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anghimalaaynasapuso · 4 months ago

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PROSTHETIC ARM SIMON

sfw + nsfw. overstimulation & premature ejaculation (simon). his metal arm has a vibrator function. unprotected sex.

mr. riley is a new regular.

hulking, broad-shouldered, always hunched like he's trying to fold himself into something smaller. dirty blonde hair, hoodies that swallow his frame, gloves that never come off— not in winter, not when the air conditioning is broken, not when it’s so hot outside that the pavement wavers under the sun. you see him come in once during a heatwave, sweat beading at his temples, looking like he just came from hell itself. but the gloves stay.

always.

he’s quiet. doesn’t talk much unless he has to. keeps his answers clipped, never makes small talk, never lingers longe,ur than it takes to grab his order and leave. you might’ve found him intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that his dog, riley, was the exact opposite.

big, fluffy, and absurdly well-behaved. the kind that made strangers stop and coo when they passed by, all soft ears and wagging tail. an instant favorite among customers. an absolute menace to simon.

because the dog likes attention. loves it, actually. practically demands it. and, more specifically— he likes you.

so the moment simon steps up to the counter, riley is already perking up at your voice. tail wagging, eyes locked on you, waiting expectantly like he thinks you’re about to drop an entire steak into his mouth.

"oh! mr. riley! the usual today?"

simon grunts. closest thing to a yes you ever get.

"and a pup cup for little riley, i take it?"

the man sighs. “he’s gonna get fat.”

but he still swipes his card. no hesitation.

riley whines at the accusation, staring at him with something close to betrayal.

you slide simon’s order across the counter after a moment, the movements routine by now.

he reaches out. his right hand hovers over the cup. fingers stretching, hovering, like he’s trying to will it into his grasp.

nothing happens. his fingers twitch, but they won’t close.

you see it— the way his jaw tightens, the sharp curl of his lip like he’s biting down a curse. the tension in his shoulders. the exhale through his nose.

“mr. riley?” you ask carefully.

his scowl deepens. he tries again— too hard, too fast— his grip locks up, crushing the cup before he can stop himself. the lid pops off. coffee splatters over his hand, dripping onto the counter.

you yelp, stepping back on instinct. he doesn’t.

he just stares down at his hand. impassive. like he hasn't been baptized by scalding liquid.

“shit- hang on-” you scramble around the counter, heat rising up your throat, words spilling out in a rush. “jesus, are you- your hand-”

“s’fine,” he grunts.

his flesh hand flexes at his side, but the other— the one that had crushed the cup— stays frozen, unmoving.

you don’t believe him for a second. ignoring his protests, you reach for his wrist, peeling off the soaked glove before he can stop you.

you freeze.

metal. not sleek, new, high-tech metal. not the kind you see in sci-fi movies, gleaming and futuristic.

no. this is old. dull, scratched, worn— something that’s clearly been through hell and barely made it out. the joints look stiff, the plates dented in places, the wiring almost exposed near the wrist.

your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “… huh.”

his brow lifts slightly. “that all you got?”

you blink, tilting your head. “kinda thought there’d be… more wires. sparks. terminator shit.”

a beat. then, maybe, the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips.

“disappointed?”

“a little.”

you keep staring, the sight settling in your brain, cataloging every detail. not military-grade. not some brand-new prosthetic straight from a lab. something about it makes your chest tighten.

“has it… uh, been this iffy for a while?” you ask, glancing up.

simon shrugs with his good shoulder, the movement almost dismissive. “yeah. thing’s temperamental.”

“like you,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

his brow arches slightly, but he doesn’t deny it.

you glance around the café, nerves twisting in your stomach. no customers. the clock ticks lazily, the smell of coffee and vanilla in the air. you bite your lip, thinking.

“so, uh- i’m an engineering student,” you start, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your apron. “and… i mean, if you wanted- i could take a look? maybe tweak it a bit?”

his gaze snaps to you. it makes your stomach flip, and you wonder if you’ve just crossed a line you hadn’t realized was there.

“… you want to mess with my arm?”

“not mess! i mean- help. like… it’s kind of what i do. circuits, mechanics- prosthetics aren’t that different. probably.” you wince. “unless you’re, like, secretly part robot with classified tech and i’m about to get black-bagged or something-”

“you talk a lot,” he deadpans.

“nerves,” you shoot back, cheeks warming. “so… yes? no? totally fine if it’s weird.”

he exhales through his nose, staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. the silence stretches. then—

“… got tools?”

your face lights up. “back in my car!”

“figured.” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. but if you break it worse-”

“i won’t,” you grin, already grabbing your keys. “trust me.”

“don’t say that,” he calls after you. “famous last words.”

…

simon would rather take a bullet than admit it, but you turn out to be a problem in his life.

because after that first fix— crammed into your car that rattled like it was held together with duct tape and prayer— he walks away with a hand that actually works for the first time in months.

no stiffness. no lag. no bullshit. he clenches his fist and releases, watching the fingers curl and straighten without a hint of resistance.

it feels foreign. unnatural. smooth in a way that it should be but hasn’t been for a long, long time.

so when he asks how much he owes, expecting a number, you just tilt your head and grin.

"tell me your full name. i don’t wanna keep calling you mr. riley."

simon stares at you like he’s weighing whether he can get away with walking out without answering. then, like it pains him— "simon."

you laugh. “you look like a simon.”

…

he doesn’t try to make it a habit, coming to you.

really. he doesn’t.

but prosthetic specialists are expensive, and he’s not exactly drowning in engineering contacts. the local mechanics won’t touch prosthetics (liability reasons, mate, can’t help ya), and he sure as hell isn’t stepping into a clinic unless he wants some lab rat poking and prodding at him like he’s a cutting-edge science project.

so when his arm starts acting up again, he does what he always does.

he ignores it. it’ll be fine. he can live with it.

it starts with a bit of stiffness. a missed grip here and there. nothing major.

then his fingers start locking up at random, the servos stalling, the whole limb feeling like it’s dragging behind the rest of him.

not ideal. not something he can use. three weeks in, and it’s a fucking liability.

he caves.

simon times it carefully. dead hour. mid-afternoon. when the café is empty and you’ll have a second to spare.

he walks in, orders a pup cup for riley, and waits. he doesn’t wait long.

the moment your eyes flicker to his gloved hand— how his fingers can't even curl anymore— your expression drops.

your shoulders tighten, brows knit together, mouth parting slightly like you’re about to scold him before you even know what’s wrong.

"simon," you say, voice sharp like he just admitted to a felony.

before he can so much as blink, you’re untying your apron.

"break," you toss over your shoulder.

your coworker barely looks up. just shrugs.

simon exhales through his nose. he should’ve just ripped the damn thing off himself.

your car is just as a mess as it was last time. empty water bottles on the floor. a crumpled hoodie in the backseat. textbooks piled in the passenger footwell, some open, some stuffed with loose papers. it smells faintly like vanilla air freshener and stress.

riley jumps in first, hopping into the backseat like he owns the place, and promptly curls up across the mess of loose papers and crumpled receipts.

simon says nothing. just lets himself into the passenger seat, shifts slightly to get comfortable in the too-small space, and watches as you slam the driver’s side door with a little more force than necessary.

you’re fuming.

he can feel it radiating off you like an overheating engine as you shove his sleeve up and strip the glove away.

he glances down. yeah. even he has to admit— it looks rough. the plates are slightly misaligned. the servos are dragging. the tension in the fingers is off, the whole mechanism resisting movement like it’s gummed up with sand and bad decisions.

"oh my god, how long has this been going on?"

his eyes flicking to the side. "three weeks."

you go still. "THREE WEEKS?!"

riley lifts his head from where he’s sprawled out in the backseat and whines at the sharpness of your voice. simon rubs at his temple with his good hand, sighing.

"three- jesus, simon, if your arm has a problem, you come to me right away!"

"didn’t wanna bother you."

you make a strangled sound, something between disbelief and frustration, already yanking open your toolkit with more force than necessary. "bother- oh my god, you idiot," you snap, flipping through your tools at lightning speed. "this is- unusable. how were you even functioning like this?"

"managed."

"you shouldn’t have to ‘manage.’ that’s the point of a prosthetic!"

simon huffs, shifting his arm slightly as you mutter curses under your breath and start unscrewing the external plating.

riley rests his chin on the back of simon’s seat, watching the whole thing unfold with his big brown eyes, tail thumping softly against the pile of forgotten assignments.

"can feel your judgment," simon mutters, breaking the silence.

"good. let it sink in."

riley lets out a low whine, nudging the back of simon’s neck with his nose.

simon sighs. "yeah, yeah. i know."

the dog lets out a single huff, like he agrees with you.

you pause long enough to glance at riley, expression unimpressed. "at least he gets it."

"gettin’ ganged up on," simon mutters.

riley whines. you don’t even look up.

"good.

his mouth twitches. he tells himself it’s a muscle spasm.

you don’t look at him when you actually get to work. simon notices.

he’s sitting there, arm bared, cables exposed, and you’re bent over the mess of wiring like he’s not even in the room. like he’s just another machine in need of fixing. your hands move with quick precision, fingers deft as you pluck out worn components and replace them with fresh ones. you mutter to yourself, little noises of satisfaction or frustration depending on what you find.

it’s unsettling. not you— no, you’re fine. better than fine. competent. but it’s been a long time since someone’s handled his arm without hesitation, without the kind of quiet reverence people get when they realize how much damage a man has to take before he needs one of these.

to you, it’s just broken. something that needs tuning.

he flexes his fingers the second you flip the switch.

his hand moves fast. smooth. no delay between thought and motion. he rolls his wrist. it hasn’t felt this natural in weeks.

"good?" you ask, still gathering your tools.

he moves his fingers again. watches them articulate, watches the precise shift of metal joints. "yeah," he mutters.

you nod, already packing up, already moving on.

he watches you.

then you say it, casual, like an afterthought. “don’t worry about it.”

simon doesn’t blink. he knew you were going to say that because apparently you're the next coming of the good fucking samaritan. it still pisses him off.

he glances at you. at the torn-up upholstery of your car, the loose wires under the dash, the check engine light that’s been on this entire time, the faint but definite smell of something burning.

he drums his fingers against his knee. “i’ll fix your car.”

you argue about it, of course. insist it’s fine, like you don’t hear the death rattle when you start the engine. simon doesn’t argue back. doesn’t need to. just asks— when’s the last time you had it looked at?— and watches you press your lips together.

thought so.

“two days, at least,” he tells you.

your horror is almost funny. “two days?”

“maybe three.”

you stare at him like he just told you your dog died.

he pats the dashboard. “i’ll do what i can to keep it alive.”

it takes one day. he calls while you’re still half-asleep. “your car’s a lost cause.”

you meet up later so he can walk you through the damage in person.

you listen. don’t talk much, don’t get defensive. just nod as he points things out, as he explains the alternator’s failing, the battery’s shot, the brake pads are gone— and yeah, he’s still pissed about that one. your transmission is a liability. the engine’s practically running on fumes.

you sigh, dragging a hand over your face.

“i need my car,” you grumble. “i have plates to pass. blueprints that cannot get wet, or my professor will deduct major points. and-”

“i’ll drive you.”

you stop. blink. “what?”

“i’ll drive you,” he repeats, like it’s obvious.

you look at him, wary. “don’t you have work?”

“on break.”

“friends?”

he shakes his head. “not really.”

“family?”

he actually laughs. there's no real humor in it.

something shifts in your face. simon sees it before you do, the flicker of discomfort, the way you adjust your stance like there’s something you want to say but don’t know how.

simon doesn’t let you say it.

“tell me your schedule.” he shuts the hood like the matter’s settled. “text me when you need a ride. i’ll be there.”

you cross your arms. “so i get a chauffeur for fixing one prosthetic?”

he flexes his fingers. “you underestimate how much these cost.”

you roll your eyes. “you act like i replaced the whole thing.”

“you might as well have,” he mutters. “damn thing actually works now.”

you sigh, shifting on your feet. “you really don’t have plans?”

“if you count drinking beer alone, then yeah, i have plenty.

so he starts picking you up.

at first, it’s straightforward. you text him when you need a ride, and he shows up, no questions asked. no complaints, either— just grunts a greeting, waits for you to get in, and drives. sometimes he has the radio on. other times, it’s just quiet, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional flick of a turn signal.

simon doesn’t mind detours. when you run late and beg him to swing by a drive-thru, he just sighs and pulls into the next available one. doesn’t even say anything when you apologize through a mouthful of food, just takes a sip of his own coffee and keeps driving.

but, one morning, when you rush out of your apartment, tripping over your own feet, already bracing for the inevitable “can we stop by-”

simon just reaches into the passenger seat, grabs a bag, and tosses it into your lap.

you blink down at it. warm, heavy. smells good.

“…what’s this?”

he puts the truck into drive. “breakfast.”

“thanks,” you mumble, glancing at riley whose got his head wedged between the two of you, tongue lolling out, eyes bright as he watches you unwrap your sandwich.

“does he want some?”

simon doesn’t even look. “he always wants some.”

you tear off a piece anyway, holding it out. riley inhales it like it personally offended him

simon snorts. “you’re gonna spoil him.”

“he’s cute. he deserves it.”

“he’s a liability.”

“you’re just jealous ‘cause i don’t feed you by hand.”

you look up, realizing what you just said.

simon’s looking back at you. slow blink. unreadable.

heat licks at your neck. “i- i didn’t mean-”

riley whines, nosing at your hand for more food, and you’ve never been more grateful for a dog’s terrible sense of timing.

he hums, turning back to the road. “thought so.”

…

this keeps going for months. a pattern. a rhythm. the two of you slot into each other’s lives like you’ve always been there.

you stop thanking him when he brings you food. he stops questioning it when you drag him to your workshop to tinker with his arm.

and then, one day. he picks you up, just like always.

but this time—

you slide into the passenger seat and don’t say anything.

no greeting. no complaints. no requests for coffee. just sit back, staring straight ahead, like you’re still processing something.

simon frowns. “…what?”

“…my project is on prosthetic arms.”

his head snaps toward you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask if it’s because of him. because that— that feels too dangerous.

your hands grip your sleeves. “can i design you a new prosthetic arm?”

he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t move. his fingers flex against the wheel.

you don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at you, and it’s the first time in a long time he really feels like he’s made of metal and wire and things that aren’t his own.

you exhale. glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

he looks down. his palm, cold and impersonal. not really his, not entirely.

and— “…yeah,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

a beat.

“…all right.”

…

simon steps inside your apartment, and the first thing he notices is that it smells like you. not perfume, not some scent in a bottle— just you. a mix of coffee, paper, and something warm and lived-in. his boots make the floor creak slightly as he shifts, taking it all in.

riley, in comparison,immediately takes off, nose to the ground, sniffing every single thing he can get to. he pushes his head into the couch cushions, sticks his snout into your laundry pile, and stands on his hind legs to peek at the half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee table.

simon watches you rush to pull snacks away before riley gets his paws on them, muttering something about “you’d think i don’t feed you.” riley wags his tail in betrayal.

the space is cluttered but cozy. the kind of messy that isn’t disorganized, just... busy. like your life is so packed with things to do that it spills over into your home. there are loose papers on the coffee table, your drafting table is buried under textbooks and sketches, and there’s a laundry basket in the corner that’s almost full but not quite.

and the lamps. so many damn lamps. simon counts sixteen before he even makes it past the entrance.

you explain your thesis, and simon listens. really listens. you talk with your hands, explaining concepts in bursts of energy, excitement bright in your eyes. you tell him about rare alloys, cutting-edge designs, how the neural link would function with smoother input signals.

his stomach twists a little when you say it—

“i want to make you a new arm with all of that.”

simon doesn’t answer immediately. just exhales through his nose. he know he should say no. tell you it’s unnecessary. that his arm is fine. that he’s fine.

but then you pull out the blueprints, show him the design, and it’s... it’s good.

it’s really fucking good.

and he knows how much this tech costs. he remembers sitting in a sterile office, watching a man in a lab coat list out the prices of different prosthetic models. he remembers running his fingers over a brochure, seeing the way the most advanced models— the ones that felt like real limbs— were laughably out of reach.

“it’s expensive,” he says, voice flat. It’s not a question.

you hesitate. shift your weight. “…the university gave me a budget.”

he watches you. waits. “…and is it enough to cover the costs?”

you don’t answer.

he sighs and pulls out his phone.

you blink. “what are you doing?”

“making a call.”

simon doesn’t ask for favors. he doesn’t like owing people. doesn’t like being in someone’s debt. But this— this isn’t only for him.

it’s for you too.

he doesn’t hesitate when he dials price’s number. the line barely rings twice before it picks up. “this better be good, ghost.”

it's the price standard. no greeting, no pleasantries.

“it is,” he says. “need a favor.”

a pause. not because price is surprised— simon doesn’t ask for favors often, but when he does, it’s never something small. It’s never something for him.

“go on.”

simon glances at you. you’re watching him, curiosity and just a little bit of suspicion. the old leather of his gloves creaking as he crosses his arms. “need a sponsor.”

another pause. then, dry as hell— “what, you starting a football team?”

he rolls his eyes. “no.”

“boxing, then?”

“price.”

the humor fades. a quiet sigh. “who’s it for?”

he hesitates. just for a second. not because he doesn’t know what to say— because he doesn’t know why he’s saying it. “she’s building a prosthetic,” he says finally. “one I need.”

one i want, he doesn't say.

“your arm acting up?”

“yeah.”

“so get it fixed.”

“this is better.”

price doesn’t say anything for a while and simon knows the old man is thinking, turning things over, considering.

then: “she good?”

siimon glances at you again. you’re shifting through your notes now. he exhales. “yeah.”

he hums, considering. “you trust her?”

that’s what it comes down to. trust.

simon has trusted exactly three people in his life:

1. his mother. until she was gone.

2. price. who never asked for it, never demanded it, but earned it anyway.

3. johnny. who trusts him back without question.

and now, there’s you. he wouldn’t be making this call if he didn’t. “…yeah,” he says.

and that’s all price needs to hear.

you protest the second simon shoves the phone into your hands. try to give it back, eyes wide like he just handed you a live grenade.

but he just crosses his arms, leans against the drafting table, and nods at the phone. “explain.”

you hesitate for way too long before reluctantly pressing it to your ear. “alright, kid. sell me on it.”

you freeze.

“oh my god, i hate you,” you whisper at simon before launching into a shaky but passionate explanation of your thesis to whoever the hell is on the other end of this call.

price listens. makes the occasional noise of interest. asks a few questions. and then— “alright. send me the details. i’ll see what i can do.”

you blink. “wait- so-?”

“i’ll sponsor the damn thing. might even endorse it a little.”

you stare at the phone like it's just grown legs.

“just make sure it works, yeah?”

you nod like he can see you, mumbling out a “thank you so much, sir,” before fumbling to hand the phone back to simon.

simon takes it, tucks it back into his pocket, and proceeds to act like this wasn’t a big deal at all.

you gape at him. “who even was that guy?”

“someone you don’t want to owe a favor.”

your eyes narrow. “and you do?”

simon shrugs. “already owed him one.”

and that’s true. priice has done more for simon than he can count. gave him a job when he didn’t deserve one, gave him a reason to live when he thought he’d run out.

if sponsoring you means putting another tally on that tab, then so be it.

…

you learn more about simon throughout the months.

he doesn’t like cucumbers. you find that out when he picks them out of his sandwich with the kind of silent disgust that makes it clear this is a habit, a ritual, a deeply ingrained practice that will not change no matter how many times you tell him he’s being dramatic.

he doesn’t sleep much. that’s another thing. you catch it in the way he moves, the way his eyes flick around a room too quickly, too sharp for someone who’s gotten a full night’s rest. sometimes, when he’s sitting at your table and riley is curled up by his feet, he just stares off like he’s somewhere else, mind miles away. you don’t ask where.

he doesn’t like sitting with his back to the door. ever. it doesn’t matter where you are— your apartment, a coffee shop, some hole-in-the-wall diner— he always angles himself so he can see the entrance. you test it once, sitting at a booth before he gets there, taking the seat facing the door. when he arrives, he stares at you for all of two seconds before just sighing and sliding in next to you instead of across. you don’t do it again.

he fixes things when he’s anxious. your loose cabinet hinge, the flickering kitchen light, the leaky faucet. he doesn’t say anything. just gets up, pulls out a tool, and starts working like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you find out that the calluses on his fingers aren’t just from weapons—he knows how to take things apart and put them back together, knows how to get grease under his nails, how to run his hands over a surface and understand exactly how it works.

he doesn’t like closed doors. doesn’t like feeling boxed in. when he’s at your place, he always leaves the door cracked, just a little. at first, you think it’s just a habit, but one night you’re in the kitchen and you see the way his shoulders ease when he glances up and sees the open space. you don’t say anything. you just stop closing the door all the way when he’s around.

one day, you’re working on fitting the prosthetic to his stump. it’s finally starting to look like an arm.

simon sits across from you, his forearm resting on the table as you carefully adjust the fit. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t do anything except watch as you secure the straps and check the connection points.

“any discomfort?” you ask, frowning as you examine the joints.

he flexes his fingers, rolling his wrist. “no.”

you glance up. “are you sure?”

he snorts, a short breath of amusement. “you want me to make somethin’ up?”

“no, i want you to tell me if it hurts.”

his lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. just shifts slightly, testing the range of motion. “feels good,” he says finally.

you nod, make a note. “good.”

rain starts somewhere in the background. a soft patter at first, then heavier, filling the quiet of your apartment. you barely notice at first, too focused on your work, but then you glance up and realize how late it’s gotten.

simon leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders. the room is dim now, the warm glow of your lamps casting long shadows across the walls. riley is curled up on the couch, one ear flicking at the sound of the rain.

you hesitate.

simon notices. lifts a brow.

“what?”

you swallow, shifting in your seat. “would you like to stay over?”

there’s a beat of silence.

simon blinks, slow. looks at you, then out the window, where the rain is coming down in thick, steady sheets.

“…you sure?”

you nod, maybe a little too fast. “yeah. it’s late. roads are bad.” you clear your throat. “and- i mean. it’s not like you sleep much anyway, right?”

he huffs out something that could be a laugh. drags a hand down his face. when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable, something wry and considering.

“alright,” he says finally. “but i’m takin’ the couch.”

you roll your eyes. “obviously.”

he smirks. you get up to grab blankets. riley stretches on the couch, taking up as much space as possible, and simon mutters something about “bloody dog” but doesn’t move him.

the rain keeps falling. the room is warm.

simon stays.

…

months of refining, testing, and sleepless nights have led to this— the almost-final version of the prototype. the culmination of your work, a piece of engineering so advanced it almost breathes beneath your fingertips. simon sits before you, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his flesh-and-blood hand resting on his knee while the new prosthetic gleams under the workshop lights.

it’s a work of art, even if he’d never call it that. matte black plating, smooth but lined with faint ridges where the internal components shift and adjust to mimic the movement of muscle. beneath the casing, synthetic tendons coil and flex like real ones, powered by the delicate balance of neural signals and finely tuned actuators. when he moves his fingers, the transition is seamless, each digit reacting in perfect sync with his intent, no longer the slight delay of older models.

he watches as you adjust the final connection points, the alignment of the servos. the heat of his gaze is palpable, but he stays silent, letting you work.

then— a flicker in the system.

it's subtle at first, a low hum beneath the surface of the plating. then it builds. a vibration rolls through the arm, an erratic tremor that makes the fingers twitch. simon lifts it slightly, inspecting it with mild curiosity, flexing his hand.

“huh,” he muses, tone is as dry as ever. “well. could be a vibrator.”

your brain short-circuits. “what-” your fingers slip, almost dropping the tool in your hand. heat floods your face. “that’s- no. absolutely not.”

he tilts his head, studying you like he’s just found something interesting. “was this meant-”

“no!” you blurt, too quick, too loud.

simon is skeptical. “be honest.”

your throat tightens. you look at the circuitry, the faint whir of the servos, anywhere but his face. “…i just- i thought it’d be good-”

his brow arches. “good for what?”

“you look like someone who gets a lot of girls, alright?”

there’s a beat of silence.

simon leans back slightly, tapping his fingers against the metal plating. the low buzz of the malfunctioning motor is the only sound in the room. “is that so?”

before you can even think of a way to explain yourself, he moves.

his grip is swift, fingers curling around your wrist. there’s no real force behind it, no intention to hurt. just a casual show of strength, a reminder of just how easy it is for him to manhandle you. you barely have time to react before he pulls, tipping you off balance.

you land on his lap, breath stuttering out of you in a quiet gasp.

he settles you there like you belong, his flesh-and-blood hand pressing into the small of your back. you feel the heat of him beneath you, the solid mass of his thighs, the way his breath stays even while yours quickens.

the prosthetic hums again.

before your brain can catch up, he moves his arm, pressing the vibrating palm against the seam of your jeans, right between your thighs.

your spine straightens, legs twitching against the instinct to squeeze shut, but his knee is right there, keeping you open.

simon makes a considering noise, watching your reaction. his voice drops, low and lazy.

“since you built it,” he muses, letting the vibration roll against you, “might as well test its full range of function, yeah?”

his head tilts, gaze flicking down to your parted lips. you’re already shaking, already aching, slick and soaked through before he’s even put his hands on you properly.

his weight shifts, thighs bracketing yours, hands adjusting. the grip he has on you firms, fingers pressing deep into soft flesh, making sure you don’t slip away.

not that you would. not that you could.

his breath ghosts over your cheek and your head tips back automatically, a slow surrender, baring your throat. simon makes a low sound of approval, and then his fingers tighten, curling into the denim at your hips.

"si-"

"oh, sweetheart.” he slowly tugging your pants down. "you in a rush? thought you liked when i took my time."

simon's hand drags over your thigh, metal knuckles gliding over your skin. the pressure he uses is just enough to make you feel it, to make your breath hitch, thighs twitching as something hot sparks low in your belly.

"shakin’, love. that bad, huh?"

his fingers stroke over your panties, pressing into the slick beneath.

"fuck," simon laughs, dragging his palm over your thigh, fingers spreading, squeezing. "you're dripping. what, just from me takin’ off your jeans? christ, love, that’s pathetic. you really need it that bad?"

your hips jolt, desperate, chasing friction. instinct drives you— no thought, no shame, just the raw ache of needing him.

simon tsks, shaking his head like it’s funny, like he isn’t already rolling his hips against your leg, cock hard and twitching beneath denim. his fingers press against the soaked cotton between your thighs, rubbing slow circles over your clit.

"built this thing for me," he mutters, mostly to himself, watching his own fingers move, the thick, cool metal pressed flush against heat-swollen flesh. "and look at you. already makin’ a fuckin’ mess all over it."

his mouth twitches. not quite a smirk. something meaner, hungrier.

his gaze drags up, pinning you in place. sharp. knowing. "bet you thought about it, though," he says. "at least once. didn’t you?"

heat spikes through you, curling in your gut. shame prickles at the edges, but it doesn’t matter. not when he’s right. you had thought about it. had imagined this. had pictured his prosthetic between your legs, pressing down, making you beg, the hard edges of metal digging into soft, soaked flesh, the slow hum vibrating against your clit until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but come apart on him.

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, grasping for something solid, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t acknowledge how you tremble beneath him. just watches. tracks.

you stare up at him, panting, barely able to focus, and— god, his face.

the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts jagged through the scruff along his chin. his stubble is coarse, speckled with hints of gray, a little uneven along his jaw. coarse shadows frame his mouth, dust over his upper lip, the cut of his jaw. his nose has been broken before, maybe more than once, slightly crooked where it was never set right. the thin pink ridge of an old scar cuts through his left eyebrow, splitting it clean in half, a deeper line stretching down the side of his face, the tail end disappearing into the rough stubble at his jaw.

you don’t get long to stare.

his mouth crashes against yours, rough and urgent, teeth knocking against teeth, lips parting just enough to let him shove his tongue deep, curling against yours, licking into your mouth, taking, claiming.

his teeth sink into your bottom lip, sharp, hard enough to sting. you whimper, legs shaking, and he groans like he feels it everywhere, like he wants to eat you alive.

then— a hum. low. steady. vibrating against your cunt.

your whole body jolts, spine arching, hands flying to his arms, fingers twisting into the thick, corded muscle of his biceps.

you gasp into his mouth, try to pull back, try to breathe, but he doesn’t let you.

simon’s arm locks around your waist, dragging you closer, pressing you down against the hard, pulsing vibration between your legs.

"fuckin’ christ," he groans, fingers slipping beneath soaked fabric, spreading you open. his breath stutters, mouth barely moving as he stares down at his own hand, at the thick, slick mess coating his fingers. "you’re soaked."

his cock throbs against your thigh, thick and heavy where it presses into the denim of his jeans, pulsing hot through the fabric.

his fingers stroke through slick, teasing, pressing against your clit, and the vibration amps up.

you cry out, body jolting, hips stuttering, but he catches them in both hands, grips them tight, holds you still.

"jumped like a scared little rabbit.” Simon's breath is warm against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse.

his hand stills.

his fingers rest against your clit, pressing just enough to make you squirm, to keep you teetering, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t push you over. "should turn it up, yeah?"

your breath hitches, hips jolt, but his grip plants you right where he wants you.

"no runnin’," he breathes against your mouth. "you take what i fuckin’ give you."

pressure builds. tightens. burns through you a f through it all his eyes stay locked on yours.

the vibration shifts— harder, deeper. his fingers push inside, stretching, filling, pressing against every aching, sensitive spot.

your moan rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, nails sinking into the hard planes of his back. your legs twitch, thighs trembling where they clamp around his sides, but he doesn’t let up. doesn’t ease up.

simon grins, sharp and smug, lips curling against your temple. “atta girl,” he breathes, pushing you down, keeping you still.

his fingers press firm against the swollen bud beneath, dragging slow, torturous circles that make you jerk.

"swollen, love," his knuckles brush over your clit just enough to make your whole body twitch. "look at you-" his tongue drags over his bottom lip. "all fucked-out already, and i haven’t even started.”

a whimper spills from your throat. you twist beneath him, trying to get away— but there’s nowhere to go. simon is everywhere all at once.

simon’s head dips, breath warm as it ghosts over slick, swollen flesh. you’re open for him, spread wide, cunt glistening— slick dripping down the crease of your thigh, pooling beneath you.

he noses at you, the rough drag of his stubble scraping over sensitive skin, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh.

"tastes sweet," he mutters, lips barely brushing where you need him. "dripping all over yourself, love. makin’ a fuckin’ mess just for me."

his tongue flicks out— soft, fleeting— not enough.

you cry out, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting, trying to pull him in, trying to keep him there.

he smirks against your skin. "shh." another lick, just to watch you tremble. "poor thing. so sensitive."

you twitch, hips chasing his mouth, aching for more, needing him to stop teasing, needing him to eat you alive. but then—

he pulls away.

your eyes snap open, bleary, wild.

you barely register him moving, barely track the way he rises up, broad and so fucking smug.

you're about to ask where he's going when you you hear it.

the clink of his belt.

your breath hitches.

he drags it out, making you watch as his fingers work the buckle, making you listen to the quiet rasp of the zipper, the rustle of denim as he shoves his jeans down just enough—

his cock is flushed dark at the tip. pre-cum beads at the slit, smearing as he wraps his fingers around the base, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. the sheer girth of it stretches his grip wide, the veins running down the shaft prominent, pulsing, standing out beneath the taut skin. he’s obscenely long, thick enough that your thighs instinctively press together, anticipation twisting tight in your gut.

simon strokes himself again, dragging his fist up the thick length, thumb circling the swollen tip. his cock twitches in his grip, another bead of precum welling at the slit, spilling over, tracing a slick path down the ridges of a pulsing vein.

his fingers flex around the base, squeezing, drawing another lazy stroke up before dragging his thumb along the sensitive underside. a quiet exhale leaves him, sharp through his nose, body tensing at his own touch.

he taps the swollen head against your clit, watches the way you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together even as they stay spread for him.

a whimper breaks from your throat.

simon smiles. "need it that bad, huh?"

you nod frantically, thighs trembling, nails biting into his skin.

he exhales through his nose, head shaking like he can’t believe you.

"fuckin’ insatiable," he mutters, pressing the head against your cunt. "guess i’ll just have to fuck it all out of you."

you sob beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, nails clawing at his shoulders.

"so tight," he grits out. "fuck- look at you, baby. takin’ me so good."

simon sinks an inch, just enough for the head to pop inside and his breath catches, body locking up, heat surging through his spine.

your cunt swallows him whole, warm and wet and too fucking tight, and instinct takes over—

his hips snap forward, bottoming out in one sharp stroke.

a broken noise rips from his throat, something between a groan and a whine, his body shuddering, his hands gripping your hips too tight as his cock jerks inside you, pulsing, spilling hot and thick before he can stop it.

his forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling, breath coming ragged, desperate.

"fuck-" his voice breaks. "oh, fuck."

your cunt throbs around him, squeezing, milking him even though he hasn’t even moved, and the overstimulation makes his body jolt, makes his jaw lock tight.

"oh my god.” your fingers claw at his back. "simon-!"

he groans into your skin, cock still twitching inside you.

"jesus christ..” he drags in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to see your face— tear-streaked and glassy-eyed. "m'sorry- fuck, baby, i’m sorry, it’s been-" he chokes on his words, shaking his head, voice breaking. "god, it's been so long-"

he drags in another breath, body screaming, cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but you’re still crying, still trembling beneath him, still so fucking needy.

and fuck, you deserve better than that.

he shakes his head, tries to will himself to stop, to apologize, to pull out— let you laugh at him if you want.

but your cunt is still squeezing him, soft and warm and perfect, and he can’t.

his hands slide down, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider.

"fuck- i got you, baby," he pants, hips pulling back before snapping forward again. "fuckin’ hell.” his whole body shakes. "gonna make it up to you, promise. gonna give it to you like you need, yeah? gonna fuck you so good, baby, you’ll feel me for days."

you wail beneath him, thrashing, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, mouth open on a sob as he fucks into you, fast and hard, ignoring the way his cock aches, the way his whole body protests, pushing through it because you need this.

"simon- simon, please- oh my god- fuck!"

"shh, shh," he coos, a little breathless. "i know, baby, i know. takin’ it so good- fuck, squeezin’ me so tight."

you sob harder, clinging to him, and he groans, burying his face in your neck, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, sucking little bruises into your skin.

"fuck- oh fuck," his hips stutter, his own release rising again, too soon, too intense, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck if it hurts.

"c’mon, love," he pants, "give me one more, yeah? cry all you want, baby, i love when you cry."

and when you finally do, when your body locks up around him and your walls squeeze tight, he groans loud and desperate, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it.

"there it is, fuck, there it is-"

he’s so proud, pressing wet, messy kisses to your cheeks, licking away the salt of your tears, whispering, "such a good girl, takin’ me so well, so fuckin’ perfect-"

"gonna cum again," simon tells you, almost pleading, "need to, sweetheart- need to cum deep in this perfect fucking cunt again-"

you wail, nodding, sobbing his name as your own orgasm crashes over you, squeezing down around him so tight it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

simon groans, pressing his forehead to yours, gasping, desperate, hips snapping forward in rough, short little thrusts.

"good girl," he chokes out, "good fuckin’ girl-"

and then he's spilling into you again, sobbing into your skin, wrecked and shaking and completely fucking gone.

8K notes · View notes

brookghaib-blog · 28 days ago

Text

The quiet things that remain

pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Bob and Y/N used to be the best of friends, he went to Malaysia to be better, only to leave her just with a ghost in the past and unresponded messages and calls. And return, but never to her. Never to the love she didn't had the courage to announce.

Word count: 12,1k

warning: very angst, depression, self-esteem issues, extreme loniless, mysoginistic remarks

note: don't hate me

chapter II

The rain tapped against the bookstore windows like a soft, persistent knocking — steady, but unwelcome. Outside, the gray New York afternoon bled into the kind of evening that came too early and stayed too long. Inside, the warmth of yellow lamplight spilled over rows of untouched shelves and dust-flecked hardcovers, curling over the edges of a place that time had gently forgotten.

Y/N sat behind the counter, elbows on the worn wood, phone resting in her trembling hands. She hadn't noticed when the tea beside her had gone cold. She hadn’t noticed much lately.

The video played quietly, but every word rang louder than it should.

“...the New Avengers were spotted again today leaving the UN compound, raising more questions than answers. Who are they? What do they stand for? And more importantly… who are they when the cameras are off?”

A sleek montage of clips rolled across the screen. There they were — the so-called “New Avengers.”

There he was. Bob Reynolds. The man she hadn’t seen in eight months.

Golden-haired, cleaner than she’d ever known him, standing straight and still beside a team of killers and misfits. No twitching hands. No darting eyes. No shadow of withdrawal in his pupils. Just… peace. Control. Power.

It was like looking at a stranger. A beautiful, impossible stranger with his face.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, but the video kept playing.

“Among the many questions surrounding Sentry — the golden god at the center of the team — is one persistent theory: is there something romantic between him and his fellow operative, Yelena Belova?”

Her fingers curled around the phone. No. Please.

Footage rolled. Grainy at first — taken by paparazzi, blurred by distance.

Bob and Yelena. Walking side by side. Her arm brushing his. Another clip: her tugging him away from the crowd, laughing. A third: a hug. Not quick. Not distant. Her arms around his waist. His chin in her hair. The kind of embrace that says I know what you’ve been through, and I’m not afraid of it.

“She’s the reason I’m here,” Bob’s voice said, an old interview clip playing now. “Yelena… she didn’t give up on me, even when I did. She reminded me there was still something worth saving.”

Y/N didn’t realize she’d started crying until her vision blurred and the soft hum of her own breath broke into a quiet, gasping sob. She paused the video with shaking hands, freezing the frame on a still of Bob looking sideways at Yelena during the interview — something gentle, something fragile behind his eyes.

That was the look she used to dream about. That was the look he never gave her.

She’d held his hair back while he threw up in gas station parking lots. Bailed him out of jail with money she didn’t have. Let him crash on her couch when he was too high to remember his name. He used to call her his “safe place.” Said she was the only thing in his life that wasn’t broken.

But she’d always known. Deep down, she’d always known she wasn’t enough to fix him.

But now? Now he had Yelena.

And the world. And peace.

Y/N set her phone down face-first on the counter and covered her face with both hands, her shoulders trembling with the kind of grief that makes no sound. The kind that lives in the chest like a second heartbeat, one made of rust and regret.

No customers. No noise but the rain and the old jazz record she’d forgotten to flip. Just her and the ghosts of what they could’ve been.

In the next room, a little bell above the door chimed softly — a delivery maybe, or just the wind. She didn’t even lift her head.

Somewhere, Bob Reynolds was flying.

And she was still here, crying in a bookstore he’d once said felt like home. He wasn’t coming back. Not to her.

And still, she whispered his name. Quiet, like a prayer.

The bookstore no longer hurt.

Not in the way it used to — with that sharp, stabbing grief that made her chest cave in every time the bell above the door chimed. Back then, she'd look up, half-hoping it was him. A flash of gold hair. That awkward, tired smile. His hoodie too big, his eyes too empty.

But now, months later, there was just quiet. Not peace — never peace — but quiet.

The kind that comes after acceptance. The kind that grows like moss over memories.

Y/N didn’t talk about Bob anymore. Not to coworkers, not to old friends who still asked, “Have you seen what he’s doing now?” Not even to herself, in those late hours when the ache beneath her ribs swelled like a wound reopening.

But she felt him. In the silence between customers. In the space beside her when she locked the door and walked home. In the way she looked at the world now — all those colors, all that beauty — and felt like a glass wall stood between her and everything she used to want.

She’d loved him. Of course she had.

She had loved Bob Reynolds since the ninth grade, when he punched a teacher’s car and got suspended for protecting a kid he didn’t even know. She loved him when he borrowed her notes, when he cried on her fire escape high out of his mind, when he disappeared for three weeks and came back thirty pounds thinner, shivering and hollow-eyed.

She loved him when he couldn’t love himself.

She never said it. Not really. Maybe in the way she bandaged his hands. Or made excuses to his parole officer. Or brought him dinner and sat three feet away like she didn’t want to reach out and pull him into her chest.

And when he left for Malaysia — a “spiritual retreat” — she smiled. She smiled like she believed it, even though everything in her screamed.

Still, she let him go. She let him go because she thought he’d come back. For her.

And then came the message. Just six words.

I love you. I’m sorry.

She’d stared at those words for hours. Days. Her fingers trembling over the keys, unsent replies collecting like ghosts in her drafts folder.

“Why are you sorry?” “Where are you?” “I love you, too.” “Please come home.” “Was it ever real?”

But she never sent anything. Because part of her already knew.

It wasn’t romantic love. Not for him. She was comfort. She was safety. She was the place you go when everything else falls apart — not the place you stay when you’re finally whole again.

Yelena got that part. Yelena got all of him.

And Y/N… Y/N got to survive it.

So she started going to the park.

At first, just to breathe. Just to sit on a bench with a thermos of tea and pretend she was somewhere else. Then, one day, she brought a sketchbook. She wasn’t an artist, not really. But she remembered telling Bob once that she wanted to draw people in love. “Like those old French films,” she’d said. “Where they just sit at cafés and smoke and kiss.” He laughed and said she was corny.

She went back the next day. And the next.

She sketched mothers holding babies. Old couples feeding pigeons. Young people tangled together in the grass, drunk on love and sunshine.

They didn’t know she was drawing them. They didn’t know her heart was breaking with every line.

She packed little picnics, too. Cheese and grapes and crackers in a paper box. A single folded napkin. She ate them cross-legged on a blanket alone — the same dates she used to dream of sharing with him. Her fantasies made real, only stripped of the one person they were for.

She bought herself ballet tickets. Front row. Twice.

She cried through Swan Lake because it was beautiful. And because Bob never cared about ballet. But she’d once imagined holding his hand in that velvet-dark theater, leaning on his shoulder, whispering about the dancers under the dim light of intermission.

She went to museums with an audio guide in her ears and a silent ache in her chest. They’d planned to go once, years ago. He bailed. Got arrested that night. She remembered bailing him out, hair still curled from the night she’d spent getting ready, tickets still in her purse.

Now she went alone. She stood in front of paintings for too long. Tried to feel the meaning in each one. Tried to understand why love, for her, always felt just out of reach — like art behind glass.

Bob had loved her, she truly believed that. But now she knew it had been platonic. Or nostalgic. Or guilty. Or desperate. Not the way she had loved him. Not the kind that cracked bone and rearranged the shape of her soul.

She had been there for decades. Through every overdose. Every apology. Every relapse and redemption. And in the end, Yelena — sharp, beautiful, new — walked in and took the title Y/N had spent her whole life earning.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Not really.

But it still felt like theft.

And so, every day, Y/N practiced the quiet art of living. Not thriving. Not healing. Just… surviving.

And when she walked home past flickering streetlights, past posters of the New Avengers, past Bob’s face painted in gold and shadow, she looked away.

Not because she didn’t love him anymore. But because she still did.

The sound of her shoes echoed softly against the sidewalk as Y/N walked home from the museum, arms crossed tightly over her chest. It had rained earlier. The air still smelled like wet pavement and the petals of bruised flowers that had fallen from the trees lining the Upper West Side.

She didn’t know why she kept doing this — walking home instead of taking the bus. Maybe she was punishing herself. Or maybe it was the only time she could cry without worrying anyone would see.

The tear tracks on her cheeks had dried by the time she got to her building.

She lived on the second floor. A narrow walk-up above a tailor shop, with faded red carpeting and one window that opened if you jiggled it the right way. It was small, cramped, imperfect. But it was hers.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the weight of the day sank into her shoulders. She kicked off her shoes — too comfortable, too wide, orthopedic even. She used to laugh at herself for that, back when she imagined someone would find her quirks charming. Now they just made her feel… old.

Plain.

Forgettable.

Y/N tossed her bag on the couch and went straight to the mirror near the kitchen. She didn’t know why. She just stood there and looked.

And the more she looked, the more she unraveled.

The dark circles beneath her eyes weren’t poetic, like in the movies. They were just… tired. Her skin was dull, pale in places, red in others. Her cheeks had lost their softness from stress. Her lips were cracked.

She tucked her hair behind one ear. Then the other. Then back again.

Too flat. Too thin. Too dry.

She didn’t look like someone you’d love at first sight. She didn’t look like someone who could fly beside gods or run across rooftops or save the world.

She looked like someone who bagged your books and forgot to put on mascara.

And the image of Yelena — always there, always shimmering just under her eyelids — rose to the front of her mind.

Yelena Belova, with her radiant, smug grin and her bite-sharp wit. Yelena, who had cheekbones like a model and eyes that seemed to challenge the whole world. Yelena, who had scars and stories and strength in the kind of way that made men look and women wish.

She was everything Y/N wasn’t.

And worse… she was the kind of woman Bob could fall in love with.

Y/N’s voice cracked in the silence of the room. A whisper against the mirror.

“Of course he loves her.”

She dragged her fingers down her face, pressing against her cheekbones, her temples, like she could reshape what was there. But no matter how she adjusted the angle, no matter how she forced a smile — she still looked like the woman he left behind.

A memory. A placeholder. Never the prize.

She slumped to the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, knees pulled to her chest.

Her breath hitched once. Twice. And then the tears came again, full and warm, slipping down her cheeks and into the collar of her cardigan.

Why did I think I ever had a chance?

The thought hissed in her mind, cruel and sharp. She wasn’t a hero. She wasn’t someone the world noticed, or photographed, or followed online. She wore second-hand sweaters and cheap lip balm. She read fantasy books instead of manifesting a future. She planned picnics and movie nights for a man who never once saw her as the main character in his life.

Her hands had held his when they trembled. Her voice had soothed him when he couldn’t breathe. Her love had stitched him back together when he was in pieces.

But Yelena got his smile. Yelena got the storybook ending.

And all Y/N got was this tiny apartment, this quiet heartbreak, and the knowledge that she had always, always been too soft in a world that rewarded teeth.

She reached for her sketchbook on the table, flipped to a new page, and tried to draw.

Anything. Something. A line. A shape.

But all that came out were shaky outlines of a woman with her head in her hands.

She didn’t even need to look in the mirror to know it was her.

A little while later, she made herself tea. She added honey even though she didn’t want it. Her mother once told her honey was for healing. She didn’t believe that anymore, but the ritual made her feel like someone else might believe it for her.

She drank it slowly, eyes still swollen, heart still aching.

It had taken everything in her — every fragile, trembling piece of courage — to agree to the date.

She didn’t want to. Not really. Not when her heart still ached every time she saw a golden blur on a news broadcast, not when Bob’s voice still played like a lullaby in her most tired moments. But she told herself she had to try. That maybe the only way out of love was through something new. Something safe. Someone... nice.

His name was Daniel. They had matched on an app after she spent thirty-two minutes rewriting and rereading her bio before finally deciding on something honest but light: “Bookstore girl. Lover of iced tea, Van Gogh, and stories that hurt.”

Daniel had a nice smile in his pictures. Warm. Casual. His messages were funny, thoughtful — nothing like the catcalls or shallow conversations she was used to getting from strangers online. He liked foreign films, jazz, and pretended to know more about literature than he did, which made her smile. He wasn’t Bob. But that was the point, wasn’t it?

Their dinner was at a little bistro tucked into a quiet Brooklyn street, lit by the kind of dim, cozy lighting that made everyone look softer. Y/N had spent two hours getting ready. She curled her hair, put on eyeliner she hadn’t touched in months, and slipped into a pale blue dress that clung just enough to remind her that her body was still hers — even if no one had touched it in years.

She smiled when she saw Daniel waiting outside, leaning against the brick wall with his hands in his coat pockets. He greeted her with a compliment — “You look great” — and she had smiled too brightly in return, unsure of how to absorb kindness that didn’t come wrapped in years of shared trauma.

The conversation was easy, light. He asked about her job, her favorite books, her dream vacation. She let herself laugh, even told a few stories about her childhood that she hadn’t spoken aloud in a long time. They shared dessert. He paid. He walked her outside, his coat brushing her arm.

Then he said it.

“So… want to come back to mine for a nightcap?” He grinned. That kind of grin.

It hit her like a slap. The spell — fragile and delicate — shattered.

Her breath caught, but she smiled politely. “No, thank you. I should probably get home.”

He blinked once. Twice. Then his face changed.

“Oh. One of those girls.”

She paused, caught off guard. “What?”

“You led me on the whole night just for a free meal?”

“What? No, I didn’t—”

He laughed — a cruel, sharp sound that made her skin crawl. “Jesus. I should’ve known. I mean, you're not even that hot.”

Her lips parted, a protest caught in her throat. But he was already turning away.

“You act like you're this mysterious, deep girl, but you're just another average chick playing hard to get. It’s pathetic.”

The words hit like fists. Not even that hot. Just average.

She stood there, stunned, as he walked off into the night without another word.

By the time she got home, the tears had already started. Silent. Humiliating. Hot with shame.

She locked the door behind her and sank to the floor, still in her dress, her heels digging into her calves. She didn’t move for a long time. Just sat there, back against the wall, clutching her purse to her chest like it could hold her together.

“I’m not even pretty enough to turn someone down,” she whispered into the quiet.

The words echoed in her head, crueler every time they came back around.

Because it wasn’t just about Daniel.

It was every moment she’d spent wondering why Bob never looked at her that way. Every time she imagined what it might be like if he kissed her, only to watch him kiss someone else in her dreams. It was every second she stood in front of the mirror, wishing to be someone — anyone — worth choosing.

Yelena would never be called average.

Yelena had fire in her veins and a thousand stories in her scars. Men looked at her like she was art. Women wanted to be her. She could command a room with a glance, slay monsters with a flick of her wrist. Even in the mess, she was magic.

And what was Y/N?

Just… there.

The girl at the register who knew your favorite author. The girl who waited. Who stayed. Who believed in things long after they’d stopped being true.

The girl who had to beg the universe just to be noticed — only to be told she wasn’t even good enough to reject.

That night, she deleted the dating app.

She folded the blue dress and put it at the bottom of her drawer. She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror. She made tea and didn’t drink it.

She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up, one thought pulsing behind her tired eyes:

Even if Bob had never loved her… she used to believe she was the kind of person worth loving.

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

The air was crisp — not cold, not yet. Just enough of a bite to make the tips of her fingers shiver in her sleeves, and for the wind to carry the kind of scent that only ever belonged to October: dried leaves, earth, the distant memory of rain. Y/N had always loved this kind of weather. She used to joke that it was "main character" weather. The kind you walk through slowly, headphones in, pretending the world is some quiet, tragic film and you’re the girl who hasn’t healed yet — but might.

Only now, she wasn’t pretending.

She walked with her hands in her pockets, her scarf wrapped twice around her neck and tugged tight. Her hair was tied back loosely, pieces falling into her face with every gust of wind. Her eyes were a little tired, but soft. Distant. As if they were searching for something they didn’t expect to find.

The park wasn’t crowded. A few dog walkers. A couple of college students with coffees. Two kids kicking a soccer ball back and forth. She passed them all without really seeing them. Her boots crunched gently over leaves as she found her usual bench — the one facing the little lake with the willow trees bending low over the edge. She sat slowly, with the weight of someone who was carrying more than her coat.

She didn’t notice the old woman at the other end of the bench until several minutes had passed.

The woman was crocheting. Her fingers moved rhythmically, precisely, as if they knew this pattern by heart. A ball of pale lavender yarn sat tucked neatly in her lap, and her eyes — pale blue and clouded slightly with age — flicked up occasionally to watch the people go by.

Y/N watched the ducks. The trees. Nothing in particular. Her body was still, but her mind wasn’t.

She didn’t cry. Not this time. The tears had dried up days ago. Now it was just… stillness. Not peace. Not quite sadness. Just the absence of something she didn’t know how to name.

“Are you looking for someone, dear?”

The voice startled her — soft but sudden. Y/N turned slightly, surprised to see the old woman watching her with a small, knowing smile.

“I—sorry?” Y/N blinked.

“You’ve got that look,” the woman said, setting her crochet down gently in her lap. “The kind people wear when they’re waiting for someone they know won’t come. I used to know that look very well.”

Y/N swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“I’m not,” she said too quickly. “Just… enjoying the park.”

The woman hummed, unconvinced but kind. “Well, if you’re going to keep me company, at least pretend to be interested in what I’m making.”

Y/N smiled faintly — barely there — and looked down at the yarn. “What are you making?”

“Scarf. For my granddaughter. She wants it to match her dog’s sweater,” the woman said with a fond roll of her eyes. “I told her that was ridiculous. Then I started it anyway.”

Y/N let out a small breath. A ghost of a laugh. “It’s a beautiful color.”

“Thank you.” The woman paused, then looked at her with a soft, mischievous glint. “You ever crochet?”

Y/N shook her head. “No… But I’ve always wanted to learn.”

“Well, you’re in luck.” The woman pulled a second hook from her bag and another ball of yarn — soft blue, a little faded. “Sit up. I’ll teach you.”

Y/N hesitated. “I… really?”

“Why not? You look like you need something to do with those restless hands. Something that doesn’t involve checking your phone every two minutes.”

She flushed. Guilty. She had been checking. Just in case there was something about him. A new sighting. A news update. A miracle.

She took the yarn.

The first few loops were awkward. Clumsy. But the rhythm settled quickly. The woman’s voice guided her gently through the pattern, her hands warm with time and patience. Y/N’s hands trembled once — not from the cold.

“What’s your name, dear?” the woman asked after a while.

“Y/N.”

“Lovely name. I’m June.”

They sat for a long moment in silence, the soft clicking of hooks the only sound between them.

Then June asked, “Was it your lover?”

Y/N blinked, the question catching her off guard. “What?”

“The one you’re looking for. The one you lost.”

Y/N stared at the yarn in her hands, her fingers frozen mid-loop. She could feel the ache creep up again, slow and sharp, like it always did when someone touched that place inside her she thought she’d hidden well.

“I… I didn’t have a lover,” she said softly.

June watched her for a moment, then nodded. “But you loved him.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“Yes.”

June didn’t pry. She just nodded again, returning to her stitching. It was quiet for another few minutes before Y/N found her voice again.

“What about you?” she asked. “You said you used to know that look.”

June smiled gently, the kind of smile that knew grief well. “I lost my husband five years ago. Charles. We were married forty-seven years. I still look for him sometimes in the park. It’s silly, I know.”

“It’s not silly,” Y/N said quickly, her voice breaking just slightly.

June looked at her kindly. “No… I suppose it’s not.”

Y/N looked down at her yarn, then up at the trees swaying slowly in the breeze.

“He used to walk with me,” June said, voice distant. “Every Sunday. He’d always pick up the fallen leaves and tell me which ones were the prettiest. I used to think he was silly for it. Now I wish I’d pressed them all into books.”

Y/N’s chest hurt. “I used to plan dates for him,” she said suddenly, voice quiet. “Picnics. Ballet tickets. Museum exhibits. I’d write the ideas down in a little notebook. I never asked him out. Never told him. But I had it all planned… just in case he ever looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

June’s eyes were wet.

“Did he ever know?” she asked gently.

Y/N shook her head.

“I think he loved me,” she said. “But not the way I needed.”

June reached over, placed her hand softly over Y/N’s.

“Sometimes,” she said, “we love the right person in the wrong way. And sometimes… we’re just too late.”

Y/N let the words settle in her chest, the truth of them ringing hollow and loud all at once.

They sat there until the sun began to sink beneath the trees, painting the lake gold. A still, shared silence. No pressure. No expectations. Just two women — one in the dusk of her life, the other trying desperately to find her dawn again — crocheting side by side on a bench in the middle of a world that kept moving forward.

Y/N didn’t find Bob that day.

But she found something else.

A moment of peace.

After that day in the park, something in Y/N shifted. Not drastically. There was no revelation. No thunderous change. Just… a quiet pivot. A small crack that let something new inside.

She began crocheting like her life depended on it.

At first, she was terrible. Her stitches were too tight. Then too loose. Then tangled. She dropped the hook more times than she could count. But she kept at it with the fervor of someone clinging to a lifeline. Her apartment — once tidy, minimalist — soon became littered with yarn. Pale blues, deep burgundies, soft browns. She never made anything useful. Her scarves were too short, her hats too lumpy, her attempts at socks made her laugh through tears.

But the point wasn’t to finish. The point was that it occupied her hands. It kept her from refreshing news sites. Kept her from scrolling past video edits of Bob — or Sentry now — lifting cars, flying above cities, standing beside Yelena like they were sculpted from the same stone. It kept her from reliving every memory with him, over and over, until her mind bled from it.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she met June in the park. Rain or shine. They’d sit on the bench, often in silence, crocheting while the world passed them by. Sometimes June talked about Charles. Sometimes about her grandchildren. Sometimes they sat in companionable stillness, the weight of their grief stitching them into the same quiet rhythm.

June started calling her “kiddo,” and Y/N didn’t have the heart to admit it made her cry once she got home.

She started dressing differently too — without realizing it. Her clothes became… comfortable. Long skirts, oversized cardigans. Scarves that didn’t match and boots with scuffed toes. She looked like the kind of woman you’d see sipping tea alone in an empty café window, with a novel clutched tightly in her fingers and a look in her eyes that said she once believed in love like fire — and got burned.

She began frequenting thrift shops, telling herself it was for the coziness. The earth tones. The way old clothes felt like they had stories. But deep down, she knew it was because she didn’t feel beautiful anymore — so why bother trying?

Gone were the days of her cute lipstick, her floral dresses, her perfectly winged eyeliner that she wore just in case Bob stopped by the shop. Gone were the silly hopes that he'd see her in some new outfit and forget Yelena’s warrior smile.

Now, she was the soft ghost behind the register at the bookstore — the one who remembered every customer’s favorite genre, who stacked romance novels with tender reverence even though she didn’t read them anymore, who crocheted during lunch breaks and smelled like old paper and lavender.

Customers called her “lovely.” Never beautiful. Never striking. Just lovely.

A kind way to say forgettable.

To fill the quiet, she started a book club. Thursday nights. She pinned up a flier at the front counter and expected no one to come. But a few people did. A teacher, an elderly man with too many opinions on Hemingway, a lonely college student who needed an excuse to leave the dorms. They talked about stories, argued about endings, brought snacks. And for one night a week, Y/N had plans. A reason to change her clothes. A reason to stay awake past ten.

They all liked her. They said she had a soothing voice. That she picked good books. That she made the bookstore feel like home.

None of them knew her favorite book was the one Bob borrowed and never returned — spine cracked, margin scribbled with his half-legible notes. She kept it on the shelf behind the counter. Just in case.

Sometimes she wondered if Bob would even recognize her now. If he passed her on the street ?

Would he see the girl who held his head in her lap during withdrawal? Who bailed him out of jail with the last of her student loan money? Who made mix CDs and planned imaginary dates and waited three years for him to say I love you in a way that wasn’t a goodbye?

Or would he just see what everyone else saw now?

A sweet, quiet, unremarkable woman who smiled too politely and went home alone.

She never told June about him. Not really. She never said the name. She just said, “There was someone. And I wasn’t enough.”

June had squeezed her hand. “He wasn’t ready, love. There’s a difference.”

Y/N smiled at that.

But she didn’t believe it.

Not anymore.

Some people are stars, destined for legend, brilliance, and heroes who fall from the sky. And some people are just… soft spaces. To be landed on. To be left behind.

Y/N had accepted that she was the latter.

And so, she crocheted. She read. She sipped lukewarm tea in the evenings and wrote little notes in the margins of her books just to feel like someone might find them one day and know she existed.

She was no one’s great love story.

The loneliness had begun to settle like dust — fine, weightless, but everywhere. In the corners of her apartment. In the extra teacup she always poured and never used. In the quiet moments between sleep and waking, when the stillness felt too heavy and too permanent to bear.

Y/N had always loved silence. But now, it gnawed at her.

Her routine no longer offered comfort — only proof of how much space one person could take up when no one else was there to see it. She could go days without speaking to anyone outside of work. Her coworkers were kind. Customers smiled. Book club was a nice reprieve. But when the door shut at night behind her, the echo always sounded like grief.

It had been weeks since she’d cried. Not because she was healing — she’d simply dried out. The tears had gone somewhere deep inside, too tired to keep trying.

That Sunday, she woke up to an apartment that felt too quiet. Too cold. The kind of cold that seeps through your skin and rests in your chest. She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, watching the morning light slide across the floor. The feeling was familiar. A soft, aching hollowness. The same she’d felt after Bob left. After she realized he wasn't coming back. After she watched a video of him calling Yelena his reason.

She wasn't trying to fill that hole anymore.

She just wanted… something warm.

So, she walked to the animal shelter.

It was a rainy morning, one of those gray, drizzling days where the whole world looked washed out and blurry. Her umbrella was cheap and kept folding inward, so by the time she got to the shelter, her coat was soaked through and her fingers were stiff.

Inside, the building smelled like wet fur and pine-scented cleaner. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, casting everything in a sterile yellow tone. A volunteer greeted her with a practiced smile and showed her to the cat room, explaining the basics — litter habits, vaccinations, temperament ratings. Y/N nodded politely but didn't really listen. Her eyes were already scanning the room.

Dozens of cats.

Some curled up in boxes. Others pacing. A few meowing with hopeful desperation.

But none looked at her.

She crouched near one particularly vocal tabby, only for it to hiss and turn its back. Another cat batted lazily at a toy when she approached but ignored her hand when she reached to pet it. A long-haired Persian stared right through her, regal and unimpressed.

Y/N stood there awkwardly, hands in her coat pockets, heart sinking.

She knew it was silly — anthropomorphizing rejection — but it still stung. She wasn’t even appealing to cats.

She turned to leave. Quietly. Without causing a scene. It would be just another thing she tried and failed at. Another reminder that even animals knew she wasn’t the one you picked.

And then — soft movement.

From the far corner, behind a scratching post and a tattered old tunnel toy, came the slow stretch of a lanky gray cat. He blinked at her, one eye slightly squinty from an old injury, and stood up.

He didn’t meow. Didn’t purr. Just padded over, tail upright like a little question mark.

Y/N froze.

He was all bones under his fur — lean and elegant in a scrappy kind of way. He looked like he’d lived a hard life. Scars on his ears. A slight limp. But his eyes… they were soft. Curious.

She crouched slowly and extended her hand.

The cat hesitated. Sniffed. And then, with a small sigh, leaned into her fingers.

Her throat tightened.

She scratched gently under his chin, and he tilted his head, pressing closer. As if to say, Oh. There you are.

Her vision blurred.

And just like that — she’d been chosen.

His name at the shelter was “Dusty.” She didn't change it. It suited him. He wasn’t glamorous. He didn’t leap into her lap or sleep curled against her cheek. But he followed her from room to room, curling up near her feet, always watching.

When she crocheted, he’d bat gently at the ends of yarn. When she cried quietly at night — not often, but sometimes still — he’d jump onto the couch and sit beside her. Never touching. Just near.

Like he knew that’s all she could handle.

She whispered to him often. About her day. About books. About the lives she imagined while shelving romance novels with happy endings. About the man she loved who forgot her.

Sometimes, she whispered his name.

Dusty never answered, of course. But he blinked at her slowly, and it felt like the closest thing to understanding she’d had in months.

She bought him a little blue collar with a bell. Crocheted him a lopsided bed. Let him sleep on the couch, even though she told herself she wouldn’t.

Her apartment didn’t feel empty anymore.

Not quite full, either.

But it felt alive.

And on some nights — when she boiled tea and read by the window, and Dusty curled beside her with one paw stretched across her foot — she allowed herself to pretend.

That maybe this was enough.

It had been raining the first day Y/N brought Dusty to the park.

Not pouring — just that kind of shy drizzle that left the leaves glistening and the air smelling of wet soil and faraway smoke. She hadn't intended to bring him. The thought itself had made her laugh, once. Walking a cat? That was a thing quirky people did in cartoons. Not quiet women with half-healed hearts and sensible shoes.

But Dusty had sat by the door that morning, tail flicking, eyes fixed on her like he knew she needed something.

She clipped on the little harness she'd bought on a whim — blue, to match his collar — and, to her surprise, he hadn’t fought her. He just blinked, stretched, and followed as she opened the door.

Y/N wasn’t used to being looked at. Not anymore. But she felt it that morning — soft, amused glances from strangers as she walked through the wet grass, the leash loose in her hand as Dusty padded carefully beside her. She adjusted her scarf higher on her neck and kept her eyes down. It felt ridiculous. Endearing. Exposed. Like she was baring too much of herself — saying, look how lonely I am that I walk a cat now.

But when she saw June already seated on their usual bench, bundled in a thick cardigan, her yarn dancing between delicate fingers — the tightness in her chest eased.

June looked up. Her eyes twinkled. “Well, well,” she grinned. “If it isn’t the neighborhood menace, dragging her tiger around.”

Y/N let out a breathy laugh and sat beside her. Dusty hopped onto the bench without invitation, curling beside her thigh like he owned it. His tail flicked with quiet pride.

“You brought the beast,” June said, amused. “I’m honored.”

“He needed fresh air,” Y/N murmured, brushing a raindrop from her cheek. “He gets restless when I work too long. I think he resents my job.”

June chuckled and leaned down to pet Dusty, who allowed it with his usual regal detachment. “He’s handsome,” she said thoughtfully. “Got that look of someone who’s seen things.”

Y/N smiled. “Like us.”

“Exactly.” June’s fingers scratched gently behind his ear. “You gave him a home?”

“He gave me one,” she whispered before she realized she’d said it aloud.

June looked at her.

Y/N swallowed. The wind brushed cold against her cheeks. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. “I have pictures,” she said, her voice too soft. “Do you want to see?”

“I was waiting for that,” June said, settling in like it was a grand event.

Y/N flipped through photos with careful fingers. One of Dusty sleeping on a pile of books. One of him in a crooked little sweater she’d crocheted — his expression pure betrayal. One where he stood on the windowsill with sunlight gilding his fur, the city behind him like a world she didn’t belong to anymore.

June smiled at every one. “He looks like he trusts you.”

“I hope so.”

“You saved him?”

“No. I think I just… showed up. And he let me stay.”

The words felt too honest. But June never mocked honesty. She only nodded, like she knew what it meant to find shelter in something that couldn’t leave.

They sat in silence for a long time after that.

June crocheted a square for her blanket — lilac and navy, the colors of twilight. Y/N worked on a tiny blue hat, not sure who it was for. Dusty rested between them, tail curled like a comma, as if he were pausing a sentence neither of them wanted to end.

Then, softly, June asked, “Do you talk to him?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Your cat. Do you talk to him?”

Y/N’s lips parted, then closed again. Her eyes dropped to the yarn in her lap. “Yes,” she said. “I think… I tell him the things I can’t say out loud.”

June nodded slowly. “We all need someone who listens. Even if it’s just ears and whiskers.”

Y/N looked at her hands, at the tiny trembling loop she was forming. “I told him I wasn’t waiting anymore.”

“Are you?”

“I think I’m trying not to.”

June set her needles down and took one of Y/N’s hands, her grip warm and soft and full of unspoken knowing. “He’s missing out, whoever he is.”

Y/N tried to smile. It wobbled. “He loved someone else.”

“Then he never really looked at you.”

“I think… I think I spent so long being someone who waited for him… I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You’re not just someone’s memory, sweetheart,” June said gently. “You’re here. You’re warm hands and kind eyes and messy yarn and a cat who chose you. That’s a lot.”

Dusty let out a soft chirp then, as if in agreement.

Y/N sniffed and nodded, tears pricking the corners of her eyes but refusing to fall. Not today.

“I never thought I’d be the woman who walked her cat in the park,” she said with a broken laugh.

“You’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” June said, eyes twinkling. “You’re the woman who brought her whole heart back to life… with a leash and some yarn. That’s something else entirely.”

There were things Y/N never spoke aloud — not to June, not to Dusty, not even to the ceiling fan above her bed that sometimes spun slow enough to listen.

She carried some stories like bruises beneath long sleeves. Quiet things that pulsed when touched, but stayed hidden because to reveal them would be to admit she was still clinging to shadows.

One of those bruises was Mondays.

Every Monday, without fail, Y/N sat in a small corner booth at Solstice Café — a quiet, sun-drenched spot with old wood chairs and that smell of cinnamon baked into its walls. She always brought a book. Sometimes a notebook. Sometimes just Dusty’s latest pictures on her phone to scroll through. But none of that was the reason she was there.

It had started years ago, in a different life. A warmer, louder one — where laughter was careless and hope didn’t feel like something foolish.

Bob had gotten a summer job spinning a ridiculous sign for a fried chicken place two blocks away. He had to wear a full chicken costume — yellow feathers, orange tights, a beak that flopped when he moved too quickly. He’d hated it. Said he looked like someone’s acid trip. He’d tried to quit after day two.

But she hadn’t let him. She’d shown up with lunch.

“Let the world see the bird,” she’d said, grinning.

He’d groaned. But when she pulled out his favorite sandwich and a milkshake — the one with caramel drizzle on top — he’d slumped beside her on the curb, feathers and all, and eaten in silence until he finally cracked a smile.

“Only you could make this less humiliating.”

“Maybe I just like chickens.”

“You like me in tights, admit it.”

She’d laughed. He’d turned red. And after that, every Monday for the rest of that summer — and the summers that followed, even after he quit — they had lunch together at Solstice. It became sacred. A ritual. Mondays were theirs.

Even after everything else in his life fell apart, Mondays stayed. She made sure of it.

She was the one constant. The lighthouse. The one who always showed up.

And now, all these years later, she still did.

Every Monday at noon, she left work exactly on time, tucked her cardigan tighter around her, and walked the six blocks to Solstice Café. Her booth was usually open. The staff didn’t know her name, but they knew her order. Grilled cheese. Tomato soup. And a lavender lemonade, just because Bob once said it reminded him of summer.

She never told June about it. She couldn’t. It felt too desperate. Too much like a woman who was still waiting for a boy who wore a chicken suit and laughed like he didn’t know how to stop.

Dusty would never understand either. He was loyal, yes, but cats didn’t know the ache of time or the illusion of memory that played like a movie behind your eyes.

She would sit in the booth with her book open but unread, eyes fixed on the seat across from her, and she would pretend — just for a moment — that he might walk through the door.

That maybe this Monday would be the one where time rewound and gave her a do-over. A world where Bob never left. Where Malaysia was just a made-up excuse, and he came home with feathered stories and a milkshake in hand. Where Yelena was nobody. Where his hand reached across the table and found hers because maybe — just maybe — he’d finally seen her the way she’d always seen him.

But it never happened.

The booth stayed empty. The soup got cold. And she walked home alone, every time, biting the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from falling in public.

Sometimes she hated herself for it — for being so loyal to a memory. For loving someone who’d never really been hers.

He had said “I love you, I’m sorry” before disappearing. And she'd let that echo destroy her. She'd built fantasies from it, believing for a moment that maybe — maybe — the love had been real. But now, after everything she’d seen, it felt more like a goodbye born from guilt than love.

Yelena had arrived with her sharp edges and hero’s smile, and whatever mess of a man Bob had returned as — the Sentry, the god, the weapon — he’d looked at her like salvation. Not at Y/N. Not once.

And still, every Monday, Y/N showed up like a woman stuck in time. Haunted by a love no one else had witnessed. By inside jokes that only she remembered.

The staff never asked why she dined alone.

Maybe they thought she was a widow. Maybe a creature of habit. Maybe just lonely.

But to Y/N, it was a quiet act of rebellion. Of memory. Of refusing to forget the version of Bob who once danced badly to ‘80s songs in her kitchen, wearing mismatched socks and her apron.

The boy who said she was his only real friend.

She didn’t believe in ghosts, not really. But if she did — if she let herself — she’d admit that Mondays were when she summoned one.

And she never told anyone.

Because some heartbreaks were too precious to share. Some wounds felt sacred.

Weekends used to be the hardest.

There was a stretch of time—long and hollow—where Saturday mornings arrived with too much silence, and Sunday nights ended with nothing but the weight of a week repeating itself. No plans, no messages, no one waiting. She had stopped checking her phone long ago for texts that would never come. The kind that once started with “you up?” or “I need you.”

But she had to fill the time with something. The ache of idleness was too loud.

So, one Sunday afternoon after wandering aimlessly downtown, she saw a flier posted crookedly on a corkboard at a bus stop: “Looking for weekend volunteers. All heart, no experience necessary. Shelter & Hope, 17th Ave.”

It was handwritten, the ink a little smudged, the edges curling like it had been forgotten. But something about it pulled her in. Maybe it was the “all heart” part. Or maybe it was just the idea that, somewhere in the city, someone needed something—even if it wasn’t her.

That next Saturday, she showed up. She wore a plain sweater, jeans that didn’t quite fit right anymore, and a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She was met by a man named Greg, who smelled faintly of coffee and wore a name tag that read, “One Day At A Time.”

“You here to save the world?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “Just trying not to drown in it.”

He didn’t press further. Just nodded and handed her a pair of gloves.

That first weekend, she washed dishes. Lots of them. In water that was too hot and filled with bubbles that clung to her wrists. Her knuckles turned red and raw, but the rhythm of it—the simple, repetitive motion—soothed something inside her.

She went back the next weekend.

And the one after that.

Soon, she wasn’t just washing dishes. She was making coffee. Folding donated clothes. Listening.

The people who came through Shelter & Hope weren’t statistics to her. They were names. Stories. Laughter that broke mid-sentence. Eyes that saw too much. Hands that trembled when offered kindness.

She met Eddie, a Vietnam vet who spoke like his voice had been lost in smoke. He told her about a girl named Luanne who once made peach cobbler every Sunday, and how the world stopped being sweet after she died.

She met Sherry, who carried her childhood in a plastic grocery bag, and showed Y/N how to mend socks with a needle as tiny as her hope.

She met Miles, a boy barely twenty with teeth too white for someone who never smiled. He liked fantasy books—especially ones with dragons. Y/N started bringing him paperbacks from her store’s discard bin. They’d read aloud together in the corner, where the flickering light made it hard to tell when he was crying.

She brought Dusty one day, on a whim, tucked into a soft sling like a baby. The shelter had no policy against pets, and he was clean, calm, the kind of cat who seemed to know when someone needed a weight on their lap and nothing more.

The residents adored him. Even the toughest of them softened at the sight of that quiet grey tabby with big amber eyes. Dusty never hissed. Never clawed. He simply sat. As if to say, I know. I understand. And somehow, that was enough.

One woman, Clarice, who hadn’t spoken in weeks, finally did—just to say, “He reminds me of a cat I had when my son was little.”

Y/N crocheted hats in the evenings. Scarves. Ugly mittens in colors no one requested. She gave them out anyway, stuffing them into drawers and offering them with a shrug. Sometimes she stitched their initials in the yarn when she knew them well enough. Her fingers worked fast now, always busy, like if she stopped, her thoughts would unravel.

She never told anyone why she was there. Not really.

They assumed kindness. A gentle soul. And she let them.

But in truth, it was selfish. It wasn't just that she wanted to help.

It was that, in their sadness, she could bury her own.

Their heartbreaks were worse. Louder. They made hers feel manageable. Bearable.

She wasn’t the only one with a ghost trailing behind her. She wasn’t the only one who’d been left behind.

And she wasn’t even the most broken. That realization brought shame and comfort in equal measure.

One Saturday, as she read quietly with Miles, he asked without lifting his head:

“Who hurt you?”

She froze.

“What?”

“You got that... look. Like you’re still waiting for someone who left.”

She smiled tightly. Closed the book.

“I’m just trying to give something good to the world.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But the world broke you first.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She went home that night and cried into Dusty’s fur until his little paws batted her cheeks in confusion.

But she still returned the next weekend.

Because the pain didn’t go away. But at least there, in that place of tattered blankets and borrowed names, she could pretend her sorrow was part of something bigger. Something useful.

And when she handed someone a scarf or a book or just sat beside them as they spoke of lost fathers, vanished sisters, or lovers who disappeared into the fog, she didn’t feel invisible anymore.

She felt needed.

Even if she was still heartbroken. Even if no one ever came back for her.

The afternoon sun poured through the tall front windows of the bookstore in long slanted beams, lighting up the dust in the air like suspended stars. Outside, it was early spring, the kind that still had a winter sting in its wind, but inside the shop, it was warm, quiet, and smelled like old paper and brewed coffee from the little machine behind the counter that had been sputtering since morning.

Y/N was kneeling by a stack of unopened boxes near the fantasy section. New inventory had just come in—paperbacks smelling of fresh ink, tight spines begging to be cracked open. She loved this part of her job. The methodical repetition of slicing through tape, peeling back cardboard, stacking new titles alphabetically. It required no smiles, no explanations. Just her and the books.

Dusty sat curled like a grey loaf behind the register, blissfully asleep, his ears flicking only when the bell above the door jingled.

She didn’t look up. Customers came in all the time. Browsers. Readers. Parents searching for a birthday present they wouldn’t understand.

But then, a low voice, gravelly like it had been dragged across asphalt, broke the soft quiet of the store.

“Any good fantasy books? Not lookin’ for anything fancy. Just... a good one.”

Y/N turned, slightly startled. The man who stood at the entrance of the aisle was older, maybe in his late fifties or sixties. His beard was thick and streaked with silver, wild but trimmed like he tried, sometimes. His jacket was old leather, the kind that didn’t just hang on your body but had a history. He wore sunglasses despite being indoors, which she found odd—and oddly funny.

She gave him a polite nod. “Sure. Do you want a classic or something newer?”

He shrugged. “Something I can disappear into.”

She tilted her head. She knew that feeling.

After a few seconds of scanning the shelf, she handed him a copy of “The Last Binding.” It was new. A hidden gem. A rich story with quiet grief buried in its fantasy. She had liked it.

He took the book from her hands, brushing her fingers with a calloused thumb as he did. “You read this?”

She nodded. “It’s about a boy who forgets everything he loves to protect it. And the people who try to remind him.”

He didn’t say anything, just held the book and stared at the cover like it might give him an answer.

They stood there for a beat, the soft music overhead almost too gentle to hear.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, voice low again, not mocking, just curious.

“I talk more when I know someone better,” she replied, organizing the rest of the books without looking up.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to read this quick and come back.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.

He didn’t offer a name. Didn’t ask for hers. Just stood there, flipping through the first few pages with long fingers.

For the next ten minutes, he asked her a few things—what made her love books, if this was what she always wanted to do, if she believed in happy endings. Nothing deep, nothing strange. The kind of conversation people forgot five minutes after they walked away.

But she didn’t forget.

Because just before he left, as he approached the counter with the book and stood across from her, sunglasses still hiding his eyes, he tilted his head like he was studying her for the first time. And in the smallest voice, like it didn’t belong to someone who looked like him, he said:

“You seem sad.”

The words landed like glass on hardwood. Sharp. Unwelcome.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t repeat it. Just offered a small, almost apologetic nod, left cash on the counter—exact change—and turned without another word.

The bell rang again as he left, his boots heavy and uneven on the wooden floor.

She stood there for a long time after he was gone, staring at the closed door.

“You seem sad.”

She was sad. But no one ever said it out loud. People said she was quiet. Or shy. Or kind. But not sad. Not like that.

Not like they could see it.

Y/N sat down on the little stool behind the register. Dusty jumped into her lap, purring instantly, like he knew.

Her hands shook slightly as she pet him.

Why did it matter what some stranger said? Why did those three words hurt more than the years of silence Bob had left behind?

Maybe because it meant it was still written all over her.

Maybe because no matter how many scarves she crocheted or how many fantasy books she pushed into lonely hands, it didn’t change the way her grief still bled through the cracks.

She opened the store notebook and scribbled in the margins like she sometimes did.

He didn’t ask my name. But he knew my sadness.

Then she crossed it out. Tucked the receipt from the man’s purchase into the back of the notebook like a keepsake. Just the date. The time. Nothing else.

It wasn’t a moment worth remembering, and yet—she would.

The tattoo shop sat at the edge of the avenue, tucked between a pawn shop and a boarded-up bakery. The neon sign in the window blinked lazily in red and blue—“Electric Rose Tattoo”—flickering just enough to make her hesitate.

Y/N stood outside, wrapped in her oversized cardigan, her hands buried in the long sleeves like a child trying to disappear. She had been standing there for five minutes. Ten. Maybe more. The sun was low and golden behind her, casting her shadow long across the sidewalk. People passed, barely glancing. A woman holding flowers. A man with headphones. A teenager laughing into his phone. Everyone had a destination. Everyone had somewhere to be.

Except her.

The idea of a tattoo hadn’t come from a bucket list or a sudden surge of rebellion. It had arrived quietly, like most of her thoughts did these days—born in the middle of an overcast morning, while folding laundry in silence, her heart heavy with the weight of being forgotten.

She had caught her reflection in the mirror and thought, I don’t even recognize her anymore.

Same eyes. Same face. Same tired hands and polite smile. She wasn’t beautiful. She had made peace with that—or told herself she had. She wasn’t anything. Not someone people remembered. Not someone who turned heads. Not someone Bob had ever seen as more than... dependable.

So what could she change?

Her face? No. Her body? She didn’t have the energy. Her soul? Too far gone.

But her skin? That, at least, was a canvas. And for once, maybe—just maybe—she could paint something of her own.

She looked down at the piece of folded notebook paper in her hand. The design she had drawn late one night. It was simple: a tiny open book, and out of the pages, a delicate stem of lavender reaching upward—her favorite flower. Her comfort. Her scent. Her solitude. The one thing she always bought fresh every week, even if she didn’t eat three meals a day.

The tattoo wasn’t big. It would sit on the inside of her left arm, just above the elbow crease, where her sleeves usually covered. Where she could see it, but others might not. It wasn’t for anyone else.

Just her.

The bell above the door jingled faintly as she finally stepped in, the soft scent of antiseptic and ink blooming around her.

The artist, a woman named Mel, looked up from her sketchpad. “Y/N?”

She nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

Mel smiled gently. She had full sleeves of tattoos, pink buzzed hair, and a nose ring that caught the light. She was effortlessly cool, the kind of person Y/N would have admired from afar, thinking, She knows who she is.

“Don’t worry. You ready?”

Y/N hesitated.

Ready? Was she ever ready for anything? Ready to love Bob, to lose him, to grieve him while he lived a public life as someone else’s hero? Ready to become a ghost in her own skin? Ready to crochet her heartbreak into scarves no one wore?

But she was here. She had made it here.

So she nodded again, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “Yeah.”

She handed over the drawing with slightly trembling hands.

Mel looked at it, and something in her expression softened. “It’s really beautiful. You draw this?”

“Yeah.”

“Got a story behind it?”

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it. Then shook her head. “No. I just… like books.”

It was a lie. But it was the kind of lie that kept her from unraveling in front of strangers.

They prepped the chair, the stencil, the tools. It all moved so quickly, like life always did now—just motion and murmurs, and time folding into itself.

When the needle first touched her skin, it stung—but not in the way she feared. It was grounding. Like she could finally feel something. Like her body remembered it was hers, not just a shell moving through book aisles and charity kitchens and empty park benches.

Halfway through, she felt tears on her cheeks.

Mel paused. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yes. Sorry. I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. She was crying for every Monday lunch where she sat alone. For every time she saw Yelena’s name paired with Bob’s. For every cruel whisper in her head calling her plain. For every man who saw her as less-than. For Dusty and June and the silence in her apartment after lights out. For being invisible for so long, even to the man who once told her, I love you, I’m sorry.

For still not knowing which part of that sentence he meant.

By the time the tattoo was finished, her sleeve was damp at the wrist from wiping her face too many times.

Ten minutes being obligated to lay down and wait was all she needed to spiral.

Mel wrapped her arm gently, like she was swaddling something precious.

“You did great,” she said kindly. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded again. But her voice cracked when she whispered, “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just for the tattoo.

It was for not asking more questions. For not pitying her. For helping her leave something permanent behind—something she had chosen.

She left the shop just as the sun was disappearing behind the buildings, sky bruised with color. Her arm stung, wrapped in sterile gauze, and the weight of the ink felt heavier than she expected.

But it was hers. For once in her life, something was only hers.

And as she walked down the sidewalk in her too-comfortable shoes, cardigan sleeves flapping in the wind, she felt something shift.

Not healing tho, maybe... refreshing feeling.

The next morning was one of those early spring days that still carried the ache of winter in its bones. Pale light stretched thin over the clouds, and the air held that soft chill that nipped at the fingers just enough to make you grateful for hot coffee. The park was quiet—the kind of quiet that settled not just around you, but in you.

Y/N walked slowly, Dusty tucked into the canvas tote at her side, only his little gray head poking out, eyes scanning the world like he was guarding it just for her. She had bundled herself in a wool coat and her usual fingerless gloves, but today she wore the new tattoo openly. The gauze was gone, replaced with healing balm and a slight sting every time her sleeve brushed it.

The tiny open book, delicate and lavender-laced, peeked out from under her coat sleeve like a secret she’d finally allowed herself to tell.

Her coffee was still warm when she reached the bench.

June was already there, of course—her skeletal fingers looping and pulling bright red yarn into rows, a soft crochet rhythm that looked more like a heartbeat than a hobby. Her white curls peeked from under a knitted hat, and beside her rested a small paper bag of crackers she always insisted on sharing with Dusty, whether he wanted them or not.

“You’re late, sweetheart,” June said without looking up, but the smile on her face said she didn’t mind.

Y/N smiled weakly and sat beside her, placing her coffee carefully on the bench’s edge and unbuttoning her coat. Dusty crawled out of the tote and leapt into June’s lap with practiced elegance, already nuzzling her side like he belonged there.

“Well, I brought peace offerings,” Y/N said softly.

“Oh? Do tell.”

Wordlessly, Y/N reached into her bag and pulled out a small bundle, carefully folded and tied with twine. It wasn’t much—just a hand-crocheted scarf in soft, dusky plum, the kind of purple that looked rich in any light. The pattern was imperfect. The stitches wobbled here and there, uneven tension in some rows. But the warmth it carried was unmistakable.

“For you,” she whispered.

June stopped mid-stitch, looking at the bundle like it was a relic.

“For me?” she asked, startled. “What’s the occasion?”

Y/N shrugged, eyes glistening. “No occasion. I just… wanted to.”

June took it gently, unwrapping the twine with a care usually reserved for something far more fragile.

“Oh,” she whispered, fingers trembling as she touched the scarf, dragging them slowly across each loop like she was reading braille. “Oh, my dear girl…”

Her voice caught.

“I didn’t think anyone made things for me anymore.”

Y/N looked down quickly, embarrassed by the tears threatening to spill again. She hadn’t expected this reaction—just a small smile maybe, a thank you. Not the way June pressed the scarf to her chest like it was a bouquet of wildflowers from someone long gone.

“I just thought it might keep you warm when it gets windy,” Y/N mumbled. “It’s nothing special. I know it’s not perfect—”

June turned to her, eyes watery but warm, her voice low. “It’s the most special thing I’ve received in years.”

Y/N looked at her. For a moment, they just sat there in silence, Dusty purring between them, the breeze tugging gently at their coats.

Then June glanced down at Y/N’s arm and narrowed her eyes.

“Now what’s this?” she said, voice lifting slightly. “Is that a tattoo?”

Y/N blushed and nodded. “Yeah. I… got it yesterday.”

June took her wrist gently, the same way a mother might hold a child’s hand, and studied the ink.

“A book and lavender,” she murmured. “You. That’s you right there.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “I needed something that was just mine.”

June said nothing for a moment. Then, she let go of her wrist and leaned back on the bench, pulling the scarf loosely around her shoulders.

“You’ve been hurting for a long time, haven’t you?”

Y/N swallowed. Her chest ached. “Yeah.”

“I know,” June whispered. “You don’t have to say more.”

The park hummed around them—birds chirping in soft question marks, the crunch of leaves under joggers’ feet, the distant bark of a dog. And yet, this little space between them felt like a separate world entirely. A place where Y/N wasn’t invisible. Where someone noticed the cracks.

June took her hand again, this time to hold it.

“I don’t know who broke your heart, sweetheart,” she said softly. “But you’re still here. You keep showing up. You bring light. And let me tell you something—someone who shows up every day, even when it hurts, even when they feel like nothing… That’s the kind of person who carries real love.”

Y/N couldn’t respond. Her throat was too tight. She looked down at her lap, blinking furiously, willing herself not to fall apart in the park like she always did at home.

But June didn’t need her to speak. She just held her hand, the way old women do when they know silence is the only comfort words can’t touch.

Dusty nudged his head against Y/N’s leg and meowed, as if to say, You’re not alone, even if it feels like it.

It had been three weeks since he last appeared.

And yet, Y/N had begun to expect him.

The mysterious old man—leather jacket always zipped, sunglasses always on no matter the weather, a neat but wiry beard that made him look like he could be anywhere from fifty to ninety—had drifted in and out of the bookstore like a half-remembered dream. Never quite real. Never quite gone.

He came during the slow hours, never in a hurry. Sometimes midday. Sometimes close to closing. He’d ask for a recommendation—“Nothing fancy, just good. Something real.” Always those same words. And she always gave him something she loved or had just read, or sometimes a brand-new title no one had touched yet. And every time, when she asked if he’d liked the last one, his answer was vague.

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “Beautiful book.”

But it was the kind of answer people gave when they weren’t really listening, or weren’t really reading. Still, he always bought the next book. Without question. No bargaining. No hesitation.

That afternoon, the bell above the door jingled, and she didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.

Same jacket. Same slow steps. The scent of cold wind and dust trailing behind him like the past.

Dusty, curled up in a sun patch near the register, lifted his head curiously. Y/N reached down to pet him, as the man approached with that familiar unspoken gravity.

“Back again?” she asked with a lightness she didn’t quite feel.

He gave a short nod. “Books are addictive. You’ve made me a junkie.”

That made her laugh—quiet, restrained, but real. The kind of laugh she only had left these days. “Well, there are worse things to be addicted to.”

He didn’t answer that.

Instead, he reached for one of the newer fantasy novels near the display. “This one good?”

She nodded. “Not bad. More whimsical than most. Dreamy prose. A bit sad.”

“Sad’s good,” he said. “Sad makes sense.”

She blinked at that, not sure why the words echoed in her chest the way they did. Maybe because they sounded like her own thoughts—things she’d never said aloud. But she smiled, quietly nodding again as she rang it up.

The silence stretched between them like it always did—comfortable, but strange. Then he glanced down, pointing at the little patch of gray fluff sprawled lazily on a cushion.

“How’s your little bodyguard?”

She followed his gaze and grinned. “Dusty’s fine. Still thinks he owns the bookstore.”

“He does,” the man said. “And probably your apartment.”

Y/N laughed, her fingers unconsciously smoothing over Dusty’s fur. “Yeah, that too.”

The man tilted his head slightly, looking at the chalkboard behind her. A few words were scrawled there in messy, cheerful handwriting:

Book Club – Thursdays at 9PM – Bring your favorite book! Open to everyone. Coffee and cookies provided.

He read it for a moment, then turned back to her. “That still happening?”

“Every week,” she said. “It’s free. You just show up and bring a book you want to talk about.”

His lips tugged upward. “Any book?”

She nodded.

He tapped his fingers against the counter thoughtfully. “Well, I happen to be an authority on Russian literature. The rest of your guests would be humbled by my knowledge.”

It was such a strange, out-of-place joke that she couldn’t help but burst into a real laugh.

He smiled at her reaction, brief but genuine, and tucked the book under his arm.

“Well, I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll come and teach you Dostoevsky through interpretive dance.”

“You’d fit right in,” she said softly. “Most of them are walking therapy sessions with page numbers.”

He paused then, head tilting slightly, like he saw something she didn’t know she was showing.

His voice, when he spoke again, had softened.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

She looked up, confused, mouth opening—but the words stuck in her throat. “Wait… I—I never told you my name.”

He had already turned toward the door, hand on the knob, pausing just long enough to look back over his shoulder.

“Didn’t you?” he asked, almost kindly. “I must’ve just known.”

Y/N leaned to the door. "Wait what's your name?"

"Alexei." Then he was gone. The bell jingled faintly behind him like a wind chime.

And just like that, she was alone again.

Y/N crouched, hand gently stroking the cat’s fur, eyes still locked on the door.

"He's little weird right? But he seems nice."

#robert reynolds x reader #thunderbolts #bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds #marvel #robert reynolds #thunderbolts x reader #mcu fandom #thunderbolts*#sentry x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x reader #mcu x reader #marvel x you #marvel x reader #void x reader #lewis pullman x reader

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thatonegreenleaf · 6 months ago

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🩸~orin~ hair & headpiece! 🩸

hi everyone! I made orin the red's hair from baldur's gate 3 bc i needed my sims to have a voluminous braid this long. I also converted the headpiece she wears, for the whole package of everyone's favourite bhaalspawn (except maybe your own character bc same)

my orin sim is wearing her in game outfit beautifully converted by @lady-moriel which you can download here! (you can also grab her conversion of orin's headpiece, it fits a bit differently so you can have options!). and if you want orin’s mesh directly from bg3, I downloaded that here!

ORIN HAIR & HEADPIECE:

♥ base game compatible!

♥ teen-elder, feminine & masculine frames

♥ hair: 24 maxis swatches + 8 bonus swatches. headpiece: 5 swatches

♥ hat compatible (headpiece in the hat category)

♥ high-ish poly! hair: 13.9k, headpiece 11.1k

♥ due to the nature of the sims 4 not natively having hairs this long, you can expect some clipping/stiffness at any length beyond the waist, but it's mostly ignorable!

Follow me on twitch!

Support me on patreon!

⇢ download: simfileshare | patreon

♥ this uses part of the wispy hairline by @rheallsim ��

use my code "THATONEGREENLEAF" when you buy packs in the EA app to directly support me! ♥ (not a discount code, I wish!) #EApartner

I DO CUSTOM CAS ROOM (and other) COMMISSIONS! fill out my commission form ♥ (currently closed, will open again very soon!)

TOU: do not claim my cc/CAS rooms/presets as your own! recolour/convert/otherwise alter for personal use OR upload with credit. (no paywalls, no c*rseforge)

#sims4 #thesims4 #ts4 #s4cc #ts4cc #sims 4 cc #sims 4 custom content #my cc #the sims cc #sims4mm #maxis match #ts4 hair #maxis mix

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traffys-heart · 3 months ago

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one piece men + awkward sex moments | nsfw

some of these r inspired by irl events + stuff ive seen online. sex isn’t always the perfect mind blowing smut we read but i think i like the goofier aspects of that.

characters: monkey d. luffy, roronoa zoro, vinesmoke sanji, portgas d. ace, sabo, eustass kid, killer, trafalgar d. law

cw: lowercase, afab! reader, blood, fingering, female and male receiving oral, virgin! loser! law

monkey d. luffy

he was pounding u on the bed when his stomach started to growl, killing the mood entirely. the whole crew had already had dinner too, so u were pretty miffed to say the least. a sheepish shrug and a dash to the kitchen without pants on left both u and luffy unsatisfied for that night, and sanji horrified.

roronoa zoro

zoro makes sure to put all his strength in everything he does, and that includes fingering u. he has two of his thick fingers inside of u and his thumb on ur clit, but it isn’t long before he asks if ur on ur period. when u respond w no he learns abt the importance of clipping back ur nails.

vinesmoke sanji

u were sucking him off when the cigarette smell became a little too much and u coughed on the d. both of u were embarrassed and u gave him a handy to compensate as he mentally made a note to lay off the cigs more often. unfortunately it’s not just his clothes that hold the scent, it’s his sweat.

portgas d. ace

he tried to do something sexy and warm up his cock for u but ended up almost burning ur cunt. he offered to eat u out after but u opted out on an ice bath instead. temperature play was going to have to be put on hold until he can actually control the heat. he sat at the edge of the tub w sad puppy dog eyes tho. “sorry pussy :(”

sabo

sabo once came so hard he went up in flames. luckily u made it out unscathed but the same cannot be said abt the bed. it was difficult to convince dragon to use the revolution’s finances to fund the new bed frame and mattress. u two decide to fuck on the floor instead while u wait for the delivery until he destroys a carpet.

eustass kid

kid meant to slightly pull u toward him w his devil fruit while u were going down on him when he ended up pulling ur earrings out. yes ur ears were bleeding, no the holes were not ruined, no kid did not cum that night. he made up for it by making u another custom pair the next day in his workshop.

killer

he was on top and his gorgeous blond hair was caging u in underneath him when he started to shift uncomfortably. u asked him what was wrong and he told u that u were laying on his hair. u tried to adjust urself to get off but that ended up tugging on more of it. u guys had to switch positions bc he refused to put his hair in a bun.

trafalgar d. law

where do i even start. we’re back w the virgin! loser! hc and bc of that i got something special. so he was jacking off in his office to that sweet memory of playing w ur tits and right when he was abt to cum his snail started to ring. his heart almost leap out of his chest and he fell out of his chair partially going to answer to the call and partially out of surprise. he also ended up giving himself a facial from the position.

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wotunciba · 1 month ago

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AQUAZEST PACK

Okay so... this pack doesn't actually have that much to do with goldfish, but I made the preview all fishy anyway. Huge thanks to @pocketposies333 for testing the belts ♡

Some notes:

𖦹 The belt comes with two sizes (slightly different scales), packed into one file. 𖦹 The top might clip on masc frames, especially if they're doing the bouncy walk. I'm sorry in advance... 𖦹 Feel free to recolor anything! My texturing is... yeah. It needs help.

Basic Info:

✧ BGC / Unisex / Custom thumbnails ✧ Hair - EA swatches / Hat compatible ✧ Tanktop - 30 swatches ✧ Accessories: ✧ Mina hair clip: 8 swatches ✧ Glasses - 23 swatches ✧ Belt - 2 versions / 37 swatches

--⭒˚‧ ⭒ ཐིཋྀ ⭒ ‧˚⭒⭒˚‧ ⭒ ཐིཋྀ ⭒ ‧˚⭒⭒˚‧ ⭒ ཐིཋྀ ⭒ ‧˚⭒--

̑̑ᗦ↞✧ Free Download:

Patreon / Sim File Share / Ko-fiฅ

--⭒˚‧ ⭒ ཐིཋྀ ⭒ ‧˚⭒⭒˚‧ ⭒ ཐིཋྀ ⭒ ‧˚⭒⭒˚‧ ⭒ ཐིཋྀ ⭒ ‧˚⭒--

☽ Please consider donating on KO-FI or becoming a PATRON. It would mean a lot to me ♡

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tttabii · 18 days ago

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──심재윤 BREWED TENSION ; JAKE SIM

pairing.ᐟ ceo! jake x coffee shop owner! reader word count: 10.2k ; mentions of vaping for reader), choi soobin from txt, sunoo, and winter from aespa

YOU AND JAKE SIM HAD KNOWN EACH OTHER since high school—unfortunately. He was the guy everyone wanted: born into wealth, already set to inherit his father's conglomerate, effortlessly charming, and untouchably arrogant.

You were... not that.

Middle-class, sure, but happy. You had parents who loved you, supported you through every ambition—even the bold one of opening your own coffee shop in Seoul.

The two of you wound up studying business at the same university. For Jake it was a stepping stone, another silky tile, in his future diamond-studded life. For you, it was everything. You needed the knowledge, the experience. You wanted to carve out a life for yourself and you did.

But while you were at school, Jake never liked you. He never gave you a proper reason—but you could feel it every side-eye he shot at you when you passed in the hall. Whenever you made the effort to say hello, or offer him a sample of the new coffee blend you'd been working on in baking club, he acted like you simply didn't exist.

So you gave up.

But that didn't stop you from working. With help from your parents along with a lot of passion, you'd opened your very own café in Seoul, right in the middle of downtown.

It was a little pocket of coziness, with clean wooden styling, relaxing jazz music, and the smell of coffee drifting out from the café out every morning.

Winter, your high school best friend, worked part-time there too. Plus, so did Sunoo, your own personal ray of sunshine who always made you laugh even when you were stressing out. You had all grown up together, and now you were creating something that was real. Something that was yours.

The café had quickly gained a good reputation. Word had spread through recommendation and many unique blends of coffee and buttery pastries were helped along by a few Instagram stories by both Winter and Sunoo who were both becoming social media stars themselves.

Then one morning, your life changed. Jake Sim, wearing a sharp black suit and pressed coat, was striding down the sidewalk with a phone in his hand. He sounded cold, clipped, and lethal. "If you can't handle the Tokyo merger, then I'm getting rid of you. I can't have incompetence like you slowing us down."

A pause. Silence. Then:

"You're fired."

With a sigh, he ended the phone call and ran a hand through his hair. That's when his eyes went across the street. There, tucked away between two boutiques, sat a new café. It looked rustic and charming, with ample light coming from within, with sections of wooden framed windows that had nicely crafted signs, possibly some kind of reclaimed wood or beautiful quality wood, was hard to tell from this distance.

He needed caffeine. Bad.

He walked in without thinking, and the little song from a ringing bell above the door rang soft behind him. He stood staring down at his phone until he looked up and mumbled, "black coffee. no sugar."

Sunoo's eyes widened the second he registered who had walked in. A smirk appeared on his lips, and he turned to you; you were standing behind the counter talking to him.

"Y/n," he said in a sing-song voice. "Look who stupidly crawled in for a cup."

You blinked. "What? "

Then you saw him. Jake Sim. Still as infuriatingly smug and impeccably dressed.He froze the second he realized who was standing there, his mouth opened as if he had just been punched, shocked, and he needed a minute to catch his thoughts.

Sunoo giggled and lightly nudged you closer to the register. "Go on. He's your customer."

Your heart jumped a little, but not from excitement. From the irony. The man who once scoffed at your coffee was now standing in your shop, asking for a cup. You cleared your throat and walked up to the counter.

"Black coffee, no sugar?" you asked, trying not to smirk.

Jake raised an eyebrow at you, finally giving you a full look. For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes flicked over the place—the décor, the long line forming behind him, the glass display filled with pastries. Then, back to you.

"You really opened a coffee shop."

You smiled, cool and calm. "I really did."

Jake had no clever response. How rare of him...

As you gave Jake his drink, your fingers teasingly brushed against his. He flinched not from physical discomfort, but the disorienting warmth that sent a jolt through him. You smiled politely, and wiped your hands on your apron as you tilted your head to finally study him properly.

He was every ounce the CEO—tailored suit, a Rolex creeping out of his cuff, the familiar air of authority that surrounded him like tacky cologne. And you could see Winter and Sunoo had picked up on it too, whispering to each other and trying (and failing) to be subtle about it from the side.

"So," you said tapping the countertop, "I hope you enjoyed my coffee."

Jake glanced down at the cup, the scent curling up beautifully and then flicked his gaze up to yours. "It's nice."

You smirked with a small laugh escaping. "I know. People always end up coming crawling back."

His brows flickered. "Cocky much?"

You giggled quietly. "You really should have tasted my baking and coffee back in the day but I guess you were busy... being a CEO?"

Jake made a light scoff while letting his gaze linger on you longer than he intended. "Yeah..."

He came to an abrupt stop, pulled from his thoughts about the warm, inviting café surrounding him. The glow from the glass display showed golden brown pastries—flaky croissants, chocolate chip scones, and cinnamon rolls that looked sinful.

The digital menu board flickered behind you while it cycled through the specials, featuring names he never would have thought to see next to the word "famous," in his wildest dreams.

It wasn't just a café. It was your café. And he was surprised at how, annoyed, but impressed he felt about this fact.

The bell above the door rang once more. A tall guy walked inside, determined and almost confident. You perked up as soon as he walked through the door, "Dark mocha with whipped cream and a cookie again?" you asked playfully.

The guy laughed as he combed his hand through his hair, "Cancel the cookie and switch that to a sandwich. I'm pretending to be healthy this week."

Jake's eyes were locked on the new guy. He recognized him right away. Choi Soobin. CEO of TXT Corporations.

He was one of the only other guys he had verbally challenged as many as so many times during shareholder meetings.Soobin stood casually by the counter, scrolled through his phone, while he talked to you like old friends. His body language told Jake he was at ease. Jake didn't like that.

He took a long sip of his black coffee.

Sunoo, who was replenishing napkins nearby, had witnessed everything. He turned to Jake and smirked knowingly before resuming "work."When Jake and Soobin's eyes finally met, both men grimaced and produced a smile.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Soobin said smoothly, eyebrow raised, "I thought you were more into those fancy cafes with gold-leaf lattes."

Jake chuckled, slow and dry. "And I didn't think you'd know what real coffee was."

You slid Soobin's sandwich over the counter just as he snorted. "I guess we both like surprises."

As the tension grew thicker, you rolled your eyes. Men."Boys, play nice. I'm not a babysitter today," you said brightly, handing Soobin his mocha.

Jake couldn't help but to watch as you gave Soobin a grin he knew well—a face you'd give him in university that he pretended not to see then.Something tweaked in his gut.You were no longer the girl trying to get him to try a caramel macchiato in the hallway, you were the woman everyone—powerful men were drawn to.

The woman who built something up from nothing. And to add insult to injury. You were glowing.

Without him.

The next day came around, near the lunch rush, and you were elbow-deep in flour, kneading dough for a fresh batch of scones when the unmistakable ding of the bell above the café door chimed again. You looked up from the counter, brushing flour off your hands on your apron. ||

And there he was—Jake Sim, business mogul, CEO of Sim Corp, and apparently, a secret admirer of cinnamon rolls. You quickly washed your hands, grinned, and called back over your shoulder, "Back for more, huh?"

Jake didn't answer at first, just strolled over to the counter, sharp in another perfectly pressed suit, removing his sunglasses with one hand and looking at the entire pastry display. "Cinnamon roll," he said flatly. "And some black coffee."

You raised an eyebrow, teasing, "You like cinnamon rolls?"

Jake merely rolled his eyes at you. Another no answer. You sighed with amusement before taking one of the warm cinnamon rolls from the tray and inserting it into the pastel blue box you designed with your logo on top.

You quickly wrote in cursive "Jake" on the box, and, like with all the orders for your favorite regulars, you slid in a tiny mint candy, then sealed the bag.

He noticed. He didn't say anything about it.

As you delivered the bag on the counter, your hands brushed against each other again. "Don't work too hard," you said softly; the same light hearted cheerfulness you exhibited whenever Soobin would stop by in between long workdays.

Jake blinked at you several times, something clearly behind the tone registered, and perhaps—perhaps—made something in his core tighten, but he didn't show it. He grabbed the bag, murmuring a quick, "Thanks," before he turned.

The bell rang once more. "Y/n!" Soobin called out with warmth you could hear all the way in the back, waltzing in, tousled hair from the wind, looking casual in a pale grey coat and denim. You smiled the biggest, "Hey! Sandwich and iced americano?"

"You know me too well." He laughed, walking towards you just when Jake had been ready to leave in which they barely brushed shoulders. Instant tension ignited. Jake stopped again briefly glaring into Soobin's eyes.

And Soobin just smiles—so smugly charming. "Didn't expect to see you again." He said cooly. "You thinking of investing in cupcake stocks or something?"

Jake scanned Soobin from head-to-toe. "Just getting coffee. Not that it matters to you," he said sharply.

Soobin's smile grew as he looked at you. "You know, Jake's not even that scary. He acts all tough and scary, but... he's just a high school kid with a grudge."

Jake's jaw tightened. You blinked at Soobin. "Stop."

Winter and Sunoo must have come up from the kitchen while all of this was going on. They had their heads together looking out from the side of the doorway, eyes wide, clearly sensing the impending doom.

"Oh, we smell tea," Winter whispered to Sunoo, who nodded his head, shuttering with excitement. As you finished packing Soobin's sandwich, you could still feel Jake looking at you. He began to back away with his pastry bag in hand, and while his face was unreadable, his jaw was still clenched.

You happily slipped Soobin his order, but before the door closed behind Jake, you briefly relived the sharp look he shot you. You had no idea what it all meant. You just knew one thing—he would be back.

The week faded into an easy rhythm. Jake was coming by more frequently—sometimes before the café even opened, leaning against the door frame in those crisp suits, coat slung over one arm, just watching you quietly water the front flowers or sip your tea while preparing pastries for the day.

At some point, you just unlocked the door for him and said nothing. You would catch his eye and smile, "The tea's on the counter."

You don't think he ever said thank you. But you do know he always drank it all. You would switch up the speaker playlist every morning, play soft indie, maybe an old jazz record—Jake never requested songs, but one time he hummed along to a song that made you feel like your heart stopped for a full second.

He still barely spoke, but you had noticed him looking at you when you thought he wasn't looking—when you were writing menu specials in chalk, fixing your messy apron bow, or trying out new cookie decorations with Sunoo and Winter.

But then there was Soobin.

Every lunch, he'd drop by with that annoyingly perfect timing, that perfect smile, and say something stupidly charming that made you giggle. Jake never said anything, but the way he flipped the pages of his book harder than necessary? Yeah—you noticed.

Then came the rare afternoon you actually sat across from him at his table, sandwich in the middle, eyeing the new book stacked on his table. "Still working? Don't you ever get a day off?"

Jake closed the book slowly. His eyes connected with yours—cold, unreadable, and sharp—as if they pierced through you.

You shivered.

"Don't you ever mind your own business?" he said, deadpan.

You gasped, making clear sounds of distress, while chewing. "Rude much! I literally give you free tea, every day!"

He shook his head, and before he knew it, a low laugh escaped from him.

You blinked. "Did the Jake Sim just laugh? In front of me?"

His expression snapped back. "No."

"Oh, come on!" you whined with a mouthful of bread, pointing your sandwich at him.

The next day was a weekend.

You had no idea whether he was going to show up—he had been there every morning and sometimes came back at lunchtime—evening was different; the place was now quiet and warm lights illuminated the pastries and plants with a golden glow. You were wiping down the counter top when the bell jangled-but it wasn't your regulars.

A guy walked in, hoodie up, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and messy bed hair like he had just woken up. Trailing beside him on a leash was a golden retriever, tail wagging excitedly as it yanked him inside.

It was someone... different.

Well—kind of.

You eyes widened.

Jake.

Or, at least, what looked like a softer version of him—no suit, no sharp lines, just... sleepy hoodie Jake being dragged inside by a happy dog.

You tried not to laugh, but failed completely.

"Sunoo, cover the register," you giggled, tossing your rag aside and hurrying out the front. The dog was already sniffing around your flowers, nose buried in lavender pots as you squatted down to pet it.

"You have a dog," you grinned as you scratched behind its ears. "Seems relevant. Kind of figured you were a dog person. You definitely give off golden retriever vibes, just underneath that professional hot CEO vibe."

Jake looked down at you, blinking. You were now in a cardigan, with your hair thrown up quickly, and your cheeks still flushed from the sunset. You didn't even know what you just said.

"I'm hot?" He asked incredulously as his lips turned upwards, his hoodie hang loosely from his body as he pulled on the leash.

You froze.Your brain stuttered like a car stuck in traffic. You stared up at him, still crouched beside the flower pot. "W-What— I—"

He cocked his head like he was the king of the world, smug now. You could feel your face heat up. "I meant—hot like you're probably sweating under all those suits," you spluttered as you quickly stood up. "Like overheated. You know, because you wear suits."

The dog barked. Jake smirked.

Sunoo poked his head out of the french door to the café and whispered to Winter, "Did she just call him hot—?"

"She did." Winter whispered back, eyes wide.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

Monday morning.

The world was still dark, the streets a pale blue chill as even the sun was barely above the rooftops. The café wasn't open yet—but he was there.You didn't even blink when you saw Jake through the window, standing in his usual clean-cut outfit, expensive blazer over a cream dress shirt.

His hands were deep in his pockets. You just unlocked the door and slid him a sleepy smile."You could have knocked," you said.

"You would have let me in," he said flatly.

You rolled your eyes. But you smiled anyway.

He followed you silently inside, walking toward his usual corner—but then he stopped because you were crouched behind the counter still tying your apron over the soft knit sweater you had pulled on, hair still a little tousled. You were working on your pastry dough for a new batch.

The smell of vanilla and cherry tea was wafting.Jake found himself standing just at the edge of the baking station, staring too closely. You hadn't noticed him at first, the flour streaked on your cheekbone while you made shapes in the dough.

He said nothing—he just stared, completely captivated.

You finally looked up. "...Are you seriously watching me bake?"

"You said no coffee this early," he muttered, eyes trailing over your hands.

"Are you saying you've come for a flour facial instead?" you joked, smirking at him playfully.

But just as you went to grab the bowl, your elbow gently bumped the counter edge—and flour poofed in an explosion of mist right onto his expensive shirt and jacket.

Your eyes went wide. "Oh my god—!"

His expression didn't change. You hurried forward smearing flour all over your fingers, and tried to wipe it off but that just made it worse. "I'm so sorry, I forgot to close the—your shirt was so expensive and your—"

"It's fine," he said quietly.

That shut you up.

You slowly looked up at him . You were kind of confused. You remembered it well—back in school someone had tripped, and dumped coffee all over his crisp, white polo and denim jacket. He was livid—cold glare and the silent treatment and was ruthlessly it.

But now? Jake Sim was standing here with flour on his jacket, and shirt and hair, and he looked... calm. Then suddenly you felt his fingers brush your cheek softly.

Your breath hitched.

He wiped the flour smudge away with his thumb, his eyes resting softly on the spot—then slowly drifting to meet yours. You just stared up at him, speechless. His eyes were gentle, deep brown, as they traced the lines of your face like he was memorizing every detail. The gentle curve of his lips.

The trace of cherry tea wafting from your body.

You blinked, but he was already stepping back, his usual cold persona coming back together around him as he exited the station. He sat back down with his book, flour still covering the back of his collar.

Later that day, Jake walked into the office a few hours late. His blazer still had some faint, white stain on the shoulder. His dark hair had some flour in it as well. "...Boss, what happened to your shirt?"

"Did you have a baking war?"

"Wait—do you smell that? Is that cherry perfume?" Jake ignored all of them. He casually brushed the flour off his sleeve.

He simply replied, "Mind your work," and headed to his office, a small smirk creeping up.

Back at the café. Lunch time.

You were more tired than usual. With Sunoo off, you were doing everything yourself, and your energy was running low. Even Soobin noticed.

"Are you okay?" he asked lightly, fingertips grazing yours as he took the drink from you.

You nodded, a gentle smile gracing your lips. "Mhm, just a long day."

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing. "You sure? You seem... off. Or could it be boy trouble? Or, maybe..." he grinned, "you're just flustered because of me?"

You snorted softly, half-hearted. "None of the above."

"Then what is it?"

You looked up at him, sleepy smile on your face. "I'm just... tired, Soobin. That's all."

He took the receipt from your hand, looking at you thoughtfully. Maybe he still thought there was something more to it; maybe he thought he was figuring out how you felt.

But then—

The bell above the door jingled.

You looked up and everything about you seemed to change. Your whole face brightened like someone flipped a switch flipping on your inner light.

"Jake!!"

He was halfway through faking looking at his phone when your voice sliced through it like a magnet. He looked up, immediately connecting eyes with yours, pulse racing unexpectedly.

Soobin's gaze flicked to you, then to Jake, and back to you.

Oh.

Jake went to sit at his usual table, still wearing the blazer that was now starting to wrinkle a little and a few bright specks of flour scattered in his hair. You chuckled a little as you walked towards him with a wet cloth.

"Ohhh, you're still a mess," you playfully chided. "Come here, I'll wipe off the flour or your hair is going to be foamed a baked good."

He looked up just in time to catch your amused grin before you reached out and gently ran your fingers through his hair, ruffling the strands to shake off the flour. His bangs fell slightly over his forehead, softening his usually sharp appearance.

You were about ready to pull your hand back when Jake caught your wrist in his, though not harsh, just firm enough to stop you.

"You're making a mess," Jake said with playful teasing in his low voice, looking at your hand and then your face.

"Oops," you muttered, a clearly disingenuous apology. You took a step back, wiped your hand on your apron, and walked behind the counter and started preparing his tea order.

Jake was still watching you—it was subtle, but not subtle enough for Soobin not to notice. The moment Jake glanced down at his phone again, Soobin walked over to him with a forced casualness, though his jaw was noticeably tense.

"So... you and her?" Soobin asked, arms crossed.

Jake slowly raised his eyes, the brow furrowed. "What about it?"

Soobin leaned in a little more and spoke softly. "She lit up like a light bulb the minute she saw you. Don't you see that?"

Jake blinked once. "Are you jealous?"

Before Soobin could answer you came near with Jake's tea, chopping up the air with your deadpan voice. "You two can you not?"

You placed the cup in front of Jake. "What is this? A K-drama or something?"

You turned to go back to the counter, completely unbothered with the odd standoff.

Soobin scoffed under his breath, so quiet it was just loud enough for Jake to hear. "You wish."

Jake sipped his tea, leaned back in his chair and said just loud enough, "She likes dramas... but always chooses the bad boy."

It started innocently—Jake had given you his number after that flour-dusted morning in the café, claiming it was "just in case he had another craving for your muffins." But since then, it became a nightly thing.

You would text him after the shop closed, about anything and everything. Sometimes it was a rant about a customer. Sometimes it was pictures of your terrible latte art.

And then there was that one night. It was past midnight when you called. Jake had been plucking his guitar on the couch in his dimly lit penthouse, and when your name came up on the screen he smiled gently."You bored?" he asked after answering.

"Mmhm," you mumbled. "Whatcha doin?"

"Nothing," he offered feigning. He picked the guitar up again. "Want me to play you something?"

You yawned, now hunkered into your blanket. "Yeah...."

He began to play softly, finger-gliding over the frets, voice low and mellow. You swayed and began to drift off to sleep, breathing quiet and even, he stopped playing. "Night, sleepyhead," he said softly into the phone before hanging up gently.

A few days later, he texted you asking if you could bake for his company's private brunch event. "You're the only one I trust for this," he texted.

You had said yes before even thinking twice

The café was closed that day, and your staff helped with the preparation and delivery that day. You had on a simple black dress, soft hair, a pink charm bracelet dangling from your wrist. Not ostentatious—just you.

By the time you arrived at his company building, your arms were full of sweets and drinks, but a tall and broad shouldered bodyguard stood in your way. "I'm his friend," you exclaimed, startled. "I'm delivering the—"

Jake's voice interrupted you from across the lobby. "Let her in."

He strode quickly over to you, breezed past the guard, and before you could reach out, you flicked his sleeve, pulling him towards the display table being prepped nearby.

"I hope they like them..." you murmured, nervously looking at the line of mini tarts and mini cakes, and coffee canisters.

Without saying a word, Jake reached into his wallet, pulled out a thick stack of cash—over 500,000 won. "H-Hey! This is way too much—!"

"No. It's not." He pushed the money into your hand and walked away to direct the decorators with a weird sense of authority about him.

You felt frozen in place, flustered, holding the cash like it was radioactive. Moments later, he turned back and walked toward you again. "Stay for the brunch, yeah? I want everyone to know who made all this."

You blinked. "M-Me?"

"Yes, you."

In the lavish women's bathroom, you stood by the mirror reapplying your lip gloss, the tube clicking softly as voices echoed from the stalls.

"Ugh, he's so fine. Like, can you believe Jake still isn't married?" one girl said dramatically,

"I know, right?! But don't forget about Soobin... he's a total gentleman."

"Jake is totally my type. Dark hair, cold vibes, CEO... He probably likes it when girls are bold."

"Hah, as if.. he needs someone that matches his vibes. Probably needs someone cold and a little sharp like him."

"Ugh, I would sell my soul if either of them looked at me for more than two seconds."

You really had to fight back a laugh and finished smoothing your lip gloss on quietly, the girls finally noticing you. They were all staring at you from behind the stalls, their chatter paused.

They looked you up and down... you were unfamiliar and dressed like you belonged, but they noticed the softness you wore that none of them carried themselves with. They also probably thought you were some heiress for some family name they never heard of.

You gave them a tight-lipped smile and walked out.

The moment you stepped out, you bumped into someone. "Sorry—" you muttered, eyes widening when you saw Soobin.

He stared at you, clearly surprised. "Wait—"

But you'd already moved past him, too nervous to linger. He followed your path with narrowed eyes, noticing the pastry table... your pastries. And suddenly, it all clicked.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

As the gentle clink of plates and soft talking settled into the large brunch hall, Jake stepped onto the little stage with effortless grace. At once, there was silence—he commanded attention without even trying.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he spoke, a calm and steady yet confident voice, "Thank you all for joining us today. It means a lot to see so many familiar faces here together. But before we continue to enjoy the rest of the brunch, there is someone I want to introduce you to."

The spotlight fell on you; or at least that's what it felt like, even without a light. You froze in mid-sip of coffee, almost choking when he said your name. "She's the owner of a little café that I love. She works hard and is highly talented... she is someone I trust implicitly in moments like these."

A few gasps fluttered through the crowd, and that's when they saw you—the girls from the bathroom. Recognition dawned with horror on their faces. Her? The girl reapplying lip gloss? The one they brushed off as an unfamiliar socialite? A middle-class café girl?

You took slow steps in the direction of the stage and felt your heart pounding, heat rising in your cheeks, and running you hands up and down the sides of your dress, hoping it didn't look cold against your shoes.

When you reached the center, Jake stepped down. A smile melting on his face. He came closer to you, looked into your eyes, reached for your back, and lead you up. His hand was unter your dress; warm and possessive but it wasn't too much. Just that alone made your heart skip.

When you left the stage, the rich clientele stopped the hushed gossiping and started to show admiration.

"These pastries are divine."

"Where is your shop located?"

"I've never tasted coffee like this before—"

You nodded and thanked them quietly, smiling sheepishly. But the whole time, Jake's hand lingered behind you.

Just hovering. Anchoring.

You were trying so hard not to stutter through shy thank-yous.

Then Soobin watched from a few steps away. He hadn't moved from the spot where you left him. A polite smile rigid on his lips but his eyes—all on you. Even as a few women tried to strike up a conversation, he could feign a nod before bearing little to no anything for the conversations happening in the background.

His eyes followed the way Jake slunk closer to you. "You didn't try this one yet," Jake said suddenly, jolting you from your thoughts as he reached towards the dessert cart and emerged with a tiny strawberry chocolate tart.

"H-huh?"

He held it to your lips and didn't seem worried. "Open."

You felt heat rising to your cheeks as you looked between him and the little tart, then slowly opened your mouth to let him feed it to you. Jake merely smirked, brushing a crumb from your lip with his thumb before he stepped back and pridefully watched you chew.

And in the corner of the room the girls from the bathroom stood frozen. "Wait. Is that... the same girl" one of the girls whispered, voice acute with disbelief.

"Jake... and Soobin?" the other replied, tone more devastated than surprised.

They looked on as Jake, the stoic CEO with a reputation for keeping things professional, was now smiling like a golden retriever, standing too close to the girl they'd assumed was no one.But then their eyes drifted—past Jake's soft stare—to Soobin.

He was still talking politely with the women around him, ever the gentleman, ever composed. But the slight clench of his jaw, the way his gaze kept flickering to where you stood with Jake—it was unmistakable.

Jealousy.

Undisguised, unvoiced, simmering just below the surface.

He wasn't even hiding it any more.

Shit, had they really jinxed it?

Because somehow—you were the girl who'd unknowingly caught the attention of the two most unattainable men in the room. And now, the most perilous aspect of you... was the fact that you were completely oblivious to it.

────୨ৎ────

Finally, some time to yourself.

Jake had gotten lost in a flock of executives, and you had been left behind next to the fancy pastry cart. Standing there, without Jake smoothly steering the flow of conversation, made you feel fidgety—what were you supposed to do?

You shifted your weight, testing out a vanilla cream tart you'd made earlier. It was light, sweet—almost airy—but a bit of the cream clung to the corner of your lip. It was light, sweet—almost air-like—but some of the cream remained on the corner of your lip.

You didn't notice. But Jake did.

From across the room, in mid-conversation, his eyes narrowed just slightly before his feet instinctively moved toward you. You didn't even see him coming—until his thumb brushed your lower lip with casual precision, wiping the cream gently and popping it into his mouth.

"Messy," he said nonchalantly, his voice low and warm, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek as he tasted the cream.

Your breath hitched, body stiffening. "W-what was that for?"

He didn't answer, only smiled before stepping aside to grab a napkin like nothing happened.

Across the room, Soobin's jaw clenched.

Hard.

His knuckles around his glass went white as he watched the exchange—Jake, bold and unbothered, touching you without hesitation. It wasn't even flirtation. It was instinct. He realized then: Jake didn't hesitate when he wanted something. Even if Jake himself didn't know what he wanted yet... his body always acted first.

Soobin stared as you fidgeted, fingers grazing your lips. Jake hadn't even looked back at you, and still, your ears turned pink.

Jake's own thoughts flickered darkly.

There's no way I like her. No. Definitely not..

But the way you glowed in a room full of harsh lights and sharp eyes? The way your gaze always sought his first when you felt lost?

And those girls—giving you dirty looks like they owned the air around you. Jake didn't like that.

Only I get to be cold to her, he thought.

Because you still gave him your attention even when he didn't deserve it. And somehow, deep down, he knew you understood him better than most.

The following week, Soobin had tried.He really tried.Every chance he got, he found ways to stay near you, hoping you'd choose him this time. He lingered by the counter, walked beside you when you stepped outside, offered to help carry deliveries.

"I can't today," you said, watering the flowers with such concentration. "I have to make sure the roses don't droop."

And then you'd look up, smile lit up when Jake walked out with his cup of tea, as if Soobin didn't even exist.For a while, Jake had taken to sitting outside the café with you, one hand resting lazily on the cup, while you stood beside him lightly dragging your finger around the petals of a blooming pot.

The sunlight framed your figure softly as you turned toward Jake, laughing at something he mumbled under his breath.

Sunoo had been watching it all happen with exasperation, from inside the café, half-heartedly folding his arms as he let out a defeated sigh. "There's no use," he complained.

Winter agreed with a nod beside him, her lips squeezed together tight. "She won't even glance over at Soobin anymore even. We've known her longer than he has. It's over."

Soobin stood just outside earshot, his shoulders rigid, trying to keep a straight face."Oh, watch me," he grumbled, voice tight with frustration. "I'll get her. Just wait."

Winter rolled her eyes. "Keep dreaming. Can't you see the way they look at each other? Even customers ask about them now."

Sunoo hummed in agreement. "It's the tension. It's always there. Like they're one move away from crashing into each other."

And as Jake took another sip of tea, his eyes never left yours—content, but unreadable—while you smiled back, oblivious to how everything around you was starting to burn with envy.

────୨ৎ────

It started when Soobin tried to corner you again—his voice a little too casual, but his words bitter like over-brewed coffee. "You know Jake left with that girl after the banquet, right? The one in the red dress?" he said, eyes flicking to yours with fake sympathy. You tilted your head slightly, processing the claim.

You never said anything out loud, never admitted that you liked Jake. But something tight settled in your chest, a subtle pang of jealousy curling deep in your stomach.

The bell above the door jingled softly, interrupting your thoughts. Jake entered in casual wear—it was the weekend, after all—his hair tousled like he'd run his hands through it a few times too many. Beside him trotted his dog, Layla, her tail wagging as she pulled slightly on her leash. He was chatting with Sunoo outside, hesitant and awkward, until Sunoo's eyes lit up, and he rushed inside.

"Take the day off," Sunoo announced, waving his arms dramatically. "Boss or not, you're done for the day. Jake wants to hang out. Or actually—he's too shy to ask. Layla kind of insisted on coming here again. She really likes you." His grin was playful but knowing.

Behind him, Jake avoided eye contact, rubbing the back of his neck as Layla happily sniffed around the café entrance.

Soobin clenched his jaw at the news, his fingers curling around the counter. "You sure he's not just messing with you?" he muttered under his breath.

Winter rolled her eyes from where she was wiping down a table. "Jake Sim? The guy who does nothing but take business courses? The kid who talks about physics formulas like they're love poetry? If anything, he's being messed with—he's practically soft for her."

Your cheeks were on fire at her words, the heat creeping across your skin.

If Jake had left with another girl that night, why was he here now? And why was he so flustered even asking if you'd spend time with him?

Silently, you took off your apron and grabbed your bag. You waved goodbye to everyone—everyone except Soobin—and walked outside into the city breeze. Jake looked up as you joined him, arms crossed trying to act casual but failing miserable as he tugged gingerly on Layla's leash.

"You, um... wanna walk with us?" he asked, avoiding your gaze while pretending to be interested in his dog. "She's been dragging me out here all week, so I figured may as well let her have her way."

You nodded, and the two of you strolled through the city, Layla leading the way. You didn't wear anything fancy—just a soft top and jeans—but somehow, Jake kept stealing glances like you were glowing. You didn't think you were anything special. You'd always felt... average. But Jake didn't see you that way.

He liked the quiet confidence, the little things. Your bare face, your laugh. Your eyes, definitely your eyes. And your lips, though he didn't let himself think about that too long.

Eventually, you both settled onto a bench underneath a shady tree. Layla fell asleep beside you, the leash still wrapped around Jake's wrist while he held two cups of smoothies, handing you one with a slight grin.

You took it, breaking the silence. "So....you know..Soobin said you left with a girl after the banquet."

Jake blinked at you, confused. "I didn't," he said plainly, his eyebrows furrowing.

You let out a soft exhale, relief washing over your chest. The corners of your mouth lifted slightly. "Were you...jealous?" he asked, intently observing you.

You paused for a beat too long. "No..." you replied hurriedly, taking the smoothie from his hand and feigning that the weather suddenly turned so hot you couldn't stand to sit still.

You stood, cheeks burning, and began to walk again, Layla perked up to follow. Jake chuckled under his breath, quickly catching up. "You know, I was thinking about this physics theory dilemma earlier..."

And like that, he regained his comfort giving you his all, as he always did when he was calm and safe, he rambled on and on about numbers and theories you could hardly follow with his hands flinging about in amusement.

You listened quietly before mumbling, "You know I don't understand a single thing you're saying, right?" Your tone was dry but fond.

He grinned, eyes crinkling. "I know," he replied, nudging you lightly. "But you still listen. That's kinda why I like talking to you."

Your heart skipped a beat, but you said nothing. Just sipped your smoothie as the three of you walked—Jake, you, and Layla, who somehow seemed to know she had just played cupid.

It was supposed to be just a fun night out with Winter, Sunoo and a couple of your close friends, gathered under flashing lights and loud music. It had been a minute since you'd had alcohol and you'd forgotten how much you liked the way it burned down your throat, sharp and numbing. With every drink nothing seemed so serious; life was a little blurrier, a little lighter, a little more easily forgotten.

At some point someone handed you a vape, and none of them even knew you had it. But there it was in your fingers again, muscle memory, and you were exhaling soft clouds of iced peach into the fogged club air between drinks. It was messy, an unholy mix, but at that point you didn't give a damn.

You just wanted to feel nothing for once, lose yourself until your mind couldn't catch up with your body anymore. That was your worst tendency—and sadly, your friends have seen this side of you before. Jake hadn't. Not yet.

"She's gone," Winter said, shaking her head as you slumped into the booth seat, giggling uncontrollably at something Sunoo didn't even remember saying.

You were slurring, cheeks flushed, and whining Jake's name like a prayer, breathy and broken between puffs of vapor and sips of some neon-colored cocktail.

Sunoo sighed and pulled out his phone. He walked a few steps away from the table and hit Jake's number, rubbing his temple as the line rang.

Jake picked up fast. "Yo?"

"You might need to come get a certain someone," Sunoo mumbled, already knowing how Jake would react.

Jake blinked. "Is that Y/n in the background?" he asked, voice tightening at the familiar sound of your name being moaned like a confession.

"Yeah. And seriously... you may not enjoy what you see," Sunoo added earnestly. "So I'd suggest you hurry and come get her, and take her back to your penthouse or whatever, before you both do something stupid. Or before someone else does."

Jake was silent for a second, and all Sunoo could hear was silence and the vibrating tension of the line.

Then he said, "Send me the address."

By the time Jake walked into the club, the neon lights beamed off his skin, and his face was an illustration of worry and confusion.

He didn't have to look long to find you. You were still in the booth with crossed legs, head on Winter's shoulder, laughing uncontrollably at something you couldn't even remember. A vape in one hand, a drink in the other, and your eyes half closed. Jake stopped at the all-too-familiar sight.

The sweet peach vapor rising into the air as you inhaled and then your lips forming a dopey smile murmuring his name again.

"Jake..."

He didn't know whether to be angry, frightened or heartbroken. All he knew was he had never seen you like this before, and it shook the something deep inside of him.

You hardly seemed bothered.

No shred of guilt or regret for how you were holding on to him, smiling a soft smile, eyes slightly hazy, urging him to take another sip. He huffed through his nose, defeated, reached out, took the vape from your fingers, and set it on the glass table with a slight clink.

"Okay that's enough," he muttered.

You pouted slightly, but before you could stammer again, he reached his arm around your waist; you didn't even waist-it would be instinct if he had spent more time with you. The clack of your heels didn't quite match his as he glanced down at the floor. They had to be hurting you.

With every third step you winced. "Shouldn't be wearing such cheap heels," he said lowly with his brow knit. "They're going to bruise your pretty legs."

God. Pretty? What was he thinking?

He glanced down again and clenched his jaw once he saw your dress had hiked up far too high. He reached down and adjust it, then mumbled, "You are unbelievable."

But he was always careful. Always considerate. As if he was afraid if he touched you too sharply, he would break something worth holding.

He brought you down to his car—his expensive, sleek, spotless car that smelled just like him. Woodsy, clean, faintly sweet. You practically melted against him, arms slipping around his as you mumbled sleepily, "Jakey... you smell so sweet."

He coughed, ears flushing. "Y-Yeah?"

He ran a hand through his already messy hair and helped you into the passenger seat, buckling you in before starting the car. The drive to his penthouse was quiet, your head resting against the window, eyes slipping shut within minutes.

You were completely out. By the time he parked and opened the door to his place, you were dead to the world—face relaxed, breathing steady. He looked at you for a beat, then sighed and gently picked you up. You were lighter than he thought you would be. He set you down slowly on his bed, then stepped back and put his hands on his hips as he peered at your sleeping frame.

What was he supposed to do now? Your dress looked uncomfortable. Tight. You'd probably hate waking up in that. And your makeup—he grimaced. You'd hate waking up in that.

But changing you? That felt...wrong. What if you woke up and hated him for that?

He stood still for a moment, pacing a couple steps back and forth, before he sighed loudly and dug through all of his cabinets in the bathroom. He found, surprisingly, micellar water and some cotton pads, probably leftover from his stylist. He walked back to the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, tucking your hair back in place as his fingers brushed the side of your face.

He wiped away your makeup with the cotton pad guided by the micellar water in gentle swipes. Your face was soft without and looked younger. The real you.

He cleared his throat and closed his eyes for a second before unzipping your dress carefully, only glancing once to make sure you were still out cold. Trying to look anywhere but at you, he slipped the fabric off your shoulders and grabbed one of his oversized tees and sweats—slipping them onto you like you were made of glass.

He swallowed hard and flung the dress from you and grabbed a blanket and threw it over you. But as soon as he leaned over and adjusted the pillow under your at-the-moment sleeping head, you moved. You pulled him in. A small "don't go," escaped your lips as you yanked him down to you, surprising him with a strength he didn't think your fragile little body had in those moments, especially being drunk.

"Oof—hey—!"

You held onto him like your life depended on it, arms wrapped around his neck, cheek pressed to his shoulder, and legs tangled with his. He froze. You were already asleep again. Heart racing, he released a shaky, unsteady breath as he gently slid down next to you, still dressed in his black top and sweats and unsure of what to do with his hands.

Everything felt so hot, so close, so... intimate. He couldn't help but let his hand explore and find his way to your hair as he mindlessly brushed it back. And maybe he did toss your cheap heels in the trash after he addressed your bruised, swollen ankles before he made the emergency delivery to bring you home, maybe he already contacted a brand contact to deliver a couple nice pairs of heels (in your size of course) that were worthy of being called worthy of you and totally legit.

But for now he closed his eyes. Your breath on his neck. Your body curled into his like it was meant to be there.

When you awoke the following day, you were greeted by the smell of breakfast food and the warm weight of something furry shoved against your side.

Groggy and dazed, your hand moved of its own volition and brushed against thick furry fluff. You cracked open your eyes to see a golden blur stretched out beside you, tail wagging slowly from side to side occasionally becoming far too close to your face, tongue slightly poking out of her mouth.

Layla.

When she noticed you awake, her head perked up from sleepy rest to that unspeakable unsettling excitement only a golden retriever possesses, even at this time of the hour. She let out a little huff, rolled on her back, and scooted towards you, shoving her fuzzy little nose against your arm just before settling back down into her sleep.

That's when it struck you—this was most definitely not your bed.

You blinked again, sat up a little, and inspected your surroundings. The unbelievably soft bedding. The minimalistic room plan. The leftover hint of cologne still lingering on the pillows. You looked down at yourself and realized you were sporting a huge long sleeved shirt and baggy sweats that did not belong to you.

Jake's.

"Fuck..." you muttered and flopped back down into the bed, your hangover returning with increasing intensity.

You were still lying there, playing gently with Layla'S soft ears, trying not to think too hard, when the door creaked open.

Jake stepped in, looking like a movie scene you weren't ready for. White shirt, grey sweats, tousled morning hair. He froze for a second at the sight: you, curled up in his clothes, tangled up in his sheets, golden Layla sprawled across your side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His heart stuttered.

Why does this look so... domestic? Like some kind of fantasy?

He quickly cleared his throat, eyes darting anywhere but directly at you.

You slowly sat up, squinting at him, a small smirk tugging at your lips despite the dull pounding in your head. "What happened?" you asked, voice rough from sleep.

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, debating how much to say.

"Um..." he started, looking down at Layla, who was now wagging her tail and trotting over to him like she didn't just betray you, and switch sides. "You kind of.... drank a little too much last night. And vaped, too."

You raised an eyebrow, unable to hide your amusement. "I figured," you chuckled, coughing a little into your elbow. "My head feels like it got stomped on."

Jake squatted down again and scratched behind Layla's ears. "You were kind of a mess," he teased, looking up at you for only a moment. "You tried to make me vape with you, you stumbled around in those trash heels, and you clung to me like a drunken koala."

You blinked, completely deadpan. "Sounds about right."

He shook his head, trying not to laugh. "Come downstairs. I made breakfast. You probably need it."

You raised your eyebrow again. "You... cook?"

Jake straightened up and tried to keep his own cool. "I don't burn things. That's good enough."

You slid off the bed, slowly but surely, still adjusting to the pounding in your skull—and the warmth blossoming in your chest at how he was treating you.

"Okay, chef Sim. Lead the way."

As you followed Jake out of the room, Layla trotting beside you like your personal guard dog, you couldn't help but smile a little.

The smell of eggs, toast, and something warm and savory filled your nose as you sat at Jake's sleek, black marble kitchen island. The plate in front of you looked like it came straight out of a cozy brunch café, and you were happily scarfing it down—nursing your hangover one bite at a time.

Jake was across the room, squatting down next to Layla, refilling her food, and exchanging her water with a kind of tenderness you weren't expecting from someone like him. His shirt had wrinkles all over, his hair was messy probably from repeatedly running his hands through it, and he had that same faint smell of cologne that was going to be permanently hardwired into your brain.

You caught him looking. Not in the staring way that you might be thinking, but subtly from the corner of his eye—like he didn't want to raise any suspicion of being caught checking you out while you were curled up in his oversized clothes that now hung off of you like a dress, sleeves falling past your fingers, still a little messy from sleeping, eyes still a little puffy. He turned, leaning against the counter, arms folded.

His expression turned soft. "You look tiny," he said nonchalantly, with an expression that looked as though the underlying sentiment was warmer, "My clothes are eating you alive."

You threw him a tired grin, still chewing, "That's kind of the point."

He chuckled, and bit his lip, shaking his head. He turned and busied himself with cleaning any dirty dishes, so that no one could see him smile.

Later that day, when you finally got home, you found something on your doorstep—a sleek, matte-black box with a ribbon and a gold-embossed card tied to it.

You opened it slowly, your mouth hanging open.

Inside was a pair of beautiful heels—nice dark color with dark red detailing, elegant, high quality. And folded inside at the top of the box was a small note card with one letter in gold foil:

J.S

You blinked, processing. So that's why your busted heels were missing...

You glanced down at your feet. His slippers were still on you. You hadn't even realized you hadn't taken them off yet.

A week later.

You had just stepped out the shower, hair wet, skin glistening, when Jake's name popped up on your screen. You grabbed the closest top—it was an old lace tank top—and threw on some sweats before answering the FaceTime and propping it to your vanity.

"Yo?" you said, towel drying your hair whilst screen loaded.

Jake popped up looking like he was trying to act cool. "Hey," he rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh... I'm going to this event. It's for my company. Pretty lame actually, but I'm still going. I already asked Sunoo and Winter so I thought-"

"You want me to come too?" you finished as you quickly dabbed moisturizer on your cheeks taking quick glances at the screen.

He nodded. "Yeah. I mean, yeah. I think it would be cool if you went."

You hummed, "Sounds fancy."

Jake raised one of his eyebrows pretending he wasn't watching as you rubbed the product down your jawline. "You'd look good."

You looked back at the screen just as his eyes flicked away. "Were you staring at me?"

"No."

"Jake."

"...Maybe."

You smirked. "I'll go."

The night of the event, the Sim Corp hall was draped in gold light, humming with glamour, money, and practiced small talk. You walked in with Sunoo and Winter by your side, all dressed to the nines, effortlessly flexing the luxury heels Jake had gifted you the night before.

The moment you walked in, people turned their heads.

But you found him. Standing a little bit to the left of the middle of the ballroom, Jake looked like he had walked straight out of a Vogue spread—suit crisp, tie just loose enough that he already looked as though he hated wearing it. But he wasn't all by himself. There were women surrounding him—young, pretty girls, heads angled down, obviously enchanted by his name, his face, his family.

You felt a tight knot in your chest. But then Jake turned—like he felt your arrival. He pushed right through the crowd, eyes locked right on yours. His expression changed. He pushed right through the circle of women without thinking twice and made a beeline straight for you.

Some of the girls exchanged annoyed looks behind him and began whispering, but he didn't care. Not tonight. Because tonight he had a plan. And it started right now.

Jake stopped right in front of you, eyes burning into yours, voice low, a half-smile forming on his lips. "You came."

You tilted your head, trying to play it cool. "You did invited me, didn't you?"

He laughed, his eyes roaming over your dress, your shoes—his shoes, actually—then back to your face. "You look..." he paused for a second, leaned in a bit closer, "unreal."

You blinked. His tone shifted threw you off. "You're trying to get me to blush, Sim?"

"Not trying. Just being honest." His stare didn't waver. "Mind if I take you for a second?"

You arched an eyebrow. "From what? Your harem of fanclub girls?"

He chuckled under his breath, leaning in slightly closer. "I don't care about any of them."

You held his gaze, a sense of something passing between you unspoken and intangible. "Then who do you care about?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

Jake's voice dipped low. "You."

You didn't expect him to be that direct.

Sure, the signs had been there all along—the way he stayed slightly too long at your coffee shop's counter, the fact that he stayed on FaceTime until you fell asleep, the way he mindlessly sent you those heels. Jake Sim made it painfully obvious that he had a crush on you. But a public, "I've had the biggest crush on you, wants my lips on yours" type confession? A public kiss? At this type of event?!

You were stunned, caught completely off guard, when he gently cupped your cheeks and pressed his lips to yours.

And just like that, time seemed to stop.

You felt a collective gasp throughout the great hall. You could faintly hear it through the fever pitch of ringing in your ears—the scandalized murmurs of the wealthy daughters nearby, the startled rustle of skirts, the clink of someone's champagne flute being dropped. Even Soobin, who was constantly scanning Jake like a hawk the entire time both of you were there, froze.

Jake's dad. The girls. Jay, smirking in the distance. Sunoo and Winter, mouths agape in shock.

But Jake didn't care. He didn't care one bit. Because that kiss—it was his answer.

To every single person in that room. To the girls who tried to catch his eye. To the expectations set by his father. To the future they tried to write for him.

His hands slid down to your waist, firm, grounding you like he was saying—you aren't making a mistake. Your hands... they found their way behind his neck, pulling him closer instinctively.

You kissed him back. Right there in front of all of them. Softly at first, then deeper—as if something had snapped between you two. The slow-burn tension finally combusted, and you stopped denying that you had both been flirting for the past few months.

And that is when you were consumed with the spotlight. A warm, blaring white beam lit the two of you up, and you pulled away startled, only to see Jay across the room by the tech booth, giving Jake a discreet thumbs up.

Your eyes widened, "You planned that?" you whispered against his lips.

Jake only smiled, breathless, his forehead resting on yours, "Had to make a statement."

Before you could say anything else, a booming voice broke through the thick silence. "Sim Jaeyun!"

You both turned.

There he was—his furious father, face red as he broke through the crowd like a tank, with each step he took was heavy with rage. He looked at you, then looked at Jake, then looked back at the still-glimmering spotlight above. Jake didn't budge. You felt his hand still at your waist as he pulled you closer, ready to shield you from whatever this coming storm was going to bring.

"She does not belong here," his father spat, venom thick in his voice, "this is not what we agreed to. These guests-"

"I don't care about your guests," Jake cut in, tone sharp, protective. "Or your list. Or whatever arrangement you've made behind my back. I've made my choice."

He gripped your waist a little tighter when he added, and only looking at you now, "And she belongs wherever I am."

His father's face twisted, but barely registered. Because, in that moment, Jake turned to you again, gentler, her fingers brushed the hair behind your ear. "I told you I'm not interested in anyone else," he said softly, "and I meant it."

Then Jake turned back to his father, jaw clenched, voice steady yet icy cold. "Whatever."

He didn't wait for another word, not for his father, nor for the aghast guests. With your hand in his and his other tucked in the pocket of his fitted blazer, he walked out of that claustrophobic ballroom with you beside him, uncaring of the storm behind him. There was a ripple of noise behind you. Some of the voices hissed, some were disgusted.

"She's not even one of us."

"Middle-class? Come on!"

"The nerve—"

But not all reactions were bitter. A few guests exchanged soft smiles and hushed admiration.

"That's real love."

"He found someone who finally makes him happy."

"She makes him feel free."

Because for the first time ever, Jake Sim—the man who was always the family name, the tailored suits, the shaken down company—chose for himself. And he chose you.

Sunoo and Winter followed behind you two, their eyes sparkling with pride like they were just watching the main couple finish in a rom-com. Sunoo was clutching his phone as if he was just dying to edit together a whole video montage of him and his friends leaving this moment.

Jake opened the car door for you, ushering you in gently before sliding into the driver's seat. The interior was dark and quiet, the street lamps casting soft golden glows on his face. He glanced over at you, guilt flickering in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to drag you into... all that."

You looked at him and then chuckled lightly and shook your head. "Jake... I enjoyed it."

His brows lifted slightly. You leaned your head against the window, smiling up at him. "It was chaotic and completely unexpected, but you kissed me like it meant everything."

Jake stared for a moment, stunned in silence—before his lips turned up in that soft, rare smile he only ever gave to you.

"Does this mean I can call you my girlfriend?" he asked almost shyly.

You looked over at him, mischievous. "Well considering you kissed me in front of the entire elite of the city and started a family scandal...yeah, boyfriend. You're stuck with me now."

Jake let out a breathy laugh as he reached over and took your hand, interlocking your fingers. "Good. Because I wouldn't want that any other way."

And just like that, boom—boyfriend and girlfriend. No contracts. No pretending. No expectations. Just you, and him.

(...and somewhere, Layla was probably waiting with her tail wagging ready to jump all over you when you got home.)

612 notes · View notes

itwillbethescarletwitch · 12 days ago

Text

Endgame

bob floyd x fem!reader

You noticed him right away.

It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon, just you and the soft hum of the AC, until the bell above the bookstore door chimed. You looked up from restocking the poetry shelf behind the counter and spotted him stepping inside—tall, broad-shouldered, golden hair a little tousled from the breeze outside.

But it was his glasses that caught your eye first.

Rounded wire frames, a little fogged from the humidity, which he gently wiped on the hem of his shirt before pushing them back up his nose. He didn’t look like the usual customer. Something about the neatness of him, the calm. Like he was always five seconds ahead of whatever was happening.

“Hi,” you offered with a smile. “Looking for anything in particular?”

He glanced up, eyes warm and a little shy behind the lenses. “Uh… not sure yet. Just browsing, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” you said. “Fiction’s on the right. Non-fiction’s on the left. And the hidden gems are back there,” you added, gesturing to the narrow room behind the register. “Used books. Chaos. Treasure.”

That got a small smile out of him—barely there, but enough to make you pause.

He wandered for a while. Quiet, thoughtful. Hands in his jacket pockets, his fingers brushing against spines like he was familiar with the texture of every title. You got distracted with a few customers, and by the time you looked back up, he was standing in front of the register again.

“Find something good?” you asked.

He held up a copy of Slaughterhouse-Five.

You grinned. “Classic. Solid choice.”

“Never read it,” he said, shifting his weight a little. “Felt like I should.”

“Well, you picked a good copy. That one’s survived three owners and one coffee spill.”

He let out a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “Perfect.”

You rang him up, slid the book into a paper bag, and handed it over. “Thanks for stopping in.”

He nodded. “Thanks… uh—” He glanced at your name tag. “Y/N.”

And then he left.

That was it. First day.

But then he came back.

Once, then twice, then regularly. Always soft-spoken. Always polite. You learned his name on his third visit—Bob Floyd.

“You military?” you asked one afternoon when he came in with a badge clipped to his waistband.

“Yeah,” he said. “Navy.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a WSO,” he said, shrugging slightly. “I fly in the backseat of jets. Kind of boring.”

You blinked. “You fly in a jet and you think I have the exciting job?”

He smiled—wide this time. A real one.

After that, the rhythm started. Every few days, he’d stop by. Sometimes he brought coffee. Once, when the place was slammed and you looked visibly overwhelmed, he walked in with a sandwich from the deli next door and just handed it to you without a word.

You looked at him, stunned. “Did you—?”

“Figured you hadn’t eaten,” he said. “The guy behind the counter said turkey’s your favorite.”

You stared. “You asked?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Seemed important.”

Eventually, he started lingering longer. Sometimes he’d sit in the chair near the window and read while you worked. You got used to him being there. Looked forward to it, even.

And then, one day, with the rain tapping the windows and a stack of books half-sorted in your lap, you looked over and said, “I’ve never been on a base. You guys have tours?”

He looked up from his book. “I could… probably show you around. If you want.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’ve got a good recommendation record,” he said, holding up the book you’d handed him last week. “Figured I owe you.”

And just like that, something shifted.

———

You weren’t sure what you expected from a military base, but it wasn’t this much sun. The light bounced off the concrete as you stepped out of Bob’s truck, shielding your eyes and squinting up at the massive hangar doors ahead.

“Big, huh?” Bob asked, stepping around to your side with his hands shoved in his pockets. He wasn’t in uniform today — just a navy tee, jeans, and his glasses perched comfortably on his nose — but he still somehow looked more official here. Like this place belonged to him.

“Very big,” you echoed, still staring. “How do you not get lost?”

“Trial and error.” He smiled. “C’mon. I told Phoenix we’d stop by.”

He held the door open for you, and the second you stepped into the hangar, it was like walking into a different world — hot, alive, and buzzing. Jets lined up like sleeping giants, tools clanking in the distance, voices echoing off the walls. A few heads turned when you entered, but no one said anything right away. Just curious glances — flickers of recognition.

Bob didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t flinch.

You stayed close to his side, your eyes darting everywhere, soaking in the unfamiliar world with quiet awe.

“This is where I work,” he said simply. “Over here is the simulator room, but you’re not missing much. It’s just a dark box that makes you nauseous.”

“Sounds… thrilling.”

“You’d love it,” he said with a chuckle. “I threw up my first day.”

You laughed softly, and Bob glanced at you — and maybe it was just the hangar light, or the sound of your voice, but something in his face softened.

From across the floor, someone whistled. “Baby on board!”

Bob exhaled through his nose, already looking like he regretted everything.

You blinked. “Was that—?”

“That’s Hangman,” Bob muttered, under his breath. “Don’t… don’t ask.”

Jake Seresin was making his way over with that smug, golden-boy energy radiating off him like a second sun. But before he could get to you, Phoenix intercepted, striding up like she’d been waiting all morning.

“About time,” she called. “I’ve had three people ask if they’re allowed to stare.”

“Please tell me you said no,” Bob said.

“I said wait five minutes and act casual.” Phoenix grinned at you, warm and surprisingly relaxed. “You must be the bookstore girl.”

You nodded, shaking her hand. “That’s me.”

“C’mon,” she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Bob’s going to get mobbed in about sixty seconds, and I’m not babysitting. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

You looked at Bob, a little hesitant, but he smiled.

“I’ll be right here,” he said, nudging his head toward a small crowd of pilots heading his way. “Don’t let Phoenix talk you into anything illegal.”

Phoenix snorted. “I only did that once.”

As she led you deeper into the hangar, you glanced back just once. Bob was already in conversation, but his eyes flicked to you briefly. Just a second — but long enough to say still here. I see you.

And somewhere near the back of the hangar, Hangman leaned in to Bob’s side.

“So,” Jake said, voice low and too casual. “Baby on board. That your girl?”

Bob didn’t look at him. Just stared at the hangar doors where you’d disappeared with Phoenix. His mouth tugged into a small, shy smile.

“Not yet,” he said. “But I’m manifesting it.”

Phoenix didn’t need to say she was giving you the VIP tour—you could feel it in the way she walked. Confident, steady, a little protective. You’d barely stepped onto the hangar floor before she’d whisked you off, casually tossing a “You’ll be fine, you’re with me,” over her shoulder like that was supposed to ease your nerves.

Spoiler: it kind of did.

You jogged a couple steps to catch up with her as she led you toward the fighter jets gleaming under the bright lights. She was already pointing out a few things—flight groups, gear lockers, a very expensive-looking toolbox someone definitely wasn’t using correctly.

“Okay, full disclosure,” she said, glancing at you with a little smirk. “I don’t usually do tours. But Bob asked if someone could show you around, and I figured—I fly with the guy every day. Might as well do him justice.”

You smiled. “I hope that’s a good thing?”

“Oh, it’s a great thing. You’re in the hands of the best pilot-WSO duo on base. He’s got my six every time we’re in the air.”

You followed her gaze to one of the jets. It was sleek and deadly, all power and precision. Your eyes widened a little.

“This is ours,” she said, hand resting lightly on the frame. “Well—ours in the sense that the Navy owns it, and we abuse the hell out of it on a daily basis. But she’s good to us. And Bob—he makes her better.”

You raised a brow. “How so?”

“He’s got the kind of instincts you can’t teach. Reads the radar like it’s a second language. Calls out threats before I even see them.” She shrugged. “We’ve flown through some crazy stuff together. Not once have I ever questioned if he’s got me.”

There was something honest in her voice—real trust, real admiration.

You looked back at the plane, trying to picture it: Bob, in a helmet, locked in, calm under pressure. You’d never seen that version of him. The Bob you knew wore soft flannels and brought you sandwiches on your busiest days. The Bob who always asked how your shift was and remembered which books made you cry.

Phoenix crossed her arms, glanced sideways at you. “And outside the cockpit? He’s the most grounded person I know. Loyal to a fault. Always thinks things through. And he’s the kind of guy who’d rather sit through a three-hour rom-com than make someone feel alone.”

That made you laugh.

“Let me guess—he’s done that for you?”

She grinned. “He once sat through The Notebook on a deployment. I cried harder than I care to admit, and the whole time, he just kept passing me tissues like it was nothing.”

You smiled down at your shoes, cheeks warm.

Phoenix nudged your shoulder gently. “Just saying—guys like that don’t come around often. And when they do? You hold onto them. Even if it starts with just… spending time.”

You looked back at the plane, then toward the far end of the hangar where you could just barely make out Bob’s figure, deep in conversation with someone.

“I didn’t think someone like him would even notice someone like me.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “Then clearly, you don’t know how often he talks about you.”

You blinked. “He talks about me?”

“Mmhm. Said you’ve got a laugh that could shake the dust off his worst days. And that no one’s ever looked at him like he mattered until you did.”

Your breath caught a little, heart tugging.

Phoenix gave you a warm, knowing smile. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your not-quite-boyfriend before Jake tries to convince him to go skydiving again.”

The second Bob spotted you across the hangar, something in his shoulders eased.

You were walking alongside Phoenix, chatting easily, your arms swaying at your sides. From where he stood—half-listening to Coyote explain something about flight telemetry—it was like time clicked into place. Like the sun came out just a little brighter.

You caught his gaze before he could look away, and your face lit up in that quiet, devastating way that always made his heart race a little faster. You gave him a little wave.

“Hey, there you are,” you called as you reached him, Phoenix peeling off with a smug smile and muttering something about giving you two a minute.

Bob cleared his throat, trying not to grin too hard. “Hey. You, uh—have fun?”

“I did,” you said, brushing a piece of hair from your face. “Phoenix gave me the rundown. Told me you’re basically her better half in the sky.”

His ears went a little pink. “She said that?”

“She also said you cried during The Notebook, but we can unpack that later.”

His smile cracked wide open. “She told you that?”

“Oh yeah,” you teased. “Said you passed her tissues and everything. Real stand-up guy behavior.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, glasses slipping just a little. “Well… she was crying pretty hard.”

You tilted your head at him. “You’re kind of the whole package, huh?”

That caught him off guard. His lips parted slightly like he was going to say something, but all that came out was a soft, surprised laugh. “I—I try.”

“Trying’s working for you,” you said, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Everyone here kind of thinks we’re a thing, you know.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

You raised a brow, heart suddenly fluttering. “Does that bother you?”

Bob stepped a little closer, voice lowering just enough to make your stomach twist in that delicious, dangerous way.

“Not if it’s true.”

Your breath hitched.

Before you could say anything, Hangman’s voice cut through the moment: “Hey, Baby on Board! You bringing your girl to poker tonight, or are you too chicken to lose in front of her?”

“Tell him I’ll clean him out,” you said over your shoulder to Hangman, but your eyes never left Bob’s.

He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”

Neither of you said anything after that—not right away. But he didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said everything.

And when his hand brushed yours as you both started toward the others… you didn’t pull away.

———

The pool table had been pushed aside, replaced with a worn wooden table and a scattered deck of cards. Around it sat Hangman, Phoenix, Coyote, Payback, Bob — and you, somehow coaxed into joining despite claiming you hadn’t played poker since college.

Real cash was spread across the table in uneven little piles. Singles, fives, tens. Phoenix had set a buy-in cap — twenty bucks max — to keep things friendly. Still, competitive fire burned hot, especially in Jake Seresin’s eyes.

“You sure you wanna sit in?” Hangman grinned, tossing in his first five. “I play for blood.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally ten-dollar max bets.”

“Blood,” he repeated, grinning wide.

Bob sat beside you, shoulders slightly turned your way, quiet and observant. He hadn’t bought in tonight. “She’s playing for me,” he told the table earlier, soft and proud.

The first few hands? You folded quick. A couple clumsy raises. Easy bluffs. Hangman leaned back, smug, convinced you were just learning.

Then came a quiet hand.

Three players in.

The pot slowly growing.

And you cleaned them out.

“Full house,” you said, flipping your cards like it was no big deal.

Hangman blinked at his pair of aces. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you said sweetly, dragging the pile of bills toward you.

After that, the game shifted.

Jake stopped talking. Coyote narrowed his eyes every time you lifted your cards. Phoenix just watched in growing amusement, sipping her beer like she knew.

And you?

You kept winning.

Not every hand — but enough that by the end of the hour, you had a neat stack of bills in front of you. Seventy dollars total. Most of it from Jake, who now had three singles and a crumpled five left to his name.

“This is highway robbery,” he muttered. “You played me.”

You smiled. “I didn’t do anything. You bet into it every time.”

“She’s terrifying,” Coyote whispered to Phoenix. “How is she so calm?”

Jake shook his head in defeat as you slowly counted your bills, pausing at the fifty mark. You picked up a crisp ten and a five, and held them out toward him.

He frowned. “What’re you doing?”

“Giving you back your dignity,” you teased. “Or at least fifteen bucks of it.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “You don’t want it?”

“I want a free drink and maybe a soft pretzel,” you said. “Not a reputation.”

Jake huffed, but he took the money. “I don’t know whether to be insulted or impressed.”

Bob was definitely the latter.

He leaned toward you, voice low, grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You really only kept fifty?”

You nodded, slipping it into your jacket pocket. “That’s more than enough.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hangman lose that gracefully.”

You laughed under your breath. “I’m sure he’s just holding in the tantrum for later.”

Bob chuckled. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“You’re fine,” you said, nudging him lightly. “You backed me up from the start.”

He gave you a look — one that held a quiet kind of admiration. Not loud, not flashy. Just a warmth that said he saw you.

And maybe, just maybe, his fingers brushed yours under the table. Not on purpose. Not at first.

But neither of you moved away.

———

(6 months later)

The hum of the overhead lights blended with the low clatter of forks against ceramic plates. It was nearing midnight, and the old 24-hour diner on the edge of town had mostly emptied out, save for a few regulars and the two of you tucked into a corner booth.

Bob stirred his coffee absently, eyes darting from his cup to the half-eaten slice of pie you were insisting he finish. You were grinning, warm and carefree, wearing one of his old academy hoodies over your dress from earlier in the night. And Bob, for once, looked a little uneasy.

You noticed.

“Alright, Lieutenant Floyd, what’s going on?” you asked gently, nudging his knee with yours under the table. “You’ve been chewing on that coffee stirrer like it personally wronged you.”

He smiled sheepishly, cheeks coloring. “I’ve just been thinkin’,” he said, eyes still not quite meeting yours.

You tilted your head, curious but patient.

He sighed and finally looked at you, the weight of something important softening his voice. “It’s been six months. Half a year. And I know we’ve said we’re taking things slow, and I love the pace we’re going, I really do. But I’ve been telling my family about you.”

Your eyes lit up just slightly. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A lot. I mean—Phoenix calls you my girl at work and I don’t even bother correcting her anymore. I don’t want to. And my mom, she… she keeps asking when she’ll get to meet the person who makes me sound this happy on the phone.”

You softened. “Bob…”

“I want you to meet them,” he said, finally. “I’m nervous, don’t get me wrong. I think I’m more nervous about this than I was flying solo the first time. But they’re important to me. And you’re… God, you’re everything. I want them to know you.”

There was a long pause before you leaned over the table and squeezed his hand. “I’d love to meet them,” you said, voice just above a whisper. “And for the record, I think your mom’s gonna love me.”

Bob let out a quiet, relieved laugh and shook his head. “Oh, sweetheart, she’s already halfway planning the guest room.”

You grinned. “Guest room, huh? So I’m staying over?”

He blushed. “I mean… if you want to.”

You kissed the back of his hand and whispered, “I want to.”

————

Bob pulled his truck up the long gravel drive, tires crunching beneath them as the familiar white farmhouse came into view. A breeze made the wind chimes on the porch sing, and the golden hour light turned the sky soft and hazy.

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, completely frozen.

Bob glanced over. “You good?”

“Nope,” she said too fast. “Definitely not.”

His brows creased, concern flashing in his eyes. “Talk to me.”

“I’m about to meet your family, Bob. Like—your actual family. Your mom, your siblings, people who knew you before you were Lieutenant Floyd. What if they don’t like me?”

He turned toward her, resting his forearm on the steering wheel. “They’re gonna love you.”

“You don’t know that,” she whispered, eyes wide. “I mean—I’m not from here. What if I say something dumb? What if I mess up a handshake or like… I don’t know, accidentally insult your mom’s green beans or something—”

Bob laughed softly. “You’re not gonna insult anybody’s green beans.”

“You don’t know that!” she half-whined, hands clutching the skirt of her sundress.

He reached across and took one of her hands gently, grounding her. “Y/N. They are going to love you. My momma’s been cleaning the house since I told her we were coming, and she already made sweet tea, pot roast, and probably more bread than either of us should legally be allowed to eat. She’s excited. I’m excited.”

Y/N looked at him for a long moment before nodding, even if it was hesitant. “Okay. I’m okay. I’m ready.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

He gave her a smile and hopped out, coming around to open her door like he always did. She let him help her down, her hand lingering in his as they walked up the porch steps. She could hear voices inside—faint laughter, a dog barking somewhere in the back.

Before they could knock, the front door swung wide open.

“Bobby Ray Floyd, you get yourself over here and hug your momma!”

Bob grinned. “Hey, Momma,” he said, pulling her into a tight hug. His mother was shorter than she sounded, but sturdy and warm like she’d spent her whole life feeding people and loving hard. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a soft braid, and her floral apron still had flour dust on it.

Then her eyes landed on Y/N.

“And you must be the sweet girl I’ve been hearin’ so much about,” she said, already reaching forward with open arms. “Come here, sugar!”

Y/N blinked but smiled, hugging her back. “Hi, Mrs. Floyd. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Oh, honey,” the woman said, pulling back and cupping her face in both hands, “Just call me Margaret. Mrs. Floyd makes me sound like I’m ninety and mean as hell.”

Y/N laughed nervously. “Okay. Margaret.”

“That’s better. And look at you—Lord have mercy, you’re even prettier than Bobby said you were.”

Bob blushed behind them.

Margaret waved them inside. “Come on in. Dinner’s almost done and everyone’s dyin’ to meet you.”

The house was warm and lived-in, smelling like roast chicken, biscuits, and cinnamon. Bob’s siblings were already coming out of the woodwork—two of his younger brothers giving him hell, his sweet younger sister introducing herself right away and pulling Y/N into conversation.

But not everyone was smiling.

From the hallway, a woman leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Her tone was flat as she said, “So. This her?”

Bob stiffened slightly. “Yeah. Hannah, this is Y/N.”

Y/N stepped forward and offered a polite smile. “Hi.”

Hannah gave her a once-over. “Hm.”

That was all.

Y/N’s smile dimmed for just a beat before Bob gently placed a hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the kitchen.

“Don’t you mind her,” Margaret said brightly. “She’s been in one of her moods. Been that way since she was old enough to steal Bobby’s toys.”

“Momma,” Bob mumbled under his breath, but Y/N squeezed his hand.

Dinner was loud and warm—Bob’s siblings trading stories and teasing him about everything from his slow drawl to the time he accidentally glued his own hand to a model plane in fourth grade. Margaret kept slipping more food onto Y/N’s plate. Bob just kept looking at her like he couldn’t believe she was really here, really sitting beside him.

And all through it, Hannah said almost nothing. When she did, it was pointed. Dry. Not loud enough to make a scene, but enough that Y/N felt it like a pebble in her shoe.

After dessert, when everyone wandered toward the porch, Bob stayed behind to help his momma with dishes. Y/N sat with his sister, watching the sun sink lower in the sky.

“She likes you,” Bob’s sister whispered, nudging her.

“She doesn’t act like it,” Y/N said softly.

“She’s just… guarded. Don’t let it get to you.”

“I’m trying,” Y/N admitted. “I just want to make a good impression.”

“You already have.”

Inside, Bob wiped his hands on a dishtowel and looked out the window—his girl, sitting on his momma’s porch, in his old rocking chair, like she belonged there.

And God help him, she did.

———

The sun had long set by the time everyone gathered around the big oak table in the Floyd family dining room. Someone had unearthed a battered Uno deck from the junk drawer, rubber-banded and worn, like it had lived through generations of Floyd family game nights.

Margaret poured everyone sweet tea in mismatched mason jars. “Uno always brings out the truth in people,” she warned playfully.

Y/N sat beside Bob, heart still fluttering from dinner and all the warm welcome she’d been shown—almost all of it. Hannah sat at the far end of the table, arms crossed tight and expression unreadable.

Will shuffled the deck dramatically. “Y’all ready to lose?”

“I don’t know,” Bob said, grinning at Y/N. “She’s got a good poker face.”

Hannah snorted. “Guess some people are just good at bluffing.”

Y/N blinked. She wasn’t even sure that one was meant to land—but it did.

The game began. Will talked the most trash, naturally. Margaret cheated a little, blatantly dropping extra cards and daring anyone to call her out. Bob sat close, letting his hand rest on the back of Y/N’s chair, his knee brushing hers now and then.

And Y/N? She was destroying them.

One by one, they folded, groaned, drew four. Y/N didn’t gloat. She just smiled, almost shyly, stacking up her winnings—a mix of fives, tens, and twenties everyone had tossed in to make the game interesting.

“Beginner’s luck,” Bob’s younger sister joked.

“I think it’s just quiet confidence,” Margaret chimed in warmly. “She’s got that strength in her. Like she’s used to holding her own.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Or maybe she’s just lucky enough to keep landing in the right places.”

Bob stilled.

Y/N’s smile faltered, just for a second, before she folded her hands in her lap and looked down.

Margaret frowned. “Hannah—”

“No, it’s fine,” Y/N said quickly. “Really. I’m just good at card games. I used to play a lot growing up.”

“You sure you weren’t playing people, too?” Hannah muttered under her breath.

That did it.

Bob sat up sharply. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Everyone went silent.

Hannah raised a brow, acting innocent. “What? I’m just making conversation.”

“No, you’re being mean,” Bob said, voice low but firm. “You’ve been like this since we walked in the door. She’s done nothing to you.”

“Maybe I’m just being cautious,” Hannah snapped. “You fall fast, Bobby. You always have. Someone needs to think straight when you can’t.”

“She’s not someone,” Bob said. “She’s Y/N. And she’s not like—”

He stopped himself. The room hung heavy with that pause.

“She’s not like her,” he said finally. “You know that.”

Margaret stood, her voice sharp. “That’s enough. We treat guests like family in this house, and we sure as hell don’t humiliate them at our table.”

Will muttered, “This is awkward,” trying to break the tension, but it didn’t land.

Bob’s younger sister gave Hannah a disgusted look. “What is your dealtonight?”

Y/N stayed quiet through all of it, eyes on the table, hands still neatly folded. Until Bob’s older sister—Sophie—stood up gently and nudged her arm.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s go for a ride.”

Y/N glanced at Bob, who gave her a little nod. And then she followed Sophie out to the porch, where the summer air wrapped around them like a humid blanket.

⸻

They drove through the quiet country roads in Bob’s dad’s old pickup, windows rolled down. Neither spoke for the first few minutes. Then Sophie finally broke the silence.

“She’s not usually like that,” she said. “Hannah. She’s just scared.”

Y/N looked over, brows drawn. “Scared of what?”

“Of you,” Sophie said honestly. “Of how much Bob cares about you. Of what happened the last time he fell for someone.”

Y/N stayed silent, sensing more was coming.

“Six years ago,” Sophie went on, “he dated this girl. Real sweet. Beautiful. She came around once. We all liked her. But then she just… vanished. Called him from another state and ended it. Said she couldn’t do this kind of life. Couldn’t be second to the Navy.”

Y/N’s heart cracked.

“He didn’t cry,” Sophie said. “Didn’t yell. Just… shut down. For almost a year, it was like he disappeared, even when he was home. Hannah took it the hardest. She’d go sit in his room and just… watch him be quiet.”

Y/N bit her lip. “I didn’t know.”

“She’s being a brat. Don’t get me wrong,” Sophie said. “But she’s not trying to hurt you. She’s trying to protect him. Even if she’s doing a really shitty job of it.”

Y/N gave a tiny nod. “I’d never do that to him. I’d rather die than hurt him.”

She paused.

“…Though I guess that would also hurt him.”

Sophie let out a laugh. “Yep. That’s how we know you’re in it for real.”

Y/N smiled softly, watching the road roll out in front of them.

“Come on,” Sophie said. “Let’s get you back. He’s probably pacing the porch already.”

By the time Sophie’s truck pulled back up the long gravel driveway, the front porch light was glowing like a beacon, and there he was—Bob, standing on the steps in his hoodie and jeans, wringing his hands like he’d been waiting for hours instead of just thirty minutes.

Y/N barely had her door open before he was at her side, his voice low and anxious.

“You okay? I—I wanted to come with but I figured—”

“I’m okay,” she said, smiling softly, and reached out to brush her fingers against his. “Sophie filled me in.”

His jaw twitched, a million things on the tip of his tongue he wasn’t sure how to say.

“She told me everything,” Y/N added gently. “About her.”

Bob lowered his gaze. “I didn’t want that to be the first story they ever told you about me.”

“I’m glad I heard it,” she whispered. “I’m glad I know what you’ve been through.”

He looked up then, and there was something glassy in his eyes he tried to blink away.

Sophie gave them a moment, then cleared her throat. “I’m heading in. Try not to start another Uno war, alright?”

Y/N laughed softly as Bob guided her up the steps with a hand at her back. The house was quieter now. The tension from earlier still lingered, but it felt like the air had been cracked open, like maybe—just maybe—something had started to shift.

They sat on the back porch for a little while, shoulder to shoulder, Y/N’s head leaning against Bob’s arm, both of them watching the stars.

Then the screen door creaked open.

It was Hannah.

Bob immediately stiffened.

“Hey,” she said, not looking at him. Her gaze was locked on Y/N.

“Hey,” Y/N said back, not unkindly, just cautious.

Hannah took a few slow steps out, arms folded, like she wasn’t sure if she should even be standing there.

Bob stood. “If you’re gonna say anything else that—”

“No,” she cut in quickly. “I’m not.”

She looked between them, jaw clenched.

“I came out here to apologize,” she said finally. “To you.”

Y/N blinked. “Oh.”

“You didn’t deserve the way I treated you. Not at dinner. Not at game night. Not… at all.” Hannah shifted her weight. “I was being a bitch. And I knew it.”

Y/N opened her mouth, but Hannah raised a hand.

“I was scared. Not of you. Of what you could do to him. You don’t know what he was like after she left. He didn’t even come home for Christmas that year. Didn’t answer our calls for two months. I thought—I swore—he’d never come back from it.”

She swallowed hard.

“And then you showed up. And I saw the way he looked at you. Like his whole world just… lit up again. And I got scared all over again.”

Y/N stood slowly, walking a few steps toward her. “I understand,” she said quietly. “But I’m not her. I’m not gonna hurt him.”

“You say that now,” Hannah whispered.

“I mean it now,” Y/N replied.

A long silence.

And then—surprisingly—Hannah cracked a tiny smile. “You know… it pissed me off how good you were at Uno.”

Y/N grinned. “You should’ve seen me at poker night with the team. I made Jake Seresin hand over a hundred bucks.”

Bob let out a quiet, wheezing laugh. “You gave most of it back.”

“She kept the twenty with the barbecue sauce stain on it,” Bob added proudly.

Hannah blinked. “Wait, you’ve got the barbecue bill?”

Y/N’s brows furrowed. “Is that a thing?”

“It’s a Floyd family tradition. You win that, you run the table.”

Y/N bit back a laugh. “Well. Guess I’m part of the family now.”

Hannah looked at her for a long moment, then finally nodded.

“I still don’t trust easy,” she said. “But… I believe you love him.”

Y/N’s voice was soft. “I do.”

“And you hurt him…?”

“I’d never forgive myself.”

Hannah nodded once more, then gave Bob a very sisterly death stare. “You better not mess this up, Baby on Board.”

Bob groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. “Why did I ever tell you about that?”

Y/N was already giggling. “Wait, you told her?”

“I told everyone,” Hannah said. “He called you his endgame, Y/N. Don’t let that go.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed pink.

Then—tentatively—Hannah held out her hand. Not quite a hug. But a start.

Y/N took it, and it was enough.

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