#ITS HARD OUT HERE..........................

[natalianovnas]

༄ `. 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 & 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒

summary: natasha romanoff’s two-year-old daughter, nova, is just like her—guarded and slow to trust— but when nova's longtime pediatrician is replaced by the younger, warm-hearted dr. Y/N L/N, gaining nova's trust quicker than any other stranger did, something shifts.

genre : single mom!natasha, pediatrician!reader, non-red room past au. (age is non specified but reader is not past twenty-five)

warnings : fluff, slow burn(?), strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy & warmth, hurt/comfort, death mention (no need to freak out here, just read), fussy mini-widow.

word count : 3.2k // masterlist

an : pleeeaaaseee tell me i haven't been the only one craving for full fluff lately so im serving y'all some. also stan mama nat 100% !

Natasha stood in the middle of her living room, holding one tiny crumpled pair of pastel pink socks. Across from her was her two-year-old daughter sat on the floor in her diaper and nothing else, arms crossed, bottom lip out, expression fierce.

“Don’t want pink,” Nova declared, enunciating each word like a threat.

Natasha exhaled through her nose with all her will patience. “We’ve been through this, milyy. All the purple ones are in the laundry. The pink ones are clean, soft, and objectively non-threatening.” (sweetie)¹

“No!” Nova shouted. “Pink is ugly!” Though, the word sounded more like 'ugwy'.

“You said pink was beautiful yesterday.” Natasha squatted down beside her, her voice still calm — or, well, calm-ish. “You told Steve it was your ‘princess color.’”

Nova looked her straight in the eye. “I changed my mind.”

Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something in Russian.

“We’re already fifteen minutes late, malen'kiy, and I will not let a pair of $3 Target socks be the reason we miss your check-up.”

The mini redhead, clearly unfazed by her mother’s internal spiral, picked up a stuffed giraffe and began chewing on one of its ears.

Natasha knew this battle. She knew it oh so well.

She’d fought aliens with less resistance than her daughter gave her over anything remotely involving clothes. But she also knew that at the end of the day, she was a puddle for this kid.

A helpless, hopeless puddle.

“Okay,” The elder sighed, standing up. “No socks. Go rogue. But you have to wear something, baby. Can we at least agree on pants?”

Nova considered this. “Dinosaurs.”

Recently, most things she liked where boy-ish due to constantly being around Nathaniel at the Barton's. He and Nova were bestfriends in the whole universe at this point and wherever Nate went or whatever he did, Nova followed.

Not even half an hour in the car :

“I swear on all that is sacred, Nova Rose Romanoff—if you throw that juice pouch one more time, I am turning this car around.”

A dramatic little sigh came from the backseat.

“No!” Nova shrieked.

“That's your third one,” Natasha muttered through clenched teeth, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Third. And it’s not even 9 AM. What happened to the child who loved apple juice yesterday?”

“Changed my mind,” Nova declared, legs kicking against her car seat like a storm.

Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose at the red light. “You're two. You don’t have a mind to change.”

But Nova only huffed, her lips put in that usual exaggerated pout with crossed arms that amused the Russian. Nova was a sweetheart but could also be stubborn at times. And she didn't hesitate to be hard headed with her mama just to get the last word.

Oh Natasha cursed at herself from how excited and eager she was about getting a mini version of herself two years ago.

She regretted that now because it just seemed like fighting herself but a younger version.

This was her morning. A typical Wednesday. Natasha Romanoff, former top SHIELD agent and current certified toddler negotiator, on her way to what should’ve been a quick pediatric check-up—Nova had other plans.

“No juice, no socks, no talking,” Nova added firmly from the back. “Only Mama.”

Natasha glanced in the rearview mirror. “I am Mama.”

Mini Widow blinked, “Then just you. No Doctor Lady.”

Natasha frowned. “Since when do you not like Helen?”

“Don’t want.”

“Too bad. You’ve got a check-up.”

Nova crossed her arms. “Nova will bite her.”

“You will not bite your pediatrician. Biting doesn’t earn you candy, volchitsa.”

But Nova wasn't taking the interdiction. They arrived at the clinic a few minutes later — Nova attached at her mom's hip, hands gripping Natasha's shirt sleeve because her tantrums switched to her being clingy now.

The receptionist at the front desk greeted the Russians with a cheerful smile.

“Miss Romanoff, Nova, it's good to see you two again.” Natasha gave a small polite smile in return, only so because she was familiar to that receptionist. “Just a heads-up, Dr. Helen’s on leave for a few months. You’ll be seeing Dr. Y/N L/N today.”

Natasha blinked. “I’m sorry, who?”

“Dr. Y/N. Helen’s niece.”

Natasha’s mind stuttered. Helen had always been steady. Older, gentle, just clinical enough to keep Natasha comfortable. Nova had barely warmed up to her. The idea of a new doctor, without warning, had Natasha’s protective instincts spiking like wildfire.

“Right,” She muttered. “Fine.”

“Romanoff?”

And here appeared someone who was definitely not Dr. Helen L/N like she, nor Nova, expected.

Natasha turned toward the soft voice — and her defenses faltered.

You, younger, fresher-faced, stood in the doorway wearing light blue scrubs covered in little whales, a clipboard in hand and an apologetic smile on your lips.

Despite so, she followed you after you nodded toward the consultation room and made your way back inside, the door left open for them to come in.

The consultation room looked the same as always — seafoam green walls, a faded Captain America poster on one side, a low exam table with crinkly paper.

“Sorry to surprise you,” You said. “Helen let me take over while she’s recovering. You must be Natasha — and this is Nova?”

“She’s...not great with change,” Natasha said, her voice dry.

“She doesn’t have to be,” You replied gently. Then you crouched down. “Hi, Nova. I know I’m not Dr. Helen, but I’m gonna take care of you today. Would it help if I let you pick the color of the stethoscope?”

Nova didn’t speak. She narrowed her eyes and Natasha held her breath.

You pulled a drawer open just enough for a rainbow of stethoscopes to peek out — bright red, yellow, purple, even a glittery one.

“This is a trap,” Nova whispered.

You grinned. “It’s not. But it is sparkly.”

And instead of doing so much as hiding behind her mother's leg or start to pick a tantrum over not wanting to be approached by a stranger, Nova crept forward slowly, like a suspicious cat, catching Natasha off guard. She pointed. “That one.”

“The purple one?” You asked.

Nova nodded.

“Solid choice,” You smiled. “I think purple’s the color of royalty.”

“She is that,” Natasha muttered under her breath.

From that moment on, Nova was suspiciously cooperative — by her standards. She tolerated the stethoscope, allowed you to check her ears (with some bribes). She even answered your questions, one-word at a time and even insisted on holding your hand instead of her mother’s.

However, threw a tantrum when you checked her heartbeat too long.

But you never flinched. You just worked around it, speaking softly, giving her control in little ways.

It worked.

She made you sit against the wall, clumsily dragging the tape along your arm.

Natasha watched it all from the corner. Her expression unreadable — but her eyes didn’t miss a thing.

“She’s spirited,” You said once Nova finally sat still, cheeks flushed from all her fuss and fun.

“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Natasha replied. “Most people call her a gremlin.”

“She’s two,” You stated. “Being a gremlin is part of the job.”

Natasha raised a brow. “You have kids?”

“No. But I’ve been around enough toddlers to know they run the world.”

The Russian’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. It wasn’t a smile — not quite — but it was something close. “Not many people handle her like that.”

“She’s not difficult,” You added honestly. “She just needs to know I'm not faking it.”

That got Natasha’s attention.

Your eyes met hers, and for a second, the air shifted. So you kept going,

“Kids like her? They read people. If I'm not real, they won’t trust me. She trusted me today. Not fully — not yet, at least. But she didn’t bite me.”

“She did threaten to,” Natasha deadpanned.

You chuckled. “Progress.”

Nova suddenly climbed into Natasha’s lap, curling up against her shoulder with an exaggerated yawn. Natasha automatically wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her unruly curls.

“Tired already?” she murmured.

“I bite you later,” Nova whispered.

Natasha smirked. “Looking forward to it.”

You turned back to them with the updated chart. “She’s doing great. Still on the taller end of the spectrum, but healthy. Oh, and the sparkly band-aids? She can take two.”

Nova perked up immediately.

“Three,” She countered.

You leaned in, voice conspiratorial. “Only if you promise not to bite your mom.”

Nova considered. Then nodded once.

Natasha watched the exchange, something warm blooming behind her ribs. And when you handed Nova the band-aids — purple, sparkly, with tiny bears — she watched her daughter’s face light up, and for the first time all morning, she felt her tension ease.

Natasha looked down at the toddler in her lap. Nova was peeling a band-aid and trying to stick it on Natasha’s cheek.

Nova Romanoff was a different child now. Well—not different. She was still dramatic, stubborn, and suspicious of anyone who came too close to her cereal bowl. But ever since she met you, she had decided that pediatric visits weren’t all that terrible.

Which both impressed and annoyed Natasha.

Impressed, because Nova wasn’t exactly the trusting type.

Annoyed, because—well. Because Natasha wasn’t sure why it annoyed her.

Two weeks after that first visit, Nova skipped into the clinic wearing matching socks (a rare feat) and handed you a crumpled sticker she’d saved from home.

“It’s a giraffe,” She declared. “Because your neck is long.”

Natasha almost choked on her coffee. You just laughed like it was the best compliment you’d gotten all day.

A month later, Nova insisted on drawing you a picture. It featured a vaguely human blob and Natasha didn’t ask questions.

By the third visit, Nova was sitting calmly on the exam table, letting you check her ears while humming some nonsense song she’d made up.

“Do you bribe her?” Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes as Nova happily let you touch her hair (which she never let anyone except her mama do).

You gave her a look. “Just magic,” You replied with a small smile. “The good kind.”

Natasha hated how easily you smiled.

No—she didn’t hate it. She just… noticed it too much for her liking.

She noticed the way you talked to Nova like she was a person, not a checklist, not an obligation.

The way you remembered little things—like that Nova hated cold stethoscopes and loved green lollipops. The way you never looked at Natasha like she was some intimidating figure with a history, but just a mom trying to juggle a complicated toddler and too much coffee.

The crush snuck up on her. Quiet. Persistent. Inconvenient.

She told herself it was just admiration or professional respect.

Hormones, maybe.

But it was a week later when the random run-in happened.

Natasha wasn’t planning on going into the bookstore while it was raining, but Nova had seen a plush unicorn in the window and launched into a full dramatic plea to “rescue it from the loneliness.”

So there they were—Natasha in jeans, a hoodie, and a ball cap pulled low. Nova bouncing beside her with the unicorn clutched tight to her chest.

They were turning down an aisle when the elder redhead heard your voice.

“I know I said one book, but it’s three for two. That’s like financial responsibility, if you think about it.”

You were talking to yourself. Or to your basket. Either way, it made Natasha pause.

You hadn’t seen her yet.

She watched you for a moment longer than she meant to—sleeves pushed to your elbows, your face lit up softly by the overhead light, hair always pulled up in that lazy but somehow flawless ponytail. There was a little crease between your brows as you tried to decide between two picture books.

Nova didn’t hesitate. “DOCTOR GIRAFFE!”

You got startled, almost dropping the books. Then you turned—and grinned.

“Well if it isn’t the Romanoffs,” You spoke up. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Unicorn emergency,” Natasha deadpanned.

You nodded solemnly. “Those are the most serious kinds.”

Nova marched forward. “Look! Her name is Rainbow Power. She needs to read books or she’ll be lonely.”

“Sounds like she’s going to need at least two stories a night,” you said, crouching to eye-level.

Nova lit up like a lantern. “Three.”

“Now you’re just negotiating like your mother.”

Natasha, from behind, cleared her throat. “She gets that from someone else.”

You stood and gave her a knowing look. “Right.”

There was a pause. A quiet, soft moment that neither of you filled immediately.

“I didn’t know you liked this place,” You said after a beat.

Natasha shrugged. “It’s close. And Nova likes the kids’ section.”

You glanced at the overflowing display of picture books and then back at her. “Well, next time you come, let me know. I’m here more often than I’d like to admit.”

Nova tugged on your sleeve. “Can Rainbow Power and I read with you?”

You looked at Natasha.

She blinked. “Oh. I—”

“I mean, only if you don’t mind,” You stated, voice easy. “We could grab the little beanbags in the corner. No pressure.”

Natasha looked at Nova. Then at you.

Then at Nova again, whose face had the kind of hopeful look that could shatter steel.

“…Sure,” Natasha said slowly. “Why not.”

It wasn’t a big deal. Just a few pages read in quiet voices, with Nova nestled between you on one side and Natasha on the other. The sound of the rain outside softened everything.

You let Nova “help” you turn the pages and didn’t correct her when she misspelled an unknown word you read because, yes, the little one picked-up on words and expressions very fast for her age. Natasha noticed the way you smiled, the way you listened. Really listened.

It wasn’t dramatic or heart-pounding. It wasn’t some movie-worthy lightning strike.

But by the time Rainbow Power had been tucked into Nova’s arms and three books had been read twice, Natasha realized something kind of terrifying:

She wanted to see you outside that clinic again. For no medical reason whatsoever.

And for Natasha Romanoff, that was a problem.

Natasha had faced aliens, robots, espionage, and near-death missions.

But nothing —nothing— was as nerve-wracking as standing outside a pediatric clinic with slightly sweaty palms, wondering if she should pretend she just forgot to reschedule a check-up for Nova. Again.

“She’s not even going to be in today,” She muttered to herself, leaning against the wall with her phone out, pretending to scroll. “This is dumb.”

Because ever since the bookstore run-in, Natasha hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you.

It wasn’t just the way you made Nova feel seen and safe. It was the way you talked to her, too. Like she wasn’t broken or sharp-edged. Like you liked her just the way she was, awkward silences and all.

So yeah. Maybe she wanted to see you again. Not as Dr. Y/N. Not as Nova’s pediatrician.

Just you. Y/N.

She exhaled slowly and walked toward the clinic doors before she could talk herself out of it. Again.

You were at the front desk, head tilted toward the receptionist as you scribbled something down. You looked up when you heard the soft chime of the door.

Your smile appeared instantly. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite mother.”

Natasha blinked. “You... say that to all the moms?”

You grinned. “Only the ones who have daughters with opinions about giraffes.”

She didn’t know what to do with that, so she nodded like that meant something.

There was a beat of silence. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leaned slightly on the counter.

“Everything okay with Nova?” You questioned gently.

“Yeah,” Natasha said quickly. “No check-up today.”

You arched a brow. “Then what brings you in?”

Here it was. The moment.

Natasha had practiced this. Sort of. She’d stood in front of the mirror and said ‘Hey, do you wanna grab coffee sometime?’ about six different ways, all of which made her sound like she’d been hit on the head recently.

But now?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing came out.

“Uh...” She started, eyes flicking to the floor, then back to your face.

You waited, patiently soft.

“I was just—nearby. And I remembered that Nova left one of her, um… plushies. Here. Maybe.”

You blinked. “Oh? Which one?”

“Uh. The… purple one?”

You turned to look behind the desk. “Do you mean the sparkly goat that she tried to trade me for three dinosaur stickers?”

“…Possibly.”

You retrieved the plush and set it gently on the counter. “She’s been safe and sound. We gave her honorary staff status.”

Natasha huffed a laugh. “Good. She’s a tough negotiator.”

Another pause.

You tilted your head. “Was that all?”

She had to ask. Now or never.

Natasha cleared her throat. “Actually—there was something else.”

You straightened slightly.

“I was wondering,” She said slowly, cautiously, like the words might turn and bite her, “if… sometime soon… if you wanted to get a coffee.”

You blinked again.

Then smiled.

Natasha panicked. “For Nova. I mean. Obviously.”

Natasha pushed on. “Like—for Nova to be around other adults. Or whatever. She needs social enrichment, and you’re good with her, and you like books, and—coffee—do you like coffee?”

You nodded slowly, huffing a chuckle. “Yeah. I do.”

“Great,” Natasha said, as if she’d just run a marathon. “That’s good.”

There was a moment of silence. Then your lips quirked.

“Natasha,” you said gently. “Are you asking me out?”

Natasha froze.

You watched her, head tilted, kindness glowing in your expression. “Because if you are, you don’t have to make it about Nova. I’d say yes.”

Natasha stared.

“You would?”

You laughed. “Is that surprising?”

“I don’t—usually do this.”

Your voice dropped an octave. “Ask people out?”

“Yeah. Especially not doctors.”

You leaned closer, resting your elbows on the counter. “Especially not ones your daughter wants to share juice boxes with?”

“She never offers juice to no one,” Natasha said solemnly. “Not even her aunt.”

“Wow,” you teased. “I’m honored, then.”

Natasha rubbed the back of her neck. “So... uh. Saturday? Coffee?”

“Saturday,” you confirmed. “Text me?”

She nodded. You handed her the sparkly goat plush and slid a small card with your number across the counter.

“I’ll see you then,” you said, smiling like you already knew it would go well.

Natasha turned to leave, goat in hand, face slightly flushed.

From the car, Nova clapped her hands as soon as Natasha opened the door.

“Did you ask?”

Natasha sighed. “Yes.”

Nova leaned forward with wide, expectant eyes. “Are you gonna kiss her face?”

“Not yet.”

Nova slumped dramatically. “Then what was the point?”

Natasha had changed her shirt three times.

And by changed, she meant stood in front of her mirror and stared at herself in increasingly uncharacteristic sweaters before giving up and putting her black leather jacket over a soft green tee that Nova called “the nice one.”

“You look like a sandwich,” Nova had declared, munching toast in her pajamas. “That’s good.”

“Thanks?” Natasha muttered.

Now she was sitting across from you in a cozy, not-too-loud, not-too-crowded coffee shop tucked beside a bookstore. You were already there when she arrived — somehow both casual and radiant in a dark wool coat and soft scarf. You’d greeted her with that easy smile that made her forget basic words.

She’d brought Nova’s sparkly goat plush in her bag, just in case she needed a conversation starter.

So far, she hadn’t needed it.

“I’m glad you called,” you said, sipping your drink, warm mug between your hands.

Natasha glanced at you. “Yeah. I, uh… I’m glad you said yes.”

You gave her a look that was kind and teasing at once. “I don’t make a habit of saying no to smart women with adorable daughters and terrible flirting skills.”

Natasha huffed. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You tried to blame your attraction on a plushie.”

“I panicked!”

You grinned, and Natasha couldn’t help but return it. This was easier than she thought it would be. Less terrifying.

You talked. About Nova, about books, about how you once tried to volunteer at a wildlife rescue and got bitten by a duck.

Natasha laughed out loud — not just the quiet breathy laugh she gave people who expected her to be human. A real one.

You looked at her like the sound made your chest warm. And maybe it did.

“I think she likes you,” Natasha said quietly, eventually, her coffee going lukewarm in her hand.

“Nova?”

She nodded.

“She doesn’t like many people.”

Your smile softened. “I noticed. She reminds me of you. The way she watches first, then chooses. The way she doesn’t pretend to like people she doesn’t trust. But once she’s in… she’s in. Loyal. All heart.”

That made something tight and tender twist in Natasha’s chest. She looked down, unsure what to say.

“I like her,” You added gently. “A lot.”

Natasha looked up.

Your expression was soft. Honest.

“I like you, too,” You continued, voice quieter but honest.

And just like that, she wasn’t nervous anymore. She was just—warm. Surprised by how easy it felt to be seen like this. Genuinely.

She opened her mouth to say something — she didn’t know what yet — when your phone buzzed on the table.

You glanced at the screen, the easy light in your face faltering.

Natasha caught it instantly.

“Everything okay?”

You didn’t answer right away.

The phone buzzed again. Same name. You swallowed hard.

“Sorry,” you said under your breath, already reaching for it. “It’s the hospital. Where my aunt—where Helen is.”

Natasha sat straighter. Her voice was steady, low. “You should answer.”

You did.

“Y/N L/N speaking,” you said gently. Then a pause. A longer one.

Natasha couldn’t hear what was said, but she didn’t need to. She saw it in your face — the slow, unraveling expression. The way your hand clutched the phone just a little tighter.

Natasha sat up slightly, noticing the change in your posture — the way your shoulders drew inward, bracing.

Your face froze.

The warmth of the café blurred into the background. Natasha could hear the blood rush behind her own ears as she watched your expression fall.

Your voice cracked, so quiet. “What?”

Another pause.

Then, shakier, “When?”

Your hand, gripping the phone, trembled slightly. Natasha reached out on instinct, her fingers brushing yours across the table — steady, grounding.

You finally nodded, though your eyes were wet. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll… I’ll be there.”

You hung up slowly.

Natasha didn’t pull away. “Y/N?”

Your mouth opened, but no words came. Just a few seconds of shallow breathing. And then, quietly, as if afraid saying it out loud would make it more real:

“It was the doctor...”

Natasha’s chest tightened.

“Helen, She—” You blinked quickly, trying to hold it together. “She passed. A few minutes ago. Complications from the surgery last week. It wasn’t supposed to be—she was recovering—she was—”

“I’m so sorry,” Natasha said softly, voice low, warm.

There was a beat of silence. Then you stood abruptly, grabbing your coat, your phone. “I have to go. I need to—tell my mom. I need to be with her. I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” Natasha said, rising with you. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

You shook your head, head spinning. “No—no, it’s fine, I can—”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

That silenced you.

You nodded, eyes glossy.

“I didn’t—” Your breath hitched. “I wasn’t ready.”

Natasha reached across the table without thinking, hand finding yours.

You didn’t pull away.

“She was stubborn,” you said quietly, blinking fast. “She’d been sick a while. But she kept joking about living to a hundred. I really thought we had more time.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha said again, and she meant it with everything she had. “I can drop you wherever you need.”

You smiled, shakily. “Thank you.”

She drove you in silence, the kind that wasn’t empty — just soft, full of understanding. When you reached your apartment, she put the car in park and turned toward you.

“I’m here,” she said. “Okay? If you need anything.”

You nodded. “I know.”

A beat of quiet passed.

Then you leaned in and hugged her — not long, not lingering. Just real.

You stared at her, eyes glossy and wide, and then nodded. You exhaled, shaky and heavy.

“Thank you for the coffee.”

“It was a good coffee,” she said, softly.

You gave a tiny nod. “I’m sorry the date ended like this.”

“It didn’t end,” Natasha said gently, watching you. “It just paused.”

You looked at her, startled.

“I’ll wait,” she added. “As long as you need.”

For the first time since the call, something warm flickered in your eyes. You reached out, pressed your hand lightly to her arm.

“Thank you, Nat”

Natasha sat in the car long after you left, staring out the windshield, her heart caught somewhere between grief and something softer.

The funeral was small.

Helen had never wanted something grand. She hated pomp, avoided big parties, and always joked that if more than twenty people cried at her funeral, she’d come back and haunt them out of embarrassment.

Still, when you saw the turnout—old colleagues, a few former patients, your mother with red-rimmed eyes clutching tissues in one hand—you wished she could see it. The quiet reverence. The soft way people spoke her name.

The flowers were lavender, her favorite. The casket simple. She would’ve liked that. No drama. Just love.

You stood at the front with your family, hand squeezing your mother’s as the minister spoke.

But your eyes kept drifting back.

To Natasha.

And Nova.

The redhead sat near the back, dressed in quiet black. Her expression was unreadable to most, but you could tell—there was softness in the way she held Nova close on her lap, fingers gently stroking the girl’s back as she clutched a small bouquet of lavender sprigs in her chubby hands.

Nova had insisted on bringing them. Said they were “for the nice lady who always smelled like books.”

Natasha had tried to explain death to her. The finality of it. But Nova, being Nova, had decided she didn’t like final things.

“She’s just sleeping in the stars now,” she told Natasha with a frown. “We should still bring flowers.”

So they did.

After the service, you moved outside with the others. The overcast sky had held off for most of the morning, but a light mist had begun to fall. It wasn’t cold—just gently mournful, like the weather knew not to shout on a day like this.

Natasha approached as the crowd started to thin.

“Hey,” she said softly.

You turned. The moment your eyes met hers, the grief cracked your composure. You didn’t sob, but you blinked too fast and clutched your arms like they were the only thing keeping you upright.

Natasha didn’t hesitate.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you.

You sank into her without thinking. She was solid. Quiet. Steady.

Nova reached up with her little bouquet and pressed it gently to your arm.

Your throat burned as you knelt to her level, taking the lavender with trembling fingers.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” you said, voice breaking.

Nova hugged you, small arms warm around your neck. Natasha watched her daughter with something soft in her eyes, like she couldn’t believe how easily she’d chosen you.

“I don’t want you to be sad,” Nova whispered. “You’re my doctor friend.”

You smiled through the ache. “I’m really lucky to be your doctor friend.”

Natasha gave you time, didn’t push, just stayed by your side as people offered their condolences. She was your anchor without trying to be.

Eventually, when only a few people remained, she touched your shoulder gently.

“Want me to walk you to your car?”

You nodded.

The walk was quiet. She carried Nova, who had started yawning, cheek pressed to her mother’s collarbone.

“I wasn’t sure I should come,” Natasha admitted, keeping her voice low.

You glanced at her.

“I’m glad you did,” you said honestly.

“She meant something to you.”

You nodded. “She raised me. My parents were around but… Helen was constant. She’s why I went into medicine. Why I even thought I could do it.”

Natasha didn’t say anything at first, just listened.

“She must’ve been proud.”

You looked at her.

“She was,” you said. “She told me that. But I don’t think I ever told her how much she meant to me. Not really.”

“She knew,” Natasha said quietly. “Because I see the way Nova looks at you. And the way you look back.” Natasha offered a small smile. “It’s the same way you probably looked at Helen.”

Your eyes filled again. But this time, they didn’t spill. You breathed through it.

“Do you want to come in for a bit?” you asked softly. “Just for tea or something. Nova can nap if she wants.”

Natasha hesitated. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I’d like the company. And I think Nova wants more cookies.”

Nova stirred on her shoulder at the word cookies but didn’t protest. She just murmured, “Only if she makes the round ones.”

You smiled. “I always make the round ones.

And just like that, you left the funeral behind — not the grief, not the loss, but the moment — stepping slowly toward something that felt a little like healing.

A few weeks after Helen’s funeral.

Grief wasn’t loud. It came in stillness. In the half-sipped tea you forgot on the windowsill. In the voicemail you kept replaying just to hear the voice again. But it didn’t stop life.

You had gone back to work. Your patients needed you. Nova needed you. And — though you never said it aloud — you needed them too.

Especially Nova. And her mother.

It had started with Natasha picking Nova up after a check-up and asking if you wanted to grab lunch — “for Nova,” she’d said, like it wasn’t obvious she needed the pause too.

Then a few shared weekends — trips to the park, early brunches where Nova smeared syrup on both your sleeves. Movie nights with blankets and popcorn and a fussy two-year-old who always ended up asleep in one of your laps.

And slowly, quietly, without much fanfare, you and Natasha just fit.

Not in a whirlwind. Not in a fairytale.

But in the way you leaned toward each other when you laughed.

In how Natasha always texted you when Nova said something funny — she just told a pigeon to “get therapy” because it kept pacing.

In how she learned how you took your latte and always handed it to you without asking.

And in the way your apartment now had Nova’s favorite cup and spoon in the cabinet.

On a quiet Sunday evening, the three of you sat on your couch. Nova was curled between you, cradling a stuffed dinosaur you’d won her at a spring fair. She was almost asleep — half-lidded, thumb in her mouth, one hand tangled in your sweater.

Natasha’s voice was quiet.

“She didn’t used to be like this.”

You looked over.

“She hated new people. Didn’t even let Clint hold her until she was almost two.”

You smiled, brushing a lock of hair from Nova’s cheek. “She’s still selective.”

“Exactly. That’s what gets me.” Natasha tilted her head slightly toward you. “She trusts you. Just clicked with you. It scared me at first.”

You blinked. “Scared you?”

“I’m not used to… things happening easily. Or quickly. Or softly.” Natasha looked down at Nova, then back at you. “You were soft with her. Patient. The kind of love that doesn't ask anything in return.”

Your heart ached in a good way.

“I liked you too before I even realized I did,” she said, almost like a confession. “And then you lost Helen, and you let me be there — even when you didn’t want to talk. That meant something.”

You watched her. “You mean something to me, too.”

Silence settled again, but it was warm.

Nova shifted in her sleep, turning into Natasha’s side with a little sigh. Natasha reached over and gently covered her with a throw blanket.

“She asked me last night if you were family,” Natasha murmured.

Your breath caught.

“And I told her… ��not yet.’”

You smiled. “What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Then you better ask her fast.’” Natasha looked over at you, the corners of her mouth lifted. “So… I’m asking.”

You tilted your head, heart thudding softly. “Asking what?”

“To be part of your life. For real. Not just parks and tea and polite texts. I don’t want to just orbit around you anymore.”

You studied her — the nervous flicker in her gaze, rare and raw. The honesty. The slight tremble of her fingers as they brushed against yours.

“I don’t want that either,” you whispered.

And then, quietly, with Nova fast asleep between you, Natasha leaned in.

It wasn’t a movie kiss — no swelling music, no dramatic lighting. Just lips that found yours like they’d always known the way. Slow. Sure. Finally.

When you pulled back, Natasha rested her forehead against yours, exhaling something like relief.

Nova stirred.

Natasha blinked down at her, and you both waited — but all she did was mumble, “Can I have pancakes for dinner?”

You both laughed.

“You spoil her,” Natasha said with affection.

“She spoils me,” you replied.

And with Nova snuggled safely between you, the three of you sat in the dim, quiet room.

Not quite perfect. Not quite healed.

But together.

And that was enough.

an : oh, i love nova soo much already :((

[iydiamartinx]

GUILTY PLEASURES

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 1.8k synopsis: You cheat on your boyfriend Jason with the Red Hood a/n: To my anon who requested this hope you liked it! I had to rush through editing so apologies for any grammar errors y'all might find. warnings: 18+ mdni, use of the words whore & slut, a little rough.

Jason Todd had been tailing a weapons deal all night, dressed in full Red Hood gear, helmet and all. The scum he’d come to intercept were already zip-tied and unconscious in the back of a stolen van. Meanwhile, you had told him you were going out with your girlfriends and had stopped texting him about an half hour ago much to his worry, so instead of going home like he planned he decided for Red hood to make a pass by the club you had went to.

Which was why he was leaning against his bike, by the alley across the street watching the people entering and exiting. He straightened up as you stumbled out giggling with your friends and he huffed both annoyed and amused at the sight. You were in the middle of saying something, hands waving animatedly when you suddenly paused at the sight of him.

You said something to your friends before you began staggering towards him.

“Reeeeed!” you sang—sang—as you stumbled closer, high heels clacking on the wet pavement, your dress slightly askew and hair tousled from what looked like a hell of a night out.

Jason froze. “Y/N?”

You beamed, oblivious to his tension. “Youuuu know my name,” you hiccuped, staggering toward him with a grin that could short-circuit every neuron in his brain. “God, its not fair that your voice this hot.”

He coughed, straightening. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s late. And dangerous.”

You only grinned, as you staggered closer hand clutching his arm as you pressed yourself up against him. “Mhmm good thing I have a big bad crime lord to keep an eye on me.”

Jason cleared his throat unsure whether he should be amused or offended that you were flirting with him—well Red Hood.

You, meanwhile, were utterly unbothered.

In fact, you leaned closer, pressing up on your toes like you were about to tell him a state secret. “You know,” you whispered conspiratorially, breath warm against the edge of his helmet, “I think about you. Like… a lot.”

Jason swallowed. “Is that so?”

You giggle. “Mhm hm,” Your wandering fingers begin to trail up under his shirt, smile growing as you felt his muscles tense. “All those hard muscles, that sexy voice, you’re like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make all rolled into one.”

Jason sucked in a slow breath, jaw tightening behind the helmet. The feel of your fingers skating up his abdomen sent a jolt through him, and he hated—loved—how easily you could fluster him like this. Especially dressed like that. Especially talking like this.

You took advantage of his frozen state, your grin downright wicked as you nudged him backward, step by step, deeper into the alley’s shadows. His back hit the brick wall with a dull thud, but he didn’t resist. He just watched you, tense beneath the armour, like a predator unsure if he was about to pounce—or be devoured.

Your fingers slipped out from beneath his shirt, nails grazing down his chest plate before trailing lower—lower still—until they flirted with the waistband of his tactical pants.

“Y/N—” His voice was a warning. A plea. A prayer. He wasn’t sure which.

“Just relax, Hood… no one’s gotta know,” you purr, voice velvet-draped sin, your smile all teeth and temptation.

Jason’s jaw clenched, his breath catching as your fingers danced at the edge of his restraint—and his patience. He had fought crime lords, torn through ambushes, taken bullets without blinking…but you? You were something else.

The second your fingers brushed against him, Jason snapped.

In one fluid, furious motion, he spun you, pressing you up against the cold brick wall. His chest pressed hard into your back, the weight of him pinning you effortlessly in place. One gloved hand flattened against your stomach to hold you still, and the alley suddenly felt claustrophobic with heat and tension.

“Is this what you want?” he growled against your ear, voice rough and ragged. “To be bent over in a filthy alley and be taken by a criminal like some cheap whore?”

You let out a soft, breathless noise in answer—needy, aching—and pushed back into him deliberately, rubbing back against him. The sound he made in response was low and guttural, somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

The hand not holding you still began to unbuckle his belt as he unzipped himself just enough to set his throbbing length free. Then he gripped the hem of your dress and shoved it up with no patience at all, his fingers trailing fire against your bare skin. You felt the sharp tug as something tore, heard the hiss of his breath as his hand disappeared into his pocket of his jacket—where he stashed your now-ruined panties like a trophy.

The cold air brushing your exposed pussy had you whining, your voice breaking into a desperate whimper. “Please,” you breathed, unable to hold back. “Please.”

One gloved hand reached for your throat while the other wrapped around his hard length, lining himself up before thrusting into you in one smooth motion. You were dripping wet and offered no resistance as he slid inside you with ease, your eyes rolling back as a low groan rumbled from his chest. He was was so long and thick that he filled up every inch of you.

A loud whine tore past your lips and his hand moved to muffle your mouth as he pulled out. “You gotta be quiet doll, you don’t want everyone hearing me ruin you now do you?”

You tried to say something through his hand, but he chose that exact moment to thrust sharply back into you. Whatever words you had died in a needy moan as your cunt clenched down around his cock. The last of his restraint snapped at the sensation, and he began pounding into you in earnest.

Part of him knew how wrong and fucked up this was—you were technically cheating on him with the Red Hood. But at the same time, he was the Red Hood. So were you really cheating? The complication of it all only made him thrust into you harder,  taking you rougher than he usually did.

He might’ve felt guilty—might’ve—if not for how much you seemed to love it. His hand shifted from your mouth, gloved fingers curling at your lips. You didn’t hesitate, taking them in eagerly, sucking around them, gagging and drooling as he pushed them deeper.

“That’s it, doll. Take everything I give you,” he groaned, voice low and cooing—a gentle contrast to the brutal pace of his thrusts. “Such a good girl, lettin’ me use your holes.”

The sounds echoing through the alley were utterly obscene—from the wet squelch of your pussy to the sharp slap of skin on skin, and the broken moans spilling past your lips as you begged for more.

“Mmmf—feels… s’good—fuck…” you mumbled around his fingers, the words wet and barely coherent, spit trailing down your chin where his hand kept your mouth stretched open.

“Look at you… so fucked out on my cock” He groaned, “You’re such a little slut taking it so well.”

The bruising grip around your waist shifted to your clit, his fingers rubbing fast, harsh circles that made your hips jerk as you cried out. But with his cock still buried deep inside you and his strength anchoring you in place, there was nowhere to go—no escape—as he worked you toward your orgasm.

It hit you hard and fast—your head falling back, your entire body tensing before collapsing into trembling aftershocks as stars danced across your vision. He kept pounding you through it, relentless, until he finally followed, burying himself deep as he came with a broken curse, emptying himself inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound that filled the silent alley was the sound of both your heavy, ragged breathing as you both fought to catch your breaths and calm your racing hearts. Your palms pressed flat against the brick wall, still trembling, while his body remained close behind—forehead resting against your shoulder, chest rising and falling against your back in rhythm with your own.

Neither of you spoke. Not at first.

Then, finally, the quiet was broken by the low rasp of Red Hood’s voice, “You know,” he drawled, still breathless, “I don’t think your boyfriend would approve of what we just did.”

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, your head tilting back just enough for your eyes to find him over your shoulder. “Oh no,” you murmured with mock concern, “you think he’ll be mad?”

Red Hood huffed as he carefully began to pull out of you, his cum immediately dribbling from your well-used hole. “Well, he certainly won’t approve.”

You turned to look at him, your eyes wide with faux innocence, lashes fluttering like you hadn’t just been thoroughly fucked against a brick wall. “Really?” you said, voice light, teasing—dangerously sweet. “Even after the mind-blowing orgasm we both just had?”

Jason froze. “What.”

You tilted your head, your grin only growing. “I know it’s you, Jason.”

Silence.

He blinked, eyes searching yours, as if he’d misheard. “What… how—”

“Baby,” you cut him off with a laugh, soft and incredulous. “You seriously thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Jason just stared at you, lips parting slightly. You could see the moment it fully registered, the sharp shift behind his eyes as his mind caught up.

“You knew this whole time?” he asked, almost in disbelief.

You huffed and rolled your eyes as you tug down your dress. “I wouldn’t cheat on you, Jason. Come on. I’ve known for months. You’re not exactly subtle.”

His mouth opened, but you kept going, voice now edged with affection and amused exasperation. “You leave your gear everywhere. Under the bed? Really? That’s your big secret hiding spot?”

Jason let out a groan and dragged the helmet off his head, revealing sweat-mussed hair and a flushed, stunned expression caught somewhere between impressed, exasperated, and undeniably aroused.

“You are such a menace,” he muttered as he pulled you in, his voice low and full of something torn between amusement and affection.

Your hands came up to cup his face, fingers brushing along his jaw, thumbs stroking gently across flushed skin. His eyes flicked shut at the touch, just for a second—like he couldn’t help but melt into you, even after everything.

“Yeah,” you murmured, a soft smile tugging at your lips, “but I’m your menace.”

Your lips met softly, a gentle contrast to everything that had come before. When you finally pulled away, your expression shifted into something sheepish.

“You’re gonna have to carry me,” you mumbled, still breathless. “I don’t think my legs are working after how hard you fucked me.”

He snorted, the sound low and amused, as he smoothly lifted you into his arms without so much as a grunt of effort. “We still have all night,” he said, glancing at you with a wicked glint in his eye. “And trust me… you won’t be walking properly for a week.”

And with that, he carried you off to his bike, so he could take you back to the apartment to get started on round two.

[crazziforazzi]

Fighting for the love (of the game) - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Draft night

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Trope: Second chance

A/N: Hi guys, I literally got into basketball a month ago and it took me approximately 5 seconds until I found my gays. Disclaimer, I am still learning to understand the game. I hope you enjoy it!

Word Count: 7.7k words

Azzi POV – Draft Night, Brooklyn, NY

Azzi Fudd sat beneath the white-hot lights with her back straight and her legs crossed, the slit of her white dress slicing clean across her thigh. Sharp, elegant, a little sexy — the kind of dress you wear when you want to be remembered. When you want to say I belong here before anyone else can ask if you do.

Her fingers, polished in soft nude and curled tightly around the edge of her chair, stayed hidden beneath the table’s starched linen. She felt weightless. Not in a euphoric way, but in the way a balloon might feel just before the string slips from a hand. Untethered. Like the floor beneath her might dissolve if she dared to look down.

Beside her, Coach Geno sat with his arms folded and a slight smirk tugging at his mouth — the same one he always wore when he was pretending not to be proud. Azzi could feel his steadiness radiating like heat. He didn’t need to say anything but Azzi felt it. He had been the one who believed in her long before anyone else did, besides her family and her. Back when she had been mostly promise and pressure. Back when she had doubted whether the glittering version of herself, the one people wrote about and projected her onto, could ever be real. Geno had known better. 

Her mom sat on her other side, smiling with the kind of pride that barely disguised the nerves beneath it. One hand rested gently on her dad's, their fingers laced, grounding each other. Her dad kept fidgeting with the knot of his tie like it had a mind of its own, like maybe if he adjusted it enough, it would undo the lump in his throat. He looked proud too, proud and overwhelmed in that way dads get when they realize their daughters are no longer little girls, and the world is watching them become something else entirely.

Azzi’s gaze drifted past them, down to the last chair at the end of the table.

Empty.

She had left it that way on purpose.

Her agent hadn’t loved the idea. You can’t just leave a chair empty on the WNBA draft, Azzi. Pick someone. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.

Because that seat wasn’t for just anyone. It was for the one person who should have been here. The only person she had ever imagined beside her when this moment finally came. The one who had brought her to this very ballroom, exactly one year ago, when Azzi had sat on that chair, her palms stinging from clapping too hard, her heart thudding as the cameras flashed and her name was called.

She could still feel the soft press of a kiss against her neck in that hotel suite — not for the cameras, not for show. Just a moment between them. Familiar. Safe. Them.

She hadn’t even been the one in the spotlight then. But it had felt like a shared beginning anyway. Like they were both on the edge of something — the start of parallel dreams, yes, but dreams braided together in the quietest, surest ways.

She remembered how it had all looked. The suite had been warm with lamplight and the soft rustle of fabric as her stylist darted between garment racks, holding up dress after dress that Azzi barely registered. She had been in a black satin robe, her arms crossed, her nerves sharp, when a low voice had called to her from the bed.

“Azz,” she’d said, stretching it out with a smile after finishing her Cane’s, “you could wear the gift bag they gave us and you’d still be the hottest one here.”

Azzi had tried to glare at her, but the laugh betrayed her. She always betrayed herself around her.

They’d picked the dress together. A shiny black one with a plunging neckline and a back that dipped scandalously low. She remembered stepping out from behind the divider and seeing the expression shift on her face — that slow-blinking awe, the open-mouthed pause, like she was witnessing something sacred. Azzi had felt heat rise to her cheeks. But she hadn’t looked away.

And then there was the way she looked that night. Jet-black custom Coach pantsuit, tailored like it had been stitched onto her skin, every rhinestone catching the light. Her blonde hair had fallen in soft waves, glossy and perfect. She had looked like a storm in motion. Like the kind of person the world wanted to follow.

But when she looked at Azzi, really looked at her, she softened. Always.

Somehow, in all the chaos of the night, they’d found five minutes alone. No cameras, no stylists, no interruptions. Just the mirror, and the quiet. Azzi remembered the feeling of warm fingers wrapping around hers, the gentle tug that pulled her closer.

“Jesus,” she’d whispered, her voice barely more than breath. “You are trying to kill me tonight looking like that.”

Azzi had rolled her eyes, laughing, but her body had leaned in instinctively. Needing. Wanting. When their lips met, it had been soft. Not rushed, not performative. Just a long, slow inhale of everything they didn’t say out loud. A kiss like a promise. Like a map.

"This is the closest to my prom night outfit I could give you."

There had been plans. Not just whispered ones. Real ones. Apartments they’d toured in cities they hadn’t yet moved to. Lists on their phones titled “someday.” Grocery store habits. Dog names. A playlist titled our kitchen mornings. She used to tuck her head into Azzi’s shoulder at night and say, “We’re going to do this. All of it. We are gonna be the ones who make it.”

Azzi had believed her. Azzi had let herself believe in it. In them. A quiet, fearless kind of belief. Until that night 9 months ago.

The host’s voice sliced through her memories, too bright, too smooth. Scripted. A video reel flickered onto the giant screen behind them.

“And of course, last year, the Dallas Wings selected Paige Bueckers…”

The name cracked through Azzi like glass under pressure. She turned instinctively, eyes flicking toward the screen — already knowing which clip was coming.

There she was. One year ago. Confident and beautiful. Her mouth parted in a polite smile, her shoulders trembling slightly under the weight of the moment. They had rehearsed what she needed to do; hug her mom first, then her dad, and then she is allowed to give one to Azzi. 

But when they called her name, she didn’t follow the script.

She turned straight to Azzi. Wrapped her up like she couldn’t help it. Like there wasn’t another choice in the world.

There had been cameras. Reporters. Other players and coaches. 

But all Azzi had felt was the anchor of her arms. The press of her breath against Azzi’s cheek. In that moment, under all the lights and noise, it had felt like the start of something unshakable. A choice. Not for the cameras. For them.

Azzi had whispered it into her hair, voice breaking: I love you.

And the reply had come as soft as breath, as certain as thunder.

I love you too.

It had felt like a forever kind of night. But forever is fragile when the world keeps pulling you in opposite directions.

Now, Azzi sat in the same room. Same lights. Same stakes. But alone.

But there was no hand to reach for. No crooked smile across the table. No five minutes of softness carved from chaos. Just an empty chair — silent, unyielding, echoing with all that was supposed to be.

She swallowed hard. Straightened her shoulders. Coach Geno leaned in slightly, gave her a look. Warm, knowing, proud.

The crowd quieted as the host adjusted her mic after the video ended, voice rising just enough to cut through the low hum of anticipation. “And now,” the host said with practiced drama, “after months of speculation and scouting reports, it’s finally time.”

Azzi smiled gently, the corners of her mouth lifting in a quiet, thoughtful way. This moment wasn’t hers yet. At least, not in the way she had once imagined.

She had accepted that, and more importantly, she had found peace in it.

Everyone in the room — and really, everyone watching — expected Lauren Betts to go first. That was no secret. The analysts had said it. The former pros had agreed. The fans had assumed it. And Azzi herself had believed it. Lauren had earned it. She had led fearlessly, played with dominance and control, and carried herself with the quiet power of someone who didn’t need to prove anything. Throughout the season, Lauren had risen to every challenge and delivered every time until UConn stopped her as a team in the semi-finals. Azzi had admired her, not with envy, but with genuine respect.

There was no bitterness in her heart.

Azzi knew what it meant to be the one people doubted. She had lived with that for years — not in the form of loud criticism, but in the subtler, more painful way doubt creeps in when people stop asking about your future and start talking about your past. Injuries had stolen more than just playing time from her; they had taken away the certainty she used to feel when people said she was destined for greatness.

There had been days, long, quiet days in empty gyms, where she had wondered if she would ever feel whole again. Days when the ache in her knees matched the ache in her heart. When people spoke her name with caution, as if they didn’t want to jinx her.

But this year had been different.

This year, she had felt free. Not just physically, though playing without pain had been a revelation, but emotionally, too. She had run without fear. Laughed during practice. Shot with joy, not desperation. The game had returned to her like an old friend, and she had welcomed it back with open arms. For the first time in a long while, she wasn’t chasing anyone else’s expectations. She was simply playing because she loved it.

That, she had decided, was enough.

So she sat now with an open heart, quietly anticipating the moment when Lauren’s name would be called. Maybe she, Azzi, would go second. Or third. Maybe she would be headed to the Sky, or to the young team in the Bay, the Valkyries, who were already being described as bold, bright, and full of possibility. She could imagine herself there, not as the headline act, but as something even more important: a cornerstone. A player to build around.

The host continued speaking, her voice confident and steady, drawing out the announcement with a practiced kind of suspense. The air in the room shimmered with tension.

Then, something changed.

Azzi noticed it before anyone else. The cameras began to move. One operator shifted to her left. Another crouched in front of her. A third one came in from the side, adjusting focus, zooming in. It was a subtle flurry, but unmistakable.

She felt a jolt of adrenaline. Her heart quickened.

She looked around, searching for something to anchor her. Her eyes landed on Geno.

He was watching her with that same knowing look he had always given her when she was about to do something extraordinary. His smile was soft, steady, filled with the kind of love and pride that needed no explanation.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Coach…” she whispered, not quite a question, but not yet a belief.

He didn’t say anything. He just nodded, slow and certain.

And then the world seemed to still. The noise of the crowd, the flashing lights, the nervous chatter, it all fell away. She could hear nothing but the sound of her own heart.

“With the first pick in the 2026 WNBA Draft,” the host finally said, her voice ringing like a bell, “the Los Angeles Sparks select… Azzi Fudd.”

Everything stopped.  Azzi didn’t move.

The room erupted, cheers, gasps, applause, but she sat frozen, her body locked in place as her mind tried to catch up with what she had just heard.

Her name. First.

She looked toward her parents. Her mother’s hands were clasped over her mouth, eyes wide and already filled with tears. Her father repeated, “Oh my God,” over and over, his voice full of disbelief and awe.

Still, Azzi remained still.

Because in that moment, she wasn’t just hearing her name. She was hearing all the years of work. All the hours spent rebuilding. All the nights spent wondering if this dream had quietly slipped away while she wasn’t looking.

She had let go of the need to be number one. She had finally, fully accepted that her worth wasn’t tied to any ranking or headline. She had come into this year with a lightness, with joy, and with nothing to prove.

And somehow, that had brought her here. To the top. Not as a gamble. Not as a question mark.

As the answer.

Geno was on his feet now, clapping with quiet pride. There were tears in his eyes too. Beside him, Tim wiped at his own face, beaming with joy. Kate was already crying openly, one hand pressed to her chest as if she could hold the emotion in.

Azzi felt something rise inside her — not shock, not pride, but something deeper. Something gentler.

Gratitude.

She was grateful for every moment that had led her here. Grateful for the people who had believed in her when she didn’t believe in herself. Grateful for the girl who never stopped showing up, even when her body begged her to give up.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. Slowly, she rose to her feet. Her dress floated around her legs, and her heels clicked softly against the floor as she turned to hug her mother. They held each other tightly. Her father kissed her forehead and whispered something she would only remember later.

When she turned to Geno, he embraced her fully, holding her like a second father.

“You earned this,” he said, his voice thick. “Every damn bit of it, Azzi.”

Azzi nodded against his shoulder, eyes closed, letting the truth of that statement settle into her bones.

When she stepped away, she glanced to the chair beside her. It was still empty. 

But Azzi didn’t linger there.

She turned toward the stage, toward the light, toward everything that waited for her on the other side of this moment.

Azzi Fudd. Number one overall pick in the 2026 WNBA draft.

The noise never really stopped.

Not during the photos, not during the on-stage interview, not even while she was trying to catch her breath behind the curtain with someone from the Sparks' PR team asking if she wanted water or soda or a second to sit. It was all a blur. Reporters leaning in with questions, UConn teammates pulling her into tight hugs, everyone smiling so wide it almost felt choreographed. She was dizzy with it. Dizzy in the best possible way.

The rest of the draft was still unfolding in real time. The screens overhead kept announcing new picks, cameras swivelling, more applause erupting every few minutes from different corners of the room. But to Azzi, it all sounded underwater. Like her name had been called and now the volume of everything else had been dialled down, as if the night was making room for her moment.

Azzi could barely catch her breath before someone grabbed her wrist again and yelled, “UP! One more time!” and suddenly she was airborne, her feet kicking helplessly above a sea of navy-blue blazers and glittery eyeshadow and open-mouthed joy.

“Okay, okay, stop—” she laughed, flailing as they tossed her higher, her curls nearly smacking Jana in the face. “You are gonna drop me!”

But they didn’t care. Nobody did. This was her night. Ice was yelling something about a champagne spray. KK was already trying to start a TikTok live. Azzi’s cheeks hurt from smiling, her voice gone from screaming, and her dress was dangerously close to flying up the more they tossed her. She managed to wriggle her way down on the third throw, breathless and flushed and laughing so hard her abs hurt.

And then she heard it.

A laugh.

Not one of her teammates screaming her name. It came from deeper back. Farther behind the cameras and the velvet ropes and the backstage staff holding clipboards and headsets. It was sharp, bright, and familiar enough to freeze her in place mid-grin.

She scanned the crowd. Not with panic — with purpose. She knew that sound. That rhythm. It wasn't the kind of laugh you forgot, not when it used to belong to the person who knew every version of you, who had cracked open your ribs and seen what was inside.

The crowd was a blur, camera flashes, tall shadows, a security guard in the middle of moving someone along, but between two shoulders, just for half a second, she caught a flicker of blonde hair.

Tied back in a messy low bun. Head angled like she was looking away. A sliver of cheek, maybe.

Azzi blinked. The crowd shifted. Gone.

No way. Paige wasn’t here. She would’ve known. Right?

But for a moment, the noise disappeared. Azzi stood perfectly still in the center of it all, one foot in the past, one foot in everything she’d worked her whole life for.

A part of her wanted to chase it. Just to be sure. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t. Because her name was still being said over and over again by reporters, by her coaches, by kids in the crowd. 

She breathed. And let the possibility stay just that, a maybe.

Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe Paige was never there at all.

Still, as she was ushered from one interview to the next, as she took photos holding up the Sparks jersey, as her teammates pulled her in for a group selfie, Azzi couldn’t shake the feeling. Like someone had slipped into the back of the room for just a minute. Like someone had come to see her, silently. She kept glancing back toward that same stretch of crowd for the rest of the night.

But she never saw her again.

The night stretched long after the last pick was called. The team swept her away to a lounge downtown, something the Sparks organisation had organized. Velvet couches, open bar, soft lighting, a private celebration tucked above the city.

There was music, and champagne, and shouting. Someone had a karaoke mic, and Jana wouldn’t stop singing “Eye of the Tiger” in an exaggerated Southern accent. Ice stood on a chair and delivered a fake speech. Azzi ended up dancing barefoot with her arms around KK and chicken fingers in her other hand.

It was everything. And still, the moment haunted her. That laugh. That flash of blonde hair. That impossible maybe.

She didn’t tell anyone about it.

The morning came slow.

Azzi woke in a hotel bed tangled in white sheets, wearing only boxers and a tank, one false eyelash still clinging to her cheek. The Sparks jersey from the draft crumpled on the chair beside the bed like proof she hadn’t dreamed any of it. 

Her phone was face-down on the nightstand, its buzz long silenced. Her head throbbed lightly, not from drinking, but from feeling too much too fast.

She didn’t reach for it right away.

She just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the hum of the AC and the distant clink of room service trays being wheeled past in the hall. Her body ached in a good way. Eventually, she rolled over, arm heavy, and grabbed her phone.

Notifications swarmed the screen. Mentions. Group chats. Draft clips. DMs from old teammates, trainers, that one camp coach she hadn’t heard from in four years.

And then—

Her thumb froze.

PAIGE 0.22 a.m.

Congrats, Azz. I’m so damn proud of you. Go make them remember your name. They have no idea what’s coming.

Azzi stared. The room spun a little, but this time it wasn’t from champagne or adrenaline.

She read it again. And again.

She didn’t know if Paige had been there last night. If that laugh had been real, or if it had just been a phantom stitched into her memory. She didn’t know if that flicker of blonde hair was coincidence or wishful thinking.

But she knew this: Paige had seen her.

And somehow, that made her chest ache and swell all at once. She read it twice. Then once more.  Then she closed her eyes and let herself feel it. All of it.

Paige POV - Draft Night, Brooklyn, NY

She had promised herself she wouldn’t come.

She told her agent, her friends, even her own reflection in the mirror that she was going to stay home. That she didn’t want to make it about her. That the last thing Azzi needed on her night was a ghost hovering in the rafters, reminding everyone, reminding her, of what used to be.

But the truth was, Paige had made that decision too many times before. To stay away. To pretend that silence was kindness.  And when the lights went up, and the music swelled, and the draft began to breathe with the electricity of dreams about to come true, Paige knew she couldn’t sit on her hotel room’s couch a few blocks away and pretend she didn’t care. 

She needed to be in the room. Even if no one else knew she was there.

So she came. Quietly. Wrapped in a tailored black suit that swallowed her broad shoulders. Her hair was pulled back in tight, low bun. She arrived long after the press had moved on, after the carpet had been cleared, when the cameras were already all inside.

Her seat was arranged discreetly, a favour from someone at the league, who didn’t ask why. Tucked into a dim corner near the back, out of frame. A pillar blocked the view, but if she leaned a bit to the left, she could see Azzi's table. And anyway, the monitors were visible. The sound carried. She was here.

And that, she kept telling herself, was enough.

She tried not to stare too hard at the screen when it cut to Azzi’s table. Tried not to flinch when she saw her, radiant in a breathtaking white dress, curls soft around her face, eyes bright with nerves and wonder. Her parents were beside her. Geno too, steady and warm. 

But there was a fifth seat at the table. Empty.

That was supposed to be hers. 

Her throat tightened, thick with guilt.

She was supposed to be the plus-one this time. The support system. The calm touch under the table, the whisper in her ear: You are ready. You have always been ready. She was supposed to be the one zipping Azzi into that dress, brushing her curls to the side, kissing her shoulder in the mirror and saying, They have no idea what’s coming.

Instead, she watched from the dark.

God, she missed Azzi.

Paige had convinced herself she was doing the right thing when she let it end, or more accurately, when she let it fall apart without fighting. She had let the pressure and the pain and the headlines swallow her, convinced herself that love was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not while everything else in her life was slipping out of her hands already.

She had been wrong. So wrong.

She should have said it back then: I will give up anything but you.

But she didn’t.

And now she watched the best night of Azzi’s life play out from the shadows. A ghost with a perfect view of everything she had lost.

The room shifted.

Paige realised it before the crowd did, the way producers moved toward Azzi’s table like magnets. That silent ripple of realization. That sharp, expectant energy.

On-screen, Azzi turned toward Geno, brows furrowed like she was asking a question. Geno smiled and nodded once.

Then the host stepped to the mic.

"With the first pick in the 2026 WNBA Draft… the Los Angeles Sparks select Azzi Fudd."

For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. The silence was total, not the absence of sound, but the stunned, collective stillness of disbelief catching fire. A second of suspended time.

And then Paige was on her feet.

Clapping.

Before anyone else. Before the cameras cut to the right angle. Before the broadcasters found their words. Her hands moved on instinct, fast, hard, unrelenting, the kind of applause that wasn’t for the crowd, wasn’t for the cameras, wasn’t for show. It was for her. Because Azzi Fudd just went first overall. And Paige fucking believed she would.

She was crying and didn’t even realize it until the tears slipped past her jaw, hot and constant, soaking into the collar of her suit. Her shoulders shook, barely, but she stayed standing. Stayed clapping. Stayed locked in, eyes trained on the screen as the people around her finally caught up — gasps, cheers, whistles all crashing into the air like fireworks. But Paige was already gone, already in the swell of it, swept under by something deeper.

She was so damn proud. Proud in a way that felt like breaking.

Azzi stood slowly at the table, one trembling hand to her chest, her curls catching the lights like something divine. Her face crumpled, joy, disbelief, tears she wasn’t trying to hid, and Paige could feel it like it was happening to her, like her own chest had split open to make room for it all. That radiant, stunned smile. The way Geno’s hand landed on her back like an anchor. Her parents enveloping her in that long, aching hug.

And the empty seat. Right beside them.

Paige’s hands finally stilled, but her tears didn’t. They just kept coming, quiet and relentless, carving lines down her cheeks while her heart screamed behind her ribs.

She should have been there. God, she should have been there. To squeeze her hand. To whisper, “I knew it. I never doubted it for a second.” To pull her into her arms and kiss her forehead and tell her, “You deserve all of this. You always did.”

But she wasn’t. And she had no one to blame but herself.

Still, even from the shadows, Paige clung to the sight of her, the way Azzi’s eyes shone through the blur of emotion, the way she waved softly at the crowd, still stunned, still her. The love in Paige’s chest ached like a bruise, tender and deep, and all-consuming.

She didn’t even bother to wipe her tears. Let them fall. Let them testify. Because if this wasn’t love, she didn’t know what was.

Azzi Fudd just went number one overall.

And Paige Bueckers had never been more devastated, or more proud, in her entire life.

She knew she should have left.

The cameras had moved on. The spotlight was dimming, the draft winding down. The night was officially over, at least the part she cared about. But her legs wouldn’t move. Her body wouldn’t listen. She stood rooted in place like a ghost trapped between rooms, unable to cross over.

Because how could she walk away when Azzi was right there?

For months, Paige had only seen her through other people’s eyes — sideline cameras, fan TikToks, grainy highlight reels she watched alone with the sound low, always in secret. Never liking. Never sharing. Never giving herself away. She had made it a habit, keeping her distance like a wound she refused to poke. But tonight?

Tonight, she couldn’t look away.

Azzi’s smile was radiant. Open and unguarded in a way Paige hadn’t seen since before everything broke between them. And it made something sharp twist deep in her gut. Not jealousy. Not quite. Just a longing so big it felt like grief.

Paige stayed. She stayed even when she told herself not to. Even when the voice in her head whispered you don’t belong here anymore. She stayed anyway, selfishly, hungry for one more glimpse, one more memory to take with her back to the quiet apartment and the echo of what-ifs she never dared name.

She laughed under her breath when she saw chaos erupt around the bar — Sarah, KK, Jana, Ice, Kayleigh — all of them crashing into Azzi like a hurricane of sequins and shrieks. Azzi disappeared in the crush of limbs and champagne-slicked hugs, her voice muffled but unmistakable: “Put me down, you’re going to drop me!” 

God, her chest ached.

She should’ve been up there. She should’ve been the one smoothing Azzi’s dress, cracking some terrible joke to make her laugh right before the pick was announced. She should’ve been the grounding hand at the small of her back when the nerves hit. The first person Azzi looked at. The one she whispered, “I did it” to.

But she wasn’t. And that wasn’t on fate. That wasn’t bad luck or cruel timing. That was her. That was all on her.

She took a slow breath, blinking hard. Her eyes were stinging, but she barely registered it. Just one more minute, she told herself. Just one more second of looking at Azzi in the flesh. One more secret memory to carry back to the quiet.

And then—

A hand landed gently on her shoulder.

She tensed instantly, breath stalling in her chest. The noise of the crowd faded to a dull, distant hum. She turned her head slowly, heart in her throat.

Geno Auriemma. Coach.

Still impossibly composed, arms crossed, half in shadow. Wire-rimmed glasses. That same unreadable look that had once terrified her as a freshman, but now, at twenty-four, just made her feel seen. Exposed, even. Like he could see through the armour she’d pieced together for this one night.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just… looked at her. Like he was watching something play out inside her head and waiting for her to stop pretending it wasn’t.

Paige opened her mouth, but her voice caught.

“You’re not as invisible as you think,” Geno said, his voice low, even. Not unkind.

She swallowed hard. “Coach.”

He gave a tiny nod. Then his gaze flicked down, briefly, and Paige followed it, realizing for the first time that tears were falling freely down her cheeks.

She swiped at them quickly, clumsy and embarrassed, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t have to.

“You didn’t think I’d notice you?” he asked softly, not accusatory. Just… patient.

She gave a sheepish smile, looking down. “Tried not to be a distraction.”

He didn’t smile, exactly. But his face softened. “You are not. Not to her. Not to me. Maybe just… to yourself.”

That one hit. She looked down at her shoes. It felt like someone had slid a blade between her ribs.

He let the silence sit for a beat. Then, without ceremony, opened his arms. She stepped into them instantly.

And it wasn’t the kind of hug that made you cry harder. It was the kind that made you remember — the kind that reminded you that love didn’t always leave, that belief didn’t disappear when you walked off the court for the last time. That someone still saw you as whole.

He held her for a long moment. Then pulled back and studied her face.

“You still know how to fight.”

Paige furrowed her brows. “What?”

“For whatever the hell matters. Playing again for the love of the game. Making peace. Telling the truth. Whatever you are scared of.” He nodded toward Azzi. “That? That doesn’t have to be a memory.”

Her throat tightened. “It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” Geno said. “Simple is for stat sheets. This? This is life. It’s messy. It hurts. But it’s not over.”

He paused, glanced toward the crowd. Then added, quieter, “You let the wrong voices in. You shut yourself out. You let fear win. You let other people’s voices drown out your own. But the people who know you, the ones who love you, we never stopped listening. Azzi never stopped.”

Paige inhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the air out of her.

He leaned closer, his voice gentler now. “She still looks for you in every room.”

A pause. Then...

He gave her shoulder one last squeeze and started to step away. But then he paused, glancing back.

“If you are still in love with her,” he added, “maybe stop trying so hard to pretend you are not. You fight like hell on the court. Do it for her too.”

And just like that, he stepped back into the sea of people, leaving her standing there, heart wide open, skin buzzing, eyes locked on the girl who never stopped believing in her.

And this time, Paige didn’t look away. She let herself feel it. All of it. The pride. The ache. The love that had never gone anywhere.

She kept thinking about what Coach said.

The words didn’t hit her all at once — they didn’t echo like some clean, cinematic lesson. No, they dug in slow, like seeds planted in soil she hadn’t realized was still fertile. 

You still know how to fight.

She kept hearing it, over and over, like he’d whispered it into the lining of her jacket, and now it wouldn’t stop clinging to her.

What did he really mean? Of course she knew how to fight. That’s all she had done since her own draft night.

Paige drove with her eyes fixed on the road, one hand loosely on the wheel, the other tapping against her thigh like her body couldn’t sit still. Her chest was tight. Not painful, not yet, just knotted, like her insides were still waiting for the whistle to blow.

She thought back to her rookie season.

Her rookie season felt like it had aged her a decade. Everyone had called it a solid start. The analysts, the talking heads on those sports shows she hated watching but still doom-scrolled through. They all said she was doing well. “Holding her own.” “Showing promise.” "The future of the franchise". But none of them knew her own standards. None of them knew what it felt like to be Paige Bueckers and feel behind. To feel ordinary.

Then the concussion hit. Then the flu that wouldn’t go away. She missed games. Too many. Her rhythm thrown off completely. And just when she was clawing her way back, Chris, their so-called head coach, started benching her more. 

“To protect her,” he’d said. “To manage her minutes.” 

But Paige knew what it really was. He didn’t trust her anymore. 

The media had followed suit, like they always do. The same people who hyped her up as a generational pick now started questioning if she was a bust. They talked about her like she was a failed investment. Like she was some stat gone wrong.

So Paige did what she always did. She shut her mouth and showed up.

She buried herself in the training facility. If she wasn’t running drills with the team, she was shooting alone. Or with her personal trainer. Or watching film until her eyes burned. Every night she left long after the janitorial staff, and in the rare moments someone did catch her, usually a rookie assistant coach, she’d flash a tight smile and lie: “Just finishing up.”

The gym became her whole world. She gave up the rest of it without even realizing. She stopped going out unless it was team-mandated. Let calls go unanswered. Texts turned to grey bubbles she meant to answer and never did.

And the worst part?

It actually worked.

By August, Chris couldn’t justify benching her. The team played better with her. She was dropping 20+ a night. She picked up three triple-doubles in under a month. She adapted.  Stopped waiting for plays that didn’t exist. Took the game into her own hands. Selfish basketball, sure. But in a system with no structure, someone had to lead. She hated it, resented what it turned her into, but it was the only way to survive in Dallas.

And still — it wasn’t enough.

They didn’t make the playoffs. Her stats didn’t matter. Her effort didn’t matter. Not really. The franchise moved on like it always did. Rebuild year. Again.

And now here she was, parked under the flickering neon sign of some mid-range hotel, wondering what Geno had seen in her tonight that she couldn’t see in herself.

You still know how to fight.

For what?

She shut off the engine but didn’t move. Let her forehead fall against the steering wheel.

She was fighting. Every damn day. For minutes. For space. For recognition.

What else was there to fight for? Or… was he talking about something else? Her chest tightened.

Fighting for herself.

Not just for her place in the league, or her stats, or her name on a jersey. But for her. The girl who used to laugh while playing. The one who used to dream about more than just surviving the season. The one who didn’t see love as a distraction, but as fuel.

She hadn’t thought about that version of herself in a long time. The version who smiled after games. Who joked in the locker room. Who threw behind-the-back passes not for show, but for joy. 

Maybe Geno meant that. Fighting to come back to life.

She closed her eyes, tired in a way that minutes and stat sheets couldn’t explain.  Was there still something to fight for beyond basketball?

She missed being seen. Missed the girl whose smile could light her up from the inside out. Missed Azzi. Not just in the vague way you miss an ex. But in the way you miss home.

Paige let the thought land. Let it sit in her chest without trying to bury it.

If Geno was right, if there was still a fight in her, then maybe it was time to figure out where it should really go.

It was 11.11 p.m. when she made the call. The call that, in hindsight, changed everything.

She sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, remote dangling from her hand. The TV flickered through draft highlights. Azzi’s face had lit up like someone flipped a switch inside her chest. All joy, no apology. Paige had known that look once. Knew what it felt like to be lifted by a moment, surrounded by belief, kissed by legacy. UConn made you for that kind of stage. Or at least, it used to.

She muted the TV. Sat still.

And for the first time in a long time, let herself really think.

Not rehearse. Not compartmentalize. Not survive.

Think.

About what this last year in Dallas had really been.

She’d come in determined to make it work, to prove she could turn a broken system into something that functioned. That she could be the cornerstone, even when the foundation was already cracked. There had been flashes of brilliance, a 28-point game in Phoenix, a near triple-double against the Liberty, a couple of clutch blocks that turned heads.

But the flashes never turned into fire.

The coaching staff kept rotating lineups. There was no system, just chaos disguised as “development.” She wasn’t trusted with the ball late in games, wasn’t allowed to be the vocal leader they claimed they needed. And after Chris still did not get fired after 15 straight losses, the team stopped pretending they cared.

By then, she’d been playing through swelling in her right ankle for five games. No one checked in. No one noticed when she started icing it.

That silence had been the loudest thing of all.

She’d told herself it was a test. That she could outwork the noise. That if she kept grinding, kept putting her body on the line, something would shift. She’d earn the role she knew she could fill.

But it never came. Dallas never became hers.

And now? Now they were dangling promises again. Possible a new coach next year. A “fresh start.” A culture reset.

They said they wanted to build around her. That she was part of the future.

But Paige had heard enough locker room speeches this year to know the difference between vision and lip service. They didn’t want her. They wanted the idea of her, the name, the brand, the press clippings. Not the player she was becoming. Not the woman who had clawed her way back from every injury, every setback, every whispered doubt.

She glanced at her Ipad remembering the file her agents sent months ago. She hadn’t opened it since July.

SPARKS OFFER — FINAL, expires 8/1

She’d told him not to bring it up again but she remembered the proposal.

L.A. had come calling when their guard rotation cracked midseason, made a trade offer for Paige that would’ve shifted both rosters. And she’d said no. She was loyal. Stubborn. Too proud to leave before finishing what she started.

But watching Azzi tonight, glowing, surrounded by love, stepping into her next with full ownership, something inside Paige shifted.

What exactly am I still holding onto?

The loyalty? It hadn’t been returned. The pride? It was fraying. The jersey? It felt heavier every game.

And then came the quiet voice she’d buried all season:

You deserve more than surviving.

She stood and crossed the room. Picked up her iPad. Pulled up the document with the Sparks logo on the corner.

Her hands didn’t tremble.

She already knew what it said. Salary. Minutes. A coach who actually called her by name in interviews. A real backcourt partnership with veterans and young platers she respected. A franchise looking for leadership, not just talent.

They wanted her. For real.

And, maybe more than anything , it was L.A. Where Azzi would be playing. Practicing. Living. Not that Paige would ever admit to anyone that this was what tipped her over. But maybe... maybe it mattered.

Maybe she was allowed to want proximity to something, someone, that reminded her what happiness looked like. What belief sounded like. What it felt like to be seen not for what you used to be, but for what you still could become.

But that offer was gone now. Dead paperwork. A door she had closed before it was even open.

And tonight, she wanted it back.

She exhaled slowly and hit the call button. It rang twice before he picked up. “Paige?” Her agent’s voice was hoarse with sleep. She didn’t care.

“I need you to call L.A.,” she said. Straight, no hesitation.

A pause. “L.A.?”

“The Sparks.”

“...Paige, that ship sailed months ago. They moved on. You told me not to push it.”

“I need you to push it now,” she said flatly.

“I don’t even know if they’d take the call.”

“Then make it worth taking.”

She stood and crossed to the window, the skyline blurred behind the heavy hotel glass. Her reflection stared back at her. A little older, a little quieter, and suddenly very clear.

“You told me back in July they saw me as a fit,” she said. “That they liked my game, my court vision, the way I lead under pressure. You said the coach wanted another point guard who could take ownership of the floor.”

Another beat. He exhaled slowly. “Look, I’m just being real with you. They drafted Azzi Fudd tonight. She is the future of that backcourt. I don’t know if there’s room now.”

Paige’s jaw tightened, not at the name, but at the implication. And then, with startling clarity, she said:

“Then that’s exactly why they should take me.”

He was quiet.

“No one has what Azzi and I have,” she continued, voice low and steady. “Not in this league. Not coming out of college. You put us on the same floor and it’s instant. It’s instinct. We read each other without speaking. We cover each other’s blind spots. You don’t need to build chemistry from scratch when it already exists.”

Pressing her palm against the cool glass, New York City sprawled beneath her.

“We would be unbeatable from day one,” she said. “They want to build around Azzi? Fine. Then give her what she deserves, someone who knows her game better than anyone. Someone who will make her shine.”

Her agent was quiet again, but this time it was the kind of silence she could feel leaning forward.

“You sure about this?”

She turned from the window, nodding before realizing he couldn’t see it. “I’m done waiting for things to work in Dallas. I want to be somewhere that sees me. That wants me. I’ll prove I’m worth whatever it takes.”

He sighed, sharper this time. “I’ll make the call. But no promises, Paige. We’re starting from scratch now. And they’ve got leverage.”

“Then get creative,” she said. “Incentives, media push, whatever it takes. If they want a future dynasty, we are it. Together.”

There was a pause. “Okay,” he said finally. “I will get back to you by noon.”

She hung up and let the silence settle again. The screen dimmed to black in her hand, her reflection faint and unfamiliar. She looked older than she felt, like a version of herself that had learned how to swallow every doubt and turn it into steel.

She opened her texts. Found Azzi’s name. No drafts. No overthinking.

PAIGE 0.22 a.m.

Congrats, Azz. I’m so damn proud of you. Go make them remember your name. They have no idea what’s coming.

She read it once. Twice. No emojis. No over explaining. Just truth, stripped down and clear.

Then, before she could second-guess it, before the ghosts in her head could snatch the phone from her hands again, she hit send. 

The message flew off in silence, blue check marks appearing almost instantly. She stared at them, heart in her throat. But she didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t need one. Not tonight.

Because tonight wasn’t about answers or second chances or knowing what would happen next.

It was about doing the damn thing anyway.

It was about showing up. For herself. For the game. For the girl she never stopped loving.

And for the first time in months, when she finally lay down and pulled the covers over her chest, Paige didn’t feel like she was running away. She felt like she had finally taken the first step back.

[bn-stands-for-book-nerd]

Guacamole : I love it, but it's kinda hard to find a decent one here in France. I've got to travel in Mexico to try it how its inventors realy do it and see if I've been decieved all those years. (jk. I think immigrated versions of food are a result of cultural exchange, not "bastardized" versions. What the hell ?)

Olives : Yum ! I love those things however you put it, but I'd understand some people don't like their sour taste.

Humus : Can't eat it much because legume broadly give me stomack ache, but I love hummus. I just have to refrain from eating more than I can digest every time there's some on the table.

Tomatoes : I know of one (1) guy that don't like them, and he still love tomatoe sauce. I'd be surprised if I find out there are any discourse about those fruits. To me they are the taste of summer with chipolata sausages, crisps and ice cream. I love them and I've never found a bad way to have them.

Cannolis : Never had the occasion to try them, but good on good sure looks good.

That's a wierd way to start a discourse, but you asked me to speak about things I love, so I hope my response pleases you ^^

FOOD DISCOURSE: reblog with ur opinions on guacamole, olives, mango, hummus, tomatoes, and cannolis

[leriexoxo]

A Bumpy Ride 2

Chan x Fem Reader

PART TWO

Tags: outdoor sex, exhibitionism, oral (f receiving) fingering, choking, breeding, overstimulation, reckless sex, unprotected sex, cream-pie, breeding kink.

Word count: 3.9k

Summary: Chan gets a little too bold after the car incident and now its like he cant get enough of you, so you’re both sneaking around camp and getting off at odd places. The group also now suspects you both…

A/N: Please read part 1 before starting this, if you’re a new reader.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

<< Part 1 | Part 2

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It was late. The others had finally gone quiet—some asleep in their tents, some still murmuring by the fire.

You were curled up on your sleeping bag, body still sore from the ride, heart still racing whenever you thought about what you’d done. Sitting on Chan’s lap. Feeling him hard and throbbing under you. The way he shifted your panties to the side and slid in like he owned your body.

You hadn’t spoken since.

It was too risky.

Too dangerous to admit how much you wanted it again.

And then—

zzzippppp.

The tent door opened.

You sat up, heart hammering.

“Chan?” you whispered.

He ducked inside, hair messy, hoodie slung low over his forehead. His eyes met yours in the dark—and you felt it. That spark. That silent, breathless need.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said quietly. “Kept thinking about you.”

You swallowed hard. “Someone might see—”

“I don’t care.”

He crawled toward you slowly, eyes never leaving your face. “You think I can forget what that felt like? The way you rode me? The way you came so hard around my cock you soaked through my jeans?”

Your breath hitched.

“Chan—”

“I need you again,” he whispered. “Right now. Just us.”

Your resolve shattered.

You pulled him in by the hoodie, crashing your lips into his. It was messy, hungry, desperate—all tongue and teeth and soft gasps.

Chan shoved his sleeping bag aside and laid you down gently, his body pressed over yours, warm and solid. “No one can hear us,” he murmured, grinding into your hips. “You just have to be quiet.”

You moaned into his mouth, already tugging at his hoodie, needing to feel him—skin on skin. His hands were under your shirt, pushing your bra up, mouth trailing hot kisses down your neck to your chest.

“Missed these,” he mumbled against your skin. “Wanted to suck on them in the car. Fuck, I nearly lost my mind.”

You gasped when he latched onto your nipple, tongue swirling, one hand slipping between your legs. Your shorts were already damp—your ruined panties sticking to your skin. He groaned at the feel of you.

“Still wet,” he whispered. “You’re such a mess for me, baby.”

He slid your shorts down slowly, kissing every inch of your thighs, until he was face-level with your soaked core.

“Don’t scream,” he grinned. “Unless you want them all to know how good I make you feel.”

And then—his mouth was on you.

You slapped a hand over your mouth as his tongue dragged through your folds, slow and steady, teasing your clit before sucking on it hard. He moaned into your pussy like he was starved, and your hips bucked off the sleeping bag.

“You taste even better out here,” he whispered. “Like fresh air and sin.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he tongue-fucked you, building you up with that same expert rhythm he had in the van—only this time there were no seats, no clothes, no one in between.

Just him.

And you.

And the stifled sounds of your orgasm as you came on his face, thighs clenching around his head, every nerve lit on fire.

He licked you through it, slow and loving. “Still with me, angel?”

You nodded weakly.

“Good,” he said, climbing up your body. “Because I’m not done.”

You wrapped your legs around his hips as he pushed in—bare, thick, deep—no barrier, no hesitation. You gasped, clinging to him as he filled you in one slow thrust, bottoming out until your walls clenched tight around him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel like home.”

He started to move—deep, lazy strokes, dragging along every sensitive spot inside you. His hand cradled your face, his other holding your thigh high against his hip.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Even if no one knows it. You’re mine.”

You came again before you could stop it—shuddering around him, mouth open in a silent scream as he fucked you through it, groaning at how tight you squeezed him.

“Gonna cum inside,” he panted, speeding up. “Fill you up again. You want it?”

You nodded, eyes wide. “Yes—please, Chan—”

“Take it, baby. Take all of it.”

He thrusted once, twice—then came hard, hips jerking, cock pulsing as he emptied inside you, filling you to the brim.

You held each other in the dark, breathless and warm, your legs still wrapped around his waist as his cum dripped out slowly.

“Stay with me,” you whispered. “Just a little longer.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

The sun had barely risen when you emerged from your tent, legs still wobbly, skin still tingling from everything Chan did to you hours ago.

You’d cleaned up the best you could. Fixed your hair. Wore a skirt. Tried to act normal.

But nothing was normal. Not after the way he’d touched you. Fucked you. Owned you.

And the second you sat down at the picnic table with the others, coffee in hand and heart pounding in your chest, you felt it—

Chan’s hand, sliding across your thigh under the table.

You flinched. He didn’t even look at you. Just kept eating his granola like he wasn’t trailing his fingertips higher and higher beneath your skirt.

You tried to scoot away subtly.

His hand tightened.

You choked on your coffee.

“Everything okay?” Jisung asked, eyeing you.

You nodded, smile strained. “Just… hot.”

Hyunjin raised a brow. “It’s 7am.”

Chan smirked beside you. His hand reached the top of your thigh—dangerously close to the soaked center between your legs—and you squeezed them together.

“You’re no fun,” he whispered, voice low and sinful.

You gave him a death glare.

His fingers slipped under the hem of your panties.

You gasped. Silently. Eyes wide.

He laughed under his breath.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured. “You like being teased in front of them?”

“Chan,” you hissed.

“Hmm?”

And then—he slid a finger in.

Right there.

At the breakfast table.

With everyone around.

You bit your lip hard. Fought to keep your body still. He moved slow, shallow thrusts—just enough to feel him, to make you crave more. He rubbed your clit in circles, dragging his slick finger back up and teasing your entrance again.

“You’re gonna cum like this?” he whispered. “So needy. So full of my cum from last night.”

You clenched—hard—and he laughed softly, clearly pleased with himself.

Then—

“Chan and Y/n” Minho said, checking a list, “firewood duty. Take the wagon and don’t get lost.”

Chan pulled his hand back instantly. “Got it.”

You were still in shock. Still leaking. And now you were being sent into the woods alone with him?

You were doomed.

⸻

The second you were out of sight from the campsite, Chan pounced.

He shoved you against the nearest tree, lips hot on your throat, one hand cupping your ass under your skirt like he owned it.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he groaned, rutting his hips into yours. “Woke up with your taste still in my mouth. Couldn’t think about anything else.”

You whimpered, pulling him closer. “Then do something about it.”

That was all it took.

He dropped to his knees.

Yanked your panties down in one rough motion—didn’t even take them off, just let them hang around one ankle like a trophy.

“Spread for me,” he said, breathless. “C’mon, baby. Let me see that pretty pussy again.”

You did—leg up on his shoulder, skirt bunched around your waist, back pressed to rough bark.

And then—his tongue was on you.

Slow. Heavy. Devastating.

He licked through your folds like he was starving, groaning into you as your hands tangled in his hair, thighs trembling around his head.

“God,” he muttered, licking up your arousal and dipping his tongue into your entrance. “So fucking sweet. I could live between your legs.”

You gasped when he latched onto your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking in maddening circles.

“Chan—fuck—” you moaned, head thrown back.

“You’re gonna cum like this?” he smirked, voice husky. “All over my tongue again?”

You nodded, thighs squeezing his head as he doubled down—faster, harder, fingers gripping your ass, holding you steady as your orgasm hit fast and hot.

You came with a cry, legs shaking, one hand slapping against the tree for balance as he kept licking—through your orgasm, into the overstimulation.

“Too much,” you gasped. “Please—Chan—”

He stood, mouth wet with you, and kissed you—tongue pushing into your mouth so you could taste yourself.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he growled. “You think I can stop now?”

He flipped you around—your front pressed to the tree, ass out—and shoved your skirt up to your waist. You heard the sound of his zipper, the low curse under his breath as he lined himself up.

And then—he was inside you.

In one deep, possessive thrust, he filled you—raw, thick, so deep you saw stars.

You gasped, gripping the tree bark. “Fuck, Chan—”

“Shh,” he whispered against your neck. “Be quiet, baby. Don’t want the others finding us like this, do you?”

You shook your head, already trembling.

But then he fucked you. Hard.

Thrust after thrust—slamming into you with wild, panting desperation, one hand sliding down to rub your clit again.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “So warm—so wet—this pussy’s fucking mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “Yours—please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

He fucked you like he needed it—like he’d die without you. The wet slap of skin, the squelch of his cum from the night before still leaking out as he thrusted deeper and deeper.

“You ruined me,” he panted. “That night in the tent—you fucking broke me. All I want now is to be inside you. Fill you up again. Mark you.”

You were so close—grinding back against him, whimpering his name.

“Cum for me, angel,” he growled. “Show me this pussy’s mine.”

You broke.

You came hard, legs giving out, only held up by the tree and his firm hands on your waist as you pulsed around him—tight, wet, throbbing.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed, burying himself to the hilt. “Gonna cum—gonna fill you up again—”

And then he was spilling inside you, his cock twitching as he fucked his cum deep, both of you shaking from the intensity.

You collapsed into his chest, still pressed to the tree, his arms wrapping around you tightly.

“Mine,” he whispered. “All fucking mine.”

The forest had never felt so small, your every step heavy as you tried to pull yourself together. The skirt you’d so proudly worn now stuck uncomfortably to your skin, and your panties were still clinging to your thighs, damp and sticky with Chan’s cum.

You reached the edge of the trees, and there they were—the rest of the group, lounging around the campfire, unaware of the debauchery that had just occurred in the woods behind them.

Chan walked beside you, cool as ever, a sly grin on his face as he casually threw an arm over your shoulders, the same arm that had just been knee-deep in your pussy.

“Did you get everything?” Minho asked, glancing at the firewood pile, clearly not expecting much from your “excursion.”

“Yeah,” Chan said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just made you cum twice in the forest. “Everything’s good.”

But then you shifted uncomfortably. You could feel it—his seed still dripping out of you as you stood in front of the group, trying to act like everything was perfectly normal.

Hyunjin’s eyes locked onto yours. He smirked.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, his gaze trailing down your legs, as if knowing exactly what had happened.

You froze. You could feel the wetness between your thighs, the sticky aftermath of Chan’s fuck filling you up like a messy secret, leaking in small trickles.

“Yeah, just, uh… really tired,” you said, a fake laugh escaping your lips. You couldn’t help but cross your legs, trying to hide the evidence of your earlier indiscretions.

Chan, of course, was in full control—his hand slid down to rest on your waist, his thumb tracing small circles on your skin like he hadn’t just fucked you stupid in the woods. His casual demeanor only made you feel more exposed.

“So,” he said, grinning like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, “let’s get this fire going. We’ve got plenty of time to relax before the night.”

Hyunjin raised a brow but didn’t push it further. He’d caught the glimpse, the hint in your flushed face and the way you couldn’t stand still, like you were still trying to adjust to the feeling of being wrecked.

But as you helped with the firewood, things got more complicated.

You kept sneaking glances at Chan, trying to ignore the feeling of his cum slowly leaking down your legs, his eyes on you like he could see right through your nervous act. The heat between your legs was impossible to ignore. You were beyond raw, and every time you moved, you felt a reminder of the mess he’d made of you.

“I don’t know how you’re not shivering,” Jisung commented, eyeing you with a grin. “I thought you’d be cold after being out there for so long.”

You managed a laugh, the sound shaky. “Yeah, it’s a little chilly… but I’m fine.”

Chan leaned over your shoulder, breath warm on your ear, his voice low enough only for you to hear: “You want me to do something about that?” His hand brushed dangerously close to your inner thigh again, just grazing, but enough to send a jolt of heat through you.

“Stop,” you hissed, swatting at his hand.

“Stop?” he said, voice teasing. “Can’t. You’re still making me hard thinking about last night. I can’t help it if you’re the one who made me lose control, baby.”

Your face flushed deep red as you forced yourself to focus on gathering firewood. But you couldn’t escape the feeling of him behind you, the way his body heat radiated against your back as you both moved.

Everyone was starting to notice. You could feel their eyes on you—particularly Hyunjin, who was still smirking like he knew exactly what had gone down.

“Maybe you two should go get the rest of the firewood,” Minho suggested, as if the idea had just come to him. “The pile over by the creek looks like it could use a little more.”

No. No, no, no.

You shot a panicked look at Chan. He grinned.

“Great idea,” Chan said, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the trees again.

“Chan—wait—what if someone sees?” you whispered, voice cracking.

He pulled you in close, breath warm against your neck. “No one’s gonna see. I’ll keep you quiet. Don’t worry.”

The moment you were out of sight, his hands were back on you—grabbing your ass, rubbing your clit through your skirt, making your body ache for more.

“Chan,” you gasped, barely able to keep your voice down.

“You wanted this,” he breathed against your ear. “Now let me fuck you again. You’re so fucking wet for me, even with everyone watching.”

And before you could protest, he shoved you against a nearby tree again—this time even rougher than before, his fingers sliding under your skirt and into your panties without hesitation. He was relentless, fucking you in the shadows while the camp remained blissfully unaware of the mess you were both making.

Your legs shook, your head spinning, and you couldn’t tell if it was the lust or the fear of being caught that made your heart race.

Either way, you were beyond saving now.

The fire crackled in the middle of the camp, the laughter of the group around it, but you couldn’t focus on any of it. You tried to laugh along with their jokes, smile, act like everything was fine—but it wasn’t. You could still feel Chan’s hands on you, his breath in your ear, the aftermath of the heat in the forest still clinging to your skin.

You couldn’t stop thinking about how everything had changed. About how his touch felt different now—more possessive, like you were something he couldn’t let go of.

“Hey,” Minho said, his eyes narrowing as he glanced between you and Chan. “You guys seem… close.”

You nearly choked on your drink.

“Oh, we’re just, uh, getting firewood,” you said, your voice slightly too high-pitched.

Hyunjin raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Getting firewood, huh? That’s a lot of… wood you’re carrying, huh, Chan?” he teased, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You almost wanted to die, but Chan just smirked back, completely unfazed. “Yeah, well, she makes it worth it,” he said, his hand sliding casually to your lower back, pulling you into his side.

Your heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t even trying to hide it now. The possessiveness, the way he looked at you—he made it clear to everyone that you were his.

Chan noticed your hesitation and leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Let them talk, baby. I don’t care.” His breath sent a shiver down your spine. “I’m not letting you go.”

You clenched your thighs together, still feeling the way his presence consumed you.

As the night wore on, the teasing from the group didn’t stop. Jisung kept making suggestive comments about how “in sync” you and Chan seemed, while Hyunjin gave you knowing glances, clearly trying to figure out just how far this had gone.

The longer you stayed by the campfire, the more you realized that everyone knew.

And it was awkward.

The whole night was a blur of playful jabs and stolen glances. You and Chan exchanged quiet moments, brief touches here and there, but the group’s eyes were always on you—almost like they were waiting for something to happen. Something more.

Finally, when the group had started to settle down for the night, Chan pulled you aside. His hand was warm on your back as he guided you towards the tent, away from the group.

“Come here,” he murmured, pulling you into the dimly lit space.

You stepped inside, the warmth of the tent contrasting with the cool night air. The fire outside seemed far away, and the quiet between you two felt almost… intimate.

You tried to ignore the feeling of tension that had grown since this morning—the way your body still reacted to him, how every time he was close, your heart raced.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence. “I guess the whole camp knows now, huh?”

Chan smiled, leaning against the side of the tent. “Yeah, I think they have a pretty good idea.”

“And what now?” you asked, your voice soft. “Are we… Are we just gonna keep sneaking around?”

He stepped closer, his eyes serious now. “I don’t care what they think, Y/n. But I do care about you. I don’t want this to be some secret thing. I want to know where we stand—where you stand.” He reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “What do you want, baby?”

You stared at him for a moment, the weight of his words settling over you.

“Chan,” you began, your voice trembling, “I want you. I want this. But I don’t know if I can handle all the eyes on us. The group—this… everything.”

He nodded, understanding in his gaze. “I get it. But we’re gonna figure it out. No matter what, you’re not going anywhere. And neither am I.”

You felt a warmth spread through you at his words, and without thinking, you closed the space between you and kissed him.

This kiss was different than before. Slower. Softer. There was no rush, no desperation, just a feeling of possessive comfort, like he was claiming you in a different way now—not just physically, but emotionally.

You pulled away, looking at him with a mixture of longing and uncertainty. “But how are we gonna handle all of this?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “One day at a time. Let’s just take it slow. I don’t need to rush, as long as I know you’re mine. And you’ll be the one who decides how fast this goes. Whatever you want, we’ll do it together.”

And in that moment, you realized—he wasn’t just obsessed with you. He was committed.

And that made everything feel a little less messy, even in the aftermath of the forest and the teasing group.

For once, you didn’t have to pretend you weren’t craving him, because now, you both knew where you stood.

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

Authors note: Hey guys! I’m sorry that A bumpy ride 2 is coming months late, i had this sitting in my drafts but i didn’t know if anyone wanted it, until i started get requests for it. For the new readers, please make sure to read part one, its tagged on the intro. Thanks for reading!

I know a lot of requests are being sent daily but i need you to understand that i cannot write them all, except the ones i can relate to or work with, so if you dont get a fic, dont be mad 🫠 i love you!

Taglist: @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 @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness @aeyla @annyeongffs @beppybeesnuggets @iamwritteninyourstars @crisle19 @princesskrystix @deepblueocean97

[briarpatch-kids]

Not to be like, "If I can do it, so can you!!" Inspiration Porn-y Bullshit about my 5k, but like... it would be awesome if you used this as a Sign and started going out and getting a little bit of "safe for you specifically" exercise that makes you feel good and may even help a little with pain. At any rate, the "I had a good workout" pain feels different and better than "I hurt because my disability hurts" pain and its nice sometimes lol.

I started out in a manual wheelchair going around my house once a day, then started going to a walking path and slowly worked my way up to a mile distance, then two, then three. You can race in a wheelchair alongside runners on foot in local races, thats what I do. Think like, "The Great Bumfucksville Peach Run" or whatever. Those kinds of races. Some of them even have a 1 mile run thats way more doable for beginners and people with less stamina.

The important part is that the exercise is safe FOR YOU, and you aren't harming yourself in the long term with it. My doctor recommends for me to go to the point of fatigue but to avoid exhaustion. I take this as stopping when I go "should I do another lap or should I stop here?" instead of going till I can't go any further. It took me like... 6+ months to do my first 5k and about a month to get back into it after a 2 year break, your times may vary depending on condition, fitness, disability, and equipment.

For reference, if this post breaks containment, I have mitochondrial myopathy (think CFS + Muscular Dystrophy) and use a CRT powerchair and face mask ventilator in daily life. I'm in the severe disability category so I'm not just talking out my ass. This was actually very hard for me and I'm proud as hell. 5ks are difficult even for able bodied people.

IMPORTANT EDIT!!!!

Make sure you know what your baseline fatigue feels like and what it feels like when you're about to work yourself into a flare-up!!! That's the only way you can exercise SAFELY with a fatigue heavy disability! Stop BEFORE you reach "flare up" fatigue and dont restart until you reach your baseline again! This is not medical advice, just advice from someone who has worked themself into a flare before doing this.

[yourstrulynobody]

[Draft] Im officially dubbing this AU "Celestial Emergency" since I just want the Celestials and Penumbras to get along man is that too hard to ask

Note: the way I post these is out of order of the timeline, but I will show the correct order eventually (sorry. I like jumping a lot :'>...)

[FAKE SAMS EP] "Sun and Eclipse's TALK"

(storyline of ep under cut)

(this fake ep is inspired by EAPS ep "ECLIPSE IS SORRY! In VRChat" :3)

——————

Eclipse never wouldve expected his sudden indecisiveness on wanting to leave this dimension fully—he always intended to leave this new dimension after the cure was found and made, yet when it was, Eclipse didnt feel like going back. His kids looked so happy here. How could he strip that away from them? But then comes in his promise to Solar Flare, that he'd come back once everything was complete, and in addition to that was how he made his intentions of leaving after everything clear to the Celestials.

So seeking out Terra's advice before leaving tomorrow was a mistake, a shiver that ran up Eclipse's spine when Terra said these words:

"Apologize to Sun before you leave."

...

Apologize... to Sun.

She has to be kidding.

Him being able to admit that Moon—hell, even Solar and Monty—can be smarter than him sometimes were already vomiting words he didnt know he would say. Outloud. In the same room as them.

And his capability to even mutter a half-assed apology to Cosmos didnt mean he could do the same with Sun, yet Terra insisted he could.

So here he was, welcoming himself into Moon's (was it Moon's?) House where he immediately spots Sun, settled onto the couch with his knees to his chest. He seems to have been crying for quite some time as evident by how he would wipe his eyes clear of tears.

Sun's white optics then focus on Eclipse's red ones, although the other bot appeared a bit blurry due to the tears. An uncomfortable stare between them would take over, raising the tension of the room.

Maybe he couldve done this tomorrow and not in the late evening, but no turning back now.

"..wrong timing?..." Eclipse's low voice breaks the awkward silence, drumming his fingers on his thigh.

Sun nodded, sniffling and letting out slow, shaky breaths. Whether Sun was just tired or too upset, he didnt seem to be in the mood to be aggressive with Eclipse, but he did seem to be concerned for Eclipse as he has been for a while. Why?

"H-hows the, uhm—the...." Sun leaned onto the couch, exhaling softly while he finds his words. He pulls on his rays, taking deep breaths. "The—t-the virus?.. Cure?.."

Eclipse keeps an eye on Sun while he makes his way over to the yellow bot, but hesitates to go further when he reaches the couch. He stands awkwardly beside it, his hand gripping the arm of the couch tight. "..Its been fine... Didnt Moon inform you?" His tone is rough around the edges, unable to put his defenses down despite Sun's vulnerability.

"Yeah, but I just... wanted to know for myself."

Sharp claws retract to allow numb fingertipes to claw more on the arm of the couch, and Eclipse sucks his teeth as he looks away, recognizing the worry that came from Sun despite everything Eclipse has done to him. Or maybe it was just because Sun was tiring himself being up this late.

"Why do you care?.." Eclipse grumbles, unable to control the harshness. He cursed under his breath, his fingers digging into the couch's arm further.

For a moment, silence embraces them tightly and continues to when Sun merely shrugged at the question.

"You... dont know?"

Sun shakes his head.

Eclipse blinks, his grasp on the couch releasing. How could Sun not know why? Well, in all honesty, Eclipse himself didnt know why he treated Cosmos that way before... so maybe those acts of major emotion came from Sun, leading to confusion after on why so.

"Whatever." He scoffs as he plops onto the empty spot beside Sun, his upper body forward to rest his elbows on his knees while his other pair of arms awkward crossed on his stomach.

Before the quietness would ruin their conversation, Eclipse would slip out what hes been trying to bury in his throat, words hes often had trouble saying:

"Im sorry."

A moment passed.

"For..." Eclipse groans in frustration, hanging his head lower. His rays attempt to bury themselves into his head, but they could only retract so much, so they fold around his face instead, hiding his shame. "Im sorry for everything." He practically spits out, his tone dismissive.

Sun doesnt respond to that, letting the suffocating guilt and regret overcome the two of them—Eclipse, mainly.

It felt as though he was literally being crushed by all his mistakes, forcing his bent posture to worsen. Hes spoken time and time again about how he was just like the Eclipse before and that, though he was a copy, he 'was no different from him'. But now hes starting to feel like how New Moon felt: the mistakes of your former self transferred onto you to fix. Except Eclipse's 'former self' was this recognized villian who was callous—

"Youre now the person I knew you were capable of being." Sun finally says.

Eclipse's posture straightened with his head turned to Sun, his eyes wide. His fingers grasp his pants tightly, his lips pursing as though he was trying not to do something...

"Man..." Sun smiles, his head tilted to the ground. "Moon and Monty owe me."

..but then Eclipse lets out a snort, caught off-guard by the revelation. He leans on the couch as he snickers behind his hand, trying his best to muffle his laughter to not wake anyone.

"Dammit..." he curses under his breath, laughing still.

Sun pulls his own legs closer to his chest, his rays spinning like a fan around his head in amusement. "Yeah, there kinda was—there was a bet on if youd change and all that. I remember it, but I dont know if Moon does. Monty might, but theyll deny it.

"But seriously," Sun looks over at Eclipse, his white optics so visible in the shadows, making Eclipse see how soft Sun's gaze had gotten. "Youve changed so much... but I... I-I dont know if I'll be able to forgive you at the moment, but..." The corners of his lips tug, his smile widening. "..I know I will.

"..Do you wanna have breakfast with us tomorrow morning?"

Eclipse forces down a smile and nods. "Sure. I'll take the kids with me since theyve been upset when they found out we'd be leaving soon."

A yawn escapes Sun just after he chuckles, making him sink further on the couch. "Figured as much..." His eyes fight back sleep, drifting open and close every few moments until he eventually slumps.

There was... this part of Eclipse that made him act suddenly—was it his parental instincts or a Moon thing?—though he hesitated at first; he swiftly got Sun into his arms, cradling the now sleeping bot tightly and delivered him back to his room upstairs. He found himself tucking Sun in with practiced moves—courtesy of his sons asking him to help them rest every night.

And for a moment, he takes in the scene in front of him, unsure how to react to any of it. Unsure how to take in Sun's calmer features in comparison to his usual sassy demeanour, showing a side Eclipse thought Sun left years ago.

Maybe Eclipse did have a chance of making up with them, to be their family. After all, theres no harm in expanding family... But how would everyone in the other dimension react? To realize the missing man will return home, but that home isnt with them?

[la-patrona-magdalena]

Synopsis:

You always wanted your family to look at you, even just once. At least with a bit of the affection they gave to the portraits of your mother. Too bad that when they finally did, you were looking at the pages of a comic that showed the cruel future.

Inspired by the manhwa: no place for the Fake Princess

Warnings: English is not my first language, so I used a translator. Yandere content, neglect, abandonment, angst (?), allusions to death, original character (not the reader), allusions to torture. I try to keep the gender neutral,but in part there are mostly feminine pronouns. If any warnings are missing here, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This fanfic is for personal reading only. The use of this text for AI model training, data mining, commercial purposes, or any automated reproduction is strictly prohibited without the explicit consent of the author. Translation or reposting to other platforms is also strictly prohibited without the author's permission

Thank you.

You can read the fanfic in its original language (Spanish) on my AO3

Big thanks to @seleneprince for being the English beta reader

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Masterlist

Chapter Three - Seeing into the void

Studying today was hard. At first, as your teacher began the class, you thought the best thing would be to study, sake advantage of the high‑level education being part of this family can offer you for now, but you were still too overwhelmed by last night and this morning. Halfway through, you thought about going to tell your da-… Bruce, if he could let you skip your classes today.

He probably would have agreed, even though you… even though Bruce doesn’t hug you, pay attention to you, or look at you, he never refused your requests—so long as they weren’t about giving you attention.

Which is equivalent to nothing, because you don’t even speak to him when you need something. Almost every time you needed anything, if not every single time, you went through Alfred.

Sometimes you wondered if Bruce even listened to what Alfred told him, or if he just agreed to get you out of his hair. One of these days you’ll ask for something ridiculous just to test your theory.

Though, with what you now know, his attitude toward you makes sense.

In the end, you decided not to say anything because, first, it would be very odd to suddenly skip classes; you already had Tim worried about you after last night, and you didn’t want to worsen his strange behavior. And second, you thought that once your last class ended, you’d feel more relieved.

But you didn’t.

Somehow—though you have no idea how—you made it through today’s lessons until you reached your knitting workshop.

You stared at the balls of yarn in front of you with no enthusiasm. Yarn is the only thing you know that truly belongs to you in this house; neither your family nor your place in this mansion are yours. You never should’ve been here in the first place.

Your room is empty because you wanted to save space for the gifts you hoped they’d give you…after all, you have like five siblings! You have five… five people who live so close to you… and the rest… and… You don't know how to refer to such a large family where you steal someone's place.

Part of you is relieved those spaces remain vacant, if they’d given you anything, you’d feel it didn’t belong to you.

Instead, there are only your basic things, plus decorations, cushions, and blankets you made yourself from yarn you knitted. Some were ugly, but you still loved them. And now, you love them even more, because they’re the only things truly yours in this empty mansion.

Despite that, you haven't started knitting, you haven't picked up the needles, you've already received instructions from your teacher, but you don't have the spirit to start anything.

—Sweetheart, is something wrong?— she asked, noticing your distant gaze. You felt a slight chill run through you when her voice pulled you from your trance. — No… It’s just me… — You didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Sophia had always been so kind to you, and you wanted to tell her everything. But you’d decided not to tell anyone… and now you didn’t know who to trust. What if she was only nice because of the money Mr. Bruce paid her? — We can end the class now, if you’d like. — Her tone was gentle. She approached, as if to place her hand on your shoulder, but stopped herself and lowered her arm. “Today’s work will be your homework, okay?”

Honestly, you have no energy to continue—even though this was your favorite workshop, the one you’d requested yourself. — I’d really appreciate that… — you managed your best smile.

A few minutes later, the room was empty.

You walked through the hallways, feeling even more distant because of what you’d discovered. You had to set a plan in motion to escape this place, and erase every trace proving you’d ever been a Wayne, before the Joker learned of your existence, if he doesn’t already know and hasn’t used that information against you.

You have five years, counting this one, to plan how to flee a clown with a record for breaking out of a maximum‑security prison, and to wipe your identity from the world’s greatest detective.

You returned to your room, left your unfinished assignments from every class on your desk, and instead of beginning them as you normally would, you went straight to look under your bed for the three comics.

Thank goodness Alfred hadn’t tidied up today; with everything that happened, you’d forgotten to hide your daily pill, You saved yourself that trouble and the trouble of explaining everything.

You sat on the bed holding the two comics. Having them back in your hands and in front of you made your body feel heavy and your breathing quicken, you hadn’t touched these comics since before you discovered Tim’s double life.

You took your small Bluey wool plush and squeezed it, breathing as Tim had taught you to the night before.

You have to calm down. You can't panic every time you see the future on some pages. Your crisis will be worse if you let what you saw there happen.

Your heart steadies as air fills your lungs more normally. The poor blue plush in your hands is a little damaged by the force of your grip, you’re sure your nails could have pierced the fabric.

You’ll fix it later. For now, your priority is to think about what you’ll do with your life in the years you have left to plan.

What would someone as brilliant as Bruce or Tim do in your situation?

This isn’t a case, unless you consider your escape and disappearance one.

Well, the first thing you’d do if you were a vigilante hunting a criminal would be… investigate. Gather information.

Exactly. First, you’d compile every detail from the comics you thought might be useful, and with that, you’d figure out your best options for getting away.

Alfred was slightly surprised.

— Since class began, I’ve noticed her distant. I should check that her health is all right… though perhaps she didn’t sleep well. — all your teachers told him. It wasn’t a big deal, until Mrs. Sophia, your favorite teacher from your favorite workshop, said the same thing as she bade him goodbye, leaving much earlier than usual.

He, more than anyone, knew you were behaving out of the ordinary. He wanted to ask young Tim what happened last night, but Tim had already rushed off to solve the case Bruce assigned him. Although Alfred already knew that your strange behavior had begun long before Tim accompanied you to bed, after all, you’d skipped lunch and taken refuge in your room hours earlier.

Dinner’s aroma began to fill the kitchen. Alfred silently replayed your reaction when Tim led you into the study and how you spent the rest of the day isolated. He granted you the space you needed, though it weighed on him to see you so alone.

He rested a hand on the phone, waiting for the pot to start boiling, intending to call Tim just to ask if anything else had happened… but in that moment he received a message from Tim: reserve a plate for dinner and “I'll be there in a while.”

Alfred smiled softly to himself. At least you wouldn’t be alone with him and Damian. Even if you appreciate your silence, a little company never hurts.

He called young Damian, who’d returned from the academy a while ago, then welcomed Tim back, and finally came for you. Knowing you, You yourself would tell him what was happening to you.

When you opened the door to your room, despite looking clearly tired and somewhat sad, you seemed a little more determined. The smile you gave him when he saw him, though forced, had a hint of sincerity. Although he was somewhat relieved that you seemed better than you had this morning, a part of him knew something wasn't right with you.

—Young lady, has it been your stomach or your spirits that decided to go on strike today?— You shook your head, your signature smile still in place—so different from Bruce’s, yet one he cherished like a child’s.

— I’m sorry, Alfred… it’s just that today…— The sentence was left unfinished, just like your energy after investigating. You didn't want to cause more problems. You had enough with Tim. You didn't want to worry the only one who had the decency to look at you in this family.

You gathered information and jotted it down on the back of your knitting-pattern notebook: the things you noticed at first glance—like the Joker’s plan, the day and how he carried out the kidnapping. The location. Simple details, instead of digging deeper or analyzing everything thoroughly. You noticed that, in part, Mr. Wayne seemed a little worried when Serelith first came into their lives. Perhaps you could worry him as a person rather than a family member. It wasn't the best, but you could understand.

—You don’t need to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable, however, you do need to eat some real food at least.

Alfred's voice brought you out of your thoughts. You laughed and walked beside Alfred toward the table. You thought it best to give him an excuse for your attitude. Even if Alfred wasn't the type of person to pressure you, that strange tension in the air that had been there since yesterday might disappear.

If you were a night watchman… What lie would you tell? Maybe something that's already happened before?

— The truth is… some kids at the store recognized me from an old photo. — It was a harmless lie, no one had actually recognized you, not even the clerk. But Alfred hadn’t gone into the store with you, so he wouldn’t know the truth.

— Is that so? — he asked, now giving you his full attention. — Yeah… They… They… — you stammered nervously, thinking about how to continue. Which Alfred interpreted as you having trouble saying what happened. — It’s okay — he tried to comfort you, placing his hand on your back, though it had the opposite effect.

— They told me I was my mother’s murderer! — you suddenly blurted out. It was the most logical thing you could come up with. You remembered a few times when some people had blamed you for your mother’s death… Serelith’s mother. It hurt you, but not so much now, although for some reason it's been a while since you heard those hurtful words from others. It's not like you went out much, but still…

Alfred sighed, partly relieved that you had told him what happened on your own. He knew how sad you got whenever someone brought up her death. The first time he had taken you out had been some time after a teacher posted a picture with you, bragging about teaching a Wayne. The image spread quickly, making you recognizable. He still winced at the memory of how you cried that day after a fan of your mother insulted you.

He stopped for a few moments. Aware that you were close enough to the main dining room for both Damian and Tim to have heard your conversation. He just hoped they wouldn’t react the way young Todd did years ago. Although he wouldn't mind if the kid who insulted you was taught a lesson. Alfred looked at you, knowing there was more to the story, something you were hiding—but for now, what you’d told him would be enough.

— Young one, whatever anyone says about you, adult or child, it will never change who you are. — he consoled you, still with his hand on your back. You stayed silent for a few seconds, his words sinking deeper than you expected them to. You reflected for a moment, it was true, what others said didn’t change anything about you—and before Alfred could react, you bolted down the hallway toward your father’s office.

— Give me a second and I’ll go to dinner! — you shouted excitedly, as Alfred watched you with a smile, seeing you return to your usual energy.

Maybe, just maybe, even with everything you saw. The comics, what you know, it might not be who you are, you're not his family, you're not Serelith, you're not capable enough to be another vigilante, but… Maybe, just maybe he cares enough for you, at least he'd keep you in a safe place. He'd look after you like any other normal civilian.

The little bit of hope you had from that short scene in the comics grew stronger thanks to Alfred’s words, even if they said all those things. It wouldn’t change the small but important things Mr. Wayne had done for you.

If he didn’t care, if you didn’t matter, he wouldn’t take care of you, right? He wouldn’t accept everything you say or even pay your tutors, would he? He might look at you even if not as family, just… just as a human…

— Dick, no. We’ve already talked about this. — Bruce, please.

You stop in front of his office, listening to an argument—and you clearly hear your father’s voice. — It’s what’s best for her. — For her or for you? It’s been so long—we even forgot she existed, for God’s sake! If Tim hadn’t called me this afternoon, I wouldn’t think of her at all…

Ouch….was that Dick? Wait, had they forgotten you? Did you matter so little?. You lean against the wall, curiosity and fear curling up inside you as you listen to what they’re arguing about. — He took a risk, he didn’t even know that she… — That she what? What fault does a little girl have? Why does she deserve this treatment? — Because she’s the reason Avery is dead!

Your heart stops cold. You feel your temperature spike… Avery was the name of…of Serelith’s mother, your supposed mother. Were they talking about you? You should have known when he mentioned Tim… You listen more intently, though your vision is blurring.

— But we could try; maybe she turns out different, maybe with enough effort we can change her… — She’ll never change, Dick.

Your legs start to tremble. Are you mishearing them? Maybe not… they aren’t talking about you—just a coincidence… A coincidence that they mention how Avery died on the day you were born, Serelith’s day… Why is your body sweating so much? And why do you feel so nauseous? Is it because you haven’t been eating properly? — If we don’t try… — It’s not safe, it never will be. It’s the best for everyone, and for her. It’s better if we don’t even look at her, if we treat her like she's been dead since the day she was born.

Move. You try to move, but everything… everything you see turns into black spots.

You can’t afford to doubt now. That's what you told yourself, lying down without sheets and with your legs elevated on some pillows, waking up in your room, with Tim and Damian, both looking worried, and giving each other death glares. Meanwhile, in the distance, you heard two voices.

— Vasovagal syncope, fainting from stress. Aggravated by poor nutrition. It’s harmless, but we should call Dr. Leslie, just in case. — Thank God… When I found her lying in the hallway, I thought…

You cover your ears with your hands, your brow furrowed with stress, you don’t want to hear anything more from Dick or anyone… You just… you just want to plan how to leave…

As you try to silence the noise, ignoring it in your head, you think about what you could do with your life. You should study twice as hard, maybe get a scholarship at some university and then leave the city, no, the country, the farther from that crazy clown the better. You’ll open a small craft shop and live like a civilian, free of the Wayne name. When Serelith appears, it would be all you could do to be removed from the family. You had no idea what kind of paperwork you'd have to do; you just knew you couldn't afford to keep falling like this, even with Alfred's words still on your mind.

At least now you’re free of doubts above all else. You’re going to push yourself to fulfill what Mr. Wayne said: not only not to be seen by the Joker, not to be looked at as a Wayne daughter, but not to be seen by anyone. As if you were dead.

Three weeks weren’t enough for me, aaaaaaaaah. On the other hand, changing the update schedule to Saturdays, Eastern South America Time (UTC-5), was a good idea for my rhythm. For now, updates every three weeks will continue.

I think some tags might be wrong... I apologize for that.

With this, we can more or less say that we’re closing the reader’s arc, taking it all in. In the next chapters, there will probably be more time skips and more focus on the other members of the Batfam. I wanted to wrap this up first. I hope it turned out better than I think it did. 😔

Anyway, thank you again for the lovely messages you leave on each chapter. Even if I don’t reply to all of them or take until the next update to respond, please know that I really appreciate them and I read each and every one of you. Have a great da

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[jkwrites-m]

Daddy Kookie (1)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, idol au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 8.9k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, smut, angst, abandonment, ghosting, young (teenage) pregnancy, mention of parental death, mention of absent parent, brief homelessness, shelters, unintentional parental neglect, resentment, anger, fighting, arguments, jk is an ass, depression, betrayal, heartbreak, cursing, struggle,, explicit: PRAISING, kissing, missionary, oral (f. & m. receiving), breastplay. 

Note: remember! bold is jk’s pov - regular text is y/n’s

A/N: happy father’s day! here’s part 1 of Daddy Kookie! i love this fic and hopefully you do too! part 1 was originally 15k but apparantly i hit a limit 🙄 enjoy! 🫶

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

♡ next

═══════

The summer air was thick, like it always was in late July. Sticky and slow, like time itself didn’t want to move. I sat on the old swing at the edge of the neighborhood park, the rusting chains and wood chips always got stuck in my sandals. My fingers twisted the hem of my dress, over and over, and I tried not to check my phone again.

But I did.

He was late.

Again.

Kookie: omw. don’t cry just yet lol

Y/N: shut up

Kookie: make me 😏

I rolled my eyes and bit back a smile, but my chest ached anyway.

This was the last night.

The last night before everything changed.

I heard his footsteps before I saw him. His sneakers slapping pavement, short breaths from running too hard. When I looked up, there he was. Jeon Jungkook, all sweat-damp hair and crooked grin, black T-shirt clinging to his chest, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder.

“Y/N!”

“You’re late,” I called out.

“I’m never late,” he panted, bending slightly as he reached me. “The world just hasn’t caught up with me yet.”

“You mean you stopped for bubble tea.”

He held out the cup proudly. “Mango with weird tapioca things. Just how you like it. Don’t say I don’t love you.”

God.

Love.

That word hit differently when you knew it might be the last time you’d hear it.

“I don’t need bubble tea to know that,” I murmured, fingers brushing his as I took it.

He smiled that soft, boyish smile- the one that had ruined me since I was thirteen.

“Come on. Let’s walk.”

═══════

We walked past all our usual places. The school where we shared our first kiss behind the gym building, the corner store that stayed open late just for us, the alley where he told me he wanted to be more than just another small-town kid.

The whole world felt like it was holding its breath.

“You packed everything?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He didn’t look at me. “Manager-hyung’s picking me up at 7 tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

“I still can’t believe it,” I whispered.

He glanced at me. “I know.”

“You’re really leaving.”

“I am.”

My throat burned. “What if… what if we don’t make it?”

His steps faltered, just for a second. “What?”

“What if Seoul changes you?” I stopped walking. “What if you forget about me?”

He turned to face me, forehead creasing. “Y/N…”

I hated how my voice trembled. “It happens, Jungkook. People grow apart. You’re gonna be around beautiful idols and trainees and fans, and I’ll just be here.”

“You won’t be just anything,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re everything to me.”

I wanted so badly to believe that.

“But what if-”

“I won’t forget you,” he cut in. “I couldn’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I’m promising it anyway.”

His arms wrapped around me. He always smelled like detergent and skin and something warm, something that felt like home. I buried my face in his chest, trying to freeze time. I didn’t want the night to end. I didn’t want this part of my life to end.

“I’m scared,” I admitted into his shirt.

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. “Because you’re mine. And no matter where I go, you’re still gonna be mine. Okay?”

I nodded, even though I didn’t really believe it.

“Come with me,” he said. “Someday. I’ll bring you out. You’ll see. We’ll be together again.”

I looked up at him. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

We didn’t go home after that.

Instead, he led me across town, through the short forest trail that led to the old abandoned greenhouse- the place we used to run to when we skipped class or fought with our parents or just wanted to disappear for a while. The glass was broken in places, the air smelled like earth, and the moonlight poured in through the jagged skylight above us.

He laid down the blanket. I took off my shoes. We said everything with our eyes before our mouths could catch up.

It happened slowly.

His hands on my skin like he was learning me all over again. My lips on his jaw, his throat, the space between his ribs where he always twitched when I kissed him. We undressed like we were unraveling something sacred. We moved like we had forever, even though we both knew better.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against my collarbone. “You don’t even know.”

I tried to memorize the weight of his words. The way he said my name, like it was his favorite song. I kissed him like he was the only boy I’d ever love.

Without breaking our embrace, I shifted, my hands moving to the waistband of his jeans. His breath hitched as I undid the button, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of his lower abdomen. 

The "Y/N," he groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and surrender. I looked up at him, my eyes sparkling with mischief, and he chuckled softly, his hands tangling in my hair.

"You’re going to be the death of me," he teased, but there was no real complaint in his tone.

I didn’t respond, instead sliding down his body, my lips trailing kisses along the way. His chest, his stomach, the trail of hair that led downward- I savored every inch of him, my touch deliberate and worshipful. 

When I reached the hem of his boxers, I paused, looking up at him through my lashes. His eyes were dark with desire, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"You look so good," I murmured, my fingers hooking into the elastic band. 

He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard. I pulled them down slowly, revealing his thick, hard length. My mouth watered at the sight, and I leaned in, my tongue flicking over the tip.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, his hands gripping the blanket tightly. 

I smiled against his skin, my lips wrapping around him, my tongue swirling and teasing. He tasted like salt and desire, and I moaned softly, the sound vibrating against him. His hands moved to my hair, guiding me gently, his praise washing over me like a wave.

"You’re incredible," he whispered, his voice thick with need. "So fucking beautiful."

I hummed in response, my mouth moving slower, deeper, my hands cradling his balls. His hips twitched, and he let out a sharp breath, his body tensing. 

"Baby, I- I don’t want to come yet," he managed, his voice strained. I pulled back slightly, my lips brushing against his sensitive skin.

With a gentle push, he flipped me onto my back, his eyes never leaving mine. His hands moved to my waist, sliding up to cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. I arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips. 

"You’re so perfect," he murmured, his lips trailing down my neck, my collarbone, his kisses leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

His hands moved lower, his fingers traced the lace of my panties, his touch feather-light, before slipping beneath the fabric. I gasped as he found my core, already wet and throbbing with need.

"You’re so ready for me," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. 

His fingers dipped inside me, slow and deliberate, his thumb pressing against my clit. I moaned, my hips bucking against his hand, my body already on the edge.

"Jungkook, please," I begged, my voice desperate.

He chuckled softly, his lips moving lower, kissing down my stomach, his beard scratching my skin in the most delightful way. 

"Impatient, aren’t we?" he teased, his breath ghosting over my sensitive flesh.

Before I could respond, his mouth was on me, his tongue pressing into my cunt, his fingers still moving inside me. I cried out, my hands tangling in his hair, my body arching off the blanket. He ate me out with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his tongue firm and insistent, his mouth devouring me. My breath came in short gasps, my body tightening as pleasure coiled low in my belly.

"Jungkook, I’m close," I panted, my voice shaky.

"Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice muffled against my skin. "Let me feel you fall apart."

His words sent me over the edge. My body shook as my orgasm ripped through me, my cries echoing in the greenhouse. He drank me in, his mouth relentless, his fingers still moving, milking every last drop of pleasure from me. When I finally came down, I was trembling, my body boneless and sated.

He looked up at me, his eyes dark with love and desire, his lips swollen from his efforts. 

"You’re so fucking beautiful when you come," he murmured, climbing up to hover over me. 

His eyes held mine, his expression intense, as he positioned himself at my entrance.

"I love you, Y/N," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "So much."

I reached up, cupping his face, my thumb brushing over his cheek. "I love you too," I replied, my voice soft but steady.

With a slow, deliberate thrust, he slid inside me, filling me completely. I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders, my body welcoming him like a missing piece. He moved with a rhythm that was both tender and urgent, his hips rocking into mine, his breath coming in short gasps.

"You feel so good," he groaned, his forehead pressing against mine. "So fucking perfect."

I wrapped my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. His hands moved to my hips, guiding our movements, his thrusts becoming more insistent. The blanket rustled beneath us, the only sound in the greenhouse aside from our ragged breaths and soft moans.

"Jungkook," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I’m close again."

"Me too," he admitted, his voice strained. "But I want to last, want to feel you come apart again."

His words sent a fresh wave of desire through me. I tightened around him, my body clenching, and he groaned, his pace quickening. 

"Fuck, baby, you’re going to make me lose it," he warned, his voice a rough whisper.

"Then lose it with me," I urged, my hands gripping his shoulders. "Together."

His thrusts became frantic, his body pouring into mine, his breath coming in sharp gasps. I met him with equal urgency, my hips rising to meet his, our bodies moving in perfect sync. The world narrowed to just the two of us, our hearts pounding, our breaths mingling, our bodies intertwined.

"Y/N," he groaned, his voice breaking. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

His words were my undoing. My body shattered around him, my orgasm crashing over me like a wave, my cries filling the greenhouse. He followed soon after, his hips stuttering, his body tensing as he came, his seed spilling deep inside me. 

"Baby," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his forehead pressing against mine. "I love you."

Afterwards, we just lay there, tangled together, breathing like we were still trying to catch up with what we’d done. I rested my hand over his heart and closed my eyes.

“I want this to last,” I whispered.

“It will.”

“You can’t promise that either.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But I’ll try.”

═══════

The sun came up too soon.

And the goodbye was worse than anything I imagined.

We stood at the train station platform, my fingers gripping his tightly like maybe I could anchor him here if I just held on hard enough.

His manager honked from the van. He glanced back, and I knew this was it.

“I’ll text you tonight,” he said. “And every night after that. Until you’re with me again.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you too.”

The kiss was desperate. Rough. Shaky. Everything we didn’t say poured into it.

Then he was walking away.

And I was standing alone with warm tears streaking down my cheeks, mango bubble tea now melting in my hand, watching the boy I’d loved since middle school disappear into a dream that didn’t have room for me.

═══════

The first few days weren’t so bad.

He texted me every night, just like he promised.

Kookie: made it safe. dorm is small but nice. i miss you already. ❤️

Kookie: long practice today. i thought about you the whole time.❤️

Kookie: you’d laugh at how sore my legs are rn lol.

I’d fall asleep with my phone pressed to my chest, rereading his words until my eyes burned. I’d replay our last night together on a loop- his breath, his voice, his promises. I believed them. I really did.

But by the third week… something changed.

The texts started coming later. Sometimes not at all. I’d wake up to a half-hearted reply.

Kookie: sorry long day love you

No punctuation. No emojis. No “good night” kisses made of letters.

The first time I called him, it rang until voicemail. I remember pacing my bedroom, eyes fixed on the screen like maybe I could will it to light up with his face. Maybe I could make his voice come back through sheer force of want.

It didn’t.

I left a message.

Then another one.

And another.

By the fifth one, I just hung up without saying anything. My voice felt stupid anyway. Useless.

“I’m just tired,” he told me when I finally got a hold of him. “Training’s intense, no breaks, you know how it is.”

I nodded like I understood, but I didn’t. How could I?

“You still think about me?” I whispered.

“Of course,” he said, but his voice didn’t smile like it used to. “I just… I gotta focus right now. It’s only temporary, okay?”

Temporary.

That word haunted me.

═══════

Two months passed, and I could feel him slipping further and further away, like trying to hold onto water with my bare hands. Every time I reached, there was less of him.

And then…

He disappeared completely.

No texts. No calls. His name grayed out on my phone like a ghost I wasn’t allowed to summon anymore. I tried finding him on Instagram. Nothing. I tried calling again- straight to voicemail. I stared at my screen, at the message that wouldn’t deliver.

Blocked.

He blocked me.

I don’t remember the exact moment I realized it. I just remember dropping my phone onto the carpet and staring at it like it had betrayed me. Like he had reached out of it and slammed a door in my face.

It didn’t feel real.

I sat there on the floor for what felt like hours. My chest was tight, my throat raw from screaming into the silence of my room. My mom had died the year before, and my dad was never in the picture. I didn’t have anyone to run to, no one to sit me down and tell me it would be okay. No one to curse him out for me. I was just a girl. Alone. Heartbroken.

I wanted to hate him.

I tried to.

But I loved him more than I hated what he was doing to me.

And then, as if the universe hadn’t already chewed me up enough…

I noticed I missed my period.

Twice.

At first, I blamed the stress. The sleepless nights. The crying. The nothingness.

But deep down, I knew.

I bought the test alone. Shoved it into the bottom of my bag like it was a weapon I wasn’t ready to use. I waited until I was home, shaking hands and knees pressed to the bathroom tiles.

I cried the second the result showed.

Two pink lines.

Positive.

Pregnant.

Eighteen years old.

No family.

No boyfriend.

No plan.

I curled up on the bathroom floor, my arms wrapped around my stomach, and I sobbed until I felt sick. I kept whispering his name, like maybe he’d walk through the door and tell me it was a mistake, that he was still here, that we were still “we.”

I didn’t even know who he was anymore.

Still… I tried.

I called him one last time. I held the phone so tight my fingers went numb. It rang once. Twice. Then-

This number is unavailable.

I texted him again, even though I knew it was useless.

Y/N: please. I need to talk to you. this is important.

Not delivered.

I switched apps. Tried emailing. Messaging. Searching his schedule online. I was grasping at digital smoke.

I had no one left.

Even his parents never liked me. They were polite to my face, but always made it clear Jungkook had bigger things ahead. “You’re young,” his mom had once told me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t hold him back.”

I never wanted to.

I just wanted to stand beside him while he flew.

Instead, I was falling, alone.

I packed what little I had. Took a bus to the airport. I didn’t even leave a note behind. There was nothing left to say. Nothing left to hold onto. Nobody to even tell. Just me… and this tiny, silent thing growing inside of me.

My baby.

Our baby.

I didn’t know their name yet. I didn’t know anything. But I made a promise that night, curled up on a stained mattress in a cheap airport hotel far from everything I’d ever known:

I would protect them.

I would never let them feel like I did.

Unwanted.

Forgotten.

Blocked.

═══════

I arrived in the new city with a duffel bag, two hundred and twelve dollars, and a baby growing inside of me, 6,000 miles away from home. 

No plan. No apartment. No friends.

I stepped off the bus into the kind of summer heat that clung to your skin and made your clothes stick to you like regret. My phone was nearly dead, the screen cracked at the corner from how hard I’d thrown it across a motel wall two nights ago. I didn’t care. No one was calling anyway.

I sat on a bench at the edge of the terminal, one hand pressed over my stomach like I could already feel them there.

My baby.

They didn’t have a name yet, or a nursery, or a crib. They didn’t even have a dad anymore. All they had was me- and that was the scariest part of all. I didn’t feel like enough.

The first shelter I tried was full.

The second told me I needed a referral.

The third let me in. I shared a room with four other women, one of whom cried in her sleep and muttered something about her ex hurting her. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t tell them anything about me either. It was safer that way.

At night, I curled up on the bottom bunk and held my belly, whispering things I wasn’t sure they could hear yet.

“It’s just us, okay? I’ll figure it out. I swear.”

I found a job cleaning tables at a twenty-four-hour diner two blocks from the shelter. The manager was a woman in her forties with no patience for excuses, but she handed me a uniform and didn’t ask about my belly.

“You’re not showing yet,” she said, like that was a blessing.

I kept my head down. Worked the night shift. Saved every penny.

Eventually, I found a room to rent. It was in a basement Concrete floors, mold in the corners, no real windows. The shower only had cold water and the radiator made a noise like it was coughing up ghosts.

But it was mine.

I taped a picture of the city skyline to the wall and called it home.

I went to free clinics. I got checkups. I downloaded baby apps that told me how big she was each week. “This week, your baby is the size of a lemon.” I started drinking more water. I learned how to cook cheap meals with frozen vegetables and rice. I worked two jobs. I stopped checking social media. Stopped googling his name. Stopped looking for his face in crowds.

I stopped crying. Mostly.

There were still nights I’d wake up gasping, hand pressed to the place where he used to be. Still dreams where I heard his voice calling my name, the way he used to when he was late and running through the park.

But I didn’t answer those dreams anymore.

I just turned over and held my stomach tighter.

Months passed like smoke. Time blurred. The city didn’t care who I was. And maybe that was good. I could be anyone here. I could rewrite my life.

By the time I was seven months pregnant, I found a tiny apartment above a corner bakery. The floor creaked with every step. The walls were too thin. But the landlady was kind and let me paint the spare room a soft pastel yellow.

“This for a little one?” she asked one day.

I hesitated, then nodded.

“She’s lucky to have you,” she said.

No one had ever said that to me before.

I cried after she left.

═══════

Eun Ae.

That was the name that came to me one morning, soft and sudden like sunlight through a dusty window. It means grace with love.

She would be both.

The last month of pregnancy was the hardest. I didn’t have anyone to hold my hand. No baby shower. No prenatal classes. Just me, standing in line at a dollar store, buying diapers and bottles and a secondhand crib I found online.

I gave birth alone.

The nurse held my hand. She told me I was strong. That I was doing great. That my daughter was beautiful.

And she was.

God, she was.

Tiny, red-faced, wailing like she’d been waiting her whole life to meet me. When they laid her on my chest, I couldn’t stop crying. I whispered her name over and over, like maybe that would make it real.

“Eun Ae,” I said. “My Eun Ae.”

She looked nothing like me.

She had his eyes. His mouth. His hair.

She looked like every part of me that still wanted to believe in love and every part of me that remembered how much it hurt.

I pressed a kiss to her forehead and made another promise.

“You’ll never have to beg anyone to stay.”

═══════

The first night home with Eun Ae, I didn’t sleep at all.

She screamed the way newborns do- without rhythm, without reason, as if her tiny lungs couldn’t believe they were real. I sat in the corner of the room on a second-hand rocking chair, blinking through exhaustion and cradling her in my arms. My entire body ached. My stitches throbbed. My back felt broken.

But I rocked her anyway.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Over and over, whispering songs I only half-remembered from childhood. She didn’t care. She just needed a heartbeat.

I gave her mine.

The first few weeks were chaos.

Feeding every two hours. Diapers like clockwork. Sleepless nights. Leaking milk. Guilt every time I thought I wasn’t doing enough. Or worse- when I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

But then she’d curl her hand around my finger.

Or smile in her sleep.

And I’d remember that none of this was her fault.

I called her “my tiny storm.” Because that’s what she was: chaotic and wild, but somehow still beautiful.

═══════

I returned to work when she was six weeks old. The bakery downstairs hired me as a morning assistant. I wore Eun Ae in a wrap across my chest while I sliced bagels and filled coffee orders. No one complained. Most people tipped me extra.

“She must look just like her daddy,” one customer said one morning.

I froze.

Smiled too hard.

Changed the subject.

The truth was, I never said his name out loud anymore.

Not even to Eun Ae.

He had vanished so thoroughly that even the word “Jungkook” felt like a spell I couldn’t afford to speak.

But he was there- in her face, her laugh, her temper. She had his eyes. Big and dark and full of questions she couldn’t ask yet. She furrowed her brow like him. Pouted like him. And when she cried, she had this broken, breathy hiccup at the end, just like the way his voice cracked when he used to tell me goodbye.

She was her father’s daughter.

Even if he’d never meet her.

═══════

By the time she turned one, we’d found a rhythm.

I was back in school part-time. Community college courses at night while she slept in a donated crib beside my desk. I studied until my eyes burned, filling notebooks with marketing notes, dreaming of someday doing more than just surviving.

I wanted to build something for her.

She deserved that.

Every birthday, I bought a cupcake and lit one candle, even when she couldn’t understand it. I sang softly and held her hand and whispered promises into the night.

I kept a photo of him in my drawer.

The last one we ever took together. He was in his hoodie, arms around me, and I looked so… happy. I barely recognized myself.

I never showed it to her.

But I couldn’t throw it away either.

Sometimes I wondered if he knew.

If he felt it.

If, somewhere on some stage with flashing lights and screaming fans, his chest ever ached the way mine did.

I didn’t hate him anymore.

I just couldn’t afford to miss him.

Six years passed.

Eun Ae was smart. So smart. She talked early, walked early, and made up songs about things like cereal and socks and the moon. She loved animals, especially tigers. She called me “Mama” with this bright, sing-song voice that made strangers smile in grocery store aisles.

And still, no one knew about him.

I kept her away from the internet. I didn’t play their music. I never watched interviews or read the headlines.

It was better that way.

Cleaner.

═══════

Until one day, while organizing an event at the university concert hall where I worked as the assistant event coordinator, my supervisor slid a folder across the desk.

“Biggest show we’ve ever booked,” she said. “This one’s yours to coordinate.”

I opened the file.

And my entire body went still.

BTS. Three nights. Sold out.

I stared at the name in big, bold letters.

And below it, the list of members.

Jeon Jungkook.

The air rushed out of my lungs.

My supervisor didn’t notice. She was already rattling off logistics and budget numbers.

“Great exposure for us,” she said. “They’ll be here for four days total- day one for setup and press, then two shows. You’ll be their point of contact. Got it?”

I nodded, because what else could I do?

“Yes,” I said.

But inside, I was unraveling.

Seven years.

It had been seven years since he looked at me and said I was his forever.

Now he was coming back.

And he had no idea that his forever was already here.

Alive.

Walking.

Talking.

Waiting.

═══════

The day they arrived, I wore my best poker face.

I dressed in all black clean, simple, professional. My badge clipped to my belt. Hair up. Lips-red, pressed into a neutral line. I stood at the edge of the venue loading dock with my clipboard, reading the itinerary like it could anchor me.

It didn’t.

My heart was a riot in my chest.

I kept telling myself I could do this. That seven years was long enough to kill any feelings I once had. That I was over it. Over him.

But then the black vans pulled in, and I felt every nerve ending ignite.

I kept my eyes fixed on the roster list in my hand as the van doors slid open.

BTS spilled out like lightning in motion- laughing, stretching, waving at the crew. They looked like the versions of themselves I had seen in posters and screens from far away but never allowed myself to truly absorb.

Namjoon stepped out first, tall and calm. Then Jimin, soft smile already charming the camera crew nearby. Taehyung followed with a bored yawn and sunglasses perched low on his nose.

And then-

Jungkook.

He jumped down from the last van like it was nothing. Hoodie pulled over his head. Headphones around his neck. Black jeans, chunky boots, silver rings on his fingers. He looked older now. Sharper. His hair was longer, his jaw more defined, his tattoos visible beneath his sleeves.

But it was still him.

Still the boy who once whispered that I was his forever.

Still the boy who disappeared.

His eyes scanned the lot casually- and then locked on mine.

Time stopped.

His whole body froze.

For a moment, the chaos around us blurred. Managers shouting, equipment wheeling past, cables being dragged across the ground. I couldn’t hear anything. Just the thump of my heart. The blood in my ears.

And those damn eyes.

He took a hesitant step forward.

“Y/N…?”

His voice hit me like a sucker punch to the stomach.

I turned away before he could say anything else.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” one of the coordinators called. “Can you walk the manager through the setup list?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice too steady. “Right away.”

I didn’t look at him again.

I didn’t acknowledge the way the air had shifted around me. I didn’t let my expression crack, even as I felt his gaze burning into the back of my head like a secret trying to claw its way out.

I shook hands with BTS’s manager. Bowed politely to each member.

Taehyung smiled at me. “You’re the event coordinator?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m managing your team’s tech logistics while you’re here.”

“Cool,” he said. “You look familiar.”

I forced a smile. “I get that sometimes.”

Jungkook hadn’t moved.

He just stared.

I could feel him behind me- silent, motionless, stunned.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” the manager said again, “can we review the dressing room assignments?”

“Of course,” I replied. “Right this way.”

As I walked toward the venue entrance, clipboard in hand, I could hear Jungkook’s footsteps start and stop behind me like he didn’t know what to do. Like the weight of the past was catching up to him too fast to carry.

I didn’t let him catch up.

I stayed with the manager. I kept my tone clipped. Professional. Distant.

He didn’t deserve anything else.

═══════

That night, I put Eun Ae to bed and sat on the couch in silence.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I stared at the TV without watching it. The screen glowed, casting soft shadows across the living room. I could still hear his voice. That tentative, stunned way he said my name.

Y/N.

I hadn’t heard him say it in seven years.

I hadn’t wanted to hear it ever again.

And yet…

I had.

I brought my knees up to my chest and rested my chin there. The silence of the apartment buzzed in my ears. My phone sat on the coffee table, screen dark.

He hadn’t reached out.

Not that I expected him to.

But he had seen me.

Really seen me.

And tomorrow, we’d be back in the same building again-  for rehearsals, for the show, for more pretending.

I looked down the hall where my daughter slept soundly in her room. Her small night light flickered against the soft yellow walls. She didn’t know.

She didn’t know that her father had stood not twenty feet from her today.

She didn’t know that the boy who left me all those years ago… was back.

And I didn’t know what I was going to do about it.

═══════

I didn’t believe it was her at first.

It was like seeing a ghost- only sharper. More real. Like memory had morphed into skin and bones right in front of me. She wasn’t a thought anymore. She was standing there, alive, breathing, clipboard in hand.

Y/N.

After all these years. After everything.

My heart stopped when our eyes met.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t even flinch.

She looked right through me.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. The rest of the world faded into static as she turned away and walked past me like I was no one.

I didn’t know what to do.

So I did nothing.

I stayed quiet through sound check. Missed two cues. Forgot lyrics I’ve known for years. My hands shook on the mic. Jimin kept shooting me glances. Namjoon gave me a look like, we’ll talk later.

I couldn’t focus.

Because there she was- just feet away, giving stage directions to the crew, typing something on her phone, hair tied up, face calm.

She was even more beautiful now.

Older. Stronger. Softer in the eyes but sharper in the jaw. The kind of beautiful that made you regret ever looking away.

After rehearsal, we went back to the hotel.

Dinner was quiet until Taehyung broke it.

“So…” he said, glancing at me. “You okay?”

I didn’t answer.

Jimin raised a brow. “You’ve been weird all day.”

“Like, weirder than usual,” Hoseok added.

Jin leaned in. “What happened at the venue?”

Namjoon sat back. “That woman- the coordinator. You knew her, didn’t you?”

I stared down at my plate. My appetite was gone.

“Her name’s Y/N,” I said softly.

Yoongi’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

“No fucking way,” he said.

They all froze.

Jimin’s jaw dropped. “That Y/N?”

“From Busan?” Jin added.

“The one from… before you left?” Taehyung asked carefully.

I nodded.

“Holy shit,” Hoseok breathed. “She’s here? She’s working the tour?”

“I didn’t know,” I said quickly. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“She looked… fine,” Namjoon said slowly. “Like, completely put together.”

“She’s not fine,” I murmured. “I can tell.”

Yoongi crossed his arms. “Well, what did you expect? You ghosted her, man.”

“I didn’t-”

“You blocked her,” he cut in. “You changed your number. You dropped off the face of the Earth to her.”

“I panicked!” I snapped. “I didn’t know what I was doing. Everything was moving too fast, the training, the company, the rules. They didn’t want me in a relationship, especially not one that serious. I didn’t know how to tell her. So I didn’t.”

“You emotionally cheated on her dude,” Taehyung said, not unkindly. “And then what? You blocked her?”

“I thought…” I exhaled. “I thought she’d be better off.”

“No one’s better off being abandoned,” Jimin said flatly.

I gritted my teeth. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“But you did,” Jin said.

I didn’t say anything.

There was nothing left to say.

Silence stretched across the table.

Then Namjoon asked quietly, “Do you still love her?”

The words caught me by surprise.

But the answer came easy.

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Yes, I still loved her.

Even now.

Even after all this time.

Even after everything.

“She looked right through me,” I said, more to myself than to them. “Like I didn’t exist.”

“Maybe to her,” Yoongi said, “you don’t.”

Those words hit harder than I expected.

I left the table first.

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed for what felt like hours.

I scrolled through old photos. Scrolled through pain. Tried to find her number in my blocked contacts. Unblocked it.

I stared at her name like it would bring her back.

Jungkook: Y/N. Can we talk? Please.

Sent.

Three seconds later:

Not delivered.

I tried again.

Same result.

Her number was gone.

Or changed.

Or… both.

I dropped my phone onto the nightstand and buried my face in my hands.

Seven years.

And I still loved her like I was eighteen and scared and stupid.

Now?

Now I was twenty-five.

Still scared.

Still stupid.

But I wasn’t running this time.

Tomorrow, I’d find her.

Tomorrow, I’d try again.

Because I had to.

Because maybe I couldn’t fix the past…

But I could fight for the future.

═══════

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of little feet sprinting down the hallway.

“Mamaaaaa!”

Before I could sit up, Eun Ae launched herself onto the bed like a missile. Her tiny body landed across my stomach with an “oomph,” and she laughed like she was the funniest person alive.

“You’re heavy,” I groaned.

“I’m growing,” she declared proudly, scooting up until her nose was pressed against mine. “You said if I eat all my strawberries I’ll grow big. I ate three yesterday.”

“Three strawberries, huh?” I mumbled, still half-asleep. “Better call the Olympics.”

She giggled again and flopped next to me, tangling her legs in the sheets.

I stared up at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath.

It was a new day.

The day after seeing him.

And somehow, the world hadn’t ended.

I glanced at the clock. 6:43 a.m.

Too early. Always too early.

But I was used to it. Motherhood didn’t care about sleep.

“What’s today?” Eun Ae asked, her voice soft now. “Is it a school day?”

“Nope,” I said. “School’s closed for the teacher training day, remember?”

Her eyes lit up. “So I get to go to work with you?”

I hesitated.

Technically, no. Technically, she wasn’t allowed backstage. Technically, I was supposed to find childcare.

But my sitter canceled last minute. And I didn’t have family to call. No backup plan.

And this morning wasn’t just a setup day for any show.

It was BTS’s first rehearsal.

Jungkook’s first rehearsal.

My stomach turned.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. “You’re coming with me.”

“Yay! Can I wear the sparkly pants?”

“Maybe not sparkly, baby. Let’s go for comfy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Boring.”

“Functional.”

“Boring,” she repeated dramatically.

We argued for five more minutes before I managed to get her into soft leggings and a hoodie. I packed her a lunch- pb&j, apple slices, string cheese, a juice box- and stuffed her favorite drawing notebook and markers into her backpack.

═══════

By the time we got to the venue, I had mentally rehearsed every scenario in which she might accidentally wander into rehearsal. And every possible excuse I could use to explain why she looked so much like one of the men on stage.

I didn’t let my brain go there.

Instead, I signed us in, clipped her a visitor badge, and made a little “kid corner” backstage with a blanket and her supplies.

“You stay right here,” I told her, crouching in front of her. “No running. No exploring. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, but her smile was mischievous. “What if a famous person talks to me?”

“Then you smile and say hi. And you don’t tell them your life story, got it?”

She crossed her arms. “You never let me do anything fun.”

“You drew on the toaster last week.”

“I was decorating it!”

“Stay. Here. Please.”

“Fiiiiiine.”

I kissed her forehead and stood up just as the crew radio crackled to life.

“Band arriving in 10. Sound check team on deck.”

My chest squeezed.

It was happening again.

I checked the stage layout, ran over the day’s order, made sure tech had their mics and cue sheets ready. I moved like a machine.

Anything to avoid thinking.

But then I saw him.

Out of the corner of my eye.

He entered with the group, dressed in joggers and a white tee, hair tied back, a calm focus on his face. He looked… unshakable. Like he belonged here. Like he didn’t have seven years of silence hanging between us like an invisible wall.

Jimin saw me first and waved politely. Taehyung gave a half-bow. Namjoon offered a quick nod.

Jungkook… slowed.

But he didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

I stayed behind the crew as the members took the stage and warmed up.

I didn’t see Eun Ae sneak away until it was too late.

“Mama, look- !”

She ran directly onto the stage, arms wide, like it was the playground.

My heart dropped out of my chest.

“Eun Ae!”

Every member of BTS stopped.

Music cut. Mics echoed. Heads turned.

She stood center-stage, grinning, completely oblivious to the silence she’d caused.

Jungkook turned.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And everything inside him changed.

I saw it happen in real-time.

His eyes went wide. His body locked up. His mouth parted, and then shut again. He stared like she was a ghost. A hallucination. Like his brain was trying to catch up with something his heart already knew.

Eun Ae spun in a circle and shouted, “Hi! I’m Eun Ae! This place is so BIG!”

Namjoon chuckled awkwardly. “Hello, Eun Ae.”

One of the techs looked at me like do you want us to stop her?

But I was frozen.

Because Jungkook hadn’t moved.

He just stared.

And I knew, without him saying a single word-

He recognized her.

He knew.

═══════

I managed to get her off the stage before the silence crushed us all.

Eun Ae didn’t understand, of course. She just laughed when I scooped her up into my arms and whispered too sharply into her ear.

“You can’t run out there like that, baby.”

“But I wanted to see!”

“You can’t.”

Her little face folded into confusion. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” I whispered, my voice catching. “No, sweet girl. You’re fine. It’s me. I just- I wasn’t ready.”

I carried her backstage as quickly as I could, ignoring the weight of all their eyes.

Especially his.

I dropped her back onto her blanket, handed her a snack, and told one of the interns to keep an eye on her while I stepped outside for “fresh air.”

It was a lie.

I just needed to breathe.

The service hallway was dim and cold and smelled like industrial cleaner. My footsteps echoed along the concrete as I pressed a hand to my chest and leaned against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut.

I couldn’t cry.

Not here.

Not when he might-

“Y/N.”

His voice hit me like a gust of wind, and I flinched.

I turned slowly.

And there he was.

Jungkook stood at the other end of the corridor like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come closer. His hands were at his sides, fingers twitching. His brows were drawn, his mouth parted, but no words came out fast enough.

“You’re really here,” he said finally, almost in disbelief. “It’s you.”

I didn’t move.

He stepped closer.

I took a step back.

He stopped.

“Don’t,” I said. “Not here. I’m working.”

“I-” He swallowed. “I didn’t know you were in this city. I didn’t know you worked here. I didn’t know-”

“Yeah, Jungkook,” I snapped, my voice too loud, too raw. “You don’t know anything.”

He winced like I’d slapped him.

“I deserve that,” he whispered.

“You deserve a hell of a lot more than that.”

Silence swelled between us.

He looked like he wanted to run and stay and scream and cry all at once. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted back toward the door like he half-expected someone to interrupt this moment- or save him from it.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I laughed.

It was sharp and bitter and ugly. “You blocked me.”

“I know.”

“I tried to call you. I begged you to talk to me.”

“I know.”

“You disappeared. You walked away like I didn’t matter.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend himself.

He just stood there, mouth trembling, eyes wet.

“I was scared,” he said finally. “I didn’t know how to handle any of it. I was young and selfish and… stupid.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

I stared at him for a long moment.

There was a time when I would’ve given anything just to hear his voice again. Now I just wanted him gone. I didn’t want to unravel here, in this hallway, in this job I fought to earn, while my daughter waited in the next room with her coloring book and juice box.

“I can’t do this right now,” I said, my voice low.

“Y/N-”

“I’m at work.”

He took a shaky breath. “Can we talk later? Please. Just… later. Whenever you’re ready.”

I didn’t say yes.

I didn’t say no.

I just stared.

And then I turned and walked away.

Because I knew if I stayed, if I looked at him one second longer, I’d break in a way I couldn’t afford to.

Not here.

Not now.

Not with her so close.

═══════

I didn’t sleep that night.

I laid there with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the air conditioner hummed like static in the corner. I could still feel his voice on my skin. Still see his face when he realized.

When he knew.

I hated that he looked heartbroken.

Like he had the right.

He didn’t get to be the victim in this story.

Morning came fast.

I got Eun Ae dressed in her favorite hoodie, tied her hair back with a rainbow scrunchie, packed her snacks, and kissed her forehead before handing her off to my night sitter. She clung to me a little longer than usual, her tiny hands fisting the fabric of my sleeve.

“Are you okay, Mama?”

“Of course,” I lied with a smile. “I’m just tired.”

She looked like she didn’t believe me, but she nodded anyway.

═══════

At the venue, I kept my head down and my steps quick. I met with the stage managers. Double-checked the lighting schedule. Confirmed the camera angles. BTS was set to perform the first of three sold-out shows tonight, and it had to be flawless.

I didn’t have time for ghosts.

But of course, he found me again.

After the final stage tech test, I was checking headset frequencies backstage when he walked in from the far corridor. Alone this time. Hoodie up. Head down.

I saw him before he saw me.

I slipped behind a crew cart and took the long way around the scaffolding, heart pounding in my chest like I was seventeen again.

I wasn’t ready.

Not for another talk.

Not for his eyes.

Not for the way my body still reacted to his with heat and tension and this deep ache of things never healed.

The first fans started trickling in. The venue buzzed with electricity. Excitement in the air like a current. BTS prepped for the show. Hair and makeup. Wardrobe. Rehearsal cues.

And I stayed invisible.

Until I couldn’t.

Just before the house lights dimmed, I ran into Jimin.

He was alone, drinking water near the monitor station. When he spotted me, he gave a small, tentative smile.

“Hey,” he said.

I nodded politely. “Hi.”

He looked like he wanted to say more.

“He’s a mess,” he said instead.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Jungkook,” he clarified. “He hasn’t slept. Barely talked. He’s… not okay.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that.

Was I supposed to care?

Jimin’s eyes softened. “He knows he fucked up. He’s never forgiven himself.”

“That makes two of us,” I said quietly.

He hesitated. “He didn’t even stay with that girl. The one he- after you. It didn’t even last a month. He couldn’t look at her without thinking about what he lost.”

I closed my eyes. “It doesn’t change what he did.”

“I know,” Jimin said gently. “But maybe it explains it.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the lights cut out before I could.

Cue time.

Showtime.

BTS took the stage and the world screamed.

The entire arena lit up like a galaxy.

And for two hours, I focused only on the logistics. The transitions. The audience flow. The safety of the crew. I spoke into the headset, gave instructions, moved like a storm on autopilot.

But I still saw him.

On stage.

Sweating, shining, dancing, singing.

He looked like he belonged up there.

Like he was born for this.

Like everything he left me for had bloomed exactly the way he dreamed.

But then his eyes found me in the wings.

And they broke.

I looked away.

After the encore, while the cheers still echoed, he stepped off stage and tried to approach.

I turned and walked in the other direction.

═══════

I didn’t plan to say yes.

When I walked into the venue the next morning, I had every intention of ignoring him again. Of slipping past with my badge and my fake smile and my shoulders squared like I couldn’t still feel him watching me.

But then he was there.

Waiting by the staff entrance with a hood over his head and both hands deep in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t say anything. Just looked up when I passed.

And softly, like it wasn’t a plea:

“Please. Just one hour.”

I kept walking.

But by the time I reached the control booth, I’d already decided.

An hour.

That’s all he was getting.

I didn’t owe him more.

I texted my sitter and arranged a little extra time that morning. I found a café across the street from the venue. Quiet. Tucked between a record shop and a florist. The kind of place no one would think to look.

He was already there when I arrived.

Sitting in the corner booth, black hoodie pulled low, fingers tapping the edge of a coffee cup like he was trying not to shake.

I didn’t say hi.

Just sat down across from him and folded my arms.

We didn’t speak for a long time.

Finally, he looked up.

“Thanks for coming.”

I stared. “Start talking.”

He flinched like the words hit.

“I messed up,” he said. “That’s the bottom line. I fucking ruined everything.”

“You did.”

“I was scared,” he went on. “The company told me I couldn’t be in a relationship. I didn’t know how to balance you and the dream I was chasing and- ”

“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t make this about your dream.”

He swallowed hard. “I thought maybe if I let you go, you’d move on and be happy. I didn’t want to drag you into it- into this world, the chaos, the distance.”

“So instead you dragged me through abandonment.”

His throat worked. “I know.”

“And then you blocked me.”

“I know.”

“While I was trying to tell you I was pregnant.”

That landed like a punch.

He blinked. “What?”

“I called you. I texted. I tried everything. You’d already cut me out of your life. So I moved.”

“You… you were pregnant?”

“I am a mother.”

He looked like he couldn’t breathe.

“I have a daughter,” I said. “She’s six. She’s bright and smart and stubborn and beautiful. She likes animals and cereal and drawing on walls. She’s yours.”

He gripped the edge of the table like he needed something to keep from falling apart.

“She…” His voice broke. “She’s mine?”

“Biologically, yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I tried. You made it impossible.”

His eyes filled with tears he tried to blink back.

“I missed everything,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I said. “You did.”

I looked away. My throat burned. My chest was tight with everything I’d kept locked away for so long.

“I haven’t been with anyone,” I added. “Not once. I haven’t had time to fall in love. Or heal. I’ve been in school, working, raising her, paying bills. Alone. While you…” I gestured toward him. “Got to live the life you wanted.”

He closed his eyes. A tear slipped free.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said.

I didn’t respond.

“I think about you every single day.”

Still, I said nothing.

“I dream about you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

He looked up again, broken open. “I want to be in her life. I want to meet her. Be her dad.”

I paused.

“You don’t get to come in just because it’s convenient now,” I said. “You shattered me. You left a crater behind that I’m still crawling out of. And I won’t let you break her the way you broke me.”

That made him flinch harder than anything I’d said yet.

“I understand,” he said softly. “But please… just one chance. Let me meet her. Just once.”

I sighed.

The silence stretched again, taut and heavy.

“She has a playdate this afternoon,” I said. “But tomorrow morning? I’m free.”

His eyes lit up.

“I’ll bring her to the zoo,” I said. “You can meet her. As a family friend.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I stood up, ignoring the tremble in his voice.

“I’m not doing this for you, Jungkook. I’m doing it for her.”

Then I walked out before he could say anything else.

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 06/15/2025

[cryoculus]

— WORLD ALONE ⟢

when you make a living in the bowels of the eternal holy city, nothing is ever personal. until you catch yourself wondering just how heavy of a crown that kremnoan prince actually bears.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 40.6k words (i'm sorry.....)

★ tags; canon compliant, red light district, prostitution, doomed relationship, yearning, heavy angst (like,,, this is not an exaggeration i swear), implied/referenced past abuse, smut (MINORS DNI)

★ notes; the very first mydei fic i've written, coming to you on tumblr dot com! i was wondering if the character limit is going to permit the existence of a monster wall of text like this, but surprisingly, it did! on ao3, this is actually a trilogy of fics, but part of me thought it really would have been better if it was posted in one go AJSJDHFSHD so here we are!!!! the title is also from lorde's world alone <3

★ header art cr; chongguolyb on x

READ ON AO3

★ SMUT TAGS; vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, mating press, creampie, oral (f receiving), come eating, emotional sex, wall sex, really every smut scene is just so tender and melancholic

Despite its reputation as the city dearly loved by the sun, Okhema has its own share of misgivings.  You’ve known since you first set foot within the borders of the Holy City that you have no place here.  Even if it prides itself as a sanctuary for those whose homes were ravaged by the Black Tide, the reception for refugees offers none of the hospitality once promised to you.  Perhaps those born and raised in the capital—far from the city states that have fallen prey to the eternal night—would rather not involve themselves with people like you. People that have seen the worst of what the impending calamity has in store. People who only wish to find some place to call home. But you don’t condemn them from feeling the way they do. Okhemans treat all outsiders with an equal amount of disdain: the Kremnoans, the Dolosians, even the Aidonians. Then again, if your hometown suddenly has an influx of strangers pouring in from every part of the world, you would be alarmed by it as well. That’s why you try your best to stay in their good graces. Always. “Big Sis Thalia? Someone’s looking for you.” Your session of early morning tea is quietly interrupted by a child named Nikolas. He peeks through the curtain of seashells separating your quarters from the rest of The House, eyes closed just to make sure he’s not intruding on anything. The boy’s discretion makes you laugh.  “Nik, it’s alright. Come in,” you insist and ever-so shyly, he does. Nikolas has been inside here before, but the bedazzled look in his eyes whenever he takes in the trinkets you’ve decorated your space with is nothing short of amusing. You give him some time to gawk around as you finish the rest of your tea.  “Sorry,” he mumbles once he snaps out of it. “Mother wanted me to tell you that the swordsman is here again. The one with the white hair?”  You shake your head. “Nik, Lord Phainon has done enough for the undercity that you should at least remember his name.”  “Y-Yes, him! Lord Phainon.”  “Okay, did Elena tell you what he wants?” you ask, despite already hazarding a couple of reasons for his visit. “I doubt he’s here to avail of my services.”  Unlike most boys his age, Nikolas doesn’t get flustered by casual mentions of your line of work. After all, he was born in this very brothel. His mother raised him to treat all his big sisters with love and respect, and it’s hard not to dote on him because of it. “She didn’t say,” he sighs. “Should I tell the other big sisters to let him up here?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Shortly after, another person parts the curtain of glittering shells by the entryway. Phainon lets himself inside with a polite look on his face, as if he’s walking into the Pantheon’s grand hall and not some common whore’s quarters.  “Lord Phainon,” you address him with an inquisitive smile. “What brings you here?”

Phainon’s lips crack into a handsome smile. “Lady Thalia—”

That makes you groan. “Please, you don’t have to address me with that name. You’re a friend.” 

“But it’s only proper if I’m here on the prospect of business, isn’t it?” 

“...Forgive me, but the mere idea of doing business with you feels horrendously wrong. I’m afraid I must decline—”

Phainon says your real name as a matter of throwing you off, and your face contorts with mild vexation. But now that he has your attention, he says, “You don’t have to worry. I’m not here to seek the paradise that The House offers to all willing patrons. It’s more like…a referral of sorts.” You take in his words slowly, making sure there’s no underlying wordplay. But you suppose the man is as direct as he can be with what he’s trying to say. 

“A referral?” you echo with a snort. “Now, who could a Chrysos Heir like you be referring to a shoddy place like this? Your mere presence here is already enough to send Lady Aglaea into a fit of rage, you know. What more if you endorse our services to someone else?”

“If that's the case, then I’m afraid that you gravely misunderstand her,” Phainon chuckles softly. “But I digress. I think it would be best for you to meet this person face-to-face rather than have me put in a word for him.”

“So you’re basically asking if I’m willing to accommodate whoever this is?” is your deadpan retort. “Lord Phainon, when you work here in the undercity, making ends meet is difficult if you don’t pull enough strings. Someone like me has no business refusing clients—”

“Yet you refused me?” he sighs dramatically.

“You just said you’re not here for that! Can you please make up your mind?”

Phainon lets out a laugh he pulls straight from the pit of his stomach, and it makes you think that maybe you would have fallen for someone like him if your life had been more different, if fate had been kinder to you. But this is the reality you live in; a reality where you’d rather drown in the Black Tide than put your friendship with Phainon to the test.  “Anyway,” he interjects once he’s done guffawing. “I take it that you’re agreeing to meet this friend of mine? I don’t usually bring up The House to just anyone, but I think he might need the distraction. And the company.” Heaving a sigh, you fold your arms together. “I take it that you have no plans to even tell me your friend’s name?”

“If I did that, you would probably decline in an instant,” Phainon laughs again, “which is perfectly fine in any case. I just want you to give him a chance first.”

“...Your description alone is already making me second guess.”

Placing a hand over his chest, he bows. “I swear on Kephale’s name that this man will bring neither you nor the other residents of The House any harm. If he does, I’ll personally end him for you.”

That makes you arch an eyebrow. “So you’re saying he has the capacity to do that?”

“Yes, but apart from free will, intellect is another one of Kephale’s greatest gifts to mankind.” Phainon rises back to his full height, eyes brimming with optimism as usual. “Even if my friend is free to hurt others, it doesn't mean he will. Amphoreus is past the age of barbaric violence, after all.” 

There’s something infuriating in how cheeky Phainon’s reasoning is, but he’s always been gifted with words. You suppose it’s alright to do him this favor, given that he’s the reason The House has yet to be cracked down on by the Council of Elders. If it weren’t for Phainon, you and the other girls would have been forced back into the streets of the Holy City, with those Okhemans who seem to despise foreigners more than the Black Tide itself. 

“...Fine. When is he coming?” you relent eventually, much to your dismay. “I don’t have any patrons to accommodate this evening, so your timing is actually impeccable—suspiciously so.”

The subtle jab does not go unnoticed. “Why, I have nothing to do with that at all. But I’ll let him know. Thank you for your kind consideration, Lady Thalia.”

“If you call me that one more time…”

Phainon eventually bids his farewell, not just to you but the rest of the girls in The House. Of course, they practically swoon from his unintentional charm. Everyone here loves that man to varying degrees, after all. 

“Big Sister, should I help draw a bath for you?” 

The third person who crosses your seashell curtain today is a girl named Iris. Her voice is meek, as is her countenance, and you’re convinced that, whatever hell she escaped from, she must not be used to being able to speak as freely as she does now. “Iris,” you sigh. “I’m not your master or anything like that. You don’t have to draw me a bath.”

“B-But Lady Elena mentioned you were accommodating someone tonight,” she squeaks, embarrassment coloring her cheeks with warmth. “I just wanted to help you out, just like you did for me back then…” Her thoughtfulness makes you smile candidly. “Alright. If you insist.”

The straight affirmation makes her face light up, and the sight warms your heart. Iris constantly stammers with her words as she helps you prepare for the arrival of Phainon’s friend, but her nervousness is compensated for by her sincerity—something you’ve come to enjoy as a staple ever since you started living at The House. Why live amongst the vicious Okhemans when not even the Dawn Device can light up their obscured view of foreigners like you? It’s much better to stay with your newfound sisters here in the shadows. Even if you’re lifetimes away from the vast ocean you once called home, what you found here is the closest thing.

You’d be a fool to trade it for anything else.

Evenings have always been long in Okhema’s red light district. 

It’s a place devoid of the usual rules they follow up there on the surface. Absolutely anything goes in the undercity, and the promise of secrecy is enticing enough even for the overworlders to come crawling down into the darkness. You know it’s hypocritical of those Okhemans to shun outsiders whenever they feel like riding their moral high horses, only to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh when it’s convenient for them. But it’s even more hypocritical of you to despise them in equal measure, just for you to accept their money as if it’s your only lifeline. Debauchery is only second to the stench of hypocrisy that lingers in the stale air of the undercity. But the only way to survive here is to never take anything to heart.

Much like the fact that Phainon’s friend still hasn’t shown up past midnight. 

You’re no stranger to missed appointments—if you can even call them that to begin with. While there are some depraved men who would do anything for a minute of your time, there are also others who don’t think you’re worth a moment of theirs. At the end of the day, you’re just some prostitute they can do as they please with.  Iris waits with you out of courtesy. Even if the poor girl is better off resting in bed—given that her last client did quite a number on her—she insisted on keeping you company. But when the fourth hour ticks past with no sign of Phainon’s friend, she gives up and obeys when you plead with her to get some sleep. 

Eventually, the ruckus you’ve grown accustomed to hearing around The House dulls into shared whispers between your sisters who are thoughtful enough to keep their voices down. The location of the red light district allows for the illusion of night without the threat of the Black Tide. Here, anyone can fall into a deep sleep without the sun razing their eyes.

“I didn’t think you would agree.”

Elena’s voice is soft like thunder rumbling in the distance, strangely comforting to hear. She joins you in the room you’ve reserved for tonight’s tryst. Titans know you’d never bring patrons to your own quarters. Still, as the head of The House, it’s only natural for her to make a place meant for sinners to feel like home for girls with nowhere else to go. “To what?” you ask, deciding to play along.

She smiles before taking a seat next to you on the bed. “To Lord Phainon’s outrageous request. You seem like you’d do anything but take anyone associated with him as a patron.” 

“That’s what I thought, too. But you know how convincing he can be.”

“Very much so.” The two of you share a laugh in the dim lights of the lanterns. If there are any people who know how much Phainon has helped The House, it’s you and Elena. 

“That boy is a bit of a gray character, isn’t he? A hero of the people, telling his friend to relieve some tension at a place like this?” Elena shakes her head in disbelief. “I’d understand why that friend of his is a no-show. Phainon is the only overworlder crazy enough to not have a bone to pick with us bottom dwellers.”

You hum. “Not so sure about that. I heard that Penelope’s client for tonight is a wealthy merchant that has no problem with her dominating him into oblivion.” 

“Do me a favor and exclude the nymphomaniacs from the conversation, please?”

Despite his status as both an overworlder and a Chrysos Heir, the main reason why Phainon even involves himself with the undercity is Elena. The two of them came from the same small village at the edge of the world—long forgotten, long burned to ashes.  Aedes Elysiae is a place you’ve only learned about when Elena took you in. While you don’t bother with the specifics, it’s comforting to know that Phainon is well aware of the gripes that come with being a foreigner. You’d call him a hypocrite too, for cozying up to the overworlders, but he’s much too kind to everyone he encounters. Coupled with the fact that he helped save you and Elena from the clutches of the old master of The House, you suppose he deserves your respect. “Did he tell you who it is though?” To be fair, curiosity is starting to eat at you. “I can’t think of a single soul that would even consider Phainon’s suggestion. It’s as you said: no one is as crazy as he is.”  Though Elena is good at masking her thoughts from the others, you can read her like an open book. Even if she only hums in response, that’s already an answer on its own. “Fine. Keep your secrets then,” you grumble. “So can I wash off my makeup now? Though I feel a bit bad since Iris helped out. She even did my nails.”  “You know, that girl has taken a liking to you the same way you did with me back in the day.” “You wish.”  Elena shakes her head endearingly. “No need to wish for something that’s already true. Oh, but I suggest you wait just a while longer.” That warrants an immediate groan. “Why? The entire district’s asleep by now.” “Exactly.” Like she always does, Elena gets up without elaborating further. She makes a beeline toward the entrance with a knowing look on her face and, without so much as another word, the head of The House leaves you to your own devices. Great. Speaking with Elena isn’t so different from speaking with Phainon. You wonder if they have a shared trait where they can rile you up without trying. Is it something exclusive to Aedes Elysians? Thank Titans, her son Nikolas hasn’t manifested anything similar. You wouldn’t be able to handle three troublemakers.  In the midst of your musing, you hear the sound of footsteps down the hall. You typically wouldn’t mind the noise, given that this brothel houses about a dozen and a half of your sisters. But each step sounds deliberate—strong and sure, like a person who knows the value of their presence. You initially assume it’s Elena, but have an inkling that the footsteps are much too heavy to be hers. Just when you decide to get up and check who it is, you come face-to-face with the perpetrator the moment you parted the velvet curtains. The man that stands before you is more of a legend than anything else. You’ve heard about him from tall tales that Kremnoan patrons have shared out of the blue. The Last Prince. The Immortal Lion. While the reputation of those who hail from Castrum Kremnos precedes them, you didn’t think they’d be so devoted to their Prince until that day. Your patron spoke about him as if he was a Titan himself. But now that you’re faced with none other than Mydeimos in the flesh, everything has started to make sense.  He towers over you with ease, his presence effortlessly domineering. The placid look on his face as he sizes you up makes you feel like you’re on opposite sides of the battlefield, and you’d rather not fight a seasoned warrior who’s nearly twice your size— “Hello,” he greets surprisingly…normally. “My name is Mydeimos, but I’d rather you call me Mydei. You are?”  His directness makes you blink up at him. You didn’t think he was the type to introduce himself. He seems like someone who expects every person he crosses paths with to know his name. After all, Mydeimos made waves when he brought the Kremnoan Detachment in Okhema and helped defend the city against the mad Titan, Nikador, among other feats. “Thalia,” you tell him your working name while keeping a straight face, trying not to let him see just how befuddled you are. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“The Deliverer has told me about you a couple of times in passing,” he tells you, all while taking in the interior of the dimly lit room. “While I was initially against his proposal, one thing led to another and I’ve found myself right where he wants me.” It takes you a moment to figure out who this Deliverer is. “Oh. Lord Phainon can be quite persuasive.”  “Persuasive is an understatement,” the blond huffs before affixing you with that golden-eyed stare. “So, how will this go? I’m afraid I am wholly unfamiliar with how you operate in the undercity. I…don’t want to overstep any boundaries.” That only serves to confuse you even more. You’ve been in the business long enough to know that men are disgusting scoundrels one way or another. Most of them would just pay to use your body and not even say a word when they’re done. They’d never even think twice about you since you’re working for them at that moment, after all.  It’s a lifestyle you’re not proud of. You’ve never felt more empty than when a man pumps you full of his seed with no regard for your wellbeing. But this is all you know. All you’re good for. And you love Elena and your sisters too much to leave The House behind. Then this man walks into the room with overstepping boundaries as his main concern instead of getting impatient to fuck you against the closest solid surface. Still, you tread carefully.  “Before anything else, I’d like to clarify what exactly it is you came here for,” you say, proud of how firm you sound in spite of how anxious you are. “We can’t work on anything if I don’t know where to start, Lord Mydeimos.”  He sighs. “As I said, just Mydei is fine. And didn't the Deliverer already tell you?” You cast him a pointed look. “Lo— Mydei, we both know Lord Phainon well enough to know that he tends to exaggerate certain details. He’s not the one paying for my services—you are. So I ask you again…” In a show of confidence, you step closer to him, eyes drifting to the ornate necklace sitting across his throat. It was a band of dark metal inlaid with gilded sapphires gleaming in the waning light. You muster enough courage to curl your fingers around it and tug. He yields disarmingly easily, grunting in contempt but with no signs of protest. For some reason, it fills you with a strange sense of accomplishment.

“What are you here for?” you say, voice barely above a whisper.  His jaw clenches for a moment, as if biting something down. Though you try your best to keep your eyes focused on his gaze of molten fire, you can’t help but notice the way his posture shifts to accommodate the compromising position you forced him into.  Mydei’s body is as flawless as people say it is—not a single scar denting his strong, rippled flesh. This is the physique of a man who has gone to war far more times than you can imagine. There is no blade in the world sharp enough to cut him down, and you quietly revel in the detail that Kephale personally took to mold this statue of a man.  “I…”  He starts, but hesitates still. Feeling emboldened, you caress Mydei’s face gently—tracing the bright red marks that bleed from his right eye before swirling in deliberate patterns across the rest of his body. He shudders at your touch and you flash him a lopsided smile.  Then and there, you pull up a mental catalogue of every single thing you’ve heard about Mydei in passing. What the people love about him, what they hate, what they wish they could emulate for themselves—all of it. Because your line of work requires you to deduce what will make your patrons unravel at the seams in a mere glance. That’s how you decide to play your cards: out of a plethora of guesses about their character. From the way Mydei has acted in the five minutes you’ve been together, it’s painstakingly obvious that he bears the weight of a crown he does not even want. Which makes things much easier for you.  “Go on,” you murmur, letting your breath fan across his face. “There’s no need for hesitation here. When you’re with me… “You don’t have to be anything else but mine.”  While it always works on your more eager patrons, saying something so intrepid to a Chrysos Heir is near-unthinkable. A shot in the dark. You aren’t even sure if Mydei is into being addressed that way by a complete stranger, but you see it again—that not-so subtle click of his jaw, which tells you more than enough. The tension hangs heavy in the air. You can barely breathe without feeling your heart race erratically. There’s an unspoken fervor in Mydei’s gaze as his lips quiver like he has something to say.

But you quickly realize that there is little need for words when it comes to someone like him. Mydei’s intentions translate much better when he puts them into action. He barely gives you any time to process what was happening. All you know is that there’s nothing sweeter than the moment the distance between you disappears, and his warm lips slant across yours. The kiss catches you off-guard for only a moment. Most of your patrons don’t bother. In the red light district, kissing is far too intimate for most of them. Yet Mydei doesn’t even think twice about it. His warmth permeates into you as Mydei holds you as close as he can—pressing you flush against his rigid body. It’s a dizzying feeling, but one you can’t dwell on for long when you feel his tongue prodding at your lips. You grant Mydei entrance far too easily, letting him map the cavern of your mouth with the slick appendage. He pulls a moan out of you, and in turn, you feel a strong hand firmly pushing your head further into the kiss.  The feel of his cold gauntlet in your hair should have scared you, or at least, made you wary. But his armor is of little consequence when Mydei holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world. You don’t recall the last time you’ve felt so lightheaded from a patron’s kiss. You don’t even remember the last time any of them even kissed you. That’s how you know that this encounter with Mydei will cement itself into your memory whether or not you want it to. Not just because he’s a Prince, but because he makes it a point to remind you that things like this are supposed to feel good. You gasp his name against his lips, but Mydei devours the words before you can get them out. That simple show of dominance already has you clenching your thighs—a reaction that isn’t lost on the perpetrator himself. In another attempt to catch you completely by surprise, Mydei’s armor-clad hands travel to your thighs, where the high slits of your skirt conveniently part to accommodate the intrusion. Your doughy flesh is hot against his gauntlets and you nearly whimper when he grabs the meat of your ass—the sharp tips digging into your sensitive skin.  Despite your mind being thrown into a haze, you still catch on to what he wants. You curl one of your thighs around his hips—lips still melded together as Mydei helps hoist you up. Once he’s balanced your weight sufficiently, you’re able to cage him between your legs. Still, the both of you know who truly holds the reins. Mydei traces a path of flames along the hollow of your throat, murmuring words in a language you can’t understand. When he presses you against the nearest wall and takes full advantage of the leverage, you can’t ever hope to resist. He doesn’t say anything more, content with swathing your skin in reds and blues from each bruising kiss. The man hasn’t even done much, but you’re already this willing to let him do as he pleases. It’s difficult to miss just how much slick has pooled between your thighs, and the anticipation makes you shiver. When was the last time you were this eager to let a patron have his way with you? “Hold on,” he whispers before gently nibbling on your bottom lip. “I need to feel you.” Head still fuzzy from his ministrations, you barely notice when Mydei maneuvers you to the bed, setting you down as gently as he can. The cool sheets are a stark contrast to your fever-pitched skin. But you barely pay attention when you notice Mydei pressing a knee onto the bed, molten gold irises entirely transfixed on you as he unlatches the gauntlets from his arms. 

His words only begin to dawn on you then.  I need to feel you.  Did you excite a reaction so intense that Mydei felt such a carnal need to touch you with his bare hands—skin to skin, and nothing in between? You don’t care if his armor clatters uselessly onto the floor. Not when Mydei surges forward to capture your lips again and nudges your legs apart. Saliva trickles past the corner of your mouth as another moan is lost to his fervent kiss.   Contrary to your initial beliefs, Mydei is not the legend many think he is. In fact, he is just as human as anyone else—those large, hot hands of his are proof of that. Mydei spreads you apart before him like he wants to take in every inch of you—to devour you with his gaze.

He’s not much of a talker, which poses no problem, as you’ve been with enough men who think far too much of themselves. Fools often compensate for their poor performance with senseless talk. But there’s none of that with Mydei, whose gaze alone can melt you into nothingness.  (You hope he knows that you're all too willing to surrender all that you have for a taste of him.) When Mydei leans closer, you expect another kiss—even pucker up in sheer anticipation. But his first display of petulance comes in a small smirk that plays at his lips. The Prince quickly evades you to nose at your collarbone, licking at the motley of bruises he left in his wake. Almost like a quiet apology despite himself. His discretion makes you squirm, and it distracts you from the fact that he’s undoing the laces holding your dress together. When the fabric comes apart, he’s granted a generous view of your breasts, and the noise that escapes him would make you think he’s unearthed some holy relic from a past gone by. Mydei wastes no time peppering your chest with the degree of affection he’s lathered along the column of your neck. It’s like he means for every biting kiss to leave a mark, a lasting reminder of your time with him for days to come. The moment he takes one of your pert nipples into his mouth, you barely contain your own sounds, and you wonder if you’ll lose yourself completely once he’s gone all the way. Unlike the cold bite of his gauntlets, Mydei’s bare hands are warmer than the unsetting sun on the surface. He touches you with the intention of committing each dip and crevice of your body to memory. You feel him pawing at your breasts, his nails digging into the curve of your ass, and when those wandering hands settle along the curve of your hips, you involuntarily buck up into him. It’s a reaction that makes him pause, those golden eyes like gilded lanterns in the night flickering to yours in a heartbeat. Your breath hitches as your gazes meet. Strange enough, you find the eye contact much more intimate than whatever he’s doing to your body. Wordlessly, Mydei stops suckling at your breasts to sink lower on the bed. The man doesn’t even bother removing your skirt, content with nudging it out of the way before settling himself between your lovely thighs.

When you realize what he’s trying to do, you tense up for all the wrong reasons. You know what people say about the whores of The House. No matter how many times you cleanse yourselves with Phagousa’s blessing of the stream, your bodies will remain tainted by the touch of all the men you’ve let inside of you. You should know better. The Titan of the Sea is much closer to you than meets the eye, but if you stay in Okhema for far too long, you start to forget what you’ve been taught at home—your real home. “Your mind is wandering.” Mydei’s quiet voice snaps you out of your reverie, making your face flush. But he quickly dispels the lingering shame when his soft fingers prod at your mound. He spreads your lips apart with caution, like he doesn’t wish to hurt you. And when he has a firsthand look of how drenched you are, he barely stifles a groan. He doesn’t comment on your momentary distraction again, thank Titans. However, he momentarily robs you of your capacity to speak when he hoists your thighs up his broad shoulders, not even thinking twice before licking a long, deliberate stripe across your dripping cunt. Your nerves are set alight every which way. Mydei repeats the motions of his tongue in dizzying succession, even taking the time to trace tight circles around your sensitive nub. It has you gushing in an instant, and Mydei is all too eager to lap up every drop of your essence.  So tender in the way he pleases you, you can’t help but tangle your fingers into his fiery blond hair—pressing his face even closer to your sopping heat. Mydei licks and slurps at you cunt like some mere mortal gifted ambrosia for the first time. Nothing makes sense about the passion he’s exhibiting for a complete stranger, but you’re too intoxicated from pleasure to deny yourself his devotion.  You know you’re doomed the moment those thick fingers start to gather the slick that’s collected along your seam—working in tandem with his sinful tongue as he presses the lone digit inside your tight cunt. Your toes curl at the blissful intrusion, and you’re certain you’ve pulled at his hair enough for it to hurt. Mydei doesn’t exhibit any signs that he particularly minds. In fact, he even moans into your wet heat, making come hither motions with his finger that stimulates your walls in all the right ways. The premise of foreplay has been lost on you for a long time, and getting someone like him to do all of this without a second thought makes you wonder if this is all a dream. But then the Prince slides in another of his thick digits inside you, anchoring you to the shores of reality as he fucks you on his fingers and feasts on you with his mouth. The way he grips harshly onto your thighs ought to hurt, but the only thing that spills from your lips is pure ecstasy. Mydei doesn’t lick between your folds with reckless abandon. He makes sure each flick of his tongue is slow, dragging, purposeful—enough to render you squirming beneath his touch.  He builds up that steady burn flickering in the pit of your stomach. The more he tongues at your clit, fishes for that patch of spongy flesh that makes you keen just right, the closer he brings you to the precipice. You don’t know how he can possibly tell, but when you start feeling that blissful release starting to boil beneath your skin, Mydei noticeably amps up the effort.  His fingers barely retract from your cunt, in favor of driving those thick digits even deeper into you. That unfairly talented mouth latches onto your nub and Mydei concentrates all his attention to helping you reach that high you don’t always see with most patrons. The stimulation is too good, too much.

You’re not used to this, not used to him.  You thought that the stars had left Amphoreus when Aquila closed their eyes. But all you see are a dozen constellations dancing across your blurry vision when you come apart on Mydei’s tongue. He holds your hips down as you ride out that blissful high—making sure you feel it course through your veins and shoot straight through your skull. From his hedonistic stare alone, you would know he’s far from done with you. When the dust settles, you catch your breath in short gasps, pulse thundering in the confine of your ribs. You don’t immediately realize that Mydei is in the process of taking off the rest of his armor. Though you can’t help the soft giggle you make when you hear him curse out the offending garments when they refuse to yield to him. So, despite having little to no feeling in your legs, you scoot closer to the edge of the bed—undoing the latches that hold his belt and leg plates in place. Mydei awkwardly steps out of them, and you try your best to stifle your laughter; really, you do! “I don’t understand why this is so amusing for you,” he grumbles. All you can offer him is a grin. “You’re just not…the person I expected.” “Hm? Care to elaborate?”  “I think you would enjoy it more if we pick up where we left off.” The Prince doesn’t protest. Instead, he lets you pull him back to the bed not without stealing another kiss that grows more heated, more desperate with each passing second. Even if you’re still feeling the tingling sensation in the wake of your last orgasm, you’re eager to return the favor. Mydei doesn’t object when you undo the clasp of his trousers. The fabric feels expensive—befitting of a man of royal lineage. But the way he sheds the rest of his clothes makes their value feel inconsequential when he has eyes on one thing only. You. There’s a teasing edge to the way you kiss him as you grasp his throbbing length. He feels hot and heavy in your hand, thick veins jutting along the underside. The girth of him troubles you for a moment, making you consider retrieving that jar of lubricant safety stashed in one of the nearby drawers.  Before you can voice out the suggestion, however, Mydei rests his forehead on your shoulder, breathing heavily as you pump his cock in your feeble little hands. The show of vulnerability startles you a bit. Is he so deprived of relief that he crumbles the moment it’s given to him? Normally, this is when you would crawl between a patron’s legs and suck him off before letting him fuck you. But this entire session with Mydei is anything but normal. No man has ever gone down on you the way he has, and from the way he shudders so adorably from your hands alone tells you he needs release much more than he lets on. So, you plant both of your knees on either side of his hips to straddle him comfortably, and with all the strength you can muster, you push the Prince onto his back. Although you do fail to account for the man’s rapid reflexes. The moment he feels the extra force, his hand is quick to seize your wrist—tight enough that it actually hurts.  “M-Mydei…?”  The hint of fear in your voice seems to snap him out of it, and his ironclad grip loosens. Mydei stares up at you apologetically. “Forgive me. It’s…a force of habit.”

Oh, right. First and foremost, he is a warrior. A Kremnoan Prince. And though he has no business floating inside of your head at the moment, the conversation you had with Phainon earlier resurfaces in your head.  Even if my friend is free to hurt others, it doesn't mean he will. The dissonance between what you know about the battle-hungry spirit of Kremnoans and the tenderness that Mydei has shown you so far only serves to puzzle you even more. Phainon was right to assume you would turn him down if he told you that the friend in question is Mydeimos of all people.  Because…what else would you expect from a man who’s known war more than he’s ever known love? You’ve lied with warriors before, and soldiers, and even some city guards. None of the people who have tasted what it’s like to stand on the battlefield have ever been kind to someone they only think of as a hole to fuck—a source of relief and none else. But Mydei? In the short time you’ve known him, he’s convinced you that no harm will come to you as long as you’re in his company. Instead of fearing for your life, you feel…safe. Something you consider a luxury for someone in your line of work. You feel like there’s something twisted in the fact that you’re relieved just from the thought that he isn’t here to kill you. But too many of your sisters have lost their lives to pigs who want to silence them for good. Unfaithful husbands that didn’t want their wives to find out about their infidelity. Important societal figures that wanted no trace of their illicit activities. After all, anything goes in the undercity. Even the death of a prostitute—a foreigner, at that.  “You’re thinking too deeply again.” Count on Mydei to catch on to your little tells. Another thing you didn’t expect about him is how easily he can read you. Or maybe you’ve always been an open book. It’s just that your patrons don’t usually give as much of a damn as Mydei does.  “It’s nothing,” you chuckle, mentally chiding yourself for being so distracted today. “You’re just… I can’t even put it into words. I might just be a bit overwhelmed is all.” You can’t tell him that you can’t wrap your head around the fact that you’re servicing a Chrysos Heir. It feels all sorts of inappropriate. Mydei studies you for only a moment before he rises back into a sitting position. You’re about to protest—to let him let you please him this time. But he doesn’t seem interested in heeding your quiet request. 

He manhandles you in a way that swiftly switches your positions and you find yourself back beneath him. The lanterns cast a faint halo around his muscular glory. Even in the dim light, the red marks on Mydei’s skin glow like veins of fire beneath the earth. He pins you in place not only with his strong hands, but also with eyes like liquid sunlight. “It’s as you said before,” he murmurs quietly before leaning closer to your ear. The warmth of his breath tickles your neck, and you shudder as he presses a soft, chaste kiss on your temple.  “When you’re with me, you don’t have to be anything else but mine.”  The fact that he just used your words against you makes heat shoot straight to your core. Mydei makes the crude yet attractive motion of spitting into his hand before lathering his cock with saliva. Your mind whispers a reminder about that lubricant you were just thinking about, but there’s something more carnal in the thought that he’s going to loosen you up with his spit alone. Yet despite the need burning in his eyes, each movement he makes is weighted with caution. You feel as if he’s compensating for that knee-jerk reaction from earlier—something you’d tell him is past you, and that he doesn’t have to treat you like fragile glass. But again, the words evaporate on your tongue when you feel the head of his thick cock by your entrance.  Mydei lets out another shuddering breath, nudging your knees apart before rubbing his length along the seam of your cunt. It glistens with spit and slick, and you pull him even closer to let him know what it is that you want. The abrupt tug you make on his arm disrupts his center of gravity, and Mydei nearly topples into you. But of course his reflexes work in time yet again and suddenly your faces are but a hair’s breadth apart. You’ve said it before and you’ll say it again: eye contact is a thousand times more intimate than the act of sex itself.  He breathes out a word from that unfamiliar language yet again. The way it rolls off his tongue is soft, tender in a way that it almost hurts. Like something meant to be heard by a person close to his heart—not some whore he’ll probably never see again. You close your eyes and his lips find yours. Ever-so gently, he pushes himself in.  Everything about Mydei is difficult to process. From his presence to his attitude to the sheer girth of him—you had to take a moment to recalibrate yourself to every single one. You clutch the sheets tight enough that they start to pull off the edge of the bed.  The intrusion is sharp, but not uncomfortable. Not when he eases inch by delicious inch into you with the patience of a saint. While he doesn’t coo and coddle you, his eyes are expressive enough to let you know of his concern. You even feel him start to withdraw, possibly out of fear that you wouldn’t be able to take him, but you hold on to his forearm to keep him in place.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Mydei whispers. You shake your head vigorously. “You’re doing everything but.” That doesn’t immediately quell the doubt on his face, but Mydei presses forward—slowly, slowly until his hips are flush against yours.  All of a sudden, you forget how to breathe. He’s… huge inside you. Spreading your walls so far apart, you wonder how you were even able to accommodate his size. You’ve never been so filled to the brim that tears nearly well in your eyes because of how good he feels— “Fuck…” Hearing him voice his own blissed out delight and seeing the euphoric look on his face makes you involuntarily clench around him. It’s a reaction met with a snarl from the man currently eclipsing your smaller frame. Mydei makes the motions to pull out slowly, only to buck his hips with unforgiving force. The switch-up blindsides you for a moment, lips gaping from a soundless moan. When the Prince catches on to how much you like it, he hammers into you relentlessly—pushing his fat cock desperately deeper into your slick sex.  Your arms curl around his broad shoulders, fingers seeking purchase along the rippling flesh of his muscles. The sinew of his back shifts with each thrust, making you mewl his name pathetically as Mydei drowns you in the heat of him. There are no words shared between you. Only gasps and moans lost in the wet squelch of flesh. You’re mindful enough to keep it down, and so is he. But even if the red light district is fast asleep, you and Mydei are only getting started.  He doesn’t quite fuck into you the way you’re used to. The intensity is there, but so is the unbridled passion. It feels like something that isn't yours, but Mydei gives it to you again and again and again until you have no choice but to claim it as your own.  To take him as yours. (Even just for tonight.)

Your nails dig in sharply into his rigid skin, but the fact that he has an indestructible body makes you throw all caution to the wind. Where other men would bleed, he would only use it as a means to push ever-so deeply. As if Mydei isn’t already pounding you into the bed, he grasps your chin and meets your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. He spreads you on his cock like he was made for you, and you alone. You can feel him so far inside of you that you fear it’ll take days to sweat him out.  The nature of your work requires you to never get too attached to any of your clients, which used to be as easy as breathing. None of the men you encounter are worth remembering and you thought that none of them ever will be. But when it’s a prince who kisses you like a lover and holds you like his queen, how are you supposed to put up a fight? Mydei’s pace eventually starts to lose its sound rhythm. From the sharp breaths he takes to the fact that his eyes seem to be going in and out of focus, you can tell that he’s close to the edge. Who are you to deny him that? Your fingers tangle in his hair yet again and you whisper every sort of expletive in the book. You fuck me so good. Can feel you throbbing inside me. Come on, Mydeimos, I know you’re almost there. Please, please, please— That does just the trick. Mydei reaches the apex of bliss with a sharp hiss. But instead of finishing inside you, he musters up the strength to pull out and lets his white hot emission coat the sheets instead. You don't realize right away, but when you see the pearlescent essence of his cum on the sheets, your heart sinks.  “W-Why did you…?” 

You don’t know why you sound so miserable at the idea of his seed not being deep inside of you. The mere thought of a man’s spend dripping from your cunt repulsed you to no end. But Mydei has a knack for being the sole exception to many things. He’s quick to wipe the tears that trickle across your face, thumb swiping gently across your soft cheek. “I… I do not wish to burden you with having to bear my child. And I have my own reasons for not wanting to sire an heir at this point in time.” “But…” Mydei continues, having not heard you protest. “Kremnoan children are also difficult to bear, according to many mothers I’ve spoken to before. The last thing I want is for you to—” “Mydeimos,” you sigh in exasperation, grabbing his face so that he would pay attention. “I’ve been sterilized long before I met you, so you needn’t fret about any children growing inside me.”  The silence that follows is deafening, and it makes you want to bury your head in sand. Mydei is too baffled to speak right away, and you don't fault him for it. The rumors about women at The House have been floating around for a while, but none of you didn't want to sow any more conflicts than there already are. Instinctively, you trail your fingers along your navel. Though the scars have long been healed by Phagousa’s blessing, you remember what you lost like it was just yesterday.  “We can’t bear any children because the previous head of The House took that away from us,” you murmur—memories, old but still painful flashing in the forefront of your mind. “So please don’t concern yourself with trivial things like that. I only want to provide the most out of your experience.” Your chest aches at your own words. It’s not that you’re dying to have children of your own. Nikolas being the first and last child to be born here is more than enough for you. Children should never have to grow up in the darkness anyways. Mydei frowns. “Why do you speak of yourself like you’re nothing but an object made for my enjoyment?” “Am I not?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls you upright—anger glowing in his golden eyes. It doesn’t scare you. Somehow, you know the ire in his gaze is not directed at you.  But despite the obvious shift in his mood, Mydei kisses you again with nothing but passion imbued in his lips. He quickly melts away the bitterness dredged up by those memories he unknowingly dug up into the surface. The faith you’ve put in him tonight is phenomenal, especially when you allow him back between your thighs despite what you just discussed. You don’t understand how he’s still hard after releasing so much of his emission earlier. But if there’s one thing you know about Kremnoans, it’s that their stamina is unparalleled. Unlike the first time, Mydei doesn’t rut into you hard and fast. Everything about this is slow and sensual, as if he wants to mold your cunt into the shape of him. He presses your thighs into your chest, tilting your body at just the right angle so he can let his cock hit even deeper.  “Mydei…” His name sounds strained, like you’re choking on your own voice. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for. You don’t know what you even want at this point. But Mydei heeds your unspoken wishes anyway. He folds you further into the bed in a way that makes you feel like his desire for you is inescapable. The position you’re in is meant for lovers trying for a child, to make sure the seed takes and bears fruit. You two are nothing but strangers basking in each other’s bodies deep in the darkness of the undercity. 

But even if you can never have children of your own, there’s something oddly comforting in the fact that Mydei fucks into you like this anyway. Like you’re worth more than a bottom dweller lost to the shadows.  Your orgasm crests without much bravado either. It’s straightforward, having been exacerbated by the Prince rubbing your clit as he nearly breaches a place inside of you that has never been reached by anyone else. It feels intrusive at first, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand in instinctive wariness. But as the head of his cock continues to drag along your spongy flesh, as he keeps hitting that sinfully sweet spot, your caution begins to fray at the seams. You embrace him with a quiet sob, tight walls squeezing his cock for all he’s worth.  And then you fall off the edge of ecstasy itself. It’s much different from when you came undone from his mouth. That felt like you were reaching for stars that burst in the back of your eyelids. This feels like coming back home.

Mydei murmurs yet another string of words that are beyond your range of understanding, each one sounding more vulnerable than the last. And with one last, stuttering thrust, he bursts—coating your walls in the warmth of his release.  He fills you to the brim, pumping you full of his seed until it drips out of your cunt with his cock still flush inside you. The sensation is filthy but not in a way that you despise. You even move your hips to let him fuck his cum deeper inside you. When Mydei notices, he lets out a sharp laugh. “I didn’t think…you’d still be this eager.” You don’t say anything in return—or more like, you can’t. The sensation of him filling you up has rendered you into a mindless deviant. Only his cock can stoke the fire still raging inside you. So you do your best to entice him. While you loathe the idea at first, you slip his cock out of your soiled cunt. Mydei watches your every move with rapt attention and a growl nearly tears through his chest when you get on your knees, facing away from him before presenting your ass for the taking. His seed trickles out of you and onto the sheets. No man would be sane enough to resist the same display of seduction. “Are you sure you want to provoke me like this?” he warns. “The woman in charge of this place told me I should be gone by sunrise.”  Your mind doesn’t quite register the fact that Elena herself imposed that restriction—too desperate to be speared on his cock once more. The sun doesn’t even rise in a place like this.  “I don’t care,” you whimper, tugging him closer to you. “Mydei, fuck me more.”  Mydei looks up at the ceiling, as if praying for some sort of deliverance. “What am I going to do with you?”

Fortunately for you, the Prince surrenders far too easily to the desires of the flesh. The two of you go at it with no end in sight. Mydei proves to live up to the Kremnoan stamina that’s grown recently popular amongst your sisters. And despite the room smelling of sex and depravity alike, he doesn’t relent—committed to fulfilling your desires until you’re completely spent.  You’re the first one to tap out, as expected. Mydei didn’t seem finished with you at first, but when he finally notices the mess he’s made of your body, his rationality comes back to the surface.  He lays your head on the pillow gently, positioning the rest of your body upright once he’s done wiping down the evidence of his time with you. Mydei knows you’re not quite asleep when your eyes slowly flutter in confusion, and he sighs before leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “Can I ask something?” “Hmm…?” Hopefully, that translates to a yes. “What’s your name? Your real name.”  “Mmmh…” On a regular day, you would think twice before giving that information out so freely. Your line of work is more dangerous than it seems, and the most basic precaution is to never give patrons your real name. But you don’t usually get your brains fucked into mush on regular days either, so you suppose Elena can forgive you for the lapse in judgement.  Mydei repeats your name with a hint of fondness in his voice. You don’t quite hear it, given that you’re halfway to the land of slumber.

“Thank you… Your… has been… splendid.” What was that…? You’re too far gone to give his words another conscious thought.  Instead, you dream of a man with eyes hewn from pure starlight. Of a life you could have with him if only you hadn’t been born with the lives you had.  But like all dreams do, they cease to exist the moment you open your eyes. 

“B-Big Sister, how do you make this much in one night?” This is the first thing Iris asks when you step into the pavilion. Well, you’re not sure if it’s even morning. It’s difficult to tell here in the undercity. Still feeling the lasting throb of a headache, you gaze at Iris with a befuddled look. “What are you talking about?”  It’s only then that you realize a handful of your other sisters have gathered around the large table in the middle of the room, where bags upon bags of gold overflow on the marble surface. You stare at them with a nonplussed expression, not sure why they think all this finery belongs to you— Mydei. “Alright, girls, give poor Thalia some space.” Sometimes, you’re grateful for Elena’s timely interventions. While some of your sisters bemoan the lack of an explanation for this…massive influx of currency, they all have enough courtesy to step out when it’s needed. Shortly after, you enjoy a meal that Elena already prepared for you beforehand—one glass of pomegranate juice and a plate of golden honeycakes.  “I’ve never seen you that spent before,” the head of The House snickers to herself. “That man did a number on you now, did he?”  You would have glared at her, if only her cooking wasn’t so good. “Elena, shouldn’t we practice the art of minding our own business?” “Technically, you’re working for my business, yes?” This woman can really be insufferable sometimes. 

Thankfully, Elena gives you enough grace for the next several minutes. You get to finish your food without so much as a quip on her end. But just when you think she’s let you off the hook, she has the gall to ask: “And you’re sure you haven’t fallen in love with that Prince?” Elena’s preposterous words nearly make you choke on your drink. “If I start falling for every man that shows me an ounce of kindness, then I would’ve been long dead, Elena. You know that men who mask their intentions are worse than those who are outright scoundrels.” “But is he?” “...What?” “A man who masks his intentions?” Her question is met with a puzzled stare. “Of course not—” “Then why not let yourself fall for the kind man?” Elena chuckles. 

“Because he’s a Chrysos Heir? He has much more pressing concerns than some random woman in the red light district. If the lesser men that have had me never even thought twice about me, why would he?” Elena shrugs. “Only you can answer that, I’m afraid.” Eventually, one of your sisters ends up calling Elena for an urgent matter. You don’t quite hear what it’s about, but the head of The House steps out of the pavilion to leave you to your devices… Or to your heaps of gold, in this case.  You still don’t know what you’re supposed to do with all of this, but you might give half of the money to Elena to help with the much needed repairs around The House, and the other half to Phainon so he can give it to the less fortunate citizens up on the surface. Though you immediately scratch the latter off the list since the chance of Mydei finding out is fairly high. The moment your thoughts drift back to him, your face heats up with embarrassment.

You were not yourself last night. You don’t know what drove you to go such lengths just to please him, and where you even got the courage to keep going. But when you recall the warmth of Mydei’s golden eyes, the tenderness weighted beneath his touch, and the fire that seemed to burn behind those marks on his body… You spend the rest of your day ruminating about your time with Mydei. Hell, you even consider reaching out to Phainon to ask all your pressing questions just to sate your biting curiosity. Why did he come here? Did he need reprieve from his princely duties so badly?  No. You shouldn’t think of him anymore.  Mydei is nothing but a client. You’ve rendered your services. He’s paid his dues. That should be the end of the transaction, and nothing else. Time and time again, you tell yourself the same thing: When you make a living in the bowels of the Eternal Holy City, nothing is ever personal. Until you catch yourself wondering just how heavy of a crown that Kremnoan Prince actually bears. “Big Sister? A customer is asking for you.” Nikolas peeks through the curtain of seashells dangling by the entrance of your room again. He doesn’t wait long for your answer because the speed in which you burst into a sprint is somewhat embarrassing. “Who is it?” you ask, eyes wide and pulse roaring in your ears. “Did you see?” “Umm, I think it’s just one of the bartenders working down the street. Why?” You visibly deflate at the news, and you know that despite being fairly young, Nikolas doesn’t miss the disappointment on your face.

In the end, you decline to see any potential clients for the next few days. Your official statement is that you’re still recuperating from your last session. The only reason your sisters don’t nose in on the matter is the fact that you brought so much revenue to The House in just one session, they’re fully convinced that you deserve all the rest you can get. But the truth is that you spend most of your time lost in thought, daydreaming of a man with fiery hair and molten gold eyes.  You wonder if he’ll ever come back.

In the seaside state of Lethe, it’s fairly easy to forget about one’s problems.

Wine and song filled every street and back-alley, as the land is loved by the Titan of honey brews and banquets. Tales of the neverending festivities reached far and wide in Amphoreus, and that word-of-mouth alone was enough to attract visitors from across the land. 

It’s for this reason that Lethians are as hospitable as they are. Phagousa taught them how to cultivate the sweetest wine from mere grapes; taught them the art of music and how it brings life to the darkest of nights. 

For thousands of years, your people simply dedicated their toasts and sang their shanties to honor the Ocean Mother’s kindness. When others hailing from places near and far started to gravitate towards such a profound relationship between a Titan and their people, you welcomed them with open arms. 

After all, Phagousa’s benevolence is meant to be shared, not kept. 

Your mother has been bringing you into the jovial streets since you were ten years old—singing and dancing amongst drunken sailors and tourists who wanted a quick getaway. It was easy to let loose in a place meant for you to forget about life’s worries. But on some days, you preferred basking in the comfort of waves lapping gently across the shore. The stars were much easier to see along the coastline, far from the entertainment district that robbed a person’s attention of the vast sky that stretched above their heads. Though Phagousa exists in every goblet overflowing with drink, Their presence is most captivating when you’re out here at sea. 

The spot you’ve chosen was a ways away from the wharf that received and sent off ships. Which is why one bothers to encroach on this safe haven of yours. Not even your own mother. But apart from the privacy the secluded shore offered, there was another reason why you liked to sit here and observe in your lonesome. 

A reason that might get you in trouble. 

Several miles east of Lethe is the stronghold of the Titan of Death: the city state of Styxia. Legend has it, Lethians used to live there a long time ago—before the end of Era Chrysea, when Thanatos was born. The god’s presence was a plague that spread throughout the land. Not even Phagousa could protect Their people from Death’s inviting fingertips.

But since the lost city state isn’t too far from here, sometimes, fragments of the Nether Realm end up leaking into the open sea.

There, you often see things that others would deem impossible. 

Souls—by the hundreds, sometimes even by the thousands. They all drift aimlessly across the ocean like luminescent creatures you’d normally find deep underwater. The first time you witnessed this happening, you simply thought that it was migration season for the crystal jellyfish. Lethians even have a festival dedicated to that specific phenomenon.

But that only ever happens during the Month of Joy, which was over five months ago. 

Instead of spiraling into a panic and alerting the entire island of what you saw, you chose to linger—observing as each soul meandered across the moonlit ocean and into the unknown. The sight reminded you of a tale about the Sea of Souls, and how you would inevitably make the journey towards it once you pass.  You wondered if these souls have simply lost their way to their supposed destination. Though you’ve never heard of this happening before, it wasn’t such a farfetched ordeal. Perhaps even the dead long for Phagousa’s promise of gratification and delight.

Every day since the first, you began visiting the secluded shore in hopes of getting a glimpse of that literal sea of souls. Sometimes, they light up the sea like specters bathed in moonlight, but most of the time, it’s just you. 

Always just you. 

“Big Sister? You’re dozing off again.”

You’re not sure how exactly your mind managed to register the fact that you’re being scolded, but you jolt awake anyways. Eyes darting around, you grasp at the information available—who are you with, what are you doing, what’s going on—and visibly relax when you remember that you’re with your sisters in the pavilion, feasting on today’s breakfast after a rather long night.

Iris stares at you with a concerned look. “Is the food not to your liking?”

“Of course not!” you insist before shoveling a spoonful of eggs into your mouth and biting down on a piece of flatbread. “Breakfast is especially appetizing when you’re the one making it for me.”

“So it’s not the case if I’m the one cooking?” 

At the sound of Elena's sulking, you have to stifle a groan. The head of the House could be such a child at times, despite already being a mother herself. But then again her petulance knows no bounds. Elena joins you and the rest of your sisters at the dining table, depositing some of Iris’ cooking onto a plate before taking a seat. Though you try your best to avoid her gaze, it’s a bit difficult when the person in question is quite literally next to you.

You’ve been with Elena for so long that you don’t even have to look at her to know whenever she’s scheming something. 

“I’ll be heading up to the overworld today,” she imparts the information casually before popping a blueberry into her mouth. “Nikolas has been meaning to join the Academy that trains the Holy City’s guards. Unfortunately, those scoundrels have rubbed off on my boy.” 

Despite your caution, you let slip a soft laugh. “Well, whenever we take some guards as clients, they have no one to talk to in the lobby apart from other patrons and Nik. You trained him to be too good of a conversationalist for a fourteen year-old.” 

“This is what we get for those god-awful waiting times we subject them to,” Penelope chuckles. “But look at the bright side: the city guards are the least rotten of the bunch. Nik at least chooses his heroes wisely.”

“I wouldn’t call Officer Theodorus a hero,” snorts Alexandria. “He has a wife and two children yet he goes down here to ask for me at least once a fortnight! Men are all the same, no matter what job they have.”

You don’t blame your sisters for feeling the way they do. Working as prostitutes in the underground had little benefits. But people with nowhere else to go don’t have much of a choice. It’s just nice to be able to air all these frustrations out as freely as you all do now. 

Unlike before…

All of a sudden, Lyra pops into the discussion, snapping her fingers. “Remember that man who pretended to be an envoy from the Grove? I still wonder why he thought doing that to curry Elena’s favor would give him any discounts. Not even Chrysos Heirs can haggle with her.” 

At the mere mention of that title, you feel several eyes on you at once. Just great.

“I thought we all agreed not to bring him up again?” you groan.

“Bring who up?” Elena muses with a whimsical tone that annoys you a little. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about that fake scholar, Thalia.”

You know damn well it’s not about that impostor!

“U-Um, would you like some more juice, Big Sister?” Iris, ever the last to play the devil’s advocate, offers with a wobbly smile. You nod all too quickly before she refills your cup with enough pomegranate juice to last you until the end of your meal. Still, the sweet drink doesn’t stop you from glaring daggers at Elena and your other sniveling sisters. 

After breakfast, you all do your share of the housework. Elena wasn’t very strict, but she did have a rule that you should all have at least one designated chore for each day.

Today, you’re in charge of the dishes.

For some reason, it’s everyone’s least favorite. Most of your sisters didn’t like it when their fingers pruned up after washing over twenty sets of plates and silverware after every meal. But fortunately for you, you grew up in a place that requires more than just your hands to get wet for prolonged periods of time. 

“Are you coming along?”

Cue Elena’s timely entrance once again. Sighing, you cast her a sidelong glance as you finish up rinsing the cups you all used for breakfast. “Do I want to know what this is about?” 

“I already told you this morning.” She smiles. “I’m enrolling Nikolas into the Academy. I haven’t been to that part of the city, so I would appreciate some company.”

“Elena, you know I don’t like coming up to the surface,” you grumble. 

“Yes, and I also know it’s high time we broke you out of that shell of yours,” the older woman encourages. “The Okhemans aren’t as bad as you think they are, Thalia—”

“Maybe to you, they aren’t,” you snip back curtly. “But me? They know where I’m from, Elena. They know the face of the girl that Agamemnon stole from the Island of Debauchery.” 

Your voice still trembles with each word, but you find peace in the fact that uttering that man’s name no longer strikes fear into your heart. From the soft set of Elena’s brow, you know she notices this as well. The faucet creaks when you twist it to turn off the water. You hear nothing over the sound over your heart pounding in your ears. 

“But Agamemnon is no longer with us,” Elena reminds you quietly. “I’m not telling you to forgive the man who ruined our lives, but you shouldn’t let the ghost of him dictate the course of your life. If he found out how much of a hold he still has on you, that monster would be coming in his own grave.” 

As twisted as it is, you find comfort in the way she speaks of the old head of The House with as much disdain as you do. It’s been a while since he’s been taken care of, but the scars he left will never really fade. 

No matter how badly you want them to.

“Nik and I will leave in half an hour,” she continues after a few moments of silence. “Come with us to the surface, please? I promise that if your experience is anything less than stellar, I’ll never ask you the same thing again.”

The sincerity in her plea is far from Elena’s usual cheekiness, which makes you think that she might be getting a bit desperate to get you to agree. At that moment, you parse through dozens of possibilities as to why Elena thinks it’s such a good idea to bring you to the surface on such short notice. The other girls might be more amiable to the idea, whereas you are perfectly content with your life here in the undercity with other outcasts just trying to make a living. 

…Sure, you kind of want to visit the cafes at the Marmoreal Palace that Phainon told you about whenever he visits, but that’s besides the point!

When you first set foot in Okhema as the newest addition to Agamemnon’s collection, you weren’t gazed at with disgust because you were a prostitute. It was because you were Lethian—people widely known as swindlers who used Phagousa in their blasphemous schemes to sap people of their hard-earned money. Those revolted stares haunted you well into your dreams for months. So even if the person who dragged you across the ocean under the false pretense of protection is gone, there are some things that you cannot move past so easily.

“Big Sis Thalia? Are you— oh! Mother, hello.” 

Just your luck, Nikolas chose the perfect time to pop into the kitchen. You notice that he’s all dressed up—robes all pinned in place, brass wrist bands and other pieces of jewelry glinting in the light of the lanterns. You can’t help but gush about how proper he looks. 

“Stop,” he groans, cheeks all dusted pink as you ruffle his hair. “Mother told me to make myself presentable…whatever that means. I must’ve done a good job if you’re doting on me like this.”

“You sure did,” you coo. 

“So you’re coming along with us then?” Nikolas segues with raised brows. “Mother said she’ll try her best to convince you to go to the surface. Did she?”

From the expectant twinkle in the boy’s eyes, you figure that he must’ve been really looking forward to you chaperoning them to the Academy. You heave a deep sigh before your gaze flickers to Elena, who simply grins at you like the angel she is. 

Hook. Line. Sinker. 

“Yeah, just give me a few minutes to get ready.” You force out a smile of your own before pinching the tip of Nikolas’ nose. “I might need some sunlight after all this scuttling in the dark.”

Nikolas stares at you with his mouth agape, then at his mother, and back at you again in mere seconds. “W-What? Really?”

“ Really ,” you say, hoping you sound as sure as you hoped. “I’ll see you in half an hour, okay?”

The grin that stretches across his chubby little face is so wide, it makes your heart hurt. How in the world are you supposed to say no to him? 

When you head up to your quarters, the curtain of seashells parts at your entrance with a characteristic clinking sound. You don’t usually rush inside this fast, but time is of the essence when you agree to go to the surface even if you only planned on finishing a novel today.  You’ve never been as particular with what you wanted to wear as you are now. Most of the dresses in your wardrobe are meant for work—meaning, they’re far too revealing to wear in the streets of the Eternal Holy City. The last thing you want is to get arrested for public indecency.

Thankfully, you manage to spot some rather pristine robes that probably won’t get you kicked out of the Academy in the back of your closet. You try it on without another thought, smiling to yourself in the mirror when you find that it’s still a perfect fit. The rest follows swiftly after. Minimal makeup. Nothing too extravagant for jewelry. Comfortable sandals. You’re pretty much all set. 

But then you make the mistake of thinking, I wonder if I’ll run into Phainon today, which then makes you think about him. 

Mydeimos.

Truth be told, the thought of that name incites an even more volatile reaction out of you than that of Agamemnon’s. Even if he’s a prince, he should be nothing but another name on your neverending list of clientele. 

Before meeting him, you never quite understood prostitutes who hanker for certain patrons more than others, who even go as far as to fall in love with them. The next thing you know, their rooms in The House have been emptied and news of them being bought out by said patrons starts to spread. You’re happy for them, of course. But the thought of having any sort of affection for a man who only used you for your body was near-unfathomable for you for a long, long time. 

Until you met Mydei. 

“Big Sis, are you ready?” 

The sound of Nikolas calling out for you down the hall dispels any and all thoughts of a certain Kremonan Prince. You shake your head, staring at yourself hard in the mirror as if wanting to remind you of your place. What’s done is done. They say you need countless lifetimes of fate to meet a person even once in this life. If you miss it when it brushes past, that's the end.

Right?

“I’ll be down in a minute!” you shout back. “Sorry for the wait!”

With that, you set off for your first excursion to the surface in a good while—praying to the heavens above. You’re not even asking for a good day. You just need to be able to get through this without getting traumatized into hiding again.

Please. Just this once. 

There are no gods left that would heed your plea, but it costs nothing to hope. 

The air in Okhema feels different today. 

Maybe because it’s been months, maybe longer, since you last walked these streets. Yet the weight of it all—the towering marble spires, the golden banners, the bustling crowds—clings to you like a second skin. You feel alien in a place that should have welcomed you. But instead, it’s the echo of past insults, cold stares, and harsh judgment that rises to the surface. It threatens to choke you, but you do your best to overcome it. You can’t afford to lose face where Nikolas can see. 

As you walk through the city’s grand streets, the young boy skips ahead, eagerly pointing out the towering buildings and guards marching in formation. Elena walks beside him, hands on his shoulders, keeping him grounded as she smiles proudly at her son. There’s a quiet confidence in Elena’s step, the kind of strength that you find yourself envying. Despite claiming otherwise, she knows this city well, knows how to navigate it, and how to move among the people. But for you, every step feels foreign, like an outsider trying to be something she’s not.

You eventually reach the Academy without much spoken word. Nikolas is excited, tugging Elena’s arm, eager to begin his training, while his mother smiles, giving him a gentle nudge toward the entrance. You linger a few paces behind, staring at the stone-carved doors before feeling a slight knot in your stomach as the reality sets in. This is where Nikolas will learn to become something great, something noble. And here you are, a shadow in the background, caught between worlds.

Elena turns to you, her smile faltering slightly. “Thalia,” she says, voice soft but firm, “Are you all right?”

You blink, as if snapping out of a daze and before attempting to force a smile that only feels hollow. The words you’re looking for stick in your throat, tangled with the memories of your time in Okhema—the judgment, the whispers, the pain of feeling like you didn’t belong here, like you were nothing more than an outcast.

“I’m fine,” you reply, though the words feel like a lie. You can’t bring yourself to say more. 

The city around you feels suffocating, its beauty just a façade for all the ugly truths beneath. Your gaze drifts toward the golden banners fluttering in the wind, the bright, polished marble reflecting the sun. It all feels too perfect, too pristine. But there’s no life in it, no warmth. Just cold, glittering stone.

Nikolas notices the quiet tension between you. His youthful face scrunches in confusion, then concern. “Big Sis Thalia, you look sad.”

You’re quick to shake your head, as if to push the feeling away. “It’s nothing, Nikolas. Just…” A pause. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Elena watches you for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she can see right through the carefully constructed farce. “You don’t have to linger if you don’t want to. I promised I wouldn’t ask you to come again if it was too much, didn’t I?”

The offer hangs in the air, a lifeline thrown your way, but you refuse it with a sigh. “No. I’ll stay. I’ll wait for you two.”

Elena gives you a thoughtful look but doesn’t press further. She turns back to Nikolas, her voice warming as she speaks to him again. “Come on, Nikolas. Let’s get you settled in.”

You watch them go, feeling like an outsider once more. 

Eventually, you find yourself leaning against a nearby stone pillar, trying to push away the gnawing unease. As the sounds of the city swirl around you—laughter, the distant clatter of metal, the hum of conversation—you find yourself yearning for the stillness of the undercity. For the quiet comfort of familiarity, even if it was painful. 

Here, in Okhema, there’s nothing but unfamiliar faces, bright lights, and the weight of expectations. The city feels too big, too cold, too far removed from everything you’ve known.

Your eyes catch the glitter of the golden sun off a nearby building, and you swallow hard. Somewhere, deep down, you know that this is what you should want. This is where Nikolas will build a better future. This is the world of the privileged, the elite.

And yet, all you can think of is Lethe—the island you came from, where the waves washed away the weight of the world for a time. Where you could drown your worries in song and drink, forgetting the ugliness of life. But even there, you were no stranger to suffering.

You blink back the feeling of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm you. For a brief moment, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to escape the shadows of the past—if you can even reconcile the girl who once wanted more with the woman who knows she’ll never have it all. The silence between you and the world around you stretches on, heavy like the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts. You don't know how long you stand there, watching the bustling crowds of Okhema, feeling the chill of being far from home—far from Lethe. The sharp, rich laughter of the city mocks your uncertainty.

But just as you’re about to let yourself drown in it, a voice cuts through the air, low and familiar.

“Lady Thalia?”

You jerk upright, eyes snapping toward the source. Standing a few paces away, tall and unruffled, is Phainon. His wide shoulders are relaxed, his posture easy, yet there's something about him—his unwavering calm in this sea of chaos—that makes him seem like an anchor in this storm of unfamiliar faces.

"Phainon!" you breathe, voice laced with surprise. 

You hadn’t expected to see him here. He’s usually a fixture in The House, checking in on you, Elena and the others. But here? In the heart of Okhema? It’s a little too much to process.

Phainon smiles, his eyes soft with something between surprise and delight. “I didn’t expect to find you in the overworld, let alone at the Academy of all places. This is a first.”

You laugh quietly, though it’s a hollow sound, like the air leaving a balloon. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t expect to be here either,” you tell him, gaze flicking to the Academy’s entrance. You can feel the weight of the city press against you once more, but Phainon’s presence is like a breath of fresh air, grounding you in the moment.

He tilts his head, a glimmer of something thoughtful in his eyes. “So what brings you here? Nothing bad, I hope?”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “I’m waiting for Elena and Nikolas. They’re just finishing up inside. Little Nik has been accepted into the Academy, and I’m just here to provide some moral support.”

For a moment, you pause, gaze wandering again to the grand doors of the Academy—the same door Nikolas will walk through everyday. It feels like the world is turning a page, and you’re left on the outside, watching it all happen.

Phainon studies you, sensing the flicker of doubt in your eyes. “Well, that’s quite an accomplishment,” he says, his tone warm, though his voice drops a little, as though trying to lighten the mood. “And who knows, maybe you’ll find your way around the city in time. Okhema isn’t so bad once you get used to it.”

You offer up half a smile, though the sentiment doesn’t quite ease the discomfort curling in your chest. “I’m not so sure about that. It’s just... I’m not sure I fit in here.”

Phainon’s expression softens, the playful energy draining from his face. “You don’t have to fit in, Lady Thalia,” he says simply. “This city doesn’t get to dictate who you are. You’re the one who decides that.”

Before you can respond, the doors of the Academy finally open, and Elena and Nikolas step out. The former beams at you and Phainon, her proud smile lighting up her face. On the other hand, Nikolas is glued to her side—his eyes wide with excitement.

“I still can’t believe it,” he exclaims, his youthful energy spilling over. “I’m going to be trained to fight! I’m going to be a guard just like the ones we saw earlier!”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “You’ll be great, Nik. You’ll make us all proud.”

Elena looks over at Phainon, offering a warm smile as well. “I see we have company.”

Phainon grins back at her. “You could say that. And what a pleasant surprise it is. I didn’t expect to find Lady Thalia in Okhema, let alone in the Academy district.”

That makes you roll your eyes, but there’s a warmth that you haven't felt since you set foot in this city. “I didn’t expect it either,” you mutter, though there’s something almost comforting in Phainon’s presence.

“Well,” Phainon continues, his voice taking on a playful note, “since we’re all here, why don’t we make the most of it? I was just on my way to the Overflowing Bath, and I’d be more than happy to invite you all for a little dip.”

Your expression shifts, surprised by the offer. “The Overflowing Bath?” 

Phainon’s mention of it stirs something in you—a memory of tales passed among your sisters, of how the bath is rumored to have healing waters, soothing both body and spirit. The waters, blessed by Phagousa, the Titan of the Ocean, have long been a comfort to those who sought solace in their depths. 

It was in those very waters that you had found a semblance of peace after all those years you spent with Agamemnon, your scars slowly healing under the gentle flow of the blessed stream. That was the closest you’ve been to the Titan who you used to believe in. Yet, despite the healing they offered your body, the scars of your heart have never quite mended.

Phainon notices the faraway look in your eyes and softens his tone. “The Overflowing Bath is a place of peace,” he says, “blessed by Phagousa herself. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. It’s a place where you can leave your burdens behind, even for just a little while.”

You nod slowly. “Yes, I’ve heard of it. In fact, that’s where Elena brought us first after you freed us from…”

The thought trails off, but the rest of them catch the unsaid message regardless. Elena smiles gently before placing a hand on your shoulder. “I know the bath has helped you heal before,” she says softly. “You’ve earned some time for yourself.”

Phainon’s grin is wide and inviting. “Come with me, then. There’s no rush, and no need to worry about anything for a while. I had the bath reserved for the morning if being in the company of strangers bothers you.”

That makes you scowl. “You booked an entire bath for yourself?” 

“...More or less.”

Elena shakes her head, laughing lightly. “As much as I’d love to join, Nikolas still has to get his uniform made, and that will take some time. But you two go ahead. This one deserves the break she needs.”

Nikolas pouts. “Aww, we can’t go?” 

“I’ll take good care of her, Elena,” Phainon assures, his voice light yet sincere. “I swear it in the name of the Flamechase Journey.” 

“What a tall oath,” the head of the House chuckles before egging you on. “Go ahead, Thalia. It’s a rare moment of peace. Take it.”

You look between them with evident hesitation, a quiet thanks in your eyes as you finally nod in agreement.

“Alright,” you say, your voice steadier than it has been in a while. “I’ll go.”

Phainon’s grin widens as he leads the way, the sunlight glinting off the gold-tinted streets of Okhema. The city fades behind you as you walk, the towering structures and polished marble giving way to the softer, more tranquil atmosphere of the Overflowing Bath. Phainon’s presence, calming and steady, makes you feel like you can breathe again, if only for a moment.

When you reach the specific area that Phainon reserved, he pushes open the ornate doors with a flourish. The sweet scent of warm water and incense wafts out, drawing you inside. Your eyes search the steamy, serene atmosphere, until your gaze catches on a figure lounging on one of the ledges of the bath.

You freeze in place, breath catching in your throat. Mydei, who you haven’t seen or heard from in weeks is here. Of all the places. Of all the times.

Phainon, oblivious to the shock written on your face, smiles warmly. “Ah, Mydei, I see you’ve already made yourself at home.”

Mydei looks up, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “I thought I’d get a head start.” His gaze shifts towards you, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—a softness that immediately makes your heart flutter.

“Thalia,” he greets, his voice low but warm.

You don't know what to say. How do you speak to someone you tried so hard to forget, but whose presence still calls to you in ways you can’t ignore? Sure you’d only seen Mydei once during that fateful encounter, but your sisters can attest to the fact that the Prince has affected you in ways no man has ever done before.

“I—didn’t know you’d be here,” you murmurs, your voice betraying the swirl of emotions you’ve been hiding for so long.

Mydei’s smile deepens, though it holds a trace of sadness. “I didn’t expect to be, either.”

As the water of the Overflowing Bath beckons, you can’t help but feel like the healing waters won’t just soothe your body this time—but perhaps, for better or worse, it will stir your heart once again.

The soft murmur of the stream fills the gaps in between your conversations. Phainon has settled into the pool with his usual ease, splashing the water lightly as he leans back with a relaxed grin. You, however, feel every drop against your skin as if it's a reminder of your discomfort. Coupled with Mydei’s presence, it’s difficult to maintain your composure.  You lower yourself into the water slowly, trying not to meet the prince’s gaze. His figure is hard to ignore—his chiseled form outlined in the glow of the bath’s warm light. He’s right there, and yet, the space between you feels as vast as the ocean.

“What compelled you to rent out an entire bath?” you ask more to settle your nerves than anything else. You then turn your eyes to Phainon, finding something familiar in his carefree demeanor. 

The Chrysos Heir lounging with his eyes half-closed, simply shrugs, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “I do have a tendency to pull off stuff that others least expect. Keeps things interesting, don’t you think?”

You try to laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to your own ears. Mydei, on the other hand, remains quiet, his gaze shifting from Phainon to you, his expression unreadable.

“I... didn’t think I’d find you both here, together,” you add, fingers trailing lazily through the water, finding solace in its movement.

Phainon glances over at you, his eyes sparkling with his usual wit. “Well, you know Mydei. He’s always full of surprises.”

Mydei shifts slightly but doesn’t respond, his silence more eloquent than any words could be. You are acutely aware of the space between you—how small, yet how loaded it feels. It’s not the first time you’ve felt something unsaid lingering in the air, but somehow this time feels different. More fragile. You find yourself stealing a glance at The Prince as he speaks with Phainon about some uproar in the Marmoreal Market. His broad shoulders are relaxed, his wet hair framing his face in a way that, for a moment, makes you forget the tension in the air. You quickly avert your eyes, ashamed of the way your heart flutters, even now.

“What about you? What are you doing here?” 

The sound of Mydei’s voice startles you, low and deep—like the distant rumbling of thunder. You know he’s talking to you because his words carry a characteristic softness that you don’t really hear when he’s conversing with Phainon.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you murmurs, trying to fill the silence with anything. “I’m just...passing the time.”

Mydei gives a low hum of acknowledgement, but it’s clear he’s not about to press you for more. Instead, he turns to you with an almost imperceptible nod. “This place... it’s been known to heal more than just wounds,” he says casually, his voice laced with a tone you can’t quite place. “If you’ve been carrying scars... the water here helps.”

“I’ve heard,” you say, voice low enough to be a whisper. “When I first arrived here... I thought it was too good to be true.”

He looks at you then, his gaze softer than it has been before, but still guarded. “It’s true. The waters here have a way of healing what’s broken. And they don’t ask for anything in return.”

You dip your hand further into the water, feeling the warmth seep into your skin, almost as though it could wash away everything you’ve tried to forget. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this peace until you found it, in this strange, blessed space.

“I think I’m used to broken things,” you tell him quietly, unsure whether you mean it for either of them to hear. “But maybe... some things can be fixed.”

Mydei, still sitting near the edge of the bath, shifts slightly, but doesn’t respond. There’s a weight in his eyes as they meet yours, and for the briefest of moments, it feels like the world outside of the bath has ceased to exist. There are no words for the thoughts passing between you—only the water’s gentle rhythm and the faint echo of an old song neither of you dares to sing aloud. Just as the silence begins to feel suffocating, Phainon rises from the water. 

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” he says with a grin, clearly not fooled by the unspoken tension. He starts moving toward the exit, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder as he passes. “Enjoy the waters. Don’t forget, you two—rest is as important as duty. You’ve earned it.”

You watch him leave, feeling an inexplicable weight lift off your shoulders. Alone now, you’re left with the gentle pull of the water and the quiet, watchful presence of Mydei. The space between you has become an almost tangible thing—fragile and full of unspoken possibilities.

When he speaks again, it’s only after several moments have passed, as if he’s still choosing his words carefully. 

“Does it get easier?” he asks.

“No,” you reply, your tone matching his. “It doesn’t.”

And with that, the silence returns, but this time, it doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

You don't know how long you sit like that—still, silent, steeped in the warmth of the water and the ache of unspoken words. Around you, the sacred scent of herbs mingled with steam rises from the surface, curling in the air like incense in a forgotten temple. Somewhere beneath the hush of the baths, you can almost hear the pulse of the city—distant bells, murmured prayers, the echo of footsteps beyond the marble walls. You shift slightly, drawing your knees closer to your chest beneath the water. Mydei remains at the other end of the pool, his arms draped over the edge, head tilted back, eyes closed. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was asleep. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, soft but sudden. “What you said... about the water not asking for anything in return.”

He opens his eyes, but doesn’t look at you right away. “Yes,” he says after a pause. “Not everything here is like the rest of the city.”

You let that sit for a while. “That’s rare,” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the surface of the water. “Things that don’t take something from you.”

At that, Mydei deigns to look at you. His gaze isn’t sharp or probing—it’s quiet. Careful. Like he’s trying to read a page you haven't decided to turn yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “For what you were put through.”

The words catch you off guard—not because of what they are, but because of how gently he says them. Not as a prince, or a warrior, or a man trying to soothe his conscience. Just...a person who sees your pain. You don't respond right away. You can’t. Your throat tightens in that way it sometimes does, where it feels like if you say anything at all, the mask you’ve carefully kept in place will crumble.

Instead, you swallow it down with a minute nod.

“I know,” you finally say. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t carry it.”

The water laps quietly between you as you close your eyes. You’re not supposed to be kind, you think bitterly. You’re not supposed to see me.

But he does. You know he does.

Just then, Nikolas’ laugh echoes faintly from the corridor beyond the marble walls. Elena must have found something to delight him on their way here—his joy is unmistakable, pure and bright. It makes something ache deep in your chest. A reminder of why you’re still here. Why you’re trying, even if you haven’t figured out how to start healing yet.

You open your eyes and let your gaze sweep across the bath. Mydei is watching you again, but there’s no expectation in his molten gold irises. In spite of this, you manage a small, wry smile. “You’re quieter than I remember.”

He gives a faint, sheepish shrug. “I talk less when I don’t know what to say.”

“I thought princes were trained to always know what to say.”

He huffs softly—more breath than laughter, but it’s genuine. “Maybe I missed that lesson.”

You surprise yourself by laughing too, and for a moment, it’s easy. Light and fleeting as it is, it lifts something heavy off your chest. The two of you don’t speak again after that—not because you’ve run out of things to say, but because silence feels safer now. More honest.

When you finally step out of the bath, wrapping yourself in one of the palace’s pale linen towels, you feel... lighter. The pain hasn’t gone. The past hasn’t changed. But for a moment, the weight is a little easier to carry. Mydei stands as well, quiet and respectful, and doesn’t look at you until you turn to him.

“I’ll see you around,” you tell him. Not a question, not a promise—just something that hangs in the space between maybe and someday.

Mydei nods. “You will.”

And then, as they part ways, the steam rises behind them, curling upward toward the sky where the temple windows open wide, letting in the late morning light. Lethe’s daughter walks beneath it.

And for the first time in a long while, she doesn’t feel like she’s drowning.

That night, sleep finds you gently in your room at The House.

It’s quiet—unusually so. The murmurs and laughter from the halls have faded, and even the candlelight flickers soft and low, as if unwilling to disturb you. The sheets smell faintly of lavender and mineral salts still clinging to your skin. For the first time in a long while, your body feels light. Almost whole. But the moment your eyes close, the world begins to shift and suddenly, you’re in Lethe again.

The air smells like salt and fruit wine. Music drifts down cobbled streets, bright and winding, and laughter spills from open balconies. The sun dips low, spilling honey-colored light over everything. You remember this part—how beautiful it always looked from the outside. A paradise that asked nothing of you but to smile, to dance, to forget. You tried so hard to forget.

The tide starts to rise.

Your bare feet slap against wet stone. The cobblestones fade beneath a creeping tide of black water. The music warps, slows, becomes something hollow. You try to run, but the water climbs higher, dark and cold, and from its depths emerge faces.

Wandering souls. Pale, half-formed, drifting just beneath the surface. Eyes like moons, wide and lost. You saw them once—back on the shores of Lethe, before Agamemnon took you away. Now they’re reaching for you. Calling for you like sirens. But before you can answer, the dream fractures again.

You’re in the undercity.

A lantern swings overhead, casting jagged light along damp stone walls. You hear sobbing from behind closed doors, moans of pain, the dull thud of fists against flesh. You know these sounds. They followed you for years.

He is here.

Agamemnon’s voice slithers through the dark, oil-slick and indulgent. 

“You’re lucky,” he says, “A beauty like yours shouldn’t be wasted in some seaside slum.”

“You’ll be taken care of. Treasured.”

“You’re mine.”

You see him again—his eyes devouring, hands like shackles dressed in gold. He touches your chin. You want to spit. You try to scream.

And then—light.

Like a blade cleaving darkness, you see Elena. Bent over, cradling a crying baby, shielding him from a world that wants nothing but to unmake him. Her eyes—tired, fierce, filled with love. Nikolas. His cries cut through the dream like a signal fire.

You run.

Through water, through shadow, through screams and shattered laughter. You don’t know if you’re chasing something or fleeing from it. But the sea rises. The souls call. The walls bleed gold. And then—

You gasp awake, heart jackhammering in your chest. Sweat clings to your back, and the cool, sacred air of the overworld feels far too still. For a moment, you forget where you are.

Then you remember the bath. The light. The gentle way Phainon laughed. The quiet look Mydei gave you, unreadable and tender. You remember the promise of healing, the way the blessed water wrapped around your wounds like a whisper. But even the kindest waters cannot drown what lives inside you.

You wipe your face with trembling fingers. The night is silent, but your pulse is loud in your ears. Though the blessed water may have healed your body, the scars inside you still sing.

The ghosts are quiet now.

But not gone.

The sun never sets in Okhema.

By late afternoon, the light should have softened, dipping into that gentle hush before dusk—but here, under the watch of Kephale’s Dawn Device, the city remains suspended in a perpetual golden hour. 

It’s beautiful in a way that makes your skin crawl if you think about it too long. The warmth feels artificial, borrowed. Like the heavens forgot to turn the page. You step onto the polished stone streets, the hem of your cloak catching faint glimmers of light. The satchel you carry is light, barely filled with anything but a half-eaten persimmon and a cloth to wipe Nikolas’ ever-sticky hands. Still, its strap rests against your shoulder like something heavier—something earned.

The walk to the Academy winds through quieter neighborhoods, far from the towering temples and the chatter of merchants. The air smells like crushed citrus and dust. You keep your head down. You always do, even now, even when people don’t seem to look at you with the same venom they once did. 

It’s been some time since Agamemnon fell, but his ghost lingers in certain corners of your mind, like mildew that clings no matter how many times you scrub.

At the gates of the Academy, you pause, eyes tracing the archways carved with symbols of Kephale’s divine mind—logic, clarity, vision. It’s meant to inspire discipline. You’ve never been particularly fond of order, but something about Nikolas in this place makes a strange kind of sense. He deserves more than survival. The gates creak open and children spill out like laughter, sharp and careless. Your eyes scan for him.

And there he is—Nikolas, his hair a wild crown of dark curls, cheeks smudged with ink, a leather-bound workbook clutched to his chest like a badge of honor. His smile is wide when he spots you.

"Big Sis Thalia!" he calls, breaking into a run. He nearly barrels into your legs, arms wrapping tight around your waist. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, brushing ink from his cheek. “Elena’s going to think I dragged you through the gutters.”

“She always says that,” he shrugs, then looks up with that disarming earnestness only children possess. “Did you wait long?”

You shake your head. “Only a little. Come on. Let’s head home.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead, Nikolas digs his heels into the stone, tilting his head back with a grin that already spells trouble. “Wait—Thalia, can we go to the Hall of Respite? Just real quick? Please?”

You raise a brow. “Why so suddenly?”

He bobs his head eagerly. “They have those honey-glazed flatcakes I like—the really soft ones! And I got a perfect score today. Ask anyone. Master Irenas even patted my head. That never happens!”

You blink. “A perfect score?”

He puffs out his chest, smug in the way only little boys who’ve just conquered the world can be. “I studied really hard. Even Lord Phainon said I should treat myself more. He did!”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “I doubt he meant ���bribe your guardian into feeding your sweet tooth.’”

Nikolas clasps his hands together dramatically. “Please? I’ll even save you a bite.”

You glance down at him—the sunlight caught in his lashes, the pink blooming across his cheeks from too much running, the way he’s still slightly out of breath and doesn’t care at all. The kind of breathless you used to be, back when days were filled with sea spray and laughter and song.

“Alright,” you sigh again, and this time it’s gentler. “But only one. And don’t think this means I’ll cover for you if you throw up before dinner.”

He whoops with victory, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the Hall of Respite, where the scents of warm milk, nutmeg, and golden syrup linger in the air like an embrace.

You follow, the goldlight casting your shadows long behind you—but for now, you don’t look back.

The Hall of Respite is a marvel in gold and gentle laughter. Soft harp strings hum in the background, accompanied by the distant trickle of a fountain somewhere beyond the marble colonnades. You and Nikolas sit tucked near one of the arched windows, bathed in dappled light as he gleefully tears into his honey-glazed flatcake, cheeks sticky with syrup and joy. He talks between bites—fast and animated—his voice barely able to keep up with his thoughts.

“—and then he flipped Cassander over with just one arm! Just one! Like this!” Nikolas throws his arms out, nearly knocking over your cup of mulled cider. “And he made us practice breakfall drills until our backs hurt. But he said it was so we wouldn't crack our heads open later, which makes sense, right?”

You blink at him, smiling despite yourself. “What happened to that gentle etiquette instructor you said reminded you of a housecat?”

“Oh, Master Aetius?” Nikolas waves him off. “He’s still there. But this new guy—they say he was a real warrior! Like, a real real one. He's a little scary. But… he’s kind too. He taught me how to breathe when I'm scared.”

Your smile falters just a little.

“You’re scared?”

“Sometimes,” he says plainly. “But not with him around. Master Mydei’s really strong. Like Lord Phainon—but sharper. And he never talks down to us. Even if he looks tired sometimes.”

The name settles in your chest like a dropped stone. Your cup stills in your hands, forgotten. You’re about to ask—Master Mydei?—but before the words even leave your mouth, Nikolas is already wriggling around in his seat, eyes lit with recognition.

“He’s over there! Hey! Master Mydei!” he shouts, waving one syrup-slicked hand in the air.

You nearly choke.

Across the hall, seated near a towering ficus and sipping from a ceramic cup with a journal open beside him, a figure turns his head. And the moment your eyes meet—those same sunlit-gold irises now caught in the warm light of the Hall—time slips. Your breath stutters. He doesn’t look surprised.

A flicker of something unreadable passes across his face before his mouth curves into a small, polite smile. He closes the journal softly and stands.

Nikolas is already halfway out of his seat, grinning from ear to ear. “He’s the one I was telling you about! He—he taught us how to roll without breaking our necks! And he gave me a second try when I tripped the first time!”

You, however, are frozen.

Of all the faces to find in the afterglow of a sun that never sets, it had to be his.

“Master Mydei, this is Big Sis Thalia!” Nikolas beams, tugging on the hem of your sleeve like he’s about to introduce a treasured friend to a local god. “She picks me up after class now!”

You feel your heart thrum a little too hard at that name spoken aloud. Mydei is already making his way toward your table, each step measured and unhurried. He moves like he always does—like someone born of silence and gravity, like someone who’s learned the value of taking up just enough space. He stops just beside the table, gaze dipping to meet yours.

“It’s good to see you again, Thalia.” His voice is smooth and composed, but not cold. There’s a flicker of something warmer under the surface—familiarity, perhaps. Or curiosity.

You rise a little from your seat, unsure whether to bow, curtsy, or offer a nod. You settle for a soft, polite greeting. “Likewise, Lord Mydei.”

He waves the title away. “I’m only ‘Master’ here in the Academy halls, and only because the instructors insisted.”

Nikolas clambers back onto his seat, already patting the bench beside him. “Come sit! You’re not gonna leave already, are you?”

Mydei glances once at you, as if gauging your comfort, then back at the boy. “Only if your guardian doesn’t mind.”

Your mouth feels dry, but you manage a nod. “Please. We were just having a small treat before heading home.”

“Then I’ll join you for a moment.” He lowers himself gracefully onto the bench beside Nikolas, placing his journal aside, hands folded neatly on the table. “You’ve had quite the day, haven’t you?”

Nikolas puffs out his chest. “Got a perfect score on our formations quiz. Even the scary second-year instructor said so.”

“Impressive,” Mydei says, tone light but sincere. “Maybe you’ll be teaching me something before long.”

The boy snickers proudly, and conversation carries on easily enough—for him, at least. You sit across from them, quietly, sipping from your cooling cider and watching the exchange. But before you can get lost in your thoughts, Nikolas looks between you both, his brows furrowing with curiosity.

“Wait... Do you two know each other?” he asks, his voice suddenly serious, as if he’s stumbled onto something important.

You freeze for a split second, unsure of how to answer, but Mydei simply smiles—an easy, natural smile that doesn’t reach too far into anything personal.

“We’ve met a few times,” Mydei says smoothly, his eyes flicking over to you briefly before returning to Nikolas. “Mostly through your mother’s good work.”

Nikolas’s eyes narrow as he looks between you both. His lips quirk, understanding settling in like a quiet revelation. He’s been around enough to know the weight of that phrase, to know what it means when someone mentions meeting through his mother’s “good work”.

A subtle, knowing look passes between the two of you, and you can see Nikolas’s mind working. He doesn’t press it, though; instead, he just nods as if he’s pieced things together in that young, perceptive way of his.

“Got it,” Nikolas says with a slight grin, his voice dropping to something quieter. “Well, anyway... Master Mydei’s pretty cool, right?” He sounds more casual now, as if the conversation’s already shifted away from anything that’s uncomfortable for him. But he’s not blind—he knows.

You meet Mydei’s gaze, and for just a moment, the question lingers in the air between the two of you. But for Nikolas, it’s already passed. He’s not going to make things harder for you. He’s just glad to have his perfect score to boast about.

Nikolas chatters on beside you, still glowing with excitement from his day at the Academy, especially now that he’s seen his new instructor outside the training halls. You try to listen, but your eyes keep drifting toward the man standing before you—Mydei, now dressed in a much more practical outfit than when you last saw him, though no less composed. His gaze doesn’t linger on you long, but when it does, it feels as if he sees far too much.

“Well,” he says at last, with a polite nod toward Nikolas, “I’ll leave you two to enjoy your treat.”

There’s nothing overt in his tone, but something in the weight of those words sticks with you, and you find yourself offering a small nod in return, though your chest tightens.

Nikolas, thankfully, doesn’t notice the shift. He keeps talking, something about how Master Mydei demonstrated a maneuver with a practice spear earlier. You murmur something in response, but before you can fully catch your breath, Mydei is at your side again. You feel the brush of his hand—light, fleeting—guiding you a few paces away from Nikolas and the noisy crowd of the Hall. You don’t resist. The moment feels suspended in air. He leans in, just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

“I’ll see you again tonight,” he whispers, his voice low, meant for you and you alone.

Your heart skips. You’re not sure what you expected—if you expected anything at all—but that wasn’t it. Before you can gather a reply, he’s already stepping away, his touch gone, his presence retreating with effortless grace. You stand there, the din of the Hall slowly returning around you, and wonder if he knows just how much weight his words now carry.

Nikolas tugs at your sleeve, oblivious. “Are you okay?”

You manage a soft smile, though your thoughts are still chasing after the shadow of a prince disappearing into the golden light.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Let’s finish that snack.”

You shouldn’t be fussing this much.

You tell yourself that as you smooth the silken sheets for the third time, as you adjust the folds of your robe for the third time, as you dab perfume just under your jaw, though it’s not the kind you ever wore for clients. It’s subtle, something like rosewater clinging to the memory of seafoam.

Your sisters have noticed. Of course they have. Fewer and fewer names on your ledger, fewer nights where you let your hair down for anyone but him. They don’t say it outright, but you catch the glances. The knowing smirks. A gentle elbow here, a raised brow there. Elena says nothing, bless her, but there’s a glint of worry behind her eyes.

Because girls like you are not meant to hope.

The fourth hour comes, quiet as a whisper. Mydei doesn’t knock. You just know when he’s arrived. The door creaks open, and there he is—bathed in the low amber light of your chamber, looking more god than man. His hair is like a flame pulled taut into a low tie at his nape, loose strands catching the light like cinders. His golden eyes find yours, but they don't linger in lust—they search. For what, you aren’t sure. Answers, maybe. Or something you’ve tucked too deep to name.

Red markings glisten faintly across his skin, crawling down the ridges of his arms, over the firm landscape of his torso. Not painted. Not cosmetic. They pulse faintly with some inner rhythm, as if alive with meaning. You’ve traced them before. With fingers. With lips. But you’ve never asked about them. And he’s never offered.

You rise from the bed.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” you say softly, trying to keep your voice level. “I said I would.” He closes the door behind him. He walks with the silence of someone used to being watched. Every step deliberate—quiet, measured. “I didn’t want to disturb the others.”

You nod, heart beating like a drum. For a moment, you hesitate. This is the part where he usually takes off his cloak. Where hands meet skin. Where everything unravels into motion. But instead, Mydei says, “I don’t want that tonight.”

“...You don’t?”

He shakes his head, steps closer, his expression unreadable—but not cold. “I just want to sit. With you.”

Your body stills, breath catching. No man’s ever said that before. Not in this room. Not with that look in their eyes.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks past you and sits at the edge of your bed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes watching the floor like it might swallow him whole. “When I’m with you,” he says at last, “I remember I’m still human. That I haven’t been swallowed yet by the weight of everything waiting outside.”

You take a slow breath, and then, you join him.

Silence stretches between you for a while, warm but unfamiliar. You’ve never had to fill it before. Not like this. Not with someone like him. So when you speak again, your voice is careful, hushed. “What did you want to talk about?” You look down at your hands as you say it, suddenly aware of how tightly you’re wringing the fabric of your robe. “I’m… not very good at small talk.”

He glances your way, not with judgment, but with something quieter. Gentler. “Neither am I.”

There’s a pause—he leans back slightly, gaze on the ceiling for a heartbeat, as if weighing the shape of the question he’s about to ask. Then, softly: “Phainon.”

You blink. “What about him?”

“I was just… wondering,” Mydei says, his voice measured but curious, “why he’s always around. Why he’s so close to everyone here. It’s unusual.”

You study his expression. There’s no accusation behind it, no jealousy or condescension. Just a quiet sort of puzzlement. You suppose that makes sense. Mydei walks through the world like a figure carved of duty and divine weight—philos, strategos, prince. A man raised in marble halls where power is either taken or inherited, never simply given away.

So you exhale and say, “Can I tell you a story?”

He nods once.

“There was a man,” you begin, fingers tracing invisible lines along the embroidered edge of your sleeve. “A wicked man. Not in the way people always expect—he didn’t shout, didn’t strike in public, didn’t bare his teeth. He wore silks. Spoke softly. Promised the world.”

You glance up, briefly, and find Mydei’s gaze hasn’t wavered.

“They said he had a collection. Not of art, or relics, or trinkets. But of little dolls. Girls, mostly. Women from across the land. He wandered far—coastal villages, mountain towns, the wine-soaked islands. He’d find the ones with songs in their hearts and stars in their eyes. The beautiful ones. The dreamers. The desperate.”

Your voice drops. “He would say, ‘Come with me. I’ll give you a place to shine. A home. A future. A better life.’”

“But the moment they stepped into his palace, they were no longer people. Just property. Stripped of name, of will, of voice. He dressed them up. Painted them pretty. Locked them behind velvet doors, and called them his treasures.

“And if they cried, he’d say they were ungrateful. If they fought, he’d punish them. But if they stayed quiet—if they obeyed—he’d smile and say they were his favorite.”

You fall silent then, and the memory of it coils like smoke in your throat. The sweet, rotting scent of those early days in Okhema. The illusion before the trap snapped shut.

Mydei doesn’t interrupt. But when you look at him again, there’s a new sharpness in his gaze, tempered only by a sadness you didn’t expect to see. Like the weight of your story has settled somewhere behind his ribs. “And what became of the wicked man?” he asks softly.

You offer the ghost of a smile. “A good man drove a sword to his chest.”

The corners of Mydei’s lips twitch ever-so slightly. You like to think that he was proud. You go on, voice low but even. “When the wicked man still ruled the undercity, we weren’t anything more than possessions. Broken things, caged and bruised, prettied up for those who could afford cruelty. He was cruelest of all.”

The words are flat, almost clinical. It’s easier that way.

“Phainon was sent to take him—dead or alive. I don’t know who gave the order. But when he found us, locked behind his velvet curtains, we weren’t his mission. Just… collateral.” You draw in a breath, remembering the blood, the broken door hinges, the weight of Agamemnon’s silence as it fell to the floor.

“But Phainon didn’t walk past. He stayed. He broke every lock. Carried the ones who couldn’t walk. He helped bury what was left.”

You glance at Mydei now, his golden gaze unwavering.

“That’s why he’s always around. Because even after that day, he never left. Never once tried to collect on our gratitude. He just… checks in. Makes sure the water still runs. The food still comes. That we’re still whole.”

A silence settles between you again. You didn’t mean to say so much. But somehow, with him, the words come easier than you expect. And still, you’re not sure what he’s thinking. Not yet.

But he nods, slow and solemn. “He’s a good man.”

“Better than most,” you murmur, softer still. “He never wanted anything from us. Not even a thank you.”

You don’t say the rest. That in some ways, Phainon taught you that not all men come bearing knives beneath their smiles. And maybe… maybe Mydei could be one of them, too. “Enough about me,” you say after a beat, forcing a lighter tone. “I bet you have stories that are far more worthwhile to hear.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flitting down for a moment as though considering it. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, lips curving. “Depends on who’s listening.”

You raise a brow at him. “That sounds like a prince’s way of dodging.”

“It’s worked so far,” he admits, unapologetically amused.

But you catch the glint in his eyes—the kind that speaks of walls he’s not quite ready to lower. He’s not being cruel. Just careful. You know that kind of silence all too well. So you pivot, gently.

“Fine,” you say, leaning back on your palms. “Then let me ask you something real.”

That gets his attention.

“Is it true?” you ask. “That you don’t die?”

His expression shifts, just slightly. Not alarm, not defensiveness—but something older. More tired. You continue before he can pretend ignorance. “They say you walked away from death. That not even blades or poisons or the sea can keep you.”

For a moment, Mydei says nothing. Then—

“No,” he says, voice like flint striking stone. “It’s not true.”

“I do die,” the prince adds, and there’s a strange stillness to him now, like a sword balanced on its edge. “Just not permanently.”

“I’ve been killed before. My lungs have filled with blood. I’ve drowned. I’ve been burned. I’ve been sent to the nether realm where the dead drift, where the living are not welcome. And every time—” He tilts his head slightly. “—I’ve clawed my way back.”

“Clawed?” you echo.

He nods ever-so slowly. “The nether realm is not a quiet place. It’s full of things that shouldn’t be remembered. Things that don’t forget. I kill whatever stands in my way. Until the path home opens.”

You can hardly breathe for a moment.

“Sounds lonely,” you whisper.

“It is,” he says simply.

But there’s no sorrow in the way he says it. No anger either. Just the truth. Heavy and hard and worn like old armor. And suddenly, you understand the look in his eyes—the way it always seems like he’s staring through time itself. Because maybe he is. Maybe he’s already lived a hundred lifetimes. Maybe the only thing that’s ever tethered him back to the present… is the choice to return.

“Can anyone else just kill their way out of the nether realm?” you ask, the words half a jest, half wonder.

Mydei's lips twitch, but his gaze doesn't waver.

“…If there was,” he murmurs, “I think I would’ve run into them by now.”

You fall into silence at that, eyes dragging over the lines of him—his broad shoulders, the golden hue of his skin kissed by something celestial, and the red marks that wind down his arms, chest, torso. Not scars. Not tattoos. Something older, etched into him like language itself. Wordlessly, your hand lifts. You rest your palm lightly against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath warm skin. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch. Just watches you. Your fingertips trace the red markings slowly, following the curl of them as they wind over muscle and bone.

“This body is special, then,” you say, voice almost reverent. A beat passes. His breath hitches—barely—but you catch it.

“Cursed,” he says quietly. “Or blessed. Depends on who you ask.”

“And if I ask you?”

His gaze flickers down to where your hand rests, still trailing those strange, divine brands.

“…Ask me later,” he says, softer now.

As though he’s not ready to name what he is. As though something about your touch is unraveling the edges of him. You don’t move your hand from his chest. You feel the warmth of him—too alive for someone who’s clawed his way back from death. Too human for a man on the precipice of godhood. He looks at you, eyes shining gold even in the low light, flickering with something he doesn’t say.

You tilt your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “Later, then.”

And you should’ve pulled away. Should’ve stepped back and said goodnight, like the polite fiction you both pretended to believe in. But you don’t.

Instead, your hand slides higher, fingers grazing his collarbone, resting against the side of his neck. You’re closer now. When did that happen? His breath mingles with yours, his lips parted slightly, like he’s on the edge of a word he can’t find.

Then it happens—slow and inevitable.

He leans in first, but it’s you who closes the gap.

The kiss is soft the moment your lips touch. Careful. Testing. The kind of kiss that asks a question neither of you can put into words. His hand finds your waist, anchoring you like you’ll vanish, like maybe he already thought you would. It’s only when you deepen it, that he lets out the faintest sound against your mouth—half a sigh, half a surrender. And for a moment, there’s nothing holy or tragic about either of you. No gods, no ghosts. Just this. Just now.

You forget what it means to be someone broken, and he forget what it means to be someone burdened. You just feel. Your lips part just barely from his, breath catching between the narrow space that remains. His hand still rests at your waist, his thumb moving in slow, lazy circles against the fabric of your robe. You search his face, trying to decipher if he means to pull back or dive in again.

“I thought you weren’t here for this,” you whisper, your voice trembling not with fear, but the weight of wanting.

His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back to yours, and a soft laugh escapes him—low and rich, like the crackle of embers.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “but what sort of man would I be if I left you wanting?”

The corner of your mouth lifts, not quite a smile—more like something delicate unraveling. His words coil around your ribs like silk, tightening gently, beautifully. You should say something clever, something to keep this from slipping too far.

But your mouth finds his again before you can even try.

The quiet between you lingers after the kiss, but it’s not empty. It thrums with something unspoken, something deeper than words. Mydei’s breath brushes against your skin, warm and steady, his hands still resting at your waist as if anchoring himself in your presence. You don’t say anything when you lean in again. You don’t have to. The moment folds in on itself, soft and slow, like the hush before a storm. Your fingers trace the red markings on his chest again, not out of curiosity this time, but reverence. There’s something sacred about the way they wind across his skin, the way he lets you touch him like this—open, unguarded.

He follows your lead, hands gliding up your spine, over your shoulders, until they frame your face. When he kisses you again, it’s not with the urgency of want, but with the ache of longing. As though he’s been waiting to do this properly. As though he knows this might be the last night he’s allowed to feel human. The world outside your room fades, replaced by the rhythm of shared breath, the brush of skin against skin, the silent promises made in the space between heartbeats. The weight of your histories—his battles, your chains—falls away for just a little while.

What remains is tenderness.

Your clothes fall away one by one. Amidst the passion that seeps into your very bones, you find it in you to make a quip about how much easier things are when he’s not wearing his armor. Mydei scoffs, but there’s no sign of annoyance on his face. Just the subtle endearment for something—someone he never knew he could connect with so deeply. 

He’s careful with you, even when your hands wander, even when your heartbeat quickens under his touch. There’s a reverence to the way he holds you, like he’s afraid to break something delicate, even though you’ve long since learned to be unbreakable. His fingers slide into you with perfect precision, the slick between your legs granting him enough lubrication to make you feel every sensation there is to give. Your velvet walls clamp down on him with fervor, curling into the heat of his indestructible body as he spreads you open for him. 

“You’re so good for me,” he whispers. “Too good for me.” 

There’s an undertone of something you can’t quite name that accompanies his words. But the notion is lost on you when he curls his fingers just so. A broken whimper escapes your lips, unable to stifle it as Mydei continues to hit that sweet, sweet spot inside you. You feel it far too soon—that telltale sizzle of release. It bides its time, tying your stomach in knots until the pressure in your navel becomes too much to bear. Mydei growls into the curve of your neck when he feels your body spasm beneath him; having given into the pleasure so easily, it awakens something primal within him. It’s like your body is on fire. Sensitive to the touch wherever his skin meets yours. Part of you wants to recoil, to beg for respite. Too much, too much, too much— 

Sensing how deeply he's unraveled you, Mydei tempers the urgency of his touch into something gentler—tender strokes that barely skim your skin, grounding you, reminding you he's still here. That he's not going anywhere. As if in silent apology, he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose—soft and reverent.

“All I want,” he breathes, his voice rough with restraint, “is for you to feel good. Do you trust me?”

You know he already holds the answer in his hands, but still, you blink through the blur of your tears until his face comes into focus—fractured by light and emotion, and yet still so beautiful. With a shaky breath, you reach up, fingers weaving behind his neck, and pull him into a kiss that speaks the answer for you.

“Yes,” you whisper into his mouth, like a vow you’ve been holding your whole life. “I trust you more than anything. More than anyone.”

This kind of vulnerability is something you never imagined you could offer so freely. Not after everything. Not to anyone. But with Mydei, it doesn't feel like surrender. It feels like remembering something you thought you'd lost: the ability to feel safe in someone’s arms, to be seen without shame, to be held without fear. Despite yourself, heat flares in your cheeks at the sight of him—aroused and aching. His leaking cock strains against his abdomen, flushed with a need so primal, he practically grinds the throbbing shaft between your supple thighs. 

“I need you,” you breathe, voice trembling, desperate. Your hand slips between your thighs, guiding him with aching intent. “Please, Mydei… just—please.”

He gives in to your wishes—he’s starting to grow much too weak against them. Mydei guides his length into your dripping heat, the head of his cock penetrating you with the same cautious anticipation he exhibited during your first night together. 

And then, inch by inch, you feel whole again.

For a while, the two of you remain tangled in that moment—heat blooming between your bodies, thick and breathless. The stretch of him should’ve been too much, but all you can feel is how right it is. How perfectly he fits, like he was always meant to be there. He groans, a proud lion reduced into nothingness when you purposely clench the walls of your cunt around his poor length. You find yourself grinning mischievously when Mydei starts speaking in that language long lost to time. You should ask him about that sometime—when your heads aren’t clouded with sheer desire. But for now, you live in the moment. 

“I regret not finding you sooner,” he admits with a quiet laugh. A moment of clarity hovers across your mind, and your first instinct is to tease. “Why? Would you have bought me out of this brothel if you did?”

“Perhaps,” Mydei murmurs before suckling a band of hickeys above your collarbones, initiating slow yet languid thrusts that have your toes curling with bliss. “But if I had found you sooner, you never would have had to live the life you lead. I would’ve stolen you away from Lethe myself.” 

You know those are just the words of a man lost in the throes of pleasure. Men tend to start running their mouths whenever they’re high on the feel of your cunt pulsating around their cocks. But Mydei has a knack for being candid about all sorts of things.

“Would you—hah! W-would you have put me in a cage too?” you taunt and it gets you the exact reaction you want. Mydei snaps his hips harshly, nearly punching the breath from your lungs. “Dress me up in the f-finest of silk and flaunt me to the world?” 

“No. Never.” He grits his teeth so tightly, you swear you hear the strain in his jaw. “I’ll make you mine, but only on your terms. Only if you want me to.”

Even in the haze of desire, he manages to remain the most honorable man in all of Okhema. The thought of it, the weight of his words, makes something warm well up inside you—so overwhelming you could weep with joy. His raw honesty encourages you to wrap your arms around his broad back—holding him so close that he can’t ever hope to slip away. The heat of his skin against yours is grounding, a reminder that, despite everything, you’re here together, tangled in this moment. When his calloused fingers find the sensitive bud of your clit, you jostle beneath him in surprise. You were so focused on how good he’s giving it to you, that you failed to notice his hands wriggling down to your thighs. 

“M-Mydei—!” you gasp, but he only fucks into you harder. 

Mydei’s breath stutters in quiet, devout gasps, the edge of release so close he could reach for it. But he holds back. Draws out the moment like a hymn. He could stay like this forever—just to savor the weight of your body beneath his, just to feel the hush between you stretch into something timeless. You memorize the feel of him—not just the way his body fits against yours, but the quiet sighs that escape when your lips find the hollow of his throat, the way he lingers on every touch like he’s afraid to let go. 

He’s fire and gold and thunderstorms, and yet he looks at you like you’re the miracle.

Mydei spills into you with reckless abandon, canting his hips with clockwork precision as he fills you to the brim. For a moment, the world quiets—like the tide pulling back before the next great wave. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, breath hitching, arms locked tight around you like he’s terrified of the space that might form between your bodies.

You feel him trembling, not from exhaustion, but from the gravity of it all. As if something in him has broken loose—something raw and sacred and entirely yours. But it doesn’t end there.

You don’t realize what he’s doing when he swiftly breaks free of your embrace. But when his face hovers across your soiled cunt, you make the motions to pull him back up—only for your beast of a lover to devour the mess he’s left in his wake.  Mydei laves at your hole like he intends to feast on you for the rest of his life. He scoops his own cum out with his own fingers, slurping your mixed essence with so much depravity shining in his golden eyes, you can hardly believe he’s a prince. No sane man would look so blissed out whilst doing something so—

“I can feel you,” he growls. “Need you to come for me.”

The words are spoken with such authority, it sends a guilty thrill straight to your throbbing cunt. Mydei latches his lips onto your sensitive nub, fucking his cum back into you with those godlike fingers. You thrash around beneath him, but Mydei keeps you in place with a steady grip–making sure you feel everything he’s willing to give. Your body trembles, overwhelmed by the relentless tenderness he wields like a weapon. Every curl of his fingers, every flick of his tongue draws out a fresh wave of pleasure that crashes through you with no mercy. Your cries are half-muffled by the pillow, but he hears them all the same—drinks them in like a sacred prayer.

“Mydei,” you sob, unable to do anything but hold onto him. Your legs shake around his shoulders, your hands tangled in his hair like lifelines.

He doesn't stop. He won’t—not until he’s certain there’s nothing left unsaid between your bodies. Not until your body recognizes him as deeply and completely as your heart already does. When he finally slows, it’s not because he’s spent, but because he’s sated. Because he knows you are too. And as he pulls you into his arms, nestling your exhausted form against the warmth of his chest, you realize—this isn’t just release. It’s devotion. A vow whispered into your very bones.

Time passes strangely in the dark. You don’t know how long the two of you stay like this, curled in the comfort of each other’s warmth. His hand is cradling the back of your neck, his breath evening out as you rest your forehead against his shoulder. There are no declarations. No promises. Only the quiet understanding between two people who’ve found something rare in each other—if only for a night.

And that, somehow, is enough.

You are back on the shores of Lethe yet again. 

The scent of the ocean is heavy in the air, salt mixing with the sweetness of the breeze. The horizon stretches wide before you, the sea infinite and restless, each wave a soft whisper against the shore. But there’s something else—something familiar, something that stirs deep within your chest.

The souls.

They drift across the water, gliding in and out of the mist that rises from the waves, countless and silent. At first, you don’t see them clearly. They’re indistinct forms, like smoke or vapor, just the shape of something that used to be. They are lost, wandering. Some of them move in clusters, others alone, each drawn to the sea like they were always meant to be here. It’s always been this way. You’ve seen it many times before. The souls spill from the nether realm, drawn across the waters, stretching between Lethe and Styxia. You’ve stood here before, in this same silence, watching as they passed by.

This time, though, there’s something different. One soul catches your eye. It’s faint at first, barely distinguishable among the others, but it glows—a soft, golden light, faint but warm, as if it’s radiating from deep within. You’re drawn to it without thinking. The pull is gentle, but it grows stronger the closer you get. The light flickers in the mist, barely visible behind the shadows of the other souls. But it’s there, unmistakable.

You take a step forward, and the light grows, a shining ember in the endless grey. You know, without a doubt, that this one is different from the rest. It moves with purpose, not like the others who are aimless, lost in their endless drift. This one seems... aware. Alive, somehow.

As you move closer, the light brightens, and you catch glimpses of a shape, a form within it. At first, it’s unclear—blurry, indistinct, like the edges of a dream. The golden light wraps itself around a figure, but it’s not fully defined, not yet. You reach out toward it, a quiet yearning stirring in your chest. Then the figure shifts slightly. You feel it, a subtle movement in the water, and your heart skips. The golden glow swirls, growing stronger, as if it recognizes you, as if it’s meant to find you. The warmth radiating from it is overwhelming. It's like sunlight after rain. You step forward again, closer, closer still, the feeling of it wrapping around you, pulling you toward the shore.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the light begins to fade. The soul drifts away, slowly at first, and then faster as the current pulls it back. You reach out, desperate to hold on, but your fingers touch only the mist. The light dims, vanishing into the expanse of souls, swallowed by the sea.

You stand still, the warmth that had filled you fading like the last embers of a fire. The mist thickens again, and the souls continue their endless journey, their forms lost to the distance. But something lingers. The feeling. The warmth. The sense that you’ve witnessed something important, something that has been waiting for you all along. You don’t know what it means, but you know, somehow, that it’s a connection you’re not meant to forget. 

Not yet.

The bells of the Academy chime across the courtyard, clean and melodic like everything else in this part of Okhema. As the students depart for dismissal, you wait by the marble fountain just a ways away from the main entrance. A tree that curls over it offers ample shade beneath the unchanging light of the Dawn Device above.  Nikolas emerges from the throng of students scurrying out. He doesn’t run to you anymore, but his steps are quick, a little uneven, like he hasn’t quite grown into his legs yet.

“We talked about the Titans after our drills today,” he says after giving you a quick hug. “One of my classmates asked if Kephale ever puts the Dawn Device down. Master Theon said, ‘Not once in all of history.’”

You smile faintly, brushing a curl from his temple. “That sounds like something you’d ask.”

He grins. “I would’ve made it sound smarter. And I did 'cause Master asked us to make an essay about it.”

Nikolas tries to sound casual, but the way he looks at you afterward like he’s waiting for you to be proud makes your heart twist a little. It’s only been a few weeks since he first walked through the Academy gates—still all knees and elbows—but he’s already grown so much. They don’t ask for perfect speech or polished manners here. Just grit, and enough fire to stand when the Black Tide comes crawling. This isn’t the Grove of Epiphany, where scholars chase after the elusive truth and speak in riddles. Here, boys and girls are shaped into the last line between the dark and everything worth saving.

You have half the mind to ask if Nikolas wants to make another detour to the Hall of Respite. To treat him to some of his favorite flat cakes. But then an unwelcome voice slithers into the quiet moment. 

“Well, what do we have here? The whore walks in daylight.”

It takes effort to turn, to meet the man’s eyes without flinching. He’s older now, more jowled than you remember, but the silk of his robes and the stink of indulgence are the same. Aeson. One of the men who used to come slinking through the undercity when the sun was too high for shame. He once asked you to sing for him while he undressed. Said you had a voice like smoke, a body like borrowed gold. He was never violent, just entitled. And worse, comfortable.

“I suspected that it was you for a few weeks now but even I knew how much you despised the overworld,” Aeson says, condescension dripping from every word. “Then again, you always did love playing mother to that stray.”

You hear Nikolas bristle at the man’s words, and you put out a hand to keep him from doing anything rash. Even at his young age, he’s seen how men treat you and your sisters like gunk beneath their sandals. And you’ve seen how a boy, raised with so much love even in the dark, has tried to give it all back—to protect the women who became that love for him.

But you’re not in some smoke-choked alley of the undercity. You’re in the pristine courtyard of the Academy itself. And there’s no way in hell you’re jeopardizing Nik’s education just to put some pompous old coot in his place. Elena would never forgive you.

Instead, you give him a flat look before saying, “Go pester someone who’s desperate.”

But the man steps in closer, a haughty look painted high on his wrinkly face. “I remember you desperate, girl. I paid for it. You should be grateful that anyone still looks at you nicely, knowing you're old Agamemnon’s trash.”

And that sinks teeth into you. The insult doesn’t surprise you. You’ve heard worse from softer lips. But it stirs something darker: the memory of what it cost you to not belong. The long, awful ache of surviving by grace of what others wanted from your skin. The truth of it is what burns most. Because Agamemnon did claim you. And now his name clings to you like grease you can’t scrub off.

You square your shoulders. You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it land. But before you can speak, the air shifts like something heavy has entered the scene.

“I’ll give you one chance to take that back.”

The voice is low, deliberate. Not loud, but heavy with promise. You and the nobleman both turn. Mydei stands at the edge of the courtyard, backlit by the cold radiance of the Dawn Device. His armor catches the light like forged fire, making his presence all the more unmistakable. There is no rage in his face, only clarity. The kind that makes cowards remember their manners.

“Prince Mydei,” Aeson stammers, dipping into a mock-bow. “I’m afraid I didn’t see you there.”

“No,” Mydei replies. “You only saw who you thought you could speak over.”

He draws up beside you, a hand hovering—not touching—but near enough that you feel it like heat through fabric. Similarly to how you did with Nikolas, however you did that to prevent. Mydei does so to protect. “You said too much,” Mydei says, voice iron-flat. “And the next time you think of talking to a woman like that, remember this moment.”

A pause. You don't think you remember how to breathe, not in the face of Mydei's quiet fury. Then, as sharp as a blade, he grates out,

“Leave.”

Aeson recoils—stammers something too low to hear—then stumbles back into the crowd, his velvet trailing like a cloak of rot. You follow his hunched form until he disappears completely out of view. Only then does the tension in your shoulders ebb away. Nikolas looks between you and Mydei, uncertain.

“Was that one of the city’s... uh, patrons?” he mutters.

You exhale slowly, shaking off the sting. “You could say that.”

Mydei’s eyes don’t leave your face. Not even as Nikolas tries to catch his attention with a look.  You don’t meet his gaze, but you feel it—the weight of what he didn’t say. The rage he carried in like a blade still sheathed. “Old men like that never forget a girl they once thought they owned,” you say softly, reassuring Nikolas with a smile that takes more out of you than you thought. “Doesn’t mean they matter.”

“You matter,” Mydei says, quiet but unflinching. It startles you only because you didn’t expect for him to put in another word. “They just don’t know what that means yet.” And for a breath, the city stills around you. Not in reverence, nor silence. But in recognition. “Thank you,” you whisper, not knowing what else to say. “Nik and I will be off now.”

The prince’s gaze doesn’t shift. His hand lingers near yours, and when you hesitate, he takes a half-step closer. His voice is firm, though his tone softens just slightly. “I’ll walk you back to the undercity.”

You open your mouth to refuse, but the remnants of the encounter with Aeson hang over you like a heavy fog, and the words fall flat in your throat. There’s a pull in your chest—a need for distance from everything that just transpired—and you find yourself nodding before you can think better of it.

“Alright,” you murmur.

Nikolas watches the exchange quietly, still unsure of the silent tension between the two of you, but he follows nonetheless, his footsteps light against the cobblestones. Mydei falls in step beside you, his presence unyielding but steady, like the silent promise of protection. The city stretches out before you, its lights distant and hollow beneath the unblinking gaze of the Dawn Device. The hum of Okhema fades into the background as you walk. 

You don’t speak, but you don’t need to. His proximity alone quells any lingering fear, and you find comfort in the silence that comes with it.

Since that day in the courtyard, walking home together just started...happening. 

Mydei never asked. He simply waited outside the gates of the Academy, where the marble gave way to cracked stone and the air grew thick with real life. Nikolas would spot him first, sometimes with a grin, sometimes pretending he hadn’t been looking for him.  It was a strange little ritual, but one that settled into place before you realized it. Nikolas walking beside one of his instructors like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you beside them both, listening, nodding, adding the occasional remark when Nikolas recounted the latest training mishap or philosophical disagreement with a teacher.

It wasn’t how these things were supposed to go—not a prince, not a prostitute, not a boy from nowhere—but it worked.

And then, over time, Mydei’s steps carried him a little farther. Past the alleys you knew like breath, and the entrance to the undercity that you insisted was far enough for a chaperone. 

Today is one of the two rest days that Nikolas has within a school week, and you spend a chunk of your time helping around The House. It always feels different on slower days like this. Softer, almost. Less like a cage and more like a secret place between worlds—where laughter could still echo against peeling walls, and perfume hung in the air like memory. You hear the rustling of his armor before you see him—familiar now, no longer something that makes the girls stiffen or reach for the knives tucked beneath silk pillows. Just outside, the lanterns have begun to glow gold, and from the hallway, a voice calls out:

“Thalia, your knight’s here again!”

You roll your eyes as you round the corner, but you can’t stop the smile that forms at the sight of him. Mydei stands in the foyer with a small basket of fruit in one hand—dates, you guess, or maybe honeyed apricots from the upper district market. He's still donned in his armor, though he’s unstrapped the shoulder pauldrons. Less imposing that way. Still unmistakable.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be busy,” he says, a touch uncertain, as if his presence might overstep.

“Penelope’s braiding Iris’ hair,” you reply. “The rest are pretending not to peek.”

As if on cue, the door behind you creaks. Penelope leans out, a wry grin curling at her lips while Iris stammers out apology after apology for eavesdropping. 

“Thalia, really,” Penelope says, mock-scolding. “You keep bringing in decent men and setting the bar too high for the rest of us.”

You snort, and even Mydei’s mouth twitches in something that’s not quite a smile—but it’s close. “I can leave the fruit and go,” he offers.

“No,” you say too quickly. Then, gentler, “Stay. They like you here now, but don’t let it go to your head. Elena’s already figured out how to turn your visits into good business.”

Mydei nods with half a smile gracing his face. He steps further in, letting the warmth of The House wrap around him. One of the younger girls, quiet Calliope, flits by and steals an apricot from the basket. He lets her. 

Later, you find him sitting cross-legged on the floor while Penelope retells some outlandish story about a drunk client who mistook her for a goddess. Mydei doesn’t laugh, not loudly—but there’s light in his eyes. One you don’t often see up in the sanctified marble of Okhema’s spires. And maybe—just maybe—The House feels a little safer with him in it.

The following morning, the sky in the overworld is bleached bone-white. The unsetting sun hums high above, softened by distance and with it, Okhema shines, immaculate and hollow. Despite your more frequent visits due to your new job as Nikolas' guardian, you haven't grown to like it much. Too polished. Too sanctified. But today you’re not alone.

Mydei walks beside you, his long stride unhurried, matching yours. He carries your satchel without needing to be asked. You’ve got a list—written in Alexandria’s looping hand—and a basket slung over your arm. There’s something gently absurd about it all. You, running errands in the overworld. Choosing peaches. Haggling for bath oil. The sort of thing the other girls usually do. But today, you offered.

You’re not sure what’s more startling: that no one questioned you, or that you meant it.

The Marmoreal Market is alive. Vendors cry out over pyramids of citrus and hanging lanterns of glass. Incense smoke curls in lazy spirals above marbled stalls. A bard plays something languid on a flute near the olive barrels. The air tastes of brine and roasted almonds. It should be overwhelming. Once, it might have been. But today you just walk. Mydei doesn’t fill the silence. He lets it breathe between you like he always does. You pause to examine a twist of lavender soap. He waits patiently while you hold it to your nose, frown, and mutter, “Too much oil, not enough flower.”

When you change directions suddenly to get to the honeyed fig vendor—the fig vendor, the only one who doesn’t cheat the glaze with sugar water—he follows without question. You almost feel normal. Not broken. Not fallen. Just here.

“Thalia?”

You turn. And it’s like the sun tilts sideways. Daphne.

She looks... different. Or maybe not. Maybe you’re the one who’s changed. Her hair is coiled into a gold-pin bun, her robes the sort nobles wear when they want to look effortless. There’s a softness around her now—a shine to her skin, a plumpness to her face, like love and safety have filled her out. Her bracelets tinkle when she steps closer.

“Gods,” she breathes, laughing. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look... good! Healthier than I remember. And your hair—still doing that wave in front, huh? I always said it made you look like one of those Lethean sirens.”

You manage a thin smile. “It’s you.”

She steps in like she might kiss your cheek, and you let her, though every inch of you braces like it's being touched with salt. “It’s been what—two years? Maybe more? I kept asking Elena about you, but she always just smiled and changed the subject.” Daphne’s eyes flick to Mydei, then back to you with a teasing grin. “And here I thought I was the only one who came out of that place lucky.”

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, feigning modesty. “Did I tell you? No, of course I didn’t—you’ve been hiding down in the bones of the city. Well, you remember Heron, don’t you? The grain magnate with the crooked teeth and all the rings? Turns out he wasn’t just talk. Married me proper.” She lifts her hand, lets you see the band. “I’ve got a little garden now. A cook. We’re thinking of getting a dromas of our own, but I thought that would be a bit too much!”

You say something. You think you do. It sounds like “That’s nice,” but your mouth feels numb. Daphne laughs again, easy and breezy as a woman who’s forgotten how deep The House used to cut.

“I still remember how Agamemnon used to spoil you, you know. Oh, don’t look at me like that—it’s not jealousy. I used to think, ‘She must have Lethean blood in her veins to bring a man like that to his knees.’” She tilts her head, studying you. “Funny how things turn out, huh?”

Your grip on the basket tightens. Mydei hasn’t moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s watching her. Watching you. You lift your chin. Even if you know the man keeping you company is more than capable of stepping in like a guard dog, you don't let him. There are some things in this world that you'd rather not rely on Mydei for.

“I should get going,” you say, and your voice doesn’t crack. “We’ve got things to pick up.” Daphne blinks, surprised. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t mean to—well. You look well, Thalia. Really. I mean that.”

You nod once and turn. Mydei doesn’t speak until the crowd swallows her up behind you. His voice is quiet, but certain.

“Are you all right?”

You keep your eyes forward. “She didn’t mean it cruelly.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she still cut you.”

The fig vendor appears ahead. You make a beeline for it, needing something solid to do with your hands. Something to hold onto. Mydei doesn’t press. He stands beside you as you weigh fruit and speak numbers and pretend the world didn’t just tilt under your feet. And when you walk away, his hand grazes yours again. Not demanding, but simply offering.

It pains you to pull away—to refuse something he's always given freely—but you avoid his hand altogether. You turn the corner, pushing through the crowd, trying to breathe again. The air feels tight, sharp, as though the weight of everything that just shifted in your chest is pressing down on you. Daphne. A wife. She’s happy now. And yet—something about her—something about the way she carries herself now, so light, so untethered—bothers you.

The House. Agamemnon. The way the air used to feel thick, like every breath was a crime, and the walls hummed with all the things people would never say. Did the time away make her forget the way he used to drag you through rooms like cattle, like property? The way she’d walk in and out of those same halls, always knowing the price of every touch, the cost of every whispered word?

You shake your head. It’s not her fault, you remind yourself. Daphne’s not the one who held your body hostage, not the one who let it break beneath the weight of his need. But...why does it feel like she’s forgotten? A soft laugh. A garden. A gods damned dromas. And in her voice, in her smile, you hear the echo of a life away from all of that. As though the past was just something easily shaken off. It gnaws at you, that inconsistency. The way she walks with ease—like she didn’t have to bleed for it, didn’t have to drown in every unspoken rule of The House, its suffocating power, its price.

You feel it again, in your chest. A tightness, a rawness. And as you push your hand against the basket's rim, trying to steady yourself, the question lingers, still unanswered:

Did Daphne truly forget? Or is it just that she’s moved on, and you... you’re still here, carrying pieces of it, like shards of glass you can’t pull from your skin? You don’t realize how tight your grip’s gotten on the basket until Mydei speaks—softly, like the sound might startle you if it were any louder. It didn't occur to you that even if you evade him, he'll follow you like a shadow either way. 

“Do you want to go home?”

You glance at him, caught between the din of the market and the roaring in your own head. His eyes are steady. Not prying. Just there. Like a door already open, waiting for you to step through. He takes the basket from your hands without asking. The tension eases just enough for your fingers to ache. He doesn’t rush you. He stays close as you weave through the crowd, his presence a quiet shield against the glances, the voices, the past. He doesn’t say anything about Daphne. Doesn’t ask what she meant or what it meant to you. And that’s what makes you want to cry.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he does—and he knows better than to pick at a wound that's still bleeding.

By the time you make it back to The House, the light above has cooled to its twilight hue—soft gold thinning into rose where it filters through the grates. The sun doesn’t set in Okhema. It only shifts, like a watchful eye half-closing. The undercity glows beneath it, wrapped in the kind of light that feels like the end of a long breath.

Inside, things are loud again. Familiar. One of the girls calls out about a client who tried to pay with temple scrip. Someone else has braided jasmine into the worn curtain rods, and the scent clings stubbornly to the air. You smile when you need to, nod when you must, and brush off any lingering edges from earlier like it’s routine. Because it is. No one notices the way your shoulders hitch too quickly when you laugh. Or the way you avoid the looking glass near the stairs. No one, except the man who’s still standing by the door like he doesn’t quite belong—but doesn’t want to leave just yet.

Mydei shifts slightly, readying himself to depart, the way he always does once you’re safely home. But something in you rebels at the thought.

“If you’re not busy,” you say, quieter than you intend, “could you stay? Just for a little while.”

He pauses, brows rising ever so slightly. “You want me to?”

You nod. “Only if you want to.”

A beat of stillness. Then: “Then I’ll stay.”

You turn before your face gives you away. You don’t lead him to the front parlors where guests are meant to lounge. You don’t steer him toward the back alcoves where girls entertain more private company. Instead, you climb the stairs. Past chipped paint and perfumed cloth. Past laughter behind closed doors and one girl humming a tune you haven’t heard since Lethe. You walk until you reach your room.

Your room.

You’ve never brought anyone here apart from your sisters and Nikolas. Phainon’s the only outsider who’s ever crossed its threshold, and even then, only when you couldn’t stand to be alone. This room is yours. A sanctuary carved from hand-me-downs and half-stolen quiet. The walls are soft with age, the bedding faded but clean. There’s a tiny dish of dried figs near the window, even though you'll never finish them. They don't taste the way they do back at Lethe.

There are no doors to your room. Only a curtain of seashells—bright, iridescent, strung together in delicate strands. A gift from Elena, thoughtful as she is. It reminds you of home, of the sea, of the ebb and flow of tides. It’s not a door, not really, but it’s enough to separate your space from the rest of the world.

You open the curtain, casting a sidelong glance at Mydei in a quiet invitation. He hesitates only briefly as his eyes scan the room before he steps inside. The prince says nothing. Doesn't gawk or wander. He simply stands in the middle of there like someone waiting for permission. You amble across the wooden floor, the tension finally unspooling from your spine. Mydei stays close—but not too close—and it strikes you again, how careful he always is with you. Not delicate. Just…respectful and measured.

“Not what you expected?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the modest space.

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says softly. “But it suits you.”

You look down at your hands, then up at him. “I didn’t want to be alone,” you say. The words fall like something confessional.

“I’m glad you called for me,” Mydei tells you, honesty bleeding into his voice, and there’s something in it that makes you look at him again.

In the silence, you walk over to a shelf in the far end, one that the prince has been eyeing since he stepped inside. A small, eclectic collection of trinkets are lined up together on its surface. You can feel his gaze touch each item, but there’s no judgment in it—only quiet wonder.

“These are the pieces I kept,” you murmur, and his eyes flick to you as if waiting for a story, a reason.

A small glass vial, still corked, filled with syrupy red wine the color of dusk. “From the lushest vineyard in the entire island. I stole it,” you say with a faint smile. “Ran all the way down the hills with red hands and a mouth stained purple.” Beside it, a faded ribbon, sea salt-blue and frayed at the edges, tied in a lazy bow. “For the dances,” you murmur. “We wore them on our wrists, so even the shy ones could be pulled into the revelry.”

Next, a small, tarnished flute—its surface dulled by time, but the carvings of swirling waves and grapevines still visible. “It only plays when the wind is right,” you say, lifting it briefly to your lips. A single note spills out, thin and wandering. “My mother bought it for me. Said no Lethean should be without music.”

There are seashells, of course—real ones, not like the ones strung in your curtain, but pale and pink and lavender, collected from the shallows. One of them still smells faintly of brine when warmed by your palm. Another is cracked down the middle, but you never threw it away. “The ugly ones are often the ones that lived longest,” you explain, as if it matters.

And then, near the end of the shelf, sits a delicate pendant, the size of a coin, fashioned from mother-of-pearl and set in brass. Its surface has worn smooth from years of handling, but if the light catches just right, the faint outline of a chalice brimming with waves and fruit still glimmers—the old symbol of Phagousa, the Titan of Plenty. You used to wear it around your neck. Now it just rests there, like something left at an altar. You don’t explain that one.

Mydei is silent, not out of discomfort. He watches you with a strange, quiet intensity, as though your memories hold a significance beyond words. His hand brushes lightly across the ribbon, then rests on the shelf’s edge.

“You brought Lethe with you,” he says, almost to himself.

You nod, slowly. “I didn’t want to forget. Even if everyone already did.”

In that moment, everything floods back. The deal you made with Agamemnon. How you packed what little you could into a single satchel and left behind the life you knew. How you walked away from the island you once called home without so much as a goodbye to your mother. But it doesn’t matter now. Agamemnon is dead, and Lethe is gone. Not wanting to spiral back into what Mydei did his best to haul you out of, you walk towards your bed, patting the space beside you.  Oddly enough, he joins you without complaint. Not touching. But close enough that if you shifted an inch, you would. You both sit in silence, the air between you warm, but not heavy. The soft flicker of twilight outside dances across the walls, casting long shadows that stretch with time. The quiet is comforting. It doesn’t feel like the heavy silence of distance, but something closer, like the stillness of two souls finally aligning.

Mydei’s presence in the room feels different now. Less like a visitor and more like someone who belongs here, who fits with the gentle rhythm of your life. His armor clinks softly as he shifts to make himself more comfortable, but there’s nothing forced about the movement. You look up at him, your gaze tracing the familiar red markings on his arms and chest—his half-worn robes draped in a way that speaks of battles fought and distances traveled. 

He doesn’t try to hide anything, not the weight of what he’s carried, not the quiet strength that lingers in every measured movement. His stillness is calm, but you sense the storm just beneath it, the tumult that never fully goes away.

You can feel the question in the air—the unspoken one, hanging between you, something about where this moment will lead. But neither of you needs to speak it. You’ve crossed unspoken lines before, danced on edges, and tonight, the edge feels softer, more accepting. You shift a little, a quiet invitation—your leg brushes his, just enough to send a ripple through the calm. 

Mydei doesn’t pull away. 

Instead, his hand shifts to the space beside you, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your bedding, as if this is something he’s always respected. Your eyes meet, and there’s a quiet understanding there, a promise wrapped in the kind of intimacy that doesn’t demand. He moves slowly yet deliberately. When his hand finally meets yours, it’s as if the world outside this room falls away, and all that’s left is the soft brush of skin against skin, the way your breath hitches when his thumb runs over your knuckles, grounding you in the here and now.

The space between you disappears with that small touch.

Mydei doesn’t rush. There’s no hunger, no desperation—only the kind of stillness that comes after a long journey. You feel it in the way his fingers thread through yours, slow and certain, like he's holding something precious. Like he’s afraid if he holds too tightly, you’ll vanish. Your other hand lifts without thinking, drawn to him as if by instinct, fingertips brushing the line of his jaw. He leans into it, and you can feel the weight he carries, heavy beneath his skin, and still he lets himself soften here, with you.

His forehead presses against yours. Neither of you speak. His warm breath fanning against your face tells you enough. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s full. Full of the things neither of you could say before. Of every stolen glance. Every almost. Every ache that built into this moment. When he kisses you, it’s not a question. It’s an answer. Warm, unhurried, and steady. His lips taste like memory and promise all at once. And when Mydei pulls you closer—closer still—it’s not possession. It’s presence. It’s the quiet vow that, here in this moment, he is entirely yours.

You fall into him like tide to shore. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something adrift. You feel found.

Sounds of lovemaking fill your room in a way that has never happened before. It's a given that privacy in The House is close to none, but all the girls who managed to catch you bringing your fiery-haired lover into your sacred space knew better than to intrude. They also told the others that upstairs is off-limits until either you or Mydei emerged again. What they don't know is that with Mydei, sex takes a very good while.

He starts the way all men usually do—missionary. Simple, straight to the point. But where you'd often just lie there and let your patrons take you sloppily, Mydei grounds you beneath his weight like he wants you to remember the moment. He doesn't piston his hips with the intent of chasing after his own sweet release. But lets that gaze of molten fire seep into your very bones, his girth spreading your aching walls far apart with each thrust.

You moan his name like you're stringing a litany of prayers. Mydei is all too happy to heed each desperate plea. He hoists one of your legs over his shoulder, tilting your body just several degrees sideways. The angle confuses your brain for a moment, unused to being positioned in such a way. But your thoughts are eventually lost to pleasure when his cock breaches your wet heat once more—bullying past gummy walls that yield all too easily to his touch alone.

"More, more, more," you dole out mindlessly, tears catching in the corners of your eyes. "I need you more."

You're not sure if any of your words even make sense, but Mydei reads between the lines anyways. He slants your lips together, like stars melting into each other. His kiss swallows your cries, tender and consuming all at once—like he’s trying to hold you together with his mouth alone. His hips roll deeper still but slower now, savoring the tremble in your thighs, the desperate way your fingers clutch at his back.

“I’m here,” he murmurs against your lips, voice frayed with restraint. “I’m always here.”

The words break something in you. Maybe it’s the past you’ve tried so hard to outgrow, or the girl who once believed no one would ever stay. Either way, she shatters—and in her place is a woman who is being seen, held, loved in a way that feels like becoming. Mydei presses his forehead to yours, breath uneven. The rhythm of your bodies is a language now, spoken in heat and motion, in the slick slide of skin and the muffled gasps you share like secrets. 

And when you come undone, it isn’t with fireworks—it’s with something quieter. A tremble. A sigh. A sense that, for once, the ache inside you has been met with something that understands it.

He's carrying you by your thighs before you can even form another thought. You think you bleat out a weak protest but Mydei presses your back against the nearest wall like he didn't hear a thing. You feel something dig into your spine, but the pain is eclipsed by raw ecstasy when he slots himself inside you again—a shuddering gasp stolen from his chest while he noses at the crook of your neck. Your nerves are still burning with sensation, but the slide of his cock makes you want him more. Desire him deeper. You're past the point of caring whether or not he'll break you, because you know he will and he'll do it deliciously. 

"You're more than what your past made you out to be," he huffs hoarsely, teeth scraping across sweat-slicked skin. "You're more than just some dead monster's favorite."

Your breath catches as his words sink into the tenderest part of you, far deeper than where his body touches. It makes your pulse throb in places untouched, makes your body arch for more of him, for all of him. Ever since the first time, Mydei has never made you feel like some sort of commodity. 

He makes you feel human. Always. 

His hands are rough where they grip your thighs, but there’s reverence in the way he holds you open, like you’re nothing short of a miracle even now, especially now. His pace slows, deepens. Not to tease—no, it’s devotion. Every thrust says, I see you. Every breath he steals from your lungs is a promise that he’s not here to use you—he's here to worship what's been denied worship for far too long.

"I don’t care what they called you,” he murmurs, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours as if he needs to feel your thoughts against his. “You're mine now. If you’ll have me.”

And gods, you do.

You meet him stroke for stroke, mouth chasing his with a hunger that borders on holy. There’s nothing soft left in the room—not the air, not the wall, not your shared breathing—but there is something real, raw, and rising fast. Like the sea in a storm. Like love, if you're brave enough to call it that. His lips find your throat, trailing heat and tremble in their wake. He doesn't kiss you like you're fragile. He kisses you like you're fire—meant to be burned by. Tongue and teeth dragging along the slick curve of your collarbone, he groans your name like it’s some sort of invocation he’ll never stop repeating.

“You take me so well,” he breathes. “Every time.”

And Titans, you do—greedy and trembling and insatiable, taking all of him because you can, because you want to. Because his desire doesn’t just touch your body—it drenches it, floods it, marks you in places no one else has ever dared to reach. The rhythm builds again, languid and punishing in its control. He doesn’t fuck like a man trying to get off—he moves like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out. Etching himself into your marrow, into every twitch and gasp and please. He cups your face with one hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. The look in them nearly undoes you.

“You’re not allowed to forget,” he growls, lips brushing yours with maddening restraint. “Not how this feels. Not what you are to me.”

You nod before you can speak, the sound caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. But he sees it. He feels it in the desperate flex of your hips, the trembling grip on his shoulders, the way your mouth parts for his without needing words. You don’t forget—how could you, when he’s everywhere? Inside you, around you, underneath your skin?

His kiss turns hungry again, all heat and tongue, no gentleness this time. Just raw need—his and yours, tangled and indistinguishable. You drink each other in like you’ll never have another chance. His thrusts deepen, rougher now, but still precise—his cock dragging just the right way, hitting every spot that makes your eyes roll back and your breath shatter in your chest. Your thighs start to shake around him, and he feels it, curses low under his breath as shifts your weight to tether further against the wall. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers finding that slick bundle of nerves already pulsing.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, and it’s not a request. It’s a command, one laced with reverence and heat and a promise that he’s going with you.

The pleasure rips through you—white-hot and blinding. You shatter around him, trembling and crying out, clinging to him like he’s the only real thing left in a world gone molten. He follows with a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt, forehead pressed hard to yours as he spills into you with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his soul.

For a long moment, all you can do is breathe together, chests rising and falling in the same rhythm. Your skin sticks where it touches, but you don’t pull away. He doesn’t either. Mydei's thumb brushes your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t know you shed.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “You’re more than what they made you believe. So much more.”

And somehow, in the quiet between heartbeats and aftershocks, you believe him.

The morning carries a softness that feels borrowed—like it wasn’t meant to belong here, but slipped through anyway. At breakfast, the House begins to stir fully, louder with each passing minute. Girls laughing down the hall. Doors creaking open and shut. Water being drawn. Someone tuning a string instrument with off-key determination.

And Mydei is still here.

You spot him in the tiny galley kitchen, sleeves rolled up, red markings stark against the pale curve of his forearms as he folds dough with a focus that borders on reverence. His half-worn robes are still askew from the night before, hair tousled but face composed. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as he flips a pan with entirely too much grace for someone who used to command legions.

“Didn’t think you’d stay,” you murmur.

“I said I would,” he says, not looking up. “Besides, Elena refused to take any money as payment for...”

He pauses, face flushing only for a moment. You feel like he's embarrassed by the prospect of paying for what you suppose was a rendered service, but you're past the point of caring about those little nuances. Elena clucks approvingly as she bustles by, balancing a tray of sweet tea. “This one’s more helpful than half the men who’ve ever darkened our doorstep,” she says. “You sure you’re not already married, Mydei?”

He almost smiles. “Wouldn’t want to subject anyone to that.”

Calliope, who's lounged in a chair with her legs over the armrest, perks up. “I heard a rumor once,” she says, grinning, “that the Crown Prince of Kremnos has a secret love of cooking and baking. Thought it was ridiculous, but…” She gestures at the evidence: golden pastries cooling by the window.

“It wasn’t a secret,” he says, quietly. “Just not something I could do often. Before.”

The mood shifts for a moment. A faint shadow touches the edge of his voice. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. Shortly after your sisters and Nikolas have helped themselves to Mydei's surprisingly good cooking, you find two clay cups. Inside, you pour the pomegranate juice from the jug Elena leaves on the counter before offering one to Mydei. He takes it and raises a brow when you offer him a pitcher of milk.

“Try it,” you say, smirking. “It cuts the tartness.”

He mixes the two with a flick of his wrist and takes a cautious sip. Blinks. “…Better than I thought.”

That draws a laugh from you. “Funnily enough, there's actually a story about that.”

He glances over curiously as you cradle your cup in your palms, leaning against the counter. “The legend says Phagousa offered pomegranate juice to Nikador after he emerged from the battlefield drunk on the blood of his enemies. Said it would calm the fire in him—make him less likely to kill the wrong people. He took it. Said it tasted like war and sweetness in equal measure.”

Mydei is quiet. He drinks again. “A Lethean offering peace to a Kremnoan,” he says after a pause. “Fitting.”

You smile around the rim of your cup. “And did it work?”

“For Nikador?” He shrugs, then looks at you. “Maybe not. But I think it’s working on me.”

You don’t say anything, just nudge your foot against his under the table. You’re still smiling when the kitchen curtain rustles—and someone stumbles in, awkwardly frozen mid-step. A young man, clearly from Kremnos by the style of his cloak and the glint of bronze on his collar. His gaze darts from Mydei to you, then back again. His face drains a shade paler.

“My—uh—Master Mydei. Sir.” He clears his throat, eyes flicking quickly away from your legs, bare beneath a short sleeping tunic. “I—I didn’t realize you were… here.”

“You are?” Mydei asks, calm as ever.

“Andreas, sir,” the man says too quickly. “I-I'm a patron here. Not often. Just…sometimes.”

You exchange a look with Mydei. He doesn’t smirk, but his silence feels like one. The soldier straightens with a snap. “A-Also, General Krateros is looking for you, sir. Told the entire battalion to let you know it was urgent if we ran into you.”

Mydei nods once. “Tell him I’ll be there.”

The man retreats in a flurry of embarrassment and half-bowed apologies. You and Mydei are left alone again, the moment suddenly fragile with the knowledge that it’s ending.

He sets his cup down. Then, without ceremony, leans in and kisses you. Not a lingering promise—just enough to make you feel like you’re being remembered. When he pulls back, you catch the brief return of that storm behind his eyes.

“I’ll see you soon,” the prince says.

You nod, but your gut twists. You’ve seen too many men vanish behind words like that. And this time… something in the air tastes different.

Like milk stirred into blood.

They meet in the outer sanctum beneath the Marmoreal Palace, where gold and obsidian twist in solemn pillars, and the air always tastes like old fire. Mydei stands alone, back turned, watching the Dawn Device cast long beams across the chamber floor.

“You’ve been difficult to find,” Krateros says, voice echoing off stone. No preamble. Just that.

Mydei doesn’t turn. “You found me.”

Krateros crosses the room in measured steps. His armor creaks with each movement—clean, precise, like the man himself. “That’s not an answer.”

“You vanish for days at a time,” Krateros continues, quieter now. “And when you return, you say little. No reports. No council. You’ve always kept things close to your chest, but this…” He trails off, the restraint in his voice pulling taut.

Still, Mydei says nothing.

Krateros studies him. The faint burn of the Dawn Device catches the edges of Mydei’s profile—the worn robes, the exposed red markings pulsing like coals. He looks less like a prince, more like a relic. A weapon waiting to be wielded.

“I know what you’re doing,” Krateros says. “I know where you’ve been.”

Now Mydei turns. There’s no guilt in his expression, only that cold, unreadable stillness he wears when he’s weighing whether or not to unsheathe something sharp. Krateros doesn’t flinch.

“I’m not here to scold you,” he says. “But you are a Chrysos Heir. The last son of Kremnos. You carry the blood of kings and the fire of a dying god in your chest. You don’t get to drift like this.”

A pause. Then:

“Distractions,” he says, “will cost us more than time. You know this.”

Mydei’s gaze narrows, unreadable. “And what would you call your lectures, Krateros, if not a distraction?”

“I call them necessary,” Krateros replies, jaw tightening. “You think I don’t understand? That I haven’t been tempted to take some warmth where I can find it? But we don’t have the luxury of choosing comfort over cause. Not with the Coreflame waiting. Not with the Black Tide pressing in on all sides.”

He steps closer now, not as a soldier, but as something older—friend, brother-in-arms, the last remnant of a broken home trying to hold what’s left together. “You led us here,” he says. “We followed you. Through fire. Through exile. Through the death of everything we once knew. Don’t let your crown slip now, Mydeimos.”

There’s a long, brittle silence. Mydei’s jaw ticks, something flaring behind his eyes—anger, maybe, or something far more human. And when he speaks, his voice is low and measured.

“I haven’t forgotten who I am,” Mydei answers, low and steady.

Krateros watches him. “Yet you act otherwise.”

A beat passes, and he feels like the entire world has tilted several degrees off its axis. “I don’t begrudge you wanting something that’s yours,” his general adds, quieter now. “But you don’t get to lose yourself in it. Not when all of Amphoreus is watching.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Mydei lifts his chin, that same old stubborn steel in his voice. “I know what I’m doing.”

Krateros stares at him for a long moment, then nods once. “Then don’t make the rest of us pay for it if you’re wrong.”

And with that, he turns and walks away—boots echoing through the temple like the sound of time running out.

When you go to pick up Nikolas with the intent on celebrating his first quarter at The Academy, he tells you something unusual. 

“Master Mydei wasn’t there today,” the boy says, even before you can ask how his lessons went.

You pause, blinking. “No drills?”

Nikolas shakes his head, scuffing the ground with his heel. “He hasn’t been there all week. The other instructors are taking over, but it’s not the same. Master Mydei made the exercises feel like... like they mattered.”

He says it lightly, already moving on to recount how one of the boys tripped over his spear and brought the whole line down with him. You smile when he looks up at you, but your thoughts lag behind. You try to brush it off. It’s not like Mydei’s vanished—he still comes to The House often enough. Still lingers in the quiet hours when the world outside feels far away. But… you realize that it's been a while since he last walked the two of you home. Since you last saw him leaning against the sun-drenched pillars while waiting for Nikolas' day to end.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. He’s a Chrysos Heir. Of course he has other things to tend to—greater things, things that were always meant to take him elsewhere. And yet, a small, unwelcome unease begins to settle just behind your ribs. Not loud, not sharp. Just there. Your fingers curl a little tighter around the strap of Nikolas’s satchel as you walk, listening to him talk and laugh beside you.

Something had shifted. You just don’t know what yet. And it’s not just at the Academy.

Mydei still visits The House—but not like before. The frequency of it has thinned, like footsteps fading further down a hall. And when he does come, he doesn’t stay long. Sometimes, he barely speaks. Sometimes, he stands in your doorway for all of two minutes before offering some small, unreadable look and leaving again. He doesn’t touch you anymore. Not like he used to. Not with that quiet hunger that made him feel almost human. He doesn’t reach for you in the way a man reaches when he’s afraid he might fall apart if he doesn’t. He used to take comfort in the simple closeness—in being held, in pressing his brow to your shoulder and saying nothing at all. Now he barely lingers long enough to sit.

You try to rationalize it. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s too burdened, too pulled in a dozen different directions to find room for softness. You tell yourself that. Again and again. But the warmth is waning, and with it, something unnamed and precious slips quietly from between your fingers. That golden silhouette in the Sea of Souls has begun to plague your dreams again, despite having nothing but peaceful sleep weeks before. And day by day, it's slowly beginning to resemble Mydei—drifting further and further from the shore. 

You're still lost in that thought when the sound of soft footsteps pulls you back. Elena approaches you at the foyer, her gaze steady as ever, but softer than most get to see.

“Come,” she says gently, placing a hand at your back. “Let Iris fetch Nikolas today.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she shakes her head—just once. “You need a moment,” she adds, lower now. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

You don’t argue.

You let Elena guide you, her hand steady between your shoulder blades. She doesn’t speak again as she leads you through the quieter halls, past the small garden and into the corridor at the back of the House—the part that used to feel off-limits, even if no one ever said so aloud. She opens the door without ceremony. You realize where you are only once you're inside.

Agamemnon’s old quarters.

No—Elena’s room now. The heavy furnishings are gone, replaced by soft lamplight and shelves lined with small comforts: books, folded blankets, glass jars of dried herbs and sealed ink pots. The walls still wear the same paint, but the presence in the room is wholly different. The old chill that once haunted it is gone. She took it back. Firmly. Like reclaiming stolen ground.

She gestures to a cushioned seat in the corner, and you sink into it, your limbs suddenly heavier than they ought to be. She doesn’t sit—not yet. She pours a bit of warm tea into a cup and sets it on the table near your elbow. “You’ve always been good at reading people,” she says, tone gentle but without pity. “But you never let anyone read you.”

You don’t respond right away. The room smells faintly of citrus peel and ink. You stare into the steam curling from the tea. “There’s nothing to read,” you murmur.

Elena lets out a quiet, unimpressed sound. “Then you won’t mind if I guess anyway.”

You almost smile. Almost. She finally settles across from you, folding her legs beneath her like she has all the time in the world.

“It’s about him,” she says. Not a question.

You close your eyes. “He still visits.”

“Mhm.”

“But it’s different. He barely stays. Doesn’t even—” You stop yourself. The words catch on something sharp. “He used to reach for me like he was trying to stay tethered. Now he comes and goes like... like it’s a task.” Elena doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers drum once against the arm of her chair. “It’s always hardest to hold onto something when it stops reaching back,” she says finally.

You nod, just once. You can’t bring yourself to say more than that. “I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t care,” Elena adds. “But whatever path he’s on now… it’s pulling him somewhere you can’t follow.”

You stare down at your hands. “I know. But it still feels like losing something.” She leans forward, brushing her thumb briefly over the back of your hand—a rare gesture of softness from her. “Then mourn it,” she says. “And if it comes back to you, you’ll meet it where you stand. Not where you’ve been.”

You don’t cry. Not here. Not in this room reclaimed by strength and memory. But you let yourself be still for a while, with Elena beside you, the tea growing cold between you, and the truth settling like dust in the warm silence.

No matter how much you hoped, the distance just widens—slowly, then all at once.

At first, it’s just a missed day. Then two. Then a week, and another. Until eventually, Mydei stops coming to The House altogether. No familiar footfall. No pause outside your curtain. No voice saying your name in that low, quiet way that once felt like it belonged only to you. You try not to let it bother you. You tell yourself he’s busy. That he’s important. That you were foolish to expect anything different.

There, you try to return to old rhythms—take patrons again, smile when you need to, pretend your body is yours to give rather than a thing left behind like an empty shell. You let your sisters dress you up in gold and laughter, let yourself be seen again, touched again, admired again. But nothing fits quite right anymore. None of them are him. None of them have his silence, his gravity, the way he made you feel like you were the one thing in the room that mattered.

You should’ve known better. He’s a Chrysos Heir. The future of Okhema. He carries burdens most men would shatter under. You had no business placing your heart in hands already full with destiny. Mydei is not like the others—you know that. He didn’t use you. He didn’t forget you. He just… had somewhere else to be. Something bigger than you to answer to. But that doesn’t make the ache any smaller.

In a moment of foolish desperation, you even try to reach out to Phainon. You think maybe he’ll know something. Maybe he’ll tell you what happened. Maybe he’ll offer some sliver of truth that makes it easier to bear. But Phainon, too, is gone. Not a whisper of either Chrysos Heir's presence left to trail after. And for the first time in a long while, you start to wonder if you're the one being left behind—not because you were unworthy, but because some things aren’t meant to stay.

Just like that, you’ve slipped back into your old life.

The one you had before Mydei ever crossed The House’s doorway. Silk draped over your shoulders, bracelets tinkling at your wrists, voice low and teasing when it needs to be. You smile the way you’re meant to, laugh when it’s expected. To anyone watching, you’ve returned to form—graceful, poised, untouched by the ache he left behind. But in private, you still let the pain simmer.

You still wake in the middle of the night, clutching your sheets, heart thrumming with the echo of dreams you can’t fully name. Always the same: a golden silhouette adrift in the Sea of Souls. Always just out of reach. Always walking away. And still, you go on.

Tonight is no different. One of your regulars has come by—a young man, handsome in that polished, golden-boy way. Elena says he likes you. Really likes you. She catches the way he watches you like you’re more than just a passing indulgence, like he wants something real. Something lasting. But you’ve already gone down that road. You know better now. You light the lamp. Offer him wine. Let your fingers graze his shoulder as you guide him down the hallway—not to your room, never your room—but to one of the House’s standard chambers. Comfortable, detached, forgettable. Just how it should be.

You’re halfway through undoing the knot at your shoulder when the front door slams open. Not gently. Not cautiously. It’s the kind of sound that slices through everything—through music, through laughter, through the sighs of someone trying to forget. It echoes down the halls, startling a few girls into silence. The hush that follows isn’t just surprise. It’s recognition.

You barely hear Elena’s voice from beyond the corridor, sharp and uncertain: “Thalia.”

You pause. The young man on the couch shifts, half-rising, brows furrowed. You don’t give him a word of explanation. Just press your robe back into place, step out into the hall, and follow the tension crawling down your spine. You round the corner. And there he is.

You’ve seen him in lamplight before, cloaked in shadows and quiet rage. But this time—this time he looks like something pulled from another realm entirely. His hair has grown longer, burnished gold streaked with fire, one side neatly braided, the other loose and tangled like he hasn’t slept for days. His skin is dusted in sweat and ash, and the red markings on his arms burn brighter now, like veins of molten ore running beneath his flesh. His eyes find you. And gods, they’re tired. Not in the way of men worn down by time, but of someone who has looked too long into a fire he could not escape. There’s distance in them now. Not coldness—but something deeper. Like he’s gone someplace you can’t reach, and left the door half-open behind him. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to. Because standing there in the House's low flickering light, Mydei looks nothing like the man who used to listen to your stories in the quiet after midnight.

And yet, for one awful, aching second, you wish he did. You don’t know what he’s lost. What he’s won. Only that whatever road brought him here, it was not kind. You want nothing more than to throw yourself into his arms. To forget the silence. The ache. The long, hollow stretch of nights he wasn’t there. But time has carved you into someone sharper. Someone careful. And when you finally speak, your voice is cold enough to frost over the doorway. Whatever softness once lived in you for him has learned to hold its breath. You’ve patched yourself up too many times to tear open at the seams now.

So when you speak, it isn’t tender. “What are you doing here?” Your voice echoes in the narrow hall, too poised for how fast your heart is beating. You don’t give him time to answer. You straighten your shoulders, glance behind you at the door you just stepped out of. “I’m busy tonight. With a patron.”

The words taste sour, but you say them anyway. You watch the shift in his face, subtle but unmistakable. His gaze hardens, jaw tightening like he’s biting something back. There’s a fire in him—there always was—but now it crackles at the edges, no longer tempered by gentleness. Not rage, not quite. But something close. Still, you hold your ground. You won’t let him look at you like that. Like he still has the right. You’ve taken yourself apart piece by piece to survive without him, and now he shows up—unannounced, unchanged in all the ways that still hurt. You clench your fingers in your robe, exhale through your nose. “You don’t get to come back and expect everything to be the same,” you say, quieter this time.

He doesn’t respond. Just watches you with eyes that have seen too much, and a silence that says he knows it. But you’re not ready. Not yet.

For several days, Mydei attempts to reach out, and for several days, you refuse him. 

Elena constantly tells him that he's the last person you need to see. But Mydei has Kremnoan blood running through his veins—stubborn, unyielding, relentless. He doesn't take no for an answer. His presence lingers like a shadow, and it becomes a silent war of wills. Finally, Iris, sweet, gentle Iris, who’s always been the heart of this place, is the one to snap.  You hear it from the hall—a raised voice, sharp with frustration, followed by silence. The next thing you know, Iris is standing between Mydei and the door, her face flushed with the strain of trying to be firm.

“If you don’t leave now,” she warns, voice trembling with quiet fury, “I’ll call the guards.”

It’s a rare thing to see Iris so resolute. But you know she’s doing it for you, for the pieces of you that have been broken and scattered too many times. Later, you overhear the girls talking, gathered in hushed voices. You stand just out of sight, pretending to be absorbed in something else, but the words sink into you like a slow poison.

“I never wanted to turn him away,” Iris whispers, the sound of her voice raw with something you can’t quite place. “But... If he left and vanished without a trace, maybe... maybe that would be better for her. He was the one who made her happy once. I haven’t forgotten that. But now...” Her voice cracks. “Now, he’s the reason she’s in so much pain.”

You feel the weight of her words like a stone in your chest. And for the first time in days, you allow yourself to feel the ache of it all—the loss, the betrayal, the gaping hole that used to be filled with his presence.

Is this all that's left between the two of you after all?

The next morning, The House is quieter than usual. Even the laughter from the girls seems dulled, as if they, too, are caught in the fog of yesterday’s storm. You wake early, before the sun has fully risen, and the weight in your chest hasn’t left. If anything, it has settled deeper. The ache is no longer sharp. It's something quieter now. Constant. You leave without telling anyone. No makeup. No disguise. Just a long shawl draped over your shoulders and sandaled feet slapping against cold stone. You don't know where you're going until you're already there.

The Marmoreal Palace gleams under the light of the Dawn Device, pristine and untouched. Here, the world feels distant—like something imagined rather than lived. Inside, the air is warm and still, a mix of sea-salt and something floral you can’t place. Steam curls in lazy tendrils around the painted columns. You disrobe in silence and slide into the water with only the barest splash, letting it cradle you like a memory you can’t shake. The baths are quieter than you expected. Until they aren’t.

“You’re here,” comes a familiar voice.

You flinch, not because you’re afraid, but because you weren’t prepared to hear him. Phainon stands at the edge of the pool, looking only mildly surprised to find you already there. His long white hair is damp at the ends, his robe half-slipped from his shoulders. He hasn’t changed, not much—but your heart clenches anyway.

You narrow your eyes. “You disappeared too.” He blinks at you, as though he hadn’t expected that to be the first thing you’d say. “I did,” he admits, quiet and unapologetic. “I had to.”

“Of course you did,” you murmur, sinking further into the water. “Everyone has to.”

A silence stretches between you. You’re too tired to keep the edge in your voice, but it’s there nonetheless. The warmth of the bath does little to ease it. Phainon doesn't enter the water right away. He sets his robe aside and sits on the pool’s edge, feet dipping into the blessed waters. “I go here a lot when I need to get something off my mind,” he says instead of answering. “I suppose the same is true for you as well?”

You don’t respond. You don't trust your voice not to break. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again. “The Black Tide started rising faster than any of us expected. We had no choice but to act—quickly.” You shift, water rippling around your shoulders. “So you just vanished.”

“I told him we should say goodbye to you first,” he says softly, finally looking at you. “He wanted to. But there was no time. We left at dawn the next day.” You don’t realize you’ve curled your fingers into fists until your nails bite your palms beneath the surface. “So where did you go?”

Phainon exhales. “Castrum Kremnos.”

Your gaze snaps to him. He continues, slowly, like the words are stones he must carry across a river. “Mydei needed to reclaim something that was lost. Something his people had forgotten. Nikador’s Coreflame. The power that was once theirs before the Titan fell into madness.”

“He fought for it. We all did. The Coreflame is back where it belongs now, in the Vortex of Genesis. Waiting for someone worthy to take it up.” You look away. Your voice is thin when it finally comes. “So that’s why he left.”

“He’s not just trying to be a prince anymore,” Phainon says. “He’s preparing to become something else. A protector. A demigod. The Bastion of Okhema.” You close your eyes, letting the steam soften your expression, though it can't quite dull the ache in your chest. “And you?” you ask. “Are you becoming something too?”

Phainon smiles faintly. “I’ve always been someone in the background. That hasn’t changed.”

That's not an answer. You want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. Sensing your unease, he leans forward slightly, voice lower now. “I just didn’t want you to keep waiting in the dark, thinking he abandoned you. He didn’t. Not really.”

You don’t respond right away. You’re still trying to fit all the pieces together. The silence stretches again—only this time, it doesn’t feel so lonely. Outside, the golden light deepens, catching the mist like spun thread. You don’t feel lighter, not yet. But at least now you understand what happened. The mist swirls around you both, catching golden in the morning light. For a long time, you say nothing. Just the sound of water, soft and steady, and the occasional hush of distant footsteps echoing in the marble halls. Then, finally, you speak—your voice low, but clear.

“I was cruel to him.”

“I didn’t see him,” you go on. “Not once. Not when he knocked. Not when he waited in the hall. I made my sisters turn him away. I let Elena speak for me. I didn’t even... I didn’t even ask why he left.” Your voice catches. “I didn’t want to hear it. I was too angry. Too hurt.” Phainon looks at you, not with pity, but with something gentler. Something like understanding. You draw in a breath, steadying yourself. “He tried. And I—I let my silence answer him. I thought it would protect me. I thought... if I didn’t open the door, it wouldn’t hurt as much when he disappeared again.”

“But it still did,” Phainon says softly.

You nod, just once. “And now I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to say anything to him again.” Phainon’s expression is hard to read. The bathwater reflects golden across his features, giving him a soft, solemn glow. “He wouldn’t fault you for it,” he says at last. “He doesn’t carry anger the way most people do. But he does carry weight. The kind that never really leaves you.”

You let the silence stretch again, letting his words settle in the spaces your regret has carved out. “I thought he was choosing something else over me,” you admit, your voice almost a whisper. “But it was never about that, was it?”

“No,” Phainon murmurs. “It was about all of you. All of us. The people of this city. The ones who still believe in something better.”

You lean back against the stone, letting the warmth seep into your bones. The water may have been blessed by a goddess, but it can’t wash away everything. Still, it helps. “I think,” you say after a moment, “I just wanted to feel like I mattered. Like I was worth saying goodbye to.”

“You were,” he says simply. “You are.”

You don’t thank him for the words. But you don’t argue either. Phainon stretches his legs out into the water, letting the silence settle between you again. There’s something almost peaceful about it now—like the ache has found room to breathe. Then, casually, as if he’s commenting on the weather, he says, “If you ever want to get away from the city... there’s a spot by the eastern slopes. Hardly anyone goes there. You can see all of Okhema from up top. Even the Dawn Device looks small from there.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That sounds oddly specific.” He just shrugs, the corner of his mouth curving. “Just thought you’d like the view.”

There’s something veiled beneath the words—something left unsaid. But Phainon is too practiced at deflection. You don’t press him, but the suggestion lingers in your mind like a note in a half-finished song. One you intend to see through until the end.

Later that afternoon, after making Phainon swear he won't disappear without a trace again, you leave the marble gates behind. The route he mentioned winds through the less-traveled parts of the city—stone paths lined with ivy, stairways sun-bleached and cracked, quiet courtyards where birdsong carries between empty alcoves. The air feels different here. Less ostentatious. More honest. The slope rises slowly, and the buildings thin out. Eventually, you're left with wildflowers brushing your ankles, old roots breaking through forgotten stones, and a sky that feels far too big.

And then you see it.

Tucked into the edge of a cliff, half-forgotten by time, is a small, crumbling terrace. Vines have crept through broken latticework, and moss clings to the faded stones. There are remnants of garden beds—empty, but outlined lovingly, like someone had once planned to grow something beautiful here. It would’ve made a lovely garden. And standing at its edge, back turned, bathed in gold and shadow, is Mydei.

He’s not in armor. Just loose robes, wind-tossed, the markings on his skin catching the light in flickers of red and copper. There’s a weight to his stance—heavy, as if he might as well replace the Titan who bears the world on his back. But there's also a quiet sort of anticipation lingering there. As if he’s been waiting. You stop. The wind carries the scent of dried leaves. And in that instant, all the breath you’d held over these past weeks escapes you.

He turns—slowly, carefully, like the world might shift beneath him if he moves too fast. And when his eyes find yours, they soften. He looks like someone who’s walked through fire just to make it here. Someone who never stopped hoping you would come. You don’t say anything, but your feet carry you forward. Because he’s here. And somehow, so are you.

He watches you approach. Still, unmoving—as if the moment might scatter like birds startled from branches. But you've committed enough mistakes to know when you're supposed to make up for them. 

“Mydei,” you breathe, unsure if you even want to say his name. It tastes like salt and grief on your tongue.

His eyes meet yours, steady. He doesn't address you with Thalia like the rest of the world, but with a name you trust only his voice to say. The sound of it makes warmth simmer beneath your skin, slipping into the cracks that time has broken into your soul.  You stop a few steps away. Mydei doesn't come closer. He just stands there, hands at his sides, waiting. You try to hold it in, all of it—the storm, the ache, the betrayal you swore you'd buried. But it frays at the seams. And once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

“I was cruel,” you say. The words come through clenched teeth, tears spilling even as you try to swallow them. “You tried to see me. I wouldn’t even look at you. I didn’t let you speak. And now…” Now you’re the one standing here, hoping he’ll listen to what you have to say. “I thought you left me,” you whisper. “Not just me. Everyone. But especially me.”

It sounds selfish, yet he doesn't deny it. He doesn’t make excuses. He just lowers his gaze, jaw tightening for a breath before he says, quiet as dusk, “I should’ve told you.”

You shake your head hard. “I didn’t make it easy.”

“That’s not why.” He looks up again. “There wasn’t time. It all happened fast. The Coreflame… Castrum Kremnos…” His fingers curl slightly at his sides, like he’s reliving it. “I didn’t want to go without saying anything. But I had to.”

Your chest caves, air escaping you like a punctured wineskin. “And when you came back…”

“I didn’t know where to start,” he says, and his voice carries the sort of quiet that borders on sadness. “You looked at me like I was a stranger.”

“Because you were.”

He accepts that. Just nods, slow and quiet. You glance around the terrace, at the garden-that-never-was, and back at him. “This is where you’ve been?”

He gives a small nod. “There’s a place just down the slope. An old house where it’s quiet enough for me to hear my own thoughts.” He looks out toward the city. “I didn’t want to stay in the Marmoreal Palace. It’s… easier to think here.”

You wipe at your face again, suddenly self-conscious about how much you’re crying and how dry his eyes are.

“So you’ve been alone all this time?”

His voice is soft. “Not really.”

You look at him again, confused. Finally, Mydei steps forward—not all the way, just close enough that you can hear the breath he takes before he says, “You were always with me. Even when you hated me.” Your mouth trembles from his honesty, and you don't know what to make of it. He challenged a god and won, yet his thoughts still drift to you?

“That doesn’t make this hurt less,” you whisper.

“I know.”

In the silence, he doesn’t ask if you want to come with him. Mydei just starts walking down the slope, and when you don’t stop him, when your steps fall in beside his, it’s enough. Your footsteps fall quietly along the worn path. Behind you, Okhema glows with its usual light—soft and steady, as it always is. The sun never sets here, but the city feels quieter now, like it knows to dim its voice when the world needs rest.

The place he stays in is small. Unremarkable. Worn wood creaks beneath your feet, and the stone floors have seen better days, their surface chipped and cracked in places. The room is sparsely furnished, without any of the pomp you might expect of someone of his lineage.

There are no guards. No banners. Just a kettle by the hearth, a narrow bed with a folded blanket, and a half-finished meal on a plain wooden table. It feels like a room for someone who wants to be forgotten. Or perhaps just needs the space to remember.

He pours you water from a ceramic jug and offers it to you wordlessly. Your eyes catch the bottle of wine sitting beside his bed—an afterthought, a companion for moments too heavy to be filled with words. You take it, uncork it with a quick twist, and drink. The liquid is sharp, its warmth moving down your throat like a slow burn. Mydei doesn’t comment.

His gaze lingers on you, and in the quiet of the room, it feels heavier than any words could be. You sit on the edge of his bed, and it’s strange, the intimacy of it. The way it feels small beneath you. The way his presence feels familiar enough that it cuts deep. He stays standing at first, watching you for a beat too long, before slowly sitting beside you. 

"Phainon told me about the trial," you say, your voice unsteady, more vulnerable than you mean it to be. Your fingers curl around the neck of the bottle, your eyes still not meeting his. "Nikador’s Coreflame. That you’re going to take it."

He nods, barely a movement. “I am.”

“When?”

A long pause hangs between you, thick with things neither of you can say.

“Tomorrow.”

Your chest tightens. You close your eyes for a moment, as if trying to gather the pieces of yourself back together. “Of course.”

It should have been easy to accept. Yet you swallow hard, the words tasting like ash in your mouth, and your hands tremble slightly as you take another drink from the bottle. He watches you quietly, and for a long moment, you just sit there, caught between the past and the future, each breath heavy with things you wish you'd said earlier.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Mydei murmurs, his voice heavy with the weight of all the things he’s already lost.

You laugh, but it's bitter, a raw sound that catches in your throat. "It never was, but we're here anyway." The wine burns as it slides down, but it feels like nothing compared to the burn in your chest, the ache that’s been there since the first time you pushed him away. The silence between you isn’t sharp anymore. It’s softened, worn, tired. And you know it’s not just the long day that’s tired. It’s you. It’s him. It’s everything in between.

“You know," you begin, your voice quiet now, more frayed than angry, "we could’ve had more time. All those days you waited outside, and I—” Your voice cracks on the last words. "I thought pushing you away would make it easier. But it didn’t. I just...wasted what little we had left."

His eyes are soft when they meet yours, as always, there’s no judgment in them. Just understanding. And maybe that’s worse. Because understanding makes the hurt feel heavier.

“I would’ve waited as long as it took,” he says, and his voice breaks, just a little. It’s the quietest thing, like he’s afraid you might shatter if he speaks too loudly.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, you forget how heavy it all feels. The reality of what you both are about to face. The gravity of your mistakes. You look at him, really look at him. Not the demigod. Not the prince. Just Mydei. The man sitting right next to you, exhausted and hurting, full of things he’s never said, and so much he’ll never get to. And then, almost without thinking, you cross the space between you.

The distance doesn’t feel right. It never does. So you reach out and kiss him. Not out of desperation. Not even out of need. Just out of acknowledgement. Of everything you were. Of everything you are. And everything you’ll never get to be.

The kiss is tender, slow, like you’re both trying to savor it before it slips through your fingers. His hands come to rest on your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your fingers tangle in the fabric over his shoulders, and you feel the rough texture of the red markings beneath your touch.

His body is warm, solid against yours, like the only thing holding you together in the midst of the unraveling. But in spite of it all, you climb on top of his lap and his hands meander to your hips like clockwork. Mydei breathes out your name again—your real name—and it takes every ounce of self-control to not unceremoniously spear yourself on his hard, leaking cock.

Instead, you hold on to the tenderness in his voice, guiding his length slowly into you as you sink yourself inch by inch. His golden eyes observe in quiet rapture as you envelop him in the heat of your cunt. And for a moment, time stills. It's only you and him in this world. No higher calling. No inescapable destiny.

Just two lovers entangled in each other's embrace. 

You both linger not because you have to—but because neither of you can bear to end it. When you kiss him again, his mouth tastes like grief and gratitude, like unspoken apologies and quiet forgiveness. When you finally part, it’s not with a gasp, but a breath.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” you whisper, your voice shaking against his skin. “That it wasn’t just comfort. It wasn’t just—just survival. I chose you. Even when I pretended I didn’t.” Mydei lets out a quiet exhale, one that sounds like it’s been locked in his chest for too long. “I know,” he murmurs. “And I chose you too. Every time.”

You swallow hard, and it burns. Like all the things you’ll never get to say are rising up at once. “But you have to go,” you say, and you hate how much it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.

The prince nods. Not because he wants to. But because he has to. There’s no anger in it, no bitterness—just that quiet, devastating calm he always wears when the world asks too much of him. And this time, it’s asking for everything.

He brushes his knuckles along your cheek, trailing them down to your jaw, memorizing the shape of you like it might be the last time. Maybe it is. “I’ll come back,” he says, softly, reverently. “Even if I’m not the same. Even if I come back a god, or a shadow of one—I’ll still find a way to be yours.”

You shake your head—wanting to refuse, wanting to insist that he shouldn't choose you over the rest of the world. But your voice fails you when you bring your hips down once more and the tip of him kisses a spot inside you that makes you see stars.

“Just… don’t forget this,” you manage, struggling with sincerity when your mind is overloaded with pleasure. “Don’t forget who you were before.”

His lips press to your brow—firm, steady, lingering—and the warmth of it spreads like a vow you’ll carry in your bones.

“I won’t,” he says, a shadow of regret already flitting to the surface. “Because you’ll be the part I remember most.”

You want to say more. You want to tell him that remembering won’t be enough. That memory is fragile, easily rewritten by divinity or time or duty. But instead, you stay there, wrapped in him, letting the silence fall like a shroud around your tangled limbs. Words feel too small now, and besides—he’s still human. For just a little longer.

You lie against him in the quiet, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his warmth grounding you. The world outside doesn’t shift—there’s no setting sun, no stars to blink into view. Just the bright, aching stillness of Okhema, stretching on like it always has.

Mydei shifts slightly beneath you, his voice low and gravelly. “What do you want most in the world?”

You blink, not expecting the question. The wine dulls the edges of your thoughts, but not enough to soften the truth. You tilt your head up, looking at him. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes search yours like he needs an answer—one that matters.

“In this moment?” you whisper. He nods once. You swallow. The answer feels foolish, but it’s the only one that comes.

“You.”

Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe. Longing. Love, too, but buried beneath it all is something heavier. Something finite.

He shakes his head slowly, gently. “That’s not something I can give.”

It doesn’t feel cruel. Just honest. You exhale, the breath shaky, and let your gaze wander to the walls, the table, the pale jug on the hearth. The silence presses in again, not oppressive but inevitable, and you dig past the ache, the wanting, to something deeper.

So, softer now, more to yourself than to him, you say,

“A fig tree.”

Mydei's golden eyes startle as he tilts his head. “A fig tree?”

“Mm,” you nod, eyes still on the ceiling. “A big one. Sweet fruit, low branches. Shade so thick, you could sleep under it all day and no one would find you. And it’d be mine. Just mine. Not in someone else’s garden. No clients, no watchers, no debts.” You smile, but it barely lifts your lips. “I’d name it something stupid. Figgy, or Kephale’s Ass.”

That gets a laugh from him—low and surprised. But when you glance his way, he’s already watching you differently. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of the wish beneath your joke.

“You’re serious,” he says.

You shrug. “I’m tired of wanting things that cost too much.”

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for your hand where it rests between the folds of the blanket, his fingers brushing yours—tentative, warm. You don’t pull away. And in the silence that follows, you both know: he’ll claim Strife's Coreflame tomorrow, and you’ll remain here with this—this moment, this ache, this impossible tree blooming behind your ribs.

You close your eyes. And when you finally sleep, it’s not peace that cradles you—it’s the ache of knowing morning always comes. Because when it does, nothing will be the same.

News of a new demigod spreads like wildfire.

Trumpets blare from the upper terraces, their notes caught and carried by the ever-blazing sun. Laurel garlands are tossed from balconies. The Kremnoans, long-suffering and scattered, gather in droves across the plaza steps of the Marmoreal Palace, crying and singing in a tongue most in Okhema don’t understand. But you recognize the shape of it—reverence. Relief. Rapture.

Their king has risen.

The rest of the city does what it always does when faced with something greater than itself: it hopes. Whispers pass from market stalls to sun-washed colonnades. He’ll stop the Black Tide. He has to. He has the strength now. Maybe the nightmares will end. Maybe the tide will be driven back into the deep where it came from.

But you don’t go aboveground to hear any of it.

For a long time, you don’t leave the undercity at all. The lamps still flicker, The House still bustles, Alexandria still braids jasmine into the curtain rods. Everything is exactly the same. Except it isn’t.

You don’t read the news scrolls. Don’t look at the mural of the Dawn Device glowing gold above. You pass the stairs leading up without a glance. And when others mention the name Mydei, you simply excuse yourself, as if you’ve grown bored of the story.

But Elena notices. She always has. The way you pause by the seashell curtain longer than you mean to. The way your makeup is lighter these days, your smile more practiced. How you move through the House like you’re carrying something delicate and heavy all at once.

She doesn’t say anything, but the tea she leaves by your bedside is your favorite kind. The chores she assigns are quieter, further from the crowd. On days when the sun feels too loud, she dims the lanterns near your corner without a word. Nothing big. Nothing obvious. Just the kind of help that doesn’t ask you to admit you need it.

And then, one day, Phainon comes.

He doesn’t knock—just waits outside your curtain, patient as ever. When you finally let him in, he looks older than you remember, like something behind his eyes has sunk deeper into itself. You sit on the floor. He doesn’t offer pleasantries, nor does he mention the revels or the rumors.

“Mydei’s gone,” he simply tells you straight away.

You say nothing.

“He left this morning. Headed east, back to Castrum Kremnos. There are reports of the Tide breaching the mountain passes. He’s going to defend the border.”

Still, the silence persists.

“He didn’t tell me where exactly. Didn’t tell anyone, really. Just said it was time.”

It’s that last part that does it.

Something in your chest—fragile and waterlogged for days—splits down the middle. The breath you pull in is shuddering, tight, and the laugh that escapes you is barely a sound at all. You press the back of your hand to your mouth like you can stop it from coming, but you can’t. Phainon stays with you. He doesn’t try to stop you from crying, nor comfort you with false words. He just sits there as you fold in on yourself, as your body heaves with the grief of it, the hollow and the heat of it. The kind of grief you only feel when you lose something you were never meant to keep.

He reaches over, quietly, and squeezes your shoulder. In the distance, the bells of the Palace ring again. Not for you. Not for him.

For the god they now call Strife Incarnate.

For the man you loved.

And ultimately lost.

Years pass in the blink of an eye.

Okhema, still burning beneath the tireless light of the Dawn Device, becomes a sanctuary for the displaced. City-states once proud and untouched by ruin collapse beneath the weight of the Black Tide. Their people arrive in droves—haunted, half-starved, wide-eyed with grief—and the city takes them in. The sanctity of its alabaster spires strains under the weight, but it does not break.

Mydei and the other Chrysos Heirs push back with fire and fury, golden shields against a growing sea of death. They are everywhere and nowhere—always spoken of, rarely seen. Even when they stem the tide in one corner of the continent, it seeps through another. Victory comes in fragments. Defeat is slower, quieter.

But still, life goes on.

Nikolas has grown into adulthood. Taller. Sharper. These days, he wears the armor of one of Okhema’s elite guards—the kind that gleams like polished sunstone. These days, he's too busy to live anywhere other than his company's assigned barracks. But he brings gifts sometimes—candied nuts, new thread, secondhand books for the girls. He doesn’t linger long, but when he sees you, his expression softens. He bows his head, always. Not with ceremony, but with something gentler. Something that says: I remember where I came from.

Down to the undercity. To the House.

The House that is much different now. No longer a brothel, but a resting place for the weary. At the start of the exciting change, Penelope asked, why didn't we turn this into an Inn the moment that old bastard died? A sentiment echoed by yourself and your other sisters. Elena answers simply.

"Because I wanted us to start, not from the wealth Agamemnon made off of our suffering, but with the money we all earned on our own terms." 

Rooms that once held secrets now hold stories. Travelers sleep beneath patched roofs, fed by kind hands that ask nothing in return. You stayed through every change. Through every wave of newcomers. Through every whispered prayer sent up toward the unblinking sky.

You haven’t heard from Phainon in years. The last thing you received was a letter, edges sun-bleached and curling. He didn’t say much—but what he did say stayed with you. That it was no small thing, to keep a soft heart in a world that rewarded hardness. That kindness, in hands like yours, meant more than most people would ever understand.

At the end of the letter, he told you: If you ever need a breath, a moment, a sliver of peace—go back to the eastern slope. The place where the light hits just right. Where hearts had once been laid bare.

You hadn’t thought of it in a long time. But today, while clearing out a drawer, you find it again. The edges of the paper are curled. The ink faded in places. But the words remain. You read it three times before setting it down. Then you pack a small bag with water, a slice of flatbread, and nothing else.

The walk is longer than you remember—not because the distance has changed, but because the world has. This part of the city, once overgrown and forgotten, is no longer deserted. Homes have been built into old stone. Children run barefoot down winding paths. Lanterns hang from beams softened by age, and laughter drifts like wind through the open spaces.

You almost turn back, unsure if this place remembers you.

“Are you lost?” a voice calls from the side of the path.

You turn. An older man with silver in his beard and a scar across his brow stands beside a cart of firewood. His sleeves are rolled up, arms weathered from work. Not a soldier anymore, but something about his posture says he once was.

“I’m looking for an old terrace,” you say. “The one that looks over the eastern rise.”

He studies you. Something flickers in his expression—recognition, maybe, though you don’t recognize him. Still, he nods and sets down the bundle he carries.

“This way,” the man says, ushering you further.

You follow him in silence. Through quiet lanes. Past gardens planted with practiced care. The city didn’t build these homes—people did. Survivors. Settlers. Refugees who carved something that's now theirs from the wreckage.

“The people of Castrum Kremnos live here now,” the man says, almost offhand. “Most of us settled after the last wave several years ago.” He glances back at you. Slows. “Rumor has it that this is where Mydeimos spent his last days as a man. Before he crossed the threshold into divinity.”

You say nothing, despite that same exact scene flashing behind your eyes, but the bitter memory is cut short the moment your eyes find the once-abandoned terrace.

The garden plot is still there—but it’s not wild anymore. It's thriving. Every inch of soil breathes with care, with memory. Herbs spill over low stone borders, blossoms lean into the sun, and trailing vines curl like quiet laughter around hand-hewn posts. It doesn’t shout its beauty—it hums with it, steady and sure.

And at the heart of it all stands a fig tree.

Tall and deeply rooted, its bark dark and knotted with age, its limbs outstretched like open arms. The leaves catch the wind with a soft rustle, and from its branches hang ripe fruit—heavy, sweet, and low enough to reach.

A big one. Sweet fruit, low branches. Shade so thick, you could sleep under it all day and no one would find you.

And it’d be mine. Just mine.

The man slows beside you. “That tree’s been here a while now. We were told to plant it. Given seeds and a spot. It was the prince's final order before leaving for Castrum Kremnos.”

You look at him. “He… Mydei asked for it?”

He nods. “Didn’t say why. Only that it had to grow. That it mattered because it belonged to someone important.”

You step closer to the tree, fingertips brushing the bark. You recount the past several years, where it always felt as if you were wading through a sea of mist. You would even think to yourself that maybe you're becoming one of those wandering souls in your dreams. But this very tree that was planted here on the whims of a man who still thought of you even past his divine countenance.

It mattered... 

Even after all this time. Even after he became something more than mortal. This fig tree—this patch of earth—tells you he remembered. That part of him stayed.

You stand beneath its branches, and for a long while, you say nothing at all.  The wind rustles the leaves above you. The figs hang heavy in the warm light—sweet and low.

Here, at last, something is yours.

Something he left behind.

When you return to The House, the sun is still high above Okhema, as it always is. The basket in your arms—given by that kind old stranger who you know now as Krateros—is heavier than you remembered, brimming with ripe figs, their skin warm from the walk.

Nikolas is the first to spot you. He bounds over, looking like he was still fourteen despite being in full uniform, and snatches one from the top before you can say a word. “These are real?” he says, mouth already full. “Where’d you get ‘em?”

Your other sisters drift into the foyer like petals on a breeze, drawn by the smell, the sight, the rare smile tugging at your lips. They ask what the occasion is. You shrug, setting the basket down where everyone can reach.

“No occasion,” you say softly. “Just… felt like it was time.”

You don’t tell them about the eastern slopes. Or the fig tree. Or the man who once stood beneath that sky beside you, heavy with a goodbye neither of you could speak. You don’t need to. Because for the first time in your life, you are not looking back.

You're no longer the girl from the sea, from an island long lost to time. The one who only lived out of fear and anger at the city who made her the way she was. You like to think it was Mydei's presence who made you realize all the things you're not, but part of you knows he would say something along the lines of, No. This was all you. 

And it was. 

You sit among your sisters and the boy you all raised together, the sweet taste of fruit on your tongue, and let the moment hold you—not as someone who was left behind, but as someone who still remains.

And in the warmth and laughter around you, you begin to understand:

Some loves don’t end.

They simply grow roots in the quiet parts of you.

...and keep on living.

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[casssmalefantasy]

STRUCK - PAIGE BUECKERS X READER!

| synopsis: you’ve been a uconn fan for as long as you can remember. a fan bowling event? cool. being in the same lane as paige bueckers? wild. her noticing you? absolutely insane.

| warnings: flirty tension, butterflies, confident!paige, mutual attraction, soft moments

| word count: 3.5K

| author’s note: this has been in my drafts so hi

you’re nervous.

you try to play it cool—white paige jersey, black cargos, your best pair of jordans like it’s just another night out, but the minute your friend parks the car outside the packed bowling alley, it hits you.

this isn’t just a cute little fan event. it’s the uconn women’s basketball fan event. and your forever celebrity crush just happens to be the face of the program.

“you good?” your friend asks as they kill the engine, glancing over at you with a raised brow.

“yeah,” you lie, tugging at the hem of your jersey. “i just didn’t think it was gonna be this many people.”

“girl… it’s uconn and paige bueckers. what did you expect?”

fair point.

you step inside, and the energy is wild. the place is packed with fans—some in custom shirts, others carrying handmade signs, a few even dragging wagons full of gifts for the players. each lane has a player assigned to it, but people are free to move around, say hi, take pics. the energy is loud, chaotic, a little overwhelming, but then your eyes land on her.

lane five.

her blonde hair put up in a bun. oversized madison reed tee with a hoodie, white sneakers, and the easiest smile you’ve ever seen.

paige bueckers.

your breath catches a little. you try not to stare too long.

“yo,” your friend nudges you hard enough to snap you out of it. “she looked at you.”

“no she didn’t,” you say too fast.

“yes the hell she did,” she whispers. “she keeps glancing over here. i swear.”

you glance up. she’s mid-laugh with a group of younger fans, holding a sharpie in one hand and someone’s custom-painted basketball in the other, but then her eyes flick your way. and linger.

your throat goes dry.

you look down at your gift—the carefully wrapped vintage timberwolves jersey you scored from a late-night ebay hunt three weeks ago. mint condition, her size. you knew you were gonna give it to her tonight but now? now you’re not sure you even remember how to speak.

minutes pass. the lane starts to clear out a bit. paige takes a sip of her soda, glancing around casually. and then somehow, she’s walking toward you.

like, actually walking. toward you.

“hi,” she says when she reaches your side, eyes on you like you’re the only person in the room.

“hey,” you manage, trying to sound normal and not like your heart is trying to punch its way out of your chest.

she nods at your friend. “i’m paige.”

“she knows,” your friend grins, nudging you again. “been her favorite player since forever.”

“really?” she looks at you again, eyebrows raised. “that true?”

you laugh, a little embarrassed. “yeah. since, you played back in hopkins.”

“a real one,” she smiles. “i like that. what’s your name?”

you tell her, and she repeats it, saying it soft and slow before her smile deepens.

"cute," she says, eyes flicking over your face. "i like that."

you smile back, a little shy but holding her gaze.

then she nods toward the bag in your hand.

"so... what’s in there?"

you blink. oh right. the gift.

"uh—it's for you," you say, holding it out. "just... thought you might like it."

her brows lift, surprised. "seriously? can i open it?"

"yeah," you nod quickly. "please."

she carefully rips into the wrapping paper, eyes widening immediately.

“no way,” she breathes, holding up the jersey. “this is vintage. where’d you even find this?”

“i’m an elite thrifter,” you say with a half-smile. “it’s kind of my thing.”

she laughs again. low, but genuine.

“this is insane. thank you. seriously. can i—?”

before you can react, her arms are around you. soft, warm. she smells like clean laundry and whatever body spray she wears that’s gonna haunt your dreams now.

she pulls back with a smile and gets pulled into another group photo, but not before glancing back at you, like she doesn’t want to be pulled away.

your friend is losing their mind quietly beside you.

“sooooo,” she says. “what was that?”

you shake your head, still in a daze. “i don’t even know.”

—

you’re mid-bite of a soft pretzel when you feel someone beside you again.

“you again,” she says softly.

“me again,” you grin.

this time it’s quieter—less people crowding around, the night winding down. it’s just the two of you by the snack bar, a gentle bubble of space around you.

“thank you again for the jersey,” she says. “you really didn’t have to do that. it’s seriously so cool.”

“you’re welcome. i figured you’d appreciate it.”

“i do,” she says, leaning casually against the counter. “you always this thoughtful or is this just for me?”

your cheeks heat. “depends who’s asking.”

she laughs, a low, flirty sound.

“i’m asking. obviously.”

you glance up at her, meet her gaze.

“then yeah. just for you.”

her smile grows. “you’re cute.”

you nearly choke on your pretzel.

“uhh…thanks.”

“no, really,” she says, tilting her head. “you’re pretty. and cool. and clearly got taste. i’m impressed.”

you smile shyly. “you’re not too bad yourself.”

“not too bad, huh?”

“maybe a little pretty.”

“a little?” she teases. “damn. now i’m offended.”

“fine,” you laugh. “you’re really pretty.”

“thank you,” she grins, satisfied. “so are you.”

the air shifts. warm and soft and a little electric.

“you in college?” she asks.

“yeah,” you nod. “play at a small d1 for basketball. not uconn-level, but it’s home.”

“you hoop too?” she blinks. “okay. i really like you now.”

you laugh, ducking your head.

“you any good?” she teases.

“you trying to find out?”

“maybe i am.”

your heart is doing somersaults now. you barely notice the music turning down or the event staff telling everyone things are wrapping up.

“hey,” she says, suddenly a little more serious. “before this ends, can i get your number?”

you blink. “really?”

“yeah. unless you don’t want me to have it.”

“no i do. i do.”

you pull out your phone and hand it to her, trying not to freak out as she types in her number and sends herself a text.

“cool,” she says, handing it back. “now i can text you when i wear that jersey. or when i want someone to talk basketball with. or, y’know… just because.”

you smile. “yeah. i’d like that.”

she gives you one last grin—bright, a little smug, totally charming.

“see you soon, mystery girl.”

[webslinger-holland]

I enjoyed reading what it'd be like if you took a bullet for them, but now I need to see the other prompt. the one were you are getting ready for a date and its not with them

Prompt: The Thunderbolts watch you get ready for a date that's not with them

Warning: angst, heartbreak, emotional distress, unrequited love, some swearing, pining after someone, john is an asshole, sad boy hour here

Yelena: Eating dinner in the kitchen alone, Yelena picks at the salad in front of her. She heard the sound of your heels clicking as you came into the room, looking for something you'd lost and that something was probably your phone.

Only you didn't look like you normally did. Now, you were dressed to impress with a slick black dress on. Your hair styled to your liking, your earrings jingled in the light, and your lipstick applied perfectly. She watched you silently, knowing that you were about to head out for your date.

"So..." Yelena dragged out, staring down at her food. "Heard you're going out on a date."

"Yeah," you reply half-heartedly. You found your phone on the couch and checked it for notifications. "Hard to believe, right?"

"Who is the guy?" Yelena wondered and was desperately trying to sound like she didn't care.

You texted something, not really listening to the question at first which only pained her more. You quickly pocketed the phone into your bag and looked at her with a brief smile.

"Just an old friend," you shrugged it off like it was nothing.

Yelena nodded slowly; her gaze fixed on her salad like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world. Her fork scraped across the plate, but she hadn't taken a bite in minutes. She didn't ask for more details. Didn't push. She couldn't

"That's... cool," Yelena murmured and missed the tight lipped smile you sent back.

"Yeah..." you awkwardly shuffled from one foot to the other. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Don't be out too late," Yelena muttered, not looking up. "It's dangerous out there."

It was the closest she could get to please don't go. You promised that you wouldn't and announced that it was time to leave. You waved goodbye without knowing the pained effect you left behind.

Bucky: You were finishing up your eyeliner, leaning in close to the mirror with the kind of focus only winged liner demanded. Your hair was done, perfume already misted, nerves fluttering somewhere beneath your ribcage. You hadn't even put on your dress yet; it was laid out on your bed and you wore a robe instead.

There was a soft knock at your door, followed by the soft creak of the door opening.

“Hey, you left your phone downstairs—” Bucky’s voice cut off as he stepped into view and saw you.

Your reflection caught his eyes before anything else. The way the soft light caught your skin. The way your hair fell over your shoulders. The quiet concentration on your face as you leaned into the mirror, fixing the final details. He glanced over to see the nice dress laid out on the bed.

He froze. You were going on a date.

You glanced back. “Oh—hey, Buck. Sorry. Didn’t realize I left it.”

He didn’t answer right away, just absentmindedly fiddled with a little trinket nearby. You turned fully to face him, tugging the strings of your robe a little tighter for security.

“You're uh…” His voice failed him. He blinked once, then twice. “You're going out…”

"Yeah," you said just a little too quickly. "I kinda have a date."

His metal hand twitched involuntarily, and you heard the sudden crack of glass shattering. Your perfume bottle—smashed on the floor, glass and lilac-scented oil spreading out like a wound.

“Oh,” you said, startled. “That was...my favorite perfume.”

“I’m—shit.” Bucky bent down too fast, running his flesh hand through his hair while his metal fingers hovered above the shards like they were something dangerous. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t even thinking. I just...damn it.”

You crouched beside him, gently resting your hand on his wrist to still him. “It’s okay. It was just a bottle.”

He quickly rose to his feet again, feeling suddenly very overwhelmed. You mirrored his actions and observed him carefully.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Bucky struggled to explain himself. “I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have come in. I just—”

“You were just returning my phone,” you said gently. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not,” Bucky muttered. His metal hand clenched and unclenched at his side. “I shouldn’t feel this way."

That silenced you.

He ran a hand down his face, avoiding your gaze. “You look incredible. And you’re going out with someone else, which is great. And I’m standing here like some idiot who can’t even keep his shit together long enough to hand over a phone without breaking something.”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come.

“I’m happy for you,” Bucky said finally. “Really. Just… go before I say something that ruins this for you too.”

Then Bucky turned and walked out—shoulders stiff, heart heavier than vibranium—leaving you standing in front of the broken pieces of something that wasn’t just glass.

John: It felt like you'd spend ages trying to fix your hair in the mirror, wanting it to look just right. You look down at your reflection somewhat satisfied, but still feeling nervous about the fact that you were going on your first date in years.

You go to adjust the bracelets on your wrists. Suddenly, John walks past your open door and then abruptly backs up a step. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and a sharp smirk playing at his lips.

"Well, look at you." John drawls. His eyes shamelessly go down the length of your body. "Didn't know we were playing dress-up today."

You roll your eyes, turning back to the mirror. "I have a date tonight."

"Oh. A date," John repeats sarcastically. "How quaint."

You ignore the jab, reaching for your earrings on the dresser. He's desperate for your attention so he pushes himself further.

"Finally decided to go out with the pizza delivery guy?" John jokes and then smiles at it.

You force a tight smile, ignoring his comment and turning to grab your lipstick next. "You don't have to be like this."

"Like what?" He steps into your room now, his grin turning sharp. "Honest?"

"No. Rude." You face him fully now. "I didn't ask for your opinion."

"Well maybe you should have." John tries to fight back, "Because that dress? It's not doing you any favors."

His words felt like a slap to the face. Your own face fell.

A wave of doubt rushed over your entire demeanor and you feel yourself start to rethink everything. You lower your gaze to stare down at your dress, genuinely wondering if it looked as horrible as he claimed.

"I didn't think—" you wanted to say that it didn't look bad on you, but you must have been wrong. Maybe it did look bad.

For a brief second, John's eyes flicker when he sees your reaction— some flicker of regret, but it's gone just as fast. He doubles down.

"Just trying to save you the embarrassment. I mean, come on— you're not exactly the type people fall over themselves for." John throws again. His words hurt more than he could imagine.

Your throat tightens. The heat builds behind your eyes before you can stop it. You turn away, fast, pretending to check your earrings. You try to act like it didn’t get to you, but it did.

He scoffs under his breath. “Whatever. Go enjoy your big romantic night. Just don’t come crying when he ghosts you tomorrow.”

He walks out without looking back.

You’re left staring at your reflection, makeup perfect, dress flawless—and eyes wet.

Ava: A mess of colorful dresses littered your bedroom floor in preparation for your upcoming date. You were struggling to decide which one to pick, but eventually settled on a soft grey dress you hadn't worn in ages.

You were standing near the mirror, fixing your dark eyeshadow that complimented the entire look. In the doorway, Ava came to stand just in the entrance. She leaned against the doorframe.

Ava doesn’t say anything at first. You don’t even realize she’s watching until you catch her in the corner of your eye She’s still. Too still.

"Does this look okay?" You wonder.

“Yeah. You look… nice,” Ava finally says, but her tone is stiff and distant. Like she’s been blindsided.

“Thanks. I've got a date.” You explained to her. You finished up the final touches of your eyeshadow.

She nods once. Then again only a little slower. “Yeah. Right. I figured.”

"I'm a little nervous," you tried to laugh it off, but your nerves were getting the best of you. You diverted your gaze for the sake of saving the awkwardness between you. "Haven't been on a date in ages."

"I didn't take you for the dating type," Ava confessed, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I'm not," you shake your head. You glance up at her with a hint of longing behind your eyes. "Just... thought to try something different."

"I should go," Ava says quickly and steps back. She can't bring herself to look at you. "Have a good time."

You see her swallow hard, then vanish mid-step, her particles shifting like static. She doesn’t want you to see the look on her face. She won’t say it, but she’s not okay.

Bob: It's the beginning of the evening, but the sun has already set over the line of the horizon. The city lights twinkle like a million stars. The night was young and full of opportunity.

Now, Bob is sitting on the couch quietly reading to himself. He turns the page to continue only to see you come into the room fully dressed looking like you're going out. He looks up once, then back down at his book, and then back up to you like he can't help himself.

You stand in front of a mirror placed near the door, checking to make sure you looked presentable. Your soft yellow dress hugged you almost too much and you were showing more skin than you were often comfortable with. But you thought you looked like.

You smoothed your hands over yourself and turned to address him. You held your hands out expectantly.

"What do you think?" You asked, slightly nervous.

He innocently looks up again. His eyes trail slowly from your shoes to your eyes, full of that golden worshipful glow. He couldn't even begin to describe how you looked even if he tried to.

“You look…” He swallows, looks down at his book as if he's uninterested. He clears his throat like it's nothing. “Fine.”

"Thanks," you reply, only it wasn't exactly what you were looking for. You look back at yourself in the mirror, almost second guessing yourself now.

Bob stole another glance. “You’re��� seeing someone?”

You nod, soft. “Just a date. Nothing serious.”

"Hmm," Bob hums. You peer at him through the reflection of the mirror.

"You okay?" You wonder.

He peers up at you and nods gently; his hair tumbling to cover his eyes just slightly.

"Yeah. I'm fine." Bob claimed.

You proceed to grab your purse and head in the direction of the door, oblivious to the fact that his eyes were trailing after you. You spin around one last time, feeling a little more hopeful and excited now.

You beam. “Wish me luck?”

He nods. And you leave.

Stuck in the silence, Bob lets the book slide off his lap. He doesn’t move to pick it up. He sits in his own silence for the longest time, falling into his thoughts mindlessly.

The weight of everything he never said is so loud in the silence. The feeling of regret settles into him. And he's left feeling nothing but loneliness and emptiness.

[bug-the-chicken-nug]

i think its like. huge chunks of social media communities kind of foster and incentivise this approach of treating associations with others as highly disposable (which magnifies in very regrettable ways when we also add the fact that a lot of the people reliant on online communities partially have that reliance because they already have a troubled offline life and some sort of disordered attachment style)

incentivising you to always have your guard up. to scrutinize everyone and always assign some extra malice to what they say and do, as a defense mechanism. the instant anyone says stuff you don't like, ditch them before they can hurt you any further.

why talk things out patiently? why try any harder to get the other side of the story? why try to think critically about the conflict? too hard. too scary. you might hear more stuff you don't want to. better and safer to just keep jumping to conclusions. ditching.

avoiding.

the internet is supposed to be your escape. you aren't here to do anything hard. you don't owe anyone anything when your normal life is already taking so much from you.

all you have to do is find people with conveniently perfect vibes. that's what "finding your crowd" is, right? happening upon people who never violate your boundaries, never make you uncomfortable, and never hesitate to agree with you, so that you never have to get better at level-headed, clear, open-minded confrontations?

right?

can we talk about how whenever someone says “you can find common ground with non-leftists or non-progressives and steer them toward a common goal,” people immediately jump to the most extreme example of a hateful person to say it doesn’t work????? its immensely frustrating. most people do not have strong political or social opinions. most people are not hateful bigots. there is actually a very large and diverse spectrum of beliefs between you and a nazi. this doesn’t mean they don’t necessarily hold harmful or upsetting opinions, but theyre not unwavering convictions. a lot of people just simply havent ever thought that deep into it. have never been exposed to certain perspectives. and, regardless, you still can find a common ground in class solidarity. and you should. No one is forcing you to do this, either. no one is forcing you to talk to your transphobic uncle. but not everyone else in the world is your transphobic uncle, my guy.

[softtdaisy]

_____the night it all begin

pairing. Aaron Hotchner x media liaison!reader (part of the dating game)

summary. who would have thought that a night out with the team would lead to an open-hearted conversation between Aaron and you on your love life?

words count. 2 359

a/n. you have no idea how excited I am about this series!! I have so many ideas about these two and I hope you are to follow me in this crazy ride because its going to be fun I promise

___the dating game masterlist | criminal minds masterlist

“Have a good night, guys.” 

With a hand still on Hotch’s shoulder, JJ put a kiss on your hair. A very maternal gesture that you’ve learned to love. 

It wasn’t only the fact you were the youngest in the team, as much for the years spent here as for your age. You and JJ had a very strong connection after you filled the blank and finally took her past job as a media liaison for the team. She had been a big support since day one.

And maybe that was the reason she was the last one to leave tonight—except for you and Hotch.

The past two days had been pretty hard for the team. No difficult case, but two office workdays and a defective air conditioner. Not even the FBI can escape the heatwave. 

It was around 6 p.m. when Hotch finally left his office, with his wet hair falling on his forehead—no matter how hard he tried to keep it away. Proving he had been suffering from the same heat as you all. “Go home, take a shower, and for those who want, the first round is on me.”

“Only the first?” Emily replied, fanning herself with some old folder she had found.

You heard Hotch laugh before he replied. “We’ll see that at the bar.”

You weren’t in the open space, so Hotch had to walk to your own office—the one used by JJ in the past—to make sure you had heard him. With your door wide open and the offer being this tempting, it would have been hard to miss it. 

He stopped at the doorframe, leaning against it—probably looking for some coolness on the metal installation. “The offer works for you too.” 

“Oh, I was planning to come even if it wasn’t.”

You saw the sweet smile on his face before he left your sight, feeling glad that you didn’t feel sidelined with the team. 

How could you be when they all included you in their discussion, either in the field or tonight at the bar? 

You’ve listened to Rossi and Derek’s debate about football—not that you were sure you would use this information one day. You laughed at the fun stories Emily told about her cat and JJ about her sons. And you and Penelope chatted about many, many things, so naturally you’ve felt like you had found a long-lost sister.

If you had any doubt, tonight reminded you how you were part of this group. 

After a moment, they all had good excuses to leave. And soon there were only you and Aaron at the table, sharing one last drink together: a whisky for him and the bar's secret cocktail for you.

You couldn’t stop looking at him. 

Aaron Hotchner. 

The unit chief who made it his very own mission to be sure you felt integrated into the team. 

The single dad who unconsciously kept lighting up his phone tonight just to see his son’s face. 

The very discreet man who didn’t notice all the looks the women gave him at the bar. You couldn’t blame them. You’ve been looking too—after your first drink to feel at ease, eyeing up your boss.

Aaron looked…different tonight. Far from the typical Hotchner stature and the whole outfit that came with it—an ironed dark suit, a white shirt, and a Gucci tie. Well, the theme was still dark, you had to admit it. Except there was neither a tie nor a shirt in sight, but a dark blue t-shirt that fit him perfectly. 

And maybe that was the problem, how your eyes kept going down on his muscular arms lying on the table. Arms that had already tanned from the sunny days you’ve had these past weeks. 

Or maybe it was his smile that didn’t leave his face all night that seduced the ladies around. Maybe they could tell it was a rare present that needed to be cherished.

You tilted your head slightly to be closer to Aaron and whispered, “Don’t turn around, but there is a woman at the bar that has been looking at you for five minutes straight.” 

His first answer was a kind of quiet gasp followed by a sweet laugh. Like having someone admiring him for so long could be a joke. It wasn’t. Or you didn’t know the whole night was actually a comedy show.

But then he tilted his head too, making the gap between your two faces even smaller.

“A woman in red, right?”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Hard to miss,” he replied, giving a sideways look even though she wasn’t technically in his point of view. 

Aaron didn’t pay much attention to the people around tonight—the biggest break from work he couldn’t take. He needed one night of not trying to profile anyone and just appreciating his teammates' and friends' presence. Which he successfully did. But it would be a lie to say he didn’t notice the lady who seemed to always be around him tonight. 

Being at the bar when he went to order the drinks the first time, changing tables at least twice to get closer to them, and going to the toilets at the same time as him—which could have been a coincidence if all the above didn’t happen before.

He couldn’t deny she was an attractive woman. But she was doing absolutely nothing to him. No butterflies, no shivers, no need to focus on her. 

She was like a background character in his night out.

“You should go talk to her.”

And you weren’t.

“I’m scared I'm a little rusty now.” Aaron replied, bringing his glass to his mouth to hide his little shyness. 

Not that he was ashamed of his life. Sure, his marriage with Haley didn’t end up the way he intended. Both with the divorce and…well, the fact Jack didn’t have his mother at all anymore. But he appreciated every second of his life with her, and he learned a lot from it. And apart from the very end, if he had the chance to live his marriage once again, he would take it without hesitation.

Yet, showing insecurity wasn’t his favorite pastime. 

After Haley, he completely put the whole dating thing aside. Intentionally for a moment and then, well, kind of unintentionally. He did find some women attractive; some followed him home and into his bed—at least in his head, when he decided to have some me-time. And he did feel the desire to talk to some, even having some catchphrases come to his mind when he was the closest to considering walking to them. 

But in all honesty, Aaron wasn’t sure he knew how to do that anymore. 

He got married, people kept dating, and now he was a single dad in his forties who couldn’t understand the rules and strategies anymore. 

You laughed at his answer and added, “Oh, I know how it feels.” 

Naturally, his eyes went to your hand. On your naked ring finger. Where a beautiful engagement ring used to be until six months ago.

“You want to talk about it?” 

He had been dying to ask you this question many times these past months. 

The first time he noticed the ring was missing was the very first day you went back to work after you broke it off. The few times he noticed your red eyes at the office, the ones you were trying hard to hide. Or when he saw your expression when JJ was talking about her family. While you, just like him, were going back to an empty and silent home. A home that used to be lively.

But being your boss, Aaron always felt it wasn’t his place to ask questions. He had questioned himself a lot about this. Because he remembered being there for most of his team, he knew probably too much about some of them as their chief. 

You? He felt like you were a book waiting to be read but that he was too scared to discover, like he wasn’t the person your story was intended for.

“There is nothing to say,” you shrugged. You could have stopped there if Aaron’s eyes weren’t so reassuring. 

“I just thought I was going to spend my life with him, and now I’m single and scared of the dating world.”

That was the short story. 

The director’s cut would add the childhood friends-to-lovers that impressed most people. The 10-year relationship, full of traveling and other memories together but also moving from one city to another for each other’s jobs without ever complaining. And the cheating with his secretary, that was so cliché you preferred not to mention it most of the time. 

It was one thing to be comfortable with breaking off the engagement with the man you thought was the love of your life. It was another to say out loud you had been too blind to see the truth. 

A truth so crystal clear that even your ex had the audacity to tell you during your last argument that he thought you would have guessed it earlier with the job you were doing.

“I’m not a profiler, son of a bitch.” You remembered screaming at him the moment you were throwing his stuff out of the window. 

A moment that you confessed to the girls and for what Emily gave you some reward—a “girl boss” mug that you proudly brought home.

So yeah, there wasn’t much you wanted to say about this.

“I’ve been considering going on dating apps for weeks now. But the simple thought of having to form a bond with someone new, someone I might not even see more than once or twice, is…scary.”

You sighed, closing your eyes for a second to put away the anxiety that was growing immediately in your stomach. Like some monster just waiting for their call. You never thought love would become your nightmare. 

But when you opened them again, Aaron was looking at you.

With something sweet in his eyes that said he was feeling sorry for you.

With a kind of sad smile that proved he was going through the same thing.

You watched him for a few more seconds. How soft he looked, away from the office, like he could put away all the horror of the job in a drawer the moment he leaves the bureau. His wrinkles disappearing and his smile being a permanent accessory. 

And when he took his glass in hand—his hand so huge it covered the glass almost entirely—it made you wonder if he had been drinking his sadness away…too.

“Can you just imagine how much easier it would be if we could just discover the dating world again with someone we know? Someone we trust?” You let your heart speak. 

Maybe it was the alcohol you drank, maybe it was the sight of this man going through something similar, or maybe it was your anxiety growing. Maybe it was a mix of these three things and others you couldn’t—and wouldn’t—name. 

But you felt comfortable talking about this with Aaron. Like he was the one person around you that could truly understand what you were going through—or sort of. 

And maybe Aaron felt the same way about you. Through his years at the BAU, he had created a special link with every agent he worked with. Whether it was intentional or not—he wasn’t the biggest fan of trauma bonding in the office—each one of these relationships was important to him.

The one he had with you was too. He hadn’t opened up to someone like this in many months. He could easily guess the last time was with Rossi about his parental anxiety. And as much as he appreciated him, Aaron knew it was a bad idea to talk about this with a three-times-divorced man. 

“Do you have someone in mind?” He heard himself ask you. He didn’t even realize the question had been built in his head before saying it. 

He watched you consider your answer with the very same mimic you used at work when you had to write your press declaration: looking up and biting the inside of your cheek. Since you’ve always managed to make the perfect statement, maybe you thought this habit was working. And would work tonight. 

Or maybe—and that sounded like the logical option—you didn’t even realize you were doing this anymore.

And then you turned to him, with your mouth open. Aaron could swear you had a precise answer in mind a second ago. Yet, no sound escaped your lips. Your eyes got lost in his, and your brain went numb. 

If he were in some kind of cartoon, Aaron knew he would have seen a bulb light up above your head. 

But he wasn’t in a cartoon.

And actually, Aaron didn’t even find out what you were thinking about.

Before you could answer, the owner announced the bar was closing. And soon, you and Aaron were both in a cab, going home.

Lying on his bed, Aaron couldn’t find any sleep. He kept replaying your conversation in his head. You put words on things he had been feeling for months—even years—now. 

This fear of meeting someone new, someone who had no idea who he was and all the baggage he was carrying. The fear of not being interesting enough or good enough. The fear of not saying the right thing and losing someone again. 

He had always blamed the simple idea of dating as being the reason for his stress about being with someone again. But maybe you were right. Maybe the first step would be to treat it like a rehabilitation and start easy—with a person who already knew him. A person he could trust and who wouldn’t reject him.

More than that, he couldn’t help analyzing your answer—or, more exactly, your lack of answer. Were you going to say something and change your mind? Which answer was the most honest—the first or the one that came to you when you looked at him?

And more importantly, why did Aaron feel like if you asked him the same question, he would have confessed he had someone in mind?

Tag List: @kiwriteswords @monzabee @raysmayhem-72 @kajjaka @pastelpinkflowerlife @winyourheartemma @aaronhotchnersgf @averyhotchner @liilysblog @storiesbynova @lemoncee @mayhills @deeninadream @sillymuffintrashflap 📬 FILL THE FORM TO BE ADDED

[runaarinn]

✦ 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐯𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡

› 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐤𝐲𝐮𝐮 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

› 𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐲: everything is all good here, feel free to indulge as much as you’d like!

› 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: whether or not some of the haikyuu boys would soft launch or hard launch you

› 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫: I thought that this would be really cute, I think I wanna make a couple more parts of this, but we'll see! I do hope you guys enjoy <33!

ᥫ᭡ 𝐔𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐖𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 — I feel like bro doesn’t even use social media, like he has a verified profile and everything, but he doesn’t post unless it’s like volleyball-related. however, I think he’d soft-launch the hell out of you. like when he asks you to be his girlfriend and stuff, like people wouldn’t know (I feel like he’s like a really private person), but as a few years pass and he proposes to you he’d post like a singular photo of you with your hand in the camera, GIANT rock on your ring finger with a caption like “she said yes 🙂”. 

when I tell you, EVERYONE is shocked and surprised. like everyone is, including his own teammates. like they would be like “I know that you’re in love with y/n and you guys have been together for like years, but i didn’t know that you were considering marrying her, let alone proposing to her.” and then ushijima would djust be like, “marrying her was always going to be the end goal”, and he would definitely have liek the softest smile on his lips, like its so cute.

he literally only smiles when he talks about you. his teammates and friends start gushing. and I feel like he would totally cry watching you walk down the aisle, too.

ᥫ᭡ 𝐎𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚 𝐓𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐮 — I feel like he would attempt to soft launch you, but he just has such a big, fat mouth that he quite literally can’t keep it under wraps. like when the two of you would start dating, he was doing pretty well at keeping it on the low, not by his choice, though. you thought it would be better to slowly make it known that the two of you are a couple, since he does have such an insane fan club of girls, but he understood your reasoning and respected it. 

I think that oikawa is an aesthetic king on the low. so if you guys were to go out on a date at like this super really nice restaurant, he would post a picture [in low exposure lighting, of course] highlighting the two glasses and two plates. he’d probably also caption it ‘on a date, kind of nervous’; and you would just barely be in the frame. on top of that, let’s say that you guys went on a date to like a carnival too, and you guys took two different sets of pictures, he would post the set where your hair is covering your face the most, or where you can’t actually see you that much in general. that way, he can obviously still respect your boundaries of not being ready to let everyone know, but still allowing people to know that the two of you are dating. 

one day, you guys were on a date, and he made this little collage of the two of you just to save to his phone, but he accidentally posted it and didn’t realize till a few hours later when people were blowing up your phone and his congratulating the two of you. everyone was literally super sweet, and saying that the two of you are freaking adorable. you felt a little silly about it all, but oikawa peppered you with kisses and supplied you with D1-level reassurance. mwah.

ᥫ᭡ 𝐓𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐊𝐞𝐢 — what’s a hard launch? the hell is a soft launch? tsukishima, more than likely, has heard of these terms before, but he just simply doesn’t care about them; he actually probably thinks that they’re kind of stupid. if you want to show off your partner, then go ahead; if not, that’s fine too. there’s no need to go through a “hard” or” soft” launch. he thinks that the term and label as a whole is really, really stupid.

I don’t think that he’s necessarily the type of person to like try and “hide” or “not” show you off. like I feel like he’s the type of person to have like mad followers on instagram, and he’ll have like a few instagram highlights; like a highlight of just himself, some stuff from volleyball and like a music highlight. and then he’ll randomly post to his stories like pictures of the two of you, and some candid shots of you! eventually he’ll also make a highlight of just you and the name would probably be something simple like ‘🤍’

everyone responds to his story, but literally, he doesn’t pay anybody any mind. to be honest, I literally don’t think he responds to any of his instagram dm’s like at all. it’s really bad. he has stuff sitting in there from his classmates from like years, ago. a little side track, but I feel like this man is also super bad at texting people back. like he would acknowledge the message, but he’ll leave people on ‘read’, or delivered.

ᥫ᭡ 𝐁𝐨𝐤𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐊𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮 — hard launch. like absolutely, no doubt in my mind he is a hard launcher. mind you — he’d probably hard-launched both of you before the two of you even started dating. I feel like he is such a picture hoarder, like he is at least over 25k pictures in his phone (calling myself out with this one). and a vast majority of those pictures are of you, him, and the team, and random pictures he keeps forgetting to delete. 

when you first joined the fukordani boys volleyball club as one of their managers, you and bokuto hit it off well. you seemed like a really sweet person, you’re super smart, and absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, and he wanted to be your friend really bad! him and akaashi started to invite you to grab something to eat after late-night practices, and even things as simple as sitting outside during the lunch period together. eventually, you’ve naturally grown onto the team, and started to hang out with everyone as a whole as well. 

as time went on, you and bokuto began to spend more one-on-one time with one another — whether it be him walking you home, or you guys hanging out at a cute little cafe that is somewhere in the area. no matter what you guys are doing, bokuto will always take a snapshot or some sort of photo of the two of you together and post it. like yeah, he posts a lot on a regular basis, but it’s not that hard to notice when you, specifically, are being posted a lot more often compared to everyone else. 

when bokuto actually posted a cute candid photo of you holding the most gorgeous bouquet of roses, and somewhere on the screen it’ll say ‘guess whose officially the boyfriend to the most gorgeous girl’, and everyone is literally like “WHATTTTTTTT??” “I thought you guys were ALREADY dating.”

© all pastries (aka content) belong to runaarinn — do not repost, steal, or scrape without permission.

[undyingdecay]

pairings: john walker x reader cw: smut, afab reader, heavy details on bodily fluids (cum), dry humping, pain play-ish, reader and walker are both kind of switches (mostly dom!walker though), very faint non-con. translations: знал, что это дерьмо случится → 'knew this shit was going to happen'

you woke up in a pissy mood.

maybe it’s because you woke up late. you let the thought plant itself in the garden of your mind as you make up the bed, tripping over your phone charger in the process—cursing as the plastic brick snags your toe like it has a personal vendetta against you. or maybe it’s because alexei had eaten all the pancakes when you went downstairs for breakfast, plate licked clean and stacked with crumbs like a taunt. bob had given you that same apologetic smile he always did when things went wrong—soft and sunny like butter melting on hot toast—murmuring that there hadn’t been any more mix left for him to make you any.

maybe it was the fucking weather in new york. the gentle splatter of rain against the glass panes of the tower had started out soft, like a lullaby, but now it just sounded annoying. like the world was chewing with its mouth open.

or maybe it was because it was wednesday.

training.

val’s orders.

mandatory hand-to-hand sparring. because she liked everyone nice and angry and bruised up. and sure, you had training every day, but today? today was the one day of the week where you were paired with walker.

so when he purposely bumped into you in the hallway outside the gym—his shoulder knocking against your bicep hard enough to make your teeth click—you didn’t throw a punch, even though the thought crossed your mind like a reflex. he was taller than you, broader too, all chest and attitude and smug american confidence. so maybe it wasn’t your shoulder. maybe it was your whole goddamn side that he nudged like a dog staking territory.

“who pissed in your cereal this morning?” he asked, voice low and conversational, like he didn’t just bump you hard enough to jostle your spine.

you didn’t say it was him, even though it was. even though his voice made your skin itch and your jaw lock.

“woke up on the wrong side of the bed, walker,” you said instead, brushing past him, not waiting for the inevitable comeback. you could feel his smirk behind you like static.

the tower’s gym was unruly-huge. it felt like it echoed your mood back at you. equipment you couldn’t name lined the walls in tight, militaristic rows, all matte black and heavy metal, and the smell of rubber and sweat lingered in the air like a stain. a few punching bags hung lazily near the corners, one still swaying from when bucky had kicked it clean across the room last week.

“it’s too weak,” he’d said.

(you’d made a mental note never to spar with him again.)

and in the center of it all was the ring. four corner posts, padded ropes, and too much room for bad decisions.

it wasn’t required that the whole team show up—and even though you’d begged yelena to join, she’d refused, laughing into her smoothie. said she didn’t want to be “stuck watching you two dry hump like deranged squirrels again.” you’d told her to fuck off. but now, standing in the gym with only the distant hum of the a/c for company, you wished she’d been there just to cut the tension. or at least pass you a weapon.

you took a swig of lukewarm water from your bottle and turned to face walker, forcing yourself not to stare at how his compression shirt clung to him. it wasn’t tight—it was painted on. every line of muscle was on full display, shoulder to waist. you could practically hear the fabric stretch when he moved.

“do you… want to do some warm-ups first?” you asked, making a conscious effort to keep your tone neutral. maybe even disinterested. you didn’t want him here. this wasn’t voluntary. this was an obligation. mandatory misery.

“let’s get this over with,” he said. “three rounds. best out of three.”

you raised a brow. “and for the rules?”

he smirked—of course he did. “we don’t need rules.”

“we kinda do,” you replied, already feeling the irritation twist under your ribs. “because last time you dropped me on my ass so hard i had a bruise for a week.”

walker stepped into the ring first, ducking under the ropes. “maybe you should’ve blocked.”

“maybe you should stop fighting like you’ve got something to prove.”

that earned a glare from him, which you ignored—attempted to.

you climbed in, shaking out your arms, your boots hitting the mat with soft thuds. the padding underfoot felt springy—too bouncy, too reactive. you hated it. or maybe you just hated that you were here, facing him, already sweating despite the cold air.

he circled you lazily. like a goddamn lion. you mirrored the motion, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet, trying not to get distracted by how his eyes tracked your hips rather than your stance.

you both moved at the same time.

the first few exchanges were quick—jab, parry, dodge. the rhythm came easily. it always did. as much as you hated to admit it, you were well-matched. you could read each other’s timing, counter without thinking. the frustration came not from the fighting, but from everything else—the way his hands lingered too long when you grappled, how his chest would brush yours if you got too close. you hated how your body noticed.

and then it happened.

a misstep—your heel caught slightly on the edge of the mat, enough to tip your balance, and walker lunged to take advantage of the opening. except instead of pinning you, the two of you collided—not forcefully, but clumsily, almost chest to chest. you let out a sharp exhale as your thighs tangled, knees bending instinctively to catch the fall.

but he was already halfway crouched, one arm wrapping instinctively around your waist to steady you, the other pressed to the small of your back. your weight shifted forward—too close, too warm—and suddenly you were halfway in his lap.

“shit—sorry,” you breathed, trying to shove off him, except—

except his thigh was right between yours, and your hips—

fuck.

you didn’t mean to move, but the balance was off and the mat was soft and your legs shifted on instinct—and suddenly, unmistakably, your core dragged against the muscle of his thigh in a way that was so subtle and accidental and deeply not.

both of you froze.

your breath caught. his eyes were already locked on yours, stunned for a half second—then unreadable. his hand was still on your back. you weren’t sure if it tightened or if you imagined it. you weren’t sure if you moved again or if the air conditioning just kicked on. you weren’t sure why your thighs clenched.

“uh…” you started, but your voice sounded weird. hoarse. too close to a moan.

his gaze flicked to your mouth, then away, fast. “you okay?”

you nodded too fast. “fine. just… awkward footing.”

he didn’t move his hand. neither did you.

your legs still straddled his thigh in a way that felt like the world’s worst balancing act. or the start of a very different kind of training session. there was a beat of silence—like the air itself was watching.

“you sure?” he asked again, quieter this time.

and it wasn’t even the words—it was the way he looked at you. like he wasn’t talking about the stumble at all. like he felt that exact moment too. the press of your pelvis. the grind. the breath you tried to swallow.

you nodded again, slower this time. “yeah. just… caught me off guard.”

you pushed off him, finally, but it was too late. the air had shifted. you could feel it between you, clinging like static. his hands fell away, but your skin still burned where they’d been. you turned back to face him, but the next round didn’t come right away. he was still watching you.

and your body? your traitorous, terrible body?

your thighs were still clenched.

fuck wednesday.

“again?” you asked, voice too level for how shaky you felt inside.

walker nodded once, that cocky little tilt of his mouth returning like it never left. you circled again, sweat already clinging in places it shouldn’t—your lower back, your neck, the inside of your thighs. the room felt hotter than before, too hot for the a/c’s dull drone.

you launched first this time—an elbow aimed high, followed by a sweep low that he sidestepped with infuriating ease.

“you’re getting predictable,” he said with a grin.

you lunged. “so are you.”

he blocked. his palm slammed against your forearm, then he turned his body and shoved. the motion was clean, rehearsed. you fell back onto the mat with a thud that wasn’t entirely painless.

before you could roll, he was on you.

a forearm pressed against your collarbone, his weight straddling your hips, one thigh locked between your legs like a goddamn puzzle piece. his free hand pinned your wrist down beside your head.

the heat of his body sunk into yours instantly.

you squirmed. “walker—fuck—”

“hurts?” he murmured, his voice rough, amused—condescending.

the way he said it—hurts?—like he already knew the answer. like he knew it didn’t.

“yeah?” he pushed again, voice dropping lower this time, something smug curling around the edge of the word like smoke. “right there?”

and fuck, you hated the way your body responded to that tone. you hated that your thighs instinctively squeezed around the leg slotted between them. you hated that your hips bucked up, just once, hard enough that your pelvis grazed his in a motion too slow to be mistaken.

your ass dragged against the hard ridge in his pants and he whined, a fully on whine you sweat—barely—but you heard it. felt it in the tension of his thigh. his hips jerked forward, subtle but deliberate, a shallow grind that answered your body without permission.

you sucked in a breath. “get off—”

“you first,” he said, and dipped his hips again, just to feel the friction. he’s desperate now, you can tell.

it was a war now. a different kind of sparring.

you twisted under him, trying to gain leverage, but he only adjusted his grip on your wrists, forearms flexing as he kept you pinned. you shifted your hips to throw him off—but the motion only made things worse.

your core ground against his thigh again, heat blooming under your waistband, obscene in how clothed you both still were. the contact was friction, soft and aggressive, the kind that sent sparks up your spine.

you bit back a noise. it didn’t sound angry. it didn’t sound like protest.

“fuck—get—off—me—” you tried again, but you weren’t moving to escape anymore. not really.

you arched again, more desperate this time. maybe to get him off. maybe to get more.

walker’s breath caught. he bucked into you again, this time slow. deliberate. testing.

you gasped. “don’t—”

“then stop moving,” he groans which broke off into another whimper.

but neither of you stopped.

he leaned in close, face hovering over yours, and you could smell the sweat and laundry soap and faint bite of cologne coming off him. his breath was hot against your cheek.

you surged up again—this time forcing him to lose some of his balance, your knee coming up to knock his side. he grunted, twisted, but still didn’t move off you.

instead, the shift made him rut against you harder, this time with a quiet, breathless curse.

“goddamn it—” he muttered.

you moaned before you could stop yourself. not loud. just a little choked noise in your throat.

walker froze. then slowly, he ground his hips down again. testing pressure. the thick line of his cock pressed through both your pants, dragging across the exact spot that was already aching.

“you’re not helping your case,” he murmured.

“shut the fuck up—” but it sounded breathy. weak. your thighs clenched again.

you twisted your wrist free and shoved at his chest, but he caught your hand and pinned it down again. the struggle only brought you closer, your hips meeting in another mindless grind that made both of you gasp.

it wasn’t smooth. it wasn’t graceful.

he rutted into you, clothed, thick denim grinding down against your leggings, and your hips met his like you needed it. you did. every part of you felt like it was humming now. frustration and arousal tangled into something reckless. every motion made it worse—more heat, more friction, more of your body giving away things your mouth would never say.

walker leaned down again, chest nearly flush against yours, his hips working in slow, rhythmless pushes. “say you want it,” he said, low.

“i don’t,” you lied.

he ground harder, your clit catching against the crease of your waistband, and your back arched off the mat in response.

“you sure?” he whispered.

you weren’t.

your hands gripped the mat, desperate for stability, but he was dragging against you just right, his thigh rocking into your core and making your cunt throb. your hips moved again—this time without thinking—and now you were the one rutting into him. your core pulsed against the friction of his jeans, every scrape of the fabric sending heat flooding low through your stomach.

his hands fisted in the mat on either side of your head. his biceps bracketed your face. he looked down at you like he didn’t know whether to tease you or fuck you into the floor.

you rolled your hips again, your leg wrapping slightly around his as you chased the next wave of contact. you weren’t pretending anymore. he wasn’t either. this wasn’t a spar—it was a dry fuck in slow motion.

and he gave in.

he bucked forward, hard, and his cock pressed along your clothed heat, grinding with rough, eager friction. the motion dragged a moan out of you you couldn’t swallow. your head tipped back. your neck arched.

your clit caught again on the seam of your leggings and your hips jolted. he rutted into the motion—again, then again—shallow thrusts that barely moved you on the mat, but each one made your breath catch. your body burned. you could feel the heat soaking through the cotton. your thighs trembled.

“you gonna come like this?” he asked roughly, mouth right near your jaw. “grinding on my thigh like a brat?”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t.

you only bucked your hips harder, clit catching again, again, your mouth falling open as a whimper slipped out. you were so fucking close now. you could feel it—low and tight and searing, the edge of something hot and humiliating and real.

“you like that?” he hissed, fucking into you now with full-bodied thrusts. “yeah—fuck—you do—”

you squeezed your eyes shut, choking on your own breath, your body arching into his. every grind pushed you closer. your hands gripped his shirt now, pulling him closer, keeping him there. his name slipped out of your mouth like a secret.

and walker—he didn’t stop. didn’t pull away.

if anything, he moved faster.

he wasn’t teasing anymore. he was chasing it. so were you. two enemies humping each other to the brink in the middle of the fucking training mat, slick with sweat and frustration, and god, you could feel it building again—hot, slick pressure, dragging through your core like a live wire—

“fuck—fuck—don’t stop—” you gasped, and his hips answered with another rough grind.

“come on, then,” he growled. “do it. come on my fuckin’ thigh, princess.”

and you did.

your hips jerked, breath tearing from your lungs, thighs clenching as a flood of wet heat soaked your panties. you came with a whimper, your back arching, every inch of you trembling.

walker groaned through his teeth and fucked into your convulsing body once more, riding it out, like he wanted to memorize the way you clenched under him. his own breath was ragged, jaw tight, hands still gripping your wrists like he couldn’t trust himself to let go.

when you finally opened your eyes again, he was still above you. still hard. still watching.

and you still hadn’t moved.

not until you heard the creak of the gym door open.

even then, it wasn’t really movement so much as tension—your entire body flinching under john’s just as your head snapped up, breath still ragged, hips still twitching faintly from what just happened.

yelena stood half in the doorway, smoothie in hand—half-drunk, the straw still perched between her fingers like she’d just stepped out of the kitchen.

she didn’t even blink. her eyes dropped to the sight of you pinned beneath walker—your thighs still spread around one of his, your hands twisted in his shirt, your expression frozen somewhere between post-orgasmic haze and absolute horror.

he didn’t move either. maybe didn’t know how to.

yelena arched an eyebrow.

didn’t really take a genius to figure out what was happening. what just happened.

she let the moment hang for maximum effect. her lip twitched—so subtle you could almost convince yourself you imagined it.

and then, with a casual sip from her smoothie, she muttered under her breath, voice thick with dry russian amusement “знал, что это дерьмо случится.”

she turnd without waiting for a reply, braid swinging behind her as she walked off with that same bored strut she used after throwing knives at a man’s groin.

the door creaked shut again.

silence.

you were still staring at it.

walker finally exhaled, a breath that sounded half-laugh, half-regret. his forehead dropped to your shoulder.

you groaned, hand dragging down your face. “we’re never living this down.”

“not a chance,” he muttered into your collarbone.

neither of you moved for another full minute. maybe two.

you were still too wet. he was still too hard.

and neither of you wanted to be the first to stand up.