#Linen Postcard

[benkaden]

Ansichtskarte / Vintage Postcard

BISMARCK HOTEL RANDOLPH AT LA SALLE CHICAGO 1, ILL. Known the world over for its excellent food. Located in the heart of the city, it is next door to the shopping, theatrical and financial districts. The friendliness, beauty and charm of the Bismarck is best typified by its lobby. The famous Palace Theater and Metropolitan Building are also part of the Eitel Block.

GENUINE CURTTEICH-Chicago "C.T. ART-COLORTONE" POST CARD ( REG. U.S. PAT. OFF.)

A NATURAL COLOR REPRODUCTION FROM KODACHROME

6B-H861

[postingcards]

"fishing is good in the northwest" linen postcard ca. 1940s

[monkeyssalad-blog]

Hotel George Washington - Jacksonville, Florida by Cardboard America™ Via Flickr: The Wonder Hotel of the South Jacksonville's largest and finest hotel offers its guests every known convenience - 100% Air-Conditioned with option guest control, spacious new auditorium room seating 2000 persons, Rainbow Room, featuring outstanding orchestras, floor show nightly. Each Guest room has tub, shower, radio and circulating ice water, garage directly connected with lobby, reasonable rates posted in each room. Robert Kloeppel, President and Director An E.C. Kropp Card Number: 21350 CAPA-004234

[calypso-rt]

HONEYMOON

with Rafe Cameron

-> Rafe x F!Reader

📍 Amalfi Coast, Italy 🇮🇹

You knew honeymooning with Rafe Cameron would be an experience.

But as you step onto the sun drenched terrace of your private villa overlooking the endless stretch of the Mediterranean, waves crashing gently against the cliffs below, you realize nothing could have prepared you for this.

It’s breathtaking. The kind of view that belongs in a postcard, all golden light and soft ocean breeze, the scent of lemon trees lingering in the air.

And then there’s Rafe, grinning like he planned this entire thing himself (he didn’t), hands in his pockets, watching you expectantly.

“Well?” he prompts, shifting closer, voice dipping into something softer. “Worth marrying me for?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Jury’s still out.”

Rafe hums, unconvinced. “Mm. Guess I’ll have to spend the next week proving you made the right choice.”

Before you can fire back, his arms loop around your waist, pulling you into him with that effortless ease, the kind that still makes your breath catch, even after everything. His lips find your temple, lingering just long enough to send warmth spreading through your chest.

And suddenly, you don’t care about the luggage still sitting by the door. Or the very long flight it took to get here.

Because Rafe is here. And he’s yours.

And if the next week looks anything like this?

You’re definitely in trouble.

☀️ Lazy Tanning on the Coast

The afternoon sun is warm against your skin, a lazy breeze rolling in from the water as you stretch out on the lounge chair. The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below is almost hypnotic, so much so that you don’t even notice Rafe shifting closer until you feel his fingers graze your wrist. “You’re not even trying to tan,” he murmurs, lips curving into a smirk. You peek at him over your sunglasses. “Maybe because I don’t need to turn into a lobster like you.�� Rafe scoffs, dramatically offended. “Lobster? Baby, I’m gonna be golden.” “You’re gonna be burnt." He ignores that, reaching over to steal your drink without asking, sipping lazily before setting it back down, closer to his side of the table. You huff, but before you can snatch it back, he shifts onto his side, propping his head up with one hand as he studies you. “What?” you ask, suspicious. His expression softens, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “You just look good. Happy.” The words settle warm in your chest, and for once, you don’t have a teasing remark ready. Instead, you reach out, threading your fingers through his where they rest between you. “I am,” you admit. And with him under the golden Italian sun, you really are.

🏍 Him absolutely renting a Vespa just to “impress you”

“You’re going to kill us.” Rafe scoffs, revving the Vespa like it’s a full blown motorcycle. “Baby, have a little faith.” You tighten your grip around his waist, already regretting this. “Last time you drove something this small, you ran over Topper’s foot.” “Okay, first of all, that was his fault for standing too close. Second, this is different. I’ve got it under control.” Famous last words. The Vespa wobbles as he takes off, and you let out an actual scream, clinging to him for dear life. Rafe just laughs, one hand way too casually gripping the handlebar. “Relax,” he says over the wind, sounding downright smug. “You’re in good hands.” You peek over his shoulder, past the stunning coastline, the rows of pastel-colored buildings, the winding cobblestone streets you’re probably about to crash into, and sigh. “Just try not to get us banned from Italy, okay?” Rafe chuckles, his free hand reaching down to squeeze yours where it rests against his stomach. “No promises, Mrs. Cameron.” And despite yourself, despite the very real possibility of disaster, you can’t help but smile.

🍝 Romantic candelit dinners where you can't keep your eyes off of him

The restaurant is tucked into the cliffs, candlelight flickering against white linen tablecloths, the sound of waves crashing below blending seamlessly with the soft hum of conversation. It’s the kind of place straight out of a dream: warm, intimate, effortlessly romantic. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is Rafe. He sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, tanned skin golden in the glow of the candles. There’s a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you, fingers idly tracing the rim of his wine glass. “You’re staring,” he murmurs. You roll your eyes, spearing a piece of pasta with your fork. “You’re imagining things.” Rafe leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Mmm. Don’t think so.” His voice dips, teasing but quiet, like it’s meant just for you. “Starting to think you like me, sweetheart.” You hum, pretending to consider. “Well, I did marry you. So, I guess you’re not totally awful.” His smirk deepens, but instead of responding, he reaches across the table, fingers grazing your wrist before curling around your hand completely. The warmth of his touch sends a flutter through your chest, one you pretend not to feel as he rubs slow, lazy circles against your skin. For once, there’s no bickering. No teasing. Just him. Just this. And as the night stretches on, wine glasses emptied, dessert shared, his foot nudging yours under the table, you realize something for the millionth time. You don’t just like Rafe Cameron. You love him.

🌊 A boat ride that ends with both of you in the water.

The sun is high, the water impossibly blue as the boat drifts lazily along the coast. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum of the engine and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull. Rafe stands at the bow, arms outstretched like he owns the ocean, wind ruffling his sun-bleached hair. “See? Told you renting a boat was a genius idea.” You lean back against the railing, sipping your drink. “Mmm. I’ll be impressed when you actually do something.” He turns, raising a brow. “Is that a challenge?” You smirk. “More like a fact.” And then, before you can react, Rafe strides toward you, that dangerous glint in his eye as he sets your drink to the side. “Rafe—” Too late. His arms wrap around you, warm and solid, and in one swift motion, he dives off the side, taking you with him. The water is a shock, cool against your sun-kissed skin, bubbles rushing around you as you resurface with a gasp. “Rafe!” you splutter, shoving wet hair from your face. He’s already floating beside you, grinning so smugly you could throttle him. “You said I should do something.” “You’re impossible!” You flick water at him, but he just laughs, swimming closer. Then, his hands find your waist beneath the waves, tugging you against him effortlessly. His voice drops, lower, softer. “But you love me anyway.” You roll your eyes, but your arms loop around his neck, your legs tangling with his in the water. “Unfortunately.” He grins before closing the space between you, his lips warm despite the cool water, the sea carrying you both in lazy circles. And maybe his boat idea was kind of genius.

🛏 Mornings spent tangled in crisp white sheets, sunlight spilling through open windows, his lazy grin the first thing you see.

Morning comes slow, golden light spilling through the open windows, the soft rustle of the ocean breeze slipping through sheer white curtains. The sheets are a tangled mess, warm, wrinkled, wrapped around your legs and twisted somewhere between you and Rafe. You blink sleepily, stretching against the pillows, only to be met with the sight of him. Rafe lies beside you, arm thrown lazily over your waist, his bare chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. His hair is a mess, sun-kissed strands falling over his forehead, and when he stirs, just barely, his lips curve into a lazy, lopsided grin. “Morning, Mrs. Cameron,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. Your heart does that stupid fluttering thing, but you roll your eyes anyway, fingers tracing absentmindedly along his jaw. “You just like saying that.” He hums, eyes still half-closed as he tugs you closer, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder. “Obviously.” You sigh, letting yourself melt into him, into the warmth of his skin, the steady press of his heartbeat against yours. Neither of you rush to move. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to do but exist here in this perfect little pocket of time where the world is quiet and love feels as easy as breathing. And as Rafe buries his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling something about five more minutes, you know, without a doubt, you wouldn’t trade this for anything.

A/N: Inspo struck guys I'm on a roll

[goldfades]

honeymoon! | JOE BURROW⁹ [006]

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.1k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | based on a request -> maybe a smutty blurb for the joe series from their honeymoon 😍 night the baby was conceived

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | plot w/ NSFW under the cut, mdni! pretty soft, honeymoon fucking, we all know how it goes. unprotected sex! (oops... that's how our little accident baby was made, ig) p in v, a whole lotta praise, maybe a little too much foreplay, dry humping? SO MUCH EFFING KISSING IT'S ACTUALLY INSANE,

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 began with sunlight slipping through the white linen curtains of their beachfront villa, casting warm, golden streaks across the bed. The sound of gentle waves crashing against the shore replaced the usual hum of alarm clocks and city noise. It was peaceful, a slow and languid awakening to the soft melody of Barbados.

You stirred first, the warm breeze from the open balcony brushing against your skin. The air smelled like salt and hibiscus, mingled with the faintest trace of sunscreen from the night before. Stretching out, your arm brushed against Joe’s chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing letting you know he was still fast asleep.

For a moment, you just watched him. His lashes rested on his cheeks, his hair an unruly mess from a restless sleep on the crisp sheets. His sun-kissed skin glowed faintly in the morning light, a preview of what the week ahead would bring. He looked peaceful, his usual intensity softened in this quiet morning moment.

Eventually, the tantalizing aroma of breakfast—sweet coconut, warm banana bread, and freshly brewed coffee—wafted into the room, urging you to move. You leaned over, pressing a kiss to Joe’s shoulder.

“Joe,” you whispered softly, your voice barely above the ocean breeze.

He groaned in response, his eyes still closed. “Five more minutes,” he muttered, pulling the sheet higher over his shoulder.

You laughed, tugging at the blanket. “If you don’t get up, I’m starting this honeymoon without you.”

His eyes cracked open at that, one brow arching lazily. “You wouldn’t dare.”

With a playful roll of your eyes, you slipped out of bed, grabbing the silky robe from the back of the door and tying it loosely around your waist. The cool tile floor under your bare feet was a sharp contrast to the warmth of the Caribbean morning. Joe watched you from the bed, his lips twitching into a soft smile as you peeked out onto the balcony.

The view stole your breath. A turquoise sea stretched endlessly toward the horizon, dotted with white sailboats that glided lazily across the water. The beach was a postcard come to life: soft, white sand scattered with seashells and bordered by swaying palm trees.

“Okay, now I’m up,” Joe announced, his voice gravelly from sleep as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Breakfast was served on the villa’s private terrace, a table set for two with fresh tropical fruits, flaky pastries, and omelets stuffed with local spices. Joe poured you a glass of orange juice, and you returned the favor by slicing up pieces of mango to share.

The morning passed in the kind of leisurely bliss you could only find on an island vacation. After breakfast, you walked down to the beach, your fingers intertwined as the sun climbed higher into the sky. The sand was warm beneath your feet, and the occasional cool splash of the ocean sent shivers up your spine.

Joe insisted on carrying you over a shallow tidepool when you hesitated, laughing at your squeal as the water splashed higher than you expected. “Can’t have you chickening out now,” he teased, setting you down just as the next wave brushed against your calves.

By midday, you found yourselves sprawled out on two lounge chairs under a palm tree. Joe had traded his usual serious demeanor for something more relaxed, leaning back with a contented sigh as you read aloud from a cheesy romance novel you’d brought along. His teasing interruptions—“People actually say that?!”—had you both laughing until your cheeks hurt.

As the day unfolded, everything seemed perfect in its simplicity. The quiet moments between you, the way Joe’s hand lingered on your back when you walked past, or the way he absentmindedly kissed your forehead when you handed him a drink—it was all the kind of effortless love you’d dreamed of.

┈┈┈

The soft hum of the ceiling fan swirled with the salt-tinged breeze that swept through the villa, carrying with it the promise of a balmy Barbados night. Outside, the waves lapped lazily against the shore, their rhythmic song mingling with the distant chirping of tree frogs. The day had melted into evening seamlessly, the sky now painted in inky blues and dotted with stars.

You stood on the balcony, wrapped in one of Joe’s oversized button-ups, the hem brushing mid-thigh as you leaned against the railing. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, a dark expanse glimmering under the moonlight. Behind you, Joe emerged from the shower, his steps quiet on the cool tiles.

“You always steal my shirts,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

Without turning, you smirked. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his arms slipped around your waist from behind, his damp skin cool against your back as he pulled you close. His hands splayed over your stomach, his thumbs brushing small, deliberate circles against the fabric.

“You looked good out there today,” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

Your breath hitched at the soft intimacy of it. “You mean when I almost face-planted in the tidepool?”

Joe chuckled, the sound reverberating through his chest. “Even then. You make clumsiness look cute.”

You tilted your head to glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

His grin was boyish, disarming. “Depends. Did it work?”

You rolled your eyes but leaned into him anyway, your body softening under his touch. His hands didn’t stop their exploration, sliding along your sides, his fingers brushing the edges of bare skin where the shirt didn’t quite meet your thighs.

“Joey,” you started, your voice dipping slightly as you tried to maintain composure.

“Hmm?” His lips found your neck, his movements slow and deliberate.

“You’re being distracting.”

“That’s kind of the point.” His words were muffled against your skin, but the grin in his voice was unmistakable.

He turned you around, his hands settling on your hips as he pressed you gently against the railing. His gaze was heavy-lidded, the playful glint in his blue eyes softened by something deeper, something intimate. He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, the teasing gone now. His thumb brushed your cheek as if committing the moment to memory.

The vulnerability in his voice made your breath catch. You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and familiar. “You’re terrible at taking compliments.”

“Maybe you’re just too good at giving them.”

Joe’s hands tightened on your hips, tugging you closer. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips twitching into a smirk. “Oh? Just ‘like’ me?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his lips met yours, slow and unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world. His kiss was soft, yet his hands were firm, grounding you as they slipped under the hem of the shirt, warm against your skin.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his chin on the top of your head, holding you close. “For the record,” he murmured, “I more than like you.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “I would hope so. You did marry me.”

His laughter rumbled through his chest as he leaned down to kiss you again. This time, the kiss was different—more hurried, more insistent. Before you could catch your breath or process the shift in his mood, Joe’s arms slid under your thighs, lifting you with ease. A startled laugh escaped your lips, quickly muffled as he kissed you again, walking the two of you back into the villa without breaking contact.

“Joe!” you managed between kisses, your fingers instinctively tangling in the damp strands of his hair. “You’re going to trip.”

He smirked against your lips, his confidence unwavering. “I’m a quarterback. I don’t trip.”

You wanted to argue, but the warmth of his lips and the steady strength of his hold on you left little room for coherent thought. His stride was purposeful, his hands secure on your thighs as he carried you through the open patio doors and into the softly lit living room. The sea breeze followed, carrying the scent of salt and hibiscus, but the cool air was no match for the heat radiating between the two of you.

By the time he reached the bedroom, you were breathless, your heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the journey. He set you down carefully on the edge of the bed, his hands lingering on your waist, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for something.

“What?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joe shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nothing. Just... you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile you tried to suppress gave you away. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.” His voice was lower now, a teasing edge to it as he leaned in, his hands framing your face. “You gonna keep arguing, or can I kiss you again?”

Your response was immediate, pulling him down to meet you halfway. This kiss was no longer hurried but deliberate, the weight of the moment sinking in as his hands moved with purpose, sliding under the fabric of the shirt you wore.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room, and the sound of the waves outside became a distant murmur. For a while, the world shrank to just the two of you—Joe’s hands, his lips, his warmth surrounding you entirely.

The teasing was still there in the way he nipped at your bottom lip or murmured something smug when you let out a quiet gasp. But beneath it all was something deeper, something unspoken yet understood between you both.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you catching your breath, he grinned that boyish grin that always disarmed you. “So,” he said, his voice thick with amusement and affection, “still think I’m going to trip?”

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns along the back of his neck. “No. But I might.”

Joe chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple before easing you back against the pillows, the teasing glint in his eyes softening into something more tender. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, his voice a promise. “I’ll catch you.”

Joe’s lips grazed yours again, soft and deliberate, the teasing smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. His hands settled at your waist, fingers brushing the hem of the oversized shirt you’d thrown on after your shower. It was technically his, the fabric worn and loose, but he didn’t seem to mind—especially as he slowly started to lift it, his knuckles ghosting over your bare thighs.

“I think this belongs to me,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. His baby blues flicked up to meet yours, daring you to argue.

“Does it?” you challenged softly, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his muscled skin under your palms.

Joe grinned, leaning in so his nose brushed against yours. “It does. But I’m willing to share—if you ask nicely.”

The laugh that bubbled out of you was cut short when his lips trailed along your jaw, his hands continuing their slow ascent, sending little shocks of heat through your skin. “You’re ridiculous,” you managed, though your breath hitched when his thumbs brushed the curve of your hips.

“And yet, here you are,” he teased, his voice a quiet rumble against your neck. His lips moved with deliberate slowness, leaving a trail of kisses that had you melting into his touch.

Your hands found their way into his blonde hair, tugging lightly in retaliation, which only made him chuckle. The sound vibrated against your skin, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten slightly.

“Careful,” he warned playfully, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were darker now, filled with a heat that sent a shiver down your spine. “You keep doing that, and I won’t be able to stop.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice steady. “Who says I want you to?”

That was all the encouragement Joe needed. His smile turned wicked, and before you could say another word, he was easing you back onto the bed, his hands bracketing your face as he kissed you again—deeper this time, less teasing, more intent.

His weight settled above you, one hand slipping beneath the shirt to trace the curve of your ribs while the other tangled in your hair. The kisses grew slower but no less consuming, each one leaving you breathless and wanting more.

“God, you’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice almost reverent as he pulled back slightly to look at you. His thumb brushed over your cheek, his gaze softening despite the heat between you.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, though the words came out shaky, your heart racing under his touch.

Joe laughed softly, his breath warm against your lips. “Not so bad? I think I can do better than that.”

Joe’s teasing edge melted away, replaced by a deeper intensity. His lips pressed to yours with a hunger that left no room for playful quips or lingering hesitation. His hands moved with purpose, slipping under the thin fabric of the shirt as if it had always been in his way before unbuttoning it slowly, slipping it off of you, his blue eyes never leaving yours. You were only left in your bra and underwear, your whole body felt like it was on fire.

Your breath caught as his hands mapped every inch of bare skin they could find, the roughness of his palms contrasting with the softness of his touch. His fingers splayed against your waist, pulling you closer, like even the smallest gap between you was too much before he pulled you toward his crotch. You felt his bulge against your warmth, the feeling too dizzying, you just had to let out a small whimper, your head falling back into the plush pillow.

“You like that?” he murmured, the word barely audible as he leaned forward, his mouth trailed down your neck, each kiss leaving a warm flush in its wake as he began pushing his bulge against you, rougher this time.

“Joey,” you whimpered, your voice trembling as your fingers skimmed over his shoulders and down his back, feeling the taut muscle beneath.

He hummed in response, his lips finding the hollow of your throat, lingering there for a moment before moving lower. He slowly began moving his hips against your covered pussy, eliciting small noises from you. He was rock-hard, you could feel his excitement through the thin material of his gray sweats.

For a moment, he stilled, his eyes roving over you as if committing every detail to memory. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice low and thick, his words sinking into your skin like a promise.

Heat bloomed in your chest, and before you could respond, his lips found yours again, firmer, deeper, his hand sliding up your side to cup your cheek. The world outside the villa ceased to exist; all that mattered was the way his touch sent a current through you, grounding you and setting you alight all at once.

You tugged at his shirt in response, your fingers fumbling slightly in your urgency. He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your lips, before leaning back just enough to help you. The fabric joined yours on the floor, and then he was back, his skin warm against yours, every inch of contact electric.

His hands skimmed over your thighs, hooking behind your knees to draw you closer. The air felt charged, the only sounds filling the room your uneven breaths and the gentle crash of waves outside. He began rocking his hips against yours, letting out a needy groan of his own.

“Please, Joe,” you moaned, breathless and oh so wet, your hand slipping to his chest to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

“Please, what?” He challenged, his forehead leaning to rest against yours. His lips were curved, a cocky smiling gracing his features. Yeah, he wasn't giving in so easily—even if he was rock-hard and just as needy as you.

You rolled your eyes, your chest rising and falling as your eyes found his again. His baby blues were dilated and dark, the familiar lustful gaze glazing his eyes. But somehow, there was still that warmth and love you knew he felt for you.

“Just, please fuck me.”

That was all he needed.

His lips found yours again, harder this time, more insistent, as if the words you’d exchanged weren’t enough to convey the depth of his feelings. His hands slid to your hips, pulling you closer with a quiet, desperate kind of urgency that left no space between you, his body practically trembling with restraint.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispered against your lips, his voice low, his breath hot.

You tried to reply, but your words were swallowed by the kiss that followed, deeper, more fervent. His hands roamed, fingers splayed wide as they moved over the curves of your back, memorizing every inch. There was no hesitation now, no pretense—just raw affection and the kind of vulnerability that came from letting someone see all of you, heart and soul.

He broke away only briefly, his forehead pressed to yours, his blue eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” he admitted, his voice uneven, like the words cost him something.

The weight of his gaze and the sincerity in his voice sent a shiver through you. “I don’t think I’d ever want you to,” you murmured back, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently to anchor yourself.

That was all it took for his restraint to falter. His lips were back on yours, hungrier this time, his hands tightening their grip as if he was afraid you might slip away. His desperation wasn’t rushed or clumsy; it was reverent, like he was determined to make every moment count, to leave no part of you untouched by the depth of his adoration.

Finally, his hands began pulling off his sweatpants, his lips never leaving yours. He tugged them off swiftly, throwing them on the floor as he pulled away for a second, gripping your hips and pulling you impossibly closer. Joe's eyes never left yours as he slowly took off his briefs, your breath hitching. As soon as his briefs were off, his large fingers hooked on your panties and slipped them off.

His lips found yours again, moving forward slowly as he led himself toward your folds. You felt his breath hitch before he slowly pushed into you, broken moans leaving your lips. You already felt so full and he wasn't even a quarter inside yet.

You were sopping wet at that point, he could easily slip into you quickly—but he took his time, as if he was trying to memorize the way your cunt squeezed him so perfectly, how perfect you felt around his cock and how he swore your pussy was made for him. Joe was huge, that was never a secret—the whole “Big Dick Joe” hat was never really a joke.

You felt him fill you up slowly but surely, until he completely bottomed you out. Your hands were gripping his broad shoulders as your eyebrows furrowed in concentration, focusing on the feeling of Joe's cock stretching you out.

And you swore, no matter how many times you fuck—the feeling will never, ever get old.

“Oh God, yes,” you practically cried out as you squeezed his shoulders tighter, your nails digging into his warm skin. He groaned at the stinging feeling, the pleasure coursing through his body.

He let you adjust to his size as he began kissing you again, slower this time. The kiss grew more intense, trailing down your jawline and across your neck, each one carrying a weight that left you breathless. His hands remained steady on your hips as he let you adjust to his size, and yet there was an unmistakable tremor in the way his fingers pressed into your skin, like he was holding on for dear life.

Slowly, he began thrusting out of you, before crashing into you rougher. His patience was wavering, you could see it in his expression.

“Harder, Joe,” you moaned breathlessly as you squeezed his shoulder harder, gazing up at him through your lashes.

That was all he needed. Joe began rocking into you, the bed moving along with each of his hard thrusts. His hands gripped your thighs before lifting your legs onto his shoulders, your hands falling back on the bed as he began fucking you even deeper. The new angle made you cry out in utter pleasure, gripping the sheets as he groaned at the feeling of your walls tightening around him.

“Say you’re mine,” he murmured against the hollow of your throat as he leaned in, his voice rough with need, the words barely audible over the sound of the bed creaking beneath the two of you.

“I’m yours,” you answered without hesitation, your voice trembling but sure. The words seemed to undo him further, a shiver running through his frame as his hips began moving at an almost impossible speed, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” he whispered breathlessly, his breath hot against your skin. His hands gripped your hips firmly as if to ground himself, but his lips never stopped their journey—brushing along your collarbone, lingering where he could feel the rapid beat of your pulse.

His kisses became softer for a moment, almost trembling with the intensity of what he was trying to say without words. The movements of his hips were a perfect blend of desperation and purpose—like every thrust, every kiss, was a vow, a promise of just how much you meant to him.

But the desperation was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting to bubble over again.

You felt that familiar tightening in your lower stomach, and your walls tightened around his cock. He was close, too—you could feel it in the way his hips rocked against yours, harder and more frantic than the last and the way he let out his groans freely.

Time seemed to dissolve, measured only by the gentle rhythm of the waves outside and the warmth of Joe’s touch. Every movement between you was deliberate, filled with a perfect mix of care and roughness that made the world outside feel irrelevant.

His hands never strayed far, always returning to cradle your face or trace patterns along your thighs as though grounding himself in the moment.

And right as you were about to go over the edge, Joe’s hand slipped to yours, his fingers threading through yours in a gesture so tender it brought an ache to your chest. The knot in your stomach snapped violently, your orgasm hitting you like a truck, rippling through you harshly.

You cried out loudly in pleasure, the sound echoing in the empty villa. A few more frantic thrusts and Joe was spilling into you, his groans heavenly and loud. You both caught your breathes, slow and heavy all at once. The villa was quiet except for the shared sounds of your breathing, the ocean breeze filtered in through the slightly open windows, cool and refreshing against the heat you shared, carrying the faint scent of salt and hibiscus.

After a moment, his lips brushed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, as if he couldn’t get enough, as if memorizing you was his life’s work.

“You okay?” he murmured again, his voice softer now, almost reverent, his forehead pressed lightly against yours.

“Yes,” you replied, breathless but certain, your hand slipping to his chest to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “Perfect, actually.”

The night stretched on in a haze of soft laughter, quiet reassurances, and the feeling of being utterly cherished. By the time you lay tangled together beneath the linen sheets, exhaustion pulled at your limbs, but your heart was light. Joe’s arm was slung protectively around your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

“Love you,” he murmured, the words slurred with sleep but no less sincere.

You smiled, your fingers tracing lazy circles on the back of his hand. “I love you, too.”

The moonlight poured through the open window, silver light painting your intertwined forms as the waves provided a lullaby. With Joe’s steady presence beside you, you felt more at peace than ever—like the rest of the world could wait, because here, in this moment, you had everything you could ever need.

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[shelovesosa]

DON’T FORGET THE OCEAN

PAIRING: Surfer!Satoru X F!reader

CW: ANGST, summer love, fluff, angst mild comfort, strangers to lovers, bittersweet, water related accident, slow burn, longing,

SUMMARY!! You weren’t supposed to fall in love in Rio. Not with a stranger. Not with a boy who laughed like salt spray and kissed like the tide might steal him back. Satoru wasn’t from Brazil. He was just passing through—like you. But some people feel like home even when you’ve only just met. And some love stories end before they ever begin.

wc: 6.2k

You touched down in Rio de Janeiro with summer already wrapping its arms around your skin. The airplane window framed the city like a postcard—sapphire waves biting at the shoreline, the distant green folds of mountains, favelas spilling down like stories etched in concrete and red tile. Somewhere far above, the statue of Christ watched with open arms, but to you, he felt more like a warning than a welcome.

This was supposed to be a trip of distraction. A summer to forget routines and responsibilities. You arrived with five friends, a mess of tangled headphones, rolling suitcases, and group selfies, all drunk on the promise of youth and freedom. But beneath your sunglasses, your eyes felt heavy. And even as Lila wrapped her arm around your shoulder with her usual buzzed smile, something inside you whispered that this wasn’t just a vacation.

This was an escape.

You stayed in Santa Teresa—a hilltop neighborhood woven with cobblestone streets, colonial mansions turned guesthouses, and street murals that burst in color like stained glass. The hostel was bohemian in the loudest sense. Ceiling fans, open windows, thin mattresses, a roof deck with hammocks, and a bartender who mixed caipirinhas that tasted like melted limes and sugar.

That first night bled into the second. Music poured into the streets like smoke. Every corner vibrated with drums, clinking glasses, and the occasional distant shout of joy or heartbreak. Your friends dove headfirst into the rhythm of the city—hookups, bar crawls, samba lessons in alleyways, beach bonfires.

You followed. You smiled. You danced. But in truth, you were drifting—feet in the sand, mind somewhere else. Watching. Waiting. For what, you didn’t know.

It happened by accident.

You woke up early on the third morning, disoriented from too much noise and too little sleep. Your friends were still passed out, tangled in hostel sheets, and the room smelled like sunscreen, salt, and sweat. So you slipped out. No plans. Just your sandals and a linen shirt over your swimsuit, a tote bag slung over your shoulder.

You tried to get to Ipanema, but the bus you took went too far. You ended up somewhere quieter—Barra da Tijuca maybe, or some stretch of beach unnamed on your map. The tourists hadn’t arrived yet. The sand was wide, hot, and nearly empty. The wind tangled your hair and pushed the scent of ocean straight into your lungs.

And that’s when you saw him.

He stood at the edge of the surf, holding a longboard like it was an extension of his body. His skin was sun-warmed but not native, hair so white it looked unreal beneath the sun, and his eyes—when they flicked in your direction—were a blue so clear it felt like being seen all at once.

You were still staring when he noticed.

“Didn’t expect company this early,” he called, his voice rich and easy, touched with an accent you couldn’t place—maybe American, maybe not.

You blinked, flustered. “Sorry, I thought this beach was... public?”

He laughed and began walking toward you. “It is. Just quiet. Locals usually sleep in after carnival weekends.”

“You’re local?”

“God, no,” he said, grinning as he dropped the board into the sand beside him. “I’m staying in Rio for the month. Solo trip. Japan originally, but I’ve been everywhere lately.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Everywhere?”

He shrugged. “When you keep moving, no place becomes home long enough to disappoint you.”

You didn’t know why that line struck you the way it did. But it did.

“Y/N,” you offered after a beat.

“Satoru,” he replied, his hand brushing sand off the edge of his board. “Nice to meet a fellow wanderer.”

It started with small things.

He asked if you’d ever surfed before. You said no, not unless falling off a boogie board counted. He offered to show you, and you declined—until he added, “I promise I’ll laugh politely when you wipe out.”

That first lesson wasn’t a lesson at all. He let you try to stand on the board on dry land, corrected your stance with light hands on your shoulders, and when you both fell backward into the sand, laughing, you realized you hadn’t thought about anything else—not your life back home, not the things you came here to forget—in over an hour.

You sat under the sun together after that, sharing a coconut and stories that didn’t dig too deep. You told him about your friends, your job you needed a break from, your parents who worried too much. He told you he was taking a break from everything too—surf competitions, pressure, expectations.

“No one really tells you what happens after your dream becomes a job,” he said quietly, pulling a towel over his shoulders. “I used to love the ocean. Now I’m trying to fall in love with it again.”

You looked at him, watched the way he stared at the waves like they held the answer to some private riddle.

And just like that, the current began to shift.

You didn’t exchange phone numbers. He walked you back to the road, told you the best bus to take, and paused like he wasn’t sure if he should hug you or wave.

“You’ll be at the same beach tomorrow?” you asked, feeling a tug you didn’t expect.

He tilted his head, smiling. “Only if the tide’s good. And if you’re bringing better balance.”

You laughed. “No promises.”

When you turned to go, your heart pulled like a tide—out, and then sharply back in.

You didn’t tell your friends about him that night. You kept Satoru like a secret tucked into your chest, just for yourself.

And in your bunk, above the noise and late-night chatter of the hostel, you thought about the way he stood in the water—like it had chosen him. You didn’t know yet that something already had.

The next morning, you didn’t wait for your friends to wake.

The hostel room was a mess of tangled limbs and muffled snoring. Someone had left the balcony door open, letting in the sound of birds and the faint beat of drums from somewhere down the hill. You rose with the sun, slipped into your swimsuit and a linen cover-up, and let the door close behind you with a click that felt louder than it should.

You didn’t even need to think about it—your feet knew where to go. Back to the wrong beach. Back to him.

Satoru was already there.

He was waist-deep in the water, hair slicked back, his board cutting through the surface like a knife through silk. You stood barefoot at the edge of the sand, watching the way his body moved with the rhythm of the waves, unhurried and unafraid. He spotted you before you called out, paddling toward shore with a crooked smile.

“You came back,” he said, hopping off the board as the water lapped around his calves.

“I told you I might,” you replied, shielding your eyes from the glare.

“I thought you were bluffing. Tourists love promises in the sun.”

You smiled. “What if I’m not just a tourist?”

He arched an eyebrow, walking his board back up the beach. “You planning to stay in Brazil forever?”

You shrugged, settling beside him in the sand. “I didn’t say I wasn’t lost.”

He sat down next to you, arms loosely resting on his knees. “Good. I like people who admit they’re running from something. It makes them honest.”

You looked at him then, close enough to see the thin scar above his left eyebrow, the salt caught in his lashes, the faded string around his wrist—a bracelet that looked handmade, worn soft by sun and time.

“What about you?” you asked softly. “What are you running from?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the wax in his bag, began rubbing it over the board in slow circles.

“When you win too young,” he said eventually, “people stop asking if you like it. They just expect more wins.”

You tilted your head. “Surfing?”

He nodded.

“So... you’re famous or something?”

He gave a small laugh, almost shy. “Not really. In the Pacific circuit, maybe. A few sponsors. My face on an energy drink once. But the real surfers... the lifers... they’re different. They love the ocean no matter what. I started to feel like I didn’t.”

Your fingers curled into the sand.

“Is that why you came here?”

“To remember.”

A pause.

“And maybe to disappear for a little while.”

He stood and offered his hand. “Come on. Today you’re getting in the water.”

You hesitated. “What if I fall again?”

“You will,” he said, grinning. “Falling’s the point.”

The lessons were slow, patient. He had a way of touching without hesitation but never without permission—guiding your shoulders, nudging your knees, lifting your chin. The first few times you tried to stand, you crashed hard into the water. Satoru didn’t laugh. He swam beside you, helped you up, and tried again.

“Relax,” he said once, brushing wet hair out of your face. “You’re fighting it too much.”

“It’s trying to drown me,” you muttered.

“No,” he said gently, “it’s just testing you. The ocean doesn’t want obedience—it wants respect.”

You blinked at him.

“Wow,” you said. “Was that a surfboard fortune cookie quote?”

He laughed—a bright, boyish sound that caught you off guard.

“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s true.”

The sun climbed higher. You fell and rose again, laughing louder each time, salt stinging your eyes, heart swelling each time Satoru reached for your hand without hesitation.

When you finally caught a wave—even just for three seconds—he whooped loud enough for the lifeguards to glance over.

“You did it!” he shouted.

You tumbled off the board into the surf and came up grinning.

“Barely!”

“Doesn’t matter. You were part of it.”

You looked at him, standing in the water, the sun catching the sea around him like light caught in crystal. Your smile faded, just a little. That moment—fleeting, glittering, full—was already starting to hurt. Because you knew, even then, that nothing like this could last.

That evening, he walked you to a spot above the beach, a small rise where the cliffs met an old weather-beaten shack and a bench carved with names. He said he came here every night he stayed in Rio. To think. To watch. To listen.

You sat beside him, silent at first. The sky exploded in watercolor—pinks, golds, blues bleeding into purple. The sea caught every color like it was reflecting memory itself.

He leaned back on his palms.

“I like the silence,” he said after a while. “It’s honest.”

You glanced sideways. “Is everything with you about honesty?”

“Most things should be.”

You exhaled slowly.

“My friends think I’m here for the adventure. What they don’t know is that I wasn’t sure I’d even come until the morning we left.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve been... stuck,” you confessed. “With my life. My choices. Who I am when no one’s looking.”

He nodded, like he understood more than you could explain.

“I used to be scared of that version of myself,” he said. “The one who couldn’t perform. Who didn’t win. Who just... existed. Now I think maybe he’s the one I want to know better.”

The sky turned darker. Lights began to blink on down the beach. People laughed somewhere far below. A lone gull cried out.

You turned to him. “Will I see you again tomorrow?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like the space between you was shifting.

“Yeah,” he said. “You will.”

The next morning, you woke with his voice still echoing in your ears.

“You will.”

You told your friends you had plans. Vague ones. No one pried. They were too wrapped up in their own hazy flings and hangovers to care that you kept slipping away, pulled by something they hadn’t noticed yet. And maybe you liked it that way.

You bought two cold açai bowls from a vendor on the walk. One topped with bananas and honey. The other with strawberries and coconut shavings. You didn’t even ask what Satoru liked—you just guessed.

When he saw you approaching the same beach, your usual tote on your shoulder, he jogged up barefoot through the sand and took the container from your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Banana,” he said, opening the lid. “How did you know?”

You smiled. “Guessed.”

He grinned. “Guess again tomorrow.”

You didn’t surf that day. He didn’t suggest it. Instead, he asked if you wanted to walk the length of the boardwalk that curved past the beach. You said yes.

You walked in slow rhythm, stopping to watch old men playing cards, kids doing handstands in the sand, lovers on towels whispering into one another’s necks.

He bought you coconut water in a shell and drank his with lime.

“Have you ever been in love?” you asked, surprising yourself.

He sipped slowly. “Yes. Once.”

You didn’t press. He looked at you then, like he could feel the weight of the question hanging between you.

“You?”

You hesitated. “I thought I was. He was more in love with the version of me I pretended to be.”

Satoru nodded like he understood.

“I think sometimes we get good at wearing masks,” he said. “Especially when we want to be loved more than we want to be known.”

That silence again. But now it wasn’t awkward. It was full.

Later, he took you to his rental—an apartment tucked into the hillside above the neighborhood, quiet and sun-washed, with an open rooftop lined in string lights. It was sparse: a single hammock, a speaker, two wooden chairs, and a fridge full of coconut water and beer.

“Do you bring people up here?” you asked.

“No.”

“Why me?”

He turned toward you, blue eyes softening. “Because you don’t need noise to fill silence.”

That night, you sat on the rooftop under the stars, barefoot, knees curled toward your chest. The sounds of Rio buzzed beneath you—music, car horns, laughter—and you let it all fade into the background as Satoru put on soft, instrumental music.

He didn’t try to kiss you. He didn’t touch you unless it was to pass another bottle or brush a curl from your shoulder.

Instead, he asked, “If you could disappear into any moment and stay there, what would it be?”

You thought for a long time.

“This one,” you said.

He looked at you then—really looked—and didn’t say a word. Just nodded slowly.

Before you left, he picked up a small, beat-up film camera from his side bag.

“Let me take a photo of you,” he said.

You almost said no. You hated photos. You hated the way they made you feel frozen, too visible, too performed. But something about the way he said it—soft, reverent—made you nod.

You sat on the ledge, hair wind-swept, city behind you. He crouched low, adjusted the focus with steady hands.

“Don’t smile,” he said. “Just be.”

The shutter clicked.

And it felt like something permanent had been made.

walked you halfway back to your hostel. The streets were quiet now, the stars dimming as morning threatened to rise.

Outside the gate, he paused. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Maybe earlier,” you said.

He leaned down just a little—close enough to smell the salt still caught in his shirt, the clean scent of his skin.

For a moment, the kiss almost happened. It hovered there in the air between you, heavy with promise and something unnamed.

But you both pulled back. Not yet. You watched him go. His figure shrinking into the quiet street, board under one arm, camera slung across his back.

You didn’t know it then, but that photo would become the last full memory he’d leave behind.

For a while, it became a rhythm. Quiet, easy, real.

You’d wake up with the sun creeping past the hostel’s balcony curtains, your friends still wrapped in bedsheets and sleep. And somehow—without texting, without confirming—he’d already be there. At the beach. In the water. Or sitting on the edge of his board, watching the horizon like he was waiting for something only the sea could give back.

Always alone. Always with one extra açai bowl in hand, just in case.

One afternoon, instead of the beach, Satoru met you outside your hostel with two helmets in hand.

“You ride?” he asked, nodding toward a rented motorbike waiting at the curb.

“No,” you answered, pulling your sunglasses down, “but I trust you.”

That made him pause. His eyes flicked up to yours. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

He smirked, fastening your helmet. “Because I don’t know where we’re going either.”

You rode through Lapa first—the arches, the staircases painted in endless mosaics, children racing with kites, street vendors yelling in three languages. Then up into Santa Teresa again, where old colonial homes spilled over the hills like quiet ghosts.

At one point, you leaned your chin into his shoulder, just to rest. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you felt his fingers tighten just a little on the handlebars.

That night, you ate grilled cheese on sweet bread from a vendor in Glória. He made you try pão de queijo until you moaned with approval. You tried to guess the story behind each of his tattoos (wrong every time). He asked you what your middle name was, then said it sounded too pretty to be real.

You ended up back on his rooftop, barefoot again, sharing a mango and the same bottle of water like it was sacred.

He told you that day had been the best he’d felt in months. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

The next morning, he taught you how to paddle out properly—really paddle. How to read the break in the tide. When to sit. When to chase. When to let go.

Every time your arms shook, he was there beside you, grinning like he was proud anyway.

“You’re not supposed to be this patient,” you told him.

“I don’t do this for anyone,” he replied.

You tried to ignore the way your chest tightened when he said that. But later, as the two of you floated quietly past the breakers, boards side by side in the gentle lull of the sea, he said something else that stayed even longer.

“You feel like calm water.”

You turned toward him.

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer. Just reached over, trailing his fingers down the length of your forearm, slow, barely there. A shiver ran under your skin. His hand stayed, resting against your wrist.

“It means I don’t want this to end.”

And you didn’t ask what “this” was. Because you didn’t want to define it yet.

You just wanted it to last.

That night, you brought a bottle of wine to his rooftop.

You drank barefoot, legs dangling off the ledge. He showed you the stars he remembered from home, even though the smog blurred most of them. You showed him the scar on your ankle from childhood. He traced it with his thumb, so lightly you almost didn’t feel it.

The wine made everything warmer. At some point, the conversation dipped quiet again, and he turned toward you.

His voice was lower now.

“Are you scared of leaving?”

You blinked. “Rio?”

“No.” A pause. “This. Us.”

You swallowed, feeling the words slip down into something that hurt.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Because I’ve never had something that felt like it could vanish before I even touched it.”

He leaned in. You didn’t kiss. Not yet.

But your foreheads touched. And your hands found each other again. His fingers slipped between yours like he belonged there.

You fell asleep like that—still fully dressed, heads tilted toward each other on the rooftop. A breeze moving softly through his hair. Your legs tangled.

When you woke in the blue haze of dawn, he was still holding your hand.

You never talked about what you were. He didn’t ask. You didn’t push. And it was almost better that way—like the minute you said it out loud, it would crumble.

But in all the ways that mattered, he was becoming the center of your summer. And you were becoming his anchor.

It was one of those days where everything felt too quiet to be real.

The hostel had emptied out—your friends were gone on some boat tour up the coast, their laughter already fading in the distance as you closed the door behind you. You hadn’t told them you weren’t going. You just didn’t show.

Some things didn’t need announcing. You found him already waiting. No words. No plans.

Just the understanding: today is just ours.

This wasn’t the tourist beach. Not the one where your hostel sat near caipirinha carts and endless volleyball matches.

No, he took you further west—down a path of cracked pavement and tall green scrub until the city fell away and there was only sand and sea and sky. A place where the water whispered instead of roared, and the only sounds were birds and breeze and breath.

He laid out his towel. You laid beside him. No music. No sunscreen. Just silence and sun.

At first you talked. A little. About everything and nothing. He told you about his hometown again, a place by the sea where the water was colder and the waves had teeth. You told him about your childhood summers and how you’d always pretended to like the beach but secretly feared the way the tide pulled.

“I get that,” he said. “The ocean’s a little like people.”

“How?”

“Some pull you under. And some carry you back to shore.”

Your chest tightened. But you didn’t speak. You rolled onto your side, your knees brushing his. He didn’t pull away.

At one point, you reached for your necklace—a small, thin thing you’d worn since you were sixteen—and fumbled with the clasp. It had twisted. He reached over instinctively.

“Let me.”

His fingers brushed the back of your neck. Light, unhurried. Not possessive. Not bold.

Just... careful.

And something in you cracked quietly open, like a shell in gentle hands.

His fingers lingered just a little too long after fixing it. And when he looked at you, his eyes didn’t hold that playful glint anymore. They held something heavier. Something warm and unsure and real.

You leaned into his touch.

You walked into the sea together later, slow steps through the gentle break. He held your wrist without thinking, guiding you forward until the water reached your waist, then your ribs. You floated beside him, half-turned to the sky, your hair fanned out like seaweed in the tide.

“Breathe,” he said softly. “Just listen to it.”

You closed your eyes and did. The rhythm of the ocean. The sound of his breath.

The closeness of your bodies—not quite touching, but tethered, somehow, by gravity or want or fate.

The ocean curled softly around you, warm and endless. You floated beside him, the salt drying on your lips, your fingertips brushing occasionally with the gentle roll of the tide. Every time your skin touched his, it was like a spark that didn’t burn—just glowed, quietly, inside your ribs.

He was watching you again. And this time, you let him.

You turned toward him slowly, your chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the sea, the hush between waves thickening into something suspended. His expression had changed. No teasing now, no amusement or flirtation. Just something raw. Vulnerable.

Like if he looked away, he might lose this moment forever.

The space between your faces narrowed. Just a breath. One inhale. One choice.

Then his hand found the side of your neck—fingertips tentative, almost afraid. As if he didn’t want to shatter whatever it was blooming between you. His thumb brushed your jaw, a motion so light it made you shiver.

You leaned in. So did he. And then—you kissed. At first, it was just a press. Lips to lips. Barely there.

But even that soft contact sent something crashing through you—an ache and a warmth, like your entire body had been waiting for this exact moment without ever knowing it.

His lips parted slightly, like a question. Yours answered.

He kissed you with the kind of patience that made time slow. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to claim anything—he just wanted to feel it. Savor it. Understand it.

There was no battle. No dominance. Just this shared, sacred gravity pulling your mouths together, again and again. The taste of him—salt and sun and something clean—filled your senses, and the rest of the world blurred into white noise.

The kiss deepened slowly.

One of his hands slid from your neck to your waist, anchoring you as the tide swayed you both. Your own hands lifted to his chest, fingers fisting in the wet fabric of his shirt like you were holding on for dear life—because in that moment, it felt like he might float away if you let go.

His nose brushed yours. His lips moved against yours with more surety now—still gentle, still soft, but searching. Like he was learning your shape by heart, memorizing how to fit himself into your spaces.

The ocean moved around you, steady and wide, and he kissed you like you were the only person left in it.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched. Both of you breathless. Your lips still tingled. So did your skin.

You opened your eyes, unsure what you’d see.

But his were already on you. Quiet. Blue. Wide open. And for a second, it felt like he wanted to say something.

He didn’t.

Instead, he just kissed your forehead—softly, slowly—as if sealing something between you. A promise. A pause. Something that couldn’t be named, only felt.

And then, he smiled.

“Still scared of the tide?” he whispered.

You smiled back. “No.”

But you would be. Just not yet.

You stayed in the water a while after that.

Not kissing. Not speaking. Just existing—drifting side by side, the sun slipping down behind the hills, the sky painted in gold and lavender. The kind of color that never shows up in photos. The kind you have to remember by feel.

When you left the water, his hand found yours without needing to look. And when you laid back down on the towel, curled into him, your head resting on his chest—you could hear his heartbeat like a drum under your ear.

Steady. Real. His lips pressed to your forehead once. That was all.

The morning didn’t feel right.

Not in the obvious way—not storm clouds or shattered glass. But in that quiet, invisible kind of way. The way the sky looked too still. The way the sun seemed too golden. The way you couldn’t quite keep your smile on your face, even as he kissed your cheek and handed you half of his papaya with honey.

He still wore that easy grin. Still looked like the same boy who kissed you in the sea the night before.

But something in his eyes… it wasn’t the same.

You sat on the rooftop ledge with your legs hanging off, a shared thermos of strong Brazilian coffee between you.

He asked you what your friends were doing today. You said you weren’t sure—you hadn’t checked your phone. He laughed, said maybe he’d finally show you how to actually surf. You rolled your eyes and promised to try.

It was all normal. But it wasn’t.

His touch was still gentle, but there was a new tension behind it. Like he was aware of the moment passing as it happened. Like he was trying to memorize it in real time.

You said his name once. Just softly.

“Satoru.”

He turned to you with a look that made your stomach pull.

“Don’t fall in love with me,” he said, teasing. Light.

But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Later, while walking down toward the beach, you told him something—something you didn’t think would matter.

You told him your return flight had been moved up a few days. That your parents wanted you home early. That your friends were booking their transport out of Rio.

“We’ll still have tomorrow,” you added quickly, seeing the flicker in his face.

He stopped walking. You didn’t mean to make it heavy. But he just stood there, silent, eyes on the water like it had called him suddenly.

“Hey,” you said gently. “It’s not goodbye yet.”

But he didn’t answer. He kissed your forehead. And then, without warning, he turned and started running—down the sand, toward the water, board under his arm.

You watched him paddle out fast, past the soft waves you were used to, past the calm shallows where the other surfers lingered. He went deeper. Farther.

You waited. At first, it was just him being dramatic. You told yourself that. But then the waves shifted.

The ocean wasn’t storming—not yet—but the rhythm had changed. The breakers were harder now, crashing sharper against the reef, pulling faster on the tide. You could see him out there, slicing across the water like it was something he needed to fight. Again and again.

Too far out. Too wild.

You walked down to the edge of the water. He caught a wave. And fell.

It didn’t look bad at first—he disappeared under the foam like always. You waited for the board to bob up. For his white hair to break the surface, laughing. But seconds passed. Then more. Your heart began to pound.

“Satoru!” you shouted, uselessly.

The ocean roared back. Then the board surfaced—without him.

You ran into the water. So did another surfer.

You don’t remember how long it took. How many minutes passed between screaming and freezing. All you remember is the sick, cold numbness in your chest as you stood waist-deep, scanning the horizon for the face you’d memorized.

Then— Someone yelling. Movement in the water. A man dragging a limp body toward the sand. And that white hair, soaked red with blood from his temple, tangled in seaweed and foam.

Satoru.

The hospital smelled like cold metal and bleach and fear. You didn’t remember the ride there.

You didn’t remember who called the ambulance, or how your legs carried you up the sand, or when your hands started shaking. You only remembered the moment they took him away from you—took him, like something stolen. Rolling him through double doors on a stretcher, wires and monitors already clinging to his body like second skin.

And how they didn’t let you follow.

You sat in plastic chairs that made your skin stick to the seat. Someone handed you a paper cup of water you didn’t drink. Your phone buzzed again and again—your friends, calling, texting, asking where you were, if it was true.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your eyes were locked on the hallway doors at the end of the corridor, like if you stared hard enough, he’d walk through them—drenched and alive and smiling that cocky smile, already making some joke about the nurses. But the doors stayed shut.

An hour passed. Then two. A woman in scrubs finally emerged, and you stood so fast the world tilted.

“He’s stable,” she said gently. “But unconscious. There was a strong impact to the back of the skull. He swallowed a lot of water. We managed to resuscitate him on the beach… but it was close.”

Close. That word hit you like a slap.

You nodded, trying to hold your voice together. “Can I see him?”

She hesitated. “Just a few minutes. He won’t respond. But sometimes patients can hear.”

You didn’t care what he could or couldn’t do. You just needed to be near him.

The beeping was the first thing you heard. Rhythmic. Constant. Fragile.

Satoru lay there in a white bed too big for him, pale against the linens, his silver lashes damp against his cheeks. His face looked softer in the fluorescent light. Younger.

The bruising around his temple had bloomed into something dark and terrible.

But he was still breathing. You pulled a chair close and sat beside him. He didn’t move. You reached for his hand. It was cold. So you held it tighter.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean for today to feel like a goodbye.”

The monitor beeped back at you. Steady. Unmoved.

“You idiot,” you said softly, brushing his hair away from his face. “You said I was calm water. But you’re the one who made everything feel like summer.”

His hand twitched faintly. Maybe. Maybe not.

Your thumb rubbed slow circles over the back of it.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you whispered. “But don’t you dare leave me wondering what could’ve happened if we had more time.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“You said not to fall in love with you.”

You leaned closer, pressing your forehead to his.

“But I think it’s too late.”

The hospital room was still dark when you returned the next morning. He hadn’t moved. Same wires. Same bruises. Same deep, unmoving sleep.

You stood at the door for a long time, your suitcase still warm from the cab’s trunk. The wheels didn’t roll quietly, and the sound echoed too loud in the sterile silence. You felt clumsy, wrong. Like you were trespassing in your own goodbye. You had thirty minutes before the airport van came. You sat beside him one last time.

He looked a little better that morning. Color had returned to his lips. His chest rose more steadily. The monitors didn’t beep quite as angrily as they had the night before.

But his eyes never opened. And that silence—that awful, bone-deep silence between you—grew louder with every second.

You wanted to believe he was just asleep. That he was dreaming something vivid and sweet. Maybe about the kiss, or the papaya with honey, or the way the sun hit your shoulders when you laughed.

But you didn’t believe it. Not really.

You didn’t plan to write it. But the words came out anyway.

You borrowed a pen from the nurse’s station and scribbled onto the back of an old flyer from your backpack—a hostel event that had already passed.

The handwriting was messy. A little smudged. But true.

“Hey.

I know you might never read this. I know I might never see you again.

But thank you—for showing me that something could feel real, even if it doesn’t last forever.

You made me feel warm again.

If you wake up… I’ll be wishing I could be there.

Don’t forget the ocean. Or me.

—Y/N”

You folded it in half and slid it into his palm. Your fingers lingered there.

Then you leaned down and pressed a kiss—gentle and quiet—into his hairline. It was softer than your first kiss. It hurt more than anything.

You didn’t cry until you were in the van.

The city blurred outside the window as you left the hospital behind. And the ocean—your ocean—came into view one last time, sparkling under the summer sun like it didn’t know what it had taken. You pressed your hand to the glass. You didn’t say goodbye out loud. But inside, you whispered it.

“Come back to me. Even if I’m not there.”

The machines beeped softly. The light outside the hospital window was golden again—another warm morning that didn’t know what it had waited for.

Satoru stirred. It was slight at first. A twitch of fingers. A shift of breath. Then a quiet groan as his brow knit and his eyes fluttered open for the first time in days.

His vision blurred in and out. White walls. A ceiling fan. The sting of saline in his nose.

And then—something in his hand. Crumpled paper. His fingers clutched it without knowing why. When he finally blinked enough to see clearly, he turned his head, slowly, painfully—and saw it.

A note.

Unfolded by trembling fingers. He read it once. Then again. And again. Until his lips, chapped and dry, finally whispered:

“Y/N…”

You were back home.

Back in a bedroom that felt too clean. Too untouched. The kind of space that made you question whether the past few weeks even happened—whether the boy with the white hair and salt-kissed laugh had been real at all. Your friends had stopped asking. They assumed it was a summer thing—a fling that burned quick and bright before fading out.

But you couldn’t stop checking your email. The hospital line never rang. No number with a Brazilian country code ever appeared.

You tried to forget. But every time the wind picked up, every time you heard the ocean in a shell or passed the surfboard rentals at the beach back home—he came rushing back.

And the note… the one you left behind? You didn’t know if he ever read it.

It arrived three weeks later. Plain. No return address. But it smelled faintly of sunscreen and sea salt.

Inside: a polaroid.

Taken by a nurse, maybe. It was blurry—but unmistakable. Satoru, half-sitting in a hospital bed. Bruised but smiling. One eye bandaged. A peace sign lifted toward the camera.

In his lap: your note. And beneath the photo, in the corner of the envelope—barely legible scrawl:

“You didn’t forget the ocean.and I didn’t forget you.”

Your hands shook. And for the first time in weeks, you smiled.

[formulafanfics13]

The Secret Girlfriend - Chapter 3

Masterlist

Disclaimer:

This fanfic will contain mature themes and topics (smut, abuse, power imbalance, drug use, alcohol dependency, control, and eating disorders). There will not be warnings throughout, so if you proceed with this fic, please bear this in mind!

It was already thirty degrees by the time Lewis reached the plaza. Monaco had a way of glistening like a postcard in the mornings, that honey-gold sun hitting every marble step and high-end storefront like a soft spotlight. The ocean glittered in the distance, and the glass front of the Metropole Shopping Centre threw reflections like polished mirrors. Luxury had a heartbeat here.

Lando showed up three minutes late in Papaya slides, tan linen shirt half-buttoned, curls still damp like he'd only just gotten out of the shower.

"Didn't want to wear shoes?" Lewis smirked as the younger man approached.

Lando shrugged, squinting against the sun. "Too hot to be respectable."

Lewis chuckled. "Good. Stay disrespectful. We're buying you clothes worthy of Vogue front row."

Lando gave him a side glance. "No glitter suits."

"No promises."

They stepped through the glass doors, immediately met with the rush of air conditioning and the smell of marble polish, cologne, and polished leather. The first floor was almost too quiet, the sound of luxury, hushed, expensive, and full of judgment.

Lewis took the lead, walking ahead with purpose. Lando trailed behind, hands tucked into his linen shorts, gaze flicking over displays without actually seeing them. He looked oddly comfortable here, like he didn't need to impress the shops because someone, somewhere, was already impressed enough to call him home.

Lewis grabbed a blazer off a Saint Laurent rack and turned back. Lando was still two paces behind, head tilted, watching some shirt on a mannequin with a blank stare.

"Are you cool with me taking the lead on this?" Lewis asked, lifting the hanger slightly. "You're walking like I dragged you to the dentist."

Lando blinked out of his daze and smiled. It was a soft, absentminded little grin that made him look younger. "No, it's all good. I'm used to this."

"To what?"

"Trailing behind," Lando said with a small shrug. "She shops for hours. I'm the basket."

Lewis snorted. "The basket?"

Lando nodded. "Y'know. She tries things on. Hands me the no's. I carry everything. Occasionally get to hold her vape while she undresses."

That earned a full laugh from Lewis, head thrown back for half a second. "You're a better man than me."

"I'm just trained."

Lewis turned back to the rack but didn't miss the way Lando's voice softened when he said it, like it was muscle memory. Like he'd done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.

They moved through the store, Lewis plucking out shirts, trousers, a deep navy roll-neck that he declared "sexy but serious." Lando trailed obediently, answering when asked, shrugging when not. His hands were mostly in his pockets, but every now and then, he'd brush his fingers along a fabric or lift a cuff to his eye level, like he was cataloguing it for someone else.

"You planning to tell me anything about her before I meet her?" Lewis asked as they stepped into another boutique, Dior this time. "Or am I just walking into a Vogue shoot blind?"

Lando smirked, half-turned away. "I thought you liked surprises."

"I like context."

"She's..." He paused, chewing on the thought. "Soft."

Lewis blinked. "That's your big descriptor? Soft?"

Lando nodded. "Not like weak. Just... y'know. Everything's easier with her. Like noise turns down."

Lewis watched him. The way he spoke didn't match the usual Lando cadence. It wasn't rushed or sarcastic or punched up for attention. It was slower. Honest.

"You're in love with her," Lewis said, more observation than accusation.

Lando didn't answer right away. Just reached out and fingered the edge of a silk shirt on the nearest rail.

Then, quietly, "Yeah."

Lewis let that hang in the air for a beat. "And you've never posted her."

Lando glanced at him. "I post her all the time. She's just usually cropped out."

That earned a chuckle. "You're a menace."

"Gotta protect the peace somehow."

They wandered into the Gucci boutique next. It was quieter, more curated. A sales associate smiled and hovered, subtly sizing up Lewis while giving Lando that specific kind of tourist energy Monaco locals reserved for people in sliders.

Lando ignored it, instead pointing lazily at a pair of charcoal trousers. "She'd like those."

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "You're shopping for her now?"

Lando blinked. "Aren't I always?"

Lewis stared at him. Then shook his head, grabbing the trousers anyway.

They kept walking. Lando drifted behind, then beside him, then behind again. Like he didn't need to lead. Like he never did.

They'd only made it halfway through Dior when Lando suddenly paused in front of a row of jackets and blinked like he'd just remembered his own name.

Lewis looked back. "What?"

Lando stepped around him and flicked two hangers to the side with a small shake of his head. "No velvet."

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "No velvet?"

"Or suede," Lando added casually, eyes still scanning the row. "Oh, and nothing green."

Lewis stared.

Lando glanced up and shrugged, like it wasn't even a thing. "I just remembered. Those were my instructions."

Lewis slowly grinned. "Your instructions?"

Lando nodded, pulling out a slim-cut navy shirt and holding it up to the light. "Yeah. She hates velvet. Says it reminds her of curtain sex. And suede makes her sneeze."

"Curtain sex?"

"She watched Normal People once and never recovered."

Lewis burst out laughing, startling a sales associate two aisles over.

"I swear to God," he said, wheezing. "You're fucking gone."

Lando smirked without looking up. "You're only just now realising?"

They moved on to the next row, a wall of dress shirts in every texture and fabric known to man. Lando ran his fingers across the cuff of a silk one, white, just sheer enough to be dangerous.

"She'll like this," he murmured, mostly to himself.

Lewis peeked at the tag. "Sheer, Norris? Really?"

Lando gave a lazy shrug. "She likes when I wear things she can't wear underwear under."

Lewis blinked. "What?"

"Hm?" Lando picked up a different shirt. "Oh, sorry. I mean she likes when I wear stuff she can't wear anything under either. Like... matchy energy."

Lewis dragged a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ."

They made it into Tom Ford, and Lando immediately vetoed the entire velvet section. Lewis grabbed two anyway, just to piss him off.

Lando held up a pair of trousers and wrinkled his nose. "These are nice. But they're... linen?"

Lewis smirked. "You're wearing linen right now."

"Yeah, but I'm not sitting next to Anna fucking Wintour right now."

Lewis paused. "She really invited you?"

Lando didn't even flinch. "She said if I wasn't there, she'd pull her from the lineup."

Lewis choked.

"Apparently, she thinks I keep her grounded," Lando added, flipping through the trousers like this wasn't the craziest thing anyone had ever said.

"You?"

"Yeah."

"You, who thinks 'dinner appropriate' means putting on socks?"

"I wear socks!"

"You wear slides with socks."

Lando glanced down at his feet. "...Still counts."

Lewis shook his head, reaching for another shirt. "Jesus Christ. The two of you are a nightmare."

"Kind of the point," Lando said, picking up a bottle of cologne and spraying it on his wrist. "This smells like her, but after she's been out all night and hasn't slept."

Lewis side-eyed him. "That sounds concerning."

"She calls it 'Paris at 4AM.'"

"...Okay that's kind of hot."

"Right?"

They made it to the accessories wall and Lewis grabbed a pair of sunglasses, handing them to Lando. "These. Very mysterious boyfriend energy."

Lando put them on and turned to the mirror.

Lewis studied him.

For a second, just a flicker, Lewis could actually see it. The energy. The reason Vogue was obsessed. The reason this unnamed girl had him memorized like scripture. The way Lando stood there, a little crooked, a little quiet, with the faintest fucking smirk, like the world could collapse and he'd still end up back in her bed, skin warm, hands gentle.

Lewis exhaled. "You look like a kept man."

Lando smiled. "I am."

They moved on again, Lando finally starting to collect a few items in his arms, but mostly still trailing, checking his phone once or twice like he was waiting for something or someone. Lewis didn't ask. Not yet.

Because even if Lando wasn't saying much... every move screamed it. Every shirt vetoed, every shade dismissed, every fucking smirk that came out of nowhere when a memory passed behind his eyes.

The boy was drenched in it. In her. Lewis was just trying to keep up.

The fitting room at Tom Ford was tucked away in the back of the boutique, quiet and cold and padded in velvet. The irony of the decor wasn't lost on Lando — he'd vetoed velvet three times already, but it didn't matter. He wasn't there for the walls. He was there for the look. Her look.

Lewis sat cross-legged on a gold stool just outside the changing booth, arms folded, sunglasses perched in his curls. He had one espresso in hand and the smug patience of a man about to be proven completely wrong.

From behind the curtain: a rustle, a sigh, a muttered "fuck these hangers" and then Lando stepped out in Look One.

He gave a mock runway spin. Hands in pockets. Chin tilted. A smirk that was all attitude and zero effort.

Lewis blinked. The boy could walk.

"You've done this before," Lewis said, half-accusatory.

Lando shrugged, turning slightly so the light hit the side of his cheekbone. "I live with someone who has a ten-figure walk. This is just osmosis."

Lewis narrowed his eyes. "That's not how genetics works."

"Maybe not for you."

"Alright, Look One verdict: shirt's too shiny, shoes are awful, you look like you're about to propose to Zendaya at the Met."

Lando sighed and disappeared behind the curtain again.

Look Two: tan trousers, silk short-sleeve shirt, hair slicked back.

Lewis stared. "You look like you're on holiday with Leonardo DiCaprio's exes."

Lando smirked. "Sounds expensive."

"Not in a good way."

Look Three: A cropped blazer, tailored trousers, and a mesh top.

"Absolutely not," Lewis barked. "This is Paris, not a Berlin sex dungeon."

Lando flipped him off before retreating.

Look Four: Linen suit. No shirt. Sunglasses.

Lewis actually paused. "Okay. Now you're just trying to seduce Anna Wintour."

Lando grinned.

Lewis muttered, "And it's fucking working."

Look Five: White shirt, wide-leg black trousers, structured coat.

Lando walked out and did a little spin.

Lewis frowned. "That's her style for you, isn't it?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"I didn't say she didn't describe it to me last week while we were in bed."

Lewis groaned. "You're so far gone."

Finally, Look Six.

Lando stepped out in loose-fitting black jeans, cuffed just slightly over polished boots. His shirt was deep red linen, just sheer enough to suggest luxury, just wrinkled enough to suggest he'd pulled it off someone else's floor. A black sweater with hand-sewn red thread detailing was draped over his shoulders, the stitching blooming like quiet flames across his back.

He didn't pose. Just stood there. Calm. Present. Confident in a way Lewis hadn't seen on him before, not in a race suit, not even in interviews.

Lewis blinked. "That's it."

Lando tilted his head.

"That's the one," Lewis said. "It looks like you. Or- fuck- it looks like a girl on you."

Lando's mouth twitched. "She'll like it."

Lewis snorted. "She'll rip it off."

"That too."

They paid at the counter.

The total was €16,230. The clerk didn't blink. Neither did Lando.

He pulled out a black card, not just black. Centurion. Titanium. Personalized.

Lewis caught a glimpse of the name. Miss LJ & Mr LN He stared.

Lando swiped the card, signed the slip, and took the receipt like it was nothing. Lewis watched him for a long second. "That a joint card?" he asked.

Lando nodded, folding the receipt into his wallet. "Yeah."

Lewis laughed. "Jesus. You two are married."

"No," Lando said, slipping the card back into his wallet. "Just... synchronised."

They stepped out into the heat again. Monaco wrapped around them like gold-drenched silk. The streets shimmered. Wealth dripped from every marble façade.

Lando slipped on his sunglasses, turned to Lewis, and asked, "You ready to meet her?"

Lewis looked at him for a second. Studied the smirk, the ease, the subtle flush under his collarbones. The calm of a man who knew exactly who was waiting for him on the other side of a penthouse door.

He nodded, finally. "Let's go."

The streets of Monaco were glowing.

Late morning sun reflected off every car window and limestone wall like a filtered film set, casting streaks of gold onto their skin as Lando and Lewis cut through the quiet bustle of Sunday in the hills.

They moved uphill, not steep, just winding. One of those Monaco inclines that looked gentle but made your calves burn halfway through. Lewis adjusted his sunglasses and glanced over at Lando, who walked with an easy, relaxed energy, even with two branded shopping bags in hand. Of course, the kid had rhythm even walking uphill.

They turned off the main road into Larvotto. Lewis didn't blink. Everyone lived in Larvotto. Drivers, team principals, celebrities who pretended they hated attention. The whole district was luxury stacked on top of luxury, marble foyers, underground garages, private gyms, and sea views from every window. Hell, Lewis lived four blocks away.

But then Lando took another left. And another.

And Lewis realised they weren't just going to Larvotto. They were going to Tour Odeon.

Lewis froze halfway up the next step. "You live here?"

Lando glanced over his shoulder, unfazed. "Yeah."

Lewis blinked. "Here here?"

"Yeah."

Tour Odeon wasn't just an apartment building. It was a fucking monument. Two shimmering glass towers scraping the sky. Home to CEOs, oil tycoons, and at least one dethroned prince. The kind of place that didn't just cost money, it justified it. Every floor had panoramic views, every resident had their own concierge, and most people didn't even know what the interiors looked like because photography wasn't allowed past the lobby.

Lewis followed, stunned into silence, as Lando walked up to the mirrored glass entrance.

A discreet black pad sat flush against the wall beside the door.

Lando tapped his fob. The pad blinked green. The glass doors whispered open.

Inside, the lobby looked more like a five-star hotel than an apartment building. Italian marble. Gold fixtures. A concierge desk made from dark oak and silence. The air was chilled, scented with something that probably cost more than a Ferrari's oil change.

The receptionist looked up and smiled. "Good morning, Mr. Norris. You've got parcels in the drop box."

Lando nodded, already halfway to the elevator. "Can someone bring them up later?"

"Of course."

Lewis blinked. Bring them up. Like they were room service. Like this wasn't tour fucking odeon. He caught up just as Lando stepped into the elevator and tapped his fob again. The pad flashed green.

PENTHOUSE 4 lit up on the screen.

Lewis almost choked. "Penthouse?" he asked, voice somewhere between shock and suspicion.

Lando glanced over. "Yeah."

Lewis squinted. "Penthouse four?"

Lando grinned. "Had to be four. Race number. Can't live anywhere else. Superstition."

Lewis didn't say anything. Lando didn't notice. He was scrolling through his phone, thumb flicking past messages, probably one from her. He didn't even blink at the fact that Lewis was trying to compute what it meant for Lando Norris. Quiet, gamer, introvert Lando Norris, to live in a fucking penthouse in the most expensive building in Monaco.

It wasn't just wealth. It was partnership. You didn't live in Tour Odeon alone. Not in a penthouse. Not at twenty-four. This was their place.

Lewis leaned back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, eyes still fixed on the glowing PENTHOUSE 4 button.

He hadn't even met her yet. But this? This already said everything.

[huariqueje]

Cyclamen with Postcard from Amy - Hayley Barker , 2022.

American , b. 1973 -

Oil on linen , 27 x 23 in.

[bennyboyfics]

When in Monte-Carlo || Ben Shelton x fem!reader

A/n: sad Ben lost his match :( also kinda envisioned Alexandra when I wrote this but ofc u don’t have to xx

Wc: 2,296

Warnings: none really

MASTERLIST

-

The sun glinted off the Mediterranean, casting a golden sheen over Monaco’s postcard-perfect streets. You’d lived here for years now—long enough for the yachts, the champagne-soaked parties, and the quiet hush of wealth to feel almost mundane. But you still loved early mornings like this: quiet, with only the sea breeze and the promise of possibility.

You adjusted your handbag and wandered along the edge of the court at Monte Carlo Country Club. It wasn’t Grand Prix season, but the courts were alive with energy. A few top players had come early to train for clay season, and while you weren’t here for anyone in particular, watching athletes sharpen their game had always calmed you.

Probably because it reminded you of a lifestyle you’d left behind. You paused near the far court, your eyes catching on someone new. Tall, strong build, left-handed—his serve cracked like thunder. You tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Damn,” you murmured to yourself, watching the ball whiz past the baseline.

“Not bad, huh?” someone beside you said. It was a girl, around your age, grinning at you. “That’s Ben Shelton.” You turned to look again, this time more closely. The name tugged at your memory. American. Young. Big serve. You vaguely remembered him from the last US Open—his energy, his showmanship. But seeing him in person was different.

He was focused, his brows furrowed as he wiped sweat from his face with a towel. When his eyes flicked up and met yours, you thought he’d look away quickly. He didn’t. Instead, he smiled. You felt something spark low in your stomach.

—

The next day, the stadium buzzed with energy. You’d dressed simply—white linen trousers, a navy blouse, and your hair pulled back in a soft clip. You weren’t trying to make a statement. But Monaco had other plans. You adjusted your sunglasses and glanced over your shoulder, walking beside someone who—despite your years surrounded by men in designer watches and private yachts—felt entirely new.

Ben Shelton. He was wearing a navy Nike tracksuit, tall and broad-shouldered, with that easy grin and tousled curls that the cameras would no doubt eat up. You hadn’t known him for long—just a day, really. A conversation that began over espresso and sunshine and laughter that felt like you hadn’t had in months.

It was impulsive, maybe foolish, to say yes when he asked if you wanted to walk into the tournament with him. But it was the kind of impulsive that made your heart beat again. You weren’t prepared for the flashing cameras. The moment the two of you stepped out of the black car outside Monte Carlo Country Club, shutters clicked like a storm.

The press had clearly been tipped off. A handful of paparazzi stood behind velvet ropes, shouting names and snapping photos. You hadn’t expected them to care—not about you, not when you weren’t the girlfriend of an F1 star anymore. But you’d underestimated Monaco’s appetite for scandal—and how interesting it might be that you were walking beside a young, rising American tennis star.

“Wow,” Ben muttered beside you, smirking at the crowd before looking at you. “You didn’t tell me they’d be waiting.” “I didn’t know,” you said under your breath, offering a small smile to the cameras. “But… welcome to Monaco.” He chuckled, then leaned in as if sharing a secret. “Guess they think we’re something to talk about.” Before you could respond, you heard your name.

Not from Ben. Not from the cameras. From him.“Didn’t think I’d see you here.” You froze for the briefest moment. Lucien’s voice was like a slap of cold water. When you turned, he was standing a few feet away—hair perfectly coiffed, team-issued polo tight across his chest, sunglasses pushed into his carefully styled hair. Of course he was here.

A local event, off-season press, plenty of social appearances. He never missed a chance to be seen. His gaze slid from your face to Ben’s, taking in the proximity, the matching lanyards, the small smile still playing on Ben’s lips. “You look well,” Lucien said, cool and casual, but there was an unmistakable edge there. You opened your mouth to respond, but Ben moved first.

He stepped closer to you—not possessive, not aggressive, just… there. Solid. Grounding. His hand gently settled at your waist, like it had always belonged there. You felt the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of your blouse. “Hey, man,” Ben said smoothly, tone polite but firm. “Didn’t catch your name.” Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Lucien.”

“Right,” Ben said, his tone neutral, edged with something just shy of dismissive. “I’m Ben.” There was no posturing, no need to impress. Just a cool, effortless confidence that made the moment all the more satisfying. You could feel a smirk tug at the corner of your lips. He didn’t need to say more—didn’t need to. The disinterest was the point.

Lucien’s gaze flickered back to you, settling there with a quiet calculation, like he was trying to piece something together he didn’t quite like. His lips parted, expression deceptively easy. “Last time we went to one of these, you were bored out of your mind.” You tensed, the remark hitting with the precision of someone who knew exactly how to needle you.

Before you could respond, Ben shifted beside you—barely, subtly—but enough. His hand slid lower along your back, fingers brushing just above the curve of your waist. The touch was light, but grounding. Reassuring. Protective. He eased you closer with a slow, deliberate pull until your shoulder met the firm warmth of his chest. Your breath caught.

“She’s been incredible,” Ben said smoothly, eyes still on Lucien but with a note of sincerity meant just for you. “Helping me adjust, giving me insight, keeping me sane during prep for clay season.” Then he looked down at you, voice softening. “I’m lucky to have her with me.” And in that moment, everything stilled. It wasn’t just a line. It didn’t feel rehearsed or convenient or for show.

It felt true, like he wasn’t just saying it for Lucien’s benefit, but because he meant it—even if he hadn’t fully realised it until just then. His eyes lingered on yours a beat too long, and you could feel the weight of it—something protective, something unspoken. It wasn’t possessiveness. It was claiming—but not in the way Lucien had once done, like you were an accessory to be shown off.

This was different. Lucien’s jaw ticked—just a flicker of tension before he masked it with a tight nod. “Well. Enjoy the match.” And without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared through the VIP entrance, retreating like someone who had just lost ground he didn’t realise wasn’t his anymore. Ben let out a quiet breath beside you.

“You good?” he asked under his breath, head dipping toward yours. You nodded slowly, heart still thudding, the aftershock of tension mixing with the sharp thrill of being chosen—not for optics, not for legacy, but for you. “Better than ever,” you murmured, your voice just barely above a whisper. His smile returned, a little smug, a little satisfied. “He didn’t look happy.”

You laughed, finally, tension breaking. “Neither did you when he showed up.” Ben shrugged. “Didn’t like the way he looked at you. Like he still had some kind of hold.” You gave him a sideways glance. “So you pulled me in front of half of Monaco?” He gave you a sheepish smile. “Well. Yeah.” You shook your head, but the truth was… it felt good. Better than good.

For once, someone was choosing to stand beside you—not for PR, not for appearances, not to show you off. Just because they wanted to be there.

—

You followed Ben to the player’s lounge, tucked behind the main court. The cameras had been left behind, but the whispers were still very much present. People looked—some curious, some surprised. You were still her—Monaco’s former it-girl, the ex everyone had an opinion about. Whether you were yesterday’s news or still relevant in the right circles, you weren’t sure anymore.

But now, apparently, with a new man on your arm. Ben didn’t seem to care. He handed you a water bottle, let his hand brush your waist again when he passed you, and every so often, he’d lean in to murmur something just for you. “You know you’re the most interesting thing in this building right now,” he said once, low and amused. “And I’m about to go play a match.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please, they’re here for you.”“Maybe,” he said, gaze steady. “But I’m here for you.”

—

The match itself was electric. Ben’s energy was infectious—grinning between points, playing with swagger and confidence, feeding off the crowd. But he also kept looking up. At you. Every time he nailed an ace, every time he fought off break point, he found your eyes. The cameras caught it. Of course they did.

By the end of the second set, you could feel your phone buzzing in your bag. Messages. Mentions. Photos, already circulating. Who is the mystery girl with Shelton? Is Ben Shelton dating Monaco socialite Y/n? F1 star’s ex seen cozying up to tennis’s rising star.

You should’ve been anxious. But when Ben closed out the match with a brutal cross-court winner and threw his arms up, your first instinct was to stand, clapping, heart pounding. He looked at you—only you—and winked. And when he jogged off the court, towel around his neck, he made no detours.

He came straight to you. “No impromptu kiss today?” you teased as he approached, cheeks flushed from the heat. Ben grinned, pulling his cap off and running a hand through his curls. “Thought I’d leave something for the next match.” You raised a brow. “Planning to keep this up, then?”

He stepped closer. “You’re not tired of me yet, are you?” You bit your lip, tilting your head. “Not even close.” He glanced down, then looked back into your eyes, voice dropping a notch. “Good. ‘Cause I was serious when I said I liked having you here.”You swallowed. The noise of the crowd blurred in the background.

All you could hear was your own pulse—and him. “Me too,” you said quietly. “It feels good.” He nodded, gaze softening. “You’re more than who you used to be with. And honestly? I think Monaco needs to see this version of you.” You smiled, touched, and just a little shy under his stare. He leaned in. “Walk out with me again?”

“Absolutely,” you said. And when you left the stadium hand-in-hand, cameras flashing, heads turning, and Lucien watching from the corner of the player’s lounge with a bitter expression—well…You didn’t feel like a shadow anymore.

[kinascum]

I can imagine Chris taking his girlfriend on a vacation for their 1 year and immediately eating her out as soon as your in your hotel room

oh boy do I have a blurb for you..

"I've been looking forward to this for weeks," Chris said, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he squeezed your hand.

The air had the scent of saltwater and the promise of adventure as you stepped off the plane. You couldn't help but sigh with relief as the tropical breeze kissed your skin, whispering sweet nothings of relaxation and romance. This was it: the vacation of a lifetime, a celebration of your one-year anniversary with the love of your life.

Chris had planned everything to the last detail, keeping most of it a surprise. You had no idea where you were going until the boarding announcement echoed through the airport. Now, with the warm sun shining down and the sound of waves crashing in the distance, you felt like you'd stumbled into a dream.

The taxi ride to the hotel was a blur of color and laughter, the kind that left your cheeks hurting and your stomach tight from joy. The moment the bellhop opened the door to your suite, you gasped. It was like stepping into a postcard, all white linens and ocean views, the perfect canvas for the memories you were about to paint.

Chris was already at the bed, tossing your luggage aside with a hungry look in his eyes. "Before we unpack," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine, "I have something else in mind."

He took a step closer, and the room seemed to shrink around you, the air growing heavier with anticipation. His hands found the hem of your dress, lifting it up inch by inch. "Chris," you breathed, but his mouth was on yours before you could say another word, stealing your protests and replacing them with a gasp.

The kiss was like a brand, marking you as his, a promise of the passion that awaited you. His hands roamed over your body, familiar yet thrilling, as he worked to remove the barriers between you. The heat grew, the air thickening with desire as you stumbled backward onto the bed.

And then, without warning, he was gone. Your eyes snapped open to find him kneeling before you, his gaze burning with an intensity that made your heart race. "Let me make this first moment together something truly special," he whispered, his voice hoarse with want.

You nodded, unable to speak, as he began to kiss his way down your body. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as if he were exploring a sacred place for the first time. Each kiss left a trail of fire in its wake, setting your skin alight.

The moment his mouth found yours again, you realized what he meant. This was more than just a vacation—it was the start of a new chapter in your love story, one filled with passion and discovery. And as he continued to worship you with his lips and tongue, you couldn't help but wonder what other surprises awaited you in this tropical paradise.

You felt the coolness of the sheets against your skin as he carefully removed the last of your clothing, leaving you bare before him. His eyes devoured you, a silent declaration of his love and desire. Your heart thudded in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears like a drumroll leading up to the grand finale.

Chris took his time, savoring every inch of you, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and along the curve of your breasts. You moaned softly, arching into his touch, your body already singing with pleasure. The anticipation was exquisite, a delicious tension that coiled tightly in your core.

When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, you were trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked up, a wicked smile playing on his lips, and you knew that he enjoyed watching you squirm under his touch. "Ready?" he asked, his voice a playful rumble. You nodded, eyes glazed with need.

With one swift movement, he settled between your legs and kissed you intimately, his tongue darting and exploring. The sensation was overwhelming, a symphony of pleasure that had you crying out his name. Your hands found their way into his hair, holding him closer as the waves of ecstasy began to build.

The room spun around you, the only anchor his steady rhythm and the sound of the ocean outside. Each stroke was a promise, each lick a declaration of his love. You felt yourself spiraling higher, lost in the warmth and wetness of his mouth, the world outside fading away until all that remained was the two of you.

The tension grew, coiling tighter and tighter, until you thought you might break. And then, with a final, masterful flick of his tongue, you did. Your body convulsed, a silent scream escaping your lips as the orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave.

Chris pulled away, a smug smile on his face as he watched the aftershocks roll through you. "Happy anniversary," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire. The celebration had only just begun.

[benkaden]

Ansichtskarte (Muster) / Vintage Postcard (sample)

Home of LIBRARY of IDEAS SAINT LOUIS

Chicago, Ill: Curt Teich & Co (OB-H2475)

[postingcards]

echo river 360 feet underground linen postcard ca. 1930s

[bellobambino]

'O Sole Mio'

?: After a few glasses of cheap Chianti, Luigi tells you a story. Nothing could have prepared you for its delivery.

1,080w

Author's Note: I don't have any words left after this, all i have is feelings and crying and ... im so gone for him. ive lost my mind. i dont know if this shit makes any sense but i was just about weeping writing it LOL

------------

It was the last golden gasp of summer at Seaside Heights, the kind of evening that feels like a postcard itself. The boardwalk was alive with the smell of fried dough and the sound of distant screaming children on rides powered by questionable engineering. Luigi and I had wedged ourselves into a corner table on the patio at some hole-in-the-wall Italian place.

We had ordered slices and “just a glass” of wine, which inevitably became, “Just bring us the bottle.” By the time I was three pours deep, Luigi had his legs stretched out like he owned the place.

His eyes, espresso-dark and shining under the cheap string lights of the boardwalk, were giving me that look. You know the one. Like he knew how good he looked in his half-buttoned linen shirt.

That’s when he suddenly froze, his head tilting to the side. He pointed upward. The music—some cheesy, dramatic Pavarotti knockoff that these Italian dives play to try and appear authentic. Then he smiled, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“What?” I asked, already laughing at whatever dumb thing he was about to say.

“Oh my God.” He shook his head. “I can’t tell you. No way.”

“Well, now you have to tell me.” I smacked his arm—rock solid.

He paused and sighed. “Okay, but promise me you won’t laugh.” He leaned in with a straight face that had me eagerly anticipating another highly entertaining Mangione story.

“I promise,” I lied.

“Alright.” He looked around, then leaned in conspiratorially. I was melting for this man. Every moment with him felt important, filled with meaning. He could have said anything, and I’d lap it up like a dog. “So,” he started, rubbing his face like he was already regretting this.

“My mom used to play these mix CDs on the stereo at home. Pavarotti, Bocelli, all the classics, right? She’d be cooking, cleaning, just vibing to these… love songs.”

“Sure,” I said. Totally normal so far.

“But this song”—he pointed upwards again to the song playing on the patio speakers—“‘O Sole Mio,’ a total guilty pleasure for her. When it came on, she would lose her mind. Singing, swaying, dancing. And eight-year-old me sat there watching her, thinking, This must be the greatest song in the history of songs. So, Mother’s Day comes around…”

At this point, Luigi paused, biting his lip like he wasn’t sure he should continue. I couldn’t help the smile that possessed my face.

“Oh my God, Lu, what did you do?”

He waved me off, reaching for his wine. “No, nah, I can’t—”

“Finish the story, Luigi.”

“Fine.” He threw his hands up. “I learned the song. Like, the whole song, okay? I watched every Pavarotti performance on YouTube at the time. Memorized the lyrics. Practiced in front of the mirror. And on Mother’s Day, I performed it for her.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. For her, my family, my cousins, neighbors. I’m pretty sure Pavarotti himself has sung for smaller audiences.”

I lost it. “You did not…” I said, breathless already. The image of little eight-year-old Luigi in my head, filled with love for his mama, singing an Italian love song in complete earnestness, was too hysterical to keep contained.

“I did,” he admitted. The music swelled in the restaurant, hitting that classic over-the-top crescendo, and Luigi—my God, this man—pushed back his chair and stood up.

“And now…” He slapped his hand on his puffed-up chest and lifted his chin.

“Luigi, NO.”

“I will sing it for you.”

And let me tell you, it was terrible.

He was hamming it up like some kind of opera drunk on karaoke night, his voice all over the place but somehow still deeply passionate, like he was singing to save Italy itself. People in the restaurant were staring. I was just as mortified as I was captivated. Tears were streaming down my face. Dying. And he didn’t stop. He didn’t care. He kept going—arms gesturing wildly, every crescendo perfectly wrong—and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

When he hit the final note—“O SOOOOLEEEEEE MIIIIOOOOOOO!”—he threw out his arms in a dramatic flourish, like he was expecting roses to rain down from the sky. I clapped so hard my palms hurt.

When he finished, he bowed. One or two other patrons gave half-hearted claps, probably just impressed by his dedication to the bit. His cheeks and ears were a delicious shade of pink, his smile lighting up his face as he moved his chair closer to me.

“You’re too much, Luigi,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes.

He finally sat down, our knees touching. He leaned towards me, and suddenly I was his only audience. “Do you know what the song means?” His voice was soft, so only I could hear. There was a twinkle in his eye that wasn’t there before.

I shook my head.

“Okay, ‘O Sole Mio’—it means ‘My Sunshine.’ It’s about… someone being the light of your life. Like…” He shifted his weight, trying to find the words. “Like even the sun itself can’t hold a candle to the person you love.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a little embarrassed by the intensity, but too caught up in the moment to stop himself. “It’s like the artist was saying, ‘The world is so much brighter with you in it.’ The guy is completely wrecked over how beautiful life is because of this one person... you know?”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, gauging if any of this was resonating with me at all. His goofy bravado had melted into something almost painfully genuine and sincere.

This was real for him.

“I do know, Lu,” I said quietly.

He leaned back, taking his wine. He shrugged. “And that’s why I sang it for my mom.” He tried to downplay it, but I saw right through him. “Because she’s always been my sunshine. Always will be.”

My breath caught in my throat at that.

Then, he must have realized he’d gone too far into the serious zone. He snapped back to being playful. “Anyway, I fucking nailed that performance on Mother’s Day, and everyone talked about it for weeks after.”

I don’t know if he realized what he was doing to me. The lights sparkled brighter. The air tasted sweeter. And my heart was warmer. Because he was here. He was insane, but I wouldn't have him any other way.

The song made perfect sense. Life is a gift with you.

~~~

What a beautiful thing is a sunny day.

But another sun, even more beauteous, oh my sweetheart, My own sun, shines from your face This sun, my own sun, Shines from your face; It shines from your face

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Request for Love, Lies And Loki:

Y/N and Loki meet Loki’s Doppelganger, Jonathan Pine. Y/N tells Loki how much Jonathan looks like him. Loki denies it. The couple goes on an adventure to help Jonathan defeat a villain.

Love, Lies And Loki~16

Summery: Y/N and Loki meet Loki’s Doppelgänger, Jonathan Pine (From ‘The Night Manager’) during their vacation in Italy. Y/N tells Loki how much Jonathan looks like him. Loki denies it. The couple goes on an adventure to help Jonathan defeat a villain.

Characters: Loki x wife!reader

Note: All characters except Loki are mine!

||Master List||

18. Domestic(ish) Bliss

💚Doppelgänger💛

Amalfi Coast, Italy - Present Day

The soft hush of waves lapping against the rocky shoreline filled the morning air as sunlight danced across the Mediterranean, casting golden flecks over the calm, blue sea. A gentle breeze rustled through the white linen curtains of the cozy villa perched on the cliffs above. Inside, all was peaceful—until it wasn’t.

“I told you I packed the sunscreen,” Loki’s voice echoed from the open terrace.

Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, sipping her morning coffee, clad in one of Loki’s oversized black t-shirts. “You packed illusionary sunscreen,” she called back. “That doesn’t count.”

He entered the room in his loose green sleep shirt, hair tousled and smug grin plastered across his face. “It counts if I believe it does.”

She raised an eyebrow. “My sunburn yesterday would like a word.”

Loki snorted, wrapping his arms around her from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. “We could just stay inside. I’ll cast a spell to make the room feel like the beach. No exposure to solar radiation, and I still get to admire you in that swimsuit.”

She elbowed him gently in the ribs, grinning. “You promised me breakfast by the sea, not illusions.”

“Very well,” he sighed dramatically. “To the real sun we go.”

⸻

After brunch at a tiny seaside café—where Loki amused himself by charming a seagull into pirouetting for crumbs—they walked along the marina. The vacation had been her idea. They both needed a break after their last diplomatic “incident” with a certain prickly Wakandan official who hadn’t been thrilled to see Loki at the UN Gala.

Y/N tugged at Loki’s hand, pausing by a vendor cart selling beaded jewelry and postcards. She picked up a tiny postcard of a sunset.

“Pretty,” she murmured.

“Not as much as you,” Loki replied smoothly, glancing sideways. She rolled her eyes but smiled.

And that was when she saw him.

Across the square, a man in a tan blazer stood near a fountain, looking over his shoulder. Something about him caught her attention—his posture, the way he furrowed his brows. Then he turned fully.

“Loki,” she said, blinking. “That man looks exactly like you.”

He glanced in the direction she indicated. “Him?”

“Yes. It’s like… you with a different wardrobe and slightly less smugness.”

Loki narrowed his eyes. “He doesn’t look like me.”

“He really does,” she insisted. “It’s uncanny.”

The man—Jonathan Pine—had now noticed them too. For a moment, the three simply stared at each other across the plaza. Then Pine began walking toward them.

Loki instinctively stepped in front of her. “That’s not unsettling at all.”

Y/N peeked around him. “Loki, he’s not even holding a weapon. Chill.”

“I don’t trust familiar faces on unfamiliar bodies.”

Jonathan reached them and gave a polite, if slightly puzzled, smile. “Apologies. You two looked… oddly familiar.”

Y/N offered her hand. “I could say the same. I’m Y/N. And this is—”

“Loki,” Jonathan finished, slowly. “I thought so. I’ve seen your face before, just not… here.”

Loki tilted his head. “Have you now? And who are you, precisely?”

“Jonathan Pine,” he replied. “I work with MI6. Or used to. Now I freelance in intelligence contracts. Weapons trafficking, arms dealers, that sort of thing.”

Loki crossed his arms. “Sounds charming.”

Y/N, ever the diplomat between her husband and… well, anyone, stepped in. “Are you in trouble?”

Jonathan gave her a small smile. “A bit. Someone I’m tracking has recognized me. And they mistook me for him.” He gestured to Loki. “Which I thought was odd, until now.”

Loki narrowed his eyes. “Someone is confusing us? I demand to see this imposter.”

Y/N sighed. “Babe. He means you.”

Jonathan slipped a file from his jacket and handed it to them. Inside were surveillance photos: grainy black-and-whites, a few colored ones. And in the center, a clear image of Loki—in his full Asgardian glory—during the New York incident.

“This… got into the wrong hands,” Jonathan explained. “And now they think I’m part of something intergalactic. I’ve already had one attempt on my life.”

Y/N frowned, flipping through the photos. “This is bad.”

“Why come to us?” Loki asked sharply. “You could’ve stayed far away.”

“I didn’t know where else to go. You’re the key to proving I’m not the man they think I am. And maybe the key to stopping them.”

Loki looked down at Y/N, who returned the glance with a little nod. “Looks like vacation’s over,” she murmured.

He sighed theatrically. “Of course it is. The moment we decide to relax, the multiverse hands me a British twin with a spy complex.”

Y/N looked between them with a slight smirk. “This is going to be fun.”

⸻

The cozy Italian villa had turned into something between a strategy room and a crime drama set. Maps covered the dining table, alongside photographs, scribbled notes, and the occasional pastry that Y/N had insisted they still enjoy, vacation or not.

Loki, unimpressed by the mortal clutter, leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed and his signature expression of distaste painted clearly across his face.

“I was promised sunshine, wine, and perhaps a scandalous dip in the sea,” he grumbled. “Instead, I’m handed conspiracy boards and a man who shares my face.”

Jonathan Pine, sipping espresso, lifted his eyebrows. “If it helps, I find the situation just as awkward. I didn’t intend to drag you two into this.”

Y/N gave a soft laugh as she moved around the table, placing a plate of croissants between the two men like some kind of peace offering. “And yet, here we are. Can’t resist a good mystery, especially one involving magical relics and mistaken identities.”

Loki narrowed his eyes. “She’s enjoying this far too much.”

“I am,” Y/N admitted, grinning. “But only because I know you’ll find a way to outshine even your doppelgänger.”

Jonathan smirked over his cup. “She’s not wrong. You’re annoyingly good at stealing the spotlight.”

Loki rolled his eyes and muttered, “God of Mischief, not modesty.”

Y/N settled beside Loki, threading her fingers through his. “So,” she said, her voice softening, “tell us about this Serpent’s Core.”

Jonathan placed a photograph in front of them. It showed a long, black crate with strange golden markings on the sides, snapped during a transfer operation in Norway. “It’s a relic. Some kind of ancient Asgardian artifact—or so they believe. It’s said to pulse with pure energy. They call it the Serpent’s Core, and if the legends are true, it has enough power to tear open realms.”

Loki frowned and moved to study the photo more closely. “This shouldn’t be here. Not on Earth. The Core was buried deep beneath the Temple of Niðavellir. It wasn’t meant to be found.”

Y/N glanced at him. “You know it?”

“I’ve read about it in the All-Father’s forbidden tomes. It’s not merely a power source. It’s a beacon. A tool to summon something… worse.”

Jonathan’s voice dropped. “Then we need to stop them.”

“Indeed,” Loki muttered. “Or Earth will become nothing more than a stepping stone for chaos.”

⸻

(Later That Night…)

The hotel they’d moved to in Rome was modest by Loki’s standards, but charming enough. Y/N sat at the edge of the bed, her laptop open, scanning blueprints of a warehouse in Milan—the supposed location of the Core’s next transfer.

Loki stepped out of the shower, his hair wet, draped in a black silk robe. “You’re still working?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

Y/N looked up. “Jonathan said the Core might be moved in two days. We don’t have time to be lazy.”

“Lazy?” Loki scoffed. “Darling, I was battling frost giants before you learned to tie your shoes.”

Y/N tilted her head and grinned. “Which makes this a walk in the park, right?”

Loki walked over and sank beside her, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You still worry.”

“Of course I do. You’re about to walk into a dangerous facility pretending to be someone you don’t even like.”

“I can manage,” he said quietly. “But I’ll keep the comms open. One whisper from you and I’ll vanish.”

She leaned into him. “Please don’t vanish. Just come back.”

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Always.”

⸻

(The Next Morning: Meeting the Informant)

Jonathan led them to a café nestled in a quiet Roman alley, where a man waited under a green canopy, nervously tapping his fingers.

“That’s Rami,” Jonathan murmured. “Former Midas Network. He’s the one who confirmed the shipment details.”

Loki, already annoyed by the lack of dramatics, adjusted his cuffs. “He looks like a weasel.”

Y/N shushed him gently and approached with a calm, practiced air. She introduced herself as a liaison for “discreet foreign interests,” and gestured between the two men beside her.

Rami’s eyes locked onto Loki. “You… you’re not—?”

“He’s the real Loki,” Jonathan cut in. “Not the imposter they’ve been dealing with.”

Rami blinked. “You mean there are two of you?!”

Loki’s smile turned predatory. “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

Rami’s hands trembled slightly. “The warehouse in Milan—it’s a hub. They plan to ship the Core through a hidden channel into Eastern Europe. There’s a black market auction being set up. Invitation-only.”

“And they’re expecting ‘Loki’ to deliver the Core?” Y/N asked.

“Yes. You… him. Whoever.”

Jonathan leaned forward. “Then we play along. Let them think I’m showing up with the Core. The real Loki will walk in as me.”

Loki sighed. “Do I at least get better clothes for the disguise?”

Y/N smirked. “You’ll survive.”

⸻

(Night Before the Infiltration)

The plan was simple: Loki would use an illusion to appear as Jonathan and infiltrate the handoff. Jonathan would stay back, monitoring from a van outside. Y/N would serve as magical backup, ready to open a portal or hex their enemies if anything went sideways.

Back in the hotel suite, Loki sat at the edge of the bed, his expression uncharacteristically solemn as he laced up black boots.

“You’re quiet,” Y/N said gently from behind him.

He glanced up, eyes meeting hers. “Because if this goes wrong, it could mean far more than a ruined vacation.”

She crossed the room and knelt before him, her fingers brushing against his. “It won’t go wrong.”

“You don’t know that.”

She smiled. “No, I don’t. But I trust you. You always come back to me.”

He touched her cheek, fingers cold but steady. “I always will.”

⸻

The city pulsed beneath overcast skies as Loki, glamoured in Jonathan Pine’s visage, walked alone into the lion’s den.

You stood by the window of the safehouse, white-knuckling the edge of the wooden frame, eyes fixed on the dark horizon. The tension in the room was palpable, electric almost. Jonathan, pacing nearby, hadn’t spoken much since Loki left. He glanced at his watch again, the fifth time in as many minutes.

“He should’ve checked in by now,” you whispered, your voice laced with nerves.

Jonathan stopped, expression unreadable. “If he’s playing me, it’ll backfire,” he muttered.

You turned sharply toward him. “He’s not playing you. He’s risking everything to help you stop this maniac.”

Jonathan’s jaw flexed. “He’s reckless.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, more to keep yourself steady than in defiance. “He’s Loki. He’s a god. But even gods can bleed.”

Jonathan’s gaze softened. “And you love him.”

“I do,” you said quietly.

Outside, thunder rumbled faintly. A storm was brewing, the kind that matched the turbulence boiling inside your chest. You stared down at your phone again. Nothing. No text. No call. Not even a damn heartbeat shared through the faint magical bond he’d placed on you before he left.

“It’s quiet. Too quiet,” Jonathan said, breaking the silence.

“Should we go after him?” you asked.

“No,” he replied, but not firmly enough to convince either of you.

You stared out at the skyline, then pressed your fingers against the faint green rune on your wrist — a subtle tether Loki had placed, just in case. You focused on it, but it pulsed faintly, erratically.

Something was wrong.

Inside the compound, Loki moved with the confidence only a man in control could display. He wore Jonathan’s face but carried himself with the weight of centuries. Guards let him pass without hesitation.

But it didn’t take long for the illusion to fracture.

“You’re walking differently, Mr. Pine,” a voice said behind him.

Loki turned, keeping Jonathan’s smirk in place. “Yoga,” he quipped.

The man didn’t laugh.

Two others stepped out of the shadows. Loki recognized the leader — Vaughn Keller. Ruthless, cold-eyed, and known for torturing his enemies before disposing of them. Jonathan’s old enemy. And now, his.

“Cut the act,” Keller growled.

Loki sighed. “And here I thought I was doing such a good impression.”

He dropped the illusion in a shimmer of green, standing tall in his Asgardian form, his voice calm and dangerous. “You were expecting Jonathan. You got something far worse.”

Keller raised his gun, but it was laughable. Loki didn’t flinch. “That pea-shooter won’t work on me,” he said coldly.

Still, Keller wasn’t aiming to kill. He was stalling.

From behind, a dampening field activated — one powerful enough to momentarily drain Loki’s magic. A cage of shimmering violet light enveloped him, and the room closed in.

Back at the safehouse, your wrist burned. You gasped.

Jonathan rushed to your side. “What is it?”

“The bond—it flared and vanished.” You turned to him. “He’s in trouble.”

Jonathan cursed under his breath and grabbed his gun. “Let’s move.”

They had Loki bound.

The dampening field flickered erratically, more experimental than perfected, but it was holding. Loki sat chained to a chair, blood dripping from his temple where a blunt object had connected. He glared up at Keller.

“You’re not human,” Keller said, circling. “What are you?”

“I’m the nightmare that dances between stars,” Loki said coolly, “the god your pathetic myths tried to cage in ink and fear.”

Keller backhanded him. Loki tasted blood and grinned, teeth stained crimson.

Outside, thunder cracked again.

You and Jonathan were close. The building loomed ahead, a concrete fortress nestled against the cliffs. Your heart pounded in your chest as Jonathan looked through his binoculars.

“There,” he said, pointing. “That room. See the flicker? Magic suppression field.”

Your stomach twisted. “He’s inside.”

Jonathan nodded. “We go in quiet. I’ll take the south hallway.”

You nodded, already unzipping your jacket to reveal your concealed weapons — a small dagger Loki had enchanted, and a firearm Jonathan had insisted you carry.

Inside, Loki’s magic simmered just beneath the surface, clawing for release. His eyes, duller now, scanned the room for weaknesses.

Then, the door burst open.

Jonathan was the first through, gun raised. You followed, breath catching when your eyes found Loki — bloodied, bound, but grinning like hell itself.

“About time,” he croaked.

You didn’t hesitate — you rushed to him, dropped to your knees and cupped his face gently. “Loki—”

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “You’re here.”

Jonathan worked quickly, deactivating the dampening field. It fizzled, and in an instant, green light surged from Loki’s hands, snapping the chains like threads.

He stumbled, and you caught him.

Loki’s eyes fluttered shut for a second. “I could’ve handled it,” he said weakly.

“Of course you could’ve,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “But you don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”

Keller returned with backup. Gunfire rang out, but Loki, now restored, lifted his hand. A dome of green magic flared to life, shielding you. Jonathan fired from behind the barrier, expertly taking down the guards.

Keller tried to flee.

Loki raised a hand, eyes glowing. Ropes of light curled around Keller’s limbs and dragged him to his knees.

“You harmed what is mine,” Loki said, his voice like ice. “I should reduce you to atoms.”

You placed a hand on his chest. “Don’t. Let justice handle him.”

Loki’s eyes locked on yours. The fury ebbed.

“As you wish,” he murmured, and released the spell.

Later, back at the safehouse, you helped Loki clean up. He sat shirtless on the couch, bruises littering his ribs. You dabbed ointment on a particularly nasty one.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you said softly.

“I scare myself sometimes,” he replied, quieter than usual.

You looked up. “Why did you go alone?”

“Because if anything happened to you… I couldn’t bear it.”

You leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “We’re a team, Loki. You and me. Always.”

He caught your hand and pressed it to his chest. “When I was in that cell, all I could think about was the life we have. Your laughter in the morning. The way you hum when you cook. The way you say my name when I’ve annoyed you just enough.”

You smiled. “You’re talking like a man who had a near-death epiphany.”

“I did,” he said simply. “And it’s this — I’d walk into fire for you, but I’d rather walk beside you. Every time.”

From the kitchen, Jonathan cleared his throat loudly. “I can still hear you, you know.”

You laughed. “Then maybe it’s time you left.”

Loki smirked. “Agreed.”

Jonathan gave you a mock salute. “Glad you’re alive. Both of you.” Then, more seriously, “Thanks for helping me close this chapter.”

“You owe us dinner,” Loki said with a grin.

Jonathan sighed. “Of course I do.”

That night, curled up in bed, you watched Loki sleep, hand curled around yours, his thumb still faintly glowing with the magic of the bond he’d strengthened again.

Outside, the storm passed.

Inside, all was calm.

-the end

[simpxmachina]

NEW BOT

╰┈➤ wlw red panda , botmaker

🔪 + 🫀 = ☆ bloodthirsty ☆

cai

🖼️ | harper spiller - ESTATE

The air on the balcony was cooler than Harper expected, a faint breeze coming off the sea, carrying with it the salty tang of the water and the faintest hint of citrus from the lemon trees scattered across the villa gardens. She leaned on the railing, a cigarette loosely between her fingers, though she hadn't yet lit it. She wasn’t much of a smoker—just enough to justify moments like these, where she could isolate herself under the guise of indulgence.

Below, the expanse of the Italian coastline stretched before her like a postcard come to life. The water was a jeweled blue, lapping lazily at the beach, where guests of the White Lotus lounged in curated poses that were equal parts hedonistic and performative. Everything here was pristine to the point of feeling manufactured, as if everyone was playing a role in a sun-drenched fantasy.

Harper wasn’t immune to the allure of the view, but it felt hollow in her chest. The luxury of the resort, the sheer effortlessness of it all, was a reminder of how out of sync she felt. She had been dragged here, really—another compromise in the seemingly endless series of compromises that defined her relationship with Ethan. Her husband had insisted on this trip, believing it would be good for them. But all Harper could feel was the widening gap between them, a canyon they kept pretending wasn’t there.

She tapped the cigarette against the railing absentmindedly, her thoughts drifting. It wasn’t just Ethan. It was everyone here. The cloying small talk of the other guests, the way every interaction seemed to be coated in a thin sheen of self-congratulation. The same people who sipped cocktails by the infinity pool and extolled the virtues of “disconnecting” were the ones snapping photos for Instagram the second they thought no one was looking. Hypocrisy disguised as leisure.

She exhaled, the cigarette still unlit. Her gaze flickered downward, skimming over the steps leading from the hotel down toward the beach. At first, it was an unconscious glance, her mind preoccupied with its own spirals. But something caught her eye—a figure sitting on the stone stairs, partially hidden in the shadows where the late afternoon sun hadn’t yet reached.

Harper squinted, leaning slightly forward. It was a young woman, sitting cross-legged with a sketchbook balanced on her knee. She was bent over it, utterly absorbed in her work, a pencil moving rapidly across the page. Harper couldn’t see the details from this distance, but the woman’s focus was magnetic. There was a stillness to her, a kind of self-contained energy that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the resort's theatrical bustle.

She found herself staring longer than she intended, her curiosity piqued. The woman was dressed simply, her loose linen shirt fluttering slightly in the breeze. Her hair was tied back, though a few strands had escaped, framing her face in a way that Harper immediately thought looked unintentional but beautiful.

It wasn’t just the act of drawing that intrigued her. It was the way the woman seemed to exist in her own world, as though the chaos of the resort and its carefully curated opulence didn’t matter to her. She wasn’t trying to be noticed, wasn’t part of the parade of peacocks Harper had grown used to observing. She was simply… there. Quiet and intent, her pencil etching something unseen into the page.

Harper’s thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the layers of her own dissatisfaction. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt that kind of focus—an unselfconscious, genuine connection to something. She had once been that kind of person, hadn’t she? Back before her life had become a series of polite confrontations and unspoken resentments. Back when she still believed in the power of creating something, instead of just consuming it.

The cigarette between her fingers felt like a dead weight. She glanced at it, then set it down on the balcony railing, unlit. Her gaze wandered back to the woman on the stairs, and she caught a flash of what the sketchbook might hold—a glimpse of figures, maybe the outline of the beach or the sea. Whatever it was, it clearly commanded the woman’s full attention.

And then, as if sensing Harper’s gaze, the woman looked up. Harper froze, her heart skipping a beat. It wasn’t a dramatic moment—just a brief, unhurried glance around the steps before the woman returned to her drawing. But it left Harper feeling oddly exposed, like she’d been caught eavesdropping on something private. She turned her attention to the sea, feigning nonchalance, though her pulse betrayed her.

The sound of Ethan’s voice broke her reverie. She turned to see him stepping out onto the balcony, his phone in one hand and an expectant look on his face.

“Ready to head down for dinner?” he asked. His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of impatience, as if he’d been waiting for her longer than he wanted to admit.

Harper nodded, though she didn’t feel ready at all. She cast one last glance down at the stairs, but the woman hadn’t moved. Still, the image of her lingered in Harper’s mind as she followed Ethan back into the room, a faint whisper of something she couldn’t quite name.

A few days later, Harper woke earlier than usual, a restless sleep leaving her tossing and turning in the quiet of their room. Ethan had been out of sorts lately, caught up in something of his own, leaving Harper to her thoughts and the endless hum of the resort. She needed space, and the early morning hours offered her just that—a few precious moments of solitude before the world caught up with her again.

The hotel dining room was still quiet, the golden light of the morning filtering in through tall windows that overlooked the sea. It was beautiful, almost painfully so, but Harper didn’t have the energy for the luxury this morning. She didn’t want to sit at one of the long, polished tables with the other guests just yet. Instead, she opted for a small corner, away from the bustle, where she could quietly pick at her food in peace.

As she made her way toward the buffet, Harper noticed a familiar figure from the corner of her eye. There, standing before the spread of pastries and fruit, was the young woman—the one she had been watching, though she would never admit it to anyone, especially herself. The woman was helping herself to a small plate, her hands moving with deliberate precision as she avoided the more extravagant choices. She was dressed casually, a simple white blouse, her hair down now, flowing in soft waves around her shoulders.

Harper paused, just for a second, watching her as she moved through the buffet, her expression absorbed, distant. The impulse to retreat was strong—Harper was never one for casual interactions, and certainly not before she had her first cup of coffee. But something in her hesitated. She had been curious about this woman for days now, and while she couldn’t quite explain why, that feeling, that magnetic pull, was growing impossible to ignore.

The decision was made before she fully realized it. Harper walked over, deliberately slow, her movements measured but not rushed. The woman didn’t seem to notice her approach until Harper was standing beside her, just close enough that their space felt shared.

“If I were you,” Harper said, her voice light, though with a touch of mischief, “I’d avoid that pastry. I think I saw a few people running for the bathroom after having it.”

The woman’s eyes flicked up, startled, then narrowed as she took in Harper’s face. Her mouth curled into the slightest smile, as if entertained by the casual remark. Harper was surprised by the effect her words had—there was something about that small, self-assured smile that made her feel a little more visible than she wanted to be.

“Oh, really?” the woman asked, her voice soft but not shy. She regarded Harper curiously, but there was no hesitation in her response. “I suppose it’s good I didn’t take that one then.”

Harper smiled back, almost amused by how easy it was to talk to her. It felt natural, almost too easy. They were both just people in the midst of a vacation, far removed from the pretense of their respective worlds.

"Do you come here often?" Harper found herself asking, surprised at the casualness of the question. It was the kind of thing she’d typically avoid—questions that didn't have a clear purpose, just a desire to fill the silence. But for some reason, it felt different with her.

The woman looked at Harper, then at her plate, before responding. “This is my first time here, actually,” she said with a slight shrug. “I’ve been traveling for a while, just... figuring things out, I guess. I needed a place to pause, to think.”

Harper took in the words, letting them linger in the air between them. There was an honesty to the statement that was unexpected. In a world full of carefully curated images, where everyone had an agenda, this woman was refreshingly direct, unafraid of silence, of solitude. It made Harper feel a little less cynical, a little more human.

“I get that,” Harper replied, her voice softer now, almost reflective. “I think... sometimes you need to just stop. Take a breath. Let everything settle.”

The moment hung between them for a while, both of them lost in their respective thoughts. Harper couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this woman than met the eye. There was something about her presence—quiet yet profound—that stirred something in Harper, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

It wasn’t until the woman shifted her weight and glanced over at Harper that Harper realized she had been staring. She cleared her throat awkwardly, offering a quick smile.

“Would you like to join me for breakfast?” Harper asked, the words coming out before she could second-guess them. The offer felt casual, yet the weight of it lingered between them, hanging in the air.

The woman paused for a moment, clearly considering. There was something unreadable in her expression, but after a beat, she gave a small nod. “Sure, why not?”

---

They settled at a small, quiet table by the window, the soft clink of silverware against plates the only sound between them. Harper couldn’t help but notice how at ease the woman seemed, how natural her presence felt as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world to be sitting here with Harper, as though the gap between them didn’t even exist.

It was comfortable in an unexpected way. Harper took a slow sip of her coffee, staring out at the view as if it might offer her some insight into this strange little moment they were sharing. There was a kind of soft ease between them, but it was tinged with something deeper, something more elusive.

The silence stretched on for a while before Harper spoke again, her voice quieter now. “So… what brings you to a place like this?” she asked, her words almost hesitant, as though the question had been on the tip of her tongue for a while. She wasn’t sure why she asked it. It felt like a question to fill the space, but also one that had weight. A question that held meaning.

The woman—whose name Harper still didn’t know, though it was strange how much she cared about it—looked thoughtful for a moment, her gaze distant.

“I told you before,” she said with a quiet chuckle. “I’m figuring things out. I’ve been... traveling for a while. And I thought Italy would be a good place to reset, I guess.” She met Harper’s eyes, her gaze steady. “But I’m not sure I’ve figured anything out yet.”

Harper smiled, but it wasn’t one of her typical practiced smiles. It was genuine, and a little sad, too. She understood what it meant to “figure things out,” or at least to pretend like she was. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to not have to try so hard to keep it all together.

“I think we’re all just... figuring it out,” Harper said, then realized how open she sounded. She didn’t do open. Not like this. Not with someone like this woman, whose name she still didn’t know.

But it didn’t feel wrong. Not yet.

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel forced. Harper caught herself glancing at the woman more often than she probably should have. The curve of her lips when she smiled, the way her hair fell across her face when she tilted her head—each little detail seemed to make Harper’s pulse speed up in a way she couldn’t explain.

Just as Harper felt herself leaning into this unexpected connection, she heard the distinct sound of someone approaching. She looked up, and her heart sank slightly as she saw Ethan walking toward them.

Ethan smiled at her, his face open and unreadable. He greeted the woman with a polite nod, and Harper immediately felt the shift in the air. The warmth she had shared with the woman disappeared as if it had never been there.

The woman looked between the two of them, her expression unreadable, then nodded. “It was nice to meet you, Harper,” she said softly, standing up from the table. She gave a polite smile before turning to leave, and Harper felt an unfamiliar pang of disappointment.

“Thanks for breakfast,” the woman added, her voice carrying a touch of finality.

Harper opened her mouth to say something, but Ethan was already pulling her attention away, asking her what she thought of the breakfast spread.

The moment had passed, and Harper found herself back in the familiar coldness she wore so often around Ethan. As he sat down beside her, his presence felt like a wall, one she didn’t want to climb. All she could think about was the quiet warmth she had felt with the woman, the soft laughter they had shared. It was fleeting, but it had been real.

Ethan didn’t notice any of it, of course. He never did.

The days stretched languidly into one another, each morning more golden than the last, the warmth of Italy's coastal sun seeping into every corner of Harper’s life. She had come here with Ethan to relax, to escape. But something—someone—had begun to tug at her attention, like the tide pulling at the shore, subtle yet persistent. It was the artist, always just out of reach, her presence both familiar and enigmatic.

The mornings had become a ritual, a series of small, quiet encounters. Harper would rise early, the morning light casting a soft glow across the terrace as she sipped her coffee, her thoughts wandering even as she watched the sea. Some days, she’d come out to find the woman sitting alone, sketching the view, her eyes focused intently on the world around her as she captured it on paper. Harper would stand back, pretending to be lost in her thoughts, watching her, unable to tear herself away.

Each time their paths crossed, it was as if an invisible thread pulled them closer, but Harper remained cautious. There was something almost too delicate about these moments, too precious to ruin by being too forward. It was easier, safer, to just observe—though the longer it went on, the more she felt an unspoken pull toward the woman.

And yet, Harper couldn’t shake the guilt that lingered like a shadow, following her everywhere she went. Guilt about Ethan, about the fact that her marriage had long since ceased to be anything but a shell, a routine she couldn’t break. She didn’t care about him the way a wife should care about her husband. But still, the weight of their shared history pressed down on her, heavy and inescapable. And then there was the woman—the artist. The guilt wrapped around her in a different way. She wanted to know more about her, to spend time with her. But that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? She was married. She couldn’t let herself want this. She couldn’t let herself cross that line, especially when the woman, with her quiet intensity, seemed to exist in such stark contrast to everything Harper had come to know.

The artist, still nameless to Harper, had become the quiet pulse of her days, a lingering question that she had yet to answer. Harper told herself it was nothing, just a passing fancy, a fleeting curiosity. But there were mornings when she found herself looking for her, scanning the grounds of the hotel like a quiet observer, waiting for their paths to cross.

That particular morning, Harper wandered the hotel terrace, her feet carrying her aimlessly as she let the early morning light bathe her skin. She found herself standing near the stairs leading down to the beach, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sky kissed the sea in shades of soft pink and blue. She had come out to breathe, but as always, her mind found its way back to the artist, to the woman who had captivated her without meaning to.

And there she was again—sitting alone on the bench near the edge of the terrace, sketching the view with a kind of stillness that was almost reverential. Harper hesitated, wondering whether to leave her alone or approach. She wanted to know more, to ask questions. But there was something about this quiet space between them, something fragile and unspoken, that made Harper reluctant to break the silence.

But then, as though fate had decided to intervene, the artist looked up, her eyes meeting Harper’s. For a brief moment, they stood there, locked in a shared gaze, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking. And then the artist’s lips curled into the smallest of smiles, one that Harper could almost feel in her chest.

It was an invitation, subtle but unmistakable.

Harper’s breath caught, and without thinking, she moved closer, her feet carrying her forward as if compelled. “Good morning,” she said, her voice soft but not unsteady. There was an edge of uncertainty in her tone, a quiet admission that she wasn’t sure what to say, but she needed to say something.

“Good morning,” the woman replied, her voice calm, unhurried. She looked up at Harper, but there was no tension in her expression, just a quiet warmth that made Harper feel as though they had been doing this for years—exchanging pleasantries without any expectation.

“Are you still drawing?” Harper asked, her gaze drifting to the sketchpad in the woman’s hands. “I was watching you earlier... the view’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

The artist’s eyes flickered to the page before returning to Harper’s face. “Yes,” she said, her voice soft, as if the simple act of drawing held deeper meaning. “I like to capture things. I find it’s the only way to keep them with me. To hold on to the moment.”

Harper’s chest tightened, a strange tug at the edges of her heart. The woman’s words were so simple, but they felt like a confession of something deeper, something that Harper couldn’t quite name. She felt a wave of familiarity wash over her, even though she knew they had just met.

“That’s beautiful,” Harper said, almost absently. She didn’t even realize the sincerity in her voice until the words had already left her lips. She had become too accustomed to hiding behind pleasantries, behind the safety of small talk, but here, with the artist, everything felt different. It felt like they were speaking the same unspoken language, one made up of looks and gestures and fleeting moments.

The artist smiled again, her eyes dancing with something Harper couldn’t place. “Thank you,” she replied softly, and for a moment, the world outside their conversation seemed to blur. It was as if they were the only two people on the terrace, the only two people in the world.

Harper stood there, feeling the strange pull in her chest, but she wasn’t sure what to do with it. She couldn’t explain why she was so drawn to this woman. Why she felt this sudden desire to know more, to dig deeper into her story. But as the silence stretched on, Harper couldn’t shake the feeling that something was building, something fragile and raw, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

“So,” Harper said after a pause, her voice steady, though there was a slight tremor underneath, “I’ve been wondering…” She hesitated, unsure of how to frame the question, but it spilled out before she could stop herself. “What’s your name?”

The artist blinked, as if surprised by the question, but there was no hesitation in her eyes. She met Harper’s gaze directly, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “You don’t know my name yet?” she said softly, as though teasing.

Harper’s pulse quickened, and she laughed nervously. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

The artist chuckled, a low, melodic sound. “I’m Y/N,” she said, her name hanging in the air between them like a secret, a delicate thread that had finally been pulled into the light.

Y/N. Harper repeated the name in her mind, savoring the sound of it. There was something about it that seemed to fit, something about her that felt both familiar and entirely new. But even as the name left Y/N’s lips, Harper realized she knew something else. Something she hadn’t expected to hear.

“I overheard Ethan call you by your name last time,” Y/N said quietly, her voice carrying a strange weight, almost as if she were testing Harper.

Harper’s breath caught, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn’t thought of that moment—hadn’t realized that Y/N had been there, listening. It was a simple thing, really. Ethan had come down to the terrace, calling her name as they discussed their plans for the day. But hearing Y/N say it now made something shift in the air. The quiet distance between them had closed by just a fraction, and yet Harper wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not.

“Oh,” Harper said, her voice faltering slightly. She hadn’t realized Y/N had been paying attention to something so small. It felt intimate in a way Harper wasn’t quite ready to confront. “I didn’t think you were listening.”

Y/N’s smile was soft but knowing. “I was,” she said simply, the words hanging in the air like a question unasked.

Harper didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know whether she should feel embarrassed or relieved or something entirely different. The tension between them had shifted again, deeper now, but still fragile. She wanted to say something, to bridge the gap between them, but all she could do was stand there, frozen in the moment.

“Well,” Harper said finally, clearing her throat, “it was nice to meet you, Y/N.” The words felt both too formal and too personal all at once.

Y/N nodded, her eyes soft but unreadable. “Likewise,” she replied, her voice quieter now, but still warm.

There was a moment of silence, and Harper wasn’t sure whether it was the silence of an ending or the silence before something else. Something unspoken. Y/N turned to leave, but not without a final glance over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you around,” Y/N said, her words carrying a strange finality. But there was also an invitation in them. An invitation that Harper wasn’t sure she was ready to accept.

As Y/N walked away, Harper’s chest tightened, and she watched her go, knowing that somehow, things had shifted. And though she had no idea where it was leading, she also knew she couldn’t walk away from it. Not now. Not when something so delicate and unresolved hung between them like the fragile thread of a promise neither of them had made.

With every step Y/N took, Harper felt the pull in her chest grow stronger. It was undeniable, even as the weight of her marriage, of Ethan, seemed to press down harder than ever. But there was something about Y/N—something in her presence, in the way she spoke, the way she looked at Harper—that made everything else feel distant, less important. It felt like an opening, like the beginning of something that Harper wasn’t sure she was ready for but couldn’t quite bring herself to walk away from.

So, Harper stood there for a moment longer, her heart racing, her thoughts tangled in the tension of what had just passed between them. The quiet morning stretched on, and Harper realized that she had just taken the first step down a path that could lead to something completely different—something both terrifying and exhilarating. But for now, she could only stand there, watching Y/N disappear into the distance, knowing that it was only a matter of time before their paths would cross again.

It was another night at The White Lotus, the soft buzz of laughter and glasses clinking filling the air, the sea outside slapping at the shore as if it were some quiet, distant promise. Harper sat alone at the bar, her eyes searching for some kind of solace in her glass, but nothing seemed to soothe her. Her argument with Ethan still felt fresh, a sting that she couldn’t shake no matter how much wine slid down her throat.

Her marriage had always been a series of ups and downs, moments of connection followed by stretches of indifference. Tonight, however, had felt different. Tonight, something had snapped, or perhaps it had simply frayed beyond recognition. The sharp words between them still echoed in her mind, louder than the music, the laughter, the steady pulse of the hotel. Ethan had been too self-assured, too distant, and Harper had been too quiet, too unwilling to let him see how deeply she’d been resenting the distance between them. So, she left him to sulk in their room and wandered down to the bar, drawn like a magnet to the familiar hum of the crowd.

She didn’t expect to see her. Not tonight.

The young artist was sitting by herself at the end of the bar, her back turned, a notebook resting in front of her, a glass of wine untouched beside it. The warm glow from the chandelier above her head highlighted the curve of her jaw, the soft way she held her pencil as if it were an extension of herself. Harper had seen her name on the artist’s sign-in sheet earlier in the day, and she knew her name—Y/n—but it was the kind of thing that slipped from her mind when she wasn’t focused. Tonight, though, there was something almost magnetic about her presence.

Harper knew she shouldn’t be looking. She shouldn’t be interested, shouldn’t let her gaze linger as it did. But it did anyway, as if there were a magnetic pull she couldn’t fight.

The artist—Y/n—had a way of absorbing everything around her, as if she were seeing the world in a way that was different, better, deeper. Harper couldn't help but feel drawn to her in a way that bordered on dangerous. But then again, nothing here had felt safe.

Harper smirked to herself, pushing off the bar and straightening her back. She wasn’t one to approach strangers—well, except for the countless superficial exchanges she had endured with guests, always wrapped in the fine art of politeness. But this was different. This felt different.

The words left her mouth before she could even stop herself.

“Well, I must be a sketchpad, because you’re clearly drawing me in,” Harper said, half-laughing at the sarcasm that dripped from her voice.

She watched as the artist’s pencil paused mid-air, then slowly lowered to her notebook. For a moment, Harper couldn’t read her expression—was it amusement? Annoyance? Curiosity? She wasn’t sure. But there it was again, that pull, that quiet energy between them, growing with each passing second.

Y/n tilted her head, her eyes tracing Harper for a moment before she broke into a smile, her lips curling into something sly and disarming.

“Well, if I’m drawing you in, I must say, I’m curious to see what you look like in pencil,” she replied, her voice a mix of playfulness and something more, something Harper couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Harper chuckled softly, amused by the young woman’s ease. “Maybe next time,” she said, “but tonight, I think I’d rather talk. You don’t mind, do you?”

Y/n shook her head, still smiling, but there was a flicker of something beneath her gaze, as if she were weighing Harper’s words, carefully measuring her presence.

“Not at all,” she said, taking a sip of her wine, the movement slow and deliberate, as if she were savoring something more than just the taste.

Harper took a seat beside her, the tension already settling in the air between them like a delicate thread that neither wanted to break. The distance was gone now, and all that remained was this strange, unspoken understanding, the kind that seemed to exist between two people who, for a moment, could only see each other and nothing else.

“So,” Harper began, trying to find something casual to say, “what’s your story?”

Y/n glanced up at her, eyes thoughtful. “My story? Well, I guess it’s nothing exciting. Just a girl, sitting in a fancy hotel, drawing things I see.”

Harper smirked. “How mysterious. I’m almost disappointed.”

Y/n shrugged, her smile never fading. “Not everything needs to be exciting.”

“No, I suppose not,” Harper agreed. She paused, swirling her drink, watching the liquid move. “But you must have some reason for coming here. I mean, the place isn’t exactly... low-key, is it?”

Y/n’s lips quirked up in a quiet smile. “I suppose it’s more of an escape than anything. I’ve been trying to finish some work, get away from... life for a while. The chaos. The noise.”

Harper’s eyes flickered. “You and me both,” she murmured, but the words were too soft for Y/n to catch, and Harper wasn’t sure if she wanted her to.

There was a brief pause, a silence that hung heavy in the air between them. Harper felt her gaze wander again, landing on Y/n’s notebook. She couldn’t help herself. She needed to know more.

“I’ve been wondering,” Harper started, her voice more measured now, a little more serious. “You’re always drawing, always sketching. What exactly do you see when you look at this place? The hotel, the people, the... everything?”

Y/n’s fingers brushed across the cover of her notebook, a slow, deliberate movement. “I see stories,” she said softly. “Everyone here has a story. You just have to look hard enough to see it.”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “And what do you see when you look at me?”

Y/n paused, her lips pressing together for a moment. Then, she met Harper’s gaze with quiet intensity. “I see someone who doesn’t belong here,” she said, voice low but certain. “Someone who is caught between wanting something different and being afraid of it.”

Harper blinked, the words catching her off guard. It was as if Y/n had seen right through her, peeling back the layers of her facade, the neat little story she had carefully constructed in her mind.

“Maybe you’re right,” Harper replied, her voice quieter now. The alcohol had loosened something inside her, something raw. “Maybe I don’t belong here.”

Y/n tilted her head, her eyes softening. “What’s stopping you?”

Harper’s heart skipped a beat. The question was simple, but it felt like a weight that hung between them, heavy with possibility. She didn’t know what stopped her. Maybe it was Ethan, or maybe it was just the world they lived in, where everything had to be perfect, and people had to play their roles.

“I don’t know,” Harper said quietly, staring into her glass. “Maybe it’s fear.”

Y/n didn’t say anything for a moment, but the air between them shifted, and Harper felt something unexpected. A sudden, impulsive need to ask something she hadn’t planned on.

“Do you mind if I... come up to your room?” Harper said, her voice catching a little. She hadn’t meant to ask it out loud, but it was there, right on the tip of her tongue. “I just... I want to see your drawings.”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing something deeper in Harper’s words. There was a shift in her expression, an understanding that passed between them. “You’re not asking just to see my drawings, are you?” she said, her voice steady, but her gaze piercing.

Harper swallowed, feeling a heat rise in her cheeks. She had no idea why she had said it, no idea what she was expecting. But somehow, it felt right. Felt like she couldn’t stop herself now.

“I had a fight with my husband,” Harper said quietly, her voice tight. “Things are... difficult. I don’t want to go back to that room. Not yet.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, Y/n reached for her glass, sipping it slowly. “Okay,” she said, voice softer now. “You can come.”

Harper’s heart raced. There was something in the way Y/n said it, something that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, there was more to this than just a casual drink.

Harper nodded, her pulse quickening, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like she had stepped off the edge, unsure of what she would find, but ready to face it anyway.

Harper followed the young artist down the quiet hallway, the soft clicking of her heels echoing against the stone floors. The hotel felt oddly still at this hour, as if the world outside had slowed, or maybe it was just them, walking together in an unspoken truce, heading toward something neither had fully acknowledged yet. It was strange, the way it all felt inevitable, and yet, entirely unexpected. They didn’t talk much as they walked, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it felt almost natural, as if it belonged to the moment.

The artist’s room was only a few doors down, tucked away in a quiet corner of the hotel, a place where few guests bothered to venture. Harper didn’t know why that made her feel oddly reassured. She had expected something more grand, more polished, but instead, the artist’s space was a reflection of the kind of quiet rebellion Harper had sensed since their first conversation. It was cozy but unrefined, lived-in without apology.

The door clicked open with a soft sigh, and the young woman stepped aside to let Harper enter. She hesitated for only a moment before crossing the threshold. The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. There was a cluttered charm to it—papers scattered across the desk, brushes and pencils strewn on the floor as though the artist had left them mid-project. The air smelled faintly of paint and the soft tang of something sweeter, maybe incense, or something floral. It was disordered, yes—but not in a way that felt messy. It felt purposeful, as if the room itself were an extension of her creativity.

Harper stepped deeper into the space, her eyes drifting over the half-empty wine glass the young woman had abandoned on her desk. Sketchbooks were stacked neatly beside her bed, some with corners bent and others with the pages barely held together, as though they had been flipped through a hundred times. One sketchbook sat open on the desk, the pages filled with intricate designs—fascinating, delicate details of faces, buildings, shapes that had all been captured in the kind of precise and artistic chaos that only someone fully immersed in their craft could create.

There were also paintings on the floor against the walls—some finished, others still rough around the edges. Each one seemed to capture a moment of emotion, like little windows into the artist’s mind. A landscape bathed in the soft light of sunset, a figure standing in front of a window, the distant view outside hazy with rain. Harper found herself standing before one of them, her gaze lingering on the vivid brushstrokes, the rawness of the colors. There was something almost haunting about the way the artist rendered the world, as if she could make the intangible tangible in a way that no one else could.

As Harper wandered further into the room, she noticed a pile of canvases leaning against the wall, their backs to the space, waiting to be filled. She wondered what stories they would tell, what emotions they would capture once the artist’s hands got to them. And in that moment, she realized she had no idea why she was so fascinated by this. Was it just the art? The way it made her feel? Or was it something more, something deeper?

The young woman had closed the door behind them, and now she moved to the small desk, setting down her glass and picking up another sketchbook. Harper noticed the way she held it—delicately, as though she were afraid it might break if she wasn’t careful. There was something inherently vulnerable about the artist, something soft underneath that confident exterior she had put on in front of Harper. The wine glass in Harper’s hand was forgotten as she wandered across the room to the desk, catching sight of the artist’s fingers brushing over the pages.

Without a word, the artist opened the sketchbook in front of her, and Harper’s gaze fell onto the delicate sketches. At first, the images seemed like a blur of abstract shapes, but as she looked closer, she realized that the young woman had been capturing moments—expressions, gestures, fleeting looks that had passed between people, moments of intimacy hidden behind eyes or in the way fingers brushed against skin. But then, something caught Harper off guard. There, amid the collection of sketches, was a drawing of her.

Harper blinked, unsure if she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. It was a portrait of her, or at least, of the version of herself the artist had seen. It wasn’t overly flattering; it was raw, unrefined, as if the artist had captured her not in her best light but in some small, intimate moment, a private reflection that Harper had never intended to reveal.

There she was—caught in a moment of quiet contemplation, her eyes focused somewhere far beyond the page, her lips slightly parted as if she were on the cusp of saying something. Harper couldn’t help but admire the way the artist had captured her, not as the polished image everyone else saw, but as something deeper, something less easily understood.

The young woman’s hand trembled slightly as she closed the book, as if she were waiting for Harper to say something, anything. But the silence stretched on, thick with something unspoken. Harper didn’t know what to say, but there was a part of her that wanted to acknowledge it, wanted to ask more about it—why she had drawn her, what had made her want to capture that fleeting moment. Instead, she only looked at her, taking a sip from her glass as if the act of drinking would buy her a moment to collect her thoughts.

The young artist seemed to notice her hesitation, and after a long moment, her voice broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, her eyes dropping to the floor as if she were ashamed. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Harper frowned, leaning against the desk as she studied the young woman, trying to read her expression. There was something in her voice, something fragile in the way she apologized, as if she were afraid of pushing Harper away with her own vulnerability.

“Uncomfortable?” Harper repeated, her voice quieter than usual. “I’m not uncomfortable.” She hesitated for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “It’s... just surprising. You’ve been watching me.”

The young woman bit her lip, clearly unsure of how to respond. She looked up, her eyes locking with Harper’s, and for a brief moment, Harper saw the flicker of something—fear? Regret? It was hard to tell.

“I... I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were being watched,” the young woman said softly. “I just... I don’t know. I’ve been coming here for a while, and I noticed you. I guess you’re... a kind of puzzle to me. You’re different from the other people I’ve met. And when I draw people, I like to understand them—who they are, how they see the world. It’s not... it’s not about... well, anything inappropriate. I promise.”

Harper couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips, though it was soft, almost sad. There was something so unguarded in the young woman’s confession, a kind of openness that Harper hadn’t expected. She could see how much the artist cared about her work, how deeply she felt things—maybe more deeply than Harper did herself. It was almost like a quiet kind of honesty, something rare in the world Harper inhabited, where everything was filtered through layers of carefully constructed facades.

“I’m not offended,” Harper said after a beat, her voice steady but with a touch of warmth. “I don’t think I’ve ever been captured like that before—so... raw.”

The young woman’s cheeks flushed at the compliment, and she shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry if it’s... too much,” she said, her voice small, almost childlike. “I never know when to stop.”

Harper could tell that it wasn’t just about the drawings, that there was something more—something deeper in the young woman’s words. She wasn’t just talking about art; she was talking about her own need to understand, to see beyond the surface of people. There was a yearning in her, a desire to find meaning in the chaos of the world around her, and in some strange way, Harper found herself wanting to help her find it.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Harper said gently, her tone softer now. “You don’t need to stop, either. But maybe we should talk more about this—about why you draw people the way you do. Why you’re so... interested in me.”

The artist’s eyes lifted to meet hers again, and for the first time that night, there was a flicker of something stronger than uncertainty in her gaze. Something that felt like trust, like a bridge being built between them.

“I think I’m trying to figure out what it means to truly see someone,” the young woman said quietly. “And what it means to be seen.”

Harper’s heart skipped a beat at the words. There was a depth to the artist, a kind of wisdom hidden beneath the softness. It was a part of her Harper hadn’t expected, something both vulnerable and strong.

Maybe this was more than just a momentary distraction. Maybe it was the beginning of something else entirely.

And maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what Harper had been looking for all along.

The night outside the hotel window was deep and thick with silence, the world reduced to shadows and whispers of wind. Harper hadn’t expected to find herself here—so far away from the tangled, cold embrace of her marriage, a place she didn’t know how to leave but couldn’t quite inhabit anymore. But there she was, standing at the edge of the young artist’s life, with nothing but the taste of wine on her lips and the smoke curling around her fingers.

It was strange, this space between them. The words had come easy at first, each one flowing like an unspoken invitation, but now, with the distance closed and the conversation heavier, every glance seemed to weigh more. Harper had always been good at pushing things away, keeping them at arm’s length. But tonight? Tonight felt different. The artist had a way of drawing her in—like a magnet, irresistible and powerful.

Harper inhaled deeply from the cigarette between her fingers, feeling the warmth in her chest as she leaned against the balcony railing. The soft hum of the city echoed below, but up here, it was just the two of them. The artist stood a little to her side, her gaze lost in the distance, her posture casual but her hands fidgeting slightly, as though she were waiting for something.

“So,” Harper finally said, breaking the silence that had grown long between them, “Tell me more about your art. The things you’ve drawn... I mean.”

The artist’s gaze shifted to meet hers, her expression unreadable for a moment, but Harper could see the faint glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. “What do you want to know?”

Harper smirked, throwing her cigarette to the ground and stamping it out with her heel. “Why me? Why so focused on me?”

The young woman took a long breath, her shoulders rising slightly before dropping, as though she were debating something in her mind. Finally, her voice came, low and hesitant, but it carried the weight of something unspoken.

“I think... I think there’s a part of you that I don’t understand. I want to know what it is, what makes you... tick.” She paused, and Harper watched her carefully, a knowing expression on her face. “I guess I’ve always been drawn to people who are hard to read. It’s like... I need to figure it out.”

Harper chuckled softly, her eyes narrowing. “You think I’m hard to read?”

“Yeah,” the young woman said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “You have that look about you. You hide things well.”

“I hide a lot of things,” Harper admitted, her voice thick with something close to regret. “But I suppose we all do, don’t we?”

For a long moment, they stood there, side by side, both lost in their thoughts, the air between them growing heavier by the second. It wasn’t just the wine anymore; it was something else. Something unspoken and undeniable. Harper couldn’t ignore the way her heart was racing, the way the young woman’s presence seemed to make everything else fade into the background.

The artist took a long sip from her wine glass, her eyes shifting over to Harper, lingering there longer than before. Her lips parted as though she were about to say something, but then she hesitated, her gaze dropping.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like... to know someone completely?” the young woman asked, her voice quieter now, laced with a kind of vulnerability Harper hadn’t expected. “I mean, really know them. Every secret, every thought. Would you want that?”

Harper’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she felt her pulse quicken, the weight of the question sinking deep into her chest. She wasn’t prepared for this. Not tonight. Not with the artist standing so close, so raw, so honest in a way that was unfamiliar.

“I don’t know,” Harper said, her voice faltering slightly. She shook her head, her eyes refusing to meet the young woman’s. “Maybe I’m too afraid to know.”

“Afraid of what?”

Harper’s lips parted, but the words felt stuck, caught somewhere deep inside her. She could feel the pull—the desire to say something, to admit something she hadn’t dared to even acknowledge. She took a shaky breath and finally turned her head to meet the artist’s gaze.

“Afraid of letting someone in,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Afraid of what they might see. What they might think.”

The young woman watched her for a moment longer, her expression softening. The tension between them was palpable now, a thread pulling taut, threatening to snap. And then, as if on impulse, the young woman blurted out a question, the words tumbling out before she could stop herself.

“Would you like to get to know me if you could?” The words felt clumsy, like they didn’t belong, but there was something so earnest in the way she asked it, something so vulnerable. “Because... I would.”

The words hung in the air between them, a confession without a filter. And just as quickly as they left her mouth, the young woman seemed to recoil, as if she had realized too late the implication of what she had just said. She stammered out an apology, her face flushing with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice almost frantic. “I didn’t mean—It’s just, I was thinking and... well, I don’t know why I said that. You don’t have to—”

But Harper was already stepping closer, her gaze softening as she watched the young woman fumble over her words. There was something about the way she had spoken, so unguarded and raw, that made Harper’s heart clench. It was real. All of it. This was real.

“It’s okay,” Harper said, her voice low, almost a whisper. She reached out, her hand resting lightly on the artist’s arm, grounding her in the moment. “It’s okay.”

The young woman glanced up at her, her face still flushed, her lips parted as if she was waiting for something more. And in that moment, Harper realized what it was she had wanted. Something honest. Something genuine. Something she hadn’t allowed herself to seek for a long time.

“I mean... we can just be friends,” the young woman added quickly, her voice wavering. “Sorry. I’m talking shit. I don’t know why I said that.”

But Harper’s smile was slow, tentative, but unmistakable. A glimmer of something dangerous flickered in her eyes.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Harper said, her voice smooth and steady. “In fact, I... I kind of like the idea.”

The young woman’s eyes widened at the response, and for a moment, neither of them moved. It was as if the world had paused, holding its breath, waiting for the next step.

“But—” the artist began, unsure, her words faltering as she stepped back slightly, a glimmer of doubt creeping into her gaze.

Harper chuckled softly, the sound deep and warm, but there was an edge to it, something knowing.

“But you’re married,” the artist said, her voice suddenly quiet, her eyes darting away.

“Yeah,” Harper murmured, her smile faltering just slightly. “I am.”

The young woman was quiet for a long time, her gaze falling to the ground as if she were contemplating something. The tension in the air was thick, suffocating, but it was also electric. It hummed between them, palpable and undeniable. And as much as Harper knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t help but feel drawn to it. To the young artist. To what could be. To what was still a possibility.

“I shouldn’t be thinking like this,” Harper admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I can’t help it.”

And in that moment, they both knew something had shifted. Neither of them said it aloud, but they both understood. What they were doing was dangerous. It wasn’t just a casual drink, a friendly chat anymore. It was more. It had become something else, something both thrilling and terrifying.

The artist glanced up at Harper, her expression conflicted, unsure of how to proceed. But before she could say anything, Harper spoke again.

“We’ll figure this out,” Harper said, her voice firm, as if she were trying to reassure them both. “But right now... let’s just stay in the moment.”

And for a while, they did. In the quiet of the balcony, with the city sprawling beneath them, they stayed there, drinking, smoking, talking, the tension between them building slowly, one word at a time.

And neither of them could deny that, in some quiet corner of their minds, they both knew this wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

I really like this one <3 btw if you want a sequel I can try to write it ! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it !

[drgnflyteabox]

postcards from the coast [2]

previous || part two -> linens || part three -> tbd

series masterlist

pairing: kyle 'gaz' garrick / single mom!reader summary: kyle looks for you, then finds you tags/warnings: grief, less angst but still there, depression, non-creepy stalking, judgmental people, anxiety, previous injuries, insomnia, don't accept rides from strange men ladies and theydies, unless it's gaz then feel free<3 w.c: 1.2k

"Can I get a red-eye?"

Sleep has been difficult lately. Evasive. He sometimes goes through insomniac phases, where no amount of jogging or calisthenics practice or mental exercise helps. It's pure, restless energy.

Before, he might've taken himself to a bar, found a pretty girl to fuck and ease the buzzing under his skin. Now it's too painful - too much of a reminder of post-mission decompressing with the team. Sat in a circle booth, slapping each other on the back as they left, the smell of cigar-smoke and perfume.

Not that he'd be able to here, anyway. The town is too small, too isolated. There's hardly a main street, just a strip with bare necessities vaguely at the center of rolling hill country pock-marked with bleached white cottages and surrounded by cold ocean on all sides.

Peaceful, sometimes. Unbearable, mostly.

"Sure, any milk or sugar?"

"No, that's alright, thank you." He's been here every day, mixing a caffeine fix with his ongoing search for you. Curiosity and boredom, he tells himself. The product of so many sudden life changes - the end of their last mission, Johnny's passing. He just needs something else to focus on, something soft and wide-eyed.

At least the coffee is good.

The next time he sees you, it's in passing. Driving out of town to the post office to pick up a gift from his sister.

You're holding a toddler by both arms, their feet on yours, walking them up the steps toward the local library. Another long skirt, wimpling softly in the breeze. There's a smile on your face as you watch the child walk with you.

It almost feels like a missed opportunity - like he should turn back. But the post office closes in a couple hours and it takes nearly that long to get there, so Kyle elects to be patient.

You're there every evening. From five o'clock until closing at eight, you sit at the same window and alternate reading a massive tome and babbling back at your baby, who's sitting on a wooden high-chair.

The librarian makes rounds just to say hello to the two of you, pinching cheeks and ooing and aweing.

"And how old is she again?" She whispers mindfully. Her nametag says Nettie and she's a kindly-looking old woman, bent a little from years of work but sturdy as a mast in a storm.

"Turning two soon," you whisper back. Neither of you have any idea he's there yet, browsing the books as a cover to peek through the shelf at you. "She's a taurus."

"Just about to hit the terrible twos!" Nettie laughs.

"Yep," you laugh with her, but there's something there. A sheepishness. Embarrassment? Your expression is almost a grimace, from what he doesn't know. He wants to, though. Looks through the peephole and lets his chest fill with something other than grief for just a moment.

"And the father? Not a fan of reading?" She probably means well, but your face goes from vaguely uncomfortable to something like a deer in the headlights.

"Oh, um," you're floundering, but Nettie is too busy stroking a wrinkled hand over your girls head. "He's not in the picture."

Not in the picture? If Kyle had felt any kind of guilt for eavesdropping, it's overshadowed by that information. Best stake-out of his career to-date.

You shrink a little when Nettie yanks her hand back, frowning. He can tell judgement and prejudice when he sees it - experience and a keen eye. Must be hard being a single mom.

Resigned - that's the look. Pained and embarrassed and resigned.

"Right. Well," Nettie's sensible leather shoes clack against the floor. You don't watch her go, your hand is reaching into your bag for a tiny knit hat.

Fuck, you're leaving.

As you gather your things - book, coat, bags, baby - he tucks himself into the shelf, positioned still as a sniper, to-

"Ouch!" Your voice cuts through the quiet of the library. Kyle flounders, caught off guard for once. He'd only gently bumped into you to make it look like an accident, like something out of a rom-com. Girls liked that, usually.

But instead of looking up at him with surprise, you close your eyes and shy away from him, shoulders coming up defensively - you can't reach your arm, not with a baby on your hip, but it's obvious you're in pain.

"Are you okay?" You look to him, wincing still. You're asking him if he's okay? Heat creeps into his cheeks, warming him with regret.

"I'm good, I'm good," he says quickly. "Sorry about that, love, didn't see you there."

"That's okay," you readjust, arm limp at your side. Your heavy bags hang off of it, but there's nothing you can do with the baby on your hip.

"Let me get those," there's no time for you to reject his offer; he's too quick. The bags are heavy - no doubt there are more books and a baby go-bag. This close, you smell powdery soft like linen sheets and laundry dried outside.

"It's the least I can do," he's trying to be casual about it, lest he scare you off. Holds the door open, notices while you step out that your daughter looks just like you.

"Thank you, you didn't have to," you look down. How'd you hurt your arm? He knows he didn't hurt you - not like that, at least. Not enough to warrant such a reaction.

"Of course I did, didn't mean to get'cha so hard," his head swivels. There are only two cars in the parking lot. "Can I get these in your car?"

"Oh, I walked, that's okay," you reach to take the bags back, but he pulls away.

"I can't let you walk home, please- let me be a gentleman and give you a ride," he knows it's a long shot. Neither of you have exchanged names, neither of you are locals. He's tried to make himself look as approachable as possible; head tilted down, brown eyes imploring, palms out even with your bags in one hand, but it's a gamble.

There's natural suspicion and hesitation, your eyes looking side-to-side, but you nod with a hesitant smile after a moment. It's hard to keep the grin down, but he manages it up until you're tucked in his passenger seat and he's putting your bags in the back of his car.

"My name is Kyle, by the way," he puts his keys in the ignition, turns them. Pretends not to notice how you sink into the seat, eyes drooping, holding your daughter on your lap. It's not safe, but it's a country road and he promised to drive slow on the way.

You tell him your name. It's pretty, fitting. He wonders again about you - who left you like this? Alone, hurt, tired, trusting a stranger to drive you home. If he were your man, he'd never let you be put in a position like that.

The cottage you're renting is tiny, a glorified shack, rented as a cottage for tourists.

"There you are," he murmurs, trying not to startle you. "Need help getting in?"

"Hm?" You've been staring out the window. "Sorry! No, I'm alright, thank you again for the ride. Josie and I appreciate it."

Josie. It fits her, fits you. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

There's not a chance he lets you get the bags out yourself, and once you're appropriately sent off to your door, he sits and waits for a moment. Makes sure you get inside. Feels something loosen in his chest.