#Volume Confirmation Patterns

[signode-blog]

Unlocking Trading Potential with Volume Oscillator: A Comprehensive Guide

In the vast ocean of financial markets, traders and investors are constantly seeking tools and indicators to aid their decision-making processes. One such powerful tool that has garnered attention over the years is the Volume Oscillator. In this comprehensive guide, we’ll delve into what a Volume Oscillator is, how it works, its applications, and strategies for maximizing its…

[stirideactualitate]

Engulfing Pattern Indicator with Volume Confirmation - indicator MetaTrader 5

Description: This indicator identifies bullish and bearish engulfing candlestick patterns on the chart and optionally confirms them with volume. When the volume of the current candle exceeds that of the previous one, the pattern is considered stronger and more reliable. The user can choose whether or not to apply this volume confirmation filter. External Inputs: BullishArrowColor : Color of the…

[techmarkethunter]

Mastering the Morning Star Pattern: A Step-by-Step Guide

Title: Mastering the Morning Star Pattern: A Step-by-Step Guide Introduction:The world of technical analysis offers traders a plethora of tools to identify potential trend reversals and market opportunities. One such powerful pattern is the Morning Star pattern, a three-candlestick formation that signals a potential bullish reversal after a downtrend. In this step-by-step guide, we will explore…

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 14: "The one with the nightly calls" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: With Frankie in Boston, the small phone calls at night begin to carry more weight. Meanwhile, things get harder for him. But it doesn’t take long before he’s close to you again. WC: 16k

A/N: I have nothing to say… just thank u for reading and sooo much love to all of you!! Don't forget to let me know what you think, your feedback really matters <3 If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

Wednesday, October 16th

Frankie called you after dinner. He’d been in Boston for almost two weeks now. He left on a Friday—the fourth Friday of the month.

The first night he called, it felt casual, like a passing thought. He told you about his day, the kinds of things he did and saw, because you hadn’t spoken at all that day. The next night, at almost the exact same hour, he called again. He didn’t seem to notice the pattern. But by the third night, you were already waiting for it, your phone close by, your chest pulling quietly toward the sound of his voice.

Tonight, you took a shower and got into bed with Mr. Darcy. You already knew your phone would ring, maybe not right away, but soon. And when it did, it would be him.

Sometimes the conversations meandered. He’d talk about Jamie, mostly—how they spent hours walking, sometimes talking, often in silence. Frankie didn’t say it outright, but you could tell he was trying to anchor Jamie to something steady, something outside of the hospital walls and the quiet fear threading its way through their days. Because Henry, his dad, was sick. Not just the kind of sick that passed with time, but the other kind—the one people didn’t like to name until they absolutely had to. They were still waiting on tests, on confirmation, but everyone knew. It hung there between them.

Luna seemed steadier with her family around. Frankie told you that most evenings they all sat together in the living room, watching movies with the lights low and the volume too high, like maybe sound could shield them from dread. Helena didn’t want to go back to Austin just yet. But Frankie wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay. Work was waiting, and so was everything else he’d pressed pause on. Still, every time he mentioned going back, Luna reminded him—gently, but firmly—that it was okay to leave when he needed to. That it didn’t make him a bad brother. That love could stretch across state lines and that being present didn’t always mean being in the same place.

With Jamie, Frankie seemed lighter somehow. He’d tell you stories every night—about the park they discovered not far from Luna’s house, where the trees were tall and gold-tipped, and how Jamie insisted on racing him from bench to bench, laughing so hard he nearly fell over. They rode bikes, Frankie jogging beside him when the hill felt too steep. He taught Jamie how to cast a fishing line, how to use his fingers to tie little knots that held. There was something grounding in it, he said, using your hands like that. Jamie clung to him with a kind of unspoken admiration that made something in Frankie’s voice catch when he talked about it. One night, Jamie asked him if he’d take him flying someday—really flying—and Frankie said he would. In Austin, he promised. When they came to visit.

Each night he’d give you pieces of his day, and you’d offer yours in return—your routines, the small details of your work hours. You told him that Santi had been trying, with the kind of stubborn optimism only he could sustain, to organize a group trip somewhere not too far, somewhere quiet, maybe on a weekend.

“When Fish gets back,” he had said, like it was obvious.

You’d seen Emma a few days ago too. She wasn't that subtle about this new thing going on with you. She never was. She tried, in her own way, to keep her thoughts to herself, but she had a certain look when she did—eyebrows tight, lips curved, like biting back smiles and words.

“I’m not going to say anything,” she told you one afternoon while you were pushing a cart through the grocery store. That night you were making pasta—she was on sauce duty, claiming it was the only white sauce worth making. “I know how you get. All bashful and avoidant every time I bring him up.”

“I know what you think,” you said, grabbing a bottle of olive oil and dropping it into the cart. “You think we’re rushing things. You don’t have to say it. I can see it in your face.”

“Rushing?” she said, eyebrows lifting. “He’s in another state. You talk once a day, maybe twice. I don’t think it’s too fast. I think you’re moving the way people move when something it's... you know.” She turned away from you, scanned the row of spices, distracted. “What I do think is that you haven’t realized that you’re probably already dating.”

You blinked. “We’re not dating.”

“Oh no?” she turned back, one brow still raised, like a challenge. “Then what exactly are you doing?”

“We’re… friends. More than friends. For now. I dunno. Don’t name it.”

Emma smiled, but not in a mocking way. It was softer than that.

“More than friends,” she echoed. “You should see the way you sound at night when you talk to him. You get this voice. All careful and… sweet. ‘When are you coming back?’ ‘How’s everything over there?’” she teased, doing a vague imitation of your voice that didn’t sound like you at all, but you let her have it.

You laughed, half-guilty, half-exposed. “I dunno. It just sounds too serious to say things like that.”

“To say what? That you miss him?”

You looked away, pretending to search the shelf behind her for something—anything—your fingers trailing along the edges of jars you didn’t need.

“I think he’d like to hear it,” she added, quieter this time.

And you didn’t say anything, but you wondered if maybe he would.

So the days passed quietly. The nights followed suit—predictable, comforting, marked now by something you hadn’t anticipated relying on. Each evening, almost without exception, his call came at the same time. Not by agreement, not because you’d asked him to. It just kept happening, like some new law of nature.

Tonight was no different. You were already in bed, the lights off, your room wrapped in the soft blue glow of the TV. Some show played faintly in the background, but you weren’t really watching it.

Your eyes were half-shut, your body sinking into the warmth of your comforter, your breathing deepening without your permission. It wasn’t even that late—barely past nine—but the day had pulled at you from every direction, and you felt the weight of it in your bones.

When your phone buzzed, you didn’t startle. You simply reached for it under the covers, your fingers brushing past Mr. Darcy, curled at your side. He flicked his tail in protest.

You didn’t need to check the screen. You already knew. But you did anyway, as you always did.

[Frankie🍾 ]

The contact photo was one you had taken right after the skydive. His hair had been wild from the wind, his cheeks flushed from adrenaline. He wasn’t looking straight at the camera—his smile was off to the side, crooked in that way you had started to recognize as entirely him. He was still wearing the black jumpsuit, the straps hanging loose around his shoulders like he hadn’t had the energy to take it off yet.

You pressed accept and stretched out, your voice sleep-rough as you spoke.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he said. You could hear the smile in his voice. “Were you asleep?”

“No. Almost. I’m in bed.”

“Long day?” he asked, and then you heard it—the brief crackle of static, the soft inhale. He was smoking.

“You?”

“Not really. I’m out in the yard. Bambi’s trying to lick my face.”

You laughed, quietly. “Leave him alone. Those are dog kisses. That means he loves you.”

“Well, I hope Mr. Darcy doesn’t hold it against me when I come back. Do you think he’ll know?”

“Oh, he’ll know,” you said, smiling into the dark. “He’ll smell the betrayal. You’ll have to earn his forgiveness.”

“Mmm. You know him best. What’s the strategy?”

“The obvious one,” you murmured. “Food. Kibble and wet tuna. He’s kind of basic like that.”

“Reliable,” Frankie said. “I like that in a man.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, just listened to the soft night sounds on his end of the call—the wind, maybe, the distant creak of something wooden, the faint thump of paws on the grass. You imagined him out there, sitting outside like the previous nights, Bambi pressed against his side. You imagined the glow of the cigarette, how it lit up his features for brief seconds at a time.

“And what about you?” he asked.

You turned slightly, shifting beneath the covers. “What about me?”

“How am I supposed to deal with you?”

For a moment, you didn’t speak.

“I think I’m easier,” you said eventually. “Just seeing you would be enough.”

There was a beat, and then you heard him exhale through his nose, amused. The kind of quiet, private laugh he gave when he didn’t want to sound too affected.

“I’ll be back this weekend. Maybe sooner.”

You smiled into the dark, instinctively, and tried to temper your voice. “Really?”

“Yeah. Mai and I. Mom’s staying a bit longer. She wants to be around to help Luna and Henry with Jamie while they take care of everything else.”

“How are they doing?” 

“Better,” he said, and you could hear the thoughtfulness in it. “Or, I don’t know—better within the context of everything. Henry’s holding up. Luna too. They took Jamie out for a walk today, just the three of them. She said it helped. Like things made sense, even if only for an hour.”

“That sounds nice,” you said. “I bet Jamie loved that.”

“He did,” Frankie said, and there was a warmth in his tone. “Then when they got home, he asked me to take him to the movies. Invited two of his friends. He planned the whole thing himself—texted their moms and everything.”

You smiled. “He really likes having you around.”

“Yeah, he does,” Frankie said, and he was laughing now, low and incredulous. “I think he thinks I’m cooler than I actually am. We saw some video game movie. The boys were hyped. I was just… lost.”

You laughed. “You’re getting old.”

“Maybe. Do you have any idea how many words I didn’t recognize tonight?”

“How many?”

“Definitely more than three. Jamie tried to explain them all, but when I tried to use one in a sentence, he told me I was ‘cringe’ and should just stop.”

You laughed again. Mr. Darcy shifted beside you, unimpressed by the noise.

“You’re officially out of touch.” 

“I think I’ve made peace with it,” he said. “If it means I get to be the uncool adult who buys popcorn and lets them talk through the previews, I’ll take it.”

“Come on, tell me one of the words.”

There was a pause. Frankie made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

“Please don’t make me do this.”

“Okay, I’ll wait. You can tell me when you’re back, then.”

“I’m not making any promises,” he said, amusement spilling through the line. You heard the faint inhale of a cigarette, the soft exhale that followed. “My mom says hi, by the way. Actually, they all do. But she wanted me to tell you that her hello is the most enthusiastic. Like, she made a point of that.”

You grinned. “Tell her I say hi too. To everyone. But especially her.”

“I’ll pass it on. Bambi—hey, hey, off,” he muttered, the sound of shuffling fabric and a low thud in the background. “Goddamn, I swear. He’s trying to climb on top of me. Anyway—what did you do today?”

“Nothing thrilling,” you said. “Work was the same as usual. After that I stopped by Bill’s. It’s almost finished now. It’s looking really good. Just needs the shelves filled and maybe a few more touches.”

“That sounds nice,” he said, and you could hear him settling again, like he’d shifted into a more comfortable position.

“Yeah, I think it’ll be a great space. After that Julie said she was craving burgers, so we got burgers. Then I came home. I had a headache so I took something for it and stood under the hot water for a while. That helped. And now I’m here. TV on, lights off. Mr. Darcy’s asleep at my side. Very thrilling night.”

He laughed softly. “That’s good, though. That you’re okay. God, you have no idea how much I miss my bed.”

“Are you not sleeping well?”

“Not really. Jamie wears me out in the best way—he’s got me running around after him like I’m twenty again. I forgot how much stamina kids have.” There was a pause, and a sound like he’d scratched his jaw. “But even when I’m tired, it’s hard to actually sleep. I sort of just lie there.”

You frowned a little, your voice gentler. “You should go to bed early tonight. Take a hot shower. I know I sound like one of those people who don't get it but, that helps me. Maybe it works for you too?”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. Although I need to know—how hot is this magical shower supposed to be? Because when you say hot, you mean skin-peeling, bone-melting hot.”

You laughed. “I don’t know, Francisco. Hot enough for you. Warm enough to trick your body into relaxing. And then don’t get stuck in front of the TV like you always do.”

“You’re watching TV now.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have trouble sleeping,” you countered, tugging the blanket higher over your chest. “The moment we hang up, I’m out. Like a light. I’ll sleep better than a baby.”

“Are you mocking me?” he asked, half-playful, but with just enough mock offense to make you laugh again.

“I would never.”

“Oh, I have screenshots,” he said. You could hear the grin in his voice. “You think I don’t, but I do.”

“Fake screenshots. Fabricated evidence.”

“Sure, sure. Who does nothing fears nothing—or something like that.”

You didn’t speak for a few seconds. The warmth in your chest had started to climb, spreading outward.

“Well,” you said, trying to keep your voice even, “go try to sleep, okay? I miss you. Call me tomorrow.”

It came out faster than you intended, like the words had been waiting behind your teeth for too long.

There was a pause on the other end. Not long, but long enough to make your heart jump once, then again.

“What?” Frankie asked.

“Get some sleep,” you repeated, more carefully this time. “Call me tomorrow.”

“No.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “No? What do you mean no? You’re not going to call me?” you asked, voice light, teasing. “Or you’re not going to sleep?”

There was a pause before Frankie answered. On the other end of the line, you heard the soft rustle of wind or leaves, and then the familiar sound of him inhaling. A breath in. Then a quiet exhale of smoke.

He laughed softly. “Sure, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Ah, okay.”

“And I miss you too.”

You closed your eyes and felt the heat rush to your cheeks, your mouth curving helplessly. You were glad the lights were off, as if that could somehow protect you from how young and exposed you felt in that moment. There was something embarrassingly teenage about it—your heart beating a little too fast, your body betraying you.

You let out a soft laugh, not bothering to hide it. If he heard it, let him.

“Okay,” you murmured, “ now go to sleep.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You get really commanding sometimes,” he said, voice low. “But I’ll listen to you. Just this once, just tonight.”

“Mhm. Return to Ithaca, Odysseus.”

Frankie smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling up almost involuntarily. He could feel the heat rising in his face, and he didn’t bother to hide it. At his feet, Bambi was curled up, eyes lifted toward him, the whites gleaming like thin crescents in the low light.

“See you soon,” he said, voice low.

“See you soon, Francisco,” you said. Then the call ended—cut clean, final.

He stared down at the screen, thumb hovering over your name. Your contact photo was still the one he’d taken the day you went skydiving—your hair a mess, the sky swallowing the plane behind you, your smile too big for the frame. He remembered the way you had turned to him, half-nervous, half-thrilled. How he hadn’t been able to look away.

“If you keep grinning like that, it’s going to get stuck,” said a voice beside him.

Frankie startled. He hadn’t heard her come out. Luna.

She laughed, full and unbothered, and he stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray before tucking his phone into the front pocket of his hoodie.

Luna sat next to him, cross-legged, her shoulders brushing his lightly. She tipped her head back and looked up, at the sky.

“Jamie passed out like a log,” she murmured. “I’m guessing you’re wiped too.”

“A bit.”

She tilted her head to look at him properly, her expression gentle.

“You’ve got shadows under your eyes. I keep hearing you come down here after midnight.”

“Not me. Maybe the house is haunted.”

That made her laugh again. She let the silence settle for a moment before asking, “Did you tell her you’re flying back tomorrow?”

He exhaled, drawing a hand over his mouth. “No. I thought maybe—”

“Frankie.” Her voice was gentle. Not scolding, not pushy. “It’s okay. You need to go home. We’re okay here. All of us.”

He hesitated. “I told Jamie I’d take him to the museum.”

“You can take him next time.” She reached out, laid a hand on his forearm. “He’ll understand. He’s a tough kid. And honestly, he’s had the best time with you here. You’ve given him something special. I should thank you for that.”

He smiled, eyes fixed on the horizon like something might move out ther.

“It’s nothing. I .. I like it here,” he said, pausing. Then, quieter: “And sometimes I miss you. A little. You know that, right?”

Luna let out a soft laugh, folding her arms across her chest. “Do you? That’s news to me. You barely even call.”

Frankie turned his head, gave her a look that hovered somewhere between amused and exasperated. “The phone works both ways, Luna.”

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She nudged his knee with hers, a teasing gesture. “Speaking of phone calls... how’s your girl?”

“She’s okay,” he said, voice neutral, almost too casual.

“Did you tell her Mom says hi? You know she’ll ask me if you did.”

Frankie laughed under his breath. “Yeah. I passed it along.”

Luna leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her.

“Another reason you should head back. She’s waiting for you.” Her voice was light, but not unkind. She tapped him on the shoulder. “And you’re turning red, by the way. I can see it even in this light.”

“Jesus,” Frankie muttered, rubbing a hand across his face.

She ignored that. “Sofi wants to make a bet,” she said with a grin. “She says we should guess how long it’ll take before you pro—”

“Oh, my God.” He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. When he looked at her again, there was a faint plea in his eyes. “Please don’t.”

“Why not?” Luna laughed, unbothered. “We like her. That’s supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it? That we all like her?”

Frankie shook his head like he was trying to dislodge the whole conversation. There was something boyish in the way he looked down at the floor, something almost shy.

“Relax, I’m joking,” Luna said, her voice light, almost airy. “It just wouldn’t be as much fun teasing you if you didn’t turn that exact shade of red every single time.”

Frankie took a step back, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah, okay.”

She kept looking at him, her smile lingering. Then her gaze shifted—first to Bambi, who was lying at her feet with his tail starting to sweep rhythmically across the floor, then back to Frankie.

“How are things with her?” she asked. “Is she good to you?”

Frankie laughed quietly. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor.

He knew what she meant. Not just the words, but what lived underneath them. Is she different from Rachel? That was the real question. Of course Luna would never ask that outright—she was too tactful for that, too soft in her own way—but he could see it in the set of her mouth, in the steadiness of her stare.

“She is,” he said eventually. “She’s better than I probably deserve.”

Luna tilted her head, frowning slightly. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked away. “She’s… patient. With me. More than she needs to be. Sometimes I say things, or do things, and I know they don’t come out right. I confuse her. And still, she tries to understand me. Always.”

“And you don’t think you deserve that?”

“I think I can be difficult,” he admitted. “Hard to be around, sometimes.”

“Mm. That's not true.”

“I’ve been worse than usual lately,” he added. “But I can talk to her about it. She listens.”

He looked over at his sister, and she gave him this quiet, knowing smile. Frankie hesitated, the memory creeping up before he had a chance to decide whether or not to share it.

“You know,” he said, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling for a moment. “You know we didn’t get along at first. At all.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“There was this fight. Not just a little disagreement. A real argument. We were in the car. I was driving her home, and… I said things I shouldn’t have. I pushed too far. She cried. I could tell I was making it worse even while I was doing it, but I couldn’t stop. I think I felt—desperate, or something.”

He paused, shaking his head slowly, like he still couldn’t believe himself.

“We were talking about something, about her life, something that mattered to her, and I just bulldozed through it. She got out of the car and walked home in the dark. I left. I didn’t go after her. I went home and felt like absolute shit.”

Luna didn’t interrupt. She was still watching him.

He reached down, brushed his hand along Bambi’s back.

“A couple days later, I went to her place. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I had to show up. And she was upset too. Not just about the argument, but everything that came before it. She told me I’d hurt her. Not just that night—over the years. And she was right. But then she asked if I’d forgive her too. She said she wanted to start over.”

He looked at Luna then, his voice softer. “And I told her, ‘Okay. Fine. Let’s try.’ And we did. But I still don’t know what she sees in me. I don’t feel like I’ve earned it.”

He stared ahead, posture still, his breath leaving him in a quiet exhale through his nose. Not quite a sigh. Something smaller. More contained.

Luna parted her lips, about to speak, but Frankie beat her to it.

“And I don’t mean it like a rational thing,” he said. “Not like a clear thought I tell myself—‘you don’t deserve this’—it’s not that. It’s more like... even when everything’s good, when I’m with her and I actually feel happy—I... I..." He stopped abruptly, as if startled by what he had just said. “I mean... like, like there’s this feeling underneath it. Like I’m doing something wrong by being there. Like I’ve stolen someone else’s seat.” He glanced at her, but only briefly. “Like I don’t belong next to her. Like I don’t deserve her.”

Luna didn’t move for a second. Then she tilted her head, the corners of her mouth pulled down in something between sympathy and disbelief. Frankie looked away again, eyes flicking down to the dog lying at their feet.

“And so I leave,” he added, voice lower now. “I pull away. I don’t mean to. I just… I don’t know how to hold it all without feeling like I’ll break something. And she never blames me. Somehow, she gets it.”

Luna closed her eyes briefly, pressing her lips together. When she looked at him again, there was a wrinkle between her brows.

“Why wouldn’t you deserve someone who’s patient with you? Who actually listens to you?” Her hand moved to his arm, light pressure just enough to make him feel anchored. “None of what you’re telling yourself is true. You know that, right?”

Frankie wanted to nod. He wanted to meet her eyes and say yes, he knew. But instead, his head tilted a little, the motion uncertain, unfinished.

She didn’t wait. “Well, you have to start knowing. Because someone made you believe the opposite. Someone taught you not to expect anything good. They conditioned you to settle for the scraps they gave you and convinced you that was all you’d ever get. And it wasn’t just one conversation or one mistake. It was years of it. Of being made small.”

Her voice didn’t waver, even as her fingers gripped his sleeve tighter. “Of course it’s going to take time to undo that. Of course it’s hard to believe anything else. But you can. And you have to. Because this—” she gestured, vaguely—“this doesn’t get to be the end of the story.”

Frankie looked at her, his face unreadable but not closed off.

“And I know it’s not going to be easy,” Luna said. “But you have to try. Because if what you have in front of you is something good, something that makes you better, you don’t just get to let it slip through your hands.”

She paused, watching him closely, like she was trying to gauge whether the words were landing where they needed to.

“Yeah, she’s patient,” she went on. “She obviously cares about you. But people have limits. You keep handing someone your doubt over and over again, eventually they get tired of carrying it.”

She exhaled, slowly, as if remembering something. Or maybe trying to forget. “It’s awful. That feeling of being with someone but not knowing where you stand. Wondering if they love you, or if they’re just staying because it’s easier than leaving for good.” Her gaze lifted, her expression hardening just slightly. “I’ve lived it. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

She leaned in a little, her tone shifting—not cruel, but pointed. “So figure it out. Be brave about it. Don’t leave her sitting in the dark, trying to guess how you feel. If you do, you will lose her. Don't fuck it up.”

Something tightened in Frankie’s stomach. That peculiar mix of dread and longing. He wanted to explain—wanted to say, I’m not sure she’s even mine to lose. That whatever this was between you—this warm, electric, confusing thing—hadn’t been defined, hadn’t been claimed. It felt real, sure. It felt important. But you hadn’t named it. You hadn’t promised anything.

Still, he didn’t say any of that. Because the truth made the story more complicated, and right now, he needed it to stay simple. At least on the surface.

But she was right. He knew that in his bones.

“You’re flying out tomorrow,” Luna said, gently shifting the subject. “I’ll drive you to the airport. And after you’ve settled, you’ll call me. Let me know how you’re doing.”

Frankie gave a small nod, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I will,” he said. “But answer the damn phone.”

Luna let out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I always answer the phone.”

Frankie smiled—briefly, instinctively—but the expression faded almost as soon as it had appeared. A sharp, jarring sound echoed from inside the house. A thud. Deep and unmistakable, like something solid hitting the floor. Then a low groan followed, wounded and human.

Luna was on her feet in an instant. Frankie had already moved, pushing the door open, moving into the hallway with purposeful strides.

Just beyond the entrance, at the base of the staircase, Henry was slumped on the floor. His posture was hunched, arms hanging limply at his sides, one hand weakly pressing against the side of his head. There was blood—on his forehead, smeared across his cheek—but it wasn’t immediately clear where it was coming from. His eyes were wide, unfocused.

Helena knelt beside him, her voice hushed but panicked, her fingers carefully brushing hair away from his brow as she inspected the injury. From the edge of the living room doorway, Mai stood frozen, her hands clenched tightly in front of her. She looked like she wanted to move forward but couldn’t. Her skin had gone pale. She hated the sight of blood. Always had.

“Oh my God.” Luna’s voice cracked as she rushed over to Henry, already crying. “Henry—baby—what happened? Are you okay? Your head—”

Henry blinked, his mouth moving, struggling to find words. Nothing came out at first. He looked like he didn’t know where he was.

Frankie crouched down beside him, steady hands reaching to guide Henry’s chin upward, tilting his face gently into the light. His touch was careful, instinctive.

“I was coming up the stairs,” Henry said at last, voice uneven, breath catching at the end of each word. “I—I don’t know what happened. I got dizzy. Then everything just… went.”

“Okay,” Frankie said, nodding, reassuring. “You’re alright. Doesn’t look like anything’s broken. Just stay there, alright? Keep still.” He turned briefly to Luna, who was already pulling her phone from her back pocket, hands shaking.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” she said, more to herself than anyone else, her eyes full of panic and tears already streaking her cheeks.

Behind them, a small voice broke through the noise.

“Dad?”

Frankie turned. At the top of the staircase, Jamie stood barefoot in his pajamas, holding onto the railing. His face was pale and rigid with fear, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Jamie,” Frankie said, standing up, moving toward him with soft, cautious steps.

He reached the boy and tried to take his hands, but Jamie pulled back, sudden and stiff, his eyes still locked on his father’s crumpled form at the bottom of the stairs.

Frankie hesitated. He didn’t know what the right move was—whether to stop him or let him come down. Jamie moved first, stepping down without a word, and Frankie followed just behind, arms half-raised in case he needed to catch him.

When Jamie reached the landing, he froze. Then, without warning, he burst into tears. His small fists clenched and unclenched in front of him, twisting into each other like he was trying to hold something in—but it was too late. The fear and confusion had cracked through.

Frankie stood near him, his chest tightening, unsure if reaching out again would help or scare him more.

Then he reached out, his hand finding Jamie’s small shoulder. The boy flinched at first—just a reflex—but then turned and collapsed into him, his face pressing hard into the front of Frankie’s shirt. His small hands clutched at the fabric, fingers tightening as the sobs overtook him. He was trying not to cry, Frankie could tell, trying to swallow the sound down into himself, but it kept escaping in short, hiccuping gasps.

Frankie wrapped his arms around him without hesitation. There was nothing precise about the way he held him—just instinct and care, the way you’d hold something fragile that you didn’t want to break. He turned and lifted him off the floor, arms anchored beneath his knees and back, careful not to jostle him too much, carrying him upstairs like he was still the five-year-old who used to fall asleep in the backseat of the car.

Inside Jamie’s bedroom, the air felt smaller, quieter. Frankie set him down gently on the bed and shut the door behind them. For a second, neither of them spoke. The sound of Jamie’s sniffling was soft now, like he was trying to push the noise down deep inside himself.

Frankie crossed the room and knelt in front of him, his knees hitting the carpet with a muted thump. He reached up, cupping Jamie’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing the boy’s flushed cheeks.

“Jamie,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

He did. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, mouth still trembling at the corners.

“It’s okay. Your dad’s okay.”

Jamie blinked at him, and Frankie could see the skepticism land instantly.

“That’s not true,” he whispered, voice shredded at the edges. “I know he’s sick.”

Frankie’s hands stilled. There were no words at the ready. No script. Only the sharp realization that lying wouldn't work. 

“I know.”

Jamie’s voice cracked in half. “Is he going to die?”

Frankie felt something pull tight in his chest. It was like his heart had been tied up in cloth and dipped in water—heavy, sodden, impossible to wring out. His eyes burned, and he blinked, fast and hard, willing it away.

“He...” He tried again, forcing steadiness into his tone. “He’s sick. But he’s getting help. The doctors are really good. Remember what your mom said? They're the best. She wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true.”

Jamie didn’t respond right away. He just kept crying, softer now, quieter, like his body was getting tired of holding it all up.

“But he got hurt,” he said, voice tight.

“I know. But that—” Frankie leaned in a little, pointing to his own forehead. “That was just a cut. Up here. It looked worse than it was. You remember when you fell off your bike? That scrape on your knee? All that blood? It looked huge, but it wasn’t. Just messy.”

He nodded, barely. His eyes didn’t leave Frankie’s.

“It was scary,” Frankie continued. “But it was only a scare.”

Jamie hesitated. “How do you know it’s just that?”

Frankie glanced down. The pads of his fingers were stained red. He curled them into fists and tucked his hands into his lap like they didn’t belong to him. Then he looked back up.

“Because I checked. With my own hands. It was bleeding, yeah, but it wasn’t deep. Just a surface cut.”

The boy searched his face, eyes darting between his mouth and his eyes, like trying to catch a lie midair.

There were two knocks at the door, and then it opened a beat later without waiting for an answer.

“Jamie,” Luna said softly as she stepped into the room. “Honey, are you okay?”

Jamie didn’t say anything right away. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist, his face still damp, expression uncertain. Then he gave a faint nod. Luna walked across the room and crouched beside the bed, brushing a hand through his hair.

“We’re going to the hospital, with daddy,” she said, watching his face closely, “but everything’s alright. Okay?”

Jamie looked up at her, then past her to Frankie, his mouth parting just slightly.

“Can I go?” he asked, barely above a whisper. The room fell quiet.

Luna didn’t answer right away. She glanced at Frankie—one of those looks that lasted less than a second but held a full conversation inside it—and then turned her eyes back to her son.

Frankie cleared his throat, adjusting where he knelt.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out and tapping Jamie gently on the calf. “What if we finally watch that movie you asked about yesterday? The one with the animals. Remember?”

Jamie’s eyebrows knit together, uncertain.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice thin.

Frankie shifted a little, resting one arm on the mattress.

“You know the one I mean, right?” he said, feigning confusion. “The movie with the animals and the board game... How was it called again? Tumanji?”

Jamie blinked at him for a second—then his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile appearing.

“No,” he said, voice still a little hoarse but brighter. “Jumanji.”

Frankie snapped his fingers. “Ah. That’s it. I always mix it up with that other one. You know, the one where the guy gets stuck inside a board game and becomes a tomato.”

Jamie gave a short, surprised laugh, the kind that sneaks out before you remember you’re supposed to be upset. “That’s not a movie.”

“You sure? Sounds like Oscar material to me,” Frankie said, raising an eyebrow.

Luna gave him a look—half grateful, half exasperated—and smoothed her son’s hair again. Jamie’s body had relaxed by then, shoulders dropping just slightly, a flicker of lightness beginning to return to his face.

He turned to Frankie again. “Okay,” small but clear.

Thursday, October 17th

The morning passed quietly and the bookstore felt half-asleep. You spent most of it rearranging the same shelf three times, more for something to do than out of necessity.

Nancy stopped by before noon. She came every few weeks, always with lipstick on, her earrings matching her outfit. She was in her seventies—sharp as ever— with the kind of silver-white hair that looked like it had absorbed sunlight and kept it, somehow. You liked her. She had a warm, sturdy way of being that made you feel less alone in your skin. She always brought up Piero, her husband, who sounded like the kind of man who made tea before you asked and let you have the last cookie. They sunbathed on their patio every afternoon, she said, beneath a striped umbrella. She talked about it fondly, like sun and silence were sacred, like afternoons stretched longer when you spent them side by side with someone who knew where all your scars were and loved you anyway.

She told you she used to teach math but had always preferred stories. “Numbers are always perfect, but people are interesting,” she said once. She kept journals—dozens of them, she claimed—stacked in boxes in her attic. You told her you’d love to read one, just to see how someone like her had seen the world when they were younger.

Before she left, she narrowed her eyes at you playfully.

“How old are you, sweetheart?” she asked, leaning slightly over the counter.

“Twenty-nine,” you answered, your voice soft, the way it always was when someone surprised you with affection.

She smiled as if you’d given her the exact answer she was hoping for.

“I’ll bring you the one I wrote when I was your age. Maybe there’s something useful in it.”

Later, the stillness cracked open. A group of teenagers tumbled into the store like a wind you hadn't prepared for. They made a mess of the juvenile section, speaking too loudly, touching everything with the kind of reckless hands that had never had to shelve anything. You asked them more than once to be careful, using the voice you reserved for rules you wished didn’t need saying. One of them dropped a copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower like it meant nothing at all.

They didn’t buy anything. They left the shelves in chaos. Normally, you would have accepted it as part of the rhythm of the place—books always moved, never stayed where you put them. But today it stung. There was something careless about their presence. Putting the books back felt like an apology you weren’t sure who to give to.

Later, a man came in asking for a book. He couldn’t remember the title, just that it was about a man, something existential, maybe something to do with murder, or exile, or the sea. You suggested The Stranger by Camus.

“No, no, not that one,” he insisted, shaking his head like you’d misunderstood him completely. And then he described The Stranger to you, again, nearly word for word.

You didn’t correct him. You just let him keep talking. Because some people need to arrive at the truth on their own. 

By the time the sign on the door read closed, your whole body ached with the kind of exhaustion that comes from quiet tasks performed for hours on end. You moved through the familiar routine almost without thinking—lights off, blinds drawn, register counted, the keys pressing cool and metallic into your palm as you locked up.

At home, you undressed slowly, letting your clothes fall where they wanted to, and stepped into the bath. The water climbed around you, and for a moment, everything felt still again. It was the kind of warmth that softened you, let the tension uncurl from your shoulders, made you forget how much your feet had hurt.

Afterward, wrapped in your robe and already feeling better, you padded into the kitchen with the light kind of optimism that sometimes appears when you're clean and your hair is damp and everything feels slightly reset. You opened the fridge, thinking about pasta or maybe something with melted cheese.

What you found was something closer to satire than sustenance: one pathetic lemon, the skin hardened like old leather, and a wedge of cheese in the kind of condition that made you feel vaguely judged by your own refrigerator. You laughed out loud—just once, flatly—then let the door close with a gentle thud.

You could’ve ordered in. Of course, that was always an option. But something about the quietness of the evening made you want to cook. Something comforting, something with cheese and butter or... bolognesa, but the really well done one, like the kind of meal Emma would send you videos of in the middle of the night with messages like we NEED to try this. So you got dressed, pulling on jeans and a nice shirt, trying to look like someone who might bump into someone they used to love at the grocery store, even though that wasn't true.

It was already six, the sky dipped in pale pinks and oranges, the air still a little bit thick. You moved quickly, maybe too quickly—partly because you were hungry, partly because the idea of dinner had already taken root in your mind and you wanted to see it through.

On the way back, your grocery bag hung from one shoulder, slightly digging into your skin. The sun was almost fully gone. You tilted your head back to look at the sky, letting the dark soft colors press into your mind.

You were still looking up when you reached your block. And then, without warning, your attention snapped downward. A figure. Familiar. Standing just outside your front door, hands tucked into his jean jacket pockets, head tilted slightly, like he’d been waiting a while.

You frowned, not quite alarmed but confused, and started walking faster, your footsteps picking up rhythm against the sidewalk.

He rang the doorbell just as you reached shouting distance. And then he turned.

“Frankie?”

His eyes found yours. He smiled, and something about it made you stop walking entirely, just a few feet away from him now. You adjusted the strap of the bag on your shoulder, your smile echoing his. For a second, neither of you said anything. You just looked at him. Like you were reading his face.

He looked different. That’s what struck you first. Not bad—just different. The tired kind of different. His eyes were glassy and faintly red around the rims, like he’d slept too little or thought too much. Maybe both.

You noticed it immediately.

He crossed the short distance between you and gently slid the bag from your shoulder without asking, his fingers brushing against your skin. You let him. You watched him in the soft dusk light—his profile, the quiet concentration on his face as he adjusted the weight of the bag—and something in your chest softened.

You stepped closer. Without overthinking it, your arms wrapped around his neck, your body leaning into his with a kind of quiet certainty. He held you the way he always did: arms snug around your waist, pulling you into him. He pressed a kiss to your cheek. You felt the heat of it long after his lips left your skin.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice low, your face turned slightly so you could get a clearer look at him. “I thought you weren’t coming back until the weekend.”

He smiled, barely. “Or sooner, I said.”

You opened the door and stepped aside so he could come in. The small suitcase in his hand bumped against the frame as he passed, and you watched him carry it up the narrow stairs, placing it just inside the apartment, next to the door. You realized then that he probably hadn’t even gone home. Most likely, he’d come straight from the airport.

You set the groceries on the kitchen counter, the plastic rustling against the marble. When you turned back around, he was standing beside the couch, looking at you as if he was trying to remember something important. Your smile hadn’t left yet.

“Well?” you said, stepping toward him. “How are you?”

That’s when it shifted.

His mouth twitched, a near-smile interrupted midway. His shoulders fell, not all at once, but in degrees, like gravity had started pulling harder. His eyebrows knit slowly, his whole expression beginning to slide. His eyes—always expressive, always easy to read if you knew how to look—began to shine. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else might notice. But you did. Of course you did.

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching for him without hesitation, both hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing lightly across the skin beneath his eyes.

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at you. Close up now, you could see it more clearly—how tired he was. His eyes rimmed with red, the faint trace of tears that hadn’t yet fallen. The kind of exhaustion that lived deep in the bones, behind the eyes, beneath the skin. And something more.

Then you pulled him into your arms again, tighter this time. He dropped his face into the curve of your neck, and you felt his breath catch slightly as he exhaled. You pressed your hands into his hair, threading your fingers through the messy strands, and held him there.

At first, his breathing came in short, uneven bursts. You felt it in the way his chest rose and fell against yours, in the way his arms clung to you a little too tightly, as if you might disappear if he let go. But you didn’t move. You just held him, one hand in his hair, the other splayed across his back.

Eventually, his body began to ease. Not entirely, but enough. His breaths evened out, becoming quieter, steadier. He pulled back just slightly, enough that your faces were no longer touching, and you tilted your head to look at him properly. He did the same.

Your eyes scanned his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the subtle crease between his brows that seemed to have taken up permanent residence. You reached up and brushed your fingertips along his cheek, a gesture so gentle it barely registered.

He kissed you. It wasn’t rushed or hard, but there was urgency in it nonetheless—like he'd been waiting to do it, or needing to. His lips met yours and you responded instantly, your mouth moving with his as the space between you disappeared again. You tilted your head and the kiss deepened. But then he pulled back, leaving your lips warm and a little dazed.

You studied his face, your expression shifting into something you hadn’t planned. Tenderness, yes, but also a quiet ache for him.

You reached up and brushed your fingers through the side of his hair.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice soft, your thumb grazing the edge of his jaw.

He let out a breath through his nose.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, but then paused. “I mean… I’m just tired.”

You didn’t believe him, not fully, but you didn’t push. You let your hand rest against his cheek, tracing light, absentminded shapes along his skin.

“We can talk about it later,” you said. “If you want.”

“I’d like that.”

You smiled, small and reassuring, and nodded. “Now tell me—are you hungry?”

He squinted slightly, the ghost of a smile creeping across his lips.

“Starving.”

“Good,” you said, patting his chest before stepping back. “Now I’ve got the perfect excuse to make something that’ll impress you.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched you cross the room.

About thirty minutes later, you were standing at the stove, carefully pouring the chopped vegetables into the pot where the tomato sauce had already begun to simmer. You’d pulled up a recipe Emma had texted you weeks ago—something she’d raved about that night she sent five voice notes in a row. 

The ingredients were simple—onions, garlic, bell peppers, crushed tomatoes, some ground meat you’d picked out after asking the butcher three separate questions, and just enough red wine to make it taste richer than it actually was. Still, there was a method to getting it right. Things had to be done in order, in the right way, or it wouldn’t come together. You were focused on that now, adjusting the heat beneath the pot until the bubbles at the surface softened. You stirred gently, watching the sauce thicken, hoping the meat would turn tender enough to fall apart with a fork. The pasta would come later, once the sauce had earned it.

The smell was already blooming through the kitchen. You leaned in, eyes fluttering closed for a second, just to take it in.

Then, the sound of a door opening, then closing again. The quiet shuffle of feet along the hallway.

Frankie appeared a second later, leaning into the wall next to you, one shoulder pressed casually against it.

“That smells really good,” he said, eyes drifting toward the stove.

You looked at him and smiled. He was wearing those soft gray-and-black striped pajama pants you’d seen once, paired with a plain white T-shirt that clung just slightly to his chest. He’d pulled them from his suitcase before heading into the shower.

“Thanks,” you said, eyes drifting to the damp patches forming on his shoulders. “Your hair’s still dripping. You’re getting your shirt all wet.”

“I can shake it out, if you want,” he offered, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Before you could stop him, he tilted his head and gave it a little shake like a dog just out of the rain, droplets scattering into the air, some landing on your cheek.

“No!” you laughed, holding your hands up in protest as he moved a step closer.

He retreated, still grinning, and reached up to push his damp curls back from his forehead.

“I’ll dry off,” he said. “I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“So impatient,” you teased, pressing a hand lightly to his stomach as he passed behind you. “How was the shower?”

“Hot,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yeah, but don’t you feel renewed? Like your whole nervous system just reset?”

He tilted his face toward you, that crooked little smile still playing on his lips. “I’ll let you know after dinner.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he wasn’t looking. Earlier, you’d adjusted the water for his shower, turning the handle just right, testing the temperature with your wrist like you were preparing it for a toddler instead of a grown man.

“Not so hot,” he’d said, already pulling his T-shirt over his head. And then, as soon as the water hit his skin, he let out an exaggerated groan. Sure enough, seconds later came a low, satisfied sigh, like he'd just entered some kind of heaven.

You didn’t comment on it. But now, standing in front of him, you gave a soft shake of your head and said, “Come here,” brushing past him gently and catching his arm as you went.

He let himself be pulled, trailing behind you. You brought him into the bathroom and pointed to the closed toilet lid.

“Sit,” you instructed. He did.

Frankie looked at you with mock suspicion. “What are you going to do to me?”

His voice was cautious, playful, like he half-expected you to pull out a pair of scissors. You didn’t respond, just reached for a clean towel and began pressing the soft fabric into his damp hair, patting and squeezing gently, your movements steady but firm. His head dipped forward under your hands, shoulders relaxing a little as you worked.

“Look at you,” you murmured, a teasing edge in your voice, “like a child.”

He gave a snort in response, a quiet puff of breath.

“I hadn’t finished drying myself,” he said, his voice a bit muffled, like he was talking more to the floor than to you.

You didn’t answer. Just kept working. After a moment, you tossed the towel onto the edge of the sink and knelt to open the cabinet beneath it. Frankie stayed where he was, watching quietly now, as you pulled out a small hair dryer and plugged it into the socket by the mirror. You glanced back at him, holding it in your hand like a weapon.

“Bend your head a little,” you said, and he did, obedient.

The dryer clicked on with a soft hum, not too loud, and warm air began to rush over the back of his neck. You ran your fingers through his hair as you dried it, lifting and separating the strands, moving with a rhythm that felt almost instinctive. Your fingers grazed his scalp as you worked, massaging without thinking, just because it felt right to do.

After a few minutes, he exhaled slowly and said, “You’re going to put me to sleep.”

You smiled but didn’t stop. Instead, you nudged his chin up with the back of your fingers, tilting his head so you could reach the front. He opened his eyes, just barely, as if it took a real effort. You met his gaze briefly before moving your eyes again, concentrating on what you were doing.

He didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you. And you didn’t feel the need to break the silence.

After a while, you clicked off the dryer, the hum falling away like a thought slipping from your mind. The room felt quieter now, the only sound was the faint hum of the television playing in the living room. You wrapped the cord carefully around your fingers, looping it into a neat coil without rushing, then set it down on the cabinet.

You turned back to Frankie. He was still sitting, head slightly tilted, watching you in that unblinking way he had. You ran a hand through his hair.

“All done,” you said quietly, offering him a faint smile.

He stood with a soft grunt, lifting his arms above his head to stretch. The hem of his shirt shifted slightly, exposing a thin line of skin. You were just about to open the door when you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist. You turned, caught off guard, and he pulled you toward him in one fluid motion.

His hand came up to your face, cupping your cheek with a familiarity that made your breath catch. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief, tender, almost shy. Then, without waiting, he kissed you again, this time properly.

You smiled into it. That unconscious, reflexive smile that made your cheeks ache a little. He felt it and smiled too, the curve of his lips brushing against yours. You slid your hands up the front of his shirt, fingertips gliding over the fabric, settling on his shoulders. The cotton felt damp under your palms.

You pulled away, just enough to see his face clearly, to speak without your lips brushing.

“Your shirt’s still wet,” you murmured, your voice lighter now, teasing.

He gave a dramatic roll of his eyes but didn’t release you. His arms stayed around your waist, grounding you there. And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Apparently, you were a damn good cook. The kind that surprised even yourself. Because an hour later, Frankie was sitting across from you at the small kitchen table, setting his fork down with a soft clink against the plate. He reached for the wine glass with the same hand and took a sip, his eyes closing briefly like it really hit the spot.

The apartment was quiet, save for Al Green playing on the speaker in the living room—How Can You Mend a Broken Heart drifting across the place, soft and clear.

Dinner had been easy. No heavy conversations, nothing you had to tiptoe around. Frankie seemed lighter now, more himself, in a dry T-shirt this time. He told you stories from his days in Boston, sticking to the parts he liked, the positive ones, wich were a lot. He asked about Bill then, about how things were going at the coffee shop, and you gave him the short version. Not because you didn’t want to talk, but because there wasn’t much to say. And you didn't feel like talking about Bill.

Mr. Darcy took the dinner invitation too, hopping into the spare chair between you like he’d been formally seated. He spent half the meal squinting at the table’s edge, trying to sniff his way into a bite, before giving up and curling himself into a quiet loaf.

“This was amazing,” Frankie said finally, leaning back with a sigh, like his body needed to announce how satisfied it was.

And honestly, it had been amazing. The meat had turned out just the way you’d hoped. Tender, flavorful, melting on the tongue in a way that made you close your eyes for a second. The vegetables soaked up the wine and seasonings too. And Frankie had eaten like a really starving man, which maybe wasn’t far from the truth. You had no problem refilling his plate twice, then again when he scraped up the last of the sauce with a piece of bread.

You tilted your head and smiled. “I’ll accept that compliment. Graciously.”

He laughed, and then nudged your foot under the table with his, a quiet, almost instinctive gesture. You looked up just as a yawn slipped out of him, unfiltered.

“So, how’d you sleep last night?” you asked, raising your glass, swirling the last sip of red wine before bringing it to your lips.

Frankie paused. He didn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t,” he said eventually, with a small, apologetic smile.

You tilted your head again. “You didn’t?”

He shook his head, and his fingers began to move around the stem of the wine glass, drawing quiet circles. 

“Henry had an accident.”

You didn’t speak at first. You watched him carefully, expecting an explanation to follow, but it didn’t. He just sat there, eyes fixed somewhere near your hands.

So you shifted in your seat, and then you asked: “What happened to him?”

“He fell down the stairs,” he said. “He got dizzy.”

Your stomach turned. Frankie gave a faint nod, as if trying to convince himself more than you.

“It wasn’t terrible,” he added quickly, “just a few stitches. Nothing broken. But the fall was bad enough that they kept him at the hospital for observation. He hit his head.”

You winced, your mind catching on the small detail.

You remembered what Frankie had told you last week—about the tumor. A small mass, tucked inside Henry’s frontal lobe, as if that part of the brain had quietly betrayed him. It had started with the dizzy spells, sure, but then there was that evening—he’d gotten confused during dinner with some friends, blanked out while telling a story he’d told a dozen times before. Then the blurriness came, the sudden jolts in his chest, the racing heartbeat. Frankie had listed the symptoms without drama, just a steady recounting. The headaches had been going on for months, along with the exhaustion and his growing inability to concentrate. Tests followed, more than one. And more still to come. They hadn’t reached a decision about surgery yet. But they would soon. One way or another.

Frankie’s voice cut back in, quieter now. “Jamie saw him.”

Your gaze flicked to his face.

“On the floor,” Frankie continued, eyes fixed on the tablecloth, tracing the pattern with the edge of his finger like he needed something tactile to focus on. “Henry was just lying there, blood all over his face. And Jamie—he just cried. He asked me if his dad was going to die.”

You inhaled sharply, instinctively. “Frankie…”

You wanted to reach across the table and touch him. You almost did. But something held you in place.

He looked up at you then, and his eyes were watery but not spilling over.

“I didn’t know what to say, I felt like an idiot. Like some useless bystander in the middle of this thing that’s eating him from the inside out.”

You said nothing.

“I couldn’t lie to him,” he went on. “He’s just a kid, but he’s not stupid. And he deserves more than some empty reassurance. I couldn’t look at him and say, No, your dad’s not going to die, because how the hell would I know that? What if I said it and I was wrong?”

His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t fall apart. He just looked at you, like he was still waiting for someone to tell him the right thing to say.

“What did you tell him?”

“That Henry had good doctors looking after him. And it’s true.” He gestured vaguely, his hand moving in the air like the thought couldn’t quite land. “But the feeling—it was awful. Just awful.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand in a soft, steady motion. He turned his palm upward, and his thumb found your fingers like it was second nature.

“He’s so little,” Frankie murmured. “Just ten. Still thinks the moon actually follows him when he walks home at night. He’s not supposed to know what it means to be scared like that. Not really. Not yet. He’s not supposed to be worried about things like this. He’s supposed to be, I don't know, riding his bike or forgetting to do his homework. Not standing over his dad wondering if he’s going to die.”

Your fingers traced over the curve of his knuckles. “I’m sure you were good with him. And I'm sure it helped him a lot to have you there with him. I don’t think that kind of presence goes unnoticed. Even at that age, kids know when someone shows up for them.” Your voice was soft, as were your fingers stroking his hand. "There are things that no one can protect him from, but you can be there for him. And I think he'll always be grateful for that, to know that his family was there. Whatever the outcome of all this."

Frankie didn’t reply at first. You saw something pass across his face—tiredness, maybe, or something more complicated. Then a faint smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, barely there.

“We watched a movie after they left for the hospital. Luna and my mom went with Henry. So it was just the three of us. Jamie, Mai, and me. We put on Jumanji.”

“Oh yeah? Does he like Jumanji?”

“He loves it,” Frankie nodded. “Though he didn’t make it to the end. Fell asleep halfway through. Mai and I just looked at each other and decided to let him be. I stayed on the couch with him till they got home.”

He glanced down then, his eyes landing on Mr. Darcy, curled up beside the table with his head resting on one outstretched paw.

“I didn’t sleep at all,” he added quietly. “Not when they came back, not even after I got into bed. I just laid there with my eyes closed, trying to feel normal. It wasn’t until eleven in the morning that I even looked at the time.”

He sighed, not dramatically, but like something heavy was pushing out of his chest. Then his gaze returned to you.

“I needed to come back,” he added. “I wanted to stay longer too—mostly for Jamie. But Luna said she’d take care of it. She’s good like that. She drove me to the airport. And the whole time, I was just thinking... I had to see you.”

The words settled into your chest with more weight than you’d expected. You blinked once, then again.

And suddenly, guilt crept in. You thought about how much time you’d taken earlier, moving through the kitchen like you had nowhere to be. You’d cooked like it was a weekend, like this was just another evening. You’d focused on simmering and seasoning and letting the wine reduce just right, and he—he had been running on fumes. Barely holding himself up.

He’d crossed the country running on nerves and zero sleep, and you’d made him wait for dinner.

Your eyes dropped to your lap, and your voice softened. “Frankie, I didn’t know. I would’ve—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted gently. “Being here feels... good. Normal. And that helps more than you think.”

“But you must be exhausted. I’m sorry.”

Frankie smiled. “No, I’m okay. Honestly. I think that shower of yours worked some kind of miracle.”

You shook your head lightly, resting your chin in your palm, elbow anchored to the table.

“Oh, so now you believe in the healing power of water,” you said, with a faint smirk.

He laughed. “Between that and three servings of your cooking, I’m practically a new man. Almost.”

“Almost?”

He shrugged, a little dramatically. “Well, I’m sort of counting on you to escort me to bed. In case that part wasn’t clear.”

The comment caught you off guard and made you laugh out loud.

“Wow. Bold of you.”

“Me?” he said, leaning forward like he had every right to be amused. “Come on, Shortcake. Don’t act innocent now. We both know you’ve been using me for my body.”

You burst into laughter again, covering your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to suppress the grin that had already taken over your face.

“Alright,” you said, rising to your feet. “Get up, I’ll take you to bed.”

From his seat, he didn’t move, just looked at you with exaggerated offense. “So you’re not denying it?”

You turned to face him, hands finding his shoulders, your thumbs brushing over the fabric of his T-shirt. He was warm under your touch, and his eyes flicked up to meet yours.

“Something tells me that even if that were the case,” you said, voice low, “you’d be completely fine with it.”

He chuckled, head tilting toward your hand. “Ha. You're right,” he said. “Got me.”

“Such a slut,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, though the smile hadn’t left your face. 

You turned toward the table, beginning to stack the plates absentmindedly. Behind you, Frankie stood up too, and without needing to say anything, he joined in, making quick work of the task. It took barely two minutes—your movements wordless but coordinated.

Then, before you could stop him, he was at the sink. You told him to leave it, that it could wait, but he shook his head, already reaching for the sponge.

“Bad manners,” he said over his shoulder. “Can’t just eat three plates of your food and leave you to clean up alone.”

So you didn’t argue again. Instead, you stayed beside him, leaning your hip against the counter, your arms crossed loosely over your chest. He told you about the day Jamie convinced him to climb a tree in the backyard, how he scraped his elbow and Jamie laughed so hard he nearly fell off the branch above him. Mr. Darcy circled your feet as he spoke, issuing small, dramatic meows, clearly under the impression that it was dinnertime for cats too.

Once the counters gleamed and the dishes were stacked neatly in the rack, the two of you drifted down the hallway in easy, familiar silence. Going to bed together didn’t feel like a decision, exactly—it felt like a continuation of the evening. Like the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask what to do or where to go. He just followed you.

In the bathroom, you watched his reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, his hair soft under the light, a slight crease between his brows as he concentrated. You stood beside him and picked up your toothbrush. Washed your face. Moved around each other without bumping into one another.

Later, you opened the quilt on your bed, fluffing the pillows absently. Frankie stepped into the room carrying Darcy in his arms like a baby, muttering something about him being spoiled. He set him gently on the mattress, where the cat immediately made a low-pitched grunt of satisfaction and curled up without ceremony.

You began to undress, turning your back toward Frankie out of instinct. And it was only when you felt the cool air touch your skin that you realized your face had grown warm. You weren’t used to this part—the exposed version of yourself, no lights dimmed, no rushed urgency to distract from the fact that he was watching you.

But he didn’t say anything. He just lay back on the bed with his arms folded behind his head, his eyes resting quietly on you, steady but unintrusive. You felt them on your back like sunlight through a window. Not harsh. Just there. 

You pulled the T-shirt over your head, the fabric brushing lightly over your skin as it settled around your torso and hips in soft folds. Then the pajama shorts slid into place. The air in the room felt nice against your skin.

You climbed into bed, moving across the mattress on your hands and knees until you reached his side. Frankie was already lying down, one arm bent beneath his head, eyes watching you as if he’d been waiting for you to arrive. You asked him to switch off the lamp on the nightstand, and he reached over to do it without a word. The room shifted into semi-darkness, shadows cast against the walls.

Then he asked if you could put something on the TV—just for a while, he said—and you didn’t argue. You reached for the remote, flipping through the titles.

“See?” you said, bumping your hand gently against his stomach. “You always end up watching something before bed.”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth curving upward without effort, and didn’t deny it. You let your head rest on his chest, the weight of you melting into him like it had always belonged there, your ear tuned to the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart. You scrolled through the options until you passed You’ve Got Mail.

“That one,” he said.

You turned your head slightly, gave him a sideways look. “Tom Hanks again?”

He nodded like it was the most obvious choice in the world, and you remembered—of course—the time he confused You’ve Got Mail with When Harry Met Sally, and how he still owed you a viewing of that one. You pressed play anyway.

The remote ended up somewhere between you both, half-lost in the sheets. You adjusted your position slightly, shifting until your hand came to rest against his stomach, the warmth of his body seeping into your palm. You tilted your head to look at him, just to make sure he was okay. His smile had softened, his features quieter now, the tiredness more visible around his eyes.

You leaned up to kiss him—just a small kiss, one that lingered more in feeling than in time. Then another, closer to the corner of his mouth, which made him exhale softly. You felt his hand move across your back, not hurried. His fingers settled in the space between your ribs and your hip, that narrow, delicate stretch of skin that always seemed to hum a little under touch.

You lowered yourself back down, head on his chest again, eyes turned toward the screen. Meg Ryan was typing, oblivious to the irony of her anonymous confidant being the man she resented most in real life. The small bookstore, the way she poured herself into it, the quiet sense of being edged out by something bigger and more impersonal—you understood it. You smiled faintly at a comment made by the woman who worked with her, something dry and sweet and accurate.

After a while, you noticed Frankie’s breathing had changed. It had deepened, evened out. You felt the full rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. You looked up and found him fully asleep, his face softened in that way people’s faces only do when they’re truly resting, the tension drained from his brow.

You reached for the remote again and switched off the television. Then you adjusted your position without really thinking, curling closer to him, your arm draped across his middle.

Within moments, your own body followed his into sleep.

Friday, October 18th

You rolled onto your back, the sheets shifting beneath you, and laughter spilled from your mouth as Frankie’s teeth grazed your neck. Your hands reached for him instinctively, fingers weaving into the softness of his hair. He laughed against your throat, and the sound sent something warm crawling down your spine.

The alarm had gone off ten minutes earlier—seven a.m.—but it had hardly mattered. He’d been awake an hour before that. When you’d asked him why he hadn’t woken you, he said, simply, that you looked like you needed more sleep. So he got up, used the bathroom, then came back to lie beside you. Awake. Still. Waiting until you woke up.

Now his hands trailed across your stomach, and at first you laughed again, your body twitching under the softness of his touch. But the laughter thinned quickly into silence, replaced by something else. Something heavier, slower-burning. His mouth traveled from your neck to your jaw, the sharp little bites replaced by warm, open kisses. 

He adjusted his weight over you, settling into the space you made for him without question, your legs curling around his hips. Like your body already knew how this was supposed to go. You pulled him closer without speaking.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t something you eased into. It was immediate, almost greedy—the way someone kisses after too much waiting, too much wanting. Your hands came together at the back of his neck, fingers tightening against the heat of his skin, and his tongue brushed yours, coaxing a response that felt like surrender. You kissed him back like you needed to prove something. He moaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, and the room was full of heat and breath and the wet, open sounds of two people lost in each other.

Then there was a soft thud beside you, something landing on the mattress with a little bounce. You pulled back instinctively, your lips parting from Frankie’s with a sound that felt too loud in the quiet. Both of you turned your heads at the same time.

Mr. Darcy had made himself comfortable on the bed, his front paws neatly folded like he owned the place.

You laughed under your breath, the sound caught somewhere between affection and exasperation. Frankie shifted back slightly, still close but no longer pressed against you.

“Close the door,” you murmured, your voice already taut with frustration and want.

Frankie let out a breath and peeled himself away from your body. You watched him move without meaning to, your gaze dragging to the unmistakable bulge pressing against the front of his pants. He reached for the cat, pausing with his hands hovering in the air, expression torn between hesitation and amusement.

“He’s going to be mad at me,” he said, eyes flicking toward yours.

“What?”

“Darcy.”

You sat upright, your body still tingling with everything unfinished, and let out a quiet laugh. “He’s not going to be mad.”

“Cats get offended. You know that.”

You rolled your eyes and got up, the air around you cooler now without him so close. You bent to scoop Mr. Darcy into your arms, your fingers sinking into his thick, soft fur. He didn’t protest. He never really did with you.

“I know,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of his little head, “but I don’t think he’s going to take this personally.”

You stepped out into the hallway and set him down gently, giving him a fond stroke between his ears before straightening. When you turned back, Frankie was already waiting. He closed the door behind you with a quiet click.

You hadn’t even finished turning when his hands were already on your hips—firm, certain, hungry—and he walked you backward without saying a word. The backs of your thighs met the edge of the mattress, your balance faltering just slightly.

And then there was only him again.

You landed on the mattress with a soft bounce, sitting first and then rolling back, your hair fanning out over the sheets. Frankie followed, his body settling over yours with ease, like gravity made the decision for him. His hands bracketed your waist, grounding you there as his mouth returned to your neck—small, scattered kisses pressed into your skin.

His hands shifted, thumbs brushing lightly over your ribs before gathering the hem of your shirt and tugging it upward. You arched your back to help him, lifting your arms above your head as the fabric slipped off and disappeared somewhere behind him. His fingers moved without hesitation, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts—no pause, no teasing—and he dragged them down in one swift motion, underwear and all, until the fabric was a memory at the end of the bed.

You laughed, the sound breathy and full of something that felt like disbelief. Your whole body buzzed, cheeks flushed and chest warm as your hands roamed over him—his arms, the curve of his shoulders, the warm plane of his stomach under his shirt. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his breath uneven and catching as he pressed his body to yours. The feel of his clothes against your bare skin made you restless, every second tightening something inside you.

You broke the kiss with a smirk. “So desperate.”

Frankie tilted his head slightly, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and it hit you low in your stomach—how much you wanted him right then, how much you liked watching him like this.

One of his hands slid along your waist, then down the curve of your hip and thigh, fingers firm against the softest part of you. He squeezed gently, just enough to make you bite your lip. His eyes stayed on yours, that maddening smile still tugging at his lips as his hand moved higher. He touched you where you needed him, his fingers slipping between your folds—just enough pressure to make your breath catch, to make your teasing dissolve into something quieter and hungrier. Your legs parted instinctively, your body answering before your mind could catch up.

He laughed under his breath. “And I’m the desperate one?”

You were about to say something back—some clever response—but you didn’t get the chance. He dipped his head and kissed your collarbones, his mouth hot against your skin. The kisses trailed downward in a lazy, almost reverent pattern, until he reached your breasts. He opened his mouth over one nipple, drawing it in with soft pressure, his tongue moving in slow, careful circles that made your back lift from the mattress. A moan slipped out of you, unrestrained, and you closed your eyes, your hand tangling gently in his hair.

He released you with a quiet pop, breath warm against your chest, and didn’t pause before continuing down, mouth brushing over your stomach, your navel, lower still, until he was right there, in front of you.

And you didn’t dare breathe.

You leaned back onto your elbows, your arms trembling just slightly under your weight, trying to keep yourself upright so you could see him. Your eyelids fluttered halfway shut, lips parted as if you might say something, though the only thing leaving your mouth were uneven, stuttering breaths. You were already unraveling, and he hadn’t even really started.

And still—still—he wore that fucking smile. That smirk that tugged at one corner of his mouth like he knew exactly how this was going to end and how badly you were going to fall apart in front of him.

You shifted beneath him, restless with anticipation, your hips tilting up on their own. Frankie’s hands gripped your thighs firmly, grounding you.

“Hold still,” he murmured, the grin vanishing from his face like a curtain pulled shut, his voice edged with mock severity. Like he was scolding you. Like you were misbehaving.

You were opening your mouth to say something back—something witty or obscene or both—but then his lips met you. Right there. No warning. No space for speech. Just him.

His mouth closed over your clit, his tongue moving in steady, broad strokes, soft but focused, like he was tasting you and thinking about it, like he could memorize the shape of you with his mouth alone. The air left your lungs in jagged exhales. One of your hands found the back of his head, your fingers threading into his hair, not pulling yet, just holding. Needing to touch him, to anchor yourself to something solid while the rest of you dissolved.

He devoured you like he hadn’t eaten in days. There was nothing hesitant about it—just his tongue, his lips, the heat of his mouth, working you with a pace that sent electricity firing down your spine. He kissed you, licked into you, sucked at the most sensitive parts of you like he was possessed by the need to make you come apart. A low sound came from his throat, something close to a growl, and the vibration of it nearly undid you. You cried out and your hips bucked, but his arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you in place, his grip unyielding but not rough.

And somehow—somehow—he still managed to be gentle. You were burning up. Every inch of your skin too hot, your thoughts too scattered to hold onto. You couldn’t take it anymore.

With a desperate sound—half-groan, half-command—you sat up and reached for him, grabbing his hair and tugging it back, not harshly, but with enough force that he lifted his head.

He released you with a slick, obscene sound. His mouth was wet, his lips flushed, and his eyes met yours—dark, gleaming, the kind of look that made your knees weak even though you were already lying down. His breath caught in his throat. His cheeks were tinted pink, heat radiating from him like a second sun.

You reached for his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric with something that felt like insistence. He didn’t resist. As you tugged it upward, he shifted easily, dropping to his knees on the mattress so you could pull it over his head. The shirt landed somewhere behind him with no ceremony. Then he placed his hands on your waist and pushed—not harshly, but with just enough force to send you tipping back against the pillows.

He stood beside the bed and undressed in one fluid movement, pants and boxers sliding down together, left pooled on the floor. Your breath caught—just for a second—and heat bloomed in your chest, rising to your face. The sight of him made your stomach tighten.

Frankie climbed back onto the bed, one hand wrapped around himself, moving with quiet pressure as his eyes drank you in. The way you lay there—waiting, open, flushed—clearly affecting him. His breathing shifted. His pupils darkened. For a moment, he just hovered there, like he was taking a mental picture.

Then he leaned down and kissed you. Not with hunger, not yet. As if he wanted to be tender before losing control.

But then he pulled back.

“Where are you going?” you asked, your hand reaching instinctively for his arm.

He glanced toward the door.

“Wallet,” he said. “I’ve got a condom in there. Just a second.”

You didn’t let go. “I’m on the pill.”

He paused. Just for a beat. His expression changed—something unreadable passed through his eyes before he gave you a half-smile, crooked and curious.

“I know. But are you sure?”

You nodded, your fingers tightening slightly on his skin.

“Yes. Unless you’ve been with someone else in the last two weeks.”

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You think I have that much game?”

“So no?” You were smiling already, because you already knew the answer.

He grinned, then settled over you again, the heat of him returning like a tide.

“What do you think?” he said, voice close to your ear. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“There hasn’t been anyone else these past two weeks?”

“No. No one.”

“Good,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You’re dirty, you know that?”

You let your head fall back, a breathy laugh slipping from your lips. Frankie was still looking at you and his hands shifted on your thighs, guiding your legs open. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he settled between them, his body warm and solid and so unbearably close.

He lined himself up with you, the pressure unmistakable, and stayed like that for a second longer than necessary. His eyes didn’t move from yours. You felt the first inch of him press in, a careful tease of sensation, then retreat. Then again. Your breathing stuttered, lips parting as he rocked forward one more time, deeper this time—until he was all the way inside you.

The stretch of him made you gasp. Your arms went around his shoulders instinctively, anchoring yourself to the firm heat of his body. He buried his face in your neck, not kissing, not speaking, just breathing against your skin like he needed that closeness just as badly as you did.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You felt him in every part of you. Your legs curled around his waist, the tension in your muscles easing as you adjusted to him.

Then he started to move. Gentle thrusts at first—unhurried, almost reverent—but they built gradually, gathering heat with every motion. You felt your breathing pick up, a soft ache forming deep inside you, the kind that was only ever satisfied by more.

Frankie pulled back just enough to look down, eyes trailing over where your bodies met. Your own gaze followed his—tracing the sweat on his chest, the flex of his arms where they braced beside your head, the slight furrow in his brow, the pink flush creeping down his neck.

Your heart thudded hard against your ribcage, a wild, fast rhythm that echoed through your whole body. The sound of his hips meeting yours—the sharp, wet cadence of it—wrapped around you like heat, made your hands tighten on his back, your legs press harder into his sides.

“Harder,” you whispered, your voice shaky, breathless. “Faster.”

His eyes met yours again, and something lit behind them—something raw and dark and beautiful. He didn’t answer, just gave you what you asked for. His pace shifted. The thrusts turned deeper, rougher. The bed hit the wall behind you in time with every movement, and your body arched up to meet him without thinking.

Little cries spilled out of you, rising and falling with each motion. Your skin felt too tight for your body, your chest too small to contain the rush of feeling inside it. Every nerve ending sparked to life under his touch, under the way he pressed into you like he couldn’t get close enough.

You weren’t thinking anymore, not in words. You were all sensation and sound. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the heat of his breath on your neck as he sank his teeth into your skin—harder this time, almost too much.

“Don’t stop,” you said, not even sure if it came out as words or just sound. “Don’t stop, please.”

He didn’t. His rhythm didn’t falter. You felt the world tilt around you, narrowing to the shape of his body over yours, the pulse between your legs, the wild flutter of something huge and inevitable building inside your chest.

“Yes,” you breathed—maybe out loud, maybe not. It didn’t matter.

His skin was flushed and slick against yours. Your nails pressed into his back without thinking, dragging down the slope of his spine. He made a sound in response—something caught between a moan and a gasp—and then he lifted his chest from yours, just slightly, like the heat had become too much.

His hands framed your face, but his hips kept moving, pulling you with him. His eyes dragged down your body, like he needed to memorize every inch of you, and you reached for him, one hand curling around his arm, the other flattening against his stomach. The muscles jumped beneath your touch, taut and flexing with every movement.

Something was building low inside you, quiet at first. But then his hand slipped between you, his palm resting on your belly like he wanted to feel what you were feeling from the outside. And then—his fingers. His thumb circled your clit with an unsteady rhythm, the pressure sending a hot jolt through you so fast it knocked the air from your lungs.

A choked cry tore from your throat before you could hold it back. Your hands gripped his arms instinctively, like if you let go, you'd float away entirely.

Frankie thrust deeper, harder. Your body moved in sync with his, like there was no boundary anymore between where you ended and he began. The feeling in your abdomen swelled and then you were falling into it. Your mouth opened in a soundless gasp, your whole body locking around him as the orgasm ripped through you in pulses that felt too intense to contain.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and there was something raw in his voice, as if he couldn’t hold himself together either. “Where—oh, fuck—”

He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, his hips still working, but messier now, rougher. His breath stuttered as he came, and you felt it—the warmth spilling into you, the throb of it, how every part of him seemed to stutter and collapse in the same breath.

You wrapped your arms around his back, your legs still spread beneath him, your chest rising and falling against his. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move for a long moment, except to breathe. You both did. And then, finally, gently, he pulled out of you.

You exhaled at the loss, an ache already beginning to take shape where he’d been. But then he kissed you. Softly, his lips brushing yours with a sweetness that made your heart clench.

Was it wrong—was it selfish—to feel this sense of quiet satisfaction? To think, even for a second, that you were glad he was back, alone, with you? That he was here, in your home, within reach, surrounded by your things. That you had him to yourself, even if just for now.

Frankie let himself fall beside you, his body heavy with leftover heat, the curve of his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. He hadn't caught his breath yet. Neither had you.

You turned toward him and propped yourself against the curve of his shoulder. Your hand found the line of his jaw, fingers skating gently across the stubble there.

“Well,” you said, “looks like you slept really well.”

A low sound caught in Frankie’s throat—half a laugh, half a hum—and he let his eyes close for a moment.

Thirty minutes later, you were both in the kitchen. You sat across from each other at the small breakfast bar, twin cups of coffee resting between your arms. Your hair was damp but not dripping, his too, curling faintly at the ends after the shower.

Darcy was chewing noisily near your feet, tail brushing across the floor every so often. Frankie was absorbed in something on his phone, his brow drawn together in focus. You sipped from your cup while scrolling the morning news, the headlines half-forgotten as soon as you read them.

Then your phone vibrated in your hand.

Santi.

You glanced up, your expression shifting. Frankie looked up too, a flicker of recognition passing across his face. You lifted a hand slightly to let him know it was fine, and picked up.

“Hey, Santi?”

The noise on the other end told you he was outside.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a little rushed, “how are you? Are you at the bookstore already?”

You checked the time. Almost nine. “I’m good. Not there yet, though. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering.” A beat. “What’s going on?”

You leaned back slightly. “Not much. What’s up?”

“I talked to Frankie early yesterday. I think he got back.”

You flicked your eyes up to the man sitting across from you, who looked especially focused on not looking up just then.

“Yeah?” you said. “That right?”

“Sort of. I thought he was coming in today, but whatever.” You heard the soft thud of a door closing on his end. “We’re heading to Will’s cabin with Yov. He and Benny are going early. Since Fish is back already, I thought maybe we could head out this afternoon. Before dinner. It’s only about an hour away. What do you think?”

“Oh. Yeah? What time?” 

Across the table, Frankie raised his eyebrows in your direction and tilted his head slightly, a question embedded in the movement. You met his eyes for a second and bit down gently on the inside of your lip.

“Around six. Maybe a little after? Could be seven,” Santi said.

“Yeah, I—um—yeah.”

“If it doesn’t work for you, that’s fine. Maybe you’ve got plans or something.”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then found your voice again. It came out lighter than you intended. Too eager, maybe. “No, it’s not that. I like the idea. Six works. That way I can get a few things packed and maybe close the bookstore a little early.”

“Perfect,” he said, the smile clear in his voice. “I’ll check with Frankie just to be sure.”

You hesitated. “It’s okay. I’ll be ready then.”

“Good. That’s good.” He paused, and the background noise on his end seemed to quiet for a second. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah. Bye. Take care. Love you.”

His reply came faintly, like he wasn’t quite near the phone anymore. “Love you, too.” And then, the call ended.

You set your phone down on the counter. The screen darkened. The room filled back up with the sound of Mr. Darcy still gnawing at his breakfast and the soft hum of the refrigerator. You looked across the counter at Frankie.

“What was that about?” he asked, eyes narrowed slightly with gentle curiosity.

You opened your mouth to answer, but his phone buzzed before you could speak. It vibrated sharply against the surface, and when you both looked down, Santi’s contact photo was lit up on the screen. Determined.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[ashthesalamipiece]

Omg I am obsessed with your writing on dad bakugo

If u aren't busy can u please make one where bakugos son who is like 10 month old and the entire class 1A comes to visit them

And when the baby was on debut hand he just for fun says the baby to repeat deku and the baby actually does it

I just think katsuii would be mortified and the entire class plus reader would be howling :)

Enjoy!♡

"His First Word Was WHAT?!"

The living room was unusually spotless — a rarity in a household with a ten-month-old. Toys were shoved in baskets, a baby blanket folded neatly on the couch, and there was only one suspicious stain on the floor that had been successfully hidden under a throw rug. You’d even managed to put the baby in one of the “presentable” onesies — the navy blue one with tiny dynamite patterns on it. Katsuki pretended he didn’t love that outfit, but you knew better.

“I still don’t get why you invited the whole damn class,” Katsuki grumbled, bouncing your son gently on his hip while you checked on the snacks.

You shot him a smirk. “Because they’re our friends. And they’ve all been dying to meet their godson-slash-chaos-incarnate.”

“He’s not chaotic.”

As if on cue, your son grabbed a fistful of Katsuki’s hair and tugged with surprising strength.

“—OW! Dammit—okay, maybe a little chaotic.”

The doorbell rang before Katsuki could argue further.

And then the chaos truly began.

---

Enter Class 1-A

Uraraka and Mina were the first ones through the door, immediately cooing at the baby. “He looks just like Bakugo,” Mina said, grinning. “But, like, with less explosions and more cheeks!”

“Can I hold him?!” Kaminari asked eagerly, practically vibrating with excitement.

You laughed and passed your son off carefully. “Support his head—he likes to flail.”

Kirishima came in right after, holding a stuffed bear that looked suspiciously handmade. “Thought he’d like something bite-proof. Just in case he takes after his old man.”

One by one, the rest of Class 1-A filtered in. Sero, Iida, Jirou, even Todoroki, who held out a wrapped gift silently and mumbled something about “thermal regulating onesies.” Aizawa showed up just long enough to confirm the baby hadn’t inherited Bakugo’s volume level, gave a slow approving nod, and vanished back into whatever teacher dimension he lived in.

And then came him.

Izuku Midoriya.

He entered with his usual sheepish smile, carrying a gift bag with both practical baby supplies and a collector’s edition All Might rattle.

Katsuki immediately bristled.

“Don’t corrupt him,” he barked.

Midoriya blinked. “Kacchan, he’s ten months old. I just brought diapers.”

---

The Moment

The room was lively, full of laughter, the smell of snacks, and the soft babble of a baby passed from arm to arm like the world’s most adored football. Your son was loving the attention — squealing, clapping, drooling all over Kaminari’s hoodie — a certified hit.

Eventually, the baby landed in Midoriya’s lap.

Midoriya grinned nervously and looked around. “Should I—uh, try talking to him?”

Bakugo, now sulking in a corner with arms crossed, muttered, “If he explodes, it’s your fault.”

Everyone laughed.

Midoriya leaned in playfully, face animated. “Hey, buddy. Can you say Deku?”

It was clearly meant as a joke — a jab at Katsuki more than anything else. Half the room chuckled.

Then the baby paused.

Mouth slightly open. Brows furrowed.

“D’ku!”

Silence. Absolute, pin-drop, soul-crushing silence.

Katsuki sat up so fast his chair scraped the floor.

“…What.”

“D’ku!” the baby repeated, louder this time, with a gurgly giggle.

The room erupted.

Mina shrieked. Kaminari collapsed onto the floor, wheezing. Iida was trying to hold back laughter behind his hand with absolutely no success. Jirou had her phone out already, recording. Even Todoroki let out a small “Huh,” which was basically a roar from him.

“OH MY GOD,” Kirishima howled. “Bro. BRO. His first word was Deku! That’s poetic!”

Bakugo looked physically pained. “No. No it wasn’t. He says other stuff. He said boom yesterday.”

“Nope,” you said, crying from laughter. “That was a fart, babe.”

“D’KU!” the baby yelled again, clapping his chubby hands like he’d just won an award.

Midoriya, who was both honored and horrified, stammered, “I-I didn’t mean to—Kacchan, I swear—!”

“You corrupted my bloodline,” Katsuki said darkly, snatching the baby back as the rest of the class screamed with laughter. “I’m changing his name. I’m moving. We’re going underground.”

“Can we get that on a shirt?” Mina asked. “Like—'First Word: Deku. Son of Bakugo.' We could make it merch.”

Katsuki looked like he wanted to melt into the couch. The baby poked his cheek and whispered one final, devastating “D’ku…”

“…He’s grounded.”

“He’s not even one.”

“GROUNDED.”

---

Later That Night

After the crowd dispersed and the baby finally fell asleep in your arms, you found Katsuki sulking on the bed, still muttering angrily to himself.

You sat beside him, gently brushing back his hair. “He’s just a baby, you know. He’ll probably say ‘Boom’ tomorrow.”

“…I wanted his first word to be something cool. Like ‘boom’ or ‘die.’ Not Deku.”

You tried to hold back a grin. “Well, now you’ve got a story for life. ‘My son’s first word was the name of my childhood rival-slash-trauma-point.’”

Bakugo groaned and flopped onto the mattress. “I’m never living this down.”

You kissed his cheek. “Nope. And neither is he.”

---

The next family group chat notification:

Kirishima sent a photo: Baby grinning with “D’ku” written in foam letters on his bib.

Kaminari: “Made this. You’re welcome.”

Mina: “MERCH DROP WHEN??”

Katsuki has left the group.

[yumeka-sxf]

Spy x Family volume 14: bonus chapter and official timeline translation

Volume 14 was just released and it included a ton of great extras, including an extra bonus chapter and a timeline of events! Firstly, here's my translation of the 4Koma (4 panel) bonus chapter!

Lol at Anya telling Yuri to go to work 😂 I also love how Anya has a teacup once Yor is home ❤️

Next, much to everyone's surprise, Endo provided an official timeline...sort of. It doesn't have specific years and a lot of information is redacted, but it's something! Sorry for the sloppy editing, I pasted an excel sheet over the original text since that was much easier. Also, the letters in the "Character Age" column refer to the first letter of the character ("L" for Loid for example).

Did I forget who "Coco" was or was that never actually in the manga?

Even though much of the timeline is redacted, it does confirm a few things, like how old Henry and Martha were during some past events, and in the present, as well as Loid's age when he joined the army. I also find it interesting that Anya is included even though this timeline is about the wars...was the facility she was at involved with the war somehow? 👀 Were the experiments on her related? But it also includes Franky's breakups, so who knows, lol.

Next, a bonus illustration of Damian picking his outfit for the gala, just like Jeeves mentioned in the latest chapter. Ewen is telling him to pick black since it looks more more cool and mature. But Endo says that the overlapping patterns make it hard to see, so he should pick white. Obviously being the creator, whatever Endo says goes 😅

Stella progress illustration. Anya is the only one with tonitrus...

And lastly, the main cover and inner cover featuring young and old Henderson (maybe Martha for volume 15?)

[norrissm]

♡ 2 AM GARAGE SESSIONS — LH44

Lewis Hamilton x reader / est. relationship / library

Syn. After a tough race, Lewis finds himself in the garage in the middle of the night — and so do you. [F]

The garage was laden with a heavy silence, occasional clang of metals and rough sighs piercing the vibe. The mood bleakly failing to uplift Lewis who found himself hunched over his car, left tinkering; sleep refusing to lull him asleep. The Afro beats reverberating across the room from the speaker which sat lonesome in the corner, Lewis occasionally shook his head along.

It was Lewis Hamilton — a 7 time world champion — who found himself cooped up in his garage at an odd hour in the morning of the next day to Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. He scoffed airily. Pathetic.

I woke up stirring, acutely feeling the lack if warmth around me. Checking the bed I found myself alone, Lewis’ side left with crumpled sheets and an alarm — 2 am — it read. Perched on my elbows, I knew what was up.

A few light footsteps later I stood at the garage door. A shadow of the small light inside glimmered from underneath the door, confirming a presence beyond. Lewis’ sighs and the soft music created an atmosphere which spoke volumes compared to Lewis’ silence since the Grand Prix.

I knocked on the door before pushing it open. Lewis was sat on the floor, tinkering away with the tire thinking whatever that he was. He knew I was here, just too tired to explain himself or comfortable enough for me to read the room.

Covering the few steps to reach him, I perched myself next to him. Lips coming to kiss his bare shoulders. Tattoos breathing along his arm with every movement. I felt Lewis shudder under my touch.

“People are proud of you, Lew,” I said. “I am proud of you.”

Lewis continued his movement, digesting my words. A deep sigh was all he could muster up. “That’s one way to put it.”

It was known in the silence of the legacy he left behind with the end of this season. Mercedes, the fans, the championships, the car — all of it. He had become one with the team and he saw himself be the remnants of it with the last race. The past had held a security which the future showed blurringly.

“I mean it though.” I emphasised with conviction. Lightly tracing his arms. Lewis finally glances at me, the exhaustion in his eyes softened by something else — something that always lingers when it’s just the two of us. He sets the wrench down with a soft clink and shifts so he’s facing me fully, resting his hands on either side of my thighs. For the first few minutes, Lewis resorted to weave words from the emotions he felt. The fingers mindlessly tracing my thigh. His fingers left a trail of goosebumps over my skin.

“It’s funny,” he says after a moment. “You spend years proving yourself, thinking one day it’ll be enough. But it never really is, is it?” My fingers find his, tracing absent patterns over his knuckles. “This legacy people say I’ve left behind — with racing, with Mercedes — did I do it justice with the way I left things last night?” The weight of the results of the Grand Prix had crushed Lewis. He hated that his last goodbye to his team wasn’t memorable.

it’s not about proving anything anymore.” He tilts his head. “Then what is it about?” I squeeze his hand. “Love.”

He studies me further. Searching my eyes for a hint of doubt, a sliver of distrust; he found none. Lewis blinks, like the thought has never occurred to him before. Like all the podiums, the trophies, the records — none of them compare to the simple truth of what’s in front of him.

A slow smile tugs at his lips, small but real. “I like the sound of that.” He lets himself fall onto my shoulder, leaning on me. Breathes slower and relaxed, the tension in his shoulders melting away to a hint of determination from my words. I lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder, the scent of motor oil and cologne familiar, and comforting. “Then maybe you should start believing it.”

Lewis hums, pulling me a little closer. “Only if you stay here and remind me.” I grin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And in the quiet of the garage, between oil stains and starlight, Lewis finally lets himself believe it.

reblog and follow <3 all rights reserved ©norrissm please do not copy, save, or translate my stories.

[tab00-t33f]

Would be so awesome if you make a headcanons or a mini sceneario ( separate for each character. you chose!) of Reader making accessories and creative gifts for bucci gang + Trish and how they react and feel about it! Only if you want also I just want to tell you that I love your writing! :3

Bucci Gang Handmade Gift Reactions!

Absolutely! Here are some scenarios for the whole bucci gang + trish reacting to handmade accessories from the reader!! Definitely had to include everyone 😭 I’d feel bad leaving anyone out! <3 thanks for the ask! 🌈🦴

Trish Una

Trish loves accessories and admires your creativity. She’s especially impressed if the gift matches her aesthetic.

Scenario:

You give her a pair of earrings inspired by Spice Girl—pink and glittery with subtle soft-textured patterns. She gasps in delight, immediately trying them on.

“They’re perfect! How did you know exactly what I’d love?” She flaunts them everywhere, telling people about your craftsmanship. She might even ask you to collaborate on more designs for her wardrobe.

Bruno Bucciarati

Bruno values meaningful gestures and can tell when something is made with care. He cherishes the thoughtfulness behind your gift as much as the item itself.

Scenario:

You hand him a bracelet made of blue beads interspersed with tiny golden zippers. He immediately smiles, running his fingers over the details.

“Did you make this?” he asks, his voice soft with admiration. When you confirm, he places it on his wrist and promises never to take it off. Every time someone comments on it, he proudly says, “A dear friend made it for me.”

Narancia Ghirga

Narancia loves anything personalized. He’s a bit rough with his belongings, so he treasures handmade gifts even more, knowing you took the time to think of him.

Scenario:

You give him a keychain of his Stand, Aerosmith, crafted out of resin and painted with incredible detail. His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas.

“This is so cool! You made this?!” He runs around showing everyone. “Look at this—look! I’ve got the coolest keychain ever!” He attaches it to his bag immediately and refuses to use any other keychain again.

Guido Mista

Mista appreciates fun, quirky gifts. He loves wearing something that stands out, especially if it’s from you.

Scenario:

You present him with a handmade bandana featuring designs of tiny pistols and bullets stitched along the edges. He grins ear to ear.

“This is awesome! Way better than the ones I buy.” He ties it around his head and strikes a pose. “How do I look? Be honest. Actually, don’t—I know I look amazing.” He wears it almost daily, rotating it with his other accessories but making sure everyone knows which one you made.

Leone Abbacchio

Abbacchio is initially stoic, but he secretly values sentimental gestures. He might not show it outwardly, but he keeps your gift close.

Scenario:

You give him a leather bracelet engraved with small clock hands to represent Moody Blues. He accepts it with a quiet “Thanks,” but later you catch him looking at it when he thinks no one’s watching.

Over time, he’ll wear it more openly, even if he never directly comments on it. However, the way he keeps adjusting it on his wrist when you’re around speaks volumes.

Giorno Giovanna

Giorno deeply appreciates creativity and thoughtfulness. He admires your talent and often gets inspired by your attention to detail.

Scenario:

You give Giorno a lapel pin shaped like a golden rose with green accents. He studies it intently before pinning it to his jacket.

“This is exquisite,” he says, his tone sincere. “You’re incredibly talented. Thank you for this.” He wears it during important missions and meetings, saying it brings him luck.

Fugo Pannacotta

Fugo is surprised by the gesture but deeply touched. He struggles to show his gratitude openly but treasures your gift privately.

Scenario:

You present him with a tie clip shaped like his Stand, Purple Haze, with tiny purple accents. His first reaction is a shocked, “You made this? For me?”

He hesitates, then mutters a quiet “Thanks” with a small smile. Later, you’ll notice him wearing it during formal occasions, straightening it nervously but with pride.

Bonus (Group Reaction):

When the gang realizes you’ve been making gifts for all of them, they tease each other over whose gift is the best. They eventually gang up on you, begging for more personalized creations. Trish might even suggest you start a side business. It becomes a bonding experience for everyone, making you an even more integral part of the group.

[spaghettiposts]

Video Games

Reader x Wednesday Addams

Summery: Video games are a waste of time in Wednesdays opinion, being with you however is not.

Warnings: First attempt at writing for Wednesday.

A/N: Lemme know if y’all would wanna see more of Wednesday from me I’m thinking about writing for Tara too!

“There are more fruitful things to do aside from staring at a screen all day.”

Lifting your head from your said screen, you raised a judgemental brow. Wednesday sat with her back turned from you, typing away, she had allowed you to sit lay on her bed in the meantime so long as you promised to stay silent. The noises your console gave off broke that promise, one quick narrowed look from the goth had you lowering the volume instantly.

“Like staring at a typewriter all day?” You retorted with amusement in your voice. She paused her typing for a minuscule moment before continuing her steady pace.

“I’ll have you know my writing sessions improve memorization, vocabulary, and keep me from strangling you.” You could see a cocky smirk form on her face. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Shrugging your shoulders you sucked your teeth, a reply fresh on your tongue. “I don’t know, dying in your hands sounds like the most lucky I’ll ever be.”

At that, Wednesday froze, looking down to her paper before ripping it off, a prominent scowl appearing. You grinned to yourself behind the device, knowing damn well you had made her slip up. The small tints of red on her cheeks almost missable, just confirmed that.

“Disturb my writing time again and I’ll throw that…thing off my balcony.” She huffed, folding whatever she did get done during the duration of your visit into a neat pile. It wasn’t much whatsoever, a pattern that only repeated every session you were around.

You simply laughed in response, causing her stomach to grow spiders. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to punch you or shut you up in another form.

In different circumstances she’d respond with haste, quickly dismissing you from her dormitories so she could focus. But for some reason, no matter how close she was to saying no, it never happened. Wednesday supposed that was fine, you weren’t completely irksome.

But if those little noises, coming from your Nintendo? Kept happening she might just come to say it.

“I thought I had warned you to turn off the noise.” She snapped, face scrunching at the weird noises of a man crying. The noise didn’t even resemble a realistic cry, what on earth. “What even is that?” She questioned.

You smiled at the clear curiosity she showed. Not that she’d ever admit. Scooting over on her bed—carefully not to ruin her perfectly folded sheets—patted the space next to you. “Come here and I’ll show you.” You offered, receiving a cold scoff in response. “What? Come on Wednesday. We both know you aren’t getting any more writing done, why not unwind?”

Unfortunately, seeing as she had neatly arranged everything back in its usual place. You were correct, obviously Wednesday refused to let you know that, reluctantly trudging along to her bed. Muttering small things about how “I’d get more writing done if you left.”

“Mhm sure Addams.” You snickered, lifting your arm up to put around her shoulder, bringing her into you. She said nothing, adjusting to the position until she found the perfect spot to rest. On your chest.

“Technology is a man-made brain rotting scam that only diminishes human intelligence.”

“So was romance? I guess you’re into rotting then.”

“Only because you could rot with someone.” She muttered, staring at the game in your hands. The corners of her lips rising when you died, cursing to yourself. “Rot with you.” She added lowly, you almost didn’t catch it but you’re glad you did. You just hope she wouldn’t hear how much you enjoyed it, be still heart.

Feeling bold you pressed a small kiss on her head, leaning your head against hers as you continued playing your game. Later when Wednesday got tired of you mashing those stupid buttons she’d toss the game aside, leaving your full attention on her. Maybe there were more fruitful things you could focus on.

[haru-natsuka]

The Unending Daze Side Story 2 (Malleus Draconia x Wife Reader)

>> Trailer <<

"My darling wife, the joy you have brought me throughout the years is without compare. Our children are fortunate to have been gifted with such a loving and caring mother as you,"

Malleus spoke with affection, his voice like honeyed words that melted the hearts of everyone that heard it. He leaned down to kiss your forehead, his warm breath brushing against your skin.

But just as you were getting used to this blissful scene, your old friend, Ace arrived in an unexpected turn of events. He claimed that he was your husband, which left you perplexed and bewildered.

"Wait a minute, that's not right! I'm your real husband! He's just trying to manipulate you with a dream. Wake up, now! Our children need you! I need you, Y/N!"

You were unsure how to proceed, caught in the middle of a confusing situation. In this situation, you feel conflicted and uncertain about whether your old friend or your darling husband had spoken the truth.

>> HEAD TO CHAPTER LIST

>> SIDE STORY 2 <<

"Y/N, did you dream about our time again?" That creature spoke with an eerie and unsettling smile, its facade mimicking Ace's gentle expression. You gave him no respond as you did not even want to converse with that impostor. This unending daze was your nightmare and you were living in it.

Silver comforted you as he gently wiped away your tears with his thumb, his heart heavy with pity as he witnesses your suffering. Seeing you in such a pitiful state was a stark contrast to the strong-hearted junior he knew at NRC.

He felt helpless, unable to do much to alleviate your suffering beyond pulling you back from the dark abyss of your nightmare. The nightmare that deliberately put by his king on you.

Silver quietly admitted, "I've tried to wake you up, Y/N, but you were too deep in that dream. Everything started well, but then…”

He paused, as he, having the ability to enter someone dream as his unique magic had witnessed the dream you had and keep on having. The pattern remained the same. You, having a good family life with Ace before you lost Ace and your family again and again.

He could not even describe the agony he witnessed as for him, you had going through too much pain. His eyes filled with sadness and disagreement with Malleus' choice of selecting the court of another man's wife, a choice he could not fully support. It sadden more when his father and Sebek chose to support this unwise decision.

You pleaded to Silver with desperation in your voice, "Silver senpai, please help me. I want to escape this nightmare. Stop that creature from mocking my husband." You glare at the wooden doll who shares the same figure as your late husband.

Silver sighed in response, regret etched on his face, "You know I can't, Y/N. If I reveal myself, Malleus-sama will notice my presence."

Realization slowly dawned upon you, and you hesitantly asked, "Is this again another dream?"

Silver's solemn silence spoke volumes, confirming your suspicions. The weight of your despair and desperation caused your shoulders to sag in resignation as you felt the last remnants of hope slip away. There was nothing more left for you in this world. Everyone you held dear have already gone. What was the meaning and purpose of living?

"Thank you for everything, Silver. I'm sorry because of me you lost your job,” you said, your voice laced with gratitude and remorse. "I can handle myself now, so please focus on yourself."

"B-but-!" Silver tried to interject, his concern for you evident in his expression.

"Goodbye, Silver," you whispered, feeling yourself awakening from your deep sleep. As consciousness slowly returned to you, your eyes fluttered open to reveal a sight you dreaded, green slit eyes staring down at you.

The voice, belonging to the person you despise the most, echoed in your ears, "You were in a very deep slumber, my dear. Having a pleasant dream?"

You deliberately averted your gaze, refusing to look at the him who had stolen your life against your will, and who imprisoned you within this castle against your will. The mere act of conversing with someone who was once a good friend now filled you with an intense sense of revulsion.

"Are you still mad at me over the lost of your unborn baby? You cannot blame me entirely, my darling wife. You are the one who reject all my kindness and courtesy for you. Its not me who force you to stop eating. You have done it to yourself, my dear"

Malleus delicately held your chin as he began to stroke your hair, his gentle touch sending a shiver down your spine. He settled himself beside you on the bed, bringing his face closer to yours until you were left with no choice but to meet his gaze because you eyes should always remained on him.

"If you still want to have your baby again, I can give it to you. A child with a black hair like us, having your eyes, having the resemblance of my thorn is much more beautiful than having red hair don't you think so"

Malleus continued, his tone slightly coaxing as he attempted to sway you, "If you still yearn for a baby again, I will gladly give you a child. Imagine a child with hair as dark as ours, possessing your captivating gaze, bearing the resemblance of my thorns would undoubtedly make a beautiful progeny, don't you concur, my dear wife? Hmmm? Rather than having those red hair"

Malleus boasted further, revealing an undercurrent of disdain in his voice, "I am capable of giving you everything your heart yearns for. My power is boundless, unlike that of his."

He paused for a moment before continuing, a hint of malicious satisfaction evident in his expression, "I've even granted you ample time to spend with Trappola, but you seemed intent on destroying him on your own. It feels pleasant for you to hate him that much."

You muttered a firm rebuttal, "That is not my Ace." Your Ace was a true human, not a magic made with woods.

Malleus nodded, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, "Indeed, that Trappola has already vanished. Are you finally accepting the reality, my dear wife?"

He seized the pendant you held near and dear to your heart, forcefully opening the locket and revealing the picture of your family within. Anger simmered beneath his cool facade, and he justified his actions, "I'm merely reclaiming what should be mine. There is nothing wrong with that, don't you think so, my dear wife?"

Malleus spoke with an air of finality, "Everyone is gone. That guy and those two boys are dead, and so is the baby within you, my dear.)

He softly touched your stomach, his tone taking on a gentle coaxing tone as he continued, "Accept me, Y/N. Accept me as your husband in this life. I will give you a new family, two sons and a baby girl. I will bestow upon you the happiness you deserve."

He then nuzzled his head in the crook of your neck and held you tightly, as if you were his precious possession that he would never share with anyone.

Your words cut into Malleus like a knife, causing his grip on you to tighten as anger flared in his eyes. The temperature in the room dropped drastically, and the sound of thunder crashing outside echoed incessantly. Some of the furniture in the room froze over with ice, evidence of Malleus's growing fury.

He gritted out, his voice cold and harsh as he could not accept the reality, "You would rather stay with a wooden puppet than be with me?"

Malleus released a defeated sigh, his expression hardening as he realized that you have yet to accept the greatest fate he had bestow on you.

He conceded, his voice tinged with a hint of determination, "I suppose everything remains a failure for now."

He then added, his tone taking on a commanding edge, "You should go back to sleep, my dear wife. You shall come to choose me in the end. You will become my wife, this kingdom's new queen, and bear my heirs."

Malleus tucked you back into bed, a smug smile playing on his lips as he whispered, "Sleep well, my dear. Dream about me, dream of our children. Let your dreams shape your reality. Let it become a constant repetition until you make the right choice, the choice that will lead you to me."

SIDE STORY 1 <<, >> SIDE STORY 3 [END]

[theunsinkableship1]

SMOKE AND MIRRORS?

Smoke and mirrors? I don't know, that is what I know for certain, but...

The events surrounding “chaos week” remain the greatest dissonance in the narrative of Luke Newton and Nicola Coughlan allegedly being in love with other people. The sequence of events during that week, coupled with their subsequent behavioral shifts, feels too deliberate and well-timed to dismiss as mere coincidence. Chaos week was not random, it was purposeful, likely orchestrated with fandom in mind. This alone speaks volumes about the complexity of their situation and the unique bond they share.

Before diving into the details, we must recognize that Luke and Nicola have always been unapologetically open about their connection, their mutual admiration, and their playful interactions. Prior to June 12, their relationship was marked by overt displays of affection and an almost magnetic camaraderie that was loud, proud, and undeniable. The abrupt shift to being elusive and discreet post-chaos week is suspicious, particularly given their prior dynamic. This change cannot be entirely attributed to fan speculations. If they were simply friends, this misunderstanding could have been cleared up quickly and effectively with straightforward communication. Yet, the silence is deafening, and the avoidance suggests something deeper, something they feel they cannot or should not fully address. If they were only friends, the message could have been clearer. Yes, they don’t owe explanations to strangers on the internet, but we’ve seen them correcting narratives in real time (e.g., the Luke cake story), and we know they are aware of how we interpret things. Nicola is chronically online.

Another glaring inconsistency lies in how their supposed current relationships are handled publicly. Nicola, known for her privacy on personal matters, has seemingly, through some interpretations, gone public with her alleged boyfriend. This contrasts with Luke, who has historically been open about his romantic relationships, always acknowledging them publicly. Yet now, there is a notable reluctance on his part to confirm anything explicitly, even as speculation swirls. Nicola may have decided not to hide her relationships anymore, but why now? And why so soon into this supposed relationship? The bigger question is what she is really doing, or if it's just an interpretation of the situation. Luke may have decided to separate his private life from his professional one, perhaps because it had unwanted effects on his previous relationships. We could easily argue that this approach could be even more damaging to his reputation, fueling the "bad boyfriend" image, and to his supposed girlfriend, as she is, willingly or not, heavily scrutinized. Should it be like that? Of course not, but it is. So, this strategy seems counterproductive, ineffective, and poorly managed.

The contrast between their approaches raises further questions. Why would Luke suddenly shy away from acknowledging a relationship when he’s never had an issue doing so in the past? And why would Nicola, who has always remained quiet on such topics, choose this moment to break that pattern? These behaviors feel inconsistent and potentially performative.

The timeline of their supposed separations and Nicola newfound love also doesn’t add up. For two people who seemed to share a deep and genuine connection, it’s highly improbable that she could fall in love with another man just two months after the world tour. Yes, I believe the look in her eyes since Brazil was deep down bad love Yes, I believe the look in her June 15 Tatcha video was sad love eyes. Real emotions don’t dissipate that quickly, especially when they were as visible and vibrant as theirs. The way they looked at each other, the way they supported one another, and the energy they exuded when together painted the picture of a bond that doesn’t vanish overnight. It strains credulity to believe that both could have moved on so effortlessly in such a short span of time.

And then there’s the matter of trust. As fans, we trust Luke and Nicola. They’ve never given us a reason to believe they’re dishonest or manipulative. Their authenticity is what made their connection so compelling. Please stop with the "it's just PR" narrative. Yes, we know they are paid to lie while acting, but those two are not known liars. I believe they’ve been telling the truth all along, which is why their connection felt so natural and authentic. No amount of PR training could have produced those results, it was rooted in truth, as Golda Rosheuvel would say. PR campaigns don’t start years in advance, don’t include personal time, aren’t micromanaged behind the scenes, and certainly don’t appear in all cast and crew contracts. And I know that they are good actors but some reactions are too visceral to be fake.

This love is not a lie. That’s what makes this current situation so confounding. If they are truly in love with other people, why does so much about their behavior and timeline feel unnatural and inconsistent? There’s too much smoke here to believe there isn’t a fire. Their mutual elusiveness, the unexplained shift in their interactions, and the deliberate way chaos week unfolded all points to something more profound at play.

Ultimately, we know one thing for sure: Luke and Nicola share a unique love for each other. Their bond, whether romantic or not, is rare and undeniable. It is precisely because we trust them that we can’t reconcile the current narrative with what we know to be true. Their story, full of laughter, connection, and now mystery, deserves clarity. Until then, the dissonance remains, leaving us to wonder what lies beneath the surface of the chaos.

BEFORE THE CHAOS

Before June 12, they both seemed a little sad in Galway and London, which I initially attributed to exhaustion and the bittersweet emotions of the tour's end, closing that chapter. However, in retrospect, it might have been more than that. They may have already known they wouldn’t be able to stay as close as they were for some time.

Nicola sharing the song "Frames Your Face" before the end of the world tour

The song’s lyrics express themes of love, emotional vulnerability, and longing.

The lyrics of "Frames Your Face" speak to a longing to connect, to be seen clearly, and to have one's feelings acknowledged. Nicola might have been signaling that despite external noise, her emotions and connection to Luke remain strong. It could represent a desire to focus on what truly matters: the connection she shares with Luke.

“Give me that look again Give me that look 'Cause I'm gonna wait for you”

Luke sharing the clip with the line "Don't let her ruin our night" from the Bridgerton, where Luke’s character speaks to Nicola’s character about Cressida, can be interpreted in the context of the events following the "papgate", the line could metaphorically reflect Luke's desire to protect the bond between him and Nicola from external forces. The "ruin our night" aspect may symbolize a desire to maintain peace and happiness amid a chaotic situation Just as Cressida is a disruptive force in Bridgerton, there may be individuals or circumstances that Luke and Nicola are trying to resist. The line could signal their determination not to let external factors affect the genuine connection they share.

Overall, both the quote and the song suggest a desire for clarity, protection, and the maintenance of a strong bond despite external pressures. These elements in context further reinforce the notion that there may be much more going on beneath the surface, with both Nicola and Luke attempting to navigate their feelings amid the scrutiny they face.

Chaos Week recap

1-The French Toast

It was just a French toast but it could be more than that.

2-The Wordle Post: A Puzzle of Emotions (future reference the post Emmys post)

One of the first breadcrumbs in the intricate web of Nicola and Luke’s story might be Nicola’s Wordle post. At first glance, it seemed like an innocent nod to a daily word game, but upon closer examination, it unraveled layers of emotional symbolism.

"Aloud": The puzzle’s first word, "aloud," hinted at the unspoken truths in their connection. It suggested that certain feelings or realizations, perhaps Luke's internal struggles or his evolving feelings for Nicola, had yet to be fully articulated. Nicola’s intuitive grasp of the situation implied she was aware of his emotional turmoil long before it became apparent.

"Anvil": Symbolizing the emotional weight and something still being forged, this word represented Luke’s state of emotional limbo. It reflected his process of disentangling from his relationship with A while grappling with his bond with Nicola. The green and yellow letters subtly symbolized dynamics at play: Luke (yellow "L") being present but not yet in the right emotional place, and the public perception of his relationship with A (green A and L) still intact despite the reality of his growing distance.

Solving the puzzle in two guesses: Nicola’s ability to "solve" in two tries metaphorically illustrated her sharp understanding of their emotional dynamics. She saw through the layers quickly acknowledging the tension, unresolved feelings, and shifting allegiances beneath the surface.

3-A Subtle Declaration

Amid Luke’s public challenges, Nicola showcased her unwavering support through a heartfelt Instagram post. Sharing a behind-the-scenes moment from Bridgerton Season 3, she captioned it:

"I thought I’d already shared this, but I hadn’t, so here you go, now it’s all yours!"

Timing and Intent: The timing of this post coincided with negativity surrounding Luke, which made Nicola’s gesture seem purposeful. It wasn’t just about sharing a photo; it felt like a deliberate act of solidarity, subtly reminding everyone of the joy and warmth in their bond.

"Now it’s all yours": This phrase carried layered implications. On one level, it seemed directed at fans, a casual offering of content. On another, it could have been a message for Luke, a way of reaffirming her affection and loyalty amidst the turbulence. The deliberate ambiguity left room for interpretation, as if she was signaling something deeper while maintaining plausible deniability.

"The loveliest pal a gal could have": Her use of "pal" was affectionate yet strategic, downplaying romantic overtones while emphasizing the unique closeness of their bond. The phrasing, playful yet tender, left space for speculation, especially when paired with the subtle intimacy of a purple heart emoji.

4-Scrabble and Subtext: A Coded Message (A Layered Callout)

Nicola’s apparent love for word games resurfaced with a Scrabble board that seemed ordinary at first but, upon analysis, revealed a complex message seemingly directed at A.

Words like “DAD,” “LIED,” “DEAD,” “FATE,” and “FLED” hinted at themes of betrayal, endings, and inevitability. Together, they painted a picture of unresolved tensions and shifting dynamics.

The inclusion of “HEY A” and “WATCH” suggested a warning, perhaps to A, while words like “Hey A watch we chill”

“HUG” and “JET” hinted at comfort for Luke and the possibility of departure or change.

The board reflected Nicola’s nuanced way of addressing the situation, subtle, clever, and full of layers that only attentive followers might decode.

5-Birthday Tribute: A Masterclass in Friendship and a jab at Luke’s entourage (now deleted iyyk)

For her best friend Camilla’s birthday, Nicola posted a heartfelt message with a subtle yet pointed undertone:

"Happy Birthday @Camilla, I love you so much that I could never imagine my life without you!!! Remember the time paparazzi took a picture of us and to protect me you grabbed my face?"

A Subtle Contrast: This post seemed to highlight the true essence of friendship, protectiveness and loyalty in contrast to the betrayal Luke supposedly faced from some of his friends. It was a gentle reminder of what genuine support looks like, directed not just at Camilla but perhaps at those who had failed Luke.

6-You speak to me through Music

Nicola’s references to songs like Bless the Telephone and Juna seemed to reveal her inner emotional landscape:

Bless the Telephone: A soulful ode to connection, the lyrics about how a simple call can brighten one’s day mirrored the emotional highs and lows of their relationship. Nicola’s choice to highlight this song suggested a yearning for closeness, even amid challenges. The call of someone you are missing and haven’t seen or heard in a while, not someone you were just hanging with, or you’ll spend the next day with.

Juna: With its themes of vulnerability and gradual intimacy, Juna Nicola’s cautious yet hopeful approach to deepening her connection with someone points to Luke as the most likely candidate. Lines like "With you, there's no pretending" underscored the authenticity of their bond, while "Come to me ready" hinted at her desire for emotional readiness and mutual growth.

Nicola is chronically online, and she undoubtedly knew who they’d be associated with. If it wasn’t about Luke, why post them publicly? And why double down, knowing it would be misconstrued? Let’s not forget the triple down with “the very demure, very mindful.” Of course, the fandom would overanalyze, so why play the double entendre game? Please don’t argue that she isn’t, don’t underestimate her social media literacy!

her social media literacy!

While the exact nature of their relationship remains ambiguous, their mutual affection and understanding shine through. The chaos week suggests a steady ship navigating turbulent waters, one that holds the promise of a deeper connection as it moves toward the horizon. Yet, these days, the waters are murkier but calmer, making it difficult to discern what’s truly happening. For me, nothing feels definitive. I trust their love more than I trust what I can see. I choose to believe that whatever is unfolding, they will find their way back to each other. It may take time, but I’m here for it.

[inkmonster21]

Love me Tonight

Wolverine/Logan Howlett x fem!neighbor!reader

You loved Logan deeply, and when you lost him you didn’t know what to do. When Wade brings back the worst Logan variant into your universe will you allow him to fill the void the late Logan left behind?

~o0o~

You had always envisioned yourself in the role of the unconventional aunt, the one who was free-spirited and unpredictable – not the motherly type. However, deep down, you had longed to have children of your own. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

When Logan left, it robbed you of the opportunity to find out whether he shared your desire for parenthood, and that uncertainty left a painful void in your heart.

Your tumultuous relationship (or whatever he wanted to call it) with Logan, constant arguing, and disagreements were a familiar pattern. You'd often take breaks, sometimes initiated by you, sometimes by him, but you expected the usual cycle to continue. As you waited for him to come crawling back, like he always did, you thought this was just another breakup – a temporary storm in a relationship filled with frequent squabbles.

Every day passed, and the silence grew louder. No surprise return phone call, no unexpected knock on your door. It was unusual for him to disappear like this, but you wanted to believe it meant he finally found peace.

All you ever wanted was for him to find happiness – even if it meant sacrificing your own. You quietly pleaded with the heavens, begging for his happiness and peace, even if it meant being apart from each other.

Laura, her expression tight and nervous, stands hesitantly outside your front door with tear-stained cheeks. The metal of the dog tags clutched in her small shaking fist gleams dully under the porch light. She had embarked on a mission, one that had led her here, to your doorstep.

Logan had laid out his parting wishes in his last breaths. He had promised Laura that you would be there for her – both as a parental figure and a source of comfort. Paternity loomed heavily on Laura’s mind. She needed a mom.

A trio of clear knocks on the other side of the door. With a slight frown of confusion, you rise from the comfortable couch and stride towards your front door.

Reaching the door, you turn the knob and pull it open, revealing a sight that both puzzles and surprises you – a little girl, standing shyly on your doorstep.

The sight of the little girl standing alone on your doorstep raises questions about her parents' whereabouts. You look beyond her to see the empty street. You turn your gaze down upon her, your eyebrow-raising inquisitively, as you jokingly ask, "Are you here selling cookies or something?" The little girl shakes her head in response, her soft brown locks brushing her shoulders as she does so. Despite her initial shyness, she responds to your question with a soft, “No.”

As you stand there, scrutinizing the silent child, she suddenly lifts her hand, clutching a small, silvery object in her tiny fist. Upon closer inspection, you recognize that she's holding a pair of dog tags, the metal discs swinging gently as they dangle from her closed hand.

The sight of the familiar dog tags in the girl's hand instantly fills you with a mixture of confusion and alarm. As you take them in your shaking hands, the metal tags feel cold against your skin, a stark reminder of someone you love. Your voice quivers as you manage to whisper a tremulous question, "Is he... okay?"

Laura, eyes welling up with tears, responds with a simple yet devastating shake of her head. The silent denial speaks volumes, and the sadness in her expression confirms your fears. You feel a pang in your chest as the realization sets in, and a wave of emotions washes over you.

With a heartbreaking sob, Laura throws her small arms around your midsection, burying her face into your stomach and crying quietly. Her tears soak into the fabric of your shirt as she pleads between shaky breaths, "Please... he said... you'd help me..." The raw pain and vulnerability in her voice tug at your heartstrings, and a surge of protectiveness and compassion washes over you.

You wrap your arms around her diminutive frame, holding her close in a protective embrace. Despite the shock and hurt, you feel a strong sense of determination to fulfill Logan's promise to her. If that was all he left you with you would make sure it was done.

"I’ll help you," you assure her softly, your voice a mix of firmness and gentleness. "I’m here for you now, I promise."

Laura poured her heart out to you, recounting her tale and revealing her similarities to Logan, right down to her claws – a striking resemblance. With a mixture of determination and vulnerability, she vowed to continue his legacy, living for him and you.

Each word she spoke echoed with the weight of her pain, and yet her words were tinged with fierce loyalty and unwavering dedication. Her desire to honor his memory and take care of you was both touching and heart-wrenching.

You open your home and your heart to her, stepping into the role of a protective and caring mother figure in her life. Taking on this newfound responsibility, you become Laura's haven – a place of comfort, understanding, and unconditional love.

Over the years, a beautiful dynamic between you and Laura has taken shape and strengthened. You form a loving mother-daughter connection, one filled with tender moments, laughter, and mutual understanding.

You nurture her, support her, and guide her – helping her grow into a strong and compassionate young lady. Your relationship blossoms into a source of comfort, stability, and joy for both of you.

But as you have come to learn in this life of yours. Happiness is rare, and it doesn’t last forever. As you step through the front door, bags in hand from your recent trip to the grocery store, you call out for Laura, expecting to hear her soft voice or the patter of her footsteps.

But instead of a warm welcome, there's a strange silence that fills the air, sending a pang of worry through your heart.

The silence that pervades the house unnerves you, and you call out her name once more, your voice tinged with growing concern. "Laura?"

Your footsteps echo softly as you slowly meander down the hall, your eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of the young girl.

As you venture further through the house, dread begins to build in your gut. Searching every room, you notice that every trace of Laura has mysteriously vanished. It’s as if she had evaporated into thin air, leaving not a single trace of her presence behind.

The emptiness in the house feels stark and surreal, a harsh reminder of her absence. It leaves you feeling bewildered and incredibly worried about her whereabouts.

Your rising panic transforms into full-blown freak-out mode. Your heart races, your mind spins with frantic thoughts, and your hands tremble uncontrollably.

Fear and worry take over as you desperately search for any signs of Laura or clues as to her disappearance. The silence in the house feels deafening, and you're consumed with a sense of helplessness and overwhelming anxiety.

You seek out the help of the police, hoping for some assistance in the search for Laura. However, your hopes are quickly dashed as they dismiss your concerns, suggesting she's merely a troubled teenager who's run away. You’d have to wait the full amount of time to deem her a missing person, and when that time struck, they still didn’t do all they could to help you find your daughter.

So you started your hunt. Three years of tireless searching and facing endless dead ends have taken their toll on you. The constant struggle and fruitless endeavors have left you feeling worn down and disheartened, questioning your grip on reality. The life you live now feels more like a mere existence, haunted by the void left by Laura's disappearance. You were depressed and penniless.

Your life takes a strange turn when you move into a new apartment, and you're greeted by your unexpected neighbor – Wade Wilson. This quirky and unconventional personality quickly forces himself and becomes an intriguing presence in your life.

You hoist a heavy box into your arms, the weight making you huff and puff, when you push open the door to your apartment – only to find Wade lounging on your couch, casually rummaging through your belongings.

A mix of surprise and annoyance flickers across your features, and you exclaim, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Wade looks up, feigning surprise as he holds up a pair of your underwear. “Whoa, hey there! Didn't hear ya coming in. Just helping myself to some of your, uh...” He squints at the label. “Silk panties. Nice taste.” Wade grins wider, tossing the underwear aside and sprawling out on the couch with a satisfied sigh as if he owns the place. He pats the spot next to him, gesturing for you to come closer. “Take a load off, neighbor.“ You drop the box out of anger. “No. Get the fuck out.” You didn’t know this dude.

Wade feigns hurt, pouting dramatically. “Oh, come on, don't be like that! I just wanted to spice up your life a little. Can't a friend drop by unannounced and riffle through your drawers?” Your eyes widen at his words. This man was ridiculous! “Who the fuck are you?”

Wade lets out a low whistle. “Straight to the point, huh? I like that about you. Names Deadpool, honey. But you can call me Wade. The Merc with a mouth, the regeneratin' degenerate, the X-Force's worst nightmare. Take your pick.”

You furrow your brow. You’ve heard of him. Never good things. “Okay great. Can you see yourself out of my apartment?”

Wade chuckles, unperturbed by your less-than-warm welcome. He sits up, his voice dripping with faux sweetness. “Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine? Are you sure you don't want some company? I can help you unpack! I promise I won't make too much of a mess.” He grins as he opens another box and starts to browse through your things. He pulls out a rare photo of Logan and yourself. A private photo. Sprawled out in bed, he offered a small smile as he hid behind your small frame. “Just one.” You promised. He groans as he wraps his arm around you, “one.” He agrees with heavy dismay.

Wade whistles as he finds the picture and raises an eyebrow at it.* "Well, well, what do we have here." *He studies the picture closely, his eyes flicking between the intimate snapshot and your expression.

He holds the picture up, waving it slightly as he speaks.* "And what kind of compromising situation is this, huh? You and the ol' Wolverine snuggled up all cozy-like. Didn't know he had it in him." You snatch the photo from him, tears in your eyes. “Get out.” You sneer at Wade.

Wade takes a step back, raising his hands in surrender as you snatch the picture from his grip. He recognizes the pain in your eyes, the raw emotion that the photo has stirred up.

He knows he's crossed a line, and for once, instead of doubling down on his usual snark, he opts to give you a rare moment of genuine care. “Okay, okay. Sorry, neighbor.” He walks to the door, but not without one last remark. “I stole the light blue panties. I’ll wash them and hang them on the knob on Tuesday. Love ya!” He waves and slams your door shut.

Wade practically made visiting you a part of his daily routine. He'd swing by after patrol, after missions, or sometimes just when he was bored. Each time, he seemed to delight in testing your patience with his endless jokes, pranks, and unexpected visits. He treated your apartment like it was his playground, making himself comfortable on your couch, raiding your fridge, and using your bathroom without asking. It seemed like no matter how many times you tried to kick him out, he always found a way to weasel his way back in.

You walk into your apartment, groceries in hand. Wade on your couch surfing through channels. You stop and stare at his head. “What the fuck is that?” You look at his toupe in confusion.

Deadpool turns to you, his face lit up with a smug grin as he runs a hand through his newly acquired toupee. He strikes a pose like a model on a runway. “You like it?” He twirls his finger through the air, the tacky wig flopping about at the motion. “I think it brings out my eyes. Don't you?”

You shake your head. “Looks like you glued a dead squirrel to your head.” Wade feigns offense, his hand flying to his chest in mock hurt. “Ouch, babe. That's harsh. I'll have you know this toupee is a high-end, state-of-the-art piece of hair engineering. It's practically a work of art.” He runs his fingers through the tangled strands again, looking at it in admiration. “Although, I can see how it might be a little... rodent-esque.”

Indeed, Wade had managed to worm his way into your life in ways you never thought possible. He'd become a constant fixture, showing up unannounced and unwelcome at first, but over time you'd grown to tolerate his presence. Soon, he found himself inserting himself into every aspect of your life. From movie nights to girls' nights out (despite his protestations, he always managed to tag along), Wade had become an irreplaceable part of your small social circle. And while you would never admit it out loud, a part of you had come to appreciate his chaotic presence.

Wade had let himself into your apartment as usual, only this time, he found a far different scene than he was used to. No witty banter, no sarcastic remarks – just the sight of you on the couch, tears streaming down your face as you clutched Logan's dog tags like a lifeline.

For a second rare time, Wade’s usual carefree attitude was replaced with a rare hint of concern. He took a step closer, his usual humor completely gone. “Hey... You alright, sunshine?”

“Wade.” You sit up and wipe the tears away. “Yeah…” Wade could see through your lie easily. He could always tell when something was off, even if you tried to hide it. He takes a seat next to you on the couch, his usual playful demeanor replaced with unexpected seriousness.

His eyes flickered to the dog tags in your hand, recognizing them immediately. He knew today held significance for you, the anniversary of Wolverine's death.

"You don't gotta put on a brave face around me, y'know. I can see right through it." You broke, tears flowing as you rambled, “I loved him so much. And I didn’t get to tell him that before he died. He died thinking I hated him.”

Wade’s usual snarky comments are replaced with a rare moment of empathy. He reaches out, gently placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. He speaks quietly, choosing his words carefully for once. His voice has none of its usual sarcasm. "Hey, don't go there. Wolvie... he knew, alright? In his own messed-up, emotionally closed-off Wolverine way, he knew. Trust me, the guy wasn't as dense as he looked." You roll your eyes at Wade’s comments. He never even knew Logan. Barely anyone knew Logan the way you did.

“I miss Laura.”

Wade nods, his eyes softening a bit more at the mention of the young girl. "Yeah... Laura was a firecracker, wasn't she? A little ball of energy and angst, that one." He shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips at the thought of her. "She took after her old man in a lot of ways, that's for sure." Again you knew he just said this to make you feel better. Yet he somehow knew exactly what to say. Like he had watched a movie about it.

“I love her like she’s my own.”

Wade nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I kinda figured you did. You've got that whole peppermint protective-parent thing going on when it comes to her." He watches as you fiddle with the dog tags in your hands, his expression softening as he speaks. "You think she'd want to see you like this? Wasted on the couch, sniffling and moping?"

“No.” You say as you wipe your tears. Wade crosses his arms, a hint of his usual smugness returning to his voice as he speaks.

"Damn right, she wouldn't. So we, are going out.” Wade pulls you up from the couch. “Going out?” You did NOT want to go out tonight. Wade grins, grabbing your hand and practically yanking you to your feet.

"Yeah, dollface. We're goin' out. And trust me, it'll help get your mind off of those sad, maudlin thoughts." He begins to pull you towards the door, completely disregarding your protests. He continues to drag you down the hallway, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We're gonna hit up a couple of bars, maybe a club, eat some greasy pizza, and by the time we're done, you'll be too drunk to remember your name, let alone all those depressing thoughts floatin' around in that pretty little head of yours."

As you continued to spend time with Wade, a reluctant friendship started to form between you. Wade had a way of getting under your skin, breaking down your walls, and making you laugh even in your darkest moments. He became a constant presence in your life, a source of amusement and comfort in equal measure. And it wasn’t long before his influence extended beyond your apartment. He got you a job at the car dealership where he and Peter worked, much to your surprise and initial resistance.

You began to feel happier and more stable, your self-confidence slowly resurfacing, albeit not quite reaching the level it had been in the past. The scars of heartbreak were still there, but you were learning to heal and grow from them. Your life was slowly regaining a sense of order and balance, and you were beginning to find your way forward, even though the shadows of the past would always linger.

Wade’s surprise party had been going well, filled with laughter, food, and even a birthday cake in the shape of a Chimichanga, per Wade's request months ago. A sound of knocks drew Wade’s attention, and never one to miss a moment, he went to answer it. As he disappeared behind the door, a tense silence fell over the room. Minutes ticked by, but Wade didn't come back.

It wasn’t until a few days and a city of destruction later that Deadpool made his arrival back to his apartment complex. Wade bounded through the hall, Logan following behind him with his usual grouchy expression.

He glances around the apartment as they enter, taking in the surroundings. A hint of surprise flashes in his eyes, but he quickly schools his expression into a familiar scowl. "Not bad, for a fucking dump."

Wade rolls his eyes, ignoring Logan's grumpy comment. "Yeah, yeah, grouchy as ever. Try and take a break from the whole tough guy act for a minute, will ya? It turns me on and I’m so sore.” He plops himself down on the couch, stretching out and making himself comfortable.

As Logan wanders around the apartment, he notices the various photos, trinkets, and, as he would call it, 'trash' that Wade had collected and displayed around the apartment. He picks up a framed photo of you and Wade, arching an eyebrow.

"Who's this?" He asks, holding up the picture of you and Wade together, his tone a mix of curiosity and skepticism. You looked familiar, a certain draw to your smile.

Wade grins, leaning back on the couch with a sly smile. It had to be fate. "That, my friend, is just part of the many reasons you’re here."

He points at the photo, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Isn't she a looker? Not as sexy as me, of course. But she's got a sparkle in her eye that's hard to look away from if you know what I mean."

Logan rolls his eyes, placing the photo back down on the shelf. He grunts, his expression unchanged. "So she's your latest conquest, huh?“ Wade grins widely. “Oh, not mine, Wolvie. Yours.”

Logan's eyes widened, clearly taken by surprise at Wade's words. He turns to Wade, a flicker of disbelief on his face. "Mine? And what makes you think I'm interested in your friend?”

Wade pats the couch next to him. “Story time!” As Logan eyes the couch beside Wade with skepticism, the mercenary pats the cushion enthusiastically. "Come on, Logan, have a seat. I guarantee you'll want to hear this one." Wade grins, clearly enjoying the idea of getting under Logan's skin.

As Wade recaps the story, his tone is a mix of humor and surprisingly sentimental. He goes through the details of your relationship with your universe's Logan, and how you had stepped up to care for Laura after his death. There's a hint of respect in his voice as he talks about how you had put your grief aside to take care of someone else.

"You may not believe it, Wolvie, but that girl’s got a heart of gold and you own it… or he did… before he you know… ANYWAYS! Break up and make it didn’t matter to her. She took in your kid and treated her like her own." Logan shook his head. “Not my kid. That’s not me, bub.” Logan denied it. Wade sighs, shaking his head at Logan's stubborn denial.

"Oh, come on Honeypot. You may not be the same as the hunk of meat from this universe, but deep down, you're still you. Sure, you may have had some different life experiences, different choices, and all that. But you're still a grumpy, stubborn old fool who's surprisingly good at finding himself in trouble. And most importantly, you're a dad. No matter which universe you're from. You have that paternal instinct, even if you try to hide it under all that gruffness."

Logan tossed and turned on the lumpy couch, his mind racing. He couldn’t shake the image of you from his mind. That damn picture on the shelf seemed to glare at him every time he looked its way. Your smile and eyes were seared into his brain, haunting him. He hadn’t even met you and he couldn’t stand the thought of being away from you.

He tried to push away the thoughts, tell himself he didn’t know you, that it wouldn’t make sense to feel this way. But no matter how hard he tried to deny it, that nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach refused to go away.

Laura arrives at the apartment, Wade greets her with a wide grin, ushering her inside. He had called her, asking her to come over. "Hey! Glad you could make it!"

She glances over at Logan, who’s sitting on the couch across the room, pretending to be engrossed in a magazine. He offers a small smile to her. “Hey, kid.”

Laura returns the gesture with a small nod and a soft smile. She glances between Logan and Wade, sensing the tension in the room. "So what's going on?" Wade smiles as he feels happiness take over. “As Marvel Jesus, I must rebuild and bless those around me with my greatness.” Wade smiles at Laura. “I’ve got a little something something for you across the hall.”

Laura raises an eyebrow at Wade's grandiose declaration, clearly used to his shenanigans. She looks at him skeptically. "And what exactly is this ‘something something’ you’ve got for me?"

Laura follows Wade across the hall, a mixture of curiosity and annoyance clear on her face. As they enter your apartment, she glances around, taking in the familiar surroundings and the faint scent of you hanging in the air. "What the hell is this, Wade? I don’t have time for these games. Just tell me why I’m here."

You were putting your laundry away when you heard it. You freeze in shock. You weren't expecting to hear her ever again, especially not in your apartment. A mix of confusion and surprise wash over you as you listen to the voices just outside your bedroom.

You could feel your heart racing as you listened to the voices outside your door. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of what was happening. It couldn’t be real, could it? You pinched yourself, trying to see if this was some sort of dream or hallucination.

As you skid into the living room, your fuzzy socks causing you to slip on the polished hardwood floor, you come to a halt. Your eyes widen as you take in the unexpected sight before you. Laura is standing in the middle of the room with a puzzled expression on her face, looking just as shocked to see you as you are to see her.

Wade looks far too pleased with himself, relishing in the moment. His voice is filled with his usual smugness, the smirk on his face growing wider by the second. "Look who I found! Thought you could use the company."

“Oh my god,” you breathe, “Laura.” Laura smiles as you wrap her in your arms, her familiar scent and warmth instantly comforting. You can’t help but notice that she’s grown older, but in your eyes, she’s still the girl you cared for like your own. Wade watches from the side, a genuine smile on his face. Despite his usual snarkiness, he seemed genuinely touched by the reunion. He leans against the wall, watching the two of you hug it out.

Logan listens silently from across the hall, his expression carefully stoic. But despite his best efforts to appear indifferent, there’s a softening in his eyes, a subtle change in his stance. He hears you as you interact with Laura, listening carefully to your words and tone.

Logan sits on the couch, nursing a beer,

staring down at the floor in thought. He's got something on his mind, and finally, after a few moments of tense silence, he looks up at Wade. "Wade..." He starts, his voice gruff. “tell me about her.”

Wade raises an eyebrow at the sudden question, clearly surprised by it. He sits up a little straighter, a smirk playing on his lips. "Her? Oh, you mean dollface? Well..." He leans back against the couch, folding his arms behind his head. "What do you want to know?"

Logan grunts, his expression still gruff as he struggles to ask the question that's been on his mind. "Just...tell me about her, alright? What kind of person is she? Don’t want Laura around the wrong people.” It was a rich statement considering you’d raised her for the years you’d been there.

Wade starts to recall the various stories and anecdotes about you. He tells Logan about the day you met, the first time you had to deal with his usual nonsense, and all the moments since.

He talks about your resilience, how you stood up to him and didn't put up with his crap, despite how much effort he put into trying to annoy you. He describes how you never failed to roll your eyes at his jokes, but had a soft spot for Laura and would do anything for her.

He talks about your patience, how you would listen to his stories, even when he was rambling, and how you always had a sarcastic comment ready. He describes how you never held back when you thought something was stupid, and how you weren't afraid to call Deadpool out on his bullshit.

Wade continues, his tone becoming more serious as he talks about your relationship with your universe's Logan. He describes how you had loved Logan deeply, how you had stepped up to take care of Laura after his passing.

He talks about how much you missed him, how you kept a photograph of him on the shelf in the living room. Wade's usual snarkiness is replaced with genuine empathy as he speaks about your loss.

Logan felt a pang in his heart, a sense of guilt and responsibility. He listened intently, absorbing every word Wade said about you. He felt a strange mix of empathy for what you had lost, and a growing desire to replace what you had lost. He clenched his jaw, the gruff exterior he wore cracking ever so slightly as his mind raced with thoughts.

Wade leans back, a wide teasing grin slowly spreading across his face. He could see the emotional shift in Logan, the subtle change in his demeanor. He glances at him. "Oh shit. It's happening right before my eyes. Looks like Stone Cold has a heart!"

Logan rolls his eyes as he tips his beer up. “No. I just feel sorry for her.” Again Logan remains in denial. Wade lets out a scoff, rolling his eyes at Logan's stubborn denial. He leans back, taking a swig of his drink.

"Yeah, sure. You keep telling yourself that, Logan. But deep down, we both know there's more to it than just feeling sorry for her. You're intrigued."

Logan shifts uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. He can't deny that Wade's words have struck a chord within him. There's something about your story that has compelled him, drawing him in. He lets out a gruff huff. "Doesn't mean shit. I just want to understand what she's been through, that's all."

Wade lets out a quiet laugh to himself, a smirk playing on his lips. He could sense the truth beneath Logan's words, the denial he was clinging to so adamantly. In his mind, he was determined to play matchmaker. He was Marvel Jesus, after all. And while you and Logan had missed your chance, he was determined to set it right.

"Oh, baby cakes," Wade muttered with a chuckle, "You can deny it all you want, but that longing in your eyes betrays you." “Shut the fuck up.” Logan growls.

Wade laughs, clearly enjoying every moment of irritating Logan. He leans back, folding his hands behind his head. "Oh, come on, Logan. Don't get your claws in a twist. I can see it. You're interested, and you can't deny it."

Wade lets out an exaggerated sigh as Logan grabs two beers and heads into his room, closing the door firmly behind him. "Rude," he mutters, pouting slightly as he's locked out.

Wade grins, a lightbulb going off in his head. It was your birthday soon. This was the perfect opportunity to push Logan and you together. And a party was the perfect cover. "That’s fucking brilliant." Wade pats himself on the back. “Good job, Wade.”

PART TWO

[cameronspecial]

I Don't Share My Candy

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  Drug and Alcohol Use, Sexual Content (Not smut but some sexual tension that is let out) and Mention of Sex.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.1K

Summary: Rafe doesn't want to define their relationship, so Y/N decides to take matters into her own hands.

A/N: This idea came to me thanks to this Instagram post.

Masterlist

Being in a situationship with Rafe Cameron is just about the most frustrating thing that Y/N Y/L/N has ever done. And that says something because she works part-time at a daycare during the semester. Although, she could equate Rafe to a toddler. He doesn’t understand the meaning of the word no. He doesn’t like to share, but he expects other people to share their things with him. He doesn’t do a great job of hiding his emotions. He is clingy, only in secret when it is just the two of him cuddled under the sheets. He isn’t like most hookups Y/N has had. Once they finish their passionate activities, he wants to stay in bed and cuddle. He wants to make her a bath for aftercare and talk about their day. He wants to act like they are just an ordinary couple who just finished a night of lovemaking. He liked to consider them exclusive. The catch is that he only acted that way in the privacy of one of their bedrooms. It doesn’t even extend to the rest of their houses. Y/N wouldn’t find herself being cuddled on a couch in a living room with Rafe because, according to him, it is a hard no. 

This is why she finds herself watching as Rafe lets a blonde grind her ass into his clothed cock. He didn’t even give a glance in her direction. Seeing him with other girls always makes Y/N wonder if he was the same way with all of his one-night stands. Does he like to cuddle them? Does he run them a bath and ask them what their favourite part of the day is? Y/N couldn’t stand to watch the scene anymore, so she left the party with a shake of her head. She wouldn’t let him keep playing this game of tug of war on what to label themselves. And she has a plan to get him to pull the trigger on admitting who they are to each other. 

——

YN sits at her vanity getting ready with the help of her friends. As she does her makeup, Mable is giving volume to her curtain bangs to emulate the 70s style she is trying to achieve in her outfit. She found a brown patterned silk scarf shirt at the thrift shop, which she pairs with a black jean skirt and brown knee-high heeled boots. Everyone finished getting ready and it was time to add the finishing touches to their outfit that Y/N had bought thanks to TikTok. She hands out a candy necklace to each of her friends, putting on her own after everyone has received theirs. They head out to the nightclub with the goal of having the least amount of candies on their necklace and whoever does will be declared the winner. 

When Y/N had thought up which friends to ask out, she had made sure they were mostly her friends who loved to document every little thing they did on social media and who Rafe was following. With a drink in hand, she laughs as the tattooed brunet leans down towards her neck to eat one of the candies. She watches as Clara documents the whole scene on her phone. Y/N made sure to lean her face towards the camera, so it was clear it was her. The man pulls away and gives her a smirk as he walks away. Out of the corner of her eyes, she catches a glance at Clara’s phone. She is posting the video to her story on Instagram, making sure to tag Y/N. 

——

Rafe sits on the balcony with beer in hand and a joint resting on an ashtray on the coffee. He is skipping through people’s stories on Instagram when one particular one attracts his attention. He leans closer to his phone to make sure it is really her and the tag confirms who it really is. He observes the unknown person bring his lips down to her neck and Rafe feels his blood boil. Instead of placing a kiss in a place only Rafe’s lips should be close to, the boy’s teeth bite into a candy attached to the elastic necklace. Rafe rewatches the video over and over again, examining the look of joy on Y/N’s face. She shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as she is. She should only want him near her neck in that sense. On his fifth time watching it, Rafe notices the caption to the events going on: The girl with the least amount of candy wins and it looks like Y/L/N is playing to win. Without another thought, Rafe puts out his blunt and gets his car keys, glad that he had just started his relaxation so he only had one puff and sip of the possible impairments. 

——

Rafe finds his target dancing on the dance floor with a man behind her. The blue-haired man holds her swaying hips and his lips are near her neck. Rafe can feel the heat reach his neck. He quickly pulls the man away from her, ignoring the yip the man lets out. Y/N turns at the loss of the man’s hands on her hips and glows at the sight of Rafe. The angry look on Rafe’s face doesn’t deter her and she lets him drag her to the back of the club, out of sight of other people. The music dampens in the back of the club. Rafe gently slams her back into the wall and he leans his hand above her head. “Now, what game do you think you are playing at, little fox?” Rafe’s anger converts into a smirk as he lustfully looks down at her.  

“I don’t know what you are talking about?” 

“Ha, don’t play innocent with me. Why are you letting men’s lips near your neck?”

“Just playing a little game, Rafe. I wanna win.”

“Well, if you wanted to win, little fox, then you should’ve called me.” Each word is broken apart with a kiss as he makes his way down her neck towards the necklace. She feels him start to nibble one of the candies like the other men, but unlike the others the sudden feeling of him using his tongue to bring the candy into his mouth causes her to jump. He chuckles at her surprise and makes sure a little more tongue is used to get the next candy. 

“You’re only supposed to eat one. That’s how the game w… wor…works.” 

She is having a hard time thinking with the feeling of his hot breath on her neck. He takes another candy into his mouth, but when one of the pieces falls onto her breast, she feels her breath hitch as she watches Rafe lean his head down to eat the candy. He places a kiss on the place the candy once was, then licks his way back up to her necklace to continue his destruction of it. “I’m changing the rules. I don’t share my candy.”

[milla-jordan]

OKAY THEORY FOR SEASON 5

it’s more than likely that season 5 will be released in two volumes, there is a rumour it will be three due to a most likely fake post, but we’ll have to wait until may 31st to see ig.

due to the recurring pattern of significant byler moments happening on the episode number which correlates to the season (s1 ep1- will goes missing, s2 ep2- crazy together, s3 ep3- rain fight, s4 ep4- two heart to hearts) i believe something will definitely happen between them in s5 ep5.

however, as they will likely split the season into a longer first half and a short second half like they did with season 4 it is a good bet that vol 1 will end on episode 5. MEANING that the episode will probably with an ALMOST kiss or something to keep us on our toes for vol 2. (it also fits with the duffers style of writing i think)

this would actually be so cruel of them but i can honestly see it happening just to keep viewers engaged. downside to this is it may stop passionate milevens (and homophobic/conservative viewers) from watching vol 2 which would decrease the shows popularity and profits.

but i think this is a likely bet for if (when) byler happens/is confirmed!

[rainybubbles]

Unrequited love and 141

(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC.)

Suggestive theme for Soap's one /!/

SIMON : you were his second choice.

You gazed into his eyes, and within their depths, the truth unfurled. His lips remained sealed, yet their silence spoke volumes, delivering a verdict you dreaded.

"I'm sorry, I don't like you that way," he said, and it felt like a punch to the gut.

-Such has been the pattern of your existence.

-You were never anyone's first pick—neither for your family, nor your friends, nor your school.

- You were always the second choice. And for a brief moment, you thought maybe things were different with Simon.

-Maybe his kindness towards you meant something more, maybe his tough exterior was just a front.

-But no, it wasn't like that at all. You felt foolish, like you were living in a dream.

-"Let's just forget about this, it was dumb," you whispered, trying to brush it off.

-"Yeah," he agreed quickly. Too quickly. And you knew why. He never saw you in that way.

-"You'll find someone better," he said, trying to be comforting.

-You fought the urge to scream, to rail against the clichéd reassurance.

-"Less emo, maybe?" you joked, but it didn't ease the pain.

-He chuckled, a sound you used to love, but now it only reminded you of what you couldn't have.

-"You'll find someone," he repeated, but you knew it wasn't true. All your crushes ended the same way, and Simon was your last hope.

-"I should go home. You have stuff to do, right?" you said, feeling the awkwardness between you both.

-"Yeah," he confirmed, not asking you to stay like he usually did. You knew you messed up.

-You forced a smile, hiding the tears, and left.

-Walking back to your apartment, the rain mixed with your tears, and it all felt like one big mess. You wanted to forget about Simon, but at the same time, you wanted more of him. It was torture.

-Back at your place, you picked up your phone and saw a message from Johnny. Simon has been seeing someone. It hit you hard.

-"When?" you replied quickly.

-"This week. He wasn't sure, but it's been going on for months," came the response.

-And then you realized. 

-Those moments you shared with Simon—they weren't meaningless. 

-They weren’t figments of your imagination.

-Him without his mask, the flirt jokes, the stay-in at his flat…

- They were moments stolen in the absence of his true desire, placeholders for another. 

-You were nothing more than a substitute, a convenient distraction until his heart's desire was available. 

-You were just a stand-in until his real crush was available. 

-You were a second choice.

-"What a coward," you muttered to yourself, feeling angry and hurt.

__________________________________________

SOAP : hookup who wishes more

His lips brushed against your neck, the sizzle of breakfast in the pan, and you allowed yourself to drift into reverie.

A life entwined with his seemed within reach.

Yet, the harsh reality pierced through when he reached for his phone to answer another call from another one night-stand.

In his bed, you were just another person, another quick fuck, maybe the one he was most comfortable with, like an old pair of socks.

But not the only one. Just someone he could rely on when he needed.

It was silly to have feelings for him.

But sometimes, when he stayed in the morning, asking about your family or giving you birthday gifts, you couldn't help but hope.

Maybe he was trying to tell you something. Until he left again. Until he talked about others. Until he was with someone else.

You lived close to his place, always there when he wanted you. Even though you knew your place, you couldn't bring yourself to cut him off, to tell him to stop.

Your heart craved his attention, even if it was only for a moment.

"Could ye pass me the salt, Nox?" he asked casually.

That wasn't your name, nor a moniker he bestowed upon you. Your body tensed, gripped by a sudden realization. He had mistaken you for one of his fuck buddies.

The agony engulfed you, clouding your thoughts.

"It's not my name," you whispered, barely audible.

"Sorry, Ah wasn't payin’ attention," he apologized, planting a kiss on your forehead.

Focused. The word echoed in your mind as you struggled to find your voice. "Leave," you whispered.

"Whit?" he asked, confused.

"I said, leave."

“Wait, if somethin’ happened, I can help-”

“That's the problem, John. You can't help. You can’t have it both ways. You can't treat me like your lover one moment, only to discard me for someone else the next. You can't oscillate between warmth and coldness. I'm tired of being strung along by your attachment issues. I know your family, John. I've met them all. Yet you introduced me as a friend. After each deployment, you sought solace in my arms, whispering promises you never intended to keep. I've had enough."

"I can change, just give me a chance—" he pleaded.

"No," you said firmly. "You want fun, I want commitment.I won't demand something you're incapable of giving. But I refuse to be ensnared in this farce any longer. Leave my home, and never return”

"It's a misunderstanding, please, just listen—" he begged.

"You called me by the wrong name," you said, your voice breaking. "While I made breakfast, you were texting someone else. You even made plans with them while we were supposed to watch a movie together. It's clear to me now."

John left, leaving behind a mess of emotions. You cried, but you also felt a sense of relief. Next time, you promised yourself, you would ask for honesty from the start, before getting caught up in another tangled web of confusion.

__________________________

GAZ : waiting for someone who doesn’t wait for you.

You stood there, shivering in the biting cold, lips pallid, hands tingling crimson from the chill, yet refusing to let a single tear betray your anguish.

As each shop shuttered its windows, the empty streets echoed with the hollow sound of your hopes crumbling, brick by brick.

You clung to the belief that Gaz would never abandon you, not after everything. So you lingered, a lone figure in the twilight, yearning for his arrival.

But when he finally materialized, it was a dagger to your heart. His arms wrapped around another, their laughter slicing through the silence like shards of glass.

Together they sauntered into the very restaurant where he had promised to take you, where they shared a meal that should have been yours.

Fingers trembling, you reached for your phone, desperate to bridge the chasm between you and him.

Yet he flicked his device off with callous disregard, leaving you to drown in a sea of unanswered questions.

Why? Why would he toy with your emotions like this, dangling the prospect of reconciliation before your weary eyes only to snatch it away?

He had been the one to reach out, resurrecting memories of a bygone era when you were each other's world in high school, planting seeds of hope for a future together.

And foolishly, you had clung to those promises, waiting with bated breath for his return, even as the minutes stretched into hours.

You had always been waiting for him.

You had always been the one chasing after Gaz, in school, in matters of the heart, in the delicate dance of friendship.

But now, as you trudged towards the desolate bus station, the bitter irony of it all weighed heavily upon your shoulders.

The clock struck midnight, and a message flashed across your screen, belated apologies dripping with insincerity from him.

 In that moment, the truth became painfully clear: you had always made time for him, carving out precious moments in your hectic existence, while he couldn't spare a single second to offer a genuine excuse, a shred of explanation.

And so, as the bus rumbled towards an uncertain destination, you vowed to reclaim the pieces of yourself that you had willingly sacrificed at the altar of his indifference.

 For in the end, you realized, the only person worth waiting for was the one who would never keep you waiting in the first place.

__________________________

Price : he loved you. You love him.

You watch as his fiancée weeps, tears staining your own cheeks. It's not the same for you. It's not joy, it's sorrow.

Yet, despite the ache in your heart, your eyes betray you as they linger on how handsome John looks in his pristine white suit. Your heart, it seems, has impeccable taste.

You hear him uttering his vows, the crowd erupting in cheers.

But your mind is fixated solely on the fading of his smile. You know it's just your own jealousy speaking, suggesting that perhaps he harbors a secret desire to halt this union.

You despise it, yet you can't silence the relentless overthinking that observes how he subtly recoils when their hands touch, how his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, like a fleeting shadow of itself.

But now is the time for speeches, or forever hold your peace, isn't it?

And your decision has been made, etched into the stars since the day he shared his dreams of them, seeking your approval.

The festivities commence, and you remain composed, aloof, deliberately distant from him, from them. You're afraid—afraid of divulging everything, afraid of shattering it all.

"You've been keeping to yourself," he remarks.

"Is that an inquiry, Captain?" you retort, a hint of sarcasm lacing your words.

"You're not in the military, don't call me that, dear."

You manage a wry smile.

"I don't fare well in crowds," you confess.

"I know," he acknowledges softly. "I just wanted a moment to talk."

"About what?" you inquire cautiously.

"You seem distant, from everyone," he observes.

"I... I just need time to recuperate from something, nothing significant," you deflect.

"Is it... physical?" he probes.

"No," you reply curtly.

"Emotional?"

"John."

"I just want to understand," he persists.

"Ignorance is bliss," you murmur, a trace of bitterness tainting your words.

"Yes, but not when it comes to you," he counters.

"John, please don't push," you plead.

"I will.You can't just shut me out like this," he insists, his brows furrowing in exasperation.

"Watch me," you retort, your jaw set stubbornly.

"Why are you like this?" he demands, his voice rising slightly with pent-up frustration.

"Like what?" you counter, your own patience wearing thin.

"Closed off. Distant. It's like you've built a wall between us," he argues, his words laced with hurt.

"Maybe I have," you admit, your voice softening just a fraction.

"Why?" he implores, his eyes searching yours for answers.

Irritation flares within you, fatigue settling in. You've had your fill of this celebration, of the clamor, of the happiness that seems so out of reach.

And then, it slips out.

"I love you. Satisfied now?" you snap.

His expression morphs, a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"You can't just drop that bombshell on me," he whispers, his voice tinged with betrayal.

"I warned you, John. Don't try to shift the blame onto me," you retort, your tone strained.

"Why... Why didn't you say anything before?" he implores, his frustration evident.

"Because you paraded around with people who bore no resemblance to me? Because our friendship means everything to me, and I couldn't risk it," you confess, your voice trembling with emotion.

His anger simmers beneath the surface.

"Listen, I'm sorry. Let's forget this, you have your fiancée and—"

"I loved you too," he interjects, his admission cutting through the air like a knife.

"What?" you gasp, stunned.

"Before my fiancée, I... I was utterly in love with you. I... damn it, we could have... Why didn't you say anything?" he laments, his voice thick with regret.

"John, no," you murmur, your heart breaking all over again.

"I love her now," he adds hastily, as if trying to extinguish the flicker of hope that ignited within you.

"You can't drop this bombshell now. It's cruel," you whisper, your voice choked with emotion.

"I know," he admits, his gaze dropping in shame.

"You're a coward. You've moved on, and now you leave me with this 'what if,'" you accuse, the words bitter on your tongue.

"It'll fade," he offers weakly.

-"Fuck you, John," you hiss, the finality of your words hanging heavy in the air.

-You never see him again after the wedding. You couldn't bear to, not to his fiancée, not to him, not to yourself. Perhaps, you muse bitterly, ignorance truly is bliss.

if you want more : my masterlist

[leejenowrld]

you and jeno are in a playful mood…you’re making out but can’t stop giggling for some reason

in the dim light of your cozy living room, you and jeno found yourselves wrapped in a tender embrace, your giggles dancing between kisses like playful butterflies. as you straddled his lap, his arms encircled your waist, pulling you close in a warm, comforting embrace.

"i can't kiss you properly if you keep laughing, baby," jeno murmurs, his lips brushing against yours in between fits of laughter.

"i'm sorry," you manage to say through your giggles, but the sound only seems to make him laugh harder, his grin widening as he gazes at you with adoration.

with each gentle press of your lips against his, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you lost in the sweetness of the moment.

"hi, beautiful," he says softly, his voice filled with warmth as he cups your cheek in his hand.

"hi," you reply, your voice tinged with shyness as you return his gaze, the corners of your mouth turning up in a shy smile.

his touch was like a gentle caress, his fingers tracing delicate patterns along the curve of your spine as he pulled you closer, his breath mingling with yours in a soft, whispered exchange.

"i love you so fucking much," he whispers, his eyes searching yours for confirmation of the depth of his feelings.

"i love you more, pretty boy," you reply, your heart swelling with love as you press your lips to his in a sweet, lingering kiss.

you could feel the warmth of his skin against yours, a comforting reminder of the deep connection you shared. as your lips met in a series of soft, lingering kisses, you could taste the sweetness of his affection, the subtle hint of peppermint from the breath mints you had shared earlier lingering on his lips. with each kiss, you felt yourself falling deeper and deeper into his embrace, the world around you melting away until there was nothing left but the sensation of his lips against yours.

in the quiet intimacy of the moment, you found yourself lost in his gaze, the warmth of his eyes drawing you in. with each shared glance, you felt a flutter of excitement in your chest, a rush of joy at the simple pleasure of being together.

and as the laughter subsided and the kisses grew more fervent, you found yourself sinking deeper into his embrace, your bodies pressed together in a tender embrace that spoke volumes without a word. in that moment, you knew that you were exactly where you were meant to be, lost in the arms of the one you loved most in the world.