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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 8 months ago

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FIREFLIES NEVER CAME ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; your seat is close to the heater. that’s the only reason gojo comes there to warm up.

word count; 4.2k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, teen!satoru, set in a canon au, mutual pining, fluff, a little bittersweet (melancholic winter vibes <3), introvert/extrovert, reader is antisocial and dense as a brick (black cat vibes :3), also kind of self-deprecating, satoru is very shoujo manga coded, just lots of puppy love!! feat. wingman!suguru <3

a/n; this wasn’t meant to be a fic …… it was gonna be really short and sweet ……… (T_T) anyway i am very fond of this reader/character dynamic so i hope you enjoy reading abt my emotionally stunted kids 🫶 biggest mwah in the world dedicated to professor logan (@staryukis) for teaching me about physics so i could find a loophole in satoru’s infinity :3c all for the sake of lore-accurate (kinda) fluff <3

”what are you listening to?”

your seat is close to the heater.

it was nothing but a lucky draw, on your part. yaga-sensei was organizing the desks on your first day, and so he gave you the first choice; one you had no trouble making, latching onto the chair in the very back, right by the window. right by the sole heater of the room. vital for surviving your chilly winter classes.

so there you sit. warmth sneaks through your fuzzy socks, tends to your restless legs; your feet tap and tap on the cold floorboards, in rhythm with your never-ending thoughts, planets out of orbit.

through the fogged-up, frosted glass of the window to your left, you observe the world. headphones safe and snug and covering your ears, muffling all grating noise. you watch as snow falls, wholly entranced, eyes stuck on the icy snowflakes descending from the wool-gray sky — blanketing the frostbitten landscape of the courtyard. it’s pretty, all those skeletal trees, glittering and gleaming like they have something to say. sometimes they look like stars.

”… hey. did you hear me?”

gojo is being particularly chatty, today.

out of the corner of your eye, you see him wave his hand right in front of your face. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s rude; he must be used to all eyes being on him, from the moment he speaks.

with a flutter of your lashes, you lift your weary head. just to meet his gaze, the blurry shine of your own visage, reflected in his circle-frame glasses. a soft tilt of his head, and then his lips are twitching upwards, just barely, snowy strands gliding across his forehead and falling over his face. like an excited puppy.

”what are you listening to?”

you read the words off his lips, all sound muffled by your headphones. quick to lift one of your hands, pulling one of the heavy cushions away — letting all white noise in the room flood your senses. the snarls of the wind outside, ieiri’s laughter, the scribbling of geto’s pen against paper. monotone. loud.

it’s overwhelming, but a small price to pay. his voice is softer than usual, during moments like these; there’s a pleasant lull to it.

gojo tips his head to the right, still awaiting your response. all you can do is stare, watching your own reflection, fingers gripping onto the edge of your desk. as if seeking to ground yourself.

with a spoonful of hesitance, you part your lips.

”… do you like music?”

the words seep out into the air, a softly exhaled breath. gojo watches you, silently, for just a moment.

then he gives you a shrug.

”i guess?” he hums, shifting his weight from one foot to another — hand slipping into the pocket of his uniform. ”that’s more suguru’s thing.”

ah.

your mouth forms around the syllable, as if responding, but not making any sound. gaze fleeing from his glasses, crumbling under their weight, straying towards the frosted window to your left. safe, familiar, rotting trees and twitching branches. snow just as pure as the boy in front of you.

silence overtakes you both, once more.

”... not gonna answer?” he asks, with another tilt of his head, absently rocking side to side as he lets out an exhale. ”is it a secret, or something?”

(it is, you think. but you can’t say it out loud.)

before you can part your lips again, the classroom door slides open — and you know it’s yaga-sensei just by the way his feet hit the floorboards, the decisive weight behind every step. you know even before he’s telling you to get back to your seats.

on cue, gojo stands up straighter, shooting you another glance. bright-eyed, easy-going, every star in the sky leaping out from the glimpse you get of his eyes when he angles his body. two blue pools, flecked with white, like frozen puddles in the street.

and then he’s strolling away.

gojo leaves, and you take off your headphones; stretching your legs underneath the desk. reaching for your ballpoint pencil, flipping open your textbook, and indulging in sleepy blinks, as yaga begins to drone on and on. you stifle a yawn with the sleeve of your blazer, resting your jaw on the heel of your palm. eyes inevitably straying towards a head of white hair.

but your name is called before you can get lost in your daydreams.

”page 27, from the top.”

your chair scrapes against the floorboards, as you sluggishly stand up. holding onto your textbook, flipping the pages until you land on the correct passage. with shaky hands, not enough to notice, you read out loud; voice controlled, almost monotone. all you can think is that you feel his frost-clad eyes on you, from the row straight ahead.

but you continue to speak. you speak until you reach the end of the page, until you’re allowed to take your seat again, happy to feel the warmth of the heater radiate against your legs. it’s this warmth that’s important, the most important thing of all.

without it, gojo wouldn’t bother to stop by your desk.

nearly every recess, as soon as yaga leaves the classroom, he’s waltzing over — leaning against the wall, stretching his arms out, purring contentedly as heat spreads throughout his body. you think he must run cold. chatting with you, just to pass the time, just until your teacher comes back. just to warm up.

then he’s leaving, again.

that’s all it is. a cold boy, and a heater by your desk — a conversation that otherwise wouldn’t have occured. even the strongest is vulnerable to changes in temperature, you suppose.

though if warmth is all that binds him to you, it’s bound to dwindle away.

(you’re sure he’ll stop as soon as spring comes.)

the next day, gojo is nowhere to be seen. you saw yaga-sensei drag him out of the classroom this morning; something about a clan meeting, something you weren’t paying attention to.

but now you wish you had.

(it’s quiet, without him around. eerily so.)

with nothing to lose, and nothing else to do — you push your chair away from your desk, and walk up to your classmate, a question on your mind.

”… music? are you looking for recommendations?”

you nod.

geto blinks. caught off guard, you’re sure, surprised that you’d approach him without any prior coaxing. he’s usually the one striking up a conversation with you, like a responsible class president, making sure the weird kid doesn’t feel left out. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s patronizing.

”hmm... well, that depends.” he gives you a smile, soft around the edges. it never feels as genuine as gojo’s, but it’s calming. ”what kind of music do you usually listen to?”

…

you glance down at the floor. bundling up the cuffs of your uniform, fingers clawing softly at the fabric, bottom lip trapped between two sets of teeth.

”… what kind of music does gojo like?”

silence. your words are barely spoken, just above a whisper, just like always, but geto picks up on them anyway. you can tell he does, can feel the weight of his keen eyes on your face. analytical.

then he parts his lips.

”… ohhh.” a low hum, ripe with meaning, buzzing at the bottom of his throat. the corners of his lips quirk up into a knowing smile. ”i see.”

heat rushes to your cheeks, blossoms under your skin. if he notices, he’s even more composed than you thought he was, because he doesn’t mention it. only continues to speak, in that soothing voice, crossing his arms in silent thought.

”hmm…” you follow his gaze, out towards the window, the same webs of frost as always. it’s not snowing, but you still can’t see the blue of the sky. ”i’ve never seen him listen to music before, so i wouldn’t know.”

you can’t help but deflate, at that.

geto only smiles. exhaling, through his nose, mildly humoured — though he’s good at hiding his amusement. ”… what do you think that means?”

a blink. your lashes flutter, as you gaze up at him.

”… huh?”

”satoru doesn’t listen to music, but he wants to know what you’re listening to.” he says the words almost coachingly, like he’s listing off a string of numbers. you realize he must have been listening in on your conversation, but it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as his tone. ”what do you think that means?”

…

(you haven’t got a clue.)

geto lets out a chuckle, laced with mirth, no longer trying to hide it. paired with a soft shake of his head, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes. ”why do you want to know about his taste in music, then?”

(… that’s a good question.)

he seems to notice your hesitance, your apprehension, the way your teeth seek to trap your bottom lip; always the victim of your muddled mind. you know the answer, of course you do — but it isn’t something you want others knowing.

thankfully, geto breaks the silence for you.

”i don’t think you need to try so hard, when it comes to him.” his voice is soft, almost sincere, something warmer than usual. glancing away when you meet his eyes. ”… he isn’t worth the effort, anyway.”

but that’s where he’s wrong.

satoru gojo is a special case. a special person. in the orbit of your life, there’s no star you’d rather keep — no one quite as ripe with colour.

geto couldn’t possibly understand, because gojo is always with him — always orbiting around him. he always will, until you graduate, probably even beyond that. geto has him. they’re the strongest, a pair, always matching their steps to one another. but you only have these quiet days, these chilly classes in between never-ending missions — and that’s all.

when the frost outside the window thaws, gojo will surely stop visiting your desk. your lonely little world.

that’s exactly why — you need to find a song. if you just teach him about something wonderful enough, if you can give him something other than warmth…

(… maybe he’ll stay with you even after spring comes.)

”next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?”

geto’s suggestion breaks you out of your thoughts. when you raise your head, to meet the warm pools of amber in his eyes, he gives you a smile. there’s nothing patronizing about the way he’s looking at you now — if anything, you think it may even be slightly fond, but you can never tell what he’s actually feeling. he’s frightening, like that, always a mirror to his circumstances. a chameleon, tilting his head at you.

… though you can’t help but fall victim to the kindness in his eyes. the velveteen purr of his voice.

”i’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

a nervous pit opens up in your chest, an empty space that gnaws incessantly at your heart. will he?, you want to ask, but it feels like the words are made out of lead. you can’t get them out of your throat.

”… okay,” is all you end up whispering, a soft lull of your tongue. ”i’ll try… thank you.”

geto rewards you with a full smile.

”don’t mention it.”

spring is closer than you thought.

it’s all you can think, when you step onto the pavement, when you feel the morning air gnaw at your frostbitten cheeks. it’s freezing, it’s winter, but the signs of changing seasons are still there — a lonesome snowdrop, the crackle of an icy puddle beneath your feet. the frost is beginning to thaw.

in a month or so, spring will be here — there’s no stopping it.

”did you bring your card?”

your headphones rest around your neck, allowing you to listen in on your classmates' conversation. all four of you are together, for once, all first-years, walking towards the nearest konbini — at gojo’s insistence.

it’s been a week since you had that talk with geto, but you still haven’t made any progress with him.

”huh? was i supposed to?”

”… are you kidding me?”

you glance up at the pair. always walking just a little bit ahead, their tall statures obscuring the view in front of you; shoko lags behind, with lazy steps, a trail of tobacco drifting out into the crispy air. all while snowflakes fall from the sky, gently, landing in your hair, on your shoulders, melting on the inside of your palm when you hold it out to catch them. watching as they turn into droplets of water, slip through the gaps between your fingers.

someone taps your shoulder.

geto has snowflakes stuck in his hair. they’re melting, in the strands of ink-black framing his face, matching the colour of the thick polo jacket he’s wearing. a bright red scarf is tied around his throat, and there’s a weighty look in his eyes — something telling.

a silent cue.

he falls back, slowly but surely, into ieiri’s lazy pace. not before murmuring something unintelligible to gojo, and shooting you a wink — one that makes you frown, confused, a low heat blooming at the base of your spine and crawling up your neck.

and then you realize what he’s done.

gojo is looking right at you, through the black glass of his specs. only wearing a baseball jacket, no gloves or scarves to keep him warm, despite the harsh bite of the open air. for a guy who runs cold, he must not put much thought into his clothing.

more importantly…

it’s just the two of you, now.

you blink at him, silent as a mouse. it only takes a moment for him to start moving, for you to follow, taking your place beside him while staring right ahead. if he’s bothered by geto slinking away, he doesn’t show it — only continues to walk.

”… that’s so unfair.”

gojo’s voice breaks the silence. you turn your head to gaze at him, the way his lips wrap around the vowels, haphazardly hanging onto every word he speaks.

”just ’cause i have clan money,” he kicks at a pebble on the side of the road, wisps of white hair swaying with a shake of his head, ”suguru thinks i should pay for our snacks. isn’t that unfair?”

you hesitate. then you nod along, absently.

he seems to take that as a yes, because it makes him brighten — as if gleaming with your approval, standing a little straighter, puffing out his chest with an exhale that turns into white smoke.

”right? they only give it to me because they want me to come back to kyoto, anyway…” he trails off, holding the tip of his tongue between his lips. ”… not that it matters. anyway, i just think he’s oppressive.”

”… mm.”

from this angle, you can see a sliver of his eyes. can see the way he steals a glance at you, without even turning his head — hands slipping into his pockets. there’s a moment of silence, until he’s parting his lips again.

”… i can buy some for you, though.”

(you barely pick up on the words, spoken almost in a whisper — as if an afterthought.)

he clears his throat.

”… if you don’t have the money, i mean.”

you can’t help but blink, at that — lashes fluttering in rapid succession, wondering if you heard him correctly. he doesn’t seem keen on elaborating, though. walking on, ignoring all snowflakes descending from the sky, eager to nuzzle in between his locks. his infinity keeps them out.

”… why?”

it’s all you can say. all you can verbalize.

(in a story like this, why would the brightest star of all orbit around someone like you?)

gojo gives you another glance. his iris cuts into your skin, observes you on what you’re sure must be a molecular level. he lets silence linger, for a moment, tipping his head back to look up at the sky.

gray, and more gray. flecks of white. you’d see the same thing he does.

”hmm…” he lets out a breath, head falling forward again, snowy strands ghosting against the skin of his forehead. ”let’s call it a trade.”

another series of blinks.

gojo turns towards you, then — a fresh grin blooming on his lips. white teeth, pink gums. it makes him look boyish, innocent, just another city boy with too much time on his hands.

”i buy you snacks — and you tell me what music you’re always listening to.” he bends his body forward, tilts his head at the same time, all lanky and charming, like a big cat. ”deal?”

you stay silent.

he’s looking at your headphones, still left neglected around your neck. your gaze falls down to the icy concrete, the thin layer of frost, waiting to be melted by the first sunrays of spring. whenever that will be.

geto and shoko are still behind you — you can hear their low, muffled chatter, smell the remnants of tobacco in the air. and you swear you can practically hear geto’s words, echoing through your head.

(why do you think that is?)

gojo is still looking at you. expectantly, lips curled up into a lazy smile. he’s waiting, you know he is, and you also know he isn’t very good at that. you know a lot of things — what you don’t know is what to say. you don’t know if you can believe in whatever geto was insinuating, don’t know if you can grapple with your own longing to do so.

(next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?)

geto doesn’t get it. he doesn’t know what your feelings towards gojo truly look like. doesn’t know that what’s on your mind when he’s around is always something horrifically embarrassing. something like, i want to know more about you, or maybe i wish i could tell you more about me. something awfully cheesy, like — i’m jealous of how bright you shine, but i can’t help but like you anyway.

if i become your friend, would it be okay to say i understand your loneliness? that i notice it, even just by a fraction?

would that be okay with you?

(words that should be left unspoken.)

”… well, it’s not like you have to.” gojo exhales, again, the words a heavy weight seeping past his throat. his shoulders slump, as he turns forward, fingers trailing up to scratch at the back of his neck.

all you can think is that he’s getting ready to leave. that nothing will change, at this rate, that spring will wash winter away. that geto should be more direct with his advice, and that if it’s not the music itself that gojo is interested in knowing more about, then surely —

” — i don’t listen to anything.”

gojo stills. the words have flown past your lips before you can reach out and grasp them, slicing through the open air.

he spins around, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose at the sudden motion, exposing his widened eyes. those white lashes, fluttering softly, like a pair of doves eager to get above ground. you grip onto the insides of your pockets, warm and cozy against your freezing hands — it grounds you, keeps you tethered down to earth, down to him.

”music,” you continue, sputtering slightly, as if your lungs don’t quite know how to work under pressure. winter air seeps into your windpipe, cuts the skin there. ”i don’t listen to music.”

you lift your hands, fingers curling around the soft earmuffs wrapped around your neck, hesitantly meeting gojo’s gaze — an overlapping sequence, blanketing his view. then you’re gazing down.

”it’s just… comforting,” you try to explain, speaking softly. ”to wear them. white noise.. tires me out, so…”

the sentence trails off, unfinished. you feel silly. silly for saying anything at all, for building it up so much. silly for being the way that you are.

but when you look up at gojo, he’s brightened like a star.

white teeth, pink gums, that breathtakingly boyish grin. his blue eyes gleam with colour, almost spilling over the corners, like watercolour paint on a too-small canvas. he tilts his head, looking at you carefully, as if truly seeing you for the first time; absently swaying side to side.

if he had a tail, you’re sure it’d be wagging.

”i see!”

a silent breath spills into the air. your lips part, but no sound comes out, only vapour; heart pumping blood through your writhing veins, warming you up from the inside, a co-conspirator to the heat blooming in your cheeks. gojo continues to speak.

”i guess that counts,” he nods, crossing his arms with a satisfied hum. ”alright. i’ll get you any snacks you want! you can be greedy, it’s okay.”

a murmur of thanks escapes you, although you’d like to tell him there’s no need. something tells you denying him this would be like taking another step backwards, in this budding connection between you.

(… if you can even call it that.)

geto and ieiri catch up to your unmoving figures, finally, and only then does gojo spin on his heel and pick up his previous pace. calling back to you over his shoulder, a smile you can’t see but still hear.

”just don’t give any of it to those two, yeah?”

”cheapskate,” ieiri calls back, lone cigarette hanging between her lips. geto lets out something like a chuckle, his shoulder brushing up against yours.

you watch gojo’s back as he moves forward. unbothered, untethered. you think of him a snowflake in the breeze.

spring is almost here, now. it’s a bittersweet feeling, to know your conversations during recess will surely dwindle out — but at least you’ll have had this. one normal conversation, the knowledge that he was curious about you, even if you may just be the classmate by the heater in his eyes.

you’re too cold to keep him warm all on your own, so there’s no helping it. you’re willing to accept that some stars only show from the surface during winter.

you’re willing to accept this. it aches, a little, but you’ll be okay.

”i’ll take it things went well, then?”

geto is wearing his signature smile, when you look up at him. an expression of carefully concealed composure, lips curled up, but a knowing look in his eyes — something that borders on teasing.

you give him a nod, a bow of your head, to silently convey your appreciation. chameleon or not, you don’t really mind his ways. it’s hard to fake the warmth in his voice, when he speaks.

”i’m glad.”

the two of you watch gojo’s back, like birds gazing out at a body of water. silence lingers.

”won’t that moron get cold?”

ieiri’s voice cuts through the mold of your mind, low and gravelly, right beside you. she’s pointing towards gojo — the flimsy jacket he’s wearing.

you’re wondering the same thing.

geto casts her a glance over your head, before gazing down at you, seemingly noticing your curiosity. he lets out a low hum; reaching a hand out to brush away the snowflakes on his shoulders.

”temperature,” he begins, slipping his hands into his pockets; that familiar coaching tone to his voice, purposefully slow. ”is just a measure of atoms in rapid motion.”

you tilt your head, in tandem with ieiri — looking to your classmate for further elaboration. he seems to enjoy your confusion, lips curling up just a bit. gojo calls out to you, in the distance, waving both his hands, and geto returns it with a wave of his own.

an amber eye flicks towards you, an explanation on his tongue. ”his infinity can regulate that motion.”

… another tilt of your head.

geto lets out an amused breath. it scatters out into the air, a cloud of smoke, almost a chuckle.

”basically…” he sighs. ”he does just fine, in the cold. don’t worry about it. he’ll keep himself warm.”

ieiri mutters something, beneath her breath, something like you could have just said no, but you don’t really hear it. you think your heart must have climbed up, somehow; got caught in your windpipe.

ah.

gojo can keep himself warm.

the thought spins inside your mind, over and over, a realization that makes your inner palms feel clammy. stupid, silly, this pitter-patter of your heartbeat. but what else could it mean? if the cold doesn’t bother him, if he doesn’t run cold, then…

(he wouldn’t need it. he wouldn’t need it here, wouldn’t need it during recess, within the chilly walls of your classroom. he wouldn’t need it to stay warm.

gojo isn’t after your heater. if that’s true, then…)

…

you bury your nose in the soft wool of your scarf. breathing in the fading scent, vanilla and cinnamon, grounding you to earth, lingering in your nostrils. distracting you from the rush of warmth, that blooms in the frostbitten apples of your cheeks.

as if sensing your thoughts, or maybe just noticing your embarrassed expression, geto laughs — soft and breathy, shoulders shaking to your left. you hear it, only nuzzling deeper into the comfort of your scarf. feeling your heartbeat spin out of orbit.

in the distance, gojo continues to wave, yelling out something unintelligible. you could mistake him for a star.

spring is almost here, now. in just a month or so, it’ll be at your doorstep — waltzing right in.

(but you aren’t worried.)

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo fluff #jjk fluff

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abbotjack · 1 month ago

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A Year of You

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

summary : Jack experiences the life he never thought he could have—one small moment, one milestone, one quiet act of love at a time. Through first steps, long winter nights, and the ache of watching her grow too fast, he learns that family isn’t something you find. It’s something you make—and hold onto with everything you have.

word count : 11,658

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! marriage intimacy including smut, emotional vulnerability, parenting milestones (first words, first steps, first birthday), marriage-coded affection, strong family themes, soft but explicit depiction of married sexual intimacy, very husband-coded and dad-coded Jack Abbot energy.

MONTH ONE

It’s the first night home from the hospital when Jack realizes no amount of emergency training prepares you for a seven-pound newborn screaming at 2:00 a.m.

You’re crying, too.

Soft, exhausted tears you wipe away with the heel of your hand while trying to figure out the damn swaddle that looked so easy in the maternity class.

Jack watches you for a second from the nursery doorway, heart caught somewhere in his throat. Then he steps in, limping slightly from the long day and the prosthetic pinching at the socket, and kneels awkwardly next to you on the carpet.

“Move over, honey,” he mutters, hands gentle as he scoops up the baby—your baby—his daughter—like she’s something sacred.

"You’re doing good," he says, voice low, rough around the edges. "We’re just outnumbered, that’s all."

You let out a low, breathless laugh and lean into his side, drawn in by instinct more than thought. Jack smells like the hospital—something sharp and sterile clinging to his skin—but beneath it, there's a rougher pull: warm skin, worn leather, the dark, carved scent of mahogany and teakwood.

“C’mon, little bean,” Jack murmurs, voice low and rough with exhaustion. “We’ve made it through worse nights than this.”

You snort under your breath.

“She’s five days old, Jack. What worse nights?”

He shifts the baby higher onto his shoulder, the motion easy, instinctive, like she’s already been part of him forever. Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “You ever been stuck inside a Black Hawk during a sandstorm?”

You smack his arm, half laughing, half crying again, the sound breaking loose before you can catch it. Jack just grunts, the barest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rocks the baby gently, his palm splayed wide over her tiny back like he could shield her from the whole world if he tried hard enough.

“You’re not in a war anymore, Jack,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft, downy hair at the crown of your daughter’s head.

“No,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “But I’m still fighting for something.”

The first month is a mess.

The kind of beautiful mess Jack would throw fists for if anyone ever tried to take it from him.

You both live in pajamas now. The kitchen has surrendered first—an open graveyard of half-drunk coffee cups, takeout containers, and meals nuked just enough to be edible. Some nights, you collapse into bed with the baby between you, swearing you’ll move her to the bassinet as soon as you can feel your legs again.

Jack, somehow, turns out to be better at diaper changes than either of you expected.

“Field dressing a sucking chest wound’s harder,” he mutters at four a.m., hands steady as he peels back the tabs of a fresh diaper. You’re blinking back tears over the latest catastrophic blowout, but Jack just shrugs, casual, like he's back in the desert again. “You just gotta respect the shrapnel.”

You’re better at feeding her—at being soft, patient, warm, even when you’re dead on your feet.

Jack watches you from across the couch sometimes, nursing her with your sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and he thinks about how he almost didn’t get this.

How easily it could’ve gone the other way.

And he aches.

God, how he aches.

At her two-week checkup, Jack nearly decks a stranger.

You’re pushing open the door to the pediatrician’s office when it happens—some old guy with too much time and too little shame leers and says, “Bounced back fast after birth, huh?” His eyes drift lower, lingering where they have no business being.

You freeze, the words catching in your throat.

Jack doesn’t.

He moves without thinking, sliding in front of you with the kind of quiet, coiled force that doesn’t ask twice. It’s instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. His frame blocks you from view, every line of his body taut with warning.

“Move along,” Jack says, low enough to rattle the floorboards.

The guy doesn’t argue. He takes one look at Jack—at the broad set of his shoulders, the dead-calm heat in his eyes—and stumbles off without another word.

Your fingers find Jack’s wrist, a light touch, grounding him before he slips somewhere darker.

He flexes his hand once, twice, the tension bleeding out slow. Then, wordlessly, he threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

On the nights when the house feels too small and the baby won’t sleep unless she’s moving, Jack drives.

He straps her into the car seat so carefully you'd think she’s made of glass, adjusts the rearview mirror just to catch a glimpse of her, and drives the empty streets of Pittsburgh while you nap in the passenger seat, a ratty Allegheny General hoodie drowning you to the wrists.

Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.

Old Johnny Cash songs. Some half-forgotten lullaby he doesn’t realize he knows.

You wake up once at a red light and find him staring at the baby in the mirror like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

You don’t say anything.

You just reach across the console and wrap your fingers around his wrist again.

Jack squeezes back.

Always back.

By the end of the first month, the house is wrecked, your work email has 235 unread messages, and Jack is one wrong word away from brawling with the guy at the grocery store who keeps asking if he needs "help carrying his bags" because of the limp.

Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with the baby breathing soft against your chest, too worn down to even shift her to the bassinet. Tonight’s one of those nights.

Jack walks in from the kitchen and stops when he sees you there—both of you curled into each other, the porch light casting a soft glow across the room.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down. Not onto his knees—he plants himself into a sitting position, legs stretched out, leaning his good shoulder into the side of the couch so he’s right there, steady and close.

He brushes your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, so gently it almost doesn’t touch.

You stir at the contact, your voice thick with sleep.

"You’re tired too. Let me take her."

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

It’s soft. Absolute. Final.

He reaches up, sliding his hand over your shin, anchoring himself to you. His other hand comes to rest lightly on the baby's back, fingers spanning nearly her whole body.

"You’ve done enough today, baby," he murmurs, voice rough and low, barely stirring the air.

"You both have."

Jack tilts his head against the couch, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't need to say it—how much this moment means, how deeply it roots itself inside him.

The weight of it—the love, the exhaustion, the brutal, perfect ache of having something to lose again—presses deep into his bones, his chest, his blood.

And he lets it.

Finally, finally, he lets it.

MONTH TWO

The second month of her life feels quieter—but not easier.

The house settles into a strange rhythm: sleep in broken stretches, coffee going cold on the counter, laundry half-folded before someone cries (you, him, the baby—any of the above).

And Jack, god love him, tries to hold it all together like he's still back in combat—shouldering it, swallowing it, limping through it even when it's bleeding him dry.

You wake up around 3:00 a.m. to the soft, rhythmic creak of footsteps.

The baby’s crying had pierced your dream, but what keeps you awake is the sound of Jack pacing the living room—steady, stubborn, relentless.

You get out of bed and creep toward the hallway, heart aching at the sight you find:

Jack's shirt is rumpled, hanging loose over sweatpants. His hair's a wreck. He's moving with that stiff, exhausted limp he gets when he’s pretending everything’s fine. When it's been rubbing wrong all day and he hasn't said a word about it.

Your baby is pressed against his chest, tiny fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, and Jack’s rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

You stand there for a second, heart splitting open inside your chest.

He’s trying so hard.

He’s carrying all of it.

And you’re not about to let him do it alone.

"Jack," you say softly.

He startles a little, blinking over at you with that war-tired look he gets sometimes, like he forgot he's allowed to have backup now.

You cross the room without hesitation.

"Hey," you murmur, gentle but firm, sliding your hands around his forearms. "Give her to me, baby."

Jack opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already untangling the baby from his arms, lifting her carefully against your chest.

He lets go with a shuddering breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

You bounce your daughter lightly, whispering soft, nonsense words into her ear while you use your free hand to tug Jack down onto the couch beside you.

"You’re limping bad," you say, thumb brushing over the line of tension at his brow. "You’re running yourself into the ground."

Jack huffs, looking away like he’s embarrassed, like admitting to needing anything is too much.

But you don’t let him.

You tilt his face back toward you with two fingers under his chin—gently, insistently.

"You don’t have to earn this, Jack," you whisper, so low it barely stirs the air. "You already have."

He closes his eyes like the words hurt—and heal—all at once.

You settle your daughter into the crook of one arm, and with the other, you start tracing slow, soothing circles against Jack’s wrist.

Just touching him.

Just reminding him you’re here.

That you’re not going anywhere.

Jack leans his head back against the couch, breathing you in. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

He just lets himself be touched.

Be loved.

And somewhere around the fourth circle you draw against his wrist, he shifts closer and drops his forehead to your shoulder with a heavy, broken little sigh.

You turn your face into his hair and close your eyes.

In the second month, the baby starts to smile for real.

Real, gummy, lit-up smiles that make Jack feel like some knife's getting twisted deeper and deeper in his chest every time he sees them.

She smiles biggest when Jack talks. It doesn't matter what he's saying. He could be reading off the damn grocery list, and she lights up like he’s singing Sinatra.

You catch him one afternoon standing in the kitchen, holding her in the crook of his arm like it’s second nature now, explaining in a deadly serious tone why the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to break his heart again this year.

“Listen, kid, it’s tradition. You root for them, they let you down. Builds character.”

You grab your phone and snap a picture before he can bark at you not to.

Jack scowls, but you see the faintest twitch of a smile he can’t fight back.

He wants to remember this.

You both do.

The second month also brings the first real fight since bringing her home.

It’s stupid.

It’s exhaustion and hormones and pride, the way all stupid fights are.

You leave the car seat in the wrong spot—tilted funny, not latched all the way into the base—and Jack’s voice cuts sharper than he means it to when he points it out.

“She’s tiny, for Christ’s sake, you can’t just—”

“I’m trying, Jack!” you snap back, tears already stinging because you’ve been running on fumes for weeks and you hate feeling like you’re screwing up.

“Yeah? So am I.”

You’re both breathing hard, the kind of thin, angry breaths that never come from real hatred—only from fear.

Only from love.

You turn away, chest heaving. Jack grips the counter, knuckles white, wrestling the instinct to bark something else, something mean just to end it.

Instead—he exhales hard, walks over to you, and wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders from behind.

You don’t fight him.

You crumble.

"I’m sorry," he says, rough against your ear. "You’re doin’ good. Better than good."

His mouth presses to your temple.

"I’m just... scared, honey." It guts him to say it out loud. It tears something wide open. But it’s the truth.

You turn in his arms, grab two fistfuls of his t-shirt, and bury your face against his chest.

Jack just holds you.

Breathes you in like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

At her two-month appointment, the pediatrician grins and says she’s perfect.

You hold Jack’s hand in the sterile white room, squeezing so tight he must feel the bones grind together.

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes back.

Hard.

In the car afterward, Jack drives one-handed with his other hand curled protectively around your thigh, thumb tracing slow, steady lines into your jeans.

You lean into his shoulder at the stoplights, both of you blinking back tears that neither one of you says a word about.

That night, when the baby finally sleeps and the house goes still, you coax Jack into the shower first, insisting you’ll handle the night feed if she wakes.

He tries to protest.

You kiss the protest right off his mouth, slow and deep, until he’s dizzy from it. Until he forgets how to argue.

And when he comes back. you’re waiting for him in bed, the baby curled between you like the only piece of heaven either of you has ever touched.

Jack hesitates for half a second in the doorway, looking at you like a man seeing home for the first time.

Then he crawls in beside you, tucking you against his chest, wrapping his hand around both you and the baby like he can physically keep the whole world at bay.

"You’re my best thing," you whisper into his skin.

Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.

You feel the rumble of his voice more than you hear it when he answers.

"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.

"My only thing."

And for the first time since she was born, all three of you sleep through the night.

Together.

Whole.

MONTH THREE

The first real laugh doesn’t come from you.

It doesn’t come from the hundreds of stupid faces you’ve been making, the toys you bought, the songs you sang off-key.

It comes from Jack.

Of course it does.

You’re sitting on the floor one slow Sunday afternoon, sorting laundry, when you hear it—a sharp, surprised little giggle that bubbles out of your daughter’s mouth like she’s just been given the whole damn world.

You snap your head up so fast you almost get whiplash.

Jack’s standing over the bassinet, freshly showered, shirt slung loose over his broad frame, cradling her under the arms and bouncing her so carefully.

She’s looking up at him with those big, bright eyes—utterly delighted just to exist in his arms.

And he’s looking at her like she’s gravity itself.

Jack bounces her again. She squeals, full-body, gummy-mouthed, hands flapping.

Jack grins—a real one, crooked and wide and rare—and chuckles under his breath.

"You like that, huh?" he mutters, voice going soft the way it only ever does for her. "Yeah, you would. Tough little thing."

You don't realize you’re crying until Jack glances over and sees you.

His grin fades, replaced by that worried furrow between his brows you know too well. "Hey. Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

You crawl over the laundry, heart a molten, useless mess, and surge up to kiss him—just grab the collar of his stupid, soft t-shirt and haul him down into a kiss so full of love it knocks both of you sideways.

He catches you with one arm, the baby cradled between you, and lets you sob into his mouth without complaint.

Lets you cling.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

"I love you," you breathe against his jaw when you finally surface.

"I love you so much I don't even know what to do with it."

Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"You’re doin’ fine, baby," he says hoarsely.

"You’re doin’ perfect."

Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.

Not full-time.

Not yet.

Just a couple shifts. Just enough to feel like he’s still the guy who shows up when it counts.

You watch from the kitchen doorway, the baby warm against your hip, as he adjusts the fit of his prosthetic with practiced, impatient hands. The grimace flashes across his face for just a second before he smooths it away.

You shift the baby higher, heart aching.

"You don’t have to prove anything, Jack," you say softly, voice thick with sleep and worry."You’re already everything we need."

He exhales slowly through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his movements stiff with exhaustion.

Then he shakes his head once — small, stubborn, final.

"I gotta do it for me," he says simply.

No drama. No explanation. Just truth.

You don’t argue.

You just step closer, barefoot across the tile, and reach up to cup the back of his neck — that vulnerable, familiar spot you’ve loved for years — pulling him down into a slow, steady kiss.

"Come back safe," you whisper against his mouth.

Jack leans into you for a second longer than he means to, his hand sliding instinctively over the baby's small back, grounding himself in you both.

"Always," he promises, voice rough.

You let him go — but not before slipping a small, folded scrap of paper into the chest pocket of his scrub top when you hug him goodbye.

A stupid, crumpled love note, already warm from your palm.

He doesn’t find it until hours later — after he’s stitched up a kid with a broken bottle wound, after he’s cleaned puke off his boots, after he’s barked orders across the trauma bay like muscle memory.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when he sinks down onto a bench in the stairwell, legs aching, head heavy.

Jack fishes the note out absentmindedly, thinking it’s a scrap of gauze.

But when he unfolds it, it’s your handwriting — messy and rushed, like you couldn't get the words down fast enough:

We miss you. We love you. Come home to us.

Jack stares at it for a long second, the breath catching thick in his chest.

He presses the heel of his hand against his face — hard — willing the burn behind his eyes to back off.

Then he folds the note carefully, tucks it back into the pocket over his heart, and pushes himself upright again.

One more patient.

One more hour.

One step closer to home.

The baby starts reaching this month. Grabbing everything. Blankets. Your hair. Jack’s dog tags, which he sometimes wears tucked under his shirt when he needs grounding.

The first time she grabs them—those worn, cold little pieces of steel swinging free when Jack leans over her bassinet—he freezes.

She wraps her tiny fist around the chain and pulls. Hard.

Jack just stands there, staring down at her like she’s cracked open his chest with one touch.

You come up behind him, pressing your hand to the small of his back, feeling the shudder that goes through him.

"You okay?" you murmur.

Jack swallows.

Nods.

"Yeah," he says roughly.

"Yeah, she’s just... strong."

You curl your arms around him from behind, forehead pressed to the sharp line of his spine.

"You’re allowed to be soft too, y'know," you whisper against him.

"She's allowed to make you soft."

Jack closes his eyes and lets the weight of your words settle into his bones.

Late one night, after a particularly brutal shift, Jack comes home bone-deep exhausted. You meet him at the door, baby asleep on your shoulder, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Jack stares at you like he’s forgotten how to speak.

You press the baby into his arms without a word.

Then you wrap your arms around his waist, lean your cheek against his chest, and stand there breathing him in—hospital soap, sweat, exhaustion, love—until he finally melts against you.

Until he finally lets himself be held. He presses a kiss into your hair, breathing out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

"Missed you" he rasps.

MONTH FOUR

Jack notices it before you do.

The shift.

One morning, while you’re wrestling a footie onesie onto the baby and cursing under your breath about the tiny snaps "Who invented these? Satan?", Jack leans against the doorframe, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.

“She’s different,” he says quietly.

You look up, exhaustion written all over your face, and squint at him.

“She’s four months old, Jack. She’s not gonna start driving a car yet.”

But he just shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving her.

“No. She's holdin’ herself different. Stronger.”

You look down—and sure enough, your daughter is sitting up better now, her spine wobbling but proud, little hands planted on her thighs like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

Jack steps forward like he can’t help himself.

He drops to a crouch—careful with the stiff pull of his prosthetic—and cups one big hand around her tiny side, steadying her without overwhelming her.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice breaking a little at the edges.

"Look how tough you are, bean."

You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Because you see it too. Not just the way she’s changing—but the way he is.

Jack Abbot, who once stood half a step too close to a rooftop edge because the world was too heavy, is now kneeling barefoot on the carpet, whispering praise to their baby girl who thinks the sun rises and sets just for him.

You slip your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the crown of his head.

"I love you," you say simply.

Jack kisses the back of your hand.

"I know," he whispers. "And I love you back, honey. 'Til my last damn breath."

This is the month she starts teething.

You survive it through sheer grit, coffee, and the unspoken pact of taking turns walking endless circles around the house with a red-faced, furious, drooling baby in your arms.

Jack handles it the way he handles everything: quietly, stubbornly, with a fierce, aching kind of patience that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.

You find him one night at 2:00 a.m., swaying barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the baby gnawing furiously on his knuckle while he hums some gravelly, broken tune into her hair.

You lean against the doorway and just watch him, blinking hard against the tears that well up.

Jack catches you watching. Doesn’t say anything—just crooks a finger at you without shifting the baby from his chest.

"Get over here, pretty girl," he rumbles.

You go willingly, sliding into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in the warm, solid plane of his ribs. He smells like soap, exhaustion, and her. Your whole world tucked into one man.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to us," you whisper into his skin.

By the end of Month Four, she’s rolling over.

You’re standing in the living room when you hear Jack’s startled bark of laughter from the floor.

You whip around to find him sprawled out on his side, laughing helplessly, while your daughter beams at him proudly from her belly, arms and legs kicking like she just won the goddamn Super Bowl.

Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.

"Baby girl, you’re killin' me!" he groans. "You’re growin’ up too fast already. Slow it down, huh? Let your old man catch up."

You cross the room, scooping the baby up into your arms. "You hear that?" you coo into her hair. "You’re makin’ Daddy emotional."

Jack props himself up on an elbow, watching you two with the softest damn look you’ve ever seen on his face. The one he only ever shows you. The one no one at the Pitt would even believe exists.

You kneel down beside him, easing your daughter into his arms again. You watch the way his whole body softens around her without thinking. How his scarred hands are somehow the safest place in the world.

"She’s perfect," you say softly.

Jack leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead, then yours.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"So’s her mom."

You spend the rest of the evening curled up together on the living room floor—baby between you, laundry forgotten, the whole messy, perfect world you built breathing around you.

And for the first time since she was born—you’re not scared of time passing. You’re just grateful for every second you get.

MONTH FIVE

It happens by accident.

The first time she says it.

Jack’s sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, hair mussed from sleep, still wearing the black t-shirt and flannel pants he stumbled into after pulling an overnight shift.

You’re curled up on the couch, fighting to keep your eyes open, watching the early spring sunlight spill across the floorboards.

Your daughter is sitting between Jack’s legs, gripping his dog tags in one tiny fist, drooling determinedly all over them while Jack pretends to be scandalized.

"Hey, those are government-issued, kid," he drawls, grinning like a fool. "You gonna pay for ‘em with your drool tax?"

And then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—she looks up at him, eyes bright, and squeals:

“Dada!”

The word is messy. Slurred. Half-drooled through.

But it’s real.

Clear as day.

Jack freezes.

Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.

You sit up fast. "Jack," you breathe.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

The baby bounces in place, fist still clutching the tags, crowing delightedly: “Dada!”

Jack finally exhales, a broken, wrecked sound like he just got the wind punched out of him. He scoops her into his arms so fast she squeals again, arms flailing, laughing.

He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.

"You talkin’ to me, bean?" he rasps, voice thick, kissing the top of her head over and over.

"That me?"

You slide off the couch, crawling across the floor to them, feeling your heart explode into a thousand shimmering pieces inside your chest.

You wrap yourself around both of them—Jack and the baby—your forehead resting against Jack’s stubbled jaw. He’s shaking. Full-body, unstoppable tremors. You just hold him tighter.

"You deserve it," you whisper into his skin.

"You deserve every single thing she sees in you."

Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.

"You’re my whole damn world," he chokes. "You and her—you’re it."

You kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar on his jaw, the salt of tears he didn’t mean to shed.

And when the baby says it again—“Dada!”—giggling and tugging on his shirt, Jack laughs through the wreckage of himself.

Laughs like he’s got a whole new heart built from the two of you.

This month, Jack comes home earlier when he can. Steals hours when the Pitt is short-staffed but Robby covers.

You make a ritual out of it without even meaning to:

Jack coming through the door, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk, immediately seeking you out first.

He always kisses you first.

Even if the baby’s squealing for him, even if she’s kicking her legs and reaching. He presses his mouth to yours first—hard, desperate, like he’s coming up for air.

Then he takes her from you, murmuring nonsense into her hair, like he can't bear to go another second without her.

You watch him sometimes from the kitchen, heart brimming so full it feels like your ribs can’t contain it.

You let the pasta overboil, the laundry pile up, the emails from your accounting firm stack unanswered.

Because nothing matters more than the way Jack Abbot holds his daughter like she’s sacred. Like she saved him.

Late one night, the baby finally goes down after an hour of slow rocking and whispered lullabies.

You tiptoe out of the nursery, heart thudding like you just disarmed a bomb, and find Jack waiting for you at the end of the hallway.

He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. That tired, crooked half-smile lifts his mouth when he sees you.

"She out?" he murmurs.

You nod, grinning like an idiot. "For now. If we breathe too loud, she’ll start screaming again."

Jack chuckles low under his breath. Then he crooks two fingers at you—small, unmistakable—come here.

You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.

Jack’s arms slide around you automatically, strong and sure, pulling you flush against the solid line of his body.

For a few minutes, you just stand there.

Swaying a little.

Breathing in sync.

Letting the world be small and soft for once.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking lazy circles into your hairline. "Miss you," he says roughly, voice low enough that it rumbles against your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look. At the dark shadows under his eyes. The worn edges of him. And the way his whole face softens when he’s looking at you.

"I’m right here," you whisper, sliding your hands up under his old t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. "You always got me."

Jack huffs a soft, broken sound and leans down to kiss you.

Slow.

Lingering.

The kind of kiss that says a thousand things neither of you knows how to say out loud.

His fingers flex against your spine, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still a little terrified that one day he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.

You deepen the kiss, tipping up onto your toes, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Jack groans quietly into your mouth and tightens his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like it costs him nothing. (You know it does—you know he’s tired and sore—but he doesn’t care.)

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, he presses his forehead to yours and just stands there.

Silent.

Anchored.

You guide him gently down the hall, fingers laced through his. The two of you slip into your bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the baby if she wakes.

He eases onto the bed. The prosthetic comes off with a practiced, tired motion — a routine so familiar it barely registers anymore — and he sets it aside without ceremony, like he can't stand the thought of one more thing strapped to him tonight.

You slide into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. Jack doesn’t hesitate—he hooks an arm around you and pulls you in close, pressing you against the steady, grounding thump of his heart.

With his free hand, he pulls the blanket up over both of you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders like he's sealing you in. Then he drops a slow, tired kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than he means to, breathing you in like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world tonight.

You fall asleep like that—safe. Held. Loved. The two of you breathing slow and steady together, with your whole world sleeping peacefully in the next room

MONTH SIX

The thing about six months is—everything starts feeling bigger.

Her smiles.

Her babbling.

The way she kicks her legs like she’s training for the Olympics whenever Jack comes home from a shift.

And your love for her—your daughter—isn’t something neat and quiet anymore. It’s loud inside your chest. It’s messy.

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.

Jack’s still knocked out in bed, sleeping off back-to-back night shifts, and the baby wakes early, squirming and babbling in her crib.

You scoop her up before she can start crying and carry her to the kitchen, heart already aching at how much bigger she feels in your arms.

She babbles nonsense at you while you fix a bottle one-handed, bouncing her on your hip.

You talk back, just as nonsensical, just as giddy.

"Yeah? You think so? I dunno, kiddo, the market’s not looking great for that kind of investment portfolio," you joke, nuzzling her soft cheek.

She giggles—full, wild baby giggles—and you feel it shake right through your ribs. You feed her at the table, tucked into the crook of your arm, sunlight pouring across both of you.

The house is still and warm and safe.

It’s just you and her.

When she finishes, you keep holding her, rocking gently. Her little fingers find your hair and tug, clumsy but affectionate. You laugh quietly and kiss the top of her head.

"You’re my best girl," you whisper.

"My whole heart."

You don’t even hear Jack come in. You just feel the change in the air—the way the world gets steadier when he’s close.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Sleep-tousled hair. T-shirt wrinkled. And looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

"Hey," you murmur.

"Hey," Jack echoes, voice low and rough with sleep.

He crosses the room without hesitation and drops a kiss onto your hair first, then the baby's. Then he sinks into the chair beside you, resting his forearms on the table, eyes drinking you both in like he’s starving for it.

"You’re beautiful, you know that?" he says softly.

It’s not performative.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s just the truth, plain and steady, the way Jack says everything that matters.

You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.

Even after everything—even after the sleepless nights, the spit-up stains, the exhaustion—you still feel beautiful when he says it.

You still believe it.

Because it’s Jack.

And Jack doesn’t waste words.

That afternoon, you all pile into the beat-up Jeep and drive out toward the river, just to get some fresh air.

The baby's strapped into her carrier against Jack's chest, her little arms poking out. He adjusts the straps with the easy, absent-minded care of a man who would walk through fire just to keep her comfortable.

You hold hands as you walk, your fingers laced tight, your body leaning naturally into his.

Jack lifts your joined hands sometimes just to kiss your knuckles, like he can't help it. Like the love is leaking out of him at the seams.

The baby finally goes down around 9:30. You stand frozen outside the nursery door. Across the hall, Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sleepy, crooked smile that always gives him away.

The 'I’d burn the world down for you' smile.

The one he thinks you don’t catch.

You tiptoe toward him, socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and he lifts his hand—palm up, waiting. You grin, fitting your fingers into his without hesitation.

He squeezes once, slow and firm.

"Mission accomplished," he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn't even ripple the heavy quiet of the house.

You snort quietly.

"One kid. One bedtime. And it almost killed us."

Jack tugs you gently toward the kitchen. "Almost," he says, mock serious. "But not quite. ‘Cause you married a damn machine, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.

"A machine who just bribed a six-month-old with four rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and half a pack of graham crackers?"

Jack smirks as he grabs two beers from the fridge—one for him, one he opens and hands to you like he’s presenting you with fine wine instead of a Sam Adams.

"A win’s a win, pretty girl. Don’t question the strategy."

You lean your elbows on the counter, taking a long pull from the bottle, watching him. Loose, hair messy. T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Grinning at you like he’s just happy you’re standing in the same room breathing.

He sets his beer down, then leans in until his forehead bumps yours lightly. "Still married to me," he murmurs, like it’s some grand, ridiculous miracle. "Still puttin’ up with my ass."

"Somebody’s gotta," you tease, nose brushing his. "Can't let you run around unsupervised. You’d live on black coffee and beef jerky."

Jack laughs, low and warm, and drops a quick kiss onto your mouth—chaste, easy. But you feel the zing of it anyway.

The way you always do with him.

Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.

You set your beer down blindly and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Jack goes willingly, hands sliding low around your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt to find bare skin.

He grins against your mouth, voice rough with teasing. "Careful, honey. House is quiet. Baby’s asleep. Husband’s feelin’ reckless."

You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.

"Oh yeah? What exactly is reckless gonna look like?"

Jack leans in again, bumping your nose with his. "Thinkin’ about throwin’ you over my shoulder. Maybe take you to the bedroom. Show you you’re still my girl first and her mom second."

You feel it—the way your heart slams against your ribs, the way heat flares under your skin.

God, you missed this.

Missed him like this—teasing and full of life and all that wrecking ball love aimed straight at you.

You tug his shirt higher, fingers skimming the hard plane of his back. "You’re all talk, Dr. Abbot," you whisper. "You forget—I know you."

Jack’s grin turns dangerous. "You sure about that, honey?"

Before you can answer, he sweeps you off your feet with one fast, practiced move—arms under your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, laughing breathlessly as your beer bottle clatters harmlessly.

Jack crowds into your space, standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, burning dark under the dim kitchen light.

"You’re still my girl," he says, voice dropping.

"Always gonna be."

He kisses you then—and it’s nothing like polite.

It’s deep, dirty, teeth dragging gently against your lower lip before his mouth seals over yours in a kiss so consuming it makes you whimper low in your throat.

Jack groans in answer, sliding his hands up under your shirt, palms rough and reverent over your ribs, your back, the soft curve of your waist.

You clutch at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, your body arching into him on instinct.

The kiss goes on and on—long, slow, greedy—like he’s trying to make up for every second the two of you have been too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in being parents to just be husband and wife.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, faces flushed, chests heaving.

"Love you," he murmurs, so low and wrecked you almost cry. "More now than the day I married you. More every damn day."

You kiss him again, softer this time, and thread your fingers through his.

"Same, Jack," you whisper. "Same. Always."

Jack presses another kiss to your temple, then another to your cheekbone, then one to the corner of your mouth—because he’s a man who doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.

And you let him.

You let him kiss you like he’s starving, let him hold you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Because you are.

You always have been.

MONTH SEVEN

The late afternoon light spills golden across the living room, catching on the scattered toys and half-folded laundry.

Jack’s flat on the carpet, army-crawling after your daughter, who’s shrieking with laughter as she belly-flops toward her stuffed dinosaur.

"And she’s on the move!" Jack calls, his voice exaggerated and playful, dragging himself forward with his arms, shifting his weight carefully off his prosthetic like it’s second nature now.

Your daughter lets out a victorious squeal as she clutches the dinosaur, kicking her legs against the carpet.

Jack grins up at you from the floor, flushed and a little breathless. "Looks like the rookie’s got me beat," he says, dragging himself into a full, lazy sprawl. "Think she’s got a better crawl time than I ever did."

You’re sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Maybe if you had a binky and a stuffed T-Rex in basic, you would’ve made it further," you tease.

Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.

"You tryin’ to start something, honey?" he says, rolling onto his good knee and levering himself upright in that smooth, practiced motion he’s mastered without fanfare.

"You got the mouth for it."

You arch a brow, playful.

"You wouldn't dare."

Jack tilts his head, that cocky, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "Wanna bet?"

Before you can move, he lunges—slow enough for you to see it coming, fast enough that you shriek anyway, scrambling off the couch.

You dart for the hallway, laughing breathlessly. Jack’s heavy footfalls thud behind you—the lighter footstep mixing with the solid stomp—and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe as he catches you around the waist.

You squeal, kicking your legs uselessly as he lifts you, hauling you easily against his chest.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a low, delighted growl.

You slump against him, laughing helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

His hands are warm on your hips, steady and strong. Jack chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

"Raincheck," he murmurs against your skin. "Handle her first. Then you’re all mine."

It takes an hour to get her down.

A bottle.

Three lullabies.

Some quiet rocking with Jack swaying on his feet, his body moving instinctively to keep her settled. You watch him from the nursery door, heart aching so sweetly it hurts—the way he holds her, the way his whole body softens when she finally, finally gives in to sleep.

When he lays her gently in the crib and brushes a calloused knuckle over her cheek, you know you’re done for.

Jack straightens slowly, adjusting his balance before he turns back toward you. He’s flushed and tired and barefoot, in an old black t-shirt and sweats—and he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

You take his hand silently.

He lets you.

Lets you pull him down the hall, fingers laced tight into yours.

The second you’re both inside the bedroom, Jack tugs you to a stop.

"You sure?" he says, voice low, serious. "Honey... we don’t gotta rush. You’re tired, I know—"

You cut him off with a kiss.

Hard.

Needy.

Full of every word you can’t fit into your mouth fast enough.

Jack groans low in his chest and lifts you carefully, steadying you against him before easing you back onto the bed.

No rush.

No slam.

Just the kind of rough, reverent touch that only he knows how to give you.

He crawls over you slowly, moving like he’s already half-drunk on you. His weight shifts naturally off the prosthetic, instinctive after all these years—but this time, he pauses. Sits back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours.

Wordlessly, Jack reaches down and unclips the prosthetic, setting it aside with a soft thud against the floor.

He exhales through his nose, rough and steady, the kind of sound he only makes when he’s dropping the last of his defenses. When it’s just you and him and nothing else that matters.

Then he’s back over you, heavier now, hotter, real in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

Jack fits himself between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hands bracing on either side of your head.

"You good, baby?" he mutters, voice gravel-thick, the words brushing warm against your mouth.

You nod, already arching up into him, already lost.

Jack smiles—slow, crooked, hungry—and kisses you like a man who’s got nowhere else to be. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers rough and reverent against your skin.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, voice wrecked.

"Been drivin' me crazy all day. Chasin’ you around the house like a damn fool."

You giggle breathlessly into his mouth, tugging his shirt off over his head.

Jack chuckles low, dragging your sleep shirt up inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovers.

He’s warm and solid and stupidly good at this—kissing you until you’re panting, until you’re squirming under him, until you’re gasping his name.

"You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin. "Still my girl. Always."

When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow.

Deep.

A rhythm he sets without thinking—steady, grounded, devastating.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails scraping gently over the broad planes of his back. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning low as he rocks into you, one hand sliding under your thigh to angle you closer, deeper, better.

"God, baby," he pants. "Feels so good—always you, only you—"

You arch into him, every nerve ending blazing, every breath catching.

He kisses you like it’s the first time.

Like it’s the last time.

Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

You come apart first—soft, wrecked, clinging to him—and Jack follows with a groan that sounds like your name shattered across his lips.

He stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his body heavy and warm and so damn real on top of you.

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, stroking gently. Jack hums low, shifting carefully so he’s not crushing you, pulling you into his side, tucking your head under his chin.

"You’re my whole world," he whispers, voice cracking. "You and her. Always."

You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"You’re ours too," you whisper back. "Always."

MONTH EIGHT

The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.

Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to be—but because he wants to be.

You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.

Sometimes he’s got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.

Sometimes he’s reading aloud from whatever’s nearby—sports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.

This morning, it’s the latter. Jack’s deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.

You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.

The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing he’s doing it.

This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.

It happens on a Sunday morning.

One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the baby’s shrieking happily in her bouncer.

Jack’s at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.

You’re sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jack’s hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.

"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.

Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.

"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."

The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.

You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."

The baby claps her hands excitedly.

And then—clear as a bell—she looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"

You freeze.

Jack freezes.

The whole house freezes.

Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.

"Did she—?" he croaks.

"Did you—?"

You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.

"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.

And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"

Jack’s standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.

You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.

"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.

"She said it! She really said it—"

You don’t even finish. Jack’s across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.

He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

"I’m so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughter’s head.

"So proud of my girls."

You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.

"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughs—low and broken and full of more joy than you’ve ever heard from him.

"Yeah, that’s right, bean," he whispers. "That’s your mama. Best damn one in the world."

You end up on the couch in a heap—Jack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.

It’s messy.

It’s imperfect.

It’s everything.

The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.

No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.

The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look you’ve come to recognize.

You end up at a small park—just woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.

Presses his forehead to hers.

"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.

You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn world’s on fire when it hits right."

"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Don’t trust ‘em."

You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.

Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect it—deep, slow, hungry—with the baby giggling between you.

Like he can’t help it.

Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.

MONTH NINE

Jack’s the one who insists on it.

You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like he’s planning a heist.

You smother a laugh into his shoulder.

"You serious about this, Abbot?"

Jack snorts.

"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."

He books it two days later—drives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughter’s bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.

When you get there, Jack’s all in.

Wheeling the wagon.

Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.

Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.

At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over him—tugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.

He’s laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.

It happens when you’re least expecting it. Which, you’re starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Jack’s sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.

The baby’s on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.

You walk into the living room—and freeze.

She’s got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.

But somehow—God, somehow—she pulls herself upright.

Your mouth drops open.

"Jack—"

Jack’s eyes are wide, almost panicked.

Like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

Like it’s the most fragile miracle in the world.

She wobbles, Jack lunges—and catches her gently before she tips.

"That’s my girl! You’re gonna take over the world!"

You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.

He won’t admit it.

But you know.

You both pretend it’s for her.

It’s not.

It’s for you and Jack.

Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like he’s designing a battle plan.

Pirates?

Farmers?

Superheroes?

Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the baby’s diaper bag.

You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.

You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.

Jack grumbles, but secretly loves it—you can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.

At the neighbor’s block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.

He lets her chew on his hoodie string.

Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.

Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.

Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chest—both of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.

MONTH TEN

The front yard was Jack’s idea.

"You can’t stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.

"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."

You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. It’s cold enough that you’re both bundled up—Jack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.

Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.

She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.

Then at you.

Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her one—big and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.

You laugh quietly.

Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.

And when he turns back—it happens.

She pushes herself upright.

Wobbly.

Determined.

Like the whole world’s just waiting for her to take it.

Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.

You watch, breathless, from the porch—hands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.

And then—one step. Another.

Toward him.

Toward Jack.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.

When she stumbles into him—three full steps later—he scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.

Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when he’s completely undone.

"That’s my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, you’re somethin’ else, baby bean."

He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chest—and you see it.

The way his mouth is trembling.

The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.

Jack Abbot, who’s been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma bays—wrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.

You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.

Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.

"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."

You nod, laughing through tears.

"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."

The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.

Jack makes a production out of it—dragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like you’re preparing for the Arctic.

You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.

The baby’s crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.

Jack’s holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.

"She’s gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"

You laugh, sitting down beside him. "You’re gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"

Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."

He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. She’s gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. It’s a rite of passage."

You didn’t plan on getting a tree that day.

Jack says it’s too early. You agree.

But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire station—when you see the tiny white lights strung overhead—you both say nothing.

Just look at each other.

And turn in without a word.

Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."

You settle on a small, sturdy one.

Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.

You know better than to argue—watching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.

When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lights—her squealing laughter echoing off the walls.

Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.

"We’re makin’ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.

"One hell of a good life."

MONTH ELEVEN

You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.

First Christmas.

She's too young to remember.

That's what you kept telling yourselves.

But Jack...he can't help himself.

You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box that’s clearly too big for its contents.

The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.

When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.

"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santa’s gotta show up somehow."

You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

"You’re gonna ruin her for real Christmases when she’s older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothing’s ever gonna top this."

Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.

"I don’t want her ever thinkin' she’s gotta go lookin’ for somethin' better. She’s already got everything she needs."

It’s still dark when you feel him stir.

Jack’s body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.

You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.

You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.

Not saying anything.

Just... being there.

Breathing her in.

He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear it—the soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.

"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Merry Christmas, baby girl."

You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.

Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesn’t say anything, you hear it clear as day:

Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.

It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.

Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.

You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.

Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.

The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jack’s side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.

He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.

"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"

You don’t answer.

You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.

The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.

You and Jack stay up late.

Too late.

Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.

You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.

And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think it’d be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"

You know what he means.

Back when the world was a lot harder.

When he never thought he’d make it past thirty.

When you weren’t even sure you believed in happy endings.

You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.

"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."

Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.

MONTH TWELVE

The holidays are over. The tree’s gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?

You’re relieved.

You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?

Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when he’s pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.

"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."

You lift an eyebrow at him.

"And by ‘small’ you mean...?"

Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.

"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"

You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.

"So, basically... the entire Pitt."

Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis she’s not invited to her honorary niece’s first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause I’m not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

"You’re impossible."

Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.

"You love me anyway."

The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.

You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby down—sitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s staring at the crib. Silent. Still.

You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the year—the weight of love—settles heavy over his broad shoulders.

Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet.

"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"

You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn’t know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."

You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.

Jack leans into it like he can’t help himself.

"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."

He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always will be.

The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.

You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.

You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.

"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.

Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but there’s no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.

"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.

The party is perfect.

Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.

The Pitt crew shows up—Dana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks you’re not looking.

Jack never puts her down.

Not really.

He lets her toddle a little—lets her show off the new steps she’s so proud of—but he’s always within reach. Always there to catch her.

You cut the cake.

She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.

Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.

He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that look—the one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.

You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "She’s gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "You’re makin’ sure of that."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "You’re the best thing she’ll ever know."

"Can’t believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Can’t believe we get to keep doin’ this."

"Best thing we ever did." you whisper.

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #fanfiction #shawn hatosy

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midniqhtt · 2 months ago

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james buchanan ‘bucky’ barnes

masterlist • marvel • 04/25/25

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one two three five

𑣲 light I @sun-kissy

bucky meets you, his bright, new neighbour, and is instantly endeared

𑣲 bucky hcs I @/sun-kissy

𑣲 people pleaser!reader I @winterarmyy

𑣲 must be fate pt2 pt3 pt4 I @/winterarmyy

Y/N has been crossing paths with this particularly sweet alpha all day long; this must be fate right?

𑣲 sleepy heads I @/winterarmyy

That time when the reader accidentally fell asleep on a stranger’s shoulder in the subway ride home. The stranger in question, however, is none other than the former Winter Soldier, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

𑣲 valley-girl charm I @rainydayathogwarts

In which reader from the 1940s knows just how to play the damsel in distress to get exactly what she wants in the modern age after coming out of the ice.

𑣲 starry eyed I @flowersforbucky

reader gets a special gift from her secret santa

𑣲 alls well that ends well to end up with you I @/flowersforbucky

bucky isn't going to let an extended mission, a severe thunderstorm, and a delayed flight ruin your first valentine's day together.

𑣲 no one does it better I @/flowersforbucky

sent on a mission with the man you never intended to fall for, you run into someone from your past who your heart has never been able to fully let go of.

𑣲 love language I @/flowersforbucky

snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

𑣲 moth to a flame I @/flowersforbucky

bucky is triggered into the winter soldier during a mission and then goes MIA, until he seeks you out in the middle of the night.

𑣲 rule number one I @mrs-elsie-barnes

Bucky is happy to find you still in his bed the morning after the night before, but Steve isn't impressed.

𑣲 never again I deactivated account

natasha likes to touch bucky's dog tags and bucky, well, he just wants to know why his favorite girl isn't talking to him.

𑣲 the other guy I @seventven

pietro proves to y/n that bucky is into her by doing everything in his power to make him jealous

𑣲 voicemails to an unmanned inbox I @pellucid-constellations

When Bucky takes an argument a little too far, you take off. All he wants is for you to come back home.

𑣲 flashing lights pt2 I @/pellucid-constellations

Bucky’s worst fears come true when he’s called to a scene. If he’s the one with the dangerous job, then why is it your life that’s hanging in the balance?

𑣲 jealous I @/pellucid-constellations

You keep talking about the owner of that new bakery and it’s rubbing Bucky the wrong way.

𑣲 five moments in time I @/pellucid-constellations

All of the moments in which Sergeant Barnes let the nurse on his unit know he’s not gonna stop trying to win her over. Even from beyond the grave.

𑣲 stay still pt 2 I @buckysknifecollection

What if your soulmate was the one person you had hurt the most?

𑣲 dog tags I @/buckysknifecollection

You are a kept prisoner by Hydra, your role is to fix Soldat’s metal arm whenever it gets damaged in a mission. You grow fond of each other and you decide to save him.

𑣲 slipping away I @kashimos-hajime

and now, he’s not your bucky anymore.

𑣲 dr. bee I @malum-forev

Bucky has quite the reputation but all it takes for him to want to change is an hour with an outspoken little Bee.

𑣲 eyes never lie I @/malum-forev

Sam and Bucky try to recruit (Y/N), Bucky's ex and a former Avenger who has left that life behind. But they realize her life has changed completely once they meet a her daughter with striking blue eyes.

𑣲 her weakness I @buckysfaveplum

you’re an enhanced individual with strong abilities and one moral code- you only fight with them when your opponent is also enhanced. during the fight with john walker, that code gets broken when bucky is hurt

𑣲 misery loves company pt2 pt3 pt4 I @shurisneakers

grumpy x grumpy drabbles

𑣲 saturn I @/shurisneakers

you die. bucky tries to bring you back (or) close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for.

𑣲 unsolved I @/shurisneakers

Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or any shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

𑣲 by the warmth of the oven I @elixirfromthestars

You are baking cookies for the Avengers holiday party when a certain super solider comes into the kitchen tipsy for the first time...

𑣲 boulevard confessions I @/elixirfromthestars

Being a third wheel to Peggy and Steve wasn't your ideal Thursday night fun. However, when they tell you Bucky is tagging along you eagerly decide to join them. That is until a third party makes its presence known.

𑣲 knock you down a peg or two I @navybrat817

Someone learns the hard way that it's a bad idea to upset Bucky's wife.

𑣲 stood up I @/navybrat817

Bucky asks you out on a date and doesn't show.

𑣲 sugar plums I @blythesarchives

The soldier has an attachment to you.

𑣲 Подарок I @/blythesarchives

You give the soldier a present for Christmas.

𑣲 limbo I @/blythesarchives

Not quite Bucky, not quite Soldat, but all yours.

𑣲 cut your hair I @/blythesarchives

You help Bucky cut his hair.

𑣲 fugitives I @/blythesarchives

While you and Bucky flee from captivity in Berlin, Bucky shows his thanks to you for always being by his side.

𑣲 just as you are I @/blythesarchives

He tries his best for Valentine's Day.

𑣲 some other guy I @espinosaurusrexex

Everything was finished: the buffet was ready with sweet goodies, people were wearing their ugliest Christmas sweaters, and the music spread Christmas spirit wherever it reached. But you were still not enjoying it as much as you should. Something was missing, but what could you have possibly forgotten?

𑣲 when it all falls apart I @bucky-bucket-barnes

The fate of the universe was in your hands. Bucky and you had been sent to retrieve the soul stone, a seemingly simple task. Unbeknownst to you, there was a hefty price to pay for such an exchange. You’re able to return to Earth, but it’s soon apparent part of you was left in Vormir.

𑣲 just one kiss I @sarahwroteathing

Bucky Barnes has been chasing after you since he was ten years old, but you’re determined not to give in. How long can you hold out when all he’s asking for is just one kiss?

𑣲 hair I @magicaloneandmystery

bucky doesn't let anyone touch his hair. well... anyone except you.

𑣲 the catch I @lessersole

Bucky comes to the rescue when being Yelena's roommate makes things dangerous for you.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x fem!reader #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fic recs #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff

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loosesodamarble · 1 year ago

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Oto-May Questions

Topics to ask me about regarding otomes/dating sims for the month of May.

First otome

Otome I would like to play

Funny moment

Most annoying character

Sad moment

Character I'd want to fight

Scary moment

Character that needs a route

Romantic moment

Character I'm similar to

Spicy moment

Memorable quote

Didn't meet expectations

Exceeded expectations

Favorite trope

Favorite route

Least favorite route

Favorite supporting character

Favorite villain/conflict

Favorite friendship

Favorite heroine

Favorite love interest

Favorite game art

Favorite otome

Ask your own question

#soda asides #ask game #feel free to ask #otome #dating sim #visual novel #if you want a specific list of otomes to ask me about #code realize #cinderella phenomenon #virche evermore #variable barricade #piofiore #collar x malice #cafe enchante #winter's wish: spirits of edo #radiant tale #taisho x alice #there are others too but either i'm not actively playing them or i don't feel strongly enough about them to mention

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senipsenipsenip · 5 months ago

Text

Dipper sighed as he felt another pen crack between his molars. Great, Mabel was definitely going to make fun of him for the ink stains on his mouth when she got home. He could hear it now, Wow Dipper, I knew you were a nerd, but I didn't know if I left you alone you'd start kissing your homework.

Dipper sighed and threw the pen into the trash with the other three he'd already snapped. It wasn't fair - he spent the whole summer fighting monsters and saving the world, why did he have to learn the stupid Great Depression's effect on American Literature or whatever. He glanced at the calendar. Only a little over a month until winter break. Grunkle Stan and Great Uncle Ford had promised to try and make it back to Gravity Falls so they could host the twins for the holidays. Sure, they had only been on the open ocean for a couple of months, but the two of them decided it would probably be best to start with a shorter trip then build up from there. After all, despite their age, they were still rookies. Besides, there was nothing on the sea that would help jog Stan's memory other than Great Uncle Ford's questioning. Being on home soil would hopefully bring back some more of Stan's forgotten past.

Dipper's phone pinged. He frowned. That shouldn't happen. He had his phone on Do Not Disturb so he could finish studying. The only alerts that would still pass through were texts from Mabel, Grunkle Stan, or Great Uncle Ford. Mabel never texted when she was out with her friends, and it's not like there was a lot of cell reception out at sea. Curiosity peaked, Dipper unlocked his phone.

It was Stan. More specifically, Stan's boots on the deck of the boat. It was a video, and before Dipper could press play, three little dots appeared indicating Stan was typing. Dipper sat back and waited. It usually took Grunkle Stan awhile to type out his messages. He always blamed the too small phone screen, saying it wasn't designed for fat fingers and cataracts.

What does this mean?

Dipper frowned at the message. Was he asking Dipper to decode a message? Why wouldn't he just ask Great Uncle Ford? Unless...oh gosh was Great Uncle Ford in danger? Did they need help? Why wouldn't he call? Dipper turned his volume up as high as he could, pressing play with a sweaty thumb.

The video started on Stan's boots, but quickly shifted as Stan started pointing his phone at something on the...oh. The wooden planks Dipper had seen Stan standing on weren't the planks of the boat deck, they were floorboards for an outdoor patio. A patio that was full of people speaking...some sort of language. Something Nordic maybe. Geez, weren't they freezing? Maybe not because...Nordic.

The camera was pointed at the door separating the bar from the patio, specifically, the top right corner where a set of speakers had been hung. Oh, Dipper realized. He's trying to record the music. Dipper held the phone to his ear. Maybe Stan was trying to figure out a secret code in the lyrics? He was pretty sure he had told Stan all about that day when they saved Wendy from Robbie's horrible music. This sounded a lot different than Robbie's music though. It was way more upbeat and -

...comin' through, that girl is youuuu...

"Oh my God," Dipper groaned, letting his head fall to his desk. Of course. Of course that's what would be playing. Of course a Nordic bar would be blasting Icelandic Pop Sensation BABBA.

Now Stan's message made sense. He had heard the song and felt "The Itching". That's what Stan had taken to calling it when he could feel himself starting to remember something, but needed a little extra help making it make sense. Stan said it was because it felt like an itching in the back of his brain. Dipper was pretty sure he called it that because if he announced he had "an itch that needs scratching" it was always a fifty-fifty toss up as to whether he needed help with a memory or literally wanted someone to help him scratch himself. Sometimes it was both. Either away, Stan got a kick out of how many times he could trick Ford.

Dipper grimaced. Maybe he could get out of this one. After all, Stan doesn't need all of his memories...right? He could forget some of the more embarrassing ones.

It's a song by BABBA. He typed. It's called "Disco Girl." There. The fact Stan's going to know that Dipper can identify the song is embarrassing enough, he doesn't need to remember The Incident.

The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Oh. OK.

Dipper sat his phone down. There. That was that. He didn't need to feel guilty about how Stan somehow managed to sound disappointed with two words. Besides, he had homework to do. He was a busy guy. Yep, not gonna think about it.

His phone pinged.

Made me think of you.

Okay. Starting to feel guilty now. Dipper sighed. Even over text message, he could hear the tone of voice Stan would say it in. That tone where he would say something like it was just a careless aside so that you wouldn't think he was taking something seriously, so then you wouldn't take it seriously, so that he could tell himself you didn't take it seriously because you thought he wasn't taking it seriously and not because you don't take him seriously or care about him seriously or -

Dipper frowned. Maybe these English classes were doing something after all. Apparently all of that fictional character analysis made him better at analyzing his uncle.

He could picture Stan now, having already sat his phone face-down on the table, wondering why there was some memory of Dipper that Dipper didn't want to share with him. Oh man, he probably thinks Dipper's tired of helping out with his memories or something.

That's because you heard me sing it once. Dipper wrote. That should be enough to jog Stan's memory a bit.

The three dots. Heard or saw?

Dipper groaned. Maybe Stan was just messing with him. He probably remembered the whole thing and was just trying to get Dipper to regale him with the story again so he could laugh at him.

Whatever. Dipper would be the bigger man.

Both. You walked in on me after I got out of the shower. You really need to learn how to knock, man.

There. That should be enough. Hopefully Stan and Ford will get back on the boat and see a giant Kraken or something equally as awesome so Stan forgets all about this conversation.

He exited out of their message thread and opened up his thread with Great Uncle Ford. Whatever "clever" joke Stan wanted to make at his expense would probably take forever to write. Might as well take advantage of the good cell service while he knows they have it.

Hey! Are you with Grunkle Stan?

Three bubbled appeared. Dipper didn't have to wait long. Ford was a surprisingly quick texter.

Yes, we're exploring the town together. I take it you're the one he's been texting?

Yeah. He had an itch. Nothing crazy, just a song he heard this summer he couldn't remember the name of. Okay, he probably could have told Ford. Especially after learning about the whole Kiss-Bot incident, Dipper's BABBA incident definitely didn't come close. But c'mon, wasn't Dipper allowed to have at least one family member who thought he had a shred of dignity left?

He smiled. Probably not. After all, he was a Pines.

Ah, that explains his behavior then.

Dipper frowned. Behavior? Is he okay?

Oh yes, of course. My apologies if my language was alarming, Stanley says I tend to word things "dramatically". He's simply trying to ask the table next to us if there are any music stores nearby. I didn't realize children still used physical CDs.

Wait. Stan is looking for a music store? Why specifically mention children? Dipper typed slowly, wording his questions as discretely as he could.

Oh? Is Stan looking for a CD?

The bubbles appeared. Then disappeared. Dipper frowned. They reappeared.

Disregard my earlier message.

Oh they were definitely up to something. Two could play at that game. You don't live with a professional con man all summer and not learn how to get what you want out of someone.

Okay. Hey, Grunkle Stan showed me a bit of the patio. Can you send a video too? Would be interested in seeing where you are.

Of course. One moment, please.

Dipper sat his phone on his desk while he waited. Realistically, he should be working on his homework while he waits. It's not like he'll be able to focus on anything when Mabel gets home. But, it's not like he can focus on anything now, mind buzzing as much as it is.

After three minutes and fifty-three seconds, Dipper's phone pinged. He grinned and pressed play.

The video started pointing toward the other side of the patio. Made sense, Ford was probably sitting across from Stan at their table. Stan was nowhere to be seen though. He must have stood up to speak to the table next to him. Dipper could see townsfolk sat at their tables in heavy winter coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. Everyone was wrapped up in their own conversations, and while Ford panned slowly across the porch, Dipper recognized another BABBA song playing faintly in the background. The owner must have had a playlist going. There were fairy lights strung up across the porch, street lamps helping illuminate the night. Wherever they were must have been in the middle of some small town, probably no bigger than Gravity Falls.

"Ford!" Grunkle Stan's voice rang out. Dipper quickly held the phone up to his ear again. There was a loud metallic grating sound - probably Grunkle Stan pulling out his chair to sit down again.

"You're never gonna believe it!" Stan sounded excited about something.

"A moment, please, Stan," Ford murmured.

"We don't have to go to the music store! Those people didn't speak English but the guy who runs this place does a little. That internet translator did the rest."

"Google, Stanley."

"Whatever. Anyway, he said he'd sell me the CD he's playing right now when he closes up for the night."

"That's great Stan. Hold on a moment I'm just trying to film this for -"

"Dipper's gonna love this! I think. It's sort of coming back to me. I think that memory he helped me with, I think..."

Stan trailed off. Dipper pulled the phone away from his ear to see if the video had ended, but Ford was still dutifully scanning their surroundings with the camera. It looked like Ford had stood up, holding the phone high above his head to show Dipper the coastline beyond the porch railings.

"I think I told him I was proud of him that day." Stan's confession was quiet. But Stan quiet. Which meant loud enough to be picked up on Ford's camera.

Ford's movement stopped. "You did? Why?"

"Well. I sorta did. I think. He was tryna prove he was 'a man' or whatever, so I told him he was. He stood up for what was right even though no one else agreed with him. And then I think I uh...ripped my shirt off and showed him my chest hair. Maybe I should get him to fill in some of those blanks there."

Ford laughed. "I don't remember it taking much to get you to take your shirt off."

"I'm a gross, old man now, Ford. We'd all prefer if it stayed on."

Ford hummed. "So how much is the CD?"

"Eh, he wants like 500 Kroner."

"Seems overpriced."

"Well it's gonna be free."

Ford sighed. "Stanley..."

"What?" Stan cried indignantly. "He's obviously tryna scam me anyway! Besides, it's worth it. Dipper will love it! It's a CD of a band he likes from Iceland stolen from Iceland. Trust me it'll be worth the -"

All sound stopped. The video had ended. Dipper sat at his desk, a small smile on his face. He had been so worried about Stan remembering one of his more embarrassing moments but...Stan remembered it as a day that Dipper made him proud. Huh.

He exited the video and saw that Ford had sent him another message only a minute after sending the video.

Please disregard that video. Terrible audio quality, I have to retake it.

As Dipper began to type a reply, he saw three bubbles appear. He waited.

I'm going to infer that the delay in your response is because you didn't see my message in time and already viewed the video. My apologies, I forget how strong the audio quality of phone cameras are.

Three more bubbles.

Please act surprised.

Ah well. Dipper had omitted the truth a couple of times tonight. What was one more? He started to type.

Sorry, I was working on my homework while I waited for an answer. Guess I got distracted. Should I not watch the video?

Three bubbles. Ah, I see. Yes, that would be for the best. I'll take another video for you now. In the meantime, keep up the good work!

Dipper sat his phone back down on the table and picked up another pen. Might as well do a little more homework so he wasn't totally lying. But first...

He opened his message thread with Stan.

Need help with anything else?

Nope. Go to bed.

Dipper laughed. There it was. The curmudgeon was back, trying to hide the fact he was a big softie underneath.

It's earlier here you know. If anyone should be in bed, it should be you.

I'm old. I do what I want.

Okay old man. Love you!

Sap.

Dipper snorted and sat down his phone. A moment later, it pinged again. He glanced at the screen and saw it was another message from Stan. It was only two words, but they knocked together like flint and steel, lighting something warm in Dipper's chest.

You too.

AN: A continuation of this! I kind of just want to write a bunch of one shots going with this. Some ideas are brewing!

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anisangeldust · 4 months ago

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Cupids Arrow | S.M.

Summary: After falling pathetically in love; Sam Monroe decides to give Valentine’s Day a chance.

Pairing: Sam Monroe x popular!Fem reader

Warnings: annoying Sam, use of “faggot” (in a playful way) and “gaybo” (derogatory), lwk self loathing, loser in love Sam, kinda a heavy make out sesh, semi public smut, dry humping, premature ejaculation ? Whimpering Sam, reader teases him and he gets off on it.

A/N: this is lwk self insert and I’m not ashamed abt it. Also I lwk hate it but wtv :( happy vday!!

“Naw bro, she’s fine as fuck” Josh nudges his friend as you walk past. You’d switched high schools and joined the previous semester. It’s as if you were an overnight success, fresh blood, pretty face, and rich parents, a recipe for being the top of the social ladder.

Even sad, mopey, emo Sam Monroe wasn’t immune to your charm

“Fuck off dude, she’d never go for you. You look and act like a faggot. She needs a strong man.” Josh’s friend flexes and raises his eyebrows up and down at you. You rolled your eyes playfully and continued walking to class.

With a scowl, Sam’s eyes followed the whole interaction. What of you did want him? Why did he care? Sam didn’t want you, or your preppy attitude, you fluffy hair that fell above your boobs, your low rise Abercrombie & Finch jeans that barely pass dress code— No. No. He didn’t care about or notice you. You or your big eyes and full lips— No.

And he especially didn’t notice you or the way his heart rate sped up when you smiled at him.

——

If there’s one thing Sam hated more than his father it was P.E. You were the only thing that made the class tolerable. Except he didnt think that because he barely noticed you or your teeny Juicy Couture shorts at all.

Even worse than P.E. (And Sam’s dad) was dodgeball. Fuck dodgeball. Sam thought as he stood in the corner of the gym and watched all the popular guys peacock for your attention.

A star ball hit Sam in the face, and the accompanying voice of one of the jocks followed “you’re out gaybo! Sit the fuck down!” And Sam rolled his eyes, sitting down as he flipped off the guy.

Like a guardian angel sent by a god he didn’t believe in, you threw a ball at the jock and got him out, playfully flipping him off like Sam did.

You go up to Sam and offer a hand. “C’mon, you’re back in. You okay? Looked like a nasty hit.” You smile.

Despite the bit of chill in the winter air, Sam felt a warmth spread across his face. “Yeah no.. whatever. Im good. Im fine” he scoffs, taking your hand to get up and dropping it suddenly when he realizes he just accidentally held your hand

“M’kay” I smile and saunter off to keep playing.

——

“It doesn’t mean anything. Shes nice to everyone” Sam sighs and rubs his face as he and Corey sit in the roof of his station wagon.

Corey takes a long inhale of their shared cigarette “yeah but..” he exhales “she helped you.. or some shit. I don’t know. But I can feel it. She likes you dude” he lays back.

Sam leans back and looks up at the sky, biting his bottom lip in contemplation. “Yeah but— fuck man. I can’t just ask her to be my valentine. That’s corny. And she probably has one” Sam sighs

Corey rolls his eyes “does she even entertain the other guys? There’s no harm in asking. Just like, buy her flowers or chocolate or something I don’t know. But ask her” Corey takes a puff.

“Y’know what. Fuck it man. I’ll ask” Sam nods and takes the cigarette, taking a long breath in and letting the exhale dwindle away in the night sky, his mind on you, you and your plump lips..

“Do you think Angel likes roses?” Sam groans

Corey huffs “probably. Get some chocolate too. Shit dude, maybe even a card” he giggles.

——

Walking through the halls of the school had never been so embarrassing. Who did Sam think he was? Using the little bit of cash he had that he’d usually spend on weed for chocolate and stupid flowers? It was too late to back down now. He had to focus.. but even as you got closer he could feel your eyes on him..

Clutching the six roses in his hand, Sam clears his throat to get your attention. “Hey.. uhm— could I talk to you..?” He murmurs and looks around at your friends. Your popular friends, all hanging around your locker. This was a bad idea.

The gentle smile that teased the corner of your lips almost made him forget to breathe “Of course.” You smile and lead him away to a different hallway “we’ll be right back” you look back at your friend then focus on him.

Oh god he was going to do it. “Uhm.. I was wondering if maybe you’d like.. I dunno.. be my valentine?” He murmurs and holds out the roses, opening his backpack and grabbing the chocolate.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at you, he was so close to just walking away, but the gentle sound of your giggles bring his gaze back. “Of course I will Sammy” you take the gifts “thank you, these are beautiful.

He was shocked. You said yes? This was a joke. A bet. You were just pitying him. “Really?” He whispers, not quite registering that you actually agreed. “Well uhm.. how about I like.. take you to dinner..?” He spews before his mind can catch up with his mouth.

You smile wider “Yes really. And I’d like that.” You take out a notebook and scribble down two things “here’s my number and address. Let me know the details” you kiss his cheek “Bye Sammy”.

He’s eyes followed you like a magnet “See ya..” he mumbles, bringing a hand up to where you kissed him, gently touching the spot with the pads of his fingers.

——

Nervous wasn’t even in the ballpark of emotions he was feeling. This still had to be some elaborate prank, a joke, never mind that he’d called you 3 times and told you to be ready for a dinner he planned, his heart swelling at the excited tone of your voice. You’d stand him up, he’d drive to your house like an idiot and you’d tell him you weren’t serious.

Telling his parents was arguably just as nerve wracking.

<<Hey mom uhm, could you help me.. maybe?>> Sam mumbled to his mother, Robin, as she cooked dinner, her eyes widened in surprise as not only did her angsty son talk to her, but he was asking for help?

She smiled << yeah i suppose.. with what..?>> her tone was gentle, almost hesitant.

Sam shrugged <<I uhm.. like.. maybe have a Valentine’s Day date..>> he cleared his throat and had to stop the smile as his mom rattled on about who you were and then helped Sam with all the details.

Standing at the door of your very nice home, in his only pair of decent dress slacks and a black button down, Sam clutched the bouquet of roses his mom helped pick out and rang the doorbell.

A middle aged woman with sleek brown hair answered the door. “Ah, you must be Sam” she smiles.

Sam nods, running a hand through his black and blue hair “yeah.. that’s me” he gives a lopsided smile “is your daughter ready?” He asks.

“She should be.” Your mom turns into the house “darling! Your dates here!” And the click clack of heels meets Sam’s ears.

You looked stunning. Breathtaking. Sam was flummoxed as he met your gaze. Your dress was a beautiful blush color, and your makeup matched. Sam reminded himself to blink as you approached “Hey.. happy Valentine’s Day” he quirked up his lips and held out the bouquet of flowers.

“These are gorgeous. Thank you” you smile and take his hand, this time on purpose, and walk to his car. Sam opens the passenger seat before climbing in the drivers seat and twisting his key.

Mr. Self destruct by Nine Inch Nails starts to play up again and Sam quickly turns it off “Sorry.. I was uh..” he flushes with sudden embarrassment at his music taste.

You turn the dial back up “don’t apologize. I’d be happy to listen to the music you enjoy” you smile and admire his side profile as he drives, your eyes drawn to the way his hands fiddle with the gear shift, taking in the faint scent of weed that lingers on the leather seats. It was so him, so perfect.

——

The date was perfect. A beautiful awkward mix of Sam’s corny jokes and your elegant aura. It became clear that not only was it not a pity date, but maybe you actually liked him back? He tried not to let himself dwell on the idea. But as the server called you guys “cute” and you just thanked him, Sam could feel himself falling deeper into this boyish crush.

Walking out of the restaurant hand in hand, Sam decided to deviate from his original plan “We should get ice cream. I know this lookout point I smoke at sometimes. It’s perfect for stargazing” the sudden boost of confidence he had talking for him.

“I’d like that a lot” you take his hand and walk to his car.

——

For the first time Sam felt like the universe was on his side. Eating ice cream on Valentine’s Day, sitting in the open trunk of his car with the girl he likes and watching the stars after a successful date, the only thing that would make it better was if he didn’t have a raging boner from watching you lick cream off your lips.

As you got down to the bottom of your cone and started to lick the melted desert off your fingers, Sam wiggled and tried to pull away. But you noticed. Of course you noticed.

“Something wrong?” You look at him and scoot closer.

He swallowed audibly “nothing.. nothing wrong.. I’m great” he shakes his head vehemently.

You lean your head closer, the hot air mingling between you “you sure? You look flushed” you giggle and tease.

He dares to lean in “am not!”

You smile “are too” and then your lips attach. The kiss is heavy, full of Sams insecurity and your desire. His inexperienced tongue moves around your mouth, his pants growing tighter from the taste of your lips.

Climbing onto his lap, you finally see the source of his awkwardness “mmm.. is that what’s wrong?” You tease and gently move your hips over his hard on.

Sam gasps into the kiss, whimpering and letting his mouth part “y-yeah..” he stutters, trying to latch onto his last shred of gentlemanly thoughts.

“You’re so adorable” your giggles make him flushed.

“I’m not adorable.. I’m.. I dunno..” he stutters pathetically, panting into the kiss and bucking his hips up.

You keep moving “pretty sure you are. You’re whimpering like a loser. A cute loser” you kiss and suck on his jaw.

Sam lets out a moan “nuh uh..” he tries for the last time to hold on, but as he opens his eyes and meets your gaze, he’s done for. With one finally little whine, he cums in his pants, bucking his hips up and kissing you.

Both if you look at eachother with wide eyes, the look in his is terrified, the look in yours in playful “did you just..?” And he tears up

“Sorry.. ‘m so sorry.. couldn’t help it..” he pouts and looks at his lap.

You flick his nose to get his attention “I’m not mad Sammy.. that was.. hot” he giggle and kiss him again.

“Hot..?” He mumbles and his hands find your waist.

“And pathetic. Hot and pathetic.” You confirm with a nod of your head.

#˚₊‧꒰ა angel writes! ໒꒱ ‧₊˚#anisangeldust #Sam Monroe #subby sam my love #sam monroe x y/n smut #sub sam monroe #sam monroe x y/n #sam monroe x you #sam monroe fanfiction #sam monroe smut #sam monroe x reader #life as a house #life as a house fanfiction #x reader smut #x reader #hayden christensen #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen smut #ughhh I love him

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hanquokkasjeekies · 3 months ago

Text

❅ midnight visit ☽

idol!yang jeongin x f!reader

word count: 1.8k

genre: angst, established relationship, one-shot, smut

summary: your stressed boyfriend, jeongin, craves your comfort after not seeing you and turns up to your apartment at midnight.

warnings: oral (f) ⋆ multiple orgasms ⋆ fingering ⋆ squirting ⋆ vanilla smut ⋆ overstimulation ⋆

~ ~ ~

leaving the warmth of the taxi behind, jeongin steps onto the pavement before absent-mindedly swinging the door shut. a white cloud escapes his lips as the cold breeze hits, sweeping his dark hair across his eyes.

sliding his hands into the pockets of his duffle coat and letting his chin sink into the scarf you’d gifted him last year, jeongin begins walking towards your apartment building, going over tomorrow��s schedule in his head. he’s frustrated at how the time he gets to spend with you is slowly becoming less and less.

this whole week has been too much for him. rehearsals, photoshoots, recordings, appointments; there was so much to do and not enough time for him to cope with it.

jeongin hadn’t even planned to come round to your apartment tonight; he simply needed something, someone to make him feel better. and that someone had to be you. the stress has been slowly gnawing at him and his thoughts are beginning to spiral.

‘7:30am I need to be there, then 10am I have that, 8pm I’ve got to get there…’ he doesn’t even want to think anymore. the tightness in his throat gets worse and his eyes are stinging as they begin to fill up. he needs to think about you instead, to distract him.

not paying attention to his surroundings while he waits for the elevator, jeongin focuses only on the thought of finally seeing you again. he's craving the soothing sound of your sweet voice, the warmth of your touch. you’re the reason he’s held on this long. but his craving for your love is twisting into something deeper, something rawer. he doesn't only want comfort- he wants you, all of you.

with his shoulders tensed and head lowered, jeongin steps through the elevator doors, fingers twitching in his pockets- fiddling with his rings. his chest tightens and he can feel his blood pulsing through his head.

all he wants is to hold your face between his hands and kiss your lips until they’re swollen, to run his hands over your soft skin and to drown between your thighs until you’re so out of it all you can do is think of him. the image of your fucked out face when you’re high on pleasure is enough to make his legs weak as he stands lost in his thoughts in the elevator.

as soon as the metal doors slide open, jeongin rushes down the hallway. he pauses at your door, his vision blurring as tears well up and his hands shake as he fumbles with the key.

in his frustration he blinks rapidly, but the tears keep blurring his vision.

he just needs to get inside.

he just needs to get to you.

snuggled up on the couch underneath a big fluffy blanket, only your head pokes out to watch your computer screen. surrounded by the warmth in the coziness of your apartment, you're wearing headphones to be fully immersed in the SKZ CODE marathon you’ve only just begun; the kind of activity winter evenings call for.

your mind relaxes and your lips lovingly form a smile whenever the camera shows your boyfriend. as the eight of them squabble animatedly, you can almost feel the warmth of their energy and pure chaotic joy radiating through the screen.

you feel the sweet fuzziness in your chest become stained with the slight ache of how you missed jeongin. it has already been eleven- now twelve days you realize as you glance up at the small clock illuminated on the wall opposite. it’s reflecting the moonlight flooding through the gap in the curtains.

you find yourself imagining and wishing jeongin was here snuggled up beside you tonight but then you quickly scold yourself for being unreasonable since you know how busy he’s been. seeing the countless updates on his instagram told you enough. you stare into the black of your phone screen knowing you couldn’t possibly ask him to come over. not at this time of night anyway.

although your apartment was a one person unit, it felt perfectly snug when the two of you were there together. without him here, all the rooms feel oddly hollow as if the walls are stretching outwards when you’re not looking.

you're so absorbed in your thoughts, staring into your computer, that you don't even notice when a tall figure in a duffle coat stumbles into your apartment with a tear-stained face. jeongin proceeds to collapse onto your shoulders from behind the couch.

your breath hitches in surprise and you feel jeongin’s weight slump down on you and his cool hands caress your neck. looking up at his face, you expect to see his usual wide smile but instead something shimmers on his cheek- tears? tears?? Is your precious jeongin crying?!

“oh no, jeongin, what happened?”, your voice comes out in a whisper as distress seeps into your expression. your words are laced with concern. “why are you crying babe?”

he looks away, trying to fix his uneven breathing between choking up.

“I couldn’t handle it all- so I came here… to see you.”

your heart shatters from seeing him in this state with his eyes overflowing with tears, jaw shaking and his chilled-through body trembling as his body shakes with each desperate breath.

after taking him in and turning to face him completely, you pull him into a tight hug over the couch backrest before placing your lips softly against his. this kiss is endless as your tongues intertwine; neither of you pull away. his sharp thin eyes are locked on yours but his expression is pleading for more as he runs his hands beneath your blanket to lightly trace your inner thighs. You’re unsure whether or not to let him continue when he’s so upset like this but the sight of him so vulnerable tugs at your chest and you simply can't bring yourself to stop him.

jeongin comes around to your side of the sofa, pulls off his coat and gently pushes your thighs apart so he can kneel in between them. you had dressed in only your panties and a t-shirt since you were sure you would’ve ended up masturbating to your boyfriend if he hadn’t turned up.

as if jeongin hears your thoughts, his dimples appear as he smirks through his puffy wet eyes and quivering lower lip. he removes your panties, exposing how dripping you already are.

feeling guilty at how wet you’ve become, since your boyfriend had been literally in tears moments ago from overstress, you attempt to close your legs. they don’t budge under the grip of his large veiny hands holding your thighs.

“please, darling?”, he begs; his intense gaze softening as his eyes well up, dangerously close to spilling over again. you nod in defeat, worried he would fully break if you said no.

jeongin quickly switches from his anxious little fox mode and you catch a glimpse of his tongue slightly poking out between his lips in anticipation. he leans down; his hot breath sending shivers along your skin. he starts kitten-licking your pussy before swirling his tongue around in long strokes. he then focuses solely on your most sensitive areas, making you arch your back into the couch as your head rolls to the side. your mind going blank as your stomach tightens before you're shaking and cumming inside his mouth. your hands go to push his head away but he barely moves and instead speeds up; his attack changing instead to sucking harshly on your clit.

the moans you let out barely sound like his name anymore as your voice goes slightly higher and you feel something build up inside you, the sensations get harder to bear.

"wait- wait slow down, please!", you whimper, panic rising in your tone.

Jeongin’s gaze is intense but also dazed as he pauses to look up at you; head tilting in confusion as he unintentionally pouts. you melt a little inside as you look away blushing before letting out a small, “nevermind”.

the cuteness aggression quickly fades as jeongin’s long, pretty fingers begin thrusting in and out of you, deeper each time. he lets out a low moan from the back of his throat as if he's the one being pleasured; you can tell he's enjoying this a bit too much.

suddenly, the utter bliss from your orgasm washes over you as jeongin’s fingers keep hitting your cervix and your eyes fall closed.

as the feeling of your high slowly goes away, you bring your attention back to jeongin. his face and tongue are now covered in your cum. blinking in surprise, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip making sure not to waste the sweet fluid.

your body goes limp as he whispers, “darling, you’re doing so well for me... but i'm pretty sure you could you cum for me once more~” his voice is oozing with desire as he's pumping his fingers into you, more roughly this time.

barely processing his words, you’re already twitching and shuddering as you begin cumming uncontrollably again around his fingers until you feel a tear slide down your face and you slip out of consciousness.

after a moment, your mind comes back to the present. little bolts of pleasure are still running through you as you struggle and hopelessly, gripping onto your blanket, waiting for the aftershocks to fade. with your hair falling over your face, sweat dripping onto the couch- you look the most dishevelled you’ve been in weeks but also- the happiest you’ve been.

jeongin’s staring up in satisfaction at the mess he’s made of you while sucking his fingers clean; your fluids still glistening on his lips and chin. his heart feels at ease now after seeing you and each time you trembled under his touch he felt his stress thaw away.

jeongin leaves for a while before returning with water, hot towels and a pair of soft pyjamas for the both of you. soon you’re both snuggled up on the couch together just like how you had wished before when jeongin suddenly blurts out, “do you think I could live here with you?”

every single particle of you blushes in utter delight as you realise that’s what you’ve been waiting to hear for months now.

“of course,” you say, laughing at how polite he sounds, “did you expect me to turn you down?” It was Jeongin’s turn to blush now as he parts his lips to answer but in his embarrassment he instead hides his face into your shoulder. you quietly giggle and let your fingers run through his fluffy hair and lean down to take in the sweet scent of his shampoo.

the change from whatever he had been before when he was eating you out to the shy, adorable version of him now, had you falling for him all over again. and you would no doubt keep falling for him everyday for the rest of your life ♡

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skylin-files · 5 months ago

Text

girl code ⋆ na jaemin

pov: your best friend's former situationship started hitting you up. what could go wrong?

pairing: college student!jaemin x college student! yn

featuring! winter of aespa, nct members

note: this is part three (final part). i hope you like it; your comments will be highly appreciated. ♡

check other parts here: part 1 | part 2

── .✦

You found yourself zoning out in the cafeteria, barely touching your food, while both Haechan and Mark watched you with concern.

Winter’s silence—ignoring you and not replying for two days—wasn’t helping either. Perhaps luck was on your side, as your lab class with Jaemin had been postponed due to your professor’s flu.

Occasionally, you’d cross paths with Jaemin in the hallway. You tried to appear neutral, but the heavy weight in your stomach was impossible to ignore every time you saw him. At the same time, you couldn’t deny how much you secretly liked feeling his gaze linger on you as you turned away.

It had been two days since Mark sent the group photo and two days since you last heard from Winter.

It was the end of your final class, and as you placed the last of your things in your locker and slammed it shut, you nearly jumped at the sight of Jaemin leaning casually against the locker next to yours.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice soft. You blinked, trying to steady yourself, and whispered back, "Hey."

You watched him as he straightened up from his relaxed position, seeming to wrestle with his thoughts, hesitating before speaking.

"How are you?" he asked. His tone held a subtle weight, as though he wanted to ask more but held himself back. You hadn’t been replying to his messages like you used to, and though he clearly noticed, he chose not to press further.

"I’m okay, just busy," you answered—a tired, overused excuse. It was obvious Jaemin didn’t believe you, but he only nodded in response. "Can I get you a coffee?" he offered.

Did you want to say yes? Absolutely. But was it the right thing to do? You weren’t sure. Caught between the pull of a heart yearning for love and a mind that kept shutting it out, you felt a pang of helplessness.

"Sure," you murmured, almost to yourself, the word slipping out with a faint sense of defeat.

── .✦

"One americano and an iced caramel macchiato for Jaemin," the barista announced.

Jaemin gathered both drinks, and while you went to the restroom, he placed them at the table by the time you returned. The two of you settled into a cozy seat at a café near campus, the same place where you and Winter usually hung out. As you sat there, your thoughts drifted to your best friend, and a somber look crossed your face, which Jaemin quickly noticed.

"We haven’t seen much of each other lately," he remarked, though you couldn’t quite read his expression.

"Well, our professor has the flu," you replied. Jaemin simply nodded, taking a sip of his drink.

The silence lingered for a while, and once again, it felt like he was on the verge of saying something but was hesitating. Finally, he spoke up. "I missed you."

As you were about to take a sip from your cup, you froze for a moment, the cup hanging just a few inches from your lips.

"I missed you too, Jaemin," you replied, though deep down, you couldn't help but feel that developing feelings for Na Jaemin might be the most ironic twist fate had thrown your way.

"I want to be upfront," he started, and you could feel your heart race. "I’m not sure if you're intentionally ignoring me or if I did something wrong," he added.

"Your actions toward me have been confusing." You cut him off, attempting to conceal the real reason behind your behavior—the fact that you knew about him and Winter. As you spoke, you noticed Jaemin’s eyes soften.

"I know," he replied softly. "That’s why I’m here. I want to clear everything up."

For a moment, you found yourself wondering if what you had said was just an excuse, a way to justify your actions. Deep down, you realized that part of you was also eager to discover if Jaemin felt the same way about you as you did about him.

"The things I’ve done with you, the things I’m doing now, and the things I’m about to do—I'm not doing any of this just to be friends," Jaemin confessed. "I wanted to be clear and be 100% honest with you, because this is how it needs to be for it to work."

Hearing him speak so openly, you knew exactly where this conversation was headed.

"Your best friend, Winter... remember when you said she had a situationship here on campus?" Jaemin asked. You could only nod, finally bracing yourself to hear the confirmation.

"That was me," Jaemin admitted. You weren’t sure whether to feel heartbroken, knowing that your best friend was the failed situationship of the first boy you'd ever liked, or relieved, remembering how Jaemin had opened up about his past situationship with you.

"You told me that your first and last situationship was one of your biggest regrets. You said you didn’t want to go through it again, that it was pointless, a waste of time. That was Winter?" you asked, and Jaemin nodded in response.

Was it wrong to feel a sense of relief at his answer? He was clearly over your best friend, yet you couldn’t shake the guilt that lingered deep inside.

"I want to be completely honest with you," Jaemin said. "I like you, and if you feel the same, I’ll do everything I can to make it work. But that can only happen if I tell you this."

Both of you understood the consequences. You hadn't known that Jaemin was Winter's past situationship, and Winter hadn’t even mentioned it when you showed her the picture of you and Jaemin together. As for Jaemin, he was aware that you and Winter were best friends, but his feelings towards you all came naturally, and his intentions were sincere—what he felt for you was real.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner, but now that what I feel for you is clear, I knew you needed to know," Jaemin said.

His words made your heart sink. You appreciated Jaemin for being honest, but at the same time, you couldn’t help but feel a wave of sadness. Winter, your best friend for years, couldn’t even face you or talk to you about it over the phone.

You never understood why girls would lose their minds over a boy, not until Na Jaemin came into your life. You could only smile wistfully, never expecting to find yourself caught up in this kind of situation.

"I actually knew since two days ago," you finally confessed to Jaemin. "Winter, she’s been ignoring me. She even soft blocked me and my friends on social media," you added, referring to Haechan and Mark.

You paused for a moment, then looked at Jaemin and said sincerely, "Thank you for talking this through with me," feeling a deep sadness in your stomach. "But I need some time," you added, almost as if you were saying it to yourself rather than to Jaemin.

He nodded in response, and you could see a smile on his face, though it carried an undertone of sadness. "I understand," he replied.

You left the café and as you walked a few blocks away, the rain began to pour. Quietly cursing, you realized you didn't have your umbrella. But when you checked your bag, you found one tucked inside.

It wasn't yours, but it looked familiar.

You sighed as you realized it must have been Jaemin's—he must have placed it in your bag while you were in the restroom.

── .✦

The rhythmic sound of the cheerleading team's synchronized movements echoed through the gym as they practiced. For the past few days, Winter had dedicated all her time and focus to cheer, as if nothing else mattered.

When practice finally ended, she sat on the benches while the rest of her teammates left. She was alone in the gym, at least until footsteps echoed in, though she didn’t initially pay much attention. It wasn’t until the footsteps stopped in front of her that she looked up from her phone—it was Jaemin.

Winter froze as Na Jaemin stood in front of her in the university gym. "Are you lost?" she asked with a chuckle, trying to mask the uneasy feeling swirling in her stomach.

"We need to talk," Jaemin said plainly. Winter couldn’t stop the frown that formed on her face, starting to piece together the real reason he was there. Jaemin wasn’t there for her—he was there because of her best friend.

"If you’re here to tell me to talk to my best friend, then you should just leave," Winter snapped, standing and hastily gathering her things.

"You’re selfish, you know that?" Jaemin’s words caught her off guard, but she continued packing, determined to ignore him.

"You cut me off when I wanted to court you properly. And now that I’ve started liking someone who’s ready to commit the way I am, you’re acting like you’re the one who’s been dumped," Jaemin said, his usual calm demeanor replaced with frustration.

"She’s my best friend!" Winter lashed out, nearly throwing her things in her anger as her voice echoed in the empty gym. Jaemin and Winter locked eyes, tension crackling between them.

"This is the first time she’s liked a guy, but I know she understands what girl code is," Winter said, her voice faltering. Even as the words left her mouth, she felt foolish. Jaemin had never truly meant anything to her; their connection had been casual. Yet somehow, her pride and ego felt bruised, as if her very identity had been challenged.

"If you wanted her to follow girl code so badly, why didn’t you confront her about it?" Jaemin shot back, his tone sharp. "Why did it have to be me telling her about us? Why did her other friends have to find out before she did? You weren’t honest with her."

"I was honest! Not entirely," Winter countered, her voice rising in defense. "But when I said you two looked good together, I meant it. You did look good together." She paused, her voice trembling now. "But that doesn’t mean it didn’t make me feel sick to my stomach," she admitted, her frustration spilling out in every word.

Her hands trembled as she spoke, guilt crashing over her. Winter felt like the worst friend, the worst person, for the way things had turned out. She hated the way she felt but couldn’t deny it.

"You two looked so good together that it started to hurt," Winter admitted, her voice heavy with emotion. "But I don’t have the right to feel that way because I was the one who cut you off. We had nothing, and I didn’t do anything to change that. I didn’t stop her from seeing you."

Winter’s frustration was palpable, but it wasn’t directed at Jaemin or her best friend—not really. Deep down, she was angry at herself, though she desperately wished she could blame someone else. The weight of her own choices and inaction bore down on her, leaving her overwhelmed with regret.

Winter felt a wave of helplessness as she locked eyes with Jaemin, her mind briefly imagining what it might have been like if she had given him a chance—if she had taken him seriously. But reality pulled her back, and she could only shake her head in resignation.

"Just take care of her," she said softly, her voice heavy with emotion.

"I know you will, but please, take care of her. She's been looking out for me for years, and she deserves someone who will do the same for her." She was referring to her best friend. Clutching her gym bag tightly, she turned and walked out of the gym.

Jaemin stood frozen in place, the sound of the gym door slamming shut echoing in the empty space. Letting out a deep sigh, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

Your name was on the screen—the call was still ongoing. You had heard everything.

Every word, every emotion in Winter’s voice, every part of the conversation. You had heard it all.

── .✦

Your lab classes had resumed, but Jaemin was no longer seated beside you. At first, it stung, but then you realized why he had moved. He was doing it for you—giving you the time and space you said you needed.

Days passed, and you could still feel his gaze linger on you when you weren’t looking. The moment you no longer sensed his eyes, you found yourself testing your luck, stealing glances at him as if trying to grow accustomed to admiring him from a distance.

It was bittersweet, almost cliché.

A sadness settled over you as you wondered: Is this your reality with Jaemin? To admire each other from afar? The thought crept in—perhaps you and Jaemin were better at yearning for each other than at actually being together.

Not long after Jaemin spoke to Winter, you received a message from her. It was brief, only a few words:

Winter: “I’m sorry. I hope I can talk to you properly soon. I love you.”

You didn’t bother replying. It was clear she wasn’t ready to have an honest conversation or fully confront the situation. And as much as it hurt, you knew you had to face it on your own.

Weeks passed, and another group task was assigned during your lab class. As usual, everyone was instructed to write their partner's name on a piece of paper.

Glancing around the room, you noticed Jaemin's seat was empty. Your grip on the pen tightened as an internal battle raged between your heart and mind. Letting out a quiet sigh, you decided to follow what you truly wanted.

Carefully, you wrote your name on the paper. Just below it, you added "Na Jaemin."

Staring at the name, you gave a small nod before rising from your seat to submit it to your professor.

"He won’t mind, right?" you murmured to yourself, hoping you were right.

── .✦

Jaemin sat in the cafeteria with his best friend, Jeno, who was happily devouring his lunch.

“Are they not eating lunch today?” Jaemin asked, glancing at his watch. He was referring to you and your friends, who usually occupied the far end of the cafeteria.

“She’s in the library,” a familiar voice chimed in, followed by the loud clatter of a food tray being slammed onto the table, startling both Jaemin and Jeno. The voice belonged to Haechan, who had appeared out of nowhere, with Mark trailing closely behind, carrying his own tray.

“Be careful,” Jeno muttered, giving Haechan a side-eye, but Haechan merely shrugged as he and Mark casually settled into the seats across from Jaemin and Jeno.

“Why are you guys sitting here?” Jeno asked, giving Mark, his classmate, a friendly grin afterward, pointing toward the end of the cafeteria where Haechan and Mark usually sat. Both Jaemin and Jeno looked at them, confused by the sudden change in routine.

"You were looking for us, right? It would be easier if we sat closer to you," Haechan joked.

"It would have been easier if you brought your friend with you," Jeno retorted, referring to you, earning a glare from Jaemin. "As Haechan said, she's in the library," Mark added.

An awkward silence settled over the table until Haechan broke it, clearing his throat to grab Jaemin's attention. "Do you still like her?" Haechan asked casually, causing Jeno to nearly choke on his food at how blunt Haechan was.

"What?" Jaemin responded, and Mark rolled his eyes at the answer.

"One of our seniors is planning to ask her out," Mark added, prompting another "What?" from Jaemin, this time it was so loud that people nearby started giving them puzzled looks.

"Yeah, so you'd better get your act together. A month is plenty of time for space, right?" Haechan teased, casually chewing his food.

"Oh, and she wrote you down as her lab partner, so I guess that's your cue to stop this silent treatment," Haechan added, prompting Jaemin to jump out of his seat, leaving his food untouched as he rushed to the library where the duo had said you were. He had only missed one lab class, and this is what he returned to.

Jaemin silently thanked his lucky stars. If he had been there, would you still have written his name as your lab partner? No one could know for sure, but he quietly appreciated the universe's strange twist of fate—giving him a headache that day, which kept him from attending the class and the calls.

Jeno simply watched his best friend dash off, shrugging before going back to his food. He then looked at Mark and Haechan sitting across from him. "So, is it true that one of your seniors wants to ask her out?" Jeno asked.

"Nope," the duo replied in unison.

── .✦

Peeking through the library, Jaemin let out a sigh when he didn't see you. You must have already left. With lab class not until tomorrow, Jaemin considered texting you but hesitated, thinking it would feel strange to reach out after a month of silence. He decided to wait until the next day instead.

As the last period ended and he walked through the campus gates, Jaemin sighed again when rain began to drizzle. He scratched the back of his neck, deciding not to waste time by waiting for the rain to stop. It wasn’t too heavy, so he kept walking, feeling the droplets on his skin. Pausing at the stoplight, he waited for the signal to turn green. That's when he noticed the rain no longer falling on him.

Looking up, he saw you holding an umbrella over his head.

"You shouldn't walk in the rain, you might get sick," you said, making Jaemin freeze for a moment as he realized it was you. The umbrella he had placed in your bag during your last meeting at the café was now in your hands.

"I don't want my lab partner missing another class," you added, trying to sound casual, but the blush on your cheeks betrayed you.

Jaemin couldn’t help but smile, a wave of happiness swelling in his chest. He nodded and reached for the umbrella, but your hand brushed against his, making him hesitate. Without thinking, he ended up holding the umbrella for both of you.

"Thank you," he said, his heart racing slightly. You could only smile in response, at a loss for words.

It had been some time since you were this close to Jaemin, feeling the warmth radiating from his body as you both shared the umbrella. Jaemin’s phone vibrated, a notification popping up. You couldn’t help but shake your head slightly, a bigger smile spreading across your face when you saw it was a message from Jeno.

Jeno: “Thank me later! She asked me about your last class.”

Jaemin smiled at the text before turning off his phone, his expression suddenly shifting to one of seriousness.

"Is it true that a senior wanted to ask you out?" he asked out of nowhere.

You looked at him, clearly confused. "What? What senior?" you replied, bewildered.

Jaemin studied your face for a moment, sighing as he realized Mark and Haechan had been playing a prank on him. "I hate your friends," he muttered, pulling you closer so you wouldn’t get wet from the rain.

── .✦

You and Jaemin resumed talking comfortably after that, with the two of you becoming lab partners again. Thankfully, Jaemin didn’t mind, and in fact, he was quite happy about it. He started sitting with you again in class, and during breaks, your friend group began sitting together with Jaemin and Jeno.

The attraction between the two of you? It was clearly still there, but now the signs were more obvious.

Jaemin no longer hesitated to hold your hand, kiss the back of your hand—whether it was randomly, out of boredom, or as a simple gesture to show his adoration for you—buy you lunch, carry your bag, and walk you home like before. He’d share his headphones with you, always finding a reason to walk by your side, even if it meant taking the longer route. Na Jaemin would take note of all the small things you liked, showing just how much he cared.

You weren’t being subtle either. Instead of admiring him from afar, you now had the chance to admire him up close as he focused on the lab report beside you. You’d make little excuses to talk to him, always try to sit next to him, finding small ways to be near him. You’d even send him little texts just to check in, and when you saw new art galleries or exhibits in town, you’d share them with him, suggesting that the two of you go visit together.

These are just a few of the many ways the two of you express your growing feelings for each other. After a few weeks, Jaemin began courting you, showing you just how serious he was about his feelings. This time, you chose to follow your heart.

Whenever you were with Jaemin, you’d find yourself staring at him for a while, watching a soft smile form on his lips whenever he caught your gaze. Every moment spent with him was filled with gestures of affection, and each one made your heart flutter with happiness.

── .✦

It was a special day—the annual cheer team competition, a major event for universities, where cheer teams from different schools came together to compete.

Your and Winter's universities were among them.

Since Winter was part of her university's cheer team, you knew you'd be seeing her today. Although you hadn’t spoken to her since her last message, you often found yourself checking her social media to keep up with her. From her posts, you could tell she’d been busy with cheer and had started partying less. You even came across a post where she had tried baking—a new hobby she had taken up to keep herself occupied. Sometimes, you wondered if she thought of you as much as you thought of her, or if she ever stalked your social media or checked in on your friends' posts to see how you were doing.

“Hi, here’s a free cupcake for you!” one of the students from another university said, offering a cupcake with their cheer team's name on it.

“Oh, but I’m from a different university,” you chuckled.

The person smiled and insisted, “This is a friendly competition! Take it.”

You accepted the cupcake with a thank you and made your way to your seat, where your friends and Jaemin were already waiting.

You glanced at the cupcake, noticing it had the logo of Winter’s cheer team on it. A soft smile crossed your face as you realized it was from her team. You missed Winter so much.

As you began nibbling on the cupcake, you shared it with Jaemin, unaware that Winter herself had baked it. She and her team had made the cupcakes for their supporters, and she knew you'd be there. Winter could only smile to herself as she watched you in the crowd, munching on the cupcake she had made.

Winter noticed Jaemin sitting beside you, opening a bottle of water for you while you enjoyed the sweet treat. This time, she didn’t feel that uneasy knot in her stomach. Her smile wasn’t bittersweet; it was genuine.

Fuck Girl Code.

Na Jaemin was truly looking after you, just as she had hoped.

"I hope you don’t think of me too much, I don’t want you to be sad over someone like me," Winter whispered to herself, watching as you and Jaemin laughed at something, Jaemin kissing the back of your hand as if it were second nature.

Suddenly, your eyes met Winter's. You were taken aback to see her looking at you, but instead of turning away or ignoring you, Winter gave you a warm smile. You returned the smile, and maybe, for now, that was all that mattered.

── .✦

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