#nekiwrites🕯️

[moonyslipstick]

I’ll Marry You Tomorrow

You were curled into the corner of the Gryffindor common room, a book half-open in your lap and Sirius Black tangled into the armchair beside you like he owned it — and you.

Which, according to the gossip circling the school like Nifflers to gold, he did.

Not in the terrible, possessive way. But in that impossibly Sirius way — all wicked grins and lazy arms thrown around your shoulders, like your body was his favorite piece of furniture and he couldn’t be bothered to sit up unless Remus said something especially cutting.

You shifted slightly, your legs tucked up beneath you, brushing his thigh. He smirked without even looking up from the deck of Exploding Snap cards he was flicking through with one hand.

“I felt that,” he murmured, low and lazy in your ear. “Careful, love, or I’ll have to drag you onto my lap again.”

“You make that sound like a punishment,” you replied sweetly, turning a page you weren’t really reading. Your pulse skittered in your neck.

Sirius tilted his head just enough to look at you, that crooked, dangerous smile spreading across his mouth. “You like it when I punish you, then?”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “Sirius!”

Across the common room, James nearly dropped his butterbeer. “Oi! We’re right here, mate!”

Remus didn’t even flinch, just turned a page in his book. “I warned you about sitting that close to them.”

Peter muttered, “They’re like Kneazles in heat.”

You tried to look scandalized. Really. But Sirius’s hand had slipped behind you, dragging his fingertips along the waistband of your jumper, and your brain had turned to soup.

Sirius leaned into your ear again, voice practically a purr.

“Want to sneak out? Just you and me? I know an empty classroom with a view of the moon.”

“You just want to cop a feel without an audience.”

He looked mock-affronted. “I always want to cop a feel, but the moon view is a bonus.”

You laughed despite yourself. “We’re not sneaking out. You’ll get us both detention.”

“You love it when I get detention.”

“Only because it makes you cranky and snuggly for a week.”

“Exactly.”

He kissed your temple with a casual softness that turned your whole body to butter.

You hated how easy he made it. How easy it was to love him.

Because Merlin help you, Sirius Black loved hard. And loud. And fiercely. The entire castle knew what you meant to him. He’d hexed a Slytherin for calling you a name last week and spent the next hour with your hand in his, fingers tapping your wrist like a drum, refusing to admit how worried he’d been when you cried in the lav.

And then there were the moments like now. Quiet ones. Domestic. Half the common room lounging near the fire, James and Lily bickering about Quidditch stats, Remus reading, Peter asleep with a chocolate frog half-melted on his lap.

And Sirius? Wrapped around you like ivy. Warm and smug and impossibly handsome, like sin wrapped in silk.

You closed your book. “Fine. Five minutes. Empty corridor. That’s it.”

He was on his feet before you could blink, pulling you with him and calling over his shoulder, “Don’t wait up, boys!”

“We won’t!” came James’s voice, followed by Lily’s very loud, “USE PROTECTION, YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE!”

You shoved Sirius as you passed the portrait hole, cheeks flaming.

The corridor outside was quiet, dimly lit by torches. He pulled you into the alcove just past the first suit of armor and pressed you into the wall like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all bloody day,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you.

Really kissed you.

The kind of kiss that had teeth and tongue and promise. The kind that left your knees weak and your chest aching and your soul clinging to him like a vine in storm.

His hands slid beneath your jumper, fingertips trailing fire across your skin. You gasped into his mouth, and he grinned like the devil himself.

“You’re cold,” he murmured against your neck. “Why didn’t you say?”

“I didn’t notice until you touched me.”

“Get used to it, love,” he said, his voice thick. “I plan to keep doing that for a long, long time.”

You kissed him again, because talking felt impossible with his mouth so close, and breathing wasn’t nearly as important as memorizing the taste of him.

“Tell me something real,” you whispered into his lips. “Not just snogging.”

He stilled a little. Eyes dark, serious. “Alright.”

You waited.

He rested his forehead against yours. “I think about marrying you sometimes.”

You blinked.

“What?”

He laughed softly. “I mean, not right now, obviously. We’re seventeen. But… yeah. I do. I think about it when you laugh like that. Or when you fall asleep on my shoulder in the library. Or when you hex James for being an arse and I just—” he shook his head, frustrated. “I can’t picture the rest of my life without you in it.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I’m not joking,” he said, voice thick. “I’m a mess. My family’s a nightmare, I’ll probably die young, and I’ve got a list of issues longer than Filch’s record books, but… I love you. Madly. Stupidly. Completely.”

You didn’t answer.

You just grabbed his face and kissed him again — so hard and so slow that he made a sound low in his throat like he might lose his mind.

When you finally pulled back, you whispered, “I think about it too.”

His hands stilled at your waist. “You do?”

“Only all the time.”

And for once — the mighty Sirius Black, rebel of the Noble House of Black, flirt extraordinaire — went absolutely silent.

“Bloody hell. I’m going to marry you.”

You laughed. “One day.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Sirius.”

“Fine, next week.”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, we have to go back before they start placing bets.”

He grinned. “Too late. Remus is the bookkeeper.”

Back in the common room, you both returned red-faced and smug.

Remus looked up from his book, unimpressed. “One galleon says they’re engaged by seventh year.”

“Two galleons they elope,” Lily added.

James raised his butterbeer. “To Sirius and his poor future spouse. May she never get tired of that bloody hair.”

You just leaned back into Sirius’s chest as he wrapped himself around you again, hands resting on your thighs now, more possessive than before.

“They’re not wrong,” he murmured in your ear. “I’ll marry you the second you let me.”

“You’ll wait,” you said, smiling against his collarbone.

“Not forever.”

“No,” you agreed, closing your eyes. “Not forever.”

[moonyslipstick]

Where Shadows Burn

Everyone at Camp Half-Blood thought you and Percy Jackson hated each other.

And that was the truth.

Until it wasn’t.

Until it was bodies slamming into cabin walls in the dark, mouths pressed against skin like it would burn the truth off. Until it was secrets sealed behind locked doors and sweaty palms gripping sheets instead of swords. Until his fingers slid across your skin with the same rage he'd once reserved for your name.

You were the daughter of Hades. Cold. Sharp. Wicked, some said. And Percy? Golden boy. Son of Poseidon. Crowned hero. Savior of Olympus. You were night and sea, oil and fire.

You were never meant to kiss.

But you did. A lot.

It started after a sparring match that turned too heated.

Blades clanged. You moved like smoke, he like a storm. It was too long since your last fight and too many words had gone unsaid. Maybe that's why you landed a hard blow to his ribs and he knocked the sword out of your hand with a growl.

"Got something to prove, Princess of the Underworld?" he panted, towering over you, sweat dripping from his brow, green eyes alight with fire.

You smirked through bloodied lips. “You think I need to prove anything to someone like you?”

He dropped his sword. Grabbed your wrist.

You don’t remember lunging, only the heat. Only the way his mouth crashed into yours like a war, his teeth biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you whimper.

You hated him. Gods, you hated him.

And then your back hit the wall of the weapons shed and hate melted into moans, fingernails scratching his shoulders, belt buckles clinking as they came undone.

After that, it was always in secret.

Behind the stables. Inside the woods. Once, against the cold marble of the Athena cabin when everyone else was at dinner.

You told yourself it was just physical. Just stress relief. Just… easy.

But it wasn’t easy. It was devastating.

Because he’d look at you afterward like you’d peeled back a layer he wasn’t ready to see. And you—gods��you’d let him.

Tonight was different.

You’d just gotten back from a patrol, bruised and aching. The sun was sinking low, casting orange and red flames across the sky. You knew he was waiting. Cabin 3. The one you always snuck into.

You didn’t knock. You never did.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” Percy said without looking up, reclining on his bed, his shirt already off, arms folded behind his head.

“I almost didn’t.”

You stood in the doorway, dripping with shadows. He finally looked up—and gods, his expression.

He always looked at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or kill you.

“I missed you,” he said too quietly.

That? That was new.

You stepped in, sat on the edge of his bed, your hands twitching in your lap. “Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say things you don’t mean.”

Percy sat up slowly. “You think I don’t mean it?”

“I think this—us—it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Bullshit.” His voice cracked. “You mean everything.”

You looked away. “This is a mistake.”

And when you moved to stand, he grabbed your wrist gently. Not to hold you back—just to ask you not to go.

“I dream about you,” he whispered. “Every night.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Let me show you.”

The kiss was different this time.

Less fury, more ache. It built slowly—hands curling into hair, lips trailing along collarbones, sighs melting into skin. His mouth moved down your neck reverently, your shirt lost somewhere between gasps and groans.

He was all rough hands and whispered promises. "I hate the way I love you," he murmured, mouth pressed to your stomach.

You dragged him up by his jaw and kissed him again, deep and slow. “Then don’t love me.”

“I can’t help it.”

Clothes came off in pieces, and the silence between you stretched thin, electric. His fingers knew your skin like a story he’d memorized. You guided his hips to yours, and when you sank together, it was slow. Devastating. You watched each other fall apart.

Every time he moved, he moaned your name like a prayer. Every time you cried out, his mouth followed yours.

Afterward, you lay tangled in his sheets, staring at the ceiling.

“Do you think this ends well?” you asked softly.

“I don’t care how it ends,” he replied. “As long as you’re in it.”

You almost believed him.

Then came the ambush.

A rogue monster attack near the eastern woods. You both fought back-to-back like it was instinct, like all the hatred was forgotten. But when the battle ended, people were watching. Annabeth. Clarisse. Connor.

And when Annabeth raised a brow at you, Percy said—loudly, publicly—“Don’t look at me. I don’t care what she does.”

It felt like being slapped.

You didn’t speak for a week.

Then came the night of the bonfire.

You were sitting alone by the edge of the lake, hood up, shadows curling around you like armor. He found you. Of course he did.

You didn’t turn around when you said, “Go away.”

But he didn’t.

“I fucked up.”

You scoffed. “Is that your version of an apology?”

He sat beside you, closer than you wanted. "I panicked. I didn’t know how to—"

“Admit we’re more than just enemies who screw behind cabins?”

He winced. “Don’t say it like that.”

“How should I say it, Percy? You make me feel like I’m a dirty secret.”

“You’re not,” he said, voice cracking. “You’re the only thing that feels real.”

You looked at him then, and the anguish on his face hurt more than your bruises.

“You want me to forgive you?” you whispered.

He nodded.

“Then show me.”

And he did.

He kissed you like it was the last time. Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. You pulled him down with you, into the grass, into the lake, into the dark.

That night, it wasn’t hate anymore. Not even close.

[moonyslipstick]

Oaths and Oracles

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not in the woods behind Half-Blood Hill. Not this close to enemy territory. Not alone.

But Luke had sent you — trusted you — to scout the perimeter, to mark weak points in the magical border. A daughter of Nemesis was always good at finding cracks, after all. Balance. Justice. Retribution. It was in your blood, humming through your veins like a song with no melody.

You were steady. Cold. Loyal.

Except when it came to him.

The gods had a cruel sense of humor, pairing you against Percy Jackson. The golden boy. Poseidon's favorite. The heart of Olympus’s cause, and everything you were raised to balance out.

He was light. You were shadow.

He was prophecy.

You were punishment.

And still… the way your name sounded in his mouth made your knees weak.

Which is exactly why, when you felt that familiar pull of power behind you, that unmistakable ripple in the air that only happened when he was near water — you didn’t turn around.

You just whispered, “Don’t start.”

But he did. Of course he did.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

His voice was deeper than you remembered. Worn. Sharpened by war. You hated how your spine reacted to it — straightening like a soldier’s. Responding like it always had.

You turned slowly, arms crossed over your black leather jacket.

“I could say the same. Aren’t you supposed to be Olympus’s golden retriever or something?”

“Cute,” he said, and stepped into view. Gods, he looked tired. Stronger, leaner, more dangerous. But tired. The world was breaking him, same as it was breaking you.

And yet… he still looked at you like he used to. Like you were a battle he wanted to win. Even when he hated you.

“I’m not here to fight,” you lied, fingers twitching by the blade at your hip.

“You’re always here to fight,” he said. “You’ve made that pretty clear. Last time we met you nearly killed Annabeth.”

“That was war,” you snapped. “Not personal.”

“Oh, but it is personal,” Percy growled, stepping closer, eyes dark. “You picked him. You chose Luke.”

You swallowed hard. “I chose a cause. You wouldn’t understand.”

He shook his head. “No, you chose revenge. You chose bitterness. You chose the easy way.”

You stepped into him now, heat rising like smoke between you.

“I chose justice. That’s what Nemesis is. What I am. You wouldn’t know justice if it drowned you.”

He smirked bitterly. “Then try me. You always did like pushing me into the deep end.”

“You think I like any of this?” you whispered. “You think I like betraying the only place I ever felt safe? You think I like choosing Luke over—"

“Over me?” he cut in, voice jagged.

You stopped. That was too much. Too far.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, but it came out breathless. Weak.

He reached for you then — stupid, reckless demigod — and grabbed your wrist.

“I dream about you,” he said. “You show up in my head every godsdamned night. Do you even care what that means? What you’ve done to me?”

You tried to shove him away. “You should hate me.”

“I do,” he said. “I do. But that doesn’t stop this.”

And then he kissed you.

It was a collision more than anything. Teeth. Tongues. Years of fury pressed between your mouths like fire. You gripped his hoodie like it anchored you, like if you let go he’d vanish and take the only real thing left with him.

He kissed you like he hated you. Like he loved you. Like the war could wait.

You moaned against his lips when his hand found the small of your back, dragging you forward. Your dagger dropped to the dirt with a soft thud, forgotten.

When he finally pulled back, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours, you whispered, “This doesn’t change anything.”

“I know,” he said, still holding you like it did.

“I’m still with Luke.”

“Then go.”

You didn’t move.

But you did. Eventually.

You left him there, in the shadows of the trees, where the war couldn't see either of you clearly.

And you didn’t tell Luke.

Because for one breathless second, you let yourself be the girl who kissed Percy Jackson in the woods.

Not the daughter of vengeance.

Just… someone who wanted him. And knew she couldn’t have him.

[moonyslipstick]

Pole Position: Yours

Oscar Piastri was a lot of things—fast, focused, fiercely competitive. But subtle? Not so much. Especially not when it came to you.

You stood in the garage, tablet in hand, headset resting around your neck, and an expression that could both melt steel and command absolute obedience. The way you moved around the car—precise, efficient, confident—was a sight Oscar found almost too mesmerizing for race weekends.

And today, as always, you were in your element. Hair tucked behind your ears, a sharp glint in your eye as you double-checked the tyre degradation simulations. A brilliant, cunning tactician wrapped in fireproof beauty.

“You know,” Oscar said, leaning against the side of the car, “you make ‘fuel correction curves’ sound kind of… sexy.”

You didn’t even glance up. “That’s because they are, when you understand them. Which you don’t.”

Oscar grinned. “Ouch.”

“I’m not here to stroke your ego, Piastri,” you said, tapping a few notes into the telemetry system. “I’m here to make sure you finish ahead of Lando.”

“And what if I want both?”

You paused, glancing at him now—eyes narrowing with amusement. “Both?”

He shrugged. “Pole position… and your approval.”

A faint blush touched your cheeks, but your voice was steady. “Focus on your corner entries. Then we’ll talk about approval.”

Oscar tilted his head, watching you as you walked away toward the pit wall, calling back instructions with effortless authority. God, you were impossible. Smart, assertive, unflinching under pressure—and yet, somehow, every time you pushed your headset up to rest on your head, Oscar’s brain short-circuited for just a second too long.

He’d always been good at driving at high speed. He just didn’t expect you to be the one thing he couldn’t steer around.

Later, after FP2, you were reviewing data on your tablet when you felt a presence behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.

“You were late on the throttle in Turn 10,” you said smoothly.

Oscar leaned closer, peering over your shoulder, voice low. “Maybe I was distracted.”

You glanced at him. He was very close.

“By what? The apex? The oversteer? Or the engineer in the headset?”

Oscar’s smile turned crooked. “Definitely the engineer.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin. “You know flirting doesn’t make your delta any faster, right?”

He leaned in, his lips nearly brushing your ear. “It might. Want to run some simulations and find out?”

Your breath caught just slightly—but you recovered fast. You always did.

You turned to face him, nose barely inches from his.

“You’ll have to earn that data access, Piastri.”

Oscar’s eyes flicked down to your lips, just for a heartbeat. “Challenge accepted.”

He backed away with a wink, helmet under one arm, leaving you standing there with your tablet, heart slightly off-beat, cheeks warm.

You exhaled slowly. Smart. Cunning. Beautiful. That’s what they called you. But Oscar Piastri?

He was dangerous in his own way.

Because when he looked at you like that—like you were the one thing in the world worth chasing—he almost made you forget every rule you ever wrote.

[moonyslipstick]

Fall Apart, I’ll Catch You

It was past one when the door finally creaked open downstairs.

You didn’t move from the couch, though you’d stopped pretending to watch the telly ages ago. Some old RTE rerun flickered across the muted screen, the glow throwing pale shadows across the quiet sitting room. A cup of tea sat lukewarm in your hands, barely touched. You’d made it over an hour ago, telling yourself he’d be home in ten. Then twenty. Then forty.

But this was Joey Lynch.

Time didn’t move the same for him.

You heard the door close gently, heard the wet rustle of his hoodie being peeled off, his boots kicked against the mat with a dull thump. He was trying not to wake the house. Always did. Still carried himself like someone might yell if he made too much noise.

You stood, blanket slipping from your lap. Quiet steps brought you to the hallway, where he stood just inside the door, hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, hoodie clinging to his shoulders, jeans soaked through.

He looked like the ghost of a boy who’d fought too many storms.

And then he saw you.

And you swear, swear, something in him broke open.

“Joey,” you breathed, stepping forward. “Jesus, love—”

“I’m alright,” he rasped, but he wasn’t. You could see it in the slump of his shoulders, the distant glassiness of his eyes. That tight grip he had on the strap of his gym bag like if he let go of something, he’d disappear too.

You reached out slowly, giving him the chance to pull away. He didn’t.

Your hands found his damp sleeves and then his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours.

“You’re soaked, Lynch.”

He gave a half-hearted chuckle, the sound rough and small in his throat. “Fell asleep on the train. Missed my stop. Had to walk from the feckin’ Spar near the roundabout.”

You sighed, but it wasn’t angry. It was laced with the kind of affection that comes from knowing someone’s patterns. “Come on. Upstairs. You’ll catch your death.”

He let you take the bag from his shoulder, fingers brushing yours in the exchange. He followed you up the stairs wordlessly, dripping water behind him like breadcrumbs.

When you reached his room, you flicked on the small lamp by the bed. The soft golden light bathed the space in a warm hush. It smelled like lavender fabric softener and the cologne he always wore on big days. The walls were his—taped-up band posters, a few photos stuck above the desk. There was a framed one of him and the boys from graduation day. Another of you, caught laughing mid-sentence at a summer party, your hand on his chest like you already knew he’d be home.

Joey stood in the doorway, like he didn’t quite belong in a place this soft.

“I’ll get towels,” you said gently, brushing your hand over his shoulder.

He nodded but didn’t speak.

By the time you came back with towels and a fresh hoodie, he was still in the same spot. Shoes off now, but still wrapped up in wet clothes, hair dripping down his temples.

“Joey,” you whispered, stepping in front of him. “Let me help.”

He didn’t fight you when you pulled his hoodie up over his head. He didn’t resist when you peeled the soaked T-shirt from his chest, revealing skin that felt both familiar and sacred. You toweled his hair with gentle hands, catching the droplets as they slid down the curve of his jaw, the hollow beneath his collarbone. He stood like a statue, eyes closed, letting you tend to him like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

And maybe it was.

You dressed him in dry clothes. One of his hoodies, soft and worn from years of use, and the grey sweats he always reached for when he felt too much. His fingers brushed yours when he took them from you, cold and trembling and tender.

He sat on the bed, but didn’t lie down. Just sat there, hands limp in his lap.

You sank to your knees in front of him.

“Talk to me, Joey.”

His eyes stayed on the floor. “There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s always something,” you said quietly. “Even if it’s just ‘I’m tired.’”

He was silent for a long time. The rain tapped against the windowpane like it was listening, too.

Then he said, “I walked past a house on the way. Looked like mine used to. The kind of place where you can feel the shouting from outside. Curtains drawn, no light in the front. A car with one flat tyre out front and a garden with nothing living in it.”

He looked at you now, finally. His eyes were tired. So fucking tired.

“And I thought—how did I get out? Why me? Why now?”

You reached up and placed your hands on either side of his face. “Because you fought. Because you survived, Joey. You got out because you deserved to. You still do.”

“But it doesn’t go away,” he whispered. “It’s still in my head. Still in my chest. Even when I’m in a warm house, with you waiting for me, and the Kavanaghs pretending I’m one of them. I still feel like that kid. That scared, furious, broken little bastard who doesn’t know how to sleep unless there’s something to brace against.”

Your heart broke quietly, with no sound but the trembling in your fingers as they stroked along his jaw.

“You’re not broken,” you said. “You’re healing. That ache in your chest? That’s what it feels like when your heart’s trying to remember it’s safe.”

“I don’t know how to be okay,” he said. “Not without waiting for something to go wrong.”

“Then let me show you,” you murmured. “Every day. Every night. I’ll show you how to be okay.”

He reached for you then, hands curling into your waist, tugging you up into his lap like he needed your weight on him to stay grounded. You went willingly, straddling his thighs, arms wrapping around his neck. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his breath hitched against your skin.

You held him.

You just held him.

Until his breathing slowed, until the tremble left his hands, until his voice cracked again.

“I love you,” he said, like it hurt. “So much, it makes me feel like I might come apart.”

You kissed the shell of his ear. “Then fall apart. I’ll catch every piece.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and his mouth found yours.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed.

It was slow, and deep, and full of every unsaid thing between you. His lips trembled against yours like they were remembering how to be kissed. Like he was remembering how to be loved.

You kissed him again, and again, until he wasn’t shaking anymore.

And when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m tired,” he whispered.

“I know. Come on. Sleep.”

You lay down together, tangled and close, and he curled into you like he was a boy again, like this was the only place he’d ever known peace.

And for once, it was.

For once, he didn’t dream of fists or shouting or slamming doors. For once, the world didn’t press in.

Because your arms were around him, and your heart was steady, and nothing in the world could touch him here.

And for Joey Lynch, that—finally—was enough.

[moonyslipstick]

Fresh out the slammer

Patrick Feely was lying flat on his back, the bedroom dim and musty, thick with the stale stench of booze and damp clothes. The bottle of Jameson lay half-crushed under his shoulder blade, long forgotten. He didn’t care. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Downstairs was hell.

His da was shouting again—something about respect, or lack of it. Something about someone not pulling their weight. The telly was blaring louder than it needed to be, his sisters huddled on the sofa like they could disappear into the cushions. His ma was clanging pots around the kitchen, wordless and worn down, too tired to intervene.

And him?

He lay there like a fucking ghost. Breathing, but not really alive.

He didn’t want to think about you. But Christ, that was a lost cause.

You were everywhere. In the cracked photo on his dresser. In the hoody still hanging on his door that smelled like the vanilla lip balm you used to steal from Penneys. In the song that had come on the radio earlier and nearly knocked him sideways with the memory of your laugh in his passenger seat, wind in your hair, fingers laced with his over the gearstick.

He hadn’t touched his phone in three weeks. Couldn’t bear to see your name. Couldn’t bear not to.

But tonight?

Tonight he was weak.

He called.

And when you answered after the third ring, his heart shattered all over again.

“Pat?”

Your voice was quiet. Cautious. Laced with the kind of worry he used to crave—before he started resenting it, pushing it away.

“Yeah. I’m… I’m grand,” he said, and even he didn’t believe it. “Just needed to hear your voice.”

A long pause. Then:

“Are you sober?”

He closed his eyes, swallowed. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah, Patrick. It does.”

“Don’t—” his voice cracked. “Don’t call me that. Not like that. You never used to—”

“It doesn’t matter what I call you anymore, does it?” you snapped. “You made sure of that.”

He flinched. His fingers tightened around the phone. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” you cut in. “You always mean to. You hurt me, Pat. Again and again. And you never look back.”

“I do look back,” he said fiercely. “Every fucking night.”

“Then why do you only ever call when you’re pissed and lonely? Why am I your rock when you need me and a ghost the second you’re sober?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not fair,” you said, voice trembling now. “You wreck me and then disappear. And I keep letting you come back. I let you ruin me because I love you and you know it.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I don’t want ‘sorry,’ Patrick. I wanted you. Sober. Trying. Here.”

“I know,” he said. “And I ruined it.”

“You did.”

A pause.

“I still love you.”

“Then let me go.”

Click.

The next morning came grey and heavy, rain slicking the city in a way that made everything look bruised. You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. His voice had echoed in your skull all night. The way he said your name. The pathetic apology. The way he whispered I love you like it could fix the crater he’d carved into your chest.

You weren’t going to see him.

You weren’t.

You told yourself that all morning as you paced the kitchen, ignored your phone, and finally pulled on your coat to “get some air.” That’s all it was. Air.

But somehow your feet took you to the exact place you swore you’d never go again—the corner shop by Thomas Street. The one where he always ended up, shame-faced and half-alive, gripping a breakfast roll and a bottle of Lucozade like they’d soak up the poison he kept feeding himself.

And sure enough—there he was.

Hood up. Head down. Hair wet and curls matted to his forehead. He looked like a kicked dog. Pale, tired, shattered.

When he looked up and saw you, something in his eyes broke.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he said.

“Neither was I.”

Silence.

He looked down at his shoes like they’d betrayed him. “I meant what I said last night. About loving you.”

“You don’t get to say that anymore,” you replied, tone sharp as glass. “Not after what you did. Not after everything.”

He took a shaky breath. “I didn’t know how to love you the right way.”

“That’s a cop out, Pat.”

“It’s the truth,” he snapped, suddenly angry. “You think I wanted to be this broken? You think I liked dragging you into the mess of me?”

“No,” you said. “But you did it anyway. You let me hold the weight of your trauma and then blamed me when it crushed you.”

His jaw clenched.

“I begged you to talk to me,” you continued. “To let me in. And you shut the door. Again and again. And now you’re what? Standing in the rain hoping for a miracle?”

“I’m standing here because I’ve got fuck-all else left,” he said hoarsely. “Because I’ve spent the last three weeks choking on everything I never said, and you’re the only thing I still believe in.”

Your eyes burned.

“Don’t say that,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“I can’t let you go,” he said, stepping forward. “I won’t. Not without trying. Not without fighting.”

“Oh, now you want to fight?” you laughed bitterly. “You’re months too late, Feely.”

“I know. And I’ll crawl if I have to. I’ll grovel. I’ll beg. I’ll spend the rest of my bleeding life making up for what I did—just please, don’t walk away. Not for good.”

Your chest heaved with the weight of it all. The ache. The fury. The love that refused to die.

“I hate you,” you said, voice trembling.

“Then scream at me,” he said. “Tell me I ruined you. Tell me I’m a bastard. Just don’t pretend you don’t still feel this.”

He closed the space between you.

And when his hands touched your face—rough, trembling—you should’ve pushed him away.

But you didn’t.

Because when his lips crashed into yours, all that rage and sorrow melted into something deeper. The kiss was desperate. Angry. Full of teeth and tears. You gripped his hoodie like you could rip him in half and put him back together again. Like he might fall apart if you let go.

When you pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, rain dripping off both of you like some kind of baptism.

“I’m going to get better,” he said, voice wrecked. “For you. For me. I swear it.”

“We’ll see,” you murmured. “You’ll have to prove it.”

“I will,” he whispered. “Even if it kills me.”

And somehow, standing there in the cold rain, soaked through and trembling, it felt like the beginning.

Not an easy one.

But a beginning all the same.

[moonyslipstick]

Can’t Stand You (Can’t Stop Wanting You)

The first time you met Jameson Hawthorne, he was already two hours late to the estate planning meeting and unapologetically barefoot.

“Didn’t know lawyers were allowed to be this uptight,” he’d said, sprawled across a velvet chaise, flipping a silver coin between his fingers.

You didn’t answer. Just slid the contract toward him with a pen and enough silence to kill a man.

That was a year ago. Since then, he'd made a sport out of testing your limits. Interrupting meetings, walking into your office uninvited, asking completely irrelevant questions about property law just to watch you sigh.

You hated him.

You definitely didn’t think about the way he bit his lower lip when he was trying not to laugh. Or the way he dropped the charm for real sincerity when no one else was watching. Or how he never—ever—missed a single thing you said, even when he pretended not to be listening.

You were the one person he couldn't seem to shake.

Which brought you here—alone in the estate library at midnight, legal documents spread out before you, heart already pounding when the door creaked open behind you.

“Still burning the midnight oil, Counselor?” That damn voice.

You didn’t turn. “Still ignoring boundaries, Mr. Hawthorne?”

He chuckled. “It’s Jameson. You’ve called me worse.”

“Not in writing,” you said, under your breath.

You heard him cross the room, casual and quiet in that way of his, the kind of confidence bred from never being told no.

You hated how well you knew the rhythm of his steps.

“Grayson said I should review the liability clause for the property in Maine,” he said, stopping a few feet behind you.

You turned. “You’re here to talk about property law at midnight?”

“I’m here because I wanted to see if you’d finally crack.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Crack?”

He leaned in, that maddening grin spreading like wildfire. “You know. Snap. Admit you’ve been thinking about me.”

You stood so fast your chair scraped against the floor. “You’re a spoiled, egotistical nightmare.”

“And yet, here you are. Working for my family. Letting me get under your skin.”

You stood. “Jameson, I’m tired. If you have something useful to say—”

“I want you to admit it,” he said suddenly. “That you feel it too.”

You stared at him. “Feel what?”

“This—” He gestured between you, as if it was obvious. “Whatever this mess is. I walk into a room and you stop breathing.”

“You walk into rooms like you own them. That’s not chemistry, that’s narcissism.”

But your voice cracked.

Jameson stepped closer. “Tell me to leave, and I will.”

You should have.

You didn’t.

Instead, you hissed, “You’re reckless. Unpredictable. You make my job a nightmare.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “here you are. Still cleaning up after me.”

Before you could think, you shoved him.

He stumbled back, caught off guard—then grinned. “There she is.”

You hated that smile.

You stepped toward him, furious. “You think just because you bat your lashes and smirk like you invented sex that people will fall into line?”

His smile faltered. “You didn’t fall.”

“No,” you snapped. “But I came dangerously close.”

He flinched. For a second, something real flickered behind his eyes.

Then you were kissing him.

Or maybe he was kissing you. Either way, you crashed together like two storms, wind meeting fire. His hands fisted in your blouse, your nails dug into his back, lips bruising, breath catching.

You kissed like enemies. Like people who had waited too long and knew it was a mistake. It was messy. Teeth clashing, hands gripping, years of unresolved tension burning between you.

He lifted you onto the library table, lips trailing fire down your neck. “You’re so damn stubborn,” he breathed.

You gasped against his mouth. “And you’re an arrogant little shit.”

His hand curled at your waist. “Say it again.”

“I hate you.”

“Liar.” He groaned into your mouth. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You broke apart just long enough to gasp, “Then why keep pushing me?”

“Because you’re the only person who doesn’t look at me like I’m a game,” he whispered.

You kissed him again. Slower. Messier. Less war, more ache.

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “We can’t do this.”

He brushed your hair behind your ear. “Tell me you don’t want it. Tell me to stop.”

You gasped against his lips. “You’d ignore me if I did.”

He smirked. “Only if you didn’t mean it.”

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him again.

You left before sunrise.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Grayson: Family meeting at ten. Don’t be late.

You walked in to find Jameson already seated, freshly shaven, coffee in hand, not a single trace of what happened the night before on his face.

He didn’t even glance at you.

You wanted to hate him for that.

But also wanted to be grateful.

Instead, you stared down at your legal pad and avoided every mention of his name.

It worked—until the meeting ended and he cornered you in the hallway, voice low.

“So that’s it?”

You kept walking. “There was nothing to begin with.”

“Bullshit.”

You turned. “You think I can afford to mess up my career for a spoiled man-child who can’t decide if he’s flirting or self-destructing?”

His jaw clenched. “I kissed you because I wanted to.”

“You kissed me because you always want what you shouldn’t have.”

“That’s rich,” he hissed. “Coming from the girl who let me take her apart on her client’s library desk.”

You slapped him. Just hard enough to make his eyes widen.

Silence.

He stepped closer. “I’m not sorry,” he said. “Not for the kiss. Not for wanting you. Not for making you feel.”

You glared.

And when he kissed you again outside the conference room, in the quiet corridor lined with oil paintings of ancestors and ghosts, you kissed him back like you’d been waiting for the war to end.

When you pulled back, breathless, his hands were still on your hips, grounding you. He looked at you like he could see all the walls you’d built cracking.

“I’m not your weakness,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “You’re the only person strong enough to scare the hell out of me.”

[moonyslipstick]

Sleeping Bags & Star Maps

There was something about the way Johnny Kavanagh looked outside — natural, open, a bit wild-eyed as he stared at the Irish countryside like it was a person he used to know.

You watched him from your spot near the boot of the car, where he was pretending not to struggle with the tent poles.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” you called, sipping from your travel mug.

“I’ve watched videos,” he said proudly, squinting at the half-collapsed fabric in front of him.

Gibsie popped out from behind the other tent, hair sticking up, face already smudged with something black. “He’s grand! I set fire to mine already, so by comparison he’s doin’ class.”

You groaned. “You had one job, Gibsie.”

“Yeah — bring the vibes. And I did.”

Behind you, Shannon and Clare were arguing about where to put the food cooler, Patrick was trying to assemble a camping chair that had somehow become a weapon, and Hughie was drinking from a flask suspiciously early in the day.

And in the middle of it all — Johnny. Calm, golden, and yours.

The tent eventually got sorted — with some light swearing and one “this feckin' thing came from Hell, I swear it” — and by sunset, you were all circled around the campfire like something out of a film.

You were sitting between Johnny’s legs, his hoodie pulled over your shoulders even though you’d brought your own. His arms were loosely around your waist, his cheek resting against your back as he lazily pressed his lips to your shoulder from time to time, like he couldn’t help it.

Gibsie, naturally, was holding court.

“So there I am,” he said, gesturing wildly with a toasted marshmallow, “halfway up the tree, no harness, two cans deep, screaming ‘I love you, Nuala!’ — and she’s already snoggin’ some lad from Macroom!”

“Why were you in a tree, lad?” Hughie asked, bewildered.

“To win her back, obviously!” Gibsie cried. “Love requires theatrics.”

“Love,” Johnny murmured against your shoulder, “requires therapy.”

You snorted into your cup.

Later, when the fire had burned low and the night had gone quiet — just the crackle of embers and the occasional snore from Clare’s tent — you and Johnny lay side by side in your sleeping bags, zipped together under a ridiculous amount of fleece.

The stars were stupidly bright. Like someone had over-decorated the sky.

You turned your face toward his in the dark. “You okay?”

His thumb found your hand under the covers, tracing the back of it. “Yeah. Just thinkin’.”

“About?”

He took a long breath. “You. Us. How I didn’t think I’d ever get to have this kind of peace.”

You scooted closer, your nose brushing his. “What kind?”

“The quiet kind,” he whispered. “The real kind. Being here with you, surrounded by chaos, but... nothing in my chest feels heavy. Haven’t felt that in a long time.”

Your throat tightened. You reached up and cupped his jaw, thumb stroking the line of it. “You deserve that. All the peace, Johnny. All of it.”

He kissed you — soft and slow, like you were the first breath after surfacing from deep water.

“I’m mad about you, y’know,” he mumbled into your lips.

“I know,” you whispered back. “And I’m mad about you.”

The next morning, you woke to Gibsie yelling, “OH MY GOD, THERE’S A SHEEP IN THE FOOD COOLER.”

But you stayed right where you were — wrapped in Johnny’s arms, his face tucked into your neck, both of you smelling like campfire and home.

And in that messy, sleepy, utterly chaotic moment, you thought:

This is it.

This is what love feels like under Irish skies.

[moonyslipstick]

salty makeouts

Arguing with Patrick Feely felt like standing on the edge of a cliff during a thunderstorm—one moment it was all wind and the scent of salt in the air, thrilling and alive, and the next you were being hurled into crashing waves below. It always started quietly, cautiously. Like two people trying not to wake a sleeping giant. But inevitably, one word—just one—would send everything spiraling.

You had been standing in the middle of his bedroom when it happened. The place was dimly lit, only the soft golden glow of the old lamp on his nightstand throwing pools of light on the deep navy walls. His guitar leaned lazily against the edge of the bookshelf, schoolbooks were strewn across the desk in his usual half-chaotic fashion. It smelled like sandalwood and something sweet—his cologne. Familiar, comforting, even when everything else felt sharp.

“You’re being crazy!”

There it was. The word. That word.

You froze. Your body stiffened like you’d just walked into icy water. You blinked once, then again, like if you did it enough times, the sting behind your eyes would go away.

He realized it the moment it left his mouth. His expression shifted, regret flickering in his dark eyes for just a second. But then, as always, pride got in the way.

“Oh, I see. Sorry for trying to be enough for Patrick fucking Feely,” you said, voice trembling like the air before a storm. You folded your arms tightly over your chest, more to keep yourself from shaking than anything else.

“Maybe stop trying so hard,” he snapped, tone sharp. “It’s suffocating. You’re suffocating.”

You flinched. Your lip trembled before you could stop it. “That’s mean, Pat. You’re being mean.”

“No, I’m not being mean. I’m being real,” he said, taking a step away, as if distance would soften the blow. “Ever since you came back from Dublin, you’ve been… different. I can’t deal with this right now. I should go.”

Oh, that’s how it is…

“Yeah,” you whispered, though your heart was roaring. “Yes, you should.”

He didn’t look at you again. Just turned, grabbed his jacket off the back of his desk chair, and left. The door slammed behind him, vibrating through your bones.

For a few moments, you just stood there, staring at the space he left behind. His scent still lingered in the air. His hoodie was still draped over the edge of the bed. There was an empty mug on the nightstand—he’d made you tea that morning. That version of him, the one who made tea and sang you songs when you couldn’t sleep, felt like a ghost now.

You dropped onto the bed, knees folding in, your back curling like a dying leaf. Then the tears came. Not the pretty kind. The ugly, heaving, choking kind. The kind that leaves your face blotchy and your chest hollow. You weren’t even crying over the fight—you were crying because you believed him. Because deep down, that small, cruel voice in your head had been whispering the same thing for weeks: You’re too much.

The next day at Tommen was a blur. The school looked the same, but everything felt different. The halls were filled with laughter and chatter, but it passed over you like smoke. You kept your head down, eyes fixed on the floor tiles like they held all the answers.

In class, you sat next to Shannon, who was practically glowing as she spoke about her weekend in Dingle with Kav. Her fingers twisted through her curls as she described the seaside cottage, the firelit dinners, the moonlit walks on the shore. You nodded along, offered smiles in the right places, but your mind was elsewhere. Stuck on that moment in Patrick’s room. That word. Crazy.

You didn’t look behind you, because you knew. You could feel him. That strange gravity Patrick Feely always carried—his stare burning holes in the back of your neck. But he didn’t approach. And neither did you.

The walk home was miserable. A thin drizzle coated the streets in a slick sheen, and the grey sky seemed to mirror your mood perfectly. The route along the canal was usually your favorite—lined with cherry trees and little stone benches—but today it felt too open, too exposed. Like the world was watching you unravel.

That night, sleep never came. You lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting the rotations of the fan, your thoughts spiraling faster than the blades. You didn’t eat. You skipped your meds. You drowned yourself in schoolwork, hoping to quiet the noise.

But Patrick’s voice kept echoing.

The third day after the fight, something snapped. You grabbed your coat, pulled on his hoodie—you hadn’t been able to stop wearing it, no matter how much it hurt—and left your house with no real destination in mind. Your feet just… moved.

You ended up at the lake.

It was raining again. Not a drizzle—proper Irish rain, coming down in sheets. The kind of rain that soaked you through no matter how fast you ran. But you didn’t run. You walked slowly, letting the cold water seep into your shoes, your hair plastering to your face, your fingers trembling.

The lake was surrounded by trees, dark and wild, the kind that seemed to hold secrets. You’d come here with him before. Once, after a particularly bad anxiety attack, he’d brought you here. Sat you on a blanket, wrapped you in his arms, and talked about nonsense until you smiled.

Now you stood on the edge, arms wrapped around your own body, sobbing so hard it felt like your ribs might crack. “You said you’d never leave when it got hard,” you whispered to no one, voice raw.

“I didn’t,” came a voice behind you.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned.

The rain came down harder now, like the sky itself was falling apart. Cold water streamed down your back, soaking Patrick’s hoodie clinging to your frame, and yet you barely noticed. Every nerve in your body was locked on him.

Patrick stood just a few feet away, chest rising and falling beneath his drenched T-shirt, jaw tense, fists clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust his own body not to reach for you.

“I didn’t leave,” he said again, hoarse.

You blinked at him, raindrops mingling with the tears on your cheeks. “You walked out, Patrick. You let me fall apart. You let that word leave your mouth and then you just… left.”

“I know,” he whispered, as if even saying it caused him physical pain. “I’ve never hated myself more than I do right now. I’ve been carrying it around since I closed that fucking door. I wanted to turn around the second I left.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

His eyes searched yours, helpless and hollow. “Because I’m a coward. Because loving you means seeing parts of myself I don’t like. Because sometimes you look at me like I’m the only thing holding you together, and it scares the hell out of me. Because I didn’t think I deserved to be your person. Not when I couldn’t fix what was hurting you.”

“I didn’t ask you to fix me,” you said, voice cracking. “I just needed you to stay. Even if I was messy. Especially because I was messy.”

“I know. I know that now. And I am so—” he stepped forward, his voice breaking—“so sorry I made you think you weren’t enough. You’re not suffocating. You never were. I was drowning in my own fear and I lashed out like a bloody coward.”

Your bottom lip trembled, and you bit it hard to keep it from fully quivering. You hated how much you wanted to believe him. How even now, after everything, you still wanted to run to him and bury yourself in the comfort of his arms.

But he saw it—the flicker of hope in your eyes—and that’s all he needed.

He stepped closer. One step. Then another. Slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

You didn’t stop him.

“I miss you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I miss you so much it physically hurts. I miss your laugh. Your weird obsession with that ridiculous cardigan. The way you whisper my name when you’re half asleep. I miss us, and I know I don’t deserve to ask you to forgive me but—”

You reached out before he could finish.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, dragging him the final inch toward you until your foreheads touched. His breath hitched as he leaned into the contact, eyes fluttering closed.

“I hate how much I love you,” you whispered.

A single breath passed between you.

Then your lips crashed into his.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft or pretty. It was desperate. Like kissing him was the only way to stop the ache in your chest. Like if you didn’t kiss him now, your bones might shatter from the weight of missing him.

He groaned into your mouth, one hand flying to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your soaked hair as he kissed you like he’d been starving. His other hand found your waist, pulling you tightly against him, like he couldn’t stand even a millimeter of distance.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your lips between kisses. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You kissed him again, harder, your hands framing his face. “You hurt me,” you whispered against his skin.

“I know,” he said, eyes red, voice barely holding it together. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. His breath hitched under your touch.

“I don’t want promises,” you said. “I just want you. Real. Scared. Messy. But here.”

“I’m here,” he breathed. “God, I’m so here.”

And then you kissed again slower this time. Painful in its tenderness. His lips moved like he was trying to memorize the shape of yours all over again, like every second he’d gone without you was being rewritten in that moment.

He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. Your eyelids. Reverent. Apologetic. Devoted.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when I’m the worst version of myself. Even when you can’t see it. I love you.”

You let yourself fall into him completely, arms wrapping around his waist as he buried his face in your neck, holding you like he was afraid the wind would tear you from him if he let go.

And there, standing in the rain by the lake—two heartbreaks stitched together with saltwater and apologies—you knew you were choosing each other again.

Not because it was easy.

But because love like this was worth it

[moonyslipstick]

🎀 neki ・ she/her ・tortured poet ・ cabin 3/17

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[moonyslipstick]

You used to think the world stopped when Ethan touched you.

Lying beneath the shade of that old oak tree by the lake, hidden from the chaos of Camp Half-Blood, it felt like time forgot the both of you. His lap was your pillow, his fingers carding gently through your hair, brushing strands from your face like they were sacred. You’d read to him—sometimes mythology, sometimes novels filled with slow-burning love and painful sacrifices—and he’d listen with a reverence that made you feel worshipped.

Sometimes, he’d kiss the top of your head mid-sentence, as if the affection just spilled out of him too easily to contain.

Those moments felt immortal.

But even demigods learn that nothing lasts forever

You woke with a gasp, heart pounding, skin clammy with sweat.

Cabin One was dark and empty. Moonlight filtered through the slats in the wall, and everything was still. Too still.

You sat up slowly, every part of you aching. The physical wounds had long healed, but the ones in your chest? The ones no nectar or ambrosia could touch?

Still bleeding.

You slipped out of the cabin quietly, careful not to disturb anyone. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you through the dewy grass and down the hill to the lake. The oak tree stood tall in the distance, a silhouette against the water. So familiar it made your throat tighten.

You sat beneath it, pressing your back to the trunk, fingers trailing over the earth. So many memories were buried here.

You didn’t know that, miles away, Ethan Nakamura sat in a dingy motel room off the I-87, half-drunk on guilt and loss, staring at the ceiling, reliving the same memories in nauseating detail.

Manhattan was a mess.

You remembered the fire. The smoke. The screams that never stopped echoing.

You fought through the chaos, shoulder dislocated, blood spilling from an arrow wound just below your collarbone. You’d killed two dracaenae with one swing of your blade before you even realized you were bleeding.

Annabeth had screamed at you to get back—to retreat—but the only thing you could see was him.

Ethan. Fighting his way through the battlefield, desperately cutting a path toward you.

You collapsed behind a pillar. The world spun. Your fingers trembled as you gripped your weapon, but your body betrayed you. You were fading.

Then hands were on your face, cradling it.

“Baby. Baby, can you hear me?” His voice cracked. “Where does it hurt?”

Your eyes fluttered open. “Everywhere.” You coughed, blood on your lips. “You hurt me everywhere.”

His face broke. “I didn’t mean—”

“Go ahead,” you whispered. “Finish it off.”

“No,” he said, voice raw. “No, no, no. I would never. I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.”

Your vision blurred again, but not before you saw him kiss your forehead—his sword already raised, ready to defend you from the next threat.

You lost consciousness just as he turned, running toward Luke—toward Kronos.

You woke in the infirmary days later, not dead.

Which was, frankly, shocking.

The pain was dull now, your wounds dressed. The smell of poultice and old linen filled the air. The camp was eerily quiet. The war was over.

And then you saw him.

Ethan was sitting beside you, head slumped against the bed, asleep in a chair far too small for someone so battle-worn. His face was gaunt. New scars mapped his skin like lightning. His shirt was torn. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

You almost didn’t want to wake him.

But your body betrayed you again—a groan of pain escaping your lips as you shifted.

His head snapped up, eyes wild. “You’re—oh gods—you’re awake.”

You blinked, throat dry. “I’m not dead?”

He let out a choked laugh, wiping his eyes. “No. No, you’re not.”

You could see the unshed tears trembling at the corners of his lashes.

“You were with Kronos,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“I was with you,” he said hoarsely. “When it mattered. I chose you.”

You turned your face away. “You still left. You chose your cause over me. Over us.”

“I thought I could fix something. Make the world fair. For kids like me. For everyone who was never seen. I didn’t think it would cost me—” He faltered. “You.”

Your voice broke. “I needed you. You left me, Ethan.”

He was crying now, truly crying. Hands trembling as he reached for you, but stopped just short. “I’ve never stopped loving you. Not for a second. I would’ve died for you that day.”

“I almost died because of you,” you snapped.

“I know.” His voice cracked. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

The silence hung heavy between you.

“I had to watch you bleed and I couldn’t stop it. I still see it when I close my eyes. Still hear your voice. Still feel your blood on my hands.”

“Ethan…” you whispered, seeing him fall apart before you.

“I fought Kronos for you. I turned my sword on everything I thought I believed in because in that moment, the only thing that mattered was you.”

You let the tears fall. You were too tired to hold them back. “Why’d you come back?”

“I had nowhere else to go. You are the only place I’ve ever felt like I could breathe.”

He pressed his forehead to the side of the bed, sobbing now. It wasn’t elegant or poetic. It was gut-deep and shaking, as if he’d finally broken open.

You lifted your fingers and threaded them into his hair, tugging gently.

He looked up at you, eyes red, swollen.

“Come here,” you whispered.

He crawled into the infirmary bed with you, careful, tentative like you’d shatter under his touch.

But you didn’t.

You wrapped your arms around him and held on tight. He buried his face in your neck and let out a broken sound.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know that too.”

He kissed you then, trembling and raw. It wasn’t a perfect kiss. It was messy. Wet with tears. Too many feelings. Too much time lost. It tasted like blood and grief and finally - peace.

Outside, the camp began to stir. Life resumed.

Inside that room, under sterile lights and threadbare sheets, two war-torn hearts found their way back to each other.

Because love survives war.

And what remains, sometimes, is even stronger than what was lost