#(because at the time she thought she was going to ***** someone else)

[cressidagrey]

System Failure - Chapter 13: Milton Keynes

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well.  Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes: George Russell Bashing. Questionable Engineering Science...also Questionable work ethic. Difficult Family relationships. Panic attack, Communication Issues. (We are really torturing Max in this). Also, Use of a Safeword. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!

(Also before people jump my throat: JadeQueen is not Henry.)

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 12 July 2025

The yacht was quieting down. Jack had been tucked into bed hours ago, the clatter of dinner long faded into the sea breeze. Toto rinsed the last wineglass at the sink and glanced toward the lower deck, frowning slightly.

He hadn’t seen Susie in a while.

Not that it was unusual—Susie liked to wander after dinner, liked quiet corners and starlit decks and long calls to her mother. But something in him, some soft warning bell, stirred under his ribs.

He padded down the corridor, barefoot and frowning.

The door to Ana’s room was half-cracked. That’s what stopped him.

He stepped closer. The overhead light was off, but there was a faint lamp-glow.

Then he heard it—whispers. The low hush of Susie’s voice. The shuffle of someone sitting on the bed. The edge of a sigh.

He knocked gently, then opened the door fully.

Susie was perched on the edge of Ana’s bed, her hand resting on Ana’s ankle through the blanket. Ana lay curled under the covers, pale and quiet, her braid draped over the pillow. Her eyes were closed. Not asleep—but somewhere near it.

Toto's stomach dropped.

He looked at Susie.

She shook her head, soft and slow. “Later,” she mouthed.

He nodded once, silently closing the door behind him.

They stood on the back deck fifteen minutes later. The sea lapped softly against the hull. The stars glittered overhead. Toto gripped the railing like it might steady the weight pressing against his chest.

Susie handed him a glass of water.

“She had a panic attack,” she said gently. “Bad one.”

Toto shut his eyes. “Scheiße.”

“She was trying so hard not to break. You know how she is. She thinks if she just does everything right, the world won’t notice how hard it is for her to be in it.”

He stayed quiet, throat tight.

“She masked through dinner,” Susie said softly. “Held it all together because you wanted this to go smoothly. And then when it was over, she collapsed in the bathroom. She couldn’t breathe, Toto.”

His fingers curled tighter around the glass. “I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I. Not until I found her on the floor, trying to breathe.” Susie crossed her arms, her voice soft but serious. “It was a bad one, Toto. She was rattled.”

He ran a hand over his face. “I thought she was just… quiet tonight.”

“She was masking,” Susie said. “Holding it all together. For you.”

That made his chest tighten.

“I didn’t ask her to,” he murmured.

“She doesn’t need you to ask,” Susie replied. “She does it anyway. She always has. Ever since she was a teenager, she’s been performing what she thinks will make you proud.”

Toto stared at the floor. “I never wanted that.”

“No,” Susie said gently. “But that doesn’t mean she didn’t believe she had to. Especially after what her mother did.”

Toto’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The mention of Ana’s mother always curled something cold in his gut. A ghost he’d never quite banished.

“I didn’t even notice,” he said again, quieter this time. “She sat through dinner holding herself together with both hands, and I thought she was just tired.”

“She was tired,” Susie said softly. “But not in the way you think.”

“I pushed her into this. I should’ve never asked her to sit through dinner like that.”

“You didn’t force her. She chose it. For you. For the team. But you need to understand what it costs her.”

He nodded, heavy with guilt.

There was a beat of quiet.

Then Susie tilted her head slightly, amusement flickering behind her eyes. “You know… I think she and Max are more alike than either of them realise.”

Toto blinked at her. “Max?”

They’re both brilliant,” Susie said. “Both private. Both need control over their environments just to feel steady. And neither of them let people in easily.” She smiled faintly. “You’ve always seen Max as a firebrand. Reckless. But I think you’ve missed the stillness underneath. He plays it off with charm, but he’s sharp. And grounded. And careful about who he lets close.”

Toto frowned. “You think he came to dinner because of her?”

Susie gave a tiny shrug, not quite teasing, not quite serious. “Maybe he’s not here just for the engine.”

“What are you implying?” Toto asked, half-bristling, half-confused.

“I’m saying,” Susie said, “your daughter is a very beautiful, very brilliant woman. And if Max Verstappen has half a brain in that championship-winning skull of his, he probably noticed. Given that he watched her all evening like she hung the stars.”

Toto stared. “He’s signing because it’s a strategic decision.”

“Mhm,” Susie said, unconvinced. “Sure. Strategic.”

“She’s my daughter.”

“She’s also twenty seven,” Susie said with a smirk. “And allowed to have a life.”

Toto groaned.

“I’m joking,” she added, patting his chest gently. “Mostly. I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be the worst reason to defect from Red Bull.”

But Susie’s teasing faded as she reached up and gently touched his chest, grounding him.

“She’ll be okay,” she said. “She just needs rest. And space. And maybe a bit less pressure.”

Toto nodded, jaw still tight with guilt.

“She loves you, you know,” Susie added. “Even when she’s struggling, you’re the anchor she holds onto.”

“I don’t want to be the reason she drowns,” he said, quiet and pained.

“You’re not,” Susie said firmly. “But maybe next time, listen a little closer.”

He nodded again.

***

Text Messages: George Russell & Alex Albon

George: Mercedes is replacing me. Like actually replacing me. With Kimi. And they're doing it in the code.

Alex: Morning to you too. What the hell are you talking about.

George: Altair. The new set up package. It hated me. Like actively hated me.

Alex: Pretty sure you just hated it.

George: No. It fought me, Alex. Turn-in, throttle, rear balance—every time I made a decision it was like the car went, “nah.” It felt personal.

Alex: I promise you the car didn’t develop sentience to spite George Russell.

George: You weren’t there. You didn’t feel it. Like it was judging me for not being Italian enough. Or under 21. 

Alex: So to recap: The car hates you because you're not Kimi Antonelli.

George: YES. And do you know who wrote the code? Ana Wolff.

Alex: Okay but Ana Wolff writes everything. She's like Mercedes' firmware fairy godmother.

George: Exactly. Which means this was intentional. They built a car that rewards blind instinct and teenage fearlessness. Basically a mechanical middle finger to drivers with racecraft and strategy.

Alex: Or—and stay with me— you’re being dramatic because the rookie was faster than you in the sim.

George: It's not just the sim. They’re grooming him. Toto’s acting like he’s found the second coming of Schumacher. And now the car is designed to love only him.

Alex: George. You sound like you need to go touch grass. Preferably while holding hands with a therapist.

George: You’re not taking me seriously.Ana didn’t even try to make it work for me. She just said, “Drive like Kimi.”

Alex Cool. Go time-travel back to being 17 and Italian and fearless. Problem solved. Also, you won a race last month. Calm down.

George You’re not helping.

Alex I’m not trying to help. I’m trying to keep you from showing up at Ana’s office with a printed powerpoint titled What About Me?!

George: You know what it is? She doesn’t take me seriously.

Alex: George. You just accused her setup change of having feelings and a vendetta.

George: It’s not just that. It’s everything. She treats me like I’m an algorithm glitch. Like I’m… overcalculated and underwhelming.

Alex: …Okay, poetry.

George:Maybe that’s the issue. She needs someone who can match her.

Alex: Uh huh. And you think you can?

George: Yes. Eventually. She just hasn’t seen me at full capacity yet. She only sees the stress version of me. But once she gets me— She’ll see it. We’d be great.

Alex: Okay. Wow. This just went from weird to please stop texting me this.

George: Look, I’m just saying— If I were with Ana, I wouldn’t be replaceable. Nobody would fire the guy dating the boss’s daughter.

Alex: OH MY GOD.

George: What? It makes sense.

Alex: No. No, it doesn’t. You think dating her is a contract strategy?

George: I’m saying it’s… mutually beneficial. Stability. Integration. Legacy. Like a long-term structural alignment.

Alex: That is the worst romantic pitch I’ve ever heard.

George: We’d make sense. You’ll see. Give it time. She’ll come around.

Alex: I’ll alert the Nobel committee. You’ve discovered a new form of delusion.

George: Mark my words. This isn’t over.

Alex: Unfortunately, I believe you.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Alex Albon

Alex: you will not believe the conversation i just had with george. honestly considering calling HR on his behalf.

Lando: pls tell me he didn’t try to fight a sim again

Alex: worse. he thinks Mercedes is replacing him with Kimi via the code.

Lando: what the fuck does that even mean.

Alex: he drove a kimi specific package and said—and I quote—“it hated me.” he claims Ana built it specifically to destroy his confidence because she’s grooming Kimi to be Mercedes’ golden boy and also, wait for it, he thinks dating Ana would make him unfireable

Lando: ???????? ??????????

Lando: wait wait wait he wants to date toto’s daughter to secure his contract??

Alex: yeah “stability, integration, legacy” man spoke like he was merging two hedge funds

Lando: bro she’s not a job security plan she’s a Wolff

Alex: he literally said “If I were with Ana, I wouldn’t be replaceable.” like he’s pitching himself for a mergers and acquisitions romance plot

Lando: i’m sorry but does george not realise that ana wolff would eat him alive?

Alex: apparently not he said she “hasn’t seen him at full capacity yet” like he’s a prototype or some shit

Lando: NOOOO

Alex: i genuinely think he believes he’s the Ana Whisperer

Lando: alex she terrifies me i once tried to make small talk and she just stared at me for like ten full seconds

Alex: she does that her resting face has more processing power than my entire laptop…

Lando: i’m so ready for him to try to ask ana out 💀💀💀

***

V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 13 July 2025

The morning light was too gentle. That was the first thing Ana noticed.

The Sardinian sun had the audacity to be soft and golden, as if the night before hadn’t happened. As if she hadn’t unraveled on cold marble, hadn’t let Susie find her collapsed like a broken metronome in the bathroom. As if she hadn’t told Max—Max—to leave and meant it, even as every part of her wanted him to stay.

The shame clung to her skin like salt. Her limbs felt heavy with it.

She’d woken before dawn, already tense, already tired. The adrenaline had burnt out sometime around 3 a.m., leaving her mind cottony and her body raw. The cardigan she’d worn to dinner was still on the floor where she’d dropped it, limp and crumpled. She didn’t pick it up.

She got dressed in silence.

Washed her face. Brushed her hair.

Went to the kitchen and made tea with shaky hands.

And then she went to find her father.

Toto was standing on the upper deck, dressed in a fresh white polo and linen trousers, but even from across the deck, she could see the fatigue in his posture. The way he leaned on the railing just a little too long. The lines around his mouth deeper than usual. The untouched espresso beside him.

He turned as she stepped into the light.

“Anastasia,” he said gently, like she might still break.

“Papa,” she replied. Her voice was steady, even if her stomach wasn’t.

They stood in silence for a moment. Just the sound of waves lapping gently against the hull and the call of gulls overhead.

Then Toto gestured to the seat beside him. “Come sit.”

She obeyed.

The teak felt warm through her cotton trousers. Her tea was too hot, but she didn’t care.

Toto didn’t speak right away. He watched the sea, his expression unreadable.

Then, finally, he said, “Susie told me.”

Ana stared into her tea.

“She said you had a panic attack,” he continued, quietly. “That you were masking all through dinner. That you were trying to be perfect for me.”

Ana didn’t respond.

Toto looked at her now, really looked. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

She nodded once. Still silent.

“I mean it, Sternchen. I don’t want you performing for me. I don’t want you—” He broke off, exhaling roughly. “You shouldn’t have to shape yourself into something unrecognisable just to sit at a dinner table with me.”

“It wasn’t just the dinner,” Ana said softly.

That made him still.

“I know I’ve always been... high-functioning,” she went on, her eyes fixed on the tea in her lap. “But sometimes functioning is just... management. And sometimes it breaks.”

Toto’s jaw clenched. “It’s my fault.”

“No—”

“It is,” he insisted. “I put you in a position where you felt you had to hold everything together. You knew I was trying to close a deal with Max, and you didn’t want to interfere. That’s what this is about, right? The pressure?”

She hesitated.

And in that hesitation, the lie formed.

“Yes,” she said, quietly. “That’s part of it.”

Toto looked pained. “Anastasia…”

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” she continued, forcing the words out one by one. “You’ve worked so hard. And Mercedes needs a lead driver with experience. And I thought if I just—held it together—then it would be fine. I thought I could do that for you.”

Toto leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. “You shouldn’t have had to. Not like that.”

Ana didn’t speak.

Because yes, she had wanted to be perfect for him. She always did. But the breakdown hadn’t been about the deal. Not really. Not about the signature, or the optics, or even the dinner.

It had been about Max.

About Max, and the way he’d looked at her. About the years they’d spent pretending it was just physical. About the ache in her chest when she realised that he could sit next to her, so easy, so casual, while she was busy burning alive from the inside out.

It had been about lying. To herself. To Toto. To everyone.

It had been about the weight of almost, and the unbearable cost of never quite.

And none of that—none—was something she could say.

Not when Toto was already blaming himself.

So she sat still and let him think the guilt was his to carry.

“I just want you to be okay,” he said finally, voice low. “Not perfect. Not poised. Just you.”

Ana looked at him, eyes glassy but calm.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

Toto nodded.

He didn’t press. Didn’t ask for more.

He reached out and gently covered her hand with his own.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, Ana let herself breathe.

It wasn’t relief.

But it was something like mercy.

***

V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 13 July 2025

The others went ashore.

Toto wanted to scout a hiking trail. Susie made noise about fresh fruit at the market. Jack wanted gelato. They offered for her to come along, but Ana claimed a headache and stayed behind.

She didn’t have a headache.

Not exactly.

It’s more like she felt flayed. Like the emotional hangover of last night had peeled her skin back and now the wind hurt.

She was sitting on the sunbed, knees drawn to her chest, oversized sunglasses hiding her puffy eyes. The world was perfect. The yacht was pristine. The sea sparkled like a postcard.

Ana felt like she had been scraped clean from the inside out.

Her phone buzzed beside her.

[MAX VERSTAPPEN]

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blindside you like that.

She stared at it for a long time.

Another buzz.

You were quiet last night. But I saw it. I saw you.

Another.

I can be an idiot sometimes. Do you want to talk?

She typed and deleted four different responses. Eventually landed on:

[ANA WOLFF]

I don’t want to talk.

Pause. Three dots. Then they vanish. Then again:

Where are you?

She didn’t answer.

Ten minutes later, she heard it.

The distant whine of a jet ski cutting across the water, growing louder. She glanced up, already knowing. Max.

He was in a black tee and board shorts, no lifejacket, smug as hell as he swung the thing around and pulled up alongside the yacht like this was normal behavior.

She leant over the rail. “You’re going to get eaten by a shark.”

“You’ve got better odds of getting hit by a Red Bull contract right now,” he grinned.

“Cute.”

“Can I come up?”

“No.”

He tilted his head. “Can I tempt you over here then?”

“A jet ski, really?”

He shrugged, like he wasn’t up all night thinking about her. “Desperate times.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then she climbed down the ladder.

She didn’t speak as he steadied her by the waist and pulled her onto the back of the jet ski. She didn’t speak as he drove them to his yacht, moored around the bend, privacy glass and understated money.

Inside, the air conditioning was soft. The cabin was quiet. The bed was made. There were oranges in a bowl. She didn’t let herself think about the implications of any of that.

Max opened his mouth.

Ana shook her head. “Don’t.”

He stopped.

She stepped forward. Placed one hand on his chest. Then the other.

Max didn’t move.

“Please,” she said. Barely a whisper. “I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to feel. I just want…” Her voice cracked. “You’re the only thing that ever shuts it off.”

It landed somewhere in his chest like a punch. But he nodded.

Okay.

No talking.

No past, no future.

So he kissed her. 

And for a moment everything was perfect. 

***

Unleash the Lion, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 13 July 2025

It had never happened before. Not once.

Ana had always thought of her body as two different operating systems: the one that lived under fluorescent lights and cotton seams, hyperaware of everything that scratched or pressed wrong—and the one that existed when Max touched her.

With Max, it was different.

Always had been.

He never overwhelmed her. Never pushed too far. With him, touch was a language she trusted.

Until that day. 

She couldn’t say what it was exactly. A shift in the air. The drag of a sheet against damp skin. A noise from somewhere beyond the closed door. The room didn’t feel right. She didn’t feel right.

The edge came quick. Sudden. Her throat tightened before she understood what was happening.

Everything she’d been enjoying—his weight above her, the drag of his cock inside her—suddenly became too much.

Her skin twitched like a live wire, an electric jolt beneath her ribs. Her breath stumbled and then galloped. The ceiling, eggshell and textureless and vastly far away, pressed down with its emptiness. 

His jaw was nestled against her shoulder, the scratch of his stubble gentle as always—but now it flickered across her nerves, too rough. She tried to lasso her mind, drag it back from the edge, make it behave.  

This was Max. Safety. This was good, it was supposed to be. Her body revolted.

“Max—” she whispered. “Red.”

He stopped instantly. Like a switch flipped.

Every movement ceased. No hesitation. No confusion.

Max didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

His hands went still where they’d been braced beside her. His eyes met hers—clear, steady, present. Then he eased back with careful slowness, lifting his weight from the bed and reaching for the sheet, pulling it gently up and around her.

No tension in his shoulders. No wounded pride. Just Max, doing exactly what she needed.

Ana curled inward, breath shallow. Her fingers clawed at the edge of the sheet like she could hold herself together by sheer pressure. Her body buzzed with static, every nerve ending lit up too bright.

“Okay. Okay, Nastya. We’re done. I’m right here.”

Ana dragged in a breath, fingers curling hard into the sheets. “Sorry. I just—”

“Don’t apologize,” Max said quietly. Calm. Steady. Like he was holding the whole room still for her.

“It’s not you, I just—” She exhaled hard, frustration biting at the edges. “Something feels wrong. Like my skin’s on fire. I can’t—”

Max’s voice cut in, soft but firm. “Okay. We stop. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Ana curled into herself, pressing her face against her knees, trying to shake the buzz crawling under her skin. “I’m fine,” she muttered.

Max settled beside her, careful not to touch until she shifted closer on her own. “You don’t have to be fine. Not with me.” His voice was gentle when he asked, “Can I do anything?”

That cracked something in her chest. “It’s never happened before. Not with you.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Max said softly.

Ana closed her eyes. “I feel stupid.”

“You’re not,” he said immediately. “You were perfect. You told me what you needed. That’s the whole point.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him—at the calm, steady way he sat there, concern in his eyes but no trace of hurt. No defensiveness. No bruised ego.

She had no idea what it had been that had tripped the switch.

They had done far more adventurous things than missionary over the years. Far more adventurous. She had let him tie her up. She had trusted him to choke her, for fuck’s sake. And none of that had freaked her out. 

But this was…

Ana risked glancing at him. His expression wasn’t pity. It wasn’t frustration. It was just… Max. Steady and present and entirely hers.

He brushed a stray piece of hair from her face, fingers feather-light. “What do you need?”

Ana let out a shaky laugh. “Honestly? You holding me and not talking for a minute.”

Max smiled faintly. “I can do that.”

He wrapped his arms around her—loose, unpressured, just there—and she let herself melt into him, the static slowly bleeding away.

After a while, she whispered, “You’re not… upset?”

Max made a soft sound. “Ana. You think I’d be upset because you needed to use your safeword? That’s not how this works. That’s never how this works.”

Her chest loosened slightly.

His fingers traced slow, idle patterns along the edge of the blanket. “You said Red, and I listened. That’s it. That’s the whole point. You say stop, we stop. You say softer, we go softer. You say nothing, I still listen. I always will.”

Ana huffed a tiny laugh, the tension easing a fraction. “You’re… annoyingly good at this.”

“Yeah,” Max said, grinning faintly, eyes crinkling in the light. “That’s because I like you more than my ego.”

And somehow, that made everything feel quiet again.

***

Unleash the Lion, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 13 July 2025

He hadn’t seen it coming.

Not the way Ana’s voice sounded. Not the way she said it.

He had been above her—close, quiet, everything slow—and then:

“Max,” she said, barely a whisper. “Red.”

And his whole body stilled.

Max had always prided himself on reading Ana well. Not just in bed. In everything. The flickers behind her eyes, the half-second silences between words. He noticed things other people didn’t. That was the entire foundation of whatever this was. Her rules. His patience. The trust between them, built in inches over years.

But this—this he hadn’t seen coming.

She didn’t even flinch when she said it. But her voice—

It was like she’d reached for a parachute mid-fall.

He pulled back immediately. No hesitation. No questions. Just movement. The sheet, the space, the silence.

Ana curled in on herself like her body needed to protect something inside it. Max sat beside her, careful not to touch, trying to keep his breathing even when everything in his chest had gone tight.

He had never heard her use a safeword before.

Never.

Not in ten years. Not with him.

And worse than that—worse than the fear that he’d done something wrong—was the fact that she’d been the one who initiated this.

After everything she hadn’t said.

She’d pulled him into the bedroom with that familiar blankness in her eyes. The one that always meant I don’t want to talk. I just want you.

And Max had said yes.

Because he always did.

Because sometimes it felt like that was the only version of her he was allowed to have. The physical one. The one who needed him with her body, even if her words stayed locked behind her teeth.

She never wanted to talk about her parents. About Mercedes. About feelings. But she’d come find him after a press day, or a bad flight, or a dinner like that one—and he’d let her.

He’d always let her.

So when she kissed him earlier, sharp and urgent, he’d followed. Let it happen. Let himself believe, even for a second, that she was fine. That maybe this—this touch, this wanting—was how she steadied herself.

But now—

Now she was trembling beside him, breath shallow, and all he could think about was how badly he’d missed it.

How badly he’d missed her.

The first thing she said was “Sorry.”

Of course she did.

Max closed his eyes for a second, breathed in slowly, trying to quiet the panic scratching at the edge of his own ribs.

This wasn’t about him.

It wasn’t.

But his mind kept circling back.

He thought he’d known her body. Known what she needed. He’d made a career out of instinct. Out of reading pressure and weight and timing.

But he hadn’t seen this coming.

And the worst part?

He should’ve.

She’d barely spoken at dinner. Barely looked at him. Her shoulders had been tight since she walked through the door.

He should’ve known.

“I feel stupid,” she muttered beside him.

Max’s throat tightened. “You’re not.”

And he meant it. God, he meant it.

But that voice in the back of his head—quiet, cruel—whispered: You should’ve asked. You should’ve noticed. You should’ve said no.

You should’ve protected her from this. Even from herself.

“I just—something feels wrong,” she whispered. “Like my skin’s on fire. I can’t—”

Max stayed still. Voice low. “Okay. We stop. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His brain was racing. Not with judgment. Not with frustration. With questions. Did she want him here at all? Was he making it worse just by being in the room?

Did she come to him for comfort, or because he was the easiest way to feel nothing?

“I’m fine,” she muttered.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t touch her again, not until she moved closer—her body brushing his like she needed it. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

She whispered, “It’s never happened before. Not with you.”

And that broke him a little.

Because it meant that even the one safe place she used to have—him—wasn’t safe tonight.

She looked at him like she was waiting for something. For frustration. For pride. For pain.

He gave her none of that.

“You did exactly what you were supposed to,” he said gently. “You told me. I listened. That’s it.”

But it did shake him.

Because Max had built his whole understanding of Ana on the fact that with him, she didn’t have to flinch. Didn’t have to explain.

She’d asked for sex like it was a shield—and he’d said yes, thinking it would soothe the thing neither of them wanted to say out loud.

Maybe it had always been like this. Maybe he just didn’t want to see it.

Ana tucked into him like she was trying to disappear. She whispered something like “You’re not upset?” and his chest cracked wider.

How little did she think of him, to expect anger?

How little did she expect gentleness?

“No,” he said, quietly. “Ana. You think I’d be upset because you needed to use your safeword? That’s not how this works. That’s never how this works.”

She didn’t answer.

But she relaxed a little. Breathing softer now. The tremble in her hands slowing.

He laid there, holding her, steady as he could. Let her come back in her own time.

They laid there in silence for a while.

Ana's back was tucked against his chest, her knees drawn up, the sheet wrapped loosely around them both. He didn’t move. Not because he didn’t want to—he always wanted to touch her, to hold her closer—but because he knew the difference between comfort and pressure. And right now, even the weight of expectation would be too much.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low.

Ana didn’t answer.

Not for a long time.

Then, finally: “For which part?”

He winced, just slightly. But he deserved that.

“For ambushing you,” he said. “For not thinking it through. For thinking that because I was ready, you had to be too.”

Ana didn’t shift. Didn’t turn around. She just lay still, like her body was still negotiating whether or not it could trust the air.

“You blindsided me,” she said quietly. “With my family. With you.”

“I know.”

“You sat across from my father and smiled like it didn’t matter.”

“It mattered,” Max said quickly. “I was just trying to—” He exhaled. “God. I don’t even know what I was trying to do. Be close to you? Exist in your world a little? Make the transition feel less... cold?”

Her shoulder tensed. “It wasn’t your world to walk into.”

Max nodded against her back. “I know that now.”

Silence again. Heavy and thick.

“I had a panic attack in the bathroom after you left,” she said, almost conversational. “Susie found me. Do you know what I told her? That I was scared I’d ruin Toto’s contract.”

He turned his head slightly to look at her, but she kept her gaze fixed on the sheets.

“I lied to my parents,” Ana murmured. “Because it was easier than telling the truth. Easier than saying: you walked into that dinner and reminded me that I don’t get to have anything that isn’t compartmentalized.”

Max’s chest tightened. “Ana…”

She finally looked at him then, and he saw it. The cracks. The hairline fractures in the mask she’d built so carefully over the years. She wasn’t angry. Not really. She was tired.

Bone-deep tired.

“You didn’t just show up for dinner, Max,” she said quietly. “You showed up in the one place I can’t hide from. And you made me pretend we were strangers. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

Max opened his mouth, then shut it.

He could see the truth of it in her eyes — the strain, the exhaustion, the small tremor in her hands that had nothing to do with what happened moments ago and everything to do with what happened last night.

He wanted to say he was sorry again, but it felt too small.

Instead, he brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.” Her voice was softer now, but not forgiving. “That’s the worst part. You never mean to. But you did.”

Max felt that one land. Hard.

He didn’t push. He didn’t argue. He knew if he reached too far, too fast, she’d shut down completely. And if he lost her here, he wasn’t sure he’d get her back.

So he just held her a little closer, careful not to make it a cage. “Tell me what you need,” he said quietly.

Ana’s shoulders dropped the tiniest fraction. “I need you not to make decisions for me.”

Max nodded. “Okay.”

“And I need you to stop pretending this is easy.”

His chest ached. “It’s not easy. Not even close.”

That earned him the faintest flicker of a smile. Small. Fragile. But real.

“I’m still angry,” she said.

“I know,” Max said. “I’ll wait until you’re not.”

Ana closed her eyes, head tipping back against his shoulder. “That might take a while.”

Max kissed the crown of her head, gentle. “Then I’ll wait a while.”

He felt her exhale, long and shaky, the tension bleeding out by degrees.

Max didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held her there in the quiet, careful not to push, careful not to lose the only piece of her she was willing to give him right now.

He wanted to pull her closer. Tell her none of it mattered. That she didn’t need to carry the weight of being perfect. That he didn’t care about clean endings or rules or how tightly she could hold her boundaries in place.

But he didn’t.

Because he also knew if he pushed—even a little—he’d lose her. ***

PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel

Andromeda 🛰️ is online

JadeQueen 👑 is online

Andromeda: You awake?

JadeQueen: Always. What’s going on?

Andromeda: Something happened. With him.

JadeQueen: ...the same him you’ve been writing about since undergrad? The ghost boy? The one you swore wasn’t serious and then accidentally memorized his entire schedule?

Andromeda: 🙄 Yes. Him.

JadeQueen: Okay. Lay it on me.

Andromeda: He came to dinner. With my family.

JadeQueen: Wait—what?

Andromeda:Showed up. Sat across the table from my father like it was normal. Didn’t tell me. Didn’t ask. Just… arrived.

JadeQueen: Annie. That’s— I mean, fuck. That’s not just inconsiderate. That’s setting you up to implode.

Andromeda: It was like watching a building collapse in slow motion. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I smiled. Ate my food. Played the part.

JadeQueen: Because you always do. But that doesn’t mean you should have to.

Andromeda: Afterwards I had a panic attack. Locked myself in the bathroom. My stepmother found me. I lied and said I was scared I’d messed up a work contract. Which wasn’t untrue.

JadeQueen: I want to throw something across the room. Maybe at him. You told me once—he’s the only person who doesn’t overload your system. Who makes you feel safe. How does this fit into that?

Andromeda: That’s the thing. He’s still the only place that feels quiet. But last night it wasn’t. Last night, everything was too much. Even him.

JadeQueen: …Did you tell him that?

Andromeda: I haven’t. Not really. I— I shut down. We slept together instead. And then I had a panic attack halfway through.

JadeQueen: Shit. Annie.

Andromeda: I used my safeword. For the first time ever. He stopped immediately. He was… perfect, honestly. But I still feel like I broke something.

JadeQueen: You didn’t break anything. You reached your limit and he respected it. That’s healthy. That’s what it’s supposed to look like.

Andromeda:Part of me still can’t stop thinking— Why didn’t he ask me?

JadeQueen: Because he assumed you’d just deal. Like you always do. Because he’s gotten used to having you without having to earn all of you.

Andromeda: I think he thought it would help. Like—maybe it would be less painful if he forced the overlap. My family, my work, him.

JadeQueen: Except you’ve built those walls for a reason. And pushing past them without asking? That’s not love. That’s selfish.

Andromeda: He wasn’t cruel. Just… thoughtless. I think he wanted to be seen. To belong to something that wasn’t just stolen moments.

JadeQueen: And what about you, Ana? Do you want to belong to him in the open? Or has this whole thing always been easier because it wasn’t real in daylight?

Andromeda: It’s real. God, it’s so real. That’s the problem. I can’t be what he wants.

JadeQueen: What do you think he wants?

Andromeda: Someone open. Someone soft. Someone who lets him in without needing five locks and a security clearance.

JadeQueen: Okay, but—do you know that’s what he wants? Or do you just assume that’s what people expect of him?

Andromeda: It doesn’t matter. Because I can’t be that. I’m not built that way. He deserves someone who doesn’t keep a firewall around their heart.

JadeQueen: Or maybe you’ve just learned to expect that everyone will leave, so you beat them to it. Maybe you’re not afraid of being unloved. Maybe you’re afraid of being loved well.

JadeQueen:Make it real on your terms. Not like this. You don’t owe him your silence. And you definitely don’t owe him your trust if he keeps taking it for granted.

Andromeda: I don’t know what to do. I want to forgive him. I also want to cry and scream and never let anyone see that part of me again.

JadeQueen: You’re allowed both. You’re allowed to love him and still be furious. You’re allowed to protect your peace even from the people you love.

Andromeda: I’m so tired. It’s like I’ve spent years holding all my pieces together and now I’ve run out of glue.

JadeQueen: Then let something break. The right people will help you rebuild. The wrong ones will be angry they can’t access you anymore.

Andromeda: I don’t know what kind he’ll be.

JadeQueen: Then watch. Let him do the work. Let him earn the pieces of you he wants to keep.

Andromeda: You always make it sound so simple.

JadeQueen: It’s not simple. It’s just true.

Andromeda 🛰️ is offline

Chat archived

***

Twitter Thread: Sardinia

@/F1RumourMill:

📸

[Attached: grainy photo shots of two luxury yachts moored in Porto di Olbia. One clearly ID’d as Toto Wolff’s, the other as Max Verstappen’s.]

uhhhhhh so apparently Toto Wolff’s yacht and Max Verstappen’s yacht are docked next to each other in Sardinia 👀👀

@/chicanesandtea: ok but WHY are they both in Olbia at the same time??? [toto voice] “coincidence.”

↳@/gridgirlmaths: coincidence yeah sure and my cat just accidentally did my taxes

@/softtyresonly: I’m not saying contract talks. I’m just saying CONTRACT TALKS.

@/paddockcryptid: this feels like one of those nature documentaries where two apex predators meet at a watering hole and decide who lives

@/undercutqueen: if Max really jumps to Merc in ‘26 this is going to be the funniest “we should’ve seen it coming” moment in history

@/dutchlaps: ok but what if it’s just rich people vacationing???

↳@/latifisburner: rich people don’t vacation with other team principals unless they want something.

@/rumbleintherumble: Plot twist: they’re all just sharing sunscreen.

↳@/tracklimitslol: this isn’t fanfic this is either the start of a dynasty or the end of Red Bull as we know it

@/YachtWatchF1: Two superyachts docking this close is an act of war in Monaco. In Sardinia? It’s foreplay.

@/MScorpAnalytics:

Mercedes’ stock has gone up 1.6% in the last three hours.

Coincidence?

@/w14toto: toto wolff. max verstappen. SAME MARINA. concrete negotiations my ass, this is a whole MERCEDES PR STRATEGY MEETING

@/charlesonfilm:

i see the vision:

✨soft mediterranean light

✨linen shirts

✨contract negotiations disguised as family dinner

@/rumourmillf1:

plot twist: they’re all just arguing about power unit integration and we’re out here writing fanfiction in real time

@/redflagthirst: does anyone else hear wedding bells or am i just dehydrated.

@/understeerqueen: Wedding bells?? babes that’s the sound of a 2026 Mercedes power unit spinning up. same difference tho.

@/chicanequeen: ok BUT WHY ARE THEY PARKED NEXT TO EACH OTHER this is not “casual mooring” this is strategic docking

@/tyregossip: if this is what I think it is… Toto really said “vacation negotiations”

@/paddockcryptid: someone find Ana Wolff. if she’s on that yacht I’m putting money on this being 2026 Mercedes contract talks

@/ERSplease: no because imagine being a random fisherman and you just see Max Verstappen and Toto Wolff having wine on adjacent decks. Sardinia did not sign up for this level of F1 drama

@/w14engine:

if Max goes to Mercedes I am calling this photo the origin story. someone screencap this for Drive to Survive season 8

@/gridpanic: do you people understand what you’re saying. you’re implying Max Verstappen is casually on vacation with Toto Wolff’s family.

@/brakebiasbabe: besties. if Toto and Max are on vacation together it’s already DONE. someone at Red Bull is sweating through their polo shirt rn.

@/undercutking: this is giving “one dinner in Sardinia and a 5-year contract” energy.

@/enginewhisperer: plot twist: Max’s yacht broke and Toto is just giving him a tow.

@/motorsporttea: Mercedes x Verstappen 2026 CONFIRMED?? 👀👀👀

@/gridcryptid:

what if it’s just like. vacation bros. “hey max, want to come over for a barbecue?”

***

Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”

 (Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: WHAAAAAAAAAAT

Oscar: …what did you break now?

Lando: I DIDN’T BREAK ANYTHING go on twitter RIGHT NOW

Carlos: What am I looking at?

Lando: TOTO’S YACHT MAX’S YACHT SARDINIA NEXT TO EACH OTHER

Daniel: oh my god

Oscar: …are we really doing the yacht conspiracy thing?

Lando: YES. YES WE ARE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS????

Carlos: That they both like… water?

Lando: NO MERCEDES. 2026. OH MY GOD. MAX IS GOING TO MERCEDES.

Daniel: my popcorn is already in the microwave

Oscar: This is all from a blurry yacht photo?

Lando: YES. THAT’S HOW THE INTERNET WORKS.

Carlos: Lando, breathe.

Lando: I CAN’T BREATHE. IF HE LEAVES RED BULL… WHAT THEN?

Oscar: …if this is true, Netflix is going to lose its mind.

Daniel: we’re all going to lose our minds

Carlos: Can we wait for actual confirmation before declaring the end of the world?

Lando: NO. THE END IS HERE. TOTO. MAX. YACHTS. IT’S HAPPENING.

Oscar: He’s been like this since Austria, hasn’t he?

Carlos: Sí. It’s getting worse.

Daniel: nah, let him have this. yacht conspiracies are the best conspiracies.

Lando: THANK YOU DANIEL. SOMEONE GETS IT. george’s master plan is officially crashing and burning

Oscar: … what master plan?

Carlos: What?

Daniel: wait what

Lando: GEORGE wants to DATE ANA WOLFF so that TOTO WON’T FIRE HIM

Oscar: I— WHAT

Carlos: ¿Perdón?

Daniel: SHUT UP NO HE DOESN’T

Lando: YES HE DOES and he thinks it’s a tactical advantage

Oscar: This is the worst strategy since Ferrari 2022

Daniel: I’m sorry, what kind of Bridgerton nonsense is this

Carlos: You're saying George thought dating Ana = job security???

Lando: yes. he literally said "if I were with Ana, I wouldn't be replaceable" and something about "structural alignment" like it was a merger

Oscar: oh my god

Daniel: okay. okay. that’s actually iconic. deranged. but iconic.

Carlos: He knows who she is, right? Like he’s met her?

Lando: bro. he said she just hasn’t seen him “at full capacity” yet like he’s a wind tunnel

Oscar: this can’t be real

Lando: hold on adding alex he had to live through the whole conversation

>> Alex Albon has been added to the chat <<

Alex: why am I being summoned

Lando: tell them tell them what george said

Alex: oh. yeah. he thinks dating Toto’s daughter will secure his seat called it a “long-term integration strategy”

Daniel: OH MY GOD

Carlos: No no no no no no

Oscar: that’s not dating that’s a hostile acquisition

Alex: he also accused Ana of writing code with a personal vendetta

Lando: and now he thinks she’s going to “come around” eventually like she’s a vintage espresso machine and not a person

Carlos: I fear he’s not going to survive it

Alex: he called it mutually beneficial I nearly filed an HR complaint on her behalf

Daniel: Ana’s going to look at him once and shut down his entire emotional operating system

Carlos: I don’t even think she’ll need words just one blink and a single “No.”

Oscar: this is the most entertaining midseason breakdown we’ve ever had

Lando: i’m still not over “you haven’t seen me at full capacity yet” LIKE WHAT

Daniel: please write that on his tombstone

Daniel: can we all agree to watch this in real time no interventions

Lando: agreed maximum chaos

Alex: I’ll bring popcorn and a backup therapist

Oscar: I’ll bring a fire extinguisher. Just in case.

Carlos: and I’ll bring a shovel to dig the grave George will jump into himself

Lando: WE’RE SO BACK.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

Daniel: So. How was dinner with your future father-in-law 😏

Max: Daniel. No.

Daniel: Oh come on. You can’t just not say anything. You were on a yacht Eating pasta With Toto Wolff While sitting across from a woman you’ve been secretly sleeping with for a decade.

Max: Do you want me to die? Is that it?

Daniel: I mean. It’d be dramatic. But no. I like you alive.

Max: He doesn’t know. And he’s not going to know. Unless you say something.

Daniel: Me?! You think I’m the security breach here??

Max: Yes. Absolutely. 100%.

Daniel: Fair. But also. You do realize at some point you’re going to have to tell him, right? You can’t just show up to Brackley in 2026 like “Hi Toto, I brought my race engineer and also I’ve been defiling your daughter since 2016.”

Max: Daniel I swear to god.

Daniel: Just saying!! If I were Toto, I’d want advance warning before handing you a power unit and the Wi-Fi password.

Max: Do you enjoy stress testing my blood pressure?

Daniel: Deeply. Also: You’re in love with her. So maybe stop acting like this is still a casual thing and start thinking about how not to get punched into the Adriatic by her dad.

Max: … Working on it.

Daniel: Good. Because if you fuck this up, I’m team Ana.

Max: Everyone is team Ana.

Daniel: That’s because she’s terrifying and brilliant. And has better taste than you deserve.

Max: Thank you. Really helping.

Daniel: Anytime, future son-in-law. 🫡

***

Text Messages:  Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: You made Jack’s week. He hasn’t stopped talking about DRS since you left.

Max: good he’s a smart kid and very pro-DRS 

Ana: I’m still mad at you.

Max: I know. You can be mad. I’ll take it.

Ana: It’s exhausting being mad at you.

Max: then don’t be just tell me what to do to fix it

Ana: Don’t make me lie like that again. Not to them. Not to myself.

Max: …okay. promise.

Ana: Goodnight, Max.

Max: goodnight, Nastya.

***

V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 14 July 2025

The sea was so calm it looked like someone had ironed it flat. Ana was sitting cross-legged on the sunbed, laptop balanced on her knees, pretending she wasn’t working when her phone buzzed against the teak table.

She answered without thinking. “Wolff.”

“Anastasia.” The voice was warm, clipped in that very specific Cambridge way. “You’re still frighteningly efficient at answering calls.”

Ana blinked. “Henry?”

Toto, half-reading a report at the other end of the deck, glanced up.

“I see you remember me fondly,” Henry Portman said dryly. “Isn’t like you remembered to return my last call.” 

Ana pinched the bridge of her nose. “I remember you apologizing over stale scones and saying, ‘I’m so sorry, I think I’m actually quite gay, darling.’”

There was a pause. Then a huff of laughter. “Ah, yes. My emotional magnum opus.”

Toto froze. Ana didn’t notice.

“I’m on vacation,” she said flatly. “This better be good.”

“It is,” Henry said smoothly. “I have a student. Second-year engineering. Energy systems prodigy. The kind of mind that makes professors feel like they’ve been coasting since their PhD. I immediately thought of you.”

Ana sat up a little straighter despite herself. “Define prodigy.”

“The kind who can look at a hybrid flow model and tell you exactly where you’ve bled two percent efficiency just by blinking at it,” Henry said. “They want F1. They want Brackley. And frankly, you’d be an idiot not to steal them before Red Bull gets wind.”

Ana was already reaching for a notepad. “Name?”

Henry chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Send me their work. I’ll decide if they’re worth the email.”

“Oh, Anastasia,” Henry said fondly, “if you’d been this terrifying 8 years ago, our six weeks would’ve lasted three.”

Ana snorted. “You dumped me because you realized men were your thing, Henry.”

“Technicality.”

Toto’s pen froze over his tablet.

Ana rolled her eyes and scribbled down the name he rattled off, already mentally cross-referencing the CVs she’d seen last quarter. “Fine. I’ll look.”

“Good girl,” Henry said. “I’ll buy you a drink next time I’m in Monaco. Unless you’re still terrifyingly efficient at declining invitations.”

“I am.”

“I wouldn’t expect less.” There was a beat, then: “And Ana? You’re still the smartest person I’ve ever slept with.”

Ana deadpanned, “Henry, the bar for that compliment is subterranean with the exception of Edward.”

He laughed. “Goodbye, Anastasia.”

She hung up and went back to her notes like nothing happened.

Henry Portman. Six weeks. One disastrous love affair. One mutual escape hatch when he realized he was very much gay after all.

And now, 6 years later, still occasionally blowing up her phone with prodigies and poor life choices.

***

V, Porto di Olbia, Olbia, Sardinia - 14 July 2025

He’d been expecting… what? A technical call. An engineer. A supplier. Something dry and predictable, the kind of thing Ana answered in that perfectly even tone that meant she was already three steps ahead of everyone else in the conversation.

He hadn’t been expecting Henry. Or the words “I think I’m actually quite gay.” Or his daughter, without missing a beat, replying, “I remember you apologizing over stale scones.”

Toto’s pen froze above the report. His brain stalled.

Henry? Six weeks?

Ana had never — never — talked about relationships. Not once. He had assumed, quietly and carefully, that maybe she just… wasn’t interested. Romance, sex, dating — all things other people complicated their lives with. His daughter? His daughter built thousands of lines of code and named them after stars. She didn’t…

And then Ana, casually as if she were discussing brake bias, said, “You dumped me because you realized men were your thing.”

Toto nearly choked on his espresso.

He sat there in stunned silence, watching his daughter calmly write down a name, like she hadn’t just detonated an entire decade of assumptions in under thirty seconds.

He didn’t get a chance to speak before Ana hung up, set her phone down, and went straight back to her notes as if nothing had happened.

Toto cleared his throat. “Do I… want to know what that was?”

Ana didn’t even look up. “Henry Portman. Cambridge. Horrid love affair. Calls when he has students worth poaching. He wasn’t technically my professor,” she said. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Toto’s brain glitched. “I’m worried about everything right now.”

Ana sighed. “He realized he was gay after six weeks. I realized I hated sharing my workspace. It was mutually disastrous.”

“You never told me you’d… dated anyone.”

Now she looked up. Blinked once. “You never asked.”

“I just assumed—” He stopped himself.

Ana raised one brow. “That I wasn’t interested in sex?”

Toto coughed violently. “Anastasia.”

She shrugged. “I’m autistic, Papa, not a Victorian ghost.”

Before he could respond, Susie walked out onto the deck holding a bowl of apricots. She took one look at Toto’s face and said, “What happened?”

“Anastasia” he said faintly, “has had boyfriends.”

Susie snorted. “Well, of course she has.”

Toto turned. “You knew?”

“I put her on birth control when she was sixteen,” Susie said cheerfully, popping an apricot into her mouth. “I wasn’t going to have her experimenting with someone’s idiot son without protection.”

Toto turned to her, scandalized. “You what?!”

“I wanted her to be safe,” Susie said, perfectly calm.

“You didn’t tell me!”

“You would’ve panicked,” Susie replied.

“I just—” He gestured vaguely, floundering. “You’ve never… mentioned anyone.”

“Because they were not worth mentioning,” Ana said simply, and went back to typing.

Toto stared. “There were others?”

Ana, still not looking at him: “Henry. And that sustainability consultant in Berlin who cried during sex for reasons I still don’t understand.”

Toto’s jaw actually dropped. “Anastasia Yelena!”

“I didn’t make him cry,” she said mildly. “It just… happened. Once. Unclear why.”

“Berlin,” Toto repeated faintly, like maybe if he said it enough times it would make sense. “You were in Berlin—”

“Conference. 2019. Also, technically, a date with Charles Leclerc in 2018. Fred Vasseur set it up. He spoke about Ferrari like it was a religion. It freaked me out.”

Toto made a faint choking noise. “Charles—what—what?”

Ana shrugged. “He meant well. It was just… a lot of red and dogma. He looked at the Prancing Horse logo like it was the Holy Trinity and spoke about Maranello like it was Vatican City. It was weird. We did not have chemistry.”

Toto stared. “You—you went on a date with—”

“Yes,” Ana said simply. “No, we didn’t kiss. Yes, he paid for dinner. No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Toto was still staring at Anastasia like she’d just confessed to arson. “You—none of this—you never told me any of this!”

Toto rubbed his temple, trying to reconcile Ana, who spent most of her teenage years buried in schematics and complaining about scratchy fabrics, with Ana, who apparently had multiple boyfriends.

“I—how long have you—”

“I lost my virginity after Monaco 2016,” Ana said matter-of-factly. “Lewis took me clubbing.”

Toto stared at her, slack-jawed. Susie had gone back to flipping through her magazine like this was Tuesday and not the complete obliteration of everything he’d assumed about his daughter’s personal life.

Ana was calm. Unbothered. Typing something on her laptop like she hadn’t just verbally defibrillated her father across the teak breakfast table.

Toto actually made a noise that might have been a strangled what. “Lewis?!”

“Not with Lewis,” Ana said with faint exasperation. “He just took me to the club. I met someone my age.”

He could barely form words. “I’m sorry—what?”

Ana glanced up. “I was eighteen, Papa. It was legal. I was sober. I wanted it. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t a mistake. It was mine. He was my age. He knew what he was doing, which I cannot say for most eighteen-year-old boys, so I consider myself very lucky.  It was great.”

The deck went silent. The sound of waves slapping gently against the hull felt suddenly obscene.

Toto's brain short-circuited. “You—Anastasia—you can’t just say things like that!”

Susie, from her lounge chair, sipped her coffee and didn’t even look up. “At least she didn’t say it was disappointing. Most people’s first times are.”

Toto swung toward her like she’d lost her mind. “Susie!”

“What?” she said mildly. “Would you prefer she lied and said she waited until marriage in a castle somewhere in the Alps?”

“Yes!” Toto barked. Then froze. “No! I—I don’t know!” Toto scrubbed a hand over his face. “Who?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ana said smoothly, already looking back at her laptop.

“Doesn’t matter?! You just—Ana—eighteen—great—”

Ana just went back to her laptop, unruffled. “He knew what he was doing,” she repeated. “That’s all you need to know.”

Toto let out an audible gasp. “Anastasia.”

“What?” Anastasia said, expression flat. “You said I should experience the world. I experienced it.”

“You—” Toto’s voice cracked an octave higher than he’d like to admit. “You never said anything about any of this!”

Ana finally looked up, expression perfectly calm. “Because it was irrelevant.”

Toto stared at her. 

“I need a drink,” he muttered.

Susie patted his arm sweetly. “I’ll pour you one. But honestly, Toto, did you really think she got her PhD without at least one disastrous affair?”

Ana, looking vaguely satisfied, picked her laptop back up and muttered, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a prodigy to poach.”

And just like that, the conversation was over.

***

Text Messages:  Fred Vasseur & Toto Wolff

Toto: Fred. Explain to me why I am just now learning that you once set my daughter up on a date with Charles Leclerc.

Fred: Ah. That.

Toto: That?! You set up my daughter with a Ferrari driver. MY daughter. WITH CHARLES.

Fred: To be fair, he wasn’t a Ferrari Driver then. He was still at Sauber. I told him to go for the smartest girl he could. Didn’t work out. Probably for the best. Otherwise there would’ve been a fistfight in the paddock.

Toto: …WHAT?! Why would there be a fistfight in the paddock?!

Fred: You know. Egos. Racing drivers. It’s a small sport.

Toto: That’s not an answer.

Fred: Relax, it was one date. She left before dessert.

Toto: Before dessert?!

Fred: She said Charles talked about Ferrari like it was a religion. Honestly? She’s not wrong.

Toto: Frederic.  If I find out you ever tried matchmaking in my family again, there will be a fistfight in the paddock.

***

Text Messages:  Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: I should probably thank you for making my first time having sex… pleasant.

Max: …what?

Ana: You heard me. 2016. Monaco. That was my first time.

Max: Ana. No. You’re joking.

Ana: Why would I joke about that?

Max: because holy fucking shit you didn’t TELL me?!

Ana: You didn’t ask. You seemed confident.

Max: CONFIDENT??? ANA. THAT WAS MY FIRST TIME TOO.

Ana: …wait. What?

Max: YES WHAT. YOU THINK I JUST CASUALLY HAD PRACTICE BEFORE THAT??

Ana: …you were very good at it for a first time.

Max: so were you! jesus christ we’ve been doing this for almost TEN YEARS and you’re telling me this now??

Ana: It only came up in conversation today.

Max: with WHO?!

Ana: My father.

Max: YOUR WHAT ANA.

Ana: Relax. I didn’t mention you.

Max: oh great thank you love that for me love that for us holy shit

Ana: Are you upset?

Max: no?? I’m just— we were each other’s firsts?? this whole time?? Nastya... That’s… kind of insane.

Ana: Is it?

Max: yeah. insane. perfect. …kind of makes sense though, doesn’t it?

Ana: Yes. It does. You’re welcome.

Max: You’re welcome?

Ana: For making your first time pleasant too.

***

Group Chat: “TEAM 33”

 (Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)

Max: I’m going to sign with Mercedes.

Raymond: Is this a joke or should I pour a drink?

Jos: What happened to “Red Bull for life”?

Max: Life changed.

Raymond: Max. Are you serious?

Max: Yeah. I’ve thought about it. I’m done with the politics. And I want to win again. But more than that—I want to want it. Mercedes gives me that right now.

Jos: I thought we said we’d wait until the summer break. You’ve barely spoken to Red Bull since Austria.

Max: Yeah. And that’s not changing. You know how it’s been. You’ve seen it.

Raymond: This isn’t just about the car, is it.

Max: No.

Jos: Is this about her?

Max: It’s not only about her. But yeah. It’s also about Ana. And before you say anything—I know what I’m doing.

Jos: I’m not saying anything. Yet.

Raymond: When are you telling them?

Max: Toto’s sending over the final paperwork by next week. I’ll wait until Spa to make it official. I owe GP a proper conversation first.

Jos: And Red Bull?

Max: I’ll tell them in person. But I’m not staying out of guilt either.

Raymond: If this is what you want, we’re behind you.

Max: I don’t want chaos. I just want a fresh start. And I want to be close to her. Not halfway across the paddock pretending we’re nothing.

Raymond: Jesus Christ.

Max: Just line things up. Quietly. I’ll handle the rest.

Jos: If you’re happy, that’s what matters. But don’t half-ass it. Don’t go unless you’re ready to win in silver too.

Max:I’m not going to Mercedes to play house. I’m going to fucking race. The rest is just a bonus.

***

Lambiase Residence, Milton Keynes, England - 17 July 2025

The sun was doing that rare British thing where it remembered how to be warm, and the Lambiase garden was full of the kind of suburban tranquility that always makes Max feel like he’s wandered into someone else’s life.

Francesca’s bike was leaning against the fence. A pile of schoolbooks sat abandoned under the outdoor table, next to what appeared to be a French verb sheet with increasingly dramatic doodles in the margins.

“Don’t step on that,” GP called from the open kitchen door. “She’ll accuse you of ruining her academic future.”

Max grinned, carefully bypasses the paper, and walked through the open door into the house that still smells faintly of tomato sauce and something sweet cooling on the counter.

GP was barefoot, in jeans and a hoodie, holding a cup of espresso like it’s a weapon.

“You didn’t come here for coffee,” he said without preamble.

“No,” Max replied, and his grin faded.

GP gestured toward the dining table. “So? Let’s have it.”

Max sat, exhaled slowly. “I’m going to sign with Mercedes.”

GP didn’t react immediately. Just sips. Nods once. “Okay.”

Max blinked. “Okay?”

GP leant back in his chair. “You’ve been heading this way since April. I’ve just been waiting for you to admit it out loud.”

There was a long pause. A quiet sort of relief and grief mingling in the air.

Max said, voice lower now, “You’re still coming with me?”

GP raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I’ve stuck with you this long because I like Milton Keynes?”

That earned a faint laugh.

“You didn’t even ask why.”

“I know why.” GP leant back, exhaling like a man who’s been waiting for this shoe to drop. 

Max fidgeted. “You’re okay with it?”

“I’ve had worse breakups,” GP said dryly. Then adds, more gently: “You’re not doing this because of how bad things are—you’re doing it because you want more than what you’re getting. I can respect that.”

Max nodded, grateful. But then GP raised a hand.

“Just so you’re prepared… once this leaks—or once you breathe the wrong way in the wrong corridor—they’ll place me on gardening leave. Effective immediately.”

Max’s stomach twisted. “Shit.”

“I’ll be gone before the next race,” GP said. “They’ll assign you a new race engineer to finish the season. It’ll be awkward. It’ll be political. You’ll survive.”

“I don’t want to do this without you.”

“I’ll be there when it matters,” GP said. “And besides—gardening leave just means I finally get to sleep through FP3.”

The silence that followed is almost companionable. Old war comrades, planning one last mutiny.

 Then GP tilted his head. “Is she part of this too?”

Max doesn’t ask who she is.

“Yes,” he answers. “Not the only reason. But enough of one.”

GP drained the rest of his glass. “Then we’d better make it worth it.”

A door creaked upstairs, then soft footsteps on the staircase.

“Hi, Max,” Francesca, GP’s 16 year old daughter, said as she came into the kitchen, ponytail askew and hoodie sleeves too long. Max the dog hot on her heels, wagging his tail excitedly.

“Hey, Chess,” Max said, smiling a little. “Destroying education one croissant at a time?”

“She’s deciding where she wants to do her A-Levels,” GP muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Currently obsessed with Bosworth.”

Francesca shrugged. “It has a strong STEM program and good fencing facilities.”

Max nodded, thoughtful. “It’s a good school.”

Francesca perks up. “You know it?”

“Ana Wolff went there,” Max says casually, then immediately regrets it as GP's wife stuck her head into the garden with a tray of lemon tarts and raises a very interested eyebrow.

GP glares. “Don’t you dare tell Francesca that Ana Wolff went to Bosworth.”

Max, shameless: “She already heard me.”

Francesca beams. “Wait, seriously? That’s so cool—”

GP hums. “It only costs, you know, forty thousand pounds a term, so what could go wrong.”

GP’s wife, Eloisa, gave him a warm smile as she checks the oven for something that smells suspiciously like homemade lasagna. “Hi, Max. You’re staying for dinner, right?”

“Only if GP doesn’t throw me out.”

They sit in silence for a while. Somewhere down the living room, Francesca is playing music at a volume just below rebellion.

Max glances around the garden again. The bike. The pictures. The chaos. The life.

“You’ll afford Bosworth,” he says eventually. “Especially if I make sure Mercedes knows I don’t come without you.”

GP gives him a flat look. “That better not be a bribe.”

“It’s a loyalty bonus.”

“Still sounds like a bribe.”

“Call it whatever you want,” Max shrugs. “You’ve earned it.”

GP just shakes his head.

But there’s a small, proud smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

***

Text Messages:  Max Verstappen & Toto Wolff

Max: Morning. I’ve thought about it. I’ll sign.

But GP and I are a package deal.

No GP, no Max.

Let’s win some championships together.

Toto:

Understood.

Welcome to Mercedes, Max. Both of you.

Let’s make history.

[girlgenius1111]

not yourself

barcelona x teen reader your first international break does not go how you want it to. you're not yourself when you return, and your teammates make it their business to figure out what happened, and why you're so quiet and withdrawn.

—

You’d never been very good at making friends. You were quiet, and people often took that to mean you were aloof. The only reason you’d made friends at Barça was because you’d been so young when you started there. Young enough that almost everyone made an effort to try to get to know you. And while it took time, they must have decided you were worth knowing. 

Your club teammates would tell anyone who asked that you were the team’s baby. Sweet and kind. Even loud and outgoing around people you were comfortable with. Incredible on the pitch. Your teammates loved you like a younger sister, and had gained your trust. You absolutely couldn’t be described as shy around them anymore. 

So, your club teammates knew you well enough to know that if you were being quiet, it wasn’t because you thought you were better than everyone around you or because you weren’t interested in being social. You just had such anxiety when it came to social situations, especially new ones. 

No situation terrified you more than your first international call up. The weeks leading up to it, everyone kept telling you it would be okay. Whenever you fell quiet and looked like you were thinking too hard, there was always someone there to rest a hand on your shoulder or pull you into a hug and promise that everything would be okay. 

You just had to be yourself, Alexia said, and everyone would like you. 

Kika promised you had nothing to worry about, Cata said she was just a phone call away if she had to fight someone for you. None of them seemed very worried, somehow assured and convinced that you’d have no trouble making friends. 

For the first time in your career, you left when they did for the international break. You were your usual self, bubbly and smiley and excited enough that you could barely sit still. Or maybe that was just the nerves. 

You were yourself when you left, and none of them stopped to consider that you might not be when you got back.

—

Loneliness. It wasn’t a brand new feeling, but it wasn’t one you’d felt in a long time. 

Not since you were a kid, and watched the other kids play together at recess. Easily talking and laughing and having fun. Not since you were a kid and watched your parents joke and laugh with your much older siblings, only pausing to remind you to finish your homework. You’d been the outsider, then. At school and at home. 

The weird girl that tried to play football with the boys at recess, and was promptly shunned by everyone. The baby of the family that no one seemed to have any time for. Your parents had you, and soon after decided they were tired of being real parents. They were tired of spending their time with kids, only they’d realized that too late. You’d spent years eating dinner alone at the kitchen table, wondering if your parents would remember to come check on you when they got home from whatever event they’d gone to. 

So, loneliness was familiar. Perhaps you’d just forgotten how much it ached. 

Yet you were reminded, that first international break. Where once again you were the outsider, the odd one out. You weren’t very sure why. It started with the girl you were assigned to room with acting like you were the strangest, most unpleasant person she’d ever spoken to. Soon, it was everyone else doing the same. 

It was cruel little laughs when you messed up in training, and rolled eyes when you went down with an ankle injury during the match. It was assuredly not whispered overheard conversations. 

“She’s so arrogant, I don’t know how anyone puts up with her.” 

“They probably have to be nice to her at Barça, but it’s all pity, really. No one would actually want to spend time with her.” 

“I wonder if it’s in her contract, that everyone has to pretend to like her.” 

It was trying to keep your sobs silent at night as you buried your face in your pillow. It was ignoring every text you got from your club teammates asking how it was going because you were terrified that they didn’t really like you. It didn’t take much for you to be convinced you were some annoying burden on your teammates. The foundation had been laid throughout your life, and it took just a few perfectly worded comments from some of the meanest girls you’d ever encountered to shatter what little self confidence you’d managed to develop. 

It was the worst two weeks of your life. And now, somehow, you were supposed to go back to Barcelona and act normal, like you didn’t have a million doubts in your head, much more amplified than they ever had been before. 

Now, it wasn’t a small worry in the back of your mind that you were bothering Jana when you asked her to braid your hair before a match, or when Alexia drove you home from training that one evening. It had grown to a shout, drowning out any logical, reasonable competition. 

You were sure. Convinced. You were nothing but a burden. An annoying, arrogant, horrible person who no one actually wanted to be around, let alone your club teammates who had the world at their feet. 

Your lack of response to your teammates' texts was the first of many red flags. Many of them had texted you. First, your closest friends. Vicky, Sydney, Jana, Salma. But when word inevitably got around the Spain camp that you weren’t replying to your friends, more texts arrived. From Irene and Alexia, Patri, Cata, and Claudia. Almost everyone asked you some variation of how is it going, or alternatively, are you doing okay? 

Yet you were too in your head to believe they really wanted to know. This was only reinforced when the texts stopped. Though you didn’t know it, Alexia and Irene had decided you needed space for whatever reason, and told everyone to leave you alone. They didn’t want to suffocate you trying to figure out what was going on, though it was clearly something. 

So, the texts stopped, and any remaining shred of hope you carried that your national teammates were wrong, that your club teammates did care about you, disappeared too. 

—

You were pretty sure you’d never been more anxious than you were the morning you were supposed to return to Barça’s training. Every negative comment, every condescending look, every second you'd spent feeling alone and awful, had built up inside your head.

Every single thing you did prompted a flood of self deprecating thoughts. It didn't feel like you could do anything right. All you wanted was to shrink yourself down, become as small and unnoticeable as possible. If you could get through the day without anyone really looking at you, maybe you could do this.

Of course, your teammates, already worried about you after your unexplained silence, weren't going to let you be invisible.

It started with an arm slung around your shoulders the second you stepped into the locker room. Ona, a bright smile on her face.

"La pequeña is back!" She sang, pinching your cheek.

Her words didn't make you feel loved and cared for. Instead, you heart clenched, thinking she was being patronizing.

You had officially fallen off the deep end, and if you'd been in any less of a state of anxiety and self consciousness, you would have realized how wrong and unfair you were being.

You knew Ona. Ona was a good person. Ona would never hurt a fly, let alone be cruel to one of her teammates. These were all facts. Somehow, though, your sense of self had been so warped, so twisted, that you believed Ona could be a good person who wouldn't hurt a fly, yet she could also still be teasing you.

There was something to be said about how two weeks with a bunch of mean girls had completely destroyed your self confidence. Perhaps it hadn't been very strong to begin with, perhaps this deep hatred you felt towards yourself had always been inside you, just buried deep. Now, though, it had free reign. Logic could no longer control it, and it was left to run rampant through your body and mind.

You were bad. Arrogant, awful, impossible to like or care for. These feelings were the foundation of every thought you had. You were a burdensome disaster, and your teammates didn't need to be bothered with you. It wasn't worth it; you weren't worth their time.

You didn't think you were worth much at all, really.

So, you shrugged out from under Ona's arm, fixing your eyes on your cubby and hurrying over to it. No eye contact, no conversation with anyone else.

Ona was left behind you, confused. Brow furrowed, she looked at you, and then looked around the locker room. It seemed she hadn't been the only one to notice your odd behavior. Jana made eye contact with her, nodding her head slightly.

You were hyper aware of everyone around you, able to see Jana leaning closer from her spot in the cubby next to you out of the corner of your eye.

"Hey." She said quietly.

You managed some mumbled greeting in response, hands trembling where you tried to unfold your training top.

"Are you okay?" Jana inquired.

Immediately, you nodded your head. And immediately, Jana regretted her question. Of course you were going to say yes, even if it was obvious you weren't okay. She should have asked what was wrong, instead.

Someone cleared their throat behind Jana, and you let out a sigh of relief when she stepped away from you.

More concern being shown to you, yet you perceived it so differently. Jana was taking pity on you, probably. You needed to pull it together, take some deep breaths and put on a show, because you had no choice but to be fine today. No choice.

As you composed yourself, Jana and Irene exchanged quiet words.

"Something isn't right." Jana whispered, glancing back at you. Now, you were methodically trying your shoes, even a mere hint of emotion wiped from your face.

Irene was watching you, too, more concerned than she wanted to admit. Your silence while you'd been away had been odd; your behavior now, though, was downright worrying.

Yet taking one look at you told Irene that you were completely shut down. An impenetrable wall had put up, and Irene knew better than to force her way through. This wasn't the time or the place to get you to talk.

"Just leave her be for today. Whatever it is, she'll come to us when she's ready."

And maybe you would have, if it had been anything else. But when you were convinced you were a burden, the last thing you wanted to do was ask the people you felt like you were inconveniencing to reassure you that you weren't an inconvenience.

Those of your teammates that had an understanding of when to push and when not to push seemed to leave you alone. There were little things, pats on the shoulder and water bottles handed to you first before anyone else, that were supposed to send you the message that you were cared for. Yet all you could think was that your teammates saw you as an obligation.

However, some of your other teammates greatly lacked the ability to read the situation. When they saw someone being quiet and acting strangely, it wasn't in their nature to let it go. They pushed.

Teasing comments about being quiet or being too cool for the team followed you around all day. The weren't intentionally cruel, yet you couldn't seem to separate friendly teasing from what you'd endured with your national team.

Everything came to a head in the locker room after training. It was loud, everyone chattering excitedly about their breaks and getting to see their families. So loud that no one really noticed Cata and Vicky appearing on either side of you, pestering you to tell them why you were suddenly way too cool to talk to them.

“Out with it, chica!” Cata said teasingly. Maybe she was trying to lighten the mood, but you felt like she was laughing at you. “You’ve been acting like an alien all day.” 

“Were you abducted? Are you really an alien shape shifter?” Vicky laughed. 

The teasing felt cruel, though you should have known it wasn’t. The echoes of the girls from your national team still rattled around in your head, until you couldn’t tell the difference between their bullying and your teammates’ teasing. 

You shut your locker tightly, blinking hard for a second before turning around. 

“Please just leave me alone.” You said softly, voice cracking in the middle. 

Cata and Vicky froze, surprise flashing across their faces. 

“Chica, we were just–”

“I know, I know, I’ve been weird. Just make your jokes when I’m gone next time.” 

It was the closest you’d probably ever get to standing up for yourself, so maybe you were a bit proud as you headed out of the locker room. Mostly, though, you just felt pathetic. For ever thinking your teammates had cared about you when they had no reason to. For ever thinking you were fun to be around or fun to talk to. 

You’d been trying to be quiet and fade into the background. Not draw attention to yourself. It only confirmed in your head that your teammates saw you as a pitiful charity project they didn’t actually want to be around when they seemed to zero in on this change in your behavior. 

You couldn’t picture it coming from a place of worry or care. The girls your age hated you, and there was no reason why much more successful women wouldn’t feel the same way. 

Hastily, you made your way out of the locker room, ignoring every sideways glance from your teammates. You even ignored Alexia calling your name, not thinking yourself capable of holding it together for much longer. You needed to get home, where you could be pathetic by yourself and not bother anyone with it.

Yet behind you, every single one of your teammates, every single one of your friends, were left bewildered. Something wasn't right. And they were not the type of people to let something like this go.

—

It was Sydney that got to you. She’d clearly had a bad training session, a bad day. It surprised you when your phone lit up with a text from her, asking if she could come over. You said yes immediately, willing to help even while you were convinced you were the perpetual butt of some joke. 

Sydney been near tears when she knocked on your front door, and you didn't hesitate to pull her over to your sofa, wrap a soft cream blanket around her shoulders, and move the box of tissues on the coffee table ever so slightly closer to her.

"What's going on?" You asked, trying to keep your voice even and calm.

Sydney sniffled, burying her face in her hands.

"Everything," she said, voice muffled. "I just… I don't think I'm good enough to be here. Everyday at training, all I can do is doubt myself and rethink my decisions and then I play horribly. It's unbearable. I want to go home, I miss my parents and my sister and cold weather and—"

"Woah, slow down." You urged. "Take a breathe, you're spiraling."

Sydney inhaled shakily, and you reached out, resting a supportive hand on her forearm.

"It's just… really hard, being so far away from home and playing for the best team in the world. I should feel happy and lucky, and I do, but I'm so scared all the time that I'm not good enough."

You knew exactly how she was feeling. It was probably a rough time that every young player at Barcelona felt, a point everyone reached. You weren't even sure that you didn't still feel that way.

In that moment, you were glad you'd felt this way before, if for no other reason than being able to help Sydney more.

"Syd, you wouldn't be here if you weren't good enough. Having a crisis of confidence like this just shows you care, and you have the passion you need to play for this team."

Sydney looked up at you and sniffled, cautiously hopeful. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. What you're feeling is so normal, Syd, I promise. It's an adjustment and you just have to be patient with yourself. It's going to get better, I promise."

This time, Sydney nodded, wiping at her eyes. "Yeah, you're probably right."

You fidgeted with your fingers in your lap, wracking your brain for what else to say, what would have made you feel better when you'd felt like this. Sydney looked comforted, sure, but you knew that your advice was probably not very good, and she deserved more than you were able to give her.

“Do you want me to call one of the older girls, Syd? They can probably help better than me.” You suggested, biting down on your lower lip in worry. 

Sydney shook her head. “No, you’re helping. You always give good advice, and you always know what to say to calm me down. That’s why I’m here. I think I just needed to cry.” 

Her words shocked you, and it was obvious that she could tell.

"I actually didn't just come over here to cry on your couch." Sydney said, no longer looking quite as sad, concern flooding her features. "I wanted to check on you. Something seemed really off today."

You shifted uncomfortably, whole body suddenly tense. "No, I'm—"

"Do not tell me that you are fine. You seem… you seem really not okay. Everyone's noticed, and Irene has insisted we give you space, that you'll talk to someone about whatever is wrong when you're ready, but that doesn't feel right to me. You shouldn't let someone who is clearly hurting isolate themselves."

Sydney spoke with the wisdom of a much older woman. Her hazel eyes, too, seemed to study you in a way that pierced your soul. So much so that you suddenly didn't know how you were going to push this away, how you were going to convince her you were okay.

There was something else, too. The thing about Irene and space and you reaching out when you were ready. It tugged at your chest, maybe some very tiny remaining part of you that remembered how much you trusted your teammates.

Two weeks that felt like an eternity were enough to do a lot of damage on your psyche, that much was obvious. Those weeks, paired with your long standing tendency to fall into a pit of self hatred, were enough to have you questioning everything, your friendships most of all. You'd shrunk yourself down, trying to take up as little space as possible, as you always had when you were younger. When it was clear you were annoying your parents or your siblings, you shut down.

You were shutting down now, but there was some part of you, maybe some healed part of you, that couldn't stop thinking of tight hugs and reassuring words and movie nights and homemade dinners and rides home from training. None of that matched up with the way you were feeling, until all you were sure of in that moment, was that you were confused.

You were so confused. Sydney reaching out and checking on you didn't make sense. Irene telling everyone to give you space, and that you'd talk to someone when you were ready didn't make sense. Sydney saying you were clearly hurting didn't make sense; you weren't hurting, not really. You were just being realistic. Weren't you?

Sydney seemed genuine, though. And that was the thing that really tripped you up. She would have had to go very much out of her way to come over here and check on you, even if she apparently came also because she trusted you to make her feel better about her own terrible day.

Nothing made sense anymore. It hadn't since you'd left for the break two weeks ago, and realized you were existing in a bubble where everyone tolerated your presence because they had to.

"Did something happen over the break?" She probed, carefully watching the shift of your facial expression. Immediately, she knew she'd gotten it right. Your face had fallen for just a moment, before the wall was drawn back up. But she'd seen the devastation in your eyes at the reminder. "Okay, so yes. Tell me what happened."

Sydney could come off as a very quiet, soft spoken person. but when it came to the people she cared about, which you could no longer deny included you, she was a force to be reckoned with, and you found yourself opening your mouth to answer without even trying to fight it very hard.

"It's fine. Some of the girls were… they didn't like me. But it's okay, really. I'm okay."

Sydney raised one eyebrow, like she didn't believe you for a second. "Didn't like you? Why not?"

Her face was so genuinely confused, her tone baffled. She didn't seem to understand the idea of someone not liking you. And, you suppose, that's what made you break. Tears welled in your eyes even as you shook your head, trying to ward the emotions off.

"Because I'm annoying and arrogant and aloof and untalented and undeserving of my spot here." The words tumbled out of you, like you'd been bursting at the seams trying not to let them go until that moment.

"Is that what they said?" Sydney asked, eyes wide and angry.

You nodded, jaw locked so tightly it looked painful.

"Is that what you believe?"

This time, you shrugged. Yet, somehow, it was obvious what that shrug meant.

"That's absurd. Obviously they're just jealous of you because you're so much more successful than them."

The issue with that explanation was that you couldn't hear it without picturing a mother telling her spoiled teenage daughter with an awful personality the exact same thing. She didn't have friends because people were jealous of her, not because she was terrible. You couldn't envision yourself as anything other than the terrible one in the situation.

You shrugged again, trying to act like you didn't care, like none of it even mattered anyway. "Yeah, whatever. It's not a big deal."

Sydney looked at you for a long moment, considering. Her eyes were warm, her aura exuding gentleness. Still, you braced yourself for something hurtful.

"It seems like a big deal. It would feel like a big deal for me."

You bit your lip for a moment before shaking your head. "It's not."

It was a lie, and you both knew it. There was no part of you that was willing to let this conversation go any further, though. You couldn't talk about this, or you'd break, and that wouldn't be fair to put on Sydney. So, you changed the subject.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter. Do you want to watch a movie? To get your mind off things?" You asked, trying to appear relaxed as you leaned back into the sofa and uncrossed your arms.

Sydney knew she had two options; she could push, insist you talk to her, or she could let you shut the conversation down and watch a movie with you. She was fairly certain that the first option would end with you shutting down even further, and her leaving your apartment. And the second… well, you'd still be shut down, but at least you wouldn't be alone. So, for now, Sydney let you table the conversation, well aware that she had a few people to call on her way home.

"A movie sounds good." She agreed.

Yet even after you'd both agreed on a film, even as the room feel silent as the opening chords of the score flooded out of the speakers, you could feel the concern radiating off Sydney in waves. And you worried she wouldn't let this go.

—

The thing about having no self confidence was that sometimes, you could be really fucking delusional. Over the course of the evening and night, and into the following day, you'd somehow managed to convince yourself that nothing else would come of the conversation you'd had with Sydney the night before. Because, really, why would anyone care to follow up? It was one thing to be nice to you at training, but your personal issues were no one's responsibility but your own.

Maybe it was your brain trying to take the safe option. Maybe it was some part of you reaching out for help in a very backwards way, knowing that if you convinced yourself there would be no conversation the next day, no worried glances from your teammates, you'd be much more likely to be taken off guard, and much more likely to talk. Whatever it was, you walked into the locker room the next morning, 75% sure that nothing would come of the conversation you'd had with Sydney the day before.

And right back out the locker room you walked, head down, eyes fixed on the floor, following Alexia and Patri. Briefly, you wondered how Patri was chosen for this conversation. Likely, it had been her that Sydney had gone to talk to, finding the youngest captain to be the easiest to approach. If you knew Irene and Marta, though, you knew they'd be itching to talk to you, too.

You followed Alexia and Patri to the room the team used for watching match footage, slumping into a chair as they both pulled ones over to sit in front of you. It felt oddly like some kind of job interview, both of their gazes fixed intently on you. They looked upset, almost, and you honestly weren't sure how this conversation would go.

Maybe it wasn't about the break and what had happened. Maybe you'd actually done something wrong, and gotten yourself into trouble.

Before you could spiral any further, Patri cleared her throat and spoke.

"You haven't been yourself." She said simply, eyes trained on your face, ready to catch even a flicker in your expression.

You opened your mouth, though you weren't quite sure what you were about to say. Alexia spoke before you could, though, shaking her head insistently as if you'd spoken.

"No. Do not deny it. You left for the break normal, smiley and laughing and happy. And you came back sad and quiet and shy. You haven't been this quiet and this withdrawn since you first came here, so something clearly happened while you were gone. And I want to know what happened."

Alexia could come on rather strong when it came to the well being of the people she cared about. This was something Patri knew very well, having been on the receiving end of it enough times. Yet she didn't want Alexia to seem too harsh, and make you think that you were in trouble when they were really just worried about you.

"Why do you want to know? It's not your responsibility, I was away with my national team, it has nothing to do with Barcelona."

Alexia and Patri exchanged a glance, confusion written across both their faces.

"What? It's not about responsibility, chica, it's about you. We want to know because we care about you."

Shockingly, as you'd approached this conversation with such hostility, your lip began to tremble. You bit down on it, hard, looking anywhere but at your captains.

"You do?"

Alexia and Patri were both stunned into silence for a moment. They didn't understand what they could have possibly done to make you doubt that they cared about you. The entire team had spent a long time earning your trust, and now it seemed like that trust had evaporated.

You'd been so young when you arrived at Barcelona, you still were so young. And neither Patri nor Alexia could see anything other than a young girl who needed love and support when they looked at you.

Alexia reached out, putting one hand on your shoulder. She waited until you lifted your gaze to meet hers, eyes filled with tears. She hadn't seen you look this small and this vulnerable in a very long time.

"Of course we do. Of course. We want to know what happened because we want to help."

At this, you shook your head, wiping your tears with the hem of your training top.

"No, this isn't your problem, it's mine. You don't have to fix it for me."

"Well, maybe we want to." Patri said, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Just tell us, chica. Please." Alexia asked, her tone of the verge of begging. They were both looking at you so intently, so pleadingly and so caringly, that you weren't really sure what else to do. Your options seemed like… telling them what happened, or running from the room and never looking back.

"It was just… some of the girls at camp. They didn't like me. They said some stuff I guess I let get in my head."

It was the vaguest, barest bones summary you could have come up with, and you could tell both the older women wanted to ask for more details, insist on names and exactly what was said so they could make it right.

But there you sat in front of them, arms crossed tightly over your chest, looking like you were physically trying to hold yourself together. And they knew they shouldn't push you.

Of course, you were worried that if you told them exactly what was said, they'd agree, however unlikely that was. But more than that, the things that had been said to you and about you weren't things you ever really wanted to repeat again. Even listing them off to Sydney the night before had been painful, like you were hearing them all over again.

"Niña, you understand why the girls were mean, yes?" Patri asked gently.

You shrugged, because you didn't, not really. All you could think was that you deserved it.

"Because you are 17 years old and playing for this team. You are so talented, and so promising, and so humble about it, too. Those girls have no idea how to handle that jealousy without being cruel, without trying to put you down to make themselves feel taller."

You had to admit, when Patri explained it, it made sense. Hearing those words from her took some of the weight off your shoulders, even if it was only a little bit for now.

Alexia hummed her agreement to what Patri said, nudging your foot with hers before she spoke. "We can't fix what happened while you were gone, nena. But we can tell you that you are not alone, and nothing that was said to you was true. You are good and kind and you deserve to be here. Okay?"

Again, all you could do was shrug. But Alexia could see the tears silently sliding down your face, and she knew that what she'd said had mattered, had been what you needed to hear.

"Ven," Alexia said, standing and opening her arms for you. You buried yourself into the hug, letting the warmth from Alexia calm you.

It wasn't magically better. You didn't suddenly, miraculously feel better about yourself and who you were as a person. It just didn't feel as heavy, in that moment.

Your captains had gone out of their way to check on you, to insist you talk to them, just like Sydney had. There was no obligation for them to fulfill, they'd done it because they wanted to. Because they cared about you. And whether or not you thought that care was valid or deserved, it didn't matter. It was there either way.

Patri hugged you, too, after Alexia finally let go, murmuring something about finding those girls and teaching them a lesson, and you laughed. The both smiled at your smile like they'd won a prize, Patri slinging an arm across your shoulders as she walked you out of the film room and back to the locker room.

It was just as loud as ever in there, music blasting from the speaker. Pina had commandeered Patri's phone in her absence, and was playing something that Vicky was calling an abomination. Jana grabbed your wrist as soon as you stepped foot through the door, pulling you over to the bench in front of your cubby and practically shoving you down onto it. She started braiding your hair without you even asking, and you knew then that everyone had noticed something up with you, not just Sydney, and not just your captains.

The volume of the locker room didn't feel like a party happening around you that you weren't invited to, anymore. It felt comfortable, the way it always had before.

You didn't realize you were sitting there, smiling, until Sydney caught your eye from across the room. She looked anxious, and you realized she probably expected you to be angry with her for going to Alexia and Patri about you.

Somehow, though, you weren't upset. You weren't really anything but relieved that your entire team didn't hate you. You smiled wider at Sydney, nodding your head once. Relief flooded her face, turning into amusement as Jana lightly slapped the top of your head, telling you not to move or you'd mess her up.

It really surprised you how much better you felt. How much a few people just caring and reaching out had done. You didn't really feel like questioning it, though. You didn't feel like ruminating in the thoughts and rethinking your every action.

You just felt like being there with your team, without overthinking anything. And that was a massive step in and of itself.

—

i know i throw this around a lot but i truly hate this. could not physically spend any more time on it thought without losing my mind, so i hope it's not too bad. don't tell me if it is thx <3

[barnesonly]

Illegal

mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

word count: 12k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! for all the tags/warnings, please check series masterlist since it may contain spoilers.

Chapter Nine — “Home” | Previous

The house was still. Quiet in that fragile way it sometimes is after a storm. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, pale and soft, catching on the edges of furniture and highlighting the mess you’d left behind—an abandoned mug, a dish towel crumpled on the counter, Becca’s rabbit lying facedown on the floor where she must’ve dropped it when you carried her back to bed.

You sat at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of tea you didn’t remember making. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was thick. Unresolved. Your ears almost rang from it, as if the echo of the last night’s fight still lived somewhere in the walls.

You hadn’t slept.

You’d spent the night replaying every word. Every raised voice. Every time his eyes met yours and it felt like you’d been gutted all over again. Every time you’d almost said something and swallowed it back. The moment Becca interrupted—thank god, honestly—and the way James had left to his room after you tucked her in again, barely meeting your gaze as he murmured a goodnight.

Now your head ached from the weight of everything unsaid. From the way your chest still throbbed with that horrible mix of shame and love and anger. You didn’t know what you were supposed to feel. All you knew was that something inside you had cracked deeper than it had in years—and no amount of pretending was going to patch it up.

Not after what he had told you.

You stared into your mug, eyes unfocused, hands gone cold.

Going back to the States.

The words played in your mind like a loop, James’ voice still raw in your ears, the way he’d said it—sharp and exhausted and desperate. Like it was the only thing left he could offer.

Maybe he was right.

You hated the thought. God, you hated it. Because if he was right, then all this—years of scraping your life back together, of carving out a home here, of doing your best with what you had—maybe none of it was enough. Maybe you weren’t enough.

But wasn’t Becca what mattered the most?

You looked over your shoulder instinctively, toward the hallway where her bedroom was. You could picture her still curled under her blanket, the one with stars on it, her little fists balled near her face, her stuffed rabbit cradled against her chest. Safe. Loved.

But was that enough?

James had said she deserved more.

A childhood that didn’t feel like exile. A father who wasn’t just a distant, half-familiar visitor every couple of weeks. A life with roots, with support, with people who could help you carry the weight.

And the truth was—no matter how much it hurt to admit—you were tired.

Tired of holding it all by yourself. Tired of pretending like you didn’t wish someone would hold you for once. You hadn’t moved here to punish yourself, but it had started to feel that way. Somewhere between fighting for James and fighting to be a mother, you’d stopped asking what you needed.

Maybe it was time to swallow your pride.

To stop seeing compromise as defeat. To stop needing to be right so badly it cost you everything else.

Becca deserved more than your stubbornness. More than the silence between her parents. Maybe—just maybe—she deserved a chance to grow up where she could look at her father and not just see a stranger walking through the door every few weekends.

And maybe, you thought, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes—

Maybe you deserved another start too.

The soft creak of the floorboards made you look up.

James stood in the doorway, still hazy from sleep, hair messy, shirt wrinkled. His eyes found you, then flicked quickly to the countertop, to the mug in your hands, to anything that wasn’t too direct. His voice, when it finally came, was rough and low.

“Morning.”

You swallowed. “Morning,” you answered quietly, rising from your chair almost automatically.

You moved to the kettle, reaching for another mug—his mug, the one he always used when he was here, still in the same cupboard spot it had been for years. You tried not to think too hard about what that meant. Habit or hope—you weren’t sure anymore.

The silence settled like dust. Heavy. Still. You poured the hot water and turned slightly, not quite looking at him.

“Coffee?” you asked, voice just above a whisper.

He nodded, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You both stood there, the quiet stretching out like a thread you didn’t dare pull. You handed him the mug, and your fingers brushed for a second—just a second—but it was enough to remember everything from the night before. The shouting. The cracks in both your voices. The entire fucking truth.

You sat back down slowly, fingers curling around your own mug as you stared into it, watching the surface tremble from the faint tremor in your hand.

The silence dragged for a few moments longer. After a moment, quietly—barely above the hum of the kettle still cooling—you spoke.

“I’ll talk with Mike.”

James looked up, brows knitting. “What?”

You finally met his gaze, steady this time despite the tightness in your throat. “I’ll talk with him. About going back.”

His mouth opened slightly like he wanted to question it—but you cut him off before he could speak.

“For Becca,” you added, voice firmer now. “If there’s even a chance that it’ll be better for her… then I’ll do it.”

He blinked, clearly surprised. You watched his expression shift, the tension in his jaw flickering into something unreadable. He looked like he didn’t know whether to argue or thank you.

“I don’t know if I can convince him,” you murmured after a moment, eyes dropping to your hands. “So I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try.”

The words sat between you like something fragile. You weren’t sure why it felt like a truce. Maybe because for once, you weren’t fighting. Maybe because it wasn’t about the two of you anymore.

James watched you for a beat, his face unreadable in the soft morning light. Then, finally, he spoke.

“Thank you,” he said.

———

A few days passed—slow and heavy and tangled in everything unsaid.

It was always like this when James visited. Intense. Strange. Familiar in ways that hurt.

He’d thrown himself into time with Rebecca like he always did, and she soaked it up like sunlight. They went to the park, made pancakes, watched movies on the floor like they used to—like things were easy. And maybe, for her, they still were. Maybe that was the only thing that mattered.

You stood back a lot, observing. Half grateful, half aching. He was so good with her. Effortless. Natural. Like he’d never left.

But you hadn’t forgotten what he said that night. About trust. About moving on.

About how he still loved you but couldn’t forgive you.

And he hadn’t brought it up again. Neither had you.

Instead, the days crawled by in a blur of small things—cups of coffee in tense silence, brushing past each other in the hallway, folding laundry while he read to Becca on the couch. You caught him watching you once, expression unreadable, and he looked away before you could say something.

But through it all, you kept thinking about what he said. About going back. About Becca’s roots. About giving her something solid.

And you knew you had to talk to Mike.

You just… couldn’t yet.

Not because you weren’t willing. Not because you hadn’t made up your mind.

But because the idea of asking Mike—to even suggest going back to the States, even just for a short visit—felt heavier than it should. You weren’t planning on moving back overnight. You didn’t even know if that would ever be possible. But a visit… a few weeks, maybe. Let Becca see where you came from. Let her feel close to something that’s part of her.

Still, you doubted it.

Not your decision—him.

You doubted Mike would say yes. You doubted he’d trust the idea or you. And even if he wanted to help, maybe he wouldn’t be able to. Maybe getting you back there—even temporarily—was more complicated than either of you realized.

And that scared you.

Because if he said no… if he couldn’t manage it… if it all fell through… what would you even tell James?

So you waited until James came back to the States. You told yourself you were preparing. But really, you were stalling—afraid of what might happen if you tried.

Or worse… what wouldn’t.

It took you another full day. Another restless night of turning over everything James said. Another quiet dinner with Becca where she asked when Daddy would come back again. Another moment of sitting in the dark with your thoughts spinning so loud you couldn’t even hear yourself breathe.

And then—finally—you called Mike.

You didn’t script it. You didn’t even know how to begin. But when his voice came through the line, casually gruff as ever with a, “Hey, you alive?”—you almost hung up.

Almost.

Instead, you inhaled and said, “Hey… I need to ask you something. And I know it’s a lot. I know it’s… maybe impossible. But I need you to listen.”

There was a pause. “Okay…”

You told him. Not everything—God, not everything—but enough.

That you wanted to go back. Just for a short visit. That you thought it might be good for Becca to spend some time in the States, to see what life with her dad could feel like. That maybe things could shift if—

“Are you kidding me?” His voice was sharp, stunned, already laced with frustration.

“You want to go back?” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard right. “After everything I’ve done to keep you out of that mess? You want to just go waltzing in for a little vacation?”

“No—Mike—please.” You swallowed down the panic, your voice cracking. “Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

He didn’t answer right away.

So you pressed on. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t for Becca.”

Silence.

“I know how it sounds. But she deserves to know him, not just wait around for visits when he can manage to fly across the ocean. She deserves to feel like she’s not being raised on scraps. Please. Just… help me figure out how.”

You waited.

And waited.

The line buzzed faintly between you, static and tension twisting together.

And then finally, Mike sighed—long, slow, and exhausted. “I need a drink,” he muttered.

You let out the smallest breath of relief. Not a yes. But not a no.

“Take one,” you said softly. “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t laugh. You weren’t sure if you expected him to.

There was a rustle on the other end—movement, a sigh, maybe the clink of glass. Then quiet again. Until—

“You know what you’re asking me, right?” he said, more measured now. “You’re asking me to undo every firewall I’ve set up. Every contact I’ve burned to keep you safe, off the grid. And for what? A week-long visit with the man who shattered your fucking life?”

You closed your eyes. “He’s still her father.”

“And I was the one who picked up the pieces when he told you to leave.”

You flinched. It wasn’t fair—but it wasn’t wrong either.

“I’m not asking to move back. Not now. I just…” You paced, one hand pressed to your forehead. “I want Becca to have something real. Some idea of what it could be like to be around him more, not just look at pictures and wait for scheduled holidays. I need to see if this is even something that could work before I offer it to her like it’s an actual choice.”

“You think a week’s going to answer that?” he asked, skeptical.

“I think… I have to try.”

Mike sighed again, longer this time. “And if I say no?”

You were quiet.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask James for help,” you said eventually. “But I’m asking you because I trust you. I’m not doing this behind your back, Mike. I’m trying to do it right.”

That struck something. You heard it in the silence that followed.

After a long beat, he said, “I’ll try.”

You smiled to yourself at that.

“And I’m not promising anything until I see if it’s even possible. Flights, papers, logistics—hell, even you getting through a border checkpoint is a risk.”

“I know,” you said again, quieter. “But if anyone can make it happen… it’s you.”

That made him snort, bitterly amused. “Flattery? Now?”

You cracked the tiniest smile. “Desperation.”

He was quiet again. Then he sighed. “Alright. Give me a couple of days. I’ll call you.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered. “You might not like what I find.”

You swallowed. “I’ll take my chances.”

And when the call ended, your hands were still shaking.

———

It’s been two days.

It was late afternoon. Becca was running around the park in circles, her giggles ringing out as she chased butterflies with her stuffed rabbit tucked firmly under one arm.

You sat on a bench, arms wrapped around yourself despite the warmth. You hadn’t told her anything yet—how could you, when you didn’t know if it would even be possible? You didn’t want to put another maybe into her world. She’d had enough of those.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Mike.

Your stomach turned instantly.

You hesitated, watching Becca a moment longer, grounding yourself in her small, delighted movements—before swiping to answer.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice light. “Tell me you have good news.”

There was a pause.

“Well,” Mike said. “That depends on how you define good.”

Your heart dropped, but you didn’t let it show in your voice. “Tell me everything.”

“I pulled every favor I had left in that hemisphere,” he said, voice clipped. “Got a temporary route lined up. It’s not official, it’s not pretty, and it won’t last more than a week before the door closes again. But it’s something.”

You stopped walking. “You’re serious?”

“I wouldn’t be calling if I wasn’t.”

A long exhale passed your lips. You felt dizzy.

“But you’re gonna need to move fast,” he added. “I’ve arranged a soft clearance window for next Friday—eight days from now. You’ll have to be back before the following weekend. No extensions. No risks.”

“Mike…”

“I know.”

“You’re a goddamn miracle.”

“I’m a stressed-out criminal, who’s gonna need a bottle of whiskey and a new identity if this blows up in my face,” he muttered. But even then, you heard the faint smile in his voice. “You sure about this?”

You glanced at Becca, at the way she twirled and pointed and smiled like the world hadn’t broken her heart yet.

“I’m sure.”

“Then pack light,” he said. “I’ll text you instructions later.”

And with that, he hung up.

You stayed frozen for a moment, phone still in your hand.

Becca ran up to you, breathless and bright-eyed, cheeks flushed from the sun.

“Look, Mommy!” she beamed, opening her tiny fist to show a crushed daisy. “I picked this for you.”

You lowered to her level, heart so full and aching you could barely breathe.

“Thank you, baby,” you whispered, pulling her into your arms.

You held her close, her warmth pressed against your chest, and whispered into her hair.

“We’re going on a little adventure soon.”

———

Next couple of days passed in a blur.

You didn’t tell Becca right away. Not out of fear, not really. But because once you said it out loud, it would all become real—and you still needed a little more time to steady yourself. To believe this wasn’t a joke.

But once you started preparing, it all came fast.

You dug out the old duffel bag from the back of your closet. It still smelled faintly like dust and long roads, and it felt heavier than it should’ve when you unzipped it.

You packed light. Like Mike told you to. Just the essentials. Clothes for the week, documents. A small emergency kit of Becca’s meds and snacks in case something went wrong. One of her dresses with the pink flowers she loved.

Becca watched you silently from the hallway at first. Quiet and curious.

Until finally, she asked, “Are we going somewhere?”

You sat on the floor, looking up at her. “Just for a little bit,” you said gently. “A short trip. But it’s a special one.”

Her eyes lit up, suspiciously fast. “Is Daddy gonna be there?”

You hesitated.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Are you happy?”

She nodded, rabbit clutched tight to her chest. “He said he would take me to the zoo next time he sees me.”

You smiled faintly, throat tight. “Then maybe he will.”

That night, after Becca went to sleep with her bunny under her arm and her shoes placed neatly by the door—just in case you left early in the morning—you sat alone on the couch, staring at the boarding instructions Mike sent.

Your heart thudded unevenly. Part excitement. Part panic.

You were doing this.

Not for James. Not even really for yourself.

But for her.

Again, you were stepping into the unknown not to run away this time—but to try. Even if it meant getting hurt again.

You took a deep breath, reached for your phone, and typed.

You | 9:27PM

Hey. Just wanted to let you know… we’ll be flying in this Friday. Just for a week. Mike pulled the strings.

You stared at the message a second longer, then hit send.

Your phone buzzed almost instantly.

James | 9:27PM

Really? Is it safe, though? Do you need any help?

You stared at the screen for a long beat.

God, it hit something in you. That immediate concern. The disbelief edged with something softer. Something that said he hadn’t actually expected you to go through with it—but now that you had, he wanted to make sure you were okay.

You could picture him reading the message, standing in his kitchen or maybe still at work, thumb hesitating before pressing send, because he didn’t want to push. But he still wanted to know.

Your fingers hovered over the screen before typing back.

You | 9:28PM

You don’t have to worry. Mike made arrangements. I’ll be careful.

You paused, then added…

You | 9:28PM

We’ll be alright. He’s gonna take care of us. Just wanted you to know.

Another pause. And then…

You | 9:29PM

She’s been asking about you. A lot.

You didn’t expect a reply right away. But after a few minutes, it came.

James | 9:32PM

Tell her I miss her, yeah? And that I’ll see her soon.

And then, one more.

James | 9:33PM

And… thank you. For doing this.

You read that last line twice. Then you locked your phone, leaned back into the couch, and exhaled.

The decision was made. The bags were packed.

Now all that was left was to go.

———

The airport was loud in that sterile, disorienting way that always made your head spin—too many bodies moving at once, too much noise bouncing off the high ceilings, the dull ache of jet lag sitting like a weight behind your eyes.

Becca was half-asleep in your arms, her head resting on your shoulder, clutching her stuffed rabbit like it was her only anchor in the chaos. Her hair smelled like airplane air and apples from the juice box she barely finished hours ago.

You stepped through the sliding doors into arrivals—and there he was.

Mike.

Same tired eyes, worn black hoodie, unreadable expression. He looked older. Maybe because of the beard or maybe because of everything you’d dragged him through this week. You hadn’t seen him in months.

He spotted you and gave a small wave, then quickly came forward to take your carry-on.

“You look like hell,” he muttered as a greeting, but his voice was quiet. Careful.

You let out a soft, tired laugh. “Good to see you too.”

He looked at Becca, sleeping in your arms, and his expression softened a little.

“She did okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Better than I expected. But… yeah. She’s tired.”

Mike didn’t say much after that. He just led you both to the car, helped get your bag in the trunk, and opened the backseat for you to slide in with Becca still curled up against you.

Only once the car was moving—only once the silence between you stretched into something too long—did he finally speak again.

“You sure this is what you want?” he asked, eyes on the road.

“I’m sure I have to try.”

He didn’t nod. He didn’t argue either.

“…It’s not permanent,” you added after a beat, almost like a shield. “Just a visit. I need to see if this even makes sense. If it’s something that could work.”

Mike’s grip on the wheel tightened for a second. You saw it from the corner of your eye.

“You know it’s not just up to you,” he muttered.

“I know,” you said quietly. “But I couldn’t not try, Mike. For her.”

That silenced him again.

You glanced down at your daughter, tucked safely into your side.

And somewhere beneath the exhaustion and uncertainty and nerves… you felt relieved.

The ride was mostly quiet after that. Becca stirred once or twice, but stayed curled into your side, her hand still wrapped tightly around the rabbit’s ear. The city moved around you outside the window—familiar and not. You hadn’t been back in so long that it almost felt imagined, like walking back into a dream you’d sworn off years ago.

Mike pulled into a narrow side street eventually, the buildings getting more residential, more faded. He slowed near a dull brick complex with cracked steps and a rusted fence, tucked away between a laundromat and a shuttered grocery store.

“This is it,” he muttered, putting the car in park. “Second floor. Back corner. No one will bother you here.”

You looked up at the building. It didn’t look like much—definitely not the kind of place you imagined bringing your daughter to—but it was safe. Discreet. Temporary.

He shifted in his seat and glanced back at you before you opened the door.

“Head low, please,” he said, quiet but stern. “And don’t you do anything stupid.”

You blinked at him. “Like what?”

He gave you a look. “Like contacting him before I say it’s clear. Like forgetting what this man is involved in.”

You swallowed and nodded, reaching for the door handle. “I won’t.”

He didn’t soften. He just held your gaze for a second longer, then stepped out and went around to get your bag from the trunk.

You gathered Becca in your arms again—she whined sleepily but didn’t wake up—and followed him inside. The stairs creaked with every step, the hallway smelled like dust and old paint, and the door to the apartment stuck before it finally opened with a loud groan.

It was small. Two rooms. A mattress on the floor. A folded blanket on the couch. A kettle on the stove. Clean, but bare.

“It’s not much,” Mike muttered, setting your bag down near the wall. “But no one knows it’s under your name. Or mine.”

You nodded, adjusting Becca’s weight on your hip. “Thank you.”

He looked at you for a moment longer—longer than necessary. Like he wanted to say something. Like maybe he still didn’t believe you were really here.

But instead, he just nodded.

“I’ll check in tomorrow,” he said.

��——

The next day dragged like wet paint on cold walls.

You sat by the window for hours, barely blinking, barely moving, just… waiting. Waiting for Mike. For a knock. For a sign. For anything. You hadn’t even let Becca open the curtains out of your own paranoid. The apartment felt like a box—airtight, silent, stale. The only sounds were the ticking of the cheap plastic clock on the wall and Becca’s increasingly dramatic sighs as she flopped from the mattress to the couch to the floor.

“Is he coming soon?” she asked for the third time that hour, her voice whiny as she clutched her rabbit by the ear again.

“He said he would,” you murmured, glancing at the door again.

“But you said that last time,” she groaned, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling like it had betrayed her. “This place is boring. There’s not even any TV.”

You couldn’t blame her. The apartment was nearly empty aside from a few things Mike had stocked for your stay. No toys. No books. Just a couple of blankets, dry cereal, and whatever was in Becca’s backpack. You’d tried distracting her with drawing on paper napkins and telling her stories from memory, but she’d quickly grown tired of both.

Becca crawled across the mattress and laid her head on your lap dramatically.

“I miss our home,” she whispered. “And the backyard. And the neighbors’ cat.”

You brushed her hair back gently, fingers lingering in her tangled curls.

“I know, baby,” you said. “Just a little longer, okay?”

She pouted. “Are we gonna see Daddy now?”

Your heart squeezed. You didn’t know how to answer. Not yet. Maybe. Hopefully. You leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “We’ll see.”

Another hour passed.

And then—finally—three quick knocks on the door.

You stood up so fast Becca nearly tumbled off your lap. You told her to stay where she was and crossed the room, heart in your throat as you peeked through the peephole.

Mike.

You opened the door just a crack.

“Is it safe?” you asked immediately.

Mike gave a quick nod, scanning the hallway behind you out of habit before stepping inside. His eyes swept over the apartment, then to Becca curled up in there.

“Yeah,” he said. “For now.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a phone—cheap, matte black, already powered on.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “Use this. Only this.”

You blinked at it, confused. “What—?”

“Don’t use your number,” he cut in. “Don’t use anything tied to your name, your past SIM, nothing. If you’re gonna contact Barnes—do it from this. No exceptions.”

You swallowed thickly, staring at the burner in your palm like it weighed more than it should. The screen was blank, clean. New. It didn’t have a single trace of you on it.

Mike’s voice lowered, firm. “I’m not just being paranoid. There’s been eyes on him for years now. You wanted to play it safe—so play it safe.”

You gave a small nod. “Okay… okay. I got it.”

He looked at you a beat longer, then let out a quiet breath. “Good.”

Behind you, Becca sat up slowly, her little face curious but wary, holding her rabbit tight as she whispered, “Hi, uncle Mike.”

Mike softened for a second. “Hi, Becca.”

Then he glanced back at you, jaw tight. “That would be it then. Please, stay safe…”

You nodded, heart hammering beneath your ribs, and watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence that followed felt strange—thick with anticipation, with nerves. But mostly, it felt like a new beginning.

You turned back to Becca slowly, kneeling by her side.

“Well…” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We can finally call Daddy and see him.”

She lit up immediately, eyes wide with excitement. “Really?”

You smiled, even though your throat was tight. “Really.”

———

After you talked to James he had sent the address with a simple text.

James | 3:11PM

See you soon. Tell Beccy I can’t wait.

And now you were here.

You stood in front of the gate, Becca’s small hand clutching yours tightly. The air smelled like pine and pavement still hot from the sun. The house—or villa, really—was just beyond the sleek, modern gate, nestled in a quiet stretch of land just outside the city. Stone and glass, muted beige tones, and ivy climbing up one side. There was even a goddamn fountain in front.

You swallowed hard. This wasn’t the apartment you remembered. This wasn’t the city life he used to complain about hating but never left. This was new. Clean. Detached. Rich.

“Wow,” Becca whispered, eyes wide as she tilted her head back to look up at the house. Her bunny’s ear was dragging in the dirt, but she didn’t care. “Is this… Daddy’s house?”

You nodded slowly, tightening your grip on her hand. “Yeah, baby. This is where he lives now.”

You didn’t know how you felt. Like something had shifted beneath your feet and hadn’t settled yet. You hadn’t even rung the doorbell yet, and already your heart was racing like a warning.

The gate clicked, unlocked.

The front door opened.

And there he was—stepping out in a dark t-shirt and jeans, hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it too much. He looked tired. He looked handsome. He looked like everything that still hurt.

Becca let go of your hand and ran forward.

“Daddy!”

He caught her mid-run, lifting her into his arms with a soft, choked laugh. “Hi, baby girl,” he said, holding her close. “Missed you so much.”

You stayed by the gate for a second longer, your heart somehow both splintering and softening all at once.

Then, finally, you made yourself walk toward them. James looked over Becca’s shoulder and met your eyes.

His expression softened.

“God,” he said, shifting her a little in his arms, “thank you so much for doing this.”

You gave a short shrug, arms crossed over your chest even though it wasn’t cold. “I don’t even know if it’s safe being near you with her,” you said honestly, voice low. “It’s probably the most stupid thing I’ve done in a while.”

His jaw tensed, but he nodded like he expected that reaction. “It is safe,” he said firmly. “A hundred percent. I’ve taken care of everything. No one knows. No one’s watching. And I wouldn’t have asked you to come here in the first place if I wasn’t sure.”

You looked at him hard for a moment, searching for a crack, for a hesitation.

There wasn’t one.

“I wouldn’t risk her,” he added, gentler now. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“I know…” you murmured, eyes flicking down to Becca, who had her cheek pressed sleepily against his shoulder now, her rabbit squished between them.

James gave a soft sigh, then shifted his stance. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

You followed him up the steps, glancing around at the place as he unlocked the door. The house was massive—tucked away behind gates and trees, all sleek lines and quiet wealth. It looked like something out of a magazine.

“Fancy,” you muttered under your breath as you stepped into the cool, pristine entryway.

James chuckled, just a little. “Well… business has been going great recently.”

You huffed, not quite a laugh, but close.

You stepped further inside, your shoes soft against the hardwood floors, the scent of something clean and woodsy lingering in the air.

“It kinda feels good to be back in America,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. “Even if it’s just for a while.”

James closed the door behind you, locking it with a soft click. He didn’t answer at first. Just stood there, watching you take it in.

“I’m glad you came,” he said. “Really.”

You managed a weak smile, your fingers absently brushing the strap of your bag as your eyes lingered on the two of them.

Becca still hadn’t let go of James.

If anything, she clung tighter now—her little arms around his neck, her face nestled close to his, as if to make sure he wouldn’t disappear again. And god, she was talking so much—rattling off every little thing she’d wanted to tell him over the phone but couldn’t.

“Daddy, I saw a bird on our way here and it looked like the one from the book, remember?—and oh, I brought Bunny, look, she came too! Do you think Bunny missed you? She did, I think she did—”

James chuckled, a sound so soft and foreign in all the tension that had filled the past weeks it almost made your chest ache.

He shifted her slightly, holding her with one arm while gently brushing her hair back with the other. “I missed Bunny too,” he said seriously, humoring her. “And you. So much, sweetheart.”

Becca beamed at that, proud and giddy. She rested her head on his shoulder, still babbling about everything and nothing.

You watched quietly, the sight equal parts comfort and ache—like watching something beautiful you weren’t sure you had a place in anymore. But still, your heart tugged.

Maybe this really was worth it. Even if it was only for a week.

———

Some hours later, the sun was starting to dip low behind the trees outside his window, casting long golden shadows across the floor of the living room. The house was quiet now—peaceful in a way that made the day feel heavier, fuller.

Becca had finally dozed off, curled up on the big couch under a light blanket, her rabbit tucked securely beneath her arm. She hadn’t stopped talking the entire afternoon—her excitement bubbling over like she didn’t want to waste a second of her time here. But now, her energy had finally given out.

You sat down on the couch, just watching her. There was something about seeing her like that, small and soft in a space that wasn’t yours, yet didn’t feel entirely foreign either… it did something strange to your chest.

Behind you, in the kitchen, James was quietly cleaning up. He’d made dinner. Offered, actually. You’d sat at his table and tried to eat even though your nerves were all over the place. It was awkward, yes—but not tense the way it had been before. There was something easier about it. Calmer. Like you both were too tired to keep up the weight of old fights, at least for today.

“You want tea or anything?” he asked now, his voice low, careful not to wake her.

You turned a little, arms crossed, unsure. “Tea’s good.” A pause. “If it’s no trouble.”

He shook his head, already reaching for the kettle.

You sat at the edge of the couch, your eyes drifting to Becca again. “She was so happy,” you said softly. “It’s like she didn’t even know where to start.”

James glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah… I noticed.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, almost under his breath, “Thank you again.“

You didn’t answer right away. You just… stayed quiet, watching the soft rise and fall of Becca’s chest, her little hand fisted around the rabbit’s ear.

The silence hung for a moment longer, thick and hushed. Then James’s voice came from behind you—low, careful.

“I’m sorry. For our last fight.”

You turned your head toward him, brows lifting slightly. Disbelief flickered across your face before you could hide it.

He met your gaze, exhaling slowly. “I should have apologized earlier but… Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am a coward.”

Your gaze softened before you could stop it.

“I didn’t mean that,” you said quietly. “You’re not a coward, James. I was angry. That wasn’t fair.”

He shook his head. “You weren’t wrong.”

Your voice was a little steadier now. “Still. I shouldn’t have said it. I… I was lashing out.”

James sat down on the arm of the couch, rubbing his hands together like he needed to do something with them. “We both were. And Becca—” his voice cracked slightly “—she shouldn’t have seen that.”

“No,” you agreed, chest tightening. “She really shouldn’t have.”

You both looked over at her then—so small, so peaceful now. You felt the weight of it all settle heavy in the quiet between you.

James shifted on the couch, voice low. “You know… it’s my birthday next week and…”

Of course you knew.

How could you not know?

Even though you never gave a fuck about birthdays—not before Becca—his was etched somewhere inside you, whether you wanted it to be or not.

You looked up at him slowly, and he was already glancing at you, hesitant.

“Well I… There’s gonna be a birthday party,” he said. “Here. I mean… Nothing big, just… my sister and… a few friends…”

You raised a brow, lips twitching. “That doesn’t sound like you,” you said, letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I thought you liked the quiet.”

He let out a short breath of a chuckle and looked down for a moment, fingers rubbing at the seam of his jeans. “I do… It’s just… Sharon insisted.”

Right. Sharon.

He glanced at you again. “But I’d like you to come. With Becca. She could… get to know my family and… all…”

Your mouth opened slightly, then closed. The request sounded simple. Harmless, even. But it wasn’t.

Still, something in his voice gave you pause. The way he said my family, like he was hoping maybe… just maybe… you’d still fit in that frame.

“She could meet my sister,” he added, quieter now. “My niece’ll be there too. She’s just a little older than Becca. They might get along.”

You studied his face, the quiet tension around his eyes, the barely-hidden nerves.

“James, I…” you started, then trailed off, rubbing your palm over your thigh. “I’m not sure if this is a good idea.” You huffed, half-laughing at how stupid it sounded even saying it out loud. “I mean—don’t they all take me as some traitor?”

Your voice had a slight edge now, defensive before he even said a word.

He looked up sharply, eyebrows furrowed. “No. That’s not—”

You shook your head. “Come on. Your sister? Sharon? Your friends? You think they don’t take me as one? I lied to you and then ran off while being pregnant with your kid.”

“You didn’t run off,” he said firmly. “You left. Because I told you to.”

“James, please—” you snapped, then caught yourself. Becca was still sleeping right next to you. You softened your voice. “They only know what they were told.”

James exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping for a second. “And they know the truth,” he said. “Yes, you betrayed me. But they know how things are.”

Your stomach twisted. That word—betrayed—still landed like a dull blade, even now.

He looked at you again, more gently this time. “They know I wasn’t perfect as well.” A beat passed, and then, more quietly, “They know I wasn’t there for you when I should’ve been.”

You swallowed. “That still doesn’t mean they want me at your party.”

“I do.”

You blinked at him. The quiet weight of those two words made your chest ache.

“I want Becca there,” he said, “and I want you there. You’re her mother. You’re part of this. Whether anyone likes it or not.”

A long silence stretched between you.

Your fingers idly smoothed over the edge of the cushion, needing something to do, something to ground you. James was still looking at you, quiet and steady. Not pushing. Just… waiting.

“I don’t know if I belong in that part of your life,” you finally said, barely above a whisper.

His brows pulled together. “You do.”

You let out a soft laugh—dry and tired. “Do I? Because sometimes it really feels like I’m just this… memory you don’t know what to do with.”

James leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice low. “You’re not a memory.”

You didn’t answer right away. Becca shifted a little in her sleep, her tiny fingers curling tighter around the rabbit’s ear. You glanced down at her. “It’s not just about me,” you murmured. “I’m used to people not wanting me around, but I’m not dragging her into that.”

“You’re not dragging her anywhere,” he said. “And nobody’s going to make her feel unwanted.”

You looked at him again.

“I want her to know she’s part of something,” James added. “That she has people. That she’s mine, and I’m hers. And that… you and I, even if we’re not—” He stopped, jaw tightening a little. “Even if we’re not what we used to be, we still made something good.”

Your chest ached.

You whispered, “I’ll think about it.”

James nodded slowly. “That’s all I’m asking.”

———

It had been three days.

Three days of the three of you trying to soak up every minute—like time was something you could store up if you tried hard enough.

James barely let go of Becca, carrying her when she got tired of walking, lifting her up to point at buildings and birds and traffic lights like it was all magic. You showed her the city—not the one you’d once run from, but the one she could remember now with joy in her steps. The park with the street musicians. The zoo with the butterfly room that made her gasp and press her nose against the glass. The rooftop café where you sat all three together, sharing a warm pastry, Becca perched on James’s lap, powdered sugar on her chin.

She laughed. God, she laughed so much.

And you did too, sometimes.

Not the bitter, tired sound you’d gotten used to—but real laughter. Like maybe for once, the world had nothing sharp to offer.

And now… it was his birthday.

You stood in the little bathroom of your temporary apartment, hands shaking just enough to make brushing Becca’s hair a slower process than usual. The cheap plastic comb snagged in a knot, and she winced.

“Sorry,” you whispered, gently easing the tangle out. “Almost done, baby.”

She nodded, her rabbit tucked under one arm, her legs swinging off the closed toilet seat where she sat like a princess being readied for a ball. You’d found a soft, pale yellow dress for her at a shop down the street—the kind with little puffed sleeves and a satin bow at the back. It made her glow. She looked almost like the sun itself.

Your own dress was folded carefully on the bed in the next room—simple, soft fabric, clean lines, something that made you feel like yourself and not a ghost haunting someone else’s life.

Still, your heart was pounding. Your palms kept going clammy. You couldn’t stop glancing at your reflection in the mirror above the sink—fixing a strand of hair, smoothing your face like it might hide the nerves crawling under your skin.

You had never met his family or friends.

You hadn’t seen any of his people.

And tonight… you’d walk into that house as the mother of his child…who once broke his heart.

Fucking great.

Why did you agree?

You swallowed hard, fingers stilling in Becca’s hair. She looked up at you through the mirror.

“Mama?” she asked softly. “Are you okay?”

You met her eyes, your lips pressing into a trembling smile. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I’m just… a little nervous.”

“Why?”

You crouched down, eye level with her now, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Because tonight’s important,” you said. “And because I want it to go… really well.”

She blinked, then reached out and patted your cheek with her tiny hand, completely serious. “It will,” she said.

You melted. Just like that.

Your shoulders dropped, tension unwinding in a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. A watery smile tugged at your lips as you leaned in and kissed her forehead, resting your hand gently over her tiny one on your cheek.

“I love you, Beccy,” you whispered, voice catching just a little.

She beamed. That scrunched-nose kind of smile that could undo the hardest days.

“I love you too, Mama,” she said with conviction, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re the best.”

You let out a soft, teary laugh. “No, baby… I’m really not.”

“Yes, you are,” she said, swinging her feet again. “You buy me dresses. And you let me eat strawberries for dinner sometimes.”

You grinned. “Ah, so that’s the bar.”

“Mhm,” she hummed.

———

You arrived a little late.

Fashionably, maybe, though that had never been your style. Really, you’d just stood frozen after you left the cab for a few minutes longer than necessary, heart racing like a warning bell.

Becca’s tiny hand was wrapped in yours the whole time—and you hadn’t even realized how tight your grip had become until she let out a quiet—

“Ow… Mama, auch.”

Your eyes snapped down. “Shit—sorry, honey.” You crouched quickly, rubbing the spot you’d squeezed too tight and brushing her knuckles with a kiss. “I didn’t mean to. I’m just a little nervous, okay?”

She nodded, unfazed, already distracted by the lights strung up around the house. “It’s okay. It looks pretty.”

You tried to smile. “Yeah. It does.”

The front door opened before you even reached it. James. In a soft linen shirt, sleeves rolled, collar relaxed—but his shoulders still squared like he’d been pacing. And his eyes… they went soft the second they landed on you both.

“Hey,” he said quietly, stepping forward. “You made it.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

He leaned down to Becca, and she squealed a quiet “Hi, Daddy!” before throwing her arms around his legs.

James scooped her up effortlessly, pressing a kiss to her temple, and then looked to you again. “Come on. We’re outside—in the garden.”

You followed him through the house, the click of your shoes feeling too loud on the floor, your throat dry. You could hear voices ahead—easy, mingling laughter, music drifting on the warm air. You could already feel the stares even though no one had seen you yet. You weren’t ready.

God, you weren’t ready.

You stepped outside and the light changed—golden and dappled under the canopy of trees, paper lanterns swaying above a long wooden table, half-filled glasses and shared plates and soft music spilling from somewhere discreet.

And James reached for your wrist, just lightly. Not to stop you. Just to anchor you.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You swallowed hard.

No. But you nodded anyway.

Almost instantly, someone noticed you.

A woman—tall, radiant, warm-eyed—was crossing the garden with a look of unmistakable recognition, glass of wine in one hand and the other already outstretched in your direction. She was beautiful in that effortless way—a little bossy, a little overfamiliar, but all heart.

James’ sister.

You didn’t have time to brace before she reached you.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, eyes flicking between you and the little girl in James’ arms. “This is her, isn’t it? This is the little Becca? Named after me?”

She didn’t wait for a response before she stepped forward with a grin, gently ruffling Becca’s curls. “Well, aren’t you the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

Becca blinked up at her, rabbit still in hand. “…You have the same name as me?”

“I do,” Rebecca said proudly. “Well, I had it first, but I’m very happy to share.”

Becca giggled, just a little, and your shoulders finally dropped half an inch.

“She’s even cuter than the pictures,” Rebecca added, turning to you now—eyes sharp, but not unkind. “And you. You must be absolutely terrified right now.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Meeting the everyone. All the judging eyes. The awkward small talk. Don’t worry. I’m the worst of the bunch—and I already like you.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from relief. You managed a shaky, grateful smile instead.

“Thanks,” you murmured. “Really.”

James was still holding Becca, watching quietly—a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

Oh, he was enjoying it.

His sister clapped her hands. “Alright, party mode activated.”

Then she glanced at your daughter again, eyes sparkling. “Hey, listen. My daughter’s upstairs playing with her mountain of toys and getting glitter in places it absolutely shouldn’t be. I bet she’d love a new friend—what do you say, Becca? Want to come play for a bit?”

Beccy looked up at you, her expression shifting from uncertainty to growing interest.

Rebecca softened. “Only if it’s okay with your mom. I’ll keep an eye on them.”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the strap of your bag. You weren’t sure what exactly you were afraid of—maybe that you’d lose her in this unfamiliar house, or maybe just the idea of letting her out of reach. But then you felt James watching you.

He put Becca down and your eyes met his. And for a second, the noise of the party faded behind you.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, like a quiet promise saying it’s okay.

You exhaled slowly and looked back at Becca, brushing a thumb across her temple. “Yeah… fine. But only if you want to, okay?”

Becca gave a tiny, eager nod.

Rebecca grinned wide and reached for her hand. “Come on, kid. I’ve got juice boxes and chaos upstairs.”

You crouched a little, whispering in Becca’s ear as she clutched her rabbit. “Be good, Beccy. I’ll be right here.”

She nodded again and then let her aunt lead her away, small feet padding up the steps.

And just like that—you were standing in a garden party, alone.

You stood there, stiff, trying to ground yourself in the warm air and the distant hum of laughter. But the minute Becca disappeared up the stairs, it was like your body forgot how to function.

This was stupid.

You shouldn’t have come. Not here, not to this house, not to this party. You were surrounded by his world, and even though no one was looking at you funny—yet—you felt the weight of it on your skin, like it could peel you open.

The cutlery clinking, the soft jazz in the background, the smell of grilled meat and champagne—none of it matched the twist in your gut.

You were about to take a quiet step back—find a corner and sit until the room stopped spinning—when you heard his voice again.

“It’s okay.”

You turned your head. James stood beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could hear the calm in his voice. See the way his hand hovered like he almost wanted to reach for yours but didn’t.

“Come on,” he said gently. “There’s some people I want you to meet.”

You blinked. “James—”

“I promise. It’s gonna be fine.”

And before you could come up with an excuse, he was already walking you through the garden.

Two men stood near the drink table, laughing about something. One of them—blond hair, broad-shouldered, blue eyes. The other, with a disarming grin and sharp gaze that almost cut through you.

James motioned toward them. “Guys, this is—”

“Oh, I know who she is,” Sam interrupted with a surprised smile.

Steve looked over with an unreadable expression, but when his eyes landed on you, they softened… just a bit.

You tried to smile, but it faltered before it reached your eyes. “Hi.”

As they chatted, friendly and casual, you felt the walls close in. You weren’t just standing here with James’s friends—you were standing in a room full of people who had to know what you did.

They probably whispered about you behind closed doors. Judged you silently in their own way. You could almost hear the unspoken questions:

Can she be trusted?

Will she hurt James again?

Is she spying on us right now?

You swallowed hard. The laughter around you felt distant and hollow, like a soundtrack to a scene you didn’t belong in.

How could you face them? How could you face anyone when you were carrying so much guilt, so much shame? When every glance felt like it pierced through your carefully built walls?

James’s voice broke through the storm inside your head, but you hardly heard it.

Because all you could feel was the heavy weight of the past—how everyone here must see you as the woman who betrayed the man you still loved.

James continues talking beside you—something light, probably teasing—but you just nodded along, gaze unfocused. It all felt like static. Laughter. Music. The occasional cheer from the kids playing upstairs that you could hear through the open window. Voices that blurred together.

And then—

A hand on James’s arm.

You blinked back into yourself.

A woman you’d never seen before was suddenly by his side. Tall, blonde, stunning in a way that made you feel like you’d been punched in the gut. Her dress clung to her like it was made for her alone. She didn’t look at you right away. She just leaned in and kissed James on the cheek like she’d done it a thousand times before.

You didn’t mean to grimace—but it happened. Reflex. It was subtle, but sharp. Your jaw clenched, stomach flipping, a cold rush settling beneath your ribs.

So that was her.

Sharon.

Of course it was. You just… never thought you’d see the moment play out in front of you. Never thought it would hit this hard.

Then her eyes flicked to you. She didn’t smile.

“Hi,” she said, curt and tight. Her gaze dipped quickly to your dress, then back to your face. “You must be… her.”

Her.

You gave a small nod, trying to find your footing, your voice. “Yeah. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she cut in, already glancing away. Not cruel. Just… uninterested. Awkward. Cold.

An empty silence followed. You weren’t sure if you were meant to say something else, or if she was. But she didn’t make an effort. Didn’t try to break the tension.

Eventually, Sharon looked back to James. “I’m gonna check on the drinks,” she muttered, already stepping away before either of you could respond.

You stood still, the weight of it all settling again. The air sharp around you. Like you’d stepped into a life that kept going without you—and maybe never wanted you back.

Your stomach turned, the air suddenly too warm, too tight against your skin.

It wasn’t about Sharon. Not really. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was all about her—about watching her kiss James’s cheek like she belonged there. About the way she said you must be her like your name was too much to acknowledge. Like you were a chapter better left unread.

You stared past the garden lights, past the gentle hum of chatter and music, and all you could hear was your own breath. Quick. Shallow. Your thoughts spiraled fast—too fast to hold onto just one.

Of course they all hate you. Of course they think you don’t belong here. You don’t. You lied. You left. And now you’re back—like you get to want anything. Like you get to hope.

“Hey,” James said, voice low as he stepped beside you. You hadn’t noticed him watching you. “She’s… not usually like that.”

You let out a bitter laugh before you could stop it. It caught in your throat like smoke.

“Sure she isn’t,” you murmured, eyes still fixed on nothing. “Just a coincidence she’s rude tonight.”

He winced. You could feel the tension ripple off him—like he wanted to fix it but didn’t know where to begin.

You didn’t continue.

You could—God, you wanted to. Part of you was itching to snap, to demand clarity, to say something just cutting enough to sting but not enough to start a war.

But the other part? The tired part? The one who held herself together with fraying thread in his garden? That part knew exactly how it would end. A fight. An echo of every old argument—the ones that had left you shaking and hollow.

So instead, you just nodded, your jaw tight, and shifted your eyes back toward the crowd.

Except you couldn’t help it. Your gaze drifted, almost on instinct. Muscle memory from another life. And there she was—Sharon.

You watched her the way you used to watch high-value targets.

She wasn’t mingling like the others. Not laughing, not sipping a drink, not even standing anywhere close to James. She was… focused. Brows slightly drawn, posture alert but not tense. You followed her line of sight but she wasn’t looking at you. Not anymore. Her eyes flicked to the side—toward the house maybe. Or someone.

Still, she was distant. Not just with you, but everyone. It wasn’t just discomfort—it was like she was only half there. Preoccupied.

You forced yourself to look away before it became obvious. Before someone noticed.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just awkwardness. Just the presence of an ex in a place where no one expected you.

But something itched beneath your skin. You told yourself it was harmless. A habit. Like breathing. But the truth was, it was deeper than that—burned into your brain from years of survival and secrecy. Once, it kept you alive. Now it was just… instinct. Muscle memory that work in FBI imprinted on you.

Your detective brain switched on before you could stop it.

The way Sharon kept scanning the area—it wasn’t casual. It was practiced. Her eyes swept the crowd like she was searching for someone. Not in a friendly “Where’s my friend?” kind of way either. This was tactical. Quietly thorough. Efficient. A pattern. She checked the back entrance, the patio door, the hallway leading inside.

You glanced at her hands.

Phone in one, fingers moving quickly over the screen. Her expression didn’t change. Whatever she was typing, it was short, decisive. Not a social message. Not small talk. This was something else.

She sent it. Waited. Glanced around again.

God. You hated this. You hated how it all came back so easily. How you could still read body language like a briefing photo. How you were already forming theories—subconscious little spirals that made your chest feel tight.

You dug your nails into your palm, grounding yourself.

This isn’t a mission. This isn’t a case. You are just at a party. A birthday party. For your daughter’s father.

But you still couldn’t stop watching her.

You inhaled slowly, trying to shake it off.

It is probably just jealousy. That’s all it is.

You repeated it like a mantra.

You saw her kiss James. You were emotional. On edge. You didn’t belong here and you knew it, so your mind was looking for reasons to confirm it.

But it didn’t help.

It didn’t help that your gut wouldn’t shut up.

You clenched your jaw and turned your gaze away. Tried to focus on the faint sound of kids laughing somewhere upstairs. Tried to remind yourself that Becca was safe, that this was just a normal party, that people like Sharon had no reason to be doing anything sketchy at James’ birthday.

She was probably uncomfortable because you were here. That made sense. You were the ex. The one who ran. The one with all the secrets.

And maybe—maybe she was texting someone about you. Complaining. Warning someone. Something petty.

Not everything is a threat. Not everyone is hiding something. Not everyone is you.

You didn’t feel easy. Or light. Or anything remotely comfortable.

Honestly, you would’ve given anything to just go home.

Curl up in bed, wrap your arms around your daughter, and pretend you were somewhere far away. Somewhere the past couldn’t follow you. Somewhere James didn’t look at you the way he did—soft, careful, like he still didn’t know what to do with you.

The party moved like a slow tide around you—people mingling under strings of golden lights, soft jazz floating from the speakers tucked in the corners of the garden. You stood with James near the far edge of the lawn, close to the ivy-covered fence, just far enough from the crowd that no one was listening in. Your drink had long gone warm in your hand.

You glanced around again. Sharon was gone now, probably inside somewhere. People kept giving you looks—curious, polite, none of them exactly hostile. But it didn’t matter. You felt like every pair of eyes was dissecting you. Wondering what you were doing there.

James must have noticed your silence, because he leaned in, nudging you gently with his shoulder. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth. Didn’t answer. Just nodded once, too tight.

Then—

Crack.

It sounded like fireworks at first. Or maybe someone dropping something heavy. Barely anyone reacted. Some people laughed, raised glasses.

You blinked. James turned his head slightly.

Another crack. Louder. Sharper.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Screams.

Suddenly the music cut. A woman shrieked, plates crashed to the ground, and people scattered like frightened birds.

Gunshots.

Real ones.

“Down—get down!” someone shouted.

James grabbed your arm hard enough to bruise, dragging you behind a stone planter as the air exploded with panic.

“Becca.” you gasped, voice already hoarse with fear.

James looked to the house—but it felt miles away now. The garden was too open. Too exposed. And the shooters weren’t waiting. Bullets tore through the air—one splintered the wooden trellis just a few feet away, making you both duck lower.

He cursed under his breath, eyes darting toward the house, then to the patio where Steve and Sam had just shoved a couple of guests through the door.

“Steve!” James yelled. “Secure the house! Get the kids!”

Steve looked back just long enough to nod and disappear inside, already yelling orders.

James turned to you. “We can’t make a run for it right now. We’d be exposed. Just—stay low, stay with me—”

But your chest was tightening. All you could think about was Becca upstairs.

Becca, with some little girl you didn’t know.

Becca, in a house that suddenly felt too far away.

Your breath caught. The air felt thinner now—sharper, like it sliced your lungs instead of filling them.

Where is Sharon?

She’d been standing just a few feet from the patio minutes ago. You’d seen her then—narrow-eyed, checking her phone, barely even pretending to make small talk. You’d watched her look around like she was waiting for someone to show up.

And now?

Gone.

Just gone.

Your brain started spinning without permission. All those instincts you tried to leave behind—every pattern recognition, every quiet training cue buried under years of denial—flooded to the surface.

Something was off. This wasn’t random. It wasn’t messy. Whoever came in… they weren’t just shooting blindly. They knew the house. The layout. Where people would be standing. The way the gunfire curved around the garden like it was designed to herd people—not just scare them.

No one could plan this without inside information.

You felt it in your chest, a cold certainty.

It was her.

It had to be her.

James was crouched beside you, eyes scanning the perimeter, hyper-alert. His hand brushed your back without even realizing it—protective, grounding. But you didn’t dare grab his arm. Didn’t dare say what your gut screamed at you, because—

Because Becca was inside.

Because all that mattered was getting her out.

Alive.

The crack of gunfire didn’t stop. It echoed sharp and vicious through the garden, like it was bouncing off the very air. James had already moved—fast and precise, firing from cover, eyes narrowed in complete focus.

You stayed low behind the stone planter, heart hammering against your ribs, every instinct in you screaming to do something. But James had told you to stay put. Stay down.

You couldn’t.

Not like this.

There was too much blood already. Some people—maybe guests, maybe some of James’ people—lying motionless on the grass, some screaming in pain, others too quiet. Your stomach twisted.

And then you saw it.

Just a few feet away—one of the attackers down, slumped awkwardly near a tree. Their body still, twisted. A handgun glinted beside their open palm.

Your breath caught. You didn’t think. You moved.

Hands shaking, you slid out from behind the planter just enough to crawl across the grass, staying low, barely breathing. You kept your eyes on the body, the gun—ignoring the way the earth was stained red, ignoring the warm slickness that clung to your hands as you reached out.

Your fingers wrapped around the weapon.

You pulled back quickly, retreating to the planter just as another round of shots cracked through the air. You hugged the gun to your chest for a moment, your pulse thundering in your ears, trying to breathe.

You weren’t the same person you used to be.

You hadn’t held a gun in years. Not since you stopped working with the Feds.

But right now…

You didn’t have a choice.

So you didn’t hesitate. Gun in hand, you slipped out from behind the planter again, eyes sharp, heart hammering not just with fear but with adrenaline—the familiar rush that always came with danger.

James was just a few feet away, firing with brutal efficiency. He didn’t say a word when he saw you moving toward the attackers. No warning, no protest. He knew. He knew you could handle yourself, that you were still capable.

You’re both fighting for the same thing.

The house. Becca. Her safety.

You crouched behind a low wall, sighting down the gun carefully, steadying your breath like you’d been trained. Your fingers moved with practiced precision—shoot, reload, shoot again. Shots rang out sharp and echoed, but you barely registered the noise beyond the tunnel vision of protecting what mattered.

James moved with you, a silent partner in the chaos—always just a step away, covering your flank, eyes flicking constantly to the house where Becca was hidden.

You didn’t say much. Words didn’t fit here.

You were two soldiers in a warzone, fighting back the dark that had come for your family.

And you were ready to do whatever it took.

Sam’s voice crackled through the chaos—somewhere near the house— sharp and clear. “Support’s en route. Hold tight.”

You felt the weight of those words settle over you like a shield. Reinforcements. More of James’s people—stronger, faster, better prepared—were coming.

The tide was turning.

James’s eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of relief there despite the grime and sweat on his face. You gave a tight nod, still focused but grateful.

You ducked behind cover again as more figures appeared on the perimeter, moving in synchronized, tactical precision.

The attackers, realizing the odds were shifting, started to falter—some trying to retreat, others desperately pushing forward but losing ground.

Your gun went off again, then another. The sound was relentless but less terrifying now.

The firefight began to wane. The chaos thinned like fog lifting at dawn.

You kept your breath steady, eyes scanning the area.

One by one, the attackers fell back or went down, their numbers dwindling to nearly nothing.

James moved beside you, his expression tense but resolute. “There’s only a couple left,” he muttered, loading his weapon.

You nodded, heart still pounding but steadying. You exhaled slowly, every muscle still tight from the fight, but alive.

One of James’ men finally called out, voice loud and steady. “It’s clear.”

Carefully, you rose to your feet, the weight of adrenaline fading, replaced by raw exhaustion.

James was instantly at your side, his hands searching you for any sign of injury. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, fear still in your eyes. “I’m fine.”

His eyes were intense, almost frantic now, and without hesitation he turned to Sam, voice trembling, eyes almost glassy.

“Becca… is she okay? Did they get into the house?”

Sam’s expression was calm but firm. “They’re safe. Your sister, her kid, and Becca—they’re all safe inside with Steve.”

James let out a breath he’d been holding, relief washing over his face in waves. You both stood there for a moment, the world quiet except for your pounding hearts.

The world seemed to freeze for a heartbeat.

You glanced around, heart hammering in your chest—the blood-slick ground, the shattered remnants of what had been a peaceful night now turned into chaos and death.

And then you saw it.

One of the attackers, barely conscious but still clinging to life, lay sprawled on the ground not far from you.

In their trembling hand was a gun, aimed directly at James.

Panic ripped through you. Without thinking, you lunged toward James, moving faster than you knew you could, instinctively shielding him.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Crack.

The world narrowed down to the sound of that single gunshot—sharp, unforgiving, like a thunderclap ripping through the chaos.

The impact hit you first—a searing, burning pain blossoming through your rib, fierce and immediate. Your breath hitched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as you crumpled forward, body collapsing onto James, fighting to keep him safe.

Sam’s shot rang out, precise and final, cutting through the chaos like a sharp blade. The last threat was silenced, the attacker finally still.

Everything else faded into a blur—the red-hot agony, the pounding in your chest, the taste of iron at the back of your throat.

Your mind screamed but your body stayed rooted, trembling as you clung to him.

James’ voice—raw, frantic—cut through the haze. “No! No, no, no—”

You felt his hands on you, warm as you once remembered them, shaking you gently, like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Please—“

But all you could think was how much you loved him.

How much you’d give to keep him safe.

Your world had shattered—but the one thing you knew with terrifying clarity was that you would never let him fall.

James dropped to his knees with you, eyes wide with horror, his whole body trembling. His hands were gentle but frantic as they moved to cradle you, as if holding you close could somehow protect you from the searing pain.

“Stay with me, please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please, my love…”

His breath hitched as he searched your face, desperate for any sign, any flicker of hope.

Without hesitation, he gathered you into his arms, lifting you as if you were the most precious thing in the world—because you were. His hands trembled, urgency flooding his movements. “We need to get you help. Now. Just—Please, stay with me.”

His hands shook, fingers trembling “Stay with me,” he repeated, voice breaking. “Please, stay with me.”

You tried to answer, to tell him it would be okay, to say you loved him one last time—but the pain pressed down on your chest like a weight too heavy to bear. Your breath caught and faltered, the words choking in your throat, slipping away before they could reach his ears.

“Please—Please, you can’t—“ he cried out.

“It’s her—” you managed to let out, your voice barely a whisper.

“What?” James asked, confused through the haze of his emotions. His eyes were full of both ache and sorrow.

Your own eyes fluttered, a tear tracing a slow, silent path down your cheek. Your body felt numb, weak, disconnected from your mind. The darkness was coming fast now, pulling at you with cold hands.

You could feel life slipping away, like sand through trembling fingers, and with it, every chance, every hope you’d ever held onto.

There was a coldness creeping in from the edges of your vision, a soft pulling that whispered this was the end—the last breath, the final goodbye. But your mind refused to accept it, clinging to fragments of warmth: Becca’s bright smile, the sound of her laughter, James’s voice calling your name.

You thought about all the things left unsaid—the apologies, the hopes, the dreams you never got to chase. How unfair it was, that you would never get to watch your daughter grow up fully, or hold James without the weight of pain between you.

And yet, beneath the fear, there was something fierce—a quiet resolve not to vanish without love, without meaning.

Your fingers touched his shirt, the faintest touch, and your lips parted as if to say something. “I— love you—“ you tried to whisper, voice barely audible, but the words were your last gift—a fragile promise carried on a breath.

As the darkness closed in, you surrendered to the fading light, carried by the love of the man who had always held your heart—the love of your life—and the memories of all you fought for.

Chapter Ten (Finale) Soon… 💸

series tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you, it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @muchwita @its-in-the-woods @taqmari @opheliabbarnes @rabknowstheend @pineapplechuncks @infinitepersuasion @sweetestharley @adalvsseb @miss-chuchu @nandanandada @globetrotter28 @whorunthemfworld-girls @madlyinlovewmattmurd0ck @ruexj282 @xamapolax @bloodmocha @castawaycreature @wakemeornot @lilylilyyyyyy @rue963 @miirasarchive @fleurenoir @figtreesandmoonlight @steph88x @starstruck-cowgirl @okaytrashpanda @lovely-seb @sinistersnakey @bananaminn @readscreamrepeat @yes-ilovetowrite @g0back2bed @jbuckybarnesimp @zombi3-girlz @paristheonewhoreads @justagirlcalledaddie @lovinqbella @thriving-n-jiving @lumpypoll @avivarougestan @wickedfun9 @borkybawnes @levisungjingwoo2099 @gilly903@akiyhara @obsessed-oops @luvwithau @wildflowersandvibranium

comment to be added to the tag list!

⋆⁺₊✧ SERIES MASTERLIST

⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

[azzishands]

My brother's girlfriend - Chapter seven

Paige x Azzi

WC: 8.7k

Warnings: mature content (18+)

A/N: Idek what to say, half of this is like smut, I feel kinda embarrassed ngl

Masterlist

----

Paige was coming home from closing the bar when she found Josh on the couch, crying. 

“Hey, Joshy, what’s going on buddy?” Paige immediately sat down next to her brother. 

Josh’s shoulders were slightly shaking with each sob, his breathing erratic and he hid his wet face behind his hands. 

“Josh, talk to me,” Paige said, really worried now. 

“Azzi broke up with me,” he choked out. 

Paige pressed her lips together, but she couldn’t quite help that the corners twitched ever so slightly upwards. Her stomach twisted into knots as the weight of the news settled in her heart. She felt both guilty and relieved, and then guilty again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered out and wrapped her arm around Josh. 

She felt like a fraud with every breath she took, as if she wasn’t an accomplice to Josh’s heartbreak. 

“I thought this time would be different,” Josh cried. “Because she was different. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“I know, I know,” Paige patted his back and used her other hand to gently wipe away his tears. 

“What if she was the one, Paige? And I just screwed it up,” Josh buried his face in his hands. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” A sharp pain stabbed behind Paige’s ribs, as if her heart had flinched with Josh’s harsh words about himself. “Listen to me Josh, you did nothing wrong.”

“How do you know that?” Josh asked desperately. “Did she tell you she was gonna break up with me?”

Paige swallowed nervously. “No,” she shook her head. “Josh, you were a wonderful boyfriend, I have no doubt about that. Sometimes it just doesn't work out. Like me and Sam.”

“You and Sam mutually lost feelings for each other,” Josh said. “I never lost feelings for Azzi.”

Paige didn’t say anything. Her hand behind Josh’s back was still. 

“Did Azzi say she wanted to end it because she lost feelings?” Paige eventually asked.

“Not explicitly. She just said that she couldn’t do it anymore,” Josh sighed. 

“Maybe it has something to do with her personal situation?” Paige said slowly. 

“I don’t think so,” Josh sniffled. “I just think she finally saw that I wasn’t enough.”

Paige let her arms wrap around her brother and leaned her head on his, holding him tightly. 

“Joshy,” she croaked softly. “I know things feel like shit right now, but it’ll be alright. You’ll be alright, I promise you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her brother leaned into his sister’s safe embrace and took a deep breath, letting her comfort him. 

“I love you, lil bro,” Paige told him affectionately. “We’ll get through this together.”

“Maybe if I hadn’t gone to Europe,” Josh mumbled sadly.

“Don’t do that,” Paige interjected. “Josh, you did nothing wrong.”

“You don’t know that,” Josh argued. 

“I was here,” Paige swallowed. “I saw how you two acted with each other. I know you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Josh took a deep disappointed breath.

“We didn’t have sex at all after I came back from Europe,” Josh revealed. 

Paige snapped her head towards him with a dumfounded face. 

“I know,” Josh scoffed at her reaction. “I should’ve known, right?”

“Wha- did she tell you why?” Paige asked carefully. 

“No. She just said she didn’t want to, and I didn’t question it-”

“-because you’re not a jerk,” Paige finished for him with a sigh. 

“But now I’m just thinking, what if she met someone else while I was gone? And that’s why she didn’t want to have sex with me anymore? And that’s why she broke up with me? Fuck, I shouldn’t have left.”

Paige cleared her throat in distress, shifted her position on the couch and swallowed nervously. She took a deep breath and looked Josh in the eyes. 

“Josh,” she said. “I need to- I- Um- You should know that-”

“Yes?” 

Paige sighed. 

“Azzi didn’t meet someone else,” she said at last. “If she did, I would’ve noticed.”

Josh exhaled in relief, while the knot in Paige’s throat tightened, making it feel like she was being choked.

“You don’t know how good it felt to hear that,” he choked out and started to tear up again. 

Paige just held him closer and shut her eyes, feeling the tears starting to well up in her own eyes as well. 

She was officially a homewrecker to her own brother.

Paige felt disgusted with herself. Seeing him wrecked like this made it all too real, and she regretted everything.

How could she have done this to her own brother?

—-----

Azzi felt nervous and stressed out. 

She had been too occupied with worrying about breaking up with Josh, she didn’t even think of how nerve wracking it would be to actually try and approach Paige now that she didn’t live with her. 

What could she even do? Show up at the apartment with flowers in her hand, asking her out? No, Josh could be the one who opened the door, and that would just be a catastrophe. 

Should she go to Velvet and surprise her? No, she would rather see Paige alone and not at her work. 

Maybe she could just write to Paige and tell her that she’s single now, and that they have the green light. 

No, that’s too insensitive. 

For having lived with Paige for over a month and had sex with her twice, Azzi somehow felt even more nervous and timid at the thought of Paige now. Just thinking about those blue eyes and that smile made her stomach do flips. 

“Azzi!” her dad yelled from downstairs. 

She sighed and left her thoughts about Paige alone for a second to walk downstairs and see what her dad wanted.

“Yes?” she asked and leaned on the doorframe to their kitchen. 

Her dad had just woken up from another night out filled with liquor, and he was sitting by the kitchen table, holding his head in his hands. The whole kitchen smelled like alcohol and sweat, a smell that Azzi unfortunately was used to by now. 

“Can you make me some breakfast? I don’t feel too good,” he sighed and looked at her with shame. “I would do it myself, but I don’t think I can stand up.”

“Fine,” Azzi said with a tired expression and made him a toast with eggs and bacon. She served him and herself and sat down with him at the table. 

“I’m so happy you’re back home sweetie,” he smiled gratefully and took a bite of his toast. 

“I know, dad,” she just said and ate her toast as well. 

“I’m sorry you and Josh didn’t work out,” he added. “He was a good guy.”

“You met him twice, and you were blackout drunk both times,” she deadpanned. 

Her dad just looked down at the table in slight shame, knowing that she was right, as he had no memories of him at all. 

“Still, he was a good guy. You told me so yourself,” he mumbled at last. 

“He was. He is,” Azzi swallowed. 

“So why didn’t it work out?”

“I…” Azzi hesitated. “I started to have feelings for someone else.”

“Who?”

Azzi felt her heart thumping loudly in her chest. Telling her dad about Paige didn’t necessarily make her nervous. She knew that he didn’t care about it being a woman, but the fact that it was Josh’s sister was still very much questionable in every aspect.

“Paige, Josh’s sister,” she revealed quietly. 

It was as if her dad suddenly sobered up and looked at her with a real frown. 

“His sister?” he asked, bewildered. 

“Yeah,” she exhaled slowly, and suddenly, it felt like she couldn’t keep it in any longer. 

It was as if the truth was starting to rebel in her body, wanting to get out of her prison of guilt, searching, needing, begging for validation that she was still a person worthy of love. 

“I cheated on him with her,” she blurted out with a broken voice. 

“Azzi,” her dad said with a deep sigh and a disapproving shake of his head. 

Azzi felt the lump in her throat just from hearing the disappointment in her dad’s voice. Her dad, an incompetent lousy father figure with alcohol problems, was disappointed in her.

What had her life turned into? 

“Go ahead, condemn me,” Azzi said carelessly, but her voice gave it away with a tremble. 

“That’s not the sort of woman I raised you to be,” he said sternly. 

Nothing could’ve made Azzi angrier than hearing her dad utter those words. 

“Raised me to be?” she stood up angrily from the table. “You checked out the moment mom left! You haven’t been present for years. You’re just existing, you’re not even living anymore!”

Deafening silence took over the moment Azzi stopped. Her dad had nothing to say. He just looked at her with a neutral expression, waiting for her to be done. 

Azzi couldn’t stand the way he just looked at her, as if he couldn’t care less that what she just said was true. She had taken care of herself and him through hell and back, and not even in her weakest moments could he acknowledge that. 

“You’re unbelievable,” she let out hopelessly, and left the house. 

She didn’t know where to go, but she just took her car and drove away from the house she grew up in. Paige’s apartment was not even an option, even though she knew that Josh would let her stay there despite them being broken up. But that’s why she couldn’t go there, she didn’t want to exploit Josh’s kindness like that. Not after having broken his heart. 

Azzi’s mind was racing with what options she had. She couldn’t go to Caroline again, it was too far. 

Maybe Jana could take her in for some days?

But when Azzi really thought about it, she realized that all she really wanted was for some space of her own. 

She didn’t have a lot of money, but enough to get a hotel room to escape her reality just for a few days at least. Right now, the price of her comfortability seemed to be worth it. 

The room was small but warm, like a quiet sigh at the end of a long day. Soft lighting bathed the space in a golden glow, and the bed, dressed in crisp white sheets, looked irresistibly inviting. It wasn’t fancy, but it was peaceful and just what Azzi needed.��

Azzi let herself sneak under the covers and rest her head on the soft pillows. It wasn’t even night yet, and she was already exhausted. She couldn’t help but think about the blonde woman who always looked at her like she had hung the moon. 

She was done overthinking, she just wanted to see Paige as soon as possible now. 

Azzi Fudd: ‘Hey, I’m staying at a hotel for a couple nights. Come see me tonight?’

She then proceeded to send her address. 

Paige Bueckers: ‘I’ll be there at 7’

Azzi let out a breath of relief from the reply and smiled to herself. At least one good thing would come out of this day. 

----

The door hadn’t even fully opened before Paige was wrapped in a hug, not even a second to see who it was - just warmth, all at once.

“Hey,” she chuckled and reciprocated the hug with a big grin on her face. 

“I’ve missed you,” Azzi said into Paige’s chest. 

“You saw me just a couple of days ago,” Paige smiled and let herself inhale the scent of Azzi’s shampoo.

“I broke up with Josh,” Azzi said and let go of the older one and stepped inside the hotel room, taking a seat on the bed. 

“I know,” Paige pursed her lips and sat down in a chair in the corner of the room. “He told me.”

Azzi looked at Paige surprised. “He did?” 

“Yeah. Last night,” she replied. “He’s pretty heartbroken over you.”

Azzi felt the guilt inside her bubble up again, and she just looked down at the floor in silence at that. 

“I actually came over here to talk to you,” Paige then said, and Azzi lifted her gaze at her, curiously.

“Okay,” Azzi nodded. 

Paige looked at her with her fingers fidgeting in her lap. There was something in her eyes that unsettled Azzi. 

“I don’t think we should see each other again,” Paige then said.

And Azzi’s heart shattered in the same moment. 

“What?” She blinked away her tears that were already starting to brim her eyes. 

Paige’s eyes were watery too now.

“Paige, we didn’t even get to- I mean we- you-” Azzi was stammering in desperation. 

“I can’t do this to Josh,” Paige whispered helplessly as a tear rolled down from her left eye. 

“But I…” Azzi didn’t know what to say. 

“I just lied to his face, saying that you didn’t meet someone else, when in reality, I’m the reason you’re breaking his heart,” Paige shook her head, disappointed in herself. “I’m supposed to be his big sister. I’m supposed to protect him, not go behind his back and stab him.”

“I get that, Paige,” Azzi said sadly. “But the damage is already done. Us dating is not worse than us going behind his back.” 

“That’s not how it works,” Paige said quietly. “How could I ever bring home the person that hurt him?”

Azzi fell silent. 

“Is that all I am now? The person that hurt him?” Azzi asked.

“Of course not,” Paige exhaled. “You know how I feel about you. But I don’t think Josh could see you with anyone else without hurting him, especially not with me.”

“Paige, I don’t mean for us to be official right away, but if we could just give us a chance and see where things go, maybe he’ll be over it by the time we’re something serious,” Azzi said desperately. 

The blonde woman rose from her chair and sat down beside Azzi and took her hand in her own, rubbing her thumb over Azzi’s knuckles. 

“I want to,” Paige whispered. “But I can’t. He’s my brother Azzi, his well-being comes first.”

“We didn’t even get a chance,” Azzi said with a defeated voice. 

Paige looked at Azzi with mournful eyes. Nothing was fair. 

“Maybe in another lifetime,” Paige whispered. 

“Maybe in another lifetime,” Azzi repeated tearfully. 

Timing had never really been on their side.

Paige let her hand land on Azzi’s wet cheek and leaned in. Azzi didn’t hesitate. Their lips met softly, both knowing that it wouldn’t lead to anything. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t sexual, it was just a goodbye without saying it. 

Azzi melted into the kiss, wanting to prolong their last moment together for as long as she could. But everything comes to an end eventually. Her whole body was vibrating from the touch and she could feel electricity on her lips as they parted. 

Paige rose from the bed and walked towards the door. But before she left, she looked back at Azzi one last time. 

“You take care now,” she said and gave her a final nod. 

Azzi nodded back, unable to say anything back. Paige closed the door after her and Azzi crawled into bed and cried herself to sleep, wanting to sleep through this life until the next one began. 

And she dreamed of the next life - the one that would have Paige written in the stars for her.

----

It wasn’t Azzi’s best idea. Hell, it wasn’t even her worst idea, it was just pure evil scheming at this point. 

But she was bitter and heartbroken, which wasn’t the best combination for sound thinking. And that’s how she ended up at Velvet, flirting up a random guy at one of the booths in the corner. 

She had taken Jana with her into the bar that the blonde one was working at, and they had immediately spotted the group of guys in the booth making eyes at them when they had walked in. It was perfect. It was just the reaction Azzi had wanted.

Jana didn’t know that this was a ‘get-your-girl-back’ mission. All she knew was that Azzi had broken up with her boyfriend and wanted to get back out there again. And as the good friend she was, who also happened to like partying with guys, she was all up for the night Azzi had planned for them. 

Paige hadn’t been behind the bar when they had entered, but Azzi wasn’t worried. She knew that she would be there, sooner or later, since she had spotted Paige’s car outside. 

It had been two weeks since their last interaction at the hotel room. Two weeks of constant aching for the blonde. The fact that Azzi was closer to having Paige when she was dating Josh than now as single was fucking her in the head. It didn’t make any sense. 

Although, it did make sense and she only felt her heart ache stronger at the fact that Paige was just trying to be a good big sister to Josh. It was unfair, how Paige was trying to do the right thing, only made Azzi want to do the wrong thing even more. 

Azzi was wearing a black mini dress covered in rhinestones, making it shimmer with a glamorous feel to it. The dress had spaghetti straps and a very deep V-line cut, showing a lot of her cleavage.

Mark, the guy who she was sitting next to, had a very hard time not to look right where her skin was showing. If it wasn’t her cleavage, it was her long legs. 

“So what do you do, Azzi?” he asked with a smile. 

Azzi was sitting by the edge of the booth with a compromised view of the bar. She occasionally glanced towards it to see if a certain blonde would be behind the bar, but she had yet to spot her. 

“Um, I work at a cafe,” she answered, slightly distracted. “What about you?”

“I sell cars,” he said and proudly nodded his head like it was a big deal. 

“Amazing,” Azzi just said and sipped on her vodka cranberry that Jana had brought to her. 

“I like your dress,” Mark complimented her.

“Thank you,” she smiled sincerely. 

“So… You wanna get out of here?” 

Azzi wanted to laugh at his obvious attempt to get laid. She had only been there for half an hour, and he was making a move already, and it wasn’t a very smooth one. 

“Not quite yet,” Azzi smirked and cocked her head to the side. “I wanna hear more about the car selling business first.”

Mark let out a chuckle at her response, and tried to smoothly wrap his arm around her shoulders. Azzi didn’t mind. In fact, it was perfect. And the moment he let his arm loosely hang around her shoulders, she realized that it felt kind of nice. Or maybe it was the alcohol talking. 

She looked up at him and smiled. 

“So, tell me all about it, Mark,” she fluttered her eyelashes at him. 

And he did. 

It wasn’t particularly interesting, but it made her completely miss the way a certain blonde woman was shooting daggers at them from across the room behind the bar. 

“Is that fucking Azzi?” Paige seethed at the sight. 

“Where?” Alexine asked.

“In the booth in the corner, with some ugly ass guy,” Paige snarled. 

“Oh, yeah,” Alexine spotted them. The couple looked very engulfed in their conversation, with his arm casually around her body. 

“What the fuck is she doing here?” Paige angrily shook the cocktail shaker. 

“Maybe they’re on a date and he just happened to take her here,” Alexine offered. It only made things worse. 

“It hasn’t even been two weeks since she broke up with my brother, and now she’s all over a new one?” Paige’s words dripped with venom. What she actually wanted to say was how it hasn’t even been two weeks since she had ended things with Azzi. 

“You slept with her while she was with your brother,” Alexine deadpanned. “You don’t have the right to judge her.”

Paige huffed angrily at how right Alexine was, but couldn’t tear her eyes away from the couple in the booth. Azzi was laughing at something the guy had said and had gently slapped him on his chest, making Paige see red. 

“Fucking sl-”

“-Don’t you dare,” Alexine interrupted her with a glare. 

Paige let out a sharp breath in annoyance and gratitude all at once. She knew she would regret those words as soon as they would escape her lips anyway. 

“What’s the problem anyway? She’s single and hot as fuck, she was obviously gonna find a new one sooner or later,” Alexine shrugged. “Are you this jealous over a hookup?”

“She wasn’t just a hookup,” Paige blurted out, and Alexine snapped her head towards her with wide eyes. 

“Wait, what?”

“We- uh… There were feelings involved, for the both of us,” Paige confessed. 

“So how come she’s feeling up another guy instead of you right now?” Alexine questioned, and Paige felt like she was one second away from doing something she would regret from the sigh of Azzi clearly caressing the guy's leg. 

“Because I didn’t want to hurt Josh,” Paige said with clenched teeth. 

“Oh my,” Alexine said, bewildered. “Isn’t that a little too late?”

“No!” Paige protested. “If we would date, he would inevitably find out that we started before they had broken up. If we don’t date, he doesn’t ever have to know.”

“So, you were the one to reject Azzi?” Alexine asked. 

“I guess,” Paige said. 

“Oh,” Alexine started to laugh. “I see.”

“What?” Paige turned to look at her in utter confusion. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Alexine just shrugged and walked out to give some customers their drinks. 

Paige turned her gaze back to the pair in the booth and felt like she was one second away from smashing the glasses on the counter. 

Azzi was sitting on his lap, leaning back into his big frame with a smile. 

“Why don’t you crush some ice for the mojito,” Alexine hurriedly returned and suggested, alarmed at Paige’s grip on the glasses and her death stare. 

The bartender snatched the glasses out of Paige’s hands, and handed her the ice wrapped in a towel for her to crush. Paige tore her eyes away from Azzi and silently grabbed an empty bottle and started to aggressively smash the ice. 

“That’ll do it, before she hurts someone,” Alexine muttered and observed the way Paige was attacking the ice. 

While the crazy blonde was focused on smashing the ice, Alexine slipped away quietly and made her move toward Azzi’s table.

She brought a tray and started to collect the empty glasses on the table that was surrounded by a group of people. 

Azzi looked up at her without missing a beat.

“Hi Azzi,” Alexine greeted with a mischievous grin. 

“Alexine,” Azzi smiled brightly. 

“You enjoying your night?” the bartender asked with a big smirk and looked her up and down in the guy’s lap.

“Oh, I am,” Azzi replied with a playful glint in her eye. “How is your night going?”

The whole table looked at the interaction in silence. Jana was looking between the two in confusion. She didn’t know that Azzi knew the staff here. 

“It’s alright. I’m stuck behind the bar with a crazy livid blonde who definitely needs someone to help her blow off some steam before she kills someone,” Alexine shrugged casually, as if it was a normal thing to reveal. 

“What?” Jana asked bewildered with a frown and looked at Azzi in confusion, whose smile only grew wider. 

Alexine leaned in to Azzi’s ear and whispered very quietly:

“Your ex is out of town tonight. Paige’s shift ends in ten minutes, her car is parked in the back. Do with that what you want.” 

The bartender leaned back with raised eyebrows, as if she was asking Azzi silently what she thought about it. 

Azzi looked at Alexine with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“Thought you should know,” Alexine gave her a wink and then left them alone. 

“What was that?” Jana asked her, confused with the whole interaction. “Do you know her?”

“She’s an acquaintance,” Azzi replied. 

“What did she say?” Mark asked, and Azzi suddenly realized that she was still very much sitting on his lap.

She awkwardly slid off his lap and gave him an apologetic smile. 

“She just reminded me of something. Actually, I think I have to go,” Azzi said and pursed her lips. 

“What?” Mark and Jana exclaimed in unison. 

“Are you gonna be okay?” she asked Jana and completely ignored Mark. 

“Why are you leaving so soon? We’ve barely been here an hour,” Jana questioned. 

Azzi leaned over the table to whisper in her ear.

“I’m going home with the bartender.”

Jana just looked at her with a gaping mouth in astonishment. 

“Azzi Fudd, you are one naughty girl,” Jana eventually broke into a big grin and laughed. Azzi knew that Jana probably thought that she meant Alexine, but she didn’t care. Jana didn’t have to know. 

“I’ll see you at work,” Azzi grabbed her purse and gave Jana a kiss on the cheek before standing up, turning on her heels.

“Wha- wait!” she heard Mark call out for her, but she just kept on walking. 

Paige was too occupied with muttering cusswords to herself, finishing the mojitos in fury, to notice Azzi walking out the door. But Alexine saw it, and smiled victoriously to herself. 

“Hey, your shift ends soon,” she reminded her. 

“I can stay longer,” Paige just mumbled and looked up to the booth in the corner. Alexine saw the way Paige’s eyes immediately widened with the realization that Azzi was gone. She started to look around in stress. 

“Who are you looking for?” Alexine teased. 

“The fuck? Did they leave?” Paige’s voice was panicked and angry. 

“Who?” 

“Azzi and that manwhore!” Paige spat out and kept on looking around like a crazy person. 

“Paige, why don’t you just go home, make yourself a relaxing bath and have a chill night?” Alexine suggested, trying to get her to leave. 

“Oh yeah, right,” Paige laughed humorlessly. “I’ll just go home to my empty apartment while Azzi is fucking some guy. Great.” 

“Girl, you’re obsessed," Alexine exclaimed in frustration and decided that she had had enough. She started to push her to the door that led to the back. 

Paige let herself be pushed but was still not done expressing her dislike to the whole situation. 

“Hasn’t even been two weeks, oh my God,” she muttered bitterly. 

“Seriously Paige, just get out of here and take out your anger issues on something else. Or even better, someone else,” Alexine sighed and finally got Paige to enter through the door. 

Alexine hastily closed the door and left Paige alone in the employee lounge that led to the backdoor exit. 

Paige just frowned at Alexine’s last words. What was she even talking about?

She sighed to herself. She couldn’t get out the image of Azzi in that minidress, sitting on that guy’s lap. 

She was infuriatingly jealous. 

How come everyone else but her could have Azzi?  

Paige angrily stomped to the hallway and grabbed her jacket, before clocking out. 

She knew that she had no right to feel this angry or jealous. After all, she had been the one to end things between them. But her reactions were out of her control. And the fact that Azzi was moving on from her this fast made her feel indescribably betrayed and hurt. 

Paige yanked the door open out to the alley that was located behind the bar and stopped dead in her tracks the same second she lifted her gaze. 

Azzi was leaning against her car with her arms crossed, eyeing her up and down with a look that gave nothing away.

Paige’s breath got caught in her throat and her pulse spiked through the roof. 

Neither of them said anything. They just looked at each other. 

Paige started moving once she got over the initial shock to the other side of the car and opened the door to the driver’s seat.

“Get in the car,” she ordered sternly, without even looking at Azzi. 

The car ride was silent, but Azzi’s heartbeat was pounding in her ears. Paige almost looked manic and kept her intense eyes on the road, not even acknowledging Azzi beside her. The atmosphere in the car was thick with tension, and Azzi almost didn’t dare to breathe too loudly or she was afraid she would make Paige snap. It should worry her, how exciting it felt to see Paige this intense. 

Paige parked the car outside the apartment complex and got out, and Azzi followed her lead. Out of nowhere, without even looking at her, Paige extended her open palm towards Azzi and waited for her to take it. 

Azzi blinked in surprise. She tangled her fingers together with Paige’s and let herself be led inside the apartment she used to live in. 

They had barely spent a second inside, and Azzi was already pressed against the door with a gasp, with Paige’s strong hands on either side of her head, holding her wrists in a tight grip. 

“What the hell were you doing in my bar, sitting on somebody else’s lap right in front of me?” Paige growled. 

Azzi stared into Paige’s blue ones with a challenging glint, as if she wasn’t a complete mess who would do anything for Paige to touch her.

“We’re not together,” Azzi said back with daring and defiant eyes. 

“We never were,” Paige snapped. “Doesn’t mean you’re not mine in every other way that counts.” 

“You can’t reject me and have me,” Azzi snapped back. “You can’t have both.”

“Your body is saying otherwise,” Paige said smugly and looked at Azzi’s arching body. 

“Shut up,” Azzi breathed hard and tried to move her wrists from Paige’s grip, but to no avail. 

“You’re already mine,” Paige’s eyes were dark and dazed, even in her sober state, and Azzi’s breath caught in her throat at her words. 

Azzi felt helpless under her gaze. She felt weak from her touch and defenseless against her words. 

She was already Paige’s. She couldn’t even deny it. 

“Prove it,” Azzi said defiantly, just above a whisper. 

Paige let go of Azzi’s wrists and lifted her up off the ground in one swift movement. She just slowly walked to her bedroom with Azzi’s legs around her waist, her eyes never leaving the brown ones, and gently put her down on her bed. 

Azzi felt her whole body tingle in anticipation. She loved Paige’s strong arms holding her up. She loved her roughness and her gentleness and the wonderful mix that Paige was. 

Paige leaned down and kissed Azzi unexpectedly softly. It wasn’t rushed or hungry, it was sensual and slow. 

Paige took her time. Her lips were massaging Azzi’s thoughtfully, and her hands were staying still on Azzi’s waist. 

Azzi felt herself getting dizzy from just her kisses. Paige was kissing her like she was afraid to lose her. So much emotion was poured into every movement of Paige’s lips, and Azzi felt overwhelmed with awe by receiving such vulnerability from the older one. 

A soft whimper escaped her lips and it was almost embarrassing because Paige was hardly even touching her. 

At last, Paige swiped her tongue on Azzi’s bottom lip and started moving her hands down to the end of the minidress, slowly dragging the fabric up Azzi’s body. 

They sat up so Paige could pull off the dress completely, throwing it on the floor somewhere.

Paige’s eyes darkened the moment she looked down between them, realizing that Azzi wasn’t wearing any underwear. 

“You sat on his lap without any fucking underwear?” she exhaled, and felt the anger start to rise up again. “In this fucking minidress that practically covered nothing already?”

Azzi’s lips just curved into a smug smirk. 

Paige immediately got off the bed and rummaged through her nightstand. 

Azzi almost felt the drool spill from her lips the moment she saw the strap in Paige’s hands, and her heartbeat hammered in her chest. 

She was fucked. In the best way possible. 

Paige removed all her clothes and Azzi sat on the bed and admired her view. The smooth skin, her perky tits, her long defined legs and her muscular arms. She was just perfect.

Azzi couldn’t help but smile to herself as Paige was putting on the harness. This was exactly what she had wanted, and the pooling wetness between her legs was proof of that. 

“You want this?” Paige asked and walked towards the bed. 

Azzi nodded and sat on the edge of the bed on her knees and looked up at Paige.

“Lay on your back,” Paige growled and Azzi obeyed. She tipped her head over the edge of the bed, knowing exactly what Paige wanted. 

Paige positioned herself in front of Azzi who was now upside down, making the tip of the strap meet Azzi’s lips.

Azzi opened her lips and welcomed Paige’s dick in her warm mouth. Paige didn’t hesitate. She pushed herself deeper into Azzi’s throat, making Azzi squirm from the sudden inability to breathe. But just as fast, Paige pulled back again and Azzi let out a deep groan. 

Paige’s pussy was throbbing so hard it hurt. Seeing Azzi’s naked body laid out in front of her while having her dick in her mouth, looking up at her with those big brown eyes from underneath, with her throat all exposed - it wrecked her.

“You like that, Azzi?” Paige rasped and bucked her hips deeper into Azzi again. “You like choking on my dick?”

Azzi slightly gagged on it with a whine, and Paige leaned forward with her hands and caressed Azzi’s breasts, making her moan around the strap. 

Paige leaned further and steadied herself with her hand on Azzi’s stomach and started to buckle her hips in and out of Azzi’s open mouth while her other hand slid down to Azzi’s pulsating pussy. 

“You’re making a mess,” Paige mumbled as she felt Azzi’s dripping wetness on her fingers. 

Azzi swiftly grabbed the strap in her hand and took it out from her mouth, and before Paige could even react, Azzi used her hands to pull Paige towards her and latched her mouth to Paige’s slit. 

“Fuck!” Paige grunted at the sudden pleasure and looked down. The strap was resting on Azzi’s chest, all covered in her saliva while her face was buried in between Paige’s legs. 

Paige didn’t feel in control of her own body. She grinded down on Azzi’s tongue and supported herself with her hands on Azzi’s strong abs. 

“Your tongue feels so fucking good,” Paige moaned. She lifted up her leg onto the bed and Azzi shimmied down, getting to rest her head fully on the bed as Paige sat down on her face, her knees on either side of her head. 

Azzi was eating her out like she was starving. And in a sense, she was. She needed all of Paige, all the time. 

She moved her hands up over Paige’s torso and palmed her breasts, making the woman sitting on top of her whimper. She gently pinched her nipples and massaged them in her big hands. 

Paige’s plan had been to punish Azzi, making her regret ever setting her eyes on that unworthy man. But here she was, being a whimpering mess on top of her, feeling herself starting to fall apart on Azzi’s tongue. 

She was completely defenseless against the younger one, and she wondered for a split second if she had ever even stood a chance from the start?

Her legs were starting to tense up as the pleasure was starting to build something deep in her lower stomach. 

“I’m gonna come,” she breathed out and shut her eyes tightly.

Azzi snuck one of her arms under Paige’s leg and reached up with her hand to pull on her blonde hair. 

“Ah!” Paige let out a breathy moan as her head was jerked backwards with her hair and loved the way Azzi just did whatever she wanted with her. 

Azzi’s tongue was relentless. She was steadfastly moving it in the perfect rhythm, following Paige’s movements of her grinding hips. 

Paige was close. She rode Azzi’s face harder and heard her gasp for air under her, but she didn’t stop massaging her clit with her tongue. 

“Azzi!” Paige cried out as her climax hit her, and it hit her hard. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, her mouth hanging open, letting out breathy nonsense sounds and her whole body was trembling, the muscle contractions pulsating through her whole body. 

Azzi moaned under her. She had never heard anything sexier than Paige calling out her name in pure bliss. She never wanted to stop making Paige feel good, and she didn’t. She kept on licking her through it all, to the point where Paige had to scramble off of her from overstimulation. 

“Fuck,” Paige exhaled all dazed and straddled Azzi’s hips, the strap still very much on. “You’re something else.”

“Was that a good enough apology for sitting on that guy’s lap?” Azzi smiled and licked her lips, enjoying the taste of Paige. 

Paige let out a short humorless laugh and she let her fingertips draw random patterns on Azzi’s stomach. 

“No.”

“Then tell me what I need to do,” Azzi whispered out, shuddering from Paige’s soft touch. 

“Get on all fours,” Paige said and climbed off of her.

Azzi swallowed and obediently switched her position onto standing on her knees, supporting her upper body with her hands on the sheets in the middle of the bed, waiting for further instructions. 

“Good girl,” Paige purred and positioned herself right behind her with her knees in between Azzi’s. The strap was grazing Azzi’s clit from underneath, and she started to instinctually rub herself against it in subtle motions. But Paige caught it. 

Paige leaned her entire upper body down against Azzi’s which made her collapse down onto the mattress with a loud grunt, suddenly having Paige’s entire body weight on top of her. 

“How come every time I call you a good girl you instantly turn into a brat?” Paige growled in her ear. “It’s almost like you want me to punish you.”

Azzi bit her lip and loved the feeling of Paige’s entire weight on her. 

“Please Paige,” Azzi whispered out impatiently.

“Please what?” Paige asked, still holding her down. 

“Please fuck me daddy.”

“Fucking hell,” Paige groaned out loud and slammed the strap into Azzi without warning, making her scream. 

“Don’t fucking call me that unless you want me to lose my shit,” Paige rasped and pounded Azzi’s pussy with her dick in hard slow strokes. 

Azzi was gone. Paige’s skin was slapping her ass every hit and Azzi let out the most erotic noises, it sounded borderline pornographic. Her hands were gripping the sheets, trying to hold onto something while Paige just fucked her with her whole body weight rested on top of her. 

She loved it. She loved the feeling of Paige’s skin all over her, Paige’s face buried in the crook of her neck, breathing hard in her effort to pleasure her and the involuntary groans escaping her lips straight into Azzi’s ear. 

Paige suddenly pulled out of Azzi and propped herself up, grabbed Azzi’s hips in the process, lifting her butt in the air. She pushed Azzi’s upper half back down into the sheets and stood up on her feet on the bed, squatting with her legs apart and sank down into Azzi again, pushing the entirety of the shaft into her.

“Paige!” Azzi moaned by the new position that let the strap hit her even deeper than before, hitting her right on her g-spot. Her legs were sprawled and her face buried in the sheets, until Paige grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled it back, letting her see her already fucked out face. 

“You’re taking it so good, Azzi baby,” Paige praised her, her skin slapping Azzi’s with every deep stroke, the strap’s base smacking into Azzi’s clit each time. 

Azzi couldn’t speak. She was lost in a subspace where everything but the pleasure she was receiving was tuning out. Her eyes were rolled to the back of her head, she almost looked possessed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Azzi whined and pushed herself back against Paige, earning a loud groan from the older one. 

Seeing Azzi’s arch drove her insane. Paige pulled Azzi’s hips back while meeting her halfway. The sound from it alone, the constant moans slipping out of Azzi’s mouth and the stimuli Paige was feeling from the strap satisfied all her senses.

Paige pushed herself in completely and stilled her motion while throwing herself onto Azzi with all her weight again, making Azzi’s knees give in. She flopped down onto the bed with Paige on top of her, and before Azzi could react, Paige held her waist tightly and rolled them over.

Azzi found herself on her back, sprawled on top of Paige’s front torso, her legs spread apart by Paige’s spread legs.  

Paige didn’t waste any time. She snaked one of her arms around Azzi and held her securely in place on top of her, while her other hand reached down between Azzi’s legs, softly rubbing her clit while still pushing into her with slow and deep strokes.

“Oh my God,” Azzi threw her head back on Paige’s shoulder, mouth hanging open, eyes shut tight and her hands grabbing Paige’s arm in an attempt to ground herself. 

“You like that?” Paige mumbled in her ear, their faces next to each other. “You like daddy’s dick deep in you?”

“Mhm,” Azzi whined breathlessly. 

“Tell me Azzi, who do you belong to?” Paige asked, pounding into her from below.

“You, daddy,” Azzi moaned. 

“That’s right,” Paige mumbled, pleased. “And whose pussy is this?”

“Yours, fuck,” Azzi was close. 

“Say it again,” Paige panted into her ear.

“I’m yours, Paige,” Azzi moaned breathlessly. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

“Mmm, good girl,” Paige gave an open mouthed kiss to her ear, making it tingle all over Azzi’s body in addition to being on the verge of coming. “Letting me fuck you however I want, taking you from behind and sucking me off, you took it so well, princess. You can come on my dick now baby, you’ve been so good.”

Paige felt Azzi clench around the strap but kept on fucking her tight pussy and her fingertips still massaging her clit. 

“Paige,” Azzi moaned and her whole body tensed up on top of her, already starting to twitch from the high. 

Azzi’s hand flew to the hand Paige had on her clit and threw it away, while her other hand gripped Paige’s waist hard, signaling for Paige to stop moving. 

Paige slowed down and stopped moving altogether, gently shimmying down under Azzi’s body to slide the strap out of her. 

Azzi rolled off of her with heavy breaths. 

Paige started to unbuckle the harness, but Azzi quickly put her hand on top of hers, preventing her from proceeding. 

“What are you doing?” Azzi asked out of breath. 

“I’m taking it off?” Paige said, confused. 

“We’re not done yet,” Azzi simply stated and sat up on the bed and tightened the harness back on. 

“My God, you’re insatiable,” Paige smiled and looked at her in adoration. 

“You’re a quitter,” Azzi playfully smiled, and Paige felt her heart literally skip a beat.

“Fuck, I love your smile,” Paige blurted out like it was a secret she had kept for herself. 

Azzi’s whole face lit up and beamed from ear to ear, the most radiant smile plastered on her face and Paige was rewarded with a dose of dopamine. 

“Stop, you’re making me blush,” she dove down with her face first into Paige’s chest and buried it there. 

Paige laughed and immediately moved her hands to massage Azzi’s scalp. Azzi moved her head to Paige's breast and without being prompted wrapped her lips around Paige’s nipple, swirling her tongue.

“Azzi-” Paige gasped in surprise. 

Azzi grazed her teeth against her skin and gently tugged on her nipple, carefully biting down on it. Paige’s body slightly jolted and her hands gripped Azzi’s head hard from the startling action.

“You are so pretty, Paige,” Azzi murmured against her skin, gently taking her other nipple into her mouth and sucked on it. 

“You are,” Paige exhaled back. 

“Sit up for me?” Azzi asked and helped Paige up. She rested her back against the headboard and looked at Azzi expectantly. 

Azzi lifted one of her legs over Paige’s and straddled her, placing her hands on her shoulders for support. 

“I wanna ride you,” she said with a cute smile. 

“Oh my God,” Paige groaned and threw her head back against the headboard just from hearing her say it like that. “Azzi Fudd, you’ll be the death of me.”

Azzi smiled at her and slowly sank down onto the strap with the help of Paige’s hand, holding it in place. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Paige exhaled and bit her lip, feeling Azzi’s tight walls clamp around the strap inch for inch. 

Azzi whimpered when she was filled by Paige, and started to ride her at a slow pace. Paige drew her knees up to give Azzi some support from behind, which somehow made their bodies come even closer to each other. 

Face to face, their eyes locking and their breaths hitting each other’s skin. Azzi looked wrecked, ruined and so breathtakingly beautiful. 

Azzi sped up and held onto Paige's strong shoulders. She’s always so fucking horny by Paige that she felt like she could go all night. She bounced up and down and Paige had her hands on her waist, pulling her down every time. Azzi felt it hit her deep, rubbing the spongy part in the process. 

“God,” she moaned and threw her head back, her eyes shutting by reflex. 

She wanted it rough, she wanted Paige aggressive, she wanted Paige vindictive and unforgiving. She wanted Paige to say the nastiest things to her while she was watching her riding it.

“Fuck daddy, you feel too good,” Azzi moaned, waiting for Paige’s response. 

But she didn’t get one. 

Azzi fluttered her eyes open and looked at Paige.

Paige just looked at her, almost peacefully, as if Azzi wasn’t just riding her hard.

“Are you okay?” Azzi slowed down and looked at her puzzled. 

Paige nodded. “You’re just so beautiful,” she whispered, her words trembling with fragility and put a hand on Azzi’s cheek, rubbing her thumb against her skin.

Azzi’s eyes widened. She wasn’t prepared for this sudden affection and she didn’t know what to say. 

“Keep going baby,” Paige urged her and softly bucked her hips up into Azzi.

Azzi just nodded breathlessly and started to ride her again, her eyes still locked with Paige’s. 

Paige looked into Azzi’s eyes as if nothing else in the universe existed but her.

The shift from Paige pounding into her aggressively, to Paige softly caressing her cheek and staring at her with adoring eyes set something off in Azzi. 

It was like she realized she was naked all of a sudden, because she felt so seen. She felt vulnerable by Paige’s gaze on her, like Paige could suddenly see all of Azzi. 

And it felt scary. And intimate.  

It didn’t feel like sex anymore, it felt like a confession, like a prayer, like a secret unraveling right in front of her very eyes. It was no longer about their physical pleasure, but the uncovering of each other’s souls. 

Those blue eyes never wavered, and Azzi didn’t think she had ever held eye contact this long ever. 

Paige’s mouth was twitching, biting her lip, letting out small whimpers and groans together with Azzi, as if Azzi’s pleasure was her own.

As if they were one. 

Azzi was starting to feel overwhelmed. Not only by the tightening in her lower stomach, but because of the way Paige was looking at her. 

Like she saw every virtue, every flaw, and still thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world. 

Azzi couldn’t bear it anymore. She grabbed Paige’s face and kissed her hard, letting her lips say the things she felt her eyes weren’t able to. Telling Paige that she saw what she was feeling, and she felt it too. 

Paige met her lips with the same vigour. It was electric. Their tongues collided into a wet dance, and their hands roamed each other’s skin like they didn’t dare to let go. 

And Azzi felt herself getting close again. 

Her kissing was starting to get lazy, her mouth hanging open to let out moan after moan, chanting Paige’s name into her mouth. 

“I got you, I got you,” Paige breathed back, helping Azzi ride her by guiding her body down on the strap with her hands on her waist. 

“Mmm God,” Azzi gasped and felt her core pulsating. Her body tensed up again, shuddering while the ecstasy traveled from her center out to her fingertips and toes. She let out ragged breaths and desperate whimpers and her eyes were rolled to the back of her head. 

Paige kept on bucking the strap into her, feeling the tightness clamping, letting Azzi ride through the climax completely, while kissing her forehead, cheek, nose, lips and neck tenderly. 

Azzi breathlessly collapsed onto Paige, not even caring about getting off the strap. Paige caught her in her arms and held her with stillness. 

“You okay?” Paige asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Azzi exhaled. 

“You want to get off the strap?”

Azzi faintly giggled into Paige’s neck and shook her head. 

“No it’s fine,” she said. “Just wanna stay here a little longer.”

Paige huffed in amusement. “You’re not gonna sleep with it, are you?”

“No!” Azzi frowned but laughed. “Of course not, I just…”

She leaned back from the embrace and looked at Paige hesitantly. 

“Just what?” Paige asked. 

“Just didn’t know if I was allowed to sleep here or not,” Azzi said with a small voice. 

Paige frowned at her puzzled. “Azzi, this is your home, you-” Paige blurted out before she realized where she went wrong. 

Azzi’s face instantly lit up into a smile and Paige felt like she was about to start blushing for some reason.

“I mean,” Paige took a deep breath. “You know you’re always welcome to stay here.”

“In your bed?” Azzi raised her eyebrow with a playful smile. 

“Well, yes,” Paige stated and ran her fingertips up and down Azzi’s back. 

Azzi leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on Paige’s lips before getting off from her lap. 

Paige removed the harness and slid down under the covers together with Azzi. It felt like they had done it a hundred times before but it was only their second.

Azzi snuggled into Paige’s chest and inhaled the scent of her skin, enjoying the warmth of the older one’s safe embrace. 

“So,” Azzi suddenly broke the silence. “Daddy, huh?”

“Azzi,” Paige groaned in embarrassment and rocked them side to side, making Azzi laugh. 

“I know you so well,” Azzi teased. 

“Shut up,” Paige grumbled into her hair and hid her face. 

Azzi just laughed and felt the happiest she’d ever been in a couple weeks. 

“Paige,” she then said in a serious tone. 

“Yeah?”

Azzi swallowed. 

“I don’t want to be anyone but yours,” she whispered out into the darkness. 

Paige felt her heart swell in her chest and her mouth go dry. 

“And judging by your heartbeat, you don’t want to be anyone else’s but mine either,” Azzi continued softly. “In case you didn’t already know that.”

Paige broke into a smile with that. 

“Figured my heart would be able to communicate it better than I ever could,” Paige whispered back. “I’m glad you got it.”

Azzi giggled. “Yeah, you’re right, your heart definitely doesn’t mumble as much as you do.”

“You’re stupid,” Paige laughed and Azzi smiled widely, still in her arms. 

Azzi hummed in contentment and closed her eyes. For the first time in a long time, she felt safe. She felt like she belonged. 

And as for Paige, she was hit with a realization. 

The realization that she couldn’t run anymore.

As long as Azzi wanted her, Paige would always belong to Azzi, no matter the circumstances. 

[zzzsunghoon]

DO OUR HEARTS STILL BEAT IN TWO?

ex!ni-ki x f!reader smut (18+ minors dni), college/university au, second chances wc 10.7k

blurb! you haven’t seen NISHIMURA RIKI since the messy breakup that tore you apart months ago. he couldn’t commit, couldn’t give what you needed, so you left, empty and heartbroken. then one night, at a house party, you spot him. your friends warned you. you swore you were done. but what happens when a game shoves you into a dark closet, alone together?

warnings! unprotected sex (p in v), creampie, argument, 7 minutes in heaven, making out, grinding, dry humping, oral sex (f), ni-ki rib tattoo, petnames (baby, good/filthy girl), exhibitionism, poor jake lol

a/n! i was listening to the song ‘12 to 12’ and somehow conjured up this plot, it doesn’t really follow the song's actual story, but it made me think of this scenario, so here we are hehe (≧◡≦). kinda got carried away LOL HOW'D THIS GET TO 10K WC... aaa this is my first time writing, hope you enjoy!

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, and does not reflect how the characters actually are irl, nor does it represent my views of them. side characters from other groups may not be accurately written. not proofread.

The bass is thumping through the walls of the house like a second heartbeat. Someone has spilled beer on the couch already, while someone else is screaming the lyrics to a song they don’t even know. Minju is clutching your hand, the two of you on the lookout for the rest of your friends, who seem to have already wandered off the second that some alcohol got into their systems. The warm and dim mood light that filled the space made it more difficult to find anyone. All bodies blending into one from a distance. Her grip on you is firm, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You kind of already have.

You’re physically here. In this house that has quickly become far too hot with the number of people shoved into it, the crowded living room you were in is surrounded by faces you don’t even recognize half of. Your mind however, is somewhere else. Stuck somewhere twenty minutes ago. Caught in the moment you bumped into him.

You had just arrived and were weaving your way through the crowd, barely missing the splatter of drinks being thrown around by swaying, half-drunk bodies. You were pulled away from Minju and the others the second that you stepped foot in the rented house, attempting to regroup with your friends while also making a short detour to the table with the punch.

‘Pure fuel’

You had absolutely no idea what was in it but at this point you didn’t really care, just wanting to let loose for a night.

Your friends had dragged you out of your dorm because you had been cooped up in there for nights on end, far too focused on studying and trying not to think too hard about a certain someone. You thought you may as well have a little fun now that you’re here.

After pushing past some strangers, the large glass punch bowl came into view and you immediately held onto the kitchen counter to steady yourself, the amount of people in this house was no joke. Without looking, you reached for a red solo cup, ready to get buzzed, when you felt the soft brush of fingers against yours. You jolt. Someone from behind you had reached out at the exact same time you did.

“Oh, sorry” You mumbled softly, pulling back to allow the stranger to go first.

But as the stranger moved to pour himself a drink, pressed up against your side, your body began to remember. A specific scent of strong cologne. A familiar warmth. Your heart instantly knew but your brain was still catching up. You turned.

Nishimura Riki.

Aside from his freshly bleached hair and broader shoulders. Damn he’s been working out. Everything else about him was still the same. The sharpness in his features. The calm arrogance in the way he carries himself. The way people stop and stare when he walks through a room, not because he wants them to, but because his presence demands it. The boy you once loved.

Your stomach folded inwards, hands tightened around the counter. You didn’t realize you were staring until he looked down at you.

Upon meeting your gaze his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, only noticeable to you, who was looking right back at him. He’s surprised, you can tell, not expecting to see you here. A flicker of emotion ran behind his eyes, something almost like hurt flashed, so fast you hardly register it before he quickly regained his composure.

You felt your cheeks heat up sligthly at being caught staring. He just finishes pouring his drink before smirking at you in that naturally flirty way he does, placing the ladle of the punch bowl down as he disappeared into the crowd. Gone, again. As if he was never there.

You swallowed hard, trying to bury the ache he reignited within you.

Which leads to now, you found him again, across the room with his friends. In between Heeseung and Jungwon, laughing at something that Sunghoon said across from them, but his eyes are focused on something else. Someone else.

You.

Every time you look up, his eyes are already on you. Watching. Before he turns away like it means nothing. Which is probably true, right?

“You okay?” Minju asks, pressing a cold drink into your hand. Her worried eyes flick toward the other end of the room like she already knows.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

You haven’t seen him in 6 months. Not since that night.

Screams were let out. Doors were slammed. Your voice cracked while tears spilled out as you told him it was over. You couldn’t do it anymore. You couldn’t be the only one trying. He was always late. Always cold and distant. Always too much and not enough all at the same time.

Constant miscommunication, obsession, and jealousy. Too many nights spent crying alone in your room because Riki had a habit of flirting with anything that breathed. Even if he never acted on it, even if he always came back to you, it stung.

And he did come back. Every time. With those hands and that mouth and that damn voice like sin. Until you couldn’t breathe without him.

Until you felt so suffocated, you had to leave.

So why the hell is your heart doing backflips just because he looked at you?

“Don’t,” Minju warns softly, catching on to the reason for your spacing out. “You promised.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you murmur as your eyes flick back to her, sipping your drink. It was true, technically.

“Exactly,” she says. “You’re just standing here, waiting for him to come to you. Like you always did.”

You flinch, because she’s right; a little harsh, but right. Because part of you still wants him to. You hate it.

Yunjin and Intak are arguing over what music to put on next, and Keeho’s already found the secret liquor stash. Your friends are loud and chaotic, and usually you’d love that, egging them on, but tonight it all feels like background noise.

Because the room is pulsing with something else taking over your senses. Something low and slow and heavy. Something that tastes like nostalgia, heartbreak and the sickening sweetness of still wanting what once ruined you all at once.

Riki.

Your eyes meet again across the room, and this time he doesn’t look away.

He tilts his head slightly, gaze dragging down your body and back up with an unhurried arrogance that makes your skin burn. His lips part just enough to show the hint of a smirk before taking a sip of his drink. For a second, you remember how you two used to be.

His mouth on your neck. His hands gripping your thighs. The way he used to kiss you as if he was starving and you were all he needed to recover.

You tear your gaze away, swallowing hard.

No. Stop thinking about him.

But you can still feel him looking, as if his eyes naturally gravitate towards you.

You don’t approach him. You won’t.

Because the passion between you two was nuclear, but it scorched everything around it. He ruined you, and you let him. He doesn’t deserve to see how much you still want him.

But then the music changes.

That song comes on.

Your song.

The one that played when you first met, at a party similar to this one. The one he used to hum under his breath when he’d tug you into his lap and kiss you slow. The one that played when he said that he loved you for the first time, in between moans and tangled sheets.

You freeze, and out of the corner of your eye, you notice he does too.

Minju tenses beside you, sensing the shift in your mood. “We should go.”

Now, the room is spinning slower. Everyone around you has faded into a blur. Just you and him, breathing the same air, held hostage by the same memory. Two strangers who once shared a story.

Snapping out of it briefly, you glance toward where he was standing again, and he’s gone.

Your heart jumps into your throat. Until-

“Hey!” someone calls. “Seven Minutes in Heaven! Let’s go!”

You groan. “Oh, absolutely not-” What are we? High schoolers?

But surprisingly, small crowds begin piling into a circle in the next room over, pulling you along with them in the process. Jungwon’s dragging Riki out from wherever he disappeared to. Yunjin’s already pushing people together. The bottle spins, over and over again as laughter echoes. The closet door creaks open and closed each time a new coupled up pair is selected. Until suddenly, the sequence of players has rotated enough to end up with you.

“Your turn,” Minju whispers, eyes widening in warning, before mumbling, “Literally anyone else, please.” unsure if she's trying to calm your nerves or her own.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the bottle. You don’t even fully know how you ended up here, as if some uncontrollable wave had swept you into your spot on the floor. Chatter and laughter buzz around you like static as you brace yourself for whatever storm you’re about to get yourself in.

You glance at Riki. Just for a second.

Then you spin.

It’s the longest few seconds of your life. Since when do bottles spin so fucking slow? The bottle goes around in circles for far too long and not long enough at the same time. Your heart is pounding in your throat, a cold sweat creeping down your back, your eyes laser-focused on the bottle.

And finally, like some sick joke, it stops.

Landing dead center on none other than Nishimura Riki. Of-fucking-course it does. It’s like the universe could sense your lingering eyes the whole night and decided to punish you for even thinking about him.

The room erupts. A mixture of cheers, laughter, and gasps. You feel your stomach plummet to the floor.

Riki doesn’t say a word. He just lifts his chin, jaw set, and holds out his hand. Waiting for your cue.

You don’t want to take it. You shouldn’t take it.

But you always were a little self-destructive, weren’t you?

Your hand slides into his with a slight tremble as you both stand from your spots on the floor.

He leads you into the closet, you hesitantly get in after him. The door shuts behind you both with a finality that sounds louder than it should. Engulfed in total darkness. Your skin buzzes as you and Riki stand in the tiny space. Your bodies face one another, but your eyes linger elsewhere.

Neither of you speak, suffocating in a mix of the silence and his strong cologne.

You have never wanted to fade out of existence more than right now.

Your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it. It’s impossible to ignore how small the space is. Narrow. Cramped. The heat of his body just inches away from yours.

You try to focus on the distant pulse of the music, the faint murmur of voices beyond the door, but your mind is clouded.

By him.

His quiet and controlled breathing ringing in your ears.

“Still wearing my perfume,” he suddenly says, breaking the silence, voice dipped in something dangerous.

You stiffen, looking down. “It’s not yours.”

“You used to steal it from my bathroom.”

Your fingers curl at your sides as you glance at him, brows furrowed in slight annoyance. “That was forever ago.”

“It was March.”

A pause. Heavy.

You swallow, voice smaller now. “Still not yours.”

“It smells good on you,” he says softly. “Still drives me insane.”

You press your back tighter against the wall, as if you can disappear into it. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Start with that again.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he says, tone too casual. “Just… remembering.”

You hear the faint sound of him shifting, a shoe scuffing on the closet floor. His voice is closer now, by half a step. His body heat radiates toward you like gravity.

Your jaw tightens. “Why are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“You know exactly what.”

He hums. “You always said I was good at it.”

“Right.” You exclaim, “You’re a natural at it! Pretending nothing affects you, nothing touches you, like you’re-”

“Untouchable?” he finishes, amused. You can hear the small smirk on his face as he speaks. “You used to like that.”

“I used to like a lot of things about you,” you snap.

He laughs low and breathy, no bite. “Not anymore?”

You hesitate a moment too long.

He clocks it instantly.

“Thought so.”

You grit your teeth, fists beginning to clench at your sides. “You think you’re so charming.”

“Not really.” He moves again, the sound of his body brushing the wall opposite yours, inching closer. You swear you can feel his breath now. “I just remember how your legs used to shake when I kissed you.”

Your breath hitches.

Silence stretches between you like elastic. Something fragile and tense in the air.

You whisper, “You were such a goddamn liar.”

He pauses for a moment, words caught in his throat for a second.

“What did I lie about?”

Your head turns toward the sound of his voice in the dark. “You made me feel like I was the only thing you ever wanted, you told me I was, and then you started acting like I didn’t exist unless it was convenient for you. You were never there, Riki. Not when it mattered.”

There’s a shift. His armor cracks ever so subtly, but he doesn’t speak. You wait.

“I didn’t know how,” he admits quietly.

You blink.

“You were always too good,” he says, gaze shifting to the side. “Too good at loving me. It scared the shit out of me.”

There’s a long pause. The air between you turns heavy.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs, looking back in your direction in the dark.

You let out a breathless laugh. “Well, mission failed.”

“I know.”

Silence returns once again, now changed. Thicker. Full of so much left unsaid that you can almost taste them. You press your palms against the wall behind you, an attempt at grounding yourself.

He’s not touching you, but the heat of his body from the close proximity makes it feel like he is. His presence, the smell of his cologne, the way his voice crawls under your skin and makes a home in your bloodstream, it’s killing you inside.

“I missed you Y/N.”

Your eyes widen, just a fraction, but you don’t answer. You physically can’t.

Your chest aches. Your stomach is in knots. Everything inside you is screaming, begging you to just stay still and ride this out. It’s only seven minutes. That’s it. It shouldn’t be this hard.

But in a moment of weakness, you whisper, “Do you still think about me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “More than I’d like to admit.”

You suck in a sharp breath, and then finally, the moment breaks.

He takes a step forward, and you feel it more than you see it. The energy in the closet shifts completely. Air crackling. Tension climbing.

You whisper, “Don’t.” but your voice isn’t convincing. It’s soft, weak.

“I won’t touch you,” he says, so close now that his voice rumbles through your chest. “Not unless you ask me to.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“You loved that about me.”

You hate how true that is.

He edges closer again, his breath hits your cheek. Your body jolts like it’s been electrified in response.

“I shouldn’t have come in here,” you manage to get out.

“Probably not.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I want to,” you whisper.

Suddenly, his fingers gently brush against yours, barely there. A ghost of contact, and yet it unravels something within you so fast it makes your head spin.

You grip the hem of your skirt, fists tight. “Riki…”

“Still love the way you say my name,” he murmurs.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Because I’ll forget why I left.”

Riki lets that sit before taking another step closer, until there’s no space left between you. His hand finds the wall beside your head, chest brushing lightly against yours, testing.

The darkness in the closet, his body pressed against yours, his breath against your neck as he leans down, it’s becoming all too much. You feel dizzy.

“You left,” he says softly. “But you didn’t stop loving me.”

Your breath catches at his words. His face inches closer, the soft air from his nose just brushing your own. His forehead presses against yours, the heat from the contact making you lightheaded. He’s so close.

Without another word, the gap closes. He kisses you, lips soft and filled with intent as they move against yours. Slow and deep.

Like nothing’s changed. Like he never stopped being yours.

And, god. You kiss him back.

Your back hits the wall with a quiet thud as his other hand lands gently on your hip. His lips still feel the same, your breathing is uneven, and the heat of him pressed to your skin burns like a bruise. The kiss, devastating and familiar, fizzes through every nerve in your body. Your brain quickly catches up to what you’re doing, and suddenly your hands are moving to shove against his chest, pushing him backwards.

“Stop,” you gasp. “Just stop.”

Riki stumbles back half a step, lips parted, chest heaving. You can’t see him properly in the dark, but you feel his presence, something radiating and suffocating, like smoke filling your lungs.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “You don’t get to do that.”

“You kissed me back.”

“Of course I did. That’s the problem.”

Silence took over the closet once again, the kind that made you want to evaporate out of thin air just to be able to escape the situation. Then he broke it, voice quiet yet sharp all at once. “You think I haven’t missed you every fucking day since?”

You inhale too quickly. “You didn’t act like it.”

“I was trying to let you go!” he snaps, a hint of desperation evident in the way he spoke. “Because I thought it’s what you needed.”

“What I needed was for you to try! For once.” Your voice cracks, low and bitter. “I needed you to choose me. Not just when it was easy. Not just when you were lonely.”

His breath shudders. “You were the only thing I ever wanted,” he whispers, your heart claws its way up your throat. “I just didn’t know how to keep you.”

You freeze. The world stills.

At this point you barely notice the music thumping beyond the closet anymore, just the sound of his voice, ragged and raw and painfully real.

You whisper, “Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them.”

“I do mean them.”

And before you can properly think, before your lungs can work on taking your next breath, you find yourself leaning in just a little, and he’s kissing you again.

Harder this time.

Hungrier.

It’s not sweet. It’s not gentle. It’s not even angry. It’s desperate. It crashes into you like a wave that’s been building for far too long, held back by dam after dam of unspoken words and trembling restraint.

He swallows your breath like it’s oxygen, like he needs you to be able to stay alive. Hands threading into your hair, tilting your chin just the way he always used to. His lips drag yours open, tongue sliding deep with a mastery that should be illegal, elliciting a small noise close to a whimper out of you. He kisses you like he remembered it all, which he did. Every sigh, every weak spot, every way you liked to be taken apart. You gasp into his mouth as his hand ghosts down your side, fingers skating the edge of your waist, not quite touching enough; teasing.

In this moment, you can’t think of anything that isn’t him. That isn’t Riki. The boy you once poured all of your heart into.

You’re too busy falling.

You feel his lips slowly drag to your jaw, kissing a hot path downwards, then trailing to your neck. You gasp softly, your head tipping back against the wall like instinct as warm, gentle licks are marked onto you in between kisses. His grip on your hips tightens with every movement of his mouth. His teeth graze your throat and the sound you make in response is obscene.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper breathless, like it’s something he doesn’t already know.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips still brushing your skin.

“I’m only like this with you.”

Your body arches into his, heat blooming between you like fire on gasoline, you can feel his small smirk blooming against your neck. Your legs feel shaky, your fingertips tremble as they slide up his chest.

“You’re so full of shit,” you whisper, but your voice breaks, betrays you.

“I could ruin you,” he says lowly, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot. “But you already let me.”

You groan, a low and real groan, and it sounds like a secret. Like something you shouldn’t be doing with him, your ex boyfriend. Especially not here. You can feel the beginning of a heat blooming deep in between your thighs.

His lips meet yours in a passionate kiss once more, and this time it destroys you. His hand slips to the back of your thigh, tugging it up against his hip, pressing you flush against him. You can now feel him pressed against your core as he pushes you backwards into the closet wall, a growing hardness underneath his pants. He grinds into you slowly, as if testing the waters, and your knees buckle instantly.

His grip on you tightens, holding you steady. One arm now snaking around your waist as his tongue brushes against yours in a wet kiss.

You moan softly, right into his mouth.

“Shhh,” he breathes deep with a subtle tease in his tone, pulling away slightly. “You want them to hear?”

You freeze and melt all at once.

You’re in a closet. There are people literal feet away from you. Friends, yours and his. Laughing. Drinking. Unaware of what is going on between the two of you, or maybe not so much.

The risk makes your head spin.

“Riki…” you pant.

His lips don’t leave yours. “Say it again.”

You do, unintentionally whinier than the first.

He groans this time, and the sound vibrates into your mouth like a promise. His hips buck into yours.

“You have no idea what that does to me,” he mutters, grinding into you slowly as his grip on you tightens, dangerously. “No idea how many nights I thought about this. About you.”

You clutch his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Your mouths break apart only to find each other again seconds later like gravity, thirst. His tongue slides roughly against yours in a kiss so hot and sinful that your whole body aches for more. He knows how to ruin you, to devour you slow, unraveling every thread, every barrier you put up trying to get over him, with the way his hands frame your hips, the way his fingers dig into your skin like he never forgot how you fit.

Your skirt rides up as his thigh slots between yours. Your breath hitches when you feel him press up, grinding again, his growing hard-on slotting perfectly against your clothed warmth. Your body jerks in response, whimpering into his mouth like you’re drunk on him.

You kind of are.

His mouth meets yours in a deep kiss again. It’s dangerous. You clutch at the back of his neck, fingers slowly dragging up into his hair, nails digging in as you tug hesitantly on his blond strands. He lets out a deep groan into your mouth, your hips aching in the best way as his grip tightens even more.

“I hate that you still feel like this,” you whisper, shaky.

He smirks against your lips. “You mean perfect?”

You shove him playfully. He grabs your wrist and presses your hand to his chest, right over his racing heart. He rests his forehead against yours, never breaking eye contact

“I never stopped wanting you,” he says, almost reverent. “Even when I was trying to.”

Your eyes sting.

You lean in, kissing him again, like you can’t spend more than two seconds without his lips moving against yours, in the intoxicating way they do.

It’s spiraling, fast.

Riki’s is on you leaving wet, desperate and consuming open mouthed kisses wherever he can. His tongue sliding deep into your mouth, like he can taste how wrecked you already are. His hands have stopped pretending to behave, one edging from your waist to your backside, pulling you against the thick line of his body, the other now tangled deep in your hair, tilting your head to kiss you harder. Deeper. As if he wants to fuse with you into one being, until your hearts beat as one. It had always driven you crazy how he’d take control in situations like this.

You’re panting against his lips, high on him and chasing his touch, just as desperate. He groans into your mouth and it vibrates straight through your chest, making you shiver. His hand slips lower, over your thigh, gripping it. Lifting, no, dragging your leg up high around his waist until your core is pressed hard against him. The only thing keeping his cock from rubbing right up against your heat being the thin layers of clothing between you.

You whimper, eyes squeezing shut at the friction.

“This is insane,” you breathe into the corner of his mouth.

He kisses you instead of answering. Open and hungry.

“Don’t care,” he growls, voice hoarse. “You feel too fucking good.”

His hips roll into you harder, and it shatters you. His bulge straining through his pants, fully hard now.

A gasp escapes your lips before you can catch it, your fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt like it’ll save you from drowning in him. One hand slowly finds its way under, feeling a hint of his bare and toned stomach against your fingertips. Your other hand finds his jaw, sharp and familiar, and pulls him even closer.

He smiles against your mouth, cocky and dangerous. He loves that you’re already coming undone, all over again. He loves the effect he has on you. How your body reacts so well to his.

His lips trail down your neck, slow and sinful, his hand pressing harder against your thigh you’re sure it’ll leave a bruise, keeping your legs open for him. You can feel him, hard, hot, pressed right where you’re aching, and it makes you dizzy.

“I missed this,” he murmurs, tongue sliding devastatingly slow against your skin making your head lean back against the closet wall. “Missed the way you sound.”

“I hate you,” you whisper, shivering as his hand slips beneath your skirt. Your hands traveling across his abs underneath his shirt. His teeth graze against the skin just under your ear and you shiver as you feel him suck hard, a mark sure to form.

“No, you don’t.” His fingers skim your inner thigh. “You just wish you did.”

He’s infuriating, and yet he’s right.

Your hands catch his face again, hands cupping his cheeks as you press your lips back on his, mouths crashing together with a breathless need that makes the whole world disappear. The kiss deepens, slick and frantic, teeth grazing lips, hands sliding further under clothing.

You can barely think.

You’re just noise and heat and hands. Moans muffled into mouths. Fingertips clutching skin. His hips grinding into yours with such need like it’s killing him right now not to be inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice strained, forehead pressed to yours as you both try to breathe. Hot breaths fanning against one another as you both try to navigate the daze you’re in. “You’re driving me fucking insane. Do you even know what you’re doing to me?”

“Same thing you’re doing to me,” you gasp.

Both of his hands wrap fully around your thigh and waist and drag you higher, lifting you slightly off the floor, so your weight is pressed hard between him and the wall, so he can rut up against you. So he can feel you. You yelp softly at the sudden change in position, your arms snaking their way around his neck. You are now being carried by him with ease, his body pressing yours against the wall. The reminder of his insane body strength drives you crazy.

The increased access and friction from this position has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“You wanna let me take care of you?” he breathes with desperation, mouth dragging hotly against your cheek, leaving small licks and nips here and there. “Wanna feel me again?”

His words make you weak in the knees. If you weren’t being lifted up by him right now, you’re sure they would’ve buckled at that. “Yes!” you whisper, before you can think better.

He groans like the word alone undoes him, dragging you down once more against his clothed hard-on. “God, you’re so-”

But he’s cut off.

Knock knock.

“Time’s almost up!” a voice calls through the door, bright and oblivious.

You freeze. So does he. Both your heads now turned towards the closet door. You suddenly remember where you are, having gotten too caught up in each other.

The music is still blaring outside. People are still laughing, shouting. The real world is still moving on, and you’re here in the dark, shoved against a wall, on the edge of making every mistake you swore you’d never repeat.

You can hardly breathe.

Your chest is rising and falling too fast, and you try to steady yourself, arms tightening a little around Riki’s neck. You try to blink back the haze, but then he shifts, still pressed up between your legs, and your body reacts, eliciting a sudden sound.

A broken, breathy, desperate little whimper.

You slap your hand over your mouth like it’ll fix it. Like it’ll hide the fact that your entire body is still on fire. Burning for him.

Riki turns to you the second the noise leaves your lips and grins. Slow and feral.

“You’re so not done with me,” he murmurs just inches away from your lips, voice wrecked.

You look at him. Eyes wide, lips swollen, heat still building inside you like it never paused, just growing.

He leans in one last time, lips grazing your ear.

“Come home with me.”

You nod before you even register it, and before you know it, Riki is gently placing you back on the floor as his lips place an open mouthed kiss against your neck, and the door cracks open, just as you two break apart.

Light floods in. Your friends are nowhere in view yet.

Riki doesn’t give you a second to think. His hand wraps around yours, grip tight, possessive, and deadly all at once.

He pulls you out fast, guiding you through the bodies with ease, through the bass-heavy air, down the hallway.

No words. No explanations. No goodbyes.

You move past the living room, the kitchen, the crush of people. The moment the front door is within reach, Heeseung suddenly looks up from where he’s standing, seemingly taking a breather in one of the less crowded areas of the house. He’s leaning against the wall by the front door, red cup in hand, one brow raised like he saw this coming a mile away. At least he’s alone…

He whistles low and teasing.

You don’t dare look, blushing profusely. Riki doesn’t flinch. His hand stays locked around yours as he yanks the door open and you step out into the night.

The car ride is silent, but the air is anything but calm.

Your thigh is burning beneath his hand. His palm rests heavy over your skin, thumb stroking slow and possessive circles just above your knee. He doesn’t look at you once, but you can feel the heat rolling off of him in waves. His jaw clenched, lip caught between his teeth, fingers tapping at the steering wheel, restless. The tension is a third presence in the car, thick and suffocating, like something is alive, pacing, waiting to explode.

You’re still breathing hard from what just happened in the closet. You haven’t come down from the high you felt, not even close. You don’t think you can come down from it without him.

The second the key turns in the lock of his shared dorm and the door creaks open, Riki is on you. Luckily his roommate, Jake, is still at the party.

Mouths colliding, wrecked and hungry.

Teeth, tongues, breathless gasps. You stumble backward into the dark room as you’re tasting each other, hands fumbling all over bodies. He slams the door shut behind you with a kick, it clicks. Then he grabs you, both hands firm on the backside of your thighs, lifting you clean off the floor like you weigh nothing for the second time that night.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms around his shoulders, and he pins you to the wall so hard the frames rattle.

“You don’t leave tonight,” he growls into your ear, breathing heavily, “not until I’ve ruined you all over again.”

You moan before you can stop it.

He kisses you like he’s trying to take your breath away. Like your mouth is the only thing he’ll ever need again. His hands slide up, under your skirt, along the backs of your thighs. He gives your ass a testing squeeze and you let out a whimper just muffled by a kiss, you can feel him smirking against your lips.

“God…” he groans.

Riki holds your hips to the thick press of him, his cock aching beneath his jeans, begging to be freed. He grinds down into you slow and deep between your legs. You cry out into his mouth, legs squeezing tighter together around his hips as he holds you.

“Fuck,” he hisses, head dropping to your shoulder. “I missed this. Missed how fucking loud you get for me.”

Your hips roll into his, chasing the friction, the tension that’s been building all night, for months, and he grunts, low and rough, dragging his teeth along your collarbone. By now you two are dry humping right by the front door of his dorm, and it’s absolutely filthy. The mixture of grunts and moans echo off the walls.

“You want it so bad, don’t you?”

You nod, eyebrows furrowed in quiet need. You’re clutching his shirt like you’ll fall without it. But he doesn’t give in, not fully. And you swear you’re about to cry with how fucking horny you are.

He grinds into you again, slow, the angle making his clothed buldge graze just right against your covered clit, your eyes rolling in pleasure. The friction is too much and yet still not enough.

Riki pulls his head back just enough to look at you, the eye contact making you dizzy.

“You think I’m just gonna fuck you against this wall?” he murmurs. “Let you come once and send you home?”

His smile is dangerous.

“No,” he says, pressing a kiss just under your jaw, “I’m gonna take my time.” Another kiss, lower. “Make sure it lasts.” His hand slides beneath your top, palm splayed hot against your stomach. “Make sure you never forget what this feels like.”

You moan again, body arching into his touch, your fingers tugging his hair as he sucks bruises into your neck.

“Say you want it,” he whispers, teeth grazing your skin. “Say you want me to ruin you.”

“I want it,” you manage to get out, panting. “R-Riki, please…”

That’s all he needs. “Good girl.” He growls.

He holds onto you again, pulling you off the wall, and carries you towards his bedroom. The dorm is dark and quiet, roommate nowhere in sight. Not that you’d care if he was. You were too focused on wishing Riki was fucking you already.

You can barely breathe by the time he kicks his door shut.

He throws you onto the bed and climbs over you, mouth already back on yours. You meet him halfway, kissing back just as hungrily, your fingers dragging through his hair, nails scratching lightly down his clothed back, needing more.

It’s like you’re starving for each other. Like if you stop touching, you’ll stop breathing. At this point you think you actually might.

He kisses you deep, biting your lower lip, groaning when your hips lift to meet his. His body fits against you perfectly. You can feel every part of him hard and aching, pressed tight against you.

His hands explore you like he forgot nothing. He rediscovers every curve, every spot that makes you gasp. He memorized your body once, and now he’s reacquainting himself. Slowly. Thoroughly.

“Still so fucking perfect, baby” he murmurs, trailing kisses down your neck. “Still mine.”

You don’t correct him. You can’t.

Because a part of you deep down wants to be his.

In the middle of your tongues brushing against each other amidst kisses, he grinds into you again, making you moan so loud you have to slap your hand over your mouth, he grins against your chest.

“Don’t be quiet now,” he says, breathless. “I wanna hear you.”

He presses harder. His hands toying with the hem of your top, dragging it upwards so slow that it physically hurts, just enough to reveal your belly button.

“Wanna hear every single sound you make when I fuck you open again.”

Your eyes roll back.

You dig your nails into his shoulder, his shirt already riding up from the constant movement, and he kisses you again. Sloppier this time, more tongue, more teeth.

It’s filthy yet beautiful.

You’re sure you’re absolutely soaked by this point, feeling the mess made in your panties seeping through.

Your body arches into him, grinding back and meeting his hard-on with growing eagerness. You claw at his shirt, yanking it upwards until he rips it off himself and tosses it across the room.

What you see takes your breath away.

His abs, glistening with sweat, are visibly more toned. An obvious sign of hitting the gym more frequently ever since your break up. Though most shocking of all, he has a tattoo.

A big one.

One that stretches from his upper rib just until where his jeans hung low on his hips. Big, dark and new. You almost moan at the sight. Holy shit…

He must’ve realized what caught your attention, after following your gaze he just grins and leans down to whisper seductively against your cheek, breath hot. “You like it?”

You shiver. “Fuck…” You reach for him like instinct, reflex almost. He presses a kiss on your cheek.

The way he’s looking at you now, like he’s starving, makes your mouth go dry. His eyes drag over your body like he’s trying to memorize the exact way you’re spread out on his bed: skirt pushed halfway up your thighs, panties just barely peeking out; lips, red and kiss-swollen; cheeks flushed; top pushed up revealing your stomach; your breath still catching in small, desperate gasps.

“You’re in my room now, baby. No one’s saving you.”

You don’t want to be saved.

You want him.

The look in his eyes, a mix of danger and the certainty, makes something deep inside you clench so hard you nearly let out a soft moan.

“You think I forgot how to touch you?” he murmurs, pressing his palm to your bare thigh again, slowly trailing upwards as he hovers above you. “Think I forgot what your body does when I kiss you here?”

His lips press to your jaw, soft at first, then wetter. Lower. Your pulse thunders.

His hands are moving like they have all night. He pushes your top up even more, inch by inch. Riki watches as the skin of your chest begins to appear like it’s some sacred thing. His fingers trace the edges of your ribs, your waist, the faint dip of your stomach. He finally removes your top, leaving you spread out in your bra. Every touch burns.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this again,” he whispers, and his lips drag just below your collarbone. “How many times I thought about your mouth. Your thighs. The way you sound when I make you fall apart, whether on my hands, my tongue,” he licks a stripe just under your ear. “or my cock.”

You’re gasping now, hands tangled in his hair as he sucks another bruise into your skin, marks that you’ll definitely have to hide tomorrow, right above your chest.

“And you,” he says, lifting his head again. “You came into that closet acting like you didn’t miss me. Like you could handle me being that close.”

He smirks, wicked and smug.

“But you couldn’t. Could you?”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. In any other situation you would be irritated, embarrassed by his words, but right now hearing him speak in such a teasing way just makes the heat between pooling between your thighs burn even hotter.

He leans down again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your throat. He mouths down your chest, pausing just above your bra.

“You couldn’t even last two minutes before you were grinding on me again like you never left.”

“Riki-”

That name. His name, low and breathy from your lips, drives him insane. He groans, like it short-circuits his brain. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

His lips meet yours again, rushed, hot, possessive. He swallows the gasp you let out when his hand slips beneath the waistband of your skirt. Palming against your panties, heat seeping through against your clothed pussy.

Just resting there. Right where you want him. It’s maddening.

Your whole body pulses with need.

“You’re this wet already?” he mutters, breathless. “Fuck.”

You grind up with a whimper, cursing your panties in your mind for getting in the way of having his hands on your pussy again.

He pulls back.

“No,” he says, voice low and firm. “Let me take my time.”

His mouth returns to your stomach, your chest, dragging up further. His hand reaches behind your back and you arch just enough to allow him to unclasp your bra. He does so in one swift motion, your breasts now on full display.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He mumbles before quickly leaning down to trail kisses around one of your tits while he squeezes the other with his free hand.

“Fuck- Riki!” You moan out, when you feel his tongue flick against your nipple in between sucks. He alternates between your tits, making sure both of them get equal treatment. Your hand fists the sheets.

His mouth leaves your chest with a pop and you moan. Riki inches down slowly, painfully so, peeling your skirt off of you. All you can do is look down and watch.

He looks up at you from between your legs. His eyes are blown wide, dark with lust, and his voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“I want you to remember every fucking second of this.”

You whimper, head tilting back, and he leans in, close to your most sensitive spot. He peppers kisses down your inner thighs, maintaining eye contact the whole time. You’re soaked.

He’s groaning, teeth gritted, like he’s holding himself back by a thread.

Then after leaving small kisses and bites just under the area where your thigh meets your underwear, his head perks up, and his thumb rubs small circles on your leg.

“Tell me you want it. Say it. Say you want me to ruin you.”

“I want it,” you breathe, choking on it. “Riki, please-”

“Please what?”

“Please touch me.”

He moans. Actually moans. Like it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard.

His hand finally moves. His fingers now dragging your soaked panties down and off of you before placing them gently aside. The cold air hits you and you shiver under his gaze, fully bare and spread out. All for him.

His head hovers just above your glistening pussy, strong hands holding your legs apart, placing them so that they go over his shoulders, giving him full access to your cunt.

“You want it now?” he says, you can feel his breath fanning over you. “Right here?”

God, he’s still such a tease.

You nod. Mouth parted and breathless, and he leans in.

Riki gives one long, slow lick up your slit, tongue flat and pressure hard, immediately making you arch with a soft moan. He holds on your legs with more force to keep you from squirming too much as he works kitten licks upon your aching pussy.

“I missed tasting you,” he pants in between licks. His tongue worked hard on your slit, his head now moving with small bobs which cause his nose to brush against your sensitive clit every single time. The feeling is overwhelming, moans escaping your lips while eats you out like he’s been starving.

Riki then starts pushing his tongue into your slick hole. “Ahh, oh my god!” You groan, your fingers tugging on his blond locks. The feeling makes him groan, creating a wave of vibration right against your pussy. Your eyes roll back in pleasure.

His tongue swipes up and down along your wet folds, making sure to explore every part of you. You twitch beneath him, a breathy moan resonates through the room before you can even stop it.

“Still so sensitive,” he murmurs against your skin. “Like your body never forgot me.”

You try to respond, to sass back, to say something, but then his mouth latches on you again, tongue flat and unrelenting.

Your head hits the pillow with a whimper.

“Fuck- Riki-”

That only makes him groan harder.

“I told you what that name does to me,” he growls, voice muffled between your thighs. “Say it again.”

“Riki!”

He sucks at your clit, hard, and your hips shoot off the bed.

He pins them down immediately, strong hands curling around your waist, holding you there like he owns every inch of you. Lapping at your soaking pussy.

And fuck, maybe he does.

No one else has ever made you feel like this. None of your past boyfriends; and none of your hook ups from after you broke up with Riki, desperately trying to get over him.

You barely even notice the sound of the front door opening from the main space of the dorm.

Not until you hear a faint laugh. A voice.

Jake.

Riki’s roommate.

Your eyes go wide. Riki doesn’t stop.

“Riki- Ah! Jake’s back-” you whisper, voice shaking as he fuck you open with his mouth.

He doesn’t stop.

In fact, he smirks.

“Yeah,” he says, lifting his head, lips and chin glistening. “I know.”

“Riki…”

He leans up, mouth ghosting over your ear.

“I want him to hear,” he whispers, teeth grazing your skin. “Want him to know who you belong to.”

The way he says it, low, confident, possessive, makes your entire body seize with heat.

And then he’s kissing you again. Hard, desperate. He makes you taste yourself, your own juices, as he works his tongue deep into your mouth, pushing against your own. The filthiness of the whole situation makes you lightheaded in the best way.

He grabs your wrist, lifts it over your head, and pins it there against the mattress. Then the other. He hovers above you with a dangerous look in his eye. His lips all swollen and his eyes dazed from eating you out. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, shiny with your slick, and makes you watch as he licks it all up. Eye contact never wavers. A chill runs through you.

“You’re not holding back tonight,” he says leaning down, breath hot against your neck. “Not anymore.”

“Riki please, fuck me already…” you whimper, squirming under him. Your need grows with every passing second. “Want your cock inside me please-”

Riki grins, his eyes darkening at the sight of you, horny underneath him. “Shh, good girls are patient.” he whispers, voice deep. You whine.

His lips meet yours. It’s messy. He’s undoing his jeans and your hands immediately reach out to join his to help him. Once unzipped and pulled down, he kicks them off, jeans falling to the ground as your thumbs dips beneath the waistband of his boxers. You look up at him for approval, chest heaving. He gives you a small nod, need evident in his expression. You pull the fabric down and his cock springs out. Long, hard, and twitching. Precum forming on his pink tip.

“Good girl,” He groans, “see what you do to me? Hm?”

You don’t respond, instead you reach out and wrap a hand around his sensitive cock, your thumb smearing the precum across his tip. Your touch sends his head tilting back with a drawn out moan as you stroke firm but slow.

“Fuck… baby, let me take care of it”

Finally, Riki grabs his length, stroking a few times, before he drags it across your wet folds. Your slick drips onto his cock with every drag. You feel his tip nudge against your clit a few times, making you jolt underneath him. After deciding it’s coated enough, he positions himself comfortably above you, lining his thick cock up against your aching hole, and slowly pushes in.

You gasp. Loud.

Riki watches your expression as he sinks into you. His hips lower against yours until his cock is fully wrapped around your warm, gummy walls. The intrusion makes your head spin, it’s too much. Too good. God, did you miss how he filled you up.

“Fuck!” you cry out, head thrown back as your eyebrows furrow. His hand finds it’s place at the curve where your hip meets your thigh, holding you for maximum leverage as he braces to begin thrusting, waiting for you to make that expression, the one that you always made when you had adjusted to his size and were ready. One he never forgot and had been hoping to see again.

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted. “Let me fucking hear you. Let everyone hear you.”

He starts to move, slow at first, grinding deep with every thrust. It’s like he’s trying to etch the shape of you back into his memory. Your legs wrap around his waist without thinking and he sinks even deeper. His thrusts increase in speed by a fraction, eliciting soft moans out of you everytime his hips made contact with yours, cock buried deep within you.

“Oh my god- Riki!”

“You missed this?” he hisses. “You missed my cock, didn’t you? You’re so tight.” He readjusts his grip on your hip as he essentially drags you up and down on his length, helping him reach deeper into you. Your hands run down his bare chest, feeling the soft dips where his abs are, defined and displayed perfectly above you. Your fingers slow when they meet his large rib tattoo, moving over inked skin.

You nod, breathless.

“You missed the way I ruin you?”

His pace picks up and Riki growls. His calculated thrusts turning into something rougher. He pounds into you, the sound of skin on skin resonating through the room as his balls slam hard against your backside at the speed he’s fucking you dumb.

The headboard bumps the wall, rhythmic and obvious. A hand of his reaches down to grab one of your tits, which at this point were bouncing along with his movement, squeezing and twisting your nipple. “Ngh… fuck!” Every breath you take is mixed with a groan at how good he’s making you feel.

You attempt to bite your lip to muffle the sounds you’re releasing, concerned about how loud you’re getting alongside the knowledge that you two were no longer the only ones in the dorm. Riki notices and grabs your face, firm but not harsh.

“No,” he says, voice sharp. “Don’t do that. Let it out.”

You’re panting now, sobbing moans, your legs starting to shake. Your hands grip Riki’s back, trying to hold onto him as he continues to ram his cock into your wet pussy. Your nails lightly digging into the skin of his back.

“Let Jake hear you fall apart for me. F-Fuck… You couldn’t stay away from me, huh?” He angles his hips upwards, allowing him to fuck you open so much deeper. The new angle makes you see stars, you yelp out in pleasure.

“I love your noises, fuck… No one makes you feel the way I do, hm?”

You moan again, the loudest you think you’ve ever been. He lets out a groan in response, guttural, slamming into you harder. “Your pussy got so soaked for me baby, just from kissing too. Filthy girl.”

That nickname does something to you. You instinctively clench around him, he grunts. “Ah, don’t squeeze like that-”

It’s insane. The heat, the friction, the way he holds you down like you’re his to break.

“Louder, baby,” he grits. “Be good for me.”

Your whole body tightens, you’re now writhing beneath him, trembling.

Riki just watches everything. The way your face contorts with every thrust. The way your tits sway below him, chest rising and falling rapidly. The way his cock disappears within you with every drag.

You’re close.

He knows.

So he slows down.

You whimper. “No- please- don’t stop-”

“I said I’d take my time,” he growls, leaning down to leave kisses down your throat. “You don’t get to come until I say.”

“Riki!”

His mouth moves and he crashes his lips onto yours. Hot and wet, dragging his tongue over them before pulling back and whispering. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe. “I’ve always been yours.”

Riki lets out a shaky breath. His hands adjusting on your sides for maximum grip, holding you so tight you wonder if it’s beginning to bruise.

He looks into your eyes, expression filled with desire, and he drives into you with a new kind of urgency.

You scream.

Riki’s pace never falters even as your body begins to fall apart under him. He fucks you through it all, hard. His lips latch on your neck, voice in your ear, low and ragged and full of things he never used to say.

“I missed this. Missed you.” The filthy sounds of your skin slapping against one another echoed through the room that now smelled of pure sex. “You were always the only one, Y/N. F-fuck…”

“Ahh harder! Harder, Riki please-” You whine, embarrassingly loud but in this moment, you don’t really care.

“Look at me Y/N. Keep your eyes on me.” Riki pants, his thrusts strong but growing sloppy, a sign he too was getting close. He slams into you with hunger, cock piercing through you. “Wanna watch you when you come.”

The sound of the headboard slamming harshly against the wall rings out. You make sure to look up at Riki the whole time. With every shattering slam of his cock into your core, you hold onto him a little tighter. His back, biceps, whatever is in reach. His hand reaches down and starts to rub your clit frantically, in sync with his movements. The sensations quickly become overwhelming.

You can feel the coil winding tighter, threatening to snap at any second. “Oh my god- Fuck! Riki im gonna- Ah!”

“Come on my cock baby.”

He drives into you with such precision and force, his fingers working overtime on your swollen clit. Soon, you feel your release come over you, and you’re shaking in his arms, completely drenching the sheets beneath you. Your mouth opens in ecstasy with a scream of his name, “Riki!” and your eyes roll to the back of your head. He fucks you through it.

“Fuck baby, look at you” Riki admires your flushed state beneath him as his movements grow even sloppier than before. “I’m gonna fill you so good.”

Suddenly you feel his warm juices spilling into your fucked out pussy, his hips pressed up against you. He groans, long and drawn out, right by your ear. His head bows down into your shoulder as he rides out his high, thrusts slowing before stopping completely, cock milked dry.

You can feel his chest heaving atop your own, and before you can register it, you’re wrapping your arms around his warm body, pulling him closer. Both of you in a fucked out daze.

Riki pants, pressing a soft and slow kiss against your cheek, bodies still interlinked. “You’re unreal. I missed you so fucking much Y/N.” It comes out breathless, but his words ignite something warm in your chest. You know, deep down, that this isn’t just a one-night mistake. This is you, unraveling all over again.

For him, only him.

And maybe, you’re okay with it.

You lose track of how many times he makes you come.

Some with his fingers, others with his mouth.

Another when he has you on your knees on the bed, hands braced against the wall, his voice rasping filth in your ear as he rams into you from behind.

That one nearly ends you.

Because that’s the wall that connects his bedroom to his roommates’.

To Jake’s bedroom.

Of course, Riki was well aware of that fact, and he is absolutely insane.

He presses you hard against the wall, one hand’s long fingers curled firmly around your throat just enough to make your breath hitch, his other hand on your hips as he guided you back onto his length from behind.

“Think he can hear you?” he whispers against your ear, cock buried so deep it makes your vision blur. “The way you’re moaning for me?”

You gasp, clenching around him involuntarily. Your sounds are smaller than usual due to the nerve-wracking situation that was being fucked right up against Riki’s roomates’ wall. He would definitely hear if he wasn’t dead asleep or something similar. “Ngh- Riki!”

“Oh? She’s shy now?” he taunts, grinning against your shoulder that had now been plastered with bruises and bites. “You weren’t shy when I had my tongue in you twenty minutes ago.”

He thrusts again, deliberately. Deep and slow, drawing a long moan out of you that makes heat seep to your cheeks. The kind of thrust that makes your whole body jerk forward and thump lightly against the wall. You attempt to choke on your moans. Try to stifle them against your arm.

Riki did not like that. He rams into you harder.

“Tsk. None of that.”

You shake your head, whining. “I can’t- he’ll hear-”

He continues to wreck your fucked hole with precision. The knowledge that you two might be heard did turn you on, but the tinge of embarrassment was still there, hence you trying to silence yourself. A hard task when Riki is just too damn good at fucking you.

“I want him to hear, baby” He breathes lowly, voice wrecked. “Let him know that you missed me too.”

When you cry out; high and breathless and creaming on his cock once again, both your slicks mixing and dripping down your thighs and his balls; he smiles.

It goes on for hours.

Different positions, different angles, even different parts of the bed. Your legs shake with the effort of keeping up. You love it.

You can’t stop moaning, gasping his name like a lifeline. Like it’s the only word you know. Every time you think he’s finally done, he kisses you again before pushing your legs apart.

“Just one more,” he whispers. “You can do it. I haven’t ruined you enough yet.”

It’s not just about sex.

It’s about claiming. About making sure you never forget what it’s like to be his.

Now, you never want to forget.

By the time he finally presses you into the mattress for the last time, with a low and desperate groan, filling you up with his seed that seeps out the moment he pulls out, you’re gone.

Sweaty? Yes.

Fucked out in every way? Yes.

But are you smiling? God, yes.

You’re so high on him that you feel like you could float.

He disappears to the bathroom for a moment and comes back with a damp cloth, cleaning you up, his hands gentle around your swollen pussy, utmost care laced in how he navigates his hands. Your comfort is his priority. Riki brushes your hair off your forehead like he didn’t just completely destroy you for the past three hours.

Afterwards, you collapse on top of him. Both still naked, skin to skin, but neither of you minded. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek.

He holds you, and doesn’t let go.

Soon, you’re overcome with sleep, lips swollen, legs sore, every inch of you aching; but in the best way possible.

You don’t know how long you were out for. Could be anywhere from ten minutes to two hours, but when you open your eyes slightly, it’s still dark, still quiet.

Riki is still awake, one arm propped up under his head on the pillow, the other still wrapped around you.

He hasn’t noticed you’ve woken up, fingers running through your hair, slow and thoughtful. You keep your breathing steady, trying to drift back to sleep, when he says something that you don’t expect.

“I’ll do anything to keep you like this.” he mumbles, barely above a whisper.

His words are so raw that it splinters something inside you, the edge of hurt evident in the soft way he spoke.

You open your eyes discreetly, looking up at him. His brows are furrowed, jaw clenched as his hands mindlessly play with your hair, eyes on the ceiling.

You didn’t leave because you wanted to. You left because you had to. Because loving Riki felt like drowning.

But now? It was clear that he had changed.

You weren’t finding yourself falling once again because of the sex, though admittedly that was the best you’d ever been fucked, it was because of him.

How now his touch, no matter innocent or filthy, was always laced with absolute care.

How he now looked at you with a spark in his eye, like you meant the world to him.

How his words now came out more genuine and natural than they used to.

You two had fucked many times before, but this time was different, he was different.

You don’t respond. You don’t let him know that you had woken up. Instead, you simply wrap your arms around him just a little tighter, face buried a little deeper in the crook of his neck.

He tenses for a second, you feel it, before he relaxes against you, pulling you close.

The ache in your chest has never felt more like home.

You two wake intertwined the next morning, surprisingly early considering the time you had stayed up until, pressed all over one another.

After a slow morning of soft kisses in bed, you agreed to talk about where you stood after getting some nutrition in your systems.

So now, you’re sat on the kitchen counter, wearing one of Riki’s old hoodies as he attempted to put togehter a very healthy breakfast of pancakes. You watched his every move, he was trying so hard not to mess up after a failed flip led to pancake batter all over the floor just a few minutes prior. Lots of laughs were let out when that happened.

Then suddenly,

A slow clap.

You both freeze.

Jake’s leaning in the doorway of his bedroom, which led right into the kitchen area of the main space of the dorm. His arms crossed and expression blank, except for the shit-eating grin playing at his lips. Oh god…

“Well, well, well,” he drawls.

Riki groans under his breath.

You turn beet red.

“You two are disgusting.”

All you can do is smile apologetically.

THANK YOU FOR READING! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

[girliemattitude]

Not the same - M.S 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Matt’s hips moved on autopilot.

The girl beneath him Leah? Lena? Lana? was face down, her arms stretched out like she was posing for someone, back arched perfectly, moaning loud like she thought it was expected of her.

He wasn’t really listening. He wasn’t even really here. Not mentally.

His hands were on her waist, and yeah, she was pretty, body soft and warm, skin smooth under his palms. Her apartment smelled like lavender and body spray, and her sheets were a blueish color .

It was all wrong. She was loud, too loud. Moaning like a porn star, trying to sell it like it was the best fuck of her life, even though Matt knew he wasn’t giving her anything special.

Not tonight. Not now.

Because his mind was on you.

God. You.

The way you never faked anything. Never tried to be perfect or put on a performance. You used to whisper his name so smoothly, like you needed him closer just to breathe.

The way you ran your fingers through his hair, always keeping eye contact when it got slow, intimate. The kind of gaze that made his stomach twist.

Matt’s rhythm stuttered. He blinked down at the girl beneath him. Her back glistened faintly under the soft light, her fake moans echoing off the high ceilings.

He wasn’t even hard anymore.

He pulled out quietly, careful not to make a scene, and she didn’t even notice at first just kept going like she was still playing a part.

Then she turned her head lazily and smiled, chest heaving. “That was so good,” she purred, reaching back for him.

Matt just nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah. You okay?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Mmhmm.” She reached for him again, this time pulling him into a hug, like they were something. Like they meant something.

He let her. Because he was decent. Because it would be rude to pull away when she looked so content. But it made his skin crawl, how easy it was for her. How easy it was for people to just pretend.

Because with you it always meant something. There was always something real in the way you kissed him before you left. In the way he’d wake up reaching for you before realizing you were gone.

You used to smell like vanilla. That soft, warm scent that stayed on his hoodie for hours after. The one he never wanted to wash out. He missed it now. Missed it so badly it almost choked him.

He sat up, dragging a hand through his hair, chest tight, and reached for the tissue box on her nightstand; “You want me to clean you up?” Lana blinked at him, surprised. “Uh… sure.” Of course she was surprised. No one usually offered. But Matt always did. It’s the bare minimum right? That’s just who he was. Polite. Thoughtful. Even when he didn’t want to be here anymore. Even when every second in her bed made him feel further away from himself.

He cleaned her gently, tossing the tissue and mumbling something about the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, gripping the sink, heart pounding like it shouldn’t be.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He thought maybe if he fucked someone else, the ache would fade. That the ghost of your name still sitting in his phone, the unsent messages, blurry photos he hadn’t brought himself to delete would finally stop haunting him. But you weren’t gone.

Not really. You lived in every little detail he noticed now. In the silence after sex. In the way no one else looked at him the way you did. The way no one made him feel like you made him feel with just your eyes and the soft scratch of your nails in his back. He felt cold despite the heat of someone else’s skin.

He came back to the bed, pulled on his shirt.

“You leaving?” she asked, smiling at him sleepily.

Matt hesitated. “I’ll stay a little,” he said, even though he didn’t want to, he wasn’t an asshole.

But all he could think about was you. How you used to curl into his side after, not saying anything. Just breathing with him. Just being there.

He lay back on the pillow, eyes on the ceiling, the ache in his chest unbearable.

She wasn’t you.

And no matter how many girls he fucked, none of them ever would be.

You weren’t just another girl he missed.

You were it.

And nothing after that will ever feel the same.

A/N: This morning I felt like writing so instead of finish editing my long list of drafts I wrote this new angsty blurb instead. I hope you like it :)

Taglist: @nialler-lover @httpssturns @bernardsbendystraws @lovingchrissposts @theowensturniolo @sturnsoftt @courta13 @xoxochrissgf @sturnililio

©girliemattitude

[4linos]

what could’ve been 3

lee minho x f!reader, bang chan x f!reader

synopsis: eight ex-couples who once called off their weddings reunite on a reality show built for closure or rekindling. you thought you came to find new love, not to face minho, the man you left without explanation. now, stuck under one roof, old wounds reopen as new feelings grow. did you make a mistake... or are you about to make another?

warnings: reality show au, angst, emotional distress, infertility, themes of heartbreak, abandonment, and unresolved trauma, some swearing. hurt/comfort.

wc: 11,961

part 1 / part 2

You didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Not after the host announced so casually that Minho was gone like it was just another change in schedule, another twist for the audience.
No warning. No goodbye.

Now it’s later, maybe early evening, maybe later. You don’t even know anymore. The sun’s gone down, and you’ve been curled up in the corner of your once shared room, knees tucked to your chest, sweater still smelling faintly like him. You hadn’t moved since going upstairs to confirm it for yourself. The bed was made. His stuff was gone. He was really gone.

The ache is back.

The door opens, and Gyuri steps in quietly, her expression soft but serious. You barely register her until she sits next to you on the edge of the bed. Her voice is cautious, like she doesn’t want to tip you over completely.

“I think I know why Minho left.”

That snaps you out of it.

You turn to her, blinking, waiting.

She hesitates. “Yujin overheard something earlier… She wasn’t going to say anything, but after seeing you like this… she told me Chan said something to Minho like really said something. Right before Minho left. She said she wasn’t close enough to hear it all, but then I went to go find Chan…”

You sit up straighter.

“And?”

Her mouth flattens. “He was downstairs. Laughing. With Felix, Jeongin, and Changbin. Literally telling them that his ‘competition’s finally gone.’”

Your stomach drops.

“He said that?”

She nods once. “Exactly that.”

That’s all you need.

You stand, almost on autopilot, storming down the hallway. You hear your name called behind you, Gyuri telling you to breathe, but you don’t. You push the door open to the lounge and spot him immediately, reclined with a smug half-smile, eyes lighting up when he sees you walk in, but not because he knows what’s coming. Because he still thinks he won.

You wait until he finishes laughing at some half-finished joke before you speak.

“Can we talk?”

The room quiets. He shifts uncomfortably, the mood changing fast. He stands slowly, feigning confusion.

“Now?” “Yes. Now.”

He steps toward you, his tone already guarded. “What, you want to talk now because you realized I’m the one who’s still here?”

“No.” Your voice is cold. “Because I found out what you did.”

That’s when the mask cracks.

He rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath. “Of course Gyuri couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

You blink. “So it’s true?”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I didn’t do anything. I just told him what everyone else was thinking. That you clearly weren’t over him and I was tired of pretending it didn’t bother me.”

“So you pushed him to leave?”

“I didn’t push him. I just... said what needed to be said. If he couldn’t handle that—”

You cut him off. “You didn’t want to deal with the fact that my heart was never fully yours. So instead of being honest, you played dirty.”

His face hardens. “I was honest. You were the one who kept stringing me along. Every time I looked at you, your eyes were somewhere else—with someone else. I like you. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel like a fucking rebound.”

It boils over then.

“Of course you felt like a rebound, Chan!” you snap, your voice cracking as emotion finally spills through. “Because maybe you were. Maybe I wasn’t ready, and I thought I could be, and I’m sorry if I hurt you for it, but you don’t get to punish someone else because of that. You don’t get to play victim and sabotage someone else's healing—our healing—because you felt insecure!”

The room’s gone still. Some of the others stand awkwardly nearby, Gyuri, Jisung, Yujin. Sana’s halfway up the stairs, clearly overhearing everything.

Felix tries to intervene, placing a hand on Chan’s shoulder. “Maybe just take a breath, mate.”

But Chan pulls away. “So I’m the villain now? For loving someone who couldn’t love me back?”

You shake your head. “You’re not the villain for loving me, Chan. You’re the villain for making someone I love feel like he had to leave just to breathe.”

His jaw clenches, and he spits out the last dagger.

“You left him first. Don’t forget that.”

It hurts. It lands. But not the way he wants.

Because you did leave Minho. But you came back. You told the truth. You tried.

Chan’s words aren’t new wounds. They’re just salt in the ones you’re already healing from.

Your hands are shaking, and your eyes sting, but before you can say anything else, Gyuri gently pulls you by the arm. “That’s enough.”

You let her guide you out, out of the lounge, out of the noise, out of Chan’s bitterness. You don’t even cry right away. You just sit. And breathe.

You needed to be alone. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.

You looked at Gyuri as gently as you could and said, "Can I just… have a minute?"

She looked like she wanted to say no, to hold your hand and keep you from collapsing, but she nodded, just once. You mouthed a “thank you” before slipping away, your steps quiet but heavy as you made your way to your bedroom.

You didn’t even bother closing the door all the way. The tears came fast.

They poured out the second your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you curled over them, muffling your sobs into the comforter.

You weren’t even sure what hurt more.

Minho leaving without a goodbye.

Or the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be gone.

You talked. You told each other everything. You even laughed. You shared that sweater, that walk, that space where, for once it didn’t feel like the past was chasing either of you. And now?

Nothing but an empty bed where his duffel used to be.

You tried to hold yourself together, but your chest ached from holding so much inside. You weren’t just crying about today, you were crying about two years of pain that never truly had the chance to breathe. Not until now. And now it was all crashing down again.

You didn’t even hear the knock.

Just the voice too calm, too rehearsed.

"Sorry to bother you, but… we were told about your walk this morning with Minho. The cameras didn’t catch it. Would you mind doing a quick confessional?"

You didn’t lift your head right away.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to say no. To tell them to go to hell and leave you the fuck alone.

But you knew how this worked. Knew they’d keep knocking. Knew they’d keep waiting. And most of all, you knew they wouldn’t let it go.

So you wiped your face with the sleeve of Minho’s sweater, the one you still hadn’t taken off and stood on legs that barely held you.

The walk to the confessional room felt like dragging your body through cement. The lights were already on when you entered. That stupid black couch was waiting. The cameras were already rolling. No one said anything at first.

Then someone behind the monitor cleared their throat and gently asked:

“Can you talk to us about the walk this morning with Minho?”

You blinked. Just stared for a moment.

Then nodded slowly, voice raspy.

“We didn’t argue… if that’s what you’re asking. It wasn’t like that. We just talked. We needed to talk. About everything. About… what happened back then, why I left him, how he felt. How I felt.”

You looked down at your hands, clenched so tight your knuckles were white.

“We finally said the things we never got to say two years ago. It wasn’t perfect. But… I thought we understood each other now. I thought—” you paused, swallowing hard, “—I thought he might stay.”

There was a long pause.

Then came the second question.

“But he left shortly after. Was it something said on that walk?”

You shook your head instantly. “No. Not by me.”

But you didn’t offer anything more. Because it wasn’t your job to tell them what Chan did. You weren’t going to make it easier for them to spin the narrative. You weren’t going to hand them your pain in a neat package for them to air as drama.

They waited. Then moved on.

“Do you have anything you’d like to say to Minho? Now that he’s not here?”

You stared straight into the camera. Your throat tightened.

“I thought we were okay. I thought we were finally finding our way back to being… something. Even just friends. And I’m sorry you had to go through what you did. I wish I had said more. I wish I had stayed with you longer this morning. I wish I hadn’t… let someone get between us.”

You bit your bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

“I don’t know if you’ll see this. Or if you even want to. But I’m sorry. And I hope you find peace. Even if it’s without me.”

Another beat passed.

Then they hit you with the one you were expecting, but still didn’t feel ready for:

“Do you think you’ll give Chan a chance?”

You paused.

Your first instinct was silence. But they waited. Always waiting. Always pressing.

“Do you see yourself walking away from the show with him? As your future partner?”

It sounded like bait. It was bait.

You looked at them for a long moment. Then down again. And then, finally, you spoke.

“I don’t know what my future looks like right now. But I know one thing: I don’t want to end up with someone who can’t respect my pain, even if they love me.”

Your voice cracked a little.

“I don’t want to be someone’s choice out of convenience. And I don’t want to love someone who chooses to hurt others when they feel insecure.”

You exhaled, long and slow.

“So no. I don’t think I’ll walk out of here with Chan.”

The room was silent.

No one said a word.

And for the first time in days, you felt a strange kind of peace in that silence.

A hollow, fragile peace.

But peace nonetheless.

The wheels touched down with a hollow jolt, but the ache in Minho’s chest had been steady for hours. Maybe days. Months, if he were honest. The seatbelt sign chimed off above his head, and he moved on autopilot, grabbing his bag, nodding at the stewardess who smiled too brightly, stepping out into the familiar humidity of Seoul’s summer heat like it was supposed to wrap him in some kind of relief. It didn’t.

He was home. That was what he kept telling himself. Home. But it didn’t feel like home. Not really.

The drive back to his apartment was quiet. The taxi driver tried to make small talk. He didn’t want to talk about. He just thought about the promise the producers made to him when they’d recruited him:

"It’ll help you move on. Maybe you’ll even fall in love again."

What a joke.

They didn’t tell him that you would be there. They didn’t tell him that he’d see your face across the firepit on the first night, so sharply real it felt like he’d hallucinated it. He remembered the way his hands had clenched in his lap. The cameras had caught it, he was sure someone out there made a compilation of how his jaw ticked every time your name was mentioned. But that didn’t matter anymore.

The car pulled up to the curb outside his apartment building, and before he could even get the door open, his mother was there. Of course she was. She’d tracked his flight; he’d expected that. What he didn’t expect was the sound of her voice catching in her throat when she saw him.

“Minho,” she gasped, pulling him into her arms like she’d been holding her breath for weeks. Maybe she had. “You’ve lost weight.”

He smiled faintly, letting her fuss. “No, I haven’t.”

“You have. Your cheeks—look at your cheeks.”

He let her cup his face, gently brushing her thumb across his jaw. Her hands were warm, comforting in a way only a mother’s could be. But he saw it in her eyes, the worry. The quiet disappointment. And something else buried beneath her affection.

"Come in," she said quickly. "Come see the kids. They're dying without you."

The kids. Soonie, Doongie, and Dori, his lifeline.

He stepped inside and the familiar sound of tiny paws scuttling against hardwood met his ears before he even had his shoes off. They meowed wildly, winding around his legs, tails high, rubbing their scent back onto him like he’d been gone for years. His mother watched with a proud grin as if she had raised them herself.

"They missed you every day," she said, smoothing her skirt as she followed him inside. "I had to sing them that stupid little song of yours just to get them to eat."

He chuckled. The first genuine laugh in weeks. “You sang it?”

“Don’t mock your mother. I’d do anything for these furballs.”

Minho dropped his bag by the door and sank to the floor, letting the cats crawl all over him. Their warmth, their unfiltered love, it was the only thing that anchored him. He stayed there for a long moment, breathing them in, feeling their soft fur brush against his skin like forgiveness.

Then, his mother’s voice cut through the quiet.

“So…” she started, casual but cautious. “The show. How was it?”

Minho stiffened.

He didn't look at her, just scratched behind Doongie’s ear and said, “It was fine.”

“Just fine?”

He shrugged.

"You were gone for so long, Minho. I expected something more. Did you meet anyone?"

“I saw y/n.”

Silence.

Her voice sharpened. “You saw her? Y/n?”

Minho’s fingers paused mid-stroke, eyes fixed on the floor.

His mother’s face darkened instantly.

“How stupid,” she said, cold now.

“She didn’t know either,” Minho muttered.

“She should’ve walked out.”

“She had just as much right to be there as I did.”

His mother crossed her arms tightly, leaning against the wall. “You’re too kind, Minho. You always have been. That girl—she shattered you. And I was so wrong about her.”

Minho flinched. “Mom…”

“No. No, you don’t get to defend her. Not here, not after everything I watched you go through. Do you know what you looked like after she left? Like someone had cut the strings inside you. I couldn’t even talk to you without worrying you'd cry, and you never cry. You—”

“I’m not talking about this,” he said firmly.

His mother fell quiet, staring at him.

Then, softer now, she tried again: “You know… my friend’s daughter is still single. I told you about her. Smart. Successful. Pretty. She runs her own clinic now. She’s still very interested. She even asked about you recently.”

Minho didn’t reply.

“You two would be perfect,” she pressed. “Someone who knows what she wants. She’s not—”

“I’m tired,” he said, voice dull.

His mother pursed her lips, disappointed but not surprised. “Fine. I’ll leave you to rest. But Minho, I mean it when I say—you deserve someone who sees your worth. Who doesn’t make you question everything. Someone who stays.”

And with that, she picked up her purse, leaned down to kiss his hair, and let herself out.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The silence in the apartment settled like fog. He stood still for a moment, the cats still circling him, then made his way to the bedroom.

The sheets were just as he left them, tightly tucked, no wrinkles, no warmth.

He lay back, fully clothed, and pulled out his phone.

He stared at the black screen for a long time, debating. He’d told himself he deleted it all. He had, on social media, on the shared drive, even off his old backup. But not here. Not where it counted. His private vault, buried beneath folder after folder.

He tapped it open, and the first thing that appeared was a video: you laughing, your hair blowing messily in the wind, your hand reaching for his with a gleam in your eyes that said this, this moment was real.

He watched it three times.

Then the pictures your birthdays together, your hands laced in a museum somewhere in Berlin, your tearful smile when he surprised you with the rescue cat you later named Dori. You, curled up in his arms after a long day. You, quiet in the morning, reading with his sweatshirt draped over your frame.

He hadn’t deleted anything that mattered.

The ache was sharper now.

He rolled onto his side, phone clutched against his chest like a shield.

And the thoughts came.

Was Chan with you now?

Now that he was out of the picture, did you finally give in to something more with him? He saw the way Chan looked at you. Thought no one else noticed. But Minho did. Always did. Back when it used to make him bristle. Back when he trusted you enough not to doubt.

But now?

He hated that it wasn’t jealousy that ate him alive, it was the uncertainty. The fear that if you had moved on, you might never know why he left in the first place.

Because it wasn’t about you. Not really.

It was him. His own doubts. His own belief that maybe you deserved someone more whole. Someone who could promise you more than he thought he could give.

He would’ve held you tight that night.

He would’ve said something. Anything.

Because he didn’t care.

He didn’t care that you couldn’t have children. There were other ways. There were options. Adoption. Surrogacy. Or even no kids at all, he didn’t care, not if it meant being with you. Waking up next to you. Watching the lines in your face deepen with time and love and age.

But instead, he let the silence grow.

He let his own fears fester.

He let the weight of what-ifs sink him into something numb.

You don’t even remember how you got back to your room.

The confessional had taken something from you. Like it cracked something open that you had been desperately trying to hold together all day. The lights, the questions, the way they asked you if you “saw yourself walking away with Chan” as if your world hadn’t just collapsed hours earlier like you were still playing a game when none of it felt like a game anymore.

You didn’t even cry on the walk back. You felt numb, your feet moving on their own as producers thanked you for being “so honest.” You didn’t say a word. You just walked away.

Now, hours later, the room was dark. Everyone else had retreated to their own corners of the villa. You had curled up in bed still in your clothes, not bothering to change facing the wall, replaying everything over and over in your head.

Minho had really left.

And you had really let him.

The sweater he gave you after the morning walk still hung off the chair by your bedside. You hadn’t touched it since you took it off.

You felt like you had nothing left in you, no more strength, no more words, no more hope. Just a lingering ache in your chest where love used to live, where confusion had settled.

Then.. a knock.

Soft. Barely audible.

You almost thought you imagined it.

Then again, a voice.

“Hey… are you sleeping?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t have the energy to.

Your head turned slightly on the pillow just enough to glance at the door. A sliver of hallway light seeped in as the door slowly creaked open.

Chan. Hair messy. Hoodie zipped halfway up. Barefoot. He looked… hesitant.

“Can I come in?” he asked, softer this time.

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no either.

That was enough for him.

He stepped in, gently closing the door behind him. The silence between you was awkward, fragile and delicate like walking on cracked glass. He approached slowly, sat down near your feet. You were still curled up, eyes staring blankly past him.

He didn’t try to joke. Didn’t try to smile.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You blinked.

His voice cracked a little. “For what I said. What I did.”

Still, you didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Not yet.

Chan sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. “I got jealous. I know. And I know I shouldn’t have said anything to Minho. I just—” he paused, then looked down at his hands, “I really like you.”

You swallowed, shifting your eyes away from him again.

“I didn’t want to mess things up. But I guess I did. And I don’t regret liking you, I don’t. But I shouldn’t have tried to make him feel small just to make myself feel important.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then added, “I think… I knew your heart was never really here with me. Not fully. Not when he was around. But I didn’t want to admit it.”

You closed your eyes. That… that hurt. Because it was true.

He gently reached out and rubbed your arm.

You didn’t flinch.

But you didn’t lean into it either.

His thumb moved in slow circles.

“I’m not asking you to love me,” he murmured. “Or choose me. I just needed to say I’m sorry. And I wish I hadn’t pushed him out like that. That wasn’t fair to you… or to him.”

Your throat tightened.

“I think I was so focused on winning you,” Chan whispered, “I forgot you’re not a prize.”

That hit deeper than you expected. You stayed quiet.

Chan finally stood, brushing his hands against his pants awkwardly. “I’ll go now. Just… rest, okay?”

He hesitated before turning to leave. But this time, he didn’t wait for a response.

When the door closed, you were left in silence again. But something felt different. Not better. Not lighter. Just... quieter.

You turned your face back into the pillow, breathing deeply. The air smelled like Minho’s hoodie. Like eucalyptus and warm spice. You pulled it off the chair slowly and hugged it to your chest.

And in that moment, you didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream.

You just held onto what was left of him 
and let the silence say everything you couldn’t.

-

The hallway light flickered softly above you, casting pale shadows on the walls as you padded down the stairs barefoot, careful not to make a sound. The villa was still, almost too still, like it was holding its breath. You could hear the whisper of crickets outside through the barely cracked kitchen window and the occasional creak of old wood adjusting to the cool night air.

You didn’t bother turning on the overhead light when you entered the kitchen. The glow from the fridge and the moonlight spilling through the blinds were enough. That, and the fact that you didn’t want to be seen. Not right now. You didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to explain or be looked at with knowing eyes. You just wanted water. A few moments of silence. Some kind of peace.

But of course, the universe had other plans.

She was already there.

Gyuri.

Perched on one of the barstools by the counter, her long hair pulled up in a messy bun, a half-finished mug of tea cradled between her palms. She wasn’t supposed to be here. You blinked at her, caught off guard.

She offered a soft smile, not the bright kind that felt performative, but the quiet kind you give someone when you know they’re barely holding it together.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked gently.

You shook your head. She didn’t ask anything else. She didn’t need to.

You opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and leaned back against the counter. The silence stretched comfortably between you, not awkward, just… mutual understanding.

“I saw Chan go into your room earlier,” she said after a moment, her voice low but not nosy.

You nodded. “He apologized.”

She rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her tea. “Of course he did.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure there was anything to say to that.

“What are you going to do?” she asked quietly.

You exhaled, slow and long, the kind of breath you take before confessing something you’re not ready to say aloud. “I don’t know.”

But that wasn’t true. You did know. You just weren’t sure you were ready to admit it. Not even to yourself.

“I want to leave,” you said finally, eyes fixed on the bottle in your hands, the condensation sliding down your fingers.

Gyuri didn’t look surprised. She didn’t even blink.

“Why?”

But she knew. You both did.

“Because he left,” you said quietly.

She nodded, like she’d expected that answer. “You want to go after him.”

You didn’t answer.

She tilted her head. “You should.”

You glanced at her.

She smiled again, softer now. “You should do whatever it is you need to do. Because no one here will say it out loud, but I see it. I see how much you still love him. Even when you pretend you don’t.”

That made you smile, small and sad. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” she said, setting her mug down. “This place, it’s not a prison. You don’t owe anyone here your unhappiness.”

You stared at the floor for a moment. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea. I don’t know if he wants to see me. If he’s… angry.”

“You won’t know unless you go.”

There it was. The truth. The choice.

But before you could say anything else, before the momentum could carry you somewhere real and irreversible, a door creaked open down the hallway and footsteps echoed softly across the floor.

Chan.

He stepped into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. His shirt clung slightly to his chest, and his hair was a tousled mess from sleep. He blinked at both of you, surprised but quickly recovering.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, reaching for a glass. “Just getting water.”

Gyuri stood, clearing her throat. She gave you a small, pointed look, think about it before brushing past Chan with a nod. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” he mumbled, then turned back to you once she was gone. “You guys didn’t have to make it so obvious you were talking about me.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. He said it teasingly, a faint smile playing on his lips, but you knew it was a jab. The tone was just a shade too sharp.

You looked away, sipping your water.

He watched you for a moment, then leaned back against the counter beside you, his shoulder close to yours but not touching.

“Is it true?” he asked, voice lower now. “Are you actually thinking of leaving?”

You didn’t answer right away. You figured he’d heard most of what you said anyway. The walls weren’t that thick. You sighed. “I don’t know.”

“But it’s because of him,” he said. Not a question. A fact.

Still, you hesitated. “…Yeah.”

He nodded slowly, like he’d already known but needed to hear it from you anyway. The glass in his hand remained untouched.

He leaned a little closer, voice softer. “I know I already said it, but… I’m sorry.”

You turned your head slightly.

“I didn’t mean for things to get this messy. I just—I thought maybe, if we talked, if we spent more time together, alone, it could… I don’t know. Heal something.”

“It did,” you said, quietly. “For a while.”

“But now it feels like we took ten steps back,” he finished for you. “I know.”

The room felt heavier with every word.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I want us to try again. For real. If you’d let me.”

You looked at him then. His eyes were honest, pleading, but tired. The kind of tired that comes from trying too hard to fix something that might never go back to what it was.

You swallowed. “Chan…”

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” he interrupted gently. “I just needed you to know. If there’s even a part of you that thinks we could be something again… I’m here. I’ll keep being here.”

You didn’t answer.

Because what could you say?

That every time you closed your eyes, you still saw Minho?

That you remembered the way he used to reach for you in his sleep, the way he’d run his hand down your back like he was memorizing you in the dark?

You turned back to your water, fingers trembling slightly against the cool glass.

Chan was quiet beside you, waiting for something, anything.

But you didn’t know what to give him.

Chan was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that meant he’d said all he needed to say. It was the silence of someone who still had something to prove, something to take, something to change. His presence lingered beside you, radiating that quiet desperation you’d grown familiar with since Minho left, since everything fell into that unspoken silence between you and the rest of the house.

You didn’t realize how close he was until he leaned in slow, hesitant, but deliberate.

His hand reached up, his fingers brushing gently under your jaw, lifting your face toward his. It was a familiar gesture, the kind that once would’ve made your breath catch in your throat. But now… it felt foreign. Wrong.

You froze.

He was looking at you like he meant it, like he thought maybe this was the moment that would shift everything. His thumb grazed your cheekbone slow, careful. Tender, even. You remembered that kind of tenderness. You remembered liking it once.

But that was before.

Now, all you could think about was how his touch wasn’t the one you missed. It wasn’t Minho’s hand, warm and steady, tracing soft circles on your face just to make you smile on heavy days. It wasn’t Minho’s breath, mingling with yours like a shared secret, like a promise.

Chan leaned in closer.

He was going to kiss you.

You could feel it, his intent. It sat between you like static.

And maybe, in a different world, you would’ve let him.

But not in this one.

You turned your head quickly, stepping back just enough that his hand dropped from your face. You laughed, not a real one, but the kind that tried to play it off, to ease the sudden awkward tension.

“I’m… I’m tired. I should go to bed,” you said too lightly, avoiding his eyes.

His jaw flexed. Just barely. If you weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t have seen it. But you did.

He tongued the inside of his cheek, looking off to the side, hiding the flash of annoyance in his expression.

But it was there. And you knew what it meant.

He was angry.

Not at you, not really. At Minho.

Because even now, even in this moment where you were standing right in front of him, he still couldn’t have you. Not fully. Not the way he wanted. And it was Minho’s fault.

Minho, who hadn’t touched you in months.

Minho, who hadn’t said a word when he left.

Minho, who still lived somewhere in the soft ache of your heart where no one else could reach.

“Right,” Chan said after a beat, pasting on a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. Get some rest.”

You nodded. “You too.”

He watched you go, that false smile still stretched across his lips like it might convince you to turn back. You didn’t.

You slipped out of the kitchen, climbing the stairs with a tired heaviness in your chest. Your fingers skimmed the railing, and you told yourself you just needed to breathe, to think, to sleep.

“Jesus—!”

You jumped, heart slamming into your ribs, as Gyuri materialized from the shadows in the hallway like a ghost.

“Sorry,” she whispered, not sorry at all. “I was trying to listen.”

You clutched your chest, eyes wide. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“I had to make sure you weren’t about to make a huge mistake.”

Your pulse was still racing. “You mean like kissing Chan?”

She gave you a look.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “We didn’t kiss.”

“Good,” she said without missing a beat. “Because that would’ve been tragic.”

You scoffed and leaned against the wall, trying to calm down. “I couldn’t. Not anymore.”

Gyuri’s expression softened, just slightly. “Because of Minho?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t need to.

She already knew.

You weren’t sure when it happened, when Chan stopped feeling like a second chance and started feeling like a barrier. Like every time you tried to move toward something new, your heart rebelled. Not because you hadn’t healed, but because part of you never stopped waiting. For what, you weren’t sure.

For Minho to come back? For closure? For proof that the kind of love you had wasn’t one-sided?

You let out a shaky breath.

“I thought if I stayed here long enough, something would shift,” you admitted. “That I’d stop thinking about him every time I passed his old room. That I’d stop wondering if I made the right choice.”

Gyuri gave you a knowing look. “But you didn’t make a choice. Not really. You just… stayed still.”

You looked at her.

She wasn’t judging you. She wasn’t pushing. She was just being honest.

“I know you care about Chan,” she said gently. “And maybe in some other life, you two could’ve worked. But not this one. Not when your heart’s still with someone else.”

You closed your eyes, pressing your fingers to your lips where Chan’s kiss never landed.

“I don’t know if Minho even wants to see me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I’d be fixing anything or just making it worse.”

“You won’t know unless you try,” Gyuri echoed her earlier words. “You can’t keep sitting in limbo hoping something happens. At some point, you have to be the one who moves.”

You looked down the hallway toward your room, waiting for a door to open that never would.

And then you looked the other way.

Toward the unknown.

Toward the choice.

“You think it’s too late?” you asked quietly.

“I think,” Gyuri said, touching your arm, “that when it’s real, it’s never really too late.”

The silence between you and Gyuri felt different now full, not heavy. There was no judgment in her gaze, no pressure. Just understanding. The kind that only comes from someone who’s been watching you quietly unravel, thread by thread, but loves you enough not to pull.

You stood there in the dim hallway light, eyes still a little glossy, breath still unsteady. The emotional whiplash of the last ten minutes hadn’t quite settled in yet. Chan’s almost-kiss. Gyuri’s unshakable honesty. And now this moment, this choice standing wide open in front of you.

Without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around her.

Tight.

Not the kind of hug you give someone before bed. Not casual. Not routine.

It was the kind of hug that said thank you, that said you know me, that said I’m scared but I’m going anyway.

Gyuri didn’t even hesitate. Her arms closed around you instantly, grounding you in the middle of your internal storm.

She didn’t pull away. Just held you for a second longer and then whispered against your shoulder, “You’re leaving, right?”

Your breath caught.

You hadn’t even said it yet.

But she knew.

Of course she did.

You nodded slowly, the smallest motion. “Yeah.”

She pulled back just far enough to look at you, her eyes soft but shining. And then she pulled you in again, tighter this time. Protective. Fierce.

“I knew it the second you said you couldn’t kiss him,” she whispered.

You let out a shaky laugh, one that blurred with the tears suddenly threatening to spill.

She kissed your temple gently and murmured, “I’m proud of you. You’re doing what’s right for you. That’s not easy.”

Your eyes stung harder at that. You blinked up at the ceiling, trying to will the tears back in.

“And,” she added, her tone suddenly playful to balance the moment, “the second this show wraps, I’m running to wherever you are so you can tell me everything. I want full breakdowns. How you found him, what he said, if he cried, how you cried, how hard you guys made out after—”

You let out an actual laugh, warm and bubbling, and shook your head. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m your worst,” she said proudly.

“Yeah,” you breathed, smiling through the glassy edge of your vision. “You are.”

Gyuri reached up and brushed a thumb under your eye, catching the tears before they fell. “Now go get Minho already.”

You nodded again, firmer this time.

This wasn’t a maybe anymore.

This wasn’t an impulsive wish or a romanticized thought.

You were going.

You were going to find Minho. To tell him the truth, not just that you loved him, but that you were sorry. For everything. For the way things fell apart. For what he thought you felt. For what he didn’t know. For what Chan might’ve twisted to drive him away. For every second you let your pride or your fear hold you back.

You gave Gyuri one last squeeze and pulled back, heart thudding in your chest like a drum. “Don’t tell anyone I left yet.”

She raised her right hand. “Swear on my skincare routine.”

“That’s serious.”

“I know,” she grinned. “Now go pack before I cry.”

You rolled your eyes at her, playful now, the way you used to be before everything got so complicated. “Try to sleep.”

“If I’m not too worried about how you’re doing,” she teased.

“You’re impossible.”

She smirked. “And you’re in love. Now move.”

You turned and practically sprinted down the hall, your heart racing faster than your feet could carry you. The second you stepped into your room, you shut the door behind you quietly and leaned against it for a beat, taking one last breath.

Then you got to work.

Your hands moved fast, like muscle memory, like something inside you had been preparing for this all along. You yanked open drawers, swept your toiletries into your bag.

You didn’t bother folding anything neatly. You didn’t have time. Your hands trembled as you zipped your suitcase shut, not from nerves, but from adrenaline. From the sheer weight of finally.

Because you had waited. Too long.

You had hoped Minho would reach out. That he’d realize something on his own. But you hadn’t realized how much damage had been done, how much had gone unsaid until it was too late and his absence became louder than his presence ever was.

And now?

You didn’t care about the producers. You didn’t care about the contracts, the optics, the show’s arc, the audience’s reaction. You were done being a storyline. You were done being edited. You wanted your real life back.

You wanted him.

You’d warned the producers earlier that you were unhappy. You told them you were thinking about leaving. You might’ve said it calmly, like it was a small thing. But you hadn’t waited for their approval. You knew what the answer would be, Stay. We’ll fix it. There’s still a story here.

But they didn’t get it.

There was no story left without Minho.

There never really was.

As you fastened your suitcase, your mind was already with him.

You pictured the moment he left, the quiet way he walked out like he didn’t want anyone to notice. Like he didn’t want you to stop him.

You hadn’t.

Not because you didn’t care.

But because you didn’t know he was walking away for good.

And now… maybe you still didn’t know.

Maybe when you showed up, he’d close the door in your face. Maybe he’d tell you it was too late. That he’d moved on. That he didn’t care anymore.

But maybe, Maybe

He’d see you and know.

He’d know that you weren’t the one who gave up.

That you never stopped loving him.

That whatever Chan told him, whatever twisted version of your story he fed Minho to justify his own hope, none of it was true. You weren’t over Minho. You never would be.

And tonight, when Chan tried to kiss you, that truth finally came into sharp, undeniable focus.

You zipped the last compartment, wiped your face quickly, and grabbed your phone. You left a message for the production team, brief and blunt:

I’m done. I’m leaving. I’ve said what I needed to say.

Then you slid it into your pocket, grabbed your bag, and stood at the door.

For the first time in a long time, your heart didn’t feel like it was breaking.

It felt like it was waking up.

-

The taxi ride to the airport from the villa was silent, save for the low hum of tires against pavement and the occasional voice on the radio. You kept your head turned toward the window, but you weren’t really seeing anything. Just streaks of light. Your own reflection. The outline of your suitcase beside you.

It all felt like a blur. Like you were moving underwater.

When you reached the airport, it didn’t feel real. You moved on autopilot, check-in, security, gate. The noise of people swarming around you barely registered. You were there, but not really there. All you could think about was him, what he’d say, how he’d look, if he’d even let you get the words out.

On the flight, you sat stiff and still, hands curled tightly in your lap. A flight attendant asked if you wanted anything and you shook your head. You couldn’t eat. Couldn’t drink. You just stared straight ahead, willing the plane to move faster.

Every time you closed your eyes, memories of him played like film reels: his laugh muffled into your neck, the way he used to nudge your shoulder with his when he wanted your attention, the quiet sound of his breathing while he slept.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding it all in until the flight landed in Seoul, and that gnawing pit in your stomach opened wider.

Because that’s when it hit you.

You had no idea how to find him.

Your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t know if he’d blocked you. You didn’t know where he lived now. You didn’t even know if he wanted to be found. But you weren’t ready to give up.

You took a cab to your own apartment first. Dropped your suitcase by the door. Splashed water on your face. Tried to breathe.

And then you went to the only place you could think of. The apartment you used to share.

You didn’t even know if he still lived there. Maybe it was rented out. Maybe it had been emptied, cleaned of every memory the two of you had built together. But you needed to try.

Because if you didn’t, the what if would haunt you forever.

It was almost dusk when you arrived.

You stepped out of the cab, your heart pounding against your ribcage like it wanted to burst free. The air was warm, humid with the fading heat of the day. The old familiarity of the neighborhood felt surreal. It hadn’t changed. Same narrow sidewalks. Same cafe on the corner. Same flower boxes in the windows.

But you had changed.

You walked slowly to the front steps, stopping just outside the door. Your breath caught in your throat as you looked up at it. You could still remember the way Minho used to hold the door open for you, how the two of you would race up the stairs when it rained, laughing like fools.

It all hit you in a rush.

And just as you raised your hand to knock, the door swung open.

You froze.

His mother stood there.

She was dressed neatly, just as she always had been hair pulled back, a simple bag in one hand, keys in the other. Her face, for a split second, lit up in polite surprise when she saw someone on the doorstep.

And then her eyes focused.

On you.

The smile dropped from her face instantly.

Her expression hardened like ice forming over still water.

You opened your mouth, trying to find the right words. “Hello—”

But she cut you off with a sharp scoff.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she said coldly.

You stepped back slightly, your nerves unraveling. “I—I just… I needed to see Minho.”

Her eyes narrowed. “After everything? You have some nerve showing up like this.”

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, I—”

“You’ve already caused enough,” she snapped, her voice rising. “He was doing better until you showed up again on that ridiculous show. You couldn’t even leave him in peace.”

You looked down, throat burning.

You hadn’t expected warmth. But the hostility still stung like a slap. You were just about to stammer out an apology when a familiar voice called from inside.

“Mom?” Minho.

And then his footsteps. Quick. Urgent.

He appeared in the doorway beside her, towel around his neck like he’d just come from the shower, damp hair slightly tousled.

His eyes landed on you and he stopped.

Frozen.

Like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

Like you were a hallucination brought on by old feelings he thought he buried.

“What…” he breathed, his voice low. “What are you doing here?”

You opened your mouth, but his mother beat you to it.

“She needs to go,” she snapped, turning to him. “You don’t owe her anything. Don’t let her do this to you again.”

Minho’s eyes never left yours. His jaw clenched.

“It’s fine, Mom,” he said, gently but firmly.

“Minho—”

“I said it’s fine.”

She looked at him, eyes tight with concern, but didn’t argue. She gave you one last scathing look, clutched her purse tighter, and stepped past you, heels clicking loudly against the ground as she left.

You turned back to Minho, your heart thudding violently.

“I didn’t mean to make things worse,” you said quietly.

He blinked, still trying to process the sight of you. “I… I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to.”

His lips parted, like he was about to respond, but then his brows knit together, and something deeper passed over his face, something pained.

You stepped forward, barely an inch, and then before you could overthink it, reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck.

It wasn’t forceful.

It wasn’t a plea.

It was just you, holding on like your life depended on it.

He stiffened, caught off guard. You felt his body go rigid for half a second.

But then hisarms came around you slowly. One at your waist. The other across your back.

And he pulled you in.

Not too tight at first. Almost cautiously. But then, as your head tucked against his shoulder and your fingers curled into his shirt, he exhaled and his grip tightened.

Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he’d missed this too.

You felt his heartbeat under your cheek, fast and real and steady.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I didn’t know what Chan told you, or what you believed, but I never stopped—”

“You should’ve stayed at the show,” he said quietly.

You tensed slightly. Pulled back just far enough to look at him.

He didn’t sound angry. Just… conflicted.

“I couldn’t,” you said. “Not after you left.”

His eyes searched yours. “So you followed me?”

You nodded. “I needed you to know the truth.”

A beat passed. Neither of you moved.

Then he swallowed hard. “And what’s the truth?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, the soft curve of his lips, the weariness in his eyes, the gentle slope of his brow. And you said the only thing that mattered.

“That I still love you.”

His breath caught. His hands flexed slightly against your back.

“That I’m sorry I didn’t say it when it mattered most. That I should’ve fought harder. That I should’ve held onto you the night everything fell apart.”

Minho didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t have to.

He pulled you into him again.

And this time, he didn’t let go.

Minho didn’t say a word as he pulled back from the hug. He just looked at you, really looked at you like he was still trying to decide if this moment was a dream. His hands hovered near your waist even after you stepped back, reluctant to let you go completely. The air between you was still charged, still delicate.

You had so much to say.

And for once, you weren’t afraid to say it.

“Can we talk?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Minho nodded, stepping aside, holding the door open as you walked in.

The apartment was almost exactly the same. Slightly neater, more minimal. But the bones were still there. The memories. The quiet. The absence.

He motioned for you to sit on the couch, and you did, folding your hands tightly in your lap as he took a seat on the armchair across from you, elbows on his knees, looking down like he wasn’t sure where to begin. You broke the silence first.

“I didn’t come here to fix everything in one night,” you said softly. “I came because I realized I couldn’t move on without trying.”

He looked up at that.

You swallowed hard. “I thought I was protecting you by shutting you out. I thought if I gave you space, you’d be able to forget how messy I was. How complicated everything got.”

“Is that really what you thought?” he asked gently.

You nodded. “It was after the doctor’s appointment. I came home and I was just… numb. I couldn’t process it. I didn’t know how to tell you, how to let myself feel anything in front of you without falling apart.”

“You should’ve let yourself fall apart,” he said. “I would've been there to catch you.”

Your eyes filled before you even felt the tears coming. That sentence the way he said it, like it was the simplest thing in the world, cut you open. Because that was the part you’d gotten so wrong.

“I thought it would change how you saw me,” you admitted, voice shaking. “That I wouldn’t be enough anymore. That I’d never give you the future you deserved.”

Minho looked at you with something like heartbreak, and slowly stood up. He walked over, quietly, and sat next to you on the couch.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

But you felt his warmth beside you, steady, present.

“Do you think I stayed with you because I thought you’d give me children?” he asked, voice trembling now. “Do you honestly think that was the most important thing to me?”

You wiped your face quickly, shaking your head. “No. I don’t know. I just… I panicked.”

He exhaled slowly, like something inside him was finally loosening.

“I would’ve stayed,” he said, voice low and raw. “I would’ve held you through every hard moment, every fear, every breakdown. I didn’t need a perfect future. I just needed you.”

The tears came harder now.

“I’m sorry,” you said, choking on the words. “I was wrong. I handled everything so badly. If I could go back… if I could relive that day, I would’ve come straight home and told you everything. I would’ve crawled into bed beside you and cried until I couldn’t breathe, and let you see it all.”

He turned to you then, hand reaching up to gently wipe a tear from your cheek.

“I would’ve held you,” he said again, quieter this time. “And I wouldn’t have let go.”

The words broke something in both of you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just sat there, tears falling freely, side by side. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full of all the time you’d lost, and everything that still remained.

“I needed to hear that,” you whispered, finally meeting his eyes. “I thought I ruined everything.”

He shook his head slowly. “No. We were both scared. We just didn’t know how to say it out loud.”

You nodded, blinking against the tears still slipping down your face. “Why did you really leave the villa?”

His jaw tensed a little.

You waited, watching his expression shift like he was working through how honest he wanted to be.

“Was it something Chan said?” you asked softly. “What did he tell you?”

Minho looked away at that.

And that was your answer.

“Hasn’t he told you?” he asked, bitterness seeping into his voice for the first time. “You two were so close by the end. Thought maybe he’d have the decency to admit it.”

You stayed silent.

“I shouldn’t have listened,” he continued. “But I let it get in my head.”

“What did he say?” you asked, voice trembling.

Minho sighed. “He made it sound like you were over me. Like I was the obstacle in the way of whatever he thought you two could be. That if I really cared about you, I’d let you go so you could be happy with him.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s not true.”

“I know that now,” he said. “But I didn’t back then.”

You looked down at your hands. “I wish you’d talked to me first.”

“I didn’t think I had the right anymore,” he said. “I was already halfway convinced you didn’t want me there.”

Your heart cracked all over again.

“I was so deep in my head,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I felt like I was dragging you down. You were smiling more around him. You seemed lighter. I thought maybe I was the one making it harder for you.”

You looked at him, fully now. “You weren’t. You weren’t at all.”

He gave a soft, sad smile. “You say that now.”

“I mean it,” you insisted. “When you left, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to be there without you. I felt like I didn’t belong anymore, like I was stuck in a version of my life that didn’t fit. The only thing I wanted was you.”

Minho went quiet.

You could tell he was trying not to cry again. His hand was still resting near yours, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“I needed you,” you said. “And I’m sorry I never said that before. I should’ve. I thought I was being strong, but I was just being scared. And stupid.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself for what we didn’t know how to handle.”

You both sat in silence again. Not awkward. Just… resting in the truth.

Eventually, Minho spoke, voice hoarse.

“I don’t know what this means. For us. Or how we move forward.”

You nodded. “I don’t either. But I don’t want to leave without trying.”

He looked at you, really looked, eyes filled with something fragile and honest.

He reached out, took your hand.

Laced his fingers through yours like he’d done a thousand times before.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly.

And you nodded, holding on tight.

“We always do.”

His voice lingered in the stillness.

His fingers were still woven with yours warm, steady, real. You hadn’t let go. Neither had he.

You let out a shaky breath, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. Everything felt raw, your chest, your eyes, your mind, but it wasn’t heavy the way it used to be. It was just… real. Finally. Honest.

Minho sat back against the couch, running a hand through his hair as he glanced at the clock.

It was late.

But neither of you moved to get up.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you here again,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t think I’d ever come back,” you admitted.

He looked at you, that familiar softness behind his tired eyes. “What changed?”

You paused, searching for the words. “Everything started to feel wrong after you left. The villa felt colder. The people, the conversations, it all blurred together. Even Chan.”

He didn’t flinch at the name this time. He just waited.

You continued, “It wasn’t what I thought I wanted. Or needed. When you walked away, I didn’t feel free. I felt like someone had unplugged me from myself.”

You smiled sadly. “I missed you. So much it physically hurt.”

Minho leaned his head back on the couch, eyes closing for a moment. “I thought about you constantly. Wondered if you were doing okay. Wondered if you were happy without me.”

“I wasn’t.”

His eyes opened again.

You hesitated, your voice lower now. “Did you think about reaching out?”

He nodded slowly. “A hundred times. I’d open my phone, type your name into the search bar, hover over your contact. But I was a coward.”

“You’re not a coward.”

“I was,” he said softly. “I let fear decide for me. Fear that maybe you didn’t love me anymore. That maybe I’d only be reopening something that was better left closed.”

“It was never closed,” you said. “Not for me.”

The silence between you shifted softer now, full of the understanding you’d both been starving for.

“Can I ask you something?” you said.

He nodded.

“What were you thinking when you left the villa? Really.”

He inhaled deeply, like he’d been bracing for that question since you walked through the door.

“I packed my things while you were downstairs,” he said, looking down. “I was pacing. I kept looking over at the door. Hoping maybe you’d walk in. That maybe I’d have a reason to stop myself.”

You bit your lip, heart clenching. “I would’ve if I knew.”

“I know,” he said. “But I didn’t give you the chance.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. All I could hear in my head was Chan’s voice, telling me I was ruining your shot at something real. That if I really loved you, I’d step back and let you be happy with someone who could give you everything I couldn’t.”

You flinched slightly. “He said that?”

Minho nodded. “More or less. It wasn’t direct. He’s not stupid. But he knew exactly what he was doing.”

You were quiet for a long moment. “I didn’t know.”

“I figured,” he said. “I thought you two would try to make it work. I didn’t blame you. Not really. But I think… I think it broke something in me anyway.”

You closed your eyes, pressing your hand to your chest.

“I wasn’t trying to replace you,” you whispered. “I was trying to forget you.”

Minho looked at you. “Did it work?”

You smiled through the ache. “Not even a little.”

He let out a soft exhale that almost resembled a laugh.

“I hated him,” he admitted. “I still do. I shouldn’t, I know that. It’s not fair. He’s not the reason everything fell apart.”

You looked over at him. “No. But he didn’t help.”

Minho nodded, finally letting the truth settle between you both.

You leaned back, exhausted from everything, emotionally, physically. But you weren’t ready to move. Not yet. The silence that stretched out now was gentler. Full of something warm. Unspoken forgiveness, maybe. Or something like hope.

Minho turned toward you, voice quieter now. “Do you want to stay the night?”

You looked at him.

Not in a flirtatious way. Not a hidden motive. Just… a question. A need to hold onto something a little longer.

“Not if it makes anything harder for you,” you said honestly.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t.”

You gave a soft nod. “Then yeah. I do.”

He stood first, offering his hand. You took it, letting him pull you gently to your feet. He led you down the hallway familiar, but different. His steps were quiet. Your hand stayed loosely in his until he pushed open the door to the bedroom.

It still smelled like him.

Still looked like the space where you used to sleep, side by side, limbs tangled, dreams shared in whispers.

He grabbed a hoodie from the closet and tossed it to you. “You might be cold.”

You held it to your chest like it meant something more than fabric. And maybe it did.

He changed quietly in the corner while you slipped into the hoodie, folding your clothes neatly on the chair by the window. It was only when he turned and looked at you, really looked that you realized just how vulnerable this moment was.

You both crawled under the covers slowly, careful not to move too quickly, not to break whatever fragile peace had formed.

You laid on your back. He did too. Your shoulders touched under the sheets.

It was quiet.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said into the dark.

You turned your head toward him.

“I never stopped,” he repeated, voice trembling. “Even when I left. Even when I tried to move on. It was always you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “I never stopped either.”

His hand reached under the blanket, searching for yours.

And when he found it, you laced your fingers together without hesitation.

You fell asleep like that quiet, calm, wrapped in the kind of safety only he ever gave you. The past still existed. The pain, the mistakes, the loss. But now, for the first time, so did something else.

A beginning.

You weren’t entirely sure when Minho had become this clingy.

Maybe it started the second you came back. Or maybe it started long before that, somewhere buried in the months of longing you both refused to name. But now, a year later, it was just part of your rhythm. His hand always found yours when you crossed the street. His head found your shoulder if you were curled up on the couch. If you turned in bed and he wasn’t touching you in some way, he shifted instantly, arms wrapping around your waist as though confirming you were still there.

Today was no different.

You woke up with his leg tangled around yours, his arm snug around your stomach, his breath steady against the back of your neck. The sun was rising softly through the curtains, casting a golden wash across your bedroom. Soonie was curled at your feet, Doongie had taken over the window ledge, and Dori was purring faintly from the corner of the bed.

Minho groaned into your hair. “Don’t get up yet. Five more minutes.”

You smiled, turning slightly to see him, lips brushing his cheek. “We have a lot to do today.”

He blinked slowly, still half-asleep. “The premiere?”

You nodded. “And guests. Two very loud, opinionated guests.”

He smirked. “Ah, Gyuri and Jisung.”

You nodded, stretching. “We’ve got to clean a little. I want to bake something too. You’re doing the cooking, remember?”

Minho rolled onto his back dramatically. “You’re bossy.”

“You love it.”

“I really do,” he said, pulling you back in for a kiss before you could escape the bed.

By late morning, you were barefoot in the kitchen, apron dusted with flour, humming as you measured sugar. Minho was next to you, sautéing something in a pan while talking to Soonie, who had taken up permanent residency on a chair beside the stove.

The apartment you shared now wasn’t too different from the one you’d once called home together. You had moved back in after just a month of dating again at Minho’s insistence, of course. “The cats miss you,” he said. “I miss you. And the bed’s way too cold without you.”

You hadn’t fought it.

What surprised you most was how naturally everything fell back into place. The rhythm, the laughter, the quiet moments. It was like coming home. Minho’s mother, however, had taken longer.

Ten months, to be exact. Ten months of silence. Awkward avoidance. Careful distance during birthdays and holidays. She was polite, but not warm. And while she never yelled outright, her comments carried edge. Snide remarks about trust. Thinly veiled suggestions about people who run away from problems. It had worn on both of you.

Until Minho finally snapped gently, but firmly. He told you both to sit. That he was tired of playing translator between two people who mattered to him more than anything. That you needed to talk.

That conversation had been brutal.

You sat across from her on the couch, knees pulled into yourself, Minho standing nearby like he was ready to referee if needed. She started loud. Accusations, hurt, the old wounds she hadn’t dared voice until now.

“Do you know what it was like? Watching my son unravel after you left?” she said, eyes sharp with grief. “Do you know what you did to him?”

“I do,” you said, quiet, blinking back tears.

“Then why?” she demanded. “Why leave him like that? Why not say anything?”

And that was the moment you cracked.

Because all of it came pouring out.

The guilt you carried thinking you were taking away a future he might have dreamed of, one with a family. The way you shut down because you couldn’t imagine watching disappointment spread across his face.

She didn’t yell after that. She didn’t say much at all.

But she sat beside you. And when your shoulders trembled and you couldn’t speak anymore, she reached for you, pulling you gently against her shoulder like she used to in the early days. “You should’ve told me,” she whispered. “I would’ve understood.”

Minho had smiled then, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

“I told her the same thing,” he said.

-

You were pulling a tray of cupcakes from the oven when the doorbell rang.

“Got it,” Minho called, wiping his hands on a towel.

You barely had time to put the tray down before a squeal echoed through the apartment.

“YOU’RE BAKING? Oh my god, you haven’t changed!” Gyuri’s voice burst through the hallway like a storm, seconds before she appeared in the kitchen doorway.

You didn’t get a chance to answer before she had you in a full-body hug, arms tight, hair in your face.

You laughed. “You saw me literally three days ago.”

“I don’t care. You look different every time. Glowing or something. Must be the boyfriend.”

Minho appeared behind her, dramatically shaking his head. “She’s absolutely unbearable when she’s like this.”

Then came Jisung, slightly out of breath, carrying plastic bags from the convenience store. “She made me run from the car.”

“Hi, Sungie,” you grinned, pulling him into a hug.

He held on tight. “Missed you.”

You stood in the kitchen a moment later, four of you buzzing with that weird energy of long friendships and recent reunions. The kind of comfort that doesn’t fade even if time passes.

Gyuri took one look at the setup and clapped. “Okay. Premiere night. How’re we feeling?”

You shook your head. “Like throwing up.”

“Same,” Jisung mumbled.

Minho only smirked. “I feel fine.”

You shot him a look.

Gyuri grabbed a cupcake off the tray. “Let’s set up. We’re watching it all. No skipping.”

An hour later, the four of you were camped on the couch, a plate of food in each lap, cupcakes dangerously stacked on the coffee table, and the TV paused on the title screen of What Could’ve Been, the show that somehow changed everything.

“I hate that name,” Gyuri muttered dramatically. “Too on the nose.”

“Seriously,” you agreed. “It sounds like a breakup song.”

Jisung took a bite of his cupcake. “It is kind of a breakup show. Mostly.”

“Well, not for us,” Gyuri said, beaming at Jisung. He gave her a smug little look before stealing some frosting off her plate.

You shook your head and leaned against Minho’s side. “I’m nervous to watch this.”

Gyuri raised her brows. “Why?”

“Because it’s like opening an old diary you didn’t mean for the world to read.”

Minho pulled your legs over his lap. “We already lived it. Now we just get to laugh at it.”

Gyuri snapped her fingers. “Speaking of laughing, can we please talk about the aftermath?”

“Yes,” you said, sitting up. “Tell me everything again. Slowly.”

She grinned, taking a sip of wine before launching in. “Okay. So. After you left, everything changed. Chan was moody as hell. He moped around like someone stole his girl. Literally. Wouldn’t talk to anyone—not even Sana. And no, they didn’t leave together. That fizzled out faster than boiled ramen.”

Jisung nodded. “I think he realized too late that he messed everything up.”

You stared at the screen. “He did.”

Gyuri continued. “Anyway—Mina got with Changbin. Didn’t see that one coming, honestly. Sori and Jeongin ended up together, which… okay, good for them.”

“And Seungmin?” you asked.

Gyuri let out a dramatic sigh. “Ugh. He and Sori were this close to getting back together. Like, there were tears. Confessions. A whole speech. And then—on the last night—he kissed Rin.”

Your jaw dropped. “WHAT?”

“Oh yeah. Chaos,” Jisung confirmed.

“And Sophia?” you asked.

Gyuri rolled her eyes. “Tried to flirt with Chan. Got shot down immediately.”

You snorted. “Serves her right.”

Minho smirked. “I like this version of the reunion.”

Gyuri shrugged. “Oh, Yujin hooked up with Changbin before he got with Mina. And the rest left completely single.”

Jisung groaned. “That villa was a soap opera.”

You turned to Gyuri, grinning. “And you? What happened after I left?”

She softened a little. “You know most of it. But… after you left, I didn’t feel right either. I kept thinking about you. I called you the second filming ended. Ran into your arms like a movie. You remember.”

“I’ll never forget,” you smiled.

She looked at Jisung. “And he and I… we finally talked. Properly. We were the last two in the house. Literally closed the place down.”

“I cried,” Jisung admitted.

“You sobbed,” Gyuri corrected. “So did I. We said everything we should’ve said a year ago.”

“And now?” you asked softly.

Gyuri squeezed his hand. “We’re figuring it out. Slowly. I told him if we’re doing this again, I get to meet his kid. He said yes.”

You smiled at her. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you,” she said, poking your side. “You got the boy. The cats. And the cupcakes.”

“And I got you,” you added.

She leaned her head on your shoulder. “That’s the real win.”

When the episode finally began to play, the room went quiet. The screen filled with scenes from a different life, laughter, tears, awkward dates, and vulnerable confessions.

You saw yourself on screen tense, quiet, slowly unraveling.

Minho squeezed your hand.

But you weren’t sad. Not really. You felt… peace. The person on the screen was you, yes, but also someone you barely recognized. That person was lost. And now, here you were.

Minho leaned in, whispering against your ear. “What could’ve been?”

You smiled, eyes never leaving the screen.

“This,” you whispered. “This is what could’ve been.”

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @shinygubbins @hhwangsmoon @geni-627 @enhacolor @jisuperboard @hyujim @alondra6011 lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..] not too sure if you wanted to just be added to the perm taglist or just this fic (-: Pls let me know! @partyinthebackroom @sunnysidesins @kaybeerrosa @eridanuswave @vixensss @havennz @lunaspov

[useblond]

Tastes Like Citrus ─ M.B

ᯓ★ synopsis: the summer folds around you and manon, all heat and bruises and breathless laughter, and by the time you realize you’re in too deep, september is already at the door.

ᯓ★ warnings/tags: manon x gender neutral!reader, fluff & angst (LES GET ITTT), somewhat of a slowburn, mentions of drinking and a little bit of smoking too, honestly idk what else to put here but lmk if i missed anything ! (w.c 6.4k)

ᯓ★ a/n: idk what this is tbh but this took me mad long to finish cuz i was lazy anyways im here now🙏🏼

You meet her on the first unbearable day of June.

The kind of heat that clings to your skin like a second thought. The kind that slows the city down until it feels like it’s breathing through a straw. Asphalt shimmers like it’s trying to escape itself. Stoplights stretch seconds into eternities, and the crosswalk countdown ticks down like a dare. The concrete radiates like it remembers every footstep it’s ever endured, heat that seeps through your soles and settles in your bones like it plans to stay.

You weren’t going anywhere. You weren’t even pretending to. Just walking for the sake of it, maybe to prove you could still move through syrup thick air without melting. That if you kept moving, the sweat sliding down your back might feel like effort instead of surrender.

The laundromat appears like an oasis, a flickering sign, a door propped open with a bent chair leg, and the faint promise of something cooler inside.

You step in, and it’s like stepping out of time.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Fans mounted on the walls turn with half hearted resolve, barely stirring the air, but it’s enough. It’s breathable. It doesn’t bite.

And she’s there.

Leaning against the vending machine like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to this dimension. Barefoot, not in that dreamy, romantic way, but in the way that says she doesn’t give a shit about shards of glass or hot pavement. Her legs are all long lines and careless bruises, the kind you get from climbing fences or sleeping on swings. She’s wearing a dress the color of overripe peaches, clinging to her from the heat. One strap slipped off her shoulder like it’s trying to escape too. Her chipped nail polish looks like it’s been there since last summer — and no one’s dared challenge it.

She’s got a popsicle. Bright orange. Glistening. Barely holding its shape. She bites it like it betrayed her, like it whispered something rude and she’s making it pay.

A duffel bag slumps against the wall beside her,  dirty canvas and fraying zippers. It looks like it’s been halfway across the country and halfway back, and still doesn’t know where it belongs. Neither does she.

She doesn’t notice you at first. Or she pretends not to. Her eyes stay on the melting streaks running down her wrist, and she licks at them absently, methodically, like she’s got nowhere else to be and nothing else to care about.

Then slowly, like it’s an effort, or a ritual,  she lifts her eyes.

And something shifts. Not in her — in everything around her. Like the laundromat exhales. Like the city hiccups. Like a thread in the world’s sweater just got tugged, and you’re about to unravel something that can’t be stitched back up.

Her gaze locks onto yours, and you don’t breathe.

It feels like she’s been waiting, not for you, specifically, but for someone. And now that you’re here, she’s just ticking a box. Like you’re part of a prophecy she doesn’t believe in, but she’s still going through the motions because hey, why not?

Her stare is leveled. Not challenging. Not soft. Just there, like a weight pressed gently to your chest.

Then she says, without a hint of smile, holding out the mangled remains of her popsicle like a half-offering, half-threat,

“It’s the best flavor. Fight me if you disagree.”

You blink. You look at the melting orange slush on the stick, then back at her.

You take it.

You don’t argue.

You bring it to your mouth like it’s a communion. The taste is artificial and bright, and it scorches your tongue like old childhood memories, citrus and sugar and something chemical. Something real.

She watches you take the bite. Watches the way your lips curl. Then nods like she’s decided something about you, but doesn’t bother to tell you what.

You don’t ask her name. You don’t ask what she’s doing here, barefoot and bitter mouthed in a laundromat that smells like bleach and pennies.

You just leave eventually, sticky fingered and slightly high on her orbit, and wonder about her the whole walk home. Her laugh, or the shape her mouth might make if she did laugh. Her bruises. Her eyes. The way she looked at you like maybe you weren’t entirely invisible.

You don’t know her name that day. Not yet.

It’s Manon.

She’ll tell you later — casually, like it doesn’t matter, just after you’ve called her “hey” and “you” enough times that those start to feel like her real names. She’ll say it on a rooftop, legs dangling off the edge, beer sweating in her palm, and she’ll shrug through it like she’s apologizing for having one at all.

It’s late when it happens. The kind of late where the sky’s gone indigo, and the city below is a patchwork of lit windows and dark alleyways that hum with secrets. You’re on the rooftop of an apartment that doesn’t belong to either of you, someone’s cousin’s friend is out of town, and the fire escape door was left unlocked. Naturally, she climbed it. She always climbs first. You just follow.

There’s a six pack between you, half gone and warm by now. The beer tastes like metal and dust and summer. She’s perched on the ledge like it’s the easiest thing in the world, legs swinging three stories above the street, her hair pulled into a messy knot the wind keeps trying to undo.

She doesn’t look at you when she says it. Just stares out at the city like she’s watching something invisible unfold across the skyline.

“My name’s Manon,” she says. It slips out soft, uneventful, like she’s offering you a cigarette or telling you the time. Not like she’s handing you a piece of herself. Not like she’s admitting something.

It catches you off guard, not because of what she says, but how. Like it leaked out without permission. Like she hadn’t meant to say it at all.

You glance at her, but she’s still facing forward, one hand gripping the neck of her bottle, the other curled loosely on the rusted ledge beside her. She shrugs once, a quick, dismissive twitch of her shoulder.

“Manon,” you repeat, trying it out. Letting it settle on your tongue like something sacred.

She winces slightly, like the sound of it aloud is more than she expected. “Yeah. Stupid name, I know.”

You don’t say anything at first. Just look at her. Really look. The way the moonlight slicks across her cheekbones. The faint shadow of a bruise yellowing near her elbow. You wonder how many people have ever known her real name. How many ever got close enough to ask.

“I like it,” you say finally. “It suits you.”

She scoffs. “No it doesn’t.”

But she doesn’t take it back.

You don’t push. You never do. You go back to sipping your beer, to watching the night roll out its velvet over the city. But something shifts after that, a crack in the air between you, barely noticeable, but real. A door nudged open. A thread pulled loose.

Later, you’ll catch yourself whispering her name to the night when she’s not around. Like it’s a spell. Like if you say it enough, she won’t vanish.

But in that moment, on the roof, you just nod. Tuck her name somewhere quiet inside your chest, and hold it like a match you’re afraid to strike.

That summer... it doesn’t play out, it burns.

You start seeing her everywhere. At first, you think it's a coincidence. Then you realize it’s not.

She’s a ghost, materializing in every corner of your city. At the record shop on 6th, hunched over a crate of vinyl, her headphones so loud you can hear the bassline from across the room. In the diner on 8th, forehead pressed to the glass of the old jukebox like she’s praying, eyes closed, mouthing lyrics you can’t hear. At the corner store with a lollipop between her teeth and glitter on her shoulders, in mismatched sandals, or flip flops that look like they belong to someone else.

You start to wonder if she’s haunting you.

Or if you’ve started haunting her.

There’s something about the way she always seems to be just around the corner, like a flicker in your peripheral vision you can’t shake. You stop being surprised by it. Start expecting her in doorways, on stairwells, in reflections that linger too long. It’s like the city has started bending around her shape, letting her slip through cracks you didn’t know existed. But somehow, she’s always there, with that faraway look and that sunburned gravity pulling everything a little off axis.

Then one night, without warning or fanfare, you find yourselves side by side again, in the same booth you’ve always somehow gravitated toward. The cracked leather sticks to your thighs. The jukebox groans something sad and slow.

Eventually, over shared fries and too-sweet milkshakes in a diner that smells like syrup and old vinyl, she tells you a version of her beginning.

It slips out somewhere between ketchup stains and the clink of metal straws. The jukebox hums in the background — something old and aching. Her legs are curled under her in the booth, one hand absently stirring her milkshake like she’s trying to keep it alive.

“I got on a Greyhound,” she says, not looking at you. “Left a place I didn’t fit anymore.”

She doesn’t name it. Doesn’t offer a landmark, a direction, not even a state. Just a place, vague and distant, like she’s already blurred it out of memory.

She says she left with a duffel bag and a headache, a name scribbled on a scrap of receipt paper, and a vague promise of a couch she might be able to crash on for a while. No job lined up. No return ticket. Just forward.

You ask what made her leave, and she just says, “I was done.”

The words land soft, but final.

When she got here — wherever here is to her — the number didn’t work. Straight to voicemail. The kind that loops too cleanly, too quickly.

She called three times anyway, just to make sure.

The apartment door was dark. Nobody buzzed her in.

So she stood on the sidewalk, her bag at her feet, and watched her last known connection vanish into static.

“What did you do next?” you ask her one night, lying side by side on a school playground slide that still radiates the ghost of the sun. The metal is hot beneath your backs, but neither of you moves. The sky above is bleeding into purple, stars beginning to yawn themselves awake.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just flicks a pebble off the slide and watches it tumble into the grass.

“Slept in a park,” she says eventually. “Found this laundromat. Bought a Popsicle.”

You turn your head toward her, searching her face, but she’s already looking up again — like the stars are more interesting than your curiosity.

“That’s it?” you ask, softly.

“That’s it.” She smiles, faint and crooked.

“Sometimes you just... fall forward. See what catches you.”

There’s a long pause after that.

The kind of pause that isn't empty, it’s full of things not said. Full of nights she probably doesn’t want to recount. Things she doesn’t want you to imagine. Things you do anyway.

You think, maybe she came here to disappear. Maybe she picked this city because it’s the kind of place where everything moves fast and forgets faster. Because it’s easy to become background noise in a place that only pays attention when something’s burning.

Maybe she was counting on being invisible.

But you noticed her.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Because now she’s etched into your landscape, in the smeared fingerprints on diner booths, in the echo of her laugh bouncing off brick walls, in the citrus scent that lingers in the crook of your elbow. You see her reflection in windows she’s not standing near. Hear her voice in static.

That summer was a fever dream.

Midnight bike rides. Bruised knees. Sprinkler water on sunburnt shoulders. The world feels peeled open and raw, every street humming under your wheels like it’s alive. You ride through sleeping neighborhoods and past flickering storefronts, the whole city stretched out like it’s just for the two of you. The streetlights flicker like applause. The pavement breathes heat up through your tires. Everything smells like cut grass and someone else’s dinner.

She always rides just ahead of you.

Never beside, always ahead. Like she’s leading you somewhere she hasn’t decided on yet. Her sundress flutters behind her like a banner, tangled in the wind. Her handlebars are wrapped in twine and old tape. Her bell is busted, it rattles more than it rings. She pedals standing up half the time, yelling into the night, hair loose and wild, like she thinks if she goes fast enough she’ll outrun gravity itself.

Sometimes she doesn’t even touch the handlebars, just lifts her arms like wings and lets the road carry her. No hands. No brakes. Just momentum and moonlight. She turns around and yells, voice whipped by the wind, “Try to keep up, slowpoke!”

And you do. You always do. Even when your legs ache and your lungs burn.

You’d follow her off the edge of anything.

The city blurs around you, just streaks of light, half glimpsed people at bus stops, the occasional dog barking somewhere behind a fence. You race through it like you’re invincible. Like the world doesn’t exist outside this blur.

And when the rides end, they end messily, scraped palms, bike chains off the gears, laughter doubled over in the grass. You crash into each other, into the curb, into sprinkler arcs spraying across empty playgrounds. And she laughs like it doesn’t matter. Like nothing hurts if you're moving fast enough.

Streetlights cast halos on her skin, like the universe wants you to notice her.

And you do.

Every time.

Her laughter fills your chest like oxygen, loud, messy, whole. She tells you she was born in June and says, “Maybe that’s why I only work in the heat.”

And it fits.

She is the heat — something too bright and too much. Something that sticks, even after it’s gone.

She kisses you on her porch while cicadas scream in the trees like they’re warning you.

You don’t see it coming.

One second you’re standing close, trading jokes about nothing, your shoulders brushing. The next, she leans in and kisses you, hard and fast, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it was something she remembered to do at the last second and decided not to wait.

Her mouth tastes like the citrus from the popsicles she eats out of habit — sharp and sweet and dizzying.

When she pulls back, you just blink at her, stunned.

“What was that for?” you ask, breath caught in your throat.

She looks at you for a beat, unreadable, then amused. Like you’re the one being weird.

“What?” she says. “Did you not like it?”

Her voice is light, but there’s a flicker underneath, quick and uncertain, like she’s testing the ground before stepping out onto it.

“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I mean — yeah. I did. I just—” You laugh, breathless, nervous. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

She shrugs, “Good. Expectations are boring.”

Then she turns and walks inside, like the moment didn’t just shake the bones right out of your body.

You’re left standing there on her porch, heart still hammering, lips tingling, the cicadas still screaming — like something’s ending. Or just beginning.

July bleeds into August like ink on wet paper.

There’s no line where one ends and the other begins — just a slow saturation. Heat that won’t let go. Sunlight that feels heavier every day. You keep thinking the world will break open and let the rain come, but it doesn’t. The sky just keeps holding its breath.

Your days start to feel the same, in the way dreams do. Warm, strange, echoing with something you can’t quite name. Afternoons stretch like elastic. You lose track of time. Mornings become late starts, tangled in the sheets she slept in the night before. Evenings become wandering,  through alleys, across rooftops, down roads that never seem to end anywhere you recognize.

She leaves her legs slung over yours in the grass behind a school neither of you ever went to.

There’s graffiti on the back wall: faded names and promises, someone’s phone number half scrubbed out. You’re half sure she’s making shapes on your skin with her fingers, spirals, maybe. Or constellations.

Her touch is light, aimless. Like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.

“What’re you thinking about?” you ask.

She doesn’t look up. Just keeps drawing.

“Whether ants ever get sick of it,” she says. “You know. The constant motion. The whole ‘march until you die’ thing. Think they ever stop and think, ‘God, I’m tired of hauling crumbs up a hill just to do it again tomorrow’?”

You almost laugh.

But you don’t.

You know better now.

She shifts, rests her chin on your knee.

“Or maybe they love it. Maybe it feels better to just... move.”

Her voice is so quiet it could evaporate.

You stare at her, her sun warmed cheek resting on the denim of your jeans, the way her eyes don’t quite meet yours. And your heart does something treacherous.

It flips.

And you feel it.

Not like a decision, like gravity finally winning.

You swallow it down. Pretend you’re just tired.

But you start noticing it more, the betrayal.

The way your gaze clings to her mouth when she chews her straw. The way your chest tightens every time she laughs like she means it. The way silence with her feels full, not empty. The way her absence echoes.

One evening, she says, “I used to think love was just chemical static.”

You’re lying on her rooftop this time — backs pressed to warm tar, the city yawning below. She’s peeling the label off a bottle, shredding it slowly with chipped nails.

“Like... just your brain tricking you into caring. Like a bug in the system. Something fake.”

You turn toward her. “And now?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know.” Her eyes track a plane crawling across the bruised sky.

“I think about it sometimes. What it would take to make it feel real.”

You want to ask her if this — if you — is just static, too.

But you already know the rules.

The moment you name something, it disappears.

So you say nothing.

She never looks back at you when she changes the subject. She just lets it dissolve, like sugar in hot water, like it was never there.

She starts leaving things behind, and it’s slow at first.

Little, forgettable things.

A hoodie that ends up draped over the back of your desk chair.

A bottle of chipped black nail polish sweating in the summer heat on your bathroom sink.

A half scribbled grocery list shoved into a library book, where you find it days later,

milk

soap

maybe eggs?

There’s no signature. Just her handwriting, all slant and hesitation, like she doesn’t believe in permanence, even on paper.

You start noticing what stays.

A gum pack with one stick left in the pocket of your hoodie, a sock with a hole near the ankle, tucked under your couch, a cigarette filter on your balcony that neither of you ever talked about.

She never mentions these things. Never asks for them back.

She just leaves them, quiet and deliberate.

Like a breadcrumb trail you’re not supposed to follow.

Like warnings.

Or maybe invitations.

You start keeping them. All of it.

Not out of habit — out of hope.

Because even though she never says she’s staying… she hasn’t left.

Not really.

Not yet.

You can’t sleep one night. The air is too still, too hot. She’s next to you, curled on your side of the bed like she belongs there, and you’re watching the ceiling like it might blink first.

She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Just shifts closer and presses her palm to your back, warm, steady, real.

Then she starts tracing something on your skin.

Slow at first. Careful. Just a fingertip dragging shapes across your spine like a secret language.

You shiver. Not from the touch, from the way it feels like she’s spelling out something she’s not ready to say.

“What are you writing?” you whisper.

“Nothing,” she says, too quickly.

“Tell me.”

She shakes her head against the pillow, her voice a thread:

“If I say it out loud, it disappears.”

You turn your face toward her, only half able to see her in the dark — the blur of her features, the glint of her eyes.

She pauses, fingertips still resting against your shoulder blade.

Then, barely audible:

“You won’t even know what it was until I’m gone.”

You smile like it’s a riddle. Like she’s just being dramatic. You reach back, find her hand, hold it there.

“Whatever,” you whisper. “It’s probably just a dick.”

She laughs — a breath against your skin. The sound sticks to you.

She doesn’t answer.

But her fingers keep moving.

You never push her for answers again.

She keeps tracing things onto your back, night after night, soft letters you can’t see, words that stay just beneath your skin.

And you don’t know it yet,

but one of them says,

I’ll miss you.

And your heart — the one you swore would keep its distance — starts naming her in the quiet.

Starts rehearsing how it might sound if she stayed for breakfast.

Starts dreaming about her without permission.

You don’t tell her.

But you do memorize the shape of her name against your teeth.

You do find yourself looking at her too long when she’s not looking at you.

You do, without meaning to, start falling.

And it’s not slow.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not even romantic.

It’s inevitable.

That’s the word you land on one night, lying on the floor of your bedroom, side by side, listening to a record she brought over.

It skips every third song. She says she likes it better that way, the flaws make it feel alive.

You’re watching the ceiling rotate in slow motion, and she’s got a leg resting on your stomach like it’s nothing. Like you’re furniture.

She’s telling you a story you’ve never heard before, something about a swimming pool in a motel off the interstate, about stealing towels and eating ice cream with a plastic spoon while soaked to the bone.

There’s no moral. No arc.

She doesn’t care about endings.

You stare at her lips as she talks and think,

God, I’m in trouble.

You want to pause the moment. Press it between pages. Keep it safe.

You don’t.

Instead, you say, “Did you ever go back?”

She shakes her head.

“Didn’t feel like there was anything left to go back to.”

She says it like it’s a shrug. But there’s something in her voice that feels like a door closing softly.

You nod, like you understand.

Maybe you do.

Maybe you’re starting to.

She doesn’t speak for a minute. Just lies there, quiet, tracing the rim of her soda bottle with one fingertip, the record skipping in slow intervals like it’s keeping time with her breath.

Then, without warning, she shifts, rolls toward you, close — and kisses you.

And this time, you kiss her back without thinking.

You’re used to it now, this ritual.

The way she kisses like a thought she forgot to finish, soft and sure and never lingering too long. But tonight, it lingers. Your lips stay pressed to hers a moment longer than usual, slow and still, like you’re afraid moving will break it.

And when she finally pulls back, you don’t open your eyes right away.

She’s close, close enough to see a septum piercing hiding in her nose, if you wanted to.

You feel her breath against your cheek. Her hand finds its way to your collarbone and just rests there.

“What?” she says, voice low, amused. “You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

You hesitate.

Then, quietly,

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

She blinks, caught off guard — not by the question, but by how softly you ask it.

Like you’re afraid of the answer.

A slow grin spreads across her face. She leans back an inch.

“Is this your subtle way of saying you’re in love with me?” she teases.

You laugh, but it catches in your throat.

“No,” you say.

But your heart screams yes.

She doesn’t answer the question.

Just blows out a breath and glances toward the window, where the blinds shudder slightly in the warm night breeze.

“I think some people just pass through you, leave fingerprints, mess with the wiring. You know?”

You nod.

Even though you don’t.

Not really.

You will.

Eventually.

Because the thing about falling for someone like Manon is that there’s no bottom.

There’s just the fall.

And you’re already too far in to pretend otherwise.

So when she says, out of nowhere, while sitting half curled at the edge of your bed, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands,

“Wanna drive somewhere stupid?”

You don’t hesitate.

You just say, “Yeah, always.”

You drive with the windows down and the stereo too loud, the wind tangling her hair, her feet on your dashboard. She doesn’t give directions. Just points once — left — and you take it.

You don’t know where you’re going until the road gives you the answer.

The beach.

By the time you get there, the sky is black velvet and the air smells like salt and something older — like driftwood and forgotten things. The parking lot is empty except for a pickup truck asleep in the corner and a trash bin rattling softly in the breeze.

The waves are louder than you expected. Not crashing — just constant.

Like breathing, like time itself refusing to stop.

She hops out of the car and takes off running across the sand without a word, hoodie tied around her waist.

You watch her for a second before following, your sneakers in one hand, your heart in the other.

She drops down near the shoreline, knees pulled to her chest, arms draped loosely around them. She looks smaller like this. Quieter.

You settle beside her, close enough to feel her shoulder against yours.

The tide inches closer.

The moon drips silver all over her skin.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just stares out at the water like she’s trying to hypnotize herself.

Then she says, softly,

“I used to come to the beach to cry.”

You glance over, but she’s still watching the horizon.

“It’s good background noise,” she continues, voice calm but far away.

“Makes it feel like... I don’t know. Like the world’s still moving, even when you’re stuck.”

You don’t ask what she cried about. You know she wouldn’t tell you.

So instead you ask, “Do you still?”

Her mouth tilts. Not quite a smile.

“Not here. Not now.”

You sit in the silence that follows, letting it stretch between you — the kind that feels intentional. Safe. The kind you don’t need to fill.

The wind picks up. Her hair brushes your arm. She doesn’t fix it, she lets the breeze tangle it. Lets the cold press into her skin. Her toes dig into the sand like she’s trying to anchor herself to something real.

“If I asked you to drive until the road ends, would you come with me?”

It’s not a test.

You can tell by the way she says it — soft, almost distracted, like she’s not sure she’ll believe you even if you say yes.

You look at her. Really look.

The curve of her throat.

The way she won’t meet your eyes.

“Yeah,” you say. “I would.”

Finally, she turns.

And then she kisses you.

You know the rhythm of her by now.

You know when she’s going to reach for you,  when she’s going to lean in like gravity just gave up.

You kiss her back like you mean it.

Because you do.

You kiss her like you’re afraid the night might take her before you finish.

Like you’ve been waiting for it since the first unbearable day of June.

She tastes like the sea and something warm and familiar — cherry gum or maybe the peach soda she’d been drinking in the car.

Your hands slide into her hair, hers find your waist. And for a moment, there’s nothing but salt and breath and the sound of her heart crashing against yours. When she pulls back, her lips are parted, eyes dark and unreadable. She rests her forehead against yours.

And for a second, neither of you moves.

“You’re gonna be the reason I stay too long,” she whispers.

It guts you. Quiet and precise.

You wanna say, Good. Stay. Please.

But instead, you kiss her again.

Slower this time. Quieter.

Like a promise you’re too scared to make out loud.

Eventually, you both collapse back into the sand, still tangled in each other.

She curls into your side, her head on your chest, your fingers tracing slow shapes against her shoulder.

The stars are scattered like ash across the sky.

And the ocean keeps breathing beside you, indifferent and eternal.

She exhales softly, almost asleep already.

You whisper, “Manon?”

She hums in reply, not opening her eyes.

“I don’t want you to go.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just shifts closer, tucks her hand under your shirt like she’s checking to make sure your heart’s still there.

Then, sleepily, “I know.”

And that’s it.

You stay there until the tide creeps up and kisses your ankles.

Until the sky begins to turn the color of regret.

Until you can’t pretend the sun isn’t coming.

Because she’s still just passing through.

And you’re still letting her.

September creeps in like a storm you knew was coming.

Not loud. Not violent. Just steady.

Inevitable.

The air shifts first.

It’s in the way the breeze starts biting instead of kissing. In the way the sun, once heavy and molten, starts keeping its distance.

Shadows sharpen. Mornings come colder.

The light goes brittle, like it could shatter if you touched it wrong.

And the world begins to pull back.

So does she.

It’s subtle at first.

You don’t notice it, until you do.

She answers your texts, but slower.

She still shows up, but later.

She doesn’t stay the night as often.

She keeps her shoes on.

The hoodie she left draped over your desk chair disappears one day.

You don’t ask.

You just notice the emptiness of it.

One evening, you’re walking beside her, and she doesn’t reach for your hand. She’s chewing a straw wrapper, looking at the pavement like it said something rude. Her shoulders are hunched in a way they weren’t in July.

You want to ask what’s wrong.

But all she says is, “I hate when summer ends. It always feels like the wrong kind of ending.”

You nod.

You want to say me too, but the words feel like a trap.

Later, in your room, she sits on the floor with her back against the wall, knees pulled up, flicking her lighter open and shut, even though she’s not smoking.

You’re on the bed, watching her from a few feet away, like there’s glass between you.

“You okay?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Another shrug. Another flick of the lighter.

“How things fall apart, quietly. Like a leak instead of a fire.”

You don’t know what to say to that, you think you’re supposed to disagree. Say things don’t have to fall apart at all. But you’ve always been bad at lying.

So you sit with it.

Let it bloom between you.

Eventually, she looks up at you, and for a second, she seems like she might cry. But she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

She just climbs into bed without asking, lies down facing the wall.

You lie behind her. Close, but not touching.

You almost say stay.

But she’s already halfway gone.

You try not to mark the days.

But you do.

You count how many times she comes over without staying.

How often you wake up to cold sheets. How many times she kisses you like she’s trying to remember something she hasn’t decided to keep.

She doesn’t disappear, not exactly. She still calls. Still shows up. Still laughs, sometimes. But there’s a gap now. A soft, quiet space between her sentences. Like she’s saving parts of herself without telling you why.

One night, you’re out on the fire escape again.

It’s late — the kind of late that makes the city feel half-asleep, lights blinking slow and soft in the windows across the street.

The metal creaks under your weight as you step out, two beers in hand.

She’s already there, hoodie pulled over her knees, ankles bare, eyes on the sky like it’s talking back.

You hand her a beer. She takes it without looking, murmurs, “Thanks.”

Below, someone yells something that turns into laughter.

Somewhere, music spills from a cracked car window.

It’s the same city, but it feels different now —

stretched thinner, maybe.

A little less yours.

She breaks the silence first.

“Isn’t it funny how easy it is to leave?”

You glance at her. “Is that what you’re doing?”

She shrugs. “Not yet.”

“But you are.”

Her smile is tight, not mean.

“You always knew I wouldn’t stay.”

You shake your head. “No. I hoped you would.”

You feel it in the way she doesn’t move. She brings the bottle to her lips, drinks. Stares at the label like it might change.

“I never liked endings,” she says quietly.

And there it is.

You think maybe that’s why she won’t give you one.

She shifts closer.

Leans her shoulder into yours, soft and slow, like she’s trying not to wake something.

Her leg presses against yours. The warmth is still real. Still solid. But she feels like something fading, a song playing in another room.

“I don’t know how to do goodbye,” she says after a while, almost a whisper.

You laugh, but it catches.

“Good. I’m not great at it either.”

There’s a pause.

Then she turns her face toward yours and kisses you — unhurried, familiar.

Not desperate. Not new.

The kind of kiss that says I’m still here — even if I don’t know for how long.

You kiss her back without hesitation.

Your hands don’t shake.

When she pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “For what I can’t stay for.”

You don’t ask what she means.

You just say, “I know.”

And she doesn’t leave.

Not that night.

She stays until the beer’s gone and the sky starts bleeding light again.

Her head on your shoulder.

Your fingers tangled in the fray of her sleeve.

Neither of you says what’s coming.

Neither of you asks for more.

The last time you see her, she’s standing at the edge of the boardwalk, watching the waves roll in like they might bring something back.

Her hair’s tucked under a beanie,

her coat almost swallowing her frame.

She doesn’t turn when you approach.

You stand beside her anyway.

You want to ask if it was real — the laughter, the bruises. You want to ask if she felt it too, the way your whole body rearranged itself to make space for her. The way it still aches like she took pieces with her.

But you don’t.

Because you already know what she’d say.

“I only feel it in the summer.”

And summer’s over.

A week later, she’s gone. The house next door is quiet again.

You catch yourself glancing at the porch — like she might still be there, just out of frame.

But she isn’t.

You still keep the Popsicle stick.

Orange. Her favorite.

It’s in your drawer, tucked between ticket stubs and half-lost things.

A relic of heat, of ache.

Of a version of you that believed she might stay.

You don’t touch it.

But you know it’s there.

Like a scar. Or a prayer.

And one day, months later, on a day that’s too warm for the season, when the air tastes vaguely like memory —  you buy a box of orange popsicles, just because.

You unwrap one, let it melt slightly between your fingers.

Bring it to your mouth — like it’s a dare.

It doesn’t taste like citrus.

Too sweet.

Too sharp.

Wrong.

You finish it anyway.

Not because you want to — but because it feels like the closest you’ll ever get to kissing her again.

And when you're done, you tuck the stick into your drawer beside the first.

Two now.

One for the summer that burned.

One for the ghost it left behind.

[my-beloved-idol]

Would you consider doing how the Saja Boys and Huntrix would react to writing a song for them? Please and thank you !!

K-POP DEMON HUNTERS HEADCANONS ✦ YOU WRITE THEM A SONG

includes: saja boys & huntrix.

note: hope you like it!

✦ JINU

When you tell Jinu that you wrote a song for him, he completely freezes. His eyes go wide, his hands flutter around his chest like he doesn’t know what to do with the enormity of that gesture. He asks "Are you sure this is for me??" like six times because he can’t believe someone would put that much love and thought into something just for him. When he hears the lyrics, he gets quiet, his cheeks flushed pink and a soft grin tugging at his lips. He probably tears up halfway through and hides his face in your shoulder, muttering, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me…” And for the next three weeks, he hums your song every morning under his breath and blushes if you catch him doing it.

✦ ABBY

Abby raises an eyebrow the second you say you’ve written a song for him, tilts his head with that signature smirk, and replies, “Wow. Can’t resist me, huh?” But when you actually play it —especially if it’s soft or personal— he goes silent. His jaw tenses, his cocky expression falters, and there’s this flicker in his eyes like you’ve just reached a part of him no one else ever has. He won't admit it, but he listens with his whole soul. When it ends, he clears his throat and tries to brush it off with a joke like, “You just want me to fall harder for you, huh?”

✦ ROMANCE

Romance reacts like he has just been proposed. One hand clutches his chest while the other reaches for you like you’ve just written his wedding vows. He stares at you with eyes that shimmer, whispering, “You wrote me a song? Just for me? My love...” He probably insists on hearing it under the stars or with candles lit, full dramatic mode. And if you sing it, he watches every movement of your face, completely entranced. The lyrics practically make him swoon —especially if they reference little things about him no one else would notice. When it ends, he pulls you into a long, reverent kiss and says something like, “You could’ve stabbed me and I would’ve thanked you anyway. But this? This is love. I am so yours.”

✦ MYSTERY

Mystery blinks at you when you say you've written him a song. At first, he doesn't say much —just looks away like he doesn’t know how to process that someone would do something so intimate for him. But when you start singing, he listens. Carefully. Intensely. Every line hits harder than you expected, and even though his face stays mostly neutral, you notice the way his fingers twitch or how he shifts just a little closer. After you finish, there's a long silence. Then he murmurs —almost like he’s afraid to ruin the moment— “No one's ever... done that for me.” And that's it.

✦ BABY

“Oh my God, are you obsessed with me?” Baby Saja grins as soon as you mention the song, teasing the hell out of you with remarks like “Should I be worried or flattered?” But the moment you actually start performing it, he quiets. That smug smile drops into something more vulnerable, like your lyrics are cutting through every layer of his sassiness. If there’s even a hint of affection or admiration in the song, he short-circuits. “I mean… damn,” he mutters when it ends, looking everywhere but your face. “You wrote that for me?” He pretends it’s not a big deal — but later, you catch him trying to memorize the chorus.

✦ ZOEY

Zoey squeals when she hears you wrote her a song. Like full-on, hands-over-mouth, little-jump happy. She's already crying by the second verse, wiping her eyes with her sleeves and gasping between sniffles, “It’s so beautiful… it’s really for me?” She hugs you before you even finish singing. And after that, she tells everyone. Every member, every fan, the group chat, her plant. “Look what my person did for me!” she beams. She plays the song when she gets ready in the morning, sings the lyrics in the shower, and even writes a rap verse for it. She never stops being grateful, and never lets you forget how much she adores you for it.

✦ MIRA

Mira scoffs when you say you wrote her a song. “Are you serious?” she says with a raised brow, like she’s bracing for a joke. She’ll act unimpressed—until she hears it. Then she shuts up. Her mouth opens slightly, her brows crease, and there’s this unmistakable flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. You can see every emotion she’s trying not to show. She stays quiet afterward, sits next to you for a minute, and then punches you lightly in the arm. “You’re crazy,” she says—but it sounds like thank you. And she never lets anyone else hear it, because that’s hers.

✦ RUMI

Rumi blinks slowly and crosses her arms when you say you wrote her a song. “For me?” she asks, skeptical—like she’s not used to being the one receiving gestures, always the one giving. But when you perform it, she stands still, focused. Her expression softens line by line, and by the end, she’s clearly holding back tears Won't tell you but she is so proud. “You know me better than anyone,” she says quietly. It’s one of the only times you’ve seen her speechless. Later, she’ll say it was the best gift she’s ever gotten, but she says it while brushing your hair behind your ear and pressing a kiss to your forehead like you are the song. From then on, she protects that piece of music like it’s part of her identity.

[justlikeotherchemists]

I'm tired, but not sleepy enough to go to bed. So let me answer all of these questions just because I feel like it.

💗 - What inspired you to start a whump blog? I was rewatching Beauty and the Beast and heard Belle say "Take me instead." I just had to make a meme about it, but I couldn't put it on the main. So, here we are.

💙 - How long have you been into whump? My whole life, I suppose. But I found out about the term about a year ago. 🌸 - What types of media do you like whump in? Books and animation. Live action I just don't watch as much.

🍏 - How do you get inspiration for whump? Depends. Sometimes it's just stuff that happened to me, but wound up to eleven. Sometimes I read about other people's experiences. One of my fics was lowkey based on the story about Maccabean Martyrs.

🔮 - What's a favorite whump trope of yours? I've said it many times before, and I'll say it again. Defiant or stoic whumpees will always be my favorite.

🩸 - What's a least favorite whump trope of yours? I don't usually focus on the things I don't like. But I guess, anything Giant/tiny is just not my cup of tea.

🎀 - Do you know any good songs for whump? Nothing comes to mind. But for angst inspiration I often listen to "This is how villains are made".

🐈 - Are your whumpees of a particular demographic or diverse? I only wrote one whumpee so far. My dad called her "not European enough." She's white as marble, what the hell is he even talking about??

💧 - What's your favorite type of whumpee? On top of what I've said before, I like leader whumpees. So many responsibilities on their tired shoulders, so much pressure to stay strong and confident. All the moral dilemmas, and the all-consuming self-doubt, and, eventually, the reluctant acceptance of comfort from their teammates... 😍

🧠 - What's your favorite type of whumper? Someone who's on the same level as whumpee. Just as smart and strong. And with the power imbalance so clearly on whumper's side, what will whumpee do?

🎱 - How did you discover the tumblr whump writing community? Durind my Gravity Falls obsession phase I've started spending more time on tumblr and coincidentally found this community.

👑 - Do you post whump anywhere else? AO3, duh.

💜 - What's a movie/show with whump you recommend? Last Exile. It's not that popular of an anime, so I'm bringing it up whenever I can.

🌈 - Do you prefer Caretaker to be a partner or friend or rival to whumpee? Friend, although rival could work too.

🍔 - What hour is whump best to enjoy? Any hour? How is that even a question?

🪩 - what's your favorite type of Caretaker? Something I would like to see is a caretaker, who looks after their own well-being. If helping whumpee is too draining, they will step back, just for a while. Because you can't help others, if you don't help yourself first.

🎹 - Do you utilize whump to sleep? That was something whump community introduced me to and I thought it was fun.

🥽 - What is your favorite nonhuman whumpee? I don't really care much for nonhuman whumpees. But I've seen vampire whumpees done really well in that one mobile game.

Blog Ask Game for Whump Blogs

💗 - What inspired you to start a whump blog?

💙 - How long have you been into whump?

🌸 - What types of media do you like whump in?

🍏 - How do you get inspiration for whump?

🔮 - What's a favorite whump trope of yours?

🩸 - What's a least favorite whump trope of yours?

🎀 - Do you know any good songs for whump?

🐈 - Are your whumpees of a particular demographic or diverse?

💧 - What's your favorite type of whumpee?

🧠 - What's your favorite type of whumper?

🎱 - How did you discover the tumblr whump writing community?

👑 - Do you post whump anywhere else?

💜 - What's a movie/show with whump you recommend?

🌈 - Do you prefer Caretaker to be a partner or friend or rival to whumpee?

🍔 - What hour is whump best to enjoy?

🪩 - what's your favorite type of Caretaker?

🎹 - Do you utilize whump to sleep?

🥽 - What is your favorite nonhuman whumpee?

[t-a-a-1]

Oil Confessions

Summary: Optimus gets drunk while thinking of you.

Longline: After confessing and being rejected, you take your time to heal. Optimus soon realizes that he is in love with you. Thinking that he has lost you forever, Optimus gets drunk. 

TW: very out of character? I think idk i just wanted to write a desperate OP for reader. 

tfp optimus x female reader, 2k words

….

He was on this fifth gallon of oil. 

But his processor was still thinking of you. Of the stupid choices he had made and how, oh, how much he loves you.

Optimus hiccups as takes a sip of his premium royal oil. 

Scrolling through his datapad, he keeps looking at pictures of you. Of you smiling, eating, dancing, sleeping, reading. You knew he had this pictures, because in all of them he was with you. 

The first time you took a picture with him, you smiled at the camera. The two of you enjoyed eating at the same time. You had taught him how to dance. You and him had cuddled together and fallen asleep. You had read to him. All of those things  you had done with him …  now you are doing it with someone else.

“You are going to processor-damage in the morning.”

Optimus recognized the voice of his old friend. 

“I can’t believe a woman has made you  … this.”

The hangar was quiet. Most of the Autobots had gone with their kids to spend the night at their place. Leaving Optimus to feel free to get extremely drunk. Ratchet, in the other servo, has to take care of him.

“It’s not because of her,” said Optimus. “It’s because I am an idiot.”

“You were never well-versed with the ladies,” Ratchet takes a seat next to Optimus. The Autobots had a massive counter where they usually sat down to in-take energon. It was what most would call a kitchen. “But I always thought being a Prime gave you a great advantage.”

“She loved me,” Optimus' processor was starting to hurt but that didn’t matter. All he wants is to keep drinking. “And I rejected her thinking my feelings were not the same.”

“And?”

“I was right,” he said, his voice glitching for a second. “They are not the same because I love her with the intensity of all the burning stars in the universe. There are no words! There’s no language in the universe that exists now, in the past or the future that could describe my feelings for her. It is not enough! My love, oh, my love Ratchet is immeasurable!”

Ratchet has seen Optimus drunk a couple of times. In all of those situations, Optimus seemed to revert back to being Orion Pax. A young passionate bot who becomes a poet whenever he drinks too much oil. 

“How?” Ratchet inquired, genuinely curious. “How did you fall for (Readers)’s charms?”

Optimus remembers an exact time. The moment when he felt he had fallen from a building as tall as the Iacon Hall of Records and hit the deepest part of Cybertron. 

“Do you remember two months ago? When I was dying and (Reader) had to hold my Spark?”

Ratchet nodded.

“I felt it. All of it,” his voice glitched, quivering as he remembered the scene “I felt her soul, her kindness, Ratchet.”

He had battled the Decepticons. You had been involved. Optimus almost died that night if it wasn’t because you were inside his chassis. Protecting his spark with everything you had. In your desperation, you tightly hold into his Spark, holding it close to your heart. Shielding it from all the harm that was coming near him. 

“Her, her, her!” he slams his fist into the counter. His emotions are too much to handle. “If you could have only felt what I felt, Ratchet … She’s good and gentle and the feelings she had for me were nothing but genuine, pure love!”

He suddenly comes to a stop, putting his helm on the counter. Turning his helm to look away from Ratchet.

“And I lost all of that. All because I am an old, stupid bot with fried circuits.”

It was strange to see his leader like this but it was a scene that he missed. His friend being so open about his feelings and acting like his old self was something he thought he would never see again. And for that, he is thankful to you. 

“Old friend,” Ratchet says, also opening a can of oil for himself.  “You are too harsh on yourself, you always have.”

“I do it because I deserve it,” Optimus said. “It’s only been two months since this realization and my Sparks craves her.”

“I want to be with her,” he slowly raises his helm, the oil finally starting to make an effect after the seventh can. “I need to be with her. I’ll die … Ratchet, I think I’ll die if I am not with her.”

“That’s if the over-consumption of oil doesn’t get to you first,” Ratchet notices Optimus giving him a side optic. He immediately clears his voice box. “Optimus, you and (Reader) are too different … I don’t think it would have worked out.”

“I am aware,” Optimus makes a pause, trying his best for his words to make sense. “I am aware that I am just an old rusty bot and she’s life itself.”

Ratchet found it amusing that Optimus didn’t see the clear difference between you and him. But then again, seeing beyond differences was something Optimus would do. He doesn’t think about logic but about feelings. 

“More like the two of you are completely different species,” Ratchet said. “You’ll live for millions of years to come and she–”

“Don’t say it,” Optimus raises his voice, not asking but demanding. “Don’t you dare.” 

But quickly, his strong demeanor completely changes. Because for a single second, just a small fragment of it. He thought about it. About the day you’ll leave him. When your heart no longer beats at the rhythm of his Spark. When your chest stops moving up and down as you breathe. When the light in your eyes disappear–

“I wouldn’t be able to, I–” he puts a servo on his intake, quivering, shivering. His optics started to get bluer. “I am not strong enough.”

“I am sorry,” Ratchet quickly puts a servo on Optimus's shoulder, showing his clear empathy. “I didn’t know the topic would cause you such distress.”

It takes a few minutes for him to recover from the stress, just then Ratchet is able to speak freely again.

“If you feel so strongly about her. I think you should tell her. I mean, what else can you lose?” 

“... She feels strongly about someone else now,” Optimus puts a hand on his faceplate. His metallic hand coming across his entire features. “It would be selfish of me to tell her when she finally has started to move on. And if I do, I don’t know how she would react. I can’t bear to lose her friendship as well.”

Ratchet respected Optimus more than anyone. But if there’s something his old friend lacked was the passion to allow himself to live a little. He never felt worthy of anything. Of the Matrix, of the Title of Prime and especially of you. 

The medic was not blind. Everyone in the base who had optics … or more like everyone who possessed the ability to see … noticed just how much of a mess Optimus was because of you. 

He couldn’t talk properly, his movements were extremely clumsy and his optics would suddenly look in all directions but at you. 

“So you just plan to do nothing?” Ratchet asked. “You’ll just rot away in your jealousy?”

“I am not jealous. I am content that she has found someone to spend her life with.”

Ratchet rolls his optics and scoffs. Aggressively, he takes a sip of his oil. His friend’s deception irritated him. He remembers times where Optimus would go to his room to weep in silence after seeing you interact with the Secret Agent. 

“I am not blind Optimus. Everytime Alex comes to the base you transform into your alt-form.”

“His presence is just … discomforting.”

“You just don’t want to see her talking to Alex.” 

“He is not deserving of her affection!”

Optimus remembers those times. Alex had charisma and knew how to talk. His energon would boil every time the Secret Agent would make you laugh. Then his need to cry became stronger whenever Alex touched your skin or your hair. 

Of course he will never show it. His entire frame and faceplate kept the same monotonous expression. But deep down his spark would cry at the thought of never being able to hold you, to feel your warmth or  get lost in the tangles of your hair.

“Then who is? You?”

“It should have been me, Ratchet,” Optimus hiccups, his voice glitching uncontrollably.  “It should have been me holding her hand. Giving her flowers, looking at the stars together.”

His servo shakes. Optimus can’t believe that he loves you so much. It pains him. It hurts to physically think of you. His entire frame needs you. More than energon, more than his title and responsibilities. He needs you. Oh, Primus, he needs you and he can’t even tell you.

“I feel like my Spark is coming out of my chassis.”

“I think you just want to throw up all the oil.”

Optimus feels pathetic. Worst of it all. He doesn’t have you. He feels pathetic and he can’t see you. He can’t hold you. He can’t tell you how much he loves you.

“I love her Ratchet.”

The leader of the Autobots is about to crumble, to let his entire Spark be exposed to the medic whose only fault was to be Optimus’ closest friend. And although Ratchet has heard this multiple times before, he still has to be there for him. 

“I love her, I can’t live without her,” Optimus kept saying, the oil completely had overtaken the energon on his circuits “I want to see her. I want to hold her. I want to be with her.” 

“Optimus–”

“I don’t want to be Optimus,” his voice became louder, his hiccups more repetitive and his optics began to tear up. “I want to be Orion. If I was him then maybe I would be strong enough to tell her. I wouldn’t be such a coward. Maybe she would- she would–She would love me again.”

“Optimus–”

Ratchet raised both of his servos, trying to figure out a way to calm him down. 

“I look around me and all of the beauty of nature reminds me of her!” Optimus says. “The sunrise is her smile and the stars are her eyes! The moon hides in shame in the presence of her whole being!”

“Optimus!”

“What is it?!” the Prime hiccups as he takes one last sip of his oil. “Can’t you just let me die of sorrow?!”

Ratchet simply sighs and with a single finger he points past him.

“She’s right behind you.” 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

A/N: This wasn’t a request but just something silly I wanted to write. I just wanted to write a desperate Op for reader.  Once again … I dont proof proofread stuff. 

Thank you for reading until next time!

[kaliuchisangel]

Didn't Think I'd Meet You

Pairing:Malachi Barton x reader

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: Fluff and mutual pining

Anonymous asked: Heyyy, how r u doing?? I was wondering if maybe you could make a one-shot about how reader and malachi met? Like, maybe r is not famous, and they met at a party because of some common friends or something like that. And it's kind of like "he fell first and harder". It's okay if you don't want to though :]

A/N: hey, pookie. I'm good. Ofc, I will do it. I hope you enjoy this one!

You almost didn’t come to the party.

Honestly, you would’ve rather been at home in your hoodie, eating popcorn and watching your comfort show for the third time this month.

But your best friend had insisted dragged you, really—saying something about “you never get out” and “it’s just a few of my LA friends, you’ll be fine.”

You figured you’d stay for an hour and then dip out.

But that was before you noticed him.

Before he noticed you.

The music was loud, not obnoxiously so, but enough that you had to lean in to talk. People were scattered across the huge house. some dancing, some taking selfies, and others lounging near the back patio.

You were nursing a red cup of lemonade, standing by the wall near the snack table, awkwardly texting your friend who had wandered off after introducing you to someone who clearly forgot your name the moment you said it.

That's when he saw you.

Across the room, a boy in a black hoodie and backwards cap was talking with a group of friends—some faces you vaguely recognized from shows or social media but his eyes kept drifting over to you.

You didn’t notice at first.

But he did.

You looked soft. A little shy. Like you weren’t trying too hard to impress anyone. You were scrolling your phone, your fingers tapping against the side of the cup while your friend was off laughing with someone else.

There was something about the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, or maybe the way you smiled politely when someone walked by and said hi. He couldn’t place it, but he was already leaning over to ask, “Hey—who’s that?”

His friend raised an eyebrow. “Who, her?”

“Yeah. You know her?”

“No, I think she came with Camille or Mia or someone. She’s not in the industry, I don’t think.”

That made him even more curious.

So, he made a move.

You looked up when someone cleared their throat.

He stood in front of you now—tall, but not intimidating.Cute smile. Soft brown curls peeking out from under his hat. His voice was warm when he spoke.

"Hey. I'm Malachi."

You blinked. “Oh. Uh—hi. I’m Y/N.”

“You looked a little bored,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I’d come say hey.”

You laughed under your breath. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little,” he teased. “Not a fan of random LA parties?”

You shook your head. “Not really my scene. I only came because my best friend swore I needed to ‘touch grass’.”

Malachi laughed at that. A real, genuine laugh. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to use it.”

You smiled, your nerves easing slightly. “So… what brings you here?”

He shrugged. “I know a few people.

Thought it’d be chill. It’s kinda not.”

You laughed again. “Exactly.”

There was a pause—but not the awkward kind. Just that lingering space where both people realize they’re kind of enjoying this more than they expected.

“I like your hoodie,” you said randomly.

He looked down at the oversized black hoodie with a subtle logo. “Thanks. It’s my go-to for ‘I don’t wanna be here but I came anyway’ energy.”

“That’s a very specific vibe.”

“And yet—spot on for both of us.”

You smiled again, more openly this time. He caught the way your eyes crinkled a little when you did. And maybe that was when it happened for him—when something in his chest tightened just enough to scare him, but not enough to stop it.

You were funny. And real. And didn’t treat him like Malachi Barton.

You treated him like a person.

That did something to him.

The two of you ended up talking for way longer than expected. About everything. Music. Bad movies. How parties like this are secretly exhausting. How people always act like they’re having more fun than they really are.

At some point, he asked, “Wanna go outside? It’s quieter.”

You nodded. “Yes, please.”

He led you to the backyard where the lights were softer and the air felt cooler. The music was just a muffled thump in the background now.

You sat on the porch steps. He sat beside you.

There was a moment of silence before he said, “You know… I didn’t think I’d meet anyone interesting tonight.”

You glanced over at him, teasing, “And then I saved your night?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted with a lopsided grin.

“You’re different. In a good way.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t look away. “You’re not what I expected either.”

“What did you expect?”

You pretended to think. “I dunno. Maybe a little full of yourself. You’re kinda famous, right?”

He winced playfully. “Ouch.”

You laughed. “I mean it as a compliment. You’re real.”

He smiled. His fingers drummed lightly on his knee, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. You could tell—his eyes held it all.

And maybe he would’ve. But your friend appeared in the doorway, calling your name.

You looked over your shoulder. “Hey! Sorry—I totally lost track of time.”

Malachi stood up with you. “You leaving?”

“I probably should. She’s my ride.”

“Oh.” He tried not to look disappointed. He failed.

You turned to him. “Hey. I’m really glad you came to say hi.”

“Yeah? Then maybe I could, uh—text you sometime?”

Your heart fluttered. “Sure. Here.” You handed him your phone.

He typed in his number, saved it with a little vampire emoji for some reason. “That’s me.”

“Vampire?”

“Inside joke,” he shrugged, smirking. “You’ll get it soon.”

You laughed. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And as you walked off with your friend, he stood there for a second, watching you disappear into the night.

His friend wandered over, teasing, “Bro, you good?”

Malachi blinked like he was still in a daze. “Yeah. Just…”

“What?”

He smiled to himself, thumb brushing over his phone where your contact now sat. Then he looked up, eyes gleaming.

"I think I just met someone important."

[baylara]

lover

sorority!lara raj x fem!reader, sorority!sophia laforteza x fem!reader

a/n: this is my first fic and not proofread so yeah there might be errors ;-; i’m planning on making a whole katseye sorority au, but this fic is not part of that.

warnings: 18+ only, some angst, cheating, sophia is kinda mean, suggestive material

summary: you reject lara because you’re dating sophia, but neither of them have pure intentions.

fic starts below the cut! (wc: 1.6k)

Lara was used to getting lots of attention from both men and women. There wasn’t a night that she had been alone since the start of her freshman year. “Literally what the fuck is going on?” Lara grumbled to her friends. She was taken aback and pissed off because she had been rejected by you only a couple minutes ago.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with her,” Manon said. “Or you know maybe she’s not into girls.”

“I don’t think so, she was laughing it up when Sophia went up to her after you— still is,” Megan said, looking to where you stood in a more secluded part of the sorority house with Sophia. Manon and Lara followed her gaze. Lara’s fists clenched by her sides— why the fuck were you so comfortable around Sophia? Why couldn’t you give her the same energy, even if you were going to reject her? Maybe Manon was right, there was something very wrong with you.

Lara excused herself, presumably to find someone else since you had wasted her time.

Lara walked out of the party completely thrown off her game. She couldn’t even flirt with anyone properly— still remembering how you effortlessly curbed her flirtations like they didn’t matter. Like she didn’t matter. The worst part was that you weren’t even being mean. You just weren’t interested in going back to her room with her. You were aware of her history and politely declined. The issue was that Lara didn’t take rejection very well— it wasn’t something she was used to at all.

•••

A few days later, Lara was still thinking about you. She was trying so hard not to but the more she tried, the more she remembered. It was one simple interaction, but it was troubling her so much so that she had finally spent the past few nights alone. She didn’t want anyone else in her bed but you, the girl who hadn’t even given her the time of day.

Lara was catching up on some reading on a bench outside the lecture hall. Her head snapped up once she heard you walk by, laughing at something Sophia had said. What was so fucking funny? Why were you and Sophia glued at the hip now? Lara’s grip on her book tightened when she saw Sophia kiss your cheek before you entered the lecture hall.

Lara decided that she was going to confront me about what happened at the party. She puffed her chest up before entering the lecture hall shortly after you. Lara was determined to make you realize how dumb you were, but then— then she saw how cute you looked with your nose buried in your textbook. “Come on, Lara,” she mumbled under her breath trying to rebuild her confidence, but it had all dissipated.

You finally looked up and noticed that Lara had been standing in front of my seat. “Did you need something, Lara?” you asked with a gentle smile that made Lara swoon. Man, Lara wanted you to look up at her like that after going down on her, but no she couldn’t have been thinking such things.

Lara shook her head trying to recollect her thoughts. “How far did you get into the reading?” Lara asked. She wanted to slap herself for asking such a lame question instead of what she wanted to know. Were you and Sophia a thing?

“Oh I finished, I’m just reading the next chapter in the time we have before class. Did you have any questions about it?” you asked.

“No…sorry, I forgot,” Lara said, again wanting to slap herself for saying something soooo lame. She wasn’t supposed to be so boring, she was Lara Raj for fucks sake.

“Oh, okay,” you said awkwardly. “Did you want to sit here with me or something?” you asked politely. Lara froze. Say no, say no, say no she told herself. But then you cleared the space beside you and looked up at her like that. How could she ever say no to you in this position? Lara slipped into the seat beside you as you both waited for the professor to come in and start class. She thought you were done talking until then but then you piped up, “So you and Sophia are in the same sorority, right?”

“Yeah,” Lara said dryly. Sophia was the president of the sorority she was in, actually. “She’s a bitch.”

“I’ve heard,” you giggled lightly. Lara perked up slightly since she had finally made you laugh. “She can be sweet though, but that might just be because I’m her girlfriend,” you said with a sigh. And there it was- a blow that Lara should’ve been expecting. You had rejected her because you were dating her sorority sister, the one she already despised for being so strict.

Before the conversation could continue further, the professor walked in to begin her lecture. All Lara knew was that she wanted you even more now that you were technically off limits.

•••

Later that night at the sorority house, Lara caught Sophia kissing you goodbye. God, she was so gentle with you, it made Lara want to puke. If Lara was in her position, she would be sure to show you how hungry she was for you. Lara thought you looked like you could handle the rough treatment. It was truly a shame that Sophia wasn’t handling you like that… Lara would.

Lara looked away before either of you could notice her staring, but she heard the door click- indicating you had left followed by Sophia’s footsteps as she went upstairs. A few moments later Lara went up so that she could relax in her room when she heard Sophia talking about you in her room with someone else- sounded like Daniela.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Daniela asked. Lara looked around and noticed no one else was around before pressing her ear up to the door. “I mean, she’s a sweet girl and at first I was also on board with the idea, but it’s gone on way too long.” From the sounds of it, it seemed like Daniela and Sophia were having an affair but then-

“Look, I would’ve dropped her a long time ago, but Grant still hasn’t come back to me,” Sophia said with an annoyed sigh. Lara knew Grant, he was Sophia’s ex-boyfriend. It finally began clicking, Sophia was using you to make her ex jealous- in hopes he would come begging for her back.

Lara backed away from the door and headed into her room, she had heard enough. Lara felt bad for you. She could tell that you genuinely liked Sophia, which pissed her off because maybe there was some part of her that liked you.

•••

Lara almost told you what Sophia’s plans were, but her friends advised her against it. If Sophia found out, Lara would be thrown out of the sorority. Would it really even be that big of a deal if that did happen, though? Lara found herself asking that question whenever she saw me, so she stopped talking to me altogether. She began flirting with a different person everyday again, she was back to her old self. Lara should’ve been happy, so why wasn’t she?

“You’re avoiding me,” you said one day, managing to catch up to her.

“Why would I care to avoid you?” Lara asked sarcastically. “It’s not like we were ever friends or something. We sat together once and have only had a handful of conversations.”

“Right,” you said softly, stepping back from her. Lara immediately regretted her words when she saw the hurt in your eyes. She reached out but you were already gone.

•••

At the next sorority party, Lara already had a girl in her lap. She honestly couldn’t even remember her name so she avoided addressing her. All she was focused on was how Sophia was making out with you in the middle of the dance floor. You looked so flustered when Sophia pulled away and immediately excused herself, leaving you in the middle of the dance floor. For a brief second your eyes locked with Lara’s before you immediately looked away and got lost in the crowd.

“Hey!” the girl with Lara said in an offended tone when Lara pushed her off her lap to go find you. Lara didn’t bother with her and made her way through the swarm of bodies. She finally found you on the balcony, overlooking the yard.

“Everything okay?” Lara asked, reaching out for you. You seemed frozen in place. She stepped closer to the railing and followed your gaze. There it was: Sophia and Grant kissing sloppily. Lara saw that you were silently crying and placed a hand on your shoulder before slowly guiding you away from the scene. Her hand grabbed onto yours and led you out of the sorority house. “Let me walk you back to your dorm,” Lara offered and you nodded silently.

Lara walked beside me, noticing how you were clutching your arms like you were cold. She didn’t have a jacket so she wrapped an arm around you. Lara was worried about your reaction but you didn’t say anything.

She hated seeing you like this. When you rejected her a few weeks back, Lara would’ve loved to see you feel reduced down to this pathetic state. Now, she wanted to kill Sophia for making you feel this way.

“Thank you,” you said hoarsely once you were outside your dorm room.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lara said. Part of her was hoping that you would invite her in, so she could— honestly she didn’t even know what she wanted to do to you anymore. Just something, but you didn’t. “Call me if you need anything,” Lara offered and you nodded, mumbling out another ‘thanks’ in response.

Lara hesitantly walked away. Maybe one day you would reach out to her. Hopefully.

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

You stared up at the ceiling as you soaked in the tub. It felt like you were screaming in your head, but the volume was turned down to the point where you couldn’t even hear yourself. You weren’t sure if you were still angry from Bucky breaking ties with your parents or if you were resolute in what would happen going forward. Or maybe you were still tired from everything.

Probably both tbh

Natasha’s face shimmered in your mind since you now had some unexpected time off. “Self defense lessons later this week? Please and thanks. I hope you’re doing okay.”

She's a gem 🫰🏻

You wondered if you should tell her about your plans to help other women. Bucky gave you the green light and wanted to help how he could, but she would have insight and perspective that he didn’t. Would he be jealous if you sought out her opinion? Too bad if he did. This project would be yours with your rules.

Period 👏🏻

You felt his penetrating gaze. He wanted to see you, touch you. “Bucky, what if I never sleep with you? Would you still want me in your life?” you asked curiously. His obsession ran deep and he said he would never force you, but what if you never gave in? What then? A thoughtful look crossed his face. “Yes, I would.”

Oh 👀

He nodded slowly. “I haven't made it a secret that I want you physically. I dream of all the ways I’ll make you say my name and I think of how perfect you'll feel when I'm inside you. The thought of having you haunts my every waking moment in the best way,” he answered, your breath hitching when he crossed the distance to you. “But I want your heart and love. That’s what I want the most.”

That is actually really sweet

Because love wasn't easy or a passive feeling. It was a choice. Love was about choosing someone over and over, even when it was difficult. As he chose you, didn't he realize you had to choose him in return?

I guess we will see what will happen in the future

Your hands shook when you selected the undergarments. You had to admit they were sexy and would look good on you, which was exactly what you wanted. He’d be on his knees begging for a glimpse while you’d be lost in the world of friendship and letting loose.

🙂‍↕️👏🏻

“You said you’d never make me give up work,” you reminded him, and you wouldn’t. “I only asked because if your new passion project takes off it may take a lot of your time and energy,” he said softly. “You’re worried that doing both will take my time away from you,” you guessed. He’d want your attention too much and wouldn’t want to share with everyone else.

She instantly clocked it

He chuckled. “We’ll make time for each other. Meals together, dates, talking to each other in bed before we go to sleep,” he said. He made it sound like a dream. “Time isn't the issue. I don’t want you spread too thin.”

Of course he puts it in a sweet and caring way

“Will you really let me dance with you if I behave?” he asked, sounding strained. He wanted your love and heart, but it had to be pure agony having you just out of his reach. 

Someone has to put him in his place sometimes 🤷🏻‍♀️

You met his eyes in the mirror when he came up behind you and slipped the necklace on. Elegant, expensive. “Yes, I am,” you said. The second she saw you at the club, even when you’d smile, she’d sense something was off. She was your best friend and knew you too well. You owed it to her and yourself to give her at least a part of the truth of your life. “There’s already enough secrets and I don’t need to carry one more.” Even then, you couldn’t tell her what happened to your attacker since you still didn’t know. 

She is so realy for that! Also not telling your bestie? Yeah right, he can kiss her goodbye right then and there

His lips parted, but he didn’t look too surprised. “I imagine she’ll want to speak with me,” he said, his fingers moving along your skin. That gave you a reason to pause. How would Bucky react when faced with her? “She will,” you agreed. She wouldn’t just want to, she’d insist. “Because she cares about me.” If the roles were reversed, you’d demand to speak to Brady and make sure Addison was safe and cared for. 

That's just the true best friends actually, seems like Bucky doesnt know a lot about that 👀

There was a crack in his expression. “It isn’t a contest, but I still feel like I’ve won because I have you.” He didn’t say it like you were a prize, but you felt like a shiny trophy anyway. “You won because you rigged the system in your favor,” you said.

“I would’ve given it to you and would’ve looked forward to hearing from you,” you told him, his head lifting to gaze at you. “But that’s not what happened,” you whispered. As much as you wish things would’ve worked out that way, that wasn’t your reality. 

One hit after the other, she's on fire lol👏🏻

“Your friends arrived,” Bucky said, chuckling at his phone as you checked yours. Bucky had wanted you to arrive minutes after them, maybe so he could have a bit more time with you to himself. “And apparently Dana asked if Hal could be their personal bartender.” You didn’t mean to laugh, but it came out anyway. You had a feeling Hal would eat that up. Not to mention Dana was harmless since she’d never cheat. She just appreciated a good looking man when she saw one. “Since I’m in charge tonight, I’d love for Hal to be our personal bartender.”

Hahah what a start to the evening

You tugged the strands and received a pleased groan in response. “You will not dock his pay,” you said. Bucky said he gave Hal a raise after the John incident, but you weren’t sure what his paycheck was and you understood the struggle of budgeting and being careful with your funds.

She's so right for this 👏🏻 I have a feeling Buclys employees might like her a lot more than Bucky real soon, because his temper is a liability as a boss in a workspace lol

Curtis didn’t flinch, but something passed over his eyes. You felt the need to defend him because Bucky’s hands were far from clean and it wasn’t his story to tell. “My blood isn’t on his hands and that’s what matters, so leave him alone.” The silence that followed cut like a knife. Curtis’s exhale was audible, shaky, but he gave you a single nod. One of respect and thanks. 

“Curtis? You’ll stay close, right?” you called out when the partition rolled down. You put a hand on Bucky’s thigh when he growled and tried not to feel worried that he may fire him. Did Bucky fire people or did he make them disappear?

Valid question

Love her bond and alliance with Curtis!

Hold You Tight - Part 29

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 28 | Series Masterlist | Part 30

Chapter Word Count: Almost 4k

Chapter Summary: You have a heart-to-heart with Bucky before going to the club, and you hope he keeps his word.

Chapter Warnings: Kissing, jealousy, tension, bonding of sorts, inner turmoil, world building, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight, and thank you for sticking with me! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo . ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411 and @whisperlullaby, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-in-darkness. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You stared up at the ceiling as you soaked in the tub. It felt like you were screaming in your head, but the volume was turned down to the point where you couldn’t even hear yourself. You weren’t sure if you were still angry from Bucky breaking ties with your parents or if you were resolute in what would happen going forward. Or maybe you were still tired from everything.

It didn’t make sense. You should’ve been happy since tonight was going to be a night to take back control, something you desperately wanted. So why weren’t you smiling? Why weren’t you holding yourself high since Bucky agreed to your terms? Was the apprehension from the fact that the night was young and he hadn’t proven anything yet? The only thing he continued to prove was that he wasn’t letting you go, and he would hurt or destroy anyone who disrespected you… except for himself.

You dragged yourself from the tub after a while and checked your phone. A smile crossed your face when you saw how excited the girls were to go to the club. This night wasn’t just about you, but them, too. “The family I chose,” you whispered. The family you’d do anything to protect.

You frowned when you saw a message from Mrs. Crandle. “I know you're going through some things, so I arranged for you to have the week off. Don't worry about pay or your schedule. I have it sorted. You just let me know if you need anything.”

Your heart sank. A whole week off? You had the money, thankfully, but you wanted to do your job. You appreciated that she was looking out for you the way a good boss should. “Thank you so much. I’ll reach out if I need anything.”

Natasha’s face shimmered in your mind since you now had some unexpected time off. “Self defense lessons later this week? Please and thanks. I hope you’re doing okay.”

You wondered if you should tell her about your plans to help other women. Bucky gave you the green light and wanted to help how he could, but she would have insight and perspective that he didn’t. Would he be jealous if you sought out her opinion? Too bad if he did. This project would be yours with your rules.

“Barnes said you’d be reaching out. Send me your schedule and we’ll set up a time. And don’t worry about my well-being. I’m more concerned about you. Take care of yourself.”

You sighed, not wanting her to worry about you either. You had enough to think about. Lois, arranging the flowers for Bucky’s mom, Thor's party, the double date with Steve, the wedding, and-

“Enjoy your bath?”

You were lucky you didn't drop your phone or fall when you spun around to face Bucky. He had a smug smirk on his face as he leaned against the door. “Jesus,” you whispered, tugging the robe tighter around yourself. How long had he been standing there? “I swear you enjoy scaring me.”

“I wasn't trying to scare you. I was just watching you.”

You shivered. Bucky was always watching you in some capacity. “And you were tired of watching and wanted my attention… while I’m naked.”

His eyes flashed with lust. “You're not completely naked since you're wearing a robe.”

You felt his penetrating gaze. He wanted to see you, touch you. “Bucky, what if I never sleep with you? Would you still want me in your life?” you asked curiously. His obsession ran deep and he said he would never force you, but what if you never gave in? What then?

A thoughtful look crossed his face. “Yes, I would.”

You didn't blink. “Really?” That wasn't the answer you were expecting. 

He nodded slowly. “I haven't made it a secret that I want you physically. I dream of all the ways I’ll make you say my name and I think of how perfect you'll feel when I'm inside you. The thought of having you haunts my every waking moment in the best way,” he answered, your breath hitching when he crossed the distance to you. “But I want your heart and love. That’s what I want the most.”

He looked at your mouth only for a moment before looking into your eyes. You didn't move. Didn't speak. No matter the question, no matter the path, the man was going to choose you every time.

Because love wasn't easy or a passive feeling. It was a choice. Love was about choosing someone over and over, even when it was difficult. As he chose you, didn't he realize you had to choose him in return?

“Will you really keep your distance tonight?” you asked. 

You held your breath when his hand went to the tie of your robe, but made no move to undo it. “It’ll be very difficult, but I’m determined to prove my worth to you and that I’m a man of my word,” he replied. 

Was that his intention, or was he playing the game of luring you into a false sense of comfort? You hated it. You hated how his manipulations, his gaslighting, made you continue to question every single thing. It wasn't a way to live. 

“We both need help,” you whispered. 

“What?” he asked, but you shook your head and pulled away. The weight of everything felt heavy once again and you didn't want to face it tonight. 

“Nothing. I should get dressed,” you said. Tonight was for fun and reclaiming a part of yourself. Tomorrow you could continue to pick up the pieces of the wreckage. 

“Let me help, please,” he said, taking your hand before you could leave. “At the very least, let me put your necklace and shoes on while we talk.”

If he helped you get dressed, there was a chance he may try something. It could be another way to prove his worth and word if he behaved. “You can help with the necklace and shoes.”

He smiled and kissed the top of your hand. “You’ll be the envy of everyone at the club.”

“That’s not the point,” you said, following him to the bedroom. You wondered how far away Curtis and Ray were. “I don’t want people to envy me.” Especially when there was nothing to envy. 

He paused to gaze at you. “But they will.”

“Because I’m ‘your girl’,” you said. That made sense if people there knew you were with him.

“Because you’re you and you're beautiful,” he corrected you, staying back while you went into the closet. “I’m not looking.”

“But I know you want to,” you muttered, going through the dresses. You chose a sleek black dress, your heart weeping. A black dress was what you wore the night Bucky first spotted you in his club and led him to carving his twisted path. 

“You sure you want to be out late tonight? You have work tomorrow,” Bucky said from outside of the door. 

“Mrs. Crandle gave me the week off,” you replied. 

“That was kind of her,” he said casually, respectfully. If he had a hand in it, he covered it up well. “Would you ever consider quitting the shop?”

Your hands shook when you selected the undergarments. You had to admit they were sexy and would look good on you, which was exactly what you wanted. He’d be on his knees begging for a glimpse while you’d be lost in the world of friendship and letting loose. “You said you’d never make me give up work,” you reminded him, and you wouldn’t. 

“I only asked because if your new passion project takes off it may take a lot of your time and energy,” he said softly. 

“You’re worried that doing both will take my time away from you,” you guessed. He’d want your attention too much and wouldn’t want to share with everyone else.

He chuckled. “We’ll make time for each other. Meals together, dates, talking to each other in bed before we go to sleep,” he said. He made it sound like a dream. “Time isn't the issue. I don’t want you spread too thin.”

You almost smiled at his genuine concern. “I’ll be okay. I know my limits,” you said, stepping out once you were dressed. 

Bucky blocked your path before you could walk to the vanity. “Fuck,” he whispered, giving you a thorough look. It was the look you predicted he’d have, except hungrier when he attempted to close the difference. You felt powerful and untouchable when you held a hand up to stop him. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

“That word,” you whispered. He had you back on the pedestal. He never brought you down from it. “But thank you.”

“Will you really let me dance with you if I behave?” he asked, sounding strained. He wanted your love and heart, but it had to be pure agony having you just out of his reach. 

You shrugged and walked around him. “Maybe,” you replied, running a finger along one of the expensive bottles as you sat down. “Depends on how much fun I’m having with my friends.” 

How many of Bucky’s men would watch you tonight? At that moment you didn’t care. Let them look. Let them see that you weren’t broken. 

He groaned and went to pick out a necklace for you. “You’re going to tell Addison, aren’t you?” 

“Tell her what exactly?” you asked, taking a moment to look at your reflection. At least you didn’t look as exhausted as you previously felt.

“About your attack and the fact that you’re living with me now,” he replied.

You met his eyes in the mirror when he came up behind you and slipped the necklace on. Elegant, expensive. “Yes, I am,” you said. The second she saw you at the club, even when you’d smile, she’d sense something was off. She was your best friend and knew you too well. You owed it to her and yourself to give her at least a part of the truth of your life. “There’s already enough secrets and I don’t need to carry one more.” Even then, you couldn’t tell her what happened to your attacker since you still didn’t know. 

His lips parted, but he didn’t look too surprised. “I imagine she’ll want to speak with me,” he said, his fingers moving along your skin.

That gave you a reason to pause. How would Bucky react when faced with her? “She will,” you agreed. She wouldn’t just want to, she’d insist. “Because she cares about me.” If the roles were reversed, you’d demand to speak to Brady and make sure Addison was safe and cared for. 

“She does care about you.” He maintained eye contact when he leaned down and kissed your neck. “But no one cares about you more than I do,” he said. Sharp. Protective.

“It isn’t a contest,” you whispered. 

There was a crack in his expression. “It isn’t a contest, but I still feel like I’ve won because I have you.”

He didn’t say it like you were a prize, but you felt like a shiny trophy anyway. “You won because you rigged the system in your favor,” you said.

His jaw tightened, but his eyes remained soft. “I guess I did,” he said, turning your chair so you were no longer looking in the mirror and dropping to his knees. You remembered the reverse in your old apartment, him on his knees taking your shoes off. It seemed like so long ago. “But I haven’t really won yet since the race isn’t over.”

“What race?”

“To win your heart,” he whispered, grasping your ankle to help put your shoe on. He did so carefully like you were a work of art he was carving with his own hands. “Bookstore.”

You refused to melt under his touch. “Bookstore?” you repeated, confused. 

“In another life, I imagine us meeting in a bookstore instead of me doing what I did. I’d walk in, probably having an off day and needing something familiar and comforting, and I’d see you- smiling, beautiful, enough to make my heart stop before it started beating again,” he explained, bringing your foot up to kiss it. You shivered involuntarily. “I’d offer to buy you a book and maybe a treat to go with it. You’d say I didn’t have to do that for you, but I’d insist and you’d thank me before asking me to join you in the cafe area.”

“Us sitting and talking about our favorite books.” You didn’t want to picture it, but you could see it clearly in your mind. Bucky would’ve been dressed down instead of wearing a suit, a blue shirt to go with his eyes.  His hair would’ve been a bit of a mess and he’d offer a soft smile when he bought the book. You wouldn’t have been able to resist. 

“Yeah,” he smiled sadly, setting your foot down to grab the other. “I wouldn’t have left without getting your number and would’ve tried to wait a reasonable amount of time before reaching out.”

“I would’ve given it to you and would’ve looked forward to hearing from you,” you told him, his head lifting to gaze at you. “But that’s not what happened,” you whispered. As much as you wish things would’ve worked out that way, that wasn’t your reality. 

“Our story is… different. Unique. Messy. Because I’m a monster disguised as a king,” he said, kissing your inner ankle. “You said so yourself that I’m a monster.”

You inhaled sharply. “Bucky, I…” How could you argue with that when you had called him that? 

“A monster who has you trapped in an expensive tower, refusing to ever let you go, but hoping you’ll still flourish by my side,” he continued, kissing higher and breathing against your skin. You clenched, you ached, you couldn’t help yourself. “Maybe I can never be completely redeemed, but I can be… rewritten. Reshaped.”

You looked down at him, your eyes raw. The silence was tense as he placed another kiss on your skin, this time on your inner thigh. He touched you like he had the right, breathed your name like he owned it. “And what if you can’t?” you asked. 

There wasn’t doubt in your tone, but Bucky was surrounded by people who fed the monster within and encouraged him to be the worst version of himself. Curtis and Natasha weren’t as bad as the others as they only gave him scraps and Ray did what he could, but you were the only one who seemed to soothe the beast. Was that power or just an unhealthy reliance?

His mouth didn’t move any higher, but you put your foot to his chest anyway to push him back. “If anyone has the capacity to love a monster, it’s you.”

“You think too much of me,” you said. He asked too much of you, too. “I’m trying to heal,” you added. From Clark, from Bucky, too. All of it. 

He didn’t appear deterred. “Thinking too much of you doesn’t mean you won’t love me. And you heal as loudly or quietly as you need to. No one can tell you how to process it, especially me.”

Something in your chest twisted when he got to his feet. “I just wish you didn’t have to crawl into the cracks of my life to bring us here,” you told him. He shouldn’t have had to rearrange your world to get you.

His breath caught when he opened his mouth. “But you crawled into the cracks of my life and made me whole. How can I go back to who I was before that?”

He left, leaving something hollow in his absence. The necklace and dress suddenly felt too tight. You felt like you’d burst out of your skin. You refused because you wouldn’t let yourself shatter. He wouldn’t have control over you. 

Not tonight.

The drive to the club passed in quiet solitude. Ray and Curtis hardly spoke a word to you once you left the bedroom, but you felt their focus on you just the same. Bucky didn’t say much either, but he didn’t need to. His presence would linger long after he let you be. 

He had given you an olive branch on the way out the door- He set up a visit for you and Lois tomorrow. You hadn’t expected him to arrange it, but you shouldn’t have been surprised. He knew how much you wanted to see with your own eyes what condition she was in. You also wanted to assure her that Clark would never harm her again. Could you do that without revealing Bucky’s hand in it?

“Your friends arrived,” Bucky said, chuckling at his phone as you checked yours. Bucky had wanted you to arrive minutes after them, maybe so he could have a bit more time with you to himself. “And apparently Dana asked if Hal could be their personal bartender.”

You didn’t mean to laugh, but it came out anyway. You had a feeling Hal would eat that up. Not to mention Dana was harmless since she’d never cheat. She just appreciated a good looking man when she saw one. “Since I’m in charge tonight, I’d love for Hal to be our personal bartender.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, but that stopped the moment you ran your fingers through his hair. “Kotyonok, that’s not fair. I know the bastard will flirt with you.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” you teased, watching him close his eyes and breathe deeply. “Hal won’t flirt,” you said, not believing your own lie. “Plus I trust him to take care of my friends and me.”

Hal had defended you when John snapped at you at the bar and took his job seriously. He seemed decent. Well, as decent as anyone working for Bucky could be.

“Fine, but I’m docking his pay if he throws his shirt at you,” he said, a small smirk on his face.

You tugged the strands and received a pleased groan in response. “You will not dock his pay,” you said. Bucky said he gave Hal a raise after the John incident, but you weren’t sure what his paycheck was and you understood the struggle of budgeting and being careful with your funds.

“Fine,” he said again. You were relieved at that. “Only because you said so.” 

The bass thrummed through the car when it stopped in front of the club, a living and breathing entity. It was a bit ironic that you were willingly going there to take back control when you wanted nothing to do with the place the first time he brought you there. You had wanted to be invisible, to not be noticed. This time you painted the target on yourself for the man beside you.

“Curtis? You’ll stay close, right?” you called out when the partition rolled down. You put a hand on Bucky’s thigh when he growled and tried not to feel worried that he may fire him. Did Bucky fire people or did he make them disappear?

Curtis looked behind him and paid Bucky no mind. “I’ll keep handsy guys away if that’s what you’re asking for.”

“Jax and Ari can handle that,” Bucky said, his voice icy. 

“And so can Curtis,” you said. What was he jealous of? You were fond of Ray and the reactions were nothing like this. “He’s my bodyguard. Don’t forget that.”

Bucky forced a smile, cruel and bitter. “He may be your bodyguard and I may have been the one to suggest it, but I know he has blood on his hands that won't ever go away.”

Curtis didn’t flinch, but something passed over his eyes. You felt the need to defend him because Bucky’s hands were far from clean and it wasn’t his story to tell. “My blood isn’t on his hands and that’s what matters, so leave him alone.”

The silence that followed cut like a knife. Curtis’s exhale was audible, shaky, but he gave you a single nod. One of respect and thanks. 

Bucky’s breath out was shaky, too, but he gazed at you with respect, too, when he turned your face away from your bodyguard. “You’re right,” he whispered, kissing you softly. Not forceful, but certain. Gentle and assured. “I’m sorry I let jealousy get the better of me.”

So he admitted that he's jealous of Curtis. “It’s easier said than done, but there’s nothing to be jealous of,” you said in the space between you. It wasn’t like Curtis wanted you. Even if he did, nothing would come about with him or any other man for that matter. “Trust me.”

His mouth was on yours again, deeper but slow. “I do trust you,” he said once he pulled away. “I just… hate that he gets to be close to you tonight while I’m out of reach.”

Reverence and desire showed in Bucky’s eyes. He wanted so desperately to be in your orbit and he’d be tested once you walked through the doors. “You’ll only be out of reach until I offer my hand,” you said. 

He sighed, but nodded. “And I’ll be waiting to take it,” he said, helping you out.

As Bucky led you inside with Curtis not too far behind, the vibrant chaos of the lights, laughter, and sin washed over you. Bucky kept a hand on your lower back, his grip a bit looser than usual. It was almost respectful. Almost. 

Jax spotted you immediately and winked. You winked back and walked with purpose, carrying your invisible wounds and previous insecurities like badges of honor. Bucky held himself like a man who had everything. And he did, didn’t he?

“I still can’t meet her yet?” you asked when Bucky swept you past the coat check. Or maybe Steve’s girl had the night off. 

“Double date,” he reminded you. 

“That’s right,” you muttered. Another piece in the jagged price of his love. 

Bucky nodded and smiled at a few people, keeping you tucked in at his side. “Go to your friends,” he encouraged, his lips grazing yours when you faced him. “If they ask why I haven’t stopped by, you can tell them I have business to attend to first.”

You craned your head toward the VIP section and smiled when the girls spotted you and waved excitedly. “And you’ll only join when I say so?” You met Bucky's gaze and a silent challenge passed between you before he smiled. 

“You said ‘when’ and not ‘if’,” he said. 

You faltered. Did you mean to say that? “Don’t get cocky just yet,” you warned. Depending on how the night went, he may not have a chance. “Keep your word and watch.”

There was reluctant submission from the man who never bowed to anyone. But he nodded, a king ceding his crown and part of his kingdom for the night. “I'll be watching and waiting, Kotyonok,” he promised, his gaze and aura still overwhelming even as he reluctantly released you. “But if anyone touches you, I’ll ruin them. I swear to fucking God, I’ll-”

You cut him off with a tender kiss, like he had done to you in the car earlier that day. His hands found your hips and he moved closer like the pull of gravity, but you turned your head before it could become too heated. Your rules tonight, not his. “If someone tries to touch me, someone will stop it,” you soothed him, pulling out of his grasp.

His fingers twitched, but he didn't reach out to touch you again. “Go,” he breathed, a warning to walk away so he could keep his promise. 

There was a sway in your hips as you went to join your friends. You weren’t worried. He'd be your watchful shadow while you reigned.

But shadows had ways of wrapping around the light, and you'd be in his arms before the night was over. 

I don't want to spoil things, lovelies, but things may heat up a bit in the next chapter. What do you think will happen? And the blood on Curtis's hands, what is that story? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[zzzsunghoon]

[TEASER] DO OUR HEARTS STILL BEAT IN TWO?

ex!ni-ki x f!reader smut (18+ minors dni), college/university au, second chances wc 653 teaser // 10.6k fic

blurb! you haven’t seen NISHIMURA RIKI since the messy breakup that tore you apart months ago. he couldn’t commit, couldn’t give what you needed, so you left, empty and heartbroken. then one night, at a house party, you spot him. your friends warned you. you swore you were done. but what happens when a game shoves you into a dark closet, alone together?

warnings! unprotected sex (p in v), creampie, argument, 7 minutes in heaven, making out, grinding, dry humping, oral sex (f), ni-ki rib tattoo, petnames (baby, good/filthy girl), exhibitionism, poor jake lol

a/n! i was listening to the song ‘12 to 12’ and somehow conjured up this plot, it doesn’t really follow the song's actual story, but it made me think of this scenario, so here we are (≧◡≦). kinda got carried away LOL HOW'D THIS GET TO 10K WORDS... aaa this is my first time writing, lmk if you want to be tagged!

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, and does not reflect how the characters actually are irl, nor does it represent my views of them. side characters from other groups may not be accurately written. not proofread.

The bass is thumping through the walls of the house like a second heartbeat. Someone has spilled beer on the couch already, while someone else is screaming the lyrics to a song they don’t even know. Minju is clutching your hand, the two of you on the lookout for the rest of your friends, who seem to have already wandered off the second that some alcohol got into their systems. The warm and dim mood light that filled the space made it more difficult to find anyone. All bodies blending into one from a distance. Her grip on you is firm, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You kind of already have.

You’re physically here. In this house that has quickly become far too hot with the number of people shoved into it, the crowded living room you were in is surrounded by faces you don’t even recognize half of. Your mind however, is somewhere else. Stuck somewhere twenty minutes ago. Caught in the moment you bumped into him.

You had just arrived and were weaving your way through the crowd, barely missing the splatter of drinks being thrown around by swaying, half-drunk bodies. You were pulled away from Minju and the others the second that you stepped foot in the rented house, attempting to regroup with your friends while also making a short detour to the table with the punch.

‘Pure fuel’

You had absolutely no idea what was in it but at this point you didn’t really care, just wanting to let loose for a night.

Your friends had dragged you out of your dorm because you had been cooped up in there for nights on end, far too focused on studying and trying not to think too hard about a certain someone. You thought you may as well have a little fun now that you’re here.

After pushing past some strangers, the large glass punch bowl came into view and you immediately held onto the kitchen counter to steady yourself, the amount of people in this house was no joke. Without looking, you reached for a red solo cup, ready to get buzzed, when you felt the soft brush of fingers against yours. You jolt. Someone from behind you had reached out at the exact same time you did.

“Oh, sorry” You mumbled softly, pulling back to allow the stranger to go first.

But as the stranger moved to pour himself a drink, pressed up against your side, your body began to remember. A specific scent of strong cologne. A familiar warmth. Your heart instantly knew but your brain was still catching up. You turned.

Nishimura Riki.

Aside from his freshly bleached hair and broader shoulders. Damn he’s been working out. Everything else about him was still the same. The sharpness in his features. The calm arrogance in the way he carries himself. The way people stop and stare when he walks through a room, not because he wants them to, but because his presence demands it. The boy you once loved.

Your stomach folds inwards, hands tightening around the counter. You don’t realize you’re staring until he looks down at you.

Upon meeting your gaze his eyebrows raise ever so slightly, only noticeable to you, who’s looking right back at him. He’s surprised, you can tell, not expecting to see you here. A flicker of emotion runs behind his eyes, something almost like hurt flashes, so fast you hardly register it before he quickly regains his composure.

You feel your cheeks heat up sligthly at being caught staring. He just finishes pouring his drink before smirking at you in that naturally flirty way he does, placing the ladle of the punch bowl down as he disappears into the crowd. Gone, again. As if he was never there.

—

In a moment of weakness, you whisper, “Do you still think about me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “More than I’d like to admit.”

TBC.

[ceyanabbiolo]

𝑮𝑹𝑼𝑫𝑮𝑬 | 𝑪𝑯𝑹𝑰𝑺 𝑺𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑶𝑳𝑶 [22]

Welcome to Vivianne Hall, in which....

Julianna De Francis is put together, perfect, and everything Christopher Sturniolo isn’t. He’s reckless, cocky, and the one person who’s always gotten under her skin. Raised in the same elite world but constantly at odds, their rivalry turns into something deeper as tension sparks into something neither expected. In a world obsessed with appearances, falling for each other could cost them everything...

Warnings: angst, mentions of drinking

Chapter 22: The Grudge

── .✦ JULIANNA

I have nightmares each week about that day in March

The trust that he betrayed, confusion that still lingers. He quite literally took everything I loved and crushed it in between his fingers. 

I had to get over it. 

I decided I should go to class today. I couldn’t afford to miss another one. Not if I wanted to keep pretending everything was fine.

So I got up. Forced myself out of bed. 

I went to my favorite café—not for the coffee, just for the comfort of the routine. I ordered something cold and sugary. Then I picked out an outfit I’d normally wear, applied my makeup with a steady-enough hand, and tried to make my reflection look like the version of me I remembered.

I looked like myself.

And according to Eden, I had to come to this party tonight, to feel like myself. Which was stupid in hindsight because I wasn’t a party person. 

Then I left my dorm and made my way across campus. I walked slower than usual, letting the cool air bite at my cheeks, trying to hold onto the quiet for just a few more minutes. 

Vivianne Hall loomed into view. The building was so familiar it almost felt impersonal now. I walked its halls like muscle memory, climbed the stairs I knew too well, and found myself inside my communications lecture. 

I slid into my usual seat. I was early, intentionally, and tapped the shoulder of a girl I knew from class to ask what I missed last week. She gave me a polite rundown. I nodded, half-listening, more focused on keeping my breath steady. 

Then, I felt it—that presence. The unmistakable weight of someone sitting beside me.

I didn’t have to look. My stomach dropped. 

Oh, kill me.

I knew who it was before he even took a breath.

I didn’t look.

Not even a glance.

I kept my eyes on the slides loading up on the screen at the front of the lecture hall. My fingers tightened slightly around my pen. I could see his outline in my peripheral vision, could feel the way the air seemed to shift with him sitting so close. 

Seconds passed.

“Hi” 

It was soft. Like he wasn’t sure if he should be saying it at all.

But I didn’t respond. I just stared ahead, lips pressed together, refusing to let myself react. Because if I did, and gave in, it would unravel me.

I thought about getting up and moving to a different seat. The urge was strong, but I didn’t. That would be too dramatic. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he still got to me.

So I stayed still.

“Jules,” he said, voice lower this time—more careful. “How’ve you been?”

I blinked once. My throat was dry, but I didn’t dare clear it. I didn’t owe him a response. Not after what I saw. My fingers tightened around the pen in my lap, knuckles paling.

I wasn’t going to cry. I had promised myself that. 

I focused on the screen, on the slideshow, on the lecture that hadn’t even started yet.

I didn’t turn to him.

He shifted beside me, and I could feel his eyes on the side of my face like they were burning a hole through my skin. Still, I didn’t look.

“Jules,” he said again, more gently this time. 

I let out a slow breath through my nose, my eyes fixed on the front of the lecture hall. My chest ached from holding it all in.

That was it.

I turned to him slightly, just enough for him to see the frustration swimming in my eyes. My voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut glass.

“Please, Chris… just stop.”

He blinked, caught off guard.

I turned away before he could say anything else, blinking hard to keep the tears from spilling over. My throat tightened, the pressure in my chest almost unbearable. I wasn’t going to break down. Not here. Not in front of him.

I stared at the front of the room, pretending to be engrossed in the half-full slides already projected on the screen. But my mind wouldn’t quiet down.

He was right there, sitting next to me like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t shattered me. He looked good. Of course he did. His hair was still messy in that effortless way, and he smelled exactly the same—clean, warm, and manly. He was the comfort, and I wasn’t allowed to reach for anything else.

I sat frozen the entire lecture, barely taking in a word the professor said. I nodded along, even jotted down a few notes, but none of it stuck. All I could focus on was the way his knee barely brushed mine once.  The way I could hear his pen clicking every so often. The way he didn’t try again. And that almost made it worse.

The moment class ended, I didn’t waste a second. I gathered my things with shaking hands and slipped past the row of seats before the room had even cleared. My heels echoed against the hallway tile as I pushed the door open. The second I crossed the threshold, I exhaled—

And then I felt it.

A hand, gentle, curling just around my elbow. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just… stopping me.

My entire body tensed.

“Jules,” his voice came, low and hesitant behind me.

God, he had to stop.

I turned around slowly, already regretting it. He was standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, brows furrowed as he scanned my face like he was trying to read between the lines—trying to find something that maybe wasn’t there anymore.

But I couldn’t meet his gaze. Looking at him brought it all back. The aching, the betrayal, the hate I still carried like it was stitched into my skin.

“I was wondering when you’d come back,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t want to sound too eager.

I didn’t answer. I just shook my head, jaw clenched, and kept my eyes fixed somewhere just over his shoulder.

“Jules,” he sighed again, stepping a little closer. “Can you just… talk to me?”

I finally looked up at him, but my expression was flat, emotionless. “I have nothing to say to you.”

His face tensed. “Seriously?”

I blinked slowly. “You don’t get to be upset with me.”

“I’m not upset—”

“Then what are you?” I snapped, arms crossing tightly over my chest. “Why are you trying to talk to me?”

He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak.

“You let me go, Chris, you don’t need to check up on me..”

“That’s not fair—”

I cut him off. 

“No. What’s not fair is you trying to act like we’re okay now. Like we can just have a conversation and pretend nothing happened.”

He looked frustrated now, his jaw shifting. “I never said we were okay. I’m just trying—”

“To do what? Make peace? Ease your guilt?”

“Jules.”

“No,” I said, more firmly this time. “You don’t get to act like the victim here.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“Then stop acting like it.”

He stared at me, jaw clenched, eyes stormy. But he didn’t say anything else.

“Go back to your new girl or your next hookup or whatever,” I said sharply, spinning around on my heel. “She’s the one who wants you. Not me.”

Before I could take another step, he grabbed my wrist again, not harsh, just enough to stop me. “So that’s what this is about?” he asked, incredulous. “This is about Ava and what you saw the other day?”

I didn’t answer.

He let out a frustrated breath. “We’re not together, Jules.”

“She kissed you,” I said, my voice barely holding steady.

“Yeah,” he admitted, stepping closer. “She kissed me on the cheek. I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t even see it coming.”

I scoffed, yanking my arm back. “Do you think that makes it any better?”

He frowned, the crease between his brows deepening. “You don’t even believe me.”

“Of course I don’t believe you, Chris, ” I shook my head slowly, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. “I don’t trust you anymore,” I whispered. “You lied to me. Again and again. All you’ve ever done is lie.”

“You don’t get it,” he said, his tone suddenly sharp, defensive. “You think you know everything, but you never even gave me a chance to explain.”

“Explain what?” I snapped, finally meeting his eyes. “That while I was breaking down over us, you were letting another girl hang off you like nothing even happened? Don’t insult me.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like, Chris? Enlighten me.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Just more silence.

“Exactly,” I said, bitterly. “You never have anything to say unless it’s too late.”

I sniffed, trying to blink away the tears clouding my vision. My voice cracked before I even got the words out.

“Is that why you broke up with me?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “Was it her? The whole time?” My eyes searched his face, hoping—maybe stupidly—for some kind of denial. “Do you like her, Chris? Is that it?”

He looked stunned, like I’d slapped him.

“No,” he said, a little too quickly. “No, Jules. That’s not what happened. I didn’t end things because of her.”

“Then what?” I demanded, voice rising with every word. “What was it, Chris? Because one second we were fine, and the next, you were cold, distant, like I didn’t even matter. You ghosted me, and now suddenly you want to act like none of it happened?” 

“I didn’t ghost you—”

“Yes, you did!” I shouted. “Don’t gaslight me. You stopped replying, stopped answering my calls, and made me feel like I was nothing. And now you’re here pretending you’re still the same guy I fell for?”

“Jules, I don’t want there to be this weird vibe between us for the rest of the year,” Chris said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading.

I let out a bitter laugh, the kind that didn’t hold any humor. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Chris,” I said, turning to face him for just a second, “but you’re the one who created the vibe.”

Before he could respond, I spun on my heel, walking away as fast as my legs would carry me. I didn’t care where I was going—I just needed to put space between us. My heart was pounding in my ears, and I felt as if I stayed another second, I’d either scream or cry—or both.

“Jules, wait!” he called after me.

But I didn’t.

I kept walking, my fists clenched and throat tight. He didn’t get to cause all this damage and then decide when it was time to play nice. He didn’t get to act like we could just go back to being casual, like the history between us wasn’t burning holes in every room we entered together. 

And I try to be tough, but I wanna scream. 

How could anybody do the things he did so easily? 

And I say I don't care, I say that I'm fine when in reality I was slowly turning feelingless. 

I couldn’t feel anything good anymore. 

Not after what he did. 

Not after what he broke.

── .✦ CHRISTOPHER

I stood there for a moment, watching Jules’s figure grow smaller with every step until she finally disappeared around the corner.

My chest tightened. I ran a hand down my face and let out a long, frustrated sigh.

Of course, she didn’t want to talk to me. Not after everything I’d done. Not after the way I left her.

But still—I needed to know how she was. I needed to hear her say she was okay. Even if she hated me, even if she never wanted to look at me again, I couldn’t shake the guilt that kept pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t drop.

I turned the other way and started walking toward my dorm, every step heavier than the last.

The halls felt colder. Or maybe that was just in my head.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, trying not to overthink the way her voice cracked. The way her eyes filled with tears when she told me she didn’t trust me anymore.

I didn’t blame her.

But damn, it still hurts.

I reached my dorm room door, slid the key into the lock, and pushed it open. The room greeted me with a thick, heavy silence, the kind that made everything feel ten times louder than it actually was.

I stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind me with a dull click, then leaned back against it, staring blankly at the ceiling.

For the past week and a half, I’d been losing my mind.

Not just over what happened. Not just over the way Jules looked at me today like I was a stranger, but over everything. The silence, the space between us, the guilt, the regret, and the fact that I hadn’t stopped her when I had the chance.

I dropped my bag to the floor and dragged myself to the bed, falling onto it like my body was too tired to carry everything anymore. 

I had skipped the rest of my classes for the day. I just laid in bed for hours scrolling and doing meaningless things. 

Then, right when I placed my phone down. 

A buzz cut through the silence. I grabbed it off the nightstand.

Nick: You still coming?

Right. There was a party tonight. Some start-of-term thing off-campus.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to be around people, much less pretend like everything was fine when it wasn’t.

Chris: I don’t know

The reply came fast.

Nick: Just come. Stop lying around. You need to get out of your head for five minutes.

I let out a slow breath, eyes scanning the ceiling again like it held some kind of answer. Maybe he was right. Maybe I did need to stop stewing in this room and letting my thoughts eat me alive.

I sat up, rubbed my face with both hands, and stood.

Fine. I’d go.

I pulled on a clean hoodie, raked my fingers through my hair, and grabbed my keys. Maybe a drink or two would numb the mess in my chest. Maybe the noise would drown out the echo of Jules’s voice in my head.

When I got to the house, the music was already thumping through the walls, bass shaking the floor beneath my shoes. Purple LED lights lined the ceiling inside, casting a soft glow over the crowd of people dancing, laughing, and shouting over the music.

I had barely stepped through the door when a couple of my teammates spotted me from across the room and made their way over.

“Yo, Chris!” one of them—Trey, I think—clapped me on the back. “Where the hell were you this morning? Coach was losing it.”

I offered a shrug and moved toward the closest open spot on the couch, collapsing onto it like I hadn’t slept in days. Which, in fairness, I hadn’t. Not properly.

“Was busy,” I muttered, reaching for a red solo cup off the table beside me just to give my hands something to do. “Had an assignment I needed to wrap up.”

Lie.

I hadn’t touched a single assignment. I’d skipped class. Skipped practice. Skipped every responsibility the second I saw Jules earlier today. My mind had been a storm since, spiraling in a thousand directions.

But none of them needed to know that.

Trey laughed, shaking his head. “Bro, Coach nearly benched the whole line just to prove a point. You better show up tomorrow or he’s gonna have a heart attack.”

I just nodded absently, barely hearing him. The party around me felt far away, like I was watching it from behind glass. People were dancing, drinking, and hooking up in corners. And here I was, thinking about the girl who wouldn’t even look at me anymore.

I brought the cup to my lips, took a sip of whatever cheap mix someone had thrown together, and let it burn down my throat.

This wasn’t helping.

Still, I stayed, because going home meant being alone again, and I wasn’t sure what was worse—pretending I was okay here or falling apart by myself.

Someone passed me another drink. I didn’t ask what it was. I just drank.

“Yo,” another guy from the team said, dropping beside me. “You good, man? You seem kinda out of it.”

I forced a smile. “Just tired.”

Another lie. But it was easier than the truth, because the truth was, I couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Jules’s face when she walked away. And how I hadn’t done a damn thing to stop her.

Didn’t matter though; my father's words were final either way. 

The haze of the party thickened around me—music pounding, bodies swaying, cups clinking—but I wasn’t really in it. I sat sunk low into the couch, the half-warm drink in my hand barely touched. My head was heavy, heart even worse, and all I could hear—beneath the bass, beneath the noise—was Jules’ voice telling me to stop.

I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled, then someone slid into the cushion beside me.

I didn’t even look at first. Thought it might be one of the guys again, until the scent of heavy perfume hit my nose. Then a soft hand grazed my arm, fingers trailing down the sleeve of my hoodie. 

"Chris, right?"

I turned slightly. But I didn’t recognize her, not even vaguely.  

"Uh… yeah," I said slowly, blinking at her.

She gave a breathy laugh and crossed one leg over the other, her bare knee bumping into mine. “I thought so. You’re kinda hard to miss.” 

I didn’t respond. Just looked at her, trying to place her face. Nothing. No name. No context. Not even a sliver of memory.

She leaned in closer, fingers brushing my knee now. “I heard you and your girl broke up or something?”

My head tilted, brow narrowing slightly. What?

“Sorry,” I said, my voice flattering now. “Do I know you?”

She just smiled like I’d said something funny. “Not really. I mean—we’ve got mutual friends. Kinda. I’ve seen you around. You’re always so serious.”

I stared at her, still confused.

How the hell did she know about me and Jules? Or even that there was a Jules? Was everyone talking? Was this gossip now?

She didn’t stop. Her hand was now on my thigh, bold and confident. “You don’t have to be alone tonight, you know…” Her voice dropped lower, seductive and slow. “If you’re trying to forget her… I could help.”

That was when I pulled back slightly, blinking as if she’d snapped me out of a trance.

“No thanks,” I said quietly, shifting slightly. 

She blinked, surprised. “Seriously?”

She shifted even closer, clearly not taking the hint. Her knee grazed mine again, and her fingers skimmed the edge of my hoodie sleeve like she had every right to touch me.

I leaned back a little, resting my arm over the back of the couch—not inviting her in, just trying to keep some space.

“No offense,” I said, keeping my voice low and calm, “but I’m just here to chill tonight. Not looking for… that kind of fun.”

Her brows shot up, like I’d just insulted her. “Wow.”

I glanced at her, confused but still polite. “What?”

She let out a breathy laugh, one of those dramatic ones meant to let everyone within earshot know she’d just been wronged. “Nothing,” she said, dragging the word out. “I just didn’t take you for the type to say no.”

I raised a brow. “The type?”

She shrugged, folding her arms across her chest like she was the one who had been hit on and turned down. “Come on. You’re literally Chris. You’ve got a rep, you know. You don’t exactly look like the heartbroken, loyal type.”

I stared at her.

And for a second, I didn’t know whether to be mad or just laugh. This girl didn’t know me. Not even a little. She didn’t know what was eating me alive every night. Didn’t know how much I hated how things went down. Didn’t know that even sitting in this room surrounded by people, I still felt completely alone without her. 

“You got the wrong idea,” I said simply, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. I didn’t even look at her this time. “Whatever rep you think I have, it's not true.”

She scoffed. “Okay, sure. Whatever. Didn’t mean to offend you or anything.” 

I shook my head a little, not out of annoyance, just disbelief.

She stood up sharply, pulling down her dress and smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles. “You’re weird,” she muttered, before walking off with a flip of her hair and the click of her heels against the floor.

I didn’t watch her go.

I just sat there, suddenly more exhausted than before.

Because she wasn’t the problem.

She just reminded me of how far I’d drifted from the only person I actually wanted. And how badly I wished she had been the one to sit down beside me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar figure leaning against the wall near the kitchen—my brother, mid-conversation with some guy I didn’t recognize. I didn’t even hesitate. I stood up and made my way over, relieved to have an excuse to step away from the awkward energy still lingering on that couch.

“Yo, Matt,” I called, weaving between people and tapping his arm.

He turned, a slow grin spreading across his face when he saw me. “Well, well. You made it out of your dorm. Miracles do happen.”

I gave him a flat look and nodded toward the cup in his hand. “What’s in there?”

Matt raised an eyebrow, lifting it lazily. “Beer? Why?”

Without saying anything, I reached for the cup and downed the rest in one go, ignoring the burn sliding down my throat.

Matt watched me, unimpressed. “Okay… dramatic? You do know there’s literally a whole table full of drinks over there, right?”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and shrugged. “Yeah, but stealing yours felt more satisfying.”

Matt narrowed his eyes. “You good?”

I didn’t answer right away. I looked around, my jaw tight, trying not to let the frustration crawl up my throat again.

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

Matt scoffed. “Sure. Because people who are fine always walk around like someone just kicked their dog and then steal their brother’s drink like it’s a life-saving serum.”

I looked at him and offered the most half-assed smile I could manage. “Relax. Just tired of fake people.”

Matt tilted his head. “You mean fake people like that blonde who was all over you five minutes ago?”

I let out a breath, rubbing the back of my neck. “Don’t even start. I don’t even know her name. She just… sat down.”

“She also looked like she was ready to climb you in front of the whole room.”

“Matt,” I warned.

He held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying. Girls like that don’t show up unless they know something.”

I frowned. “Yeah, that’s what freaked me out. I swear I’ve never seen her before. But she knew me. Said something about my relationship ending. I didn’t tell anyone that. So how the hell—”

Matt’s smirk faded into something more serious. “You think someone’s been talking?”

I clenched my jaw. “I don’t know. But if they are, they need to keep my name out of their mouth.”

Matt nodded slowly, eyes scanning the room like he was already trying to pick out the possible suspects. “You want me to find out who she came with?”

“Nah. I don’t care enough.” I shook my head and then paused.“But if I hear some shit about Jules, then say something.”

Matt gave a short laugh, then clapped me on the back. “Well said.”

I exhaled. 

I leaned my shoulder against the wall beside Matt, the half-empty red cup dangling loosely in my hand. The music was blaring—something bass-heavy, making the walls of the house feel like they were vibrating. The air was thick with heat, sweat, and cheap cologne, the kind of scent that told you the night would only get messier.

Matt was saying something about a trip he wanted to take, but I wasn’t really listening. My eyes had drifted across the room—just scanning—until they caught on something that stopped everything else.

Jules.

My Jewel. 

Dancing.

And not just with anyone.

With him.

Tucker.

Her back was to me, head thrown back in laughter as she swayed to the music. Tucker stood behind her, hands too low on her waist, way too comfortable. He leaned in to say something into her ear, and she smiled.

Smiled.

Something in my stomach turned. I straightened up, my jaw tightening as I watched him spin her around, tug her closer like he had every right to. Like he hadn’t spent their entire relationship treating her like shit. Like he hadn’t made her cry, question her worth, or made her feel small.

I knew the look on her face. She was tipsy—just enough to loosen up but not enough to forget. But her eyes…her eyes weren’t focused on him. It was like she was trying to prove a point.

I felt my whole body tense. 

The fuck was she doing? 

“Chris,” Matt said beside me, following my line of sight. “Don’t.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’m serious,” he added, nudging my arm. “You don’t want to do this right now. Don’t do something stupid.”

But I couldn’t look away. Not when her hands slid up Tucker’s arms. Not when he whispered something else in her ear. Not when she laughed again.

My chest ached in a way I didn’t expect. Not like heartbreak. No. It was worse.

It was jealousy.

And guilt.

And a fury I wasn’t sure how to hold down.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” I muttered, pushing off the wall and brushing past Matt, even though I didn’t need one. I just needed to not stand there and watch her dance with someone who never deserved her.

But I couldn’t help myself.

Even after I made it to the kitchen counter, I lingered there like some jealous idiot, eyes glued to her like I had no control over myself. Watching her from across the room like a fucking ghost, like someone who didn’t exist in her world anymore.

And I watched. Way longer than I should have.

For a good few minutes, I stood there, gripping a solo cup I had no intention of drinking from, watching Tucker try to make moves. He kept leaning in like he was about to kiss her—cocky, smug, thinking he could win her back just because he flashed that fake-ass charm of his. But Jules kept turning her head at the last second, swerving just enough to avoid his lips.

But the thing that got me? She didn’t push him off.

She kept letting him stay close, kept swaying to the beat with him behind her like nothing ever happened.

And I stood there, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Why the hell was she entertaining this? She knew better.

She’d cried to me—hell, sobbed—telling me how worthless he made her feel. I’d sat with her, held her while she shook in my arms, listened as she told me all the things he called her. The way he tore her down just because she didn’t let him control her.

And suddenly, the memory hit me—September.

Back when the breakup was still fresh and Tucker was running his mouth in the locker room. Loud enough for everyone to hear. He called her “A waste of time,” Said she “wasn’t even that good in bed,” and laughed about it.

And now here he was. Back in her orbit.

But maybe I didn’t have the right to be mad. Maybe I was the last person who should be judging.

Because I was the asshole who broke her heart without ever giving her a real reason. The coward who walked away when I knew damn well what she meant to me. Because my father told me to.

Still.

That didn’t make this okay.

She wasn’t allowed to fall back into his arms. Not him. Not Tucker. She was too smart for this, too good for this.

And yet, there she was. Letting him pull her in like old times. Laughing. Smiling. Not the same way she used to smile at me, but still. I hated it. 

I hated him. And I hated myself. But most of all, I hated that she looked like she didn’t miss me at all.

I tried to stay against the wall, tried to play it cool like none of this was crawling under my skin. But then Tucker did something that made my hand tighten around my cup—he placed a hand low on her back and started guiding her toward the back patio door.

My entire body stiffened.

I watched Jules hesitate for a second, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she followed him outside.

That was it.

 No more standing around.

I dropped my cup on the nearby table, not even checking if it spilled, and started moving. I could feel Matt call something behind me, but I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t.

Because the second Tucker took Jules outside, every ounce of restraint I had left snapped clean in half.

I didn’t know what I was going to say. I didn’t even know if I had the right to say anything. But I knew I wasn’t going to just stand there while he tried to weasel his way back into her life. 

The second I stepped outside, the patio lights cast a faint glow over the backyard, and I spotted them near the edge of the lawn. Jules had her arms wrapped around herself like she was cold, but she still wasn’t saying anything. Tucker was talking low, too low for me to hear, and leaning way too close.

I saw red.

“Tucker!” I snapped, my voice cutting through the quiet like a whip. “Where the hell are you taking her?”

He stopped mid-step and turned, arm still slightly around her waist. Jules startled, immediately stepping back from him like I’d caught her doing something wrong.

My fists curled.

Tucker blinked at me, all fake confusion, like I was the one being dramatic. “Relax, man. We’re just talking.”

“You don’t need to talk to her out here in the dark,” I said, stepping closer, my tone sharp. “If you’ve got something to say, say it in front of people.”

He scoffed. “She came with me, didn’t she?”

“She didn’t come with you,” I shot back, eyes flicking to Jules. Her face was pale, lips slightly parted like she didn’t know what to say. “And even if she did, you don’t get to take her somewhere she doesn’t want to be.”

Tucker rolled his eyes and looked back at her. “Tell him you’re fine, Jules.”

She didn’t answer right away. That silence made something boil inside me.

“Jules,” I said again, gentler this time. “If you don’t want this—say it.”

Her lips parted. She looked at me, really looked at me, like I was the last person on Earth she wanted to see.

“Chris,” she said finally, her voice tight, forced. “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t even looking at me when she said it. She stared at the ground, arms still folded around herself like she was trying to hold in everything she wasn’t saying.

I took a slow breath, fists unclenching just slightly. “You don’t look fine.”

Tucker gave a smug little chuckle beside her. “Jesus, man, you're always this dramatic? She said she’s fine. Maybe take the hint.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tucker.” My eyes never left Jules. 

Jules finally looked at me then. And God, the look in her eyes hit me harder than anything he could’ve said. She looked tired. Not physically, but emotionally. Like I was exhausting her. Like all I ever did was show up just to make things harder.

“You don’t get to do this,” she said softly. I didn’t answer. “You made your choice, remember?” Her voice didn’t shake, but the way her jaw tightened said everything she wasn’t saying. “You don’t get to care when it’s convenient for you.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” I muttered.

“Then what are you doing?” she asked, arms dropping to her sides. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just pissed I’m not standing around waiting for you to change your mind.”

Tucker, clearly enjoying this, smirked and stepped a little closer to her. “Told you he still had a thing for you.”

I stepped forward instinctively, jaw clenched. “Touch her again and I’ll break your fucking hand.”

Tucker laughed like he didn’t believe me, but he backed off. I could tell Jules was trying not to let any of this show on her face—she was doing that thing she always did when she was hurt. That little retreat into herself.

But I couldn’t leave it at that.

“You deserve better than this,” I said, voice low, barely above the beat of the music thumping from inside—meant only for her.

Tucker slung an arm around her shoulders, like he hadn’t just watched the air drain from her body. “Come on, Jules,” he said, voice overly casual. “I’m taking you back.”

She swayed slightly under his touch. She was drunk—her steps weren’t steady, her eyes glazed in that way that made my chest twist. She wasn’t in the right headspace, not to argue, not to decide.

“You’re not taking her home,” I snapped, stepping forward.

Tucker turned to me, a lazy smirk stretched across his face. He glanced at Jules, “She’s not your responsibility anymore, Sturniolo.”

I ignored him, eyes fixed on her. “Jules…”

But she didn’t even meet my gaze. Just turned slowly, her face unreadable like she’d switched something off.

Tucker began walking away, pulling her with him, and she went. I wanted to grab her and pull her to my side, where she belonged. 

My heart slammed in my chest as I stared in disbelief. She wasn’t fighting it. She wasn’t turning around.

“Jules,” I called again, louder this time. My voice cracked with something desperate and raw.

She paused mid-step, her body going still. She turned slightly, not all the way—just enough that I saw her profile under the yellow porch light.

“There’s no way you’re going with him,” I said, my voice thick now. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “Not after everything.”

She didn’t say anything. Just looked at me with that same hollow expression. And then, quietly, she shook her head.

“I’m tired, Chris,” she said, her voice frayed and barely rising above the distant bass of the party. “Just let me go.”

“You’re drunk,” I said gently, taking a step closer. “And I don’t trust him.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept standing there, arms limp at her sides, her frame caught in that helpless limbo between staying and leaving.

“If you need someone to drive you home, let me do it,” I offered, softer now, trying to reach whatever part of her still heard me. “You’ve told me what kind of guy Tucker is. You know what he’s capable of. He hurt you, Jules.”

Her eyes finally met mine. They were glassy, raw—but not empty.

“So did you,” she said quietly.

That one hit deep.

“Jewel…” I breathed, the sound of her nickname rough in my throat.

She looked so beautiful in this moment as well. It made it hard to get upset with her.

But she shook her head, eyes already turning away again. “I hate how I feel like I owe you something. Like, I need to explain myself to you.”

“I’m not asking for an explanation,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I’m asking why the hell you’re leaving with him. We hate him—remember?”

She looked at me solemnly, like she was trying not to cry. 

“Well, I hate you, too, Chris.”

It knocked the air out of me. But it wasn’t the words—it was the pain behind them. The way she said it was like she was trying to convince herself more than me.

Tucker gave me a smug look, like he’d just won something, and wrapped his arm back around her shoulder.

I didn’t care about him. 

“Goodnight.” 

She said, and then turned around and walked off. 

I didn’t know if I should chase her or let her go. But I couldn’t just watch her disappear again.

“Jules,” I called, one last time. 

Not angry or pleading. Just her name.

But she didn’t look back. 

I stood there dumbfounded and like an idiot. There was no way she hated me till the point she’d choose fucking Tucker over me. But then again, she did do it. She chose him over me. 

Like her safety was less important than the grudge she had against me. 

READ ALL RELEASED PARTS HERE!

[ a/n: honestly, I should have killed off Ava and Tucker like 100 chapters ago, but they came in handy, to be honest. Check out my new series moodboard! Like and reblog! mwah] - ceyana

tags: @chynapleasehavemercy @sweetheartsturn @mattspillowprincess @oopsiedaisydeer @chriss-slutt @sturnsflirt @idkwhatthisis2009 @fmg05 @enviedparty101 @malox12 @chrissturniolodailysluts @ribbonlovergirl @kitty-meow-meow44 @jaybirdie34 @mattscore @mattsfrenchtoast @sturnsobsessed21 @kingofeverythingmb @courta13 @slvtf0rchr1s @mattspillowprincess @thewizardfall @sturnsfluff @ifamils @le4hsblog @carrielovesmatt

@mattysmrwrinkleton @sturnsplatter @idkwhatimdoinghereeeeeee @ellssturn @meatballlover10 @sagesturns @kiarasmaybank @malox12 @mattsdivaa @wesj11 @headzgonewest @ilovesamgoldencoch @rlstarfiire @charmersturns @eden1217 @pair-of-pantaloons @beardedbernard @lilianasturnsz @tropicfessed @spookysturnz @matchaandmattlovi @franticroads @angelxsturns @iluvchr1s

Comment taglist on this post to be added!