#mannequin draping

[wifdc]

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞… 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬! 🌞💛

Fashion Design students nailed the Mannequin Draping Challenge with sunflower vibes, warm colour tones, pleated bust detailing and a bold balloon sleeve twist!

High fashion, heat and pure creativity 🔥

🎨 Theme: Sunflower 🌈 Style: Warm Tones + Dramatic Sleeves 👠 Vibe: Runway Ready

View more details about Advanced Diploma in Fashion Designing Course

Admissions Open 2025… Join Now!

Regards, Waves Institute of Fashion Designing

[jelimatedressform]

How To Use Jelimate Female Half Scale Dress Form Tailor Mannequin To Mak...

[k00297028]

Fashion - Design

Although sketching is important it’s also important for me to explore draping and to see if I can be inspired further. Seeing if I want a garment that’s more fitted or looser,smaller or bigger. I thought of doing a mermaid gown but why not take it an extra step further and find another way to represent the movement of a fish,

Draping was part of my exploration to get more inspiration with how my prints on the fabric folds while being manipulated onto the mannequin. There are countless ways of how I want to use my fabric but with still wanting to show the mesmerising movement I believe draping would be the best option. I’ll be coming up with sketches of potential drapes in the next post.

[sunseekerdeluxe]

Tunesday 41

Also heard this week:

Acid Throne - Kingdom's Death Aiwass - The Falling Anaal Nathrakh - The Whole of the Law Anathema - The Crestfallen EP Angra - Aurora Consurgens The Anchoress - Confessions of a Romance Novelist The Anchoress - Confessions of a Romance Novelist: The Kitchen Sessions The Answer Lies in the Black Void - Thou Shalt Anti-Depressive Delivery - Feel. Melt. Release. Escape. Autarkh - Emergent Baroness - Purple Candlemass - Epicus Doomicus Metallicus Crimson Glory - Crimson Glory Deftones - Gore Dokken - Back for the Attack Dredg - Orph Editors - In Dream Failure - The Heart Is a Monster Florence + the Machine - How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful Peter Gabriel - "Live and Let Live (Bright-Side Mix)" Peter Gabriel - "Live and Let Live (Dark-Side Mix)" Left Cross - Upon Desecrated Altars The Lord & Marthe - The Eye of Destiny Yngwie Malmsteen - Fire & Ice Morne - Engraved with Pain Nails - You Will Never Be One of Us Nine Inch Nails - Not the Actual Events Opeth - Sorceress Poets of the Fall - Clearview Porcupine Tree - Stupid Dream Queensrÿche - Condition Hüman Rush - Moving Pictures Thronehammer - Kingslayer Voivod - Post Society Wormhole - Almost Human The Wounded Kings - Visions in Bone XTC - 3D EP Y Kant Tori Read - Y Kant Tori Read Year of the Cobra - ...in the Shadows Below

[sarquarium]

playing dress up with my weird robot clone

[rosallora]

The Clothing Problem

(Some important info for this point is that I am fat, it's important to know this, it's a Clothing Thing and it complicates the scenario)

I constantly cycle between:

-I should make my own clothing because I know how to sew (problem: I have a full time job and a life outside of that) -I should buy cheaper clothing / fast fashion because they're the only places that will accommodate me at a reasonable price since department stores don't (problem: I have morals) -I should save up to buy clothes from more sustainable / slow fashion online (problem: I'd really like to expand my wardrobe in a meaningful way and if I do this I can maybe purchase one garment per fiscal quarter) -I should just walk into a mens' warehouse and demand to be dressed like a fine academic butch (There's a lot going on here)

[ilhoonftw]

brands really think i can't tell they are using ai generated images in their ads and on items...

[twistpixel]

Bruce’s cape but it has magnetic closures in the front like a shitty screen door

[kathaelipwse]

DRAPED IN ARROGANCE | J.Yunho

“You weren’t just wearing my designs, you were wearing me.”

Pairing: Designer!Jeong Yunho x Model!Fem.Reader

Word Count: 14,473 words Reading Time: 52-ish mins

Trope: Enemies to Lovers kind of- | Workplace Tension | Designer x Muse | He Falls First And Hard

Genre: Angst | Romance | Fashion Industry AU | Slow Burn

Warnings: Gossip, bullying, class divide, touch-starved tension, emotional trauma, mild alcohol use, mentions of attempted murder (non-graphic), NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Synopsis: You crash an invite-only fashion casting. He stops the show. Picks you. The industry whispers that you’re his obsession. He says it’s just business. But when touch turns to tension, and jealousy turns to war— You’ll either become his greatest masterpiece… or the muse that ruins him.

Note: For the girls who’ve ever been told they don’t belong—this one if for you. For the ones who walk like a storm, speak like they mean it, and still get called “too much”—this one is stitched for you.

1.2k followers special <3

The air in the cavernous studio was a thick, palpable hum of ambition and barely contained nerves. It wasn't just the scent of new fabric and expensive perfumes; it was the unspoken desperation of a hundred dreams crammed into one room. An elite, invite-only casting, the kind that legends were made from, or careers were quietly extinguished. And you? You were an anomaly, a rogue element in this carefully curated ecosystem, a rookie with no real business being there, yet somehow, you were.

You strode in, not with the demure, practiced grace of the models who had been groomed for this moment since childhood, but with a raw, almost feral energy. Each step was a statement, a ripple of defiance in a perfectly still, perfectly polished pond. Your head wasn’t tilted in an apology or a plea for acceptance; it was held high, a banner of your untamed spirit. You knew you stuck out, felt the sidelong glances and the faint whispers that followed your unauthorized passage. They were sizing you up, dissecting your every move, but you met their stares with a cool indifference that bordered on disdain. You weren't here to make friends. You were here to walk.

Then, the atmosphere shifted. A palpable wave of anticipation, a sudden hush that swallowed the nervous chatter. He entered the space. Yunho. The name itself was a whisper of power, a reverberation of success and unyielding control. He was everything the industry deemed perfect: sharp angles, an intimidating presence, and eyes that missed nothing. They weren't just observing; they were dissecting, analyzing, calculating. And then, those eyes landed on you.

The world seemed to narrow, the periphery fading into a blur. His gaze, cold and assessing, fixed solely on you, a stark spotlight in a room full of flickering possibilities. He didn't just look; he consumed, absorbing every nuance of your posture, the subtle curve of your lips, the defiant set of your jaw. And then, he did the unthinkable. He brought the entire audition to a standstill. The music faded, the murmur of voices died, leaving only the deafening silence punctuated by the soft click of cameras.

Confusion, thick and immediate, rippled through the room like a tangible force. Heads swiveled, whispers like silk ribbons unfurled, imbued with a mixture of bewilderment and barely concealed resentment: Who is she? Why her? What just happened? You could feel their frustration, their carefully constructed poise cracking under the unexpected halt. But you didn't flinch. You just met his gaze, an unyielding challenge in your own eyes.

Yunho’s voice cut through the murmurs, perfectly polite yet infused with a chilling cruelty that made the air itself seem to thin. "The rest of you," his words resonated through the vast space, each one a precise, devastating incision, "are mannequins. She walks like war."

A collective gasp, stifled quickly by the sheer force of his presence. The words hung in the air, a declaration that simultaneously elevated you and annihilated everyone else. Mannequins. Lifeless. Impersonal. Disposable. And then, you, walking like war. It was a compliment, undeniably, but delivered with the detached precision of a surgeon.

You couldn't help it. A subtle, almost imperceptible roll of your eyes was your immediate, involuntary response. A direct, unvarnished challenge to his pronouncement, to his power, to his very perception of you. The clash was instant, undeniable. It was as if two opposing forces had collided, sparks flying in the silent room.

He saw it, of course. That flicker of defiance in your gaze, the slight twitch at the corner of your lips. He was annoyed by your attitude, you could sense it radiating off him, a tightly coiled tension beneath his composed exterior. But it was precisely that unbridled spirit, that audacity, that shaped your walk, the way you carried yourself. It wasn't about perfection; it was about presence. It was about impact. You weren't just moving across a floor; you were claiming the space, demanding attention, igniting a reaction.

You were the one who could command a runway, leave jaws on the floor, render an audience breathless. You were the one the industry would kill to have as their model, the elusive quality that every designer chased. And there was no way in hell he was letting you walk out of this room without being his. He saw the fire in your eyes, the unwavering confidence that bordered on arrogance. He saw the potential for greatness, not just in your movements, but in the sheer force of your personality.

That raw, untamed essence was the very reason he would even bother handling you. You were a project, a challenge, a potential goldmine. It was business, after all. A highly calculated, exceptionally profitable business venture. Or was it something else? A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, a momentary crack in the polished facade. A recognition, perhaps, of a kindred spirit, a mirror of his own relentless drive. But it was quickly masked, relegated to the realm of the unspoken. For now, it was strictly business. And as you held his gaze, a quiet battle raging between you, you knew this was just the beginning.

The vast studio, a crucible of ambition and cutthroat competition, now felt like a gilded cage. The initial shock of Yunho’s chilling pronouncement—that you “walked like war” while others were mere mannequins—had solidified into the stark, unyielding reality of training. It was brutal, an endless cycle of grueling rehearsals and meticulous fittings where fabric was stretched and pinned with surgical precision. Other models, once poised and seemingly unbreakable, often ended their days in quiet despair, their confidence chipped away by Yunho’s relentless pursuit of perfection.

Yet, with you, it was glaringly different. He was weirdly calm, a stark contrast to the storm he unleashed on everyone else. His instructions to you were delivered with a quiet intensity, his gaze steady, almost expectant, as if he saw something unique within you that others lacked. You found yourself arguing back, a natural reflex to his calculated demands, challenging his directives, questioning his methods. And to your surprise, he listened, sometimes even engaging in a quiet, intellectual sparring match that left other models baffled and envious.

This unusual dynamic, however, did not go unnoticed. The other models, a tightly wound coil of simmering insecurities and cutthroat ambition, observed your every interaction. At first, it was barely audible murmurs, like the rustle of expensive fabrics. Then, it escalated to outright backbiting like crazy, their voices dripping with a saccharine sweetness that masked potent venom. They spun elaborate rumors, painting you as a calculating opportunist, a schemer who had somehow, inexplicably, earned Yunho’s favor through illicit means. The most persistent, and perhaps the most infuriating, was the insinuation that you were “sleeping with the head himself.” They’d goad you, making snide comments just loud enough for you to overhear—remarks about “shortcuts to the top” or “special treatment.” They’d try to bully you when Yunho wasn't around, their tactics ranging from “accidentally” bumping into you in the halls to subtly sabotaging your props during rehearsals.

But did you let it affect you? No. A cold, quiet rage often settled in your gut. You knew these whispers, these petty acts, meant nothing to your ultimate goal. They were the desperate thrashings of those who couldn't comprehend or replicate the raw spark that had caught Yunho’s eye. You were here for business, a singular, unwavering focus that acted as your shield. And you believed Yunho meant the same. He was a visionary, a perfectionist, driven by an ambition as ruthless as your own. You were his tool, his muse, his latest project. Nothing more.

Seven months in, the relentless grind, coupled with the incessant, festering rumors, began to take its toll. The whispers had become a constant hum in your ears, a background noise that never truly faded. The isolation, enforced by the other models’ disdain, became a heavy cloak you wore daily. You were excelling, pushing the boundaries of what a model could do, mastering every walk, every expression. But every success, every hard-won compliment, felt tainted by the unspoken accusations, by the knowledge of the poisoned atmosphere that surrounded you. It was a suffocating weight, an invisible barrier between you and the world, and it was getting worse and WORSE day by day. You felt your resolve fraying, the steel in your spine beginning to bend. You were on the brink, ready to throw in the towel, to walk away from the very thing you had fought so hard to be a part of. The frustration was compounded by the fact that Yunho had no concrete proof of the bullying, and neither did you. It was a shadowy war of whispers, glances, and calculated omissions, impossible to pin down, impossible to confront directly.

One evening, after a particularly grueling rehearsal that had stretched late into the night, the vast studio finally began to empty. You lingered, gathering your belongings slowly, the desire to escape the building warring with the profound exhaustion that had settled deep in your bones. The last few models hurried out, their footsteps echoing before fading into silence. You were alone, or so you thought. Suddenly, Yunho was there, his presence filling the vast, quiet space, his back to the door, effectively blocking your exit. He hadn't made a sound.

You had requested for wanting to quit, knowing yunho wouldn't take it well. Especially since it was cause of the other people.

He cornered you, not physically, but with the sheer intensity of his gaze, an almost magnetic pull that held you in place. His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was low, stripped of its usual polite cruelty, replaced by a raw, almost impatient edge.

“You think I chose you for your politeness?” His words were not a question, but a challenge, an accusation that cut through your exhaustion. He was testing you, pushing, as he always did.

Your frustration, seven months of bottled-up anger and hurt, of relentless striving under a cloud of suspicion, finally erupted. The words tumbled out, sharp and uncontrolled, laced with the bitterness that had been simmering beneath the surface. “No,” you hissed, the word cutting through the quiet like a whip. “You chose me because I make your ego hard.” The audacity of the statement, the brutal honesty, hung in the air, a volatile charge.

The first tension crackled between you, an almost audible sizzle in the charged atmosphere. His eyes, usually so guarded, widened imperceptibly, a flash of surprise, perhaps even a flicker of grudging admiration, crossing their depths. He stiffened, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly, as if your words had struck a nerve he didn't realize was exposed. Yours, blazing with defiance, met his without a single flinch, refusing to back down from the raw truth you had just laid bare. The eye contact lingered, stretching for what felt like an eternity, far too long for a boss and his employee, too long for mere colleagues. In that prolonged, silent stare, something fundamental shifted. It was a silent acknowledgment of a connection that transcended the professional, a dangerous, undeniable current that had been building beneath the surface for months. It was the first undeniable tremor, a significant crack in the carefully constructed façade of business, revealing a glimpse of something far more complex, far more personal, and potentially far more dangerous than either of you had anticipated.

He broke the gaze first, though his eyes still tracked you, a subtle shift in his posture suggesting a battle within. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his chest rising and falling. “And what does that imply, exactly?” he finally asked, his voice now dangerously low, each word weighted with an unspoken challenge. “That my choices are driven by something so… base? So easily satisfied?”

You scoffed, a short, sharp sound that conveyed all your contempt for his carefully maintained illusion. “It implies you chose me because I give you a thrill, a challenge. Because I’m not a mannequin, as you so eloquently put it. I’m a war you can’t quite win, and that excites you.” Your voice had dropped too, matching his intensity, a quiet ferocity that belied your exhaustion. “It implies I’m a disruption you’re obsessed with controlling, because you can’t stand not being in absolute command.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something almost akin to amusement in their depths, quickly extinguished. “Control is essential in this industry. Chaos leads to ruin.”

“And I’m chaos, aren’t I?” you retorted, stepping closer, your own anger finally giving way to a weary clarity. “I’m the rumor mill, the one they hate because you show me an ounce of respect. The one they say is ‘sleeping her way to the top’ because you don’t scream at me like you do everyone else.” Your voice cracked slightly on the last words, the weight of the past months momentarily crushing your defiance. You hated showing weakness, especially to him.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He studied you, his gaze sweeping over your face as if searching for something, some hidden vulnerability. “Are these accusations bothering you?” His tone was almost gentle, a softness that was more unsettling than his usual harshness. “Is that why you’re ready to break?”

The question hung in the air, a direct hit to your most vulnerable point. You wanted to deny it, to put on a brave face, but the exhaustion was too profound, the emotional toll too heavy. You just stared at him, your eyes welling slightly, not with tears of sadness, but of pure, unadulterated frustration. “What proof do you have?” you finally whispered, your voice hoarse. “What proof do I have? They don’t leave notes, Yunho. They leave glances, whispers, ‘accidents.’ It’s a poison that you can’t see, but it’s suffocating.”

He took a step closer, his shadow falling over you, momentarily enveloping you. The air between you was thick with unspoken truths. “And you think quitting solves anything?” he challenged, his voice regaining its sharp edge. “That you can outrun their pathetic jealousy? You think this industry will suddenly become kind just because you step out of my orbit?”

“No,” you hissed, the fight returning, your voice regaining its steel. “But maybe I can breathe. Maybe I can find a place where I’m not a trophy, not a project, not a symbol of your ego.”

His eyes locked onto yours again, the raw intensity back in full force. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second, then he clenched it into a fist, dropping it back to his side. It was a micro-expression, a momentary lapse in his control, but you saw it. He wanted to touch you, to offer comfort, or perhaps to exert control.

“You think I don’t see it?” His voice was barely a whisper now, resonant with a surprising depth of emotion. “The way they look at you, the things they say. I see it all. Do you think I’m blind to how you’re treated? You think I tolerate it?” His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in them. “I protect what’s mine. Even if what’s mine is stupid enough to think it isn’t.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. “Protect what’s yours?” You laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that conveyed all your contempt. “I am not yours, Yunho. I am not an object, a fucking marketing piece for your collection. I am an employee, and this is business.” The defiance was back, stronger than ever. “And as your employee, I’m done.”

You turned, the exhaustion and the anger finally propelling you towards the door he had once blocked. You would walk out, you decided, and you wouldn't look back. You would reclaim your breath, your sanity, even if it meant sacrificing the dream you had fought so hard to achieve.

He let you go. The silence behind you was deafening. But as you reached the door, you heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible sound of his jaw clenching, hard enough to bruise. You couldn't see him, but you knew. He was standing there, rigid, his composure fracturing in the quiet aftermath of your fight. He knew you were something way more than just an employee, more than a marketing piece, more than a ‘war’ he wanted to control. He kept telling himself you were nothing to him, just a business decision. But the tightness in his chest, the unexpected fury that flared when you spoke of leaving, told a different story.

You walked out into the cool night air, the city lights a blur. That night, the two of you didn't meet, though y'll had come face to face you chose to walk past him.

---

The fitting room was a sanctuary of soft light and hushed fabrics, a stark contrast to the usual controlled chaos of the studio. Yet, even here, the air was thick with an unspoken charge. You stood on the platform, clad in a design that was both breathtaking and unnervingly revealing. It was a gown of rich, dark silk, molded to your form, but its most striking feature was the entirely backless piece, a plunging cut that exposed every curve of your spine, ending just at the rise of your hips. The dress clung to you like a second skin, intimate in its design, demanding absolute stillness and confidence.

A junior assistant had initially been fussing with the hem, but then Yunho appeared, a silent, commanding presence at the edge of your vision. He dismissed the assistant with a curt gesture, his gaze already locked onto the shimmering fabric. He held a handful of pins, their metallic gleam reflecting the soft light.

There was no one else in the room now, just the two of you. The quiet of the fitting room amplified every subtle sound—the whisper of silk as he moved, the soft click of a pin being placed. He knelt slowly, his proximity immediate and intense. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle scent of his cologne, sharp and clean, invading your space.

He began to adjust the hem himself, his fingers deft, precise, tracing the line of the fabric against your skin. His concentration was absolute, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested the dress was the only thing that mattered in the universe. But for you, the intimacy was overwhelming. Each small adjustment brought his hand closer, his breath ghosting against the sensitive skin of your lower back. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by your own shallow breath and the soft, almost imperceptible touch of his fingers against the silk.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You could feel your body tensing, a nervous energy building beneath your skin. It wasn't just the cool air; it was a flash of heat, a sudden, unexpected jolt that shot through you as his hand brushed against your bare skin, a fleeting contact as he smoothed the fabric.

You caught his eye in the vast, antique mirror positioned directly in front of you. His gaze was already there, reflected back, dark and intense. It was a locked stare, a silent acknowledgment of the charged current between you. There was no pretense, no business façade in his eyes now; only a raw, almost predatory focus that mirrored the turmoil in your own chest.

His voice, when it came, was a low whisper, almost a murmur against your bare back, sending shivers down your spine. “Stop shaking,” he commanded, his tone sharp, but laced with an undeniable intimacy. “It ruins the structure.”

Your breath hitched. Stop shaking? The audacity. You weren’t shaking because of the dress, but because of him, because of this unnerving proximity, this unwanted awareness that sparked between you. Anger, hot and sudden, flared through the nervous energy. You bit back, your voice a low, furious whisper that barely left your lips. “Then stop touching me like that.”

The words hung in the air, a direct challenge, an accusation. The tension in the room coiled tighter, reaching an almost unbearable pitch. He straightened slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes still locked with yours in the mirror. For a moment, you thought he might say something, might retort, might even physically step back. But he said nothing. He simply held your gaze for another beat, then turned, a swift, almost violent movement.

The door slammed shut behind him, the sharp crack echoing in the suddenly empty space. You were left alone on the platform, still and rigid, the silk of the dress now feeling like a suffocating vice. You pressed a hand to your chest, your heart still racing, your breath caught in your throat. He had left you breathless, not just from the unexpected intimacy, but from the sheer force of his presence, the unnerving power he held over you.

The runway lights were blinding, a blazing tunnel of white that swallowed the buzzing anticipation of the crowd. You could feel the tremor of the bass from the music, a low thrumming that resonated through the floor. This time, you weren't the show opener, the coveted first spot. That had gone to one of the models who had been whispering behind your back. You were the 2nd one to walk, a significant position nonetheless, carrying the weight of the opening collection’s first impressions.

As you stepped onto the runway, you carried yourself with an almost exaggerated care, each movement precise, measured. The memory of the fitting, of his proximity, of your desperate whisper, still haunted you, a lingering heat on your skin. You were acutely aware of the backless gown, its daring cut, its vulnerable expanse. You felt his eyes on you, somewhere in the dark, watching, always watching. You tried to channel the anger, the frustration, the sheer defiance you felt towards him, towards the industry, into your walk, turning potential weakness into fierce strength.

The crowd was a blur of faces, a sea of cameras flashing. You moved through the kaleidoscope of light, your expression carefully neutral, focused on the end of the runway, on the turn, on making every pose count. And then, it happened. A sudden, terrifying tug. A rip.

A gasp went through the front row. Your mind registered it instantly: a wardrobe malfunction. A seam had given way, or a delicate thread had snapped, and the backless gown, already clinging precariously, shifted, threatening to expose you to the hundreds of eyes fixed upon you. Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to surge. This was it. The moment they had all been waiting for. The rookie’s spectacular downfall.

But in that split second, something clicked. The anger, the defiance, the very “war” Yunho had seen in you, took over. You didn't falter. You didn't stop. With a grace that belied the internal storm, you subtly, almost imperceptibly, shifted your weight, angling your body just so, twisting your pose into something new, something unplanned. Your arm, which was meant to be elegantly extended, came up to cover the revealing gap, turning what would have been a disaster into an intentional, powerful gesture. Your head tilted, a silent dare in your eyes. It looked like part of the choreography, a sudden, bold innovation in the walk.

A ripple went through the crowd, not of horror, but of fascination. Murmurs turned into appreciative gasps. The flashes intensified. You hadn't just recovered; you had transformed the mistake into a moment of pure, unadulterated artistry. You handled it with grace, with a raw, improvisational brilliance that defied expectation.

As you completed your walk, the applause was thunderous, louder, more enthusiastic than for any model before you. You hadn't just recovered from a wardrobe malfunction; you had stolen the show. The audience, the critics, the industry, they had witnessed something unexpected, something truly captivating. You had turned a moment of potential humiliation into your triumph, etching your presence into the collective memory of Fashion Week. And somewhere in the dark, you knew, Yunho would have seen it all.

The tension from your last confrontation with Yunho, the sting of words exchanged and the unresolved emotions, still clung to you, a silent hum beneath your skin. You had left his text on ‘seen,’ a small, defiant act, but it hadn’t quelled the turmoil churning within. Three weeks of quiet had passed since that charged exchange, yet the sharp bite of his words and the unsettling intimacy of that final argument lingered like a phantom touch. Now, the preparations for Milan Fashion Week were in full swing, demanding your presence back in his orbit, forcing a proximity you weren't sure you were ready for.

The air backstage for the Seoul collection launch was a chaotic symphony of nervous energy, hairspray fumes, and the rustle of expensive fabrics. Assistants scurried, designers barked last-minute adjustments, and the rhythmic beat of the runway music vibrated through the floorboards. But beneath it all, a more insidious sound permeated the atmosphere: gossip. It slithered through the dressing rooms, echoed in the cramped corridors, and clung to the air like a noxious perfume. Your unexpected triumph at the previous show, your sheer defiance in the face of a wardrobe malfunction, far from silencing your detractors, had only fueled their venom.

“She’s sleeping with the head himself, why would he be calm with only her otherwise?” The question, posed in hushed tones, was a constant refrain, a toxic mantra that followed you like a shadow. You felt their eyes on you, sharp and appraising, whenever you moved. A few models, eyes narrowed with disdain, openly spoke about how you “belonged to a middle-class family,” a thinly veiled insult meant to highlight your perceived lack of pedigree, to mark you as an outsider in their opulent world. Others huddled close, their voices dropping just enough for you to overhear their pointed remarks about how you “weren’t fit enough to be here,” how you were a “fluke,” a “nobody” who had gotten lucky, or worse, used underhanded tactics. Each word was a tiny pinprick, designed to undermine, to chip away at your carefully constructed composure. You ignored them, focusing on the meticulous routine of pre-show prep, but the constant barrage was a silent assault on your sanity, leaving you feeling drained and perpetually on edge.

This show was crucial. Yunho’s rival, his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae, was also releasing a collection today, a direct head-to-head competition for industry dominance that had been simmering for years. Yunho had always loathed Yongjae, a mutual hatred that festered like an open wound between them. Yongjae was known to be a snake, cunning and utterly ruthless, willing to go to any extent for Yunho’s downfall. The stakes were higher than ever, and Yunho, ever the meticulous strategist, had made a rare deviation from his usual aloofness, coming backstage to check on all the models, ensuring every element was flawless. His presence cast a long, imposing shadow, his eyes scanning for the slightest imperfection.

As he moved through the buzzing area, his sharp ears, accustomed to picking up every nuanced sound, caught a snippet of conversation. A voice, dripping with saccharine condescension, pierced through the din. “Honestly, I don’t know what Yunho sees in her. She’s so… provincial. Doesn’t even know how to properly hold her hand on the runway. Probably just good at other things to get his attention.” The words, clearly directed at you, hung in the air like a putrid stench. Yunho froze, his already cold demeanor dropping several degrees. He recognized the voice as belonging to one of his top models, a woman known for her icy perfection and sharp tongue. His eyes, now glinting with a dangerous light, swept over the model, taking in her meticulously styled hair and flawless makeup.

He approached her, his steps silent, his presence a sudden, chilling void in the surrounding chaos. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he brushed against her elaborate hair, then, with a swift, decisive motion, he pulled a handful of pins, causing a cascade of perfectly coiffed waves to collapse around her face. He then swept his hand across her face, his thumb smearing her dramatic winged eyeliner into a black, messy smudge, ruining the pristine artistry. “Your look,” he stated, his voice calm, terrifyingly so, devoid of any anger, yet radiating absolute power, “is destroyed.” He turned to a bewildered assistant. “Get her off the show. Now. She’s a distraction. Unprofessional.” The model gasped, her face crumbling in horror as tears welled in her eyes. She tried to protest, to stammer out an apology, but Yunho was already turning away, leaving a stunned silence in his wake, a clear message delivered without a single raised voice.

You heard about it minutes later, a breathless assistant recounting the scene, eyes wide with shock and fear. A cold fury, mixed with a strange, unsettling flutter in your chest, surged through you. He had defended you. But how? And why? You didn't want to be defended this way, didn't want to be the cause of someone else's public humiliation. You found him near the stage entrance, his back to you, watching the technicians, an inscrutable monument of composure amidst the frantic energy.

You confronted him, your voice sharp, laced with indignation. “What was that? What did you do to her?”

He turned, his expression unreadable, his gaze unwavering. “I took care of a problem.”

“A problem?” you scoffed, stepping closer, your hands clenched at your sides. “You humiliated her. Because of me. Because of some stupid gossip.” You didn’t want to be the reason for such a public spectacle, especially not by his hand. You felt exposed, vulnerable, despite his supposed ‘protection.’

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something possessive in their depths that sent an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. “I protect what’s mine—even if it’s stupid enough to think it isn’t.” His voice was low, a dangerous rumble that bypassed your ears and went straight to your gut, demanding compliance. Those damn words again. He was like a robot constantly repeating the same shit over and over again. And you wanted to keep reminding him that you are a human not an object.

The words struck you like a physical blow. What’s mine? It instantly overshadowed any fleeting warmth you might have felt at his intervention. It annoyed her how he treated her as an object, a fucking marketing piece, a prize to be defended, stripped of her agency. You weren’t his. You were your own. “I am not yours!” you practically spat, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and a sudden, aching hurt. “I am not some possession to be ‘protected.’ I am an employee, Yunho. A person! How many times do I need to remind you!”

This was your second fight , real and raw, stripping away the thin veneer of professionalism you both clung to. The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken accusations and desires. He took a step towards you, his jaw clenching, but you stood your ground, refusing to be intimidated. "This was just business," he stated, his voice regaining its icy, controlled edge, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as you. "You are MY employee. Nothing more. You have a contract. Don't forget that."

His words, meant to reinforce boundaries, felt like a deliberate slap, designed to cut you down to size. Just business. He let you go, but you saw it, the flicker of something raw in his eyes—a mixture of frustration, confusion, and a hint of a pain he quickly suppressed. You heard the almost imperceptible strain in his jaw as he clenched it hard enough to bruise. He knew, in that gut-wrenching moment, that you were something way more than just an employee, more than a marketing piece, more than a ‘war’ he wanted to control. You were becoming something unsettlingly vital. But he kept telling himself you weren't anything to him, clinging to the cold logic of business as a lifeline against emotions he wasn’t ready to face.

You turned, your body rigid with suppressed fury, and stormed out, leaving him standing there in the midst of the backstage chaos. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. You wouldn't let his casual dismissal reduce you to nothing. You would show him, and everyone else, that you were more than "his."

When it was your turn to walk the runway, you were a force of nature unleashed. The backless gown, once a source of vulnerability, now felt like a defiant armor..... A new backless dress of the collection. You moved with more sass than ever, your hips swaying with a confident swagger, your head held high. Your eyes were sharp, cutting through the blinding lights, meeting the gaze of the audience with an almost feral intensity that dared anyone to look away. You threw in new poses, which wasn't scripted and Yunho wasn't aware—a sudden, unexpected twist of your torso, a dramatic pause, a powerful pivot that demanded attention, a subtle smirk playing on your lips. It was a walk born of pure defiance, a silent scream against his attempts to categorize and control you. The audience roared, their cheers and applause erupting into a frenzy. It just made fans more happy, their delighted gasps and eager camera flashes confirming your impact. You turned heads, for sure this time. You were not just a model; you were a statement, a revolution in motion.

That night, for the first time since you started working together, the two of you didn't meet.... well..didn't even look at each other. The studio remained silent, empty of your usual late-night conversations. It hit Yunho the most. He was alone in his office, the adrenaline from the show fading, replaced by a hollow ache that gnawed at him. He knew he should be celebrating his success, but all he could taste was the bitterness of your parting words. It was your birthday. He remembered now, with a gut-wrenching pang of guilt. You had never announced your birthday, hating all the unnecessary attention, but you had told him, in some random, unguarded conversation months ago. He had even planned to do a little something, a small, private “sleepover” celebration, a casual night with movies and takeout, because you had grown closer, real good friends, in those odd, intense hours. But in the madness of preparing for the show, for his rivalry with Yongjae, he had forgotten. And then, he had dismissed you, dismissed everything between you, as “stupid business.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth now, a lie he desperately wanted to believe but couldn't.

Three weeks off. Milan was next. Later that night, his phone buzzed with a message. He stared at it for a long moment, then typed, a desperate attempt at re-establishing the brittle professional facade: "Don't be late, Y/N."

Your phone buzzed beside your bed. You picked it up, staring at the screen, the words stark against the dark display. You felt a wave of cold resolve wash over you, solidifying the anger, the hurt, the feeling of being reduced to a mere asset. You didn't type a reply. You simply left him on seen. Let him wonder. Let him feel the silence. Let him drown in the business he so fiercely clung to.

The three weeks off were a quiet reprieve, a chance to breathe away from the suffocating pressure of Yunho’s orbit and the venomous whispers of the other models. But the silence didn't quite erase the sting of your last fight, nor the biting memory of his dismissive "just business." You had left him on seen, a small act of defiance that had felt profoundly satisfying in the moment, but it couldn't alter the itinerary. Milan was next. The biggest stage, the most ruthless competition.

The air at Seoul’s Incheon International Airport was thick with the scent of coffee and hurried goodbyes, a stark contrast to the sterile, quiet fury that settled between you and Yunho. You spotted him across the bustling terminal, a magnetic, imposing figure even in civilian clothes. He saw you too, his eyes, usually so unreadable, flickering with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher before hardening into their familiar, cold mask. The boarding process was a blur, a series of efficient movements. You walked ahead, then behind, always maintaining a careful distance. The flight to Milan was silent. Utterly, painstakingly silent. The tension? Immaculate. It was a palpable force, thick and suffocating, filling the space between your seats, a silent scream of unresolved conflict. Neither of you spoke, neither of you dared to break the fragile truce, each lost in your own thoughts, the ghost of sharp words and unspoken desires hanging heavy in the pressurized cabin.

Upon arrival in Milan, the energy was frantic, a whirl of photographers and designers. The silence between you persisted, a stubborn barrier. Rehearsals began almost immediately, a blur of motion and pressure. On the final day of preparations, just hours before the show, Yunho approached you in a private fitting room. His expression was grave, his voice devoid of its usual detached calm, edged with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

"You will wear the final gown," he stated, not a request, but a command.

You looked at the dress, hanging like a shimmering apparition on a mannequin. It was a masterpiece, breathtaking in its audacity, but also terrifying. The piece was scandalous—a delicate latticework of lace, revealing open sides that curved dramatically from your ribcage to your hips, leaving little to the imagination. The molded bodice was an architectural marvel, designed to cup and lift, accentuating every curve, leaving your figure almost entirely exposed yet meticulously sculpted. It was a gown that didn't just walk the line of decency; it obliterated it. It was daring, provocative, a statement of undeniable power.

You felt a surge of cold dread, a wave of panic. This wasn’t just a dress; it was a challenge, a vulnerability. You had handled a malfunction with grace, but this was intentional, designed to expose. "Yunho," you started, your voice a shaky whisper, "I can't. It's too—"

He cut you off, his voice calm, but with an unwavering certainty that brooked no argument. "You can. And you will." He stepped closer, his gaze intense, piercing through your fear. "You don't wear this for the crowd. You wear it for me."

The words hung in the air, a raw, undeniable intimacy in their declaration. You looked at him, searching his eyes for explanation, for motive, but found only a resolute determination.

The dressing room moment was charged with an almost unbearable intimacy. You stood, rigid with apprehension, as he approached you with the gown. His hands, usually so precise with fabric, moved with an unexpected tenderness as he carefully positioned the delicate lace and the molded bodice against your body. You felt the brush of his fingers on your skin, a faint spark igniting where he touched. He reached behind you, his breath warm against your bare back, as he began to zip her in. The zipper slid slowly, meticulously, the sound amplified in the quiet room. Each inch it climbed, it encased you further in the daring garment, but also, paradoxically, in his presence.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet precision of his movements. He finished, his hands lingering for a fraction of a second at your waist. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met yours in the mirror. “You don’t wear this for the crowd,” he repeated, his voice a low, resonant murmur, almost a private vow. “You wear it for me.” It was a statement of ownership, of trust, of a shared secret.

The words ignited something deep within you. A fire, born of defiance and a strange, exhilarating sense of belonging. The fear melted away, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated power. You didn't just walk out onto that runway; you moved with the confidence of a queen, the grace of a predator. The scandalous gown, which minutes ago had felt like a cage, now felt like an extension of your own skin, a second, defiant armor.

You walked like a goddess. Each step was deliberate, commanding, your body a living sculpture in lace and silk. The open sides revealed glimpses of skin, the molded bodice accentuated your form, but it wasn't vulgar. It was artistry. You owned the scandalous nature of the dress, transforming it from provocation into profound beauty. The crowd gasped, then roared, their flashes a blinding supernova. You didn't just dominate the runway; you transcended it.

From the dark, shadowed recesses of the backstage area, he watched. Yunho. His eyes, usually sharp and critical, were now fixed, unblinking, on your form. He watched you move, a silent intensity consuming him, a silent acknowledgment of the masterpiece you had become under his gaze, for his vision. He watched you, and for the first time, the lines between business and something else blurred beyond recognition.

-----

The roar of the Milan Fashion Week crowd still echoed in your ears, a triumphant symphony that had crowned your performance. The scandalous gown, which had felt like a second skin on the runway, was now carefully packed away, but the electric current of adrenaline still thrummed through your veins, buzzing with an almost manic energy. The afterparty was an explosion of flashing lights, thumping music that vibrated through your bones, and champagne flutes clinking like a thousand tiny bells. You dove into it, a release valve after months of relentless pressure and a suffocating emotional turmoil with Yunho. You drank, freely and without thought, the bubbly liquid a sweet, effervescent escape that quickly began to loosen your inhibitions, blurring the sharp edges of your carefully maintained composure. You weren't a heavy drinker, and tonight, with the accumulated stress of the show and Yunho's unnerving intensity, your tolerance was even lower than usual. Soon, the room began to spin in a dizzying, pleasurable haze, the faces around you merging into a kaleidoscope of indistinct joy and blurred laughter. A reckless abandon, foreign yet exhilarating, took hold.

Across the crowded room, Yunho, a magnetic focal point even in the throng, moved with his usual quiet grace, a solitary king observing his court. He wasn't drinking, or at least, not indulging beyond a single, untouched glass of champagne. He was never one to lose control, his mind always sharp, always calculating, even amidst revelry. But his eyes, perpetually watchful, sought you out in the swirling mass of bodies. He saw the way your laughter grew louder, the way your head tilted back, the way your movements became just a little too fluid, a little too uninhibited. He knew you had a low tolerance for alcohol, a small, intimate detail he’d likely filed away with every other observation about you, a fact that now caused a subtle furrow in his brow. A flicker of something, perhaps concern, perhaps a more complex emotion, passed through his otherwise impassive gaze whenever you threw your head back in laughter or swayed a little too much to the music.

As the night wore on, the joyous buzz began to morph into something heavier. Your head grew warm and hazy, your movements less coordinated, your thoughts drifting in and out of focus. You were adrift in a sea of revelry, but a quiet, almost desperate need for something solid, something real amidst the glittering illusion, began to surface. Suddenly, Yunho was there, materializing beside you like a silent shadow in the pulsating light. His presence, even in your muddled state, was a strange, immediate grounding force, cutting through the alcohol-induced fog.

"You've had enough," he stated, his voice low, a command rather than a suggestion, his gaze steady and unwavering. "I'm leaving. I'll give you a ride."

Too drunk to argue, too tired to resist, and too emotionally spent to care about propriety, you nodded, swaying slightly. The thought of a quiet exit, away from the pounding music and flashing lights, was surprisingly appealing, a siren song promising stillness. He led you out of the thrumming party, his hand resting lightly, almost possessively, on the small of your back, guiding you through the thinning crowds, his touch a silent, electric current you were too numb to fully process.

The Milan night air was cool and crisp, a welcome shock to your system that momentarily cleared your head before the warmth of the alcohol rushed back. The ride in his sleek, silent car was a blur of city lights and the soft, almost hypnotic hum of the engine. You were too far gone to direct him, and honestly, you didn't much care where you were going. You just wanted stillness, a place to land, a moment of reprieve from the constant emotional warfare. So it was no surprise when the car pulled up to a grand, anonymous building—his Milan apartment, an extension of his own austere, perfect aesthetic.

He helped you out, his arm supporting you as you stumbled slightly on the curb. The elevator ride up was silent, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife, even through your alcohol-induced haze. Once inside his spacious, minimalist apartment, the silence amplified, wrapping around you both. The sprawling living space, with its clean lines and expensive, understated furnishings, felt vast and strangely intimate. You stood awkwardly in the center of the room, feeling the dizzying effects of the alcohol finally begin to recede, replaced by a raw, unvarnished clarity that only truly drunk people ever experience, a stark mirror to your deepest, most suppressed feelings.

You turned to him, your gaze unwavering, even if your balance was still precarious. The soft glow of the city lights filtering through the tall windows cast long shadows around him, making him seem even more imposing, more unattainable. You had so many questions, so much unspoken anger and hurt, fueled by the champagne that had stripped away your usual filters, leaving you exposed and unafraid.

“Still think I don’t belong in your world,” you slurred, your voice thick but firm, each word a desperate challenge, “or is this still business, Jeong fucking Yunho?” With that, a dizzy spell hit, your foot catching on nothing, and he, with a flash of quick reflexes born of instinct, catches you.

His hands shot out, grabbing your waist carefully, steadying you. Your body pressed against his, the unexpected contact sending a jolt through you, igniting a dangerous spark that even your drunken state couldn’t entirely dampen. The heat of his body radiated against yours, a shocking warmth that bypassed your skin and went straight to your core. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused but daring, seeing the sudden flicker of raw desire in his, a brief, unguarded moment where his control slipped. You were too drunk for your own good. Too drunk. Too bold. Too daring. Every fiber of your being screamed for release, for answers, for connection.

The moment stretched, electric and fraught. You could feel his grip tighten slightly on your waist, your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. Your drunken mind, liberated from inhibition, saw only the opportunity, the raw, undeniable attraction that had simmered between you for months, now blazing to the surface. You leaned in, eyes fixed on his lips, desperate to close the distance, to finally bridge the chasm of their professional facade. You tried to kiss him, your lips already parting, seeking his, but his quick reflexes were even faster, a wall of desperate restraint. His hand, lightning fast, came up, covering your mouth, his palm pressing firmly against your lips, a soft but unyielding barrier. Instead of kissing him, you ended up kissing his own hand, the soft skin of his palm a surprising, frustrating shield against your desperate advance.

His breath hitched, a harsh, ragged sound in the quiet room. His eyes were wide, suddenly laced with a mixture of shock and desperate, agonizing restraint. He didn't move his hand, but his body language screamed caution, screamed of an internal battle of immense proportions. He was a man holding onto the last threads of his self-control. He needed to stay away from you, hell away, a silent mantra screaming in his mind. He needed to stay away from you before he does something she will hate him more for. Or worse, he won't forgive himself for. You, with your fiery spirit and unyielding defiance, were too pure, too bright, too good for his complicated, often dark world. He knew he didn't deserve you, not after all the darkness he carried. You might have an attitude, might be sharp-tongued, might be a 'war,' but beneath it all, you were too kind, too kind for his world… too kind for her own good. His grip on your waist loosened, his hand still covering your mouth, his gaze distant, tormented.

He released your waist, though his hand still covered your mouth for a moment longer, a lingering ghost of his control. Then, with a practiced strength that belied his inner turmoil, he scooped you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly. You felt yourself being lifted, a strange mix of disappointment and reluctant surrender washing over you. The world swayed gently as he moved through the silent apartment, past the gleaming kitchen and expansive living area, until he reached a bedroom. He gently laid you in his bed, the soft mattress cradling your exhausted body, the cool sheets a welcome embrace.

He stood over you for a moment, his gaze intense, a battle raging in his eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily. You watched him through heavy eyelids, the alcohol still fogging your senses, but your awareness of him, of his presence, was painfully clear. He reached out, his hand hovering over your forehead, a silent deliberation. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, he leaned down. He knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that he had to let you go, to make you quit. It was the only way to protect you from the ugliness he knew was coming, from the fragmented, brutal world he inhabited, a world that would inevitably scar you. He kissed your head with overwhelming affection, a soft, almost lingering touch that felt like probably his last time, a silent, desperate goodbye. He had to let her go, make her quit. For her sake.

He pulled back, his face a mask of determined resignation, a profound sadness etched around his eyes. He turned away from the bed, moving towards the couch in the same room. He knew your habit of nightmares, a vulnerable detail you had shared in some random, late-night conversation back in Seoul, a moment of unguarded intimacy that he had pretended to ignore but had, of course, absorbed fully, filing it away. He slept on the room couch that night, his form rigid, his mind churning, just in case you needed something in your sleep—a silent vigil, a final act of quiet, desperate protection before he pushed you away for good, before he severed the connection he was terrified of acknowledging. The soft glow of the city outside painted the room in muted silver, a quiet witness to his silent, lonely torment.

The first rays of Milan’s morning sun, thin and pale, filtered through the apartment windows, painting the luxurious room in hues of soft grey and cool gold. You stirred, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes, the remnants of champagne still fuzzing your senses. Disorientation gave way to a slow, creeping awareness: you were in Yunho’s bed, in Yunho’s apartment. A flush of heat, of shame and a strange, unwelcome longing, spread through you as last night’s hazy memories clicked into place—the daring challenge, the drunken stumble, his quick hands on your waist, the brush of his palm against your lips, the gentle act of him carrying you. And then, the distant, aching memory of his lips on your forehead, a kiss that felt like a goodbye.

You pushed yourself up, heart thudding, and scanned the room. Your eyes landed on the couch, where Yunho lay, rigid and unmoving. He looked like a sculpture carved from ice, his face devoid of emotion, his body held with an almost military precision even in sleep. A pang of hurt, sharp and unexpected, pierced through you. You had seen a vulnerable side of him last night, a raw desperation in his eyes, a flicker of something almost tender. You had felt a fleeting connection, a shared understanding in the suffocating silence of his apartment. Now, in the stark light of day, he was a stranger again.

He woke with the suddenness of a predator, his eyes snapping open. He didn’t stir, didn’t acknowledge your presence with a glance or a word. He merely stared at the ceiling for a moment, then rose from the couch with a fluid, almost dismissive movement. He was distant. Sharp. Silent. He moved with a chilling efficiency, heading straight for the bathroom, not once looking your way. The silence he projected was a wall, thick and impenetrable.

It hurt her, a deep, agonizing ache in your chest. It wasn't just disappointment; it was a profound sense of abandonment. He was acting as if nothing had happened, as if the intimate moments of the night, the unspoken words, the desperate grab for connection, had simply vanished with the dawn. No soft talks, no subtle glances, no gentle reassurances. He was a colder man than you had ever seen him, more frigid than his usual professional demeanor. This deliberate erasure of intimacy, this calculated distance, caused pain for him too, like daggers being twisted in him. He could feel the ache in his own chest, the profound sense of loss even as he enforced it. He knew he was breaking something precious, but he truly believed it was for your own good.

You rose from the bed, feeling exposed and raw. The silk sheets, which had felt so soft last night, now felt cold, like a judgment. You quickly found your clothes, pulling them on with trembling hands, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of his silence. He emerged from the bathroom, dressed in perfectly tailored clothes, his hair impeccably styled, looking every inch the formidable mogul. He glanced at you, a fleeting, dismissive sweep of his eyes that offered no warmth, no recognition of the woman he had held just hours before. He then moved directly to the small kitchen, preparing his coffee, his back to you.

You stood there, a knot forming in your stomach, a bitter taste in your mouth. You had realized that you loved him, a truth that had solidified in the haze of champagne and the alarming intimacy of last night. You loved his sharp mind, his ruthless ambition, the surprising moments of vulnerability, the way he saw something in you that others couldn't. But he didn’t want to even try. Maybe he was right, you thought, the cruel logic of his actions echoing in your mind. Maybe you weren't meant for his world, a world where warmth could be discarded with the rising sun, where emotions were dangerous liabilities.

The flight back to Seoul was a torment. He ignored you completely. Not with overt disdain, but with a chilling, absolute absence of acknowledgement. He buried himself in work, reviewing documents, making calls, his focus absolute. You, sitting just a few seats away, felt like a ghost, invisible, irrelevant. Each passing minute solidified your resolve. You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t exist in a space where you were alternately seen as a prize, then discarded as inconsequential.

Back in Seoul, the studio, usually a place of exhilarating energy, now felt stifling. He said nothing to you, offered no explanation, no apology. He simply plunged back into fittings, into meetings, into the relentless grind of getting back to work. You spiraled. The emotional whiplash was too much. The constant barrage of rumors, the emotional distance, the shattering realization that your feelings for him were unreciprocated or, worse, deliberately ignored—it all culminated in one decisive thought: you were done.

You approached his assistant, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I quit,” you stated, the words feeling both terrifying and liberating. You packed your few personal belongings, leaving the studio that had been your battlefield, your sanctuary, and ultimately, your heartbreak. You walked out into the busy city streets, the setting sun casting long shadows, your heart heavy but your decision firm.

He watched you walk away—from the window of his office, from a fitting room, you weren't sure. But you knew he saw you. And he didn’t stop you. A part of him screamed to run after you, to pull you back, to explain the tangled mess of his fear and love and responsibility. But another part, the cold, calculating part, the part that truly believed it was protecting you, held him rooted to the spot. It was better, he told himself, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. Many other brands wanted you; you would do just fine, perhaps even better, freed from his complicated world. Though his empire would have to deal with a huge blow, losing his muse, his 'war,' would cripple the very essence of his next collection.

He wanted to protect you. He wanted to protect you from how his world truly operated, from the hidden cruelties no one knew of, the brutal, unacknowledged war between him and his stepbrother that could scar you forever. His family, though wealthy, was a desolate landscape, stranded with fragments of dead threads, riddled with betrayals and unspoken resentments. Whereas yours, though a simple middle-class family, was always happy, always whole. They were together in the ups and downs, finding joy in simple moments, connected by genuine warmth. That was the profound difference. Some people amassed immense wealth, only to find themselves suffocated by a joyless existence. Others, though middle class, lived at their fullest, truly experiencing life. And he, Yunho, was too deeply entrenched in the suffocating emptiness of his own world to ever truly offer you the vibrant life you deserved. Let her go, his inner voice screamed. Let her breathe.

-

The days following your departure from Yunho's studio blurred into a monochrome existence. You had quit, left everything behind, and yet, the ghost of Yunho, of his sharp words and colder silences, remained. You tried to fill the void, taking walks through quiet parks, rediscovering the simple joys of your middle-class life that felt a world away from the gleaming, cutthroat halls of high fashion. The industry, however, wasn't done with Yunho, or with you.

Just as you began to find a semblance of peace, the headlines exploded. "Fashion Mogul Yunho in Critical Condition After Car Crash!" The news reports were grim, detailing a severe accident, a truck that had veered into his luxury car. The shock was immediate and visceral, a cold dread seizing your stomach. Yunho. Critical condition. Despite everything, the thought was unbearable.

The investigation was swift, yet chillingly inconclusive. The truck driver, the reports stated, had killed himself after the crash. More likely, you knew, murdered. But there was no proof, nothing concrete to link it to anyone. The incident, however, bore the unmistakable, serpentine mark of his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae. The rivalry wasn't just about collections anymore; it was a deadly game. The police continued their investigation, but the official narrative remained clouded.

In the wake of the accident, Yunho can’t design. The new collection, intended to be his magnum opus, his declaration of dominance in Paris, was unfinished. It hung in limbo, a skeletal framework of dreams that now felt impossible to realize. Staff at the studio began to whisper, their hushed tones confirming what you already knew: Yunho was off. He wasn't just physically injured; his spirit, his creative core, seemed shattered. He threw away sketches, the very blueprints of his genius, crumpled into defiant balls on his office floor. He isolated himself, retreating into the confines of his penthouse, unreachable.

As reports of his creative block and the looming cancellation of his show spread through the industry, your mind, despite your determined detachment, found itself haunted by fragmented flashbacks. His voice in fittings, sharp yet oddly calm. The brush of his hands on fabric, precise and knowing. Your own reflection in the shimmering gowns, transformed by his vision. He had called you his 'war,' his muse, his challenge. Now, without you, he was adrift. You imagined him alone, surrounded by the ghosts of unfinished designs.

Later, in a moment of raw, desperate honesty that would have shocked anyone who knew him, Yunho whispered while burning the drafts of his new collection, "She was the collection." His words were a guttural confession of loss, of an irreplaceable muse.

Headlines screamed Yunho’s demise: “Fashion Empire in Peril: Yunho’s Paris Show Canceled!” The public went wild, a mixture of concern, speculation, and the usual morbid fascination. The industry buzzed with the news, anticipating a power vacuum.

And then, another bombshell dropped, shaking your fragile peace. Alongside the reports of Yunho’s cancellation, headlines dropped of Yunho’s stepbrother approaching y/n with a deal for her to model for him and not Yunho. Photos, grainy but unmistakable, began to leak. You, outside a local grocery store, standing next to Jeong Yongjae, his face a predatory smile, yours a mask of polite refusal. The drama and rumors exploded.

NOW THE TIME OF WHEN HE APPROACHED.

Y/N’s POV:

You were taking a walk, enjoying the mundane comfort of grocery runs, deliberately immersing yourself in the normalcy you had missed. The sun was warm on your face, a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. Your phone was tucked away, your mind blessedly free of deadlines and runway music. As you exited the mart, bags in hand, a sleek, dark car pulled up to the curb. Your breath hitched. Out stepped Jeong Yongjae, Yunho’s stepbrother, radiating an oily charm that instantly set your teeth on edge. He was handsome, in a way that felt manipulative, his smile too wide, his eyes too calculating.

“Well, well, well,” he purred, his voice like velvet over gravel. “The runaway star. A bird without a cage.” He approached you, hands casually in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over you with an unnerving proprietary air. “Heard Yunho’s lost his touch. And his muse, apparently.”

You clutched your grocery bags tighter, a cold anger replacing your earlier peace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Jeong.”

He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. “Oh, you know. He’s in a bit of a bind. And frankly, Y/N, you’re too good to be tied to a sinking ship. Or a man who can’t even hold onto his vision without you.” He took another step closer, his eyes glinting with a familiar avarice. “My new collection. It’s bigger, bolder, far more avant-garde than anything my dear stepbrother could ever dream of. And I want you to be the face of it. Think of the exposure. Think of the freedom. Think of the pay, Y/N. I’m prepared to offer you double the pay, more profit, a partnership Yunho could never conceive of.” He painted a picture of endless opportunity, of a world where you were truly celebrated, truly free.

You stared at him, your gaze unwavering. He was trying to tempt you, to manipulate you, to use you as a pawn in his cruel game against Yunho. The thought made you sick. You remembered Yunho’s quiet fury, his possessive declaration, his cold logic, but you also remembered the desperate vulnerability in his eyes just before you quit. You might be furious with Yunho, hurt beyond measure, but he was real. Yongjae was a serpent.

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Jeong,” you said, your voice calm, steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside. “But I’m not interested.” You began to walk away, your grocery bags swinging slightly.

He scoffed, momentarily taken aback by your refusal. “Don’t be foolish, girl. This is your chance to truly rise. He let you go, didn’t he? Let you walk away when he needed you most. He called you ‘just business’.”

That last barb hit its mark, stinging with its truth. But it also solidified your resolve. You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. “I already have a contract,” you stated, your voice clear and firm. “And my loyalty isn’t for sale.”

You kept walking, faster now, leaving him standing there, his predatory smile replaced by a scowl of frustrated surprise. You pulled out your phone, your fingers flying across the screen. You knew this was risky. You knew it would invite more drama, more scrutiny. But you also knew it had to be done. You opened the social media app, ‘X’.

Your post was simple, direct, and utterly defiant.

Y/N @ModelY/N: Still working for Jeong Yunho. #Loyalty #Fashion

You hit post.

It surprised Yunho. Later, when an assistant, emboldened by loyalty, showed him the post on a tablet, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He read the words, then read them again. A wave of profound relief, so potent it almost buckled his knees, washed over him. The bitterness, the self-recrimination, the aching sense of loss that had consumed him for weeks, began to recede, replaced by a surge of something akin to hope. She was still with him. You, his war, his collection. You hadn’t truly walked away.

-----

The three weeks off had been a quiet reprieve, a chance to breathe away from the suffocating pressure of Yunho’s orbit and the venomous whispers of the other models. Yet, the silence hadn't quite erased the sting of your last fight, nor the biting memory of his dismissive "just business." You had left him on seen, a small act of defiance that had felt profoundly satisfying in the moment, but it couldn't alter the itinerary. Milan was next. The biggest stage, the most ruthless competition. The flight had been a silent torment, the tension between you a palpable, suffocating force.

The headlines screamed of disaster: "Fashion Mogul Yunho in Critical Condition After Car Crash!" The words blared from every screen, every newsstand, shattering the fragile peace you had found. A cold dread seized your stomach, twisting into a painful knot. Yunho. Critical condition. Despite every sharp word, every frustrating encounter, the thought of him, broken and vulnerable, was unbearable. The world spun in a sickening lurch, and all you could think was, no, not like this.

The investigation was swift, yet chillingly inconclusive. The official reports claimed the truck driver had committed suicide after the crash, a narrative so thin it barely held together. You knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that he had been murdered. But there was no proof, nothing concrete to link it to anyone. The incident, however, bore the unmistakable, serpentine mark of his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae. The rivalry wasn't just about collections anymore; it was a deadly, terrifying game, played with lives. The police continued their investigation, but the official narrative remained clouded in convenient ambiguities.

In the wake of the accident, Yunho can’t design. The new collection, intended to be his magnum opus, his declaration of dominance in Milan, hung in limbo, a skeletal framework of dreams that now felt impossible to realize. Staff at the studio began to whisper, their hushed tones confirming what you already knew: Yunho was off. He wasn't just physically injured, though his arm was in a sling, his movements stiff; his spirit, his creative core, seemed shattered. He lashed out, not with his usual calculated precision, but with raw frustration, throwing away sketches, the very blueprints of his genius, crumpled into defiant balls on his office floor. He isolated himself, retreating into the confines of his penthouse, unreachable, consumed by a darkness that even his closest confidantes couldn't penetrate.

As reports of his creative block and the looming cancellation of his show spread through the industry, your mind, despite your determined detachment, found itself haunted by fragmented flashbacks. His voice in fittings, sharp yet oddly calm. The brush of his hands on fabric, precise and knowing. Your own reflection in the shimmering gowns, transformed by his vision. He had called you his 'war,' his muse, his challenge. Now, without you, he was adrift, spiraling into a void. You imagined him alone, surrounded by the ghosts of unfinished designs, a king dethroned by his own despair.

Later, in a moment of raw, desperate honesty that would have shocked anyone who knew him, Yunho whispered while burning the drafts of his new collection, "She was the collection." His words were a guttural confession of loss, of an irreplaceable muse. He was burning more than paper; he was burning the last vestiges of his self-delusion, the bitter truth that his art, his vision, had become irrevocably intertwined with you.

Headlines screamed Yunho’s demise: “Fashion Empire in Peril: Yunho’s Milan Show Canceled!” The public went wild, a mixture of concern, speculation, and the usual morbid fascination. The industry buzzed with the news, anticipating a power vacuum, a new king to claim his throne.

And then, another bombshell dropped, shaking your fragile peace. Alongside the reports of Yunho’s cancellation, headlines dropped of Yunho’s stepbrother approaching the Reader with a deal for her to model for him and not Yunho. Photos, grainy but unmistakable, began to leak. You, outside a local grocery store, standing next to Jeong Yongjae, his face a predatory smile, yours a mask of polite refusal. The drama and rumors exploded.

Y/N’s POV: (NOW THE TIME OF WHEN HE APPROACHED.)

You were taking a walk, enjoying the mundane comfort of grocery runs, deliberately immersing yourself in the normalcy you had missed. The sun was warm on your face, a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. Your phone was tucked away, your mind blessedly free of deadlines and runway music. As you exited the mart, bags in hand, a sleek, dark car pulled up to the curb. Your breath hitched. Out stepped Jeong Yongjae, Yunho’s stepbrother, radiating an oily charm that instantly set your teeth on edge. He was handsome, in a way that felt manipulative, his smile too wide, his eyes too calculating.

“Well, well, well,” he purred, his voice like velvet over gravel. “The runaway star. A bird without a cage.” He approached you, hands casually in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over you with an unnerving proprietary air. “Heard Yunho’s lost his touch. And his muse, apparently.”

You clutched your grocery bags tighter, a cold anger replacing your earlier peace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Jeong.”

He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. “Oh, you know. He’s in a bit of a bind. And frankly, Y/N, you’re too good to be tied to a sinking ship. Or a man who can’t even hold onto his vision without you.” He took another step closer, his eyes glinting with a familiar avarice. “My new collection. It’s bigger, bolder, far more avant-garde than anything my dear stepbrother could ever dream of. And I want you to be the face of it. Think of the exposure. Think of the freedom. Think of the pay, Y/N. I’m prepared to offer you double the pay, more profit, a partnership Yunho could never conceive of.” He painted a picture of endless opportunity, of a world where you were truly celebrated, truly free, implicitly offering you the validation Yunho had so often withheld.

You stared at him, your gaze unwavering. He was trying to tempt you, to manipulate you, to use you as a pawn in his cruel game against Yunho. The thought made you sick. You remembered Yunho’s quiet fury, his possessive declaration, his cold logic, but you also remembered the desperate vulnerability in his eyes just before you quit, the raw hurt that flashed in them during your last fight. You might be furious with Yunho, hurt beyond measure, but he was real. Yongjae was a serpent, his promises laced with poison.

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Jeong,” you said, your voice calm, steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside. “But I’m not interested.” You began to walk away, your grocery bags swinging slightly.

He scoffed, momentarily taken aback by your refusal. “Don’t be foolish, girl. This is your chance to truly rise. He let you go, didn’t he? Let you walk away when he needed you most. He called you ‘just business’.”

That last barb hit its mark, stinging with its truth, igniting the old wounds. But it also solidified your resolve. It reminded you of Yunho’s cowardice, yes, but also of the sheer audacity you had found in yourself to walk away. You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. “I already have a contract,” you stated, your voice clear and firm, imbued with a conviction that surprised even yourself. “And my loyalty isn’t for sale.”

You kept walking, faster now, leaving him standing there, his predatory smile replaced by a scowl of frustrated surprise. You pulled out your phone, your fingers flying across the screen. You knew this was risky. You knew it would invite more drama, more scrutiny. But you also knew it had to be done. You opened the social media app, ‘X’.

Your post was simple, direct, and utterly defiant.

Y/N @ModelY/N: Still working for Jeong Yunho. #Loyalty #Fashion

You hit post, a small, trembling tremor running through your hand, but your heart swelling with a strange, fierce pride.

It surprised Yunho. Later, when an assistant, emboldened by loyalty, showed him the post on a tablet, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He read the words, then read them again, his fingers tracing the glowing text. A wave of profound relief, so potent it almost buckled his knees, washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the gnawing pain of his injuries. The bitterness, the self-recrimination, the aching sense of loss that had consumed him for weeks, began to recede, replaced by a surge of something akin to desperate hope. She was still with him. You, his war, his collection. You hadn’t truly walked away. The thought was a lifeline in the darkness that had threatened to consume him.

Yunho called you, his voice low and hesitant, raspy from disuse and the lingering effects of his injuries—a stark contrast to his usual commanding tone. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the phone line humming with the weight of unspoken apologies and festering wounds.

“Y/N,” he began, the name a raw plea, stripped bare of all pretense. “I… I need you.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, an admission of vulnerability so profound it made your breath catch.

You listened, the anger and hurt still simmering, but a flicker of something else, a strange, undeniable pull, tugging at your resolve. You pictured him, confined and broken, stripped of the power that usually defined him. He spoke of his new vision, his voice gaining a shaky passion as he described a collection born from the ashes of his accident and your departure. He spoke of rebirth, of defiance, of a phoenix rising from the flames, not just for his brand, but for himself. And then, he said the words that finally broke through your carefully constructed walls, the words that finally acknowledged the truth you both had denied for so long.

“This collection is you, Y/N. It’s your fire, your strength, your refusal to be broken. Your loyalty, even when I deserved none. I… I can’t do it without you. I realize that now.” His voice was raw, etched with a desperate honesty that shattered your defenses. It wasn't just about business anymore; it was about his soul.

You returned to the studio, not as a submissive employee, but as a collaborator, a muse, an equal. The atmosphere had shifted. The whispers had died down, replaced by a hushed respect, almost reverence. The models, once your rivals, now looked at you with a newfound admiration, a silent acknowledgment of your unyielding spirit. Yunho, too, was profoundly different. The cold, calculating facade had not just cracked; it had splintered, revealing a vulnerability, a raw intensity that was both unnerving and undeniably compelling. He moved slower, spoke softer, his eyes holding a depth of unspoken regret and gratitude whenever they met yours.

The new collection was a revelation. It was bold, daring, an explosion of color and texture that defied the industry's usual expectations. It was a story told in fabric and light, a testament to resilience, to the power of rebirth, to the fire that burned in you. And at the heart of it all was you. Every stitch, every drape, every line seemed to resonate with your essence.

The Paris show was a triumph, a phoenix rising from the ashes of tragedy. You walked the runway with a fire in your eyes, a fierce confidence that bordered on defiance. The clothes moved with you, echoing your strength, your vulnerability, your refusal to be defined. The crowd roared, their applause a thunderous ovation, a collective release of awe and emotion.

As you took your final bow, the blinding lights momentarily obscuring the audience, Yunho stepped onto the runway. He was still pale, his arm still subtly favoring his injury, but his posture was upright, resolute. His gaze, usually sharp and critical, was now fixed, unblinking, on your form. He didn't speak, didn't offer a gesture of triumph. He simply stood there, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that words could never capture: gratitude, regret, admiration, and a profound, aching love. He saw you, truly saw you, for the first time, not as a means to an end, but as the very essence of his redemption.

That night, in the quiet aftermath of the show, the adrenaline slowly fading, he found you backstage. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and celebration, but between you, the silence hummed with anticipation. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, hovering for a moment before gently cupping your cheek. His touch was a revelation—warm, hesitant, profoundly tender.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion, barely audible above the distant sounds of the party. "You saved me. From myself. From everything."

You looked at him, your heart aching with a mixture of love and a lingering, fragile fear. Your own hand reached up, covering his on your cheek. "I didn't save you, Yunho," you said softly, your voice thick with unshed tears. "We saved each other."

And then, finally, he kissed you. It wasn't a kiss of possession or control, but of surrender, of a shared vulnerability, of a desperate, long-denied love finally breaking free. It was a kiss that tasted of tears and triumph, of the bitter past and the fragile hope of a future. It was a beginning, not an end. The final chapter in a storm, but the breathless, uncertain, terrifying start of a story that was still being written, stitch by painful stitch, between two souls who had found light in each other's darkness.

The kiss, a desperate confession under the lingering stage lights of Paris, was the fragile bridge between the past and a terrifyingly uncertain future. It was a silent agreement, a profound acknowledgment of everything that had passed between you, a silent vow to explore the uncharted territory of what you now felt for each other. The afterparty became a distant hum as you and Yunho, hand in hand, slipped away from the triumphant chaos, seeking the quiet sanctuary of his Paris penthouse.

That night, you drove him, the sleek car a silent cocoon cutting through the city. He was leaning heavily on you, his injured arm a constant reminder of the fragility of his world, and the brutal reality of his family's war. Once at his penthouse, you guided him, gently but firmly. His usual sharp edges were softened by pain and exhaustion, his imperious demands replaced by a quiet vulnerability that both startled and compelled you. You helped him shed his tailored jacket, careful of his arm, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his back. You brewed him a soothing tea, the fragrant steam rising between you, a small act of domesticity that felt profound in its intimacy.

He fell onto the vast, minimalist sofa, pulling you down with him, his body a heavy, comforting weight against yours. He settled, his head finding rest on your stomach, his good arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You felt his breath ghost against your shirt, a silent rhythm that filled the quiet room. Instinctively, your hands reached for his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, a tender embrace.

As he drifted into sleep, his grip on you firm, you stared at the ceiling, a silent fury simmering beneath your calm exterior. You hated the people who had twisted him, hardened him, leaving him with such deep, mental scars of insecurity and isolation. And the bitter truth was, the primary architect of his pain, the cause of the crash that could have killed him, was his own stepbrother, Yongjae. A fierce, protective resolve settled deep in your bones. Karma, you knew, would take too long. You had decided to be Karma herself. You would, and you will, gather proof. You would make Yongjae pay. Many called you a bitch for your sharp tongue and unyielding stance. And indeed, karma is a bitch.

The return to Seoul was not a retreat, but a strategic regrouping. The world was still buzzing with Yunho's accident and your defiant loyalty. News outlets churned out stories, photos of you together, fueling speculation about the "power couple" of fashion. Yunho, however, was deaf to the external noise. He was consumed by a singular, obsessive drive: to design a new collection, unlike anything he had ever created.

He threw himself into the work, ignoring his lingering pain, pushing himself to the brink. You were there, a constant presence. You saw the shadows under his eyes, the clenching of his jaw as he fought through the creative block. You were his anchor, his fire, his relentless support. Your scoldings—gentle but firm reminders to rest, to eat, to not push himself too hard—were met with grumbles, but he always listened. Your cooking, simple but nourishing, became his sustenance, a small act of care that grounded him in the chaos.

In an unprecedented feat of sheer will and shared vision, Yunho redesigned the entire show in one week. It was a collection born of anguish and defiance, sculpted by pain, tempered by your unwavering presence. This show would be a declaration, a statement of rebirth, a testament to the muse who had pulled him back from the brink.

The final runway was set. There would be one model. One collection. One muse. You.

You walked every look. Each garment was a testament to the raw, visceral journey you both had endured. You owned the runway, transforming from fierce warrior to ethereal goddess, from understated elegance to provocative art. Every step was deliberate, every turn a statement. Your body, the canvas, narrated Yunho's agonizing rebirth, his defiance, his devotion. The audience watched, spellbound, as you moved through the meticulously crafted narrative of fabric and light.

They had created history. Yunho had not just designed a collection; he had engraved you in the history of fashion. It was the first show which was carried out by only one model, a singular vision brought to life by your undeniable power.

The final piece was breathtaking, a masterpiece of exquisite design and profound meaning. It was a second skin, molded to your form, stitched into her skin-tight, a garment so daring, so intimate, it felt like an extension of your very being. As you turned, bathed in the blinding lights, the back of the gown, meticulously crafted, revealed a silent message. In bold, crimson thread, stark against the fabric, were two simple, powerful letters: “YH // For Her”. It was a public declaration, a permanent etching of his gratitude, his devotion, his ownership—not of a muse, but of the woman who was his universe.

After the lights faded, after the thunderous applause finally began to die down, he met you backstage. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and triumph, but all that mattered was the space between you. There were no words needed, no grand pronouncements. Just a shared gaze, fraught with the weight of everything you had overcome. He reached for you, his hands shaking as they cradled your face, pulling you in. Your hearts, ruined by the past, now beat in a synchronized rhythm, a desperate symphony of two souls finally finding their anchor.

He kissed you. It was a kiss that tasted of tears and triumph, of the bitter past and the fragile hope of a future. When he finally pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, his voice was a ragged whisper, raw with emotion.

“You were never just wearing my work,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek. “You were wearing me... you were carrying my empire, Y/N.”

And in that moment, you knew. The battle with Yongjae was far from over. The world would continue to challenge you. But you would face it together, two souls irrevocably bound, ready to fight, and to build, an empire stitched not just from fabric, but from devotion.

....The end? Uh......no.

---

A/n: Hie, my lovies! That's a happy ending for sure. But I do plan on posting a extra chapter in addition to this fanfic. In a few days probably, extra chapter will be smaller compared to this. Just a bit of vengeance against people who hurt yunho. And a bolder and cruel side of the reader itself. Love y'll! - Katha

[foreingersgod]

Dress . PB

pairing: paige bueckers x reader

synopsis: you and paige weren’t just friends…but not quite girlfriends either despite your mutual feelings. you’d been longing for the day she’d finally make a move, and upon conspiring tactic to get her to confess her feelings, you finally get your wish.

you hated to love it.

hated the tension, loved the thrill. hated the uncertainty, loved the chase. hated the dull ache in your chest that longed for her, loved the way she made you feel.

it was a tango that you and paige had fallen quite familiar with throughout the years. not just friends, but certainly not girlfriends. the attraction had been there since you met her a lifetime ago, but the both of you couldn't find it in yourselves to throw your entire friendship away-even if that did mean letting something far more beautiful blossom.

it was unbelievably frustrating. the stolen glances, the way her hand always seemed to find yours, the lingering hugs that always lasted far too long-it was all there, like a punch to the gut. it was meant to be, the devotion and the passion, yet neither of you were willing to act on it and risk it all.

you so badly wished you could finally kiss her, feel her soft lips on yours. the urge to feel more than just the supple skin of her hands but feel the entirety of her weight underneath you. your entire being longed for paige, and it only made it more painful that you couldn't have her.

but the desperation overruled the pain, and you'd come to the conclusion that you'd had enough. no more pining and anticipation, silence and patience, and no more desperately waiting. if paige wasn't going to finally admit her feelings on her own, then you'd take matters into your own hands.

it started out simple in your head, a lot more straight forward than what it actually was, but what's love without a little mess? a little harmless flirting, a few well-placed comments, just enough to egg her on; and tonight was the perfect night to set it all into motion.

paige had invited you to tag along to the team's "end of season gala" last weekend and you happily obliged. though, at the time you had no intention of conspiring a plan to corner paige into confessing your feelings for one another. but as you walked the streets of downtown, window shopping for a suitable dress for the evening, the idea flickered alive in your mind.

something just enough to make her jealous-make her realize what she's missing out on.

a dangerous mix, a fool proof plan, right in the palm of your hands. it would be near impossible for her to back away when you were clad in a low-cut neckline as you courted your way to her heart. it was a beautiful gown, not too flashy, but it had a sort of charm to it. the moment you saw it draped over the mannequin in the store, you knew it was the one. a dress curated just for paige to see you in.

you felt a shift in the air as you shimmied it on in front of your mirror, smoothing the fabric down with shaky hands. tonight, could make or break your friendship and you were scared shitless. she meant everything to you, but you weren't sure you could go another second without making your interest known.

the gala was a blur of laughter and music as soon as you stepped through the door. everyone seemed to be having a goodtime, paige's teammates-your mutual friends-coming up to greet you as you made your rounds. you tried your best to stay engaged in your conversations, offering an agreeable response every so often, but your mind was already elsewhere. you were here for one person, after all.

you could see out of the corner of your eye that she was standing across the room, caught in conversation with azzi and kk, the soft glow of the dim lighting illuminating her features. she was dressed in a white button up with a black blazer and black slacks to match. if you didn't know any better, you would've assumed she wore that just so you'd notice.

you took a deep breath, trying to keep yourself focused, but it was useless. she was undeniably hypnotizing. every time she moved, every time she flashed that brilliant smile or threw her head back in laughter, it was like you were gravitating towards her.

as if on cue, paige turned. her lips curled when she saw you, eyes moving down your body when she noticed your attire. she ushered you over without hesitation and you nervously obliged. now was as good of a time as any to make your move.

"hey!" you beamed as you reached the trio, offering a warm smile and a small wave. kk and azzi were quick to greet you back, pulling you in for a brief hug, but paige kept her distance. instead, she muttered a breathy 'hey' back, her eyes still glued on you.

"everything looks so great, i'm having so much fun!" you attempted to talk to paige again, nudging her with your arm playfully "thanks for inviting me paige"

she gulped at the contact, looking into your eyes and then down to the ground to avoid your gaze. you bit back a smile, knowing exactly where the awkwardness was coming from so suddenly. but you couldn't pat yourself on the back too soon, there was still a lot left to set in motion.

you started light, giggling a little bit too long at azzi's jokes, just enough to catch paige's attention. then you'd let your fingers trail up the length of her arm, resting your hand on her shoulder with a gentle squeeze. and that really caught her attention. you watched as paige's jaw clenched, her eye's darkening at the sight of the two of you in such close contact. and as the conversation went on, you may or may not have let a few comments slip about how beautiful azzi looked tonight.

before you knew it, you were full on filirting with azzi right in front of paige, trying to get a rise out of her as quick as possible. and it was working too-the whispers in azzi's ear, the twirling of your hair around your finger, the movement of your tongue to jut out against your bottom lip. it was beginning to drive paige crazy and you could tell.

eventually, as the night came to a halt, kk and azzi said their goodbyes and headed out. but paige stayed put, leaving the two of you alone in the outskirts of the celebration. her eyes burned into you as she tried to find the right words to say, but ultimately, you were left in a rigid silence.

"so," she spoke suddenly "you looked nice tonight, i forgot to mention it earlier"

you smiled, genuinely this time, the whole point of the dress quickly forgotten as her words flooded your mind. her tone was sweet and real, and it make your heart flutter.

"oh yeah" you said timidly. now it was your turn to avoid eye contact "yeah, thank you"

"i know what you were doing, by the way" she blurted again, stopping another silent episode before it had the chance to settle. her abruptness caught you off guard.

you blinked, feigning innocence, testing the waters "what do you mean?"

she huffed softly; anxiety written all over her face. a strong hand came to scratch at the back of her neck before she moved closer towards you, head dipping just next to your ear.

"you know what i mean" you bit your lip at the drop of her voice, feeling the resistant energy radiating off of her. it was no secret, the both of you were stalling, waiting for the other to make a move "you've been messing with me. and it's working"

"yeah?" you cleared your throat, trying to hide the fact that you were terrified for what was yet to come. but still, you mustered up the courage you'd been yearning for all night, and let a whisper fall from your parted lips "'cause this dress? bought it just for you, paige"

she groaned shamelessly at your boldness, head falling as her forehead rested against the edge of your collarbone.

"don't say that" she said "because i don't think i'll be able to help myself"

"paige," and everything stops when she hears you say her name again. her fingers brushed against your waist, balancing on the edge of letting herself go and running away "i don't want you to help yourself"

and finally, something in her clicked. like all the tiptoeing around each other and the pretending was left to the past. it was as if a dam had been broken, all the quite longing rushing to the surface. there was no more second guessing, no more wondering about the "what-ifs?". there was only the indisputable truth; she didn't want to be your best friend anymore, she just wanted to be yours. and as she pulled back away from you, her expression contorted into something much rawer and more certain. you knew that there was no turning back now.

"please tell me that this isn't a dream" her voice cracked as she spoke.

you just shook your head, already missing the feeling of her touch. she swallowed hard, nodding back at you before she grabbed your wrist.

"i've been wanting this longer than you know" she was tugging you towards the exit, leading you out of the party so quick that you didn't have a chance to say goodbye to the rest of your friends. but you didn't mind one bit "but i've been scared. and i don't want to be scared anymore"

"me neither" you said as you raced across the parking lot towards her car.

"tell me this is what you wanted" she paused in front of the passenger's side door, lingering on the door handle to let you in. she needed you to confirm that once and for all, that what she was about to do wasn't going to destroy you forever "before i do something that might fuck us up"

"you're not going to fuck us up paige" you reassured "please, i want this. i want you. it's all i've ever wanted"

and she just grinned, so big that her cheeks hurt. she couldn't believe that this was happening, that you were right here in front of her, saying every word she wanted to hear.

"YN, i think i'm in love with you" she wasn't about to hold back now. if she was going to do this, she was going to do this right and finally tell you the truth "and i'm sorry if that's too weird, or-or if that's too quick, but...i need you to know that"

"paige-"

"i'm serious. have been for years, and i'm an idiot for waiting for this long. i'm sorry that it took a stupid fucking gala, that it took-fuck" she cut herself off with a laugh of disbelief "that it took how jaw dropping you look in this dress right now. you deserve so much more than that and i can't apologize to you enough"

you closed the gap between you two, now chest to chest, her hand sliding off the cool metal of the handle in only to find solace on your waist. then, as if you couldn't wait any longer, you cupped her face and kissed her. so hard, so passionate, so needy that it knocked the air straight from your chest. she melted into you in an instant, one hand leaving your torso and coming up to tangle itself in your hair. her grip felt so rough, like she had you and never wanted to let you go.

with lips both numb and brains fuzzy, you pulled away reluctantly for air. paige pulled back, drawing your bottom lip between her teeth, enticing a strained whimper from you.

"i love you too," you panted "paige, i've always loved you"

the hand once in your hair came down to trace the curve of your jaw like she was memorizing this moment. her lips were swollen from the kiss, pupils blown wide, and the sight of her like this-because of you-sent shivers down your spine. it felt almost unreal, saying those words out loud. you would've spent an eternity there with paige; in this parking lot pressed up against the side of her car with your hands all over each other like you were some horny teenagers. it would have made you more than happy just to get to see this look in her eyes forever, like all the pieces in her life finally fit into place.

"you know," she grinned "i've spent so many nights thinking about this exact moment"

"oh really?" you teased, lips ghosting over hers again once more as she toyed with the flowy fabric of your gown.

"yeah," she hummed, ducking her head to press a kiss just below your ear "every fucking night"

gasping at the need for more, you kissed her again, pulling her back to you in an instant. you groaned against her, and she took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, her tongue brushing against yours in way that made your back arch instinctively.

"you know how i said i bought this dress for you?" you asked once the need for air became too strong again. she humored you with a nod, smirking as you leveraged yourself on your tiptoes to purr into her ear "i actually just bought it so you could take it off"

paige let out a low growl, fingers flexing against your skin possessively, portraying just how badly she wanted you.

"that so?"

"mhm," you could feel the excitement rumbling deep within your stomach "so what're you waiting for?"

"oh baby," she chuckled, reaching behind her to finally open the car door for you. you glanced at her tantalizingly as you pushed yourself off of her, climbing into the seat eagerly "you have no idea what you just started"

heat flooded through you, biting back an uncontrollable smile. this reality was finally yours-no more hiding your feelings, no more waiting.

tonight, you were hers.

[wifdc]

𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐲 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐃 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: 𝐀 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞

The students of Waves Institute of Fashion Designing have taken mannequin draping to a new level with their artistic and innovative creations. Each drape is a blend of tradition and modernity, showcasing their unique style and vision. The meticulous attention to detail and the use of diverse fabrics highlight the students' versatility and creativity. This exhibition is a testament to their talent and dedication to the craft of fashion design. Get inspired by these beautifully draped mannequins.

Regards, Waves Institute of Fashion Designing

[missmaymay13]

the night we met - q.hughes

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

q.hughes x fem! oc | 25k

warnings : talks of su!cide, depression, anxiety, abu$e

summary: In a city of noise and pressure, two quiet souls—Quinn Hughes, the Canucks captain burdened by expectation, and Ava Monroe, the lonely daughter of a billionaire—find each other at their lowest. What begins as a silent connection in the dark becomes a lifeline, as they quietly piece each other back together. Through whispered confessions, found family, and healing love, they learn that sometimes, the gentlest stories are the most powerful—and that the right person can bring you home without ever saying a word.

a/n: I’ve working on this for a little bit now and I wanted to make sure I was happy with how it came out. I say it every time but I think this is my favourite thing I’ve written so far. I really hope you guys enjoy this.

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

From the outside, Ava Monroe had everything. The kind of everything that was splashed across glossy magazine covers and whispered about at exclusive dinner parties hosted in candlelit dining rooms with ten-thousand-dollar floral centerpieces. She lived in a sprawling mansion perched high in West Vancouver, with sweeping, cinematic views of the Pacific that made the sunsets look like they were painted just for her. The marble-floored foyer echoed with each step beneath her designer heels, and there was always someone paid to anticipate her needs—a private chef who prepared meals she rarely had an appetite for, stylists who dressed her like a mannequin, tutors who guided her through a curriculum designed to craft the perfect future. Her world was curated like an art gallery: everything polished, everything perfect.

But no one ever asked her if she felt at home in it. In truth, Ava had felt like a guest in her own life for as long as she could remember—present but not wanted, displayed but not held. A beautiful ghost wandering through a museum of someone else's making. Her every breath felt choreographed, like she was part of a play she never auditioned for.

Her name carried weight. Ava Monroe. Daughter of David Monroe, real estate tycoon turned international mogul, whose face was on the cover of Forbes more than it was in her life. And her mother, Sally—a socialite whose reputation for elegance was only matched by her absence. Together, they were Vancouver's power couple, untouchable in their glass tower of privilege. But Ava? She was the glass. Transparent. Fragile. On display, but invisible. A footnote in their empire.

From the outside, it looked like the dream. But inside, it was a mausoleum of unspoken words and unmet needs. A house that echoed with the absence of love. A girl who grew up surrounded by beauty and yet felt none of it belonged to her. Money was the answer to every problem, but it never asked her how she felt. It bought silence instead of comfort. And Ava—young, soft, desperate Ava—learned how to exist quietly within it. Learned how to smile for the cameras while dying in the dark. Learned how to shrink her soul until it could fit into the cracks of other people's expectations.

Money masked the emptiness. But it never filled it. It never could. It could buy her everything—except the feeling of being wanted.

She remembered the gold trim of her bedroom walls better than her father's laugh—if he even had one. The sound of his voice was a memory blurred by distance and business calls, always clipped and impatient, never warm. She couldn't recall a single bedtime story or a moment where he looked at her like she was something more than a fleeting responsibility. And her mother—God, her mother's perfume—that suffocating cloud of white jasmine and vodka, always seemed to arrive before she did. It clung to the drapes, to Ava's pillows, to her hair, long after her mother was gone. Longer than her embrace. Longer than her love, if it had ever existed at all. Her mother's touch was cold, her gaze colder. Ava used to press her small hands to the windows and watch her leave, praying she'd come back softer. She never did.

Ava's childhood was a mosaic of jet lag and hotel suites. She'd stood at the base of the Eiffel Tower, floated in gondolas down Venetian canals, and tasted sushi in Tokyo that melted on her tongue like snow. Her passport was thick with stamps by the age of ten. But none of those places felt like home. Home was a concept Ava didn't understand. Not really. Her childhood home in Vancouver was more like a museum—perfectly curated, but hollow. A stage built to impress, but never to comfort.

Her father was always gone. He existed in phone calls, scheduled meetings, and brief appearances in tuxedos at charity galas. When he was home, he was on his phone, always pacing, always tense, and Ava quickly learned that the way to his attention was through perfect grades or crisis-level tantrums. He preferred the grades. It cost less to reward her than to soothe her. When she got her first A+ in primary school, he handed her a bracelet worth more than some people made in a year, kissed her on the forehead, and left the room. She kept the bracelet in its box. She wanted his words, not his money. But words were too expensive for him.

Sally Monroe, meanwhile, was more ghost than mother—a haunting, a flicker in the corner of the room, a presence that came and went like perfume dissipating into stale air. She floated in and out of the house, high on champagne and attention, always late, always dismissive, like motherhood was a performance she never auditioned for. Her stilettos clicked across marble floors like a metronome of neglect, and her laughter echoed through hallways Ava was never invited into. Ava can still hear her words like a wound that never scabbed over, each syllable slicing deeper than the last.

"You ruined my body, Ava," she once spat, wine glass in hand, eyes glassy and unfocused.

"If I didn't have you, I could've been someone," she slurred another time, brushing past her daughter like she was a smudge on her perfect reflection.

"Why can't you just be normal for once?"

Ava would replay those moments in her head, over and over, like a broken record. The cruelness wasn't random—it was ritual. Her mother's disdain was the wallpaper of her childhood, unavoidable and slowly peeling away at her self-worth. Every glance in the mirror became a question: What was so wrong with her that even her mother couldn't love her? And still, some pathetic part of her held onto hope—that one day Sally would walk through the door, take Ava's face in her hands, and say she was sorry. That she was proud. That she wanted her.

But apologies were for people who felt remorse. And Sally Monroe never looked back.

Words sharpened like razors over time, and Ava bled internally for years. She bled in silence. She bled with a smile. Every glance in the mirror felt like she was trying to live up to a version of herself that never existed. She would stare at her reflection and wonder what exactly about her had made her mother unravel.

The only solace she ever knew was Brenda.

Brenda was the nanny who stayed far past her job description. She was the one who tucked Ava in, made her soup when she was sick, brushed the knots out of her hair while humming lullabies. Brenda was the one who held her after nightmares, whispered that she was special, that she was loved—words no one else ever said and meant. Brenda was home. When the world felt too loud, Ava would crawl into Brenda's arms and let herself feel small, feel held. Brenda was the only person who ever looked at Ava like she mattered. Not as a responsibility. Not as a paycheck. But as a person.

And then one day, Brenda left too.

Ava was fifteen. Her parents claimed she had to go—"boundaries," her mother had said with a smug twist of her lips. Ava didn't eat for three days. Her silence screamed at them, but no one listened. Brenda cried when she packed her last bag. Ava sat on the stairs, arms wrapped around her knees, watching her only source of love walk out the door. It was the first time she thought about disappearing. The first time she wondered what death felt like.

That's when the darkness started to curl around her, quiet and relentless. It wasn't a sudden collapse. It was a slow, steady erosion. Each day chipped away at her until there was nothing left but skin stretched over silence.

By sixteen, the depression was a thick fog that clung to her skin, seeped into her lungs, made every breath feel like drowning. The anxiety followed like a shadow. Panic attacks in the middle of the night, the overwhelming sense that she was suffocating inside her own skin. Her heart would race for no reason, hands trembling, chest tightening until she gasped for air like she was underwater. She wore silk and diamonds, but her ribs felt like they were collapsing.

She sat in therapy offices decorated in muted pastels, nodding while older women scribbled notes and offered her lavender tea and affirmations. Ava learned how to lie in those offices. Learned the right things to say so they'd stop probing, stop calling her parents, stop suggesting medication that her mother would scoff at anyway. The therapists saw her as a sad rich girl. Nothing more.

No one noticed she was slipping. Maybe they did, but they didn't care. Or they thought she'd be fine. She was Ava Monroe, after all.

At school, she was the quiet girl with perfect hair and vacant eyes. People wanted to sit next to her, invited her to parties she never showed up to, tagged her in photos she wasn't in. No one really saw her. The friends she made wanted status, not connection. They clung to her for the proximity to power, the name, the lifestyle they thought they could sip like champagne through her. They smiled in selfies and whispered about her when she turned her back. Her name got her into rooms, but her presence was irrelevant.

She deleted her social media when she turned seventeen. The silence was better than the noise. She didn't want to see the curated versions of people pretending to live happy lives, or the forced smiles of people who didn't know what it meant to ache.

Most nights, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint until her vision blurred. The silence was oppressive, curling around her like a second skin, smothering her slowly. She would lie motionless, the hum of the city outside her window reminding her that the world was still spinning, even if she wasn't. Each night bled into the next like watercolors running down the page, indistinguishable in their loneliness.

She often imagined what it would be like to simply vanish. To evaporate into the night air like breath on cold glass. Would anyone notice the absence of her quiet footsteps? The unoccupied chair in the lecture hall? The unread text messages on her phone? She doubted it. The idea that she could disappear without disrupting anything was both terrifying and oddly comforting. Some nights, the thoughts spiraled into places too dark to speak of—into fantasies of escape that stretched into eternity. A long, uninterrupted silence.

But something always tethered her to the edge. Sometimes it was the faint sound of Brenda's lullabies echoing in her head, like the memory of warmth. Sometimes it was a stranger's smile on the street or the way a poem broke open her chest just wide enough to let a sliver of hope in. A foolish, desperate hope that someone—anyone—might look at her one day and actually see her. Not the name. Not the money. Just her.

She never told anyone about those thoughts. Who would she tell? Her mother would laugh. Her father wouldn't even pause his call. And everyone else? They only knew how to love her shadow, never her soul.

There was no one to tell. So she carried it all alone, night after night, in a bed that felt too big, in a world that felt too empty.

Not Ava Monroe, the heiress. Not Ava Monroe, the girl with a platinum card and a perfect smile. Just Ava.

She turned eighteen and moved into her own condo in downtown Vancouver, a sleek place her father paid for and never visited. It was cold. Quiet. She painted one of the walls just to feel like she owned something in her life. She chose a soft green. Brenda would've liked it. The color softened the sterile white that made everything feel like a hospital.

University came next, more out of obligation than ambition. She studied literature because it felt like an escape, a place where pain was beautiful and loneliness had purpose. Her classmates admired her writing, but they never knew the stories came from somewhere real. She wrote about girls drowning in oceans of expectation, about mothers who forgot how to love, about the sound of being forgotten.

On weekends, she wandered the streets of Vancouver, alone with her earbuds and playlists of sad songs. Sometimes she sat at cafes and watched people laughing over lattes, wondering what it would feel like to belong to someone's world like that. Other times, she would walk along the seawall in Stanley Park, letting the crashing of waves drown out the noise in her head. She liked rainy days best—something about the grey skies made her feel less alone, like even the weather understood her.

She was twenty-one now. Twenty-one and still haunted by a childhood that looked perfect in pictures. Twenty-one and still trying to figure out who she was beneath the layers of privilege and pain. Twenty-one and still waiting for someone to stay.

The thing about being hollow is that it echoes. It makes everything louder. Loneliness. Grief. Desperation. The ache of never being chosen.

And Ava Monroe's whole life had been one long, aching echo.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The city of Vancouver glittered under grey skies, caught in that strange, beautiful limbo between rain and light. The kind of grey that wrapped itself around buildings like a heavy blanket, soft and suffocating all at once. For Quinn Hughes, the skyline had become a blur—glass towers that reflected versions of himself he no longer recognized. Faces he used to know stared back from the mirrored windows: the hopeful rookie, the quiet brother, the boy with wide eyes and big dreams. But now, the reflections were hollowed out, distorted. He no longer knew which one was real.

He sat in his high-rise apartment overlooking the city, the window cool against his shoulder as he leaned into the silence. His breath left faint fog on the glass, fading faster than the thoughts in his head. The world outside moved with its usual rhythm—cars zipping through puddles, cyclists hunched against the drizzle, pedestrians rushing somewhere with purpose, umbrellas bobbing like tiny shields against the storm. But inside, Quinn felt still. Stuck. Forgotten.

The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. The kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made you question if the world would even notice if you were gone. He hadn’t spoken to anyone all day. Not because no one called—he just didn’t answer. Some part of him hoped someone might show up anyway. But no one did.

The loneliness wasn’t loud. It was quiet and creeping, like fog under a doorframe. It seeped into his bones and made everything feel a few shades colder. He had the view, the prestige, the life people envied. But none of it meant anything when the only voice he heard was his own, echoing through empty rooms.

He blinked slowly, letting the rain blur his vision, and for a moment, he imagined the skyline disappearing. The city swallowed by mist. And him, sitting there, unnoticed. A ghost in a glass tower.

They called it an honor. They said it was a privilege. They said he earned it.

But when Quinn was named captain of the Vancouver Canucks, it didn’t feel like a crown. It felt like a shackle.

He remembered the headlines. The social media storm. The debates.

He’s too quiet. He’s not vocal enough. He’s not a leader. He hasn’t won anything.

People questioned his worth like it was a commodity they could bid on. They dissected his posture, his words, his facial expressions like analysts on a mission. Every move he made was magnified, every mistake weaponized. He was under a microscope, and the scrutiny burned.

He tried to drown it out. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t owe the world anything more than his effort. But it mattered. It mattered more than he wanted to admit.

Because all Quinn Hughes ever wanted was to be good enough.

Not just for the team. Not just for the fans. For his brothers. For his parents. For himself.

He grew up with a stick in his hands and the weight of expectation already on his shoulders. Being the oldest meant being the example. The one who knew the right answer. The one who paved the path not just for himself, but for everyone who came after. Every step he took was supposed to be a guide for his brothers, a light to follow. But what people didn’t understand was that he had paved that path with pieces of himself—with sleep he never got, with tears no one saw, with bruises he never let anyone treat.

Every time someone praised his poise, they didn’t see the nights he stayed up wondering if he was enough. Every time someone called him steady, they didn’t see how hard he worked to hold the cracks together. Each season, each game, each injury chipped away at him like erosion on a cliffside—slow, relentless. There were days when his body moved on autopilot, when he looked in the mirror and felt like a stranger was staring back. The boy who once dreamed with fire in his chest now looked at his reflection with tired eyes, wondering when the light inside him dimmed.

He wore his role like armor, but underneath it, he was breaking.

There were mornings he couldn’t get out of bed without pain shooting down his spine. Nights he iced his knees in silence while his teammates laughed across hotel hallways. Games where he played through injuries he should’ve rested. And still, when the final buzzer blew and the Canucks fell short yet again, he took the blame.

Always, it was Quinn.

He bore it in his posture, in the way his shoulders slumped when no one was watching. In the way he lingered on the ice after practice, skating until the rink emptied and all that was left was his shadow. He bore it in the bags under his eyes, the ache in his muscles, the distant look that had settled into his face.

And yet, no matter how hard he pushed, how much he gave, it never felt like enough.

His life looked like a dream from the outside. The penthouse apartment. The cars. The designer suits. The headlines. The cheers. But inside, it all felt empty. Like he was moving through a world made of glass, afraid to breathe too hard in case it shattered.

He tried to fill the void. With late nights and loud music. With drinks and shallow company. With bodies that meant nothing, tangled in his sheets, saying all the right things in the moment and disappearing before morning. But when the sun rose, so did the silence. And the ache.

It was always there.

The ache of being needed, but not known. The ache of being seen, but not understood.

Quinn carried the team like a secret. He never wanted the credit. Just the weight. He thought maybe if he carried enough of it, he could finally prove something—to himself, to the critics, to the kid he used to be who dreamt of the NHL and didn’t know how lonely dreams could become.

He watched the city pass him by from his window. Rain streaked the glass. The clouds hung low. Everything was tinted in shades of grey. His phone buzzed from the counter. Another text. Another obligation. He ignored it.

Sometimes, he wished he could disappear for a while. Not forever. Just long enough to remember who he was beneath the layers. Beneath the jersey, the title, the expectations. He didn’t even know what he liked outside of hockey anymore. Who was he when he wasn’t on the ice?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he laughed—really laughed. The kind that made your chest ache and your eyes water. The kind that felt free. Unfiltered. Nothing came.

He hadn’t laughed in a long time.

He had teammates. He had family. He had people. But the truth was, Quinn Hughes felt more alone now than he ever had in his life. And he didn’t know how to ask for help.

He didn’t know how to say that the pressure was crushing him. That every game felt like walking a tightrope with no net. That every loss carved something deeper into his chest. That sometimes he stood under the shower for an hour just to feel something real.

There was no off switch. No escape. He was Captain Hughes now. He had to be calm. Composed. Controlled.

But inside, he was drowning.

There were moments, late at night, when he’d walk the seawall alone with a hoodie pulled over his head and his breath fogging in front of him. Moments when he’d sit by the water and wonder what life would be like if he weren’t Quinn Hughes. If he were just... someone. Anyone. Free to feel without the fear of letting someone down.

Because that’s what it always came back to: letting people down.

He thought of his brothers. Jack with his bright smile and boundless energy. Luke with his quiet brilliance. They looked up to him. They always had. And that scared him more than anything. Because what if they saw the cracks? What if they saw how tired he was? What if they saw that some days, he didn’t want to lace up his skates? That some days, he resented the game that had given him everything and taken just as much in return?

He hated that part of himself. The part that felt bitter. Burnt out. Hollow.

He turned from the window, the sky outside darkening with the promise of another cold Vancouver night. The apartment felt too quiet. Too sterile. He poured a drink, not because he wanted one, but because it gave his hands something to do. The whiskey burned down his throat. It didn’t help. It never did.

Quinn sat on the edge of his couch, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling loosely from his fingers. He stared at the floor and wondered how much longer he could keep doing this. Keep pretending. Keep performing. Keep carrying.

He wanted something different. Something real.

He didn’t know what that looked like. Not yet. But he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t the headlines. It wasn’t the jersey. It wasn’t the cheers that faded as quickly as they came. It wasn’t the way people only saw him when he was winning.

He wanted someone to see him when he was losing.

Really see him.

Not Captain Hughes. Not the defenseman. Not the franchise savior.

Just Quinn.

And maybe, one day, someone would.

But tonight, the only sound was the rain.

And the hollow echo of a man trying to hold himself together.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The air inside Rogers Arena was thick with loss. It clung to the walls, to the empty seats, to the damp gear hanging in open lockers. The kind of silence that followed a season-ending defeat was unlike any other. It wasn’t loud. It was heavier than that. A kind of grief that pressed itself into the bones of the room, into the stitching of the jerseys, into the very air itself. And in the middle of it all, alone under the dim fluorescent lights of the locker room, Quinn Hughes sat perfectly still, still in full gear.

His skates were unlaced but still on. His gloves, damp with sweat and frustration, sat clenched between his knees. The rest of the team had long cleared out—some silent, others trying to shake it off with forced laughter and hollow reassurances. Quinn hadn’t moved. His eyes were locked on the floor, seeing everything and nothing all at once. The same square of tile beneath his skates stared back at him like it had answers he’d never find.

The Canucks had missed the playoffs.

Again.

He ran through every moment of the game like a looped reel in his head. The fumbled breakout. The missed stick lift. The turnover in the second period that shifted the momentum. The bad line change. The penalty that cost them the equalizer. What if he had blocked that shot? What if he had skated faster? Thought quicker? Passed sharper?

What if he was just better?

It was always him. He could’ve done more. He should’ve.

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his hands like it was the only thing keeping it from splitting apart. The weight of his helmet pressed into his forehead, the hard shell biting into his skin, but he didn’t take it off. It felt safer somehow, like a shield between him and the failure echoing in his bones. His fingers gripped at his hair through the fabric of his gloves before letting go, too tired to even hold himself together. His breathing was shallow, each inhale an effort, like even his lungs didn’t want to take up space. The room felt massive and shrinking all at once, like the walls were closing in on him while stretching into an infinite, hollow void. His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the silence, louder than the thoughts shouting in his head. And still, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because moving meant facing it. And right now, he wasn’t sure he could survive that.

They made a mistake.

Not just naming him captain.

Drafting him.

Quinn didn’t know when those thoughts started to grow roots in his chest, but they were in full bloom now. What if he was a bust? A wasted draft pick? All this time, everyone talked about his skating, his vision, his composure—but what did any of that matter if he couldn’t get his team there? If he couldn’t lead them?

What if he was never meant to be enough?

What if he peaked too early?

He slowly peeled off his gloves and dropped them to the floor with a soft thud that echoed louder than it should have in the empty locker room. His fingers trembled, tingling from the cold sweat that had long dried against his palms. The ache in his knuckles pulsed like a second heartbeat. He flexed them slowly, like the pain might root him back into his body.

He stared at the gloves for a moment, his chest tightening. They looked so small on the floor. So defeated. Just like him.

He exhaled shakily, the sound catching in his throat. Then he braced himself against the bench and pushed himself up. His legs screamed in protest, muscles stiff and bruised from the game, from the season, from everything. The weight of his gear felt unbearable now. The jersey that once filled him with pride now felt suffocating, like it was pressing down on every bone.

His shoulder pads creaked as he moved, the Velcro at his sides sticking stubbornly as if even his equipment didn’t want to let go. The familiar routine of undressing after a game felt foreign. Wrong. His body went through the motions, but everything inside him was numb. Disconnected.

He didn’t bother taking off the rest. Just the gloves. Just enough to stand. Enough to move.

And so, step by step, like a sleepwalker, he drifted toward the showers. Not with purpose. Not even with intent. Just the instinct to hide somewhere the world couldn’t see him fall apart.

The water hit his skin, hot at first, then numb. Steam rose around him, curling into the air, catching the yellow of the overhead lights. He leaned his forearm against the tile and rested his head against it, eyes shut tight. His breath stuttered.

And then the tears came.

They ran down his cheeks, hot and quiet, blending seamlessly with the water cascading from the showerhead. He didn’t sob. He didn’t make a sound. He just cried. The kind of crying you didn’t even know you were doing until it had already broken through. His shoulders trembled under the pressure of all he carried, all he never said aloud.

He didn’t know how to do this anymore.

He didn’t know how to keep pretending.

How to wear the 'C' like it didn’t burn his chest.

How to keep skating when he was skating on empty.

He stayed under the water until it ran cold, until his skin was numb and his chest felt hollow, the ache in his sternum blooming deeper with each passing second. The icy spray carved through the steam and sliced against his shoulders, but still, he stood there. Rigid. Breathless. Hoping that if he just stayed a little longer, it would rinse away the guilt, the weight, the disappointment he carried like a second skin.

He tilted his face toward the stream, letting it pour down over him, blinding his eyes and filling his ears until the world outside was muffled into nothing. He wished it could drown everything out. The voices. The headlines. The pressure. The relentless whisper in his own head telling him he was a failure. That he’d let everyone down. That he was just pretending.

When he finally moved, it was mechanical. He reached for a towel without looking, barely registering the shivers that had taken over his body. Each motion was slow, deliberate, like his limbs were moving through molasses. He got dressed without looking in the mirror—he couldn't bear to. Not tonight. Not when all he would see was hollow eyes and the wreckage of who he used to be.

The locker room was even quieter now, echoing with emptiness. He grabbed his keys from his cubby and made his way down the hall, his footsteps the only sound bouncing off the concrete walls. The back exit opened with a metallic click, and he stepped out into the cold embrace of the night, where even the air seemed to exhale with grief.

He drove through downtown Vancouver like a ghost. The city glowed with artificial life—streetlights, neon signs, headlights weaving through traffic. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles pale. He turned off the music. He couldn’t stand the sound. Not tonight.

When he pulled into the underground parking lot beneath his building, he didn’t move right away. He stared at the elevator doors, engine ticking as it cooled. His eyes burned.

Then, slowly, he shifted the gear into park, turned off the ignition, and stepped out.

But he didn’t go to the elevator.

He walked. Back up the ramp, through the quiet lobby. Past the sleeping doorman and out the revolving door. Into the cool night, where the mist clung to his hair and the scent of the sea drifted in from the harbor.

His feet took him to the waterfront without thinking.

He sat down on a bench facing the water, a familiar spot tucked just far enough from the streetlights to feel hidden—like the world had deliberately carved out a pocket for solitude. He didn't need light. Not tonight. He needed the shadows, the quiet, the place where he could unravel without the risk of being seen. The night stretched out before him like a great velvet curtain, draped in shades of sorrow.

The moon hung low and full, its glow casting a pale sheen across the surface of the harbor, soft and eerie like a whisper. The light shimmered on the dark water like spilled silver, rippling with every subtle breath of the breeze. It felt like something ancient was watching—not judging, just witnessing. Bearing quiet testimony to the ache in his chest.

Waves lapped quietly against the edge, a rhythm too soft to offer comfort, but enough to remind him that time was still moving even when he wasn't. Even when it felt like everything inside him had come to a halt. His breath came slow and fogged in the cold air, a small trace of life in a body that felt otherwise hollow.

Across the harbor, the city looked like it was sleeping. The lights in the high-rises twinkled like constellations behind glass, but there was no warmth in them. They were cold and distant, a mockery of connection. From here, the skyline looked soft, like someone had taken an eraser to its sharp edges—like the whole world had blurred, and he was the only thing left in focus.

There was no one else around. No footsteps. No voices. Just Quinn and the darkness and the distant, indifferent city. No hum of conversation. No rattle of a bike chain. No hint of movement on the quiet street behind him. Just the low thrum of the city breathing somewhere far away, out of reach.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was vast. Cold. Like standing in the middle of a frozen lake with nothing but the creaking ice beneath your feet. The kind of silence that made every heartbeat echo too loud, every breath feel like a scream in a cathedral.

And in that space between heartbeats, he let himself sink into the stillness. It wasn’t comfort he found there, but a numbness that offered a temporary shield from the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t cry. Didn’t breathe deeply. He didn’t feel worthy of either.

He just existed. Quiet and alone. A silhouette on a bench, washed in moonlight and regret. A man with the weight of a city on his shoulders, with no one to help him carry it.

And somehow, that felt like both a punishment and a mercy. Because in that solitude, at least he didn’t have to pretend. At least out here, in the dark, he could stop performing for a world that only loved him when he was winning.

Quinn slouched forward, hands clasped together, his breath visible in the air. He stared at the reflection, wishing he could fall into it. Dissolve into the dark and start over. Be someone else.

The thoughts returned.

What if he never lived up to who he was supposed to be? What if he let everyone down? His team. His family. Himself.

He pressed his fists to his eyes.

He wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t even sure he ever had been.

He didn’t see her at first. His eyes were still on the water, lost in thought, in shame, in questions that never seemed to end. The world around him had blurred, dulled to nothing but the rhythmic lapping of the tide and the slow rise and fall of his breath. The bench, the ground, the sky—it all felt far away. He was so deep inside himself that the rest of the world ceased to exist. So when the wooden slats shifted just slightly beneath him, when the gentle weight of another person settled quietly on the far side of the bench, it felt more like a ripple than a presence. A shift in the atmosphere. A soft reminder that he wasn’t, in fact, entirely alone in the dark.

A girl had sat down beside him.

She wore a grey sweater, hood pulled up over short brown hair. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, her shoulders drawn in like she was trying to take up less space. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, on the water, on the moonlight that shimmered across it.

Her eyes were glassy. She’d been crying.

Despite choosing to sit on the only occupied bench in a stretch of empty ones, she didn’t acknowledge him. It was almost like she didn’t even register that he was there. Or maybe she had—and chose not to care. She made no shift to the side, no polite nod, no glance of curiosity or apology. She just sat, arms crossed tightly around herself, a human question mark curled inward.

Her shoulders were hunched so tightly it looked like she was folding into herself, like she wanted to disappear. The kind of posture that said: don’t look at me, don’t ask, don’t speak. Her body language broadcasted it louder than words ever could. She didn’t seem to want to be seen, and yet she had come to this exact bench, as if drawn by some unspoken gravity.

She just sat there, staring at the water like it held answers. Like if she stared hard enough, long enough, the waves might part and whisper something she needed to hear. Something to make staying feel like less of a mistake.

And Quinn didn’t say anything either.

For a long time, they sat in silence.

The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward. Just heavy. Weighted with things neither of them could say. The occasional car drove by behind them, its tires hissing on the wet road. Somewhere nearby, a gull cried out and the water lapped softly against the shore. It was the only sound that felt honest.

He didn’t know who she was.

But she looked like she was drowning too.

Ava Monroe had never meant to sit on that bench.

She had never meant to be anywhere at all, not tonight.

The fight with her mom had been brutal. Ugly. The kind of words that didn’t just hurt—they hollowed her out. Scarred deeper than fists ever could. Ava had gone to her mother out of desperation, aching for some kind of connection, some shred of maternal warmth, a single thread to hold onto. But all she got was venom, sharp and cold and unforgiving.

The words weren't just cruel—they were confirmation. Confirmation that every terrible thing she had ever believed about herself was true. That she was a burden. That she wasn’t wanted. That she wasn’t enough. Her mother’s voice didn’t just echo in the room—it rooted itself in her chest, in the hollow spaces already carved out by years of neglect and silence. It made her feel microscopic. Like her existence had always been some colossal inconvenience.

Ava left that house feeling like a ghost. Like a girl made of glass. Each step home felt heavier, more meaningless. There was nothing left in her—no fire, no fight, not even the quiet defiance she used to carry just to get through the day. She felt like she didn’t belong anywhere, not even in her own skin. Like the world had gone on without her a long time ago, and she’d only just realized it.

"You’ll never be enough."

"You ruined everything."

"You were a mistake."

The words sliced her open, deep and surgical, with a precision only a mother could wield. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. She just stood there, frozen in place, absorbing every blow like a sponge, letting it soak through her until she was heavy with shame. It was like watching her own soul disintegrate in real-time. Her hands hung limp at her sides. Her heart didn’t even race—it just slowed, like it had given up trying.

She moved on instinct, her body carrying her out the door and down the street like she was sleepwalking, like something detached had taken over and was pulling the strings for her. The city was buzzing around her, but she didn’t hear it. Didn’t see it. She was a shell.

When she got back to her apartment, the lights were too bright. Too artificial. They revealed too much, illuminated all the places inside her that were cracked and bleeding. She walked past the mirror without looking. She knew what she'd see: nothing. Just hollow eyes. A stranger.

And then she saw the bottle. It was just sitting there. Quiet. Waiting.

She picked it up.

Stared at it.

Her hand shook as she unscrewed the cap. She poured them out into her palm, white tablets spilling like tiny bones into the center of her hand. The weight of them felt enormous. Final.

She sat on the floor, cold and silent, and stared at her shaking hands. Her breathing came shallow, like the room had been drained of oxygen. Her thoughts were louder than ever, a storm behind her eyes: You’re a failure. A disappointment. A mistake. Unlovable.

The silence was so total, it felt like the world had already moved on without her.

And for one long, harrowing moment, she almost let go.

She shook them gently, the pills rattling like distant thunder in the quiet room—a sound so small, yet impossibly loud in the silence.

Her fingers shook.

Her breathing was shallow, barely there, each inhale catching like her lungs had to think twice before choosing to keep going. The silence in the apartment pressed against her ears, not soft or gentle, but brutal—the kind of silence that made your skin crawl, like the walls were whispering all the things you were too afraid to say out loud.

It was too quiet. Too still. Like the world had stopped moving just to watch her unravel. The ticking of the clock felt like a taunt, counting down a life she didn’t want to keep living. Her heart didn’t feel like it beat anymore—it thudded, dull and mechanical, like a broken metronome.

Everything inside her felt empty and echoing, like she had become a hollow thing, carved out piece by piece by the people who were supposed to love her. She didn’t even cry. There weren’t tears left. Just a vast, suffocating stillness, as if even grief had abandoned her now.

But something stopped her.

A voice she couldn’t name. A feeling in her chest. Like someone was holding her wrist. Telling her to wait. To breathe.

She put the pills back in the bottle.

Put on her sweater.

Walked.

And now she was here.

Sitting beside a stranger.

Alive, but unsure why.

She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t care. All she knew was that he was as still as she was. As broken. That something about the way he stared at the water made her feel less alone.

They didn’t speak.

But their silence was the loudest thing either of them had heard all night.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Neither of them moved.

Quinn glanced at her. Just once.

And for a second, she met his eyes.

Just a second.

But in that second, he saw her pain. She saw his.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, they both breathed a little deeper.

Together.

The night didn’t fix anything. It didn’t heal them. But it didn’t break them further, either.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

That night, they didn’t fall apart.

They just... sat. And survived.

Side by side.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Quinn looked across to her one more time.

Really looked.

It wasn’t just the way the moonlight framed her face or the way her sweater hung like armor against the night. It was the stillness in her body, the haunting in her eyes. There was something about her—something not loud, not obvious—but deeply known. A ghost of a memory wrapped in velvet pain. A shape he hadn’t seen in years but still knew by name, as if she'd been waiting on the periphery of his life all along.

His eyes traced the soft outline of her jaw, delicate and trembling like it held back a thousand words. The faint sheen of dried tears clung stubbornly to her cheeks, catching the moonlight like salt-crusted silver. But it was her expression that stunned him. That deep, quiet devastation. The kind of brokenness people learn to wear like perfume—undetectable unless you’ve worn it too. She didn’t just look sad. She looked emptied. As if she’d bled out every last feeling and was only now discovering what it meant to be a shell.

And the way she held herself, shoulders slumped like her bones could no longer carry the weight of being alive—it almost looked rehearsed. Like she'd practiced disappearing. Like she’d spent years perfecting the art of looking okay while silently screaming.

And then it clicked.

Of course he knew who she was.

Her last name was practically stamped into every corner of the city.

Monroe.

David Monroe. Real estate titan. Investor. Philanthropist. A name stitched into the very fabric of the city. His empire touched everything—commercial towers, luxury condos, high-profile foundations. And the Canucks? They were just another line on his ledger. A silent but steady benefactor of the organization, his influence loomed like the skyline his company had helped build. Every player knew that name. You couldn’t be part of the team without brushing shoulders with the Monroes.

Every year, they hosted a lavish charity gala—an affair of such extravagance that even seasoned veterans couldn’t hide their discomfort. Held in a grand ballroom glittering with crystal chandeliers and lined with tables draped in silk, the event was a performance of wealth and image. Silver champagne trays floated between guests, the air filled with the soft clinking of crystal flutes and rehearsed laughter. The players would show up in tuxedos, practice their media smiles in the car, and take photos for the press like it all meant something. They thanked the Monroes with polite handshakes and obligatory small talk, careful not to overstep, careful to appear grateful.

It was the kind of night where everything sparkled, except the people who had to pretend to belong there.

Quinn remembered her father clearly.

David Monroe was the one standing on stage, smiling beside ownership and management, when Quinn first pulled on the Canucks jersey on draft night. A handshake, a picture. Flashbulbs. Cheers. Everything about that moment had felt like a coronation. Quinn Hughes, savior of the franchise. Golden boy.

But he didn’t remember seeing her.

Not until now.

And now that he had—he couldn’t unsee her. Ava Monroe, the invisible girl behind the empire. The one who should've glowed under the same lights, been photographed on red carpets, toasted by men in suits, wrapped in everything that came with a name like hers. But she hadn’t. Somehow, she had slipped through the cracks of her own legacy, choosing shadows over chandeliers. Sitting beside him now, she looked like a ghost aching to be felt, not seen—like someone who had spent her whole life being too visible in the wrong ways and invisible in all the ways that mattered.

There was a haunting in her presence, the kind that made you want to apologize without knowing what for. And Quinn did. He wanted to say sorry for a world that forgot her. For a father who used her last name like currency while letting his daughter starve for affection. For the cameras that had never panned her way. For the years she must've spent wondering if her life was even her own.

And then, just as the recognition settled into his bones, she looked up.

Tear-stained eyes. Silent. Red-rimmed.

And she knew.

Of course she did.

Quinn Hughes. The prodigy. The captain. The promise.

The man who was meant to lift the city. To carry its hopes like a crown and wear its failures like chains. To lead the team through the fire and still emerge smiling. To be the one who fixed everything, even when he was the one silently falling apart. He was the face on the banners, the name in the headlines, the reason kids wore number 43 jerseys. And no one ever stopped to ask what that weight might be doing to the boy underneath it all.

She blinked at him, slowly, and something passed between them—something unspoken and deeply human, like the kind of look you give someone when you both know what it means to want to disappear. A silent understanding that didn’t need translation. A breath of shared grief, heavy and unrelenting, that wrapped around them like a fog neither of them could escape. In that fragile second, it was like they were looking into a mirror made of pain—different stories, different scars, but the same hollow ache behind their eyes. The world didn’t shift around them, but something inside did. Something wordless and aching that whispered, I see you. I feel it too.

Both of them had grown up being told they were meant for greatness.

Both of them knew what it felt like to suffocate under that weight.

Both of them were breaking.

The emptiness echoed between them like a heartbeat. A soundless ache that needed no explanation.

And then, after a pause that felt like it stretched out forever, Quinn swallowed hard, the tension in his jaw finally giving way. He turned his body slightly toward her, hesitant, uncertain, but needing to say something before the silence drowned them both.

"I—"

His voice cracked, and he had to start again.

"I don’t know if I’m good enough for this," he said quietly, almost like he was confessing it to the ocean. "I don’t know if I’m good enough for anything. At all. And I feel like I’m slowly falling apart and breaking."

The words sat in the air, raw and trembling.

She didn’t respond. Not with words.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Another.

"My, uh... my thought was that this would be my last night," She said, her voice barely a whisper. Her voice was thin. A ghost of itself. "It almost was."

Quinn’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

She looked down at her hands, still clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles white. The air around them suddenly felt sharper, like the world had stilled to listen.

Quinn turned his head just slightly, not wanting to push, but needing to hear her.

Ava swallowed hard, her throat raw. "I had them all in my hand. The pills. I sat on the floor of my bedroom, staring at them. And for a second, it was the only thing that made sense. Like I could finally stop the screaming inside my head. Like I could finally rest."

She took a shaky breath, then another, like her lungs were relearning how to function. Her voice was a flicker, something barely lit. "But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Something in me—some tiny, quiet part that still believed in something—just... wouldn’t let me. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was nothing more than habit. But I couldn’t do it. My hand was trembling so hard I thought I was going to drop everything."

Her stare fell distant, glassed over again. "I was sitting there, on the floor, holding my life in one hand and everything I hated about myself in the other. And all I could think was... no one would notice. Not really. My phone wouldn’t ring. No one would come looking. The world would keep spinning and I’d just be another girl who didn’t make it. And for a moment, that felt like peace."

She paused, her voice breaking on the next exhale. "But then something happened. Something I can’t explain. Like the tiniest part of me screamed. Like my own soul refused to be snuffed out without one final fight. I put the pills back. I stood up. I walked out the door. I didn’t even grab a coat. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew if I stayed one second longer, I wasn’t going to make it."

Her eyes finally flicked up, not to look at him, but past him, to the water. "So I ended up here. Still breathing. But not really living. Just... floating. Empty. I didn’t want to be found. I just didn’t want to disappear without someone knowing I was ever here in the first place."

The words hung between them, bare and bleeding. A confession not meant to earn comfort, just to be heard.

She didn’t cry when she said it. She sounded hollow. Like she’d already cried all the tears there were to cry.

And Quinn didn’t speak.

He just listened.

Because he knew what it felt like to be so tired of being alive that even breathing felt like a burden.

The honesty clung to the air like smoke. Fragile. Heavy.

Another tear traced the curve of Ava's face. But she still didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her silence said enough. It said: Me too.

And maybe that was the first moment they truly understood each other. Not because of their names. Not because of who they were supposed to be. But because beneath all of that—the legacies, the expectations, the titles—they were just two broken people whose pain happened to echo at the same frequency. Two souls who had come to the water's edge not to find answers, but to surrender. And yet, somehow, they'd collided. Quietly. Gently. Without ceremony. Just a breath between strangers who were anything but.

Their silence wasn’t passive—it was deliberate. Thick with everything they couldn’t say. A communion of ghosts sitting side by side. Each aching, each unraveling, each choosing not to fall apart simply because the other was still sitting there. Still breathing.

And in that aching silence, something passed between them—not a promise, not a rescue, but a thread. Fragile. Unspoken. I see you. I feel it too.

As if pulled by gravity, they shifted.

Slowly. Quietly. As if afraid to shatter whatever had taken root between them.

They moved closer.

Ava’s shoulder brushed Quinn’s.

The contact was barely there, but it was enough. Enough to ground them both.

Quinn didn’t flinch.

Neither did Ava.

That small touch, that simple warmth, threaded something through them—a fragile thread of safety in a world that had offered them nothing but cold.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was real.

Their bodies didn’t shift again. They didn’t hug. They didn’t hold hands. They just sat, shoulder to shoulder, their pain seeping into one another, until it didn’t feel so sharp. So singular.

They were two souls trapped under the same foot of pressure.

Two hearts with too many cracks.

Two people who had spent years suffocating in silence, and somehow found breath in each other.

Ava closed her eyes and leaned just slightly into his side. Not enough to be a plea. Just enough to say, I’m still here.

Quinn stayed still. But his head dipped ever so slightly in her direction. His shoulder curved toward hers. His eyes remained on the water, but his thoughts were finally somewhere else.

And in that moment, they both felt it.

A shift.

The beginning of something neither of them had words for.

A presence. A tether. A reason.

They sat like that for a long time. The world moved on without them—cars passed, waves rose and fell, the city lights blinked in patterns too fast to follow. But they didn’t move.

Minutes turned into hours.

The pain didn’t disappear. But it dulled. Muted.

Like someone had finally lit a candle in the dark.

And though they didn’t say another word, they didn’t need to.

The silence had changed.

It was no longer a void.

It was a shelter.

And sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

Just as the wind picked up, brushing past them like the breath of something ancient, Quinn turned his head slightly toward her. His voice was soft, barely there. "I see you," he said. Three words, but they felt like a lighthouse cutting through fog.

Ava didn’t answer right away. But her breath hitched, and then steadied. She turned her gaze to him slowly, her eyes tired, but no longer empty. "I see you too," she whispered.

They didn’t say anything else. There was nothing left to say. So they leaned gently into each other, the contact quiet but constant, and let the silence settle around them like a blanket.

The night stretched long, and the darkness never lifted, but they stayed. Two shadows on a bench, side by side.

And somehow, that night—that fragile, fleeting night—was enough for them to choose to stay a little longer in the world.

Enough to make it through one more sunrise.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The first light of dawn broke slowly, as if unsure whether it was welcome. It crept over the horizon in soft hues—faded gold, gentle blush, the faintest whisper of blue. The waves caught it first, the gentle lapping of water at the harbor edge shimmering like liquid gold. Then the sky followed, spreading it across the city like the slow reveal of a secret.

Neither of them had moved.

Quinn and Ava sat shoulder to shoulder on that old wooden bench, the air around them still heavy with the weight of everything that had passed between them. It wasn’t the kind of silence that screamed. It was the kind that exhaled—soft, worn, exhausted. The kind that said, you’re still here, and so am I.

The cold had settled into their bones, deep and aching, but they hadn’t noticed. Not really. Because something warmer had wrapped itself around them, invisible but steady. A shared understanding, a tether. The gravity of the night had forged something fragile and indelible between them—something they didn’t understand yet but felt all the same.

The silence between them had shifted from one of pain to one of comfort. From a quiet cry for help to a quiet offering of presence. No more apologies. No need for explanation. Just breath in the cold. The subtle rhythm of two people choosing, again and again, not to leave. Shared breath. Shared survival. And in that stillness, the beginning of something neither of them could name, but both of them needed.

The sunrise wasn’t beautiful. It was quiet. Muted. The kind of sunrise that didn’t demand attention, just offered presence. There were no vivid streaks of fire across the sky, no brilliant crescendo of colors. Just a slow, tender brightening. The world easing itself into wakefulness. It rose like a sigh—tired, cautious, and real.

And that, somehow, felt perfect.

Because that morning wasn’t about beauty. It wasn’t about spectacle. It was about surviving the night. About making it through the hardest hours and finding, somehow, that the sky still turned. That the sun still rose. That breath still came.

The light didn’t feel triumphant. It felt earned. Like something cracked open quietly and let the day slip in.

Quinn shifted slightly, straightening his back with a quiet exhale. He rubbed at his face, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up to him. Ava followed, stretching out her legs, feeling the pins and needles in her feet as blood returned to limbs left too still for too long. Her fingers flexed slowly, grounding herself back into her body.

They didn’t speak.

There was no need.

What could they say that hadn’t already been said in silence?

Instead, they exchanged a glance. A quiet, reverent thing. A moment of mutual understanding that needed no words. It lingered, not rushed or fleeting, but long enough to say everything that mattered. There was something sacred in it—a silent bow of gratitude, a recognition of shared survival. They didn’t smile. Didn’t cry. They just looked at each other with the kind of raw honesty that only exists after darkness has been witnessed together. It was their way of saying, I see you. Thank you for staying.

And softly, Quinn spoke again. His voice was hoarse. "I see you."

Ava met his eyes, her own rimmed with a different kind of tear this time—not despair, but something gentler. "I see you too."

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. But it was enough.

Ava stood first. Her body protested, stiff and cold, but she didn’t mind. She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, glanced down at Quinn, and gave the smallest of nods. He rose with her, slower, heavier, but he stood.

They didn’t hug.

They didn’t exchange numbers.

They didn’t make promises.

They just parted ways.

She walked one way, toward the edge of downtown, her steps slow, as if her body was still catching up to the weight of what had just happened. The hoodie swallowed her small frame, the sleeves too long, her hands still hidden inside them. With every step, she felt the echo of their silence, the comfort of it, trailing behind her like a ghost she wasn’t quite ready to let go of.

He walked the other, toward the towers he called home, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, not from the cold but from something deeper—an ache, a lingering presence pressed into the slope of his spine. The bench faded behind them, but the feeling of it stayed—like warmth that lingered long after the fire had gone out.

The city slowly came alive around them—joggers blinking against the light, dog walkers tugging sleepy pups along wet sidewalks, the hum of traffic stirring awake. The world resumed its rhythm as if nothing had happened, as if two broken souls hadn’t just sat in the quiet and saved each other without saying so.

And neither of them looked back.

But both of them carried it. That night. That moment. That bench. A memory soft and sacred, stitched into the fabric of their morning.

They didn’t need to say it aloud. There was an unspoken agreement between them now. A silent pact forged in the dark: this night belonged to no one else. It was not for telling. Not for sharing. It was theirs. Only theirs.

And somehow, that knowledge was enough to steady their steps.

That should’ve been the end.

But it wasn’t.

Because somehow, a week later, they both ended up back at that same bench.

It wasn’t planned. Neither of them expected it. Quinn had taken the long way home after a game, a loss that twisted in his chest like a knife and refused to loosen its grip. His body ached, but not from the ice—from the weight of the night, the disappointment of another failed attempt at being enough. He didn’t want to go back to his apartment. The silence there wasn’t just silence; it was sharp, punishing, an echo chamber of regret. The lights were always too bright when he walked in. The air always too still. The emptiness too honest.

So he drove with no destination, his hands on the wheel but his thoughts miles away. His chest heavy. His eyes burning. He didn’t know where he was going until he got there.

That bench.

The one that had held him when he couldn’t hold himself.

The one where someone had seen him and stayed.

And Ava—she hadn’t planned it either. But she couldn’t stay in that house. Not after the latest fight. Not after hearing the same accusations echo off the walls. Not after being told she was ungrateful. Spoiled. A waste.

She had walked out into the night without a destination. Without a plan. Just a desperate need to breathe. To exist somewhere her pain wasn’t questioned or ignored. She didn’t know where her feet were taking her. Only that she needed to follow them.

And like something pulled from a quiet promise, from the magnetic pull of shared grief, they ended up there. As if the bench itself remembered them—held their pain from nights before, waited patiently beneath the city’s noise for their return. It wasn’t just a coincidence. It felt fated, like a hidden current in the universe had gently ushered them back to each other, back to that sliver of peace they had carved together in the dark. A place that didn’t demand anything but presence. A place that somehow knew what they needed before they did. They arrived without purpose, without preparation, but their steps mirrored the same ache, the same longing—to not be alone with the weight they carried. To be met in the middle of their ache without question. And again, the bench made room. Again, they sat. Together.

At the bench.

At the edge of the world.

Within minutes of each other.

Their eyes met.

Quinn’s breath caught.

Ava’s shoulders, tight with tension, eased.

She sat first.

He followed.

And that night, they stayed until the stars faded.

It became a rhythm. An unspoken routine.

They never texted. Never called. Never asked, will you be there?

But somehow, they always were.

Maybe not every night. But often enough that the bench no longer felt like just a bench. It became something sacred. A place of reckoning. Of retreat. Of quiet rebuilding.

They brought coffee sometimes. Wore warmer clothes. Sometimes one would arrive to find the other already waiting, and nothing needed to be said. The presence alone was enough. Familiar. Reassuring.

And each night, they shared a little more.

Quinn spoke about the pressure of being captain. Not in the way reporters asked about it, but in the way it sat on his chest at 2 a.m., making it hard to breathe. He talked about the fear of failure. The guilt of losing. The exhaustion of being everything to everyone and still feeling like nothing to himself.

Ava listened. Not as a fan. Not as a girl dazzled by his fame. But as someone who knew what it meant to crumble. To carry weight you never asked for.

And Ava, in turn, spoke of her loneliness. Of growing up in a house full of noise but no warmth. Of disappearing behind her father’s money, behind her mother’s scorn. Of wanting, so desperately, to be loved without condition.

Quinn didn’t offer advice. He didn’t tell her to be strong. He just listened. Sat with her in the stillness. Let her be.

And so it went.

Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Some nights were filled with stories, confessions, tiny truths whispered into the dark. Other nights, they just sat side by side in silence, their presence saying everything their mouths couldn’t.

They didn’t touch. Not beyond the occasional brush of shoulders. Not beyond the quiet comfort of nearness. It wasn’t about that.

It was about knowing.

About being seen.

About sharing pain without having to relive it.

They came as Quinn and Ava. Not the captain burdened by expectations and headlines. Not the heiress veiled in privilege and shadowed by neglect. Just two souls stripped of their titles, peeled back to their most human selves. Two people with fractures in their bones and too much weight in their hearts—weight that made it hard to breathe some days, impossible to stand on others. And yet, they stood. Or sat. Or simply were. They didn’t need to perform. They didn’t need to impress. They didn’t need to be anything more than exactly what they were in those moments: quiet, unraveling, healing. The bench didn’t care about what jerseys they wore or whose name came on checks. It welcomed them as they were. And together, they began to stitch the pieces of themselves into something new—not flawless, but whole in a different kind of way.

And little by little, something began to shift.

The bench became a bridge.

They laughed sometimes. Quiet, soft laughter. The kind that didn’t echo, just lingered in the air like a promise. It wasn’t loud or forced—it was shy at first, like they were rediscovering what it meant to feel light for even a second. Ava would tell him about old books she loved, the ones with pages yellowed from being read too many times, stories that had been her escape when the world felt too cruel. She’d describe the characters like friends, like pieces of herself she never knew how to share until now.

Quinn would talk about skating. Not just the game, but the movement. The way it felt to glide when the world grew too heavy, how the ice made sense when nothing else did. He spoke about the quiet before a puck dropped, the clarity in motion, how for just a few seconds, everything else fell away and he could breathe. Sometimes he brought her old playlists from the locker room, laughing about the bad ones, smiling over the ones that stuck. Ava once brought him a thermos of chamomile tea because she said it smelled like peace. They didn’t make it a big deal. But he drank every drop.

Some nights she’d bring a book and read aloud, her voice soft and even, Quinn listening with his eyes closed, as if the sound alone was enough to stitch something inside him back together. Some nights he’d point out constellations, giving them wrong names on purpose just to make her roll her eyes and laugh, really laugh—head tipped back, teeth showing, that rare kind of laugh that healed something hidden.

They didn’t need plans. Just the bench. Just each other. And the quiet joys they built, one breath at a time.

And the pain didn’t vanish.

But it changed.

Because now, they weren’t carrying it alone.

They were still broken.

But broken didn’t mean empty.

And in each other, they found space to heal.

Quietly.

Softly.

Without rush.

Without expectation.

Without fear.

The world still didn’t know about those nights. No one ever would. And that was the point.

It was theirs.

Just Quinn.

Just Ava.

Two shadows who collided at the edge of their breaking point, and stayed long enough to remember what it meant to begin again.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Eventually, they moved on from the bench.

It wasn’t sudden. It was a slow drift, like everything else between them. A natural, quiet shift from one space to another. The bench had become their place, their anchor—but like all things born from pain, it wasn’t meant to hold them forever. Healing required movement, and without realizing it, they’d begun to crave something more than the comfort of shared silence. They wanted light. Warmth. A kind of closeness that didn’t depend on the shadows.

Quinn had been pestering her for weeks.

"You haven’t seen it? Seriously? Ava, it’s the movie," he’d say with mock indignation, hand over his heart as if she’d personally offended his taste in cinema.

"I don’t know," she’d reply with a small shrug, teasing but cautious. "I’m not in the mood for something sad."

"It’s not sad. Okay, well, it kind of is. But in a good way. In a ‘you’ll cry but also feel seen’ kind of way."

He’d keep bringing it up at the end of their nights at the bench, each mention softer, more coaxing. Until one night, she sighed, smiled faintly, and said, "Fine. Let’s watch your movie."

That night, they didn’t go to the bench.

Instead, they found themselves in his apartment. It was the first time she’d been there. He had tried to tidy up beforehand, but it still looked lived in—soft piles of laundry, a few mugs on the counter, books stacked haphazardly beside the TV. It smelled like pine soap and popcorn, and it felt safe. Not perfect. Not curated. Just like him.

They sat next to each other on the couch, sharing a worn fleece blanket Quinn had pulled from the back of the couch, its corners frayed, edges soft from years of use. He’d made popcorn, which she’d half-spilled trying to get comfortable. They laughed about it, brushing kernels off the floor, her giggling melting into his quiet chuckle. The room buzzed with the easy kind of energy they didn’t get to feel often—light, open, effortless.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

They watched in silence, the kind that meant they didn’t need to fill the space between them. It was the kind of quiet that felt sacred, a quiet formed not from awkwardness but from complete ease. The room seemed to hold its breath with them, lit only by the flickering of the screen and the faint rustle of popcorn shifting in the bowl on Ava’s lap.

Occasionally, Ava would glance sideways at him, not just watching him, but seeing him. The way he leaned forward during the emotional scenes, how his hands twitched slightly during moments of tension, the way he mouthed his favorite lines as if they were prayers. He didn’t just watch the movie—he felt it, deeply, letting it thread through him like a song he knew by heart. His eyes were wide, glassy even, but soft. Focused.

He didn’t talk during it. Not once. Just sat there, wide-eyed and still, like he was living it again, like he was seeing parts of himself on the screen he didn’t often show. Every so often, his chest would rise with a slightly deeper breath, and Ava would mirror it without thinking. They were in their own quiet rhythm, bound by a story that wasn’t theirs but somehow spoke to both of them anyway. The silence between them said more than any words could have—it said, I’m here. I understand. And that was enough.

When the final scene faded and the music swelled, neither of them reached for the remote. The room sat in silence for a while, except for the soft hum of the credits and the world outside.

"You were right," Ava whispered.

Quinn didn’t look away from the screen. "Told you."

She nudged his shoulder with hers beneath the blanket, a small gesture of warmth. He glanced at her, and for a second, the smile on his face wasn’t weighed down by anything at all.

The hockey season was long over.

For a few months, the noise quieted. The headlines stilled. The fans moved on to other sports, other distractions. And Quinn—he had become visibly lighter. The stress lines in his forehead softened. The haunted look in his eyes began to fade. His days were slow. His nights were gentler. He took walks. He cooked. He laughed more.

It was like the pressure had been peeled off, even if only temporarily. He could breathe again. He could be Quinn, not Captain Hughes.

But with the end of the season came the inevitable.

Summer. And Michigan.

He hadn’t talked about it yet, not out loud. But it had been lingering. A quiet shadow at the edge of every day. A low hum behind every laugh. A weight pressing down on his chest when the nights got too still. It was the kind of thought that crept in during the softest moments—when her head was tilted back in laughter, or when she was watching the world pass outside his window with that faraway look in her eyes. The thought that he was leaving. That time was slipping through his fingers like sand, grain by grain, and soon this fragile pocket of peace they’d built would dissolve. He felt it in the silence between them. In the long pauses that stretched a little longer each day. It was a countdown, not just to his departure, but to a shift he didn’t know how to navigate. And the worst part was—he didn’t know how to tell her. How to put into words the ache of loving something so gentle and knowing it couldn’t last in this exact way forever. So he kept it tucked away, a secret pulsing in his chest, waiting for the courage to speak it out loud.

He was going home. To his family. To the lake. To the place where he could hide from the world for a while.

But not from her.

He didn’t want to leave her.

Ava had been his quiet salvation. His rock. The person who never expected him to be anything other than human. When the weight of the captaincy crushed his chest, she never once told him to be strong. She just sat with him in the dark and let him breathe. When the headlines screamed his name or fans threw blame like darts, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t care about stats, didn’t ask about press conferences, didn’t bring up hockey unless he did.

With her, he wasn’t a franchise player or a golden boy. He wasn’t a fixer of broken teams or the hope of a city. He was just Quinn—the boy who liked quiet nights, who sometimes needed to be held without asking, who laughed softly when she rolled her eyes, who listened to the same song on repeat because it made him feel less alone.

She gave him space to fall apart. To speak without being judged. To not speak at all and still be heard. She made silence feel like safety. And he needed her—more than he ever realized—because for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was holding the world alone. He didn’t feel like he had to.

And he knew, in that complicated, painful way, that she needed him too.

So the night after the movie, when they were sitting in the kitchen sharing a bowl of cereal at 1 a.m.—because Quinn claimed cereal always tasted better after midnight—he finally said it.

"I have to go home next week."

Ava looked up slowly, spoon halfway to her mouth.

He saw it instantly—the flicker in her eyes, the stiffening of her shoulders. She tried to smile. She tried to play it cool. But she wasn’t very good at hiding how she felt.

She dropped her head, focusing on her bowl. "Oh. Yeah. That makes sense."

Quinn hated how her voice changed when she tried to be brave.

Without thinking, he reached across the counter and touched her hand. She froze.

Then he stood and walked around to her side of the table, crouching down in front of her like he couldn’t stand the space between them any longer. And then—he hugged her.

Their first hug.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, and she buried her face in his shoulder, arms hesitating before folding around him like she was afraid he might vanish. When she finally did hold him back, it was with a grip that trembled, like she was holding onto something fragile but vital. Her hands curled into the back of his sweatshirt, and he felt her breathing grow uneven against his chest.

His fingers pressed gently into her back like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, not just physically, but emotionally—every piece of her he’d come to know and need. He didn’t want to let go. Neither did she. It was one of those moments that stretched beyond time, where the ache of goodbye wrapped itself around the warmth of presence.

They weren’t just hugging—they were trying to stay whole, just a little longer. Trying to carry the memory of this moment into the spaces where their hands wouldn’t be able to reach. And in that grip, in the silence, in the tremble of their bodies against one another, they both knew: letting go was going to feel like breaking.

He held her there for a while.

"I’ll call you every night," he murmured. "Okay? Every night. I promise."

She didn’t respond. Just nodded against his chest, but her arms tightened around him, just slightly. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of this moment, hold it in her body so she wouldn’t forget what it felt like to be needed like this. Her breath hitched once, and then again, and he could feel the way she was trying not to fall apart entirely. But she was trembling, and so was he.

And for the first time in a long time, Quinn cried. Quiet tears. The kind that slipped out without warning, catching on his lashes before falling onto the top of her head. His chest ached with the kind of sadness that didn’t shout—it simply settled, low and slow, into every part of him. He didn’t sob. He just let the tears fall, like something inside him had finally run out of ways to hold it all in.

He didn’t know how he’d be okay without her. How to wake up without her quiet texts. How to fall asleep without her voice lacing through the dark. He didn’t know how to let go of someone who had found all his broken pieces and made him feel like they weren’t something to be ashamed of. He didn’t know how to leave when every instinct in his body was screaming to stay.

So he held her tighter. As if that could freeze the clock. As if maybe, just maybe, if he held her long enough, time would pause, and they wouldn't have to say goodbye—not yet. Maybe not ever.

He kissed the top of her head. She didn’t pull away.

Michigan was quiet.

It was green and warm, the trees stretching overhead like old friends. The lake glistened with sunlight that bounced in a thousand directions, and his childhood home looked the same, down to the worn wooden steps and the wind chime that clinked softly when the breeze passed through. He fell back into the rhythm of home, but it didn’t feel quite the same.

His mom met him at the door with a long, wordless hug. She didn’t ask anything. Not yet.

But she saw it.

She always saw everything.

She watched him during those first few days. Not closely, not with suspicion. But with the gentle curiosity of a mother who knew her son had been hurting. She noticed the way he checked his phone constantly. The way he lingered near the window after dinner. The way his moods shifted in the evenings, how his restlessness would suddenly vanish around midnight.

She noticed the smile, too.

The one he wore when he slipped out to the dock. The one he didn’t even realize had crept onto his face.

And so, she didn’t ask.

She let him have that secret.

Each night, like clockwork, Quinn would sit on the dock with his phone pressed to his ear, feet hanging over the edge, toes brushing the cool wood worn smooth by years of childhood summers. The water below reflected moonlight like shattered glass, shifting gently with the breeze, a quiet mirror to the thoughts swirling in his head.

He would talk quietly, his voice softer than it ever was in the city. Some nights, he laughed—those rare, low laughs that came from somewhere deep, bubbling up like relief. Other nights, he spoke in hushed fragments, sometimes pausing between words just to listen to the sound of her breathing on the other end. And on some nights, they said almost nothing at all. Just stayed connected. Just were. The silence never felt empty with her. It felt held.

He would eventually lie on his back, letting the wood press into his shoulders, the lake air cool on his face. The stars above him stretched endless and quiet, like someone had thrown glitter across black velvet. His phone rested on his chest, warm against his heart, Ava's voice still ringing in his ears like a lullaby. Some nights she read to him. Some nights they made up constellations and gave them stupid names. Some nights they listened to the same song over and over again, letting the lyrics fill the spaces where words couldn’t reach.

And always, always, he stayed until the last word, the last laugh, the last breath of her presence faded into sleep. Because even from hundreds of miles away, she was the only thing that made him feel close to whole.

They talked about everything and nothing.

About books. The ones they’d read as kids, and the ones they never finished because life got in the way. About the sky—how it looked different in Michigan than it did in Vancouver, how sometimes clouds held stories and the stars made promises. About what they ate that day, even when it wasn’t exciting, even when it was just cereal or cold leftovers, because the mundane started to feel sacred when it was shared.

They talked about the ache in their chests that showed up when the world grew too quiet. About what it meant to long for someone you hadn’t known forever but who felt like home anyway. About the strange beauty of missing someone who wasn’t family, who wasn’t a lover, but who had become something more essential—like a lighthouse, like gravity, like air.

Sometimes they didn’t need words. Sometimes it was just the soft rustle of wind through his phone speaker, the distant sound of a car in the background of her call. They filled the spaces not with stories, but with the simple assurance: I’m here. I haven’t gone anywhere. And that, more than anything, kept them both afloat.

One night, he asked her to describe the bench to him.

"It’s lonely without you," she said.

He closed his eyes. "You’re not alone. I’m there. Just on the other end of the line."

And she believed him.

Other nights, he read to her. Passages from his favorite book. Descriptions of the lake. The way the water caught fire at sunset. They’d fall asleep on the phone more than once, whispering until their words faded into breath. There were no rules. Just the comfort of knowing the other was there.

His mom never interrupted. But sometimes, she’d step out onto the porch and see him there, lying on the dock, eyes full of stars. His silhouette, outlined by the faint silver of moonlight, looked younger somehow, like the boy he used to be before the world placed so much weight on his shoulders. The phone was always pressed gently to his ear, and she could see the subtle curve of a smile tugging at his lips—soft, unguarded, the kind of smile she hadn’t seen in years.

And her heart would ache in the best way. Ache because she recognized that someone, somewhere, was reaching into her son’s darkness and lighting a candle. Someone was listening to him, truly listening, in the way only people who have learned to sit with pain know how. She didn’t know what they talked about. She didn’t need to. The way his shoulders relaxed, the way his breathing slowed, the way he lingered in that same spot long after the conversations ended—all of it told her what she needed to know.

She’d watch for a moment longer, letting the quiet scene imprint itself in her memory, before stepping back inside. Because what he had out there on that dock wasn’t hers to claim or question. It was sacred, healing, his. A piece of peace she’d prayed he would find, even if it didn’t come from her.

Someone was healing her son.

Not fixing him. Not changing him.

Just holding the broken parts gently enough that they stopped hurting so much.

She didn’t need to know who it was.

But she hoped they knew what they meant to him.

And maybe, just maybe, what he meant to them.

Because when Quinn finally came back inside each night, his shoulders were lighter. His smile was softer. His eyes were clearer.

And for the first time in years, he looked like someone who believed he could be okay again.

And all because somewhere out there, someone was assembling him again.

Piece by piece.

With love that didn’t need a name yet.

With care that didn’t ask for anything in return.

And with the quiet, powerful promise of a connection strong enough to survive even the distance between them.

Quinn and Ava. Still broken, but still healing. Holding onto a thread of connection that reached across state lines and time zones, woven through whispered phone calls, unspoken understanding, and the memory of arms that didn't want to let go. They weren’t whole yet, but they didn’t need to be. Not when they had each other—soft, steady, and there. Even miles apart, they found their way back to one another, night after night, word by word, breath by breath. And that was enough. For now, that was enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Ava’s summer had gone differently than she’d imagined.

She had pictured long walks along the waterfront, more quiet calls with Quinn, late nights under moonlight where healing happened slowly and gently. She imagined space to breathe, mornings without pain, silence that wasn’t sharp. She had imagined peace—not total, not perfect, but something close enough to quiet the ache inside her.

But life had other plans. And it started, as it always seemed to, with her mother.

It was a Thursday night. The air outside was humid, heavy with the weight of July. The kind of heat that clung to skin and made the air taste like metal. Inside the Monroe house, the air felt even thicker. The windows were closed, the blinds drawn, and the silence had a pulse of its own—waiting, watching. Ava was curled up by her window, her favorite spot when she needed to forget where she was. She had headphones in, a playlist Quinn had made her playing softly, anchoring her to something safer, something real. The soft hum of the music, his careful curation of lyrics that understood her better than most people did, made the world feel just a little less cruel.

Until her name rang out through the house.

"Ava!"

Her mother's voice, sharp and slurred, cut through the melody like glass against skin.

The spell was broken. She sighed, carefully removing her headphones and sliding off the windowsill. She padded down the stairs on bare feet, moving like a ghost through her own home. Every movement was familiar. Predictable. This wasn’t new.

In the kitchen, her mother stood swaying, wine glass in hand, her eyes glazed with the kind of fury that had nowhere else to go. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair wild, her expression twisted with something bitter and ugly.

"What?" Ava asked, her voice neutral, steady—a mask she had learned to wear early.

"What the hell is this attitude? Don’t talk to me like that," her mother snapped, slamming the glass down on the granite counter with a sharp crack that made Ava flinch.

"I wasn’t," she replied calmly, standing her ground. "You called me. I just came down."

"God, you think you’re better than me now, huh?" her mother snarled, eyes narrowing. "Since when did you get so full of yourself? So fucking self-righteous."

Ava stood still. She could feel her heart racing, but she wouldn’t show it. Not this time.

"I don’t think I’m better than you. But I’m not going to let you keep doing this to me."

Her mother tilted her head, mock confusion bleeding into rage.

"Doing what, exactly? Raising you? Giving you a roof over your head? Feeding you?"

"No. Tearing me down. Making me feel like I was a mistake. Like I’ll never be enough. I’m not your punching bag. Not anymore."

And in that moment, the air in the room shifted—no longer merely still, but suffocating. It pressed against Ava’s chest, a living thing, thick and trembling with unspoken violence. The flicker of rage in her mother’s eyes wasn’t new; Ava had seen it before in a hundred quiet slights and shouted insults. But tonight, it looked different. Not just angry—unhinged. It crackled like static in the air, raw and unchecked, simmering beneath the surface with a force that threatened to spill over. Her mother's pupils were blown wide, her jaw clenched tight, lips curling with disgust. Something inside her had snapped, and it wasn’t going to be restrained. Ava felt it—like standing on the edge of a storm, knowing the lightning was already too close.

She moved quickly, her fingers wrapping around Ava’s wrist with a grip so tight it made her wince. Her mother’s nails dug into her skin, leaving crescents that would still ache days later. And then, before Ava could speak again—

Smack.

A hand across her face. The sound cracked through the room like a whip, sharp and unnatural, echoing off the cold tile like the slap of thunder before a storm breaks. Time slowed for a moment as the pain registered—an immediate, searing bloom that spread across her cheek like wildfire. The heat radiated outward, red and raw, and her skin stung like it had been scalded. Her eye watered involuntarily, the shock stealing her breath before the ache could even fully set in. Her body rocked with the force of it, a sway that felt more like being untethered than being struck. But she didn’t fall. She didn’t scream. She just stood there, heart pounding in her ears, a storm behind her ribs, staring into the space between pain and defiance where her voice had finally risen—and her mother had tried to silence it.

She looked up.

Straight into her mother’s face.

"You are embarrassing," she said, her voice low and controlled. "And I’m done letting you walk all over me. Maybe your life turned out shitty, but that’s not my fault. That’s yours."

Another hit. This one harder. Her head snapped sideways, pain blooming just beneath her eye. She didn’t cry. She only straightened again, breathing shallow but steady.

And then, the front door opened.

The heavy click of the latch was jarring in the silence.

"What the hell is going on?"

Her father’s voice rang out, low and commanding, but beneath it was something heavier—a tremor of disbelief, of dawning horror. David Monroe stood in the entryway, framed by the glow of the hallway light, his presence suddenly too large for the space. His suit was slightly wrinkled, the tie loosened like he’d just barely made it home, briefcase hanging forgotten in his hand. But it wasn’t the tiredness of his long day that defined him in that moment—it was the way he stood utterly still, like his world had just been cracked open. His gaze swept the room and landed on his daughter—on the redness blooming across her cheek, the bruise beneath her eye, the fear she wore like a second skin. And just like that, the tension rolled off him in waves, not from stress, but from rage—cold, deliberate, and deeply paternal. The kind of rage that only exists when you realize you’ve failed to protect what matters most.

Sally spun to face him, her expression crumbling into something falsely fragile.

"David, it’s not what it looks like, I swear! She was yelling at me—completely out of control. You know how she gets when she thinks she’s right about something. She wouldn’t stop. She kept pushing and shouting and—I didn’t know what to do! I felt threatened, David. I really did. She was coming at me, and I just—I panicked, okay? She was acting like a completely different person. I’m the one who felt unsafe in my own home. She made me feel like the villain, and all I’ve done is try to be her mother. She’s been impossible lately, and I—David, you have to believe me!"

But he wasn’t looking at her. He looked at Ava.

And he saw everything.

The flushed cheek. The swelling bruise already forming. The tear that had slipped down without her noticing. The way her wrist was still red and marked. And more than that—he saw the resignation in her eyes. The fatigue. The pain she no longer even tried to hide.

He dropped the briefcase.

"Get out."

"What? David, she—"

"I said get out."

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It cut through the room like a blade—cold, controlled, and laced with a fury so precise it chilled the air. The stillness in it was more terrifying than any yell could ever be, because it held finality. A reckoning. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. A boundary drawn not in anger, but in protection. And in that silence, in that unwavering tone, the whole house seemed to hold its breath, because everyone knew: there was no coming back from this moment.

"Go pack a bag. Go to your sister’s. You are not staying here. Not after this."

Sally sputtered, tried again to protest, but it was useless. Ava didn’t even look at her.

David moved to his daughter as if on instinct, something primal and protective rising from within him that left no room for hesitation. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, and for a heartbeat she remained stiff—rigid with shock, with pain, with disbelief that this moment was even happening. But then something in her broke open, not from weakness, but from the exhaustion of holding everything in for so long. She gave in, crumpling into him like a wave folding into the shore, her hands gripping fistfuls of his shirt like a child who had waited too many years to be caught.

Her body trembled against his, and David felt it all—every sob she wouldn't let out, every bruise he hadn’t stopped, every silence he hadn’t noticed. Guilt rushed through him like ice, swift and sharp. He had failed her. Not just tonight, but for years. He’d left her in a house where her pain went unseen, unheard, unanswered. And now she was breaking in his arms and all he could do was hold her, whispering apologies he knew weren’t enough.

"I’m so sorry," he breathed, his voice thick, cracking at the edges. "God, Ava, I’m so sorry. I should have seen it. I should have known."

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her weight against him said everything. The way her fingers curled into his chest, desperate to hold on, desperate not to be let down again.

He tightened his grip and lowered his head, pressing it to hers as though he could somehow shield her from every blow she’d already taken. And in that moment, all he wanted was to go back—to every missed sign, every late night, every moment he hadn’t been there. But he couldn’t. So he stood there instead, rooted, holding his daughter like a lifeline, like a man trying to say with his arms what his words never could.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t pull away either.

He held her tighter.

"This is over. She will never lay a hand on you again. I swear to you."

She closed her eyes. Let herself believe it. Just for a moment.

"I should have protected you," he said again. His voice cracked. "I should have been here."

And she finally spoke. Quiet. Steady.

"Then be here now."

That night, everything changed.

Sally left in a storm of haphazard packing and venomous muttering, her suitcase dragging behind her like a carcass of bitterness and regret. The sound of the wheels scraping across the tile echoed through the hall like an exorcism. When the door finally slammed shut behind her, it was as if something rancid had been purged from the walls of the house. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was reverent. It was peace reclaiming its place after years of torment. It was the first exhale after holding your breath for too long.

David stayed by Ava’s side, almost afraid to leave the room, afraid she might disappear or that the strength she showed might crumble if she were left alone. He hovered at first, unsure, guilt still clawing at his chest. But Ava didn’t push him away. She didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. Her presence allowed his, and that was enough. He made her tea with trembling hands, fingers fumbling with the kettle like he hadn’t done something so ordinary in years. He found the first aid kit in the hallway cabinet and pressed a cold compress gently to her cheek, his touch reverent, like he was tending to something sacred. And when he apologized, again and again, Ava finally reached up and placed her hand over his.

"Stop," she whispered. "I heard you. I need you to be here. Not to say it. To show me."

And he nodded, eyes glassy, heart breaking open in his chest for the girl he hadn’t known how to save. That night, they sat in the quiet for a long time. No TV. No distractions. Just two people slowly stitching together the space between them.

Ava went to bed in a room that finally felt like hers. Not a prison. Not a trap. But a place where her voice had been heard. A room where the shadows no longer whispered her worthlessness back to her. A place where, for the first time in years, she didn’t have to brace for a door slamming or a voice rising.

The bruise on her face took a week to fade. But the thing that bloomed inside her that night—the fury, the clarity, the self she thought had been buried for good—that stayed. It grew roots. And with every passing day, she stood a little taller, spoke a little louder, breathed a little deeper.

Because for the first time in her life, Ava wasn’t afraid of taking up space.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed she might actually deserve it.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

From that day on, David Monroe became a different kind of father.

He didn’t announce it. There were no grand speeches, no dramatic gestures to mark the shift. It was quieter than that. More intentional. He started coming home early. Left his phone face-down during dinner. Took a step back from the relentless machinery of the company and let his second-in-command carry the weight he’d once insisted on shouldering alone. Where there used to be boardrooms and flights and conferences, there were now shared breakfasts with Ava, long walks through Stanley Park, and slow mornings that allowed space for conversation. He asked questions. He listened. Really listened. And most importantly, he looked at her like he was seeing her—not the heiress, not the troubled teen, not the reflection of his failings—but his daughter. His child.

And in the small moments, Ava started to feel it too.

Not everything was fixed. But the tension that once lived in the walls began to soften. Her room didn’t feel like a cage anymore. The echo of slamming doors had disappeared. Her face healed, but more than that, something inside her had started to mend. It wasn’t linear. Some days were harder than others. But for the first time in her life, she believed that healing was possible. That she was allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. She smiled more. Laughed, even. The guilt that used to settle on her shoulders like wet sand began to lift.

And when Quinn returned from Michigan, as if drawn by some invisible pull, they found each other again.

No texts were exchanged. No call to meet. There didn’t have to be. The connection between them was something unspoken, something carved into the marrow of their bones. It moved in whispers, in intuition, in that aching familiarity that exists between people who have seen each other at their absolute lowest. Their bond defied explanation—it had always existed beneath the surface, simmering gently, waiting for the moment they would need it again.

So when the air in Vancouver turned warm and humid, and the sky burned soft at the edges with the promise of summer's return, they simply showed up. At the bench. The one by the water where everything began. The same wooden slats worn down from years of weather, still creaking under weight, still welcoming. As though the universe had gently reached out with an invisible hand, nudging them back toward the only place that ever felt like sanctuary. It didn’t need to shout or point—just whispered softly: go now. They're waiting.

There he was, sitting with his elbows on his knees, looking out at the water like it held the answers to questions he hadn't yet asked. Ava didn’t make a sound as she approached, but he turned anyway—as if he felt her there before he saw her. Their eyes met, and something settled in both of them. Relief. Recognition. That aching kind of warmth that only comes from being missed.

They said nothing. Just moved toward each other like gravity had decided for them. He opened the blanket he had brought, and she stepped into it, sinking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm draped over her shoulders, her head rested gently against his chest. They laid there in silence, the water stretching out before them, the stars quietly blinking in the sky above. The city buzzed behind them, distant and irrelevant. In that moment, it was just them.

Two quiet souls with too much history and not enough words.

They didn’t need to speak. They never had.

Their breathing synced, rising and falling in a rhythm so effortless it felt orchestrated by something bigger than them. His fingers moved gently against her arm, drawing absentminded circles that whispered reassurance against her skin. Each pass of his fingertips was a soft reminder that she wasn’t alone, that he was there, and that the silence between them was anything but empty. Her hand, slow and deliberate, found the hem of his sweater—that familiar place where fabric met warmth—and curled there, anchoring herself in the presence of someone who had seen her unravel and hadn’t flinched.

They had been apart for months, but this—this space, this contact, this hush that wrapped around them like a cocoon—made time feel irrelevant. It wasn’t just comfort. It was communion. Like their hearts had never stopped whispering across the distance, tracing constellations in one another’s absence. And now, reunited, they could finally hear what had always been there. That steady hum of knowing, of safety, of belonging. A closeness that asked nothing, proved nothing, but simply was.

It was the kind of reunion that didn’t require explanation. Just presence. Just breath.

And then came the night of the Monroe Gala.

It was an annual tradition, always hosted in the grand ballroom of one of Vancouver’s finest hotels—chandeliers dripping with light, golden accents reflecting off the champagne flutes, soft classical music humming beneath the din of polite conversation. The Monroe name was printed on every wall, gilded on every place card. Cameras flashed as donors and dignitaries arrived, each trying to catch the attention of the city's elite.

But this year, something was different. Ava stood next to her father the entire night.

David hadn’t asked—he insisted. And for once, she didn’t mind.

She wore a simple black satin gown, elegant and understated, the fabric catching the light with every graceful movement she made. It flowed around her like a whisper, the kind of dress that didn’t need embellishment to draw attention. Her hair was swept into a soft bun, a few delicate strands framing her face, and her makeup was minimal—just enough to highlight the natural beauty she was finally learning to own. But it wasn’t her dress or her makeup that turned heads. It was her presence. The way she carried herself with a quiet, unshakable strength that hadn’t been there before. A stillness that commanded respect without demanding it. She wasn’t just attending the gala; she was reclaiming the space she had once shrunk inside of. Every step she took was a silent declaration.

David kept a proud hand on her back, steady and constant, as he introduced her to guests. It was protective but not possessive, proud but not overbearing—a father who had come to understand his daughter’s worth in the way he should have all along. For once, his presence beside her didn’t feel like a spotlight; it felt like support. And Ava, radiant beneath the golden chandeliers, met each handshake and greeting with grace and a poised confidence that made people pause, look again, and wonder who she truly was beneath the satin and silk.

"This is my daughter, Ava," he’d say with a smile that reached his eyes. "She’s doing incredibly well in school. Top of her class. Strong as ever."

No one brought up Sally. Not once. Not in passing, not in whispers behind champagne glasses, not in speculative glances. It was as if the woman had been erased from memory, a name swallowed by the elegance of the room and the power of Ava’s presence. And David, for all his pride and poise, didn’t let her shadow stretch across this night. He didn’t allow it. This was Ava’s moment. Hers alone.

She smiled, nodded, shook hands, posed for the occasional photo, but her mind wandered.

Because across the room, Quinn was there.

Tall, composed, dressed in a sharp navy suit. His hair was slightly tousled in that effortless way only he could pull off. He looked different here—not out of place, but dressed in armor. His hands tucked into his pockets, his expression polite but reserved. He mingled with his teammates, with the Canucks GM, with sponsors and fans. But his eyes were scanning the room.

For her.

Their eyes met across the ballroom, and it was like the world stilled, folded inward, until the only thing that existed was the space between them. They didn’t smile. They didn’t wave. They just watched each other, a kind of watching that felt like remembering and longing all at once. Ava’s breath caught in her throat, her heart aching with the pressure of everything she couldn’t say. And Quinn—his posture steady, his eyes unreadable but soft—looked at her like she was the first quiet breath after drowning. It was a silent conversation layered with everything they had endured in the months apart. A quiet, aching kind of yearning that throbbed in the stillness.

I missed you.

I know.

I’m here.

So am I.

As the night wore on, they moved through the space like magnets drawn by a thread. David introduced Ava to a dozen important faces, but each time she turned, she could feel Quinn’s gaze finding hers. When he laughed at something Brock Boeser said, she caught the moment his smile faltered just slightly—because she wasn’t beside him. And when she shook hands with Tyler Myers, she felt Quinn watching, his gaze unreadable.

Eventually, the inevitable happened.

David and Ava approached a small cluster of men—Quinn, the GM, Brock, and Elias. Golf was the topic of choice, spoken with that kind of lighthearted competitiveness that only athletes could pull off. The laughter was easy, the posture relaxed. Ava stood a step behind her father, her eyes immediately finding Quinn’s.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

They just gravitated toward one another until, somehow, they were side by side. The space between them dissolved with a familiarity so profound, it felt rehearsed by the universe itself. Their arms brushed once—a fleeting stroke of fabric against skin that made Ava's breath hitch. Then again, slower this time, as if the universe was drawing their lines closer. And on the third, they didn’t pull away. They stayed.

Shoulder to shoulder, standing like twin sentinels in a crowd of strangers, the contact was quiet but absolute. A low pulse of warmth spread from where they touched, down their spines, into their lungs. Ava felt her anxiety melt just slightly, the noise of the room dimming, her thoughts softening. Quinn tilted slightly closer, the smallest gesture, like a lean into gravity. And together they stood—not speaking, not shifting, simply existing in the kind of silence that nourished.

For a moment, neither of them listened to the conversation. They didn’t hear the jokes about sand traps or the groans about bad swings. They were simply there. Together. Anchored.

David turned and, with the proudest smile, said, "Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Ava."

She extended her hand politely, introducing herself with a poise that made her look older than she felt. Quinn gave the smallest nod, his lips twitching, like he was trying not to smirk.

"Nice to meet you," he said softly, eyes never leaving hers.

They had to pretend.

Pretend like they didn’t know every jagged edge of each other’s trauma—each wound, each scar, each moment that nearly broke them. Like they hadn’t fallen asleep on the phone night after night, their voices the last thread tethering each other to sleep, murmured goodnights passed like fragile lifelines. Like she hadn’t once read him poetry in the early hours of the morning, her voice trembling over words not her own, until they cracked open something inside him that he hadn’t dared to touch in years, and he cried—not just from the words, but from the way she saw him, really saw him. Like he hadn’t once driven across the city at midnight, headlights cutting through fog, just to be near her, just to sit on the floor of her room and say nothing while she stared blankly at the wall, her silence heavier than any words. Like they weren’t each other's refuge in a world that had offered them far too many reasons to stop trying. Like they weren’t still carrying pieces of each other in places no one else could reach.

They had to pretend like they weren’t tethered by something deeper than most people in that room would ever understand.

Like if it weren’t for Quinn, Ava wouldn’t be here.

And if it weren’t for Ava, Quinn would have walked away from the game he loved.

They stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, both masters of silence, both carrying more than anyone knew. And while the rest of the room buzzed with noise and expectation, they existed in their own bubble. One glance. One breath. One heartbeat.

That was enough.

For now.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Somehow, later that night, Quinn and Ava found themselves away from all the eyes, tucked behind velvet curtains and down a quiet hallway, onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the city. It felt like they had stumbled upon it by accident, but both of them knew better. The pull between them had always been magnetic, quiet and deliberate, and it had led them here—out of the spotlight, away from the polished smiles and the swirling conversations. Just the two of them. Just how they liked it.

The air was crisp and cool, the summer breeze biting at her bare shoulders, and without a word, Quinn slipped his suit jacket from his shoulders and draped it gently over her. Then, like gravity had always meant him to, he stayed close. His arm wrapped around her back, resting just above her waist, drawing her into his warmth. She leaned into it with a sigh, one that felt like it had been trapped inside her all evening.

The city lights glittered below them, casting soft gold and silver glows onto their faces. Neither of them spoke at first. There was no need to fill the silence. The world outside buzzed with energy and expectation, but here—on this hidden balcony—time felt suspended. They turned toward each other slowly, their gazes meeting in a softness reserved only for the quietest of truths.

Their voices, when they came, were hushed. Gentle. Full of intimacy. It wasn’t what they said—it was how they said it. Like they were catching up on lifetimes rather than hours. As if the conversation from the night before, curled up on Quinn’s couch in hoodies and tangled legs, hadn’t happened just twenty-four hours earlier. As if time with each other never felt like enough.

He told her about his mom asking questions. About Luke and Jack teasing him, but softer than usual. She told him about her father pausing in the middle of breakfast to ask her how she really was. How she answered him honestly.

They laughed quietly, shared fragments of their lives, their voices slipping between them like the breeze winding around their bodies. Ava’s hand found his. Their fingers interlaced without fanfare, like they were meant to. Like they always had.

They craved each other’s presence in a way that neither of them could quite articulate. It was an ache in the bones, a whisper that lingered in the quiet moments when the world slowed down. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate. It was patient and persistent, like the tide returning to shore. Every brush of their hands, every shared look, every heartbeat that seemed to echo in tandem reminded them that the world felt more bearable with the other nearby.

It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was all-consuming in the gentlest way—like warm water rising slowly around them until they were submerged in comfort. Being together didn’t feel like fireworks or explosions. It felt like exhaling. Like the pause between waves. Like breathing after forgetting how to. It was the soft kind of safety that asked nothing, yet offered everything. It was steady. It was healing. It was home.

Eventually, they knew they had to go back. The world would start to wonder. So they disentangled slowly, reluctantly, the weight of the party pressing back against their little sanctuary. They stepped inside, the heavy doors closing behind them like a secret, and returned to the crowd, slipping seamlessly back into their silent game of eye tag.

Longing looks drifted like invisible threads across the room—delicate, deliberate, and too soft for anyone else to notice. They passed between them in glances that carried weight, in stares that lingered just a second too long. Ava could feel him in the room like a current beneath the surface of calm water. Even when her back was turned, she knew exactly where he was. It was instinctual now, the way she tracked him without searching, the way her body seemed to orient itself around his presence.

Quinn was woven into the night, stitched into the seams of her awareness. Like his gaze had painted itself onto the architecture of the ballroom—carved into the corners of mirrors, hidden in the shadows between chandeliers, echoing in the hush between conversations. He was there in the stillness. In the pause before the music swelled again.

Every time their eyes met, it felt like the rest of the world blurred, like the space between them collapsed into memory and possibility. It was quiet, desperate longing. Not just for touch, but for the kind of closeness they weren’t allowed to show here. The kind they could only hint at through parted lips that said nothing, and eyes that said everything.

When the night came to a close, and the last of the toasts had been made, David began his rounds. He shook hands with the team, warm and gracious, all the pride of a father written into his smile.

And Ava stood there, just a few feet away from Quinn.

So close. Yet still oceans apart.

She stared at him, and he stared back. Neither moving. Neither speaking. Just holding on through the space between them. And in that glance, they said everything they couldn’t say out loud.

Stay.

I will.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Fundraiser after fundraiser. Event after event. Gala after gala. It was always the same.

There was a rhythm to it now—the way Ava and Quinn would find themselves orbiting the same glittering rooms, under the same glowing chandeliers, surrounded by clinking glasses, velvet gowns, and the quiet murmur of old money. These were nights meant for appearances, for networking and public smiles. And yet, for them, they had taken on a different meaning. They became a ritual of sorts. A dance.

They never arrived together. They never left together. But they were always there. Always watching.

She stood by her father's side, poised and elegant, every inch of her radiating a quiet, cultivated grace. The dress she wore shimmered beneath the golden chandeliers, catching the light each time she moved, but it wasn’t the fabric that made people pause when they looked at her—it was the composure, the soft confidence in the way she held herself. The kind of strength not learned overnight but forged through fire and healing. There was something magnetic about her silence, a steadiness in her stillness, like she didn’t need to speak to be understood. David often rested a hand gently on her back, not to guide her, but to show the world he was proud.

Across the room, Quinn lingered with his teammates, half-listening to stories about summer golf trips and rookie antics, his drink untouched, the condensation leaving faint circles on the bar. His posture was casual, familiar to those around him, but his eyes—they betrayed him. They moved past people, past clinking glasses and shallow chatter, to find her. Always her. No matter where she was in the room, he found her. Even if she was half-turned, speaking to someone else, he knew. Like her presence lived in his peripheral vision. Like a magnetic pull beneath his skin.

And when their eyes met—briefly, quietly—everything else fell away. The world dimmed. The noise dulled. It was just them, across the distance, tethered by something invisible and unshakable. The kind of connection that didn’t require words or permission. Even in a crowded ballroom. Even in a sea of faces. The invisible string between them never faltered. It only grew stronger, more certain, more sacred.

They had mastered the art of silent presence. Of being near, but not too near. Their glances were small offerings. Wordless affirmations. I'm here.

Sometimes, Quinn would catch her in mid-laugh, head tilted back slightly, eyes crinkled at the corners, and his chest would tighten. Sometimes Ava would look up to see him politely declining a drink, his fingers tracing the edge of the glass, and she'd know he was counting down the minutes until they could be alone.

Every so often, someone would notice. One of Quinn's teammates. An old family friend of Ava's. Someone would glance between them and furrow their brow.

Eventually, Brock and Petey began to catch on. It wasn't just in the obvious ways—not just the glances or the quiet way Quinn seemed to tune out everything but a single presence across the room. It was deeper than that. It was in the ease of his movements during practice, in the softness of his voice when he spoke to the trainers, in the subtle calm that had settled into his shoulders like a long-held burden had finally been set down.

They saw the change in him before they saw her. The lightness in him. The subtle peace. The way his temper didn’t flare as easily. The way he lingered longer in the locker room, not because he was avoiding something, but because he had somewhere he wanted to be afterward. The way his phone would buzz mid-conversation, and he’d glance at it, eyes lighting up in a way neither of them had seen in a long time.

Petey noticed it first after a morning skate. Quinn had sat on the bench longer than usual, sipping his water, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth for no apparent reason. Brock picked up on it later, when Quinn turned down a night out in favor of heading home early—again.

There was something different about him. Something quieter. Something warmer. Something that felt like the first breath after breaking the surface of a deep dive. They didn’t know who she was yet. But they knew what she was doing to him.

And they were grateful for it.

“You’re different lately,” Brock had teased once, nudging him with his elbow after a press conference.

Quinn shrugged. “Just focused.”

Petey raised an eyebrow. “Focused, huh?”

He said nothing more, just offered a faint smirk and pulled his cap low. But they knew. Of course they did.

They didn’t push. They didn’t need to. Because they remembered the nights Quinn went silent in the locker room, the way he would sit with his head in his hands, shoulders hunched and trembling slightly, eyes distant as though he was somewhere far away. They remembered the nights he left the arena without a word, ghosting through the exit like he wanted to disappear into the dark, burdened by invisible weights that the rest of the world never saw. They remembered the sting of watching him crumble under the pressure, carrying the weight of a franchise, a name, and expectations so heavy no one his age should have had to bear them.

And now, he was present. He was grounded. He stayed after practices, laughed more freely, smiled without flinching, and leaned in during conversations instead of drifting out. He moved through the world with a kind of steadiness that was new, earned, and deeply felt. There was a fullness to him, a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before, like he had finally allowed himself to be held by something—or someone—other than the game. And whatever or whoever had given him that, they weren’t going to interfere. Because Quinn wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was healing. And they weren’t about to question the one bright thread that had started to stitch him back together.

And David Monroe—the man who spent a lifetime reading contracts, reading negotiations, reading people—read his daughter the same way.

He noticed the subtle tilt of her head when Quinn entered the room—that barely perceptible shift in her body that spoke volumes. He noticed how her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, how her stance softened in the way that people do when they feel safe. The shift in her voice when she greeted him was unmistakable, too—a quiet warmth that hadn't been there before, a kind of familiarity laced with unspoken joy. There was a glint of something softer in her eyes, something David hadn’t seen in a long time: hope. It shimmered beneath her lashes when she looked at Quinn, not flashy or bold, but real.

And maybe it was in the way she leaned in slightly, even when they weren’t talking. Maybe it was in the way her laughter carried just a little further when Quinn was near, fuller, less guarded. Maybe it was in the way she always seemed to know where he was, even if her back was turned. Whatever it was, she didn’t have to say a word. David knew. He knew in the same way a father knows when something inside his daughter has changed—not in fear, not in pain, but in healing. In comfort. In love.

But he never asked.

Never pushed. Never demanded to know.

Instead, he offered something rarer: trust.

He’d excuse himself from conversations at just the right moment. He’d conveniently get caught up with a donor when Ava and Quinn found themselves standing nearby. And most notably, he’d offer, again and again, with quiet confidence:

“Quinn, would you mind driving Ava back tonight? Her driver’s been rerouted.”

Even when they both knew that wasn’t true. Even when her driver was parked right outside. It was never about logistics. It was about space.

David offered it to them the way a father offers love when he doesn’t quite know how to say the words. With open doors. With quiet knowing. With the kind of steady, behind-the-scenes support that didn't demand acknowledgment or praise. He made space for them gently, without ever announcing it, always a few steps behind, always watching without hovering. He knew enough not to interrupt something still delicate and forming, something unspoken and sacred. But he could feel it—the gravity between them—and rather than stand in the way of it, he simply stepped aside.

In the way he lingered in conversations a little longer when he saw them drawn together. In the way he made himself scarce just as Ava started looking around for an escape from small talk. In the way he mentioned Quinn’s name with familiarity, like someone already considered family. He didn’t overstep. He didn’t press. He just made sure they knew he saw them. That he trusted them. That they were safe, and they were seen.

On the nights Ava stayed at the Monroe home, David would pass by her room, the soft spill of her laughter filtering through the crack in the door. Her voice, light and unguarded, speaking into the phone like it was the most natural thing in the world. It didn’t take much for him to recognize the voice on the other end. He’d seen Quinn smile that same way, phone in hand, thumb brushing the screen, eyes warm with something he rarely let the world see.

And then there were the late nights.

The soft creak of the front door. The shuffle of feet on the tile. Her silhouette slipping out into the quiet dark, only to return hours later with the faintest curve of peace around her mouth. She never said where she went. He never asked. But he could see it in her eyes. The steadiness. The gratitude.

Her chauffeur confirmed it once, in the casual way longtime employees do.

"Nice kid comes around a lot," he’d said, leaning against the car as David stepped out one morning, his tone casual but warm with unspoken approval. "Shows up like clockwork. Never loud, never late. Always polite—calls me sir, if you can believe it. Keeps to himself mostly, but he's careful with her. Stays in the car sometimes, waits until the lights are on before driving off. And when he does walk her in, he never lingers longer than she wants him to. Just makes sure she’s safe. You can tell he cares, even if he doesn’t say much. Been doing it for months now. Since before the summer started, even when school was still in session. Honestly? Feels like he's been here longer than that. Like he's part of the rhythm of the place now."

David had only nodded.

He didn’t need confirmation. He just needed to know she was okay.

And when it came to Quinn Hughes, he knew she was.

He’d always admired the young defenseman. Not for his stats, not for his name. But for the way he carried himself. Humble. Quiet. Steady. The kind of man who didn’t demand the spotlight, but still lit the way for others. The kind of man David hoped his daughter would meet one day, when she was ready.

And now, it seemed, she had.

David never said anything. Not directly.

But one evening, Ava walked into her apartment, tired from class, her shoulders heavy with the day. And there, on her kitchen counter, was an envelope. Small. Unassuming. Her name printed on the front in familiar, slanted script.

Inside, a single ticket.

Canucks Family Suite.

Next to it, a bouquet of lilies. Fresh, fragrant, wrapped in soft tissue and tied with a satin ribbon.

And tucked inside the bouquet was a note, folded neatly. In her father’s handwriting, blocky and precise:

I’m glad you’re happy. Enjoy the game, sweetheart. Tell Q I say hi.

Ava stood in the center of her kitchen for a long time, the note pressed to her chest, her fingertips brushing over the familiar scrawl of her father’s handwriting as if it were something fragile and precious. The air around her felt still, suspended, as if the world had paused to give her this moment—this moment where the past and present met in a quiet, breathtaking kind of peace. Her eyes stung with something tender, something deep and sacred, a soft ache blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with being seen. Truly seen.

It wasn’t permission. It wasn’t approval. It was deeper than that. It was trust. It was understanding. It was a father’s love given not with conditions or expectations, but with a steady hand and a hopeful heart. It was a message: * I trust you. I love you.*

And in that stillness, Ava felt something inside her settle. A lifelong ache she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying softened, just a little. It was love, quiet and sure. The kind that didn’t ask questions. The kind that didn’t need to be proven. The kind that just... was.

She didn’t text him to say thank you. She didn’t need to. He already knew.

That night, she wore the jersey Quinn had left for her. The one that still smelled faintly of his cologne. The one that had become a second skin on nights when the world felt too sharp. She tucked the ticket into her bag and made her way to the arena.

The family suite buzzed with polite chatter, children balancing popcorn tubs on their laps, partners snapping photos through the glass. Ava sat alone, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes trained on the ice.

And then he skated out.

Helmet tucked under one arm, his stick resting against his shoulder, his eyes flicked upward—toward her.

Just once.

But it was enough.

He smiled. Slow. Soft. The kind of smile that reached the corners of his eyes.

And this time, she smiled back.

Wide. Unafraid. Home.

A few rows down, David watched the exchange, his heart quietly swelling with a kind of warmth he hadn't felt in years. His hands were folded in his lap, but his grip softened as he took them in—his daughter and the boy she hadn’t quite named yet. His chin tilted upward slightly, like he was catching sunlight, though it was only the gentle glow of the rink lights reflecting in his eyes. And what he saw wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t grand. But it was everything.

There was something so gentle in their exchange, so sweet and unguarded, that it rooted itself deep in his chest. The way Quinn looked up like the world paused when he saw her. The way Ava smiled back without a hint of hesitation. That silent thread between them—invisible to others but so very visible to a father who had learned to look—wasn't just connection. It was care. It was safety. It was the soft, tender shape of something real beginning to bloom.

And David—a man who once wondered if he’d ever get to see this kind of light in his daughter again—felt nothing but gratitude. For the quiet between them. For the steady presence Quinn had become. For the fact that in a world that demanded so much of both of them, they had found each other.

He smiled too.

Because this—this was all he had ever wanted for her.

Not perfection. Not prestige.

Just peace.

And someone to hold her steady when the world tried to pull her apart.

And he smiled too.

Because this—this was all he had ever wanted for her.

Not perfection. Not prestige.

Just peace.

And someone to hold her steady when the world tried to pull her apart.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Eventually, it happened.

After a week of distance, of nothing but texted good mornings and tired, late-night voice notes, Quinn returned from a stretch of away games in the States. A week apart wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like an eternity to both of them. After so many nights spent orbiting each other’s presence, to suddenly have nothing but a phone screen was a sharp absence.

So when he finally got back to Vancouver, there was no hesitation. No ceremony. Just the quiet thud of the door closing behind him and the soft, wordless pull of Ava’s arms as they collapsed into each other in the dim comfort of her apartment.

They ended up in her bed, legs tangled beneath the covers, the low hum of a television show playing in the background. Neither of them paid attention to the dialogue. The screen flickered, casting soft colors across the room, but their world had narrowed to each other—to the warmth of bodies reunited, to the gentle exchange of breath in a space that finally felt whole again.

Quinn laid on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other curled gently around Ava’s waist. She faced him, her fingers resting lightly against his chest, eyes tracing the sharp curve of his jaw, the dimple in his chin, the soft slope of his nose. It was quiet, reverent almost, the kind of silence that said everything.

Their foreheads pressed together.

Like an anchor. Like a prayer.

As if the touch could absorb all the ache, all the exhaustion, all the pieces of the past still lodged deep inside.

Quinn's fingers gently brushed a piece of hair from her face, tucking it slowly behind her ear with the kind of tenderness that made her stomach flutter. His hand lingered there, the pad of his thumb grazing the curve of her cheek like it was something sacred. It was such a small gesture, but it was full of reverence—as though he were memorizing her, as though her softness was something he needed to commit to memory in case the world ever tried to make him forget. His eyes searched hers, not in question but in quiet certainty, and when he finally took a breath, it trembled slightly, his voice low and raw and steady. The words that followed were barely above a whisper, but they rang through her like a cathedral bell, reverberating in her chest, anchoring something deep and aching inside of her with the weight of truth.

"I love you so much, Ava."

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. But it held weight. A gravity that made her heart still for a moment.

Her eyes met his, glassy with something close to awe, and she reached up, cupping his face in her hands with a gentleness that nearly broke him.

"I love you so much, Quinn."

And then their lips met.

Soft. Slow. Healing.

Like the breath after a storm. Like the beginning of something safe and endless.

In that kiss, it was as if they were transported—to a different place, a different version of the world where nothing had ever hurt them, where every crack had been mended, every bruise gently kissed away. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a release. A surrender. A soft unraveling of everything they had held in for too long. It was warm and still and whole, the kind of kiss that stitched them back together from the inside out. In that moment, their bodies remembered safety, their hearts remembered peace. Every aching memory, every lonely night, every self-doubt and lingering wound faded into the background.

For a few heartbeats, they forgot what it meant to carry pain. Forgot what it was to be broken. There was only the hush between them, the taste of belonging, the way their souls seemed to fit together like pieces that had always known where they belonged.

They were just two people who loved each other.

And for the first time, that was more than enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Ava attended every game she could. If she could make it, she was there. She sat quietly in the family suite, tucked between executives and loved ones, her eyes always scanning the ice for #43.

And it was inevitable, really, that eventually she would run into Ellen Hughes.

It was during a highly anticipated game—the Canucks versus the Devils. A Hughes family reunion of sorts, with Jack and Luke skating for New Jersey while Quinn stood on the opposing blue line. The suite was buzzing with excitement, filled with friends, distant relatives, and family friends.

Ellen had made her rounds with practiced warmth. She greeted the WAGs, the team staff, the donors and their spouses. And eventually, her eyes fell on a girl she didn’t recognize.

She was sitting at the far end of the suite, small and tucked into her seat, her body angled slightly away from the crowd as though trying not to draw attention. But there was something about her posture—something familiar. She wasn’t avoiding people. She was just comfortable in her own space.

Curious, Ellen approached.

"Hi there," she said with a soft smile. "I don't think we've met. I'm Ellen. Quinn's mom."

Ava's head snapped up, and her heart immediately jumped to her throat, thudding so hard she swore Ellen could hear it. Her breath caught, and for a split second she forgot how to speak, how to move, how to be. She hadn’t expected this moment—not so soon, not like this. Her eyes widened slightly, and a nervous flush crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks as recognition dawned. Of course she knew who Ellen Hughes was. Quinn had spoken of her with reverence and warmth, had mentioned her kindness and strength. And now here she was, standing just feet away, reaching out not with suspicion, but with genuine interest. Ava forced a smile, her palms suddenly clammy, and willed her voice to be steady, to not betray the storm of nerves unraveling inside her.

"Oh," she said, standing quickly and smoothing her sweater. "Hi. I’m Ava. Ava Monroe. My dad’s David Monroe—he's one of the team's silent donors. I… I sometimes come to games with him."

Ellen nodded thoughtfully, but her eyes didn’t move. They stayed on Ava.

There was something about her. Something that tugged at Ellen's chest in a way she couldn't quite explain. A familiarity, a presence. A quiet gentleness that felt known, though she was sure they had never met. The girl’s posture, the way she sat with graceful reserve, like she was holding something close and sacred—Ellen couldn’t look away.

And then the players took the ice. The lights brightened, the music swelled, and her son stepped onto the rink. The roar of the crowd rose up like a wave, but Ellen barely heard it. Her eyes were on Quinn. And his eyes? His eyes were searching.

Not for his father. Not for her. Not for the fans.

They locked onto the far edge of the suite.

To her.

And in that one look, everything else fell away.

Ellen watched as his face softened, his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and the tension that had built during warmups dissolved like ice under the sun. His expression wasn’t just love. It was longing. A yearning so deep, it was visible even from all the way up here. A look that said, There you are. I can breathe again.

It hit Ellen like a memory—a summer evening by the lake, Quinn laid out on the dock, his eyes turned toward the stars with that same quiet peace. That same softness.

And now she saw it again.

Not because of the game.

Because of the girl.

And Ellen saw it.

The look.

The look that lit his entire face.

She followed his gaze and then looked back to Ava. And suddenly, it all clicked. The jersey wasn’t just a Hughes one. It was a game-worn #43. His first one. And Ava wasn’t just some donor’s daughter.

She was the girl.

The one who had existed only in quiet murmurs for months. The one whose name hadn’t been spoken, but whose presence had echoed in every shift of Quinn's energy. The one Ellen had wondered about late at night, when she noticed her son checking his phone more often, when she heard the smile in his voice during calls, when he talked about "someone" who made things feel easier.

She was the one who had pulled her son back from the edge. Who had reminded him, not with grand declarations but with steady hands and soft silence, that he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world alone. The girl who had entered his life like a whisper, and yet managed to soften every sharp edge he carried. The girl who brought stillness to the storm.

And now, seeing her here, Ellen understood everything.

Every look. Every shift. Every softened breath her son had taken over the past several months.

This was her.

The one who had become his home.

After the game, as players filtered off the ice and families began gathering their things, Ellen watched as Ava lingered. She didn’t move to leave like the others. She stayed in the back, her coat draped over her arm, her gaze fixed on the hallway leading to the locker rooms.

And when the crowds began to thin, Quinn reappeared.

He wasn’t obvious. He never was. But he moved with intention. He walked right past the others. Right to her.

And the way he looked at her—that same quiet, awe-filled expression he wore that summer on the dock, when the world was still and the stars were just beginning to shine, like he was seeing the whole universe unfold before him. But this time, he wasn't looking at the sky—he was looking at her. With a reverence that made it seem as if she held constellations in her eyes, like every part of him had been waiting for this one second of clarity. There was no mistaking it, no downplaying the depth of it. That look held stories, memories, hopes he hadn’t dared to name. It was a gaze filled with yearning, with a kind of stillness that only comes when you find the thing you didn’t even know you were missing. It was the look of a man who had come home—and found that home in her.

That’s when Ellen knew.

This girl. This quiet, kind-eyed girl.

She was the one who had been stitching her son back together.

And when Ava began to make her way out, ready to quietly leave before anyone could say anything, Ellen stepped in gently.

"Why don’t you come with us?" she asked, her voice warm, inviting. "We’re going out for dinner. Nothing fancy. Just family."

Ava blinked. "I… I wouldn’t want to intrude."

Ellen smiled. "You wouldn’t be. Please."

There was a look in Ellen’s eyes—soft, knowing, and impossibly kind. A look filled with gentle recognition and something deeper than just polite interest. The same look David Monroe had when he realized the truth, when he saw the way his daughter smiled with her whole heart for the first time in years. It was the look of someone who understood exactly what was unfolding, even if it hadn’t been said aloud. A mother’s intuition, quietly affirming what she had already pieced together long before introductions had been made.

Ava felt the weight of it settle over her chest—not heavy, but grounding. She felt seen, not just as Quinn's quiet constant, but as someone who mattered on her own. And in that moment, she felt the doors to something bigger opening, something she had always tiptoed around. A family, a place, a seat at the table. She felt welcome.

So when Ellen extended the invitation, Ava couldn’t say no. Not because she felt obligated. But because she wanted to. Because this, whatever this was, felt like the beginning of something sacred.

They went to a quiet restaurant downtown. One the Hughes family knew well. A booth in the back was waiting, and Quinn reached for her hand beneath the table as they sat. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

Dinner was easy.

Ava was quiet, like Quinn, but she listened well. Asked thoughtful questions. Laughed at the right moments. And slowly, the Hughes brothers started to lean in a little more. Ellen and Jim exchanged a glance across the table.

They watched the way Quinn passed Ava the pickles from his plate without asking, and how she did the same with her tomatoes. How they shared a single glass of water, how Ava refilled it halfway through without a word. How they leaned into each other during the lull in conversation, foreheads brushing like they couldn’t quite believe they were still allowed to be near.

It was like watching a dance.

Soft. Natural. Magnetic.

And when dinner ended, and they all stood to leave, one by one the Hughes family pulled Ava into tight hugs.

From Jim’s strong embrace to Luke’s teasing grin, to Jack’s quiet "Glad you're here. Really."

And then Ellen. Who held her for a little longer.

As if saying, Thank you.

For bringing their Quinn back.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

After dinner, they parted ways outside the restaurant. The night had cooled, the sidewalks quieter now, as families dispersed and city lights blinked sleepily overhead. Quinn and Ava didn’t speak much as they walked. They didn’t need to. Their hands were still intertwined, fingers laced with the kind of familiarity that spoke louder than any words.

Somehow, without planning, they ended up at the bench.

Their bench.

The same one by the water. The one where it all began.

The moon hung low and bright above them, casting silver reflections across the calm harbor. The city buzzed behind them, but here, it was quiet. Safe. Like always.

They sat side by side, shoulders brushing, the hush of waves lapping gently below. Quinn leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, while Ava curled slightly into his side. Her head found his shoulder, and his cheek rested against the top of her head.

For a while, they didn’t say anything. They just listened—to the water, to the cars in the distance, to their own hearts beating in rhythm again.

"You know," Ava murmured after a while, "I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again. Safe. Loved. Not just by you… but by the world. By your family."

Quinn turned his head, brushing a kiss to her temple.

"You were always worthy of it. You just needed someone to remind you."

A small smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned further into him.

"You did more than remind me. You showed me."

He looked out at the water, his voice a whisper.

"You saved me too. I was drowning and didn’t even realize it. And then there you were. Just... quiet and strong and exactly what I didn’t know I needed."

She tilted her head to look up at him. "Do you think we would have found each other if everything in our lives had gone differently?"

He considered that, then shook his head gently.

"No. But I think we found each other exactly when we needed to. Broken, but still whole enough to see the light in the other."

She reached up and touched his cheek. "You were always the light, Quinn."

He closed his eyes for a moment, holding her hand against his face.

They stayed there until the sky began to shift—the deep navy of night giving way to pale hints of morning. The first signs of a new day stretching out before them.

And as the sun began to rise, spilling warmth across the horizon, they knew.

They had survived the darkness.

Together.

And now, they had a future.

Hand in hand, they sat on that bench. Their bench. Not as two people weighed down by the past, but as two hearts who had found their way back to themselves—through love, through healing, and through each other.

This was their beginning.

And it was everything.

[am-i-interrupting]

Hello, could you make a viktor x reader fanfic (where reader is someone very affectionate, and is very close to heimerdinger) please and thank you very much (⁠^⁠^⁠)

Soft Seams

Viktor was new to Piltover. New to all these things. Walking down the cobblestone streets even felt like something he shouldn’t be doing, something he would be yelled at for. However, with the head of the council walking with him, chatting along with a speedy, chipper voice no one dared to say a word. No matter how obvious it was that Viktor was not from Piltover.

His makeshift cane hit the ground with a soft, hallowed clack. His bag, well worn and covered in patchwork, was soft beneath his thumb which kept running over it.

“I believe you will like the owner,” Heimerdinger said. “There’s not a person they’ve yet to win over! Ah, here we are.”

For the first time since meeting this odd man, Viktor was not the one to open the door. At least, not for Heimerdinger. The door was split into two sections, a section with a door knob that was at an average person’s height and a section carved in that was more suited for someone of the yordle decent.

“Hello,” Heimerdinger said as he walked through the door.

It swung closed behind him. Viktor waited a moment, as the door swung inward, before opening it.

“Heimerdinger,” a voice from further inside rang out, “is that you?”

Viktor looked around the shop. There were fabrics draped over the walls. Mannequins sporting different types of attire ranging from more casual to extraordinarily expensive. A couple racks were on the floor sporting similar clothing. Several table displays were flittered in as well.

“Yes, indeed, my dear!”

A head poked out from behind one of the displays. You had bright eyes and a warm smile.

“It’s been too long!” you said as you raced forward.

You knelt onto the ground to give the yordle a hug. You swayed him back and forth as he wrapped his arms around you.

“And who is this with you?” you asked.

“This is Viktor,” Heimerdinger introduced. “A young man with a brilliant mind who I’ve had the pleasure of meeting recently.”

“Hello,” Viktor said.

He took your hand as Heimerdinger gave him your name. You surprised him by covering his hand with both of yours. They were soft and warm in comparison to his own.

“I’m honored to meet you,” you said.

You have his hand a light squeeze. He was convinced you may actually mean it.

“The honor is mine. The Professor speaks highly of you,” he replied.

You smiled, looking down. A small flush came to your face. Your eyes went to the yordle who met your eyes head on with a smile of his own. He was rocking back on his heels as he did so.

“We’re here to inquire about procuring some new attire for Viktor,” Heimerdinger said. “With such a brilliant mind, I’ve request his assistance with some of my projects.”

You nodded. Something in your demeanor told Viktor that you were excited, ready.

“Alright, why don’t you come to the back with me and we’ll get started,” you told him with a gesture to follow.

Viktor’s eyes went to the Professor. However, the man was already following beside you. He wasted no time to being chatting away.

You laughed at something the man had said. “You would mind standing here so I may take your measurements?” you asked with laughter still on your tongue.

Viktor stood on the platform that was indicated. Looking at himself in the multiple mirrors, he couldn’t help but feel more like he did not belong.

His clothes were worn and stitched together with hopes, not talent. In direct comparison to Heimerdinger (who sat perched on a chair perfectly tailored to his height) and you (who wore a perfectly fitted, unstained white sleeveless shirt with black, high waisted pants), he was noticeably less well off.

Although, the point of this visit was so when he began to accompany Heimerdinger everyday, no one would notice.

You took a measuring tape and began to wrap it around various parts of his body. Every time, you took note of the measurements. When you were done, you dragged a chair to the platform.

You patted it twice. He took the indication to sit.

You brushed your fingers through his hair, pulling it back and away from his face.

Instinctively he found himself sitting up straighter. His eyes went a bit wider. He could feel his lip begin to pull down in confusion.

Your face went beside his own as you looked at him in the mirror. He could feel your breath against his left cheek.

You nodded to yourself as you grabbed several patches of differently colored squares. His hair fell back into place.

You placed the patches onto his shoulder. “Alright, that’s about what I thought,” you said. “You have a warm undertone in your skin but it’s a bit muted instead of very bright. So, the colors that will look best on you will follow that pattern. Instead of the bright red of the academy, I’d suggest a more maroon tone of red, something deeper and richer.

“I think you would look beautiful in greens especially,” you continued on. “With the golden hues in your eyes and the warmth in your skin, something like a sage or olive green would really make those features pop.”

You thumbed through the color patches. You found two greens. A bright, saturated green was on his right side. A more muted, grey toned green was on his left.

“See how the brighter green makes you look more washed out, verses the muted which really brings attention to all the golden in your eyes and skin?” you asked.

He didn’t expect you to actually look at him for an answer. When your eyes met his in the mirror, he found himself nodding.

“So, when we’re looking at any clothing, general rule of thumb would be to go with something more muted,” you told him. “Muted doesn’t necessarily mean dull. Soft blues, purples, pinks, and greens are all beautiful colors with varying degrees of intensity. But dusted colors will generally look better on you than something that’s pure pigment. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Now, fabrics. All I need for you to do on this next part is tell me which ones fell the most comfortable.”

The rest of the visit went smoothly and fairly fast. You all said your farewells and you told Viktor to come back sometime within the next three to five days.

He did. This time alone.

You greeted Viktor with the same kindness that you had before. You rushed him to the back so he could try on the clothing you’d picked out or made for him.

First was the uniform. A pair of black dress shoes. Grey pants that were looser at the thighs and tapered in at his calves. A fitted, maroon button up covered by a cream and dusty blue vest with a matching cream tie tucked in.

You pulled at the vest to make sure it fitted nicely. “And if there’s anything which needs to be changed, don’t hesitate to ask. The point of clothing is for you to be comfortable.”

“No, it’s perfect. Thank you,” Viktor said.

You smiled at him in the mirror. “Of course.”

There were several other variations of the same uniform. Outside of that were different colored vests, button ups, and trousers. Some for function and others for comfort. Viktor had never worn such soft and comfortable fabrics in his life.

There was one outfit in particular that you seemed to be excited about. When he put it on, he actually understood why.

It was extremely comfortable. Soft and warm. A cream colored turtleneck. It was tucked into a pair of sage green pants that felt almost like velvet but warmer and more gentle to the touch. The brown vest was made of a similar fabric. All of it came together with a sage green jacket, the same fabric as the turtleneck on the outside but the interior was lined with cream fur.

“You look very handsome,” you told him.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were brought to attention and his skin seemed to almost glow. He was inclined to agree.

[thatonetargaryen]

Pretty in Pink

Ambessa x Reader

Part Two of: Pretty in Pink

Synopsis: Fear of the unknown weighs heavily on your mind as you are captured and taken by the enemy’s ruthless General—Ambessa Medarda. You are sure you will be destined for a life of pain and humility. You are pleasantly surprised, however, when you find out the General simply likes to see you pretty in pink.

cw; afab!reader; princess!reader; reader is drunk; mentions of alcohol consumption; not proofread; Ambessa being a lil infatuated with you; men and minors dni

Special thanks to @hell0-ki55y for original prompt. Hope you enjoy 🎀

Taglist:

@fruitfulfashion

@m-281

@ivorydevil

@lostintimeandmusic

@trizxyp

@pearldaisy

@sunnyvoodka

@ricejucie

@5675nnnnn245

……

The blaring sun was high in the sky as you practically stumbled off the ship. You squinted your eyes as you placed a hand over your eyes.

The fact that you were drunk off your ass was obvious to everyone watching. You reeked of ale and your hair was in a tangled mess. The guard escorting you off the ship kept a safe distance—in case you decided to throw up yesterday’s remains.

You and your three ladies-in-waiting finished three full bottle of Noxian ale that you stole from the top deck. Not knowing when you’d see each other again—you decided that you all would share one last drink. Well…more than a drink.

Despite the searing headache and vertigo you had—signs of a major hangover—for once in days, the last thing on your mind was where you were and why you were here. Right now, all you needed was a cold shower, a cup of hot tea, and a warm, comfortable bed.

Ambessa watched you from a distance as you stumbled off the ship. News from the guards that three bottles of ale were missing was brought to her in the wee hours of the morning. Now, the culprit—or culprits—were clear to her as they all drunkly attempted to hold themselves up. She didn’t know whether to be offended, angry, confused, or just plain amused. Or maybe all of the above.

One thing became clear to her through—pink was definitely your color. The light pink dress you wore complimented your skin and your e/c eyes. Your h/c hair, though messy and tangled, flowed down your back as your light skirts blew in the wind. The soft pink that tinted your cheeks added more fuel to her fire as she continued to study you. Maybe she could make them pink for an entirely different reason…

She shook her head, her grey coils moving effortlessly with her head as she tried to shake those thoughts from her head. She gestured to one her many servants waiting for her command. “See to it that she has comfortable quarters. Get her a bath…she desperately needs it.”

The servant nodded grimly. They walked over to you as you practically leaned on the guard beside you. She grabbed your forearm and pulled you towards her, “Please follow me, m’lady. Let’s get you cleaned up and in bed.”

You looked at her for a moment. A belch came from the depths of your throat, and you laughed as you held your chest. The servant grimaced and turned on her heel, not waiting for you to follow her.

You continued to quietly laugh as you were led into the castle by the servant. You studied it in awe as you gazed upon the intricate details and carvings of stone imbedded into it. Your castle was not even a quarter of its size. If it were grand from the outside—imagine how it looked on the inside.

You continued to looked at it as you mumbled under your breath, “Gods….”

…..

You could hear the servant in front of you audibly huff as you struggled to follow her. She was mumbling something inaudible, but you couldn’t make it out. Instead, you stared at the many hallways you passed in awe.

The hallways varied in colors—but they were limited to crimson, gold, and hints of silver. They were adorned in various paintings, statues, and sheer drapes with thick golden rope. There were hollow mannequins of armor, which scared the shit out of you when you first saw it when you walked in.

You stopped when you got to one painting after climbing a ridiculous mountain of stairs. It was one of the woman who took you, Ambessa Medarda. Behind her stood what had seemed like a younger version of herself, a young woman with dark brown kinky hair braided into a bun with striking green eyes. Beside her stood a young man slightly taller than her with short tendrils of black coils and full lips.

You stared at the picture for a moment, studying it, before slurring to the servant—“Who’s that?”

The servant stopped her hasty walking, and turned to you. With a mix of annoyance and hesitation, she walked over to you and looked at the painting you were talking about. She pursed her lips before speaking.

“It’s her lady with her two children, Kino and Mel Medarda. The painting was done years ago….”

You stared at it in awe, connecting the dots in your mind. “And where are they now?”

The servant was broken from her trance as she looked back at you and shook her head. “It would do you good not to pry in her lady’s business. Come on, you reek of ale.”

…..

The next few hours were a blur for you. You vaguely remember being thrown into a hot bath, being scrubbed from head to toe—even under your fingernails—and your hair being detangled, washed, and brushed. You remember your freshly washed and dried hair being braided into a loose braid down your back. A sheer nightgown was put onto your nude body, and they finally let you sleep.

The bed was like sleeping on clouds. It was luxurious compared to the one you had used on the ship. That hard, stiff mattress was long forgotten as you sunk into the cool, silk sheets. With a sigh, you were out like a light.

You woke up a few hours later. You yawned as you stretched your limbs and hummed as you took the time to appreciate the best sleep you had in days. You rubbed your eyes and breathed in the lavender lotion they smothered onto your body.

The door to your chambers was abruptly opened as a servant made their way into your room. No knocking, no ‘May I come in?’…..They just bombarded into your room.

Then again….this wasn’t really your room.

In her hand was a plethora of extravagant dresses. They practically engulfed her frame as she struggled to hold them, and she looked over the mountain of dresses to look at you.

“May I put these on your bed?”, she said, breathing heavily.

You shot up from the bed and made room for the dresses, “Of course. Help me help you.”

You took some of the dresses from her hand and carefully placed them on the bed. You stared at them in awe. Each one had a different design, some lighter than others, while some were heavier and more delicate than others. But they all had one thing in common.

They were all pink.

You looked to your right as the servant set the rest of the pink dresses down. “Who are all these dresses for?”

She gestured towards you. “They’re for you, m’lady. From her lady Medarda.”

Confusion made its way onto your face. Dresses? For you? And why are they all pink?

The servant broke you from your thoughts, “The lady Medarda wants to see you for tea. I’ll help you get on a robe and such.”

Your heart dropped at her words. The last person you wanted to see was that woman. You toyed with the cuffs of your nightgown as you spoke softly, “Now? Well, let me get ready and I’ll…”

“There’s no need. She said just the robe is fine.”

You grimaced, not feeling comfortable at being in her presence with just a robe and sheer nightgown. The servant threw the robe over your shoulders, and led you towards , or what you assumed to be, Ambessa’s quarters.

When you got there, there were no guards stationed at her door. The servant knocked and announced her and your presence through the grand double doors.

“Come in.”

The servant pushed open the doors. It was dark outside by now, and the only source of light in the room was the fireplace. The chamber itself was grand, grander than any you’d ever seen. It was probably twice as big as the one you were given, and the bed was huge and adorned with gold and crimson silks. Despite that, it looked as if hadn’t been slept in.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you entered the room. Ambessa Medarda sat at an intricately carved wooden table near the fireplace. She was adorned in a sheer crimson robe and you quickly darted your vision to avoid the sight of her visibly large chest. Her grey coils fell down her shoulders as she looked towards the servant. “Leave us”, she said sternly, leaving no room for argument. The servant slightly curtsied before scurrying out of the room and closing the door behind her.

Now it was just the two of you. The tension in the room was thick, and the fire did little to prevent sweat from collecting on your brow.

Ambessa gestured towards the char opposite from her, “Why don’t you sit, child?”

You sighed as you walked over to the chair. You took a hesitant seat as you studied the contents on the table. There were two porcelain tea cups that sat prettily on the table. In between the two sat a kettle. Ambessa leaned over the table and poured you a cup of tea, “This should help with the hangover.”

You froze at the mention of the hangover. How’d she know you were drunk? Stupid question. Everyone knew you were drunk earlier today, and the remnants of your hangover still weighed heavy in your mind as your head slightly spun. Your cheeks reddened at the mention of it, and you struggled to find your words. Instead, you muttered a small ‘Thank you’.

Ambessa chuckled at your reaction. She leaned back in her seat as she sipped her own tea. She set down the cup and looked towards you, “You know…if I were captured by an enemy—the last thing I’d think to do would be to get drunk. Stupid drunk at that.”

You stayed silent as she continued to speak, “And to steal not one—but three bottles of ale and think we wouldn’t notice. Bold, little one.”

You continued to stay silent as you took in her words. You slightly shook your head as you looked into your lap. “You wouldn’t understand….”

Ambessa’s grin faltered as she barely heard your words. “What?”

You looked up, but not into her face. “My ladies in waiting took the ale from the top deck and for that I apologize. But the fact that we got drunk, I cannot. I have known those ladies for as long as I can remember, and with everything that’s going on…we didn’t know if we’d see each other again. So we decided to have one last one with each other….the ale wasn’t really planned, though.”

Ambessa hummed as she poured another cup of tea. “Hm…How sentimental…..”

She looked up at you, her golden eyes burning into your face. “…but that ale is expensive, what if I had decided to punish you for it?”.

You looked her in the eyes right back. “Then it would’ve been worth it.”

The two of you stared at each other for a moment. She looked as if she were searching for something in your gaze. Finally, you looked back down at your now cold tea as you took another sip.

“I wouldn’t have brought them here, y’know…”, Ambessa muttered softly.

You furrowed your brows, not catching her words, “Hmph?”

She spoke louder, her voice taking up the room, “I wouldn’t have brought those ladies here if I would not have let you see them. I brought them to be of company to you. Why would I bring them if not for you? I have enough servants kissing my arse already….”

You sat back, surprised at her words, though you ignored the last part. You nodded at her words as a small smile graced your lips at the gesture. “I appreciate that….”

She stared in awe at your soft smile, and bit the inside of her cheek as she nervously stirred her tea. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt like this about, well….anyone. She cleared her throat, “Did you like the dresses?”

You nodded. “They were very beautiful and, well….pink. Why are you doing all of this for me? My ladies, the beautiful room….and now the dresses. I love it all, but….”

You looked at her, and the moonlight from the window illuminated her face. She spoke softly, softer than you expected her to, “Princess, I didn’t bring you here for the intentions of hurting you, as you might’ve already concluded. The circumstances are…tragic, being given away to save you and your kingdom. But the main reason I wanted you was for a distraction. An escape from everything. The court, the nobles, the endless amount of work that I have yet to attend to, the wars, the treaties….it’s a lot. And it’s taken me years to admit that to myself. Now that I’ve finally faced the music and realized that it is all too much, I decided to take you in. I need someone to care for, someone to worry about not because I have to but because I want to. Someone to…dote on, to put it into simple terms. You’re a princess, after all, you should be used to it.”

Her words left you speechless. You felt a mixture of relief knowing you would be safe and not tourtured—but slightly confused on what being ‘doted’ on meant. You were a princess, yes, but being doted on by one of the richest women in the world was an entirely different thing.

You ran your hands over your thighs, now feeling a little more comfortable knowing her intentions. “So you’re basically going to pamper me?”.

She smiled at your words, “It’s more to it than being pampered, child. All of your needs will be taken care of, and anything you want I’ll try my best to get. Of course, you’ll need to carry yourself accordingly in front of the court and at gatherings—otherwise, I don’t ask much of you.”

You thought back on the elaborate dresses she bought for you, and you couldn’t help but ask, “Why pink?”

She shrugged her shoulders as she drunk the last of the tea, “Why not?”

……

The next few weeks were more than pleasant. You had become accustomed to your new life rather quickly. The constant pampering and gifts—who at first you thought were annoying—were now something you looked forward to. Dare say, even expected.

You had also gotten used to court life in Noxus. There was always something new, with rumors and gossip spreading like wildfire. The hottest topic seemed to be you at the moment.

The pretty princess ,Y/N, from a small, unknown kingdom—taken from her home as a sign of peace between Noxus and Castile. No one knows what Ambessa really uses you for, but every time they saw you, you were adorned in a beautiful pink gown and jewels worth whole manors. Whether the gown be simple and light, or daring and elegant—you never failed to look gorgeous.

The nobles didn’t really like you at first, not seeing much gain in becoming your ally. However, when you and Ambessa were once spotted having tea in the gardens, it seemed as if everyone wanted to become your friend. You gave them all tight lipped smiles and short greetings—knowing their true intentions.

Your relationship with Ambessa grew as well. The two of you would talk over breakfast or lunch, sharing the latest talk in court. As she got to know you better, you opened up about your past, and in turn, started rambling about her son Kino. Sometimes, you had to tune out her words and simply admire the structure of her face as her brows furrowed on the topic of her son. When she called you out on it, you denied it with a heavy blush on your face.

Your ladies started to notice the small thing you had for Ambessa, and started to tease you every chance they got. They’d make small jokes, or bump your shoulder when they caught you watching her train. You denied the allegations to no end, but you both knew there was something deeper than what was spoken.

One thing that couldn’t be denied was the blossoming of something new. Something that would last for years to come, and you both looked forward to it.

Your tough, sweet General, and her beautiful princess—pretty in pink.

……..

Hope you enjoyed. 🎀

I need ideas 🙏🏾

[girlcowboy]

rhett abbott | the new boutique in town

a/n: okayyy yes i have a breeding kink. whatever. complain about it

cw: breeding, mentions of future pregnancy, slight cnc? maybe? if you squint, slight daddy kink, slight mommy kink

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There's a new boutique in town. Nondescript, cute, with a quaint little sign.

Walking in has you sighing in relief as the air conditioning hits your face. Wabash summers are no joke, after all, the air outside sticky and suffocating. You hair is stuck, matted, to your forehead with sweat as you step inside.

Only once inside do you realize what kind of boutique it is exactly. A slow heat creeps up your face, having nothing to do with the sun blazing outside those doors. You avoid eye contact with the lingerie clad half-mannequins.

"Ma'am?" One of the store clerks greets you eagerly. "Lookin' for somethin' new?"

You almost turn tail. You almost say no, and walk right back out those doors. But, the thought, the mere idea, of the look on Rhett's face if he saw you in one of these lacy, silky things has you pausing. Humming in interest.

"Actually," You grin. "Maybe you can help me."

Rhett never comes home quietly. Sometimes he tries, oh, dear, does he try. He'll think he's slick, quiet as a mouse, trampling in like one of those rodeo bulls he mounts in his heavy boots and clacking spurs. He'll set down his keys in the little dish on the counter by the door, right on top of yours, and take his hat off, throwing it on the table as he shakes his sweaty hair out.

He's not quiet today, trampling in, screen door slamming. "Darlin'? 'M home."

It's hard not to be nervous. It's even harder not to be excited. Things like this don't come easy, and they don't come cheap. Silk stretches across your chest, drapes down over your stomach and just barely hits the top of your thighs. Lace adorns the edges, soft as anything.

"In here!"

"Where's my pretty thing?" Comes Rhett's rumbling voice, low and tired, as he makes his way to your bedroom. "Darling?"

"Hey," You breathe as he appears in your doorway. You lean back on your hands from where you're sitting, perched, on the edge of the bed. Your hands smooth over the sheets.

Rhett stops. Stares at you, eyes darkening. His throat, that damned Adam's apple that's gonna get you in trouble one day, bobs in a damn near thirsty swallow.

He melts against the doorway, groaning appreciatively.

"Oh, God," Rhett rumbles, quickly making his way across the room. You giggle as his hands scramble at his belt, huge hands working the buckle and practically throwing the damn thing across the room. It skids on the floor with a noise neither of you care to listen to. "God, Mama, ain't you a sight."

"Y'like it?" You ask shyly as he finally gets his hands on you, placing your own hands on his firm chest (and God, the hard muscle there has saliva pooling in your mouth). Rhett's palms slide up your waist, fisting silk between his fingers like he's just barely got a reign on himself. He takes a few deep breaths in through his nose and out his mouth, warm breath fanning across the skin of your neck as he nudges his nose there.

Rhett just... hovers over you for a second, breathing in your scent with his eyes closed.

"Baby, I don't even know what to do wi' myself right now," He admits quietly, voice thick. "You- When'd you- Where'd you-?"

"There's this new little place in town, y'know, in historic downtown-?" You try and tell him but you're thoroughly distracted by his roaming hands, grabbing at your thighs and hovering over your chest like he wants to grab so, so badly. Your voice comes out breathy, "Yeah, well, anyway... they're sellin' stuff like this."

"This- you get-" Rhett clenches the meat of your thigh in his hand, just on the side of painful. Like he can't help it. "-More?"

"This ain't the only one, if'n that's what you're askin'." You breathe out. A groan tears itself from Rhett's chest, deep in his throat as he tips you backwards onto the bed. You go eagerly, happy to be splayed out under your cowboy as he climbs on top of you, boots and jeans and all. "Got a couple more. Y'really like it?"

Rhett's eyes are suspiciously wet when he lifts his head from your neck, mouth dropped open just barely.

"Hell," He rasps. "How'd I become the luckiest man alive? Huh?"

"Well, I don't know about all'a that, now..." You huff, secretly pleased. "I'm glad you like it, 'cause it came out your bank account."

"Good," The cowboy replies immediately. "You use every last drop that's in that account, honey, and I'd die a happy man."

You slowly, carefully, trail your fingers down his chest as your thigh lifts to meet in-between his, nudging the bulge straining the fabric of his jeans. He's hot and heavy against your thigh. "You sayin' you wouldn't die a happy man right now, cowboy?"

Rhett huffs under his breath, letting his chin thunk down on top of your head as he grabs at you, steadying himself. "I'm not all certain I ain't dead right now, I'll be honest wi' you, babydoll."

"Well, I'm glad you're not," You huff a laugh as you tangle your hand in his shirt. "'Cause I'm hoping you're 'bout to get this thing off me, instead."

"Oh, darlin', I'm not sure you could stop me from gettin' this off'a you," Rhett admits quietly, leaning back to just... stare at you. He drags his gaze over your form like a weapon, heavy and armed.

"Cowboy, you'd be lucky to pry me off you," You laugh, tugging gently at the curls at the base of his neck. He grins like the Devil at that, leaning into you're touch like he just can't help it.

"Ohh, I'm real sure," Rhett agrees eagerly. "How 'bout you help me get this bullshit off first?"

Immediately, you're helping him tug his shirt off over his head (helping is a loose term, more like running your hands up his now revealed stomach and pecs, smoothing your palms over his warm skin). He shakes his hair out once the shirt is off, throwing it somewhere across the room to join his belt.

Rhett's dark eyes meet your heated gaze.

"Quit lookin' at me like that 'fore I do somethin' real stupid," He says quietly. You grin up at him.

"I want you to do something stupid," Leaning back on your hands again, palms smoothing over the sheets as you bare your chest to him. His eyes lock on your chest, where silk is stretched over your soft skin. Something hungry erupts in his eyes and you swear you see drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. "Jeans?"

He hastily kicks off his dirty boots, the wood and leather of them hitting the floor loudly as he scrambles at his fly, getting off of you just briefly to shove his jeans off, past his thighs and pooling on the floor.

Rhett's on you in between one second and the next, sliding his hand across your jaw and the other into your hair, slamming your lips together in a heated mash of tongue and eagerness.

You moan into his mouth, his tongue already lapping at yours, and receive a happy groan in return. Rhett's grabbing at you, holding your head in place as he tries his darndest to get close, to get deeper inside your mouth, as far as you'll let him reach. You grip his shoulders in your hands, nails digging crescent moons into his tanned and sweaty skin. He likes that, too, and makes his appreciation known by nudging his hips into the crux of your thigh, cock sitting hot and heavy in his dark boxer briefs.

"Tell me you wan' it, baby," He mumbles into your mouth. "Tell me you need this as badly as I do, cause-"

"I need it, please," You try not to whine, you really do, but you're already getting moist between your thighs, pulse thudding. "Please?"

"Been thinkin' about you all damned day," Rhett rumbles, eyebrows furrowed as he breaks the kiss and reconnects your lips rapidly, once, twice, slick lips sliding against your jaw and over your mouth in his haste. "Out in that heat, God, you're all I can think about. Your pretty little mouth, those fuckin' red lips, and- Good God, your pretty little fuckin' pussy, baby-"

"The Devil talks outta your mouth, Rhett!" You laugh as he travels down your neck, biting at you like some sort of rabid dog. "That mouth of yours is gonna get you in some real trouble one day, cowboy."

"Well," He huffs against your skin. "I'm hoping it gets me into some real trouble with you right now, Mama."

Instead of dignifying that with a response, you just huff another laugh at bite at his jaw, face already sore from where he's dragged his stubble at against your skin. You shriek a laugh as he hauls you up the bed, fingers digging bruises into your waist as he settles over you.

"Now, as pretty as you look, baby," Rhett starts, staring at your chest mournfully. "I'm thinkin' it's time you get this off."

His fingers slide under the strap of your lingerie, snapping it back against your skin. You stare up at him, eyes dark and mouth open just slightly to breathe.

"Whatever you say," You breathe eagerly, already nodding your head. Rhett slides his hands up under the silk, palms smoothing over the heated skin of your stomach and up to cup your chest. He holds you reverently, like something precious. Like something he don't wanna break. "C'mon, Daddy, get this shit off me."

Rhett rumbles through an incredulous laugh before he's peeling you out of the silky, lacy thing, same way y'all went about getting his shirt off, like he's eager to see it go. And maybe he is- as pretty as it is, you're real sure he likes the sight of your bare chest a whole lot better.

"You're so pretty, baby," He murmurs as he settles your lingerie to the side (keeping it for later? You laugh internally). Rhett's gaze falls to your chest and then lower, where you're bare. "You weren't wearing anythin' beneath that? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

"Don't pretend you don't like it that way," You retort, sliding your hands up his thighs, feeling the hair there brush against your palms. You hitch your leg up, just barely, and give him a real show. His eyes tighten, and so do the hands now on your hips.

Rhett takes a deep breath, hands flexing against your skin.

"I- I can't keep holdin' back like this much longer, darlin'," He admits, accent thicker and voice just slightly deeper.

"I want you inside, Daddy," You murmur, trailing your hands up his stomach. He shivers. "Please?"

"You damned tease," The cowboy breathes, head hung low. "You were sent by the Devil."

"Yeah, well, the Devil says go 'head and hurry up," You tell him, tapping at his chest. Your hand finds his and you lead him down, slower, nudging his fingers at your wetness. "Can you feel how wet I am for you? How bad I want it?"

The boxers are off in less than three seconds, flat, and he's forcing his fingers inside of you before you can get more than a glimpse at his hard, aching cock, on the wrong side of an angry purple and bobbing in the air like an eager dog. You whimper happily as he works you open, not really doing anything more than feeling your wetness, before you're empty again.

"I can't really wait much longer, darlin'," Rhett confesses, sweat dripping down his nose and blotting into the sheets. "You think you can take it?"

He nudges the tip of his cock against your opening, just resting there. His fingers are wrapped so tight under the head it looks painful.

"I can take it," You soothe, running your hand down his arm. God, his arms. "You're gonna make me take it, right, cowboy?"

"Yeah," He breathes, head nodding just barely. "Yeah. I'll make it fit, honey."

And he does. God, does he. It's not enough prep, not nearly enough for his stupidly big cock that gives him more of an ego every day that passes by, but he forces it in nonetheless. Inch by inch, he breaches your walls, carving a way for himself inside of you, stinging just enough to be painful.

It's good. It's so fucking good.

"Rhett, Rhett," You mewl, clawing at his arms. He shushes you like a wild animal, little soothing "sh, sh, sh" noises as he goes deeper and deeper. You gulp down air like your life depends on it. Rhett holds your thighs open, settled between them like he belongs there, thumb soothing over your heated skin.

"Takin' it so good, baby," He praises, petting down your hair. You breathe into the skin of his chest. "Like you were fuckin' made for me."

He's so snug against your cervix that you feel like maybe he was the one made for you. A perfect fit, his hips flush with yours. It's a feeling you'll never quite get over.

"Move," You croak. "Please. Please, Rhett?"

"Ain't no reason to beg, baby," Rhett grunts as he slides out of you, just to the tip, before slamming in again. His hips stutter into a steady pace, tip dragging over your walls on each tug out. "Fuck. Fuck! Baby, darlin'-"

You mewl. High, embarrassing, but it only eggs Rhett on, his hips slamming into yours even harder. Huge hands scramble at your hips, tugging you down to meet his thrusts (not that it's needed- you're rolling your hips back in time with him, goading him on).

"You gon' let me cum inside, baby?" He questions, pitched and breathy. "You gon' let me in? Huh?"

"Still not on birth control- oh, my God!" You break out into a cry of pleasure as he slams on that spot inside of you.

"I don't give a fuck," He snarls, low in his throat. "If you cared, you wouldn't've let me in bare. You wan' it, don't you, baby? You want me to put a baby in your little tummy? Plant my fucking seed there, get you all knocked up like a good little Mommy?"

"Oh, my fucking God," You whimpers, eyes screwed shut. You don't know how he does it, how he gets heat to race through your veins, how he gets you to draw so close so fast, heat pooling into your abdomen and threatening to spill out. "Oh, God, oh, God,"

"Yeah, baby, you like that?" Rhett murmurs. "You like my cock in your little pussy? You like me fuckin' you raw?"

"Uh-huh," You nod pathetically, the wind knocked out of you with each rock of his hips into yours. "Fuck, please, please-"

"Good girl, good fucking girl," Rhett rumbles in your ear. His hips stutter. "You gonna take it, baby? Fuck, I'm so close, where- where you want it, baby, you gotta tell me- fuck, you gotta let me pull out-"

Hell to the fucking no. You roll your hips up into his, locking your legs around his hips as he fucks into you deeper. He's panting into your shoulder, now, lips sliding down until they can find your chest, biting and sucking at the skin there. Your fingers slide into his hair without thinking, holding him there as he suckles at you.

"Inside, honey," You murmur. "Inside, inside, please, cum inside me-"

Rhett doesn't respond, just groans into your skin as his hips stutter noticeably. He holds you down so hard you have no chance of escape, that is if you even wanted to. The way you pulse around him certainly gives you away.

"I'm gonna come," You rasp desperately, clutching at his shoulder. The headboard slams loudly against the wall, over and over, the entire bed shaking with your combined efforts.

"C'mon, baby, give it to me, come on Daddy's cock, babydoll," Rhett whines, scrambling at your waist. "I ain't gon' last much longer neither, honey, c'mon-"

"Fuck!" You weep as he drags over that spot again, then again, slowing his hips to a grind as you draw closer. The heat pooling in your abdomen explodes, stars lighting up behind your eyes as Rhett shoves his hand between the two of you, thumbing over where you're joined. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck-" "That's it, baby, give it to me," Rhett murmurs, eyes lidded. His pupils are completely blown, those baby blues nothing but a faint, thin ring. He holds your hips flush to him as he comes with you twitching and pulsing around him, pumping you full of his cum. Heat spreads hot through you, the head of his cock pressed direct to your open, spongey cervix. "Atta girl, that's my good girl, God, baby..."

"Daddy," You whine. His cock twitches in you, just enough to feel it. "Fuck, wait, you came inside..."

"My momma's gon' be so pissed," Rhett breathes out heavily. You giggle, and that sets him off, too, the cowboy laughing on top of you. "Okay, wait, jus' hold on..."

He slowly slips his softening cock from your aching hole, the lack of prep catching up to you. There's one moment of quiet before his cum starts dripping out of you, sliding down your skin.

Without a word, Rhett swallows as he gathers it back onto his fingers and shoves it back inside your hole. Your hips twitch.

He doesn't meet your content, languid gaze as he sighs, petting over your thigh with his opposite hand.

"There's- pills now," Rhett struggles to say, practically biting it through his lips. "For this sorta thing."

"Naw," You say. His dark gaze meets yours. You cover his hand with yours, silently shaking your head. "No."

"Yeah?" He whispers, like he can't quite believe it. His eyes brighten as he fully registers what you're saying. "Yeah?"

You bite your lip between your teeth, nodding. A disbelieving smile breaks out across Rhett's pretty face.

"Yeah, Rhett," You tell him sweetly as he whoops, laughing loudly as he gathers you up in his arms. You laugh back.

"Oh, baby," He swears. "Oh, darlin'. Just you wait. You're not leaving this bed for the next week, hell, this next month, not if I can help it."

"Oh, cowboy," You smile back. "I'm counting on it."

[dollyswishingwell]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Trying on the dresses

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ Fluff, so cute, part 4 of the wedding series, i personally like that reader is wedding dress shopping with the LI, it’s like we have each other, it’s intimate, us against the world vibes

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You’re trying on wedding dresses

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You’d seen sketches. Fabric swatches. Pinterest boards curated by Rafayel himself, yes, himself, because he didn’t trust anyone else to collect references for your “gown of cosmic perfection.” But nothing had prepared you for seeing it in person.

The boutique’s private suite was a cathedral of silence and golden light. Just you, him, and the dress displayed on a velvet mannequin in the center of the room.

Rafayel’s arm was lazily draped around your waist as you walked in, his cheek brushing your temple, murmuring a smug, “Ready to cry, princess?” right before you saw it.

Your breath caught.

The gown shimmered like it was made of stardust and spun sugar. It cascaded in impossibly soft layers, each one etched with glistening embroidery that caught the light like frost. The train stretched out across the floor like a fairytale river, blooming with delicate beadwork and lace so fine it looked like it had been sewn by angels. The veil, draped beside it, was cathedral length, dripping with crystals and lined in glimmering floral lace.

You didn’t move.

Neither did Rafayel.

“…You okay?” you whispered, nudging him.

He blinked. “I think my soul just left my body.”

You laughed, a soft, giddy thing that echoed in the silence. “It’s not even on me yet.”

“Oh, I know.” He leaned down, hand warm on the small of your back. “That’s the scary part.”

⸻

Trying it On

Your heart was pounding as the stylists helped you into the dress. It was heavy in the most luxurious way. Regal. Soft against your skin. It clung perfectly where it should and spilled outward in dreamy waves of glimmer and lace. You turned slowly toward the mirror and gasped.

It looked like you had stepped out of a fairytale. No, a legend. You were a princess. A celestial queen. A dream sewn into silk and crystal.

Rafayel’s chair scraped back before you could even speak. He stood frozen at the threshold, eyes wide and wild, like someone witnessing a divine revelation.

“You…” He swallowed. “What the hell.”

You grinned, suddenly bashful. “It’s too much, huh?”

He walked toward you in slow, reverent steps. “No. No, it’s not enough. It’s, how do I even—” He laughed breathlessly and ran a hand through his hair. “I knew it. I knew no one else in the world could wear this dress but you.”

You twirled just a little, the train sweeping behind you like a comet tail.

“You like it?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer. Just sank to his knees in front of you, fingers brushing over the hem, lips pressing to the sparkling fabric. Then your hand. Then your wrist. “I worship you,” he whispered against your skin. “You were born for this.”

⸻

The Veil

They carefully lowered the veil onto your head. The lace framed your face like a coronet, droplets of crystal catching in your lashes as you turned to look at him.

Rafayel didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

“I’m going to die at our wedding,” he whispered. “Actually die. Just collapse on the altar like an idiot.”

“You’ll ruin the pictures,” you said, cheeks warm.

“Then bury me in one of them.”

⸻

Later, in the Car…

You were curled up in the passenger seat, your heels kicked off, veil boxed beside you. Raf was still in a daze, one hand gripping yours tightly like he was afraid you’d float away.

“You’re quiet,” you teased.

“Still recovering.”

“Was it really that dramatic?”

He turned toward you with a slow, wicked grin. “So dramatic I’m already having a doll version made for our future daughter.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“She’s going to have a doll of you in your wedding gown. Custom. Handmade. Identical crystal placement. When she misses you, she’ll hug it.”

“…Raffy.”

He leaned over and kissed your shoulder. “I want her to know her mama is magic. And mine.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The boutique was private. Naturally. Zayne booked the entire floor.

He sat with one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled beneath his chin, gaze flicking through your curated rack of dress options like he was reading patient files. Nothing flashy, nothing gaudy. He wanted timeless. Sculpted. Regal.

And he wanted you to feel like a goddess.

⸻

When You Stepped Out

The moment you stepped out of the dressing suite in that gown, lace so intricate it looked hand-stitched by angels, corset boning that curved to your waist like it was molded for you, dainty straps and a body-hugging silhouette, Zayne’s breath caught.

He stood slowly, gaze tracing every inch of you in complete, reverent silence.

The silence stretched.

“…Say something,” you said, suddenly unsure.

His jaw flexed once. Then again.

“I’m deciding,” he said at last, voice low. “If I want to kiss you… or throw my coat over you so no one else can look.”

⸻

You Twirled Once, Nervously

“I know it’s not big or dramatic,” you murmured, smoothing your hands down the lace. “But I just… love how I feel in it.”

“You don’t need volume to be overwhelming,” he said, finally stepping closer. His fingers grazed the delicate lace at your hip, the sharp edge of his ring glinting against the softness of the fabric. “You look…” A pause. He swallowed. “You look like temptation. And salvation.”

Your face burned.

He leaned in, brushing a kiss just behind your ear. “You’re choosing this one.”

“Bossy.”

“Correct.”

⸻

Then They Brought Out the Veil

You hadn’t told him about the veil. Long, embroidered, impossibly intricate. Vintage style, with a deep scalloped edge and a shimmer of pearl.

The moment it was pinned into your hair and pooled down your back, Zayne sat down again, like he couldn’t trust himself standing anymore.

He looked at you like a sinner in church. Silent. Starving.

“I’ll need you in that veil every anniversary,” he said eventually, his voice dark and warm with promise. “Nothing else.”

You smirked. “And the dress?”

“No.” His gaze darkened further. “Just the veil.”

⸻

Back in the Car, Later

You were glowing. Zayne was oddly quiet.

Then, mid-drive, he spoke.

“I had the atelier scan the embroidery pattern.”

“…Why?”

“So when our daughter’s older,” he said, eyes still on the road, “I can commission her a keepsake with your veil’s pattern woven in. Something delicate. Something that reminds her who she came from.”

You stared at him.

He added calmly, “And I already ordered your dress preserved in glass. Not up for discussion.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The boutique appointment was meant to be solo.

You told Xavier you’d be fine going alone, just a first fitting, no pressure, no final decisions. But he insisted on coming. Quietly. Without a word of protest. He just held your hand the entire ride, fingers laced with yours, thumb brushing your knuckle like he was grounding himself.

You weren’t sure why he was so still until you walked into the viewing suite.

It was white.

The walls, the mirrors, the light. Like a sanctum.

“…It suits you,” he murmured, letting go of your hand only once the assistant beckoned you to the dressing room.

⸻

When You Stepped Out

The moment you stepped out in the dress, Xavier stopped breathing.

You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

The gown’s sheen caught the light like polished pearl. The bodice was sculpted and elegant, subtly laced, with a soft bow at your heart. The full skirt bloomed around you in smooth waves of satin, giving you the silhouette of a storybook princess. You wore matching lace gloves and a modest veil, brushing your shoulders like snow.

Xavier remained frozen in place, lips parted slightly, eyes fixed.

“…Too much?” you asked, smoothing the front nervously. “I just… I liked how it felt.”

His voice came out quiet. Low. “I want to kneel.”

⸻

You Blushed. He Meant It.

He stepped forward slowly, almost reverently, and stood before you without touching.

“You look…” He swallowed. “You look like something I’d see in a painting and think wasn’t real.”

You opened your mouth to tease, but he touched your waist, barely a brush, and whispered, “This is the one. Isn’t it?”

You nodded. A little overwhelmed.

Then you smiled. “You haven’t even seen the veil from the back.”

He walked behind you in near silence, and the moment he saw the train, elegant, scalloped lace trailing over the satin, he exhaled like he’d seen a miracle.

⸻

Later, as You Were Changing…

You overheard him murmuring to one of the stylists.

“…Would it be possible to commission a doll? Of her. In this dress. Not for her, for… our daughter. One day.”

Your heart clenched.

The stylist asked if he wanted a replica or a more stylized version.

“She won’t understand elegance like this until she’s older,” Xavier said softly, “but I want her to hold it. And know what love looks like.”

⸻

On the Way Home

You curled into Xavier in the backseat, your veil resting in its custom box between you both. His fingers played gently with the lace edge like it was spun glass.

“You didn’t cry,” you teased.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t want to blink.”

You smiled, sleepily. “So this is the one?”

He looked at you with a kind of soft ache in his eyes. “You in that dress is the reason people believe in soulmates.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The moment you tried it on, you knew.

The boutique attendant barely had time to adjust the skirt before you turned toward the mirror and froze.

The bodice fit you like a corset crafted by angels, lace-covered, cinched in just enough to make your waist look tiny but regal. The dramatic flare of the skirt felt like armor and silk at once, the weight of the satin commanding the room. The giant structured bow tied in the back was equal parts couture and childlike dream, and the lace train, God, it was practically a throne trailing behind you.

Then came the veil.

Layers and layers of fine embroidered tulle, cascading behind you like you ruled an empire.

You stared.

And you smiled.

And you whispered, “This one.”

⸻

Sylus’s Reaction

He wasn’t supposed to see it. You told him he’d have to wait. But Sylus, who has always done whatever he pleases—walked in anyway.

You turned toward him just as the assistant scurried to scold him, and stopped.

Because Sylus was still.

His hands were in his coat pockets, but his jaw was clenched. Red eyes pinned to you, unreadable.

You cleared your throat. “I said no peeking—”

“I’ll buy the boutique.”

“…What?”

He stepped closer, voice dangerously low and full of want. “I’ll buy the boutique and shut it down. No one else touches that dress. It belongs to you now.”

“Sy—”

“You look like you own the world,” he growled. “And I’m the man who kneels at your feet for the rest of my life.”

Once the assistant left, Sylus stepped behind you, hands sliding up your waist. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You know what I see?” he whispered. “I see a wife too powerful to be approached. A queen who was made to be served. I see my wife.”

You let yourself melt into him, grinning. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Of course I am,” he murmured against your neck. “You make me rabid.”

Then, quieter. “You’d wear this just for me, right?”

“…Obviously.”

⸻

Later That Week

You found it tucked into his private suite, locked away in a case. A miniature replica of the dress, the veil hand-stitched down to the last detail.

A doll.

A perfectly made, delicate doll… with your wedding look. Custom made by his artisans.

A note on the box:

“For our daughter. One day. So she knows she was born of a goddess.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You weren’t even supposed to try it on.

You had other options lined up, clean, simple, sleek.

But then you saw it.

The off-the-shoulder sleeves. The delicate lace. The faint basque waist, hugged tight with faint boning. The light train. Just enough structure to feel formal, just enough softness to feel like something out of a childhood dream. And the veil, an ethereal cloud of 3D florals and soft pearls that kissed your hair like falling blossoms.

You stepped into the dressing room.

And you stepped out a bride.

⸻

Caleb’s Reaction

He was already waiting outside the boutique. Dressed down for once, just in a soft black turtleneck and slacks, one hand in his pocket, the other absently spinning a sleek holo-display of mission stats he hadn’t looked at in twenty minutes.

The moment you emerged, he stilled.

No smile. No gasp.

Just that slow, overwhelmed blink he only gets when his heart is too full to function.

You raised your arms slightly, turning a little. “It’s not what I planned.”

He didn’t move.

“…Caleb?”

His throat flexed. Then, softly: “I don’t think I’m breathing right now.”

He stood. Crossed the room in three long strides.

And then his hands were at your waist, firm but careful, as he leaned in so close your lashes nearly brushed his cheek. “I remember the first time I saw you cry,” he murmured. “You were four. A bruised knee and a missing ribbon. You ran to me, because you said I made everything feel better.”

You blinked, startled.

“But this, this feeling I’m having right now? It’s the opposite,” he whispered, voice barely holding steady. “Because you’re so beautiful, I think I might fall apart.”

⸻

Later That Week

A quiet knock came at your dressing suite door.

You opened it, still in a robe, veil carefully folded on the lounge chair.

A courier handed you a large, flat package tied in a pale lilac ribbon, Caleb’s signature color. Inside: a hand-carved display case.

A porcelain doll. Shaped in your image. Every detail perfect, from the fitted lace sleeves to the embroidered veil.

Your gown.

A tiny tag tied to the doll’s wrist in Caleb’s neat handwriting read:

“So our daughter will know… her mama was a vision the stars would kneel for.”