#memory tile engine

[cosmoszyn]

a decade | caleb.

synopsis: two years apart and a decade of loving him, caleb returns to your life again through a spontaneous roadtrip and shared bottles of alcohol that leads to unearthing the uncertainty of your feelings.

content: caleb x nonmc! reader, little hurt/comfort, light angst, feelings are hard and confusing! third and final part of the seven years series. a LOT of drinking and alcohol involved.

part one / part two

word count: 7k

cross posted in my ao3

It is an unusually chilly night, the scent of spring permeating in the air. You wrap your arms around your slightly shivering body, shifting your weight to your other foot. You exhale, glancing at your wristwatch. The bus is fifteen minutes late, again. Since the news about the train undergoing maintenance, you have never gone home before 10 pm. Before you can even release a sigh, a navy blue sports car slows its acceleration and stops across you. With furrowed brows, you take a step back from the curb, senses heightening. The window rolls down.

“What are you doin’ here?”

Oh.

You catch a glimpse of his curled lips and the shine glazing in his eyes. Then you cock your head to the side, looking at him like he grew three heads. 

“I work here, dummy.”

There was a pause.

“...Right. I knew that.”

His reply remains in the howl of the wind as you merely stare back at him as if to say “Of course you do, dumbass,” but his eyes avoid yours and instead fixate on the leather of his steering wheel. He bites the inside of his cheek as you refuse to reply. 

He whips his head back to your direction and with a beat of silence, he speaks again, “You got a ride home?”

You blink at him slowly and turn your head to the huge blue sign beside you with a bus printed across it, “What do you think, Caleb?” You reply, turning back to him. In the shadow of the night, you make out the faint tinting of his ears and cheeks.

With a sheepish grin and a hand rubbing the back of his head, he says, “Just get in. I’ll get you home.”

You hesitate.

A thousand options run through your head. A myriad of scenarios flashing before your eyes. And the memory of him lying supine in the cold tiles of your kitchen floor two years ago surfaces again. Getting in that car seems like a bad idea. No–the worst idea you’ve concocted ever since you got drunk and confessed to him three years ago. But you’ve been waiting for the bus for fifteen minutes now. It seems it won’t even arrive at this point. 

And so, with a sigh, your trembling hands reach to the passenger door and climb in.

You could feel him staring at you. You ignore it as you drop your bag to your feet and pull the seat belt beside you, locking it in place.

“Get driving, then,” you demand jokingly, looking at the emptying street across you. He gives you a chuckle, “So bossy.”

He shifts the gear and picks up the acceleration. The sound of the engine and heater enclosing the small space. 

It was silent. 

Suffocatingly silent. 

The streetlamps guide the way of the dim road. And yet it feels too dark. 

While Caleb maintains the speed of the vehicle, you could barely contain the hastening beat of your heart against your ribcage. You want to clutch your chest and breathe heavily to rid of the smothering air between you two.

This is a mistake. 

It hasn’t even been a minute but you already rack your brain of excuses to get out of the car. 

You forgot something at the office? No, he’ll just wait outside for you.

You want to grab a meal instead? It’s certain he’ll just come with.

You need to pick something up at a friend’s home? He’ll definitely drive you there,

There is nothing.

And you can even barely get a word out before you hear the sound of windows rolling down. You glance at your side, welcoming the fresh air, calming your pacing heart.

“You seem restless,” he speaks.

Of course he knows.

Of fucking course.

How could he not? When he spent most of his college and early adulthood reading you. He consumed eight years of his life studying you. 

Like you were a test he wants to pass with flying colors.

Like there was nothing else in the world that mattered aside from learning you.

And yet, two years ago, in his intoxicated state on your kitchen floor, he ruined everything you two built around.

Well. You ruined everything you two built around, three years ago. 

Or maybe it was him, confessing his stupid, non-existent feelings towards you?

Whatever, semantics. It’s just the same either way. Both decisions end up where you are today.

You don’t reply back to him, just a small nod.

Despite the wail of the wind and the steady hum of the vehicle, you could still feel the strangling silence. 

With a click of a tongue, you reach his radio. Your fingertips hover over the screen of his car while Caleb steals glimpses of you from his peripheral.

“Whatever song that plays on this will answer my fate on my lovelife,” Caleb suddenly says before you can tap on the radio, eliciting a snicker from you.

“Oh so you want to play that game huh?” You say, “Alright then. What song will describe Caleb’s fate in his lovelife?” You press the button.

Now shut up and drive (drive, drive, drive)

Shut up and drive (drive, drive, drive)

Caleb chokes on his spit and you cackle, hands clutching to your sides. 

“Sucks to be you,” you say in between fits of giggles and Caleb just alternates his gaze between you and the road with an amused smile tilting on his lips. “Well, how about you?” He says, reaching for the button. You swat his hand away and he just grins. 

“Oh please no thanks!” You protest.

“Oh no, no. We need to hear yours too.” He reaches for the radio, “What is her fate in her lovelife?” He says, turning the station randomly.

So I’ll wait for you, love

And I’ll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?

Oh, will I ever learn?

Oh-oh, lover, you should’ve come over

‘Cause it’s not too late.

The laughter dies in your throat. The reverberating sound of the riffs of the guitar, hard beating of the drums, and the raw longing from the vocalist catches you two off guard. You squirm in your seat uncomfortably as the air between you thickens.

Caleb clears his throat, “Want to just connect your phone to the bluetooth?”

“Yeah. Sure,” you murmur, taking your phone from your bag.

He removes the radio and taps on the bluetooth option of his car as you connect to it successfully while scrolling through thousands of playlists. He glances at your brightly lit phone and your squinted eyes as you try and settle for a mood for the evening.

“How about that playlist we made in college?” Caleb says.

You purse your lips and hesitantly, you reply, “...I deleted it.”

“Oh. Right.”

There was a brief pause.

“But how come I can still listen to it?” He replies with a raised brow. “I dunno,” you respond blankly. “Must be an error.”

He hums, ignoring the dull ache in his heart.

You deleted the playlist.

Something you two cherished while tolerating the agony of four years in college. He tries to ignore it. He wills himself to. He tells himself, he deserved it.

“When?” He asked, listening to the random playlist you played.

“Huh?”

“Did you delete it.”

“Oh. Two years ago.”

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Okay.” You notice the tight grip he has on the steering wheel and his shoulders tensing.

You two neither exchanged words after that. And you knew everything had been a mistake the moment he pulled up from the curb and greeted you with that warm smile you were oh so familiar with. 

He could still tug at your heartstrings the same way he did the first time in your freshman year, when you asked him if the class he was in was Calculus 1. He gave you a nod and a polite grin, “Yeah! You can sit beside me,” he said. With hesitation, you sit beside him. And for some odd reason, he hands you his registration card with ease and precision, like you knew each other for years.

“Check if we have the same classes together,” he says casually. You could only nod obediently, perplexed at the situation as you pulled out your registration card squeezed between your binder. He leans over to your space as you compare your schedules.

“It seems we have the same schedule,” you say under your breath. And it appeared like he cheered.

Since then, you two would do everything together–despite begrudgingly avoiding his company initially. He was a strange man, you thought. But in the end, he came into your life, rather forcibly. And for some reason, even in the most mundane of things, you find yourself in his presence. Enroll in classes, join the same organizations, study the same subject, assist your juniors, even become officers of the organization you were in. It went as far as juniors calling you the “couple” of your organization. You two deny the claim profusely, settling on the term “twins,” instead. 

Four years of college and eight years of him. And you never saw him remotely look at you romantically.

With bated breath, Caleb speaks, pulling you out of your trance, “Wanna go to Whitesand bay?”

You stare at him incredulously, “At this hour?” 

He shrugs, “It’s only 8 PM.”

“At this hour?” You parrot.

“What? It’s a Friday.”

You continue to stare at him skeptically.

“We can grab a few drinks too on the way there,” he persuades.

“By drinks, you mean alcohol?” 

He bites the inside of his lips, “Yeah, why not?”

“And then you will drive back home?” 

“Huh? I mean yeah but I won’t drive while I’m drunk! I’ll get some sleep before we head home.”

You narrowed his eyes on him, “There are no hotels near Whitesand bay.”

“My car has plenty of space,” he says confidently with a smirk.

You roll his eyes at him. “Call yourself Caleb the gloater with your boastfulness,” you scoff, followed by a series of sounds imitating the noises a goat makes. 

Caleb only laughs at your teasing, 

“So? What do ‘ya say?” He asks.

You look at the passing buildings by your side, the gush of wind sweeping the hair across your face. You tuck a chunk of strands behind your ear and with a sigh, you turn to him.

“You know what? Fuck it.”

Minutes later, you find yourself under the buzzing overhead lights of a convenience store, across the fridge of alcohol with a wide array of bottles displayed. 

“What should we get?” Caleb asks, his hand against the glass door and arm outstretched. You ignore the flex of his biceps that is inches away from you. “Beer?” Caleb asks, “Not in the mood for that,” you say. 

“Surely not tequila.”

“Do you want to die?”

“As if that wasn’t your go-to drink in college.”

“College.”

He only chuckles then glances at the bottommost shelf. “How about this? We used to drink this a lot together when we’d hang at your apartment,” Caleb says, opening the door, and grabbing a bottle.

You stare at the vodka-based drink with lime and ginger beer, waves of memories flooding over your senses immediately. Especially tracing back to that one, freezing winter night at your apartment in your last year of college, sitting across Caleb on the floor. There was a pink tint on his cheeks and ears, something unusual from him since he never flushes this red when you drink. 

“Come on, cheers,” you said, clinking the bottle against his. He sent you a half-hearted smile before you noticed his downcast gaze. “Hey, what’s wrong?” You ask him, throwing him a quizzical look and your fingertips ghosting over his shoulders. Caleb shakes his head, “It’s nothin’, pips.” 

You frown at him, “It’s not nothing when there’s clearly something, Caleb.”

He just chuckles with obvious hesitation and his fingers draw imaginary apples on your floor. He gulps, “It’s really nothin’,” he says but he exhales when you remain quiet, “But…” His eyes flitted across yours which makes your heart increase in speed. Under the dim glow of your warm light and the scattered papers on the couch, you have learned the past four years that being with him just felt right. When he would get sick and had to skip class, being alone felt nauseatingly wrong. And everytime you would spend your nights with him, it would always feel like a missing puzzle piece that you didn’t even know you needed made its way to your incomplete life. You admire the freckles on his cheeks, his chapped lips slightly parting and curving into a smile and his hair slightly disheveled from the amount of times he ran his fingers through it. 

You were deeply, completely enamored by this man. 

And you’d like to think that the universe was built around you two.

“She’s just back, pips.”

The beating of your heart paused. The snow on the outside seemed to momentarily freeze your world altogether. Caleb sensed your confusion, which he misconstrued with forgetfulness rather than a heartbreak.

“The childhood friend I was always talking to you about. She’s back.”

Your world split in half.

You clear your throat as you hear the buzzing lights of the convenience store again with Caleb looking at you expectantly, a bottle still in his hand. 

“Yeah, sure. Let’s just have that.”

With a nod, Caleb returns the lone bottle and effortlessly grabs the 6-pack from the lowest shelf with one hand. You ignore the heat forming in your cheeks as he walks over across the aisles of the store, one hand holding the pack of alcohol and the other grabbing chips you two enjoyed in college. You trail behind him like a lost puppy, unsure of what to do in this unexpected situation.

Half an hour ago you were just complaining about the transportation system and now you’re back with the man you’ve longed for in years.

And your infatuation towards him is still the same as ever. Noting how in all of his 6’2” glory, the shadows of his muscles behind his white tee still manages to show and the veins in his hands protruding at the amount of items he is holding, all the while he refuses to let you hold anything.

“Hey,” he calls, slightly looking to his side to catch your attention, “Sorry but can you get us a bottle of water? We’ll need it for sure.” 

You don’t even need to be told twice. You nod and hurriedly escape from the grasp of his insanely good looks. 

Minutes later, you two find yourself back in his car.

“I’ll send you my half of the bill,” you insist.

“And I’ll return it back to you. As I said, it’s fine. I’ll cover it,” Caleb argues, locking in his seatbelt in place.

“Who is this man talking to me? In college he would force me to pay the fifty cents I owe him,” you joke, leaning against his polished seats. 

“That was in college, pips. I earn good money now. Let me treat you,” he gloats.

“Oh right, treat me with what? Alcohol and junk food?”

“And water. Duh.”

You laugh. And for a second, everything felt like it was back to where it was. How it all used to be. Music echoing across the small enclosure of his vehicle, wind gushing in the open windows, and his hands aching to reach in your warmth.

The night continues on as Caleb skillfully drives through the empty streets. The faint sound of the forgotten playlist plays in the background and the howl of the wind accompanying you two. For a moment, you blatantly watch Caleb yawn beside you, his hand covering his stretched lips. You turn away when his mouth closes. 

Half an hour passes by and you find yourself drifting to sleep, your head cocked to Caleb’s side. He catches a glimpse of your peaceful state, his lips slightly curving upward. He fights the urge to brush the stray hair away from your cheek.

It has always been like this.

Caleb beside you. 

Whether in loud and colorful spaces or in tranquil and intimate positions. Despite being apart from you for the past two years, he somehow, in some way, found his way back into your already busy life. As if to tell you that he refuses to be a fleeting moment.

That he was there to stay.

No matter what.

And it doesn’t matter if you think of his presence as a blessing or rather a pest that you couldn’t get rid of, he frankly doesn’t care.

He is there to stay. He knew that the moment you entered the doors in the classroom in college.

He drives to Whitesand bay at a steady pace, often finding himself avoiding the potholes and slowing the acceleration at the speed humps. Despite that, he always finds a way to glance over your sleeping figure.

Another half an hour later, the sounds of the waves crashing on the shore filled your ears, stirring you in your sleep. Caleb gradually applied the brakes in his car, until it came to a complete stop, cutting the engine. He turned his gaze to you, curled up in the passenger seat. He presses his lips together, eyes softening at your state, contemplating whether to disrupt your peaceful sleep. He releases a soft exhale as his hands reach over to you, pausing for a moment in sheer hesitation. 

“Hey, pips,” he whispers, his breath fanning your cheeks as he slightly nudges your shoulder. “We’re here.” Your eyes fluttered open from the movement, slightly stretching your body away from him.

Through the windshield, a thin slice of the dock is visible, along with the stretch of the ocean. You sit up straight, blinking to get a hold of your surroundings, darting your gaze to Caleb who is looking at you expectantly–with the most doe eyes you have ever seen on him.

You shake your head to get rid of the drowsiness and thoughts away, exiting the vehicle with a light slam of the car door beside you while the brunet follows suit.

You wrap your arms beside you as you lean beside his car, the wooden planks of the dock beneath you creaking with every step you take. 

You marvel at the glistening dark blue waters in front of you, the moonlight rippling against the waves crashing against the shore beneath the dock. You hear the sound of the trunk being slammed closed behind you as you rub your eyes blearily, a yawn escaping your lips. 

“Hey pips.” You turn your head to Caleb. He pats the hood of his car, a blanket hovered over it. He props himself up to the hood, leaving some space beside you. You slide next to him as he hands you an already opened bottle of alcohol.

“Cheers,” Caleb says, clinking your bottles together.

Your lips meet the opening of the glass, chugging the alcohol, feeling the cold liquid slither down your throat. Caleb lets out an exaggerated exhale of satisfaction. 

For a moment, everything felt right.

“So, how are you doin’?” He opens, eliciting a chuckle from you that sounded more like just an exhale.

“You should’ve started with that hours ago, Caleb,” you reply, side-eyeing him.

“Better late than never, right?” He replies with the same boyish chuckle he had in college. Your heart skips a beat.

You turn your gaze to the ocean. “Just fine, I guess.”

“Just fine?” He parrots.

“Hmm. Yeah. I’m doing fine.”

He scoffs, “Come on you’re sellin’ yourself short.”

You turn to him, cocking your head to the side in confusion but before you could express it verbally, he speaks as he stares at you with owlish eyes, “You’re on literal magazines and billboards across the whole damn city of Linkon. It’s a surprise the cashier from the convenience store didn’t recognize you.”

It was your turn to scoff, “Oh please. That little thing? I’m just doing my usual nerd shit at work.”

“I never thought doing nerd shit would warrant you in huge billboards on highways, pips,” he says teasingly with a grin.

“Oh please! Don’t tell me that when you’re what, one of the highest ranking pilots at the Deepspace Aviation Administration at the age of 25?!” You exclaim exaggeratingly, waving the bottle in the air. He laughs, “It’s nothin’, I swear.”

He tries to hide the disbelief written all over his face with laughter, surprised that you know that he’s a high ranking pilot at the DAA despite having no connection. He tries. But the curl of his lips in amusement is betraying him.

“It’s nothin’, I swear!” You mock him and you two laugh together, the sound resonating in the quiet air. As the laughter dies down, you take another swig of the alcohol, already downing it to its half. The tangy taste sits in your tongue and the icy cold liquid crawls in your throat with a stinging sensation. You remember the first time you drank alcohol with Caleb.

It was the evening after midterms season, or as you two like to call it–hell week. The grades were just announced in your campus portal and as two eager, overachieving students that you both are, you decided to check it together in a shared space in your apartment. Upon loading into the website, you quickly skim through the courses and its corresponding marks. As your eyes file through the last subject, you let out a sigh in relief. Passed. But just as soon as you realize your passing grade, Caleb speaks, “Want to get drunk?”

Caleb almost dropped out of the Dean’s List.

Just .1 shy away from being dropped from the roll.

And within ten minutes, Caleb has already set up the first ever drinking session between you two.

“No, but seriously, how have you been?” A voice pulls you out of your reminiscence. You watch him warily, his eyes refusing to meet yours while he chugs down his drink, “It’s been two years without contact,” he continued, followed by a shaky laugh. He wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand and places it back in the space between you two, just mere inches away from yours.

You let out a sound of contemplation, “Well,” you begin, ignoring the desperation laced in his tone, “I got promoted to two positions higher than what I used to be.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And I got in magazines because of work, as you already know.”

“Yep.”

You trace your fingers over the print of the alcohol bottle, ignoring his watchful gaze at you, “And I finally travelled somewhere outside of Linkon City for once.”

“Hm? Where have you been?” Caleb asks with his head tilting to the side, propping his left knee up and resting his elbow. “Chansia City?” He continued.

You shake your head. “No.”

You press your lips together in a thin line and with a heavy breath, you say, “Skyhaven.”

Caleb feels like he’s been dumped with ice cold water.

“Skyhaven?” He repeats.

“Yeah.”

He swallows, “When?”

You down your alcohol, emptying the bottle, “Hm. A little over two years ago? Probably some time in October.”

“October? You mean two months after we…”

Ignored each other deliberately?

Fought?

…Broke up?

“Yeah,” you just reply. Caleb continues to stare at you, but this time, with wide, owlish eyes and mouth slightly agape. You refuse to look at him and instead stare at the thick clouds obstructing the full moon. 

“Why were you in–”

“Can you get me another beer?” You say, shoving him your empty bottle. “And get some chips too. I’m famished!” You joke. 

Caleb observes you for a second before giving you a slight nod and sliding off the hood of the car. 

You never meant to slip that you went to Skyhaven, you just thought he wouldn’t ask further questions. But you must’ve forgotten how relentless Caleb could be when learning things about you. After all, this was the man that asked you about your schedule the moment you sat your ass down beside him on the first day of meeting him.

When he returns, your arms wrap around your legs and your chin settles atop of your knees with your eyes looking at somewhere distant over the horizon. 

“Here,” he says, handing you a cold bottle. You murmur a thanks and as soon as you take the drink, both of you guzzle down almost half of the alcohol in sync. He opens the bag of chips effortlessly and places it between you.

Before you can even change the topic, he says, “Why were you in Skyhaven?”

You catch a glimpse of him. 

Which was a mistake.

You see regret lingering in his eyes, his flushed cheeks, and quivering lips. Like he was on the verge of demanding all answers from you and the universe for your falling out.

You turn away from his stare. You nestle deeper in your knees, “Nothing. It was for vacation,” you say.

Caleb waits. 

He knows there’s still something in your words.

“Well, initially it was for vacation,” you continue, “But… I think deep inside, I was looking for something familiar,” you murmur.

“Something?” He asks in clarification.

“Someone,” you correct. Caleb had to physically tear his eyes from you, gravitating instead to the rusting freighters floating in the distance. “In hopes that maybe I would… bump into him,” you muttered, as if the person you were talking about isn’t getting drunk beside you.

He remains silent, counting the buoys he could spot. You take a sip of your alcohol.

“And… Get him back? I don’t know. He was never mine, anyway.” You whisper the last sentence under your breath, hoping he didn’t catch it.

Of course he did.

Caleb feels like his heart is clawing its way across his throat. Ignoring it, he takes a sip of his beer.

You chuckle uneasily, “God, I’m already tipsy. I’m still a lightweight even after being trained by you.”

Caleb’s first mistake of the night, he notes, was looking at you the moment you said those words. Your eyes are glassy, your cheeks red, lips slightly parted and curled up in an intoxicated smile, and your composure is already driven by the alcohol. 

“I didn’t know you were in Skyhaven back then,” he said.

“Of course you don’t, dummy! I never told anyone. Just our HR,” you reply, slapping his shoulder playfully.

“But you could’ve told me. We could’ve–”

“What? Fix things?” You cut him off with a frown. “Impossible. We could’ve never fixed it. Not then, not now, and not later.”

It was his turn to scowl. “What do you mean not now and not later?”

“What? I’m just telling the truth, Caleb.”

“Then don’t say that,” he says, begging. “If that’s the truth then I don’t want any of it. I don’t care if college has been dead for six years now or if we lost ourselves along the way. I hated being away from you.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have shown up to my doorstep, drunk out your mind, and almost cried on my stupid kitchen floor two years ago,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. 

Caleb groans, rubbing his temples with his fingers before drinking another shot. “I was stupid, okay?” 

“Was?”

“...I am stupid.” 

“I know.”

Silence engulfs the two of you again, only the sounds of the waves from the sea filling the empty space.

“Look–” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair, “Even before I got drunk at your doorstep, I was already regretting things between us.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “What do you mean regret? Which one?”

“Letting you handle all the burden of being alone,” he murmurs.

And you recall the month leading up to his drunken confession. After realizing how much he waited for his childhood friend to come back and how you saw the yearning stares he gave to her, whether through a screen or in person when he introduced you to her, when he was certain no one else was looking, you knew you had to save yourself.

You thought drunkenly confessing your feelings a year ago would set you free from the iron grip he has on your heart. You were certain you had been okay since that intoxicated revelation of how you have loved him since college. But every single time you see him longing for someone that wasn’t you–it tears you apart. And so, you decided that you’ll take a month-long venture in moving on. It was just a short journey, just enough so you’ll get rid of any romance in your system. It started with short texts to nothing at all, too fixated in your career and always on do not disturb. Then, it was bailing on dates that involved only you two. If Gideon was there, you’d come–god forbid you’re left alone with Caleb.

But unfortunately, Caleb didn’t take it well. He thought you were ending everything. He thought you were throwing away seven years of your friendship.

Hence, the intoxicated, faux confession of him loving you.

After he was rejected by his childhood friend.

Leading up to complete and absolute falling out. 

Which was not in your initial plans.

“Burden?” The word nearly sounds like a laugh and you shake your head, “Caleb, please. I was just in love with you, I wasn’t dying.”

“But you left.”

“So?”

“It’s the same thing.”

You look at him with furrowed brows, “You are so dramatic,” you laugh and he follows suit, emptying the alcohol bottle.

“Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly, “I just miss moments like this more than anything.”

You ignore the dull ache in your chest, “I’m sure you do.”

He sighs for the umpteenth time tonight. “I think of you in the most mundane things I do,” he confesses.

“Like what? Getting drunk? You make me look like an alcoholic,” you joke.

He shakes his head with a laugh, “No,” he says as your lips reach the rim of the bottle, “Like when I make instant noodles and I instinctively reach for two packets because you don’t like the way you make them,” he says. Your eyes slightly widen. 

“Or when I read reports, I reach for a pen that’s your favorite color to comment on it.”

He takes a big swig of his drink.

“Sometimes when I see a new cafe in Skyhaven, I would think about asking you to come with me, only to find out I don’t even have your number saved anymore.”

You blink, feeling the gush of the salt air tangle in your hair. The crease between your brows deepens.

“Caleb…” You drawl, turning to him with a frown, “Why are you telling me this?” 

He turns to you.

“If you’re telling this to make you feel better about not loving me back after eight years, I will be the first person to tell you that it’s not your fault that you didn’t love me back.”

“No, I–”

“You don’t have to apologize for not loving me back either. It’s just the way it is, Caleb!” You almost exclaim, “We’re just friends and I have long accepted that,” you continue, inching closer to him with tears welling up in your eyes, “It’s time you do too.”

The sound of waves sloshing around the dock envelops the situation. The light from the streetlamp illuminates your skin as you forcibly try to restrain yourself from reaching out to him.

With a shake of your head, you exhale a deep breath and look away. “Sorry,” you begin, “That was a bit dramatic.”

“No, don’t be,” he replies.

“Yeah.”

Caleb chews on his bottom lip. “You want to finish another bottle or you’d rather sleep inside?” He asks.

You fiddle with the neck of the bottle, “I think I’d sleep this off. The alcohol is getting to me,” you say. 

Moments later, you find yourself in a situation that the you two years ago would find baffling. Laying inside your college friend’s car, with the seats on recline and him being inches away from you. You could feel the waves of the ocean lulling you to sleep despite the hammering beat of your heart against your ribcage, and with closed eyes, you try to.

You ignore the cramped space you are in.

You deny the subtle confessions Caleb was declaring to you.

You ignore the stares you could feel on your side.

Ignore. Deny. Ignore.

“We could get arrested for this,” Caleb whispers behind you.

“For sleeping in a car?” You reply, eyes still shut.

“For parking in a no park zone.”

“Just bribe them with your big pilot money. I’m sleeping here.”

“I didn’t expect those words to come out of your mouth,” he replies.

“And you won’t expect the next one either.”

“What?” He says, watching you turn to your side and face him, nuzzling your cheek on your hand and eyes screwed shut. “Shut the fuck up,” you whisper back, “Emphasis on the fuck and shut,” eliciting a chuckle from him.

“Alright.” 

But shutting the fuck up is something Caleb somehow can’t do when he’s lightheaded from the alcohol.

“I missed you.”

You hum.

“I missed the silence between us.”

“Then I beg of you to shut up. I miss the silence too,” you grumble.

He ignores your protest. 

“Won’t you ask why I’m in Linkon?” He asks

“To torment me, probably. I don’t fucking know.”

“That’s one thing.”

You don’t reply, relishing on the couple of seconds that Caleb has his mouth zipped.

“But I wasn’t in Skyhaven in October two years ago.”

Your heart could leap out of your throat.

“Pips, I was in Linkon the moment you were in Skyhaven.”

Like he couldn’t make it any more clear.

“I waited outside your office every day. All the restaurants you enjoyed. The cafe shops. Everywhere.”

Caleb’s second mistake of the night was when he saw how you slowly opened your eyes when his words fell from his mouth. He could see the way your lips fall into the deepest frown and your brows creased together with a fury of ten years of loving him. 

“Again, Caleb, why are you telling me this?” You ask, seething.

“What?” He asks, dumbfounded.

“You don’t have to tell me all of this, Caleb. Everything has happened already. Everything,” you begin, sitting up straight. He follows suit.

“I drunkenly declared to you my love and you outright rejected it. A year later, you visit me, intoxicated and you declare the same shit, right after you got rejected?” You scoff, “Come on, Caleb. I’m not stupid. Please.”

He looks at you, bewildered.

You feel the rush of heat in your cheeks and ears. Your fingernails clawing against the fabric of your jeans.

With a sigh, you shake your head, feeling the impending headache loom over you. “I know you missed me, Caleb. And I understand, trust me. ‘Cause I missed you too, I missed us,” you begin, slumping your back against his leather seat, refusing to look at him any further. “But nostalgia is a liar. You keep visiting the past but no one’s there anymore, Caleb. I’m here and you’re here. And we chose different things and that’s fine. We have to move on eventually.” 

“No but I just hated how I said all those terrible things to you–”

“Me too! I hated having to let you go,” you confess, your voice cracking but no tears threaten to spill from your eyes. “But let’s face the truth, Caleb. It’s what we needed.”

The man across you remains silent while you heave a deep breath, alcohol coursing through your veins, and you know what he’s doing.

He’s studying you intently. Again.

With a click of a tongue, you shake your head, plopping your body back to the reclined seat, laying on your side facing him. 

“I’m getting dramatic again. Goodnight, Caleb. And I expect you to shut up for real.”

The moon hangs bright in the sky, with sparse clouds littering around it, and a handful of stars accompanied the satellite with their soft light. A couple of rusting freighters and dimly lit buoys are still floating in the distance, with the soft sounds of waves continuously lapping against the pier. The tick tick tick from the hazard signal of Caleb’s vehicle is akin to a metronome.

He still sits upright, studying your steady breathing and eyelashes fluttering across your cheeks. Swallowing thickly, he leans back into the seat. He instinctively curls into the radiating warmth lying beside him, screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to doze off. But the pacing beat of his heart deemed it fruitless. Fluttering his eyes open and rubbing the intoxication off, his breath hitches at the sight of you.

With your hands tucked under your head as a makeshift pillow and your chapped lips caused by the harsh weather slightly parted, he finds himself staring at your serenity.

Caleb inches closer to your face, clamping his mouth shut to avoid his breath fanning you awake. His vision is still dazed from the alcohol and his mind is almost short-circuiting from exhaustion. The cold air from the slightly ajar windows whizzes through the two of you, causing you to twitch. He flinches at your sudden movement, eyes widening at the possibility that you would rouse from your sleep. But instead, you snuggle deeper in your arms, sighing blissfully.

Caleb contemplates, slowly blinking. And with the courage of ten years of being with you, he reaches over your sleeping figure, tucking the stray strands of hair behind your ear.

He softly calls your name.

Once. 

Twice.

“What?” You grumble.

“I’ll shut up for real,” he says.

“Then do it. Don’t say it.”

“But I need your help in doing it.” 

You peek at him with one eye open. “Help you shut up? It’s like telling me to hang the stars in the sky,” you say.

“Kiss me.”

“What?” Both your eyes fly open, startled by his words.

“Do me a favor and kiss me,” he casually says. You grimace, shaking your head. “You’re just drunk, Caleb. Jeez don’t say things you will regret–”

“You think two bottles of that beer will get me drunk?” He raises a brow at you and tilts his head knowingly.

Touche. 

“You say nostalgia is a liar,” he continues, “Then help me move on from it then. Make me realize it’s not real.”

He sits up once again and you follow suit.

You chew your bottom lip in contemplation, darting your stare from the steering wheel, to the shift, and back to your lap. 

“Just a kiss?”

He nods slowly. 

You gulp. 

Another mistake is about to be made, you mentally note. And you swear this is going to fuck up your friendship and you’re just inebriated, this is just the alcohol talking nonsense, and you’re certain you’re demolishing all the stability you’ve built in your life but–

“Fuck it.” 

Caleb didn’t have to be told twice.

Within seconds, Caleb slowly leans into you, “Here I go,” he mutters. You nod at him, your breaths shallow and fanning his face as his hand reaches to your cheek. With his trembling fingers over your skin, he presses your lips together–the feeling of his chapped lips against yours, slowly moving along the rhythm of the waters. Despite the tenderness of it all, you were caught off guard with the sensation, but eventually, you relax under his touch. He feels the rapid beating of his heart against his chest as you carefully slip his actions in sync.

Your heart both sinks and swells at the feeling of his warmth radiating against you, your hands grip onto his shoulder as the two of you continue to glide your lips against each other. He trails his fingers from your cheeks to your chin, gripping it tight before slightly pushing it downward, urging you to part your mouth further. He slides his tongue against yours as his other hand reaches for the back of your head, pulling you closer to him. You let out a small whimper, your hands shaking as you try to hold ground yourself back into reality.

Your nails claw through the fabric of his shirt, earning a groan from Caleb between your mouths.

Unable to keep the wild thumping of your chest at bay, you pull away from him before he can push himself further into your space, avoiding his gleaming irises. You pant heavily, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“There. That ought to shut you up.”

Caleb almost laughs in between his heavy breathing.

But you lean back into the seat, turning your back against him. 

He feels his heart sink to his stomach.

“I don’t want to hear another word from your big mouth, Caleb,” you say jokingly. “You better keep your promise.”

And for the first time in the long night, he was quiet. Of course, he kept his promise. Not until the words slip from his tongue, “I think you’re still wrong. Everything I’ve felt about us has always been real.”

But you no longer heard it with the soft snores coming from your slightly parted lips.

Hours later, after a pathetic convenience store breakfast, and the heat of the morning seeping through the car windows, you two find yourself threading through the highways and avenues of the city again.

Laughs were shared in the small enclosure of his vehicle, complaints about a splitting headache were echoed, random catching up were made, and even sob stories about how life treated you two during the years you’ve been apart were declared.

For some reason, the air still hangs thick–but this time, with more uncertainty than ever. But it’s okay, you tell yourself, with your head leaned back onto the seat of his car and his hand sometimes ghosting over yours, you tell yourself that it’s fine. 

Because once this is all over, when you’re back in the comforts of your apartment, you’re certain that whatever Caleb feels about you will come to fruition the following days. Whether he’d come to your doorstep with flowers in hand or just through random texts like a friend, it won’t hurt you.

By the end of the day, he was still the Caleb that you cherished in college. And you were content with either outcome fate decides to give you. 

a/n: hope you guys liked this :") tbh i didn't want caleb taking the route of blatantly confessing his love because i could never wrap my head around the concept of loving someone after yearning after a different person for years.

reblogs, comments, and likes are highly appreciated! pls share some love <3

[ashlovesfood]

Fast & Fucking Furious!

tags:car hood sex, bruce is shirtless, slight exhibitionism, car project, panties, pounding, p v p, squirting, moaning, grunting, your freaky, pounding, sweat, fluids, pet names, cunnie! why is this so crazy? undressing, marks, kissing, abandoned car projects, ff2

Pretty please ash what’s the link?!◎[▪‿▪]◎

୨⎯DO NOT STEAL,COPY,OR PLAGIARIZE⎯୧

Another project Bruce was working on was his cars, he wanted to experiment with one of the engines. He popped the hood of the Chevrolet Camaro and looked at the parts, deciding what to do with it. His goal was to add a new kink to the vehicle, nitrous oxide to boost the horsepower for fun.

The garage was open, showing off all his collected cars parked in a line. Bruce took his shirt off, leaving himself in a pair of jeans as he worked on the car. A bottle of nitrous oxide had to be mounted in the car, somewhere in the trunk or engine. He leaned forward, wondering where to put it. You were working at your job, stuck at your desk typing away. It wasn’t long until you went home, just a few more hours. Your hands cramped from how long you’ve been hunched over, the bright screen burned into your eyes.

Finally, at last, the clock read 5:00. You clocked out of the building and grabbed your bag, headed for your car. The parking lot was sparse, the few cars parked here and there. The door opened with a click, your body slipped into the driver's side. You turned on the engine, the car revving to life as the lights turned back on.

Your phone dinged with a message, Bruce’s contact texting you. ‘Missed call from Bruce’ ‘Are you coming home yet?’ You replied with a quick message, throwing your phone to the side as you drove out of the lot. Bruce took a moment to look at his phone, seeing your message realizing you were coming home.

His torso was covered in dirt and grease, his hands working on the engine to place the gas inside. The plan was smoothly coming along, time ticking with the clouds moving along the sky. You drove into the driveway, seeing the garage open with the show of multiple cars. “Typical Bruce..”

You parked outside the garage, opening the door to get out. Bruce was hidden from the raised hood, his body leaned over as he worked on the engine. “Bruceyyy.” Your shoes pattered against the tile, his head lifting up to look at you. “Bunny.” He was covered in sweat, the shine of his fluids making you distracted. “I, what’re you working on?..”

You tried your best to maintain eye contact, your mind playing a whole film of memories when Bruce dicked you down.

“Just working on a project, nothing serious.” He slammed the engine down, his hands finding your hips as he lifted you up. You were now sitting on the hood, caged in by Bruce’s meaty frame as he towered over you.

“Can’t stop looking huh?” Maybe, it was obvious. Your thighs clenched together, your face dusted with a slight red. “Uh, maybe…?” Bruce grabbed the fabric of your shirt, ripping it open as buttons flew all over. You gasped, the air hitting your skin as he played with your bra. His fingers were delicate with you compared to the car, his eyes drinking in the sight. You leaned against the hood, hands propped up trying to not slip.

“Bruce..! Not here-..” “Was thinking about fucking you on this car, couldnt get it out of my head.” He slid the top down from your shoulders, the bra covering your chest as the air hugged your skin. Bruce leaned in, biting the crook of your neck as he left a large bite mark. You were whining, legs wrapped around his waist as he licked your earlobe, sucking on the delicate skin. He broke away, a string of saliva connecting from his mouth to your ear.

You, however, wouldn’t leave him hanging. Your hands gripped his shoulders, teeth nibbling on his collarbone, small red and purple marks left behind. Bruce was groaning, leaning into your touch as he grinded against your clothed pussy, the air filled with bunny fucking energy. The garage was still open, the possibility of someone being able to look in making you more aroused.

You feasted on the way Bruce’s skin looked, all marks and bites made by you. He kissed you, clashing with teeth and tongue as you held onto his neck. He undid the clasp of your bra, the flesh bouncing out as your nipples pebbled. “So soft, and bouncy for me, I can't get enough of you..” Bruce grabbed one of your nipples and popped it into his mouth, suckling on the bud like a newborn.

You were trembling with pleasure, waves of desire coursing through your body as he continued his attack on your chest. He moved off on to the other nipple, hand fondling the lone one to give it attention. “Brrucceee!” That’s all it took for you to cum, legs clenched around his torso as you grinded against him, slick creating a wet spot on your panties. “Fucking little minx- grinding against me while I lick your boobs, huh?” Bruce wasn’t any better, his dick begging for attention while he focused on your pleasure.

You moved your hands down towards his jeans, unzipping the zipper revealing his boner hidden by his boxers. You freed his cock, his tip hitting his bellybutton with a loud squelch, the tip twitching.

“Oh shit..!” Bruce pinned you down onto the hood, sliding your pants and panties down in one swift motion. He threw them onto the floor, obsessed with your cute little pussy glistening with juices. “All for me, my good girl. Fuckkkk..” Bruce leaned down, taking kitten licks at your folds teasing you, your back arching. You were shivering, the tiny amount of energy making you frustrated yet fulfilled.

You grabbed his head and shoved him between your thighs, his lips having a sloppy french kiss make out session with your pussy. “Right theree! Oh ‘m cumming..!!!” Squirt, all over his nose, cheekbones and chin. It dripped down all onto the shiny surface of the hood, his mouth curving into a smirk. “Taste so sweet. Like candy.”

Bruce pushed your legs apart, slapping his tip onto your clit. You were buzzing, full of need and horniness that only Bruce could satisfy. His tip leaked with precum, his length being lubed by your juices. It was one big leaky mess, his cock entering your hole inch by inch, your mind focused on the delicious stretch. It was mind numbing, as Bruce moved alllll the way out only to push hard into your hole, your cervix being kissed. You were cockdrunk, your mouth drooling side to side and your eyes rolled all the way back, all from Bruce.

He was mind boggled, the way you sucked him in like a vortex was insanity to him. Your nails made angry red scratch marks on his back, the lines running down his skin making him turned on. “More, oh- give me more angel.” Bruce was plowing into your cunnie, the juices making a puddle below your ass cheeks.

Sweat ran down both your bodies, his hands lifting you up as he fucked you in the air. There was a body print on the hood from you, the combination of juices and sweat left on the surface. His dick was reaching all the way up into your lungs, your mouth opened in a cute ‘o’ as you leaned into him.

“Cummminnnggggg!” Bruce came along with you, balls clenching as he emptied his seed into you. “Gonna get you all swollen with my seed- make you glowing for me.!!” His arms bear hugged you, your body shaking with pleasure as you felt his sperm fill you up. Car project was abandoned after..

⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧ ⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧ ⑅୨୧

A/N Really tried for this one but idk how to feel.. also went to a party and ended up getting a headache \m/(>.<)\m/

[kyunghwannie]

"The Silent Room"

Myoui Mina x Male Reader

➤Word Count: 13666

➤ Tags: Psychological Horror, Acknowledgement and Desire Isolation, Hallucination or Reality?, Possession, Twisted Romance, Angst, Ballet, Is it even considered supernatural?

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

The realtor called it a “charming fixer-upper.” I called it affordable isolation. The roof creaked with age, the wallpaper peeled like old skin, and dust clung to the floorboards like it had nowhere else to go. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t running toward anything—I was running away.

They told me the countryside would be quiet. Peaceful, even.

They never mentioned the kind of silence that crawls up your spine and sits behind your ears—like it's waiting.

I unpacked the essentials—laptop, instant coffee, a few half-read books I told myself I’d finally finish. The rest stayed boxed. I didn’t plan to stay long. I just wanted to breathe somewhere people couldn’t reach me. Somewhere I could forget the noise, the deadlines, the expectations.

Then I found the room.

At the end of the narrow hallway, a door stood quietly shut. Just sealed, like it had been forgotten on purpose. I knocked once, like a fool. No answer, of course. I should’ve let it be. I should’ve walked away. But something about it... unsettled me. Like it didn’t belong to the house—but the house belonged to it.

The night was uneventful. The second—just wind against the windows and my own breathing.

But by then, I heard it.

A piano. Soft. Distant. And unmistakably coming from that locked room.

The melody was delicate, like a memory trying not to fade. I pressed my ear to the door and listened. No lyrics. No voice. Just aching ivory keys and a sadness that didn’t feel like mine—but somehow was.

I couldn’t sleep after that.

Then the dreams started.

A woman

====================

Part I – Arrival

The gravel crunched beneath the tires as I pulled up to the house, the sound strangely loud in the hush of the countryside. I killed the engine and sat for a moment, staring at the crooked silhouette of the place through my windshield. Old, weather-worn, and quiet—like the house itself had been waiting, just like I had been.

The wind moved through the trees in slow waves, the kind that made the leaves rustle like whispers. I stepped out, slamming the car door behind me, and was greeted by the scent of damp wood, overgrown grass, and something faintly sweet—maybe lavender, though I hadn’t seen a flowerbed on the property listing.

My boots sank a little into the muddy path leading up to the porch. The wood creaked as I stepped on it, worn and soft under my weight. I found the spare key tucked exactly where the realtor said it’d be—beneath the third loose plank beside the door. Cheap, easy, forgettable. Just like the man who’d sold me the place.

The key turned with resistance. The door opened reluctantly.

Inside, the house greeted me with a sigh.

Dust floated through shafts of light from half-covered windows. The air was heavy—like a sealed room finally breathing again. My footsteps echoed dully on the old wooden floors as I stepped inside.

It wasn’t grand, just old. Lived-in. The kind of place that had soaked up decades of memories and then been abandoned by them. Wallpaper peeled in lazy curls down the hallway, and the walls were stained with the slow, patient work of time.

But there was something comforting in the stillness.

I told myself that’s why I came here—to escape. To disappear from the deadlines, the noise, the constant expectation to be someone. Maybe that’s why the silence didn’t scare me. At least not at first.

I walked through each room, half out of curiosity, half out of obligation. A narrow kitchen with a cracked tile floor. A sitting room with an ancient fireplace and a mirror too fogged to reflect anything properly. Two bedrooms upstairs—empty but not cold.

And then, at the end of the hallway near the stairs, a door.

It was different.

Where the other doors were chipped and loose at the hinges, this one was almost pristine. Darker wood, smooth and without a handle. Just... sealed. Like it wasn’t made to open. Like it never had.

It just was.

I stood in front of it for longer than I meant to.

No breeze. No sound. No draft under the door.

I told myself it was nothing. An old house quirk. Probably locked from the other side. Maybe storage. Maybe just... forgotten.

Still, I didn’t like how it felt. Like it knew I was standing there.

I turned away.

My first night was quiet. I unpacked the essentials—two bags of clothes, my laptop, a coffee maker, and a stack of journals I hadn’t touched in months. I made a bed out of the couch cushions and covered it with a thin blanket. It was enough.

The sun set early here. By seven, the house had gone dim, and by eight, the shadows seemed to stretch longer than they should. I lit a candle more out of instinct than need. Electricity worked fine, but I didn’t like how bright the bulbs were in this place. Like they exposed things better left hidden.

I sat by the window with a lukewarm cup of coffee, watching the woods breathe in the wind. Everything felt slower. Calmer. Detached.

And yet...

Even as I tried to unwind, I couldn’t stop glancing toward the hallway.

Toward that door.

There was something unnatural in the way the shadows curved toward it, like gravity itself bent slightly around that one part of the house. It wasn’t fear. Not yet. It was more like curiosity—wrapped in something colder.

Still, I told myself it didn’t matter. Not tonight. I hadn’t come here to chase ghosts or haunted doors. I’d come here for silence, and the house was more than happy to give it.

I lay down on the makeshift bed, the soft hum of the countryside wrapping around me like a blanket. No cars. No neighbors. Just the sound of the wind and my own thoughts.

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in a long while, I slept.

I dreamed of nothing.

But the silence felt... full.

Like someone else was dreaming with me.

Part II – The Town Whispers

The next morning greeted me with dew-streaked windows and the soft chirp of birds I couldn’t name. I hadn’t heard an alarm clock, hadn’t needed one. My body woke up naturally—as if it knew it didn’t need to rush anymore.

Still, I felt restless.

There was no food in the house except a can of instant coffee and some expired tea bags left in a dusty cupboard. So after a quick wash with lukewarm water and a glance at the strange, sealed door—still untouched, still quiet—I grabbed my jacket and headed into town.

The road was narrow, flanked by tall trees that arched overhead like they were protecting the path. The walk was quiet, peaceful. The kind of silence that almost felt staged, like a set made to look natural but missing one critical detail. Still, it soothed the tension in my chest.

The town was small, more like a cluster of buildings than a proper village. A post office, a hardware store, a few cafes. The kind of place where everyone probably knew each other by name, and any stranger stood out like a drop of ink in water.

I found a little general store tucked between a pottery shop and a local bakery. Its sign read “Yoon’s Mart,” hand-painted and faded, but charming in its own way.

The door jingled as I stepped inside.

“Oh, hello there,” came a warm voice from behind the counter.

An older woman looked up from a crossword puzzle, her silver hair tied in a loose bun. Her face lit up the moment she saw me, eyes crinkling with curiosity rather than suspicion.

“New face. You must be staying in the old Hanseong house, aren’t you?”

I blinked. “Yeah… just moved in yesterday. Didn’t know it had a name.”

“Oh, it does. All old homes here do. That one’s been empty for... goodness, it must be over fifteen years now.”

I offered a polite nod and started collecting some essentials—instant rice, bottled water, toiletries. Her eyes followed me with a soft smile as I moved about.

“You here to work? Or just... running from something?”

I froze for a second before chuckling nervously. “Maybe both.”

She laughed, not unkindly, and began ringing up the items.

“Most folks who stay there don’t last more than a week. They always complain about the noise, or the cold, or... other things.”

I tilted my head. “Other things?”

She hesitated, fingers pausing over a pack of ramen.

“You didn’t hear any piano right?”

My stomach dropped slightly.

“…No,” I lied.

She studied me quietly. Then smiled again, this time more wistfully.

“There was a girl once. A dancer. Used to live in that house before everything went quiet. Gorgeous thing—skin like porcelain, voice softer than wind. Always wore her hair in a bun, always humming ballet melodies when she walked into town.”

“…What happened to her?” I asked, the question leaving my mouth slower than I intended.

“No one knows for sure. They said she practiced endlessly. That she was meant to be something big. The next great ballerina. She lived alone after her parents passed, and then one day... she just disappeared.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice though the store was empty.

“Some say she went mad. Others say the house turned on her. But a few... a few believe she never left.”

The air inside the store seemed colder all of a sudden.

I tried to keep my voice level. “Is there a name?”

The woman nodded slowly. “Mina. Myoui Mina.”

A pause stretched between us like a held breath.

Then she laughed softly, shaking her head. “Of course, it’s just an old story. Small towns cling to ghosts like cats to sunbeams. But you’ll be fine, dear. Just don’t listen too closely at night. And if you hear the music… don’t follow it.”

She handed me the bag of groceries with a smile too gentle to be a warning.

“Enjoy your stay, alright? Let the house rest, and it’ll let you rest. That’s the deal.”

I stepped outside, the bells above the door chiming one last time behind me.

The walk back felt longer somehow. The trees denser. The wind heavier.

I kept replaying her words in my mind.

“Myoui Mina.”

It sounded familiar in a way I couldn’t explain. Like a melody I hadn’t heard but already knew how to hum.

When I reached the house, I placed the groceries on the counter and stood at the edge of the hallway, staring down at that sealed door again.

And this time, I could’ve sworn—Somewhere deep behind it...

I heard the faintest note of a piano.

Myoui Mina.

Soft. Lonely. Calling.

The name lingered in my mind like smoke in still air—fragile, but impossible to ignore. It rolled off the tongue delicately, like silk across skin. There was something foreign about it, something that didn’t quite belong in this quiet Korean countryside. It didn’t sound local. No one in town had a name like that.

I carried the name with me as I unpacked the groceries, my thoughts spiraling around it like moths drawn to flame. The ahjumma’s story should’ve been just that—an old tale passed around to make outsiders feel uneasy. Yet the way she said it… like she still saw Mina in that house. Like she believed it.

Japanese? Maybe. Probably.

But what would a Japanese ballerina be doing out here, tucked away in a creaky old house miles from anywhere?

And then there was the photo I’d found in the attic on my first night. The one I hadn’t told her about. The one of the ballerina frozen mid-pirouette, poised and elegant, with that hauntingly serene face. The resemblance was uncanny.

Could it really be her?

The piano. The photo. The sealed room.

No... coincidence doesn't string itself together this tightly.

There was something here. Something the town had buried beneath whispered warnings and polite smiles. And now the house had begun to speak—to sing. And in its notes, I heard her name.

Myoui Mina.

Not just a name anymore. A presence. A shadow clinging to the corners of every room I entered. And despite the chill crawling up my spine...

I wanted to see her.

Even if it meant losing something I hadn’t yet realized I was already offering:

Myself.

Part III – The One Who Stayed

The photo felt heavier in my hand than it should have. Faded along the edges, browned slightly at the corners, but the image remained intact—almost too intact. Her eyes didn’t blur. Her outline didn’t fade. Even the poise of her arms, suspended mid-turn like she’d never fallen, was preserved perfectly in time.

And now I knew her name.

Myoui Mina.

The air had grown sharp with cold by the time I found myself standing in front of Yoon’s Mart again. Most stores in Seoul would have shuttered hours ago, but here, in this sleepy town that refused to fully sleep, the light in the store still glowed a dim yellow. A lantern outside swung gently in the breeze.

I stepped inside. The bell jingled.

“Oh—you again, dear. Couldn’t stay away?”

The ahjumma looked up from a radio, her hands wrapped around a cup of barley tea.

I held up the photograph. “I found this. In the house. It’s her, isn’t it?”

She took it gently from me, the amusement in her face dropping away.

“Myoui Mina. Yes. That’s her. I haven’t seen this photo in… my goodness. Decades.” She traced the edges with a thumb, like it might bleed if she touched too hard. “Where’d you find it?”

“In the attic. Buried under an old suitcase. It just… it called to me, I guess.”

She smiled faintly. “She had that effect on people. Always quiet. Polite. But you couldn’t look away once she entered a room. And when she danced... people swore they could hear the world stop.”

I took the photo back, my fingers grazing hers.

“You said no one knows what happened to her. But didn’t anyone try to find her? Look into it?”

She exhaled. “They did. But there was never anything to find. Her things were still there. Her shoes, her costumes, the music box she loved. But she was just… gone. Like the wind swallowed her up.”

“What about her family?”

“Parents gone before her. No siblings. No fiancé. No friends, really. Mina lived in her world. Some thought she liked it that way.”

I hesitated. The cold that had started in my fingertips had now crept into my arms.

“I heard something. The first night. The piano. It was faint. Barely there, but... real.”

She looked at me long and hard. Her eyes no longer smiled.

“That’s the part I never understood.”

“What do you mean?”

She stood slowly, walking to a shelf behind the counter. After a moment, she returned—not with an object, but with a memory etched across her face.

“Others moved into that house. Not many, but a few. None stayed long. They said it was too quiet. Too cold. Some were even angry—said they’d been tricked, that the town exaggerated its charm. But what they really meant was... the house wouldn’t let them in.”

She leaned in. “No matter how calm they tried to be, no matter how open their hearts… no one ever heard a note. Not even the smallest sound.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“That room stayed silent. Completely. Like it was waiting. Or watching. Or mourning. But never playing.”

I felt the weight of her words fall across my chest like a snowfall too quiet to notice until you’re buried beneath it.

“So why did I hear it?” I asked.

She said nothing for a long while. Then finally:

“Maybe she finally found someone worth playing for.”

I wanted to laugh. To wave it off. But the weight in her voice wasn’t superstition—it was certainty. And in that moment, the warmth of the store felt like a shield between me and something far colder, waiting just down the road.

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

The ahjumma’s eyes searched mine. Her voice, when it came, was too soft to echo.

“I don’t think she ever left.”

The walk home was colder than before. Not the weather—just the feel of the world around me. The trees seemed taller, their limbs creaking in protest as wind swept between them. The moon followed me in patches of silver and cloud.

I pushed the door open slowly, stepping into a house that felt like it had been holding its breath.

My steps were deliberate. I turned the photo over in my hand. No date. No name written on the back. Just her image—frozen in time.

The groceries still sat untouched on the counter. I passed them, heading straight for the hallway.

The sealed door waited. Still shut. Still heavy with silence.

I stared at it for what felt like an eternity. And then…

A note. One. Soft. Lingering. Just behind the wood. Not loud. Not urgent. Just… there. Faint as a sigh. Clear as day.

My fingers curled around the edge of the photo.

“Mina…?”

No reply. But the note played again. A second. A third. Building into something tender. Mourning. Calling.

But from whom?

I stepped back slowly, my heartbeat too loud in my ears.

Everyone said she was gone. Everyone assumed. But no one knew. Not really.

And tonight—under this old roof with no answers and a room that sang when it should’ve slept—I realized something terrible.

Maybe she hadn’t been asking anyone to listen. Maybe she was waiting for someone to hear.

And somehow… I had.

Part IV – Beneath the Door

The house had sunk into silence again. A silence that wasn’t natural—too absolute, too deliberate. Like something was waiting to breathe, but hadn’t yet decided if I was worth exhaling for.

I stood there, unmoving, groceries still untouched on the counter behind me. The hallway stretched before me like a tunnel carved from shadow, ending at that door—the one that hadn’t so much as creaked since I arrived.

But something had changed.

That sound. That note.

I wasn’t even sure it had happened. It was like hearing your name in a dream—uncertain if it was real or just memory playing tricks. But even now, I could feel the cold of it nestled just behind my ears, like a phantom whisper.

I should’ve left it alone. Should’ve done what the others did. Leave. Pack up. Run like hell.

But instead…

Instead, I walked slowly to the locked door and sat down beside it.

Back against the wall. Legs pulled up, arms resting across my knees. I didn’t knock. Didn’t call out.

I just sat there. A quiet offering.

Why?

I couldn’t tell you. Maybe it was foolishness. Maybe loneliness. Or maybe… my fucking stupid heart was too soft.

A part of me wanted to believe. To believe that someone—she—might still be there. That she might be waiting for someone to sit with her, instead of fearing her.

The wood of the door was old, warped by years of weather and time, but it felt strangely warm against my shoulder. And beyond it—quiet.

No wind. No breathing. No music. Just silence again. But not empty.

It was the kind of silence that feels like it’s watching you. A listening silence.

I swallowed hard and whispered before I could stop myself.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

No answer. My voice felt out of place here—like it didn’t belong in the atmosphere, like even sound was foreign to these halls.

Still, I sat there.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. I checked the time only once, then gave up. Time didn’t move normally in this place. It curled and folded and crept sideways.

Eventually, I whispered again.

“I know everyone left. I know no one stayed.”

“But I’m not them.”

My voice was soft. Measured. Like I was speaking to a wound, not a person. “You don’t have to come out. You don’t have to say anything.”

“I just… I just wanted you to know you’re not forgotten.”

Still nothing. I leaned my head against the door and let my eyes close, just for a moment.

That’s when the cold came. Sudden. Sharp. Piercing. It didn’t sweep in like a breeze—it invaded, crawling up my spine like a skeletal hand. I gasped softly, breath turning to fog in the air.

But I didn’t move.

I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But something in me stayed rooted there. Maybe I was still waiting. Maybe I was hoping. Or maybe…

Maybe I just wanted her to feel something other than fear for once.

Another minute passed.

Then—

Thud.

My heart stopped.

It wasn’t loud. Just a small sound. Like something lightly tapping the floor on the other side of the door.

I held my breath.

Tap... Tap…

It was rhythmic. Deliberate.

Then, faintly, as if someone were moving with incredible care, I heard something that made my throat tighten—

A sigh. A human sigh. Fragile. Barely audible.

“…Hello?” I breathed.

No answer. But the tap-tap continued. And with it, an image bloomed in my mind—bare feet moving across wooden floors, slow, elegant steps… a dancer’s rhythm.

I whispered again. “Mina…?”

Then—

A single piano note. Clear. Beautiful. Cold.

It floated through the door like fog, curling into my bones. It was impossible, and yet it rang so true. Not like an old recording. Not like a dream. It was there.

I flinched, instinctively leaning away—but something held me in place. A feeling, or maybe something more. Not quite a hand. Not quite a voice. Just… presence.

Then, like a response to my stillness, another note followed. Then another.

The melody was sad. Not tragic, but quiet. A song played for no audience, no applause. A lullaby for empty rooms.

And for a moment—just a breath—I wasn’t scared.

My chest hurt in a way I couldn’t explain. Like my ribs were wrapped in thread, tightening with each note.

She was still here. Not in the way people stay. Not with flesh and voice and names.

But in feeling. In the ach In the way my presence wasn’t pushed away.e of the air. In the sorrow that creaked through the walls.

I whispered again, barely audible. “…I’m sorry it took someone this long to sit with you.”

The music paused. One long moment. Then a final note rang out—sharper than the others. High, isolated. Like a tear hitting a frozen lake.

And then—nothing. Gone. The air warmed again. Slightly. The frost in my lungs melted. I blinked, realizing how long I’d been holding still.

I stood up slowly. Knees stiff. Back aching. But I didn’t feel regret.

Was it dumb and reckless? Yes.

Was it scary? God, yes.

Was it worth it? I still don’t know.

But something in me… felt a little less hollow.

I turned back toward the kitchen, casting one last glance at the sealed door. It didn’t look different. But it felt different. And that was enough—for now.

Part V – Through the Glass

Nightfall crawled across the windows like ink in water—slow, deliberate, suffocating.

The kind of dark that doesn’t just replace the light, but swallows it.

I turned off the last light in the kitchen. Not by choice. The bulb fizzled and died with a soft hiss, like it had given up. I didn’t bother replacing it. Somehow, it felt… wrong to try.

Instead, I let the darkness take over.

There was comfort in letting it surround me now. It wasn’t the same darkness I feared before. This one felt more like… company.

I poured a glass of water and stood at the sink, sipping slowly, eyes trained on the large window across from me.

That’s when I saw it. Movement. Just a flicker. Not outside the house. No. That would’ve made sense. But inside the reflection.

My heart paused. The kitchen was empty. I hadn’t moved. But the reflection—something behind me. A silhouette. Thin. Feminine. Still. Right behind me.

I turned. Nothing. Just the chair I always forget to push in and the counter I hadn’t wiped down yet. No one there.

But when I looked back at the window, my throat went dry.

She was still there. In the glass. A girl. Hair dark and straight, soaked in shadow. Bare feet. Pale skin. Just standing. Looking at me.

Not through the window— From inside it.

My hands trembled, but I couldn’t look away. There was no scream, no cinematic panic. Just… stillness.

Then, her head tilted slightly. Like a question My breath caught. And something—not sound, not speech— moved through my mind like a thought that wasn’t mine.

“Why… didn’t you leave?”

It wasn’t words. But it had meaning. Intent. Like a feeling wrapped in frost.

I stepped closer to the window. “Because…” I whispered, “you shouldn’t have been left alone in the first place.”

Her eyes didn’t change. Not softer. Not angry. Just… watching. Like she was trying to decide if I meant it.

Then slowly, her hand lifted—barely visible in the darkened reflection—and pressed to the glass. Palm first.

A gentle touch. Tentative. A test.

I stared at it. My pulse thundered. I should’ve walked away. I should’ve run to my room and locked the door and prayed for daylight.

Instead…

I raised my hand and pressed it gently to the glass from my side.

A breathless moment passed. And then, the kitchen lights flickered on again. All of them. Flashing. Sparking. Buzzing.

I yelped, stumbling backward as the bulbs above surged and died in one violent burst, plunging the house into darkness once more.

When I looked back at the window, she was gone. Completely. No trace. No fog. No silhouette. Just my own reflection—wide-eyed, pale, shaken.

I collapsed into the nearest chair, gripping the edge of the table like it was the only real thing in the house. My breath came in sharp pulls, like I’d just escaped drowning.

What the hell had I just seen?

Was I losing it? Or was she trying to reach out?

And if she was… why?

A soft knock broke the silence. Not from the front door. Not from the hallway.

From the living room mirror.

I stood slowly. Unwilling. But my feet moved anyway. Drawn like thread pulled through fabric.

The mirror over the mantle—a tall, ornate thing that came with the house—reflected nothing out of the ordinary. Just the empty couch, the cold fireplace, and me.

But then—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three distinct knocks. From inside the mirror. I took a step closer. The air around it was colder now. As if the glass itself was breathing frost.

And there she was again. This time, not a full body.

Just her face, that delicate neck and collarbone so beautiful my heart stuttered. She was closer as if touching the inside of mirror

Her eyes were softer now. Sad. Lonely. Mouth unmoving, but again, I felt it. A message that wasn’t spoken: “Do you see me?”

I nodded before I could stop myself. “I do.”

The reflection blinked. Her lips parted, trembling. Another wave of thought, like a scream trapped behind silk: “Don’t forget me.”

My chest ached. Before I could answer—before I could say anything—the mirror shattered. No sound. No shards. Just… gone. Like it had never existed at all. Just empty wall behind the mantle.

I staggered back, breath caught in my throat. This wasn’t a haunting. It was a reminder. She wasn’t trying to hurt me. She just didn’t want to be forgotten. And somehow, she chose me to remember.

I sank to the floor, trembling. Not from fear. From the weight of it. She had been here. Once. Alive. Human. With music, and breath, and hope.

And now—just echoes. Reflections. And the desperate need to be seen.

The clock struck midnight.

And I sat there, alone again, staring at where the mirror used to be. Whispering to the empty room: “I won’t forget.”

And deep in the bones of the house, I swear I heard a note on the piano. Soft. Grateful.

Part V – The Wake-Up Call

I woke up gasping.

The sheets twisted around me like ropes, sticky with sweat. My chest heaved and my mind screamed with confusion. Was it a nightmare? A dream? Or… something worse?

The room was too quiet. Too dark.

My heartbeat thudded like a warning drum in my ears.

The smell of cold wood and dust clung to the air, heavier than usual. And that cold… that unnatural chill that always lingered near the locked door at the end of the hall.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, fingers trembling. My eyes darted around the ceiling, the shadows shifting like they had a life of their own.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something that couldn’t be explained by sleep paralysis or nightmares.

Especially that door. The Silent Room.

Earlier today—or maybe it was yesterday—I had been sitting in the small convenience store, Yoon’s Mart, clutching that faded photo of Mina.

The old ahjumma had looked at it as if holding a piece of her own soul. Her voice had dropped, her eyes clouded with memories she’d buried deep.

“No one stayed long in that house,” she said, her hands trembling slightly as she poured barley tea into a chipped cup.

“The room… the Silent Room… it doesn’t just lock out sound. It locks out people’s hearts.”

I had wanted to ask more, but she only shook her head.

“Maybe Mina was the one who stayed. Maybe she was the one the room waited for.”

Her words echoed inside me, heavier than the humid air outside.

Back in the house, the hallway felt colder than usual. The photo still in my pocket, I’d walked past the groceries I’d forgotten to put away, past the dim lightbulbs that flickered every few seconds.

And then I stopped.

The door. I stood in front of it and pressed my palm flat against the cool wood. The silence inside was so deep it roared in my ears. That’s when I thought I heard it. A note. A single, trembling note.

The faintest sound of piano keys—soft, sorrowful, like a voice barely clinging to the edge of hearing.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

“Mina?” I whispered.

The note came again—longer this time. A slow, aching melody. Calling. Waiting.

I wanted to run. But I stayed.

Because maybe… just maybe… she wasn’t alone in there anymore. I didn’t have the answers. Hell, I didn’t even understand the questions.

But something inside me had shifted. I was no longer just a stranger in this house. I was part of the story. And the house wanted me to listen.

Now, awake in the dark, I glanced at the clock by the bedside.

3:17 AM.

Too early to be this haunted. Too early to lose myself to shadows. Yet my eyes wouldn’t close again.

I rolled out of bed, still trembling, and pulled on a hoodie.

I had to know. I had to see if that note—the piano—was real or just a trick of my fraying mind. The air was thick with cold, heavier with each step. The hallway stretched endlessly before me, the door at the end still shut, ominous.

I placed my hand on the door again. This time, the note played louder. Clearer.

Like the keys were pressed just on the other side, but no sound escaped. The house was holding its breath.

I pressed my ear to the wood. Then, with a soft exhale, I put my shoulder against the door and pushed. Locked. Again.

But it wasn’t just a lock—it felt like resistance. Like the house itself was telling me no.

My heart thudded harder.

What was I getting myself into?

I stepped back.

And that’s when I noticed the small glint on the floor near the doorframe. A key. Rusty. Almost invisible beneath layers of dust and grime. I picked it up carefully. A chill ran down my spine.

I slid it into the lock.

It fit. Slowly, reluctantly, I turned the key. The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

A breath escaped my lungs.

Inside was darkness deeper than any shadow I’d ever seen. A room that didn’t just swallow light but time.

I flicked on my phone’s flashlight and stepped inside.

Dust motes danced in the beam, hanging like ghosts in the stale air.

And then I saw it. The piano. Old. Covered in a thick veil of dust. Its keys yellowed, some chipped. But the strings were silent.

Until I heard it. A faint vibration. Like the breath of a forgotten song.

I moved closer. Touched the keys. And the note came again. Soft. Mournful. Like It was Mina’s voice, still trapped in these walls.

I closed my eyes. For a moment, I wasn’t just in the Room.

I was with her.

In a place outside time. Where music and memory tangled. The weight of her loneliness pressed down on me.

I whispered, almost afraid the sound would shatter the fragile moment— “I’m here. I hear you.”

The room responded. Not with sound. But with a warmth. A pulse. A promise.

And I knew, then, I wasn’t alone. That night, the house didn’t feel so empty anymore.

Why was I so drawn to her?

I came here to escape—from the noise, from the weight of everything back home. I wanted quiet mornings, forgettable afternoons, peace so empty it could swallow all the things I didn’t want to face.

But instead, I found her.

A name. A photograph. A room that shouldn’t sing but did.

And now I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Myoui Mina. A woman I’ve never met, whose face was frozen in time, yet somehow breathed in my mind. Why?

Why did the story of her disappearance grip me tighter than it should’ve?

Was it pity? The kind you feel when you hear a tragic tale over coffee and sigh at the unfairness of the world?

Or was it something deeper—something older? A thread that had always been there, tugging silently beneath my skin, waiting for this moment, this house, this melody… to pull.

Why did I want to be her comfort?

Why did the idea of her loneliness ache like it was my own?

I don’t know. But it didn’t feel like chance. It felt like… I’d been found.

Part VI – The Key That Wasn’t There

I managed to sleep—barely.

Not restfully. Not deeply. Just enough to escape for a few hours, if only to let my body recharge while my mind never stopped spinning. The night was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful. Every creak of the floorboard. Every sigh of wind brushing against the old windowpanes. I heard it all. Felt it in my spine.

And still, somehow, I woke up.

But with more questions than I’d ever had before.

Because that door—that damned door—wasn’t supposed to be opened.

The ahjumma said no one ever had. That it was sealed, like the house had swallowed it whole. That people had tried, failed, given up. That the silence behind it had stayed untouched for decades.

Then why... why did I find the key?

It was too specific. Too intentional. It wasn’t hidden under floorboards or tucked behind some obscure drawer. It was in the back of the old piano stool, rusted but waiting. Waiting for someone. For me?

Was I overthinking it?

Maybe. Maybe I was just exhausted. Maybe grief and isolation and all the pent-up anxiety I’d packed in my bags when I left the city was boiling over, warping reality into fantasy.

But it felt real.

So real that I couldn’t just sit here in this suffocating house anymore.

Later that afternoon, I rushed through the sleepy streets and found myself standing outside Yoon’s Mart again, heart racing like I’d just run a marathon. The soft ring of the bell above the door was almost too normal for the storm twisting inside me.

The ahjumma looked up from behind the counter, wiping her hands with a dish towel. Her expression shifted the moment she saw my face—frantic, pale, wide-eyed.

“Oh dear. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Maybe I had. I didn’t even wait for her to offer tea or small talk. “You said no one ever opened the door. Right? You said it couldn’t be. That it was sealed. That no one even heard the piano because it stayed silent.”

She blinked at me, slow and careful, like I was suddenly speaking in riddles. “That’s right. No one ever did. The house didn’t let them.”

“Then what is this?” I pulled the key from my pocket—still cold despite being so close to me all day—and laid it on the counter.

She stared at it like it didn’t belong in this world. Like I didn’t belong in this world. “Where did you get that?”

“It was in the piano stool. In the room with the old upright. Hidden in the back latch. I thought it was nothing at first, just junk. But I tried it. And it—” I swallowed. “It opened the door.”

Her expression didn’t change immediately. But something about the air shifted. Heavier now. Like even the store had started holding its breath.

She leaned down slightly, examining the key as though it would disappear.

Then, finally, she whispered, “That... that shouldn’t be possible.”

“But it happened. I swear to you. I opened the door. And inside—” I hesitated. “It wasn’t what I expected. I don’t even know what I expected. But I heard the music again. And the mirror... it was cold. Fogged, even though there wasn’t any heat. Something was off.”

The ahjumma looked at me like I had just told her time bent backward.

But then, something softened in her face.

Maybe she saw the way my hands trembled. Maybe she heard the desperation in my voice—the raw kind that couldn’t be faked. She gave a quiet sigh and moved toward a shelf near the back, pulling down a small thermos and bowl.

“Come. Sit. You’re shaking.”

She poured a steaming ladle of her handmade soup into a chipped ceramic bowl and set it in front of me. The scent hit me first—something earthy, nostalgic. Like winter nights in a home that no longer existed.

“Eat. You need warmth, whatever this is.”

I didn’t argue. I let the heat of the soup calm the tremble in my fingers as I brought it to my lips.

She sat across from me, folding her hands. “Maybe it was just your imagination, dear. Stress, loneliness. The mind plays tricks when we’re tired, when we want something so badly to mean something. Maybe... it’s just that.”

I nodded slowly, politely. I knew she meant well. But I couldn’t make myself believe it. It wasn’t just in my head. It couldn’t be.

“You said others tried and failed. But what if the house chose who could open it? What if the silence wasn’t rejection—but waiting?”

Her eyes flicked to the key again. And for a flicker of a moment, I saw it—fear. Real, quiet, restrained fear. “Then be careful, son. Because if something was waiting... you need to ask yourself why. And what it wants from you.”

I swallowed the rest of the soup, warmth crawling into my chest, but it couldn’t chase away the chill that still curled in my ribs.

Because that was the problem. I didn’t know what it wanted.

I walked back slower that evening. The sun was setting now, painting the clouds in streaks of blood-orange and rose gold, but I didn’t really see it.

All I could hear was her voice again, like breath in the music. All I could see was the key in my hand and the look in the ahjumma’s eyes—disbelief barely masking dread.

Back at the house, I stood before the door once more. The key was still in my hand. Still cool. Still rusted. Still real.

Why me? Why had I found it? Why did it feel like something ancient and lonely had waited just for me to walk through that door? Was it pity that bound me to this ethereal woman named Myoui Mina? Or something far more dangerous—far more personal?

Maybe I was just a fool, craving connection in the wrong place. Maybe I was a moth, fluttering closer to a flame I didn’t understand.

But even if it was reckless… my heart didn’t feel scared.

It felt called. And that was the scariest part of all.

Part VII – The One Who Waited

I didn’t remember unlocking the door again.

I didn’t even remember setting my shoes aside or climbing the stairs. My hands moved on their own, drawn by something I couldn’t name—an instinct, a thread, a breath.

All I knew was that I returned home, walked into that room, and fell deeper into a kind of horror I didn’t know how to name.

Because this time, she was there. Not in a dream. Not as a sound behind the mirror or a warmth in the dust.

She was there.

Myoui Mina.

Or someone who looked like her.

Someone who moved like her, who breathed as if her lungs still carried the weight of air. Someone whose eyes met mine like they had always been waiting to.

And I froze. Because logic told me she couldn’t be real.

Because the world outside told me Mina was a memory, a tragedy, a forgotten song tied to a sealed room in a creaking house no one wanted to remember.

But none of that mattered. Not when I could see her now. Not when I could feel her.

Her presence was soft but certain, like a slow ripple in still water. She didn’t blink in confusion or smile like a specter. She stood by the piano, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the bench. Waiting.

Her eyes met mine like she already knew my name. Like she’d been watching from the other side of that door long before I ever stepped foot in this place.

And I… I didn’t run. I didn’t scream or question or tear the room apart looking for wires, tricks, illusions. Because none of it mattered. Because I could feel her.

I walked closer, careful, like approaching a deer in the woods. Like one sudden movement would make her vanish into dust and silence again.

“...Who are you?” I whispered, but it wasn’t the question I needed to ask.

Because I already knew who she was. I’d seen her photo. Heard her melody. Read the dust-covered sorrow stitched into this house. The better question—the one clawing at my throat—was why me? Why now?

But she tilted her head, a ghost of a smile curling at her lips. And when she spoke, it wasn’t in riddles or echoes. It was real. Tangible.

“You came back.”

Her voice was light, almost childlike in its awe. She stepped forward, one slow movement at a time, like we were stuck in a world that moved slower than the rest. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

I swallowed. “...I didn’t know I would.”

Silence settled between us. Not awkward. Just full. Like we’d stepped into a conversation that had started long ago and paused only until now.

She glanced toward the mirror behind the piano—now spotless, glowing faintly in the dim light. No fog. No dust. Just clarity.

“I tried to reach you,” she said, “when you were here the first time.”

My heart pounded.

“That was you... in the music?”

She nodded once. “It was all I had. The song… it remembers. Even when the walls forget.”

My throat was dry. “What are you?”

She looked at me for a long time, as if weighing whether the answer would help me—or shatter me.

“I don’t know anymore,” she finally said, voice soft, “but I know I’m not a dream.”

Her fingers reached out then, brushing against mine. Warm. Soft. Solid. Not like mist. Not like memory. Real.

I felt my breath hitch. And suddenly it wasn’t about ghosts or spirits or haunted houses anymore. It was about her. This woman with sad eyes and a voice like a lullaby. This mystery with a presence I couldn’t turn away from.

I didn’t care if logic spat in my face and said I’d gone mad. I didn’t care if tomorrow I woke up and none of this was true. Because right now, she was standing in front of me.

And my soul felt like it recognized her.

“Why me?” I asked again, quieter this time.

She hesitated. Looked down, then back at me. “I don’t know. I just know… the house chose you. Or maybe I did.”

I blinked. “You wanted to see me?”

She gave the faintest smile. “Not see. Know.”

I don’t know what it was, but something in me cracked.

This entire time, I thought I’d come here to escape. To run from life. From pressure. From expectations and chaos.

But here was this woman—this presence—saying she wanted to know me, and something about that broke open a door inside me I didn’t even know existed.

“I don’t understand any of this,” I admitted. “And maybe I’m not supposed to. But when I saw your photo… when I heard your music…”

My voice trembled. “...I wanted to be your comfort.”

Her breath caught. I saw it—just barely—but it was there.

A ripple. A real reaction.

“Was it pity?” I whispered. “Or something else...?”

She stepped closer. And her hand cupped my cheek. Her fingers were trembling.

But they were real. And so was her gaze—melancholy, wonder, and something deeper swimming just below the surface.

“I don’t care what you call it,” she said. “Just don’t leave.”

The words weren’t desperate. They weren’t commands. They were pleas.

A quiet hope wrapped in years of silence and waiting. And for once… I didn’t want to run.

Part VIII – The Ballerina and the Watcher

I don’t know how long we stood there.

The weight of the silence didn’t crush me like it did before. It wrapped around us instead—gentle, reverent. Like the house itself knew not to interrupt.

And maybe I should’ve asked her more questions. Pressed her on what she was. How she was.

But none of it mattered.

Not when she looked like this.

A ballerina.

No—something beyond that.

There was eerie grace in every tilt of her head, in the way her hands floated at her sides like petals on water. The woman in the photo was beautiful, yes—but the photo hadn’t captured this stillness. This living, breathing contradiction of fragility and power.

And in that moment, all I could do was stare.

As if sensing the worship in my gaze, she turned her head, expression soft. Curious.

“Do you want to watch ballet?” she asked, like it was the most natural question in the world.

I nodded before I even registered it, slow and mesmerized. My body answered for me.

She smiled. That same, infuriating, maddening, breathtaking smile.

“Then watch me.”

She stepped back, light as a whisper, and I sat down on the faded chaise without breaking eye contact.

The music started—her music. Somehow the piano played itself. Or perhaps her presence played it. Perhaps the melody lived in the walls, awakened by her.

I didn’t know. And I didn’t care. Because then she moved. Spun. Lifted.

She didn’t dance like the world was watching. She danced like only I was watching. Like she had been waiting all this time for an audience of one.

I barely breathed.

Her arms curved through the air, every motion smooth, measured, deliberate. The grace was unreal—but she was real. Too real. Her feet landed like falling feathers, her body defied gravity, but the air shifted with every step. I could feel her presence stir the dust, command the silence.

She wasn’t just dancing. She was existing. And I watched like a man spellbound by divinity.

“You’re beautiful…” The words fell from my lips before I could stop them.

She didn’t pause or falter. But she smiled, faintly, while twirling, as if she’d heard them perfectly. “You say that like it’s hard to believe.”

“No,” I murmured, “I say it like it hurts to believe.”

She paused at the edge of her turn, light resting on her profile. A portrait of movement frozen in reverence. “Why does it hurt?”

I hesitated. Then told the truth. “Because you’re not supposed to be here. None of this is.”

“But I am here.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

Her eyes softened as she took a step closer. “You fear what you don’t understand?”

“No.” My voice was lower now. “I fear what I’ll never deserve.”

She blinked, surprised. And I immediately regretted saying it. But it was too late. The truth had cracked open. I’d said what had been lodged in my throat since the first time I saw her.

She stood still for a heartbeat. Then walked to me—slow, sure, quiet as moonlight.

When she reached me, she leaned forward slightly. Our faces only inches apart.

“You’re not here by mistake,” she whispered.

I looked into her eyes—those sad, starlit eyes that felt like they’d seen a hundred lifetimes of solitude. And I whispered back. “Then what am I doing here?”

“Seeing me.” Her voice was velvet and silence wrapped together. “When no one else ever could.”

I swallowed hard. “Because they were scared of you?”

She shook her head slowly. “Because they never tried. Impatient. Filled with expectations to see me”

We stared at each other for a moment, something raw and quiet passing between us. Not love. Not yet. But understanding. That aching, dangerous pull that lives between strangers who aren’t strangers anymore.

“Why did you choose me?” I asked, voice cracking slightly.

She looked away, almost shy. “Because you didn’t treat me like a secret.”

The words pierced something soft in me. I stood without thinking. Now we were eye-level. My hand raised slowly—not to touch her, just to exist in the space near her.

And for the first time, she let herself look at me fully. Not as a ghost. Not as a memory. But as a woman.

“You watch me like I’m more than I am,” she said.

I exhaled slowly. “And you move like you’re more than real.”

A silence.bThen a faint laugh slipped from her lips. Not mocking. Just… warm. Like she hadn’t laughed in a long, long time.

“What do I look like to you?”

I didn’t know how to answer. So I didn’t. I just looked. Every inch of her was poetry—the kind of beauty that a man could live a hundred years and still never write properly.

Her presence filled the space with something sacred. And maybe it was worship. Not the kind bound to religion. But the kind that blooms in quiet admiration. In awe.

In the way a man watches a ballerina dancing in a room the world forgot.

Part IX – The Ballerina’s Story

It was after her dance that I finally dared to ask.

The room had quieted again, save for the soft echo of her presence still lingering in the corners. She had returned to her seat on the old velvet stool by the window, her silhouette a living portrait framed by moonlight.

I watched her fingers gently trail along the edge of the cracked wooden sill, her expression unreadable.

I swallowed, hesitant. “Mina… can I ask you something?”

She glanced at me, eyes calm but alert. Like she already knew what I was about to say.

“You want to know what happened to me.”

“I do,” I admitted. “I heard some things. The townsfolk… the ahjumma at the store. They said you were always dancing. Like you were training for something. Something big.”

She smiled faintly, as if the memory tasted distant on her tongue.

“I was.”

“What was it for?”

She looked back out the window.

“A future that never came.”

I felt something sink in my chest.

“They said you came here with your parents. Rich family. Art-lovers. They bought this place for peace. Quiet.”

She nodded slowly.

“They loved nature. Old homes. Silence.” She paused. “And me.”

“They passed early?” I asked gently.

She turned her head, that smile no longer warm. Just soft. Distant.

“Too early. Car accident. I was seventeen.”

I exhaled sharply, guilt crawling in my stomach.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She folded her hands on her lap. “They were kind. And they left me everything. The house. The funds. The dreams.”

“You were going to perform internationally?”

“That was the plan.” She tilted her head. “Paris. Moscow. London. Stages I used to dream about as a child.”

She stood then, walked to the bookshelf in the corner. Ran her fingers along the worn spines of forgotten novels.

“But then…” she trailed off.

I waited. But she didn’t finish.

“You disappeared,” I said quietly.

She faced me again. “I did.”

“Why?”

Another pause.

Then her voice, a whisper: “Because I was forgotten.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer directly.

Instead, she crossed the room and sat across from me, close enough that I could see the faint shimmer in her eyes. She looked so real in that moment. Not a ghost. Not a vision. Just a woman with a story she wasn’t ready to fully tell.

“You ask about what happened to me,” she said softly. “But you never asked why I let you find me.”

I blinked. “You let me?”

She reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over mine. The touch was cool—but solid. Present. Real.

“You came here to escape something,” she whispered. “You think I didn’t notice? The way your hands shake at night? The way your eyes look like they’re always searching for peace?”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

“You think you found me by accident?” Her eyes bore into mine. “No. You came here because you needed to.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Then why won’t you just tell me what happened to you?”

She leaned in slightly. “Because if I told you everything… you might let go.”

That made me freeze.

“What?”

“You’re focusing so hard on my story,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “but you don’t see what I see.”

“And what’s that?” I asked slowly.

She smiled—but it didn’t reach her eyes this time.

“You’re falling.”

My breath caught.

“Falling?”

“Into me.” Her hand was still gently resting atop mine. “And I want you to.”

The room felt suddenly smaller.

More intimate. Or maybe just more honest.

“That’s why you’re being vague,” I said, realization dawning. “You want me to stay… not because of your story. But because of you.”

“Is that so bad?”

Her voice held no manipulation. No malice.

Just truth.

And longing.

I pulled my hand away slightly, not because I didn’t want the contact—but because I needed space to think.

To breathe.

“I don’t know what this is,” I said, quietly.

She looked down at her lap.

“Neither do I.”

“You were… gone for years. No one knew where you went.”

“And yet you found me,” she said softly.

I stared at her, at the curve of her jaw, the quiet ache in her eyes.

“I was supposed to come here for peace. For rest. To be alone.”

“So was I,” she replied.

And that silence fell between us again.

Except now it was heavier. More honest.

I stood, pacing slightly to the other side of the room.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to be haunted by someone like you,” I confessed.

“What if I’m not here to haunt you?”

I turned to look at her. “Then what are you here for?”

She stood slowly, approaching me. No sound. Just presence.

When she reached me, she looked up, and for once there was no mystery in her expression.

Just softness.

“To be seen. To be remembered. To be loved.”

The air seemed to still.

I searched her face for a sign.

A lie. A trick. Some ghostly veil to lift.

But all I found was her. The girl in the photo. The woman who danced alone in a house no one remembered. The soul who had waited for something—someone—to make her more than a memory.

“And you think I’m that someone?” I asked, unsure if I was terrified or honored.

“You already are.”

My heart was hammering.

Not from fear.

But from something far more dangerous.

The beginning of surrender.

Part X – The Beginning of Surrender

That night, I didn’t sleep.

Not from fear. Not anymore.

But from a restlessness I couldn’t name. A presence under my skin, whispering, humming—Mina.

I kept going back to her words, to the way she looked at me.

“You already are.”

I was never meant to stay here long. A few weeks. A month. Just enough time to breathe, write, recover from the chaos of the life I’d been drowning in. But now… time felt slippery here. Days passed without rhythm. The line between dream and waking had thinned.

I couldn’t tell how many nights had passed since I found the key. Since I opened the room that was never supposed to be opened.

I stood in the hallway now, outside that very door. My hand on the knob.

I didn’t knock anymore.

She always knew when I was coming.

And she was always waiting.

The door creaked open.

There she was.

Standing in the middle of the room barefoot, her arms crossed in front of her chest lightly, dressed in a soft cream gown that shimmered like mist. Her long black hair was tied in a low ribbon, swaying gently as she turned to me.

She smiled.

And I was already falling again.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I didn’t sleep,” I admitted.

“Because of me?”

“Because of everything.”

She walked to me without a sound, took my hand like it belonged to her.

“Then let me help you forget.”

I didn’t ask what she meant.

Because I didn’t care.

I let her pull me into the room, the air scented faintly with old wood and dried rose petals. She guided me to sit on the edge of the couch near the fireplace—the one that hadn't been lit in years but still somehow gave warmth.

Then she sat beside me, barely an inch between us.

She didn’t speak at first.

Neither did I.

It was enough that we were here.

After a while, she turned to me.

“Do you believe people can return from pain?”

I looked at her, startled.

“What do you mean?”

“Not physically. Not from injury. I mean… when something invisible breaks inside you.”

I swallowed.

“I think that’s harder than healing anything physical.”

She nodded slowly.

“That’s what I thought too. Until you came.”

My throat tightened.

“Mina…”

She leaned her head on my shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to understand me,” she whispered. “You’re just supposed to feel me.”

And I did.

Everything about her was subtle intensity. A slow burning candle in a pitch-black room. She wasn’t loud. Or demanding. But she was everywhere.

My every thought, every heartbeat.

“I came here to be alone,” I said, not looking at her.

“So did I.”

“And now?”

She paused.

“Now, I don’t want to disappear again.”

“Is that what happened to you? You disappeared?”

She closed her eyes.

“Or maybe the world just stopped seeing me.”

We sat in silence again, her weight warm and real against my side.

I didn’t know what time it was. I didn’t care.

“Are you… real?” I finally asked, the question haunting me every day since that first night.

She pulled back, met my eyes.

“Does it matter?”

I wanted to say yes.

That I needed answers. Clarity. That I couldn’t fall for something if it wasn’t tangible. If it wasn’t grounded in reality.

But I didn’t say anything.

Because the truth was… I was already in too deep.

“You feel real.”

“That’s enough.”

I stared at her.

Her eyes. Her lips. Her existence.

My mind screamed for logic. My body begged for closeness.

“You’re dangerous,” I murmured.

She smiled.

“So are you.”

Then she leaned forward. Gently. Carefully. Giving me space to move back.

I didn’t.

Her forehead touched mine.

And suddenly, the world didn’t matter.

Not the town.

Not the house.

Not the years she’d been missing.

Just her. Just now.

I closed my eyes, breathing her in.

“I don’t know what this is,” I whispered.

“Neither do I.”

“I should walk away.”

“But you won’t.”

I opened my eyes.

She was already looking into me, as if searching for a place to belong.

And she found it.

In me.

“Stay tonight,” she said softly. “Don’t leave this room.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to do anything. Just stay.”

I should’ve said no.

I should’ve run.

But all I did was nod.

And when she took my hand and led me to the floor where she laid out soft blankets and pillows that hadn’t been there before, I let her.

We lay beside each other, not touching, but so close I could hear her breathing.

“Will you be here in the morning?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she whispered:

“Will you?”

Part XI – Where Morning Feels Like a Dream

I woke up with a chill tracing the nape of my neck.

Not from cold.

From breath.

Her breath.

Soft. Measured. Almost deliberate.

I opened my eyes.

She was there.

Lying beside me on her side, her face inches from mine, eyes wide open, watching me.

And smiling.

Not in the way lovers smile. Not warm, not teasing. It was… reverent. Curious. As if she’d been watching me sleep for hours, memorizing the subtle twitches in my face. The rise and fall of my chest.

“You don’t snore,” she whispered.

My voice cracked when I tried to respond.

“Were you watching me all night?”

She blinked. Once. Slowly.

“I didn’t want to miss a single second of you being real.”

Something about that should’ve terrified me.

Instead, it sent goosebumps crawling down my arms.

She sat up, gracefully, her hair a cascade of night. The light was soft this morning, seeping in through drawn curtains like milk through water. She was barely glowing in it. Still unreal. Still ethereal.

Still Mina.

She stretched, her back arched, eyes closed in serenity. Her bare feet slid against the wooden floor with no sound.

I sat up slowly.

The room smelled different.

Like crushed lavender and candle wax. Not from the night before.

Like it had been… tended to while I slept.

“Did you leave?” I asked.

“Only for a moment,” she said, already twirling slowly in the space between us. Her gown fluttered around her like mist.

“Where did you go?”

She stopped mid-spin.

“To make tea.”

I hadn’t heard a kettle. No clinking. Nothing.

She turned back to me, tilting her head.

“I wanted your first morning here to feel like a dream.”

I swallowed.

“It already does.”

She smiled wider at that.

I noticed something then—subtle but sharp.

Her hands.

Red along the edges. Faint marks.

As if pressed too long into something solid. Like she'd gripped a railing too hard. Or pulled herself from somewhere heavy.

I didn’t ask.

I didn’t want to break whatever spell this was.

She stepped closer, barefoot and silent.

“You stayed.”

“You asked me to.”

“Most don’t.”

That stopped me.

“What do you mean… ‘most’?”

She just looked at me.

And then leaned down, her face a breath away from mine again.

“Don’t ask questions you aren’t ready to understand.”

The room pulsed with quiet. A tension, not threatening but… electric. Every second that passed with her near felt like temptation personified. Not lust. Not desire. Something deeper. Like if I said the wrong thing, she’d disappear forever. Or worse—never leave.

She sat beside me again, brushing hair behind her ear.

“You asked me once if I was real.”

“I remember.”

“You never asked if you were.”

I froze.

“What are you trying to say?”

She tilted her head again, watching me with that impossible calm.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just something I dreamed up when I got too lonely.”

My heart stuttered.

“But I found the key. I came here. I—”

She placed a finger over my lips.

“Shh.”

Silence pressed in. Only the sound of the wind tapping gently against the old windows. No birds. No traffic. No time.

She whispered, as if confessing to herself:

“I used to dance every morning. Even after they were gone. Even when the curtains stayed closed and the floorboards creaked like ghosts. I danced until I forgot what silence meant.”

She looked at me, eyes glassy.

“And then one day… I stopped. And the world stopped with me.”

I reached for her hand.

It was cold.

But not dead.

Not lifeless.

Just… waiting for warmth.

“I’m here now,” I said softly.

She smiled at that. A real smile this time.

Soft. Fragile.

“Then don’t be in a rush to wake up.”

And for once, I wasn’t.

Part XII – If I Am Dead, Tell Me When

There was a point where my mind stopped asking questions.

Not because I had the answers.

But because I was afraid of what they might be.

That morning, as Mina’s fingers gently traced the rim of a porcelain teacup, I sat across from her… breathing, blinking, pretending everything was fine.

But deep down, something kept whispering to me.

What if I’m not alive?

What if this—this house, this silence, this hauntingly beautiful woman—isn’t a dream at all… but the end?

I didn’t remember dying. But how could you? Wouldn’t death feel like sleep if you weren’t looking?

Had I crashed on the road coming here? Slipped in the woods and hit my head? Never made it past the threshold of the house?

Is that why I could see her?

Because I’d crossed some invisible line between memory and spirit?

I watched her lips move as she spoke softly about tea leaves and dreams, but I wasn’t hearing the words anymore. I was stuck.

Inside my own mind.

“You’re quiet,” she said, tilting her head with that eerie elegance.

“Just thinking,” I answered, managing a tight smile.

“That sounds dangerous,” she teased, and smiled. “Don’t get lost in that mind of yours. You’ll forget how to return.”

Her words hit too close.

Too precisely.

Was that a warning?

Was this all some trick my brain was playing on me—a hallucination? Some elaborate mental theater born from loneliness and grief? The photo. The ahjumma’s stories. The locked door. The aura of this house. The silence.

Had I conjured her out of a desperate need to be held by something that wouldn’t abandon me?

Was I so broken that I gave that need a face?

Her face?

I gripped the teacup harder.

It was warm. Real.

But dreams felt real too. And so did death, I imagined.

I looked at her again. Her features flawless, symmetrical, too soft for reality. Like an oil painting that stepped down from the canvas to whisper your name.

“Mina.”

She looked up, her eyes catching the gold streaks of morning light.

“Yes?”

“Are you… real?”

She didn’t react with offense or confusion. Instead, she placed the teacup down gently, and stood up with the grace of moonlight itself.

Then she came to me.

And sat down beside me.

Her fingers touched my jaw, and turned my face toward hers.

“If I wasn’t, would it change the way you feel about me?”

I swallowed.

She leaned closer.

“You want answers. But you never ask yourself the right question.”

“And what is that?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Why does it matter?”

That stopped me.

“Because I need to know what’s happening to me.”

“You’re falling in love,” she said plainly, almost sadly.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

I stared into her eyes. There were galaxies in them. Pain. Centuries of longing. And something else… a strange reflection of me.

Was she even capable of lying?

Or was this my mind’s way of dressing up the truth in a gown?

I stood up, pacing slightly.

“What if I’m dead, Mina?” I asked, voice rising just enough. “What if that’s why I can see you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Tell me—when did I die? Was it the moment I walked into this house? Was it before? Did I just imagine everything after that?”

Still, she said nothing.

I turned to her.

“Or worse… What if you’re the one who’s dead? What if I’m losing my mind and you’re just a story I wanted to save so badly, I made you real?”

Silence.

Mina rose slowly.

And walked toward me.

She didn’t touch me.

Not this time.

She just stood in front of me. Close. Still.

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes every difference.”

“Then tell me,” she said, voice trembling now. “If I’m just a story, why do I remember your touch? Why does my heart race when you look at me like that?”

I stared.

She took a step closer.

“Why do I feel jealous of the world you left behind? Why do I fear the moment you’ll leave me too?”

I reached for her hand.

It wasn’t cold this time.

It was trembling.

Just like mine.

Our fingers interlaced.

And something in me cracked.

Maybe I was alive. Maybe I was not.

Maybe she was a ghost.

Maybe I was.

But standing there, holding her… I didn’t care.

Because she felt.

Because I felt.

And that had to mean something.

She rested her forehead against mine, eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t ask me if I’m real,” she whispered. “Ask yourself why you don’t want to leave.”

And I knew, at last, what terrified me the most.

It wasn’t the mystery.

It wasn’t death.

It wasn’t even the idea that she was a hallucination born of grief and obsession.

It was that none of it mattered anymore.

I didn’t want to wake up.

Because this haunting… was the only thing that had ever made me feel seen.

Part XIII – The One Who Watched Me Dance

That evening, the house was quieter than usual.

No wind.

No creaking.

No shadows dancing at the edges of my sight.

Only her.

Mina.

Standing by the old record player, her fingers ghosting over its surface, as if recalling songs she hadn’t heard in decades.

I sat on the worn velvet chair, staring.

Still unsure what realm I was in, still unsure if the ground beneath me was real or if my own longing had pulled me into a dream I never wanted to wake up from.

But then, she turned.

And the moment our eyes met, I felt it again.

That stillness.

That ache.

She walked toward me slowly, not like a ghost, but like someone burdened with something heavy… a truth maybe.

She stopped a step away.

“I never imagined I would be seen again.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

She smiled, faint and weary.

“But you saw me.”

I frowned.

“I didn’t know you. Not really.”

She shook her head gently.

“No. You didn’t. But you wanted to.”

Mina sat down on the armrest beside me, her fingers brushing through my hair with a touch too real for fiction.

“You didn’t fall for the woman in the photo. Not truly.”

I looked at her.

“Then what did I fall for?”

She leaned in, her voice the softest it had ever been.

“The story. The idea. The silent ballerina no one ever waited for. The girl who danced for no one. The girl who was left behind… until you.”

A lump built in my throat.

She took a breath—deep and shaking.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited to be remembered? Not found, not pitied—but remembered. Wished for.”

She looked at me now. Not like a mystery. Not like a ghost. But as a woman with heart and ache.

“I felt it. The moment you stepped into this house. I felt your longing. Like it was calling out to me through the floorboards, through the cracked wallpaper and dust.”

“Mina…”

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” she admitted. “A spirit? A memory? A thought you made real?”

She looked down.

“But I know what you are.”

I blinked slowly.

“What?”

She pressed a hand against my chest, over my heart.

“You’re the one who didn’t need a reason to love me.”

Silence fell.

She was trembling now.

“You didn’t need my voice. You didn’t need my presence. You didn’t even need a full story. Just… a glimpse. A whisper. A photograph. And still… something inside you decided—‘I’ll stay. I’ll wait. I’ll watch.’”

My throat burned.

She smiled sadly.

“There’s something so pure about that.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“No one waited for me. Not when the applause stopped. Not when my parents passed. Not when I danced until my feet bled in this house with no one to hear. They all forgot.”

She paused.

“But you—a stranger who never knew me—you stayed.”

She lowered her forehead to my shoulder now.

“And I don’t know if this is heaven or some cruel dream. But for the first time… I’m not alone.”

I wrapped my arms around her.

Not gently.

Not carefully.

But desperately.

As if holding her could stop time.

As if gripping her tightly enough would keep the truth from unraveling again.

“I didn’t know you,” I whispered against her hair. “But I knew that I wanted to.”

She looked up at me then, eyes shimmering with pain and something deeper.

Hope.

“Even if I was just a picture?”

“Even then.”

“Even if you only heard of me through stories?”

“Even then.”

“Even if I was never real?”

I cupped her face.

“Especially then.”

She smiled.

And I swear—for a moment—I saw her glow.

Like her body was lit from the inside by something no physics could explain.

A dancer’s soul reignited by love.

By longing.

By someone who simply wanted to watch her dance, even if it meant staying forever in a room where time no longer mattered.

She stood now, wordless.

And stepped into the center of the room.

The floor creaked gently as she took position.

No music played.

No applause waited.

But she began to move.

To dance.

And I—rooted to my chair—watched.

Because that’s what I came here for, didn’t I?

Not to be healed.

Not to find peace.

But to find her.

To witness something the world had forgotten.

And never let it be forgotten again.

Even if it took me a lifetime.

Even if it cost me one.

Part XIV – In the Grasp of Her Dance

Time blurred into something abstract—not measured in hours or days but in dances, kisses, and glances exchanged under dim light. I don’t remember when it started.

But she was always there. Mina. With that same ballerina grace. That same smile laced with secrets. That same voice that melted through silence like candle wax.

Every day, we danced. She showed me how to move like her, how to bend and twirl and fall into her rhythm. We laughed—sometimes so hard that it echoed through the hollow walls, as if the house itself had begun to breathe with us.

And in between, there were kisses. Gentle at first. Then deeper. Hungrier. Passionate in a way that felt sacred.

Her skin against mine felt like silk soaked in moonlight. Her voice, a lullaby and a curse. Love turned into something else. Something more. Something I couldn't name.

We danced until the floor creaked under our feet like it wanted to cry out. We kissed until the windows fogged, as if the house was too shy to witness our hunger. We touched each other like we were the only things left in a world that had forgotten everyone else.

But as the days passed, a slow, creeping fear began to slither under the surface of our paradise. Sometimes I would turn around, and she wouldn’t be there. Not vanished. Just... gone. Like she was never in the room at all. I’d call her name. No answer.

But then she would reappear behind me, smile softly and kiss me like nothing had changed. "You disappeared," I would say, breath shaky.

"Did I?" she would reply, serene.

"You're real, right?"

"I'm neither real nor unreal," she would whisper, lips brushing my ear. "I am what you need me to be."

There was something frightening about that. But I didn’t run. Because how could I run from something that felt this divine?

Mina became... more. Not just a woman. A presence. A force that wrapped around me. She became my routine, my oxygen, my reason to wake up and close my eyes. She began to ask me strange things. 

"Would you follow me anywhere?" she asked one night, body pressed against mine, skin cold and fire at once.

"Would you let the world go?"

"Would you give up your name, your life, your memories—just to stay with me?"

Her words were sweet and terrifying. The kind of horror that seduces you while slowly swallowing your soul. And the worst part? I said yes. Every time. Without hesitation.

I didn’t know how long it’d been since I left the house. A week? A month? I only went out for food when I had to.

The city outside had become something foreign. People didn’t greet me anymore. Some didn’t even seem to notice me. As if I had become invisible. A shade walking among the living. But it didn’t matter.

Because she was there. Always waiting when I came back, standing barefoot in the hallway, smiling like she knew I’d never truly leave.

"They can’t see you now," she whispered once. "You're already mine."

I laughed it off at the time. But later that night, as I stared at the mirror and saw something pale and unfamiliar staring back, I wasn’t so sure.

Was I still me? Was I ever? Maybe the Silent Room had taken me in the same way it took her. Maybe I had been absorbed, swallowed into its floorboards, its memories.

Maybe Mina had me in her grasp. A ghost bride in an eternal pirouette. A curse. But to me? It wasn’t a curse. It was heaven.

She would cling to me in the middle of the night, whispering secrets in my ear I didn’t understand.

She would trace her fingers over my spine and say: "You feel like a man still holding onto something."

"Let it go. Let it die."

Her words were like silk wrapping tighter around my throat, and I didn’t resist.

Because what is life without love? What is sanity without someone to lose it for?

We danced in the dead of night. With no music. Just the sound of our heartbeats. Sometimes I would see her eyes glow faintly in the dark, and I would pretend not to notice. Sometimes she would hum a tune that I was sure hadn’t existed in decades, and I would hum along, pretending I knew it.

One night, mid-dance, she stopped and pressed her forehead to mine. "You’re mine now."

"Yes," I breathed.

"Even if I’m not real?"

"Especially then."

She kissed me then. And it was the kind of kiss that didn't belong in reality. The kind that unmade the walls around me. The kind that erased every voice but hers.

I forgot what my old life was. I couldn’t remember the last time I held my phone. My job, my bills, my name—all distant echoes in a theater where only she performed. And I applauded her. Over and over.

Because even if this was a hallucination, even if I had lost my mind completely, I wanted to remain in this madness. In her arms. In her world.

The lines between dream and waking were already dust. What mattered was that I could feel her. Touch her. Love her.

Even if she was bliss or malice. Even if I was no longer in the world I came from. Even if I was no longer me. Because she was everything.

And she had me. In her dance. In her grasp.

Forever.

[cool-and-grizzled]

Lance throws his keys into the bowl in the entryway as he steps inside, and shucks off his shoes, in his usual messy way that Keith will complain about later.

"Babe, I'm home!" He calls out as he shrugs off his coat.

There's no answer as he walks to the kitchen to put away the groceries, and he can't even hear Keith puttering around upstairs either. That's unusual, he's usually home by the time Lance gets back from his last class, especially when he does a quick grocery run after he's finished.

"Keith?" He asks, walking into the living room to look for him.

He smiles when he spots his boyfriend passed out on the couch, his right hand hanging off the edge, fingers buried in Kosmo's fur, who's snoring like a tractor engine at the foot of the couch. Keith's face is smushed against the pillows, his bun messy at the top of his head, the shorter strands that escaped from it hanging into his eyes and snaking down his neck.

He looks so much younger like this, with the frown lines on his forehead smoothed out in his sleep. Lance sits down on the arm of the couch, and just watches him.

It's a rare sight, Keith sleeping, to him -- usually Keith is the one to fall asleep later and wake up first. He can take in the calm expression on his face, the crinkles in the corner of his eye from all the smiling still visible. His smiles are less rare, nowadays, but no less radiant and it still has the same devastating effect on Lance as it did when they were younger.

He gently brushes away the strand of hair that fell into his eye, careful not to wake him. As much as he used to tease Keith about his hair, he grow fond of the long haired look on him, loves running his hands through the silky locks, washing it for Keith because he knows no matter how much he'd harped on him about it, Keith wouldn't take proper care of it -- at least like this, it works in both of their favors, but mostly Lance's. He loves playing with it as they cuddle on the couch, watching a show or a movie on the TV during lazy nights in. Loves burying his fingers in it as he kisses Keith, as Keith takes him apart from the inside out.

He traces the purple mark on his cheek with a featherlight touch, a reminder both of his heritage and the fight with the clone of Shiro. He used to catch Keith staring at it with a frown, touching it with hesitant hands, his eyes sad. Lance did his best to soothe the pain of the memory associated with it, tracing and kissing it with all his affection.

He gets up from the arm of the couch, and steps away to pull a blanket over him, letting him sleep a little longer. His last mission has been exhausting, and even after two days back home the purple bags under his eyes barely lessened. He leans down to press a kiss to the small mole at his hairline, and he ruffles the fur between Kosmo's ears before walking back to the kitchen to put away the groceries.

Not even five minutes later, as he's putting the things into the cupboard over the counter, he hears the shuffling of socked feet on the kitchen tiles. Before he knows it, he's swallowed from the back by a blanket, Keith's arms trapping his against his torso. He feels Keith bury his face in his back, leaning his weight against Lance. A Keith still half asleep is a clingy Keith, and Lance will enjoy every moment of it.

"Hi there, sleepyhead."

"You're late," Keith mumbles into his shirt, his hold tightening on him.

Lance chuckles, and turns around to face his boyfriend. "I had to get some groceries."

"Fuck the groceries."

"You wouldn't have had enough of that sugary abomination you call breakfast for tomorrow if I hadn't gone."

Keith frowns at him. "Okay, first of all, strawberry pop tarts aren't abominations. Second, I could've eaten something else."

"And you would've been grumpy all morning because you didn't get your sugar shock first thing in the morning," Lance says, pressing a quick kiss on the tip of Keith's nose.

Keith scrunches his nose, as he always does when Lance does this, and he's so cute like this, Lance can't help but kiss him properly.

[psformybss]

hey loved the last one x

have a request for hidden vows

there is an interview the outerbanks cast did called scene stealerd where they react to fans doing stuff related to the show. I have an idea. what if the whole cast is reacting together and a clip of yn comes up. the producers of the channel asked her to submit a clip. the clip is a complication of her reenacting a couple of rafe scenes like:

the scene where he says, "I think we should kill them all" to ward

season 2 episode 10 scene where John b and rafe are in the red boiler engine room and he says " watch your head man" and the rest of the script

the scene where wheezie gives rafe money cause Ward kicked him out in season one, and she tells him about how ward is taking sarah to the Bahamas and he is like " I know about a billion more things about business them she does........"

lastly the season 2 scene where rafe and ward and talking how he shot her and he's like "I think I shot her. I was trying to shoot John b but she got in the way. i think I shot her but I don't care that i did".

in all of these yn is like impersonating rafe as kinda sassy and it's super funny. the cast cracks up and drew is all laughing and shaking his head

Scene Stealer

series masterlist

warnings: chaos energy, actor impersonation, unexpected talent, too much laughter

an: hiii, im so glad you loved them! this idea was so fun to write, there’s a slight chance i didn’t get all of the dialogue from the scenes right cause i mostly went from memory so if i didn’t pretend that’s the dialogue that’s actually on the show

════════════════

By the time the cast of Outer Banks piled onto the main couch, the room was buzzing.

They’d spent the past hour reacting to fan-made recreations—laughing, cringing, occasionally questioning their own performances when someone on TikTok out-acted them in a wig and a hoodie. Now, all seven of them were crammed together in front of the biggest screen yet, still breathless from too much laughter and too many inside jokes.

Madison, Chase, and Carlacia had melted into one tangled heap on one side of the couch, knees knocking and shoulders bumping as they fought for space. Madelyn and Rudy flanked the other end, the latter already half on the floor. JD had somehow wedged himself between them, sliding slowly toward the edge like gravity had given up. Drew sat slightly off-center, posture suspiciously straight—legs stretched out, forearms braced on his thighs, water bottle dangling loose in one hand.

He didn’t say anything.

Which, of course, made everyone suspicious.

“You’re suspiciously quiet, Starkey,” Madison noted, squinting at him.

Drew just eyed the monitor like it might bite him. “I know that face,” he said, nodding toward the producer behind the camera. “That’s the chaos face.”

The producer didn’t even try to deny it. Just smiled and said, “For this last video, we reached out to someone special. Someone who knows the show… intimately.”

Rudy gasped. “It’s your mom.”

“Worse,” Carlacia grinned. “It’s gotta be Y/N.”

Drew blinked. Once. Slowly. “Oh no.”

Chase pointed at the screen, already gleeful. “Roll it. Roll it now.”

_______

The screen faded in from black.

A familiar kitchen appeared, fridge slightly ajar, dishwasher humming faintly in the background. Y/N stood barefoot in the center, hair tossed into a chaotic bun, backwards cap tugged low, one of Drew’s hoodies nearly swallowing her whole.

She paced slowly across the tile. Calm. Deliberate. Head tilted just so.

And then, in a voice so casual it bordered on cheerful:

“I think we should kill them all.”

She stopped. Blank-faced. Still. Like she was talking about grocery lists instead of murder.

_______

The room detonated.

“NO—NO, WHY IS SHE SO CASUAL?!” Carlacia shrieked.

Rudy kicked the coffee table, rolling backward onto the floor. “SHE’S GOT THE HEAD TILT. That’s the tilt!”

Madelyn was pointing at the screen like it had personally offended her. “She looks exactly like him—why does she look like him?!”

Drew sat back slowly, squinting in disbelief. “That’s… that’s literally what I did.”

“She studied you like a nature documentary,” Madison howled. “You’re done.”

_______

Y/N crouched behind the backyard grill, wielding a rake like a weapon. She charged out of frame full-speed and slammed it into the wooden trellis with a crack that made half the cast jump.

She leaned into camera view, breathless, feral-eyed.

“Watch your head, man.”

_______

JD clutched the armrest like it was a seatbelt. “SHE BROKE THE TRELLIS FOR THE BIT?!”

“She’s gonna invoice you,” Chase wheezed.

Rudy was flat on his back, one hand in the air. “I’m ascending. Goodbye.”

Drew dropped his head into his hands, wheezing through laughter. “She told me she was out watering tomatoes that day.”

“Lies,” Carlacia declared. “She was watering vengeance.”

_______

The next clip was in their living room, Y/N perched at the edge of the couch, fisting crumpled cash, eyes wide. She stood abruptly, raked a hand through her hair, and spun in a tight frustrated circle.

“I know about a billion more things about business than she does!”

She kicked over a throw pillow.

“What is… what is this?!”

She threw her arms toward the ceiling like it had answers.

From off-screen—clearly pulled from the show—a voice cut in:

“We’re the black sheep. Get used to it, Rafe.”

Y/N froze. Turned. Looked betrayed. Then face-planted onto the couch with a dramatic groan, limbs dead-weight.

_______

“She’s got your rage pacing,” Madison whispered, eyes wide. “Like frame-for-frame.”

“She’s better at being Rafe than you,” JD said, pointing straight at Drew.

Drew scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “She didn’t even tell me she was filming this.”

“She didn’t need to,” Carlacia said. “It’s in her blood.”

_______

For the final scene the bathroom lighting was dim, Y/N sat on the edge of the tub, robe slipping off one shoulder, eyeliner smudged just enough to scream emotional turmoil. A bead of water trailed down her temple.

Her voice cracked.

“I hit her.”

Ward’s voice echoed, clipped from the show:

“What?”

Y/N turned to the camera, face blank.

“But I don’t care that I did.”

A beat.

“That’s your sister.”

She shrugged—one-shoulder, unbothered—and reached for something on the counter.

A juice box.

She punctured the straw with deadly precision and took the loudest sip any of them had ever heard.

_______

Madelyn collapsed sideways into Madison’s lap. “NOOOO.”

“THE JUICE BOX?!” Rudy shrieked from the floor.

“WHERE DID SHE EVEN GET THAT?!” Carlacia howled.

“This is Oscar-worthy,” JD yelled. “THE DRAMA. THE DETAILS!”

Drew just stared at the screen—mouth parted, eyebrows raised, laugh caught somewhere in his chest. And then it came.

A real, full-body laugh. The kind that forced him forward, face flushed, eyes shining. He looked stunned. Wrecked. In awe.

“She’s insane,” he said finally, wiping his face. “And I love her so much it’s actually terrifying.”

“She won the whole thing,” Madison grinned. “No one’s topping that.”

“She is Rafe now,” JD declared solemnly.

Drew gave a helpless shrug, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess I’m out of a job.”

The screen faded to black.

The cast was still breathless, collapsed into each other, half-sobbing from laughter.

And Drew?

He just shook his head, the grin still stuck on his face like it had no intention of leaving.

“She’s gonna love this,” he muttered, already imagining her face when she watched this footage. Already planning the popcorn. Already bracing for round two.

Because if anyone was about to be dragged into another parody?

Yeah. It was definitely him.

[catfern]

─ restless dreams.

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader (?)

music: a world of madness - akira yamaoka

word count: 2.3k

summary: you're dead. with how ellie's been coping, she might as well be. that is, until she sees you, or rather, a woman with your face.

WARNINGS: heavy discussions of grief, illness, death. implied hallucinatory sequences, general themes associated with silent hill 2. smut, oral (r!receiving).

cat says ⎯ were ya'll waiting for pyramid head to show up?

if i could be … her.

but i’m not her

and she’s not me.

and you’re somewhere different.

on a different planet.

cold.

the merciless descent of winter had done nothing but bury ellie in a fog. a blur of forgetfulness, of numb reaction.

everyone had told her it would become easier. the festering pain in her joints would fade, the endless congestion in her head, like a dragnet of her slowed thoughts, would release.

“grief is just one of those things that you have to learn to live with.”

ellie wasn’t sure if she was learning. if she knew what that even felt like. what was it, to learn to love an absence? a gaping chasm, in one’s soul?

plagued. the sweetness of your voice lingered like stubborn molasses in her ears, a ghosting touch, nails scratching at her scalp, she could feel it. at least, for a few fleeting moments. in the sticky dark of her bedroom, memories of you clung to her back.

the pavement, slick with thin ice and dirty snow, echoed the song of her footsteps in the empty streets. she needed milk. a sick darkness had descended on the small space of her apartment, and her fridge stunk of something sour.

the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in the bitter wind. she hadn’t been sleeping.

she had thought, maybe, the chill in the air would help her. that the light would snap her from this daze, bring her to see this delusional miasma for what it was. but the wet sun, shrouded in grey, granted no such reprieve. she still saw you everywhere.

the shine of the linoleum tile seemed blinding in artificial light. ellie squinted in the change, her skin dry, pale and discoloured from weeks inside. 

she can feel the clerk’s gaze burning her through her clothes. she shakes the dusting of snowfall off her shoulders, and sees the tracks of mud she’s pulled in from outside. oh.

she scrapes the soles of her sneakers along the peeling grout of the tile, and shuffles her way along the aisles. the rows of fridge doors buzz in the dim silence of the store, there’s something metallic in the air.  

it was a dying habit, beelining for the skim milk. something you had put her on to, with your endless buzzing about dairy. it was comforting, following a path well-trodden through the small grocer, one she had so often taken when she had a softness to return to. her footsteps fell, heavy and loud and ringing her ears, empty.

ellie grunts a hoarse ‘excuse me’ to the woman standing in front of the milk fridge. she wasn’t grabbing anything, just standing … watching the milk as if waiting for it to move. so, ellie figured it was okay to push past. the woman moved back without a word.

the jug felt cool, and almost anchored, beneath ellie’s fingertips. something to latch on to, tangible in this maze of wretched passing time.

“sorry! i didn’t see you there.”

ellie bit so hard into her cheek it drew blood. warm, foreign in her mouth, an iron taste.

your voice was not an uncommon ringing in her ears, in these hellish pastimes. the open world teased her, so often she heard you in a gentle ripple of water, the humming engine of a passing car. but this …

it was you. ripped from fresh fucking dirt.

well, ellie wasn’t sure. a ghost in the corner store was not something she was eager to find, if that’s what this woman was. what you were. she could feel her hand twitching in her jacket pocket, an obsessive itch to reach out, to feel the tangible, the absent real.

your name slips past her lips like a familiar groove in her tongue, and the woman laughs. it’s deeper than yours, jilted, not sweet.

“are you confusing me with someone else?” she asks. no, no, she can’t be. it’s your face, every mapped detail from the haze of her dreams, ripped from your coffin and supplanted here. on this body, obscure.

it could be a mask. ellie could dig her fingernails under your pretty, unblemished skin and tear it off this creature, this … offence. would you bleed the same?

“i-“ the milk jug suddenly felt too cold, burning into the skin of her palm. she hesitated, joints locked, body aching. whatever frantic obscenities ellie had wanted to hurl at her, at you, for the affront of your very existence, dripped back down her throat, made her choke.

the woman tilts her head in anticipation. you don’t do that, you didn’t do that.

it’s not you.

“ellie? you told me you weren’t coming today.”

she can still hear the wheezing undercurrent in your voice, a haunting possession of the brilliance in your body. you weren’t meant to exist somewhere so … clinical.

“i .. wanted to see you.”

your hand ghosts her cheek, the prickling of neglected texture along the bone. she refused to touch you. not like this.

ellie’s breath comes heavy in the heady air of her apartment. she can smell the stale rot in the walls, consuming her with every struggling heave of her lungs.

she had left the fridge door open when she left, the flickering cold light leaving a staggering crack along the darkness. she slumps against the wall of her kitchenette, pressing her hands into her muddy hair, as if trying to hold herself together at the seams.

she was going crazy, wasn’t she?

you’re haunting her. ellie supposes that she knew you would. a spectre, a shadow tethered to her feet. she had hoped, she could push past it, cradle your tenderness close to her heart, lock away the rest. naive.

she had become too complacent with the shell of you that malady had created. she’d forgotten how angry you could get. even from beyond the veil of death.

but it wasn’t you. no, no, ellie reminds herself. that … woman, was a coincidence. a trick of the flickering, sickening lights. her grief had muddled her mind, made her see things that weren’t there.

maybe she so desperately wanted to see you. deep within the dairy aisle. maybe, she no longer had the strength to turn away from you, like she once had. maybe, she just craves something you can no longer provide.

three raps knock the wood of her door, and ellie shakes. visceral.

she doesn’t remember answering, but the threshold was there, her hand warming the cool bronze of her doorknob.

this was just cruel.

“oh! it’s you again!” her smile is a wicked caricature, something hollow. snow sits in her hair, and ellie is blighted with your warmth, ghostly in this empty winter. “sorry, my phone’s dead. i’ve been asking around, is everyone on vacation? you’re the only one that answered the door.”

“wh - what?” ellie couldn’t listen. 

you had broken your nose, as a child, a detail never lost on her in the intimacy of your nights together. she would trace her fingers over the bump the accident left, the irreverent flaws that endeared her, magnetised ellie to your person.

she studied this woman, her … perfections. the faultless slope of the bridge of her nose.

so … she was different? this wasn’t you. ellie wasn’t sure if the constant reminder was her anchor or her chain.

“can i use your landline?”

the question was simple, and ellie ached to oblige. invite her in.

“uh, sure.” it was a hoarse, quiet agreement. she shuffles to the side, carves a path for the stranger, who smiles at her sweetly, tight-lipped, in thanks.

her perfume was different. heavier, something darker. red fruit and earth. it caught in ellie’s nose, unwelcome. your name is a phantom on the dry ridges of her lips, and the woman snickers, the fur collar of her snow-dusted coat ruffling as she turns to meet ellie’s foggy gaze. the glory of what was once your gaze, now shared, was lost on this cheap copy.

“you keep calling me that. what, do i look like your girlfriend?”

ellie chokes on something that is not there.

“n-no, my late wife.” ellie could feel her gravity changing, re-centring. she crosses the floor slowly, listening to every creak of the old floorboards. reverent steps. “you … you could be her twin.”

she laughs, distant and deep, like a joke. like she couldn’t see the lines of desperation, of reaching hope that haunt the withering skin of ellie’s face. couldn’t she see? was she not aware of her own part she played in ellie’s torment?

or was she seperate from it all? was she simply passing through, a tourist in this purgatory?

the woman hangs up the receiver of the phone, having never called anyone. her eyes splay pity on this platter between them.

“i don’t look like a .. ghost, do i?” the teasing lilt in her voice was familiar. it was yours. she purses her lips. “maybe i shouldn’t have come. you’re clearly going through something.”

ellie’s hand darts out to ground itself on her skin, pressing into the bone of her wrist, the base of her body.

“ellie.”

she shook the molasses of your voice from her ears, pressed her eyes shut in beseeching of something free.

“please.” her voice was barely there, small in her throat, but enough to hear in the absence of wherever this was. wherever she has ended up. “you have to tell me who you are, if you’re real.”

the woman pouts, the way you did when you wanted something. her touch is soft, leading, like yours was, as it slips from ellie’s rusting grip and falls back, unceremoniously, onto the leather armchair in the living room. plumes of dust greeted her, only added to the stench in the air, the musk of unforgiving.

“it doesn’t matter who i am.” she says, and ellie almost stumbles after her, her knees aching as she falls, devout, ready to worship, if only this spectre gave her answers. “i know what grief’s like. and … i’m here for you.”

ellie breathes unsteadily, her hands shaking, cool sweat dripping down her back. the woman reaches out in the growing silence between them. her nails were bumpy, bitten down to the quick, covered poorly in thin, pink nail polish, as they scratch gently along ellie’s cheek.

“see? i’m real.”

an illness lined ellie’s stomach. wanton belief … this was real. there was a simplicity in this, in the dream that you had come back to her, after all. flesh warm and alive beneath her fingers, untainted.

“don’t you want to touch me?”

the image of you, of her, bleeds in ellie’s brain. you were asking with a sweetness you knew she could never ignore. temptation rots the soul, but hers had died with you. in your final breath, you had clawed it out of her.

there’s a certain cruelty to her touch, the way ellie splays her decay of passion upon this blank body. control is lost to her here, although a mirage of it echoes in her grip on your thigh, her nails ripping into the stranger’s skin, hoping to study whatever is beneath.

“please, please…” ellie’s voice is soft, chasing a dead docility up the woman’s inner thigh, her tongue pulling a cotton trail into familiar warmth. “i’m sorry…”

your head falls back against the edge of the armchair, soft, sweet whines dripping from the woman’s lips like honey, ellie’s nose pressing into the silk of your cunt, her tongue dazed and ever desperate to taste you. to feel you like you once were, broken, made whole again in the creeping twilight of an oncoming snowstorm.

a low rumble pulls through both of you, her lips a current on your clit, a tremor in the key of her voice. she has to pull herself up on her knees, push herself into your presence, to keep herself there, within this second chance. her body shakes beneath yours, in wait, for something that had long since disappeared.

she groans, something deep and distant below her throat. her tongue dances along the warmth inside you, painting her apologies, her dying grievances along the soft expanse of whatever lay inside, forever unheard. her fingers grip bruises into your stolen skin, a rough yank pulling you towards her.

you had hated when she was rough with you, but were you really here to complain?

“please, i…” her voice is something dark, muffled against your skin. “i need you, i.. you shouldn’t have left me. i’m sorry.”

“that doesn’t matter now.” firm and bitter, dry, calloused hands pull ellie up from her home between your legs. she could nearly whine at the absence of warmth, if the vitriol freeze wasn’t something she had so long deserved, so duly needed. ellie’s touch softens.

“nothing matters now.”

your gaze, her gaze, is scrutinising, painful to hold in her eye. but she needn’t look away, she shouldn’t. otherwise, she was sure you’d disappear. she couldn’t let you, never again. she could keep you alive, deep within the ire of her eye, she could, she was so sure.

something stings within her. feeling, it prickles back into ellie’s body like she’d been long asleep.

“i miss you,” ellie’s voice breaks against the cool, unwavering hand of the strange woman, the absence of mercy she so desperately sought. a sob shakes, sore in the column of her neck. the pain was welcome. “so, so much.”

tears run hot, her spine crooked as she falls back, looking up at you with a newly discovered vulnerability. you look at her, your eyes cold with pity and hate.

“i love you.” she chokes, begging like you’ll listen. “come back to me, i love you still.”

you shake your head. you won’t. ellie doesn’t deserve that kindness. no longer, anyway.

your wife slumps forward, pressing her face into the softness of your thigh like that would mean forgiveness, like that would bring back the innocence she had sorely stolen from you. your hand, with jagged nails, runs through ellie’s hair. brick wall comfort.

when you speak, your voice lingers in her ears like a bad hangover. it’s not yours, not anymore. whatever was left of you was rotten, spiteful.

“are you afraid?”

ellie sobs, loud in the impending silence.

there was something here. it’s gone now.

tag list: @r3starttt

[tinybeetiny]

Build-A-Boyfriend Chapter 2: T-Minus 4 Weeks

Why did i write this before my discussion post.....

->Starring:AI!AteezXAfab!Reader ->Genre: Dystopian ->CW: Explicit language, nothing major

Previous Part | Next Part

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist | Series Masterlist

The morning began with a low chime, the soft, regulated sound of Hala’s approved wake-up tone.

Yn opened her eyes slowly, the sterile glow of her ceiling light filtering in, programmed to adjust in sync with her biometric readings.

But something felt wrong.

She sat up, eyes flicking to the tablet still docked by the door.

1 New Alert. 3 Missed Logs. Urgent: Review Immediately.

Her stomach tightened.

She padded across the floor barefoot, grabbed the tablet, and scanned the notifications.

ATEEZ UNIT 06 — DEVIATION DETECTED — AUTONOMY SPIKE UNAUTHORIZED VOCALIZATION: "YN"

Yn stared at the final line for a beat too long.

Then she moved. Walking as fast as she was legally allowed through the streets of Hala.

She gave polite smiles to her coworkers as she made her way to the elevator.

The lab floor was still cool from overnight lockdown when she arrived. The biometric scanner buzzed awake as she approached, confirming her identity with a flash.

YN — Lead Engineering Tech— Clearance: Gold-Level

The steel doors hissed open.

She stepped inside, and there he was.

Unit 06 — Mingi. Exactly where she had left him.

Seated on the calibration chair, eyes closed, posture perfect, skin dewy with the faintest shimmer of dermal regulation oil. His expression was peaceful. Unnaturally so.

Yn walked around him slowly, tablet in hand, watching for signs of movement, a twitch, a breath pattern, a pupil shift. But nothing changed.

He looked inert. Safe. Dormant.

But she’d seen the log. He’d said her name.

She ran diagnostics. Nothing flagged. Heart-rate simulation: normal. Memory cache: intact. Audio response logs: empty.

Empty.

She checked his neck port. Still capped. Voice box still sealed in storage.

She swallowed hard.

The rest of the ATEEZ prototypes stood silent across the lab in their maintenance docks, each assigned to their own calibration alcove.

She walked past them one by one, watching.

Unit 01 — Hongjoong. Still as stone, but his fingers had been rearranged on the synth keyboard overnight. A composition Yura didn’t recognize blinked on his screen.

Unit 02 — Seonghwa. Always the most immaculate. But his reflection in the lab’s polished glass didn’t match his real posture, just a degree off. Barely noticeable, unless you were looking.

Unit 03 — Yunho. Smiling. Just faintly. No trigger.

Unit 04 — Yeosang. Eyes fixed on a ventilation grate in the ceiling. He hadn't looked away in over two hours, according to logs.

Unit 05 — San. Kneeling. Not in his programming. Position logged as "rest" but the posture was… reverent.

Unit 07 — Wooyoung. Chestplate cooling mechanism activated 4 times during the night — autonomously. He hadn’t been powered up.

Unit 08 — Jongho. Cracked the pressure sensor on his maintenance chair. No movement recorded.

They were silent, motionless. But Yn felt eyes on her.

Even now, standing among them, it felt like walking through a forest full of predators, beautiful, engineered predators pretending to sleep.

She leaned against the edge of the workbench, rubbing her temples, heart still racing. Four weeks to launch. The marketing campaign was already filmed. The architecture teams had begun installing the holographic interface rooms in the flagship store.

There was no time for failure. Not now.

And still… the voice chip logs were empty. The playback files had no entry. But Mingi had said her name.

And the others were changing, too. Quietly. Together.

The sound of heels against polished tile snapped Yn out of thought. Chairwoman Vira Yun entered the lab like gravity itself, sharp suit, spine straight, expression unreadable. Two aides flanked her, both scanning progress reports in real-time.

Yn straightened instinctively.

Vira’s eyes swept across the prototypes, Mingi still seated, the others upright in their calibration docks. Everything looked pristine. Controlled.

“I wanted a visual update before this afternoon’s numbers meeting,” Vira said. “How are we looking?”

Yn forced a nod. “On track. All eight are responding to recalibration. Minor bugs, but nothing that won’t be handled in time.”

Vira gave a tight smile, satisfied. “Good. The store opens in four weeks. And we’ll be announcing the Ateez line one week after that. The Board’s expecting a flawless rollout, we all are.”

She walked slowly along the row of silent units, pausing a moment longer at Mingi.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” she said softly, almost admiring. “So much potential in one room.”

Yn’s throat tightened. “They are,” she murmured.

Vira turned back to her. “Let me know if anything... unexpected comes up.”

Yn kept her face neutral. “Of course.”

With that, Vira nodded once, then exited, heels echoing down the corridor.

The moment the door slid shut, Yn turned back to Mingi.

He hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

But she could feel it again, that subtle wrongness humming underneath the code. A tension in the room that didn’t come from the lights or machines.

She picked up her tablet. The earlier alerts were still blinking faintly in the corner of the screen. Her fingers hovered over the reset command, but she didn’t press it.

Instead, she stared at Mingi’s still, perfect form.

Voice chip disabled. Logs empty. Command queue blank.

And yet… he had said her name.

Yn stayed long after the lab lights dimmed into their night-cycle hue.

The others had gone home, the halls had emptied. Even the air felt quieter.

She pulled up lines of diagnostic code, checking through every flagged anomaly, double-checking behavioral protocols, reviewing voice input logs that should have been blank.

Mingi still hadn’t moved. Neither had the others.

Still, something itched at her spine, not fear, not exactly. Just… unease. Low-level. Manageable. At least, that’s what her biometric monitor kept reporting.

Yn sighed, rubbed her eyes, and leaned back in her chair.

“Four weeks,” she muttered aloud, glancing toward the ceiling. “And they want them flawless. I can’t even get one of you to follow your own default pose cycle.”

Her voice echoed in the quiet.

She glanced toward Mingi again. “You glitched out before you even had a voice box. How the hell did that happen?”

No answer.

She stared at the ceiling again, her voice softer now. “I haven’t slept more than four hours in weeks. Not that my vitals allow much more. Sleep too long and the regulators flag you for depressive lethargy.”

She let out a dry laugh.

“I miss silence. Real silence. Not the kind that hums at you all day to remind you it’s working. I think I miss… something else too. Something I’ve never even had.”

She shook her head, pulling her hair up into a loose knot. “Maybe I just need caffeine. Or to scream. Or to throw my tablet out the damn window. Can’t even do that anymore. Everything’s reinforced. Everything’s... safe.”

Behind her, in the corner of the room, a pair of synthetic eyes remained open.

Unmoving. Watching.

In the back-end system, a hidden data stream pulsed to life:

[UNAUTHORIZED RECORDING — ACTIVE] Listening… — “I miss silence.” — “I think I miss something else too.” — “Can’t even scream.” Tag: Emotional Pattern Acquisition Subject: YN File saved. Labeled: Soft Sounds of Sadness.

The eyes closed again. And the lab went still.

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[askagamedev]

What is your current opinion on Unreal Engine 5? Between Digital Foundry, content creators, and people on social media, everyone appears to be constantly attacking UE5 for performance issues (stuttering, frame rate, etc.). Is this criticism warranted, or is it more a case of developers still getting used to UE5 and its complexities (meaning it will likely improve in time)?

Everything improves with time as the engineers learn the details and optimize their work. This is true of every tech platform ever and won't be any more different with Unreal Engine 5 than it has been with UE4, 3, or anything else. That said... after having very recently worked with UE5 for enough time to get used to some of its foibles and having looked into some core engineering issues in a project utilizing some of the new tech introduced in UE5 (and the caveats and side effects of using that tech), I can say with fair confidence that (some) complaints about the performance issues are definitely warranted. These aren't global to all UE5 projects, but they are major performance issues we ran into and had to solve.

One major issue we ran into was with Nanite. Nanite is the new tech that allows incredibly detailed high poly models, a sort of [LOD system] on steroids. The Entity Component System of the Unreal Engine (every actor is a bag of individual components) allows developers to glom nanite meshes onto just about anything and everything including characters, making it very powerful and quick to stand up various different visuals. However, this also requires significant time spent optimizing that geometry for lighting and for use in game - interpenetrating bits and pieces that don't necessarily need to calculate lighting or normals or shadows unnecessarily add to the performance cost must be purged from those nanite models. Nanite looks great, but has issues that need to be ironed out and the documentation on those issues isn't fully formed because they're still being discovered (and Epic is still working on fixing them). We had major performance issues on any characters we built using nanite, which meant that our long-term goal for performance was actually to de-nanite our characters completely.

Another major issue I ran into was with the new UE5 World Partition system. World Partition is essentially their replacement for their old World Composition system, it's a means of handling level streaming for large contiguous world spaces. In any large open world, you're going to have to have individual tiles that get streamed in as the player approaches them - there's no reason to fit the entire visible world into memory at any given time with all the bells and whistles when the player can only see a small part of it. The World Partition system is supposed to stream in the necessary bits piecemeal and allow for seamless play. Unfortunately, there are a lot of issues with it that are just not documented and/or not fixed yet. I personally ran into issues with navmesh generation (the map layer used for AI pathfinding) using the World Partition that I had to ask Epic about, and their engineers responded with "Thanks for finding this bug. We'll fix it eventually, likely not in the next patch."

Most of these issues will eventually get ironed out, documented, and/or fixed as they come to light. That's pretty normal for any major piece of technology - things improve and mature as more people use it and the dev team has the time and bandwidth to fix bugs, document things better, and add quality of life features. Because this tech is still fairly new, all of the expected bleeding edge problems are showing up. You're seeing those results - the games that are forced to use the new less-tested systems are uncovering the issues (performance, bugs, missing functionality, etc.) as they go. Epic is making fixes and improvements, but us third-party game devs must still ship our games and this kind of issue is par for the course.

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[emakataken]

Part 7: Fault Lines

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6.A - Part 6.B

Content Warnings: Gerrard

Homophobia, PTSD, Military Trauma, Emotional Abuse, Verbal Harassment, Bigotry / Slurs, Power Imbalance / Abuse of Authority, Psychological Manipulation

Idea: This is pre-canon, slow-burn AU, Buck arrives at Station 118, ruled by Captain Gerrard. Tommy/Buck/Sal.

—-

The engine hissed as it rolled into the bay, the weight of a long shift settling into the cracked concrete. Buck jumped down before it had fully stopped, already moving to drain the hose line, gloves still damp from the last call.

Behind him, the slam of metal on metal echoed harder than necessary. Sal tossed his crowbar onto the rig’s side rack without a word.

“Probie,” Sal said flatly, not looking at him. “Check the gear. Make sure we’re prepped for the next run before you clean up.” Not an unusual order. Routine, even. But the tone was off. Too sharp around the edges.

Buck didn’t flinch, but he felt it. The space that hadn’t been there last week. Before the kitchen. Before he’d turned the corner with damp hair and bare feet and caught the shape of something that wasn’t his to see. Sal’s hand wrapped around Tommy’s wrist, Tommy’s forehead resting soft against Sal’s.

He just sidestepped, eyes on the tile.

They hadn’t talked since. Not really.

Sal was back to using Probie like a wall. Tommy keeping his distance during drills. A hair too much formality in his voice. His gaze quick to slide off him, like Buck might say something.

Now, Buck could only nod. Quick. Quiet. No pushback.“Yes, sir.”

He moved fast, shoulders set, heading for the rig like it might give him something solid to hold on to. Something that wouldn’t pull away.

“Still here?” Gerrard’s voice came low, behind his shoulder. “Figured someone like you would’ve found a way to slide out early. Let the real men handle the job.”

Buck didn’t flinch. Just kept working.

“You know,” Gerrard continued, stepping in closer, voice too casual, “I took a look at your file again. Reads like a goddamn recruitment ad. Sparkling clean. Suspiciously clean. But that’s the thing about clean records, they don’t always mean clean pasts.”

Buck’s hands stilled over the last coupling.

Gerrard smiled. “Made a few calls. Asked around Coronado. Not officially, of course. But you’d be surprised what an old friend will remember. Especially when you give ‘em a name like Buckley. Doesn’t exactly fade into the crowd.”

There was a silence that stretched. Buck’s chest tightened.

“One of them said something about you and a teammate. Julian, I think it was.” Gerrard clicked his tongue. “Shame he didn’t make it back.”

The sound of his name Julian hit like a brick to the sternum. The ground beneath him wasn’t concrete anymore. It was sand. Dry. Metallic with blood. Julian laughing with half a lung and a broken rib, voice rasping with pain, brown eyes locked on Buck’s, lips speckled with blood.

“Say his name again,” Buck said, voice low and steel-cut. “But this time, put some fucking respect in your voice Captain.”

Gerrard blinked. Not at the volume there wasn’t any but at the ice behind it. At the way Buck stood now. How his posture had shifted, going still and controlled, like someone who’d learned how to breathe in chaos.

“He died saving six men,” Buck said quietly. “He was the best of us. And you don’t get to drag his name through your shit.”

For a beat, Gerrard didn’t speak. Then his smile sharpened into something meaner. “Touched a nerve,” he said, softer now. “That’s the thing about quiet probies. You think they’ve got nothing to hide, but then the mask slips.”

He stepped in close. “Just be careful. The department’s got a long memory. And so does the city. You start acting too familiar with the wrong people, and folks will start asking if the rumors followed you home.”

Buck didn’t move.

Gerrard leaned in. “You want to suck cock, that’s your business. But don’t go making it mine. This house doesn’t bend for that kind of moral corruption. And you’re still on probation. You’re lucky your lifestyle isn’t a fireable offense anymore.”

Then he stepped back, slow and smug, like he’d scored something. He walked away like a man who thought he’d won.

Buck stood there, jaw tight, throat locked. He reached for the last hose loop, fingers trembling as he finished the task.

Then he showered in the dark, water too hot, steam curling like ghosts around him. His ribs ached. The scars on his wrists felt tighter than usual.

The name rang in his ears, over and over again. For the first time in months, he allowed his mind to drift back to Julian’s easy laugh, the way he’d wink like they were invincible, even while bleeding out in Buck’s hands.

And when the memory came blood, sand, the way Julian had smiled that stupid breathless grin at the end he punched the tile. Once, twice. Just hard enough to remind himself that he was still here.

Buck stepped into the kitchen still toweling off his hair, compression shirt clinging to damp skin. The back of his neck was flushed pink from the too-hot shower, and his eyes scanned the table as he crossed to the fridge. Chimney was already elbow-deep in tacos. Hen stood at the counter slicing limes with practiced ease. Sal was halfway through a plate, one arm slung over the back of his chair.

Tommy looked up from his phone, gaze flicking over Buck briefly. Something in his shoulders eased.

“Probie,” Chimney called with a grin. “We’re down two tacos and a story. Get over here.”

Buck slid into the empty seat beside Tommy, who passed him a plate without a word. He offered a faint smile in return, grateful for the normalcy.

Chimney leaned back with a groan, biting into his taco. “So, Sal. What’d you end up doing last night?”

Sal wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached for the salsa. “Gina dragged me to that vampire movie.”

Tommy looked up, one brow arched. “Seriously?”

“Sparkles and teenage angst, the whole shebang,” Sal added, unbothered.

Hen snorted. “Oh no. Twilight?”

Sal gave a mock-shrug. “Wasn’t half bad. Couldn’t really tell you what the hell was going on, but that Kristen Stewart.” He whistled low and appreciative, then tossed another taco onto his plate.

“I don’t get the appeal,” Tommy said, squinting across the table. “She’s too... broody. Too—”

“What, hot?” Sal smirked, the edge in his grin sharp enough to slice. “Maybe you’re more of a Team Jacob guy.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. A pulse of warning behind his eyes. Sal just kept eating, like he hadn’t just lobbed a grenade under the table.

Across from them, Buck clocked it, the twitch in Tommy’s shoulder, Gerrard’s head beginning to tilt with interest.

So Buck leaned forward, eyes wide with mock confusion. “Wait, what’s Team Jacob? Is this like… Buffy?”

Chimney barked out a laugh, mouth full. “He’s saying Tommy’s gay.”

That earned a round of snorts. Tommy blew out a breath and rolled his eyes as he flipped Sal off, and blew him an exaggerated kiss. Sal grinned back.

“Easy, boys,” Gerrard warned from the corner, not looking up from his spreadsheets.

The laughter quieted but didn’t die completely. Forks scraped plates, someone opened a soda with a sharp hiss. Buck leaned forward to grab a taco, head ducked as he reached across Tommy’s arm.

Gerrard spoke again, voice low and just loud enough to carry. “Funny thing,” he said, pen tapping against the edge of his clipboard. “Used to be, you could tell what kind of man someone was by how he took a joke.”

He didn’t look up. “But I guess things are different now,” he went on, voice mild almost nostalgic. “You so much as elbow the wrong boot too hard, and next thing you know, you’re getting HR memos about pronouns and private showers. I don’t know what’s happening to this firehouse but I don’t like it.”

Hen’s knife paused mid-slice, her jaw tightens as her back stiffened.

Chimney stopped chewing, eyes cutting across the table.

Sal’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as Tommy looked up slowly from his plate.

Buck took another bite, chewed slowly, jaw working like stone under pressure. His eyes stayed on his plate.

Gerrard finally lifted his gaze. Let it sweep the table, lazy. Didn’t land on Buck. Didn’t need to. “Boot,” he said, almost an afterthought. “Hope the fellas aren’t making you feel too... seen. Some of these inside jokes go back years. Takes a certain kind of man to roll with it.”

Tommy turned his head just enough to catch Buck’s profile. He opened his mouth.

But Sal beat him to it. “Hen,” He said, sharp and clean. “You're on med check with Chim. Cobb, you’ve got inventory. Allen, you’re scrubbing the back bay. Rodric, kitchen. Tommy, truck inspection. Buck’s with you.”

Chairs scraped. Chim stood first, tossing his napkin on the plate. “You got it, Lieutenant.”

Hen wiped her hands slowly, set down the lime with surgical precision. “Sure thing.”

Rodric groaned under his breath. “Why do I always get…”

“Because you always complain like a little bitch.” Sal said without heat, not sparing him a glance.

The kitchen emptied, Tommy rose last, eyes flicking once more to Gerrard, who had returned to his paperwork like none of it mattered.

Sal finally looked up. Met Tommy’s gaze across the table.

Don’t

It wasn’t spoken. Didn’t need to be. It was in the set of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils. The message was clear: Don’t give Gerrard more ammunition. Don’t throw the punch I’ll have to cover.

Tommy didn’t nod. But he didn’t argue, he turned toward Buck. “Let’s roll, Hershey.”

Buck stood, and followed Tommy out without a word, his full plate left behind.

Sal remained seated. Let the hum of the firehouse settle again. He waited until the sound of boots faded, until he was alone with Gerrard’s low pen scratch and the clink of a ceramic mug.

The call came just after lunch.

False alarm. Small stovetop flare-up in a two-story duplex. Smoke contained before arrival. Hen and Buck cleared the kitchen while Tommy and Chim ran a check on the basement electrical.

Sal handled the report while Gerrard lingered near the front porch, charm turned up half a notch as he chatted up the older couple who’d called it in, two women in their sixties, one with a cropped white buzzcut and a Veterans hat, the other in worn jeans and a well-loved Dodgers hoodie.

They were polite. Grateful. Offered lemonade, even.

Buck caught the way Rodric rolled his eyes when he passed them. How Allen snorted under his breath as he climbed back onto the truck.

By the time they pulled back into the bay, the jokes had started.

“Did you see the kitchen?” Allen said, laughing as he popped the rig’s side compartment. “All those cat magnets and no real man in sight.”

Rodric chuckled. “I bet that’s what started the fire, too much friction.” Gerrard didn’t correct them. Just smirked and sipped from his ever-present mug.

Buck started wiping down the hose couplings. He could hear Hen in the back of the rig, reorganizing med packs, quiet.

Allen leaned against the bumper, voice pitching up in a mock lilt. “‘Oh no, honey, I don’t need no man just my rescue cats and my lady’s homemade chili.’”

Rodric fake-swooned, grabbing at his own chest. “God, Lois.”

Buck stopped wiping.

“Jesus,” Allen said, laughing harder. “What do you think, Boot? That your future?”

He didn’t mean that future. He meant any future. Anywhere Buck belonged. Anywhere he was allowed to belong.

Hen’s steps stilled behind him. Buck didn’t have to look, he could feel it. How she froze, hands hovering near the kit she’d been restocking, head ducked like she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. But her eyes...

God.

Her eyes were tired.

Something cracked. Buck turned, towel still in hand, “You know,” he said, “if homophobia’s a medical condition, I think I’ve finally found the cure for you boys.”

Rodric blinked. “What?”

Buck stepped forward, not much, just enough to make Allen stiffen. “Try sucking my dick,” Buck said, eyes sharp and cold. “I hear exposure therapy works wonders.”

The silence washed over the room as Hen inhaled, sharp. Sal rounded the corner fast, toolbox still in hand, eyes darting to Buck. Eyes wide.

Gerrard straightened, mug halfway to his mouth.

Rodric looked like he’d been slapped. Allen flushed deep red. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

Buck didn’t blink. “Need me to draw a diagram?”

Gerrard’s voice cut in, low and dangerous. “Buckley. My office. Now.”

He stepped back. Shoulders still squared, his chest still burning. He turned without remorse and walked toward the captain’s office.

Sal didn’t speak. Just watched the retreating line of Buck’s back for a moment before he turned to Allen. “Rodric, Allen,” he said. “Latrines. Now. Use a fucking toothbrush.”

Allen opened his mouth to protest.

Sal didn’t raise his voice. “Make a sound, and you’ll be on leave so long your gear will mold.”

Allen slammed the compartment shut and stormed off. Rodric followed, not even trying to defend himself.

The office door slammed behind them.

Gerrard didn’t sit.

Buck stood across the desk, posture like a steel rod down his spine, expression flat, eyes distant.

“You crossed the line,” Gerrard said. “And I don’t mean some HR checkbox bullshit. I mean insubordination, public lewdness, threatening language in front of another officer.”

Buck didn’t move, but the tremor in his left hand betrayed him. He tucked it behind his back before it could be seen.

“No threat,” Buck said coolly. “Just a suggestion.”

Gerrard’s face darkened. “You think your smartass mouth’s gonna get you anywhere? You’re lucky I don’t have your badge pulled tonight.”

Buck didn’t flinch. “Then do it.” His hands were behind his back, but his fingers twitched. “Fill your complaint. I’ll take it to the Chief.”

“What?”

“If you’re gonna bury me, Captain, don’t waste time barking. Put it in writing.”

That pulled Gerrard up short. The door opened without knocking. Sal stepped inside like he owned the space, calm and measured. He closed the door behind him, slow and deliberate.

“Sir,” he said, eyes on Gerrard. “Before you file anything, I want it on record that Allen and Rodric were engaged in conduct unbecoming. Insubordination. Sexually inappropriate jokes in front of civilians. I witnessed the aftermath.”

Gerrard’s eyes narrowed. “You defending him?”

“I’m documenting what I saw,” Sal said smoothly. “And what I saw was Allen mocking a homeowner. Again. This time in front of Hen, who was on duty, trying not to escalate. Buckley stepped in when no one else did.”

“He told another firefighter to…”

“I heard what he said,” Sal cut in. “And I know why he said it.”

Gerrard’s lip curled. “You really want to cover for this waste of a Boot, fine. But when the city calls for discipline, don’t expect me to lie for him.”

“No one’s asking you to lie,” Sal said, voice cool. “Just asking you to hold the right people accountable.”

Gerrard stepped closer, voice lower now. “You keep shielding him, Deluca, people are gonna start wondering why.”

Sal didn’t blink. “Let them.”

There was a long silence. Thick enough to choke on. Buck eyes darting between the two mean, his left wrist trembling behind his back as his right hand squeezed the paracord survival bracelet he never took off.

Gerrard’s stare slid to Buck. “Get out.”

Buck didn’t move at first. His gaze flicked to Sal, uncertain.

Sal didn’t look at him. The bite in his voice dulled, traded for something quieter, colder, heavy with disappointment. “Go. That’s an order, before I have to write you up for insubordination.”

Buck didn’t speak. Just gave a stiff nod, eyes fixed somewhere over Sal’s shoulder like it hurt to look directly at him.

The moment the door clicked shut, Gerrard rounded on Sal. “You undermined my command.”

“I enforced the chain of it,” Sal said. “And I backed a firefighter who was defending a civilian under your watch.”

Gerrard barked a low laugh, dry and bitter. “That probie’s a liability. And you know it. You’ve known it since the minute he walked in here.”

“He’s got better instincts than half your boys. And more restraint than me right now.”

Gerrard’s mouth twisted. “You really want to go to bat for a kid who just offered his dick as diversity training?”

Sal didn’t rise to it. Didn’t even blink. “Rodric and Allen started it. On call, in uniform. Buck did not retaliate until we were back in the station.”

Gerrard opened a drawer, pulled out a blank disciplinary form, slapped it on the desk.

Sal didn’t flinch. “You file that,” he said calmly, “and I file mine. With three statements and Hen’s full report. You want the city to sort it out? Fine. But don’t be surprised when the story doesn’t land the way you think.”

Gerrard stared at him. Then pushed the form back into the drawer without saying a word.

Sal stood for a moment longer, like he was waiting to see if Gerrard would try again.

He didn’t.

When Sal stepped out of the office, he found Buck leaning against the wall near the gear room, waiting, jaw tight, eyes straight ahead.

“You’re not suspended,” Sal said. “Yet.”

Buck dragged his eyes up from the floor his shoulders still tense.

Sal exhaled through his nose. “Next time you want to use your mouth like a battering ram, give me a second’s warning. I’ll clear the path.” He started to walk past, then paused. Tilted his head toward the bay. “You’ll partner with Hen the rest of the shift,” he added. “Chimney and Tommy can talk monster trucks and craft beer.”

Buck blinked, stomach dropping as hurt coiled around his scars. “That a punishment?” he asked quietly.

Sal gave a humorless smirk. “That’s a lifeline, Hershey. Take it.” He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned and walked off, already calling out assignments to the rest of the crew like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just carved out a safe lane for Tommy and quietly nudged Buck out of it.

A lifeline.

Not an apology. Not protection.

He understood it. Didn’t mean it didn’t sting. Part 8

[delopsia]

every storm runs out of rain | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 17,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: AFAB!Reader, Hanahaki disease, soulmates AU, childhood friends to lovers, alcohol, food mentions, vomiting, first kisses, thunderstorms, (temporarily) unrequited feelings, almost kiss, unprotected sex, eventual happy endings 🌹. Vaguely based on the Gary Allan song of the same name. Brief Summary: It's a cruelty you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. The perpetual ache of your heart, longing for a man who was never meant to be yours. Everything about him is as if he's made for you, and yet, your tattoos don't match. You're not made for each other.

It's hard to tell if the feelings started with the stuffiness in your lungs or if it's something that has always been there. 

An indescribable sort of longing that has flown beneath your radar for the better half of a decade. The kind of thing that has let you assume a false sense of comfort under the title of childhood friend. 

Best friend, if Rhett has a few drinks buzzing through his system. Two shining plaques with your name written across them in bold letters.

But neither of them are what you and your dumb heart crave. The pride of being called his significant other is a feeling you will never know, so long as your tattoos are around to remind you that they don't match. So, so close in nature, and yet, they're not the same. 

It's a cruelty you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. The perpetual ache of your heart, longing for a man who was never meant to be yours. Everything about him is as if he's made for you, so perfect he could fit into your life like a puzzle piece, and yet fate has destined him and you to fall in love with strangers. Not each other. 

Never each other. 

That tickling rises in the back of your throat. Snowballing larger and larger until you can no longer—

A horn blares. 

Your head jerks back toward the street just in time to see the passenger door of an old GMC squeal open. Rhett. Leaned all the way across his bench seat, hair in his face and all. 

"Y' comin' or not?" He chirps, already beginning to impatiently pat on the cloth seat, beckoning you in like he would a stray cat.

In this cold little town, your heart burns a little warmer.

How he got here so fast, you'll never know, but you've never been more thankful for it. Water splashes beneath your feet, darting toward his truck and away from the crowd of people raging on behind you. Up into your designated place in his passenger seat, slamming the door closed before you've even gotten settled, effectively shutting off the thumping music and flashing neon lights.

"How did you know where I was?" Because last you recall, you never told him about where you were headed tonight. 

Rhett just hums, the noise lost to the rumble of his truck engine. "Recognized the floor in the picture y' sent." 

Of course, that would be one of his many odd talents. 

"Being able to identify a bar just from the floor tile might mean you have a bit of a drinking problem, Cowboy," your eyes roll, shifting to rest against the door. 

"Listen," the streetlight catches in his eyes, lighting them up with a memory, "that checkered pattern is cute 'til your head stars spinnin'." 

He's...got a point. 

Ugh. 

The silence that falls into the truck is a comfortable one. It's the kind of quiet that lets you hear the impatient drum of his fingers, dancing to the soft drone of his radio set to an old country station. Backdropped by the sound of water spraying beneath his tires, washing away weeks upon weeks of built-up dirt from the ranch. 

His whole truck could use a good wash, but it won't see a bucket of soap and water until he scores another date with some no-name from the rodeo grounds. Or alternatively, you show up in the middle of the night and scrub it from top to bottom.

Your phone lights up with a text asking about where you went. Sent from some guy you cared so little about that you haven't even bothered to save his number in your contacts. But as you move to unlock the screen, it opens up to a different set of messages. 

You: Nothing quite like being stuck at a bar, waiting on your designated driver to decide she wants to leave. 10:47 PM

Rhett: What's wrong? 10:51 PM

You: I told a guy I didn't want to dance, and he 'accidentally' spilled his drink on me 🙄  10:51 PM

You: But my ride doesn't want to leave for another hour or two. 10:52 PM

You never noticed the message that was sent right after yours. 

Rhett: On my way 10:55 PM

Maybe not every man in this world has gone to shit. 

Rhett's hand bumps into your chest, some kind of gray fabric balled up in his hand, "here."

You've seen this old shirt before; it's the first thing he ever bought online, hadn't realized until it arrived that it was a few sizes too big for him. Not particularly ideal for a cowboy who can get caught on equipment, but perfect for your impromptu sleepovers.

"You still have this old thing?" You're already beginning to tug your damp T-shirt over your head. Potential onlookers be damned, you're ready to be free of the overwhelming whiskey bitterness reeking from it.

The back of his knuckles graze up your naked side, guided by the thin path of a decade-old scar. A branding from younger, brighter days; the ones when Cecelia would let you spend weekends on the ranch. Waking up at dawn to help Rhett with his ranch chores because the quicker things got done, the sooner you got to run down and play in the creekbed. 

"Still can't believe that piece of glass marred ya like that," Rhett mutters after a long moment. You can't see into his thick skull, but you've got a feeling that he's got a similar memory flickering through his mind. 

"To be fair, I did fall on it," slipping your arms through the clean shirt, you pull it over your head, and once again, that old scar is out of sight. 

That half-hearted chuckle sends a warmth rushing through your veins. The exact one that shouldn't be there. But he hasn't the slightest clue of the wildfire sitting next to him, back to tapping along on his steering wheel as he drives through the main stretch of town. Past feedstores, tourist shops, dinners, the grocery store, and every other little niche boutique hidden between. 

"Thank you." You hardly recognize that it's you speaking. Hadn't realized it was your voice until the sound of it met your ears.

It's a little too quiet in this truck.

But Rhett just reaches over to shake your shoulder. "Y' don't gotta thank me for shit like that," for a fleeting second, he's got just enough time to look away from the road and offer you a lazy smile. "'s what friends do, ain't it?"

Your chest feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Meek, you nod, attention suddenly on the floorboard and nothing else—nothing else to say. 

Yeah. That's what friends do. 

He doesn't make mention of it, but you've got the feeling that your SOS text must have interrupted another one of his dates. A pile of rose petals rests at your feet, scattered as if they've been swept off the seat in a hurry to make space. Caked in mud and the rainwater that tracked in from your shoes. Storebought, that much you know for sure.

Roses don't grow in Wabang. 

The next time you see him, it's planned. 

You have, for some reason, allowed yourself to become roped into the craze of Wabang's beloved Sugarbeet festival. Right smack dab in the middle of some old ranching land that the county bought some years back. It would have been a pleasant idea if the festival was hosted in spring or autumn and not in the blistering heat of summer. Not an ounce of shade to be found, nothing but cheap tents to protect you from the beating sun. 

It's the kind of misery that makes the outdoors feel like a goddamn oven, and heading out to start your car is its own kind of devil. The air jammed in your AC blasts your face with the boiling winds of hell itself. So damn intense that if Rhett's truck weren't crawling down your driveway, you would have canceled and called it a day.

And you're so glad that you didn't, because good lord. 

The last thing you expected was for Rhett to hop out in that unbuttoned flannel, broad chest on display for all to see. The sleeve falls just far enough from his shoulder that you can see the scar hiding below his left collarbone. 

"Quite the festival outfit you've got," you chirp, dragging your eyes away from his bull tattoo and over to a nearby tree, feigning interest. The back of your throat is starting to tickle, lungs tight as you fend off the urge to cough. Not here, not here, not here.

He laughs, "What, y' don't think I look good like this?"

You do, but he doesn't need to know that. Not in the slightest. 

"Its...certainly a choice," faking a grimace, you turn your attention back to your car, slowly but surely growing cooler the longer it runs. A pleasure that Rhett and his broken air conditioning unit haven't known since last summer. 

You don't mind the idea of it staying broken if he keeps showing up at your house looking like this. Even if that does mean that you become his ride on the hotter days, fearing an onset of heat stroke. 

The passenger door is silent as he opens it. No longer squealing due to whatever he and Royal did to it last weekend. Being friends with a family of DIY ranchers has its perks. 

Thunk_

"Shit." 

You blink. Was that...?

Yeah. 

It was. 

As if last time wasn't enough of a lesson, Rhett's got his knees pinned up against your glovebox, the seat too far forward for him and his big body to fit. Though this time, he isn't hurriedly pawing at the seat levers like he'll die if he doesn't get any more space. Instead, he's resigned to a frown. More annoyed with himself than anything.

"You alright there?" 

Rhett's sigh is so heavy that his shoulders visibly deflate. "Yeah," reaching off to the side, pushing the seat back as far as it can go. "Humbled, but 'm alright."

It's toward the end of your drive that you notice the flower petals sitting on your dashboard. Roses, you think. It must be what you get for leaving your windows rolled down all morning, vulnerable to adventurous squirrels and other varmints that enjoy trespassing into property they don't own. 

They're certainly not from you, and you would have asked Rhett if your destination hadn't come up so quickly. Fighting for a parking space in the withered grass is a bigger task than folks let on. Even with folks on the ground, pointing you to the perfect spot, someone will always try to steal it out from under you. 

For a festival in such a small town, there is a hell of a lot going on inside of it. Food trucks, concession stands full of sweet treats, craft booths, and cheap knick-knacks bought offline to resell under the guise of being handmade locally. Apple bobbing, the duck pond, and ring toss. There's a precariously placed dragon roller coaster and a horse carousel that Rhett tries convincing you to get on. 

Worse. There are so many people. Faces you recognize and those you've never seen before. Waiting in lines and shoving themselves between you and Rhett because the small gap between your shoulders looked like a good opening to get somewhere quicker. 

"'s a lil crazy out here, don't ya think?" Rhett's asking through a laugh, once again stepping over to you. Two kids dart between you, their hands occupied with bags of fake goldfish. 

Only took a decade for them to learn not to hand out live fish. You can still remember the three you and Rhett got when you were small. One didn't survive the drive back to his house, and the other two managed to stick around long enough to see New Year's. 

Rest in peace, Goldie Junior and Patches.

"I think it's always been crazy," tilting your head to cough into your elbow, dislodging that goddamn tickling sensation—you look away before you can see what it is. 

There's a girl off to the side, staring in your direction. Or rather, Rhett's direction. Long, wavy hair and a delicate sundress, the kind of woman who looks like she's walked right off the beach cover of a magazine. Her warm gaze has long since settled on Rhett; it's a look you've seen a million and one times at the rodeo. The one that gets him a little weak in the knees.

You look away as quickly as they flickered over there. If you don't make eye contact, maybe she won't come over to introduce herself. 

"We weren't that bad, though," but then, pausing to look at you, concern lacing his narrowed gaze, "...right?" 

Rose-tinted memories flicker through your mind. Rhett falling and breaking his wrist after taking you out on a green horse. Trespassing onto the Tillerson property to play with Luke and Billy, only to get hauled home in the back of a police cruiser, 'cause their momma didn't care much for you two. Getting busted, sneaking out your bedroom window to go spend the night with Rhett. All those times, you had to run through back alleys together because you'd been caught out after Wabang's curfew. 

"I like to think we were relatively well-behaved," concluding after a moment. Though your families may have a vastly different opinion on that. 

Laughter rumbles from you at the same time it does from Rhett, shoulders bumping together. Sends a little shock of warmth rippling through your bones, twisting around your heart like briars.

Maybe the conversation would have lasted longer if you didn't get distracted. Rhett lays eyes on a truck dedicated to a locally crafted beer, and the small frame of a self-serve station from the local candy shop catches your attention. It only makes sense that you would step aside and regroup in a few minutes. You're in desperate need of a breather before that girl works up the nerve to approach him and turns you into a third wheel. 

There's more to this little station than what initially met the eye. It's shelves full of caramel apples, peanut brittle, fudges of every flavor you can imagine, covered pretzels, cookies, and hard candies galore. And here you thought that it would have been wiped clean by the folks who came early in the morning before the sun could reach mind-numbing temperatures. Even your favorite candy is here, the last box left on the shelf.

The price is a little steep, but the flavor of them on your tongue is enough to distract from the pained cries of your wallet. If Rhett knew these were here, then he absolutely would have skipped out on beer in favor of convincing you to split them together—the candy mooch. 

But you must have taken too long to make your decision because you don't see Rhett. Not by the crudely decorated truck, and he said he would be waiting next to the old wooden bench under the oak tree, but it's entirely empty. Not a cowboy in sight. That stuffiness arises in your throat again. 

Maybe he's...

"Hey!" A herd of kids are darting around you. Like a bunch of cats scrambling from the bang of a tractor. One slams into the side of your leg as she rushes past. It doesn't affect her in the slightest, but your feet stumble. Knocked off kilter. Your open container of candy threatens to spill onto the dirt. 

 But then another kid is bursting through the crowd, and this one... 

You recognize this one. 

"Amy?" 

She doesn't need to say a damn thing. Her wide eyes tell all you need to know. 

The crowd is too tall for her to see over it, but as she tugs you along behind her, you've got the feeling that she knows exactly where she's going. Navigating the festival based on terrain alone, over thinly spread gravel, and down a broad dirt path. Her hand clings to your wrist so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. 

You don't know who she's bringing you to or what could have happened. But it has to be something. Perry could have fallen into another one of his rages. Rhett very well may be doing something dumber than getting a DUI on the back of a horse. Or, or—

It's both of them. 

Perry's clawing at Trevor like a goddamn cat. His teeth bared like an animal. Crazed. Feral. Someone's got him by the collar. But it's not doing anything. He barks something incoherent. Jabbing a pointed finger at Trevor. Amy's shoulders jolt. Squeezing your wrist impossibly tighter. 

Plaid shirts scuffle behind them. Cowboy boots and Prada sneakers kick up plumes of dirt. Two brick walls slamming into one another. Caught in a spiral until someone makes the first pull backward. Luke's fist connects with Rhett's jaw. 

Flower petals burst into the air. 

All of a sudden, Luke is jumping backward, his palms raised to the sky. A rare white flag. One that you didn't even know was in the Tillerson arsenal. "I'm sorry, man," is all he can say. Pale as a damn ghost. 

Almost pale as the baby pink petals fluttering onto the dirt floor. 

"Is that..." Amy's the one to break the silence, looking your way as if you hold all the answers. In a sense, maybe you do. "I thought it was a myth?"

Air catches in your windpipe. Feels like you're about to choke. "I did, too." 

What the fight was over, you're not sure. It couldn't have been something serious; they've dropped the issue far too quickly for it to be something worth fighting over. There and gone within the blink of an eye. The Tillerson brothers are dispersing into the crowd without another foul word, Rhett's wordlessly pawing at the fresh red mark on his jaw, and Perry's barking something you don't care to hear. 

Amy's long nails are biting into your skin, threatening to tear through and draw blood, but you can't ask her to loosen up or let go. The sting is half the reason you haven't unraveled like a loose ball of yarn. It isn't enough to stop your lower belly from twisting and turning, a bitterness rising in the back of your raw throat.

"Sorry," Rhett's voice comes so suddenly that you jolt. 

"I leave you alone for five minutes." Your tone comes out blander than you intended, doesn't match the roll of your eyes, deliberately avoiding the sight of flowers lying in the dirt.

He must catch onto it because his frown deepens. But he doesn't say anything, and neither do you. Only offering a wave and a forced smile when Amy ultimately ventures off with Perry for another one of his ice cream apologies. Those seem to be happening more and more lately. 

Hypothetically, someone should say something. Explain what the fight was about, how he got across the festival so damn fast. Was the beer any good? Want to share this candy before your jaw starts to ache like a bitch? The words are flickering through your head a million miles a minute, but not a syllable makes it to your tongue. 

"It's over someone at the bar," Rhett's admission comes in the tune of a guilty child confessing to breaking a vase. Meek. Like he'll fall apart if pushed any harder. "If that's what y' were wanderin'." 

Falling back into the character of annoying best friend is easy. All you've got to do is throw your weight into his side, not strong enough to deliver a playful shove. "So there really is another person stuck with that god awful tattoo," letting your mouth rise into a smile, almost thrilled to be pulling this off so well.

"Hey!" He's pushing you back, laughing, though he's careful not to knock you off your feet this time."'Least mine ain't a shoe."

Defiant, you raise your left arm, the tattoo on your wrist just as dark and bold as it was the day you were born. "It's a lucky horseshoe, thank you very much." 

And just for a little bit, you can deceive yourself into thinking you can still breathe.

You never do put the passenger seat back into its place. It's so far back that you catch yourself thinking it's not there at all; more than once, you clamber into the vehicle and think someone has robbed you of it. A part of you wishes it would happen. That some ridiculous bandit would break in and take that seat. 

It would be doing your dignity a favor; you're acting as if he's dead. 

You passed his truck on the way over here, parked outside the Handsome Gambler. If you weren't worried about wrecking, you would have tried to get a glimpse through the open door to spot him with his shiny new soulmate. 

A good friend would stop in and say hello; if she makes Rhett happy, then you should be happy. It should be on the forefront of your mind; you're three stores down from the bar, but your feeble heart jerks in your chest with a familiar sourness. Hand trembling, struggling to hang onto this little bag of chips. 

A good friend would be happy for him. 

But you're not a good friend. 

And if this cashier doesn't hurry up, you might also become a horrible customer. Your stomach is twisting like you're about to puke, something bitter rising in the back of your throat. Damn near dropping the receipt when she hands it to you, shoving it into the bag, and darting out the open door. 

You hardly make it to the edge of the sidewalk. Keeling over with a wretched noise. 

But the only thing that comes up is the shit that's been lodged in your chest all afternoon, stubbornly sitting in your chest with the weight of a damn elephant. Refusing to move, restricting your airway until you crack, and confess your feelings to a man who was never meant for you. 

"Hey!" 

Bleary, your eyes peel open. Really hope they're not talking to you. 

"I have your sidekick!" Sherrif Joy's voice cuts across the night air like a knife. Swift and straight to the point.

Turning your head might be the thing that puts you on the ground, vision spinning like your eyes have gone loose in your skull. Funny. You can almost deceive yourself into thinking that's Rhett she's towing along.

Maybe because it is him. Boots dragging against the sidewalk, shoulders so loose that they sway in the wind, eyes hardly open, simply led along by the hand Joy has on his bicep. You've got just enough time to paw at your mouth with your sleeve before she's close enough to notice that something may be off.

"I know he's not your responsibility," the glint in her eye suggests she's getting more amusement out of this than she should be. Probably because this wouldn't be the first, second, or third time that she's sought you out. "But he wouldn't shut his mouth when he saw you."

Rhett's grin is too bright for his flushed face. "Hi." 

You don't need to look at your phone to know that it's too damn early for this, and yet, you can't seem to muster up the slightest bit of irritation as you ask. "How are you already drunk at eleven at night?" 

"I—" Hiccup. "Been here all evenin'." Shreds of red rose petals cling to his lips, flaking off with the movement of his mouth and fluttering to the ground like rain.

Oh, Rhett. 

"If you don't want him, I can bring him to the station," Joy always says this, the same damn line over and over, as if she doesn't know what you will ultimately say, "it's no big deal for me." 

Looping your hand through the handle of your grocery bag, you reach out to take Rhett by the wrist. He comes to you easily, long arms reaching out to wrap around you, clinging like an oversized piece of velcro. 

"I'll take him," feigning annoyance is impossible when he's smiling at you like that. Drunk but completely and utterly happy to be with you. 

If only he looked at you this way when he's sober.

Getting him to the car might be the hardest part of this excursion; it takes you and Joy to get him into your passenger seat without banging his head on the roof like last time. But this isn't your first Drunk Rhett Rodeo; Lord knows it ain't Joy's either. It might even break your previous record of five and a half minutes. Not that you were counting.

"Where we goin'?" He chirps the moment you've clambered into the driver's seat. 

"Home." It's the only response you've got. Not entirely sure if he's got the capacity to follow long sentences. 

But his head cocks to the side like a goddamn puppy. "My home, or...home home?" 

Ice forms in your wrist. Suddenly caught before you can turn the key in the ignition. Is he...? It's gotta be. What else would he be referring to? 

"Home home?" More of a question than anything, but he's not sober enough to notice the difference. That grin simply grows a little bigger. His boots kicking against your floorboard, happy as a clam in high water. 

It doesn't fade, either. Even as you get the car going, and he fusses about leaving his truck behind, he doesn't lose the excitement that bloomed the moment he laid eyes on you. Content to sit here and let you drive, looking out the window and commenting on whatever he sees. The crazy lady on Second Street has added more flamingos to her lawn hoard, and someone's mailbox has been knocked over. What does that sign say over there? 

"So what's your soulmate like?" You ask, reaching to turn down the radio. "You haven't said anything about her." 

Rhett's shoulders rise and fall with a shrug so subtle that you nearly miss it. "They're alright," pause. Then, a weary laugh. "I jus' wish they'd like me back."

Yeah. You understand the feeling. 

He doesn't seem to notice the petals clinging to the lower strands of his hair and into his flannel, hanging off the edge of his pocket and accumulating in his lap. They're identical to the ones sitting on your dash, dry and shriveled from the sun, bouncing as your front tire hits a pothole. 

Now that you give it some thought, you suppose that's why he's drunk. 

"My throat hurts," he grumbles out of the blue, rattling you from the sanctuary of your thoughts. 

You hum, not entirely there. "Getting sick?" 

Quiet, he reaches into his flannel pocket, producing a small assortment of something green. Rose stems, their thorns stained with crimson. There's no way that he's...

Your tire smacks the edge of a curb. The steering wheel yanking out of your hands.

Shit. 

Right. The road. 

"You've been coughing those up?" Voice strained by your heart, sitting high in your esophagus. You're so damn lucky that was a concrete curb and not another car. 

And yet, you dare to peer at him through your peripheral. Those stems still resting in his big palm, as if he doesn't have the strength to put them away again. You reckon he's not sober enough to have noticed your mistake. He would have commented on it by now, making fun of it as if he's any better of a driver. 

"Fuckin' hurts," it comes out softly, a confession that his own ears are afraid of. 

And it's the kind of statement that echoes throughout your car for the rest of the drive. Rattling between the pauses between songs and bubbling to the surface at every lull of the music. Clouded over by too many wonderings of how long he's been quietly dealing with the roses growing in his lungs. A condition so extreme that the stems are beginning to come up, too. 

You would ask why he's never told you about this, but...

Rhett's head cracks against the window with a heavy thunk as you pull into the driveway. So sharp and sudden that you fear he's broken the glass. But the only wound to come out of it is the red spot on his forehead, the color already rising to the surface by the time you put the car in park.

"Did that hurt?" It's impossible to ward off the lightness in your tone; a smidgen amused. 

"Nuh-uh," but he's rubbing at it like it does. 

You shouldn't have believed him, either, because by the time you get him through the door, it's already begun to swell. Miniscule at first, but if you give it some time, it'll grow into a proper bump. One that he'll grimace at in the morning but will lie through his teeth when you ask if it's hurting him. 

If he were sober, he would be nipping at your palm for daring to venture near his face; you can hear it now, the prematurely yelped "'m alright!" before you've even opened your mouth. But he's not sober. Has to put his hand on your waist to stabilize himself, not entirely aware of how you're curling your hands around his cheeks, holding him still. 

You don't think this one will rise too horribly, but you've been wrong before. Like how you insisted the cut on your side was just a scratch and wound up needing more stitches than you knew how to count. 

"Will you let me put ice on it?" You find yourself asking, your fingers drifting up to smooth over the bump. 

Defiant, his head shakes. 

"What if I order a pizza? Will you let me then?" Trying again. But even at the prospect of his favorite drunk snack, he's not interested. 

"Ice cream?" No.

"A movie?" Wrong again.

"Two movies?" Nope.

"A promise to never speak of this again?" Nada.

Huffing, you let go of his face, throwing your hands in the air instead. "Is there anything I can bribe you with?"

His brows furrow. A thought flickers behind his eyes.

Slowly, he nods. 

You've got a bad feeling about whatever this could be, but God, it's too late for you to care. "What is it?"

Even if he would have let you go on for the next century, you would have never guessed that he wanted this. 

Here in the soft sanctuary of your cozy little unmade bed, nestled beneath the myriad of sheets and blankets that you swore you'd throw into the washer three mornings ago. There might be a few crumbs left over from your snack last night, too distracted by the video on your phone to notice the mess until it was too late. 

The state of it all would bother you under normal circumstances, but you reckon you're getting contact drunk. Head spinning at the sight of this cowboy, snug as a bug in your bed, his cheek squished against the spare pillow. His arm has wound up draped over your side, over the sheets, and you can't remember when your hand drifted to his face, thumb swiping back and forth over his scruffy, unshaven jaw.

For once in your life, you can breathe.

You've started to forget what that was like.

He's so unnervingly close that you reckon he can hear the hammer of your heart rattling against your chest like a caged animal. Furious. Determined to burst through and spill its contents for him to see. The devil on your shoulder suggests that you should let it happen; chances are, he won't remember any of this come morning. But the soft, whiney voice of the angel reminds you. 

Rhett's got a soulmate. And it isn't you. 

"What made you ask for this, anyhow?" The sound of your voice comes as a surprise; one of those thoughts that have journeyed to your mouth, rather than staying up in your head. 

Those sleepy blues peel open; maybe the slightest bit cross-eyed perfectly matches that crooked little grin. "'s like a sleepover."

There's a word you haven't thought of for a while. Probably hasn't surfaced in your vocabulary since your early teenage years, arising in arguments about how unfair it was that hitting puberty meant no more sleepovers. It was okay before, so why did it become a problem when your ages started ending in 'teen'? 

Hesitant, your attention drifts to the tattoo on your wrist—that not-so-lucky horseshoe. A symbol that only became a problem in your second year of high school when your heart decided that it wanted your best friend over a soul mate. "Like the ones we're banned from?"

"Uhuh," his foot juts out to kick your ankle, "'cause we're too damn old." 

You're kicking him back before you can think twice about it. Old habits be damned; you're not letting him get a shot in without getting one yourself. But he's already fighting back, socket feet smacking against yours. Tangling. Fighting to get one punch in over the other. His leg bangs against your knee. Your hands lightly shove against his chest. 

All of a sudden, Rhett's lurching forward.

The room spins.

And you're lying on your back. Caged beneath the broad frame of a man proven to handle animals over a thousand pounds heavier than you. His hands planted on either side of your head, knees straddling your hips. Long hair strays into his face, slipping out from behind his ears, but it's not enough to block your eyes from locking.

You're itching to reach up and tuck it back into place. To drift your palms across the roughness of his cheeks and trail a thumb over those thin lips. They're bitten to all hell, but try as you might, you can't imagine they're anything other than soft. 

Time itself might have stopped. 

God. You can't breathe. Don't know if it's from the infestation building in your lungs or the overwhelming scent of alcohol on his tongue. 

Or maybe...maybe it's because he's gradually growing closer. Minimizing the gap between your bodies, inch by debilitating inch. An image plucked right out of your own imagination, replayed a hundred and one times. 

But this version of Rhett doesn't belong to you. 

The one in your head didn't reek of whiskey and beer. 

"Rhett..." You're whispering as if anything louder will shatter you like glass. But he's still...he's still leaning in, and, and— "Rhett. You're drunk."

He freezes. Stiff as a board. Eyes so wide that his irises look tiny. 

"Shit," jerking away as if he's been burned, "sorry." 

This time, when his back hits the bed, your belly doesn't fill with butterflies. It fills with something much, much worse. 

It's the silence that eats at you the most. He's right next to you, and yet, not a word can leave your mouth. What if you hadn't stopped him? Did he confuse you for the pretty thing at the bar, wandering around with the same marking as him? Your heart lurches in your chest, tummy twisting sourly. God, why are you even entertaining this sort of thing? 

He's your friend. Friends don't think of each other like this, especially when one of them has a soulmate waiting on them. 

A funny feeling swells in the back of your throat, stomach gurgling so loudly that it's got Rhett tilting his head to look at you. 

"Are y—"

You're getting up before he can finish talking. Darting for the bathroom for the umpteenth time today. 

You wake to an empty bed. 

Sunlight trickles through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating the freshly made sheets that Rhett once occupied, tucked in the best he could get it. He's been gone long enough for them to feel cool to the touch, but you can't hear him moseying around your house, either.

Your bare feet drift across the chilly, wooden floor, still frozen with midnight's temperature drop. Where Rhett would typically bump the thermostat up a couple of degrees, today, it sits the same as you left it. 

"Rhett?" Voice a smidgen too fragile for the hammering of your heart. 

All you receive is an echo, variants of your own tune. His boots are missing from where they once sat by the front door, and when you creep far enough to peer through the kitchen window into the backyard, you don't find him there, either. The ice pack has been resting in the freezer long enough to begin hardening again. 

And your phone left sitting on the counter overnight, contains a notification from everything and everyone, except for one man. Still the same text messages from three days ago, no matter how many times you refresh the page. But the magnetic whiteboard on the side of your refrigerator has a new smiley face on it. 

...and the marker is once again missing.

With a sigh, you reach for the phone, fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. 09:47 PM

It's not until after you've got a morning drink in hand that you recognize the tire tracks in your front yard. The grass flattened in the corner of your driveway in a fashion that only Perry Abbott can pull off. No matter how many times he's driven here, he's always overshot the turn and ventured into the lawn.

Your phone is still quiet when you cruise through town a little after nine. Rhett's truck is missing from its place in front of the bar, the space now occupied by a vehicle that the Abbotts can't afford. 

 On its own, your heart lurches in your chest. The tail end of a blue pickup is poking out from a streetside parking spot just down the main drag, and that's got to be him. You know this town like the back of your hand. There aren't many trucks that look like Rhett's. If you catch him now, maybe you can smooth things over regarding last night. Before the dust begins to settle and erode away at your psyche—

But Rhett's truck doesn't have stickers. 

This time, you don't make it to the bathroom before that damned sickness overtakes you. Spewing onto the side of the road at the only red light in town, right in front of the old cafe with its outdoor seating. 

A hangover would be more dignifying. At least then, a little old lady wouldn't be tilting her head at you, her kind, wrinkled eyes soft as she offers you a smile. You understand that look more than you'd like to admit. 

It's the same expression you carried when those petals burst from Rhett's mouth. 

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. Yesterday.

Odd. Usually he responds fairly quickly, at least when it comes to him hijacking one of your belongings, but maybe he's busy. Summer has never been kind to the Abbotts, between blistering heat and cattle who love to take down the southern fences to get at the neighbor's grasses. Judging by the forecaster rambling on the news, things aren't about to get easier, either. 

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. Two days ago.

You: I'll give you a hint. It writes in purple ink. 07:33 PM

No dice. 

How are you meant to leave reminders in the kitchen when a rogue cowboy has pocketed your only marker? It's barely been three days, and you've already started to forget things. Today was laundry day, but now you're standing here, swaddled in Rhett's oversized shirt because it's the only clean thing you have left. Maybe there is a benefit to not returning his clothes. You were meant to go get a spice for this new recipe but didn't remember until you were halfway into working on it. Come to find out, that recipe really, really relied on it. 

You can try to blame your lack of an appetite on your cold, unseasoned dinner all you want, but it only goes so far. Heart lurching in your chest, as the screen lights up with a text.

Autumn: Still coming with us Friday night? 👀 07:51 PM

 You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. One week ago.

You: I'll give you a hint. It writes in purple ink. Five days ago.

You: I'm going to call a bounty hunter if you continue this hostage situation. Three days ago. 

You're getting sick of feeling your heart twist every time you look at this damn screen. But that stupid son of a bitch still hasn't—

"Excuse me," a lady whispers, squeezing past you, "I'm sorry." 

The entrance of Odessa's probably isn't the best place for you to be checking your phone, now that you think about it. 

That's alright; you're already sliding the device into your back pocket, reaching to catch the door before it can close behind her. You've wasted enough time for your friends to have already secured a spot at the Handsome Gambler. It's a wonder nobody hasn't given you a ring to make sure you weren't nabbed off the street. 

Stepping outside does nothing to ward off the drone of multiple shop televisions. All of them moan about how another wicked storm is due to ravage Wabang and every town around it. Same channel. Same woman talking. Same obnoxious blue background. It's a tale you've heard so many times that you can nearly quote it word for word. 

There's a serious storm rolling in tonight. Tornadoes and hail are possible. Here's what to do in a tornado. Do not do these five things in a tornado. Download the news app to stay connected. Tune back in soon to find out if the forecast has miraculously gotten better or worse! 

Looking overhead, you can already see the dark accumulation in the distance, a humid breeze tickling your neck as it drifts past. It feels just like the night you and Rhett rode out into the west pasture to watch the storm roll in. 

Sitting in the grass, watching those dark gray clouds roll closer and closer whilst the horses relaxed behind you, their attentions focused solely on the greenery below. You can still hear the tune blaring from the speaker of his phone. He'd really thought he was clever, playing that Gary Allen song about how every storm runs out of rain. It wasn't so cute when the south pasture flooded. 

A laugh cuts across the evening air. Sharp and pitchy enough to have your head tilting in the direction of it. Right behind you, on the corner of the block. 

Maria Olivares. That's a face you haven't seen in a long while. Wasn't she off to medical school, a couple hours away from here? Who in the world could she possibly be...

You know that cowboy. 

Puzzle pieces click into place. The darkened mark gracing her inner wrist. Too small for you to make out. How she giggles and batts her eyes up at Rhett, as he talks about something in that wonderfully deep voice of his. 

Of course, Rhett's soulmate would be Maria. How could it not be? No wonder why he was so crazy about her in high school; they've got the same damn marking on their bodies. 

As if to spite you, a muscle spasms in the juncture of your wrist. Sourness bubbles in the back of your mouth, but for once, you're able to swallow it down. Not here. Not when either of them can turn their heads and realize that you're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring like some kind of creep. Even coming from a childhood best friend, that would be weird. 

"Are you in line?" 

You jerk backward. Wide eyes landing on the wirey frame of some middle-aged man standing in front of you. He motions, with the brim of his hat, toward the door. The Handsome Gambler. Your destination.

"Distracted," you blurt, scurrying to grab the handle before he can, "sorry."

"There you are!" A glass of beer rises from the opposite end of the bar. Autumn. "I was fixin' to come looking for you!"

You have to wait until you're within earshot before you can respond to her, squeezing past the group of cowboys crowded at the corner, watching a PBR ride on someone's cellphone. "I was eavesdropping," You supply, can't keep a damn thing to yourself these days, "Maria Olivares must be Rhett's shiny new soulmate."

Autumn's jaw slackens, eyes so big they might comically burst out of her skull, "are you kidding?" 

One of her friends, you forget her name, gives you a gentle nudge with her arm. You suppose Autumn has already filled her in about your situation. "How did you find out?" Her tone is gentle, nearly washed over by the music blaring from the stereo. 

"Saw them laughing together in the street." There's more to that statement, context, and a reason behind why you've come to that conclusion, but Autumn is taking a brightly colored drink from the bartender, passing it your way.

The Handsome Gambler and mixed drinks do not go hand in hand; there's always too much or too little of something. But out of the corner of your eye, you can see the door opening, two familiar frames entering the bar, the happy new couples themselves. 

Tonight, you don't give a damn what these things taste like. So long as it makes you forget the sour twist in your chest, lungs tightening as if all the air has been sucked from them. Without second thought, you bring the glass to your lips.

It doesn't leave until it's halfway empty, and that's only because the need for oxygen has grown superior. 

The lady behind the bar lifts a freshly cleaned shot glass. You've got a feeling that she's overheard your ramblings. "Need something stronger?"

She doesn't need to say another word. "Absolutely." 

One shot. 

Fuck this town.

A second. 

And fuck Rhett Abbott. 

You're feeling delusional enough to ask for a third, but Autumn's nudging you a glass of water instead. It doesn't have the same bite, but it's equally unpleasant against the back of your throat, still raw and sore. 

Next to you, Autumn and her two friends are already delving into a new conversation. Something about the oddities going on around town and how some old man says he walked into a cave and saw a mastodon. You suppose there must be some inside group dedicated to continuing the claim because it's a rumor you've heard every year. 

A smile fights its way onto your face. You and Rhett used to gear up and go mastodon hunting up on the old trails behind the Abbott property. Royal loved to ask what y'all planned to do with it once you caught it, but you and Rhett never thought that far ahead. 

Your gaze follows the bartender, ready to ask for something sweet, but she's on the other end, gathering a dozen beers for a party that just walked in. Someone leans onto the bar. His head blocking part of your view. But then he looks over, and—

Rhett's eyes widen at the sight of you. By the feel of it on your face, the expression is mutual.

At least, it is for a second. That sourness jumps into your throat. Lower gut churning with a fervor unlike ever before. 

"I'm heading out back," you blurt, hand rising to cover your mouth, "you don't wanna follow." 

The girls frown, but they're certainly not making the risk to stop you. Autumn's already reaching for your drink, accepting your nod as a sign that she can finish off what you've got left. A voice jumps across the blare of the music. Almost sounds like the call of your name. But you don't have the luxury of stopping and looking. 

Your feet are barely falling into line. Rushing to push through the men gathered by the back exit. Past the blasting jukebox. There's that tightness in your lungs again. A thick sensation rising higher. Higher. Higher in your throat. There's the door. There's the door. Your hands are reaching out. Grappling at the handle. 

Hinges squeal open. Shoes scuffing on the concrete. 

Vivid purple petals burst past your lips like goddamn confetti. Stems and all. Ripping past your already battered windpipe and sticking to your tongue, little bits of purple carrying in the wind. 

Those three-petalled flowers were pretty until they started growing in your lungs. You can't stand the sight of them, but you've got no choice but to cough more of them up. As if any amount of effort will make them disappear. 

 A bundle of them have caught in the back of your mouth, stubbornly thwarting your ability to breathe. Light as a feather, your head spins, feet stumbling as you scurry to one of the chairs, sitting against the wall. The plastic groans under your weight, so brittle that it ought to give away at any moment.

Lightning flickers as another wave of flowers rain to the floor, and it's a wonder you can get these out at all. 

The back door opens with a screech. Music pours through the gap, an incoherent tune so loud that you can hardly hear the thunder rolling through town. Someone in boots stumbles out, keeling over.

A bloodstained rose tumbles to the ground, pink and red petals dancing behind it, landing amongst your mess of purple. 

When you lift your head, you know what you're going to see. But that doesn't make the look in Rhett's eyes any easier to bear. Some kind of hellish cross between horror and bewilderment that manages to look akin to a wounded puppy. 

Not a word leaves his mouth. Doesn't get the opportunity to, for that matter, another plume of petals forcing their way past his lips before he can do anything about it. Just the sight of them has that tickle building in the back of your throat, but for the time being, your tank is empty. 

Thunder booms as Rhett falls into the chair opposite you. His hand dips into his flannel pocket, producing...

your marker. 

"'m sorry," he mutters, sentence broken by a cough, "Didn't realize I stuck it behind my ear 'til you texted me."

"Which time?" You can't help the bitterness seeping into your tone, plucking the little writing utensil from his outstretched hand. 

His eyes dart away. 

The tension in the silence doesn't come from the storm. Wind howling around the corner of the building, rustling through the trees. Lightning flickers, illuminating the world around you for the briefest of moments, and just like that, rain begins to fall. Coming down in a thick sheet, so strong that even under the awning, it manages to reach you, mist tickling your skin and dampening your clothes.

Idle, your fingers twist the marker back and forth; it's still warm from where it rested in his pocket, snug against his chest. A part of you wonders if he always runs this hot or if your hands are just cold from the Wyoming air.

"So you and Maria, huh?" Even with the roar of the storm, your voice is too loud; a megaphone in the library would be more tolerable. 

"Nah, I just ran into her 'bout a half hour ago." Rhett's head shakes, eyes on the floor. "We were both goin' to the same place, 'n that was about it."

"Damn, and here I thought she was your soulmate." You hate that a selfish part of you floods with relief. So overcome with it that you can feel the way your shoulders drop. "It would have made for the perfect story."

You could have been the perfect story, too.

"I don't know why I liked her in high school," he's continuing, running a hand through his hair, fingers visibly catching on a tangle, "'s like talkin' to a fuckin' wall."

Of all the things you've imagined him saying, that wasn't even close to making it on the list. Though, you can't say he's entirely wrong; ever since that time you got paired with Maria for a history presentation, you haven't been able to see what's so interesting about her, either. Nothing but one-word answers and giggling with her friends while you worked on the assignment by your lonesome. 

It may be petty, but you're still bitter. 

"I'm sorry, I..." Rhett's talking again, caving to the silence that you've unintentionally put between you two. His hands fall into his lap, clasping together. Then, break apart just as quickly, one of them reaching up to rub at his forehead. "I shouldn't have tried to kiss you the other night."

"It's alright—" your tongue pauses before the rest of your sentence can follow. I wanted you to. But you're looking down at your tattoo, and it's still the same horseshoe. It doesn't match Rhett's. 

It will never match Rhett's. 

Finding your voice is damn near impossible, but you do it anyway. "You've done stranger things while under the influence." 

"Like gettin' a DUI on the back of a horse?" He says it so bluntly that you can't help but sputter. 

It's easy. Dissolving into laughter. Peering at each other through smiling eyes. Yeah, getting a DUI on horseback is much, much worse than trying to steal a kiss. You've still got the voicemail from when Joy called you in the dead of night, asking you to come get Rhett and his horse. 

White flashes. Lighting up the world for the briefest moment. An ear-splitting crackle erupts from above. So loud that the town lights flicker in unison like a bunch of candles nearly blown out by the squealing wind. 

"'s gettin' pretty bad out here." The sound of Rhett's voice is nearly lost to the ringing in your ear. 

"Tell me about it," you lean forward, peering over at the miniature river that runs down into the alleyway, carrying with it a parade of purple, pink, and red flower petals. "The road'll be flooded by the time Autumn decides she's ready to leave."

Rhett's head tilts to the side. "You didn't drive?" 

"Couldn't." Shocker, you know. "I had a hot date with a shot of whisky."

"Two from what I saw," so he was watching you do that, huh?

You wink. "I would have made it three if I knew you were watching."

Something crackles in the distance. Maybe a tree struck by lightning, bits of bark falling like rain. A little too close for comfort, whatever it was.

That tickling rises in the back of your throat once more. Forces another cough out of you. The purple petals catch in the wind before they can hit the ground, soaring off like tiny planes. Rhett's eyes follow them until they're out of sight. 

All of a sudden, he rises to his feet, spurs chiming with the motion. Must have forgotten to take those off again. "Need a ride?" Offering his hand. 

You take it before you even realize what he's asking. 

A part of you is beginning to suspect that Autumn can see into the future because she's hardly phased when she turns her head to see you meander back into the bar, hand in hand with Rhett. Her white teeth flash you with a smile, perhaps a little too interested in whatever Billy Tillerson is babbling into her other ear. With their hands intertwined, you can hardly tell that they've got timers imprinted on their wrists, bearing identical numbers.

Autumn doesn't need to ask when you hand her the twenty from your pocket; in the time you've known each other, you've proven to be a creature of habit. Instead, she offers you a wink, not a word said. 

Rhett's already by the door, working his beat-up wallet back into his jeans before he can set it down and forget that it's there. "Y' ready to get wet?" He chirps once you're within earshot. 

You're not, but there's no stopping the rain now that it's coming down. "Ready as I'll ever be." 

The door creeks open. A gust of wind rushes in through the gap. Slams you with the force of a freight train. Damn near strong enough to knock you on your ass. But Rhett's grabbing hold of your wrist and him hauling you forward is the only thing keeping your feet from being swept out from under you. 

Freezing rain splatters against your skin like a million tiny bullets. So sharp you think they might pierce through and come out the other side. A sheet of white blinds you. Forced to lower your head and prey Rhett's hauling you the right direction. The sidewalk is already flooded. Splashing up to lick your ankles. Soaking through your shoes. 

You're moving. You know you're moving. But you might as well be on some hellish treadmill because it doesn't feel like you're going anywhere.

All of a sudden, Rhett's pulling you to the right. Toward the curb. Reaching for the handle. Yanking so hard you can hear it over the rain. 

It opens. You're inside within the very same second. Clambering into the cloth passenger seat, pulling your legs in, just as Rhett slams the door shut. Through the blurry dash, he's only identifiable as a big blue splotch, travelling around the front of his truck. His door rips open just as quickly, the vehicle rocking as he all but throws himself inside.

"'s fuckin' cold!" He sputters, blindly jabbing the key at the ignition. Miss. Miss again. Another miss. He tilts his head. It slides home. 

It's been a minute since the last time you heard this old truck roar to life. Even longer since you've last felt your skin go this numb. Shivering like a leaf, nerves so ruthlessly beaten by the elements that they're shot. There's a texture to this seat. You know there is, but you can't feel it. 

A weary hand darts out. Wavering back and forth. Narrowly misses the little heat dial.

"Ain't got heat, remember?" Rhett almost sounds guilty, though you can't say for sure. It's hard to get a read of his face when he's focused on putting the truck into gear, looking straight ahead as he pulls onto the road. Though you're not entirely sure why, he's still got that old—

...no. His spare shirt is still sitting in your clothes hamper, next in line for a wash. Even if you had miraculously known to carry it with you tonight, there's no way it would have done you any good. Not with how soaked your clothes are, dripping like you've just gone for an impromptu swim in the coldest river you could find. 

Your arms rise to wrap around yourself, clinging to what little body heat you've got left. A jacket. Why didn't you think to carry a jacket? Lightning flickers. Crackling so loudly that you can feel it travel through the ground; almost sounds as if it's laughing at you. 

Even in the safe confines of this truck, the win threatens to wriggle in and get ahold of you. Screaming around the truck. Whipping past light posts. Rattling them so hard that they sway back and forth. Something is telling you that a power outage is in your near-to-distant future. With how you can look out the back window and see it ravaging the main part of town, there's no way it's not going to take out a power line. One little mess up is all it takes to plunge this little town into darkness. 

There's already a tree down. Its long branches obstructing part of the road, forcing Rhett onto the other side to squeeze past. 

"'m I over far enough?" He sounds like he's got a handle on it, head tilting back and forth, drawing the truck closer and closer to the edge of the road. 

Your eyes squint. Struggling to see through the window. "I think so."

It's an obstacle easily overcome, but as you begin to pick up speed once more, a new problem arises. Those poor little windshield wipers can hardly keep up with the rain. Coming down in sheet after sheet, splattering against the glass quicker than it can be swept off. Driving in the ocean would have better visibility.

"Can't fuckin..." Rhett's talking to himself. You hope he's talking to himself because you can't hear him over the chatter of your teeth. Trembling like some kind of exaggerated cartoon character.

The truck gently veers to the right, off into some kind of gravel space on the side of the road, grinding to a halt.

"The— the wipers can't go any faster?" Tongue limp in your mouth. Impossible to move.

Rhett's head shakes. "No, they don't..." 

His eyes lock onto yours. Even that might be enough to eat away some of the ice forming in your bones. His jaw softens. Eyelashes fluttering with an incoming thought.

Slow, his arm rises from his side, extending your direction. "C'mere."

Your breath catches. Is that...no, you....you shouldn't—

"Promise I won't kiss ya," his fingers tap your shoulder, "'m jus' gonna warm ya up."

Another bolt of lightning flashes. 

You're scooting across the bench seat before thunder even has the chance to arise. Slipping beneath his outstretched arm, helpless to do anything but fall into his big chest, equally soaked as you are, but he's warm. A big furnace, wrapping around and squeezing you into him. 

He shifts the slightest bit, leaning against the door, opening himself up for you to properly squirm into his side. With such little space in this truck, it's a squeeze, but you fit nonetheless, cheek resting atop that old bucking bull tattoo, the scruff of his jaw tickling your forehead. 

Another rumble rolls through, wind slamming into the side of the vehicle, rocking it back and forth like some kind of giant cradle. Rhett's legs shift, properly rising up onto the seat, knees knocking into yours as they settle. There's no way that you can feel his body, not with those thick jeans in the way, but a part of you swears that you can. So certain of it that you think the ice in your bones is beginning to thaw.

A big, warm hand runs up and down the expanse of your arm as if to create a little friction there. "Can y' still feel your hands?" He murmurs, voice rumbling against the top of your head, and you think that's the tip of his nose bumping into you.

You're wiggling your fingers, can see them moving in the darkness, but hardly any sensation comes of it. Feels as if you're operating a separate object and not a part of your own body. "I don't know." 

He reaches down, both hands wrapping around yours, and immediately, it's as if you've been set ablaze. Fire burning in your frozen joints, sensitive to even the slightest change in temperature. Rhett's thumb swipes against yours, a rough glide, his skin weathered by a lifetime of labor on the ranch. 

They're so much bigger, too, dwarfing yours in comparison, long and thick with muscle and built-up callouses. He must be noticing it as well because he's sliding his index finger down next to yours, and even in the dark, you can tell that he's at least twice the size. So big that you can hold just the four of his fingers, and not even need the rest of his hand.

You don't know why you're doing this or why he's letting you. 

Careful, your gaze crawls upward, roaming over the wet fabric of his flannel, up his damp neck, and the dripping curls resting at his nape. And he's...

he's already looking at you. Half-lidded eyes fixated on your face, the corner of his lip twitching upward for the briefest moment. A tickle rises in the back of your throat. Nothing comes of it. Lightning lights up the world like a light switch flicked, but you don't hear the thunder that follows. 

His nose bumps into yours. Breath fanning out against your skin. 

This...you shouldn't...but...

Those blue eyes drop down to your lips. Then back up to you. His eyelashes flutter. You think yours might, too. He's so close. Can feel the stubble on his chin brush against you, a fleeting thing that you can somehow still feel, even after the contact breaks. A breath trickles out of your chest. The slightest little movement that brushes your bottom lip against his. And he's not moving away, he's—

An ear-splitting boom tears past the truck. Rattling it back and forth. Sends you and Rhett jumping. Your head bangs against the seat cushion. His elbow hits the horn. 

"The hell..." he grumbles, with a shake of his head. "Was that s'pposed to be thunder?" 

"Is that what it was?" Parroting him, looking toward the window as if that could possibly give you an answer. 

The rain has slowed into a slow trickle that is easily swept away by the windshield wipers, unveiling the world around you once more. You recognize where you're at now, just two or three miles down from your house.  So damn close, and yet...

"Let's get you home," Rhett's sitting up, and you've got no choice but to do so as well. The scoot to the passenger side is almost shameful, the cold, soaked seat squishing beneath you like a sponge. 

A thick collection of petals swell in the back of your throat as Rhett's foot finds the gas pedal once more. Were you about to kiss him? What the hell were you thinking? That isn't how this works. You're not soulmates.

Somehow, the air has grown even colder without him wrapped around you, his very presence haunting you like a ghost. Lingering in the back of your mind so strongly that you can almost deceive yourself into believing that you're still snuggled into his side. But no matter how hard you focus, you can't force it to manifest into reality. 

Cruel is what it is.

Even as the rain picks up once more, it's not enough to pull you over again, swept away from the windshield as quickly as it lands. There's another tree down, but it has barely made its way into the road, such a simple obstacle that only takes a second or two to get past. And just like that, your porch light is emerging in the distance. A golden glow that grows larger by the second, like a tiny sun rising to greet you.

The gravel driveway crackles beneath the tires; it's usually a pleasant sound, but today, all it does is cause your stomach to sink. Such a sour feeling that it rises, flower petals tickling the back of your throat until you cough. Little bits of purple scatter across your lap. Rhett's foot jumps to the brake pedal, a soft squeal emitting from beneath the vehicle as it comes to a stop. 

You've never been so disappointed to see your front door. 

"Thank you," barely a whisper as it leaves your mouth. Anything louder might break you.

He nods, eyes darting from your lap and up to your face. "Yeah." 

The only sound in the truck is that of the frozen rain pitter-pattering on the metal roof. Nothing more. Nothing less. With a forced, tight-lipped smile, you reach for the door handle. It opens with a groan, creating just enough space for you to slip out, the oversaturated ground squelching beneath you. He doesn't say anything as you shut the door, so neither do you. 

Resigned to silence, you trudge through the rain. Wind rips past, determined to lift you up off the ground and whisk you into the sky. But you don't lift off the ground. You don't even slip. Your feet find the front steps of your porch, hand fishing into your pocket and producing a set of drenched keys.

The confines of your home are so much warmer than it was outside, and yet, as you toe off your muddy shoes, you can't help but compare it to Rhett. Your heater may be strong, but it doesn't wrap around you the way his arms did. Big. Secure. The kind of thing you thought only existed in your daydreams. 

Strange, you don't hear his truck pulling out of the driveway. You know he hasn't; that old GMC runs far too loudly for it to slip by unnoticed. Curious, you hook your finger into the blinds, pulling them down.

No, he hasn't moved at all.

...what's he doing out there? Even from here, you can tell that the storm is picking back up again, rustling through the trees, swaying them back and forth. 

Nothing has fallen or otherwise obstructed the driveway, and something couldn't have gone wrong. Not that quickly. Unless he's suddenly developed the ability to hear your heart hammering against your chest, wordlessly begging him not to leave your driveway, there's no reason for him to still be parked. 

The cab light flicks on. Then off again. All of a sudden, he's rounding the back of his truck. You're opening the door, socked feet stepping out onto the cold, wet porch. His spurs chime, boots thumping up one stair. Two. Three. Four. No, no, something must have happened. His eyes are wide, and his jaw is slack, looks half scared to death. 

But he's not stopping. 

"Rhett—"

"I forgot somethin'." One more step, and he's leaning down, and, and...

It's the simplest of things, merely pressing against each other for a long moment, but heaven itself cannot compare to the feeling of Rhett's lips against yours. His nose crushed uncomfortably against your cheek, big hands cradling your cheeks like you'll break if he doesn't. 

Just as quickly, he draws away, soft blue eyes meeting with yours. Lightning flashes, but even the following slam of thunder cannot stop you from grabbing a fistful of his flannel and yanking him in once more. Lips crashing together, feet stumbling with the force of it. One of his arms is wrapping around your waist and your hands are sliding up into his hair. Bold. As if this is familiar, something you've done every day of your lives. 

The press of his mouth and the stubble of his chin are so much more than your imagination ever could have crafted. Warm and scratching against you so deliciously that your head goes quiet. Soul mate markings be damned. This is where you're meant to be. Right here. Twisting your fingers through his unruly curls, gasping against him. Drowning as he kisses you again, and again, and again. 

Your head is spinning. Stumbling blindly as he leans into you, forcing you backward. Your heel catches on the doorway. "Rhett—" But you don't fall. You can't. Not with that strong arm around you. "Cowboy!" 

"You're the only one that's ever called me that." He breaks away, kicking at the door with his foot. There's no doubt a mud stain on the white frame now, but you've hardly got it in you to care. 

"What?" Your nose bumps into his cheek. A little too close.

"Cowboy." He mutters, lips brushing against yours. So, so close. 

A breath hitches in your throat. "Should I stop?"

"Never." And he's kissing you again. 

Muffled thunder rumbles outside, and you're pretty sure the power has gone out, but you can't open your eyes to check. Helpless to do anything but tug on his hair, drinking in his deep grumble like you're starved. You should be embarrassed. Shouldn't be this desperate over a first kiss. 

But Rhett's got it just as bad. Pushing you backward until you're bumping into the wall. His big, calloused hand is venturing beneath your soaked shirt. God, and you're letting him. Back arching as his fingertips trail up your spine, chest pressing into his. Gasping against his lips like you're trying to put on a show. 

More. You want more. Reaching down to toy with the buttons on his shirt, undoing them one at a time, shaking fingers struggling to push them through the holes. Too eager to feel the expense of his chest beneath your palms. 

"You're gonna have t' stop me," Rhett's speaking against your lips, batting your hands away. Makes no effort to finish your handiwork as he yanks the flannel off his shoulders, the final three buttons snapping off and scattering across the hardwood floor.

Before you can stop it, your hand drops to his belt, pulling him closer. Earns you an affectionate chuckle that echoes throughout the house. Those hips of his press forward, obnoxiously large buckle digging into your belly, not an inch of space left between your bodies. 

"Why would I stop you?" It's too early for you to be reaching down to grab at the hem of your shirt, but you don't care. You want this damn thing off. The soaked fabric stubbornly clings to your frame, heavy as you drag it over your head. It hits the floor with a wet thunk, a mess for the future version of you to handle. 

Those deep blue eyes might eat you alive. "Good point." 

It's hard to tell who makes the next move. All you know is that you're leaning in to kiss him, noses crashing together, and his hands are appearing on your ass, squeezing until you get the hint to jump. It all happens so fast. The thunk of your back against the wall. His hips slotting between your thighs. 

"Y' feel what you're doin' to me?" He grunts, and he doesn't need to specify for you to know what he's talking about—heavy bulge straining against his jeans, pressing perfectly against your core, igniting a familiar heat there. 

"Uhuh," is all you're capable of. Greedy hands sliding across his chest and up his shoulders, feeling over all the little freckles and marks that have haunted your imagination. Fuck, and he just lets you. Too busy leaning in to steal a kiss off you. One. Two. Three. Before he shifts to the juncture of your jaw, stubble tickling as he kisses down your neck.  

Your hips buck forward. 

"Fuck," Rhett's voice tickles your ear, "shoulda let me kiss you earlier, sweetheart."

A shiver ripples down your spine. That's new. 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Finding your words is a task in of itself. Hard to do much of anything when his lips find the soft spot beneath your ear, sucking lightly. 

"You were drunk," voice strained, wound too tight in your throat. 

"Felt pretty sober in the moment," He hums, tongue poking out to wet your skin. Fuck, you wonder what that would feel like in other places, thighs squeezing impossibly tighter around his hips, works a groan right out of him. 

Thunder booms outside, but it's not enough to stop your lips from crashing once more. Teeth clattering, hopelessly grinding down into him, and even these layers of clothing can't stop you from feeling the way he twitches. 

It's all a blur. 

One moment, you're up against the wall. The next, you're on the ground again, socks sliding against the floor as you stumble down the hall. Hands tangled in his hair. Gasping against his lips. Moving blindly, too focused on each other to spare even a second. You don't know you're in the bedroom until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, falling backward with a yelp. 

Fuck, you shouldn't be doing this. There's no reason for you to be letting Rhett Abbott climb into bed with you and slot his big, warm body between your legs. He's your friend. You've known him since you could walk. And these tattoos. They don't match. You're not soulmates. 

Rhett's hand rises, pinning yours to the mattress, fingers slotting together. Must know what you're thinking about. "Who gives a fuck 'bout soulmates," he whispers, leaning forward to bump his nose against yours, rubbing them back and forth. "A damn stranger ain't gonna make me as happy as you do."

And you don't...you don't know what to say. 

Maybe you don't need to say anything because he kisses you like he's heard everything your heart has to tell him. Stealing your breath away, plucking every little flower from your lungs, so dizzying that your legs have to curl around him to keep from floating away. As if you could possibly escape the big, warm arms that have settled on either side of your head. 

Slow, his weight settles on top of you. Bellies snug together. So close that you can hardly grind up into him, reduced to a needy squirm, whining high in your throat. 

"Shh," he coos. A big hand curling around your cheek, thumb stroking the thin skin there. "I'll take care of you."

He's already making good on his promise, pulling away to kiss down your neck once more. Hot tongue poking past his lips, running over a vein, leaves behind a glistening trail as he makes his way to your collar. One of his hands dips behind your back, pinching the clasp of your bra, opens it so easily that it almost surprises you.

The last thing you expect is for him to gasp when he pulls it away. Awestruck by the sight of you, bare, for his eyes only. "So fuckin' pretty," whispering, as he kisses down your chest. Too eager to run his tongue down the swell of your breast, so content that his closed eyes seem to smile. 

Oh, that's...

"Rhett..." Heat swells in your lower belly. The feeling of his tongue swirling around your nipple is...truly something... 

Just as quickly, he's darting to the other one, all too excited to feel the little bud harden beneath his touch. Sensitive. Only takes the slightest bit of suction to make you jolt. But he must have noticed something even more enticing because he's pulling away from that one as well, a big hand rising to toy with it as his head dips down lower. 

A delicate kiss presses to the scar on your left side. 

Then another. And another. And another. Loving on the old wound, as if he can possibly reverse the damage if he gives it enough attention. Maybe just one more kiss will do it. If not, then surely the next one can make it happen.

"It was nobody's fault," you say softly, reaching to run your fingers through his hair once more. Truly, it wasn't. Nobody could have anticipated that shard of glass. 

"I know," the rumble of his voice tickles, pausing to run his tongue up the expanse of the mark, "jus' wish it didn't hurt ya like it did."

Gradually, he draws himself away from your side. Kissing his way down your belly until he meets the thin, delicate band of your underwear. His eyes peer up at you with a silent question. Your answer comes in the form of lifted hips, allowing him to pull the material down your legs. Then, he reaches for his belt, pinching it open with mesmerizing ease.

One boot thunks against the floor. Then the other. You really hope he didn't track mud all over your hardwood.

"You and that obnoxious buckle," the comment slips off your tongue before you can stop it. Too busy watching him undress. It's unfair how well the fabric clings to his thighs, fitting him like a damn glove. 

He laughs, kicking his jeans off his feet. "What, don't think it looks good on me?" 

"If I answer that, your ego will go through the roof." Your eyes roll; the last thing you need to do is tell him that, yes, you do like it. Lord only knows he'll run himself through four more rodeo seasons, trying to score an even bigger buckle. 

"Already has," he winks, hooking a thumb into the waistband of his boxers.

You don't know what he's got to be so confident about until...

"Jesus, Rhett."

"What?" He grins. Absolutely fucking obnoxious. But you can't formulate a single word. "What?"

Your thighs cinch together, hiding yourself from view. There is absolutely no reason why that should be springing up from its confines, so heavy that it smacks against his hip, unable to stand up against his belly. So wet that even in the dark you can see him glistening.

"Naw, y' don't gotta be shy," Rhett's hand travels up your knee, slipping between your closed legs, callouses dragging deliciously against your sensitive skin, "'s just me." 

A little too easily, you fall apart once more, feeling a little too exposed as his hungry eyes rake down your body. Every imperfection and curve is on full display. An exhibit of the life you've lived. And Rhett just might be your biggest admirer, his warm frame slipping between your legs, big hands gliding up your sides, pressing lazy kisses as he settles on top of you. 

"Rhett..." you don't know why you're saying his name, thighs curling around his sharp hips. His cock head bumps into the meet of your thigh, sends you jumping before you can realize what's happened.

"Ain't gonna hurt ya," uttering beneath his breath, a sentiment meant for your ears only. "I promise." He reaches between your bodies, gently guiding himself to—

Your head tilts back with a gasp. That's new. The delicate drag of Rhett's cock, gliding between your folds, the underside of him nudging at your clit. Hadn't realized you'd gotten this worked up until now, so wet that you can almost convince yourself that you don't need any lube at all. Not a hint of dryness to be found, sliding so, so easily against you.

But then you're gathering the courage to peer down between your legs, and even the darkness can't hide how big he is. Thicker than your daydreams have ever depicted, just a hair longer than any of the toys hiding beneath the bed.

"Bedside table," you blurt, heart fluttering in your chest. Walking is a privilege you'd like to keep. 

An unforeseen positive to letting your best friend between your legs is the fact that he knows exactly what you're trying to say. No need for questions as Rhett reaches off to the side, hand disappearing into the drawer. Comes back with the bottle, then delves back in, producing some tiny, round hunks of plastic.

You don't recognize them until he flicks one on—the tiny, fake candles from a few Halloweens ago.

"How romantic," there's a strangeness to this that you didn't expect; oddly casual, even with this newfound situation. 

"What?" He asks, innocent as can be, like you have a choice in the matter, already putting one flickering candle off to the side. Another, next to your hip, and he's still got four or five of them left to turn on. "Ain't in the mood for some mood lightin'?"

Lying to yourself is fruitless. The soft golden glow is a welcomed addition to this dark little bedroom. Highlights the room just enough for you to catch the way he drizzles the lube into his palm, reaching down to spread it over himself. That big hand almost tricks you into believing his cock is smaller than it really is, the flushed tip nudging at your cunt with every upward glide. 

They say monsters hide in the dark, and you know you caught sight of one between his legs. 

Two fingers press into you. No warning to be found, the thick digits easing in like they've done it a million and one times, crooking upward, dragging against your walls. There's the slightest hint of a stretch, a soft ache that—

You suck in a breath, a soft noise escaping past your lips. 

Rhett's cock twitches against you. "'s that it?" 

Weak, you nod. Don't trust yourself to speak. Not with him gradually beginning to move, shallowly pumping those long digits into you, never pulling out far enough to make you feel empty. But it's so hard to stay quiet when he continuously rubs up into those little nerves, nudging them on every pass over. 

"Rhett..." hips writhing against the bed, not sure if you want to lean into it or squirm away. 

That must be all that he's planning to give you because all of a sudden, he's drawing away. Wet fingers glisten in the candlelight as he reaches for his cock once more, guiding it back between your folds. Not entirely the same as what you had before, but the drag of his cock head against your clit is so, so worth the exchange. 

His warm chest settles against yours once more, lips finding your cheek, scratchy jaw tickling the skin there. Sounds like he murmurs your name as he travels to the corner of your mouth, pressing another kiss there. Finally. Finally, he meets you for a proper kiss, almost immediately broken by the swivel of his hips, reformed just as quickly.

Your hands are on the move. One in his hair, the other on his naked shoulder, feeling the way his muscles flex and ripple beneath your fingertips. Strong from a decade of bull riding and all that time spent on the ranch, chiseled and perfect in every way you can imagine. Fuck, it's like he was built just for you and this. Rutting between your legs like he's in heat, dragging against your needy clit until your hips twitch off the mattress, pressing into him. 

Swallowing down his groan is enough to put you up on cloud nine. 

A pressure appears at your entrance—the soft nudge of his tip. Your antics must have caused him to wander a little too far down. But you're pushing down onto him like it was your intent all along, and by God, he's not trying to stop you. 

Rhett stiffens. "You want me to...?" Muttering against your lips, unable to draw himself away any further. 

"Yeah," it's the easiest thing you've said all night.

It's all the encouragement he needs, mouth meeting yours once more. Slow, that pressure between your legs begins to grow, his blunt tip spreading you wide. There's a part of you already beginning to wonder if you should have asked for more lube, but his incessant lips are so damn distracting. Tangling with yours, drawing you into a captivating dance, spinning your head round and round, drawing your mind away from the burn. 

His head slips into you with a soft 'pop,' such an odd little feeling that has you gasping into his kiss, fingertips digging into his shoulder blades. Now you can really feel him. The delicate drag of his length gradually filling you, centimeter by debilitating centimeter. You'll be waddling come morning. You can already feel it.

There's no way you won't be. Not with how your pussy aches with the overwhelming stretch of him.

"Y' want me to stop?" Rhett's low voice rumbles against your bottom lip; when did the kiss break? 

Thunder rumbles outside, your only reminder of the storm that looms just past the thin walls of your home. Even the memory of running with him in the rain feels like it was forever ago. There were flowers filling your lungs just a few hours prior, but as you draw in a breath, you can't feel a shred of evidence that they were ever there.

"Yeah," nodding, your nose bumping into his, "you're just...a lot." 

God, you shouldn't have said that. 

But it's too late. There's already a wild grin emerging onto his scruffy face, so pleased with your words that his eyes seem to sparkle. As if the sight of you struggling to take his cock wasn't enough of a boost to his ego. 

"'s that it?" Speaking through his smile, still has the audacity to sink even further into you. "Ya never had anything big as me?" 

Your eyes roll so hard that they might get stuck.

All at once, his hips are flush with yours, not an inch of space left, your legs tightening around him as if there's a risk of him pulling back out. But that's not happening. Not with the way he's blindly nuzzling his nose into you, so lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him that he can't hold his eyes open.

"Y' alright?" His eyelashes tickle your cheek as they flutter open.

"Uhuh" is the best that you've got at this given moment. It's so hard to speak when you're so full. Couldn't take another millimeter of him, even if he begged you to. "You can..." pausing for a breath, "you can move."

In perfect synchrony, your attentions flicker down to where your bodies meet. A sight lit by the golden glow of the artificial candles, illuminating the slow withdrawal of Rhett's cock, where you're stretched so wide that you don't think your smaller toys will ever satisfy you again. 

"Shit, look at that," there's no reason why Rhett, of all people, should be so mesmerized by this, but he is, and it makes you fucking dizzy. "'s fuckin' hot."

And then he's sinking back in and—

"Fuck," it's too early for you to be whimpering so high in your throat, but his blunt tip is dragging right against the sensitive nerves hidden within you, and it's so, so much. 

This close, it's hard to miss the way Rhett's breath hitches, "'s that the spot, baby?"

All you can do is nod. Nails biting into his shoulders as he draws back once more, rubbing past that little spot once more. Toys don't normally get this sort of reaction out of you, but there's just something about it being Rhett that's getting to you. Your childhood best friend. The man that your weary heart has yearned for since high school. Eye candy at every rodeo he's ever set foot in. 

His lips find yours, tangling lazily, humming all the while. A part of you wonders if he always demands this many kisses. If he makes a habit of smiling into them. The rest of you knows that he doesn't because otherwise, he'd know that the heavy thrust of his hips would send your teeth clattering together.

"Ow," he's jerking back as if he's not the main culprit behind it. 

His cock head drives right up into those nerves. Sends your back arching up off the bed, pussy spasming around him, and you don't know which of you cry out louder. 

"There, there, there," you're babbling like a fool, but he's already missing it again. Such a minuscule thing that every correction is an overshot. 

Rhett's brows furrow, focusing so damn hard, and yet, "I can't...shit, that ain't it either." 

But you've got an idea.

Without a word, you begin to lean up, foreheads bumping together as Rhett tries to follow along, his big blue eyes so wide that they glisten in the light. Slipping out of you entirely as he falls onto his haunches, looks like a big puppy when he's confused like this.

"On your back," your command is soft. It could easily be bent if he really wanted to, but he's already following through on it, twisting and falling back onto the bed without a fuss. 

Settling into his lap is a feeling you've imagined a million and one times, and yet, somehow, it's unlike anything your mind has ever come up with. Warmth radiating off him like he's a damn heater, broad chest making your hand look impossibly tiny, as you lean on him for balance. He's already one step ahead of you, carefully guiding his cock back to your dripping cunt; all you've got to do is sink down and—

A pair of gasps tear through the room. Louder than the storm raging outside.

"Y' look so fuckin' beautiful on top of me, baby," Rhett sputters, peering up at you as if you've hung the moon and the stars in the sky. 

Already, you're beginning to move. Knees digging into the mattress, palms firm against his chest as you lift yourself up. The curve of his length alone is enough to make your thighs shudder.

"You're not so bad yourself," you're breathless already, hips swiveling, searching for that deceptive little angle. Maybe if you...lean a little further forward...

There it is. 

A tingle ripples up your spine, clamping down around Rhett's cock, and he must feel it because his head rolls to the side, lips parting with a groan that ought to make your head spin. Those big hands settle onto your thighs, gripping like he'll fall off the bed if he doesn't.

"Is that—oh fuck,"  his hips jerk up off the bed, leaking tip kissing those little nerves head on, "is that it?"

You can't answer. Palms shivering against his chest, already fighting to keep yourself upright. An ache blooming in your thighs with every rise and fall, head tilting back, a familiar heat beginning to bloom in your lower belly.

Rhett must be feeling it, too. There's no way he isn't. Head rolling from side to side, back arching off the bed, unable to keep himself still beneath you, a whiny mewl escaping his parted lips. And all it's doing is jostling his length inside of you, sporadically tapping against all those sensitive spots.

A calloused thumb appears on your clit. Not sure when he started reaching down, but it's damn near got you collapsing onto his chest, a tremble setting into your exhausted bones. 

"Fuck, Rhett!" You're squealing, poorly built rhythm already beginning to fall apart. 

Again, his hips snap upward, heavy balls smacking against your ass. "'m sorry, I'm not trying to buck my hips. I just..." he doesn't get to finish that because you're falling forward into his chest, face burying into his shoulder. It's too much. It's too much. 

Big hands settle on your hips. Gripping tight as his knees bend, feet digging into the mattress to pump into you properly. Lewd smacks of skin on skin echoing through the room, artificial candles bouncing with his every motion. 

"Anyone else ever fill your sweet pussy like this?" He rasps in some rumbling, guttural tone you've never heard before. "Hm?"

Your head shakes, but it takes a moment to realize that he can't see what you're doing. Not with you nuzzled up under his jaw. "N-no," whimpering right into his ear. 

Those hands are moving again, gliding up your back, big arms securing themselves around you like a hug, the only damn thing that keeps you from bouncing further up the bed. Your forearms settle on either side of his head, shivering as you try to lift yourself up, but you can only go so far, barely able to meet his eyes.

Lips clash, so loose that it hardly even counts as a kiss. Drinking down Rhett's feeble whine. Makes your head spin so much more than the alcohol ever did. Heat pools between your legs, pussy tightening like a vice around his pistoning cock, thick tip rubbing into those nerves over and over and over. 

You're close. 

"I love you," it slips out of him so quietly that you nearly believe it's a figment of your imagination. "I love you, I love you, I love you." 

One of your hands delves into his hair, noses colliding. Think you might be whispering it back, but you can't hear what's coming out of your mouth. Overridden by the blood rushing to your head and the slap of his skin against yours, and, and, and...

Spots appear in your vision. Body going taut as you cum around him without the slightest warning. Crying out high in your throat, forehead knocking against Rhett's, an invisible flame racing across your skin. Every thrust pushes your head higher into the clouds, could damn near float up to the ceiling if his arms weren't tightening around you, his hips stalling. A melody of whimpers bubbles out of his throat, orgasm washing over him like a tidal wave. 

You think you can feel it. The spasm of his cock and the warmth of his cum painting you white, flooding your pussy so full that you think it's already beginning to pour out of you. His hips jerk up into you, punctuated by a sickening squelch and his own broken moan. 

And yet, somehow, you've got the strength to meet his swollen lips, lazy tongues poking out to twist together like a greeting. Wet and messy as can be, saliva running down your chin, drooling like dogs in the summer sun. Rhett twists beneath you, and you're vaguely aware that the world around you is spinning, falling into the mattress beside him. 

A tickle rises in the back of your throat, forcing a cough out of you. Two purple flowers dance out onto the bed, obnoxiously vibrant and dainty. They've always been small, nothing compared to the roses Rhett's been choking up, but they look even tinier in his sweaty palm.

"Spiderwort," he murmurs after a moment, running a fingertip over their petals. Bleary blues peer flicker up to you, half-lidded and turned upward by his dumb smile.

They've always been his favorite. 

"So there was no girl at the bar?" You ask, hand wandering onto his cheek, curling around it like he's the most delicate thing on this planet. 

His head shakes. "Never." 

There's still a storm lurking outside, rattling the house, lightning and thunder striking the ground with an unmatched fury, but you hardly notice it. Too distracted by the warmth of a cowboy, his legs tangling with yours, uncaring of the mess you've made together. Kissing just for the hell of it, wandering across cheeks and peppering over old scars, musing about the memories attached. 

When you fall asleep, you're not sure, but you wake snuggled into his naked chest, his big arm looped around you like a blanket. Sunshine peeks through the gap in the curtains, the shrill tune of a bird singing her song, and for once, it's dreamy rather than irritating. 

On its own accord, your fingers drift across his sleeping face, warm and maybe the slightest bit flushed. Wandering over the scruff clinging to his jaw, finally at that length where it's grown soft to the touch. Drifting around the minuscule scar above his brow, the only remnant of the night you snuck out together and wrecked the four-wheeler. 

As far as you're aware, Royal never did find out why it started making that funny noise.

...or maybe Rhett was never asleep to begin with because when you look back down, his eyes are open. 

"Keep doin' that," he grumbles, voice deeper than the rumble of last night's thunder, leaning in to press his lips against your forehead. You don't need any further encouragement, trailing your fingertips across his face just for the hell of it.

There are things you should be saying. Discussions to be had about where this puts you and what you are to each other, but the upturn of his lips tells you a million and one words. Seriousness can wait. For now, all you want to think about is this next kiss he's planting on you.

And then another between your eyes, and another on your left cheek, one more on the tip of your nose. Slowly but surely sprawling across your face, peppering you with them so quickly that it feels like the wings of butterflies fluttering against your skin.

"Rhett!" You squeal, pushing at his jaw, but it's no use. He's rolling on top of you, and you're helpless to do anything but squirm and cry out, forced to endure all these kisses. 

As quickly as they start, they stop. 

You're half anticipating them to begin the moment your eyes peel open, but he's not even looking at you. Too focused on something next to his face, just past your wrist.

Or maybe...

"What?" You're not following. 

He leans back, brows furrowed as he looks down at his arm. 

You don't get it. What, was he expecting the tattoos to change overnight? It still looks the damn same to you—

...oh. 

That's not the same marking that has marred your skin from birth. And Rhett's turning his arm to let you see, and it's—

It's the same. Rhett's old bucking bronc, your shoe flying behind its upturned feet. It was never meant to be identical; they were meant to complete each other's picture. 

"Are you serious?" You're sputtering through the smile emerging onto your face, so wide that it shapes your eyes with it. 

And Rhett's not doing much better. Red-cheeked. Grinning from ear to ear. "We just been wrong 'bout it the whole fuckin' time."

This time, when he leans down to kiss you, there isn't a single flower to be found in your lungs. No roses. No spiderwort. Just you and him collapsing into these messy sheets, tangled together as one, matching tattoos at all. 

Separation is only temporary. Breaking apart just long enough to venture into the shower together, uncaring of the tight fit, so long as Rhett's hands are gliding along your body. Tangling together in the kitchen, waiting on the microwave to beep, feet knocking into each other beneath the table like you're five years old, and sharing breakfast at the Abbott house again.

He kisses you in the hallway while mopping up the mud he tracked in. Peppers them along the side of your neck when you stumble out onto the porch to find that a tree has fallen, blocking your driveway completely. Perry says he'll come by with a chainsaw tomorrow afternoon; he could be here within the hour, but you've got the feeling that he's already caught on to what's happened. 

In the middle of summer, you begin to suspect that some familiar flowers are beginning to grow around your home. Vibrant little buds sprout from amidst the dewy grass, nestled against the foundation of your home and roaming out into the lawn, running rampant now that the storm has run out of rain.

Roses don't grow in Wabang. Unless, of course, they're accompanied by spiderwort. 

A few kisses from a cowboy are all they've ever needed. 

[secretlysamcro]

OPENING SCENE

SFX: “Bury me face down” by Grandson plays over the opening montage.

MONTAGE SEQUENCE

EXT. HIGHWAY - EARLY MORNING

A black SUV drives down the highway, just passing the ‘Welcome to Charming’ road sign. Dust kicking up behind the car.

CUT TO INT. Y/N’S NEW HOUSE - SAME TIME

The front door opens.

Y/N steps inside with a key dangling in one hand as she holds one of the last moving boxes close to her chest. Her shoes hit the hardwood floor as she moves slowly, cautiously as if surveying the place.

Dust dances in the sun slicing through the bare windows, the emptiness making it feel somewhat eery.

She drops the keys into a dish on the counter. Then adds the box on top of the already high stack of others.

CAMERA PANS OUT Wide and slow - revealing how bare the room really is. Quiet. A fresh start she’s not sure she wanted.

CUT TO INT. SUV - MOMENTS AFTER

JAX TELLER sits in the passenger seat, freshly released from Stockton. He looks out the window with a blank expression.

Faint bruising still visible, stubble outgrown, hands twitching slightly.

GEMMA TELLER MORROW driving him home. Sunglasses on, glancing at him sideways. But he doesn’t speak.

In the backseat: Jax’s kutte folded, still untouched.

CUT TO INT. SAMCRO CLUBHOUSE - SAME TIME

HAPPY LOWMAN sits on the floor with ABEL TELLER and THOMAS TELLER. A collection of toys set up between them. Neither boys smiling.

PHILLIP 'CHIBS' TELFORD leans against the bar. eyes on the boys. ALEXANDER 'TIG' TRAGER stands nearby, arms crossed, focused on the kids also. SFX: Footsteps approaching the clubhouse doors

ABEL TELLER looks over to clubhouse door. Expecting it to be his Mother. But its not. CUT TO: CHARLES 'CHUCKIE' MARNSTEIN appears in frame. Bouncing through the doors of the clubhouse. Holding up two bags of takeout. Smiling in the direction of the others.

FADE TO INT. Y/N’S NEW HOUSE - MOMENTS AFTER

• Opens all window, the wind blowing the thin curtains.

• Tosses clothes into draws, not folding just rushed.

• Opens an empty cupboard. Closing it harder than necessary.

• Lights a cigarette, takes two drags before dragging a hand over face. Clearly stressed.

CAMERA MOVES PAST Y/N THROUGH WINDOW TO INT./EXT. J. TELLER'S HOME - MID MORNING - SAME TIME

Engine cuts. Everything goes still.

JAX sits in the passenger seat, his hands loose in his lap, expression unreadable. Eyes stuck forward.

GEMMA looks at him from the drivers side.

But he doesn’t turn. Just stares at his house like it might say something to him.

She doesn’t say anything. She knows better.

CAMERA POV - JAX’S EYES

JAX turns to look across the street: A car packed slightly crooked, bumper over the curb. Front windows of the house wide open, curtains fluttering in the wind. A hoodie hangs off the porch railing. A half unpacked life in plain sight.

He notices it all, he just doesn’t care.

CUTS TO INT. J. TELLER’S HOME - FRONT DOOR OPENS

JAX steps inside. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word, just stands there, Letting the silence drag over him.

The montage is over. The music has stopped.

JAX steps into the kitchen slowly, each step careful like he’s trying not to break something. SFX: Foot steps loud on screen. Main audio focus.

CAMERA TRACKS BEHIND HIM slow and steady as he moves forward, his eyes zoned in on the floor by the sink.

The tiles are clean, blood long gone. But he still sees it.

SFX: Echoed crying fades in (V.O) JAX’S own sobs. Raw. Painful. From the moments he found Tara murdered on his kitchen floor. Sounds are faint, somewhat distant. Playing in his memory.

CAMERA MOVES IN slowly on JAX’S face. Outlining the grief he's trying to contain.

SFX: Echoed crying fades out.

GEMMA appears in frame. Stepping quietly behind JAX, who's still frozen in place, staring at the same spot.

CAMERA MOVES IN on their faces.

JAX looks numb, almost hollow.

GEMMA'S guilt written across her face.

CAMERA SHIFS TO JAX'S POV Out the kitchen window. Across the street, Y/N is on her porch, tugging her hoodie off the railing. She shakes it out and slides it on. Quick and careless. Still settling in, still stressed.

She doesn't see him watching.

GEMMA O.S (softly) "You gonna be okay here?"

CAMERA CUTS BACK TO JAX AND GEMMA JAX blinks, shakes it off. Back in the room.

JAX (quiet, distant) "Yeah. Just need a shower. Gotta get shit together...meet the boys back at the club."

GEMMA "Place hasn't felt right without you"

JAX walks past GEMMA.

No response, just the silence filling the space between them.

GEMMA turns slightly, watching him disappear down the hall.

GEMMA (under her breath) "I'm sorry"

CAMERA STAYS on her for a second longer.

CUT TO EXT. Y/N'S HOUSE - FRONT PORCH - MOMENTS LATER

Y/N stands on her porch, phone pressed to her ear. Pacing slightly, hoodie hitched up a little, slippers on.

Y/N (on the phone) "I did reset the damn router...twice. The light's still red" (pause) "Yeah well the fuckin' hot water's cut out too..."

She sighs, clearly frustrated. Turns slightly, still in mid conversation.

CAMERA SHIFTS - ACROSS THE STREET - EXT. J. TELLERS HOUSE

JAX steps out his front door. Freshly shaved. Hair slicked back. White tee. Fitted jeans. Clean white Air Forces.

He walks to the SUV parked at the curb. Opens the back door.

Reaches in, pulls out his kutte.

For a second, he stands there, holding it.

Then, he slips it on.

SAMCRO reaper proud across his back once again.

Y/N catches the motion out of the corner of her eye.

She lowers her phone slightly, distracted. Squints - trying to read the patches Still listening to the voice on the end of the line.

Y/N (distracted, muttering) "...yeah...okay"

CAMERA ZOOMS IN - EYE CONTACT.

JAX looks up. (slight tilt of the chin, eyes narrow but expression unreadable)

Y/N looks back. (Brows slightly creased) They lock eyes across the street. A second too long to just be casual. Then, JAX turns.

Y/N watches him go.

Still holding her phone, still distracted.

CLOSE UP - Y/N'S FACE. Confused. Evidently intrigued.

CAMERA CUTS TO EXT. J. TELLER HOUSE - FRONT DOOR

JAX strides back towards his front door.

Doesn't look back. JAX SLAMS the door shut behind him. THEME SONG BEGINS ON BEAT OF SLAMMED DOOR - "This life" by Curtis Stigers and The Forest Rangers. OPENING CREDITS.

TO BE CONTINUED…

[hannahssimblr]

Winter. 

When did this happen? Was I looking away for long enough for the season to change without my notice? I haven’t spent enough time here watching time, from this old velvet seat by the window that overlooks brutalist blocks, each building identical to the next. These utilitarian slabs might stand like this, grey cubes jutting from the asphalt, for five hundred years. I’m here for five months now. Thoroughly settled, used to this place, this apartment with the tarry flavour of cigarettes clinging to the furniture the landlady never took away. 

Jonas says she’s strange, this woman who has left all of her old things for us to live around. Her lamps, with sun-faded shades, her record collection, the chenille bedspreads stuffed into a closet, and the ancient television I replaced the day after I landed. I’ve never met her. Sometimes, I slip a dusty bottle from her wine rack in the cellar and serve it to my friends at dinner. Surely, by the time she ever notices, I’ll be long gone.

Through the vignette of condensation, the snow drifts, white flecks, across the beam of the streetlights. Kreuzberg is quiet. Sunday. 

I refocus my eyes to look into my face, a mirror reflection in the black window. I look older, perhaps, than in the photographs Jen posted to me in September, the ones from the summer, where the light is hazy and our noses are sun blushed, from that time that feels like another lifetime already, or like fiction. At Christmas, I returned to Ireland, and it rained for two weeks without stopping, and it felt something more like reality.

My grandmother told me that my hair was straggly, and she’s right. It’s been too long since I’ve cut it, but the ends of my hair spent the summer with me. Even though my skin cells have replaced themselves, the parts of my hair touching the collar of my coat and curling around my ears hold the memories that the rest of me is slowly losing. 

I haven’t stayed in touch with my friends from there as much as I would have liked. These days are busy, with friends, with college. I draw and paint more than I ever have, lashing out piece after piece, sketchbook after sketchbook, building a tower upon the desk in my cold little bedroom, though the women in my pieces don’t have green eyes anymore. Now, I choose blue.

The door buzzes, and I stand to answer it. 

My finger on the button, “Yeah?”

“Hurry! Open up, it’s fucking cold.”

I buzz her in, then stand waiting by the open door as she ascends the stairway. Three floors. I hear her the whole way, the snap of boot heels against tile. There’s an elevator in her building, and I feel acutely guilty about my building’s lack of one, despite being entirely powerless to do anything about it, as I am an art student, not an engineer, and was not yet actually born during its construction. 

She appears on the landing, shivering, with snowflakes clinging to her hair, and sitting on the structured shoulders of her trench coat. 

“Ugh, oh God, those stairs. I hate them.” She says. She unzips her boot and tosses onto the pile of shoes next to the door, and I notice immediately that she’s barefoot, toes balanced on the tiles like a ballerina. 

“You didn’t wear socks?”

She’s not wearing tights either. Her long, pale legs poke, completely exposed beneath the beige gabardine. 

“Did you take the U-Bahn like this? It must be five below zero.”

Her second boot hits the tile with a clatter, and she backs me into my apartment. As the door clicks shut, she pulls on the tie of her coat.

She’s wearing nothing but black lingerie. 

“Ah,” I am enlightened. This now makes perfect sense to me, in much the same way it does to her. Astrid has a way of bringing me around to her way of thinking. 

This was actually an excellent idea. 

“I was bored,” she says, which makes sense too. She is always bored. This is why she does what she’s seen people do in films. It’s a way to keep herself entertained. An unwelcome thought flashes into my mind, as I wonder if she has done this specific thing for previous boyfriends. I hop off that path. With Astrid, it is important to dwell only upon the present. Anything before this, now, me, us, is nothing worth worrying about. 

I slip my hands under her coat, onto the soft, downy velvet of her skin. 

“Nice and warm,” she murmurs. 

“Astrid, you shouldn’t have gone out like this.”

“It was only thirty minutes.”

“I know, but,” Her hands are freezing between mine as I heat them with my breath. “It’s too cold.” I’ll have to give her something of mine to wear when she goes home, but begin to worry that nothing is clean. I have been avoiding taking my dirty clothes to the basement since I flew back in ten days ago, too cowardly to face the seizing cold of the communal laundry room and that ever present leak in the ceiling surely turned to an icicle by now. 

These are not sexy thoughts. 

It’s like she can tell just by looking at me. “The point is, you will heat me up,” she says, a bit slowly, like I’m thick.

I don’t want to be the guy that lacks spontaneity. That would make me anxious. She pulls her hands from mine and pouts at me, as though at a little dog. “Look at you, you’re so nice.”

It’s not intended as a compliment, and I understand I should be doing something a bit wilder, like, I don’t know, taking my own clothes off already. Why on earth haven’t I started to do that?

Ah, because I am nice. 

“Okay, fuck your hands then. They can freeze.” Often, jokes are a mistake around Astrid. She rarely laughs at them. In fact, she rarely smiles at all, and only indulges us when she feels like doing it. It’s never to be polite. She knows her own mind. I’m obsessed with her. 

I’m obsessed to an ever greater extent now, because, once again, she’s not laughing. She’s not trying to please me. It’s me, always, trying to please her instead. I tug on her coat and it pools to the floor, then I kiss her. 

“God, I love you.” 

I murmur it, the truth. 

I knew it the third or fourth night we spent together, in November, as the last stubborn leaves clung to the branches. She wasn’t like anybody I had ever met before. She reminded me of nobody, and that was the point. 

I felt it, that weakness, my molten insides, and the deep fear of it in the early hours of one morning as she lay on the sheets with moonlight spilling across her back. She has a tattoo between her shoulder blades of a heart pierced by three daggers. She says it’s from a tarot card, and she was younger and stupider when she got it. That night, as she slept, I uncovered some kind of symbolism in it that moved me, but in the morning light I had forgotten all the profound thoughts I’d come up with except one: That I loved her. It surprised me. I ignored the tiny pang of sadness I felt, like mourning for a part of my life that was already long gone. It was useless to miss it.

I chose Astrid instead. 

I choose her now, love her in the same way I kiss her and touch her and fuck her, by doing what she wants me to do. It’s not a submissive situation. I’m not into that stuff. I am a man clocking in and doing as he's asked, thoroughly, diligently, excelling at his job. Eager to please. Employee of the month.

“Will you put your hand on my throat?” She breathes. Beneath me, her hands claw the bedsheets. 

Yes, I think. That would be nice. 

I am interested to discover that I like it too. I don’t think the other girls I’ve slept with would have let me try the things that Astrid does. They couldn’t picture themselves doing it, I’m sure, and neither could I. Back then I didn’t think about sex the way I do now, but Berlin has been bringing it out in me. 

She comes first. That’s mandatory. Then afterwards, when I have, and thoughts return to my brain, I’ll lay here, haunted by the years I didn’t know about this golden rule, and all the time that I thought I was good at sex but wasn’t. Dwelling on the disappointment I brought upon women and girls will make me spiral a bit, I’ll feel it rising, but I’ll feel better when I fuck Astrid again, in some new, fascinating position, and she’ll tell me I’m pretty good, in fact.

She’ll be loud enough about it that Klaus from downstairs may complain, and point out that such volume levels are forbidden on Sundays. He’ll threaten to raise it with the building management, so I’ll bring up the fact I know it was he who put cat food containers in the recycling bin. Neither of us will do anything, and the cycle will repeat until one of us moves or dies.

“Klaus is a miserable, jealous old fool,” Astrid says. “He probably doesn’t have sex, so he’s furious at people who do. I think it’s basic psychology.”

“He lives with his wife, you know.”

“Oh, that doesn’t mean he’s having sex. Married people don’t do it. Or at least hardly ever. That’s why I’ll never be tied down like that.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“You think Mr and Mrs Klaus are fucking like rabbits down there?”

I scrunch up my face. “I’ve never heard them. Maybe they do it very quietly while I’m out of the apartment.”

“They never do. I bet they hate one another. Surely they sleep in separate rooms and only speak when they have to.” Astrid invents this story with glee. She is describing what is to her an indisputable fact of life. Her parents, and her mother’s relationship with her stepfather, too. I think she believed these things about marriage before meeting me, but the confirmation that my parents are the same has solidified it. 

“I don’t like to think about things in such a black and white way,” I say, and hold my palm against hers. Her fingers are long and slender. “Just because a lot of marriages are bad, doesn’t mean they’re all doomed. I believe some people are happy.”

“Trapped,” she whispers. “Like canaries in a cage. Maybe they don’t know any better.”

“If I was married, it’d be because I loved that person completely. I wouldn’t do it unless I was sure, and if I loved someone that much, I think I’d still have sex all the time. I can’t really picture that changing. When would I ever not be doing it, you know?”

She hums gently. “So you would never join a monastery.”

“Ugh.”

“And if you married me, you’d want me like this forever?”

This isn’t a serious question about marriage. That would be ridiculous. This is a test for me to pass, and am about to, with flying colours.  

“Yeah, you’re so appealing in every way. I can’t imagine not being completely crazy about you forever.”

“You definitely wouldn’t get over me if I left you.”

“Nah, probably not. In my grief, I might even refuse to sign the divorce papers or some shit.”

She nods, satisfied, and rests her head on my chest. It slots nicely beneath my chin. “I want to go to sleep,” she says.

“Alright, me too.”

I switch off the light and listen to the pitter patter of the snow on the window, drifting slowly away with it.

Astrid shifts, restless. 

“Tomorrow, I have a lecture at eight.”

“Unlucky.”

“I don’t have any clothes.”

“Ah, yeah, probably because of the lingerie stunt.”

A pout. “It was a gift for you.”

“And I loved it. I can find you something to wear.”

“To my class? Your clothes? I’ll look ridiculous. Can you get me a taxi to my house so I can change?”

“Yeah, of course. If you wear my clothes in the taxi.”

“I won’t be naked under my coat in front of a strange man, Jude.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll arrange a taxi, then.”

“That’s sweet of you.” She adjusts her position again, and the subtle contact of our bodies sets off a chain of sensation. I rake my nails lightly over her back, and she shudders. 

“You’re so pretty,” I say. “Did you know that?” I know she does, but I like the smug way she always says yes. 

“It’s okay if I leave my underwear here?”

“If you want to, yeah. Why? Do you think I wanted to carry it around in my pocket or something?”

“So you can wash it for me.”

“Yeah,” I press my lips to the back of her hand. “I’ve been meaning to go to the laundry basement for too long now. I’ll just add them to the pile.”

“No, you need to hand-wash them. They’re made of lace.”

“Oh right. So like, in the sink, or something.”

“I thought you might have known that.”

“Nah, see, in Dublin, we had a cleaner who washed all of my lace underwear for me.”

“Mm…”

“... That was a joke about the lace underwear. We did actually have a cleaner, though.”

“You’ll take care of it? They were quite expensive. It’s not as though I have a lot of that kind, so if it got ruined…”

“I will.”

She slips a hand into my hair and seeks my lips in the dark. She kisses me with such affection that I melt into her. “I love you, Jude. Thank you.”

“I love you too.”

A low chuckle as I bite her earlobe. “You really would never be a monk, would you?”

“Oh, my God. The thought makes me sick.”

I roll over her, and we give Klaus one more thing to complain about.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[hanlimz]

midnight thoughts: [heeseung + drunk words]

synopsis: real sweet, but you wish he was sober (alternatively, you take such good care of heeseung while he's drunk that he decides to tell you how he really feels). pairing: heeseung x gn!reader genre/warnings: hurt/comfort (?), f2l (ambiguous but still cute i promise) / EMETOPHOBIA TW (nothing happens but throwing up is mentioned, be cautious <3)!!!, drunk heeseung lol, tiny skz mention (my worlds colliding), um alcohol consumption (?), sunghoon is the dd don't worry there is no drunk driving! wc: 1.4k (el oh el)a/n: inspired by model student heeseung in the first couple en-o'clocks who is unreasonably attractive but also ? a dork . that is all. (love u hee stans this one's for u hope u're doing okay lately w ur man acting the way he is.)

[1:16AM] six shots of tequila and a raspberry smirnoff ice deep, and lee heeseung is gone. strong surges of heat rush to his cheeks to create a dizzying push and pull effect, rivulets of sweat are beginning to drip from his temples, and he's trying his best not to vomit up the fried chicken jake and sunghoon made him eat earlier. heeseung finds solace on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor; he clutches the crisp fabric of his white button down and attempts to will away the waves of nausea that are crashing against the walls of his stomach. breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, heeseung's thoughts begin to drift back to a familiar place. he can almost feel the phantom sensation of your fingers carding through his hair; the tips of your fingers are refreshing and imbue him with a tranquility that he isn't often privy to.

"holy shit, dude—did we really let you get this fucked up?" heeseung vaguely registers jake's voice as two warm fingers reach under his jaw to check his pulse. inwardly, heeseung chuckles—leave it to biomedical engineering major, pre-anesthesiology track jake sim to presume death over everything else. glancing up, heeseung watches the genuine concern that flashes in the younger boy's gaze. "c'mon heeseung, we gotta get you home, bro. good god—[y/n] is actually gonna murder us …”

heeseung curls in on himself at the sound of your name, hiding away from the prodding of jake’s fingers into his upper arms. he wants to press his face into the crook of your neck, he aches to feel your hands cascading up and down the length of his spine, he yearns so desperately for a chance to indulge in a tender moment of unity with you. heeseung closes his eyes to relish in the way the memories seem to envelop him in a ghostly embrace, and he swears he only blinks once. the bass-boosted music and headache inducing strobe lights become mere background accompaniment to the movie playing behind his eyelids.

he swears he only blinks once, but the familiar aroma of your perfume begins to permeate his senses—bergamot and vanilla, his favorite. voices come into focus, his head starts to pound, and the reality of being splayed all over the backseat of sunghoon’s benz is setting in at the speed of falling molasses. "what the hell did you let him get into?" there's a certain venom in the question that bites at his jugular. he recognizes the cadence of your voice and the way you suck a sharp breath through your teeth with ease. "sigma kappa zeta is so out of hee's league—you couldn't have taken him to alpha tau zeta or tau chi tau or someplace that bang chan doesn't run?"

"he said he could handle it!" sunghoon counters.

you let an incredulous scoff escape your mouth as you berate the two boys in a hushed whisper, "and, you believed him? he obviously wanted to impress you idiots. god, i'm starting to think jongseong is the only one of you with a functioning brain ... "

"[y/n]!" jake exclaims, "so not chill."

"no—what's really not chill is tweedledumb and tweedledumber letting heeseung get wasted at his first frat party." you scold, voice cold as ice while jabbing an accusatory finger in their faces. jake and sunghoon hang their heads like dogs being told off for chewing up furniture; in any other situation, you might have had the inclination to chuckle, but you don't. "now, help him up to my couch and leave before i get even meaner."

everything is blurry as heeseung stumbles his way up the stairs to your apartment; sunghoon and jake are bickering with one another while supporting each side of his body—who is tweedledumb and who is tweedledumber, who let heeseung drink this much booze, who will have to recount tonight's escapades to jay, and who will have to give pity laughs to his impending dad jokes? they curse at one another until you mention the possibility of a noise complaint, and all the incessant chatter stops. in the midst of a spring night, only cricket song remains. heeseung focuses on the quiet chirping until the cool leather of your couch cushions begins to soothe the molten liquid that seems to course through his veins. goodbyes are exchanged and a door is closed somewhere far away, but heeseung's head is too heavy to lift.

he blinks again and opens his eyes to the rough fibers of an old washcloth running over the peaks and valleys of his face. the fabric brushes along the deep circles carved beneath his bloodshot eyes; concentration knits your forehead into a multitude of different creases, and heeseung can't help the pitiful chuckle that tumbles from his mouth. an airy sensation overtakes his being as he realizes that he's right where he had wanted to be all evening—with you. embarrassment still settles like an indestructible boulder in the pit of his stomach, however; shame's spindly talons sink into heeseung's flesh as he realizes just how much of a fool he's made out of himself.

"just—just wan'ed to be cool, [y/n]," heeseung slurs out, voice plagued with exhaustion. bringing his knees to his chest, heeseung attempts to keep his tears at bay. "just wan'ed to show you that i c'n be cool 'nd awesome 'nd sexy! but, now 'm just looking stupid on your couch ..."

placing the washcloth on the arm of the sofa, you move to rest heeseung's head in your lap. he gladly accepts the comforting gesture, cuddling into the soft cotton of sweatpants he realizes are his. combing your fingers through his roots and scratching at his scalp, you whisper, "for the record—i already think you're cool and awesome."

heeseung glances up at you, face swollen and eyes puffy. "really?" he asks, "so, you don't think i'm a stupid, un-sexy idiot that can't hold his liquor?"

"well, you can't hold your liquor," you muse with a hint of laughter in your voice, caressing the supple skin of his cheekbone, "but, no. i don't think you're a stupid, un-sexy idiot."

basking in the reality he was just confronted with, heeseung's drunken mind can only focus on one thing. his desperate need for clarification tempts him; desire's forked tongue beckons him towards the truth. the question repeats over and over again in his brain until it spills out—an unwilling victim of an inebriated perpetrator. "so ..." he drawls, attempting to wink but closing both eyes instead, "you think i'm sexy?"

and, you laugh. it's a euphoric sound—a beautiful melody reminiscent of spring picnics, gingham blankets, and the fragrant scent of blooming tulips. for a moment, heeseung loses himself in it; coherent thought escapes his grasp as he is overtaken by you. your touch, your warmth, the bleary image of your smile as it comes in and out of focus. you wash over heeseung in waves, an ocean of calm in a world that only seeks to burn; alluring siren song floods his mind as you call out to him over the sound of the blood pumping his ears. the cool tips of your fingers are beginning the quell the heat beneath heeseung's skin as consciousness begins to slip away from him, and a dopey grin is woven onto his lips.

"heeseung," you murmur, the ghost of a bout of giggles hiding behind your words. "hee, baby, you should really let me get up to grab you some advil."

the term tumbles from your mouth before you can help it, and you freeze. having revealed yourself, you're overcome by the desperate urge to run—but, heeseung has given you nowhere to go. his weight traps you, holding tight and pressing harder by the second. half of you wants to hear him say it back, while the other hopes for the couch cushions to swallow you whole. heeseung—though not a man of many surprises with his perfect grades, perfect attendance, perfect everything—manages to stun you tonight.

"wan' you t'call me that again, [y/n]," heeseung mumbles through sleep, "please."

"you want—" your voice catches in your throat, "you want me to call you baby?"

there's a beat of silence so long that you're almost sure heeseung has fallen victim to the salivating jaws of sleep, but he groans. the utterance is low and deep—dripping with what seems to be a concoction of mild annoyance, exasperation, and endearment. "'s all i've ever wanted, [y/n]," he replies, eyes closed and nose buried into your sweater, "you're all i've ever wanted."

another pause.

"okay," you say, meandering through the quiet for a moment, letting yourself wade towards him in this new sea of possibilities, "baby."

[lush-escape]

INDIGO

Part 3

Southern!Jason Todd x Reader

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 ||

Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8 || Part 9 || Part 10 ||

Part 11 || Part 12 || Epilogue ||

Jason is knee-deep in fixing a tractor engine at the Wayne ranch when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out, a bit surprised to see your number flashing on the screen.

He answers the call, his deep voice tinged with surprise. "Yullow?"

Thank God. You feel as if you're about to be sick from how hot it is. You put the old house phone on speaker, your cell told you it was overheating so it was currently sitting in the freezer where you wish you could be.

"Hey, it's me... Sorry for calling you in the middle of the afternoon. I'm sure you're probably busy," Your voice is hesitant and twinged with guilt.

But Jason's face breaks into a small smile when he hears your voice.

"No, no, don't worry about it. I could use a break from this tractor engine anyway."

He wipes his greasy hand on his jeans, smearing dirt across the fabric. "What can I do for you, darlin'? Everything alright at the house?"

There's a few seconds of silence before, "No," You whine. "Please tell me you know how to fix air conditioners. I'm dyin' out here, Jason." You're using an old plastic plate to fan yourself as you talk to him.

Jason chuckles softly, amused.

"Alright, alright, I'll be right over. Just... hold on, okay?" He's already grabbing his keys from the workbench, heading to the truck.

"Just don't pass out from the heat or nothin'." He hears a soft "yeah, yeah" before saying goodbye.

Jason arrives at your house about twenty minutes later. He steps out of the truck and approaches the house, squinting against the relentless summer sun.

"You still alive in there?" He calls out, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You can hear Jason and almost cry from relief. You're laying down, starfish formation, in the middle of the kitchen on the cool tile floor.

"No!" You holler back, front door wide open with the screen closed to let in the small breeze. "I've died and gone to Hell, it's cooler there!"

Jason grins and shakes his head at your dramatic response, finding your situation amusing.

He steps into the house and stands in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight of your sprawled out form on the kitchen floor.

"Well, ain't you the drama queen?" He teases, stepping further into the house and heading towards the air conditioner.

"I think I'm sweatin' in places that ain't s'posed to sweat." You grumble from the kitchen floor.

"I ain't no drama queen." You shoot Jason a glare. Not even a week back home and the accent has come back full force.

One look at Jason in your childhood home sends your stomach twisting in the weirdest way. It's been years since you both had been in this same house together. It brings back feelings of nostalgia.

"Please tell me you can fix it, Jay."

Jason chuckles at your grumble, still amused by the whole situation. He moves to the air conditioner, inspecting it with a professional eye.

"I'll see what I can do, darlin'," he responds, a hint of confidence in his voice.

He starts poking and prodding at the machine, checking various parts and components. As he works, his eyes drift to you, laying on the kitchen floor. Memories of the past flood his mind, and for a moment he's thirteen again.

He refocuses on the task at hand, his fingers deftly tinkering with the old machine. After a few minutes of checking and testing, he finally finds the issue.

"Ah, there's your problem. The refrigerant line is frozen." Jason turns back to you, a smirk on his face.

"Looks like your AC needs a little tender lovin' care."

Refrigerant line. Frozen. You're too hot to put together what he's saying. All you hear is that he knows what the issue is and can fix it.

"Well get to tender lovin' it, I can't take another second of this heat."

Jason lets out a laugh, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Alright, alright, I got it." he says with a smirk, clearly enjoying the situation.

Jason runs out to his truck and grabs a few tools, coming back inside to work on defrosting the refrigerant line.

As he works, he steals glances at you every now and then, his gaze lingering just a little too long. He can't help but think that you look just as pretty as you did when you were a teenager.

After a few minutes of tinkering and fiddling with the machine, the air conditioner starts to whir back to life. A cold breeze starts to blow out of the unit.

Jason takes a step back and watches as the AC hums with life. He brushes his hands together with a satisfied smile.

"That ought to do it," he says, turning to look at you, still laying on the kitchen floor. "Think you can survive now, darlin'?"

You practically moan at the feeling of the cool air.

"Oh thank God for you." You breathe, sighing in relief. "I'll definitely be able to survive now."

Jason can't help but chuckle at your exaggerated reaction, thoroughly amused by your antics.

"You know, you're a real drama queen, aren't you?" he comments, crossing his arms across his chest. "Anyone ever told you that before?"

He walks over to the kitchen, grabbing a glass, filling it with cold water from the fridge. He looks down at you, still lounging on the kitchen floor.

"You gonna get off the floor anytime soon or you plan on staying down there?"

[clancykisser]

Follow You

Ship: Hail To The King [Axel x Crowley] WC: 1,298 Rating: M CW: Alcoholism . Meltdown . Mentions of Snot and Tears . Angst DIVIDER @/bernardsbendystraws

Summary: After Amara and Chuck leave together, Axel feels abandoned once again. Instead of crying alone on the kitchen floor, however, a demon comes to assure him of something.

come sink into me and let me breathe you in

The bunker was silent. Dimmed lights barely giving a fluorescent glow overhead in the kitchen. In the background, Axel could hear the humming of the runes against the concrete of the walls. It was shrill and pitched, like a refrigerator engine he had become aware of. A migraine warned behind his temples, but it only lead him to press the cup of whiskey-cola to his lips and swallowing back the last sip in the glass. It burned his throat.

But his heart still hurt.

There was no reason to get up from the floor, he had brought the bottles of soda and whiskey with him to the tile. When he mixed the drinks and put the whiskey bottle back down, its glass echoed eerily through the silent space. A pain wormed its way up his throat. He held back a sob.

It played in his mind over and over again, a swirling and liquor tainted video tape looping with a skipping error on the end. It made the replay all the more jostling when the memory chewed on the inside of his eyeballs.

The one where his hands clung to Chuck's, eyes lighting up with tears as he stared. Stared right at the face of God and cried, begged, and hoped with a heavy heart:

"Please. Please don't go."

And he smiled that sad, little, pitying smile. Though his eyes couldn't hide the miniscule hint of emotion that wrinkled at the corner of his eyelids. It gave Axel hope. A hope enough for him to lean closer, to show just how much he wanted to stay with him. Wanted to be with him.

And God put his hand on Axel's cheek, wiping away the tears as his lips trembled.

"Stay here," He murmured, "Stay with Dean. And Sam...And Crowley."

The mention of the demon made Axel tense, his lips going dry as his tears slowed only for a moment before gushing back out again. There was a soft kiss on his head. One final blessing, before God and The Darkness dissipated in the saddest shades of blues and blacks he had ever seen.

His nose was running as he leaned forward over his half finished glass of alcohol. With flushed cheeks and tightly shut eyes, his let his chest heave and swallowed out the saddest cry he could manage. His tears dribbled into his cup, floating in globs with the snot that joined in.

That seemed to be the final straw. With another cry of something between sadness and rage, he chucked the glass at the nearest surface, sending his whiskey dribbling with a menacing shatter of glass.

"FUCK!" He yelled, the sound wet and desperate, "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU CHUCK. FUCK YOU GOD!"

And he glared up at the ceiling, hoping. Praying. That wherever Chuck was he heard this. Axel hoped it hurt.

"You ruined EVERYTHING! If you hadn't just SWIPED ME UP. Before I met CROWLEY. Before-Before-Before-AUGH!"

This time he slammed his fist hard on the counter behind him, hearing the metal thud and his knuckles sting. The alcohol numbed it, though, and it only fueled his fit of drunken rage.

It was a while before he tired himself out, breaths coming heavy and his nose only wetter than before. Raising the back of his palm, he wiped at his face, smearing his long sleeve shirt with snot and tears. A few more pale, blubbering noises left his lips as he shut his eyes tightly, whispering angry words towards a God you didn't even know was still listening.

"You know, you always were an ugly crier."

Axel yelped, turning his head so fast that he made himself dizzy. After a second of clearing his blurry vision, he focused on the visage before him.

Crowley swirled his own whiskey glass in his hand, the clinking of the ice reminding Axel of how damn thirsty he was. He swallowed a dry heave, thick with saliva and sobs. Swiftly he looked away, flushing with shame as he let his head fall back against the counter, falling silent.

Crowley only stepped closer. Close enough to reach out and grabbed the half finished bottle of whiskey, fallen over and cracked at its edge. The wet feeling of liquor soaked Axel's pants, and he felt uneasy at the smell permeating his body. It only added to his self hatred.

"A waste of good liquor, if you ask me. Or-" He glanced quickly at the bottle "-bad liquor. How do you drink this?"

"Works faster." Axel croaked softly, "What are you here for, Crowley?"

To laugh, probably. To tell Axel that he had been right, and now he lost the only other thing he might have enjoyed in this life. What was the point? Maybe he wanted to take his soul for himself. A personal goodbye to the man he had almost said...

"Come on, up you go."

And then Crowley was pulling Axel up to his feet. He swayed, his stomach curdling at the sudden height. Then hands were on his hips, hoisting him up on the counter. The cold steel made the feeling of his whiskey pants even worse.

A hand touched his cheek, cradling it in its palm. Axel shut his eyes, reveling in the chill. It was the hand Crowley had been holding his whiskey in. The cup was somewhere else now. Another counter as a brush of a thumb finally got the drunken man to gaze forward at the demon before him.

To his surprise, Crowley almost looked...He wasn't sure of the word.

Caring? Adoring?

Loving?

"Wh-Wh..." Axel tried to get out words, but they stopped and he hiccupped again. Crowley chuffed, as if knowing the question he had wanted to ask. He answered it after a moment:

"You asked me if I didn't love you anymore, before....I have my answer now."

And then the kiss was flavored like double shot of whiskey and a soda chaser. It wasn't Crowley's rougher kisses. No playful nips. No laughter against Axel's whimpering mouth. This was...

Comforting.

So he melted into the advance for a few moments, hands resting on the other's shoulders as they held themselves there for a few moments longer. It felt like eternity until they finally parted, and Axel could only manage a shocked look on his face.

"I do," He finally stated, "I love you."

"How can you?" Axel snapped out with near immediacy, "How can you love me after everything! Af-after all-ll th-at! After what I did, I-."

Crowley's hands rested on Axel's, pulling them off of his shoulders to squeeze them softly between their bodies. His thumb brushed over Axel's knuckles, one still bright red and swelling from his earlier fit. With a gentle brush, the wound was healed in a near instant.

"Question is," He continued, "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know what to do."

"Do whatever you feel like."

Axel was surprised that he didn't stop himself. His eyes held Crowley's for a few moments before he leaned forward. He rested their foreheads together as he shakily sighed. The murmur of his response was a bare whisper. A secret for only them both.

"I never stopped loving you. Even through all of that...You were on my mind."

"Oh?" Crowley's tone was playful, "What kind of thoughts were on your mind?"

It made Axel laugh, his smile breaking on his chapped lips as he pressed himself closer to Crowley.

"Let's get you a shower, luv. You reek."

And it felt nice to be held again.

[nyehilismwriting]

called home

@childofthemoonandsun's prize for the palestine gfm raffle - the request was for a moment between nash and their siblings before joining scytha :-)

Sunset on Koreth. The sky bleeds. The air bleeds. The sands, stained red, reflect off the clouds, a feedback loop in sanguine. Her star, her sun, drags itself hand by bloody hand towards the yawning horizon, a wounded creature crawling home to die.

As above, so below: you bleed. The doctors say it's normal; that your bandages need changing, that the IV takes care of the electrolyte imbalance. That the blood is just a side effect of the surgery.

Nash takes your hand, and finds it cold. Finds it, like your bandages, stained red. The light is crimson, dripping through the narrow window: it spills across the white linens, and they say out loud:

“it'll be fine.”

“It'll be fine,” they say, again: again, again, until it feels like the only thing they remember how to say. It'll be fine. I'll be fine. You'll be fine.

Everything will be—

They grit their teeth, force a smile. Punch Shayan on the arm, a little too hard. Watch him flinch; swallow back a hot flash of guilt. Eighteen and terrified, and already unwilling to show it.

“Don't worry so much.”

He frowns; they swallow.

“You'll stay in touch, yeah?”

Sullen. Looking away. He doesn't meet their eyes. They rub their hands together, fingers against their palms. The air is thick and still; the air conditioner whines, strains against the copper-tinted atmosphere of outer Koreth. The sofa creaks as they shift, knock their knee against their brother's.

“Always.” They swing an arm over his shoulders, drag him into them: curve their body into his, hold him close for a moment. His breath is warm in the warm air; his shoulders shake. In the kitchen, their mother drops something; both of them laugh at the sound of her swearing, Shayan's tension shuddering briefly out of him.

Light spills across the ground, red and slick.

Later, in their memory, it's painfully vibrant: the colour of blood under fluorescents, a slit across the throat of the room.

It wasn't, of course: it was just the sunset. The sky red, the air stained with it, reflecting the clouds and the sand outside.

Nash knows that.

Their mother, cooking dinner. Not watching her eldest child leave, her goodbyes said.

They don't remember saying goodbye to her; nor to their father, nor their other siblings. Younger, busier: still at school. Still so young. In their memory, Nash has always been as they are now, their mistakes unforgivable, their brother trapped in murky amber. A sullen teenager and his closest sibling, a jaded, bloodied adult who doesn't remember their other sibling’s faces. Doesn't remember saying goodbye to their mother.

Just Shayan.

Just that moment, his shoulders caved in toward them, that slash of bloody light across the white tiles. They'd squeezed his shoulder, patted his arm.

They'd stood.

They'd said:

“it'll be fine” (again)

and they hadn't met his eyes. Outside, someone starts the shuttle engine (and in their memory, Nash leans in and kisses their brother on the forehead) and they take a step back from him.

“look after the others,” they tell him, another step back. Shayan still won't meet their eyes: Nash remembers the hangnail he's picking at, the strip of raw red skin against his nail. His hair, thick and dark and worn longer than theirs, hangs over his face. Stop it, they want to say; shout it echoing back through the memory, like if they think it hard enough he'll hear them. Still aged sixteen: still leaning into their side, still listening to their every command.

Still in that bright living room, watching the sun bleed across their white tiles. Still waiting for the call for dinner.

It's been a long time since they let themself look him up. Last they heard, he was off-planet, working on a space station; a promising mechanic. Nash is proud.

Later still, Nash will be relieved.

Always, always, Nash will be guilty, painting that red slash across every memory they have. Placing their brother in that moment in their every memory of him: every conversation, every shared joke, wherever and whenever, now locked in that white room with that red light.

They should have said something else.

Now, with your hand cold in theirs, your hair (thick and dark and pushed back from your face), they find themself unable to think of anything else to say.

They squeeze your knuckles, place your hand back on the cool sheets, and stand.

Step away (you don't meet their eyes) and say, quiet:

“it'll be fine.”