#assignment master review

[dissertations-posts]

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[snowball-doie]

| pairing: sub!nerd!Mark x Dom!Reader

| warnings: 18+ MDNI. Jerking him off. Oral. Slight edging. I'm like a broken record when it comes to writing about sucking Mark off, my b <3

| wc: 2.3k

Sometimes the best way for Mark to study was with an incentive system— A way for him to earn rewards if he did his work. He had a habit of getting disinterested in his work easily because you were a fantastic distraction from his textbooks, even if you weren’t doing a single thing aside from lounging on the couch in pajamas. Mark just… he couldn’t care less about anything else whenever you were around. You were his everything. But to you, his studies should have been his everything because he was so close to getting his master’s, it was stupid of him to throw that all away just because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. So you figured out when finals season approached and Mark was constantly throwing his work to the side to make out with you that if you gave him rewards for studying, Mark was eager to speed through his flashcards, textbooks, homework, and so on.

“When you’re done with your lab report, I’ll blow you.”

“When you’ve reviewed your final draft for your philosophy essay, you can kiss me.”

“Once you make your own comment on the assignment of the week, I’ll sit on your lap while you reply to two of your classmates’ comments.”

Mark had always been a good student, but somehow his grades were doing even better ever since you started the incentive idea. You were having to slow him down and stall on his rewards because, like a dog in training, he figured out that if he was a good student then you would touch him, so he was doing too much at once just for the chance to get your mouth on his cock, or even the opportunity to be inside of you. Usually he only got to fuck you after big projects worth about 20% of his grade… But since it was finals season, Mark was more worked up than usual, and he was incredibly stressed, so he was eager for more and more and more—

“I can’t keep doing this, baby, I’m too tired,” he whined, hiding his face in his hands before diving face-first against his open textbook. “If I have to read one more thing about how arteries work, I’m going to start tearing my hair out. Like, who doesn’t know this already! Why do I have to read seven chapters about bullshit I learned in high school!”

“How much more do you have left?” you asked, setting your phone to the side and sitting up on the couch.

“Two more chapters.”

“That’s nothing,” you whined back mockingly.

Mark lifted his head so that he could show you his pouting bottom lip and those big puppy-dog eyes behind his glasses. Why did you have to fall in love with a hot nerd, huh? A nerd would have sufficed. Or a hot jock. But a hot nerd was your kryptonite, and even though you knew he was baiting you to get what he wanted, there was no denying that he was irresistible when he was wearing his glasses, his hair long was a mess, and his pajamas were shifting around just enough to let you see the outline of his abs under his shirt and his cock in his pants. Ugh, he knew how to get you.

“Finish this chapter first,” you said, hoping to buy yourself some time.

Mark perked up thanks to the mysterious hope you’d provided him. His eyes began scanning the chapter at the normal, quick pace you were familiar with when he wasn’t protesting the idea of studying; and in the meantime, you pushed yourself off the couch and walked towards Mark. He hesitated briefly, but his gaze didn’t leave the textbook. He warily flipped the page, revealing that he was on the last few paragraphs before the next chapter. You watched over his shoulder to put some pressure on him to actually read and not just fuck around because even though you weren’t a nerd like him, you’d learned enough during his “rewards” to catch on whenever he was lying about doing his work just to get what he wanted.

“Done,” he cheered victoriously.

“How long’s the next chapter?”

Mark flipped a few pages in search of the chapter he didn’t have to read for homework. Six pages later, he found it and pointed.

“You think you can last ‘til then?”

Mark looked confused. “For what?”

With a wicked grin, you dropped down to your knees then crawled under the dining room table where Mark had set up shop with all of his study material in preparation for finals. You were having to eat meals on the couch since there was no room at the table anymore.

“Read the chapter aloud so I know you’re not lying,” you told him casually as you pried his knees apart to make room for yourself to settle between his legs. Mark leaned back so that he could watch you for a moment. “Don’t lose track of your spot either.”

As you grabbed the hem of his pajama pants, Mark aided your attempt to undress him by lifting his hips so that you could pull the fabric down, then he resettled on the wooden chair. Mark wasn’t unfamiliar with being naked on that chair— You liked to tie his hands behind his back and have him sit on that chair while you rode him until his head was spinning and he couldn’t get out a single word.

When you wrapped your hand around his length, Mark gulped, but he remembered what you wanted him to do in order to earn his reward, so he leaned forward again to put his focus on the last chapter of the night. You didn’t do anything to distract him for a bit. Despite his growing eagerness as shown by his hardening cock in your hand, you didn’t move or do something new— So Mark began reading the chapter aloud. Honestly, you weren’t paying attention. A lot of the science shit he studied went over your head, so even though you heard the words and learned a thing or two here and there, you never really… absorbed everything like he did…

Mark concentrated on the words in front of him, and as he began the next paragraph, that was when you began slowly pumping your hand up and down his long dick. He moaned suddenly. His ability to keep reading coherently faded, so you stopped your motions. Mark immediately bucked his hips upward to encourage you to keep going, but so long as he wasn’t studying, you weren’t going to give him his reward. When he recuperated, Mark slowly started reading again… You took a moment to believe him that he was actually ready, then you continued when you were doing. Mark moaned, but before you could stop again, he raced to keep reading at a faster pace, likely in the hopes that you would put him in your mouth or ride him, or let him fuck you…

Your tongue flicked Mark’s tip suddenly. The words of the textbook got caught in his throat, and within an instant he was leaning back to look down at you, his glasses hanging low on the bridge of his nose. You stopped to look up at him. He whined at the lack of stimulation, but you grinned while cocking your head to the side, waiting for him to say something, to admit that he wanted more, or perhaps he would silently return to his work. In fact, that was what he did. He read the next line casually to give you time to get back to what you were doing. Two lines later, you caught him off guard by sucking him off again, your tongue swirling around his tip, your fingers playing with his base and even teasing his balls a bit to really get him worked up.

The third page turn marked him reaching the halfway point of the chapter without any more issues. He did his best to ignore you so that he could focus on his work, despite the fact that you were slowly working his cock towards an orgasm which you didn’t plan on giving him quite yet. He knew that. He read as fast as he could in order to complete the assignment sooner, but every time he fucked up a word or lost his place in the paragraphs, you paused to give him a chance to figure out how to reset. Unfortunately, whenever you stopped, you also edged him. He hated that. But you loved how cute he sounded when he was all submissive and desperate.

By the fifth page, Mark was losing it. He was stuttering through every word, moaning between sentences, begging for more at the end of paragraphs. You tried to show him a little bit of mercy by going slower so that you didn’t have to edge him as often, but even that couldn’t really help Mark. Poor thing. Before you, he didn’t have a lot of experience— A personal choice until he met you. He’d only kissed a guy, some friend of his, and one girl in middle school; and he fully intended on never thinking about dating again until after his PhD when he could think about getting married. However, he saw you in his ethics class, a required course which he was less than excited to be attending instead of the courses required for his master’s degree, and once he laid eyes on you, he knew that he had to have you, but there was one thing in his way. He definitely didn’t deserve you. The fact that you were so gorgeous and perfect and amazing and— Mark couldn’t believe that someone like you would look twice in his direction. What he failed to recognize, though, was that he was actually way out of your league, according to you, so you couldn’t believe that someone as handsome as Mark Lee would even glance at you.

Now there the two of you were, moved in together, happily dating, supporting each other through your degrees, and even teasing the idea of marriage whenever Mark got really sappy during cuddle-time late at night. His experience obviously grew in that time too. Mark liked to experiment with his sexuality, and that led him to discovering that he liked being submissive from time to time, especially when it came to things like rewards and punishments— Having structure in his life provided by someone else gave him comfort.

“Can I cum?” he asked suddenly.

You pulled off of him.

“Wait, wait, please, don’t stop—”

“You have to finish the chapter first.”

Mark shuddered. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I believe in you, baby.”

He swallowed a moan then continued reading. Something, something, arteries, something, something, blood, something— “I’m close! No, no, no…” His knuckles turned white as his fists tightened when you edged him again. Something, something… Nutrients… Something… Hormones… “Okay, I’m done, I finished, please!”

Sitting up on your knees slightly, you were able to angle yourself better to sink your mouth down over his tip while your hand continued to jerk off the first few inches down at his base. Mark grabbed your hair to hold onto something for balance. He didn’t push you down or buck upwards. He just let you take the lead while he used you to keep himself sane. Slowly, you swallowed every inch until there was no more room for your hand, and you could feel him tickling the back of your throat, which was uncomfortable just enough to cause you to go back up. Mark moaned with relief. Feeling your cheeks hollow out, your tongue dragging along his length, and your saliva coating every inch of him made his eyes roll behind those handsome glasses of his.

“Can I cum?” he begged desperately.

“Yeah,” you mumbled before sinking back down.

Mark squirmed, his tip hitting the inside of your wet cheek, then he thrusted upwards until he hit the back of your throat again, and even though you gagged a bit, he moaned and started cumming. He panted breathlessly through it. There wasn’t a lot since you’d drained him throughout the past couple of days, but the orgasm was strong enough that he threw his head back and clenched his thighs around your shoulders.

“F-feels so good… Fuck… Thank you… Thank you…”

As his orgasm passed, he slumped in the chair. You allowed him a minute to catch his breath while you also used that time to swallow every drop he gave you while also trying to regain your composure.

“Fuck, I’ve got a headache now.” Mark reached to help you to your feet.

You kissed his forehead. “Take a break from studying, then, we’ll get some rest for a bit.” You continued to hold his hands as you pulled him to his feet too then calmly led him to the bedroom. Mark crashed on the bed in an instant. “Gotta take these off first, babe.” You carefully slid his glasses off his face and set them on his bedside table. “There you go.”

Mark grabbed your waist and pulled you on top of him to cuddle close and nuzzle his face in the crook of your neck lovingly. “Do you think I’m going to pass my bio exam?”

“You’re studying more often than not, so, yes.”

He chuckled. “You’re biased.”

“Then why’d you ask me, silly?”

Mark squeezed you tight and rolled over so that you were laying beside him, giving you ample room to squeeze him back. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve helped me a lot this semester.”

You kissed the top of his head and played with the end of his long hair that laid against the back of his neck. “Any time.”

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[theonlyonesora]

The Quiet Equation

Toto Wolff x You

The leaves had just begun to change—burnt orange and brittle gold curling at the edges of Harvard Yard—when he walked into your life like an equation that didn’t balance.

You were seated in the third row of Maxwell 202, your laptop open, fingers idly tracing the rim of your coffee cup. It was your first lecture of the semester, an advanced seminar on sports business leadership, a course you’d only taken because you craved something challenging. Something unfamiliar.

You didn’t expect him.

Toto Wolff.

He entered the room not with fanfare but gravity—like a planet arriving into orbit, unannounced yet impossible to ignore. Six foot five, dressed in a charcoal cashmere sweater and slacks that looked tailor-made for his long, deliberate strides. His accent curled around his words like silk-wrapped steel. Every student in the lecture hall straightened unconsciously. A few whispered. A few stared.

But he didn’t scan the room for admiration. No, he scanned for curiosity. For sharpness. For minds worth his time.

And when his gaze landed on you, it stayed there half a second too long.

You looked away first. You always did.

.

You weren’t used to being noticed.

At 27, you’d already earned your master’s in engineering, and now you were folding into a second program focused on organizational strategy. Most people thought you were a scholarship kid who studied too hard. Maybe you were. You liked silence, liked order, liked the click of logic falling into place. You liked data because it never lied.

But now, data had a voice, and it came in the form of a man twice your age with sharp eyes and a voice like dark chocolate and gravel.

And then came the email.

Subject: Extra Credit Assignment—Mercedes-AMG F1 Guest Lectures You were one of three students selected. Three.

To assist Mr. Wolff during his time as a guest lecturer.

.

The first time he said your name, it was late afternoon. The sun had begun to dip behind the old stone buildings, casting the seminar room in an amber glow. You had just finished walking him through an analysis of cross-market brand loyalty between Formula One and other global sports franchises.

“Brilliant,” he said, like the word meant something ancient and reverent. “But you already knew that.”

You swallowed. “It’s just data.”

Toto tilted his head, studying you. “No. It’s the way you see it that matters. You find meaning in numbers the way others find it in poetry.”

You flushed. You hated that. He was too perceptive. Too calm. You liked your walls. He was already walking through them like they weren’t even there.

.

Over the weeks, something began to shift.

He stayed after class longer. Asked you questions no one else would dare ask—about why you never raised your hand, about how you learned to think the way you did. About what you were really afraid of.

He listened when you spoke, not just with attention—but with intention. As if every sentence from you deserved space to unfold.

And you?

You began to crave it. That space. That steady, quiet pull of him. The way he stood too close without ever touching you. The way he would call your name lowly in passing—never inappropriate, never unprofessional, but still enough to echo in your stomach long after he left the room.

There was an age difference, of course. Twenty-four years. But it didn’t feel like that.

It felt like… depth. Like gravity finding gravity.

.

One night, well past midnight, you stayed behind after a guest seminar to help him with a data model. The others had left. The building was quiet, shadows climbing the bookshelves. The glow from his laptop cast him in silver light, jaw tense, brow furrowed as he reviewed your notes.

“You’ve done this before,” he said softly. “Built something and never taken credit.”

You looked at him. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you remind me of myself. At your age.” He paused. “Hungry. Brilliant. Lonely.”

That word landed like a pebble in still water.

You didn’t respond right away. Then, quietly: “I don’t mind being alone.”

“No,” he said, watching you. “But maybe you’d like someone who understands it.”

You turned your head to meet his eyes—and the room, the night, the world—it all shifted. Everything suspended.

His hand didn’t move first. Yours did.

And when his fingers closed around yours, it wasn’t the beginning of anything reckless.

It was the beginning of something inevitable.

.

You never told anyone.

Harvard whispered, as universities always do. But there were no scandals. No rumors. Just the quiet glances exchanged in the corners of classrooms, the subtle shift in your breath when he entered a room.

And on the last day of term, he handed you a folded note with only two lines written in his precise, deliberate hand.

You are the most elegant mind I’ve ever met. Come to Brackley this summer. We have work to do.

You stared at the signature beneath it.

Toto.

Not Mr. Wolff. Not Professor.

Just Toto.

And for once in your carefully structured life, you didn’t hesitate. You were already packed.

Maybe part 2 ?

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 2

Previous Chapter: Part 1 | Next Chapter: Part 3

AO3: Linked Here :)

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Ship: Shoto Todoroki x Fem Reader! 💋

Genre: Fluff, Romance, S*xual Tension, Making Out

CW: MDNI!, A18+, kissing, romance, sexual tension, semi-spicy scenes, lemon

Link to My Master List

Scenes from the afternoon hookup replay in your mind over and over as you sit in the library at a battered old desk in the history section. All you can think about is Shoto’s mouth. And his hands. And his abs!! And his sweet face.

You twiddle your pen in your hand as you try to draft out an essay for class. Unfortunately, every time you try to jot down a few thoughts your mind goes blissfully blank and you remember the tender way he spoke to you.

"How am I going to get anything done now, knowing that you can kiss like this?"

“You’re so beautiful. Your skin is so soft…I never realized how great it would be to touch you.”

“Find me later so we can discuss this.”

You look down at your watch excitedly – 7:55 PM. You eagerly wait for Shoto to appear so the two of you can talk and – with any luck – canoodle amongst the history textbooks. You sit patiently as the time ticks by.

Soon it’s 8:30 PM. You’re not worried, though. Shoto probably assumed you’d want to get some work done first.

9:15 PM rolls around and you start to get worried. You try to distract yourself with school work as doubt creeps into your mind.

10 PM – Shoto still hasn’t showed.

“Shit shit shit.” You check your phone again and again as you wade through the endless wave of homework your teachers have assigned. You keep losing yourself in a math problem or in a passage of your History textbook, only to remember with a jolt that you were expecting to see Shoto and the bastard hasn’t showed.

At 10:30 PM you realize with a sinking feeling that it’s almost past curfew. You pack up your things and prepare to head back to the dorms. There’s a heavy feeling in the pit of your stomach that you can’t shake.

You slide your books into your bag as a anxious thoughts dance through your mind like annoying fruit flies: Does Shoto regret your mid-afternoon hookup? Is he going to pretend it never happened? Did you push him too far? Does he think you’re a slut for stripping off your shirt and basically pressing his face into your naked breasts!? The synapses of your brain jump through dozens of equally horrid and embarrassing scenarios as you march back to your dorm room, blushing furiously with humiliation.

You run through the afternoon’s events in your head for what feels like the hundredth time, trying to find a clue as to why Shoto would have left you waiting alone in the library. Your cheeks burn hotter as you recall the gentle way Shoto had kissed your neck before leaning in to capture your lips in one of his first kisses. "How am I going to get anything done now, knowing that you can kiss like this?" You shiver as you think back to how gentle he was, how each caress felt so loving and intimate.

You shake your head to clear it. Shoto must have a valid excuse for not meeting you in the library as he had promised – no boy could kiss someone that intimately and then instantly cast her aside, right?

Before long, you’re walking through the doors of Class 1A’s dorm building. You shiver with discomfort as you recall how earlier that day you essentially scaled the side of a building for a boy. Does Shoto think you’re an absolute fool with the extremes you went to for a quick make out session? You hope not.

You walk up the stairs and past the common area. You see most of Class 1A studying quietly. Sero, Izuku, Kirishima and Ida sit around one of the kitchen tables reviewing their math homework while some of the girls compare English notes on the couch. To your relief, Shoto isn’t there. Mina waves to you enthusiastically, beckoning you to join her and YaMomo as they review the finer points of Hamlet. You politely decline and make a beeline for your room. You turn the key in the lock and it clicks – within moments, you are blessedly alone.

You toss your heavy book bag to the ground and prepare to wallow in self-pity. It’s 10:56pm and Shoto still hasn’t reached out to you. Your phone is vacant of text messages and your brain is absolutely fried from schoolwork.

You dim your room lights and switch on the favorite fairy lights for some peaceful ambiance. Time for some self-care, bitch! You think resolutely as you swap your uniform for your favorite pair of pajamas. You toss your phone to the floor with abandon and climb into your comfy bed. You breathe in deeply, allowing yourself to revel in the coziness of the dorm room.

You take out your five-minute bullet journal and write a quick list of things you're grateful for: 1. The opportunity to study at UA 2. Your lovely and encouraging friends and classmates 3. Your cozy room and the roof over your head 4. Shoto’s mouth 5. Shoto’s abs 6. Shoto’s goddamn hard AF dick

Um. No.

You snap the journal shut before you get too derailed.

You pull your comforter over your head and sit in silence for a moment. You’ve never been the kind of person to go completely boy-crazy. You always used to make fun of those girls who would go gaga over pretty boys and their texts and their kisses. But as you recall the searing way that Shoto kissed your lips earlier that day, you suddenly understand what all the boy-crazed girly hype was all about. Oh my god. You have a crush. A big sloppy embarrassing crush.

In the silence of your room, you suddenly here a buzzing noise coming from the general direction of your book bag. You struggle to disentangle yourself from your sheets and your journal goes flying. You ignore its crash landing as you slip from your bed and collect your phone from where it lays abandoned on the carpeted floor.

It’s Shoto.

Your heart skips.

Todoroki: Y/N. Are you awake?

You bite your lip, unsure how to respond. Did Shoto just send you his version of “U up?”

Y/N: Yes, I’m still up.

Todoroki: I know it’s late, but can I stop by?

You tense. Oh God – he’s going to come by to tell you that he’s not interested. He’s going to thank you for your time making out and say that you probably should avoid hooking up in the future because it’s a huge distraction. You’re sure that whatever he has to say is going to be negative and leave you feeling embarrassed. Why else would he have skipped out on your rendezvous in the library?

You take a deep breath. You have always been fairly practical with a mind for strategy, two qualities that had really set you apart when you had taken the UA entrance exams. You know that the best course of action here is to rip off the Band-Aid sooner rather than later. Better to know how he feels about your hookup now

Your heart sinks as you type out:

Y/N: Sure, I’ll leave the door unlocked for you. Just come in. Try not to be seen by anyone.

Todoroki: Of course. See you shortly.

Your heart beats double time as you look down at yourself. Your pajama set consists of a silky blue top with matching shorts that don’t leave much to the imagination. You chew on your thumb nervously – should you change into something more appropriate? No – Shoto has seen your boobs. A little bit of leg is not going to kill the half hot half cold hero in training.

You quickly remake your bed and kick your book bag beneath your desk so that the floor is clear. You plop down on your smooth comforter and wait, knotting your hands together as you anticipate Shoto’s arrival.

A few anxious minutes pass, and then you hear gentle footsteps pad down the hallway outside your door. The knob turns quietly, and in a moment Shoto Todoroki steps across your threshold, quietly closing the door behind him. He reaches down to turn the lock with a gentle snap of his wrist.

You take him in – he’s wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a soft white t-shirt. You’ve never seen him dressed so casually before and you assume that these are what he wears as pajamas in the privacy of his own dorm room. His hair is tousled and damp from a recent shower, and the burned side of his face shines where he’s clearly applied some kind of scar cream or moisturizer. His outfit projects a comfy air, but his expression is dark and stormy. Your heartbeat quickens in fear – what could possibly have caused him to be in such a tempestuous mood? Was this about your kissing?

You bite at your lip with worry. But when your eyes lock, his expression softens. In two quick strides, he’s at the bed. He leans in close so that your noses almost touch.

“Hi.” He says softly, before dipping his mouth to meet yours. You blink in surprise as your mouths melt together. His eyes flutter shut as he sinks into the kiss. Pleasure radiates up and down your spine as you kiss him back. He places both his palms on your hips and pulls you closer, letting out a small moan of satisfaction as he slides his tongue into your mouth. How silly you feel for thinking he didn’t want you like this!

After a few moments, you break apart.

“Hey there.” You whisper, bringing your hands up to cup his beautiful jaw. He leans in to kiss you again and you hold him in place. He stops and looks down at you inquisitively.

“I waited for you in the library, you didn’t show.” You say slowly, softly.

“My father decided to take me through some drills in one of the school’s gyms. I only finished a half hour ago.” His expression becomes dull as he speaks. “I’m sorry to leave you waiting. I wanted to see you - but I’m not allowed on my phone during training.”

Relief must have flooded your features, because he tilts his head to the side questioningly. You hold back a giggle – the way his head is tilted makes him look like a sweet dog asking its owner for a treat.

“What’s wrong?”

You sigh and pull yourself further onto the bed, patting the spot next to you as an invitation. Shoto climbs up next to you, sinking into the deliciously soft fabric. His eyes widen slightly in surprise.

“This is so comfortable.” He says, pressing his palm into the plush fabric beneath him. You recall his sparse traditional bedroom and realize that he’s never laid on a proper puffy mattress before.

“Hold on – it gets better.” You say pushing him off the bed so you can pull down the covers. You slip beneath the comforter and gesture for him to rejoin you. He climbs in clumsily, unsure how to position himself within the sheets. You prop a pillow beneath his shoulders as he lays down on his side. You toss the comforter over the two of you and lay across from him, feet almost touching beneath the warm layers of bedding.

“Cozy?” You ask as Shoto settles into the bed.

“Yeah.” He says in quiet voice, propping himself up on an elbow. “I always thought beds like this were excessive but…maybe there’s some merit to this.” He eyes a blue Squirtle plush that sits next to you in the bed. “Can I…hold that?”

You grin, biting back a laugh as you reach over to grab the Pokémon plush. “This is Squirtle – he’s one of my favorite plushies.” You hold up the stuffed animal and wiggle it in front of Shoto’s eyes as if it’s dancing. “Squirtle, Squirtle” you say in a low tone, trying to emulate the television character’s voice the best you can.

Shoto gives you a weird look. “I don’t get it. Why are you just repeating its name in a strange voice?”

“Shoto…have you…have never seen Pokémon!?” You almost screech in disbelief, before throwing a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself. You quickly remember that you are in the dorms and the walls aren’t super thick.

“No, I wasn’t allowed to watch television unless it was about Pro hero work.” Shoto says, a tinge of sadness flowing along with his words. “But it looks cute and round and I really just want to hold it and squish it?”

“Yeah, that’s the general reaction to plushies. Dude, we need to get you that whale pillow you liked on Pinterest. You need more cuteness in your life.”

“Well I have you, don’t I?” Shoto smiles softly. “You bring more than enough cute into my life.” He reaches out and grabs the plush from your hands and squishes it a bit. “But this is pretty nice, too.”

Your face grows hot at the compliment. Shoto tucks the Squirtle under his arm and shifts around in the sheets until he finds a comfortable position. He looks adorable and soft as he cradles the bright plush in his strong, muscular hands.

When he finally settles in, he looks up at you enquiringly. “What’s wrong?” He repeats, looping you both back to the conversation form earlier.

“So…” You sigh with embarrassment. “When you didn’t show up and I didn’t hear from you…” You pause and Shoto gives Squirtle a squeeze. “I thought you didn’t want to see me again. Or at least that you didn’t want to make out with me again.”

“Oh.” Shoto wasn’t expecting this. “I thought I made it very clear how…enthusiastically…I enjoyed our time together this afternoon. I didn’t realize I had left any room for you to question my attraction to you.”

“That’s nice to hear…but when you didn’t show at the library or send a text, I assumed the worst. My mind kind of went into full-blown panic mode. I thought maybe once you had time to reflect on our hookup, that you realized you didn’t like it or that you didn’t really like me. To be perfectly honest, I’ve never felt that way before. Usually something like this wouldn’t bother me.” You take a deep, steadying breath. “But I think I really like you and want to be close to you, and the thought that you might not feel the same was tearing me apart for the last couple of hours.”

The words come tumbling from your mouth before you can stop and think them through. Why are you saying all of this!? Why does being around Shoto make you feel so comfortable and open to sharing? It’s so weird – and you’re absolutely sure he’s going to think you’re some kind of over sharing freak for telling him all of this.

Shoto looks at you thoughtfully for a long moment before speaking. “Something I have always admired about you is your ability to be straightforward about what you’re thinking and feeling. Most people aren’t like that, and I have a hard time navigating more subtle situations. Thank you for telling me exactly what you’re thinking – I value it so much.” He runs a hand through his slightly damp hair, moving the bangs out of his bright eyes.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I had abandoned you. I wanted to come to the library so badly. I want to kiss you so badly – it’s all I’ve been thinking about tonight.” His voice is so earnest that you believe him.

“Let me match your honesty with some of my own - my father is extremely strict. Ever since I was born, he’s pushed me to be better. To be stronger. He wants me to surpass him. He wants me to take All Might’s place as the number one hero.”

You gasp at this. Of course you knew that Todoroki was ambitious, but this…

“I don’t have any intentions of becoming harsh and cruel like my father. I’m not even sure if I want to go for the top spot on the hero charts.” He admits, almost bitterly. “That’s the path that my father has laid out for me. He’s obsessed with my training. With my ‘potential.’ But he doesn’t seem to give a fuck about how I feel. Excuse my language.” Shoto looks so sad, so despairing. He hugs the plush close, his chin tucked into his chest as he continues.

“I just want to help people and make them smile – just like All Might. But my old man just doesn’t seem to get that. Today, when he noticed how distracted I was… he didn’t ask if something was wrong. He just pushed me even harder.” Shoto avoids your gaze. “I think he purposefully pushed me to train into the night to keep me from meeting up with you. In his eyes…you’re a huge distraction for his prized creation.”

Suddenly you notice how exhausted Shoto looks – there are pale bags beneath his eyes. You scan his body and see light bruises beginning to form on the exposed skin of his arms. You wonder - just what kind of training has Endeavor been subjecting him to?

You had never guessed that behind Shoto’s calm and collected exterior, there is just a normal teenage boy trying desperately to please his father, while simultaneously trying to defy him. The whole relationship seems complicated and messy and you’re sure what Shoto is telling you is only the tip of a chaotic Todoroki family dynamic iceberg.

“Oh, Shoto.” You say softly. You scoot forward and wrap your arms around him. He freezes, unsure of what to do but nevertheless comforted by the sudden closeness. You reach behind him and card your fingers through his hair. You see goose bumps emerge across his skin, and realize that he likely hasn’t been touched this way before.

“Is it okay to touch you like this?” You whisper.

He breathes out a shaky “yes” as he moves to toss the Squirtle plush to the floor. Once his arms are free, he works to wrap them around you. He rests one strong hand on your back and slings the other around your delicate waist. He draws you close to him and holds you tightly as you continue to run your fingers softly through his two-toned hair.

He’s silent as he buries his head into your shoulder. There’s an emotion that’s radiating off of his body that you can’t quite place – sadness? Frustration? Maybe even relief? After a few moments of running your fingers through his hair and gently up and down his back, he finally starts to relax. The tense muscles in his shoulders loosen, and he seems to come back to himself.

“I’m sorry Y/N.” He whispers, muffled as he turns his face into the crook of your neck. “I’m not great at expressing my emotions. I can try to put it into words…I’m feeling so weighed down right now.”

“Because of your father’s expectations?” You prompt, running a light fingertip down his spine. He shivers a bit in response, but not in an unpleasant way.

“Sometimes I wonder if he sees me as a real person, as a son. Or am I just his big project?” Shoto wonders aloud, his voice a bit strained. You feel his eyelashes flutter against the sensitive skin beneath your jawline.

“Shoto...that sounds like a lot to carry. You’re just a high school student – your father shouldn’t be putting that kind of pressure on you. It’s not normal.” You tuck a lock of red hair behind his porcelain ear. “This situation sounds so complicated. It’s no wonder you feel so conflicted. I’m here any time you need a friendly ear to listen as you work through it.” You continue to caress him softly over his clothes. He begins to lean into your touch hungrily. “But right now – at this moment – you’re safe. In this room, in my arms, you don’t need to hold other people’s expectations of you in your heart. When you’re with me, I want you to feel that you can just be Shoto.”

You still your fingers as you let your words sink in. Shoto is radiating a deep sort of sadness that you wish you could smooth away with your fingertips.

“Thank you.” He says, his voice breaking a tiny bit as he processes your words. After a few beats Shoto exhales deeply, his breath ruffles your hair. “I’m not used to talking about these things. Actually, I’m not really used to talking much at all. Or being touched.” You can feel the blush on his delicate cheeks warm the skin of your neck.

“I can tell.” You say before you can stop yourself. To your surprise, he chuckles.

“I don’t know why it’s so easy to do these things with you – talking, touching…kissing.” He lifts his head off of your shoulder to look you square in the face. “There’s something about you…”

Suddenly, the room feels as if it’s charged with Denki’s electrification quirk as his bright mismatched eyes meet your own.

“I think I’d like to continue exploring this with you.” He says matter-of-factly, moving his legs to intertwine with yours.

“W-what does that mean?” Your breath catches in your throat as he dips forward to kiss down your neck.

“It means…I want to keep doing this. Kissing. Talking. I suppose I want to keep getting to know you like this? Intimately.” He places a soft kiss in the hollow behind your earlobe. “Would you like that as well?”

“Yes.” You breathe, with zero hesitation. He smiles into your neck before running the edges of his teeth lightly across your smooth skin. You let out a soft moan in response.

“Good. Then we’ll figure this out together.” He moves to kiss your cheek soundly before releasing you from his embrace. “But right now it’s well past midnight, and we both need our sleep if we’re going to continue to be top of our class alongside YaMomo and Ida. If we both let our grades slip, it might tip people off.” He moves to get off the bed.

“Hey – wait!” You grab his arm and pull him back under the covers. “I have no problem with you staying here for the night.”

“But wouldn’t that be inappropriate?” Shoto’s face reddens, but he lets himself be drawn back into your gentle embrace.

“Would it be anymore inappropriate than you making out with my tits?” Shoto’s face burns an even brighter red at this question, but he also looks quite pleased with himself (you assume he’s recalling the way he kissed down your breasts earlier that day as he smirks). “Sharing a bed should be perfectly responsible as long as we keep all of our clothes on. You said you want to explore? Well get over here and let’s figure out if you make a good big spoon.”

This earns one of those rare full smiles from Shoto – he practically glows. “Alright.”

He pulls himself close to you. You reach above your head and switch off the string lights that wind their way around your room, and the tiny dorm fills with darkness.

You turn to face the wall and scoot your body back until you feel Shoto’s solid warmth. He reaches around to pull you close until bodies are touching, flush together. You tuck yourself into Shoto’s warm, muscular body and sigh with contentment.

“So do I make a good big spoon?” He questions, tentatively nuzzling his face into your hair and inhaling deeply. “Mmm, your hair smells like lavender.”

“We’ll need plenty of practice to truly ascertain the full range of your spooning abilities.” You say in a faux-academic voice, causing him to snort out a laugh. “But so far you’re doing great.”

You interlock your legs and pull his strong arms around you. You wiggle a bit as you try to find the comfiest spot in the mattress. You unintentionally grind a bit against Shoto and jolt when you feel something hard pressed against the curve of your ass.

“Sorry.” He mutters softly, embarrassed.

“Maybe I’ll take care of that for you tomorrow.” You yawn as you close your eyes and settle in for a good night’s rest. You grin into the darkness as you feel Shoto’s dick get even harder as he mulls over your response, wondering at what you could possibly mean by “take care of that.”

You didn’t realize you were so tired. You’re dimly aware of Shoto’s breathing growing slow as he drifts off into a comfortable sleep. You smile softly to yourself as you slide further into his embrace. This poor, touch-starved boy has been through so many terrible things and your heart aches for him.

Even in sleep he’s tense, his jawline stiff and his muscles almost locked around you. But he’s warm and soft and smells like jasmine and mint tea. You hope that for the next few hours you can provide him with a safe harbor to rest and escape his troubles. You let your eyes flutter close and breathe in deeply, dreaming of Shoto’s sweet face as you fall gently into sleep’s embrace.

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

Part 3

Previous Chapter: Part 1 | Next Chapter: Part 3

🔥 Link to My Master List 🔥

Shoto's First Kiss Series:

Part 1: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋

Part 2: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 2

Part 3: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 3

Part 4: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 4

Part 5: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 5

Part 6: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 6

Part 7: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 7

Part 8: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 8

Part 9: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 9

[swisccfinds]

TODDLER Traits Pack V2.5 by Vicky Sims

I love this mod because this gives your gameplay more traits for toddlers which can be very realistic to toddlers traits that they would normally have in the real world!

Creator's notes-

查看更新進度 Check this mod's compatibility for patch 

🐣  A total of 20 Toddler Age-Exclusive Custom Traits.

They are all base game compatible.

All my Custom Traits Packs are compatible with any other mods.

Provided with CAS Traits version and Reward Traits version that can be used together

To add the reward version to toddlers, you need to use my Traits Picker or AddTraitsMenu.

Traits name in a colored font is the reward version; Traits name not in the colored font is the CAS version

Mod Review by CindySims on YouTube

Mod Review by Kimikosoma on YouTube

Changelog July 16, 2022:

V2.5:

Added Russian translations by coregirl. Thank you!

Check Past Changelogs 

👑  Full Details of TODDLER Traits Pack 

💠 Check out All Custom Traits Pack by Me

❓ What's the difference between Original (CAS) and Reward Version?

Not Required but Recommended Mods:

My Lifetime Traits is a mod to assign corresponding personality traits when toddlers grow up to child age. You can still edit the auto-assigned traits in the aging-up UI if you don't like them!

My More CAS Traits is a tuning mod that allows your Sims to have more than 3 Personality (CAS) traits without script or changes to UI.

My Custom Traits in Club Filter let you set all Preferences, Lifestyles, Parenthood Phases, University Diploma/Degree, Ghost/Death Types, Rewards, and Aspirations Bonus Traits from the base-game and packs as well as custom traits made by me and many other creators' traits as the club requirement.

My Sorted Traits Picker allows you to add traits to your Sims categorized by game packs,  cc trait packs, and their creators, without going through a long list of AddTraitsMenu.

My Mass Traits Remover helps you to remove traits from your Sims/Pets in bulk, without clicking on remove traits one by one with other cheat traits mod.

My Holiday Tradition Override makes custom traits affecting the Love and Ignoration (Does Not Care) of Holiday Traditions. E.g. Aromantic Sims no longer want to celebrate any love day tradition, Hostile Sims love the fighting tradition, etc.

All Chingyu Infos You Need:

👁‍🗨 Master-post for ALL my mods

👁‍🗨 Learn how to install a mod & FAQs

👁‍🗨 Terms of Use

👁‍🗨 Ask Questions/ Suggestions/ Bug Reports on Discord

▶ I need to see a screenshot or LE report to help you figure out what's wrong!

👁‍🗨 My Official Site

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👁‍🗨 Follow me on Tumblr

If You Like My Mods, Please Consider:

🎁 Monthly subscription on Patreon

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Translations and Credits:

Icons are from icons8.com.

Brazilian Portuguese Translation by FlaSimsBR. (merged in the mod) Thank you!

Chinese translation中文翻译 by 小好 Lois. (merged in the mod) Thank you! 感谢！

Dutch translation by GothiqueAngel. (merged in the mod) Thank you!

German Translation by Capichan. (merged in the mod) Thank you!

Italian translation by Rahl81. (merged in the mod) Thank you!

Polish translations by rhevv. (merged in the mod) Thank you!

Russian translations by coregirl. (merged in the mod) Thank you!

Spanishtranslation by CindySims. (merged in the mod) Thank you!

French translation by Saki and Kimikosoma here. Francophones ? Vous trouverez chez Kimikosoma, dans la partie "Traits par Chingyu", les différentes traductions des traits. A mettre dans le même dossier que les mods concernés ! Thank you!

If you use a separated translation package, download the mod as usual and also put the translation package directly in your Mod folder.

-------Be sure to agree to my TOU before you download and use my mods -------

DOWNLOAD INSTRUCTIONS:

You can use both the CAS version and Reward version of Toddler Traits.

Put the package into less than FIVE folders deep in your Mod Folder.

To add the reward version to toddlers, you need to use my Traits Picker or AddTraitsMenu.

Download 下載 (You can use both or either one.)

(this one describes my toddler in real life LOL)

Thank you to Vicky Sims for adding realistic traits for toddlers that comes with moodlets! Show them some love and support before downloading!

download - patreon

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Waiting for the Good | Ten. One

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 14.9k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, intense emotional intimacy, longing, slow burn tension, that sense of breathless anticipation when everything you’ve been hoping for is finally about to happen, and two people moving closer without even realizing they’re already there.

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open

Author’s Note:

Some moments are loud.

This one isn’t.

This chapter is all about the quiet before everything changes—the slow, almost imperceptible shift from waiting to knowing. It’s about how the air in a room can feel different when you’re expecting someone who matters. About how time contracts, stretching and collapsing around you until it’s just you, and the breath you hold without meaning to, and the sense that something is already moving toward you, even if you can’t see it yet.

For Riley, it’s about the soft, aching hope of making space—for someone else, for something bigger than herself. It’s the instinctive way she starts preparing without realizing it: the fresh towels, the extra charger, the jasmine blooming a little brighter on the porch.

For Joe, it’s about the steadiness of movement—the way he doesn’t need to say much because he’s already coming closer with every mile, every quiet certainty that Riley is a place he wants to land.

This isn’t about fireworks or declarations.

This is about the space between heartbeats—the part where you stop bracing for the fall because you already know you’ve jumped.

It’s a quieter chapter. A breath before the rush. But sometimes those quiet moments are the ones that change everything.

Also, just a quick note that my posting schedule may vary a little over the next few weeks as the school quarter winds down and final assignments pick up. I’ve had a lot of this story prewritten (and have been writing pretty steadily behind the scenes), but with the way the end of the quarter is shaping up, I may run out of prewritten chapters temporarily. I’ll keep updating as consistently as I can, but just wanted to give you a heads-up that life might throw a few delays into the mix. Thank you for being patient and amazing. 💜

I’m also planning to spend some time this weekend responding to asks! Sorry I haven’t gotten to them sooner — things have been a little hectic. Feel free to drop some in if you want to chat, scream, theorize, or just say hi. I love hearing from you. 💬✨

Thank you, as always. 💛🏈

Happy reading!

Taglist: @wickedfun9@starsyoongi@amiets2@palmettogal508@throwaway12356123@lilfreakjez

---

Joe’s kitchen was dark except for the low glow from the under-cabinet lights. He sat at the counter with a protein shake, still in his training gear, his phone propped up in front of him. Riley’s face filled the screen, blurry at first as she adjusted her angle.

“Better?” she asked, voice a little hoarse. She looked tired in a way that wasn’t unattractive—makeup smudged, hair pulled into a high knot, wearing one of his old hoodies he hadn’t even realized was missing yet.

He smiled. “Yeah. Better.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Riley stretched, her bare legs disappearing under a blanket. “I’m gonna crash after this,” she said. “Tomorrow’s a long one.”

“What’s on deck?” Joe asked, leaning back against the counter.

“Mastering. Then a mix note review with Nick. Then we’re trying to wrap two shoots for the video content,” she said, closing her eyes for a second. “You?”

“Lift early. Might throw a little with the guys after, but keeping it light. Mark wants to sit down about scheduling too.”

She cracked one eye open. “Scheduling nightmares. Now featuring me.”

Joe smiled, small and easy. “Something like that.”

She breathed out a laugh, barely there. “He’s not gonna love that.”

Joe didn’t look away. “Doesn’t matter.”

Riley blinked at him, something soft catching in her chest.

He didn’t look away.

"You’re the quiet in all of it,” he said.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

Then she sighed, soft and amused. “Don’t say shit like that before bed, Burrow. You’ll mess me up.”

“Sorry,” he said, not meaning it.

Her eyes traced his face. “You miss me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I miss you.”

She smiled, small and tired. “Good. I miss you too.”

“When do you fly out?”

“Wednesday. Scout booked the late flight.”

Joe nodded. “I’ll be there Friday.”

“Good.” Her voice dropped a little. “I’m tired of wanting.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just watched her, soaking in the way she looked at him like she already had his coordinates mapped in her bones.

She shifted under the blanket. “Hey,” she said, a flicker of that teasing smile pulling at her lips. “Want me to leave you with something to think about?”

His eyes darkened a fraction. “Yeah.”

Riley tilted the camera just enough to show the edge of the gray T-shirt lifting at her thigh. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make his jaw clench.

Then she was back in frame, laughing softly. “Okay. That’s all you get.”

Joe blinked, leaning forward like he could pull her closer through the screen. “Wait,” he said, voice low. “You sure I can’t see a little more?”

Riley’s smile sharpened—slow, wicked, knowing. She didn’t say a word. Just tilted the camera down again.

More this time. Way more.

Long, bare lines of her. The shirt barely hanging on. No artifice. Just her, confident and unbothered and very aware of what she was doing to him.

“Jesus,” he muttered, already leaning forward.

But she was laughing now, shameless and sweet. “BUYYYEEEE,” she said, sing-song, and hung up.

Joe sat in the dark, jaw slack, one hand still on the screen.

Totally wrecked.

He sat there for another minute, like if he stayed still enough, the call might rewind itself. Play again. Let him see her one more time, hear her laugh.

But the screen had gone black, and she was already slipping into sleep two time zones away.

Joe finally stood, stretched out his back, and padded over to the fridge. The kitchen was quiet but not empty—not with her voice still echoing in the corners. Not with the faint trace of her teasing still on his skin.

He opened the fridge out of habit, then closed it without grabbing anything.

His eyes caught on the magnet.

“Love from Louisiana,” bold and unapologetic in red and blue. A crawfish with its claws up, an alligator stiff and mid-stride, the whole thing shaped like the state. It looked like something picked up at a roadside gas station—cheap, plastic, too proud of itself.

It hadn’t meant anything when he took it. The magnet had been stuck to her cluttered fridge—half-buried under flyers, old photos, a faded festival pass. He’d taken it without thinking. A dumb little thing to hold onto. He figured she wouldn’t notice.

Now it was stuck to his fridge in Cincinnati.

He reached out and tapped it once, like it might tap back. Like it might make her closer.

* * *

Joe was lying flat on the training table, a bag of ice strapped to his shoulder, scrolling mindlessly through film cut-ups when his phone buzzed.

Riley: [Photo attachment]

He tapped it open—and froze.

She was standing in front of her mirror, golden-hour light cutting across her body like it was in on the game. No clothes. Just skin and shadow, her waist turned so he could see the slope of her back, curve of her hip, a hint of breast. Her face was in the shot too—chin slightly tilted, eyes locked on the reflection like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Because she did.

The message underneath read:

“Three things you’d be doing if you were here right now. Go.”

He blinked, throat tightening.

The ice bag suddenly felt like a joke.

Joe glanced around the empty training room, thankful no one was there to see the flush creeping up his neck. 

Three things.

It was never just the words with her. She wanted the real things—the ones he usually kept locked up, the ones that made him feel like he was handing her something breakable.

Finally, he typed:

"1. Hands on your waist."

Simple. Direct. True.

2. You looking at me like that.

He swallowed hard. That one cost him a little.

"3. No talking for a while."

He hit send, then placed the phone screen-down on the table. Joe didn't overthink things on the field, and he wasn't about to start now. But with Riley, his usual calculated control felt increasingly difficult to maintain.

His phone buzzed almost immediately.

Buzz.

Riley: Wish I could get my hands on you right now, lovey.

Joe’s jaw flexed.

Buzz.

Riley: But you’ve got ice on your shoulder and people walking around, so… I’ll be good.

For now.

He couldn’t even lift his head. Face half-pressed into the table, body still pinned under the ice wrap, arms hanging down like deadweight. The worst possible position to be in when someone like her was on the other end of his phone, casually detonating his nervous system.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to breathe through it.

Did not succeed.

* * *

Joe answered on the second ring.

He was in bed, one arm folded behind his head, the room dim except for the soft blue glow of the TV—muted, forgotten. Riley’s face filled the screen, her curls damp and pulled back, her skin clean, collarbone bare, one strap slipping slightly off her shoulder. No makeup. No posing. Just her.

“Hi,” she said, voice low, the kind of low that only came out after a long day.

Joe’s mouth twitched into something close to a smile. “Hey.”

They looked at each other for a second, not saying much.

“You survive the ice?” she asked, tugging the blanket up over her knees.

“Barely,” he said. “You ruined any shot I had at recovering.”

She grinned, pleased with herself. “Good.”

He let his eyes drift across her face, slow. “You look tired.”

“I am.” She moved on the bed, the screen slipping sideways for a second, flashing the suitcase behind her. “Everything’s too much this week. I just… need out.”

“You still leave tomorrow?”

“Yup. Should be back in the city by dinner.”

She didn’t say it, but he could feel it, the need to be home, to get closer to stillness. To something that felt more like them.

He nodded. “Good. You’ll feel better there.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I always do.”

Another beat of quiet. Not heavy—just familiar.

She looked at him again. “I don’t like sleeping without you.”

Joe exhaled. “I don’t like anything without you.”

Her mouth curved, eyes flickering down like she didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“You always say the exact right thing,” she murmured.

“I’m only like this with you. You make it easy.”

She shifted onto her side, tucking the phone into the pillow next to her. The screen tilted slightly, gave him a closer view of her—just her cheek, the edge of her mouth, the soft line of her neck.

She didn’t look right at him when she said it.

“What would you do if you were here?”

He let out a breath through his nose. Thought about playing it off. Thought about saying something easy, like kiss you or make you forget your name.

But she was quiet. Not teasing.

“I’d just want to lay with you,” he said. “Stay close. Be quiet for a while.”

That made her glance at the screen.

She didn’t say anything, but she tucked her face into the pillow like she couldn’t quite look at him straight-on.

Joe looked down, a quiet smile pulling at him. “Not a big plan. Just… you.”

“It is,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

His chest tightened a little. He didn’t reply.

Riley’s voice dropped as she settled deeper into the pillow. “I’m gonna fall asleep if I stay like this.”

“Then stay,” he said. “I’ll hang on ‘til you do.”

She didn’t look away this time. Just stayed there, eyes soft, like she was trying to memorize him.

“I like you like this, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Soft,” she murmured. “Even when it’s not natural for you.”

He stayed still, like moving might break whatever was happening between them

“I just… I love that you let me see it.”

Joe stared at her for a second, throat tight. Thought about deflecting. Didn’t.

Instead, he shifted just slightly on the pillow, voice low and rough:

“I am trying, Birdie.”

A pause.

“I’m trying really hard.”

That made her smile, soft and certain. Like she knew—but still needed to hear it.

She closed her eyes, her voice barely a breath now. “It’s enough.”

He watched her breathing slow, body relaxing into sleep.

And he stayed.

Just watching her breathing slow, screen dimming as the light around her shifted. Her face soft, mouth relaxed, fingers curled loosely under her chin like she’d been holding the day and finally let go.

Joe lay there, phone in hand, heart pulled tight in his chest.

I’m trying really hard.

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But it was true.

Maybe the truest thing he’d said in a while.

She made it feel possible. Not easy. Just…worth it.

He stayed on the call long after her breathing evened out, long after her screen stilled.

* * *

Riley woke to a slant of light cutting through the curtain and the faint buzz of a plane overhead.

For a second, she didn’t move.

Her body felt heavy, the way it always did after too many days in the studio—stretched thin, nerves still humming underneath. But her chest wasn’t tight anymore. Something inside her had eased, like a quiet she hadn’t been able to find all week.

She blinked at her phone still propped against the pillow.

The call had ended sometime in the night. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep on him, but she knew he’d stayed. Knew it the way she knew other things about him now—without needing proof.

She reached for the phone, screen lighting up in her hand. No new messages, just the soft glow of it against her fingers, and the quiet he’d left behind.

Riley stared at it for a moment anyway, then locked the screen and got up.

The house was soft around her, sun warming the rugs, the lingering smell of incense from the night before still curling through the air. Laurel Canyon always felt like it was breathing—like her house shifted with her.

She moved through the morning slowly—making coffee, feeding the plants, throwing her last few things into the suitcase. She didn’t rush. There was no reason to.

She was going home.

Riley's flight home wasn't until the afternoon, giving her time to move through her morning rituals without the usual rush. She dug into her bag until her fingers brushed the talisman she’d been carrying since Mardi Gras. The weight of it against her palm felt like a promise.

She abandoned her half-packed suitcase and wandered onto the deck, coffee mug warming her palms. The canyon stretched below, morning haze still clinging to the hills. Los Angeles had never quite felt like home, not the way New Orleans did. She'd bought this place because she needed somewhere to land between tours, somewhere to write that wasn't a hotel room. But it remained a way station—beautiful but temporary.

New Orleans pulled at her, especially now. The crawfish boil with her family was this weekend, and she'd promised to help with prep. Joe would fly in Friday night. The thought sent a flutter through her chest that wasn't entirely comfortable. Bringing him home felt big in a way she didn’t have words for yet.

Her phone buzzed again. Joe this time.

Joe: Good morning. How'd you sleep?

She could picture him, probably already finished with his morning workout, protein shake in hand, methodically moving through his day.

Riley: Like the dead after you talked me to sleep. Ready to be headed home today.

His response came quickly: Text me when you land or if you get board?

Riley: Yes sir.

Riley set her phone down and leaned against the railing. Home. The word carried more weight now, like it was expanding to include more than just a place. She wasn't sure when that had happened or what to do with it. But as she looked out over the canyon, she felt something settle inside her—a certainty that whatever came next, she was ready for it.

* * *

She slid into an open seat by the window, backpack thumping against her feet, iced coffee sweating against her knee. The terminal buzzed — babies crying, boarding calls echoing, someone’s voice sharp on speakerphone — but inside, she just felt… still. Like she was waiting for something to break.

One AirPod in. Dylan LeBlanc in her ear, low and scratchy. Her phone was face-up in her lap. She didn't think. Just picked up her phone and texted Joe.

Riley: Made it to the airport. Text me if you can—keep me occupied while I wait on this damn plane.

She hit send, then leaned her head back against the wall behind her and closed her eyes.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Riley felt a small smile tug at her lips.

Joe: Perfect timing. I was just thinking about you.

Riley: Yeah? Good thoughts, I hope.

Joe: The best kind. How long until your flight?

Riley glanced up at the departure board, fingers absently tracing the edge of the LSU bracelet on her wrist.

Riley: About an hour.

Joe: Who’s picking you up?

Riley: Egan. She offered before I even asked. Said she misses my face.

There was a pause.

Joe: Lucky her.

She didn't answer right away. Just sat there, feeling it settle in her chest.

Riley: You’ll see me soon.

Joe: Not soon enough.

Joe: Send me a picture?

Riley smiled, wider this time. He didn’t usually ask for things but she loved when he did.

Riley: Of what? This glamorous airport scene?

Joe: Of you.

She glanced around, suddenly self-conscious in the crowded terminal. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, no makeup, just oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head. She was wearing an LSU sweatshirt she'd grabbed from his place in Cincinnati when she was there. She hadn't told him.

Riley: I look like a disaster right now.

Joe: I doubt that.

She hesitated, then switched to her front camera. She didn't pose, didn't try to find her angles or fix her hair. Just held the phone up, half-smile, tired eyes, vintage LSU gold visible in the frame. She looked at herself for a second, she looked exhausted, but she sent it anyway.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Joe: Is that my sweatshirt?!

She could practically hear the surprise in his text. Busted.

Riley: Maybe.

Joe: When did you even take that?

Riley: Busted

Riley: I may have borrowed it when I was packing up at your place. It smelled like you.

She watched the three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. Joe was choosing his words carefully.

Joe: Keep it. Looks better on you anyway.

Heat rose to her cheeks. She pulled the sleeves down over her hands, letting herself feel enveloped by the soft, worn fabric that somehow still carried traces of his cologne beneath the scent of her own perfume.

Riley: You sure? It's kinda a classic.

Joe: I'm sure.

She smiled, small and real. Pulled the sleeves down a little tighter, like it might bring him closer.

Around her, the terminal carried on—boarding groups called, luggage rolled past, some kid screaming in the distance—but it all felt a little farther away now.

Her phone buzzed again.

Joe: I like knowing you’ve got something of mine.

She stared at that one for a second, throat tightening.

Riley: I just saw it and… took it. Didn’t want to leave without something that felt like you.

Three dots. Pause. Disappear.

She pulled the sleeves down over her hands, head tilting slightly against the terminal wall.

Joe: Been trying to come up with something clever, but seeing you in my sweatshirt might be the best thing I've seen all week. There’s just something about knowing you’ve got a piece of me with you.

Riley stared at the screen.

The buzz of the terminal faded—boarding announcements, rolling luggage, someone asking for directions on speakerphone. All of it moved around her.

She didn’t overthink it.

Riley: I didn’t realize I needed it until I had it.

Her thumb hovered. Then she sent it. No extra punctuation. No backspace. Just truth.

Joe: I know exactly what you mean.

Simple. Direct. But it stopped her just the same.

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker, cutting through her thoughts: "We'd like to begin boarding Flight 1873 to New Orleans, starting with our first class and priority passengers..."

Riley glanced up at the boarding screen, then back at her phone.

Riley: They're calling my group. Gotta go.

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. There was more she wanted to say, but the line was already forming at her gate.

Joe: Text me when you land.

It wasn't a question this time. She smiled at that��his quiet certainty, the way he'd slipped from vulnerability back to his usual steady self.

Riley: I will.

She stood, slinging her backpack over one shoulder, phone still in hand. The message notification lit up as she joined the boarding line.

Joe: And Riley?

Riley: Yeah?

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then:

Joe: I'm glad you took it.

Riley tucked her phone into her pocket without responding, but the smile stayed on her face as she handed her boarding pass to the gate agent. Some things didn't need a reply.

As she walked down the jet bridge, she pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over her hands again, feeling the weight of something shifting between them—something neither of them had put into words yet, but both felt just the same.

* * *

Riley squinted against the bright New Orleans sunshine as she stepped out of Louis Armstrong Airport. The air hit her like a wall – thick, heavy, and familiar. Home. She inhaled deeply, feeling the humidity wrap around her like an old friend.

"There she is!"

She turned to see Egan leaning against her battered blue Jeep, sunglasses pushed up into her wild curls, grinning widely.

“Get your ass over here,” Egan called, pushing off the car.

Riley laughed, dragging her suitcase across the pickup lane. “Your chariot looks as reliable as ever.”

“Hey, don’t insult Stella. She’s been through enough.” Egan reached for Riley’s bag, tossing it into the back. Her eyes flicked to Riley’s sweatshirt as she did, brow raised.

“That new?”

She glanced down at the sweatshirt, sleeves swallowed around her hands. It still smelled a little like him.

“Sort of.”

Egan’s grin sharpened. “Sort of as in not yours?”

Riley didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

“That’s what I thought,” Egan said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “How's the quarterback anyway?”

As they pulled away from the curb, Riley felt her phone in her pocket. She'd promised Joe she'd text when she landed. She'd meant to do it the moment the plane touched down, but the chaos of deplaning and baggage claim had distracted her.

She pulled it out now, typing quickly while Egan navigated through airport traffic.

Riley: Landed safe. Egan's already giving me shit about wearing your sweatshirt.

Joe's response came almost immediately.

Joe: Tell her it was a gift.

Riley smiled, looking out at the familiar landscape passing by. New Orleans stretched before her, wild and chaotic and completely different from Cincinnati's tidy neighborhoods or LA's sprawling highways.

Riley: Was it?

Joe: It is now.

She tucked the phone away, still smiling, as Egan launched into stories about what Riley had missed while she was gone. But part of her attention remained on the weight of her phone in her pocket, and the man on the other end who was somehow becoming a constant in her unpredictable life.

They turned onto her block just as the sun dipped low enough to spill amber across the rooftops. Riley sat up a little straighter as the familiar silhouette of her house came into view—painted lilac with coral shutters and cream trim, still somehow managing to look both proud and soft beneath the arms of the big oak tree that shaded the porch.

The garden had flourished in her absence. Green everywhere—ferns brushing the iron fence, climbing jasmine curling around the gatepost, red blooms nodding in the breeze like they knew her name. Everything looked exactly how she’d left it, only more alive.

Egan pulled up in front and cut the engine. “Damn,” she said, looking at the house. “She’s showing off today.”

Riley smiled, already reaching for her bag. “She knows I’m back.”

She stepped out into the thick, sweet air—jasmine and earth and the faint metallic hum of the city settling for the night. Her boots clicked on the slate path. She ran her fingers along the gate latch, brushing a spot of rust, then pushed it open and stepped through like she was crossing a threshold in her own skin.

The porch creaked beneath her as she climbed the steps, the old swing shifting slightly in the breeze like it remembered her. She didn’t rush to unlock the door. Just stood for a second, one hand on the railing, eyes on the plants that framed the stairs—neat rows of herbs in ceramic pots, glossy elephant ears fanning wide near the steps, the fountain gurgling low near the corner.

Egan came up behind her. “Place feels calmer with you here."

Riley turned the key and pushed the door open. The air inside was cool and still, laced with the scent of lavender and cedar from the incense she’d burned before leaving. Light filtered through the lace curtain in the parlor, catching on old records, picture frames, and the curl of a half-finished setlist taped to the fridge.

“I’ll hang for a bit,” Egan said, brushing past her and collapsing onto the couch like she owned the place. “But I want drinks and a breakdown of every spicy FaceTime you’ve had with the quarterback since we last spoke.”

Riley let out a low laugh, rolling her eyes as she dropped her bag by the door and followed her friend into the kitchen. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm-hmm. And you’re in his sweatshirt.”

Riley glanced down, pulling the hem reflexively. “Maybe.”

Egan leaned over the counter, smirking. “Girl.”

Riley just shook her head, busying her hands and making cocktails.

* * *

Riley mixed two gin fizzes with practiced hands, adding a splash of elderflower liqueur that wasn't in the traditional recipe but that she knew Egan loved. The familiar motions grounded her, even as Egan's knowing gaze followed her around the kitchen.

"So," Egan said, accepting the drink Riley slid across the counter. "Scale of one to ten. How bad do you have it for Cincinnati's golden boy?"

Riley took a long sip from her own glass, the bubbles fizzing pleasantly against her tongue. "I don't rate these things."

"That means at least an eight." Egan stretched her legs onto the coffee table. "You've never been this tight-lipped about someone before."

Riley dropped into the armchair across from her, folding into herself without meaning to. The sweatshirt—Joe’s—was warm against her skin. Her hand found the sleeve and stayed there.

"It's different," she finally said. "With him, it's just... different."

Egan's eyebrows shot up as she leaned forward, suddenly interested. "Different how? And don't give me that 'you wouldn't understand' crap. I've known you since you were stealing my eyeliner in high school."

Riley swirled the ice in her glass, searching for the right words. How did you explain someone who didn’t fit into any category you’d known before? The steady way he looked at her. The careful consideration behind everything he did. The feeling that he saw past her stage persona to something real underneath.

"He listens," Riley said finally. "Not just waiting for his turn to talk, but actually hearing me. And he remembers everything—not in that creepy way Ethan did to use against me later, but because he's genuinely paying attention."

She took another sip, feeling warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

"He's structured and disciplined in ways I never could be. His entire life runs on this color-coded calendar, and at first I thought we'd drive each other crazy. But it's like..." Riley paused, staring into her drink. "It's like he brings this calm to my chaos. And maybe I bring a little chaos to his calm. But in a good way."

Egan studied her face. "I've never seen you like this before."

"That's what I'm saying. It's different." Riley pulled her knees up to her chest. "When I'm with him, I don't feel like I need to be 'on' all the time. I can just exist. And he doesn't want me to be anything other than what I am."

"Even with the distance? The schedules? The whole 'he plays football and you're a rock star' thing?"

Riley nodded slowly. "We're figuring it out. He's worth figuring it out for."

Egan watched Riley with a mixture of surprise and concern. In all the years she'd known her, Riley had never described anyone as "worth figuring it out for." There had been passionate flings, creative partnerships, and of course the disaster with Ethan—but this quiet certainty was new.

“Shit,” Egan said, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You’re really gone for him, huh?”

Riley rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile.

“Maybe I am,” she admitted. It's just... I don't know. He challenges me."

"Challenges you how?"

Riley set her glass down on the coffee table, searching for the right words. "He makes me think about what I actually want, not just what feels good in the moment." She tugged at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "And he's not impressed by any of it—the fame, the music, none of that matters to him."

"Of course not. The man's got his own spotlight," Egan pointed out.

"That's part of it. But it's more than that." Riley ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "He sees the real stuff. The stuff I don't show everyone."

Egan leaned forward, her expression softening. "Like what?"

"Like how sometimes I need quiet. How I get scared about losing myself in all this." Riley gestured vaguely around her. "He notices when I'm tired before I even say anything. He'll just... create space for me."

"And the sex?" Egan wiggled her eyebrows dramatically.

Riley threw a decorative pillow at her, laughing. "None of your business."

"That good, huh?"

Riley felt heat rise to her cheeks, grateful for the dim lighting in the living room. "That's definitely not a complaint I have," she admitted, taking another sip of her drink.

"I knew it." Egan's triumphant smile stretched across her face. "I could tell there was something about him, even during Mardi Gras when you two were trying to be all casual."

We weren’t trying to be casual,” Riley protested.

Egan gave her a look, the kind that said sure, babe, without needing to say anything at all.

Riley sighed, setting her glass down. “Okay. Maybe I was. For like, five minutes.”

“And then?”

“And then he looked at me like he already knew where I’d end up,” she said quietly. “Like he wasn’t in a rush, but he wasn’t going anywhere either.”

Egan’s grin faded into something softer. “That sounds serious.”

Riley traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip, surprised by how easy it was to admit this to Egan when she'd barely admitted it to herself.

“I didn’t think I had it in me to do this again after Ethan,” she said, voice low. “I was just… supposed to focus. Keep my walls up.”

"And then Joe Burrow happened," Egan supplied.

Riley nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "And then Joe happened. One minute we're awkwardly flirting on a talk show, and the next..."

"The next you're wearing his clothes and getting that dopey look on your face when your phone buzzes."

"I don't get a dopey look," Riley protested, but even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice.

Egan just raised an eyebrow.

"Fine. Maybe a little dopey." Riley pulled the sleeves of Joe's sweatshirt over her hands. "But it wasn't supposed to go this way. We were just going to have dinner. One dinner."

"And?"

"And then he cooked for me. He was nervous about it—Joe Burrow, nervous about cooking dinner." Riley shook her head at the memory. "Not about facing three-hundred-pound linemen trying to crush him, but about whether I'd like his pasta."

Egan smiled. "That's actually kind of sweet."

"It was. And then we talked for hours, and it was just... easy. Like we'd known each other forever." Riley took another sip of her drink. "I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to say something awful or be controlling or just—I don't know—turn out to be another disappointment."

"But he didn't."

"No." Riley's voice softened. "He didn't. Instead, he showed up. He keeps showing up, even when it's complicated. Even when it would be easier not to."

Egan studied her friend's face. "You're falling in love with him."

It wasn't a question.

Riley felt the words hit her like a physical force. The glass in her hand suddenly seemed too heavy, and she set it down with a shaky hand, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"Oh my god." Her eyes widened as the realization crystallized. "Oh no. Egan, I think I am."

She pressed her palms against her face, the soft material of Joe's sweatshirt brushing her cheeks.

"What do I do?" she groaned through her fingers. "How am I even supposed to talk to him later knowing this? We have a call scheduled in like three hours."

Egan leaned back, clearly enjoying Riley's sudden panic. "You could just tell him."

"Tell him?" Riley's voice pitched higher. "Are you insane? We've barely been together for—" She counted mentally. "We haven't even been together that long!"

"Since when do you care about timelines?"

"Since now! Since this!" Riley gestured wildly at herself. "This wasn't supposed to happen. Not with him. Not with anyone."

She stood up and began pacing the living room, her bare feet silent against the wooden floors. "Do you think he'll be able to tell? I'm terrible at hiding things. He's going to look at me through the screen and just know."

"Would that be so bad?" Egan asked, watching Riley's frantic movement.

Riley stopped pacing, hands still braced against her face like they might hold her together.

Riley let her fingers slide down, eyes meeting hers across the room. “It would be terrifying.”

Egan nodded. “Yeah. But maybe also… kind of beautiful?”

Riley didn’t answer. She just stood there, heart rattling in her chest, that ridiculous sweatshirt swallowing her whole. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry or call him right then and there.

Instead, she sat back down.

The couch cushions exhaled under her weight. She pulled her knees up again, arms wrapping tight around them. Her voice came out quieter this time.

“I feel everything with him,” she said. “All at once. And it scares the fuck outta me.”

“I know,” Egan said, like she felt it too.

Riley stared down at the curve of her glass on the table. Her chest felt too full. Like if she moved too fast, it might all spill out.

“I think I need to calm down before the call,” she said eventually.

Egan smirked, but gently. “You gonna write a song about it first?”

“I might write five.”

They both laughed, but it was softer now. Muted.

The moment hung there, not fully resolved—but more settled. Like the truth had landed and they were just learning how to hold it.

Egan stood and stretched again. “Alright. I’m leaving before I say something too heartfelt and ruin my street cred. Call me after the call.”

“You know I will.”

She walked her friend to the door, gave her a long, quiet hug on the porch. And then it was just her again—the garden humming outside, the house breathing steady around her, and the screen on her phone showing 2 hours, 47 minutes until their call.

* * *

Riley closed the door behind Egan and leaned her forehead against the cool wood. The house settled around her, familiar creaks and sighs that had always been a comfort. Now they only emphasized how alone she was with this new, terrifying knowledge.

She was falling in love with Joe Burrow.

The thought sent another wave of panic through her chest. She pushed off from the door and moved to the kitchen, where she filled a glass with water and drank it in long gulps. The clock on the microwave blinked at her: 2 hours, 42 minutes until their call.

Riley wandered into her living room, fingers trailing along the spines of vinyl records that lined the shelves. She pulled one out—an old Etta James album—and set it on the turntable. The needle scratched, then the warm, rich voice filled the room.

She needed to get her head straight before talking to Joe. Her gaze fell on her notebook sitting on the coffee table. Writing had always been her way of processing feelings, of making sense of the chaos in her head.

Riley grabbed the notebook and a pen, curling up in the window seat that overlooked her small garden. Outside, the evening light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the ground. She opened to a blank page and let her pen hover above it.

The words didn't come immediately. Instead, she found herself sketching little stars in the margin, thinking about Joe's smile, about the way he'd looked at her in the studio, about how his voice sounded when he was half-asleep.

She didn’t mean to write anything. Just needed to move her hand, keep from unraveling.

But somewhere between the sketches and the half-formed thoughts, it slipped out—quick, instinctive, truer than she meant it to be.

He’s golden like daylight

I gotta step into the daylight and let it go

Riley stared at the words.

She didn’t read them back. Just felt them. They sat there on the page like a held breath, like something that had been waiting for her to name it.

She closed the notebook before she could second-guess it, tucking it beneath the stack of books on the coffee table like burying it made it less real.

Then she stood, moving through the house like someone walking off a dream. The record had long since stopped spinning. Outside, the sky had gone that dusky watercolor blue-gray, the kind that made everything feel a little softer.

Riley glanced at the microwave clock.

1 hour, 18 minutes.

She pressed her palm flat against the center of her chest. Just to feel her heart still working.

Riley stared at the notebook for a long moment after she closed it, fingers resting lightly on the cover. The words still echoed in her head, quiet but insistent.

He’s golden like daylight

I gotta step into the daylight and let it go

Her phone was on the table beside her, screen dark. She picked it up, hesitated, then tapped into her favorites. Her thumb hovered over Joe’s name for a second before sliding to the one several below it.

Laura.

She pressed call.

It rang once.

“Hey, Riles,” came the soft voice on the other end—warm, familiar, a little sleepy. “You okay?”

Riley exhaled through her nose. Of course Laura would know.

“I think I’m in love with him,” she said, no lead-in, no buildup. Just the truth.

She was quiet for a moment. “You sound scared.”

“I am.”

“Okay,” Laura said gently. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Riley shifted in the window seat, pulling her knees close again, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to. After Ethan, I promised myself—”

“—that it would never feel this big again,” Laura finished quietly.

Riley closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

There was silence on the line, but not the kind that made her anxious. The kind that said I’m here, take your time.

“It’s not about what he says,” she said. “It’s just… how he is. The way he notices things. The way he looks at me like I’m enough already.”

Laura hummed. “That sounds like peace.”

“It is,” Riley said. “And it terrifies me.”

She paused, the words catching in her throat before they slipped out.

“Because what if I can never give him peace, Laura?”

Her voice was smaller now, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Laura was quiet for a moment, and then: “That’s not something you owe him, Riley.”

Riley stared at the far wall, blinking back the pressure behind her eyes.

“I know. But he makes things quiet for me. Like I can actually breathe. What if all I do is make things louder for him?”

“Then he’ll tell you,” Laura said gently. “But I don’t think that’s what this is.”

A pause.

“You feel big, I know. But you’re not too much. You’re you. And I think he sees that for what it is—something good.”

Riley didn’t say anything right away. She just sat there, letting the words wash over her like warm water—soft, steady, unflinching.

She blinked hard once, then again, swallowing the knot in her throat.

“Thanks,” she murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I didn’t know I needed to hear that.”

Laura’s voice was calm, no rush in it. “You don’t always have to hold it all by yourself.”

“I know,” Riley said. “I just forget sometimes.”

“Well,” Laura said, a hint of a smile threading through, “you’ve got people to remind you.”

They stayed on the line for a few more breaths—no pressure to fill the silence. Just the sound of the evening settling in on both ends of the call.

“I should go,” Riley said eventually, glancing toward the clock. “I need to pull it together before he calls.”

“Don’t pull it too far,” Laura said gently. “Let him see you.”

Riley exhaled, the smallest smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. Okay.”

They said their quiet goodbyes, and the call ended with a soft click that left the house feeling still again—but not as heavy.

Riley set the phone down on the arm of the chair and stretched her arms overhead, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. She could still hear Laura’s voice echoing in the quiet.

You feel big, I know. But you’re not too much.

She stood and moved through the house without hurrying—brushed her teeth, splashed cool water on her face, lit the candle on the windowsill. The air smelled like lavender and lemon peel.

When she checked the clock again, there were twenty-three minutes left.

She didn’t pick up the notebook. Didn’t touch her guitar. Just curled up on the couch in Joe’s sweatshirt, feet tucked under her, phone facedown beside her knee.

And waited.

* * *

Time dragged. Riley's fingers fidgeted with the cuff of Joe's sweatshirt, rolling and unrolling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. The silence pressed in, filling all the spaces she usually knew how to live inside.

She reached for her phone, checked the screen—nineteen minutes left—and set it back down.

The confession sat in her chest like a stone. I think I'm in love with him. Not something she could take back once spoken aloud. Not something she could pretend wasn't there, either.

Riley pulled her knees closer, burying her nose in the collar of the sweatshirt. It still smelled like him—that clean, sharp scent that wasn't quite cologne but something distinctly Joe. Her eyes drifted closed.

What would his face look like if she told him? Would his expression shift in that subtle way it did when something surprised him—the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes, the slight pause before he spoke?

The thought made her stomach flip.

She'd spent years building walls around herself, crafting songs about heartbreak while keeping the deepest parts locked away. Then Joe had walked in, no dramatic entrance, just steady and present, and suddenly those walls felt paper-thin.

The phone buzzed against her knee.

Riley's eyes snapped open. She stared at it for a long moment before turning it over.

Her phone buzzed. Joe's name lit up the screen, fifteen minutes early, no warning.

That was so like him. Plan for eight, arrive at seven forty-five. Just in case.

Riley stared at the screen, heart suddenly drumming against her ribs. There was no way he could know what she was thinking—what she'd realized today. The screen kept buzzing, insistent.

She swiped to answer, not bothering to fix her hair or find better light.

His face appeared, shadowed—dark bathroom tile behind him, hair slightly damp from a shower. His eyes found hers immediately, that quiet laser focus that never wavered.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

Riley pulled her knees in tighter. "You're early."

"Meeting ended faster than I thought," Joe said. No apology, no unnecessary explanation. Just fact. "You okay with that?"

"Yeah," she said. Then, "You're all showered. I'm a disaster."

Joe didn't immediately counter with reassurance like most people would. His eyes just moved across her face, taking her in.

"You look tired," he said finally.

"I am," she admitted. "Talked to Egan today. Then Laura."

"How are they?"

"Good. Egan's already giving me shit about us, and Laura's being all wise and supportive as usual."

Joe smiled, lazy and low, like it was just for her.

Riley didn’t rush to fill the silence. With Joe, she didn’t have to. He waited, steady as ever, until she was ready.

"I've been in my head," she said finally, her voice quieter. "A lot."

"About what?"

She started to speak, then stopped. Started again.

"About us. About Vegas."

Something shifted in Joe's eyes, a flicker of recognition. He didn't move, didn't stiffen. But she could see his focus sharpen.

"It wasn't—" She paused, searching for words. "It's not that I need you to do some big public declaration. I just didn't like feeling like..."

Joe waited.

"Like a liability," she finished.

"You're not a liability." There was a firmness in his voice that wasn't there before. No hesitation, no qualification.

"In Vegas, it just felt like... I don't know." Riley ran a hand through her hair, gathering it at the nape of her neck before letting it fall again. "Like I was complicating things just by being there."

Joe was quiet for a minute — the kind of quiet that meant he was working for the right words. Riley had learned to tell the difference.

“I keep things separate,” he said finally. “Football. Family. Relationships. It’s easier that way. Cleaner.”

She nodded, unsurprised. This wasn't news.

"But you don't fit in a box, Riley."

That made her look at him more directly.

"I didn't know what to do with that in Vegas." Joe's jaw tensed slightly. "I'm better when I've had time to... to think through all the angles."

It was as close to I panicked as Joe Burrow would ever get.

"You don't have to have it all figured out," Riley said, the corner of her mouth lifting. "That's kind of my whole approach to life."

"I know," Joe said, and there was almost something fond in it. "but one of us has to have some structure."

Riley laughed, soft and surprised by the gentle teasing. It eased something in her chest.

"I didn't need you to introduce me to everyone," she continued. "I just needed to know where I stood with you."

Joe nodded, once. "You stand with me." Simple, direct. Not poetry, but somehow better for its clarity.

Riley felt warmth spread through her chest at the certainty in his voice. This was why she kept coming back to him—to them. The steadiness that she'd never found anywhere else.

"I don't always know how to trust that," she admitted, her voice softer. "Especially after Vegas."

The words hung between them, honest in a way that cost her. After Ethan, she'd built walls so high she wasn't sure how anyone would climb them. Then Joe had come along, steady and certain—until Vegas had shown her that even he had moments where she became something to manage rather than someone to stand beside.

"Vegas wasn't my best," Joe said after a moment. His jaw tightened slightly—the closest he came to showing regret. "It won't happen again."

Three words, no elaborate explanation. That was Joe—economical even with his promises. But there was something in his eyes that made her want to believe him, despite the voice in her head that remembered how Ethan's pretty words had evaporated when tested.

Riley looked down, twisting the edge of the blanket between her fingers. "It's hard for me to know that for sure."

Joe was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady even through the screen. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, more certain.

"Then I'll prove it to you."

He didn't elaborate with flowery promises or detailed plans. That wasn't Joe's way. But there was a quiet determination in those five words that felt different from Ethan's practiced declarations—solid where Ethan had been all flash.

Riley looked up, meeting his eyes. "Okay."

One word that carried the weight of everything they weren't saying. A cautious opening, not a guarantee.

It surprised her, that simplicity. Most men would rush to differentiate themselves, to prove something. Joe just... waited. Like he understood time would matter more than words.

Riley let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The miles between them still stretched, but something about his steady gaze made them feel less insurmountable.

"Tell me something good," Riley said, softer now. "Something from today."

Joe's mouth quirked. "You're wearing my sweatshirt. That's pretty good."

Riley glanced down, suddenly aware of the faded LSU across her chest. She'd put it on after her shower without thinking. "Oh. Yeah."

“Yeah,” Joe said, voice low. “And I’ll be there Friday.”

Riley pulled her knees closer, settling deeper into the window seat. "What's your schedule tomorrow?"

“Meetings most of the morning. Lift after. Might run a couple routes if my shoulder’s good. I’ll be free by afternoon.”

They talked for a while longer—easy, winding conversation about nothing significant. How the jasmine had taken over her garden. A perfect pass Joe had thrown at practice. The étouffée disaster story her grandfather was planning to tell.

The house darkened around her as they talked, but Riley didn't move to turn on lights. There was something intimate about the soft blue glow from her screen, about being half-hidden in shadow while still letting him see her.

"You nervous?" Joe asked after a lull. "About me meeting them?"

Riley considered deflecting with humor, but something in his eyes made her answer honestly.

"Not nervous," she said. "Maybe a little... heightened."

Joe's brow lifted slightly. "Heightened?"

"It's crawfish on the bayou with my family. It's loud, and messy, and a little overwhelming if you're not used to it."

"Riley," Joe said, with the barest hint of a smile, "I played for LSU for two years. I know what a Louisiana family gathering looks like."

She laughed, soft and surprised. "Okay, fair."

"I know what I'm walking into," he said. "And anyway—" he paused, eyes steady on hers. "I work best under pressure. You forget what I do for a living?"

Riley let out a quiet laugh. "You say that now..."

"I got this," he said, voice low. "And I got you."

The words weren't loud or poetic. Just quiet, certain.

Riley looked down, trying to steady her breathing. The inside of her chest felt too full, like something might spill over if she moved too quickly.

"I know," she said after a moment. "I just needed to hear it."

Joe didn't respond with more reassurance. He just nodded, once, like he understood exactly what she meant.

Riley shifted, pulling a blanket higher around her shoulders, fatigue suddenly washing over her. The screen stayed propped against her knees.

"Don't hang up yet," she murmured, eyes already growing heavy.

"I wasn't planning to," Joe replied.

She closed her eyes. "Just... talk a little. Doesn't matter what."

Joe settled back against his headboard. "Alright," he said. "Today Sam dropped a weight on his foot during training. Didn't tell anyone for an hour because he didn't want to admit he was limping..."

His voice continued, low and steady like a current underneath her breathing. No flourishes, no dramatic storytelling. Just that even, measured cadence that somehow made everything feel more manageable.

Riley didn't answer. Her breathing slowed, deepened.

Still, Joe kept talking.

Just in case.

* * *

Morning came soft and warm, the way it always did in New Orleans this time of year. Riley woke to sunlight filtering through lace curtains, casting intricate patterns across her bedroom floor. For a moment, she just lay there, letting the familiar sounds of home settle around her—distant church bells, birds in the oak tree outside her window, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan circling above.

Her phone lay beside her pillow, dead. She must have fallen asleep during the call with Joe, the phone's battery draining quietly in the night. The realization brought a small smile to her lips, remembering his voice as she'd drifted off.

Riley stretched, then padded barefoot through the house, plugging in her phone before heading to the kitchen. The routine was automatic—coffee first, always. She moved through the familiar motions with her eyes half-closed, the rich scent of chicory gradually pulling her fully awake.

When the coffee was ready, she poured it into her favorite mug—chipped at the handle but too sentimental to replace—and carried it through the front room to the porch. The screen door creaked in protest as she pushed it open with her hip, the sound as familiar as her own heartbeat.

The morning air hit her skin like a warm breath—thick, sweet, already heavy with humidity. Her porch swing beckoned, its faded cushions still bearing the slight indentation from where she'd last sat. Riley settled into it, tucking one bare foot beneath her, the swing groaning softly as it accepted her weight.

From here, she could see most of her block—the neighbor's wind chimes swaying lazily in the breeze, Mrs. Guidry already sweeping her sidewalk across the street, the community garden on the corner bursting with life. Everything exactly where it should be, down to the tabby cat watching her suspiciously from beneath the hydrangea bush.

"Morning to you too, Max," she murmured, taking a slow sip of coffee.

Her street was waking up — the slam of a screen door, the low rumble of a truck a few blocks over, a burst of laughter carried on the thick morning air. Somewhere, faint music drifted from an open window — brass and drums, bright and lazy.

Riley closed her eyes, letting her head rest against the back of the swing. The confession from last night still sat in her chest, no less true in the morning light. I think I'm in love with him. The words didn't feel as frightening now, here in the soft morning air of the place that had always held her truest self.

Her phone buzzed inside the house, the sound barely audible through the screen door. Probably Joe, awake and already finished with his morning workout. The thought made her smile again—their different rhythms somehow finding ways to align.

She would go in soon. She would call him back, tell him about the neighbor's cat and the church bells and how the morning light turned her garden gold. But for now, she let herself sit a moment longer, feet pushing gently against the porch floor, setting the swing in motion.

The movement was hypnotic—forward and back, the subtle creak of chains, the world rocking gently. Riley took another sip of coffee, eyes drifting to the edge of her porch where she'd planted jasmine last spring. It had nearly taken over the railing now, white flowers nodding in the breeze, filling the air with sweetness.

Her grandfather had always said plants bloomed best for people who talked to them. She'd never been sure if she believed him, but found herself doing it anyway.

“He’s coming on Friday,” she told the jasmine quietly. “Make sure you show off for him, yeah?”

The jasmine didn't respond, but a breeze ruffled through it, sending a trace of fragrance her way. Riley smiled into her coffee.

Her phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. With a soft sigh—not of irritation, just of transition—she rose from the swing and padded back toward the screen door. The wood was warm beneath her bare feet, still holding yesterday's sunshine.

As she reached for the handle, she paused, turning back to look at her little corner of New Orleans one more time. The morning light caught on the wrought iron of her fence, the dew on the elephant ears, the wind chimes swaying lazily in the corner.

"We're doing this," she whispered to no one in particular. "We're really doing this."

Then she pulled open the door and stepped inside, ready to start her day in earnest—ready to call him back, ready to face whatever came next.

The house seemed to sigh around her in agreement.

* * *

Riley padded back inside, the screen door clicking shut behind her. The house welcomed her with familiar creaks and whispers—old wood settling, ceiling fans stirring the air. She moved through the front room, fingers trailing along the edge of her record collection, the vintage guitar propped in the corner, the stack of books that never seemed to get any smaller no matter how many she read.

Her phone buzzed again from where she'd left it charging on the kitchen island. She picked it up, the screen lighting to reveal three missed calls and a string of texts—all from Joe. The last one had just come through:

Joe: Phone dead?

She smiled, thumbing through the earlier messages.

Joe: You conked out during the call. I stayed on until your breathing evened out.

Joe: Finished workout. Thought you might want to see the damage.

And then, surprisingly, a photo.

Riley's eyebrows rose slightly. Joe rarely sent selfies—a stark contrast to how often he asked for them from her. It wasn't that he had anything against them; he just didn't think to document himself the way she did naturally. But when he did send one, it always felt like a small gift, an unspoken acknowledgment that he was thinking of her enough to break his usual patterns.

But there he was on her screen. Hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion, gray workout shirt clinging to his shoulders. He wasn't smiling exactly—Joe never gave a full smile in photos—but there was something soft around his eyes, something private in the slight curve of his mouth. Behind him, the early morning light of the training facility cast everything in a clean, bright glow.

He looked... happy. And a little tired. And very much like someone who'd been thinking about her while he went through his routine.

Riley leaned against the counter, something warm unfurling in her chest. She tapped the image, studying the details—the slight shadow of stubble he hadn't yet shaved, the barely visible scar above his eyebrow from a college game, the way his hair stuck up slightly at the crown where he'd probably run his hand through it.

He looked good. Of course he looked good—that was never in question. But this wasn't the polished, media-ready Joe Burrow that most people saw. This was just... Joe. Her Joe. Sweaty and rumpled and real.

She tapped reply, suddenly eager to connect.

Riley: Sorry for the radio silence. Woke up and took my coffee to the porch. Phone was dead from our call.

She hesitated, then added:

Riley: You look good all sweaty. Send these more often.

Riley set the phone down and moved to the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and the remains of a bell pepper. She'd need more than coffee if she was going to face the day—especially a day that included a visit to Papa.

The phone buzzed again as she was cracking eggs into a bowl.

Joe: Don't get used to it. Just happened to look decent today.

She laughed out loud, nearly dropping the whisk.

Riley: Decent is an understatement. Any chance of seeing more next time?

Three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. Appeared again.

Joe: Maybe. If you ask nice.

Riley grinned, setting the phone down to continue making her breakfast. The morning light streamed through the kitchen window, catching on the copper pans hanging above the island, the collection of vintage concert posters on the far wall, the plants crowding every available surface.

She moved through the familiar space with practiced ease, whisking eggs, chopping vegetables, the rhythms of home coming back to her body without conscious thought. The house felt different this morning—lighter somehow, like her confession to Egan and Laura had shifted something inside her that the walls could sense.

I think I'm in love with him.

The words still sent a flutter of panic through her chest, but it was softer now. Less sharp. More like anticipation than fear.

Her phone buzzed one more time as she was plating her eggs.

Joe: Plans today?

She picked it up, typing one-handed while she carried her plate to the small table by the window.

Riley: Breakfast. Then Papa at the retirement home. Need to prepare him for your arrival.

Joe: He need preparing?

Riley smiled, thinking of her grandfather's endless stories and embarrassing photo albums.

Riley: Let's just say he's got 25 years of Riley stories and zero filter. Damage control is needed.

Three dots. A pause.

Joe: Looking forward to it.

Riley took a bite of her eggs, considering her response. She could warn Joe more specifically about Papa's tendency to overshare, tell him how the sweet old man had no concept of boundaries when it came to his "songbird." But that wasn't how they operated. Not anymore.

Riley: He'll talk your ear off, but he's the best person I know. Just need to remind him which stories are off-limits.

Joe: The more embarrassing, the better.

She set the phone down, focusing on her breakfast for a few minutes. The eggs were perfect—just the right amount of pepper, the way her mother had taught her. Through the window, she could see the garden coming alive with morning activity—a hummingbird darting between flowers, the neighbor's cat stalking through the bushes, sunlight catching on dew that hadn't yet burned away.

One more day until Joe arrived. Two until the crawfish boil. Her world was about to collide with his in a way they hadn't yet experienced—not the careful boundaries of their separate cities, not the controlled environment of a weekend visit. This was her home, her family, her deepest roots.

She should be terrified. Part of her was.

But mostly, she just wanted him here—wanted to see him in her space, sitting on her porch swing, talking with her grandfather, his hand steady on the small of her back while chaos swirled around them.

Riley finished her breakfast and carried the plate to the sink, glancing at the clock on the microwave. If she left now, she'd have plenty of time to stop for beignets before reaching Magnolia Gardens.

* * *

The Magnolia Gardens Retirement Community sat on three lush acres just outside the city limits, close enough to New Orleans to feel connected but far enough to escape the constant noise. Unlike many of the sterile facilities Riley had toured, this one had character—garden plots for residents who still wanted to grow their own tomatoes, a music room with instruments available day and night, and a bar that served actual drinks during happy hour. It was the only place Willis Carter had agreed to even consider.

Riley pulled into a visitor spot, grabbing the bag of fresh beignets she'd picked up on the way. She didn't bother checking her reflection—her grandfather had seen her in every possible state and never once commented on her appearance, except to say she looked like her grandmother when she smiled.

The receptionist brightened when she walked in. "Miss Carter! Your grandfather's been up since dawn waiting for you. He's checked his watch about twenty times in the last hour alone."

Riley laughed. "That sounds like him. I'm not even late."

"Try telling him that," Darlene said with a fond shake of her head. "He's out in the garden pavilion. Said something about the light being better out there for showing you some new photos his brother sent."

Riley stepped through the sliding glass doors into the garden pavilion, where sunlight filtered through the latticed roof, casting dappled patterns across the wooden tables. She spotted her grandfather immediately, his silver hair catching the light as he bent over a photo album.

"Papa," she called, and Willis Carter looked up, his weathered face breaking into a smile that transformed him from stern patriarch to delighted grandparent in an instant.

“Well, there she is,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I was just about to go hunt you down.”

“I’m on time,” Riley said, grinning as she walked over.

“Didn’t say you weren’t. Just said I was about to come get you.” He leaned in, kissed her temple, then zeroed in on the bag in her hand. “Tell me that’s what I think it is.”

“Still warm,” she said, holding out the beignets like a peace offering.

Willis made a satisfied sound deep in his throat. “That’s my girl.”

She sat down beside him, setting the bag between them as he pulled one out and bit into it like it was the first real food he’d had in weeks.

“They don’t make ’em like this in the cafeteria,” he said around a mouthful. “Tastes like the Quarter. Before they ruined it.”

“You say that every time.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.” He dusted sugar from his hands and nudged a photo album toward her. “Now come look. Your uncle finally mailed those pictures from their trip to Orange Beach. Took him long enough. I already had to call and pretend I was dying just to get him to send ‘em.”

Riley snorted. “You really did that?”

“Course not,” he said, flipping the album open. “I just sighed real heavy on the phone. He got the message.”

She leaned in to look. There were sun-faded snapshots of Uncle Teddy grinning in front of a shrimp boat, a picture of the two brothers standing in matching fishing shirts and holding up a stringer of redfish.

“This one,” Willis said, pointing at a blurry shot of the horizon. “That’s where we used to go crabbing with your mama when she was little. You’d have loved it out there.”

“I remember the stories,” Riley said softly, brushing her finger over the edge of the photo.

“You look good, Papa.”

“I feel good,” he said, like it wasn’t a given. “They let me tend the tomatoes out back. I talk to ‘em like Gram used to. Helps ‘em grow.”

“I talked to my jasmine this morning,” she said, voice soft. “Told it to show off.”

Papa chuckled, a low, familiar sound.

“I bet they will,” he said.

He nudged her gently with his elbow. “And how’s my baby?”

She didn’t answer right away. The sunlight had shifted, warming the back of her neck. She kept her eyes on a picture of two boys fishing—one clearly Willis, maybe ten years old, holding a catfish longer than his arm.

Riley looked up from the photo, meeting her grandfather's expectant gaze.

"I'm good," she said, then after a pause, "Really good, actually."

Willis studied her face, his eyes sharp despite his age. "That have anything to do with the quarterback coming to my crawfish boil this weekend?"

Riley felt warmth rise to her cheeks. "Maybe."

"Only maybe?" Willis raised a bushy eyebrow, his mouth quirking up at one corner. "Girl, you're practically glowing. I haven't seen you look like this since you got your first record deal."

She laughed softly. "It's different, Papa."

"Course it's different. That was business. This is—" he gestured vaguely with one sugar-dusted hand, "—something else entirely."

Riley nodded, not bothering to deny it. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Lay it on me," he said, leaning back in his chair, eyes twinkling. "You need my blessing? Want me to have a man-to-man with this Burrow boy?"

"God, no," Riley said quickly. "The exact opposite, actually. I need you to promise not to..." she searched for the right word, "...overwhelm him."

"Me? Overwhelming? I'm offended, darlin'." But his smile grew wider, showing he was anything but.

"Papa, I'm serious. Joe is..." She paused, trying to articulate what made Joe different. "He's more reserved. He thinks before he speaks. Plans everything."

"Sounds boring," Willis said, but his eyes were kind.

"He's not boring," Riley insisted. "He's steady. Solid. But he's also private, and I just don't want him to feel ambushed by the full Willis Carter Experience within five minutes of meeting you."

Her grandfather raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. No baby pictures. No stories about how you used to make me take you to jazz clubs when you were ten because you wanted to see the horn players up close."

"Exactly," Riley said. "And no interrogations about his family or his plans or—"

"What's the fun in that?" Willis interrupted, but he was smiling. "Alright, I'll behave. For the first hour, at least."

"Two hours."

"Hour and a half, and I reserve the right to tell the story about your first attempt at crawfish étouffée. That one's non-negotiable."

Riley groaned. "Papa, I was fourteen and nearly burned down the kitchen."

"And future generations deserve to know this information," he said solemnly, though his eyes danced with mischief. "It's historical record at this point."

She shook her head, but couldn't keep from smiling. "You're impossible."

"That's what your grandmother used to say." Willis's face softened with memory. "She'd have liked this one, I think."

"You haven't even met him yet."

"Don't need to," Willis said with the certainty of a man who trusted his instincts implicitly. "I can see it in your face. The way you light up when you talk about him. That tells me everything I need to know."

Riley felt something catch in her chest—that particular ache that always came when her grandfather showed just how deeply he saw her.

"He makes me happy, Papa," she said simply.

Willis nodded. "Good. That's what matters." He reached over and patted her hand. "The rest is just details."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sunlight warming the table between them, the sounds of the garden a gentle backdrop to their conversation.

"So," Willis said finally. "Tell me something about him that I won't read in those sports magazines. Something real."

Riley thought for a moment, her fingers tracing the edge of the photo album. "He listens," she said. "Not the way most people do, where they're just waiting for their turn to talk. He actually hears what I'm saying."

Willis nodded approvingly. "That's rare."

"And he's not impressed by any of it—the fame, the music, none of that matters to him. He sees me, not Riley Carter the singer."

"Smart man."

"He stayed on the phone with me last night," she continued, her voice softening. "I fell asleep, and he just... stayed. Kept talking so I wouldn't feel alone."

Willis's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Now that," he said, "is something worth holding onto."

Riley looked down at her hands, suddenly self-conscious about how much she was revealing. But this was Papa—the man who'd taught her to fish and make roux and stand up for herself. If she couldn't be honest with him, who could she be honest with?

"I think I'm falling in love with him," she said quietly.

The words hung in the air between them, more real now that she'd said them to Papa than when she'd confessed them to Egan or Laura.

Willis didn't look surprised. He just nodded slowly, his weathered face creasing into a gentle smile. "About time," he said.

"That's it? 'About time'?"

"What'd you expect me to say?" he asked, spreading his hands. "That it's too soon? That you should slow down? Baby, you've never slowed down a day in your life. Always jumping first, asking questions later."

"Not always," Riley protested weakly.

"Always," he countered with absolute certainty. "You get that from me. Your grandma used to say we were both born without brakes. The number of times I had to fish you out of trouble because you decided to follow your heart without a second thought..." He shook his head, though his eyes were fond.

Riley laughed despite herself. "You saying Joe's my brake system?"

"I'm saying everybody needs someone who balances them out," he said, suddenly serious. "Sounds like maybe you found yours. Someone steady to match your wildfire."

The words settled over her like a blessing. Riley reached across the table and squeezed her grandfather's hand. "Thanks, Papa."

"Don't thank me yet," he said, mischief returning to his expression. "I still reserve the right to tell that étouffée story if he asks where you learned to cook."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me, darlin'."

Riley shook her head, smiling despite herself. "One condition. You have to show him the photo of you with James Booker first. The one where you're wearing that ridiculous hat."

"That hat was the height of fashion in 1972!"

"It looks like something died on your head, Papa."

Willis laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the garden pavilion. "Deal. My embarrassment for yours. That's fair."

He closed the photo album and set it aside, then reached for another beignet. "Now, tell me about this album you're working on. I hear things. People say it's your best yet."

Riley settled in, her heart lighter than it had been in days. This was home—her grandfather's laughter, the sweet scent of beignets, sunlight filtering through the lattice above them. And soon, Joe would be here too.

For the first time, the thought didn't scare her at all.

* * *

The restaurant was buzzing, the kind of local spot where the waiter didn’t write anything down and the ceiling fans were older than the building permits. Riley spotted them right away—Tomas nursing a Bloody Mary, Egan mid-story, Jen and Jeremy tucked into opposite corners of the weathered wooden table, all of them halfway through drinks and deeply in their rhythm.

“There she is,” Egan said, lifting her glass like a toast as Riley slid into the open seat. “Miss You’ve-Got-A-Glow.”

“I swear to God,” Riley said, reaching for a menu, “if one more person tells me I’m glowing, I’m going to light something on fire just to stay consistent.”

“Oh, she’s feisty,” Tomas said. “Definitely saw Papa this morning.”

The restaurant was buzzing, the kind of local spot where the waiter didn’t write anything down and the ceiling fans were older than the building permits. Riley spotted them right away—Tomas nursing a Bloody Mary, Egan mid-story, Jen and Jeremy tucked into opposite corners of the weathered wooden table, all of them halfway through drinks and deeply in their rhythm.

Riley smirked. “I fed him beignets and he gave me emotional clarity. It’s a powerful combo.”

“And how is our dear Willis?” Jen asked. “Still charming? Still plotting your social downfall via embarrassing childhood stories?”

“Absolutely,” Riley said. “He’s pacing himself for Saturday. Said he’s saving the étouffée disaster story for just the right moment.”

“That man is a menace,” Jeremy said fondly. “I love him.”

There was a lull as a server stopped by to take Riley’s drink order. Once they were alone again, Tomas leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Alright then, big weekend. You ready?”

“I think so,” Riley said, then added, “He’s coming to the boil.”

Jen blinked. “The boil?”

Egan leaned back, a big smile on her face. “I told her last night that's not a casual introduction.”

“You sure he knows what he’s walking into?” Jeremy asked. “Because I remember our first boil with your family, and I’m still recovering.”

“He doesn’t know,” Riley said. “Not really. But he wants to.”

“And this’ll be the first time he’s meeting any of them?” Tomas asked, sounding it out like he needed to hear it twice.

Riley nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s huge.”

“I know,” she said more quietly. “I didn’t plan for it to happen like this, but… it feels right.”

“You want us hovering nearby?” Egan teased. “Incognito support group? Code names? Backup plan if Cousin Laney tries to convert him to her homemade moonshine religion?”

Riley laughed. “No, I think I want it to just be family. As in, y’all stay far away.”

“Rude,” Jen said, lifting her glass.

“But fair,” Jeremy added.

“You’ll tell us everything after,” Tomas said.

“Of course,” Riley said, smiling. “If he survives.”

Tomas sat back in his chair, arms folded. “You know he’s gonna be fine, right?”

Riley arched an eyebrow. “Fine how?”

“Fine as in your family already thinks he walks on water. He could show up late, mispronounce étouffée, and still get a standing ovation just for being the boy from LSU.”

“Exactly,” Jeremy said. “The man’s basically a folk hero. Your aunties are gonna be feral.”

“They are not,” Riley said, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“Oh no, they will be,” Egan said. “You know how many women in your family sat in that living room in purple and gold, screaming at the TV like it was church?”

“I hate this,” Riley muttered, hiding behind her tea.

“You love it,” Jen said. “You just hate that we’re right.”

“Okay, sure. The football thing helps,” Riley admitted. “But he’s quiet. Not shy, just… intentional. And y’all know my family. It’s a lot.”

“You’re a lot,” Jeremy said with a wink.

“Exactly. So imagine that but forty more of me, and half of them are drunk.”

“Oh, he’s toast,” Tomas said.

“I’m serious,” Riley said. “I just want him to feel like he can be himself. Not some version of what they expect.”

Egan tilted her head. “So let him.”

Riley looked at her.

“Let him be himself,” Egan said again. “Not football-Joe, not your-boyfriend-Joe. Just… Joe. If he’s who you say he is, he’ll handle it.”

“He will,” Riley said quietly, almost to herself.

Jen reached over and squeezed her wrist. “And if not, we’ll stage a rescue and blame it on a football emergency.”

“No rescues,” Riley said, grinning now. “He wants to be there.”

“Then he’ll be fine,” Tomas said. “Honestly, I’m more worried about you. You’ve never let someone this far in before.”

Riley’s smile dimmed, just slightly.

“Not like this,” she said. “But it feels… different. Like it’s not about proving anything. I just want him there.”

“Then that’s the whole thing,” Jeremy said. “That’s the sign.”They sat with that for a moment, sunlight sliding across the table as a server dropped off the check.

“You telling Papa how serious this is?” Jen asked as they stood.

Riley nodded. “He already knows. He said Gram would’ve liked him.”

Egan smiled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Then I guess that’s that.”

* * *

Joe checked his watch. He had about forty minutes before he needed to be at the facility for a meeting with Coach Taylor. Just enough time to pick up his grandfather's watch from Ashford's downtown.

The repair had taken longer than expected—something about a custom part that needed to be ordered—but the timing worked out perfectly. He'd have it back before heading to New Orleans on Friday.

The afternoon was bright but not too warm, Cincinnati showing off its best spring weather. Joe kept his head down anyway, ball cap pulled low, sunglasses on. Not that he minded being recognized, but sometimes a ten-minute errand could turn into an hour of selfies and small talk. Today, he just didn't have the time.

The bell chimed softly as he pushed open the door to Ashford Jewelers. The shop was small but elegant—dark wood cabinets, discreet lighting, the subtle smell of leather and polish. It had been in the same family for generations, the kind of place that still kept handwritten records in leather-bound books.

"Mr. Burrow," the older man behind the counter greeted him with a subtle nod. No fuss, no fanfare. Just the quiet acknowledgment that came from mutual respect. It was one of the reasons Joe kept coming back here. That, and the fact that they'd never once leaked a word about his purchases.

"Mr. Ashford. Just here to pick up my grandfather's piece."

"Of course. I have it ready for you." He disappeared into the back room.

Joe waited, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the display cases out of habit more than interest. Watches, cufflinks, tie clips—all carefully arranged under glass. Then his gaze shifted to the women's section.

A bracelet caught his eye.

Not the flashy diamonds or statement pieces that dominated most of the case. This was tucked in a corner, distinct from the others—a slender gold band, textured to resemble snakeskin, with a delicate clasp that reminded him of a serpent's head.

It wasn't something he would have normally noticed. But it reminded him immediately of Riley—elegant but with an edge, the golden scales catching light in a way that seemed alive. He could picture it on her wrist as she played guitar, the gold warm against her skin.

"That's a unique piece," Mr. Ashford said, returning with a small leather box. He'd caught Joe staring. "Python design. Eighteen karat gold. We just received it last week."

Joe nodded. "Can I see it?"

If Mr. Ashford was surprised, he didn't show it. He set the watch box on the counter and unlocked the display case, carefully removing the bracelet.

Joe found himself studying it longer than he intended. The craftsmanship was exceptional—each scale meticulously detailed, the whole piece flowing like water when it moved.

"It's from a French designer," Mr. Ashford explained. "Very limited edition. The texture is quite remarkable."

Joe held it in his palm, feeling its weight. It wasn't heavy, but it had substance. The scales caught the light from every angle, creating a subtle shimmer that reminded him of the way stage lights played across Riley's skin when she performed.

He hadn't planned on buying Riley anything. They hadn't discussed gifts, and he was careful not to push the relationship faster than either of them was ready for. But something about this piece felt right—like it had been waiting here for him to find.

It wasn't showy or presumptuous. It wouldn't overwhelm her or make her feel obligated. It was just... her.

"How much?" he asked.

Mr. Ashford quoted a price that would have made most people flinch. Joe just nodded.

"I'll get this too," he said, handing the bracelet back.

He didn’t know if she’d wear it every day. But he knew, without question, she’d understand exactly what it meant.

Mr. Ashford nodded, carefully returning the piece to its velvet cushion while he processed the purchase. He boxed both items with practiced precision—the watch in its leather case, the bracelet in a slim black velvet box.

“You picked well,” Mr. Ashford said, setting the watch and the bracelet in front of him.

Joe nodded, tucking both boxes into his jacket pocket.

As he pushed back through the door into the Cincinnati sunshine, Joe felt a lightness in his chest. The impulsive purchase wasn't like him—he approached most decisions methodically, weighing options, considering consequences. But with Riley, sometimes instinct just took over.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A calendar reminder for his meeting. Joe quickened his pace slightly, but his thoughts remained with the bracelet—with the way the gold scales would catch the light as she moved.

As he slipped the boxes into his jacket pocket, his phone buzzed with a text from Riley:

Riley: You at your meeting yet?

Joe glanced at the time, thumb already moving.

Joe: Almost. Walking over now.

Riley: Just checking. Not trying to interrupt your grind or whatever.

Joe: You’re not. Can I call you after?

Riley: Yeah. I’ll be home.

He tucked the phone back in his pocket. The velvet box was warm now from being close to him, nestled beside the watch he came to pick up.

He’d call her after.

* * *

Riley moved through her house with the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, pulling fresh sheets onto the bed with quick, practiced movements.

"Tell me again what time you land?" she asked, tucking a corner under the mattress.

"Noon," Joe replied. She could hear the soft rustle of clothing on his end. "You sure you don't mind picking me up?"

"Of course not," she said, smoothing the sheets with her palm. "Though I won't be holding any embarrassing sign with your name on it."

Joe chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Appreciate the restraint."

"The house is excited you're coming back," Riley said, glancing around. "The jasmine's practically taken over the entire front porch for spring. I can't wait for you to see it."

"Last time I was there, I remember how everything smelled," Joe said. "Different from anywhere else I've been. Like something alive."

"It's a full-on ambush," she replied, smiling at the memory of showing him her home for the first time. "Though I'm pretty sure you can handle a little overgrown garden."

"Besides comfy clothes," he said. She heard a zipper close on his end. "Anything else I should pack?"

"Nah, just stuff to be comfortable in."

Riley paused, surveying the room. "I'm trying to decide if I should clean more or if that'll just make you uncomfortable. Like you'll know I cleaned for you."

"I already know you're cleaning for me," he said. "I can hear you moving around."

Riley stopped mid-motion, a second pillow suspended in her hands. "That obvious, huh?"

"It's not a bad thing," Joe said. "I like that you care enough to do it."

She set the pillow down and moved to the window, drawing back the curtains to let in the evening light. "My approach is very strategic. Clean enough that you're impressed, but messy enough that you know I'm still me."

"Sounds perfect." A brief pause. "Should I bring anything for your family?"

Riley leaned against the windowsill, watching the shadows lengthen across her garden. "Just you," she said, softer now. "Just show up. The rest will figure itself out."

"That's it?" There was something careful in his voice.

"That's it," she confirmed. "Papa's not big on gifts. He just wants to size you up in person."

She moved back to the bed, sitting on the edge and drawing her knees up. "You nervous?"

The question hung between them—simple, direct.

"About meeting your family? A little," he admitted after a moment. "Not in a bad way."

"Papa's already planning his best stories," she warned. "I've negotiated him down to only moderate embarrassment."

"Looking forward to it," Joe said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I like learning pieces of you I don't know yet."

Riley's throat tightened unexpectedly. "Yeah, well," she said, trying to keep her voice light, "just remember that when he starts showing childhood photos."

Another pause, this one comfortable. She could picture him moving methodically around his bedroom, carefully selecting what to pack, everything organized and deliberate.

Another pause, this one comfortable. She could picture him moving methodically around his bedroom, carefully selecting what to pack, everything organized and deliberate.

"You know," Joe said, his voice dropping lower, "I was thinking about that first night in New Orleans. At the hotel."

Riley settled back against her headboard. "What about it?"

"I didn't want it to end," he said simply. "Had this moment where I was sitting there, watching you talk about the city, thinking about asking you to stay. But I got stuck in my head about it."

"You never said anything."

"Didn't have to," he said. "You very awkwardly asked me to come home with you instead."

Riley laughed, surprised. "I wasn't awkward!"

"You were," Joe said, amusement threading through his voice. "Started talking fast, wouldn't look at me. Then just blurted it out."

"God," she groaned, covering her face even though he couldn't see her. "It was that bad?"

"It was perfect," he said quietly. "Made it real."

The confession lingered between them, somehow both casual and significant in the way only Joe could manage.

"Sixteen hours," she said after a moment.

"Yeah, not long now," he replied.

Neither of them spoke for a few beats. Just the low hum of the line, the subtle nearness of the other’s breath.

“Alright,” Riley said quietly, shifting onto her side. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

“I’m trying.”

He didn’t say anything for a second, then, “See you soon.”

She smiled, small and real. “Yeah. Night, Joe.”

“Night.”

She waited until the line went quiet before setting her phone down beside her. The screen went dark, but the stillness didn’t feel empty. Just full of everything that was coming.

* * *

Riley woke early, even before the sunlight had finished climbing the shutters. The house was quiet in that specific, charged way it got before something changed—still, but waiting.

She moved slowly. Poured coffee, barefoot on the cool tile. Let the jasmine-sweet air drift through the kitchen windows. Her phone sat on the counter, untouched, but she felt it the way you feel another person in a room.

Sixteen hours had become eight. Then six.

By the time she’d showered and thrown her hair up, the house felt different—like it already knew who was coming.

She set fresh towels in the bathroom. Tucked an extra charger into the outlet beside her bed. These were not dramatic gestures. Just small, quiet ways of saying this space is yours too.

Her phone buzzed as she was buttoning up a shirt.

Joe: Boarding now.

Riley smiled. Tapped out a quick reply.

Riley: I’ll be there when you land.

She tucked the phone into her back pocket, the smile lingering longer than she meant it to.

Then she went to find her shoes — and something to do, anything to fill the hours until it was time to pick him up.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Riddle Rosehearts - Platinum Jacket Voice Lines

When Summoned: It's an honor to be chosen as a supporter for this historical museum. I'll do my duty diligently while adhering to all the rules.

Summon Line: I made sure to review everything there is to know of the exhibits here at the Land of Dawning National Museum of Art. I am looking forward to seeing these works of art in person.

Groooovy!!: I cannot believe anyone would attend a tea party for which they did not receive an invitation... They'd only have themselves to blame if they lose their head.

Home: My utmost respect to 100 years of history.

Home Idle 1: When I gaze upon artwork that depicts esteemed people of lore like this, I feel humbled. I must also strive to achieve greater heights.

Home Idle 2: I saw Lilia-senpai staring at a painting intently... I'm a little... no, very surprised to see him look so serious.

Home Idle 3: I wouldn't say I find painting difficult at all. Although, the first time I was given an abstract assignment to complete, I did struggle slightly.

Home Idle - Login: The Land of Dawning's National Museum of Art exhibits countless masterpieces. This is a fantastic opportunity to improve our imagination skills.

Home Idle - Groovy: Rook-senpai had nothing but flowery praise to say of every single painting we came across. I see that's one way to interpret everything...

Home Tap 1: There are many tales of the Son of the God of Thunder in which he is depicted as one who could not control his strength. It seems he was not the type to tread carefully.

Home Tap 2: Silver was looking at the weapons wielded by the Thorn Fairy's men and was giving his thoughts on what form of fighting they each must have mastered. that is a perspective I hadn't considered.

Home Tap 3: Did you see the tea blends they have at the museum shop that are supposed to be made with specific luminaries in mind? I'm curious as to their flavor.

Home Tap 4: I saw Azul eyeing the painting of the girl wishing at a well. He sure looked like he was plotting something.

Home Tap 5: It is because we wear this formal attire without a single strand out of place that we look as regal as we should. It is out of the question to wear it slovenly.

Home Tap - Groovy: You wish to know what legends inspired these paintings? Fufu, I see you're quite eager to learn. Well then, allow me to explain everything to you in detail.

Duo: [RIDDLE]: Rook-senpai, I'm sure you know the drill. [ROOK]: Of course, Riddle-kun.

Birthday Login Message: Thank you for the birthday wishes. Make sure you attend the birthday party that will be thrown later, as well. It seems there will be a larger variety of dishes set out this time than previous years. It would be impolite to leave any food left over, wouldn't you say? Also... I'm sure it will be much livelier if you all were to come... At any rate, you must make your way to Heartslabyul later!

Requested by @farfalla049 and @sakurakudo.

[glowettee]

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚maintaining your academic glow-up (forever!) - part 5/5˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

1st post 2nd post 3rd post 4th post 5th post

posted by: glowettee

hey academic angels! ♡

we've made it to the final part of our grade recovery journey! now that you're back on track, i wanna talk about how to keep that academic glow permanent. because we're not just trying to fix one grade - we're creating a whole new you! and we want it to last as long as possible <3

♡ creating your prevention system

catch problems before they happen:

early warning signs:

feeling confused in class more than usual

taking longer to complete assignments

procrastinating more than normal

losing interest in subjects

feeling overwhelmed easily

skipping study sessions

quick intervention steps:

review your notes daily (even if just for 15 mins!)

keep a confusion log for each class

schedule regular check-ins with professors/teachers

maintain your study buddy system

track your understanding weekly

stay ahead of readings

♡ building sustainable study habits

because we're in this for the long haul:

daily non-negotiables:

review today's class notes (make them pretty but useful)

preview tomorrow's material

update your planner

check for upcoming deadlines

organize materials for next day

celebrate small victories

weekly must-dos:

deep review of tough concepts

organize notes and materials

plan next week's study schedule

check assignment progress

connect with study group

reflect on what's working

♡ maintaining your academic aesthetic

looking cute while studying actually helps:

your study space:

keep it clean and organized

update inspiration board regularly

maintain good lighting

rotate study locations when needed

keep supplies stocked and cute

create seasonal study vibes

your materials:

color code consistently

update planners weekly

maintain digital backups

organize notes beautifully

keep supplies aesthetic but functional

create pretty study guides

♡ long-term success strategies

thinking ahead like the queen you are:

grade monitoring:

track all assignments and tests

calculate grade scenarios

maintain grade goals

document improvement patterns

celebrate progress milestones

adjust strategies as needed

knowledge building:

connect concepts across subjects

create master study guides

maintain concept maps

build on previous learning

develop deep understanding

share knowledge with others

♡ emergency preparation

because life loves to throw curveballs:

your emergency kit:

quick review sheets for each subject

backup study materials

digital copies of everything

contact list for help

stress-relief techniques

backup study locations

preventive measures:

stay ahead in readings

maintain good notes

keep organized files

build support networks

practice self-care regularly

maintain work-life balance

♡ mindset maintenance

keeping your academic confidence high:

daily practices:

positive study affirmations

progress appreciation

growth mindset exercises

self-care routines

gratitude journaling

visualization exercises

long-term mindset:

view challenges as opportunities

celebrate all progress

maintain high standards (but be kind to yourself)

focus on growth, not just grades

build academic confidence

stay curious and engaged

maintaining success is like maintaining your favorite aesthetic - it needs constant care and attention, but it's so worth it!

final thoughts:

trust your systems

stay consistent

keep things cute but functional

maintain your support network

celebrate every win

keep growing and glowing

thank you for joining me on this journey! remember, you're capable of amazing things, and one bad grade doesn't define your academic story. keep shining, keep studying, and keep being absolutely amazing!

stay brilliant and beautiful!

xoxo, mindy 🎀

[mscherub]

Self Care is Important, Spudling (Vil Schoenheit x Reader)

Gender neutral reader, referred to as Y/N, Prefect, Potato, or Spudling (a lot with Vil, lol)

Warnings!:

Stressed Reader

Passing out

Lack of self care; Reader

Small mental breakdown; Reader

Word Count:

Approximately 2.58k

Of course- of course Crowley had to assign you maintenance work on campus...again. I mean was this guy serious? Fixing up some architecture, whether that be painting or patching up small holes, then you had to fix up the flower beds, make them look presentable and pretty! Better points for the college, Crowley says. Sadly, however, you’re not done yet, because you have to go help out with a few clubs and observe them since you haven’t, and well, kind of can’t join one yourself, this again was to earn your keep as a student, Crowley says. Then of course, there’s the never ending supply of homework from Professor Trein and Crewel, which you have still yet to do since you’ve been so choked up with everything else Crowley dumps onto you on a daily basis. All for you to earn your keep in Ramshackle, all for you to earn your keep of you and Grim being considered students. And all for you to earn your keep of just barely even living!

It’s tiring, a cumbersome array of tasks on your list that only seems to get longer and longer each day. You get to bed late, and then you have to get up at 6, get yourself ready, get Grim ready, make breakfast, take the hike up to school, and the cycle repeats. You’re tired. You’re oh so tired…

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

You sit in class, your head bobbing slightly as you try and force your eyes open. You shake your head and rub your eyes, an action that has become the norm for you the past few days. You fight back multiple yawns as Trein finds it to be a disrespectful act in his classroom for some odd reason, though it’s his fault his lessons are so boring. You sigh and you look down at your paper, the words jumbled up to your mind and incomprehensible. Grim scribbles away at his assignment and he does a double take as he looks at you, tapping your forehead with his paw and gets you to look at him.

“Ya look like you’re dying.” He whispers as he crosses his paws, his face graced with an apprehensive look. He lets out a small puff of air and he narrows his eyes at you.

“Feels like it.” You take the time to rub your temples this time and stretch something out, anything to keep you awake at this point.

Luckily for you, the bell tolls and everyone shoots up from their seats, taking their books and papers and getting the hell out of the classroom to escape from the quiet lul of that annoying monotone voice of Trein. You stand up yourself, groggy and a little disheveled as you finally yawn and walk out with Grim.

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

Coach Vargas has you all doing a whole bunch of workouts. First it was sit ups, then push ups, step ups on the bleachers, lunges, and now you have to run figure eights out on the field. Grim cheats and floats as usual (wtf man…) and you run alongside the other students, already out of breath.

Of course your mind wanders off to the assignments, reviewing over the items at hand. Trein’s history essay is due tomorrow in class and you haven’t started it yet, so there’s that. You also have to do a write up on the one lab in alchemy for Crewel— woah…

Your vision goes a bit blurry, you stumble a bit as you slow down, your body suddenly giving up on itself and practically going slack. Then you fall face first into the ground, passing out, and going limp, resembling closely to a sack of potatoes.

Students suddenly stop and look at you as you lay upon the ground. Coach Vargas yells for them to get back to work until he also takes sight of you. Well shit.

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

Your head pounds and throbs as you finally come back to your senses, you flutter your eyes open slowly but the bright cool white color of the fluorescent lights prohibits you from opening your eyes anymore than just a squint. You try to sit up but your body feels it’s being weighed down by tons and tons of lead.

Grim pops up and he seems to be saying something but the words just sound like a cacophony of vowels as you slowly come back to the state of consciousness.

“Henchhuman! Henchhuman! What happened? You like…died! Don’t do that again!” He pouts at you, clearly worried as he gently paws at your arm. A nurse walks in and assesses you, giving you some sort of potion that tastes like strong rosemary and a hint of garlic, then sends you on your way.

“You were out for like an hour and a half, and everyone in class saw ya just fall right over! Ace created a big scene! And, not just that, Vargas princess carried you out! Bridal style or whatever they call it. It’s gonna be the talk of the school soon, no doubt.” Grim huffs and puffs, shaking his head and heavily gesticulating to further prove his point of concern.

“I’m just tired, Grim. Severely tired, stressed, all of the above.” You sigh, shaking your head. You rub your temples and continue to walk forwards.

“Clearly. I gotta tell Crowley off or something! He’s slowly burning you out...only I can do that since you're my henchman…” He murmurs “You need to take a break. A nice break.” He looks at you and smirks.

“Grim, what are you implying?” You narrow your eyes at him and cross your arms, halting.

“You’ll see, Hemchuman!” He chortles.

“Grimmy, I-“

He zooms past you and makes his way to the mirror chamber within the school. Your head still hurts but you can let him go off and cause trouble on his own, which he will do!

By the time you get to the mirror chamber, praying that Grim didn’t head to a dorm where even breathing wrong could be destructive, you can see the mirror to Pomefiore still rippling. You pause and your eye twitches, fucking hell, he did not.

You head through. What happened to him saying you needed a break?

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

When you get through the mirror, Grim is still nowhere in sight, which only means he’s inside of the building. Great! One thing after another it seems.

You head into the castle-like place and walk through the ornate and sparkly hallways, passing by students who pause and go quiet at your appearance, which is tired, hungry, and pissed the fuck off due to the shenanigans Grim is pulling currently at the moment.

As you finally push into the lounge, Grim is yapping to Vil, Grims eyes contorted into a look of worry and his face holding a small amount of smugness to it. Vil does a double take when looking at you, and as soon as you lock eyes with him, he looks you up and down, his eyes going a little wide as if he had just seen his makeup pallet get destroyed. A prominent frown envelopes his features, replacing his once stoic and demure demeanor.

“Spudling…” is all he sighs out. The disappointment in his voice is enough alone to make you hold back any complaints you had to tell to Grim.

You’re irked, and your shoulders tense as you look away bashfully. You look at Grim who floats next to Vil, his chin held high as he smiles like he’s won all the tuna he could ever ask for.

“Eyes on me.” His stern voice reaches your ears and you look back at him, your lips pursed and your hands now behind your back, standing at attention.

“Look at you…” he sighs again as he walks over to you, his eyes narrowed and unwavering as he inspects you carefully, most likely pinpointing everything wrong with you.

“Rook relayed the information to me as to what happened during PE. I would have found you myself if not for Grim leading you here. At least he’s useful for that.” He clicks his tongue, a regular action for him to make while disapproving of something.

“Truly, what makes you think what you’ve been doing is any good?” He crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one leg as he waits for a response.

“I. Well. You just- I don’t think you’d really understand, Vil, if I can be honest.” You shake your head. “I have to do it. To stay here, you know? So, it’s whatever. I’m fine, I promise. Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night and that’s it-“

“Don’t play coy. Anyone can see that you’ve been disregarding your own body’s needs for more than just a night, and sleep is not the only thing you seem to be lacking.”

His words cause you to bristle up, your muscles close to cramping at how tense you’ve become. He looks at you still with a frown and the unamused tone in his voice is…unnerving.

“Ok, well, it’s things I need to get done-“

“I won’t sit here and listen to your feigning utterance.” Vil sighs, yet again, uncrossing his arms and moving to place a hand on your shoulder. In contrast to his demeanor, his touch is soft yet grounding. You visibly relax and you sigh out a soft breath.

“I’ll have Rook see Grim to Heartslabyul, you’re not leaving until I deem you fit to go on your way.” He hums as his hand slides to your upper back, silently and slowly ushering you to follow behind him. His heels click on the ground as you're already halfway down the hall, just now realizing what his words imply for you.

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

It’s true Vil took a liking to you, but he’d never admit that, his ego could be damaged, and he prefers to show that he cares through actions, anyhow, being a strong believer in that they speak louder than words.

As soon as you both reach Vil’s dorm room, he has you sit down at his vanity, gently spinning the seat so you’re face-to-face with yourself in the mirror.

“Your eyebags are so dark, and your eyes are sunken in, as well. Your hair also happens to be dry in appearance and texture. Are you eating? I’d hope so, because there is no way to take care of your body by skipping meals.” He rants on as his hands gently work to slip off your blazer, slipping it off of you and draping it over the chair.

“I forgot to eat.” You lie. A white lie. You weren’t that far off from the truth, skipping meals was necessary in your case, money was low and Grim needed to eat more than you, a sacrifice you were willing to make.

Vil pauses, his hands resting on the back of the chair as he looks at you through the mirror. If he kept frowning at you like that he’d get wrinkles, then blame you.

“Pitiful excuse, potato.” He clicks his tongue. “I hope you realize that you don’t have to lie to me.” He shakes his head.

“Wait, Vil, how the hell did you even…I’m not gonna ask.” You cross your arms.

“You’re easy to read, Prefect. You’re not as imperceptible as you may make yourself out to be” He huffs out.

“Lay it on me. It’s good to vent, Potato. It’s quite beneficial, especially to those who have a lot on their mind. It provides an escape.” His voice dips a little lower, becoming softer. You look at him through the mirror again and you see his facial features severely lacking that contemptuous look he always has, and instead it’s replaced with a soft, almost empathetic look.

“I…” is what you can manage to croak out for a second before you clear your throat and look down at your hands in your lap, leaning back in the chair.

“I guess, well. Crowley, you know him. I just have been busy with the work he’s given me, and also the assignments I have to do. Money is tight as always…I have to be careful with what I or Grim buys, so…” you slowly stammer out, the frustration and tiredness in your voice evident.

“I’m just stressed out. Tired, which I guess that’s clear to anyone, though.” Your voice quivers slightly, and before you even know it tears fall down your face, a sentiment to your situation.

You don’t hear any reprimanding from Vil, no sighs or clicks of tongues as you keep your head down, no, none of that. Vil gently moves off to the side of the chair and turns you to face him, gently dabbing at the tears that cascade down your cheeks with a tissue.

“I’m sorry…” you manage to mutter out weakly.

“Nonsense. It’s normal, sweet potato.” He gently murmurs back, his voice mellifluous and calming, anchoring you back to the moment. You take the tissue from his hand and you turn your head away.

“If it makes you feel better, I too, cry. There’s a science behind it in which it releases chemicals to promote a sense of well being.” He hums. “As well as eases pain.”

“I would have never guessed.” You sigh out, albeit sarcastically, now dabbing at your nose.

“Sarcasm? I see you're slowly reviving.” A small smirk forms on his face as he shakes his head.

“I think we have a self care night set in place for us, what do you say?” He inquires.

You hesitate for a moment but you meet his questions with a small nod, earning a genuine and gentle smile from Vil.

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

You are pampered, of course. It’s only natural. Vil goes to any extent for the people he holds dear, and you were in need of a night of relaxation. You are fed well with a nutrient dense meal to hopefully make up for your lack of care for your eating habits, and now there’s more in store…

After a few strenuous minutes of following his lengthy skincare routine, you both sit clad in silk robes that are probably worth more money than you could ever make in your life, but the moment is still peaceful. And even more to your surprise, you sit with Vil in his raw form. No makeup, no demeanor that yells “I’m the Vil Schoenheit,” no, just Vil.

He hums quietly as he deliberately shapes your nails, not sparing you a glance as he’s too focused at the task at hand. The calmness of the atmosphere is doing no help in keeping you awake and alert and you soon find your eyes start to grow heavy.

Vil quietly excuses himself to head over to grab a bottle of clear coat for your nails, but before you know it, you fall back onto the comfy bed sheets of his bed, perfume and other scents sending you into a deep sleep before you could even stop yourself from doing so.

“Y/N, would you like color or just the clear coat-“ He looks at you, shutting up immediately as his arms fall to his side. His footsteps are light as he shuffles over to the side of his bed, looking down at you. He sighs and shakes his head.

he moves the comforter over your body, bringing it up to your shoulders. He leans down slowly and places a tentative and soft kiss to your temple before leaning back up.

“This is why self care is important, spudling. I’ll let this slide…just once.”

I don’t know what I was on when I wrote this, but yep, that’s it. Thanks for reading lovelies!

Master list

Please don’t steal or copy any of my work! You may, however, reblog if you’d want to!

Pictures belong to Disney Twisted Wonderland but are edited by me :)

[solarwonux]

Business Proposal || knj (11/?)

pairing: namjoon x f!reader || ex friends to lovers!au friends to lovers!au

Genre: fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, fwb!au, non idol!au, unrequited love

Warnings: slow burn, angst, fluff, flirting,

Rating: mature, 18+

w.c: 4.3k

Synopsis: Namjoon is living on borrowed time, and it’s time to cash in. His father is months from taking his last breathe and his life long dream is to watch his oldest son say “I do.”

A/n: lol hello hi, being an an adult and a social adult is hard. I've had this written since June, but never got the time to edit it. Until now, I hope you enjoy it.xx

Thanks to those who have stuck around it means a lot!

Prev | next

m.list | series m.list | wattpad

Present: 

“I don’t get it?” Casey Han, the newly hired intern in the Writing and Rhetoric Department voices as she leans back in your office lounge chairs. Every Tuesday she comes into your office at four so you can help her review her Master Thesis on Language and Dialects in Different Regions. 

She also uses this as an opportunity to fill you in on the rumors floating around the office, pry you for juicy deets about yours and Namjoons relationship, or thirst over your best friend slash soon to be brother-in-law aka Jeon Jungkook. 

It used to bother you at first, but over the last two months you have grown fond of the graduate student. She has a great sense of humor, knows all the juicy gossip, and mainly buys you an iced americano every Wednesday and Friday morning. 

“What don’t you get Cas?” You stand up from your desk chair, walk to the other lounge chair and sit down. By now, all thesis editing, review, or proof-reading has ended. You get off work in five minutes and you have to wait for Namjoon to finish grading his final papers. A task you finished three days ago. 

“Your fiance is the hottest guy in this building and you’re always holed up in your office. If I was in your shoes I’d never keep my hands off him.” She shrugs, leaning her elbow against the arm rest and resting her chin over the palm of her hands. 

You laugh, shaking your head. If things were different and you didn’t know Casey the way you did, you’d surely be suspecting her of hinting at something else. But you have nothing to worry about with Casey. Her eyes are reserved for Jungkook or Leonardo “Dilf” DiCaprio. Her words not yours.

“I mean we’re together all the time. I think keeping our space at work is just our way of staying professional and it gives us something to talk about at the end of the day.” You shrug, chucking off your heels and crossing your legs underneath you. 

“You’re stronger than me.” She smiles, shaking her head. “But it's cute. One can only dream of having a relationship like yours.”

“Believe me it took a while to get here.” You brush her off. It did. After coming clean to each other, things didn’t automatically become all sunshine and rainbows. There were constant petty arguments about who takes the trash out? Who does the dishes? You vaguely remember getting annoyed with Namjoon because he couldn’t use a knife if his life depended on it. But the two of you decided that if you wanted your relationship to work, couples therapy was the best option. 

So, every Monday at five the two of you see Dr. Heras. It’s helped with talking to each other, and getting to know each other's triggers and how to handle them. The two of you have household assigned chores to each other, but if the other forgets the other has to step up. Nightly recaps are a must, which makes bedtime exciting for the two of you. It’s the main reason the two of you don’t meet up throughout the day until it's time to go home. Things still aren’t perfect but they’re getting better day by day.

Casey claps her hands together, bringing you out of your bubble. Her face is bright like she just remembered something and it excites you. “When is your dress fitting?” 

The brief excitement escapes you when you remember how much you’re not looking forward to it. Not because you don’t want to see your mother and Namjoon’s mother. It’s because you don’t like any of the dresses on the online catalog of Hyugas Bridal. 

“Saturday.” You say, bringing your knees up to your chest and resting your chin on top of them. You’ve tried everything to convince yourself to be as excited as possible. It is your wedding dress fitting after all. A moment every little girl dreams about. A moment you have always dreamed about, but you can’t shake that there’s something holding you back from feeling exciting. 

No, you know exactly why you’re not looking forward to it. The reason starts with Jung and ends with Hoseok. 

He’s been in the back of your mind for the past week. Since the day the mothers have made a groupchat to decide the dress fitting date. At first you thought it was because it would be the first time they would be meeting. Then you shifted your blame when you caught a glimpse of the online catalog. Then one night while Namjoon was out with the boys, you remembered the faint promise from all those years ago, and things started making sense. 

No, you haven’t spoken to the well renowned designer in years. After a year communication between the two of you ran dry. You never resented him for it. You were going through things and he was building his brand from the bottom up. Your problems were only going to make him worry and that was the last thing you wanted. But he’s been living in your head rent free. You keep going back and forth. 

Should I text him?

Should I just settle? 

Should I text him? 

It’s a constant battle. One you haven’t decided on a winner. It’s putting such a damper on a day where you’re supposed to share fond memories with your mother and soon to be mother-in-law. Yet, you just can’t shake the feeling that you know what you want already. 

You're stubborn like that. 

“Why don’t you sound excited?” Casey lowers her voice. Her brows furrow in concern. 

As much as you love Casey and now consider her a close friend. This is something you don’t want to simply get into. So you lie, “I’m just nervous, our mothers are meeting for the first time. And both of them have strong personalities.” You sigh. 

Casey laughs, “I will keep you in my prayers for the rest of the week.” 

You smile, your attention getting caught on Namjoon’s ringtone. You don’t even need to check your phone to know that he’s texted you that he’s done and to meet him downstairs. So, without a minute of hesitation you slip your feet into your heels again and stand up. “Thank you, I think I will need it a lot on Saturday.” 

“Please, please, please send me pictures.” Casey clasps her hands in front of her, pouting and widening her eyes. You smile fondly. Casey has been your first female friend in years. A true girl's girl. A lovely breath of fresh air from all the testosterone you’ve been constantly surrounded by since childhood. 

“Of course, you’re the only one who will get pics anyway.” You round your desk and shut off your desktop, and pick up your work bag slinging it over your shoulder. 

“You mean I’ve knocked down the guys and made it up your list.” She stands up, smoothing down her pleated gray skirt. 

“You will always be at the top of the list Cas.” You smile, getting your phone and unlocking it to Namjoon’s short text: Done, down in 5 mins.

Followed by another one that says: Dinner?

You smile and type a quick: poke bowl plssssss.

You lock your phone and stuff it into the pocket of your gray dress pants. Casey scoffs as she opens the door to your office. “You two are gross and cute.” 

You follow her out of your office, “What do you mean?” You lock your office door and lock your arms with hers. 

“You get this huge smile on your face and then your eyes get all twinkly. It’s a little gross.” She bumps her hip with yours before giggling. “It’s so cute though.” 

“I think you’re making shit up.” You whisper, and she stops walking the minute she reaches the front reception desk. “I’ll buy you coffee tomorrow by the way.” You wink, as she takes her seat in front of her desktop. She still has two more hours left of her shift, and the last two hours are always the slowest. 

“You don’t have to but it's greatly appreciated.” She moves her mouse to wake up her monitor, and slumps in her seat sighing. “I’ll work on my revisions and email you the appointments for next week.” 

“Thanks Cas. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You rush out when you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. You don’t bother to check it nor stay for her to reply the second the elevator dings on your floor. 

“Love ya,” Casey shouts after you, and you send her finger hearts as the elevator door closes. 

“Jin wants to go out for drinks tomorrow.” Namjoon says as he enters the bathroom, leaning against the doorway. His eyes find yours through the mirror as you begin to apply your night cream. 

You hum, placing the container against the counter. “You should go, the semester is almost over and you’ve been working hard.” You say, spreading the cream down your neck, cleaning your hands on a clean towel and proceeding to pick up the tube of your eye cream. 

“I know but he’s inviting Tae and these days wherever Tae goes so does Jimin.” He pushes himself off the wall and walks towards you. “Things are still a little awkward between Jimin and I.” He finishes, facing you and leaning against the bathroom counter crossing his arms in front of him. 

You smile, screwing the cap of your eye cream tube and placing it down. “I think you’re thinking about it too much. Jimin doesn’t hold grudges, plus we’ve talked things through already.” You pat your under eyes with your ring fingers and then turn to face him. “If it bothers you, you should talk to him too, but don’t feel pressured to do so because of me.” 

He nods, uncrossing his arms and grabs your hands, reeling you in. “I definitely want to apologize to him and settle things between us before the wedding, but I don’t feel ready.” 

“Then do it when you are ready Joon.” You reassure, lacing your fingers with his. “But I think you should still go, it’s been months since all of you got together to hang out.”  

Namjoon opens his mouth to interject but you stop him with a roll of your eyes. “Working out together doesn’t count.” 

He sighs, shaking his head, letting go of one of your hands and snaking his arm around your waist, scooting his leg between yours. “Sometimes it’s scary how you know what I’m thinking.” He whispers, placing his forehead against yours. “But I will go, I do miss them a little.” He confesses, and gives you a quick kiss on your lips before hugging you completely. “Can you tell me what’s been bothering you all week now?” 

The only downside of couples therapy and learning more about each other is that neither of you can hide anything anymore. He is well aware that you’ve been up in your head more than usual. 

You pull away, placing your hands on his cheeks. “Sometimes it's scary how you know that I’m thinking too much.” 

He plays with the tie of your bathrobe, chuckling at your response. “Your thoughts are too loud, and you didn’t sleep last night.” He shrugs. “I was waiting for you to wake me up to talk but all you did was sigh and turn a thousand times.”

You pout, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to keep you up too.” 

He shakes his head, “Don’t be. I would’ve interjected but I also know you wouldn’t have told me until your conscience was clearer.” 

You nod. “I’m nervous about Saturday.” 

Namjoon stops playing with the tie and hugs you again. “Don’t be, your mom is great and so is mine and I know they’ll get along fine. We might be making a mistake by introducing them to each other. I have a feeling they will be inseparable after Saturday.” 

“It’s not that Joon.” You sigh, he tilts his head to the side. “I know they’ll get along, it's just that–” You stop biting your lip, trying to sort your words out as quickly as possible in your head. 

As far you know, Hoseok and Namjoon haven’t spoken to each other in years. Jungkook knows why but he won’t tell you. He only says that they lost communication. But it's odd. Hoseok’s career has expanded to the point that he’s getting interviewed by Jimmy Fallon. He’s been invited to all the fashion weeks, and now has his own magazine. Your dream is to one day own one of his purses. You saw the ad for one a couple weeks ago on Instagram. You showed it to Namjoon and he had no reaction. 

Which was weird because you thought Namjoon would be proud of his once best friend. He even grumbled a little when he found your box that kept all the magazine clippings from his previous interviews. It was your way of showing your support from a distance. So, whatever happened between them isn’t a normal falling out with no hard feelings. 

From what you can tell there are hard feelings you just don’t know why. Nor do you want to pry, but the promise Hoseok made you all those years ago keeps echoing in your brain. 

Maybe this is why you’ve been running yourself up the wall. You want to reach out but you don’t know how Namjoon would react if you told him you were. After all, Hoseok was a huge part of your life. A relationship Namjoon witnessed from start to finish. 

“What is it?” He says with concern. 

“I don’t want my wedding dress to come from Hyugas Bridal.” You whisper. 

Namjoon nods, “That’s okay there’s so many other wedding dress shops, you can go to a new one.” He offers. 

You shake your head, “I don’t want any of those dresses from any of those shops.” 

Namjoon’s hands fall down to his side. “I see.” He pauses before, pushing past you and out the bathroom. His demeanor has changed so quickly you begin to suspect that he knows exactly what’s going on. 

You follow him. “Joon what are you doing?” You enter your bedroom. It’s empty and you begin to wonder where exactly your fiance went until you see him walk out of the closet with a slip of line paper in his hand. 

“Here,” He extends his hand. “Text him this is his new number.” He gently shoves the paper further in your direction. 

“What is this? Text who?” You take the folded slip of paper and watch as he walks to the bed, sitting down on the edge. 

“Hoseok, that’s who you want to design your wedding dress right?” He clasps his hands together. “He promised so it’s only right.” He adds, clenching his jaw. 

Now, you’re confused. Actually, you’re beyond confusion at this point. You’re also concerned because Namjoon looks like he’s about to burst. “H-How do you know?” 

Namjoon chuckles dryly, “He told me before he left.” He throws his hands up in the air. “Actually he told me a bunch of things but half of those things aren’t important. What’s important is that you want to wear one of his wedding dress designs so text him.” 

You take a seat next to him. “Why does this bother you Joon?” You say softly, placing your hands on top of his, trying your best to smooth down the grip. 

“Because it was supposed to be your wedding dress for your wedding with him.” He whispers, unclasping his hands and settling them on top of his pajama pants. 

“Namjoon, we were never going to get married.” You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. 

“But you could’ve. He’s been back in town since January. Jin has tried everything to get us to meet again but I keep turning down his invites. If we hadn’t tried to solve our issues I have no doubt he would have contacted you again.” 

You smile, bringing his hands to your lap. “Namjoon, things between Hobi and I are long over. I won’t lie to you and tell you I don’t love him anymore because I do just not in the same way I loved him back then and not the same way I love you now. I don’t want to marry him, I don’t think I ever wanted to marry him in the first place. He will always love his career more than anything in this world and that’s okay. I never will hold that against him because although it hurt when we broke up and I did make bad decisions trying to fill the void I felt when he left. I grew up. We both grew up Namjoon.” You finish, bringing his hands up to your lips and kissing his palms gently. 

Namjoon sighs, “He will likely join us tomorrow and what if you run into him one day and fall for his charms again.” He pouts.

“Are you jealous?” You tilt your head in amusement. He lets go of your hands and rolls his eyes. 

“So what if I am. Is that a problem? He’s a much better man than me in every sense of the word.” He stands up and walks to his side of the bed before peeling back your duvet. 

You turn your body in his direction, biting your bottom lip to stifle your laugh. You’ve recently learned that Namjoon loves to sulk like a child and he has no problem expressing when something petty is bothering him. 

“It’s not, I think it’s cute.” You sit up on your knees, before he scoffs and lays down, his back turned to you. You move closer to him and wrap your arm around his torso before leaning your body over his so you’re face to face with him. “You’re more than enough Joon.” You kiss his temple gently. 

Namjoon rolls onto his back. “Are you sure?” He snakes his arms around your waist tugging you closer. You straddle his lap, and lean down resting your forehead against his. “I wouldn’t be working this hard to make our relationship work and better if I didn’t think you were enough.” 

He throws his head back in defeat. His heart is beating so fast he’s thankful you can’t feel or hear it. His jealousy simmers in dying embers. Despite some unresolved differences between him and his oldest friend, he knows Hoseok isn’t one to try to break marriage apart. 

“I love you,” Namjoon says after a while. His voice is soft and full of tenderness. 

I love you.” 

The last time you felt this nervous was the day you had to read your master thesis out loud in class to a group of judgmental writing students. The sales assistant has been watching you pace for the past five minutes since she led you to the back of the shop. 

You admit it was a long shot, texting your ex boyfriend and world renowned fashion designer after Namjoon went to sleep. Sure, what you received was a very polite and formal message. To which you concluded that it was probably his personal assistant that messaged you. 

So, did Hoseok know you were the one meeting with him about commissioning a wedding dress. Or did he figure it was just a normal customer. Still, the whole process was fairly quick. You figured he had a packed schedule considering he had just returned to his hometown after being away for years. You couldn’t help but wonder how things were going to go today, which was why you were running the clock, driving the sales assistant absolutely insane.

Finally, you get tired of wearing a hole in the ground and take a seat on the white sofa, just as the sales assistant whispers into her earpiece. “Mr.Jung will be here in two minutes.” She voices out, adjusting her blouse before moving to the door. 

“Thank you.” You say crossing your legs and placing your bag next to you. Quickly you decide that’s too comfortable so you uncross them and place your bag on your lap again. Fidgeting with your hands, while the door slowly opens, revealing the one and only Jung Hoseok.

You almost feel like suffocating. Your breath hitches as he strolls in wearing a black suit. His hair is slicked back, and some dark sunglasses on the tip of his nose. He oozes a wave of confidence that you have never seen before, and you begin to wonder if he even remembers you and the promise he made to you all those years ago. 

After five months of being away the two of you lost contact. Three years later he unfollowed you on instagram. Well technically he unfollowed everyone on instagram and only followed one person. A beautiful model whose name was Hailey. For years, they were speculated to be dating, but nothing has ever been confirmed or denied. So, who knows. But now he was here, silent, powerful, and looking better than ever. 

And you feel foolish.

“So he finally came to his senses.” Hoseok clicks his tongue and removes his sunglasses, revealing his beautiful warm eyes. 

You don’t know what comes over you. Just an overwhelming sense of nostalgia and before you know it you’re hugging him tight and crying into his very expensive suit. He chuckles, running a soothing hand down your back. He smells fresh, like a cool breeze on the beach. He feels different, but similar and all the love you once held for him comes rushing back in powerful strokes of color. 

For a moment you feel twenty-one again. 

Finally, you pull away and look at him, taking in all the features you once knew by memory. He has a few wrinkles on the side of his eyes. But he looks sharper in all the right places and you realize that just like Namjoon he has aged like fine wine. 

“I’m sorry.” You sniffle, smoothing out the lapels of his suit. “I don’t know what came over me.” You chuckle awkwardly, looking around, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. 

He chuckles, placing his hands on top of your shoulders. “I see you’re still as emotional as ever.” He notes, running his hands down your shoulders before taking your hand in his. He leads you towards the couch and sits you down before taking the seat next to you. 

“Now, tell me how have you been?” He tilts his head, intertwining your fingers with his. If you didn’t know better, you’d mistaken this for a romantic gesture. But you know better as much as you love Hoseok. The love you feel for him is different from the love you feel for Namjoon. It’s just nostalgia with Hoseok, it’s unforgettable memories that you’ve buried. It’s young love that hasn’t known experiences. It’s the chase but never settling. And you’re ready to settle down. 

“I’ve been great. The fall semester starts next week so I’ve been running around like crazy, in and out of meetings. You know the usual boring work life.” You wave off, wiping your eyes with the handkerchief he's handed you. “How have you been, you look amazing.” You blurt out, widening your eyes. 

He chuckles, “I’ve been better, fashion week is in a month and we are still deciding on garments for the models to wear.” 

“Wow, fashion week.” You say in disbelief, shaking your head, to keep the tears at bay. “You really made it Hobi. I’m so proud of you.” You whisper the last part and hug him once more, letting go of your tears. 

It was so embarrassing but you couldn’t help it. You’ll send him money for the dry cleaners later. 

“It wasn’t easy but knowing I’ll one day have this moment with you kept me going.” He whispers, kissing the top of your head, and pulling away. “You look amazing too, I’d love to have you as my professor.” He winks, making you laugh.

“I’d love to have you as my personal designer.” You retaliate, making him laugh. He lets go of your hands and stands up, posing dramatically. “That’s why I’m here. Now, come on, I have a few design ideas I want to run by you first.” He extends his hands for you and pulls you up quickly. “These are just prototypes but I think they all suit you one way or another.” He says, nodding towards the sales assistant who leaves through the bright pink curtains. 

“Wait, wait, wait Hobi. How do you already have prototypes?” 

Hoseok rolls his eyes jokingly. “Joon and I have been in contact here and there. So, I’ve been designing these since then. And don’t worry he hasn’t seen any of them.” 

You’re floored, your annoyance zeroing in on your conniving and jealous fiance. Why the hell did he make you meeting Hoseok such a big deal if he had been plotting this against your back? But instead of focusing on that, you feel the butterflies in your stomach begin to erupt when the sales assistant comes in with three garment bags. 

“Are you ready?” Hoseok says, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his dress pants. 

Your heart begins to thunder against your chest when each garment bag is hung in front of you. You look at Hoseok who has the biggest smile on his face and you realize what a full circle moment this is for the two of you. You gave up your relationship for dreams either of you didn’t know you’d ever achieve. Yet, here you are. Him a self made fashion designer making a pit stop on his busy schedule to do this for you. And you, you are working your dream job and getting ready to marry the love of your adult life. 

You smile nodding enthusiastically. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

A/n: it's short, but I will try to be more consistent with my uploads. Check out all my other stories too!

[goodfish-bowl]

Check Your Sources

DP Side Hoes Week 2024 Master Post

Day 2: Jazz Fenton - university times

Summary: Jazz has a misunderstanding with a professor over her selected topic for her paper.

Word Count: 1271

AO3 Link

Jazz Fenton had remembered turning in her psychology paper on ecto-psychology, particularly the role of obsessions in the mental state of Ecto-entities, with utmost confidence. She had meant it as a draft for the final paper she intended to published after the completion of her degree. She had already sent in her paper on Ghost Envy for her application to the college, and it was currently in the process of being peer-reviewed, so she needed something new for her current psychology paper. She had compiled the information for it during her last trip to Amity Park, and organized it into this assignment, including multiple citations both within the ecto-science fields and otherwise, to make sure her paper was well-rounded. She had quadruple-checked everything, from her grammar, to her formatting, to the way she cited each of her sources. 

For these reasons, Jazz was absolutely confounded by the red ink and stark zero written at the top of her returned paper. There was a sticky note attached, telling her to talk to the professor after class.

Jazz glanced between her paper, and the professor in horror. During the course of the term, Jazz had developed a deep respect for Dr. Kaplan, and her work on the psychology of people with PTSD. She must have a good reason for giving her such a poor grade, but the fact she received it at all filled her with mortification. She had never gotten a grade so low in her entire education. Jazz needed to know why, but she couldn’t even figure out what she had done wrong in the first place. In the corner of her mind, she had a sinking suspicion, but hoped with everything she was wrong. 

Jazz spent the entire class in a tizzy. Constantly flipping back and forth between the day’s class-work and her paper. Outside of the first page, the rest of the paper was completely unmarked. Frustration began to simmer underneath Jazz’s skin. How was she supposed to fix this if the professor never even told her what she did wrong?! But it would be fine… she was meeting with the teacher after class anyways. 

From that point forward, class moved forward at a crawl. Jazz still couldn’t pay much attention, and found her notes were much less organized than she would prefer. But when the professor dismissed them, Jazz practically darted to Dr. Kaplan’s podium. 

The professor was a thin, wiry woman, dressed professionally, and looked down upon Jazz from behind equally wiry glasses. She gave Jazz a hard-look, almost one of disdain, and it was only the years of facing the nightmares of Amity Park that kept her from physically recoiling. She removed her eyes from Jazz and gazed around the still-emptying classroom. 

“It might be better to have this conversation in my office,” Dr. Kaplan stated, leaving the room, with Jazz practically at her heels. 

Dr. Kaplan’s office was a fair reflection of the woman herself. Neutral colors, her degree on display, and psychology books lining her singular bookshelf. Her desk was dark wood, and chairs cushions a beige leather. The plant sitting by the window was fake. It was all very professional, and at the same time very impersonal and lifeless. Despite the light colors and the sunlight streaming in through the window blinds, the atmosphere was near stifling. 

The professor took her seat behind the desk, and Jazz hesitated, waiting until Dr. Kaplan gestured for her to take a seat. The seats were more stylish than they were comfortable. She gingerly set her paper on the edge of the desk, sitting board-straight in the chair. 

“Ms. Fenton,” Dr. Kaplan practically sighed, “is there a reason you’re not taking my class seriously?”

The question came completely unexpected. “What are you talking about, Dr. Kaplan? I’ve been giving this class my best efforts,” Jazz pleaded. 

Dr. Kaplan frowned, tapping her carefully manicured, neutrally colored nails against her paper. “This assignment says otherwise.”

Jazz frowned, mentally skimming over the paper. “I… I don’t understand. I’ve followed the assignment criteria almost exactly, I’ve even collected first-hand observations.”

Dr. Kaplan looked like she had sucked a lemon. “Ah, yes,” she said flatly. “Ms. Fenton, while you’ve followed the semblance of the rubric for this assignment to a near exceptional degree, a paper on the theoretical psychology of fictional beings is hardly an acceptable paper topic.” 

 Ah, there it was. Jazz had suspected as much, but it still didn’t calm the simmering frustration, boiling into anger under her skin. 

“Honestly,” Dr. Kaplan continued, “for such a brilliant girl, I can only see the submission of a paper like this as a lack of care, and simply unprofessional to boot. To go as far as to make up sources, as properly cited as they are, is simply-”

It was taking everything within Jazz not to blow up in her professor’s face. Her nails were starting to bite into her palms, and her teeth felt sharp in her mouth as she grit them. Had Dr. Kaplan stopped at the whole ‘ghosts aren’t real’ bit, it wouldn’t have been anything she hadn’t heard before. But to accuse her of lying, and making up sources, that was getting a bit too close to unforgivable. She was losing any respect she had for this professor with every word out of her mouth. 

“Those are real sources and I have recordings of the data I collected myself,” Jazz had to keep herself from hissing. “You’re welcome to check my sources. Of course, due to the analog nature of the recordings, they will require a tape player to view. As for the other second and third hand sources, they are all from qualified journals.” 

“I admire the lengths you’ve gone to make your work of fiction as realistic as possible however-”

“Have you heard of Amity Park before?” Jazz could not stop herself from growling out the question, shooting to her feet, unable to take this sitting down any longer. “Have you done any research to support your claim over mine?”

Dr. Kaplan had a deer-in-headlights expression as Jazz towered over her desk, while also simultaneously adding the only color to her entire office through the reddening of her face. “Are you delusional? Ghosts aren’t real.”

Jazz felt what little ectoplasm that lived under her skin hum in tune with her rage as she slammed a hand down onto the desk, crinkling her paper underneath her wrath. This wasn’t about the grade anymore.

 “Ecto-science is a pseudo-science at worst. It is young and mostly unexplored, but it is hardly fictional. Psychology used to occupy the very same space not too long ago. If you had done any research to check your biases, you would have found this out.” 

Something was burning. 

Jazz quickly snatched her paper back into her hands, gritting her teeth, and reigning in her anger as fast as she could. She cleared her throat hard enough for it to sound like a snarl. 

“It appears your classroom will no longer be a conductive learning environment for me,” Jazz spoke evenly, tone carefully measured. “It would do you well to actually look into the topics your students write about.”

Jazz collected her things, already mentally filing out the required paperwork and emails to the Registar’s Office to have her transferred to a different class. She moved to the doorway and gave her professor a polite nod, ignoring the gobsmacked look on Dr. Kalplan’s face. 

“Have a nice afternoon, Professor.”

Jazz fled the room, dead set in ignoring the hand-shaped burn she had left on her professor’s desk and the smoldering paper in her hands.

[sylusonychinus]

Episode 3: The Convention Plan

Series Masterlist Next Episode

The hospital conference room hummed with quiet discussion as you, Jeremiah, and Zayne sat around the table, reviewing documents and research notes.

"Alright," Zayne began, adjusting his coat. "The convention is in a month. We need to finalize our booth setup and make sure Akso Hospital stands out."

You flipped through the files on the table, skimming over the list of competitors. Other prestigious hospitals had already announced their participation, and their setups were expected to be impressive.

Jeremiah leaned back in his chair. "So, what’s the plan?"

Zayne turned his attention to you. "Reader, I want you to design the booth and come up with activities we can do to engage visitors."

You blinked, surprised. "Me?"

Zayne nodded. "You know this hospital inside and out, and you’re good at handling patients. You’ll know what works best."

Your lips parted slightly. So that’s why I was suddenly assigned to his team… He already knew what I was capable of.

You nodded, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement. "I’ll do my best."

Later that day

At your desk, you stared at your tablet, sketching a few layout ideas for the booth. The theme had to represent Akso Hospital—its values, its innovations, and most importantly, its commitment to patient care.

You bit your lip, tapping your stylus against the screen. Maybe a modern, minimalist design? Or something more interactive?

You were so deep in thought that you didn’t notice the presence looming behind you.

"Looks like you're working hard."

You nearly jumped at the familiar voice. Turning around, you found Zayne standing behind your chair, hands in the pockets of his coat, looking down at your work.

"Dr. Zayne," you exhaled, placing a hand over your chest. "You scared me."

He smirked slightly but didn’t apologize. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, glancing at your sketches. "Let me see."

You hesitated before tilting the screen toward him. "I was thinking of a design that emphasizes patient engagement—something warm and welcoming instead of the usual clinical look."

Zayne studied the sketches, nodding in approval. "Not bad. The layout makes sense, and it looks inviting."

His hand reached out suddenly, ruffling your hair in an almost absentminded gesture. "I knew you’d come up with something good."

You froze.

Did he just… pat my head?

Your eyes darted up at him, but Zayne didn’t seem to realize what he had done—or if he did, he wasn’t showing it.

"Just make sure to focus on what the patients would like to see," he added, his tone casual.

You blinked, still processing the sudden warmth that spread from where his fingers had brushed your scalp. "What do you mean?"

He tapped a finger against the edge of your tablet. "Think about what would make them feel comfortable and cared for. That’s what matters."

You nodded slowly, his words settling in. "I understand."

Zayne straightened up, slipping his hands back into his pockets. "Good." He glanced at his watch. "I have rounds to do. Keep working on it and let me know when you have a finalized design."

Before he could turn away completely, you mustered up the courage to ask, "Dr. Zayne… Why did you assign me to your team?"

He paused for a moment, then met your gaze. "Because I know you're capable."

Your breath caught in your throat at his simple but weighted answer.

And with that, he walked away, leaving you staring after him.

You slowly reached up, touching the spot where his hand had been moments ago.

Zayne Li… you’re really something else.

Taking a deep breath, you picked up your stylus again and got back to work.

Taglist: @nezuswritingdesk@divxvx@demon-master-zero@mcdepressed290 @syluslittlecrows @seris-the-amious

[pinkacademiaprincess]

Hiii I’m so sorry to bother you!, hope your day goes well <3 I just want to ask, how can I improve in maths? I’m preparing myself for the sat and I have trouble with understanding it. Any tips would be very much appreciated, thanku !! ♡

Become a Math Whiz: Acing Math Class & the SAT 📈✏️📚👩‍🏫

ty for the ask & the kind words! you are never a bother, i'm happy to help 🥰 i can def give some tips as someone who went from struggling w/ math to being good at it. and i’ve taken the SAT so i know that experience as well! i hope this helps 💗

take accountability

it’s very easy to try to shift blame & avoid taking responsibility for your grades/ performance. i used to think things like “the teacher is just bad!” or “i’m just not a math person!” but this mindset is just deflecting. some things are out of your control, like what teacher you have or preferring other subjects, but you have to step up & work hard to create your own success! remembering this will help you stay motivated and disciplined.

find your learning style

i talked about this in a previous post too, but there are different styles of learning - visual, auditory, hands-on, & reading/writing - and not all of them work for everyone. if you spend a ton of time studying and don’t see improvement or results, that’s a big sign that you’re studying wrong. a method that works for your friend or that your teacher uses might not actually be effective for you. so do some research into learning styles and study methods, and find implement strategies that work for you.

never fall behind

okay, easier said than done. but one of the biggest reasons i used to struggle is math is that i would get stuck on a concept, never fully master it, and then i’d stay behind. in math, a lot of topics build on each other. if you get stuck on a topic, it’s crucial that you figure it out asap or your confusion will snowball. you can’t build a solid structure on top of a wobbly foundation. the moment you encounter a problem area, study it until you’ve completely understood.

practice makes perfect

i try to steer clear of recommending specific study methods b/c everyone has different learning styles. but math is so dependent on problem solving & applications that you really have to master this skill in order to succeed. beyond just reviewing your notes & reading over concepts, you need to practice applying topics by solving problems. do the homework questions & do them for accuracy, even if it’s just graded for completion. find extra problems in the textbook, workbook, online, etc. redo questions from class or the hw that confused you until you can do them correctly without your notes. drill it until you can solve them AND understand how the steps work!

ask for help

i am clearly a big proponent of asking for help. in school, your teachers are gonna be one of the best resources you have. for one, they’re teachers for a reason, so even if you think they’re not too great at explaining stuff, they know the concepts. and besides that, your teachers the ones who are creating units, assigning your work, writing & grading your tests... they should be your go-to for questions. visit them during office hours or email to set up a meeting where you can discuss concepts. ask for extra practice problems, ask them to look over your work & let you know how it looks, talk through your work with them. aside from teachers, you can get help from a tutor, a classmate, whoever you can turn to. but pls don’t suffer alone! succeeding with help is still succeeding.

use the internet

so maybe your teacher truly sucks at explaining. maybe you don’t have classmates to help and can’t afford a tutor. or maybe you just wanna supplement your learning another way. i really really recommend utilizing free learning tools online!! khan academy is an obvious one for videos, practice problems, and more. you can also find tons of youtube videos explaining math topics. sometimes it helps to hear things explained another way. i also google “[math concept] practice problems” if i want extra questions to work through.

bonus: tips for SAT math

the SAT is a bit different b/c the math concepts aren’t actually too advanced. it’s all multiple choice so you don’t get to rely on partial points for showing your work. the SAT is testing your strategy & speed as much as it’s actually testing you on math concepts, so here are my best tips for that specifically:

use khan academy’s SAT prep tool - it’s free (!!!!!) and it links to your collegeboard account. it uses prior years’ SAT content so it’s very similar to the test itself. it helps you pace yourself, pinpoint your problem areas, learn & apply concepts, & track your progress. here's a screenshot from when i used it, as you can see my scores improved and i was able to ultimately get a superscore of 1450!

take practice tests - this helps you get familiar with the time constraint. khan academy has plenty!!

do a ton of SAT math practice questions - ideally, find a ton of questions used in prior SAT tests and just crank them out. the test's concepts are quite repetitive so if you just focus on the topics they usually test, you can master them

learn test-taking strategies - the SAT is multiple choice and has a tricky time constraint, so however you can save time will help. become good at using the process of elimination & other multiple choice test methods. you can find these sorts of tips online!

i hope this helps! know that you are completely capable of improving at math. i went from thinking i suck at it & doing poorly in math class to acing my calc courses & studying to enter a math-focused field. utilize your resources and figure out your best study style asap, and you WILL see improvements!

[librarycards]

i'm starting grad school soon (course-based master's though!)!! any tips?

indeed! here's a list

practice reading differently. your reading volume has gone up exponentially since undergrad, and you can no longer conceivably read all of everything you're assigned very closely before class. try your hand at speed-reading, seeking out and highlighting key words and points, and tracking thesis/argument-evidence-implications without laboring over every single word.

get zotero. use it. i am actually bad at this but i know it works because it helps whenever i do. save books and notes and make categories for different disciplines/classes!

make friends in your cohort/classes. you will NEED people you can bitch to who know exactly what you're bitching about. you will probably also need their help/insight on at least a few difficult readings, and vice-versa.

this is obvious, but PIRATE YOUR BOOKS if they are not already given to you.

another great way to get the most out of your readings, especially very "classic" ones, is looking up others' book reviews/criticisms of said readings on google scholar. it helps to be able to draw on others' insights/outside literature, especially if and when you will need to write a term paper on that reading. you'll already have citations locked down.

don't be afraid to ask your professors if you can do something unconventional for an assignment. generally, they want the course to be useful to you more than they want uniformity.

don't be afraid to chat in general with professors, visiting scholars, etc. go to conferences whenever you can. sign up for listservs. network. this will help you down the line, even if you don't stay in academia. i have cool queer, trans, disabled people i can stay with across the country and around the world, in part as a result of academic networking and conferencing.

speaking of which, disability works differently in grad school. in my experience, grad school provided many more opportunities for accommodation with a lot less "proof" needed on your end, because we are all adults with needs who can be trusted to attend to said needs as we need to. i didn't register with my university when i started this program, and instead was candid with my profs about needing my zoom camera off when that was a thing; needing to leave the room at times; and needing flexibility with days off.

some profs will suck. this is why you need friends to bitch with! there usually isn't much you can do, however, being in grad school means you do have more temporal flexibility (and also flexibility in what classes you actually need to take). i've dropped several classes bc the professor just sucked.

have fun and enjoy yourself! grad school is a special time that you get to devote to your very niche thing, and have other people genuinely give a shit about it. your whole job is to be the nichest little autistic bitch in the establishment. it is a challenge at first to get accustomed to the norms, especially if (like me) no one in your family has gotten an MA or PhD before. but it gets easier and is 100% doable, and gets even easier with a strong support system.

good luck and yippee!!

[richarlotte]

How do you study and keep a 4.0 GPA?

I start with a to-do list to track my progress. I have sections for deadlines, assignments I need to complete, and extra credit opportunities. I keep it all color-coded; red means that I haven’t started an assignment and need to get on it, yellow is in progress but not completed, and green is done and mastered. 

 

Before every exam, I (1) reread my books and notes from lectures, (2) follow the Cornell method for creating flash cards, (3) do practice-related problems and drill problem areas, (4) review homework problems, and (5) do a practice quiz. I think this is what really helps me and what helps me keep my grades up; drilling materials has always been the way my mind learns, and when I drill, I drill in a way that sticks. 

 

I use my iPad to take notes. Again, I follow the Cornell Method. I have a section for my notes, a section for key terms, and a section to summarize the material. My flashcards also follow the Cornell Note Review. I believe that the Cornell Method involves more interaction with the written material, and I depend on it to learn the new materials I’ve ventured into studying.

 

When I’m reviewing my practice problems, I color code. Red means that I can’t afford to not practice more on that set, yellow problems aren’t worrisome to me, and green means I’m in the clear. I never skip red problems when I’m revising. I write my problems in black, then go in with blue so that I can see my thought process. It’s about the process for me, not the solving. 

 

I use a timer to keep myself on track and remind myself to take breaks, and I don’t study in my room. I’m fond of booking study rooms at the library or using one of the study cubicles in my sorority house. I also make a habit of going to office hours and participating in class, studying/interacting with my peers, and participating in groups/activities related to my classes. 

[ricksdirtyarchive]

Professor Sanchez P.1 📖

MULTIPART - MASTER LIST

You were sitting in class, waiting for the professor to come in. You were an Astrophysics major, hoping to work at NASA. You were a senior.

You looked up to the front of the lecture hall to see a blue haired guy with a lab coat writing on the board.

"Hello my name is Professor Rick Sanchez and welcome to As-*burps*-trophysics 1526. I noticed there's a limited number of you in this class, meaning either the 15 of you are seniors or really smart freshman." He spoke. His voice was raspy, yet in an odd way, soothing. "So, please go aro -*burps*-und and tell me your names and why you're in Astrophysics and something you like to do in your free time"

You sat on the edge of the last row, closest to the outlet and the window. You liked the gentle heat the sun provided and a good view of the lawn.

"I'm (y/n), I'm in Astrophysics because it's my major" you shrug. "I like building shit" you added.

"Grrrreat!" Professor Sanchez said. "Let's get started. I suggest getting out a piece of paper and taking notes" he begins writing on the board. You immediately recognize the equation, the lane-emden equation for polytropic stars. "Can any of you tell me what this *burps* is?"

"The Lane- emden equation for polytropic stars" you said aloud.

"And it's used for?"

"It's used to model the internal structure of self gravitation, spherically symmetric polytropic stars. It's describes how the pressure, density, and temperature of a star vary with radius, based on the assumption that the star's equation of the state follows a polytropic relationship" you explain. Professor nods his head slowly, as continues to write.

"Great. Now, all of chapter 1 is staged *burps* around Polytropic stars. Can anyone explain to me what a polytropic star is?" He turns to the class, his eyes settling on you. You chose not to answer this question, so you didn't seem like a know it all. The class stayed quiet, everyone searching through their books to figure out what a polytropic star was.

"Its a star whose internal structure can be described by a polytropic equation of its state?" Another student says.

"Partially correct." Sanchez says flatly. You had a feeling a lot of the kids here that walked around acting better than everyone were gonna get reality checked. "You missed the keys fact of it being an idealized model of stars"

"Oh..." the kid said quietly.

"What's your name?" He pointed at the kid who was speaking,

"Michael"

"Okay, Michael, give me the relationship between gravitational force and polytropic stars and tell me how it affects their internal structure" Sanchez spoke coldly. He was testing him. You had looked this guy up in Rate My Professor, no stars and very little reviews. You picked him because it said he gave very little homework, but apparently super hard, almost impossible.

An hour later, his watch went off, signaling the end of class. You guys looked around at each other, confused.

“Okay, well that’s the end of today’s class. I’ve assigned you homework, it’s explicitly written in Canvas, homework’s due by the morning of next class which is…?”

“Wednesday” someone said aloud.

“Yes, great. If you *burps* have questions email me. Check the syllabus for any contact information and my office hours are listed. I suggest you use them, this class - not just mine- has a very low success rate” Professor stated as everyone began to pack up. “See you twerps on Wednesday”