rot in his brain. Still battling the shadows in the corners of the room. Still waking up sweating and shaking, teeth grinding in his sleep, dreams full of static and whispers and himself — distorted and screaming and hollow.

Bob hadn’t been clean. Not really. He lied. Told her he was “tapering.” Told himself he just needed one more hit to stay steady, one more to keep the void quiet, one more to function.

But the truth was cruel: he was using. Still.

Every few days. Some nights when she was at pottery. Or reading. Or watching the rain through the window like it could forgive her.

He'd stash it in the back of the toilet. Under a floorboard in the closet. In an old book jacket he knew she’d never touch. He wanted to stop. But he didn’t know how to be okay without it. He didn’t know who he was without the numb. The day it all fell apart started like any other.

He woke up before her. Watched her sleep. Touched the edge of her shoulder like a prayer. She looked peaceful — almost girlish in the early morning light. She mumbled something in her sleep and rolled toward him. He smiled. Almost.

But there was a tremor in his jaw. His teeth ached. His skin felt like it didn’t fit. He needed it.

He told himself he’d just take a little. Just enough to stop the noise in his head.

Just enough to get through the day.

So while she made breakfast — humming to herself in the kitchen, the scent of burnt toast curling through the air — he excused himself and went to the closet.

Floorboard. Right corner. Fingernail crack. The pipe was still there. Still calling. And he smoked.

And for a while, everything was quiet.

But the thing about a high is that it ends.

And when it crashes, it burns.

That night, they were watching a movie on the couch. She leaned her head on his shoulder, a blanket tucked around them, her fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

“You smell like smoke,” she said softly.

He froze, tried to play it off. “Must’ve been from outside.”

But she sat up, looking him in the eye.

“Bob,” she whispered. “Are you using again? You told me that you hadn't use it in weeks.”

And something in him — something small and mean and scared — lashed out.

“I said it was from outside,” he snapped. “Can you back off for one fucking second?”

She blinked. Hurt flaring in her eyes like a matchstick.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” she said, quieter now. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending!” he barked. He was on his feet now, pacing, hands running through his hair. “Why do you always think I’m lying? Why do you—why do you always look at me like I’m broken?!”

Her voice cracked. “Because you are.”

Silence.

The words hung in the room like a knife between them.

She hadn’t meant it like that. He knew she hadn’t. But it didn’t matter. It had been said. And it landed exactly where it hurt the most.

Bob stormed out of the apartment that night.

He didn’t take his wallet. Just his keys and the leftover rage boiling under his skin.

--

The street was cold. Empty. The kind of lonely that echoes in your bones.

He ended up in a bathroom stall of a gas station off the highway, shivering, crying, using again — harder this time. Deeper. Hoping it would shut everything off.

He didn’t want to feel.

Didn’t want to remember the look on her face. The way her mouth trembled. The tears that welled but never fell.

He hated himself. He hated his addiction.

He hated how he could never be enough for her — not really. Not clean. Not good. Not stable.

She was trying so damn hard. And he was ruining it. Again.

The come-down was a nightmare.

He stumbled home past 3 a.m. — pale, sweating, his hands shaking like leaves in the wind. Y/N was asleep on the couch, phone in her lap, her eyes swollen and red. She’d waited up. Of course she had.

He sat on the floor beside her, and didn’t say a word. He just cried. Ugly, broken sobs that racked his chest, his fingers clutching the hem of her pajama pants like a child begging for forgiveness.

She woke up. Reached for him, pulling him into her lap. “Bob,” she whispered, over and over, like saying his name might save him.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know who I am without it. I—I’m ruining this. I’m ruining you.”

She kissed his hair, “I’m not ruined. I’m choosing to stay,” she said.

“But why?” he asked, eyes swollen. “Why the hell would you stay with someone like me?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then she said, “Because I know what it’s like to be poison and still want to be loved. And you loved me through it. Now I’ll love you through this.”

The next morning, she made coffee. They didn’t speak much.

But they sat side by side on the couch, his head on her shoulder, her hand on his knee.

He told her everything.

The stash. The closet. The lies.

She didn’t cry. She just listened. And when he was done, she said, “Let’s start again.”

--

It had been a long day.

The kind of day that crawled under her skin and stayed there, heavy and slow. Y/N had come home in a haze — work had been exhausting, her shoulders stiff, her hair tangled from the wind, the sleeves of her jacket damp from an afternoon rain. All she wanted was to curl into Bob’s chest and fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat — warm and steady, that sacred rhythm she could always trust to be there, even when nothing else was.

She unlocked the door, expecting him.

Expecting to see the flicker of the living room lamp he always forgot to turn off. Expecting his shoes by the couch, that old hoodie of his thrown over the backrest. Maybe he’d be cooking — not well, but trying — or maybe he’d be sprawled out watching some stupid late-night special.

But the house was quiet. Too quiet. No lights. No soft hum of music. No smell of his cologne. Just the tick of the wall clock and the creak of the floor under her shoes.

“Bob?” she called gently, half-smiling, slipping off her coat. “You home?”

No answer.

She wasn’t worried at first. Maybe he went out. Maybe he was grabbing groceries or air or that soda he couldn’t live without. It wasn’t like him to not text, but... he was impulsive. Messy. Chaotic in a way that sometimes made her laugh, sometimes made her sigh. Still, she wasn’t alarmed. Not yet.

She walked to the kitchen.

His mug was gone, the one with the cracked rim that he swore made coffee taste better.

She opened the fridge. His leftovers were missing. So were the beers he said he’d quit.

The couch looked... untouched. Neat. Wrong.

Her stomach tensed.

She moved faster now — checking the bathroom. The closet. The bedroom. It hit her when she opened the dresser. His clothes were gone. All of them. The top drawer that used to overflow with wrinkled t-shirts and rolled-up socks was empty. The hangers that held his jackets were bare. Even the drawer where he kept old receipts and crumpled paper sketches of her face — all gone. Every trace of him, erased.

And then she saw it.

A piece of folded paper, sitting on the center of the bed like a coffin lid.

Y/N’s fingers trembled as she reached for it. Her name was written on the front in his handwriting.

Y/N,

I’m sorry.

God, I’m sorry.

I don’t even know how to write this right. I’ve been trying for days. I rewrite it and burn it and start again and it still doesn’t feel like it says enough. Or maybe it says too much.

I love you. That’s not the lie here. Please don’t ever think it was. I’ve never loved anything the way I love you. Not a person. Not a place. Nothing. You’re the only thing in my whole life that’s ever made me feel like maybe I could be better. Like maybe I could be good.

But I’m not good.

I keep waking up waiting for the moment you realize it. The moment you look at me and see what I see — this thing I keep trying to hide under the smiles and the kisses and the breakfasts in bed. This hole inside me that you can’t fill, no matter how hard you try.

I can’t keep letting you bleed yourself dry trying to fix me.

You deserve a life. A real one. Not one where you have to keep looking over your shoulder to make sure I’m still breathing. Not one where you keep sacrificing your sobriety to catch me when I fall. Not one where love feels like walking on glass.

So I’m leaving.

I don’t want to do this to you anymore.

I don’t have a good reason that’ll make it hurt less. I’m not leaving for someone else. I’m not leaving because I stopped loving you. I’m leaving because you were starting to believe in me more than I ever could. And I was going to drag you down with me.

Please don’t look for me. Don’t waste your time hating me or chasing ghosts. Just live. Please. For both of us.

You were the only light I ever knew. But I wasn’t meant to stay in the light.

I love you.

-Bob

She didn’t move for a long time.

The letter lay in her lap, her fingers frozen around the edges, smudging the ink. Her eyes didn’t even water — not yet. They just stared, blank and aching, like they were trying to make sense of the words over and over again, hoping they might rearrange themselves into something else.

Something kinder.

But they didn’t.

Bob was gone. He’d really gone.

She checked the apartment again — tore it apart, heart thudding, breath ragged. Opened drawers, looked under the bed, clawed through the trash.

Nothing.

Every trace of him — gone. Even the damn mug. Even the sketches.Even the tiny doodle he’d once made on the inside of the pantry door. A stick-figure of the two of them with “Home” written under it.

She crumpled to the floor of the bedroom and screamed.

A sound so broken, so primal, it echoed off the walls and bounced back into her chest like shrapnel.

This was abandonment. Not the kind that slammed doors and yelled cruel things in parting. The quiet kind. The cruelest kind. The kind that left without letting you say please stay.

She lay on the bed that night, curled into herself, clutching his pillow to her chest like it could still hold his warmth. Her eyes stayed open. Her heart beat slower. Numbness began to settle in her limbs.

All those nights she’d held him while he cried. All those mornings she packed his cigarettes with tiny notes to remind him she loved him. All the books she read to understand addiction. All the therapy. The hobbies. The art. The sobriety. All the hope. And he left. No fight. No goodbye. No explanation she could hold onto. Just a letter and a void.

--

The days blurred together.

She didn’t remember what day he left. Thursday? Saturday? It didn’t matter anymore. The clock ticked just the same — relentlessly, mercilessly — dragging her through morning after morning without him.

The letter stayed on the bedside table, folded and unfolding like a wound she couldn’t close. She tried to put it in a drawer once. It felt like betrayal. She brought it back out after twenty minutes and held it again until her hands went numb.

That first night, she didn’t sleep.

She just sat on the bedroom floor, leaning against the nightstand, surrounded by a silence so thick it pressed into her chest like water. It felt like drowning in the dark. She played one of his old voicemails over and over — one where he was teasing her about some movie she hated. He was laughing.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed the sound of his laugh until it was gone.

She told herself she’d be fine. She’d get through it. She had before — through blood, through pain, through war. She was trained for survival. She could take this. She had to.

But heartbreak wasn’t something you could outfight.

It crawled in through the cracks and rotted everything from the inside out.

The second day, she couldn’t get out of bed.

Not because she was tired, but because it felt like she didn’t deserve to move.

What was the point?

She lay there staring at the ceiling, still in her work clothes from the day before, still wearing the necklace he’d given her — the one with the tiny gold charm shaped like a moon.

He used to call her that.

“Moonlight,” he’d whisper, high and trembling and soft in the aftermath of another breakdown. “You’re the only thing that makes the night less scary.”

She ripped it off.

Threw it across the room.

It hit the wall with a dull clink and fell behind the dresser.

By day four, her stomach had shrunk. Nothing stayed down. The coffee turned cold in her hand, untouched. The groceries in the fridge started to rot. She avoided the kitchen entirely. That’s where he used to wrap his arms around her waist and mumble about breakfast even when he didn’t know how to cook.

Everything reminded her of him.

The arm of the couch still had the dent where he’d sit. The bathroom mirror was still streaked from when he shaved in a rush. One of his long hairs was still caught in the corner of her pillow.

She couldn’t breathe.

It felt like he was everywhere — except here.

She started writing him letters.

One a day.

Long, angry, sobbing letters that never got mailed. She’d rip them up afterward, throw the pieces in the trash, only to dig them out again because she couldn’t bear to let go of his name in her handwriting.

"You lied to me." "You promised you’d never leave." "I was getting better for you. I was trying." "Was I not enough?" "Was loving you not enough?"

The worst part was not knowing. Not knowing why. Not knowing if he was safe. If he was even alive. If he still thought of her or if he was high somewhere with someone new, forgetting her name with every hit.

Sobriety became a razor’s edge. She clung to it with bleeding hands. Not because she wanted to — not at first — but because she had to. If she didn’t, she’d fall, and if she fell, there’d be no one left to catch her. Not anymore.

The first real temptation came on a Tuesday. She’d been up for 48 hours, her hands shaking, her head pounding, her eyes so swollen from crying she could barely see. She found an old bottle of wine at the back of the pantry — a gift from a neighbor she never drank. She held it for thirty minutes. Sat on the floor in front of it like it was a bomb she didn’t know how to defuse, her fingers trembled on the cap. Then she screamed. A scream so loud the windows rattled. She hurled it against the wall. Glass exploded. Red liquid ran down the white paint like blood. She collapsed. Sobbing. Screaming. Hating herself. Hating him. Hating this. But she didn’t drink.

She made lists.

Things To Do Instead of Drinking:

Go for a walk

Break something (cheap)

Write a letter you won’t send

Watch the sun set and pretend he’s under the same sky

Count the days you were successful

She found herself doing everything and nothing. She tried pottery again but broke the first three bowls. She picked up painting — made a portrait of him in charcoal, then tore it apart.

She went to a meeting. Once. Sat in the back with her hood up and didn’t speak. She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want advice. She wanted him. And he was gone.

Nights were the worst. Nights stretched like endless black highways — full of memories, full of shadows.

She lay in bed clutching the side where he used to sleep, remembering the way he curled around her like armor. The way he’d breathe out her name like a prayer. The way their broken pieces had once fit like something sacred.

They weren’t perfect. But they were theirs. Now she was just herself.

Just one half of something that would never be whole again.

She passed a man on the street once who had his build — tall, messy hair, broad shoulders — and her heart stopped. She chased him for two blocks before realizing it wasn’t him. She sat on the curb and cried.

People passed. No one stopped.

Three weeks passed. Four.

She started eating again. Lightly. She cleaned the apartment. She threw out the broken glass. She even took down the photos of them on the fridge — not because she wanted to forget him, but because she couldn’t look at them without shattering all over again.

She told herself: This is survival. Not healing. Not moving on. Just surviving. Breathing. Drinking water. Fighting the urge to slip. Some days she still screamed into pillows. Some days she stared at the door hoping he'd walk in and say, “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I’m home.”

But he didn’t. And she didn’t drink. Not once.

--

It had been months since he left.

Time moved like molasses — slow, bitter, sticky. Some mornings were quiet victories: brushing her hair, taking a walk, even smiling at a dog on the street. Others were brutal. Violent. Not in action, but in feeling — the kind of ache that settled behind the ribs and refused to loosen, no matter how much she screamed into her pillow or held herself under scalding water just to feel something different.

She was still sober. Barely. But she was not okay. Every day was a fight. Every night, she’d imagine him walking through the door again. Sometimes she hated him in those fantasies. Other times she fell into his arms, crying, as if nothing had ever gone wrong. That’s what love does when it turns into grief. It confuses you. It colors even your delusions in half-truths and memory. She’d built a life around surviving. Small steps. Walks through downtown. Coffee shops. New routines. She spoke to no one. She was a ghost in a city that never asked questions — which suited her just fine.

Then it happened.

She was standing in front of a bakery window — watching a cake being frosted with delicate roses — when the TV in the corner caught her attention.

The headline read: "America's Newest Avengers — Thunderbolts or Traitors?"

At first, she didn’t care. Heroes. Politics. Marketing. It was always noise in the background.

Until they said his name.

Bob Reynolds.

And then the camera panned. And she froze.

There he was. On TV. Smiling — a smile she hadn’t seen in so long she forgot it had dimples. His hair was shorter. Cleaner. His posture straighter. His arms folded in a suit that looked expensive. He was standing beside a group: U.S. Agent, Ghost, Red Guardian—

And Yelena. Her sister.

Y/N stumbled backward like she’d been shot.

The display behind her toppled, glass shattering across the sidewalk. The bakery staff shouted. A stranger tried to help her stand. She couldn’t even answer. Her ears rang. Her stomach twisted. Her hands trembled so violently she dropped her phone twice before calling a car. She didn’t stop shaking until she was back in her home. And then, she started digging. The internet gave her more than she asked for. Too much, really, there were interviews. Clips. Montage videos with dramatic music posted by fans. Fan edits. Titles like “Yelena x Bob | teammates to lovers” with slow-motion stares and soft lighting. Tweets speculating about their chemistry. Rumors. Jokes. Whole Reddit threads. TikToks.

“I ship them so hard.” “They’re perfect together.” “That smirk Bob gives her in the press tour? Yeah, they’re screwing.”

Y/N wanted to throw up.

Bob — her Bob — the same Bob who once cried in her lap, who carved her name into a tree, who promised he’d marry her someday even if it was in a junkyard — was now being shipped with her sister.

Her. Own. Sister.

The words blurred on the screen as tears burned down her face. She clicked faster. Her heart beat louder. Her breathing grew shallow. She couldn’t stop. She needed to understand. She needed a reason. A why.

Yelena never knew about Bob. That was the most soul-shattering part. Y/N had shut herself off the moment she moved to Florida. She wanted peace. Distance. Space to fall apart in private. She didn’t tell Alexei or Yelena about Bob — not because she didn’t trust them, but because it felt like hers. Like her only thing. Her only secret not born from blood or war. She thought she had time. Time to explain. Time to introduce him one day. Time to tell Yelena about the man who saw her not as an assassin or a weapon, but a woman with bruised knuckles and soft eyes who brought him strawberries when he couldn’t get out of bed.

But now? Now Bob was hers too. Now he smiled beside Yelena at press events. Now fans talked about them like they were the next power couple. Now they shared jokes and missions and inside glances. And Y/N was nothing. Not even a footnote.

She stared at a photo on her screen: Bob and Yelena laughing during an interview. He had his arm around her chair.

That was the moment something in Y/N cracked. Something deep. Something she’d been holding together with tape and whispered promises — the idea that maybe he loved her, that maybe he left because he was sick, or scared, or broken, but not because he didn’t care.

That lie was all she had. And it had just been ripped away.

She didn’t eat for three days.

She sat on the floor of her living room, surrounded by old polaroids, ripped letters, a broken pottery bowl she’d made for him. She stared into space. Sometimes she’d laugh. Sometimes she’d sob until her lungs gave out.

She picked up a bottle of vodka in the back of her cabinet and held it to her lips. It smelled like everything she had fought so hard to kill inside herself. She didn't drink it. But it stayed next to her on the floor. Like a threat.

She wrote Yelena a message. Deleted it. Wrote another. Deleted it. She didn’t know what to say. How do you tell your sister — the one you fought to find again, the one you used to braid hair with on missions, the one you loved with a kind of loyalty deeper than blood — that she was sleeping beside the man who once whispered I’ll never leave you and left you shattered on the floor? How do you tell her, without falling apart?

Y/N crawled back into bed wearing one of Bob’s old shirts. It didn’t smell like him anymore.

She curled into a ball, eyes red, throat sore from silence. Outside her window, the world kept moving. People cheered for Bob Reynolds. They speculated about his romance with the blonde Widow. They painted him as a hero. As a survivor. No one remembered the girl he left behind. No one saw the battlefield she lived on every morning. No one knew what he meant. Not even her sister.

--

Rage was the only thing keeping her alive.

It came in flashes. In silence. In screams so guttural her throat bled. In the shattered plates she forgot she threw. In the heavy breathing she couldn’t calm. In the red-hot visions of Bob — of Yelena — of the life they now shared while she drowned under the weight of their silence.

Y/N had been abandoned before. But this? This wasn’t just abandonment.

This was betrayal.

She paced her apartment like a caged wolf. Fists clenched. Skin slick with sweat. Her heart always pounding — too fast, too loud — like it was trying to break out of her chest.

“I’ll never leave you,” Bob had once whispered.

“You’re my calm,” he said, forehead to hers, one hand over her heart.

Now she couldn’t even touch that part of her chest without feeling a hollow ache.

Every time she thought it couldn’t hurt more, it did. Every day, it hurt differently.

Some days, it was missing the way he used to wake her up with lazy morning kisses and coffee brewed too strong. Other days, it was seeing his name trend on social media beside Yelena’s. Sometimes, it was hearing a stranger laugh the way he used to.

But the worst pain? The worst was not knowing why.

She kept rereading the letter. It was still under her pillow — tear-stained, creased, weak from the number of times her fingers had grasped it in the middle of the night. There was no closure. No reason. Just half-hearted apologies and the kind of love that pretends to be noble.

He left because he loved her? Then why didn’t he say goodbye? Why didn’t he give her the truth?

She screamed into towels until her throat went raw. She hit the walls until her knuckles split open. She sobbed into her bathtub fully clothed, over and over again, the cold porcelain hugging her like a coffin. The world outside kept moving. She didn't. The anger was venomous. It infected everything.

Y/N saw red when she looked at photos of Yelena on missions beside Bob. Red when she heard Alexei talking about how proud he was of the Thunderbolts. Red when she saw their names trending, their faces smiling, their victories applauded.

She ignored their calls. Their messages. Their attempts to reconnect. She blocked Yelena’s number. Left Alexei on read. She couldn’t speak to them. Not without trying to tear their throats out. She wanted to hurt them. She wanted to go back to the assassin she used to be — the version of herself that didn’t care, that could slip into a room and kill without blinking. That girl would’ve handled this.

But that girl died the day she fell in love with Bob. Now she was just... broken. She talked to no one. But in the dark, when the sun dipped below the horizon and the silence crawled in, she whispered to him. To the ghost of him. To the memory.

“Why’d you leave me?” “Was I not enough?” “Did you love me at all?”

Sometimes, she begged. “Please come back.”

Other times, she threatened. “I’ll kill you if I ever see you again.”

And sometimes — most nights — she lay still in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how many pills it would take. How fast it would be. If it would feel like floating or falling.

The alcohol bottle still sat in the cabinet. Unopened. But it whispered to her like an old friend. Every time she passed it. Every time she survived another day. She didn’t touch it. But she wanted to. There was a moment — one afternoon — when she caught her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Hollow cheeks. Red eyes. A face carved in fury. Her fists were clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. It terrified her.

She whispered, “I want to kill him.” Then she said it louder. “I want to kill him.” Then, “I want to kill all of them.” She wasn’t even crying. She felt numb. There was no shame in her chest. Only fire.

A small part of her wondered what would happen if she let that version of herself loose again — the one trained to kill, bred to obey, sculpted by the Red Room to be vengeance incarnate. She could do it. She knew she could. No hesitation. But another part of her — the part Bob once touched, the part that still remembered what love was supposed to feel like — that part sobbed in the silence.

Because she didn’t want to be this person again. But no one else gave her a choice. She wanted to scream at Yelena. How could you? You’re my sister. You knew I was alone. You saw me go quiet. Did you ever ask why? Did you care?

And Bob? Bob who once held her when her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Bob who used to whisper dreams of marriage and kids and building a life away from the darkness.

He walked away. He joined a team. He built a new life. And he chose Yelena.

--

She never hated her sister before.

Not even during the Red Room years, not when they were pitted against each other like bloodstained chess pieces moved by men who didn’t know their names. Not even when Yelena went to the Avengers and Y/N ran to Florida, trying to disappear into some version of normal.

But now? Now she hated her with every cell in her body. With every scar she’d ever hidden. With every soft part of her heart that used to beat for Bob.

It was irrational. She knew that. Yelena didn’t know. She didn’t do this on purpose. But logic didn’t matter when you were staring down the barrel of your stolen future.

The dreams started as mercy. She would close her eyes and there it was — her life. A house with a wraparound porch, white with green shutters. Flowers spilling from window boxes. Wind chimes dancing in the breeze. The smell of summer and clean laundry. She stood barefoot in the grass, wearing a soft, cream-colored dress. One hand shielding her eyes from the sun, the other holding a baby — their baby. A little boy with his nose. Her eyes. His curls.

And there he was. Bob. Not broken Bob. Not high Bob. Not trembling-in-a-dark-room Bob. But healthy Bob. Sober Bob. Bob in a button-up shirt, sleeves rolled, a tie around his neck, briefcase in hand, laughing as he walked up the driveway.

He kissed her. Kissed their son. Whispered something about traffic, groceries, how he missed her all day. The kind of life they used to whisper about at 2 a.m. when the drugs wore off and the lies were too tired to keep going. She could feel it in the dream. The warmth. The love. The way it was supposed to be.

But right before she woke up — right before the memory could settle in her heart — the image twisted. His face blurred. The baby vanished. And in the mirror hanging by the front door…

Yelena’s reflection stared back at her. Wearing her dress. Holding her son. With Bob kissing her like Y/N had never even existed.

She would wake up drenched in sweat, sheets twisted around her legs like restraints. Her chest would heave. Her nails would dig into the mattress, into her palms, into herself, trying to scrape the image out of her brain. But it never left. It was seared into her.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her dream being lived by someone else. And it broke her.

Because that was the hardest part. Not that he left. Not that he didn’t explain. Not even that he was on TV now, celebrated, loved, powerful.

No. The hardest part was that the Bob she had suffered for — the one she stayed sober for, built a life around, waited up for while he disappeared for nights on end — that Bob was finally better. Just not with her. He was someone else’s now. He became everything she prayed he would be… just too late for her to have him. And it made her sick.

Y/N started to believe something was wrong with her. Truly wrong. Like her soul had rotted somewhere along the way and no one had noticed.

She looked in the mirror and asked herself:

“What is it about me that makes people leave?”, “Why do I only ever get the broken version of things?”,“Why wasn’t I enough?”

She had endured the screaming. The addiction. The hunger. The withdrawals. The nights she held his face and told him he was still human. Still worth saving. She stayed when no one else did. She chose him when he didn’t even choose himself.

And for what? To be replaced. To be erased. To be the ghost haunting the edges of someone else’s happily ever after.

--

There was a knock at the door. It was soft, hesitant — like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure if they should be there. Y/N barely registered it at first, her thoughts tangled in the thick fog of the day. Her apartment was dark, the curtains drawn tight against the world, and she was still in the oversized hoodie she’d worn three days in a row, curled up on the couch like a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

The knock came again. Slower this time. Careful.

She blinked, staring at the door, her heartbeat stalling. No one came here. No one knocked. She’d made sure of that — avoided neighbors, blocked every number that mattered. No visitors. No reminders.

So who the hell—?

She stood, hesitant, dragging herself up with the weight of a hundred sleepless nights clinging to her spine. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the door. Her nails were bitten down to the quick. Her eyes were hollow. She opened it.

And the last person she ever expected to see was standing there in the hallway.

Yelena.

Y/N didn’t speak. Her throat closed up like a trap.

Yelena smiled gently. “Hey,” she said, her voice light, like this was normal. “Can I come in?”

Y/N blinked. She wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. If her mind had finally cracked under the pressure and this was some sick hallucination. Yelena? Now?

“…What are you doing here?” Her voice was sharp. Dry. She didn’t move.

Yelena’s expression faltered a little. “I… you weren’t answering. Calls, texts. Alexei’s worried. I’m worried. It’s been months, and I thought— I don’t know. I thought maybe you could use some company.”

Y/N stared.

Company. After everything. After everything.

She slowly stepped aside without a word, letting her sister pass into the apartment. Yelena glanced around as she entered — the dishes in the sink, the scattered clothes, the half-empty bottles of energy drinks and untouched food. There was a smell. Not foul, but stale. Like time had stopped moving in here.

“Jesus,” Yelena murmured under her breath, eyes scanning the space. “You’ve really— been hiding, huh?”

Y/N shut the door. And locked it. The click of the deadbolt echoed like a warning. They sat in the silence for a long moment. Yelena took the armchair, her fingers laced nervously in her lap. Y/N sat across from her on the couch, arms crossed, back rigid. The air between them was heavy — not just with time lost, but with something else. Something much darker.

“So,” Yelena said carefully. “How’ve you been?”

Y/N scoffed. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

Yelena blinked. “I just— I don’t know. Trying to start somewhere.”

“You think this is a fucking catch-up?” Her voice cracked at the edges, brittle like glass. “After all this time?”

“I thought you needed space—”

“I didn’t need space, Yelena,” she snapped, sitting forward. “I needed my life. My family. But I guess you were busy on TV, weren’t you? With him.”

Yelena frowned, confused. “With… who?”

“Oh, don’t fucking do that.” Y/N stood now, pacing. Her hands ran through her hair, erratic. “Don’t play dumb. Bob. Sentry. Whatever name he’s going by now.”

Yelena looked taken aback. “You mean— Bob? What about him?”

“You know exactly what,” Y/N hissed.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she screamed suddenly, turning on her. “Do you think I haven’t seen it? The videos? The interviews? The little side glances, the smiles, the fucking flirting? You think I don’t know how this goes?”

Yelena stood too now, defensive. “Whoa, what the hell are you talking about? I barely know him!”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You always do!” Y/N’s voice was feral now, eyes wide with rage and hurt and something so much more raw it didn’t have a name. “You always take. That’s what you do. You take. I got out. I made it out of that hellhole. I found something. Someone. I built a life, Yelena. And then— and then you. You come along, and you fucking take it. Just like everything else.”

Yelena’s expression was horrified. “Wait— you and Bob? You two— you were—?”

Y/N laughed. It was a broken sound. Hysterical. “Of course you didn’t know. Why would you? No one ever sees me. They only see you.”

“Y/N…”

“Don’t Y/N me.” Her voice dropped now, a low growl. “You know what I see every night when I close my eyes? I see the life I should have had. I see a home. A family. Him. And our son. And then right before I wake up, every time, I see you. In my place. Wearing my dress. Holding my baby. With him.”

Yelena was speechless.

“You have everything now,” Y/N whispered, her voice trembling. “Dad’s proud of you. The world loves you. Bob loves you. And I’m nothing. I’m the ghost you all stepped over to get to your perfect little lives.”

“I don’t love him. I don’t— I swear to God, I didn’t know, I didn’t—” Yelena was panicking now, trying to reach her sister through the crackling wildfire of delusion and grief.

But Y/N was too far gone.

“GET OUT,” she screamed. Yelena flinched.

“Get the fuck out of my house. Out of my life. Go back to your team. Go back to him. Just— don’t you dare pity me, Yelena. Don’t you dare.”

Y/N stood in the wreckage of her own living room, chest heaving, knuckles bleeding, rage boiling beneath her skin like lava. The silence after her outburst should have been final—should have signaled the end of this nightmare. But when she turned, Yelena was still there.

She hadn’t left.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Yelena stood in the doorway, rain-slick light washing over her, a tremble in her voice as she stepped forward, slow and cautious.

“I’m not leaving you like this,” Yelena said softly. “You’re not well. I didn’t know about you and Bob—I swear I didn’t. But if it hurts you, I’ll fix it. Just let me fix it.”

“Fix it?” Y/N’s voice cracked, her laugh manic. “You can’t fix me, Yelena. You broke me.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Fair?” Her head snapped toward her sister, expression twisted. “Fair is for people who didn’t get turned into weapons when they were kids. You think you know what the Red Room did to us? You don’t. I was made into something worse. Something even you couldn’t understand.”

Yelena’s face softened with something like fear now. “I know what they did. We survived it together—”

“No. You survived it.” Y/N took a step forward. “I’m still living in it.”

Something inside her was unraveling.

The rage she’d tried to bury, the grief that rotted her insides—it was rising now, a tsunami crashing past the last crumbling walls of her sanity. And Yelena, standing there in her self-righteous glow, trying to save her like she was some stray animal—

It only made her hate her more.

“You came here to help?” Y/N’s voice dropped low, a growl. “You want to save me? The way you saved Natasha? The way you saved yourself?”

“Y/N—please.”

“You think you’re a hero now, huh?” Her hands were shaking with the need to lash out. “You stole my life. My love. My fucking future. And now you’re here, acting like you’re innocent. You’re not innocent.”

Her eyes locked on Yelena’s, and something ancient and broken ignited behind them.

“You’re dead.” Without warning, Y/N lunged.

Y/N’s fist came like lightning—brutal, fast. It clipped Yelena in the jaw, sending her stumbling back, crashing into a bookshelf. Before Yelena could react, Y/N was on her again, slamming her through drywall like a battering ram.

Yelena rolled as a fist cratered the floor where her head had been.

She barely got her footing before Y/N was there again—she moved like a ghost, faster than Yelena remembered. Her Red Room training hadn’t prepared her for this level of strength.

Y/N had super soldier strength.

Yelena countered with a textbook leg sweep—Y/N leapt over it, caught her mid-spin, and hurled her across the living room into the kitchen counter. Dishes shattered. Yelena groaned, back arching in pain.

“You wanna fix me?” Y/N snarled. “Then bleed for me sister!”

She grabbed a serrated kitchen knife and lunged again.

Yelena blocked with a stool, snapping it in half under Y/N’s force. She ducked the next blow and kicked her sister back into the wall—but it was like trying to stop a freight train with a paper shield.

Y/N’s hand snapped forward, catching Yelena by the throat. She slammed her hard against the window.

Glass cracked.

“Every dream I had,” Y/N whispered, face inches from hers, “You infected it.”

Yelena elbowed her, kicked, used every trick she’d learned from Natasha—but nothing was working. Her sister was stronger. Angrier.

Y/N wasn’t fighting to disable.

She was fighting to kill.

Yelena’s lip bled. “This isn’t you,” she gasped. “You’re not like this.”

“I was always like this,” Y/N hissed. “You just never looked hard enough.”

She headbutted Yelena, then flung her across the apartment. Yelena landed with a crash, coughing, vision blurry. She reached for her belt—threw a flashbang.

Y/N shielded her eyes too late.

Yelena scrambled for the window, kicking it open as rain poured in. She turned back, breath ragged.

“I loved you,” she shouted.

Y/N roared, rage bursting like wildfire, lunging through the smoke and wreckage.

Yelena jumped.

She hit the fire escape, barely catching herself. Her leg twisted on impact, but she moved. Fast. Down the stairs, through the alley, into the night.

Behind her, Y/N stood at the broken window, staring down at her fleeing sister.

Her face was wild. Her knuckles bloody. Her breathing fast and erratic. And yet—tears spilled down her cheeks.

Somewhere, deep down beneath the violence, the child who once idolized Yelena screamed.

But no one heard her.

--

Yelena collapsed behind a dumpster, heart thundering in her chest.

She wiped blood from her lip. Looked down at her trembling hands.

She’d faced monsters. Gods. She’d survived the Red Room.

But nothing in the world had prepared her for the moment her own sister tried to kill her.

Tried to murder her.

She looked up at the rain, swallowed the lump in her throat, and whispered—

“What did they do to you?”

--

Y/N sat alone on the shoreline, salt drying on her cheeks. Not from the sea—she hadn’t been in the water.

She hadn’t been in anything lately.

Just skin and bone. Just barely enough of a person to keep breathing.

Her knees were pulled up to her chest. Bare feet dug into the cold sand. The wind tangled her hair as the tide clawed closer. The sky above her was bruised with clouds, gold and violet smudges painting the horizon, stars trying to pierce through the thick dusk.

Her fingers fidgeted with a small, sharp shell—pressing it into her palm again and again until the skin broke.

Tiny, invisible punishment. Something to make her feel.

Because feeling had become harder than hurting.

"I know you’re not here," she whispered.

The sea answered with a howl.

"Or maybe you are," she said to no one. Her voice was so small. "I see you in my dreams, Nat. You always look so... peaceful."

She pressed the shell deeper. Blood bloomed in her palm, slow and warm.

"I’m not okay," she said to the waves, to her dead sister, to the ghost she could only summon through pain and memory. "You knew how to live through the pain. How to stand. I don’t. I don’t know who I am without it. And now I just want it to stop."

She looked up to the darkening sky. The wind picked up.

“I tried,” she whispered. “I really tried. I stayed clean. I made a life. I fell in love.” Her voice cracked. “And he left me.”

Tears streamed down her face. Her body shook, her chest hiccupping with emotion too big to contain.

“I tried to be good. I really did.”

She hugged her knees tighter, curling into herself.

“And now I dream of a family that’s not mine. A house I’ll never have. A child I won’t get to hold.”

A beat.

Then a whisper.

“Take me with you, Nat.”

A sob escaped.

“I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to be me anymore.”

The wind howled louder, like something answering.

And then—

A voice.

“Y/N.”

It was rough. Deep. Familiar.

Her heart stopped.

She didn’t even need to look.

She already knew who it was.

She turned slowly, her face stained with salt and blood and sand.

There stood Alexei.

He looked older. Tired. His eyes softened when he saw her, broken and small on the shore. He took a step forward, boots crunching the shells.

“I’m here to help you, dochka,” he said gently.

The word snapped something in her.

She stood.

Suddenly very still.

Very silent.

Her fists clenched.

"You’re here to help me?" she said, her voice eerily calm. “Now?”

Alexei hesitated. “Yelena told me what happened. We didn’t know about Bob. About how much he meant to you. We didn’t know he left you.”

She flinched like he slapped her.

“You. Didn’t. Know.” Her laugh was cold, sharp. “You all didn’t know because you never asked. Because I was the broken one, right? I was the one you kept tucked away like a dirty little secret while you raised your other daughter to be a hero.”

Alexei’s face fell. “That’s not true.”

“It is true!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “You all wanted me gone. Out of sight. Away. You wanted peace, so you sent me away to rot while you played family with Yelena and wore your stupid suit and smiled for interviews.”

He stepped forward again. “I thought you wanted peace—”

“NO!” she roared. “I wanted a life! I wanted someone to love me. And Bob—he was it. He was everything. But now? Now he’s a goddamn Avenger and you’re all just playing pretend like I never existed.”

Her hands were trembling.

“I was there, Dad. I built something real. And you all took it away from me. And now you come here. Acting like you care.”

“I do care—”

“You should’ve cared then!” she shrieked. “You should’ve cared when I was waking up in cold sweats, screaming from the Red Room memories. You should’ve cared when I begged you not to let them inject me. You should’ve cared when I held Bob’s letter and wanted to die.”

Her eyes locked on his. Wild. Ferocious.

“But you didn’t. And you won’t. So now—” she took a breath, trembling “—I’m gonna make you feel what I feel.”

Y/N charged like a shadow breaking free from the night, faster than Alexei expected. Her fist slammed into his gut, lifting him off the ground and sending him crashing into the sand dune behind them.

He groaned. Spit blood.

She was on him again in seconds.

Fists collided. Sand erupted with every hit. Alexei blocked, countered, tried to reason—but she didn’t want to talk.

She wanted to punish.

“You left me to rot!” she screamed between punches.

“You were strong enough!” he shouted back.

“No, I wasn’t!!”

They tumbled toward the shoreline, their silhouettes locked in a dance of blood and violence. Y/N swept his legs, slammed her knee into his chest. Alexei tried to grapple her, but she elbowed him hard—once, twice—broke free.

“You made me a killer,” she seethed. “And then punished me for being one.”

He staggered back, clutching his ribs.

“You’re not a killer,” he said breathlessly. “You’re my daughter.”

Tears mixed with blood on her face. “Then why didn’t you love me like one?”

She rushed him one last time.

He didn’t fight back.

He just stood there, arms half-raised, breathing ragged.

Her fist cracked across his jaw—and he dropped to his knees.

Rain began to fall.

And she just stood there.

Above him.

Hands shaking.

Chest heaving.

Staring down at the man who helped make her, and never came to save her.

Alexei looked up at her, lip bleeding.

“I didn’t know how,” he whispered. “To love you the way you needed. But I do love you.”

Something inside her broke.

She collapsed into the sand, knees buckling.

And screamed.

Screamed until her throat was raw.

The sound of waves crashing was no longer calming.

Not when her heart was screaming louder.

Y/N’s chest heaved from exertion. Blood caked her hands, her knuckles bruised and raw from striking the man who once called her his little girl. She barely felt the cold rain anymore. It soaked her hair, clung to her lashes, blurred the red on her skin as if it could wash away the damage she’d done—but it couldn’t.

Nothing could.

She stared at Alexei crumpled in the sand, breathing but unmoving. Her own father. Another person she’d broken.

She’d barely noticed the shift in air behind her until it was too late.

Footsteps.

Boots, soft on the sand.

She froze.

They were here.

The new team. Valentina’s soldiers. She could sense it in the way the atmosphere tensed. Like the air itself had held its breath. She didn’t turn at first. Her fists clenched, her breath uneven, eyes still on her father. She thought: Of course Yelena brought them. Of course she did.

She imagined them standing behind her, watching like spectators. Come to see the last broken piece of the Red Room project tear herself apart. Maybe they thought it would be entertaining—put her down like a wild animal if needed.

Maybe they came because they didn’t think she could be saved.

Her jaw clenched.

Then—

A voice.

Soft. Familiar.

Shattered.

“Y/N…”

She turned.

Slowly. Hesitantly.

And when she saw him—

Her heart almost stopped.

Bob.

Her Bob.

Her whole world, standing in the rain, drenched like a ghost.

He was dressed in civilian clothes, not the shining uniform of a weapon. He looked nothing like the being of light and power she once saw hovering above the world.

He looked like a man. A broken man.

His eyes were red, tears tracing down his face like rainwater. His lips parted, like he had a hundred things to say but couldn’t force a single one of them past the lump in his throat.

Time stopped.

The beach, the wind, the world—faded.

It was just them.

Two people with shattered dreams and bleeding hearts.

Her arms twitched—part of her wanted to run to him. Bury herself in his chest. Ask him if any of it was real. Ask him why he left. Ask him if he knew how hard she fought to live through it.

But she didn’t move.

Because the rest of her wanted to kill him.

She hated him. She loved him. She hated how much she still loved him.

Her face crumpled. She blinked back tears, every emotion she had shoved down for months roaring back to the surface.

Then she saw the others.

Bucky. Yelena. Walker. Ava.

Weapons.

All ready.

All watching.

She was the target.

Yelena stood behind Bob, her arms at her sides, tense and afraid. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

The message was clear: They weren’t here to help her. They were here to stop her.

She laughed bitterly, her voice hoarse from crying, from screaming.

“So this is what it takes to get you all to care,” she said, not looking at anyone but Bob. “One broken girl on a beach, and now you all show up to ‘fix’ me.”

Bob took a step forward.

“Y/N—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, voice cold. “Don’t say my name like it still belongs to you.”

He flinched. His throat bobbed.

"I—I didn’t know how to come back," he said quietly. "I didn’t know how to look at you after what I did."

Tears welled up in her eyes again.

“You shouldn’t have come back at all,” she whispered. “Not like this. Not with them.”

She took a trembling step toward Alexei’s limp body in the sand. Her fingers curled into fists.

“I should end it here,” she murmured, barely audible over the wind. “End all of this. You, him, me.”

Bob’s eyes widened. “Y/N, please…”

She crouched and pulled the sidearm from Alexei’s holster. Her hands shook as she held it.

Every fiber of her being screamed against what she was doing—but the storm in her chest was stronger. Her tears blinded her, but the hatred lit her up from the inside like wildfire.

“Put it down,” Bucky warned gently. “You don’t want to do this.”

She didn’t even look at him.

“I didn’t want any of this.”

Her eyes stayed locked on Bob. Tears ran freely now. She looked like a woman drowning on dry land.

“I just wanted a life. You know? A stupid little house. A baby. A partner. That’s it. And you took it all away and gave it to her instead.”

Bob shook his head. “Yelena isn’t—”

“SHUT UP!” she screamed, voice cracked and raw. “You think I care what’s true? You think it makes a difference?!”

The grief in her voice silenced them all.

She turned the weapon toward Alexei—arms trembling.

Her finger brushed the trigger.

Then—

They moved.

Bucky lunged. Silent, fast, skilled.

He was on her in an instant, arms wrapping around her from behind like iron.

She screamed, thrashed wildly, her strength unnatural. But Bucky was strong too. Too strong. It was like a cage slamming shut.

“No—NO—LET ME GO!!” she wailed, her voice pure panic now.

She twisted, elbowed him hard—but he didn’t loosen. She could barely breathe. Her eyes locked on Bob’s—desperate and furious.

“HOW DARE YOU COME HERE!” she cried. “YOU DON’T GET TO WATCH ME BREAK!”

Then she felt the sharp sting in her neck.

She froze.

Her pupils dilated.

Bucky held her tighter as the tranquilizer entered her bloodstream.

“No—no—no, no please—please—not again,” she begged, sobbing, her voice cracking into childlike pleas.

Her limbs weakened.

Her legs collapsed.

And the world began to spin.

Bob stepped forward—arms instinctively outstretched—but Bucky held her protectively, shaking his head.

Y/N blinked up at Bob one last time, her vision blurring.

“You were supposed to love me,” she whispered.

Then her eyes rolled back.

Her body went limp in Bucky’s arms.

--

Warm light painted the ceiling above her in soft amber tones, the kind of light that tried too hard to feel like daylight. It flickered gently with the subtle hum of the old overhead fixture, barely audible above the quiet in the room. The air was cool, sterile but not cruel. Soft linen cradled her aching body, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, she didn’t feel the weight of sand, or blood, or rage on her skin. But she felt everything else.

Her eyes fluttered open, lids heavy, lashes damp from sleep or tears—she wasn’t sure. She didn’t move. Just… stared at the ceiling, letting herself breathe in the unfamiliar quiet.

Then it hit her.

Where was she?

Her heart stuttered. Her fingers twitched. She tried to shift, to sit up—but—

She couldn’t. Her wrists were gently restrained. Not tight. Not cruel. The soft fabric cuffs were secured to the bedframe. She wasn’t a guest here. She was a threat.

And then she remembered.

The screaming. The gun. Bob. Yelena. Alexei. Pain speared through her chest as the memory flooded her in a single crushing wave. Her own voice screaming in her ears. The look in Bob’s eyes when she crumbled. The way Yelena flinched. The way Alexei bled into the sand.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her voice cracked and barely recognizable.

Tears stung her eyes, hot and shameful. She let them fall, unable to lift a hand to wipe them away. She had snapped. No—that wasn’t strong enough. She had descended. The side of her that had been carved in the dark halls of the Red Room—the ghost of the girl she used to be—had won. She had become every nightmare she fought so hard to rise from. I’m a monster. She didn’t notice the faint movement at first, the soft rustle of fabric.

Then—

A quiet, theatrical cough. Not aggressive. Not angry. Just… a little awkward.

Yelena.

She sat quietly at the end of the bed, legs crossed at the ankle, arms loosely wrapped around herself. Her green eyes were bloodshot, her face pale and raw. There were faint bruises around her temple—bruises Y/N had left. One eye still a little swollen. But she smiled, slow and tired and heartbreakingly gentle.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up,” Yelena said, her voice hoarse but calm. “You sleep like a rock. That part hasn’t changed.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Her lips parted in shock. Her breath hitched in her throat, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them—choked, frantic, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Yelena—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to hurt you—I didn’t—God, I’m so sorry—”

Yelena stood and leaned forward, her hands coming to gently cradle her sister’s face, ignoring the restraints, ignoring the tears, ignoring the bruises Y/N had left behind. “No,” Yelena whispered, pulling her into a slow, careful hug.

Y/N froze, her body stiff with guilt, her breath shallow and frantic. She tried to pull back, tried to protest, but Yelena just held her tighter. “No more apologies.”

“I almost killed you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I wanted to,” Y/N cried. “I—I was going to—”

“But you didn’t,” Yelena said again, firm this time. “And I know that wasn’t you. Not the real you.”

Y/N finally broke. Her head dropped forward, her body trembling as she sobbed uncontrollably into her sister’s shoulder.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she choked. “I don’t know how to come back from this. I don’t know if I can.”

Yelena pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes.

“You’re my sister,” she said. “That’s who you are. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N’s eyes burned. Her lips trembled. “I’m dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

Yelena smiled, even through her own tears. “Maybe. But I’m not.”

There was a beat of silence. A moment where the weight of everything—the past, the pain, the blood between them—hung in the air like a ghost. Y/N stared at her hands. Her wrists still bound, like some poetic punishment for the sins she couldn’t undo.

“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. “Your kindness. Your love. After what I did… after what I became…”

“You became someone who was hurting,” Yelena said gently. “Someone who had everything stolen from her. Again. And again. And again.”

She wiped a tear from Y/N’s cheek.

“You don’t need to deserve my love, Y/N. You already have it.”

Y/N let out a small, broken noise. The kind that wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite a laugh. Just pain, raw and unfiltered.

The sisters stayed there like that, wrapped in a fragile embrace, one restrained but free for the first time in years, and the other covered in bruises but stronger than anyone had given her credit for.

Y/N whispered, “I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t,” Yelena said. “And now we’re going to fix this. Together.”

She reached for the restraints. Y/N flinched. But Yelena just unbuckled one cuff. Then the other. Slowly. Gently. Like she was undoing chains made of more than just fabric. Y/N’s arms fell to her sides, limp. She didn’t move. She didn’t run. She just let the silence settle again.

The door creaked open gently.

Bob stood in the frame like a ghost afraid to enter its own home, shoulders slouched, hands trembling at his sides. His eyes were bloodshot, not from lack of sleep, but from the weight of sorrow. He didn’t speak right away. He looked at her like she was a piece of glass cracked in too many places to count—terrified that even breathing wrong would shatter her completely. Y/N didn’t look at him.

She sat up in bed slowly, spine hunched, fingers tangled in the bedsheets like she was holding herself together. Her eyes stayed down, unable to meet his. Her chest was heavy with guilt, shame, heartbreak. The silence stretched between them like a bridge they were both too afraid to walk.

“…Can I come in?” Bob finally asked, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.

Yelena, who had been sitting quietly at the edge of the room, glanced at Y/N. Y/N nodded faintly. Yelena stood, gently brushing a hand over her sister’s shoulder before leaving the room without a word. She paused just long enough at Bob’s side to give him one final look — one that said: Please, don’t break her again.

And then it was just them. The door clicked shut behind him.

He stepped forward slowly, like every movement hurt. Like every step was a prayer.

“I’ve been out there,” he said, eyes flicking to the door. “Since they brought you in. I didn’t leave.”

Y/N’s voice was a ghost, barely audible. “Why?”

His breath caught. She finally lifted her eyes to him — and he saw it. The wreckage. The ruin. The pain. All of it, etched into her face, bleeding out of her eyes like ink across fragile paper.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said, voice cracking.

She blinked.

“Okay?” she repeated, a bitter laugh curling into her tone. “You think I’m okay?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he asked, “Can I… hug you?”

For a moment, she just stared at him. Silent. He could see the fight in her. The war. The part of her that wanted to scream, and the part of her that wanted to collapse.

She nodded. Just once. He moved forward slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, and then—he knelt at her side. His arms wrapped around her carefully at first, but then tighter. And tighter. Like he needed to physically hold her together. Like he was trying to keep her from vanishing. Like he had been waiting lifetimes just to feel her heartbeat again. She didn’t move. Then—her body began to tremble. And she broke. A sob ripped through her, raw and sharp and desperate. And then another. And another. She clung to him with everything she had left, burying her face into his shoulder like it was the only place she could hide from the world. He held her through it. Tighter. Always tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” Bob whispered, voice cracking like glass. “Y/N… I’m so sorry. For everything. For leaving. For not asking. For not knowing. For making you go through all of this alone.”

“Why?” she cried. “Why did you leave me?”

His hands were shaking against her back.

“Why did you give up on me?” she sobbed. “I needed you. I needed you to fight for me, Bob…”

“I know.”

“I needed you to love me.”

“I did!” he cried, his voice breaking completely. “I do! I never stopped, not for one second. But I was broken—I was so broken and I didn’t want to take you down with me.”

“You already did,” she whispered, her voice like ashes.

Silence.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands curled in the collar of his shirt, her face wet with tears. “I would’ve taken every hit. Every storm. Every goddamn explosion if it meant we got to live that life together. The one I dreamed of. You. Me. A life. That’s all I ever wanted.”

Bob cupped her face like she was the most fragile thing in the universe. “You were everything. I looked at you and saw something pure. Someone good. You had your life together. You had purpose. You had a job, a name, a home. You—” His voice caught again. “You were the kind of person who made people believe in something better.”

“And I loved you. God, I loved you.”

He rested his forehead against hers, both of them shaking now.

“But me?” he whispered. “I was a drug. I was a monster. I was this… this parasite, wrapped in skin and lies. And every day I looked at you, I wondered how long it would take before I ruined you.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “You were sick, Bob. You were in pain. I knew that. I stayed because I loved you. And you—you let me love you—and then you ran.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered. “But I was just protecting myself. From the guilt. From the shame of watching the best thing in my life waste away because of me.”

“I did waste away!” she snapped, crying harder. “I begged for you. I screamed for you. I built a future around a man who disappeared before I could even show him what he meant to me. And you never came back.”

His thumbs brushed her cheeks, catching the tears that wouldn’t stop.

“You deserved someone who could stay,” he said. “And I was still chasing my next high. My escape. You got clean—for me. You faced your demons. But I—” He swallowed. “I let mine eat me alive. I let them turn me into something violent. Something ugly. I would scream. Break things. Scare you. I remember the way you used to flinch and it kills me.”

“I never stopped waiting for you,” she whispered. “Even when I hated you. Even when I blamed you. Even when I hurt everyone because of you.”

He rested his head on her shoulder.

“I’m not the man you deserve.”

“You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted.”

Silence. Only their breathing, tangled and shaky.

“I’m sorry,” Bob whispered again. “I was a burden. A mistake. A nobody.”

She pulled his face up to look at her. “No. You were everything.”

And just like that, they sat together, two broken people clinging to the pieces, sobbing into each other’s arms. No future plans. No promises. Just pain. Just honesty. Just them. And for the first time in what felt like eternity, Y/N wasn’t crying alone. The quiet after the storm hung heavy. Bob hadn’t moved. Not really. His arms still wrapped around her like a shield. As if he thought letting go would mean losing her again. He held her like a man who knew he didn’t deserve to—grateful, reverent, afraid. Y/N’s tears had long since soaked through his shirt. Her voice was hoarse from sobbing. Her body, exhausted. But neither of them could stop holding on. She rested her head against his chest, hearing that familiar heartbeat—steady, slow, alive. Proof that he was really here. That after everything, he was here.

Bob took a breath. Shaky. Hesitant. Then another, deeper one. And then, finally:

“Y/N…” he whispered, voice trembling. “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded against his chest.

His hand gently, shakily brushed through her hair. “Can you ever forgive me?”

She stiffened just slightly—not out of anger, but out of the weight of the question.

“I thought…” he said, voice breaking again, “I thought I was doing you a favor. Letting you go. I thought if I disappeared, I’d… free you from me. From the burden. From my addiction. My anger. Everything.”

He leaned back, just enough to look into her eyes. His were red and swollen, glistening with tears that hadn’t fallen yet.

“I was never good enough for you. Not before. Not during. Not after. You gave me your heart and I… I broke it. I left it bleeding on the floor. You were the only light I had, and I left you in the dark.”

She was quiet, watching him, jaw trembling slightly.

“I never truly understood,” he said, voice raw, “how someone like you… someone strong, brilliant, good… could love someone like me. I always thought there had to be something wrong with you for wanting me.”

Her throat tightened.

“But there wasn’t. God, there wasn’t. You were just kind. And I was a coward.”

He dropped his head, shame rippling off him like heat. “I didn’t realize how much I needed you until you were gone. And even then, I told myself I was doing the right thing. That staying away was noble. That I was protecting you.”

He laughed bitterly. “What bullshit. All I was doing was hiding. And hurting you in the process.”

Y/N blinked hard, her eyes stinging again. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She reached out slowly, placing her hand on his cheek. He leaned into it like it was a lifeline.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” she whispered. “I just need you to stay.”

He nodded, eyes closing under her touch. “I won’t go. Not again. I swear it.”

Her voice cracked. “Don’t let me go.”

“I won’t.”

“Just… hold me. For as long as you can. Just—don’t let me feel alone again.”

“I’m here,” he whispered fiercely. “I’m here. I’ll stay. Always.”

She hesitated. Then: “Can I ask you something now?”

His eyes met hers again, frightened but open. “Anything.”

Her lips parted, voice softer than before. “Were you ever with her?”

He blinked. “Who?”

“…Yelena.”

A silence fell between them. He understood what she meant. Not just with in proximity. But with. As in—did you love her? Did you think of her when you should’ve been thinking of me?

He answered without hesitation.

“No,” he said. “God, no. Never.”

She nodded slightly, swallowing, but the pain was still there.

“Did you ever think about it?” she asked.

He sighed. “Y/N, I thought about you. Every. Day. Every time I woke up. Every time I hit bottom again. Every time I looked at the sky. I never stopped thinking about you.”

“Then why didn’t you come back?”

His voice broke. “Because I didn’t feel like I deserved to. Not after what I did. After what I put you through. I thought… if I came back, it’d be unfair. Like I was asking you to relive all of it. To open those wounds again.”

“But you were all I wanted,” she whispered. “Even when I hated you for leaving. Even when I cursed your name. You were still… home.”

He shook his head, tears finally falling. “I was a monster.”

“You were sick,” she said. “You were hurting.”

“I was dangerous.”

She leaned closer.

“I never wanted safe,” she said. “I wanted you. All of you. Even the broken parts.”

He looked at her, disbelief and awe mingling in his expression. “I only ever loved you, Y/N. I always will.”

Their foreheads came together, slow, breathless. They just stayed like that for a moment. Breathing the same air. Holding the same silence. Two hearts syncing again after too long apart. She looked up at him, her eyes swollen, red, and full of something unspoken.

And then—she kissed him. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was slow. Soft. Gentle.

But underneath it—ache. A deep ache. Like a wound finally closing. Like years of longing finally being answered. Like two souls that had fought wars just to find their way back to each other.

His hands cradled her face. Her fingers clutched his shirt. They kissed like survivors. Like people who’d come too close to the edge and were still afraid of falling.

And when they pulled away, they didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

Because that kiss said everything.

They lay there, still wrapped around one another, letting the storm of the past finally settle in the quiet.

His breathing had slowed, but his hands trembled faintly, like the weight of memory refused to leave his bones.

Bob hadn’t spoken for several minutes. He just watched her face. Her swollen eyes. Her tired but steady breaths. The way her lashes fluttered when she blinked, like she was still scared she might wake up and find none of this real.

But then he asked it.

His voice was soft. Almost broken. The kind of question someone asks after holding it back for too long.

“…Why didn’t you stop me?”

Y/N stirred. “What do you mean?”

He sat up slightly, supporting himself on one elbow, and looked at her with a vulnerability that split him wide open.

“All those times,” he said, almost afraid to speak the words. “Back then. When I was sick. When I… when I shouted. When I punched the wall an inch from your head. When I—” He choked. “When I was someone else.”

She didn’t look away. Her eyes softened.

“You just… took it,” he whispered. “You stood there and took it. You never fought back. Not once. You could’ve. You should’ve.”

He swallowed hard. “And today… I saw what you can do. I saw you fight Alexei. You nearly killed him. You could’ve crushed me like I was nothing. You were stronger than me all along.”

He looked down at their intertwined hands, her fingers relaxed against his palm.

“So why didn’t you?”

There was no judgment in his tone. Just pain. Just shame. Just disbelief.

Y/N sat up slowly, pulling her knees to her chest as her gaze drifted upward—past the ceiling, past the walls. Like she was remembering a thousand moments all at once.

“I could’ve,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he whispered.

“But I didn’t.”

“Why?” he asked again, desperate this time.

She took a breath, long and slow.

“Because if I used it… if I let myself use that strength, I knew I wouldn’t stop,” she said. “I knew I could hurt you. Maybe kill you.”

Her voice trembled. “And no matter how much you hurt me… I never wanted to hurt you.”

Bob broke.

The words hit like bullets, each one sharper than the last. His shoulders curled inward. His hands covered his face. And for the first time since the injections, since the lab, since the Void, since everything—he sobbed.

Ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that came from the very center of who he was. He collapsed forward, arms wrapping around her waist, face buried into her lap like a child seeking comfort.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She just cradled his head, fingers gently stroking his hair as he cried like a man grieving a version of himself that could’ve loved her better.

“You should’ve run,” he said into her skin. “You should’ve left me. I was… I was horrible to you.”

She didn’t speak.

“I pushed you away. I threw things. I screamed at you. And you—God, Y/N, you stayed. You stayed and loved me when I was poison.”

She closed her eyes, holding back tears of her own.

“I was so weak,” he whispered.

“No,” she said softly, firm. “You were sick.”

“I was a monster.”

“You were lost,” she corrected. “And I loved you. I never stopped.”

He looked up at her, broken, tear-streaked, eyes desperate. “You loved me when I didn’t deserve it.”

“I still do.”

He let out a cry at that—soft, ragged.

And then, as if the truth was finally bursting from inside him, he grabbed both her hands and clutched them to his chest.

“I have so much to tell you,” he said, his voice urgent. “So much I need you to understand. I know it doesn’t erase what happened. I know it doesn’t make me innocent. But I need you to hear it. Everything. Why I disappeared. What I thought I was doing. What I really did. How scared I was. How much I missed you. How I imagined your voice when I was breaking down. How I saw you in every dream and every nightmare.”

She was silent, watching him come undone.

He breathed out, shaky. “I want to start over. With you. With all of it. I want to be the man who’s strong because of you, not in spite of you. I want sobriety, real sobriety, with you by my side. I want the Watchtower to be ours. I want to see you wake up in the morning and smile and know you’re safe. I want a new life. A real life. With you.”

Her throat closed around the lump rising there.

“I need you,” he said. “Not just want. Need. Like breath. Like light.”

He leaned in, his forehead pressed to her chest now.

“I need you to believe I can be better.”

She gently tilted his chin up, her eyes meeting his. Her own expression trembling from holding in her emotion.

“I already do,” she whispered.

He stared at her like she was the sun, like she was the reason he hadn’t disappeared completely.

Then she leaned in, pressing her lips to his temple. A kiss of forgiveness. Of memory. Of salvation.

“I’ll stay,” she murmured. “But you have to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t give up. Not on me. Not on yourself. Not ever again.”

He nodded fervently, tears still falling. “I won’t. I swear, I won’t.”

“And if you slip—”

“I’ll tell you.”

“If you hurt—”

“I’ll let you hold me.”

She smiled sadly. “Then I’ll stay.”

He kissed her then. Gentle, slow. A thank you. A lifeline.

And when they pulled back, he held her tighter than ever, whispering into the quiet.

“I’ll never let you go again.”

--

The Watchtower Common Room – Three Weeks Later

The sun dipped lazily through the tall windows of the communal living room, casting a golden haze over the couch, the mismatched furniture, and the scattered takeout containers from what had turned into a very chaotic brunch-slash-strategy meeting-slash-Alexei-having-an-identity-crisis.

Y/N sat curled into the corner of the oversized couch, practically glued to Bob’s side. Her legs were draped over his lap, arms wrapped around his chest like a koala bear, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

And, judging by the peaceful look on her face, neither was her need to be close to him at every moment of every day.

Bob, for his part, looked a little... wilted. In a good way. The kind of wilted that comes with someone who’s been deeply loved on all day by a clingy, affectionate, newly-healed girlfriend who had absolutely zero shame about PDA in front of their makeshift team.

He was red in the face. Again.

“I don’t get it,” Alexei grumbled from the floor, half-buried under sketchbooks, empty energy drink cans, and three poorly-sewn prototypes of what might’ve been uniforms. “We’re technically Avengers now, yes? We saved a facility. We stopped a Void. We got a Bob. We have matching trauma. That is qualification.”

Yelena, seated on the arm of the couch, rolled her eyes. “No one said we’re not. But it’s not ‘Avengerz.’ With a Z.”

“But the Z is modern. Youthful,” Alexei insisted, holding up a tattered piece of paper with what looked like a lightning bolt... stabbing a bear. “You have to think branding.”

Y/N snorted into Bob’s chest. He felt it before he heard it—her nose pressed to his shoulder as she tried to muffle the laughter.

Bob glanced around the room, looking mildly panicked. “Can I take back my resurrection and go die again real quick?”

“No,” Y/N said without hesitation, arms tightening around his middle. “I just got you back. You’re not going anywhere.”

He glanced down at her, lips twitching. “Can I at least breathe?”

“Nope.”

Yelena laughed under her breath. “Honestly? You’re lucky. This is the happiest she’s been in years.”

“I can tell,” Bob muttered, turning even redder as Y/N unabashedly kissed his jaw in front of everyone. “She hasn’t let go of me in like, six hours.”

Y/N looked up, mock-offended. “Wow. I cuddle you once for six hours and suddenly I’m clingy?”

He gave her a flat look. “You’ve followed me into the bathroom.”

“I missed you.”

“I was in there for three minutes.”

“Three long, heartbreaking minutes.”

The room burst into laughter—except Alexei, who was too busy measuring Bucky’s shoulders with a tape measure and mumbling about “proportions for aesthetic justice.”

Bucky swatted at him half-heartedly. “Get that thing away from me.”

“You want to be symmetrical or not, soldier boy?”

Y/N giggled and turned her face back into Bob’s neck, inhaling deeply. “You still smell like coffee.”

“Because I made coffee an hour ago.”

“I love coffee.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

Bob sighed, defeated, though there was nothing in his expression but soft, dazed affection. He leaned back, letting her cling to him like a warm, stubborn barnacle.

“You’re like a weighted blanket,” he muttered. “But emotionally terrifying.”

“Thank you,” she replied proudly.

Across the room, Ghost (Ava) snorted into her drink. “It’s like watching a golden retriever try to date a feral cat.”

“Except the cat’s ex-Red Room and could snap my spine if she wanted,” Walker said, not looking up from polishing his gun.

Y/N’s gaze lifted then, her eyes drifting to Alexei—who was, inexplicably, wearing one of his own design sketches pinned to his chest like a Girl Scout badge.

She hesitated. Then smiled. After everything… after almost killing him, after breaking down in the sand, after being held down by Bucky with a syringe while screaming her regrets—Alexei had forgiven her.

No. He’d understood her. She didn’t have to say anything to him. Not really. Because when he met her gaze, he gave her a single proud nod. Not smug. Not goofy. Just real. Like he knew how hard it had been to unlearn the Red Room. Like he saw her—his daughter—not as what she’d done but what she’d survived. And honestly he was kinda proud of her for beating him so easily. He could brag about it.

She blinked away tears and turned back into Bob’s chest, hiding her face.

“Y’know,” Alexei said suddenly, sitting up straighter, “Y/N would look amazing in one of these suits. Maybe dark red. Gold. With like... a phoenix on the back.”

“No,” Y/N groaned into Bob’s shirt. “I want a normal life. I want grocery shopping and bad TV and laundry and staying in bed.”

“You live in a flying tower with six weapons of mass destruction.”

“And I can where an expensive robe walking around it, with a sexy husband, that's as normal as I can get.”

“Please,” Alexei begged, flopping toward her on his knees. “I will make you leather gloves. Like the ones from Blade!”

“No.”

“A grappling hook arm!”

“Alexei—”

“A grappling bear!”

Yelena chucked a pillow at his face.

“Can we not push her into vigilante work while she’s literally snuggling the man she almost died for?” she said dryly.

“I’m fine,” Bob mumbled, caught between arousal, humiliation, and existential peace. “I’m... warm.”

“You look like she’s draining your soul through osmosis,” Walker muttered.

“She is,” Bob agreed. “Lovingly.”

Y/N pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m happy.” And she meant it.

[theonottsbxtch]

THE STATION DOWN THE ROAD | MV1

an: everyone seemed to love the flat next door so consider this a second instalment in the flat next door universe

wc: 15.6k

summary: she was too young to be taken seriously. he’d spent his whole life holding the world at arm’s length. they found home in each other, slowly, quietly, completely. not a love story with fireworks. just one that stayed.

MAX DIDN'T TALK MUCH ABOUT WHERE HE CAME FROM. Not because it was secret, exactly, but because some things sounded worse when said out loud. Like once you named them, they could crawl back in through the cracks and settle in your chest again.

He grew up in a council flat in Croydon, the sort where neighbours knew each other by the sound of arguments through the wall more than by name. His dad was loud. His mum was quieter, but not in a good way. Max learned early which floorboards creaked and how to move through silence without stirring it.

By sixteen, he was already trying not to be like him. He joined cadets. Signed up for any scheme that kept him out late. Police work hadn’t been a dream, not really. It was just something that looked like order. Something solid. Something with rules.

Now he lived a little further out. The town had just enough grey to feel real, but enough green round the edges to breathe properly. His flat was above a barber’s, with creaky stairs and a window that stuck when it got cold. But it was his. No shouting, no smashed plates. Just silence. Peaceful most of the time, though it could feel a bit hollow on Sundays.

He’d just finished a late shift, Friday, bit of a messy one, a pub scuffle that ended in a bloke crying on the kerb about his ex, and the streets were that in-between kind of quiet. Late enough that the buses were mostly empty, but not early enough for the milk floats. Streetlamps buzzed softly. His boots scuffed against the wet pavement.

Max didn’t mind nights like this. He liked the hush, the permission to think without interruption.

He unlocked his front door, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto the sofa, still in uniform. The radio buzzed from his jacket pocket. He clicked it off. Enough for today.

It had been just past ten on a Thursday when the call came through.

Max was halfway through a lukewarm cup of tea in the station kitchen, watching condensation bead down the windows. One of the younger PCs had left a jam doughnut half-eaten on a napkin, sugar stuck to the table. Rain pattered soft against the roof. He'd been hoping for a quiet shift.

Dispatch crackled through on his radio, voice clipped and tinny. “Units for immediate. Child located in the high street, possibly lost. Caller states child appears unharmed, mother not present. Caller’s staying on scene.”

Max pushed back his chair with a sigh and clicked his radio. “PC Verstappen, responding. I’m five minutes out.”

He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and headed out into the drizzle, the kind that didn’t soak you straight away, just lingered like damp breath on the back of your neck.

The high street wasn’t busy. A few shops still had lights on. Off-licence, the late-night bakery that always smelled too good for its own good, and the nail bar with the flickering sign. Max spotted the pair straight away, just outside the pharmacy.

The kid couldn’t have been more than five, maybe six. She was sat on the low brick wall, swinging her legs, damp hair sticking to her cheeks. Beside her stood a woman, not much more than twenty, holding a phone in one hand and trying to coax the child into zipping up her coat with the other.

She wasn’t wearing a coat herself. Just a big hoodie with the sleeves half-pulled over her hands, trainers slightly scuffed, eyes flicking up as he approached.

“You the one who called?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

She nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, she was standing by the crossing, no adult in sight. Looked like she was about to leg it across the road.”

Max crouched down a little, level with the girl. “Hey there. You alright, poppet?”

She gave a tiny nod but didn’t say anything. Her thumb hovered near her mouth before she pulled it away, glancing uncertainly between Max and the woman.

“She wouldn’t say much,” the woman added, quiet now. “Just told me her name’s Elsie. Didn’t know her mum’s number.”

“Right,” Max said, nodding slowly. “You did the right thing. Staying with her, I mean.”

The woman gave a little shrug, like it was nothing. But it wasn’t. Most people walked past.

Max clicked his radio again. “Verstappen here. Found the child, safe. Waiting on possible parent. Could we run a check for any missing child calls in the area? Name’s Elsie, about six.”

He glanced at the woman again. She was standing close enough to keep the kid calm, far enough not to hover. No umbrella. Her hair was damp, clinging to her forehead. Still no coat.

“You cold?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

She looked down at herself like she’d forgotten. “Bit. Doesn’t matter.”

He almost offered her his jacket. Didn’t. Instead, he nodded toward the wall.

“Why don’t you sit a sec? You’ve done enough standing about for one evening.”

She gave him a faint smile, like she wasn’t used to people saying that sort of thing.

They waited like that for a bit, Max crouched beside the kid, the woman perched nearby, rain threading through her sleeves.

Eventually, the update came through.

“Mum’s just rung in. Panicked. Apparently thought the girl was with her sister. She’s on her way now, seven minutes out.”

Max relayed that gently. Elsie’s face didn’t change much, but she shifted a little closer to the woman beside her. Her shoulder pressed against her arm, just briefly.

“She likes you,” Max murmured once Elsie was distracted by a cat in the window across the street.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Kid doesn’t know me.”

“Still. You kept her safe. That counts.”

She glanced down, then back at him. “You’re not from round here, are you?”

Max tilted his head. “What gives it away?”

She smiled, small. “You’ve got that careful voice. Like you learnt it on purpose.”

Max smiled faintly. “Maybe I did.”

A beat passed.

Then the sound of a car pulling up, too fast, a woman jumping out, clutching a handbag, tears already running.

Elsie ran to her mum without hesitation, and the moment hit hard, the kind of relief that made your lungs ache.

Max let them have a minute. Once the mum had calmed, offered her breathless thanks, and filled out the basics on the clipboard he handed her, they left in a rush of apologies and relief.

Then it was just the two of them again. Him and the girl in the hoodie, now stood with her hands stuffed in the pockets like it was suddenly awkward.

“You alright getting home?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m only up past the church. Ten-minute walk.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “Done it loads.”

He paused. Then held out a hand. “Max.”

She looked at it for a second before shaking it. Her hand was colder than it should’ve been.

“I know,” she said, not quite smiling. “You’ve got your badge on, officer.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair point.”

She stepped back slightly, hands shoved into her hoodie pocket, trainers scuffing the wet pavement.

“Thanks again,” he said. “For sticking with her.”

She shrugged, but there was a softness behind it. “Someone had to.”

He nodded. “Still. You didn’t have to be the someone.”

That got a small smile. Barely there, but it settled somewhere beneath his ribs.

“Get home safe, yeah?” he added.

She looked at him then, properly. Rain clinging to the ends of her fringe, cheeks a little pink from the cold. “You too, Max.”

And with that, she turned and walked off into the drizzle, footsteps light on the pavement, her hood still down despite the weather.

He watched her go, just for a second longer than he needed to.

Didn’t even know her name.

But he figured he might like to.

She didn’t look back, but she felt his eyes on her as she crossed the road.

Max. That had been his name. Short. Solid. The kind of name that felt steady, even when spoken quietly.

She walked the long way home, just for the space. The drizzle had turned into proper rain by the time she reached the alley behind the bookshop. She ducked through the side gate, keys already in hand, and climbed the narrow staircase that led to her flat above the shop. The steps were worn down the middle, edges scuffed from years of deliveries and clumsy tenants.

Inside, the flat was small but warm. The radiators ticked softly. Her boots squeaked faintly against the entryway mat. There was a distinct smell of paper and damp glue that always drifted up from the shop below. She’d grown to like it. It was hers.

She peeled off her hoodie and hung it on the hook, already thinking about the morning, early shift again. The café opened at seven, but she always arrived by half six. Just enough time to sort the pastry delivery and set up the machine before customers started begging for oat milk lattes and toasted bagels with no butter.

The flat was quiet. No telly on, no music. Just the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional car tyre splashing outside. She boiled the kettle without thinking and stood by the window while it hissed behind her, watching the glow of the town bleed faintly through the rain. Somewhere down the street, a siren wailed, but distant. Not urgent.

She didn't miss living at home. Not really. Her mum still texted most days, usually some variation of “eating properly?” or “when are you visiting?” but it was easier like this. Cleaner. She’d gone to uni a year early, skipped the last year of school because someone at her old place had said she was “a bit too clever to be hanging round with the rest of them.” It had seemed like a compliment at the time.

Now she was twenty, degree in hand, trying to convince café customers she could do more than steam milk and remember four regular orders without writing them down. Most didn’t believe she was old enough to rent a flat, let alone have studied economics. One bloke last week had called her “kiddo” and asked to speak to the manager. She was the manager. Sort of. They just hadn’t updated the name tag yet.

The next day, the rain had cleared, but the air still had that freshly wrung out feeling. Cold and clean. Her shift started like most, juggling coffee orders, wiping down tables too early in the morning, answering "what time do you open?” while clearly standing inside an already open shop.

It was just after eight when she saw him again.

Max.

He didn’t walk in with a swagger. More like he hadn’t planned to be there at all. Just ducked through the door with a slightly wind-blown look and the faint kind of hesitation that said he was deciding whether to stay.

She spotted him from behind the counter. He hadn’t clocked her yet.

He looked different out of uniform. Less official. Hoodie under a coat, hair slightly tousled like he'd towel-dried it in a rush. He scanned the board briefly, then looked up, and saw her.

Recognition flickered. Nothing dramatic. Just the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth, like a smile that hadn’t made up its mind yet.

She nodded. “Morning.”

He stepped up to the counter, hands in his pockets. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yeah, super fancy,” she said, pouring a filter coffee for another customer. “You after anything complicated?”

“God, no. Just a tea. Strong. Normal milk.”

She smirked faintly. “Classic.”

“I try.”

She got to work, kettle already boiling, and busied herself with a spoon and teabag while he stood awkwardly on the other side, like he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“You alright?” she asked eventually, not looking up.

“Yeah. Just…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Don’t normally come in here. Didn’t realise you worked this close to the station.”

She poured the tea, slid the mug toward him. “Most people don’t notice the small places.”

He gave a small shrug. “I notice more than I used to.”

She tilted her head slightly. “That a police thing?”

“Maybe. Or maybe just a getting older thing.”

She gave him the kind of look that could’ve meant anything. “Must be ancient, then.”

He huffed a laugh, accepting the tea. “Cheeky.”

She wiped her hands on a tea towel, then leaned on the counter, her shift apron tied loosely round her waist. “So. What brings you here, Max?”

He paused, tea in hand. “Dunno. Just fancied a quiet one. This place looked not terrible.”

She gave him a proper smile then, dry and amused. “High praise.”

He took a sip. Winced. “Bloody hell. That’s hot.”

She smirked. “You said strong. Not lukewarm.”

He grinned, and for a second, they just stood there, that comfortable pause settling again. The quiet kind. Familiar. No rush to fill it.

Eventually he gestured toward the corner table. “That alright?”

She nodded. “Go on. Table service is extra, though.”

He walked off, still smiling to himself, and she turned back to the espresso machine, the warmth from the encounter still tucked somewhere beneath her ribs.

Max stayed longer than he meant to.

He nursed his tea like it might reveal the meaning of life if he just sipped slow enough. The café was quiet now, post-breakfast lull, just a couple of old regulars in the corner and one student with headphones in, typing furiously and ordering nothing.

She wiped down the counter and glanced his way. He caught her eye. She raised an eyebrow.

“You alright over there? Or waiting for a second round?”

He smiled, tilted his mug. “Still working through the first. Dunno what you put in it, but it’s strong enough to resuscitate a corpse.”

“That’ll be the house blend,” she said dryly, making her way over with a cloth in one hand. “Bit intense, but does the job.”

She leaned against the table next to his, arms folded. He watched her for a second, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear without thinking, the way she still had a bit of flour dust near her knuckles.

“So,” he said eventually, “how long have you worked here?”

She gave him a look, not cold, but evasive. Like she'd been asked that question one too many times by people trying to figure out what she was doing with her life.

“Mm,” she said casually, “how long have you been a police officer?”

Max chuckled. “Alright. Fair. Seven years. Became a cadet as soon as it was legal then took a break. Worked in security, bit of door staff stuff in that in between then decided I wanted to be on the side that got called, not the one that got kicked out.”

She nodded like she understood more than she said.

He glanced up. “And you?”

She didn’t answer straight away. Just moved the cloth absently across a spotless bit of wood. Then, quietly, “Six months. Been working here since I graduated.”

He blinked. “Graduated?”

“Mm. Uni. Last summer.”

He tilted his head. “What’d you study?”

“Economics.”

That gave him pause. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” She smiled, wry and small. “Skipped a year at school, went straight through. Finished my dissertation with a kettle that didn’t work and a housemate who thought pasta went in before the water.”

He let out a soft laugh. “And now you’re here?”

“Now I’m here,” she repeated. “No one wants to take a twenty year old seriously in finance, turns out. Doesn’t matter how good your marks were if you look like you should still be doing your GCSEs.”

He sat back, thoughtful. “Ever considered working for the police?”

She raised an eyebrow. “As what, a teenage detective?”

He grinned. “Not everyone wears a stab vest. We’ve got departments for everything. Finance. Logistics. Budgets. Payroll. People who make sure Danny from transport doesn’t blow the whole annual allowance on cola bottles and petrol receipts.”

She laughed, properly this time. A low, warm sound that made his shoulders relax without realising.

“Serious, though,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out his wallet, slid a card across the table. “That’s me. My PC number’s on there. If you ever want to come by the station, chat to someone about the admin side, see what’s what, you should.”

She looked down at the card. His name was printed in neat block letters. It didn’t have a fancy title, no big flourish, just PC Max Verstappen and a contact number.

She turned it over in her fingers, then glanced back at him.

“Bit of a jump from latte art and sourdough, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But so was door work to front-line response. You never know.”

She tucked the card into the front pocket of her apron. Didn’t say yes. Didn’t say no either.

“You offering this to every café girl you meet?” she asked, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“No,” he said honestly, finishing the last sip of his tea. “Just the one who called in a lost kid and didn’t flinch once.”

She looked away, just slightly. But her smile stayed.

It had been a week since she’d seen Max.

Not that she was counting. But the card he’d given her was still tucked in the side of her mirror, propped up behind a stray hair bobble and a nearly empty bottle of dry shampoo.

She looked at it most mornings. Didn’t touch it. Just looked.

The flat had started to feel smaller since then. It wasn’t awful, not really, a bit damp in the corners, taps that squealed, windows that didn’t shut properly in the bathroom. But it was hers. Sort of. If you ignored the landlord, anyway.

That morning, she’d found a note shoved under the door. Crumpled, biro-scrawled, barely legible.

Rent due on the 1st. No delays. Don’t forget the increase. Cheers.

No “hello.” No signature. Just another reminder that everything cost more than it used to, and she wasn’t earning more than she used to. At the café, hours had been cut slightly, “just while trade’s slow”, and she’d started skipping lunch without noticing. Tea and toast at home would do.

Then the night after, something happened next door.

She heard it first, a shout, then a crash, maybe glass. Someone swearing, a door slammed. She’d frozen for a second, standing barefoot in the kitchen with the kettle halfway to boiling. It wasn’t her flat. Wasn’t her business. But she crept to the peephole anyway, breath held like that could stop whatever was happening outside.

Police had shown up a few minutes later. She watched the flashing lights bounce across the opposite wall, hands curled around a cold mug of tea. A robbery, apparently. Second one in a month down that street. No one seriously hurt, but still.

She barely slept. Every creak sounded wrong.

By morning, her mind was already half made up.

The station was quieter than she expected. Not loud or chaotic like telly made it look, just tired and slightly beige. The reception desk had a cracked laminate top, and someone had left a half-eaten pack of biscuits beside the computer monitor.

She stood just inside the doorway, rain still clinging to her coat, her trainers damp around the toes. The woman at the desk gave her a polite smile.

“Can I help you, love?”

She cleared her throat. “Erm. Yeah. I was wondering if I could speak to someone about jobs. Admin side, I mean. Not… not the front line.” while fiddling with the card Max had given her.

The woman nodded. “Alright. Let me see who’s about. Name?”

She gave it and the woman typed it in like it might mean something. Then she picked up the phone.

Two minutes later, footsteps sounded from the hallway. And there he was.

Max.

He looked surprised, but not in a bad way. Just a small lift of the eyebrows and a soft, “Hey. You alright?”

She nodded. “Can we talk? Somewhere quiet?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Course. Come on.”

He led her into a side room, plain, with a kettle and a stack of mugs that had clearly been borrowed from someone’s nan. He gestured for her to sit, then closed the door behind them.

She stayed standing.

“I thought about what you said,” she began, fingers curled around the strap of her bag. “About the jobs. The finance side. Is that a real thing? Or were you just being polite?”

He smiled faintly. “Bit of both. But mostly real.”

She nodded once. “Right. Because I’m looking. I mean, I’ve been looking, but I need something more stable. Somewhere that doesn’t cut my hours the minute it starts raining. And somewhere I can actually use my degree. I’m good with numbers. Just not very good at being patient with people who think I’m twelve.”

Max leaned back slightly, arms folded across his chest. He looked at her like she’d already passed some kind of test.

“We’ve got a couple of posts open,” he said. “Civilian roles. Budgeting team, HR, resource planning. You wouldn’t be out on the beat, don’t worry.”

She smiled at that, a little dry. “Don’t think I’m quite stab vest material.”

He chuckled. “We’ve got an application portal online, but I can put your name forward, make sure someone actually reads it. If you want.”

“I do,” she said, firmer than she meant to. “I really do.”

He nodded once. Then reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper, looked like he’d written something on it already.

“Go online, use that reference,” he said, handing it to her. “Should take you straight to the vacancies. If you want to list me as a referral, feel free. Might help. Don’t think they’ll hold the tea against you.”

She looked down at the note in her hands. His handwriting was neater than expected.

“Thanks,” she said, softly. “Seriously.”

Max tilted his head. “You alright, though? Really?”

She hesitated. “Just had a rough week. Landlord’s a tosser. Place got broken into next door. I keep telling myself I’ve got it under control, but it’d be nice to have something that is actually under control, you know?”

He didn’t say much, just nodded like he understood that far more than he was letting on.

“Then let’s get you something solid,” he said. “Yeah?”

She folded the slip and tucked it into her pocket, next to his card.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s.”

The weeks that followed unfolded in slow, steady steps, like crossing a stream on uneven stones.

The interview process was less terrifying than she'd expected, and more exhausting. Two rounds, plus a phone call with someone in payroll who seemed very invested in her knowledge of procurement software. She answered every question as clearly as she could, kept her voice level, tried not to overexplain or sound like she was trying to prove something.

Max didn’t make a big deal of it. He never hovered. An email here and there, a simple “Good luck today” or “Let me know how it goes”, always signed just with M from his work email. She appreciated that. The quietness of it. No pressure. No assumption. Just presence.

And then it happened. The job came through. A real one, with proper hours and paperwork and more than enough acronyms to get lost in. She stared at the offer email for five full minutes before she let herself believe it was real.

She handed in her notice that same day. Her manager barely looked up. Just muttered something about how it’d be hard to cover weekends and told her to print out her P45.

She didn’t tell Max right away. Not because she didn’t want to. But because the moment felt too raw, too personal. Like a small flame she wanted to protect from the wind.

He showed up at the café that Saturday. Not in uniform, jeans, a coat that had seen better days, and trainers that looked like they’d done a few too many miles. She saw him before he saw her, and by the time he reached the counter, her hands had stopped shaking.

“Alright?” he asked.

She nodded, wiping down the steam wand. “Still doing strong tea, or have you developed a taste for vanilla oat lattes?”

He made a face. “I’d rather chew glass.”

She poured his usual without asking.

“You busy?” he asked, glancing round. A couple of students hunched over laptops, a man reading the Metro with the patience of a monk.

“Quiet enough.”

She handed him the mug, their fingers not quite brushing.

“I got it,” she said.

He frowned. “Got what?”

“The job. I start on the twelfth.”

Max blinked, then his face softened in that way it did, like the smile hadn’t quite reached his mouth but had settled somewhere just behind his eyes.

“That’s brilliant,” he said. “You deserve it.”

She gave a small shrug, looking down. “Was starting to think maybe I wasn’t good enough for anything that didn’t come with a chipped mug and a dodgy boiler.”

He shook his head. “You were always good enough. Some people just take longer to be seen.”

That stopped her for a second. The way he said it, like he wasn’t talking about just her.

She nodded once. “Thanks. For you know. Putting my name forward. And not treating me like I was a child.”

“I figured,” he said quietly, “if anyone knew what it felt like to be underestimated it’d be me.”

A small silence opened between them. Comfortable, if a bit heavy.

She looked at him then, properly, saw the wear in the corners of his eyes, the carefulness in how he held himself. Like someone who’d spent years learning to take up as little space as possible.

“I owe you a coffee once I’m on the other side,” she said.

Max gave the faintest nod. “I’ll take you up on that.”

Then, like always, he paid without a fuss, nodded his thanks, and left without lingering.

But when she wiped down the counter a few minutes later, she found he’d left behind a folded napkin with a short note scribbled in careful block capitals.

You’re not inexperienced. You’re just getting started. M

She kept it in her pocket for the rest of the day.

The building looked different when you walked in with a pass.

She’d picked it up from reception half an hour before her shift, a plastic rectangle with her photo laminated on it and her name in blocky type underneath.

It felt strange, official. Like someone had finally let her into a room she’d been standing outside for years.

Her desk was on the second floor, tucked behind a stack of filing cabinets and two dying spider plants. The office buzzed in that low, fluorescent way, humming computers, quiet phone calls, the occasional cough. Everyone had a mug, she noticed. Bright colours. Slogans. Some in-jokes she didn’t get yet. Someone had taped googly eyes to the printer.

Her new manager, Hannah, was friendly in a brisk, no-nonsense way. She showed her how to log in, gave her a binder full of things she’d definitely forget by lunch, and introduced her to the people she’d mostly be emailing, not speaking to.

Then she was left to it. A screen, a login, an inbox that was already judging her.

She took a slow breath, rolled her shoulders, and got stuck in.

By eleven, she’d answered three emails, deleted seven spam messages about an expired toner contract, and double-checked a spreadsheet of overtime claims twice, just in case she’d missed something. Her tea had gone cold.

There was a knock on the doorframe.

She looked up.

It was Max.

In uniform this time, sleeves rolled, radio clipped to his vest, eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on her.

“Alright?” he asked.

Before she could answer, someone behind her desk piped up. “You’re not Danny. What are you doing here?”

The voice belonged to Gianpiero, she’d met him briefly that morning. Looked like he’d been working here since dial-up.

Max gave a faint smirk. “I’m here to check on a friend.”

That pulled a couple of glances. One or two eyebrows.

She stared at him. “A friend?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah. Thought I’d see how your first day was going.”

Before she could think of what to say, something witty, probably, or at least something that didn’t make her sound like she’d forgotten how speech worked, he reached into a paper bag and pulled out a mug.

He set it down on her desk.

It was mint green, slightly oversized, and in big white letters across the front it read, World’s Okayest Civilian

She blinked. Then laughed.

“Classy,” she said, picking it up. “Did you pick this yourself?”

“Course,” he said. “Had to fight someone for the last one.”

“Bet they were twelve.”

“Thirteen, actually.”

The moment hovered. She held the mug in her hands like it was something fragile and warm all at once.

“Thanks,” she said, quieter.

Max just nodded, a little smile threatening the corner of his mouth.

Then his radio crackled, and he glanced down at it, frowning.

“Sorry,” he said, already stepping back. “Gotta go, duty calls.”

She nodded. “Go be heroic.”

He gave her a look over his shoulder, something amused and gentle and gone too fast to pin down, and disappeared through the door.

GP leaned round the filing cabinet once he was gone.

“He your boyfriend?”

She stared at him. “What? No. He’s just helped me out. That’s all.”

GP shrugged, already turning back to his screen. “Alright, alright. Didn’t say anything.”

She looked down at the mug again. Bright green against the grey desk. Not subtle. But not loud, either.

She poured herself a fresh tea.

It tasted better than the first.

The rest of the day passed in fits and starts.

She read through a ten-page PDF on procurement protocols, half of which seemed written in another language, and tried not to look completely lost when Hannah came over to ask how she was finding things.

“Good,” she lied, with enough conviction that it almost sounded true.

Her new mug sat proudly on the desk, even though she caught one of the interns sniggering at it. She didn’t mind. It felt like a small anchor. Something that said, I belong here. Sort of.

By half five, she’d answered enough emails to feel useful and learned how to book meeting rooms without breaking the calendar system. A victory, by all accounts. She walked out of the building with her coat buttoned to the neck, the cold biting just slightly, her ID badge tucked into her bag like a ticket she didn’t want to lose.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t changing the world.

But it was hers.

The following weeks found their own rhythm.

Mornings started with the steady hum of the office, printer noises, people comparing meal deals, the occasional dodgy ringtone no one wanted to admit to. She kept her head down mostly, but people started to learn her name. GP brought her a KitKat on a Tuesday “just because” and muttered something about “decent work on that leave audit.”

Hannah let her lead on a supplier review. Nothing massive. But still.

Max didn’t appear often. Maybe once a week. Always at odd times, catching her by the printer, or standing by her desk with a coffee in one hand, looking like he’d just wandered in but had probably known exactly where she’d be.

Their conversations were still brief. Uncomplicated. But the tone had shifted. Warmer. Less formal. Like they were slowly building something that didn’t need naming yet.

One Wednesday, she came back from the loo to find a Post-it on her monitor that said Tea? 3:15. Downstairs. -M

She found him by the vending machine, leaning against it like he was waiting for the universe to deliver a snack. When he saw her, he stood up straighter and handed her a flapjack.

“Thought you might need a break,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “You psychic now?”

“More like observant. You’ve got your ‘I hate spreadsheets’ face on.”

She tried not to smile. “Do I?”

He nodded. “Same one I pull when someone says ‘let’s do a briefing.’”

They sat on the low wall outside, flapjack split between them, coats zipped up against the wind. No deep talk. Just quiet companionship. It was enough.

Another time, he popped by during her lunch and helped her fix a jammed stapler with surprising patience.

“You don’t seem like the stapler-fixing type,” she’d said.

“I contain multitudes,” he’d replied.

And once, when the fire alarm went off during a drill, they ended up standing together at the far end of the car park, watching clouds roll in.

“Didn’t realise you were still around,” she’d said.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” he’d replied, then winced. “That sounded creepier than I meant.”

She laughed. Properly.

After a month, it wasn’t strange to see him. Wasn’t strange to hear his voice across the office, or find a text on her phone that just said, You still alive in that finance dungeon?

It was a slow friendship blooming between the two of them, nice.

She liked that he didn’t push. That he let silences be silences, instead of trying to fill them.

And sometimes, when she caught herself smiling at her phone, or watching the doorway in case he happened to walk past, she wondered if maybe he was doing the same.

That night the cold had settled in with a kind of quiet that always made her uneasy.

The shop below had gone dark an hour ago, shutters clattering down with a rattle that shook through the floorboards. Upstairs, her flat was dimly lit, the glow from the small lamp by the sofa doing its best against the flickering overhead bulb she'd never quite got round to replacing. The air smelt faintly of toast and damp. Someone’s car alarm had gone off earlier, again, but the street was silent now, save the occasional rumble of late buses and the hum of faraway traffic.

She was curled on the sofa, knees drawn up, one hand resting lightly around a chipped mug of tea gone cold. The telly was on, volume low, some forgettable panel show she wasn’t really watching. Just noise, really. A buffer against the emptiness.

It had been a long week. Work had been full-on. The finance team were in the middle of quarterly reconciliations and someone had managed to delete half a spreadsheet with four days to deadline. She’d sorted it, eventually, but her eyes were still aching from staring at formulas that barely made sense. All she’d wanted tonight was to switch off.

Instead, she heard the window.

A sharp noise, not quite a smash, but something wrong. The back room. The one with the bathroom and the tiny kitchen window that never shut properly.

She sat up, heartbeat stuttering.

Then, footsteps.

Not above. Not beside.

Inside.

She didn’t think. She just moved. Grabbed her phone off the coffee table, keys from the hook, and slipped her feet into her trainers without even bothering to tie them. She didn’t even stop for her coat.

The flat door stuck slightly, as it always did in the winter, she wrenched it open with more force than was needed, and bolted down the narrow staircase two at a time. Her breath came short. Hands cold. She didn’t look back.

Out on the pavement, she kept walking until she was a few doors down, then turned and pulled out her phone.

The patrol car showed up just under ten minutes later.

Blue lights spilled across the shopfronts, dancing over wet tarmac and bins left out from the morning collection. She was standing beneath the streetlamp, arms crossed over her chest, trying to look smaller than she felt.

When the driver’s side door opened and Max stepped out, something in her tensed, not fear. Something closer to relief, though she didn’t want to admit it out loud.

He spotted her instantly and came over, calm and focused in his uniform, radio clipped to his shoulder, expression unreadable but softer than she’d seen him at work.

“You alright?” he asked, tone low.

She nodded, though her voice stuck. “Think someone broke in. I was in the living room. Heard the back window, then footsteps. I didn’t see anything, I ran.”

“Good,” he said, gently. “You did the right thing.”

He glanced toward the stairwell, then gestured to one of the officers behind him. “Take a look inside. Back entrance too. Let me know what you find.”

She stayed rooted to the spot while Max remained beside her, not too close, but enough that she felt anchored. He didn’t push her to talk, didn’t drown the silence in empty words. Just waited.

Eventually, the officer returned. “Window’s been forced. Back one, like she said. Looks like they scarpered out the rear alley. Nothing major taken, far as we can tell, but flat’s been rifled through.”

She nodded slowly. “Right.”

Max turned to her. “You can’t stay there tonight.”

“I’ll be fine—”

“No, you won’t,” he said, firm but not unkind. “You’ve just been through a break-in. You shouldn’t be on your own.”

She hesitated. “I don’t really have anyone. Mum’s up in Cumbria and I’ve not got any friends who’ve got spare sofas knocking about. I’ll sort something, I just, I need to think.”

He looked at her for a moment, then said, simply, “Come back to mine.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“I’ve got a spare room. It’s quiet. Heating works. I’ll be on shift most of the night, but you can sleep, lock the door, not worry. I’ll give you a lift in the morning. Deal?”

She wanted to argue. To prove she was fine. Independent. Capable.

But she wasn’t, not really. Not tonight.

So she swallowed her pride and nodded once. “Yeah. Alright.”

He offered the faintest of smiles. “Come on, then. I’ll stick the kettle on before I head out.”

And just like that, she wasn’t standing under a flickering streetlamp anymore. She was in the backseat of the police car, hoodie pulled tight around her, and for the first time all night, she didn’t feel like she was bracing for the worst.

The inside of the police car was warmer than she expected. Not fancy, but oddly neat. The kind of neatness that came from routine, not effort. She settled into the seat slowly, still holding herself like a coiled spring, and glanced around, not at Max, but at the car itself.

“Bit weird being in one of these and not in trouble,” she said, mostly to fill the silence.

Max huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s the goal, really.”

She ran her fingers lightly along the edge of the door, taking in the scratch marks and rips on the seatbelts. “Thought it’d be more gadgety. Like in the shows.”

He flicked a look at her. “Sorry to disappoint. We’ve got a dodgy radio and a cup holder that doesn’t actually hold cups. Welcome to glamour.”

She smiled, faint but real, and leaned back in the seat as he pulled away from the kerb. The city passed them by in smeary amber streaks. Shopfronts closed. Streetlights flickering overhead. Her fingers finally unclenched from around her phone.

“You sure this isn’t against a rule or something?” she asked after a minute. “Letting civilians crash at yours?”

“Oh, almost definitely,” he said. “Walking HR violation.”

She turned to look at him. “So why’re you doing it?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the road. Just said, quietly, “Because I’d rather get bollocked for that than find out you stayed and something happened.”

That shut her up, but not in a bad way. Just left her sitting there, heart beating a bit too loud in her chest, unsure what to do with the warmth creeping up the back of her neck.

His flat was on the top floor of a squat red-brick building, she recognised the type where builders once tried to make it look nice, then gave up halfway through. There was a crack up the side of the stairwell wall and the communal carpet smelt faintly of bleach and damp socks. Still, it felt private.

Inside, it was simple. Two rooms, one half-decent-sized living area, a cramped kitchen with slightly newer cupboards than hers. It was lived-in, but not messy, odd bits of kit from the job, a battered bookshelf, a pair of trainers by the door. A mug sat by the sink with I’m not yelling this is just my voice printed across it in fading capitals.

“Not much, but it works,” he said, locking the door behind them and flicking the hallway light on.

“It’s bigger than mine,” she said honestly, toeing off her trainers and glancing around. “Less mould, too.”

He gestured to the smaller room. “Spare bed’s in there. Sheets are clean, promise. Bathroom’s next door, if you want to shower or whatever. There’s toothpaste in the drawer, unless the cat nicked it.”

She blinked. “Wait, you have a cat?”

Before he could answer, a low, gravelly mrrrp echoed from down the hall.

A large, grey bengal appeared in the doorway with the kind of swagger usually reserved for ex-cons. One bent ear, slow-blinking dark eyes, and an expression that said he’d seen things and had no time for fools.

“That’s Jimmy,” Max said, tugging off his boots. “He hates everyone.”

Jimmy ignored him entirely and padded over to her. With all the ceremony of a royal inspection, he sniffed her bag, then her hand, then hopped up onto the bed, circled once, and plonked himself down beside her like she belonged there.

She blinked. “Right. Apparently not me.”

Max stared, dumbfounded. “He bit my last girlfriend. Through a sock.”

She grinned, scratching behind Jimmy’s ear as he purred like a small, lumpy engine. “Guess I’ve got better vibes.”

Jimmy butted his head against her elbow, still rumbling.

Max gave the cat a deeply betrayed look. “Traitor.”

She smirked, kicking her bag gently under the bed. “You’re lucky I don’t take that personally.”

He leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, watching her with a look that didn’t quite reach his usual quiet sarcasm. “You alright in here?”

“Yeah,” she said, suddenly, earnestly. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Good.” He hesitated. “I’ve got to head off in a bit, can’t be slacking on shift when the lady doing the pay is watching me. You’ll be alright locking up after?”

“Course,” she said. “Jimmy’ll protect me.”

Jimmy sneezed.

Max shook his head with a quiet laugh. “I’ll wake you in the morning. Lift to work’s on offer. Try not to nick the telly.”

She smiled, not just amused, but something a little deeper than that. Warm, settled. For the first time in a while, she felt like the world had stopped spinning just enough to catch her breath.

The following morning the kettle clicked off just as she stirred.

The spare room was still dim, lit only by the grey spill of early morning light through the blinds. The sheets smelled faintly of fabric softener and something warm she couldn’t name, like clean jumpers and leftover sleep. She blinked at the ceiling for a moment, disoriented, before memory caught up with her.

Max’s flat. The break-in. Jimmy curled up at her feet like a lumpy guardian angel.

She sat up slowly, careful not to jostle the cat, and rubbed her eyes. Her hoodie was twisted from sleep, hair sticking out in too many directions. She hadn’t meant to sleep so well, but she had, solid and deep, like her body had finally stopped keeping score for a night.

The knock came soft on the doorframe.

“You awake?”

His voice was low, hoarse from overnight silence.

“Yeah,” she called back, just above a whisper.

Max stepped into view, still in his uniform trousers but with a plain grey T-shirt now, hair slightly rumpled, a mug in one hand.

He passed it to her without ceremony. “Tea. Still figuring out how you like it. Had a guess.”

She took it with both hands, fingers brushing his. “Thanks. It smells right, at least.”

He lingered just a second longer before leaning against the doorframe. The hallway light cast him in soft silhouette, shadows under his eyes but not sharp, just tired in that familiar, lived-in way.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked.

“Better than I should’ve,” she said honestly. “Didn’t realise how tired I was.”

He nodded. “That’s how it gets you. You power through, then one quiet room and a cat with poor boundaries and you’re done for.”

She smiled into her tea. “Speaking of, he didn’t move all night. Like a warm rock.”

“Rude. He usually abandons guests halfway through.”

“Guess I’m winning him over.”

“More than I ever have.”

They stayed there a beat, just sipping quietly. Jimmy meowed from somewhere down the hallway, clearly annoyed breakfast hadn’t been served yet.

Max scratched the back of his neck. “Look, I’ve just come off and I’ve got no intention of seeing the station until tomorrow, but I’ll give you a lift in.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cut in, soft but firm. “But I’m doing it anyway. I’ll sleep better knowing you got there alright.”

She looked down at her tea, then back up at him. “You’re allowed to be looked after too, you know.”

His mouth tugged into a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah. Maybe. Just not today.”

She didn’t press. Just nodded, because she understood what he wasn’t saying. Some days you needed to be the strong one, not because you had to be, but because it was easier than letting someone else try.

“I’ll be quick,” she said. “Don’t want you crashing the car from lack of sleep.”

He huffed a tired laugh. “I’ll be fine. Coffee and spite’ll carry me through.”

She set the mug down and stood, stretching out stiff shoulders. “You’ve got cereal, yeah?”

“Top cupboard. Might be some toast if Jimmy hasn’t nicked it.”

She padded past him toward the kitchen, brushing his arm as she passed. Nothing big. Just a moment. The kind that warmed the edges.

He watched her go, the weight behind his eyes not quite heavy enough to dull the faint lift in his chest.

Outside, the world was starting up again. But inside, it still felt like early. Like maybe they had a little time before the noise came back in.

She didn’t know where anything was at first, rummaging through unfamiliar cupboards with Jimmy underfoot, offering helpful grumbles every time she opened the wrong one. Eventually, she found what she needed: bread, butter, a slightly dented jar of raspberry jam, and a mug she recognised from last night still on the side. I’m not yelling, this is just my voice.

She ate at the kitchen table, one leg tucked beneath her, Jimmy sprawled across the other chair like he paid rent. The place was quiet, warm in that lived-in kind of way. A small radio played quietly from the corner, some breakfast show with people laughing too early for comfort, and she watched the kettle steam in the light, toast crumbs on her plate, feeling oddly still.

Somewhere down the hall, the shower started running.

She finished her tea, wiped her hands on a napkin, and stood to rinse her plate. Jimmy followed her to the sink, tail flicking, clearly judging her speed. She bent to scratch behind his ears.

“You’re very needy for a cat who hates people,” she murmured.

He blinked, slow and smug.

She padded out into the hallway a few minutes later, intent on grabbing her bag from the spare room, and stopped dead.

Max.

Midway between the bathroom and his room, towel slung low around his hips, hair dripping, steam still clinging to his shoulders. He was walking away, back turned, completely unaware of her presence.

She froze. Eyes wide. Brain short-circuiting slightly.

It wasn’t that she’d never seen someone in a towel before. Just not him. Not like that. Not with his back all bare and shoulders solid and everything else her eyes weren’t supposed to linger on.

She spun on her heel, face burning, practically tiptoed back into the kitchen like she’d just walked in on national television.

Jimmy watched her, unimpressed.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered, pressing her palms to her cheeks.

By the time Max reappeared, fully dressed in a grey tracksuit, towel now wrapped round his neck instead of his waist, she was sat at the table again, pretending very hard to scroll through her phone.

He looked good. Ridiculously so. Comfortable in his own skin, hair still damp, sleeves pushed up slightly. The kind of good that made her teeth ache.

“Toast alright?” he asked, slinging his keys into a bowl on the counter.

She nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Think Jimmy wanted half of it.”

Max eyed the cat, now snoozing on the windowsill. “He’s always starving. Don’t fall for it.”

She finally looked up then, just briefly, and caught him mid-sip of water, one hip resting against the counter, his tracksuit clinging a little too well to his frame.

Unfair.

He noticed her looking but didn’t say anything. Just raised an eyebrow like he’d clocked something and let it pass.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Just need to grab clothes and my laptop from mine. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Right,” he said, straightening. “Let’s go, then.”

The drive over was quiet in the best kind of way.

Soft radio on in the background, something low and acoustic. Houses rolling by in a blur of greys and browns. Her bag tucked at her feet, seatbelt clicking gently as Max took corners like he’d done them a thousand times before.

He didn’t fill the silence. Just let it be. Every now and then, she glanced over, at the line of his jaw, the way his hand rested loose on the gearstick, the quiet concentration on his face, and wondered when things had started feeling like this.

They pulled up outside her building, the shop shutters still halfway down, her window just visible above.

“I’ll wait,” he said, shifting into neutral.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You’ll be five minutes tops, right? What could possibly go wrong?”

She gave him a look. “Don’t tempt fate.”

He smirked. “Go on, then.”

She dashed up the stairs, keys already out, and grabbed what she needed. Work bag, fresh clothes, a spare charger. She changed quickly, jeans, jumper, warm coat, stuffed the rest into a tote, and took one last glance round the flat before locking up again.

Still didn’t feel quite like home.

Max didn’t ask questions when she slid back into the passenger seat, slightly breathless, Jimmy’s fur somehow still clinging to her sleeve.

“All good?” he asked.

“Yeah. Think so.”

“Alright,” he said, pulling away smoothly. “Let’s get you to work.”

The station came into view just as the sun started to peek out, weak and watery, but trying. The morning moved on. But something between them had shifted like a needle on a record finding the next groove.

Quiet. But playing the same song.

The week frayed around the edges.

Work was steady, spreadsheets, supply reports, someone in IT shouting gently at their screen, but she was off-kilter. Snapping pencils without meaning to. Forgetting her mug on the printer. Laughing too loud at things that weren’t funny, just to stop the silence swallowing her whole.

Because on Tuesday, folded inside an envelope with no return address and stuffed through her letterbox, was an eviction notice.

The wording was polite enough. “Due to recent concerns regarding property safety and tenant suitability”, whatever that meant. She read it three times before the meaning settled in her stomach like a brick.

She was being kicked out. For being burgled.

Apparently, the break-in had made the landlord "nervous" about her "ability to keep the premises secure.” Which was rich, considering he hadn’t fixed the lock on the back window in over a year.

She didn’t cry. Not then. Just sat on the edge of the bed, heart thudding in her throat, and stared at the wall like it might blink first.

By Thursday, Max noticed.

She hadn’t said anything. Didn’t want to make it a thing. But she must’ve looked different — hunched in slightly, her eyes that bit too sharp and tired, because he caught her by the vending machine after lunch and didn’t let her wriggle out of a conversation.

“You alright?”

She blinked, halfway to tapping the hot chocolate button. “Yeah. Fine.”

He tilted his head. “Liar.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

He waited.

Eventually, she sighed. “Got an eviction notice.”

Max stared. “What?”

“Apparently I’m a ‘risk’. Landlord reckons the break-in proves I’m not a reliable tenant.” She did air quotes so hard her fingers nearly cracked. “It’s nonsense, but it’s legal nonsense, and I’ve got to be out by the end of the month.”

“That’s—" he stopped himself. Took a breath. “That’s bollocks.”

“Yeah, well. Can’t afford anywhere else round here. Not unless I fancy living in a cupboard with six other people and a damp problem.”

They stood there in silence. The vending machine buzzed faintly behind them.

Then, quietly, he said, “Move in with me.”

She blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Spare room’s yours. You’ve stayed before. You know where everything is. Heating works, cat’s already in love with you. Makes sense.”

She folded her arms, defensive without meaning to. “I’m not just going to freeload off you.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“I’ll pay rent.”

He looked at her, steady. “Can you cook?”

She frowned. “Yeah. Why?”

“I’ve been living off pasta and beans for the last ten years. If you feed me something with actual flavour, you can stay for free.”

She stared at him. “That’s your pitch?”

“Take it or leave it.”

A beat passed. Her mouth twitched.

“I make a decent lasagne,” she said.

“I’m sold.”

“Bit manipulative, don’t you think?”

He shrugged again. “You can always poison me if I get annoying.”

She laughed then, the stress cracking at the edges just long enough to let the sound out. He smiled, quiet and soft, watching her.

“Seriously,” he said, more gently now. “Spare room’s there. You’ve got enough to deal with. You don’t need to fight on this one too.”

She looked at him. Not just his face, but all of it, the steadiness, the way he didn’t flinch when things got uncomfortable, the way he never tried to rescue her, just stood there until she felt steady again.

“Alright,” she said at last. “But I’m making you eat vegetables.”

He grimaced. “Bit harsh, but fine.”

“And I’m not doing the washing up.”

“Jimmy does it,” he said deadpan.

She grinned. “I’ve made worse deals."

She moved in on a Sunday.

No fanfare. No removal van. Just three overstuffed bags, one suspiciously heavy box, and a carrier with Jimmy’s new scratching post that she’d insisted on buying because, “If I’m moving in, the cat needs enrichment.”

Max picked her up in his car just after lunch. He offered to help carry things before she’d even asked. She tried to protest, said she was fine, really, but he just raised an eyebrow, took the heaviest box without blinking, and carried it like it weighed nothing. She didn't argue after that.

“Alright,” he said, setting it down inside the flat with a quiet grunt. “You packed bricks?”

“Books,” she said, shutting the door behind her with her foot. “And maybe one casserole dish.”

“Just the one?”

“It’s versatile.”

He smirked. “You’re not allowed to judge my three frying pans, then.”

They unpacked slowly, without pressure. She tucked clothes into the drawers in the spare room, stacked her tea bags next to his in the cupboard without asking, and set her alarm clock by the bed like it had always been there.

It was easy. Too easy.

Every so often, Max appeared behind her with another bag or a box. At one point she turned to find him hanging her coat on the hook by the door, like it was already her hook. She stared for a second too long, and he glanced over, half a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just weird how not weird this feels.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

They stood like that for a moment, the kind of quiet that wrapped around them instead of falling between them.

Jimmy wandered in, tail flicking, and leapt straight onto her new bed like it had always been his.

“Right,” Max said, clapping his hands together. “We’re in. Now what?”

She looked round, hands on her hips. “I’m starving.”

“You’re the cook.”

“You have pasta, don’t you?”

He snorted. “Obviously. Question is which kind of sad student meal do you fancy?”

She grinned. “Leave it to me.”

That evening, the flat smelled like garlic and tomatoes and something warm and real. She moved round the kitchen like she’d always known where everything was. Max sat on the edge of the sofa with a beer in hand, watching as she stirred, tasted, adjusted.

“You’re very calm in a kitchen,” he noted.

“Years of being the only one in my uni house who could read a recipe,” she said. “That and my mum used to make us all cook one dinner a week from the age of twelve. Builds character.”

“You trying to impress me?”

“Obviously. You’ve got top-notch cutlery and a slow cooker. I’m trying to earn my keep.”

He smiled into his bottle. “You already have.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Dinner was nothing fancy, pasta with a sauce that took more effort than she let on, garlic bread from the shop round the corner, side salad that Max prodded at suspiciously.

But they ate together on the sofa, plates balanced on knees, Jimmy snoring gently on the rug, telly on but muted. And when she looked round the room, laundry folded on the radiator, a half-done crossword on the table, her mug already in the sink, it didn’t feel like she was staying over.

It felt like she’d come home.

Over the next month and a half, things blurred in the loveliest way.

She was still technically looking for a new place. She had a spreadsheet and everything, bookmarked listings, a budget column, a list of must-haves like “no mould” and “close to bus stop” and “not run by a complete knob.”

But she wasn’t rushing. Not really. Not anymore.

Max never brought it up. Not once. Just carried on like this was normal, her using the last of the milk, her socks in the laundry, Jimmy choosing her lap more often than his.

They fell into a rhythm without meaning to.

He worked late, came in quiet, sometimes left a note on the fridge if he missed her, cat’s a menace, save me leftovers if you love me. She worked days, brought home biscuits from the office when someone had a birthday and they’d bought too many. They watched telly together more often than not, her on one end of the sofa, feet tucked under her, Max half-stretched out on the other side, always warm and within reach.

Sometimes she fell asleep there, curled up with a blanket she hadn’t unfolded properly, the end credits of some quiz show still playing. And when that happened, she’d wake up hours later, back in bed, hoodie tucked round her shoulders, everything dark and still.

Max never mentioned it. But she knew it was him.

He’d carried her. More than once.

The first time she caught on, she nearly asked. Stopped herself at the last second. Didn't want to make it weird. Didn’t want him to stop.

She started seeing him shirtless more often, too. Not on purpose, just mornings, usually. He’d stumble into the kitchen half-awake, hair all over the place, joggers slung low and no top, rubbing at his eyes and mumbling about the kettle being too slow.

The first time, she’d dropped a spoon.

He didn’t notice. Just yawned and opened the fridge like he hadn’t just ambled in looking like an advert for domestically competent, emotionally repressed men with decent arms.

She told herself it was fine. Just a normal thing. Totally standard flatmate experience.

Except it wasn’t. Not really.

Because now, whenever he sat next to her on the sofa, all warmth and sleepy weight, or reached over her for something in the cupboard, or knocked her foot with his under the table and didn’t move it straight away something in her chest shifted.

Something small. And slow. And real.

There were moments, too. Quiet ones that almost said too much.

Like when she made him soup from scratch on the day he came home drenched, muttering about road closures and paperwork soaked through with rain. He didn’t speak much, just sat at the table while she stirred, and when she put the bowl in front of him, he said, “No one’s ever made me soup before.”

Like that meant something.

Or the night she came in late, soaking and fed up, and found her dressing gown warm on the radiator and a note beside it that just said, Shower’s free. Thought you might need it. — M

Or how he always waited up, even if it was just half an hour. Even if he didn’t admit that was what he was doing.

One morning, she came into the kitchen and found him standing barefoot by the sink, tea in one hand, phone in the other, bare-chested and blinking against the light. The sight hit her like it always did, a little spark of heat in the chest, the kind that stayed, even after she looked away.

He turned to her, sleep-mussed and soft-eyed.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” she replied, opening the cupboard for a mug. Her fingers were steady. Just.

He didn’t move. Just watched her for a second longer than usual. Then turned back to his phone like nothing had happened.

Jimmy meowed loudly, possibly offended by the lack of food. She reached for the cat biscuits, heart thudding far more than the situation required.

Something was happening. Quietly. Gradually.

And neither of them had said a word.

Then something happened and it was GP’s fault.

She should’ve known better. Should’ve run the other way the moment he said, “He’s from the fire station, lovely bloke, good pension,” like he was reading from a checklist.

But she’d laughed it off and said, “Why not?” before she could think too hard.

The date was fine. Technically. Polite. Predictable. His name was Jack, he was good-looking in a catalogue sort of way, talked a lot about protein shakes and the gym. Ordered a steak, rare, and made a comment about vegans being “a bit militant.” She wasn't even vegan. Just tired.

By the end of the meal, her smile felt stapled on.

He tried to kiss her by the bus stop. She leaned left instead of right and it ended in a half-hug that was more tragic than polite.

She let out a breath the moment she got home.

The flat was quiet, warm. The hall light was off, but the living room lamp glowed. Jimmy blinked at her from the windowsill like he was judging her outfit.

“Don’t start,” she muttered, kicking off her shoes.

She half-hoped Max would be asleep. That she could sneak past with her dignity intact and pour herself a glass of wine in peace. But he wasn’t.

He was on the sofa, legs stretched out, hoodie on, hood down, telly muted. Just a low hum of street noise drifting in through the cracked window.

She froze for a second in the doorway.

He looked up. Took her in, hair curled from the wind, lipstick smudged, expression tired in that bone-deep way.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You alright?”

She nodded, then shook her head. “Not really.”

He sat up without a word, patted the space next to him.

She hesitated. Then crossed the room, dropped onto the sofa beside him, and let her head fall back against the cushion with a sigh.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Fireman.”

She groaned. “Is it that obvious?”

“GP was grinning like he’d set up a marriage and he has a habit of trying to liaise police and fire.”

“He said he had a 'feeling'. That’s never a good sign.”

Max chuckled. “Was it awful?”

“Not awful. Just off. You know when someone ticks boxes, but none of the ones that matter?”

He didn’t reply straight away. Just nodded, slow and quiet.

“I kept thinking, ‘I’d rather be on the sofa with a cat and a blanket and a packet of bourbons,’” she admitted.

“Reckon Jimmy’s offended he wasn’t invited.”

“He’s got standards.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that hummed with more than it said. She turned her head and found him already watching her.

Their eyes met.

Something shifted.

It was the smallest thing, a pause, a breath, a fraction too long of looking, but it crackled in the space between them like static. Like standing too close to a fire.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them smiled.

The room felt still. Suspended.

He looked at her mouth.

And she felt it. That low, aching pull in the chest. That heat blooming at the base of her throat. That sense of this means something.

If someone had walked in just then, they’d have apologised. Backed out slowly. Closed the door with a whispered sorry, like interrupting a prayer.

Max blinked first. Not away, just slower. Softer.

“You deserve better than someone who makes you feel ‘off’,” he said, quiet like a promise.

She swallowed. “I think I already have better.”

His fingers twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for her. But he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he nodded once. Barely. Like something had been agreed on without needing to be spoken.

The moment passed. Kind of.

But it stayed there, too. Settled in the air between them. Waiting.

And when she stood a few minutes later, brushed her hand against his arm just a second longer than necessary, he didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Another month slipped by. Quietly. Intimately.

She told GP, quite firmly, that she was no longer accepting any romantic recommendations from someone who thought George from dispatch was “a bit of a catch.” He sulked for half a day, then brought her a custard cream and muttered an apology. Peace was restored.

Life continued in the in-between.

Work. Shared dinners. Him pouring the tea, her washing up. Jimmy playing favourites depending on who fed him most recently. Everything felt ordinary on the surface, still platonic, still friendly, but the edges had started to fray.

The kind of tension that builds slowly, like heat from a radiator you didn’t notice had been turned on.

Max was quieter than usual. Not cold, just a bit more deliberate. Lingering less. Looking longer. He still carried her to bed when she fell asleep on the sofa. Still left mugs out for her in the morning. But something about him had shifted.

And she knew exactly when it started.

It was a Tuesday. She’d been half-asleep, padding to the kitchen for a glass of water after a late shift, barefoot and bleary-eyed in an oversized T-shirt that fell to mid-thigh. No bra. Shorts underneath, technically, though they barely showed. The shirt hung off one shoulder, neck wide, worn soft with age.

She didn’t think twice.

Until she walked into the kitchen and found Max already there, lit only by the open fridge. He’d frozen mid-sip of orange juice straight from the bottle. Looked up. Stared.

Then blinked like he’d forgotten how light worked.

She’d mumbled something, probably sorry or just water, and edged round him to the sink, painfully aware of how much leg was on show.

Max hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, completely still, like someone trying not to spook a deer.

When she left the room, he didn’t follow.

And since then something had been off. Not wrong. Just aware.

It didn’t blow up. It wasn’t like that.

But one Friday evening, with the flat quiet and warm and the telly playing some old detective drama they weren’t really watching, it finally cracked.

She was curled in her corner of the sofa, knees tucked up, hoodie zipped halfway. He was beside her, arms folded, head leaned back against the cushion, eyes closed but not asleep.

It was raining, softly, rhythmically, against the windows, and Jimmy was snoring on a tea towel someone had left on the radiator.

She turned her head to say something. Maybe a joke. Maybe do you think they’ll actually solve it this time.

But he was already watching her.

She paused. “What?”

He didn’t answer straight away. Just looked at her, really looked, like he was trying to decide something.

And then, quietly, almost like it surprised him as much as her, he said, “This is getting harder.”

She blinked. “What is?”

“Pretending this isn’t something,” he said. Soft. Honest. No edge to it, just quiet resignation.

She sat very still. Her heartbeat felt louder than the rain.

“I thought maybe I was imagining it,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“You weren’t.”

Another beat passed.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” she said. “What we’ve got. Living here. You.”

“You’re not,” he said simply. “You couldn’t.”

And that was it.

Not some grand declaration. No fireworks. Just that shift, the tension giving way like breath finally released.

He leaned in, slow, like he wanted to give her a chance to move away.

She didn’t.

Their lips met, soft, unsure, careful at first. Like testing something fragile. And then, not so careful. Warmer. Familiar.

When they pulled apart, his hand still resting lightly against her knee, she exhaled shakily.

“Well,” she said.

Max gave a faint smile. “Bit overdue, that.”

She huffed a laugh. “Little bit, yeah.”

Their mouths met again, slower this time.

Like neither of them could quite believe it had happened the first time, like they needed to check it was real.

She shifted closer, knees brushing his thigh, hand resting lightly on his chest. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. Just let her move, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow as her fingers found the edge of his hoodie and slipped underneath, brushing bare skin.

He exhaled, sharp and low. Like he’d been holding it in for months.

She climbed onto his lap, straddling him easily, her legs folding around his hips like she’d always belonged there. The hoodie rode up, and his hands found her waist instinctively, warm, steady, tentative only in the way they lingered.

Her forehead pressed to his. They breathed the same air.

“Max,” she murmured, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Tell me to stop if you need to.”

But he didn’t.

He pulled her back in, kissing her like he meant it this time, like he’d finally let go of all the reasons why he shouldn’t.

It was slow, and deep, and so full of longing it hurt.

And then.

He broke away, suddenly, jaw clenched.

“Ahh, fuck,” he muttered, hands dropping from her waist. “This shouldn’t be happening.”

She blinked, still breathless. “What?”

He looked up at her, properly looked, the guilt already forming.

“You turn twenty-one in two weeks,” he said, voice low and pained. “This is bad. I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

She stared at him, stunned. “You know when my birthday is?”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the cushion, hands covering his face for a second. “Please be serious.”

“I am serious!” she said, a little breathless still. “You know my birthday. That’s kind of sweet.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, dragging his hands down his face, “I also know I’m twenty-eight and I’ve seen you barefoot in the kitchen and I just spent the last six weeks pretending I didn’t want to touch you every time you fell asleep on the bloody sofa.”

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cold.

He just looked wrecked. Not because he didn’t want this, but because he did.

“I’m not a kid,” she said, gently.

“I know,” he replied, just as quiet. “You’re brilliant. You’ve lived more than most people my age. You pay council tax, you make your own soup, you talk back to Jimmy when he gives you attitude.”

She snorted despite herself.

“But,” he continued, softer now, “part of me still feels like I should be the grown-up here. The boring, sensible one.”

She tilted her head. “Are you saying you don’t want this?”

He looked at her, and it was all there, in his eyes, his hands, the way he still hadn’t let go of her entirely.

“No,” he said. “I’m saying I want it too much.”

She was silent for a beat.

Then, “Right. Well. If it helps, I’m the one on top, so technically I’m in charge.”

Max gave her a flat look.

She grinned.

“Alright,” she added, softer now. “We can slow down. If you need to.”

He exhaled, long and shaky. “Yeah. Just for now.”

She climbed off his lap gently, settling beside him instead, pulling her hoodie down with exaggerated modesty.

They sat there for a moment, hearts still thudding, the air still warm and charged, but calmer now. Closer.

“I wasn’t joking, though,” she murmured after a moment. “About you knowing my birthday.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s in your HR file. I’m not a stalker.”

“Still sweet.”

“Shut up.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, still smiling.

And even though they’d stopped, even though everything was still complicated and just slightly tangled, neither of them moved away.

Because whatever this was it wasn’t going anywhere.

In the week leading up to her birthday, something shifted.

Not suddenly. Just gradually. Like snow melting.

They were still careful, still hadn’t talked about what they were, exactly, but hands lingered longer. Shoulders brushed more deliberately. Her fingers found the crook of his elbow when they passed each other in the kitchen. His hand slid into the small of her back when he reached for the kettle behind her.

Once, in the middle of an episode neither of them were really watching, she’d tucked her feet under his leg. He didn’t blink. Just adjusted, like that was normal now.

And then, one Thursday night, they both fell asleep on the sofa.

She was curled into her usual corner. He’d stretched out beside her, hoodie half-zipped, one arm slung lazily across the back of the cushions. Jimmy, with the authority of someone who owned every surface in the flat, had nestled himself directly between them, a warm, furry barrier, tail twitching against her knee.

They hadn’t meant to sleep.

But the telly was quiet, and her head had tilted onto Max’s shoulder at some point, and when she blinked awake at three in the morning, the world was dark, and Max was still there, breathing slow and even beside her.

Neither of them moved.

Not until the next morning, when she woke to find Jimmy sitting on her hip like some triumphant gremlin king and Max already in the kitchen, clattering about with suspicious urgency.

Her birthday arrived grey and drizzly, the kind of typical early spring morning where the light couldn’t decide what it was doing.

She padded into the kitchen in her pyjamas, hair rumpled, blinking blearily at the smell of toast and something distinctly sugary in the air.

Max was by the counter, back turned.

“Morning,” she mumbled, rubbing one eye.

He glanced over his shoulder, slightly sheepish.

“Happy birthday.”

She froze. “Wait. Did you—?”

He stepped aside.

There, on the kitchen table, sat a birthday cake.

Well. Two, technically.

One clearly shop-bought, neat icing, little sugar flowers, a ribbon round the base.

The other was less successful.

Lopsided, slightly sunken, icing already starting to slip down one side. A single candle jammed into the middle, tilting at an alarming angle.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “You didn’t.”

Max folded his arms. “Don’t look in the bin.”

She laughed, really laughed, that open, surprised kind that bubbled out of her chest.

“Was it that bad?”

“Looked like a victorian crime scene by the end,” he said, deadpan. “Flour everywhere. Jimmy fled.”

She reached for the shop cake instinctively, then paused.

“I kind of want to try yours.”

He looked horrified. “Don’t. You’ve got so much to live for.”

She grinned, grabbing a fork. “It’s my birthday. I’ll risk death.”

After a heroic effort of politeness and three mouthfuls of dry sponge, she gave in and set the fork down, laughing as she reached for the proper cake.

Max, still pretending not to be slightly proud of his culinary chaos, handed her a box.

“Before you accuse me of being sentimental,” he said, “this was Jimmy’s idea.”

She opened it.

Inside was a mug. Big. White. With you’re brew-tiful printed in bold, terrible lettering above a smiling teabag.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “This is horrendous.”

He looked smug. “Thank you.”

She clutched it to her chest. “I love it.”

“Thought you might.”

But then he reached into his pocket, suddenly quieter, and pulled out something small, neatly wrapped in brown paper with a red ribbon tied round it.

“This one’s less awful.”

She blinked. “There’s more?”

He shrugged. “S’pose twenty-one’s a proper one. Thought you deserved something that didn’t come from the bargain mug aisle.”

She unwrapped it slowly.

Inside was a delicate silver chain, fine and simple, with a tiny engraved pendant, a moon on one side, her initial on the back.

She didn’t speak.

Not straight away.

When she looked up, her eyes were shining. Not crying. Not really. But close enough.

“No one’s ever done this for me,” she said, voice quiet.

He stepped forward, hand brushing her cheek. “You deserve more than this.”

She looked at him and something in her chest cracked wide open.

Then she kissed him.

Soft. Properly. No hesitation. No build-up.

Just something full and warm and real.

He kissed her back instantly, hands finding her waist, drawing her in. No overthinking this time. No rules. Just them.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

She smiled, fingertips brushing his jaw. “Best one I’ve ever had.”

After her birthday, something shifted, but not in a loud, dramatic way.

It was gentler than that. Quieter. Like slipping into clean sheets after a long day. Familiar, and lovely, and soft at the edges.

They didn’t have a conversation about it. No sit-down, no labels, no awkward what are we now moment.

They just were.

Some mornings she woke to find him already dressed, coffee in one hand, his other trailing lightly down her back as she stirred. Other mornings, it was her brushing the hair off his forehead while he snored into the pillow, one leg hanging off the bed like he’d lost a fight in his sleep.

They went food shopping together on Sundays, her with a list, Max pretending they didn’t need one.

“We’ve got pasta,” he’d say.

“You’ve always got pasta.”

“That’s preparation. It’s not my fault I’m efficient.”

She’d roll her eyes and chuck a bag of spinach into the trolley, only for him to sneak in a multipack of crisps when she wasn’t looking. Jimmy once tried to climb into the shopping bag when they got home and got stuck in a packet of brioche rolls in hopes there were treats there.

At work, they were still careful. Sort of. But people noticed.

She made him packed lunches, proper ones. Left notes on napkins, little drawings of cats and reminders to eat the fruit. He acted like it was embarrassing. Always finished everything, though. She caught GP smirking once, and just raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t start,” she warned, a phrase she kept for Jimmy and GP only.

“Didn’t say a word,” he replied, smug.

Sometimes, Max would come up behind her in the kitchen, no fanfare, just a warm hand on her hip, a kiss pressed to the curve of her shoulder like it was second nature. And it was.

She started leaving things in his room. He started stealing her shampoo. They bickered over the thermostat. Shared tea in bed on Sundays. Found themselves existing together in the kind of easy silence that spoke more than words.

Their official hard lunch was at the end-of-year service gala and it was a bit of a production.

Not black tie, but close enough to make Max grumble when he realised he’d need to iron a shirt. She caught him halfway through, sleeves rolled, top button undone, looking unfairly good and pretending not to notice.

She spent longer than she wanted picking a dress. Nothing too much, just something that felt nice. Her hair refused to behave, Jimmy tried to eat her mascara wand, and Max, to his credit, didn’t rush her once.

When she finally emerged, he actually froze.

His mouth opened like he was going to say something clever, then closed again.

“You alright there?” she asked, smirking.

“Yeah,” he managed. “You, uh. You look incredible.”

She smiled. “So do you.”

He offered her his arm like a gentleman. “Come on then. Let’s go drink prosecco out of plastic and make polite conversation with people I avoid during the week.”

The venue was buzzing by the time they arrived, a function room done up in serviceable navy and gold, clusters of uniforms dotted around high tables, the occasional gleam of medals. The kind of affair with a cheap bar, a decent buffet, and an overenthusiastic DJ on standby.

She stuck close to Max as they wove through the crowd. He greeted a few people with polite nods, muttered “don’t ask” to someone from traffic enforcement, and made a direct line for the drinks table.

He handed her a glass of fizz with a lopsided smile. “Alright so far?”

She nodded. “Still standing. You?”

“Just about.”

Then someone called out from across the room.

“Oi! Verstappen! Thought you weren’t showing!”

Max turned, already smiling, the proper kind. Soft and real.

Two men approached, one in a dark suit with the top button undone, the other in a tailored jacket and expression that said I’ve got my eye on you, even while smiling.

“Gentlemen,” Max greeted them, nodding. “Didn’t think I’d find you vertical past eight.”

“Rude,” said the man in the suit, grinning. “This your better half, then?”

Max turned slightly, hand resting lightly on her back.

“This is, yeah” He paused, just a beat. “She’s with me.”

The man stuck out a hand. “Lando. Fire service. He hates us.”

“Not all of you,” Max muttered.

The other one leaned in, charming as anything. “Oscar. Also fire. Don’t hold it against us.”

She shook both hands, surprised by how easy it felt.

“So,” Lando said, glancing at Max with raised brows, “you’ve managed to not scare this one off?”

“Not yet,” she said, dry.

Lando smirked. “You might be alright.”

They chatted a while, light stuff, easy, Oscar talking about some botched catering order at their station, Lando teasing Max about the time he once fell asleep in the back of a van during academy.

And through it all, Max stayed close.

Not possessive. Just present.

When someone called the fire lads over to the buffet queue, Lando saluted with mock solemnity.

“Pleasure meeting you. If he gets weird and quiet later, it’s because someone mentioned budget reviews. He’ll recover.”

Once they were gone, she turned to Max. “They’re nice.”

He gave her a look. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I can see why you like them.”

He shrugged, a bit bashful. “They’re alright.”

She bumped his arm lightly. “You proud of yourself?”

He gave her a soft smile. “Yeah. Bit.”

The night droned on and thankfully the speeches were mercifully short.

A few awards handed out, a couple of polite laughs, someone from HR choking up halfway through a thank-you. Then the music shifted, something slower, older, the kind of song you’d recognise if you’d ever grown up hearing it from a kitchen radio.

She looked up from her glass and found Max already watching her.

“What?” she asked, smiling.

He didn’t answer. Just extended a hand.

“Dance with me?”

She blinked. “You don’t dance.”

“I make exceptions.”

She let him lead her to the edge of the makeshift floor, where a handful of couples were already swaying gently, some more tipsy than romantic. The lights had softened; the music curled around the room like a warm duvet.

Max rested one hand low on her back, the other catching her hand, fingers slotting between hers like they belonged there. No fancy footwork. Just the two of them, slow and quiet, bodies close enough to hush the world.

He leaned in slightly. “You alright?”

She nodded, pressing her cheek lightly to his shoulder. “More than.”

His hand moved, sliding up to rest against her neck, thumb brushing just beneath her jaw.

And then, right there, in the middle of everyone, he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not cautious. Just real. Solid. Like something he’d meant to do for a long time and finally had the nerve to finish.

A few people glanced over. Lando nudged Oscar. Someone let out a very unsubtle “finally” from the bar.

She smiled against his mouth. “Bit bold, Verstappen.”

He smirked. “Bit late for subtle.”

Back at the flat, it was quiet again, the kind of late-night hush that wrapped round your shoulders like a cardigan.

She kicked off her heels by the door with a groan. “I’m never wearing those again.”

“Want a brew?” he asked, slipping off his jacket.

She shook her head. “Come help with the zip.”

He followed her into the bedroom, fingertips light as he tugged the fastening down, slow, careful, like the fabric might bruise. She let the straps fall from her shoulders, the dress pooling at her feet as she stepped out and reached for her pyjamas.

But then his hand found her waist.

Still soft. Still careful.

He kissed her shoulder, warm, open-mouthed, right where her skin met the curve of her neck, and her breath caught.

She turned, and he was already there, mouth meeting hers with more heat than either of them meant, hands sliding over her back like he was trying to learn it by feel.

She kissed him back, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt.

It didn’t go further than that.

But his hands stayed on her waist when they stopped, his forehead rested gently against hers, and when she whispered, “Stay?” he didn’t even nod.

He just reached for the duvet, pulled it round them both, and held her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

The years folded in quietly, without fanfare but full of little milestones.

Max met her mother one damp autumn afternoon, the kind where the sky refuses to clear and the scent of wet leaves clings to your coat. It was awkward at first, polite smiles and cautious conversation, but by the end of the visit, her mum had accepted him with a nod that said, I like him. That was all Max needed.

They moved out of the cramped flat not long after. The place had served its purpose, but it felt right to leave it behind, to find somewhere that felt like theirs.

The house was modest, just around the corner from the station, nestled on a quiet street where the noise of the city softened to a gentle hum. It had two floors, a small garden they barely kept tidy, and, best of all, a study where she could work from home a few days a week. Max sometimes teased her about turning the place into a number cave, but he’d settle into the living room with a book or just his thoughts, content.

They got Sassy a bengal kitten not long after she’d started working from home, a wild splash of grey and black spots that darted around the garden chasing shadows. Jimmy, ever the grumpy old king, had at first regarded Sassy with thinly veiled disdain, but even he softened as the weeks went by, especially when she’d settle in Max’s lap, purring loud enough to drown out the news on TV.

They didn’t rush anything. No grand declarations, no shiny rings flashing in the light, just slow mornings with shared mugs of tea, soft banter across the kitchen table, and the quiet certainty of someone always being there.

They’d cook together, usually something simple and quick, a stew or pasta, but the way Max would peel the vegetables while she chopped herbs made the ordinary feel special.

Some nights they’d fall asleep tangled up, her head on his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat lulling her. Other nights she’d wake first and watch him, marvel at how someone who’d seemed so guarded could become her home.

Work days were often rushed, rushing to get ready, grabbing breakfast on the run, getting to the car first or walking to the station together. She liked how it felt, the rhythm of their mornings syncing without effort.

Birthdays came and went, each one marked not by big gestures, but by shared mornings and lazy evenings, takeaway boxes on the sofa, candles only lit because one of them remembered.

When she turned twenty-three, the air was just beginning to change, that first hint of spring stretching into the afternoons. They were in the park near the house, one they always walked through when Max was off-shift and she wanted to stretch her legs after a long day at her desk.

He stopped beneath a tree that was just beginning to bloom, fingers brushing nervously against the inside of his coat pocket. She was mid-story, something about a spreadsheet disaster and too many biscuits, when he dropped down on one knee.

She’d blinked at him. “Max. What are you—?”

And then she saw the ring.

Simple. Silver. Unfussy. Just like him.

“Bloody hell,” she whispered.

He gave her a soft look, that lopsided, uncertain smile she’d fallen for ages ago. “Don’t panic. I’m not expecting fireworks. But if you’ll have me I’d like to make this a bit more official.”

She stared for a beat, heart hammering.

“You didn’t need to get on your knee, old man,” she teased, even as her voice caught. “You’ll do your back in.”

He laughed, breathless and relieved. “Bit late for that.”

She didn’t cry. Not properly. But she said yes, and kissed him like it meant something big, because it did. And when they walked home, hands laced, the whole world felt settled somehow.

Two years later, curled up on the sofa on an ordinary Tuesday night, she’d said it, offhand, like it had only just crossed her mind.

“I think I’d like a kid. Not mine, though. Just someone. You know.”

Max had looked up from his book. Quiet, thoughtful.

Then, “Yeah. I think about that too. Not a baby. But maybe someone who’s had it rough. Someone who needs a place.”

They didn’t say much else about it that night, but something had shifted between them, a thread laid down gently.

A few months later, it happened. A boy, quiet, with wary eyes and shoes that didn’t quite fit. From the same estate Max had grown up on. Same school, even.

Max saw himself in the boy before anyone else did.

They didn’t talk about fate. That wasn’t their style. But when they brought him home and showed him the freshly painted room where the study used to be, she noticed Max pause in the doorway, saw the way his jaw tensed, the way his eyes softened.

The boy didn’t say much, but he let their older Bengal sit on his lap that first night. That felt like enough.

Life settled into new shapes. School runs and packed lunches. Late-night whispers under duvet covers. Burnt toast and forgotten PE kits. Laughter, low and real. They were a family now, not by blood but by choice, and that, in every way, felt more honest.

They still had the mugs from their old flat, mismatched and chipped. Jimmy and Sassy still ruled the house, often found curled together in the warm patch beneath the living room window. Max still left his boots by the door and she still grumbled about it every single time. Nothing perfect. Everything real.

And in the quiet moments, when the house was still, when the rain tapped soft against the windows and the cats dozed in warm corners, she’d look across at Max, the man who’d once offered her a chance and ended up offering her a whole life, and she’d feel it down to her bones: the peace of being truly seen, truly chosen. Not for what she could prove or pretend to be, but just as she was. And as he reached for her hand without looking, like he always did, she knew, this was the kind of love people didn’t always get. Not loud or perfect or shiny. But steady. Built in quiet kitchens and long drives and shared jokes. Built in the softest, bravest ways. The kind that stayed.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

“Why are there so many PopTarts on this list?” he muttered as he went to the cereal aisle and put them in the cart. To be fair, he hadn’t realized there were so many flavors, and he knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it if he didn’t get the right ones.

He snorted when he saw that deodorant was next on the list, immediately clocking John’s handwriting. “That’s not food, so I’m not getting it.” Yeah, it was petty of him, since he could technically buy non-edible products at the grocery store. Maybe he was still annoyed by John's comment about your ass. You had a stunning ass, capable of leaving people in awe. That didn't mean he wanted the junior varsity Captain America to ogle it.

Haha my guess is Alexei put it on the list 😅

I think Bucky should not get it and then gaslight and tell John that he stinks and should use deodorant haha

While Bucky had a tendency to get John the generic brand of foods, he did take dietary needs and favorite foods seriously. There was a particular brand of hot sauce that Yelena preferred, and he made sure to get the largest bottle possible.

She deserves it 👏🏻

He made sure to get different types of fries as well, as there was an ongoing debate about whether regular, crinkle, or curly cut fries were the best. John almost flipped the table, but the argument died down when Bucky said he’d always share his fries with you. Ava said that was love. She was right.

So true 😌🥰

The thought of you softened his demeanor, and it softened even further when he saw your handwriting. “Chocolate, please, and thank you. You’re the best!” He traced the letters with his fingers and smiled. If he had the money, he’d buy you an entire chocolate shop. Because he didn't, he made sure to grab more than enough, anticipating that Alexei might try to steal some. He grabbed some flowers for you, too, because you deserved them.

Oh he is so smitten for her 🥰🥹

As he checked out, he balanced the reusable bags Bob insisted on using and tried not to sneer at the total.

Bob 🤝🏻 me

Our love for reusable bags

What he did not expect to see when he got to your car was a white ball of fur curled up on the hood. “What the hell?” he muttered.

Ahhh what an entrance for Alpine 👏🏻

Putting his hands on his hips, he stared at the animal until it lifted its head. A pair of crystal blue eyes stared back at him, unafraid and not at all bothered. He had to smile because it strangely reminded him of you, unwavering and always willing to look right at him. “Hey there,” he said, tentatively holding a hand out. He didn’t want to spook the cat. “You lost? You're not hurt, are you?”

I can so vividly imagine Bucky's stance staring at the cat haha

“Yeah, you're cute, but here’s the thing,” he said, shaking his head at himself since he was talking to a cat. “I can’t drive with you on the hood, so…” As if the cat understood him, it stood up and stretched. He panicked for a moment when he thought it would scratch the paint, but there wasn’t a single mark from the claws. And instead of jumping onto the street like he expected, the cat silently walked right to him and stared into his eyes again.

Instant connection and understanding between them 🥰

“Since you don't have a collar and I don't see anyone searching for you, I can take you to a shelter,” he suggested. The second the words left his mouth he knew it wasn't happening, and there was another meow, softer and sadder that had his walls crumbling.

She's like: oh boy have I something to say about that haha

“I have crazy roommates,” he continued. The team was in a good place, but it didn't take away that they were an entire range of crazy. How could he throw a cat into the mix? “And what would my girl say?”

They already have a crazy mix, a cat wouldn't even make that big of a difference 🤷🏻‍♀️😅

Oh he sure has 🙂‍↕️

But the cat didn’t budge, content being in Bucky’s arms. He found that he was content, too. Had he become a cat person in a matter of seconds? Just like when he met you, he was fucked. He breathed out. At least you didn't sound upset. “Well. Um, hang on.”

He pulled up the camera and snapped the best photo he could. After sending it to you, he didn't put his phone back up to his ear right away, knowing you were about to shriek. You were usually considerate with his enhanced hearing, but this was a very cute cat.

Fair

“If she has an owner, we’ll fight them,” you said like it was no big deal. 

That's the spirit!

Bucky's heart picked up when you said “we” because it was a reminder that he had someone by his side. “Yeah, I think we are.”

🥹🥹🥹

“Yes! It’s about time we got a pet,” you said, careful to not shout this time. “And cats choose their people. You know that right?”

Facts

“I know so. She was sitting on the hood of my car in a parking lot, and I think she wanted you to find her. And judging from the photo you sent, she looks right at home curled up against you,” you said. He wondered if that would've been the case had he been on his bike. Would the outcome be the same? “I’ll bet you two are kindred spirits.” “Just like us,” he said. Pieces that just fit together. 

🥰🥰🥰

“I think you’ll like the gang, too. They’re…” Bucky tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “They’re something.”

They sure are something 😅

Before he could stop himself, he said, “I know what it's like to be lost, but I’ll take care of you from now on, okay?” She lifted her head and stared with knowing eyes before he pet her head. Satisfied when she meowed, he smiled and started up the car. “Let’s go home.”

🥹🥹🥹

A Kindred Spirit

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky meets a kindred spirit while he's grocery shopping.

Word Count: Over 2.2k

Warnings: Alpine the cat (is that a warning?), established relationship, humor, sweetness, fluff, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: More Tower Shenanigans. @buckybarnesfic, this is for you! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was Bucky’s turn to go grocery shopping, which he enjoyed and loathed. It was nice being able to pick out his own food, but he had to bite back a retort every time someone left their cart in the middle of the aisle or took a little too long when they stood in front of a shelf. He should’ve asked you to join him, but he was already out running another errand and didn’t want to bother you. If you were there with him, you would’ve giggled when he grumbled at the list. You would have also agreed with him when he complained about the high cost of food, wondering why everything was so expensive. It was insane.

Walking through the store, he kept an ear open while trying not to draw attention to himself. It was an old habit from when he was on the run. He willed his shoulders to react, but instead, he glared up at the fluorescent light, his hand twitching with the desire to hold yours. He enjoyed holding your hand, which grounded him, and loved how your heart skipped a beat whenever he kissed it.

The sooner he finished shopping, the sooner he’d get back to the tower and you.

“Why are there so many PopTarts on this list?” he muttered as he went to the cereal aisle and put them in the cart. To be fair, he hadn’t realized there were so many flavors, and he knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it if he didn’t get the right ones.

He snorted when he saw that deodorant was next on the list, immediately clocking John’s handwriting. “That’s not food, so I’m not getting it.” Yeah, it was petty of him, since he could technically buy non-edible products at the grocery store. Maybe he was still annoyed by John's comment about your ass. You had a stunning ass, capable of leaving people in awe. That didn't mean he wanted the junior varsity Captain America to ogle it.

While Bucky had a tendency to get John the generic brand of foods, he did take dietary needs and favorite foods seriously. There was a particular brand of hot sauce that Yelena preferred, and he made sure to get the largest bottle possible. He made sure to get different types of fries as well, as there was an ongoing debate about whether regular, crinkle, or curly cut fries were the best. John almost flipped the table, but the argument died down when Bucky said he’d always share his fries with you. Ava said that was love.

She was right.

The thought of you softened his demeanor, and it softened even further when he saw your handwriting. “Chocolate, please, and thank you. You’re the best!” He traced the letters with his fingers and smiled. If he had the money, he’d buy you an entire chocolate shop. Because he didn't, he made sure to grab more than enough, anticipating that Alexei might try to steal some.

Thinking it over, he grabbed one more bar. “Just in case,” he whispered.

He grabbed some flowers for you, too, because you deserved them.

As he checked out, he balanced the reusable bags Bob insisted on using and tried not to sneer at the total. It wasn’t the worst shopping trip. He finished up a lot quicker than he expected. Maybe the two of you could go for a ride on his bike once everything was unpacked.

He managed to take your keys out of his pocket without dropping any of the bags, smiling again. Using your car was easier for shopping trips and he liked that it smelled like you. He was also one of the only people you trusted to drive your vehicle, which he prided himself on.

What he did not expect to see when he got to your car was a white ball of fur curled up on the hood. “What the hell?” he muttered.

His eyes flickered around the parking lot, and he listened for anyone calling out for a cat. The cat had no collar, and he had no clue if it had a name, but that didn’t mean it didn’t belong to someone. He liked to think someone would be in distress if their pet was missing, but he didn't hear or see anyone come out to claim it. It didn’t move either when he put the bags in the trunk and placed the flowers in the passenger seat.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

Putting his hands on his hips, he stared at the animal until it lifted its head. A pair of crystal blue eyes stared back at him, unafraid and not at all bothered. He had to smile because it strangely reminded him of you, unwavering and always willing to look right at him. “Hey there,” he said, tentatively holding a hand out. He didn’t want to spook the cat. “You lost? You're not hurt, are you?”

The cat’s fur was surprisingly pristine, but that didn't mean it wasn't in pain or sick. After sniffing Bucky’s hand, it meowed and bumped its head against his hand, making his heart melt. The fur was so soft, and he swore he heard a purr. It was adorable.

“Yeah, you're cute, but here’s the thing,” he said, shaking his head at himself since he was talking to a cat. “I can’t drive with you on the hood, so…”

As if the cat understood him, it stood up and stretched. He panicked for a moment when he thought it would scratch the paint, but there wasn’t a single mark from the claws. And instead of jumping onto the street like he expected, the cat silently walked right to him and stared into his eyes again.

An agile and stealthy little thing.

“...What?” he asked as they stared at each other down.

With a gentle meow, the white ball of fur placed its front paws on his chest and crawled into his arms. He stood perfectly still, wondering what he looked like at that moment; an imposing man in a leather jacket holding a bright white ball of fluff. It had to be a sight.

“Since you don't have a collar and I don't see anyone searching for you, I can take you to a shelter,” he suggested. The second the words left his mouth he knew it wasn't happening, and there was another meow, softer and sadder that had his walls crumbling.

“Listen, you really are cute, but I can’t just take you home.” He stopped with a huff. “I’ve never had a cat before. I wouldn't know what to do with you.”

The response was to further burrow itself in his arms. 

“I have crazy roommates,” he continued. The team was in a good place, but it didn't take away that they were an entire range of crazy. How could he throw a cat into the mix? “And what would my girl say?”

He just knew the idea of a pet would thrill you, especially since the cat was so cute. Though he couldn't just spring that on you, could he? And could he spring that on the team? It was their home, too. 

But the cat didn’t budge, content being in Bucky’s arms. He found that he was content, too. Had he become a cat person in a matter of seconds?

Just like when he met you, he was fucked. 

“Okay, here’s the thing,” he said, balancing the light creature in one arm as he took his phone out to call you. “I have to clear this with my girl, and when she approves because she will, we need to make sure you aren’t chipped or anything, okay?”

Looking at the feline, he had a feeling there was no chip, that there was no home or a family. He wondered if there was a reason she chose to lay on the car he drove today. Was it looking for its own family? A place to fit in? Wasn’t that what everyone wanted?

He could give it that.

“Is everything okay?” He could hear you moving around, likely heading to the door. “Do you need me to meet you?” 

“Hey.” He let out a happy sigh at the sound of your voice. “You still at the store?”

“Sort of,” he replied, chuckling as the feline curled up more. He wasn’t even sure if it was a girl or a boy. “That’s actually why I’m calling.”

“I’m good, thanks,” he promised, touched that you were ready to go to him. “Have I mentioned you're the best?”

Nothing like buttering up his girl before mentioning the cat. 

“You are the best. I wrote it on the list,” you said. He could hear you smiling. “But why are you trying to butter me up?”

Of course, you knew what he was up to. “Because we may need to make another shopping trip for some cat stuff,” he replied, holding his breath.

You paused on the other end. “Cat stuff? Why would we need to buy cat stuff?” you asked, gasping. “Bucky, did you get a cat?!”

He breathed out. At least you didn't sound upset. “Well. Um, hang on.” He pulled up the camera and snapped the best photo he could. After sending it to you, he didn't put his phone back up to his ear right away, knowing you were about to shriek. You were usually considerate with his enhanced hearing, but this was a very cute cat.

“Oh, my GOD!” The cat tilted its head when your voice rang out through the speaker, but didn't seem unphased otherwise. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

“It’s okay. You-”

“But that is the cutest fucking cat I’ve ever seen in my life,” you continued, making him chuckle. “Where did you find her?! Did you adopt her?!”

He chuckled again at your enthusiasm. “Before we do any of that, we need to make sure she isn’t chipped,” he said, trying not to feel guilty for not doing that before calling and getting your hopes up. And what about her shots? Were those up to date?

Bucky held her closer. “I found her on the hood of the car when I came out of the store, and why do you assume it’s a girl?” 

“That beauty is a girl. I just know,” you said with complete confidence. “Okay, we need a collar, bowls, food, a litter box, a scratching post… Ooh, a little helmet so she can go on rides with you!” That did sound adorable. “Hang on. I need to make a list.” 

“If she has an owner, we’ll fight them,” you said like it was no big deal. 

Mischievous blue eyes gazed up at Bucky, and he laughed all over again. “That’s my girl,” he fondly said. “And I think she heard you and agrees.”

“So, assuming all is well, we're keeping her?” you asked, trying to sound casual but he heard your hopefulness.

Bucky's heart picked up when you said “we” because it was a reminder that he had someone by his side. “Yeah, I think we are.”

“Yes! It’s about time we got a pet,” you said, careful to not shout this time. “And cats choose their people. You know that right?”

“You think so?” he asked. 

“I know so. She was sitting on the hood of my car in a parking lot, and I think she wanted you to find her. And judging from the photo you sent, she looks right at home curled up against you,” you said. He wondered if that would've been the case had he been on his bike. Would the outcome be the same? “I’ll bet you two are kindred spirits.”

“Just like us,” he said. Pieces that just fit together. 

Your happy sigh made him smile. “Just like us,” you agreed. 

“Let me bring her by so I can drop off the food, and then we’ll take care of everything.” 

“Ten bucks says she hisses at John and adores Bob,” you teased. You were probably right. “I can’t wait to see you!” 

“I can't wait either,” he said, glancing down when he heard the soft meow. 

“I was clearly talking to her when I said I can’t wait to see you.” You giggled when Bucky growled. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Drive safe.”

“I will.” He exhaled once you hung up. “Well, that went well.” He helped the cat into the car and placed her next to the flowers. “You’ll love my girl. She’s the best.”

The beautiful feline meowed and curled up on the seat. He realized he’d have to come up with a name for her. Something special for such a beautiful cat, something that fits well. He had a feeling that the right name would come to him by the end of the day, or that you would help him if he got stuck.

“I think you’ll like the gang, too. They’re…” Bucky tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “They’re something.”

The team had been lost in many ways before becoming their own crazy sort of family.

Before he could stop himself, he said, “I know what it's like to be lost, but I’ll take care of you from now on, okay?” She lifted her head and stared with knowing eyes before he pet her head. Satisfied when she meowed, he smiled and started up the car. “Let’s go home.”

Had to bring Alpine in, okay? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[camerahaterlittle]

Our girl | A. Putellas I. Engen & M. Leon

Summary: You may be Alexia's daughter but your Mapi and Ingrid's girl

Warnings: bad writing grammar and Mapi is apart of this if you don't like that then leave mentions of pain and more from a car crash

Notes: apparently I wrote 2k words yet it doesn't feel or look like it anyways once again an incredibly short fic but enjoy

Previous part

You hadn't noticed the car that was driving at you while you crossed the street because of the heavy rainfall and the darkness of the night but the moment you had noticed the car and the person driving noticed you it was far too late.

You couldn't move out of the way you were frozen and the driver slammed on the brakes yet it still wasn't enough due to the slippery roads the car still rammed into you.

Your scream echoed throughout the street and you felt pain coming from everywhere possible. You heard a car door opening and then shutting. After a minute of you laying there you heard the person's rapid Spanish as they called the police trying to get them out here.

You laid there motionless, your heart racing as the woman you soon noticed was the person who hit you and tried to keep you awake like the dispatcher had told her to.

Eventually when the ambulance got there they immediately rushed to grab you and put you on the stretcher and into the back of their truck as they put an oxygen mask over your nose and mouth.

And in this moment, all that was running through your head before you lost consciousness was Mapi and Ingrid, the two people who really cared for you and loved you without any expectations.

At the hospital, you underwent multiple surgeries on your legs and shoulder from when you crumbled to the floor after being hit by the car.

Alexia rushed into the hospital running up to the front desk trying to catch her breath before speaking to the front desk associate. “My daughter Y/n Y/n Putellas where is she? Is she okay?.” Alexia asked, rushing through her words much like how she rushed inside the hospital.

The front desk associate looked up at Alexia quickly looking up your name in the system seeing that you were currently in surgery and couldn’t be seen by anyone at the moment. “Your daughter is currently in surgery Ms. Putellas you cannot see her, you'll have to wait until she’s out of surgery and possibly more after that her doctor will let you know when it’s safe.” 

The midfielder sighed, shaking her head at the man’s words, not pleased to hear that she wouldn’t be able to see her kid before walking away from the front desk starting to pace in the waiting room, her mind racing about what could possibly happen to you while you were in surgery.

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

Alexia sat in the uncomfortable hospital chair, her leg bouncing while she picked at her fingers her head lifted immediately when she heard a doctor clearing their throat to get the people’s attention. “Y/n Putellas.” The doctor glanced around the room watching as Alexia rushed up and out of the chair and towards her. 

“Yes, is she okay, I'm her mother.” The Spaniard said looking down at the doctor hoping she’d have some good news about how you were doing.

The doctor nodded looking down at her clipboard for a second trying to figure out how she’d break this to Alexia about how you fully were. “Yes, she's stable right now. She just had to have emergency surgery on her legs, shoulder, and her ribs are bruised. I’m surprised that’s all she needed really given the speed she was hit at.” Your doctor responded. 

Alexia stood there in shock at the doctor's words, unsure of what to say after that. “C… Can I see her?” Alexia asked after a moment of standing there, her voice surprisingly quiet and weak sounding for once. 

The woman sighed thinking about Alexia’s question before shaking her head. She knew it wouldn’t be the best for the taller women to see her daughter at the moment since you looked pretty banged up. “I’m sorry Ms. Putellas but you can’t see her right now. I think you should come back tomorrow if you really want to see her.” Your doctor responded slightly scared to hear Alexia’s response to this. 

The Spanish star rubbed her face trying to control her emotions. She finally moved, shaking her head as she left the hospital not trusting herself to drive when she was so upset over everything that has happened in the last couple of hours so she just waved down a cab getting inside giving the man her address.

By the time Alexia got home it was well into the night and she immediately fell onto the couch, her eyes shutting as she finally got some much needed rest yet her sleep wasn't the most peaceful in the world. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Alexia was rudely woken up by rapid knocks on her door while also hearing muffled curse words in both Norwegian and Spanish she got up off the couch after a moment yawning already knowing who to expect on the other side of the door she opened the door she went to run a hand through her hair yet was stopped by the slightly taller Norwegian shoving her backwards Mapi immediately moving past both of them to try and find you. 

Ingrid looked at Alexia with a coldest glare that the midfielder has ever seen come from her. Alexia was over surprised that it was Ingrid giving her the glare instead of Mapi yet didn’t voice what she thought. “Where the hell is she, Putellas.” Ingrid spoke her tone filled with venom the moment she said Putellas. 

Alexia was once again taken aback by Ingrid’s harshness yet she also expected it based on the way Ingrid reacted during your fight when she had unexpectedly showed up to admittedly to maybe start a fight with you for almost no reason. “It’s none of your business where Y/n is, it's not like you two are her mother's, she is my daughter.” Your mother responded with her tone matching ingrid’s. 

The slightly taller woman’s anger grew as she listened to her teammates words she wants to say that she’s not really your mother given the fact that Alexia was never there for you to give you the love and care a real mother would have (much like her and Mapi have done ever since you guys have met). 

“You're not her mother and you never have been, you just birthed her and didn’t care about what happened to her afterwards.

Me and Mapi have been taking care of her ever since we have met her. She is more of our daughter than yours. Sometimes blood doesn’t always make DNA now tell us where our kid is.” Ingrid said her expression grew colder the longer Alexia didn’t tell her where you were. 

Alexia’s gaze hardened for a moment knowing the Norwegian had a very good point but before she could respond Mapi came out of your room breathing heavily after searching Alexia’s entire apartment. “She’s not here, I've looked everywhere possible.” Mapi said moving to stand next to Ingrid slightly confused as to why her girlfriend was glaring at Alexia like she was. 

The Spanish star turned her attention towards her ex best friend knowing she’d now for sure have to tell the couple where you currently were. “Y-Y/n she’s in the hospital.” Alexia finally said, looking away from the both of them. 

Without another word the couple left Alexia’s place going to try and figure out what hospital you were in. They were incredibly worried about you and what could’ve possibly happened to you for you to be in the hospital. 

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

Ingrid and Mapi rushed inside the hospital and up to the front desk making the worker look up at them, stopping his keyboard typing. “Hi yes are you here to visit someone or do you need to be seen.” The front desk worker spoke looking from them to his screen. 

“We’re here to see Y/n Putellas.” Mapi said speaking before Ingrid even could and Ingrid was glad for that since she wasn’t even sure that words would even leave her mouth. 

The man at the desk nodded looking something up on his computer before looking back up at the couple in front of him. “Who are you to the patient?” The guy asked, clearly tired of working. 

This time it was Ingrid who answered rushing through her words “We’re her mother’s.” Her Norwegian accent more apparent than normal. 

He pulled out two stickers for them while telling them your room number before letting them pass, not bothering to check them for ID just deciding to let them go, figuring that they were too worried to sit here and wait any longer.

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

Mapi pushed open the door immediately once they got there they both entered the room seeing you laying on the bed hooked up to multiple machines that were filling the room with a somewhat quiet beeping noise. 

They both ahd to hold back their tears seeing you laying there pretty much life less affected them more than anything possible Ingrid made her way over to you sitting down on the edge of the bed gently grabbing your hand wondering how this could’ve happened to their kid. 

Mapi stood in the doorway for a moment watching her girlfriend before closing the door sitting down in the chair near the midfielder placing her hand on the Norwegian’s thigh trying to comfort her in this difficult moment. 

They didn’t say anything for a while yet along with the beeping filling the room so did their sniffles from crying while they stayed by your side wishing they would’ve never let you leave their place just to talk to Alexia. 

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

Mapi was woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of your voice as you got adjusted to the noise around you once more she sat up opening her eyes seeing you looking between her and Mapi. 

“Maps, it hurts really bad.” You said once you noticed that she was awake your voice sounded like you smoked 10 packs a day.

Mapi was up in an instant making her way over to your hospital bed nodding as she grabbed your hand making sure to inflict anymore pain on you. “I know sol I know,” She reached over grabbing the remote looking thing calling a nurse so they could check you out and give you some pain meds.

You glanced around your hospital room trying to see if you could spot Ingrid in the almost pitch black room. “Where’s Ingrid, is she not here?” You asked looking back at the fellow Spaniard hoping the woman’s partner was also here. 

The defender nodded leaving your side for a moment walking over to where Ingrid was sleeping, gently shaking her girlfriend. Once Ingrid fully woke up she sat up listening to Mapi’s words before getting up her and Mapi going to sit on the sides of your bed just like you had wanted.

You were surprised the couple had actually shown up for you since Alexia or anyone in your family besides Jenni showed up when you were hurt in any way that caused you to be in the hospital. They always told you to walk it off or I didn’t know it was thst bad. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and shortly afterwards it opened a doctor and a nurse came in to check on you and make sure everything was still okay with you and to tell Mapi and Ingrid what happened and the surgeries you had.

You were zoned out the whole time they were checking everything out and giving you some more pain meds thinking about everything under the sun as the doctor’s did their thing. 

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

The couple had been distracted by talking to you and making jokes trying to keep your mind off of Alexia, what had just happened, and how you wouldn’t be able to box for quite some time, something that annoyed you since it was your escape from everything. 

But your guy’s conversation was interrupted by your birth giver entering your hospital room, her eyes immediately landing on Mapi and Ingrid who were still by your side. 

Ingrid got up the moment she saw Alexia standing in the doorway of your room she made her way over her teammate the Norwegian’s energy shifting as she glared at the Spaniard your’s and Mapi’s attention shifted the both of you ready to step in (though Mapi would be the only one getting up) if you absolutely needed to. 

“What are you doing here, Putellas?” The slightly taller woman asked her tone unwelcoming to the woman’s presence. 

Alexia’s expression hardened at the fellow midfielder’s glare yet still tried to stand her ground “I could ask you the same Engen she’s not your daughter no matter what you two may think.”

Ingrid tensed up trying her damned hardest to not do anything to the woman in front of her the unsaid anger she felt for what Alexia had done to you waiting to be taken out on her yet before she could say anything your voice stopped her.

“I am their daughter. You may feel guilty for what you’ve done to me but that doesn’t fix any of the cracks you’ve caused. They are my mother’s not you, you've chosen to take the title, just not the responsibility.” You took a moment to breathe and get your emotions under control. 

“They took on the responsibility for me, not you. They showed up from me when I needed them most. You were never too focused on your precious football for me even with them playing. They still made time for me; they never made me feel worse for having mental issues knowing I was only moments away from death.” 

“You made things worse, they made things better, they got me the help I needed, they did everything that you my so called mother was supposed to do and I could never thank them enough for that they actually love me unlike you.” Mapi gently squeezed your hand knowing that you needed this more than anyone in this room.”

“Y/n I-.” Alexia started going to speak now that she thought you were done.

“No, don't even know why you showed up here. I have Mapi and Ingrid. They have me. I'm fine I don't want you here, I don't even want to see you right now.” 

Your actual mom’s were secretly proud of you for stepping up to Alexia not once but twice they were more than happy that you were no longer holding back against your more than childish mother.

Alexia stood there in shock yet she felt the pain since she knew you were right she was never there only taking the title as your mother yet never doing anything a mother should be doing for their child she felt more than guilty for what she had done to you and she didn’t know how to fix it and help the bond between you two yet something deep inside her was telling her there was no way of fixing the bond and everything she put you through.

Alexia stood there for a while longer feeling slightly uncomfortable under all three of you's gazes trying to figure out if she should respect what you want for once in your life or protest on things and attempt to fix things. 

Yet before she could decide Ingrid stepped in much like she has been in the last few days clearing her throat before she spoke. “You heard it live from her yourself she doesn’t want you here so just leave she’ll come to you when she’s ready.” The Norwegian spoke leaving no room for argument. 

The Spanish star nodded after a moment leaving without a fight, her head hung low with her shoulders slumped forward as she left trying to get her head on straight after everything that had just happened. 

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

Alexia pulled into the driveway parking her car as she sat in the seat staring ahead of her, her expression blank not a single emotion showing as she sat there.

She got out the car unlocking the door with her spare key immediately making her way towards the familiar bedroom, opening it seeing the one person that she needed most lying there reading whatever book that Alexia bought her.

Olga looked up watching as her girlfriend climbed into the bed looking quite defeated over things the woman put her book to the side welcoming the football player into her arms not mentioning the tears that started to soak through her shirt. 

Only holding the girl close whispering the softest of things to the woman laying on her chest. 

“Y/n she… she hates me my own daughter hates me.” Alexia whimpered against Olga’s chest, her heart breaking more than it ever could much like Olga’s did when she heard Alexia’s words.

[sinner-as-saint]

our bodies converse like old friends

Bucky Barnes x Reader x John Walker 

Summary: Back home after a long mission, and there’s nothing these two soldiers want more than to just lose themselves in their favourite girl

Themes: threesome, smut, explicit language, bucky x reader, john x reader, praise kink

a/n: hear me out– 

“You’re making eyes at my girl again, Walker?” Bucky strutted into your bedroom lazily, looking like he just got out of the shower. He glared at John in that stern yet playful way he always does. 

“Our girl.” John corrected him and tightened his grip on you, making you giggle and squirm on his lap. “She’s mine too. Besides, I was here first.” 

John earned a dramatic eye roll from Bucky. “She was mine first, before you barged into our lives with your little sob story.” Bucky argued, making his way towards your bed, where you and John had been cuddling. 

“Whatever, Bucky. She likes me more.” John said, leaning in to kiss you on the cheek, extra loudly just to mess with Bucky. 

“Does she now?” Bucky rushed over and pulled you out of his embrace. 

John and Bucky made everything a competition – who’d get to spend more time with you, who’d get to wake you up in the morning, who’d find their way into your bedroom first each night, who’d make you come the hardest… you never complained. And you let the boys be boys. Plus you loved the attention. 

“Hi Buck,” You slid off John’s lap for a quick second, got out of bed and let Bucky pull you into his arms. 

“Hi, babygirl. You missed me?” Bucky asked, kissing your face while also keeping an eye on John who leaned his head back against the mountain of pillows you always kept in your bed. 

You caught the look the boys shared as you answered, “I did. I missed both of you.” 

Bucky spun you around, so you faced John while Bucky still had his arms around you from behind. John looked extra comfy in your large bed, surrounded by your pillows. And he had that smirk on his face – the one that promised lots and lots of trouble for you. The good kind. 

“Did you?” John teased, “‘Cause you were just telling me you had the best sleep ever these past few days. What was it you said?” He pretended to think about it, then answered his own question, “Ah, you said there were no men here to bother you and that you had plenty of alone time to do whatever you wanted.” 

“Wow.” And Bucky being the dramatic man he was, pretended to be hurt. “Is that how it is? We go out and fight to protect people, this city, and you, and this is what we get in return? You being happy when we’re away?” 

“That’s not–,” 

John cut you off, and added, “I’m telling you,” He said to Bucky, “We spoil her too much.” 

Bucky nuzzled your neck, making you shiver as he whispered against your skin, “Is that true, baby? Do we spoil you too much?” 

“No, not enough.” You argued, glaring at John’s pretty face. The betrayer. 

“Oh is that so?” John questioned. 

Bucky chuckled, “Not enough, huh? I don’t know, baby, I’d say you’re the most spoiled little princess ever. Huh, Walker? Don’t you agree?” 

John got out of bed, walked a couple steps and reached you and Bucky. He touched your face, his fingers tracing your features leisurely. “Maybe you need a reminder, huh princess?” 

“Maybe.” You mumbled, looking up into John’s blue eyes. His hair seemed darker because it was still damp. 

Bucky chuckled again. “Reminder it is then.” 

And before you knew it, you were naked between them. Bucky sat in your bed, leaning against the headboard, with his cock in your mouth. While you were in between his legs, ass up in the air with John’s cock buried deep in you from behind. 

“Not complaining about not being spoiled enough now, are you, baby?” John whispered, his large hands grabbing you by the hips so firmly that you were sure he’d leave bruises behind on your skin. 

He always did. 

Bucky had that cocky look on his face, groaning as you took him into your mouth as much as you could. He held your head gently and watched you intently with parted pink lips how you took him so perfectly. “There we go, princess.” He said, “You’re so good at this, aren’t you? Our perfect girl…” 

John was just as focused on your body, his hands keeping you in place as he moved in and out of you, watching how you wrapped around his cock perfectly, your walls inviting him in just how he liked it. “Good fucking girl…” He muttered under his breath. 

“Yeah you’re such a good girl for us, aren’t you?” Bucky cooed. You looked up at him and whimpered, tears falling down your face as your walls clenched around John and he moaned in response. 

Your body moved in between the two men like you were nothing but theirs to play with, all for them to use and you had no problem with that. They were greedy, both of them. Grabbing and touching you everywhere. But they were also gentle, and their touch was familiar and safe. 

“You can do better than that, baby… you can take more, can’t you?” Bucky lifted his hips up gently, he held your head gently and slowly pushed himself deeper into your mouth. You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing through your nose, taking him in until he hit the back of your throat. You felt all of him, his smooth skin, his raw taste, and you couldn’t get enough.

Your fingers clawed at Bucky’s thighs as John pounded into you from behind. He groaned and grunted as he filled you up entirely, your ass cheek slapping into his pelvic bone as he rammed his cock in and out of you incessantly, your wet warmth wrapped around him perfectly. “That feels good, doesn’t it, baby? Being filled like that?” John taunted playfully, “Huh? Do you prefer those lonely nights now?” 

Bucky chuckled, “Can’t even talk, can you? Mouth full of cock… isn’t this a good reminder, baby? You still think you aren’t spoiled enough?” 

Amongst the taunting and the way they used your body and mouth, you felt yourself drifting off to that high again. It was so close… 

Bucky came first, coming undone all over your tongue and watching you swallow all of him, while John sped up into you, chasing his orgasm as well. Gasping and grunting, you loved how vocal he was, compared to Bucky’s more quiet manner. You couldn’t help the way you squeezed and milked him as you felt the familiar pressure forming in between your legs again. 

You were already so desperate and needy, whining even as Bucky finally pulled his cock from your mouth and grabbed you by the chin so you looked up at him. Your whole body shook as John pounded relentlessly into you from behind. Bucky smirked as he looked into your eyes.

“So perfect…” Bucky breathed, looking down at you with nothing but pure desire in his ocean blue eyes. 

“Be a good girl, and come for me, princess…” John spoke, fucking deeper into you. “Come on.” He urged you, his grip on your hips tightening. “That’s it, milk my cock and come, baby… there you go, good fucking girl…” 

Bucky watched intently how your face morphed into a frown of pleasure. “So fucking pretty when you come.” He murmured. 

“It’s like this pussy was made for me,” John grunted, and you felt his cock throb against your walls. You tightened around him, and he groaned and swore under his breath before coming undone, buried deep within you, “Tight little thing, aren’t you?” He mumbled under his breath as he came.

“Fuck…” You swore as you came right after, moaning and trembling between them both. 

Your body tingled, and you felt warm all over and you felt sore because it had been days since you’d had them. At the same time. They could be a lot. Your jaw was sore, as was your sensitive spot in between your legs. You could still feel Bucky’s taste in your mouth while John pulled out and watched his cum drip out of you. 

“Look at that, fucking beautiful,” He murmured, sliding a finger in and fucking his cum back inside you. 

You were panting and whimpering, and about to collapse on your bed but they both held you up.

“Not quite done with you, princess.” Bucky spoke, mischief making his pretty eyes sparkle.

John added, cocky as always, “Did you think that was it?” 

That’s how you found yourself right in between them not even a minute after. Clothes off. John was behind you while Bucky was in front. Bucky gripped your hips and settled your body right in between him and John. You could tell by the look in their blue eyes that they couldn’t wait for both of them to fuck you at the same time.

They always did this. And you always loved every second of it. 

John gave you a quick kiss, his beard scratching your face, before he searched your bedside table to find the lube you guys always kept there. He held the bottle up and smirked at you. “I hope you’re ready, princess.” He teased, biting down on your exposed shoulder. “I won’t be gentle.” He added with a smirk. 

You whimpered, your core throbbing and sore but ready for them at the same time.

Bucky touched your chin to get your attention, before he leaned in for a kiss as well. “Pretty baby,” He murmured, kissing along your cheek till he could whisper right into your ear, “Look at you, so fucking needy, it’s dripping down your thighs, isn’t it?” 

John whispered in your other ear, “So fucking wet, princess. I think we would’ve been okay even without the lube.” He teased. 

Bucky chuckled. 

Your body trembled in between their naked bodies. They were so muscular, strong, and warm. And all yours. It drove you insane. And to think of all that strength, that superhuman power unleashed upon you… your heart raced like crazy in anticipation as you waited for one of them to finally fill you up. 

John went first, he lathered his cock with the lube and toyed with your hole for a bit before he pushed his thick cock slowly into your puckered hole. “Fuck.” He cursed. The lube made it easier for him to fill you up and he had you whimpering and moaning in no time.

Your moans were shameless. 

“You’re okay, princess,” John whispered into your ear, “Just focus on feeling good for me, okay? You can do it.” 

You leaned forward and rested your forehead on Bucky’s shoulder to steady yourself, but before you could catch your breath and adjust to John’s size, Bucky guided his cock over to your folds and pushed himself into you as well.  

They both groaned at how tight you were and slowly started moving in and out of you. 

“You okay, baby?” Bucky asked, once he was fully inside of you. “Deep breaths, you got this.” 

“We got you, angel, don’t worry.” John whispered. "We're right here."

You felt your holes stretching with both of their cocks inside of you and you felt so full that you could barely talk. You gripped his metal arm tightly, and nodded. Trying to accommodate both of them inside you was nothing new, but it always took away your ability to think straight. 

“So fucking tight…” John whispered against the back of your neck. They both had their arms around you, holding you up. 

The two moved in and out of you with a comfortable pace, one you were used to. Your walls clenched equally tight around each of them and the wet sounds your bodies made were sinful enough to make you almost lose your mind.

John bit down on your shoulder, whispering how good you felt while his arm tightened around you and he firmly placed his palm against your abdomen, right above your core. “You’re fucking perfect, baby, you feel that?” He could feel each one of Bucky’s thrust each time Bucky’s thick cock filled you up. 

So did you, moaning at how full you felt. “Oh my god…” You whined. 

Bucky chuckled, “No gods in here, baby. Just us.” 

You were all theirs. 

All you could focus on was their voices, their moans and their body heat as it wrapped around you, comforting you, making up for the time they’ve been away. Making up for the lonely nights you spent without them. 

“Not missing those lonely nights now, are you?” Bucky taunted. 

“You’re doing so, so good…” John reassured you. 

They both moved perfectly against you, your heart beats and breaths in sync. You felt the pressure growing in between your legs again, and you could no longer hold it back anymore. 

You were sensitive and needy. “Please….” You begged. To both of them. 

“Can you hold on a little longer, princess?” John asked. 

“No, no, please… please, can I–,” 

“Shh. It’s okay,” He murmured into your ear, “I know it’s a lot. I know. It feels so good, doesn’t it?” 

“Go ahead then, baby. Come for us,” Bucky finally said. 

That was all you needed. You felt your walls clenching around both of them, and your eyes rolled to the back of your head while you came violently around both of them.

You cried out, actual tears streaming down your face and you whimpered as they kept going even after you came, pounding into you from both sides and chasing their own release. 

“I know, I know,” John kept whispering, his beard rough against your soft skin. “I know you’re sensitive, angel. Just a little longer, I promise. Just a little…” 

“Almost there, baby…” Bucky’s breathy voice murmured. “Almost there…” 

The sounds of the moans and grunts coming from them made your body tingle. 

“That’s it, baby.” Bucky growled. “Missed this fucking pussy.” 

Bucky came with a loud moan. 

John came right after, panting as he filled you up again, then carefully slipped out of you, letting his cum drip down your skin again. Because he loved to watch it, he’d told you once. 

You whimpered when Bucky pulled out of you, you felt his cum oozing out of your folds and dripping down your thighs as well. 

Your body felt heavy and limp, so you just leaned back against John while Bucky kissed your lips roughly. You were sure you would be sore even tomorrow.

John wrapped his arms tightly around you and kissed your temple. He was still catching his breath, all warm and sweaty. “You’ve been such a good girl for us, baby… so proud of you.” he whispered against your skin and kissed the side of your face. “You did so well.” 

Bucky kissed down your neck, lips brushing against damp skin. “You’re always such a good girl, baby. Our spoiled, perfect princess…” 

—

a/n: this would send 2021 me into a coma

[elliesbabygirl]

Synopsis: In a far away modern au...where ellie's a piece of shit to y/n. The girl doesn't know what she wants and she keeps making mistakes on how to figure it out while dragging y/n down.

warnings: Ellie being a piece of shit, emotional & physical cheating, swearing, arguing, mentions of Cat, + Dina being your best friend plus activating mama bear mode on Ellie and cat. Angst with little to no comfort because we like trying new things here. S/O to an anon for the idea at the end.

Part one <- part two

“Dina!”

Ellie’s voice echoed as she flew down the corridor towards the elevators, her chest heaving.

She saw the familiar dark hair disappearing around the corner — the bag slung over Dina’s shoulder, the flash of her boot just before the elevator doors started to close.

“Dina, wait—!”

Dina turned her head just enough to shout back. Her voice hard, controlled.

“I’m not letting you hurt her more, Ellie!”

She smacked the elevator button like it owed her money, and the doors closed before Ellie could reach them.

Ellie slammed a hand on the metal. “Fuck!”

The next elevator was too slow.

+

Ellie took them three at a time.

The cold concrete steps blurred beneath her boots as she sprinted down, hand gripping the rail, body barely keeping up with her speed.

Her lungs burned, and her chest ached, but she didn’t stop.

You were right there.

She had to reach you, even if it was too late. Even if you never wanted to see her again.

She just—she couldn’t let it end like this. Not with you thinking Ellie didn’t love you, that she’d chosen Cat, out of all people.

She hit the bottom landing hard, shoving the door open and bursting into the freezing night air.

Eyes scanning.

There—

Dina’s car, halfway down the lot, with the engine on.

“WAIT!” Ellie screamed, legs pumping, sprinting across the pavement like her life depended on it.

Because it fucking did.

Her palms slammed onto the back bumper of Dina’s car — the cold metal biting into her skin as the car jolted slightly from the impact.

you flinched.

Your head whipped around, eyes wide, body tensing — and then they locked on Ellie through the back windshield.

Winded, pale, and there.

Your expression soured, almost instantly.

No words — just that sharp, heartbreaking shift in your face, like If seeing Ellie hurt, like you’d almost been okay for one second and now everything was bleeding again.

The tears welled so fast that it was like your body had just been waiting to cry.

Dina slammed the car into park, half out of the parking spot. She threw open her door and got out fast, slamming it shut behind her.

“What the fuck, Ellie!?” she shouted. “Get away from my car!”

Ellie stumbled towards the window on your side, her breathing a mess — ragged, and shallow, like every step had costed her something.

She raised her hand to the window, not even knocking. Just pressing her palm flat to the glass. Her lips barely working around the words.

“Please—” gasp. “Just—” gasp. “Just let me—” gasp. “Explain—”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t roll the window down.

Your arms were locked across your chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands like a shield.

Your eyes were glassy again, swimming with tears, your face tense with rage and disbelief and exhaustion.

Ellie didn’t wait.

She didn’t need permission — Ellie couldn’t afford to wait.

“I didn’t—” she choked, voice coming in sharp fragments, “I didn’t plan it. I—I texted her after you left. I was—fuck, I was spiraling, and I didn’t know what to do—”

Dina stepped in, grabbing Ellie by the shoulder. “You don’t get to do this,” she hissed. “You chose Cat. You don’t get to chase after her like this now. Back off, Ellie.”

But Ellie didn’t even look at Dina.

She was locked in on you, only you.

“She doesn't matter,” Ellie breathed. “Not like you. Not ever. I was just—I was fucking scared, okay? I didn’t know how to fix it and I thought maybe—maybe if I just numbed it for a second—”

You finally spoke, your voice cracking even through the glass.

“You thought screwing her would help you feel less like the bad guy?”

Ellie shut her eyes.

She slid to her knees beside the car, one hand still on the window. Hair stuck to her face. Shoulders heaving.

“I fucked up,” she rasped. “I fucked up so bad.”

Dina reached for the door handle.

“Don’t—” Ellie said quickly, eyes flicking to her. “Don’t take her yet. Please. Just give me—please—two minutes. Just two.”

+

You just stared at her through the glass, jaw trembling, arms wrapped around yourself so tight it looked like you were holding your own ribs in place.

Ellie was still kneeling there, one hand braced on the cold glass, her chest heaving, hair a mess.

Her voice cracked every time she tried to push it out.

“I don't want her,” she said, desperate. “Not like that. Not since we broke up, not since I met you.”

Your face didn’t change. If anything, you looked even more shattered by her trying to say that now.

“I panicked when you left,” Ellie gasped. “I didn’t know what to do—I’ve never seen you that angry, and when the door closed it just—fuck, I spiraled, I thought maybe I’d already lost you, and I just needed something to… stop it.”

Ellie wiped at her face with her sleeve, her eyes glassy. “It wasn’t about her. It never was. I swear to god I never meant to—”

“You invited her,” you said through the glass, voice raw and thin and poisoned with disbelief.

Ellie shut her eyes.

You shook your head slowly, lips trembling. “You texted her, and then you let cat touch you like that. You were sitring there letting her take off your hoodie while I was crying in Dina’s car.”

“I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t know she was gonna—”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, Ellie” you snapped, the tears falling now, hot and steady.

Ellie’s mouth opened, and then closed.

No words.

Behind her, Dina crossed her arms.

“Alright,” she said. “That’s enough.”

Ellie didn’t move.

And Dina stepped forward again, eyes hard, and voice cold. “Back the fuck off, Ellie.”

“She—she deserves to hear it—”

“She did hear it,” Dina snapped. “And what y/n heard was a weak excuse dressed up like an apology.”

Ellie looked stricken, helpless.

Dina didn’t let up, though.

“You should’ve stopped Cat at the door. You should’ve deleted the draft before you hit send. You don’t get to spiral and then expect y/n to clean it up after you.”

Ellie dropped her head, her forehead pressed to the glass.

“She loved you,” Dina said, quieter now. “She fought for you even when she shouldn’t have had to. And the second she stopped? You crumbled, you didn’t even hesitate.”

Ellie didn’t lift her head.

Dina moved to the driver’s side, and opened the door.

“Go back to your dorm,” she said, throwing a glance over her shoulder. “Finish playing house with Catherine.”

Then a beat.

“And for what it’s worth?” Dina added, sliding into her seat. “I really thought you were better than this.”

Dina's door shut and the engine came on.

Ellie stayed frozen as Dina's car rolled away, the red taillights shrinking down the street.

Ellie didn’t chase this time.

Didn’t move, just stood there, alone in the cold, at the edge of the dorm building.

With nothing left to run after.

+

Three months had melted away like candle wax in heat — slow, sweet, and irreversible.

The bed was a wreck, all twisted sheets and sticky warmth, the kind that clung to bare skin and spoke without a word.

The lamp hadn’t been touched, the only glow in the dark came from your phone screen buzzing again and again on the nightstand, a pulse of pale blue light slicing through the shadows.

Ellie.

Her name flickered across it for the third time this week — desperate, persistent, and haunting.

You didn’t move, couldn't.

Your breath still hadn’t evened out, still shivering faintly in your throat.

Abby moved instead.

She shifted against you, her thigh sliding up between yours with casual, possessive friction, her skin damp against yours, hair wild, and breath still coming in slow, confident exhales against the back of your neck.

One arm looped tighter around your waist as she leaned over and grabbed the phone with the other, her movement unhurried, her fingers firm.

The light glinted off her knuckles as she brought the screen closer to her face — a smirk already curling at the edge of her lips.

Her voice came low and gritty, saturated with satisfaction. “Yeah?”

Abby put it on speaker before the voice could plead for privacy. Ellie’s words trembled into the room, raw and cracked.

“I just… I just need to say I’m sorry. I know it’s late, I know I’ve said it a billion times, but I miss y—”

Abby let out a short, sharp breath through her nose — half-laugh, half-dismissal. “Yeah, she’s a little busy right now.”

You shivered, not from the words.

But from Abby's hand sliding across your pelvis, down, lazy and certain, her fingers grazing where you were still slick, still tender, still open from what she’d already done.

She wanted to remind you that you were here, that she was still inside this moment, inside you.

“Mmmf…” The moan slipped out, involuntary, and heat rising again, fast.

Ellie heard it.

Abby grinned, not looking at the phone anymore. Her mouth was on your shoulder now, tongue tracing the curve of your bone, her fingers slipped lower.

“She moved on,” Abby said, voice hard and flat but tinged with something richer — triumph, possession, hunger. “You should try it sometime.”

She ended the call without another word, not even a goodbye and tossed your phone back to the nightstand where it landed with a soft thud, vibrating once more before going still.

TAGLIST FOR PART TWO: @youfoundheavenn @bready101 @nattakasuperlesbian @sewithinsouls @elliefckngw @gianni7867 @elliewilliamsluvrr @sturniluvr @iadorefineshyt @abigaillovestoread @isaah-s @hsangel64 @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @elliewilliamscutofffingers @snooopyinspace @fatbootymuncher @lvlymicha @sultryvixen @robinphobia @vahnilla @chwekriz00 @lovelaymedown @the-sick-habit @dollyfawn22

Author's note: some of y'all need to have your tags turned on😭but regardless, I hope part two was okay and lived up to the first part.... cause it's kinda crazy how y'all liked the first part.!! But thank you so much. I have a new series coming out soon so...

[cheekytv]

between tequila shots & bathroom stalls - g. a. clarke MDNI george breaks his own rules because you're just too fucking tempting...

pairing: george clarek x f!reader genre: porn without plot, smut MDNI warnings: blowjob, face fucking, cum swallowing wc: 735 (i have never written and published anything this short i feel crazy rn)

george wasn’t the type for this… usually. 

whilst he wouldn’t call himself a true hopeful romantic, he did prefer doing things like these behind closed doors… in his own flat (or at least someone’s flat). 

but you, you had made this difficult for him. you had succeeded in having him break rules he had set for himself years ago. 

how could he not? with your pretty smile and captivating eyes and a body in a tight little dress that left almost nothing to the imagination. 

every curve was accentuated, your tits almost falling out when you leaned over the bar to talk to him, eyes glossy with determination, handing him a shot of tequila he took without any hesitation. he was hooked right then. and there was no way out.

which is how he ended up here - pressed against the dirty wall of one of the club’s bathroom stalls, the bass of the music matching the speed of his heartbeat. his hands were curled into your locks, fingers digging into your scalp as you were on your knees, tits bare and mouth around his aching cock. 

your tongue swirled around his tip, catching the drops of precum like you were scared one would go to waste. then, your head moved forward, taking him into your mouth as deep as possible, your hand covering the rest. your eyes stared up at him, drinking in the way his chest heaved and how his eyes were shut closed, mouth hanging open to let out the prettiest little moans you’ve ever heard.

you hollowed out your cheeks, sucking him in deeper, his tip hitting the back of your throat and causing you to gag slightly. george moaned louder then, nails digging into your scalp. letting your tongue press against his girth, you swallowed him down, proud of yourself when you didn’t even need your hand to cover the rest of him. 

he fit perfectly snug down your throat and george was sure he was about to enter the gates of heaven. 

“holy fuck.” he breathed out, not able to stop himself from thrusting down, his eyes blinking open, a shocked face looking down, checking to see if- 

oh. 

your eyes were full of lust, of hunger and need. something so primal it made his cock twitch and his hips shake. you wanted this. wanted him to fuck down your throat - use you. and he was willing to give you anything. 

his hips set a restless pace next, head bumping against the wall adjourned with many sharpie drawings of cocks and boobs behind him. 

if he’d known your name, he would have moaned it over and over. instead, he opted for pathetic little cries, his brain short circuiting when he felt your hand around his balls. 

“god, fuck, yeah-,” he stumbled over his own words, the pleasure taking over him completely. his muscles strained against his sleeves when he pressed your head down further, mouth hanging open as he groaned, wishing for this moment to never end and also for you to take all of his cum and swallow it like a good girl. 

your throat felt like home, felt like it had been created for the sole purpose of letting his cock fuck into it over and over again. and maybe it had. maybe you had been sent by the heavens to give him the best fucking blowjob of his life.

“sh-shit, I’m gonna cum, fucking fuck.” his body began to shake, balls tightening and when he felt your throat restrict around him one last time - he couldn’t help but shoot his hot, desperate load down your throat. 

and you took it like a goddamn champ. no drop was left, all of it swallowed by your skilled throat. you cleaned off his cock with your tongue and finally let it drop from your mouth, wiping it with the back of your hand. 

george was still catching his breath, recovering from one of the most intense orgasms of his life when he opened his eyes and looked at you. tits still bare, eyes contempt. he watched you slip back into your dress and get back onto your feet, his hands twitching to help you. 

“have a fun rest of your night, george clarke.” you winked at him, making his heart do a flip, and finally left the bathroom - and a man with a head as red as your painted fingernails. 

[melaniegrass]

I’m not supposed to be writing but I just felt like it so here we go.

Preacher girl

Remmick x Female reader

Word count: 2k

Summary: After being humiliated by your friends for still being a virgin, the outcast of town who only comes out during night helps you solve your little problem.

Warnings & Tags: religious themes, religious virgin reader in early 20s, loser and awkward Remmick, praise kink, corruption kink, smut

A/n: This has only been proofread once, so sorry for any grammatical errors. Please enjoy :)

Everyone in town avoids his house like it’s the bubonic plague. As if crossing paths on its lawn will soil their skin or taint their holiness. Well, everyone except for you.

In all your sweet graceness, you always visit him during the day and night. A freshly baked apple pie or Sunday supper in your hands as a token of your kindness. You always knock at his door here and there. Some days he answers the door, other days the odd man doesn’t. It never matters to you because you have a heart full of gold and love.

The fatherly God says to love all. Even outcasted, weird neighbors down the street who don't dare step foot in Sunday church. You find it unholy of your fellow neighbors who turn their noses up at the poor fella.

Today at the crack of night isn’t like other days when you bring him a gift of kindness and care. This time around your hands are empty and a long frown drags your lips down. You knock at his door, praying to God he opens up. You desperately need someone to chat with about the events from last night.

Still, their words, mean and nasty echo throughout your head. It’s been that way all during the day and you can’t take it anymore.

“Wow, aren’t you a bit too old?”

“Yeah…I mean who even waits till marriage anymore these days?”

“Aww. Guys stop it! Y’all know she can’t help herself. Afterall, she’s, sweet-ole preacher girl.”

Your friends proceeded to laugh in your face at the diner. Their voices so loud the guys sitting steps away heard it all. Each and every little detail of the humiliating discussion. Usually it doesn’t matter who overhears but the guy you’ve been crushing on for years was there at the neighboring booth.

Shaking away the awful memories, your eyes glance up from your dress shoes at the door. It creaks open in a small crack. Through the small opening a pair of eyes meet yours. Moon light dimly reveals his upper features as most of the wooden door hides the rest.

“Yes?” His voice comes quiet and meek from behind the door.

Eyes fluttering, you wipe away tears threatening to fall. “G-Good evening, Remmick. I was wondering if I could come in and chat with you?”

He remains unmoved, still hiding behind the door. There’s a long silent pause. Crickets and nightly creatures hum as you wait for an answer.

But a verbal answer never comes, only the door hinges whining as the door opens wider. Remmick’s upper half blends in with the shadows of his house. Only his wrinkly slacks and dress shoes show in the light pouring in from outside.

“Thank you.”

The door closes with a soft click behind you. You hear his feet creak across the floor before light illuminates everywhere after a swift click.

As usual, Remmick disappears into the kitchen and you trail after him. But this time there’s not a skip in your step. Instead your shoulders slouch as you drag your feet. He doesn’t miss it either because his decaying wooden floors would have been screaming under your happy feet.

“Would you like some ice tea?”

You weakly nod, plopping down in the creaky old chair.

He pours you a nice glass of cool lemonade flavored tea and sits it down in front you. Then opposite to you he joins sitting at the table.

Again, another awkward silence falls between you two. He never is the chatter box, no, that trait belongs to you. Not to mention, Remmick doesn’t know what to say. Normally he doesn’t expect visitors this late at night. Especially from you who rarely visits at night.

He clears his dry throat, hands fidgeting together awkwardly. “So…uh…what was it you wanted to talk about?”

Your eyes never leave the glass of ice tea. Lips cracking open in a quiver. “My friends, they humiliated me, Remmick.” Your voice cracks.

He startles, eyes blinking as concern and confusion knits his brows upward. “How’d they do that?”

Sniffling, wiping tears away, face burning hot; you ready yourself for what comes next.

“I’m untouched…you know…waiting til marriage.”

“Oh.”

Remmick’s eyes flicker around anywhere but on you. Blood rises in his sickly pale cheeks. You can’t tell if he’s judging or uncomfortable with the topic at hand.

“And, a guy I like was nearby and heard. It was so embarrassing, you know?”

His face drains of red and his features become blank. Unreadable. A dark glimmer crosses his eyes for a second. Then it’s gone as he just stares at you.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. Like you said you’re waiting til marriage.”

“Yeah, but I want it to be him and he snickered at me with his friends, Remmick.”

His jaw clenches at his name casually and idly rolling off your tongue.

“Well, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

His voice is firm. No longer soft and delicate. You fail to notice it though.

“But what if he doesn’t? My friends say no one waits that long anymore. They say I’ll never even get married because of it.”

Remmick’s nails tap on the table, his head lazily rests in one hand. His glare burns holes in your skull. The more and more you talk he finds it difficult to calm himself. What you said earlier is making him itch with irritation.

“So, is this what you really came to me to talk about at night? I was sweetly dreaming, you know?”

His words sting hot and cut deep. Finally you gaze up from the untouched sweet tea. Slowly, his words sink into your mind.

You blink. Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Remmick never acts in such a manner towards you. Never. It’s part of the reason you always visit him. He’s a good listening ear and never judges you. Tonight for some odd reason he is.

Why?

“Yes…I mean, I would’ve came in the morning but I couldn’t get it out my mind and—”

“And what am I supposed to do about this problem?” He sharply snaps.

“I-I just wanted to talk. I-I’m s-sorry, Remmick.”

He stands from the chair. His shadow

envelopes you from where you sit.

“Talking ain’t gonna solve that. You’re better off keeping it to yourself.”

The next words that slip out your sweet mouth are all impulsive, no thinking behind them. Purely rooted in adrenaline.

“Then help me! If you’re unholy as the town says, help me fix this problem!”

Remmick just stares at you. He’s stiff, as if trapped in a trance. Lips gaping, eyes wide with shock.

Your face boils hot and tears gather in your eyes. You begin wondering maybe coming to your odd neighbor isn’t the brightest idea. But when his tall stature hovers over you, the idea shatters to fragments of nothingness.

His palm rests on the table, supporting him as he leans in your space.

“You sure that’s what you really want, darlin?” He rasps.

You audibly gulp. Darlin. Remmick never calls you such a name. Let alone invade your personal bubble as he’s doing now.

You hesitantly nod, soaking in the sinful glint in his brown round eyes.

………………

His every touch feels tainting. As if the sin everyone in town says engulfs him is spreading like a plague across wherever Remmick touches.

In a bedroom, you assume he sleeps in, you lay on a bed. The mattress is soft and fluffy against your back. The room smells of an odd scent. One reminiscent of a dry iron stench and old drywall. You ignore it, or better yet you barely notice it. Halfway naked in only panties and a bra is too much of a shameful distraction.

And of course him.

He’s between your open, trembling legs. Just like you his chest is bare with only his underwear on.

Every kiss he litters across your skin blazes in flames and with each one you pray for the lord’s forgiveness.

“Relax,” he breathes. Voice low and hot.

You don’t say anything and try to obey him. Inhale out. Exhale out. You repeat this process like a broken record as his rough calloused hands explores your body.

He enjoys the way your soft skin, pure and unexplored, feels under his touch. Remmick always does wonder what it feels like. Especially when you come over in more exposing clothes. Now he knows.

There’s only one thing bugging him like an irritating itch beneath his skin. How incredibly stiff your limbs become wherever he graces your body.

His smooth movements halt. An intense hunger pools in his eyes as he hovers you. “We can always stop.”

“No, I want to keep going,” you mutter, voice shaking.

“Then promise me you’ll relax.”

You avoid his gaze and nod.

The mattress sinks in at the sides of your head.

“Look at me, now.”

The simple command draws your attention to him. You don’t know why but it just does.

“I want you to say it, okay, darlin?”

Darlin. That word again. It makes your heart drum and butterflies dance in your belly. Worst of all, down below where the lord forbids, an aching heat spreads. A poor sweet thing like you, so holy and innocent, it drives you insane.

“I-I promise.”

He huffs a laugh and a smirk pulls his lips back. “Good girl.”

He leans back down and continues the ungodly acts. Something warm and wet glides across your neck to the tip of your chin. You gasp, unknowingly, eyes sealed closed.

“Maybe if you open your eyes you’ll know what’s coming next.” His breath hits your ear.

Your spine arches, face jolting away from him. “I can’t look. I don’t want to look. I-I just can’t, Remmick,” you stammer.

“Fine, have it your way, darlin.”

He continues lapping his tongue across your skin all over. From your neck, stomach and thighs. It leaves you a trembling hot mess. Confusion and a sinful desire to be further touched by him clouds your mind.

Remmick easily discards your bra and panties somewhere on the floor beside the bed. Your hand covers your throbbing cunt while your other arm hides your breast.

He sighs. You’re unbelievable, truly. He finds it cute but slightly annoying. Your little shy antics only makes his greed to ruin you grow stronger.

“Stop hiding or I’ll tie your wrist to the headboard’s rails.”

“What?” Your eyes shoot wide open. A new fear arising.

“You heard me, now be a good girl and listen.”

Just like that you obey him.

Softly he envelopes one breast in a hand, fingers pinching the hardening bud. His mouth occupies your other breast. The sensation tears a loud moan past your lips as your back arches, puffing your chest outward. His teeth and tongue are mean and cruel, bullying your poor nipple.

Your chest heaves in uneven rhythms. Waves of heat bring a new type of ungodliness between your shaky thighs. Your cunt pulses; wet slick coats all over down there.

“R-Remmick…Remmick.”

“Hmm?” He hums, still toying with your breast.

“I f-feel weird,” you choke out through breathy pants.

Then something happens and as it does your body is a quivering leaf in the wind. A loud whiny moan fills the bedroom as you cum.

He gives your abused nipple one last savoring suck before releasing it with a pop. It glistens, wet and swollen. Saliva pools at his chin on one side as he stares down at you. A crimson glow glints in his half-lidded eyes. Teeth, sharp and long peeks between the cracks of his lips.

“So fucking beautiful,” be breathes before gulping bottled excessive salvia in his mouth. “I always longed for this. I always wondered what would make you cum fast, but I never imagined just your nipples would do the trick.”

A blurry haze fogs your brain and his words don’t register. As you stare back up at him, you notice a difference. Those round, worrying puppy-like eyes are gone. The awkward, quiet, timid neighbor from down the street is no longer there. This man above you isn’t him. It can’t be him because this imposter reeks of what the Bible teaches you to stay away from.

Is this what everyone else in town sees in him when you couldn’t?

You blink once. Remmick’s still there, eyes dark and lustful. You blink twice. He’s gone.

At least that’s what you naively thought until you feel him buried between your thighs. Elbows supporting his weight as his hands firmly hook around your legs. He holds you right where he wants you.

The fog shatters as his mouth latches onto your cunt. Instinctly you try to close your thighs but his iron grip prevents it. So, instead your hands run through his silky short curls. You grab bundles of his curls in your fist, body squirming uncontrollably.

He just hums in delight. Your cunt’s juices are a forbidden honey on his tongue. No matter how much he sucks, digs his tongue deep, he can’t get enough of it.

He slowly draws away, eyes nearly rolling back. “Fuck, I’m gonna lose control. I’m trying not to because if I do I’m afraid I’ll break you, darlin.”

The only response he earns in return from you is a weak mewl.

“Fuck it, you wanted this anyways. You can take it just like the good girl you are.”

He no longer wears underwear. His cock stands proud and hard as he guides it to your throbbing hole. The tip kisses your entrance. Then it pushes in, nowhere deep between your warm walls yet.

Your hands grasp around the mattress as pain screams through your cunt.

“Mmm, Remmick it hurts.”

He leans down, closing the space between you two. One arm rests above your head while the other holds your hips in place. His forehead lightly touches yours. His breaths are uneven, and sloppy.

“Yeah, I know.” He pecks your nose and then kisses your lips. “It’ll only hurt for a bit, darlin. So, please bear with me.”

He kisses you again. This time it’s long and passionate. You kiss him back, lost in the moment forgetting he’s even halfway inside. He gains easy access inside your mouth when he bites your bottom lip. His tongue explores everywhere before battling with your smaller tongue.

He takes advantage of your distraction and thrusts his hips. Your sweet moans muffle, filling his mouth instead. The chains holding Remmick back break loose. Any and all control he holds is gone to the winds. His hips don’t stop, never giving your walls a chance to get used to his size.

His lips pull away from yours and a long thread of saliva connects your them. The rhythm of his thrusts is even and controlled. Your walls squeeze deliciously tight around him. It drives him nearly insane.

Each pump of his cock, pain fades away slowly but surely. Your breaths become messier and heavier. The idea of sin or anything with God serves no justice in your brain. All you can think about is how good Remmick’s cock feels deep inside you.

His groans mix together with your loud whiny moans that evolve more sluttier bouncing off the walls in the bedroom.

“Oh…my…God…so good…Oh, Remmick.” Your words utter out, a tangling mess.

“I know, darlin. I know. It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Mhm.” You nod, plump lips in pout.

He chuckles as a wicked idea brews in his mind. Remmick leans back and throws your legs over his shoulders.

“I bet this’ll make ya feel extra good.” He licks lips.

His cock digs deeper. It hits a certain sweet spot. Again and again. Pleasure sends shock waves through your entire body. It feels so good you see stars in your hazy vision. He leans in closers and your knees ghost over your breast.

“Look at you,” he says in awe. “So pretty folded underneath me and taking my cock so well. Such a good girl.”

You don’t even respond. You can’t. Not with the way he’s crushing you to a crumbled mess.

A goody two shoes like you never expected your first time to happen this way. In fact even though you shouldn’t have imagined it, you sometimes would. In your innocent little head, you always fantasized it would happen the day of your marriage as a wife. Yet here you are being pounded by the town’s unholy outcast at midnight.

Noises of skin slapping and slick squelching fill the room. His and your skin glistens with salty sweat. Remmick’s thrusts are sloppy, hungry and needy. He chases his orgasm along with you. Under his breath he mumbles lewd sayings as you cry out, nearly close to cumming.

A few more sharp, fast pumps and you two cum together. Your fingers fist the sheets and your back arches. His warm milky seed fills you up as he rides out his orgasm, still bucking his hips. He milks himself dry.

His shaky breath is loud as his shoulders slump. Underneath him, you lay half conscious, half awake. Marks decorate your naked frame from head to toe. He carrasses the marks, savoring the mess he made of you.

Someone as holy and devoted to God as you ruined by someone unusual, wicked and unworthy of the sun’s love. Oh, how pride swells his chest.

“I always wanted to make you mine, but was afraid of tainting your beautiful light. But now I’m even more afraid I can’t let you go after all this, darlin.”

You don’t know, innocently drifting off to sleep, but your freedom is no longer yours. Your lovely, graceful God abandons you now. No one can save you now. Not from the talons of Remmick, a man as ancient as time itself.

If only you knew visiting the man down the street no one talks to wasn’t a good idea.

If only.

If only.

Now you will live a life of hellish despair

[demie90s]

Girlll you gonna get so tired of me but can you do platonic geno with menace reader?? Like more on their dynamic?

(I COULD NEVER GET TIRED OF YOU‼️)

Coach, I Swear It Was an Accident (It Wasn’t)

ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ ɢᴇɴᴏ ᴀᴜʀɪᴇᴍᴍᴀ x ᴍᴇɴᴀᴄᴇ!ꜰᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: You’ve been testing Geno’s patience since the moment you stepped on UConn’s campus. You’re talented, unbothered, and just enough of a smartass to keep your scholarship hanging by a thread. But deep down, you’re his favorite headache.

Vibe: Whistle slams, eye rolls, chaotic love, and the emotional damage of saying “you’re like my kid” with his whole chest

No one stresses Geno out like you.

And no one lives for it like you do.

You’ve been on thin ice since the first time you called a press conference “ghetto fabulous” under your breath while mic’d up. Geno almost choked on his coffee. Azzi fell off the bench. Paige had to cover her face to keep from laughing.

“Did you really just say that into an NCAA broadcast feed?” Geno asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You shrugged. “It was.”

He turned red. “You are going to ruin me.”

“I’m not the one who approved these chairs,” you replied, sitting in one like you were posing for Vogue and not a ranked post-game Q&A.

From that day on, you were his #1 problem child. But God, he’d go to war for you.

⸻

He yells at you the most. Because you deserve it.

“You think that behind-the-back pass was smart?” he snaps during practice.

“I thought it was flavorful,” you say, wiping sweat from your face.

“Flavorful?” he repeats. “You are one tech away from me throwing you out of the building.”

“Cool, I’ll just Uber to my NIL shoot.” He throws his clipboard. You wink.

⸻

But it’s not all jokes. Sometimes you check on him when nobody else does.

You bring him an iced coffee before early practices. Put ibuprofen next to his water when he rubs his temples too long. You sit in his office when you’re having a bad day, head down, quiet for once.

He doesn’t say much. Just passes you a protein bar and keeps typing. That’s how y’all say I love you. In chaos and quiet.

⸻

And even when he’s mad, furious, pacing the sideline and yelling your name after a steal you didn’t convert or a stunt you weren’t supposed to pull?

He still defends you to everyone else.

“Yeah, she’s a pain in my ass,” he tells reporters. “But she’s my pain in the ass.”

Bonus:

You Benched Me. I took it personal.

Okay… maybe not messed up. But you definitely pulled a fast break reverse layup, stared down the girl you just scored on, and said, “I thought y’all were ranked?”

Geno yanked you off the court so fast your sneakers squeaked.

“You’re done,” he snapped, waving you toward the bench. “SIT.”

You threw your hands up like you didn’t understand why you, of all people, were getting benched.

“Coach, come on—”

“No. Sit down before I sit you in the parking lot.”

You flopped into the seat next to KK like you’d just been hit with war crimes. She was biting her lip, trying not to laugh.

Azzi looked at you with the world’s deepest sigh. Paige was already reaching over with a towel and a muttered “You really can’t help yourself, huh?”

⸻

You were petty the whole time.

Refused to make eye contact with Geno. Didn’t speak during timeouts. Sat with your arms crossed like someone grounded you from your phone.

Even when the team got hype, you clapped in slow motion with a deadpan expression like a robot being forced to show spirit.

You deserved that benching. But you weren’t gonna act like it.

⸻

Third quarter, two turnovers in a row, Geno’s eye twitched.

“Get in,” he finally muttered, not looking at you.

You stood up so slow.

“Oh, I’m allowed to play again?” you said, stretching dramatically.

“Reader,” he growled. “Don’t.”

You walked past him with the fakest smile ever. “Love you, Coach.”

“Drop 10 or don’t come back.”

You dropped 26.

⸻

Reverse layup. Stepback three. Full-court pass with your off-hand.

You lit the gym up like it was personal. Because it was.

And after you hit the last three and jogged back on defense, you looked over at Geno and mouthed, “Still wanna bench me?”

He didn’t smile. But you saw him shake his head and mutter, “Unbelievable.”

⸻

After the game, while media swarmed Azzi and Paige, you walked past Geno in the tunnel, pretending to look at your nails.

He cleared his throat. You turned slowly.

“…Good job,” he said under his breath, like it physically hurt him.

You gasped, hand to your chest. “Wait—what was that? I blacked out.”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m framing that.”

He rolled his eyes. “I should’ve gone into real estate.”

You slung your arm over his shoulder and whispered, “Nah. Then you never would’ve met your favorite problem.”

He groaned. But he didn’t push you off.