#... things to remember when it's time to move

[abbotjack]

Sticky Fingers, Quiet Mornings

part four of the life we grew series (part one ✧ part two ✧ part three)

summary : Jack Abbot was built for crisis—night shifts, trauma codes, war. But fatherhood breaks him in all the best ways. Told in twelve toddler phases.

word count : 9,321

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! toddler behavior and development, parenting themes, pregnancy (including trying to conceive), soft domestic smut, minor illness scare, marriage/relationship intimacy, emotionally vulnerable Jack Abbot.

Phase One: The Cling Era

7:04 PM on a Wednesday, and she thinks he’s leaving forever again

She doesn’t cry when he puts on his badge.

Or when he zips the fleece halfway up, or when he takes his coffee from the microwave with his non-dominant hand like he always does.

She waits.

Waits until he reaches for the door.

Then she breaks.

“No!” she wails, voice cracking. “No, no, no—Dada no!”

Jack stills mid-step.

He closes his eyes, shoulders stiffening as her bare feet slap against the floor behind him.

You’re standing at the sink watching the whole thing unfold like it has every night this week. Her in tears. Him halfway gone. You trying not to say the wrong thing and make it worse.

Jack turns, just in time for her to hurl herself into his leg.

It’s the right one. The one that isn’t real.

She doesn’t know that yet.

“Jesus,” Jack mutters under his breath. He drops to a knee, balancing on the other like muscle memory. “Hey. Hey. Come on, bean.”

She’s sobbing now—small body shaking, cheeks red and hot, tiny fists grabbing at the front of his scrub top like she can keep him from vanishing.

“Dada don’t go,” she whispers. “No go. No go.”

He wraps his arms around her. Sinks the rest of the way to the floor.

You exhale and kneel beside them, placing a steadying hand on Jack’s back. You feel the tension in him—how he holds her like she’s a patient coming apart in his arms, like every second of this is costing him something.

“I can’t keep doing this to her,” he says hoarsely.

“You’re not doing anything,” you say. “You’re going to work.”

“She thinks I’m dying.”

“She thinks you’re gone. That’s different. And she’s one, Jack. She doesn’t know how to name it yet.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Then he leans down and murmurs something into her hair. You can’t hear what. Just that his voice shakes at the edges.

By 7:22PM, he’s supposed to be gone.

Instead, he’s lying on the couch with her draped across his chest, her hands tangled in the collar of his fleece. He still hasn’t put on his boots.

“I’ve got five minutes,” he mutters. “If I’m late, Robby can start the shift with less sarcasm for once in his life.”

“She’s going to wake up the second you move,” you warn.

“I know.” His hand moves gently up and down her back. “She always does.”

You sit on the arm of the couch and stroke your fingers through her hair. “Want me to take her?”

“No,” he says. Quiet but firm.

A pause.

“Jack…”

He looks up at you.

And it hits you—how tired he is. How deep under the surface this ache runs. The discipline keeps him standing. The darkness keeps him working. But this? This small body asleep against his chest? It’s the only thing that unmans him.

“She didn’t cry like this before,” he says. “Before she knew what ‘bye’ meant.”

“She cries because she does know.”

He swallows. “That’s worse.”

“Not to her.”

He nods. Doesn’t say anything.

At 7:39PM, he finally lifts her.

She stirs but doesn’t cry, nose wrinkling as she blinks up at him like she can’t remember whether he’s staying or going.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone. Okay?”

She stares. Says nothing.

Then—like clockwork—she bursts into fresh tears.

Jack clenches his jaw, sets her down on the ottoman, and crouches to lace up his boots.

You hover behind her, one hand braced on her back.

She screams when he opens the door.

“Dada!” she sobs. “No. Dada stay. Dada stay.”

Jack freezes in the threshold.

His shoulders curl forward like someone’s punched him.

Then, without looking back, he pulls his phone from his pocket.

The door closes.

By 8:15PM, she’s asleep in your arms—still sniffling, exhausted, the front of your shirt damp from tears.

You get a text just as you’re lowering her into the crib.

I should’ve handled that better. I made it worse.

She calmed down. She always does. You made it worse by being someone she loves so much she doesn’t know what to do with it.

I’ll be back before sunrise. Will you tell her that?

She knows. It’s why she screams.

I’d rather get shot again. This hurts worse.

He comes home at 6:56AM.

You’re already dressed—button-down tucked into slacks, second cup of coffee half-finished on the bathroom counter. The bedroom light is off, hallway dim in the early winter gray. You hear the door close, then the heavy sound of his boots being eased off.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just walks in slow—scrub top wrinkled, fleece half-zipped, exhaustion written in the slope of his shoulders. His bag drops by the bench. You meet him at the doorway, socked feet on the hardwood.

But he doesn’t stop.

He walks right past you and into her room.

You follow, quietly.

He kneels beside the crib and reaches one hand through the slats.

She doesn’t wake. But her body shifts instinctively toward the warmth, toward him, like something cellular inside her recognizes he’s home.

He stays there like that for a long time. Silent. Steady. Palm resting gently on her back like he’s holding something together—something fragile and unseen.

You watch from the doorway, still holding your travel mug.

After a while, he looks over at you.

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

You cross the room, set your coffee down, and open your arms.

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER doc, man who finds comfort in the darkness but still comes home to the light—lets himself be held.

You wrap your arms around him like scaffolding. Let him breathe.

You hold him the way he held her.

Quietly. Fully. As the sky over Pittsburgh begins to pale.

Phase Two: The Nap Strike

Where Jack learns you can’t negotiate with toddlers—only surrender on your knees with crackers

The plan was simple: You’d sleep in. Jack would keep her occupied for the morning. Then you’d trade, and he’d crash until dinner. A peaceful, domestic arrangement—civilized, efficient.

But at 5:06AM, the plan dies.

Jack gets home early, for once—just before dawn, fleece zipped to his chin, exhausted but functional. The shift was unusually light. Just one drunk college kid, a laceration, a call that turned out to be a false alarm. He’d left before the sun came up, driving through a foggy Pittsburgh quiet that felt like it belonged to him. Like maybe he’d sneak in two hours of sleep before she woke.

But the second he walks through the door, he hears it.

Not crying. Not fussing.

Just one word, clear as a command: “Dada?”

He freezes. Keys in hand.

Then again: “DADA WAKE. DADA UP NOW!”

He glances at the monitor on the hallway table. Bright green bar bouncing. You’re still fast asleep, curled under the duvet, face soft, peaceful. Jack exhales, rubs a hand down his face, and nods like he’s accepting deployment.

“Copy that,” he mutters. “I’m up.”

By 5:18AM, he’s on the nursery floor with her in his lap, eating Cheerios dry from a plastic bowl.

She’s wide awake. Radiant with mischief. Hair like static. Onesie already unzipped halfway down her chest.

“You didn’t even try to go back to sleep,” Jack mumbles. “Didn’t even pretend.”

She offers him a Cheerio. He takes it. She laughs like it’s hilarious.

You don’t stir. You’ve been working ten-hour days, two audits back-to-back, and this was the deal: he takes the morning, you sleep until ten. She usually doesn’t wake until eight.

Today, she’s a menace.

At 6:01AM, Jack sends the first text.

target acquired status: hostile woke up demanding crackers and Bluey currently brushing my kneecap with her toothbrush

also i love her more than oxygen but i’m scared

By 6:47AM, he’s on his second attempt at a nap wind-down.

Bottle. Dark room. Soft hum of the ceiling fan.

She drinks three sips, fake yawns, and then—grinning—claps and yells “I WAKE NOW!”

Jack sighs and tries not to take it personally.

she is refusing to sleep just said “no nap daddy” and kicked her duck across the room i fear she’s possessed or worse toddler

You wake to twelve texts.

It's 9:13AM.

You stretch, blink blearily, and pad downstairs in your robe and socks.

The living room looks like a war zone: blankets piled like barricades, board books scattered like casualties. The TV is frozen mid-Bluey. A sippy cup lies abandoned under the armchair.

And Jack?

Jack is sitting cross-legged on the rug, hair wild, t-shirt stained with what might be applesauce. The baby is climbing him like a jungle gym. He’s not moving. Just letting her.

You lean against the doorframe.

“She didn’t nap?”

Jack looks up. Blinks slowly.

“She screamed the word ‘no’ at me twenty-eight times,” he says. “I counted. Then she told me ‘Dada go to work.’ Like she was firing me.”

You snort. “That’s brutal.”

“She called duck a traitor. Then kissed him and apologized.”

“She’s learning emotional regulation.”

“She’s learning psychological warfare.”

You reach for your daughter. “My turn.”

“No.” Jack stands, lifting her off his shoulders. “I’ll try again. If I don’t come back in twenty minutes, I’ve joined her cause.”

At 9:52AM, she finally falls asleep.

Jack manages it by holding her in the glider for a full 23 minutes—just rocking and breathing, watching her eyelids flutter and fight before finally dropping.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even shift his weight. Just sits there in the soft morning light, hands steady on her back, like he's still in the trauma bay, keeping vitals steady.

When you poke your head into the nursery, he just glances up.

“Got her,” he whispers.

“You okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t answer.

You kneel beside the chair. Press your cheek to his shoulder.

“She told you to go to work?”

Jack exhales. “Twice. Then smiled and said ‘bye-bye dada.’ Like I was already gone.”

“She doesn’t mean it.”

“She does,” he says quietly. “In that moment, she does.”

You reach up, tangle your fingers with his.

“She always wants you again after.”

“I know.”

He looks down at her—soft breath, small body, warm weight.

“She always comes back,” he murmurs.

You kiss his jaw. “That’s because you do, too.”

He falls asleep an hour later in bed, one hand still curled like he’s holding her. You slide in beside him, wrap your arm across his chest, and match your breathing to his.

Phase Three: “I Do It Myself”

Where Jack learns the real grief of fatherhood is not chaos—it’s watching her not reach for you

It starts with the shoe.

Saturday morning. You’re finishing dishes in the kitchen, the windows open to a Pittsburgh breeze that smells like wet concrete and spring.

Jack’s at the bottom of the stairs, crouched, holding her sneakers. She’s sitting on the fourth step, legs swinging, watching him with a look that’s already defiant.

“You wanna help me?” Jack asks, gently, holding out one Velcro shoe.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Okay.” He nods. “We’ll do it together.”

She snatches the shoe from his hand and slams it on the wrong foot.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “You sure that’s how it goes?”

“I DO IT,” she snaps, voice high and serious.

Jack lets out a long breath through his nose. “Alright. You do it.”

You lean against the doorframe, towel in hand, watching this unfold with careful silence.

She starts working the Velcro. Tongue sticking out. Absolute focus.

Jack waits.

And then, when she finally gets it on—upside down, strap crooked, toes curled—she beams.

“I DID it, Dada!”

Jack nods once. “Yeah. You did.”

He smiles. But you see it—the flicker. The quiet ache behind the pride.

That afternoon, he’s quiet.

You’re folding laundry on the bed while he reads the paper beside you, still in black sweatpants and a t-shirt from some long-ago charity 5K. But he hasn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.

You don’t push. Not yet.

It’s only when you come back with the second load that you catch him standing in the hallway outside her door, just… watching her.

She’s on the rug. Putting stickers on her duck. Quiet. Focused.

“She asked me to leave the room,” he says, not looking at you.

“What?”

“When I offered to help with the puzzle. She said, ‘Dada go. I do it myself.’”

You step up beside him. “Jack.”

“She said it twice. Not angry. Just… like a fact. Like she’d already decided.”

You rest a hand on his back. “She’s growing.”

He nods. “I know. That’s the job.”

A long pause.

“She still needs you,” you say.

He breathes out, slow and quiet. “Yeah. Just not all the time anymore.”

Later that evening, you catch him in the garage.

He’s standing by the workbench, holding one of her old shoes. The tiny white pair with the pink stripe she wore when she first learned to walk. You kept it because she scuffed the toes dragging them down the driveway after him.

He brushes a thumb across the sole.

You walk up behind him. Slide your arms around his waist.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like she’s already running. And I’m not supposed to follow.”

You hold him tighter. “You built her to run.”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah. But I thought I’d carry her a little longer.”

The next morning, she asks him for help again.

It’s small. Just a zipper. Her coat caught on the hem, stuck halfway up.

Jack kneels down, hands calm.

“You want me to—?”

She nods, silent this time. “Need help, Dada.”

He fixes it slowly. Carefully. Then stands.

“Thanks,” she says.

He nods, blinking hard. “Anytime, bean.”

You watch from the door as she slips her hand into his. Just for a second. Long enough to steady herself on the step.

Long enough to remind him:

She’ll always come back.

Even when she’s learning to go.

Phase Four: The Sick Day

Where Jack learns that the scariest moment isn’t watching someone code—it’s seeing “she’s not okay” on your phone when you’re twelve minutes away from home

You almost didn’t go.

It had been one of those weeks. You were late every day to work, and Jack had picked up a last-minute double on Thursday that ran until dawn. You both looked like people hanging on by threads—but he came into the bathroom that morning, caught you half-dressed and towel-drying your hair, and said:

“We need a night.”

You looked up, tired. “You’re gonna fall asleep in the booth.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I’ll be across from you while I do it.”

You smiled.

And that’s how you ended up here, in heels you haven’t worn since before her first birthday, brushing your fingers through your hair in the passenger seat of Jack’s truck while he drives you into Shadyside. He’s in dark jeans, a black dress shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Clean-shaven. Warm-eyed. His prosthetic shifts as he drives, but he doesn’t wince. He hasn’t said much since you left the house—just glanced over at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Say something,” you finally murmur, brushing your fingers over the hem of your dress.

He exhales through his nose. “I’m trying to be respectful,” he mutters. “But you wore that on purpose, didn’t you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “This? It’s from before I even met you.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t know what it’d do to me.”

You grin, lean back. “You could say you like it.”

“I could. Or I could spend the next hour trying to focus on what you’re saying while imagining getting you out of it.”

You laugh. He does, too—quiet and real, the kind he only gives you.

The night is soft. Pittsburgh spring chill, but tolerable. The restaurant is warm. You share bread, clink glasses. He watches your hands when you speak. Brushes his knuckles against your wrist when he wants you to keep going.

“Your voice changes when you’re not exhausted,” he says suddenly, over dessert. “Like—lighter.”

“You saying I sound like a gremlin most days?”

“I’m saying you sound like you tonight.”

You blink. He’s watching you like he’s storing you in memory.

You can feel it—the weight of his want. It’s not loud. Not overt. It’s Jack. So it lives in the way his hand stays over yours too long. The way he watches you laugh like it’s a privilege. The way his voice drops when he says, “I love seeing you like this.”

You lean closer. “Do I really look that different?”

“No,” he says. “You look like the girl I married. Just… undistracted.”

You kiss him across the table, slow and steady.

He grins into it. “You’re not gonna make me wait ‘til we’re home, are you?”

“Oh, I am.”

“You’re cruel.”

“You like it.”

He exhales, drops his head, grinning.

That’s when your phone buzzes.

You glance at the screen.

EMILY - BABYSITTER

hey she woke up crying really warm not calming down asking for Jack

Your blood goes cold.

Jack sits up instantly. “What?”

You hand him the phone.

He’s out of his chair before he’s finished reading.

“Jack—”

“Call her,” he says. “I’ll get the truck.”

He’s gone before you stand.

You fumble your coat on, call Emily as you hurry through the door. She answers quickly.

“She’s okay, just—she’s hot. She wouldn’t let me hold her at first. Then she cried for Jack and curled up. I took her temp. It’s 101.9.”

You’re already on the sidewalk.

“Okay. We’re on the way.”

Jack’s pulled up to the curb, window already down.

“She still crying?” he asks the second you get in.

“Not anymore. Just whimpering.”

He nods. Pulls into traffic with one hand on the wheel, the other already clenching his thigh. You reach over. He’s rigid.

“She’s had fevers before.”

“She’s never asked for me in the middle of one.”

“She just needed comfort.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But his foot presses harder on the gas.

You get home in seven minutes flat.

Emily opens the door before you knock. “She’s upstairs,” she says. “I’m so sorry—she was fine when you left.”

You’re already climbing the stairs.

Jack’s ahead of you.

He opens her door and everything stops.

She’s in her crib, curled in the corner, tear-damp and blinking. The second she sees him, her hands shoot up.

“Dada…”

Jack’s across the room before you can exhale.

“Hey, baby girl,” he says softly. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

She lets out a sound—not quite a cry. Not quite a word. Just a noise of relief.

He picks her up like she’s glass.

She melts into him. Tiny hands clutching his shirt. Face pressed against his neck.

“Shh,” he whispers. “I got you.”

You hover nearby with the thermometer.

Jack sits on the glider with her still in his arms.

“101.6,” you whisper.

He nods. “I’m not letting go until it drops.”

You bring a bottle of Pedialyte. She won’t take it.

Jack hums low against her ear. “Come on, bean. Just a sip.”

She sips. Then rests again.

He holds her like that for forty minutes.

At 10:27PM, she finally sleeps.

Still on his chest. One hand tangled in his shirt.

You sit at his feet, watching her rise and fall with every breath.

Jack’s voice is hoarse. “She said my name like it hurt.”

“She needed you.”

He swallows. “I wasn’t here.”

“You came the second you could.”

“She asked for me. She asked—and I wasn’t already there.”

You press your head to his thigh.

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly: “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You glance up. “Jack—”

“You made me want to forget we had a kid for a second. That’s how bad I wanted you.”

You exhale.

“But the second that text came in—” His voice cracks. “Everything else went quiet. My whole body just—locked in. I didn’t care what it ruined. I just needed her in my arms.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, your head pressed to his leg.

“She’s okay,” you whisper. “Because you’re here.”

He looks down at you.

And the look on his face—it’s not wrecked. Not broken.

It’s reverent.

Like he’s watching the two people he loves most in the world just exist, and it’s almost too much.

You reach for his hand.

“Come to bed,” you whisper.

“In a minute,” he says. “I want to hold her a little longer.”

And so you leave them there—father and daughter, tangled in breath and heat and quiet.

Phase Five: The Hint

Where Jack breaks in the best possible way when you say five simple words: I want another with you.

You’re at Target on a Sunday afternoon. Late March. That kind of Pittsburgh cold where the wind feels like it might stay in your bones until June. Your daughter is in the front of the cart, legs swinging, cheeks pink, half a cheddar cracker crushed in her fist. Jack walks beside you, one hand on the handlebar, the other casually bumping your hip every few steps.

He’s wearing a black hoodie over a soft gray henley, jeans worn at the knees, the brim of his Pirates cap low over his brow. There’s stubble on his jaw and warmth in his voice every time he leans down to make her laugh. He looks tired—you both do—but it’s the soft kind. The good kind. The kind that means you made it through another week.

You’re there for laundry pods and maybe some coffee beans.

But you pass the baby aisle.

And your feet slow.

It’s instinct. Nothing urgent. Just that old ache. That memory of standing in this same aisle over a year ago, swollen and giddy and scared.

Jack clocks it instantly.

“What,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the shelves, “just gonna do a fly-by on the baby aisle and not tell me?”

You smile. “I forgot how small the swaddles used to be.”

Your daughter makes a high, delighted noise. Jack reflexively reaches out, rubs her shoulder with one big hand, gaze still on you.

You pick up a pack of socks. Newborn. White with a yellow trim. You run your thumb across them. They weigh nothing.

Jack watches the way your fingers still.

“You miss it?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Sometimes. Not the sleep deprivation. But the rest? Yeah.”

He takes a step closer. Lowers his voice to something rougher, more private. “You thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

You hesitate. Then, with a breath: “I want another.”

Jack goes completely still beside the cart.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” you say quickly. “We’re just now starting to feel like ourselves again. Your schedule’s a mess. We’re barely keeping the house in one piece. But—”

“Say it again,” he says. Voice low. Almost hoarse.

“Jack—”

“Please.”

You look him in the eye.

“I want another baby. With you.”

He closes his eyes like you just cut through him.

Then he breathes out.

“Put the socks in the cart,” he says. “We’re leaving.”

You blink. “We haven’t gotten anything.”

“I don’t care.”

You glance at the cart. “What about coffee?”

“I’ll drink air.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re serious.”

He looks at you like he’s never wanted anything more. “You expect me to walk around and buy paper towels like you didn’t just say the one thing I didn’t know I needed to hear?”

You toss the socks in the cart.

Back home, she watches a movie with her duck and some yogurt melts while you and Jack tag team bedtime. Bath. Lotion. Soft pajamas with the feet. You reads two books and brush her hair. She fights sleep until the second you turn on the white noise.

At 7:43PM, the house is quiet. Hushed like a chapel after the candles have gone out.

You close her door with care, easing it shut until the latch clicks into place. One last check on the monitor. One last scan of the nightlight’s soft glow on her face.

And then—Jack.

He’s already waiting in the hallway like he knew you’d come looking. Hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbow, bare forearms folded, shoulder against the wall. The low light from the bathroom casts his face in half-shadow. His mouth is tense. His eyes—dark, unreadable—don’t leave yours.

“You still mean it?” he asks.

His voice is low. Strained. Not cautious—just holding back something too big to let out in a hallway.

You don’t hesitate. “I meant it all day.”

A breath hitches in his throat. He nods once, the movement tight. Swallows hard like he’s anchoring himself.

Then he walks past you. Slow. Steady. Not dragging his feet, not rushing. Just… certain. Like he’s walking toward something he’s already chosen. Something that changed the minute you said I want another baby.

You follow.

Your bedroom is dim—streetlamp light bleeding silver across the floor through the blinds. The ceiling fan hums. One of his socks is still on the floor from this morning. The bed’s half-made. You couldn’t care less.

Jack closes the door behind you. Turns.

“You meant it,” he says again. Not a question this time. A quiet reckoning.

You nod. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

Something shifts in him. Like tension letting go of the wire it was wrapped around. But it doesn’t unravel. It sharpens. Refines. Focuses.

Jack steps in. Crosses to you with the deliberate calm he brings to the edge of chaos. Hands at your waist. Palms warm. Fingers curling in slowly like he’s still making sure you’re real.

“You have no idea what that did to me,” he murmurs.

“I think I do.”

He doesn’t kiss you right away. Not yet. Just stares—eyes flicking over your face, down to your lips, your throat, then back up again. Like he’s memorizing something he already knows by heart.

Then finally—

He kisses you.

It’s slow. Deep. Intentional. A breath pulled between you. Tongue tracing your bottom lip like he’s tasting the weight of the words you said. His hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, over skin he’s touched a thousand times but still reveres like it’s holy.

You pull his hoodie off. Then the t-shirt beneath. He lets you undress him like you’re the only one allowed. The muscles of his chest tense when your fingers brush over the old shrapnel scar near his ribs. You trace it like always—gentle, silent, familiar—and he shivers like he did the first time.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

He undresses you next. Not rushed. Not greedy.

Careful.

When he lays you down on the bed, it’s with both hands braced against the mattress. His knee follows, then the shift of his weight above you. His prosthetic comes off silently at the foot of the bed—second nature by now. He doesn’t draw attention to it. He doesn’t need to.

He settles between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs, coaxing them open. You let him.

“Tell me again,” he says.

“I want another baby,” you whisper.

His eyes flutter closed like you just took the air out of his lungs.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Jack groans—low and wrecked—and bends down to kiss your chest, your stomach, the inside of your hip. He takes his time. He doesn’t tease. He worships. Because that’s how he fucks when he’s in love. With reverence. With purpose.

He presses his forehead against your belly like he’s already imagining it growing inside you.

Then he comes up. Mouth to yours. Breath mingling. And when he finally pushes into you, it’s slow. Deep. Every inch earned.

He holds there. Doesn’t thrust. Just… feels. Eyes locked on yours. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheek like he’s grounding himself in you.

“You want this,” he breathes.

“I want you,” you answer. “Everything. Always.”

He starts to move. Measured. Pressed in deep. Every roll of his hips a declaration. Every breath shuddered through clenched teeth. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight. You hold on.

You arch up to meet him. He sinks deeper.

“You feel—fuck—so good,” he grits. “You always do.”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

“I’m not gonna,” he swears, voice ragged. “I’m never gonna stop.”

Your bodies slide in sync, sweat beginning to slick your skin. His mouth finds your collarbone, your throat, your mouth again. Every kiss hungrier. Every breath closer to breaking.

“You don’t know what it does to me,” he whispers. “Hearing you say that.”

“I want you to come inside me,” you whisper back. “I want another baby.”

He groans—loud this time, broken—hips stuttering.

Jack changes pace. His grip tightens. He kisses you harder, needier. His hips grind deeper, deeper—until you’re gasping, clawing at his back, his shoulders, his sides. His name tumbles from your lips like a prayer.

“I love you,” he says against your mouth. “God, I fucking love you.”

And then you’re coming—tight, trembling, body arching into his. He fucks you through it, breath caught in his throat, rhythm faltering. His eyes stay on yours until the very last second, until he’s gone too—coming deep inside you with a sharp gasp and a whispered, “That’s it—take it, baby—take all of me—fuck—”

His whole body shakes with it.

When it passes, he doesn’t collapse. He lowers himself gently. Holds himself over you, still buried deep, still trying to catch his breath.

You stroke the back of his neck. He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then your mouth.

Then he breathes.

Quiet. Steady. Like the war’s over.

You lie there tangled together for a long time. You don’t move. You don’t speak.

Eventually, Jack brushes a strand of hair from your face and says softly, “We’re really doing this.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes shine. A little red-rimmed. A little overwhelmed.

But when he kisses you again, it’s not about doubt.

It’s about forever.

Because Jack Abbot doesn’t love with fireworks or grand speeches.

He loves like this.

With hands. With breath. With the quietest yes in the world.

And when he finally falls asleep beside you—arm slung around your waist, heartbeat steady against your back—it’s not the end of anything.

It’s the beginning.

Phase Six: The Leap

Where your daughter says it first—and Jack, who never needed proof to believe, still stands there like she handed him the future in one sentence.

It’s June now.

Since Target—since you stood in that aisle holding newborn socks like a secret you hadn’t dared speak—two and a half months have passed. You’re not pregnant. Not yet. And neither of you has said the word "waiting," but it clings to everything.

You’re still trying.

And Jack’s still Jack—stoic, steady, quieter when he wants something most. But he’s watching you like he might miss something if he blinks. His touches linger. His gaze trails. He always has his hand on your back now—the middle of it, the place he holds when you’re tired or overwhelmed or standing still for too long.

Your daughter is seventeen months old. Wild-haired, loud-laughing, stubborn as hell. And lately, her favorite word is why.

This morning, Jack gets home from a long night shift just as you’re cleaning up breakfast. You’re in the kitchen loading the dishwasher, hair still wet from your shower, your daughter padding around barefoot in a peanut butter-streaked onesie.

The moment she hears the door open, she lights up.

“DADA!”

Jack barely gets his boots off before she runs full-speed into his legs.

He drops into a crouch with a groan. “Hey, bean. Miss me?”

She nods solemnly. “Mama tired.”

He glances at you over her head. “That true?”

You shrug. “I mean, I didn’t sleep through the 3AM thunder tantrum, so... yeah.”

Jack smirks. Stands with her in his arms, presses a kiss to your cheek. “She kick you again?”

“She kicked you and then rolled onto my neck like a scarf.”

He winces. “That tracks.”

You hand him a mug of reheated coffee. He takes it, leans against the counter, and watches her toddle off toward the living room with her duck.

You lean into his side. He doesn’t say anything, but he kisses the top of your head. That’s how he says thank you for keeping her alive when I wasn’t here.

You hear her talking to her toys while Jack drains half the mug.

Then:

“Duck is baby. Duck is my baby.”

You smile.

Then:

“We get baby soon?”

You freeze.

Jack sets his mug down slowly.

You both glance toward the doorway at the same time.

She’s got her duck wrapped in a tea towel. Rocking it, arms clumsy but careful.

“We get baby,” she says again. “I help.”

You look at Jack.

He looks like someone took all the air out of his lungs.

“She say that before?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“She say it to you?”

“No,” you whisper. “Not once.”

He stares at her for a long beat. Then turns to you.

“She knows something we don’t?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Jack steps toward the living room, kneels beside her, hands braced on his thighs. “You want a baby, huh?”

She nods.

Jack glances back at you.

You shrug, blinking fast.

He turns back to her. “You think you’d be good at that? Helping?”

She nods solemnly. “I give duck bottle. I share blankie. I help.”

Jack smiles. Not his ER smile. Not his fake one. The real one. The one you fell in love with.

“You’d be amazing.”

She looks satisfied. Goes back to tucking Duck under the towel.

Later, when you’re sitting on the porch with the monitor between you and Jack’s hand over your knee, he breaks the silence first.

“You think it means anything?”

“What, her saying that?”

“Yeah.” He stares at the sidewalk. “Think it’s a sign?”

You lean into him.

“I think she wants what we want. Even if she doesn’t really know what it means yet.”

He nods. Quiet.

Then: “I want it too. Still.”

You smile. “I know.”

His thumb rubs a slow circle into your skin.

“And if it takes a little longer?”

You look at him.

“Then we keep trying.”

He looks at you like you just handed him the whole world.

And maybe you did.

And tonight, in the thick June air, with your daughter sleeping and the windows open and the moon beginning to rise—he pulls you into his side like a vow.

And you know.

You’re already building something bigger than all of you.

Phase Seven: The Firecracker Phase

Where your toddler discovers volume, Jack works through sirens and trauma codes, and you find out you’re pregnant during the loudest day of the year.

It’s July Fourth, and Pittsburgh is already simmering by 7AM.

Jack left before the sun came up. The night shift blurred into a day shift—holiday coverage at the Pitt means more chaos, less sleep, and barely enough time to microwave a sandwich.

Your daughter woke up early. Earlier than usual. Climbing onto your ribs at 5:42AM and whisper-shouting: “MAMA! SUN! IT’S SUN!”

She’s eighteen months old, in her loud phase.

She yells at squirrels. She yells at blueberries. She yells when you zip her dress wrong and when the fridge door beeps too long. Jack calls it the firecracker phase. Fitting, you think. She’s pure sound and spark.

By 8:15AM, she’s stripped to a diaper and has climbed inside the laundry basket. She’s yelling at her duck to put on sunscreen.

You’re on your third glass of ice water and your stomach feels... off. Not wrong. Not sick. Just not yours.

You text Jack:

update: she’s arguing with the dryer. i think she’s winning.

He replies:

two chest tubes, one firework injury, a drunk guy threw up in trauma bay C. tell her to save me a popsicle.

You send back a thumbs up, then pause.

You walk to the bathroom, heart in your throat.

There’s one test left in the drawer.

It’s expired.

You take it anyway.

Your daughter is yelling “FIRETRUCK” at the top of her lungs when you see it.

A second line.

Faint. Blurry. Real.

You sit on the closed toilet and stare. Then laugh. Then cry. Then wipe your face because your daughter is now in the hallway, asking her duck if he wants juice.

You lift her. Hold her close.

She pulls back. “Mama? Why cryin’?”

You kiss her head. “Happy cry. You were right, baby.”

Jack doesn’t get home until after five.

He walks in, exhausted. He smells like antiseptic and sun.

She runs at him, barefoot, her little star-print shorts twisted sideways. “DADA!”

Jack drops his bag and lifts her like she weighs nothing. She screams with joy. He buries his face in her hair.

“How’d she do?” he asks.

You smile. “She only tried to drink from the hose twice. And she learned a new word.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Popsicle. But she says it like ‘pop-SICKLE.’ With a vengeance.”

He grins. “That tracks.”

You take her gently from his arms. “Go shower. I left something for you on the bed.”

He finds it when he steps out.

The test. This time, a new one. Two solid lines.

He stares.

Then walks into the hallway, towel around his waist, the test in his hand.

You meet him halfway.

“You sure?” he whispers.

“I bought two more. OB appointment’s scheduled.”

He drops the test and just pulls you into him. Breath hot, body warm from the shower, arms trembling.

“It’s real,” he says. Like he still needs the words out loud.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It’s real.”

You stay like that a long time.

Eventually, your daughter peeks around the corner and shrieks, “FIREWORKS TIME!”

Jack wipes his face. “Guess we’re not telling her yet.”

“She already knows.”

He looks at you.

You nod. “She said we were getting a baby. Weeks ago.”

Jack exhales a breath that turns into a laugh.

Then he kisses you once. Soft. Deep. Full of promise.

“Let’s go light a sparkler,” he murmurs.

And the three of you step outside.

Already a family of four.

Another heart, not yet visible, already beating between you.

Phase Eight: The Slowdown

Where the world doesn't stop, but you and Jack do—because everything feels a little heavier, a little brighter, and somehow more fragile than before.

It’s late-July, and the heat hangs thick over Pittsburgh like a wet towel.

The pregnancy symptoms are creeping in now. Not full force, not yet—but enough to slow you down. You’re queasy in the mornings. Lightheaded when you stand too fast. Jack keeps offering to carry the laundry basket like it’s a boulder.

He’s different now, too. Not dramatically—but in the little things.

He double-checks that the baby gate is locked even though your daughter hasn’t touched it in weeks.

He puts a pillow behind your back whenever you sit, even on the porch swing.

He kisses your shoulder while you’re brushing your teeth and says, “Don’t overdo it today,” with the same tone he uses for bleeding trauma patients: calm, sure, absolute.

You don’t tell him you already feel overdone most of the time.

Your daughter has slowed, too—but only just. She’s still seventeen months of pure emotion, pure motion. But she senses something’s shifted.

She follows you more closely.

Climbs into your lap without asking.

Sits quietly beside you on the floor with her duck when you’re stretched out, trying not to vomit.

One afternoon, Jack finds the two of you lying on the cool tile of the kitchen floor. You in an old tank top and boxer shorts, your daughter curled against your chest like she’s trying to be smaller for you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, sweat still drying on his collarbone, keys still in his hand.

Then he steps forward, kneels, and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

You look up. “We needed the cold.”

He nods. “You both look good here.”

You snort. “We look like puddles.”

He shrugs, settles beside you on the floor. “Then I’ll melt with you.”

Later that night, your daughter finally falls asleep after an hour of climbing the crib like a jungle gym.

Jack comes out of her room and collapses beside you on the couch, one hand already reaching for your thigh.

He rests his head against your shoulder. Breathes in.

“How you feelin’?” he asks.

You exhale. “Like my stomach’s mutinying.”

He nods. “You’re still glowing.”

You laugh. “I think that’s sweat.”

Jack leans in. Kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then lower.

“It’s all glow to me.”

You turn your head. Meet his eyes.

He’s serious. Not teasing. Just Jack—all warmth and ache and reverence.

You run your hand through his hair. “I love you.”

He nods. “I know. Me too.”

And in that moment, with your body sore, your baby sleeping, and the air humming with summer weight, Jack wraps his arms around your waist like it’s still March. Like he’s still shocked he gets to keep you.

You don’t talk about tomorrow. Or what’s coming.

You just stay there, quiet, in the stillness of everything new.

Because the world won’t slow down.

But for now, Jack does.

And he pulls you with him.

Phase Nine: The Echo

Where your toddler starts mimicking everything, and Jack learns that sometimes the future comes in twos.

It’s September in Pittsburgh, and your daughter is twenty months old.

She repeats everything.

Your tone, Jack’s sighs, snippets of overheard phone calls, the phrase “Jesus Christ” (which she uses while looking for her missing sock, and which Jack now pretends he’s never said).

It’s a mimicry phase. Every sentence you speak is an audition. Jack’s been calling her a baby parrot. You just call her loud.

Tonight, she yells “OH MY GOD” when she finds her duck in the laundry basket.

Jack glances over his shoulder from the kitchen. “That one’s you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “She also said ‘bullshit’ this morning.”

He pauses. Nods. “Okay, that one’s me.”

She’s not just talking more. She’s listening. Watching. You can’t fake calm anymore—not when she sees through you. She knows when you’re sick, when you’re tired, when you’re worried. And lately, you’ve been all three.

It’s a Friday when Jack comes home early. You’ve both been waiting for this OB appointment all week.

“Ultrasound?” he asks, dropping his keys and pulling you in.

You nod. “Ten minutes and we need to leave.”

You kiss your daughter goodbye. She’s home with your neighbor and her favorite puzzle. You promise snacks when you’re back.

The exam room is quiet except for the hum of the monitor.

Jack holds your hand.

The OB clicks through the screen slowly. You watch the flicker. Then hear it: that heartbeat, strong and steady.

And then.

Another.

The OB smiles. “Well. That’s two.”

You blink.

Jack tilts forward slightly. “I’m sorry—what?”

She rotates the screen. “Two heartbeats. Two sacs. Two babies.”

You stare.

Jack says nothing.

“Twins?” you whisper.

“Twins,” the OB confirms.

Jack releases your hand. Then grips it again, harder.

“I need to sit down,” he mutters. “Am I sitting?”

You laugh, watery. “You’re sitting.”

He exhales. Runs his hand through his hair.

“Twins,” he says again.

You look at him. “Are you okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. I just—I thought we were building a house and someone handed us a cathedral.”

You choke a little on your breath.

Jack stands. Presses a kiss to your forehead.

Then your stomach.

“We can do this,” he says softly. “Right?”

You nod. “We already are.”

That night, back home, your daughter sits between you on the floor, building towers of foam blocks.

Jack watches her.

Then glances at you.

“You think she’ll lose her mind?”

You smile. “Not at first. But once there’s double snacks involved? She’ll be on board.”

Your daughter drops her duck. Crawls into your lap.

Then turns to Jack.

“Two babies in Mama belly,” she says, matter-of-fact.

Jack blinks.

You freeze.

“How did—”

She pats your stomach. “I heard it.”

You and Jack look at each other.

He nods slowly. “Yep. Definitely yours.”

You laugh until you cry.

And Jack pulls both of you close.

Because now it’s real.

Because she heard it first.

And because Jack Abbot—who once found comfort in the dark—just got handed three reasons to stay in the light.

And he’s never letting go.

Phase Ten: The Stay-At-Home Phase

Where your daughter needs more of you than ever, and Jack Abbot—so stupidly, steadfastly in love—says the one thing you needed to hear.

It’s October now.

Your daughter is twenty-one months old and riding a new wave of toddlerhood: clingy autonomy. She wants to do everything herself but also needs your hands on her at all times. She puts on her socks (wrong), brushes her teeth (mostly the air), then turns around and demands: “Mama hold you.”

Not a request. Not a question.

She won’t nap unless you’re in the room. Won’t eat unless you sit beside her. Throws a shoe if you go to the bathroom without her.

Jack calls it her “velcro era.”

“She just loves you,” he says, watching her cling to your leg while you make toast. “Can’t blame her. I’m a little obsessed myself.”

You smile, tired.

It’s been weeks of juggling. You’ve been logging hours for work during naps, squeezing in emails between tantrums and laundry and diaper refills. Jack picks up extra shifts when he can, but even he can see it wearing on you.

One Wednesday night, after she finally falls asleep draped over Duck like a dramatic artist in repose, you and Jack sit on the back porch. The air smells like woodsmoke and damp leaves. Your tea goes untouched.

Jack runs a thumb over the back of your hand.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’ve been thinking.”

You raise a brow. “That’s never good.”

He grins. Then softens.

“I think maybe it’s time. For you to pause work. Just for now.”

You inhale. Let it out slow.

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit.

“She needs you more right now,” Jack says gently. “And you’re exhausted. I can see it. You’re growing two more people. And still somehow doing it all.”

You blink, overwhelmed.

“I can carry this for a while,” he adds. “Pick up shifts. Fill in the gaps. I don’t care how many hours I have to pull. We’ve got savings. We’ll be fine. I just... I want you to breathe.”

You study his face. The sincerity. The kind of love that never asks you to earn it.

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure,” Jack says. “This is us, right? We adapt. We show up. And right now, showing up means me making space for you.”

You lean into his chest. His arms wrap around you like they were waiting for this exact moment.

“I’ll tell them tomorrow,” you whisper. “I’ll take the leave.”

Jack kisses the side of your head.

“Good.”

The next day, your daughter won’t let you out of her sight. She drags a blanket onto your lap while you answer your last work call and pats your belly. “Mama stay home now?” she asks, wide-eyed.

You smile, nod. “Yeah, baby. I’m home.”

She beams. Climbs up and holds your face in her hands.

“Love you, Mama.”

You cry right there in the middle of the floor.

Jack comes home to find you both asleep under a pile of stuffed animals.

He doesn’t say anything. Just takes a photo.

Later that night, he slides into bed behind you. His hand rests gently over your belly.

“You didn’t step back,” he whispers.

You shift, tuck your face into his shoulder.

“You stepped in. And I’m so damn proud of you.”

You fall asleep to his heartbeat behind you.

And the tiniest kicks just beneath your ribs.

Because Jack Abbot is in love.

With you. With her. With all of it.

And he’s not letting go.

Phase Eleven: The Season of Yes

Where your daughter becomes opinionated about absolutely everything, calls Jack "Jack-Jack" like the toddler from The Incredibles, and everything in the house is louder, funnier, and more loved than it’s ever been.

It’s November now.

Your daughter is twenty-two months old and firmly convinced she is the executive director of the house.

She chooses the playlist in the car (“No sad songs! Only happy happy!”). She picks everyone's breakfast item (“Mama gets toast. I get 'nana. Jack-Jack gets pancake, only pancake, that’s it.”). She vetoes your outfit choices, corrects Jack's driving from the backseat, and calls meetings with her stuffed animals that last longer than your actual Zoom calls.

The name “Jack-Jack” started last week after you let her watch The Incredibles. It stuck immediately.

At first, she shouted it mid-bath: “JACK-JACK GET THE TOWEL!”

Now it’s part of her daily vocabulary. “Jack-Jack, open juice.” “Jack-Jack, watch me run so fast.” “Jack-Jack, no more peas. Too squishy.”

Jack pretends to grumble. “I’m Dad, not Jack-Jack,” he mutters once, trying to sound stern as she runs through the hallway yelling it. But you catch the smile he hides behind his coffee every time she says it again—especially when she giggles right after. He secretly loves it. Loves all of it.

You’re four months pregnant, the twins growing faster than expected, and while you’re finally past the nausea, the fatigue has made a comeback. Your daughter seems to sense it.

This morning, you woke up to her whispering beside your bed: “Jack-Jack say let Mama sleep. But I miss you.”

You blinked awake, found her already climbing up beside you with Duck under one arm and a banana in the other.

She snuggled close. “I hold Mama.”

At the farmer’s market that weekend, she picks a small crooked gourd, declares it “my pet baby,” and names it Sandwich.

“This is Sandwich,” she tells the woman selling cider. “He go home with us now.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “We adopting produce now?”

You shrug. “We already adopted Henry the pumpkin.”

Jack nods solemnly. “You’re right. Can’t leave Sandwich behind.”

She carries it in her arms all the way back to the car.

That night, Jack makes dinner while you lie on the couch with your daughter stretched across your belly, talking to the babies through your shirt.

“I gonna teach you dancing,” she says. “But no jumping until Mama says.”

She pauses. Then calls toward the kitchen: “Jack-Jack! Babies hear me?!”

Jack leans into the doorway with the spatula still in hand. “They definitely hear you, kid.”

“Okay,” she says, satisfied. “Me sing for babies?”

Jack winks. “It’s their favorite thing on Earth.”

Later, she insists Jack wear a crown made of pipe cleaners and old stickers. He does. He wears it the entire time he does dishes, and for the full length of bedtime storytime.

She curls up beside you while he reads, thumb in her mouth, and whispers: “I love Jack-Jack.”

You kiss her forehead. “Me too.”

That night, Jack joins you in bed long after she falls asleep. You’re curled on your side, one hand resting on the curve of your belly.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

He nods. “Just... full.”

You shift to face him.

“Not just your belly,” he adds. “I mean me. This whole house. Her. You. Them.”

You smile sleepily.

“You okay with being Jack-Jack forever?”

He exhales a soft laugh. “Best name I’ve ever had.”

He kisses your hand. Then your stomach. Then your cheek.

“We’re saying yes to everything these days,” he murmurs.

You nod. “That a problem?”

“Not even close.”

The wind rattles the windows softly.

Your daughter shifts in her sleep down the hall.

And Jack wraps himself around you like gravity.

Phase Twelve: The Birthday Girl Phase

Where your daughter turns two, you skip the party, and Jack Abbot becomes her favorite travel buddy, bodyguard, and forever person.

It’s January in Pittsburgh, grey-skied and salt-streaked, and your daughter is officially two years old.

No balloons. No cake-fueled chaos. No distant relatives asking if she remembers their name. Instead, you and Jack book a cabin two hours north—a hush of pine trees and snow-heavy quiet, where the only agenda is stillness and each other.

The morning you leave, Jack is up before you. Already dressed. Already double-checking the bag of snacks and backup onesies and ginger chews you swore you didn’t need. The air outside is cold enough to make your breath visible, but he’s working barehanded as he loads the trunk, face flushed pink, shoulders set.

Inside, your daughter sits on the floor beside her little suitcase narrating to Duck. “Duck need socks. Duck need book. Duck need warm blankie. Mama too.”

When Jack steps back in, she yells like a general: “JACK-JACK DRIVE US! IT’S TRIP DAY!”

He looks at you over her head and mouths, “Tour guide. I’m a damn tour guide.”

You smile. “You’re also the emotional support pack mule.”

He grins. “Sexy.”

The drive is quiet. Frozen fields, iced-over rivers, sleepy back roads. Jack keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles. Your daughter hums in the back seat. You doze off somewhere past Zelienople.

The cabin is tucked between trees and lined with old timber and big windows that pour light across the floors like syrup. There’s a stone fireplace and a kitchen just small enough to feel like a movie set.

Jack puts a hand on your back. “Not gonna lie—I’d live here forever.”

That afternoon, you make grilled cheese while Jack carries your daughter around the cabin pointing at everything like a museum guide.

“This is the couch. This is the magic fire place. This is the cabinet Mama says not to slam. This,” he says, lifting her over his head like Simba, “is Duck’s kingdom now.”

She shrieks with laughter.

Later, you all eat lunch in socks and pajamas. She demands to sit on Jack’s lap and feed him bites of sandwich. He lets her. Doesn’t flinch when she wipes mustard on his cheek.

You don’t tell him, but you take a photo.

That night, she curls into his lap beside the fire, wrapped in a fleece blanket and sticky with marshmallow from the lukewarm cocoa he stirred just the way she likes.

“Jack-Jack, you read,” she mumbles.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t Mama read last night?”

“She tired. Babies make her sleepy. Jack-Jack do it.”

He looks at you. You nod.

He reads slow, voice like gravel dipped in honey. When she falls asleep on his chest, he keeps going. Finishes the book in a whisper.

Hours later, the fire is low, and you’re both curled under a blanket, your legs over his, your head on his shoulder. The twins kick once, low and soft. Jack feels it.

He shifts, then slides off the couch to kneel in front of you, forehead pressed gently to your belly.

“We don’t need perfect,” he murmurs. “We just need this. You. Her. Them. The quiet.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. “We have it. We have everything.”

He looks up. His eyes are glassy in the firelight.

“You give me too much,” he says.

You shake your head. “I give you us.”

He kisses your belly. Then your hands. Then your mouth.

And that night, you fall asleep wrapped in all of it.

At dawn, your daughter wakes and yells across the cabin: “JACK-JACK MAKE PANCAKES! IT’S STILL MY BIRTHDAY!”

Jack groans into the pillow.

“I’m Dad, not Jack-Jack.”

But he’s already up.

Flipping pancakes in his boxers. Singing a song he makes up as he goes. Smiling like a man who’s realized he’ll never be alone again.

And he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Because she’s two now.

And he is completely, irrevocably, hers.

[ichorai]

xerox ; robert reynolds ; part two.

part one.

pairing ; robert (bob) reynolds x reader, thunderbolts & reader

synopsis ; you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

words ; 11.8k

themes ; action, angst, slowburn, the beginnings of romance

warnings / includes ; much more intense violence/gore/death than in part one, suicide, self-harm, human experimentation, child abuse, reader has the ability to split into multiple bodies (think dupli-kate from invincible), foul language, mentions of pregnancy, everyone's mental health sucks!

a/n ; the support so far has been so sick guys! thank you so much! i initially wanted to cover all the events of the movie in two parts and move on to avengers tower type of stuff in the next part but i decided this part was already long enough and was itching to post LMAOO regardless, i hope you all enjoy!

main masterlist. read on ao3!

There was rarely a time in your early life when you weren’t being under surveillance. Cameras, everywhere. Nurses making their rounds. Scientists probing you. Surgeons with their hands on you, over you, inside you. 

But once, when you were sixteen, there was a black-out in the facility, which you later learned to be a total power outage through the entire city. No cameras to watch you. The nurses who had been drawing your blood scurried out with owlish eyes, spooked. Moving gingerly, you pulled the needle out of your arm, bandaged it with the gauze on the medical cart, and glanced out of your barred window. The past few weeks, the scientists had been trying to use your DNA to perfect biological cloning technology. As revolutionary as it sounded, you really didn’t like the idea of someone having to live your reality, death and pain constantly hovering over your shoulder.

For a few minutes, however, you got to be alone with yourself. Nothing but you and your own thoughts. You began to shake, but you didn’t register it. The only thing you clearly remembered was the scalpel on the medical cart. A pale silver, but reflecting the hazy green of the emergency exit signs from outside your cell. You’d always thought the sign taunted you. Exit here, just in case you have to, even though you can’t.

The blade was cold in your touch, cutting the warmth of your skin. 

You watched the blood drip down the first arm, and then sliced through the next. It hurt, of course it did. But then it wouldn’t hurt anymore, and it would all be over. 

Your shaking had intensified so much that the bed frame rattled like bones. Then, you began to split. Whether it was subconscious or your body’s natural, instinctive reaction, you weren’t sure. You sobbed, a mangled noise caught in the back of your throat, trying to merge back together. But this had never occurred before—you had never tried to stop yourself from duplicating. Typically when you split, you carried forth the same wounds as the original, but that wasn’t the case this time. 

It was as if your body had stored a clean, woundless back-up in case of a singular copy’s dire emergencies. You still felt it—the throbbing, searing pain on your arms—but no signs of the gash on you at all. You were wiped clean from your choice. A fresh restart. 

That was the first time you had to watch yourself die by your own hand. You tried to give your copy some sense of comfort during the last few moments, but it felt futile knowing you craved the very same thing. You never tried committing suicide again. Mostly because, well, you were a walking paradox. Unkillable, yet you’ve died a thousand and one deaths.

And so—when you watched Valentina’s cavalry pierce poor, innocent Bob with round after round of bullets, a guilty, nasty part of you thought about how lucky he was to be able to die so quickly. Of course, you felt terrible as soon as the thought entered your mind. You rather liked Bob and his warbly doe eyes, his skittish but considerate demeanor, and his eagerness to help. It was an awful shame you didn’t get to know him better. You were still reeling over seeing him in your nightmare—was that your mind playing cruel tricks on you or was Bob less innocent than he came off to be? 

His sacrifice certainly wasn’t going to be in vain. Walker had begun to drive the truck out of the compound down winding, sandy paths. 

Except—it seemed Bob was a lot more similar to you than you thought. When someone shot you down, another cropped right back up. Bob, to your relief and utter confusion, did just the same.

The streaking figure across the sky was no star. It was flailing about amongst the grey clouds and bore the pale, baggy silhouette of hospital clothes. 

Bob. Your Bob. He was alive!

“Palindrome,” you whispered in awe, face just about pressed up against the warm glass of the truck’s window. It was only a few seconds that he was suspended up in the air, but it felt like ages. Then, he began to plummet back down to the earth. “Oh, no.” 

His landing was not a graceful descent—in fact, the impact was so massive that it sent a strong gust of wind billowing across the base, knocking your truck clean off its path. The vehicle tumbled in rotation as it made its way down the sandy slopes. You would’ve likely gotten a concussion from being jostled about had you not split yourself into as many copies as you could fit, which was nearly forty, and stayed nice and tight amongst your own nervous copies.

It landed on its side, and you reabsorbed all the duplicates into one body. Moonlight spilled into the vehicle when John hacked at the truck’s metal with his shield. It caved noisily beneath the initial strikes, then eventually split. You might not have liked the man, but he was impressively strong. Was he super-serumed up just like the previous Captain America? The scientists in Madripoor that had been working on you were sure as hell trying their best to make their own formula of super serum, to no avail. 

“Oh,” he said, peering into the dark belly of the truck and seeing your deer-in-headlights expression. “I was worried you’d died in here. Good.”

“Xerox,” Yelena had said, helping you climb out of the truck. You took caution to avoid the sharp edges of the gap Walker carved for you. “Are you okay? Did you see that?”

You nodded. “That was Pal—Bob. Right? I wasn’t just seeing things?”

“Not unless all of us had a collective hallucination,” Ava put in. The group began to walk away from the totaled truck. There was no point in trying to get it up and running now—it was ruined beyond saving from the crash.

“Weirder things have happened,” you said, looking around the great expanse of nighttime desert. “Where did he land? Maybe we can help him.” 

“On the other side of the base. We couldn’t possibly get to him in time before Val and her crew,” Yelena said. Then, she handed you a file. “Valentina did this. To test on someone like that… it’s inhuman. She plans to use him.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, then you looked down. It was designs of superhero suits—a collage of striking gold and blue, all sharp angles and bold flares. Lacking all the soft gentleness you would’ve attributed to Bob. It even had a cape. 

“The power of a thousand exploding suns? Golden Guardian of Good?” Ava read over your shoulder, scoffing. “That’s a mouthful.”

“Sentry,” said Walker, taking the case file from you, to your annoyance. He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he took a quick gander. “Very shiny. I didn’t think any of them were still around.”

“Did you know about this?” you asked. 

Walker shoved the file back into your awaiting hands. “There was a rumor that O.X.E. had some kind of big breakthrough. I don’t know much, but whatever it was, it was apparently way too extreme. Test subjects were dying. And then when the government looked into it, Val shut it down, and she put me on clean-up duty. I was meant to take care of him.”

“Take care of him,” you scathingly echoed. “Kill him.”

“Well, yeah,” John bit back. “We all were sent to kill each other. Haven’t you gotten over it by now?”

Your eye twitched. “I’m sorry I haven’t warmed up to the idea just yet!”

Ava drew a large, heaving sigh. It seemed she had no energy left to bicker. “Let’s just get home without getting caught.”

John, to your delight, found cactus berries for everyone to eat. You were starving. When you thanked him, quietly, he twisted his mouth to the side and nodded. Not embarrassed, not prideful, but… something more muted, as if he wasn’t sure how to accept gratitude. 

The rest of the group ate and walked in relative silence, save for the occasional complaint, grumble, and irritated tongue-click. 

The Red Guardian—and Yelena’s adoptive father, which you later came to find out—had come to pick her and everyone else up in the middle of the desert, waving his arms about and screaming like a madman. He was a giant of a man, so large that he had to drive his beat-up limo hunched over the steering wheel, despite putting his seat as far back as it would go. His shoulders were broader than the sticky leather seat itself. He donned a shoddy red suit that looked like it belonged in a museum dedicated to decades-old artifacts. And he was terribly loud, always spouting out something about collaboration, family, and the terrific rag-tag team the lot of you made. He seemed intent on calling the group the Thunderbolts in honor of Yelena’s peewee soccer team.

You found him rather amusing, even if he was obnoxious, overstimulating, and smelled of stale tortilla chips.

Both Yelena and Alexei were arguing about the next course of action—the former wanting to hunker down and hide, while the boisterous latter seemed intent on defeating Valentina with the power of… friendship. You decided to stay silent on the matter. You couldn’t deny that going home sounded like a brilliant idea. But… so did saving Bob. 

Before a proper conclusion could be reached, Walker announced a convoy approaching the limo from behind, three chunky vehicles gaining speed. Alexei tried to engage “defensive measures”, but he’d forgotten which of the several buttons to press, and instead engaged a “party mode”, where the lights turned flashy pinks and purples, and a ridiculous EDM song began to blare from the built-in speaker system, nearly shocking you into splitting. 

And then the gunshots started firing. Walker made himself useful by deflecting the majority of the bullets with his shield. Ghost tried to climb out one of the windows, only to be met by a piercing blast of concentrated, high-frequency sound waves, instantly disabling her suit’s phasing abilities. Yelena currently had nothing but a gun, and Alexei was busy driving. That left you.

With a determined puff of breath, you multiplied once, then climbed out the car window. Distantly, John barked at you to stay behind the shield but he went largely ignored. 

This was going to hurt like hell. But, on the plus side, you never really knew if you had a limit to the number of clones you could produce before you exhausted yourself. Maybe today you could find out. Within the blink of an eye, there were a hundred of you, growing exponentially by the second. 

Yelena realized what you were doing before the others. You were forming a human wall. 

One of the military vehicles plowed right through the weakest part of the wall, your blood and guts splattering every which way, staining the sand a deep shade of crimson. Another tried to swerve around, but ended up skidding too quickly, tipping over and crashing to the side, tires moving fruitlessly in the air. Your copies, still multiplying, swarmed the vehicle like angry, hell-bent ants, slipping into the open windows and pummeling the few soldiers in there. You could feel the bullets empty into your body, but you swallowed down the pain and kept going. But exactly as you told Yelena before—limited bullets, inifinite of you. And good Lord, did it hurt like—well, like you were being run over a thousand times over because you quite literally were. 

The remaining car was taken care of by an explosion so loud that it seemed to reverberate through the very ground. Initially, you wondered if someone from the car had thrown back a grenade, but when you caught sight of the sleek motorbike, you knew it was a newcomer. 

You heard Walker distantly yell, “Bucky!”

And true to his word, It was Bucky Barnes, in the flesh. Your eyes widened ever so slightly. You reabsorbed your copies—the few remaining that were still alive—and watched from a distance as he swerved past the last car’s gunfire, pinned a cable to its underbelly, and fell back to hold the wire down with his metal arm. The car flipped in the air as if it were an omelet on an oiled skillet. You blinked, impressed. 

Then, to your dismay, Bucky took off his sunglasses, and proceeded to shoot an explosive disk at Alexei’s limo. Similar to the previous car, it did an uneven pirouette before crashing onto the road upside-down. You winced, hoping none of them were killed in the crash. Even if they weren’t your friends, you thought that killing them went a step too far. 

Bucky was a little ways ahead of you, but he turned and fixed you with an expectant stare. Was he going to shoot you, too?

But you should’ve known—Bucky Barnes was smarter than that. He pulled out a different gun—and when he shot, electric ropes shot out as if they were sticky webs. You came crashing to the ground as they wound about your body, spasming with the sharp current frying your skin. To your panic, duplicating was not an option if you were bound. 

“If—” you choked out as he drew nearer to you. “If you’re going to kill me, please do it quickly.”

The ex-Winter Soldier looked down at you with a cocked head. “I’m not going to kill you. You’re evidence.��

Bob couldn’t remember the last time he woke up in a nice bed. In fact, this was probably the nicest bed he’s ever been in. His fingers twitched beside him—silk sheets. Just from that, he knew that this wasn’t his home (thank God for that), nor was it a hospital. He sat up.

There was a woman sitting by his bedside, watching him.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft and meticulously tender. “How are you feeling, Robert? Are you comfortable?”

He stared at her for a moment before awkwardly saying, “Yeah.”

She nodded in satisfaction. “Good, good. My name is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.”

The name immediately had Robert backing up to the headboard, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “No, you—you tried to kill us!”

She began shushing him as if he were a child throwing a fit. On the glass table beside her, she put down what looked and sounded to be a metal plate.

“Let me explain. Would you like that?”

Bob stared at her for a moment, before looking down at his hands fidgeting with the silk. “Yeah,” he whispered. 

“You signed up for a medical study, which was, as advertised, at the cutting edge of human improvement. But not everybody could handle the amount of greatness that we had in mind—”

As she spoke, Bob took to looking around. The room was rather empty save for the bed, the glass table, and the chair Valentina was sitting on. Where was he? He hoped he wouldn’t have to stay here long… he didn’t like empty spaces very much. The blankness of the walls always made him worse than usual. When he was younger, he wasn’t even allowed to put up posters because his father would tear them down the minute he saw them. Bob swallowed the lump in his throat, realizing he hadn’t been listening to what Valentina was saying.

“Where—where is everyone?” he asked, interrupting her long-winded explanation. “Xerox? Yelena?”

“Xerox?” she repeated, pulling a distasteful face. Bob frowned. “Yelena… Oh, Bob, those people you were with… they’re not honest people. They’re criminals. Villains, really.”

Bob inched closer to the headboard until his back was flush against the leather. “No, but they… they helped me.” 

Well, if they weren’t here, he hoped everyone managed to get to safety. That he was useful for once in his damn life and not just… in the way.

Valentina stood up from the chair and sat down on the bed, inches away from him. Bob stiffened at the sudden movement.

“Let’s just forget about them for a bit. Let’s focus on you,” the woman said, “and how perfect you are.”

Perfect? Him, perfect? Perfect Bob. It sounded like an oxymoron. An embedded contradiction.

“You always thought of yourself as the victim. But you overcame it! You went to Malaysia—you were lost. You were searching for something, someone to help you. And you found me,” she crooned. 

Bob could feel his breath hitch in his throat. “How do you know about that?” 

It was embarrassing—mortifying, even—that someone found out that he was looking for help because he was a pathetic loser who couldn’t do anything on his own, as if he even deserved help to begin with. And now she was confronting him about it! Bob wanted a hole to open in the ground so he could crawl inside of it and hide away for the rest of his stupid life.

“I know all of it,” Valentina assured, though it wasn’t very reassuring. “I know about your mom’s mental illness, I know about your addiction, your juvenile record, and, you know—I even know about the times your father—”

Bob felt his insides seize at the mention of his father. “Stop!” he said, hands immediately coming up to cup his ears. “No, I didn’t say you could know that.” The lights began to flicker, a dangerous hum filling the room.

Valentina shook her head, scooching even closer. “Robert, I know everything about you—and I still want you to be my guy! All the bad things you’ve done… and I accept it. I accept you. Isn’t that what you want? To be chosen? No one else sees it. But I do. I see you. And I think, Robert, that your past is what makes you so special.”

At this, Bob could feel a small part of him cave. She wanted him. Out of all people, she thought he was capable! Capable of what? Did it even matter? He was picked. Wanted, chosen, special, needed, valuable, a true asset!

That was what he wanted. Yes, a dark voice whispered in the back of his mind. She’s your ticket out. You won’t be a useless fucking loser anymore. 

Then, Valentina took his hand. His eyes narrowed a fraction. He dove into her mind and he saw it all—her father, the tears on her chubby nine-year-old cheeks, the bullet in his chest. When he pulled away, he regarded her with a mixture of pity and confusion. 

This woman was just as sad as him. Was everyone equally messed up in the head or did he just attract like-minded people?

Valentina cleared her throat, trying her best to give him a warm smile, but it ended up looking more like a grimace than anything. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” she said, getting up from the bed. She looked a bit frazzled. Bob supposed being forced to live your most traumatic memory again did that to someone. 

Before she could leave, she picked up the metal disk. He caught a glimpse of the shiny golden S engraved on the front side.

Your ticket! the dark voice hissed. You fucking idiot.

“No,” he croaked out, scrambling away from the headboard. “No, wait!” He swallowed the bile in his throat. “I can control it.”

She smiled, victorious. “Great,” she said. Then, she turned and left, leaving Bob alone in the empty room.

Bucky Barnes was very good at ignoring you. He only seemed to listen after tying the super soldiers up with bent metal rods, and you, Ava, and Yelena with special power-defusing cuffs. And even then, he dismissed everyone trying to tell him about Bob, Project Sentry, and how Valentina betrayed all of you. He made a scathing remark to John about his wife and kid deciding to leave him—it was clear the two had a tense, troubled history. 

Finally, after about half an hour sitting around and wasting time, Bucky got a phone call. Who with, you didn’t know. Someone close to Valentina, maybe. But she mentioned Bob, and suddenly Bucky straightened. His scowl deepened upon realizing that this group of misfits and criminals—were telling him the truth all along.

“So…” he said after hanging up the phone. “Bob.”

“Bob,” the rest of the group echoed in both exasperation and relief.

“We have to help him,” you said, emphatically wriggling your wrists and shoulders to indicate the cuffs. “Valentina is only going to hurt him or use him to hurt others.”

“Or both,” Ava chimed.

Bucky thought on it for a long second, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Finally, he stalked over and uncuffed you, Yelena, then Ava. He unwound the metal pipe around Alexei as if he was snapping a string. He paused behind Walker, clearly unhappy to let him back on his feet, but he also broke him free of his bonds.

“You guys know Valentina,” he said. His eyes met yours. “Like you said—people are going to get hurt. And if your knowledge of this Bob can help… then you’re coming with me.”

“Us?” Yelena said, incredulous. “Bucky, you have the wrong people. Isn’t there anyone else you can call? Thor?”

“Off-world.”

“Captain America?” you asked, venturing a glance at Walker.

“Busy. Out of the country.”

“The Hulk?” Ava asked.

Bucky shook his head, patience wearing thin. “Listen. I’ve been where you are. You can run, but it catches up. It doesn’t go away. I’m giving you guys the opportunity to do something about it now. It’s either you come with me, or it’s a prison cell. Take your pick.”

Alexei needed no convincing. “This is great!” he roared. “All of us will be fighting together, like a team!”

More reluctant, Yelena drew in a breath. “Stop Val. Save Bob.”

You nodded. “I’m in.”

Walker pursed his lips. “Fine,” he gruffed.

Ava nodded, solemn. “Come on, then.”

Alexei looked around with a wide, oafish grin on his face. “YES!” he yelled. “Come on, then, you slowpokes! What are we waiting for?”

The plan to save Bob was really no plan at all—which was to be expected from a group of mercenaries and assassins who were typically used to working alone. 

Crash into the Avengers Tower. Beat up the guards. Find Valentina. Take care of her (you still weren’t very sure what this bit meant). Save Bob. Easy, right?

Well, crashing into the tower and beating up the guards certainly were a piece of cake. Finding Valentina, which you suspected to be one of the harder steps, turned out to be handed over to you on a silver platter. 

Her voice echoed on the intercom, effectively halting everyone mid-punch or mid-kick. As for Bucky, he dropped the guard he’d been strangling. “Jesus, you guys,” Valentina sighed. “I literally just had a new drywall installed. Should’ve known you lot would mess that up, too. I left the door unlocked for you. Come up.”

Yelena stood beside you, chest heaving. “Think it’s a trap?”

“Probably,” you said. “But do we have a better plan?”

“We didn’t have one to begin with,” Ava retorted. She gestured to the elevator. “Come on.”

The elevator took the group up to one of the very top floors of the tower. You stepped in with wide, scrutinizing eyes. Most of the original Avengers were dead now, weren’t they? Dead or retired. A vague memory of heroism and destruction. You were gone during the Blip—and you thanked God for that—so the Avengers bringing you back was more of a curse than a blessing on your end. 

“Crazy, isn’t it?” Valentina greeted everyone from behind an island counter. There was the pop of a champagne bottle as she poured herself a glass. “Think of all the monumental fights that happened exactly where you’re standing. I mean, I don’t really care—the place wasn’t cheap, but it’s got good optics.”

That’s all she ever seemed to care about, wasn’t it? Image. Branding. It was no wonder she always sent you on undercover missions. You weren’t marketable. No little girl or boy would buy your figurine when there was an Iron Man or Black Widow to pick from. 

“It’s over, Valentina,” Bucky said, expression stoic. “This ends now.”

“Congressman Barnes,” Valentina greeted, voice snippy. “I never thought you’d have a promising career but—you managed to disappoint even the lowest of expectations. Not even half a term, huh? Yikes.”

“We’re taking you in, Val,” Walker interrupted. 

This made her laugh, though it was inauthentic and hollow. “I don’t think so… junior varsity Captain America.”

His hand fell on his gun, and he only paused when Bucky said his name with a warning tone.

“It’s good to see you, Ava. Yelena. You look awful, by the way. You sure you’re really ready for that public-facing role you asked me about?” 

“Eat shit, Valentina.”

“Where’s Bob?” you said, feeling the tensions creeping up until it felt near suffocating. “What did you do to him?”

“Xerox. I thought you wanted to leave… And yet here you are. Just makes me wonder why you haven’t left. You had every opportunity to. Are you getting attached already? That was always a weakness of yours, wasn’t it?” She took a long sip from her champagne flute. “You know, he asked about you. Even mentioned the little nickname you gave him. Palindrome, right? It’s a little bit of a mouthful, but that’s just me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Why were you still here? You didn’t owe Bob—or anyone else in this group—anything. 

Your evident hesitation made Valentina’s eyes light up. “Just look at you guys! So adorable, really. I sent you all down there to kill each other… but you made nice, and you form a team. Who would’ve thought?”

To your relief, Bucky cut through her condescending tirade by asking for Mel, who you assumed to be the person he was on the phone with earlier. 

“Oh, Mel,” she said, dismissive. “She’s having loyalty issues. But I’m just so grateful that she stuck around long enough to lure you all in—”

As she spoke, Bucky took the flute of champagne from her hands and placed it onto the island with a resounding tink. His hand then moved to close around Valentina’s throat.

But it never got there.

His hand froze mid-air, vibrating with strain. Bucky stared down at his arm with furrowed brows.

With a sharp, satisfactory grin, Valentina hummed, “I’m not alone. Robert?”

You turned to see a pair of dark boots descend down a flight of stairs. Each step revealed more of him—flashy golden suit, cinched blue belt, a dark, flowing cape. Blonde hair. A confident stance. A set jaw.

“Oh, my God,” Yelena said. 

“That’s Bob?” Bucky asked, words laced with disbelief.

“He looks… a little different from when we last saw him,” Ava said.

You stayed silent, watching him with what could only be described as a crestfallen expression. This wasn’t the Palindrome you remembered. What did Valentina do to him?

“It is my great honor to introduce to you… the Sentry,” Valentina beckoned to Bob as if he were a shiny new car she was parading. 

Bob nodded at the rest of you. “Hey, guys.” His eyes met yours for a brief second, but he was quick to look away. Your insides felt as if they were curdling.

“All powerful. Invincible. Stronger than all the Avengers combined—and soon to be known as Earth’s mightiest hero,” Valentina announced. 

Ava narrowed her eyes at him. “Have you dyed your hair?”

Bob blinked. “Yeah. It was—”

“My idea,” Valentina nodded.

“I preferred the dark hair,” you said, though you weren’t sure if you were saying it to spite Valentina or because it was the genuine truth. Perhaps both. “Brought out your eyes.”

Bob looked at you as if you had slapped him.

“People love a classic hero,” Valentina said. “All the strongest and most beloved were blondes. The original Captain America, blonde. Thor, blonde. Hawkeye, blonde-ish. Black Widow… blonde for some time.”

The mention of her sister made Yelena flinch. Valentina didn’t seem to notice.

“So what’s the plan?” Bucky said. He wasn’t here to discuss frivolities like hair color.

“You haven’t figured it out yet, Bucky? Geez. Did all that time in the freezer slow your brain down? At least you’re kinda cute—you have that going for you.” 

“You’re not going to hurt people?” the Guardian intervened, his inflection cautious and mildly confused. 

“Oh, no! No. I’m not going to hurt people. I’m going to hurt you—or, well, Robert here will. You see, the press is on their way here now. They’re going to witness the magnificent power of Sentry as he takes down this group of ruthless, rogue agents. Thus beginning a new era where I decide how to keep the American people safe, answering to no one. I’ll be unimpeachable.”

“Cool,” you snarked, lips curling into a snarl. “You got the villain monologue down and everything.” Then, you turned to Bob, trying your best to ignore Valentina’s presence right beside him. Your expression softened considerably. “You told her about Palindrome?” 

Bob froze, as if pondering if he’d done something wrong. “Ye–yeah. I thought—at first, I thought it would be a cool hero name. But yeah, uhm… Sentry is… better. Rolls off the tongue.”

You nodded. “Okay. No, you’re right, maybe. But Palindrome—same backwards as it is forwards, remember? Are you the same Bob I met down in the vault? Because I liked that Bob a lot more than what I see in front of me now.”

Initially, Bob’s expression crumpled. Any hope of seeking the team’s approval was immediately crushed under the heel of your foot. Then, to your dismay, Bob—no, Sentry’s—face grew stony.

“Valentina fixed me,” he said. “I’m better now.”

The team’s incredulous, disbelieving faces told Bob all he needed to know. None of you were on his side. 

Valentina nodded at the tall, now-blonde super. “Sentry. Your first mission is to take out these criminals.”

Bob swallowed heavily, brows furrowed as he weighed between his options. “I don’t want to hurt you guys,” he finally said. “Why don’t you just turn yourselves in?”

With a scoff, Walker said, “You don’t wanna do this, Bobby.”

A vein jumped on the side of Bob’s neck. “You can call me Sentry.”

“Please, you do not need to listen to her,” Yelena attempted to rationalize. 

“See?” Valentina exclaimed. “It’s exactly as I told you—they don’t think you’re good enough.”

“That’s not true!” Yelena asserted. “You can trust me, Bob! I know you!”

Bob fixed her with what looked to be a disappointed gaze. “I don’t think that you do.”

“But—you saved us. Only a few hours ago, you sacrificed yourself to help us escape. What was any of that for?” You loathed how your voice broke with desperation. 

Bob had a hard time swallowing around the rising lump in his throat. His mind darted back to the many times you died just to save him. None of this sat well with him, but… it needed to be done. 

“It was a mistake,” he said, simply. He chanced a glance to Valentina, who nodded in approval.

You recoiled like a wounded snake. 

“ENOUGH TALKING!” Alexei bellowed. Bob still wasn’t very sure who he was. “No one messes with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!” 

Just as Val incredulously echoed, “Thunderbolts?” Alexei stormed forward, pulling all his weight into a barrel-slam. It was as if he were hit with a solid, thick wall of dense lead. Bob punched him straight in his round belly, and like a ragdoll, the super soldier went flying backwards, crumpling into a red heap against a nearby pillar. Immediately, the rest of the team dove into action and attacked Bob. Save for Yelena, who was still trying to make peace with him.

Bob was, as Valentina had alluded to earlier, seemingly invincible. Able to fling people away without having to disturb a single dyed hair on his head. Stop special-grade bullets mid-air and send them right back to the assailant at twice the speed. Withstood the sharpest of blades and the strongest of punches. 

You split into two copies. One to assist Walker, whose shield was embedded into a sofa, nearly cleaving it in two, and another running after Valentina, who you spotted hurrying to hide behind a corner.

“You lied to us,” you hissed, grabbing the collar of her dress shirt, yanking her close until her nose was inches away from yours. “I came to you for help. I thought you would save me.”

“I did,” she said, and began to howl and laugh like a maniac. “When I found you, you were an empty husk of a person. Now look at you. Fighting with your friends. There’s a spark that wasn’t there before. You know, if I hadn’t only stuck you to do my dirty work, you would’ve made a good hero. A lack of planning on my end, I’m afraid.”

You felt your eyes sting with the promise of tears. “I could’ve been good?”

“Yes,” she said, shrugging. “But you chose this. Sure, I gave you the order… but who, in the end, pulled the trigger?” Without giving you the chance to respond, she lolled her head to the side. “Oh, Sentry!”

Bob, who had been preoccupied smashing Alexei through the windows as if he were playing frisbee, snapped his head to see you holding Valentina. Immediately, his eyes started glowing, and you were ripped away. 

There was no hope in fighting against a man more powerful than all the Avengers rolled into one. You braced yourself for pain, squeezing your eyes shut. But there came none. Instead, when you cracked an eye open you were suspended midair outside of the penthouse. 

“How far?” he asked you, striding to the window, its frames lined with shattered bullet-proof glass.

“What?” you choked out, trying to struggle, though you knew that if he dropped you, you would be met with a terrible fall that was likely worse than the fall you had in the vault. 

“How far until you lose control and get a seizure?” He turned and bent Walker’s shield until it caved around his arm, now shaped like a curved taco shell. “I don’t want to send you too far. I’d prefer not to hurt you.”

“Fuck you!” you snarled. A second too late, you realized that was probably a terrible thing to say to him when he had you floating mid-air, completely at his mercy. “Wait, Bob—please just stop this—!” The rest of your plea was lost to the wind as he sent you streaking further away from the tower, going so fast that the civilians down below must have thought you were some sort of high-tech drone.

Your duplicate watched in horror, knowing there was nothing you could do for your other-you. You were taken farther and farther until you grew limp, convulsing hundreds of feet above the ground. The copy in the tower crumpled to the ground with not a sound. Ava, battered and bruised, dragged your convulsing body away from the action so you were less likely to be struck while down. 

And when the rest of the team gave up and turned to retreat, Bucky was the one to pick you up by the scruff of your dark suit, dragging you into the elevator. He was missing his metal arm, which Sentry had torn off like it had been attached with paperclips, hot glue, and a dream. Ava picked it up on her way into the lift.

Sentry advanced on them with glowing eyes. “Forgetting someone?” 

He reached out behind him, fingers curled into a beckoning motion. Your copy came flying back into the tower, crashing into the rest of the team as if you were a bowling ball, and the rest of the team the pins. Your skull rattled as it knocked into Alexei’s, and you gasped for air, dizzy and disoriented. If you had been more lucid, you would have apologized to Walker for your boot crashing into his eye. That was likely going to leave a terrible bruise. Yelena took your arm and wound it around her to help you stay upright. 

“I’m so glad you were able to catch a glimpse before your… retirement,” Valentina called out, slinking out from the shadows she was hiding in. “Camera crews are assembling. Finish the job, Robert.”

Bob waited until the elevator doors slid to a close, hiding all the fearful faces from his observant gaze, and he could hear the lift move downwards.

“Finish the job?” he echoed. “No. They’re not a threat to me, so… why do I need to kill them?”

Valentina gave him a tight-lipped smile. “You need to do what I say, Robert.”

Confusion washed over his polished, golden features. “Why?” 

“Why?” Valentina parroted, almost mocking. Bob could feel anger bubble behind his chest.

“I just…” He exhaled in frustration. “I feel like there’s an… unwarranted power imbalance here.” He motioned between himself and her. “There needs to be more of a collaboration between us if this is going to work. Like, the hair—I don’t know. Maybe I should have more of a say.”

She rolled her eyes to the broken ceiling from when Yelena was flung upwards. “Don’t let those idiots get to your head. The blonde is great.”

“You sure?” said Bob, now pacing back and forth, wringing his hands. “I thought I liked it, but now I’m not so sure. Xerox said—”

“Forget Xerox!” Valentina exclaimed. “That’s enough about the hair, Sentry.”

“It’s not just about the hair, though—”

“Well, you keep bringing it up, so—”

“No, but it’s everything!” Bob asserted. “It’s all of it. My suit, my name, my missions. I didn’t even want to be Sentry. I thought Palindrome was good. It… it is good.”

As if she were consoling a child, Valentina relented. “Fine. If you want to change it so bad, be my guest. We’ll just have to re-do all the paperwork all over again and—”

Bob shook his head. “Why would a god… take orders from anyone at all?”

Brow cocked, Valentina slowly said, “I think you’re throwing the word god a bit loosely there.”

“No,” Bob said. “No, but you said… I was all-powerful and stronger than the entire team of Avengers, which includes at least one God. I’m starting to think that maybe you don’t actually know what I am, nor what I’m capable of. I’m the only survivor from the medical trials, aren’t I? I’m the only one left.” 

Val drew in a sharp breath, folding her hands behind her back. “Oh, God.”

“Yeah,” said Bob. “Yes, that’s more like it.”

Before she could draw out the emergency killswitch, Bob took her by the throat and sent her flying across the room, pinning her against a metal support frame. She struggled against his hold fruitlessly. 

“You were going to turn on me,” said Bob, narrowing his eyes. “Just like the rest of them.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Robert,” she croaked before he began to apply more pressure against her esophagus.

“It’s not Robert you have to be afraid of,” he said, voice as cold as the steel behind her. His eyes began to glow a terrifying golden hue and—

There was a click and a zap, and Bob’s hold on her loosened. Sentry crumpled to the ground in a heap of golds and blues. Mel was standing behind the pair, holding the killswitch, legs shaking. 

“I want a raise,” she demanded. 

“Fine. Order cleanup and it’s yours,” said Val, gripping the support beam with shaking hands. “And help me up, damn it!”

The two eventually stumbled into the elevator, leaving Bob’s body alone in the Avengers tower. A minute after Val abandoned his corpse, however, the floors darkened to an inky blank around him. His suit and face was now pitch-dark, absent of any sort of color. His finger twitched. First his pinky, then his thumb, then his whole hand. By the second minute, he began levitating, floating a meter above the cracked floors.

Bob, Palindrome, Robert, Sentry, the Golden Guardian of Who Gives a Flying Fuck—what he used to be… was gone now. And what was left of him?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Just a void.

Once outside the Avengers Tower, you reabsorbed into one body, stumbling away from Yelena to sit on the curb. Behind you, they were bickering, as always. Alexei wanted to go somewhere to regroup and try again. As if being completely beaten to a pulp wasn’t enough. 

Yelena was done. She was fed up with his bullshit. 

“Stop. Just stop! There is no us. There is no we. Bob is gone. He changed into that thing—and there is nothing that any of you could do about it,” she hissed. 

“Right,” Ava said, rolling her eyes. “And what did you do, exactly? Because I seem to remember you getting your ass beat way worse than mine. Xerox didn’t even try to stop Bob.”

“Because we didn’t stand a chance. There was no point,” you gritted out, getting back up to your feet. “Sorry I prioritized getting Valentina over him.”

“Fat load of good that did!” Ava exclaimed, throwing her hands up in defeat.

“Yeah, I get it! I suck! We suck! We’re all terrible!” Yelena screamed. The pedestrians going about their day eyed the rag-tag team of bloodied, bruised, suited individuals. “Ava, you’re not a hero. You’re not even a good person.”

Ava pretended that didn’t sting. “Bitch,” she muttered under her breath. 

When Alexei tried to step in, Yelena exploded at him, too. “I am not your little girl! I haven’t heard from you or seen you in a year! It’s like you didn’t even care about Natasha. You’re a fucking fake and a coward and I wish you never pretended to be my father!”

Walker stepped in, saying, “Come on, go easy on him.”

“Oh, so you’re nice now?” Yelena said, rounding on him.

“What, is it my turn?” he said, tone flat and unimpressed.

“No, you know you’re a piece of trash,” Yelena spat. “And so does your family.”

“Jesus,” said Walker, grimacing at how much that stung.

“Yelena,” you said, weary of her biting your head off for even speaking. “We tried. We failed. We move on. Can we do that?”

“No, but you didn’t try, did you? I saw you talking to Valentina. You could’ve done it. You had the chance to kill her, but you didn’t. You were too caught up in your selfish fantasies of self-fulfillment that you’ve doomed the rest of us!” 

You nodded, withdrawing, clearly wounded. “Mhm. Okay.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was your fault. You had Valentina. You did. Was your need for closure selfish? Did it cost everyone a potential victory?

“We lost,” Yelena said with a tone of finality. She turned around and began to stalk away. “This fucking team was built on delusions. We were never anything, not ever.”

Alexei went after her. The rest of the group slowly started to retreat into different directions. You looked to Bucky with sad eyes he thought resembled a kicked animal.

“Does it get better?” you asked. Your gesture to your head was vague and hard to interpret, but Bucky seemed to understand you almost instantly.

“I wish I had an easy answer for you, kid.” The soldier pursed his lips, regarding you with furrowed brows. “But not like this, it won’t. Not like this.”

“What are you going to do now?” you whispered. 

Bucky clenched his jaw. It was clear that he had no idea what the protocol was for a situation like this. “As of now, Valentina’s intentions with Sentry are unclear. She could be planning out acts of terrorism as we speak. I think the smartest course of action is evacuating the premises.” He eyed you warily. “You can go home. You’ve done enough.”

“I want…” The words lodged in your throat. “Bucky, I know I’m a fuck-up. I’ve done bad, terrible things. I know there’s no coming back from that. But I want to help. I want to be better.”

Something flickered in the blue of his eyes, as if he was recalling something. Someone. “Okay, kid,” he said after a brief pause. “Come on.”

The two of you began to usher the crowd away. You multiplied a few dozen times, scattering to hoard as many people you could off the streets. You heard many shocked whispers amongst the passerby. Is that Congressman Barnes? No fucking way—that’s the Winter Soldier. Is Captain America around? Why are there four of you? That’s freaky as shit.

“I’m Xerox,” you hurriedly told a family loitering by the entrance to the subway station, trying your best to seem friendly but you likely came off as a raving lunatic instead. “You need to evacuate the premises now. Someone dangerous could be—”

“Are you a hero?” a little girl asked you in wonder, taking a gander at your suit, which was battered and covered with dust and soot. It definitely had seen better days. “You don’t really look like one.”

The mother flinched with shock, and began to frantically apologize for her daughter’s lack of a filter.

“It’s okay,” you reassured. “I’m no hero. I just want to help.”

The mother nodded, looking worried. “That’s good enough for me.” It was clear she was no stranger to bizarre happenings in New York. “Come on, Adeline. Let’s go.” They hurried off, and you returned to Bucky, who was urging a gaggle of laughing teenagers not to go into a theater.

“Good. You cleared the street,” said Bucky. “We should set up some sort of blockade to—”

Abruptly, Bucky stopped mid-sentence. His eyes were trained up to the sky, and you turned to follow his gaze. You felt your heart painfully skip a beat in your chest.

A dark figure floated above the city. Caped, with a suspiciously similar silhouette to Sentry. You squinted, straining your vision, barely making out his arm extending out as if he was mimicking grabbing something.

“That’s—” Bucky started.

“Bob,” you breathed out. 

You watched in horror as helicopters came flying towards him. At first, you thought they were press, just as Valentina promised—until they started shooting at him. The bullets seemed to disappear through him. And after a second, the helicopters came crashing down, as if they were completely void of pilots. The vehicles spun into construction scaffolding, pieces of unfinished building breaking apart and falling to the world below.

You and Bucky were quick to move then, yanking civilians out from under falling rubble. You multiplied more in an effort to help, even if it meant getting hit by falling concrete once in a while. You caught sight of Alexei using a metal sign he had torn off a shawarma restaurant to protect citizens as they escaped down the subway tunnels, and Yelena saving an elderly woman from getting run over by a news van. Another helicopter was tumbling down from further down the street, and Ghost phased through rapidly-rotating blades to shove people out of the way. Walker was stopping a large slab of concrete from crushing a civilian. Your clones being as scattered as they possibly could meant you had eyes in all directions. A dozen of you hurried over to help him push it upwards, gritting your teeth with the solid weight.

Another one of you dragged the woman out from underneath. She was sobbing profusely, praying in a language you couldn’t understand. But she signed something—the tips of her fingers touching her lips, then beckoning out to you. Thank you.

It felt like something finally clicked into place. Was it inherently selfish of you to want to help people because it made you feel good? Or did it cancel out?

Yelena joined, then Alexei. Ghost phased through and began pushing beside Walker. Bucky put all his weight in with his metal arm, and the slab finally tipped over, crashing onto the street with such a weighty thud that the asphalt beneath fractured. 

And then the crowd around you started clapping. Quietly at first, but rising up to a deafening applause. 

“Mom?” called a small child across the street. There was a shadow falling over her, growing larger. Alexei was there before anyone else, shielding the little girl from the falling debris that would certainly have crushed her to death if he hadn’t been there. 

“You’re safe, little one,” said Alexei, kneeling down to her height. 

The dry tear tracks on her chubby cheeks bent as she smiled at the red giant before her.

And then she was gone. The only thing left in her place was a shadow in a blobby, vague shape of the girl, spilling darkness across the street. 

You flinched. Three civilians across from you disappeared in the same way. Then two to your left. Another pair behind you. Your eyes flew upwards to see Bob—Sentry—whoever that was descend down to hover only a few feet above the totaled street. 

“You will all know the truth,” his voice echoed. “You can’t outrun the emptiness.”

Screams erupted around you as people fled every which way. You reabsorbed your copies closest to the growing darkness.

“Come on,” Walker said, yanking your arm. “We need to get people off the streets!”

You nodded, rushing ahead to direct people into the subway tunnels. 

“Yelena!” you heard Alexei bellow. “Yelena, what are you doing?”

You turned to see her calmly striding towards the darkness. 

“No,” you whispered. Your closest copy ran towards her, only a few feet away.

“It’s like you said,” the dark figure murmured, his voice somehow loud enough to reverberate in your ears like a piercing drum. “We’re all alone. All of us.”

“Yelena,” you said, taking her forearm. “Yelena, we have to go.”

“Aren’t you tired of fighting?” Bob asked. Instinctively, you knew he was speaking to you. “I can fix it. Let me fix it.”

“No, Pal,” you said, edging away from the darkness, which was eating at the streets. “I don’t need you to fix me, thank you. I haven’t even tried a licensed therapist yet. Come, Yelena, please.”

Your words fell on deaf ears. The assassin shut her eyes and let out a sigh. She stepped forward, and then she was gone. You heard Alexei’s anguished screams somewhere behind you. 

The Void reached out and turned a few more panicked civilians into shadows. Before you knew it, the entire street was blackened, leaving only a circle around you.

“I promise it won’t hurt,” The Void said. He floated down to the ground to stand in front of you, just inches away. If you reached out, you would be able to touch him. You could feel the cold emanating off his body, tempting you to just—fall into him. “The darkness will keep you company.”

“And that’s you?” you whispered, trying your best to look for an expression in such a blank canvas of darkness. “Where’s Bob?”

“He doesn’t matter anymore,” the Void said.

“He does,” you insisted. “He did to me.” 

“You died for him,” he said, tilting his head.

You nodded. “And I would again.”

“Why?” 

The question, though it was just one word, weighed heavy on your mind. 

“I’m not the bad guy I thought I was,” you finally told him. You stared at the darkness closing in around you with a heavy heart. “If I went in—would I find Bob in there?”

“Your Palindrome is hiding. He isn’t looking to be saved.” The Void motioned around him. “Look at this mess. This is no place to be. Step in with me. I’ll take care of it. You wouldn’t need to worry anymore… it’ll be just us.”

“Can I try to help him in there?” Your voice broke, betraying your own fear.

The black figure’s shoulders trembled as if he were smothering a laugh. “You can try. I’d advise giving up, though. It’s never worth it. Now… come.” 

His arms spread wide open, inviting you in. Distantly, you could hear Bucky and Ava call out your name. You swallowed heavily.

Then you fell forward, willingly embracing someone for the first time since you were a child. He was solid for a split moment. All frigid edges and hard muscle—then you collapsed into the soft darkness, and sat back up in a hospital room.

It was the same vision as before. Two of you. One whole and one cut. Without hesitating, you kicked at the surgeon, grabbing a scalpel from the table and slitting his throat. You watched the blood gush out of his wound, dark and bubbling. Too dark to be real blood. 

You turned to free yourself with the missing leg from the operating table, slicing at the leather straps. And then, to your shock, young-you began attacking yourself. 

It was disorienting to see your younger self snarl like a rabid animal, leaping from the table to claw at you, sinking sharp little teeth into your exposed throat. You made a garbled noise of pain, and threw the kid off. Your throat stung, but it was a hollow pain that was quick to fade back into nothingness.

“I’m you!” you screamed before the kid could leap at you again. “I’m you!”

“I don’t know you,” little Xerox said. “You’re not real. You can’t be real.”

“I’m you,” you whispered. You put the scalpel down and approached like one would a nervous horse. “Honey, I’m you. I’m okay, see? You’ll be okay.”

Little-you swayed. You began to cry in the silent way you always did, smaller frame wracking. 

“It’s okay,” you said with an aching chest, gathering yourself up in your arms, stroking the back of your head. “Let it out. There you go.”

The child began to bawl into your chest. You reached over for the scalpel again, slicing through the bonds of the young, whole copy. “Here. Take care of each other, okay?”

“Okay,” the whole copy said. Both of the younger Xeroxes held onto one another. You stepped away with a heavy heart. 

“Palindrome?” you called out. “I’m here to help. Come talk to me.”

Nothing.

With a huff, you turned out of the hospital room, shoving your way through the doors, though not before bidding a respectful goodbye to your younger copies. 

You found yourself in a different room now. You had escaped the hospital at this point, now living off of the meager cash you earned by doing the dirty work for Madripoorean crime lords. Your gun was trained on a woman as she sobbed for mercy.

“I didn’t mean to—” she said, wiping away the snot that dribbled from her nose. “I didn’t mean to, please tell him that for me!”

“I don’t speak to my bosses,” your copy said. Current-you rounded about to look at Xerox’s face here. Gaunt, with glassy, empty eyes. “He wants you gone.”

“I can be gone!” she said, nodding. “Please. You can pretend you shot me. I can disappear without a trace.” When you said nothing, she doubled over, wailing out a pitiful noise. “I’m pregnant. Please. Please don’t kill me.”

Past-Xerox’s eyes thinned into disbelieving slits. “Lie.”

“I’m not lying. Please. It’s his child, but I can—”

“Don’t tell me that.”

“Just listen to me—”

Your younger self began to panic. “Why would you tell me that?”

“If you could—”

“Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.” 

“Is—do you need money? Is it money you want?”

“No.” Yes. “I don’t need your charity.”

The woman shakily pulled out crumpled bills from her bag, offering them to you. You gritted your jaw and pulled the trigger. She fell to the ground with her mouth frozen mid-plea. Before you left, you took the bills and stuffed them into the holey pockets of your ratty trousers. You took the silver necklace the woman was wearing for good measure, too.

Your past-self looked up at you. “Do we ever find out?”

“What?”

“Was she really pregnant?”

You stared down at the dead woman with horror. “I don’t know.”

Young Xerox straightened, shoulders rolling back. “We don’t deserve to be forgiven. Not for this.”

“Maybe not,” you agreed. “You’re also only eighteen.”

“So?”

“You were just a kid. You had no money. No food. No home. No family. Just you and your copies and your missions,” you whispered. 

“Tch. Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me.”

You nodded. “It is. It’s an excuse.” You looked down the alleyway. “Valentina will be coming soon for you. She’ll be too good to be true at first. A house. A clean bed. Food in the fridge. But it’ll be the same thing again. Just… repackaged.”

Your younger self’s face twisted with a rotten, disappointed look. “Do we ever get better?”

“We try to. I try to.”

“Good.” Young Xerox pointed up a rusty metal fire escape. “He’s up there. Your Pal.”

“Thank you,” you said, about to make your way up the creaky stairs. 

“He wants to be found,” said young you, nodding. “He made the rooms easy for you. There’s a lot worse that he could’ve chosen from.”

“That’s true,” you whispered, though saying that made you feel all the more terrible for the dead woman on the ground. “What about you? Did you want to be found?” you asked, unsure if you wanted to hear the answer.

“You tell me,” retorted the younger you with a wolfish grin. “I’m all me, remember?”

Your final room was when you lived in America. It was dark in your apartment. You were twenty-five, looking a bit healthier than you had been at eighteen, but still just as miserable. 

You stood in front of the stove, which held a pot that was almost halfway full to the brim with boiling water. “Come on,” younger you said, jumping up and down on the spot, psyching yourself up. Your palm raised to slap yourself across the face. There was a belt tied about your mouth so as to not alert your civilian neighbors. “Come on, you pussy,” you hissed at yourself from behind the belt.

Inhaling sharply, you held in your breath as you dove your left palm into the boiling water. Your scream went muffled behind the belt. After a moment, you quietened to an occasional whimper. It was strange being able to watch yourself and not feel the same pain. Only the memory of it. 

It wasn’t self-harm. At least, you didn’t consider it to be so back then. It was endurance training. Upping your pain tolerance for the job. Valentina had told you that you were useless if you couldn’t handle dying. 

Younger you pulled your raw hand out of the pot after about thirty seconds, then flipped the tap on to its coldest setting, sticking it beneath the running water with a hiss. The next day, you would repeat the process until you lost all feeling in your left hand, frying your nerve endings to shit. 

As the room began to repeat itself, you stopped your younger self from plunging a hand into the pot by grabbing your wrist. “You don’t have to do that,” you said. “There are other ways of being strong.”

“If I don’t do this, I’m not worth anything,” young Xerox said. “I’d be nothing.”

“Hurting yourself doesn’t make you stronger,” you deadpanned. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I know,” the younger you sighed. “I know that. It’s just nice to be in control of my own pain for once.”

“You can be in control by consciously trying to keep yourself from the pain,” came your soft whisper. “Hurting yourself doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t solve anything. It only leaves scars that take way too long to heal. Trust me. I still can’t wear short sleeves.”

Younger you barked out a laugh. “Oh, I know. Summers are hell.”

“I know, right?” you said, smiling for the first time in what felt like weeks. “You know what helped me?”

“What?”

“Crosswords,” you said. “The newspaper stand across the store sells entire books. Every time I had the urge, I would solve a puzzle or two.”

“Oh, God,” said the younger you, bending over into what sounded like a cry, but it was actually an incredulous laugh. “I’m such a nerd. Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Just try it. It helps.”

“Okay, okay. Fuckin’ geek.”

“We memorized every single element of the periodic table in order by age eleven. I think the nerd has been with us all along.” As you spoke, you took the pot of boiling water and carefully maneuvered to dump the steaming water into the sink. You turned off the stove, and past-you didn’t try to stop you.

Your younger self smiled, and it was clear that it’s been a while since that happened, too. Then, it faded just as quickly as it appeared. “What happens if we run out of crosswords?” 

The question didn’t seem to be just about crosswords.

“We can always try something new,” you ventured. “I think crocheting is all the rage now.”

“Is it?” 

“Probably not, no. I’m not really sure what the youths are into these days. It changes every other day.”

“We can try crocheting anyway,” past-you laughed. Then, you pointed into the living room. “Look in the TV. He should be there.”

“Alright. Thanks.” You gave mid-twenties Xerox a two-fingered salute, then turned to sit down in front of your TV. 

And, as promised, you caught a glimpse of Bob in the reflection. When you looked behind you, it was still your regular, dim living room. You looked back at the dark screen.

“Found you,” you murmured, a relieved smile playing at the corner of your lips. “Hey, Bob? It’s good to see you.”

Despite the warped reflection, you could see him look up with a creased, almost guilty expression. “You found me,” he said, surprise evident in his tone. 

“I did. Will you let me in?”

“... I don’t know.”

“Please let me in. I want to help.”

Bob drew his knees up to his chest, cradling himself. The darkness surrounded you, and in the blink of an eye, you were in a different room. One you didn’t recognize. Your gaze flickered about. This must’ve been one of Bob’s rooms. An attic, by the looks of it—cluttered with junk.

You sat down in front of him. He was fiddling with a Rubix cube. “I used to love solving those,” you told him. 

“I’m—” He handed the cube over to you. “I’m pretty bad at it. I don’t know.”

“I was, too,” you said, turning the squares about. Bob watched you gradually align the colors together—orange with orange, green with green, blue with blue. You struggled with one side, but after moving back a few paces, you managed to get it right. “I was terrible at it. I kept giving up and reshuffling. But I got better with time and practice.”

You handed the cube back to him, neatly solved. Bob took it with soft fingers, inspecting your handiwork. “I don’t know how.”

“I can help you,” you said. “And there’s people out there that can help you, too.”

“They can’t help me. I’m… broken.”

There was screaming coming from downstairs. The noise made Bob flinch, his hands instinctively going up to his ears. As you listened, you could hear a man yelling, the sound of skin smacking skin, and the sound of a woman crying. A little boy intervened. More thuds, smacks, a shattering glass. The woman began berating the little boy for making things worse. It made your heart sink low to the pits of your stomach.

“Just ignore that, please,” he said once the noise died down, as if afraid you would leave now. “Don’t mind them.”

You drew in a breath. Tentative, you asked, “Can I touch you, Bob?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice croaky. “Yeah, you can. What are you doing?”

“I’m going to give you a hug. Is that okay?” 

Bob nodded again. His mom used to give him hugs, but that was a long time ago. Before she…

“Yeah,” he said, and he felt shame wash over him when tears pricked the corner of his eyes. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held him. He patted at your back awkwardly, but eventually took to mimicking your embrace when you sank into him, holding you close. 

“This is the first time I’ve hugged someone else in a very long time, you know. I’ve mostly just hugged my clones, as sad as that sounds,” you mumbled into his shoulder. 

“I don’t think that’s sad. I like to hold myself, too.”

“I like your hair like this, by the way,” you said as you tried to pull away, but he was holding onto you rather tightly. “Bob.”

“Oh!” He cleared his throat shyly, forcing himself to relinquish his grasp on you. “Sorry. Thanks. That was nice.”

“It was,” you agreed. There was some more silence. Bob put a fist up to his mouth and began to weep, utterly overwhelmed but nearly silent. You placed a hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles over his back. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

“No, I’m—” Bob let out a quaky breath and began to cry all over again. You scooched closer to him and let your hand lay over his. He enjoyed feeling your fingers trace shapeless patterns over his skin.

“Bob,” you murmured after he began to calm down. “I don’t want to stay here forever. Do you?”

He swallowed around nothing, and avoided the question. “It’s quiet here. Quieter than the other places. The rest are… worse than this.”

“Hm.”

“It’s not me, you know. I wish I could fix it, but I just can’t. I can’t stop it,” he muttered. “It’s—it’s the Void.” 

You nodded. “Could you let Yelena in here, at least? I saw the Void take her. We can help you together.”

Bob blinked back his tears. He nodded. The room slowly rotated ninety degrees, and you could hear creaking footsteps outside. Yelena busted the door open with a sharp kick to the doorknob, which you found amusing, considering the door didn’t look to have a lock on it. The team had a troubling tendency not to check if doors could just open on their own without breaking them down first.

“Bob!” she exclaimed. Then, her brows rose upon seeing you. “Xerox.”

“Hi,” you greeted. Bob waved at her besides you.

“What’s going on?” she asked, surveilling her surroundings in typical assassin-fashion. 

“Therapy session,” you said, only half-joking, patting the spot beside you. 

There was screaming downstairs again. Yelena wandered over to look down the attic’s opening, where she could see a man with a glass bottle in his hands. She looked up at you and Bob, then sat down where you gestured. 

“I’m sorry, you had to live through this, Bob. And listen,” she said, lips pursed, meeting his watery gaze. “What I said to you before was wrong. You can’t stuff it down. You can’t hold it in all alone. No one can. Nobody should. We have to let it out. We have to spend time together. Even if it doesn’t make the emptiness go away, I promise you… it’ll make you feel lighter.”

Bob sniffed. “How do you know?” he whispered.

“Because it already has for me,” Yelena told him. “I found a team of people I could trust.”

At this, she looked to you, expression apologetic. “I’m sorry for what I said to you out there, too. You are not selfish. In fact, you’re probably the most selfless person I know. Not a lot of people are willing to die all the time for others.”

“Thanks, Yelena,” you said, simultaneously warm with sincerity and stiff because you weren’t at all used to receiving compliments. “So what do you say, Bob? Will you help us get out of here?”

To your delight, Bob nodded. You smiled, taking his hand. Yelena’s eyes bounced between the two of you—absent-mindedly wondering what the two of you were talking about before she arrived. She didn’t have much time to dwell on it, however, because the walls and furniture began to hum with a low-tone frequency.

“Look out!” Bob exclaimed, pulling Yelena down as a lamp flew across the room, nearly hitting her square in the head. A plastic kiddie chair whizzed into his back, striking him painfully. There were papers—monstrous childhood drawings—flying every which way. The curtains broke free of their hooks on the railing, wrapping around you and Yelena. Bob hurried over to try to claw the fabric off you, to no avail. It wouldn’t let go.

“Just try to get used to it, okay?” he called out over the whizzing and smashing of objects. “If you try to resist—the pain only gets worse!”

You could feel your vision swim with black dots as you gasped for breath—and all of a sudden, there was a slicing noise, and you were falling to your knees, filling your lungs with air. It was Ava, holding a sharp blade in one hand. 

She nodded at you, helping you up to your feet. “I should start keeping track of how many times I’ve saved you.”

Before you could respond, Walker and Alexei burst in through the walls, followed by Bucky through one of the windows. You only narrowly managed to dodge his metal arm cuffing you across the head with his dramatic entrance. 

“You came for us,” Yelena said, looking at her father with a touched frown. “What did you see? Are you all okay?”

Bucky only shrugged. “Oh, I’m fine. I have a great past, so I’m totally fine.”

“We’re probably going to need another one group therapy session once we’re out of here,” you said, which made both Bob and Yelena smile to themselves, nodding. 

“Thank you guys,” said Bob. “Really.” He was about to say something about how he didn’t deserve this—but when you put a hand on his arm, he bobbed his head again and kept his mouth shut.

“How do we get out of here?” asked Walker, glancing back at the ruined walls. “I’d prefer not to have to go through my rooms again.”

Bob scratched at the back of his head. “As far as I know, it’s just… endless rooms.”

“You said that this was the quietest room, right? That all the others are worse?” you asked, and Bob nodded hesitantly. 

The Thunderbolts team all exchanged determined looks. Alexei cracked his neck, John rolled his shoulders, and Ava flexed her fists. 

You gave Bob a gentle push towards the broken doorway. “Okay, Palindrome. Show us the worst of ‘em. We’ll take on whatever comes our way together.”

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: The Flight Response.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 5.7k.

TW: Non/Con, Dub/Con, Fem!Reader, Kidnapping, Prolonged Imprisonment/Isolation, Mentions of Stalking, Age Gap (Reader is Mid-Twenties, Bruce is Late Forties), Obsessive Behavior, Suicidal Ideation, Non-Graphic Suicide Attempt, And Gratuitous Pseudo-Incest. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

[Part One]

You could hear them through the walls.

Jason’s voice was clear – crystal, even. You doubted you’d ever be able to forget the sound of it, the way it dipped at the edges as he moved between his family’s authoritarian barking and the last remaining traces of his downtown Gotham drawl, how it reverberated against your throat as he muttered some fractured version of your name. Dick took a little longer. You tried not to think of him when it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but it would’ve been hard not to recognize that confidence, that carelessness, that charm layered on so thickly, it was hard to believe he wasn’t choking on it. If you hadn’t already felt so sick, you might’ve gagged.

“It’s bad. Barbara’s keeping him occupied with surveillance footage, but that’ll only buy us another hour or so.” They were talking about the manor. Bruce must’ve gotten home, by now. “Where is she?”

“Things aren’t going so fucking great here either, man.” They were getting closer. “She’s in the bedroom. It felt the safest – fewest ways out.”

You balled a sheet in your fist, aware for the first time that you were, in fact, in a bedroom. It must’ve been Jason’s apartment, but you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten here. There’d been the fairgrounds, the backseat, but nothing else. You guessed it didn’t really matter what came that. Your life had already ended. The landscape of your purgatory was inconsequential.

Fighting against the soreness, you pulled yourself up. The space was sparsely decorated save for a few cardboard boxes and a corkboard dotted with grainy pictures, but there was a door near the foot of your bed and, more importantly, a window on the other side of the room, made accessible by a plastic, fold-out card table. It took a few steps to remember how to use your legs, but finding the latch was easier, the glass pane sliding upward with only a slight amount of resistance. The opening wasn’t huge, but you could fit your shoulders through, and it opened up into an utterly deserted, utterly desolate alleyway. Judging from the fire escape on the opposite wall, you were a few stories up – four, at least.

The frame bit into your stomach as you leaned out, palms planted on the exposed brick of the exterior wall. Your feet were on the card table, and then, they weren’t – your body hanging unsupported in the air, levitation before free fall. You shut your eyes, but you never quite reached the plummet. An arm was already around your waist, a chest already against your back. You were jerked out of the window and onto the floor unceremoniously, the fall broken only by Dick. Jason was still in the doorway, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Dick, if nothing else, had the decency not to look so surprised.

“Was she trying to…?”

“She was trying to run,” Dick finished, and just like that, Jason’s expression lightened, relief taking the place of abject horror. They really were family, no matter what either of them might’ve said. A few words from his older brother, and what the younger knew to be true was rendered false, replaced with a more palatable reality.

“Can’t let you out of our sight for a second, can we?” He was talking to you now. Great. With an airy grunt, you were lifted off of the floor and deposited back onto Jason’s cot of a bed, your shoulder resting against the metal headboard. Dick knelt in front of you, smiling. That seemed to be his resting expression, as annoying as it was. “Your apartment’s not far from here, right? Don’t tell him I said anything, but B still pays the rent. I think he wants you to have somewhere safe to run off to if you ever decide to leave home.” He paused, laughed. “Not that you’d have a reason to. He’s just worried, like that. Fuck, he’s worried about you right now, even though you’re safe with us.”

Dread coiled in the pit of your stomach. You should’ve begged them to take you back to the mansion, back to Bruce, back to someone who could protect you. You should’ve made a run for the door – fight, kick, scream until you got out and caught a cab to somewhere far, far away. You had to go back, but you couldn’t go back. He could keep you safe, but he was going to kill you.

They were going to kill you.

Your gaze moved to Jason, silent and pleading. He didn’t notice, his own eyes locked on the floor. “Don’t expect much. I’ve been getting the silent treatment since—”

“Since you fucked her.”

Not the word you would’ve used, but you weren’t really in the mood to correct him. Jason set his jaw. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Since that.”

Dick hummed. “Could you step out for a minute? I’m just going to do a quick check-over, make sure nothing’s damaged.”

Immediately, Jason bristled. “I’m not going fucking anywhere. Not if it means leaving you alone with her.”

For the first time that could remember, Dick’s smile faltered. He glanced over his shoulder, resting a hand on your knee in the same motion. “You called me, little wing. Do you want my help or not?”

You watched Jason intently, never once looking away. He played the role of a cornered creature well – shifting his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms only to let them fall to his sides a second later. When he did answer, though, it came a little too easily, a little too painlessly for the act to be believable. You couldn’t believe you’d ever fallen for it, before. “Do what you have to, but I’m staying.”

For a split second, something like hatred flashed across Dick’s expression. It cleared up quickly enough, though.

“Whatever you say.” He shrugged, pushing himself to his feet. “Just don’t move. You’ve already scared the poor thing half to death.”

You were wearing Jason’s jacket. Your shirt had been torn beyond use, and your bra was probably still on the floor of his car – in the same tangled heap as your panties, most likely. Dick eased the zipper down with care, letting the fabric slide off of your shoulders. Skin exposed to cool air, you moved to curl into yourself, but Dick caught you by the arms, holding you in place as his eyes raked over your collarbones, your chest, the string of dark, bruising marks trailing from the base of your throat to your navel. A few were from Bruce, a few from Jason. It was hard to remember which. Apparently, they liked the same spots.

Dick let out a low whistle. Your shorts were next, pulled low on your thighs, allowed to drop to your ankles only after Dick spared a glance in Jason’s direction. He fell onto the mattress next to you, arm wrapped loosely around your waist. His thumb dragged over the bruising, following the path down until he reached your—

“Don’t,” you muttered, hoarsely. “Please.”

“So she can speak,” he laughed, pressing a kiss into your temple. If he’d heard what you said, it was deemed too unimportant to acknowledge – his hand slipping between your thighs. You thought about screaming, but didn’t. You considered trying for the window again, but decided that if they were just going to stop you from toppling over the edge, it wasn’t worth the effort.

What Jason did to you hurt because you hadn’t expected it. It’d been dumb of you not to, sure, but you hadn’t. It hurt because you expected him to be better than that, expected him to care about you more, expected him to be different from the family he took such surface-level pains to distance himself from. When two of Dick’s fingers dragged over your slit, gathering the remnants of slick and cum Jason had left behind, it hurt differently – more of a cold ache than stabbing burn. You’d never liked Dick. Of all the things he could violate, your trust wasn’t on the list. This hurt because you’d known it was going to happen and tried to stop it. This hurt because it meant that you failed.

You didn’t realize you were still staring at Jason until Dick caught your chin, turning your head towards him. “It’s just you and me,” he murmured, circling your clit once, twice before forcing his digits inside of you. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s already gotten his time with you.”

You opened your mouth, but the only thing that escaped was some strangled, alien noise as Dick spread you open. There was another kiss, this one to the corner of your jaw. “You don’t have to say anything – you know I’ll always be here to look out for you, right? It doesn’t matter what kind of—” Calloused pads grinding against the walls of your pussy, his voice low and easy in your ear. “—messes the others make, you’ve got me. Since the first day B asked me to walk you to work. Tim just wants something to point his camera at, and Jason would love anything that smiled at him, but me – I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you.”

Jason grunted. “You’re a dirty fucking liar.”

Dick didn’t seem to notice him, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit. You jerked away from him on reflex, but his free hand shot to the side of your head, drawing you into his side and forcing you to rest your head on his shoulder. Proximity seemed to be his main goal, your body pressed into his at every odd angle, his face buried in your neck and his hand tucked between your all-but shut legs. He reminded you of Bruce, like that – so convinced that everything would be alright if he could just pry open his ribcage and stuff you inside. Or, maybe, Dick was the opposite, desperate to burrow a hole in your flesh and live there. Either way, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving your abused cunt empty, throbbing and confused. Absentmindedly, you glanced towards him, and your mistake was swiftly punished by the feeling of teeth against lips, his mouth against yours as he took you by the waist and dragged you onto his lap. You shook your head with as much strength as you could manage, but again, Dick played oblivious, only groaning into your mouth as he rutted against your hips, grinding into your cunt through the denim of his jeans. Jason raised his voice, barking something unintelligible, but Dick was already fumbling with his fly, already—

The lights cut. There was the sound of shattering glass, a rush of cool air before they clicked on again, flooding the room with brightness.

The first thing you noticed was that Dick was standing – leaving you alone on the cot while he scrambled to his feet, a child dropping the toy he wasn’t supposed to play with. The next thing was Jason, suddenly rigid at the foot of the bed, the remaining color drained from his pale face.

Finally, you twisted towards the window, following both of their eyes. There was a spray of glass and wood on the floor where the pane had been broken away, the frame itself now filled by an amorphous, black shape – identifiable only by the aura of pure, unadulterated rage radiating off of it.

Ah.

You’d been wondering when Bruce would come for you.

~

The drive back to the manor was short, endless, and quiet. Dick and Jason promised to find their own way back, meaning you were alone with Bruce. That was fine. At least, this way, you’d have the mercy of a private death.

For the first leg, he didn’t talk to you at all. He kept spare clothes in one of a thousand bottomless compartments – sweatshirts, drawstring pants, loose-fitting articles that could be handed out to those who’d been forced out of their homes by fire and flood without the chance to dress themselves for Gotham’s bone-deep chill – and you shuffled into something thick and shapeless while he drove. It was only after he’d slipped out of the city and into one of the many darkened, lifeless tunnels that connected his estate to the city that he sighed, let autopilot take over, and turned to you.

“Are you hurt?”

“I think I’m dying.” And then, with a shallow exhale, “I should be fine.”

He pursed his lips, resting a hand on your thigh. Involuntarily, for the first time that you could remember, you flinched away from him, throwing your body against the passenger-side door. Suddenly, it seemed like too much to be trapped in a car, too much to be so close to another person, too much to be searching for a handle and not able to find one and—

“Breathe.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. You sucked in a few staggering breaths until the pulsing in your lungs was manageable and you could think about something other than throwing yourself out of a vehicle going well over ninety miles per hour. Bruce didn’t recoil, but his grip tightened around your thigh – any pretense of affection lost in the wake of his control. “How do you feel?”

“Jason, he—I didn’t want to, but—”

“I know what happened. How do you feel?”

“Bad.” You buried your face in your hands, shaking your head. “And stupid. And so— I knew this was going to happen. I just thought, because the others were so much worse, he wouldn’t be the first to crack. And, god, he practically called me his mom right before it happened. I don’t even think they have a word for that.” You weren’t crying, but you wiped at your eyes before resurfacing. “Are you going to do anything?”

Bruce didn’t respond, not immediately. He’d already taken off his cowl, but he was still wearing the rest of his pitch-black suit – still recognizable as the hero you loved, rather than the man you hated. The scales tilted a little further towards Bruce, though, as he leaned towards you – wrapping an arm around your shoulders and locking you against his chest. You felt him bury his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. As if there was any way you didn’t reek of someone else’s, by now.

“Jason was missing, and you were gone. For half the night, I had no way of knowing if you were alive or dead.” Warm air fanned over your scalp. “This can’t happen again.”

“Does that mean you’re going to…?”

“We’ll see.”

He held you for the rest of the drive, and you let him. It was only when you pulled into the open, underground chamber he shared with his vigilante hell-spawn that he reluctantly let you go and stepped out. Bracing yourself, you followed shortly after.

You’d only seen their hideout (hideout, because you weren’t going to call it the ‘Batcave’, no matter how many times you were asked to) once, the night Bruce first brought you to the manor. That day, it’d been empty, his kids still keeping a measured distance and Bruce still too wary to let anyone get that close to you. Tonight, though, Stephanie and Tim haunted the outskirts of the sparing ring while Barbara and Harper held court in front of the largest computer you’d ever seen – scrubbing through security camera footage from outside Jason’s apartment. Duke lingered nearby, and spared you an apologetic smile as you came into sight. You weren’t sure how much he knew, but it couldn’t be a lot. The poor kid probably thought you’d been kidnapped, or better yet – actually managed to get away.

Dick and Jason were already here. They kept their distance, tactfully positioned just behind Stephanie and Tim, but you still made sure to keep Bruce between you and them. As if that’d ever done you any good.

Bruce wasn’t so thankful for the space. Raising a hand, he gestured to Dick, already moving towards the elevator. “Nightwing. Upstairs. With me.”

You flinched into yourself. “Bruce, I really—”

“This will only take a few minutes.”

It might’ve been more reassuring if he’d stopped to smile, to squeeze your shoulder, to glance at you at all. Instead, you watched as he and Dick disappeared behind titanium elevator doors, neither of them ever looking back.

The cave suddenly felt a little smaller than it had, a few seconds ago. A little more crowded.

Unsure where to go or what to do, you stayed where you were – arms crossed anxiously over your chest. Your mind drifted back to the car you’d arrived in, to the tunnels that connected you so intimately with Gotham proper, but you weren’t left to your own devices for very long. Behind you, Steph mumbled something to Tim, nudging his side. He cleared his throat before saying something to Jason, nearly too muted to be heard. “So, do you know if we’re good to…?”

“To do what, Drake?”

“You know.” And then, after a beat of silence, “What you did.”

You weren’t facing them, but you didn’t have to be. You could feel the drop in the temperature, the tension in the air. You ducked your head half a second before Jason’s fist barreled into Tim’s check, knocking him to the floor. Jason was on him before he’d even hit the ground.

The others rushed past you – Stephanie’s shocked laugh, Barbara’s raised voice, Harper’s barked threats. You were rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to hear beyond the beating of your own heart and the violent collision of skin against skin. You might’ve stayed there forever, until they killed each other, until someone was kind enough to kill you if it hadn’t been for a feather-light hand wrapping around your wrist, a gentle tug forward. You raised your head and found, surprisingly, Cassandra. Of course. You couldn’t blame yourself for not noticing her before – she tended to keep to the shadows, like that.

“Come on.” Again, she tugged at your wrist, as if it was only natural that you’d follow after her. When you failed to react, she grinned and without making a sound, pulled you into an effortless bridal carry. If you had any faith at all in the idea of safety in numbers, you might’ve screamed, thrashed, done anything to stop her. Right now, though, you just wanted to be alone, and being alone with Cas was about as close as you were going to get.

The elevator was empty by the time she reached it, Dick and Bruce having disappeared into some other part of the manor. You let her carry you to the bedroom you shared with Bruce and, rather unceremoniously, drop you onto the foot of your bed. Whatever she was looking for, it required a lot of touching to find – a palm pressed against your forehead, two fingers underneath your chin, checking your pulse. When she reached for your wrist, you waved her off, not bothering to hide your agitation, your discomfort. There wasn’t a point in playing nice, anymore.

Cassandra wasn’t so downcast. Light on her feet, she fell into a crouch, staring up at you from a little over a few feet away. “Bruce was scared you were hurt. Terrified.” Her smile never wavered. “Should be calming down, now. Jason’s safe – part of the family.”

You dragged your knees into your chest. “That’s what I thought, too.”

She started to shake her head, but didn’t get a chance to spit anything out. The bedroom door swung open and Stephanie barged inside, shutting it again after taking a discreet look down the hall. Her attention shifted to you, next – her smile nearly as bright as Cas’.

“Tim’s getting his ass handed to him.”

“Good. I hope he and Jason tear each other’s throats out.”

“Someone’s grumpy.” She fell onto the mattress next to you, arms crossed behind her head. “Is it just ’cause Jason lost his cool?”

Shrinking into yourself wasn’t enough. You were on your feet in a second, riffling through the contents of a writing desk in another. Cas turned her head, owl-like, and Stephanie rolled onto her side to watch you. “You can be honest with us. Who were you hoping for? Dick? Tim? Me?”

“A mouthful of broken glass.”

“That wasn’t one of your options, sweetheart.” You pulled open a drawer, finding little more than scraps of paper and a few abused pens. You left it open and moved onto a bedside table. “I would’ve gone with Tim. He’s the voyeur type – very hands off.”

Nothing in the bedside table, either. You grabbed the closest corner and pushed as hard as you could, but the damn solid oak only swayed once before falling back into place. Fucking rich people. You couldn’t even take your anger out on their furniture.

“Do you hate us?”

It was Cas, this time, her tone purely curious. You crossed the room to Bruce’s walk-in closet, populated dominantly by the designer suits he’d wear once or twice a month when his socialite reputation forced him to actually show his face in public. He would mention taking you to one of his events, every now and then, kiss your neck and have you try different colognes as he mused how much more bearable the night would be if he had you by his side. It would never actually happen, obviously. Bruce still had reservations about letting you walk through the garden on your own. A crowd of drunk socialites with wandering hands and ulterior motives was never really an option.

“She doesn’t.” Stephanie answered on your behalf. You shoved a hand into one of Bruce’s less frequently worn jackets, then patted down the one hanging behind it. “She’s just a little tense, that’s all. It took us all a little while to come around to family life.”

Jackpot. You felt something hollow and cylindrical through an interior pocket – a pill bottle, the contents untouched and the dosage strong. You could remember Bruce mentioning it months ago, something about staging a scandal to push a story about Batman out of the news cycle. You scanned over the label just thoroughly enough to catch the words ‘anti-anxiety’ and ‘sedative’ before pulling the container into your sleeve, letting it settle against your wrist. Whatever it was, you’d make it work.

You spun on your heels and immediately went still. There hadn’t been any footsteps, any voices, any shift in the lighting, and yet, when you turned around, Cassandra was looming above you, caging you against the wall. If she’d noticed the bottle, she didn’t seem to think anything of it. Her attention was on you – just you,dark eyes prying into the very core of your being. You spared a glance towards the doorway, now occupied by Stephanie. “Go on,” she encouraged, her gaze just as cutting. “Tell (Y/n) what you told me.”

“I’ve never had a mom, before.” She edged closer, and you moved away – your back pressing into the bar. “It’s fun.”

It was annoying. They were annoying –so fast, and so strong, and so willing to ignore your attempts to dart around her as she cupped your face and smashed her mouth into yours. Neither Bruce nor his sons had ever been the embodiment of gentleness, but Cassandra was uniquely rough around the edges, uniquely oblivious to how easily her lips bruised yours. You remembered someone mentioning that her first kiss was with one of the Supers, which made sense. She never seemed to consider that her partner may not be invincible.

Her attention span gave out before your panic-induced paralysis. You felt her teeth against the corner of your jaw, then your neck, her face eventually finding a home in the crook of your neck. Scarred hands drifted under the back of your jacket, pressing into the column of your spine, and then there were more – another pair on your shoulders, Stephanie’s voice in your ear. “I think I’ll have to wait a while longer. In-law rules – we laid them out while you were gone.” Cassandra bit into the base of your throat hard. You could feel her tongue moving over your skin as Stephanie went on. “You don’t mind if I hang around for this, though, right?”

Stephanie giggled, Cassandra’s teeth broke fresh skin, and then, you were on the floor, back slumped against the wall, staring up at Bruce as he held Cassandra by the shirt collar, having forcefully pulled her away from you. She could get away if she wanted to, lash out if she wanted to, but she didn’t seem angry, or surprised, just alert to the abrupt change in dynamic. Stephanie was crouched next to you, still smiling. After making sure you hadn’t blacked out, she pushed herself to her feet, patting Bruce’s shoulder. “Just keeping things warm for you, B.”

She made her exit hastily, despite her bravado. Bruce watched her leave before letting go of Cas. “Find the others.”

Blunt. Neat. Direct. Even that was more than she needed, really. Cassandra nodded once, then she was gone, leaving you and Bruce alone.

You wanted to yell at him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. You might’ve, too – raised your voice, scrambled to your feet, seen how far you could make it through the labyrinthine halls of his manor before you were caught by another set of groping hands and gnashing teeth, but all fantasies of such explicit5 resistance abandoned you the second you actually looked at him. He didn’t look cold, or irritated, or any of the awful, selfish things that would’ve made him an appropriate pincushion for the jagged needles of your anger. He looked tired.

And you were tired, too.

He held out a hand, trying to help you up. You stared at it for a second, then another, before finding your voice.

“Please don’t touch me.”

The weariness knit into his expression darkened. Sighing, he leaned forward and took you by the wrist, dragging you upright. As you stumbled onto your feet, your chest ached and the pill bottle burnt into your arm.

You walked ahead of him, back into the bedroom proper. He was still in-uniform, but the armor was slowly falling away – the gloves, the belt, then enough little, disparate parts to leave him more Bruce than Batman in front of you. Eventually, he closed what little distance there was between you. A hand on your hip, another cupping your cheek. He kissed you delicately, as if he suddenly felt the need to pretend you were made of glass. As if you couldn’t still feel the blood and saliva dripping down your chest.

Your borrowed clothes were discarded quickly enough, thrown into some shadowed corner where he wouldn’t have to think about them until morning. Your body was posed on the edge of the mattress, where he could kneel in front of you as he fucked his tongue into your cunt and sucked on your clit – a believer worshiping their idol to absolve themselves of sin. You considered telling him to stop, trying to relish that new freedom. Maybe you did. Like everything else you did, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference.

“I think they’re…” He trailed off, pushing a lingering kiss into the inside of your thigh. “I think they’re confused. Disoriented. Dick says he’s in love with you – has been since before I brought you home. Jason thinks you’ve shown some kind of preference for him.”

He usually liked to be on top, favored positions that let him fold your knees against your chest or force you to look into his eyes. Somehow, tonight, you found yourself in his lap, head resting against his chest and thighs straddling his as he guided your hips slowly, carefully. “They’re all so young. It’s not an excuse, but it can’t help.”

“Dick and I are only a year apart,” you muttered, absentmindedly. “We could’ve been in the same class.”

Bruce didn’t respond. There was another kiss, this one pressed into your forehead, and a soft groan as he rolled his hips against yours.

He came inside of you. He usually did, but still. Salt in the wound and all.

When it was over, you let him hold you, counting out the seconds. When you reached a number that felt appropriately innocuous, you squirmed and asked if you could use the bathroom.

Bruce sat up immediately. “I’ll run a bath. There’s a new bottle of vintage downstairs if you—”

“Later.” You smiled, going slack against him before picking yourself up. “Honestly, I think I just need to be alone for a minute. To put things together.”

He hesitated, but not for very long. You could feel his eyes following you as you flitted through the room, picking up a few odds and ends – a hairbrush, one of Bruce’s shirts, your discarded clothes – before slipping into the en-suite, locking the door, and dropping everything save for the little, orange pill bottle.

You got the shower running and stood in front of the sink, fiddling with the child-proof cap. In place of doubt, you felt resignation – pure, neutral awareness of what needed to be done and how to go about doing it. Any hesitation was only reflex, born of some base animal desire not to do harm to oneself. You didn’t like pain, but you’d had a win condition, a clear line between what you would tolerate and what you wouldn’t. You didn’t want to do this, but you didn’t want to find out what was on the other side of that line, either.

The pills tasted bitter. They left a layer of chalk on your tongue, a knot the size of your fist in your throat, but you did your best to wash it down. Tossing the now-empty bottle in the sink, you laid on the tiled floor, pulled your knees into your chest, and waited.

~

You woke up crying.

Not out loud, and not for any reason you could remember, but still – crying. Dried tears formed stiff tracks down your cheeks, saliva wetting the corners of your lips. The inside of your mouth tasted sour, acidic, like you’d thrown up recently. You weren’t sure whether or not you should’ve been surprised by that.

You weren’t in the manor. The ceiling was too low, too white, your surroundings distinctly unrecognizable despite the haze over your vision. You glanced down and found your own body in a similarly alien state. You were wearing a hospital gown, with a small collection of monitors and needles attached to your left arm. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, groaning internally. Somehow, you’d managed to screw up this, too.

You tried to sit up, but only succeeded in sinking further into the paper-thin mattress. Nothing hurt, but your body was beyond your control, still rebelling after your brain’s mutiny. With some effort, you managed to turn your head far enough to see a window, half-expecting to find the Wayne Manor courtyard outside. Instead, Gotham’s skyline stretched on as far as the eye could see – a collection of misshapen skyscrapers and sparkling city lights fighting against the early morning fog. That, if nothing else, caught you off-guard. You’d assumed that Bruce would rather watch you die than trust anyone else to take care of you.

Not that he’d ever let you out of his sight. You felt a weight settle onto the edge of your cot, heard someone let out a deep breath. You didn’t have to guess who it was.

“You took me to a hospital.”

“You didn’t leave us much of a choice.” Us. You wondered who got the privilege of carrying your body out to the ambulance, if there’d even been one. You wouldn’t put it past Bruce to rush into the emergency center, your limp form slung over his shoulder, playing the good Samaritan as he rattled off some story about finding you unconscious in an alleyway or unattended in the back of a club. Anything to keep his family’s public image under control. “You put yourself in danger.”

“You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

 His thin-lipped scowl deepened. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” This time, when you tried to sit up, Bruce was there to help you – one hand on your back and the other on your shoulder as he guided you into a more respectable position. You might’ve flashed him a smile by way of gratitude, if you’d been feeling more thankful. “You knew what I was afraid of, Bruce. You must’ve been able to guess what I’d do in a worst-case scenario.”

“You never came to me about this. You never told me the kids were—”

“I did.” Your voice was muted, strained, but he went quiet as soon as you opened your mouth. He wanted a martyr, not a fight. “Please, don’t pretend this is my fault.”

For once, he seemed to listen to you. Nodding, he drew in a long breath, his expression callousing over into something rational, something beyond emotion. “It would be short-sighted to leave you unattended. During your recovery, especially.” Recovery, like you’d broken a limb. You stifled a laugh as he went on. “As the manor would present too many unknown variables, I’ve found a safe house in the city. It should be ready by the time you’re released.

A penthouse in the city. Just like you’d always wanted. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. This isn’t a game.” He drummed his fingers against the over-starched sheets, wrinkling them. “The others have been generous enough to divide their patrols. They’ll be able to monitor when I can’t be there.”

Your heart dropped. “Bruce.”

“They’re as concerned for your safety as I am.”

“Bruce.”

“That’s enough.”

“It’ll kill me. They’ll kill me.”

“They’re trying to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.” At least he had the decency to sound like he believed it. “They care about you.”

You felt something rise into the back of your throat – sick and acidic and gnashing. You opened your mouth to scream, to cry, to argue, but nothing came out, your desolation silent in its totality. Bruce only sighed, resting his hand on your thigh. A small smile came to rest across his lips – exhausted, but still terrible in its sincerity.

“You’re part of the family, love.”

[nanamisgirly]

your dilf doesn't need 'perfect'　ྀི　

“w-wait—” you were panting, legs wrapped around his hips where dilf!nanami straddled you on the countertop. you pull back just as his mouth dragged open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

you don't remember how exactly you ended up there, how things turned from soft touches over dinner to a heavy make out session—tongue sliding between your lips, big hands pressing you against his chest. 

it's been months of holding back for both of you—resuming your relation to slow touches, soft kisses, and ‘no pressure sweetheart’ every time things started getting heavy. since you weren't experienced and kind of…scared, dilf!nanami suggested waiting til you're ready. and you've been grateful for it, even when you returned home some night aching and soaked from just making out with him.

and maybe all the courage you gathered to tug him in by his tie tonight and kiss him like you were desperate for it, had drained from your veins the moment you felt one of his hand sliding up your thigh and the other slipping under your shirt—hot, rough, calloused.

“did i go too far?” he asked, one hand still under your shirt, fingers hovering just under the band of your bra, not moving an inch. “it's okay. you don't need to explain. we can stop, sweetheart.” his lips were swollen—covered with spit. his eyes glassy and you could feel the weight of his cock pressing against your shorts.

“no—! no… i want to,” you blurted out too quickly, voice overlapping his, desperate not to be misunderstood. but even as you said it, you couldn't bring yourself to look at him in the eyes, so you turn your head, letting your hands rest on his broad shoulders as you continue, 

“it's just…” you exhaled, shame blooming fast in your chest. “i'm not confident about. . y'know.” you gesture vaguely toward your boobs. “they look nice in a bra and—uh…you've probably seen better. i know they look big in a bra, but they don't, well…stay up. they're soft, and…” your voice tightens. “i just…i've read things. about guys saying they were disappointed. or didn't want to even see them during the act, unless they were covered—” you laugh nervously, voice cracking. “it's so embarrassing. i-i didn't want you to see them and think—think they're…ugly.”

the silence that followed felt unbearable.

it only makes your anxiety grow and you feel so dumb for talking about it, maybe you should just have stopped and that's it…because nanami didn't move an inch since your little monologue, his honey eyes still trying to catch your gaze. 

your stomach drops. you start to shift trying to get off the counter, anything to escape mortification. “look, i'm sorry,” you say, heart pounding, eyes glassy. “i-i shouldn't have brought it up, i—umh—it's ok. i just thought that'd be nice to tell you before hand and huh…fuck i ruined everything didn't i?”

that's when you feel his hands coming to your hips, pinning you in place on the countertop. you gasp as he presses his cock against your core harder than ever—twitching with need.

when you looked up, his eyes had darkened. his brows were furrowed, jaw tight, emotion bleeding into every sharp line of his face. “that,” he said flatly, “is the stupidest fucking thing i've ever heard.”

your breath hitched.

“i'm not a boy with a warped idea of what women are supposed to look like.” he leaned in, cupping your jaw to be sure your eyes stay locked onto his. “i'm a grown man. you think i'm painfully hard, grinding against you, shaking, because i'm waiting for something ‘perfect’? sweetheart, i'm here, aching because it's you. all of you that i want.”

his voice was low, frayed. barely holding together. “let me very clear, sweetheart, i'm going to lose my mind when i see them, i will drop to my knees and thank the gods for putting someone as sweet as you.”

your lips part, trying to breathe through the whirl of embarrassment and affection and…arousal.

“ken—”

“does this—” he rasped, grabbing your wrist and guiding your trembling fingers down to the thick, pulsing shape of his cock straining in his slacks, “feel like someone who's going to be disappointed?”

you whimpered, your smaller fingers squeezing his boner. 

“f-fuck…” he shuddered. “if you want to stop,” he breathed, forehead falling to your shoulder. “i'll stop. if you want to wait, we'll wait. another month. another year. i don't care. anything you want, for you to be comfortable.”

but his voice cracked at the end—like he was hanging by a thread. you felt it too, his body coiled tight, like a beast barely leashed.

“you're too nice, ken.” you say teary-eyed, half laughing, half melting.

“well, k-keep squeezing me like that and i'm afraid i won't be nice any longer.” he groaned, lip brushing your neck.

your thighs wrapped tighter around him. “you can take it off,”

his head snapped up. “you sure?” his gaze held yours as his fingers brushed the hem of your shirt again, and when you nodded, “arms up, sweets,” he said softly, and you obeyed.

when he tosses delicately your shirt to the side, skilled fingers quickly find your bra and unclip it, oh very so slowly.

when your bra hit the floor, everything held still. like the world paused long enough for nanami to lose his mind quietly. his eyes dragged up, heavy-lidded and wrecked. one big hand came up—trembling—cupping your breast with a war raging in his mind : should i worship or ruin them?

“sweets,” he breathed, thumbing over one of your nipple, “they're perfect. so fucking perfect i feel like i'm hallucinating.”

[arina24]

Reprise

LE SSERAFIM Kazuha x M Reader

Tags: Fluff, Smut

10k words

You’ve always loved the carnival. The yellow lights splash across the land like streaks of fire, growing ever more alluring the closer you get. The Ferris wheel is the first to appear—giant, unmistakable. Then the merry-go-round with the painted horses comes into view. Nearby, a huge tent hides the mirror maze underneath.

When you’re right up there, the stalls selling popcorn and potato snacks pop up, filling the evening air with salt and warmth. Maybe you’re a little too old for most of the rides now, but that doesn’t really matter. It’s about how it makes you feel, right?

You thought you’d noticed all the highlights on your way there. But something still feels just out of sight, like the memory is yet to fully take shape.

Then you see. You’d missed something—no, someone important. She might just be the most important attraction here for you.

You don’t remember your childhood best friend being this beautiful.

Your gaze locks onto Kazuha, wearing a sporty white crop top and a baseball cap. Fits the theme. Her jet-black hair dances in the wind, but never blocks her view as she aims a long air rifle at the board of balloons—a fierce look in her eyes.

And when dawn breaks, she’ll disappear, like the carnival itself. Again.

“Still awful at aiming, huh?” Your voice catches her off-guard as she’s reloading for a second try.

She turns sharply—bullets slip from her fingers and roll towards you. You promptly stop them with your feet. “Careful, butterfingers,” you add as you bend to pick them up.

Her eyes stare at you for a moment, flickering with something unreadable, before going back to the natural cockiness you’ve always seen her sport.

She snatches the bullets out of your palm with a scoff. “Not awful. I was compensating for the wind—it changed direction at the last second.”

“Right,” you reply, amused.

“And someone I haven’t seen in years randomly shows up? I think some shock is warranted.”

She takes another shot. This one almost hits the operator a few feet away from the target.

“You know you’re supposed to hit the balloons, right?” You gesture to the board. “Let me have a try before you end up hitting some poor kid around here.”

Kazuha grits her teeth at that comment. As competitive as ever.

“I’m going for the harder balloons at the back. They keep moving.” She puts all her focus on this shot—posture adjusted, wind analyzed and eyes narrowed.

The bullet flies, and this time, hits her target. The balloon pops with a loud crack, startling some kids nearby.

“Yes!” She punches the air. The operator hands over a big teddy bear to her. Kazuha flips you the finger with a smug smile, hugging the bear to her chest.

“You still have a couple bullets left,” someone reminds her. She reaches for the gun—but before her hand can get close, you quickly pick it up. You point it at the same area she was aiming at and fire off two quick shots in succession. Both hit your target, much to her visible displeasure.

Two plushies for you. You turn towards Kazuha and hold them up in mock triumph, taking in the spite written all over her face. It only makes you feel warmer inside.

“Being the gentleman I am.” You offer her both the bears. “I will let the lady have her prizes.”

She rolls her eyes at that and gives the bears to some kid roaming around. He snatches them from her hands and runs away, without so much as a thank you.

A woman nearby, likely his mother, stops and chides the kid. “Go on, thank the nice lady. You can’t be rude like that.”

“Yeah, thank the nice lady who couldn’t win a single thing till I showed up,” you whisper into Kazuha’s ear. She endures the lecture with a tight, polite smile.

”No, no, it’s completely alright. I know how kids can be sometimes.” She grabs your wrist as an excuse and pulls you away with her.

Soon enough, the pair annoying her disappear from view. ”I hate kids,” she mutters, not realizing she can let go of your wrist now.

“That’s funny.” You let her lead. “Because the last time I saw you, you were one.”

Evening slowly dips into night, and more and more lights are being switched on. Kazuha adjusts her cap, tying her hair back with a rubber band. Her perfectly fitting crop top slides up a little as she raises her arms, revealing more of her toned midriff. But the view is fleeting—her hands drop back down, searching for your wrist before she notices she doesn’t need to hold you anymore.

The smell of burnt sugar and frying oil thickens as more stalls open up. Laughter from kids on nearby rides echoes through the air. You’ve walked these places with Kazuha before. But the way her fingers brush her wrist now—you hope, maybe it was yours she was reaching for.

You get the lightest feeling you're seeing her differently this time.

“Gosh it’s been…” She tries to count the years, but gives up. “Forever. Didn't even know if you were alive. Or if you offed yourself for losing to me in too many games.”

“You could’ve known, you know, if you ever bothered to reach out after disappearing.”

She ignores that comment. You want to press again, but the night is just getting started. Maybe you'll get your answers later. Maybe. But for now, you'll let it slide.

“Speaking of games in which you lose to me—” She stops, revealing where she’s been leading you: a big toy hammer leaning against a massive target, and a tower of numbers climbing all the way up to 1000.

You know you’ve been had.

“Remember this?” she asks with a cheeky grin—planned all along.

“Clear as day.” You deadpan.

“Thought I'd give you one last chance to try and beat me.”

The sting of losing to her all those years ago suddenly feels fresh and piercing. There's no way you're still worse than her at this, right? You are a grown man now, and she’s just a girl.

“Loser has to buy the other marshmallows, same rules,” she continues, sweetly. You curse yourself under your breath. You’ve given her way too much money in this stupid game.

“Fine. Who goes first?” You pick up the hammer, feeling its weight.

”Since it’s already in your hand, I’ll let you go ahead, gentleman.” She hands over some change to the operator nearby.

You cannot let her beat you. Not again. Not this time.

You take two practice swings. Grip firm. Stance solid. Hammer lined up dead-center. This can’t go wrong. On the third swing, you go for it, hitting it hard with a satisfying thump which makes the marker shoot up. It races past the initial numbers, and your heart kicks up with it. Maybe this is it. Maybe this time you finally win.

To your dismay, the pace drops rapidly near the top. 800, 850, 900, and the marker comes to rest at 950. One square away from a 1000.

“Not bad.” She almost seems genuine—then the corners of her lips slowly curl up. “But clearly, there’s room for improvement.”

“Oh, cut it out, Zuha. No way you’re making 1000.”

She doesn’t respond right away, picking up the mallet and trying to block out the crowd noise. Her fingers curl around the handle, and that familiar smirk returns. No practice strikes for Kazuha—she’s going all in. But just as she’s about to bring the hammer down, her foot catches on a rock. The swing goes wide, and the hammer almost slips out of her hand.

You burst into laughter, but she’s unfazed. She takes another swing, making sure her feet are clear this time. The sound the button makes is enough to cut through your laughter and let you know she’s smacked it.

The marker shoots up again, and it’s hard to tell if it’s faster than yours. The pace drops like it did for you: 850, 900, 950—and then it ekes out a slow, grinding climb to a perfect 1000.

Not again.

”Streak still alive. Guess you just lost a strength game to a girl, again.” Not trying to be subtle today.

Her arms don’t look remotely like they pack that much power. They’re long, slender, and smooth—not the kind that throws down 1000s like it’s nothing.

What does she even do to be so strong? Although it’s weirdly attractive in a way you don’t quite know how to explain. You don’t know how to explain a lot of things about her tonight—her eyes sparkle with the reflections of the lights surrounding you, and if you stare into the golden streaks in them long enough, it’s almost enough for you to feel something.

Though that could just be the nostalgia talking, you argue.

You have no choice but to add to the already large amount Kazuha has looted from you in this game.

“The lady in the food stall is still the same.” She dips a marshmallow into the chocolate dip and nibbles on it.

“Maybe she loves—” A running kid bumps into Kazuha, pushing her off balance. Her chocolate spills all over your fingers.

“You little shit!” you shout, but he’s long gone already. You steady her with your clean hand. “You okay? Didn’t knock the wind out of you or anything?”

“No, I’m alright.” She brushes herself off. “Was the same kid from before. I suppose this is what I get for trying to give him some teddy bears.”

“Did earn him a lecture.” You hold up your fingers, showing them coated in her dip. “He made my hand a mess too.”

“Well, can’t let my hard-earned snacks go to waste now.” She pops a marshmallow into her mouth and lifts your fingers to her plush lips. She pauses for a second, then slides them into her mouth, sucking the chocolate off like it’s an everyday occurrence.

In her defense, it could have passed for one. A few years back. But right now, it does not feel so everyday to you. Kazuha’s warmth envelops your fingers, savoring the sweetness from you so casually. You hope she doesn’t catch the flush creeping on your face. She’s quick with it—you’re in public after all, but it’s enough to get your pulse racing. Her tongue slips out to lick the remaining off her lower lip.

“Mouth clean?” she asks.

You wish it weren’t (maybe you could have offered to clean it off).

But it is, and you report that truthfully.

You were staring at her face maybe a bit too long—her delicate lips, fierce dark eyes (soft underneath, you know), strands of hair framing her face like she’s a photograph—a moment to be captured, and it’s long enough for Kazuha to notice. She tilts her head, amusement slipping into her eyes.

”All okay? Did I suddenly turn too beautiful for you to take your eyes off me?”

(You have no idea.)

“What—no, no.” You stumble over your words, eyes darting around for an excuse to change the topic. The gigantic rotating structure right behind her catches your eye.

“I was admiring the Ferris wheel behind you. Brilliant architecture, right?” And if your memory serves you right, this might just prove to be the best excuse.

“It’s alright. What’s so brilliant about it?” You can feel her smug exterior crumbling ever so slightly.

“It’s the biggest attraction here and we should definitely go on it once.” (Second biggest.)

“Nuh uh.” She knows your intentions.

“Oh my, the strong and mighty Nakamura Kazuha still pisses her pants at heights.”

“That happened once,” she protests.

“Do you know what happened every time we went on the wheel? You holding—no, crushing my hands and not letting go no matter how much I cried.”

”That won’t happen again, because we aren’t going on it,” she says with an air of finality.

“Can’t believe you’re still afraid of heights.” You shake your head in disappointment.

“I’m not.”

“Then we’re going on it—right now. Even little Zuha wanted to go on the ride. Every single time. Have you really become more of a coward?”

A long sigh leaves her mouth. She’s conflicted, but you can sense the side you’re rooting for is winning the battle.

“Are you gonna hold my hand again when we get to the top?” you ask, waiting in line after getting the tickets.

“Not a chance,” she retorts.

The queue is short, and your turn comes quickly. Kazuha’s denim shorts ride up her thighs as she sits down, and you try not to stare too long. You take your seat next to her in the cramped cabin. The operator pulls the metal bar down with a clang, locking the two of you in place.

The wheel moves a little, then stops for the next passengers to get in.

“The worst part is the loading, really.” She leans forward a bit to look at how far the ground is from her.

After peeking down, she immediately snaps back in place. “Nope, shouldn’t have let you talk me into this.”

“Hey calm down. Let’s maybe try to talk about something else. What have you been up to? My guess is training to be a professional athlete.”

The wheel is set into motion, and Kazuha breathes again.

“Good guess.” She snorts. “But no. Regular adult life, mostly. Nothing as glamorous as that.”

The wheel stops for the next loading, about halfway up now. You are suspended several dozen feet in the air, feet dangling below. The cart rocks unevenly, making it worse, at times tilting almost perpendicular to the ground. Kazuha’s face is red. She looks like she’s about to throw up.

“Hey, think this is a good time to ask—” She turns to you nervously, voice shaking. ”Are you seeing someone?”

“Not currently, no.”

”So I won’t get jumped by some girl for holding your hand, right?” Her hand slips into yours, palm in palm. She grips you hard—the usual, but you were the one who got her on this time, so you’ll bear it.

“Only if I won’t have to deal with any jealous boyfriends or exes either.” Your other palm moves on top of hers, affirming her grip. She relaxes a little at the touch.

“Boyfriends, no; exes, I’ll trust you to defend yourself if it comes to that.” She rests her head on your shoulder. Her hair falls behind you, brushing softly against the back of your neck.

“Tell me something. If you’re so afraid of heights, why did you want to go on it every time we came here?”

The wheel is moving again, and you’re on the way to the top now.

“Look.” She motions towards what you’re already seeing. The small-town houses look like mere dots across the landscape, none of the buildings tall enough to display any of their features. Rolling green fields surround the town, broken only by the occasional winding road.

Below, the carnival stretches out, cheap decorations and all, but charming in its own right. The striking yellow lights tie it all together. A scene worth the ride.

“I love the view. The town looks absolutely stunning from here.”

“So why'd you just up and leave one day? Seems rather unfair to the town.” (To the town.)

“Because.” She shrugs. “How could anyone be content where they are?”

“Dunno. I could be pretty content staying right here.” You turn, looking into the eyes which effortlessly held your attention the entire evening.

The wheel comes to a slowing halt right at the very top.

“Talking about the view or me?” Her eyes look back at you, pupils dilating in the lush ambient glow around. You could stare into them forever.

“I mean the view—” Your throat tightens. Words stuck in your mouth.

"Is that all you were gonna say?"

“You, you look so beautiful.” You barely manage to get it out.

“Kiss me, then.”

What happens next is a blur. Purely instinctual.

She pulls you in, your lips connecting like opposite poles of a magnet, finally allowed to meet. Your hand wraps around her waist, and her fingers thread through your hair. Her lips are soft and warm—perfect.

There’s still a trace of chocolate from earlier, not that her mouth needs any help being sweet. Her nose brushes slightly against yours, and you keep her lips locked in place, almost like you’re afraid she might disappear again.

A soft whimper leaves your mouth, letting her know how much you’ve wanted this. She tilts your head towards her, finding the perfect angle for you to feel her lips full against yours, her body moving closer. The air between you carries her scent—fresh, floral, sharp.

You wish you could freeze this moment: Kazuha’s lips pressed to yours, the kiss full of everything neither of you could say aloud.

She pulls away for a second, her fingers still tangled in your hair, not willing to let you go. She looks into your eyes, searching for a reaction to what she did.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you like this,” you murmur.

”Feels right.” Her lips part in a soft smile.

You cup her cheeks and pull her back in, her lips crashing onto yours. You aren’t satisfied with one round. You couldn’t be satisfied with a million rounds.

The wheel is back in motion, the cart rocking gently. Neither of you care. In your world, the two of you are still, existing only for each other.

The night is warm; it’s still summer, but there’s a cool breeze flowing through you now. You’re unsure if it’s because of the ride or the released tension. No—it has to be the kiss. Normal breezes don’t feel this freeing.

The rest of the ride passes in a mix of fervent kisses and dodging onlookers whenever the cart dips too low for comfort. Kissing you seems to work better than any antidote for Kazuha’s acrophobia—you don’t hear another complaint from her. All her attention is on you.

Eventually, the ride slows to a stop. You lend her a hand getting off the cart (though she'll deny ever needing help with that). Palm in hers, barrier lifted.

��Next time, maybe I won't have to fight to get you on this thing?”

“Maybe you will.” She steps out of the cart, getting on the trimmed grass with you.

”I’d do a lot worse things to kiss you like that again.”

The lips you just kissed waver into a smile as she sweeps a few strands of hair out of her eyes.

“Didn’t know you had a flirt in you.”

“You weren’t around for my best years.” The thought reminds you. “You never told me why you left.”

She takes your wrist in her hand and starts walking, going who knows where again. Her eyes drift toward the fields far away, like she could find her answer there if she tried hard enough.

“Not my call, really. Mom wanted a fresh start, I think.” She kicks a stone. It skips past a nearby stall. “Said I'll get more opportunities in a big city. More exposure, yada yada. Probably just excuses.”

Her voice trails off for a second, like she’s holding back the rest. Excuses for what? But instead of continuing, she just keeps walking. You decide to give her space for now.

“So, did you? Got into any new stuff?”

“One or two.” Her gaze drops to her feet.

“Like what?”

“Ballet.”

You break into a smile. “Didn't peg you for a pirouette. All that inhuman strength—and you chose ballet?”

“Shut up. I’m good at it.”

“Yeah, I'm gonna need to see a performance to decide, live.”

She scoffs. “In your dreams.”

The walk keeps going. She pulls you past the stretched-out haunted house and the bumper cars. The carnival music fades, speakers switched off one by one as the night gets deeper.

“Do you have a place in mind, or are you just taking me in circles?”

”We are going somewhere. It’s been waiting since we got here, you’ll see.” She rounds the corner and stops in her tracks. Lifting your hand, she points to the huge tent in front of you. “We're here.”

Mirror maze.

“Why does it feel like you've been calling the shots the whole night and I'm just following you?”

“When have I ever taken a bad decision?”

You don’t even bother with a response, and just look away.

“Come on, you’re really gonna pretend we didn’t have fun here?” Kazuha continues, half-challenging. Truth is, there's a spark in her eyes you'd follow anywhere.

You shrug. “Don’t know. Don’t remember much of this.”

”So the onus is on me to make this memorable for you.” She nods like she’s been expecting this.

“What does that even mean?”

Ignored. You turn to the ticket stand—only to find it shut down.

“Zuha, it’s closed. Guess we’re too late.”

A playful smile creeps on her lips. “Just as planned. Follow me.” She heads to the back of the tent, where there’s no one around. Lifting a loose flap, she pulls you in and lets it fall shut behind you.

Shiny is the first word you’d use to describe the place. Disorienting the second. It feels like you’re in one of those high school physics puzzles: Given k mirrors at various angles, calculate how many images you’ll see. The answer to this one is millions. Millions of yourselves and Kazuhas surround you, some even intersecting at odd angles.

You take a step—only to hit yourself on the head. All the Kazuhas around you grin widely as you rub your forehead.

“Watch and learn,” she says and strides forward. Not an obstacle in her path. Eyes locked ahead, no hesitation, almost like the mirrors themselves part to make way for her.

“Caught that grace? Ballet.”

“If you brought me here just to show off again.” You roll your eyes at her. “I'd rather leave.”

She keeps walking, taking right and left turns at specific spots like she's memorized the entire map. You follow. The way she moves—self-assured, hips swaying ever so lightly—is captivating nonetheless.

Your thoughts spill out before you have a chance to catch them. “Though I’d be content just watching you like this.”

That’s not how you talk to your childhood friend.

A soft laugh slips from her. “I thought you wanted to leave a minute ago. Anyway, I didn’t bring you here to show off. I brought you here to show something, if it still exists…” She taps behind the panel of one of the mirrors. “We're in luck.”

“What the heck are you talking about?”

“Shh.” Her finger brushes your lips—light, deliberate. It lingers there a second longer than it needs to. Your heartbeat stumbles. You want to kiss her fingertips, suck them into your mouth like she did yours, but you don't.

“I know you said you can't recall much. But try jogging your memory, do you remember when we used to play hide-and-seek here?”

You take a look around, and in the reflections, the past becomes clearer. Environmental memory and all.

“Somewhat. Didn’t you always vanish for way too long?”

“Precisely. I'm about to reveal to you where I used to hide.” Kazuha motions with a flair suited for revealing a lifelong secret.

She pulls at a mirror. It gives way to a relatively small space—just enough for the two of you to fit, with a little room to spare. Brown walls, a break from the bright and shine everywhere, make it feel like a private spot made only for you both.

You step in first, Kazuha slips in after you. As she moves past, her chest brushes against your hands—slow, almost like she wants you to touch her. You can hear—no, feel her breathing. Steady. Yours isn’t.

A second later, she's in place. The mirror slides shut behind her, darkness swallowing you both.

“Give it a minute, your eyes will adjust,” she murmurs, her hand settling on your shoulder to steady you. “Unless you’d prefer to feel your way around instead.”

You’re facing each other, backs against opposite walls.

“Is this the first time you’re here with someone?”

She nods. Kazuha’s floral scent hits you stronger now that you’re this close to her. You’re almost scared to breathe her in twice.

Your eyes adjust, just enough to make out her face. You can’t help but admire how gorgeous she is, right there in front of you, even if you can barely see her in the dark.

Almost like she knows what you’re thinking, she stands on her toes to reach a panel behind you. She pushes it open, letting a few rays of light in. They illuminate her face a little, her features even more striking in the dim golden light. The light carves across her cheekbones, emphasizing their sharpness.

And yet, it’s the same Kazuha you’ve seen a million times.

“What if someone sees us?”

“Nobody will. It leads nowhere, I know this maze inside out. We have this place to ourselves.”

Her thighs touch yours as she settles back into place. It’s incredible how sure of herself, confident, she can be even when she can’t see anything. Or maybe it’s because you’re here with her.

“Why are we here?” you ask softly.

“I’m not staying here long.”

Her words land like a stone in your chest. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, you had no idea why she was even here, but it was easy to get lost in the memories with her and pretend this was permanent.

It’s not though, and her words remind you—maybe both, that this night is fleeting. You need to make it count.

She brushes the back of your neck. The warmth of her body is comforting, even in the summer, heating you up. The silence hanging tells you exactly what you have to do.

You cup her cheek and pull her in, lips meeting yours. You slip a hand around her waist, impossibly slender against you. Maybe there was truth to her claims on grace after all.

Her fingers are tangled in your hair again, messier this time—like she wants to show you exactly how much she wants this. Wants you. She pauses for a second, her lips grazing your ear, breath hot on you.

“And when I said you can feel your way around,” Kazuha whispers. “I meant my body too.”

You don’t move at first.

Not because you don’t want to—God, you do—but because this version of her, the one offering herself to you in the dark, feels almost too surreal to touch. Like one wrong move and she’ll vanish. Disappear into thin air. Again.

“You okay?”

You nod. “I just... I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Her fingers find your chin. She tilts it toward her. “I’m here now. So touch me.”

Your hands trace the outline of her figure. You've touched her before—games, scrapes, fights—but never like this. Never with intentions like this. You slide down the curve of her back, her skin damp from the heat, before finally resting on her ass.

Your fingers hang there awkwardly—hesitant, unsure what to do. Kazuha notices. She places her free hand on yours, guiding, and presses your hand into the soft curve of her ass. It’s plump, yielding, and fits perfectly in your palm.

“Feels good?” she asks, voice low.

“Mhm,” you breathe.

Satisfied, her lips return to yours. You squeeze her ass cheeks again. A soft moan escapes her, caught by your mouth before it can go anywhere else.

The tip of your tongue grazes her lips, asking for entry. And her lips part willingly. Your tongue slides against Kazuha’s in her mouth—hungry, slick, and deep.

For once in her life, she’s happy to lose to you. Her tongue submits to yours, letting you savor her mouth at your own pace.

Her hand drifts down, fingers tracing the outline of your hardness, already heavy against your pants. She cups it with her palm, groping, gently stroking through the cloth. It only makes you harder. Throbbing. And a grunt slips out at how she's touching you.

She tugs at your pants, asking for more. You grab her wrist and lift it away.

“My turn.”

Her brow lifts slightly, but the corners of her mouth curl in approval. “Someone’s feeling bold tonight.”

You sink to your knees, planting kisses on the abs you've seen all night, but never really admired how fit they are. Tight, slim, built to be shown off, worshipped. And worship them you will, tasting her skin with your tongue, licking across her midriff. Her skin has a hint of salt, sweat glistening under the light, but she still manages to taste sweet.

“Can we at least take my shorts off?” she huffs.

You look up, meeting her eyes. “We've got all night.”

Still, you decide not to torture her further. You unzip her denim shorts and slide it down in one fluid motion. Her black panties greet you, fabric stretched over the shape of her lips, outline clear. You only need one touch to feel how drenched she is, and it’s immediately clear why she needed them off.

Her inner thighs are a creamy, milky white, tempting you to taste more of her. You start with kisses, then drag your tongue slowly over her soft skin. Her flavor is stronger on her thighs, more intense, addicting. You can't get enough.

Her muscles tense beneath your tongue, and Kazuha's fingers weave into your hair. Every flick of your tongue leaves her trembling, you're getting closer, but never close enough. She shifts her body, trying to press down on you, wanting something you won't quite give her.

It’s not like her to beg for anything. You’d probably laugh if someone told you she ever did. But now, for the first time, you hear her beg. Kazuha herself, whispering for release.

“Please.”

Your hands reach behind her and pull her panties down. Her pussy presents itself for you—bare, pink folds slick with a mix of sweat and arousal. Your tongue finishes its ascent, giving her core a long, slow lick. She whimpers, so satisfied. She’s warm, the heat on your tongue telling you just how much she’s been holding back.

Her grip tightens in your hair, urging you closer.

But you tease her instead, giving slow, deliberate licks—agonizingly gentle. You love how each moan slips out in rhythm with your touch, music only you get to hear.

“Someone might hear us,” you murmur, fully aware you’re the reason they might.

“Fuck,” she hisses. “Let them, then. Feels too—fuck, good.”

She gets wetter with every lick, your saliva mixing with her arousal, coating her pussy in a translucent mess. Some of her sweet nectar trickles into your mouth, and you savor every drop. Your hands wander to her ass, groping handfuls of her flesh, driving her further, closer, deeper into ecstasy.

“Clit too, please.”

You wrap your lips around her clit, one swirl of your tongue, and she’s squirming. Kazuha arches her back, trying to push herself further against your tongue, wanting all of you on her.

You pick up the rhythm, quick swipes of your tongue at her clit, and she melts into a moaning mess. Her hands clutch locks of your hair, not daring to let you go.

“Had no idea you were so fucking good at this.”

Her thighs lock on either side of your head, pushing you further and further into her heat. You can barely inhale anything but her pussy now—her sweat, slick, lust for you. You wouldn’t have it any other way. The more frantic her hands grow in your hair, the more you reward her with your mouth.

And it’s no surprise she’s already getting close. She grinds her pussy on your tongue, chasing her release. Her knees go weak, and her fingers dig deeper into your scalp, as if needing you just to stand upright. You press her further against the wall, steadying her.

Her wetness is all over herself, thighs, abs, pussy, coated in her own desire. Her moans take over the entire room—someone’s definitely hearing, and she couldn’t care less.

She’s screaming all sorts of things, your name included, and it’s the first time you’re hearing it in this flavor out of her mouth. You could get used to it.

As she finishes, a gush of juices flows into your mouth, and everywhere else. Your cheeks, lips, and neck are all a mess. Kazuha’s slick is all over you, and you could stay like this forever. (Not literally forever—good thing she always carries tissues)

“Maybe I did miss out on a few things,” she says between heavy breaths.

You look at her with an expression that says, I told you so.

You climb up and kiss her lips, offering her a sample of her own juices. Her tongue slips out to swipe at your mouth, tasting the mix of her slick and your spit, and she laps it up into her own. She lets you go once she’s satisfied.

“Not bad. Been a while since I’ve tasted myself.”

“You're kidding right? You taste incredible.” You wipe some off your mouth.

“Since when do you shower me with praise like this? Maybe I should disappear more often.”

She rests for a good few minutes, catching her breath. Once she's steady, her hand slides down to your pants once again, finding your cock pressing through it. “Can I have my turn now, Mr. Decision Taker?”

“Sure, but I don't see how anything can match up to the performance I just gave.”

“Ooh, shouldn't have gone there,” she purrs, dropping on her knees in front of you. Your pants are tugged down quickly, your hardness even more obvious on your underwear. “You have no idea what you started.”

“Or maybe I know exactly what I'm doing.” You grin, hand slipping through Kazuha's hair.

There’s no hesitation in her grip as she fondles your boner through the cloth, trying to familiarize herself with the shape before she even sees it.

“Brat…” She rolls her eyes as her fingers tighten on you.

“Just the way you like it.”

She slips her hands into your underwear and pulls your cock out. You’ve known those eyes your whole life—seen them light up over dumb jokes and game nights—but now, they’re locked on your cock like it’s the only thing that matters.

“Someone must have been feeling a little… constrained.” She runs her fingertips along your length, barely brushing. Every touch sends sparks dancing across your skin.

She glances up, catching the way you squirm. “Two can play at the teasing game.”

Your cock is throbbing, twitching for anything more than the ghost of her touch. Your thighs tense without permission, breath catching—shallow, uneven. You want to grab her hand, make her finish what she started. But you also want to stay still, because somehow the way she looks up at you, barely touching, is better than anything else could be.

Once she decides she’s done playing, she wraps her palm around you, slow strokes gliding up and down your length. You let go of a soft moan, ”Zuha…”

Her eyes meet yours and she strokes you firmer now, steadier. “I like hearing you say my name like that.”

“Keep going and you’ll be hearing it a lot more.”

She brings in her mouth close to your tip, tongue about to slip out—

—instead, a hot breath rolls over your skin. It hits you like lightning. Your cock pulses harder than before.

“Oops. That wasn’t intentional.” The smile tugging at her lips says otherwise. Her hand rubs gently over your tip, like nursing an injury. She holds your base firmer, leans in near your tip again—breath careful this time—and kisses it. Another, then another, and plants a line of kisses to your base.

Finally, her tongue slips out, and she licks you all the way back to the tip.

Kazuha gives you a few more licks, slow and deliberate, making sure not a single spot is untouched. Your cock is lathered with her spit, giving it a glossy finish.

“You taste good.” Her eyes glint up at you. “Could suck on this all night.”

You’re already getting weak for her. “Not sure I can last that long. But we’ll try.”

One of her hands drifts down to your balls, massaging you gently. Suddenly, she squeezes too hard.

“Ah—careful,” you wince, hips pulling back instinctively.

She lets go instantly. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Was that too hard?”

You nod.

“Should I stop with my hands?” A flush spreads over her cheeks, as if she’s second-guessing herself. Doesn’t happen often.

“Hey, it’s okay.” You stroke her hair, trying to soothe her. “I know you didn’t mean to. You can still do it if you like, just be a little gentle. They’re sensitive.”

“Okay, I'll be careful.” Her hands return to your balls, fondling with a calculated care.

“You look cute when you’re flustered.” You cup her face with one hand. “Don't think I've ever seen you like this.”

Her cheeks only flush a deeper red at that comment. She tries to ignore it and focuses her energy on your cock instead, trying to wipe that smile off your face.

Her hand spreads the slick mess all over your shaft. Your fingers dig deeper into her hair, urging her to take you in—and to your surprise, her lips immediately part open. Guilt always did make her more agreeable. Her hands rest on your thighs, steadying herself, breath hot against you.

Then she takes you into her mouth.

She’s soft. So warm. Incredibly wet. Her mouth wraps tight around you, tongue flat underneath, her spit making you slick as she slides deeper. Her cheeks hollow—sucking hard enough to pull a sharp gasp out of you. You twitch inside her mouth, and that is all the encouragement she needs to keep going.

Her tongue swirls around your cock, slurping loudly as she sucks, like she’s convinced it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.

She keeps you there for a while, her eyes gripped on yours, watching them roll back deeper with every passing second. Drool slips from her tongue, soaking your cock until it runs down and lands on her own midriff.

“Your mouth feels unreal.” It takes effort to even pronounce words. “Zuha.“ More moans of her name, as promised. You see the glimmer in her eyes every time you say it.

She slides you deeper into her throat, her lips brushing against your waist. Her throat constricts around you—so fucking tight. Kazuha’s making the dirtiest noises you’ve ever heard.

And when she finally can't take it—she pulls back. Her face is a mess. Strands of her spit glide from her lips to your cock. It almost feels wrong to see Kazuha like this, but then why does it feel so fucking good?

She steadies herself with a breath, then plants kisses down your length, getting ready to take you back into her mouth. You brush a few strands of hair out of her face and lock them in your hand, still gripping her hair. Her lips envelop your length again, the sensation drawing a grunt out of you.

Her mouth bobs up and down on you, taking you deeper with every round. Your knees go weak, and you look around for something to hold onto—but nothing.

“Is it okay if I hold your hair tighter?”

She nods, unbothered, and barely reacts when you tighten your grip on her hair like your life depends on it—focused on worshipping your cock. If anything, she takes it as a sign to go harder. Her mouth moves faster on you, suction tighter than ever.

The wet, slick sounds of her lips on your shaft are somehow louder than your moans.

Her lips release you with a pop, and her hand takes over—lips kissing your tip as her grip tightens, almost possessive of you. She strokes you, steady and firm, and for once, your moans rise louder than the obscene sounds she makes. The sensation makes your back arch, every movement pushing you closer to release.

“It’s okay, you can cum on me.” Her hand keeps working you, milking you for all you’re worth, her face right below your tip.

And then you let go. Thick ropes shoot out of you, landing across Kazuha’s face—forehead, cheeks, chin, and some in her mouth as well.

A few drops drip down to her chest and midriff. She’s a total fucking mess for you—and somehow still manages to look like the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen.

“So, not matching up to your performance is out of the question.” She swipes a streak from her cheeks and licks it off her fingers.

You struggle to form a response. It takes a while before you can say, “Ouch. And here I thought you were doing all this because you were into me.”

“Of course I am, you dork.” She gestures to the sticky trails from her hair down to her body, like that alone should be proof. “And I pull off this look too, by the way.”

“Sure you do. Thank God you always carry tissues though.”

“Yeah, God,” she mutters, already digging through her bag—only to come up empty-handed. “Not this time.”

”What the fuck? We are not going out like this.”

”Yeah, I gathered.” She lets out a quiet breath while she takes one last look in her bag. “I can’t walk out covered in cum and spit. You’re gonna have to go grab napkins for me.”

”Your juices are all over me as well, ma’am.”

“All this is definitely worse. So you are going.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.

You stand there, staring at her, she is right. There’s no way she's stepping outside like that. Which means it's on you to dodge a dozen eyes and sneak your way to a food stall for napkins.

She looks at you, eyes glinting, lips pursed like she’s trying to suppress a smile.

”Not funny, Zuha.”

She shrugs. “A little funny.”

The packet finally comes out from her bag, and right when you’re about to grab it—it slips from her hands.

“Jesus. At this rate I might have to actually go out like this.”

She picks it up and offers one to you. “If I were you, I’d be thankful someone actually brought tissues.”

You grab it and start wiping yourself off. “We should take this someplace a little more… intimate. No point taking risks like this again.”

“That, I agree. But where?” She's dabbing at her face too. These are the wet deep-cleanse ones. Should do the trick.

”Same as usual, my place? Nobody’s home—whole reason I came here.”

“Works.”

—

“So what did you use to do there before you, you know, had a guy to play around with?” You plop on the couch beside her, packet of cookies in hand. The air conditioner drones in the background, a welcome break from the heat outside.

“Play with myself,” she says casually, grabbing a cookie.

You turn to her, brows lifted. “Excuse me?”

“Not like that, dumbass,” she shoots back. “I meant doodle, sing songs, dance.”

You flip through TV channels, stopping on some old sitcom. “Prefer my company to that?”

“It’s close, but I’d say so.”

“Ever think about what life would’ve been like if you’d stuck around?”

“Sometimes.” She pulls at the strap of her top, then lets it snap back.

“Maybe we wouldn't have had to wait so many years for something between us.”

“Or maybe things would have never gone this way.” She leans back on the couch. “We were around each other all the time back then. And still—nothing.” Her eyes drill into the ceiling.

The TV screen flickers, static crackling from the speakers.

“Does that sometimes. Let me go check the connection.” You head behind the TV stand, feeling for the loose wire. You crouch down, out of her line of sight.

“Did you miss me?” Her voice is quiet, distant, like she’s not sure she wants the answer.

You don’t reply right away, spending a few seconds fiddling with wires that aren’t even loose.

“Sometimes. Like when I got sick, I half expected you to show up with juice and stupid movies again.”

Silence stretches between you.

“I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

You get up and walk back to the couch. “I never understood why you ghosted. Just had to make peace with it—no other option.”

“You really wanna get into all that?”

“Of course I do, Zuha. We were best friends for a decade. Whatever this is now, barely a night. I still care about you. That’s the issue, really.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She lets out a long sigh.

“Life got… weird when I moved. My new school was awful. I tried. But people either acted off or pretended I didn't exist, so I just stopped”

She shifts in her seat, adjusting her posture.

“And home wasn’t much better. Dad rarely visited, guess that was always the plan. Everything sucked. I wanted to text you—God, so many times. I’d open our chat and just sit there like an idiot.” Her fingers tug at a thread on the couch, eyes somewhere else.

“I couldn't. I was scared. Scared you'd moved on. Scared I'd look pathetic like that.

I wish I did though. Tonight… felt easy. Felt right.”

She meets your eyes now. “And more importantly, it was fucking unfair to you. I'm so sorry.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy.

“Hey… that sounds rough. Must have been hard to reach out with all of that going on. I had a sense things weren't great with your parents but not the full extent.” You pull her head to your chest. “I’m glad you told me though. Are things better now?”

She nods. “Yeah, I’m alright now. I still think about you from time to time, but it felt like the door had closed by then.”

She stretches her legs, resting her head higher up your chest. “Shit, we've been talking all about myself. What about you? How’s life been?” Her eyes glance up at yours.

“Nothing that dramatic.” You chuckle. “Stayed at the same school. Then college. Got an internship starting soon, offer came through just a few days back.”

“Wow. Someone’s been busy winning.” Her voice softens. “I’m proud of you. If we’d still been in touch… I probably would’ve been the first person you told.”

“Nah, you never were.”

“Shut up, I so was.” Her palm covers your mouth. “You came running to me to celebrate after placing second in a sack race.”

“Hey, it was a highly competitive—” You fight to lift her hand off. “—race. Millions would’ve killed to get on the stage and collect that medal.”

”Sure.” She laughs—the sound so sweet to you. Infectious. You can’t help but join in.

Both of you sit there for a second, smiling, catching your breath. It's easy like this. Familiar.

You nod toward your bedroom. “I suppose we should be making up for the missed movie nights.”

“You wanna watch something or just sleep with me?” She grabs your wrist, tugging you along.

“Wow, that reminds me. One of those sleepovers, you fell asleep first, as usual, on me and I had the most confused boner ever.” You pause. “Maybe I shouldn't have said that out loud.”

“Were always into me, huh?” She looks back over her shoulder at you.

Your memories tug at you, almost like they're trying to say something. “I'm not sure. Which is what made it weird.” Her step slows a little.

“What’d you do?”

”What could I do? I waited till it went away, then went to sleep.” You reach the bedroom and shut the door behind you. “Can't believe our parents never suspected anything, with how close we were. Not that we ever crossed the line back then, but still.”

Kazuha gets on the bed with you, pulling the blanket over you both. “My mom did. She had the same two lines every time I left the house—‘Tell your boyfriend I said hi,’ or, ‘Have fun on the date.’”

“Boyfriend, huh?” Your lips twitch into a smile. “How come I never heard about this?”

“Because I told her if she ever called you that in front of you, it'd be the last day she saw me.”

“Sounds about right. Didn’t she question your tragic outfit choices for a ‘date’ though?” You pull up Netflix, and hand her the remote. “Your pick for the night.”

She scrolls through the options. “You want me in some short little dress or what?” Her nose scrunches just at the idea.

“Obviously. Don’t you do ballet anyway?”

“Performing’s different. I’d probably cancel the date if I had to wear one outside.” She eyes your watch history. “What kind of trash do you watch?”

You sit up, facing her. “Let’s up the stakes of our next hammer game—marshmallows are boring. If I win, you’ll wear a dress on our date.”

“And if I win, the dress goes on you?”

You stare at her, deadpan.

“Kidding.” Her hand reaches for yours, intertwining fingers. “And you're never winning against me. So if you really wanna see me in a red dress, choose a different bet.“

“Why red specifically? Maybe I’d rather see you in green.”

”Wasn’t red your favorite color?” She finally settles on a cheesy romcom.

“Didn’t know favorite colors are still a thing after you grow up.” The movie begins—opens on a girl monologuing that she’ll never settle down. “Wow. You called my taste bad, and now we’re watching someone explain why love isn’t for them for the hundredth time?”

“Best I could salvage from your recommendations list. And hey, fits the mood at least.” She slides her fingers up your arm, and they settle on your shoulder.

“And what kind of mood would that be?”

Her grip tightens on your shoulder as she leans in. “It’ll take her the whole movie to realize that love is, in fact, for her.” Her hair hangs dangerously close to your face, brushing your cheek. “We can skip to the ending.”

You breathe her in. “Why does your hair smell so good? What's that scent?”

“Same shampoo I've always used.”

“No way. Didn't smell like this before.”

She laughs. “Maybe you had rocks for a nose back then.” She moves even closer, and you can feel her breath, hot against you. “You smell it better now?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, moving in to kiss her neck. Kazuha wraps her arm around your waist. A low moan slips from her lips as you leave a trail of soft pecks down her neck. She tilts her head back, letting you find the curve of her neck better. You keep kissing her—until a crop top interrupts your descent.

“Want it off?”

You nod and help her lift it off. You continue your path, lips brushing on her collarbone. Your hand finds her chest, cupping her breast through her bra. Her breath hitches. Her soft sounds grow louder at how you’re touching her.

She lets her hands wander down your body, feeling your hardness poking through your pants. “Already hungry for more?” Her fingers grazing you like that don't help at all.

“Hungry for you, Zuha.” It feels so good to tell her that. Your lips find her cleavage, kissing at the tiny bits peeking out from her bra. The chatter of the movie—the female lead’s friends urging her to text someone—fades into the background, replaced by the sounds Kazuha makes just for you.

Your hands reach behind and unhook her bra, freeing her tits. Her breasts are soft and creamy, perfectly shaped for your hands and mouth. You taste them—tongue gliding over her sensitive skin.

Her nipples are already taut, and you take one into your mouth, savoring the texture of her arousal. Her hand tangles in your hair. She’s not willing to risk letting you go.

You feel her other breast with your hand, taking her in your palm and gently squeezing—more moans for you. She leans back, pushing more of her flesh into your mouth, urging you to have more of her.

You take your time with her. Quick swipes of your tongue, gentle sucks on her nipples, your hands massaging her tits, and with every motion, soft sighs slip from Kazuha’s mouth.

“Figured you’d be thorough with this too” She lets out a breathy laugh. You can feel her body getting hotter—and one slip of your hand beneath her shorts confirms what you were thinking—she’s soaked. You gently push her onto her back, climbing over her.

“These aren’t needed.” One swift motion—and her shorts are off and on the bed. Her juices are already soaking through her panties, leaving damp spots on the sheets.  You kiss your way downwards, moving to her abs—before she stops you, clutching your shirt.

“Can we please take this off too?” she asks.

“You’re so adorable being polite during sex, you know?”

She smacks your shoulder—

—”Ow, that hurt.”

“Yeah, kind of the point. Now shut up and get naked with me.”

“What's wrong with me finding you cute like that?” You shrug and let her help you take your shirt off.

She shifts her gaze. “I don't know. That's not… our thing.”

“Going down on each other wasn't our thing till tonight. Didn’t stop us.”

“Good point. But that doesn't mean everything will change overnight.” She drags a line down from your chest—coming to a stop at your waist. “Do your pants need a separate invitation?”

You take off your pants and underwear, and she’s wrapping her hand around you again. She grips you tight, stroking your length.

“I want you in me.” Her hand glides naturally on your cock this time, like she knows exactly how to please you best.

“Come here.” You help her get her panties off, her hand not letting go of you—almost like you’d disappear if she did. You stare at her beautiful bare folds, coated in her translucent arousal, aching for you.

Kazuha’s hair is spread across the pillow, framing her face, almost angelic. She breathes short, needy gasps; even having your cock close to her core is too much for her. You line up your tip against her lips, her heat brushing against you. Every graze sends sparks flying through both of you.

Her hands come up to your face and tilt it toward her. “Look at me, please,” she whispers.

You meet her gaze as you slide inside her. Your cock is immediately wrapped in her warmth, drowning in her wetness. “Fuck,” she hisses. Her walls clench down on you, gripping you tight, almost making you lose control.

“Zuha, you feel amazing.”

Her lips twitch into a smile. You can tell she needed that. You want to throw in another unnecessary quip but you decide against it—enough smacks for the night. Her walls stretch around you as you go deeper, adjusting for your thickness. Your hips meet finally, your cock fully enveloped by Kazuha’s warmth.

“Go ahead,” she sighs, arching her back slightly to give you a better angle. Her juices spill all over your cock. “Give it to me.”

You start slow, drawing your hips back leisurely. Her eyes flicker—caught between wanting to shut them and savor the feeling, and keeping eye contact with you.

“Ah!” She parts her lips when you thrust back into her wetness. Your fingers roam her body—the curves of her chest, the tightness of her abs, the softness of her thighs. A satisfied smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

Your hand comes to rest on her hip, gripping her to steady yourself. You find your rhythm, your cock disappearing into her with every slow, deliberate thrust.

Your fingers press deep into her as you build momentum, little by little. You take a quick look at her reaction to make sure it doesn’t hurt her—all clear. If anything, the lip bite says she likes how possessive you’re being with her.

Each time you push into her, she lets out a louder moan—soft, breathless gasps spilling into the space between you. Her cheeks flush, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she gives herself over completely. God, you could watch her face look like this forever.

It’s mesmerizing, really, how easily you can push her into the depths of ecstasy.

One of her hands grips your waist, grounding herself against you as she basks in the feeling of you fucking her.

“Fuck, just like that,” she squeals. “Just like that, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. The last word comes out somewhat awkwardly, but with how much of a moaning mess she is, it’s hard to tell. “Feels so good. Please, don’t stop,” she gasps, her perfect tits bouncing with every thrust.

“Not—” You grunt, hips rocking into her. “—planning to. You feel so—fuck—fucking good, Zuha.”

She fights to keep control of herself—loses. Her back arches, then sinks deeper into the bed, eyes closed shut as she melts into you. Her legs hook behind your back, thighs tightening around your waist, locking you in. Kazuha surrounds your entirety.

“I’m gonna cum.” Her mouth cups into an ‘o’, her body trembling as the pleasure crashes through her. You already know: It’s an image that’s not leaving your mind so easily.

One of the (several) things you’re getting to know about Kazuha tonight is that when she cums, she leaks like a waterfall.

Her juices gush all over your cock, somehow drenching it even more than before. Her body first tenses around you, then she quivers in pleasure, trembling. Her eyes flutter open to meet yours.

“Are you close too?” she asks. You nod in response. If you weren’t already—the sight you just saw was enough to nearly push you over.

“Keep going, feels so good.” She drapes an arm around your neck—the motion almost too much for her spent body. “Kiss me, please.” You lean in close to her, Kazuha exhales softly when your lips touch.

The kiss is lazy, lingering, a complete contrast to the rhythm of your thrusts down below. You pull back just enough to ask, “Zuha, where should I—uh, cum?”

Her brow furrows briefly. “Wherever you want… but I wanna feel all of you in me.”

“That’s what I want too.” You drive into her with a few final pumps—climax fast approaching.

“Cum in me, sweetheart,” she whispers against your ear. Your lips go back where they belong—pressed firmly to hers.  Thick streams pour into her. Her soft, drenched pussy pulls you in, clenching tight around you.

“Give it all to me,” she breathes. “Every single drop.” You keep pulsing inside her, each spasm dragging more of you out. She takes it so well, her body milking you dry like her words promised.

You slowly pull out of her, your cock slipping from her soaked core. Your release drips out of her, trailing down her thighs. You collapse beside her, every muscle sore. Kazuha clutches the sheets, still breathing hard next to you.

"That was nice," she sighs.

"Nice sounds like a participation award."

"Fine, it was fucking amazing."

“I hope you mean that." You drape an arm around her shoulder. "Wanna go sit on the fields later? Big cities just don’t have skies like these.”

“Yeah. Been so long since I’ve properly seen stars.” Her head rests on yours.

“Can’t say the same, seeing one right next to me.”

“Gosh, enough flirting for the night, Romeo.” The way her cheeks turn red disagrees with her words. “Starting to miss the days when you’d just call me names all day.”

“Who says I can’t do both, loser.”

“There we go. Much better.”

“Besides, you were the one who called me sweetheart earlier.”

“Never happened. Oh, and we don’t have to leave right away, right?”

“No.”

“Good. I wanna rest here for a while.” She snuggles up to you and shuts her eyes.

—

You lie down on the damp grass, the air cool this late at night. The blades are soft but cling to your skin, carrying a faint earthy scent.

Kazuha settles beside you. The sky above is wide and clear, scattered with stars. In the distance, the Ferris wheel still glows in yellow.

Balloons are being popped, stalls shuttered. Leftover food dumped into buckets. The painted horses are lifted from the merry-go-round, loaded piece by piece into trucks. Teddy bears crammed into plastic covers. The tents are gone—replaced by bare ground with nothing to offer.

“Sweet spot to light one.” She flicks a stray blade of grass at you.

“You smoke?”

Her shoulders rise in a shrug. “You heard my whole story. What do you think?”

“Thought that was just a TV trope. Guess not.”

The wheel lights glow brighter with every minute, while the rest of the carnival dims.

“Would be cool if the carnival lasted all year.” She exhales, like she knows it's wishful thinking.

“Don't know if it'd feel the same. But still, does feel weird watching it get packed up like this—like seeing a school after hours. Or an empty mall.” You wrap a strand of her hair around your finger.

“Liminal space,” she says.

“Hm?”

“Places of transition—or something like that. Exactly what you said. Felt the same to me when I saw it from the train window. The first time I was leaving town.”

The quiet stretches between you. A faint pop echoes, cutting through the silence—maybe another balloon meeting its end. The carnival getting taken apart suddenly feels like the only thing worth seeing.

“So…” You clear your throat. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

She tilts her head up, like she’s just noticed the stars. “I lied about something.”

“Wait—you're staying?”

“No. I’ve got a ticket.”

Something in your chest crumples, slow and painful. “What is it?”

“About why I always wanted to go on the ride with you, even when I was scared of it as a kid. The view was nice and all, but I never got the appeal.”

“Then why?”

“You liked it. I wanted to confess to you at the top.” She draws her knees up, curling into the thought. “Cheesy, I know. But I saw how your eyes lit up at the view. I wanted some part in that.”

She pauses, then adds, “And felt nice to have an excuse to hold your hand.”

It takes a few seconds to respond with a question that only sounds smaller out loud. “Why didn’t you—you never told me.”

“Chickened out every time. It hurt, not being able to tell you. Whenever you smiled at me there, it felt like I was drowning. And when I was leaving the last day…” She takes a long breath.

There’s a heavy thud of something getting thrown in a truck.

“But I could never risk what we had—could never risk hearing that you didn’t love me back.”

“You don’t need to worry about that.” You say it with such conviction that it silences whatever doubts were still in her eyes.

“The second I saw you here today, knew I had to take my chance. Wasn’t getting yet another one.”

“Guess you took it.”

She shifts slightly, turning towards you. The grass rustles beneath her. “What I’m trying to say is, yes, I have a train to catch. But no, I’m not disappearing again. Not without you.”

Her words echo in your ears. They settle somewhere deep in your chest, humming.

All those nights you spent wondering why she stopped replying. Why she left without a word. Wondering if you were the reason she never looked back.

“So, what—I just drop everything and follow you?” The words come out uneven, rougher than you expected.

“No, but that doesn’t mean this has to end here either.” Her voice wavers, choking in her throat. “That doesn't mean I can't still have you in my life, right?”

Something in her tone sounds different this time. Like she’s scared to lose you too.

“True.” A soft gust of wind ruffles her hair across your cheek. “Suppose our date with you in a red dress will have to wait.” (But not forever, right?)

For the first time in all the years you’ve known her, you see her eyes pool. They shine—stars caught beneath the tears. One drop falls onto your shirt, sinks through the fabric, straight into your skin. Burning.

Her hand finds yours and squeezes, probably harder than she means to—as always. She whispers, “I’ll wait for it.”

The Ferris wheel flickers once, then goes dark.

—

[leriexoxo]

The Things We Never Said

Hyunjin x Reader

Tags: 18+ (minors DNI), heavy emotional angst, rejection, heartbreak, sexual content (soft & rough, mirror sex, aftercare, etc.), swearing, crying, pining, miscommunication, Slow burn, angst, friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 9k

Summary: You’d been in love with Hyunjin for years, always stuck somewhere between friendship and almost. When you finally confessed, he rejected you—and then tried to pretend nothing happened. You did your best to move on, even let someone else in… until Hyunjin realized too late that he loved you too. Now he’s at your door in the rain, desperate for a second chance—and you don’t know if your heart is ready to break all over again.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You met Hyunjin the summer after high school ended.

He was loud. That was the first thing you noticed. He laughed with his whole chest, talked with his hands, and never seemed to run out of things to say, even when no one was listening. You’d been dragged to a bonfire by your childhood friend, Jiyeon, and suddenly there he was—sitting cross-legged in the grass with his hair tied up and his head tilted back as he tried to balance a beer can on his forehead.

You didn’t say much to him that night. But he noticed you. You knew, because he kept trying to make you laugh.

He succeeded, a little. And then again. And again.

And by the end of the night, when Jiyeon shouted, “We’re getting ramen after this, let’s go!” and you instinctively began to gather your things, Hyunjin turned to you and said, “You’re coming too, right?”

It wasn’t even a question, not really. Just a smile. A light in his voice.

And somehow, without even realizing it, you became part of the group.

He was the kind of person who pulled people in without trying. Messy and ridiculous and disarmingly soft around the edges. He made the quiet ones talk. Made the serious ones laugh. And you—he made you feel like maybe it wasn’t so bad, being seen.

You became friends slowly. Not all at once, not in that immediate, magnetic way some people describe. It was more like… a comfort you grew used to. Like warm socks in winter. Like the sound of the microwave at 2am.

You sat next to him at game nights. He always offered you the last slice of pizza, even when he obviously wanted it. He texted you the dumbest memes at 3am. Brought you coffee without asking what you liked. He just guessed. He was right.

He remembered things you didn’t expect anyone to remember—your cousin’s name, your pet peeves, the exact date you said you were dreading a dentist appointment.

You never let yourself overthink it.

He was like that with everyone.

It didn’t mean anything.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But then came the long drives.

The ones where you sat shotgun, feet on the dash, window cracked open, his playlist humming low between the silence. The ones where he’d ask questions like, “Do you think people always know when they’re falling for someone?” with a weird little smile, and you’d pretend it didn’t send your heart into overdrive.

You didn’t know when it happened. When liking him stopped being a quiet crush and became a permanent ache under your ribs.

But by the time you realized it, it was already too late.

It didn’t happen all at once, but looking back, you could see the moment things started to shift.

It was a Wednesday. Rainy. One of those days where everything felt half-slow and half-noisy, like the world couldn’t decide if it wanted to rest or scream. You had been late to dinner—group dinner, as usual. Everyone had already ordered. Someone had stolen your usual seat.

Without missing a beat, Hyunjin scooted over, patted the bench beside him, and said, “Sit here.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that. It wasn’t even that significant. But when you sat, when your knee pressed against his, and he didn’t move an inch—you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

His shoulder bumped yours every time he laughed. You felt it in your bones.

And when he leaned down to whisper something only meant for you—something stupid and irrelevant about the waiter’s mustache—you laughed too loudly, too quickly, just to distract yourself from how warm his breath felt against your cheek.

Jiyeon gave you a look. The kind that said oh.

You didn’t want to talk about it.

From then on, everything became sharp-edged.

Every car ride. Every lazy afternoon curled on his couch. Every group hangout that ended with the two of you lingering after everyone else left.

You stopped seeing your friends. You started seeing him.

You memorized the way his fingers looked when he was focused—thumb tucked under his chin, brows drawn. The way he fidgeted when he was nervous, like during that open mic night when his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. The way he whispered your name when you drifted off during late movies, like it meant more than just waking you up.

You knew it didn’t. Not to him.

But it was starting to mean everything to you.

You tried to tell yourself it would pass.

You tried to flirt with someone else at Jiyeon’s party—a guy who was sweet and cute and definitely into you. But then you caught Hyunjin watching from the kitchen, eyebrows slightly furrowed, his cup clutched too tightly in his hand.

Later that night, when the guy asked for your number, you hesitated.

And Hyunjin—who hadn’t spoken a word about it—offered to walk you home.

You let him. Of course you did.

And as you walked side by side in silence, your jacket tucked beneath his arm like a second thought, you wondered what it would be like to reach over. To grab his hand. To say it out loud, right then.

But you didn’t.

Because you were still scared of the answer.

⸻

The moment came two weeks later.

Another rooftop, another night, another group hangout gone late. Everyone had gone back downstairs. Only you and Hyunjin remained, curled under a blanket, half-drunk, half-exhausted, watching the city blink in soft, slow pulses.

You felt full and empty all at once.

And then he said, “You’ve been quiet lately. Like… inside-your-head quiet.”

You blinked. “Have I?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You do that when something’s eating you.”

You laughed softly. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me, yeah.”

And just like that, the words pushed up your throat like they’d been waiting.

“I like you.”

It came out too fast. Too raw. You didn’t look at him when you said it. You stared at the skyline like it could save you.

He went still beside you.

You felt it. The pause. The absence.

Then—

“…Don’t.”

Silence. Loud silence.

Your heart crumpled in real time.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it,” he said softly. “Please.”

You turned then. Looked him in the face.

He wasn’t angry. Wasn’t mocking you. Just… heartbroken in a way that made no sense.

“I didn’t want this to change anything,” he whispered.

You laughed once. Just a breath. Just enough to keep from crying.

“Well,” you said. “Too late for that.”

—

You didn’t cry that night.

Not when he reached for your hand and you pulled away.

Not when you stood up too fast and nearly tripped over the blanket.

Not when he said your name like he didn’t know how to say anything else. Like it could still fix it.

You just left.

You went down the stairs and out the door and didn’t stop walking until the city swallowed the rooftop behind you. And when you got home, you showered like you were trying to wash it off. The rooftop, the night, the words. Him.

You climbed into bed in a pair of socks that didn’t match and stared at the ceiling until your eyes stopped burning.

And even then, you didn’t cry.

You just hurt.

You thought maybe he’d give you space.

That he’d let the silence stretch between you until it thinned into distance—polite, painful, but necessary. That was what people did when they didn’t feel the same, wasn’t it? They stepped back. Gave you room to breathe. To grieve.

But Hyunjin didn’t.

The very next morning, he texted you like nothing happened.

hyunjin:

“u up?”

hyunjin:

“wanna get coffee before you go to class?”

hyunjin:

“or not. either way i hope you slept okay.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you wanted to be dramatic—but because you didn’t know how to be normal around him anymore.

Because nothing felt normal.

That weekend, you saw him again—against your better judgment. Jiyeon had begged you to come to their little movie night, the usual group, just “lowkey and chill.” She’d even promised to make your favorite dumplings.

You told yourself you could handle it.

You were wrong.

He looked up the second you walked in. Said your name with that same soft inflection, like the last three days hadn’t shattered you. Like your confession had been a dream and not a detonation.

You sat on the far end of the couch. He noticed. Didn’t say anything.

Halfway through the movie, he leaned over the armrest and whispered, “You okay?”

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t answer.

You just smiled at the TV screen and hoped no one could see how tightly your hands were clenched in your lap.

⸻

You tried to pull away.

Not just from Hyunjin—but from everything. The group chat, the hangouts, the drop-by visits. You skipped brunches. You started sitting in new spots during class. You made yourself busy with things that didn’t include him.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But instead of leaving you alone, he chased harder.

He started showing up in ways he never had before. More texts. More “hey, haven’t seen you in a while” messages in the group. Random pictures sent to you privately—funny signs, cats that looked like yours, memes he used to tag you in without asking.

He still made you coffee sometimes. Left it at your door with a note that said nothing more than “You still like oat milk, right?”

It broke you.

Not because he was cruel. But because he was still kind. Because his version of “normal” made it impossible for you to move on.

⸻

Jiyeon called you one night after another canceled invite.

“You okay?”

You paused. Then, “Yeah. Just been tired.”

“You and Hyunjin haven’t talked.”

“I know.”

There was a quiet moment.

Then she said, softly, “You know he thinks everything’s fine, right? That he didn’t break anything.”

You didn’t know how to answer that.

So you didn’t.

—

You made it twelve days.

Twelve days of answering texts with forced emojis.

Twelve days of dodging hangouts, rerouting your walk to class, pretending you weren’t constantly bracing for the next time he’d show up.

You were holding yourself together with duct tape and denial—and Hyunjin kept peeling it off with every well-meaning smile, every gesture that used to feel like comfort and now felt like cruelty.

So when Jiyeon’s birthday rolled around, you told yourself you could survive it.

One night. One dinner. You could smile for a few hours, eat some cake, laugh at a few jokes, and go home.

But then he sat next to you. And that was the beginning of the end.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Walked in with that warm, open energy that had once made you feel safe and now just made your heart twist the wrong way. He saw you across the table, grinned like nothing was wrong, and dropped into the empty seat beside you like it belonged to him.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “You look nice.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You forced a tight smile. “Thanks.”

He tilted his head. “Haven’t seen you all week. You ghosted me again.”

Again.

Like it was a joke. Like it was cute.

You blinked down at your plate. Your heart was pounding. He kept going.

“You still mad at me?” he teased gently. “Come on. I know I’m annoying, but I’m not that bad.”

You laughed. Not because it was funny.

Because something inside you snapped.

You stood up.

He blinked at you, confused, one hand reaching slightly like he thought you might fall. “Wait—”

“I need some air.”

You didn’t look at him as you walked out.

The street was quiet. Cold. A relief.

You leaned against the wall of the restaurant and closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry. Not here. Not now. Not because of him.

But then the door creaked open behind you, and you knew.

Of course he followed.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Did I… did I do something?”

You turned, finally. Looked him in the face.

And you couldn’t do it anymore.

“I told you I liked you,” you said, voice cracking. “And you rejected me. Which—I get it, okay? That’s fine. You didn’t owe me anything.”

“…I never meant to—”

“But then you kept showing up,” you went on, too fast now, too full. “You kept texting, kept smiling, kept acting like nothing changed. Like it didn’t wreck me to be around you.”

He went still.

“I needed space, Hyunjin. I needed time. But you—you just kept being you. And that made it worse.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said finally.

“You could’ve let me go.”

The silence between you was unbearable.

You took a step back.

“I’m not mad at you,” you whispered. “But I can’t be your friend right now. I’m sorry.”

And then you left him standing there, under the soft glow of the restaurant lights, with nothing but the echo of your voice and the pieces you hadn’t been able to hold onto anymore.

—

He didn’t text the next day.

Or the one after.

For the first time in weeks, your phone stayed silent—no morning messages, no dumb inside jokes, no pictures of dogs in sunglasses or bad street poetry. You thought it would feel like relief.

It didn’t. It felt like absence.

Like a door finally closing after weeks of creaking on its hinges.

And part of you wanted to pry it open again—just to make sure he was still there. Still existing in the same world, breathing the same air. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You had meant what you said.

You couldn’t be his friend. Not like this.

The group chat slowed without you.

Or maybe you just stopped checking. Muted it. Let the messages pile up without opening them. Jiyeon texted once or twice—“are you okay?” and “you don’t have to explain, just letting you know I’m here”—but even she understood.

You weren’t ready to talk. Not about it. Not about him.

You weren’t even sure what about him meant anymore.

It had been easier when you were just friends. Easier to joke, to sit close, to share blankets and drinks and late-night walks without wondering if it meant something.

Now you couldn’t look at your favorite coffee shop without remembering how he used to order your drink before you got there.

Couldn’t listen to certain songs without hearing the way he hummed under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening.

Couldn’t step onto the rooftop without your chest tightening like it was still holding the echo of your confession.

⸻

Hyunjin didn’t come looking for you.

Not at first.

You heard from Jiyeon that he was “laying low.” That he’d been quieter, less involved, skipping a few hangouts here and there. He wasn’t himself, she said.

You wanted to tell her neither were you.

But what good would it do?

The damage was already done. And unlike him, you couldn’t keep pretending you hadn’t bled for it.

One week later, you ran into him.

Not dramatically—not on a rainy street or in a dark hallway—but in line at the grocery store, both of you clutching baskets filled with microwave meals and snacks you didn’t need.

You saw him before he saw you.

And for a moment, you thought about leaving your cart and walking out.

But he turned.

He blinked. Paused. Said your name like a question.

“Hey.”

You swallowed. “Hey.”

It was awful.

Awkward in a way that made your skin itch. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, looked down at your basket like it was easier than looking at your face.

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

You could’ve lied. You should’ve.

But you shrugged. “I’ve been better.”

Something in his face twisted.

“I miss you,” he said quietly. No preamble. No smile.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust yourself to.

Because hearing it didn’t fix anything.

It didn’t pull the broken pieces back together or rewrite the moment on the rooftop or un-crack the parts of you that had already started healing from the silence.

All it did was ache.

Even after that quiet moment at the grocery store, even after his eyes followed you all the way to the exit like he still had something left to say. You didn’t reach out.

Because missing you wasn’t the same as wanting you.

And you were done trying to read between lines he wasn’t brave enough to cross.

So, you made yourself move on.

Not out of spite, but out of survival.

You said yes to more invitations, even if it meant sitting in circles he’d never touched. You started spending time with people who didn’t already know your story—or worse, the part where your story had ended.

You met a boy named Minho through your literature elective. He made snide comments about every poem you read in class, and sometimes he offered you half of his protein bar even when you didn’t ask.

He was safe. He didn’t look at you like he remembered every time your heart had cracked open.

He didn’t remind you of anything.

You went for coffee once. Then again. He made you laugh.

It didn’t make your heart race.

But it made the ache dull.

And that was enough.

⸻

Jiyeon noticed the change in you before you did.

“You’re glowing,” she teased one night as the two of you walked home from a dinner that didn’t include Hyunjin for the first time in months.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” she grinned. “It’s like… you’re coming back to life a little.”

You smiled softly. You didn’t say it, but you felt it too.

The quiet felt less suffocating.

Your chest didn’t tighten every time you heard his name.

You weren’t happy—not all the way. But you weren’t drowning anymore.

That was something.

You saw Hyunjin again two weeks later. Unplanned. At a gallery opening hosted by a mutual friend.

He was standing by the window with a drink in hand, talking to someone you didn’t recognize.

He looked… different.

Tired, maybe. Older somehow. Like he’d finally started carrying the weight you’d been dragging alone.

You tried not to look at him. Tried harder not to feel anything. But the moment he saw you—really saw you—his whole body shifted.

He excused himself from the conversation and made his way over before you had time to turn.

“Hey.”

You stared at him for a long beat. “Hey.”

“I heard about your reading,” he said, a little breathless. “Jiyeon said you’re submitting that short story to the contest next month.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thought I’d give it a shot.”

His smile was proud, but his eyes were careful. “That’s… really cool. You always talked about writing more.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Because yeah, you did.

And he used to be the person you shared your rough drafts with.

You sipped your drink.

He hesitated. Then, “Can we talk?”

You blinked. “We are talking.”

“No, I mean… actually talk. About everything. About what I did—or didn’t do. I know I hurt you.”

You exhaled through your nose. “You didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he said. “But I did anyway.”

He paused.

“I didn’t say what you needed to hear that night. Not because I didn’t care, but because I panicked. I thought if I said it wrong, I’d lose you completely.”

You laughed, bitter. “Newsflash.”

“I know,” he said again. Quiet. “I didn’t know how to be honest with you without breaking something. And then I broke it anyway.”

There was a beat of silence between you.

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

And for the first time, you saw guilt.

Not just regret. Not just nostalgia.

Real guilt. Like he finally understood what it meant to be the one who got to walk away clean.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve let you go when you asked me to. I should’ve respected the space you needed. I thought staying close meant I still mattered to you.”

“You did,” you whispered. “But it hurt too much.”

“I get that now.”

You nodded.

“I’m not asking to fix things,” he added. “Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But I wanted you to know—I see it. Everything I ignored. And I’m sorry.”

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t reach for him, didn’t tell him it was okay.

Because it wasn’t. Not really.

But hearing it? It helped.

—

You kept seeing Minho.

Not often. Not seriously. But enough.

Enough to make people start asking. Enough to let the idea hang in the air—like a question you were never quite ready to answer.

He was calm where Hyunjin had been chaotic.

Confident without being loud.

Sharp-tongued, but thoughtful when it counted.

You didn’t burn for him, not in the way you had for Hyunjin.

But that was the point, wasn’t it?

Minho made it easy to breathe. Easy to exist without constantly trying to guess what came next.

And for a while, that was enough.

You started smiling again. Real ones.

You stopped checking your phone for messages that never came.

Stopped wondering what Hyunjin was doing on a Friday night or who he was laughing with or if he ever thought about the rooftop and the way you’d looked at him like you had something left to lose.

You stopped bleeding, even if you still bruised.

And when Minho asked if you wanted to get dinner—just the two of you this time—you said yes.

Because you wanted to try.

Even if your heart still twitched at the sound of someone else’s name.

⸻

You didn’t mean for Hyunjin to find out about Minho that way.

But the world was small, and the friend group smaller.

He saw you across the quad one day—Minho beside you, walking close, laughing low at something you said. You didn’t notice Hyunjin sitting on the low wall by the fountain, earbuds in but music off, eyes catching on you like a hook in water.

You didn’t see the way he stilled.

Didn’t see the way his jaw clenched when Minho leaned in to adjust the strap of your bag.

Didn’t hear the breath he held until it burned.

But later that night, you got a message.

[10:03 PM] Hyunjin: so it’s real? you and him?

You stared at it for a long time.

Your fingers hovered over the screen. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

[10:09 PM] You: I’m trying to move on.

No reply came.

Not that night. Not the next day.

But Jiyeon texted you the morning after: Did something happen with Hyunjin? He was weird today. Like really weird.

You didn’t answer.

Because you knew exactly what happened.

—

Hyunjin didn’t understand it.

Not at first.

He thought the ache in his chest was guilt. Maybe even jealousy in the shallow way—like possessiveness, like territorial instinct. The kind of pang you feel when someone you used to be close with starts laughing a little too freely without you.

But it wasn’t that.

It was something deeper. Wilder.

More like grief.

Because you weren’t just someone anymore.

You weren’t even his almost.

You were someone else’s maybe.

And that was what shattered him.

Because when you left, he missed the way you looked at him. Missed your laugh, your stupid overthinking texts, the way you always brought him snacks when he forgot to eat. He missed your presence.

But now—now he missed your possibility.

Now he missed what he never let himself want.

He started spiraling quietly.

He didn’t bring you up. Not to anyone. Not even Jiyeon.

But he was short-tempered, restless. Said no to hangouts, stayed up too late doing nothing, stared at half-written texts he never sent.

He kept seeing you in crowded rooms—never alone, always glowing a little too much beside someone else.

Minho touched you gently. Laughed easily. Didn’t flinch when your arm brushed his.

And Hyunjin hated it.

Because Minho hadn’t hesitated.

Minho didn’t push you away and then regret it after.

Minho got to hold the part of you that Hyunjin threw away out of fear.

It took him two weeks to admit it to himself.

Not just the feelings. But the failure.

He hadn’t been confused. He’d been a coward.

He let you fall while he stood on the edge, too afraid to jump.

And now someone else was learning all the soft, sacred pieces of you he never deserved.

—

You weren’t expecting anyone that night.

It was raining. The kind of rain that didn’t come with thunder—just a quiet, steady fall that wrapped the city in soft gray noise. You had a hoodie on, socks mismatched, fingers curled around a mug of tea gone cold on your desk.

Your phone lit up twice—one from Minho, one from Jiyeon—but you didn’t open either.

Some nights were like this. Still on the surface, but storming underneath.

You didn’t think anything of the knock at your door.

Just a neighbor, maybe. A package. Maybe Jiyeon needing to vent.

But when you opened it—

Your whole body froze.

There he was.

Hyunjin.

Soaked to the bone, hood pushed back, hair dripping onto the collar of his jacket. His eyes looked darker than usual—not angry, not cold.

Just… raw.

Like he hadn’t slept.

Like he hadn’t smiled in days.

You couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t even move.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges.

“Just—can you let me talk? Please.”

You stepped back.

Barely. A breath of space.

And he took it like it was a lifeline.

He stood in your entryway dripping water onto your rug, shivering slightly, looking around like it was all unfamiliar.

But you both knew it wasn’t.

“You’re still drinking that chamomile stuff,” he murmured, eyes catching the mug on your desk. “I always hated the way it smelled.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t tell him you started drinking it more after he stopped texting you.

Didn’t tell him Minho liked it. Said it suited you.

Hyunjin swallowed. “I’ve been an idiot.”

You crossed your arms.

“I don’t mean the usual kind of idiot,” he added quickly. “I mean… the kind who gets handed something rare—something real—and is too scared to hold onto it.”

Your throat tightened.

“I told myself I didn’t want to risk losing you,” he went on. “But I lost you anyway, didn’t I?”

You said nothing.

Because the pain was still there. The crack. The weight. The memory of the rooftop and the way his silence felt like your own body turning against you.

“I saw you with Minho,” he admitted, eyes searching yours now. “And it hurt. God, it fucking hurt. Not because he did anything wrong—he didn’t. He’s good to you. I could see it. That’s what scared me.”

You looked down.

He took a step closer.

“Because I realized I didn’t want you to move on,” he whispered. “Not from me.”

A breath caught in your chest.

“I wanted to be the one who made you laugh like that. The one who made you feel seen. But I gave that up, didn’t I? I gave it up because I was too much of a coward to admit I loved you.”

The silence rang loud.

Too loud.

You blinked, voice breaking. “Loved?”

His face crumpled—gently, like he was unraveling all at once.

“Love,” he corrected. “I love you. Present tense.”

A pause.

And then, softer:

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to take me back. But if there’s even a piece of you that still feels something… I had to come. I had to try. Because if I lose you forever without telling you how I feel, I won’t survive it.”

You stared at him. At the boy who once shattered your heart and then stood there hoping you’d pretend it never happened.

Only now, he wasn’t asking you to pretend.

He was asking you to believe him.

To believe this mattered. To believe you mattered.

Even after everything.

You stood there trembling.

His words echoed through the room, too loud and too soft all at once. You hadn’t meant to cry, but the tears were already sliding down your face—slow, silent, uninvited. You didn’t even try to stop them.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because you had wanted this. You had dreamed of this.

And now that it was here, it didn’t feel real.

Your fingers clenched at your sides.

You still loved him. God, you loved him so much it hurt.

That was the problem. That had always been the problem.

You had never stopped.

You turned away before he could see your face break completely. Your voice came out thin.

“Your clothes are soaked. You’re gonna get sick.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

You went to your drawer and pulled out a hoodie—his, ironically, one he’d left at your place months ago and probably forgotten. You hadn’t. You wore it once when the world felt especially heavy.

You walked back and handed it to him, not meeting his eyes.

“There’s towels in the bathroom,” you mumbled. “You can dry off in there.”

He hesitated. Then nodded, quiet. “Thanks.”

You didn’t say anything else.

—

The rain got heavier.

It pounded against your windows, against the balcony outside your room. The whole apartment felt suspended in that stormy cocoon—like time had been paused by the sky itself.

You stood by your bed, arms around yourself, chest aching.

How many times had you imagined this moment?

How many times had you told yourself it would never come?

And now he was here.

In your bathroom. Wearing the hoodie you used to cry in. Telling you he loved you.

Your knees nearly buckled under the weight of it.

When he stepped out again, hair damp but drying, hoodie slung over his frame like it still belonged to him, he looked… softer.

Not small. Just real.

Your gaze lifted. Locked with his.

Neither of you spoke.

But something shifted.

In the stretch of silence. In the sound of the storm. In the space between your heart and his.

And then, he moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right. Like he wanted to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t. You didn’t move an inch.

Not even when he reached out, thumb brushing just under your eye to catch a tear you hadn’t noticed was still falling.

“Still hurts?” he whispered.

You nodded. A breath.

“Me too.”

Then—

His hand slid to your jaw, gentle, reverent.

And he kissed you.

It wasn’t hungry or desperate.

It was slow. Careful. Terrified.

Like he was asking.

Please. Let me back in.

And you— You let him.

Because your heart had never been Minho’s.

Because you never stopped waiting for this.

For Hyunjin.

For this kiss.

For him.

His lips moved like he was afraid to touch you fully.

Not because he didn’t want to—because he did, you could feel it, the trembling in his fingers, the way his breath stuttered against your cheek—but because he was terrified of breaking you again.

And maybe he already had.

Maybe you were already in pieces, just standing there, letting him kiss you.

But your hands found his hoodie, your fingers curling tight into the fabric at his chest, and you tilted your head into him, letting the kiss deepen. Just slightly. Just enough.

He gasped when you kissed back.

A sound so full of relief, you nearly choked on it.

His arms came around you in a rush then, like he’d been holding back every instinct for weeks and couldn’t anymore—like he was suddenly starving and you were the only thing that could fill him.

You clung to him just as desperately.

It was messy. It was soaked in heartbreak. It tasted like too much and not enough.

He kissed you like he was scared this would be the last time.

And maybe it would be, if you didn’t speak now.

You broke the kiss with a trembling breath, forehead pressed to his, his hands still cradling your face.

Your voice cracked.

“I waited for you.”

His whole body stilled.

“I waited, and you didn’t come.”

“God,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut. “I know.”

You were crying again. Quiet. Angry at yourself for still loving him. Angry at him for giving you this only after you’d shattered trying to forget.

“I couldn’t even look at Minho without thinking of you,” you said. “I tried. I wanted to move on. But you—” your voice broke, “you were everywhere.”

Hyunjin’s eyes opened. Bloodshot. Glistening.

“You should hate me,” he said. “I hate me.”

“Then why didn’t you just say yes?” you asked, choking on it. “On that rooftop. Why did you make me beg for a rejection?”

“I was scared,” he confessed, so broken it hurt to hear. “You were real. You were everything. I didn’t know how to be the person who deserved you.”

“Then why now?” you whispered. “Why come back?”

He brushed his thumb over your cheek again, voice shaking.

“Because I couldn’t breathe without you. I thought I could live with letting you go, but I couldn’t. I tried. I tried so hard. But seeing you with him—” he swallowed hard—“I lost my mind. Not because of jealousy. Because I knew he could give you what I threw away.”

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

You leaned into him, both of you trembling.

And then his mouth was on yours again—more desperate this time, more raw, like the floodgates had broken and neither of you knew how to stop.

His hands cupped your face, then tangled in your hair.

Yours slid under the hoodie, fingers curling into his shirt like he’d disappear if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

It wasn’t about sex.

It wasn’t even about comfort.

It was grief.

It was love.

It was apology.

And it was need.

You kissed like you were trying to put all the broken pieces back in each other.

And for a moment, maybe you did.

—

The next morning, the world was hushed.

Golden light streamed through the blinds, soft and warm, like the universe was trying to offer you a gentle landing after the storm.

Hyunjin was still asleep on your couch, one arm draped over his eyes, the borrowed hoodie rising and falling with each breath. He looked peaceful. Tired. Like someone who had cried himself to sleep in someone else’s arms.

Because he had.

And you… you were wide awake.

Your heart felt like a tender bruise. Not aching in the same sharp way it used to, but sore with memory. With love. With everything you still hadn’t unpacked.

And there was still one thing you had to do.

You sat in the café before Minho arrived, nursing a coffee you barely touched. Your hands were cold, even with the cup between them.

He spotted you from the door, gave you a soft, tired smile.

He already knew.

Minho sat down across from you like it wasn’t the end of something. He didn’t even make you start.

“You let him in.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He nodded slowly, then looked out the window for a long moment.

“I figured it would happen,” he said, tone light, but not careless. “He had that look in his eyes when he saw us. Like someone waking up too late.”

“I never tried to use you,” you whispered. “I promise. I just… didn’t want to keep bleeding over him forever.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched. Comfortable. Sad.

“I liked you,” he said. “A lot. Still do, in a way. But I could never get to the place he had in you. You looked at me and I always saw him sitting behind your eyes.”

Tears welled again. You didn’t want to cry—not for this. Not for hurting someone who didn’t deserve it.

But Minho smiled.

“I’m not mad. Heartbreak’s messy. And I’d rather lose like this than keep you with me when your heart’s still somewhere else.”

You blinked, stunned.

“You’re kind of perfect,” you muttered, wiping a tear.

Minho grinned. “Don’t forget it.”

And just like that, he stood, patted your head, and said goodbye.

⸻

Hyunjin waited until you were ready.

For a week, he gave you space. Checked in gently. No pressure. Just warmth. Just patience.

And then— He asked if he could take you out. On a real date.

You stared at the message for a long time before smiling.

Yes.

It was an easy answer.

He took you to the planetarium.

It was quiet, empty enough that your footsteps echoed as you walked side by side into the main observatory dome. The room was dark, filled with a slow-spinning map of the stars across the curved ceiling. Everything glowed faintly blue and silver.

You stood there in the dark, hand brushing against his.

He turned to you with a soft smile. “When I was a kid, I used to think people became stars when they died.”

You looked at him, heart full.

“I think people are stars,” you said. “We just don’t always shine the same.”

He stared at you, eyes wide, something fragile flickering behind them.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered.

You reached for his hand fully this time. “So are you.”

He kissed you under a sky of constellations, hand on your waist, lips soft and sure. There was no rush, no storm.

Just you. And him.

And something whole blooming between you.

You didn’t say it out loud that night, but you felt it so deeply it poured out of you anyway—through your smile, your kiss, your laughter, your joy.

You were smitten.

So in love it made your chest ache in the best way.

He looked at you like he was seeing the stars for the first time.

And for the first time in a long time…

You felt complete.

—

The special moments started small.

A look that lingered too long.

A touch that lasted a heartbeat more than it should.

A silence that simmered.

You noticed it the second time he kissed you.

The night after the planetarium, when he walked you home again and kissed you outside your door like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. You had your hands tangled in the front of his coat, half on your tiptoes, the warmth of his breath brushing against your lips even after the kiss ended.

You’d pulled away first. Barely.

And he’d looked at you like that—like his control was fraying.

“I should go,” he murmured, but he didn’t move.

Your fingers had clenched tighter in his coat.

So close. So warm. So real.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your voice too soft, too unsure. “Probably.”

He kissed you again anyway. Deeper this time.

It kept happening.

Little moments that crackled with heat.

Moments that made your skin tingle and your thoughts spiral.

He’d tuck your hair behind your ear and let his fingers trail just a little too long against your jaw.

You’d lie on your couch watching a movie and realize his thumb was drawing slow circles into the back of your hand without even thinking about it.

He’d lean in to whisper something and you’d feel his breath on your neck, and your body would ache.

You never said it.

But he felt it too.

You could see it in the way his jaw tightened when you wore shorts around him. The way he looked away fast, and then looked back, like he couldn’t stop himself. The way his fingers would twitch in his lap like they were remembering the shape of your hips.

Neither of you pushed it.

It was careful. Respectful.

But it burned.

⸻

One night, you ended up at his place after dinner. Nothing dramatic. Just takeout, music, the glow of his living room lamp.

You were in one of his hoodies again. Legs folded on his couch.

He was beside you, thigh pressed to yours, half-laughing at a story you told about Minho getting kicked out of a bookstore for sneezing too dramatically.

And then the laughter faded.

And there was quiet.

And you were looking at each other.

His smile softened. Melted.

“I love you,” he said suddenly.

You blinked.

“I know,” you whispered, heart stuttering.

He reached for you, one hand brushing your knee, then your hip, then your waist. His fingers curled there like they belonged.

“I think about you all the time,” he murmured. “Not just like this. I mean… everything. I think about waking up beside you. Cooking with you. Fighting over what movie to watch. I think about what it would be like to make love to someone I actually care about.”

Your breath caught.

You could feel your pulse in your throat.

“And I think about touching you,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “More than I should. Sometimes it drives me crazy.”

You swallowed hard. “Hyunjin…”

His forehead dropped to yours, breath hot against your lips.

“I don’t wanna rush you. I don’t want to fuck this up. But… if you ever want me, really want me—”

“I do,” you whispered. “I do.”

He kissed you again.

And this time, it wasn’t soft.

It was hot and aching and honest.

A kiss that shook the air out of your lungs, that made you whimper into his mouth.

A kiss that told you he had been waiting.

His hand slid under the hem of your hoodie—slow, careful, worshipful. You felt his palm press against the bare skin of your lower back, and your entire body lit up.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, legs shifting to straddle him without thinking.

You needed him.

Not just physically.

Fully.

And for the first time, you saw it in his eyes—how much he needed you too.

His breath trembled against your lips as he kissed you, deeper now—slow and searching, like he was committing you to memory.

You straddled his lap, knees tucked against the couch cushions, hoodie sliding up your thighs as his hands gripped your waist like he’d dreamt of this a thousand times and still couldn’t believe it was real.

Your hips tilted into him and god, he groaned—low, guttural, like the sound had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he whispered against your mouth.

You kissed him harder, dizzy with how much you wanted him. With how long you’d ached for this exact feeling—his hands on you, his mouth devouring you like he was starving.

“I’ve wanted this,” you breathed, forehead pressed to his. “Hyunjin, I’ve wanted you so bad—”

He surged up, catching your lips again, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other slid under your hoodie—warm palm pressing flat against your bare back. His touch burned, delicate and firm at once, like he didn’t know whether to cherish you or ruin you.

Maybe both.

You rolled your hips into him again and he lost it—his grip on you tightening, his mouth trailing fire down your jaw to your throat.

“Let me take you to my bed,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Please. I need to see you—all of you.”

You nodded, breathless. “Take me.”

You barely made it to the room.

He kissed you the whole way there, backing you into the doorway, pulling your hoodie over your head and moaning when he saw you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Holy shit, baby…”

His hands roamed, reverent, worshipful—fingers trembling slightly as he cupped your breasts, kissed your collarbone, trailed down your ribs like he wanted to map every inch of you.

You undressed him too, slow and needy. Shirt first. Then pants. You couldn’t stop touching him—his lean lines, the muscles under smooth skin, the way his breath caught when your hands slid below his waistband.

And when you finally reached the bed, he laid you down so gently, like you were something precious. Then he hovered over you, eyes locked to yours, full of heat and vulnerability.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice cracked. “So fucking beautiful.”

You pulled him down into another kiss, and then—

His hand slipped between your thighs.

He touched you slowly at first, lips brushing your cheek as his fingers slid through your folds, testing, teasing—until your hips bucked and you whimpered his name.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered. “You’ve been like this for me all night, haven’t you?”

“Longer,” you gasped. “Weeks. Months.”

He cursed under his breath and slipped two fingers inside you, curling just right, dragging moans out of you before you could stop them.

“Hyunjin, please—”

He kissed your temple. “I got you.”

And then he was lining up, breathing hard, pushing in slow.

Your back arched.

He filled you completely.

Deep and thick and hot and perfect.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Only feel.

He groaned into your neck, holding himself still for a second while your body adjusted.

“You’re so tight,” he rasped. “Fuck—so warm. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Move,” you begged. “Please, Hyunjin—”

And he did.

He fucked you like a man unraveling.

Deep strokes, slow at first—but with every sound you made, every time you gasped his name or dug your nails into his back—he got rougher. Desperate. Unhinged.

“Been dreaming about this,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “Fantasizing about being inside you, hearing you moan for me—mine, baby, you’re mine—”

“Yes,” you choked out. “I’m yours. God, I’m yours.”

That snapped something in him.

He grabbed your thighs, threw them over his shoulders, and started pounding.

You cried out—head tilted back, fingers clawing at the sheets, the rhythm obscene, filthy, delicious.

“You take me so well,” he groaned, driving in harder. “Look at you, fucking trembling—this is what we were meant for.”

You were gone. Ruined. Drenched in sweat and tears and love.

It was everything.

The heartbreak. The longing. The second chance. All of it crashed into this moment—two people finding each other again in the most primal, vulnerable way.

And when you came, you screamed.

Tears streaming, thighs shaking, sobbing his name.

He followed seconds later, moaning into your mouth as he spilled inside you, his body curling around yours, trembling.

⸻

After, he didn’t move for a long time.

He just held you. Tight. Like you were the center of his universe.

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing hair from your face.

You nodded, still breathless. “I think you just ruined me for anyone else.”

He smiled—soft, shy, proud.

“Good,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”

You’d barely caught your breath.

Still tangled in the sheets, your chest rising and falling with each slow inhale, skin flushed and sticky with sweat. Hyunjin was quiet beside you—his fingers tracing lazy lines over your bare back, lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to your shoulder, your temple, your jaw.

“I should clean you up,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and hoarse and wrecked from all the moaning.

You smiled, dazed. “I’m not sure I can stand.”

His laugh was quiet. Tender. “Then I’ll carry you.”

And he did—arms under your thighs and back, cradling you to his chest like you were fragile. Like he wanted to take care of every part of you.

The bathroom was warm. Dim. Steamy from the shower he turned on.

You sat on the counter while he grabbed a warm towel, gently wiping between your legs with a tenderness that made you melt all over again. His hair was a mess, his chest peppered with bite marks, but his eyes never left yours—soft and so full of something it made your chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded, cupping his cheek. “I’m more than okay.”

He leaned into your touch, lips brushing your palm—and that’s when it changed.

His hand slid to your thigh, slow and deliberate.

His eyes flicked down. Then up. Then to the mirror behind you.

“Look at you,” he said softly. “You’re fucking glowing.”

You felt it, too.

The heat between your legs rising again.

The tension sparking all over your body.

“Hyunjin…”

He didn’t kiss you this time. Not at first.

He turned you around.

Gently. Slowly. Until your palms were pressed flat against the cool marble counter, your back arched just slightly, and your eyes locked to his through the reflection.

He stood behind you, hands running down your arms, then your sides, then gripping your hips from behind.

The mirror caught everything.

Your parted lips. Your flushed skin. The way your thighs clenched at the way he looked at you.

“You’re so fucking sexy like this,” he murmured into your ear, grinding against your ass with a low groan. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You whimpered. “Then show me.”

And he did.

You felt him again—hard, hot, thick—pressing into your entrance, slow and unbearable, until he was buried deep inside you once more.

Your mouth dropped open. His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the mirror made it so much worse.

You could see the way his brows furrowed, the way his lip curled when he pulled back and slammed in again—your body jolting forward, your eyes fluttering shut as your moan echoed off the tile walls.

“Open your eyes,” he growled, fucking into you harder now. “Watch.”

And when you did—

You saw it all.

The way his body curved into yours.

The way your tits bounced with every thrust.

The way his jaw clenched, desperate, possessive, lost in you.

“You look so good like this,” he groaned. “Letting me fuck you in front of a mirror like a filthy little angel.”

You moaned. “Hyunjin—fuck—”

He reached around to grab your throat, just enough pressure to tilt your chin up—forcing you to hold the eye contact, to see the mess he was making of you.

“You love this,” he hissed. “Being ruined like this. Being mine.”

“I do,” you gasped. “I love you—Hyunjin, I love you so much—”

That shattered him.

He bent over you, caged you in with his arms, and pounded harder—deeper—his teeth scraping against your neck, his moans falling ragged against your ear.

“I love you too,” he choked. “I’m so in love with you—fuck, baby, I can’t hold back—”

Your body clenched. Your thighs trembled.

And when you came this time, you saw yourself unravel.

You watched the moment your face broke apart in the mirror—watched Hyunjin’s eyes lock to yours as he fucked you through it, whispering your name like a prayer as he came inside you again, deep and pulsing and perfect.

You collapsed against the counter, boneless and spent. He held you up, breathing hard, his chest pressed to your back as he kissed your shoulder softly.

“You wreck me,” he whispered.

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good,” you breathed. “Because I’m not done wrecking you either.”

After the second round, your body was jelly.

Warm, aching, full of him—so full of him you could still feel the echo of his thrusts hours later.

Hyunjin carried you back to bed, wet towel slung over his shoulder, your skin freshly cleaned but your cheeks still flushed, your lips swollen from all the kissing. He tucked you into the sheets like you were sacred, brushing damp strands of hair from your face, placing the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

You curled into his chest, and for the first time in forever, your body truly relaxed.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispered, stroking your spine with featherlight fingers.

You shook your head, half-asleep. “You made me feel everything.”

His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer until you were tangled up in him again, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat.

He nuzzled into your hair. “Thinking back, I was so scared you wouldn’t let me in.”

“I almost didn’t,” you murmured, drowsy. “You really fucked up, Hyunjin.”

“I know,” he said, his voice low with guilt. “I was a coward. I thought pushing you away would protect me from messing it up, but I ended up hurting you worse. Hurting myself too.”

You shifted just enough to look up at him. His eyes were soft and open now. No walls. No distance.

“I never stopped loving you,” you said quietly.

His lips parted. “Even when I broke your heart?”

“Especially then,” you whispered.

The weight of that landed hard between you—and then he was kissing you again. Soft and slow, all emotion. No rush, no hunger this time. Just pure devotion. You moaned into it, wrapping your arms around his neck as he hovered over you, chest to chest, lips to lips.

He kissed your nose. Your eyelids. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. He worshipped every inch like he was making up for lost time.

“You’re my everything,” he murmured. “I never want to be without you again.”

“Then don’t be,” you said. “I’m yours. Always.”

⸻

Spring came slowly that year.

The trees bloomed in soft pinks and pale greens, and everything felt like it was waking up again. You too.

It had been three months since that rainy night. Three months since Hyunjin stood in your doorway with his heart on his sleeve and yours clenched in his hands. Since you let him in—into your apartment, your bed, your life.

And now?

You were his.

Not in the possessive way he used to fear, but in the gentle, deliberate way that felt real. Solid. Like something that had been growing quietly beneath the surface all along, just waiting for the right season to bloom.

“Here,” Hyunjin said, setting a cup of tea on your desk as you buried yourself in editing your thesis. “Made it just the way you like it.”

You blinked up at him, smiling. “You’re spoiling me.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “You deserve it.”

He meant it. Every word. You could see it in his eyes now—no hesitation, no deflection. Just warmth. Confidence. Love.

Sometimes, you caught him staring when he thought you wouldn’t notice. His chin resting on his hand, gaze soft and open. Like he still couldn’t believe you were here, his. Like he was trying to memorize your face a hundred different ways.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you teased one night, sprawled on his couch with popcorn in your lap and your feet in his.

“Because I’m in love with you,” he said simply. “Still not over it.”

⸻

Your friend group got used to the change quickly.

Jiyeon called you “disgustingly cute” with a fake gag, but kept smiling after. Minho never said much—just gave Hyunjin a knowing look whenever they passed by each other and nodded once, like they had an understanding. No bad blood. Just quiet grace.

And the sex?

Still toe-curling. Still addictive.

But now it came with pillow talk. Inside jokes. Morning kisses and shared playlists. Him dancing you around the kitchen with pancake batter on your nose, hands on your hips, forehead against yours.

It came with safety. Intimacy. The kind of closeness that felt earned.

You’d been through every version of heartache with Hyunjin.

And now you were building every version of healing.

⸻

He took you on a picnic for your six-month anniversary.

Cherry blossoms in full bloom, a checkered blanket under the trees, his sketchbook in his lap as he tried to draw you mid-laugh—messy and imperfect, but so full of love.

“You know,” he said, glancing over the top of the page, “I used to be scared I’d ruin us if I ever crossed the line.”

You reached for his hand. “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m scared I’ll never be able to love anyone the way I love you.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. Soft. Sure. Smitten.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because you’ll never have to.”

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

Authors note: Guys 🥹 I think I fell in love with Hyunjin all over again!!! And lord knows I TESTED myself with the amount of fluff a d emotions in this lmao.. anyway guys, we are hitting 1k soon and I’m so excited! 😭❤️ its been 3 months of writing back to back and there’s already so many fics in the masterlist! Thanks for all the support, love you guys!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki

[eli-void]

ok so @soaptacular

this post is all correct but also you need to remember:

if you have biological differences between groups, like, if you want to put some fantasy 'races' in your world, if you want multiple sapient species in your worldbuilding

they will 100% predate culture in how they developed and were effected by geography and migrations

unless you're building some magic to account for why these differences happened faster

because evolution works really slowly in the hundreds of thousands of years at least -more likely millions (beyond the scale of history, there would not be culture there, prob not even language)

and if you want to add continent movement to your history, its beyond the scale even more. more like tens of milions of years, even hundreds of millions for some things

so yes, you can take into account how these three influence each other but its most likely to be

geography shapes biology

and that then can influence culture

please take that into account

something like this:

there were mountains and some dwarves came to live there -> then they evolved to be short by slowly favoring for shorter hight more comfortable when living underground -> then took up mining as they developed tools

as opposed to:

dwarves' land becomes mountainus-> they take up mining-> they become short

^not correct, the time scales do not match

evolution does not move in pace with history as we know it

pro-tip: don't ever use the sentence "thousands of years" in your worldbuilding unless you really know what a thousand years is like

[prettylilyanime]

Our Blessing ♡ Chapter 04

♡ Pairing: Toji Zenin x reader

♡ Synopsis: in which your ex boyfriend left you with your biggest blessing in life, or- a bundle of a blessing. And he doesn’t even know it.

♡ tags/warnings: 18+, (explicit content in later chapters) angst, and drama, exes to lovers, hidden baby trope, Toji is an asshole (but we love him), Reader just wants to raise Megumi in peace, CEO Toji, possessive Toji, emotionally constipated Toji, Tension, misunderstandings, Flashbacks to past relationship, Heavy themes of abandonment, trust issues, and redemption, baby Megumi is a cutie, Megumi is a mama’s boy, reader works at a flower shop, Hidden Baby Trope

♡ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next

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Winter is in full swing, and a small snowstorm has draped Tokyo’s streets in soft white. Classes have been suspended for the week, and though Megumi’s birthday isn’t until the end of the month—just a few days shy of Christmas, you’re grateful this mini blizzard hasn’t disrupted your plans.

In fact, you’ve been quietly enjoying it. Having your baby home for a few extra days has brought a kind of warmth that’s helped keep your mind off other things.

Off him.

It’s ridiculous, the way Toji’s managed to creep back into your head after all this time.

Years of silence, and yet here you are, thinking about him more than you should. His number still tucked away under the lamp on your nightstand. And those photos of him holding hands with that woman outside some exclusive Tokyo bar, now etched behind your eyelids no matter how hard you try to forget them.

The power he still holds over your heart terrifies you.

But Megumi being home has helped. You haven’t gone into work either, not that there’s been much foot traffic in your flower shop lately. The snow has slowed down everything, sales included. But thankfully, you’d planned for quiet seasons like this. Years of careful saving and smart investments have cushioned the blow.

You’re no Toji, casually dropping six figures at a bar like it’s nothing, but you’re doing your best. You’re building a good life for your son, one full of love, comfort, and stability.

Today’s comfort comes in the form of homemade cookies. It’s a simple activity, but it beats another afternoon of TV or the dreaded iPad. One of your biggest fears is raising Megumi to be an iPad kid.

“Okay honey, remember to roll the cookie dough into little balls. And no tasting! The stomach bug could get you,” you warn, watching him from the corner of your eye.

To your surprise, Megumi actually listens. Ever since he got his first real cold at the start of the school year, complete with aches and nausea—he’s been a little traumatized by the idea of getting sick again.

Still, when he’s not looking, you sneak a guilty spoonful of dough. You know it’s probably fine, but what if he is the one percent that gets salmonella? You shake the thought off.

Your spiral is interrupted by the painfully adorable sight of your son rolling cookie dough into near-perfect balls. His pajama sleeves are pushed up, his little brows furrowed in concentration, and the tip of his tongue pokes out in focus.

Your heart clenches.

You lean down without thinking and press a kiss to the top of his head, wrapping your arms around his small frame and earning a soft little groan from him.

“Mama, my cookies...” he whines, more dramatic than upset.

You laugh softly. “Sorry, sorry. You’re doing such a good job, though,” you say, and his cheeks flush pink from the praise.

The two of you move through the rest of the dough like a well-oiled machine. There’s a rhythm to it, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if you missed your calling. Maybe you should’ve opened a bakery instead of a flower shop.

“Okay, honey. Stand behind me—the oven’s hot,” you say, slipping on oven mitts.

Megumi clings to the fabric of your pants as you slide the tray in. His eyes are wide, like he’s trying to protect you with his gaze alone.

“No burns,” you announce playfully as you shut the oven. “Success.”

You lift him easily under the arms and settle him on your hip, ignoring the slight strain in your back. You don’t let yourself think too long about how much heavier he’s gotten or how fast time is flying.

“Let’s wash our hands and pick a movie while the cookies bake,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Soon, the two of you are curled up on the pale blue couch you’ve had for years, tucked under one of your favorite plush blankets. Megumi fits snugly in your lap, his freshly cleaned hands tangled in the fabric of your shirt.

It’s the kind of moment you want to bottle forever.

And yet... something feels off.

Just a whisper of unease in the back of your mind. A memory. A ghost.

No matter how perfect this moment is, you can’t quite shake it.

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Memory: Six Years Ago

“Doll, you’re breaking my heart.”

You’ve always loved the sound of Toji’s voice—low, raspy, and just a little bit rough. It wraps around your spine like velvet, makes your stomach flutter every time. Tonight is no exception.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, tall and broad, already shrugging off his coat. He hooks it on the wall like he lives here. Like it’s second nature.

“It’s only a week, Toji. And I invited you to come, remember?” you say, lips curved in a soft smile. A spark of warmth blooms in your chest when he leans down to press a kiss to your lips—careless and casual, but still enough to send your pulse skipping.

His gaze drops to the open suitcase on your living room floor, then shifts to you. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?” he groans, flopping back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

The pale blue cushions creak beneath his weight, the fabric dipping slightly to cradle his frame. The sight of a man that massive lounging in your tiny apartment, limbs sprawled and comfortable, never fails to make you grin.

You slide closer and lean against his leg as you fold a sweater into your bag. “I don’t know… pick up a hobby that isn’t me. Pottery? Painting?” You perk up. “Ooh, what if you finally give in and try floral arranging? I have books I can lend you!”

Toji snorts. “Doll, you’re not a hobby,” he says, voice quieter now, more honest. “You’re my life. Can’t say flowers are gonna fill that void.”

Your fingers pause mid-fold, heart catching in your throat at the softness in his voice. You don’t look at him—just smile to yourself and keep packing.

“I think you’ll manage,” you say quietly.

You don’t know yet how wrong you are.

He sighs, all pouty and petulant in that rare, vulnerable way he only ever shows you. You glance up, snickering at the exaggerated look on his face.

“What? A week with your dad got you that bummed?”

“You’ve got no idea, doll. The old man’s gonna be up my ass,” he groans, spreading his thighs instinctively and reaching out as you rise from the floor. You let him pull you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your arms wrap around his neck; your head rests easily on his shoulder. His big arms fold around you in turn, holding you close like he needs to memorize how you feel. You breathe him in—that addictive scent of clean spice and something unmistakably him, the cologne you’ve loved from the very beginning.

“I’m sorry he always gives you a hard time,” you murmur, fingers gently combing through the back of his hair, twirling locks of raven strands between them.

He’s quiet for a while, gaze locked on the black screen of the TV. Then, without saying a word, he grabs the remote, flicks it on to some random movie neither of you care about, and shifts you both deeper into the couch. He tosses a blanket over your legs—he always remembers how easily you get cold.

“Don’t worry about the old man,” he mutters. “He’s dying soon anyway. Won’t be my problem for much longer.”

You sigh, soft and weary. “Don’t say things like that. He’s your father.”

“And? You want me to list off all the shit he’s pulled?” Toji scoffs, the edge in his voice sharpening. “I don’t get why you keep defending him. The man trashes your name every chance he gets.”

His words are blunt, too blunt—and they sting, even though you know he’s trying to deflect the real pain underneath. Of course you hate that his father despises you. You’ve been with Toji for five years now, and every interaction with his family has felt like walking on broken glass.

You frown, not wanting to ruin this quiet moment before your trip, but the tension is already curling tight in your chest. “He’s never taken the time to get to know me.” you murmur against his shirt. “So I’m not putting too much weight into anything he says.”

Toji exhales, long and slow, then pulls you closer like he’s trying to shield you from something invisible.

“He doesn’t know you at all, my perfect girl. And I want to fucking keep it that way. He ruins everything he touches.”

You snort softly, tapping his shoulder. “I’m not perfect, Toji.”

He huffs and grabs your face as gently as those big hands allow, palms warm as they cradle your cheeks. He squishes them just enough to make your lips pout, then bumps his forehead against yours.

“Most perfect girl in the whole damn world,” he mutters. “And I won’t let anybody say otherwise. Not even you.”

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Current day

In his high-rise penthouse, the city below blanketed in white, Suguru exhales slowly, the smoke from his cigar curling through the air like a ghost of a thought he can’t shake.

Across from him, Ryomen Sukuna lounges on a leather chair with a beer in hand, pink hair mussed, eyes half-lidded but unmistakably sharp.

The two of them have been through hell and back, especially with Satoru and Toji in the mix. Boarding school years, globetrotting misadventures, a few too many nights in Amsterdam that landed all four of them in jail as teenagers—

But nothing ever has, or ever will compare to this. To the quiet, heavy weight of the thing they’ve both been carrying in silence.

“So… you know,” Suguru finally says. Not a question. He knew the second Sukuna looked at him during that last meet-up at Horizon.

Sukuna takes a long swig like the alcohol might soften the edge. He’s never done well with serious shit.

“Yeah. Yuuji’s best friends with the kid.”

Suguru’s eyes snap to him, disbelief etched across his face. “Seriously? That’s how you found out?”

Sukuna groans, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Jin begged me to take Yuuji on a playdate. I was expecting some married, middle-aged lady with a brat. Imagine my surprise when I show up and it’s Y/N—who, by the way, is even sexier now, with a mini-Toji in light up sneakers.”

He snorts, amused at the memory. Seeing Toji’s permanently pissed-off face on an adorable kid is a surreal kind of comedy.

Suguru pointedly ignores the comment about you being sexier, though, if he’s honest, he agrees. Motherhood did something to you.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. If his hair weren’t tied back in its usual bun, he’d be gripping it by the roots out of stress.

“I ran into her a few months ago. Her and the kid. Pizza place by her old shop. Satoru didn’t notice them, but I did. She looked pretty terrified when she saw me.”

Sukuna lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah? She looked like she wanted to choke me out. The kid too, honestly. Gave me this nasty glare. Kid’s got dark vibes already—very Toji.”

Suguru nods, gaze distant. “Too much like Toji. I don’t know how she wakes up every day and doesn’t think about him.”

“She probably does,” Sukuna says, casually. “Especially now. Now that she knows we know.”

Silence settles between them. The only sound is the soft hum of the heater and the quiet clink of Sukuna’s bottle against the marble tabletop.

“You think she’ll tell him?” Suguru asks eventually, voice low. “I gave her his number. Thought maybe… I don’t know. I feel like an asshole keeping this from him.”

Sukuna doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the amber of his drink like it holds a timeline he can’t fix.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “She’ll tell him.”

Suguru waits for more. Sukuna sighs.

“Jin mentioned Yuuji got invited to the brat’s birthday party. It’s in like two weeks.”

Suguru raises a brow. “Shit. That’s right around Toji’s birthday.”

Sukuna nods. “Guilt’s gonna eat her alive. I bet she’ll crack any day now.”

Suguru scowls. “We are not betting on Toji’s baby mama finally confessing she’s been hiding his kid for five years.”

Sukuna smirks, raising his bottle. “You’re only saying that ‘cause you know I’d win.”

The door swings open without so much as a knock, the echo of it bouncing off the marble floors of Suguru’s penthouse.

From where they sit, low on dark leather chairs near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sprawling city of Tokyo glows in soft gray tones beneath a blanket of snow.

Neon lights blink in the distance, diffused by the frost-kissed glass. It’s serene, in a heavy, expensive kind of way.

That peace is shattered immediately.

“Helloooo!”

Satoru Gojo strides in like a man with a mission and zero boundaries, wool coat flapping behind him, sunglasses still obnoxiously on despite the gloomy sky outside. His shoes squeak slightly against the polished marble as he kicks them off and makes a beeline for the liquor tray like he pays rent.

“I know I gave you access to my house,” Suguru mutters without looking up, “but would it kill you to knock for once?”

“Nah,” Satoru grins, grabbing a crystal tumbler and inspecting the bottle of whiskey before pouring generously. “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Sukuna slouches further into his chair, stretching out his legs like a cat who wants everyone to know he's deeply inconvenienced. “Your existence is a surprise. A tragic one.”

Satoru ignores the jab with a grin. “You say that now, but you’d miss me the moment I stopped showing up.”

He flops theatrically onto the white sectional, the ice in his glass clinking like punctuation. Stretching out like he owns the place, he props his feet (still dusted with snow) on the edge of the marble coffee table.

Suguru shoots him a cold glare. Predictably, Satoru pretends not to notice.

“What were you two whispering about, anyway?” he asks, voice far too casual to be innocent.

“You shut up like I walked in on a cartel meeting. If there’s any snow involved, you know I want a cut.”

Suguru, back in his chair, swirls the amber in his glass and stares out the window like the answers might be hiding somewhere in the drifting snowflakes.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he says smoothly, the weight behind his words dulled by exhaustion.

Satoru squints, lips pursed. “Lame. You guys always act weird when I’m not around. Just admit it, you’re planning Toji’s birthday without me again.”

Sukuna snorts, eyes still on the snow-covered skyline. “Yeah. Full clown theme this year actually.”

“You joke, but strippers in clown outfits could be magical,” Satoru says, deadpan, leaning back with a pleased sigh like he’s cracked a genius idea.

Suguru gives him a sideways look. Sukuna takes a sip of his beer and mutters, “Yeah, real magical.”

Outside, the snow starts up again. Thick, slow flakes falling against the glass, smudging out the neon sprawl of Tokyo Tower.

Suguru sips his drink, the familiar, suffocating weight of what he knows pressing heavier now. But he says nothing more.

Because if there’s one thing they all know beyond a doubt :

You don’t tell Satoru Gojo a secret unless you’re ready for Toji to know it five minutes later.

Like clockwork, Satoru shifts upright, eyebrows raised in gleeful disbelief. “Speaking of Toji, can you believe he sent that girl from the bar home in an Uber? Didn’t even hook up with her!”

Suguru arches a brow, unimpressed. “Honestly? Not shocked.”

Satoru lets out a dramatic scoff. “We’re watching our hot bachelor bestie spiral into eternal celibacy, and everyone’s just fine with that?!”

Sukuna exhales slowly, lifting his glass. “He’s a grown-ass man, Satoru. Let him make his own choices.”

Satoru rolls his crystalline blue eyes from behind his ever-present shades. “That’s no fun.”

Satoru starts rambling again. Some half-baked scheme about dragging Toji to a club to “reawaken his libido”—but Suguru’s already tuning him out.

He doesn’t say it out loud. Not with Satoru here. Not with Sukuna sipping his beer like nothing matters.

But in the back of his mind, the thought lingers stubbornly—quiet and sharp.

Please just call him, Y/N.

He closes his eyes briefly, letting the silence stretch as far as it’ll go before Satoru shatters it again.

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The sun has long dipped below the skyline, leaving Tokyo cloaked in a deep navy hue. The city lights outside your window glitter more vividly than usual, wrapped in the glow of the approaching holidays. Neon signs blink in festive colors, red and green twinkling against glass and steel.

Inside, your apartment feels warmer than usual—not just from the heater, but from the familiar comfort of December. The Christmas tree in the corner glows softly, its deep green branches dotted with glittering ornaments and rainbow lights that flicker gently against the walls. The scent of freshly baked cookies still lingers in the air from earlier.

You carry Megumi to bed with ease, his body relaxed and heavy in your arms, freshly showered and with his little belly full of warm cookies. He’s drowsy, blinking slowly as his head hits the pillow, his cheeks still faintly rosy from the heat of the oven and the laughter you shared in the kitchen.

He curls into the covers easily, the kind of sleepiness only little kids know. So full, so satisfied, so safe. 

You kneel beside his small twin-sized bed, letting your eyes linger on the way his lashes rest against his cheeks. You would stay here forever if you could, watching him drift into dreamland.

But then—

“Mama,” he murmurs, tugging at your sleeve again with drowsy fingers.

“Yes, honey?” you whisper, brushing his soft black hair gently from his face.

He doesn’t open his eyes right away. “Is my dad coming to my birthday party this year?”

Your entire body stills, muscles coiling instinctively beneath your skin. Even in the warmth of the room, it’s like someone’s poured ice water down your spine.

Your gaze drops to him, and your heart aches. He’s still half-asleep, lashes fluttering as he stares at the ceiling, but his voice carries something heavy. Something unspoken.

“My friends keep asking me…” he trails off, small fingers fidgeting with his blanket now. “I don’t care if he comes or not. I just wanna know.”

It’s the pout that gives him away. The slight downturn of his mouth. The hesitation in his voice. And suddenly, you see through him with painful clarity.

He does care.

Your breath catches in your throat as you take him in - so small, so brave, and yet so vulnerable. There’s a thousand things you could say.

You want to lie. You want to change the subject. You want to shield him from the tangled mess of adult decisions and past pain. But that’s not who you are.

That’s not the kind of mother you promised yourself you’d be.

So instead, you lean forward and press a tender kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger there for a moment, grounding yourself in your love for your child.

“I’ll make sure he’s there, Megumi,” you whisper, and the words alone make you nauseous out of anxiety and fear.

And the words burn on the way out—sharp with anxiety, heavy with dread. But you say them anyway.

His little fingers finally relax their grip on the blanket, and the tension in his body melts into the mattress. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to.

His tiny heart trusts you with everything it has.

And you’ve never let him down.

You won’t start now.

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[jihyoruri]

❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ HOUSE OF BALLOONS (richgirl!yn | chaewon x reader )

richgirl ⭢ that girl (she’s delicious) ⭢ idon’t smoke ⭢ pretty when you cry ⭢ homesick ⭢ super rich kids ⭢ girl, so confusing ⭢ take your mask off ⭢ carmen ⭢ untitled

— BONUNS CHAPTER | the dark sides of the moon family- the tales of the three young moons on a power trip (or slowly loosing their minds) the lost media of the young heirs that can never be found

SEPTEMBER 1st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“RICH KIDS GONE BAD??”

“a deeply unsettling video featuring moon yn, a first-year high school student, and her older brother moon jae, now in his final year, has started circulating online and it’s sparking serious concern.” click the video below ⭣

the shaky footage, clearly taken in secret, shows the two siblings in their school uniforms, each wearing a distinct chanel brooch. but this was no time to admire their luxury.

the video begins with a girl standing nervously in front of them. jae has his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. his words are too quiet to hear, but his body language says enough, sharp, intimidating, and cold.

he lets go of her chin and moves his hand to her shoulder in what looks like a comforting gesture, until he begins applying pressure, pushing her down until she’s sitting against the wall. he lets out a low laugh and walks away, leaving yn standing over the girl.

yn kneels in front of her, mimicking her brother’s earlier gesture. she lifts the girl’s chin again, but where jae’s aggression was clear, yn is harder to read calm, collected, and unreadable in a way that makes your skin crawl. she says something too quiet to hear, then smirks.

as she straightens up, she turns her head, looking directly into the camera. there's a soft gasp from behind the phone as the person filming realizes they’ve been caught. the video cuts off abruptly.

the internet explodes… and then goes quiet

but as quickly as the clip emerged, it vanished. users began reporting that links were broken, posts were mysteriously deleted, and accounts sharing the video were suddenly locked or suspended. some claimed the file had been “scrubbed” from search engines entirely. a few who claimed to have saved the video reported their files becoming corrupted.

with no formal statement from the moon family and no official media coverage, the moment began to fade from public memory. a handful of reddit threads and obscure blog posts remain, clinging to what little evidence is left, but for the most part, the world has moved on.

those who still remember are left with questions, unease, and an unsettling silence.

but who they to question what’s going with the moon family? whatever yn and jae did was completely warranted obviously.

THE VIDEO IN THIS ARTICLE IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

OCTOBER 31st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“WHO WOULD’VE THOUGHT THE YOUNGEST WOULD BE LIVING UP THE MOON NAME THE MOST?”

“a voice audio of who seems to be moon yn the youngest of the moon family talking to a teacher has people thinking only one thing, her father sure did raise her.” click the video below to hear the audio⭣

it starts off soft.

“sir…” her voice is sweet, almost delicate. “I’ve been feeling like this for a while, and my brother’s noticed it too. it seems like you’ve been treating us a little unfairly… because of our name? would i be correct if i said that?”

there’s a pause before the man responds, calm and condescending. “yes, you would.” his voice is firm, too confident. “the moons need humbling, and you prove that every day. I’ve been doing this since your oldest brother was here. he took it. so did jae. now it’s your turn. moons don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt, so suck it up, young lady.”

“oh…” she sounds hurt. quiet. small. but don’t be fooled.

“that’s too bad,” she says, and there’s a shift. some faint shuffling. her tone sharpens, losing its sweetness. “but here’s the thing… I’m not like my brothers. take that as a mental note.”

he doesn’t respond. silence.

“but anywho…” she sighs, fake and theatrical. “I should get going. it’s a shame we couldn’t come to better terms.”

then, her voice lowers to a near whisper. “but I guess everyone’s gonna love to hear about how much you like your female students.”

the laugh that follows is soft. too soft. and then, the audio cuts.

as of now, moon yn, is rumored to be a trainee under sm entertainment. insiders claim she’s been groomed for the spotlight her whole life, and based on this clip, it’s clear she knows how to perform, even when no cameras are supposed to be rolling.

but just like the infamous school hallway video of the moon siblings, this audio has vanished from the internet.

accounts that posted the original clip were suspended, links broken, files corrupted. forums discussing the audio were locked or mass reported. even users who claimed to have saved it privately say the file mysteriously disappeared or won’t play. no trace remains, and most who've heard it now speak of it like an urban legend, something you had to be online at the right time to witness.

and now, another piece of moon family history is buried.

but hey, she was so right, who was he to mistreat a moon?

THE AUDIO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

FEBRUARY 5th 2017

ARTICLE HEADLINE — “ALL THREE MOON SIBLINGS CAUGHT IN DISTURBING LATE NIGHT FOTAGE.”

a leaked clip of daeun, jae, and yn leaving an exclusive bar has resurfaced whispers about the moon family and this time, no one was laughing. click the video below to watch ⭣

it’s dark, filmed from across the street, blurry, shaky, and obviously taken in secret.

the video opens with the glowing sign of the club, an exclusive bar only frequented by chaebols, heirs, and politicians' children. entry is invite only. drinks are never cheap. and minors are never allowed.

but in the video, all three moon siblings step out of the building. daeun, the eldest and the only one legally allowed to drink, walks out first in a sleek designer coat, jaw tight with exhaustion. jae follows, swaying slightly as he pushes his hair back and looks like he’s trying to hold back a glare. and yn the youngest walks behind them both, not stumbling, but not exactly steady either.

the three of them look like they’re falling apart in silence. no one speaks. no one smiles. the air is thick.

a black car pulls up, but none of them move toward it.

daeun turns to jae and says something low. he flinches. daeun throws his cigarette down. yn leans against the wall, staring at the pavement like it’s talking to her. none of them look like they want to be there. none of them look like they want to go home either.

and then, jae lashes out, not violently, but enough to startle. he kicks something near the curb, mutters something at yn that makes her roll her eyes, and she finally snaps back. it’s silent on video, but the way they speak, no hesitation, no filter, it’s clear the masks they wear in public aren’t on tonight.

daeun rubs his temples. he looks older than ever.

the three eventually pile into the car. the door slams shut. and the video ends.

why was this ever online?

the footage appeared online late one night under the caption “are the moons okay?” and in less than an hour, it was reposted hundreds of times. viewers weren’t shocked by the drinking, they were disturbed by what it revealed.

“daeun looks like he’s seen hell.” “yn isn’t old enough to drink and she looked the most checked out.” “jae’s energy is always so off. the way he moved… i can’t explain it but it made me sick.” “why did they just stand there like that for so long? they looked so… broken.”

and then it was gone.

just like the school hallway video. just like the teacher audio. accounts were suspended, posts wiped, and copies of the video corrupted or removed. users now speak about it like some sort of cursed file — if you didn’t see it when it dropped, you probably never will.

some believe sm’s legal team got involved now that yn is a trainee. others say the moon family themselves had it buried. and a few claim it was never supposed to exist at all.

THE VIDEO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

[sleeplessspell]

Gregoriously Undead

Twilight pressed its damp hands against the hills, choking the heather in mist. The air smelled of loam, blood, and slow regret. A stag twitched in the bracken, its life slipping through Gregor’s trembling fingers into a weathered glass flask.

He hadn’t meant to scare it. Hadn’t meant to leap from the trees. But hunger was a cruel tutor, and even now, years into his afterlife, the beast inside clawed at his ribs when the scent of blood was too close, too warm.

Gregor wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief. Crimson streaked across his pale wrist like a wound that couldn’t heal.

He hated this.

The darkness, the thirst, the way food tasted like chalk and joy felt like something he barely remembered. He’d been turned at twenty-three—a cobbler’s apprentice with strong hands, quick stitches, and a laugh that used to echo down alleyways. He’d worked in a cramped shop with a man who snored louder than he hammered, and he was happy.

Until that thing found him.

A shimmering-eyed French vampire who mistook Gregor’s shy smile for charm and his squinting in candlelight for mystery. She declared him “adorable,” kissed him on the forehead, and vanished into a crypt without ever explaining what being a vampire entailed.

Gregor figured it out on his own.

Which meant no feeding rules. No glamour tricks. No subtle throat-nipping in parlors with lace curtains.

Instead, there was the forest.

And the deer.

And the cold.

And the loneliness.

Tonight, his hunt was nearly done. The blood he’d taken from the stag would last another day, two if he rationed it. He tucked the flask into a leather satchel beside a bundle of dried rosemary and a worn prayer.

Then he heard voices.

Human ones.

Two of them. One sharp and precise. The other unsure, but eager. They were close—moving through the thicket with purpose and creaking leather boots.

Gregor went rigid.

Hunters.

He could smell it on them—garlic oil, silver wire, and the unmistakable confidence of people who thought they were righteous.

“You smell that?” the younger voice said. “Blood. Fresh.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” said the older. “Could be a wolf. Could be worse.”

Gregor crouched low behind a tree, silent.

“Tracks,” the young one said. “Human. The stag’s been drained.”

“No teeth marks?”

“Clean slit across the neck.”

Gregor winced. He was trying to be better.

“Could be a vampire,” the boy whispered.

Gregor stepped into the clearing before he could second-guess it

He held up both hands. Flask still in one. The other empty.

“Please do not shoot,” he said. “Or stab. Or throw unpleasant vials at me. I have very sensitive skin.”

The hunters whipped around, blades drawn in less than a second. The boy’s hand trembled. The man did not.

“You’re the one who drained the deer,” said the older man.

“Yes,” Gregor nodded. “It was quite tasty.”

The boy blinked. “Wait—you’re admitting it?”

“I do not lie. It gets one into trouble.”

“Who are you?” the man asked sharply.

Gregor hesitated. “I... am Gregor.”

“Just Gregor?”

“Yah.”

He didn’t lower his weapon. “You’re a vampire.”

“Yah.”

“You’re not denying it?”

“Should I?” He looked around. “Is that the expected game?”

“Why didn’t you attack us?”

“I have lunch,” he said, lifting the flask. “Also, I do not like fighting. Last time, I broke a nail on a tree.”

The man finally lowered his blade—barely. “You drink animal blood.”

“I do not like the screaming,” Gregor said simply. “Or the guilt. Or the throat fractures. Animals do not beg. They also do not sing love ballads as they die, which is... unexpectedly common among poets.”

The boy looked rattled. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

The man cracked a grin despite himself. “You’re the weirdest thing I’ve met all year.”

“Thank you. I assure you, it is mutual.”

He sheathed his sword. “I’m Ivan. This is Simon. We’re part of the Night Watch.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Means we’ve done our job then.”

There was a long pause, then Simon asked the question Gregor had been dreading for decades.

“Are you gonna keep living like this?”

Gregor looked at the fog-choked trees. The flask in his hand. His cold fingers and his colder heart.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I will make do. Better than making victims.”

Ivan stared at him.

Then, slowly, he reached into his coat and pulled out a leather-bound journal.

“There’s a coastal town near here,” he said. “Oakhurst. We’ve had trouble with disappearances. We were headed there to investigate.”

Gregor blinked. “You want me to help?”

“I want you to come with us. There’s a place across the Ocean, they know almost nothing of your kind,” he said. “If you want any semblance of a normal life, that’s where you should go, and Oakhurst is the only city in the country that can get you there.”

Simon muttered, “I still think this is a bad idea.”

“Then we’ll watch him closely,” he replied. “And if he tries anything...”

“I do not want to be staked,” Gregor offered. “Also, I am flammable. We can agree on rules.”

Ivan extended his hand.

He stared at it for a moment, unsure if it would burn him.

Then he took it.

The road to the coast was long and muddy, winding through quiet villages and dense pine groves. Ivan walked like he’d done it a hundred times. Simon grumbled. Gregor floated quietly behind, cloak dragging in the dirt, a moth perpetually fluttering near his shoulder.

They stopped often—to sleep, to check maps, to avoid patrols. Gregor never slept. He sharpened sticks, cleaned their boots, and one night, quietly sewed a patch onto Simon’s ripped satchel using an old cobbler’s needle.

“You fixed this?” Simon asked in the morning, lifting the flap.

Gregor nodded, bashful. “The leather was good. It deserved a second chance.”

A week later, they had finally found their way to civilization again. For the Hunters, it had been a month. For Gregor, close to three decades.

In a foggy hamlet outside Brevik, they stopped for food. Ivan bartered for meat and bread while Gregor wandered, drawn by the sound of children’s laughter.

He found them near a well: three little ones kicking around a ball. A few were barefoot and filthy. One tripped and yelped, his foot bleeding from a cracked sole.

Gregor knelt before the child.

“May I see?”

He examined the shoe—what was left of it—and sighed.

“Wait here.”

From his satchel, he pulled a bundle of canvas, waxed thread, and one perfectly shaped last. He hadn’t touched it in years.

Within the hour, he’d repaired two pairs and crafted a third from scraps.

The children stared in awe. “You’re like... a shoemaker angel.”

Gregor blinked. “I am not an angel,” he said. “But... thank you.”

By the third week, Ivan had taken to telling Gregor stories about America.

“They’ve got guns that shoot ten rounds before you can blink,” Ivan said.

Gregor nodded solemnly. “They must have very twitchy fingers.”

“Also, they eat corn for dessert.”

“What.”

“They call it corn syrup. Put it in everything. It’s sweet and that’s all they care about, they love their sugar.”

Gregor shuddered.

“And they don’t have kings. Just... voting.”

Gregor blinked. “They make decisions… what was the word?”

“Democratically.” Simon chimed in.

Ivan chuckled. “In theory.”

That night, Gregor tried to construct a diagram in his notebook labeled "American Governance." It included a corn field, a ballot box, and what looked suspiciously like a turkey with a gavel.

Later, while crossing a river ferry operated by a very old man with one eye, Gregor leaned close and whispered, “I hear in the Americas, there are men who fly in metal birds.”

The ferryman blinked. “...What?”

Gregor nodded gravely. “I have prepared emotionally.”

When they reached Oakhurst, the mist was thicker than ever. Ivan and Simon unpacked their weapons.

Gregor stood back, sipping from his flask.

“I do not like this place,” he muttered.

“You don’t like anything,” Simon replied.

“I like shoemaking. And squirrels. And sometimes bread.”

“Why bread?”

“It smells like how I used to feel.”

Simon looked at him.

Then, quietly, offered a piece of his travel loaf.

Gregor accepted it like a gift from a king.

Hours later, they prepared to hunt. If things worked out, this would be Gregor's last night in Europe.

Gregor checked the soles of their boots, replaced Simon’s worn laces, and stitched a tear in Ivan’s boots.

“I feel for doubting you were ever a cobbler,” Simon said.

Gregor smiled softly. “I was good at it. I think I still am.”

They set off toward the darkness together.

One undead.

Two unsure.

But for the first time, Gregor didn’t feel like a monster with the face of a human.

No longer afraid of society at large.

He felt like part of it now.

Even if he misunderstood how voting worked.

A vampire, turned against their will, despises the idea of feeding on humans, and so makes a hard living out of hunting game for blood instead. After decades of this, while hunting for deer, they come across a pair of human vampire hunters who've never met one like them before.

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Piece of you- L.MN

SURPRISE!! Today is a triple special day for me, so let's get started

First of all, it's my babygirl @sweetlifeofjoy 's bday!! Happy birthday, Nari! I hope you have a wonderful day, surrounded by those you love and I wish a lot of happiness 😊 And thanks for making my day a lot funnier whenever we talk... or flirt haha

Now, the second thing I wanna celebrate, it's Minho's debut on this blog yay! I tried to make something very Lee Know coded here, I guess it's giving off his vibes. I hope you all like it

And last but not least, I want to celebrate the 700 of us. I didn't even have time to thank you for 600 so consider that a combo. I am really really grateful for each one of you. Really. You make my little heart very happy 💜🤭

Word count: 1.0k

No warnings

Alexa, play Ink by Coldplay

Minho had been gone less than a day when you found the first note.

It was tucked beneath your toothbrush, folded into a tiny triangle with a doodle on the front— a cat  version of him, with exaggerated pouty lips and two big bright eyes that he asked Hyunjin to sketch. Underneath, in his unmistakable handwriting, it said:

“Miss me yet?”

You laughed, even if your chest ached a little. Opening it, you could listen to his voice in the ink.

“Brush your teeth, sleepyhead. I’m not there to kiss you good morning, but I still expect fresh breath when I call”.

You stood there for a long moment, grinning down at the paper, toothbrush forgotten.

The next one showed up that afternoon, in the hoodie you stole from his wardrobe. You slipped your hand into the front pocket and felt it— another folded piece of paper. This one had small hearts all over it and a simple message:

“Wear this one often. It smells like me. I gave it a final hug before I left. You're welcome”

You giggled, hugging the hoodie tighter.

Minho had always been the quiet type when it came to words, more teasing than tender, but it felt like he had left tiny pieces of himself all over the apartment just to keep you company.

Every day you found a new one. One was taped to the coffee jar:

“Drink water too. No, coffee doesn’t count. Neither does bubble tea. I'm watching you”

Another slid out from between your laptop screen and keyboard:

“Take breaks. Don’t sit there for six hours straight or I will find out”

And then there was the one beneath his favorite mug:

“Play our playlist. Skip the sad ones unless you’re missing me a lot. If you do listen to them, please don’t cry while holding my mug. It’s bad for the aesthetic”.

They were scattered everywhere— beneath your pillow, taped to the ice cream lid in the freezer, inside the pages of your current book. Each one perfectly timed, each one so Minho. 

One, though, made you stop in your tracks and cackle like a hyena. It was taped to the front of the air fryer, written in red ink:

“I SWEAR TO GOD if you break my air fryer while I’m gone, I will haunt you. Not gently. I’m talking about flickering lights and mysterious cat hair in your cereal”

And then, like the cherry on top, a tiny postscript:

“(Miss you though. Please eat something that isn’t chips)”

You shook your head, grinning like an idiot. Only Lee Minho could threaten you with ghostly vengeance and still make your heart flutter.

Another note had been left on the windowsill where the cats loved to take a nap. This one was softer, written with a little paw print doodle in the back:

“Tell Soonie he’s in charge. Doongie gets extra head kisses. And Dori… can’t be trusted, so watch him”

“If they look at you dramatically and cry like they’re starving, remember: they are liars. Do not fall for it. But also… maybe give them a snack anyway”

“If they sit on your lap, don’t you dare move. I don’t care if your leg goes numb. That’s the price of love”

“PS: If you fall asleep with them like that… just know I’m gonna be insanely jealous. But also please take a picture so I can melt over it for five minutes and then pretend I’m not crying in the tour van”

You were crying laughing by the end of that one.

Each note was like a breadcrumb trail leading you right back to him, even while he was miles away.

But the note that made you sit down and press a hand to your chest, was under his pillow.

You only found it on the third day. You weren’t even looking, you were just making the bed out of habit, and there it was— thicker than the rest.

You sat on the bed and unfolded it slowly, heart stuttering.

“This one’s for the nights that feel heavy”

“You don’t have to be okay just because I’m not there to see it. I know you’re strong, but I also know you. So cry if you need to. Eat ice cream for dinner. Watch that movie we’ve seen a hundred times”

“Then call me in the morning. I’ll listen to every word. You don’t have to do this alone. You never have to”

By the time Minho called you that night, the notes were lined up across the wall, like a paper mosaic. 

He appeared on your phone screen, hair damp from shower

 “Wow”, he said when he saw the background, “I didn’t think you’d actually keep them”

You rolled your eyes, pulling the hoodie tighter around you. “Shut up, you wrote them! You thought I’d read them and toss them in the trash?”

“I mean, yeah”, he said, “That’s what you do with my texts”

“I react with a heart to them!”

Minho looked at you, inexpressible

“You reacted with a heart to ‘did you eat?’ like it was a love confession”

You bit back a grin, “Wasn’t it?”

He paused, pretending to think, then nodded. “Well, you are right. I’m very romantic”

You laugh softly before confessing, “Damn, I miss you”

“Yeah”, he said, rubbing the towel over his hair, “If I were you, I’d miss me too”.

You let out a loud, theatrical gasp and flopped dramatically back onto the bed like you’d just been betrayed.

“I can’t believe this! I’m dating a menace. An actual menace”

He blinked at the screen, “You’re so dramatic”

“You’re not even pretending to miss me!”

Minho shook his head in disbelief, “You’re wearing my hoodie, laying on my pillow, surrounded by my notes and you’re gonna sit there and act like I don’t miss you?”

You were still pouting

He rolled his eyes

“I miss you so much it's annoying” he said, “Happy now?”

“No! You said it was annoying!”

“Because I’m annoyed at myself, he grumbled, “For being this whipped”

You grinned.

“Say it again”

“No”

“Say it!”

Minho sighed like he felt physical pain

“I miss you”, he muttered, “More than the cats. But don't tell them that”

You melted instantly.

“See?” You are romantic indeed”

He huffed, but his smile lasted— warm, bright and entirely yours.

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

Taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep , @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa, @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin

[loulou-land]

'Cause all of my enemies started out friends

So, I have no idea what this is, I just needed to work through some feelings. This was a challenge to write because its 95% dialogue heavy and that's never been my strong suit. But I really needed Tommy and Eddie to argue apparently. Fair warning, this isn't Eddie friendly, though I really tried not to go into character bashing. Please let me know if I need to include a warning for that.

Spoilers for 8x17 | arguing, mentions of grief, mild physical altercation, dialogue heavy, mild hurt/comfort | 1,625 words

“What did you say to him?” Tommy asks when he comes into the kitchen. 

“Oh, so now you’re talking to me?” Eddie doesn’t look at him, just keeps stacking dishes in the sink. 

Tommy folds his arms, keeping a careful distance. “You’re the one who cut ties, Diaz. And believe me, I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t have to.” 

He hates that it’s come to this. Eddie had been a good friend—someone Tommy genuinely thought understood him. But then he’d dropped him without a word, like he was yesterday's trash. And yeah, that had hurt more than Tommy wants to admit. He gets it, loyalty is complicated, and Evan was Eddie’s best friend. Still, that doesn’t excuse whatever’s been going on between them lately. Not when it’s left Evan looking so small and acting skittish. 

Eddie scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means,” Tommy says, locking eyes with him, “I’m pretty sure Evan left a lot out when he told me what happened. He downplayed it. I can see it in how careful he is around you. Like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. So I’ll ask again—what did you say to him?” 

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, shaking his head. “That’s what this is about? We had an argument. We moved past it—or at least I thought we did. But of course, Buck’s making it out to be bigger than it was. Making it all about him again. Has to be the one hurting the most.” 

Tommy stills. His voice, when it comes out, is quiet but razor sharp. “Is that what you told him? That he’s making it about himself?”  

Eddie finally looks at him, like he’s surprised Tommy’s even making an issue of this. 

“Eddie,” Tommy continues, voice tight with restraint, “Bobby died. His father in everything but blood. Evan’s allowed to hurt. However loud, however long he needs to. You don’t tell someone how to grieve.”

Something shifts in Eddie’s expression, turning defensive, bitter. “I lost Bobby too. And you—god, you don’t have any idea what that was like for me. For any of us. You’re not part of the 118. Not our 118.” 

The words cut straight through him, but Tommy doesn’t flinch. He takes a breath, rubs a hand through his hair, grounding himself. 

“You’re right. I’m not part of your family. But Bobby still meant something to me. And I was there Eddie. I might not have seen what it did to you, I saw what it did to Evan though. You didn’t—”

He pauses, remembering how helpless he felt, watching Evan break through a tiny screen, being unable to get to him. He meets Eddie’s stare, “You didn’t watch him fall apart.” 

“I should’ve been there,” Eddie says, sidestepping Tommy’s statement. Tommy wishes he could be surprised, but he’s starting to understand why Evan doesn’t feel like he can talk about his feelings. “I could’ve done something. I—”

Tommy lets out a bitter laugh. “I’m sorry, did I miss the part where you’re a miracle worker? A genius scientist with a cure in your back pocket?” 

Eddie squares his shoulders, puffing up with practiced intimidation. Tommy nearly rolls his eyes, but he knows baiting him won’t help. 

Still, Eddie stalks closer, jaw clenched. “Fuck you. You—”

“We all did what we could,” Tommy snaps, finally losing some of his own restraint. “I’m sorry you weren’t there. I really am. But don’t take your guilt out on Evan. He’s already drowning in his own and still trying to take care of everyone at the same time.”  

Eddie scoffs. “He’s spiraling, that’s what he is. And what the hell do you even know about Buck’s guilt? His pain?” he shoots back. “You dumped him. Left him.  And now what? He puts out one time and suddenly you think that gives you the right to waltz back in. He’s hurting, and you’re using that to your advantage.” 

Tommy’s whole body tenses. He can’t believe Eddie is insinuating he’s using Evan. That he would be that kind of person. And using the worst mistake he’d ever made, leaving Evan, against him? Something he’s regretted from the moment he left. 

He inhales sharply, fist clenched at his sides. Not because he’s thinking of swinging—never that. But the bite of his nails digging into his palms helps ground him. 

“Don’t you ever say that to my face again, Diaz. Or to Evan, for that matter,” he says, trembling with anger. “I’m here for him—in whatever way he needs me. I’m not asking for anything. I’m not expecting anything. Which is more that I can say for you.” 

Eddie reels back, nostrils flaring. His eyes flash angrily and Tommy braces himself. 

“No,” Eddie growls. “You don’t understand. Don’t pretend you know anything about our relationship.” 

“I know Evan!” Tommy interrupts. He refuses to let Eddie bait him with that dig. 

“You don’t know what Buck and I have been through. The bond we have. He’s like a brother to me.” 

Tommy stares at him, incredulous. “Brother?” He huffs out a sharp breath. “You barely treat him like a friend.” 

Eddie’s face twists. He jabs a finger toward Tommy’s face. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t talk about shit you don’t understand.” 

Tommy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just meets Eddie’s fury head-on. 

“Diaz,” he says, voice tightly controlled. “Back off, before I break that finger.” 

“I love Buck. He’s family,” Eddie snaps, using the words like a defense. Like that single word erases all the damage he’s done.

Tommy bites the side of his cheek to hold in his immediate response. He breathes through it. Damn it. He’s not going to throw a punch. Not at someone Evan still loves, still looks up to—even if they don’t deserve it right now. 

He won’t be the one to hurt the people Evan holds close. Not even when they’ve done plenty of damage themselves. 

Tommy exhales, slow and steady. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.” 

“Excuse me?” Eddie asks, a hitch in his voice now. 

Tommy meets his eyes, unflinchingly. “You call it love, Eddie. But love doesn’t make someone feel like a burden. Love doesn’t kick you when you’re down. Love doesn’t twist the knife when they’re already bleeding.” 

The words seem to land like a strike. 

Eddie flinches, staggering back half a step like the air’s been punched from his lungs. 

For a second, Tommy thinks that’s it. That he’s finally gotten through to him. 

Maybe now Eddie will actually take a look at himself—really look—apologize to Evan, try to do better. 

He gives him too much credit. 

Eddie’s face hardens, shutters down—and then he comes swinging. It takes Tommy off guard. He moves, but not fast enough, and the punch clips him on the side of the head. He’s already bracing to restrain Eddie when—

“Stop!” 

They both turn toward the entryway, where Evan stands. He’s breathing hard, eyes wide, clearly upset. It’s obvious, he’s been there a while, listening. 

Tommy feels a wave of regret crash over him. He never wanted Evan to hear any of this, let alone witness them like this. 

“You should leave,” Evan says quietly. 

Tommy’s heart sinks—until he realizes Evan isn’t looking at him. He’s staring straight at Eddie. 

“Me? Are you serious right now?” Eddie asks, incredulous. 

“Yes, Eddie. You.” Evan’s voice is sharp, angry. “You swung at Tommy. What the hell?” 

“Oh, of course you’re taking his side,” Eddie mutters, rolling his eyes. 

“This isn’t about sides,” Evan snaps. “You need to cool off. Before you dig yourself an even bigger grave.” 

His voice shakes with fury, but there’s a note of something else underneath. Hurt, exhaustion. Tommy sees it in the tremble of Evan’s hands, the rigid way he’s holding himself upright. 

“Just…leave. Don’t come back unless you’re ready to talk like a civil person, and apologize. To Tommy. And…to me.” 

He meets Eddie’s eyes squarely, head held high. Tommy watches, quietly awed. He knows how much it’s costing Evan to say this, but he’s doing it anyway. 

Tommy turns to Eddie worriedly. He can see it—the poison gathering behind his teeth, just waiting to spew out. 

“Eddie,” Tommy says softly, tiredly. Almost pleading. “Please. Take a walk.” 

Eddie glances between them. Something finally sinks in, because the fight drains out of him. He turns without another word and walks out the back door. The door slamming shut behind him. 

Tommy exhales in relief. He looks at Evan, who’s still watching the door with a sad, distant expression. 

“Hey,” Tommy says gently. “I’m sorry.” 

Evan frowns, eyes welling with tears. “Tommy, you don’t have anything to apologize for. You—” he pauses, swallowing hard. “You stood up for me.” His voice cracks on the last word. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tommy doesn’t hesitate. He moves toward him, and Evan meets him halfway. They fall into each other, hugging tightly, grounding themselves in each other. Tommy runs a soothing hand down Evan’s back, trying to steady the tremors in his body. 

After a long moment, Evan whispers, “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. I…I could’ve done it. But th—thank you.” 

“Anytime,” Tommy says fiercely. “I’m here for you.” 

Evan shudders, then pulls back slightly, offering him a small, smile. “I know.” 

He squeezes Tommy’s hand, then glances down at his lips. 

Tommy lifts his hands, cradling Evan’s face gently, and kisses him softly. 

They stay there, foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync, taking comfort in each other. 

They’ll have to deal with Eddie later. Sift through the wreckage and make sense of where they go from here. But for now, it’s enough that they have one another. They’re in this together. 

[4linos]

between the lines.

lee minho x fem!reader

synopsis: after a quiet and amicable separation, you and minho learn to navigate the subtle emotional terrain of co-parenting, discovering that the bonds between you aren’t entirely severed. when a new relationship enters the picture, old emotions come into play, forcing you to reassess what it means to truly move on.

warnings: angst, slow burn, emotional tension, jealousy.

wc: 5631

The first time you considered the possibility that you and Minho might not last forever, Hana was two and a half, screaming on the floor of the grocery store aisle because you wouldn’t let her open a bag of marshmallows. She’d skipped her nap. Your back hurt. You hadn’t eaten since morning.

And Minho was standing a few feet away, silent, tired, rubbing his temple in the way he always did when he was overwhelmed but didn’t want to show it.

You remember thinking: We are both so lonely, and we’re standing right next to each other.

It wasn’t a sudden epiphany. It didn’t make you pack your things or call a lawyer. But it planted something. A quiet awareness that hadn’t been there before. A realization that being in the same place didn’t always mean being together. That surviving parenthood wasn’t the same as growing closer. That love, real, sustaining love might not be enough on its own when the everyday grind had worn both of you thin.

You made it another six months.

And then came the conversation. The one that changed everything, though neither of you raised your voices. It happened on a rainy Thursday night, with Hana finally asleep in her little bed, her stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm, her breathing slow and peaceful in a way that made your chest ache.

You and Minho sat across from each other at the kitchen table, the air heavy between you.

You were the one to speak first.
“I think we need to talk.”

That alone was enough to make his posture shift, like he already knew what was coming.

“It’s not working, is it?” you asked. Not accusing. Just asking. Hoping that if you said it softly enough, it would hurt less.

Minho didn’t answer at first. He just looked down at his hands, which were resting on the table tensed, still. Then he nodded, just once.

“I’ve been trying to figure out when it stopped feeling like a marriage,” he admitted quietly. “I think I just kept hoping it would come back.”

You swallowed around the lump rising in your throat. “I don’t think it’s coming back.”

Silence again. But not an angry one. More like the pause between waves, where everything is held in suspension.

You looked at him, at the man who had held your hand through labor, who had taken turns feeding Hana in the middle of the night, who had sat next to you at every pediatrician appointment and knew the exact way she liked her pancakes cut.

You loved him. You would always love him.

But you weren’t in love anymore.

You weren’t sure when it had changed. Maybe it was the night she wouldn’t stop crying and you both sat on opposite ends of the couch, too exhausted to even speak. Maybe it was the way your conversations became about diapers, sleep schedules, school everything except each other.

Or maybe it was just that neither of you had the energy to keep reaching across a growing distance.

“I don’t want Hana to grow up thinking this is what love looks like,” you said finally.

Minho’s throat worked as he nodded again. His voice cracked a little. “Me neither.”

That was the thing, he wasn’t cruel. You weren’t unhappy because of anything he had done. It wasn’t betrayal or bitterness. It was the slow erosion of connection, the way life and parenting and exhaustion had worn down the parts of your relationship that had once made you feel like you belonged to each other.

You were roommates. Teammates. Co-parents.

But not partners. Not anymore.

You sat in the kitchen for a long time, talking through tears and through silence. Talking about Hana. About how she would always come first. About shared custody. About what it would mean to not come home to the same place, not make coffee in the same kitchen, not tuck her in side by side every night.

There was grief in every word, but also strange relief.

There was no fight. No slammed doors. No accusations.

Just two people who had loved, and tried, and grown apart without meaning to.

That night, Minho slept on the couch.

Not because you asked him to, but because it felt right. The beginning of the transition. The first step into what would become your new life.

The next morning, you made Hana’s breakfast together. Waffles, fruit, a little too much syrup. She didn’t notice anything had changed. She sat between you, babbling about a butterfly she’d seen at school, kicking her feet against the legs of the chair.

Minho smiled at her, reached to wipe a bit of syrup from her cheek.

And your heart broke a little, not because you were losing him, but because you knew you never fully had him, not in the way you thought.

And now, there was no going back.

But the strange, unexpected truth was this: you didn’t hate each other. There was no war between you. Just the quiet, gentle undoing of something that had been holding together for too long out of fear and habit.

You were going to do this. You were going to split your lives in two. And somehow, you’d stay whole, for Hana.

Even if it meant breaking your heart just a little, every day.

The first few weeks after Minho moved out were quiet. Too quiet.

Not in the way that brought peace, but in the way that pressed in around your ribs, reminding you of what was missing. Of the space that had opened up on the couch where he used to sit. Of the way his toothbrush was no longer beside yours. Of how bedtime with Hana was now something you did alone, one pair of hands where there used to be two.

She asked for him a lot in the beginning.

“Where’s Appa?”

“Why isn’t he here tonight?”

“Can he come for breakfast?”

You never lied. You just softened the truth.

“He’s at his house tonight, sweetheart.”

“He’ll come pick you up tomorrow.”

“He always loves you, no matter where he is.”

You kept your voice steady even when your chest ached. Because this, this was your choice. And Minho’s. And you had promised each other that no matter how hard it got, Hana would come first. Always.

The first custody exchange was awkward.

You packed her overnight bag with too much three outfits, her favorite books, two stuffed animals, backup pajamas, her dinosaur toothbrush. You labeled everything. Left a note for Minho: She didn’t nap today. Give her a snack before bed or she’ll wake up early. Extra socks in the front pocket.

He showed up exactly on time, looking like he hadn’t slept much. He hovered in the doorway, hands in his pockets, eyes drifting over the apartment like it was both familiar and foreign now.

Hana ran into his arms, squealing with delight.

Minho’s eyes met yours over her head, and for a moment, there was something unbearably fragile in his expression. Something that looked like guilt, or grief, or just quiet devastation.

“I’ve got her,” he said gently. “I’ll bring her back Sunday night.”

You nodded, smiling even though your throat was tight. “She’s excited. Don’t let her trick you into giving her two desserts.”

“I make no promises,” he said with a small laugh, and for a second, just a second, it felt like old times.

But then they were gone, and you were standing in the doorway alone.

The silence afterward was staggering. You wandered through the apartment as if it belonged to someone else. Cleaned dishes that weren’t dirty. Reorganized a drawer. Ate dinner standing at the counter. Told yourself this was just the beginning. That it would get easier.

And, in some ways, it did.

You and Minho started texting more. At first, it was just about logistics, drop-offs, schedules, what size shoes Hana had suddenly jumped to.

But then it morphed into something else. Little moments.

Minho:
She drew a rocket ship today. Said she’s going to the moon and taking you with her.

You:
Only if she packs snacks. She gets hangry.

Minho:
She’s yours then.

You:
Coward.

There were jokes again. Shared photos. Voice memos of Hana singing off-key in the car. Slowly, the tension faded, replaced with something steadier, something you could almost call a friendship.

Not romantic. Not really.

But intimate, in the way that only two people who love the same child with their whole hearts could be.

You found your rhythm.

Exchanging her favorite snacks. Making sure she had her favorite sleep toy. Texting each other at the exact same time when she got sick with a cold and neither of you wanted to leave her alone.

You didn’t expect how often Minho would still feel like a constant in your life. Even without the title. Even without the home.

Birthdays became the strangest kind of sacred ground.

The first one post-separation, you debated whether to have separate celebrations. But the idea felt wrong.

So you hosted together. Rented a room at a small play café. Brought cupcakes and balloons. Watched Hana run wild in a princess costume that was already unraveling at the seams.

You were worried it would be awkward. But it wasn’t.

Minho handed you tape when the banner fell down. You took turns cutting cake. You didn’t need to explain anything to anyone because it worked.

At the end of the party, Hana opened her arms wide and declared, “This is the best day ever!”

You and Minho both laughed, both crouched down to hug her, both looked at each other over her head.

It hit you then: this was still a family.

Not broken. Not perfect. But real.

Sometimes, people asked.

“So… are you and Minho ever getting back together?”

You always shook your head.
“No. We’re better this way.”

And mostly, you believed that.

You liked the ease. The clarity. You liked being able to make decisions for yourself again. To not feel like you were trying to force something to fit that no longer did.

You weren’t waiting for him.

And as far as you could tell, he wasn’t waiting for you either.

That was the deal.

And yet, there were moments.

Small ones.

Like the time Hana fell asleep on the couch between you, her little hands curled into both of yours, and Minho looked at you with a softness that made your breath hitch. Or the time he fixed the heater in your apartment without asking, just because he knew you were tired and it was cold.

Those moments lived in the corners of your mind, quiet and persistent. You never said anything. Neither did he.

You had made peace with what you were.

Two parallel lines.

Running side by side.

Never crossing again.

Or so you thought.

It happened on a Wednesday. One of those in-between days when nothing significant is supposed to happen, no birthdays, no big milestones, just a quick stop for coffee before school pickup.

You weren’t expecting anything. Certainly not him.

The café was almost empty, the way it always was in that strange lull between lunch and evening, when people drifted in with laptops or last-minute meetings. You were just trying to stay awake. Hana had been up half the night with a fever that had finally broken at dawn, and the weight of your exhaustion clung to your limbs like something physical.

You stood there, half-dazed, reading the menu even though you already knew what you wanted. You were still in your softest hoodie, the one with a faint juice stain on the sleeve you hadn’t had time to scrub out, your hair shoved into a clip, makeup forgotten.

That’s when he spoke.

“You’re either having a really good day or a really bad one,” he said, with a friendly, lopsided smile and a cup already in his hand.

You looked up, blinking. He was a little older than you, mid-thirties, maybe. Clean lines, warm eyes. Kind-looking, though you’d learned not to trust that right away.

You huffed a breath that was halfway to a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only because I’ve had both kinds,” he said. “And I usually end up here either way.”

You offered a tired smile. “Then I guess we’re both regulars in the land of mediocre Wednesdays.”

He laughed at that. Not too loud. Just enough to make something ease inside you.

You placed your order. He didn’t push, didn’t linger too long. But when your drinks were ready, and he reached for a napkin, he glanced at you again. Hesitated.

Then he said, “I’m Jisung.”

You hesitated too. There was something in the way he said it, open, but not expectant.

So you told him your name.

You ended up sitting for a few minutes. Fifteen, maybe twenty. Talking about nothing at all favorite books, your mutual disdain for the newer version of the transit app, how the weather kept teasing spring and then snapping back to winter.

And then, just as you were getting ready to go, he said it.

“I know this is forward. But I’d really like to see you again. Would you be okay giving me your number?”

Your first instinct was to say no.

Not because he wasn’t kind. Not because you weren’t interested.

But because he didn’t know.

Didn’t know that your days were split between pickup times and pediatrician appointments, bedtime routines and shared custody schedules. Didn’t know that you carried a small pink backpack in your trunk at all times. That your heart had been broken, not just by Minho, but by the slow understanding that you weren’t the person you used to be.

You weren’t single. Not in the way most people meant it.

You had a daughter.

So you said it, simply. Carefully.

“I should tell you… I have a three-year-old. Her name’s Hana. She’s my whole world.”

There was a pause.

You watched his face closely, the way people do when they’re waiting for someone to flinch.

But Jisung didn’t.

He nodded, once, slowly. “Thank you for telling me.”

And then, “That’s not a dealbreaker. Not even close.”

You stared at him, unsure what to say. Most people tried to hide their discomfort behind politeness. But he just sipped his coffee like it was nothing.

“You’re not surprised?” you asked finally.

He smiled again, softer this time. “I have a niece. She’s four. My sister raised her on her own for the first couple years. So… I know it’s not easy. I also know it doesn’t mean you stopped being a person outside of being a parent.”

That..that was what got you.

The way he said it. Like you were still allowed to be.

You handed him your number before you could second-guess it.

And when you walked out into the late afternoon wind, you didn’t feel giddy. You didn’t feel swept off your feet.

But you felt something else.

Like maybe, just maybe, there was a space in your life for something new. Not a replacement. Not a fairytale.

Just something small and honest and real.

You didn’t tell Hana, not yet. There was no reason to. You were cautious now, and rightfully so. The last thing you wanted was to start something that would unravel too quickly.

But when Jisung texted you later that night, it made you smile.

Hope your Wednesday ended better than it started.
Next coffee’s on me.

And you found yourself typing back before you even realized it.

Only if you’re ready to hear more about unicorn Band-Aids and toddler opinions on cheese.

He replied almost instantly.

Try me.

You didn’t know what this was going to become.

You only knew this: he hadn’t run.

And that, in itself, felt like the beginning of something worth noticing.

-

You didn’t expect how quickly it would happen with Jisung.

Not love. Not even something as weighty as hope.

Just… lightness. The kind you hadn’t felt in a long time. The kind that came from being seen as someone other than a mother, other than a tired co-parent, other than a woman halfway rebuilt from the ground up.

It started with texting.

Short at first. Polite. Careful.

But then it grew.

Jisung was funny. Thoughtful in ways you hadn’t realized you’d missed, remembering small things you'd said in passing, asking follow-up questions that showed he was really listening, sending you photos of his niece’s drawings captioned, “Future gallery opening. No big deal.”

You told him about your favorite childhood movie and he watched it that same night, texting you commentary like a live broadcast. You mentioned a place you always meant to try for takeout, and he offered to bring it to the park one day, with enough snacks for Hana if she came along.

You hadn’t said yes yet. But you didn’t say no either.

There was a night, three days after that first coffee, when he said something so unexpected it caught you mid-laugh.

You don’t have to split yourself in two to be worth knowing, you know that, right?

You stared at the screen longer than you meant to. You didn’t respond right away. You didn’t know how to.

But later that night, as you lay in bed alone, peaceful, not lonely for once, you realized it had been a long time since anyone made you feel whole without asking you to prove you deserved it.

And it showed. Apparently.

Minho noticed.

Not all at once. Not in any obvious way. But subtly, in the way someone who used to know you better than anyone always notices the small shifts first.

It was the way you answered the door when he arrived for the next pickup. Hair loose, smile soft, phone still in your hand from a message you hadn’t finished reading.

The way your laugh slipped out easier, fuller, like it hadn’t had to squeeze itself through exhaustion first.

The way you stood a little taller, like you weren’t carrying quite so much anymore.

Minho didn’t say anything at first.

He watched quietly as Hana launched herself into his arms, chattering about snacks and sidewalk chalk and how she saw a squirrel that “definitely waved at her” from the tree outside.

You knelt beside her to zip up her backpack, brushing hair from her face, your phone buzzing once in your pocket. And you smiled.

Not at Minho.

At the message you hadn’t even read yet.

That’s when he felt it. A strange, quiet pinch. Not jealousy, he wouldn’t call it that. Not exactly. He had no claim. You’d made your peace. He had, too. Mostly.

But there was something else. A realization, sharp and unwelcome: someone else was making you smile like that.

Someone new.

So as you handed Hana her favorite stuffed animal and stood to walk them to the door, Minho glanced sideways at you and said, casually, “You’ve seemed… lighter lately.”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He shrugged, one arm around Hana, the other tucking her blanket tighter beneath his elbow. “I don’t know. Just… seems like a good week.”

You tried not to react. But he saw it anyway, the flicker of something in your eyes. Maybe surprise. Maybe guilt. You weren’t sure why it felt that way.

“Been keeping busy,” you said lightly, brushing it off. “Work stuff. Mom stuff.”

He nodded, like he believed you. Like he wanted to believe you.

But then he added, almost offhand, “Someone making you smile like that must be doing a pretty good job.”

You froze for half a second too long.

Then gave a quiet laugh, not meeting his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

Minho didn’t press. He never had been the type to dig where he wasn’t welcome.

But the silence that followed carried something unspoken.

Because it wasn’t nothing. He knew that.

And maybe that was what unsettled him the most.

Not that you were moving on.

But that you were really moving on. And that he wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d stopped being a part of your inner world, the one that lit you up from the inside out, even when you didn’t notice it yourself.

He stood there for a moment longer than necessary. Then said, “I’ll text if she asks for the green blanket. I think it’s still in your laundry basket.”

You nodded. “I will.”

He turned toward the door, Hana bouncing in his arms, and as he walked out, you felt the familiar ache rise in your chest.

But it was different now. Not grief. Not loss.

Just the echo of something that used to be yours.

And maybe, just maybe the shape of what was coming next.

It had been years, actual, measurable years since you’d dressed up like this.

Not for a work function, not for a rushed dinner where you had to check your watch every ten minutes to make sure you got home before the sitter left, not for a birthday party where you'd spend most of the time cutting fruit and wiping sticky fingers.

But for you.

For something that felt new.

For someone who looked at you like you were still a whole person, not just a parent navigating the aftermath of a quiet ending.

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the fabric of your dress with palms that felt a little too warm. Your hair was curled soft, loose, deliberate. The kind of effort you hadn’t made in so long you’d forgotten how it felt to do it without a reason tied to someone else’s needs.

You had makeup on.

Not the rushed concealer and mascara you slapped on in the five minutes between school drop-off and morning meetings, but the kind you actually sat down to apply. Lipstick. A little blush. You almost didn’t recognize your own reflection. Not in a bad way. Just in the way that made you realize how long it had been since you’d prioritized seeing yourself like this.

And your heart beat just a little faster than usual, because Jisung was waiting. A real dinner. An actual date. Your first since everything.

You had texted him earlier, half excited, half nervous “I might forget how to flirt. Fair warning.”

He’d replied, “That’s okay. I’ve got enough awkward charm for both of us.”

And then, as if summoned by your anticipation, there was a knock at the door.

Except… you hadn’t heard your phone buzz.

You walked over, heels clicking softly on the floor, a final glance in the mirror before you opened it.

And then everything paused.

There, standing in the hallway, was Minho.

Not Jisung.

Minho, wearing his work jacket, looking slightly winded, as if he’d come up the stairs too fast. In his arms, curled against his chest, was Hana. Asleep. Cheek pressed to his shoulder, mouth slightly open, hair mussed from what must’ve been a long day.

You blinked, confused, your hand still on the doorframe.

Minho blinked back. And then he stared.

His eyes moved over your face, your dress, your hair. His expression froze somewhere between surprise and something harder to name.

“You’re…” he started, then stopped.

You were equally stunned.

“What’s going on?” you asked, voice soft as you glanced down at Hana, trying not to raise it too much.

“I—I had to come early,” he said quickly, adjusting his grip on her. “I got called into work. Last-minute shift. I—I texted you, but maybe you didn’t see—”

You swallowed, brain trying to catch up. “No, it’s okay. I just didn’t check my phone.”

Minho nodded. But he was still staring.

And for a moment, neither of you said anything.

Because he’d seen you in pajamas. In nursing bras. In sweats stained with juice and grief. He had seen you in all your rawest forms tired, stretched thin, unfiltered.

But this?

This version of you, lipstick soft and subtle, eyes bright, dress fitting in that way that made it clear you’d chosen it not just for practicality but for feeling, this was not one he’d seen in a long, long time.

And it startled him.

“I’ll… take her,” you said gently, reaching out.

He hesitated just a second longer, as if anchoring himself in the weight of her before letting go.

“She’s out cold,” he murmured. “Didn’t even make it through the drive.”

You nodded, carefully transferring Hana to your shoulder. Her small body nestled against you without resistance. You ran your hand down her back in soothing circles.

Minho didn’t leave.

He stood in the doorway, watching you rock her, his hands now empty.

“You look…” he started again, then cleared his throat. “Nice. I mean—you look nice.”

You gave a half-smile, focusing on keeping Hana settled.

He shifted his weight. “Were you… going somewhere?”

Your heart pinched, not because you owed him anything, but because there was something in his voice. A softness, yes. But also a quiet pull, something unspoken that hovered just behind the words.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t want to lie. But you didn’t want to explain either.

Minho’s gaze didn’t waver. And in the silence, he figured it out.

The realization didn’t fall like a hammer. It arrived like a tug. Gentle. Persistent. Sharp in its precision.

“You were meeting someone,” he said quietly.

Still no answer.

Your silence was the confirmation.

He looked down. Exhaled. A short, barely-there breath, as if he’d braced for it and still felt it anyway.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said finally. “I really did try to give you a heads-up.”

“I know,” you said softly. “It’s okay. She comes first.”

He nodded. “Yeah. She does.”

But neither of you said what you were both thinking:

That even now, even with everything changed, there were still parts of each other that lingered. Quiet shadows in the corners of new lives.

He turned to go. Paused at the stairs.

“I’ll be done around noon Sunday,” he said without looking back. “I can come pick her up then.”

“Okay.”

And then he was gone.

You watched the door close.

You stood there for a moment, still holding Hana, feeling her soft breaths against your neck. Then you carefully laid her in her bed, brushing a curl from her face. She stirred slightly, but didn’t wake.

You checked your phone. One missed text.

Jisung:

I’m already here, no rush. Take your time.

Your throat tightened.

You called.

He picked up on the second ring, cheerful. “Hey, did you get lost?”

And then he heard the apology in your voice before you said a word.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “I can’t make it. Something came up with my daughter and I—”

“Hey, hey,” he said gently, cutting you off. “It’s okay. Really.”

“No, I feel awful. You came all this way—”

“And I got to see the sunset and listen to my favorite playlist. Not a waste.”

You laughed, small and tired. “I was really looking forward to tonight.”

“So was I,” he admitted. “But I’ve got time. We’ll try again. No pressure.”

You hung up a few minutes later, reassured by the ease in his voice, the lack of disappointment, the way he didn’t make you feel like a burden.

You walked back to the living room, heels still on, makeup still perfect.

But the night was quiet again.

And despite everything, despite Jisung’s warmth, despite the newness that had started to take root, your thoughts kept drifting back to the man who had stood at your door, holding the child you both loved more than anything, looking at you like he’d never quite seen you before.

You poured yourself a glass of wine. Sat down on the couch. Closed your eyes.

And breathed.

Because the line between what was and what could be had never felt thinner.

-

The apartment was quiet again the next morning.

Hana woke up early, too early for a Saturday, but you didn’t mind. You made pancakes, her favorite, cutting them into little stars with the cookie cutters she insisted on using lately. You let her pour too much syrup, ignored the sticky fingers on the table, and braided her hair while she babbled about a dream she had.

You didn’t tell her about last night. She didn’t need to know you had to cancel plans. That you’d stood in the hallway watching the space where Minho had been, heart doing something you didn’t know how to name. She didn’t need to know how long it took you to take your makeup off, or how the curls in your hair stayed long after you fell asleep on the couch, still dressed.

You let it all go, for her.

That afternoon, after cartoons and crafts and one very glitter-heavy art project, you took her to the park. It was a habit now fresh air, a safe routine, a way to let her run out her energy before the inevitable bedtime protest.

She was climbing the jungle gym when you saw him.

Minho.

You almost didn’t recognize him at first, hood pulled up, headphones around his neck, looking a little rumpled in a way that said he’d just finished a shift and hadn’t meant to be seen. But he spotted you instantly.

You weren’t expecting him until the next day.

Still, he walked toward you, hands in his pockets, something hesitant in his expression.

“Hey,” he said.

You smiled, surprised but not unwelcome. “Hey. Thought you were working until tomorrow.”

“I got off early. Thought I’d come by and see if you two were around.”

You glanced toward Hana, who had now spotted her dad and was waving with both arms, squealing his name. Minho grinned and waved back, already stepping forward to meet her.

They played for a while, the two of them slipping into their easy rhythm, him chasing her in slow motion, letting her tackle him dramatically onto the grass, her laughter echoing.

You sat on the bench and watched, something warm and complicated curling in your chest.

When she finally wore herself out and asked for juice, Minho offered to go grab some from the little market across the street. She nodded sleepily, curling against your side, and he jogged off.

He came back with two juice boxes.

And a bottle of iced tea, for you.

He handed it to you casually, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he hadn’t memorized your favorites, even now.

“Thanks,” you said.

He shrugged. “Figured you’d want something cold.”

The sun was starting to dip, casting the park in long shadows. Hana was drawing in the dirt with a stick now, humming to herself.

Minho sat beside you on the bench, a comfortable silence settling.

And then, after a few minutes, he asked it.

“You were going on a date, weren’t you?”

You looked down at the bottle in your hands. Twisted the cap. “Yeah.”

He nodded slowly. “Is it serious?”

“No,” you said. “Not yet. Just… new.”

Minho stared out at the playground. “Is he good to you?”

The question caught you off guard, not just that he asked, but how quietly he did. Not possessive. Not jealous. Just… careful.

You turned toward him. “Yeah. He’s kind.”

Minho nodded again. “That’s good. That’s… good.”

You both sat there, the air heavier now.

And then he said, “You looked beautiful last night.”

You froze.

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Just kept watching Hana, his expression unreadable.

“I know I shouldn’t say that,” he added, voice low. “But it’s true.”

You didn’t know what to do with the ache that bloomed in your chest at his words. The softness. The honesty.

“I didn’t expect to feel anything,” he said after a beat. “But I saw you, and it just—hit me.”

You swallowed. “Minho…”

He finally turned to you then, and something in his eyes cracked open. Something vulnerable. Something you hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Do you ever wonder,” he asked, “if we gave up too soon?”

The question lingered between you like fog, thick, slow, impossible to ignore.

You looked at him. Really looked.

At the man who had once been your everything.

At the man who still showed up. Still knew your drink. Still remembered how to hold your daughter like she was the most precious thing in the world.

And you wanted to say: Yes. I wonder all the time.

But instead, you said: “I think we gave what we had. And then we gave some more. And maybe we ran out of things to give.”

He nodded, but the pain in his eyes didn’t go away.

“I miss her,” he said. “Even when I just saw her yesterday.”

And you knew he didn’t just mean Hana.

You nodded. “I miss us sometimes, too.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “I think maybe that’s what’s hardest. Missing something that still kind of exists… just not the way it used to.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Because you were terrified of saying the wrong thing.

Of opening a door you weren’t sure you had the strength to close again.

Hana came running over then, breaking the tension. “I’m tired,” she whined, arms outstretched.

You stood up, lifting her into your arms. She nestled her head into your shoulder immediately.

Minho stood too.

You walked to the parking lot together, silence wrapping around you like a shared memory.

When you reached your car, you opened the door and placed Hana gently in her seat, buckling her in as she blinked sleepily.

Minho watched.

And just before you got in the driver’s seat, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nodded.

But you didn’t look back as you drove away.

Because you didn’t want him to see the tears you weren’t sure how to explain.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms ..]

[bjlipss]

— 15:44, unintentional triggers .

contents: established relationship. domestic softness. quiet longing. praise as affection. and you, absolutely losing your mind over it.

you’re just peeling vegetables.

not anything poetic. not anything heroic. not even anything you’d remember tomorrow. just perched on the stool by the kitchen island, a chipped ceramic bowl in your lap, fingers steady as you drag the peeler down the side of a potato. your legs sway a little, socked feet brushing against the base of the stool, and the late afternoon light pools against your back, warm and slow like honey.

it’s one of those quiet moments that barely registers as memory. the kind that happens a thousand times and yet somehow still matters. the kind where the air smells like garlic and home, where the sun hits the tile just right, and the only sounds are the soft scrape of blade against skin and the rhythmic thunk of a knife on the cutting board.

nanami’s standing at the counter beside you, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his tie draped carelessly over the back of one of the chairs—a rare sight. he’s relaxed, eyes focused on the onions he’s slicing, fingers moving with calm precision. every now and then, he glances at your pile of potatoes, like he’s tracking your progress. not because he’s impatient—just because he’s looking. just because you’re there.

then, out of nowhere, he says it. his voice even, unbothered, like he’s commenting on traffic or the weather. like it isn’t a goddamn landmine.

“you always peel them so neatly,” he murmurs. “makes prep so much easier.”

you freeze.

mid-peel, blade halfway down a russet potato, your fingers stutter. your breath catches, just for a second. not because the words themselves are extraordinary—they’re so normal—but because of the way he says them. like they mean something. like you mean something. like this small, mundane thing you’re doing is valuable. necessary. helpful.

it hits somewhere deep. not in your chest, not in your stomach—deeper than that. the place where affection settles before you even recognize it as such.

you blink down at the potato in your hands, now stripped of most of its skin, and feel something warm crawl up the back of your neck.

“…thanks,” you manage, but it comes out too soft. barely audible. you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the way your wrists are dusted with peelings, how ridiculous that should be to get flustered over. so you duck your head, hum like you’re just focused, and hope he doesn’t notice the way your pulse is suddenly loud in your ears.

nanami just keeps slicing, none the wiser. not even a pause.

—

it happens again two days later.

you’re half-awake, standing by the window in one of his shirts, hair a soft mess from sleep, watering the little forest of plants you’ve cultivated over time. nanami passes by on his way to grab a file from the bookshelf. he’s not dressed yet, still in the soft gray shirt he sleeps in, his hand brushing your back gently as he walks behind you.

he presses a kiss to your temple, barely more than a breath of contact, and murmurs against your hair, “you’re so good at remembering them. i always forget.”

your hand stills on the watering can.

there it is again. that same weightless sincerity. no expectation, no performance—just honest, matter-of-fact appreciation. and once again, it folds you in half from the inside out. your body doesn’t know whether to melt or short-circuit.

you swallow hard, staring down at the aloe plant like you’ve just been handed the nuclear codes.

he keeps walking.

you almost want to scream.

—

after that, you start keeping a count. not out loud. not anywhere he could find it. just a little running tally in your head of all the moments he says things like that. things that sound like simple facts but land like full-body hits.

 • thursday, when you reorganize the kitchen drawers:

“you arrange things in a way that actually makes sense. i’d be lost without you.”

 • saturday, after you remember his coworker’s birthday and send a note with him:

“thank you for always being thoughtful. you notice things others don’t.”

 • monday, while you’re brushing his hair back post-shower, his eyes closed in quiet trust:

“your hands are so gentle. it’s like you were made for this.”

you nearly combust at that one. nearly bite your tongue trying not to squeak. you pull your hands away a second too fast and pretend you didn’t feel your heart slam against your ribs like it was trying to break free.

he blinks at you, puzzled, but chalks it up to the steam or the timing or maybe the water temperature. he doesn’t press. just goes back to humming contentedly as you towel off the ends of his hair.

you think you might die like this. slowly. painfully. lovingly.

—

the final straw comes on a tuesday evening.

the sky is dipped in soft gold outside the windows. the kind of light that makes everything feel suspended—like the day is holding its breath before slipping into night. you’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a blanket draped over your knees. there’s a book open in your lap, but you’re barely reading. mostly you’re just listening to the quiet rhythm of him breathing beside you.

nanami’s in his usual spot, one arm resting across the back of the couch, glasses low on his nose as he reads through some report. you don’t speak, don’t need to. you just reach over, wordlessly, and hand him the cup of tea you made him earlier—just the way he likes it. strong, a little sugar, splash of milk.

he takes it, offers a soft sound of thanks. then, after a sip, glances at you over the rim.

“you always remember exactly how i like it,” he says.

and you groan, just a quiet, suffering noise, one hand dragging over your face like you’re trying to physically reset your brain.

he startles, eyebrows twitching upward. “did i say something wrong?”

you drop your hands and turn to him, wide-eyed and exasperated and pink all over. you look at him like you’re on the edge of a confession—because in a way, you are.

“you don’t even know, do you?” you whisper.

nanami blinks, visibly confused. “…know what?”

you lean forward, blanket slipping from your lap. “you say things like that and it destroys me. every single time.”

his brow furrows. “like what?”

you hold up your fingers and start ticking them off, your voice somewhere between awe and agony. “you always remember. you’re so good at this. i’d be lost without you. you’re thoughtful. you’re gentle. do you know what that does to me?”

he just stares at you for a second. then—very slowly—his lips part, and something shifts in his eyes. realization creeps in, soft and quiet, and then it blooms.

he smiles. warm and full of something you can’t quite name. the kind of smile that curls at the corners of his mouth like he’s found a secret he intends to keep.

“i meant every word,” he says, setting his book aside with a gentle thud.

you narrow your eyes. “i know. that’s the problem.”

he shifts closer, close enough that his thigh brushes yours beneath the blanket. then he leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek, and murmurs, “then let me say it again.”

you let out a strangled sound and immediately bury your face in his shoulder.

he chuckles—low, fond, smug in the most affectionate way possible—and wraps an arm around you.

“you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he adds, voice warm against your ear. “you know that?”

you make another miserable noise and nudge your forehead harder into the crook of his neck.

count: 9.

and something tells you it’s only going to get worse from here.

(worse. better. same thing.)

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 3

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Chapter Word Count: 7k+]

[Note: A lot of time jumps and flashbacks as said on the warnings. A lot's happening in this part as well since the story needs to progress. Comment below if you want to be tagged for the future parts. Once again, I am so sorry for mean/selfish/jerk Kook. He gets better…I think. Don't fight me 😭 We love the bunny man.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The morning air feels different today — crisper somehow, even though the sky outside the kitchen window glows the same pale blue as every other morning.

You don’t flinch when the doorbell rings. You knew he’d come.

When you open the door, Jeongguk is standing there, awkward in his usual work button up and slacks, a small bouquet of purple tulips in his hands. He looks like he wants to say a thousand things but can’t settle on a single one. His eyes flicker down to the purple tulips, then up to you.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, with a quiet sigh, he leans forward and presses a brief kiss to your forehead, his arms coming around you in a hesitant, practiced hug — one that used to mean comfort, but now it’s just obligatory. His grip is gentle, almost too careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already cracked.

Still, you hold on to him a little longer, hanging on to the bit of happiness your heart feels.

Stepping aside, you let him in. The scent of eggs and toast floats lightly from the kitchen, where your mother busies herself with the stove. Her clattering is pointedly loud, each clang sharper than necessary. She doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t even glance his way. Stays silent. Keeps her promise. Lets you have this.

Sitting across from him at the dining table, a plate of toast is left untouched between you. There's a heavy silence, like you're both waiting for someone to call cut on a campaign shoot you’re both working on. He twirls the tulips nervously in his fingers before you gently reach over and take them from him, burying your nose into the petals.

"You remembered," you say softly, a little laugh escaping.

“I’d get sued if I forgot,” he murmurs, lips curling into a faint ghost of a smile—one you haven’t seen in a long time.

Neither of you speak. It's just the clinking of silverware filling the awkward space between you. There’s no pressure to talk, not yet. The list said conversations are optional, and maybe that’s mercy for both of you this morning.

So you just observe him. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just keeps his eyes on the table or the clock or the edge of his coffee mug. But his hand twitches a little, like he's trying to grasp for something. Finally, he asks,

“Am I…” He pauses, clears his throat. “Am I allowed to ask why you’re doing this?”

You knew this question would come at some point. The revised and signed agreements that Seokjin brings to you by morning after you had them delivered to Jeongguk's lawyer, made you figure out just as much. Your own lawyer was shocked with how fast things were progressing.

Setting the fork down carefully, wiping your fingers with a napkin, you reply, “No. No questions throughout the days. You signed, had the chance to counter, but you didn’t.”

Jeongguk swallows hard but says nothing else. Simply goes back to the breakfast he has a hard time digesting.

You breathe in deeply, searching for something easier to talk about. “Wanna tell me about work? What’s been going on lately?”

That pulls a reluctant smile from him. “Mingyu’s the new face of Calvin Klein. I’ve been working on the campaign with him.”

You grin, genuine this time. “Look at you. Still the golden boy.”

He chuckles under his breath, tapping his fingers against his mug. “Just trying to do my job. You know how it is.”

You nod, sipping your coffee. “Work’s just about to get crazy for me, too. Seora’s landed a spot at Paris Fashion Week again.”

His eyes widen, a spark of pride flickering there. “Seriously? That’s…that’s huge.” The excitement he shares almost feel real. “Two years in row. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Mark’s been working really hard to keep getting us the spot. He’ll head to Paris soon with the team to prep.”

His gaze softens a little at the mention of your business partner. “You’re not going this time?”

You shake your head, casually swirling the coffee in your cup. “Someone’s got to hold down the fort here.” The lie comes out smoothly.

“But… Paris is your favorite,” Jeongguk says, quieter this time. “You used to call me at three a.m. just to show me the Eiffel Tower lights.”

Your heart skips a beat, hearing how he remembers the better times of your lives, the soft smile across your lips you don’t hide. “Things change, Gguk. Priorities, you know?”

He watches you longer than necessary, like he’s trying to see through your carefully placed calm. “And Mark’s okay with you staying back?”

There’s a shift in his expression you don’t quite pin point. Jealousy? Sadness?

You laugh, ignoring the possibilities, shaking your head. “Mark’s job is to travel and secure global opportunities for us. It’s what we pay him to do. He’s always been my business partner. You know that.”

Leaning back in your chair, cheek resting on your knuckles, you study him. There’s a hint of relief on him that you catch.

“Were you hoping I was secretly dating him?” The faintest shade of red on his ears makes you chuckle. “Or…wait, Jeon Jeongguk, are you jealous?” That thought would’ve been a miracle. But for now, it’s just a good joke to share over breakfast.

He chuckles, shaking his head, voice barely above a mumble. “No. Just… curious.”

It breaks some of the remaining tension between you. The rest of the breakfast is filled with easier conversations. Updates about mutual friends, industry rumors, the chaos of wrangling Seventeen’s troublemaker into a shoot.

“Thought photographers were supposed to be calm under pressure,” you tease, tapping your spoon lightly against your cup.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. “Try staying calm when your model’s flexing so hard he knocks over the entire backdrop.”

You laugh harder than you should, and for a moment, it feels like you're twenty something again — sitting cross-legged on your old apartment’s rooftop at midnight, talking about dreams and futures you thought were set in stone.

The scent of iris, white musk, and soft leather clings to the air — the signature fragrance of Seora, your second home for so many years.

Your mother walks beside you, silent but steady, her presence a pillar against the invisible weight pressing down on your chest. She’s dressed sharply, as always — an elegant blazer, pearl earrings, her posture straight and proud. But you see the way her hands tighten briefly around the strap of her handbag.

You pretend not to notice.

Employees bow as you pass — some with genuine warmth, others with careful restraint. Still, you return every bow with a polite smile, polished and practiced, a mask you've worn too long to forget.

Mark is already waiting just outside your office – leaning lazily against the wall like he owns the place, as usual.

“There she is. Queen of Seora.” He greets you with wide grin, sweeping into an exaggerated bow. “Her Royal Highness finally graces us with her presence.”

You huff a laugh, and even your mother’s lips twitch with reluctant amusement. She’s long since accepted your dynamic with Mark — chaos and comfort stitched together.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Tuan,” you reply, brushing past him.

He shrugs, falling into step behind you. “Worth a shot.”

Inside, your office is unchanged — glass desk, curated shelves, years of framed achievements, the photo of you and your mother at your first gala.

But something feels off today. The air, maybe. Or the way the room echoes in silence a little too much.

Setting your bag down, you smooth the creases out of your skirt, take a seat after behind your desk. Your mother sits across from you – dignified, composed – her eyes scanning the folders Mark has already placed neatly at the center of the table.

“Preliminary turnover documents.” He explains, voice light, still professional. “Contracts, executive summaries, shareholder agreements. The ones needing your signature are flagged.”

You nod, flipping open the top folder. The pages blur for a moment before your vision clears.

You focus. One step at a time.

Across from you, your mother doesn’t speak. But you feel her eyes — weighted, patient. This was her legacy, once. Then yours. Now returning to her hands again only because it was necessary.

Forgetting the folder, she takes your hand in hers. Gives a hesitant but assuring smile as much as she can. “I’ll take care of it, darling. Don’t worry about a thing.”

You swallow thickly as you try to return a smile.

Mark leans back in his chair, trying to break the heaviness taking over the room. “So,” he says, stretching exaggeratedly, “does this mean I get majority of the shares now that the queen is abdicating?”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up brighter than you expect. “If you’re willing to handle future meetings with Jeongguk. He’s getting a nice chunk once the papers go through, in case you’re forgetting.”

Mark groans, dragging a hand down his face. “So he gets the shares and visitation rights to you?”

“Didn’t realize this was a custody battle.”

Your mother chimes in dryly, eyes still on the new folders spread across your desk. “Funny how he always ends up with the best part of things he barely worked for.”

Mark’s expression tightens, a mix of humor and something sharper. “Always been the lucky one.”

The next hour is all motion. Documents reviewed, initials scrawled, strategies adjusted. You talk vendor relations. You approve final budget notes. When the paperwork is finally stacked neatly in three clean piles — Pending, Signed, Review Again — you lean back in your chair with a sigh.

Your mother rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her blazer. “We’ll go over the audit reports tomorrow. For now, let’s go home.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment — searching, aching — before she composes herself again.

You stand too, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of your desk.

Mark doesn’t move. You look at him. The silence stretches too long — too full. “I’ll handle the Paris accounts. Send you photos soon.”

You manage a soft smile, grateful for everything he’s doing without saying it. “Make sure the lighting at our booth doesn’t wash out the models this year.”

“I’m offended you’d even think it.”

You roll your eyes.

But you’re grateful — so grateful — for the way he keeps the edges of this afternoon from cutting too deep.

The evening settled quietly over the house. No peace lingering – more like a tension waiting for the first person to break. The table was already set when Jeongguk arrived. Steam rose from the dishes laid out — galbi, japchae, kimchi jjigae, and a small stack of neatly rolled egg omelettes.

Picking up his chopsticks, he hesitated before speaking. “So…how was work today?”

You chew slowly, buying yourself a little time before answering. “Busy. Meetings here and there. Some finalizing needed for fashion week. A few contract turnovers. You know, the usual things when companies shift hands.” You shrug like it’s nothing, like you didn’t spend the entire afternoon sorting years of hard work.

Jeongguk’s brows furrow slightly. “You’re…handing things over?”

You’re too quick to answer. “No, no—just…just creating a little space to breathe. Was thinking I want some time to myself.” The assuring smile you give Jeongguk was convincing enough for him to move on to lighter things. “Nothing major.”

“Mark still driving you crazy with last-minute changes?”

"Who else do you know works with me, that loves throwing in new ideas when deadlines are hours away?”

Jeongguk’s mouth quirks into a smile, the first genuine one since he sat down. “Mark. Mark Tuan. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

The night falls into a soft stillness, the kind that follows when the laughter fades and the last dishes are cleaned. Soft light spilled from the kitchen, casting a warm glow that barely reached past the doorway, leaving the front hall in shadow.

Jeongguk stands by the doorway, his hand resting on the frame, fingers lightly touching it like he needs something to hold onto. His eyes drift – over the neatly hung photos on the wall, the soft rug that shows signs of time, the wide staircase that curves the way he remembers.

One photo catches his eye—bigger than the others and set a little apart. Two people in white, laughing like nothing could ever go wrong, with the ocean in the background—Gwangalli, if he’s really looking. You wonder if he missed it this morning. Don’t blame him if he did. The nerves must’ve been burying him six feet under.

“Sorry. I’ll have Eomma take it down,” you clear your throat, breaking the quiet.

“It’s fine,” Jeongguk shifts. Glances at you and then away. “So…the hugs and forehead kisses,” You notice the small smile tugging on the corner of his lips, feeling thankful for the shift from the awkwardness. "That really had to be on the list, huh?"

A soft laugh slips from you, unguarded. “It did.”

“Was it a punishment?” It’s a joke, but you don’t miss the uncertainty flicker in his eyes.

“Is that how you feel?”

Your bluntness catches him off guard. Guilt flashes. The breath he lets out like a quiet surrender.

Slowly, he steps forward, arms coming up in a hesitant, careful hug. His chest brushes yours, his forehead resting lightly against your temple – a touch familiar, but no longer easy.

Your eyes slip closed as you let yourself lean in, not because it feels natural, but because for a moment, it’s enough to remember how it once did.

“Goodnight,” Jeongguk murmurs, his voice low and close.

You smile, the kind that’s felt more than seen. “Goodnight, Gguk.”

He lingers just long enough to press the lightest kiss to your temple — so fleeting it’s almost not there, and yet, when the door clicks shut behind him and the quiet stretches in, it’s the one thing that stays.

You sit on the edge of the bed later, hair still damp from a quick shower, your fingers curled around the corner of the old photo album you'd told yourself not to open tonight.

The room is filled with nothing but the soft hum of the air purifier and the faint ticking of the wall clock. You don’t know what you’re hoping to find in these pages. Something soft, maybe. Something easier than the quiet goodbye at the door.

The pages smell like dust and faint vanilla — the kind your mother used to tuck into the drawers when you were younger. You flip until your fingers still on a picture, one that had always made you laugh.

You’re on a picnic mat, legs stretched out, shoes kicked off beside you. Jeongguk’s in the next one — lying flat on his back with his arms thrown wide, squinting at the sun. There’s a juice box pressed to his cheek like it’s the only thing keeping him alive in the heat. He’s smiling wide, without shame or thought. His hair’s longer, lighter — summer had bleached the tips — and his shirt has ketchup on it.

You can almost hear it again.

"You're the worst picnic planner ever," he groans, dragging the back of his hand over his forehead dramatically.

"You said you wanted hot dogs."

"Not molten lava ones!"

You laugh at the memory. Remembered, he’d still eaten two more after that. Said they were terrible with his mouth full and asked for a third.

You remember how he used to love loudly. How he’d pull you into hugs like he never wanted to let go. The way he’d lean in to kiss your forehead in the middle of a crowd without caring who saw. The time he ran to the other side of the beach where the ice-cream kiosk was, just to bring you a mint chocolate cone he badly wanted you to try, holding it above his head like it was sacred.

"It’s ugly and green."

"You love ugly things."

"That’s why I’m dating you?"

"Exactly," he’d said, grinning, rain dripping from his lashes, "you’ve got great taste."

You close the album slowly.

Tonight, his arms were careful. His kiss, light as a breath. Back then, there was no hesitation. No pause before he touched you, no weight between your names.

You lie back on the bed, pressing your palms over your face, hoping to bury the pain that feels like it has made a home in your chest.

You didn’t think the time would come that you’d have to miss a version of Jeongguk who used to laugh into your shoulder and whisper stupid things to make you snort in public. The version who always held you a little longer, like he could make time stop if he tried hard enough.

You always thought that version of him would stay for a lifetime.

Now, the only way you get to see that side of him is through a list—through something he feels he has to do.

But you’ll take what you can. For now, you’ll accept whatever life hands you.

The sun hasn’t climbed high enough to chase away the gray. The streets are still damp from the night, and your breath clouds faintly as you step outside, coat collar turned up against the early chill. There’s something about mornings like this — quiet, half-lit — that makes everything feel softer around the edges.

You hadn’t slept much. Rest felt like a visitor you forgot to greet last night, slipping past you somewhere between the click of the door and the ache that settled deep in your chest. Still, your steps are steady as you make your way through familiar streets, ones your feet could trace even blindfolded.

The shop appears like a memory made solid — tucked between a florist and a tiny dry cleaner, its awning still a little crooked on one side. The glass is fogged near the bottom, and someone’s taped a doodle of a smiling sun on the door.

Inside, it’s warm. Familiar.

The left wall is still lined with notebooks and sketchpads in soft neutral tones, racks of pastel washi tape, pens arranged by gradient. You let your fingers skim the edge of a purple sketchbook on display — the same brand you used to hoard during finals week. The same ones Jeongguk used to scribble dumb little nothings in just to annoy you.

You claim your usual seat by the window, near the radiator that still hums faintly when it kicks on. The light here is gentle, and the table still has the faint outline of a coffee ring etched into the wood. The café counter sits snug beside the stationery section, and for a second, it’s easy to believe no time has passed at all.

You order for two. Wait. Don’t check your phone. Know Jeongguk’s on his way. Not like you’ve given him a choice.

Your gaze drifts — over the shelves, to the corner where a worn beanbag still sits, slouched as always. Something about the moment folds in on itself, slipping back in time.

You were running late. Again. Hair barely brushed, laces undone, your tote bag unorganized and overflowing with books needed for classes today, jammed under your arm.

The bell above the door had barely finished ringing when you stumbled in and spotted him already there, halfway through a chocolate croissant and bent over your sketchbook – the one you’ve been looking for hours this whole morning, the reason why you were late.

“Seriously?” you’d huffed, dropping into the seat across from him. “Flipped our dorm upside down looking for that and it was with you this whole time?”

“Page 14,” Jeongguk ignored your dramatic flair, eyes not even lifting. “Your mannequin’s missing a head.”

“That’s on purpose,” you muttered, grabbing the sketchbook and flipping it shut. “It’s avant-garde.”

He finally looked up, eyebrows raised in mock seriousness. “Ah. The Headless Collection. Bold.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile pulling at your mouth. “You’re annoying.”

“Thank you. I rehearse.”

You’d kicked him lightly under the table. He’d stolen a bite of your sandwich in retaliation. You’d retaliated harder, dropped three sugar cubes into his coffee knowing he only liked it black and snatched the entire croissant off his plate.

“Hey!” he’d gasped, scandalized, mid-chew. “That’s a war crime.”

You shrugged, all innocence as you took a deliberately slow bite, crumbs tumbling down your chin. “Shouldn’t have touched my sandwich.”

His eyes narrowed. “That croissant had layers.”

“So did my patience,” you replied, mouth full.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering his voice like he was delivering a threat. “You realize this means war.”

You grinned. “Then choose your weapon wisely, Jeon.”

“Fine. Sketchbook turned doodle board it is.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I would.”

And just like that, he was scribbling something on your sketchbook, tongue poking out in concentration while you lunged to grab it back. 

The stationery café had always been your reset button — notebooks open, drinks warm, pencils rolling off the table because Jeongguk couldn’t sit still. He always left little doodles on your margins – stick figures with six-packs, dramatic cape swirls, and when he’d feel to be more annoying, he’d scribble a crown your head.

“This one's you,” he said once, pointing to a tiny sketch of a girl shouting at a sewing machine.

“She looks like she hasn’t slept in three days.”

“Art imitates life.”

You snorted into your latte. “I’m replacing you with someone quieter.”

“Impossible,” he grinned. “You’d miss me by lunchtime.”

He was right.

You always did.

And now, it wasn’t just during your chaotic uni lunch breaks that you missed him

The chair across from you slides back gently.

You don’t look up right away — just fumble with your phone before meeting his eyes.

Jeongguk shrugs off his coat with one hand, ruffles his hair like the wind annoyed him, then sits. Tie loose around his collar, shirt wrinkled just enough to tell you he dressed in a hurry. He glances around, then places a single stem of purple tulips on the table, the soft color a little too bright for the morning. “They still sell those overpriced gel pens?”

You nod, sipping your drink. “They’re too smooth to resist.“

His eyes flick toward the shelves. “I used to steal yours.”

“You used to steal everything.”

He smiles faintly — just the corner of his mouth lifting. “You let me.”

“Was being generous.”

The waitress sets down your orders — one pastry each, two drinks. You watch as Jeongguk breaks a corner off his croissant. Eats it with quiet precision. He never used to do that. Used to make a mess.

You don’t comment on it.

“So,” he says after a moment, brushing crumbs from his fingers, “still designing things with no heads?”

You didn’t think he’d remember. A smile slips across your lips. “Wow. Callback.”

“I’m nostalgic.”

Your eyes meet. There’s something light there, flickering — not quite the warmth from before, but you’re glad to see something at least.

You reach into your bag and pull out a thin sketchpad, sliding it across the table. He lifts the cover slowly, eyes scanning your latest work. “You gave her a head this time.”

You lean back, arms crossed loosely. “Growth.”

He chuckles under his breath, fingers smoothing the paper. “She looks like she’s running.”

“She is.”

Jeongguk doesn’t ask from what. Doesn’t say anything at all. Just taps the edge of the page twice, then closes it.

The silence is comfortable. A little cautious. But not cold.

You tear off a small piece of your pastry, drop it on his plate like old habit. Used to do it when you still had some left from his that you’d stolen. Even if you’d stolen his precious croissant, you never actually finished it, always left most of it for him – knowing breakfast was the only time he’d actually eat properly, your favorite meal of the day – before the two of you start your own classes.

You knew he’d run on caffeine and stubbornness alone until evening. Then he’d video call you during one of his lectures looking like a grumpy, overgrown bunny with a camera strap digging into his neck and a frown set between his brows.

He blinks at it, then at you. “What’s that for?”

“For luck,” you simply reason.

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t believe in luck.”

“Thought maybe I could this time.”

Jeongguk looks at you as if he’s trying to read you. Like there’s something else he wants to say. Ends up not saying anything. Just eats the piece.

Your drink’s gone lukewarm, still you sip away hoping to drown in the energy it’s supposed to give with the day that’s waiting ahead of you. Jeongguk’s gaze lingers out the window for a moment, watching a cyclist roll by, the soft clatter of gears audible through the glass.

“You still come here often?” he asks, voice casual.

“Every now and then,” you say softly. “Some places just… stick.”

Jeongguk doesn’t press. You’re thankful he doesn’t.

“I used to think the owner hated me,” he says instead. “Always caught me doodling on the napkins.”

“She didn’t hate you,” you reply. “She thought you were wasting perfectly good napkins.”

A small chuckle rumbles in his chest. “I was creating modern art.”

You roll your eyes. “You drew a chicken with sunglasses.”

“Exactly. Groundbreaking stuff. I’m the direct descendant of Van Gogh.”

The laugh that escapes you is softer this time — real, but quieter than it might’ve been years ago. You catch him watching you then. Not intensely. Not curiously. Just… there. Present. It slips away quickly when he looks down, wiping off his side of the table in random circles.

You glance over your shoulder at the display shelf by the counter — a glass case where people leave notes, scraps of things from past visits. It used to be empty. Now it’s cluttered and full of lives layered on top of one another.

Jeongguk follows your gaze. “We never left anything in there.”

“No,” you murmur. “We never needed to.”

He nods slowly, and you wonder if the weight in your words settled somewhere in him too.

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out a pen. Those smooth gel types you always fell for even when you promised yourself you wouldn’t spend another won on stationery. You slide it across the table toward him.

He looks at it, then at you. “For me?”

“Figured you’d want to deface another napkin.”

Jeongguk tears off the corner of one of the paper placemats and scribbles something. You reach over and take the pen back before he can set it down, slipping it into your pocket like it was nothing. He folds the scrap once and tucks it into his jacket.

“You’re not putting it in the case?” You ask, confused why he’d even want to keep something like that – something you’re sure doesn’t matter to him anymore.

“Maybe next time.”

You finish the last sip of your drink as the hour pulls closer to what’s next — work, the rest of the day, the return to whatever this routine is becoming between the two of you.

You stand, slipping your bag over your shoulder, grabbing on to the purple tulip after.

Jeongguk rises too, fingers brushing the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself again – a new habit you started noticing from him.

“Thanks for showing up,” you say lightly, adjusting your scarf.

I had to. He doesn’t say it, but you can see the words hovering in the hesitation behind his eyes — quiet, but impossible to miss.

The sky’s a little brighter when you both step out. The cold still clings to your skin, but the café warmth lingers at your back.

As you turn to go, Jeongguk calls out, “Hey.”

You glance back.

“I liked the new sketch,” he says. “She looked like she knew where she was going.”

“She doesn’t.”

He smiles faintly. “Neither did we.”

You don’t say anything. Just tuck your hands into your pockets, gave one last nod, before walking away.

As you pass the glass, you catch a glimpse of something slightly out of step, tucked into the reflection. You, a little lighter, and the boy beside you who used to draw chickens with sunglasses and mumble dumb jokes just to see you pretend not to laugh.

And for a moment, it’s easy to pretend this is just another morning in the middle of an old life that never cracked at the seams.

The office is a mess. Papers piled up like threats, some teetering close to the edge of his desk. The inbox blinks like a warning light. Jeongguk sits in the middle of it all, elbows pressing into the surface, fingers rubbing at his eyes. The screen blurs. Photoshoots. Edits. Meetings he’s already missed. His coffee’s gone cold. The tremble in his hand says it’s his third cup — or fourth. He’s lost count.

And on top of it all, a notification from Taehyung flashes across his phone.

K. Taehyung: Lunch date with Jiwoo.

Jeongguk swears under his breath, chair scraping against the floor as he stands. He grabs his coat on the way out, not bothering to fix his hair in the hallway mirror. As he shrugs it on, something light slips from his pocket and lands near the leg of the desk—a torn bit of paper, edges smudged faintly with purple petals drawn from a gel pen. He doesn’t notice. Leaves the office without checking if he’s forgotten anything else.

The drive to the café blurs by. Taehyung’s voice crackles through the speaker, rambling about a rookie group, a broken light, a late shoot — but Jeongguk only half-listens, mind drifting far away.

Muted light through tall windows. The smell of ground coffee, old novels, and notebooks. The gentle scrape of a cup across a wooden table. A sketchbook lying open.

His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

The café he pulls up to now is different. Newer, glass and steel, designed for aesthetics more than comfort. Inside, everything gleams. Clean lines. Polished floors. The hum of conversation blends with quiet jazz in the background, curated to feel effortless.

Jiwoo’s already at the table when he enters. She stands when she sees him, her smile brief, eyes scanning his face like she’s trying to gauge the weather. She leans in for a hug, light and cautious.

A waitress appears, takes their orders — sandwiches, two coffees. Then the silence settles between them, brittle and careful.

 “You texted me,” Jiwoo speaks first. “Didn’t say much.”

Jeongguk exhales, straightens the napkin on his lap. “It wasn’t something I could explain over the phone.”

She nods slowly. “I figured.”

He runs a thumb along the rim of his water glass. “She found the divorce papers.”

There’s a pause. Jiwoo’s gaze drops for a moment, something unreadable settling in her expression before she nods again. “I thought that might happen. You waited too long, Gguk.”

“I know.”

“How did she take it?”

Jeongguk stares at the edge of the table. “She didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Just… agreed. Agreed to sign on her terms.”

Jiwoo raises an eyebrow. “What kind of terms?”

“Meals together. Flowers. Staying close. Old habits. Forehead kisses,” he finishes, voice lower now. “Just… things we used to do.”

The words sounded simple when laid out like that, but they weren’t. They were heavy, drenched in old love and broken memories.

She looks down at her drink, stirring it even though it doesn’t need stirring. “And you agreed?”

Jeongguk nods. “I owe her at least that much.”

The noise in the café comes like a blessing. Somewhere behind them, a coffee grinder whirs to life. A baby laughs. Jeongguk’s eyes flick toward the window, to the glint of sun on glass, anywhere else except on Jiwoo, too scared of what he might find — anger, jealousy, resentment.

But he finds none of it when he finally turns to her. Only sadness. And love. And guilt.

“I hate that we hurt her,” Jiwoo says after a moment, her voice thick with guilt. “I never meant for it to turn out like this. I hope I can tell her that.”

Jeongguk’s gaze drops to her hands, still, folded tightly together. There’s a quiet ache in the way they sit, almost like they’re waiting for something. He doesn’t pause to think—just moves, his hand gently covering hers. It’s not an answer. Not an apology. Simply a comfort he hopes she feels is enough from his touch.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Neither of us did.”

The words hang in the space between them, soft but solid. Like stones dropped into still water, rippling outward. They don’t shatter anything. Not yet. But they make everything shift.

Jiwoo lets out a breath she’s been holding. Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. “Sometimes I think maybe I deserve to lose everything.”

“You didn’t make me love her less,” Jeongguk says. “That’s on me. And you’re not losing anything. I’m here. I’m still here.”

His words are calm, certain—like if he says it gently enough, it’ll stop the noise in his head.

The hard office couch pressing into your back wakes you up with a sharp breath and neck sore from where you’d curled up with your throw blanket. The room is dim and quiet, the evening air is calm and something warm and tasty drifts through the air.

Your eyes flutter open, confusion tightening in your chest.

Jeongguk.

He’s there, kneeling by the coffee table, unpacking takeout containers with quick, careful movements. The soft crinkle of paper bags and the light tap of chopsticks on plastic fill the still of the room. His hair falls over his forehead, his sleeves pushed up, jaw tight and sharp in the fading light.

“Jeongguk… what—” you rasp, voice rough from sleep, “what are you doing here?”

He stills for half a second, fingers pausing on the lid of a box.

When he looks up, his eyes flick across you quickly — too quickly.  “You’re kidding, right?” His laugh is soft, faintly bitter. “You called me here. Dinner. List.” He lifts a takeout box slightly, then lets it fall back with a soft thud. “Just following orders.”

There’s a heaviness in the way he holds himself, something tense in his shoulders, in the tired set of his mouth. But you can’t name it. Only know it’s been this way for the past few days.

Silence was acceptable, clearly you stated that on the list, but meals lately went on without your slight playful banter. Just when you thought your conversations could last more than five sentences now.

Jeongguk was never the type to waste food – something about a silly belief that the Gods would take away his perfect sculpture if he even dared – but you’ve been cleaning up for him lately, giving away his leftovers to the homeless you’d find after your dinners.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhales sharply. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, voice rougher now. “Forget it.”

Jeongguk doesn’t look at you. Just pushes a pair of chopsticks toward your side of the table, carelessly, like he doesn’t want to talk. Then you catch it – subtle, but present.

A scent that doesn’t belong here. Sweet, citrus, expensive – far from the lavender one that sticks to your blazers for weeks – one that you’d sense clinging onto his shirts when he came home too late. The same scent hovering in the car when you borrowed his since yours was in the shop one time. The scent that told you something had shifted before the universe decided to slap you with the truth.

You shift your legs beneath the blanket, voice gentle. “You were with her today, weren’t you?”

Jeongguk stops mid-movement. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

Still, you smile—small, sad, and real. “It’s okay. I just… noticed.”

He exhales, short and stiff. “You always do.”

“You’re acting like you got caught doing something wrong.” It’s meant to tease, to warm the cold edge creeping in – a light touch to remind him that he doesn’t have to walk on egg shells around you anymore.

He finally turns to face you, expression tired. “Didn’t I?”

“No,” you say, quiet. “Not really.”

Jeongguk stares at you, like he doesn’t know what to do with the kindness you’ve been showing. Eyes flicking away for a second like he’s searching for a reason to deserve it. But there’s nothing—just you, sitting there, still choosing to stay soft when it would’ve been easier not to.  

You pat the spot on the couch beside you. “Sit down. Eat something. Then talk to me.”

“Kind of hard to do when our wedding rings are right here and well –“

A small laugh echoes from you, unsure if it’s meant to ease the tension or just fill the silence.

“Think about you and me, back in Uni, two dumb teenagers whose biggest crisis was whether to stock up on strawberry or banana milk for finals week."

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a glimmer of the old Jeongguk you remember. “Banana Milk wins, by the way.”

“Nuh-uh. Strawberry milk.” You chuckle, slowly drifting back to your point. “You’ve got to let out whatever you’re holding in there, Gguk. Sulking through the remaining twenty-two days will make you feel like there’s twenty-two years left. I can’t have you hating me for that long."

It’s a soft joke, still, it curls in your chest like smoke.

“I don’t hate you.” he says, like it never even crossed his mind.

Eyes focused on the blanket, you nod, holding onto the words quietly—they’re not much, but they’re more than you thought you’d get.

“If it helps, I’ll turn around and you can talk,” Shifting slight, folding your legs beneath, you face the other way. “You won’t get to see me, won’t get to worry about how I’ll react. Maybe I’ll nod, just to let you know I’m listening, and promise, I will.”

The air is filled with stillness. You think Jeongguk might’ve left you in the office but you hear his soft breaths as he lowers himself beside you, slowly but heavy with the weight he’s been carrying for the past few days.

“I was with her today.” He starts, quickly stops, unsure if he should continue but does anyway, the weight burning in his chest. “We talked earlier this week. About you. About…everything.”

You wait. Because if there’s one thing you still know how to do, it’s wait for him to speak when he doesn’t want to.

“She feels guilty,” he goes on. “Wants you to know that she never meant for it to happen this way. That we hurt you.”

You nod slowly, not because it helps, but because you’re too tired to hold it against her, against them. Most importantly, if it eases something in Jeongguk, then that’s more than enough.

Your heart stumbles but you let him continue, keeping that promise to listen.

“Told her about the list you set up before we…”

“Divorce. You can say it.” There’s a quiet laugh that escapes you.

“Right. That. Uhm…so I told her that and she’s scared.” Jeongguk says, voice cracking in between. “Thinks she’s going to lose me.”

“Will she?” You question a little sharp. Didn’t mean to. Just blurted it out in the spur of the moment.

“No.” he answers too quickly. Your heart silently cracks too quickly. “I mean…fuck, I don’t mean to sound –” You begin to hear sniffs and the slight tremble of his hands that are too close to your back now, as if he’s trying to reach out to you, trying to apologize to you.

“Hey, Gguk, breathe. It’s okay. It’s just me. Eighteen-year-old me, strawberry milk. Focus. I know you’ve got this.” You smile even though he can’t see it. Hoped he hears it in your voice the comfort you want to give him.

And you think it might’ve worked when you catch that soft, boyish laugh, just like the one he had at eighteen.

“It’s why I’ve been seeing her more often these days. Wanted to make her feel that I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s good you’re trying for her,” you manage to say. “But you sound more exhausted than relieved that you’re trying.”

He lets out a breath, ragged. “Because I am exhausted. Feels like I’m not trying enough. Feels like I broke something." He pauses. "No, I know I did. Her. You. Me. And now I feel stuck pretending like I know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix anything, Gguk.” You say softly. “Not for me.”

The quiet in the room makes you hear him clearly swallow the lump in his throat. “What do I do?”

“Focus on you and her, if that’s what you want. Save what you can. Fight for what you can. Don’t carry all of the weight.” You pause, staring ahead, on the shelves behind your desk. “You may be the golden boy, but you’re not God.” The words sit between you for a second. “Can’t save everybody. Simple as that.”

A small silence settles, like peace finding its way.

Behind you, the shift is clear when you hear Jeongguk move closer; leans in just enough to press a soft kiss to the side of your head. His arms wrap around you, gentle, like old times. You’d like to think it is and not because of some stupid terms you listed on paper.

“You always knew how to keep me off the ledge.” His grip around your waist tightens for a second. Your heart tightens too. “Why did you let me talk to you like this?”

You let out an unintended shaky breath. “Because you’re trying.”

“Trying what?”

“To be good.” You don’t move, just sit there with him holding on, blanket in between, your hands curled into the fabric to keep them from shaking.

You wanted this—for him to feel lighter, even just a little. And you meant every word. You really did.

But each word that slipped out left a mark, small and invisible, like paper cuts. You blink, slow, but a tear still slips free, soaking into your lap before you can stop it.

Jeongguk doesn’t see. You don’t let him.

The deal was for him to open up to you. No one said anything about you needing to open up in return.

And some things are better left quiet.

[elixirfromthestars]

This was so endearing and soft, I am sobbing 🤧💕💕

More under the cut ᯓᡣ𐭩

He sighed deeply, rolling toward you and smiling as your kisses moved around to his collarbone. And he hummed in pleasure. “Good morning, handsome.”

^ he deserves to be woken up like this every. single. day. 🙂‍↕️🩷

“What if I just wanted to wake up my favorite guy with kisses on his birthday? Is that too much too ask?” Bucky turned his face into his pillow, trying to hide his face under his arm. “You remembered.”

^ I don’t think it’s too much to ask at all 🙂‍↔️💓🤭💓

Now there was you. Curling into his side like he was something worth waking up to. Pressing kisses to his body like it was something to be worshipped. And for the first time… in a really long time… he didn’t feel like this day was a curse. Bucky rolled over pulling you into his arms, burying his face into your hair.

^ the fact that he’s finally having a good birthday 🥺🥺🥺 I could cry 😭🩷

Overall, I adore that he had such a sweet and peaceful birthday like he deserves that and so much more 😭🩷🩷 I love that they stayed in and just enjoyed their time together, so he could enjoy his birthday for the first time in forever without the added pressure that comes from a birthday when you involve other people or going out. 🥺 This was so perfect for him, and the reader loves him so much and knows him so well. 🤧💗 I could honestly write a whole essay on why this was so lovingly perfect 🥹💕

A custom-made dog tag— he had once told you that he had lost his and he wondered if he still had them, he would have had something of his past to hold on to. A tiny compass— you pointed at it and said “because no matter what, you can always find your way home now.” A key— “that’s for my place, so you can let yourself in at any time.” Bucky’s eyes had practically fallen out of their sockets. Immediately he clipped it onto his keychain.  A wooden carving of a wolf which had been painted white— “Sorry, I’m not very good at that.” An old, slightly worn photograph of him from the 40s— one where he was smiling, young and carefree, before the world had taken so much from him.

^ THE GIFTS!! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? 😭🩷🩷

His name was scrawled across the front in Steve’s characteristic cursive handwriting.

^ A LETTER FROM STEVE?? 👀👀

The effort that the reader put in to get a letter to Steve so Steve could send one back just for Bucky is like one of the sweetest acts of love and kindness and I’m so soft for these two right now like I can’t 😭🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

He shut his eyes. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. But it was no use. A broken sound slipped past his lips. But you were there. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him close as he finally let go of all the things he had been holding inside for so long. His shoulders shook with the weight of everything; the grief, the love, the years that had separated them, the trauma he had suffered. It all came crashing down at once. The dam he had built had been taken apart within moments, with a simple sheet of paper and a few strokes of a pen.

^ Our poor boy 😭🩷 I’m so happy the reader is there to hold him through this 🥺 He needs to let it all out and heal ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

So, I know you’re not big on birthdays. Hell, you’ve skipped more than most people have lived through. But that doesn’t mean they don’t matter. It doesn’t mean you don’t matter. You’re still here, Barnes. After everything, after all the shit life has thrown at you, you’re still standing. And that? That’s worth celebrating.

^ Sam’s letter was so him and endearing in his own way, but this part right here stuck with me the most 🥺🩷 What an important reminder to give Bucky to hold onto because yes, he’s still here, he’s found love, he’s starting to find a more peaceful existence, and he deserves to celebrate that 🩷

Bucky’s lips twitched. His hold on you tightened slightly before he finally let you go. Letting you lead him to bed. As he curled up beside you, your body pressed against his, he let his eyes drift closed. His heart was a lot fuller and his soul a little lighter. He felt safe. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes fell asleep knowing he wasn’t alone.

^ What a beautiful ending, I’m sobbing 😭🩷🩷 This is exactly what Bucky deserves after all the hardships he’s been through like, just to be able to finally sleep feeling loved and cared and appreciate and— ahhhhhhhh 😭🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

Oh, Skittle, this was such a heartwarming read 🥺💖💖 I can only hope Bucky truly gets such sweet & soft birthdays in the future 🤧🩷🩷 He deserves all the soft & gentle love and you perfectly encapsulated that in this fluffy birthday fic 🥺🩷 Apologies for my feedback coming at such a late time, life does what it does best and got in the way 🥲 Thank you so much for submitting this beautiful fic to my writing challenge!! 🩷🩷

Good Morning, Handsome

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky never makes a big deal about his birthday—too many lost years, too many ghosts. But this year is different. This year, he has you. A quiet day, a box of small, thoughtful gifts, and an envelope that shouldn’t exist— a letter written across time, waiting for him to find it.

Prompts: "First birthday with partner" for @avengers-assemble-bingo’s 108th Birthday Celebration (shout out to @buck-star for giving me a square) & “I have loved you from the moment I laid my eyes on you.” for @elixirfromthestars’s cinema writing challenge 🎥

Warnings: Emotional gut-punch but with soft, healing moments, letters from Steve & Sam that will make you feel things, Bucky crying (and being held through it), cuddling, domestic fluff, and birthday kisses

Word Count: 2.6k

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

As he stirred, the first thing he noticed was the feeling of something warm pressed against the back of his shoulder. Soft lips, brushing repeatedly along his skin. Gentle. Unhurried. The sensation roused him slowly from sleep. It was still early, but the sunlight poured in through the cracks in the blinds. The world around him was still hazy and quiet.

He sighed deeply, rolling toward you and smiling as your kisses moved around to his collarbone. And he hummed in pleasure.

“Good morning, handsome.”

Bucky's lips twitched into a slow and sleepy smile before he even opened his eyes. He hummed quietly, shifting under the blankets. His voice was still raspy from a full night’s sleep.

“S’too early early for this kinda sweetness. What’s going on with you, doll?”

You chuckled softly, running your nose along the slope of his neck until you hit his jaw, leaving a soft kiss every couple of millimeters. You whispered in his ear.

“It’s never too early to remind you that you’re the most handsome man I know.”

He finally cracked open one eye, his smile turning into a lazy smirk.

“Flattery this early? You can’t even function before 8am. What are you up to?”

He narrowed his eyes at your grin, watching as you propped yourself up on an elbow and rested your chin on his shoulder.

“What if I just wanted to wake up my favorite guy with kisses on his birthday? Is that too much too ask?”

Bucky turned his face into his pillow, trying to hide his face under his arm.

“You remembered.”

He could feel pressure on his shoulder as you attempted to get him to turn back to you, so you could see his face.

“Of course I remembered. And I know birthdays aren’t really your thing, but… I just want today to be good for you.”

Gingerly, he peeked at you from under his arm. His expression softened as he caught sight of your shining eyes. Birthdays were something that he had lost to time. Buried under the weight of wars, mind control and chemically induced sleep. The more recent ones had been spent alone, years of surviving rather than living.

Now there was you. Curling into his side like he was something worth waking up to. Pressing kisses to his body like it was something to be worshipped. And for the first time… in a really long time… he didn’t feel like this day was a curse. Bucky rolled over pulling you into his arms, burying his face into your hair.

“You being here is already making it a good day. Stay here a little longer?”

“Of course, baby. But… only if you let me give you your gift later.”

He loved the way you absentmindedly traced shapes on his bare chest as you spoke. He couldn’t see your face, but he could hear the smile in your voice. You always made him laugh. The action somehow seemed involuntary. It burst from his lips when he was least expecting it. It was only a soft release of pleasure, against your hair and he squeezed you just a little tighter.

“You’re kinda stubborn, have I ever told you that?”

The way you teased him always brought a smile to his lips and it was always followed up by a gentle confirmation of your affection. You pressed another kiss to his collarbone before laying a cheek against his chest and sighing happily.

“You love me for it.”

“I have loved you from the moment I laid my eyes on you.”

And yeah. He really, really did.

The two of you spent the day in his apartment. Quiet. Comfortable. Happy. No surprises. No crowds. It was just how Bucky liked it. The day started out slow with morning coffee. Followed by a walk with Alpine, who suddenly decided that she wanted to spend the whole time curled around Bucky’s neck.

You make his favorite meal for lunch. He tried to help. He wanted to, but you insisted that he shouldn’t lift a finger today. That today, you would take care of him. You took care of him everyday. That’s what he wanted to tell you. But you seemed so insistent that he let you have your way. Anything to keep that smile on your face. It didn’t stop him from hovering in the kitchen, watching the way your hips swished from side to side as you danced, moving to the music playing softly in the background.

The simplicity. The domesticity. This… this is what he wanted. You were what he wanted.

The day passed in a haze of comforting and warm touches. Simple moments of affection. Loving words of affirmation. Until you brought up your gift.

The evening was coming to an end, it was almost time for bed. The two of you were curled up on the couch under a blanket. He loved having you wrapped in his arms. He didn’t want to let go, but you insisted. Wiggling until he loosened his grip. You reached under the couch and pulled out a small box. Your hiding places made him laugh. He had no idea when you had hidden it there and he was in awe of your skills.

“You already gave me a good day, doll. That’s more than enough.”

He accepted the box as you nudged it into his hands, then pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I know. But I still got you something.”

He knew better to argue when you had that glint in your eye. Not when he knew how much you cared. How much love you put into the gift… into everything you did for him. Even if he didn’t think he deserved it. Slowly, he peeled back the wrapping paper, watching your every reaction. He was certain that you were more excited than he was.

Bucky lifted the lid, his expression shifting as he took in the contents:

A custom-made dog tag— he had once told you that he had lost his and he wondered if he still had them, he would have had something of his past to hold on to.

A tiny compass— you pointed at it and said “because no matter what, you can always find your way home now.”

A key— “that’s for my place, so you can let yourself in at any time.” Bucky’s eyes had practically fallen out of their sockets. Immediately he clipped it onto his keychain. 

A wooden carving of a wolf which had been painted white— “Sorry, I’m not very good at that.”

An old, slightly worn photograph of him from the 40s— one where he was smiling, young and carefree, before the world had taken so much from him.

His fingers hovered over the items, reverent and overwhelmed. Suddenly he noticed an envelope at the bottom of the box.

It was old— worn with time, the edges slightly yellowed. He took out the smaller items and trinkets and placed them carefully on the coffee table. He looked down at the envelope, eyes going wide.

His name was scrawled across the front in Steve’s characteristic cursive handwriting.

Bucky’s hands shook as he picked it up, his heart thudding against his ribs. He glanced up at you, searching.

“What—?”

“Open it.”

Bucky’s fingers skated over the writing before he turned the envelope over, staring at it like it might disappear… or just crumble under his touch. His thumb brushed over the seal before finally… carefully… he opened it.

His eyes moved over the words, slow at first, then desperate, drinking in every single letter.

Buck, If you’re reading this, then it worked. I don’t know where you are when you find this, but I know one thing— you made it. You’re still here. And I am so proud of you. I always knew you were a good man, Buck. No matter what happened, no matter what they made you do, that never changed. I’m sorry I’m not there to tell you that myself, to stand beside you like I should have. I regret that more than you know. I hear you’re running for Congress. Now I wish I could be there to see that. To see you making a difference. I’d have been your loudest supporter. You know that, right? You would’ve hated all the campaign posters with your face on them, but I’d have saved one just to annoy you. And… I hear you have someone now— someone who loves you the way you deserve to be loved. I’m glad, Buck. You deserve happiness. You deserve someone who sees the best in you, even when you don’t. I’ve worried about you being alone, but I realize I don’t have to anymore. Makes things a little easier, knowing that I left. But I’m with you, always. You never have to doubt that. And if you ever forget, just read this again. Happy birthday, pal. Steve

Bucky’s grip on the paper trembled so hard that he feared that it might tear. His breath came out sharp and uneven. His chest rose and fell as the emotions hit him all at once. Steve’s words, his best friend’s voice reached across time and wrapped around his heart. Squeezing so tight it fucking hurt.

He shut his eyes. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. But it was no use. A broken sound slipped past his lips. But you were there. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him close as he finally let go of all the things he had been holding inside for so long. His shoulders shook with the weight of everything; the grief, the love, the years that had separated them, the trauma he had suffered. It all came crashing down at once. The dam he had built had been taken apart within moments, with a simple sheet of paper and a few strokes of a pen.

He clutched the letter like it was a lifeline. Like it was a piece of Steve himself. You held him through it. You ran your fingers through his hair, whispering how much you loved him, how he wasn’t alone. 

When the tears finally slowed, Bucky pressed his forehead against yours. His hand cradled your face, fingers caressing your jaw. His voice was hoarse. Thick with emotion. But the word that came out wasn’t what you expected.

“How?”

You shrugged. Like what you had done was the simplest thing in the world. Like the effort you had gone through was an everyday occurrence. Not a miracle you had pulled off.

“I wrote to Steve.” 

“You wrote to Steve?”

He watched as your expression became a little sheepish.

“I had some help… from someone with magic.”

Bucky frowned. He didn’t want you putting yourself in danger because of him. But you continued with your explanation.

“I sent him a message, telling him about you. About us. About everything.”

Bucky swallowed hard, unable to speak. He let you finish, whispering 

“He wrote back. And he left it somewhere safe for me to find now.”

Bucky thought he knew you. He thought he had wrapped his head around how you thought. The things you would do for him. The care you showed him. But this, this was something else. There were no words that could truly express his gratitude.

“Thank you. For this. For everything.”

You only smiled and brushed a tear from his cheek and pointed back at the box in his lap.

“There’s another one in there.”

Bucky looked down at the box, noticing another envelope. One much whiter and crisper than the one in his hand. He immediately recognized Sam’s chicken scratch writing. He tore it open, knowing that he didn’t need to use as much tenderness with the newly sealed stationary.

Yo, Tin Man, Before you get all emotional, let’s just get this out of the way— yes, I remembered your birthday. And no, I did not get you a gift. Because I know for a fact that you’ll just grumble about it and act like you don’t care. (Don’t even try to deny it.) But I will say this— Happy Birthday, man! So, I know you’re not big on birthdays. Hell, you’ve skipped more than most people have lived through. But that doesn’t mean they don’t matter. It doesn’t mean you don’t matter. You’re still here, Barnes. After everything, after all the shit life has thrown at you, you’re still standing. And that? That’s worth celebrating. I also know about the other letter you got. Yeah, that letter. Don’t look so shocked—your girl told me what she did. And man… you are so damn lucky to have someone like her. Someone who loves you enough to move mountains (or, in this case, mess with the time-space continuum) just to remind you that you’re not alone. So anytime you get lost in that giant head of yours, know you’ve got people in your corner. Steve, me, and especially her. You might be a pain in the ass, but you’re also one of the best people I know. And if I have to be the one to keep reminding you of that, well… guess you’re stuck with me. Take the day. Enjoy it. Maybe even smile a little. Happy birthday, Buck. Sam P.S. If you haven’t hugged her yet, do it. Right now. I’ll know if you didn’t.

Bucky felt a small laugh escape his lips disguised as a breath. The sound was still shaky but lighter than before. His fingers stayed curled around the two letters, not quite wanting to let go. His chest ached. But the pain was something new. It ran deeper than anything else he had ever felt before. He’d felt it for a while now. Every time he looked at you.

He did that now. A quiet patience shone in your eyes as you waited for him. Waited for him to come back to you. He always would.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He just looked at you. Then, his voice came, quiet but certain.

“You did this for me.”

You nodded, your fingers brushing lightly over his arm.

“Of course I did.”

He exhaled another small laugh and shook his head.

“You really are somethin’ else, doll.”

“Is that a good thing?”

You tilted your head to the side, a flicker of uncertainty that he knew he should squash immediately. He huffed, setting the letters down carefully beside him before tugging you into his arms. His embrace was solid, grounding. He needed to feel you, to remind himself of what was real.

“It’s the best thing.”

He loved when you melted against him. He let the steady sound of your heart and breath soothe him. Neither of you spoke for a while. Both of you wrapped up in the warmth and quiet understanding. But eventually, you tilted your head to look up at him.

“You okay?”

Bucky searched your face for a moment before nodding. He didn’t say how he felt, didn’t try to put it into words. He knew he didn’t have to. You always understood. You pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, just like you had that morning.

“Come on, birthday boy. Let’s go to bed.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. His hold on you tightened slightly before he finally let you go. Letting you lead him to bed. As he curled up beside you, your body pressed against his, he let his eyes drift closed. His heart was a lot fuller and his soul a little lighter. He felt safe.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes fell asleep knowing he wasn’t alone.

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