#he had to push his fear down and step up to save his life and he couldnt worry about himself...man hold on a second | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solaceseven · 5 months ago

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Ashes of Tomorrow

↳ summary: in a world overrun by the infected, survival is brutal and trust is rare. when a lone survivor joins sukuna’s guarded group, tensions flare, and bonds form in the shadow of constant danger.

→ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: sukuna x fem!reader

→ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: apocalypse au, enemies to lovers, fluff, angst

→ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: graphic injuries, violent confrontations, emotional trauma, loss of loved ones, mature themes, and anything you would expect in an apocalypse au.

→ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 22k+

→ a/n: i’ve been debating whether to post this. it’s my first time working on something this big. please keep in mind that i'm still learning and growing as a writer. part two will be uploaded soon. i hope everyone enjoys it!

Six months. That’s how long it had been since the world fell apart.

Six months of chaos, death, and the relentless groans of the undead filling the streets. In that time, you’d lost everything—your home, your family, your friends. Five months ago, you buried your parents the only constants in a world spiraling out of control. Two months ago, the last shred of hope had crumbled when your team was ambushed. You still remembered their screams, the way they’d been torn apart while you ran.

Now, it was just you.

You’d learned to survive, though. To stay quiet, to move fast, and to keep a tight grip on the crowbar that never left your side. But survival wasn’t the same as living. With no one left, no safety, and barely any supplies, every day was a battle to find a reason to keep going.

That’s what brought you here—a decaying pharmacy tucked into the ruins of a crumbling city. The windows had been shattered, and most of the shelves were stripped bare, but there was always a chance something had been overlooked. You couldn’t afford to give up now. Supplies were running low—again—and you couldn’t afford to ignore even the faintest possibility of a find.

The building was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of the wind pushing through shattered windows. The quiet always unnerved you. It meant nothing was here, or it meant something dangerous was lurking. And in this world, you’d learned that the latter was far more common.

You moved quickly, rifling through what little remained on the shelves. There was nothing—no bandages, no antiseptics, not even a stray pack of painkillers. Your chest tightened. You hadn’t eaten in two days, and your limbs felt like they were made of lead. The only thing keeping you upright was the faint hope of finding something useful.

A soft scrape of a boot on the tile floor broke your focus. You froze, every muscle in your body tensing as you instinctively gripped your crowbar tighter.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

The voice was low and sharp, carrying a weight of authority that left no room for disobedience.

You did as instructed, turning slowly to face the speaker. Your breath hitched when your eyes landed on him.

He stood in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, his face half-shadowed by the dim light filtering through the broken windows. Tattoos coiled down one side of his face, stopping just shy of his jawline. His eyes were sharp and unforgiving, as if they could cut you down without the help of the knife in his hand.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” you said quickly, your voice steady despite the fear prickling at the back of your neck. “I just needed supplies.”

The man took a step closer, his posture rigid but calculated, like a predator sizing up its prey. “This is our base. You’re trespassing.”

Your heart sank. Of course, the one pharmacy you decided to search had to belong to a group. You’d seen enough groups in the last six months to know how this could end—most didn’t tolerate strangers. But you weren’t about to beg for your life. Not yet.

“I didn’t know,” you said carefully, your gaze flicking to the doorway. A small, calculated step back might give you the chance to run. “I’ll leave.”

He didn’t move, his eyes narrowing as if assessing whether you were lying. A moment later, a faint laugh came from behind him, and more figures emerged from the shadows.

Four of them, all armed. One with messy snow-white hair leaned casually against the doorframe, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. Another had dark hair pulled back and an air of quiet authority. A blonde stood nearby, his sharp gaze locked on you, while a woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips watched you with mild curiosity.

“You’re alone?” the man with the tattoos asked, cutting through your thoughts.

“Yes,” you answered honestly. “I’ve been on my own for two months.”

He tilted his head slightly, as though weighing your words. “Convenient,” he said, his tone dripping with skepticism. “And I’m just supposed to believe that?”

“I don’t care what you believe,” you shot back, your exhaustion bubbling over into frustration. “I’m not a threat. I just need to survive.”

His lip curled slightly, not quite a smirk but close enough to feel mocking. “You and everyone else.”

You stared at him, chest tightening as the weight of the situation settled over you. These people had a base, weapons, resources—and they were ready to protect them. Meanwhile, you were barely holding on, the ache of hunger and the gnawing fear of being alone clawing at you every second.

“I’ll go,” you said again, lowering the crowbar. “I don’t want trouble.”

You turned toward the door, but something stopped you. The truth.

You wouldn’t make it. Not another month. Maybe not another week.

Your breath hitched, and you turned back around, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. “Wait.”

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly irritated by your hesitation.

“I can help you,” you said, the words tumbling out faster than you’d intended. “I was a med student before all of this. I know how to treat injuries—stitches, setting fractures, preventing infections. You need me.”

The room went silent for a moment. The woman with the cigarette exhaled slowly, the faint curl of smoke filling the air. The others exchanged glances, their postures shifting just slightly.

But the man in charge didn’t seem moved. “We don’t need you,” he said coldly, his gaze sharp. He jerked his chin toward the woman with the cigarette. “We already have someone who knows how to patch us up.”

You blinked, your stomach sinking as your eyes flicked to her.

The woman raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement on her lips. “Having a partner? Sounds useful to me,” she said with a smirk, dragging the cigarette from her mouth and exhaling slowly.

The white-haired one grinned, breaking the tension. “She’s got a point. Two are better than one, right?”

“She could be lying,” the leader snapped, glaring at him.

“She’s not,” the blonde cut in, his voice calm but firm. “If she is, we’ll know soon enough.”

“She’s alone,” the quiet one added, his tone measured. “If she wanted to ambush us, she would’ve had backup by now.”

The leader scowled, clearly unhappy about the shift in opinion. But before he could argue further, the woman stepped forward, crushing the cigarette beneath her boot.

“I’m glad I’m not the other girl now,” she said with a small smirk. Turning to you, she added, “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

You hesitated, your gaze flicking back to the man in charge. His fiery eyes burned into yours, full of warning and thinly veiled hostility. But he didn’t stop the woman from leading you deeper into their base.

For now, you were safe. But the tension in the room made one thing painfully clear: this wouldn’t be easy.

The girl led you down a dim hallway. There was a musty scent to the building, but you didn’t mind. After months of scavenging, you were used to far worse.

“You have a name?” she said casually, glancing back at you.

You hesitated, still feeling the weight of the encounter in the other room. Finally, you spoke, giving your name—a piece of yourself you hadn’t shared in a long time.

“Shoko,” she replied, offering a faint smile. “Welcome to our little slice of apocalypse hell.”

Her tone was light, even friendly, and it caught you off guard. After months of being alone—and year of studying medicine, where people tended to be formal and brusque—her relaxed demeanor was strangely comforting.

She gestured for you to follow her deeper into the base. “Come on. I’ll show you where you can sleep. We’re not exactly running a hotel, but it beats sleeping in a ditch.”

You walked a few steps behind her, taking in your surroundings. The building was old but well-maintained, with concrete walls reinforced by wooden barricades. The air smelled faintly of motor oil and sweat, and supplies were stacked neatly along the walls—canned goods, medical kits, and ammunition. The group clearly had a system, and it was working.

Shoko led you to a small room at the end of the hallway. Inside was a thin mattress on the floor with a couple of blankets folded neatly on top. There was a single metal shelf against the wall, mostly empty except for a half-used candle and a box of matches.

“Not much,” Shoko said, stepping aside so you could enter. “But it’s yours for now.”

You set your pack down, the weight of it finally slipping from your shoulders. For a moment, you just stood there, staring at the mattress. It had been months since you’d had anything resembling a safe place to rest.

“Are you hungry?” Shoko asked, leaning against the doorway.

You glanced at her, unsure of how to respond. Your stomach growled before you could say anything, and Shoko smirked.

“Thought so. Come on. We’ve got food in the common area.”

You followed her back down the hallway, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. Shoko didn’t seem to view you as a threat, which was more kindness than you’d expected from anyone these days.

“We’ve been here for about four months,” Shoko explained as she walked. “It’s not much, but we’ve made it work. Sukuna’s the one keeping us alive, mostly.”

At the mention of his name, your chest tightened. “The guy with the tattoos?”

She chuckled. “Yeah, that’s him. Don’t take his attitude personally. He’s like that with everyone. Even us.”

“Us?”

“The rest of the group,” Shoko said. “We’re all friends. We were on a trip together when this whole zombie thing started. Stuck together ever since.”

That explained their familiarity with one another—the way they moved and spoke as a unit, how they all seemed to know what the others were thinking without speaking.

Shoko led you into a larger room, where the rest of the group was gathered. They looked up when you entered, their expressions ranging from curious to indifferent.

“Everyone, this is—” Shoko said your name, her tone casual as she took another drag from her cigarette. “Be nice.”

The white-haired man was the first to speak. He grinned, leaning back against the table where he’d been sitting. “Didn’t think the boss would let you in. You must’ve made one hell of an impression.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened,” you replied dryly, earning a laugh from Shoko.

The dark-haired man beside him gave a small nod. “Suguru,” he said simply, his tone calm but not unfriendly. “Good to have you here.”

The blonde, who was sitting across from him cleaning a knife, didn’t look up. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“Nanami,” Shoko said, rolling her eyes. “Can you not?”

“I’m being realistic,” he replied, his voice even.

“You’ll have to forgive Nanami,” Shoko said to you, her smirk returning. “He’s just mad the world ended and he doesn’t have coffee anymore.”

Nanami let out a quiet sigh and finally looked up. “It’s a tragedy,” he said in a deadpan tone, earning a laugh from the white-haired man.

“I’m Satoru,” the white-haired one said, grinning at you. “The fun one, in case you couldn’t tell.”

“Annoying, not fun,” Shoko corrected.

“And you already met Sukuna,” Satoru continued, ignoring her.

Your gaze flicked to the man with the tattoos, who was standing in the corner with his arms crossed. His expression was as unreadable as before, but his eyes stayed on you, sharp and calculating.

“Try not to make things harder than they need to be,” he said, his voice low and cold.

The air in the room seemed to shift, the tension thickening for a moment before Shoko broke it with a clap of her hands.

“Alright, that’s enough brooding for one day,” she said. “Sit down. Eat something. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”

You hesitated, glancing at Sukuna one last time. He didn’t look away, his gaze heavy with unspoken warnings. But he didn’t stop you when you sat at the table, your stomach growling at the sight of canned food and stale bread.

Shoko slid a plate toward you and leaned against the wall, her smirk softening into something resembling a real smile. “Welcome to the group,” she said.

For the first time in months, you allowed yourself to feel something close to relief. You weren’t sure if you’d made the right decision coming here, but at least for now, you weren’t alone.

The group ate together in relative silence, save for the occasional joke from Satoru or Shoko’s dry quips that kept things from feeling completely somber. You were too tired to say much, focused on the stale but filling meal in front of you. Every so often, you caught someone’s eyes on you—Nanami’s sharp but observant glances, Suguru’s calm but assessing looks, or Sukuna’s unrelenting scrutiny from across the room.

When you finished eating, Shoko nudged you with her elbow. “C’mon. I’ll show you where everything else is.”

You followed her out of the room, feeling a mix of exhaustion and relief settling over you. It was surreal, being here, surrounded by strangers who were both your best chance at survival and a reminder of everything you’d lost.

Shoko walked ahead of you, her cigarette balanced lazily between her lips. “You’re lucky, you know,” she said over her shoulder.

“Lucky?” you repeated, your voice tinged with disbelief.

“Yeah. Sukuna doesn’t usually let strangers stick around. He’s a pain in the ass, but he knows how to keep us alive.”

You frowned. “He didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat.”

Shoko chuckled. “No, but he didn’t throw you out either. That’s something.” She paused, then added with a shrug, “Don’t take it personally. He’s just cautious. Losing people changes you.”

Her words lingered in the air, a quiet reminder of what you already knew too well. You didn’t respond, instead focusing on the tour as Shoko led you through the base.

The building was bigger than you’d expected, with makeshift defenses reinforcing every entrance and window. Shoko pointed out various rooms as you passed—a storage area packed with supplies, a small medical room, and what she called “the armory,” though it was really just a closet filled with mismatched weapons.

Eventually, she stopped in front of another door. “Bathroom,” she said, pushing it open. Inside was a simple setup—a sink, a mirror, and a bucket with a lid you assumed served as a toilet.

“It’s not glamorous,” Shoko said, leaning against the doorframe. “But it works. We rigged up a tank outside to feed water to the sink. You’ll have enough to wash up, but don’t overdo it—we ration everything.”

Your eyes swept across the small space, catching sight of five toothbrushes neatly lined up in a cup by the sink, along with a single, nearly flattened tube of toothpaste. The sight reminded you that this wasn’t just a safe haven—it was their home.

Shoko followed your gaze and grabbed a new toothbrush from a nearby shelf, holding it out to you. “Here. This one’s yours now.”

You nodded, grateful for even the smallest semblance of normalcy.

Shoko let you step inside and handed you a towel from a nearby shelf. “Get cleaned up,” she said, then placed a hand on the doorknob. “I’ll wait out here.”

Before you could respond, she pulled the door shut behind you with a soft click, leaving you alone in the quiet, dimly lit space.

You caught your reflection in the cracked mirror, barely recognizing the face staring back. Dirt smudged your cheeks, and your eyes were hollow with exhaustion. With a deep breath, you turned on the sink. The sink’s faucet sputtered before releasing a steady trickle of cold water, the sound echoing faintly in the small room. You cupped the water in your hands, its icy temperature biting against your skin, and splashed it onto your face and arms.

Using the small bar of soap sitting on the edge, you worked up a thin lather, the faint scent of something herbal breaking through the musty air. You wiped yourself clean in sections with the towel, rinsing and repeating until the layers of dirt and sweat were gone. It wasn’t much, but as you worked, the cold water and the simple act of cleaning up made you feel a little more like yourself again—a tiny piece of normalcy in the chaos.

You reached for the cup holding the toothpaste, squeezing a small dollop onto the new toothbrush. As you brushed your teeth, the minty taste hit your tongue like a shock, unfamiliar after weeks of chewing on dry food and stale water. It was almost overwhelming, but the sensation felt like a step back toward normal life. Spitting into the sink, you rinsed your mouth and ran water over the toothbrush, setting it into the cup.

When you finished cleaning up, you cracked the bathroom door open just enough to peek outside. Shoko was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and looked up at the sound of the creak. She handed you a bundle of clothes—a clean but worn pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt.

“They’re a little big,” she said with a shrug, motioning to the size with a tilt of her chin. “But better than what you’ve got on now.”

“Thanks,” you said softly, taking the clothes and retreating back into the bathroom. You shut the door behind you, the faint click echoing in the quiet space.

Slipping out of your towel, you quickly changed into the sweatpants and shirt. The fabric was soft against your freshly cleaned skin, and while the clothes were a bit baggy around the sleeves and waist, they fit well enough to feel comfortable. You folded your old, grimy clothes into a bundle, relieved to finally be rid of them.

Once you were done, you opened the door again and stepped out, clutching the pile of dirty clothes in your arms. Shoko’s gaze flicked over you briefly before she gave a small nod of approval.

Shoko led you back to your room and leaned against the doorway as you stepped inside. “Get some rest,” she said, her tone lighter now. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

You couldn’t argue with that. As you sat on the mattress, Shoko hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, her cigarette dangling from her fingers, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s nice having someone new around.”

The sincerity in her voice caught you off guard, and you found yourself smiling despite the heaviness in your chest. “Thanks, Shoko.”

She nodded and stepped back into the hallway. “Night.”

“Goodnight,” you said, watching as she disappeared down the corridor.

You lay back on the mattress, staring up at the cracked ceiling. The sounds of the base hummed around you—the faint murmur of voices, the creak of footsteps on the floor above, the distant clang of metal.

For the first time in months, you felt a sliver of hope.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep you going.

The next morning, the faint light of dawn filtered through the boarded-up windows of your room, accompanied by the muffled sounds of movement beyond the walls. You stretched, wincing at the stiffness in your muscles. It was the first time you’d slept without fear of being ambushed in months, and it was strange—unnerving, even—to wake up somewhere safe.

After a moment, you forced yourself up. The air was cold, and the thin blanket you’d been given wasn’t much help, but you didn’t complain. You pulled on your jacket and laced up your boots, steeling yourself for another day of navigating this uneasy arrangement.

As you stepped into the hallway, you heard voices coming from the common area. You followed the sound, hesitating briefly at the doorway.

The group was gathered around a table in the center of the room. Shoko sat on the edge of it, cigarette in hand as usual, while the others stood or leaned against the walls. A map was spread out across the table, marked with faint lines and symbols in red and black ink.

Sukuna glanced up first, his sharp gaze locking onto yours. The room fell quiet for a moment, and you resisted the urge to shrink back under his scrutiny.

“Morning,” Shoko said, breaking the silence with a small smile. “Sleep well?”

“Well enough,” you replied cautiously, stepping into the room.

Suguru offered you a polite nod, and Satoru waved lazily from his spot against the wall. Nanami didn’t look up, focused instead on sharpening a blade in his hands.

“We’re going out,” Sukuna said abruptly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

You frowned. “Out?”

“For supplies,” Shoko explained. She gestured to the map on the table. “There’s a warehouse a few blocks from here. We’ve been meaning to hit it for weeks, but it’s risky.”

“Why?” you asked, stepping closer to get a better look at the map.

“Too open,” Nanami said, finally glancing up. “And there’s been an increase in infected sightings in the area.”

“Which is why we’ll stick to the usual plan,” Sukuna added, his tone firm. “Split into teams, stay quiet, get in and out fast. No unnecessary risks.”

The authority in his voice was undeniable, and you realized that while the group didn’t have a formal hierarchy, they clearly followed his lead.

“Guess that means you’re staying here,” Satoru said, looking at you with a teasing grin. “Unless you want to take your chances out there.”

Before you could respond, Shoko spoke up. “She’s not ready for that yet.”

Your stomach twisted slightly at her words, but you didn’t argue. As much as you hated to admit it, she was probably right. You weren’t ready. Not yet.

“What do I do while you’re gone?” you asked instead, trying to keep your voice steady.

Shoko shrugged. “Stick around. Get familiar with the place. There’s plenty to keep you busy.”

“Help organize supplies,” Nanami suggested, his tone clipped. “The pharmacy is our base for a reason, but it only works if we stay on top of inventory.”

Suguru added, “And if you hear anything unusual, be ready to defend yourself. This place might keep the infected out, but it’s not invincible.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but you nodded, determined to prove yourself useful.

The group began gathering their gear—backpacks, weapons, and whatever tools they needed for the run. Shoko lingered behind, finishing her cigarette before snuffing it out on the edge of the table.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, giving you a reassuring smile. “Just don��t do anything stupid.”

With that, she joined the others, and within minutes, they were gone.

The silence that followed was deafening.

You wandered the base, taking Shoko’s advice to familiarize yourself with the layout. The pharmacy had clearly been chosen for its abundance of supplies—rows of shelves held medicine, canned food, and other essentials, while the back rooms had been repurposed for storage and sleeping quarters.

As you worked, sorting through boxes and taking stock of the inventory, you couldn’t shake the weight of your thoughts. Being here felt like both a blessing and a burden. You were safe, but you were also an outsider, an unproven variable in a group that had clearly been through hell together.

You had to prove yourself. Not just to them, but to yourself.

Hours passed in relative quiet, the monotony of the work a strange comfort. You were just finishing an inventory of the medical supplies when the faint sound of footsteps reached your ears.

Your pulse quickened as you grabbed the closest thing resembling a weapon—a rusted wrench from a nearby shelf.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, until a familiar voice called out.

“We’re back,” Shoko said, her tone as casual as ever.

Relief flooded through you as the group filed back into the building, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction. Sukuna was the last to enter, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on you.

“No issues?” he asked, his voice low.

You shook your head. “None.”

“Good,” he said, his tone neutral but firm. He turned to the others. “Unload and regroup in an hour.”

As the group began unpacking their haul, you couldn’t help but feel a small sense of pride. You’d survived the day without incident, and while it wasn’t much, it felt like a step in the right direction.

But you knew this was only the beginning.

The following days passed in a blur of routine and quiet tension. You found yourself settling into the group’s rhythm, though there was still an unspoken divide between you and the others.

Nanami remained as reserved as ever, focused on his tasks with an almost mechanical precision. Suguru was polite, occasionally offering a word of advice or a small gesture of kindness, but he seemed to prefer observing from the sidelines. Satoru, on the other hand, was relentless with his teasing, throwing in snarky comments whenever the opportunity arose.

And then there was Sukuna.

He spoke to you only when absolutely necessary, his tone clipped and his words laced with an authority that brooked no argument. He watched you constantly, his sharp gaze dissecting your every move. It was exhausting, and no matter how much effort you put into proving yourself useful, it never seemed to be enough for him.

Shoko, at least, made the transition easier. She’d taken you under her wing in her own dry, unflappable way, showing you the ins and outs of the base and ensuring you knew how to navigate their system.

“Don’t let Sukuna get to you,” she said one evening as you helped her sort through a crate of medical supplies. “He’s always like that. Doesn’t trust anyone outside the group.”

You glanced at her, hesitant. “I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Shoko snorted, lighting another cigarette. “Yeah, well, we’re not exactly saints. You’ll get there.”

Her words were reassuring, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Sukuna wasn’t just being cautious. He was waiting—for you to make a mistake, to prove that you didn’t belong.

It was late one afternoon when your chance to prove yourself again came.

The group was in the common area, discussing plans for the next supply run. Sukuna was at the head of the table, gesturing to a map while the others listened intently.

“We’ll need to hit the northeast block,” he said, tapping the paper with a finger. “There’s a hardware store there. If we’re lucky, we’ll find some tools and parts to reinforce the barricades.”

“And if we’re not lucky?” Satoru asked, leaning back in his chair with a grin.

“Then we clear out the infected and keep moving,” Sukuna replied flatly.

The conversation continued, but you found yourself distracted by a low, distant noise—a sound you hadn’t heard in weeks. At first, you thought you were imagining it, but then it came again: a faint, pained groan.

Your blood ran cold.

“Do you hear that?” you asked, interrupting the conversation.

The group turned to look at you, varying degrees of curiosity and irritation on their faces.

“Hear what?” Nanami asked, his tone skeptical.

You held up a hand, straining to listen. The sound came again, louder this time, and you realized it wasn’t coming from outside. It was coming from somewhere within the building.

“There,” you whispered.

The group immediately tensed. Sukuna stood, his expression sharp. He glanced at you and Shoko. “Both of you, stay here,” he ordered before motioning for the others to follow him.

“I can help,” you said instinctively, stepping forward.

“No,” Sukuna snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Stay. Here.”

Before you could protest, the group disappeared down the hallway, leaving you and Shoko alone in the common area.

Your heart raced as you listened to the faint echoes of their footsteps, followed by muffled voices and the occasional creak of the floorboards. The groaning sound grew louder, closer, until you could barely breathe.

And then, silence.

The minutes stretched on, each one heavier than the last, until finally, the group returned. Sukuna was at the front, dragging a body behind him—a man, bloody and unconscious but very much alive.

You stared in shock as he dropped the man onto the floor, the thud echoing through the room.

“He’s alive,” Shoko announced, kneeling beside the man and checking his pulse. “And not infected.”

“He could still turn,” Sukuna said coldly, his eyes narrowing.

“No,” you interjected firmly. “If he were bitten, he’d have turned by now. It only takes a minute.”

Nanami folded his arms, his expression unreadable. “He’s still deadweight. We don’t have the resources to waste.”

“We can’t just leave him,” Shoko argued, her voice calm but firm.

“I’ll handle it,” you said before you could stop yourself.

The room went silent, all eyes turning to you.

“What?” Sukuna said, his tone sharp.

“I can handle it,” you repeated, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I was a med student. Let me help him.”

Sukuna’s expression darkened, and for a moment, you thought he was going to refuse. But then he stepped back, his lips curling into a cold smirk.

“Fine,” he said. “Nanami, take him to the infirmary.”

Nanami sighed but complied, lifting the man with Satoru’s help and carrying him out of the room. The sound of their footsteps faded as they disappeared down the hallway.

The infirmary was a repurposed office room, its desks pushed aside to make space for several cots lined up against the walls. Shelves held neatly arranged medical supplies—bandages, antiseptics, painkillers—all salvaged from previous runs. The faint scent of alcohol lingered in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

Nanami and Satoru lowered the man onto one of the cots before leaving without a word. Shoko and you stayed behind, the silence between you punctuated by the man’s faint groans.

Shoko leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette. “Guess you’re on, doc,” she said with a faint smirk. “What’s the plan?”

You moved to the cot, inspecting the man’s injuries. His clothes were shredded, blood soaking through what remained of his shirt. A jagged wound stretched across his abdomen, deep and ugly, though not fresh enough to bleed him out immediately.

“We need to stop the bleeding first,” you said, reaching into the small medical kit you’d salvaged weeks ago.

Shoko exhaled a stream of smoke and gestured toward a nearby shelf. “There’s more gauze and antiseptic over there. I’ll grab it.”

You nodded, already focused on cleaning the wound. Shoko returned with the supplies, setting them beside you before crouching to get a closer look at the man’s injuries.

“What do you think his story is?” Shoko asked, her tone light but curious.

You shook your head. “Hard to say. He’s been through hell, that much is obvious. But if he made it this far, he’s a fighter.”

“Or just lucky,” Shoko said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Maybe both,” you replied, focusing on stitching the gash closed. Your hands moved quickly but carefully, each stitch bringing the wound closer together. It was crude work, the kind you never would’ve considered acceptable back when you were studying medicine, but it would keep him alive. For now.

“Not bad,” Shoko said, watching as you tied off the final stitch. “You’ve got steady hands.”

You gave her a faint smile. “Thanks.”

The man groaned again, his head shifting slightly. You placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, feeling his breathing even out beneath your touch.

“He’ll need rest and fluids,” you said, leaning back to assess your work. After a moment, you sat back on your heels and added, “But he should pull through—if he doesn’t get an infection."

“That’s a big if,” Shoko said, standing and stretching lazily. “Sukuna’s not gonna like this.”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting at the thought of facing him. His disapproval was palpable even when he wasn’t in the room. “I’ll deal with it,” you said firmly, trying to muster some confidence.

Shoko gave you a half-smile, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “Good luck with that."

When you stepped back into the common area, the rest of the group was waiting. Sukuna leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp gaze locking onto you the moment you entered.

“Well?” he asked, his voice low and cutting.

“He’s stable,” you said, keeping your tone steady despite the knot tightening in your stomach. “But he’s weak. He won’t survive on his own.”

“That’s not our problem,” Sukuna replied coldly.

You stiffened. “You can’t just—”

“Yes, I can,” he interrupted, his voice hardening as his eyes bore into yours. “He’s not one of us. I’m not risking our safety for someone who can’t pull their weight.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but Shoko, still idly puffing on her cigarette, stepped in.

“She’s got a point, though,” Shoko said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “The guy’s barely hanging on. Sending him out now would just be a death sentence. We might as well have killed him ourselves.”

Sukuna’s sharp glare shifted to her, his expression darkening. “And?”

“And we don’t need that kind of bad karma hanging over us,” she continued, her tone casual but pointed. “Let him rest for the night. Patch him up properly, and send him on his way tomorrow.”

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to Sukuna as he weighed her words. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as his gaze flicked back to you.

Finally, he pushed off the wall and strode toward you, his towering presence suffocating as he stopped just short of invading your space.

“One night,” he said, his voice low and brimming with warning. “And if he so much as breathes wrong, it’s on you. Got it?”

You nodded, swallowing hard under the weight of his gaze. “Got it.”

Satisfied, Sukuna turned and walked away, tension dissipating slightly with each heavy step he took down the hallway.

Satoru let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

“Or she’s just reckless,” Nanami muttered, his tone as blunt as ever.

Suguru, who had remained silent until now, gave you a measured look and a small nod. “It was the right call,” he said simply.

You didn’t respond, your mind already racing with thoughts of what tomorrow would bring. For now, all you could do was hope you’d made the right decision.

The injured man stirred restlessly throughout the night, his labored breathing echoing faintly in the pharmacy’s quiet halls. You stayed close by, keeping a cautious watch for any signs of infection—or worse, the telltale fever that could signal the end.

Shoko had supplied you with a couple of clean rags, and you used one to wipe the sweat from the man’s brow. His skin was clammy, but his pulse, though weak, remained steady.

“Lucky bastard,” Shoko muttered from the doorway, startling you.

You glanced back at her. She had a cigarette between her fingers, though it was unlit. “How so?”

“He survived out there long enough for you to find him. And Sukuna didn’t kick his ass out the moment he saw him.”

You didn’t respond, focusing instead on adjusting the makeshift bandage over his wound.

Shoko stepped into the room, her expression unreadable as she crouched beside you. “You really don’t think he’s infected?”

You shook your head. “He would’ve shown symptoms by now. Fever, spasms, disorientation… but he’s coherent. Exhausted, but human.”

“For now,” she said, her tone carrying a note of warning.

You didn’t miss the implication. “If he shows any signs, I’ll deal with it.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow, studying you for a moment. Then, to your surprise, she nodded. “Fair enough.”

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the faint hum of wind outside filling the space. Finally, Shoko stood and stretched, her back popping faintly.

“Better get some rest,” she said. “Sukuna is going to want an update in the morning.”

You hesitated. “Do you think he’ll…?”

“Change his mind?” Shoko said. “Not a chance. Sukuna’s stubborn as hell. But if the guy pulls through, he’ll at least have a fighting chance out there. That’s more than most people get.”

She left without another word, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the sound of the man’s uneven breathing.

Morning came too quickly. By the time the group gathered in the common area, you were dead on your feet, the ache in your back and shoulders a dull reminder of how long you’d spent sitting on the cold floor.

“He’s stable,” you reported when Sukuna’s sharp gaze landed on you. “The wound’s healing, and there’s no sign of infection.”

Sukuna didn’t respond right away. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, and studied you with that same piercing look that made your skin crawl.

“And?” he said finally.

“And he’s in no condition to leave yet,” you said, forcing yourself to stand taller despite your exhaustion. “But if he rests for another day or two, he should be able to manage on his own.”

Sukuna’s expression hardened. “Fine. One more day,” he said coldly. “Then he’s gone by tomorrow. No exceptions.”

You nodded, keeping your face neutral. Sukuna’s decision was final, and pushing back would likely do more harm than good. Still, the pit in your stomach only seemed to grow

A few hours later, you checked on the injured man. His color had improved slightly, though his movements were sluggish and weak. He blinked up at you, his gaze unfocused.

“Where… am I?” he rasped.

“Safe,” you said simply, not offering more. “For now.”

He winced as he tried to sit up, and you placed a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Don’t. You’ll tear the stitches.”

His eyes flicked toward you, confusion etched into his features. “Who…?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you interrupted. “You’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

His expression shifted, a mix of fear and resignation passing over his face. “I can’t—”

“You don’t have a choice,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended. Guilt flared in your chest, but you pushed it down. There was no point in giving him false hope.

By nightfall, the man was stronger, though still far from healthy. His movements were sluggish, and he winced with every shift, but his color had improved, and he was coherent enough to sip the water you offered him. As you helped him sit up, you couldn’t help but wonder if Sukuna’s decision had been the right one. Was it fair to send someone out into a world like this, knowing the odds were stacked so heavily against him?

But then you thought of the group—of how much they’d risked just letting you in—and you understood why Sukuna was so unyielding. Trust wasn’t something people could afford to give freely anymore. Compassion could get you killed just as easily as cruelty.

Still, you couldn’t stand the thought of sending him out with nothing. That evening, you packed a battered backpack with supplies: a bottle of water, a couple of cans of food, the blanket you’d found earlier, and a spare jacket. You tore a page from an old notebook and scribbled a few instructions: “Change the bandages daily. Keep the wound clean. If you feel feverish or the pain gets worse, don’t push yourself.”

The next morning, when Sukuna ordered the man to leave, no one spoke up to argue. Not even you.

The following morning, the man was gone. Whether he’d made it far or fallen victim to the harshness of the world, you didn’t know. No one spoke about it—not over breakfast, not during the day’s routines. The group moved forward without looking back, and you did your best to follow their lead, even as guilt gnawed at your insides.

You were restocking the med kits in the corner of the common area when Shoko appeared, a mug in her hand and a relaxed expression on her face.

“Thought you could use this,” she said, holding it out to you.

You blinked at her in surprise before taking the mug from her hands. The warmth seeped into your fingers instantly, a welcome comfort against the chill of the room. “What is it?”

“Instant coffee,” she said, pulling up a chair. “Barely tastes like coffee, but it’s hot, and it’s something.”

Grateful, you wrapped your hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into your fingers. “Thanks.”

Shoko leaned back, her gaze flicking to the supplies you were organizing. “Not bad, newbie,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re settling in better than I expected.”

“Newbie?” you asked, raising a brow.

Her smile widened. “Satoru calls you that.”

You groaned, shaking your head. “Of course, he does.”

“Don’t let it get to you,” she said with a laugh. “He’s an idiot, but he’s harmless. Well—mostly harmless.”

The comment earned a small chuckle from you. “Good to know.”

Her tone softened as she looked back at you. “For what it’s worth, you’ve been doing fine. Better than fine, really. Not many people would’ve patched up that guy the way you did, even knowing he’d be gone by morning.”

You glanced down at the mug in your hands, unsure how to respond. “It just… felt like the right thing to do,” you admitted quietly.

Shoko nodded, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “You’ve got a good instinct for this kind of thing,” she said. “It’s why I spoke up for you. I figured you’d be worth keeping around.”

Her casual praise caught you off guard, and warmth spread through your chest. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word feeling inadequate for what you wanted to say.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, waving a hand. “Don't let Sukuna scare you off. He’s a pain, but he doesn’t bite—well, not unless you really piss him off.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Finish your coffee,” Shoko said, pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll show you how to get inventory done without losing your mind.”

“Deal,” you said, lifting the mug to your lips.

As she led the way to the storage room, a small smile lingered on your face. Shoko’s steady presence made you feel, for once, like you might actually have a place here after all.

Over the next few days, the others began to warm up to you in their own ways—some more obviously than others.

Suguru was one of the first to reach out.

You were sitting near the barricaded entrance, mending a tear in your jacket, when Suguru approached with something folded in his hands. He knelt down beside you, holding it out.

“Here,” he said. “Thought this might help.”

You took the fabric, your fingers brushing over its thick, durable texture. “What is it?”

“An old tarp from storage,” he replied. “I figured you could use it to patch that up properly.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not a big deal. Besides, can’t have you walking around in rags—it’d reflect badly on us.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Thanks, Suguru. Really.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said as he stood, brushing some dust off his pants. He gave you a small nod before turning and walking away, his steps unhurried.

You watched him go, the warmth of his gesture lingering long after he disappeared around the corner.

Satoru’s approach, as always, was less subtle.

He found you crouched near the supply shelves, reassembling a broken lantern you’d scrounged up earlier.

“Whatcha doing, newbie?” he asked, plopping down beside you with his trademark grin.

“Trying to fix this,” you replied, not bothering to look up. “It’s not much, but it might help.”

Satoru leaned closer, watching you fiddle with the pieces. “Didn’t peg you as the handy type.”

You glanced at him. “What type did you peg me as?”

“Honestly? Thought you’d cry and bolt on day one.”

You shot him a deadpan look. “Wow. Glad I could exceed expectations.”

He laughed, completely unbothered. “Hey, I’m impressed! You’ve got guts, newbie. Gotta admit, I didn’t think you’d last.”

His teasing was irritating, but there was an unexpected warmth in his words. By the time he wandered off, you realized you were smiling.

Nanami, on the other hand, was quieter in his support.

You were dragging a crate of supplies across the common area when a hand reached past you and lifted it with ease.

Startled, you glanced up to see Nanami, his expression calm as ever. “You shouldn’t be carrying something that heavy by yourself,” he said plainly.

“I could’ve managed,” you muttered, embarrassed.

“Maybe,” he replied, setting the crate down neatly against the wall. “But why make things harder than they need to be?”

You opened your mouth to thank him, but before you could, he was already heading back toward the shelves, his focus back on his work.

And then there was Sukuna.

It was late, and the common area was dimly lit by the faint glow of a battery-powered lantern resting on the center table. You sat hunched over the table, scribbling in your worn notebook. The blanket draped over your shoulders barely kept the chill at bay, but the small comfort of the pages beneath your hands kept you focused.

The soft creak of a chair startled you, and you looked up to see Shoko settling into the seat across from you. She rested her chin in her hand, her sharp gaze flicking to your notebook.

“What’re you working on?” she asked.

“Just writing down what I remember from med school,” you said, glancing at her briefly before returning to your notes. “You know—stuff about infection treatments, first aid. Trying to make sure I don’t forget anything important.”

Shoko tilted her head, intrigued. “Let me guess. Wound care, fever management, that kind of thing?”

“Pretty much,” you replied with a faint smile. “It’s not like we have access to the good stuff anymore.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re not wrong. If nothing else, the basics will get you farther than you’d think. They drilled that into us pretty hard back in school.”

You paused your writing to glance at her. “How far were you?”

“Three years in,” she replied, leaning back in her chair. “Long enough to know what I was doing, not long enough to actually finish.”

You nodded, finding a strange comfort in that. “Same here. Well, not three years—just one. Still feels like a lifetime ago.”

“It does,” she agreed, her voice quieter now. “But hey, you’re not doing bad for someone who barely started.”

A small laugh escaped you. “Thanks. High praise coming from someone who’s ahead of me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said with a smirk, though her tone was light. She nodded toward your notebook. “What else have you got in there?”

“Just the things I think might come up. Stuff I’ve had to deal with already, mostly. Fevers, infected cuts, dehydration. It’s not much, but…”

“It’s something,” Shoko finished for you. “And that’s more than a lot of people can say. Keep at it. Writing things down helps—it’s easy to forget details when everything’s chaos.”

You hesitated before asking, “Do you ever write stuff like this? Just in case?”

She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Nah. I keep it all up here.” She tapped her temple. “I guess I’ve always thought that if I need something badly enough, I’ll remember it. Besides, Satoru’s got a freakishly good memory for this kind of stuff—he’s like a walking cheat sheet when he wants to be useful.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the tension easing from your shoulders. “I guess that’s one way to get by.”

“Hey,” she said, nodding toward your notebook. “What med school did you go to, anyway?”

Before you could respond, the sound of heavy boots echoed across the room, pulling both your attention toward the doorway. Sukuna stood there, his arms crossed and crimson gaze fixed on Shoko.

“Shoko,” he said, his voice sharp. “You’re on watch tonight. Get going.”

She sighed dramatically, but you noticed how she rose without argument. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I won’t let the big bad zombies in.” She glanced at you and Sukuna. “Enjoy your chat.”

With that, she slipped out, leaving you alone with Sukuna.

“Studying?” Sukuna’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and sardonic.

“Just trying to be useful,” you said cautiously, bracing for whatever jab he was about to make.

“Hmph.” He took a step closer, his gaze flicking to the notebook in your hands. “That’s useless.”

Your grip on the pen tightened. “It’s not useless if it helps someone survive.”

He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You really think you can save everyone, don’t you?”

You met his gaze, refusing to back down. “No. But I can try.”

For a moment, something shifted in his expression—a flicker of something softer—but it disappeared as quickly as it came. “Try all you want,” he said, turning away. “Doesn’t mean the world won’t kill them anyway.”

His words lingered long after he left, heavy with an unspoken truth that you couldn’t quite unravel.

You were starting to feel it—the subtle shift in the group’s dynamic, like you were slowly being woven into their fabric. The tension that had clung to your every step when you first joined had eased, replaced by a quiet understanding of how they worked together.

You and Shoko had started growing closer over the past few days, the initial distance between you shrinking as casual chats turned into something resembling friendship. She often found you during quiet moments, dragging a chair over to share a cigarette and trade stories—or, more often, her sharp humor paired with a few genuine words of advice. It became a small comfort, those moments with her, grounding you in a world that constantly threatened to pull you under.

Suguru had started inviting you to tag along on supply runs, explaining their strategies in a calm, steady tone that made everything seem less daunting. He’d walk alongside you, pointing out key routes and landmarks to remember, his voice carrying a certain patience that put you at ease.

And even Nanami, in his quiet way, had begun to acknowledge you more, offering the occasional tip or simply nodding in approval when you finished a task efficiently

Satoru, meanwhile, had decided it was his mission to “toughen you up.” Almost every afternoon, he’d challenge you to mock sparring matches, claiming it was all in the name of survival. These sessions usually ended with him grinning while you tried to catch your breath, but even his teasing felt like a strange kind of encouragement.

But Sukuna? He remained distant—watchful and unyielding, as if he were waiting for you to prove him right about whatever assumptions he’d made.

One evening, after dinner, the group lingered in the common area, the glow of the lantern casting soft shadows across the room. Satoru leaned back against a crate, flipping a pocket knife idly in his hand, while Suguru and Shoko shared quiet conversation over a deck of cards. Nanami was seated at the far end, reading a book he’d found on a supply run. You sat off to the side, carefully stitching a tear in Satoru’s jacket that he’d insisted wasn’t worth fixing. The rhythmic motion of needle and thread helped you focus, even as the group's chatter flowed around you.

Satoru, as usual, decided to shake things up. “Alright, newbie,” he said, flicking the knife into the air and catching it by the handle. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve done to make it this far?”

All eyes turned to you, even Shoko and Suguru pausing their game. Sukuna was leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, but you felt the weight of his crimson gaze on you.

You hesitated, memories of near-death moments and desperate decisions flashing in your mind. “Probably the time I climbed out of a second-story window using a bedsheet rope,” you said after a moment. “The place was overrun, and I didn’t think I’d make it if I stayed.”

“Bedsheet rope?” Shoko raised a brow, a grin tugging at her lips. “Did it actually hold?”

“Barely,” you admitted, a small smile creeping onto your face. “I landed in a dumpster, which I guess cushioned the fall. But I smelled like garbage for days.”

Satoru laughed, loud and unrestrained. “A dumpster escape? Classic. You’re officially one of us now.”

“Better than some of your ideas,” Nanami said without looking up from his book, drawing an exaggerated gasp from Satoru.

“Hey, all my plans are genius,” Satoru shot back. “Some just... don’t pan out.”

Suguru shook his head, chuckling. “Sure, genius.”

Even Shoko snorted, and for a moment, the group felt lighter, their collective laughter a rare break from the grim reality outside.

You glanced toward Sukuna, half-expecting a cutting remark, but he didn’t say a word. He pushed off the wall instead, his boots heavy against the floor.

“I’m checking the perimeter,” he muttered, heading for the door.

The mood shifted subtly as he left, but no one commented on it. You leaned back in your seat, letting the warmth of the group’s humor settle over you, even if Sukuna’s stormy presence lingered at the edges of your mind.

The next morning, the pharmacy’s halls were filled with the usual sounds of life in the apocalypse: murmured conversations, the shuffle of boots, the clatter of weapons being prepped. You were still adjusting to the rhythms of the group, waking early so you wouldn’t miss anything important or be perceived as a slacker.

Shoko was already in the supply room when you arrived, reorganizing the shelves with her usual nonchalant efficiency.

“Morning, early bird,” she said without looking up from the gauze she was stacking. “Come to help, or just bored?”

“A little of both,” you replied, grabbing a box of antiseptic wipes to sort through.

She glanced at you, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re catching on fast. That’s good.”

The casual praise made your chest warm, and you nodded, trying not to let your gratitude show too much. Shoko’s friendship—and the growing camaraderie with the others—was more than you’d expected after being alone for so long.

By mid-morning, Suguru and Satoru were in the common area, going through their usual supply check. Their easy banter filled the room, a contrast to the ever-present tension of survival.

“We’re low on canned fruit again,” Suguru said, examining the inventory list with his usual calm.

“That’s because you keep eating it all,” Satoru teased, tossing a can of beans into a crate with a grin.

Carrying a clipboard Shoko had handed you to update the medical supplies inventory, you entered just as Satoru’s laugh echoed through the room.

“Hey, newbie!” he called, noticing you. “How’s the Shoko torture program going?"

“It’s fine,” you said, playing along. “I think I’m surviving.”

“Good to know,” Suguru said, giving you a small nod. “We need survivors, not liabilities.”

His tone wasn’t unkind, but the bluntness still made your stomach twist.

“She’s not a liability,” Shoko’s voice cut in from the doorway, cigarette in hand. She glanced at Suguru with a smirk. “At least she doesn’t waste food or hog the bathroom.”

Satoru doubled over laughing, and even Suguru’s lips quirked upward. You relaxed a little, grateful for Shoko’s casual defense.

The lighthearted mood shifted when Sukuna entered the room. His presence seemed to absorb the air, silencing the banter as everyone straightened unconsciously.

“We’re heading out in thirty,” he said, his tone clipped. “Suguru, Nanami, Satoru—gear up. Shoko, keep the place locked down.”

“What’s the plan?” Suguru asked, already folding the inventory list.

“Pharmacy across town,” Sukuna replied. “We’re running low on antibiotics.”

Your ears perked up, but you hesitated before speaking. It wasn’t your place to offer, but the words tumbled out before you could stop yourself.

“I’ll come with you,” you said, the suggestion hanging in the now-silent room.

All eyes turned to you. Sukuna’s crimson gaze was sharp and unwavering.

“No,” he said flatly.

You swallowed but held your ground. “I know how to check expiration dates,” you argued. “I can identify what we need faster—”

“I said no,” Sukuna interrupted, his tone cutting through your words. “We don’t need anyone slowing us down.”

Before the tension could stretch further, Suguru stepped in, leaning casually against the table. “She’s been on a few runs with me already,” he said, his voice calm but pointed. “She’s been pulling her weight.”

Sukuna’s glare shifted to him, sharp and unwavering. “You’re responsible for her, then.”

“I’m responsible for getting the supplies.” Suguru replied smoothly.

Shoko exhaled a plume of smoke, adding her voice to the mix. “She knows what we need, and she’s been working her ass off since she got here. Just let her go."

Nanami and Satoru exchanged glances but said nothing, their silence adding weight to the conversation. Sukuna’s jaw tightened, frustration radiating off him.

Finally, his crimson gaze flicked back to you, his expression unreadable.

“Fine,” he said curtly. “But if you screw up, that’s on you.”

His words hung heavy in the air as he turned and stalked off, leaving the room tense in his wake.

Shoko smirked, extinguishing her cigarette. “Guess you’re in,” she said, her tone light.

The tension hung thick in the air as you geared up, your heart pounding with a mix of nerves and determination. Shoko caught you just before you left, her hand resting lightly on your arm.

“Don’t let him get to you,” she said softly. Her tone was steady, but her eyes held a flicker of concern. “He’s harder on people he doesn’t know, but it’s not personal.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, earning a small chuckle from her.

“He’s just… Sukuna,” she said with a shrug, as though that explained everything. And maybe it did.

The streets were eerily quiet as the group moved in formation. Sukuna led at the front, Suguru and Nanami flanked the sides, and Satoru kept watch from the rear. You were sandwiched in the middle, your grip on your weapon tightening with every cautious step.

The silence wasn’t calming. It buzzed in your ears, amplifying every distant rustle and creak. Shadows danced in the corners of your vision, each one setting your nerves on edge.

“Relax,” Satoru whispered from behind you. “If you keep clutching that thing like it owes you money, you’re going to wear yourself out before anything happens.”

You shot him a look but didn’t loosen your hold.

“It’s her first big outing,” Suguru murmured, his eyes scanning the road ahead. “She’ll find her rhythm.”

“Let’s hope she does,” Sukuna said, his tone sharp enough to make your stomach drop.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to focus. You didn’t need his approval; you just had to prove you could handle yourself.

The pharmacy came into view five blocks later, nestled on a side street filled with overturned cars and shattered glass. The faint, acrid scent of decay lingered in the air, a grim reminder of the world outside.

Sukuna raised his hand, signaling the group to stop. He pointed to Suguru and Nanami. “Check the perimeter. Afterwards, see if you can find anything useful—tools or supplies. Satoru, keep watch at the entrance.”

Turning to you, his gaze was cold and unyielding. “You’re with me.”

Your pulse quickened as you nodded, following him toward the entrance. The glass doors had been shattered, and the inside was dimly lit by slivers of daylight filtering through grime-covered windows.

The pharmacy was a mess of toppled shelves and scattered supplies. Sukuna moved with quiet precision, scanning the aisles as he gave curt instructions.

“Antibiotics, painkillers, disinfectants. Check expiration dates. Don’t waste time.”

“Got it,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt.

The two of you worked in tense silence, the only sounds the faint rustling of supplies and the occasional creak of the warped floorboards. You crouched behind a counter, sorting through a dusty box of medical supplies. Bottles of saline, rolls of bandages—your hands moved quickly, driven by the need to prove your worth.

Sukuna moved like a predator, each step purposeful. His sharp eyes swept over the shelves as he rifled through the remnants of the pharmacy’s stock. Despite his harsh demeanor, there was an air of competence about him that was impossible to ignore. He was someone you could trust to keep you alive, even if he made it clear he wouldn’t trust you in return.

The brittle quiet shattered when a sudden crash echoed from the back of the store.

Your heart leapt into your throat as Sukuna spun toward the noise, weapon already in hand. “Stay here,” he ordered, his voice low but commanding.

You froze, gripping your weapon tighter as your mind raced. He disappeared around the corner, his steps deliberate and silent. The shuffling groan of something inhuman followed, sending a chill down your spine.

A zombie.

The clash of metal against bone echoed through the pharmacy, followed by Sukuna’s grunt of exertion. Then you heard it—a second groan, closer and faster.

Panic surged through you. Another one.

You couldn’t stay put. Not when he might be outnumbered. Gripping your weapon, you crept toward the noise, your pulse hammering in your ears.

As you reached the corner, you peeked around it. Sukuna was engaged with one zombie, its decayed form lunging at him with jerky movements. He dispatched it with brutal efficiency, his blade slicing through bone like paper.

But he didn’t see the second zombie emerging from the shadows behind him. Its rotting fingers stretched toward his back.

You didn’t think—you acted.

With a burst of adrenaline, you sprinted forward and swung your weapon with all your strength. The blunt end connected with the zombie’s skull, the force knocking it off balance. It staggered, giving you just enough time to finish it off with a decisive strike to the head.

Panting, you stepped back, your chest heaving as the rush of the moment caught up to you.

Sukuna turned to face you, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. His gaze flicked from the crumpled body at your feet to your trembling hands.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched taut, heavy with unspoken tension.

Finally, he broke it. “You should’ve stayed put,” he said, his tone cold. But there was no real venom behind the words.

You met his gaze, steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through you. “If I did, you’d be dead.”

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“Fair enough,” he muttered. “Thanks.”

It wasn’t exactly gratitude, but it was close enough. You nodded, forcing your breathing to slow as you steadied yourself.

Sukuna turned back to the now-silent storage room, his movements brisk. “Let’s finish up and get out of here. No more heroics.”

You followed him, your grip on your weapon firm. His acknowledgment, however grudging, was a step forward. And in this world, steps forward were all you could ask for.

The walk back to the base was quieter than usual. The others were caught up in low conversations, recounting details of the trip and joking about who carried the heaviest load. You could feel Sukuna’s presence just a few paces ahead of you. He didn’t say a word, but his usual tension wasn’t as sharp. It was subtle, like he was letting himself breathe for the first time in a while.

When the group finally arrived at the base, the routine kicked in like clockwork. Supplies were unloaded and sorted, with Shoko perched at the desk, her cigarette dangling lazily between two fingers as she directed the flow of items.

"Looks like you found everything we needed," Shoko remarked, her sharp gaze scanning the bags. "Nicely done."

"Decent work," Sukuna said evenly, brushing past her leaving the room.

You stayed quiet, trying not to draw attention to yourself. Sukuna’s acknowledgement back at the store had been enough of a surprise; you didn’t want to push your luck.

But as you grabbed your own bag of supplies and moved to help Shoko, Satoru appeared at your side.

"Hey," he said, sidling up to you with a grin that could only mean trouble. "So, I hear you went all knight-in-shining-armor back there."

Your cheeks burned. "It wasn’t like that," you mumbled, focusing on unpacking the supplies.

"Really?" Satoru watching you with an infuriatingly knowing look. "Because from what I heard, you saved Sukuna’s life. That’s gotta be worth a medal or something."

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. "I think he’d disagree with you."

"Maybe," Satoru admitted, his grin softening into something more genuine. "But trust me, it matters. Sukuna doesn’t trust people easily. If he’s starting to, even just a little… that’s a big deal."

You glanced toward the storage room where Sukuna was organizing the supplies.

Maybe Satoru was onto something.

"Don’t let it go to your head, though," Satoru added with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "He’ll still find something to criticize tomorrow."

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

As the day wore on, you couldn’t help but notice the small changes. When Sukuna handed out tasks for the evening, his tone wasn’t as cutting when he addressed you. Later, during dinner, he actually acknowledged you with a quiet question about the inventory—nothing extraordinary, but it was miles ahead of his usual silence.

Shoko caught you while you were restocking the first aid kits that night, her sharp eyes scanning you with a mix of approval and amusement.

"Good work out there today," she said, her voice low but sincere.

"Thanks," you replied, tucking a roll of gauze into a pouch. "I just reacted. I didn’t really think."

"That’s how it is sometimes," she said, lighting a fresh cigarette. She took a slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke before continuing. "But Sukuna noticed. He won’t say it outright, but he respects people who hold their own. You earned that today."

You blinked at her, caught off guard by her candidness. "You really think so?"

"I know so," she said with a faint smirk. "Just don’t expect him to roll out a red carpet or anything. He’s still Sukuna."

The thought made you smile despite yourself. "Yeah, I figured as much."

That night, as the group settled into their routines, you lay awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling. The quiet hum of the others—Nanami flipping pages in his notebook, Suguru and Satoru trading jokes in hushed tones—made the base feel almost normal.

Your thoughts drifted to Sukuna, to the way he’d thanked you, however grudgingly. His walls weren’t gone, not by a long shot. But for the first time, you thought you saw a crack in them—a small glimpse of the person underneath.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. And for now, that was enough

The next few days passed in a tentative calm, the group settling back into their usual rhythm. Sukuna’s small shift in demeanor toward you hadn’t gone unnoticed, though no one dared to comment on it outright. His leadership style remained the same—blunt, no-nonsense, and occasionally sharp—but his treatment of you had softened ever so slightly.

It was in the little things. He didn’t bark your name like it was an insult anymore. When tasks were divided, he didn’t immediately assign you the least favorable ones. And when you spoke up during group discussions, he didn’t interrupt or shut you down. Small gestures, but for Sukuna, they might as well have been grand declarations.

Still, his trust was like the flicker of a distant flame—visible, but too far away to warm you just yet. You knew better than to expect miracles.

One afternoon, as the group gathered around the dining table for the next supply run discussion, you found yourself fidgeting with a pen, tapping it nervously against your notebook. Sukuna stood at the head of the group, a map of the surrounding area spread out in front of him, his intense gaze scanning the terrain for answers.

“We’re low on food and water again,” Nanami said, his voice calm but laced with urgency. “The nearest grocery stores are completely cleaned out. We’ll need to start looking further out.”

“That’s risky,” Suguru replied, leaning back in his chair. “The farther we go, the more likely we run into trouble—whether it’s other groups or something worse.”

“Maybe,” Satoru chimed in, popping a peanut into his mouth, “but we can’t just keep scrounging around the same empty buildings. Gotta roll the dice at some point.”

Sukuna nodded, his finger trailing across the map. “There’s a warehouse here.” He tapped a spot roughly a mile and a half away. “It’s a gamble, but it might still have something useful. We’ll split into two teams. One handles the warehouse, the other checks the pharmacy again for medical supplies.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “Two teams for two dangerous locations? Bold.”

“Calculated,” Sukuna corrected. “Suguru, Satoru, and Nanami—you’ll take the pharmacy. Shoko, you stay back and keep the base running.”

“And the warehouse?” Suguru asked.

Sukuna’s eyes flicked toward you, and your heart skipped a beat. “I’ll take the newbie.”

The room fell silent.

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him correctly. “Me?”

“You’re not deaf, are you?” Sukuna replied, crossing his arms. “You’ve proven you’re not completely useless. Time to see if that wasn’t just dumb luck.”

The tension in the room shifted. Satoru’s grin widened, clearly entertained by the turn of events. Suguru remained expressionless, while Shoko gave you a subtle nod of encouragement. Nanami’s lack of protest was the most surprising of all, though his gaze lingered on Sukuna for a moment before returning to the map.

“I’ll go,” you said finally, forcing your voice to stay steady.

The walk to the warehouse was uneventful at first. Sukuna led the way, his steps confident and deliberate. You followed close behind, clutching your weapon tightly and trying not to let your nerves show. The silence between you felt heavy, broken only by the occasional rustle of debris or distant echo of the wind through the ruined streets.

“You’re tense,” Sukuna said abruptly, his voice low but clear.

You glanced at him, startled. “What?”

“Relax,” he said without looking back. “If you’re this wound up, you’ll freeze when it matters. That’s how you get killed.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Right. Got it.”

For a moment, you thought the conversation was over. But then he added, almost grudgingly, “You did good the other day. Quick thinking.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he muttered, picking up his pace. “You still have a long way to go.”

Despite his gruff tone, his words stayed with you. Coming from Sukuna, even a half-compliment felt monumental.

The warehouse loomed ahead, its broken windows and rusted metal exterior casting eerie shadows in the fading light. Sukuna stopped just short of the entrance, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of movement.

“Stay close,” he ordered, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, gripping your weapon as you followed him inside. The air was heavy with the stench of decay, and your footsteps echoed against the empty shelves.

At first, the search was uneventful. You moved through the aisles, grabbing what little remained—cans of soup, bottles of water, a forgotten box of granola bars. The weight of your bag grew with each find, and for a fleeting moment, you thought the run might actually go smoothly.

Then, from the shadows, came the guttural snarl of the undead.

The snarl echoed through the warehouse, freezing the blood in your veins. Your grip tightened on your weapon, your heart pounding in your ears. Sukuna immediately moved into action, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the darkness for movement.

“Stay behind me,” he barked, his voice low but commanding.

You nodded, falling into step just behind him. The guttural sounds grew louder, accompanied by the shuffling of feet against the cracked concrete floor. From the far corner of the warehouse, they appeared—three zombies, their rotting forms staggering toward you with alarming speed.

“Shit,” Sukuna hissed, raising his blade. “Stay sharp.”

He surged forward with lethal precision, his movements a blur of calculated violence. The first zombie went down with a single strike to the skull, its body crumpling to the ground. Sukuna didn’t stop, his blade swinging in an arc to take out the second one with equal ease.

But as he turned to deal with the third, you felt a chill run down your spine—a faint shuffle behind you. Your breath hitched, and before you could react, a decayed hand grabbed your arm. Panic shot through you as the zombie lunged, its teeth gnashing dangerously close to your neck.

“Shit!” you yelped, struggling against its grip.

“Hold still!” Sukuna’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Before you could even comprehend what was happening, Sukuna was there. In one swift motion, he shoved you out of the zombie’s grasp and plunged his blade into its head. The creature collapsed in a heap, and silence fell once more.

You landed on the ground with a thud, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Sukuna loomed over you, his face set in a scowl that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He extended a hand, and you hesitated for a moment before taking it. His grip was strong and steady as he pulled you to your feet.

“You okay?” he asked, his tone softer than you’d expected.

“I… yeah,” you stammered, still shaken. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” he muttered, his eyes scanning you for injuries. “You shouldn’t have let it get that close.”

“I didn’t—” you started to protest but stopped when you saw the flicker of something in his expression. Concern. He wasn’t just scolding you; he was genuinely worried.

“I told you to stay close,” he said, his voice low but not unkind. “I can’t cover you if you wander off.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you said quietly, your fingers trembling as you wiped zombie blood off your sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Sukuna said nothing. Then, with a sigh, he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. The gesture was so unexpected, so uncharacteristically tender, that you froze.

“Just… stay close,” he repeated, his hand lingering for a fraction of a second before he pulled away. His gaze softened, just enough for you to notice. “I’m not dragging your corpse back to the base.”

Despite the gruffness of his words, there was an unmistakable warmth in his tone. Your chest tightened, and you nodded. “Okay.”

As you gathered yourself, Sukuna gave you a sidelong glance, his lips twitching faintly. “Guess we’re even now.”

“What?” you asked, blinking in confusion.

“You saved me the other day. I just saved your ass. So, we’re even.” His voice was calm, but the hint of amusement in his tone caught you off guard.

A small laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself. “I guess we are.”

Sukuna’s expression didn’t change, but you swore there was the faintest hint of a smirk on his face as he turned away. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Sukuna turned back toward the now-silent aisles, his posture tense but his pace slower than before. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were still following, and when your eyes met, he gave a small nod of approval.

The rest of the search was uneventful, though you couldn’t shake the memory of Sukuna’s hand against yours, of the subtle shift in his demeanor. When the two of you finally stepped out of the warehouse, the late afternoon sunlight hit your face, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

As you walked back to the base, Sukuna kept a steady pace, his sharp gaze constantly scanning the streets for threats. But this time, he stayed just a little closer to your side.

The base came into view as the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the barricades. Relief washed over you as you and Sukuna passed through the gates, your shoulders aching from the weight of your packs. Shoko was waiting at the entrance, her sharp eyes immediately scanning both of you.

“Finally,” she said, arms crossed. “I was starting to think you two wouldn’t make it back.”

“Ran into some trouble,” Sukuna replied gruffly, dropping his bag to the ground. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Her gaze shifted to you, and for a moment, her sharpness softened. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you replied, brushing off the lingering tension from the fight. “Just tired.”

Shoko nodded, but her frown deepened. “The others aren’t back yet.”

Sukuna’s brow furrowed, and his shoulders stiffened. “They’re late?”

“They were supposed to check the pharmacy,” Shoko explained, her voice tinged with worry. “They should’ve been back already.”

You exchanged a glance with Sukuna, unease settling in your chest.

“They could’ve gotten held up,” you offered, though your voice lacked conviction.

“Maybe,” Shoko said. “But I don’t want to sit around and wait. I was thinking of heading into the woods to scavenge. If we’re going to be stuck here longer, we need fresh supplies. I can check on the traps we set last week and look for forageable food.”

Sukuna immediately shook his head. “Not alone. If you’re going out there, you need backup.”

Shoko raised a brow, her hands on her hips. “I appreciate your concern, but we don’t need everyone exhausted before we even know if something’s actually wrong with the other group.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sukuna said, his tone brooking no argument.

“No,” Shoko countered firmly. “You just got back. You need rest. Especially if it turns out we do need to go after them.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Then she can go.” He jerked his thumb toward you.

Shoko glanced at you, her expression thoughtful. “She just got back too, Sukuna. And this was only her second real run. She needs rest as much as you do.”

“Then who the hell is supposed to go with you?” Sukuna snapped, his frustration clear.

Shoko smirked faintly. “No one. I’ll be fine. I know the woods, and it’s close enough to base. I won’t be gone long.”

“Terrible idea,” Sukuna growled.

“Sukuna,” Shoko said, her tone softening but firm. “If something’s happened to the others, you’re going to need every ounce of energy to deal with it. Same goes for her. Let me do this. I’ll be back before dark.”

His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking visibly. You could tell he hated this plan, but even he couldn’t argue with her logic. After a tense moment, he relented with a frustrated exhale.

“Fine,” he said at last. “But if you’re not back by dark, I’m coming after you myself.”

Shoko chuckled, giving him a two-fingered salute. “Noted. I’ll be back soon.”

Without waiting for further argument, she disappeared into the base to gather her things. Sukuna watched her go, muttering something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

“She’ll be fine,” you said, though you weren’t sure if you were reassuring him or yourself.

“Better be,” he muttered, turning toward the main hall. “Get some rest. If those idiots don’t show up soon, we’ll have to move fast.”

You nodded, the weight of the situation pressing down on you as you followed him inside. Whatever was happening, you could only hope that Shoko and the others would return safely—and that when the time came, you’d be ready.

The peaceful hum of the base was shattered by the frantic sound of footsteps and heavy breathing as the group burst through the doors. Suguru and Satoru supported Nanami between them, his face pale and slick with sweat. Blood soaked the side of his shirt, staining his usually pristine appearance.

“Get Shoko!” Satoru’s voice rang out, urgent and louder than you’d ever heard it before.

“What the hell happened?” Sukuna barked, stepping forward, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Nanami.

“A zombie,” Suguru said grimly, adjusting his grip on Nanami. “It came out of nowhere—he pushed me out of the way and got hit instead.”

“Where’s Shoko?” Satoru asked, glancing around as though expecting her to appear at any moment.

“She’s out,” you said sharply, stepping forward, your heart pounding but your voice steady. “She said she wouldn’t be back for an hour—maybe longer.”

For a moment, the room froze, tension thick enough to cut through

“Bring him to the infirmary room. Now,” you ordered, already moving ahead to prepare.

Suguru and Satoru didn’t hesitate, following your lead as they guided Nanami to the cot. Sukuna was right behind them, his expression unreadable but his presence heavy.

“I can handle this,” you said as you grabbed the first-aid kit and spread out the supplies. “Keep him steady and out of shock. That’s all I need from you.”

Sukuna’s sharp gaze flicked to you. “You better not screw this up.”

You didn’t look up, your focus entirely on Nanami’s wound. “I won’t.”

Kneeling beside Nanami, you quickly assessed the damage. Blood was seeping from a deep gash on his side, but it wasn’t hopeless. Your hands moved methodically, cleaning the wound and applying pressure to slow the bleeding. Nanami winced but didn’t flinch, his breathing ragged but steady.

“This is going to sting,” you warned, applying antiseptic before packing the wound with gauze. His eyes fluttered open briefly, meeting yours, and he gave the faintest nod.

The room was silent except for the sound of your precise movements. Satoru and Suguru hovered nearby, watching but not interrupting. Sukuna stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his gaze fixed on you.

As you worked, you felt the weight of his scrutiny—but it didn’t faze you. You knew what you were doing, and for once, you didn’t need to prove it to anyone.

The next hour passed in a blur. You worked with precision, your mind cycling through every lecture, every clinical rotation, every ounce of knowledge you’d absorbed before the world fell apart. Nanami groaned once as you applied pressure to the wound, the sound making your heart race.

"Stay with me," you murmured under your breath, the words meant more for your own reassurance than his. Sweat trickled down your temple, your shoulders aching from the strain of leaning over him, but you ignored the discomfort. There was no room for it now. There was only the patient on the table and the life you were trying to hold together.

When you finally finished, securing the last bandage with steady hands, you leaned back with a shaky breath. Nanami’s breathing was shallow but steady now, his color returning, no longer ashen.

"He’s stable," you said, your voice hoarse from the intensity of the moment. "But he needs rest."

Suguru let out a quiet exhale of relief, his head dropping into his hands as if a weight had been lifted. Satoru clapped a hand on your shoulder, his usual grin subdued but still laced with gratitude. "You’re a lifesaver. Literally."

Even Sukuna seemed less cold as he examined Nanami. His usual indifference remained, but the hard lines of his posture softened just a fraction. He didn’t say a word, but the shift was noticeable. The tension in his shoulders loosened, even if only for a moment.

Hours later, the base had fallen quiet. Everyone had gone to rest, exhausted from the day’s events. Everyone except you and Sukuna.

Earlier, Shoko had returned and thoroughly checked on Nanami, confirming that your work had been solid. She’d cleaned and rewrapped the wound, impressed by your quick thinking. After making sure Nanami was stable, she’d retreated to her room, leaving you to keep watch over him.

Now, you sat beside Nanami, your hand lightly resting near his, watching for any sign that he might wake. His breathing was steady but faint, each rise and fall of his chest a quiet reassurance.

Sukuna leaned against the wall a few feet away, his arms crossed. The firelight flickered across his face, softening the usual sharpness of his features. For a long time, he said nothing, just staring at Nanami with a look you couldn’t quite place.

His gaze shifted to you, his crimson eyes intense but not unkind. “You saved him. You didn’t screw it up.”

You glanced at him, his words catching you off guard. It wasn’t exactly praise, but it was close enough.

“He means a lot to everyone here,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “You, Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko.”

"We go way back,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter than usual. “We all became friends in high school. Different years, different circles, but somehow, we ended up stuck with each other.”

He let out a humorless chuckle, glancing down at Nanami. “We didn’t always get along. Satoru was a loudmouth, Suguru was too smug for his own good, Nanami was the uptight kid who thought he was too good for the rest of us, and Shoko… was the laid-back one who somehow kept us all from killing each other.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the mental image. “Sounds like you all balanced each other out.”

“Something like that,” Sukuna admitted, his voice dipping into something softer. “We went through a lot together—graduations, breakups, fights. By the time college rolled around, we were more like family than friends.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw a glimpse of something deeper beneath Sukuna’s sharp exterior. A bond he’d never admit out loud but clearly cherished.

“You’ve been through so much together,” you said gently. “It’s no wonder he means so much to you all.”

Nanami’s breathing filled the silence, steady but faint enough to keep you on edge. Sukuna hadn’t moved, his usual tension buried beneath something quieter, more introspective.

“You remind me of someone,” he said suddenly, his voice low.

The words caught you off guard. “Someone you knew?”

Sukuna nodded, his expression tightening. “Yeah. My brother.”

The admission surprised you. Sukuna didn’t seem like the type to talk about family—much less admit to having one.

“He was younger than me. A few years,” Sukuna continued, his voice distant. “Idiot kid never listened. Always thought he knew better than me. Too brave for his own good.”

He paused, exhaling sharply through his nose. “But he had this way of looking at the world, like... no matter how bad things got, he’d find a way to make it better. It pissed me off sometimes—how naive he was. But he made me believe it, too, even if I didn’t want to.”

“What happened to him?” you asked softly, though the answer was already obvious.

“He didn’t make it,” Sukuna said bluntly, his jaw tightening. “When the outbreak started, I tried to keep him safe. But the world doesn’t care how hard you try. It just takes.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Sukuna’s voice was calm, but the weight of his words hung heavy between you.

“I’m sorry,” you said gently. “He sounds like he was a good person.”

“He was better than I ever was,” Sukuna muttered, his voice quieter now. “He would’ve liked you.”

The comment caught you off guard, your heart skipping a beat. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve got that same stupid stubbornness,” he said, the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at his lips. “Always jumping in when you shouldn’t. Refusing to back down.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t,” Sukuna said dryly, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.

You leaned back slightly, drawing in a breath before speaking. “I lost people, too,” you admitted, your voice trembling just enough to show the vulnerability you usually kept hidden. “My parents. My friends. I used to think if I just stayed smart, kept my head down, I could keep them safe. But it didn’t matter in the end. I still couldn’t save them.”

For a moment, Sukuna didn’t say anything, his gaze shifting from Nanami to you. He studied you, his expression unreadable, though something in his eyes softened—just barely.

“You saved Nanami,” he said finally. “That counts for something.”

You shook your head. “I got lucky.”

“It’s not luck,” Sukuna said firmly. “Not all of it, anyway. You’ve got instincts. You’re quick on your feet. That’s what matters now.”

His words caught you off guard again, and you glanced up at him. “Is this your way of saying thanks?” you asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Don’t push it,” he grumbled, but there was no edge to his tone.

You smiled softly, turning back to Nanami. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re a better person than you let on,” you said quietly.

Sukuna let out a low chuckle, though there was no real amusement in it. “Don’t romanticize me, sweetheart. I’m just doing what I have to.”

“Maybe,” you said, glancing at him. “But it still matters. To them. To me.”

He didn’t respond, but the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes, but not in the way it usually was with Sukuna. There was something almost companionable about it, as if the space between you had shifted just a little.

As the hours stretched on, you stayed by Nanami’s side, Sukuna leaning against the wall nearby. Neither of you spoke again, but you could feel the subtle change in the air—a fragile understanding that hadn’t been there before.

Little by little, it felt like the cracks in Sukuna’s walls were beginning to show. And for the first time, you thought he might actually let you in.

Nanami stirred as dawn broke through the windows, his groggy movements drawing your attention. His eyelids fluttered before he let out a soft groan, his hand twitching as if testing the waters of consciousness.

“Nanami,” you said softly, leaning closer.

His eyes opened slowly, the familiar calmness of his gaze returning as he registered his surroundings. His brow furrowed, lips parting to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Don’t try to move too much,” you said quickly. “You’re safe. You made it.”

Nanami blinked, his focus sharpening on you. “You… saved me,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

You nodded, the tension in your shoulders easing now that he was alert. “It wasn’t just me,” you said modestly, though warmth spread through you at his gratitude. “Everyone helped.”

Nanami’s gaze softened as he studied you. “Still, I owe you,” he said, his voice firm despite his weakened state.

You shook your head. “I wasn’t about to let you die,” you said simply. “That’s not how we do things, right? We look out for each other.”

Nanami let out a quiet breath, almost a chuckle. “You’re tougher than I gave you credit for,” he said. “I’ll remember that.”

Sukuna, who had been leaning silently against the wall, finally stepped forward. He crouched beside Nanami, his sharp eyes scanning his friend for any lingering signs of danger.

“About time you woke up,” Sukuna muttered, though his tone carried an undertone of relief.

Nanami gave him a faint, tired smile. “You worry too much.”

“Tch,” Sukuna scoffed, standing back up. “You were half-dead, and I’m the one who worries too much?”

The banter between them felt lighter than usual, and you realized how deep their bond must be. Sukuna might be harsh, but the concern in his actions was undeniable.

Nanami’s gaze shifted back to you. “Thank you,” he said again, his voice steady. “If there’s ever anything you need—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted gently. “You don’t owe me anything. Just focus on getting better.”

Nanami nodded, though the gratitude in his expression didn’t waver.

Sukuna crossed his arms, glancing between the two of you. “Alright, enough of this sentimental crap. She did what she had to. You’re alive. Let’s move on.”

You shot Sukuna a look but didn’t bother arguing. Deep down, you knew his brusqueness was his way of deflecting.

“Rest,” you said to Nanami, ignoring Sukuna’s tone. “You’ll need your strength if you want to deal with him later.”

Nanami smirked faintly, already letting his eyes drift closed again. “I’m counting on it.”

As you stood and turned toward Sukuna, his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than usual. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—acknowledgment, maybe even respect.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “Let him sleep.”

You followed him out, the tension of the last few hours finally giving way to a strange sense of accomplishment.

The base had returned to its usual rhythm, though a lighter tension hung in the air. Nanami recovered quickly, much to everyone’s relief, and the group seemed to move with a renewed sense of purpose.

Shoko convinced Satoru to organize the medical supplies—a task he turned into a spectacle, juggling antiseptic bottles until Shoko smacked him upside the head. Nanami, true to form, was already back to work, scanning supply lists and muttering to Suguru about long-term resource planning.

You were helping Shoko patch together another set of med kits when Nanami walked into the room.

He approached with his usual calm demeanor, though his expression carried a rare softness. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

You glanced at Shoko, who waved you off. “Go on. I’ve got this.”

Following Nanami into the hallway, you felt a flicker of nervousness. He turned to face you, hands in his pockets, his gaze steady but kind.

“I wanted to thank you again,” he said simply.

“Oh,” you replied, caught off guard.

“For saving my life,” he continued. “What you did out there… it wasn’t something just anyone could do.”

A warmth bloomed in your chest, though you tried to keep your expression neutral. “I just did what needed to be done,” you said, shifting slightly.

He nodded. “Maybe so. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t appreciated. Sukuna isn’t the easiest person to deal with, but the fact that he let you handle things out there… that says a lot.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. “Sukuna… he’s not as cold as he seems,” you said carefully.

A faint smile tugged at Nanami’s lips. “No, he’s not,” he agreed. “He just has a way of pushing people away. But for him to trust you, even in the smallest way… it’s not nothing.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and you nodded slowly. “Thanks, Nanami. That means a lot.”

He placed a hand on your shoulder briefly—a quiet gesture of gratitude—before stepping back. “You’re part of this group now,” he said. “Don’t forget that.”

As he walked away, you stood there for a moment, letting his words sink in. Being part of the group wasn’t just about surviving together anymore—it was about being trusted, being relied on.

The group gathered in the common area, their conversations weaving together as they planned the next supply run. Sukuna sat in his usual spot near the window, his sharp gaze scanning the streets outside, though he seemed less aloof than usual.

Satoru plopped down next to you, grinning. “So, I hear you’re officially one of us now,” he teased, nudging your shoulder.

“Who told you that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nanami, obviously,” Satoru said with a wink. “He doesn’t thank just anyone, you know.”

Suguru chimed in from across the room. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he said, though his tone was light.

Shoko, leaning against the counter with her usual cigarette in hand, smirked. “She’s already better at following instructions than you, Satoru.”

Satoru feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. “I am a delight to work with.”

“You’re a menace,” Shoko countered, flicking ash into an empty can.

As the banter continued, you found yourself laughing along with them, the sense of camaraderie filling the room. Even Sukuna glanced your way once or twice, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

For the first time since you’d joined them, you felt like you truly belonged. And as the group talked and planned late into the night, you found yourself hoping—not just for survival, but for a future worth fighting for.

The storm outside was relentless, wind howling through the cracks of the ruined building. Rain hammered against the broken windows, drowning the world in chaos. Everyone else was asleep, scattered around the dim room like ghosts of the lives they used to live. You sat near the window, your arms resting on your knees as you kept watch with Sukuna.

He leaned against the wall across from you, his silhouette sharp in the weak lantern light. His katana rested against his shoulder, its edge catching the occasional flicker of lightning. He looked like he belonged to this broken world—untouchable, dangerous, and carved from stone.

The silence between you wasn’t unusual, but tonight it felt heavier. The storm wasn’t just loud; it was oppressive, a forceful reminder of how small and fragile you were in a world that had already crumbled.

“You’re too quiet,” Sukuna said suddenly, his deep voice slicing through the sound of the rain.

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “I thought you liked it when I stayed out of your way.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “I like quiet. Not the kind that makes me think you’re plotting something stupid.”

Despite yourself, you smirked. “I wasn’t plotting anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a fleeting moment, you thought he might actually smile. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual guarded expression.

The wind rattled the broken windowpanes, and you adjusted your position, tugging your jacket tighter around yourself.

“What’s the point of you being up if you’re going to freeze to death?” Sukuna muttered.

You frowned, opening your mouth to retort, but before you could say a word, Sukuna tossed a thick blanket in your direction.

“Use that,” he said, his tone brusque, as if daring you to comment on the gesture.

You caught the blanket, staring at it for a moment before wrapping it around yourself. “Thanks,” you murmured.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

The two of you fell into silence again. You found yourself sneaking glances at him—at the sharp line of his jaw, the faint tattoos peeking out from his sleeves. There was something about Sukuna when he wasn’t surrounded by the others—when he wasn’t posturing or shutting you out. It was almost like he didn’t mind your presence.

“Do you ever think it’ll get better?” you asked softly, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Sukuna’s gaze turned toward you, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

“The world,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the storm outside. “Do you ever think it’ll go back to how it was before?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned back to the window, his jaw tightening. “Doesn’t matter if it does or not. You survive, no matter what.”

You frowned. “But surviving isn’t the same as living.”

He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Living’s a luxury. You can think about it once you’ve got surviving figured out.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest ache. You wanted to press him, to ask what he’d lost to make him so certain of that, but you bit your tongue.

Instead, you said softly, “It’s okay to hope, you know. Even if it doesn’t seem worth it.”

Sukuna’s gaze flicked toward you, and for a moment, you thought he might snap at you or brush off your words. But he didn’t. Instead, his expression softened—just slightly—and he let out a quiet sigh.

“Hope doesn’t keep you alive,” he muttered. But there was no edge to his tone, no real venom.

“Maybe not,” you said, meeting his gaze. “But it helps.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he turned back to the window, muttering under his breath, “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you said, smiling faintly. “But I’m right.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel heavy anymore. It was almost… comfortable. The storm outside continued to rage, but inside, for the first time, you felt a little closer to him.

“What was your life like before all of… this?” you asked, gesturing vaguely toward the broken windows, the storm outside, and the ruin the world had become.

He gave you a flat look, his crimson eyes sharp. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” you admitted. “I just… I like knowing. It’s easier to see people as human when you know what they were like before all this.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he let out a quiet sigh, leaning his head back against the wall.

“Graduated with a degree in art,” he said finally. “Ran my own tattoo shop for a while.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You were a tattoo artist?”

“Still am, technically,” he muttered. “Not much demand for it now, though.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “That explains the tattoos.”

He smirked faintly, his eyes narrowing at you. “What? You thought I got them for fun?”

“Kind of,” you said, shrugging. “I mean, they’re incredible. They fit you.”

For a moment, his gaze lingered on you, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he looked away, his expression shuttered once more.

“What about the others?” you asked, breaking the silence again.

Sukuna sighed, his fingers tapping idly against the hilt of his katana. “Satoru graduated in education, believe it or not. He was a high school teacher before all this. Loved making kids’ lives miserable—but in his own weird way, I think he was actually good at it. Suguru was a psychology major. Planned to go into counseling or something.” He paused, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Nanami got his degree in business. Corporate life suited him. And you already know about Shoko—med school.”

Your breath hitched slightly. “That’s… a lot to leave behind.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “You think I don’t know that? We all had plans. Things we wanted. And then everything went to hell.”

You looked down at your hands, the weight of his words settling over you. “I was a med student, too,” you said quietly. “First year. I barely started before…” You trailed off, gesturing at the world around you.

Sukuna was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “Why medicine?” he asked finally.

“I wanted to help people,” you said simply. “I guess it sounds kind of naïve now, but I thought I could make a difference. Maybe save a few lives.”

He studied you for a moment, his crimson eyes unreadable. Then he leaned back against the wall again, his gaze shifting to the storm outside.

“You’re still doing that,” he said, his voice low.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You’re still saving lives,” he said, his tone gruff. “Nanami wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

A lump formed in your throat, and you looked away, an odd warmth spreading through your chest. “I guess,” you murmured.

The two of you sat in silence for a while after that, the storm outside filling the space between your words. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. For the first time, it felt… companionable.

“Do you miss it?” you asked softly.

“Miss what?”

“Your old life. The tattoo shop. Your friends. The way things used to be.”

Sukuna didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Every day,” he admitted.

You looked at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. For once, the walls he kept so firmly in place seemed to crack, just a little.

“I think we all do,” you said softly.

Sukuna’s gaze flicked toward you, his crimson eyes meeting yours. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite place—something raw, unguarded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess we do.”

The storm raged on outside, but for the first time since it began, you didn’t feel so alone.

By the time the storm finally began to taper off, Sukuna pushed himself to his feet. He stretched his arms over his head, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of his stomach—and the faint outline of abs beneath. Heat crept up your neck, and you quickly glanced away, pretending to adjust the blanket around you.

“I’ll take the next round of watch,” he said, his tone back to its usual sharpness.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to let me?”

“No,” he said simply, grabbing his katana and walking toward the door.

You couldn’t help but smirk a little. Despite the lingering edge to his voice, something about him felt… lighter.

Before stepping out, Sukuna paused in the doorway, glancing back at you. “Get some rest,” he said, almost begrudgingly.

It wasn’t much, but coming from Sukuna, it felt like a rare kind of kindness. You nodded, watching as he disappeared into the hallway.

About a week later, after Nanami’s recovery and the group settling back into their routine, you were sent on another supply run. The mission was straightforward: split into two groups, sweep a nearby grocery store, and bring back whatever hadn’t been raided yet. Sukuna took Satoru, leaving you with Suguru and Shoko.

“Stick close,” Suguru had said as the three of you stepped into the dimly lit store. The air inside was stale, the faint smell of rotting produce and damp cardboard clinging to the space. It felt eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that always made your skin crawl.

You nodded, gripping your weapon tightly. Supply runs were becoming second nature, but the unease never entirely went away. Each unfamiliar building held its own dangers, and you’d learned to stay on edge.

It wasn’t long before the shelves yielded a few treasures—some canned goods, a pack of batteries, even a roll of duct tape. You crouched near an overturned display, brushing debris aside to grab a jar of peanut butter, when the sound of shuffling footsteps reached your ears.

“Zombie,” you whispered, rising slowly.

Shoko, who was scanning a nearby aisle, lifted her head. “Where?”

You pointed toward the end of the aisle. A lone zombie staggered forward, its milky eyes fixed on you. Its movements were slow, but it was still too close for comfort.

“I got it,” Suguru said calmly, stepping forward with his machete.

But as he moved, your boot caught on a broken shelf bracket jutting out from the floor. You stumbled, and in that split second, the zombie lunged.

The jagged edge of its broken fingernails swiped across your abdomen, slicing through your jacket and grazing your skin. Pain flared as warm blood seeped through the fabric.

“Shit!” you hissed, stumbling back.

Suguru swung his machete in one clean arc, taking the zombie down before it could advance further.

“You okay?” Shoko was at your side immediately, her hands already pulling your jacket open to inspect the wound.

“I’m fine,” you said through gritted teeth, though the pain told you otherwise. The cut wasn’t deep, but it stung fiercely, and blood was already soaking into your shirt.

“We need to get back,” Shoko said firmly.

Suguru’s jaw tightened as he nodded. “We’ve got enough for now. Let’s move.”

By the time you returned, the pain had dulled to a throbbing ache, though it still made every step a challenge. Shoko had done her best to patch you up on the way back, but she insisted on a proper cleaning once you were safely home.

As soon as the doors swung open, Sukuna’s sharp gaze landed on you. His usual scowl deepened when he saw the blood staining your shirt.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded, striding over.

“Zombie,” Suguru said curtly as he helped Shoko unload the supplies. “Got too close.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his focus snapping back to you. “And no one thought to handle it before this happened?”

“I’m fine,” you tried to say, but he was already in front of you, his eyes scanning the injury with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“You call this fine?” he snapped, his voice laced with anger and something else—something that sounded suspiciously like worry.

“It’s just a scratch,” you insisted, though you winced as Shoko peeled back the makeshift bandage to reveal the cut.

“She’ll live,” Shoko said calmly, though her tone didn’t seem to ease Sukuna’s tension. “But it needs to be cleaned and stitched.”

“Then do it,” he said, his voice low and clipped.

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “You need to back off first. You’re hovering.”

Sukuna muttered something under his breath but took a step back, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t leave, though, his eyes fixed on you as Shoko worked.

The sting of the antiseptic made you hiss, and Sukuna’s jaw clenched at the sound.

“You should’ve been more careful,” he said after a moment, his tone softer but still sharp.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” you shot back, your voice tinged with irritation.

His glare didn’t waver, but his next words surprised you. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He looked away, his expression hardening again. “Just… don’t do it again.”

The vulnerability in his voice was fleeting, but it was there, and it made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with your injury.

“I’ll try,” you said softly, offering a small, shaky smile.

Sukuna didn’t respond, but he stayed close, even after Shoko finished patching you up and the others had gone about their business.

The base had settled into its usual quiet hum. Most of the group had gone to rest, but Sukuna lingered in the common area, his sharp gaze darting toward you occasionally. He sat at the far end of the room, his katana resting by his side as if he were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

For a man who claimed not to care, Sukuna was terrible at hiding it when he did. His usual scowl was still there, but it lacked its usual bite, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it.

As you adjusted your freshly bandaged wound, you caught his eye. He didn’t look away, his crimson gaze holding yours for a beat longer than expected.

“Get some rest,” he said finally, his voice low but carrying an edge of concern.

You nodded, the warmth of his unspoken care settling over you. As you lay down for the night, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude—not just for Shoko’s steady hands or Suguru’s quick reflexes, but for Sukuna’s reluctant, undeniable presence.

For all his rough edges, Sukuna had a way of making you feel… safe. And in a world like this, that meant everything.

The small infirmary room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a battery-powered lantern perched on the counter. You sat on the makeshift cot, the ache in your side persistent but manageable. Shoko had done an excellent job stitching the gash, but the occasional twinge was a sharp reminder of your carelessness.

The group had been quieter since the incident. Shoko and Suguru had checked on you a few times, offering updates about the supplies you’d retrieved and assurances that you didn’t need to push yourself just yet. Sukuna, however, had been noticeably absent.

Until now.

The door creaked open, and you looked up to see Sukuna stepping inside. His usual sharp expression was still there, but something about it had softened. In his hand, he carried a roll of fresh bandages and a bottle of antiseptic.

“You’re due for a bandage change,” he said, his voice low and even.

You blinked, caught off guard. “I thought Shoko would—”

“She’s busy,” he interrupted, setting the supplies on the counter. “And I’ve done this enough times to know what I’m doing. Sit back.”

You hesitated for a moment before leaning back against the cot, lifting your shirt just enough to expose the wound. Sukuna crouched beside you, his movements precise as he began unwrapping the old bandage.

The room was silent except for the faint rustling of fabric and the soft breath you drew to steady yourself. His hands, rough and calloused, were surprisingly gentle as he inspected the wound.

“It’s healing well,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Shoko did a good job.”

“She always does,” you replied quietly.

He nodded, pouring antiseptic onto a clean cloth. The sharp sting made you wince, and his crimson eyes flicked up to meet yours.

“Sorry,” he said, his tone softer than you expected.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, not wanting him to feel guilty.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. As he worked, your gaze drifted to the tattoos curling around his arms and up his neck. You’d noticed them before, of course, but up close, they were mesmerizing.

“They’re beautiful,” you said suddenly, surprising yourself.

He paused, his hand stilling as he glanced at you. “What is?”

“Your tattoos,” you clarified, heat creeping up your cheeks. “The designs… they’re intricate. They suit you.”

His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “Thanks.”

“Who did them?” you asked, curiosity slipping into your voice.

“Someone I trusted,” he replied, tossing the old bandages into the trash and grabbing fresh ones. “Takes time to get them right.”

As he wrapped the new bandage around your side, you hesitated before speaking again. “They’re incredible,” you said sincerely.

He shrugged, his hands methodical as he secured the bandage.

On an impulse, your fingers lightly traced one of the lines on his forearm. He stiffened slightly, his gaze snapping to you, but he didn’t pull away.

“This one…” you murmured, your touch barely brushing the ink. “It’s so detailed.”

His voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “Had it done by someone skilled. You don’t let just anyone leave their mark on you.”

For a moment, the tension between you shifted, something unspoken passing in the quiet space.

“I’m glad you’re not seriously hurt,” he said suddenly, the words coming out like they surprised even him.

Your chest tightened at the unexpected vulnerability in his voice. “Thanks to you all,” you replied, your voice steady but warm. “Suguru, Shoko… and you.”

He shook his head, standing and wiping his hands on a rag. “I didn’t do much.”

“You were there,” you insisted, meeting his gaze. “That means something.”

For a long moment, Sukuna didn’t say anything, his jaw tightening as if he was debating whether to respond. Finally, he nodded—just barely.

As he moved toward the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “It’s late. You should sleep.”

“I will,” you promised, watching him disappear into the hallway.

The ache in your side still lingered, but as you lay back on the cot, you realized something else had shifted. The heaviness in your chest—the weight of feeling like an outsider—had lightened, just a little. Sukuna’s walls were still up, but for the first time, you felt as if you might have gotten close enough to see the cracks.

The following days passed in a quieter rhythm. The group had decided to lay low after the supply run, taking time to rest and re-evaluate their next steps. You spent most of your time in the infirmary, both recovering and helping Shoko organize supplies. One evening, after the group had finished a simple dinner, Satoru nudged Suguru with an exaggerated grin. “We’ve got to get something fun going in this place. I swear, I’m losing my mind from all the doom and gloom.”

“Life-or-death scenarios aren’t entertaining enough for you?” Suguru replied dryly.

“Exactly,” Satoru said, ignoring his sarcasm. “We need a game. Something to lighten the mood. Who’s in?”

You looked up from where you sat, sipping from your cup of water. “A game?”

“Cards, maybe,” Satoru suggested, already pulling out a battered deck from his bag. “Or truth or dare. You know, something classic.”

Shoko snorted, leaning back in her chair. “If you make us play truth or dare, I’m outing all your embarrassing secrets.”

“Joke’s on you—I have no shame,” Satoru quipped, winking.

Nanami sighed, shaking his head but offering no real objection. Suguru shot Shoko a knowing look that said, Here we go again.

“You in, newbie?” Satoru turned to you, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

You hesitated, glancing at the others. “Sure. Why not?”

The game started with Satoru choosing dare and being forced to attempt a handstand, which ended predictably with him crashing into a stack of empty crates. Shoko took truth and admitted to once stealing Satoru’s wallet, just to see how long it would take him to notice. (It took a week, apparently.) Suguru picked dare and hummed a painfully off-key rendition of a pop song until Shoko guessed it, rolling her eyes the entire time.

The lighthearted atmosphere filled the room, the kind of rare reprieve everyone secretly craved.

“Your turn, newbie,” Satoru declared, pointing at you with a dramatic flourish. “Truth or dare?”

You glanced around nervously, feeling the weight of their attention. “Dare,” you said, trying to sound braver than you felt.

Satoru’s grin turned wicked. “I dare you to sit next to Sukuna for the rest of the night.”

The air shifted instantly. Sukuna’s eyes flicked toward Satoru, narrowing with icy precision.

“That’s ridiculous,” you said quickly, heat rushing to your face.

“A dare’s a dare,” Satoru said, his grin unrelenting. “You’re not backing out, are you?”

“This is childish,” Nanami muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Don’t do it if you don’t want to,” Sukuna said, his voice cold and sharp, his irritation obvious. “I don’t care for these games.”

“Oh, come on,” Shoko said, her smirk widening. “Afraid of a little company, Sukuna?”

The tension in the room mounted, and you let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine,” you said, standing before the situation could escalate further. Grabbing your blanket, you walked over to where Sukuna sat. He didn’t move or protest, though his jaw tightened slightly.

“Happy now?” you asked, throwing a pointed glare at Satoru.

“Ecstatic,” he said with a grin, clearly enjoying himself.

As the game continued, you kept quiet, hyper-aware of Sukuna’s presence beside you. He didn’t speak or look your way, but you could feel his warmth radiating off him, a sharp contrast to his usual aura of detachment.

“You didn’t have to do it,” he said quietly after a while, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You glanced at him, surprised. “What? Back out of the dare?”

He huffed softly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I meant sitting here. I’m not exactly great company.”

“You’re not as scary as you think you are, Sukuna,” you said, your voice steady despite your nerves.

His eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you refused to look away. “You don’t scare me.”

For a split second, something flickered in his gaze—amusement, maybe, or something deeper. Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and he turned his attention back to the group, shutting down the moment before it could go any further.

The night wore on, the group’s laughter filling the space with an ease you hadn’t felt in months. And though Sukuna didn’t say much else, the subtle shift in his demeanor—the way he hadn’t outright refused to let you sit beside him—lingered in your mind.

The faint crackle of the dying fire filled the silence as you and Sukuna sat together. The others had long since retreated to their corners of the base to sleep, leaving the two of you behind. Neither of you made a move to get up, both content to sit in the quiet, the firelight casting flickering shadows on the walls.

“Do you think about the small stuff?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Sukuna turned his head slightly, his sharp crimson eyes flicking to you. “Small stuff?”

“Yeah,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the fire. “Like, I don’t know… food you miss. Stupid things you used to complain about.”

He huffed, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest. “Why? You getting nostalgic over bad cafeteria food?”

You snorted. “I’m serious. Don’t tell me you don’t miss anything.”

Sukuna was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I miss coffee,” he said finally, the admission low but honest. “Not this instant crap we scrape together. Real coffee. Black. Strong.”

You blinked. “You’re a coffee guy?”

He gave you a flat look. “What else would I be?”

“Tea, maybe,” you teased, a small grin tugging at your lips. “Something refined to match that whole brooding aesthetic.”

He scoffed, though you caught the faintest twitch of amusement in his expression. “Tea’s for people with time to waste. I needed something that worked.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Needed it for what? Running the shop?”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “Long hours. Late nights. Coffee kept me going.”

You nodded, letting the quiet hang for a moment before speaking again. “I miss real bread,” you said, your voice wistful. “Fresh out of the oven, still warm. Not this stale, packaged stuff.”

“Bread?” Sukuna repeated, one eyebrow raising.

“Don’t judge me,” you said with a mock glare. “It’s a comfort thing. My mom used to bake on Sundays. The whole house would smell like it. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss it until… well.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, something softer flickering in his expression. “Sounds nice,” he said, almost reluctantly.

“It was,” you said quietly. “What about smells? Like fresh bread or coffee—anything like that?”

He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Rain,” he said eventually.

“Rain?”

“Before all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the broken windows and the storm outside. “When it didn’t smell like ash and rot. Just clean rain, hitting the pavement. It was… different.”

You nodded, understanding what he meant. “I get that. The way the air used to feel after a storm, too—cool and fresh. Like it could wash everything away.”

For a moment, the two of you sat in companionable silence, the firelight dancing between you. Sukuna’s expression was unreadable, but there was a weight to his presence that felt less intimidating and more… grounded.

“You’re good at this,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking through the quiet.

“Good at what?”

“Getting people to talk,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Most wouldn’t bother.”

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I like getting to know people. It reminds me that we’re still human. That we’re more than just survivors.”

“Optimistic,” he muttered, though there was no venom in his tone.

“Not really,” you said, leaning back. “It’s just… I don’t want to forget who we are. What we’re fighting for.”

Sukuna’s gaze lingered on you, his crimson eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter.

“Is that a compliment?” you teased, though your tone was gentle.

“Take it however you want,” he replied, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

The fire crackled softly, filling the quiet space between you and Sukuna. The storm outside raged on, but for once, the tension in the room felt lighter. Sukuna shifted slightly, leaning his head back against the wall, his gaze flicking to you again.

“You’ve got a tattoo,” he said suddenly, his voice low but steady.

You blinked, caught off guard. “How did you—?”

“I saw it when I was changing your bandage,” he said simply, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly, as if daring you to argue.

Your cheeks warmed. “Oh. Yeah. It’s, um… Saturn.”

“Saturn?” he repeated, his brow arching. “Why Saturn?”

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I’ve always been into astronomy. Saturn’s my favorite planet—something about the rings, you know? It’s just… beautiful.”

He studied you for a moment, his sharp gaze softening slightly. “It suits you,” he said, his tone quiet but sincere.

The comment made your cheeks burn even more, and you quickly tried to steer the conversation. “I got it a few years ago. Back when things were... normal.”

“Who did it?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. “Maybe I know them.”

You hesitated, then said the name. His reaction was immediate—a quiet scoff, followed by a faint smirk.

“No way,” Sukuna said, shaking his head. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” you asked, blinking at him.

“I know him,” he said. “I used to work for that guy. Before I opened my own shop.”

“Wait, seriously?” you said, your eyes widening. “When?”

“Couple years before the outbreak,” he said. “What year did you get it?”

You thought for a moment, then gave him the date. Sukuna’s smirk grew wider, a flicker of amusement in his crimson eyes. “I was there.”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “No way.”

“Way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “I was probably in the back working on a piece or setting up. Funny—I don’t remember seeing you.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Imagine if we’d met back then.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost warm. “You wouldn’t have liked me much.”

“Oh, and I like you now?” you teased, though your tone was light.

His smirk widened. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. The thought lingered, though—what would it have been like to meet him in another life, when the world wasn’t falling apart?

Sukuna leaned back again, his expression turning thoughtful. “Funny how things turn out,” he said quietly. “All the places we’ve been, all the people we’ve met... and we still end up here.”

You nodded, your gaze drifting to the fire. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How small the world feels now.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice soft. “But I guess it’s not all bad.”

You glanced at him, your heart skipping at the subtle warmth in his tone. “Not all bad, huh?”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze locked on the flames. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a murmur. “Some parts of it aren’t.”

The unspoken meaning hung in the air, and for a moment, you wondered if he was talking about you. The fire crackled again, filling the space with its gentle warmth as the storm raged on outside. For the first time in a long time, you felt the tiniest spark of hope—not just for survival, but for something more.

The days following your talk with Sukuna, something subtle but undeniable had shifted between the two of you.

It wasn’t anything overt—Sukuna would never be obvious—but there was something in the way he’d glance at you during group discussions, as though ensuring you were keeping up. A faint nod when you helped Shoko organize supplies or lent Suguru a hand with planning. And, most noticeably, how he seemed to position himself near you during outings, always close enough to step in if something went wrong.

One evening, the group had gathered in the common area after dinner. Satoru was attempting to juggle two cans and a flashlight, Suguru was cleaning one of the weapons, Shoko sat on the floor organizing medical supplies, her cigarette tucked neatly behind her ear, and Nanami was seated at the table, meticulously reviewing a list of the group’s remaining supplies, his brow furrowed in concentration.

You were seated cross-legged on a crate in the corner, flipping through a water-stained book you’d scavenged earlier that week. The quiet hum of the group’s activities created a sense of normalcy that felt rare these days, though the occasional clatter from Satoru’s failed juggling attempts punctuated the calm.

“Hey!” Satoru called, catching one of the cans before it could roll under the table. “What’re you reading over there, bookworm?”

You barely looked up. “Something about gardening. Thought it might be useful.”

“Gardening?” Satoru repeated, dropping the flashlight in his surprise. “We’ve got zombies roaming around, and you’re over there trying to grow tomatoes?”

“It’s called thinking ahead,” you shot back, your tone dry.

Suguru chuckled softly, shaking his head. “She’s got a point, Satoru. We’re not going to survive on canned beans forever.”

“Sure, but why doesn’t she do something more fun? Like, I don’t know, play a game with us?” Satoru grinned and turned to you. “Come on, newbie. Cards? Truth or dare? Something other than reading.”

You rolled your eyes. “Pass.”

“Afraid to lose?” he teased, leaning against a nearby crate.

“She’s busy,” Sukuna cut in, his voice sharp and commanding.

The room stilled, the air shifting as everyone turned toward him. Sukuna was seated near the doorway, sharpening his katana, his crimson eyes flicking briefly to you before settling back on his blade.

“She doesn’t need your crap right now,” he added, his tone flat but carrying an undeniable edge.

Satoru raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Didn’t realize I was stepping on sacred ground.”

Suguru chuckled, and even Shoko smirked, but Sukuna didn’t respond, his focus returning to his weapon.

The conversation shifted, the group’s banter filling the room again, but you couldn’t stop glancing at Sukuna. He didn’t look at you, but the faint tension in his shoulders seemed to ease when Satoru finally dropped the subject.

Later that evening, as the base settled into a quiet hum, you found yourself climbing to the roof. The stars were faint, scattered across the dim skyline like shy visitors in the night. The cool breeze was a welcome reprieve, and you leaned against the edge, letting your thoughts drift.

You didn’t expect to hear the door creak open behind you, but you weren’t surprised when Sukuna stepped out, his presence filling the space effortlessly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He shrugged, stepping up beside you. “Needed air.”

You nodded, the quiet between you comfortable as you both gazed at the faint stars above.

“I love stargazing,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the wind. “Before all this. My dad taught me all the constellations when I was little. Like I told you—I love astronomy. Hence the tattoo.”

Sukuna’s gaze shifted to you, his expression unreadable but attentive. “That why you got it?”

“Yeah,” you said, glancing at him with a small smile. “It’s a reminder of something constant, you know? No matter how much the world changes, the stars stay the same.”

He hummed quietly, his crimson eyes lifting to the sky. “Never thought about it like that.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You can see them better now,” you said, your tone soft but inviting. “With no electricity in the city, there’s less light pollution. Lay down with me—I can show you the constellations.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, his usual skepticism evident. “You serious?”

“Come on,” you said, grinning as you leaned back and lay down on the roof. The rough surface pressed against your back, but you didn’t mind. You gestured toward the stars above. “You might actually learn something.”

To your surprise, Sukuna shifted, his movements deliberate but unhurried. He lowered himself onto his back right next to you, his broad shoulders brushing against yours as he stretched out. His crimson eyes flicked upward, taking in the night sky.

“Alright,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual. “Show me.”

You pointed toward the stars, tracing invisible lines with your finger. “That’s Orion. You can see the belt there—three stars in a straight line.”

He followed your gesture, his expression softening as he took in the view. “I see it.”

You continued, pointing out other constellations and sharing the stories your dad had told you about them. Sukuna listened quietly, his usual sharpness muted as he seemed to absorb every word.

When you turned your head to check if he was still paying attention, you found him already watching you. His gaze was intense, his red eyes tracing your features in a way that made your breath catch.

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

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out slowly, his hand brushing against your temple as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered for a moment, warm against your skin, before he pulled away.

“You should keep your hair out of your face,” he murmured, his voice low. “Might save you some trouble next time.”

Your cheeks warmed at the gesture, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re full of advice lately,” you teased gently.

“Don’t get used to it,” he replied, though there was no bite to his words.

The two of you lay there in companionable silence, the stars above seeming closer than they had in years. Whatever this was between you and Sukuna, it felt fragile but real.

And for the first time in a long while, you felt like you weren’t just surviving—you were living.

part two. let me know if you want to be on the tag list.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x fem!reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #💿 — solace seven works

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mydearestbeloved · 7 months ago

Text

Chapter 3 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW: All hail severely traumatized Reader.

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

The moment you stepped out of the Hanging Gardens, the city of Seoul came crashing into your senses. The bustling noise, the chatter of strangers, the blaring car horns—it was overwhelming. After so many years surrounded only by the whispering leaves and the sound of distant waterfalls in your domain, this city felt like a whole other world. Yet, you had no time to marvel at it.

Your first thought was him. The young hunter who, in the original story, would one day transform from the weakest E-rank hunter to the world’s most formidable force. You had seen his journey play out on the pages of a manhwa, and even though this was your reality now, you still thought of it as a story. Perhaps that was the only way you could cope.

Jinwoo. The name was a whisper in your mind, a mantra you repeated as you sent out your butterflies to search for him. They flitted into the sky, through alleyways, dodged bustling crowds, and skimmed across rooftops, invisible to everyone but you, its compound eyes transmitting a dizzying aerial view of the city straight to your mind. You kept your focus tight, pushing down the nerves that gnawed at your stomach.

But your search was interrupted by a sudden shift in the air around you. The city's mood had changed in an instant. People on the street stopped, their heads turning upwards, eyes glued to the enormous screens on the skyscrapers. As the images on the screen flickered into view, a chill you down your spine.

It was chaos. The screens showed devastation—images of buildings crumbling, fire and smoke engulfing the skyline, and a massive gate that loomed ominously above it all.

The first S-rank gate—the one from which Kamish, soon to be the most feared dragon in history, first emerged. You stood frozen, your eyes widening as the scenes played out in real-time.

“No…” You breathed out, barely a whisper, your hands shaking.

Even watching it on the screen was entirely different from reading about it on the pages of the manhwa. It was real now. Too real. The ground beneath you seemed to tilt as civilians screamed and hunters rushed into action. The casualties. Oh God, the casualties. The sight of corpses being pulled from rubble, the screams and cries of civilians and hunters alike echoed through your mind long after the broadcast ended. The dread spread through you like ice.

If I’d just managed to get out sooner, you thought, the guilt and horror churning in your stomach. If I’d escaped the Gardens just a year earlier, or even a few months…

Surely you couldn’t have stopped the gate from opening, but could you have evacuated more people? Shielded them with your powers? Reduced the casualties? Your mind raced with possibilities, spiraling in your inability to actively turn back time in a scale that large.

Could I have made a difference? Could I have saved even a single life?

Your breaths came in ragged gasps, heart pounding. The "what ifs" started to spiral, pulling you deeper into a pit of guilt and self-recrimination. Your fingers dug into your palms as you tried to regain control. Just as the world around you blurred from the tears stinging your eyes, there was a gentle nudge at the edge of your consciousness, yet the swirling visions just made you want to empty out your stomach.

Through your shared vision with the butterfly, there he was, younger than you expected— around sixteen or seventeen, a teenager, though he looked like he’d grown up too fast. His frame was slimmer, not yet the broad-shouldered man you knew he’d become. He was dressed in a faded school uniform, his eyes carrying the weariness of someone who had already seen too much. The lines of his face were taut with worry, a haunted look lurking in his gaze. An expression you’d often seen through the pages, etched into his older self.

You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling. If…If I had been here sooner, would things have been different for you?

Your mind wandered to another possibility—his father. Would you have been able to prevent the disappearance of Sung Il-Hwan if you’d arrived two years earlier? Could you have kept Jinwoo from bearing the weight of that loss, the look of pain he now wore like a permanent scar?

Though his mother was still with him now, you could see the faint shadow of the pain he carried even now. Could you have helped him avoid the countless sleepless nights, the burden he’d shouldered in silence for years?

But reality was harsh, and you couldn’t change the past. A hollow ache settled deep inside you, thoughts haunted you, sticking like thorns in your mind.

---

The following years were a blur of watching from the shadows, helping where you could without being noticed. You couldn’t save everyone, but you could lessen the burdens on the boy you had grown to care for. The butterflies you sent to heal his mother and alleviate her pain seemed to help, if only a little. But that look—that haunted, broken look in Jinwoo’s eyes whenever he thought no one was watching—it gnawed at your heart.

It was during one of those quiet nights, as Jinwoo and the rest of the world slept soundly, that you decided to take a more desperate measure. Jinwoo’s mother was showing signs of the dreaded Eternal Sleep disease, the same way she had in the manhwa. You had placed a protective spell around her to shield her from excessive mana exposure, but it hadn’t been enough.

No, not again... please, not again. You couldn't bear it. You refused to let Jinwoo suffer the same pain twice.

There has to be a way to save her, you thought, teeth clenched. The pages of the manhwa didn’t reveal much about Eternal Sleep, but you took a gamble. If exposure to mana was the cause, then maybe you could draw the mana out of her system.

The hospital was quiet that night, the corridors bathed in a cold, sterile glow. You slipped in under the cover of darkness, cloaking yourself and the room in an illusion. Her face was pale and serene, and she seemed to hover somewhere between sleep and consciousness, untouched by the turmoil around her.

You took a steadying breath, summoning the butterflies close and feeling their power surge within you. Your children hovered around her bed; their wings softly glowing as they began to absorb the excess mana from her frail body.

“Please… let this work,” you whispered.

Focusing on your intent, you reached out with your healing magic, channeling the butterflies to draw mana out of her body. It was delicate work, like trying to remove poison from a deep wound without disturbing the tissue around it. Sweat trickled down your temple as you focused, your hands trembling with the effort. You could feel it working; her breathing grew steadier, the tension in her muscles slowly unwinding.

“Yes, yes… this is working…” you whispered to yourself. Little by little, traces of mana were being drawn away from her, and with every second, your heart beat faster with hope for the first time in years.

But then, as if someone had flipped a switch, everything came crashing down.

[Warning! Trial Player is not permitted to alter this part of the storyline.]

The system’s notification blarred before your eyes in blinding red text. You shook your head, gritting your teeth.

“No, no! I can’t stop now! Just a little more and she’ll—” You breathed, ignoring it, pushing yourself harder. You could feel the system’s cold disapproval as it listed penalties— deductions in your stats, loss of your domain privileges, even the risk of a forced expulsion back to the Gardens, warnings, threats, each one harsher than the last. But you didn’t care. If there was a chance, even the slightest one, that Jinwoo could have his mother healthy and safe, you’d risk any penalty.

[Initiating first protocol: Trial Player is restricted from interfering with main events.]

“No! Please!” You screamed in your mind, pushing harder, trying to siphon the last remnants of mana from her body. An invisible force tightened around you, harsh and unyielding. It was like trying to wade through thick mud, each step harder than the last, until finally, the force slammed into you, and you were thrown back, the butterflies flung away from you as the spell shattered.

Your body hit the wall with a sickening thud. You let out a gasp, clutching your ribs as you tried to regain your balance. An invisible barrier had been erected between you and Jinwoo’s mother, solid and unyielding. Your butterflies fluttered helplessly against it, unable to pass through.

“No… No, no, no!” you screamed, cried, banging and clawing against the barrier until your hands were raw and bleeding. But it wouldn’t budge. The tears blurring your vision and cascaded down your cheeks in rivulets.

The system’s cold, unfeeling voice echoed in your mind. You couldn’t register the subtle unfamiliar desperation other than your own. [Trial Player, cease all attempts to alter key story events, or face permanent penalties.]

A sob tore from your throat as you slid to the ground, your shoulders shaking. “Please,” you sobbed, your forehead pressed against the barrier. “Please, let me help her...”

The silence a sledgehammer that you had failed. All your efforts, your desperate attempts to change the course of events, had been for nothing. The realization hit you like a knife to the gut.

No matter how much you tried, no matter how desperately you wished to change things for the better, the system wouldn’t allow it. It had let you toy with minor events, heal minor wounds, but when it came to the story’s crucial turning points, you were powerless.

The what-ifs that had haunted you since you’d first stepped into this world were answered in the cruelest way. Even if you had left the Hanging Gardens sooner, even if you had arrived in time to save Jinwoo’s father or cure his mother, you would have been stopped.

For the second time since you had been isekai’d, you felt utterly, hopelessly trapped. You were no longer a player with some semblance of control. For all your power, for all your knowledge of the future, you were nothing more than a helpless spectator to a story that would unfold exactly as it had always meant to. You were a mere observer, bound to the whims of a story you could never truly change.

All you could do was watch, from the shadows, as the boy you loved continued to suffer. As something inside you continued to crack.

You drew your knees to your chest, burying your face in your arms, letting the sobs wrack your body. For once, you let yourself feel the weight of your powerlessness, the despair that had been building in your heart for years.

In the darkness of that hospital room, the weight settled over you like a suffocating blanket. And all you could do was cry. This was no longer the story you had loved. This was your reality. And you were utterly powerless to change it.

---

You stumbled out of the hospital, numb and hollow, the world blurring around you. The voices of passing strangers, the hum of distant traffic—it all faded, leaving only an aching silence in your heart. You wandered without aim, letting the sorrow settle, the bitter knowledge clawing at you. How many years had you spent dreaming of a way to help him, of a way to change his fate? And for what?

Back in the Hanging Gardens, you’d felt trapped and powerless, but there had always been hope. Now, that last ember was snuffed out, leaving only darkness in its place.

As you returned to your hidden space in the city, you couldn’t shake the feeling of helplessness. It was like a familiar, cruel reminder of your first days in the Gardens, alone, struggling to survive in a world that hadn’t wanted you. And now, here you were again, unable to do anything but watch as the story unfolded as if you were still on the outside.

-----

The city had begun to grow familiar over the years, but the feeling of unease and disquiet never truly left. In this world of hunters, dungeons, and chaos, you weren’t exactly a normal citizen, though you’d tried your best to blend in. You made a life here, a life woven carefully to avoid standing out, hiding a fraction of your power and even more of your knowledge.

The first step to living a new life in this world was a matter of practicality: identity. You needed to establish yourself as a citizen of Seoul. But just as you were puzzling over how to manage something as complex as legal documents, the system—your ever-watchful, omnipotent shadow—seemed to have anticipated your needs.

You stared down at your supposedly birth certificate and identification card, your name printed clearly beneath a picture of a face that felt both like yours and... not. Relief was short-lived, turning to a sickening churn in your stomach. What happened to her? The question gnawed at you in quiet moments. This girl, this "you" of this world, had her life been erased to make room for your presence? Had she died before you arrived? Or, worse yet, had she been destined to die, and the system had simply taken advantage?

You tried to ask the system directly. “What happened to... the original?” you whispered, feeling a tremor in your voice. But, predictably, the system remained silent, its screen blinking away without an answer.

It left you with grim speculations. The more you thought about it, the more it felt like a noose tightening around your conscience. On sleepless nights, the thought haunted you: somewhere, in some unmarked corner of this world, the original (Name) might be lying forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to the wind one night, your voice barely audible. You were sitting in the Hanging Gardens, surrounded by the flowers you’d nurtured into bloom with your magic. The air was filled with the scent of roses and jasmine, a comforting balm against your troubled mind. “I promise... I’ll make a place for you here.” A way to remember her in the only way you could.

When you had a rare moment of free time, you returned to the depths of the Gardens. Deep within its heart, you found a secluded spot, a quiet clearing where the sunlight filtered through leaves, casting gentle dappled shadows. It was here that you began to build a small tomb, using stones and flowers enchanted with your magic.

It took days to finish. You poured your heart into it, weaving protective wards and spells into every petal, every blade of grass. You carved her name—your name, really—and when it was done, you placed a simple plaque: For the one who came before me. May you find peace.

Your hands clasped together; you couldn’t stop the tears from spilling over. This was your way of making amends, a fragile attempt to honor a life you had never known.

You stood there for a long while, the only sound the gentle rustling of your butterfly summons as they hovered, curious yet respectful.

“Thank you,” you whispered, not sure who you were even speaking to. Was it gratitude for the life you now had, or a farewell to the life you’d unknowingly taken?

---

After sorting out your papers and putting that grim thought to rest, you turned to the next task: becoming a hunter. You needed a way to sell the monster drops from your domain without drawing too much attention. Those materials were too valuable to ignore, and your stash from the Hanging Gardens had been growing, with enchanted trinkets and rare plants you’d carefully cultivated over the years.

With your identity settled, the next task was securing your place in this new world. You needed to establish yourself as a hunter, and quickly. The aftermath of the catastrophic gate and Kamish’s rampage had left the world desperate for capable hunters. S-rank hunters had fallen, and fear gripped the public. What if another gate like that one appeared? What then?

The Hunter Association was overrun with applications, both from hopefuls and seasoned hunters alike, eager to prove their worth. You knew your capabilities exceeded those of even high-rank hunters, but revealing your full power would draw unwanted attention. The last thing you needed was to be a target for the Hunter Bureau or one of the powerful guilds that dominated South Korea’s hunter landscape.

Suppressing your powers took everything you had. It was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with nothing but your bare hands. But you managed. After a few practice sessions cloaked in the safety of the Hanging Gardens, you learned how to cloak your true strength, masking it just enough to appear as a C-rank healer.

The evaluation day was chaotic, with hunters and administrators bustling around, trying to keep things moving. You stood in line, trying to ignore the stares from the other applicants. You kept your head down, focusing on the role you had to play.

“Next, please!” the examiner called, gesturing you forward.

You stepped up to the designated area. The sensation of being probed by the assessment device was unpleasant, like icy fingers brushing against your soul. But you kept your facade intact, holding your breath as the machine beeped.

“C-rank healer,” the examiner announced with a bored tone, scribbling notes on his clipboard.

You let out a silent sigh of relief, bowing politely before making a swift exit. You could feel the weight of curious eyes on your back, but no one suspected a thing.

Joining the South Korea Hunter Association was easy after that. You chose not to align yourself with any guild, instead opting to work freelance. It allowed you the freedom to pick your own missions and, more importantly, to avoid too much scrutiny. The Association didn’t question it, relieved to have another willing hunter, especially one with healing skills.

After a few raids, you gradually established a rhythm, selling a select number of drops at the hunters' markets. You kept the powerful materials for yourself, knowing the enchanted items might raise suspicions. The influx of funds was just what you needed.

----

The money you earned was enough to set up a modest business, a modest storefront on the quieter side of town, far from the bustling commercial districts. It was a charming space with large windows that let in ample sunlight. Perfect for what you had in mind.

A flower shop.

It was a simple concept—a quaint little greenhouse-inspired shop, cozy and serene, with butterflies fluttering gently around the blooms. Your years of cultivating exotic flowers to look like their normal counterparts in the Hanging Gardens paid off. Your magical influence made the flowers not only bloom faster but also granted them subtle enhancements, flowers that brought calm or clarity, leaves that eased headaches, petals that had slight rejuvenating properties, and much more.

The enchantments were soft, just enough to go unnoticed by hunters who occasionally stopped by, curious about the whispers of a shop with “enchanted” flowers. To manage the flow of clients, you eventually made the shop private, requiring customers to book appointments. Word of mouth spread quickly, though, and you found yourself busier than you’d anticipated.

One afternoon, as you were tending to a particularly finicky flower that required a touch of magic to bloom, a young girl entered the shop, holding her mother’s hand. Their wide eyes taking in the quiet, verdant space with wonder. The mother glanced at the butterflies resting on flower petals and the leaves that shimmered in soft hues.

“Mom, look! The flowers are glowing!” she exclaimed, eyes wide with childish excitement.

Her mother smiled and turned to you. “Hello,” she said with a nervous smile. “This place is… magical.”

You returned her smile, pleased with her reaction. “I’m glad you think so. What can I help you with today?”

She hesitated, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. “I… I heard about your flowers and, well… I’ve been feeling exhausted lately. I thought maybe something here might help?”

You nodded and led her over to a section of delicate white blooms. “These are calming flowers,” you explained. “You can put them by your bed, and they’ll help ease your mind while you sleep. Their scent is soothing and works wonders for stress.”

Her face lit up as she reached out, fingertips brushing the soft petals. “They’re perfect. I never thought flowers could… do that.”

“They’re a little special,” you said with a soft chuckle. “But sometimes, a touch of nature is all we need.”

“And this is for you little one.” You make a grand gesture, like a magician, and a pink carnation bloom in your hands. The girl eyes sparkled, and you took the chance to slip the flower behind her ear.

She and her mother left with a small bundle, the flowers carefully wrapped, and you watched them go, a sense of satisfaction warming you. You were making a life here, slowly but surely, even if there was still a shadow of loneliness lingering at the edges.

Over time, your shop became something of an oasis. People came not just for the flowers, but for the atmosphere, the butterflies drifting lazily through the air, the subtle scent of earth and blossoms mingling together. You overheard customers remark on how they felt better after just a few minutes in the space, how even just watching the butterflies was calming.

“Ah, it’s so peaceful in here,” A couple walked in one day, the man sighed as his partner looked around. His eyes widened as a butterfly landed on her hand, its tiny wings shimmering like fragments of stained glass. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“This place... it’s like stepping into another world.”

If only they knew.

You smiled warmly, handing him a bouquet wrapped in elegant paper. “They’re drawn to the scent of the flowers,” you explained. “It’s said that they bring good luck.”

One regular visitor was an elderly woman who came once a week to buy flowers for her husband’s grave. She’d chat with you while you wrapped her order, sharing stories of her late husband and their time together. She once remarked, “There’s something… kind about you, dear. It’s like you have a healing presence.”

You only nodded, humbled and slightly unnerved by her words. You didn’t feel like you deserved the praise—after all, you were only borrowing this life, this identity. But every time she left with her bouquet, she’d smile back, and you’d return it with a quiet, grateful nod.

And so, you continued on, living a borrowed life.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [010/10/2024] - Welcome

#solo leveling imagine #solo leveling #solo leveling x reader #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo #sung jinwoo x reader #yandere sung jinwoo #solo leveling jinwoo #only i level up #reader insert #x reader #fem reader #fanfiction #fanfic #solo leveling fanfic

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santaasi · 6 months ago

Text

story of my life

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

summary: what are you willing to do for the love of your life?

warnings: !major spoiler for obx4 final!, angst, establish relationship, nearly death experience, no use of y/n, english isn't my first language

word count: 2.8k

a/n: requested by this ask. i still haven't found the strength to watch s4, but i like to write about it. you know, after all this emotionally difficult month, all your requests help me not to go crazy. so thank you very much.

ᯓ★ now playing...

one direction - story of my life

YOU HAD ALWAYS LOVED LIFE. Even through all the chaos and heartbreak, you clung to it with fierce devotion, treasuring every moment. Your greatest dream wasn’t wealth or fame — it was to live boldly, to see the world in vivid color, to grow old with stories of wild adventures alongside the Pogues, the family you had found and held so dear. They were your anchor, your everything.

But life, for all its beauty, has taught you a bitter truth: it isn’t always fair. More often than not, it is harsh and unrelenting, a storm that leaves you scrambling for shelter. You’d learned to accept that, to carry on, to find joy even in the darkest corners. And you did, always.

What you never prepared for — what you could never imagine — was just how cruel it could truly be.

You weren’t ready for the knife. You weren’t ready for the split-second decision, the instinct that drove you to shield him, to put yourself in harm’s way without hesitation. All you cared about at that moment was that JJ would be safe. And he was.

But you?

No amount of planning or foresight could have prepared you for this — the searing pain, the hot Moroccan sand beneath you, and the endless blue sky above, eerily reminiscent of home. You’d spent your life navigating every twist and turn, surviving every trial fate threw at you, but now your strength ebbed away with every heartbeat.

Life really was cruel.

You and the Pogues had always known that, enduring its relentless trials together, earning your scars the hard way. But this? This was different. This was a cruelty you’d never known — a cruelty you couldn’t accept.

It wasn’t the dying that broke you, even though your dream of growing old with stories to tell burned brightly in your chest until the very end. Death itself wasn’t what hurt most. You had danced with it so many times before, always escaping, always one step ahead.

No, what shattered you was the sight of JJ Maybank, the boy who had stolen your heart and become your everything, cradling you as life slipped through your fingers. His tears fell like rain, his voice hoarse from screaming for help that wouldn’t come. His hands trembled, desperately trying to hold you together, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to defy the inevitable.

That was the real cruelty. Watching his world break as yours faded.

But now, as you stared up at the endless blue sky, its hue so much like his eyes and the tranquil ocean, it didn’t seem so cruel after all. Dying to save the person you loved most — it wasn’t a punishment. It was a gift, wasn’t it? To offer your life for the one who taught you how to love — that was a blessing.

A soft smile touched your lips as you reached out a trembling hand to his face, your fingers brushing his cheek, catching the tears that fell like rivers. His pain was unbearable to witness, but the warmth of his skin under your touch grounded you, even as the world slipped further away.

“Jay,” you whispered, your voice thin and fractured, each word scraped from a well of pain you refused to show him. You had always been strong — for the Pogues, for him. You couldn’t stop now. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He froze, his frantic movements stilling for a moment as your words cut through his panic. You swallowed hard, pushing down the agony clawing at your chest, determined to ease the fear in his eyes, if only a little.

“The luck had to run out eventually,” you continued, a faint chuckle escaping despite the weight crushing your lungs. “And, honestly? Dying in the arms of my first and only love… That’s pretty romantic, don’t you think? I’m like the main character in one of those cheesy teen dramas you hate so much.”

The effort of your laugh sent a sharp jolt of pain through your body, pulling a wet cough from your lips. The metallic tang of blood filled your mouth, and your chest burned with the force of it. You tried to hide it, but JJ saw — of course, he saw.

His face crumpled, and the desperation in his voice pierced through you like the knife had. “No. No. No. You’re not dying. I won’t let you die.”

His hands trembled as he held you, his grip firm yet unbearably gentle, as if afraid you’d slip away entirely if he let go. He rocked you slightly, his movements uneven and frantic, his voice cracking as he screamed for help, calling out for the others, begging the universe to give him just one more miracle.

“You can’t leave me,” he choked out, his words tumbling over one another in a broken, frantic rush. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, you hear me? I’ll pester you until you’re old and gray. Forever. That’s the deal, remember?”

His words wavered, drenched in panic and pain, as if sheer determination alone could defy the inevitable. You wanted to tell him it was okay, that he’d be okay, that you didn’t regret a single thing. But the truth was, seeing him like this — the boy who was your whole world shattered and breaking — hurt more than the knife ever could.

A soft, broken laugh escaped your lips, each tremor in your chest sending ripples of pain through your body. Breathing felt like trying to hold onto smoke — fleeting and agonizing. Why did it have to hurt so much? You drew a shallow, shaky breath, your hand brushing over JJ’s tear-streaked cheek. He clung to you like you were the only solid thing left in his crumbling world, his eyes squeezed shut, his face twisted with anguish.

Even now, even like this, he was beautiful. It wasn’t fair.

You’d thought it a hundred times before, over the years spent by his side. No matter the situation, no matter how disheveled or broken, JJ Maybank always carried a beauty that was effortless and infuriating. He was a contradiction — a masterpiece painted in chaos — and you could never look at him without being reminded of how deeply, unfairly he had your heart.

You had seen him in every state imaginable: bloodied and bruised, grinning through the pain, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, or asleep under the stars with his face softened by peace he rarely found. Even in his worst moments, when life dragged him down to its cruelest depths, he was breathtaking. You used to joke that Aphrodite herself must have crafted him, a cruel trick of divine perfection meant to mock you.

But it wasn’t a joke now, lying here in his arms. Because you knew you’d never see the life you’d imagined with him.

You’d thought about it more times than you could admit: the way his children would carry his same irresistible charm, the way his hair might gray but his smile would never lose its boyish mischief, the way you’d both grow old together, teasing and bickering like you always did. But none of that would happen now.

You wouldn’t be there to see it.

You wouldn’t see the Pogues again, wouldn’t see John B and Sarah raising a family, wouldn’t wake up in JJ’s arms to greet the sunrise and talk about life like it was endless. All those dreams, those plans — they were dissolving, fading into the hot Moroccan sand beneath you, slipping from your grasp like water through trembling fingers.

But at least you’d die saving him.

JJ’s voice cracked, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. “We should have stayed... I should have listened to you... I...” He repeated the words in a frantic, looping mantra, his tone raw with regret, his breath hitching as though saying it enough times could rewrite the moment. As though this were some nightmare he could will himself to wake from.

And maybe it would have been a dream — a bad one — if they’d all just listened to you. If they hadn’t chased after the crown, if they’d let greed and desperation go. Maybe you’d be lying in the chateau right now, the sunlight warming your skin, talking about tomorrow with hope instead of fear.

But life didn’t work like that.

You knew this outcome was inevitable. You’d known something was off, a shadow lurking on the edge of this adventure. You’d felt it in your bones. But even so, you couldn’t walk away. You couldn’t leave your family behind.

Because they wouldn’t have made it without you.

You were the glue that held them together, the one who kept the chaos from consuming them all. You cooked when they forgot to eat, bandaged wounds when they refused to stop, made plans when they leapt without looking. You were the mother, the voice of reason, the protector. You carried their burdens as if they were your own, no matter how heavy they became.

And you’d never leave them in trouble. Even if it meant leaving the world behind.

“Hey, hey, it’s not your fault,” you murmured, your voice trembling but steady enough to cut through his despair. With a shaky hand, you wiped the tears from his face, your fingers brushing against the salt trails on his skin. “I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t... leave you alone.”

“But that’s what you’re doing now!” JJ cried, his voice cracking like a child’s. A loud, broken sob tore from his lips as he pulled you closer, holding you as if sheer force could tether you to him. The raw pain in his eyes shattered you more than the knife ever could. “You’re leaving me! It should’ve been me! Why— why did you take it all on yourself?”

“JJ...” you whispered, your fingers threading weakly through his hair, softer than you’d ever imagined. The sunlight kissed the golden strands, turning him into something otherworldly — a fragile angel, aching and broken. Your vision blurred, the world dissolving into a haze, but you clung to him, fighting to stay present. For him.

“I did it because you have to live,” you said softly, your voice cracking under the weight of your words. “Because you deserve to live. You deserve a happy ending.”

Your breath hitched, and a cough wracked your body, leaving a metallic tang on your lips. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of your mouth, but you ignored it, your focus entirely on him. On the boy you loved more than life itself.

“You deserve a happy life more than anyone, JJ,” you continued, the words fragile but unyielding. “You have to go on your adventures, see the world, make your dreams come true... I...” You paused, gathering the last fragments of your strength. “At home, under my bed, there’s a box. It has the money left from El Dorado...”

A faint, bittersweet smile touched your lips as the truth of it all washed over you like the tide. Every decision, every moment over the last few months had led to this. Saving that money, denying yourself fleeting indulgences — it had all been for this. Deep down, maybe you’d known. Maybe you’d felt it all along, the shadow of inevitability hanging over you.

From the very beginning, when the crown became a glimmering temptation, you’d sensed it. Something about it felt wrong, like a weight in your chest that wouldn’t ease. You hadn’t wanted to go — you’d begged them to stay, to stop chasing after danger and live, just live. But they wouldn’t have listened, not even to you.

And so you’d gone. Because they needed you.

The irony struck you now, sharp and bitter, and you almost laughed. All you’d wanted was a simple life — a reprieve from the constant running, the relentless searching, the near brushes with death. You’d only wanted one quiet moment to breathe.

But life had never let you stop.

“Take the money,” you whispered, your voice thin but insistent. “Leave. Start over. Find your happiness, JJ. Live... for me.”

Your fingers lingered on his cheek, memorizing the warmth of him, the boy who had been your whole world. The tears falling from his eyes pooled at the edges of your smile.

Even as the edges of the world began to fade, you clung to one truth: you would give everything for him. And you had.

“Don’t you dare do that,” JJ choked out, shaking his head as if denying the reality before him could rewrite it. His trembling hand brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, the tenderness in his touch breaking your heart anew. “Don’t you dare say goodbye,” he sobbed, pressing a desperate kiss to your head. His arms rocked you gently, cradling you as though the rhythm alone could anchor you to him. “We’ll do it all together, you hear me? We’ll start over. We’ll visit every corner of this damn world. We’ll grow old together... I won’t — I can’t let you leave me like this.”

You tried to answer, but your body betrayed you. It was slipping further out of your control, growing lighter, weightless, like a feather carried off by the wind. Still, you smiled — soft, faint, but filled with all the love you couldn’t put into words.

Your eyes fluttered shut, the pull of oblivion so strong, but you forced them open again. Over and over, you fought against it, clinging to the fragile thread of life. Not for yourself — for him. For the dreams you had spun together in quiet moments, the ones you had whispered into the dark when the world felt too heavy.

You thought of those dreams now, pulling them close like a lifeline.

You’d planned it all, written it down in the little diary you kept hidden away since you were a child. Its pages were filled with messy sketches of hearts and scrawled dreams, and in so many of them was his name — your best friend, your everything. Back then, you were too shy to confess your feelings, too scared of what losing him might mean. But that little girl, the one who poured her heart onto those pages, would be over the moon now. She’d never believe JJ Maybank had become hers.

How many times had you imagined the life you’d build together? Leaving Kildare behind, hand in hand, to find new adventures in the wide, open world. Finding that perfect spot by the sea — a place that felt like home. Slowly, brick by brick, you’d build a new life together, one where all the scars and broken pieces of your pasts didn’t matter anymore.

You could almost see it. The day JJ would propose.

He’d plan it for weeks, determined to make it perfect, pouring over every cliché from the romantic comedies you adored. He’d rehearse speeches in secret, dragging John B and Pope into his schemes, pestering them to help him nail every detail. And yet, on the day itself, when he finally saw you, everything he’d practiced would vanish.

He’d forget the rehearsed words, the plans, everything but you.

JJ would drop to one knee, his hands shaking as he pulled out a small, worn ring — the one he’d kept hidden for years, a precious piece of his mother’s legacy. He’d hold it out to you, his voice cracking as he whispered the only words that mattered: Be mine. Forever.

And you would be. You’d take his hand, slip on that ring, and promise him everything. You’d become the happiest girl in the world, every piece of your soul woven into his.

Forever.

But now, forever felt impossibly far away.

“I love you, JJ Maybank,” you whispered, the words barely audible but carrying the weight of a lifetime. Your gaze lingered on his sea-blue eyes, anchoring yourself in their depth, memorizing every detail — the way they shimmered like sunlight on water, the way they always felt like home.

“You’ve become my dream.”

The words left your lips like a prayer, soft and eternal. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy with the pull of exhaustion, and slowly, they closed. Darkness crept in, warm and quiet, wrapping around you like JJ’s arms — steady, protective, safe. If this was death, it wasn’t cruel. It was peace. And if this was how it felt to go, you thought, then you would gladly endure it a thousand times over just to feel him near.

But as the silence deepened and the void seemed to pull you further away, a voice rose above it — a sound so strong, so certain, it cut through the emptiness like a lifeline.

“I won’t leave you. Never.”

His voice was raw, desperate, but unshakably firm, as if willing the universe to bend to his promise.

And you believed him.

You fell, your body surrendering to the weightlessness, but the thought of him grounded you. You held on to his words, letting them guide you like a beacon through the dark.

Even as the void swallowed you whole, there was a certainty buried deep within your heart.

When you opened your eyes again, you knew he would be there.

thankx for reading <3

I love one direction. I love jj maybank. and I love this fic. but I don't like killing characters. I can't write about death after Liam and JJ's death, it's very hard for me, so I decided to leave the ending kinda open? for me, the reader is still alive, but if you like dramatic endings, then you can end the story on the death of the reader.

and as usual, you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox :3

– your santi 🪐

masterlist

#– santi 🪐#jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank fic #jj maybank x you #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank #jj maybank x fem!reader #obx x you #obx #obx x reader

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princessbrunette · 7 months ago

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ᡣ𐭩 ｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅PRINCESSBRUNETTES SCREAM SALON INTRODUCES … ໒꒰ྀི ˃̵ ࿁ ˂̵ ꒱ྀིა

BLINK TWICE ࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

♩cecile believe — blink twice ♩

pairing: supe!rafe x reader

cw: theboys!au, hostage situation, guns, rafe is 6ft7 because of compound v lol, forceful-ish sex, fear, death (not reader)

you are responsible for your own media consumption. welcome to kinktober day six. better late than never!

you’d only ever seen ‘king kook’ on tv.

six-foot-seven feet of pure lean muscle and compound v. you didn’t invest yourself too much into the capitalism porn and multi millionaire industry that were supes, not enough to admire the beloved favourite himself anyway. but you can safely say, once or twice it had crossed your mind. him. king kook.

many things had crossed your mind, but not one of them had been the fact one day you might be in the hostage situation you currently were — sky high in a penthouse that didn’t belong to you. you were just the maid for christs sake, caught up in a crime that you’d rather be far from.

as you listen to the repetitive drum that was your captors shoes, pacing back and forth in only the next room, your wrists tied, you lean back against the wall and stare up at the fluorescent lights in the walk in closet you were being temporarily stored in.

you’d already tried to plead for your life, bravely call out to your captor and ask to be spared — but had only had been slapped, the cold kiss of a pistol being pressed to your forehead shortly after forcing you quickly back into submission. all you could do now, was either wait to be killed or wait to be saved.

then of course there was the sound of the front door swinging open without a care that had you tensing up. the police wouldn’t just bust in like that without a plan, could it be another accomplice? you’re proven wrong once more by the sound of your captors voice once more — urgent and pleading, followed by a voice you hadn’t heard prior, and yet was somewhat familiar.

“alright alright, quit with the cryin’ okay— got yourself into this mess i don’t wanna hear it.”

there’s a strangled sound, the patio glass down sliding open, a yelp — and then silence. whoever had come to save you, had just thrown your captor from the balcony. you’re frozen, praying you weren’t next.

“you uh— you in here? ‘can come out now, okay he’s… he’s gone.” the male voice sounds reluctant, like he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the aftermath and you push yourself to your feet — bravely peeping from the closet.

there in the hallway, stands the famous supe— king kook, in all his glory. you knew he was huge but he seemed to tower now, the light from the open patio door casting an angelic glow around him— something like you’d never seen before.

your knees feel weak, all shaky like a baby deer and he presses his lips together.

“you’re…”

“want a picture or something?” he itches his jaw and you shake your head. in that moment, he takes you in — eyes dragging down and then back up as he blinks, waiting for a response. you suddenly feel nude under his gaze, and you wonder if that’s a superpower of his. you blame the stupid little black dress your boss forces you to wear.

“no. thank you. thank you for saving me.” you tremble, braving a step closer.

usually, he’d shrug it off — ruin the sweet moment with a ‘well it’s my job, so.’ and head off — but he’d had a long day and you were his final save until he had to head back to the tower for daily debriefs. didn’t hurt that you were easy on the eyes.

“yeah. he would have uh…” a grin spreads across his face and it feels cold, wrong for the moment. “he would have had your head on a stick.”

you feel queasy at the imagery but you’re distracted by the visage of the supe eyeing you once more. “do you drink?”

unsure as to how you got there, you stand at the kitchen counter with him now — still shaky. you figured with these things they’d come to have an ambulance check you over, make sure you’re okay, physically and mentally. but in this moment, there was no one coming. it was just you, and king kook.

you watch the muscles in his back contract as he faces away from you, unscrewing the cap to a bottle of expensive alcohol and pouring it into short glasses. when he faces you again, he’s charming — a coy smile leaving lines in his cheeks and focused eyes. it was never unheard of that he was handsome, you’re just noticing it now— close up and in person.

“get some of that in you, yeah?” he drawls, sliding the glass towards you, his fingers lingering on the rim— eyes on yours. “that shit should get you nice and relaxed.”

you take a sip, wincing at the sharp taste that burned your throat. whiskey — and you were never really a fan. but hey, it would be rude to decline. the supe chuckles at your reaction that you tried to hide, drinking his with ease.

“so what am i supposed to do now? do i need to report this to someone? i’ve never… been a hostage before.” your brow crinkles as your neck cranes to look up at him, the man suddenly closer than before, licking his lips like a malnourished alligator.

“uh, nah… no. you let me handle that, yeah? this was my save so… you report to me.” he tilts his head and you find yourself biting your lip. you want to scold yourself, but blame it on adrenaline instead.

“oh… well, i’m thankful for that.”

“yeah? how thankful.” he moves a little closer, and you feel tiny.

“hm?” all doe eyed and helpless, you practically feed it to him.

large hands find your hips, and to your surprise you’re spun to face away from him, the man leaning down so his hot breath invades the space between your neck and ear.

“you know i- i had a really long day. maybe we… figure something out, right? a way for you to pay me back.”

“how so?” you whimper.

it all happens so fast — one moment you’re being smooth talked, next moment your feet are dangling in the air, being used like a fleshlight. you’re grasping onto him now, flailing a little at the fact you were totally off the ground, the man effortlessly supporting your weight.

“fuckfuckfuck— yeah-haha, like that.” he strains, hips plapping violently against your ass as he fucks into you. no protection or anything, but somewhere in the back of your mind you figured supes couldn’t procreate like that.

“k—king m’gonna fall— gonna—mmph.” you sound deranged, like an animal even as you flop against him, letting him hammer you in the air.

“shh—shutup, a’ight? gonna — gonna let me have this… mmph… gonna be a grateful girl for me okay?” he grunts, adjusting his feet wider and closing his eyes to concentrate on the warm embrace of your snug cunt.

you suppose you were grateful, and whilst you were filled with shame — the least you could do would be to try and enjoy it.

#this is so ass 💀#supe!rafe #theboys!au #rafe cameron prompt #kinktober ≽^• ⩊ •^≼ ₊˚⊹♡

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shanastoryteller · 7 months ago

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Sam seems convinced this is going to work, but Dean’s pretty sure it’s just a load of crap. Bobby’s even more convinced that it’s a whole lot of nothing, although he had admitted that he couldn’t read every symbol that Sam had added to this mess up devil’s trap. That didn’t mean it would work. It just meant that Sam had thrown everything he could think into it.

The real reason that Dean is going along with this, and probably Bobby is too, is because it means that Sam wouldn’t be alone after Dean is dragged to hell. Although standing in the middle of Bobby’s junkyard in a mess of spray paint isn’t exactly how he’d wanted to spend the last hour of his life.

“You really think Lilith is going to show?” he asks. He doesn’t know why she would. She just has to send the hellhounds, who’s howls and yips Dean has been hearing for days. And those things have never been stopped by any sort of devil’s trap.

“Yes,” Sam says, tense, not looking at him.

That’s another thing. For weeks Sam has barely looked at him, barely talked to him. Which sucks, because he’d really wanted to spend the last weeks of his life just looking and talking to and spending time with his brother, but Sam hadn’t been interested in that. At all.

He shares a look with Bobby, who just shrugs, hands tight on his shotgun.

Then the hellhounds come, just like he knew they would, no Lilith in sight. “Sammy,” he says, reaching out for his brother. Not because he thinks he can do anything, but because he wants to touch Sam one last time, one last memory to sustain him through hell.

Sam snaps out his hand and the hellhounds go skittering back, letting out pained yowls.

Dean stares, not understanding. “What did you – wait. You can see them?”

Only he should be able to see them. He’s the one that made the deal.

Sam still won’t look at him, damnit, even as Dean fists his hand in the back of his shirt. Sam's voice is low and pained when he says, “I’m sorry.”

Fear clenches in his gut. But before he do anything, there are demons surrounding the devil’s trap, appearing one by one in Bobby’s junkyard. They’d needed to take down his protections so Lilith could get in, but they hadn’t expected this. Of course she brought a freaking audience.

“Which one of you is Lilith?” he barks out, dragging Sam behind him. He refuses to let the last thing he sees be his brother hurt, or worse.

Dozens of demons stand there, human vessels with pitch black eyes. The hellhounds whimper and slink around them, but don’t seem interested in getting any closer. Dean can’t blame them.

Sam pries his hand off of him, stepping away before Dean can grab onto him again. He leaves the safety of the devil’s trap, which is fucking stupid. Dean’s lunging forward to stop him, but then there’s Bobby’s arm holding him back, face pale with a horror Dean doesn’t understand. He hadn’t looked like that even at Cold Oak, when they’d seen the gates open to hell.

The demons bow.

He blinks, not understanding what he’s seeing.

Sam is standing there in front of them, no protections, and they’re all bowing to him.

Except one.

Ruby is there, stupid red leather jacket and blonde hair and the smirk he hates so much. She walks around the demons up to Sam, who’s face is cold and expressionless. “She’s coming.”

“I know,” he says. “If this doesn’t work, I’m going to kill you.”

“Promise?” she returns. “If this doesn’t work, death will be a mercy.”

Dean tries to push Bobby off of him, to get in between Sam and this bitch, but he doesn’t let go.

Then there’s a little girl in a white dress, head tilted to the side. “Something here belongs to me.”

Ruby flinches, stepping just slightly behind Sam.

“Not you,” she sneers. “You haven’t belonged to me in a long time, I fear. You really think that this boy can save you?”

“Sam,” Ruby says.

He sighs, like this is a trial, and raises his hand.

Lilith’s sneer drops from her face. Her upper body yanks forward, but her legs won't move. “You bastard,” she snarls, raising her hand in return, but nothing happens.

For the first time, fear flickers across her face.

Ruby steps forward, her own terror swallowed up by arrogance, by delight.

Dean tries to move, but finds he’s just as frozen as Lilith, even more so. He can’t twitch a single muscle. Going by Bobby’s unnatural stillness next to him, he assumes he’s in the same boat.

“Samuel is the heir of the light bringer,” Ruby says. “He has taken his birthright. You can’t touch him.”

What’s she talking about? What birthright?

What has Sam done?

“No,” Lilith snarls. “He’s nothing more than one of Azazel’s experiments.”

“A night, a full day, and then morning,” Ruby says. “That’s what he was. Then he rose on the third day.” She shoots a mocking look his way. “If it weren’t for his brother, he would have died nothing more than a failed experiment. But he has risen.”

No. What does that mean? What’s she saying? He had just wanted Sammy back.

Did he do this? Is this his fault?

“Ruby,” Sam says, a note of warning in his voice.

“Right, right,” she sighs. Then, back to gleeful, “Her eyes.”

Sam’s finger twitches and Lilith’s eyes bleed black tears.

She screams, the sound even worse because her vessel is a child.

Ruby lists thing after thing, pulling out her fingernails, peeling her skin. Her blood is black, none of it red, and the injuries shouldn’t really be hurting her but they clearly are. Dean watches helplessly as Sam tortures Lilith at Ruby’s command, enacting one terrible thing against her after another.

Lilith lies there, moaning, limbs broken, body in pieces.

“That’s enough,” Sam says.

“Enough?” Ruby hisses, turning to face him. “You know what she did to me! She – she–”

Sam’s stoic mask breaks, creasing in sympathy. Dean would prefer it wasn’t for a demon, for Ruby, but at least he now recognizes his brother. He raises his free hand to her head, his touch an oddly gentle counterpoint to everything he’s done to Lilith. “I know. But it’s enough.”

Tears glint in her eyes, just for a second, then she swallows and nods, stepping away from Sam’s hand.

He steps forward, crouching in front of Lilith. “You shouldn’t have come after my brother. Now we both have to live with the consequences.” His mouth twists. "So to speak."

Whatever she would have said in response is lost in her screams. Black smoke pours from her, then lights up, like a spark in steel wool, the fire moving through her reminding him almost of the Colt.

Lilith dies. Sam kills her, no Colt, no devil’s trap. Nothing but his own terrifying powers.

“Will you bow to me now?” he asks.

Ruby tears her eyes from Lilith’s corpse and her irritating fucking smirk slides back into place. “Now?” She steps closer, tilting her head back almost like she’s about to kiss him, then falls gracefully to her knees in front of him. It looks more like she’s about to give him a blowjob than a form of subservience, but he thinks that for a moment Sam almost seems amused. “I bowed to you first.”

“So you did,” he says softly. He raises his voice. “Move out. Casey. You know your job.”

“Yes, sire,” says one of the demons, voice almost familiar.

Then Sam’s walking away, Ruby just a step behind him. The other demons follow suit, the hellhounds not even glancing at Dean as they get caught up in the procession.

Sam still won’t look at him. He only sees the back of his brother’s head as he leaves him behind

The only demon left is Casey. He knows her, he recognizes her, the demon he’d been trapped with in that city full of sin, the one that Sam had shot and killed. He’d seen him kill her.

She gets to her feet, offering him a smile as she draws closer. “Hello, Dean. I bet you never thought you’d see me again.”

She steps right into the devil’s trap and presses a hand to him and Bobby each. As soon as she touches them, they’re able to move, darting away from her and leaving her stuck in the devil’s trap.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, wishing his voice wasn’t shaking, but he has more important things to worry about.

She turns to face them. “Samuel does not want you to die. He did what he had to do to ensure you wouldn’t.”

“The fuck you talking about?” Bobby asks gruffly.

“I told you back then I was ready to follow Sam,” she says, stepping out of the devil’s trap like it’s nothing, which she definitely shouldn’t be able to do. Bobby hadn't thought that this thing would be able to contain Lilith, but Casey’s nowhere near Lilith’s level. It should work on her just fine.

Bobby’s hand darts out, throwing holy water over her, but it doesn’t so much as steam.

She just looks amused. “That won’t work on me now. Neither will an exorcism, or any of the usual tricks. I have been purified.” She holds out her hand to Dean and it’s the Colt, the one that they’d lost when Bela sold it. “This is the only thing that will kill me now.”

“And you’re just handing it over?” Dean asks.

“I have my orders,” she says steadily. “Samuel wants you to have it.”

His entire body goes gold.

“What do you mean purified?” Bobby asks, shooting Dean a concerned look. “You’re a demon. Purifying you should kill you.”

“And was Lucifer a demon?” she asks. “I have taken the sacrament.”

Dean doesn’t know what that means, but Bobby’s expression shifts from disgust to shock to a horror filled curiosity. “You drank Sam’s blood?”

She did what?

“I have taken the sacrament,” she repeats, lifting her chin. “Samuel purified me.”

How the hell would Sam’s blood do that? Why had she drank it in the first place? She’s a demon, not a damn vampire. Dean pushes those questions aside and instead asks, “How are you even alive?”

“Samuel resurrected me,” she says. First he can kill demons, and now he can bring them back? “He knows we had a rapport and he thought it would be easier if it was me.”

“What would be easier?” he asks. His head is spinning and his heart hurts and he doesn’t understand anything that just happened. At least being dragged to hell would have been simpler.

She presses the Colt into his hands. “Samuel doesn’t want you to die. He knows this will be difficult for you, that you’ll make poor choices. I have my orders. I am to stay with you and keep you alive. We’re going to get to know each other very well, Dean.”

“Like hell,” he says gruffly, hand tightening as he takes the Colt and raises it to her head. “What’s to stop me from killing you?”

“The same thing that will stop you from killing Samuel,” she says and he flinches. “Nothing.”

He stares at her. He can’t bring himself to speak.

“You’ll have to hunt him down the old fashioned way,” she says casually. “But if you can find him, you can kill him. We’re all under orders not to touch you. Samuel won’t stop you if you want kill him. The same way I won’t stop you if you want to kill me.”

“Why?” he asks.

She shrugs. “It’s always been up to you, Dean. He trusts you. If you decide that he must die, then he’s willing to die.”

Dean sold his soul for him. He’s not going to fucking kill him.

But the Sam he sold his soul for wasn’t capable of doing that to Lilith. He wouldn’t have even wanted to be.

“What about your demon lover?” Dean asks, thinking of the priest that Casey had embraced and kissed, the demon she’d begged to spare Dean’s life before Sam had killed them both. “Sam bring him back too?”

Grief chases across her face before she smooths it away. “He will. If I am good, and obedient, and loyal, then Samuel will bring him back for me.”

Dean’s stomach rolls to hear Sam described like that, like some sort of tyrant or king. Like Dad. “You really believe that?”

Casey meets his gaze steadily as she echoes the words she’d said to him in that basement as she spoke of Lucifer, except now she’s talking about his brother. “I have faith.”

#children yearn for the original S3 ending #supernatural

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certaimromance · 4 days ago

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𝜗𝜚 The Other Ghost Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: When you start avoiding Spencer in the hallway, he thinks it's the end. But maybe your cat can prove him wrong.

Words: 7,1k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of anxiety attacks. angst. hurt/comfort. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I'm so sensitive because THIS IS THE PENULTIMATE CHAPTER, and I can't believe it yet😭, but I hope I can post you the end of the series this week along with a couple of extras. I have an oral exam on Thursday (I'm a law student getting crazy), and after that I'll be more free.

Spencer Reid had grown used to the people he loved disappearing just when he needed them most. Always right after he’d let his guard down, when trust came naturally, and when things finally felt safe. That was when they left. Always.

But you don't.

It was a pattern he had identified throughout his life but stopped with you. Because you never left him.

You didn’t walk away the first time he told you about his work, when chilling details of old cases slipped out mid-sentence because his nerves got the better of him. You didn’t flinch when he recited gruesome facts with clinical precision, not realizing how heavy they sounded in a quiet kitchen at night. You didn’t leave the first time he launched into one of his long-winded explanations, full of theories and statistics you couldn’t quite follow but listened to anyway, because it mattered to him. You didn’t leave when he had to cancel dinner—for the third, fourth, fiftieth time—because the job called, because someone out there needed saving more urgently than he needed a warm meal or a quiet night with you. You stayed when he stood in your door with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands, crying for the first time as he told you about the parts of himself that made him feel broken. You stayed when he talked about his mother—her illness, her mind unraveling—and the helplessness he carried like a second skin. You didn’t leave, not even when he tried to push you away, when the fear of being loved and then left again made him cold and distant, when he tried to make you angry enough to walk out.

You stayed. Every time.

And yet, he didn’t love you simply because you were the only one who stayed. Spencer loved you for you.

For the way you were always willing to help others without hesitation, stepping into people’s pain like it was your nature to offer comfort. For how you could take the dullest palette—whether a room, a canvas, or a person—and breathe something vibrant into it, as you had quietly and irrevocably done with him. For the way your heart held space for everyone, no matter how broken or distant they were. For how gently you loved your cat, speaking to her like she was family.

And of course, for how you had fallen asleep on the couch this night, curled under a blanket beside his godson’s bed, trying to soothe his fevered restlessness. Spencer had found you there, half-lit by the dim nightlight in the room, your features softened in sleep, your hand still resting near the child’s arm like a silent guardian. You looked so peaceful, so entirely present even in rest, and it had struck him then—undeniably and with a quiet ache—how beautiful you were.

God, the smile on his face and the way his eyes sparkled at the image were impossible to ignore.

“Let her sleep a little longer,” JJ said softly at his side, her voice warm and quiet now that she was seeing Henry resting. Her eyes flicked to the couch where you lay curled up, the soft rise and fall of your breathing matching her son’s. A small smile touched her lips. “They look so peaceful, don’t they?”

He nodded, his gaze still lingering on you with a mix of relief and something softer, something like admiration. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low. “They really do.”

After a moment of quiet watching, they both stepped softly into the living room, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet as the first light of dawn seeped gently through the curtains. The room felt warm and lived-in, wrapped in the hush that comes just before the world fully wakes. Spencer lowered himself into the familiar armchair with a slow, measured breath, a strange calm settling into his chest, like something held tightly for too long had finally begun to loosen. Across from him, Jennifer eased onto the couch, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, studying his face and every subtle shift in his body, the way only someone who truly knew him could. Like a profiler, yes—but more than that, like a friend who already sensed his change.

“Now we can talk,” she said gently, folding her hands in her lap as she leaned back into the couch.

Spencer frowned, his brow furrowing as his gaze dropped briefly to his hands. “About what?” he asked, with his voice low and cautious.

JJ tilted her head slightly, her eyes warm but perceptive. “About you,” she said softly.

He shifted in the chair, uncomfortable beneath the weight of the question. “What about me?”

She gave him a small, knowing smile. “You look…happy, more relaxed than the last time I saw you.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came, or at least not at first. They caught somewhere in his throat, tangled in the mess of thoughts that always seemed to surface when he least wanted them to. His mind, unbidden, drifted back to you. To the quiet, undeniable way you had started to change things in him.

Because the last time his friend had seen him—just three days ago at his firearm requalification—he had been a different version of himself. More haunted. His eyes had been distant, unfocused, like he was staring through paper targets and into something he couldn’t quite name. He had lingered in the office afterward, pretending to be busy, shuffling files that didn’t need sorting, letting the clock drag so he could avoid returning to his apartment. Because going home meant walking past your door. It meant risking the possibility of seeing you in the hallway, of catching your eye and feeling like a soulless person.

But now, everything felt different. He had released those fears and allowed himself to be close to you again. Closer than he’d been in a long time, if he was being truly honest. And even though it had only been a few hours in your presence, something about being near you had already begun to dull the sharp edges of his worries, like a soothing balm on old wounds. For the first time in a while, he felt…almost numb to the weight he’d been carrying.

“I’m trying,” Spencer finally said, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Trying?” JJ echoed, leaning in a little, her eyes soft but insistent. “Come on, Spence, give me the real story.”

His cheeks flushed a gentle shade of pink, and his voice softened, almost shy. “Something good happened,” he admitted quietly, like sharing a fragile secret. “She knows how I feel…and, well, it’s mutual.”

A full smile bloomed on JJ’s face, sincere and full of relief. “I always knew it,” she murmured, her hand reaching out to squeeze his arm, grounding him in the moment. “I’m really happy for you two.”

He smiled too. But then it faded, like the flicker of a candle disturbed by a sudden draft. He looked down again, shoulders contracted and his friend's full attention on him.

“But…?”

“She doesn’t know everything yet.” Spencer said it as if it physically pained him to do so.

JJ didn't speak right away. Her fingers intertwined again in her lap as she watched him, calm and steady without trying to get too much in the way. But the slight wrinkle between her brows said it all and more.

“Then she knows how you feel about her,” JJ said carefully, “but not everything that happened while you were gone?”

He nodded once. “No.”

The silence hung, but not heavily. Not accusingly. Just waiting for the voice of reason.

“You’re supposed to be honest if you want to build something real with someone, Spence,” she said gently. “You want that, don’t you? Something real?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes drifted toward the soft spill of morning light seeping through the curtains, casting long golden streaks across the living room floor.

He thought about the mornings when the scent of coffee lingered in the kitchen and your sleepy smile was the first thing he saw, framed by sunlight and messy hair. The quiet afternoons spent doing nothing and everything, folding laundry side by side, sharing half-finished books, the soft sound of your laughter carrying through his apartment. The nights when he came home late, tired and worn, and found you curled on the couch with a blanket ready for him, the lamp still on because you were waiting. Always waiting. How lovely it had become to return to that—to you—even in the middle of the night, when the world felt heavy on his shoulders. How grounding it was to know that when the sky turned gray with dawn, you’d be there, soft and warm, pulling him close like home was something he could hold forever.

That thought alone made his chest ache.

“I just want to do this right,” he said quietly, his voice nearly lost to the stillness of the room.

“Then be honest.” JJ leaned forward, her voice dropping even softer, almost like a secret. “Don’t keep shielding her from your past like it’s something she’s not strong enough to see.”

Spencer finally nodded, the movement slow and heavy, like it took effort just to admit the truth to himself. Her words settled deep in his chest, sinking into the hollow space he always felt when he thought of you: the ache of not being fully known and the fear of losing you if he ever was. His hands curled into fists in his lap, the skin stretched tight over his knuckles, trembling with the weight of everything he hadn’t said. It wasn’t just guilt. It was longing. Desperation. The quiet, aching hope that maybe honesty could still be enough.

“I want to be honest,” he finally whispered, his voice thick with something like resolve. “But it’s hard. I’m afraid—”

“Afraid she won’t understand,” JJ finished gently, her eyes never leaving his. “Afraid she’ll walk away.”

He met her gaze, vulnerability raw in his eyes. “I’m scared I’ll lose her.”

“Then don’t wait,” she said softly. “Be the man you want her to see, and that will be okay.”

A long breath escaped him. Somewhere deep inside, a flicker of hope stirred, fragile but undeniable.

Maybe he just needed to find the right moment to tell you everything.

It was hard, especially because it was all his fault, being locked in his apartment knowing that you were next door wishing with all your might to never see him again. It was hard, it was painful, and it was so frustrating. It felt worse than anything that had happened to him before, worse even than any of the abandonments he had suffered earlier in his life, because this time, he himself had caused you to leave.

His own home had lost its warmth and familiarity, feeling hollow and foreign without you there. Two weeks had passed since you left, but the absence hung heavy in every corner. Your scent, the faintest trace of it, clung stubbornly to the air, though he fought against admitting it was fading. The candles you used to light, their soft glow once comforting, now sat nearly burned down to stubs, consumed by the many times he’d lit them. His favorite mug, the one you always used, remained untouched and perched in the exact same spot on the kitchen cabinet, making fun of his misery. Even Mittens, your beloved cat who once curled up at his feet without hesitation, had stopped coming by so often. It was as if even she sensed the distance between you two, as if she, too, was quietly mourning the rift his mistakes had created.

Because he never found the right time.

Every night since the last time you’d spoken to him, Spencer found himself haunted by the quiet of his apartment: an unbearable, echoing silence that seemed to grow heavier with each passing hour. Without fail, he wandered aimlessly from room to room, his fingertips grazing the places your presence still lingered.

He’d run his hands along the worn armrest of the sofa where you’d fallen asleep countless times, your head resting against a pillow you’d claimed as yours. His eyes would linger on the small stack of books you’d half-finished, your place still marked by a folded receipt or a pressed flower. He hadn’t moved them. Couldn’t. The floral-embroidered blanket remained crumpled over the armchair, untouched since the day you left. The sight of it was like a punch to the chest. He could still remember how it looked draped over your shoulders, how it smelled faintly of your perfume. Because every inch of the space was saturated with you.

And from time to time, when the silence grew too loud and unbearable, Spencer would reach for the old records you used to play, the ones you’d eagerly recommended, full of warmth and nostalgia. He’d set them spinning on the turntable, letting the familiar crackle and soft melodies seep into the empty spaces of the apartment. But no matter how beautiful the songs were, they could never quite reach past the weight pressing down on his chest. The notes floated through the air like ghosts, brushing against memories instead of skin.

Even sometimes, in moments of weakness, he’d find himself picking up his phone without thinking, scrolling through your messages, staring at your name as if willing it to light up with something. Anything. Even a cold, angry “I hate you” would’ve been better than the aching silence. Or maybe a mistake, an accidental call you didn’t mean to make but hadn’t stopped because you missed him, too.

But the screen stayed still. Black. Lifeless.

A blank reflection of your absence.

And every time it didn’t ring, it was like losing you all over again.

Because he never found the right time.

With each memory dug deep into his ribs like glass, aching with the kind of pain that made him want to scream. But he never did.

Not even once. Not even after the first time he really saw you since that morning in his car.

When Spencer stepped out of his apartment at just the wrong moment, he found himself caught off guard. Across the hall, your door creaked open after two long days of silence, two days where you hadn’t even ventured out except to grab your food delivery. Time seemed to slow as he spotted you emerging, hair still damp from a recent shower, loose strands clinging softly to your face. Your skin was bare, save for the faintest touch of makeup that usually framed your features so gently, now barely there. You wore your favorite worn-in clothes—the ones you always claimed were your “comfy armor”—soft, faded, and unmistakably you.

He wanted to say something. Anything. But his mouth remained closed, his voice buried under the guilt and the sharp pain of watching you from afar. He needed to come closer, to say how sorry he was and beg for forgiveness until maybe you would understand.

But now you weren’t alone. Your best friend stood beside you, chatting softly, her eyes flicking knowingly toward him. She gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, an unmistakable signal that he was there. Her presence made you seem even smaller, as if she were your shield, silently guarding you. The way she looked at him made it clear in an instant: she already knew everything. Because you had cried to her. Trusted her. She had picked up the pieces while he stood in the wreckage, unsure of how to fix what he’d broken.

You didn’t look at him.

Not even once.

Your gaze remained firmly ahead, like you’d trained yourself not to see him, like acknowledging him might unravel the hard-won peace you were barely holding onto. You didn’t rush, didn’t flinch, but you might as well have been walking past a stranger.

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and you both stepped inside. You never turned around.

But your friend did.

Just before the doors closed, she looked at him one last time: stern, protective, almost telling him it wasn't time.

Because he never found the right time.

And then the elevator was gone with all his happiness because you, finally, were avoiding him in the hallway.

“I’m just asking for the sake of asking,” Spencer lied, the words barely convincing even to his own ears. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, fingers threading through tangled thoughts, trying to smooth down the frustration that had built up again.

It was the third—no, fourth—time this week that he’d called his friend and boss, not to catch up, not to check in, but to ask the same question he’d asked again and again, dressed up in different words. He needed to work. He needed to get out of his head and out of his apartment before he went completely mad. The isolation, the guilt, the endless, suffocating silence…it was all too much. He needed the chaos of the job, the clarity of having a purpose, of being needed by someone, by anyone.

On the other end of the line, Emily sighed, heavy and audible through the speaker. He could almost hear her setting aside the file she’d been reviewing, its papers rustling softly like leaves in the wind.

“I want to have you back,” she said, her voice low but honest, carrying that familiar note of empathy only Emily could pull off while still sounding like a boss. “We all do. But I still don’t have an official answer yet.”

He knew what was coming before she even reached for it.

“I’ve been reviewing the return files,” she continued, flipping through something on her desk. “According to this report, you’re still missing your full psychological clearance.”

Spencer froze, jaw tightening.

Of course. The exam. The one he’d sat through half-awake, unshaven, raw with heartache, and haunted by too much truth. He had been too honest. Too transparent about how hollow he felt, how guilt clung to every inch of his skin like a second layer. He’d spoken as if he were still bleeding, and maybe he was. It hadn’t occurred to him then that honesty could work against him. He just needed to say the truth at least one time.

“I understand,” he muttered. “Maybe I should…do it again.”

“Again?” Emily asked, confused, before the implication landed. She went quiet for a beat. “Spencer…”

There was no judgment in her tone, just concern. And maybe a little sadness.

“I don’t want to push you if you’re not ready. You know that, right? You don’t have to prove anything, we can wait for you.”

“I’m ready,” he insisted, though even he heard the crack of uncertainty threading through his voice. “I need to be back.”

Emily didn’t reply right away. He imagined her studying his file, weighing the truth in his voice against the data on paper.

Finally, she exhaled. “Okay. If you say so…maybe I can talk to the Bureau psych team. Try to arrange something. A follow-up exam, maybe. We’ll see how it goes.”

Relief surged in his chest like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “But Spencer?”

“Hm?”

Her voice softened, the way it always did when she was threading careful empathy between her words. “JJ mentioned something…and if you need to talk—”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Loud and frantic. His head whipped toward the front door of his place. The knocking came again, sharper this time, rapid like whoever was on the other side couldn’t afford to wait another second.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Someone’s at the door. I should check—”

“Of course,” Emily said at once. “Take care of it. And…take care of yourself.”

He ended the call and rose to his feet, heart already hammering again. Something about the knock, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t someone delivering a package or a neighbor with a complaint. It was desperate, and that made his heart beat faster and imagine the worst scenarios.

And when he finally reached the door and opened it, what he saw on the other side stopped him in his tracks. It was bad, very bad.

You. Breathless. Eyes glassy with tears. And barely able to speak.

He was in shock, seeing you after an entire week apart. Seven long, aching days where he’d tried to convince himself that the idea of you showing up at his doorstep again was impossible. That whatever bridge had once connected the two of you had finally burned, quietly and without ceremony.

You stood there, framed by the dull glow of the hallway light, hair messy from what looked like hours of pacing or tossing in bed, and your eyes red-rimmed and glistening with fresh tears. You weren’t dressed to be out long; just slippers, soft sleep pants, and one of your worn-in shirts. The one you used to wear curled up beside him on his couch. The sight of it made Spencer’s stomach twist and made his fingers tighten around the edge of the door.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he asked instantly, his voice edged with panic as his eyes swept over you in a frantic scan, checking for blood, bruises, any sign of harm. His heart was already racing, thundering in his chest as his mind jumped to the worst-case scenarios. He stepped forward slightly, instinctively, as if ready to catch you should you collapse right there in the doorway.

But you shook your head quickly, breath stuttering. “Have you seen Mittens?” you asked, your voice cracking like it physically hurt to speak. “Tell me she’s with you.”

“No,” Spencer said, panic creeping into his own voice as he quickly scanned the hallway behind you, as if she might magically appear. “No, I—I haven’t seen her in a while. A couple of days maybe.”

“No?” you whispered again, like you couldn’t believe it, like the word itself might shatter you. Your shoulders shook as another tear slipped down your cheek, and you clutched your arms around yourself like you were barely holding together.

“She loves you,” you went on, the words tumbling out in a rush. “She always runs to your door. She likes your books and your blankets, and she sleeps on your couch sometimes when I’m gone. She feels safe with you.” You looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Please…please, tell me she’s with you.”

But she wasn’t.

And for a moment, Spencer wished more than anything that he could lie. That he could tell you what you needed to hear, just to take that pain off your face.

“Please.” You whispered, trying to calm the trembling of your hands. “Please tell me she is with you.”

He stepped forward instinctively, hands lifting halfway like he meant to take your shoulders to steady you, but stopped just shy of touching you, as if he wasn’t sure he still had the right.

“Hey, hey, slow down,” he said softly, his voice low and careful like he was trying not to scare you off. “Breathe. You’re shaking.”

His eyes searched yours, desperate to ease some of the panic etched across your face.

“Come inside, okay?” he said, stepping aside and holding the door open for you. “Sit down. Tell me everything, and I’ll help you. I swear I will.”

His tone held no hesitation, only quiet urgency: the kind of calm he used at crime scenes, the kind he only used when everything was falling apart and someone needed to hold it all together. Only this time, it wasn’t a stranger. It was you. And God, it wrecked him to see you like this.

You hesitated, but the weight of it all—the panic, the grief, the bone-deep exhaustion—was too much. Your knees were already starting to give, so you let him guide you in. The moment you stepped across the threshold, a familiar ache hit Spencer in the chest. You hadn’t been here in weeks, since that night you two kissed, and still it felt like you belonged more than he did.

You sat on the edge of the couch like the floor might give way beneath your feet if you leaned back too far, your whole frame tense and folded inward. Your hands wouldn’t stop moving, as if they were trying to keep your heart from spilling out of your chest.

“She’s gone,” you whispered, the words barely making it past your lips. Saying it out loud seemed to make it worse, like admitting it gave it more power. Your voice trembled, thin and raw. “I was staying at my best friend’s place for a few days, I couldn’t—”

You stopped yourself, but the silence that followed said more than your words could.

You couldn’t be in your own home because he was next door. And he knew it.

“I came back two nights ago, and she wasn’t there,” you went on, swallowing hard. “At first I thought she was hiding or maybe mad at me. That she was anxious or curled up somewhere weird like she does when she’s nervous. But I’ve looked. Everywhere. I’ve torn the whole apartment apart. I checked the windows, the closets, under the bed, and behind my paintings. I’ve walked the hallways and talked with our neighbors—”

Your breath caught, and you shook your head, eyes filling again.

“She’s just…gone.”

Spencer’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. He knew exactly what Mittens meant to you. She wasn’t just a pet, not by a long shot. She was your comfort on sleepless nights, the quiet, steady presence that stayed when everything else felt too loud. You’d adopted her six years ago, during one of the darkest periods of your life, and from that moment on, she had been your anchor. She had curled up beside you through heartbreaks and anxiety attacks, padded softly after you through every apartment move, and greeted you at the door like you were the most important person in the world. She was your family. Your safest place. And the fear of losing her now, after everything, felt like the final thread pulling loose. He could see all of that in your eyes, and it made his chest ache.

He knelt in front of you, trying to meet your eyes. “Okay. Okay, listen to me. Cats, especially indoor cats…they get curious, they slip out through open windows, sneak down the hall, and hide in tiny spaces for hours. And sometimes they come back after two or three days like nothing happened.”

“But she’s never done this before,” you said, shaking your head furiously. “Never. She always waits at the door for me. Always.”

“I know,” he said softly, his voice gentle and steady. “But it doesn’t mean something bad has happened. Cats are incredibly smart. Remember that study I told you about? A cat traveled over two hundred miles just to find its way back home. They navigate using scent and memory, it’s amazing how strong their instincts are.”

You let out a shaky breath, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, brushing your sleeve across your wet cheeks. “Please, not the migration theories right now…I can’t think,” you whispered, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

“I’m not trying to be clinical,” he said gently, his voice steady. “I just want you to hold onto hope.”

That was so him. Always trying to be your calm in the chaos.

Even when his own heart was breaking, even when you were the storm at his door, he’d steady his voice, soften his eyes, and make space for your pain like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He suddenly stood and moved to grab his phone. “I’ll call Garcia. She can help us make flyers and maybe put together a post for local missing pet pages online. I’ll print them myself. We’ll check every vet and shelter within ten miles, I swear. We can even look into pet tracking services or security footage from nearby buildings if she slipped outside. Whatever it takes.”

You stared at him, trembling, overwhelmed, but grateful. “You’d…you’d do that for her?”

Spencer met your gaze, and for a second, you both just looked at each other, everything unspoken thick in the air. “I’d do it for you.”

Silence.

Then, with your voice barely a whisper, you said, “I’m sorry for showing up out of nowhere…I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your words hung in the air, fragile and trembling, like they were afraid to exist. You weren’t just apologizing for the timing; you were apologizing for the heartbreak between you, for the silence that had stretched too long, for all the things you hadn’t said but had felt every day since you’d drifted apart.

“It’s okay,” he said gently, his voice warm and sure. “You don’t have to apologize.”

And for the first time in weeks, as you let your forehead fall into your hands and your shoulders shook in silent relief, Spencer felt something shift, something he hadn’t let himself believe in for far too long. Maybe he could still be someone who mattered. Someone you could lean on when everything else felt too heavy. Maybe, in all the quiet unraveling of the last few months, someone still needed him. And God, he needed that more than he could ever say.

He moved quietly through the kitchen, his every motion careful and deliberate, like he was afraid that even the clink of a spoon might shatter what little calm was left in the room. His long fingers reached for your favorite mug: the one with the faded constellation print he’d memorized long ago. He cradled it gently, thumb brushing over a tiny chip near the rim, as if the act of holding something so familiar might anchor him, too.

He busied himself with the tea, pretending his hands weren’t trembling ever so slightly, pretending he didn’t keep glancing back at you. You were curled in on yourself on the couch, your shoulders drawn tight, your hands trembling softly in your lap like you were holding something fragile, your hope, maybe. Spencer’s heart ached at the sight. He wanted to say something, to reach for you, but instead he turned back to the kettle and let the silence stretch, trying, so desperately, to be the calm you needed when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

Then, boom.

A sudden clap of thunder cracked the silence, and a second later, rain started tapping sharply against the windows. Not a light drizzle. Not a gentle mist. This was full, cold, heavy rain, washing over the street like it had something to prove.

Spencer paused, staring out the window at the downpour. And then he heard it: your breath catching behind him.

He turned just as you stood abruptly, already making for the door.

“No, no, no,” you said under your breath, panic spiking in your voice as you rushed toward your shoes, your arms fumbling into the sleeves of a hoodie that wasn’t even zipped. “She hates the rain, Spencer. She hates it. She’ll be terrified out there…what if she’s cold, or trapped, or trying to get back and—”

“Wait, hey,” he said quickly, abandoning the tea and moving toward you. “You can’t go out like that.”

“I have to!” You snapped, the fear laced in your voice so sharp it nearly broke him. “She’s alone. She’s out there, and it’s raining, and she doesn’t know how to be alone!”

“You’re in slippers and pajama pants,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You’re not even zipped up. You’ll get sick. You’re shaking.”

You were already trying to pull open the front door, but he reached gently across and closed it with his palm, keeping it shut, not with force but with care. Your eyes flared with desperation, tears streaming freely again now, but you didn’t resist him. Not really. You just looked defeated.

“I can’t just sit here,” you whispered. “I’ll go insane. I keep thinking…what if she’s waiting for me to find her?”

“I know,” he said, softer this time, resting one hand lightly on the doorframe beside your head so you didn’t feel caged in. “I know. That’s why I’m coming with you.”

Your breath hitched. You blinked at him.

“I’ll get dressed, grab an umbrella and a flashlight, and I’ll drive,” he said, already mentally mapping out the search radius and already calculating the best routes and how many flyers they could distribute in the area in under an hour. “You can direct me to the places she might go: quiet spots, favorite windows, bushes where she hides. But you need to be warm. You need to stay safe too. I need you safe, okay?”

That last sentence slipped out before he could stop it, but he didn’t take it back. He meant it. You mattered to him. And he would search every alley, every corner of this city if it meant bringing Mittens home and easing that sorrow in your eyes.

Your lip trembled, and then, finally, you nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

Spencer squeezed your arm gently. “Go grab a coat and real shoes. I’ll bring the tea in a travel mug, and then we’ll go.”

And as you disappeared down the hallway toward his room, he turned back to the kettle, which had just started to hiss with steam. He poured the tea carefully, screwed the lid onto the mug, and looked out the window again, watching the rain streak down the glass in frantic lines.

He didn’t know where Mittens was yet.

But he did know one thing with absolute certainty: he wouldn’t stop searching until he brought her home to you.

The rain hammered relentlessly, a steady drum against the city’s darkened streets and the car’s thin windows. You’d searched every alley, every hidden nook you could think of, places where Mittens might have slipped away to hide. Your voice was raw from calling her name over and over, hoarse and cracked, fading into the night air with no reply. The cold crept into your bones, soaked through your damp coat, seeping into your sleeves and chilling your arms. Your pants clung uncomfortably to your legs, heavy and cold. Strands of your hair stuck to your forehead and cheeks, plastered down by the rain. Your fingers trembled, not just from the chill, but from the gnawing, desperate worry that tightened your chest like a vise.

Spencer sat quietly behind the wheel, his eyes flicking between the road and you in the passenger seat, worry carved deep into his features. He wanted to say something, something to ease the storm inside you, but all he could do was keep driving, letting you search, hoping somehow you’d find her.

Hours seemed to stretch and blur until your voice finally broke through the silence, shaky and fragile. “Let’s go back.”

The words were barely a whisper, and you didn’t mean to sound like you were about to break, but the tremor in your voice gave you away. Spencer reached over, gently resting his hand on your arm. You flinched for just a moment, overwhelmed by exhaustion, but didn’t pull away.

When you arrived back at your apartment, the heaviness settled in like a physical weight. The air inside felt colder somehow, emptier than it had before you left. Spencer stood beside you, still dripping wet, umbrella forgotten by the door, curls matted and clinging to his forehead. You peeled off your coat with numb fingers, the fabric clinging to you, soaked through. Water pooled quietly on the floor beneath your feet as you moved toward the bathroom, your movements slow and heavy.

“I’m just going to dry off,” you muttered, voice hoarse.

Spencer nodded, his expression gentle. “I’ll put the kettle on again.”

You barely acknowledged him and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind you. You were ready to strip off your wet clothes, to let the warm water wash away the cold and the worry, to let the tears fall freely, maybe to sob like you hadn’t been able to before.

But then, something.

A low, soft purr drifted through the stillness.

Your breath caught in your throat. The bathroom was dark, but in the dim shadows, movement caught your eye.

There, nestled inside the bathtub, curled into a perfect little ball of gray fur, was Mittens. She was wrapped in something soft and achingly familiar, one of Spencer’s sweaters. Maybe he’d left it behind during one of his quiet visits, or maybe you had taken it for yourself long before things between you began to fall apart. Either way, it still carried the faint, comforting scent of him—books and soap and warmth—and somehow, that was what your cat had chosen to curl up in.

For a moment, you just stared, breath hitching in disbelief. The ache in your chest loosened just a little. “Mittens, my baby…”

You sank slowly to the tile floor, the chill of it bleeding through your soaked clothes, but the cold didn’t matter. Not now. Your hands trembled as you reached out, barely daring to believe she was real. But then your fingers sank into the soft, familiar fluff of her fur, and you let out a sound that was equal parts relief and disbelief.

You gathered her gently into your arms, cradling her against your chest like something sacred, your cheek pressing into the warmth of her tiny body. She was damp but purring: loud, steady, and unbothered. Her eyes blinked up at you lazily, like she hadn’t just broken your heart by vanishing. Like this was all just a nap to her. As if she’d been waiting here the whole time, perfectly content, wrapped in the one thing that still smelled like home.

Her purring vibrated through your bones. You clutched her tighter, your body beginning to shake as the weight of the last few days hit you all at once.

“Oh my God…” you whispered, voice cracking. Tears spilled freely now, hot and sudden as relief and love overwhelmed you.

She was okay.

She. Was. Okay.

“Spencer!” you called, your voice cracking sharply through the apartment. It wasn’t loud, but it was urgent, raw with emotion, with disbelief, with the kind of relief that made your lungs ache.

Footsteps echoed almost immediately, fast and worried. Spencer appeared in the doorway a second later, breath catching as he took in the sight of you: soaked, kneeling on the bathroom floor, cradling Mittens in your arms like something fragile and precious. His eyes darted from you to the bundle of gray fur, then back to your tear-streaked face.

“She was here,” you whispered, voice shaking. “The whole time. In the tub. With your sweater.”

Spencer blinked, and for a moment, his mouth parted like he didn’t know what to say. Then a soft, stunned smile tugged at his lips, the kind that made your chest squeeze.

“Of course she was,” he murmured, stepping inside slowly, crouching beside you. His eyes were warm, soft with understanding. “She missed you.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. “I tore this place apart,” you said, voice hoarse. “Twice. And she was just…here. Curled up like she never left.”

He reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair gently from your face, his fingertips barely grazing your skin. “Cats hide in the places we forget to check. They go where they feel safe,” he said, his voice quiet.

“I feel like such an idiot,” you whispered.

“No,” Spencer murmured gently, his voice quiet but unwavering. “You’re not. You were scared. That doesn’t make you foolish.”

You exhaled shakily, your breath catching on the edge of another sob that didn’t quite make it out. Slowly, you sat back, your arms still wrapped protectively around Mittens. You looked up at him: eyes swollen, red-rimmed, but steady in the way that only comes when exhaustion has stripped away every layer of pretense.

“You can go now,” you said quietly. Your voice was soft, barely audible, but the words landed between you with surprising weight. “Thank you…for everything. Really. You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in gently, but didn’t push further. He just nodded once, slowly, like he understood that you were done for tonight. That anything more would only stretch the fragile thread you were barely holding onto.

He moved toward the door, his steps hesitant. One hand found the frame as he lingered there, half in shadow, half in light, like he wasn’t sure which side he belonged on anymore. His eyes stayed on you, something unreadable flickering in their depth.

After a long pause, his voice broke the silence.

“I know this isn’t the right moment,” he said. “Maybe it never will be. But I have to say this before I go.”

Because he never found the right time.

You stayed quiet, watching him through the dim light.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer continued, the words quiet but cutting through the air like glass. “I really am. For all of it.”

He exhaled slowly and met your gaze again, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “You were right. About me shutting you out, about pushing you away. If I’d let you in…if I’d let you be there with me, maybe things would be easier for me to bear.” He shook his head slightly, a bitter smile ghosting his lips. “But I’m not sure it would have been better for you.”

Your throat tightened. Still, you didn’t speak.

He took a step back, then gave a small, almost defeated smile, like he was apologizing for all the mistakes you both had made. “I’m sorry for lying to you. Not for trying to protect you, because that’s who I am, I guess. Always trying to be the protector, even if it ends up hurting the people I care about most.”

You looked down at Mittens, who had settled quietly in your lap, utterly oblivious to the wreckage of hearts above her.

“Have a good night,” Spencer finished, and this time, he meant it like goodbye.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away. The gentle click of the door closing behind him was painfully final in the quiet room. You stayed sitting there, clutching your cat close, feeling the warmth of her small body against your chest and the weight of everything he had just said settling deep inside you, lingering like the fading echo of his footsteps down the hall.

For the first time since you had discovered the truth, you were no longer angry and hurt because he had just put a band-aid on your wound.

Because maybe he found the right time.

Sadly, what you didn’t know, what neither of you could have known, was that this moment, this moment together brought on by your cat's antics, would be the last time you would see him for what would feel like an eternity. At least for three more agonizing months.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee @23moonjellies @lolnothx06 @nnab

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #matthew gray gubler

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stylesispunk · 8 months ago

Text

Silent strain | part iv

outbreak! Joel Miller x f!reader

previous chapter | next chapter

summary: Time passes by and Joel still doesn't come back. The baby arrives and you feel lonely.

w.c: 10,5k

warnings: angst, mentions of birth, fluff, mentions of blood, not proofreading. Paragraphs in bold indicate flashbacks & paragraphs in cursive indicate journal entries. Reader cries a lot in this one, we didn't have a good week.

a/n: chapter four is here! Thank you to everyone who take their time to leave comments and share this story, which was supposed to be only 3 chapters but became longer. I hope you like this one. Reblogs and comments are appreciated. Happy reading. 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Since you had met Joel, this was the first time you had ever been in a room without him. You were surrounding by walls in a safe place that it was foreign for you, sitting alone on the edge of a bed that you had just shared with Joel the night prior, now feeling impossibly lonely without him around. The weight hit you all at once, the quiet, the loneliness, the reality that Joel had left and you didn’t know if him and Ellie would be alright.

The weight of it hit you all at once, the quiet, the loneliness, the overwhelming reality that Joel had left. That you didn’t know if he and Ellie were alright. If they ever would be. A tight knot formed in your chest, pulling tighter with each passing minute.

Your mind raced, thoughts of where Joel might be gnawing at you. Were they already on the road? Were they safe? Had they run into trouble? You tried to push the thoughts away, tried to convince yourself they were fine, that Joel would protect Ellie like he always had. But the fear lingered, gnawing at you in the quiet of the room.

You stood abruptly, the need to do something, anything, to shake off the growing anxiety driving you to your feet. Pacing around the bedroom, your hands trembled slightly as you ran them through your hair, trying to think, trying to breathe through the tightening in your chest.

But no matter how hard you tried; the worry wouldn’t leave. Each time you circled the room, it felt as though the walls were closing in a little more, trapping you in this unbearable uncertainty.

And then, as you turned again, your eyes landed on something that stopped you cold.

There, on the chair by the window, was Joel’s shirt. Not just any shirt—his favorite one, the one he always wore, the one that had become your favorite too. The sight of it hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from your lungs. You stepped closer, almost as if in a trance, and your trembling fingers reached out to touch the fabric.

The scent of him still lingered in the material, that familiar mix of worn cotton, faint sweat, and the earthy scent that was unmistakably Joel. The tears that had been building in your chest all day finally broke free, spilling down your cheeks as you clutched the shirt in your hands.

Life in the QZ didn’t leave much room for joy. Every day was a struggle, ration cards barely covering enough food, let alone anything extra. But you had managed to save up just enough to get him something special.

The shirt.

You had seen it hanging in the back of a small booth during one of your shifts at the QZ market. It wasn’t much—faded, a little worn—but it had a softness to it that you thought Joel might appreciate. He never said it out loud, but you could tell his clothes were becoming threadbare, the weight of the world making even the little comforts seem unattainable. You wanted to change that, even in a small way.

The look on his face when you handed it to him had been one of complete confusion, like he didn’t quite know what to do with kindness anymore.

“Why’d you get me this?” Joel had asked, his brow furrowing as he held up the shirt, inspecting it like he thought there was some kind of catch.

You shrugged, trying to play it off casually, but your heart was pounding in your chest. “I just… thought you could use something new. You’ve been wearing the same damn thing since I met you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes were still guarded, suspicious. “You used your rations for this?”

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice a little softer, more vulnerable than you intended. “It’s no big deal. Just… thought you deserved something nice.”

Joel stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. You could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the shirt like he was afraid to accept it, afraid of what it meant. His gaze flickered to yours, and you saw something there, unreadable.

“Why’re you doing this for me?” he asked quietly, his voice rough, almost accusing, as if he couldn’t believe that someone would care about him enough to make such a gesture.

You took a step closer, your heart hammering in your chest. “Because I want to, Joel. Because you matter to me.”

His eyes darkened, the weight of your words settling between you like a heavy fog. You could see the battle he was waging within himself, the walls he had built so high, trying to protect himself from feeling anything. But the look in his eyes softened, if only for a moment, and something shifted.

Before you could say anything else, before you even had a chance to breathe, he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hand cupped the back of your neck, rough but gentle, and then his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t soft or slow. It was raw, desperate, as if he had been holding himself back for far too long. The kiss stole the air from your lungs, a surge of warmth flooding through you. He kissed you like he needed it, like he couldn’t hold back anymore, and in that moment, you knew that this was more than just a Kiss, it was the first crack in his armor.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Neither could you.

“You shouldn’t be wastin’ rations on me,” he muttered, but his voice was softer now, almost tender.

You smiled, your hands still clutching the fabric of his shirt. “Not a waste. Not at all.”

Joel’s lips twitched, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw a small, real smile.

From that moment on, the shirt had become his favorite. He wore it often, and every time he did, it reminded you of that day, of the first time he had let you in.

From that moment on, you had become the most precious thing he had in the world.”

Tears blurred your vision as you sobbed into the fabric, holding onto it as if it were him, as if it could somehow bring him back. The ache in your heart was unbearable, the reality of his absence crashing over you like a tidal wave.

You whispered his name through your tears, wondering where he was, if he was thinking of you too. If he missed you, and of course he did, you thought. But what was really eating you was his safety. The fear clawed at you, the unknown hanging over you like a dark cloud.

"Please come back," you whispered to the empty room, your voice breaking. But the only answer was the silence, the vast, aching silence that now filled the space Joel had left behind.

At the same time, miles away, Joel lay on the cold floor of an abandoned house, his body limp, covered in sweat and blood. His breath came in ragged gasps, barely enough to keep him conscious. The world around him blurred, the edges of his vision darkening as pain coursed through his body. His grip on reality was slipping, but one thing remained constant in his mind: you.

He tried to focus, tried to stay awake, but it was getting harder. The wound in his side throbbed with every shallow breath, blood seeping through his clothes and pooling beneath him. The searing pain was relentless, but what hurt more was the thought of you, alone, without him.

Ellie was beside him, frantically trying to stop the bleeding, her hands shaking as she applied pressure to his wound. "Joel, stay with me," she pleaded, her voice trembling.

Joel’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, his gaze unfocused. He could hear her voice, but it felt distant, muffled, like she was speaking through water. His thoughts drifted to you—how you had always been the one to keep him grounded, to remind him there was something worth fighting for.

He thought of your smile, the way your eyes would light up when you laughed. He thought of the shirt you'd given him back in the QZ, how he hadn’t understood why someone like you would care for someone like him. He thought of the nights you spent together, wrapped in each other’s arms, and how your belly had grown your baby inside.

The thought of not having the chance of meeting his baby was pulling the string to life now.

"Joel, stay with me!" Ellie’s voice broke through the fog again, more urgent this time. She was crying now, her hands stained red as she tried to keep him alive. She had seen too much death, lost too many people, and she couldn’t lose him too. Not now.

Joel’s breath hitched as his body fought to stay conscious. He thought of you one last time, of the child growing inside you, the life he had left behind to protect Ellie. He had made a choice, but now, as the darkness threatened to pull him under, all he could think about was getting back to you.

His hand twitched, reaching for something—anything to hold on to—but all he felt was the cold, hard floor beneath him. His eyelids grew heavier, his body weaker, but somewhere deep inside, he clung to the hope that he would see you again. That he would make it back to you.

"Please," he whispered, though it was barely audible. He wasn’t sure if he was begging Ellie to save him or if it was a prayer to the universe to bring him back to you.

Ellie’s hands didn’t stop, her desperation fueling her as she fought to keep him alive. "I won’t let you die," she swore, her voice raw with emotion. "I won’t."

But as Joel’s world faded to black, the only thing on his mind was you, and the sound of your voice, the warmth of your touch, everything that had kept him going. The thought of you was his last tether to the world, the only thing he could hold onto in the darkness.

And then, there was nothing.

you stirred awake to the soft light filtering through the window, your body still heavy with exhaustion and the weight of your sorrow. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of Joel’s shirt, the scent of him lingering in the fibers, a bittersweet reminder of his absence.

A gentle knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You sat up slowly, wiping the remnants of tears from your cheeks, the reality of the past few days crashing back over you like a wave. “Come in,” you called, your voice hoarse from crying.

The door creaked open, revealing Tommy standing in the doorway, a worried expression etched across his face. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping into the room. “I thought I’d check on you.”

You forced a small smile, but it felt fragile, like it might shatter at any moment. “I’m okay,” you lied, though the truth hung heavily in the air between you.

Tommy’s gaze fell to the shirt in your hands, his expression shifting to one of understanding. “You miss him,” he stated rather than asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded, the tears welling up again, and you quickly blinked them away. “Of course I miss him. And I don’t know if he is okay.”

Tommy moved closer, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I wish I could tell you he is. But… we’ve been through a lot, and sometimes, we have to trust that they’ll come back to us.”

His words brought some comfort, but it was fleeting. “What if he doesn’t?” you whispered. “What if he and Ellie are hurt?”

You wanted to believe him, to cling to that hope, but the uncertainty gnawed at you. “I just want him back,” you admitted, the ache in your heart making your voice crack. “I want them both back, we were supposed to be a family.”

Tommy’s expression softened; the concern etched on his face deepening. “I know,” he replied, his voice steady. “You’re right. You three are a family, and it’s not fair for you to feel this way.”

The raw emotion in your words hung heavy in the air. You could feel the tears welling up again, threatening to spill over. “It just feels so empty without him.”

He nodded in understanding, his gaze unwavering. “Joel’s a fighter, and so are you. Just hold on to that. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that hope can keep us going even when things seem dark.”

“But what if hope isn’t enough?” you asked, frustration creeping into your voice. “What if he’s out there, and I’m just stuck here waiting?”

Tommy sighed, leaning forward slightly. “You’re not just waiting. You’re doing something important right now by taking care of yourself and that baby. Joel would want you to stay safe and strong. You’re both his world.”

His words made you pause. You had been so consumed with worry that you hadn’t allowed yourself to consider what Joel would want for you, for the baby. You needed to honor his love by taking care of yourself, even if it felt impossible at the moment.

“I know you’re right,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “It’s just hard to think of anything else when all I want is to be with him.”

Tommy reached over, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Now, you have to keep yourself strong for my baby nephew or niece there” he said pointing at your belly, “And I heard that there is a delicious breakfast waiting for you at my house.”

A small smile broke through your sadness at Tommy's words. The thought of food, especially something delicious, made your stomach rumble. “Breakfast, huh?” you said, attempting to lighten the mood. “Is it worth the trek over there?”

Tommy chuckled, the sound warm and comforting. “You bet it is. Maria’s been in the kitchen since sunrise, whipping up all sorts of goodies. You can’t say no to her pancakes.”

The mention of Maria made your heart feel a little lighter. She always had a way of brightening your day, and the thought of spending time with her and Tommy brought a hint of normalcy back into your chaotic world. “Alright, I guess I can be tempted by pancakes,” you said, wiping your eyes and taking a deep breath. “Just give me a moment to get ready.”

As you stood up and moved towards the small mirror on the wall, Tommy turned to leave, but not before he added, “And remember, you’re not alone in this. We’re all here for you, and Joel will come back. You have to believe that.”

You nodded, feeling the flicker of hope ignite once more within you. “I will, Tommy. Thank you.”

As the weeks passed, life in Jackson continued to move forward, albeit without Joel. You immersed yourself in the routine of the community, trying to find solace in the familiar faces and daily activities. However, your heart remained tethered to the memories of him, each thought a bittersweet reminder of what was lost.

Paul’s presence became more pronounced during this time. His visits were frequent, and he often lingered a bit longer than necessary, his laughter ringing through your home, filling the silence left by Joel. At first, you welcomed his company, finding comfort in his kindness, but gradually you began to notice the way his gaze lingered on you, the way his touch was a little too warm, a little too intentional.

You were oblivious to his growing intentions, too consumed by thoughts of Joel. Every time Paul made a gesture that hinted at something more—like the way he’d offer to carry things for you or the way his smile seemed to brighten when he caught your eye—you brushed it off as friendly camaraderie.

But in the quiet moments, especially as your pregnancy progressed, you couldn’t help but wonder what Joel would say or do. You often imagined him here, by your side, offering his protective presence and the warmth of his love.

One afternoon, while you were resting on the porch, Paul joined you, bringing along a small basket of fruit. “Thought you might like a snack,” he said, settling down beside you. “You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

“Thanks, Paul,” you replied, taking a piece of fruit and munching on it absentmindedly. Your mind drifted, imagining Joel’s voice teasing you about how much you were eating, and you couldn’t suppress a smile at the thought.

Paul watched you, his expression softening as he leaned a bit closer. “You know,” he started, hesitating for a moment as if weighing his words. “You’re pretty amazing. I admire how strong you are, going through all this without—”

“Without Joel?” you interjected gently, your heart clenching at the mention of his name. “I don’t really feel strong. I just… I’m doing what I have to do.”

Paul nodded, a hint of disappointment flickering across his face, but he quickly masked it with a smile. “Right. Just know I’m here for you, okay? Whatever you need.”

You offered him a grateful smile, but inside, the ache for Joel was relentless. You wanted to believe that everything would be okay, that Joel would come back, and that you could return to the life you had built together. But every passing day made the reality of that hope feel more distant.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow across the horizon, you felt the familiar pang of loneliness creeping back in. You were in Jackson, surrounded by people, yet the emptiness inside you was profound. No amount of comfort from Paul could fill the void that Joel had left behind.

February 15

It’s been weeks since Joel left, and I’m still struggling to accept it. I find myself waking up each morning, hoping that it was all just a nightmare, but the empty side of the bed reminds me of the truth. I miss him more than I can put into words.

Tommy and Maria have been amazing, and I’m grateful for their support. They try to keep me distracted, to make me feel like I’m not alone, but the truth is that every moment feels heavy without him here. Even the laughter we share feels tinged with sadness. I want to be strong, for my baby and for Joel, but some days, it feels like an impossible task.

And then there’s Paul. He’s kind and thoughtful, and I can see that he cares about me. I appreciate everything he does, but it feels wrong to let myself lean on him. My heart belongs to Joel, and nothing will change that. I’m still waiting for him to come back, to hold me again and make everything feel right.

I can’t shake the fear that I might never see him again. What if something happened? What if he’s in pain? My heart aches with every unanswered question. I wish I could tell him that I love him, that I’m thinking of him every second of the day.

But then, I think of the baby. The baby needs me to be strong. I need to focus on keeping myself healthy for them, even when it feels like my heart is breaking. I can’t forget about them in the midst of all this pain.

I keep reminding myself that I’m not alone. I have Tommy and Maria, and even Paul, though it feels complicated sometimes. I just wish I could feel whole again.

As I sit here writing, holding onto this shirt of Joel's, I hope that wherever he is, he knows how much I love him. I hope he’s safe and that he’s thinking of me too. I’ll keep writing until he returns. It’s the only way I know how to keep our story alive.”

It was one of those quiet evenings when the weight of Joel's absence seemed unbearable. You hadn’t seen much of Tommy or Maria that day, and Dr. Paul had stopped by as usual. This time, though, he lingered longer, suggesting he bring you dinner to keep you company. You hesitated, but the idea of eating alone in the house that felt more like a stranger’s shelter than a home wore on you. So, reluctantly, you agreed.

The two of you sat across from each other at the small table, plates of food in front of you, but you barely touched yours. Paul, on the other hand, seemed relaxed, making light conversation about the community, about his work. You nodded along, offering small smiles, but your mind wandered, as it always did, back to Joel.

After a while, Paul cleared his throat, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between bites. His eyes lingered on you, a softness there that made you shift uncomfortably in your seat. "You know," he began, his voice gentle but carrying a certain weight, "you won’t be able to do this alone forever."

You furrowed your brows, not quite following. "What do you mean?"

Paul leaned forward slightly, his expression serious, yet warm. "Raising a baby... it’s not something you should have to handle on your own. You’ll need someone by your side. Someone who can help you, take care of you and the baby."

Your heart skipped a beat at the insinuation, and for a moment, the room felt too small. The air thickened as you stared at him, realization dawning slowly. He wasn’t just offering help out of kindness. There was something more to his visits, to his attentiveness, something you hadn’t seen until now.

You swallowed hard, a flash of anger mixing with the ache of missing Joel. You pushed your plate away, your appetite completely gone now. "Joel’s gonna get back," you said firmly, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside you. "He’s coming back."

Paul blinked, taken aback by your response. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching yours as if trying to figure out how to respond. "I understand that you care for Joel," he said carefully, his tone measured, "but he left, didn’t he? He made a choice."

Your jaw tightened, defensive walls going up. "I don’t care about Joel. I love him. I’m in love with him. He’s doing what he has to. He’s coming back for us. I know it."

Paul’s gaze softened, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes—concern, perhaps, or frustration. “I just don’t want you to set yourself up for heartbreak. You deserve to have someone who’s here for you now, not just someone you hope will come back.”

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “You don’t know what we have, Paul. You don’t understand the bond we built, the things we’ve been through together.”

His expression shifted slightly, a mix of empathy and something you couldn’t quite place. “And I respect that. But you also need to think about your future—about your baby. What if he doesn’t come back? What if he’s...”

“Stop,” you interrupted, the word bursting from you like a shield. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. I won’t allow myself to entertain that thought. Joel will come back for us and before the baby arrives.”

The room fell into a tense silence, the only sounds coming from the gentle crackling of the fire in the corner and the distant hum of life outside. You could feel the weight of the unspoken hanging between you, a chasm created by the gulf of your differing hopes.

Paul opened his mouth, clearly torn on how to respond. “Look, I’m not trying to come between you two. I just—”

“I know,” you interjected, your voice calmer now, but still firm. “You care. And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, for the baby. But my heart belongs to Joel, and it always will. It’s not fair to me or to him to act like that connection doesn’t exist just because he’s not here right now.”

Paul sighed, leaning back in his chair with a resigned expression. “Okay. I hear you. But just know that I’m here for you, no matter what. Whether it’s just as a friend or... more. Just think about it, alright?”

You nodded, though your heart felt heavy. You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he wanted to help. But every time you thought of Joel, a warmth spread through you that no one else could replicate.

“Thanks, Paul,” you said quietly, forcing a small smile. “But I think you should go.”

Paul's face fell at your words, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features. The warmth that had been there moments before faded, replaced by a guarded expression. “I understand,” he replied softly, his voice steady despite the obvious hurt. “I just wanted to help you, to be there for you in any way I could.”

You felt a pang of guilt for turning him away, but you had to be firm. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Paul. Really. But from now on, I think it’s best if we keep things more... professional. I need to focus on me and the baby right now. I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.”

He nodded slowly, processing your words. “Of course. I can respect that,” he said, though the disappointment lingered in his eyes. “I’ll check on the baby and make sure you’re both doing okay, but I won’t push for anything more.”

“Thank you,” you said, relieved that he seemed to understand. “That’s all I need for now. Just someone who can help with check-ups and advice. No more dinners or flowers or anything like that. I need to keep my mind clear.”

Paul inhaled deeply, nodding again. “I get it. I really do. Just know that if you ever change your mind or need anything, I’m here.”

As he stood up to leave, the atmosphere in the room shifted, the weight of unspoken feelings hanging heavily in the air. You felt a mix of sadness and relief wash over you, knowing that you had made the right choice for your heart, but also recognizing the friendship that was slipping away.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice softening again as he moved toward the door. “And take care of that little one. I’ll be around to check on you both.”

“Thanks, Paul,” you replied, forcing a smile even though your heart felt heavy. As he stepped outside, the door closing gently behind him, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

You stared at the empty chair where he had just sat, the silence of the room settling around you. The reality of your situation loomed large; you were alone in a world where you were still waiting for Joel, still holding onto hope. The ache of missing him was as familiar as the beating of your heart, a constant reminder that some connections could never truly be replaced.

As you turned your gaze back to the window, you let your thoughts drift once more to Joel, the warmth of his memory wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. You closed your eyes and whispered his name, hoping with all your heart that he was safe, that he was thinking of you too, and that one day soon, he would return to fill the void in your life.

You were about to give birth and Joel would be here by then.

The day had finally arrived, but as you lay in the infirmary, the pain of contractions rippled through you, sharper than you could have imagined. Each wave of discomfort was accompanied by a fresh wave of disappointment and anger, emotions that seemed to swirl together in a chaotic dance within you.

You gripped the edge of the bed, trying to focus on your breathing, but it felt impossible to push away the nagging thought that Joel should have been there. This was a moment that deserved his presence, his strength. You had envisioned him by your side, his reassuring voice guiding you through the pain, just as he had done so many times before. But instead, you were alone, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and the sterile smell of antiseptic.

“Just breathe, you’re doing great,” Paul said, trying to offer comfort as he checked your progress. His voice was calm and steady, but it did little to soothe the tumult inside you. You could sense his concern, but all you could think about was Joel, his absence a heavy weight on your chest.

“Where is he?” you gasped, the question slipping from your lips, filled with a mix of desperation and fury. “He should be here! He promised... he would be back.” The words came out more like a plea, the frustration boiling beneath the surface as you fought against the pain.

Paul exchanged a worried glance with the Tommy and Marie before looking back at you. “I know you’re scared. But you need to focus on the baby right now. You can do this.”

You clenched your jaw, trying to focus on the here and now, but every wave of pain brought Joel’s face to your mind, and with it, a sharp pang of grief. Tommy’s hand was on yours, a steady, reassuring presence. “You’re doing great,” he murmured, though his voice sounded distant, almost muffled. “Just a little longer.”

You barely heard him, your thoughts swirling. The pressure built, and a cry escaped your lips as another contraction tore through you. Maria was on your other side, her face tight with worry. "Just breathe," she urged. "You're almost there."

You squeezed Tommy's hand harder, your nails digging into his skin, but he didn’t flinch. Finally, there was a moment of stillness, a pause in the storm of pain. You felt the baby slide free, and then there was a new sound, thin and high-pitched, cutting through the air, the cry of a newborn.

But instead of relief, a hollow feeling settled in your chest. Your breath hitched, and your eyes remained tightly shut, refusing to open, refusing to acknowledge what had just happened.

Maria moved quickly, wrapping the baby in a soft blanket, her eyes filled with tears as she turned to you. "It’s a girl," she whispered, her voice soft, almost reverent. "A beautiful, healthy girl."

You didn’t look. You couldn’t. “No,” you muttered, shaking your head weakly. “I… I don’t want to see her.”

Maria hesitated, a look of confusion flashing across her face. “But… she’s your baby,” she urged gently. "She's right here. She's perfect."

Tommy glanced at Maria, then back at you, a look of worry crossing his face. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, “what’s going on? You’ve been waiting for this, for her. She’s your daughter.”

You felt a sob catch in your throat, the words clawing to get out. "I can’t… I can’t do this," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Not without him. I can't..."

The room fell into a heavy silence, Maria and Tommy exchanging a look filled with unspoken concern. Tommy’s face softened, his grip on your hand tightening. “He’ll come back,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “Joel will come back. You know he would never leave you like this… not for good.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. "He left," you murmured, your voice trembling. "He left, and I don't know if he’s ever coming back. I don’t know how to do this without him. I don’t want to… I can’t look at her."

Maria’s expression softened, and she gently handed the baby to a nearby nurse, who took the little girl away for a moment. "It’s okay,” Maria whispered, sitting closer to you. "It's okay to be scared. It's okay to feel lost."

Your chest tightened, a sob breaking free from your lips. “I just… I needed him to be here,” you confessed, your voice small and broken. “I needed him, and he’s gone.”

Tommy rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand, his eyes filled with empathy. "I know," he said quietly. "I know it hurts. But you’re not alone, okay? We’re here, Maria and I… all of Jackson is here for you. And Joel… I believe he’ll come back. You have to believe that too."

You closed your eyes again, feeling the exhaustion settling over you like a heavy blanket. "I don’t know how to feel," you whispered, the weight of the moment pressing down on you.

Tommy sighed, nodding slowly. “Take your time,” he murmured. “We’re not going anywhere. And when you’re ready… your little girl will be here, waiting for you.”

Maria reached out, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered softly. “And she needs her mom. But we’ll take care of her for now. We’ll make sure she’s safe. You don’t have to do this alone.”

You nodded, barely, a sense of numbness spreading through you. Somewhere, deep inside, you wanted to believe that Joel would walk through that door any second now, that he’d see his daughter, hold her, and everything would be okay.

But until then, all you could do was wait.

A few hours later, the room had quieted down, the dim light from a nearby lamp casting soft shadows on the walls. You felt a heavy exhaustion weighing down on you, a bone-deep tiredness that seemed to seep into every part of your being. The adrenaline from the birth had faded, leaving you with a hollow ache that was more emotional than physical.

The door creaked open, and you heard the footsteps before you saw him.

Paul stepped inside, a gentle smile on his face. “Hey there,” he said softly, his voice low to avoid startling you. “How are you holding up?”

You nodded slightly, trying to muster a smile despite the emotional weight in your heart. “I’m okay. Just... tired.”

He moved closer, clearing his throat, looking down at you with a polite but firm expression. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice low in the quiet room. “I know it’s been a lot, and you’re tired… but your baby girl needs to be fed.”

You turned your head away, staring at the wall, trying to ignore the tightening in your chest. You weren’t ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He took a step closer, his voice growing softer, almost coaxing. “She’s hungry. And the sooner you start, the better it’ll be for both of you. I know this is hard, but…” He hesitated, a slight frown creasing his brow. “She needs her mom.”

You clenched your jaw, feeling a spark of irritation at his words. "I can’t," you muttered, your voice barely a whisper. “Not now.”

He sighed, moving to the edge of the bed, his eyes searching your face for something, understanding, maybe. “Look, I get it,” he began, his tone more insistent. “But you can’t just leave her to starve. You’re all she has right now. You’re her whole world.”

You shot him a sharp glance, your frustration bubbling up. "I said no," you replied, your voice firmer this time. “Get someone else to feed her.”

Paul’s expression tightened, and he ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "There isn't anyone else,” he pressed. “We don’t have a lot of resources here, and formula is limited. You have to do this, or she’ll suffer.”

The weight of his words hit you, but so did his tone. The way he seemed to be blaming you, as if it was your fault that you were too broken, too overwhelmed to even look at your own child.

Maria, who had been hovering nearby, stepped forward, placing a calming hand on the doctor’s arm. “Paul, give her a minute, okay?” she said softly but firmly. “She’s just been through a lot. Let’s give her some space.”

He nodded, reluctantly stepping back. "I’m just saying,” he muttered, his gaze flicking back to you. "She’s going to need her mother sooner rather than later."

He turned and left the room, his footsteps fading down the hallway. Maria watched him go, then turned back to you, her eyes filled with empathy. She reached out, gently squeezing your hand. “I know he can be a bit… pushy,” she said quietly, “but he’s right about one thing. She does need you.”

You swallowed hard, tears stinging your eyes again. “I just… I can’t face her, Maria,” you confessed, your voice breaking. “Not when I feel like this. Not without Joel.”

Maria nodded, understanding in her eyes. “I get it,” she whispered. “But you’re stronger than you think. And that little girl… she’s a part of you. And Joel, too.”

The words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you felt the weight of them settle in your heart. You were afraid — of loving this child, of losing her, of losing another part of yourself if Joel never came back. But there was also a flicker of something else, something deep and primal — the instinct to protect, to care, to nurture.

“I’ll bring her in,” Maria offered gently, “just for a moment. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. Just… see her. That’s all.”

You hesitated, then slowly nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. Maria gave you a small smile, squeezing your hand again before leaving the room.

A few moments later, she returned with a tiny bundle in her arms. Your baby. So small, so fragile. The baby’s eyes were closed, her tiny mouth opening and closing in search of comfort.

Maria carefully placed her in your arms, and for the first time, you looked down at your daughter. Her face was so small, her skin so soft, and suddenly, without warning, a sob broke free from your chest. The sight of her, the feel of her warmth against you, tore through all the walls you’d built.

She was a piece of you. And a piece of Joel. And despite everything, despite the pain, the fear, the uncertainty, she was here, and she was yours.

You took a shaky breath, feeling the tears flow freely down your cheeks. “Hey, little one,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

The baby stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open for the briefest moment, and in that instant, you felt a small spark of something in your chest, a tiny flicker of love, a tiny piece of you.

"Hi, baby Rosie," you whispered softly, naming her after the flowers you’d always loved, the ones that somehow still managed to grow even in the worst conditions. The name felt right, like a promise of something beautiful amidst all the harshness. Rosie shifted slightly, her tiny fingers curling against your chest, and a small, tender smile broke through your tears.

Maria’s smile widened, a warm, proud light in her eyes. "That’s a beautiful name," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "Rosie… it suits her."

Just then, Tommy stepped into the room, his footsteps soft but purposeful. His gaze fell on you, cradling Rosie in your arms, and his face softened into a gentle, almost surprised smile. "Well, look at that," he said quietly, moving closer, his eyes never leaving the small bundle in your arms. "That’s my niece."

He came to your side, glancing at Maria for a moment, then back to you. There was something in his expression — a mix of relief, pride, and a kind of cautious joy. He looked down at Rosie, and you could see his eyes glisten just a little. "She’s beautiful," he whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

You nodded, your own emotions swirling, a strange mix of overwhelming love and the lingering ache of uncertainty. “She is,” you agreed softly, glancing down at your daughter. “She’s so… tiny.”

Tommy chuckled, his smile growing wider. “Yeah, they start that way,” he teased gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He reached out, hesitating for a moment before his hand lightly brushed Rosie’s head. “Hey there, Rosie,” he murmured. “You’re gonna be just fine. Got your mama right here… and your uncle Tommy, too.”

Maria moved closer, wrapping an arm around Tommy’s waist. “We’re all here,” she added, her voice soft but firm. “Whatever you need, whenever you need it. You’ve got us.”

You felt a wave of gratitude wash over you, grateful for their presence, their support, and their love. It didn’t erase the pain or the uncertainty, but it made it a little easier to bear. Holding Rosie closer, you allowed yourself to breathe, to feel the warmth of this moment, to hope — even just a little — that things might be okay.

Rosie let out a tiny yawn, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a small smile tugging at your lips. "Thank you," you whispered, glancing up at Tommy and Maria. "For being here… for everything."

Tommy gave a slight nod, his expression tender. "We're family," he replied simply. "That’s what we do."

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you. Rosie began to fuss in your arms, her tiny mouth opening and closing, searching. You glanced at Maria, who gave you an encouraging nod. "It’s okay," she whispered. "She’s hungry."

You adjusted your position on the bed, feeling a mix of nervousness and instinct kicking in. As you began to unbutton your shirt to feed Rosie, you noticed Tommy standing awkwardly nearby, his eyes wide as he realized what was about to happen.

His face turned a shade redder, and he quickly looked away, trying to give you privacy. “Uh… yeah, I’ll just… I’ll, uh… step out,” he stammered, taking a step back toward the door. He paused for a moment, then added with a slight grin, “And don’t worry, I’ll never tell Joel I saw this.”

Maria burst out laughing at his awkwardness, shaking her head. “Oh, come on, Tommy. It’s just feeding a baby. You’ve seen worse.”

Tommy’s smile widened, though he kept his gaze firmly on the floor. "Yeah, but Joel’s my brother, and I don’t think he’d appreciate me having a front-row seat to… this," he muttered, his voice light with humor but his discomfort still clear.

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, a bit of tension easing from your shoulders. “Thanks, Tommy,” you said, grateful for the attempt at levity in such a raw moment. “And yeah, maybe keep this one to yourself.”

Tommy gave you a playful salute. “You got it,” he said before slipping out of the room, leaving you with Maria and Rosie.

Maria moved closer, her smile warm and understanding. “You’re doing great,” she murmured. “And don’t mind Tommy. He’s just being… well, Tommy.”

You nodded, feeling a little more at ease. Rosie’s small movements brought your attention back to her, and you focused on the task at hand. You guided her to latch, feeling a mix of discomfort and wonder as she began to feed. For a moment, all the noise in your mind quieted, and there was just the steady rhythm of her tiny breaths, the rise and fall of your chest, and the warmth of her against you.

Maria watched with a soft smile, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding. "See?" she whispered. "You’ve got this."

You nodded slowly, a small, tentative smile forming on your lips. Maybe, just maybe, you did.

A month had passed since Rosie was born, and the world outside felt heavier than ever. Each day, you rose with the sun, cradling your baby and navigating the delicate balance of motherhood in a world that seemed intent on breaking you. But the absence of Joel loomed larger than any other burden. His absence echoed through the quiet of your days, a painful reminder of the love you’d lost amid the chaos.

As you paced the small living space, the walls felt like they were closing in on you. The gentle cooing of Rosie contrasted sharply with the storm brewing in your heart. Every time you glanced at her, you felt a pang of anger bubble up — anger at the universe for taking him from you, anger at yourself for being so vulnerable, and anger at the endless cycle of survival that left little room for hope.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, Rosie cradled against your chest, her tiny fingers clutching your shirt. She was so innocent, so unaware of the weight that pressed down on you. You fought back tears as you watched her, the small signs of growth reminding you of everything you wished could be different. It felt unfair that she had to grow up in this world without her father, without the love and protection he could provide.

A knock at the door jolted you from your thoughts. You looked over, half-expecting to see Joel standing there, but when you opened the door, it was Tommy. His face bore the lines of concern, but you couldn't muster the energy to reciprocate his warmth.

"Hey," he greeted softly, stepping inside and glancing at Rosie, who had fallen asleep against you. “She’s getting so big.”

You forced a smile, but it felt like a mask over the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "Yeah," you said, your voice lacking its usual warmth. "She is."

Tommy shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it’s been tough… I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.”

You couldn’t hold back the anger any longer. “What I’m feeling? I’m feeling like a single mother in a godforsaken world with no sign of the man I love! He should be here with us, Tommy!” Your voice raised, the emotion pouring out like a floodgate unleashed.

“I know, and I’m so sorry,” he replied, his tone gentle but firm. “But we’re doing everything we can to find him. You have to believe that.”

You shook your head, stepping away from the door, feeling the walls close in even more. “What’s the point? What if he doesn’t come back? What if he never gets to meet Rosie? I can’t keep living in this limbo, waiting for something that might never happen.”

Tommy’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer. “You’re not alone, you know? Maria and I are here for you. We want to help however we can.”

You huffed, crossing your arms defensively. “Help? You can’t bring him back. No one can.” You paused. “Maria is carrying your child, Tommy. You must worry about her.”

“I do. And I also care for my niece and my sister-in-law” he answered.

You could see the sincerity in his eyes, but your frustration bubbled just below the surface. “That doesn’t change the fact that Joel should be here. He’s missing, and I can’t just sit back and pretend everything’s fine while you and Maria are about to become parents. It feels… unfair.”

Tommy’s expression grew serious. “I know it’s not easy, but you can’t push us away. We want to be here for you and Rosie. And just because Maria and I are starting a family doesn’t mean we care any less about you. We’re all in this together.”

You turned away, staring at the wall, feeling the weight of his words. Part of you wanted to reject his offer of support, to wallow in your pain and anger, but another part craved the connection and the reassurance that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone as you felt.

“Why can’t you just understand how hard this is for me?” you said, your voice trembling. “Every time I look at Rosie, I see everything I’ve lost. I can’t bear the thought of loving her and then losing her too.”

Tommy stepped closer, his voice lowering to a gentle tone. “You’re not going to lose her. And you’re not losing Joel either. He’s out there, and we’ll do everything we can to bring him back. But you have to let us help you through this. It’s okay to be scared, to feel overwhelmed. You don’t have to go through it all alone.”

You met his gaze, searching for any hint of insincerity, but all you found was unwavering support. Taking a deep breath, you let the anger fade just a little, allowing the vulnerability to seep in.

“Okay,” you said quietly, finally letting the walls you’d built start to crumble. “Maybe I don’t know how to be strong all the time. Maybe I do need help.”

Tommy’s face broke into a warm smile, relief washing over him. “Good. Let’s take it one day at a time. I’ll help however I can. We can figure out feeding routines, and I can take care of some chores around here. Just… don’t shut us out.”

You nodded slowly, “Thank you.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of the past month’s isolation slowly lifting. It wasn’t that you didn’t want help; it was that the fear of losing Joel had wrapped around you like a shroud, making it hard to see a way forward. But with Tommy’s support, a small crack of light broke through.

“Let’s start with something simple,” he suggested, his voice lightening a bit. “How about I take Rosie for a bit while you get some rest? You look like you could use it.”

You hesitated, glancing at the tiny bundle in your arms. “Are you sure? I don’t want to overwhelm you with her.”

Tommy chuckled softly, a hint of warmth in his voice. “I promise, I can handle a baby. Besides, I want to get to know my niece. Just give me a moment.”

You reluctantly handed Rosie over, your heart fluttering with both anxiety and relief. Watching as Tommy cradled her, a gentle smile on his face, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of comfort in knowing she was with family.

“See? She’s in good hands,” he assured you, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “I’ll take good care of her. You just take some time for yourself.”

You nodded, feeling a little more at ease. “Okay. Just for a little while.”

As Tommy settled into the rocking chair with Rosie, you stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind you. The moment you were alone, you felt the remnants of tension seep from your body, leaving you a bit lighter.

You made your way to the small bathroom, splashing cool water on your face and letting the sensation ground you. Your reflection in the mirror was a reminder of the past weeks — the sleepless nights, the tears, the fear. But beneath it all, you also saw a flicker of resilience.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped back into the living area, where the sounds of Tommy cooing at Rosie filled the space. It was a simple moment, but it felt monumental. You could see how much Tommy genuinely cared, and the thought made your heart swell.

As you joined them, settling onto the couch across from him, you watched the two of them. “What are you talking about?” you asked, a playful curiosity tugging at your lips.

Tommy looked up with a grin. “Just telling her all the stories about her uncle. I was quite the troublemaker, you know.”

“Oh really?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine that.”

He laughed; the sound infectious. “You should have seen me. I could charm anyone out of trouble… except for Joel. He always saw right through me.”

You felt a small smile break through as you listened to him reminisce. It was a distraction you desperately needed, a chance to be reminded of the good things in life even amidst the chaos.

As the minutes passed, you began to feel a shift within yourself — a softening of the hard edges that grief had carved into your heart. Maybe things weren’t as hopeless as they once seemed. Maybe, with time and support, you could learn to navigate this new chapter alongside Rosie, surrounded by family who cared.

And as you watched Tommy bounce Rosie gently, you allowed yourself to entertain a sliver of hope. Perhaps Joel would find his way back to you, and until then, you had a new purpose to embrace, even in the absence of the one you loved.

A few days later, the air in the infirmary was thick with the familiar scent of antiseptic and the quiet hum of muted conversations. You sat on a worn-out chair, cradling Rosie in your arms as you watched Paul examine her. The little one was wrapped snugly in a soft blanket, her tiny features serene as she slept.

Paul, focused on his task, checked Rosie’s vitals, his brow furrowed in concentration. You could see the care in his movements, the way he gently examined her delicate limbs and listened to her heartbeat. After a moment, he straightened up, turning his attention to you.

“She’s doing well,” he said, a hint of relief in his voice. “Gaining weight, which is a good sign. Just keep an eye on her feeding schedule.”

You nodded, feeling a swell of pride. “I’ve been trying my best.”

Paul offered a small smile before his expression shifted, becoming more serious. “Can we talk for a moment?”

“Okay,” you replied, bracing yourself for what might come next.

Paul’s gaze dropped, and he took a deep breath before speaking again. “See, I told you he wasn’t going to come back.”

The words struck you like a blow, igniting a spark of anger deep within. “What do you mean?” you snapped, your voice rising. “You’re just going to give up on him like that?”

“I'm not giving up,” Paul said quickly, his tone defensive. “I’m trying to prepare you for the reality of this situation.”

“Reality?” you echoed, disbelief flooding your voice. “You think I don’t know what reality is? You think I want to believe he’s gone? I can’t just accept that!”

He held up his hands, trying to calm the storm brewing inside you. “I understand. But holding onto hope for too long can be dangerous. It can lead to more pain.”

“More pain?” you laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “You think I haven’t felt pain? You think it doesn’t hurt to think about him every single day, wondering if he’s, okay? Wondering if he’s thinking of us?”

Paul’s expression softened, but the seriousness remained. “I just don’t want you to be hurt even more when the reality sinks in.”

You felt the heat rising in your cheeks, frustration and sorrow bubbling beneath the surface. “You don’t get to dictate how I feel, Paul! You can’t just stand there and tell me to give up on someone I love. Joel is out there. I know he is. He wouldn’t leave us. He wouldn’t abandon me and Rosie.”

“I wish I could believe that as much as you do,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you need to face the possibility that he’s not coming back. It’s not about giving up; it’s about being realistic.”

“Realistic?” you shot back, feeling tears prick at your eyes. “You think being realistic means I should stop hoping? That I should stop fighting for him? You’re wrong. If there’s even the slightest chance that he’s out there, I’m not going to let it go. Not now, not ever.”

Paul stepped closer; concern etched on his face. “You can’t do this alone. You need support, and right now, your focus should be on Rosie. She needs you.”

The mention of Rosie made the anger in your chest swirl into something more painful—guilt. “I know she needs me,” you said, your voice dropping. “But how can I be there for her when a part of me feels like it’s dying inside? How can I pretend everything is okay when I’m terrified of what the future holds without him?”

Paul’s expression softened further, and for a moment, you could see the struggle in his eyes. “I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m just trying to help you navigate this. You’re not alone in this fight, and we’re all here for you, ready to support you.”

Taking a deep breath, you felt the walls you had built around your heart beginning to crack. “I don’t want to lose him, Paul. I can’t. Not now, when I finally have a family of my own.”

“Then let us help you,” he urged, his voice earnest. “Let us be your family. We’ll do this together, one day at a time.”

You met his gaze, searching for a glimmer of hope, and found only sincerity. “I don’t know how,” you admitted, feeling the weight of your despair.

“Just start by being present,” he said gently. “For Rosie. For yourself. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. You’re stronger than you think, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

You shook your head, “No. I will never going to feel love for you, Paul”

Paul’s expression shifted, a mix of surprise and hurt flashing across his face. “I wasn’t asking you to love me,” he said, his voice steady but laced with disappointment. “I’m just trying to be here for you, to help you through this.”

“Help? You mean take Joel’s place?” you shot back, frustration bubbling over. “I can’t just forget about him, Paul. I won’t. I loved him, and I still do.”

“I get that,” he replied, his tone softening. “But you need to start living for yourself and Rosie. Holding onto Joel’s memory is one thing, but shutting everyone else out is another. You’re pushing away the people who care about you.”

You carefully shifted Rosie in your arms, holding her close as you locked eyes with Paul. “It’s her and me and Tommy and Maria; they are my family,” you said firmly, the protective instinct for your little girl rising within you. “You will never be part of that.”

Paul’s face fell, the weight of your words settling heavily in the air. “I understand that you feel this way, but it doesn’t mean you have to shut everyone out,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness.

“I’m sorry for being honest about it,” you continued, feeling a mixture of regret and resolve. “But having a daughter and being alone doesn’t make me a damsel in distress. I’m doing the best I can, and I won’t pretend to want something I don’t.”

His brows furrowed, and he took a step back as if your words had physically struck him. “I never thought of you as a damsel in distress. I see your strength, but it’s hard to see you pushing away those who want to help. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I appreciate that you care, Paul, but I don’t want help that comes with strings attached,” you insisted. “You may want to be there for me, but I’m not ready for that. My focus is Rosie, and I need to figure this out on my own.”

“I just want to be a part of your life, to support you both,” he replied, his voice softening. “I know it’s not easy, but I can be there for you without trying to replace Joel. I can respect that.”

You felt your heart ache “I said no.”

You felt your heart ache as the weight of his words hung in the air. “I said no,” you reiterated firmly, standing up from the chair, cradling Rosie closer to your chest. “I can’t do this right now, Paul. I need space.”

Paul opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, but then he hesitated, the look in his eyes shifting from concern to resignation. “I get it,” he said softly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just want what’s best for you and Rosie.”

You turned away, the tears threatening to spill over as you fought to keep your composure. “What’s best for me is to be left alone to figure this out. I have to focus on my daughter.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy and tense. You could feel Paul’s gaze on you, a mix of hurt and confusion in his expression, but you steeled yourself against it. You couldn’t let the guilt of his disappointment sway your decision.

“I’ll come back for the check-up,” you said, your voice shaking slightly. “But I need time to breathe, Paul. Please respect that.”

As you moved toward the door, you felt a pang of regret and relief. You opened the door, taking one last look at him. His expression was concerned and sad, but you knew this was what you needed.

As you stepped back into your small, cozy home, the door closing softly behind you, the weight of the world seemed to lift, even if just for a moment. You looked down at Rosie, her tiny eyes fluttering as she began to settle in your arms. Her soft breath was a reminder that despite everything, there was love and hope right here in your arms.

“Shh, Rosie. We’re home now,” you whispered gently, brushing your lips against her forehead. “It’s just you and me, baby girl. We’re gonna be okay.”

Her little hand gripped your shirt, and the corners of your mouth tugged into a small smile. The bond you felt with her was something no one could break. As you moved toward the rocking chair by the window, the soft glow of the setting sun bathed the room in a warm light. You gently lowered yourself into the chair, cradling Rosie close, rocking her slowly.

"You're so beautiful, Rosie," you murmured, watching her tiny face relax into sleep. "Your daddy would love you so much. He'll love you so much when he gets back. He’s coming back, sweetheart. I know he is."

The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that usually made your heart ache with Joel's absence. But tonight, with Rosie in your arms, that silence felt different—more peaceful, fuller. You hummed softly, rocking back and forth as Rosie’s breathing became steadier.

A melody drifted from your lips, a lullaby that Joel had once hummed to you on restless nights:

"Hush now, my darling, close your eyes,

The world is waiting, but not tonight."

Your voice trembled at the end, a lump forming in your throat as you pictured Joel. You imagined him here, sitting beside you, watching Rosie with that rare, soft smile he reserved for moments when his guard was down. He would hold her, kiss her tiny forehead, and tell you everything was going to be alright.

But as you sang, the warmth of Rosie’s little body against yours made you feel stronger than you thought you could be. She was the piece of Joel you held onto, the reminder of the life you were fighting to build, even if he wasn’t here now. You kissed her head, breathing in her soft baby scent, as you whispered the last words of the song:

"Sleep now, my love, you're safe in my arms,

One day you'll see all the world’s gleams.

But for today's, it's just you and me,

And we’ll wait for him, just wait and see."

Tears pricked your eyes, but this time, there was a sense of peace. You had your daughter, and she had you. For now, that was enough.

You rocked Rosie gently, her tiny body sinking deeper into sleep with each passing minute. Her soft breathing was steady, and her hand had finally relaxed its grip on your shirt. Carefully, you rose from the rocking chair, cradling her to your chest as you walked across the room to her crib.

“There you are, baby girl,” you whispered as you placed her down, tucking a blanket around her small form. Her chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm, her little face serene in the dim light of the room. For a moment, everything felt calm, as though the world outside didn't exist.

Just as you turned, a quiet knock came from the open door. You spun around to see Tommy standing there, a small smile on his face.

"Hey," he whispered, but the sound was still too loud in the quiet room.

You held a finger to your lips, motioning toward the crib. "Shh, Rosie just fell asleep," you murmured, stepping toward him.

Tommy nodded, lowering his voice further. “Sorry ‘bout that. I was just checkin’ in…”

Before you could respond, you noticed someone, standing behind Tommy, half-hidden by the doorframe. You blinked, your breath catching in your throat, your heart pounding in your ears.

It was Joel.

Your mind struggled to process the sight of him, standing there, looking worn and weary but alive. The moment stretched out as if time had slowed. His eyes, filled with an intensity you hadn’t seen in months, locked onto yours. It was as though the entire world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

Ellie was there too, just behind him. Her gaze seemed lost and weary.

Joel took a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours, but before he could come closer, you found yourself speaking, your voice sharp and surprising even to yourself.

“No.”

He stopped, his expression shifting from relief to confusion. Ellie, standing behind him, looked just as surprised, her eyes wide, and the exhaustion in her posture deepened. The room felt tense, charged with emotions you weren’t ready to face.

“No?” Joel repeated softly, his brows furrowing, unsure of how to respond.

You shook your head, taking a shaky breath. “You left,” you whispered, feeling the weight of months of fear, anger, and hurt bubbling to the surface.

Joel took another cautious step forward, his eyes never leaving yours, searching for any sign of rejection. When he saw none, he closed the distance between you in an instant, wrapping his arms tightly around your frame. The familiar warmth of his embrace washed over you, and for a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all.

You buried your face in his chest, the weight of everything finally crashing down. His heartbeat was strong and steady, grounding you in a way you had been desperately missing. Joel’s arms tightened around you as if he were afraid to let go, his grip protective, comforting. He pressed his face against the top of your head, exhaling a shaky breath.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered against his chest, your voice breaking. The tears came then, spilling over as months of fear, anger, and loneliness poured out of you all at once. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with guilt. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

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sillylilsquid · 5 days ago

Text

after daisy

pairing - felix x reader summary - after losing his service dog, Felix finds comfort in the ER tech who stayed. grief turns to healing, and healing turns to something more; with a new dog, shared nights, and the quiet love growing. warnings - animal death, description cpr/life saving measures, grief, depression 6k words

It was a slow lull between cases–the kind of pause that never lasts in veterinary medicine. Especially the ER.

You had finished tending to inpatients, and now you were restocking gauze and flushing lines when the front door slammed open with a bang that echoed through the fluorescent lit ER. “Help–please–someone help me!”

You turned on instinct. He was already running toward the counter, cradling a limp, bloody golden retriever in his arms. She was hardly moving. Her hind leg dangled at a sickening angle. Her coat was matted with road grit and blood. Her tags clinked weakly with each panicked step.

The man was crying–sobbing, actually–face blotchy and twisted in a raw kind of grief that made your stomach knot. “She–she got out–she ran, and then–a car–” His voice cracked and broke apart.

You didn’t ask for details. You rushed up to him, reaching for the dog. “We’ve got her,” you said, urgent but calm. “What’s your name? What’s her name?”

“Felix. This is Daisy.”

“Okay, I got her, let me take her.” You turned to him, eyes locking. “I need to take her now.”

He hesitated, shaking. His arms clutched tighter around the dog like he wasn’t sure he could let go. “I c-can’t–she’s my–she’s my–” His whole body folded inward, like the weight of her was all that was keeping him from collapsing too. “She’s my service dog.”

Your breath hitched. “I promise we’ll do everything we can,” you said softly now. But I need to take her back. Now.” You saw the moment he surrendered, the pain slicing through him as he handed her over. You rushed toward the back, yelling for help. “Hit by car, unconscious, bradycardic–”

The rest blurred into chaos. You laid Daisy on the exam table in the trauma bay, the team already swarming. You started checking vitals as you barked orders without hesitation. “Get me IV access–jugular if you have to. Start her on oxygen. Warm saline, full flow. Let’s move!”

Blood matted thick along her flank and mouth. Her breathing became agonal–barely there. You felt for a pulse at her femoral artery. Nothing. “She’s coding.”

You were already switching gears. Another tech slid in beside you and began chest compressions while you clipped in an IV catheter with a practiced flick. You flushed the line fast, securing it with tape as you called out for the doctor.

Dr. Park entered just as you began intubation. “Epi, 1ml IV push it now!” You wiped blood from her airway with gauze, sliding the endotracheal tube into her throat, then hooked it up to the ambu bag. “Tube’s in. 7.5, cuff’s inflated. Starting ventilation.”

The screen beeped. You switched out compression with a colleague, watching the monitor–still flat. Ultrasound was already on her chest. No motion. No flicker. Her heart was silent. “Come on, Daisy,” you whispered, almost without realizing. “Stay with me…”

Another round of epi was pushed. Another round of compressions. Sweat ran down your back beneath your scrubs. The whole room pulsed with urgency. Fear and desperation.

The monitors were a chaotic rhythm of being and alarms. Everyone was moving fast–hands passing syringes, lines being flushed, someone calling out vitals. You were pressing hard on Daisy’s chest, her ribs fragile under your hands, while another tech breathed for her through the endotracheal tube. Her gums still pale.

Still flatline. “No cardiac activity,” someone whispered. Dr. Park hesitated, glanced up at the clock. “I’m calling it,” he said softly.

Your hands dropped. The fell still–all that noise and effort sucked away in a single breath. You stared down at Daisy. Her chest no longer rose. Her fur was still warm under your gloves, but fading. You took a step back, nausea twisting in your guy. You tried. You tried everything. And it hadn’t been enough.

You scrubbed your hands under burning hot water for the third time. They were shaking. Dr. Park had already written up the report. “I’ll go talk to her owner,” he said and you nodded, deciding to stay behind. But you watched as he stepped out into the cold fluorescent hallway.

You began to clean Daisy up. Removing the endotracheal tube and her IVs. You used a warm rag to clean most of the blood off of her–at least what would come off easily. You brushed out her fur the best you could.

After digging through the cupboard you found the warmest, fuzziest blanket and wrapped Daisy in it. Trying to make her look as presentable as possible for Felix.

Meanwhile, Felix hadn’t moved from reception. He was in the far corner of the waiting area, hunched in a chair meant for paperwork and quick check-ins, not grief. He was still soaked through–his sweatshirt darkened with drying blood, jeans stained with road dust. One of his hands gripped Daisy’s leash like it was a lifeline; the other was shaking violently, holding a crushed paper towel someone must’ve handed him earlier.

His leg bounced, his lips moved soundlessly, like he was whispering to her. Maybe praying. Dr. Park cleared his throat, beginning to speak quietly. “Felix?”

He stood too fast, stumbling forward. His face was a mess–red and drawn and desperate. “Is she–can I–” The words caught and tangled in his throat.

“Let’s talk in private.” Dr. Park guided him toward an exam room, a larger one they used for sensitive cases. The blinds were drawn. The walls were quiet.

Felix sat stiffly in the lone chair beside the counter while Dr. Park remained standing, giving him space. The leash was still wrapped around Felix’s fist. The doctor didn’t sugarcoat–something he learned in his years in the field. “We tried everything we could. We intubated her, gave her fluids, medications, compressions. There was no cardiac activity on ultrasound. We ran multiple rounds of code, but…” A pause. “We couldn’t get her back. She’s passed away. I’m sorry.”

Felix didn’t react at first. He just sat there, staring at the floor. Then– “No.” Soft, almost inaudible. He shook his head, eyes burning as they welled up. “No, she’s strong. She always bounces back.” His voice broke hard, cracking open like something raw beneath it had finally surfaced. “I don’t understand–I–no–”

Dr. Park apologized again, giving Felix a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “I’ll have them bring her to you, if you’d like.” And that’s when he broke. Felix’s cries became sobs, his sobs turned into screams.

His face was buried into his hands, screaming inaudible words as he cried. His shoulders shook, his blonde hair fell in his face. Dr. Park turned to leave, heading straight back into the treatment area.

Meanwhile, you’d just finished getting charges put in the computer under Daisy’s profile. When you saw Dr. Park he flashed you a sad smile. “Can you take Daisy to him, please? Exam room 3.” You nodded. As you began to wrap Daisy up in a way that would look more peaceful, rather than traumatic, you heard Felix’s screams. His sobs. Daisy’s name falling from his lips over and over again.

“Jeez,” one of the other techs muttered. “It’s sad, but that’s a little dramatic.”

The words caused a fire to burn in your chest. You turned towards her and shook your head. “That was his service dog. Show some fucking compassion.” You muttered, grabbing Daisy in your arms and storming out of the trauma bay.

You headed towards the room Felix was in, the door was cracked and you saw his bent over frame. You knocked gently with your foot as you pushed the door open. “I have your girl for you,” you spoke softly. Felix’s head immediately snapped up. His eyes were bloodshot, face was blotchy, dried blood smeared across his face.

You gently laid Daisy on the ground making sure her blanket was wrapped neatly around her, leaving her head out. “I cleaned her up as much as I could,” you explained, brushing your fingers through the fur behind her ears. “Take all the time you need.”

Felix practically fell out of his chair, kneeling next to Daisy. His hands trembled as he reached out towards her. When his fingers touched her fur, he broke harder than before. His body hunched over, engulfing Daisy in a hug as he practically laid next to her on the floor. His face buried against the top of her head.

As he cried, repeating her name and how sorry he was, you quietly moved out of the room. Wanting to give him privacy, but you left the door cracked just slightly. Just in case he needed anything. And as you continued with the rest of your shift, you found yourself peeking out into the hallway towards his room.

The rest of your shift passed in quiet echoes–charting, cleaning, checking on overnight inpatients. You kept glancing at the clock. Thirty minutes went by. Then an hour. Two. By the time three hours had passed, the sun started to rise. You heard a few whispers, “Is he really still in there?” “At least he stopped crying.” And you had to bite your tongue.

You’d just clocked out for the day. You changed out of your scrubs, hoodie tugged over your head, badge stowed in your locker. But before you left, your feet pulled you back toward exam room 3. The door was still cracked. You knocked gently on the frame, barely louder than a breath. “Hey…” you said. “Can I sit with you?”

Felix didn’t look up right away. He was lying on the floor, curled around Daisy’s blanket wrapped form like a child would hold a stuffed animal. His face was blotchy, eyes swollen, lips dry from hours of silent crying. But he nodded.

So you stepped inside, quiet and small, and took the chair beside him. No words, just your presence. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.

After a few minutes, you scooted off the chair, sitting near them but not too close. And you reached out–slowly, carefully–fingers brushing through Daisy’s fur one last time. “She would’ve liked you. She liked everyone.”

You blinked hard, trying to swallow back tears. “I think I would’ve liked her too.” And the two of you just…sat. The kind of silence that doesn’t need filing. The kind that honors what was lost. The kind that stays.

The sky outside was blushing grey with morning when Felix finally stirred. He sat up slowly, arms reluctant to let go of Daisy’s small form, his forehead still pressed gently to hers. When he did lift his head, his eyes were glassy again–emptied out, yet somehow still overwhelmed. “I should go…” His voice sounded hoarse and wrecked. “Or I’ll stay here forever.” You wouldn’t have blamed him.

You smiled softly, the kind of smile that knows the pain he’s talking about. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Felix sat for another beat, stroking Daisy’s fur beneath the blanket, before whispering, “Thank you, Daisy. For everything.”

You swallowed down the ache in your throat. He looked up at you, hollowed out but grounded, like grief had finally started to settle into his bones. “Do you know what you want to do for aftercare?” you asked gently. “We can send her for private cremation if you want her ashes returned, or–”

Felix cut in, quietly, eyes dropping to her collar in his hands that he had unclipped from her. “I can’t afford that.” He hesitated then added, “The front desk already asked. Said I could make payments on what I owe for today.”

That landed harder than you expected. He didn’t look embarrassed. Just defeated. You only nodded. “Okay,” you said softly. “I understand.”

Felix bent over Daisy one last time, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, his lips trembling against her fur. “Goodnight, baby.”

He didn’t cry then. Not out loud. But his whole body trembled as he tucked the blanket around her once more. You waited until he stepped out of the room before reaching for her. Even though you were off the clock, you carried her back to treatment yourself–wrapped gently, respectfully–no different than you would if her person had still been watching.

The back was quiet again. Everyone moved slower in the early morning hours, that liminal space before the rush of breakfast cases and rechecks. You paused by the freezer door, then turned, and walked toward the doctor’s office instead. Dr. Park looked up from his computer when you knocked.

“Hey,” you said, clutching Daisy to you tightly. “I’m paying his bill. All of it. Cremation too. Private. I’ll cover it.”

He blinked. “You sure? I know it’s sad, but we can’t help everyone–”

You nodded once. “She was his whole world. That should matter more than a fucking invoice.”

He didn’t argue. Just typed up a few notes and handed you the paperwork to sign. You swiped your card without a second thought.

The sun was fully up by the time you stepped outside. The parking lot was mostly empty. The only cars were the tech’s and doctor’s–but one car hadn’t moved.

You recognized it immediately. Felix was still in the driver’s seat. Just…sitting there. Not on his phone. Not crying. Just staring through the windshield at the front doors of the hospital like something might walk back out.

You stopped by the curb. Watched him for a second, heart folding in your chest. Then, gently, you raised your hand in a quiet wave. He looked up. And when he saw you, something flickered in his expression–confused , exhausted, but grateful.

He raised his hand too. Not a wave. More of a reach.

That next evening at the clinic had settled into its usual rhythm–barking from the ICU, a limping kitten in Room 2, and a stack of unfinished SOAP notes growing at the treatment desk. You were finishing up a TPR when the front desk phone rang.

“Hey, uh…there’s a guy up front. Says his name’s Felix? Wants to talk to someone from ER.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You finished the vital signs with a rushed scribble and stepped into the lobby. He was standing by the counter, holding a small envelope. He looked better–less wrecked–but still like he hadn't quite landed back in his body yet. His hair was down, brushed messily out of his face as if he’d ran his fingers through it a thousand times.

When he spotted you, he straightened. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I…I just wanted to say thank you. For yesterday. For everything.”

He handed you the envelope. Inside was a thank you card–simple, soft grey with white script. Tucked inside was a photo: Felix and Daisy on a hiking trail, her tongue out, his smile wide and natural. There was a $50 gift card to a nearby cafe stapled inside with a note that read for the team–thank you for taking care of my girl.

You blinked fast. “You didn’t have to–”

“I did,” he cut in, voice rough. “I had to. You were…kind.” He turned to the front desk then, digging into his pocket for his wallet. “I also need to make a payment toward my bill,” he said. “They told me I could split it over a few weeks–”

The receptionist blinked at the screen. “Um. It’s actually…already paid in full.”

Felix’s brows furrowed. “That’s not right. I didn’t–”

“I know,” she replied, glancing behind him towards you.

You step forward silently. He turned when he felt you hovering. There was something guarded in his expression–grateful but confused, like he was trying to understand something he didn’t quite have the language for yet.

You didn’t explain. Didn’t confess. You just met his eyes and said, gently, “Daisy will be back in a few days.”

His mouth parted, then closed again. He swallowed. “Really?” His voice was tight, careful.

You nodded. “I’ll call when she’s ready to come home.”

He stared at you for a long moment, eyes wet again, but steadier this time. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “Really. For all of it.”

It’s been a few weeks. Daisy’s ashes are long gone. You wrapped them in tissue paper and tucked the box into a plain brown bag. You remember his fingers trembling when he took it from you–how he didn’t speak, didn’t look you in the eye. Just nodded once. Like if he opened his mouth, he might break apart in front of everyone.

You hadn’t seen him since. Not until today.

“That guy with the Australian accent was looking for you yesterday,” one of the night nurses says casually, popping gum between her teeth as you sign out. “Didn’t catch his name. Said he came by about his dog? He didn’t seem right.”

You pause, pen hovering midair. “Did he say anything else?”

She shrugs. “Just…asked if you were working. Didn’t come in. Stayed by the doors, looking kind of lost. Then left.”

You don’t ask why she didn’t come get you. You just nod and finish your charting.

The next day your shift drags. Nothing goes terribly wrong, but the hours feel heavier than usual–like you’re waiting for something. Every time the front door dings open, you glance toward it. And every time, it’s not him.

Until it is.

You’ve just clocked out. Your hoodie’s half zipped, stethoscope tucked in your bag. You round the corner to head out back and–there he is. Sitting on the curb outside the staff entrance. Hoodie up. Elbows on his knees. Daisy’s leash looped twice around his wrist, like it always was–except there’s no dog at the other end now. Just empty slack.

He looks up at the sound of the door. And when he sees you, he tries to smile. It doesn’t work. “Hey,” he mumbles. His voice is raw, like he hasn’t used it much lately. “Didn’t think I’d catch you.”

You sit next to him. Not too close. Not yet. He fidgets with the leash. You ask how he’s been doing. He doesn’t lie, not really.

“Not great,” he admits. “Some nights I still reach for her food bowl. Realize halfway through that I’m filling it for a ghost.”

He laughs a little, but it’s brittle. His eyes are rimmed red. There’s a dull tremor in his hand when he presses his fingers to his temple. “It’s quiet, you know? Real quiet. I thought I’d like that. But…it’s different without her. It’s not silence, it’s…”

“Absence,” you finish.

He nods. The silence between you this time is gentler.

“She used to wake me up when I had bad dreams,” he murmurs. “Now I just wake up and stay up. Because there’s no one to stop it.”

You glance at him. “Do you have anyone else?”

He shakes his head. “It was just her. Just Daisy.” A pause. “And you, that day.”

He doesn’t cry. But it’s a near thing. You want to ask a million things. You want to tell him it’s okay. But you don’t know if it is. So you say the only thing that feels real.

“You don’t have to go home yet.”

And you stand. You wait. And after a long, fragile pause–he rises too.

“I mean–sorry, that probably sounded weird. I just…” You let out a breath. “You can come to my place, if you want. Just for a bit. Stay as long as you need. I figured you might not wanna be alone.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Yeah, okay.”

It’s quiet on the drive over. You fiddle with the heat, give him the aux cord even though you know he won’t take it. His hands stay in his lap, the leash still curled tight in his grip like muscle memory.

At your place, he toes off his shoes and stands awkwardly by the door. You flick the lights on and toss your keys into the bowl. “Make yourself comfortable,” you announce. “Couch, bed, floor–whatever works. I’m gonna change into something less covered in fur and anxiety.”

That earns a soft snort from him. A tiny upward curl at the edge of his mouth.

You return in sweatpants and an old t-shirt. He hasn’t moved far–just wandered into your room and perched on the edge of your bed, eyes on the ground like he’s not sure if he should even sit.

“I haven’t eaten since, like, yesterday,” he mutters.

You sit down next to him and pull your phone out. “Pizza?” you ask.

He nods. “Pineapple?” you test.

A breathy laugh escapes him. “Absolutely not.”

“Good,” you say, tapping your order in. “I was gonna judge you.”

It takes about 40 minutes for the food to arrive, and in that time, something shifts. He tugs off his hoodie and sits cross legged on your comforter. You toss him a pillow and he hugs it close. “Is this weird?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you reply honestly. “But not in a bad way.”

You eat pizza sitting on your bed with your knees brushing, boxes spread out between you. He talks with his mouth full, and you don’t call him out on it. You’re just glad he’s eating.

After dinner, it’s quiet again–but not heavy. You stretch out and lean against the headboard. He follows, sinking down beside you. And that’s when he finally lets go.

“She used to curl up under the blanket and stick her nose out like a little burrito,” he murmurs, staring at his hands.

You let him talk. About Daisy. About her first day with him. Her surgeries. Her anxiety. Her stupid favorite toy that squeaked like a dying bird. The way she’d sit outside the bathroom door if he forgot to leave it open.

“She didn’t like most people, but she probably liked you.” He says.

Your chest goes tight. He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer, “She trusted you. That means something…I haven’t really talked about her. Not like this.”

You nod. “You can keep going. Say whatever you need. You don’t have to stop.”

He does. He talks until his voice goes hoarse. Until he can’t keep his eyes open. You don’t rush him. You just listen. At some point, his head tilts and lands on your shoulder. You go still. “Just a second,” he mumbles. “I’ll move.”

You shake your head. “You’re good.”

And he stays. Breathing slowly, warm beside you. And for the first time since you met him, there’s no difference. No wall. No leash between grief and comfort. Just two people on a bed, sharing quiet and space. The beginning of something fragile, and maybe healing.

It doesn't happen all at once. First, it’s just that one night. Then another. A few days later, he shows up outside the clinic near the end of your shift. No texts. Just leans on your car, hands in his jacket pockets, waiting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Figured I’d see if you wanted takeout,” he says.

You do.

And after that, it becomes a pattern.

Your place, his place. Takeout boxes in the trash, half finished movies in the queue. He starts leaving things behind: a hoodie on your chair, socks tucked in your laundry, a toothbrush next to yours without either of you mentioning it.

Some nights, you fall asleep talking. Other nights, you don't talk at all. But it’s never awkward. Not with him.

You start watching for his face after shifts. He waits for you outside the ER, hood up, sleeves pulled over his hands. He holds your lunch sometimes. Brings coffee. The other nurses start to notice.

“Is that your boyfriend?” one of them teases.

“No,” you say too quickly. “We’re just–friends.”

But even as you say it, it feels too simple.

One late evening, you’re curled up on the couch at his place. A documentary plays in the background, muted. He’s been quiet for a while, scrolling through something on his phone. You think he’s not really present until he says: “There’s a dog at the shelter.”

You turn toward him, brows raised. “Yeah?”

He nods, still looking at his screen. “They posted her picture this morning. She’s older. Little shy. Black lab mix. Looks like she’s had a rough time.”

You pause, watching the way he chews on the inside of his cheek. “You thinking about adopting her?”

A long silence. He locks his phone and tosses it beside him. Shrugs one shoulder. “I dunno. I don't know if I can do that again. Losing her. I don't know if it’s too soon, or if it’ll always be too soon.”

Your heart aches. You shift closer, gentle. “It’s not weird that you’re thinking about it.”

He looks at you. “I just thought…maybe we could go see her? You know. No pressure. Just meet her.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. We can do that.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath since Daisy died. And when you lean your head against his shoulder, he doesn’t flinch or pull away. His fingers brush yours on the blanket between you. Neither of you say it out loud, but there’s something shared in that silence. Something healing. Something ready.

The shelter smells like bleach and wet fur. It’s loud in the way all shelters are loud–echoing barks, whining, the sharp clang of metal bowls hitting concrete.

Felix tenses beside you as you check in at the front desk. He doesn’t say much, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, but his eyes never stop moving. Not fear exactly–just bracing. Expecting impact.

You glance at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Just…haven’t been here since…” He trails off and you just nod in understanding.

You reach out without thinking, touching his wrist. His gaze drops where your fingers brush his skin, then back up to your face. He doesn’t pull away.

The volunteer, a young guy in a ‘FOSTER HEROES’ t-shirt, comes to meet you with a clipboard. “You’re here to meet Emmy?”

Felix nods once.

“She’s a little shy,” the guy says as he leads you down the hallway. “Came from a neglect case. She’s sweet though. Warms up once she trusts you.”

You stop in front of a kennel near the end of the row. The dog inside is curled up at the back–small for a lab mix, black with graying fur around the muzzle, one ear that won’t quite stand up.

Emmy doesn’t rush the door. She doesn’t bark. She just lifts her head, slow and careful, her eyes big and cautious. “Hi, sweet girl,” you whisper.

You crouch down. Let her sniff you through the bars. She doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t move closer either. Felix stays back at first, hands still in his hoodie, watching.

“Do you want to go in?” the volunteer offers.

Felix hesitates. “You can both go,” he says. “No pressure.”

Slowly, Felix follows you inside. Emmy keeps her distance, tense and watchful, but when you sit cross-legged on the floor and open your palm, she takes a few slow steps forward. Her nails click against the concrete.

You don’t rush her. Felix sits beside you, knees drawn up. Quiet. He doesn’t reach for her–just watches the way her body moves, cautious and ready to bolt.

But then Emmy sniffs your hand. Then Felix’s shoe. Then, slowly, she presses her nose against his knee. He freezes. You don’t say anything.

She sniffs again, then settles her chin on his thigh like she’s already made a decision. Felix’s breath shudders. He brings one hand up, trembling just slightly, and lets it hover before gently touching her fur.

“She’s so soft,” he says, barely audible.

You smile. “She likes you.”

“You think?”

“Look at her.”

Emmy shifts, half in his lap now, tail flicking just once. The volunteer grins from the door. “Take all the time you need.”

You stay like that for a while. Letting the silence settle. Letting Felix fall in love again–slower this time, more careful.

And when the volunteer finally returns and asks, “So, wanna put in an application?” Felix looks to you first.

Not because he needs permission–but because this time, he doesn't want to do it alone. You smile and nod. “Yeah,” he says, voice soft but certain. “Yeah, I think I do.”

The rain starts as a gentle tapping on the windows, but by the time the takeout boxes are empty and the lights are low, it’s a full on storm. Thunder rolls heavy through the sky, shaking the apartment like a warning.

Felix doesn’t say much. He hasn’t said much since the shelter. Just looked at Emmy like she might vanish if he blinked too long.

Now, the three of you are curled up in the dim warmth of his bedroom–Emmy at the foot of the bed, you and Felix lying side by side under his gray comforter. The TV is on low, playing some random show that neither of you is really watching.

He flinches a little when lightning flashes. His breathing’s gotten tight. You shift closer, careful. “You okay?”

Felix nods–or maybe just tips his head a little–but his hand is fisting the blanket by his chest, jaw clenched.

“Storms?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Been better since Daisy. But…tonight’s loud.”

You don’t push. You just stay next to him, your hand resting lightly on his arm, grounding. You feel him trembling a little under your touch. A deep rumble of thunder rolls across the sky.

Felix’s body tenses again–barely perceptible, but you feel it. And then, like she’s been watching the whole time, Emmy rises from her spot at the foot of the bed.

She moves slowly, ears half cocked, and steps over the sheets to where Felix is lying frozen. One paw, then the next, up until she’s settling herself directly on top of his chest–not heavy, just enough to anchor him. Her chin rests just under his collarbone.

Felix holds his breath. And then–you hear it–a quiet, cracked whisper, “Daisy did this.”

Your heart lurches. He doesn't cry. Doesn’t move. Just lies there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his hand coming up like muscle memory to curl around Emmy’s side.

“First storm after I adopted her. I couldn’t breathe. And she–she just climbed on me. Like she knew.” His voice breaks around the edges. “She always knew.”

You press closer, curling your arm over his and resting your head against his shoulder. “Maybe Emmy knows too.”

He exhales, long and shaky, like something loosens inside him. “She’s not Daisy,” he says softly. “I know that.”

“She doesn’t have to be,” you whisper. “She’s Emmy. And you have each other now.”

There’s silence. Then Felix nods. Emmy shifts slightly, letting out a small sigh, her eyes fluttering shut. Thunder cracks again. This time, Felix doesn’t flinch.

Mornings settle into a rhythm.

Felix wakes before the alarm, most days. You brew the coffee while he rubs the sleep from his eyes. Emmy circles your ankles, tail wagging like she’s clocked in for duty.

She follows Felix from room to room–never needy, just near. Always watching. She nudges his leg when he’s pacing too much. Sits against his knees when he gets that faraway look, the one you’ve learned means he’s spiraling. She even curls up beside the bathroom door when he showers. Just like Daisy used to.

The first time you notice it, you glance down at her quiet shape, then up at Felix through the half steamed glass. “She waits,” you murmur. “Like she knows you need someone on the other side.”

Felix blinks at you, water running down his face. “Daisy did that,” he says, his voice sounding surprised.

You smile. “Maybe Daisy’s telling her how to help you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But that night you find him sitting on the couch while Emmy lay across his lap, and he’s just…still. Not scrolling, not fidgeting. Just breathing. You let yourself believe he’s healing.

It’s a Thursday when it happens.

Rain again, but softer this time. You’re both in sweats, Emmy’s squirrel toy already soaking wet from too many rounds of fetch in the hallway. Felix is on the floor, back against the couch, and Emmy trots over to drop the soggy toy in his lap. “Okay, okay, one more time, Daisy.”

It slips out like breath. He freezes. You’re on the couch, just close enough to see the shift in his eyes–the way the air pulls tight around him. “Felix.”

His jaw clenches. He looks down at Emmy like he just betrayed her. But Emmy doesn’t react. She just nudges his hand, then places the squirrel gently in his lap again.

Felix blinds rapidly, sniffling once. He picks up the toy, not even wiping his eyes. “You wanna play, huh?”

Emmy wags her tail and sits, ears up. He throws the squirrel. She sprints. You slide down next to him, touching his arm lightly.

“She knows who you meant.”

He laughs through a shaky breath. “I miss her.”

“I know.”

You don’t say more. You just sit there, letting Emmy trot back and forth between you, panting and proud. And when Felix rests his head on your shoulder, you lean into him–quiet, steady. Letting the weight of grief settle alongside something softer. Something new.

The squirrel toy lies abandoned now, forgotten in the corner. Felix’s legs are stretched out in front of him, your thigh pressed against his where you’ve both stayed slouched on the floor. Emmy has flopped belly-up between you, snoring faintly, her head resting across his ankle lke she belongs there.

Neither of you has said much in a while. The only sounds are the hum of the fridge and the soft patter of rain. You glance sideways at him, taking in the soft slump of his shoulders, the wet curls stuck to his temple. He’s tired. Not just end-of-the-day tired. The kind that lives in the bones.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

His eyes stay fixed on Emmy for a second too long. Then he swallows “I keep thinking about how bad I was doing,” he says, voice so quiet you almost miss it. “Back when Daisy died.”

You stay quiet. Let him lead.

“I wasn’t eating. Barely sleeping. I’d come home and the place felt like a grave like if I breathed too loud I’d break it.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Then I met you.”

You blink. “Felix…”

“I’m serious,” he says, looking at you now. Really looking. “You didn’t just hand me her ashes and disappear. You stayed. You kept showing up. You let me talk about her. You let me not talk about her.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“And now Emmy–she’s not Daisy. I know that. But she…fits. Like she just knew where she was supposed to be. With me. With us.”

He glances down at Emmy, who kicks her leg in her sleep like she’s chasing something.

“Some nights, when I wake up and I feel like I’m drowning again–I’ll turn over and you’re just…there. And she’s there.”

He looks back at you, blinking slowly.

“I don’t think I could do this without you.”

Your heart aches. You don’t speak, just slide your fingers between his, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to,” you whisper.

He leans into you, forehead resting against yours, lashes damp. “Promise?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Felix.”

Emmy stirs, shifting so her paw flops over both your legs like a sleep seal of approval. And for the first time in a long time, you see something new in Felix’s eyes. Not just grief. But hope.

Felix stays pressed against you for a long moment, his breath slow and steady. The storm outside has softened to a light drizzle, but inside the room, something warmer is starting to flicker between you.

You shift closer, letting your hand rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. His eyes find yours, searching, hesitant–like he’s asking permission without words.

You smile softly. “You know,” you murmur, “you don’t have to be scared here.”

His lips twitch in a small, tired smile. “I’m not scared,” he says quietly. “Maybe…just tired.”

You nod, understanding. And then, carefully, as if testing the waters, your fingers brush a stray curl from his forehead. Felix closes his eyes at the touch, leaning into it like it’s the safest place in the world.

You hesitate, then tuck your hand behind his neck, pulling him gently closer. His eyes flutter open, and you see that vulnerable mix of hope and uncertainty again.

“Can I…?” you ask softly.

He nods, and your lips find his. The kiss is slow, soft–like the quiet promise of something new, something healing.

Felix’s hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing gentle circles. Emmy stirs again at your feet but doesn’t move, like she knows this moment is yours.

When you pull back, your foreheads rest together. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again,” he confesses, voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, rubbing your nose against his. “Me neither.”

“Thank you,” Felix says, voice thick with emotion.

You squeeze his hand. “No, thank you. For letting me in.”

Outside, the last of the thunder rumbles softly–but inside, it’s calm. Warm. Full of new beginnings.

a/n - sorry for the heartbreak, but ugh this idea has been in my head for a while. I work in vet med and see so many grieve. xoxo hope u enjoyed

#felix #lee felix #stray kids felix #skz felix #felix x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids #stray kids imagines #skz #skz imagines #skz x reader

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